Central Xi’an still
sits contentedly within its massive fourteenth century walls, and it is this
rather than the population – variously quoted at 3, 6 or 10 million - that
makes it seem far less of a mega-city than Shanghai.
The demands of modern
traffic have created far more than the four original perforations in the wall,
but it remains a formidable barrier, and getting into or out of the city at
peak time demands more patience than most Chinese drivers want to show. Inside
there is often gridlock, but building restrictions mean you do not feel lost at
the bottom of a vast canyon.
We did, however,
get an excellent view of the ‘Heavenward Ladder’ over the intervening gorge.
This kilometre long ladder is tacked onto a bare spine of rock leading to the
North Peak. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people were swarming up and down what
looked from our distance to be a totally exposed, near vertical, set of wooden
steps.
The airport is
thirty kilometres from town. Four years ago we arrived in the evening and took
a taxi along brand new motorways, deserted except for an army of toll
collectors. We drove into the outer suburbs down a long straight road lined
with low buildings. Outside every one was a group of snooker tables where young
men practised potting in pools of orange light. This time we arrived just after
lunch, an hour ahead of schedule, so we were pleased that Zhou Li, who would be
our guide for the next day’s trip to the mountains, was already there to greet
us. This time the roads were busier, but the tollbooths no less numerous. Zhou
Li happily demonstrated that, had talking been an Olympic sport, she would
easily have made the Chinese team and we had absorbed a long and informative
lecture by the time we reached the city walls.
The walls form a
perfect rectangle some 4km by 2km. The longer sides are orientated east-west,
the shorter north-south, and the streets inside are laid out on a rigid grid.
Here, if ever there was one, is a mathematician’s city. Built originally in
1370 of rammed earth, the walls were faced with brick in 1568. Being 12 metres
high and 18 metres thick, the chances of not noticing them are minimal. A
watchtower guards each corner and a fortress-like gate adorns each side. There
were also drawbridges over a moat. The drawbridges have long gone but sections
of the moat remain, their banks dotted with anglers. The state of the water
would not encourage me to eat their catch.
 |
| Fishing in the moat, Xian 2004 |
 |
| The South Gate, Xian City Walls, 2004 |
It was on this
site, a millennium and a half before the walls were built, that Qin Shi Huang
established Changan, the first capital of his newly united China. The Emperor
Qin is not an easy man to like. He was ruthless, as any successful warlord must
be; he drove his people hard to build version one of the Great Wall, and when
that was done, he drove them harder to build a vast army of terracotta figures
to guard his tomb. We had seen the Terracotta Army on our earlier visit, but it
is impossible to write about Xi’an without mentioning it. What is, perhaps,
most remarkable is that you can see many examples of similar grave goods in the
city’s Shaanxi Regional Museum. Men of power and influence were in the habit of
taking small armies, their house and servants, even farmyards, complete with
strutting cockerels and snuffling pigs, to their graves with them. But the
others are dolls’ house size. Only Qin had an army of full sized soldiers,
horses and chariots; only Qin had as many soldiers as a real army. What an ego!
 |
| Terracotta Warriors, Xian |
Like many such
monsters, he cowed not only his enemies but also his descendants, and soon
after his death in 210 BC, the provinces rose in revolt. By 206, his heirs had
been swept aside and the Han dynasty established. It was under the Han that
Changan, became one of the world’s great metropolises.
The city was as
large and powerful as contemporary Rome, and it was hardly surprising that
these two great empires bracketing either end of the Eurasian landmass should
establish trading links. Unlike Rome, the Chinese empire did not fall to
barbarians and whilst Europe had its dark ages, Changan had its golden period.
A Tang dynasty census in the eighth century recorded almost two million
inhabitants, making it by far the world’s largest city.
Changan lost its
status as China’s capital in the disunity that followed the fall of the Tang
around 960. Under the Ming dynasty (1368-1644) its name was changed from Changan
(Perpetual Peace) to Xi’an (Western Peace). Given the warlike nature of some
its rulers there is irony in the names, though today the main threat to peace
comes from the incessant and unruly traffic.
