Getting Out to the Pits

The options for getting out to the four open pits that hold the warriors are:

1) Pay 150 yuan to be picked up and dropped off back at the hostel in the afternoon with a group.  This includes the museum entrance fee along with a side trip to a factory where miniature (and life-sized for those with a few thousand dollars to blow) terra cotta statues are still made for the tourism industry.  Or…

2) Walk to the bus station by the northeast section of the city wall.  Attempt to track down another bus (316, I believe) and take it to its final stop, which just happens to be the museum.  The buses are cheap, and it would cost less than ten yuan in total, though the museum still costs 90 yuan to get in, so this option isn’t noteworthily more frugal than the first.  But it is a lot lonelier if one is traveling alone.  I’ve found that even better than hostels for meeting people while traveling, are these tour groups that take travelers out and about with other foreigners to strange and exotic places.  Unfortunately, as of Sunday night, no one else is interested, and the group needs to be at least five people large.

Thankfully, I am saved by Mormons.  Yes, a group of about eight of them happen to be staying at the hotel, and they’d gone to bed prior to my return from the water show.  Keeping with stereotypes, they are among the warmest, friendliest tourists I’ve met on my trip — certainly as far as Americans go (we’ve got a reputation for being fairly arrogant assholes, as far as tourists go, and it’s not entirely an invalid label).  In mere moments, I’ve gone from a lone traveler to a member of a kindly nine-person group on our way out to ol’ Qin’s mausoleum.

The journey takes just under an hour, and we make a quick detour while still in the city limits to explore what is described as “a museum that explains how the warriors were built.”  This is only partially true.  You can indeed watch a live performance of a terra-cotta warrior being assembled, but the warrior in question is sadly just ten inches tall.  Yes, more than a “museum,” we are taken to one of the more elaborate tourist traps I’ve visited in my time spent traveling.  Small women spend their days finishing off each individual unit by hand, while tourists are bussed in to observe them.  Visitors are free to leave after the short presentation, of course, but not via the way they came in.  No, instead we are guided through about five large rooms of merchandise — from collections of warriors of almost every size to large, hand-crafted furniture pieces to kitschy jewelry one might find at any souvenir stand.

A terra-cotta artisan, hard at work

In a room full of more clay warriors than we’d likely see later at the exhibit, our “tour guide” dogs my every step, clearly thinking he’s found a mark.  He might’ve been correct, too, had I not already picked up a little warrior back in the city for about one quarter of the price listed here (and nearly identical, as far as I could tell).  He stands by my side, watching me intently as I casually expect an assortment of characters I have no intention of purchasing.

As I pick up an archer, he moves in for the kill.  ”Yes,” he says, “You look very good with that one.”

“Do I?  You think it’d make a nice necklace, maybe?” I say, holding it up against my chest and looking down with a discerning eye.

“Haha.  Very good!”

I set it down and continue on to a more highly-priced table where the soldiers each stand a good four inches taller than their counterparts at the previous stand.

“I think,” he says, “that these are the ones for you.  Very big, like you.  Strong.”

“Hmm, yes.  I am quite large.”

“Yes.”

“And you would say, then, that the soldiers at that other table are… ‘so small’?”

“Yes.”

“So small?”

“Haha.  Yes.  So small.”

“Nice!”  I put the larger archer down and proceed outside to the best feature about this “museum” — The cheesy photo op:

Freed from the vast gift shop, the rest of the journey goes by smoothly.  Vans are forced to park close to a kilometer away from the actual site, so we make our way over briskly, passing the few other groups that made their way out here on a Monday.  My choice of days was impeccable, as we breeze through the turnstiles without even a hint of a line and make our way into the museum grounds.

The main entrance to Pit One. We avoid it for now, lest its impressiveness render the other pits worthless

Before getting into the actual pits, one should understand what units your typical sticky-rice-filled, earthen army is comprised of:

Infantry: As expected, these are the most numerous of the figures, filling up the majority of the pits.  Infantrymen all have their hair tied in a stylish topknot, always on the right side of their heads.  They tend to be armored in either dense robes or thick-plated scale mail.

The Infantryman is the warrior on the left

Cavalry: These men differentiate themselves from all the other action figures by each coming with their own life-sized horse.  Most of the horses came with chariots as well, though since they were built with wood, only vague outlines of their shape still exists.  Horses exist on their own, or sometimes in groups of other horses pulling larger chariots.

Cavalry soldier (horse sold separately)

Archers: The archers are the only figures that are perpetually in kneeling position, on one knee, ready to strike.  If, that is, they weren’t made of clay.  Their heads are similar to infantry, only the topknot is located on the left side rather than the right.

Our tour guide explained that this was the first warrior ever found, though no other evidence supported her claims

Officers: The leader figures are rare in number, but proportional in count to an army of this size.  They stand out by having a slightly wider topknot located directly in the center of their heads.  A British website lists these figures as “Officials” and describes their role as non-military, though our tour guide regularly referenced that these were the men leading the army into battle.  I hope my guide was correct, as this was the model of miniature statue I purchased, and if she was wrong my souvenir is suddenly significantly more lame.

I didn't manage to take any good shots of the officers, but luckily a picture of one was available from (quite apparently) terra-cotta-warriors.com

Guests to the “pits” — the unofficial title of the four distinct sites that have been discovered thus far — are warned in advance to start at the second pit, advance to the third and then conclude things in the massive first pit.  The fourth is the newest and is only visible via a glass ceiling that looks in over the excavation.  Even then, “visible” is a loose term, as nothing about the view is more exciting than looking in on barren earth and occasional hand tools anywhere else on earth.

Piles of wounded soldiers spread out in the second pit

Our guide sticks to the advice we’ve been given, with regard to pit order, and the reasoning on everyone’s part is sound.  The massive Pit One is simply too impressive to be followed up by its significantly less exciting sister pits.  In terms of size, Pit Two is still quite sizable and gives a good impression for the scope of the ancient project, with long, parallel hallways of warriors stretched out across a vast expanse.  However, work has only just begun on re-assembling its inhabitants, and broken body parts — both human and equine — lay scattered in heaps of rubble throughout the room.  Pit Two also has re-assembled samples of each of the units behind glass cases, for those seeking a more intimate view.  The unearthed archer on display even still shows some sign of coloring along his back, which is a rarity despite the fact that all the warriors were once covered in paint.

The rear end of a horse, creepily protruding from a wall

Original coloring still visible on the back of the archer. This degree of coloration is rare on most of the warriors, despite the fact that originally they were all fully painted

Pit Three is the smallest, and the belief is that this was the ancient war chamber, given the higher percentage of officers.  Though if the British newspaper is to be believed, this room was once filled with Officials instead, making it a far less exciting place for clay people to visit.  Each pit contains a variety of ways to separate the tourist from his money (gift shops, photo ops, etc), though Pit Three is the most creative.  Using cameras and on the spot photoshop skills, visitors can have their face “clay”-ified and placed onto a photo of the warrior type of their choosing.

