"Oh no!" He said, with all the worldly sophistication of a sixteen year old, "It's only a three star.'

Quite put in my place I was shown into a good sized room, ensuite bathroom and shower (what bliss ) and I fell immediately to sleep and woke the next morning to spend a happy time washing, showering and cleaning up. I noticed in the midst of this that I have lost a lot of weight during the three days on the train. Although it was aesthetically pleasing to see more of my hip bones, I know these days, I need more weight to sustain health. Mr Taiwan had urged me to eat on the train but most of the food had consisted of steamed rice and seaweed, which had been a struggle. The hotel, I found, offered a full English breakfast, and with a wonderful relish I had two.

Reception had told me the easiest way to the Forbidden City was the underground which, frankly, had seemed a little prosaic. However, I launched off anyway, found a sign which looked like a station and headed down flights of stairs to what I hoped was the platform below.

Fortunately the sight of the ticket office confirmed my choice and I pulled out my guide book and haltingly began to say the stop I needed. The ticket woman smiled and held up five fingers. OK I decided 5Yuan. Suddenly at my side I found another of the many guardians who had helped me on my journey through China. A distinguished silver-haired man in his sixties was beside me.

"Miss," he said, "The stop you need is five stops on the line, and it is only 50 fen." He guided me to the right platform, told me he had been in the U.S in his younger days and courteously and shyly left.

I got off at Tiannamen Square in bright sunlight. Beijing had almost the feeling of spring. It was very warm. The square was teeming with people. Families and friends were photographing each other and kites flew in the clear air. Children laughed and ran around the street hawkers. Nevertheless I still trudged across the square feeling depressed for its history. I reached Mao's tomb on the other side. The ticket office wanted Y70 for entrance. I knew the Mandarin sign was saying that for the Chinese the price was Y30.00. I felt stroppy and decided I did not want to go and see a corpse and marched on for the Forbidden City. There I paid and extra Y70 for a Peter Ustinov recorded guide and made my way around.

The palace is so visually stunning and I am not even going to attempt to describe it to you. GO AND SEE FOR YOURSELF! But when you go, be prepared. It takes a day's hard walking just to scratch the surface and I noticed, what is true of all the fledgling museums and tourist sites in China, the quality of the museums is very poor. There is no research or archiving work happening - understandably so in political terms. While you can learn of every bit of architectural detail about the Forbidden City, for example - and you do- there is disappointing little detail of Palace life, clothing,pictures, gossip. The standard excuse is that the Cultural Revolution destroyed it all. But I read in various guidebooks, of over a million documents dating from the 17th Century, which still need to be deciphered. There is little effort to present anything in a historical context...and displays consist of, say a little blue and white bowl, plonked square in the centre of a badly finished wooden shelf, with a badly typed label saying 19th Century Export. A bigger notice, in Chinese, presumably gives more detail. Is this friendly? Showing consideration for the 'Foreign Visitor' spending her hard earned cash? Hmmm.

Two thirds of the way through this marathon trek, I found a room quaintly titled "Foreign Visitors Rest Room".

"Great", I thought, "Tea".

Alas - two dusty benches and a little souvenir shop awaited me. The goods were set out on trestle benches with the usual selection of poor quality postcards .

I bought a little blue horse made of china and the tradeswoman became quite friendly. She wanted to know what the horse was called in English and I wrote it down for her. As usual this drew a crowd of Chinese sightseers who stood looking over my shoulder as I wrote. I asked the name in Chinese and my efforts to intone it correctly were greeted with comments of approval from the assembled onlookers.

Incidently the habit of gawping is catching. I found myself joining any knot of bystanders to find out what was going on.

And so I made my way through the city,enchanted by its beauty, and emerged shattered at the North Gate. A pedicab took me back around the city walls to the south gate. It was a beautiful ride.

