To the Ends of the Earth: The Selected Travels

Belles du Jour

I WALKED TO ST. BASIL’S, AND TO THE METROPOLE HOTEL, where I had stayed in 1968—it was now a sort of monument — and I strolled through the GUM store, looking at the merchandise.

While I was staring at some very inferior-looking alarm clocks, I realized that the woman on my right and the one on my left were sidling nearer to me.

“Is nice clock? You like clock?”

I said, “Alarm clocks wake you up. That’s why I hate them.”

“Is funny,” the woman on my right said. She was dark, in her early twenties. “You want to change rubles?”

The surprising thing to me was that one of these young women was pushing a little boy in a pram, and the other had a bag of what looked like old laundry. They were pretty women, but obviously preoccupied with domestic chores — airing the baby, doing the wash. I invited them to the ballet — I had bought pairs of tickets. They said no, they had to cook dinner for their husbands and do the housework, but what about changing some money? The rate was seventy-two cents to the ruble: they offered me ten times that.

“What would I do with all those rubles?”

“So many things.”

The dark one was Olga, the blonde Natasha — a ballet dancer, she said. Olga spoke Italian; Natasha spoke only Russian, and had a dancer’s slimness and pallor and china-blue eyes with a Slavic slant and an expensive Russian mouth.

I said I was walking — I needed the exercise.

“We will go with you!”

That was why, about ten minutes later, I came to be walking with a Russian woman on each arm, and carrying Natasha’s laundry — Olga pushing little Boris in his pram — down Karl Marx Prospekt. Olga was chatting to me in Italian and Natasha laughing.

“You seem to be doing all right for yourself, Paul!”

It was a group of people from the tour, heading back to the bus. I was delighted that they saw me — what would they make of it?

We stopped at a café and had a hot chocolate and they said they wanted to see me again—“We can talk!” They made a fuss about the time, probably because they were deceiving their husbands, but we agreed on a time when they would call me.

There was a message waiting for me when I got back to the Hotel Ukraine: “Olga will call tomorrow at twelve.” She called on the stroke of noon the next day to say she would call again at two. At two she said she would meet me at three-thirty. These phone calls had the effect of making our meeting seem necessary and inevitable. It was only when I was waiting on the hotel steps that it occurred to me that I had no idea why I was seeing them at all.

Natasha walked by but did not greet me. She was wearing old clothes and carrying a shopping basket. She winked at me; I followed her to a taxi, in which Olga was already sitting and smoking. When I got in, Olga gave the driver an order and he drove off. After that they intermittently quarreled over whether this was the right direction or the quickest way.

After twenty minutes of this — we were now deep in the highrise Moscow suburbs — I said, “Where are we going?”

“Not far.”

There were people raking leaves and picking up litter from the streets. I had never seen so many street sweepers. I asked what was going on.

Olga said that this was the one day in the year when people worked for nothing — tidying up the city. The day was called subodnik and this work was given free to honor Lenin — his birthday was two days away.

“Don’t you think you should be out there with a shovel, Olga?”

“I am too busy,” she said, and her laugh said Not on your life!

“Are we going to a house?”

Olga gave more directions to the driver. He turned right, entered a side street, and then cut down a dirt road and cursed. That bad road connected one housing estate with another. He kept driving on these back roads among tall bare blocks of flats and then he stopped the car and babbled angrily.

“We can walk the rest of the way,” Olga said. “You can pay him.”

The driver snatched my rubles and drove off as we walked toward a sixteen-story building, through children playing and their parents sweeping the pavements in a good subodnik spirit.

No one took any notice of me. I was merely a man in a raincoat following two women down a muddy pavement, past walls that had been scribbled on, past broken windows and through a smashed door to a hallway where three prams were parked and some of the floor tiles were missing. It could have been a housing estate in south London or the Bronx. The lift had been vandalized but it still worked. It was varnished wood, with initials scratched onto it. We took it to the top floor.

“Excuse me,” Olga said. “I couldn’t get my friend on the phone. I must talk to her first.”

But by now I had imagined that we had come to a place where I was going to be threatened and probably robbed. There were three huge Muscovites behind the door. They would seize me and empty my pockets, and then blindfold me and drop me somewhere in Moscow. They didn’t go in for kidnapping. I asked myself whether I was worried, and answered: Kind of.

I was somewhat reassured when I saw a surprised and sluttish-looking woman answer the door. Her hair was tangled, she wore a bathrobe. It was late afternoon — she had just woken up. She whispered a little to Olga and then she let us in.

Her name was Tatyana and she was annoyed at having been disturbed — she had been watching television in bed. I asked to use the toilet, and made a quick assessment of the flat. It was large — four big rooms and a central hall with bookshelves. All the curtains were drawn. It smelled of vegetables and hair spray and that unmistakable odor that permeates places in which there are late sleepers — the smell of bedclothes and bodies and feety aromas.

“You want tea?”

I said yes, and we all sat in the small kitchen. Tatyana brushed her hair and put on makeup as she boiled the kettle and made tea.

There were magazines on the table: two oldish copies of Vogue, and last month’s Tatler and Harper’s Bazaar. Seeing them in that place gave me what I was sure would be a lasting hatred for those magazines.

“My friend from Italy brings them for me,” Tatyana said.

“She has many foreign friends,” Olga said. “That is why I wanted you to meet her. Because you are our foreign friend. You want to change rubles?”

I said no — there was nothing I wanted to buy.

“We can find something for you,” Olga said, “and you can give us U.S. dollars.”

“What are you going to find?”

“You like Natasha. Natasha likes you. Why don’t you make love to her?”

I stood up and went to the window. The three women stared at me, and when I looked at Natasha she smiled demurely and batted her eyelashes. Beside her was her shopping basket with a box of detergent, some fresh spinach wrapped in newspaper, some cans of food, a pack of plastic clothespins, and a box of disposable diapers.

“Here?” I said. “Now?”

They all smiled at me. Out of the window people were sweeping the pavements, and raking leaves, and shoveling up piles of rubbish — a little unselfish demonstration of civic pride for Lenin’s birthday.

“How much will it cost me to make love to Natasha?”

“It will cost one hundred and seventy U.S. dollars.”

“That’s rather a precise figure,” I said. “How did you arrive at that price?”

“That’s how much a cassette recorder costs at the Berioska shop.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You have to decide now,” Olga said sternly. “Do you have a credit card?”

“You take credit cards?”

“No, the Berioska shop can.”

“That’s an awful lot of money, Olga.”

“Hah!” Tatyana jeered. “My boyfriends give me radios, tape recorders, cassettes, clothes — thousands of dollars. And you’re arguing about a few hundred dollars.”

“Listen, I’m not boasting — believe me. But if I like someone I don’t usually buy her before we go to bed. In America we do it for fun.”

Olga said, “If we don’t have dollars we can’t buy radios at the Berioska. It closes at six o’clock. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like being hurried.”

“All this talk! You could have finished by now!”

I hated this and had a strong desire to get away from the nagging. It was hot in the kitchen, the tea was bitter, all those people raking leaves sixteen floors down depressed me.

I said, “Why don’t we go to the Berioska shop first?”

Tatyana dressed and we found a taxi. It was a twenty-minute ride and well after five by the time we arrived. But for me it was simply a way of saving face — and saving money. I had been disgusted with myself back there in the flat.

Before we went into the shop the three women started bickering. Olga said that it was all my fault for not making love to Natasha when I should have. Tatyana had to meet her daughter at school, Natasha was due home because she was going to the Black Sea tomorrow with her husband and small child — and was counting on having a cassette recorder; and Olga herself had to be home to cook dinner. “Vremya,” Natasha said, “vremya.” Time, time.

I had never seen such expensive electronic equipment — overpriced radios and tape decks, a Sony Walkman, for $300.

“Natasha wants one of those.”

Olga was pointing to a $200 cassette machine.

“That’s a ridiculous price.”

“It’s a good cassette. Japanese.”

I was looking at Natasha and thinking how thoroughly out of touch these people were with market forces.

“Vremya,” Natasha said urgently.

“These are nice.” I began trying on the fur hats. “Wouldn’t you like one of these?”

Olga said, “You must buy something now. Then we go.”

And I imagined it — the cassette recorder in a Berioska bag, and the dash to Tatyana’s and the fumble upstairs with Natasha panting “Vremya, vremya,” and then off I’d go, saying to myself: You’ve just been screwed.

I said, “Tatyana, your daughter’s waiting at school. Olga, your husband’s going to want his dinner on time. And Natasha, you’re very nice, but if you don’t go home and pack you’ll never make it to the Black Sea with your husband.”

“What are you doing?”

“I have an appointment,” I said, and left, as the Berioska shop was closing.

I went to the Bolshoi, and I noticed at the cloakroom and the buffet and the bar Russian women gave me frank looks. It was not lust or romance, merely curiosity because they had spotted a man who probably had hard currency. It was not the sort of look women usually offered. It was an unambiguous lingering gaze, a half smile that said: Maybe we can work something out.

Mongols

THE MONGOLS REACHED THE EASTERN LIMITS OF CHINA. They rode to Afghanistan. They rode to Poland. They sacked Moscow, Warsaw, and Vienna. They had stirrups — they introduced stirrups to Europe (and in that made jousting possible and perhaps started the Age of Chivalry). They rode for years, in all seasons. When the Russians retired from their campaigns for the winter, the Mongols kept riding and recruiting in the snow. They devised an ingenious tactic for their winter raids: they waited for rivers to freeze and then they rode on the ice. In this way they could go anywhere and they surprised their enemies. They were tough and patient and by the year 1280 they had conquered half the world.

But they were not fearless, and looking at these great open spaces you could almost imagine what it was that spooked them. They had a dread of thunder and lightning. It was so easy to be struck by lightning here! When an electric storm started, they made for their tents and burrowed into layers of black felt. If there were strangers among them they sent these people outside, considering them unlucky. They would not eat an animal that had been struck by lightning — they wouldn’t go near it. Anything that would conduct lightning they avoided — even between storms; and one of their aims in life, along with plundering and marauding and pillaging, was propitiating lightning.

As I was watching this wilderness of low hills, the city of Ulaanbaatar materialized in the distance, and a road hove into view, and dusty buses and trucks. My first impression of the city was that it was a military garrison, and that impression stayed with me. Every block of flats looked like a barracks, every parking lot like a motor pool, every street in the city looked as though it had been designed for a parade. Most of the vehicles were in fact Soviet army vehicles. Buildings were fenced in, with barbed wire on the especially important ones. A cynic might have said that the city resembled a prison, but if so the Mongolians were very cheery prisoners — it was a youthful, well-fed, well-dressed population. They had red cheeks, and wore mittens and boots; in this brown country they favored bright colors — it was not unusual to see an old man with a red hat and a purple frock coat and blue trousers stuck into his multicolored boots. But that way of dressing meant that the Russians were more conspicuous, even when they weren’t soldiers. I say the city looked like a garrison, but it was clearly not a Mongolian one — it was Russian, and there was little to distinguish it from any other military garrison I had seen in Central Asia. We had been passing such big, dull places all the way from Irkutsk: barracks, radar dishes, unclimbable fences, batteries, ammo dumps, and surely those mounds that looked like tumuli were missile silos?

The hotel was bare and smelled of mutton fat. That was the smell of Ulaanbaatar. Mutton was in the air. If there had been a menu, it would have been on the menu. It was served at every meal: mutton and potatoes — but gristly mutton and cold potatoes. The Mongolians had a way of making food inedible or disgusting, and they could transform even the most inoffensive meal into garbage, by serving it cold, or sprinkling it with black carrots, or garnishing it with a goat’s ear. I made a point of visiting food shops, just to see what was available. I found fat black sausages, shriveled potatoes and turnips, black carrots, trays of grated cabbage, basins of yellow goats’ ears, chunks of rancid mutton and chicken feet. The most appetizing thing I saw turned out to be a large bin of brown unwrapped laundry soap.

Chinese Inventions

THE CHINESE ARE THE LAST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD STILL manufacturing spittoons, chamber pots, treadle sewing machines, bed warmers, claw hammers, “quill” pens (steel nibs, dunk-and-write), wooden yokes for oxen, iron plows, sit-up-and-beg bicycles, and steam engines.

They still make grandfather clocks — the chain-driven mechanical kind that go tick-tock! and bong! Is this interesting? I think it is, because the Chinese invented the world’s first mechanical clock in the late Tang Dynasty. Like many other Chinese inventions, it was forgotten about; they lost the idea, and the clock was reintroduced to China from Europe. The Chinese were the first to make cast iron, and soon after invented the iron plow. Chinese metallurgists were the first to make steel (“great iron”). The Chinese invented the crossbow in the fourth century B.C. and were still using it in 1895. They were the first to notice that all snow-flakes have six sides. They invented the umbrella, the seismograph, phosphorescent paint, the spinning wheel, sliding calipers, porcelain, the magic lantern (or zoetrope), and the stink bomb (one recipe called for fifteen pounds of human shit, as well as arsenic, wolfsbane, and cantharides beetles). They invented the chain pump in the first century A.D. and are still using it. They made the first kite, two thousand years before one was flown in Europe. They invented movable type and devised the first printed book — the Buddhist text the Diamond Sutra, in the year A.D. 868. They had printing presses in the eleventh century, and there is clear evidence that Gutenberg got his technology from the Portuguese, who in turn had learned it from the Chinese. They constructed the first suspension bridge and the first bridge with a segmented arch (this first one, built in 610, is still in use). They invented playing cards, fishing reels, and whisky.

In the year 1192, a Chinese man jumped from a minaret in Guangzhou using a parachute, but the Chinese had been experimenting with parachutes since the second century B.C. The Emperor Gao Yang (reigned 550–559) tested “man-flying kites”—an early form of hang glider — by throwing condemned prisoners from a tall tower, clinging to bamboo contraptions; one flew for two miles before crash-landing. The Chinese were the first sailors in the world to use rudders; westerners relied on steering oars until they borrowed the rudder from the Chinese in about 1100. Every schoolboy knows that the Chinese invented paper money, fireworks, and lacquer. They were also the first people in the world to use wallpaper (French missionaries brought the wallpaper idea to Europe from China in the fifteenth century). They went mad with paper. An excavation in Turfan yielded a paper hat, a paper belt, and a paper shoe, from the fifth century A.D. I have already mentioned toilet paper. They also made paper curtains and military armor made of paper — its pleats made it impervious to arrows. Paper was not manufactured until the twelfth century in Europe, about fifteen hundred years after its invention in China. They made the first wheelbarrows, and some of the best Chinese wheelbarrow designs have yet to be used in the West. There is much more. When Professor Needham’s Science and Civilization in China is complete, it will run to twenty-five volumes.

It was the Chinese who came up with the first design of the steam engine in about A.D. 600. And the Datong Locomotive Works is the last factory in the world that still manufactures steam locomotives. China makes big black choo-choo trains, and not only that — none of the factory is automated. Everything is handmade, hammered out of iron, from the huge boilers to the little brass whistles. China had always imported its steam locomotives — first from Britain, then from Germany, Japan, and Russia. In the late 1950s, with Soviet help, the Chinese built this factory in Datong, and the first locomotive was produced in 1959. There are now nine thousand workers, turning out three or four engines a month, of what is essentially a nineteenth-century vehicle, with a few refinements. Like the spittoons, the sewing machines, the washboards, the yokes, and the plows, these steam engines are built to last. They are the primary means of power in Chinese railways at the moment, and although there is an official plan to phase them out by the year 2000, the Datong Locomotive Works will remain in business. All over the world, sentimental steam railway enthusiasts are using Chinese steam engines, and in some countries — like Thailand and Pakistan — most trains are hauled by Datong engines. There is nothing Chinese about them, though. They are the same gasping locomotives I saw shunting in Medford, Massachusetts, in 1948, when I stood by the tracks and wished I was on board.

Public Bathhouse

I FOUND OUT THAT PEKING WAS FULL OF PUBLIC BATHHOUSES — about thirty of them, subsidized by the government. They are one of the cheapest outings in China: for 60 fen (15 cents) a person is admitted and given a piece of soap, a towel, and a bed; and he is allowed to stay all day, washing himself in the steamy public pool and resting.

The one I found was called Xing Hua Yuan. It was open from eight-thirty in the morning until eight o’clock at night. Many people who use it are travelers who have just arrived in Peking after a long journey and want to look presentable for their friends and relatives — and of course who don’t want to impose on them for a bath.

The beds were in little cubicles, and men wrapped in towels were resting or walking around talking. It was like a Roman bath — social, with the scalded Chinese, pinkish in the heat, sloshing themselves and yelling at each other in a friendly way. It was also possible to get a private room, for about double the ordinary rate.

I was thinking how Roman and Victorian the bathhouse looked (there was a women’s bathhouse next door), how useful for travelers and bathless residents, how like a club it was and how congenial, when a homosexual Chinese man set me straight.

“Most people go there to take a bath,” he said. “But it is also a good place to go if you want to meet a boy and do things with him.”

“What sort of things?”

He didn’t flinch. He said, “One day I was in Xing Hua Yuan and saw two men in a private room, and one had the other one’s cock in his mouth. That sort of thing.”

Shanghai

SHANGHAI IS AN OLD BROWN RIVERSIDE CITY WITH THE LOOK of Brooklyn, and the Chinese — who are comforted by crowds — like it for its mobs and its street life. It has a reputation for city slickers and stylishness. Most of China’s successful fashion designers work in Shanghai, and if you utter the words Yifu Sheng Luolang, the Shanghainese will know you are speaking the name of Yves Saint-Laurent. When I arrived in the city, there was an editor of the French magazine Elle prowling the streets looking for material for an article on China called “The Fashion Revolution.” According to the Chinese man who accompanied her — whom I later met — this French woman was mightily impressed by the dress sense of the Shanghai women. She stopped them and took their picture and asked where they got their clothes. The majority said that they got them in the Free Market in the back streets or that they made the clothes themselves at home, basing them on pictures they saw in western magazines. Even in the days of the Cultural Revolution, the women workers showed up at their factories with bright sweaters and frilly blouses under their blue baggy suits; it was customary to meet in the women’s washroom and compare the hidden sweaters before they started work.

Because it is a cosmopolitan city and has seen more foreigners — both invaders and friendly visitors — than any other Chinese city, it is a polyglot place. It is at once the most politically dogmatic (“Oppose book worship,” “Political work is the lifeblood of all economic work”: Mao) and the most bourgeois. When changes came to China, they appeared first in Shanghai; and when there is conflict in China, it is loudest and most violent in Shanghai. The sense of life is strong in Shanghai, and even a city hater like myself can detect Shanghai’s spirit and appreciate Shanghai’s atmosphere. It is not crass like Canton, but it is abrasive — and in the hot months stifling, crowded, noisy, and smelly.