Inside Pit Three. These four horses once pulled a large wooden chariot, though it's fully deteriorated over time

More rubble from Pit Three

As its a Monday, the line into Pit One is blissfully short, though one can easily understand why that might not be the case.  Upon building this massive showcase of the largest, most ineffectual army of all time, China took a gamble that it would drastically increase tourism to the area, and looking out onto the massive formation of soldiers, it’s clear that their bet paid off.

Toward the back of Pit One, rows of freshly reassembled soldiers stand in waiting. Eventually, they'll be placed back into formation with the others.

In a room larger than the size of an airplane hanger, twelve long rows of the soldiers stretch out from one side the building to the other, with each row 4-5 men wide.  Infantrymen make up the bulk of the army, though from hairstyles alone it’s easy to spot the occasional officer mixed in.  Horses are interspersed at times with the soldiers as well, sometimes with an empty space behind them where a chariot — long deteriorated due to being made of wood — once stood behind them.  It’s equal parts awe-inspiring and a testament to the epic pointlessness ancient rulers were once capable of.

In the gift shop, we meet the aforementioned Yang Zhifa, busily signing autographs of books he had no part in the writing or producing of.  For an old man, his hands still dart across the page as he signs each book, though if he’s in hell it doesn’t show on his implacable face.  The line is long and there’s no reason to believe that it ever lets up while the shop is open.  Poor bastard.

The tour closes with one of the more bizarrely filmed reenactments of all the important events leading up to the creation and discovery of the warriors.  In a large round room, twelve screens wrap around the audience in a circle, presenting a 360 degree story that’s more disorienting than awe-inspiring.  The panoramic style is an effect that I’m sure I’ve seen before (Epcot Center, perhaps), though one thats popularity both skyrocketed and plummeted all in a short period of time in the 80′s everywhere else in the world.  Too many distinct events take place on a single screen, despite the myriad of choices, causing all audience members to watch the narrative in a constant whirling dervish if they want to keep up with the loose narrative.  Couple that with the low quality, damaged film and eery reverb-heavy background music, and the whole thing comes across like a presentation from the Dharma Initiative.

Back in Xi’an, I part ways with the Mormons who, even after six hours of touring around the area, seem to be as chipper and friendly as they were when we first met.  They’re teaching in a smaller city 20 hours east of Xi’an by train and desperately need to make a supply pilgrimage to Xi’an’s Wal-mart, a store that definitely isn’t present in most Chinese cities.

For my part, I’ve been planning all day on doing the bike trip around Xi’an’s city wall, but a significant hitch in my plan comes in in the form of pouring rain and significant drop in the temperature.  My only regret in Xi’an is not at least climbing to the top of the massive wall that the city is famous for; it’s a nice town, but it’s very unlikely I’ll ever be back here.

Han Tang is one of the better run hostels I’ve been to in Asia, and comparable or better to any of my favorites from South America.  They booked my 8 pm train ticket for me in advance, and at 7, after vegging out in the common room watching the final Pirates of the Caribbean movie (turns out I didn’t miss much skipping it in theaters) they offer me a free ride up to the train station.

The line leading into Xi'an train station. Long, but orderly as far as lines go in China

My stomach turns at first as I spot the line leading into the station, though in the name of staying positive, I’m thankful that it actually is someone line-shaped — that’s never something that can be guaranteed here in China.  It’s one of the least English-friendly travel experiences I’ve encountered so far.  The digital signs are all in China, and as scores of cities flash by, I focus intently, looking for the symbol that signifies Chongqing.  There it is: Gate 18.

Gate 18 is a madhouse of a waiting room, as the seats are all taken and entire families huddle together in the aisles between, clutching massive bags that may or may not comprise the entirety of their belongings.  It’s like a scene stolen from old stories of arrivals to Ellis Island in New York, excepting of course that everyone here is Chinese and that this is just a normal train ride to any of them.

Riding a train in China offers four separate options:

1. 

   Hard beds. The one on bottom was mine.

   Hard Seats: This is the cheapest way to travel and, as the name implies, the least comfortable.  Seats are tightly cramped together and from what I’ve heard, riders aren’t even guaranteed a spot on one.  It’s not unheard of for riders to remain standing in the aisles for the duration of a 13-hour, all-nighter.  In other words, passengers in this section are on a particularly tight budget.

2. Soft Seats: A step in the right direction, as far as comfort goes.  Apparently there are still people standing in the aisles in this section, though it’s unclear whether or not they’re spillovers from the Hard Seat section.  For the extra ~2 dollars these seats cost, one would at least hope each ticket guarantees an actual sitting position of some sort.
3. Hard Beds: My choice for this adventure.  These beds aren’t as hard as they sound, as the mattresses are about three inches thick.  These beds are stacked like bunk beds, three high, and each open compartment houses six beds.  A thin pillow is provided, as is a large white blanket.  It’s uncertain how much any of these sleeping accessories are cleaned, but for what it’s worth there wasn’t any discernible smell to my bed.
4. Soft Beds: The distinguishing feature to these tickets isn’t the comfort of the bed (though they are a bit nicer) but the quality of the room.  Rather than sleeping six people to a dark, open compartment, the Soft Beds are arranged four to a private room.  I only caught a glimpse into one of the rooms, but it was a clear step up in terms of looks and class to where I was sleeping.

Despite all the differences, the difference in price on this trip from the lowest quality all the way up to the Soft Sleepers was less than 15 US dollars.  But I guess when you’re counting every penny, these differences really count.  As I can afford to be a little less frugal with my cash, I pay the hostel twenty extra kuai (about three dollars) to book the ticket for me.  The price seems a bit high to me, but getting anything in China is far more difficult than in South America if you don’t speak the local language.

A more typical Chinese line. They had just announced that our train would be boarding, and the entire room surged forward at once. Hard seats typically aren't assigned, so the rush to get in and secure a spot is understandable.

After the fact, it was explained to me that in the Hard Sleeper section, the lowest bed serves as a bench of sorts for everyone to sit on while it’s still light out.  Only when the lights go out and people are all ready to sleep does the bed’s occupant take over the spot and use it for its primary purpose.  Sadly (for the rest of the people in my compartment) I was absolutely exhausted, leaving one of the “benches” completely occupied almost immediately upon departure.  Some words were spoken to me in Chinese, but sadly (or gladly, in this case, as I surely wouldn’t have wanted to sit up and wait for two hours to actually use my bed) I could only mutter my classic catchphrase of “Ting Bu Dong” (“I hear you, and yet I do not understand you!”) and dismiss each pleading attempt at conversation.

The aisle of the hard sleeper section

Right on schedule, we arrive in Chongqing just before nine in the morning.

