Posted at hundreds of intersections across the city, these men and women have the thankless task of trying to bring a bit more order to Beijing’s infamously chaotic streets.

Armed with only flags, whistles and their own zeal, they try with varying degrees of success to prevent particularly pedestrians and cyclists from flouting the rules. (Without any real authority, they have to leave cars to the cops.)  

Some stick to a crisp blow of a whistle and wave of the flag, bringing cyclists to a halt at red lights, then waving them on as if for the start of a race when they turn back to green.

Others cajole, chatting up pedestrians on the virtues of waiting one’s turn or cracking jokes with regular passersby. And then there are the shouters, who take their jobs so seriously they jeer jaywalkers for their lack of civilised behaviour and the potential danger they’re creating.  

In a way, they’re the ones who deserve a medal, breathing in the often noxious air day by day as they grapple head-on with the widespread disregard for traffic rules, trying to raise awareness with every wave of the flag, every whistle, every red light.

Picture by David Gray

Speaking off the cuff, Wang had the audience rolling as he delicately broached the subject of the negative publicity surrounding the Olympics, which reached a cresendo earlier this year when riots in Tibet sparked protests along the Olympic torch relay in cities such as London and Paris.

Rather than lecture his audience on how the Olympics should not be politicised, Wang thanked them for the support they and people around the world had given to China in the wake of the devastating earthquake that hit last month, saying he hoped that unity could be channelled into the Olympics.      

He even jokingly dangled the prospect of a little “guanxi” for anyone in the audience going to the Games themselves — those all-important connections needed to get many things done in China.      

“Whoever is coming to Beijing to watch, if you can’t get tickets, just ask me,” Wang said. 

“If you can’t find a hotel, we have the head of the tourism administration here — so put your minds at ease,” he deadpanned.

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Photo by REUTERS/Jonathan Ernst  

I was riding Line 1, which goes beneath the city’s main avenue, and was about to get out to switch to Line 2, which goes in a loop beneath the second ring road - built on what used to be the old city wall.

As one does, I was jockeying for position with my fellow passengers, bracing myself to contend with what I knew would be a rush of people trying to get into the train before we’d even gotten out. That’s just the name of the game, a mini sporting event to top off the day.

The only thing is, everybody outside was lined up neatly on either side of the door, leaving a perfect open path for us to exit through.

I didn’t know what to make of it. It was nice in a way, but then again I almost felt cheated, as though one of the privileges of being an adopted Beijinger was being taken away from me. It was all a little too easy.

Now don’t get me wrong - I’ll be the first to welcome a bit less pushing and shoving during my daily commute. And many of the people I share the subway with each day still have a long way to go to understand what it means to wait in line.

But the ease with which I exited the train that evening set me thinking that all the propaganda, all the comic-book educational brochures, the young men employed to order people into lines and help squeeze them into crowded cars  - that somehow, bit by bit, they’re starting to have an effect.

Maybe even beyond the Olympics.

Jason Subler is a correspondent for Reuters in Beijing

Picture by Jason Lee/Reuters

Video footage of passengers boarding a train in Beijing taken from YouTube. Titled: “Beijing Subway Congestion What happens when the train comes?” Posted Jan. 10, 2008