It seemed to me noisy most of all, with the big-city, all-night howl that is the sound track of New York (honks, sirens, garbage trucks, shouts, death rattles). Peking was rising and would soon be a city of tall buildings, but Shanghai had been built on mud and was growing sideways and spreading into the swamps of Zhejiang. All day the pile drivers hammered steel into this soft soil to fortify it, and one was right outside my window — a cruel and dominating noise that determined the rhythm of my life. Zhong-guo! Zhong-guo! It affected the way I breathed and walked and ate: I moved my feet and lifted my spoon to Zhong-guo! Zhong-guo! It orchestrated my talking, too, it made me write in bursts, and when I brushed my teeth I discovered I did it to the pounding of this pile driver, the bang and its half echo, Zhong-guo! It began at seven in the morning and was still hammering at eight at night, and in Shanghai it was inescapable, because nearly every neighborhood had its own anvil clang of Zhong-guo!

I walked the back streets in order to keep away from the traffic and the crowds. And I realized that it would be dishonest to complain too much about noise, the pile drivers, and the frantic energy, because on my first visit to Shanghai I felt it was dreary and moribund and demoralized. Why was it that they never knew when to stop? Even the back streets were crowded, with improvised stalls and households that served as shop fronts and markets set up in the gutters, and people mending shoes and bicycles and doing carpentry on the pavement.

Toward the Bund — Shanghai’s riverbank promenade — I saw a spire behind a wall and found a way to enter. It was St. Joseph’s Church, and the man I took to be the caretaker, because he was so shabbily dressed in a ragged jacket and slippers, was the pastor, a Catholic priest. He was both pious and watchful, soft-spoken and alert — it is the demeanor of a Chinese Christian who had been put through more hoops than he cares to remember. The church had been wrecked during the Cultural Revolution, daubed with slogans, and turned into a depot for machinery, and the churchyard had been a parking lot.

“Sacramentum,” the priest said, pointing at the flickering candle, and he smiled with satisfaction: the consecrated host was in the tabernacle.

I asked him why this was so. Was there a service today?

No, he said, and brought me to the back of the church, where there was a coffin with a white paper cross stuck to it. He said there was a funeral tomorrow.

“I take it you’re busy — lots of people coming to church.”

“Oh yes. And there are five churches in Shanghai. They are always full on Sundays.”

He invited me to attend Mass, and out of politeness I said I might, but I knew I wouldn’t. I had no business there: I was a heretic. And I was often annoyed by westerners who, although they never went to church at home, would get the churchgoing bug in China, as an assertion of their difference or perhaps a reproach to the Chinese — as if religious freedom were the test of China’s tolerance. Well, it was one test, of course, but it was exasperating to see the test administered by an American unbeliever. So I didn’t go to church in China, but sometimes when I saw a bird in the grass I dropped to my knees and marveled as it twitched there.

The Red Guards and the Violinist

THERE WAS A STYLISH, YOUTHFUL–LOOKING MAN NAMED Wang whom I met one day in Shanghai. It turned out that we were both born in the same year — the Year of the Snake (but Wang used the Chinese euphemism for snake, “little dragon”). He was so friendly and full of stories that I saw him often, usually for lunch at the Jin Jiang Hotel. He was a sensitive soul, but had a sense of irony, too, and said he had never been happier than when he was walking the streets of San Francisco on his one trip to America — he hinted that he was eager to emigrate to the United States, but he never became a bore on the subject and did not ask me for help. He was unusual, even in Shanghai, for his clothes — a canary-yellow French jacket and pale blue slacks, a gold watch, a chain around his neck, and expensive sunglasses.

“I like bright clothes,” he said.

“Could you wear them during the Cultural Revolution?”

He laughed and said, “What a mess that was!”

“Were you criticized?”

“I was under arrest. That’s when I started smoking. I discovered that if you smoked it gave you time to think. They had me in a room — the Red Guards. They said, ‘You called Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, a crazy lady.’ She was a crazy lady! But I just lit a cigarette and puffed on it so that I could think of something to say.”

“What did you say?”

“The wrong thing! They made me write essays. Self-criticism!”

“Describe the essays.”

“They gave me subjects. ‘Why I Like Charles Dickens,’ ‘Why I Like Shakespeare.’ ”

“I thought you were supposed to say why you didn’t like them.”

“They wouldn’t believe that,” he said. “They called me a reactionary. Therefore, I had to say why I liked them. It was awful. Six pages every night, after work unit, and then they said, ‘This is dog shit — write six more pages.’ ”

“What work did you do?”

“Played the violin in the Red Orchestra. Always the same tunes. ‘The East Is Red,’ ‘Long Live the Thoughts of Mao,’ ‘Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman,’ all that stuff. They made me play in the rain. I said, ‘I can’t — the violin will fall apart.’ They don’t know that a violin is glued together. I played in the rain. It fell apart. They gave me another one and ordered me to play under the trees during the Four Pests Campaign — to keep sparrows from landing in the branches.”

The other three pests were mosquitoes, flies, and rats.

“That’s absurd,” I said.

“We painted Huai Hai Lu — that’s more absurd,” Wang said.

“How can you paint a street?” I asked — the street he named was one of the main thoroughfares of Shanghai.

“We painted it red, out of respect for Chairman Mao,” Wang said. “Isn’t that stupid?”

“How much of the street did you paint?”

“Three and a half miles,” Wang said, and laughed, remembering something else. “But there were stupider things. When we went to the work unit, we always did the qing an [salute] to Mao’s portrait on the gateway. We’d hold up the Red Book, say, ‘Long Live Chairman Mao,’ and salute him. Same thing when we went home. People would make things in Mao’s honor, like a knitted Mao emblem, or a red star in needlepoint, and put it in the special Respect Room at the unit — it was painted red. That was for Mao. If they wanted to prove they were very loyal, they would wear the Mao badge by pinning it to their skin.”

“That must have impressed the Red Guards,” I said.

“It wasn’t just the Red Guards — everyone blames them, but everyone was in it. That’s why people are so embarrassed at the moment, because they realize they were just as stupid about Chairman Mao as everyone else. I know a banker who was given the job of fly catcher. He had to kill flies and save their little bodies in a matchbox. Every afternoon someone would come and count the dead flies and say, ‘One hundred seventeen — not good enough. You must have one hundred twenty-five tomorrow.’ And more the day after, you see? The government said there was going to be a war. ‘The enemy is coming — be prepared.’ ”

“Which enemy?”

“The imperialists — Russia, India, the United States. It didn’t matter which one. They were going to kill us,” Wang said, and rolled his eyes. “So we had to make bricks for the war effort. Ninety bricks a month for each person. But my parents were old, so I had to make their bricks. I used to come home from the unit, write my essay ‘Why I Like Western Music,’ and make bricks — I had to deliver two hundred seventy a month. And they were always asking me about my hole.”

“Your hole?”

“The Shen wa dong — Dig Deep Holes edict. That was for the war, too. Everyone had to have a hole, in case of war. Every so often the Red Guards would knock on your door and say, ‘Where is your hole?’ ”

He said there were bomb shelters all over Shanghai, which had been built on Mao’s orders (“for the coming war”), and of course they had never been used. I asked him to show me one. We found this subterranean vault — it was just like a derelict subway station — on 1157 Nanjing Road, and it had been turned into an ice-cream parlor. The fascinating thing to me was that it was now obviously a place where young folks went to kiss their girlfriends. It was full of Chinese youths locked in the half nelson they regard as an amorous embrace. The irony was not merely that these kids were making out and feeling each other up in a place that had been built by frantic and paranoid Red Guards in the 1960s, but also that it was now called the Dong Chang Coffee Shop and owned and operated by the government.

I was talking to Wang one day about my trip through the Soviet Union when I mentioned how the scarcity of consumer goods there meant they were always pestering foreigners for blue jeans, T-shirts, track shoes, and so forth.

“That never happens in China,” I said.

“No,” Wang said. “But that reminds me. About three years ago there was a Russian ballet dancer at the hotel in Shanghai. I went to see the ballet — fabulous! And this dancer was very handsome. I recognized him, and he smiled at me. Then he pointed to my track shoes and pointed to himself. He wanted them, I understood that. They were expensive shoes — Nike, cost me fifty yuan. But I don’t care much about money. We measured feet, side by side. Exact fit. I don’t speak a word of Russian, but I could tell he really wanted those shoes.”

“Did you sell them to him?”

“I gave them to him,” Wang said, and frowned at the triviality of it. “I felt sorry for someone who just wanted a pair of shoes. It seemed sad to me that he couldn’t get them in his own country. I took them off and walked to my office barefoot! He was really happy! I thought: He’ll go back to Russia. He’ll always remember this. He’ll say, ‘Once I was in China. I met a Chinese man and asked him for his shoes, and he gave them to me!’ ”

A moment later, he said, “You can get anything you want in China. Food, clothes, shoes, bicycles, motorbikes, TVs, radios, antiques. If you want girls, you can find girls.” And then in a wide-eyed way, “Or boys — if you want boys.”

“Or fashion shows.”

“They have fashion shows on television almost every week,” Wang said. “Shanghai is famous for them.”

I asked him what the old people made of these developments — hookers and high fashion in a country where just a few years ago foreign decadence was condemned and everyone wore baggy blue suits.

“The old people love life in China now,” Wang said. “They are really excited by it. Very few people object. They had felt very repressed before.”

Performing Animals

ON MY WALKS IN SHANGHAI I OFTEN WENT PAST THE CHINESE Acrobatic Theater, a domed building near the center of the city. And I became curious and attended a performance; and after I saw it — not only the tumblers and clowns and contortionists, but also the man who balanced a dinner service for twelve on a chopstick that he held in his mouth — I wanted to know more.

Mr. Liu Maoyou was in charge of the acrobats at the Shanghai Bureau of Culture. He had started out as an assistant at the Shanghai Library, but even at the best of times things are quiet at the city library, since it is next to impossible — for political reasons — for anyone to borrow a book. The librarian is little more than a custodian of the stacks. He jumped at the chance of a transfer and joined the Bureau of Culture, and he accompanied the Chinese acrobats on their first tour of the United States in 1980.

“We call it a theater, because it has an artistic and dramatic element,” Mr. Liu said. “It has three aspects — acrobats, magic, and a circus.”

I asked him how it started.

“Before Liberation all the acrobats were family members. They were travelers and performers. They performed on the street or in any open space. But we thought of bringing them together and training them properly. Of course, the Chinese had been acrobats for thousands of years. They reached their height in the Tang Dynasty and were allowed to perform freely.”

Mr. Liu said this with such enthusiasm that I asked him how he felt about the Tang Dynasty.

“It was the best period in China,” he said. “The freest time — all the arts flourished during the Tang era.”

So much for the Shanghai Cultural Bureau, but he was still talking.

“Before Liberation they were doing actions without art form,” he said. “But they have to use mind as well as body. That’s why we started the training center. We don’t want these acrobats to be mind-empty, so after their morning practice they study math, history, language, and literature.”

He said that in 1986 thirty candidates were chosen from three thousand applicants. They were all young — between ten and fourteen years old, but Mr. Liu said the bureau was not looking for skill but rather for potential.

“We also have a circus,” he said. “Also a school for animal training.”

This interested me greatly, since I have a loathing for everything associated with performing animals. I have never seen a lion tamer who did not deserve to be mauled; and when I see a little mutt, wearing a skirt and a frilly bonnet, and skittering through a hoop, I am thrilled by a desire for its tormentor (in the glittering pantsuit) to contract rabies.

“Tell me about your animal training, Mr. Liu.”

“Before Liberation the only training we did was with monkeys. Now we have performing cats—”

“Household cats? Pussycats?”

“Yes. They do tricks.”

It is a belief of many Chinese I met that animals such as cats and dogs do not feel pain. They are on earth to be used — trained, put to work, killed, and eaten. When you see the dumb, laborious lives that Chinese peasants live it is perhaps not so surprising that they torture animals.

“Also pigs and chickens,” Mr. Liu said.

“Performing chickens?”

“Not chickens but cocks.”

“What do the cocks do?”

“They stand on one leg — hand standing. And some other funny things.”

God only knows how they got these pea-brained roosters to do these funny things, but I had the feeling they wired them up and zapped them until they got the point.

“What about the pigs?” I asked.

“The pigs do not perform very often, but they can walk on two legs—”

And when he said that I realized what it was that was bothering me. It was that everything he said reminded me of Animal Farm; and the fact that it was a fable of totalitarianism only made Mr. Liu’s images worse. He had described a living example of the moment in that book when oppression is about to overtake the farm. There is terror and confusion at the unexpected sight: It was a pig walking on his hind legs. And Orwell goes on:

Yes, it was Squealer. A little awkwardly, as though not quite used to supporting his considerable bulk in that position, but with perfect balance.… And a moment later, out from the door of the farmhouse, came a long file of pigs, all walking on their hind legs.…

I was thinking of this as Mr. Liu was saying, “—and lions and tigers, and the only performing panda in China.”

He said that the animals and the acrobats often went on tour — even to the United States. Many of the acrobats worked in the United States. In 1985 a deal was made whereby Chinese acrobats would join Ringling Brothers Circus for a year or two at a time. In the first year there were fifteen, and in 1986 there were twenty hired-out Chinese acrobats working in America.

I asked Mr. Liu about the financial arrangement.

“I don’t know exactly,” he said, “but Ringling Brothers Circus pays us and we pay the acrobats.”

“How much does Ringling Brothers pay you?”

“About two hundred to six hundred dollars a week, depending on the act. For each person.”

“How much do you pay the acrobats?”

“About one hundred yuan.”

Thirty dollars.

Talk about performing pigs! I wondered how long people would be willing to allow themselves to be treated as exportable merchandise. For some it was not long: the very week I had the conversation with Mr. Liu a man playing the role of an acrobatic lion disappeared in New York. Months later he still had not been found.

The Edge of the World

BY MIDAFTERNOON THE TRAIN WAS MOVING ACROSS A FLAT green plain between two ranges of low mountains, the Qilian Shan and the Helan Shan. In places I could see the crumbled sections of the Great Wall. Where the land was flat, it was intensively cultivated, and in places there were tall, slender, and rather redundant-looking poplars. The Chinese, averse to planting shade trees, favored the skinny symbolic tree that doubled as a fence. The idea of The Forest was alien to China. It only existed in northern Heilongjiang province — the Manchurian northeast; and I had heard that even the little that remained was being cut down and made into chopsticks and toothpicks and Ping-Pong paddles.

In most other countries, a landscape feature was a grove of trees, or a meadow, or even a desert; so you immediately associated the maple tree with Canada, the oak with England, the birch with the Soviet Union, and desert and jungle with Africa. But no such thing came to mind in China, where the most common and obvious feature of a landscape was a person — or usually many people. Every time I stared at a landscape, there was a person in it staring back at me.

Even here in the middle of nowhere there were people and settlements. The villages were walled in, and most houses had walls around them: mud smeared over bricks. They were the sort of stockades that are frequent in Afghanistan and Iran — at the far end of this Silk Road — and probably a cultural hangover from the memory of marauders and Mongol hordes, the Central Asian nightmare.

The day had turned very hot. It was now in the nineties. I saw eighteen sheep crowded into a little blot of shade under a frail hawthorn tree. Children cooled themselves by kicking water in a ditch. Farmers with lampshade hats planted crops by pushing one sprout at a time into the ground, a process that had a greater affinity to needlepoint sewing than to farming, as though they were stitching a design into the furrows. And though there were black peaks and mountain ranges on both sides of the train, the land ahead fell away, and it was as if we were approaching the ocean — the land dipped and had the smooth, stony look of the seashore. It was the hottest part of the day, but even so the land was full of people. Hours later, in an immense and stony desert I saw a man in a faded blue suit, bumping over the stones on his bike.

Then there were sand dunes near the track — big soft slopes and bright piles; but the snowy peaks in the distance still remained. I had not realized that there was anything so strange as this on this planet.

I was eating dinner in the empty dining car at about eight that night when we came to Jiayuguan. What I saw out the window is printed on my mind: in the summer dusk of the Gobi Desert, a Chinese town lay glowing in the sand, and rising above it, ten stories high, was the last gate in the Great Wall, the Jia Yu Watchtower — a fortress-like structure with pagoda roofs; and the train slowed at the Wall’s end, a crumbled pile of mud bricks and ruined turrets that the wind had simplified and sucked smooth. In the fading light of day, there was this ghostly remainder of the Great Wall, and what looked like the last town in China. The Wall went straggling west, but it was so small and destroyed it looked like little more than an idea or a suggestion — the remnants of a great scheme. But my excitement also came from seeing the red paint on the gate, and the yellow roof, and the thought that this train was passing beyond it into the unknown. The sun slanted on the gray hills and the desert and blue bushes. Most of what I saw was through the blurring haze of the day’s dust, and the intimation at sunset was that I would fall off the edge of the world as soon as it got dark.

Lost Cities

“THE DESERT WHICH LIES BETWEEN ANSI AND HAMI IS A howling wilderness, and the first thing which strikes the wayfarer is the dismalness of its uniform, black, pebble-strewn surface.” That was Mildred Cable speaking. And reading her book reminded me that I was missing one of the glories of this region by not visiting the caves at Dunhuang — Buddhas, frescoes, holy grottoes; the sacred city in the sands. But I intended to go one better, by visiting the lost city of Gaocheng (Karakhoja) whenever this train got to Turfan.

I had gone to bed in a strange late twilight amid a rugged landscape, and I woke, slowly jogging in the train, to a flat region of sand and stones. Farther off were large humpy sand dunes, which had the appearance of having softly flowed and blown there, because there was nothing like them nearby. The dunes were like simple gigantic animals that went blobbing along through the desert, smothering whatever they encountered.

Soon a patch of green appeared — an oasis. Once there was merely a road linking the oases — but “once” meant only thirty years ago. Before then it was a rough road, what remained of the Silk Route. But these oases were not metaphors for a few trees and a stagnant pool. They were large towns, well watered from underground irrigation canals, and grapes and melons were grown in great profusion. Later in the day the train stopped at Hami. The Hami melon is famous all over China for its sweet taste and its fragrance; and Hami had been no insignificant place, although now it was what remained of the fruit-growing communes of the fifties and sixties. It had known great days, and had had a khan until this century. It had been overrun by Mongols, by Uighurs, by Tibetans and Dzungars. It had been repeatedly reoccupied by the Chinese since the year A.D. 73, during the Later Han Dynasty, and had been a Chinese city from 1698 onward. Nothing of this remained. What had not been damaged in the Muslim Rebellion of 1863–73 had been flattened in the Cultural Revolution. The Chinese had a facility for literally defacing a city — taking all its characteristic features away, robbing it of its uniqueness, cutting its nose off. Now all Hami was known for was its pig iron.