On the way back to the hotel, I got off a stop too early by mistake and had to make my own way back by a mixture of map reading, asking and vague sense of direction. The sun was shining, the wide streets made directions clear, the people seemed accommodating. I walked past a little park where old men sat and watched their pet birds which they hang in cages from the trees. They sang beautifully. Why, I wondered, do travellers complain so much about Beijing? The hotel appeared before me and I sank, thankfully, into its comfort.

I joined a tour to see the Great Wall which also included a detour to the tomb of the Ming Emperor and a visit to a Cloisonne factory.On the bus were some Americans, taking time out from business, and a New Zealander who is staying at my hotel. It was a relief to speak uninhibited English, but I will not bore you here with the details of it. You do not need me to tell you of the eco speak, recession speak and general gloom speak which affects the western conversation of late. Imagine for yourself.

We drove through Beijing's endless flyovers and dual carriages which carved through the city and finally arrived at the tomb of the thirteenth Ming Emperor. It is propitiously placed in a ring of mountains in a site, which took years to chose. One mountain is said to resemble a sleeping dragon and the other a tiger. Well I know the place was in deep mist at the time of our visit, but frankly I do not believe it.

I rather tend to imagine some poor worn out little courtier, fed up to the back teeth with scrabbling around in the wilderness and making up the story about the mountains looking like animals. By the time the Emperor's retinue arrived to inspect the scene (a good two days journey by sedan at least), I suspect they felt the same way and saw what they wanted.

Should I ever get the chance to build a tomb for myself I am going to insist on interior decorations. The pharaohs had the right idea. This Emperor, this Dragon King spent hundreds of years in a bank vault. Great grey blocks of stones were cunningly put together to withstand major earthquakes-which they did- but no paintings, no frescos, no banners of silk. Well come on!

Anyway, you've guessed it, the Red Army destroyed much during the cultural revolution. The two coffins are replicas from the seventies, as are the two blue and white porcelain urns, which were the only decoration in the place. It was not a place of rest at all. Two marble sofas either end of the room offered cold comfort to any ghost of the king and his consort.

I found the place distinctly claustrophobic and felt very uneasy when the guide showed us the 'self automating' stone slab which had shut and held the great gates fast closed against the outside world."Don't push it too hard," I thought in sudden, senseless alarm. It is a relief to learn that here, unlike Xian, it was not considered necessary to be walled up alive with the bodies: a particularly bleak way to go and it was with relief I followed the tour guide up the steep steps and emerged in the biting Peking air.

The bus climbed out of the valley and up into the mountains. The mist parted suddenly and the view became magnificent. Vistas opened before us and deep valleys parted the hills. It was beginning to snow. The sound made by the bus became gradually more muffled. The guide pointed out with pride the Trans-Siberian express as she made her way through the landscape. I pressed my nose to the glass and wondered what it would be like to travel that train.

You have to go and see the Great Wall. Beg, borrow or steal the fare. (Sell your grandmother if you must - BUT DO IT. The bus stopped at the foot of the wall and a little string of manky souvenir shops, I have to tell you, lurked at the bottom. Ignore them. You can get a surprisingly good lunch however, so take heart.

After lunch we planned our ascent. To the amusement of my fellow travellers I pulled on my old fur hat, wrapped up in my scarf and gloves and looked ready, they said, to tackle Antarctica. I had the last laugh. The Wall, which is much bigger than I imagined, rises sharply into the mountains and the top, where five horses could ride abreast, was covered in ice. And it was still snowing. the few trees sketched themselves delicately against the sky line. It was completely stunning. Built on Utilitarian lines, rather like the Ming tomb, it captures the imagination. I wanted to walk as far as possible along the distant horizons and follow its length. But, for all its splendour it had failed in its design. Apparently the Mongol army just bribed their way across it and marched on into Peking. Mind you, I thought, standing on an icy, cold bleak little watchtower, I could understand why. The temptation of a warm fire, a shot of brandy and a handful of gold would have tempted me and I had only been there an hour. The Chinese Civil Service, it transpired, were a little erratic in paying wages and feeding them. In a way it seemed typical of the Chinese life under the Dragon Kings. Millions spent, thousands die in the wall's making, a brilliant technical feat is accomplished and then the whole thing is lost by poor man management.

