Sometimes I think it might be fun to have a Party membership. I am referring to the one and only Party here in the land of Great Walls, Great food and Great (read: massive amounts of) people: the People’s Communist party.Allow me to illustrate my latest infatuation with this bureaucratic privilege. Last weekend my friend and colleague Colm was invited by a Chinese friend to a meal. He eagerly accepted the invitation because this friend of his owns a drum shop in town and is generous in allowing Colm time to bang the drums all day (when the spirit moves him). Colm probably believed that, by accepting this invitation to a meal, eventually he could have a drum session later on; but the following series of events didn’t conform to this modest expectation.
Soon enough, Colm was spirited away to the neighboring province. It began with Colm’s drummer friend introducing him to his cousin, or brother, or in-law, or something of the sort. As it turns out, this relation of the drummer man was a certified Party member and his spouse was even a policewoman. Colm was a bit skeptical until he was shown the badge to back it up. Party members are given considerable privilege. Take for example the conduct on the roadways out here in China. Not that there are many rules to begin with, but those who can flash a fancy laminated ID proving their affiliation to Beijing can further ignore the scant rules of the road. This means taking liberties behind the wheel that no sensible, educated, or cautious western driver would ever conceive. When someone raises a fuss, the ID is produced and all concerns are assuaged. The odious conduct of the Party member behind the wheel is instead greeted with smiles and cheery waves.
After a time in the backseat of such a raucous road trip to the province just North of Jiangsu, Colm arrived at a gig with his new friends. He had a chance to bang out a few tunes, it was bliss. But night had already descended and Colm still hadn’t eaten anything, and he was in another province altogether. Of course he didn’t have to worry, because his new Party-affiliated chums briskly walked into a five star hotel with Colm in tow and told the front desk what was what. Colm was put up—free of charge—in a luxurious suite for the night and there were no questions asked; no bills to be settled; nary an eyebrow was raised in protest.
I’m taking some liberties in imagining the swift manner with which this bureaucratic bigwig handled all these hurdles. But that’s half the fun anyhow. 
Rory Keane is an American-born teacher and writer who has logged nearly two years in China, and is working on another year-long stint in the Middle Kingdom. He writes about travel, sociopolitical issues, health, entertainment, and culture, among other topics.
