Shropshire expat Oliver Davies , from Market Drayton, brings us his latest letter from China, lifting the lid on what has become a popular gladiatorial sport - cricket fighting. 
Crouched down and huddled together in noisy throngs, men pass soiled bank notes from hand to hand. Like everywhere in China, you have to learn to shove if you want to get a look in and Chinese markets are a perfect training ground.
If you do get to elbow your way in, you’ll find that these men are not buying or selling — they’re gambling on Xi Shuai, Chinese fighting crickets.
To Hemingway it may not have seemed like the manliest of hobbies — these little bugs measure some two centimetres in length and their arena is a plastic tub. Yet to some Chinese it is not only an ancient tradition, but also a serious autumn sport.
“Look at the markings on his head — he’s sure to be a good fighter!” Mr Chen exclaimed, comparing crickets to find his next mini-gladiator.
They say cricket fighting is not merely a sport, but a skilled art. “I learnt it from my father,” Mr Chen explained. “The skill is in the selection of the crickets”.
To me they all looked the same but Mr Chen convinced me otherwise.
“Strong yellow stripes on head,” he pointed with a long-nailed finger. “Large jaw, look closely, thick neck, strong fighter!”
Choosing a good fighter is also a matter of intuition and the wisdom of experience. Back at Mr Chen’s home, away from the frenzy of the market alleys, I got a deeper insight into this bizarre pastime.
Swinging open the door of his modest top-floor flat the air was filled with a cacophony of cricket-noise, like the sound of a thousand unsynchronised clocks furiously ticking.
Mr Chen kicked off his black slip-ons and pulled back a curtain — hundreds upon hundreds of cylindrical clay pots decorated with motifs of birds and dragons — cricket “houses”.
Unlidding a couple of pots he coaxed two males with a feather-ended stick and fished them out with a wooden scoop.
Setting up their miniature arena on the table, he placed a cardboard division down the centre, and put a cricket on each side of the partition. With a fine, three-haired brush he began tickling the feelers of each cricket in turn.
“This brush is made from mouse whiskers,” he grinned. “And it really gets the crickets going!” After a few tickles its wings puffed out and started clicking ferociously.
Mr Chen removed the partition and we waited. I half expected them to run head-to-head and engage in vicious mortal combat — but they just milled around, chirping away.
Yet after a second or two, they seemed to catch each other’s feelers. The clicking increased, their bodies tensed and then they went for it — jaws locked together. They butted, thrust and flung each other against the walls of the tub.
The action was over almost as soon as it had started when one cricket stopped clicking and fled from the other. Hardly a blood sport, I thought.
I was lucky to have met Mr Chen, a civil servant and a member of the Chinese Communist Party, for he’s not your average side street gambler but a longstanding member of an underground cricket-fighting institution.
And this is where the serious cash is made — a champion cricket can sell for more than £800 and make even more money in the ring.
Gambling is illegal in China and, although you can get away with petty betting in side streets, an organised syndicate is another story. Only last August Hong Kong police arrested 115 members of a secret cricket gambling institution.
Rules are strict, including weighing-in regulations to deter cheats feeding their fighters steroids before a contest.
The competitors have cameras over the mini arenas to relay the action on TV screens so everyone can can get a look in.
- Are you a Shropshire expat? We’d love to hear from you, and see your pictures. Please contact starfeatures@shropshirestar.co.uk
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