Monday, 10th November,2003

Arrive in Beijing at 2:30 p.m. and promptly make the first of many mistakes. Accept the offer of a hotel room from the bright young man behind the left-luggage counter. It is, he assures me, “close” to the Forbidden City. I later discover that “close” translates as a one hour walk. The Hua Feng Hotel isn’t too bad in the end complete with surly staff and toilets which flush at least four times out of ten.

In the evening I go for a stroll in the vague direction of Tiananmen. On first sight, Beijing 2003 reminds me of East Berlin 1994, lots of parks, public transport and grim apartment blocks – the fingerprints of Karl no doubt. Also, like East Berlin, poverty is very evident. In Beijing misery comes shuffling. Old women, shivering in the cold grab at the sleeve of any passer-by they think can spare a few yuan. As I approach Tiananmen the beggars give way to hawkers determined to sell their wares. “No” is one word they can’t understand, regardless of the language.

The night market is hardly buzzing tonight. Stall owners pounce on foreigners and rich Chinese literally dragging them over. This was nothing like the night markets of Taipei. In Taiwan they want your money, in Beijing they need it. Behind the forced grin and the friendly “how are you, sir?” is the spectre of hunger and poverty. Realise that I’m not quite ready for this; half my mind is still back in Taiwan.



Tuesday, 11th November, 2003

Take the short stroll down to the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square – ancient and modern China on opposite sides of the street. At the Forbidden City I once again take the first offer I’m given. A tour guide named Thomas offers his services as soon as I get there. During the two hour tour I find myself helping him with his English – this should be in the past now. We engage in some tentative discussion on the China-Taiwan conflict. Thomas sticks closely to the official line but seems intrigued by the rebel province. They may have “stolen” his treasures but I suspect he wouldn’t mind living there if he had the chance. The Forbidden City passes me by, I don’t know enough about Chinese culture to fully appreciate its offerings.

Tiananmen similarly fails to move me being, as it is, little more than open space. Once again hawkers crowd round the wai-guo-ren offering postcards, hats and little Chinese flags. One cheerful woman engages me in political banter when I tell her where I came from. Mao, Chiang, Sun etc. Secret police everywhere but she, at least, doesn’t seem to care.

Behind the square itself is Mao’s mausoleum where the Great Helmsman lies in state. The queue is enormous even on this cold November afternoon. As I take my place I notice that I’m the only foreigner in line. I noticed others in the square itself but none seem to want to queue. I feel like a voyeur, gate crashing an internal Chinese experience. Most in line seem to be peasants and workers, probably not from Beijing. There is a stillness in the queue.

As we get closer many people purchase bouquets to offer to Mao. We enter the mausoleum and shuffle past the the great man two abreast, never having time to stop and reflect. Draped in the red flag the old man stares icily out at us. In seconds we are back outside surrounded on both sides by stalls selling beer-mats, T-shirts, and key-rings with Mao’s visage. What would the old man make of this?

I feel detached from the obvious emotion of the scene. For many in line the man under the flag is still the guiding light of their lives in spite of the dismantling of his legacy. As someone who lived in Taiwan for two years I have no great fondness for him. Perhaps the best I could say is that Mao was a Chinese Stalin. An evil, paranoid, ruthless man who, at a terrible cost, pulled his country into the modern world.



Wednesday, 12th November, 2003

Wake late, too late to take in the wall today. Decide on the Summer Palace instead, a short bus trip from the city. The palace was built to provide relief form the stifling heat of central Beijing. Situated around a huge lake, the grounds stretch for miles. Stroll for hours, taking pictures and generally feeling happy to be alive. Quiet, secluded and free of hawkers, the Summer Palace is just the antidote to the previous day’s tourist traps. Such beauty and such ugliness, side by side, as they always must be.



Thursday, 13th November, 2003

Finally to the wall. I choose an out of the way part called Hunaghua, free of tourists and hawkers, the good people at Lonely Planet assure me. At the bus terminal I forego the easy choice of waiting for a bus and accept the offer of a taxi for the day. My driver Yu Sang is an amiable man in his early fifties. Off we go along misty, deserted highways built for the Beijing Olympics. Eventually the motorway ends and Yu Sang points to one of the many mountains in the distance. “Wall”.

There it is in the distance, barely visible but instantly recognisable. The same civilisation which built this wall is sill intact today, three thousand years later. The Ancient Greeks, the Romans and the Persians: all consigned to the dustbin of history. And still the Chinese persist.

Yu Sang drops me at the wall and heads to our rendezvous, a post office on the other side of the river. There doesn’t seem to be another soul around and suddenly, as Yu Sang disappears over the horizon, it’s just me and the wall. The sign at the entrance puts me on notice: “This part of the wall has not been restored. No clambering.”. I climb a ladder and survey the scene. The wall stretches as far as the eye can see across the valley. Watchtowers are dotted every twenty yards along its length.

I wanted off the beaten track and that’s exactly what I get. No guardrail, no nice even surface and no hope if I fall sixty feet into the river below. I make my way to the first two watchtowers easily enough but the third turns out to be my Waterloo. The incline is sixty degrees and the ground is very rough. Discretion gets the better of valour and after a mere ten minutes it’s time to turn around and go back.

Now comes the hard part. It’s easier to climb downhill but it’s also easier to slip. At least it would be an interesting death. Falling off the Great Wall of China – beats getting hit by a bus any day. Make it back down to the post office eventually. Feel cheated that I spent only twenty minutes on the wall but at least I have the anecdote.



Friday, 14th November, 2003

Big walking day again. Take in a few parks and the military museum (no mention of the Civil War strangely). Teach a beggar how to ask for money in English – really need to stop this. Final epic walk to an internet place right by Tiananmen, better than spending another night staring at the hotel room’s walls.



Saturday, 15th November, 2003

Head home to Belfast after two years in the Orient. In all honesty the dominant emotion upon leaving Beijing is relief. Dark, cold, poor and desperate, I was looking for reality and in the end I got more of it than I wanted.