Chongqing

   Two things were clear as the plane from Beijing passed over Chongqing that afternoon in February. First, the place is massive. Second, it's very polluted. A hazy grey veil of smog lay above the seemingly endless landscape of high-rises and the rivers that flow through the city.

   This first impression of sheer size and pollution proved to be accurate. As we walked around the mega-city in the evening, my throat was scratchy and both my chest and the skin on my face felt tight. It reminded me of my first visit to Beijing in 2007. They've cleaned their act up in the capital, so blue skies there are quite common now. 

   Not so in Chongqing! The rain came the next day, and with it low temperatures and even lower clouds. The pollution eased, but another reminder of Beijing in the noughties was omnipresent: men puffing away on cheap cigarettes. As a former smoker, I don't mind tobacco smoke, but the Chinese brands have a very strong and pretty foul aroma. It did occur to me, however, that it was no worse than the stench of the cannabis which is a feature of British streets these days, and at least it's legal. 

   Very little is old there, sadly. Chongqing served as the capital of China during World War Two, and was blitzed by Japanese bombers as a consequence. Tens of thousands were killed and there's a museum hidden in plain sight where you can learn about the destruction. The Nationalists carried out more bombings in the civil war. 

   The city planners went on a construction spree in recent decades. Buildings soar from the water's edge. Remarkably, the top floor of one of these edifices might correspond with ground level, because the city is built on such steep hills. This was the case with our hotel, where we exited the lobby on the twentieth floor and passed over a short bridge spanning a chasm that led to a small square. 

   At night the skycrapers near the water create a striking spectacle. They are lit up in blue, yellow, white and red, sometimes with advertisements for foreign companies like Pepsi and AXA, more frequently with illegible Chinese characters. The cost of this light show must be astronomical.

    

    The best thing about Chongqing is the food. My favourite Chinese dish is Chongqing la zi ji (deep fried chicken with dried chillis), so I was excited to eat it in situ. I discovered, however, that in Chongqing itself this chicken dish can reach such levels of tongue-numbing heat that you simply can't eat it, no matter how many weak local beers you wash it down with. 

    We left Chongqing on a bullet train from a station that resembled an airport. 

Temple of Heaven

    I like old travel books very much. I have a copy of Washington Irving's Tales of the Alhambra, which was first published around two hundred years ago, and which I keep because I hope one day to travel overland from the north to the south of Spain. It may seem incredible that my main motivation for holding onto the book is to see whether a couple of his observations about Spain still hold true. 

    I've always found these antiquated texts to be a great source of travel inspiration. Imagine my delight, then, when I rediscovered my copy of Nikos Kazantzakis' book Japan, China, written in 1935, in a flat in Beijing. It had lain there undisturbed, in the dark, for at least five years.

    So it was that I decided to go to the Temple of Heaven. Kazantzakis had left this memorable description of his visit ninety years ago:

   ... you climb up farther and you reach the third, the highest terrace. All around as far as the eye can see, an endless plain, the desert that surrounds Peking. And your head feels that it is elevated in the sky...

    Spindly cypress trees line the long avenue that leads from the West Heavenly Gate of the Temple of Heaven. Eventually you turn left, and head towards a large enclosure. In the centre, up three sets of marble steps, is the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests, where the Emperor 'offered sacrifices to pray for bumper harvests and favourable rain'. It's a magnificent edifice, with a three tiered roof of blue tiles. You can't enter the hall, but you can peer into the dark interior. Being tall, I was able to avoid the melee that formed outside each of the apertures.

    The panorama from the top platform, whose stone surface is crumbling from the heavy tread of countless visitors, is special. It's not very high, but Beijing is such a flat city that you can see for miles. Outside the walls is what looks like a forest of tightly packed trees, then, in the distance, you can see the urban landscape of Beijing. Beyond that, to the north west, is a mountain range, only visible on clear days when the cold north wind chases the haze and clouds away (I went twice, so I know). The desert Kazantzakis spoke of has been covered by buildings, but you can sense it in the dry, dusty air.  

