Understanding HOW THEY OPERATE

“Try to imagine what people might think or do behind the scenes when you are not around, if you are perceived both as unqualified and a threat to their well-being.”

You think you finally understand China.

You’ve cracked the code — or at least you think you have.

You’ve built the elusive guānxì (关系 guānxì) that everyone’s talking about. You’ve shared meals, exchanged gifts, and swapped stories. You’ve gone from surface-level friendliness to what feels like genuine friendship. And now the way forward in China should be manageable. Right?

That assumption is where many foreigners, especially well-intentioned ones, get duped.

Chapter 1 of The Chinese Honeymoon Period begins with Vincent, an ordinary Chinese guy you might meet in a Western-style bar in Shanghai over mindless rounds of pool and banter. He’s got this gentle, trustworthy demeanor and a way of making people feel special. He never seemed to want to zàn piányi (赞便宜, “grabbing small advantages”), as is stereotypical with most Chinese people. And he seems to enjoy sharing nèibù xiāoxi (内部消息, “inside information”), not to gain leverage, but because he genuinely enjoys the camaraderie.

Bit by bit, our guānxì deepens.

Drinks turn into dinners.

Dinners turn into family gatherings.

And both of your parents eventually enjoy a meal at the same table — the deepest level of guānxì possible between two strangers.

At this point, most outsiders assume a business partnership together would be simple because strong guānxì means you can trust each other.

But China runs on an opaque operating system designed to confuse foreigners. Guānxì is essential, yes, but it isn’t the finish line. It’s only the beginning of a more complicated relationship with scripted interactions and elevated expectations from both sides.

Vincent always seemed willing to chī kǔ (吃苦, “endure hardships, lit. eat bitterness”), the characteristic in Chinese culture that demonstrates reliability. He’s a doctor with multiple income streams. Still, he always steps up as first in line to do any heavy lifting — because enduring hardship is part of his DNA. His wife, Grace, cares about money, but her psyche seeks something even more important: she craves miànzi (面子, “face”).

It’s an outward façade that allows her to feel respected — not just in your eyes, but through the judgmental lens of Chinese society. Imagine teenage peer pressure on steroids.

Vincent and I had achieved the deepest guānxì possible within such a short period of time, but was it enough to guarantee a successful business partnership?

Guānxì opens the door, but it doesn’t walk the path for you. And China never lets you forget that relationships exist inside a broader, expanding ecosystem of Face (miànzi) and mutual benefits.

The friendship-based guānxì that Vincent and I developed is a sharp contrast to situational guānxì, which was bestowed upon me when Richard was assigned as my highest-level direct report in China.

Richard wasn’t a friend. He was my subordinate on paper, but in reality, he was the gatekeeper of my success or failure in China. For nearly a decade, he orchestrated all communications between our German headquarters and the Chinese market. Every factory visit, every customer meeting, and every insight about “how China works” ran through him as the translator, interpreter, and business cultural advisor.

His existence rests on one underlying truth: Whoever controls the narrative holds the power.

Then, I arrived in his backyard, threatening his kingdom.

A fluent Mandarin-speaking foreigner dropped suddenly onto Chinese soil is a textbook kōngjiàng bùduì (空降部队, “paratrooper manager”) scenario. I wasn’t hired locally, and I was a complete unknown. I wasn’t bred inside their system of values, and I hadn’t paid any dues through years of enduring hardships and guānxì-building.

To local staff, paratrooper managers trigger instant skepticism because they are usually perceived as:

• Unqualified because they don’t know “how China works” (zhōngguó guóqíng 中国国情).
• A “personal” threat because they might disrupt personal guānxì networks that provide hǎochù (好处, “personal benefits”) and huīsè shōurù (灰色收入, “gray income”).

The conundrum for paratrooper managers is managing perceptions after you’ve altered the power structure.

Our early interactions were polite, full of smiles and small talk. That’s the Chinese honeymoon period, where everything appears pleasant but nothing is real yet. Guānxì at this stage is praises and platitudes wrapped in a colorful bow. Still, behind the rituals, Richard was analyzing and calculating:

• He can speak Mandarin, so I don’t need to translate for him.
• He understands Chinese culture, so he won’t need me to interpret.
• He knows how China works, so he might uncover transgressions that Germany wouldn’t allow.

So, regardless of my intentions, my mere presence threatened everything he had built over the past decade. And so the race is on. Will our guānxì deepen fast enough to neutralize his perceived threats?

Guānxì isn’t just personal — it’s structural, political, and constantly evolving. It exists within a shifting matrix of power, insecurity, Face, reciprocity, fear, self-interest, and personal expectations.

The question isn’t “Do we get along?”

The vital question is: Are you aware of the unspoken assumptions and power dynamics disguised within your guānxì relationship?

When you want to improve relationships in China, should you focus on trust and likability, or should you pay more attention to the evolving expectations, paranoia, and power dynamics that affect each individual’s personal well-being?

In the next chapter, we will analyze their well-being, a.k.a. lìyì (利益, “perceived personal benefit” and WHAT THEY CONSIDER).

Interested in this topic? My latest book, Speak Less, Guanxi More is now on sale, and I am still giving away the entire 114-page PDF and Flipbook for free.