Mike Dixon

was under the developer‟s hammer. Streets had been
erased and construction cranes dotted the skyline. With the
sun already low in the sky, he eventually found the temple.
The map was drawn to suit Chinese tastes. Looking down
from the temple gate, he realized it was not to scale. And
the direction marked with an arrow did not point to the
north. He let out a string of expletives, which did nothing to
calm his nerves. Another beggar advanced towards him.
„Piss off!
He yelled at the old crone and was about to say more
when a figure arrived by his side. David had noticed him ear-
lier, dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase. The
man shouted something in Chinese and the beggar made off.
„I‟m sorry you have been troubled.‟
The man spoke flawless English with a slight Chinese ac-
cent. He was just the sort of person David was trying to
avoid. The smart clothes and neatly combed hair reminded
him of his own family. They were obsessed with social status.
David referred to them as “suits” when talking to his
diving mates.
„You appear to be lost.‟
„Yes. I am rather.‟
„Perhaps I can be of assis-
tance.‟
„I know roughly where the
place is.‟ David produced the
map. „A friend of mine has
marked it and written something
in Chinese.‟
The man turned the map on
its side and looked out across the
expanse of cleared ground, peer-
ing backwards and forwards
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