China’s Flourishing Mobile Economy is its Greatest Innovation

This article first appeared on the website of the World Economic Forum and is republished here with the author’s permission.

What is the most celebrated Chinese holiday globally, by the Chinese and by everyone else? Here’s a hint: It’s not the Spring Festival, also known as Chinese New Year. It is November 11, known as Singles’ Day.

Every November 11th, billions of Chinese, at home or abroad, passionately participate in the 24-hour online shopping extravaganza. It is also a global festival, as international buyers and sellers from more than 200 countries and regions get involved.

In 2016, at the speed of the Internet, $1 billion dollar worth of orders was placed in the first five minutes. The total trade volume of the day was more than $17 billion. By far, the November 11 festival is the world’s largest online shopping day, beating Black Friday and Cyber Monday combined.

For sure, the annual online shopping festival is a vivid example of the rise of the digitally connected middle class in China. However, if you look beyond the Singles’ Day party, China’s mobile economy means a lot more for the society, the economy and the future of innovation.

First of all, the mobile Internet has improved people’s lifestyle, not only in large cities, but also in remote areas. For example, mobile payment is more popular – to the surprise of many – in China’s underdeveloped western regions. Among all the provinces, Tibet led the country in mobile payment adoption. Obviously, for less populated areas without much commercial infrastructure, mobile e-commerce is a good solution.

Furthermore, the mobile Internet creates jobs in rural areas, turning farmers into online vendors. One rural entrepreneur only needs to have a 20-square-meter space, buy a secondhand computer, and find a basic Internet connection to become a retailer start-up. There are even villages with a majority of farmers working on Alibaba’s shopping site, Taobao – earning them the name of “Taobao villages.”

A “Taobao Village” is defined by Alibaba as “a village in which over 10% of households run online stores and village e-commerce revenues exceed 10 million RMB (roughly $1.6 million) per year.” According to Alibaba’s data, there are more than 1,000 Taobao villages in China.

Also, the mobile economy creates new industries. For example, the Internet and mobile devices have changed the way people read novels. Online novels in China are posted by installments, typically a few thousand words every day. People can do the reading whenever they have a few minutes – such as waiting in line or standing in a subway. As a result, a whole new industry has emerged, as many online novels are turned into gaming, videos and movies.

Most importantly, the mobile economy turned China into an innovation hub for the Fourth Industrial Revolution. In the case of Uber in China, what is really interesting is the fact that Uber’s service took off much faster there than it did in the US. Uber’s top three most popular cities worldwide — Guangzhou, Hangzhou and Chengdu — were all in China. The important reason is that Chinese users are ready adopters of mobile devices and social network technologies. This underpins the growth of home-grown ride-sharing giant Didi Chuxing, which bought Uber China last year.

The implication is profound: China is not only the largest market for mobile applications, but probably also the best lab to test them, because new mobile applications can receive market feedback and achieve meaningful scale more quickly in China than in developed markets. Therefore, the China market (with 700 million Internet users, more than the population of Europe) is poised to be a trendsetter, rather than a trend-follower, in the Fourth Industrial Revolution.

The same opportunity is also available to other emerging markets when they embrace the new technology waves. For example, in India’s smartphone market, many homegrown entrepreneurs have been inspired by the success story of Chinese brands. They started ventures themselves to compete with Apple, Samsung and Chinese brands like Xiaomi for market share. Similarly in the Philippines, local brands “think and behave like Filipinos” to incorporate special features, and they have already grabbed more than half of the market share.

In the near future, more emerging markets will become innovation hubs like China, generating new features, products and business models for the world’s growth. If fifteen years ago “the world was flat” for information, now in the Fourth Industrial Revolution, “the world is flat” for innovation.

11 Mouth-Watering “Real” Chinese Foods

Chinese food’s popularity worldwide is at an all-time high. Even so, a lot of people probably can’t name a Chinese dish. We’re about to hook you up, so that when you sit down for a traditional dinner with your friend’s family, you won’t be asking for the orange chicken. Here’s your intro course in 11 “real” Chinese foods to know, out of approximately one hundred thousand.

1. Jian Bing

Let’s kick things off with the humble jian bing. Fondly referred to as a “Chinese breakfast burrito” by confused foreigners everywhere (or is it a Chinese galette?), the jian bing and its bing (variously translated as “cake,” “pancake,” and “round flat cake”) family variations can be found on sizzling street skillets in every city in China. (And New York.) The classic jian bing consists of a fried, crepe-like pastry wrapping, a fried egg, sauces, cilantro or other herbs, and a crispy baocui (crispy fried) cracker. One of these bad boys will generally run you about 4 RMB (less than a dollar), plus some extra if you want to add chicken or other meat.

