Beijing

Monday, May 5, 2008
Beijing

Mao was scared of the Russians. As a result, he ordered 70,000 laborers to build an underground city that could hold 40% of Beijing’s population. During the Cultural Revolution, political leaders used it to secretly move around the city. During the Tiananmen Square riots, the army used it to move in on crowds of protesting students.

Today, only one of the three entry ways is open to the public. If you can find it.

After my little stroll through the hutongs, I circled around about a square mile’s worth of charted and uncharted streets, finally coming to what I just knew was the nong tang with the secret wooden doorway. Ran into a group of five British college girls doing the same, so they followed me in. Another five minutes of searching and—gasp—there it was. Right in front of us.

And it was closed.

For renovation. Due to water damage. Seriously.

According to the very, very kind guard (for some reason, only female guards are given this post), a nearby tear down of hutongs resulted in serious water damage to the tunnels. They were closed for clean up, and in anticipation of tourists this summer.

The past hour and a half has been quite a journey, but it ain’t gonna end where I’d hoped. Oh well. All in all, it was kind of fun.

Now that it’s over.

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Monday, May 5, 2008
Beijing

My mother would pass out if she saw me now.

The trike driver couldn’t find the Underground City, even with the map (admittedly, that’s the way Mao intended things—it’s a secret city, after all). Had yet another meeting of the minds over the Chinese map. He offered to get me there…for another 20 yuan. Decided to bid him farewell and wing it. Something told me we had to be close.

He takes off. I look around. It occurs to me that the reason we couldn’t find this place is because it’s not on a map.

Which means I’m not on a map.

Which means I am on my own. Not on a map. No boat. No paddle. No GPS.

A 5’11” Caucasian wandering through their hutong (a collection of alley dwellings) gets the attention of the locals. They stare at me warily as I pretend to know where I’m going. With confidence. And great acting. I mean hey, doesn’t every American tourist plan a fifteen minute trek down an unmapped nong tang (alley)?

My internal compass tells me to head west, then north, until I hit traffic.

Which I do. And it works. Fifteen minutes into this little side trip, I hit traffic.

Which means I’m back on the map.

Which means deep breath time.

Truth be told, I was probably quite safe the entire time (crime is pretty severely treated in China), but still. Not the smartest move I’ve made. But definitely a memorable one.

(Photo credit: mhobbs)

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Monday, May 5, 2008
Beijing

Taxi drivers in Beijing are notorious for not knowing where things are located. In their defense, street names and numbers are almost meaningless, with little or no logic applied. Drivers pull over and ask directions from random folks on the sidewalk as routinely as they turn street corners.

Same plan applies to the trikes. We pulled over to a little “shop” the driver knew, he purchased a Chinese map, and had me show him where I was headed (this is, of course, about ten minutes into the ride that began with his insistence he recognized my destination, the Underground City).

Oh well, I’m riding in a vehicle with a side mirror held together with packing tape, so what the heck. It’s an adventure.

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Monday, May 5, 2008
Beijing

After parking myself on a nearby bench outside the Forbidden City to read my map and eat my ice cream, I decide transportation is going to be necessary to reach the next stop—having walked the length of the City, I now have a better handle on the scale of this place. Definitely a bigger area than I first thought.

For some reason, the one thing that seems to be absent from the boulevard that borders the north end of the complex (Xianmen Dajie -or- Wenjin Jie -or- Jing Shan Qian Jie -or- Wusi Dajie, depending on which map or twelve-foot stretch you happen to be standing on) is a taxi. But…there are a bunch of little “put puts,” or motorized tricycles around (think: a three-wheeled motorcycle with a boxed single seat on the back). Oh yeah. The motorcycle’s at least vintage 1940.

What the heck.

Jump in. Hang on. We’re off.

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