Off the Beaten Track

Although China is now a major tourist draw, there are still places off the beaten track where a glimpse of a traditional China unspoiled by tourism is possible. Generally, these sites are outside the major east coast cities, in more remote regions of the country. I hoped that the itinerary I planned for my trip out of China would offer some. I was going to start in Beijing, then go south by train to Taiyuan then on to Pingyao and Xian. I would make my last stop in Yunnan, one of the most remote and still undeveloped regions of China.

My journey began with some pleasant surprises. For one it snowed. I got to see the Great Wall and Beijing in snow—an unusual opportunity. But I also found some remnants of China as it has long been in the heart of major tourist attractions. Who would have guessed, for example, that a Buddhist prayer wheel in Beijing’s most famous lamasery, the Yong Hegong, would need to be oiled.

Or that snow on the city walls of Xian must be cleared away with shovels and wheel barrows. (Note the wheel is centered underneath the barrow—a Chinese invention which decreases the energy needed to push or pull a heavy load.)

My first treat, however, came in Xian where I saw a shadow puppet show. Folktales told with the aid of these puppets were once a popular form of entertainment throughout China. The flat donkey skin figures are decorated with bright colors and intricate patterns cut out of the skin. Their hinged arms and legs can be manipulated by a puppeteer who stands behind a rear-lit translucent screen (often a sheet) on which scenery has been painted. The figures’ delicate shadows are then cast upon the screen before which the audience sits or stands.

When I got to Xian (where shadow puppets are thought to have originated), I mentioned my interest to my host who took me to an old house within the ancient walled city. (The 17^th century house itself was fascinating—a gift from a Ming emperor to a scholar who achieved the second highest grade on the imperial examinations at the age of 12!) For a dollar or two, we were treated to a performance of a traditional folk tale in which a young man disguised as a vendor waits outside the home of his bride-to-be. Neither he nor the girl has seen one another; the marriage had been arranged by a matchmaker. Obsessed with curiosity, he hopes to see the girl before the wedding.

The performance began with the clashing sounds of a traditional Chinese melody as the young man carrying two baskets on his shoulders entered from the left. He put down his load and lit his pipe, smoke curling from its bowl. After some time the young woman appeared from the right. They held a lengthy, teasing conversation and then separated, pleased with one another and the prospect of their coming marriage. After the performance we went behind the sheet to meet the puppeteer, a middle aged man with a broad smile.

Below Xian, in Shanxi province, another ancient town has recently been declared a World Heritage Site and will soon be developed into a major tourist attraction. Somehow the 20^th century passed Pingyao by, leaving its old city walls, well-preserved, traditional shop fronts, narrow streets and ancient bank untouched. A few modern hotels have been constructed behind the walls of traditional homes around their courtyards, but much of the city remains poor and free from tourists. I hit the Pingyao after a snowfall on a morning when teenage boys cast long shadows on the street before them as they made their reluctant way to school.

My last stop was Lijiang in Yunnan Province. One of China’s most isolated and picturesque areas, this province is home to a large number of ethnic minorities. Among them is the Naxi, a matrilineal tribal group who are now farmers.

This region was first made famous by Joseph Rock, an Austrian who settled there in the 1920s. Rock conducted ethnographic research, collected rare plant specimens for Harvard, and wrote illustrated articles for the National Geographic. His accounts of lamas and bandits, religious rites and Naxi tribal customs thrilled readers for several decades.

It was snowing my first day in Lijiang and so the day’s plan to visit a mountain meadow had to be cancelled. I mentioned my interest in Joseph Rock to my host, a young Naxi man. He suggested we change our plans and visit the small village where Joseph Rock’s house still stands, a museum of sorts. I quickly agreed and we soon found ourselves bumping over rough village streets surrounded by views of thickly wooded hills.

It took awhile to find the museum’s caretaker. I spent the time exploring the village. Although there were one or two modern homes (one an architect designed retreat for a wealthy Chinese family from Shanghai), most were traditional Naxi dwellings of stone and wood. These structures had withstood an earthquake some years back, unlike the modern Chinese buildings, prompting a renewed appreciation for traditional Naxi architecture in Lijiang. When the caretaker arrived, my Naxi guide Rock and I sat on the porch sipping tea, our feet warmed by a wood burning brazier on the floor.

