Beijingers Throw a Party

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Tuesday, July 17, 2001

Beijing erupted into ecstatic anarchy at 10:11 p.m. Saturday. At Tiananmen Square, police who had been resting in the air-conditioned comfort of their black sedans with tinted windows burst out of their vehicles to announce the good news. "We did it. China did it," yelled one, who heard the result on his walkie-talkie. The news spread quickly through the Square, and within five minutes the broad expanse was pulsing with lion dances, waltzing matrons and students dressed in mock military garb -- complete with fake rifles and maroon berets.

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Tens of thousands of people from all over China had converged in the heart of Beijing's capital, including 45 people who biked 1,400 km from the remote Daqing oil fields. The youngest cyclist was 18 years old and the oldest was 67. Daqing is known for a revolutionary nicknamed the "Iron Man," and the 45 oil-field workers wanted to honor their hometown hero's memory with their cross-country trip. "All this hard work was worth it," said 30-year-old Zhong Aiqi, as he cradled his bicycle helmet in his arms. "My sweat is dedicated to the cause of glorifying China's national pride."

The Li family had traveled from northern Heilongjiang province specifically for the Olympic vote. They wanted their 12-year-old son, Li Tong, an avid soccer fan, to remember the moment when China was awarded the Games. "The Olympics will raise China to a higher level," said father Li Xianfeng. "When my boy is older, China will be an even greater nation." As the crowd waited for the announcement, the Li family stood ready, father holding a video camera, mother holding a camera and son holding binoculars. Less than two meters away, a man tapped out a text message on his cell phone to a relative in distant Xinjiang province, while businessmen shouldered laptop cases. The digital generation had descended on Tiananmen Square, and most were overjoyed that the world was finally recognizing their growing might. As revolutionary songs played over scratchy loudspeakers and fireworks burst behind the National People's Congress, Yang Zhikai, a 27-year-old teacher at the New Oriental School, which coaches students who want to study in the U.S., relaxed on a patch of grass. (Under normal conditions people would be arrested for stepping on the fenced-off greenery, but these were special times.) "Getting the Olympics proves that the world recognizes China's power," Yang said. "We are a big country that deserves to be honored."

It seemed that the whole country -- or at least the whole capital -- was out partying. Revelers streamed into the square, packing parts of it as densely as a mosh pit at a rock concert. While some, like the students from the Beijing Forestry University or the workers from the West Beijing Modern Office Supplies Ltd., had been brought in by bus, others came of their own volition. Twenty-year-old makeup artist Zhao Lili wore a pink cocktail dress, grabbed a fake Fendi baguette purse, and headed for Tiananmen. "This is the best place to come to honor China," she said. "There is nowhere that means more to our nation." Zhao was only eight years old when the Tiananmen massacre happened. To her, it is ancient history.

Earlier in the evening at the Beijing State Guest Hotel, boxing promoter Don King shepherded heavyweight champ Evander Holyfield -- who will fight John Ruiz in the Chinese capital on Aug. 5 -- through a ritzy cocktail party, posing for cameras in a gray silk Chinese suit that matched his shock of gray hair. Ever the crowd-pleaser, King held a pair of Beijing 2008 flags and announced: "Beijing 2008. One big step for the Olympics. One giant step for global kind."

For many people gathered at Tiananmen, the highlight of the evening was when the police cordon magically parted underneath Mao Zedong's giant portrait and suddenly President Jiang Zemin appeared for an almost unheard-of meet-and-greet. He shook hands with members of the heaving crowd, then disappeared, only to reappear on a balcony overlooking the Square, where Mao once addressed the fledgling nation. Jiang did not speak to the crowd. He merely waved, along with Premier Zhu Rongji and Li Peng, the man who ordered the tanks into Tiananmen in 1989. When a popular revolutionary hymn blared out of the loudspeakers, Jiang jokingly conducted the crowd, with a big smile plastered on his face. Then he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. The crowd, who had experienced a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see the President in person, was still holding its breath. "Seeing him was like a dream," said Xu Zhenyi, a bicycle repairman, holding a special edition of the state newspaper, the "People's Daily." "I will treasure this night forever."

The broad Chang'an Avenue that runs past Tiananmen Square was closed off to traffic for miles, save random cars and motorcycles that had broken through the police barricades. For once, no one seemed to mind if people were flouting the rules. Revelers climbed onto lampposts and yelled, "Long live China." Others were swinging from the traffic lights, as international camera crews spotlighted their joy. Some policemen even joined in, helping to unfurl banners and blowing their whistles in tune with the cries of "Beijing Olympics, 2008." Even at 3 a.m., horns were still blowing, people were still shouting and firecrackers were still popping. An hour earlier, grandmas in their pajamas wandered through the streets, trading high-fives with students hanging out of cars draped in oversized flags. "I have lived through so much," said 84-year-old Zhang Meixu, her eyes welling up. "Now I can die happy knowing that China has finally become a true superpower."

But not everyone was so happy. While revelers danced through the streets, online chat rooms played host to a more disgruntled set. "The Olympics will only disrupt our lives," wrote one local resident. "They will tear down our homes, waste our water and charge us high taxes, just so they can host a stupid event to look good for the rest of the world. Beijing's citizens will pay for all this."

For most people, though, the night was about a joy so pure that even a Saturday morning hangover wasn't going to ruin it. "Here's to the Olympics and here's to China," said Wang Yifei, as he clinked an overflowing bottle of Beijing beer with fellow partygoers. "And here's to human rights -- to our right to make lots of money in the new China."