A man dives into the chilly waters of Qianhai Lake.

“Mao Zedong used to enjoy a winter swim in the Yongjiang river,” says Li Zhixin, drying his not inconsiderable frame with a small hand towel. “But that is in the south of China, and the water temperature is about 14 degrees.” Puffing out his chest, he gestures to a large hole cut into the frozen lake, where a silver-haired man is leisurely performing the backstroke. “That is only 3.”

Mr. Li, a garrulous 60-something, is the Chairman of the Beijing Winter Swimming Club, which, incredibly, boasts some 2000 members. They are all enthusiastic advocates of a peculiar extreme sport which is part test of character, part physical regime, and even part philosophy. “Beijing winters are very cold,” explains Li, “and people like to hide indoors. This is the natural reaction to anything difficult – to keep away. But we believe it is much better in life to face things, to strengthen our resistance.”

He glances over his shoulder as a middle-aged man in stripy red underpants lets out an exaggerated roar of self-encouragement, and plunges himself into the icy waters below. “Not too bad today,” the man splutters to Mr. Li. “I’d say maybe a 4!”

Winter swimming at Houhai Lake.

A revolving cast of about 20 swim club members appear every day on the banks of the capital’s Houhai Lake to perform this ritual. Most are recent retirees, and they emphasize the activity’s health-boosting capabilities. “Exposure to cold water strengthens our immune system,” insists Mr. Ma, who used to be a factory worker, and has been swimming for more than a decade now. “We get fewer colds in winter, though we still get some.”

A spirited French man named Olivier ambles over and chats to the men, eager to try himself. He strips, grinning and pretending to shiver with each layer shed, and makes his way to the water’s edge. After a few perfunctory stretches he hovers. An anxious pause. More stretching. More hovering. His cheery bravado is gradually replaced by a slightly bewildered expression, as if he thought he’d volunteered for something else. Then suddenly he is in, thrashing around and cursing loudly. He completes a face-saving lap and exits in semi-triumph to the cheers and laughter of the regulars. They have recruited their first foreigner into the club.

“It’s not actually that bad,” Olivier later insists, as the memory begins to subside. “Just the initial impact…you come up for air feeling like you are suffocating, but after a few seconds it gets better.” He says he’d try it again, but is not convinced it can be good for his health. “Ask me in the morning.”

Mr. Li, the Secretary, who has been watching with a paternalistic frown, offers a kindly reprimand. “It is unwise to just try this one time,” he says. “We swim here all year round so our bodies adjust to the water as it grows colder each season. Otherwise it may be unhealthy. Humans are not built for extremes.”

Li admits he is largely uninformed about the science behind the physical benefits, or indeed possible dangers, of winter swimming. In actual fact, such science is more or less nonexistent. Researchers agree that sudden, unexpected entry into near-freezing water, such as accidentally falling through ice, is extremely hazardous to health, and potentially fatal. But there has been no definitive judgement concerning voluntary entry. Some believe it is possible it helps toughen the body against illness, but there is very little supporting evidence.

Anyway, Li is more of an empiricist. “All I know is that our oldest member is 93,” he grins, and offers up a loose analogy: “If you want a piece of beef to last longer, you put it in a freezer… well, the lake is just our shared freezer. We take precautions, and allow our bodies to grow steadily used to it. That way there is little risk.”

In what seems like a moment of doubt, he fetches a swimming club newsletter from a satchel and points to a line written in heavy print, underlined twice for certainty. “Safety is heavier than Mount Tai,” it reads.

Wang Yansheng performing his high dive.

Half a kilometer south of Houhai is a smaller lake named Qianhai, where 69 year old Wang Yansheng is standing on a tall pillar in a pair of blue speedos, serenading a swelling crowd of passersby with a song of friendship. Below him is an icy pool with jutting rocks visible barely 2 meters below the surface.

“If you are sad, please come see me,” Wang’s shaky, earnest baritone implores. “If you are happy, please forget me.” After a brisk salute, he counts to three, then launches himself into the air, arms spread like a showman. A lady gasps, a little girl shrieks. Wang crashes into the pool with an uncultured ‘wump.’ The crowd roar their approval.