The next day was clear, cold and very beautiful. We set out for Tiger Leaping Gorge where the Yangtze drives its way from the Himalayas through granite mountains on its way to central China and the sea. The gorge is threatened by plans for another mammoth, Chinese damn for generating electricity. This morning, however, 21^st century China seemed far away as we drove up in the mountains. High above the Yangtze we stopped at a small lamasery where a young monk promised to offer his prayers for whatever I desired. I decided to ask for long life, wealth and happiness—the traditional Chinese wish. This region is thought to have been the inspiration for James Hilton’s fictitious Shangri-la. It’s not hard to believe that it could inspire any fantasy and that was enough for me.

On the Beaten Track

No visit to China is complete without a trip to the Summer Palace, the Great Wall, the Ming tombs, the Forbidden City and the Terracotta Warriors of Xian. (Of course, there are other famous sites, but these—with the exception of Xian—were within shooting distance of my base in Tianjin.) So donning my tourist persona I set out to visit each of these UNESCO World Heritage Sites before leaving China.

My first was the Summer Palace on the outskirts of Beijing on a lovely fall day—one of the best times of year to visit this playground of the Qing emperors. The site was first used by the Jin emperors in the 12^th century, but it was the Qing Emperor, Qianlong (of the Mountain Retreat in Chengdu fame), who really developed this park-like palace. Its centerpieces are Kunming Hu (Vast Bright Lake) enlarged with conscripted labor by Qianlong and Wan Shou shan (Longevity Mountain) which was created with the soil removed to create the lake.

Qianlong constructed a three storey octagonal Buddhist temple on the mountain side which he named the Tower of the Fragrance of Buddha. To its right on the lake’s northern shore he constructed palaces for himself (and his mother). Surrounding them are numerous small gardens and pavilions with poetic names (The Garden of Harmonious Interest, The Pavilion of Blessed Scenery, The Pavilion for Listening to Orioles), all of which seem more poetic in Chinese than in English!

The palace was heavily damaged by British and French troops in the Second Opium War in 1860. By that time, the notorious Ci Xi had risen to power. Born a member of one of the noble Manchu families, she became a concubine of the Emperor Xianfeng and bore him a son. When the emperor died, she abandoned the Mountain Retreat and rebuilt the Summer Palace (some say with funds intended for the Chinese navy). Here she reigned, a virtual empress, after locking her politically progressive son, the Emperor, in his quarters at the palace. The buildings are filled now with her effects—furniture, porcelains, clothes and calligraphy. I got the impression that today’s Chinese are impressed by her power, but ambivalent about the manner in which she acquired and exercised it.

My next excursion was the Great Wall at Badaling, about 45 miles northwest of Beijing. This is now a major tourist site, overrun with vendors of t-shirts and knickknacks. I visited on a cold and cloudy January day after a snowfall. The wall—much of it reconstructed here for tourists—is impressive as it snakes along the ridges from hill top to hill top. It’s a good workout too, if you walk it as I did, foregoing the chairlift to one of the higher hilltops.

The tour I took to Badaling also included a stop at the Ming tombs, where all but three of the 16 Ming emperors are buried. The Ming chose a scenic valley in which to bury their royalty. The emperors’ tombs were placed under large mounds of earth. Before each is a ‘spirit’ tower visible for miles around. I visited the tomb of the Yongle emperor who died in 1424. Before the tower there is a very large, traditional Chinese hall, notable for its huge cedar columns. On either side are porcelain ovens for burning paper offerings to the dead emperor. (Today’s Chinese continue this practice, burning paper money, cars, houses, washing machines and other offerings to their deceased ancestors.) The grave itself has not been excavated and will not be until the Chinese are confident they have the technology and know-how to preserve the fabrics and other fragile relics within the tomb.

I set out on another cold day to explore the imperial palaces after a recent snowfall. The Forbidden City is a huge complex at what the Chinese historically regarded as the center of the world. (They still refer to their country as Zhong Guo or ‘central country,’ although they no longer view the Forbidden City as its center.) After entering the Meridian Gate, I walked through three vast ceremonial courtyards, each dominated by a pavilion set on a marble terrace. The scale is awe inspiring—just the effect an emperor needs to impress his subjects. (The White House is an ordinary house in comparison—just the thing a ‘presider’ needs to preserve his influence in a democracy. )

After the first three ceremonial courtyards, another three containing the official residences of the emperors follow. I moved through these quickly on my way to a less famous set of buildings to the east. I wanted to find the Juxian dian (Hall for Worshiping Ancestors) which now contains a fine collection of clocks. Although the Chinese invented paper, printing, fireworks and noodles, their best clocks were either sundials or clepsydra. (That’s right clepsydra—never heard of them myself before this.) Clepsydra operate with water which drips evenly from bowl to bowl recording the passage of time. There was a magnificent example within this splendid hall. There were also many fine examples of European clocks collected by the Qing who apparently found them more decorative as well as more reliable.