The way down was both exhilarating and terrifying. We had rashly opted to take the more rugged and less populated route and the Wall was not in such good repair. The ice was a clear sheet and on it we had to descend perpendicular stairs and steep slopes. There was only a very little rail to make the descent easier, sometimes it was situated so low, that, grabbing it gave you the uneasy impression that you would pitch head first over the wall's edge. My feet gripped tenaciously to the slippery stones and my arms ached. One poor man, ill equipped with leather soled shoes, lost his feet from under him and landed flat on his back like a cartoon. We edged our way over to him and picked him up. Fortunately he was shaken but not hurt.

To my vast amazement I looked over the edge and saw a camel lying with supreme indifference to the cold, surveying its surround with an icy disdain. There was a rush for photos. The very naive looking American woman said," Look, its only got one hump. Some have two, you know."

" I know a story about that" said the New Zealander in my ear and I turned to confront bright, blue eyes in a tanned face. I can not resist a grin while the American unaware makes her way safely down to where the guide is waiting for us.

Today, I thought to myself as I joined them, I have not only seen a camel but also a wolf.

The tour guide, with brisk efficiency, brings us out of the clouds and the magical wall, down the hill to the environs of the Closionne factory. I prepared to be dutifully interested. To be honest I do not like it very much. The factory was obviously a showpiece. We traipsed around spartan little offices where young girls diligently stuck intricate copper wire to the clay. Finally for the last stages of the proceedings the pots need to be polished and we were led to some brick outhouses. I walked inside one and instantly became white hot with rage. Each building consisted

of a single layer of brick. The windows are either filthy or broken. It was indescribably cold. There was no ceiling. The roof showed the timber-beamed structure which supported the corrugated iron covering.

The process of polishing involved turning the vases under a stream of cold water and burnishing them. Live electricity cables snaked their way across the dirt floor and through pools of water to supply the single light bulb on each table, which pierced the gloom.

Under the constant pressure of the water the workers hands were red and raw with the cold. No attempt was made to protect their faces from the dust flying up from their work. Since this is a showcase I can only hazard a guess at other working conditions. I remembered the little shacks which had lined the industrial landscape on the ride into Beijing. I had assumed they were abandoned. Now I realised they were not.

"This," I said to the Wolf through gritted teeth, " Is sweated labour". I took a couple of pictures and waited outside.

Perhaps the guide, who was educated and well dressed, guessed my feelings for she came out to join me.

That night from the top of my marble and gilt hotel I noticed for the first time the little shanty towns which nestled at its foot. I began to see how you can travel from hotel to hotel and never see anything at all.

Later I joined the Wolf for a drink at the bar. In fact he turned out to be quite a sorry Wolf who is coming to terms with the death of his father. He had been travelling some time in Russia and this was his last stop before returning home. Our conversation swooped and dived through history, politics and future plans. We spent a companionable evening and teased the Chinese barman before making our way to our separate rooms

But despite my effort to pickle its effects with whisky, the Great Wall had taken its toll on my health. I spent a restless night in which I felt as though someone had seized my tonsils and was swinging from them and I woke the next morning croaky and tired.Lamma Temple looked near enough on the underground and so I headed off to find it. The ticket lady smiled and waved - two stops. I stood in the jolting carriage and everyone stared. Very few smiled.

The station is nestled under a flyover and the passenger is left stranded on a little island of flowing traffic. Bemused by the scale, I had to ask directions for the temple which, the map insisted, was directly ahead. The woman I stopped pointed to a concrete wall. I doubted this. The Chinese are a lovely and friendly people. However, if they do not know the way, they point helpfully anyway - just to show willing. As she was watching me I risked life and limb across the lines of traffic. Unbelievably I spotted little curved roofs above the wall. Patiently I followed the wall round (possibly three sides of the square) and eventually found the way in via vast gates.

