‘Er, no.’
‘Nothing lurking in your sponge bags??
‘No.
‘Well, we’d better go shopping, then.’
By now I was beginning to think in sound pictures. There are two very distinctive sounds in China, three if you count Richard Clayderman.
The first is spitting. Everybody spits. Wherever you are you continually hear the sound: the long-drawn-out, sucking, hawking noise of mucus being gathered up into the mouth, followed by the hissing launch of the stuff through the air and, if you’re lucky, the ping of it hitting a spittoon, of which there are many. Every room has at least one. In one hotel lobby I counted a dozen strategically placed in corners and alcoves. In the streets of Shanghai there is a plastic spittoon sunk into the pavement on every street corner, filled with cigarette ends, litter and thick, curling, bubbly mucus. You will also see many signs saying `No spitting’, but since these are in English rather than Chinese, I suspect that they are of cosmetic value only. I was told that spitting in the street was actually an offence now, with a fine attached to it. If it were ever enforced I think the entire economy of China would tilt on its axis.
The other sound is the Chinese bicycle bell. There is only one type of bell, and it’s made by the Seagull company, which also makes Chinese cameras. The cameras, I think, are not the world’s best, but the bicycle bells may well be, as they are built for heavy use. They are big, solid, spinning chrome drums and have a great resounding chime to them which you hear ringing out through the streets continuously.
Everyone in China rides bicycles. Private cars are virtually unheard of, so the traffic in Shanghai consists of trolley-buses, taxis, vans, trucks and tidal waves of bicycles.
The first time you stand at a major intersection and watch, you are convinced that you are about to witness major carnage. Crowds of bicycles are converging on the intersection from all directions. Trucks and trolley-buses are already barrelling across it. Everyone is ringing a bell or sounding a horn and no one is showing any signs of stopping. At the moment of inevitable impact you close your eyes and wait for the horrendous crunch of mangled metal but, oddly, it never comes.
It seems impossible. You open your eyes. Several dozen bicycles and trucks have all passed straight through each other as if they were merely beams of light.
Next time you keep your eyes open and try to see how the trick’s done; but however closely you watch you can’t untangle the dancing, weaving patterns the bikes make as they seem to pass insubstantially through each other, all ringing their bells.
In the western world, to ring a bell or sound a horn is usually an aggressive thing to do. It carries a warning or an instruction: ‘Get out of the way’, ‘Get a move on’, or `What the hell kind of idiot are you anyway? If you hear a lot of horns blowing in a New York street you know that people are in a dangerous mood.
In China, you gradually realise, the sound means something else entirely. It doesn’t mean, ‘Get out of my way, asshole’, it just means a cheerful ‘Here I am’. Or rather it means, `Here I am here I am here I am here I am here I am…’, because it is continuous.
It occurred to me as we threaded our way through the crowded, noisy streets looking for condoms, that perhaps Chinese cyclists also navigated by a form of echolocation.
‘What do you think?’ I asked Mark.
‘I think you’ve been having some very strange ideas since we came to China.’
`Yes, but if you’re weaving along in a pack of cyclists, and everyone’s ringing their bells, you probably get a very clear spatial perception of where everybody is. You notice that none of them have lights on their bicycles?
‘Yes…’
‘I read somewhere that the writer James Fenton tried riding a bike with a light on it in China one night and the police stopped him and told him to take it off. They said, “How would it be if everyone went around with lights on their bicycles?” So I think they must navigate by sound. The other thing that’s extraordinary about cyclists is their inner peace.’