The peaks beyond Hami and farther up the line had patches of snow on their ridges that lay like saddle blankets, squarish and flat. But down here in the train and on the desert it was very hot — over one hundred degrees in the train and hotter outside. The sun burned down on the sand and stones. There were a few gullies, and in the oldest and deepest ones, which were sheltered, perhaps a dead wutong tree, and here and there clumps of camel thorn, the only identifiable weed, apart from the spikes of gray lichens. We were heading toward a dusty range of hills that was surmounted by a blue range of mountains, and rising up beyond were more mountains, which were bright with snow patches and ice slides — long streaks that might have been glaciers.

They were the first sight I had of the Bogda Shan, the Mountains of God. They were very rugged and very high, but their snow was the only lively feature of this place. Beneath those mountains there was nothing but desert, “the howling wilderness,” which this afternoon was too bright to stare at. Rainfall is unknown here, and most of those mountains seemed little more than a vast, poisoned massif — a lifeless pack of rock. This is the dead center of Asia.

In this oddly lighted world of snow and sand, the stone mountains reddened and rushed up to the train. In the distance was a green basin, five hundred feet below sea level, the lowest place in China, and one of the hottest. Another oasis, the town of Turfan. Round about there was nothing else but a hundred miles of blackish gravel, and Turfan itself was twenty miles from the station. I got off the train here.

TURFAN (“ONE OF THE HOTTEST PLACES ON THE FACE OF THE earth”) was an extremely popular oasis about four hundred years ago. Before then it had been a desert town overrun by successive waves of nomads, Chinese, Tibetans, Uighurs, and Mongols. The Silk Road established it as a great oasis and bazaar, but after that — from about the sixteenth century — it was all downhill. And after it was finally left alone by the warlords and the Manchus, new marauders appeared in the shape of enterprising archaeologists, and the few frescoes and statues that remained after more than two thousand years of continuous civilization were snatched and carried away to places like Tokyo, Berlin, and Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Such a place seemed to me unmissable. The station was at the edge of the depression. All I could see were telephone poles in the stony desert, and the huge purply-red range called The Flaming Mountains. The town of Turfan did not reveal itself until I was almost on top of it, and even then it seemed less like a Chinese town than a Middle Eastern one — it was straight out of the Bible, with donkeys and grape arbors and mosques, and people who looked Lebanese, with brown faces and gray eyes.

The desert was almost unbelievably horrible-looking — bouldery and black, without a single green thing in it. And it seemed as though if you walked on those stones you would cut your feet. In some spots it looked like an immensity of coal ashes, with scatterings of clinkers and scorched stones. In other places it was dust, with rounded mounds piled here and there. The mounds I discovered were part of the irrigation system called the karez, a network of underground canals and boreholes that had been used successfully since the Western Han Dynasty, about two thousand years ago. There were also parts of this desert surrounding Turfan that had an undersea look, as of an ocean floor after the tide went out for good. Everyone called it the gobi: the waterless place. Rainfall is unknown in Turfan.

In this shallow green valley in the desert, in which all the water came from underground, there were no Chinese high-rises, and most of the houses were small and square. There were grape arbors suspended over most of the streets — for the shade and also for the prettiness of them. This valley is the chief source of Chinese grapes — there is even a winery in Turfan — and thirty varieties of melon grow in the area. That intensifies the relief on having come from one of the wildest deserts in the world. Turfan is the opposite of everything that lies around it, with its water and its shade and its fresh fruit.

In Turfan I bought the local raisins made from white grapes — the best in China — and apricots. And I sat in my room, eating that stuff and drinking my Dragon Well green tea and writing my notes, until Fang and the driver had had their fill of gruel, and then we set off down the dusty roads.

Turfan was often a furnace. But on overcast mornings it was pleasant, with low clouds and temperatures only in the nineties. I liked the town. It was the least Chinese place I had seen so far, and it was one of the smallest and prettiest. There were very few motor vehicles, and it was quiet and completely horizontal.

It was a Uighur town, with a few Chinese. There were also Uzbeks, Kazakhs, Tadzhiks, and Tungus around the place, bowlegged and in high boots, in the Mongolian fashion. They were leathery-faced, and some looked like Slavs and some like gypsies, and most of them looked like people who had lost their way and were just stopping briefly in this oasis before moving on. Half the women at the Turfan bazaar had the features of fortunetellers, and the others looked like Mediterranean peasants-dramatically different from anyone else in China. These brown-haired, gray-eyed, gypsy-featured women in velvet dresses — and very buxom, some of them — were quite attractive in a way that was the opposite to the oriental. You would not be surprised to learn that they were Italians or Armenians. You see those same faces in Palermo and Watertown, Massachusetts.

Their gazes lingered, too. And some women came close and reached into the velvet and withdrew rolls of bills from between their breasts and said, “Shansh marnie?”

They put this Chinese money into my hand — the money still warm from having been in their deep bosoms — and they offered me four to one. They had gold teeth, and some looked like foxes, and they hissed at me when I said no.

It was wonderful, that market in Turfan, just what you would expect of a bazaar in Central Asia. They sold embroidered saddlebags, and leather holsters, and homemade jackknives, and baskets and belts. The meat market dealt exclusively in lamb and mutton — no pigs in this Islamic place; and there were stalls selling shish kebab. Much of the produce was the fresh fruit for which Turfan is well known — watermelons and Hami melons and tangerines. And there were about twenty varieties of dried fruit. I bought raisins and apricots, almonds and walnuts: it struck me that dried fruit and nuts were caravan food.

There were tumblers and fire eaters at the Turfan market, too, and a man doing card tricks on an overturned wheelbarrow. There was something medieval about the market — the dust and the tents, the merchandise and the entertainers, and the people who had gathered there, the men in skullcaps, the women in shawls, the shrieking children with wild hair and dirty feet.

NOTHING PUTS HUMAN EFFORT INTO BETTER PERSPECTIVE THAN a ruined city. “This was once a great capital,” people say, pointing to fallen walls and broken streets and dust. Then you stand in the silence of the lifeless place and think of Ozymandias, King of Kings, covered by a sand dune and forgotten. It is very thrilling for an American to consider such a place, because we don’t yet have anything that qualifies — only ghost towns and fairly insignificant small cities, but nothing like the monumental corpses of once-great cities that are known in the rest of the world. Probably American optimism arises from the fact that we don’t have any devastated cities. There is something wearying and demoralizing about a lost city, but it can also give you a healthy disregard for real estate.

Gaocheng was perfect in its ruin and decrepitude. It had been a renowned city for well over a thousand years, and now it was a pile of dust and crumbling mud. So far it had been spared the final insult — tourists — but one day, when the Iron Rooster turned into a streamlined train, they would find even this place, east of Turfan, twenty-five miles into the desert. It had had half a dozen different names — Karakhoja, Khocho, Dakianus (from the Roman Emperor Decius), Apsus (Ephesus), Idikut-Shahri (King Idikut’s Town), and Erbu (Second Stop). Gaocheng had come to be its accepted name, but it hardly mattered, because there was not much left of it. Yet enough remained for anyone to see that it really had been an enormous place, a city on a grand scale, which was why it looked so sad. It had the melancholy emptiness of all great ruins.

Its walls and fortifications were mostly gone, but the ones that still stood made it seem a remarkable citadel. It had been an ancient capital of this region, and then a Tang city, and then a Uighur city, and at last the Mongols had captured it. The Uighurs didn’t want the place destroyed, so they had surrendered without a struggle and let the Mongols take charge, as they had over the rest of China. It was the period of Mongol rule, the Yuan Empire of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, when the first Westerners began traveling widely in China — among them, Marco Polo.

By then Gaocheng was Muslim. It had previously been Buddhist. It had also been a center of heretics — first Manichaean, then Nestorian. It is impossible to consider these heresies without reaching the conclusion that they make a certain amount of sense. The Manichaeans, followers of the Persian prophet Manes, believed that there is good and evil in all humans, and that life is a struggle between these interdependent opposites, the light and the dark, the spirit and the flesh. The Nestorians were Christians who had been declared heretics for their belief that there were two separate persons in the incarnate Christ, denying that Christ was in one person both God and man. They went on to argue that Mary was either the mother of God or the mother of the man Jesus, but she couldn’t have it both ways. For this the Nestorians were persecuted and exiled, after the Council of Ephesus (in 431, in present-day Turkey), and they ended up in the seventh century, at the last stage of the Silk Road, deep in China, where the first Nestorian church was founded in 638, in Ch’ang-an (Xian).

What made this all the more fascinating to me was that there was nothing left — no church, no heretics, no books, no pictures, no city. There was only the sun beating down on the mud bricks and the broken walls, and all the religion, trade, warfare, art, money, government, and civilization had turned to dust. But there was something magnificent in the immensity of this dumb ruin. I kept on seeing this desert as a place where an ocean had been, a gigantic foreshore of smooth stones and seaside rubble; and this city of Gaocheng was quite in key with that, looking like a sandcastle that the tide had mostly floated away.

The only live things here were goats. The frescoes and statues had been stolen — and sold or else removed to museums. Farmers had dismantled many of the buildings so that they could use the bricks, and when the local people found pots or vases or amphoras (and they were good ones, for there was both Greek and Roman influence at Gaocheng), they used them in their kitchens, so that they wouldn’t have to buy new ones.

I went to a nearby village of Uighurs and asked them whether they knew anything about Gaocheng. “It is an old city,” they said. The people I asked were brown-faced, hawk-nosed men whose village was shady and totally off the map. They had donkeys, they had a mosque and a small market, but they didn’t speak Chinese or any language other than Uighur. The place was called Flaming Mountain Commune, but that was merely a euphemism. The village had gone to sleep. The women watched me through the folds in their black shawls, and I saw one who looked exactly like my Italian grandmother.

Mr. Liu, my guide, did not speak Uighur, though he had lived not far away for twenty years. I had the impression that these desert-dwelling Uighurs did not take the Han Chinese very seriously. When we started away, there was a thump against the side of the car, and the driver slammed on the brakes and chased after the laughing kids. He made a fuss, but no one came to help — no one even listened. And then, a further insult. He stopped to ask directions to an ancient burying ground, the necropolis at Astana, and when he put his head out of the car window, two children stuck feathery reeds into his ears and tickled him. They ran away, as he got out and raged at them.

“They are very bad boys,” Mr. Liu said, and he glowered at me when he saw that I was laughing.

The corpses in the underground tombs at Astana were six hundred years old, but perfectly preserved, grinning, lying side by side on a decorated slab.

“You want to take a picture of the dead people?” the caretaker asked me.

“I don’t have a camera.”

She paid no attention to that. She said, “Ten yuan. One picture.”

Mr. Liu said, “I hate looking at dead bodies,” and hurried up the stone stairs, fleeing the burial chamber.

When he was gone, the caretaker said, “Shansh marnie?”

Fear of Flying

CHINESE TRAINS COULD BE BAD. IN TWELVE MONTHS OF traveling — almost forty trains — I never saw one with a toilet that wasn’t piggy. The loudspeakers plonked and nagged for eighteen hours a day — a hangover from the days of Maoist mottoes. The conductors could be tyrants, and the feeding frenzy in the dining car was often not worth the trouble. But there were compensations — the kindly conductors, the occasional good meal, the comfortable berth, the luck of the draw; and, when all else failed, there was always a chubby thermos of hot water for making tea.

Yet whatever objections I could devise against the trains, they were nothing compared with the horrors of air travel in China. I had a small doze of it when I left Urumchi for Lanzhou — there was no point in retracing my steps on the Iron Rooster. I was told to be at the airport three hours early — that is, seven in the morning; and the plane left five hours late, at three in the afternoon. It was an old Russian jet, and its metal covering was wrinkled and cracked like the tinfoil in a used cigarette pack. The seats were jammed so closely together that my knees hurt and the circulation to my feet was cut off. Every seat was taken, and every person was heavily laden with carry-on baggage — big skull-cracking bundles that fell out of the overhead rack. Even before the plane took off, people were softly and soupily vomiting, with their heads down and their hands folded, in the solemn and prayerful way that the Chinese habitually puke. After two hours we were each given an envelope that contained three caramel candies, some gum, and three sticky boiled sweets; a piece of cellophane almost concealed a black strand of dried beef that looked like oakum and tasted like decayed rope; and (because Chinese can be optimistic) a toothpick. Two hours later a girl wearing an old postman’s uniform went around with a tray. Thinking it might be better food, I snatched one of the little parcels — it was a key ring. The plane was very hot, and then so cold I could see my breath. It creaked like a schooner under sail. Another two hours passed. I said: I am out of my mind. An announcement was made, saying in a gargling way that we would shortly be landing. At this point everyone except the pukers stood up and began yanking their bundles out of the racks; and they remained standing, pushing, tottering, and vaguely complaining — deaf to the demands that they sit down and strap themselves in — as the plane bounced, did wheelies on the runway, and limped to Lanzhou terminal. Never again.

Handmade Landscape

WE WERE STILL IN GANSU, GOING SOUTHEAST TOWARD Shaanxi Province (not to be confused with Shanxi, a bit northeast), and we had just left the town of Tianshui. The landscape was unlike anything I had seen in Xinjiang or even the rest of Gansu. It was the carefully constructed Chinese landscape of mud mountains sculpted in terraces which held overgrown lawns of ripe rice. The only flat fields were far below, at the very bottom of the valleys. The rest had been made by the people, a whole countryside that had been put together by hand — stone walls shoring up the terraces on hillsides, paths and steps cut everywhere, sluices, drains, and carved-out furrows. There was even more wheat than rice here, and bundles of it were piled, waiting to be collected and threshed — probably by that black beast up to his nose in the buffalo wallow.

The whole landscape had been possessed and shaped and put to practical use. It was not pretty, but it was symmetrical. You couldn’t say, “Look at that hillside,” because it was all terraces — mud-walled ditches and fields, and mud-walled houses and roads. What the Chinese managed in miniature with a peach stone, carving it into an intricate design, they had done with these honey-colored mountains. If there was an outcrop of rock, they balanced a rice paddy on it, and the steps and terraces down the steep hills gave them the look of Mayan pyramids. There had not been much of that in the west of China. It was huge, the sort of complicated mud kingdom that insects created, and it was both impressive and appalling that everything visible in this landscape was man-made. Of course you could say that about any city in the world, but this wasn’t a city — it was supposed to be the range of hills above the river Wei; and it looked as though it had been made by hand.

The Terra-cotta Warriors

THE TERRA-COTTA WARRIORS (WHICH CANNOT BE PHOTOGRAPHED) were not a disappointment to me. They are too bizarre for that. They are stiff, upright, life-sized men and horses, marching forward in their armor through an area as big as a football field — hundreds of them, and each one has his own face and his own hairstyle. It is said that each clay figure had a counterpart in the emperor’s real army, which was scattered throughout the Qin empire. Another theory is that the individual portraiture was meant to emphasize the unity of China by exhibiting “all the physical features of the inhabitants of mainland east Asia.” Whatever the reason, each head is unique, and a name is stamped on the back of every neck — perhaps the name of the soldier, perhaps that of the potter-sculptor.

It is this lifelike quality of the figures — and the enormous number of them — that makes the place wonderful, and even a little disturbing. As you watch, the figures seem to move forward. It is very hard to suggest the human form in armor, and yet even with these padded leggings and boots and heavy sleeves, the figures look agile and lithe, and the kneeling archers and crossbowmen look alert and fully human.

This buried army was very much a private thrill for the tyrant who decreed that it be created to guard his tomb. But the first emperor, Qin Shi Huangdi, was given to grand gestures. Until his time, China was fragmented into the Warring States, and bits of the Wall had been put up. As Prince Cheng, he took over from his father in 246 B.C. He was thirteen years old. Before he was forty he had subdued the whole of China. He called himself emperor. He introduced an entirely new set of standards, put one of his generals — and many of his convicts and peasants — to work building the Great Wall, abolished serfs (meaning that, for the first time, the Chinese could give themselves surnames), and burned every book that did not directly praise his achievements — it was his way of making sure that history began with him. His grandiose schemes alienated his subjects and emptied his treasury. Three attempts were made to kill him. Eventually he died on a journey to east China, and to disguise his death, his ministers covered his stinking corpse with rotten fish and carted him back to be buried here. The second emperor was murdered, and so was his successor, in what the Chinese call “the first peasant insurrection in Chinese history.”

The odd thing is not how much this ancient ruler accomplished but that he managed it in so short a time. And in an even shorter time, the achievements of his dynasty were eclipsed by chaos. Two thousand years later China’s rulers had remarkably similar aims — conquest, unity, and uniformity.

The rare quality of the terra-cotta warriors is that, unlike anything else on the tourist route in China, they are exactly as they were made. They were vandalized by the rebellious peasants in the year 206 B.C., when these people invaded the tomb to steal the weapons — crossbows, spears, arrows, and pikestaffs (they were all real) — that the clay warriors were holding. After that the figures lay buried until, in 1974, a man digging a well hit his shovel against a warrior’s head and unearthed it and the disinterment was begun. The warriors are the one masterpiece in China that has not been repainted, faked, and further vandalized. If they had been found before the Cultural Revolution instead of after it, they would undoubtedly have been pulverized by Red Guards, along with all the other masterpieces they smashed, burned, or melted down.

Endangered Species Banquet

“IN CHINA, WE HAVE A SAYING,” JIANG LE SONG SAID. “Chule feiji zhi wai, yangyang duo chi.” Looking very pleased with himself, he added, “It rhymes!”

“We call that a half-rhyme,” I said. “What does it mean? Something about eating planes?”

“ ‘We eat everything except planes and trains.’ In China.”

“I get it. You eat everything on four legs except tables and chairs.”

“You are a funny man!” Mr. Jiang said. “Yes. We eat trees, grass, leaves, animals, seaweed, flowers. And in Guilin even more things. Birds, snakes, turtles, cranes, frogs, and some other things.”

“What other things?”

“I don’t even know their names.”

“Dogs? Cats?” I looked at him closely. I had overheard a tourist objecting to the Chinese appetite for kittens. “You eat kittens?”

“Not dogs and kittens. Everybody eats those.”

“Raccoons?” I had read in a guidebook that raccoons were also popular in Guilin.

“What is that?”

Raccoon was not in his pocket English-Chinese dictionary.

He became very confidential, glancing around and drawing me close to him. “Maybe not lackeys. I have never heard of eating lackeys. But many other things. We eat”—and he drew a meaningful breath—“forbidden things.”

