Our Man in Beijing

Road cycling competition has concluded in Beijing, with a day of time trials capping off a run of on-street racing.  The air in Beijing is notoriously smoggy, a fact highlighted by members of the U.S. cycling team who arrived at the airport sporting anti-pollution masks.   

Canada’s top competitor in the women’s race, Leigh Hobson, spoke to Sharp about her experience with the weather.

“I noticed the humidity [more than the smog].  It’s a stifling when you’re trying to breathe hard.” said Hobson, who noted that she had trained for the weather. “We spent a week training in Kyoto before coming here, though.  It was 34 degrees there—that’s before the humidex—so it was actually hotter there than it was here.”

In spite of the air quality and trying weather, bicycle commuting is going strong in Beijing.  More so during the Olympics, said People’s Daily, with car owners permitted to use their cars only on alternate days.  For all the press pointing to China as the world’s next great car culture, cycling still has its place on Beijing’s thoroughfares.

Often it’s a large place.  Bicycle lanes run alongside Beijing’s major arteries and often are at least a car-width wide.  Just north of Tiananmen Square, bike traffic is alloted more than 60 feet in one direction alone—about the equivalent of five or so vehicle lanes.

For some tourists, that’s not enough.  Maurits Aben, a 21-year-old tourist from Rotterdam, said biking in Beijing is beyond taxing.  “Riding a bike here is suicidal,” said Aben.  “Drivers here don’t stop at red lights.  They’ll drive through a crosswalk without looking.  They don’t care if they kill you”

Beijingers are perhaps at their most anarchic in traffic.  Taxi cabs take advantage of the wide streets to turn right on red at speed, while cyclists and pedestrians alike look on red lights as suggestions.  Still, Aben conceded that he’d never cycled in North America.  Cycling here might not meet Dutch standards, but it’s nonetheless a more civilized way to travel than on Toronto’s narrow bikeways, or in Calgary, where motorists play Death Race with that city’s small contingent of bikers.

Eager to sample Beijinger’s own opinions on the iron horse, Sharp took to the street with the aid of a Mandarin translator.

The first stop: the bicycle parking lot.  A Beijing institution, they are staffed around the clock and provide the city’s cyclists a secure place to leave their rides, starting at 20 mao per day (about three cents).  Overnight parking costs about nine cents.

Liu Cheng Jie earns 800 yuan (about $125) per month to watch over a lot near Beijing Railway Station.  “I’m just here to look after the bicycles,” she said.  “I’m happy to do it.  Especially when I can make new friends.”  Though she’s there to provide security, she has never encountered a thief.  She laughed at the suggestion.  “No.  I’ve never seen one.  China is well governed.  It’s safe.”

For cyclists, too.  With bike lanes often separated from automobile traffic by a physical barrier, the vast majority of bikers here are comfortable doffing their helmets.  “I can control the speed,” said Olympic volunteer Yu Jin Feng, a regular bike commuter.  “I always go slow, so there’s no need to buy a helmet.”

“Sometimes the pollution is serious.  On those days, I’ll take the bus or a subway,” he said.  With the subway costing a relatively expensive two yuan (30 cents) a ride, the bicycle wins as Beijing’s cheapest way to get around—as long as you don’t mind smelling like exhaust afterwards.

August 13, 2008

Day 5: Slow night in the city

In Beijing markets it’s common to haggle for goods as varied as luggage and underwear.  Bars in Beijing’s trendy nightclubs districts aren’t exempt from China’s bartering culture, it seems, as poor attendance forces bar managers to adapt to a buyers’ market.

The Olympics, it seems, haven’t seen foreigners flocking to bars in droves.  Even as China and the United States squared off in a much anticipated match, bars in Beijing’s trendy Sanlitun district were vacant.

“Twenty yuan for a beer,” shouted one sidewalk tout.  “How about ten?” said a tourist.  “Deal,” said the tout.  The bar behind him was almost post-apocalypse empty.  In more than one neighbouring pub, three piece bands were playing to two piece audiences.

Similar stories emerged from up and down the street, with bartenders compromising on price to keep their bars at least partly occupied.  Some sold 40 ounce bottles for 25 yuan (about $3.00), a price typical for beers half that size.  Other touts employed less scrupulous techniques--some blocked the sidewalk and grabbed potential patrons to strong arm them into an establishment.

One American tourist from Orange County summed up the situation:  “This is the first night we went out,” he said, gesturing out to a sea of empty seats, light flickering over them as Olympic wrestling played on a big screen television.  “As you can see, we’re the only people here.”
August 12, 2008