    Kazantzakis was moved by his visit all those years ago:

   When I ascend to the Temple of Heaven... I feel that man is truly sacred, mysterious, a wheel full of magic powers that creates matter in the image of his heart.

    Those days are long gone, however. Now the Temple of Heaven is the territory of attractive young women having their pictures taken. Some are in traditional Chinese dress, while others are fabulously, if rather incongruously, attired in high heels and very swish coats and dresses. Some have a retinue: a photographer, and someone else whose role I couldn't determine. Apparently, having their pictures taken here is a social media phenomenon. At any rate, they really know how to pose for the camera. 

The Forbidden City

   I read today that the Forbidden City in Beijing has reopened.

   I went there in the fall of 2007, as it happens. It was perhaps the shortest visit ever made by a tourist to this hallowed site. I wrote some  brief notes about my experience at the time, which I have copied below:

   The approach to the Forbidden City was swarming with folk from the countryside. They brandished guides and maps, and tried to convince passers-by to have their picture taken. Most went about their work half-heartedly, but a few were persistent, grabbing people by the sleeve. 

   Inside the walls groups of Chinese tourists in red caps and shabby clothes jostled and shoved each other and anyone else who got in their way as they sought to look inside the buildings. I felt an urgent desire to get out as fast as I could. 

   After leaving, we walked along the moat that surrounds the Forbidden City, where hardly a soul was to be seen. The willow trees across the water were swaying gently in the breeze.  It was a beautiful and serene setting.

   I have never liked crowds, but looking back I think I overreacted. As the photos show, it wasn't that busy and the vermilion walls look magnificent. Maybe I will return someday. 

   One thing is for sure: I looked better 13 years ago. 

The Taxi Drivers of Zhangjiajie

           When I was fourteen I spent a few days in London. Endeavouring to get to The Oval cricket ground, where England were playing the West Indies, I got into a black cab and was promptly sent packing by a surly Londoner, for no obvious reason. The next guy, who at least accepted my fare, yelled at me for closing the door too hard. Since that day I have never liked taxis.

Nonetheless, on a few occasions the taxi ride has been worth the fare simply for comedy value. I particularly recall a journey with a Japanese driver called Hamada or Harada – something like that – from Fukuoka airport. He got out of the cab, a short and bespectacled figure of about retirement age, with his shirt sticking out of his flies. As we drove through the dark streets a dull boom was audible behind us. Looking back I saw that my suitcase was blocking a lane about a hundred metres back. Hamada (or Harada) stopped the cab and started reversing, all the while muttering the word ‘daijoubu’ (‘It’s OK’). I’ve never figured out if he was talking to us or to himself.

Having reached the item of luggage, he got out and shoved it back in the boot, oblivious to the horns of passing cars. In some countries our lives might have been in danger. Then, when we reached our destination, Hamada/Harada had the nerve to charge us the full fare!

Never in my life, however, have I encountered worse taxi drivers than in the small Chinese city of Zhangjiajie, in mountainous Hunan province, where I recently passed a few days. (It’s small by Chinese standards, but the population is in fact roughly the size of Edinburgh’s.)  

The taxis in Zhangjiajie are all filthy lime green and yellow Volkswagen Jetta SDIs, which look like they date back to before the end of the Cold War. Inside the cars the floors and doors are caked with the dirt and grime of years of service. The upholstery is peeling away, revealing the vehicle’s steel frame, and seatbelts are not available. The one time we tried it, the boot didn’t shut. A set of steel bars separates passengers from the driver, so you have to stuff notes through narrow gaps to pay the fare.

A drive through this city, which lies at the foot of a staggering serrated ridge of mountains and features a lot of new and apparently half-empty high-rises, is certain to shave at least a few hours off your life expectancy. The drivers weave in and out of traffic like Matt Damon in The Bourne Supremacy. Roundabouts are a free-for-all, with those approaching the junction unwilling even to consider giving way. Use of the indicator is for wimps, the cabbies preferring to blast their horns as they overtake. It’s as if they’re saying I’m coming through, and you’d better get the hell out of the way.

