In a town with an ugly name, ugly things are bound to happen. The place is called ZhuangheW, (pronounced Dj-wong-huh), and it sounds like an exhaust pipe after a car crash. It’ s 
next to the sea, and not at all famous, probably some industrial drive-thru town. No one has recommended Zhuanghe as a place to visit, but I know have to go there. The name is too ugly for me not to go.
I don’t even call the Taxman or Boss Lady. It’s a rainy day, and I don’t want to make the two of them get out of bed and “see me off” at the bus station. I can’t deal with another sack of processed food to weigh me down on my journey to Exhaust Pipe City. Plus, the evening before ended so perfectly. The last vision I want to cradle in my imagination of the two of them is the hazy dream image of the previous evening. Seeing them again would be like waking up and starting over. Make a clean cut. I decide to leave the pile of snacks that Policewoman Qu had given me the day before. I want to lighten my load for the road. Cut the fat out of my sack.
When I leave my room with the red curtains behind, I can hear the sound of light drizzle outside. Up until this point, I’ve known more rain in the previous two days of travel in Liaoning than I have in the previous hundred days in Beijing. There will be more rain to come on this day.
Exhaust Pipe City
When I arrive at Zhuanghe bus station, it could be any small bus station anywhere in China. I immediately get the feeling that I don’t want to spend the night here as soon as I arrive at the station. It just has a dirty feeling to it. Something repels me, like evil inside. I go to the ticket counter and buy a late afternoon ticket for DalianW, which is about 2 hours away by bus. The current time is just around 10am. My bus for Dalian leaves after 5pm. I figure I need to spend some time in Zhuanghe. I need to see SOMETHING here, or meet SOMEONE. There has to be a reason for coming here.
As always, one of the first things I do is to buy a local map. After purchasing it at the small convenience store behind the information counter, I open it up and immediately begin to look for the green spots that denote public parks and tourist areas. There’s one spot that catches my eye, Black Island. I’m curious about this island…perhaps a park devoted to Tintin? There are other islands and spots on the map, one named Clam Island.
While looking at the map, I feel a man watching me. Actually, I hear him first. He’s jingling his keys around in his pockets. Black taxi driver for sure. I’ve met enough of these guys to know one when I see one. His hair is cut short, his sunglasses are propped up on his forehead above his eyes, and he has a tan face that I do not trust. Still, he’s the first driver to approach me, and I don’t want to waste time looking for drivers. His name is Mr. Zhou. He hands me his business card. It reads: Mr. Zhou. Your Friendly Driver!
To Clam Island
The car is sleek and black. On the dashboard is one of those fragrance bottles that gives the interior a woman’s scent. The seats are covered with fake fur, making me feel gaudy and oste. We drive in silence at first. I tell Friendly Driver Zhou to go in the direction of Black Island. It’s only after my instruction that I realize I’ve made the cardinal error of not discussing prices prior to sitting in his car. Damn. This guy’s got me if he wants me. I know nothing about the distances or prices here. I don’t know if these island’s have tickets at their entrances or not. I ask him about Black Island.
“Yessir. Black Island. You’ll like that place….a must see! There’s wreckage from a Qing Dynasty ship there. Pretty cool…” There’s wreckage in your pants, I think to myself. I don’t know what it is…something about this guy…
“So,” I venture, “What’s the price for going there?”
“That? Oh…120rmb.” Silence. I don’t want to spend that much money for the transportation.
“Hmmmm….what about Clam Island?”
Friendly Driver raises his eyebrows, his glasses move on his head. The wreckage in his pants settles a little further toward the accelerator, along with gravity.
“Nothing to see there….just an island. Just opened up…pretty boring…” Silence.
“So, what’s the price for going there?”
“40rmb.”
“Ok, I’ll take it…let’s go there.” To me, it’s all the same. An island is an island, and I’m not much of an island man. I can take it or leave it. A man is an island, and I’ve got myself floating in the sea. Indolent clouds sloth apathetically overhead, reflecting the black ocean water that we approach…or is it the sea that reflects the clouds? I never was a student of meteorology.
The Faceoff
Friendly Driver takes his hands off the wheel and points ahead and to the right.
“There it is, Hoss,” he says.
Clam Island. I turn my head and look out the window to see a gigantic lump of Earth Turd that has somehow stolen the right to be called Clam Island. The sight of the island depresses me. It seems appropriate that the sky is overcast. I cannot imagine a blue sky behind the Earth Turd. The middle of the island is discolored and scarred orange after being blasted in the past by dynamite. The rocks have been quarried out, and its face is slashed like a celebrity missing his nose after a plastic surgery gone awry. We approach the turnoff for the island and make a right. Our car goes down a straight and narrow buttcrack of a spit that leads diretctly to the middle of the island. On both sides of the buttcrack road are pools of black sludge, left behind by the high tide. I see sideways’ crabs scurrying in and out of their dirty little holes in the sludge. Sometimes a suicidal sideways’ crab makes a break for it across the road. One or two are inevitably smashed by Friendly Driver’s vehicle. The Earth Turd approaches, looming overhead. I’ll spend a good part of my afternoon here.
We arrive at the spot where each visitor unbelievably had to buy a 10rmb ticket in order to enter the island. I pay the money for the island, and then I prepare to pay the Friendly Driver.
“All right…here’s 30 for you now…I’ll give you the remaining 10 when I make my round of Clam Island. Or do you want to come with me while I walk around? You’re welcome to.”
Friendly Driver seems to misunderstand, “Wait…no, no no….it’s 40 each way. Altogether it’s 80 both ways. You give me the 40 now.”
“Sorry…that’s not what you said. You said 40. You didn’t say 80. I can only give you 30 now. I’ll give you the 10 when I get back.” I get out of the car and put my backpack on.
“Wait….nuh nuh nuh nuh….That’s not the deal. Give me my 40 now. You can’t just walk off like that!” His voice gets louder. There’s no one else around on the island except for the people who just took my ticket money, and they’ve already gone back in their little shack.
“Listen…I’ve got principles. You need to be clear when you state a price. You said 40. I’ll call you when I get back and give you 10. I’ve got your card.” I hold up his business card. When he sees it, suddenly his face turns purple, and he actually starts to drive after me over the pebbles and rubble. He doesn’t have to drive fast as I’m in no hurry. It’s at this moment that I realize that he might actually have intentions to fight me. For some reason, however, I don’t worry. I can’t even trust his anger.
“No! Give me back my card! I will NOT come and pick you up. Give me back my card. Give it back to meeeeeeeeee!”
“Look buddy, this is not YOUR card anymore. YOU gave it to ME, remember? How am I going to promote your business without your card?” This last question is a bit overboard, I admit.
“There’s no WAY I’m picking you up!” He yells, and then pulls a U-turn and drives back towards the buttcrack road. I’m left by myself on the island with no idea how to get back to the bus station. There are no other cars here, and it’s at least a 20 minute walk to the main road. The dust is still settling from his car as I watch him pull away. The black vehicle gets smaller and smaller until it disappears as it makes a left turn back on the main road. Silence and dust.
Time to find some clams.