Mr. Wang doesn’t belong to the Beijing Winter Swimming Club, and it’s fair to say he gives thoughts of safety fairly short shrift. He comes purely to entertain.

Wang is from a renowned sporting family – his daughter is a former Asian Games 800m champion, his son is a national weightlifting finalist – and used to perform this stunt on a daily basis. But, after recently becoming a grandfather, he has been forced to scale back performances to once every Sunday, on the dot at 3 o’clock. There is always a crowd waiting.

“Believe it or not, it helps me relax,” he smiles. “Other things just don’t work… buying clothes, eating in nice restaurants… the only thing I have found is coming here to sing and make people smile.”

Unsurprisingly, Wang says he isn’t really motivated by health benefits – the swimming is more of an afterthought.

A hat and goggles, all the equipment needed.

In fact, he has injured himself several times, lacerating his skin on the ice and damaging his knees on a badly timed entry. “There was once 6 or 7 of us who dived here,” he points out. “But they all retired hurt or found a safer hobby. I am the only one left.”

He likes to compare the stunt to drinking a glass of local rice wine: it will be unpleasant, but you will certainly feel more alive. “It helps keep me young,” he adds. “I only hope I can still do it when I’m 70.”

For all the elderly winter swimming enthusiasts, holding back the slow creep of old age seems to be a fundamental attraction. It is not some  ‘raging against the dying of the light’ or anything so elegiac, but it is a small act of defiance – a retaking of control. “Too often our minds tell our bodies what they can’t do,” Mr. Li put it memorably. “We try not to listen.”

A grandmother puts her grandson to sleep in a bed in an IKEA showroom.

The Beijing branch of IKEA is much more than just a store. Like some marketing manager’s perfect brand vision, it is also a place where dreams are made; a place where people come for a little taste of the exotic; a place to learn what it means to be Western and, by common association, modern.

In the brightly-lit showrooms, people are sprawled out everywhere on plush sofas, some unpacking flasks of tea and settling back to while away the hours. Others try out the beds, propping themselves up with pillows to enjoy a good book. A few even take the chance for a brief catnap. The aisles are bustling, a swarm of trademark yellow IKEA bags, and business appears booming. But on closer inspection, few customers are actually buying anything.

Many are simply here on a fun day out, trailing excited kids and slurping ice-creams from the snack bar. Others – particularly the young – seem to be on some kind of bizarre fieldtrip, as if testing at the edges of ascendancy to the middle-class, carefully taking notes on all that it entails: the sofa-bed, the drapes, the Orgel wall lamp, the Erica Pekkary dust ruffles. For these customers, IKEA is rather like a giant aspirational theme park with no admission charge.

A little girl tries out a mock computer.

“Some young people even like to come here on dates,” says Zhu Li, a fine art student who is a frequent visitor. “I have classmates who come with their boyfriends and just sit on the beds, fantasizing about their futures. IKEA represents the kind of lifestyle they all aim for.” Zhu adds that for her generation, after decades of sharp economic growth and rising incomes in China, such lifestyles are increasingly within reach.

The Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, an influential government think-tank, recently revealed that an estimated 23 percent of the population now belongs to the middle-class, a rise of 8 percent since 2001. Such a high figure may seem unlikely outside of the East coast boomtowns, and is certainly contestable due to the arbitrary nature of demographic classifications. But the trend is unmistakable. Barely a week goes by without a media publication, whether domestic or foreign, trumpeting ‘the rise of the Chinese middle-class.’

Inevitably, the big multinationals have been keeping a close watch on this development, with China – as they see it – on the cusp of becoming the lucrative market over which they have long cast a covetous gaze. International economists have seized upon the phenomenon too, believing it will help rekindle global economic growth and drive world markets out of their recent catastrophic slump. Some China-watchers even herald the coming of a Chinese ‘gilded age’ of what economist Thorstein Veblin once called ‘conspicuous consumption’ – an expanded, hyper-intensified round of ‘keeping up with the Zhous’.

