How do we get to the Terracotta Army?
During the first week of October, the entire country of China goes on holiday to celebrate National Day. Excited to have a whole week of vacation after only four weeks of teaching, the English teachers of Qufu Normal University scurried to make plans. We pored over maps and what was left of our September paycheck trying to decide where to go. In the end, a good number of us settled on Xi’an, home to the famous Terracotta Army. After a few days in Xi’an, we would then travel to Beijing to finish off our week. It seemed like the perfect plan.
My friend Irene and I departed a few days earlier than the rest of the crowd. We took an overnight sleeper train and found ourselves blinking blearily in the Xi’an train station at about 6:00 am Saturday morning. A little groggy after 16 hours of travel without much sleep, we were still determined to make the most of our day. After making our way to the hostel, showering, and downing a few cups of much needed coffee, we set off to find our way to the Terracotta Army.
My bunk on the sleeper train
However, “finding our way” soon proved to be much more complicated than we had anticipated. We had been spoiled by Qufu, which is small enough that getting lost isn’t really possible, and where we constantly had an army of students willing to tag along with us anywhere we wished to go. Even when we were alone and completely befuddled, the marketplace vendors and shop attendants in Qufu were typically very helpful and willing to participate in a long-winded game of “mime that vegetable.” But in Xi’an we found a very different culture. Even the women who worked at the hostel front desk seemed irritated when we asked them for directions. After giving me a long look that clearly asked “What, are you stupid?” one girl scribbled a few bus numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Um…thanks,” I said, having no idea how to reach the bus but a little afraid to ask. Irene and I wandered out of the hostel and found a bus stop around the corner. A bus with the appropriate number showed up, so we hopped on.
Thus began a confusing series of bus rides, during which we were rewarded only with stares of fear or annoyance when we attempted to ask or gesture for help. At one point we wasted almost an hour riding on a bus in the opposite direction from our intended destination. But eventually we found our way to the train station, where tourists were being herded in droves onto the bus that led to the burial site. We hopped on, paid our fare, and settled down happily. Weren’t we clever? We’d managed to figure it out even after getting lost!
Our pride lasted until we were told to disembark from the bus. We had arrived, the driver informed us all. We stepped off the bus and found ourselves standing on a dirt road, with nothing that looked even remotely like a tourist attraction in sight.
“Um…where do we go?” I asked Irene.
“Follow the Chinese tourists,” she suggested.
This seemed like a good plan. After all, they could read the signs. But after walking for a while, I realized that there weren’t any signs. There was nothing indicating in what direction we should go, and the groups we were shadowing looked just as confused as we did. Everyone seemed to be employing the same tactic: walk in a straight line and hope that eventually you reach something. Finally, after about ten minutes, we began to catch sight of tour buses—the big ones that foreigners with real money pay for. Passengers looked down their noses at the addled pedestrians on the side of the road, and I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to shout and shake my fists. A few of the Chinese tourists in front of us, who appeared to be students, pointed after the buses. Follow that bus! We began to trot down the road, suddenly feeling hopeful.
After a few minutes we reached our destination.
“That’s crap,” Irene said angrily as we joined the swarms of tourists heading for the ticket booths. “How can you have such a popular tourist destination and not have any signs?”
I shrugged. Maybe it was supposed to be part of the experience. Maybe Emperor Qin felt that people had to prove themselves before they could see the contents of his tomb.
“It’s crap,” Irene repeated.
We bought our tickets, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that with my expired Skidmore College ID I got to buy one for half price. Distracted by my cheer, I didn’t notice the real live army that was approaching me.
“Tour guide?”
It was a small, delicate woman in a business suit and holding up an umbrella to block out the sun. In a semi-circle about ten feet behind her stood several identical figures, who were watching our interaction closely. “You need tour guide?”
“Oh. No, thanks,” I told the woman politely, and proceeded towards the entrance.
“Yes. You need a tour guide!” she insisted, stepping in front of me to block my path.
