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It’s 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 – Hong Kong and China are technically one.
I’m alive, and I’m in Guilin – a city of one million people, situated in the southern Chinese province of Guangxi. I arrived two days ago on a flight from Xi’an, and so far my main impression of the urban centre has been that of the high number of tourists, neon lights and massage parlours – all of which are mildly off-putting when set against the backdrop of the surrounding scenery.
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 to wonder why anyone would come to this dust bowl in central China. About an hour outside of the city is the answer: the site of the Terracotta Warriors – for many the 8th wonder of the world. But before that: back to our drama filled arrival.
The Temple of Heaven is more like the name suggests than one might think. To reach the inner “halls”, one must first 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 single board games. Nevermind the best gig you’ve ever been to – this is electric and rapturously real.
As I walked Tiananmen Square this morning, I did little in the way of mingle with the many plain clothed spies. 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 is supposed to speak of (or in many cases, which they don’t even know about).
