Never had I been so intrigued by the people of a country that I would stuff my suitcase with more than twenty books written by local authors, watch an entire series of totalitarian-nostalgic dramas, and even talk to strangers — all for the sole purpose of getting to know them better.
This attraction is gravitational.
As far as my observations go, this is a place where people spit on carpeted floors, shout at waiters, and perform their lavatory functions without doors. (I once walked in on a multitasking Olympian FaceTiming her friend while taking a poo in a public toilet in Fangjia Hutong. Beat that.)
Yet, in a city engulfed in smog, the whip of shame strikes the Chinese ruthlessly — like the tyrannical sun on the Sahara. There is nowhere to escape the fear of being exposed. The fear of “losing face”.
The bei piao, who have moved from faraway provinces to so-called first-tier cities like Beijing, are not equal to the born-and-bred. Single women in their late twenties are shamed as “leftovers”. On the other hand, men who are not single are burdened with the mounting pressure of owning a house and a car before they are deemed qualified to propose to their partners. “These are the prerequisites to a successful, happy marriage,” they say.
Socialist hogwash, I say. What nonsense.
These polar opposite beliefs puzzle most foreigners — but they intrigue me to no end.
This series of blog posts, titled Babes of Beijing, is about the people I met during my various trips to Beijing.
And today, we begin with a fruit seller.
The Fruit Seller.
* * *
THE FRUIT SELLER
There he was, seated in the corner of the shop, gazing out at a stream of motorbikes, pedestrians, and cars that swept past him — utterly unfazed by the velocity.
This fruit shop, a stone’s throw from my Beijing office, crouched along North Dongzhimen Alley. It was no bigger than the size of a car, yet I wouldn’t dare imagine the rent he paid.
Behind clusters of apples, starfruit, bananas, and kumquats stood two large glass-door fridges. Grapes and dragon fruit were stored inside. Everything looked remarkably fresh.
“What would you like, mei nü?” he called out as soon as he saw me approaching.
Chinese people tend to speak loudly — even when it isn’t necessary. Mei nü literally means “pretty girl”. As “miss” became a term increasingly associated with the sex industry, Beijingers turned to mei nü to address young women.
It’s a clever choice. Despite how casually it is used, it remains undeniably flattering. Easy to say, sometimes flirtatious. It allows men to set the tone of the conversation — and leaves it to the women to take it from there.
I visited this fruit shop often while I was in Beijing. Sure, I could have ordered fruit online, as many people in China now do. But shopping online would have robbed me of the simple pleasure of “story-shopping”. Besides, in a city I barely knew, it was comforting to establish a routine — a place to return to. This was mine.
Each time I placed an order, the fruit seller would respond with a cheerful, “Of course! Let me pick some good ones for you.” The apples, the dragon fruit — they all looked the same to me. But he selected them with care, like a proud father choosing among identical quadruplets.
The bananas were my favourite. They looked and tasted nothing like the ones in the UK — softer, plumper, and far sweeter.
A few years ago, when the Philippines and China feuded over territorial boundaries in the South China Sea, thousands of tonnes of allegedly substandard bananas imported from the Philippines were impounded and destroyed in Shenzhen. China then banned fruit imports from the country. It wasn’t until a political shift — when the new president distanced himself from longstanding alliances and grew closer to Xi Jinping — that the ban was lifted.
Like it or not, China is taking over the world. Everybody needs China.
One day, I asked whether the man I had seen earlier in the shop was his father.
“Yes, you were here? That was my father. He is not here today.”
That was when I noticed something: the Chinese have a habit of stating the obvious. It is almost as though it serves as a conversational filler — a way to show participation. Superficial, perhaps. But effective enough. I nodded, and he returned to selecting apples, content.
Another time, he asked what I did and why I was in Beijing. I told him I worked in law and was there on business.
“Hao liao bu qi,” he said, smiling nervously — then fell quiet.
I recognised it immediately: shame.
And I regretted my honesty. Even though I knew I shouldn’t.
What many people do not realise is that:
(1) Chinese people tend not to believe in compliments; they focus on shortcomings rather than strengths. What is seen in the West as a neutral statement of fact can easily be perceived in the East as arrogance — and is frowned upon.
(2) For decades, people have been shaped by “thought reform”, encouraged to engage in self-criticism in order to improve — not just themselves, but the nation. Prosperity, in turn, is shared. They call it patriotism.
(3) Respecting, obeying, and positioning oneself “a step lower” than elders or superiors is a deeply ingrained Confucian value. One must know one’s place. Speak back to your parents, and you risk damnation — all eighteen levels of it. Since I haven’t died, I can’t confirm whether that’s true.
It’s a no-brainer, really.
When you piece all of this together, it becomes easier to understand why a man ten or fifteen years older than me would feel ashamed of his job when I told him about mine. And why I, being younger, should feel remorse for having made him feel that way.
It’s a ludicrous system of beliefs.
On my last day, knowing I was unlikely to return to Beijing any time soon, I made a mental note to say goodbye to him after work.
Alas — for reasons I won’t publicise — I didn’t.
But if I had, I would have told him that he too — hao liao bu qi.
With love,
x