Beijing

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The sliding electric doors parted as I approached. Before me unfolded the arrivals lobby of the airport. The usual crowd filled the room: taxi drivers soliciting rides for exorbitant prices, elegant ladies sitting alone avoiding eye-contact, Western travelers plotting the next move. Yet four distinct groups of mainly men formed around four wide-screen television posts. All were absorbed in a football match.
China was playing in its first-ever World Cup tournament against Costa Rica and the nationalist pride of the Chinese was on display. The television poked its screen out above the head level of the Chinese men, who were all about the same height. Eyes glued to the white controversial football, they stood straight with their arms crossed, head pivoting back and forth as the ball volleyed across the screen. A sudden rumeur spread throughout the mass as the ball neared the Costa Rican side of the field (still 40 meters from the goal). The Chinese players were never able to pose a threat, yet the mere thought of the Chinese team scoring sizzled in every citizen's mind.
The next morning, thanks to jet lag, I had no trouble waking up early to watch Beijing rise. Even by six, slim Chinese men were busily loading and cleaning in the dank alleyway behind the hotel restaurant. Out on the boulevard, the commute was underway: small cars flowing down the unmarked road, nicely dressed ladies rushing to work, or folks simply strolling for their first breaths of the morning. A legion of guards in formation jogged past in cadence. Western businessmen occupied the patio of the American coffee shop, talking into one palm and sipping a pricey cup of java with the other. Resolute, I refused the urge to purchase a coffee there, hoping the morning would prove invigorating enough.
Thirty minutes further down the boulevard, the first sign of monumental Beijing rose before me like an levitating spacecraft: Worker's Stadium. It possessed an admirable lack of decor, a majestic grandeur that needed no foofaraw. The only iconography consisted of four statues at each entry of the compass rose with the likeness of proud athletes bathed in their glory. I passed through the iron grill gate, eyes fixed on the statue before me. A male and female athlete were stepping forward each with the central foot, and each holding one flag that blew back towards the ground behind them. It's whiteness purified the low, hazy sky of the Beijing summer. These anonymous paragons for the people elicited a sense of elegance and achievement. I began to admire it.
When my eyes fell from their stoic gaze, I realized that several citizens were spread out on the esplanade before the stadium. Each was engaged in a morning ritual. To my left a lone man was balancing on one foot while raising the other and his arms into the air, swinging his arms around to the front of his face with a focused stare at an imaginary target, letting his foot down easily on the ground, and bringing his hands in to his chest, mimicking prayer. I'd read about taiji, but had never seen it. Before me, another man performed similar movements, only with a glistening sword. Completely ignoring me, these two proudly exercised their routine to skilled perfection.
To my right stood several men at a barrier with their backs turned to me. Following their raised head into the sky, I realized they were flying kites. A sudden thought sprouted in my mind: when was the last time I had seen someone flying a kite? I failed to summon any conscious memory similar to the sight of these distant tufts of fabric dangling in midair. Had flight become so commonplace for me that watching an object swim through the breeze failed to stimulate fantasy? Bystanders stood along the barrier also admiring the simple, yet so peaceable display of dream.
Turning to the closed stadium, I joined the flow of joggers running laps around the outside. Some, like me, strolled. Rounding the building, I came to an adjacent park where many were just loitering amongst the trees. I noticed a woman standing alone, slapping herself! She slapped her back, her forearm, her chest, her legs, etc. Perplexed, I looked about and saw several others doing the same form of what I supposed to be calisthenics.
A group of men chatted beneath a tree. One of them suddenly swung his leg up in the air. Oh he's stretching as well. Still conversing, his friend abruptly jumped up and grabbed a limb of the tree. Still conversing, he just hung there for a minute! (head seemingly detached before his outstretched limbs.)
Elsewhere, one man stood motionless staring at the water of the pond. Another prepared his fishing pole on the bridge. On her own, a lady comfortably performed taiji in the shade of the morning sun. It was seven o'clock.
Nearing the edge of the park, I came upon couples amongst a grove of strategically planted trees. Their bicycles leaned on the trunks. One of them plugged in a well-used tape player and found the play button. Soothing sheng flute emitted from the antique speakers. Each couple naturally came together into a half-embrace and began to sway about. I lingered for several minutes enjoying the performance of the joyful dance and music.
I exited the park overwhelmed at the communal seizing of the break of day. Do these Chinese not desire caffeine in the morning? How can they get up so early to happily dance and stretch? These faithful citizens seem to display no trouble at warding off boredom.

