by Eleanor Herzog
As I hailed a taxi to take me to the nearest, least flea-ridden hostel, I looked around at the industrialized blocks that stretched out before me. Although I knew the first settlers named the area Tianfuzhi Guó, (The Country of Heaven) four thousand years ago, this reference didn’t sit easily with the veneer of dirt encrusting the buildings and occasional person. Still, as it was recently named as China’s fourth most liveable city, I was certain I would be able to unearth the cultural charm.
Ancient Wonders in Modern China
I started my search in Jinli Ancient Street, one of the few remaining spots where the vestiges of a rapidly disappearing culture are permitted to shine through, albeit under the strict control of the local tourist board. I walked along the cobbled streets determined to ignore the overhead neon lighting and pumping music.
Lining the antiquated streets, backed against the three story balconied buildings, tiny one-man stalls sell traditional fares. Makers of dragon shaped candy sticks neighbour paper cutting artists. In true Chinese style, every bit of space is exploited and it was hard to move without tripping over beggars, acrobatics or boom boxes.
Slightly spoiled for choice in terms of entertainment, I pushed my way through the masses, simultaneously drawn and repulsed by a high pitched warbling. Carefully manoeuvring around the youthful looking ear cleaners probing the ears of their worried looking customers, I pushed my way to the front of a crowd. I found Sichuanese male opera singers crescendoing to the finale of their highly costumed and theatrical show, their carefully applied makeup melting under the strain of the vocal effort and lighting.
Puppetry Through the Ages
It was when I was hanging around one of the quieter stalls that I truly felt like I had found a moment to enjoy the China that was spread over the glossy pages of the travel magazines. Beneath bobbing red lanterns and the dangling sea of wishes entwined within the branches of a clematis, a crowd gathered to watch the shadow play of the Hidden People.
The Hidden People, who operate the puppets from behind the flood lit screen, belong to a thousand year old tradition. They release part of their own soul to animate their puppets. The play of shadow upon light re-enacts traditional fairy tales in a symbolic dance that seems to pirouette straight into the hearts and minds of the entranced watchers.
Time to taste some of the local delicacies. I walked through the heavily scented smoke that swamped the BBQ street, stopping at every stall to question the vendors. Uncertain about my toneless Mandarin, the vendors simply nodded and let fly with the la jiao, the famed Sichuan spice that could knock the socks off even the most experienced traveller.
I took several risks and sat down to an outdoor feast of kung pao chicken, zhang fei beef, zhong boiled dumplings and mapo tofu. I tentatively tried my wares under the watchful eye of the smiling Chinese diners who, slightly sadistically, awaited my reaction. I certainly didn’t disappoint them.
Panda Country
The following day I decided to head to Chengdu’s must-see panda sanctuary. I eagerly welcomed the green haven after the polluted streets, yet it was still impossible to escape China’s infamous crowds. Through the throngs of tourists and clapping children, I eased my way to the front in time to see an incredibly docile panda obligingly pose for pictures next to newly-weds. They had tentatively entered the enclosure and now grinned into the flashing cameras.
For me, the highlight was not the slightly lonely looking pandas, but the smaller red pandas that moved with the dexterity of cats and responded to the calls of the tourists. When the park wardens were busy elsewhere, the crowds would entice them to stand on two legs and paw for food. My eyes locked momentarily with one panda’s fox like eyes, and for that fleeting instant I thought I saw an intelligence that seemed aware of its captive situation, yet was prepared to manipulate it cuteness to full advantage. I smiled, perhaps baring a few too many teeth and our mutual gaze was broken. She turned her back and padded away with the arched haughtiness I probably deserved.
Having had my fill of panda enclosures, I wandered down to the lake for green tea and noodles. It seemed even the massing fish had learnt to manipulate the tourists, and as I watched them writhing to the surface to chow down upon the tossed breadcrumbs, I wondered what this place would be like without the protection of the sanctuary. It seemed to me the only animals in the park that were not somehow manipulated by the crowds were the unusual black swans that glided across the surface of the lake. Necks outstretched and wings beating in harmony with their mates, they seemed oblivious to the snap happy tourists.
The following day I packed up my bag. My trip was to take me further North to the spectacular scenery of the Jiuzhai Valley. As I climbed back onto the minibus, dreading the bumpy journey that stretched out before me, I knew that the pockets of beauty I found in Chengdu would keep me warm as I hit the road again.
Private Chengdu Impression Day Tour including Chengdu Panda Base
If You Go:
Where To Stay
The Chengdu Mix Hostel is a real down to Earth place where you can have a beer with other travelers and sample the delicious banana pancakes. The friendly staff are incredibly helpful and are able to provide local information.
At the other end of the market is the Kempinski Hotel. Although expensive, for some travelers it is worth the price after an arduous journey. Situated close to the airport expressway and ring roads, it is also rather convenient.
