JOST A MON

In 2001, Peter Hessler obtained his Chinese driving licence and began to drive around that great country. An American, he was already a skilled driver, and so he is shaken and shocked and stirred by the terrible abilities of China's drivers. By dint of sheer physical courage and intellectual curiosity, he tames his fears of the Chinese roads, and sets out to discover his adopted country. His latest book, Country Driving: A Chinese Road Trip is an account of the people he met who took him into their confidences and their homes, the factories that rose and fell, the villages that emptied, the fields that became urban landscapes, the pollution that killed, the astounding socioeconomic transformation of the world's most populated nation. In turns he is ironic, critical, deeply inquisitive, puzzled, stymied, but he is always affectionate, and the Chinese respond to him. Not just the simple folk but also the cadres open up to him, and he tells their stories.

There have been other books on Chinese roads (e.g., Rob Gifford's China Road: One Man's Journey into the Heart of Modern China, which I talk about below) but there's little overlap here. Hessler might gad about this highway or that, but his book is about the stationary, the necessity of continuity with one's past. And so whether he is living with a peasant family of wannabe entrepreneurs, or talking to impoverished minorities seeking assimilation in a great city, or travelling with an itinerant variety show complete with brief nudity for the titillation of the exhausted proletariat, he wants to understand what it is that prompts these people to make the choices they make, to go the places they go to, to see why they find themselves despised by their neighbours and yet stand tall, to uproot their families and lose their connections to their ancestors, and to seek salvation in new faiths. This is a moving book beautifully written, very well worth your time.

A Briton, Rob Gifford was NPR's correspondent in China for many years, and before he decided to up sticks and return to London, he took a long journey on China's highway 312, the Mother Road. It goes from Shanghai to the Kyrgyz border, and takes in every town of importance along the way - Xi'an, Nanjing, Luzhou, Urumqi. At times it follows the Great Wall (and geographically overlaps a part of Hessler's trips) and at others it winds around mountains, fords great rivers, cuts straight across plateaus. Unlike Hessler, Gifford takes buses and hires drivers for his trip, but both men bring the same quality of engagement with their subjects, the same level of empathy, and similar sense of discrimination.

Like Hessler, the big story in Gifford's book is of the grand migration of peasantry to industry. Often, entire families uproot themselves, but more usually it's the younger generation that travels thousands of miles for a job in a factory, leaving their under-educated and unskilled (and, in China, unwanted (at least in the industry)) parents behind. There are serious social divisions, a lack of adequate health support, underpayment, terrible working conditions, corrupt administrations, and through it all, the migrants manage to find jobs, obtain a semblance of independence for themselves, fall in love, marry, have (one) offspring. As they work themselves up the value chain, they might migrate from Central Chinese cities to the more cut-throat and better-paying cities of the coast, hoping for that pot of gold, that fancy car, that European fashion icon. Sadly, though, for many, economic gain is not forthcoming, and emotionally they cripple themselves. Gifford gives voice to the successful (an agony aunt on Shanghai's most popular TV channel) and the unfortunate (donors of blood for money who end up with AIDS), the chilling (late term abortionists) and the droll (Amway acolytes filled with fervour), the Han (industrious, populous and ignorant of large swathes of their own country) and the minorities (a Tibetan man who admits that for him, independence is pointless, and he can only get ahead in life by learning Mandarin and teaching it to his compatriots). In a country that has gone from the kowtow to the air kiss in less than a century, it is not surprising that there are serious problems and equally spectacular successes. Gifford is evenhanded enough to note both, and is humble enough to state that he doesn't know whether China, as we know it, will survive or fail. Another good book, this.

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. Herodotus said this about the supremely efficient horsemen who delivered the Persian King's correspondence and intelligence across his empire. In my case, it describes the fact that irrespective of the weather or the time of day and night, I am expected to head out shopping.