2. Hongshao Niurou Mian

Hongshao means red-braised, and generally refers to meat specially cooked with soy sauce. Niurou is “beef,” and mian is noodle, so hongshao niu rou mian is red-braised beef noodle soup, and it’s delicious. Served at Chinese Muslim specialty restaurants that steer clear of the normal Chinese affinity for pork, it also gives us the opportunity to introduce lamian – hand-pulled noodles. In America, a lot of us view the process of pulling noodles by hand from a lump of dough as a carefully learned skill and a byproduct of intensive culinary study. Meanwhile, in China, these guys are out in every tiny street shop or cafeteria, pulling noodles and smoking a cigarette like it’s nobody’s business:

The hand-pulling gives the noodles a special kind of “bouncy” texture, and when they join forces with the red-braised beef, broth, and herbs/spices in a bowl of hongshao niurou mian, it’s game over for hunger (and hangovers).

3. Xiaolongbao

A worldwide favorite and specialty of Shanghai, and with good reason. It’s no surprise everyone from Anthony Bourdain to Andrew Zimmern is raving about xiaolongbao soup dumplings, the perfectly steamed, twisted pockets of soupy, meaty goodness. You might even have seen Time Out London get eviscerated on social media for their sloppy handling of the dumplings’ inner treasures. Specialty restaurants overseas do their best with $8.25 imitations (we’re looking at you, Joe’s Shanghai of NYC), but they’ll never match the mastery you’ll experience at any given corner restaurant in Shanghai, where they cost the equivalent of $1.

4. Gongbao Jiding Fan

Oh yeah, something we recognize. Jiding is diced chicken, and fan is rice. Gongbao is a word that might be more familiar when spelled in its old school anglicized form: Kung Pao. That’s right, we’re looking at the original dish that became the Kung Pao Chicken you know and love. Diced chicken, peanuts, and chili peppers are mandatory ingredients, mixed with other elements and served in a sauce over rice. It’s one dish that made the transition to Western palettes relatively intact.

5. Xihongshi Chao Jidan

This dish is straight up tomatoes and eggs. It sounds weird at first, but it’s at every table in every home or restaurant 100% of the time (you can fact check that). And who’s complaining – it’s simple, tasty, and pretty healthy. Do you like eggs? Do you like tomatoes? Good, you’re set. Fry the eggs first, then stew them up with some tomatoes. This one’s actually not too complicated.

6. Yangrou Chuanr

These grilled lamb skewers are everywhere. They’re a specialty of China’s Muslim minority group in Xinjiang province, and they will give you what you need. Thin cuts of meat are spiced with cumin and red pepper, and rotated to perfection over a charcoal roast. You’re gonna want to grab several.

7. Jiachang Doufu

Sichuan province is responsible for a lot of the deliciousness all over China, and jiachang doufu (homestyle tofu) is another great win. In China, tofu is more than just the tasteless meat alternative that all your vegan friends keep trying to convince you is cool. People here just love tofu for tofu’s sake, and it’s common for tofu dishes to also have meat in them, playing back up for the soy bean curd. Jiachang doufu is pan-fried, with Sichuanese chili bean paste, wood ear mushroom, and other vegetables.

8. Zhajiangmian

Zhajiangmian means fried sauce noodles, in reference to the dish’s defining sauce, which is made by simmering stir-fried ground pork or beef with salty fermented soybean paste. It’s very thick. In most noodle dishes, the sauce’s job is to add flavor to the noodles, but in zhajiangmian, it’s more like the noodles are a vehicle to deliver the hearty sauce.

9. Beijing Kaoya

Another dish that might be more familiar is Peking duck. People take it very seriously. Ducks bred for Beijing kaoya restaurants are slaughtered after 65 days, seasoned and roasted until the skin becomes a dark, flaky brown. Authentic versions of the dish are normally more skin than meat. To eat it, you roll the duck in a spring pancake bun with cucumber, spring onion and sweet bean sauce. To get good Peking duck, you have to go to a restaurant that specializes in it.

10. Chao Fan

You didn’t think we were gonna forget fried rice did you? One thing people are always surprised to learn is that China doesn’t use soy sauce in its fried rice. In fact, if you try to put soy sauce on or around rice of any kind, people are going to look at you like you have three heads. Basic Chinese fried rice is fried in a wok, with spring onions, spices/oils, and maybe an egg. From that starting point, there are endless variations all over China and the rest of Asia.

