Paris of the East

Paris of the East beckons with demur and menace, grace and chaos.

I bump along on a jumbled contraption - three wheels attached to a rusting galvanized frame, with a deck chair and dusty parasol atop. All powered by a coughing motor- and my determined driver’s leg power. He weaves in and out of dense traffic, horn blaring as we fly, my knuckles white as I grasp onto the deck chair. Abruptly, we pull up. My disgruntled driver delivers a whirl of incomprehensible sounds as I hand over the agreed 20 RMB. ‘Xie Xie’ he barks, zooming back into the throng of insanity that is Shanghai.

The famous ‘Bund’ extends before me, an embanked riverfront where old meets new, divided by the wide Huangpu River. Solid European classical buildings line the Bund, standing sentry to the Empire. It is here that hordes of Chinese tourists assemble to gawk at the vista across the river – Pudong. This area was little more than farmland prior to 1990, it is now the financial and commercial hub of China. It certainly presents a very different architectural landscape – a forest of concrete and steel, from the interesting, to the downright tasteless.

Stepping off Zhongshan Road, I find myself in tiny streets littered with moments. On the corner, the crab man peddles his wares, ramshackle-dapper in his grubby blue suit. Grinning as I pass, he offers me a peek inside his bag where crabs wrestle for their freedom. Next to him - a young girl sells a Chinese delicacy – ‘pigeon on a stick’. Dozens of little bald decapitated birds are stacked high, legs spayed, their red basted bodies impaled on skewers. Luckily I had a big breakfast!

Washing sulks gently among electrical wires, en masse in flapping fabric cities. Bicycles zip past me - even here there is no relief from the frenzy. And yet there is an intimacy of imagery: the craziness creates a rich tapestry of delicate interactions, the city in a series of still shots. Framed by a lone doorway, an elderly woman perches on a timber crate, her hands work deftly knitting a long blue scarf which cascades down her lap.

The French Concession eventually presents itself with majestic tree lined boulevards, creating an unexpected older-world feeling. Established by French foreigners in 1849, it was here during the 30’s that Shanghai got its rather indecent name: Whore of the Orient. Think dimly lit Opium Dens, steaming brothels, anarchy and decadence. Now I find art galleries, expensive boutiques, grand buildings and a little more order.

I peer into the shiny clean window of a Gucci Store. In the reflection I see a young entrepreneur selling pirated DVD’s. This is what I love about Shanghai, it’s a city of opposites. Enticing and intoxicating, it’s a constantly shifting city where grime and grandeur pas-de-deux.