Ganbei!
One of the most lethal words in the Mandarin language.
I learned the hard way.
On one of my few official trips outside Beijing, I found myself in Yan’an. It was a ‘Facility Trip’ from work who felt it would broaden my mind if I learned a little more about the origins of the People’s Republic of China. There were big commemorations for the 80th anniversary of ‘The Long March’ underway at the time.
Back in 1934, Nationalist forces pushed the communists back from the south and east of the country. From a base in Yan’an they regrouped and planned an epic 6000km sortie to rally supporters and eventually create the China we know today.
So important do they regard Yan’an, it’s described as a national shrine by the communist government. I was taken aback, during a visit to the main museum, to see it even described as ‘The Holy Land’ of Communism.
We were a curious band of people - a group of Foreign Experts from various parts of Chinese state media thrown together for a whistlestop tour of China’s crown jewels. Two Brits, a Russian, a Pakistani, and a Nigerian. Plus minders, hangers on and domestic media to make sure we were filmed at every turn.
Days were long. After an early breakfast we were herded into mini buses and taken to various key points… The Revolutionary Memorial Hall, the Tang dynasty Baota Hill Pagoda, the cave where Radio Peking first broadcast from, the village of Liangjiahe where President Xi lived for seven years in his youth, and the mighty Yellow River (not the one made famous by the British band Christie in the 1970s.)
Photo © Rob Jones
Every two or three hours our buses would swoop into a hotel car park, or a remote restaurant where we would be treated to a banquet, usually as guests of local officials. The deal was always the same. Everyone would dash to the loo and then trickle into the banqueting hall. There would be brief words of welcome and some polite applause. Then a lot of eating.
Photo © Rob Jones
More speeches. Then came the lethal bit…
‘Quànjiǔ,‘ proclaimed the host, which translates as ‘Can I tempt you?’
This is a signal for copious amounts of the local firewater to be doled out. Baijiu is the go-to alcohol in China. It’s actually quite drinkable in moderation. It’s made from fermented sorghum and can get up to 120% proof.
At this point, my minder whispered very gently into my ear, ‘You really don’t need to drink this. It is very strong.’
To which I replied, ‘When in Rome.’
‘This is Yan’an,’ she whispered again.
So all is well, until you catch the eye of the host, who strides over to you and issues the challenge ‘Ganbei.’ All heads turn in your direction like sunflowers following the solar path through the sky.
More whispering over my shoulder, ‘I can tell him you do not drink.’ I point to the speedily emptied first glass of Baijiu. That excuse isn’t going to work. Anyway, by this time he was already refilling my glass.
‘Or that you are ill?’ I stare at her with rosy cheeks.
The drinking becomes a scene from the gunfight at the OK Coral. We square up, with shot glasses in hand and knock them back in unison. An appreciative murmur from the rest of the room.
‘Gambei,’ comes the challenge again and another two shots are charged and ready to go. Down in one.
There’s a slight pause. The host is swaying, and weighing things up. ‘Ganbei,’ he shouts again.
Another one, two rounds. Some more frantic whispering in my ear from my minder/translator, who is now probably wondering how to shovel me back into the mini bus at the end of the evening. She is half my size.
Two more rounds. But then I think, to go on would be madness. But how does one get out of this never ending cycle? What’s the etiquette. Slight fears that I might end up in a KTV Bar (Kareoke) or massage parlour.
The rules are:
If you’re guest, your glass will be filled, and refilled. Hold the glass in your right hand, and support with the left if needed.
It’s rude to refuse someone who raises their glass to you. You must drink. It also shows the person proposing a toast is in charge. By accepting the toast you are recognising that fact.
‘No thanks,’ is not an acceptable excuse.
There are however some excuses that are acceptable.
‘My religion says I can’t drink.’
‘If I drink alcohol I will die.’ (No one wants a dead foreigner at a banquet.)
You can nominate someone else to do the drinking for you. (Weird but true.)
Say you are pregnant. (I ruled this out.)
In the end…
I whispered boozily to my minder something along the lines of, I can’t keep on drinking what do I do? She came to the rescue and said something that seemed to make the host very happy indeed. He clasped by shoulder and surveyed the room for another victim. Eyes around the table, darted down to the empty dishes.
‘What did you say?’ I asked my minder.
‘I said that you had been so overawed by the things you had seen today, the glorious achievements of the Peple’s Republic, and had been impressed by the generosity of the host, that you felt it would be impolite to continue.’
‘And he bought that?’
‘No. I think we should leave soon. Pretend to go to the bathroom. I’ll meet you outside in five minutes.’
Why did this come to mind today? I seem to have prematurely given up drinking. I usually do it for Lent, but have started early.
Dry January’s don’t work for me. They’ll always start badly with New Year celebrations. February seems much easier. There’s always pressure to drink - I live next to a cafe after all.
But I can always say I am pregnant. I need to lose weight too.
RJ