The one major site
we missed on our previous visit was the Bell Tower, not because we could not
find it - it defines the centre of the city - but because it was covered in
scaffolding and boarded up. This time it was open, so we paid our fee and
climbed the steps from the underground shopping mall into the ancient tower.
 |
| The Bell Tower, Xian |
The Bell Tower is a
typical wooden construction of the Ming period, standing on a brick platform in
the middle of a traffic island. It was built around the same time as the city
walls were faced with brick. The tower’s original purpose was to hold a bell
that was clanged at dawn, telling the citizens to rise. Facing it, two hundred
metres across a paved park, is the Drum Tower. Here a drum was beaten to inform
everybody that it was dusk and time to go home. Having two different towers with
their two different sounds suggests that either Ming dynasty citizens could not
tell dawn from dusk, or that somebody was interested in prestige building
projects.
 |
| The Drum Tower, just across the 'park' Xian |
The walkway round
the platform provides impressive views down the main traffic arteries of the
city.
There is also a large bell, where Chinese children were queuing up to
dress in Ming costume and pretending to hit it. |
| The Bell after the children had gone away The Bell Tower, Xian |
Inside, the
carillon is impressive, though a modern copy of the original. The large bells
are recognisably bell-shaped but the small ones could only be Chinese. After a glance
at the exhibition upstairs we returned to the carillon for the hourly
performance.
Two energetic young
ladies struck the smaller bells whilst an older woman with a large stick strode
around poking the larger bells at appropriate moments. Three more musicians
played assorted stringed and wind instruments, one of them blowing into a
complex array of pipes like a miniature church organ held in two hands.
Finally, a couple of dancers arrived to add to the scene. To western ears, the
sounds were strange, but pleasant, though the finale, a rendition of Auld Lang
Syne, seemed deeply weird. |
| Blowing into a miniature church organ The Bell Tower, Xian |
For dinner we set
off to eat Xiang Xiang Da Pan Ji (Fragrant, Fragrant Big Plate Chicken). The
eponymous restaurant specialises in a dish involving a whole chicken chopped, roasted, placed on a bed of noodles and then covered in an aromatic
sauce. It was mentioned in our guidebook and, more significantly, thoroughly
recommended by our daughter and son-in-law, whose judgement I hold in high
regard.
We jumped in a taxi
and showed the Chinese characters to the driver. He thought for a moment, then
shrugged and shook his head. ‘Changan Nan Lu’ I said, telling him the
street. Unfortunately, it helps to be English to understand my Mandarin.
We returned to the
hotel and asked the receptionist to write the street name in Chinese. ‘I don’t
know this restaurant’ she said as she wrote.
Undaunted – well,
partially daunted - we returned to the street and found another taxi. The
driver looked no less perplexed than the first, but he set off heading
purposefully south. Unfortunately, Changan Nan Lu is the main street heading
out from the south gate and is several miles long. As an address, it was less
than pinpoint.
After driving a
decent distance beyond the gate, he slowed so that he could inspect the signs
over the many shops and restaurants. Then he stopped and phoned his office.
Apparently, nobody there knew this restaurant either. We drove on a bit more and
then he phoned somebody else.
The driver was
becoming distinctly uneasy. Deciding to put him out of his misery and cut our
losses, we paid him off and clambered from the taxi. He felt under an
obligation to complete the journey and by baling out we were making him lose
face, but I could think of nothing else to do.
Changan Nan Lu is a
wide thoroughfare and there were plenty of people about. Beside the road was a
large open area, recently cleared of buildings, where an impromptu market was
establishing itself. We had seen frequent excavations along the roadside and
some considerable piles of rubble.
 |
| Changan Nan Lu, from the Bell Tower to the distant South Gate Xian |
We walked to the
next corner where there was another line of restaurants, none of them called
Xiang Xiang Da Pan Ji. A friendly local accosted us, asking what we were
looking for. She too had never heard of the restaurant. She spoke to a couple
of street traders and then a passer-by, but by now it was clear we were wasting
our time. ‘Perhaps’ she said in impressive English, ‘it has gone.’ She gestured
at the excavations and piles of rubble, ‘they are building a new metro line and
many buildings have been demolished.’
