A China Journal

Day Three: Shanghai – and the Oriental Pearl TV Tower

Punctual as a Chairman Mao watch, Leon met us at our hotel at 6:30 a.m. to ferry us out to the airport. The commuter traffic was in full swing and the ride to the airport was largely a bumper-to-bumper one. There was the formality of the 50-yuan airport tax to be paid before we could check in and Leon helped us negotiate that and the counter staff before bidding us goodbye at Security.

The two-hour China Airlines flight to Shanghai was uneventful, though I was struck by the loveliness of one or two of the hostesses. More on the pulchritude of Oriental women in general, and Chinese ones in particular, later.

At Shanghai’s Pudong airport we were met by Chris, a slim, animated young woman, with funky spectacles, a perpetual smile and an endearing accent. She looked overjoyed to meet us, as if we had made her day just by showing up at the airport.

We climbed aboard our vehicle, a seven-seater van for just the two of us, Chris and the driver and headed into the city. All along the drive, Chris chatted excitedly with us, complimenting us on our choice of hotel (“Four Seasons? One of top three in Shanghai!”), reassuring us about the safety of the city (“I love to go to the bar at late nights and I can go home safely.”), pointing out buildings of interest to us along the way (“See that is the Museum”), breaking off for a quick conversation on her cell phone, or to natter away with the driver in Chinese.

We dropped our bags off at the hotel then set off for lunch at the Shanghai Pujing restaurant. Chris explained the layout of the city along the banks of the Huangpo river, and how one bank was the older traditional city while the other was the modern high-rise part. Lunch was another culinary treat, but instead of being joined by Chris and the driver, we ate alone. Chris explained that the driver had a cold and didn’t want to pass it on to us. I suspect he just wanted to enjoy his food without having to be polite to tourists.

After lunch it was a short drive to the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, a futuristic needle in the sky, ornamented with two enormous lurid pink globes positioned along its height. It looked something like a 70’s psychedelic nightmare of the Eiffel Tower. Chris proudly informed us that it was the second such tower to be built, after Toronto’s TV tower and that it was the tallest one in Asia. It certainly looked it. the oriental pearl tv tower

A cold wind was blowing as we waited at the entrance gate for Chris to get the tickets and we spent the time, craning our necks at the enormous height of the Tower and goggling at the more traditional but breathtaking Huajing Mansions across. This building looked as if someone had taken a traditional Chinese pagoda, fed it lots of steroids so it put on amazing bulk and height, and then plonked it down in the middle of downtown Shanghai.

Chris had returned from the ticket counter as we clicked away and was hopping from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. She was clad only in a t-shirt and jeans and she charmingly informed us that “in the morning I saw the sun and thought it would be warm day.” Obviously, even the natives can be taken by surprise.

We scurried into the huge lobby of the Tower and joined the queue for the express lift up to the observation deck 400-odd meters in the sky. There were hostesses clad in high-necked Chinese jackets and floor-length gowns, looking very chic and lovely, waiting to guide us to the lifts. This they did with elaborate hand gestures, much as if they were participating in a ritual Indian dance. In the lobby we passed an enormous Chinese lion carved from a single tree trunk, with a fierce mane that looked like Medusa’s head of snakes. The obligatory red Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling, a touch of tradition in an otherwise super-modern, steel-and-glass environment.

We boarded the elevator with about twenty other tourists, mainly Japanese, and were whisked up at ear-popping speed. One of the charming hostesses accompanied us with a brief introduction in Chinese followed by a translation in impeccable, if accented, English, welcoming us to the Tower and telling us its history. The Tower’s history, of course, is not a patch on something like the Great Wall or the Summer Palace: it’s the view that is its real claim to fame.

The view of Shanghai spread at one’s feet is truly spectacular. Much like other institutions such as the Empire State Building in New York and the more recent Millennium Eye in London, a dazzling sight awaits you as you emerge from the elevator. There are handy signs detailing important landmarks, but you can forget all that and just soak in the view. By far the best view is that across the Huangpo river, where the old colonial buildings around the Bund are dwarfed by towering skyscrapers and look down their snooty noses at the traffic that bustles by. This view reminded me of the magnificent but shabby stone office buildings of the Ballard Estate area in Bombay or the more well-known ones on Regent Street or Oxford Street. There was one particularly striking low glass-fronted building on the waterfront, reflecting an orange ship moored next to her on the river. the view

At the tourist trap counter I picked up a cheerful stone pig to add to my growing collection. China is the first country I’ve encountered where the pig is treated with respect by artists. Most other countries’ artisans seem to focus on more ‘noble’ creatures such as the lion, elephant, peacock, horse, dog or cat. Only in China was the pig treated with the reverence it deserves. I added no less than six different pigs to my collection in these four days. us and the view

We had to descend a floor to catch the return elevator down and in the lobby we spent a few minutes inspecting the waxworks tableaux of ancient Chinese costumes and tradesmen. chinese waxworks

Day Three: Mah Foot Mah-ssage

My wife was dying to experience the sybaritic lifestyle of the rich and famous, well, maybe the middle-class and unknown. And what better way to do this than a Chinese foot massage!

I must explain that I do not share her views on the therapeutic and calming effects of a massage. The thought of a male rubbing his hands all over my body, coating me with gunky oil, while he kneads and pummels my flesh, nauseates me. Substitute female for male and the situation gets more interesting. But the thought of that oil (and no, substituting creams and lotions doesn’t help) makes my skin crawl.

