When China opened its retail market in the early 1990s, foreign mega-chains flocked in, vying with local retailers for a bigger slice of the world's most populous market. In the ensuing battle for customers, many traditional small street-side shops were marginalized. Some were converted into convenience stores; others simply vanished into thin air.
Xu Guanxiu is one of the survivors.
The 50-year-old woman has operated a little shop for 15 years in an overcrowded neighborhood on Hefei Road, just one block away from Shanghai's landmark Xintiandi area. She sells beverages, beer, cigarettes and Chinese wines.
"Actually I have a lot more in stock, such as soap and toothpaste, batteries and lighters, even red envelopes (used for gift-giving during the Chinese New Year)," she said. "But they are just for those elderly customers who have gotten used to buying daily necessities from me over the years. I do not have them on display because they are far from popular."
"It's a hard time for us little shopkeepers," she added, with a shrug.
Disorderly home
The once popular neighborhood grocery stores used to dot residential areas, both in old, traditional back-alley lanes and in newer residential neighborhoods. Small, sometimes shabby and dim, they were usually run by husband and wife teams on the ground floors of their own homes and covered only about 7 or 8 square meters. Stock was piled up higgledy-piggledy. Was it a store or a disorderly home with its front wall knocked out? Sometimes it was hard to tell.
In these mom and pop stores, the husbands normally did all the heavy stocking work, and the wives served as cashiers. People called them "lao ban" and "lao ban niang," meaning boss and boss's wife, a form of flattery aimed at securing a good bargain. In older days, when the majority of people worked in state-owned factories, "lao ban" conjured up notions of market capitalism and was an enviable title indeed.
These shops were typically known as "yan zhi dian" in the Shanghainese dialect - literally, cigarette and tissue shops. But their stock of wares went beyond those two items to include an array of daily necessities such as candies, soy sauce, soap, skin cream, needles and light bulbs, to name but a few.
Before starting on her own, Xu worked in a state-owned factory. It was the birth of twin daughters that sparked a change in course.
"I couldn't go out to work anymore because I had to look after the babies, nor could I idle at home because we needed more money to raise the children," Xu recalled.
Since she had little education, no lucrative contacts and even less money, opening a little grocery store seemed the only avenue to pursue. With a simple conversion, the family home was turned into a ground floor store and sleeping quarters in the attic upstairs. The front is open to customers, and the back serves as storage space.
"It seemed simple. We bought stuff at a price and then sold it on at a higher price," she said. "We initially sold whatever we thought people needed in their daily lives."
Her store is called Shuang Shuang, meaning "two." Not only does it refer to the birth of her twins but it also harks to the Chinese belief that good things always come in pairs.
Inside the shop, a worn-out wiping cloth hangs loosely on one wall, several narrow staircases lead up somewhere private and an overworked refrigerator stands in the corner. Most striking is the enduring atmosphere of a boss's wife toiling away in a traditional "yan zhi dian."
Xu keeps the store spick-and-span, alleviating that once dusky environment of neighborhood shops that tends to drives modern buyers away.
"I start everyday with a simple clean-up of my store, wiping the counters and sweeping the floors. It's my own house after all," she said. "Businesses like mine are low profit, so grocers like me are tight-fisted with money. We don't spend much on fancy decorations."
Retailing giant
Three years ago, the South Korean retailing giant E-mart opened an outlet several blocks away from Xu's store. Worse, two convenience stores also moved into the neighborhood recently - a Buddies to her left and an Alldays to her right. Both are well established local retail brands.
"My store is getting cornered!" Xu said, with an air of frustration. "More and more people are heading for a one-stop shopping where more choices and discounts are offered."
She added, "The 24/7 convenience stores are the biggest rivals. There is no obvious distinction between us in terms of products or prices, but they are run in a more professional manner."
Then too, there is competition from unlicensed street vendors who price everything at around 1 yuan (15 US cents), which undercuts Xu's sales of small items such as needles, thread and toothbrushes.
But she can take pride in some things, such as the automatic cash machine and some new shelves.
"Shanghai Tobacco (Group) Corp, the city's monopoly tobacco provider for retailers, upgraded these for us after a surprise visit last year," she said. "It was a reward for recognizing our cigarette sales, which are authentic and not bootleg."
Xu said she has all the necessary licenses for running a grocery store. "I never sell fake or expired food," she said, referring to the practices of some unscrupulous vendors.
As we talked, a middle-aged man approached the counter and asked for a bottle of beer. He gave Xu 2.50 yuan along with an empty bottle for a brew priced at 3 yuan.
Grocery stores like Xu's still keep up the tradition of collecting empty bottles. People can buy beer at a lower price if they return bottles. That environmentally friendly service has disappeared from most modern retail grocers.
"This shop is convenient for me," said the man, who lives across the street. "And lao ban niang has become an old acquaintance of mine."
Bit of gossip
Indeed, in these small shops, the relationship between vendor and customer is close. Xu's clientele are mostly drawn from the surrounding neighborhood. Sometimes people come to the shop for nothing more than a bit of gossip.
"Two types of people come to my store," Xu said. "There are the frequent customers who live nearby, and there are passers-by who may just want a tin of cola. Business is more profitable in summer when cooling beverages are in greater demand."
Xu said she earns only about 100 yuan on average every day.
To better support the family, her husband now works outside the shop as chef at a restaurant.
Though their combined income is comparatively low by Shanghai standards, the ownership of their house relieves them from the pressure of rising rents, which is a heavy burden for many shop owners.
"What we have makes a life," Xu said. "Many are still struggling for shelter."
She opens her store at around 8am and does not close until about 11pm almost all year round. "People will soon head for another store if they find you are closed," she said. "So I dare not take holidays."
Xu has been devoted to the operation of the business all these years even though she admits the work is tiring and the profits not particularly rewarding.
"At least I can have something to do," she said. "Playing mahjong like so many other middle-aged women do in their leisure time doesn't interest me at all."
Xu sees no future for her business. Rumors are flying that the old residential lanes across from her shop will be demolished for redevelopment. That could eliminate a large chunk of her customers.
She said she is hoping that her home might be included in the demolition zone because then she would receive relocation money and could move to newer quarters.
"Then I would not have to worry about this arduous business anymore," the shopkeeper said, wiping dust off a Japanese Fortune Cat whose arm is broken.
Read more: http://www.shanghaidaily.com/article/?id=458038&type=Business&page=2#ixzz18tROVgPt