Out on the boulevard, one comes upon a large billboard displaying the brackets and results for the World Cup matches. The final score is written in bold, black marker in each of the boxes, save China's. In the Brazil and Costa Rica rows the China finals are written in faint, fine print. In China's row, the goalless losses are replaced by a depiction of their bold red flag.


No visitor who has the means and will to make it to Beijing can forget to make the trip to the Great Wall, except myself. Feeling dwarfed by the expanse of the metropolitan boulevards fading into the haze, I nearly failed to conjure up the determination to pay for the excursion. I feared a flea market of tourism with vendors perched in every crenellation hawking their postcards or sweatshop attire or two-dollar bottled water. A president had recently visited the legendary fortification which, lacking any sign of age, appeared to have been built in the latest century. At the hostel, travelers were aware of an amusement park atmosphere drawing hordes and throngs at Badaling, the probable location of the diplomatic scene. Fortunately, a meager fee and the opportunity of a lifetime inveigled me to join a group headed to the more rural Huanghua section.
As we plowed through the haze and traffic of a weekday morning, I tried to imagine how such a hallowed wall for defense could arise from these suffocating surroundings. Would the city come to an abrupt end and immediately yield to mountainous vegetation? The insane urbanity lasted for minutes upon minutes, tripping through every pothole and penetrating every suburban market. The bus dust blew over a table of men crouched over their fried rice and dumplings breakfast. Chickens scurried away and rickshaws coasted behind. Around a bend, a mount suddenly shot up like a beacon of promise. Then, another geyser joined beside. Patches of green and fallow fields arrived and soon the countryside engulfed our relieved minds. As the Emmental road began to rise, the lush mounts and peaks gathered round the bus shielding the sore sights and coarse sounds of Beijing. The serpentine road led us through whispering valleys around snug bends and on fragile cliffs. Around one such bend, my eyes finally espied a stone segment draped across an arboreous mount, like a crown upon a hirsute prince. Was that truly the Wall? My disbelief stemmed from its innocence and harmless aspect. Just as I was about to capture it on a photograph, it quickly disappeared around a bend. We came to a village of a few hundred people and returned to our feet just at the egress of the town. The wall dipped down from the ridge into the gully where we stood, crumbled at the edge of a reservoir dam, and continued up the other side towards the sky. From a roadside shack, a stout lady approached our guide. A nearby cardboard sign indicated 2 Yuen in scribbled marker. The two briefly talked and ended without payment. After exercising funambulist skill in balancing between an eerily still reservoir and a magnetized ravine, we came upon a thatched shack with benches, chickens and two officious locals with signs and cigarettes: another toll booth. Again, our guide exerted his persuasion and invited us past.
We attained the first stone tower with ease and looked back down with disdain at the greedy. At the next tower, we came upon two men playing cards. Beside them was laid out a blanket with several trinkets, tourbooks and provisions for sale. A makeshift treelimb ladder stood next to them. Normally, they levied a fee but, seeing our guide, invited us to climb. The dried limbs and wire joints withstood my weight and I was soon at the top. This vantage spread over the entire ridge, which was crowned with the stone wall and periodic two storey towers. The scene was seizing, saisissant to a Frenchman, but not in an expected way. I had not anticipated a rudimentary construction six feet in height, crumbled by time at places and overgrown with shrubs. Yet, it was lovely in its resiliency, its figure-skater grace gliding across the landscape, its nonchalance and lack of pretense. By this time, I had gotten to know Luc, a Chinaman from the far northwestern corner of the country and fellow roommate at the hostel. A doctor on vacation, he had come to Beijing to experience the capital firsthand and to catch up with modernity. (He had the misfortune of purchasing a laptop of unfamiliar make for a seemingly good price, only to have it crash the following day.) He was a boon companion, genuine in dialogue, accomplished in his English comprehension, and patient as a desert. Whereas we Westerners lugged bags and cameras and food, he brought a sole fifty centiliter bottle of water.
He and I drifted in and out of conversation as the wall dipped and rose, each apex higher and more demanding than the previous. At the second panorama point, our dialogue disintegrated into silence. Here was a veritable breathtaking vantage afforded to the strong in stamina and encompassing the whole mountain range. Only the wind spoke as we all stood in solitude and in awe of the moment. Luc broke the silence with careful words, "this is really beautiful."
Moving forward, we immediately stopped at the sight of path ahead. The rocky surface of the wall arched forth without parapets and disappeared into the valley spread out below. Looking at each other incredulously, we walked the plank making sure each step downward was a stable one. I stayed behind the others so as to let the heights linger. Looking to the left a larger peak loomed, the slope of which would require climbing gear. A higher peak to whet the appetite, a further limit to reach, a threshold as of yet unattained. Picking up a porous chunk of the wall, I pondered its substance and the substance of this experience. For many, this moment is the pinnacle of a life of toil, the reward for a well-earned home whence to launch one premortal voyage around the globe. Sadly, the aged laborers have to settle for the cosmetic version of the wall that I saw from the train a week later. A youth better ingests the world which will then shape his future, not justify his past. The Wall is for the young, for it has lessons to convey.