Ahh, Chongqing.

“Home.”

One of my more successful attempts at using the "panorama" feature of my camera, in the massive "First Pit"

Terra Cotta: Italian for “baked earth”; a clay-based, unglazed ceramic.

A near consensus amongst Chongqing ex-pats seems to be that the famed Terra Cotta Warriors of Xi’an are hyped well beyond their actual levels of entertainment, education and historical value.  The average response gathered from my local cohorts can inexplicably be boiled down to:

“Eh.  They were ok.”

This is a surprising reaction to what some call the eighth wonder of the ancient world (a description that loses a bit of gravitas when one considers how many other ancient ruins across the globe make the same claim).

“You can’t even get that close to them,” tends to be the primary gripe.

Without building up to some low grade surprise, I’ll state from the beginning that, having now experienced the army in all their earthy glory, I do not agree with these opinions and, in fact, found the warriors to be the most fascinating thing I’ve seen thus far in China.  Don’t get me wrong: Pagodas all have a majestic Eastern beauty and serenity to them that commands respect, especially from laowai like me that aren’t used to such a distinctive architectural style.

But sadly, it only takes about four or five experiences of this awe before the standard reaction is replaced with an insouciant “Yup.  Another pagoda.  Sweet.” attitude that greatly lessens their impact.  Regardless of your feelings for pottery, it’s pretty unlikely one will come across over eight thousand individually carved and decorated, life-sized clay warriors from 210 BC and casually think “meh.  this shit again…”

Meh. Another Pagoda. In this case, the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda, seen in the distance to the right. More importantly, check out the epic Eastern-style KFC on the left. Easily the most beloved fast food chain on Earth.

A Brief History of the Warriors for Anyone Too Lazy to use Wikipedia on Their Own

China is always proud to bring up that, while Anglo-Saxons were hobbling about Europe and still rolling about in their own filth, organized Chinese civilization can be traced back over five thousand years.  In fact, the very first settlements in China are believed to be where the Yellow and Yangtze Rivers meet, which just happens to be the location of Chongqing (my current home).  Don’t let this connection fool you into thinking Chongqing has any sort of leg up on global culture due to its advanced age; if there’s evidence to support this theory, I haven’t found it in this city.  But more on Chongqing’s eccentricities later…

Ancient China had several dynasties of note throughout its massive region, but it was the Qin dynasty (221-206 BC) to finally unite all the kingdoms into a single empire.  It would be broken up, tossed around and rebuilt countless times over the next couple of millennia (and indeed, the first dynasty, for all its epic feats and accomplishments only lasted 15 years), but Qin Shi Huang, for all intents and purposes, started it all.

A map of China from the "Warring States" period. Qin was furthest west and included the city of Ba, which went on to become Chongqing. Wu, in the east, is approximately where Shanghai currently is, and Ji in the northeast is Beijing.

Born Ying Zheng (“Qin Shi Huang” technically just means “first emperor of Qin”, which would not yet have been a true statement in his early years), the young prince took the throne at the age of 13 upon his father’s death.  At this point, he was only the King of Qin, which was only a small region of what would eventually be the Chinese Kingdom, and his people were perpetually at war with their neighbors.  Still a young child, his mother handled most of the duties of leadership early on, though Ying Zheng grew into his job quickly, and luckily managed to notice when his mother sided with an opponent named Lao Ai.  This rebellion didn’t last long; Lao Ai’s followers were summarily caught and beheaded, Lao Ai’s family was executed to the third generation back (sorry, grandkids!) and Lao Ai himself was yanked into five pieces by carriages pulled in opposing directions.  In short, the ancient Chinese did not fuck around.

Qin Shi Huang. Black was the official color of all garments and flags, as it represented "water." As the previous leader had ruled under the red banner of "fire," it was the logical color choice.

From 230 to 221 BC, the fiery Ying Zheng bloodied his way across China, taking over each of the independent kingdoms that had been warring relentlessly for several centuries.  The Han were the first to fall, followed by the powerful Zhao, who were at a disadvantage due to a massive earthquake that the Qin were quick to make use of.  Like dominos, the Yan, Wei and Chu fell, leaving only the Qi in the east to be taken.  The king of the Qi, in a drastic final move, sent an army of 300,000 to defend his borders, but like all the other regions, they were quick to fall and for the first time, China was united.

Accurately now calling himself the emperor, “Qin Shi Huang” used his time and power to enact changes that still affect China to this day.  He began work on the Great Wall, standardized all units of measurement, set a single currency, created a national system of roads and canals (including one of the biggest canals of the ancient world) and, most importantly, finally unified the massive Chinese script into a single character set.  Despite this, things weren’t all wine and roses for the first emperor, as there were constant attempts on his life, most notably by Jet Li in 2002′s Hero.

But let’s cut to the chase: If you’re the first emperor of China, and you’ve finally quelled every major rebellion and united one of the largest nations of that era, what’s the most sensible way to celebrate your achievements?   By drinking the elixir of life, of course, which magically enables whomever imbibes it to live forever!  Sadly, the magic elixir in this case was mercury, and rather than grant immortality, it’s believed to have driven the emperor slowly insane until eventually killing him.

While Qin was not able to gain physical immortality, he did gain an immortality of sorts by having one of the largest tombs of its kind ever built.  Starting in 246 BC when the Qin was only 13 years old, as many as 300,000 workers were said to have worked on it until his death in 210 BC.  The mausoleum and surrounding pits have only recently begun to be excavated, though historians claim that within lie replicas of entire cities, wondrous tools and statues and, continuing with an ironic theme, “rivers of mercury.”  To this date, it’s impossible to gauge the tomb’s actual size, as so much of the land around it has yet to be explored.  This, of course, explains why no one was aware of the existence of a massive army of life-sized clay men just a few kilometers from the main mausoleum until they were discovered in 1974.

The tomb of Qin Shi Huang. It used to be more of a standard pyramid-like structure, though after 2000 years, nature's run her course and left it as a large green mound

Information on the tomb, its history and inhabitants (and it’s not unlikely Qin brought a fairly large assortment of servants, concubines and other assorted characters down with him) were well documented by historians of Qin’s time.  So it’s surprising that there was almost no mention of an army of over 8000 hand-crafted units dwelling just outside.  Only four pits have been found thus far, though it’s believed that many more may yet be found before full excavation is completed.  The warriors have been referenced in various ancient legends and folklore, stating that they were placed outside the tomb to serve the king in the afterlife,  with some tales claiming that they were once real men that had been turned to clay.  The fact that the insides of the clay statues are actually comprised of sticky rice does not lend credence to this belief.