The cars are all atrociously maintained, and having underinflated tyres appears to be a badge of honour among these people. Moving from one lane to another felt like we were travelling on an ice rink.

Still, these rides did have the advantage of being dirt cheap, with a short journey costing the equivalent of about sixty pence. Moreover, these daredevils were all honest, and never once overcharged us. It wasn’t until we travelled to more touristy areas that we began to get ripped off – to the tune of about forty pence per journey.

The Streets of Fenghuang

            It’s lunchtime in Fenghuang and we are the only customers in the tiny restaurant of four or five tables. It’s in an alley of grey brick buildings and uneven stone slabs close to the turbid Tuo River and, unusually, it looks clean. One of the three staff sits by the entrance and tries half-heartedly to drum up some business, calling out ‘chifan ma?’ (‘do you want to eat?) to passers-by. It’s a losing battle, for the streets are strangely empty, the tsunami of Chinese tourists having vanished in the intense midday heat.

          We order rice, a plate of fried tofu and salty, charred pork, and an aubergine dish. The food is delicious. I knock back two bottles of very weak Snow beer, whose alcohol content is below 2.5%. We get talking to the two young local women who cook and serve the food. Unusually for Fenghuang, they are friendly. They complain about the recent introduction of 148 yuan (about 15 pounds) tickets that give access to large areas of the Old Town. Businesses have been hit hard, they say. 

Indeed, this small ‘ancient town’ in Hunan province in the south of China is all about business, specifically the tourist kind. You get the feeling that most locals look upon visitors as little more than cash cows. The extortionate levy for entering the Old Town makes you feel like you’re in a theme park. Worst of all are the town’s taxi drivers; they are shameless rip-off merchants, overcharging anyone who fails to converse in the local dialect. 

And yet, I liked Fenghuang. Early in the morning, before the Chinese holidaymakers have taken control, a resonant pat-pat-pat sound comes from the edge of the river. It is the noise of a handful of bendy women washing clothes, and beating them against the floor with some kind of paddle. Parts of the river are veiled in mist at this hour. Deeply tanned boatmen with muscular arms stand or sit at the back of sampans, alternately using a sturdy bamboo pole or an oar to propel small groups of tourists over the water. Their songs rise above the hum of voices coming from the banks. 

Traditional and photogenic buildings of three, four and five stories border the river, which is about fifty metres wide. They have wooden balconies and balustrades, sloping roofs with dark tiles and hanging basket chairs. Some even stand on wooden stilts, though it’s hard to believe they offer a very firm foundation.  

          The narrow and sweltering streets of Fenghuang are for all the senses. Men strut around, their shirts rolled up above their fat bellies for coolness. Women from the Miao ethnic minority sit listlessly beneath cone-shaped hats made from bamboo leaves, hawking boat rides and photo opportunities with local girls in headdresses made of silver and shocking pink or red dresses.

Charred and flattened pigs’ heads hang outside restaurants, and piles of broken roof tiles litter the streets. A yellow star on a grubby wall and some flaking Chinese script serve as a reminder that you are in a Communist state, though the orgy of money-making all around you tells its own story. Then there are the smells: incense, grilled lamb cooked by Uighurs, the rancid stench of rotting food from bins, and urine in the back alleys. 

          There is an ugly side to Fenghuang, though, aside from the effort to squeeze every yuan out of visitors. Signs of abject poverty are visible, like the hapless beggars in the gallery atop the handsome three arch sandstone bridge. Blatant racism is on display too, for a bright red sign outside one establishment informs Japanese visitors that they are not permitted to enter. (Perhaps not surprisingly, I saw no Japanese in Fenghuang.)

I also witnessed a fight - at about nine in the morning. At the foot of the sandstone city wall, several metres below me, a shouting match between two furious local men degenerated into a scuffle. Peering over the battlements, I took in the chaotic scene. One of the men was lying on top of his foe, and landed a punch in his face. Five or six locals – family members, I guess - were more or less involved: there was an old woman brandishing a small chair over her head, an old man trying to pull the pugilists apart, and a woman of about thirty lying unconscious beside the mêlée.

