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Like most operations our size in Taiwan, we were a wild chicken; that saved us the cost of getting a license, but ceded the uncertain protection of the law. After a few months the neighbors began complaining vociferously to my Chinese partner about the disruptions. Also the owner of the main expatriate pub, The Frog, just a few blocks down from us, had taken a hit in business and he wasn't all that happy about our existence either. We hadn't racked up to many friends and that precipitated the next incident.
Because neither Luigi nor I had work permits we were always vigilant to the possibility of a raid. Bushibans are raided all the time in Taiwan. A couple times the local cops ambled in and Luigi and I would sprint from the kitchen and try to blend in with the crowd, not an easy task in our food splattered clothing, but we tried. These were always false alarms though, these guys were just looking for some free beers.
One night about 5 months after we opened, one of the waitresses ran in with an alarmed look and told us the police were here again. By this time we were leaving the kitchen with practiced non-chalance during these events, but this was a different case. A ring of maybe 15 cops was standing shoulder to shoulder with their hands clasped behind their backs, their eyes locked militarily forward seemingly oblivious to the dumbfounded collection of hushed foreigners. Their sergeant asked for the proper licensing--unheard of in Taiwan--and since we had none, shut us down. Someone had gotten to the local government.
The next day we sat in our empty restaurant glumly waiting for Russ. When he arrived he acted like this was a minor inconvenience. He told us that we had racked up about $15,000 in fines and that we'd have to get the place up to spec and get a license. This is good he said, "Now the neighbors can't bother us." That seemed to be looking on the bright side. But, could we get a license? Luigi and I were thinking this could be a catastrophe. We'd sunk $100,000 into the place and we may never have the chance to earn the money back. "I just have to search some Guanxi," Russ said, using the Chinese word that literally translates to relationship, but covers almost every aspect of the way Chinese interact. Guanxi, is much more than relationship, it is a stew of bribes, nepotism, friendship and favors and explains the initial building blocks of a relationship when you arrive in a Chinese community. You will notice that people you meet are always wanting to do favors for you. This is not from a wellspring of generosity--though they are genuinely friendly people--nor is it a calculating attempt to bring you into their debt, though that will be the ultimate scenario, if you do not extract your own debt. The resulting web of favors creates the bond of trust and dependence that is another pillar of Chinese society.
So Russ was off to trump our enemies, guanxi. And so he did. He transferred ownership of the restaurant to his sister who had a different surname and we changed the name of the restaurant. "Forget the fines, we don't have to pay," he said. Our old contractor came in and did some redecorating and in a week we had a license to operate as Napoli Restaurant. Who knows if any money changed hands. We changed our hours to accommodate the neighbors. The local cops kept coming in for their free beers and we had a chance to earn our money back. The fines just went away. No one ever came after Russell. He must have found some guanxi.
This is business in China. Which explains why everyone has a joint venture partner. A harbor pilot is imperative when it comes to navigating the labyrinth of shoals hidden beneath the murky surface of Chinese business.
I ended up working in the restaurant for two years. We did well enough that I paid all my creditors off with interest by the end of the first year. On the other hand I did not make a great deal of money; but, the experience and education were priceless. After two years and a half years though, I decided to return to The U.S. I was now 30, and I decided I needed to reacquaint myself with this country and my family.
From that first evening, when I rode the bus into downtown Taipei, along the congested highway that ran through Taipei's ramshackle outskirts giving me my first glimpses of the rectangular tiled buildings, draped in a raiment of riotous neon, advertising everything from shoe repair to KTV and restaurants, that make every city on the island look alike, to the congested city streets, where the bus, flanked by a swarm of moped riders, many gauzed against noxious fumes by what looked like cotton surgical masks, haltingly made its way to the train station where I got off and stepped into the Chinese community, I had come a long way. But I also knew that these few years on Taiwan were just the first chapter of many to come. I had grown up and found direction, but up until then, everything had happened almost accidentally, I had trusted caprice and my personality to propel me through life. I now knew that I had to take a more constructive role in shaping the remainder of my journey.
By Mark Cannon
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