Whatever the original intent of creating 8000+ life-sized terra cotta warriors, each with unique facial features was, it’s clear that post-Qin invaders didn’t look kindly on their existence.  At some point, estimated to be less than 100 years from their creation, the pits that held the warriors were broken into and nearly all of the figures were pillaged and destroyed.  Considering that a few weapons were later found and that each soldier was crafted with what is likely the first instance of a “kung-fu grip,” it’s likely that the warriors were plundered in part to pilfer their finely crafted bronze weaponry.

And let’s be honest: if you’re an ancient Chinese mob with no issues about pilfering a creepy clay fellow’s scimitar, and you’re likely of a superstitious sort as well, why not bash his head in as well, just for good measure?  It seems tragically wrong from our historical standpoint, but at the time it was likely about as destructive to the raiders as doing doughnuts on a neighbor’s lawn and playing a quick round of mailbox baseball.

Despite all the king’s horses and all the king’s men being infamously terrible at putting things back together again, the task of rebuilding them isn’t nearly so difficult.  For the past thirty plus years, some of China’s best puzzle-solvers have steadily rebuilt each and every warrior, filling the gaps as needed.  Only the faces are truly unique, meaning that filling in gaps here and there with modern clay on the bodies doesn’t take much away from each statue’s intrinsic historical value.

A fully reassembled infantryman, applying Mantis style!

All of this preamble leaves only the question of how the warriors were found in the first place.  For that, you can thank this guy:

For about 1/8 of my salary, this guy spends eight hours a day signing his name for a neverending line of tourists. Good times!

Yes, Yang Zhifa, along with six other workers on one of China’s many collective farms that were all the rage in the 60′s and 70′s, was digging a well on an open scratch of land back in March, 1974.  Close to 30 feet down, Yang discovered not water, but a rather an implacable clay face (that of one of the archer’s in this case) staring blankly back at him.  Thinking the head to be a mysterious Buddhist totem of some sort, he did the naturally reverential thing and chiseled it off to carry to his supervisor.  For discovering one of the most precious archeological finds in Chinese history, Yang and his fellow farmers were justly rewarded with ten credit points each (about the equivalent of a US dime, at the time), and the land was reclaimed by the government so that excavation could begin, displacing most of Yang’s village.

Things clearly didn’t turn out too poorly for Yang, considering he still gets taken care of for signing books at the gift shop every day (alternately, you could say things turned out quite poorly, depending on what your own definition of “private hell” is).  Granted, the 1000 RMB he earns per month is less than 1/8 of my salary, but it’s not bad for a 72 year old ex-farmer.  According to an interview with Shanghai Daily, Yang loves his job:

“I’m tired of signing and the noisy tourists, and I hate those tabloid reporters,” says Yang.

On the positive side, he got to meet the Clintons in 1998, and a picture of the meeting is strategically placed behind him in the gift shop.  Three of the initial seven farmers have died already, and none gained any particular fame or riches from the discovery, though they have made some complaints about local officials having grown excessively rich despite the farmers’ financial condition remaining pitifully unchanged.  According to an article in a British paper, the men are nationalistic enough that they’re proud of what their discovery has done for China.  However, attempts at getting the government to official recognize them as the finders (thus increasing both personal prestige and the ability to charge tourists for photo ops and signatures) have thus far only been met with silence.

In and Out of Xi’an

Literally “Western Peace,” Xi’an (originally Chang’an — “Perpetual Peace”) is one of the oldest cities in China, and served as its capital several times throughout the many dynasties that ran this country.  It also served as the eastern end of the Silk Road.  Besides its proximity to Qin’s Tomb and the Terra Cotta Warriors, Xi’an’s inner city is still fortified by a massive wall, over twenty feet wide, that encircles it and remains far more intact than all other similar battlements of its time.  Bikes are rented atop the section of wall directly over the south gate to anyone feeling up to the 14 kilometer trip from end to end.  Xi’an also has a large Islamic population and the Muslim portion of the inner city hosts the largest mosque in China and a unique assortment of foods and crafts sprouted from centuries of Sino-Islamic intermingling.

The Han Tang Hostel. The terra cotta warriors (likely not originals) framing either end of the entrance are a common theme throughout Xi'an

The Han Tang Hostel (which my mind has a constant tendency of turning into “Hang Ten” surfer-speak) came highly recommended on both the main hostel searching websites, and I made my reservation with them as soon as I’d booked my flight.  Flights in China are relatively inexpensive (one-way from Chongqing to Xi’an is around $70), and I was in a hurry to make it into the city so it was a smart choice.  At this point in the semester, I’m teaching only two days a week (yes, a five day weekend); it won’t last, and the second half of the semester will be killer, but I mean to make the most of the open schedule while I can.

Weekends are ideal here for traveling and tourism for all the same reasons they would be anywhere else in the world.  Sadly, that cloying drawback where everyone else happens to be hitting the choice spots as the same time is greatly exacerbated in China.  Why?  The math is simple: 1.5 billion people, and a newfound prosperity have created a nation of tourists, both in and around their own country.  It’s impossible to hit any key travel sites in Asia now without being surrounded by throngs of Chinese tour groups (great article behind that link, btw) with a single flag-bearing leader (often employing a megaphone as well), their members marked by identical, brightly colored hats.

These groups seem to tour relentlessly, seven days a week, though weekends bring an almost unacceptable level of obnoxious saturation.  It’s with this in mind that I specifically arrange the trip out of Chongqing on a Sunday, getting me into the warriors’ museum on a Monday, when crowds are likely to be a bit less harrowing.  The train out of the city to Chongqing then leaves on Monday night at 8 pm, arriving back “home” the next morning by nine.  Taking the overnight railway is just under half the cost of the flight and takes six times as long, but it’s all about the experience.

Xi'an's Bell Tower, with the bell in question on the left end of the Tower walls. Note that the road completely encircles the Tower -- Entrance is gained from a series of underground tunnels that connect most of the attractions in the heart of the Old City.

Few people fill out the common room of the hostel, and those that do are either on laptops or lost in reading.  In other words, there’s no one to wander around town with.  No matter.  It’s 2 pm and I need to take in as much of the city as I can since it’s unlikely Xi’an will be getting a second visit further down the road.  The nearest attractions are two ancient structures — Bell Tower and Drum Tower — within sight of one another, located in the heart of the Old City.  They’re moderately interesting and I pay the equivalent of ten dollars to enter Bell Tower (though I opt out of paying the extra 25 to bang on its massive, eponymous bell) and wander through the museum-like interior.  The primary upper room is filled with a variety of ancient bells, used three times a day for a public performance, though my timing is off and I figure it’s not worth waiting another hour to watch some potentially entertaining bell-work.

The Bell Room. Yup.

The view from Bell Tower is probably the most interesting selling point for me, as its located directly in the center of old town, with an enormous traffic circle wrapping around it and major streets branching out in the four cardinal directions.  The city is perfectly laid out on a grid of precise norths, souths, easts and wests — a godsend for a gadget nerd with a compass built into his watch.  Drum Tower is, as advertised, visible from here, with a large outdoor drum (likely also requiring a large donation to use) in a prominent position.  It’s an attractive building from afar, but I don’t really see the point in hitting up another tower that’s nearly identical to one I’ve already felt as though I’d spent too much time in.

