Piers had been in China for all of two days in 2009 when he was used as a “white monkey” for the first time. He had travelled to a village in Suzhou, Jiangsu province, to attend a friend’s wedding and stopped to try a special crab dish at a small restaurant. Weeks later, a Chinese guest told him the restaurant had seen an uptick in business because locals had heard a foreigner dined there, assuming the restaurant must be good. Piers realised the boss had deliberately seated him to attract attention: “I knew we were sitting outside in a premium spot, but I didn’t pick up on what was going on.”
When foreigners in China are used this way, they are called a baihouzi, or white monkey. They are hired to help Chinese businesses appear more desirable, with the foreign association conveying prestige and a sense of universal regard. This industry is unregulated in China, operating in a legal grey area. White monkey positions are advertised on job boards and fall into various categories, from acting and modelling to pretending to be a foreign CEO to lend credibility. They might be seat warmers or go-go dancers in nightclubs, or English teachers in language centres to make parents feel their children are taught by native speakers, even if a Chinese teacher is better qualified. These businesses believe a foreign look gives them an edge over competitors. The phenomenon traces back to mianzi, or “face” in Chinese society, which involves bestowing and receiving respect.
Although the term “white monkey” suggests only Caucasian foreigners, recruiters simply seek people who appear “non-Chinese.” On the Chinese texting app WeChat, groups post jobs specifying “We need two black women to shoot an ad in Guangzhou” or “Hangzhou business needs a Hispanic model.” Race requirements vary by product, from “White American for a blood pressure monitor advert” to “Turkish speakers for a TikTok video.” Such language would not pass muster in formal ads due to China’s strict equality legislation, but these word-of-mouth requests are harder to police.
Piers has done several paid jobs like this. In 2010, as a university student in Shanghai, television executives from Shanghai Media Group sought foreign students for a talent show. Shanghai was preparing for the World Expo, and the city was full of importers and eager businesspeople. Ten to 15 students were driven to studios, sorted by country of origin to represent an “international judging panel.” Piers was designated the judge for Great Britain, alongside others from France, South Korea, the US, and Indonesia. The job lasted a few hours; he watched Chinese singers and dancers perform and handed out toy rabbits to acts he liked. “We were being paid 100-200 yuan (£10-£20), not bad money for an unemployed student, and there was a chance to be on TV,” he says.
Next, Piers took a job pretending to be a scientist at a manufacturing expo in Shanghai to promote a chemical product that coated pavements. The company hired foreigners to wear lab coats in the background on a makeshift set resembling a laboratory. “It wasn’t the whole day, and we just had to pour water back and forth between containers for a few hundred Chinese yuan.” They were behind a transparent screen and not expected to speak to customers or answer technical questions. “Back then, my Chinese was basic, and I wasn’t sure what the manufacturers were saying on stage,” Piers recalls. He talked to other “scientists,” and no one had qualms about the pretence – it was easy money.
Sometimes there is no money involved. A few years after the expo, Piers was proofreading a document for his neighbour, who worked for a law firm helping foreign companies raise disputes in China. “One day she asked me to come along to a meeting with a client in Shanghai’s hi-tech park in Pudong, to present ourselves as an international law firm.” Piers was assured he only had to sit in the room and say hello. At first uncomfortable, he thought, “Who am I really harming?” He sat beside his neighbour, pretending to take notes as her junior. “She just wanted to present herself as an international lawyer, which she already was, as she spoke French and English,” he says.
I sign up to a job ads messageboard on WeChat. Postings pop up daily from recruiters advertising for “foreign models and actors.” An art gallery looks for 10 foreigners in Shenzhen to visit an exhibition from 8.50pm to midnight. Another seeks American models to shoot an ad in Fuzhou, all expenses paid, wanting a man and woman aged 35-45 with an “affluent American aesthetic” who are “sun-kissed, athletic and look like they enjoy the outdoors.” The posting bluntly says: “Please note, we are not looking for individuals with red hair, freckles, extremely pale skin, or a thin, sullen look.” It is unclear what product they will sell.