You must therefore understand with what trepidation I succumbed to the pleadings (well, threats, more like) of my wife and the reassurances of Chris, who insisted we could not return without experiencing the joys of a foot massage. I was somewhat shaky on the concept and once I got over my qualms, I was visioning dreams of a petite barefoot Chinese girl doing a tap dance on my bare back a la the movies. (MASH, particularly, has this as a recurring theme with barefoot Japanese geishas, but the principle is the same.)

The reality turned out to be a lot more prosaic. Chris guided us to what she called Walking Street (a view of the Street), a pedestrian thoroughfare lined with department stores and shops. I never did find out if that was its real name or merely her shorthand reference for it. She dived into one of the stores and escorted us up to the second floor and into a small room with one glass wall. Curtains discreetly hid most of what was behind the glass wall, but we could see a room similar to ours where a burly man seemed to be lying comatose on a couch.

We prostrated ourselves on similar couches in the room and some intense jabbering took place between Chris and the maitre d’. We were asked our preferences, “Strong or mild?” I chose mild, wisely as it turned out, because my foot molester turned out to be a petite Chinese girl. So far so good, but there the MASH similarity ended. It was I who had to be barefoot, not her. My wife had chosen strong, so she ended up with a young lad who couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

My masseuse was a cute little Chinese girl who resembled a little piglet. Lest I be accused of misogyny, I hasten to add that I just love pigs (see my comments on pig purchases supra) and I am being very complimentary. I found her exceedingly cute, the sort whose cheeks you want to pinch and whose chin you want to chuck. Tho-thweet, in short. She, of course, spoke not a word of English, and I spoke no Chinese: all we had was the language of feet and hands.

She gestured to me to lie down and commenced with a warm up cracking of knuckles. The knuckles she cracked were mine, not hers. The hand mini-massage was a complimentary appetizer, apparently. She then proceeded to divest me of my shoes and socks and roll up my jeans. Then she left the room together with her co-masseur. They returned in tandem a few minutes later, each bearing a steaming tub of water. We were invited to soak our feet in them and scald the skin off. Well, that’s what it felt like. The base of the tub was lined with smooth pebbles and the water was hot, hot, hot! After the initial shock, it felt quite relaxing, and the masseur-masseuse couple left us to our own devices.

My wife was so tickled at the concept of coercing me into a massage that she kept clicking away with my camera, while I attempted to maintain a dignified posture. As the water cooled down, the massy-couple returned bearing refills of steaming water. This went on for a couple of times until our feet were softened and pink and wrinkly.

The massy-couple entered bearing towels and proceeded to get to work in unison. This was something like synchronized swimming. My little masseuse had soft podgy hands and she spent the next twenty minutes kneading my foot, pulling my toes, pummeling my instep, thwacking my heel, smacking her hand against my ankle, trying to push her thumb and then her wrist through my sole and out the other side of my foot, and generally working herself up into quite a state. I began to feel sorry for her and worried that she might do herself some damage, especially when one considered that she was only about twice as large as my foot. After twenty minutes of this violent exercise, she lovingly draped a towel around my foot and proceeded to repeat the exercise on my other foot. I can see why massage is supposed to be good for you, but if you want to lose calories, giving is probably more worthy than receiving. feet and the woman

In between feet she eyed me with interest and patted herself on the chest and said “China” and then raised an enquiring eyebrow at me. After I repeated “India” a couple of times, she seemed to get it. “Ah, Indu, Indu!” she exclaimed. That pushed the envelope as far as communication between us went.

She also seemed to think that my toenails left something to be desired, because she patted them and then made scissoring gestures in the air and pronounced, “Eight yuan.” Rightly assuming that she was offering a pedicure for eight yuan rather than making a bid for rights to my feet, I agreed. Another sixteen year old boy appeared with a range of impressive blades and scalpels and proceeded to delicately cut my toenails with as much artistry as a surgeon performing a facelift. (the pedicure) When he was done he gave me a grin, wrapped up his implements and disappeared. My little Miss Piglet reappeared and continued with her exercise on my feet.

I was beginning to grow quite attached to her, when she pronounced herself through and invited me to sit up and turn around with my back to her. She then attempted to tear my head off at the roots and cross my arms behind my back. Quite enjoyable. This comprised the complimentary dessert, apparently, and lasted for about five minutes. My wife was similarly administered to by her sixteen year old boy slave. I think I got the better deal.

We then posed for affectionate photos, (me and her and she and him) and sauntered out into the lobby feeling like two new pairs of feet, to discover that Chris had vanished. Before we could panic too much, she reappeared breathless and entered into an animated discussion with the hostess behind the reception desk. My little Miss Piglet disappeared behind the staff door, no doubt to lie down and recover from her strenuous workout and we paid up and departed after two hours of sybaritic abandon.

