Asia and Away Travel Blog

Chinese Mating Habits

Hello world. Since my last blog entry, some two months ago, I have done quite a lot (by my admittedly lazy standards). I’ve completed my first decently-remunerated project in, er...well, ever (equivalent of a year's Zhaoqing wages for verifying a 400-page guidebook for the AA). I’ve seen Christmas in and out with minimum fuss (and a particularly delicious packet of Highland Shortbread, sent by my good mother). I’ve begun studying for a Master’s Degree in photography at Dalian Medical University. I've been on a three week tour of the country (pictures to be posted, and shamelessly backdated, soon). Oh, and I’ve begun writing my first book. Okay, it may be a by-the-numbers guidebook as opposed to a 21st Century reworking of the Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, but - if you please - this is my moment of glory and I am damn well taking it. 

All of which is what the point is not, of course. I was moved to blog tonight by my nightly stroll along the banks of the mighty Xi Jiang river. It’s become a habit since starting work on the book. Given that my office is now less than five metres from my pillow, getting daily exercise has become less easy than it used to be. I used to take it for granted that, come what may, I’d end up climbing the eight flights of stairs to my front door. These days, even this is no gimme. And so taking this nightly walk has become my little habit.

Zhaoqing has a lovely wide boulevard next to the water. It’s the same size as the walkway that runs beside the Bund in Shanghai, the one where the crowds fight for the right to take pictures of their relatives in front of the funny-shaped Oriental Pearl TV Tower just across the Huangpu River. It should be noted that the boulevard in Zhaoqing has less people. A lot less people. In fact, come 10pm on a chilly winter’s evening like tonight, there are only two kinds of people out and about: 1) old people who exercise by walking backwards (like those who practice tai chi in middle of crowded parks, these folk walk backwards as if it’s the most normal thing in the world), and 2) lovers. It’s the lovers that I wanted to write about tonight.

The Chinese have a mating ritual that is all their own. The gallant gent in the equation takes his girl out on his scooter and they head down to the river. There, they dismount, head over to the concrete balustrade, and stand. The girl stands lifeless, like a rag doll, hands to her side and the man hugs her very, very tight. They don’t talk. They just stand. All along the 3km length of the walkway they line up like this, evenly spaced out. I pass them on my way down, and on my way back. They never glance up to look at me. Their postures have rarely changed in the 10-30 minutes between my sightings of them. They just stand, as if they aren’t quite sure why they are there, or what it is exactly, they want. I know what it is they want. They want to have sex. You can almost smell the tension (frustration) in the air as you pass. It always makes me smile, not least because my that’s exactly what I was like when I was young. Only, the thing is, half of these guys aren’t very young. Come to think of it, many of the girls aren’t that young either. In fact, there are various configurations of ages: middle aged guys with middle aged women (secretaries by profession); young guys with even younger girls (middle school students by profession); young girls with middle aged guys (factory owners by profession); young guys with middle aged women (prostitutes by profession).

The scene reminds me of a passage in the Paul Theroux classic, Riding the Iron Rooster, in which he describes the sight of a couple canoodling on a Dalian beach.

The Chinese do it [canoodle] standing up, out of the wind, usually behind a rock or building, and they hug each other very tight. It is all smooching. The two ran away when they saw me.

No-one ran away from me tonight. They just stood silently as I passed, as if they hoped I wouldn’t notice. I’m sure the minute I moved on the groping and promises of everlasting commitment continued. Anyway, as I was walking along tonight, a very apt song happened to emerge from my Pocket PC MP3 player (iPods are for losers). It was Bruce Springsteen’s heart-wrenching ballad, The River – the saddest song ever recorded in which nobody fights, separates or dies. The song is a story about a working-class couple from New Jersey who marry when they are young, romantic and free, and grow old, tired and jaded. Bruce reminisces about the nights they spent down by the river. The song almost breaks my heart every time I hear it. And yet, tonight, looking at those rag-doll girls, and guys in cheap suits, I sensed none of this wildness, romance or yearning for freedom that Bruce sung of. I just saw a series of extremely frustrated men trying to get their end away. At least the American drive-in has movies, and burger bars. At least dodgy UK suburban nightclubs have music and fights. This had nothing. Just a dirty old river, smoggy skies, a wide pavement and passersby who walk backwards.

The picture, by the way, is not my own. It was taken by my good friend Markel Redondo (www.markelredondo.com) , a wonderful photographer, a great cook, and the only supporter of Athletico Bilbao that I know. It was shot on a platform at Dalian Railway Station, but says everything I have said, only ten times better.

• Filed Under: General
• Posted by: Graham Bond
• Posted: Friday, January 26
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