The Great Wall

Mr. Li, our driver for the day, picked us up at the hotel. We were scheduled to visit The Great Wall at Badaling. The mother of all tourist attractions. The reconstructed fortress that had kept enemies at bay for hundreds of years. The one man made structure visible from outer space. We were all very excited. We expected this excursion to be the highlight of our time in Beijing.

As we crept through the clogged Beijing streets, Mr. Li predicted Badaling would be very crowded today, as it was Sunday. “How about visiting another part of the wall? Maybe Mutianyu?” Dad, riding shotgun, discussed this possibility with Mr. Li. As soon as Mr. Li mentioned crowds and cable cars, Dad expressed his displeasure. “We really were looking to visit somewhere with less tourists. More off the beaten track.” Mr. Li nodded. “Hmmm. I see.” Personally, I wondered if Mr. Li understood these expressions, but I continued to let Dad do the talking.

Mr. Li cleared his throat. “How about the Yellow Flower section of The Great Wall?” Mom and I flipped through the Lonely Planet resting between us. We found no Yellow Flower. Dad encouraged him to tell us more. “Well, not developed. Just like hundreds of years ago.” Dad turned to face Mom and me, eyebrows raised. We stared back at him, maddeningly indecisive. None of us wanted to take responsibility for choosing a potentially bad spot for the highlight of our trip. “It’s up to you,” we finally said, “you choose.” “Okay, Mr. Li, let’s try that Yellow Flower section.”

We continued through Beijing until we came upon a huge traffic circle. As we approached our venue, we were met by a large sign blocking the way. Mr. Li stopped the car, got out, yelled to someone on the side of the road, then returned. We looped around the traffic circle once again, avoided the large sign, and continued down the blocked road. Dad asked Mr. Li what the sign said. He replied, “Road closed.” The three of us gave each other glances then shrugged. We drove a couple of kilometers down a chestnut tree lined dirt road before encountering another road block. This time a big rig was trying to turn and had jack knifed, blocking the road. This did not deter Mr. Li in the least. He simply beeped, drove off the side of the road, around the cab of the truck, and back onto the road. Shortly thereafter, we arrived at a bridge that was blocked. Bulldozers were in the road, as well as construction trucks. We would not be driving across the bridge. This obstacle caused Mr. Li to actually stop the car. “Oh. Hmmm….” we heard. Then, “Ahhh….” He slowly drove to one side of the bridge, down into the dry riverbed, then back up the opposite bank. Bridge? Who needs a stinkin’ bridge? At this point I felt like I was auditioning for the Chinese version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. We could go anywhere in this car, this little red Volkswagen sedan.

After almost 2 hours of driving, Mr. Li pulled off the road, stopping in front of a souvenir booth and a large blue road sign, on it in white block letters in both Chinese and English, “THIS SEKTION OF GREAT WALL NOT DEVELOPD. CLIMBING FOBIDEN.” Mr. Li motioned for us to follow him, right past the warning. We passed vendors hawking their wares, then we were on a thin dam, crossing a lake. He pointed. There, snaking over the mountain, was the Great Wall. Not the Great Wall of postcard fame. The Wall, in its original form, dating back from thousands of years. We started along a dirt path surrounding the lake, then followed a switchback trail up the mountain until there we were. At the base of The Wall.

We started up it, using both hands and feet to ascend. We stopped every few feet – to rest, to wipe the sweat from our foreheads, and to gaze at the ever expanding view. Mountains, in every direction we looked. We continued up among the partial rubble, former fortress. At the first battlement, a toothless old man sitting perfectly erect, cross legged, bamboo hat askew, greeted us. As we climbed over the huge last step, he led us toward his mat of wares – “jade” bracelets, postcards, knick knacks. We smiled, shook our heads, and enjoyed the cool breezes. He followed us around a bit, a few paces behind us, his hands firmly clasped behind his back, against his navy blue tunic. Our utterances probably sounded as foreign to him as his did to us.

We continued up to the next battlement, avoiding the tall weeds growing along the path. We were behind a group of about 20 older Chinese tourists, the women in practical slacks and colorful polyester blouses, the men in baggy bermuda shorts and undershirts. All were chattering loudly, yelling to one another, snapping every combination of photos possible. One man sang loudly. He belted out the words to what seemed to be a Chinese folk song. Every so often, one of his female counterparts would join him, trilling notes shrill enough to shatter glass. At the second battlement there were more souvenir salesmen, who we again avoided with smiles and shakes of our hands. I could tell my mom was tired but I wanted to climb higher – just one more battlement. She reluctantly agreed.

We continued. Small rocks slid down the mountain as we climbed higher. At the third battlement there was a make shift ladder, sticks connected by twisted wire, to the top. Dad and I climbed up. The view was spectacular, even though limited by haze. The Wall continued a bit higher, then snaked around the mountain, down, then back up. An amazing feat simply because of its length. Dad and I pondered the actual effectiveness of this wall. It wasn’t that high. Did it really prevent enemies from entering China?

Dad posed for a picture, then I did. A group of Chinese tourists ascended the ladder. One volunteered to take our picture together. He then asked to take a picture, of us, with his camera. I shrugged. Didn’t really understand his request, but agreed.

We met Mom in the battlement below where she, too, had been approached by many Chinese tourists to be in pictures. We started down the mountain, back to the car. In my tennis shoes, I could move much quicker than Mom in her sandals. “I’ll meet you at the car,” I hollered, and sprinted off.

At the second battlement I passed a group of French tourists. They saw my “Be The Reds!” t-shirt and began whispering, in English. “Zhee looks American.” “What eees it?” “I dun’t know. Maybe a new shlogan.” “Theeer flag is red, white, and buh-looo.” “Maybe it meeenz beee the red, white, and buh-loo…” I laughed to myself. Silly French. Don’t you watch soccer? I would have told them if they had only asked….

As I continued down the path, I passed a young Chinese man. “Nice to meet you,” he began. I smiled. “American?” he pondered. Yes. “From where?” he continued. San Francisco. “Ohhhh… Picture? With you?” Well. Um. Okay. His friend appeared. He snapped a shot of the two of us. The the friend wanted a picture of him and me together. The another friend appeared and he wanted a picture taken with me as well. As I was posing, thinking how ridiculous this was, we don’t even know each others’ names, my parents caught up to me on the path. At the end of the photo shoot, smiles and “Good-byes” were exchanged between all. My father teased me, “I don’t know if that small car is big enough for your expanded ego.” I grinned and continued down the path.

We stopped only to get a picture in front of the “CLIMBING FOBIDEN” sign before venturing off to our next destination – The Summer Palace.