My spirits lifted. For the first time in Beijing I found an atmosphere of peace. Green trees formed and attractive garden. People sat and watched the children playing. Magnificent temple gates of red, greens and blue enticed you further. Courtyards led on to temples where great carved Buddhas serenely grace the present. The day was bright and cold. Colours gleamed under the winter sun. People came to pay their respects and pray.

After some time I stopped examining the buildings and started to observe the people. Whereas, outside Chengdu, the nuns anxiously attended on each devotee and chimed the prayer bell whenever required, in Lamma the monks surveyed the scene with complete indifference. In the centre temple a Buddha carved from the trunk of a great tree loomed above us - twenty four metres high.( To be frank, a perfectly hideous monstrosity). Around his feet scuttled an elderly, dirty and fat little monk. He was praying as though his life depended on it. What, I wondered, had he done. A tour guide was showing around a large group of Chinese sightseers. I sat in a corner and watched and, as I watched, I realised the monk's activity was dependent on the number of people in the temple. In front of the tour group he had been fervent and dedicated. As the numbers dwindled, so did his prayers. Finally, although aware of my presence, he decided he had had enough. He pulled out a chair and flopped into it. I would not have been at all surprised if he had lit up. He had two minutes grace and then another group attended. He rose heavily to his feet and sunk into his prayer routine. I felt as if I could have been watching a scene straight from Chaucer.

I tried to remember what the guidebook had said about this place. It was one of the few places to have escaped undamaged during the Cultural Revolution. Why ? The monks are Mongolian and the Temple is seen by the Government as proof that it is not hostile to the Tibetan Buddhism which is practised here - and so shows China's regard for Tibet. I felt a deal had been struck.

I wondered on through the scenes. Out of a window I spotted Mongolian features watching my European ones- a Monk's face, white against the surrounding gloom. What a striking photo I thought. Although I knew photography of the Monks and the Buddha is forbidden, I asked to take his photograph. His eyes slid to the right and then the left. No one was watching. He nodded hastily and the deed was done.

On the way out the I found a souvenir shop and wandered in. A few assistants sat idly by and did not raise their eyes from their card games. Abba, I have to tell you, emerges from their tinny radios. An American is trying to screw the price down on some trinket. I showed a faint interest in some seals. The assistant plonked them down on the table in front of me and sat down to his cards again. Depressed I abandoned the effort and made my way through the underground and back to the necessary but despised comfort of my hotel. To cheer myself up I bought a Mars bar at the tourist shop and retired, with Lemsip, to my bed and sleep.

Some hours later, I awoke, feeling like death. Why, I thought, curled rebelliously against time - did I agree to meet the Wolf and the Americans for Peking Duck. My throat ached, my head ached , the hotel seemed to be swaying.

A bath and some make up later restored me. In the lobby the wolf was waiting and we trotted out into the cold night. The naive American was suitably named Wendy, and she told us she had been recommended a good restaurant by her students and ten minutes walking bought us to a grubby white building. We were immediately ushered upstairs. Tatty red carpets were held in place by crumbling stair rods. A smell of burnt cabbage pervaded the place. An overstocked tank held some depressed looking fish (kinder to eat them and put them out of their misery). Five waitresses dressed in communist blue inefficiently faffed around. The menu was - not surprisingly - in Chinese and Wendy bravely ordered the duck by quaking. The waitresses scuttled off and eventually dinner was served.

I have eaten better Peking duck in Southampton, the pancakes were thick, white and cold and the meat greasy. But, it was filling and suddenly I felt a lot better. The conversation flowed. Suddenly the waitress appeared.

"You pay money now", she stated. It was half past eight in the evening. We look around. The place was empty. We had obviously outstayed our welcome. The Wolf and I made our way back to the Hotel bar. We agreed. Beijing is a bloody city.

