The People's Republic of China is playing mahjong again

By Jelte Rep, special reporter for Mahjong News in China 

Mao Zedong, in his role of Father of the Fatherland, friendly smiles as four Chinese - three women, one man - are grimly playing mahjong in front of him. The great Chinese Steersman passed away in 1976, but now, 23 years later, his portrait still is omnipresent in the People's Republic of China.

If he would have seen in reality what is happening before his very eyes it would have turned out badly for the four mahjong players. Mao prohibited playing mahjong. Who plays mahjong, cannot make a Giant Leap Forward, the Almighty Leader thought. The Chinese are rather passionate for gambling, and considerable amounts of money are involved with mahjong. And that was Mao's abomination. A workingman ought to spend his money on his family and not on gambling, the President decided. And thus the Great Abstinence began, hurting the Chinese because mahjong unifies China's ancient traditions and compulsion for gambling.

Justifying, the Chinese now say Mao was seventy percent right and thirty percent wrong. And for what went wrong mainly the Pack of Four was to blame, in particular Mao's mad wife Jiang Qin. In the days of the Cultural Revolution Mao's Red Booklet, with every interesting quote of the Great Steersman, was used by the Red Guards to tyrannize the country. Today it is offered en masse to the tourists. Mao's sins are forgiven and forgotten, especially ever since, some years ago, the ban on playing mahjong was lifted. Since then, the People's Republic is playing mahjong again. The tiles clatter everywhere; in the tea houses, in the public parks or on plastic tables on the sidewalk, nicely outside. It is remarkable nobody should have forgotten the rules, in spite of the Great Abstinence.

In a tiny village on the banks of the Li River a family is playing in the cool of a barn. Granny is winking us to come closer when we show our interest. The ruins of her teeth stand out against the white of the plastic tiles. They are sitting on stools and playing on a low plastic table. Grandpa has a bad hand and does not want us to make pictures. In the Wall there is one tile exposed: the Dora. Grandma wins. When she exposes her hand, we see the Dora does not earn her a fan; instead, it is used as a joker. Grandpa sulkily starts to mix the tiles with his wrinkled hands. They don't play for money; the score is kept up with playing cards. Grandma cheerfully waves us goodbye when we continue our journey.

Hilversum Red Dragon

When we are crossing Lake Er Hai, the local guide shakes out a plastic bag on a blanket with flower motives. 144 mahjong tiles fall out. He wants to play with his assistant, but playing with four he likes even better. He is unacquainted with our reputation. Leo van Sighem twice has won the Hilversum Red Dragon Tournament and I am the author of The Total Mahjong Book (In Preparation). We play mahjong in its purest modus: anything goes. Our victory is convincing. Leo and I both win two times, the assistant one time. Then the boat moors and we have to do our tourist duties. The tiles and the blanket go back in the plastic bag.

On jumble sales 'antique' sets are sold in beautiful boxes and cupboards. Some sets even have Arabic numerals on the tiles. I give you a good plice, Sil!

One box has tiles with artistic inlays, on the other a savage lion roars. The cupboards have four or five drawers and a double handle on top. Our enthusiasm infects our travelling companions and they take their chances. For some 400 yuan (approx. 50 dollar) they get hold of an antique set. Unfortunately, they forget to count the tiles. One of them is lucky, but another misses the Green Dragon and in the third set all Winds are missing. That last one goes into the wastepaper basket; only the box can stay.

In the Friendship Store of Beijing a new set costs 138 yuan, some 15 dollar. It has solid tiles that are heavily painted and it is packed in a showy plastic box with a number of gold plated Chinese characters on top. These are the tiles the Chinese play with. They are thick enough to stand; you don't need racks. There also is a set with a price tag of 40,000 yuan (5,000 dollar); very beautiful, and: Leal ivoly, Sil!

My thin wallet supports my ethical objections.

Chengdu 

In Chengdu, in the small street before the Wenshu convent, an abundance of cheap mahjong sets is for sale. The range of products is incredible. The backs of the tiles are very brightly colored and vary from hard pink to metallic orange. For some 100 yuan (12 dollar) you can buy a big-tile set. But here you also might find a tile you have lost. There is a tub full of loose tiles on the sidewalk. Search and find. Also square mats made of felt are offered, in all kinds of colors. They are intensively used in the garden of the monastery complex, where mahjong is played table by table, concentrated and without a sound being made. The tiles are not called and the felt mats absorb any sound. It is such a peaceful sight that it is hard to imagine that not so long ago Red Guards would have chased all mahjong players out of this garden and would have smashed everything to pieces: orders from their smiling Greet Steersman.