You dance salsa?” Ms Fook Hau Sun sought me out of the crowd at The Club in downtown Shanghai as the Carib band worked its rhythm into a frenzy. We were packed bum2bum on the wooden floor, gyrating non-stop for almost two hours now; the more adventurous spilling onto the stage, then doing the jig to loud applause and shrill whistles. And before I could utter “Mambo”, Ms Hau Sun had grabbed my shoulders, done the pelvic thrust upwards into the air, and entwined her legs around my torso.
Mambo-mambo hey-hey! Mambo-mambo ha-ha! These Chinese gals are crazy. Oops, that’s the wrong word to use. But had my nagging slip disc not gone to rest by now, I’d have slipped, back down, on the floor, had the alarm bells ringing, the sirens out on the street, and wheeled to the nearest hospital on an ambulance. And being witness to Chinese efficiency at work.
I’d been in Shanghai for the best part of the week now, expecting to see pale-skinned, cheungsam-clad damsels in wooden clogs and straw hats. And boy! was I surprised? Here was Ms Hau Sun, and I can’t tell how, undressed to kill in Dolce Gabana tankini and hot pants, the small of her back ensconced in the spread of my palm, doing Mambo-mambo hey-hey.
There were others too. In perfect Chinese synchronisation on the floor, their butt cleavage winking atop their low-rise Armanis and Cavallis, spreading the scent of Opium.
“Fake?” I winked at Jasmine, my half-Algerian half-Bosnian escort from
Paris.
“Fake, you bet,” she said with a broad grin, turning her head away from
“Ms Kno Whu?” who had worked herself to a high.
“Tut-tut,” I said, “I didn’t mean that. Dirty mind you.” And then pointed to
the Louis Vuitton handbag hanging down a tender uncovered shoulder.
Jasmine Abdellatif should have known. She’s Vuitton’s points woman in
Paris and had me flown down to Shanghai.
“You figure that out,” she yelled. I had figured her out. Big brands are raking in the moolah in Shanghai, as they are doing elsewhere across China. As more and more Chinese women take the high street to fashion. Mao’s death in ’76 saw the demise of an era in China’s cultural and economic history. It also brought untold prosperity to its cities. And with it, its people kissed hello to the outside world, eager to make up for the 10 lost years of the Cultural Revolution.
The dress was one of the first areas where women relaxed their attitudes, wearing coloured and patterned clothing and accessories emblazoned with English words such as ‘happy’ or ‘beautiful’ rather than ‘serve the people’. Any clothing that appeared foreign was perceived as modern. The ’80s witnessed unprecedented experimentation with fashion. And with it, came the People’s Republic’s first fashion magazine Shizhuang, translating into Fashion. Ever since fashion magazines have emerged as top grossers at the newsstands, reflecting popular interest in personal appearance and beauty.
Modern mainland China has a vast and often complex fashion industry with many players. At the top end are international labels from Giorgio Armani to Chanel to DKNY to Vuitton. At the low end, you have the Fakes. In between the two are popular Chinese labels manufactured in thousands at state-owned factories from where they find their way to store shelves around the world. Unlike international luxury brands or fakes, the middle kingdom of fashionwear is dominated by anonymous designs. Of course, there’s also a small number of designers who have launched their exclusive labels and work independently. Most of them are young men and women with an entrepreneurial drive and a targeted market. They sell directly to customers or through up-market stores.
At The Club, I didn’t know what to figure out about Chinese fashion. Not that I cared either. With mambo-mambo renting the air and body- hugging at its best — apparel or apparent — I had to wait for tomorrow to figure out Live In Shanghai.
Cheers!
Back to Essays