Central Xi'an, as seen from the Bell Tower

Located, logically enough, near the center of the Muslim quarter is the Great Mosque of Xi’an.  It’s equal parts museum and temple these days, as there’s an entry fee to actually go in and walk the grounds (one would assume that actual attendees of services have their own entrance).  Built in the eighth century AD, the renowned mosque is entirely Chinese in its architectural design, and lacks the typical minarets one would normally expect to find present.  Other than occasional decorations and smatterings of Arabic writing, it’s hard to tell the place is a mosque, though the occasional parishioners with their long beards and funky, cylindrical white hats do stand out a bit here in China.

The mosque grounds are quite large, and there are a series of pagodas functioning as gateways that visitors must past through to arrive at the actual mosque.  But the terse, broken “Chinglish” descriptions of each structure don’t provide much detail and a pretty full tour can be covered in under ten minutes.  The prayer hall itself, lined with an extensive grid of small bamboo mats, is closed off to guests, though visible from outside.

Inside the Great Mosque of Xi'an

This is as close as one can get to the actual prayer hall. The mats, apparently, are always prepared for prayer

Like anywhere else I’ve been in China, a vast array of strange food choices lines the street, much of which I’m still too timid to try.  Sure, in the right mood I’m not above eating the occasional insect or indescribable “is it a plant or an animal?” chunk of queerly shaped goo, but it typically involves a good deal of psyching myself up in advance.  Here in Xi’an, I skip what appears to be a basket of roasted deer hooves entirely, focusing instead on the more approachable delectables.

Jabbing the cuts of meat with fake flowers really adds to the presentation...

Large machines dry roast walnuts, and they seem to be more in abundance than any other specialized street food, though hot pepper peanuts are also popular (it’s the latter I’d bring back home upon visiting the States in April for a wedding) and far more addictive.  Several places also specialize in thin, squat orange patties that are deep-fried and served hot.  Apparently made from persimmon, the filling on the inside is a mix of other dark fruits and nuts that pour out of the patty at a tongue-searingly hot temperature, making these particularly difficult to eat.  Local restaurants serve soup dumplings here as well, and while I’m not sure if these are endemic to Xi’an, it is the first time I’ve seen them so far in China (however, the ones in Chinatown in New York City are far better than those I try here).

Down the smaller alleyways (though never too small that locals on motorcycles don’t dangerously push past the tightly packed crowds of shopping tourists) are the shops and stands catering specifically to travelers looking for that special (though not unique — as usual, every stand has the same mass-produced kitsch, no matter how dusty and authentic it looks) thing to bring home.  Prices can always be cut down by at least a third, if not by two thirds — I pick up a soft, silk pashmina scarf for my mother for four dollars and, like the tourist I am, a miniature clay warrior.  Whatever.  The stoic little bastard is a fine addition to any bookshelf.

All of this girl's art is done by hand -- literally. Using fingertips, nails, palms and knuckles, she creates a variety of Chinese landscapes

By 5 PM, there are about two hours of sunlight left and I’m torn between biking across the Xi’an city wall or making the long trek out of the old city to the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda.  The bike ride seems like a better option for tomorrow (I’ve already researched and found out that trips out to the warriors are typically back by 2-3 in the afternoon) and make my way southward to where the city wall demarcates the border between “old” and “new” Xi’an.  By the south gate stands another tourist market, this one seemingly specializing in either fine calligraphy brushes or bronze work.  My new little clay friend is more than enough to deal with carrying around for now, so I barely stop, despite the warm, welcoming gestures of the shop-keepers.

The massive wall around Xi'an's inner city. I regret not getting a chance to climb or bike it.

A picture of the wall from above, stolen from the Internet

Were my map of the city to scale, I would be just about halfway to the pagoda upon exiting the old city.  Sadly, I discover quickly that it is not.  As the sun goes down, a cold Xi’an night descends unexpectedly, and I huddle up into my hoodie for maximum warmth while walking for another hour and a half down clean by generally uninteresting Chinese city streets.  Signs pointing in the direction of the pagoda are numerous enough that I never feel lost, but the length of the walk and the cold night air make me question how necessary this pagoda visit actually is.

The popular Obama/Mao shirts. I think these are meant for American tourists, though I'm fairly sure proponents of neither political party in the States would wear it

By this point in China, I’ve seen enough pagodas so as to not find their existence in any given city a major draw.  And if my final destination only housed a single pagoda, no matter how ancient, it’s unlikely to have been enough of a draw to bring me this far out of the old city.  However, Giant Wild Goose Pagoda hosts, directly to its north, the largest fountain in Asia.  Every night after sunset, crowds gather around to watch and cheer uniquely choreographed blend of water, light, colors and sounds.  The fountain itself is a series of long, rectangular sections, each just slightly smaller than a football field and dotted with a grid of waterspouts, like whale blow-holes, that lay dormant for 23 hours of every day.

The remaining hour, however, is a relentless explosion of hundreds of tall jets of water, each projected to various heights in coordination with whatever music is being played.  Powerful beams of lights of every shade illuminate the streams of water, adding to the effect.  The Chinese, ever diligent on any way to make a buck (or a yuan) stand ready with waterproof photography equipment, hustling through the crowds relentlessly as they show pictoral examples of previous visitors actually standing within the fountain as jets of colorful light explode around them.

When the music begins, it is with a slow-paced Chinese instrumental that doesn’t do much to highlight the connection between the water and the sounds.  Maybe if I recognized the tune it wouldn’t feel as joltingly arrhythmic as it does to me, but when the instruments involved don’t even seem to be playing synchronously, it’s hard to gauge any connection that the random spurts of water might have to the supposed rhythm.  Thankfully, they play a nice mix of Eastern and Western, as Mozart’s Ein Klein Nachtmusik follows, which provides a far better musical canvas on which to arrange the tremendous liquified crescendos and diminuendos.

I feel someone push in next to me, followed by a quick tap on the shoulder.  Two Chinese couples, likely college-aged (I’ll freely admit I have a harder time guessing age with Asians) stare at me, slightly wide-eyed in anticipation.

You just can't escape Starbucks

“Hello!” one girl says.

“Hello!”

“We are very glad that you are here!”

“Thank you.  Xie xie [Chinese for "thank you"]”

“You speak..  Chinese?”

“A little.  ee-dee-ahhrrr.  Wait.  ee-dee-ahn, I mean.”

Therein lies part of my difficulty learning Chinese.  Chongqing has such a unique dialect that studying real Mandarin is almost useless, since the actual words people in my city say sound so different.  For instance, the “ahhrr” sound.  It’s added onto many syllables, seemingly (to me) at random, though most often on the “ahn” sound.  My years as a Captain Morgan representative prepared me well for regularly giving out good, hearty “ahhrr”s, but outside of Chongqing this skill only confuses people.