A baby in amongst the stuffed toys

But how far off are these premonitions? While most Chinese are certainly earning higher salaries than ever before, much of it is remaining safely in deep pockets. According to the American-based Census and Economic Information Centre, average household saving rates in China were some 28 percent of total income in 2008, which is disproportionately high in comparison to almost any other country, but especially set aside U.S. rates – at only 4.4 percent. Chinese people have a long culture of being financially cautious, but are also hampered by an underdeveloped social welfare system, with growing concern over rising costs in both education and healthcare, particularly in poorer rural areas where such burdens account for a far higher percentage of the average family’s income. Even in the big cities, money is still viewed largely as insurance against an uncertain future. In a country where a disastrous past is still very recent, the emphasis is on making it, not spending it.

This seems set to change. The eventual transformation of the Chinese economy from a production-based model to one fueled by consumer-based growth is widely regarded as a top priority for the government, easing an unhealthy dependency on exports and capricious external markets.

To this end, certain early measures have already been taken. In 2008, substantial investment was earmarked for the healthcare sector, aiming to provide all Chinese with a degree of social security. Then in 2009, the government offered subsidies to farmers to purchase various home appliances within a 6 month window – televisions, refrigerators, etc. The scheme proved instantly popular, helping offset the dwindling overseas demand for such products, and kickstarting the forces of rural consumerism – albeit briefly. Analysts point to further evidence, not least an increase in credit card ownership, that the Chinese are beginning to develop a taste for spending.

Some couples come to IKEA on dates.

But at IKEA on a Monday morning, it is hard to see any signs of the coming consumerist revolution. The downstairs purchasing warehouse, in contrast to the busy clamor of the technicolour showroom above, is like a sanctuary of inner calm. Till workers chat idly. Tired looking customers appear more interested in the free soda refills than in buying any home furnishings. Linda Xu, PR manager at the Beijing store, appears unconcerned. “We welcome people just to come for the experience,” she says. “It’s good for our brand awareness, and good for our future.” She is keen to stress that business has improved “very fast” over the last year, and points to the imminent opening of another “larger” branch in Shenyang.

The first mainland IKEA store opened in Shanghai in 1998, and was soon followed by 9 others in various locations across the country. The furniture range is still designed in Sweden, with no concessions made for Eastern or Chinese aesthetic sensibilities. As Xu explains, “Chinese traditional furniture is made from very heavy wood in pale, dark hues, and often ornately crafted. At IKEA we provide simple, functional items, in bright, accessible colours. The style is very popular. People are inspired by what is new.”

Zhao Yun, a 20-something customer who has visited 11 times without yet making a purchase, tends to agree. “I think Chinese of today, especially the young, are very forward-looking,” she says. “All those traditional designs from our past…they are too mature. They would look good in a Confucian scholar’s mansion, but perhaps not in a 40-square-meter high-rise.”

A dog slurps some icecream outside Beijing IKEA.

Another customer, Liu Fangxue, a language student, describes herself as ‘westernised’, and believes IKEA is a part of that identity. “We want to be modern,” she says, indicating herself and her boyfriend. “Today we are looking at sofas to buy for when we own a home.” She adds that sometimes they worry about soaring house prices in the capital, and is concerned they will soon be priced out of the market. Nevertheless, they like to visit IKEA together to plan how they will eventually decorate, and have already decided on a kitchen that “looks like the one in the U.S. TV show Friends.”

It seems America is the true inspiration, not only for this new generation of aspirational shoppers, but for the Chinese government too. It is a nation built upon dreams of consumerist plenty, of purchasing non-essential goods in ever increasing amounts, and China seems set to begin the next phase of its own dramatic rise by following a similar growth model. It has certainly been a phenomenally successful one, though it has long attracted criticism. Detractors argue it offers little but the promotion of wanton greed, encouraging absent-minded excess abd creating distracted societies that lose sight of the things that truly matter. Even the home, as the comedian George Carlin once observed, has become “just a place to keep all your stuff while you go out and get more stuff.” At IKEA Beijing, they are waiting to cash in.

Click here for a slideshow featuring more photos of Beijing IKEA.

Business has not been going well for fromager Liu Yang and his assistant.