My final destination was the set of palaces Qianlong constructed in 1722-26 for his retirement. Here he spent the last four years of his life, presumably free of the cares of an emperor, in the Palace of Tranquil Longevity. Most noteworthy are the gardens, a fine example of northern Chinese style. They include a ‘cup-floating stream’ where one was expected to compose a poem as a cup of wine floated by or swallow its contents—a drinking game that is unlikely to prove popular among American students. The small space also includes rockeries, galleries and small pavilions.

No visit to China, of course, would be complete without a visit to the terracotta army of Xian. While I had reservations about seeing it, I thought it best to include a stop there as I worked my way south to Thailand. What excuse could I offer when people asked why I hadn’t seen the terracotta warriors? The army was discovered by a local peasant when digging a well in 1974. (He is still alive and was autographing guide books when I visited.) Since then an additional two pits have been excavated.

The army was buried to defend the tomb of the first Qin emperor who is thought to have unified China, introduced standardized weights and measures and otherwise created a nation out of the feudal states that preceded his often ruthless rule. In addition to the warriors, each with unique facial features, a small bronze chariot thought to have been used to carry the soul of the emperor has also been excavated. The massive display is spectacular. I had to admit it’s a must see.

With Apologies to Tianjin: II

In recent years, China has developed a renewed pride in its cultural heritage. Tianjin is no exception. Although the old city has been ruthlessly demolished to make way for the new, vestiges of old Tianjin remain and are being lavishly restored in recent years.

The Ancient Culture Street adjacent to the river, just east of the old city, is the most famous Tianjinese effort. The street features shops with traditional facades, a second storey tea house in which Beijing Opera is performed, and, somewhat incongruously, escalators. The complex was constructed by Mayor Li Ruihuan after the earthquake of 1976. Here tourists, and many Chinese, swarm in search of traditional crafts and toys. Ni ren, jade, musical instruments, traditional weapons, calligraphy, tea sets and delicate silk embroideries vie for the visitors’ attention, along with small plastic pouches guaranteed to generate healing warmth, snack foods, and herbal remedies.

The very old Tianhou (Heavenly Empress) temple, much of which was restored after a destructive encounter with Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution, stands within the complex. Between it and the river is another temple site where the restored Yuhuan Pavilion stands, all that remains of a temple once containing eight structures.

To the west of the Ancient Culture Street, across the Dongma lu (east horse road) where the old city wall once stood, are a few surviving structures of the old city. Here a Confucian Temple built in 1436 still stands, but it was under construction and closed whenever I attempted to visit. Near the center of the old city (the monumental drum tower there now is clearly shiny and new) is a fine example of a Chinese guild hall complete with courtyards. Built in 1903 by the Cantonese merchants of Tianjin, it houses a stage where Beijing Opera is now performed. It is the only surviving guildhall where the city’s prosperous out–of-town merchants once gathered to exploit their hometown ties in mutually advantageous business partnerships.

Across the river stands the Buddhist Dabai yuan or Temple of Great Compassion founded in the 1670s. Some of it appears quite old, but it is now undergoing reconstruction (in preparation for Olympic tourists?) and it may soon be difficult to tell what is old from what has been completely rebuilt with new materials and paint. This part of the city also contains a fine Muslim mosque founded in 1703.

Tianjin’s community of architects, however, has devoted most of its attention to the city’s 19^th and 20^th century architecture. As a major treaty port, Tianjin is rich in westernized structures reflecting styles popular half way around the world. There are Romanesque and Gothic churches, Italianate, Spanish Revival and Arts & Crafts dwellings, classical banks and even a deco sports center where the Italian community once indulged in gambling. These buildings are carefully marked with shiny plaques which declare them to be under ‘state protection.’

A recent, important and very successful example of restoration efforts is the Jing Yuan (Garden of Serenity), Pu Yi’s last home in Tianjin. It was here that this last Qing emperor agreed to the Japanese proposal to make him the puppet ruler of Manchukuo or Manchuria. The dwelling has been carefully restored and boasts a good orientation video with English subtitles.

Pu Yi’s Spanish revival villa is located in the old Japanese concession area of Tianjin—one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods. Before its restoration, the house had been split into 10 or so official apartments, each of which had been illegally subdivided into another three or four dwellings—30 to 40 families were living where only one had originally dwelt. Comparable crowding is still visible in the nearby streets. (The Japanese presence in China has been deeply resented; in Tianjin, it was the Japanese who demolished the Qing imperial palace beside the Hai He river.)