“Oh,” she says, visibly lost in thought as she attempts to come up with something else to say.  She stares at me expectantly the whole time, and I stare back smiling, beginning to wonder which of us is waiting for the other.  Finally: “Goodbye!” she says, and the others echo it.

“Ok.  Goodbye!”

They’re still standing there staring at me.  It’s kind of weird, but I decide that after four songs I’ve likely seen about as much as this fountain has to offer, and I accept their accidental dismissal as as good a reason as any to make my exit.  The restaurants and stores that line the sides of the fountain are built using ancient Chinese styles, but it’s relatively easy to see how new they are, especially seeing that one of them is a KFC.

I like that this truck not only has about nine different types of missiles on it, but that a phone number is provided as well, should services be required.

A quick sidenote about KFC: There is no doubt in my mind that this is the most popular fast food in the world.  Sure, McDonald’s are everywhere, but KFCs throughout South America were far more plentiful and more popular, and it seems that the same can be said here in Asia.  Indeed, the only American fast food restaurant in Hanoi is KFC.  Though that could have to do with the strange similarity between the images of The Colonel and Ho Chi Minh.  More on that later…

It’s cold and there’s no way I’m walking back.  Cabs are in short supply, but a tuk-tuk (three-wheeled, motorcycle driven carriage) is willing to take me back for a fairly unreasonable price, especially considering how cold it’s become outside.  Back at the hostel, the owner insists that all travelers in the common room come up to a microphone and say they’re name, where they’re from and the funniest story about traveling in China that they have.  People are reluctant and nervous, but no one refuses and it actually brings the room together nicely.  I socialize for a bit, but no one else in the room is headed out to the warriors tomorrow and I’m too exhausted to hang out for long, especially with a seven AM departure by bus the next morning.

Finishing my beer, I take my leave of the group and collapse into one of the more comfortable hostel bunk beds I’ve come across.

11th Floor, Apartment 3.  Building?  Unknown.

I’ve been here 7 months now and still don’t have a goddamn clue what my address is.  I’ve tried to figure it out from analyzing the writing on the building and from asking other tenants, staff and University employees, meeting nothing but failure with every attempt.  Near as I can tell, no one here gets mail delivered directly to them.  Considering mail is typically a source of junk, bills, ads and other assorted detritus, I don’t find myself missing it that much, but with parents threatening to send massive care packages laden with all the non-perishable delectables I’m deprived of here in China (Cap’n Crunch, or any other breakfast cereal, for that matter — who ever heard of a country without breakfast cereal??), having an actual destination address for them would be nice.   In lieu of that, however, all packages are sent instead to the university where they somehow end up in my boss’s office.  He doesn’t seem to mind.

The Building

The entryway to my apartment building

It’s no Trump Tower, but more than serviceable for my needs.  As friends from the University began to spread out from school-assigned dorms into private apartments around town, I did feel pangs of jealousy for their 25+ story views, but not for the elevator-waiting that this usually came bundled with.  My building is, I’m told, the “Foreign Teachers’ Building,” which is accurate in that it houses most of the foreign teachers, but inaccurate in that we’re only located on two of the floors.  The lower ten floors supposedly house graduate students, though sparsely at best, given how few other people — foreign or otherwise — I ever run into in the lobby.

Balconies on the lower levels are all barred up, and there is a guard room in the front housing three fairly bored (but friendly) looking individuals that monitor who passes through and lock the doors each night.  Doors are locked promptly at midnight, and while we aren’t given keys to the main entrance, the guards are almost always there and in varying states of consciousness to let us in.  The locked main gate is doubly problematic in that we must be buzzed out to escape should any terrible calamity befall the building.  It’d certainly be a bad time for the guard to be on a coffee break…

Once, coming back from jeifangbei, the cultural and business heart of the city, I had the misfortune of experiencing one of said breaks around 4 in the morning.  Horribly drunk (a sensation I experienced too much in the first semester of the year, leading me to wonder if perhaps something was more potent and/or more toxic about the alcohol here), I walked through campus in the rain as I returned to my building, cursing the city, myself and the particularly strong depression that had settled over me early on after my arrival and had yet to let up.

My experiences here had thus far been a great deal less successful than those in South America — very few people spoke English, and those that did were almost entirely college students, leaving me feeling aged and disconnected from any real social scene to speak of.  As I wandered the city aimlessly, each failure to make any sort of worthwhile connection only further fed an inebriation that had ceased to function as a social lubricant hours ago.  Eventually accepting my utter failure, I begrudgingly returned home with my head down and my spirits at their lowest, seeking the respite that only one’s “home” can provide when I had the misfortune of finding my building completely sealed off to me and unattended.

Screaming in rage, I slammed into the main doors with brute (yet ultimately, ineffectual) force, then gave a similar performance on the door to the guardroom like some nightmarish foreign loon, with just as little success.   The last bit of fight drained from me as the door’s handle came off in my hands, and I collapsed onto the wet ground, resting my head against the hard metal of the entryway as the rain mixed with my exasperated tears.  Five minutes go by — maybe ten — and I look up to see the guard smiling at me apologetically.  He seems to be telling me where he’d been, but I don’t understand and I don’t care.  When the door finally opens, I walk in without a word and petulantly head up to my room.

On a positive note, it’s gotten slightly better since then.

The guard's room, directly outside the main entrance

The Living Room

Down a dim hallway with sound-activated lighting, 11-3 is the last room on the left.  Through the dark brown door, the meager kitchen is immediately to the right, while the “foyer” opens up into the living room.  Spacial limitations force me to store the refrigerator out here, next to the sofa.  It’s not always convenient when I’m cooking, though it does make snacks and drinks more accessible when guests are over.

The view while standing in the front door. The room immediately to the right is the kitchen.

The apartment came with a “sofa” of sorts — a long wooden bench whose uncomfortable slats etch themselves into the ass cheeks of anyone unfortunate enough to sit on them for longer than five minutes.  It is probably the poorest designed piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on in terms of comfort.  Within weeks of living here, I’d tracked down a furniture store and purchased a small futon for just under a hundred dollars.

Nearly everything else in here is provided by the university, save any wall decorations and the large red rug that covers the floor (“it really ties the room together…”).  The glass table is nice, though exemplifies another minor gripe I have Chinese style: The Chinese seem to like tables that have a smaller shelf directly below the main table.  I’m not sure what this is for (spices? newspapers?) but this lower rack is present on almost every Chinese dining table I’ve come across.  I don’t mind extra storage space at all, but why does it have to be located exactly where my knees want to go?  It effectively forces me to sit further out from the table while eating, which doesn’t really work for me.