After returning from France to his native Beijing clutching the de rigeur MBA degree, Liu Yang was supposed to follow the well-worn path to the comfortable office job, with promotion prospects and a generous retirement plan. “My wife wanted me to get a job in a bank,” he recalls. “But I didn’t want that. I wanted to do something for myself, something I cared about.” So he withdrew all his savings and began making artisan cheese.

Liu first learned the craft from a neighbor while studying in France, and now works out of a cramped office that doubles as a fromagerie on the dusty outskirts of northern Beijing. Here, each week, he produces a new batch of his trademark ‘Beijing Grey Camembert’ – a distinctive cheese with a soft, creamy interior and a powerful, acrid taste that could reasonably be described as ‘acquired’. With local Chinese, it doesn’t go down too well.

“I just about break even,” he sighs. “Business has been pretty tough.” But Liu doesn’t seem too perturbed. He is 35, tall and lean, and dressed in a spotless white lab coat, which gives him an air of clinical precision – as if he doesn’t make decisions without a carefully formulated plan. Nearly 2 years ago, while he was working as an interpreter for French TV covering the Beijing Olympics, he looked at the rising popularity of foreign goods amongst increasingly wealthy urban Chinese – coffee, wine, hamburgers – and guessed that cheese might be next. “I saw pizza was very popular, especially with the young,” he adds. “Chinese have very adaptable tastes.”

But at the moment, most of his customers are expats, who account for some 70 percent of his sales. The problem for local Beijingers seems to be the smell. “It’s a bit like certain kinds of Chinese tofu,” says Mr. Zhao, a customer who enters the shop out of curiosity and tries a free sample. “It smells really bad, but once you get past that the taste is very good.” Tofu is China’s cheese in more ways than one – it also has a lengthy history, is fermented from milk surplus (in this case from soya milk), and comes in an array of flavors and textures.

Actually, cheese has a history of its own in China, though almost exclusively in communities on the edges of its vast territory. The Tibetans make it from yak’s milk and use it to mould tsampa, while Mongolians make it from sheep’s milk and dissolve it in tea. The Uyghurs of the far west produce a product called ‘kurt’, a kind of hard, sour cheese which is consumed as a treat much like a bag of sweets. All of these ethnic groups share with one another a nomadic root, shifting large herds of livestock from pasture to pasture, which provided them with a ready supply of milk.

Conversely, the majority Han ethnicity (roughly 92% of the population) lived a sedentary lifestyle – with almost every piece of available land given over to crops – and so never developed a dairy culture. Today, as a side-effect of this, researchers have estimated that more than 90% of Han are lactose intolerant, to varying degrees. Many Beijingers choose to avoid dairy-rich products, providing an added impediment to success for Liu Yang and his cheese-making business.

Checking the texture.

“Actually, most of the lactose in my cheese is removed with the whey during the manufacturing process,” insists Liu. “But I guess that doesn’t stop people thinking it will give them a sore stomach.” He firmly believes that Chinese could develop a taste for artisan cheese if only they would try it, and plans to persevere until they do.

But even without the lactose problem, it is very difficult in any deep-rooted culture to change ingrained habits and introduce foreign aspects, especially when it comes to something as constitutional as diet. There can be a dismissive, intractable attitude of ‘this is what I eat’ and ‘this is what I don’t eat,’ particularly amongst the elderly.

Marc de Ruiter, a Dutch fromager who set up a cheese-making co-operative in rural Shanxi Province, believes the key to success may lie in finding ways to blend cheese into the local cuisine. “Marketing is being done without consideration of local culture and tradition,” he says. “Everyone is talking about ‘wine & cheese’ to the Chinese, but this is a limited market. The best way to increase sales is by making cheese a ‘new’ ingredient to be added to traditional Chinese dishes.”

De Ruiter touches upon a recurring theme with regard to foreign merchant’s attempts to change the Chinese market with foreign goods: that, in one way or another, China eventually ends up changing them instead. And, while it sounds unlikely that we will be seeing ‘Peking Duck with Cheese’ on restaurant menus anytime soon, de Ruiter reveals he has caught his workers dropping occasional scraps into their lunchtime bowls of noodles. “Soon I may have to start keeping a closer eye on them,” he laughs. No doubt other cheese manufacturers will be watching closely too.