The city’s cultural life has also been recently strengthened with several fine museums. The Tianjin Museum is housed in a recent, stunning building intended to resemble a swan. It contains a fine exhibit of the city’s history from prehistoric to contemporary times—with only a few jabs at the foreigners who

occupied the concessions. There is also a sophisticated museum memorializing Zhou en lai who attended a Tianjin high school and later Nankai University, just down the road from Tianjin Normal’s Balitai campus. Zhou is well respected, here as elsewhere, for his formidable diplomatic skills which helped to promote the interests and security of the fledgling People’s Republic of China in the world community.

The city hosts numerous concerts in its several major concert halls. I saw a strange Japanese/Chinese performance featuring an entire orchestra of traditional 2 stringed Chinese ‘violins’ in the People’s Gymnasium, as well as performances of western classics by the London Mozart Philharmonia Society, the Athens Symphony Orchestra, and the Chinese National Symphony Orchestra . I attended, by accident, the opening of a rather sophisticated photography show in a small gallery on Machang Dao, as well as an outdoor concert of traditional Chinese choral music, again by accident. (Getting news of these events was not easy—posters appear only at the last moment—and I suspect, as in other matters, much is informally communicated through networks of acquaintances. )

There is ‘low brow’ culture too. A sports lottery does very well; major soccer, badminton, and tennis tournaments are held in the city’s brand new stadiums. Karoke bars (KTV) are very popular. Here young people get together and rent a small room equipped with electronic equipment and a TV monitor.

There’s a new affluence in this city which is enhancing its cultural life, a process that is likely to be replicated by more Chinese cities as they develop. I saw little of Tianjin’s politics, but many commentators now believe the restrictions on the press are generally more relaxed. Some are optimistic too that efforts to establish a more independent legal system and judiciary will succeed. No one, however, seems to believe a multi-party polity is imminent. Some believe popular pressure to establish more representative forms of government has been diverted by the new pleasures of shopping and the enormous rise in standards of living most Chinese now enjoy.

With Apologies to Tianjin: I

Tianjin is not included on the major must-see sites of China. The city is big and sprawling, suffers from dust and air pollution, and lacks major historical, cultural or scenic sites. Yet, it provides a window into the future development of China that is perhaps larger than those available elsewhere. It was one of China’s first cities to industrialize—telegraphs, trolleys and telephones all came to Tianjin early. Despite this, it retains a strong, unmistakable Chinese character to its street life. Its affluence and long exposure to other nations promote a rich and cosmopolitan cultural life. In many of these respects, it compares favorably with Beijing and Shanghai, although it lacks the excitement and vibrancy of those cities.

In my first blog, I wrote that Tianjin could be translated as ‘heavenly spit.’ That was unfair. While Chinese characters are always subject to multiple interpretations, the city’s name is generally traced to a legendary ferry (or jin) crossing made by the Ming Emperor, Cheng zu, or Son of Heaven (Tian) in 1403. It was no more than a village then when the Emperor recognized its strategic importance as sea port and a terminal on the Grand Canal. (The Canal brought grain to the north from southern China.) Designated a garrison town after the Emperor’s crossing, Tianjin grew rapidly in the middle of the river delta where the Grand Canal joins the Hai He river. Even today, Tianjin is notable for its many ponds and canals and the silting dust swirling in from the north.

I was struck when I arrived by the obsessive cleaning the staff gave the floors in the apartment building, their spaghetti mops swishing from side to side down the long corridors every morning. I soon began to notice down every street the mops left to dry, hanging over walls or out of windows. Equally remarkable was the frequency with which the streets and sidewalks themselves were swept.

In less than a week, I noticed a fine layer of dust covering the floors of my suite. No sooner did I sweep or mop it up than it reappeared, even when I kept the drafty windows closed. When winter arrived, the fine dirt was joined by a thin layer of coal dust, a product of the city’s many coal-burning stoves. (Coal is pressed into cylindrical cakes which fit neatly within the stoves; vendors pushing wagon-loads down the city’s streets are a familiar sight.)