The Chengdu Lazybones Backpacker Boutique Hostel must have derived its namesake from its central location. Boasting a six minute walk to the ‘Mao Statue’ and a one minute walk to ‘Luomashi’ Metro Station, the lazier travelers among us will never be far from comfort. In addition, the hostel the staff speak English to quite a high standard.
Where to Eat
Baguo Buyi Restaurant, located near Wu Hou Temple, offers a house specialty known as Yuer Shao Jiayu. This adventurous dish combines stewed tarot with a gelatinous green turtle.
Qiang Jiao Jiao means “the corner of a wall”. Accurately named, this kebab/skewer vendor is hidden down a tiny alley that leads off Niu Wang Miao Street. If you are lucky enough to find it, you will have the privilege of tasting some of the best chuan chuans in town.
At Lao Ma Tou Hot Pot on Yulin Central Street is home to some of the fieriest Sichuanese hot pot in Chengdu. Be prepared for raucous clientele, unusual ingredients and a burning tongue.
Transport
The Chengdu Shuangliu International Airport (CTU) is in the southwest of Chengdu City. It is about 20 kilometers from the center of Chengdu City.
Chengdu is home to the largest railway hub in southwest China and transports thousands of passengers back and forth everyday. It is relatively convenient to navigate around.
Chengdu has several main coach stations including Chengdu Bus Station (Wugui Bridge Bus Station), New South Gate Bus Station, Beimen (North Gate) Bus Station, Ximen (West Gate) Bus Station, Dongmen (East Gate) Bus Station, Gaosuntang Bus Station, and Chadianzi Bus Station.
About the author:
Alongside other projects, Eleanor Herzog attempts the odd bit of writing. Her current projects are focused upon Asian cultural documentation and she is particularly interested in endeavors that prioritize development in their approach. Her assignments include television writing and production, travel writing, features, reviews, short stories and photography. Her work takes her all over the world as she prioritizes meeting and creating strong relations with the people she is writing about. For more, please visit her website: www.eleanorherzog.wordpress.com
All photos are by Eleanor Herzog.
More pictures at: www.flickr.com/photos/eleanorherzog
Pale and blond, I stand out everywhere I go in China, but never more so than at this precise moment, I realize. Literally, every other person in this line – all several thousand of them – is Chinese. I feel not just self-conscious, but downright uncomfortable. People are looking at me. Staring at me. Chinese have no compunctions about this, it seems. They’re eyeing me openly. I’m sweating, and the sun is barely even up yet.
But I thought about this in advance, and I’m ready with a sincere answer. “I’m very interested in China and its leaders. I want to learn.” This is a nice value-neutral statement.
“Ah, yes!” He is pleased with this answer, and he decides in this moment that I am alright. He is going to be my new best friend until we get through this line. He turns to the crowd which is still staring shamelessly at me and offers a translation of our exchange. Smiles and waves all around. And I rejoice, not only because I am no longer quite so isolated in this sea of humanity, but because seeing Mao is only half of the experience – it’s not complete without the interactive and earnest reactions from a real Chinese. I wanted to learn, and I am going to.
We draw near the door, through several layers of security, and Dalian wants to buy a yellow carnation to leave as an offering to Mao. But he misses the flower stand in the heat of our conversation, and the soldiers won’t let him go back for one. Despite his pleading. Here’s where he comes closest to tears. But the line toward the inner chamber of Mao’s Mausoleum is ever-moving and inexorable. Even though he says he has been here so many times that he can’t count them, this ritual clearly means a lot to him. It is secular religion here, and I have brought a modicum of shame upon him before his Lord. He tells me that having the chance to guide an American through this experience is honor enough.
We stand at the edge of a huge clearing. At one end is a temple, an ancient one, built centuries ago, broken but re-built time and again. All around us are fragments of carved stones. They once adorned temples built around the clearing, and are now waiting to be replaced and returned to at least a shadow of their former glory. The clearing itself is not empty. There are remnants of a huge platform, and some smaller ones. Each one had a role to play in history – a history I have grown up hearing, which has brought me all this way. The story is stuff that legends are made of, and I wanted to see for myself what it felt like to stand at a place where thousands and thousands of women had sacrificed their lives, and the lives of their families, for their honour, and for the honour of their clan. As I stand there, oblivious to the tourists who throng the place, I can’t help but feel the devastation and the sadness that lingers on, centuries after the events have taken place. We are at Chittorgarh, also called Chittaur, in Rajasthan, one of the oldest and biggest forts in India. It was once the bastion of the Mewar Rajputs and was ruled by various kings famed for their courage, but more than them, it is the story of their women that dwells in people’s hearts even today. Not just one woman, but many. There are some whose names we know, and many whose we don’t, but each one of them attained immortality in the hearts and minds of Indians. This is the story of some of these women.
