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.