ten to our lectures on human rights, asrnPresident Jiang Zemin made clear in hisrnvisit to the United States in the fall ofrn1997. Although he is a comparativernyoungster at 70, Premier Zhu Rongji isrnunlikely to reverse the gerontocracy’s wayrnof doing things too quickly in any but therneconomic realm; the old men responsiblernfor the Tiananmen Square massacrernstill hold sway.rnEven so, change is coming. One smallrnindex is the importance of goods manufacturedrnby prison labor to the Chineserneconomy: According to a recent WashingtonrnPost article, these goods accountrnfor only one-fifth of one percent of China’srnCross National Product, a far smallerrnfigure than don’t-buy-Chinese-exportsrnpropagandists would have it. Historically,rnAmericans have bridled whenever foreignrngovernments have pressured us torndo things their way; we should not be surprisedrnwhen the Chinese government appliesrnthe same standard to our entreaties.rnNeither, I hasten to add, must we kowtowrnto the Chinese state when it is clearlyrnin the wrong.rnBut if the Chinese are not yet quiternready to declare themselves “born to bernwild,” they are taking real steps towardrnliberty. The times are changing, andrnfaster than anyone can track. Said thatrnold cardiologist, who had suffered sornmuch, “I think socialism is good. Communismrnis good. But the governmentrnhas not let the people talk. Talking aboutrnwhat’s good or bad— that is socialism.”rnPerhaps so. There is now much talk inrnthe air in China. With that talk, socialismrnis disappearing, and another revoluhon,rnprofound and dislocating, is in thernmaking.rnGregory McNamee is the author of manyrnhooks, including Gila: The Life andrnDeath of an American River (Universityrnof New Mexico Press).rnLetter From Scotlandrnby Bryan GiemzarnBusspottingrnOn my short list of Great Equalizers, Irnwould jot “The Chainsaw,” “The Automobile,”rnand “The Internet” without hesitation.rnIn a separate category dubbedrnGreat Equalizing Experiences, I wouldrnbegin with the axiomatic two: “Death”rnand “Taxes.” My next entry would berncentury-specific: “Bus Travel.”rnI’ve experienced bus travel in manyrnplaces, primarily in countries where busesrnare designed to accommodate, in lavishrncomfort, midgets. Bus travel hasrncome a long way in Britain, and given thernmotorways and scale of the island, it’s notrnhard to see why the bus has supplantedrnrail as the busiest conduit of human traffic.rnWhile the fixtures of the bus stationrnare fairly new—the fluorescent uniformsrnfor conductors, and the sleek, charcoaltintedrndouble-decker night buses thatrnsmell of oil, rubber, and recentiy pressedrnplastic—the form of the place is certainlyrnnothing new.rnGlasgow’s bus station is well suited to arncity that is still plainly painted with its industrialrnpast. The brownstone flats arernlimned by smears of old soot, and in a cityrnthat spends most of the year under rain,rnthe effect is endearingly gritty. It is arnplace that is resilient in the shadow of factoryrnfallout. Indeed, the abiding impressionrnof Glasgow is that it lives under arncloud, both literally and figuratively.rnThe city’s flowers are found in the pavementrncracks: in the pubs, in the comportmentrnof the people in shops, and yes,rneven in the bus station. There is a merrimentrnin the bustle of the place, andrnsomething charmingly old-fashionedrnabout seeing papers and sweets loaded intornthe bins of buses destined for smallrnScottish villages. Perhaps it is just a matterrnof incongruity: that on a bleak morningrnthere could be such cheer.rnI shouldn’t be surprised. Mist-shroudedrnIreland produced Van Morrison, whornsings as soulfully about Tupelo honey asrnany Delta singer in the sun-kissed Southlaird.rnAnd the South is greatly on myrnnrind after two months of rain without arnclear day. The chilly Glasgow nights arernstirred by warm sea currents. So, too, thernhearts of the restless city dwellers whornnightiy bestir themselves to the streets. Irntake a walk through the scrimshaw spiderwebsrnof the city’s night lights and thernrain that dances like waterbugs on thernstreet-lit pavements.rnThe next morning, I find myself at thernbus station, destinationless and bemusedrnby the travelers’ caffeinated early mornrnbonhomie. I resolve to board a bus to visitrnfriends in Dundee, a place famed forrnwest-coast weather, which is to say the errantrnsunny day. An hour into the journey,rna young man in his middle 20’srndrops into the seat beside me. Give peoplernany seat to choose Irom, and they alwaysrnchoose to sit beside me. The smellrnof tobacco burns an acrid imprint in myrnnostrils. It is as if the inan himself hasrnbeen slowly burned up. His jaw is etchedrnwith scars. He will not make eye contactrnwith me, but he talks, and he fumes. Atrnfirst, I think he is talking to himself Irnpause in my reading and strain to makernout his words through his slurry of Scottishrnglottals. I understand the slang; itrncomes with being around young Scots.rnEven so, I can only make out half of it.rnHe needs money for methadone. He isrnincredulous of his own body.rnI mean, look at me.rnI haven’t been. He has endured anotherrnstint in rehab. He needs a new clinicrnwhere he will not be abused, or so hernhas it made out. He considers, in the alternative,rnthat a bottle of vodka might justrncarry the night for him.rnPeople always choose to talk to me. Irnsuspect that this is because I will listen tornjust about anyone. I don’t know how therntalkers spot the listeners, but they do.rnIt’s f—ed up. Some of the dreams in thernclinics, you kinna bear them; it’ll f- – – yournup.rnI answer softly, as a Scot would.rnAye.rnI do not want him to realize that I amrnnot a Scot. A foreigner is an easy mark.rnThis might be the first lie of our conversation.rnI have been a child of the waywardrnwind, and I’ve seen more of thisrnblue marble in my short years than mostrndo in a lifetime. Only once did someonernpeg me. I asked a question of a foreignbornrnman in a queue in Budapest. Hernmarked me at once: “You’re a Southerner.”rnI was startled. My accent is notrnheavy. Yet this foreigner knew, he said,rnbased on the way I approached him. Hernsaid I was polite, deferential. Reticent.rnIf you’ve ever seen Trainspotting, thatrnbit with the dreams, tha’s what it’s like. It’srnshite-like.rnI resist the impulse to think of him asrnhaving emerged from Trainspotting, thernfilm about Scottish junkies. He is real.rnOur conversation is not. It is his monologue,rna chronologically scrambledrnstream-of-consciousness listing of friendsrnand relations imprisoned, of drugs andrncounteracting drugs, of dosages down tornthe milliliter, of the haphazard injusticernof institutions in which he has foundrnhimself immured. He does not seem tornJANUARY 2000/39rnrnrn