Tianjin is making a conscientious effort to reduce its energy consumption, especially from carbon fuels, and improve its air quality. When I first arrived, the Balitai campus was limiting the hot water from its coal burning boiler to several hours in the morning and evening. (After the boiler was converted to electricity, we were allowed lukewarm water 24/7—what luxury.) Central heating is not turned on here (or anywhere in China) until November 15^th. Several years ago, gasoline burning motorcycles were banned in Tianjin and now hapless pedestrians must be even more alert as the electric powered vehicles approach them silently from behind. What’s more, energy efficient fluorescent bulbs are used everywhere.

At the same time, windows and doors in heated buildings are left ajar on even the coldest days to bring in fresh air—many Chinese still believe that fresh air prevents winter colds. City buses in need of a tune-up belch exhaust fumes. And cars—many with but one occupant—are crowding out the bicycles in Tianjin. (Last fall, Tianjin participated in ‘no car day,’ but only a handful of streets were closed to automobiles.)

As elsewhere in China, the streets are notable for their abundant life and activity. Girls offer free samples of tea and soft drinks from sidewalk stands, food vendors are found at every bus stop, Muslim men push carts laden with mounds of dried fruits down the streets, illegal markets (in bicycles and who knows what) are found near major intersections (under the watchful eye of the city’s police), bicycle repair men sit at every corner with a bowl of water for testing leaking tires and a greasy box of tools and parts, and men and women peddle their carts through the neighborhoods crying out for used wood, paper, plastic bottles and other recyclables. There are cricket vendors with large clusters of straw cages, sellers of gold fish sit among bowls of their wares, and puppies wait in small cages for someone to give them a home. You can even get a street-side pedicure.

In the parks, people dance at night, boys roller blade, middle aged men gamble in noisy clusters, and old men fly the kites for which Tianjin is famous. In summer, there’s ping pong and Tai ji quan. There’s fishing in every canal and river, and ice skating and a peculiar form of ‘ice chairing’ in winter. Boards of

Chinese chess are set up wherever there’s a flat surface and two places to sit. And older men can be found in many neighborhoods with their birds, some of which are trained to retrieve seed flung high

into the air above them. Men practice calligraphy with large brushes on the sidewalks. And groups of young people play a kind of badminton in which a brightly feathered shuttle is kept aloft with skillful kicks. Even mourning is a public affair; white suited family can be viewed sitting outside the home of the departed dwarfed by enormous floral displays.

The sidewalks are crowded, not only with pedestrians, but with parked bicycles, motorcycles and automobiles—only a few stores have parking lots or garages as yet. These areas are marked with string

and carefully guarded by the woman or man whose concession—and livelihood—they are. And everywhere there are signs of construction, some of it still labor intensive.

It is a restless city and one which is changing rapidly. I suspect much of the street life will disappear within the next decade or so. Already the Tianjanese report that the food vendors are disappearing, going the way of the ni ren makers and other street craftsmen who are largely a memory now. As more air conditioned, generously sized apartments are constructed, the need to escape into the streets will diminish and privacy—historically suspect in China—will become affordable and normal. A generation raised on television, DVDs and the internet, moreover, are likely to forego public, social recreation as they grow older.

The Back Lake of Beijing

When I asked Hong Miao of the Marywood Library to recommend places to visit in Beijing, she suggested a day at Hou hai lake. (Miao, who helped arrange my sabbatical here, grew up in Tianjin where she attended Tianjin Normal.) So I decided to make my first trip to Beijing a visit to the ‘back’ lake.

Many Tianjinese commute to work in Beijing, exploiting the capital’s higher pay and Tianjin’s lower cost of living. The trip by train, I thought, must be quick and easy. No such luck. First, I had to catch a bus to get to the temporary train station on the opposite side of Tianjin. This takes nearly an hour. To be certain of a ticket on the D536, I had to get to the station at least 30 minutes before departure. Then the train ride itself was another hour. All told, it would take almost 3 hours. I got up early.

The bus to the station was crowded—they always are. This Saturday morning it was filled with college students on their way to a qualifying examination for jobs as immigration officers. These jobs pay well and their job security is high—my students regard them as highly desirable, ‘solid’ jobs. The station was also crowded. But I had no problem getting tickets and I was soon seated on the sleek, new express train linking the two cities. I looked around before boarding hoping to see one of the steam locomotives I had known when I was in China in 1984. Some of the green passenger cars with cream trim were still in evidence, but the coal burning steam locomotives I loved have all been retired.

The Beijing station was even more crowded. China has a large migrant labor force who stream in from the countryside in search of better paying, unskilled jobs—some estimate there are as many as 130 million of them. They were much in evidence this morning, shouldering the potato sacks they use for luggage. Despite discrimination by urban dwellers and exploitation by employers, they continue to flock to China’s cities where they are often housed in temporary metal shelters on or near construction sites.