The large appliance between the television and the balcony is the air-conditioning/heating unit.  I don’t think I could survive without it.  Chongqing gets pretty chilly in the winter, but the hot summers are especially brutal.

Sure the sofa and rug clash a bit at first, but you get used to it... The fridge would be way too small for more than one person, but works alright for me

The dining room table, complete with map of China hanging over it

Entertainment center. No idea how I would've gotten through this year without the XBox360

My hallway -- Bathroom on the right, bedroom on the left and smaller guest bedroom straight ahead. On the wall to the right is Barong, the Indonesian spirit of (among other things) protection. He's quite fetching.

The Kitchen

The kitchen’s woefully inadequate for my cooking style, but I make due.  As I mentioned before, there’s little room for a fridge in here, and part of the problem is the washing machine.  In a kitchen the size of most large closets in the States, giving up space for a washing machine stings a bit, but it’s the only place where I’ve got a water hookup.

Chinese people aren’t very oven-centric people, which is surprising to me as there are many bakeries around and they seem quite popular.  But baking in one’s own home clearly hasn’t caught on yet, since most apartments I’ve seen only come with gas ranges.  For Thanksgiving, I splurged and bought myself an oven for a hundred bucks.  It’s basically a glorified toaster oven (it’s electric), yet it’s still powerful enough to bake pies, cakes, pizzas and (most importantly for Thanksgiving) a 17 pound turkey.

Most Chinese food is stir-fried using extremely high temperature flames, meaning my range is close to twice as powerful at its high setting than any I’ve used in the States.  You can’t really leave food frying on its own for too long without constant love and attention or the risk of quickly burning your dinner (or your apartment down, in a worst case scenario) is quite high.  But on the upside, dinners can be fried up lightning fast, with flavors nicely seared in to all vegetables and meats in ways slow, low-temperature frying wouldn’t allow.  The other negative to this cooking style is that “low” setting is roughly equivalent to what would be “medium high” in America, which makes any recipe that requires “simmering” next to impossible.

Three cabinets don’t give me nearly the space I need, so I’ve picked up at least three additional shelving units out of sheer necessity.  The largest of them takes up enough space that even two people working simultaneously in the kitchen feels uncomfortably cramped, but in addition to storage, it also provides me with much-needed counter space.  And it’s not like I often have teams of people cooking things up in my apartment.

You can see just how small the kitchen is here, though I think I made good use of the space

The kitchen didn't exactly come with counter space, so I had to improvise a little

Kitchen cabinets, spices, bar...

The Bedroom

Since most apartments aren’t built with closets in mind, the room conveniently comes with two large clothing cabinets that manage to efficiently contain the sparse wardrobe I have over her.  The bed is large and was brand new when I first arrived here, and the desk and end tables might not be brimming with character, but they serve their purpose well.

My room effectively doubles as my office, since each two-hour class that I teach generally requires 4-6 hours of preparation time.  All the English teachers that I know here are jealous of my work schedule, since they tend to get around four hours more of class per week.  But I’m equally jealous of the fact that they basically just show up to class and start talking, while each class I give feels like a mini-presentation requiring hours of advance cramming out of me.  I think it all balances out.

With all the time I spend at the computer, though, I picked up the black office chair early on to replace the desk chair that came with the place — Much like the living room “sofa” they provided, comfort wasn’t high on the list when the landlords here were picking out furniture.  I keep the clothes rack in here as well, since the bedroom tends to be the warmest when I’m at home.  Clothes driers are definitely not standard fare in Chongqing.  The guitar, also, was a personal addition and not something that came with the place…

Amazing how the lack of wall decorations can really suck the charm out of a place

My "clothes dryer" and my work area

My closet

My bedroom window

The Spare Room

I typically keep this door shut at all times, so I don’t bother with tidiness in here.  Should any guests ever stay with me here in Chongqing, I’d have a place for them, but no one’s swung by just yet.  I basically use this room solely for storage.

The spare bedroom. Looking at the thick layer of dust over things scares me, since it's a testament to the air quality here. The uncomfortable "sofa" mentioned above is there on the right.

The Bathroom

Probably the best and nicest surprise I got upon moving in was a showerhead that was actually installed at a height taller than me.  Chinese people (excepting Yao Ming) aren’t known for being extremely tall, and I was certain I’d be spending the year slouched over uncomfortably in the shower, but this was happily not to be the case.  I’m also lucky enough to have a “western style” sit-down toilet; the standard for apartments in Chongqing is a simple porcelain plate on the ground with a large hole in it.

The only real problem here is the “window”.  It’s basically a small rectangular opening without any means of being sealed.  On cold winter mornings, the frigid air rushed right over me as I showered, fully negating the warmth of the water.  As it was also an unwelcome entry point for insects, I took the matter into my own hands, sealing it with cardboard and duct tape.

The bathroom window, sealed off with cardboard and duct tape

The View

It’s not spectacular, but just having a balcony is a pretty decent perk here.  Each of the bedrooms has a large window alcove as well, though the alcove doesn’t seem to be load-bearing which limits its usefulness a bit.

The Chinese tend to be very stingy when it comes to using electricity, which is generally a good thing, though it can be taken to absurd levels.  Case in point: motorcycles often drive around at night with no lights, only shifting the lights on when absolutely necessary.  Can this possibly lower fuel consumption in even the slightest way?

What this means in apartments is that locals are extremely diligent about turning any electrical units off when not in use, and keeping heat/air conditioning at the lowest possible settings.  I might not be as diligent as they are, but I still respect the behavior (especially in a country with such a dense population and known energy consumption issues).  What I don’t understand is how people can be so energy-minded and then have the thinnest possible glass in the windows (not to mention the aforementioned shower window).  On cold nights, it’s possible to stand by my fully-closed windows and just feel the breeze flowing unhindered through the glass and over me.

Hazy, Chongqing sunrise, from my balcony

Looking down from my balcony

More view

This should give a good idea of the air quality here. I just washed the balcony floor less than a month ago, and already it's got this thick layer of... whatever it is, coating it

Whether or not the inconvenient fever rushing through my veins these past 17 hours of cramped air travel is swine flu or not matters little to me.  It probably doesn’t mean much to those in China that are likely to quarantine me for such symptoms either, but the inconvenient result would still be the same.  I’m told that classes — classes that I will be teaching — begin at Chongqing University in less than a week, and odds are starting to favor my first lesson plans being drafted up in a cold, sterile room in a hospital somewhere in China, sequestered off from the other 1.6 billion people I’ll now be sharing a country with.

Are there longer flights from any point A in the world to any other point B than the flight from New York to Hong Kong?

