Review: China Shakes the World

China Shakes The World by James Kynge

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Since living in Beijing (2003-05), I've become obsessed with China. I read everything I can get my hands on. The strange thing about James Kynge's book, is that it neatly chimes with many of my observations and feeling about about China's rise. His style is anecdotal yet informative. It's easy to read, carefully researched, gently opinionated, and illuminating. A highly recommended introduction to anyone who wants to understand the impact of China's rise more fully.

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Spokane, WA

Spokane is an odd place. Washington's second biggest city sits about 300 miles east of Seattle on the I-90 right on the river of the same name. It's featureless. A grid of big streets and relatively charmless buildings, modest houses, and little soul. We parked Randy at the Travelodge (cheap and cheerless, but did the job) and went out to find some life, a few people, some bars, etc. We found none. What is in this city? Finally, after a run, we settled for Azteca Taco (great Mexican food - weird) and Terminator Salvation (gotta love Christian Bale). Laters Spokane.

Yachats, OR

It was a long day. Wolfman dragged me out of bed at 5.45am. We were crossing the Bay Bridge just after 6am. Ten hours later and 600+ miles, Randy was cruising the Oregon coast. The road sliced through the edge of think boreal forests and snaked alongside massive sand dunes.

I'd heard loads about how beautiful California is, but no one had told me about the Oregon coast. Out running along the beach in Yachats the next morning revealed a little gem. The white sand stretched for miles towards the horizon, cool air blew in from the ocean bringing whiffs of the salty sea. People walked their dogs. Kids played in between the rocks.

Of course, the weather was gorgeous which helped. But as the sun warmed my back, I could happily forget what it would be like in deepest, darkest February.

Yosemite, CA

You get your first glimpse of Half Dome through the tall pine trees coming in from the west. The giant granite wall catches the evening sun, lighting up in a brilliance of yellows, pinks, and reds. Perhaps more than anywhere else, Yosemite personifies America's natural beauty. The sweeping vistas of El Capitan, the Bridalveil Fall, Half Dome, and the Merced River, stun and awe.

The gang spent three days in the park, soaking up the magical views and pushing our bodies to the limit.

Day 1: the upper Yosemite Falls, a 3-hour climb of interminable switchbacks leading up through the wooded walls of the valley. We climb 1,500m vertical meters to the top and peer out over a ledge towards the valley floor. A huge torrent of water thunders passes us, explodes into a spray of white, and plunges hundreds of meters to the canyon floor below.

Day 2: A 5.30am start. Half Dome our objective. It's a long gradual climb alongside the rampaging Vernal Falls, swollen with snow-melt and then off into the forests than flank Half Dome's rump. Five hours of trail trudging lead up to a rocky outcrop below the snow-capped rock outcrop. From afar I see a small ant-like trail of people slowly crawling their way to the top - we've arrived at the "cables". People gather in front of the two steel ribbons that guide hikers up over the final rock bulge to the mountain's bald head above. It's near vertical and the granite is worn slick by thousands of rubber soles. Climbing the cables requires an odd arm-leg hauling technique and a strong stomach (the steep drop offs to the valley floor are not for those scared of heights). It's a virtual cauldron of human emotions: bullish husbands castigate fearful (and tearful) wives; teenagers debate the risks of slipping with the rewards of summiting. For some it's hard to accept that they cannot conquer their fears and struggle up the final 500 feet, but for others the views of the snow capped Sierras and the gurgling rivers are enough.

Day 3: I crawl out of bed after the deepest of deep sleeps and mow in a hearty breakfast - have to fill the calorie deficit after conquering Half Dome. We drive down to the Mariposa Grove to walk amongst the ancient sequoia trees. These red-barked giants are impossibly huge. The oldest - more than 2700 years - have gnarled stubby trunks, their soft, fibreous bark insulating them from regular fires and disease. Time moves slowly in these forests. Nature will be around long after we are gone.