Day Three: The end of day’s play

Outside, we decided to refresh ourselves with a cup of coffee and call up our kids back in Bombay. There was no Starbucks in sight, but Chris located a charming coffee shop inside a department store overlooking the shop floor where shoppers could buy government-quality-approved packaged foods such as dried shrimps, seaweed, pigs trotters and other delicacies. The café itself appeared to be a haunt for young couples and we were the odd out of place trio. The coffee, though, was excellent. us on the phone to our kids

It was dusk by now and Chris enquired if we wanted to be dropped back at the hotel. She was going off for a round of Internet gaming with her friends, so we got directions back to the hotel (which consisted of instructions on how to direct the taxi driver) and we bid her a fond farewell, advising her to dress warmly the next day. She chortled merrily and said that we sounded just like her mother and then trotted off into the night. the lovely and resourceful Chris

We wandered up and down the Walking Street, popping in to stores to window shop and make fruitless enquiries for camera batteries. We reached the Bund at one end of the Street and tried to take some pictures of the spectacularly lit up and ubiquitous Oriental Pearl TV Tower, but they didn’t come out right in the poor light. Still surfeited after lunch, we opted for a quiet but substantial ice cream at a Haagen-Dasz restaurant and then flagged down a taxi on one of the roads that intersected Walking Street at intervals.

The taxi driver, of course, spoke less English than we did Mandarin, but with the help of a card thoughtfully provided to us by the hotel, he figured out where we were staying.

And the morning and the evening were the third day.

Day Two: Cloisonné Factory

Day 2 saw us off to an early morning start after a slap up breakfast of cornflakes, poached eggs, juice, Danish and toast. Very traditional Chinese.

Leon met us after breakfast and took us out to our Volvo Santana sedan and introduced us to Mr Liu, our driver, who spoke no English.

It was a two hour drive out to the Mutianyu section of the Great Wall. The ride was so uneventful we both fell asleep in the back seat. We awoke outside Beijing and the contrast was stark. This was winter and the countryside was cold and bare, the leafless trees like skeletons lining the road. We passed old men leading donkeys carrying firewood and a couple of women bent over in a field, dressed drably, a far cry from the smartly dressed city folk. A pair of women cycled past, and a little further on, just outside a village, we passed by a group of girls walking to work, laughing and chattering. The village was brick and concrete, sort of twentieth century meets medieval drab. There were no people sitting around or standing in their doorways. All seemed shuttered and closed. One field at the side of the road seemed to be speckled with color, but as we sped past, the colorful splashes resolved themselves into brightly colored plastic bags, tied to sticks as makeshift scarecrows.

Before visiting the Great Wall, Leon had scheduled a stop at a cloisonné factory. This didn’t sound very promising and when we drove into the gates, it looked even less promising. We were met by a young girl who spoke passable English and offered to show us around the factory.

Cloisonné work is the creation of vases and bowls and other artifacts in copper. We went through a succession of small, dingy rooms surrounding a little courtyard, each of which would have been perfectly at home in an industrial estate in Bombay. The floors were bare concrete and the only attempt at comfort was the quilt that covered each doorway to keep the cold breeze out.

In the first room, two men worked at moulding and welding together the pieces of copper that would become bowls and vases. pic: moulding the shapes

In the second room, five or six women sat facing each other across a rickety table. Each had a drawing on tracing paper in front of her and a collection of little copper pieces. They would use pincers and pliers to mould the copper pieces into the shape of an arc or segment of the drawing, and then paste it onto the bare bowl or vase before them. Low slung tube lights augmented the thin sunlight that filtered in through the dusty panes. pic: creating the design

In the third room, three girls sat hunched over a table covered with little bowls and dishes each containing a dye powder. There were various shades of blue from the palest light blue like the dawn sky to a rich royal blue, electric and startling. The girls were mixing the colours and painting each segment of the artifact with thin pointed brushes. pic: painting the designs

The fourth room had a solitary man standing before a roaring fire that sprang out of the floor at his feet, as if he had opened a portal to hell below. He was “firing” the pots and vases and bowls in the flame, to set the colours. pic: firing the vases The painting and firing would be done repeatedly until the desired effect was achieved after which the items would be polished and the outlines of the design etched in gold. This last, we were informed by the guide was “a secret process, so we cannot go into that room.” The last thing I wanted to do in China was to be privy to secrets, so we nodded ingratiatingly and were led away to the “government-owned, quality-guaranteed, fair-priced” showroom. As we later discovered, there were many such showrooms all across Beijing and Shanghai specializing in everything from cloisonné ware to silk clothes to pearls.

The showroom itself was large and very modern, like a section of Macy’s. The goods on display were simply breathtaking and it was hard to believe that the crude processes we had just been shown could produce such exquisite works of art. There were vases of every shape and size, bowls from thimble-size to large enough to drown a cat in, matching bowl and vase sets, dragons, chopsticks, pigs, horses, rats, Buddhas, snuff boxes… the list was endless.

We whipped out our credit card and went berserk.

Apart from a rather frightening golden dragon, my favorite purchases were a set of matching pigs, one mother sow and a little piglet, and a simply superb smoked glass vase with an incredibly beautiful painting of traditional Chinese women in a landscape on it. This is another specialist skill in China. These vases are made of thick glass and the neck of the vase is normal leading down into a cavity that seems much too small for the size of the vase. When you turn the vase over you realize the enormous skill of the artist: for the base of the vase has a similar hidden neck and a cavity that runs along the inner surface of the vase. Using extremely thin curved brushes and immense skill and a very steady hand, the artist paints the entire landscape on the inside of the vase by inserting the brush through this hole and painstakingly manipulating it so that he is applying the paint behind the glass. It’s as if you were to stand in front of a canvas, stick your hand behind it and paint on the back of the canvas such that the painting comes through.

Spent, literally, we piled back into the car and headed off for the Great Wall.

