| On Two
Wheels |
| China From
The Slow Lane |
| By Ben Hill |
| A colossal
statue of Chairman Mao Zedong casts his ever-watchful gaze across Tianfu
Square and down Renmin Lu, central Chengdu's main thoroughfare. Although
his influence may have largely faded, and the city seems long oblivious
to his presence, the statue remains, as if conducting the traffic with
a wave of his hand.
Comrade Mao
wears an overcoat surely too warm for the Chengdu heat, and smiles the
benevolent smile of a kindly old uncle. His right hand is extended in a
friendly wave, but his left remains behind his back: knowing what we in
the West now know about the Great Helmsman, it might be easy to imagine
that he has his fingers crossed. Yet the complete demystification of Mao
is still a long way off; here in the People's Republic itself it may never
happen. |
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| Below the
Chairman, a constant stream of bicycles rattles past day and night.
In capitalist America the car may well be king, but here the bicycle is
emperor: cycles - and cyclists - of every age, shape and size fill the
streets. Here, an old man taking his produce to market - a towering basket
of maybe cabbages, perhaps live chickens, almost twice his own size threatening
to topple his aging bicycle as he rounds a corner; there, a courting couple:
he pedals for two, she sits demurely side-saddle on the rear pannier. Army
officers in dress uniform jostle for pole position at the traffic lights
with a young mother, her infant safely balanced in the midst of the shopping
in her front basket. Neither pay any attention to the fearsome flag lady
who blows her whistle furiously and raises a white-gloved hand in an attempt
to restore order to the cycling horde, but her shouts go unheeded as the
lights change. With a clatter of spokes and a ring of bells, she is lost
in the surging tide of bikes. Undaunted, she dusts herself down, straightens
the peak of her cap and unfurls her flags in readiness for the next wave.
When it
rains, as it often does here in Chengdu, the cycling masses take
on a more resolute air. Out come the all-in-one raincapes, and the
city streets resemble a throng of two-wheeled monks - all cowled in blue,
red or yellow plastic against the elements. |
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| In order
to survive riding a bicycle in one of China's bustling, crowded cities,
it seems necessary to be either brave, stupid or Chinese. I will never
be the latter, and haven't yet decided which of the first two is the most
applicable, but the bicycle which I have been lent by my employers (a
perfect size for someone twelve inches shorter, with brakes which only
work sporadically) seems to be a key factor in feeling a sense of belonging
here, rather than forever staying a 'laowai' - an outsider. On two wheels,
everyone is equal.
Except of
course that they aren't. All but born in the saddle, China's cycling
population has a distinct advantage over me, and this is only too painfully
evident as I wobble along the street, desperately trying to avoid the other
bikes coming at me from all directions. A surprised intake of breath, though,
comes rather than the customary muttered curse from the owner of the bike
I wasn't quick enough to avoid. |
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Offshore
Resources Gallery
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| A laowai on
a bike - and a Chinese bike at that - is still a less than common sight.
My bicycle
also offers the best vantage point from which to investigate Chengdu's
city landscape - buses and taxis travel either too quickly to capture the
details, or too slowly to sustain interest. This is a city where affluent
New China blends seamlessly with the impoverished but characterful old.
Modern, yet sterile, office towers loom large over narrow, winding alleyways
that might not have changed in a hundred years. Neighbours squat by upturned
boxes to drink tea and play mah jong; women hang their washing in the street,
and stalls offer kitchenware, vegetables, ironmongery and bowls of noodles.
I cycle past open-air barbers and itinerant dentists, and an elderly gentleman,
still wearing his faded blue Mao suit and Revolution-era cap, shuffling
along in cloth slippers. As he takes his caged songbird for their daily
walk, he passes scores of businessmen clad in western designer labels,
the latest mobile 'phones proudly displayed like a badge of honour.
Sadly, China's
current obsession with development and modernisation means that these alleyways
in which so much life is lived will not survive for much longer. |
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| In many
parts of the city, the old wooden buildings are being torn down, as in
cities all over China. I cycle home past Chengdu's urban scenery of
construction sites and redevelopment areas - everywhere the foundations
and concrete shells of prestigious new office and apartment buildings.
Many of these stand silent and defiantly unfinished, and may never be completed
- the enthusiasm to demolish the old is not always matched by the money
to build the new.
Advertising
hoardings proclaim a brighter future filled with beautiful people and western
commodities, while every blank wall space is daubed with moralistic
Party slogans in large characters. Since Revolution, the slogans may have
changed but the sloganeering is the same, only many are now translated
into impenetrable Chinglish: |
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Offshore
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| on my way
home I am urged to 'Underpin and Support the Sanitary Urban Effort'
and to 'Accelerate Development of a State-Level High-Tech Place',
and I am reminded that 'Electric Power is the Developmental Keystone
of West China: Let West China Tend to The World'.
What the Chairman
would have made of all this we will never know, but from his plinth in
Tianfu Square he observes the progress of his country 53 years on. The
traffic lights at his feet change once more, and Chengdu is again adrift
in a sea of bicycles.
Ben Hill
(b.p.hill@dunelm.org.uk) left
the drizzle and familiarity of the north of England in 2002 to work with
the British Council as a teacher of English in Chengdu, south-west China.
He's going to stay there until he works out what to do next, and in the
meantime uses writing and photography to document his experiences. |
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