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• To fiddle as Rome burns

  Tuesday, May 13, 2008 6:55PM / Standard Entry / Members only
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  Yesterday, a few kilometres from the Great Wall. I'm standing at the back of a rickety bus chugging down a mountain road. We stop to scoop up passengers every ten metres, the ticket man leaning outside the open door as we drive, a large wad of one yuan bills in his hand. "There's still room!" he shouts.

  I'm not so sure.

  It's only just stopped drizzling and the harsh morning winds seem to have suddenly died down. Eerily so. But everyone is happy, shouting back and forth. Maybe, I think, being a sardine on a bus like this is not so dangerous afterrall. I look around the bloated mini-van: an elderly couple stand at the front, a group of 15 students fill the middle, a mother and baby somewhere in between. All in all at least 50 people. The time is almost half-past two in the afternoon... feeling car-sick, I find a seat and drift asleep.

  An hour later. "Sam?" Yes, I reply loudly into the mobile. "I'm calling from Channel 7, we met at a bar in Sanlitun a few weeks back, I'm wondering if you'd be interested in doing a cross on 'Good Morning Australia' about the earthquake".

  Amnesia. I must have it. I don't remember meeting, know nothing of this disaster, and I'm trying hard to remember what exactly a "cross" is. Soon it becomes apparent to both parties that I am not THE Sam they are looking for.

  Mistaken identity. She got my number from a friend of a friend who mistook me for someone else; thinking I was a diplomat, or scientist, someone with expertise. Expertise: this is something I must one day go about getting. I suddenly think of the poor London driver who was interviewed by accident on BBC News; they thought he was John, when in fact he was merely looking for the john, or some such story.

  As I walk towards my apartment door, I hear the lift lady also talking about the earthquake. Confused, I decide to go online. I have an email:

  Earthquake 10pm-12am TONIGHT - meet up for a drink? Outdoor bars

  Sitting at my computer, I decide that finally Planet Earth has lost the plot. The thought of sitting outside with your mates having a few beers while you believe the city is collapsing around you, all hell breaking loose, sounds like a darkly absurd thing to do to me; Nero's perfect cup of tea.

  This morning, my Chinese tutor tells me a story. Last week, in Shandong, an enormous group of toads, moving in formation, crossed a major road en masse, blocking traffic. They wanted to move to another wetlands. The logic follows: they knew, we didn't. "Look at the crazy toads!", we shout from our cars. Ironically, often the nutcase running with the toads, escaping to the wetlands, is the most sane of the lot of us.

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