That had rather a thrilling sound. We eat forbidden things.

“What sort of forbidden things?”

“I only know their Chinese names — sorry.”

“What are we talking about?” I asked. “Snakes?”

“Dried snakes. Snake soup. They are not forbidden. I mean an animal that eats ants with its nose.”

“Scaly anteater. Pangolin. I don’t want to eat that. Too many people are eating them,” I said. “It’s an endangered species.”

“Would you like to eat forbidden things?”

“I would like to eat interesting things,” I said, equivocating. “How about sparrows? Pigeons? Snakes? What about turtles?”

“Those are easy. I can arrange it.”

Mr. Jiang was young. He was new to the job. He was a little too breezy. He had the joky and insincere manner of someone who has been dealing with elderly foreigners who enjoy being joshed as they are being deferred to. I felt this obsequiousness was a deliberate ploy to undermine me.

That night Mr. Jiang emerged from behind a potted palm at my hotel to introduce me to a small monkey-like man.

“Our driver,” Mr. Jiang said.

“Qi,” the man said, and smiled. But it was not a smile. He was only saying his name.

“I have fixed everything you requested,” Mr. Jiang said. “The driver will take us to Taohua—‘Peace Flower Restaurant.’ ”

The driver slipped on a pair of gloves and whipped the door open for me. Mr. Jiang got into the front seat, beside the driver. The driver adjusted his mirror, stuck his head out of the window to signal — although we were in a parking lot and there were no other cars in sight — and drove into the empty road. After perhaps fifty yards he stopped the car.

“Is there anything wrong?” I said.

Mr. Jiang imitated a fat man laughing: “Ho! Ho! Ho!” And then a bored voice added, “We have arrived.”

“There wasn’t much point in taking a car, was there?”

“You are an honored guest! You must not walk!”

I had learned that guff like this was a giveaway in China. When anyone spoke to me in this formal and facetious way, I knew I was being taken for a ride.

Before we entered the restaurant, Mr. Jiang took me aside and said, “We will have snake soup. We will have pigeon.”

“Very nice.”

He shook his head. “They are not unusual. They are regular.”

“What else are we having?”

“I will tell you inside.”

Bu inside there was a fuss over the table, a great deal of talk I did not understand, and finally Mr. Jiang said, “This is your table. A special table. Now I will leave you. The driver and I will eat in the humble dining room next door. Please, sit! Take no notice of us. Enjoy yourself!”

This was also an unmistakable cue.

“Why don’t you join me?” I said.

“Oh no!” Mr. Jiang said. “We will be very comfortable at our little table in the humble dining room reserved for Chinese workers.”

This was laying it on a bit thick, I thought, but I was feeling guilty about this meal, and eating food alone made me feel selfish.

I said, “There’s room at my table. Please sit here.”

“Okay,” Mr. Jiang said, in a perfunctory way, and indicated that the driver should follow his example.

It was quite usual for the driver to be included — in fact, it is one of the pleasures of Chinese life that on a long trip the driver is one of the bunch. If there is a banquet he is invited, if there is an outing he goes along, and he is present at every meal along the road. It is a civilized practice, and thinking it should be encouraged I made no objection, even though the driver had taken me only fifty yards.

“Special meal,” Mr. Jiang said. “We have crane. Maybe a kind of quail. We call it anchun. We have many things. Even forbidden things.”

That phrase had lost its thrill for me. It was a hot night, this young man seemed unreliable to me, and I was not particularly hungry.

“Have some wine,” Mr. Jiang said, pouring out three glasses. “It is osmanthus wine. Guilin means ‘City of Osmanthus Trees.’ ”

We gulped our wine. It tasted syrupy and medicinal.

The food was brought in successive waves — many dishes, but the portions were small. Perhaps sensing that it would go quickly, the driver began tonging food onto his plate.

“That is turtle,” Mr. Jiang said. “From the Li river.”

“And that is forbidden,” he said, lowering his voice. “Wawa fish — baby fish. Very rare. Very tasty. Very hard to catch. Against the law.”

The fish was excellent. It was a stew of small white lumps in fragrant sauce. The driver’s chopsticks were busily dredging it for the plumpest fillets.

Mr. Jiang crept closer and mumbled a word in Chinese. “This is muntjac. From the mountains. With onions. Forbidden.”

“What is a muntjac?” I asked.

“It is a kind of rabbit that eats fruit.”

As all the world knows, a muntjac is a small deer. They are regarded as pests. You see them on golf courses outside London. Marco Polo found them in the Kingdom of Ergunul and wrote, “The flesh of this animal is very good to eat.” He brought the head and feet of a muntjac back to Venice.

I sampled the pigeon, the snake soup, the muntjac, the crane, the fish, the turtle. There was something dreadful and depressing about this food, partly because it tasted good and partly because China had so few wild animals. These creatures were all facing extinction in this country. And I had always hated the Chinese appetite for rare animals — for bear’s paws and fish lips and caribou’s nose. That article I had read about the Chinese killing their diminishing numbers of tigers to use — superstitiously — as remedies for impotence and rheumatism had disgusted me. I was disgusted now with myself. This sort of eating was the recreation of people who were rich and spoiled.

“What do you think of this?” I asked Mr. Jiang.

“I like the turtle with bamboo,” he said. “The muntjac is a bit salty.”

“You’ve had this before?”

“Oh yes.”

“What does the driver think?” I said. I was trying to describe to myself the taste of the snake and the crane and the pigeon. I laughed, thinking that whenever someone ate something exotic they always said “chicken.”

The silent driver, endlessly stuffing himself, made a dive for the turtle, tonged some into his bowl, and gobbled it. He did the same to the wawa fish.

“He likes the fish,” Mr. Jiang said.

The driver did not glance up. He ate like a predator in the wild — he paused, very alert, his eyes flicking, and then he darted for the food and ate it in one swift movement of his claw-like chopsticks.

Afterward, slightly nauseated from the forbidden food, I felt like a Hindu who had just eaten hamburger. I said I would walk home. Mr. Jiang tried to drag me into the car, but I resisted. Then, hiding his sheepishness in hearty guffaws, he handed me the bill: 200 yuan.

That was four months’ salary for these young men. It was a huge amount of money. It was the foreigner’s airfare from Guilin to Peking. It was the price of two of the best bicycles in China, the Flying Pigeon Deluxe. It was more than a night at the Great Wall Sheraton. It represented a good radio. It was two years’ rent of a studio apartment in Shanghai. It was the cost of an antique silver bowl in the bazaar at Turfan.

I paid Mr. Jiang. I wanted a reaction from him. There was none. That was for form’s sake. The Chinese make a practice of not reacting to any sort of hospitality. But I persisted.

“Is the driver impressed with this meal?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Jiang said. “He has eaten this many times before. Ha! Ha!”

It rang in my ears — one of the few genuine laughs I heard in China.

It meant, We can always fool a foreigner.

I was the hairy, big-nosed devil from the back of beyond, one of those foreigners (wei-guo ren), whom the Chinese regard as the yokels of the world. We lived in crappy little countries that were squeezed at the edge of the Middle Kingdom. The places we inhabited were insignificant but bizarre. Once the Chinese believed that we tied ourselves into bunches so that we would not be snatched away by eagles. Some of our strange societies were composed entirely of women, who became pregnant by staring at their shadows. We had noses like anteaters. We were hairier than monkeys. We smelled like corpses. One odd fenestrated race had holes in their chests, through which poles were thrust when they carried one another around. Most of these notions were no longer current, but they had given rise to self-deceiving proverbs, which sometimes seemed true. And then the laughter was real.

Shaoshan: “Where the Sun Rises”

“UNTIL NOW VISITORS DID NOT COME HERE TO LOOK AT the scenery,” Mr. Li had said. How true. They had come as pilgrims, first to walk the seventy-five miles west to Shaoshan, and then — after the railway line was built in the late sixties — to take the strangest train in China. They had come believing the Cultural Revolution slogan THE SUN RISES IN SHAOSHAN (TAIYANG CONG SHAOSHAN SHENGQI), which was a metaphor for Mao Zedong’s having been born there. The Chinese had once named themselves “Shaoshan” in Mao’s honor, and I ran into at least one Li Shaoshan.

In the sixties there were several trains every hour. Now there is one train a day. It leaves at six in the morning from Changsha and arrives three hours later at Shaoshan. It returns from Shaoshan in the evening, just an old puffer on a forgotten branch line, which had outlived its purpose.

The road had always been popular, even after the train was running regularly. It was not only the best way for Red Guards and revolutionaries to prove their ardor, but long walks were part of Mao’s political program — the “Forge Good Iron Footsoles” scheme. The idea was that all Chinese citizens were to have sturdy feet during the Cultural Revolution, because when the Nameless Enemy tried to invade China the evacuation of cities might be necessary. Mao filled the people with a war paranoia — that was the reason they were required to make bricks, dig trenches and bunkers and bomb shelters. They were also ordered to have hard feet and to take twenty-mile hikes on their days off in order to give themselves “iron footsoles” (“All I got were blisters,” my informant Wang told me). It was to this end that they trekked for four days on the road from Changsha to Shaoshan, sleeping in peasants’ huts and singing “The East Is Red,” “The Sun Rises in Shaoshan.” They also sang ditties that had been set to music from the Selected Thoughts, such numbers as “People of the World, Unite and Defeat the U.S. Aggressors and All Their Running Dogs!” with its stirring last line, “Monsters of all kinds shall be destroyed.” My favorite song from the Selected Thoughts, one I was assured had enlivened the marches along the Shaoshan road with its syncopation, went as follows:

A revolution is not a dinner party,

Or writing an essay, or painting a picture,

or doing embroidery;

It cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle,

So temperate, kind, courteous, restrained

and magnanimous.”^*

A revolution is an insurrection,

An act of violence by which one class

overthrows another.

They sang them on the trains, too. They flew flags. They wore Mao buttons and badges, and the red armband. It was not a trivial matter. It compared in size and fervor to Muslims making the Hadj to Mecca. On one day in 1966, a procession of 120,00 °Chinese thronged the village of Shaoshan to screech songs and perform the qing an with the Little Red Book.

Twenty years later I arrived at the station in an empty train. The station was empty. The unusually long platform was empty, and so were the sidings. There was not a soul in sight. The station was tidy, but that only made its emptiness seem much odder. It was very clean, freshly painted in a limpid shade of blue, and entirely abandoned. No cars in the parking lot, no one at the ticket windows. A large portrait of Mao hung over the station and on a billboard was the epitaph in Chinese: MAO ZEDONG WAS A GREAT MARXIST, A GREAT PROLETARIAN REVOLUTIONARY, A GREAT TACTICIAN AND THEORIST.

That was delicate: nothing about his being a great leader. Mao’s dying wish (obviously ignored) was to be remembered as a teacher.

I walked through the village, reflecting on the fact that nothing looks emptier than an empty parking lot. There were many here, designed for buses; they were very large and nothing was parked in them. I went to the hotel that was built for dignitaries and I sat in the almost-empty dining room, under a Mao portrait, eating and listening to people spitting.

The tide was out in Shaoshan; it was the town that time forgot — ghostly and echoing. And so it fascinated me. It was actually a pretty place, a rural retreat, with lovely trees and green fields, and a stream running through it that topped up the lotus ponds. In any other place an atmosphere of such emptiness would seem depressing, but this was a healthy neglect — what is healthier than refusing to worship a politician? — and the few people there had come as picnickers, not as pilgrims.

Mao’s house was at the far end of the village, in a glade. It was large and its yellow stucco and Hunanese design gave it the look of a hacienda — very cool and airy, with an atrium and a lovely view of its idyllic setting. Here Mao was born in December 1893. The rooms are neatly labeled: PARENTS’ BEDROOM, BROTHER’S ROOM, KITCHEN, PIGSTY, and so forth. It is the house of a well-to-do family — Mao’s father was “a relatively rich peasant,” clever with money and mortgages, and he was a moneylender of sorts. There was plenty of space here — a big barn and roomy kitchen. Mrs. Mao’s stove was preserved (DO NOT TOUCH), and a placard near it read: IN 1921 MAO ZEDONG EDUCATED HIS FAMILY IN REVOLUTION NEAR THIS STOVE. And in the sitting room: IN 1927 MEETINGS WERE HELD HERE TO DISCUSS REVOLUTIONARY ACTIVITIES.

It was not like visiting Lincoln’s log cabin. It wasn’t Blenheim. It wasn’t Paul Revere’s house. For one thing it was very empty. The few Chinese nearby seemed indifferent to the house itself. They sat under trees listening to a booming radio. There were girls in pretty dresses. Their clothes alone were a political statement. But this handful of people were hardly visible. Its emptiness meant something. Because when it was heavily visited Shaoshan had represented political piety and obedience, now that it was empty it stood for indifference. In a sense, neglect was more dramatic than destruction, because the thing still existed as a mockery of what it had been.

It had the fusty smell of an old shrine. It had outlived its usefulness, and it looked a little absurd, like a once-hallowed temple of a sect of fanatics who had run off, tearing their clothes, and had never returned. Times have changed. Toward the end of the Cultural Revolution, the pseudonymous Simon Leys visited China and in Chinese Shadows, his gloomy and scolding account of his trip, he wrote that Shaoshan “is visited by about three million pilgrims every year.” That is eight thousand a day. Today there were none.

If Shaoshan was embarrassing to the Chinese, it was because the whole scheme had been to show Mao as more than human. There was an obnoxious religiosity in the way his old schoolhouse had been arranged to show little Mao as a sanctified student. But the building was empty, and there was no one walking down the lane, so it didn’t matter. I had the impression that the Chinese were staying away in droves.

One stall sold postcards. There was only one view: MAO’S BIRTHPLACE (the house in the glade). And there were a few Mao badges. It was the only place in China where I saw his face on sale, but even so it was just this little badge. There were also towels and dishcloths, saying SHAOSHAN.

There was a shop in the Mao Museum.

I said, “I would like to buy a Mao badge.”

“We have none,” the assistant said.

“How about a Mao picture?”

“We have none.”

“What about a Little Red Book — or any Mao book?”

“None.”

“Where are they?”

“Sold.”

“All of them?”

“All.”

“Will you get some more to sell?”

The assistant said, “I do not know.”

What do they sell, then, at the shop in the Mao Museum? They sell key chains with color photographs of Hong Kong movie actresses, bars of soap, combs, razor blades, face cream, hard candy, peanut brittle, buttons, thread, cigarettes, and men’s underwear.

The museum did try to show Mao as more than human, and in its eighteen rooms of hagiography Mao was presented as a sort of Christ figure, preaching very early (giving instructions in revolution by his mother’s stove) and winning recruits. There were statues, flags, badges, and personal paraphernalia — his straw hat, his slippers, his ashtray. Room by room, his life is displayed in pictures and captions: his schooldays, his job, his travels, the death of his brother, the Long March, the war, his first marriage …

And then, after such languid and detailed exposition, an odd thing happens in the last room. In Number Eighteen, time is telescoped, and the years 1949–76, his entire chairmanship, his rule, and his death, are presented with lightning speed. There is no mention of his two other marriages, nothing about Jiang Qing. Nonpersons like Jiang Qing and Lin Biao have been airbrushed out of photographs. The 1960s are shown in one picture, the mushroom cloud of China’s first atom bomb in 1964. The rest of the decade does not exist. There has been no Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. The Mao Museum was founded in 1967, at the height of it!

But by omitting so much and showing time passing so quickly, the museum gives the viewer a bizarre potted history of Mao’s final years. In the previous rooms he looks like a spoiled child, a big brat, scowling and solemn. In this final room he develops a very unusual smile and on his pumpkin face it has a disturbing effect. After 1956 he seems to be gaga. He starts wearing baggy pants and a coolie hat, and his face is drawn from a sag into a mad or senile grimace. He looks unlike his earlier self. In one picture he is lumberingly playing Ping-Pong. In 1972 and after, meeting Nixon, Prince Sihanouk, and East European leaders, he’s a heffalump, he looks hugely crazy or else barely seems to recognize the visitor grinning at him. There is plenty of evidence here to support what the Chinese say about him all the time — that after 1956 he was not the same.

Mao had set out to be an enigma and had succeeded. “The anal leader of an oral people,” the sinologist Richard Soloman had said. Mao can be described but not summed up. He was patient, optimistic, ruthless, pathologically anti-intellectual, romantic, militaristic, patriotic, chauvinistic, rebellious in a youthful way, and deliberately contradictory.

Shaoshan said everything about Mao: his rise and fall; his position today. I loved the empty train arriving at the empty station. Was there a better image of obscurity? As for the house and village, they were like many temples in China, where no one prayed any longer — just a heap of symmetrical stones representing waste, confusion, and ruin. China was full of such places, dedicated to the memory of someone or other and, lately, just an excuse for setting up picnic tables and selling souvenirs.

*“These were the virtues of Confucius, as described by one of his disciples,” runs the commentary in Mao’s Selected Works. So Mao was also criticizing Confucius for not being of a revolutionary spirit.

The Great Wall

BECAUSE IT IS A FLAT, DRY, NORTHERN CITY, AT THE EDGE OF Mongolia, Peking has beautiful skies. They are bluest in the freezing air of winter. China’s old euphemism for itself was Tianxia, “All beneath the sky”—and, on a good day, what a sky! It was limpid, like an ocean of air, but seamless and unwrinkled, without a single wavelet of cloud; endless uncluttered fathoms of it that grew icier through the day and then at the end of the winter afternoon turned to dust.

Thinking it would be empty, I went to see the Great Wall again. Dr. Johnson told Boswell how eager he was to go to China and see the Wall. Boswell was not so sure himself. How could he justify going to China when he had children at home to take care of?

“Sir,” Dr. Johnson said, “by doing so [going to China] you would do what would be of importance in raising your children to eminence. There would be a lustre reflected upon them from your spirit and curiosity. They would be at all times regarded as the children of a man who had gone to view the wall of China. I am serious, sir.”

The Wall is an intimidating thing, less a fortification than a visual statement announcing imperiously: I am the Son of Heaven and this is the proof that I can encircle the earth. It somewhat resembles, in intention, the sort of achievement of that barmy man Christo, who giftwrapped the Golden Gate Bridge. The Wall goes steeply up and down mountainsides. To what purpose? Certainly not to repel invaders, who could never cling to those cliffs. Wasn’t it another example of the Chinese love of taking possession of the land and whipping it into shape?

Anyway, it was not empty. It swarmed with tourists. They scampered on it and darkened it like fleas on a dead snake.