Napa, CA

We stopped Randy briefly in SF to pick up a few more amigos, witness the debauchery of Bay to Breakers, and soak up SF's fantastic vibe (it's fast becoming one of my favourite cities). But quickly I wanted to be back on the road, especially as we were heading up to wine country.

When we stopped in Santa Barbara I thought it was Arcadia personified, but I was wrong. Napa steals that title easily. The valley has a unique microclimate perfect for growing grapes. Early in the morning, cool, moist sea air sweeps in off the ocean just 40 miles west, and dumps its languid humidity on the valley. Then through the morning, as the heat builds, it burns off fog to reveal brilliant blue skies. Temperatures hover around 80 degrees, not to hot, not to cold. This grape-growing mecca has produced a bounty of vineyards and master viticulturists, attracting swarms of thirsty day trippers as well as seasoned wine snobs.

The crew spent a day in Sonoma tasting the zinfandels of Martinelli (fruit forward and powerful) and the bubbly of Korbel (average - stick to the real stuff), and then cruised up to Napa to sample the single-terroir cabernets of Nichel & Nichel (strangely earthy, each distinctive) and the delightful pinots and blends of Pine Ridge. If in town, I highly recommend the buzzy Mustards Grill (we drank a delightful bottle of Prisoners) and Taylors Automatic Refresher where you can eat burgers to die for under big oak trees.

Big Sur, CA

Randy trundled up along Highway 1, hugging the cliffs to my right and shying away from the steep drop to my left. The road twists and turns, following the vagaries of the hauntingly beautiful Big Sur coastline. Like most of the northern California coast, fog sat in a dense blanket a few miles offshore threatening to envelop us in its dense, dewy paws.

Big Sur has inspired generations of artists, writers, and other nature lovers, and leaving aside the freaky new-agers selling twaddle dressed up as art, it's not hard to see why. It reminded me of the harsh northwest Scottish coast. Its rugged isolation is awesome. Nature battles nature as the steely black swells smash into jagged rock crags. Sea birds surf the stiff breeze and hunt amidst the kelp blooms. Man - like elsewhere in America's great outdoors - feels insignificant, a mere speck of dust in the earth's geological history.

Santa Barbara, CA

This gem sits on the shores of the Pacific, about an hour north of LA. Fog swirls in and out from the ocean. Palm trees stand in long solitary lines, guarding the beach front. The buildings are single story and stucco, tastefully painted and fringed with red brick. Behind the town, the hills climb and dip off to the horizon.

Residents and tourists wander the cobbled pavements, window shopping with a latte in hand. Santa Barbara feels like Arcadia personified. It's warm and balmy; the weather is always good. The food is fresh and tasty, as if plucked straight from the field or ocean. The people are bronzed, relaxed, happy, and generally retired. Sitting back sipping a cold Modela Negro as the sun sets, it's hard not to be seduced by California's gentle embrace.

Los Angeles, CA

LA is hard to put into words. There are too many contrasts hitting you all at once. How do I describe the fabulous feel of West Hollywood where hotel pool lounge areas are covered in blue Astroturf whilst a trolley-wielding hobo sits outside shouting obscenities at a lamp post? Or the azure blue sky and tumbling surf that frames the hippie's RV installed as a beach front castle down on Venice Beach?

Ebba meets Paris: I like your shoes
Ebba and and I are eating at Koi, a sushi place on La Cienega. Serge joins us for some sake and edamame. Ebba disappears to powder her nose and comes back brow furrowed, a little surprised, perhaps confused - I can't tell.

"I was washing my hands," she explains, "and this blond girl comes out of the stalls next to me. I was thinking 'That's Paris Hilton!' but I couldn't tell. Then she turns and yes! It is Paris! She starts striking a pose front of the mirror and adjusting her hair, checking her teeth, straightening her top....