Recently, we remembered that our painter would be coming in to do up the living room shortly and that we hadn't procured the paint for the job. I am too cheap to fork out twenty quid in delivery charges on a total purchase of eighty, so I found myself trudging to an industrial wasteland in search of the wife's favourite brand.

Farrow and Ball make pigments so creamy, so aromatic, so lush, so rich that anyone would love to drink them instead of, say, a milkshake. Naturally, they cost that much more than the likes of Dulux. Even the painter makes orgiastic noises when he runs his brush through one of their cans.

On my way to their outlet, muttering curses as passing cars splattered me with oily mud, I noticed a shop squeezed between a mom-and-pop corner store and an uncle-and-aunt restaurant. In the shop were some antique-looking cars, small ones, like those Hillmans or Morrises of the 1950s. Now those who know me appreciate my singular lack of interest in matters automotive. After all, my Layla back in the US was a Toyota Tercel, much to the hilarity of my friends. (Little do they realise that it is the choice of zippy police patrols in Guatemala). Indeed, when Liam asked me what my dream car would be, I couldn't think of anything (wilting under the pressure, I am afraid) other than a Ford Ka. The next day, after a sleepless night, I suggested that I could get along very nicely with a Delorean. Liam is talking to me again.

But the cars in that little shop were distinctive enough to make me pause. Figaro, it said on the logo on the bonnet. I looked around: there were four vehicles on display, identical except for the colour. I had never heard of a Figaro, and when I came home, I looked up the brand on the Internet. It's a Nissan model introduced in 1989. An award-winning retro design by Shoji Takahashi, twenty thousand were produced in 1991. The least popular colour of the time, Topaz Mist, has now become the most in demand by discerning aficionados. It's got everything a driver may want: CD player, air-conditioning, leather seats, and retractable roof. What's more, God owned one, and that's good enough for me. [Picture by Michiel2005]

About thirty years ago, the only Russian cars on the streets of Moscow were the triumvirate of Volga, Zhiguli and Moskvich. There was also the Zil, limousine to the apparatchiks and the self-important, and the Chaika, automobile for the KGB, but these were not as often seen. Boxy, foxy or with dust-proof joints, these were the objects of desire for every full-blooded Russian. As with most objects of desire, they remained tantalisingly out of reach for their ardent suitors, many of whom remained on waiting lists for years before finally getting their grubby little hands on one.

[Above: A Moskvitch of 1970s vintage]

[A Volga from the 1970s]

[A Zhiguli-LADA, perhaps the most recognisable Russian car]

Things appear to have changed a little since the fall of Communism. Flush with petrodollars, Russians have started to build automobile factories in right earnest, and - in keeping with the grand tradition of ripping off American designs - produce new entrants into a burgeoning market. Two examples are the Siber, named after the mighty Siber but pronounced oddly as Cyber, and the Patriot.

The former is a modification of the Chrysler Sebring, with higher clearance, stiffer suspension, and new lights, mirrors and bumpers. The manufacturer, GAZ, once known for its Volga and Chaika and Zil, wants to pitch this car at the discerning Russian consumer who disdains the cheap Chinese imports but can't afford either Korean or European cars. Interestingly, very little of the car is manufactured in Russia - most parts are imported from North America. GAZ intends to use its own large sales and distribution network as a launchpad for its ambitions.

The Patriot, an SUV made by the automaker UAZ, I am afraid, is a bit of a joke among the locals. You have to be a patriot to buy it, goes the cry among the great unwashed. It is far too expensive for those who might buy a Russian brand, while those who could afford it might just plonk for an import. The Russians, you see, have a deliciously nuanced sense of snobbery: they disdain and covet simultaneously.

Check out the following sites for some fascinating detail on the biggest intellectual property ripoffs in automotive history (well, the biggest until the Chinese got into the act).

1. Volga
2. Zhiguli - here and here (Russian), and here.
3. Moskvich
4. Chaika
6. Siber
7. Patriot