11. In the company of strangers

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

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The sun had set over Guangzhou, and the city’s humid warmth seemed to cling to its sprawling streets. A hazy dusk had settled over the skyline, blending the high-rise towers with the thick, soupy air that smelled faintly of motorcycle exhaust and rain-soaked concrete. My first week of teaching English had come to an end, and the prospect of a weekend - two whole days free to explore - had filled me with restless energy. At twenty-one, freshly graduated from university in England, I was eager to experience this strange, electric city.

That Saturday evening, a group of us decided to venture out. We were all Brits, bound together by our shared attempt to make sense of life here, away from everything familiar.

Garden Hotel, around which many of the city’s Western-style nightclubs and bars were clustered.

Our destination was the area around the Garden Hotel, Guangzhou’s poshest spot. It was known for its concentration of foreigners - expats, travellers, and business people who had carved out their own enclave amidst the city’s sprawling chaos. The hotel itself, with its grand marble lobby and cascading chandeliers, stood like a monument to Western opulence, a stark contrast to the narrow alleyways and bustling street markets just a few blocks away.

Our first stop was Mango Bar, a place we’d heard about from some seasoned expats. As we entered, I was immediately struck by the atmosphere: neon lights casting a pinkish glow over the room, loud music thumping from hidden speakers, and a cocktail menu that seemed far removed from anything local. The crowd was mostly older foreign men, some with a younger Chinese woman by their side. The women were largely quiet, their eyes scanning the room with an air of detached curiosity.

I couldn’t help but wonder about these relationships - the dynamics that held them together. The women, perhaps in their twenties, dressed in sleek, carefully chosen outfits, their faces calm but distant. What drew them to these older men? And what brought the men here, to China, so far from home? Was it adventure? Or was it the quiet comfort of an environment that felt safe in its unfamiliarity? I glanced at my colleague Mike, who raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Well, this is something.”

We found a table near the back and ordered drinks - Tsingtao beer for most of us. As we settled in, I noticed the subtle hierarchy at play. Tonight, I’d come to learn that we, as English teachers, were the "bottom rung" of the expatriate world. The expats we met here were business owners, investors, or veterans of life in China. They earned more, had more privileges, and had carved out lives for themselves here. We, on the other hand, earned modest salaries and occupied a more transient space - our roles felt provisional at best. Yet despite the disparity, I felt a kind of shared experience. We were all foreigners, all navigating this vast country in our own ways.

As the night wore on, we moved on from bar to bar, each one slightly different, yet the same undercurrents ran through them all. The foreign men, older and more seasoned, sat with the young Chinese women, their conversations almost always muted by the club music or the roar of the crowd. I found myself watching them, wondering how their stories unfolded and how much they had in common with my own.

After a few more drinks, we headed to a club. This one was louder, brasher, and packed with people. The crowd was a mixture of Chinese and foreigners, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. We squeezed our way to the bar, where Mike ordered a round of shots. “To surviving your first week!” he said, raising his glass. We clinked glasses and downed the shots, the burn of baiju lingering in my throat.

On the dance floor, the energy was palpable. Bodies swayed and moved to the beat, but it felt more like a performance than a celebration. The music, mostly Western pop, seemed to keep the two worlds - Chinese and foreign - separate, despite their proximity. I danced for a while, letting the music carry me, but even in the blur of flashing lights and pulsing bass, I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if I were watching the scene unfold from a distance.

When the club finally closed, we spilled out onto the street, laughing and slightly unsteady on our feet. The night air was cooler now, though still heavy with humidity. We hailed motorcycle taxis - or rather, they found us. These weren’t taxis in the usual sense, but simply local men on motorcycles, cruising the streets and stopping when someone flagged them down. It felt chaotic, but somehow fitting.

I climbed onto the back of one, gripping the small metal bar behind me as the driver revved the engine. My feet dangled awkwardly, and I could feel the heat of the exhaust pipe near my leg. As we sped through the streets, the wind rushed past me, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of exhilaration mixed with absurdity. This, I realised, was my life now - unpredictable, thrilling, and, at times, utterly absurd.

As we zipped through the quiet streets of Guangzhou, I reflected on the night. I thought about China, about the strange blend of the foreign and the local. I thought about my place in this city, about what it meant to be here, in this vast, unfamiliar country. I wasn’t sure where I fit in the expat world. I knew I wasn’t like the businessmen or long-time residents who had built lives here. We, young teachers, were outsiders, still figuring it out. But in that moment, riding through the streets, I realised that China was changing me, whether I understood it fully or not.

The motorcycle sped on, weaving through narrow alleyways and past neon-lit shopfronts. We passed a small hotpot restaurant illuminated by a neon strip light, where a small group of men sat on plastic stools, slurping with practised efficiency. We passed street vendors packing up their carts, their faces tired but content. And we passed clusters of young Chinese students, laughing and chatting as they made their way home from the internet cafes and pool halls.

As the city lights flashed past, I felt a quiet sense of wonder. Guangzhou, with its contradictions and complexities, was slowly seeping into my bones. I didn’t have all the answers - not yet. But I was beginning to understand that being here was as much about the questions as it was about the answers. It was about the moments - small, fleeting, and sometimes profound - that made up the fabric of life in this vast, unpredictable country.

For now, it was enough to simply experience it, to let the wind and the chaos of the night guide me forward. I wasn’t sure where this journey would take me, but I knew I was part of something much larger than myself. And that, for now, was enough.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink—it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.