"She turns to me: "Are you having a good time?" I'm a little suprised Paris is chatting to me, but I say: "Thanks. The food is so good. I ate too much!" "Oh, I like your shoes!" she blabs. I wanted to tell her my shoes were from Aldo, but I couldn't. "My shoes are killing me," she continues. "They rub my legs". I look down and see that she's wearing knee-high F-me boots. No shit, I think. And then she sails out, high as a kite"

Culver City: Fruit for everyone
But LA isn't just the glitz of Hollywood and the perfectly manicured lawns of Beverly Hills. I travelled down to Culver City one afternoon with Ariana (a local) and Ebba. We stopped off at the farmers market and ambled through the stalls for an hour or so. There was the pretzel man serving up deliciously salty breads. The fruit sellers had mountains of sweet, juicy strawberries. The orange growers chopped up 12 different varieties for us to try: navel oranges, pink grapefruits, tangerines, and more. California's incredible farms were on full display - the heaving tables of cilantro, carrots, and cucumbers testimony to bountiful soil, water, and plentiful sun. A Rasta played regae version of nusery rhymes (imagine Bob Marley singing "itsy bitsy spider"!) as kids bobed back and forth. And down the end was an ingenious popcorn stand: a huge cauldron into which the chef poured enormous amounts of corn, salt, and sugar. It all swirled together in a delicious pop, pop, pop!

This was laid-back LA. A place where the community vibe still mattered. A place where people could connect to their food, and through vegetables and fresh juice to eachother. The sprit of the swinging 60s lingered all around the market. This was, I realised, the perfect antidote to LA's scene; Culver City's superficial alterego was just down the road on Sunset Boulevard.

City of Angels
LA feels like the city of dreams. It is anything to anybody at anytime. It's a place where all can aspire, vagrants can hide, and everyone can remake themselves. Every waiter could be the next Tom Cruise. And although thousands have been crushed, it's irresitable to imagine that you just might make it big. And that's a good thing. It's what America is founded on. But with so many potential falling stars, I was also happy that this was the City of Angels.

Grand Canyon, AZ

If I were a condor high above the Grand Canyon, I'd imagine it looks like a huge fissure running through the barren desert. As I swooped lower, I'd see that the yellow rock and green pines on the rim give way to cliffs of deep red hued sandstone, shrubs, and fine dust. As I fell deeper into the crack, I'd feel the temperatures building and that thousands of cacti dots were replacing bigger bushes, the reds giving way to white sands. Then as I approached the bottom of the slit, I discover an emerald green sliver snaking its way along the canyon floor. The Colorado River! That tiny trickle created this mess?! Extraordinary!

The Grand Canyon is one of those hard-to-believe natural phenomena which is difficult to comprehend even once seen. The views from the rim across the 10 mile gap and down into the 4000 ft chasm are stupendous. Its rock walls glow softly blue during sunrise, melt into a stark white after midday, and give off a golden glow at dusk. Condors circle on thermals whilst desert squirrels burrow into the juniper trees.

Hiking down into the canyon is a serious feat. Descending the popular Bright Angel Trail to the Indian Garden oasis takes roughly 2.5 hours. It's another hour to the river and about 30 minutes out onto Plateau Point. As you descend it gets gradually hotter; it's not unknown for it to be 15-18 degrees at the rim and 35+ degrees in the canyon's bowels. But going down is the easy part. In a cute inversion of Newton, the Park Ranger's quip: "what goes down, must go up". From the bottom, the canyon walls look like an impenetrable fortress. It's impossible to see where to exit. The heat is debilitating; I could feel the moisture evaporating from every pore in my body. Plodding up the dusty mule trail is sadistic - a sandy version of Stair Master. It seems never-ending.

But of course back on top some 3+ hours later as the ice cold brew slips down my throat, it doesn't seem so bad. I can brag about the standing on the edge of the 600 ft cliff staring at the gorgeous Colorado just a stone's throw below - a place few of the ice-cream-gobbling day trippers in the Rim Zoo can imagine visiting. Of course, I'm pathetic compared to the "desert hikers" who hump giant backpacks of gear into the canyon to camp out beneath the stars. But I'm happy to have been to the bottom and back. Being so small and so insignificant in something so monumental and so large, is magnificent enough for me.