Day Two: The Great Wall

We were now in mountain country and all around us were hills covered with short pine trees and brown scrub. This promised to be verdant and lush in summer, but now it was colourless and grim, yet beautiful in a forbidding way. We sped under a high viaduct that spanned the road, disappearing into towering hills on either side, and flashed through another sleeping village. Leon turned to us from the front seat and pointed excitedly through the windscreen. “There, there it is, the Great Wall!”

On the near horizon rose a steep hill and on its brow, outlined against the cold, grey sky were ramparts of stone. At first glance it looked like a hilltop, and then the eye noticed the unnatural evenness of the crest, the square corners of a watchtower that stood out, a snaking spine of stone that dipped and curved and flowed along the mountain top.

The road ended in a tourist village, but our driver ducked into a narrow lane and we sped up hugging the hillside until we emerged into a crowded open parking lot, flanked with billboards. We pulled on our fur caps and got out of the car, clutching the water bottles that Mr. Liu had thoughtfully provided. It was cold and cloudy, but there was no breeze; our tropical metabolisms shielded behind three layers of clothing could cope.

As we walked out of the parking lot, a young man accosted me. He sidled up to my shoulder and thrust his wrist under my nose. “Chairman Mao watch? Only ten dollar!” We walked uphill on the paved path that led past several shops selling imitation jade Buddhas, Chinese silk scarves, t-shirts that read “I climbed the Great Wall”, bright red silk coats with dragons embroidered on them, postcards, camera batteries, film rolls, canned sodas. Capitalism was alive and thriving in Communist China.

The shopkeepers were persistent. This was the off season and tourists were thin on the ground. As we approached each stall, I could see stall keepers four stalls away getting off their little folding stools and preparing for the big sales pitch. It was like a little Mexican wave, except this was happening in China. “Come, come, you want Chinese quilt? Only ten dollar!” “T-shirt, sir, you buy t-shirt?” “You remember me when you come back down, eh? I remember you, you buy then, eh?” One enterprising gentleman ran after me and slipped a little pasteboard card into my hand. It was blank except for his name, scrawled on in a spiky handwriting: “Jin”.

Leon went off to get the entrance tickets and we were accosted by three elderly gentlemen dressed as ancient warriors. They looked pretty ancient themselves. Each was wielding a sword or a spear, and though one spear tip was evidently cardboard, the other looked metal, if blunt. The spearman grinned at us, baring decayed teeth that would send an enemy fleeing in terror to the nearest dentist. “Picture? Only ten yuan!” They gathered around my wife who looked a little nervous, not at the weapons but at the commercial nature of the transaction.

I clicked the shot and then we stood around waiting for Leon to translate before we paid up. The warriors began to get restless and rubbed their fingers together in the universal gesture for money. I pointed to Leon who was at the ticket window, and they nodded, reassured. pic: Wife and Han soldiers

Debts paid, we walked on up the path to encounter an amiable hump-backed gentleman from Bactria in a rich, warm fur coat, seated on the ground. His mistress was at his side and on seeing our interest she nudged him to his feet and called to us, “Ten yuan!” Nine is supposed to be a lucky number in China, but all prices seemed to be rounded up to ten. We were confused about what ten yuan would buy us; perhaps a ride on the gentleman’s back? But no, it was only a photo opportunity, no ride. The gent was so sweet looking and warm with large liquid brown eyes that gazed at me adoringly and a mobile upper lip that was split in two and that twitched at me in a friendly grin. I succumbed and climbed up a little three-step iron ladder that was anchored in the ground, while the mistress yelled and tugged at the gentleman and got him to sidle up next to the ladder. I clambered aboard gingerly and settled myself on his back on a soft quilt embroidered with flowers. It was as if the seat was custom-made for me: I fit snugly upright between his two humps and his warm fur coat felt softer than a Mercedes Benz’s bucket seat. An ideal way to travel! He turned his neck to investigate my feet and then obligingly posed for the camera. pic: my Bactrian friend and I

Getting off was trickier, but with the assistance of one hand on his hump and the other on the ladder, I managed it with my dignity fairly intact.

We entered through the turnstile and Leon asked us if we wanted to take the cable car up as well as down. We volunteered to walk down, on the assumption that some exercise was better than none, and how bad could a downhill trek be? The cable car lurched out of the station and as we were swiftly pulled up the mountainside, Leon said, “I’ve been here many times, in sun, snow, raining… and I always feel the passion when I come here. This is the heart and the soul of our China! I always feel very happy to come to Great Wall.” pic: Before The Wall

We alighted from the cable car and walked up a short footpath to a little platform, and there a few feet ahead of us was the Great Wall. How exciting can a wall be? I mean, it’s not as if it’s a cathedral or a temple or an opera house, right? A wall is just a collection of stones piled on top of each other; okay, so it’s a border wall and it has watchtowers and arrow slits and cannon embrasures, but it’s not as if it’s a fortress or a castle, right? Wrong!

