So I walk into the club, or is it a bar? Whatever. It's an underground establishment (physically as much as figuratively) as it began life as a bomb shelter. Rather inventively it's called 'Shelter' and it was opened to expand Shanghai's dirty (figuratively and perhaps a little physically) bar scene. Well, that now takes it to two places, so that scene is obviously rocking.
As it was just before midnight it wasn't busy so it was easy for the crowd and myself to check each other out. A guy propped up at the bar smiled and greeted me as if I was a long lost friend. I of course decided I must be more long lost than I realised as I didn't recall knowing him. He seemed friendly enough so I figured I'd be social. But I already knew what was going on here and just wanted to give him an opportunity to prove me wrong.
The way he would pretty much talk about nothing while continuously scanning the room told me he was there on business. And ladies and gentlemen, that business was drugs. I obviously looked like I was in need of a good time but that's where he was wrong – I was there for a sub-standard time and needed nothing.
There's something about drug dealers and me. Whether considered a buyer or seller there must be a drug dealer look that I seem to have down. This important piece of information obviously sits proudly in my CV and is part of my date conversation repertoire. Word of advice: women don't tend to like dating guys who can potentially be mistaken for a drug dealer and/or buyer. So perhaps don't try to sell them meth on the first date and no one needs to be the wiser. Besides, that's really second date behaviour.
My Chinese dealer association began in the Beijing bar district. Strangely enough, I found myself wondering the area in search of somewhere to have a drink one fine evening. It was pre-Olympic time, before Beijing underwent its city uglification gentrification of steel and glass. This was when dirty old laneways were permissible and that's where I found myself – a dirty old alley looking for alcohol.
Given that, perhaps my chances of encountering drug dealers had increased but then, they weren't easy to miss. They were the African guys standing at every turn and junction of the lane eyeballing every foreigner that came into eyeball range.
I knew I was being looked at with the promise of a narcotically good time shining in those eyes, however I chose to respond with the international sign of disinterest by acting, well, disinterested. It was only later when I found myself at the local fish and chip shop (yep, a chip shop in backward Beijing while Shanghai has no idea that placing these two delicacies together spell jackpot) I had the chance to chat with them.
Over a course of hot chips they divulged they were from Nigeria and had cornered a good part of the local market. Local for them being the ex-pat one – and French in particular. Perhaps the idea of being a particular nationality leads you to turn to drugs. But French? My money would have been on the Canadians as nobody can survive such spells of cold and really be that nice all the time.
Beijing seemed to offer them a thriving trade with little police interference. They had attempted to set up in Shanghai only to find it much more compact and densely populated. With the constant feeling they were being watched, they felt it best to return to where they knew how (and who) to navigate.
I found it odd that given the racial prejudices of some Chinese these Nigerians would be suspected of illegal activities based on appearance alone and had not found it harder to do business. It's not like they tried to make it a secret or anything like that. I mean, if I knew everyone would have known. Maybe they paid off the right people or perhaps they were the face of a larger organisation run by locals. It wouldn't have looked good to have officials or army folk on every corner doing the Nigerians' job, as after all, China is all about appearance.
However, at some stage there must have been a problem with the whole obviousness of the operation. Most likely due to local anger there was talk of a crackdown (I say 'talk' as in many cases it's about intention rather than actuality). Or perhaps the bars wanted their own piece of the action and took matters into their own hands. Either way, a while back the local club bouncers decided to get all hot and heavy, attacking any guy with dark skin.
Well, whatever it was, this action ultimately resulted in an altercation with a diplomat's son. Embarrassment ensured and whatever crackdown, that was unlikely anyway, most definitely didn't happen.
So when I returned to the area post Olympics, where shiny buildings and malls replaced dirty lanes, there were still Nigerian guys standing around. It seemed they were still positioned in the same places they used to be with everything altered around them, and if that happened to be in the middle of a lit walkway so be it.
In fact the only way they could have been more obvious would have been to shine a couple of spotlights on them. Don't know if all the urban alteration had made their life any easier, perhaps I'll ask my new friend the next time I see him – oh there'll be a next time all right – and ask if he knows.