Bryce and Zion Canyons, UT

Bryce Canyon isn't really a canyon because there is no river and no opposing canyon wall. All you can see is a sweeping amphitheater of mutlicoloured hoodoos. These incredible stalagmite-like structures are formed over millions of years. Water and wind gradually wear away the soft sandstone into fine fins, which crumble into arches, which then erode into long skinny pillars. These rock cigarettes can be 50+ metres tall. Their vivid colours - reds, oranges, yellows, pinks, whites - are testimony to their age. Each colour represents tens of millions of years. Hoodoos are seriously old.

Hiking down into the canyon is surreal. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of hoodoos all around you. You wind your way along ridges, then down around them. They sprout up everywhere and populate the cliffs, a batallion of sleeping sentries. But guarding whom? Walking amongst the coloured statues is earie and beautiful. A strange place, enchanting yet out of place.

If Bryce is intimate, quiet and intricate, Zion National Park is its antithesis. This canyon is a beast. Red Navajo sandstone cliffs soar thousands of feet from the valley floor. The gigantic rock faces - each with a suitably grand biblical name bestowed by the first Mormon settlers - tower down over you. Presumably the Virgin River, now a wimpy trickle, once had a bit more oomph. Or maybe it takes 100 million years to create such a canyon.

One morning, after a few Lavazza espressos and some Jif peanut butter sandwiches (the best of Europe and America), we scrambled to the top of Angel's Landing. This giant sandstone tower does not look climbable, and, well, it almost isn't. I had to focus on planting one foot after the other so as to avoid looking to the 800ft drop to my right, and the 1,100 foot fall to my left. Heart pounding (more out of fear than physical exertion), I hauled myself up the rock wall not worrying about how I was going to get down. The view from the top was just as impressive as the panaroma from the bottom of the canyon. I'm not sure that I was any closer to God, but if he did make the world in 7 days, he must have spent a good deal of time here in Zion.

On the way to Bryce Canyon UT

It was a long haul from Moab to Bryce: 234 miles. Yet the scenery alone justified the long hours behind the wheel. We left Moab and headed out across the dusty shoulder of the Colorado plateau. For two hours: nothing. Big wide open expanses of brown sand, beating sun, cowering shrubs, and gently rolling flats. The road was dead straight to the horizon. I followed the twin yellow lines and tried to whistle to some random country & western tunes on 97.3 fm.

Lunch time eventually came and went. And still I couldn't quite see the end of the road. And then as quickly as it began, it came to an abrupt stop. In front of me the earth's crust began to buckle and crack. Randy climbed gently, following the road's curvaceous bends, up through shale and sand stone. Desert shrubs mutated into stunted trees which morphed into emerald weeping willows. The shock of colour hurt my eyes. Water must be nearby.

Randy followed the river bed to the left, continuing his climb on into Capitol Reef National Park. This park, I soon discovered, is a geologist's wet dream. The "layer cake" of rock is astounding. Millions of years of tetonic activity, erosion and deposits, natural cataclysms and events just stultifyingly boring are all recorded right there in front of you. It's especially vivid at Capitol Reef: each layer of rock is a different density, alternative colour, and has eroded a different paces. The result is a strange crunching of the earth's crust that has created a dizzying patchwork of spires, fins, arches, and rubble.

The drive onwards to Bryce Canyon is no less impressive. Dixie National Forest is a stark wilderness of silver birches and pines. It seems dramatically out of place after the parched deserts in spitting distance over the horizon. Grand Staircase Escalante State Park is a cocophony of rocky out crops - completely improbable but there it is! There were so many jaw-dropping ahhh! moments, I lost count.

These long drives reinforce just how vast America's interior is. Miles of beautiful, yet somehow terrifying, nothingness. Who would want to live out here? What would you do? And why? It reminds me that this is where America's pioneer spirit was born. If you can conquer such vast wilderness, they why can't you send a man to the moon? or democracy to Iraq?