We crossed a
footbridge and walked a couple of blocks back north, but without much hope.
There were plenty of restaurants, some looked inviting, but none were Xiang
Xiang Da Pan Ji. We debated choosing one at random, but in the end took another
taxi back to the centre.
On our first trip
to China in 2004, we were fascinated by the way we found ourselves stepping
from First World to Third and back again just by turning a corner or crossing a
road. There was no better example than the 200 metre walk from the chic
consumerism of the Century Ginwa Centre underneath the Bell Tower, to Xi’an’s
Muslim quarter. That this brief stroll also involved passing the Ming elegance
of the Drum Tower and a branch of McDonalds just added to the bizarre richness.
We took this walk
again. In the evening the main street of the Muslim quarter offers an array of
kebab stalls and other eateries, and if Xiang Xiang Da Pan Ji was off the menu,
we would have a kebab.
Rounding the corner
by McDonalds, we found ourselves confronted with a brand new brightly lit arch
bearing the words ‘Welcome to Xi’an Islamic Street’. The Third World had
receded since our last visit.
 |
| The rather tarted up Muslim Quarter, Xian |
There are Hui
communities in most Chinese cities. Allegedly descended from Arab soldiers,
they look much like any other Chinese except the men wear small white
cylindrical hats and some of the women wear headscarves. There are thirty
thousand Hui in Xi’an, living mainly in the tightly packed streets of the
Muslim quarter and worshipping at the Great Mosque, a building Islamic in
function but entirely Chinese in design.
Just as ‘Steak’ on a British menu implies ‘beef steak’, ‘meat’ in a Chinese menu implies pork. The Hui are not always the
most observant of Muslims, but eating pork would be a step too far, and the
default meat in the Muslim quarter is mutton. The scruffy street of grubby
kebabis where we had eaten four years ago is now a brightly lit bazaar, with
neat little kebab shops jostling for space with bigger, smarter,
air-conditioned restaurants.
We pulled the meat
from the scimitar-like skewers and ate it with flat Muslim bread at a table set
up in the road – they did not want us in their little restaurant, they wanted
us prominently displayed outside. The meat was tender and flavoursome and the
Hui are relaxed enough about their religion to sell the beer needed to wash it
down. We ate well, but it I was not Xiang Xiang Da Pan Ji.
 |
| Eating kebabs in the Muslim quarter Xian 2004 |
 |
| The Bell Tower at night as we strolled back from the Muslim Quarter Xian |
Zhou Li arrived
next morning to take us on our expedition to Hua Shan (Flower Mountain) one of
China’s five sacred mountains. Hua Shan is 120km east of Xi’an and we set off
along a motorway which could have taken us the whole 900km to the coast.
The land was
remarkably flat, but we were expecting to find ourselves entering a more
mountainous region soon. After 40km we by-passed a substantial city. ‘Where’s that?’
I asked Zhou Li. ‘Weinan,’ she replied, ‘it belongs to Xi’an’. Population
figures quoted for Xi’an vary considerably this explained why.
The city has, I think, 3 million people, then there is the metropolitan area
and finally, to achieve the 10 million figure, they include the surrounding
counties. Calling Weinan part of Xi’an is like calling Worcester part of
Birmingham.
Over a 100Km into
the journey, we were still in a broad, flat, plain. Hua Shan has five peaks
shaped, if you have enough imagination, like the petals of a flower. All the
peaks are around 2000m, rather too big, I thought, to hide in a heat haze.
We had left
the motorway and almost reached the park area before a mountain loomed out
of the mist.