Returning one night from Sanlitun bar street with two guys from Seattle, our walk on the broad boulevard was soon accompanied by a group of begging foundlings. The young boys swirled around us like a galaxy as we advanced, undeterred by our ignorance, hands outstretched in a cupped fashion, making sounds that cried the universal message of need. I recognized them. I had seen the group of four earlier in the day outside the zoo several Beijing blocks away, crouched in the dirt off the sidewalk. They formed a tightly-knit gang, the youngest of which must have just learned to walk. Begging was no doubt a lifestyle for them and a successful one in such a sprawled-out city. A constant flow of wealthy tourists with sympathetic hearts should naturally spawn (soliciting). Maybe these boys were indeed poor and forgotten.
I bolted forth away from our human nucleus, spun around on my soles, and crouched, staring at them straight at their eye-level. Stopping dead in their barefoot tracks, their little mouths and wide eyes opened in astonishment, anticipating what would come next.
"FUN!" I shouted. The boys still stared at me, perplexed.
"FUN!" I said emphatically, shaking my arms and looking at each boy.
They looked at each other with rounded mouths and curious eyes.
"Fan?" one of them replied. The others echoed. "Fan!"
"Fuuuuuuhn!" I growled, skipping forth. The boys excitedly followed, chanting this unfamiliar word. The new friends from Seattle joined in the euphoric parade, running ahead and posing like black-belts. One faced-off with them for fun, kicking in the air and dancing about.

We continued to chant the word as we advanced towards the esplanade of the Dragon Hotel, near our hostel. Outside stood a harmless guard, whose eyes hid in the darkness under his spotlit brim. Nearing the entrance of the luxury hotel, the boys halted in their path and chant upon seeing this symbol of authority. Before I knew it, they had darted back down the boulevard into the obscure night.

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Photos

Beijing Airport
Welcome to the World Cup mania of China

Bicycles and dancers
Oh, it's 6:30am

The latest scores... almost
Notice that in the grid for China, all of their losses are replaced by a flag.