Why does adjacency to “foreign-ness” have such value in China? In the early 2000s, the country suffered scandals from faulty products, such as the 2008 tainted milk scandal, when infant formula was adulterated with melamine to fake higher protein content, causing illness in hundreds of thousands of infants and six deaths. This fast-moving wild west period fostered mistrust, making foreign branding desirable to add a veneer of quality. Piers, now working in marketing between London and Shanghai, sees this was “an opportune moment when branding something as foreign could meet an emotional and functional need for Chinese customers.”
In recent years, the landscape has changed with an influx of immigrants from Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus due to ongoing conflicts. Enzo, from Russia, is based in Shenzhen as a videographer. When he first arrived, the language barrier shut him out from skilled positions, so he took white monkey jobs as temporary gigs. One was pretending to be an Italian chef at a pots and pans expo in Guangzhou. Recruiters assumed most Chinese could not tell the difference between Caucasian foreigners and hired Enzo. He donned chef whites sourced from a local factory and had some cooking experience from a Mexican restaurant. He wasn’t required to speak, just look the part. “The Chinese clients wanted to tell me about their holidays in Italy and what they thought of Italian culture. I think they just wanted to talk to a foreigner and be listened to,” Enzo recalls. He nodded along, with a noticeable Russian accent, but doubted they would pick up on it. He was paid 2,000 yuan (£200).
Another recurring job involved pretending to be the foreign CEO of an automobile company, travelling around China. For months, for a day at a time, Enzo put on a suit and kept quiet as Chinese people shook hands and took pictures with the “CEO.” He stayed in nice hotels and was paid well. In another instance, he accompanied his Russian girlfriend to a suitcase shop; she had been cast as a model to “test” the product outside. His job was to help with the language barrier, but he ended up wheeling suitcases in small circles outside the shop to attract Chinese customers.
Oversupply of eastern Europeans and Chinese bias towards western Europeans and North Americans have caused white monkey wages to dip. Piers has seen how foreigners are priced differently: “Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarusians are seen as groups that can be paid less, equal to Chinese workers, while Germans are quite expensive and prestigious. Even in lower tier cities, people know a Russian and German foreigner will be priced differently, sometimes two to three times as much.”
Maria Kanaeva, from Kamchatka, Russia, was studying at Xi’an Jiaotong University in November 2022 when an opportunity appeared in the international students’ WeChat group to attend a manufacturing expo in Xi’an. A classmate said the organisers were looking for foreign students for white monkey jobs, offering 100 yuan (£10) to speak to Chinese businessmen for 30-40 minutes. The invitation read: “A Chinese businessman will show his products to you; you will be presented as a potential buyer/importer. You just see his products and ask some questions if you want.”
White monkey jobs are tempting for foreign students wanting easy money, but working outside the scope of a visa is illegal under China’s exit and entry administration law. Kanaeva says, “Everybody knows working part-time is illegal, but they want to make money, to travel, to live and not rely on parents.” Violations can result in fines of 5,000–20,000 yuan (£500-£2,000), detention for 5–15 days, and potential deportation or a re-entry ban.
Kanaeva asked friends if they would take part, but they had reservations. Authorities had been cracking down by showing up at events to check visas. “The worst-case scenario would be police on site, and if you are caught with a student visa that doesn’t match the occasion… it’s not worth the risk.” She declined. She heard about a friend of a friend, a student from Uganda, who moonlighted as an English teacher and got caught with a student visa. “He paid a fine to stay, $15,000 yuan (£1,500),” she was told. Some students could not pay and served seven to 14 days in jail before deportation. Some language schools might pay fines, but it is technically illegal employment, and most end up deported. The Ugandan student was sent home for visa discrepancies.
Kanaeva now works in Shanghai, advocating for foreign students to learn about their rights to work in China. The rules are complicated, but there are ways around them, with Chinese companies sponsoring students through internships with university permission.