That gave me an idea. “Snake” was very close, but what it actually looked like was a dragon. The dragon is the favorite Chinese creature (“just after man in the hierarchy of living beings”) and until fairly recently — eighty or a hundred years ago — the Chinese believed they existed. Many people reported seeing them alive — and of course fossilized dragon skeletons had been unearthed. It was a good omen and, especially, a guardian. The marauding dragon and the dragon slayer are unknown in China. It is one of China’s friendliest and most enduring symbols. And I found a bewitching similarity between the Chinese dragon and the Great Wall of China — the way it flexed and slithered up and down the Mongolian mountains; the way its crenellations looked like the fins on a dragon’s back, and its bricks like scales; the way it looked serpentine and protective, undulating endlessly from one end of the world to the other.

Mr. Tian

“IS IT COLD OUTSIDE?” I ASKED.

“Very,” said Mr. Tian. His eyeglasses were opaque with frost.

It was five-thirty on a Harbin morning, the temperature at minus thirty-five Centigrade and a light snow falling — little grains like seed pearls sifting down in the dark. When the flurry stopped, the wind picked up, and it was murderous. Full on my face it was like being slashed with a razor. We were on our way to the railway station.

“And you insist on coming with me?” I asked.

“Langxiang is forbidden,” Mr. Tian said. “So I must.”

“It is the Chinese way,” I said.

“Very much so,” he replied.

In this darkness groups of huddled people waited in the empty street for buses. That seemed a grim pastime, a long wait at a Harbin bus stop in winter. And, by the way, the buses were not heated. In his aggrieved account of his Chinese residence, the journalist Tiziano Terzani, writing about Heilongjiang (“The Kingdom of the Rats”), quotes a French traveler who said, “Although it is uncertain where God placed paradise, we can be sure that he chose some other place than this.”

The wind dropped but the cold remained. It banged against my forehead and twisted my fingers and toes; it burned my lips. I felt like Sam McGee. I entered the station waiting room and a chill rolled against me, as if my face had been pressed on a cold slab. The waiting room was unheated. I asked Mr. Tian how he felt about this.

“Heat is bad,” he said. “Heat makes you sleepy and slow.”

“I like it,” I said.

Mr. Tian said, “I once went to Canton. It was so hot I felt sick.”

Mr. Tian was twenty-seven, a graduate of Harbin University. There was humor in the way he moved. He was self-assured. He didn’t fuss. He was patient. He was frank. I liked him for these qualities. The fact that he was incompetent did not matter very much. Langxiang was a day’s journey by train — north, into the snow. He seemed an easy companion and I did not think he would get in my way.

He had no bag. He may have had a toothbrush in his pocket, where he kept his woolly cap and his misshapen gloves. He was completely portable, without any impedimenta. He was an extreme example of Chinese austerity. He slept in his long johns and wore his coat to meals. He rarely washed. Being Chinese he did not have to shave. He seemed to have no possessions at all. He was like a desert Bedouin. This fascinated me, too.

The train pulled in, steaming and gasping, just as the sun came up. It had come from Dalian, six hundred miles away, and it stopped everywhere. So it was sensationally littered with garbage — peanut shells, apple cores, chewed chicken bones, orange peel, and greasy paper. It was very dirty and it was so cold inside that the spit had frozen on the floor into misshapen yellow-green medallions of ice. The covering between each coach was a snow tunnel, the frost on the windows was an inch thick, the doors had no locks and so they banged and thumped as a freezing draft rushed through the carriages. It was the Heilongjiang experience: I crept in out of the cold and inside I felt even colder. I found a small space and sat hunched over like everyone else, with my hat and gloves on. I was reading Lermontov’s A Hero of Our Time and I scribbled on the flyleaf:

In the provinces every train is like a troop train. This is like one returning from the front, with the sick and wounded.

Even with three pairs of socks and thermal-lined boots my feet were cold; nor did I feel particularly cozy in my heavy sweater, Mongolian sheepskin vest, and leather coat. I felt like an idiot in my hat and fleece-lined mittens, but it annoyed me that I was still cold, or at least not warm. How I longed for the summer trains of the south and the sweltering trip on the Iron Rooster when I had lounged in my blue pajamas.

Mr. Tian said, “You come from which city in the States?”

“Near Boston.”

“Lexington is near Boston,” Mr. Tian said.

“How did you know that?”

“I studied American history in middle school. All Chinese study it.”

“So you know about our war of liberation, Mr. Tian?”

“Yes. There was also a Paul who was very important.”

“Paul Revere.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Tian said. “He told the peasants that the British were coming.”

“Not just the peasants. He told everyone — the peasants, the landlords, the capitalist-roaders, the stinking ninth category of intellectuals, the minorities, and the slaves.”

“I think you’re joking, especially about the slaves.”

“No. Some of the slaves fought on the British side. They were promised their freedom if the British won. After the British surrendered these blacks were sent to Canada.”

“I didn’t read about that,” Mr. Tian said, as the door blew open.

“I’m cold,” I said.

“I’m too hot,” Mr. Tian said.

The cold put me to sleep. I was wakened later by Mr. Tian, who asked me whether I wanted to have breakfast. I thought some food might warm me up so I said yes.

There was frost on the dining-car windows and ice on the dining-car floor, and a bottle of water on my table had frozen and burst. My fingers were too cold to hold any chopsticks. I hunched over with my hands up my sleeves.

“What food do they have?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want noodles?” I asked.

“Anything but noodles,” Mr. Tian said.

The waiter brought us cold noodles, cold pickled onions, diced Spam, which looked like a shredded beach toy, and cold but very tasty black fungus — a specialty of the province. Mr. Tian ate his noodles. It was the Chinese way. Even if it was not to your taste, when there was nothing else on the menu you ate it.

After several hours of crossing flat snowfields this train entered a mountainous region. The settlements were small — three or four short rows of bungalows, some of brick and some of mud and logs. They were the simplest slant-roofed dwellings and looked like the sort of houses that children draw in the first grade, with a narrow door and a single window and a blunt chimney with a screw of smoke coming out of it.

The toilet on the train looked as though a child had designed it, too. It was a hole in the floor about a foot across. Well, I had seen squat toilets before, but this one was traveling at about fifty miles an hour through the ice and snow of northern China. There was no pipe or baffle. If you looked down it you saw ice streaking past. A gust of freezing air rushed out of the hole. Anyone fool enough to use this thing would be frostbitten on a part of the body that is seldom frostbitten. And yet the passengers trooped into this refrigerated bum-freezer. When they came out their eyes were tiny and their teeth were clenched, as though they had just been pinched very hard.

We were still jogging along, stopping frequently. And the doors opened and closed with the same pneumatic gasp as those on a refrigerator, each time producing a cold blast through the coach. I hated having to get up, because when I sat down again my seat froze me.

It surprised me to see children standing outside their houses, watching the train go by. They wore thin jackets, no hats or gloves. Many of them had bright red cheeks. They had spiky unwashed hair and they wore cloth slippers. They looked very hardy, and they yelled at the train as it passed their icebound villages.

The mountains in the distance were the southernmost peaks of the Lesser Khingan Range, and the foreground was all forest. Most of these settlements were simply overgrown lumber camps. One of the centers of logging activity is Langxiang. But I had also chosen it because it has a narrow-gauge railway that goes deep into the forest and carries logs back to town to be milled.

It was hardly a town. It was a sprawling one-story village with an immense lumber yard at its center and a main street where people with scarves wrapped around their faces stood all day in the cold selling meat and vegetables. One day in Langxiang I saw a man standing behind a square of cloth which held six frozen rats and a stack of rats’ tails. Were things so bad in Langxiang that they ate rats and rats’ tails?

“Do you eat these?” I asked.

“No, no,” came the muffled voice through the frosted scarf. “I sell medicine.”

“These rats are medicine?”

“No, no!” The man’s skin was almost black from the cold and the dry air.

And then he began speaking again, but I had no idea what he was saying in this local dialect. As he spoke the ice crystals thawed on his scarf.

Mr. Tian said, “He doesn’t sell rats. He sells rat poison. He shows these dead rats as proof that his poison is good.”

We had arrived at Langxiang in the middle of the afternoon, just as it was growing dark. This was a northern latitude in winter: night came early. I stepped from the cold train onto the freezing platform, and then we went to the guest house, which was also cold — but the clammy indoor cold that I found harder to bear than the icy outdoors. With curtains over the windows and the lights dim, it was like being in an underground tomb.

“It’s very cold in here,” I said to Mr. Cong, the manager.

“It will get warmer.”

“When?”

“In three or four months.”

“I mean, in the hotel,” I said.

“Yes. In the hotel. And all over Langxiang.”

I was jumping up and down to restore my circulation. Mr. Tian was simply standing patiently.

“What about a room?” I said.

He said something very rapidly to Mr. Cong.

“Do you want a clean room or a regular one?” Mr. Tian asked.

“I think I’ll have a clean one for a change.”

He did not remark on my sarcasm. He said, “Ah, a clean one,” and shook his head, as if this were a tall order. “Then you will have to wait.”

The wind blew through the lobby and when it hit the curtain that had been hung across the main door it filled it like a spinnaker.

“We can have dinner,” Mr. Cong said.

“It’s not even five o’clock,” I said.

“Five o’clock. Dinnertime. Ha-ha!” This ha-ha meant: Rules are rules. I don’t make them, so you should not be difficult.

The dining room in the Langxiang Guesthouse was the coldest room I had entered so far in the whole of Heilongjiang Province. I yanked my hat tight and then sat on my hands and shivered. I had put my thermometer on the table: thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit.

Mr. Cong said he was used to the cold. He was not even wearing a hat! He was from the far north, where he had gone as a settler in the fifties to work on a commune that produced corn and grain. Although he was not very old, he was something of an antique in Chinese terms. As a commune worker in one of the remotest parts of China he found the new reforms bewildering. And he had four children, now regarded as a shameful number. “They punish us for having more than two,” he said, and seemed very puzzled. “You might lose your job, or be transferred, as punishment.”

From the utter boredom on Mr. Tian’s face — but his boredom was a form of serenity — I could tell that Mr. Cong and Mr. Tian had nothing at all in common. In China, the generation gap has a specific meaning and is something to be reckoned with.

I asked Mr. Cong what had happened to his commune.

“It was canceled,” he said. “It was dissolved.”

“Did the peasants go away?”

“No. Each was given his own plot to till.”

“Do you think that’s better?”

“Of course,” he said, but it was impossible for me to tell whether he meant it. “Production is much greater. The yields are larger.”

That seemed to settle it. Any policy that increased production was a good thing. I thought: God help China if there’s a recession.

The town was in darkness. The hotel was very cold. My room was cold. What to do? Although it was only six-thirty I went to bed — anyway, I got inside with most of my clothes on, and I listened to my short-wave radio under the blankets. That was how I was to spend all of my nights in Langxiang.

I went up the logging line on the narrow-gauge railway the next day, but I was disappointed in the forest. I had expected wilderness, but this was filled with lumberjacks cutting and bulldozing trees.

“One day we will go to the primeval forest,” Mr. Tian said.

“Let’s go today.”

“No. It is far. We will go another day.”

We went to the locomotive shed, where we met Mrs. Jin, a local guide. The shed was full of smoke and steam, and it was dark; but it was also warm, because the boilers were being stoked and the fire in the forge was blazing. As I walked along Mrs. Jin threw herself at me and pushed me against the wall, and then she laughed hysterically, a kind of chattering — one of the more terrifying Chinese laughs. I saw that she had saved me from stepping into a deep hole in which I would almost certainly have broken my back.

I was so rattled by this I had to go outside and take deep breaths. All over this town the snow was packed hard. No street or pavement was clear of ice. They habitually pedaled on the ice, and they had a way of walking — a sort of shuffle — that prevented them from slipping.

“This town is forbidden,” Mr. Tian boasted. “You are very lucky to be here.”

All the while in Langxiang my feet and hands were frozen — stinging and painful. My eyes hurt. My muscles were knotted. There was an icy moaning in my head. Mr. Tian asked me whether I wanted to see the ski slopes. I said yes and we drove four miles outside town just as the sun slipped below the distant mountains and an even greater cold descended with the darkness.

There on the black and white mountains were ten sluices — frozen chutes cut into the slope. People hauled small boxes up the mountain — they were like little coffins; and then they placed them into a chute and went banging down, cracking from side to side and screaming. I hopped up and down in the cold and said I wasn’t interested.

Mr. Tian went thrashing up the slope with a splintery coffin and came down showing his teeth. He did it again. Perhaps he was developing a taste for this.

“Don’t you like skiing?” he said.

“This isn’t skiing, Mr. Tian.”

In a shocked voice he said, “It’s not?”

But he kept doing it just the same.

I walked down the path and found a shed, a sort of watchman’s shack. There was a stove inside. This was a vivid demonstration of heating in Langxiang. The stove was so feeble that there was half an inch of frost on the walls of the shed. The walls (wood and mud bricks) were entirely white.

I kept a record of temperatures. Minus thirty-four Centigrade on the main street, freezing in the lobby, just above freezing in the dining room. The food went cold a minute after it was plunked down, and the grease congealed. They served fatty meat, greasy potatoes, rice gruel, great uncooked chunks of green pepper. Was this Chinese food? One day I had cabbage stuffed with meat and rice, and gravy poured over it. I had eaten such dishes in Russia and Poland, when they were called golomkis.

It was very tiring to be cold all the time. I began to enjoy going to bed early. I listened to the BBC and the VOA under my blanket. After a few hours I took one of my sweaters off, and one layer of socks, and by morning I was so warm in the sack that I forgot where I was. Then I saw the layer of frost on the window that was so thick I could not see outside, and I remembered.

No one spoke of the cold. Well, why should they? They reveled in it — literally, dancing and sliding on the ice. I saw children in the dark one evening pushing each other off a shelf of ice onto the frozen surface of the town’s river. (Other people chopped holes in this ice and drew water from it.) Those children frolicking in the darkness and the perishing cold reminded me of penguins frisking on the ice floes through the long Antarctic night.

WHEN I TRAVEL I DREAM A GREAT DEAL. PERHAPS THAT IS ONE of my main reasons for travel. It has something to do with strange rooms and odd noises and smells, with vibrations, with food, with the anxieties of travel — especially the fear of death — and with temperatures.

In Langxiang it was the low temperatures that gave me long exhausting dreams. The cold kept me from deep sleep, and so I lay just beneath the surface of consciousness, like a drifting fish. In one of my Langxiang dreams I was besieged in a house in San Francisco. I ran from the front door shooting a machine gun and wearing headphones. I escaped on a passing cable car — President Reagan was on it, strap-hanging. I was asking him whether he was having a tough time as president. He said, “Terrible.” We were still talking when I woke up feeling very cold.

I went back to sleep. Mr. Tian banged on my door and woke me up.

“We are going to the primeval forest,” he said.

We drove about thirty miles, and Mrs. Jin joined us. The driver’s name was Ying. The road was icy and corrugated and very narrow, but there were no other vehicles except for an occasional army truck. When we arrived at a place called “Clear Spring” (Qing Yuan), where there was a cabin, we began hiking through the forest. There was snow everywhere but it was not very deep — a foot or so. The trees were huge and very close together — great fat trunks crowding each other. We kept to a narrow path.

I asked Mrs. Jin about herself. She was a pleasant person, very frank and unaffected. She was thirty-two and had a young daughter. Her husband was a clerk in a government department. This family of three lived with six other family members in a small flat in Langxiang — nine people in three rooms. Her mother-in-law did all the cooking. It seemed cruel that in a province that had wide open spaces, people should be forced to live in such cramped conditions at close quarters. But this was quite usual. And it was a family under one roof. I often had the feeling that it was the old immemorial Confucian family that had kept China orderly. Mao had attacked the family — the Cultural Revolution was intentionally an assault on the family system, when children were told to rat on their bourgeois parents. But that had faltered and failed. The family had endured, and what were emerging with Deng’s reforms were family businesses and family farms.

Kicking through the forest, I asked them whether it was possible to buy Mao’s little red book of Selected Thoughts.

“I have thrown mine away,” Mr. Tian said. “That was all a big mistake.”

“I don’t agree with him,” Mrs. Jin said.

“Do you read Mao’s Thoughts?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. “Mao did many great things for China. Everyone criticizes him, but they forget the wise things he said.”

“What is your favorite thought? The one that you associate with his wisdom?”

“ ‘Serve the People,’ ” Mrs. Jin said. “I can’t quote it all to you, it is too long. It is very wise.”

“What about ‘A Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party’—can you sing it?”

“Oh yes,” she said, and did so as we marched through the woods. It was not a catchy tune, but it was perfect for walking briskly, full of iambics: Geming bushi gingke chifan …

Meanwhile I was bird-watching. It was one of the few places in China where the trees were full of birds. They were tiny flitting things, and very high in the branches. My problem was that I could only use my binoculars with bare hands, so that I could adjust the focus. The temperature was in the minus thirties, which meant that after a few minutes my fingers were too cold to use for adjustments. Yet even in this bitter cold there was birdsong, and the whole forest chattered with the tapping of woodpeckers.

“Mr. Tian, can you sing something?” I asked.

“I can’t sing Mao’s thoughts.”

“Sing something else.”

He suddenly snatched his woolly cap off and shrieked:

Oh, Carol!

I am but a foooool!

Don’t ever leave me—

Treat me mean and croool …

He sang it with extraordinary passion and energy, this old Neil Sedaka rock-and-roll song, and when he was done he said, “That’s what we used to sing at Harbin University when I was a student!”

Cherry Blossom

A YOUNG CHINESE WOMAN SMILED AT ME AS I STEPPED onto the platform at Dalian. She was very modern, I could see. Her hair had been waved into a mass of springy curls. She wore sunglasses. Her green coat had a fur collar — rabbit. She said she had been sent to meet me. Her name was Miss Tan.

“But please call me Cherry.”

“Okay, Cherry.”

“Or Cherry Blossom.”

It was hard to include those two words in an ordinary sentence. “What is the fare to Yantai, Cherry Blossom?” But I managed, and she always had a prompt reply, usually something like, “It will cost you one arm and one leg.” She had a fondness for picturesque language.

She led me outdoors and as we stood on the steps of Dalian Station, she said, “So what do you think of Dalian so far?”

“I have only been here seven minutes,” I said.

“Time flies when you’re having fun!” Cherry Blossom said.

“But since you asked,” I went on, “I am very impressed with what I see in Dalian. The people are happy and industrious, the economy is buoyant, the quality of life is superb. I can tell that morale is very high. I am sure it is the fresh air and prosperity. The port is bustling, and I’m sure the markets are filled with merchandise. What I have seen so far only makes me want to see more.”

“That is good,” Cherry Blossom said.