"Do you know," he told me, " I was speaking to this Chinese girl today - very good English. Very sweet. And her boyfriend rushed up and pulled her away. He wouldn't let her speak at all. Dragged her off."

"Come along Wolfie," I said - actually I didn't say that, his name's John. " You were chatting her up weren't you?"

He denied it indignantly and possibly truthfully. He had just wanted directions and her English had been so good he had asked where she learnt it.

In revenge we propped up the bar until past midnight; the little Chinese barman was desperately trying to keep his eyes open. Finally we took pity on him and made our ways to our rooms where I slept well.I decided to give Beijing one last chance. I took the tube to the city centre and Tiaannamen Square and walked along the edge to see the city's street life. There were a few peddlers, a little street market and no shops. Well, Okay, there were a few tourist shops and friendship stores but the bustling hum, which characterised Cheng Du was wholly absent. I plodded doggedly along the streets. People were selling food on the street - some of which looked pretty good. In contrast there was a particularly tatty looking Kentucky Fried Chicken which I passed. I don't even like it in the U.K. Should I have bothered searching for MacDonalds ? I think not.

As I walked I suddenly realised why my throat was so sore. The dust in Beijing is unbelievable. It was edible. I passed many people wearing masks. The dust was thick and yellow and seemed to be caused by the relentless flow of traffic and general lack of vegetation. Used as I am to cities such as London and Southampton, who are so proud of their trees, I find this hard to tolerate. I consulted the map. To the left of the square were shown two lakes. In search of coolness I decide to head that way. When I arrived the whole was enclosed with walls in which were posted various guards. Obviously a no go area. Later, I was to realise, this was the place where the new forbidden city was situated - Communist Party Headquarters. Typical that it should have destroyed all the trees in the rest of the city and then retired into them for comfort and relaxation !I abandoned the effort and found myself once again in Tiannamen Square. To the right of me stood in ugly state, the Great Hall of the People. Anything to get out of the air I decided to give it a go. This, after all, is where Nixon established diplomatic relations with China - a dining room, which seats five thousand to prove it. I toiled up the stairs and paid my fee.

I have never, ever, ever seen such an ugly duckling as this building - and no chance at all of it ever turning into a swan. It is gargantuan. Right-angled doorways lead from one dreary vista to another. It has fake marble walls and that dreary concrete floor with marble chips flocked in it. There was a strong smell of boiled cabbage in some passageways and a very strong smell of urine in others.

The auditorium was vast and shabby and most sensible diners would leave the dining hall on sight. I did not know whether to laugh or cry at its pomposity and bombast. Slogans were everywhere - stating its beauty and importance.

I began to watch my fellow Chinese visitors. Were they not a mite cynical I wondered. But all of them seemed lost in vast admiration. They took pictures of themselves standing proudly in the front of the auditorium, in front of a painting of a bush, which hangs in the main entrance. They examined the ghastly tile mosaic wall with interest. Do they really believe all this crap I thought to myself crossly as I made my way upstairs.

But there - do you know what I found? Guess. In all my travels through tourist China - something I had never before found? Yes a tea room. Joy. I sank into it and demanded my cha. I was gasping. I don't really ask for much you know, I can cope with the plumbing, the rice and do not need MacDonalds on every corner, but I think asking for tea in China is not an unreasonable request. So I revelled in this unexpected pleasure.Once recovered I noticed a fairly decent souvenir shop. On my arrival I found it chock full of the most amazing variety of propaganda and junk. I bought a book of politically correct poems tastefully illustrated by an 'approved' artist and some marble worry balls for my mother. She is very good at worrying so they would suit her. Mercifully, although this is aimed at the Chinese, the price was not mysteriously hiked up when I decided to buy. A lot of the Chinese were buying horrible key rings with fake cameras attached. I remembered my girl on the train and tried to be sympathetic.

