Kung Fu Trip Read online

  Kung Fu Trip

  Benjamin Zephaniah

  For those who have struggled like me,

  To read,

  And so be free.

  Sing loud and bang your drum,

  For we shall overcome.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Also by Benjamin Zephaniah

  Imprint

  Chapter One

  Leaving London

  I wanted to leave London. This is why. There were too many bombs going off. After joining America in her ‘war on terrorism’, our Prime Minister had started his own ‘war on terrorism’. Muslim houses were being raided all over the country and my Muslim friends felt as if they were under siege. I was stopped three times in one day and I don’t look anything like a Muslim.

  So I decided to go to China, to study kung fu at the Shaolin Temple, spiritual home of the martial arts. It would be a great trip for a kung fu fanatic like me. For all of you who do karate or judo, or any form of stick fighting, and for all of you who just watch Jackie Chan movies, this Chinese temple is where it all started.

  I arrived in China at 9.30 a.m. Beijing time, of course. It was exactly the same time and date that I had arrived the year before. I went to China for the first time for the same reason I had been to Russia, Lebanon, Libya, Palestine and Israel. I was sick of hearing stories about these places that were untrue – in other words propaganda – and I wanted to see these countries for myself.

  When I discovered Beijing, I fell in love with the dirty, crowded city. Television had given me the idea that the city was full of millions of poor Chinese folk on bikes. Not at all. There were more cars than bikes. There were still some bicycles, but Chinese cyclists had roads of their own, many the size of British main roads.

  I can never just blend in when I walk the streets in China. There are some Africans in Beijing, but there are no Rastas, so I am a bit of a novelty. Some people faint when they see me. Others take one look and run away. Children have run up to me and stroked my legs, thinking that I was a kind of big doll. Twice men have bowed down believing that I was a god.

  In hotels, though, it’s not the same. People in hotels don’t stare so much or react in such a big way. They just ask me where I’m from, or they tell me that they have a record by someone who looks like me.

  On my first day in Beijing this time round I was changing some money in the hotel when a man came up to me. He was wearing a trilby hat and a big coat, which was strange when it was so hot.

  ‘Where you from?’ he asked.

  ‘London,’ I said.

  ‘You speak Chinese?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You know Beijing?’

  ‘Not very well,’ I said.

  ‘Your first time here?

  ‘No, I’ve been here before,’ I said.

  He smiled and raised his hat. ‘Ah, so you like my country?’

  ‘Yeah man, it’s cool. That’s why I’ve come back.’

  He moved closer to me and spoke quietly.

  ‘Is everything here all right for you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all good, man, really cool. The only thing is I know I will have a hard time finding vegan food.’

  ‘What?’ he said, tilting his hat over his eyes. ‘Vegan food, no problem. We will find a place for you to get very vegan food.’

  He stopped for a moment and stared into the distance. Then he looked back at me like a confused schoolboy and asked, ‘What is vegan?’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, jokingly punching his shoulder, ‘you’re telling me that you can get me vegan food and you don’t even know what vegan food is?’

  I explained to him that vegan meant not eating anything that has come from an animal, so no meat, fish, milk, eggs. He said, ‘Yes. Buddha.’ He meant that the Buddhist restaurants in China are good for vegan food. I think they are great, some of the best in the world. They are completely vegan but on the menu you will find things like ‘meat-free cow’ and ‘Buddha Burger’. The dishes look like meat and they taste like meat and have all the protein of meat, but without the cruelty.

  Then the man with the hat said, ‘I have interpreter. He speak very good English. He know all places in Beijing. He will help you.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s cool. I’ll be OK. I can check things out on the internet. Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘I worry about you. You are guest in my country. You are vegan guest in my country. You must enjoy your vegan stay.’

  I wanted to walk away, but I didn’t want to offend the guy.

  ‘Sorry, I have to change some money,’ I said, handing over two fifty-pound notes to the cashier.

  He stepped aside but when I had finished and I was going up to my room, the man stopped me again.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You talk to my friend. He give you advice if you need, or help you with some Chinese word. He very good translator. He just make sure you all right.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ I insisted. ‘I’ve been to Beijing before. I can get around.’

  ‘But my friend just want to help,’ he said, looking as if he was about to burst into tears.

  ‘Does he want money?’ I asked.

  ‘No. You don’t pay him if you don’t like. He just give you advice, make sure you all right. If you want to use him again, maybe you give him little money. If you want him guide you around city, maybe you give him little money, but if no, it’s OK. He just like to meet and help foreigner.’

  ‘What have I got to lose?’ I thought. ‘Where is he?’ I said.

  ‘Give me your room number.’

  ‘No way,’ I replied.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘Give me your room number. He come up in ten minutes, talk with you and then go.’

  I thought about it. I had never felt unsafe in China and I didn’t think this guy was a crook. He was something else, but not a crook. I decided to give him my room number.

