By Panpan Wang

Chinese tour groups suck. I know this because I’m a Chinese tourist who has travelled in many Chinese tour groups.

I also think you know this.

You’ve seen them around town, haven’t you?

In San Francisco. Or Cairo. Or Hong Kong.

They’re in your way just as you’re walking home on Market St. from your startup. You have Bose wireless on, tuning out the city that you *love* but never want to hear at 6pm on a Wednesday. You’re carrying your MacBook Pro inside a neutral-colored Herschel bag, which are made by artisans (a few thousand factory workers) practising their traditional Saskatchewan (Guangzhou, Chinese) craftsmanship (of hipster fabric manipulation).

These tourists are not wearing any of these things.

Chinese tour groups are large.

Always a Greyhound’s worth, at a minimum.

They’re loud. I mean, just listen to them shout so… foreignly. Especially in restaurants.

They wave little flags. They wear those red, or blue, or otherwise brightly colored hats.

They pile on chartered busses and take over hotels.

Why do they spend so much of their time in the Apple Store? Why aren’t they exploring? Don’t they have Lonely Planets in China?

God, I really admire Anthony Bourdain. I love how he always eats at local spots. That’s what I try to do. That’s my kind of travel.

Ugh. Why do Chinese tourists suck so much?

Who Is A Chinese Tourist?

You were born in 1954.

The People’s Liberation Army and your comrades north of the Yalu River just defeated the Evil Empire in the War of Korean Liberation.

You’re named Ping, which means Peace. Millions born in your time are also homages to peace.

It’s 1960. You’re six years old and the eldest of four. The family learns that your mom’s cousin in the nearby village just died. Mom and Dad told you that he got sick. Later you learn that he died of starvation along with 50 million other comrades in what was the largest man-made disaster in history.

A famine of more-than-biblical proportions.

As an adult you calculate that this would be like everyone in California and Illinois dying in four short — yet unimaginably long — years.

You and your brothers get one egg each to eat as your protein for the week. Your parents’ protein intake is de-prioritized. This is because you live in the provincial capital of Henan and because your family is prosperous. You guiltily savour your friends’ jealousy of your single egg.

Even though The Great Famine rages in the country-side — which is to say most of China — you get animal protein.

You feel like an emperor when you see that precious yolk every Sunday evening.

You never leave a kernel of rice on your plate, and it never occurs to you to complain about dinner.

It’s 1970.

You’re 16 years old.

You’re regularly bullied because your mother was a teacher, and your father was a principal. They shut down all schools except for elementary ones four years ago at the start of the Cultural Revolution, so the spit on the back of your head is from the neighbourhood children and adults, not your classmates.

Your family is considered part of the intelligentsia class. Your peers are part of the Red Guard. They spy on families and tell the local Communist Party members which neighbours are not adhering to the thousands of dictates and philosophies described in the Chairman’s Red Book.

You never know when you might run afoul of The Little Red Book.

There’s no such thing as civil society any more. Family members barely trust one another. Let alone neighbours. Let alone strangers.

One day, they come for you.

You’re sent to a labour camp. Like your appreciation of your Sunday eggs, you’re thankful for how lucky you are! You only have to go 50 miles away from home. But you’ve never been more than five miles away from the apartment block, so it might as well be the Gobi.

You’re taught that every spade shoveled from the earth helps liberate people of the Earth. You learn that every brick you lay is one step closer to a palatial communist paradise.

You believe it. You believe it with all your heart.