It's been quite a while since I've last checked in (what a trite blogger refrain) and as I sit in the lobby of the anywhere Haishi Hotel in Kunming, I thought I'd post to save myself from boredom as I await tomorrow's flight back to Beijing after a long and extensive spring break trip through Sichuan and Yunnan provinces. My favorite part was Chengdu, its pandas, nearby giant buddha, hot pot, leafy streets, temples, and fun-loving locals who we partied with on our second night in town, and from which my throat has not yet recovered--i guess chain smoking a pack of cigarettes wasn't such a good idea.
But now I'm in Kunming and at a hotel close to the airport for my three hour flight. Yunnan was beautiful, its rice-paddied hills speckled with white walled villages. Its two historic towns we visited Dali and Lijiang were picturesque and interesting albeit both completely touristic-ified and slightly less authentic for it. In Dali I got to visit a truly beautiful temple complex situated on the slopes of mountains and with views of the lake below. In Lijiang I met one of the 8 remaining Dongba script masters, and received a written scroll of goodwill from him.
Pictures are soon to follow after I get back to my comfortable dorm room. Zai jian for now!!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Bus Ride from hell... to Chengde
This past weekend I went to Chengde with some friends from my program. Chengde is a city home to the Qing emperor's old summer palace and several impressive Buddhist temples dating from the 18th century. To get there we took a bus..the bus ride from hell.
Getting settled into our bus at Liuliqiao Station, everything seems fine--the bus is rather comfortable. Annoyance number one, however, is made apparent to us when we get going: Beijing traffic sucks. It's a Saturday morning and traffic is worse than the 405 at rush hour on Beijing's not 1st, not 2nd, not 3rd, but 4th ring road. Black Audis, Volkswagen, Nissans with strange names, and the ubiquitous Jinbei mianbaoche (colloquial nickname meaning bread car) all clog the road and change 4 lanes in an instant. Believe what you've heard: Chinese roads are dangerous.
An hour later we are still in Beijing, somewhere on the northern outskirts of the city, just beyond the 4th ring road on the Jingmi Expressway. Now, let me tell you about the Jingmi Expressway. It's basically a country road, like any you would find in the United States, two lanes and undivided. But it's clogged with myriad buses, pedestrians, bicyclists, men and women peddling odd vehicles burdened with towering stacks of recycled plastic, horses pulling carts, and motorcyclists. All of this developing-world hubbub is directly adjacent to the recently built Airport Expressway that passes above our heads. I wonder, "why don't we use this road?"
The next outrage occurs soon as the bus pulls over to the side of the road and remains there for the next twenty minutes. A few people get off to pee, get back on, and I think "ok we can leave now." No. The bus driver has decided to have a long and apparently engrossing conversation with a friend who happens to be sitting on the side of the road. Twenty minutes later he comes back on the bus to inform us that the bus is broken and we must switch to another bus.
It's another fifteen minutes on this bus until we actually depart. We clank along this busy two lane road, past the hodgepodge northern fringe of Beijing home to exclusive expat compounds evocative of American suburbia, impromptu car-repair shops, factories of multinational corporations, and horses.
The rest of the ride consisted of us clanging along this bumpy highway, while a perfectly good, brand-new high speed expressway ran directly next to us. I cursed the idiocy of the driver, which turned into more general puzzlement. I wondered, "why is it that this 5,000 year old civilization that invented gunpowder, typing, and fireworks is unable to figure out how to operate buses.
The scheduled arrival time of 2:00 turned into 3:30. And of course it could have been worse. But when we finally got off in Chengde, nestled within the brown mountains of the hibernating Chinese countryside, we were rewarded with a visit to the beautiful Puning Si temple, an active Buddhist temple. We were also able to stay in a hotel in the temple itself. The next day we visited the Emperor's summer resort park (Bishushanzhuang), and another temple modelled on the Potala Palace in Lhasa, Tibet, designed to accomodate visiting Tibetan emissaries. The trip was worth it, but next time I think we'll take a train.