The Great Wall is a huge dragon’s tail. It snakes its way over the mountain crests as far as the eye can see, hugging the contours of the land, dipping, swerving, doubling back, soaring up over a rocky outcrop and tumbling back down out of sight, only to rise again on a distant hilltop that seems to be part of another mountain range entirely. Every few hundred meters, watchtowers jut out like vertebrae on a dragon’s spine, cold, solemnly looking out over the mountains, silent sentinels over centuries. pic: The Wall

Seen from the sky it must resemble a crazy zipper that locks the mountains together. It’s as if the gods covered the mountains with a coat of trees and rocks and scrubs, and assembled this giant zip to hold the coat closed so that China’s soul and heart stays safely within these mountains. It seems to be working. pic: The Wall

We clambered a steep flight of crumbling stone stairs and ducked through a low arched doorway, and we were on the Great Wall. It was breathtaking! Atop the Wall, it resembled a paved road, wide enough to drive a sedan down, though it would be a bumpy ride indeed. pic: On The Wall

From the Wall’s ramparts its true architectural splendor comes to life. The “road” that runs along the Wall is like a frozen rollercoaster that slides precipitously down in one direction and climbs vertiginously up in the other. There are occasional level stretches where it coasts along as if gathering its energy for another swoop down a mountainside or a soaring glide up a hill crest. Every few feet is a break in the parapet from where a soldier could aim an arrow or fire a cannon. pic: On The Wall

The view from the Wall is commanding and one can see for miles, across serried ranges of mountains that fade into blues and grays in the distance. pic: the view

The watchtowers are grim, solitary soldiers, connected to their brethren by the broad shoulders of the Wall. Access stairs lead into each tower, but the steps are uneven, some narrow, others broad, some steep, others shallow. Soldiers stationed on the Wall would become familiar with the topology, but an invader would stumble and trip over the unpredictable stones. Within each tower are nested rooms, the innermost one with a skylight leading to the roof, where bonfires could be lit, and the outer one like an enclosed balcony overlooking the mountain sides. High arched windows would allow archers to control the approach to the Wall, but the inner wall of the watchtower would protect troops within from direct attack. pic: a watchtower

Today, the towers are empty stone rooms, but one can still feel the presence of generations of soldiers who lived in the tiny rooms, protecting the kingdom from the barbarians. pic: a watchtower

We walked along the Wall for about a kilometer, a tiny fraction of its full length, and the uneven terrain and topology made for an exciting walk. At places, we would gingerly make our way down steep steps that were barely wide enough for our feet and so close together that they resembled a ship’s ladder, carefully placing our feet sideways like Charlie Chaplin, so that we had a secure foothold, and clutching the walls for added comfort. At other points we had to huff and puff up high steps that brought our knees up almost to waist level with each step. There were stretches where the steps were so shallow, they almost resembled a ramp, but even here, one would suddenly encounter a narrow step that caused one to stumble and skip. pic: On The Wall

pic: the walk down When we decided to step off the Wall and walk down to the car, we realized it might have been smarter to have opted for the cable car ride down as well. It was a thirty minute walk back, all of it steeply downhill, although the pavement was a modern one. We discovered the next morning that walking downhill can tire out your calf muscles just as surely as walking uphill. Our calves were stiff for the rest of our stay in China, and all staircases we took subsequently, we did so very slowly like old arthritic pensioners, wincing every time we had to take our weight on our heels.

We hobbled back to the car, with a brief stopover at a Happy House, a repeat encounter with I-remember-you, you-remember-me Jin and his buddies and a nod of the head and a pat on the nose to my Bactrian gentleman friend in his fur coat.

First Lunch (and other meals)

All that traipsing up and down the Wall had helped us work up an appetite, so when Leon announced lunch was next on the agenda that sounded very welcome. The one hour drive to the restaurant did not, however.

We had been promised Sichuan food and we asked for authentic fare, no namby-pamby tourist meal. Liu drove us to a large restaurant that was festooned in red lanterns and we were whisked up to the first floor, into a large hall that was packed with patrons.

We left the ordering in Leon’s hands after advising him that we were not adventurous enough to try delicacies like dog or snake or monkey brains. Leon seemed startled and hastened to assure us that “No more such food in Beijing. Maybe many years ago, maybe in village.” I think he was bluffing.

Little bowls of Chinese tea were placed before each of us and Liu was sufficiently enthused at the thought of the imminent arrival of the food to toast us with a hearty “Gambay!” which Leon translated as “Cheers!”

The first course arrived: thin slices of cold pork artfully arranged on a saucer with a bowl of soy sauce. We each picked up a slice with our chopsticks (I was quite impressed with my own chopsticks prowess) and dunked it in the sauce. The temperature of the meat was unnerving: we were more used to hot meals; but the sauce was surprisingly good. Surprisingly, because it started off as a rather ripe taste, like something soured and gone bad, but within two chews it transformed into a rather pleasant meaty taste. Leon and Liu were watching us anxiously, well, Leon was; Liu was more concerned with getting his calories in.

The pile of pork slices diminished rapidly, but before it vanished altogether, a large tureen arrived at the table. It contained hot water, lots of herbs and greens, slices of freshwater fish, peppercorns and what appeared to be a kilo of red chillies. (These are chillies as in peppers, not beans.) The chillies were small, fat and looked quite lethal. Our waitress allowed us a glimpse of the concoction before spooning up all the chillies with a ladle and carrying them off, perhaps for re-use. Apparently, you weren’t supposed to eat the chillies, just borrow their flavour for the fish.

The fish was superb! The soft flesh melted in one’s mouth and the pungent peppercorns added a piquant flavour. There were small soft bones that you could crunch up or spit out. No genteel covering of the mouth and picking out the bones to delicately place them on the side of your plate. No sir, you found a bone, you spat it out right there onto your plate or onto the floor behind you. At least that’s what Leon and Liu were up to, and I guess they should know.

