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It’s now late afternoon. The light has dimmed with the overcast spread of angry clouds. Our minibus is speeding along a wet highway towards Lo Wu – the very last stop on the Hong Kong MTR before the Mainland. I happen to ask what time the border closes at. It doesn’t. This isn’t any conventional frontier between countries.
I’m alive, and in Guilin. The three cities I’ve visited so far couldn’t be more different. Beijing and Xi’an had big city vibes, Guilin almost feels small in comparison – like a countryside town – this despite it’s 4 million inhabitants – small by Chinese standards. Neon lights and massage parlours sure are popular, but I’m here for the views.
Arriving with a severe thump on a China Eastern flight from Beijing and then nearly getting lost in the evening smog and dirt of Xi’an, it’s easy wonder why anyone would come to this dust bowl in the middle of China. About an hour outside of the city is the answer: the Terracotta Warriors – for many the eighth wonder of the world.
The Temple of Heaven is more like the name suggests than one might think. To reach the inner “Halls”, you must proceed through a barrage of musicians playing their flute instruments, women doing Tai-chi in unison, and large groups of old men gathered around watching a single board game. It’s a walk that i’ll never forget.
As I walked Tiananmen Square this morning, I did little in the way of mingle with the many plain clothed spies that linger. Nor did I pay my respects to Chairman Mao. But I did get my photograph taken with him. It’s the largest square in the world, and more famously, the site of those incidents no one in China knows anything about.