Getting settled into our bus at Liuliqiao Station, everything seems fine--the bus is rather comfortable. Annoyance number one, however, is made apparent to us when we get going: Beijing traffic sucks. It's a Saturday morning and traffic is worse than the 405 at rush hour on Beijing's not 1st, not 2nd, not 3rd, but 4th ring road. Black Audis, Volkswagen, Nissans with strange names, and the ubiquitous Jinbei mianbaoche (colloquial nickname meaning bread car) all clog the road and change 4 lanes in an instant. Believe what you've heard: Chinese roads are dangerous.
An hour later we are still in Beijing, somewhere on the northern outskirts of the city, just beyond the 4th ring road on the Jingmi Expressway. Now, let me tell you about the Jingmi Expressway. It's basically a country road, like any you would find in the United States, two lanes and undivided. But it's clogged with myriad buses, pedestrians, bicyclists, men and women peddling odd vehicles burdened with towering stacks of recycled plastic, horses pulling carts, and motorcyclists. All of this developing-world hubbub is directly adjacent to the recently built Airport Expressway that passes above our heads. I wonder, "why don't we use this road?"
The next outrage occurs soon as the bus pulls over to the side of the road and remains there for the next twenty minutes. A few people get off to pee, get back on, and I think "ok we can leave now." No. The bus driver has decided to have a long and apparently engrossing conversation with a friend who happens to be sitting on the side of the road. Twenty minutes later he comes back on the bus to inform us that the bus is broken and we must switch to another bus.
It's another fifteen minutes on this bus until we actually depart. We clank along this busy two lane road, past the hodgepodge northern fringe of Beijing home to exclusive expat compounds evocative of American suburbia, impromptu car-repair shops, factories of multinational corporations, and horses.
The rest of the ride consisted of us clanging along this bumpy highway, while a perfectly good, brand-new high speed expressway ran directly next to us. I cursed the idiocy of the driver, which turned into more general puzzlement. I wondered, "why is it that this 5,000 year old civilization that invented gunpowder, typing, and fireworks is unable to figure out how to operate buses.
The scheduled arrival time of 2:00 turned into 3:30. And of course it could have been worse. But when we finally got off in Chengde, nestled within the brown mountains of the hibernating Chinese countryside, we were rewarded with a visit to the beautiful Puning Si temple, an active Buddhist temple. We were also able to stay in a hotel in the temple itself. The next day we visited the Emperor's summer resort park (Bishushanzhuang), and another temple modelled on the Potala Palace in Lhasa, Tibet, designed to accomodate visiting Tibetan emissaries. The trip was worth it, but next time I think we'll take a train.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Hutong Life
Since I have been living in a modern dormitory building for a month now I thought I'd reflect on my first few days in Beijing living in a courtyard hotel in a hutong, or alleyway, neighborhood.
Before 1949 hutong neighborhoods covered most of Beijing's old walled inner city. After the Communists came to power, Mao began ordering many of them leveled and replaced with new Soviet-style housing blocks. Though most still remained even up through the 1990's, the era of rampant commercial real-estate speculation has finally turned the hutong into an endangered urban species.
A hutong is basically a lane running east to west, lined with traditional siheyuan, courtyard homes. Traditionally, Beijing's urban fabric consisted entirely of these homes patterned across the city like bricks and subdivided by hutongs. Today, there are several preservation districts but even these special restrictions against 拆-ing (chai) meaning destroy, are sometimes not enough to prevent developers with important connections from tearing down neighborhoods and evicting residents, who are often old and powerless people.
Hutong life is a glimpse into the past, quite different from the modern lifestyle that most Beijingers enjoy. There are no cars, residents must use public toilets, and often no heating except for coal burning. But despite the lack of creature comforts, hutongs are living communities. In the alley, local kids play soccer under the watch of the elderly, women buy their groceries, and men play Chinese checkers on the stoop of their home. Often inaccurately called slums, hutongs are more accurately low-rent neighborhoods that have suffered from years of neglect and with some upgrading could be turned into very comfortable modern environments. Hopefully the authorities will realize this and decide that preserving the old environments is essential to preserving the soul of the city.
