15. Through the lens of change

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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Evening had fallen by the time we reached the edge of Tianhe. The bus shuddered down Huanshi East Road, its windows fogged with condensation, blurring the world outside into streaks of smeared light. In Baiyun, the day ended with a soft sigh: narrow streets emptying of foot traffic, shopkeepers pulling down shutters with the creak of tired metal. But Tianhe - Tianhe did not rest. It surged forward.

I had come to buy a digital camera, one of the many small acts that suddenly feel monumental when you’re new in a country. My old camera had died the week before. Now, I wanted something sleeker, quicker, more responsive. My college had advised me to visit the electronics markets of Tianhe, and so I had asked for help. Lin had been sent along.

Lin was a student at the college, but also employed part-time by the Foreign Affairs Office to support foreign teachers like me. She was petite, with sharp eyes that seemed to weigh everything she saw. From the few conversations we’d had, I knew she didn’t believe in wasting time on pleasantries. She had a directness that cut clean through the usual murk of cross-cultural misunderstandings. Tenacious, someone had called her. I believed it.

She sat beside me on the bus, silent, occasionally checking her phone. She’d agreed to come as interpreter, but she gave the impression she would have found her way to Tianhe regardless. She knew the area well.

As we crossed the threshold into the district, the city transformed. Where Baiyun slouched in its older, low-rise contentment, Tianhe stretched skyward. Glass towers rose like exclamations, each a declaration of progress. Cranes hovered above half-finished buildings, their red warning lights blinking like distant stars. Pavement turned to polished stone. Shopfronts glowed. The scent of damp cement hung in the air, mingling with that of exhaust fumes.

“This place changes every week,” Lin said, more to herself than to me.

It felt true. Tianhe was less a place than a process - caught in the act of becoming. The roads twisted with purpose, accommodating scaffolding, diversion signs, and skeletal overpasses. The neon signs seemed suspended mid-breath, flickering with the uncertain promise of a future not yet fully realised. It was development at its most unrelenting.

And in its way, it was exhilarating.

We crossed an underpass lit by a single, flickering tube-light. Above us, the traffic snarled in every direction. Lin led the way, weaving effortlessly through the crowd, while I trailed behind, watching the city play itself out in fast-forward. It reminded me of those time-lapse videos I’d seen in electronics shops - cities sprouting like fungi, one tower at a time. Here, the future wasn’t something distant. It was under construction.

Eventually, we reached the electronics market, a hulking, multi-storey building whose facade blazed with LED lights and banner advertisements. The signage clashed in fonts and colours, fighting for attention in a cacophony of consumer desire. Inside, the air changed. Fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead. Escalators groaned.

Lin took the lead. “We’ll go to the third floor,” she said. “Better prices. Less noise.”

She was wrong about the noise.

The third floor was an audio-visual assault. Screens flashed, salesmen barked, electronic jingles played on loop from tiny speakers. Row after row of stalls packed tightly with devices - cameras, phones, cords, memory cards, each screaming for attention. The atmosphere was a storm of static and language and urgency. I saw my reflection multiply in the mirrored walls, blurred by pixelation and fluorescent sheen.

Lin negotiated with a kind of fluency I found enviable - not just in Mandarin, but in movement, in manner. She knew when to pause, when to smile, when to raise her voice just enough to suggest insult. I watched her handle three vendors in rapid succession, fielding counter-offers and mock indignation with practised ease. She was performing a well-rehearsed dance, and I was merely her oversized prop.

At last, she guided me to a small stall wedged between two gaudier outlets. Cameras were laid out like jewellery - Nikon, Canon, Sony. I picked up a Nikon Coolpix. It felt right in my hand: compact, weighty, precise, and perhaps within my budget. The vendor, a middle-aged woman with a brisk manner, quoted a price. I grimaced.

Lin turned to her and the haggling began in earnest. I understood little of the words but everything of the cadence - parry, feint, jab. Lin’s tone shifted; she became colder, more businesslike. I stood back, aware of my foreignness in every movement, the pale outlier in a scene of intense domestic commerce.

After several minutes, Lin turned to me. “She will drop the price. But she is not happy.”

“Why?”

“She says I shouldn’t help a foreigner to bargain. That you can afford more.”

There was no malice in Lin’s voice, only a quiet resignation.

The vendor muttered something sharp in Mandarin. Lin didn’t translate this time.

We completed the transaction in silence. The camera was wrapped in bubble plastic and sealed in a bright carrier bag. I handed over the cash and offered a shallow nod of thanks that went unacknowledged. There was a moment, fleeting but palpable, where I felt not like a guest, nor even a customer, but an interloper - someone whose presence was at best tolerated, at worst resented.

Outside, the night had grown cooler. The buzz of the market receded as we walked along a side street. Traffic lights pulsed through steam rising from a manhole. Somewhere nearby, a street hawker called out prices for roasted chestnuts.

“She didn’t like me helping you,” Lin said again, her voice quieter now. “Some people think foreigners should pay more. Because you are… richer.”

I laughed - more at the absurdity than anything else - and glanced around at the towers overhead, their facades gleaming with the confidence of capital. There was no answer to give.

The walk back was long, the city around us never quite still. Tianhe gleamed and bristled with its ambitions. Even at that hour, scaffolding clinked faintly above us, as if the night shift were already threading steel into place for the next day. But I thought of Baiyun then - of cracked tiles, lazy bicycles, and streets where no one rushed. The camera bag rustled in my hand, a token of the evening, a tool for remembering.

Yet it was that final conversation that lingered. Not the price, not the lights, not even the camera now hidden in plastic - but the reminder, sharp and sudden, that not everyone welcomed us in the same way. Beneath the modernity, the transactions, the lights - there were undercurrents. Not always seen. Not always voiced.

The digital camera would capture images. But what of the things unseen? The glances not translated, the meanings left hanging between two languages? The quiet decisions made in someone else's mother tongue?

Tianhe moved on around us, already building itself into tomorrow.

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.