“No, I’m fine, really. Thank you.”
“No, No, you need tour guide! Won’t understand without tour guide.” The woman continued to shuffle backwards, hopping back and forth so that she was constantly right in front of me.
“I don’t need a tour guide,” I countered firmly.
“Yes! Nothing in English, won’t understand. You know nothing about story, about history. You will get lost. Need tour guide!”
I wanted to ask this woman if she usually got clients by insulting them, and also to point out that every sign around us had a clear English translation. But I thought discouraging any conversation was probably best, so I stepped around her once again and began to walk more rapidly towards the entrance, scanning the crowd desperately for Irene who was nowhere in sight.
The woman continued to pursue me, and I began to speed walk, saying over and over again, “I don’t want a tour guide; bú yào!” When I finally managed to break away from her, she stood angrily shouting after me. “You will wish for tour guide! You understand nothing!”
Her words seemed to cue the rest of the tour guides who had been shadowing us from a distance. Suddenly they swarmed me, all urging me to select them as my tour guide and waving maps in my face. I refused in every language I knew, pushing and shoving my way past them until I reached the entrance and handed the guard my ticket. Once I was safely through, I looked behind me. They had gone, already pursuing a new victim.
“Holy shit,” I said aloud.
“I know.” Irene had made it through the gate, apparently having gone through a similar experience. “They’re crazy.”
Permitting myself a small shudder, I turned and followed Irene down the path that led to the museums.
The entrance to the Terracotta Army park (above) and a view of the army (right)
When life gives you a push, shove it back
Someone once told me that every city has its own personality and that you can use one word to sum it up. By the end of my stay in Xi’an, I felt I had found its word: shove. Everywhere we went we were tossed about like animals in a herd that hadn’t figured out how to get with the program. Standing in a line in China is never a sure thing, but in Xi’an it is reduced to a toned-down fist fight in which no one has anything to lose and everyone will do whatever it takes to get to the front. In museums, in the market, waiting for the bus, and even just walking down the street everybody pushes and shoves as much as they can.
At first, I tried to resist this slightly violent culture. I was sure that if I just stayed out of everyone’s way and wove my way around people quietly, I would still get where I needed to go. But after my first full day of constantly getting pushed from side to side, and once even punched, I decided that it was time to join the masses. When in Rome, right?
On our second night in Xi’an, Irene and I decided to go explore the Muslim quarter of the city for dinner. According to our guidebook it was a cultural gem, and something you couldn’t leave Xi’an without seeing. Naturally, it was packed with tourists and stalls selling hokey souvenirs. It was so crowded that it was impossible to move a foot in any direction, and though we struggled mightily to make it to one of the few ethnic market stalls we could find, we struggled in vain. It was also cold and raining, which made standing in the street hoping to find sustenance an even less pleasant experience than normal.
“Let’s just give up,” Irene shouted over the noise. “There’s nowhere to sit down, anyway, and it will take ages to get food.”
We had spotted a restaurant on our way over that had looked cheap and tasty, so we turned to head back. Irene emitted a groan, and I could see why. Masses of people covered the street, and all of them were heading with deep determination in our direction. Moving against them would be, to put it mildly, difficult.
But I had had enough of being pushed around, and taking confidence from the fact that I was about twice the size of most of the tourists, I grabbed Irene’s arm and shouted, “Let’s go!” pointing down the street like some sort of Disney-fied army general.
Hauling Irene behind me, I barreled my way through the crowd. I was almost looking for someone to knock over, and while I elbowed and shoved I shot as many nasty looks as I could come up with at every person I passed. Irene soon followed suit, and eventually we seemed to begin emitting some sort of “Get out of my way” vibe that leapt ahead of us and parted the sea of people. Soon we were standing outside the restaurant, still crabby but slightly mollified. Each of us had gotten in at least a few good shoves that had sent people flying. Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice told me I shouldn’t be proud of my behavior, but I didn't listen. Instead I sat down to enjoy my reward of hot noodle soup.
