But for Wang, 51, going abroad was important for another reason: he was able to benchmark himself against other monied people. He noticed that Chinese tourists liked to travel together in nervous clumps led by a fussy tour guide. Westerners, he concluded, traveled alone or in couples. And they didn't just dutifully walk around cities or hit the gift shops. They bungee jumped, skied, parachuted. "I saw these people and realized that we Chinese don't really know how to live," says Wang. "We can take risks in business but not when we're having fun."

Inspired, the property magnate went home and decided to become a mountain man. Like many of China's rich, he had spent so many years working that now all he wanted to do was play. So far, he has climbed all the major peaks in China, along with Mount Kilimanjaro and Mount Rainier. Almost every weekend, he takes a few buddies paragliding over the hills surrounding Shenzhen. Wang also started a club for wealthy businessmen to bond over a ski slope or mountain face—instead of a boardroom table or a karaoke mike. The club now has more than 200 members, who gather each year for a weekend of exertion followed by a party teeming with so many connected people that China's financial press considers it the event of the year. At the most recent confab in July, executives hiked at an alpine resort near Beijing—although, in truth, many skipped the walk to schmooze—then gathered for a swank meal at a hotel where Chairman Mao once summered. "My company is just another company," Wang says. "But people will remember me as the man who helped Chinese climb mountains."

Not surprisingly, China's wealthiest citizens indulge their kids with almost as much zeal as they indulge themselves. Zhou Zhiqin, a pharmaceutical supplier, lavishes attention on her "Little Emperor," a 13-year-old son who enjoys weekly horseback-riding lessons and unlimited access to the newest computer games. Last year, Zhou even commissioned a $2,400 oil painting of the boy. Although he's a teenager, her son sleeps in the same room as a maid, lest he kick off his covers in the middle of the night and catch cold. "We had nothing growing up," says Zhou, 39. "All I want to do is give my son the things he loves, so he knows how much we care about him." Her son responds, "I know that China was poor before, but I think parents sometimes exaggerate how terrible it was back when they were young."

	"Money doesn't buy everything. We all thought it would, but look at me now." — Wendie Xu

For a teen, Zhou's son puts up fairly patiently with his mother's fussing over his hair and clothes. But more and more, he wants to hang out with his buddies, and he talks about how great it will be to get an SUV and cruise around on his own. (When her son announces this, you can almost hear Zhou's mental note: SUV for son when he turns 18.) Letting go won't be easy for Zhou. To make matters worse, her husband spends most weekends at a golf course, schmoozing with business colleagues and puffing on Dunhill cigars in the clubhouse. To ease the loneliness, Zhou began trying to occupy herself with games of mah-jongg or by going on house-hunting jaunts with friends who, like her, buy up historic Shanghai homes and renovate them in whatever style they fancy at that moment: baroque, Roman, Swedish modern.

When those diversions didn't work, she tried getting a pet, the current favored accessory of China's rich. The pet store offered dozens of pedigreed animals, including rare Bur-mese cats, poodles with ears dyed fluorescent colors and house pigs that grow no bigger than a beagle. Zhou settled on a white Pomeranian that cost $1,800 and racks up hundreds more in doggie salon bills each month. But even the pooch wasn't enough, so Zhou is now pregnant with her second child. Much of China may be bound by a one-child policy, but wealthy couples can easily pay the hefty fines for overprocreating. "If you have money, you can do anything," says Zhou, holding her eight-month-pregnant stomach. "Even things that are, well, a little bit illegal."

For centuries, Shaohui, a tiny hamlet in China's prosperous Fujian province, made its money off succulent mangoes and dragon-eye trees. No longer. Textile mills have transformed the region's rolling hills, and the rich have invaded too, building sprawling homes throughout the countryside. Just inside Shaohui, Wendie Xu's one-story bungalow has been replaced by a five-story mansion, courtesy of her husband's success as a cotton exporter. The house, which she proudly describes as "Los Angeles palace style," cost $600,000 to build. That's no small sum in rural China, where the average annual income is less than $300.

Her neighbours still live in a dirt-floor home. But inside Xu's palace, with its sweeping blue-tinted windows, you can't smell the mix of manure, coal and sewage that permeates lesser residences. Her family room boasts a massive chandelier, a built-in bar and a TV with 52 inches of viewing pleasure. In the foyer is an immense fountain with garish lights and a metal sculpture dancing in the water.

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