There were plenty of places in the
official car park and as many spaces at the official restaurant where we went for an early lunch. Zhou
Li ordered for us after only the briefest consultation. The food was good,
although her choices were a touch bland. There was also enough for six. She and
the driver ate separately so we did our duty by polishing off a generous third
of what was on the table but still felt uneasy about the quantity wasted. This
is, however, the Chinese way. If guests eat all the food offered, then clearly
they have not been given enough, so to avoid losing face the host must grossly
over-provide. Being brought up in the aftermath of wartime rationing with the
phrase ‘nice clean plate’ ringing in our ears, we had some cultural adapting to
do.
 |
| Hua Shan, definitely the official place to start |
The shuttle bus from the
visitor centre wound up a narrow defile into what felt like the heart of the
mountain. We all decamped at a small square and bought some more tickets, this
time for the cable car. We joined a long queue of cheery Chinese in baseball
caps and cowboy hats snaking their way through the metal barriers with
encouraging speed.
The journey was
spectacular. We swung over no huge spaces as you can in the Alps, but travelled
up a rocky funnel and past huge vertical slabs of bare stone where the
occasional tree had forced its way through a gap and was hanging on for dear
life. We were among the precipitous faces and strange vegetation of Chinese
landscape painting.
.JPG) |
| Through a rocky funnel Huashan |
I decided to speak
to Zhou Li on the subject of food: ‘Is it true that the Chinese think all
westerners hate chillies?’ I asked, realising as I spoke that by asking about
perceptions rather than the truth of those perceptions I was burying a
linguistic land mine under the conversation.
‘Yes,’ she
answered, stamping firmly on the firing mechanism. Most Chinese tour guides
speak excellent English and Zhou Li was one of the best. However, as very few
have the opportunity to travel and mix freely with native speakers, their
listening skills are often far less developed. This counts double when you are
trying to explain something entirely contrary to all received wisdom.
 |
| Mountain Dwelling on a Summer's Day by Wang Yuanqi (1642-1715) National Palace Museum, Taipei |
From the top of the
cable car a series of paths led off in various directions, most of which could
be described us ‘up’.
None of the signs
meant anything to us, so we chose a path at random and strolled along it. After
a while the way narrowed into a groove cut into the rock face with a chains on
the outer edge; the stream of people going our way negotiating passing places
with the stream coming the other. After this the path widened until we reached
a broad rock platform. The only way forward now was up a vertical face into
which had been carved a set of a dozen steps, each 50cm high and the width
one’s toes. Chains had been draped down the cliff and every man in China, his
wife, children and grandmother was shinning up and down as though it was the
most natural thing in the world. Lynne did not look at the obstacle for long.
‘No chance!’ she said, which conveniently let me off the hook..JPG) |
| From the top all paths lead up Huashan |
We retraced our
steps and tried another route. This soon involved an airy ridge of bare rock
guarded by low chains on either side. Although exposed it was wide enough to be
completely safe, though not quite wide enough to feel completely safe.
‘No chance!’ said Lynne again with a tone of absolute certainty.
.JPG) |
| An airy ridge of bare rock Huashan |
.JPG) |
| The Heavenward Ladder, Huashan |
We never made it to
any of the peaks, but we did enjoy wandering around, looking at the views and
peering into the precipitous depths. We came across several stalls selling cold
drinks and pieces of watermelon and a few old men staggering round under
carry-poles transporting the goods to the stalls. To minimise costs some of
them carry these loads all the way from the villages at the foot of the mountain
- a very hard way to earn a very meagre living.
We rejoined Zhou Li
at the cable car terminal where an old man was leaning on his carry-poles
singing Chinese folk songs. He had a strong, clear voice and we stayed to
listen. Doubtless, he made more from his singing than his carrying, although
when it came to collecting money he looked almost embarrassed.
On the way down we
were joined in our car by four young men who had been up the mountain early and
had done all five peaks. Though obviously full of youth and vigour, they had no
special clothing or equipment. They told us they had heard of a fatal fall from
one of the paths earlier in the day. Maybe the rumour was not true, but it
probably was. I hoped the cable car engineers took safety a little more
seriously than their clients.
.JPG) |
| Just one of the five peaks, Huashan |
At the bottom, the
queue for the cable car was several times bigger than when we went up, though
still boisterous and cheerful.