Before 1949 hutong neighborhoods covered most of Beijing's old walled inner city. After the Communists came to power, Mao began ordering many of them leveled and replaced with new Soviet-style housing blocks. Though most still remained even up through the 1990's, the era of rampant commercial real-estate speculation has finally turned the hutong into an endangered urban species.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
A Massage and Mao Kitsch
A couple days ago, I went to get a massage at a place around the corner. We ended up paying 20 bucks for about 2 hours of full-body massaging. I went with a friend from my program and they put us in the same room. My friend had an older masseuse, while I had a younger girl. Both looked like they were probably former peasants from the provinces in Beijing to make a life.
There was a lot of banter and talk between the two masseuses( I think this is the plural form), and I for the most part had no idea what was going on. Then I feel my masseuse slip something into my hand. When I had turned over and had the chance to examine it, I realized it was a small red pin featuring Mao's portrait.
At this point I didn't know what the hell I was supposed to do with this, but I assumed it was some sort of flirtatious token. Then towards the end of the massage I find out, after asking my friend, that the girl wanted my phone number.
I said I didn't know my phone number, but my friend told it to her anyways. The next day I received a bunch of text messages but couldn't read them since my phone is unable to display characters. Thus, this was the last I heard from her.
But...I still have that piece of Mao kitsch as a little souvenir from my first massage in China.
There was a lot of banter and talk between the two masseuses( I think this is the plural form), and I for the most part had no idea what was going on. Then I feel my masseuse slip something into my hand. When I had turned over and had the chance to examine it, I realized it was a small red pin featuring Mao's portrait.
At this point I didn't know what the hell I was supposed to do with this, but I assumed it was some sort of flirtatious token. Then towards the end of the massage I find out, after asking my friend, that the girl wanted my phone number.
I said I didn't know my phone number, but my friend told it to her anyways. The next day I received a bunch of text messages but couldn't read them since my phone is unable to display characters. Thus, this was the last I heard from her.
But...I still have that piece of Mao kitsch as a little souvenir from my first massage in China.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Beijing Snow
Soccer field and basketball courts below my dorm building covered in snow, third ring road behind them.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Beijing Rule #1: Don't go to Maggie's
A couple nights ago I went out to Sanlitun, Beijing's hopping expat bar area, with a few guys from my program. It was thursday and it wasn't too crowded but we ended up hopping around a few bars and ending up at one place called Bar Blu, which was having a ladies night.
A girl made eye contact with me and came over to sit at our table. She ended up speaking Japanese, which one of the guys knew as well. We decided, although she was probably a little older than us, she was smart enough not to be a prostitute. We danced a little with her and then she suggested we go with her to another place. We agreed and soon we were in a cab headed to some place we knew not where.
The cab pulled up next to an old style Chinese building with a round entrance gate and a neon sign reading Maggies. Once inside, my other fellow classmate was dancing with this woman. It was at this point that the other guy I was with, who had grown up in Beijing and knew the city's bars well, told me that we had been taken to Beijing's most notorious hooker bar.
Indeed, upon realization, I noticed we were the youngest ones there by about 10 years. The room was filled with grey-haired white guys and young Chinese women, many of whom were probably xiaojie, literally Ms. but colloquially prostitute. The girl who took us was probably one too. And sure enough, she disappeared into the mix after realizing we weren't going to purchase her services.
We left, realizing we had been tricked but not too bad, and it was worth the story. But not we know what someone has in mind if they suggest going to Maggies.
A girl made eye contact with me and came over to sit at our table. She ended up speaking Japanese, which one of the guys knew as well. We decided, although she was probably a little older than us, she was smart enough not to be a prostitute. We danced a little with her and then she suggested we go with her to another place. We agreed and soon we were in a cab headed to some place we knew not where.
The cab pulled up next to an old style Chinese building with a round entrance gate and a neon sign reading Maggies. Once inside, my other fellow classmate was dancing with this woman. It was at this point that the other guy I was with, who had grown up in Beijing and knew the city's bars well, told me that we had been taken to Beijing's most notorious hooker bar.
Indeed, upon realization, I noticed we were the youngest ones there by about 10 years. The room was filled with grey-haired white guys and young Chinese women, many of whom were probably xiaojie, literally Ms. but colloquially prostitute. The girl who took us was probably one too. And sure enough, she disappeared into the mix after realizing we weren't going to purchase her services.
We left, realizing we had been tricked but not too bad, and it was worth the story. But not we know what someone has in mind if they suggest going to Maggies.
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