Moab, UT

The Cobalt (provisionally name: Randy) cruised along, unperturbed by the sheer monotony of the straight tarmac, a black ribbon unfolding to the horizon. We're about three hours south of Salt Lake City, on the way to Moab. It's a barren landscape, but beautiful nonetheless. I sit silently and wonder what it must have been like as a pioneer, trekking across such nothingness. Would you feel elated at the sheer intensity of nature? Or ultimately unhinged - when will it ever end?

Helper
Americana redux. Helper is an old coal town in the middle of nowhere. Tumble weed tumbled along the road as we entered this ghost town. All the windows are shuttered. For Sale signs litter every shop along the main strip. The only place doing regular business is the Balancing Rock Eatery. We pop in for a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with fries (coffee refills are free and plentiful). The atmosphere is somewhat nostalagic; back in the day this place would have been humming with gritty mining folk. Today it's a skeleton if its former self. The Union Pacific Railway is just over the road, but there its rolling stock sit idle. I ask about the coal mines and the waitress tells me that there is one coking station a few miles into the valley. But most of the business seems to have evaporated, like the water in this parched and barren place.

Moab
If Helper is of yesteryear, then Moab is of humming today. Sitting right in between two extraordinary national parks - Arches and Canyonland - and along the Colorado and Green rivers, Moab is an adventure-seekers mecca. Here you can whitewater raft, canyon, mountain bike, sky dive and jet boat all day, any day. The town has a sort of modern cowboy feel - just a few saloon bars and bike shops line the main strip; motels plentiful and cheap.

We hiked up to the Delicate Arch this afternoon and discovered that it truly deserves its place on the Utah license plate. It's is massive, an enormous logic-defying span of rock that simply sits on its own ontop of a small peak. Rationally, it makes no sense - how did it get there? Why is it standing? What are all those Norwegian tourists in bikinis doing taking pictures in front of it? (I kid you not. I tried to convince Ebba that it was just the Norwegian Bikini Team on tour. To her horror and shame, she is rediscovering that her fellow Scandinavians go a little crackers when they see the sunshine).

Great Western Road Trip begins

At last. A painful few weeks of tedious exams, paper-madness, and packing shenanigans give way to freedom rediscovered. I'm on a month long road trip through the western US. I'll cover about 3000 miles in a gold Chevy Cobalt (name to be decided - suggestions welcome!) with 4 different amigos (all joining at different stages). I'm hoping to discover the West: the desert national parks of Utah, the chintz and razzmatazz of LA, the rolling Pacific Coast, the wineries of Napa, coffee in Seattle, and finally great Yellowstone itself. The route as it unfolds is here.

Some have called it my legacy tour. I'm not so sure it's that grand. More of a chance to see the US outside of the HBS bubble and get in touch with a bit of Americana before I head back to the other side of the pond.

Carbon market in meltdown, but still a long-term goldmine

Carbon markets are in a tailspin. Point Carbon recently predicted a 32% plunge in total market value and EUAs have slumped to €10 from 3x that a year ago. The credit crunch has refocused purchasers on counter-party risks, whilst the economic contraction means lower production, lower emissions, and lower overall demand. But the long-term drivers in this market - global regulations, impending climate disaster, higher energy prices, and near universal public support for action - continue to make the market a good long-term bet for investors and entrepreneurs.

The question is whether carbon asset developers and other credit initiators can ride out the inevitable fillips in prices until the post-2012 regulations become clear. That in turn depends on outcome of many months of tough ongoing negotiations and horse trading. It is unclear whether climate diplomats can deliver the much needed alignment of international actors to avoid "leakage" (where emissions migrate to the least regulated markets). Crystal ball gazing on the final shape of a treaty is next to impossible, so the key is for firms to remaining nimble enough to change their business models to continue mining credit gold in a post-Kyoto world.