The Jing, As It Is

From the highly polluted air and pungent mung-bean milk to men airing their bare bellies like prized treasures on warm summer days, Beijing is hardly the la-di-da destination darling that some of her more flamboyant siblings might be. But as the red flag, charged with five golden stars, rises over Tiananmen Square at the crack of dawn, Beijing rises with it.

This is a city that carries a wealth of history in her pouch, commands the present, and charges headlong into a limitless future — propelled by her unyielding dwellers. From exotic food to the Great Wall of China, from community spirit to the tech giants reshaping the global economy, AL taps into it all.

Come and see Beijing through the eyes of a five-day tourist. You’ll thank me for it.

When I was twelve, my family and I “went back” to China to visit my late grandfather’s village.

There are only a few things I remember from that trip. Being inexplicably excited over pork burgers at McDonald’s was one (Malaysian McDonald’s is halal), and feeling oddly amazed by village houses that looked exactly like my primary school drawings — a simple block beneath a roof, with two windows and a door — was another.

This September, my family and I “went back” to China again. But this time, we travelled to the Big Smoke — the capital — Beijing.

As a Malaysian of Chinese descent (and one who has, for years, overdosed on Mandopop, Chinese reality shows and television dramas), I thought going to Beijing would be a cinch. You know — perhaps with a slightly confused accent, but otherwise, with passports of the same shade of red, the line between a “real” Chinese and myself would be faint, if not entirely imaginary.

It isn’t.

Both geographically and culturally, we are separated by layers of history and a vast South China Sea.

Stepping off a delayed flight that early morning, the infamous PM2.5 pollution was my first breath of exotica. In a country where more than 70% of the airspace is reserved for military use — and priority within the remaining 30% is given to government officials and business elites — punctuality for commercial airlines in China is almost as mythical as a Chinese dragon.

And yet, people continue to fly — and to fly more. With demand rising sharply over the years, it feels as though it is about time the country extends its aggressive conservation efforts beyond a handful of pandas to include a little more reliability in the skies.

It was five o’clock in the morning.

By the time I made it to the hotel, my body had raced past exhaustion — I was simply too tired to sleep. I dropped my bags, skipped the uninspiring buffet breakfast, and went for a walk around the nearby neighbourhood.

The sky was hazy, the air thick and muggy. Beijing was already up and running.

Tucked away from the main roads, huddled between modern buildings, were narrow streets where locals squatted and bonded over breakfast. It was a sight to behold — and squatting, I realised, is both a skill and a kind of cultural signature across much of Asia.

Not far down the street was a food stall with a modest queue. I joined it instinctively and bought one of everything laid out on the tray. For less than £1, I walked away with a small haul of buns and fritters.

The middle-aged woman stuffed them into two transparent plastic bags and took my coins with her grease-stained hands.

Around the corner, there was a shop seething with people — mostly older locals, each with a bowl of douzhi to start the day.

Fermented mung bean milk — that’s what it is. A classic Beijing breakfast drink, it was exceedingly sour, with notes of rotten eggs and an unmistakably pungent aroma. And that is me being polite.

It was the sort of thing that would excite audiences and make participants wince on Fear Factor. It took real courage to get past even a single spoonful.

On the counter, there was also a variety of pancakes and cakes made from pea or rice flour — all local specialities of Beijing.

The community spirit in Beijing, on the other hand, was surprisingly pleasant. It was nothing like what one would expect from a city of this scale.

Vendors towed their carts to the side of the road, and locals quickly gathered around. Money and fruit exchanged hands, accompanied by crackles of laughter and bursts of gossip.

Along the pavements, some marched mechanically to work, others walked their dogs — dogs so well groomed they would put the Parisians to shame.

Threading through all of this was a restless stream of motorbikes, trishaws and bicycles. They moved like an unstoppable force, while, just beside them, the six-lane motorway sat in near stagnation — a fleet of cars crawling so slowly it could bore anyone to tears.

Like its B-counterparts — Bucharest and Bangkok — traffic in Beijing is not to be underestimated.

The next couple of days in the city were a flurry of gold-star tourist activities. From the Great Wall of China to the Summer Palace, from the Forbidden City to Tiananmen Square — I saw them all.

The maintenance of these sites was top-notch, offering remarkable ease for the constant flow of visitors from both home and abroad. Ticketing counters were efficient, and the audio guides were virtually hands-free. These clever little devices could track your location, delivering information automatically as you moved from one spot to another — no pressing or fumbling required.