From the point of
view of conquering peaks, our day had been a failure, but it had been an enjoyable
and very typically Chinese day out. Of course, Chinese people do go to see the
Terracotta Warriors and the other major sites, but they are on the itinerary of
every tour group, so European and American visitors usually outnumber the
locals. This concentration of wealth attracts the most desperate street traders
who see tourists only as walking wallets. The combination of aggressive traders
and rich people pathologically frightened of being ripped off brings out the
worst in both cultures. It also generates an army of tour managers dedicated to
shielding foreigners from unwanted attentions and effectively keeping them in
tourist ghettoes. Hua Shan, on the other hand, attracts few westerners and no
rip-off merchants. Travelling as ordinary people among ordinary people, we met
only cheerfulness, helpfulness and courtesy – not to mention a frightening
disregard for personal safety.
Xi’an railway
station occupies what should be a section of the wall, but at a time when the
walls represented nothing but the bad old imperial days, 500m were removed to
make way for the trains. Today this looks a poor decision but there is no way
back. Next morning our cases passed through the X-ray machines without question
and, with a little help from Zhou Li, we found our way to the soft sleeper
waiting room and then, but only after the train had arrived, onto the platform.
The Chinese, often so cavalier about health and safety, never let a passenger
onto a platform when a train is coming in or going out.
.JPG) |
| More rocks like a landscape painting Huashan |
We settled into our
four-berth compartment and waited to see who our travelling companions would
be. Having travelled this way throughout China, Russia and Mongolia, we have
had some pleasant and interesting companions, and, so far, no bad experiences.
A few minutes
before departure time we were joined by a respectable looking middle-aged
couple.
‘Ni hao,’ we said.
‘Not Ni hao,’ the
man replied, ‘we are Japanese.’
Sadly, they spoke
little English and after ‘sayonara’, my only Japanese consisted of unhelpful
words like ‘kamikaze’ and ‘hara-kiri’. International relations were, however,
maintained by a great deal of smiling and the exchange of English biscuits and
Japanese raisins.
After a while, the
man got out his map and told us they were going to Zhangye. I pointed out
Jiayuguan, the next town on the line, as our destination.
‘You know Tunku?’
he asked.
I shook my head,
the name was unfamiliar. He rifled in his bag, produced a Japanese guidebook
and showed me pictures of huge sand dunes. It looked suspiciously like
Dunhuang. I suggested this, but it meant no more to him than ‘Tunku’ had to me.
He returned to the
map. ‘Tunku’ he said, pointing out a small town. Underneath the Chinese
characters he was reading as ‘Tunku’ was the pinyin word ‘Dunhuang’. I told him
we were going to ‘Tunku’ after Jiayuguan and it looked very interesting. They
had obviously been discussing this earlier, and after a little more debate they
decided to skip Zhangye and go straight to Dunhuang.
I was unsure if you
could change a ticket once you were on the train, but he called the carriage
attendant and opened negotiations. It became clear that his Mandarin was no
better than his English, but he was not prepared to give up easily. Pulling out
a pad, he wrote some characters on it. The carriage attendant nodded and wrote
an answer. A written conversation followed, as if between two deaf people.
I was unsure of how
conclusive the negotiation had been, but I was impressed that it had happened
at all.
‘You cannot speak
Chinese, but you can write it?’ I asked. ‘Yes, a little,’ he said ‘is similar
Japanese.’
I have always found
it amazing that Mandarin and Cantonese, two completely distinct languages, are
identical when written. The same is true of the various, quite different,
dialects spoken across China, which explains why all television programmes are
subtitled. Although my Japanese friend read two symbols as ‘Tunku’ and the
Chinese carriage attendant read them as ‘Dunhuang’ that did not indicate they
had different meanings. Chinese and Japanese, it seems, share enough characters
to enable some limited communication; and communication there had surely been
as for the next few hours our companions were visited by a succession of
self-important people with peaked caps - a type never in short supply on a
Chinese train.
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