We devoured the fish like a bunch of hungry tomcats gathered around a communal trough. Before long, a succession of dishes arrived: egg fried rice, tofu spring rolls, greens, noodles and beef. The spring rolls were particularly noteworthy: unlike our native variant where the outer crust is wheat-flour based, these had the crust made from bean curd and were filled with fresh greens and shredded chicken; the overall effect was satisfyingly crunchy and crisp.

Meals in China tended to be a community affair, in the sense that everyone dipped their chopsticks into a common serving dish and transported the food straight to mouth rather than stopping it off at a plate en route. The only exception to this was rice and noodles, which was spooned into tiny bowls and then chopsticked up with the bowl held close to one’s mouth while the chopsticks worked frantically to shovel the food in. Eating noodles from the bowl also involved much slurping and rude noises.

This method of bite-sized portions with each chopstick load, dipping into whatever dish caught your fancy after the last mouthful and the use of small bowls to limit the amount you served yourself each time, made for an interesting dining experience. Each mouthful seemed to have its own distinct flavour unlike the Indian experience where flavours get intermingled in the plate and hence on the palate.

I don’t intend to undertake graphic descriptions of every meal we had in China, but this first one was pretty representative. Other memorable dishes at other meals include a fish fried in crisp batter, spiked and cut to resemble a lion’s mane and drowned in a tangy orange sauce, exquisite steamed dumplings that for some reason were rationed to one per head at each meal, greens that were so vividly green that they looked like they had just stepped out of a Van Gogh painting, and sweet watermelon slices to round off each meal.

We had been urged to try the rice wine, but such potions hold no delight for us, so we stuck to Chinese herbal tea, water and the ubiquitous canned sodas. (Pepsi is allegedly the market leader in China.)

We generally arose from each meal feeling like satisfied pythons. All the exercise we needed we got from the long walks and the handling of chopsticks, which develops the wrist and finger muscles. I’m sure Chinese don’t suffer from carpal tunnel syndrome. Entirely, by the way, chopsticks are such an illogical, unnatural, unwieldy, unergonomic way to pick up pieces of food, that I’m surprised that a civilization that could discover paper, writing and gunpowder, to name but a few, couldn’t think up a more efficient way to stuff one’s face.

Day Two: The Summer Palace

After lunch it was time for a short drive to the Summer Palace. The Summer Palace was built primarily for the Dowager Empress and comprises a number of halls and pavilions, temples, gardens and an impressive lake that is about four kilometers in circumference.

After running the gamut of the usual vendors of cheesy Chairman Mao watches, postcards, picture booklets, fake Rolexes and faker Mont Blanc pens, we entered the gates of the Summer Palace.

The entrance is a suitably impressive tall grey brick structure flanked by tall cypress trees; over its roof towers a twin level pagoda with red pillars and lattice panels. pic: entrance Just past the entrance is a stepped bridge guarded by a Chinese gate designed to keep out evil spirits and keep in good fortune. These gates are everywhere (including the various Chinatowns across the globe – I’ve seen similar ones in London and San Francisco) and consist of three square arches, the middle one higher than the other two. They have intricately carved roofs with lions or dragons atop each of the four pillars that support the gate and are brightly coloured with complex designs and ideograms. pic: stepped bridge and gate

The stepped bridge is just that, a flight of marble steps that leads to the top of the bridge and another flight that leads down the other side. The top of the bridge is crowned with a little pagoda and it straddles a canal that feeds into the lake. From the bridge you can see a marble palace carved to resemble a boat. It is here that the Dowager Empress used to receive visitors and make her appearances to impress the multitudes. pic: boat palace

Leon told us a charming story about a eunuch courtier who used to visit the palace before the Empress’s scheduled stay and feed the fish and the birds around the boat palace. They got so used to the feeding that they would flock to the boat palace rather than flee at the approach of humans. When the Empress came to for her annual visit, she was captivated by the tame fish and birds that came as if to pay her homage at the boat palace. She realized that this was the handiwork of the eunuch and promptly made him a general and gave him riches and rewards beyond compare. (Not that anyone lived happily ever after.)

We walked along the lake shore in a long corridor reminiscent of the one at the Temple of Heaven, and as long too. The panels of this corridor and the rafters were intricately painted, each one representing a different scene, some of war and soldiers on horseback, others of birds and monkeys and flowers, yet others were landscapes in winter and summer; there were over 2000 such scenes along the length of the corridor. Between the corridor and the lake was a natural corridor created by an avenue of cypress trees. pic: detail of long corridor

As we walked along the corridor, we passed a hall with the evocative if lengthy name, “Hall of Listening to the Singing Orioles”. A bit further on, we were accosted by a young man who spoke impeccable English and invited us in to see a collection of original paintings on rice paper. There was a small art school on the premises and the teachers and students exhibited and sold their paintings from a small wooden shed tucked away under some trees. We accepted his invitation largely because it was cold outside and the shed promised some temporary warmth.

Inside, the shed was divided into four tiny rooms connected by a corridor and every inch of the walls was covered with hangings of all sizes. The skill and virtuosity was breathtaking. There were large paintings of tigers and birds. There were long paintings of characters from Chinese history. There was a huge painting of a grandfather playing with his grandson in a farmyard where little chicks ran about helter-skelter. In another corner were small paintings featuring stylized little black and red fishes representing yin and yang. In the corridor a detailed painting of a bare-breasted Chinese concubine seduced me with her exquisite beauty.

Unfortunately, my wife preferred a painting of two herons.