Comfort food
After the rude and violent attitude of Xi’an, Beijing seemed like a safe haven. Not only was it cleaner, friendlier, and much more navigable, but it also had something that is extremely valuable to a westerner who has been away from home for six weeks: an abundance of western restaurants.
Our hostel was situated in Sanlitun, which is also where most of the foreign ambassadors and their families live. As a result, in the streets surrounding the hostel almost any type of meal could be found: American, French, Mediterranean—you name it, they had it. In an attempt to save money and to retain at least a slight grip on reality, I tried to eat at least one Chinese meal every day, but the familiar and comforting food all around me was extremely tempting. Though I had been happy to experiment with cooking Asian (or at least my version of it) in Qufu, I had missed all of my old staples. Still, I was determined that the western food I wolfed down with enthusiasm in Beijing would be just a vacation treat. I wasn’t going to spend a ton of money on the few western ingredients available in Qufu. I would live practically and enjoy my eastern meals.
My first meal in Beijing: a panini with beets, salad greens, the most delicious spicy mayo in the world, and Camembert
My resolve was broken rather swiftly when I discovered the western grocery store around the corner from the hostel. A fellow teacher, Sarah, had told me about it, and I thought it would be fun to explore. I was only going to look. Really.
When I stepped into the store, I almost wanted to cry. All of my favorite things were spread out across the aisles. There was cheese—cheddar, mozzarella, Brie, and Camembert. There was chocolate—real chocolate—everywhere, and an entire floor to ceiling stack of shelves lined with candy. “Peanut M&M’s!” I shrieked with joy, snatching up a bag. There was pasta, tomato sauce, ice cream, lentils, black beans, split peas, and hot chocolate. There were peanut butter and fruit preserves. There were western brands of bath products, and I could actually read the labels of the shampoo and the conditioner!
There was butter.
Turning the corner at the back of the store, I couldn’t manage to hold back a gasp of delight when I found myself standing in front of a wall of French baked goods. There were baguettes, boules, the little square French rolls topped with pumpkin seeds I had eaten in Paris, and shelves and shelves of croissants. I stared at it all like a deer frozen in headlights. Where was I going to begin?
A man who was unloading a fresh delivery of bread approached me and handed me serving tongs. He smiled in understanding. Clearly, he had seen this reaction before. Perhaps hoping to help guide me, he pointed at what was probably one of the most popular items: two shelves of chocolate croissants.
I gave a little squeal of jubilation and bounced over to snatch one. The man started back, a little surprised at my enthusiasm, then grinned. “This one is funny,” he seemed to be thinking. Then began a game of “tempt the tourist” in which I lost all dignity I had ever possessed and very quickly ceased to care about the contents of my wallet. The man, who spoke no English, led me about the bakery pointing at various items and giggling as my enthusiasm rose to astounding proportions. I beamed happily when he showed me various breads, hopped up and down when he pointed out the pastries, and oo’d and aah’d in appreciation over the tarts. Somehow managing to retain a little self-control, I selected just one roll and two chocolate croissants to take back to the hostel, miming and stuttering in broken Chinese to my new friend that I would return the next day. He nodded knowingly, and I left making rapid calculations in my head of just how much money I could spend and how many groceries I could stuff into my backpack.
The roll and croissants were gone within the hour. On my way to the train station when it was time to go home, I made a quick stop at the grocery store. Sitting in my seat on the train, I gazed lovingly at my shopping bag of bread, butter, preserves, and a host of other goodies. Okay, I could have saved a little more money. But it was worth it.
Pardon my reach...
