Chris Gassner | August 18, 2025 |
Rainy season in China. Sounds harmless, almost romantic – like sitting by the window with a cup of tea, listening to the gentle patter. But this is no patter. This is Bruce Lee in weather form: fast, hard, and utterly relentless. Imagine a German snowstorm – not the “15 centimeters and the trains stop” kind – no, I’m talking about the 1970s kind, with two meters of snow burying half the country. Only here, it’s not snow. It’s water. And not just water – cats, dogs, plastic bags, half a clothes rack, and occasionally something your neighbor “temporarily stored” on the balcony three weeks ago.
The streets turn into brown whitewater rapids, drains work triple shifts before giving up entirely after five minutes. Pedestrians? Forget it. The few brave souls wade through puddles that, in other countries, would qualify as inland seas with their own postal code. Flip-flops vanish within 30 meters, floating off toward the South China Sea.
And then there’s the traffic. In Germany, you’d put on your rear fog light. Here? They go full disco: hazard lights, rear fog lights, low beam, and wipers on “tornado mode.” SUVs crawl along the six-lane highway at 35 km/h, even though they were bought yesterday for the annual salary of a mid-level bank director. No, the tires aren’t bald – the cars are all brand-new – but the drivers behave as if every bump in the road is home to a dragon waiting to send them into the afterlife.
And then, on rare occasions, one dares to overtake. Bad idea – for you. The moment they pass, their tires unleash a wall of water so high it cleans the windows of apartment blocks next to the highway. This isn’t spray – this is a fully grown tsunami in miniature. You see nothing but white and blue, your car starts to float, and you briefly wonder if a surfboard would have been a better investment than a driver’s license. The monsoon’s already dumping what feels like 80 liters per minute onto your roof, but this is the encore – as if someone had launched the contents of a medium-sized reservoir straight at you with a catapult. For a couple of seconds, you’re convinced: that’s it. The end. You’re now a wreck in the bay of Shenzhen. And then – miracle – the world reappears, the engine’s still running, and you’re just… soaked. From the inside.
Meanwhile, the e-bike crowd keeps going, wrapped in crackling plastic ponchos that sound like 500 candy wrappers in a wind tunnel. Water’s up to the wheel hubs, but they smile – probably because their battery’s slowly frying and sending a cozy warmth up through the seat.
Then there are the delivery guys, fighting through the flood like kamikaze pilots. Doesn’t matter if you ordered noodle soup, a phone case, or a TV – they’ll get it to you. Swimming if they must, walking if they must, disguised as amphibious vehicles if they must. Your package is wet, but on time.
And just when you think it can’t get worse, you reach the underpass to the subway and find it shimmering like a brand-new swimming pool. People stand there, looking down, wondering if maybe they should take the bus instead. The bus that, by now, could double as a ferry.
In short: the rainy season in China isn’t weather – it’s a live event. And you’re in it, whether you like it or not.