I had as my guide a student from another university with the improbable English name of Putin. (Students get English names when they begin studying the language in grade school. Some are rough translations of the names their parents gave them, some are intended to resemble the sound of their Chinese name, some I suspect are a teacher’s revenge, and many were probably selected on a whim by the student. The result is an amazing mélange; I taught Clover, Eleven, Shadow, Orange, Apple, Winter, Season, Rainforest, Mercury, Smile, a boy named Rose, and a girl named Bob, as well as many, many more with conventional names such as Mary, Kevin, Wendy, Tracy, and so on.) However Putin acquired his name, he determined that I should see one of Beijing’s major shopping streets, Wangfujing. We set off on foot from the railway station down sunny boulevards, arriving 45 minutes later. Putin was clearly disappointed when I turned down his suggestion that we shop in its major department store.

I soon realized that, although a native of Beijing, Putin was uncertain how to get around. He had overshot Wangfujing by five or more blocks, seemed unfamiliar with Beijing’s subway system, and uncertain of its bus routes. In this he appears to be fairly typical of his generation of Chinese college students. They know a limited number of routes to sites they visit regularly. Beyond that they are often more helpless than a Weiguoren with a map. After walking for almost another hour we grabbed a cab and were soon at the southern end of Hou hai, one of a chain of four lakes northeast of the Forbidden City.

All four lakes lie within the area once enclosed by the city walls. Beijing’s drum and bell towers still stand to the east of them. Once an important feature of all Chinese cities (and of Buddhist temples too), the drum in its tower would mark the passage of time (in two hour units) and the bell the closing of the city’s gates at night. (Beijing’s city walls, sadly, were torn down in the 1950s.)

The lakes have been a favorite residential area for the city’s elite for over 200 years. The last emperor, Pu Yi, is said to have been born in a mansion near Hou Hai. Sun Yat Sun’s widow, Song Quingling, an early supporter of the Chinese Communist Party, later built her home on the site of that mansion. Prince Gong’s nearby home is thought to have been the model for the mansion made famous in The Dream of the Red Chamber, the 18^th century classic Chinese novel. (Just to the south lies Bei Hai where many of the Party’s leaders now reside.) The view from the lake shore was indeed lovely; I could see why the area had been popular for so long.

Putin and I set off along the shore to one of Beijing’s old hutong neighborhoods. There was no mistaking the area; as we approached, we were beset by pedicab drivers clammering to take us on a hutong tour. These traditional city neighborhoods are laid out in grids. The doorways of the enclosed courtyards typically face south, as feng shui requires to protect the homes from the evil forces emanating from the north. As a result, one can easily orient oneself—although Putin still seemed somewhat uncertain of his whereabouts. (Beijing natives say when very happy, ‘I was so full of joy, I didn’t know which way was north!’) These often modest homes are being torn down at a rapid rate, now accelerated in preparation for the 2008 Olympics. Perhaps for this reason, they have become fashionable with foreigners and the city’s emerging middle class, despite their often primitive facilities. The ones we saw were among the poorest. Public restroom lined the alleys—evidently there were no bathrooms—and the courtyards we glimpsed through the doors were small and shabby.

Emerging from the hutongs, we walked down a crooked street of shops. On a corner I spotted a ‘sugar man’ surrounded by onlookers, shaping caramelized sugar into animals on sticks. This street art, known as tanghua or sugar painting, is fast disappearing. There are only a handful of sugar men left in Tianjin and not many more in Beijing. At the beginning of the last century Chinese streets were full of such craftsmen. (Tianjin was especially known for its makers of ni ren or mud men, craftsmen who would fashion from clay in a bucket at their feet whatever human figure buyers requested.)

By the time we returned to the lake it was already dusk. Strings of lights outlined the roofs of the restaurants and shops along the shore. Candles shone of the tables beside the lake. The entire scene was reflected in the water. People were strolling along the streets, stopping for snacks in the comfortable sofas arranged outside the restaurants.

Mindful of the time it would take to return to Tianjin, we got to the station 30 minutes before the train’s departure. There was a large crowd waiting for the doors to the platform to open. As soon as they did, my well-mannered fellow passengers began to crowd toward the single open door. I was soon crushed, wondering what could be the rush when the seats were already reserved—arriving early in one’s car would confer no advantage. I was reminded again that, when in motion, the good manners and deference of the Chinese are abandoned with a vengenance.