11. Huo Guo

Huo guo is hot pot, and it’s also a laborious, multi-hour experience if you’re eating with locals. In the center of the table you have a boiling pot of soup stock, inside which you cook vegetables, meat, or whatever else. People here will comment on the size of your appetite if you order, say, a double hamburger, but will suddenly become machines of mass consumption at even the passing mention of hot pot. Especially in the wintertime. There’s nothing folks here like more than to sit at a hot pot table for an entire evening, stewing vegetables and watching foreign guests squirm when they have to try pork brain.

 

Klay Thompson Rejected by a Chinese Rim

Klay Thompson, fresh off an NBA title with the Golden State Warriors, is touring China with Anta to promote his sneaker series, the Anta KT 2. He ran — or jumped — into some difficulty in Chengdu in the form of a rim:

Here’s another angle:

(He actually missed two dunks, as this full video shows.)

Looks like he’s having fun otherwise, though. One more week to go!

Picture of the Day: Puddle

Reminder: this is the final week to submit for the Radii Photo Contest: The Place We Live.

Submit up to three photos — individually or as a series — before June 30 to participate. China-based pictures only, please.

You can post your photos on Instagram or Twitter with the hashtag #RadiiPhoto, or email editor@radiichina.com.

Prizes

The Grand Prize winner will get a chance to meet award-winning photographer Chen Man — the “Annie Leibovitz of China,” who has shot celebrities from Rihanna to Victoria Beckham to Benedict Cumberbatch, and just about every A-list Chinese star — in her studio in either Beijing or Shanghai. Also, 800 RMB.

First Prize is an Olloclip Core Lens and Pivot Grip, plus a one-on-one mobile photography workshop with Singaporean photographer and documentary filmmaker Siok Siok Tan.

Five Second Prize winners will receive an autographed copy of Tan’s most recent photo book, Citybook, from which the pictures on this post are taken.

Yin: Dao Lang’s Folksy, Spellbinding “The First Snow of 2002”

The first snow of 2002
Came a little later than before
Stopped at the second-rate car on the eighth floor
And took away the last fallen yellow leaf

So begins Dao Lang’s “The First Snow of 2002,” the single from his eponymous debut album released in 2004. His husky voice commands a whole gravity of its own. Coupled with a desolate melody and inspired pipa strumming, the effect is immediate: under Dao Lang’s spell, you’re made to long for something you left behind long ago in the deep snows of Xinjiang, far out in the wild northwest of China. It’s no wonder that this song sold millions of copies even with zero promotions and became Dao Lang’s biggest hit, turning him from a nobody to a popular singer.

A friend told me Dao Lang is a singer from Xinjiang — it is a testament to the success of his image, since he is actually a Han Chinese (i.e. not an ethnic minority). Although he was born in Sichuan Province in southwestern China, he evokes a kind of folky northwestern authenticity. Like the godfather of Chinese rock, Cui Jian, he has a trademark baseball cap that radiates lone wolf and a growl that commands respect. His singing name, Dao Lang, is literally the Chinese name of the Uyghur people in Xinjiang (“Dolan”) whose musical traditions inspired him.

The first snow of 2002
Is the emotional complex I didn’t want to give up in Urumqi
You are like a fluttering butterfly
Flickering in the season of falling snow

What have you lost? You don’t know. Dao Lang’s use of the so-called Uyghur spirit — what some call appropriation — might be questionable, but the emotional power of his music is undeniable.

Those behind the Great Firewall can watch “The First Snow of 2012” here.

Yin (, “music”) is a weekly Radii feature that looks at Chinese songs spanning classical to folk to modern experimental, and everything in between. Drop us a line if you have a suggestion: editor@radiichina.com.

Chinese is a Five-Year Lesson in Humility. At Least Zhibo Makes it Fun

Week 2. I’m still here. I’ve gone through more glasses of whiskey than I’m comfortable admitting, I budget time each day to practice god-awful Chinese pop songs, and I’m spending more on 4G data than I would in America.

I do this so you don’t have to.

Hello, I’m Taylor. In case you missed my introductory column last week, I’m here to use live streaming (zhibo) to practice Chinese — which might have the unintended consequence of making me Internet-famous. Here’s my fan counter:

Zhibo has got me thinking a lot about the following quote:

Chinese is a five-year lesson in humility; after five years your Chinese will still be abysmal, but at least you will have thoroughly learned humility.

This depressingly accurate bit of insight comes to us from Professor David Moser, the academic director of CET Beijing. In my case, it’s been about seven years of on-and-off studying and three years of actually living in China and taking Chinese seriously; and while I’m not entirely sure how much humility I’ve gained, I can confidently report that my Chinese remains abysmal.

My version of this sentiment is a little less elegant, but still gets the job done: when someone back home asks if I’m fluent yet, I explain that while the goal of intensively studying French or German for a few years is to attain the ability to comfortably communicate, the main thing you learn from a few years of studying Chinese is that you’re dumb, you’ll always be dumb, and you’re wasting your f@#king time.