The airline’s friendly enough, and the back of each chair is loaded with its own entertainment system, helping to alleviate the relentless boredom of the situation, though there’s little to counter the discomfort of the seat’s rigid contours and the subsequent sores that worsen alarmingly across my lower back and nether regions.  The movie selections aren’t bad, and seem to cover all bases.  Ignoring the chick flicks, kiddie fare and hard dramas, I settle on Watchmen, The Hangover, some movie I’ve forgotten that was billed as a “Bro-mance” and a second viewing of Star Trek (this time without the Spanish subtitles).

I’m in a minority here on the plane — a feeling I expect to be getting used to quickly.  Chongqing, including its suburbs, currently counts over 30 million people as its citizens.  Foreigners make up less than .0001 percent of that, meaning that it’s likely to spend days around town without seeing another un-Chinese-looking face.  Unlike more international cities like Beijing, Shanghai and Hong Kong, widespread use of English hasn’t made its way out to Chongqing yet, creating a language barrier around me more daunting than the Great Wall.

Good Times.

Even with a blanket on, the deep fever chills rack through me, forcing a bad, full-body impersonation of a cheap, Mexican vibrator.  Gauging the current state of my illness by said chills, I surmise that my fever upon exiting the plane at Hong Kong international airport is hotter than it’s been at any point on this seemingly endless trip.  Either my body’s not aware of the consequences of its actions, or it’s really not into this China gig and using every trick up its anatomical sleeve to get my hot-blooded ass out of the country.

The illness has drained me.  Five o’clock shadow and constant shifting about on my seat seeking occasional respites from consciousness has left me dirty, debilitated and disheveled.  In short, upon passing through the health station in Hong Kong, I’m officially, by both local and international standards, a mess.

Ear, mouth, rectal and armpit (the latter being the official choice in Quito, Ecuador, at least as of my last arrival) thermometers have all been phased out now in favor of a less hands-on approach.  As passengers work their way through the flu  checkpoint, handing in the now-mandatory health forms that are doled out on every international flight (where have you been for the past week?  Do its citizens often consort with swine?  Would you describe your explosive diarrhea as “awkward” or “crippling”?), a device not unlike a Star Trek phaser (60′s version, not Next Generation or the new flick) is focused on each passing individual, immediately separating the healty from the… well, me.

“Eh-scuse me sir.  Come.”

In broken English, his tone and gestures more than his words inform me that something is terribly wrong.  He skirts around the language barrier entirely by simply handing me the thermometer, like damning evidence from a crime scene.

“39.2, eh?  Hmm.. Is that bad?   My Celsius/Fahrenheit conversion skills aren’t that great.  I mean, I can tell from a weather report if I need a sweater or shorts, and 39.2 is definitely shorts weather, but you know…” I trail off.

“Fever,” he says, confirming what I’ve known for some time.

“Fever?  Really??  Is it a bad one?  You know, I felt great on the plane.  This always happens when I get off planes.”

“You go Hong Kong?”

“Hmm?  Oh no, Chongqing!  I’m a teacher.  I start work this week.  Teaching Chinese people.  In Chongqing.  Where I’m going immediately.”

He thinks deeply before responding.  ”Have fever.  Drink lots water and don’t have fever in Chongqing.”  Going against all stories of the massive hype and swine-flu-related panic that surrounds China right now (and this *is* a country of people that practically wear those surgical health masks like a fashion statement), he seems to be letting me go.

“Ok, I will!”

Hong Kong has officially been a part of China for over ten years now, though remains its own small, self-contained world.  It has its own language (Cantonese — though the characters are the same as those from China’s primary, government-sanctioned language, Mandarin), its own food style (also Cantonese), its own currency and its own ways and means of governance toward its people.  What this means to me (though I don’t know it yet) is that I’ll be able to freely access websites in the airport like FaceBook, Picasa, YouTube and pretty much any website with “blog” in its name for the last time.  Well, for the last time without a bit of effort on my part getting around the system.  More on that later.

Six hours to spare originally meant time to explore Hong Kong.  All the overtime work my hypothalamus has put in has disallowed that, both in terms of airport security and in my severe lack of the physical energy it’d require to handle such an excursion.  Hong Kong International Airport is a tremendous travel complex, and while it’s not exactly thrifty to shop, eat or get massages there, I did my best to kill time by indulging in all three.

Three snack breaks, four botched napping attempts and countless trips to the bathroom later (airports are the worst place for a bladder to get all twitchy) and a bilingual boarding announcement comes out over the speakers.  Sadly, it’s in Chinese first, though I’m quick to figure out its meaning when I spot a massive surge of people shooting forward toward the gate, forming a shape that only vaguely resembles a line.

Dinner is served onboard — some sort of sweet and sour chicken — and isn’t bad, all things considered.  No movies are provided this time around, but that’s fairly standard on flights less than three hours.  I try my best to sleep one last time, though the jet lag would be inescapable even without combining its forces with that of my flu.  It’s been close to 24 hours of travel time so far, and even though I gathered the current time from a clock in Hong Kong, I’m not 100% certain of what day it is…

At the airport, my new employer greets me at the gate.  It’s a good thing, as I’ve got no phone or contact information for anyone here, and even in a city this large, English speakers are damned hard to come by.   Huang Yong greets me with a large smile.  His English isn’t terribly good, but as my Chinese is non-existent, he’s got a leg up on me.

It’s hot out, as I get my first taste of Chongqing’s infamous heat.  It’s known as one of China’s “three furnaces,” sharing the honor with Wuhan and Nanjing.  It’s also my first opportunity to experience the dense smog that perpetually engulfs the city.  During my year here, I’d come to love and hate so many aspects of the city, but high up on my list of “hate” is the regular lack of clouds, stars, sun and moon and “the color blue” from what would otherwise be a beautiful skyline.  Locals tell me Chongqing has “always been foggy,” claiming the gray haze isn’t in any way a by-product of heavy industry, but I’ve never seen any other fog like this.

Culture shock sets in as the relentless sprawl of buildings hum by us, covered in Chinese lettering, big and small.  Their daytime liveliness is only a fraction of what’s to come by night, as the Chinese clearly seem to revel in neon skylines that burst forth like frenetic city-sized video games.  Drivers are quick to use their horns, but less quick to stick to any lane as line markers are little more than suggestions here.  A billboard shows a toddler of about three urinating a rainbow into a western-style toilet with a proud grin on his face.  I supposed I’d be cheerful if I pissed rainbows, as well.  Toll booths and traffic lights are generally adhered to, excepting of course for motorcyclists, as they seem to make their own rules as needed.

After a quick driving tour through the campus (not a single non-Chinese face spotted in the throngs of people — I’m definitely in a small, small minority here), we arrive at what is to be my new home for the year.  It’s an older building, but it’s been recently remodeled.  Elements of its less-than-contemporary past come through in places, but it’s a fairly sweet deal for the price (free lodging and utilities with my job contract).  I think I’ll give the apartment an entry of its own, next.

After 25 hours in transit, it’s time to put my new Chinese bed to use and get some sleep.