Worried about endless queues for the loos? I was able to slip in and out as my bladder demanded, thanks to the sheer number of facilities dotted around these attractions.

At the famous Nanluoguxiang — a street lined with shops housed in renovated traditional Chinese buildings — there was an abundance of intriguing shops selling even more intriguing street food, clothing, and knick-knacks.

People from all walks of life flooded the street, most of them youngsters with a degree in Selfieology — if not a black belt in wielding selfie sticks.

I walked further, and what emerged were ramshackle houses with wooden doors — the siheyuan, the emblematic Chinese courtyard homes.

In the old days, a siheyuan was typically a square enclosure, carefully designed to separate family space from that of the public and guests. From the main gate to the principal hall, everything was meticulously partitioned. There were servants’ quarters, rooms for the owners, chambers for the sons — while the daughters were “kept” furthest at the back. Women were neither to be seen nor heard in those days.

Today, with the price of every square foot of land soaring, these houses have been downsized and reconfigured to suit modern living.

Though some appeared worn and dilapidated, they remained, in their own way, quite spectacular.

Flip over to Chaoyang District, and the shiny, glass-encased offices make you see Beijing in an entirely different light.

Tall and imposing, they stand silhouetted in the sun, dovetailing the country’s relentless ambition with the global economy.

Just a few years after China’s 2002 reforms, multinational corporations — along with nearly two hundred Fortune 500 companies — began establishing operations in Chaoyang.

The surge of foreign investment, the concentration of R&D, and rapid technological innovation have turned Beijing into a magnet for highly qualified talent from around the world — most of whom have fluent Mandarin etched into already stellar CVs.

And it did feel as though everything in that part of the city was scaled up. Perhaps it is a sign of the Jing keeping pace with its superpower status and newfound wealth — everything seemed bigger: the buildings, the roads, even the tables.

In high-end restaurants, the tables were so unnecessarily vast that lazy Susans became almost redundant. It felt as though there was a moat between you and the dishes. Reaching anything required standing up.

But I suppose that explains why people speak so loudly over white tablecloths and wine glasses.

So, the next time you find yourself in a Chinese restaurant that is deafeningly rowdy — don’t blame the people. Blame the table.

One evening, over crispy Peking duck and steamed fish with ginger, my family and I spoke about the remarkable technological landscape in China.

Though — thanks to the Great Firewall — platforms like Google, Facebook, and Twitter, along with much of the wider internet, remain inaccessible to its citizens, China has built a digital ecosystem unlike any other.

Baidu, the country’s most widely used search engine, boasts hundreds of millions of daily users. Its dominance has effectively pushed Google out of China and rendered YouTube almost irrelevant.

Alibaba Group, which made headlines with the largest IPO on the New York Stock Exchange, has built a vast e-commerce empire and fuelled a new generation of click-happy consumers, reshaping the retail landscape across Asia.

Today, luxury brands such as Maserati and Burberry have official storefronts on Alibaba’s Tmall. And new phenomena such as Singles’ Day — 11/11, a date chosen to symbolise individuality — have become the largest online shopping events in the world, generating staggering revenues.

Tencent, meanwhile, owns WeChat — a messaging app with over 750 million monthly users. From paying bills and transferring money to booking karaoke rooms and ordering water deliveries, WeChat has become indispensable to daily life in mainland China.

These are the “Big Three” propping up China’s tech ecosystem today.

It is true that the market is near-monopolistic, but it has, so far, served its purpose — if not excelled — in keeping foreign competitors at bay.

It is therefore no surprise that, after 1.5 years and billions spent on aggressive discounts and subsidies, Didi Chuxing — backed by Tencent and Alibaba — prevailed over Uber in China.

Perhaps, in retrospect, the Firewall is not solely about censoring content after all…

Nonetheless, amidst all the fascinating developments in China, what struck me most was the people.

While the behaviour of Chinese tourists has long attracted criticism worldwide, I found their way of communicating refreshingly direct.

There is little in the way of “please” or “thank you” — if at all. They are not concerned with softening their words, perhaps because they simply do not have many to choose from. The result is a style of communication that is disarmingly straightforward.

It is easy to mistake it for rudeness. But few realise that the key to engaging with them is to respond in kind — no sugar-coating, no restraint. Honest. Loud.

And real.

Sure, stumbling into toilets with no doors (or people simply not locking them), men airing their bare bellies on hot summer days, and women spitting everywhere do take some getting used to…

But I say — spit on, Beijing. Don’t ever stop being unapologetically you.

With love x