China—Through a Classroom Window

One of the nice things about teaching abroad is the opportunities it provides to explore a country more fully than any tourist can. While I have had very little contact with my Chinese colleagues—one of the disappointments of this trip—I have gotten to know my students as a group fairly well and some of them as individuals much better.

Initially, I compared my Chinese students with American students. I soon noticed the many similarities. They are worried about paying for their college education and about getting a job after graduation. Many are shy and reluctant to speak in class—at least at first. And many complete an assignment in the quickest and easiest way possible. (I saw little evidence of the ‘super’ student for which the Chinese are so famous.) Clothes are important, especially among the women. Hair styles change too (making it even more difficult for me to link Chinese names to the corresponding faces). Campus food is universally disliked and the internet widely appreciated (especially for help getting assignments completed quickly). There is also a strong interest in popular culture—Chinese and American (‘Jingle Bells’ in Chinese is a trip).

There were important differences too. When listening to fellow students they easily become bored. Nothing very different about that, except that they then begin conversations with their classmates. A boring presentation is soon drowned out by the drone of low voices around the room. (I have developed real admiration for the presence with which unfortunate presenters soldier on when faced with such disregard.) Toward me they are respectful and solicitous—much more so than American students. More than anything else, however, I am impressed by their consistent cheerfulness and their willingness to look on the bright side of any problem, no matter how much it may trouble them personally.

As I got to know some of them better, I began to catch glimpses of modern Chinese history and social problems. Several of the ten or so I got to know well are the children of parents who had been unable to attend college because they were sent to the countryside to work alongside the peasants during the Cultural Revolution. Many had brothers and sisters, although they were born in the late 1980s well after the one family one child policy was in place. (This is perhaps more often true of those from the more remote provinces than those from Tianjin.) One is the son of a peasant farmer who gladly left his impoverished Heilongjiang village to work in the great oil fields of Daqing. Another lost two aunts as children in the 1950s when the famines during the ‘Great Leap Forward’ began. And another told me of a grandfather whose life was disrupted by the Japanese occupation of Hebei province (just above Tianjin) during the 1930s and ‘40s. All of these family stories were recounted as matters of fact—seemingly without anger or bitterness or even wonder.

Discussions of how they came to attend Tianjin Normal University, however, were frequently edged with regret or disappointment. High school students in China work very hard (unlike American students, need I say). Many described days in which they rose at 6:00 am, attended classes for eight hours during the school day and then went to review sessions in the late afternoon. Evenings were spent on the books until around midnight, when they tumbled into bed, presumably bleary eyed. Work continued into the weekend, when examinations were often held.

The finale came in June when the two day college entrance exam or Gaokao is held. Last year almost 10 million high school students sat for these exams to compete for 5½ million college places. My students, needless to say, were part of the fortunate half who got into one of China’s 1,400 universities. (By way of contrast, there are about 2,300 American bachelor degree-granting institutions which accept far more than half of those who wish to attend college.) The pressures are intense, and depression and suicide are predictable side effects.

My students were not troubled by the exam, but rather by the process which assigns them to a university afterward. The higher one’s score, the better the university one can attend. So far, so good. However, there are different minimal scores in different provinces. So a student in Tianjin (where the minimum is low) can attend a university which at the same time denies admission to a student with a higher score from Hunan (where the minimum is high). Moreover, students must list their first, second and third choice of universities before they know their results. If their scores are too low to attend any of the institutions they named, they can either return to high school for another year or be assigned to another university which has not yet filled its freshman class. Once accepted, they may or may not be allowed to major in the program they want. Frequent complaints that one would rather be in a more famous university and/or in a different major is the predictable outcome. (When I introduced UCLA data on American student satisfaction with their college and major, my TJNU students were shocked and envious.)

My students clearly spend more time studying in college than American students. I got the impression, however, they don’t have many alternatives. Extracurricular life in Chinese universities is improving, but it is still remarkably undeveloped. I saw little evidence of team sports; most students were instead involved in campus clubs related to their major.

The clubs typically hold competitions in their subject matter. I was interviewed on camera by the Radio & TV club, attended singing competitions offered by music majors, and judged several speech competitions offered by the English club (which I have been serving as advisor). Remarkably good student talent shows—some with ribald skits and all with sentimental songs—are also common.

I was struck also by the absence of political discussions. There is a mandatory class in political philosophy, but I saw no evidence of its influence one way or the other. There is, however, considerable pride in the economic progress China has made and the greatly improved transportation, housing, entertainment and shopping it affords—they love to shop. They are part of a new China, it seems, with a higher standard of living and a justifiable pride in being Chinese. They told me again and again that they admire the United States for the same reasons and hope that Americans will come to know and admire the new China.

