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 18th 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.
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