After a long flight, a night in a crumbling, moldy motel, a full day’s bus ride sitting next to a man with a violently screaming anus, a taxi ride with a raging driver who won’t stop yelling stories about Uber drivers raping and murdering anyone who gets in their car, and a few miles of trekking through the sleet with your guitar, the idea of a drink sounds pretty damned good. If you’re in this part of China the only drink you’re going to find is one made by the Chinese government. That means the bottle with the red star.
When I arrived and found the corner store it was clear very quickly that things were going to be a bit different here. The smiles of Vietnam, bright as a Saigon sunrise, were long gone. The Chinese know how to work, and there is a sense in the air of intention to get shit done. There is also a taste palette that strays far beyond the wildest fringes of Western exploration. What we call “Chinese food” in America is not remotely the food of China. As an example, the corner stores stock snacks of chicken feet, in case you’re feeling a bit hungry.
My goal was not a chicken foot though, I was looking for a drink. Lo and behold, there on the shelf was a stock of the government approved Red Star booze. Not knowing what I was in for, I also picked up a bottle of something that looked like 7-Up, just in case.
I had scrounged up a bed to sleep in on the outskirts of the Mutianyu village and, after shaking off the snow and cracking open the bottle, I poured myself two fingers of the stuff. Immediately I thought I had made some sort of terrible mistake and purchased a paint stripper or automotive cleaner of some kind. It smelled strongly of industrial solvent and the taste went straight to the heat, bitter, and caution parts of my tongue. Immediately I felt an alarming burning in my gut and feared that I had ingested something toxic. I don’t speak any of the countless Chinese languages, and don’t have the first idea what I’d do in case of an accidental self-poisoning while visiting. There is no phone that I know of and as I wheeze and hack into the sink I wonder if I’ll die here, staring wistfully out into the snowy countryside at broken pieces of the Great Wall in the snow like massive gnarled teeth across a mountain range.
After a few breaths I started to feel reassured that it wasn’t a poison or engine cleaning compound, just the local booze. I tried adding a splash of the clear soda in hopes that some candy flavoring might make it taste a little more cocktail-like, but no dice. In fact, it was worse. Now it just tasted like jet fuel that somehow was infused with cotton candy. Or perhaps like a child with an armful of snow cones had fallen tragically into a vat of vodka, pissing herself while falling, then been pulverized by merciless machines into a government regulated spirit intended only for new recruits at boot camp as a test of their patriotism.
I was not, dear reader, able to finish the pint. But that night I slept like the dead and awoke the next morning to blazing blue skies and a walk along the Great Wall that was subtly infused with the dreams the Red Star bottle had planted in me. China has a magic to it that is unlike anywhere else. Their weird fear of the internet, distrust of the outside world, and faintly toxic boozes are only part of the picture. If you can make it to China to see it for yourself, I highly recommend it. I would, however, avoid the Red Star booze.