What with the tea and the gifts I did not feel quite so hostile and trotted through the remainder feeling a bit more forgiving. It did sell a range of the oddest objects - coffee peculators, saucepans and ginseng put in an appearance. Would Chairman Mao have approved ? Well. I battled my way back to the hotel on the underground in the rush hour. In peak times they pushed you into the carriage and you become part of a homogenous mass. I was ejected out at my stop, checked my money belt and thanked my stars that I was to leave Beijing the next day.

I called in at the China Travel Service office where they should have confirmed my flight out of the city. Buoyed with the thought of my departure I walked happily into the room where little smiling faces greeted me.

"Ah," they said, "Dragon Air has cancelled your seat since you did not confirm in time."

My heart did not sink. It plummeted to my stomach, continued to my feet and down the six floors below and on in to the underground.

I was left heartless and frozen in BLOODY BEIJING. Rule one of the Guidebook flashed in front of me

I took a very deep breath and walked over to the window. Out in this wretched city there is a slogan nine feet high. It said.

I wondered what the prat of the writer would have done if could see me follow my natural instincts and smash the heads of these shiftless CTS officers against the desk until they had no faces left to lose.

"You can always wait and fly with China Airlines" said one of them.

Over my dead body I thought in horror, having seen the conditions of these planes. This galvanised me into action. My heart refused to join me from the underground but I rallied my resources. Fortunately I knew a pilot who flies Dragon Air and if necessary I would phone him at some unearthly hour in the U.K and demand help. Had Chris Patten upset the Chinese? I wondered. Why the fuck hadn't the CTS confirmed when they had the chance three days ago? Would I have enough money for another ticket? If I didn't get back to Hong Kong within the next two days I would miss my connecting flight to London and then I would be completely up the creek and penniless."Phone Dragon Air!" I said putting on my best Last Days of the Raj manner - it had been known to intimidate a bank manager) " I will speak to them"

The CTS kept telling me the line was busy. I was quite prepared to wait. Eventually the C.T.S clerk spoke in rapid Chinese down the line.

"It's OK." she smiled. "It's confirmed"

After the Xian business I did not believe a word. She had probably phoned the speaking clock . I instructed her to write a receipt and stamp the ticket and left before my facade crumbled and I started to cry.

Later the Wolf tried to reassure me. But I checked out of the hotel early and arrived at the airport to camp in front of the Dragon Air checkin until I knew my seat was safe. Once I was in the air and safely on my way, my heart decided to rejoin me and I arrived in Hong Kong whole and relieved.The real romance of the city had pulled as the plane, bathed in sunlight, made her descent and swerved, so that I - sitting by the wing - saw Hong Kong caught in a silver curve against the blue sea.

Hong Kong - A city to love.
Hong Kong is such a comfy city and after the cold and the dust of Beijing I sat in Victoria Park soaking up the sunshine. A few hours and you sense it gives you the cat like ability to be alone without a second glance. There are no sullen overtones which you can feel in London for example. There is purpose in this place. Buildings are springing up everywhere and, adsorbed in its own intent, the city assumes you have your own and lets you be. Easy to see why it appeals to the chivalrous, but possibly not politically astute Mr Patten. When you go, give it time. Do not, as I did leave it a mere forty-eight hours to charm you.

 Finally London and the Old World called and I had to return. Heathrow was grey and cold in the cold dawn landing. What had I gained from my travels? I felt I had been away longer than three weeks in a timeless country. B travelling through China I had cleared my mind of a lot of debris. I had seen how the Dragon Kings had lived in their splendid isolation and how their modern counterparts do the same. Except, possibly, they have lost their wings with their name and now lurk like great grey crocodiles feeding off their drowned idealism and eyeing Hong Kong: greedy for riches they have not themselves earned.

And I must learn not to do the same. Not to be chained by the shackles of ROUTINE & FEAR, which makes you look backwards to the imagined safe country of the past. I must - as the Tibetan mantra demands.

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5      

Author: Sarah Keen          Date: June 28, 2008