“And another thing,” I said. “Dalian looks like South Boston, in Massachusetts.”

It did, too. It was a decaying port, made out of bricks, with wide streets, cobblestones, and trolley tracks, and all the paraphernalia of a harbor — the warehouses, dry docks, and cranes. I had the impression that if I kept walking I would eventually come to the Shamrock Bar and Grill. It was also Boston weather — cold and partly sunny under blowing clouds — and Boston architecture. Dalian was full of big brick churches that had probably once been called St. Pat’s, St. Joe’s, and St. Ray’s — they were now kindergartens and nurseries, and one was the Dalian Municipal Library. But reform had come to Dalian and with it such businesses as the Hot Bread Bakery and the Hong Xing (Red Star) Cut and Perma.

“And also men hurry to Hong Xing to get a perma,” Cherry Blossom said. “They go lickety-split.”

The streets looked like Boston’s streets. Never mind that the main thoroughfare in Dalian was called Stalin Road (Sidalin Lu). It looked like Atlantic Avenue.

At the turn of the century the Russians had schemed to make Dalny (as they called it; it means “far away” in Russian) a great port for the tsar’s ships. It was valuable for fighting the Japanese, because unlike Vladivostok it would not freeze in the winter. After the Russo-Japanese war, when the Japanese flew kites in Dairen (as they called it) — each kite saying THE RUSSIANS HAVE SURRENDERED! — this port city was handed to the Japanese. They simply completed the Russian plan for turning what had been a fishing village into a great port. It prospered until the Second World War, and when the Japanese were defeated the Russians were given the city under the Yalta terms. The Russians remained until well after the Chinese Liberation, when the Chinese renamed it Dalian (“Great Link”). I liked it for its salt air and seagulls.

“What desires do you entertain in Dalian?” Cherry Blossom said.

I told her that I had come here to get warm after the freeze in Dongbei, the northeast. And I needed a ticket on the ship that traveled from Dalian across the Bohai Gulf to Yantai. Could she get that for me?

“Keep your fingers crossed,” she said.

She vanished after that. I found an old hotel — Japanese pre-war baronial — but I was turned away. I was accepted at the dreary new Chinese hotel, a sort of Ramada Inn with a stagnant fish pond in the lobby. I spent the day looking for an antique shop, and the only one I found was disappointing. A man tried to sell me a trophy awarded to the winner of a schoolboys’ javelin competition in 1933 at a Japanese high school. “Genuine silver,” he whispered. “Qing Dynasty.”

The next day I saw Cherry Blossom. She had no news about my ticket.

“You will just have to keep your hopes up!”

We agreed to meet later, and when we did she was smiling.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“No!” She was smiling. And with this bad news I noticed that she had a plump and slightly pimply face. She was wearing an arsenic-green wool scarf to match the wool cap she herself had knitted in the dormitory (she had four roommates) at the Working Women’s Unit.

“I have failed completely!”

Then why was she smiling? God, I hated her silly hat.

“But,” she said, wiggling her fingers, “wait!”

She had a sharp way of speaking that made every sentence an exclamation. She reached into her plastic handbag.

“Here is the ticket! It has been a total success!”

Now she wagged her head at me and made her tight curls vibrate like springs.

I said, “Were you trying to fool me, Cherry Blossom?”

“Yes!”

I wanted to hit her.

“Is that a Chinese practical joke?”

“Oh yes,” she said, with a giggle.

But then aren’t all practical jokes exercises in sadism?

I went to the Free Market — open since 1979. Every sort of fish, shellfish, and seaweed was on display — a pound of big plump prawns was roughly $4, but that was the most expensive item. They also sold squid, abalone, oysters, conch, sea slugs, and great stacks of clams and flatfish. The fishermen did not look Chinese; they had a flatheaded Mongolian appearance and might have been Manchus, of whom there are five or six million in this peninsula and in the north. The market gave me an appetite and that night I had abalone stir-fried in garlic sauce: delicious.

Cherry Blossom said that foreign cruise ships stopped in Dalian in the summer. The tourists stayed for half a day.

“What can you see in Dalian in half a day?”

She said they all got on a bus and visited the shell-carving factory, the glassware factory, and a model children’s school (the kids sang songs from The Sound of Music), and then it was back to the ship and on to Yantai or Qingdao.

“I’d like to see Stalin Square,” I said.

We went there. In the center of it was a statue to the Russian army, which had occupied the city after the war.

“There are no Stalin Squares in the Soviet Union, Cherry Blossom. Did you know that?”

She said no, she was surprised to hear it. She asked why.

“Because some people think he made a few mistakes,” I said, though I did not mention the pogroms, the secret police, the purges, or the mustached brute’s ability to plan large-scale famines in order to punish dissenting regions.

“Is there a Mao Zedong Square in Dalian, Cherry Blossom?”

“No,” she said, “because he made a few mistakes. But don’t cry over spilled milk!”^*

I told her that I had read somewhere that the evil genius Lin Biao had lived in Dalian. She said no, this was not so. She had lived her whole life in Dalian and no one had ever mentioned Lin’s connection.

But the driver was older. He said yes, Lin Biao had lived there in Dalian. Lin Biao, a great military tactician, was now maligned because he had done so much to build up Mao — it was Lin who devised the Little Red Book and chose all the quotations; and in the end (so it was said) he had plotted to assassinate Mao, when Mao was weak and at his heffalump stage; and Lin in trying to flee the country (“seeking protection from his Moscow masters … as a defector to the Soviet revisionists in betrayal of the party and the country”) had crashed in dear old Undur Khan, in the People’s Republic of Mongolia. Foul play was never mentioned. It was regarded as natural justice that this heliophobe should meet an untimely death.

It was his heliophobia that made me want to see his house. This weedy little man had a horror of the sun. I thought his house might not have any windows, or perhaps special shutters; or maybe he lived in a bomb shelter in the basement.

Cherry Blossom was saying in Chinese to the driver, “I did not know that Lin Biao lived in Dalian,” and then to me in English, “It’s too dark to find his house. Let’s go to the beach instead.”

We headed for the south part of Dalian, to a place called Fu’s Village Beach. Because of the cliffs and the winding road, the driver went very slowly.

Cherry Blossom said, “This car is as slow as cold molasses in January.”

“You certainly know a lot of colorful expressions, Cherry.”

“Yes. I am queer as a fish.” And she giggled behind her hand.

“You should be as happy as a clam,” I said.

“I like that one so much! I feel like a million dollars when I hear that.”

These colloquial high jinks could have been tiresome, but it was such a novelty for a Chinese person to be playful I enjoyed it. And I liked her for not taking herself too seriously. She knew she was mildly excruciating.

Meanwhile we were descending to Fu’s Village — great rocky cliffs and an empty beach of yellow sand with the January wind off the sea beating the waves against it. Offshore there were five blob-like islands floating blackly on the gulf. A couple was canoodling on the beach — the Chinese do it standing up, out of the wind, usually behind a rock or a building, and they hug each other very tightly. It is all smooching. These two ran away when they saw me. A drunken fisherman staggered across the beach toward his big wooden rowboat that was straight off an ancient scroll: a sharply rockered bottom, very clumsy, the shape of a wooden shoe, probably very seaworthy.

I asked Cherry Blossom whether she took her tourists here. She said there wasn’t time.

“Some of the people have funny faces,” she said.

“What is the funniest face you have ever seen, Cherry?”

She shrieked, “Yours!” and clapped her hands over her eyes and laughed.

“Another of your saucy jokes, Cherry Blossom!”

She became rather grave and said, “But truly the Tibetans have the funniest faces. They are so funny I get frightened.”

“What about American faces?”

“Americans are wonderful.”

We had tea at a vast empty restaurant. We were the only customers. It was at the top of one of Fu’s cliffs, with a panoramic view.

“Do you want to see the Dragon Cave?”

I said yes, and was taken upstairs to see a restaurant decorated to resemble a cave. It had fiberglass walls, bulging brown plastic rocks, and lights shining through plastic stalactites, and each table was fixed in a greeny-black cleft, with fake moss and boulders around it. The idea was perhaps not a bad one, but this was a vivid example of the Chinese not knowing when to stop. It was shapeless, artless, grotesquely beyond kitsch; it was a complicated disfigurement, wrinkled and stinking, like a huge plastic toy that had begun to melt and smell. You sat on those wrinkled rocks and bumped your head on the stalactites and ate fish cheeks with fresh ginger.

Cherry Blossom said, “Do you think it’s romantic?”

“Some people might find it romantic,” I said. And I pointed out the window. “That’s what I find romantic.”

The tangerine sun had settled into the Gulf of Bohai, coloring the little islands and the cliffs of Dalian, and the long stretch of empty beach.

Cherry Blossom said, “Let your imagination fly!”

We left the Dragon Cave (and I thought: It must have a counterpart in California). I said, “I understand there are recuperation tours. People come to this province to try out Chinese medicine.”

“Yes. It is like a fat farm.”

“Where did you learn that, Cherry Blossom?”

“My teachers at the institute were Americans. They taught me so many things!”

She had loved her years at the Dalian Foreign Languages Institute. She was now only twenty-two, but she intended to go on studying and working. She had no intention of getting married, and in explaining why, she lost her joky manner and became distressed.

Her decision not to marry was the result of a trip to Peking. She had taken a group of visiting doctors to see a Chinese hospital — how it worked, how the patients were treated, the progress of surgical operations, and so forth. The doctors expressed an interest in seeing a delivery. Cherry Blossom witnessed this and, so she said, almost went into shock at the sight of the baby issuing forth with its squashed head and its bloody face and streaming water. The mother had howled and so had the baby.

In all respects it was a completely normal birth.

“It was a mess,” she said, and touched her plump cheeks in disgust. “I was afraid. I hated it. I would never do it — never. I will never get married.”

I said, “You don’t have to have babies just because you get married.”

She was shaking her head. The thought was absurd — she couldn’t take it in. The whole point of marriage these days was to produce one child. Even though the Party was now stressing that the best marriages were work-related, the husband and wife joint members of a work unit, a busy little team, Cherry Blossom could not overcome the horror of what she had seen in the delivery room of Capital Hospital in Peking. She said she intended to remain in the dormitory of the Working Women’s Unit and go on knitting.

It was late at night when we crossed Dalian to get to the harbor, where I intended to take the ship to Yantai. We passed through the old bourgeois suburbs that had been built by the Japanese and the Russians. On the sloping streets of these neighborhoods there were seedy semidetached villas and stucco bungalows under the bare trees. I had not seen anything quite like them in China. They were appropriate to the suburban streets, the picket fences and the brick walls; and then I saw the laundry in the front yards and the Chinese at the windows.

I often passed down streets like this, seeing big gloomy villas with gables and jutting eaves and mullioned windows, but always in nightmares. They were the sort of houses which first looked familiar in the dream, and then I saw evil faces at the windows, and I realized that I was no longer safe. How often in nightmares I had been chased down streets like these.

“I am sorry to see you go,” Cherry Blossom said, when we arrived at the boat.

She was the only person in China who ever said that to me. In her old-fashioned way, with her old-fashioned clichés, she was very nice. I wished her well and we shook hands. I wanted to tell her that I was grateful to her for looking after me. I started to say it but she cut me off.

“Keep the wind at your back, Paul,” she said, and giggled again, delighted with her own audacity.

*She was wrong. Mao was the mover of a resolution to forbid the naming of provinces, cities, towns, or squares for himself or other living leaders (Selected Works of Mao Zedong, vol. 4, p. 380).

Driving to Tibet

GOLMUD WAS HARDLY A TOWN. IT WAS A DOZEN WIDELY scattered low buildings, some radio antennas, a water tower. One of the few cars in town was Mr. Fu’s ridiculous Galant: there were some buses, but they were the most punished-looking vehicles I had seen in China — and no wonder, for they toiled up and down the Tibetan Plateau.

“Snow,” Mr. Fu said — his first word.

I had not expected this snow, and it was clear from his gloomy tone that neither had he. The snow lay thinly in the town, but behind the town it was deep and dramatic — blazing in the shadows of the mountain range.

He said, “We cannot go to Lhasa tomorrow. Maybe the day after, or the day after that, or—”

I asked him why.

“The snow. It is everywhere — very deep,” he said. He was driving fast through the rutted Golmud streets — too fast, but I had seen him drive in Xining and I knew this to be normal. At the best of times he was a rather frantic driver. “The snow is blocking the road.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see it?”

He laughed: Ha-ha! You idiot! “Look at it!”

“Did anyone tell you that the road was blocked with snow?”

He did not reply, so that meant no. We continued this sparring. The snow was bad news — it glittered, looking as though it were there forever. But surely someone had a road report?

“Is there a bus station in Golmud?”

He nodded. He hated my questions. He wanted to be in charge, and how could he be if I was asking all the questions? And he had so few answers.

“People say the road is bad. Look at the snow!”

“We will ask at the bus station. The bus drivers will know.”

“First we go to the hotel,” he said, trying to take command.

The hotel was another prison-like place with cold corridors and squawks and odd hours. I had three cactuses in my room, and a calendar and two armchairs. But there were no curtains on the windows, and there was no hot water. “Later,” they said. The lobby was wet and dirty from the mud that had been tracked in. An ornamental pond behind the hotel was filled with green ice, and the snow was a foot deep on the path to the restaurant. I asked about food. “Later,” they said. Some of the rooms had six or eight bunk beds. Everyone inside wore a heavy coat and fur hat, against the cold. Why hadn’t my cactus plants died? The hotel cost $9 for a double room, and $2 for food.

“Now we go to the bus station,” I said.

Mr. Fu said nothing.

“We will ask someone about the snow.”

I had been told that buses regularly plied between Golmud and Lhasa, especially now that there were no flights — the air service to Tibet had been suspended. Surely one of these bus drivers would put us in the picture.

We drove to the bus station. On the way, I could see that Golmud was the ultimate Chinese frontier town, basically a military camp, with a few shops, a market, and wide streets. There were very few buildings, but since they were not tall, they seemed less of a disfigurement. It was a place of pioneers — of volunteers who had come out in the 1950s, as they had in Xining. They had been encouraged by Mao to develop the poor and empty parts of China; and of course, Tibet had to be invaded and subdued, and that was impossible without reliable supply lines — settlements, roads, telegraph wires, barracks. First the surveyors and engineers came, then the railway people and the soldiers, and then the teachers and traders.

“What do you think of Golmud, Mr. Fu?”

“Too small,” he said, and laughed, meaning the place was insignificant.

At the bus station we were told that the snow wasn’t bad on the road. A Tibetan bus had arrived just that morning — it was late, of course, but it was explained that all the buses were late, even when there was no snow.

I said, “We will go tomorrow, but we will leave early. We will drive until noon. If the snow is bad we will turn back and try again another day. If it looks okay we will go on.”

There was no way that he could disagree with this, and it had the additional merit of being a face-saving plan.

We had a celebratory dinner that night — wood-ear fungus, noodles, yak slices, and the steamed buns called mantou that Mr. Fu said he could not live without (he had a supply for the trip to Tibet). There was a young woman at the table, sharing our meal. She said nothing until Mr. Fu introduced her.

“This is Miss Sun.”

“Is she coming with us?”

“Yes. She speaks English.”

Mr. Fu, who spoke no English at all, was convinced that Miss Sun was fluent in English. But at no point over the next four or five days was I able to elicit any English at all from Miss Sun. Occasionally she would say a Chinese word and ask me its English equivalent.

“How do you say luxing in English?”

“Travel.”

Then her lips trembled and she made a choking sound, “Trow.”

And, just as quickly, she forgot even that inaccurate little squawk.

Over the dinner, I said, “What time are we leaving tomorrow?”

“After breakfast,” Mr. Fu said.

The maddening Chinese insistence on mealtimes.

“We should get an early start, because the snow will slow us down.”

“We can leave at nine.”

“The sun comes up at six-thirty or seven. Let’s leave then.”

“Breakfast,” Mr. Fu said, and smiled.

We both knew that breakfast was at eight. Mr. Fu was demanding his full hour, too. I wanted to quote a Selected Thought of Mao about being flexible, meeting all obstacles and overcoming them by strength of will. But I couldn’t think of one. Anyway, a Mao Thought would have cut no ice with young, skinny, frantic Mr. Fu, who played Beethoven and wore driving gloves and had a freeloading girlfriend. He was one of the new Chinese. He even had a pair of sunglasses.

“We can buy some food and eat it on the way,” I said, as a last desperate plea for an early start.

“I must eat mantou when it is hot,” Mr. Fu said.

That annoyed me, and I was more annoyed the next morning when at half past nine I was still waiting for Mr. Fu, who was himself waiting for a receipt for his room payment. At last, near ten, we left, and I sat in the back seat, wishing I were on a train, and feeling sour at the prospect of spending the whole trip staring at the back of Miss Sun’s head.

Lhasa was a thousand miles away.

Looking toward Tibet I had a glimpse of a black and vaporous steam locomotive plowing through a dazzling snow-field under the blue summits and buttresses of the Tanggula Shan. It was one of the loveliest things I saw in China — the chugging train in the snowy desert, the crystal mountains behind it, and the clear sky above.

Mr. Fu, I could see, was terrified of the snow. He did not know its effect firsthand. He had only heard scare stories. That was why he had wanted to stay in Golmud for another week, until the snow melted. He believed that there was no way through it. But the snow was not bad.

In the first passes, so narrow they were nearly always in shadow, there was ice. Mr. Fu took his time. He was a poor driver — that had been obvious in the first five minutes of driving with him — but the snow and ice slowed him and made him careful. The icy stretches looked dangerous, but by creeping along (and trying to ignore the precipitous drop into the ravine by the roadside), we managed. For miles there was slippery snow, but this too Mr. Fu negotiated. Two hours passed in this way. It was a lovely sunny day, and where the sun had struck it, some of the snow had melted. But we were climbing into the wind, and even this sun could not mask the fact that it was growing colder as we gained altitude.

We passed the first range of mountains, and behind them — though it was cold — there was less snow than on the Golmud side. Mr. Fu began to increase his speed. Whenever he saw a dry patch of road, he floored it and sped onward, slowing only when more snow or ice appeared. Twice he hit sudden frost heaves, and I was thrown out of my seat and bumped my head.

“Sorry!” Mr. Fu said, still speeding.

I sipped tea from my thermos and passed cassettes to Miss Sun, who fed them into the machine. After a hundred miles we had finished with Brahms. I debated whether to hand her the Beethoven symphonies, as I listened to Mendelssohn. I drank green tea and looked at the sunny road and snowy peaks and listened to the music, and I congratulated myself on contriving this excellent way of going to Lhasa.

There was another frost heave.