For more information on the fromagers:
Liu Yang – www.lefromagerdepekin.com
Marc de Ruiter – www.cheeseinchina.com

A man plays catch with his bird near Beijing's Drum Tower.

A small bird is hovering high up in the air, flapping impatiently. An elderly man puts a metal tube to his lips, tilts his head back, and spits hard. The bird swoops low, banking hard left, its sharp yellow beak snapping shut with a percussive ‘tink.’ The sound pleases the man, and he offers an outstretched palm. After a brief flourish of balletic twists, the bird arcs back to land softly in the centre, where it deposits a small plastic ball. The old man caresses its neck and reaches into his pocket for a well-earned treat. “Does it do any other tricks?” someone asks. The birdman narrows his eyes. “Is that not enough?”

Mr. Bai spends all of his days in the open space between Beijing’s Drum and Bell Towers, playing catch with his birds, or sitting chatting with other ‘birdmen’ caught up in the same passion. “I only stay at home if it snows,” he says, nodding towards the thawing remains of yesterday’s snowfall on a nearby rooftop. “But the birds get restless there.”

Mr. Bai is a retiree and has been training birds to fetch for 2 years now. “We old people don’t have very much to do,” he says, pulling a cigarette from a crumpled packet. “I quickly got bored listening to the radio all day.” He is standing beside a row of perches on which a dozen identical birds sit. One of them begins to squawk agressively and squabble with a neighbor. Bai reaches over to chide it with a firm tap on the head, causing the rest to screech in united protest. “Keeping birds is also very peaceful,” Bai smiles. “Good for the health.”

These birds, with their distinctive yellow beaks, are called ‘wutong’ birds, and are caught from the wild. They are subsequently sold in markets in Beijing for 70 to 80 yuan, and can be trained to catch within a week. Trainers begin by tossing seeds into the air, with a hungry bird eager to play. Seeds are then swapped for small plastic balls, big enough to prevent choking, and these are thrown gradually higher and higher. The birds receive food upon a successful retrieve.

Just as with most pastimes, bragging rights are important, and the men like to boast about whose pet can soar the highest. The camaraderie of the birdmen, interrupted by regular bouts of gentle mocking and playful insults, seems to be a big part of what draws each of them back, day after day.

“We are here all winter,” says Mr. Bai. “But we let the birds go in April. Beijing’s summer months are too hot and the birds pant like dogs, with their mouths always hanging open. Then they are useless for playing catch. We just buy more when it gets cooler.”

He doesn’t know exactly where the birds go. Another man thinks maybe they return to their origins in the northeast of China, the traditional homeland of the Manchu ethnic group. “I think teaching birds tricks is actually part of Manchu culture.” He pauses and shakes his head blankly. “But I’m not really sure.”

Another man lets out a sigh and interjects. “All Old Bai knows is how to eat and shit in a toilet,” he blusters, and the other birdmen fall into laughter. “There is a Manchu man that sometimes comes here with his birds, but usually he plays somewhere near the National Stadium. He knows more about history than we do.”

As light fades and a slight chill descends, the men attach perches to bicycles, checking the birds are tightly secured, and head towards home, disappearing into the warren-like alleyways that make up Old Beijing.

A Manchu man and his bird. The 'Bird's Nest' National Stadium provides the backdrop.

Lian Cheng Ye is shouting at the trees. “Come down! Get back! No food for you!” His wutong bird stands on a branch, whistling and nodding its head in mocking metronome. The other birdmen can’t help but laugh, and Mr. Lian is soon joining them. “We try to come to a place with no trees,” he sighs. “But they always find one somehow.”