For the first time we got to use our Indian bargaining skills. The bidding started at 400 yuan. My wife cut the ground from under his feet by offering 150 yuan. There were gasps of dismay. The price tumbled to 300. Our offer crept up to 200. There were whispered consultations with seniors in another room and the price slumped to 250. But there was much protestation about the quality of the paper and the originality of the theme and the seniority of the artist. Honour was satisfied with the deal struck at 250 yuan. The painting was reverently rolled up and packed in a cardboard box and the money changed hands even more reverently. I bid a reluctant farewell to the bare-breasted concubine and we left.

We continued our stroll through the Summer Palace gardens passing more pavilions with ornate names: “The Hall of Happiness in Longevity”, “The Hall of Benevolence And Longevity”. I’m not sure why one had Happiness as a result of Longevity while the other had Benevolence as a concomitant of Longevity. Flaky translation, perhaps. pic: Hall of Happiness in Longevity

Outside one of these were a dragon and a phoenix carved in bronze. These are recurring motifs in Chinese architecture and are usually used to guard entrances. Another oft-seen pair of guardians is a lion and a lioness. The lion is on the right of the entrance with his right forepaw on a globe, symbolizing power and might. The lioness is on the left with her left forepaw over a lion cub that is sprawled on its back, laughing up at its mother. The mother-child couple symbolizes love and caring and family values. The summer palace had a huge pair of these lion guardians outside the Hill of Fragrance, which was a tall temple with a typical three level pagoda roof, approached by twin flights of steep stairs that formed a pyramid with its apex at the foot of the building. pic: guardian lioness

Outside the Hill of Fragrance were twelve blocks of limestone that were natural formations allegedly resembling the twelve years in the Chinese cycle of years: Tiger, Rat, Horse and so on. We were educated in the interpretation of the stone that was supposed to resemble the Rabbit, but if we hadn’t been told we would never have guessed. To me it looked more like a bull, but once the rabbit’s ears were pointed out, it kind of made sense. On the whole, though, this stones story struck me as if someone had been taking the Empress for a ride. Maybe they were stoned. pic: outside the Hill of Fragrance

In front of the last pavilion, I think the Hall of Benevolence and Longevity, was a large bronze statue of a strange mythical beast called a Kylin. Visitors entering the Palace grounds through that gate would see this creature first and presumably would be struck dumb with awe and terror. It had the head of a lion, the hooves of a goat, the scales of a fish, the antlers of a deer and the tail of a dragon. Presumably it also had the identity crisis of a lifetime and the digestive system of a rat. pic: Kylin

We emerged from the Summer Palace grounds enriched with a painting and sped off to Tiananmen Square.

Day Two: Tiananmen Square

Tiananmen means Gate of Heavenly Peace. Quite ironic, considering the event of ’89 that pushed it into the limelight. Today, there is no sign that the Square is anything other than a large open space in the middle of a city. Leon informed us that it is the largest square in any city in the world, large enough to hold a million people, which it frequently does, apparently.

We approached the Square from behind Chairman Mao’s Mausoleum, a square building with Greco-Roman pillars that looks as if it started out to resemble the Parthenon, then changed its mind and made a half-hearted attempt to acquire a quasi-Chinese roof.

We tumbled out of the car at the side of the Square, watched suspiciously by a couple of police officers who were manning a pedestrian crossing in a desultory fashion. We scurried across the wide road, narrowly avoiding damage from the cars that whizzed by in an anti-clockwise direction around the square.

At the corners of the Square proper were military guards looking very smart in olive green greatcoats, belted tightly around the waist; in silhouette they looked like two triangles that came together at the waist. With Buckingham Palace’s Coldstream Guards in mind, I asked Leon if taking pictures of the guards was allowed. He looked startled and brusquely shook his head, as if he didn’t want to discuss it further. He increased his pace until we were safely past the guards and there was no danger of my provoking an incident by photographing obviously proscribed institutions.

The quickened pace was quite welcome, for the sun had vanished behind the clouds, the wind had turned blustery and it was bitterly cold. There were some people flying kites and as we braved the cold breeze to turn our faces to the grey sky, we noticed a variety of fascinating shapes in the sky. There were kites shaped like giant birds, a phoenix, an eagle; others were in the shape of dolphins or whales or sharks; the usual geometric shapes that we were used to in the Bombay skies were strangely absent.

As we tramped through the Square, dodging the ubiquitous Chairman Mao watch and postcard sellers, its sheer size became increasingly apparent. Facing the mausoleum was Tiananmen, the Gate of Heavenly Peace, a high, deep red, brick wall, over the top of which peeped the obligatory two level Chinese pagoda roof. The outstanding feature on the otherwise blank wall was a huge portrait of Chairman Mao, flanked by two horizontal signboards in Chinese. pic: Tiananmen In front of the portrait, across the road, on the square proper, was a tall flagpole with the national flag fluttering in the breeze. A large crowd had gathered around the flag. There must have been a couple of hundred people, braving the bitter cold, waiting for the flag lowering ceremony at sundown. A few white-capped folk were obvious Japanese or Korean tourists, but the rest seemed to be citizens. pic: us at the Square

The light was failing rapidly and the cold was intensifying. I hurriedly clicked a few pictures of the buildings adjoining the square, one of which I remember was the People’s Museum. Communist architecture seemed to favour Grecian pillars and a grandiose Soviet style statement, rather than traditional Chinese styles. A pity, really, for the Chinese style has a refreshing grace; the more modern structures could have been transplanted from Moscow or Leningrad (or more disturbingly, from Albert Speer’s Reich architecture). pic: The People's Museum

Leon purchased a kite on our behalf, unasked: perhaps he felt the kite-seller’s economic status needed some impetus.