“Sorry!”

He was an awful driver. He ground the gears when he set off, he gave the thing too much gas, he steered jerkily, he went too fast; and he had what is undoubtedly the worst habit a driver can have — but one that is common in China: going downhill he always switched off the engine and put the gears into neutral, believing that he was saving gas.

I am not a retiring sort of person, and yet I said nothing. A person who is driving a car is in charge, and if you are a passenger you generally keep your mouth shut. I had an urge to say something and yet I thought: It’s going to be a long trip — no sense spoiling it at the outset with an argument. And I wanted to see just how bad a driver Mr. Fu was.

I soon found out.

He was rounding bends at such speed that I found myself clutching the door handle in order to prevent myself from being thrown across the seat. I could not drink my tea without spilling it. He was doing ninety — I could not tell whether the dial said kilometers or miles per hour, but did it matter? And yet if I said slow down, he would lose face, his pride would be hurt, and wasn’t it true that he had got us through the snow? It was now about noon, with a dry road ahead. At this rate we would get to our first destination, the town of Amdo, before nightfall.

“Play this one, Miss Sun.”

Miss Sun took the Chinese cassette of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. She rammed it into the machine and the first few bars played. The sun was streaming through the windows. The sky was clear and blue, and the ground was gravelly beneath the gray hills. There were snowy peaks to the left and right of us, just peeping over the hills. We were approaching a curve. I was a little anxious but otherwise very happy on the highest road in the world, the way to Lhasa. It was a beautiful day.

I remembered all of this clearly, because it was about two seconds later that we crashed.

There was a culvert on the curve, and a high bump in the road that was very obvious. But Mr. Fu was doing ninety, and when he hit the bump, we took off — the car leaped, I felt weightless, and when we came twisting down we were heading into an upright stone marker on the right. Mr. Fu was snatching at the steering wheel. The car skidded and changed direction, plunging to the left-hand side of the road. All this time I was aware of wind rushing against the car, a noise like a jet stream. That increased and so did the shaking of the car as it became airborne again and plowed into a powerful wind composed of dust and gravel. We had left the road and were careering sideways into the desert. Mr. Fu was battling with the wheel as the car was tossed. My clearest memory was of the terrific wind pressing against the twisted car, the windows darkened by flying dust, and of a kind of suspense. In a moment, I thought, we were going to smash and die.

I was hanging on to the door handle. My head was jammed against the front seat. I was afraid that if I let go I would be thrown out the opposite door. I thought I heard Miss Sun screaming, but the car noise and the wind were much louder.

This went on for perhaps seven seconds. That is an achingly long time in a skidding car; terror has everything to do with time passing. I had never felt so helpless or so doomed.

So I was surprised when the car finally stopped. It was on its side. Only the deep gravelly sand had prevented it from turning over completely. I had to push the door with my shoulder to open it. The dust was still settling. The rear tire on my side of the car had been torn off, and I could hear it hissing.

I staggered away to be as far as possible from the Galant and saw Mr. Fu and Miss Sun gasping and coughing. Miss Sun was twitching. Mr. Fu looked stunned and sorrowful because he saw the damage to the car. All its chrome had been torn off, the grille was smashed, the wheel rim twisted, the doors smashed, and we were fifty yards from the road, sunk in desert gravel. It seemed incredible that the sun was still shining.

Mr. Fu laughed. It was a cough of blind fear that meant, God, what now?

No one spoke. We were wordlessly hysterical that we had survived. Mr. Fu tramped over to me and smiled and touched my cheek. There was blood on his finger. I had got out of the car not knowing whether I was hurt — I suspected I might have been. But I checked myself. My glasses had smashed and dug into my cheek, but the wound was not bad — anyway, not too deep. I had a bump on my forehead. My neck ached. My wrist hurt. But I was all right.

It infuriated me that this had happened on a dry road, under sunny skies, so early in the trip. Now we were stuck, and it was all because of the incompetence of Mr. Fu. He had been driving too fast. But it was also my own fault for having said nothing.

Mr. Fu had unpacked a shovel and was digging around the car. What good was that? We could not go anywhere on three wheels. It seemed hopeless. I debated whether to grab my bag and start hitchhiking, but in which direction? Mr. Fu had got himself into this mess; he could get himself out of it. I could not imagine how this car could ever be dragged onto the road. I looked around and thought: This is one of the emptiest places in the world.

We took turns digging for a while, but this merely seemed a cosmetic endeavor, unearthing the car. And the more we saw of the car, the more wrecked it seemed.

Some brown trucks were laboring slowly down the road. We had passed them hours ago.

“Let’s stop them,” I said.

“No,” Mr. Fu said.

Chinese pride. He shook his head and waved me away. He knew they were Tibetans. What a loss of face for him if these savages witnessed this piece of stupid driving. He had no excuses.

“Come back,” Mr. Fu said. “Help me dig.”

But I did not turn. I was waving to the approaching trucks, and I was delighted to see them slowing down. It was a three-truck convoy, and when they parked, the Tibetans came flapping slowly through the desert, laughing with pleasure at the tipped-over car and Mr. Fu on his knees digging. There were seven Tibetans. They looked very greasy in their old clothes, but I was reassured by their laughter and their squashed hats and their broken shoes: their ordinariness gave them the look of rescuers.

I dug out my “List of Useful Tibetan Phrases” and consulted it. I said, “Tashi deleg!” (Hello — Good luck!)

They returned the greeting and laughed some more.

I pointed to the car. “Yappo mindoo.” (That is not good.)

They nodded and replied. True, they were saying. That’s not good at all.

“Nga Amayriga nay ray,” I said. (I’m an American.)

They said, “Amayriga, Amayriga!”

I looked at my list again and put my finger on a phrase. I said, “Nga Lhasa la drogi yin.” (I am going to Lhasa.)

By now one of them had taken the shovel from Mr. Fu, and another was digging with his hands. One was unloading the trunk — pulling boxes out, unbolting the spare tire. Several of them were touching the wound on my face and going tsk, tsk.

“Want a picture of the Dalai Lama?” I said.

They nodded. Yes, yes!

The others heard. They said, “Dalai Lama, Dalai Lama!”

They dropped what they were doing and surrounded me as I pulled out the roll of portraits I had brought for just such an emergency. They were tough men, but they took the pictures with great gentleness and reverence, each one touching the paper to his head and bowing to me. They marveled at the pictures, while Mr. Fu and Miss Sun stood to the side, sulking.

“Everyone gets a picture,” I said. “Now you have a nice portrait of the Dalai Lama. You are very happy, right?”—they laughed, hearing me jabber in English—“And you want to help us. Now let’s straighten that axle, and get the wheel on, and push this goddamned car back onto the road.”

It took less than half an hour for them to fix the wheel and dig out the car, and then, with eight of us pushing and Mr. Fu gunning the engine, we flopped and struggled until the car was back on the road. As the wheels spun and everyone became covered with dust, I thought: I love these people.

Afterward they showed me little pictures of the Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama on the sun visors in the cabs of their trucks.

“Dalai Lama, Dalai Lama,” they chanted.

Mr. Fu thanked them in Chinese. It meant that he had to swallow his pride to do that. They didn’t care. They laughed at him and waved him away.

It was now early afternoon. It had all been a shock, and yet I was encouraged because we had survived it. It seemed miraculous that we were still alive. But Mr. Fu said nothing. When we set off again, he seemed both dazed and frenzied. His glasses had broken in the crash, and I could see that he was wild-eyed. He was also very dirty. Miss Sun was sniffing, whimpering softly.

The car was in miserable shape. It looked the way I felt. I was surprised that it had restarted; I was amazed that its four wheels were turning. That is another way of saying that it seemed logical to me, a few minutes after we set off again, that a great screeching came from the back axle. It was the sort of sound that made me think that the car was about to burst apart.

We stopped. We jacked up the car. We took a back wheel off to have a closer look. The brakes were twisted, and pieces of metal were protruding into the rim. At low speeds this made a clackety-clack, and faster it rose to a shriek. There was no way to fix it. We put the wheel back on, and while Mr. Fu tightened the nuts, I looked around. I had never in my life seen such light — the sky was like a radiant sea, and at every edge of this blasted desert with its leathery plants were strange gray hills and snowy peaks. We were on the plateau. It was a world I had never seen before — of emptiness and wind-scoured rocks and dense light. I thought: If I have to be stranded anywhere, this is the place I want it to be. I was filled with joy at the thought of being abandoned there, at the edge of the Tibetan Plateau.

“I think it is heating up,” Mr. Fu said, after he had driven a hundred yards down the road.

He was breathing hard and noisily through his nose. He slammed on the brakes, ran around to the back wheel, and spat on the rim. It wasn’t frustration. It was his way of determining how hot the hub was.

“It is very high here!” he cried. There was dust on his face. His hair was bristly. His color had changed, too. He looked ashen.

After that, we kept stopping. The wheel noise was dreadful. But that was not the worst of it. Mr. Fu’s driving changed. Usually he went fast — and then I told him clearly to slow down. (No one will ever make me sit still in a speeding car again, I thought: I will always protest.) Mr. Fu’s overcareful slow driving unnerved me almost as much as his reckless driving.

This did not last long. We came to a pass that linked the Tanggula Shan with the Kunlun Shan. It was a Chinese belief that in a valley nearby there was a trickle that rose and became the great brown torrent that ended in Shanghai, the Great River that only foreigners know as the Yangtze. The river is one of the few geographical features that the Chinese are genuinely mystical about. But they are not unusual in that. Most people are bewitched by big rivers.

This pass was just under seventeen thousand feet. Mr. Fu stopped the car, and I got out and looked at a stone tablet that gave the altitude and mentioned the mountains. The air was thin, I was a bit breathless, but the landscape was dazzling — the soft contours of the plateau, and the long folded stretches of snow, like beautiful gowns laid out all over the countryside, a gigantic version of the way Indians set out their laundry to dry. I was so captivated by the magnificence of the place I didn’t mind the discomfort of the altitude.

“Look at the mountains, Mr. Fu.”

“I don’t feel well,” he said, not looking up. “It’s the height.”

He rubbed his eyes. Miss Sun was still whimpering. Would she scream in a minute?

I got in and Mr. Fu drove fifty yards. His driving had worsened. He was in the wrong gear, the gearbox was hiccuping, and still the rear wheel made its hideous ratcheting.

Without warning, he stopped in the middle of the road and gasped, “I cannot drive anymore!”

He wasn’t kidding. He looked ill. He kept rubbing his eyes.

“I can’t see! I can’t breathe!”

Miss Sun burst into tears.

I thought: Oh, shit.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

He shook his head. He was too ill to contemplate the question.

I did not want to hurt his pride, especially here at a high altitude, so I said carefully, “I know how to drive a car.”

“You do?” He blinked. He was very thin. He looked like a starving hamster.

“Yes, yes,” I said.

He gladly got into the back. Miss Sun hardly acknowledged the fact that I was now sitting beside her. I took the wheel and off we went. In the past few hours the ridiculous little Nipponese car had been reduced to a jalopy. It was dented; it made a racket; it smoked; and the most telling of its jalopy features was that it sagged to one side — whether it was a broken spring or a cracked axle I didn’t know. It had received a mortal blow, but it was still limping along. I had to hold tight to the steering wheel. The sick car kept trying to steer itself into the ditch on the right-hand side of the road.

Mr. Fu was asleep.

Miss Sun, too, was asleep. I pushed in Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6 and continued toward Lhasa. I liked this. I liked listening to music. I liked the fact that the other passengers were asleep. I loved the look of Tibet. I might have died back there on the road, but I was alive. It was wonderful to be alive and doing the driving.

There were no people here that I could see. But there were yaks grazing on some of the hillsides — presumably the herds of the nomadic tent-dwelling Tibetans who were said to roam this part of the province. The yaks were black and brown, and some had white patches. They were ornamented with ribbons in their long hair, and they all had lovely tails, as thick as any horse’s. In some places, herds of Tibetan gazelles grazed near the road.

Mr. Fu slept on, but Miss Sun woke up, and before I could change the cassette, she slipped in one of her own. It was the sound track of an Indian movie, in Hindi, but the title song was in English.

I am a disco dancer!

I am a disco dancer!

This imbecilic chant was repeated interminably with twanging from an electric guitar.

“That is Indian music,” I said. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Miss Sun said.

“Do you understand the words?”

“No,” she said. “But it sounds nice.”

At about four we were almost out of gas. Mr. Fu said he had spare gas in the trunk, in big cans, but just as I noticed the fuel gauge, we approached a small settlement.

“Stop here,” Mr. Fu said.

He directed me to a shack, which turned out to be a gas station — old-fashioned gas nozzles on long hoses. It was, like all gas stations in Tibet, run by the People’s Liberation Army.

“We should get the tire fixed, too.”

Mr. Fu said, “No. They don’t fix tires.”

In Xining I had asked Mr. Fu to bring two spares. He had brought one, and it was being used. So we were traveling without a spare.

“Where will we get the tire fixed?”

He pointed vaguely down the road, toward Lhasa. It meant he didn’t have the slightest idea.

I walked over to the soldier filling the tank.

“Where are we?”

“This is Wudaoliang.”

Names look so grand on a map. But this place hardly justified being on a map. How could a gas station, some barracks, and a barbed-wire fence even deserve a name? And the name was bad news, because Wudaoliang was not even halfway to our destination, which was Amdo.

As if to make the moment operatic, the weather suddenly changed. A wind sprang up, clouds tumbled across the sun, and the day grew very dark and cold. My map was flapping against the car roof. It would be night soon.

“When will we get to Amdo, Mr. Fu?”

“About six o’clock.”

Wrong, of course. Mr. Fu’s calculations were wildly inaccurate. I had stopped believing that he had ever been on this road before. It was possible that my map was misleading — it had shown roads that didn’t exist, and settlements that were no more than ruins and blowing sand.

Mr. Fu had no map. He had a scrap of paper with seven towns scribbled on it, the stops between Golmud and Lhasa. The scrap of paper had become filthy from his repeatedly consulting it. He consulted it again.

“The next town is Yanshiping.”

We set off. I drove; Mr. Fu dozed.

Miss Sun played “I Am a Disco Dancer.”

After an hour we passed a hut, some yaks, and a ferocious dog.

“Yanshiping?”

“No.”

In the fading light and freezing air this plateau no longer seemed romantic. “This country makes the Gobi seem fertile in comparison,” a French traveler once wrote. It was true. Moonscape is the word most often applied to such a place, but this was beyond a moonscape — it was another universe entirely.

There were more settlements ahead. They were all small and all the same: huts with stained whitewashed square walls, flat roofs, and red, blue, and green pennants and flags with mantras written on them, flying from propped-up bush branches. As these prayer flags flapped, so the mantras reverberated in the air, and grace abounded around them. There were more yaks, more fierce dogs.

“Yanshiping?”

“No.”

It was nearly dark when we came to it. Yanshiping was twenty houses standing in mud on a curve in the road. There were children and dogs, yaks and goats. Several of the dogs were the biggest and fiercest I had ever seen in my life. They were Tibetan mastiffs — their Tibetan name means simply “watchdogs.” They lolloped and slavered and barked horribly.

“There is nowhere to stay here,” Mr. Fu said, before I could ask — I was slowing down.

“What’s the next town?”

He produced his filthy scrap of paper.

“Amdo. There is a hotel at Amdo.”

“How far is Amdo?”

He was silent. He didn’t know. After a moment, he said, “A few hours.”

Hotel is a nice word, but China had taught me to distrust it. The more usual Chinese expression was “guest house.” It was the sort of place I could never identify properly. It was a hospital, a madhouse, a house, a school, a prison. It was seldom a hotel. But, whatever, I longed to be there. It was now seven-thirty. We had been on the road for ten hours.

We continued in the dark. It was snowier here, higher and colder, on a winding road that was icy in places. There was another pass, choked with ice that never melts at any time in the year because of the altitude, another seventeen-thousand-footer.

Mr. Fu woke and saw the snow.

“Road! Watch the road!” he yelled. “Lu! Lu! Looooooo!”

The altitude put him to sleep, but each time he woke he became a terrible nag. I began to think that perhaps many Chinese in authority were nags and bores. He kept telling me to watch the road, because he was frightened. I wanted to say, You almost got us killed, Jack, but to save his face I didn’t.

I often mistook the lights of distant trucks on the far side of this defile for the lights of Amdo. There was no vegetation at this altitude, and the freezing air was clear. In the darkness I saw these pinpricks of light.

“Is that Amdo?”

“Watch the road!” Mr. Fu’s voice from the back seat set my teeth on edge. “Lu! Loooo!”

Now and then he would tap me on the shoulder and cry, “Toilet!”

That was the greatest euphemism of all. It was usually Miss Sun who needed to have a slash. I watched her totter to the roadside and creep into a ditch, and there just out of the wind — and it was too dark even for the yaks to see her — she found relief.

Three more hours passed in this way. I wondered whether we might not be better off just pulling off the road and sleeping in the car. Midnight on the Tibetan Plateau, in the darkness and ice and wind, was not a good time to be driving. But the problem was the narrowness of the road. There was nowhere to pull off. There was a ditch on either side. If we stopped we would be rammed by one of the big army trucks that traveled by night.

Toward midnight I saw the sign saying Amdo. In the darkness it seemed a bleak and dangerous place. I did not know then that it would look much worse in daylight.

“We are staying at the army camp,” Mr. Fu said.

To save face, Mr. Fu changed places with me and drove the last twenty feet to the sentry post. Then he got out and argued with the sentry.

He returned to the car trembling.

“They are full,” he said.

“What now?”

“The guest house.”

Miss Sun was sobbing quietly.

We drove across a rocky field. There was no road. We came to a boarded-up house, but before we could get out, a mastiff bounded into the car lights. It had a big square head and a meaty tongue, and it was slavering and barking. It was as big as a pony, something like the Hound of the Baskervilles, but vastly more sinister.

“Are you getting out?”

“No,” Mr. Fu said, hoarse with fear.

Beyond the crazed and leaping dog there were yaks sleeping, standing up.

There were more dogs. I could take the yak-meat diet; I could understand why the Tibetans didn’t wash; I found the cold and the high altitude just about bearable; I could negotiate the roads. But I could not stand those fierce dogs. I was not angry or impatient. I was scared shitless.

“There is a guest house,” Mr. Fu said, grinning at some dim lights ahead.

It was a dirty two-story building with bars on the windows. I guessed it was a prison, but that was all right. We checked for dogs, and while Miss Sun threw up next to the car, we went inside. A Tibetan sat on a ragged quilt on the floor, gnawing raw flesh off a yak bone. He was black with dirt, his hair was matted, he was barefoot in spite of the cold. He looked exactly like a cannibal, tearing shreds of red meat off a shank.

