Hello from Hangzhou: On a festival day, a city reunites by the water

To a lake is going a sea of people. It’s Friday, the Mid-Autumn Festival and a holiday, and the trains in Hangzhou are groaning with people. Tradition pulls citizens to West Lake in the thousands. In this precinct, where the water ripples softly under the kiss of a gentle evening breeze, a city reunites.

Families come home for the festival and the Games come to Hangzhou. All sorts of gatherings are afoot. The Asiad is a reassembling of a different family, a four-yearly conference of the gifted. This is a city full of bonding right now.

A couple holds hands and an old man in a wheelchair quietly gazes into the distance. Dusk falls as slow as the rain on a distant hill. On the water, a boatman rows effortlessly, behind him blink the lights of a Hermes store. The modern dominates, but tradition is the glue here.

People gather to take pictures of five-year-old Liu Yiyi, who is as finely dressed in traditional garb as her mother, Chen Hongmei, a boutique sales assistant.

The child carries a lantern in the shape of a fish with blinking lights, made at home from recycled material, says her mother proudly.

In a crowd predominantly in shorts, Chen is like an ancient painting come to beautiful life. “I believe in Chinese culture,” she says, “and want to inculcate my daughter in it.” In this century, time has become a rare commodity and she adds, “in your everyday business you don’t have time to catch up with family”.

Athletes appreciate this sentiment for they are constantly separated from their families. Greatness is a lonely business. But the home Games bring clans to the stands and it is precious. Wang Xueer, who won the 50m backstroke some days ago, said, “My parents came here to watch me compete, so I think that was a great present for the Mid-Autumn Festival coming up.”

Zhang Yufei, who has multiple swimming golds at these Games, spoke even more poignantly: “My mum has seen me compete live before but my grandparents have never been able to until now. My grandmother was so moved she cried.”

Executive photojournalist Chong Jun Liang – who kindly serves as my interpreter – and I wander the waterfront, past old ladies dancing, children posing, a squirrel being fed and young women with lanterns. Athletes move fast, this evening is slow. A historic pavilion of elegant architecture is lit up, but the moon, the chief guest, for long stubbornly stays in hiding behind clouds.

As darkness deepens, we meet Shen Mingming, 72, Shen Long, 48, and Shen Zhikai, 15, three generations out for a stroll. “We made an effort,” says Long, “to come out and spend this holiday as a family”. But the ladies, we ask? “Gone shopping,” they grin. They chat, ask for a picture with us, and Zhikai gently says, bursting with boy’s pride, “This is my hometown”.

Abdul Khiyati, 20, a student from Casablanca stops for a chat. Passers-by stop to watch Chong take his pictures. There is no light show, only nature putting on a gentle electric storm. Soon it drizzles and then for 20 minutes a musical fountain comes to life.

To taste the culture of another people is to be lucky, to walk among them on such a day is a privilege. Earlier, in the afternoon, at the fencing, volunteers came around to offer us mooncakes. It struck me they resemble the shape of a medal. When I last looked, China, not even midway through the Games, already has 200. Some harvests are not yet over.