Emily and I at the Temple of Heaven (left)
The Temple of Abstinence, appropriately closed (below)
One of my favorite things about Beijing was that there was so much to see. We trekked along the Great Wall, wondered if the Temple of Abstinence in the gardens of the Temple of Heaven was always closed, and explored the various shopping streets all over the city. There were also a few oddities. For example, whenever I was with Irene we seemed to run into something Scottish. Irene, who hails from Glasgow, seemed to attract all things Scottish that could be found in Beijing. We passed several St. Andrew’s golf stores, a Scottish pub, and at one point even ran into a fleet of Chinese men dressed in kilts and playing bagpipes. While I laughed, took photos, and wondered what the occasion was, Irene muttered, “I fucking hate bagpipes. If I can’t get away from them here, where can I?”
Did you know that you can take a ski lift up to the Great Wall?
Irene and I on the Wall
But perhaps my most memorable experience in Beijing occurred in Tiananmen Square. I had spent the day with two other teachers, Sarah and Emily, exploring the Temple of Heaven. Tired and hungry, we were now packed tightly into a crowd of tourists waiting to watch the flag lowering ceremony in the square. Guards were moving along the borders of the crowd and arranging us all in an attempt to allow everyone to see. Most of us were asked to sit down in order to allow those behind us to have a clear view.
Emily and I obediently maneuvered onto the ground, trying to get comfortable kneeling on the harsh stone. But once we had settled ourselves, we discovered that comfort was the least of our problems.
When I was studying abroad in Paris, one of the things I found most frustrating was how acceptable it was in Europe for men to harass women. I was propositioned, groped, and followed more times than I could count, and it was the major downside to my time there. One of the things I loved about China was that I had not run into any behavior of this kind. Men stared every once in a while, but I always assumed it was simply because I stood out and never saw any hint of lewd behavior. China, it seemed, was the land of the respectful.
Or maybe not.
The ceremony was beginning, and I was watching the soldiers march into the square when I felt an elbow prodding me in the ribs. Emily was shooting me a look of alarm and jerking her head towards the people behind her. I turned to see what the problem was. A relatively senior-looking man, who was situated directly behind us, had chosen to squat rather than sit and seemed to be having trouble maintaining his balance. To prop himself up, he had placed a hand on Emily’s back. But as he leaned forward to watch the procession in the square, his hand was beginning to slide perilously downwards. As Emily shot me increasingly desperate looks, I struggled to control the sudden urge to laugh. The man didn’t seem at all interested in Emily’s behind and was watching the procession with great attention. Emily shifted around, trying to dislodge his hand, and he rocked back away from her. But in a few moments his hand was back in place and sliding down once again.
“What do I do?” Emily asked me.
I shook my head. We could hardly turn around and slap an old man. We couldn’t be sure if he was doing it on purpose, and how were we supposed to explain ourselves when the rest of the crowd took notice? I shrugged my shoulders and gave Emily a look of pity. She was just going to have to sit it out.
But Emily, it turned out, was not going to be the only one to receive this man’s attentions. Near the end of the ceremony, the crowd in front of us began to get restless and move around. I rose up on my knees to get a better look, and suddenly I felt a pair of hands wrapping around my thigh. Turning to look, I saw that the old man had seized the opportunity of something sturdier to hold on to and was now using my thigh as a means of balance. I shot a look at Emily, who was biting her lips in an attempt not to laugh. I tried shifting around and wiggling my leg. The man responded by removing one hand and returning it to Emily’s backside, still leaving his right hand on my leg. No matter how much we squirmed, he seemed determined to use us as a means of staying upright.
By now, Emily and I were both in a state of mixed hilarity and distress. There was no room to stand up, and none of our limited Chinese phrases would be at all helpful. I looked around, hoping that perhaps someone nearby had noticed and would give an indication of what I should do. I made eye contact with a man standing just to my right. He smiled, wiggled his eyebrows, and then leaned over to peer down my shirt.
This was too much. When the ceremony ended and the crowd began to disperse, I jumped to my feet and Emily and I bolted for freedom.
“That was so awkward!” Emily giggled.
Feeling like I should be more offended, I laughed along with her and vowed never to wear a pair of shorts to a crowded place again.