“We need a room,” Mr. Fu said in Chinese.

The Tibetan laughed and said there was no room. He chewed with his mouth open, showing his teeth, and then with aggressive hospitality he pushed the bone into my face and demanded I take a bite.

I took out my “List of Useful Tibetan Phrases.”

“Hello. I am not hungry,” I said in Tibetan. “My name is Paul. What is your name? I am from America. Where are you from?”

“Bod,” the cannibal said, giving me the Tibetan name for Tibet. He was grinning at my gloves. I was cold — it was way below freezing in this room. He gestured for me to sit with him on his quilt, and in the same motion he waved Mr. Fu away.

It is a Tibetan belief that all Tibetans are descended from a sexually insatiable ogress who had six children after copulating with a submissive monkey. It is just a pretty tale, of course, but looking at this man it was easy to see how the myth might have originated.

He batted away Mr. Fu’s identity card, but he took a great interest in my passport. Then he put his juicy bone down and fingered the pages, leaving bloodstains on them. He laughed at my passport picture. He compared the picture with my gray, frozen face and the wound under my eye. He laughed again.

“I agree. It’s not a very good likeness.”

He became very attentive, hearing English spoken, like a dog listening to footsteps in the driveway.

“Do you have rooms?” I asked. I held out a picture of the Dalai Lama.

He mumbled a reply. His shaven head and big jaw made him look ape-like. I switched to Chinese, because I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He took the picture gently.

“One person — six yuan,” he said, clutching the portrait.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Mr. Fu said, abasing himself.

“Tea, tea,” the cannibal said, offering me a tin kettle.

I drank some salty, buttery tea, and as I did, a truck pulled up outside. Twelve Tibetans, women and children, entered the room, went into the corridor, threw quilts on the floor, and fell on them.

I paid my money, got my bag from the car, and found an empty room on the second floor. The light on the stairwell had shown me what sort of place it was. Someone had vomited on the landing. The vomit was frozen. There was worse farther on, against the wall. It was all icy, and so the smell wasn’t bad. It was very dirty, a bare cement interior that was grimmer than any prison I had ever seen. But the real prison touch was that all the lights were on — not many of them, but all bare bulbs. There were no light switches. There were howls and murmurs from the other rooms. There was no water, and no bathroom. No toilet except the stairwell.

Not far away I heard Miss Sun berating Mr. Fu in an exasperated and whining sick person’s voice. I closed the door. There was no lock. I jammed an iron bed against it. There were three iron bedsteads in the room, and some reeking quilts.

I realized that I was shivering. I was cold, but I was also hungry. I ate half a jar of Ma Ling orange segments, and a banana, and I made tea from the hot water in the jug I had brought. I was light-headed and somewhat breathless from the altitude, and also nauseated from the frosty vomit in the corridors. Just as I finished eating, all the lights went out: midnight.

I put on my gloves, my hat, my extra sweater, my coat, and my third pair of socks and thermal-lined shoes, and went to bed. I had been cold in my life, but I had never worn a hat with earmuffs to bed before. I had a quilt over me and a quilt under me. Even so, I could not get warm. I could not understand why. My heart palpitated. My toes were numb. I tried to imagine what it must be like to be Chris Bonington, climbing Menlungtse near Everest. After a while I could see moonlight behind the thick frost on the window.

In the middle of the night I got up to piss. I used an enamel basin that I guessed was a chamber pot. In the morning the piss was frozen solid. So were the rest of my orange segments. So were my quails’ eggs. Everything that I had that could freeze had frozen.

I had hardly slept, but I was gladdened by the sunlight. I found some peanuts and ate them. I ate my frozen banana. I visited the cannibal (he looked even dirtier in daylight) and drank some of my own tea with him. He did not want Chinese tea. He made a face as if to say, Disgusting stuff! How can you drink it?

The frail warmth of the morning sun only made the place worse by wakening the stinks on the stairs and in the corridors. There were dark clumps and little twists of human shit throughout the building. In this heavenly country, this toilet.

Mr. Fu was up and fussing. He said Miss Sun was not at all well. And he felt sick, too.

“Then let’s go,” I said.

“Breakfast first.”

“Oh, God!”

Another late start. But this time I did calculations on my map, estimated the distances between towns, figured an average speed, and felt much better until I remembered the tire.

“Did you get the spare tire fixed, Mr. Fu?”

He had said that he would do it this morning, before breakfast. Although Amdo was a dump, there were garages here, and it was the only place of any size for miles.

“No. Better to get the tire fixed in Nagqu.”

That was over a hundred miles away.

Mr. Fu took the wheel. A few miles down the road he stopped the car and clawed at his face.

“I cannot do it!” he shrieked. In Chinese it sounded like a pitiful surrender.

It was another attack of the wobblies. I welcomed it; I soothed Mr. Fu as he crept into the back seat. I slotted Brahms into the cassette player and drove south, under sunny skies.

I was feeling wonky myself. I had a bump on my head, a neck ache, and a deep cut on my face from the car crash. My right wrist hurt, probably a sprain, from my holding on during our careering. And the altitude affected me, too — I felt light-headed and nauseated, and my short walk in Amdo had given me heart palpitations. But this was nothing compared with Mr. Fu’s agony. The color had drained from his face, his mouth gaped, and after a while he simply swooned. Miss Sun also went to sleep. Crumpled together on the seat, they looked like poisoned lovers in a suicide pact.

There were no more settlements until Nagqu, nothing except the windswept tableland, and it was so cold that even the drongs, the wild yaks, were squinting and the herds of wild asses did nothing but raise their heads and stare at the badly damaged Mitsubishi Galant. After a few hours the road ran out and was no more than loose rocks and boulders, and more wild asses. The boulders clunked against the chassis and hammered the tires. We had no spare tire. We were ridiculously unprepared for Tibet, but I did not mind very much. I felt, having survived that crash, that we had come through the worst of it. There is something about the very fact of survival that produces a greater vitality. And I knew I was much safer as long as I was driving. Mr. Fu was not really very good at all, and as a nervous new driver, he had no business to be in Tibet.

On some hillsides there were huts flying colored prayer flags. I was cheered by them, by the whiteness of whitewashed huts, by the smoke coming out of the chimneys, and by the clothes that people wore — fox-fur hats, silver buckles, sheepskin coats, big warm boots. Miles from anywhere I saw a mother and daughter in bright, blowing skirts and bonnets climbing a cliffside path, and a handsome herdsman sitting among his yaks, wearing a wonderful red hat with huge earflaps.

Mr. Fu was very annoyed that there was nowhere to eat at Nagqu. He was stiff and cranky from the altitude, and reluctant to stay, but I pestered him into finding someone to fix the spare. This was done in a shed, with fires and chisels; and while this primitive vulcanizing went on, I walked around the town. John Avedon’s In Exile from the Land of Snows (1984), which is mainly an anti-Chinese account of the recent turmoil in Tibet, and pleasantly passionate on the subject of the Dalai Lama, claims that Nagqu is the center of the Chinese nuclear industry. The gaseous diffusion plants, the warhead assembly plants, and the research labs have been moved here from the Lop Nor Desert. Somewhere in this vicinity — though you’d never know it from looking at it — there was a large repository of medium-range and intermediate-range nuclear missiles. But all I saw were yaks.

Mr. Fu drove us out of Nagqu — perhaps a face-saving gesture, because a mile outside town he stopped the car and clutched his eyes.

“I cannot do it!”

And he slumped in the back seat.

I was happier than I had been since starting this trip on the Iron Rooster. I was driving, I was in charge, I was taking my time, and Tibet was empty. The weather was dramatic — snow on the hills, a high wind, and black clouds, piled up on the mountains ahead.

Today, below the snowy and majestic Nyenchen Tanglha Range, nomads rode among their herds of yak, and the road was straight through the yellow plain. That tame road contributed to my feeling of well-being — it was wonderful to be in such a remote place and yet to feel so secure. Mr. Fu and Miss Sun were asleep in the back seat. There were no other cars on the road. I drove at a sensible speed toward Lhasa and watched the birds — hawks and plovers and crows. There were more gazelles, and once a pale yellow fox bounded across the road.

There was a sudden snowstorm. I went from a dry sunny valley, around a corner, into a black slushy one, the large cottony flakes whipping sideways. Mr. Fu, who was terrified of snow, mercifully did not wake. The snow eased; it became a dry flurry in a valley farther ahead, and then the sun came out again. Tibetans call their country “Land of Snows,” but in fact it doesn’t snow much and it never rains. The gales pass quickly. The Tibetans are not bothered by any of this. I saw children playing in the sudden storm.

I had wanted at the outset to reach Lhasa quickly. But now I didn’t mind a delay. I would gladly have spent more nights on the road, provided it was not in a place like the dump at Amdo.

Damxung looked promising. It was at a bend in the road; there was an army camp nearby, and half a dozen one-room restaurants. We stopped and had four dishes, which included wood-ear fungus and yak meat, and Mr. Fu revived enough to accuse the serving girl of overcharging him — or rather me, since I paid the bill.

There were six soldiers in the kitchen, wanning themselves, but they fluttered away when I tried to talk with them. Travelers in China had sometimes told me that they were harassed by soldiers or officials. This was never my experience. When I approached them they always backed away.

I found Mr. Fu spitting on the wheel to see whether it was overheated. He was kneeling, spitting, smearing, examining.

“I think we should stay here,” I said.

We were watched by a small boy who had a playing-card-sized picture of the Dalai Lama tucked into the front of his fur hat. When I peered at him he ran away and returned without the picture.

“We cannot stay here. Miss Sun is sick. Lhasa is only one hundred and seventy kilometers.”

“Do you feel well enough to drive?”

“I am fine!”

But he looked terrible. His face was gray. He had not eaten much. He had told me he had a pain in his heart. He also said that his eyes hurt.

“This wheel is not hot,” he said. “That is good.”

He gasped and gave up at a place called Baicang, saying he could not do it. I took over, and in a pretty place on a riverbank called Yangbajain, we entered a narrow, rocky valley. It was the sort of valley I had been expecting ever since Golmud. I had not realized that this part of Tibet was open country, with flat, straight roads and distant snowy peaks. But this valley was steep and cold, and half in darkness it was so deep. A river ran swiftly through it, with birds darting from one wet boulder to another. I saw from my bird book that they were thrushes, and the commonest was the White-winged Redstart.

When we emerged from this valley we were higher, and among steep mountainsides and bluer, snowier peaks. We traveled along this riverside in a burst of evening sunshine. Farther south, this little river became the mighty Brahmaputra. The valley opened wider, became sunnier and very dry; and beyond the beautiful bare hills of twinkling scree there were mountains covered with frothy snow.

Ahead was a small town. I took it to be another garrison town, but it was Lhasa, for sure. In the distance was a red and white building with sloping sides — the Potala, so lovely, somewhat like a mountain and somewhat like a music box with a hammered gold lid.

I had never felt happier, rolling into a town. I decided to pay off Mr. Fu. I gave him my thermos bottle and the remainder of my provisions. He seemed embarrassed. He lingered a little. Then he reached out and put his fingers on my cheek, where there was the wound from the crash. It was scabby, the blood had dried, it looked awful, but it didn’t hurt.

“I am sorry,” Mr. Fu said. He laughed. It was an abject apology. His laughter said, Forgive me!

Lhasa

IT IS IMMEDIATELY OBVIOUS THAT LHASA IS NOT A CITY. IT IS a small friendly-looking town on a high plain surrounded by even higher mountains. There is very little traffic. There are no pavements. Everyone walks in the street. No one runs. These streets are at twelve thousand feet. You can hear children yelling and dogs barking and bells being rung, and so it seems a quiet place. It is rather dirty and very sunny. Just a few years ago the Chinese bulldozed the Chorten, a stupa which formed the entrance to the city. It was their way of violating Lhasa, which had always been forbidden to foreigners. Even so, it is not crowded. The Chinese badly damaged Lhasa and hoped to yank the whole thing down and build a city of fine ugly factories. But they did not succeed in destroying it. Much of it, and some of its finest shrines, were made out of mud bricks — easily broken but cheap to replace, like the Buddhist statues that were made anew every few years, or the yak butter sculptures that were expected to go rancid or melt in order for new ones to be fashioned. The whole of Buddhism prepared the Tibetans for cycles of destruction and rebirth: it is a religion that brilliantly teaches continuity. You can easily see the violence of the Chinese intention in Lhasa, but it was a failure, because the Tibetans are indestructible.

Lhasa is a holy place, so it is populated by pilgrims. They give it color, and because they are strangers themselves to Lhasa they don’t object to foreign travelers — in fact, they welcome them and try to sell them beads and trinkets. Chinese cities are notorious for their noise and crowds. Lhasa has a small population, and because it is flat it is full of cyclists. To me that was a complete surprise. I had expected a dark, craggy city of steepnesses and fortifications overrun by Chinese and hung with slogans. I found a bright little war-torn town full of jolly monks and friendly pilgrims and dominated by the Potala, which is an ingenious and distracting shape.

Half the population of Lhasa is Chinese, but those who are not soldiers tend to stay indoors, and even the soldiers of the People’s Liberation Army keep a low profile. They know that Tibet is essentially a gigantic army camp — the roads, the airports, and all the communications were a military effort — and they know that the Tibetans resent it. The Chinese feel insecure in Tibet, and so they retreat into a sort of officiousness; they look like commissars and imperialists but their swagger is mostly bravado. They know they are in a foreign country. They don’t speak the language and they have not managed to teach Chinese to the Tibetans. For over thirty years they maintained the fiction that the official language of Tibet was Chinese, but then in 1987 they caved in and changed it to Tibetan.

The Chinese imply that they have a moral right to run the Tibetans’ lives, but since the late seventies, when they began to despair of political solutions to Chinese problems, they have felt more uneasy about being in Tibet. They have no right to be there at all. The Tibetans themselves would probably have found a way to tax the rich families, get rid of exploiters and raise up the Ragyaba — the scavenging class and corpse handlers — and free the slaves (slavery persisted into the 1950s). But the bossy ideology of the Chinese compelled them to invade and so thoroughly meddle with the country that they alienated the majority of the population. They did not stop there. They annexed Tibet and made it part of China, and however much the Chinese talk about liberalizing their policies it is clear that they have no intention of ever allowing Tibet to become a sovereign state again.

“It feels like a foreign country,” Chinese friends of mine confided to me. They were bewildered by the old-fashioned habits and clothes, and by the incomprehensible rituals of Tibetan Buddhism, celebrating the sexual mysticism of the tantric rites, and the hugging and fornicating statues illustrating the mother-father principle of yabyum, and the big, toothy, goggling demons that Tibetans see as protectors. Even with the Chinese watching closely and issuing decrees and building schools and initiating public works, Lhasa is a medieval-seeming place, just like Europe in the Middle Ages, complete with grinning monks and grubby peasants and open-air festivals and jugglers and tumblers. Lhasa is holy, but it is also a market town, with pushcarts and stacked-up vegetables and dirty, air-dried cuts of yak that will keep for a year (grain keeps for fifty years in the dry Tibetan climate). The most medieval touch of all is that Tibet has almost no plumbing.

The pilgrims hunker and prostrate themselves all over Lhasa, and they shuffle clockwise around every shrine. They flatten themselves on stair landings, outside the Jokhang, and all around the Potala. They do it on the road, the riverbank, the hillsides. Being Tibetan Buddhists they are good-humored, and because they are from all over Tibet, Lhasa is their meeting place — they enrich the life of the town and fill its markets. They come out of a devotion to the Dalai Lama, the incarnation of the Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara. They pray, they throw themselves to the ground, they strew tiny one-miao notes and barley grains at the shrines, and they empty blobs of yak butter into the lamps. The very pious ones blow horns made from human thigh bones — a femur like an oboe — or carry water in bowls made from the lopped-off top of a human skull. They venerate the various thrones and couches of the Dalai Lama in the Potala, and even his narrow Art Deco bed, his bathtub and toilet, his tape recorder (a gift from Nehru), and his radio. The Dalai Lama is worshipped as the Living God, but the pilgrims also pay homage to the images of Zong Kapa — founder of the Yellow Sect, and of the Lord Buddha, and other Dalai Lamas, notably the Fifth, whose great buildings dignify Lhasa. Pilgrims have made Lhasa a town of visitors who are not exactly strangers, and so even a real foreigner feels a sense of belonging there. Its chaos and dirt and its jangling bells make it seem hospitable.

Lhasa was the one place in China I eagerly entered, and enjoyed being in, and was reluctant to leave. I liked its smallness, its friendliness, the absence of traffic, the flat streets — and every street had a vista of tremendous Tibetan mountains. I liked the clear air and sunshine, the markets, the brisk trade in scarce antiques. It fascinated me to see a place for which the Chinese had no solution. They admitted that they had made grave mistakes in Tibet, but they also admitted that they did not know what to do next. They had not counted on the tenacious faith of the Tibetans, and perhaps they found it hard to believe that such dark, grinning people, who never washed, could be so passionate. The visiting party officials strolled around looking smug and hard to please. They were mostly on junkets. Tibet is a junketer’s paradise: a subject people, two fairly good hotels, plenty of ceremonial functions, and so far from Peking that anything goes. The Chinese reward each other with junkets and official trips — they often take the place of bonuses — and Tibet is the ultimate junket. But it is for sight-seeing. Tibet has made no economic gains at all. It is entirely dependent on Chinese financial aid. These Chinese nearly always look physically uncomfortable in Lhasa — it is the altitude, the strange food, and the climate, but it is also the boisterous Tibetans, who seem to the Chinese a bit savage and unpredictable — superstitious primitives if not outright subhuman.

The other aspect of Lhasa — and Tibet, too — is that like Yunnan it has become the refuge of hippies. They are not the dropouts I met years ago in Afghanistan and India, but mostly middle-class, well-heeled hippies whose parents gave them the air fare to China. Some of them come by bus from Nepal. They seemed harmless to me, and they were a great deal more desirable than the rich tourists for whom Lhasa was building expensive hotels and importing ridiculous delicacies — and providing brand-new Japanese buses so that groups of tourists could set out at dawn and photograph such rituals as the Sky Burial (Tibetans deal with their dead by placing them outside for vultures to eat). As Lynn Pan remarks in her analysis of recent Chinese history, The New Chinese Revolution, “it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that Tibetan culture, which has survived the worst that Maoism and force could do to stamp it out, has been left to be killed by tourism.” But I had my doubts. Tibet seemed too vast and inaccessible and strange for anyone to possess it. It looked wonderful to me, like the last place on earth; like a polar ice cap, but emptier.