Padmini was the queen of Rana Ratan Singh, who ruled Chittaur around 1303 AD. She was rumored to be among the most beautiful women in the world. The rumor reached the ears of Sultan Allaudin Khilji, who then ruled Delhi. He attacked Chittaur at once, hoping to add Padmini to his harem. Chittaur however was invincible, and Khilji found himself at the losing end, so he resorted to trickery. He convinced Ratan Singh that all he wanted was a glimpse of the beautiful queen, and that he would leave immediately. The kindhearted Rana agreed, and an ingenious system of mirrors was designed so that Khilji could see Padmini’s reflection in a mirror without setting his eyes on her directly. (The Rajput women were never allowed to be seen by men!) Khilji had no intention of leaving empty handed. He captured the Rana who, with true Rajput hospitality, had gone to the fort entrance to send him off. The queen however, wasn’t just beautiful. She also had brains. She agreed to go to the Sultan, but instead sent her guards in disguise, who succeeded in releasing the Rana. However, by now, the Sultan’s army was at the gates of Chittaur, and defeat was imminent.
Amidst stories of war and death is another story – that of a young girl who came to Chittaur in the 1500s as a bride. She was married to the prince, but refused to accept him as her husband. She was mentally wed to Lord Krishna and her life was dedicated to Him. She spent her time singing songs in praise of the Lord, and talked to Him as if He was present in flesh and blood. This was Meera – the poetess-saint, whose songs on Krishna are sung across the country even today. Her attitude was never appreciated, and after her husband was killed in war, the situation only worsened. She was continually troubled and insulted, until at last, she decided to leave Chittaur and go to the land of her Lord – Mathura and Brindavan. With the departure of Meera, Chittaur seemed to lose its greatness. The locals till today believe that it was Chittaur’s treatment of Meera that instigated the ultimate defeat and destruction of the once-invincible fort!
Years passed, and once again Chittaur was invaded – this time by the Shah of Gujarat, in 1535. The Rajputs were not strong enough, and Queen Karnavati this time decided to take matters into her own hands. She sent an emissary to Humayun, the new Mughal ruler of Delhi, with a fragment of her sari as a ‘Rakhi’ – a thread tied by a woman to her brother, which binds them together. When a woman ties a Rakhi to her brother, he promises to protect her, and it was this protection that Rani Karnavati asked for, from Humayun. Most of Humayun’s supporters were against his going to help a Rajput on the grounds of religion. It took Humayun some time to convince them, but he marched towards Chittaur to help the queen. However, the argument had delayed him by just a day. Sensing defeat at the hands of the enemy and disappointed at the lack of response from Delhi, the queen had taken the path of her ancestor. The funeral pyre had been lit again in the huge clearing near the temple, and the queen had entered it along with all her women. Humayun was too late to save them, and it is said that he felt deeply for not being able to protect his sister. It is said that he continued to wage war against the Shah, and eventually succeeded in defeating him.
The Rajputs were now dwindling. There were just a few who had escaped the wars, and none had the stature and power of their ancestors. Petty jealousies and greed ruled many of the scions of the dynasty. One such scion was Banbir, who killed his brother in order to become the king. Drunk with power, he attempted to kill the crown prince Udai Singh, then an infant. News travels fast, but bad news faster, and the prince’s nurse heard of the impending calamity. A quick thinking and courageous woman, she bundled the prince into a basket of flowers, handed it to a maid and asked her to carry it out of the fort. She then placed her own son dressed in the prince’s clothes on the royal bed, and waited for the traitor. Intent on saving the prince, she watched as her son was killed, cremated him, and then walked out of the fort, taking the prince to safety. History tells us that her name was Panna Dai (Dai means nursemaid), but that is all we know of the woman who gave up her own son to protect the prince.
Chittaur’s fortunes were declining. The year was 1567 and this time, it was Akbar, Humayun’s son, who invaded Chittaur, in an attempt to bring the land of Mewar under his rule. By this time, it was apparent to all that the fort was no longer invincible, and it was time to move. This time, the prince was convinced to escape and find another place to establish his kingdom, while the rest of the army turned once again towards the last resort – Jauhar and saka. Once again, (thankfully, for the last time), the women ascended the pyre and the men fought with a vengeance, earning the reluctant admiration of Akbar himself. Akbar won the fort, but never ruled it. He took back with him some of the most beautiful things in the fort – its door, a huge drum, and such other things – as mementos of the war, but he never ruled over the fort, which was soon abandoned, and slipped into the misty realm of history.