We were happy to get back to the warmth of the hotel and we celebrated by ordering from room service, the largest hamburger I’ve been privileged to devour, and a fairly terrible baked cheesecake. pic: me and hamburger

Our brief Beijing bash was over. The next morning Leon would drop us at the airport and we would be in Shanghai by 10:00 a.m.

Day One: "Happy House"

China was in a word, wonderful! We had an 11-hour flight to Beijing with a brief stopover in Singapore - enough to stretch our legs and walk to the next gate. We reached Beijing at 2:30 in the afternoon and were met at the airport by Leon, who was to be our guide for the two days that we were there. He was a short, young man with a friendly smile. We had been warned that Chinese people are rather unfriendly and grim - don't believe it - they are friendly, cheerful smiling people, and I think it's not just "smiles for tourists".

We introduced ourselves and were about to head out to the car, when Leon had us stumped. "Is a long drive to the temporary heaven, so you want to visit the happy hourse?" That last word is a cross between "hours" and "house". We must have looked completely blank, because he went on to elaborate, "We drive maybe 1 hour 15 minutes, so you want to go to happy hourse?" Blankness and bewilderment. "You know, the toilet...?" Ah, Happy House!!! What a delightful phrase! I'm going to use it forever.

Of course, we wanted to go Happy House, so that's where we went before bundling into the car for a drive to "temporary heaven". Now here's where my superior knowledge came in handy. I had a copy of the itinerary in my bag so I sneaked a look at it to confirm that "temporary heaven" meant "Temple of Heaven". It's true what they say about the Chinese pronunciation of the ell sound.

Beijing is a modern city with wide roads, bumper-to-bumper traffic, towering steel and glass skyscrapers, the works. You could be in Toronto or downtown Minneapolis as you look out your window. I guess this is what globalisation and the global village is all about: every place begins to look like every other place. In one sense it's reassuring, in another, it's quite a shame, because the local flavor gets leached out of everything. As a capital city of 13 million people, Beijing also reminded me of New Delhi, with its diplomatic enclaves and ring roads (Delhi has 1, Beijing has 9!).

Day One: The Temple of Heaven

The "Temporary Heaven" is a 600 year old temple complex built on 250 hectares of garden and has pavilions and long walks and gardens and of course, the Temple proper called the Hall of Prayer (see pic of us shivering in front of it). At the entrance is a long corridor, called, of course, The Long Corridor (what did you expect?) that is over half a kilometer long. It's just a roof on stilts with a little parapet running along its length. pic: The Long Corridor

The fun part is that it's a meeting ground for the local public. Chinese gather there through the day in little and large groups, some playing cards and some just sitting around and watching. But amazingly, most of them come there to sing! There are small groups and large groups, some have just a single two-stringed instrument like an undernourished fiddle, others have a complete brass band and others are a cappella. And they are all singing! There are groups standing next to each other singing completely different songs and not getting mixed up. You just land up at the corridor, find a group you like and join in. You don't need to know a soul, you don't need to be able to sing in key, you just join in! You don't even need to join the group: there were some pensioners who were sitting on the parapet with their backs to the main group, singing along in perfect harmony. Amazing! I've never seen anything like it anywhere in the world. Other places you have performers and an audience. Here the performers are the audience and vice versa. There was one large group where a lady from the audience was competing with the fiddler. He'd scrape out a note and she'd shriek it back, he'd scrape another, and she'd yodel it back. Everyone was in splits watching their antics like a street opera. Another group of two determined matrons started belting out a number in a corner and they were quickly joined by more, as passersby joined in. They seem a very musical people, which is not something one normally associates with them.

The weather was 5 Celsius with a brisk breeze that pushed it down to below zero - nothing like Minnesota, but cold enough for me, thank you. I thought I had lost my nose at one point, because I couldn't feel it. I did find it later in the car.

The Hall of Prayer is a wonderful circular wooden structure in a three-level cylindrical pyramid shape. The Chinese are very strong on symbolism and its round shape is symbolic of the heavens. Inside there are four main pillars, one for each season and twelve surrounding pillars, one for each hour of the day: their days were reckoned as twelve hour ones, not twenty four hour ones. The three roofs were originally three colors, the top one blue for heaven, the middle one yellow (I forget for what) and the lower one green for earth. pic: The Hall of Prayer

In adjacent halls are exhibitions of ancient musical instruments (pipes, drums, fiddles) and religious ceremonies performed at the temple. The complex was visited only 3 times a year by the emperor and the rest of the time was kept locked up - no commoner could visit. Profligacy! The three occasions were the Chinese New Year, and the Summer and Winter Solstices. After the Revolution it was opened to the public. pic: Annexe

There are walks between cypress trees and along paved paths, through elaborate wooden gates, behind one of which is the emperor's palanquin, in which he used to be carried to the hall by 36 soldiers - big palanquin, eh?

After our visit to the "temporary heaven" we were dropped off to our hotel, and the morning and the evening were the first day.

Well, not quite. There was the little matter of dinner. Japanese, we decided. After all, when in China, eat Japanese. In Spain we had feasted on Italian and in England on Lebanese, so sushi and tempura in Beijing made sense. Fairly awful, actually, but the chopsticks practice came in handy later on the trip. pic: Japanese dinner in China