One still-drunk Japanese man, many cigarettes, and a lesson in etiquette

Inspired by our earlier Yangshuo lesson, we decide to take things a step further. This time, we’re going to seek instruction from a local.

Enquiring at our guesthouse (the aptly named ‘Fawlty Towers’), we arrange a lesson for the following day. It’s not clear who will be teaching us, or where the lesson will take place, but phonecalls are made and a time is set.

At twelve thirty the next day, we present ourselves in the lobby – fresh-faced and eager for instruction. A wiry Chinese man appears, smoking animatedly. ‘Come to my homestay now – learn Mah Jiang!’ he calls.

We troop out into the narrow laneways that encircle the hotel. Our tutor leads us up a small hillside and into his home. Stepping from the laneway out front directly into a tiled living-room, we spy his wife, his mother, and a very small boy. Everyone is stolidly eating rice from tiny little bowls and regarding us with very large eyes.

The next thing we know, our teacher is rapping loudly on a door leading off the lounge-room. ‘Waking up! Playing Mah Jiang now!’

Finally, he bellows, ‘WAKE UP!’ – still rapping all the while.

An extremely bleary face appears at the door. Slightly sheepish in the eyes, and as rumpled as a week-old bedsheet, its owner looks like there’s nothing he’d rather do less than play mah jong.

‘Are you okay?’ our host asks him.

Rumpled Man looks like the very question hurts his head, but nods gingerly.

‘Okay! Let’s play!’ says the teacher. Turning to us, he adds swiftly, ‘He is Japanese. Excellent Mah Jiang player and very good at English too.’

We retire upstairs to a square card-table where a very large set of mah jong tiles is soon turned out. Rumpled Man looks very green around the gills.

‘Aaah … do you have a HEADACHE?’ bellows the teacher.

RM seems not to understand, but produces a large, red pack of cigarettes and begins to drag wearily on one. At this point, he’s giving the impression that he knows neither English or mah jong.

Andrew and our esteemed teacher sit on fat pleather sofas, while RM and I are on tiny wooden benches that would barely fit a cat. Cigarette smoke curls around my head like a wreath.
Whoa, Nelly … this is hardly like playing with westerners, I think.

The next thing we know, we’re thanking our lucky stars for our lesson yesterday with Bill et al. Contrary to the careful, spell-things-out approach that our western friends took, Mr Mah Jong just launches straight in. If it weren’t for that earlier session, I’d be completely at sea.

Teacher’s only concession to our newness is that he allows us to play open hands with all our tiles visible. Other than that (and an impenetrable chart he’s drawn up in pencil outlining all the tiles in the game), he isn’t interested in explanations or mollycoddling.

Play commences in a strange hybrid of pidgin English and broken Mandarin. It’s curiously good for our language skills.

Unlike yesterday, all the emphasis here is on etiquette and on strategy. The western approach we’re more familiar with is ‘first learn the rules, then worry about strategising.’ The Chinese approach appears to be, ‘strategy is paramount, rules are incidental.’

To begin mah jong, you must first build four ‘walls’ with the tiles. Yesterday, we’d all agonised about getting the ‘right’ number of tiles in each wall, and ensuring they’d all line up neatly.

Today, it’s all about not being slow – because slow is, apparently, rude. We must build the walls quickly, not worry about how many tiles are in each, and never, ever place them at right angles. Instead, Mr Mah Jong teaches us to make a rough diamond with the four walls – he says it’s politer this way, as each player can reach the tiles more easily. ‘Quickly! Quickly!’ he cajoles the three of us. ‘Speedy is very important!’

‘In English, we say “A fast game’s a good game!”’ I proffer, but he’s already moved on.

And so we plunge into a world of strange cries and even stranger tile combinations. We learn that there are more complex formations that just three of a kind, or runs of four. And all the while, we are brow-beaten about strategy. ‘Nine and one are SAFER!’ he practically yells, when we go to throw out a tile incorrectly. ‘Save that kind of tile for later!’ ‘NO! North one is good now!’

‘Four is a bad, bad number,’ he sniffs derisively as he flicks out a tile with his long, rounded nails. ‘Ah hah! Five is good one … in the middle … important,’ he mutters with a thoughtful drag on his cigarette, and a mouthful of tea.

It is so utterly fascinating that I forget about the soreness of my arse on the bench, and just try to soak up the vibe of being here in a small house on a hill playing this game.

There is one other theme that dominates the play today: gambling. Even though we are not playing for money (other than the fee we will pay him for teaching us), it is clear that filthy lucre is at the heart of this game in China. Of every move that’s explained to us – whether it be combinations we form in our own hands, or tiles we discard that others can use – all have consequences in terms of who pays out and how much at the game’s conclusion. Despite the fact that we’re not playing for stakes, Mr Mah Jong cackles in delight when there’s a play that would double or triple the payout. It’s clear that money is a kind of life-blood for this game, and the passion it engenders is kind of infectious.

As our two hours is up, my head is spinning with odd terms and difficult stratagems. ‘Next time we come back, we can play you again,’ we suggest. ‘Yes!’ he cries, taking his fee. ‘But next time you come back, not paying me for lesson – just play Mah Jiang!’

And with that, it’s all over. Well, for the moment at least.