The Lama Temple

    
       Beijing has to be one of the world's most stressful cities. Its sheer size can be overwhelming, while the volume of people and traffic defies belief. Crossing one of the city’s immense avenues amounts to taking a leap of faith: you need to look in about eight different directions, and there’s a fair chance the drivers won’t stop when the light turns red. Taking the subway, while preferable to a taxi ride, can involve a no-holds barred battle to get on and off the train. Shoving your way past old women appears to be perfectly acceptable behaviour.

       In light of the above, first-timers may well feel there is no escape from

Yonghe Gate Hall

the mind-blowing stress that pervades life in China's capital. Happily, this is not the case, for those seeking a respite can head to the Lama Temple. 

          This famous lamasery is located in the city centre, close to Yonghegong Station, which sits on subway lines 2 and 5. The subway ride there will set you back just 2 RMB (roughly 20 pence). Once outside the station, the route to the temple takes you along a street which is an experience in itself. On either side of the road there are countless tiny shops where you can purchase incense sticks, miniature Buddhas, bead necklaces and other curios. Shabby street vendors peddle similar items, and you may well encounter someone playing the erhu, a two-stringed traditional instrument.

          Having paid 25 RMB for your ticket, you enter the temple grounds through a multi-coloured memorial gate, replete with images of yellow dragons. Beyond lies an avenue bordered by gingko trees, sadly denuded in winter, but yellow and strikingly beautiful in autumn. A handsome second gate (the Zhaotai Gate) is situated at the end of the avenue. Its vermilion walls are surmounted by a sloping roof of cylindrical yellow tiles; with the passage of time the paint is flaking away, leaving patches of grey. Among the wonderfully detailed mythical creatures that adorn the ridges of the roof are phoenixes and dragons. These can be seen on buildings throughout the temple complex.

          Beyond the Zhaotai gate lie dim prayer halls housing Buddhas and other fascinating statues, including one beaming, bald-headed figure known as the Cloth-bag Monk. The visitor can also enjoy peaceful courtyards where the air is redolent with burning incense and the flagstones are sprinkled with

Zhaotai Gate

ash. Shaven-headed monks in brown robes can be seen sweeping the floors, and you can even hear the chirruping of birds in the trees.

      There are drum and bell towers, handsome cypress trees, bamboo gardens, copper lions, and a five hundred year old bell. If you are willing to part with 10 RMB, the bell will be struck three times, supposedly bringing you good luck. Most famously of all, at the far end of the temple complex soars the giant, eighteen metre high statue of Maitreya, or Future Buddha, which was carved from a single piece of sandalwood. 

 

Copper cooking vessel

         Another curiosity to look out for is an ornate and oversized copper cooking vessel, fashioned in the 18^th century, which features carvings of dragons and devouring lions, and stands amid a sea of coins thrown by visitors in search of good fortune. (A message in Chinese instructs people to refrain from such behaviour, but no one batted an eyelid when a young couple chucked some silver at it during my last visit.)

          While the Lama Temple is not Beijing’s greatest tourist draw, it is nevertheless my favourite place in China’s capital.  A couple of hours inside its walls can restore your faith in humanity, and you may even forget you're in one of the world's most colossal and over-populated metropilises. 

 Practicalities: 

Accommodation: I've never stayed in a hotel in Beijing. 

Restaurants: The food in Beijing is the best I've ever had. My favourite place is Yu Xiang Ren Jia in Parkson department store, which serves explosively flavoursome Sichuan cuisine. The oil-boiled fish, Chongqing style chicken and fish fragrant pork are highlights. Parkson is right next to Fu Xing Men subway station, which is 11 stops from Yonghegong station on line 2. 

Getting to the Lama Temple: There's only one thing for it: take the subway. A ticket costs next to nothing (2 RMB) and while it's often crowded, it beats a taxi ride.