The stories are not new to me. I have grown up with them. But standing at the edge of that clearing seems to make them seem more real. On one side is the temple dedicated to the Lord of destruction – Shiva – undoubtedly a fit location for such a temple. On the other side, a little farther away, I can see the spire of the temple of Krishna – the protector – where Meera spent her days in prayer. I can almost imagine the massive funeral pyre and the tongues of flames eagerly lapping up the human sacrifice, of cries rending the air, and the complete stillness at the end, the ground covered in ashes. I can’t help wondering about these women – women who had jumped into the fire, who had been ready to give up everything for what they believed, who sacrificed not just themselves, but their nearest and dearest ones, for the cause they believed in. What kind of women were these? Was it bravery or escapism of the extreme kind? What would have been their thoughts? Ballads have been written about these women, but I know that I will never know the answers to my questions. As we move towards the other parts of the fort, I turn back one last time, for one last look, committing every inch to memory. The women surely deserve that.
There are three Durbar Squares in Kathmandu valley named Hanumandhoka, Patan & Bhaktapur. A Durbar Square is a settlement with the King’s palace at its centre, surrounded by the temples dedicated to deities of the clan. This used to be the centre of the town and around this everyone else would live. As you see the squares today, you would see how these squares had the beautiful buildings with spaces for people to sit around and how these squares more or less merged with the rest of the town. Even today these squares are very much living spaces and you would see local people sitting on the steps of the temples and on the corridors outside the buildings. There is no formal boundary between the durbar squares and the residential areas. In fact there are no tickets for the locals to visit these places only the foreigners have to pay an entrance fees for all the three durbar squares. Some parts have now been converted into commercial establishments like shops and restaurants. Some of the palaces or their parts have been converted into museums. With Pagoda style architecture all of them are beautiful in their own way, while being very similar to each other. Most of the buildings are in red brick with intricately carved wooden windows, which are the trademark of Nepal.
Bhaktapur is an old town and is considered the cultural capital of the region. This square actually has three squares. You see the first one as you enter from the main gate called the Durbar Square. Past this is Taumadhi Square, which has the magnificent five-storied Nyatapola temple dedicated to Siddhi Laxmi along with a three-storey Bhairav temple. The steps leading to the temple have huge figurines of animals on both sides. From the top story of the temple you can get a bird’s eye view of the town. Behind this square is a potter’s square where you will see rows of pottery lying in a square and potter’s wheels around it.
Swayambhunath is located on a small hilltop inside the city. There is a large stupa surrounded by many temples and lots of Mandalas spread all over the complex. The stupa dates back to 5th century with an interesting story of a lotus being converted into this hill. Apart from the magnificent stupa with intriguing eyes painted on it, you can get an excellent view of the Kathmandu city from this high vantage point.
Kolkata is best seen from the footpath. A walk around these streets is a constant zigzag from the denoted path back onto the street to avoid the myriad obstacles of shopkeeper’s and vendors who occupy almost every square inch. The footpaths can be landmines filled with unstable bricks and others simply dug up with no discernable pattern, despite all this around every corner is the time honoured tradition of boys playing cricket. Street children, millions of homeless, goats, cows and other assorted stray animals all fill the footpaths in hopes of finding a new life. With so many people jostling for space it is hard to imagine how these people live and survive. However one of Kolkata’s reputations is correct, it is a shock to the senses. Fittingly it has long been described by many as a “Gateway to the East.” Nothing it seems could be further from our daily routine.
We get off from the beautifully tiled Metro platform and see one of ubiquitous scales that are located at train and metro stations across India. These scales are run by various companies around the country and could remind one of an old style jukebox. The customer steps up onto the scale and for the price of two rupees is treated some snapping neon Christmas-like lights with a bit of music and finally a piece of paper with your weight and a horoscope emerges. Sometimes in place of a horoscope advice is given directly from a Bollywood star! I vowed to use one on our return trip.
We passed arrays of food vendors, shops selling all types of wooden furniture and famous Bengali sweet shops. Finding a jeweler was proving to be harder than we thought. We wandered some more and turned around and tried to find street signs, which isn’t the easiest task anywhere in India. We asked for directions which resulted in us getting more turned around. This is where India can be its most infuriating, its at these moment where the tropical heat and horns blaring and the roundabout footpaths can make you question your sanity. We finally found a street that was studded jewellers and darted into one.
The shop wasn’t your typical jeweller but more like a junk/trinket store. The shop was owned by a vivacious Bengali man and his son. It looked like it had been there during the days of the original banyan tree. Instead of pulling out any particular rings the owner pulled up several big red boxes while the son turned around and grabbed a silver tray filled with miscellaneous junk. It took several attempts to make ourselves understood about what exactly we wanted done.
He seemed to warm to us and expressed gratefulness to be able practice his English, which wasn’t as bad as we originally thought. Along with being a shop keeper he seemed a very well cultured man and regaled with quotes about his heroes and favourite music.
We begged him to sing us a song, a real Bengali song. He refused. We begged more, we asked him how a beautiful man with a beautiful voice could not sing us such a song for our wedding.
