Beijing Blues and Reds

One week into our Chinese sojourn, we find ourselves in the city of Beijing, wandering through hopelessly enormous crowds. Up in the muggy sky, we only see smog, although occasionally a red flag will flutter into our line of vision. Down below, there are beardless young soldiers carrying artillery and marching up Tian'anmen Square without any particular intent. Ahead of us, the Forbidden City sprawls, its small gates hiding its almost inconceivable hugeness.

Everywhere, we are overwhelmed by the city's fullness. It is like a heavy-handed drink that will not let us forget how fiercely it consumes us, how easily it glides down our throats and yet how hotly it sits in the pits of our stomachs. 

People come at us from everywhere. It is easy to lose sight of each other, to get lost among the crowds that pour out of the subway entrances in droves. Young art students approach us. Won't we walk down the road to take a look at an exhibit? Pretty young things tap our shoulders shyly. Won't we let them practise their English speaking skills on us? Dozens of touts shove brochures into our hands. Don't we want the best possible discount to go to the Great Wall? School kids gather around us. Won't we take photographs with them?

But no. We want none of these things. We have been told not to trust anyone, not even to talk to anyone. We look straight ahead and refuse to be drawn into conversation. Our foreignness is both our weakness and our strength.

The prodigious crowds are so fast-paced and charged that the city has an appearance of coldness. But in places like the Altar of Heaven, a vast Taoist temple, we are surprised by another side of the city. Groups of elderly citizens gather together to play Mahjong or Chinese Checkers. Young parents bring their children in prams and walk the gardens together. Couples take up cozy spots by the Ming ruins. And everywhere, even in the most crowded of spots, we see people of all ages standing together practising Qigong or Tai-Chi. It is as though time moves slowly in some places to make up for its speed elsewhere.

The wind exhausts us. We clutch our wind-breakers to our bodies as we walk around the Bird's Nest Stadium, an elegant but somewhat confusing structure that, to us, encapsulates perfectly the bizarre elegance and structured madness of this country. At the vast and labyrinthine Summer Palace, we are almost blown away by the ceaseless winds. The dust in the air finds its way into our hair and eyes and fingernails and, eventually, into our memories of the city.

It is also a self-congratulatory city. Its signboards throw out powerful adjectives that describe the wonders they represent. 'Beautiful Gate of Summer Palace', the sign boards inform us, or 'Extraordinary Pool of Autumnal Moonlight' or even 'Best Pagoda'. Just outside a rest area is a signboard that says 'Scenic Rest Spot'. It hurts us that they do not trust our judgement of beauty or our taste in rest areas. We plough on.

In the Forbidden City, each hall has a name that qualifies it. We enter through the Gate of Supreme Harmony into the Hall of Military Eminence. To our right is the Hall of Literary Glory. The Palace of Heavenly Purity and the Hall of Mental Cultivation are ahead of us. Further down is the Palace of Tranquil Longevity. These names and titles are imposing and amusing in equal parts. 

We enter early in the morning and, through the six hours that we spend there, we get lost at least six times. Again and again, the grandeur and extravagance fills us with awe, and, after a while, we do not mind getting lost. In the evening, just as the sun begins to set, we end up at the Imperial Garden to exit through the Gate of Divine Might. Somehow, perhaps because of who we are and where we come from, we begin to understand the ostentation of these titles. It is all part of the country's aesthetic of drama and opulence. And it feels right.

But the next day, on the long drive up to Mutianyu, from where we will climb the Great Wall, we look out of our windows with apprehension. Will the wall be everything that we were told it would be? Or is 'great' just another one of the adjectives that this country is far too generous with? We are afraid of being disappointed, afraid too that we have become cynical.

And then, something magical happens. We go up the hill and stand at Fortress Number 6 of the Great Wall and suddenly, there, right in front of us and right behind us, the wall stretches... infinitely. We cannot see where it begins or ends, we cannot fathom its length, and we cannot even begin to to come to terms with its scope. Standing there, we no longer feel committed to a moment in time or space. Instead, we are pulled into a blinding series of possibilities. The moment, like the wall itself, is limitless. And it is breathtaking. 

We begin an arduous trek along the wall, counting fortresses as we go along. Every step we take along the steep and precipitous edges of the wall echoes our amazement. We cannot stop feeling awed. And we do not want to. In some absurd way, this day defines us, it defines this journey that we have taken into China, all that we wanted from it and all that we didn't expect from it. Everything about this country is methodical; yet, at times like this, we find ourselves repeatedly surprised and delighted by the moments of flawed beauty that suddenly come upon us. It is imperfect and wonderful.

Our days in Beijing are tiring, filled with people and places in great volumes. In the nights, we make green tea, put our feet up and try to remember the things we did through the day, wondering why even though each day seems so long this trip feels so short.

And now, I think you should read this.