  ‘Room 905, ninth floor.’

  ‘OK. Ten minutes, he come.’

  I went to my room and put my passport and other valuables in the safe. I sat down and began my usual thing of going through the television channels to see if they have the BBC, and then if they have any other English-speaking channels. No BBC, but I found CNN, and I cursed the management. I don’t like CNN.

  I was still cursing when there was a knock on the door. I looked through the spyhole and saw a woman. I thought it was housekeeping or room service so I opened the door. She walked straight past me and into the room.

  ‘Hello, sir. Me interpreter, me city guide, me help you.’

  ‘I thought you were going to be a man,’ I said, trying not to show I was surprised.

  ‘Me no man. Me very woman.’

  She sat down on the bed. She was full of energy. Her eyes darted all over me, and all over the room.

  ‘Where you from?’ What your name? How long you stay?’ she asked me as quickly as a gangsta rapper, giving me no time to reply.

  ‘Come here,’ she shouted.

  I walked towards her.

  ‘Close the door,’ she shouted.

  I closed it.

  ‘Sit down,’ she shouted.

  I sat down.

  ‘Kiss me.’

  ‘What?’ I shouted. ‘Are you crazy?’

&n
bsp; ‘Kiss me now, please.’

  I was lost for words. I looked around the room for help, as if someone was going to step out of a wardrobe and get me out of this.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she said again. ‘You are slim, you look strong and you have hot blood.’

  She pointed to the bed, she pointed to the table, she pointed to the chair, she pointed to the bathroom and she pointed to the floor.

  ‘I want you to kiss me there, there, there, there and there. You can do that?’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  I stood up. Then I had an idea. I was going to speak calmly and firmly. I was going to take control.

  ‘Look, your friend – the man who approached me downstairs – said you too would be a man. He said you can speak good English and that you could help me. He said you would talk to me.’

  She stood up. ‘You kiss me first then I talk to you. You can’t just come to my country and no kiss me. I am hot chick. This is my country. Now you kiss me there, there, there, there and there. We kissy kissy, then we talky talky, you stupid man.’

  I didn’t want to offend the woman, but this was my room. I had rights.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked, without knowing why.

  ‘My name is Louise.’

  ‘What is your Chinese name?’ I like to try to use people’s real names. I think it shows some respect. It’s not right that African and Asian people should feel they have to make their names sound western. We should learn their names just as they learn ours.

  ‘Shut up, just shut up and give me service.’ She was getting angry. I tried to get her to speak quietly but she just got louder.

  ‘You listen to me, dark man. We kissy kissy then I take you to Tiananmen Square, and I take you to get the German food.’

  I laughed.

  ‘I don’t want German food. I want vegan food.’

  ‘My friend said you want German food.’

  ‘No, not German, vegan. I want vegan food. How did vegan food get to be German food?’

  ‘Never mind the food.’ Now she was getting really angry. ‘Look at me. You like me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said quickly. ‘You’re a very nice girl.’

  ‘So why you no kissy kissy me?’

  I tried to be nice. ‘I would like to get to know you first. We have only just met. You don’t even know my name, and I just got off the plane. I think that if you get to know me we could be friends. I’m a poet. I have a twin sister. She’s nothing like me. Do you know any kung fu?’

  ‘Kung fu? Kung fu? Kung fu is stupid. I want kissy kissy, you stupid dark man.’

  She went quiet. It was a long stretch of quiet. She just stared at me and took a couple of deep breaths. Then she said, ‘If you don’t kissy kissy me, I will kill you.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I said.

  ‘If you don’t kissy kissy me, I will kill you. I not afraid of dark man. I will kill you.’

  ‘Get out,’ I said. ‘Get out now. Are you mad or what? You can’t just come in here and say kissy kissy me. You can’t just say you will kill me. What kind of woman are you? Just get out.’

  She got up.

  ‘I go,’ she said. ‘I will go now, and I don’t need you, dark man.’ And she walked out of my room.

  Chapter Two

  A Journey to Mongolia

  It took me a while to get over the strange experience with the Chinese woman in my hotel room in Beijing. I thought about what I was going to say if I saw the man with the hat again, and deep down I was worried that the woman would come back.

  I decided to clear my head and took a walk down to Bar Street. I like the small clubs in the side streets of the city. Most of them play hip-hop, reggae and R ’n’ B. Many of the bars on Bar Street have live bands. They are probably the worst cover bands in the world, but I don’t mind that. These are young kids, many come from the Philippines, dressed as punks and goths, singing Cliff Richard and Robbie Williams songs. It’s their job.

  What I do mind is that Bar Street is also the place where all the British tourists go. When I leave Britain, I want to get away from the beer-drinking, football-talking, party culture, me, me, me. When I’m abroad, I want to wrap myself in the local culture.

