A bony man with a mouthful of gold teeth scampered along the promenade. I had booked a Yangtze River cruise and it was his job to make sure I got on the right boat. At the smog-smoked port we arrived at a decrepit ship. A girl dressed in a wrinkled uniform handed me tea and a leaflet that said: “Welcome to the Oil Tanker Cruise.” There was no time to digest the leaflet or the drink because my guide pushed me through the door.
My room consisted of two bunk beds and a tiny bathroom — the floors of both were covered with water and smelt of mould. I dumped my bag on the bed and took a look around. At the bottom of the four-deck ship I found the kitchen — where all the chefs wore the same uniform: stained white vests and blood-splattered trousers. With the smell of fuel in my nostrils I climbed back up the steel staircase and emerged in a small cafe — from where I watched us set off from Lichang.
The little three gorges tour
Following a damp night’s sleep, I joined the others in the dining area for breakfast (rice porridge and dough balls). The thrum of the engine failed to drown out the diners who shared anecdotes long before the sun climbed into the sky.
After breakfast we took a smaller boat along the little three gorges. The cliffs were dotted with ancient houses which watched over the Yangtze below. With no breeze the river existed in snapshot — it all felt too still to be real.
Our guide wore a yellow shell-suit and shouted into a microphone. The tourists soon tired of her and talked amongst themselves. I asked the man next to me what the guide was saying.
“She is pointing at different rocks and saying they look like different things. For example two of the rocks looked like a monkey eating an apple.”
“Why have people stopped listening to her?”
“Perhaps they are of the same opinion as me: they disagree with her about the monkey.”
“So the rock didn’t look like a monkey?”
“Yes it did, but it didn’t look like an apple he was eating.”
The anatomy of karaoke
In the evening we gathered in the entertainment area of the main ship — where the orange ceiling lights cast the tourists in a tangerine glow. Two microphones were plugged into the television and everyone waited with anticipation.
“Why is Karaoke so popular in China?” I asked the group setting next to me.
“Two reasons!” replied a man. “Number one! The Chinese work very hard and singing is a good way to relax. Number two! At a karaoke bar you will find many girls you can pay for sex.” He prodded me in the chest as if I was responsible for all the prostitution in China: “This is very bad!”
The first line of each song was met with a loud cheer — after that most people stopped listening. The ritual of karaoke brings specific archetypes, its anatomy is the same the world over:
There’s always one man who volunteers first. Taking to the stage, he thrusts his hips and urges the crowd to join in. He’s sure he’d win The X-Factor but never enters because he “won’t lower himself” to that. Instead he prefers performing “gigs” for his friends — let’s call him The Karaoke King.
While he hogs the microphone a group of girls hover by the bar. For them the fun lies in choosing the song. They spend so long pouring over the list of hits they often miss their chance to sing. If they do agree on a song, they’ll giggle their way through it before racing back to the list again — they are The Catalogue Girls after all.
Up next an attractive young woman who is the embodiment of beauty — until she opens her mouth to sing. It is impossible to believe that a sound so ugly can come out of something so beautiful. Men in the audience clap and cheer – but they are not interested in her voice. She should stay well away from microphones — but she’s certainly a Looker.
Up next a married couple — one of whom can sing and the other can’t. Together their rendition sounds like a muffled spat — for arguments sake let’s call them the Mis-matched Couple.
Another quarrel is taking place at the back of the room: an irritated old man doesn’t know “any of these modern songs”. He finally finds one he likes and begins to sing. The first chorus passes and he realises he doesn’t know the words after all —so he sits back down with the song still playing. The Forgetter will not be seen on stage again until the next karaoke evening — by which time he will also have forgotten the humiliation he suffered this time around.
The Organiser always has to sing at least once during the evening, and she is about to finish the Forgetter’s song when The Karaoke King steps in. Typically he sings another song after this one too — because the last one wasn’t a whole one so it doesn’t really count does it?
Next some parents shove their teenage daughter toward the microphone. She is nervous but with the crowd’s encouragement begins to grow in confidence. Soon her voice no longer wavers — ironically it’s the singer with the least confidence who is the only real Talent in the room. The Karaoke King crosses his arms and grumbles to his friend: “She shouldn’t be allowed to sing, she’s not old enough is she?”
At this stage bands begin to form. These are composed of friends who ordinarily wouldn’t sing — but sloshing with liquid bravado — have come to the agreement: “I’ll do it if you do it.” They spend the following day vomiting and only remember they sang when reminded. “No, I don’t want to see it thanks. Who put it on You Tube?”
Those at the back of the room live and die by the motto “I will not sing.” As the evening wears on these Non-Believers try ascertain out how many other people have yet to perform. Their worst nightmare is someone saying: “Who hasn’t sung yet? Come on! you know who you are!” The Non-Believers despise people who sing multiple times but are also grateful to them — if someone else is singing it means they aren’t.
As the end of the evening a drunk Band are on stage — arms linked — sharing the microphones between them. The Karaoke King shouts along to the words — trying to outdo the band from his seat. A young man tries to seduce the Looker but the Forgetter interjects with conversation of his own. The Catalogue girls check the song list as if they’ve never seen it before. One half of the Mis-matched couple is falling asleep and isn’t trying too hard to stay awake. The Talent is drunk because her parents have spent most of the evening toasting her inevitable pop career. And as the band finish the Non-Believers edge toward the door — the end is in sight now and they might actually get away with it.
The aftermath
The following day the boat was hungover — but in the afternoon people began to stumble from their rooms. Some of them even got off to look around the town of Fenjie — where you’ll be delighted to hear the orange industry is alive and well. Orange peel littered the water’s edge and the town’s roads. Workers filled sacks with oranges and threw them into tiny boats which were then punted up the Yangtze river.
We spent the rest of the afternoon eating oranges, squeezing oranges into glasses and comparing oranges with friends. I looked around and noticed the voyage had taken its toll on the boat. Gone were the complimentary nuts, hot flannels and sweet tea. Now the corridor’s were decorated with dirty laundry and the carpets with orange peel.
The boat may have been falling apart but the bond between guests continued to grow. That evening there was another karaoke session and everyone drank late into the night. Three days ago we had boarded the boat as strangers — but now we joked and sang like friends.
The next morning the tannoy blasted our destination — “Chongqing! Chongqing! Chongqing!” Passengers dragged themselves out of bed and pushed their luggage onto the port.
Back on land no one seemed to know what to do. How do you say goodbye to people you’ve spent the past three days with — but whom perhaps you don’t really know at all? In the end most of us opted for an abrupt handshake — and when we separated to climb the stone steps it was as if we were strangers once more.