The white monkey phenomenon is adapting with the popularity of online content creators. Paul Mike Ashton, known as BaoBaoXiong, created a viral meme about young metropolitan Chinese mixing English and Chinese words to sound sophisticated. He is one of the best known American vloggers on Chinese social media. When he first studied in China, he did an internship in 2013 at a media group with studios for video explainers and documentaries. One day, they were giving a tour to visiting CEOs and asked Ashton to pretend to be the host of a video to help the company look “more international.” His Chinese was not good enough to speak at length, but he only had to sit in a transparent booth and pretend to record. He realised early on the impact of a foreign face in Chinese workplaces. Yet he notes, “With so many internationally prominent Chinese brands now, it feels like the need for this has expired.”
White monkey culture is changing and becoming less lucrative. At language schools, Chinese parents who studied in English-speaking countries can identify genuine high-level speakers. Ashton thinks the novelty of foreigners is wearing off, especially in first tier cities like Shanghai, Beijing, and Shenzhen: “Younger Chinese generations have a better perspective on what is going on globally through social media.”
Ashton is often asked to make automobile content at car shows on massive budgets. He says of car companies, “They want the Chinese to see this Chinese-made car is on a par with other cars around the world.” His visa is attached to a company that hosts such media production events.
Prof Xiaobing Wang, research director of the Manchester China Institute and senior lecturer in economics at the University of Manchester, recalls that when David Beckham posted a picture with a Labubu doll from Chinese toy maker Pop Mart in 2025, “the post went completely viral on Chinese social media. Chinese netizens were so excited that Beckham had been gifted a Labubu toy from his daughter.” Wang says if Yao Ming, the 7ft 2in former basketball star, likes Labubu, “then a Chinese star likes a Chinese product, but when Beckham likes Labubu, then he is giving this Chinese toy legitimacy.”
Wang says this appreciation of the west is key to national identity. “Chinese people had an underdog mentality in the 1980s and 1990s, maybe feeling bullied by western countries, and now China has risen fast. So the admiration and regard from those countries that previously looked down on China means you are now in an equally high position.”
But scepticism is rising, and Chinese consumers are getting fed up with inauthentic, paid-for praise. Recently, a whistleblower reported to the Beijing News that Xiangyi, a popular livestreaming e-commerce influencer with millions of followers, was allegedly using fake experts and staged storylines to promote products. On 20 December 2025, Xiangyi uploaded a promotional video for vitamins. A woman named “Linda,” posing as a “professor at the University of Sydney,” appeared with Xiangyi, touring the library and classrooms, chatting in English. Xiangyi asked Linda, “Do you think DHA is really useful?” The “professor” replied that the university had conducted extensive clinical research proving DHA “can indeed nourish the brain and improve cognitive function.” Xiangyi then translated for viewers.
A reporter at Beijing News found a personal social media account matching “Linda” to an actor recruitment website, where she was listed as a model in film and advertising. Her public résumé does not mention teaching at the University of Sydney, and the university verified that “Linda” is not a current professor or faculty member. Linda confirmed to the reporter that she had taken an acting role and was provided a simplified script a few days before filming, shooting five hours of footage for $750. Xiangyi has admitted Linda was misled by the brand and is cooperating with regulatory authorities in an investigation.
On the WeChat job messageboard, opportunities continue to pop up. Under the posting “flower girls,” recruiters seek go-go dancers for nightclubs in Yiwu from 11pm to 7am; accommodation and work visas are provided, and “basic spoken English is required.” Recruiters want 10 foreign women aged 20-30, above 165cm in height, with light-haired girls a “priority.” There is also a job in Chongqing to teach Chinese customers to play billiards; pay is $1,800-$2,000 a month, with flights, accommodation, meals, and a work visa provided. “You are not required to drink with clients. However, those who are willing to drink can receive a slightly higher salary.”
The industry continues to be unregulated, but as long as the demand for Chinese people to feel part of a global world exists, the white monkeys are here to stay.