Of course, I don’t always feel that way; it goes in cycles – from “I’ve Done It! I Know Chinese!” to I’mDoneWithThisThereIsNoGod over the weeks and months. But… that was before I got into live streaming. With the help of the information superhighway, I get to go from feeling like I’ve mastered the world’s hardest language to knowing for absolute certain that my brain doesn’t work right 5-10 times a minute.

Ah, progress.

If you’re not familiar with the language, Chinese is made up of thousands of characters, all of which are forced to share just over 400 syllables. Yes, those syllables have different tones, but that doesn’t change the fact that the twelve tonal variants of the words “li,” “shi,” and “yi” are sharing literally hundreds of Chinese characters. That means that Chinese is by necessity an unbelievably contextual language.

Now, lest you worry that I’ve tricked you into reading yet another “Yup, Chinese is and continues to be difficult” article, let me back up and explain how this relates to live streaming. No matter where you are, the Internet is the Internet; that is to say, people use condensed, abbreviated, pun-based, and otherwise confusing language. My parents just recently started using “lol” in a brave attempt to improve their Internet language skillz, and frankly, my experience with trying to engage with hundreds of Chinese netizens all at once has made me realize I may have been a little hard on them back in the day.

Live streaming is a great way to practice Chinese, no question – in the same way that being dumped into a shark tank covered in steak sauce is a *great* way to get real good at swimming right quick. Here’s a common greeting I see when I stream in the morning:

古德猫宁,歪果仁

Let me save you the new tab and explain this for you. We’re dealing with clever punsters (pun-dits?) who are using two different types of Chinese-character-humor in one handy example. 古德猫宁 doesn’t mean anything – ancient moral cat tranquil, translated word-by-word – but the pronunciation goes goo-duh mao-ning.

(If you’re not getting it, try saying it out loud.)

So, in reality, the ancient tranquility of moral cats is actually a clever little phoneticization of the phrase “good morning.”

But what about the second part? If you’ve already plugged it into a translate app you’ll notice that it means nothing…

…OK, it doesn’t mean crooked nuts. It’s more like crooked fruit benevolent, and sounds like why gwoh ren.

To get this one, you need to know a bit of Chinese. Specifically, this term:

外国人, or “out-of-country person.” Foreigner.

This is the more formal of the two main ways Chinese address foreigners, and it is pronounced “wài guó rén.”

歪果仁 is pronounced “wāi guǒ rén.”

(1st tone, 2nd tone, 3rd tone, 4th tone)

And here we come to something of a paradox: although every Chinese person will tell you quite emphatically that the same base syllable spoken with different tones signifies a totally different word, no one has any difficulty getting this joke that entirely depends on your ability to recognize that different-tone-syllables are still fundamentally similar words.

Circling back to the whole “lessons in humility” thing, live streaming is helping me realize that nothing teaches you how little you know about a language faster than trying to keep up with it on the Internet. Every day, I start reading some message with unearned confidence only to realize that it’s some new joke or play on words I don’t get yet. Thankfully, my streaming experience thus far has been remarkably free of trolls (more on that in future columns), and most people are more than happy to explain the jokes to me – once they’ve finished laughing, that is.

Some of my favorites:

  • Using 88 to say goodbye: 8 is pronounced “ba,” so 88 = “ba-ba” or “bye-bye.”
  • Thanking someone with 3Q: 3 is pronounced “san,” so “san Q” or “thank you.”
  • Asking someone “好欧的啊又,” pronounced “how-oh-de-a-yo,” or “how old are you.”
  • Telling someone to “狗带,” which is pronounced “gou dai,” or “go die.”
  • Asking someone “好蛙鱼,” which is pronounced “how wah you.”
  • Using 666 to mean someone’s language is very good or very fluent (not a satanic curse) because 6 = 六 = liù, and liú = 流 = flow, i.e. very good
  • Expressing surprise with “偶买噶哒,” which is pronounced “oh-my-ga-da”
  • Addressing everybody with “艾瑞巴蒂,” which is pronounced “eye-ray-ba-dee”

In what I imagine will end up being a pretty common theme of this column, I’ve barely scratched the surface here. My journey through the 蒙圈 (mengquan, literally, “confused circle”) is an interesting one, but most certainly puts the kibosh on any far-flung dream I ever had of being an *expert* in Chinese – in the 21st century, at least. But on the bright side, my usage of Internet-y terms in my social media statuses has occasionally started to confuse my older Chinese friends and colleagues.

And at the end of the day, isn’t that the dream?

Illustrations by Marjorie Wang

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