The Emperors’ Mountain Retreat: II

Kangxi was actually only the second Qing emperor to rule China. As a Manchu, he needed to win the loyalty of the Han Chinese, especially those who had supported the Ming dynasty the Qing had deposed. The Mountain Retreat was thoughtfully designed to achieve that end. The arrangements of the emperor’s quarters and the names selected for its structures were traditionally Chinese (the conviction that ‘sincerity’ would create a ‘tranquil heart’ is classically Confucian). And the gardens, as already noted, had been created to incorporate pavilions and geographical features from around China. Moreover, Chinese (as well as Mongol, Uighur and Tibetan) in addition to the Qing’s native Manchu, was used on inscriptions above doorways and on stele in courtyards, acknowledging the multiple languages in use in the empire.

The most stunning evidence of the Qing efforts to unite a diverse people are found in the 8 surviving temples surrounding the Mountain Retreat and the city of Chengde. Notable in this regard is the Putouzongcheng miao or temple of the Potala or Putuo Sect which was built to resemble the Potala Palace of the Dali Lamas in Lhasa, Tibet. It was constructed by the Emperor Qianlong as an appropriate site where his Tibetan Buddhist subjects could pay their respects to him on his 60^th birthday and one year later to his mother, the Dowager Empress, on her 80^th.

The temple complex is found on the side of a steep hill. At the bottom is a stout pavilion containing a stele recording the reasons for the temple’s construction (in five languages). Throughout the grounds are mock structures with false doors and windows designed to provide a suitable ‘stage setting’ for the main buildings. At the top is the replica of the Potola Palace which looms high above as one climbs the hillside. Some visitors take advantage of the sedan chairs for rent and are carried up the hill and the steep flights of stairs without any effort on their part. The rest of us labor up the slope under our own power.

At the top of a long flight of steps is a large terrace where four poles stand. Here the faithful can hang prayer flags purchased from vendors on the terrace. Climbing yet higher, there’s a courtyard within the palace where, during my visit, a young Tibetan with microphone was singing folks songs to a small audience. On the same level, within another courtyard, is a three story temple. After climbing yet more stairs, you emerge onto a terrace high above the city with fine views of the surrounding mountains. Here there is a yet another temple, this one containing a figure of Guanyin.

Impressive as is the Putouzongcheng miao, I was much more taken with the Temple of Universal Peace or Puning Si. Perhaps I liked it more because this temple is once again an active lamasery. As such it attracts many devout Buddhists, as well as tourists like myself.

Like the little Potala palace, this temple is modeled after another Tibetan Buddhist site, the Samye Monastery in Tibet. Like it, it contains many mock buildings. And, like the little Potala palace, it was built by Emperor Qianlong to (re)gain the good will of some of his Tibetan Buddhist subjects, in this case Mongolians whose rebellion he had recently put down. (Force as well as diplomacy was used by the Qing to create their empire.)

One enters the Puning Si through a gate located on a Chengde city street. Within is a courtyard with bell and drum towers and a pavilion containing a stele in Qianlong’s own words describing the construction of this temple (again in the five languages of the empire). In the center of the next courtyard is a large metal container filled with sand into which the devout place incense sticks whose smoke will help to carry their prayers aloft. Beyond it is the Precious Hall of the Great Hero (a reference to the Buddha’s ability to overcome demons) in traditional Chinese temple style.

Here young lamas are at prayer.

Farther up the sloping hill is the main temple building, the five-story Mahayana Hall. On the steps outside eight musicians performed in exchange for contributions from those who came to pay their respects.

Within is an awesome wooden statue of Guanyin, the Buddhist goddess of mercy (often likened to the Virgin Mary). Stretching four stories above the viewer, the statue is the largest sculpture of its kind in the world. The goddess is represented with 48 arms each with an eye in its palm. Below her clasped hands are another pair holding a dorje and a bell—a traditional Tibetan feature.

It is possible to climb a set of stairs within the hall to view the statue ‘eye to eye,’ so to speak. But I decided I preferred to view her from below where she towered above me. Instead, I went back outside and climbed a flight of stairs up the hillside to a terrace behind the Mahayana Hall. Here couples can purchase a lock and have it inscribed with their names. The locks are then hung from a chain where they weather providing rusty testimony to the couple’s shining and eternal love. Yet higher was a rockery with a small pavilion and a stunning view of the city below.