These men like to bring their birds to a dusty concrete square north of the National Stadium, colloquially known as the “Bird’s Nest” for its striking lattice framework, which provides a fitting backdrop. “Bird’s nests are lucky in Chinese folklore,” says Lian, flicking his eyes towards the vast structure. “They wanted to bring luck to the Olympics.” Another man tuts loudly: “That’s not it. It was built like that because foreigners think all Chinese like to eat bird’s nest soup. It was designed by foreigners. Don’t you know?” Bird’s nest soup is regarded as a delicacy in China, only consumed by the rich. The gathered men begin to argue.

61 year old Lian is of Manchu origin, one of the 56 designated minority groups in China, and has a compelling backstory. “My ancestors were originally brought to Beijing by the Qing emperors,” he recounts, stepping away unnoticed from the squabble over stadium design. “They were nobles. My grandfather was in charge of the garments the imperial family wore to weddings and funerals. My father used to get free rice every year from the emperor Pu Yi. That was until the Republicans came.”

A wutong bird with a 100 yuan bill in its beak.

Like Lian’s forefathers, the wutong birds also hail from the Manchu heartlands of China’s northeast, though they migrate southwards to escape the brutal winter months. It was on one such journey, Lian claims, that they got their name. “The Empress Dowager Ci Xi was said to have been resting in the Forbidden City when one landed on a tree outside her window. The bird began to sing and she became captivated, summoning attendants to ask what it was called. But they had no idea. Not wanting to lose face, one attendant quickly looked at the tree and saw that it was a wutong. So that’s what he blurted out, and that became the name.”

During the Qing Dynasty of Ci Xi’s time, the families of Manchu nobles who had helped vanquish the Ming were arranged under 8 banners, and occupied the alleys surrounding the Forbidden City (such as those near the Drum Tower) as additional protection for the monarch inside. They were not allowed to work as this was considered undignified, or more likely, counter to the emperor’s requirement they remain battle-ready. They therefore spent a great deal of time sitting redundant, awaiting orders.

A large number began to idle away their days collecting and playing with birds. Some took it to an obsessive level, fussing over ornate cage-design and who’s bird had the prettiest song – so much so that the image of a robed Manchu clutching his birdcage became something of a disdainful stereotype among the conquered Han majority, who increasingly came to resent their effete conquerors. Indeed, in the Mandarin language, to call someone a ‘niaoren’ or ‘birdman’ became a derisory insult, indicating a wretched person of no worth (the phrase is still used as a pejorative today, though its etymology is open to dispute).

Soon, the Han Chinese of the time were forced to adopt some of the cultural tropes of the Manchus, such as growing long ‘queue’ ponytails which became the obligatory hairstyle on pain of death. However, as with other ‘foreign’ conquerors of China (notably Kublai Khan), it was the Manchus who were largely assimilated by the dominant culture of the Han, appropriating much of their heritage and traditions.

Today, for Mr. Lian, little remains of the Manchu legacy. “I don’t even know how to speak Manchurian,” he says, with the Chinese equivalent of a shrug. “I suppose for me, playing with these birds is a way to connect with my culture. They must be in my blood. I remember my father doing this when I was a boy, and so I guess they also connect me to him.” A birdman hovering nearby offers a more inclusive perspective: “Traditionally, Chinese believe we should live alongside nature. This is us doing what we can.”

A man stands alone in a giant carpark with his kite.

The vast concrete expanse on which Lian and his friends gather was originally built as a bus parking lot for the recently-held Olympic Games. It has since been reclaimed by the locals as a playground for a variety of pastimes, both traditional and modern. A girl on rollerskates weaves her way between distracted kite fliers. A man in polished shoes sits hunched over a remote-controlled car, spinning its wheels with his fingers. Nearby, someone else fidgets with electronic buttons, attempting to maneuver a small helicopter to a flawless landing.

Mr. Lian’s thoughts trail off, and he puts the pipe quickly to his lips to spit another ball at the graying autumn sky. As his bird dances in the air, there is a sudden “WUMP” noise, followed by the dreadful sound of shattering plastic. The birdmen spin around. A man is rushing across the square with a pained expression. His helicopter lies twisted and crumpled on the concrete. “Ahhhhhh!” blurts one of the birdmen. “You won’t be able to fly that anymore brother!” The men chuckle to one another, as if they already sense the punchline. “Now is your chance to come play with real birds!”