  Bar Street is full of Italian, Spanish, Thai and French restaurants, which could be anywhere, but the small clubs just off the street are special. You don’t pay to go in, and once you are in it’s very hard to find a corner and hang cool. You have to dance.

  This evening the first club I went to was half indoors and half outdoors, which brought a nice cool breeze on to the dance floor. I got myself an orange juice and stood in a corner, but within minutes two Chinese girls insisted that I dance. At first I said, ‘No.’

  ‘You’re English,’ said one girl.

  When I asked her how she knew, she told me that English people always spend time watching before they start dancing. So trying hard not to look English, I tried dancing.

  I couldn’t keep up with the two girls. I could tell they had been watching Michael Jackson videos and dancing in front of the mirror. I had not, which meant I looked like a poor-performing extra in a keep-fit video.

  When I could make a fool of myself no more, I left that place and visited about six more clubs before heading back to the hotel.

  As I walked home, I was stopped by a group of five young Chinese people. The boys left it to the girls to speak to me.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘England.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Benjamin.’

  ‘Benjamin? It is a nice name. What are you doing in China?’

  ‘I just like China.’

  ‘So you are a tourist?’

  ‘No, I’m not really a tourist. I have come to study kung fu.’

  One of the boys took up a typical kung fu pose.

  ‘Ah, kung fu,’ he said. ‘Shaolin Si.’

  I knew that Si was the Chinese word for temple, and that he was saying ‘Shaolin Temple’.

  ‘Yes, Shaolin Si.’

  The boy continued to speak to me in Chinese, but knowing that I couldn’t understand, one of the girls translated for me.

  ‘He said, is kung fu your job?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I am a poet and musician.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘We are musicians. We are from Mongolia. We have been playing music here in Beijing.’

  I could feel my eyes light up.

  ‘Please, sir,’ she said, ‘sing a song for us.’

  I tried to explain that I put poetry to music and that I wasn’t really a singer.

  ‘OK. Please, sir, will you say a poem for us?’

  I chose one of my short poems and slowed it down a bit. It looked as if the two girls understood much of what I was saying but the boys just liked the rhythm.

  When I finished, they clapped frantically and thanked me.

  ‘No problem,’ I said and I began to say goodbye.

  ‘No, please,’ said the girl. ‘Please wait. We play Mongolian music for you.’

  Quickly they took instruments from their backpacks and began to play. The music was beautiful. The noise of the traffic around me just disappeared and I felt like I was with them in Mongolia. I thanked them and began to say goodnight again when the girl spoke.

  ‘No, sir, please wait. We sing Mongolian song for you.’

  ‘You just did,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘That was just music. Now we do song with music.’

  Then they began to play again and the two girls began to sing. Now this really was heaven. I was rooted to the spot. I could see that it was very important for them to share their music with me, but, as I listened, I wondered if they knew how much their playing meant to me. After the bombs in London, the long flight and the strange kissy kissy woman, this was just what I needed. When the music was over, I hugged them goodbye and I felt like I floated back to my hotel.

  Chapter Three

  Kung Fu

  I went to bed early that night but
woke up the next morning at 4 a.m. Jet lag.

  I remember when I first started travelling, I just couldn’t understand what jet lag was. When I arrived in a country, I just tuned into the time of that country, and when I got home I did the same. But as I got older things started to change and it would take me days, and sometimes weeks, to adjust to different time zones. I hate jet lag, and here I was again looking at the ceiling and wondering what to do. I tried just lying still and keeping my eyes closed as I counted sheep, then trees, clouds, traffic wardens and blades of grass.

  I opened my eyes, reached for the TV remote control and tried all the channels until I stopped at the English-speaking station of CCTV, China’s state-run TV channel. I liked this channel; there was never a critical word of the government but I really enjoyed watching the way the Chinese reported things to do with Britain and the USA. Much of the coverage was rubbish, but much of what we get to hear about China is also rubbish, so for a while I watched the CCTV news and, in my mind, compared rubbish with rubbish. It was all rubbish, just different kinds of rubbish. Television news all stinks.

  At last morning proper came and I began to hear movement out on the streets and around the hotel, so I decided to put on my running gear and go down to the gym.

  The hotel brochure had a wonderful photo of the gym that was on the second floor, but the lift wouldn’t take me there. I pressed the button marked 2 but the lift went past it and stopped at level 1. So I pressed 2 again and it went up, passing 2 and stopping at 3. This happened a few times so I went to the reception.

  ‘It’s really weird,’ I said to the receptionist. ‘I want to go to the gym but the lift won’t go there. It goes to the third and first floors, but it won’t go to the second, and there are no stairs.’

  ‘We don’t have a gym here,’ she said, to my surprise.

  ‘No gym? What you talking about, no gym? There is a gym. It’s on the second floor. I saw it in the brochure.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. There was a gym, sir, but the gym is closed and it will be closed for the next six months, and because the gym is closed, sir, the lift will not stop at the second floor.’