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Barbarians in Beijing (page 2)
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Thankfully, our interpreter, Rhianna Huang, bridges the gulf between us
and the world’s oldest civilization. Twenty-three-year-old Rhianna has been
seconded to us from her job of translating documents. You can get by without
an interpreter, at least in Beijing, but Rhianna does more than bridge the
language gap. She speaks English fluently, interprets what we see, answers
our million questions and invites us into her life a little. This assignment is
exciting for her too, because we are the first Westerners she has ever met.
Rhianna is part of a new generation in China. Her favourite entertainer
is Céline Dion, and her favourite food is pizza. Addicted to text messaging
and the internet, Rhianna is currently struggling with boyfriend issues.
Her boyfriend and his traditional family disapprove of her work. It’s too
independent a profession. She is torn between following the example of
her half-sister, a dynamic, successful businesswoman, or teaming up with
her boyfriend in his modest gem shop.
For four days of our 10-day visit, Beijing is conducting traffic tests in
preparation for the Olympics, to see whether halving the number of
vehicles will improve air quality. Cars with even- or odd-numbered licence plates are allowed to drive in the city on alternating days. If I were an
athlete, I wouldn’t mind competing in Beijing if my event were swimming
or pole-vaulting. But better air or not, I wouldn’t want to run a marathon
on a typical 35°C August day. Even walking from store to store with
Alexandra and Rhianna is dehydrating, not to mention insanity-inducing.
After several hours of tailing two women in shop-till-you-drop mode, I have
accumulated enough daily marital points to slip away and ogle the latest
electronic gadgets.
Eventually, the three of us meet up at Tiananmen Square, the plaza across
the street from the famous photo of Chairman Mao. The square, of course,
became a tragic symbol in the West when soldiers fired on pro-democracy
demonstrators in 1989. Trying to picture the scene, I ask Rhianna, with
my usual lack of tact, whether she knows exactly where the tanks were
positioned. She becomes angry.
“Foreigners are only interested in the bad parts of China - the Cultural
Revolution and Tiananmen Square,“ she snaps, repeating something she read
online. “I prefer to focus on the positive steps China has made to develop.“
Later, after some harmless conversation defuses the tension, we watch
what most Chinese come to Tiananmen Square to see - the ceremonial
lowering of the flag at dusk. As Mao’s portrait watches beneficently,
a troop of soldiers, chosen for their good looks and minimum six-foot
stature, march to the flag at the north end of the square. Before hundreds
of spectators, the Five Stars is lowered and crisply folded. Then the soldiers
withdraw, moving in unison, like wheeling birds. The sombre pageantry
brings a tear to Rhianna’s eye.
FOR THE NEXT THREE DAYS, we graze on Beijing’s tourist attractions,
including the Summer Palace, with its delicate gardens and lake fringed
with bath-mat-sized lotus leaves, and Tiantan Park, at whose temples the
emperor used to pray for a good harvest. At the indoor Silk Market, which
sells more than silk, aggressive vendors hawk their wares, many of which
sport ersatz logos like Samsonite and Calvin Klein. When Rhianna counsels
us on a fair price, the vendors try to intimidate her: “You’re not being
Chinese. Help us, not the foreigners,“ says one retailer. “Don’t say anything.“
But Rhianna has an independent streak that resists this sort of pressure.
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