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It had been 14 months since we were last in China, during the frenzy of the Peking Olympics. There had been a state inspired party atmosphere, during that time, where we felt that everyone had to be happy or else. It had been horribly hot, and polluted, and yet most things foreign and strange were forgiven. We had been to Sinkiang and seen the hard life that was lived by the minorities there, and our travel plans had been affected by the violence in the region.
This time, the northerly winds brought down sub zero temperatures and clear blue skies. Beijing, as her residents call her, was glowing a gorgeous ochre colour. All thoughts of the olympics and those unsettled times were pushed to the back of my mind. We settled in to the Sanilitun International Youth hostel. This is a concrete addition to the “Bin Hoa” (name changed due to memory loss) Hotel and Szechuan restaurant. It sits on an inner courtyard that is also a car park. The bare construction has been mollified by Chinese influenced roof eaves and tiles. As is the way in China, one was never quite sure if this whole courtyard was, qasi government owned, a block of three independent businesses, or all part of a grand complex, owned by a grandee. Usually a retired soldier or party member. Regardless, our home for the next three days was spotless, staffed by friendly girls, a smiling male chef and costs $30 a night. The only downside was that when there was a party downstairs, (most nights) the cigarette smoke wafted up the air ducts into the rooms. This is a perennial Chinese problem. Smoking and drinking are two of China’s legal forms of letting off steam. Coming from smoke free (and yet smoking) Turkey, this was a shock to the system. This was, however, easily solved, we opened the window and kept the bathroom extractor fan on full blast the entire time we were there. This kept our room most pleasant but probably some poor other Frenchman down the corridor was getting secondary cancer.
In the evening, we went to one of Sanlitun’s most famous and yet uncrowded expat watering holes for dinner. “Nearby the tree” was founded by Patrick, a Belgian, who had originally come to Peking to sell train tickets on the trans Siberian express. The business was started in 1989 and had built up into the biggest “west east” trans Siberian tour operator. For some reason, Patrick and his brother Andre had called it “Monkey Business”, after, I think their original operating methods. We had been monkey clients in 2007 and had met Chris through the experience.
Even the names of his two bar/café’s , were linked to the trans Siberian. “The Tree”, and “Nearby the Tree” had been places where the monkeys had “hung out”. We had chosen Nearby to have dinner with our old friend Iain Mcnair. Iain had been living in Hong Kong for a few years and was a regular visitor to Pemba. After the breakup of his marriage to a Hong Konger who wanted to stay in England, he had come to Peking to learn Chinese. His knowledge of words and characters was impeccable, but he always seemed to speak with a plumy English accent that made some of the Chinese squint at him. Regardless, he knew more than I did, so we did not complain. After pizzas and salads, the jet lag started to kick in, and we staggered back to the hostel for sleep.
Chris had work to do, and had to run around the city seeing hotels and agencies. We decided to be tourists and go back to Tianmen Square. We took the metro to Tianmen and popped out on to the open square. The authorities had put up barriers, metal detectors and ridiculous red columns. The effect was the monstrosity of the square had been taken away. They had ruined it. We looked at Mao and wondered what he would have made of all this. But the wind was howling through the square from the north and the time for dialectic contemplation was small. The wind chill factor was -15’c and we could stand it no longer. We shivered our way back into the metro and travelled to the flea market at Panjayuguan. The lonely planet guide book tells the reader to take a taxi, but we merely took the metro to the last halt, walked past modern ugly concrete flats, a KFC, a Pizza hut and some hawkers.
I noticed that in Peking and the big cities, China was really loosing its grip, the Americans were buying their way into this great nation, sometimes directly, and sometimes through proxies.
The flea market was the usual micro melange of china under one roof. Old cameras sat next to reproduction Ming vases, and plain tack. Every nationality in China seemed to be represented. It was still bitterly cold, so we migrated into the covered section of the market. Here the artwork of Mao and his era were on sale. I noted once more the painting of the courageous Chinese soldiers fighting the capitalist aggression in the cold wastes of Korea. In spite of this painting being one of the best available, I could not bring myself to buy it. Too many Turkish infantrymen had died fighting the Chinese in Korea. Happily, the story was not one sided, many more Chinamen are buried on the peninsula thanks to the Turks, but, this poster was someone else’s glory. And so my money stayed in my pocket.
On our last day, Cisca wanted to go to the Zoo. I was enjoying our excursions on the Peking Metro and so went with her. We wandered through the maze of tunnels and on and off the trains until we popped out in a modern business district with a zoo, popped incongruously behind. Of course, the Zoo had been here since 1906, placed here by the emperor Pu Yi. I was expecting something awful, with teasing and harassing of animals in cages, but was pleasantly surprised by the superb Panda Compound. The Pandas were not in the wild, but they did have space to move around, and a lot of care had been taken to recreate an environment that they could play in. We stayed for a long time, by the plexi glass, taking photos of the creatures constantly eating. There was even one fellow braving the cold and eating outside. This was amusing stuff.
My fears were found in the horrid big cat compound. Gigantic Siberian tigers, sat caged in prison cells, stalking around in circles while the Chinese clapped and jeered. Every now and then, the cats would roar in frustration at the short Chinese, who would cackle with laughter. Having seen tigers in the wild in India, I knew how these creatures, move within their territory, and how they were capable of ripping the jeering spectators to pieces. I consoled myself with that knowledge and left in frustration similar to that of the tiger’s.
This was our last night in Peking. I went alone to “Nearby” to say my own goodbye’s to Chris’ friends. They were good people, doing a job, five thousand miles from home. All were modest and often well behaved people. All of them missed England, but none wanted to go back. Patrick was sitting at the bar, and I reminisced about tourism a decade ago, and how much less complicated people were then. In spite of his being a Belgian, Patrick was a decent chap. My pizza finally arrived, I boxed it up and stumbled out into the cold of Peking. As I staggered down the street (due to the cold-nothing else) I stuffed pizza into my mouth and wondered about this city. Nothing seemed to have changed, and yet everything had. The enforced joy of the olympics, and the people’s volunteers (stasi) were gone. Peking was getting on with life, but there were fewer cars, less pollution, and a different air to the city. Was there a feeling of ownership by her people? Had one more step been taken towards being able to choose their own destiny? I could not say, but, I could not help but feel that this was a positive thing. The last time I left Peking, I thought I would not see it again, but this time, I found myself wondering when I would be back?
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