Halloween in Hainan, 2026
Halloween in Hainan was a wonderful night.
Humans and their wives, children, dogs and cats took to the streets in their thousands, in an extraordinary display of artistic expression.
I hadn’t expected the effort people had put into their costumes. I was surprised by how much well-intentioned menace could move me. People had taken on their characters, in appearance and in spirit, which was particularly refreshing when the prevailing aesthetic in China seems to be cutesy-pootsy. Had I found my people?
The Chinese government has prioritised control and order over creativity for decades, and I think it shows in the homogeneity of society. But Halloween showed me that creativity LIVES on.
I can understand why political power might be afraid of it. Thousands of people gathering in the streets, expressing themselves freely, embracing the unconventional, with a nod to the West. Halloween celebrations have already faced restrictions in Shanghai, and I wonder how long other cities will be allowed to indulge.
There’s also something quite funny about the uneasy relationship between Halloween and a country with such a rich history of superstition. This was evident when half the office block complained after I organised a Halloween yoga class in the gym. Apparently, a few bloody witches stretching on yoga mats were quite enough to disturb the peace.
Nosferatu and the Great Eyeball Exchange
I went as Nosferatu, a blood-hungry creature who had sneezed so violently that an eyeball had fallen out. That was my silly little gag, made up on the spot by simply closing one eye.
Knowing my own culture well enough, I had bought eyeball sweets to give away. What I hadn’t anticipated was how much we would be given. There was no trick-or-treating, just children and adults offering sweets to strangers, with no expectation of anything in return. Kindness in horror clothing.
Never did giving taste so good, because what we received in return was so sweet. Those small-fingered hands of the damned. Damned to grow up beneath the wretched red ruling class, yet here they were, offering sweets to strangers. For one night, the crack in power let in so much light.
Marion was completely caught off guard. She was so moved by being given sweets that she decided we ought to be giving more ourselves. So she ordered an entire kilogram of candy to be delivered. Candy. There, I said it. Doesn’t that sound cuter?
Quite right too. China’s first-rate logistics network had found a noble purpose: facilitating the spontaneous redistribution of sugar among witches, vampires and the damned. A far better use of it than the lattes I have delivered to my door at weekends.
There was something almost intoxicating about the exchange. No money changing hands, no obligation, no calculation. Just the unexpected pleasure of discovering that everybody else wanted to give too.
Not a Token Foreigner, but a Fellow Witch
I hate picture-taking in China. Not photographs themselves, but the obsessive, preposterously orchestrated and downright vain production of them. The endless positioning and repositioning, arms arranged just so, legs always crossed, photographers hovering nearby ready to capitalise on the whole affair. It makes me wonder whether authenticity has become another pose to perfect.
As a foreigner, there’s the added pleasure of becoming somebody else’s photographic souvenir. But not that night. For once, we took and gave pictures, not with a token foreigner, but with a fellow witch. I was quite happy to oblige, which is rather amusing considering my usual contempt for the whole business.
Perhaps that’s the difference. We were all pretending to be somebody else, yet somehow the photographs felt more genuine than the carefully orchestrated performances of everyday life.
Possessed by Love
In Britain, nights of such uninhibited expression usually involve getting pissed. We drink ourselves into a state of abandon and call it a good night out. Yet here I was, surrounded by thousands of people expressing themselves without the assistance of alcohol. Perhaps I’ve misunderstood something about Chinese self-expression. Perhaps I’ve been expecting it to look like ours. Whatever the explanation, I was intoxicated by the lot of them, and sober enough to feel every bit of it.
What stayed with me wasn’t simply the spectacle, but the feeling of thousands of people enjoying themselves and, in doing so, giving everybody else permission to enjoy themselves too. You buzz off people buzzing off themselves, as my friend Rach puts it.
By the end of the night, I was possessed by love. For their generosity, their absurdity, the sheer pleasure they took in one another. I wanted to give and give, and discovering that everybody else wanted to do the same only made me want to give more. I recognised the feeling from the lasagne economy the weekend prior, the pleasure of giving and receiving without anybody keeping score.
My blood had been drunk and I had drunk theirs.
What a spell to be under.
