Gone for Gold

When I ask my Chinese students what they think the Olympics did for China, every one of them sits bolt upright with gleaming eyes, and tells me how the big games opened China's infamously bolted gates to give the world a glimpse of 'the real China'. In their opinion China has shifted its image of being an oppressive bully, pumping out pollution and poor quality goods, to being a proud, fair and green nation.

The financial hardships that come with being an overcrowded, developing country were given the elbow for the 2008 games to make way for a dazzling impression on the world, which is reported to have cost billions of dollars. After all it is Chinese culture to splurge for your guests. A new airport terminal the size of Heathrow, a new subway system, more disabled access, a new sewage system, as well as planting more trees are bound to make dent in your wallet.

Unlike England, China has a reputation to throw new buildings up in a jiffy. Because of cheap labour and an abundance of employees, what was scaffolding one week is a booming hotel the next. Yes, homes and business spaces were demolished to make way for the extravagent Olympic village, but they don't waste much time with paperwork or human rights here so there wasn't really enough time or freedom to protest.

However being thrust into the spotlight meant that restrictions on media were mildly lifted. The press is state owned and edited here and foreign press need permission prior to reporting. Even some websites are barred here for fear of them promoting anything anti-patriotic. Although some restrictions were lifted for foreign reporters here at the time of the Olympics, it is still down to the guard the reporter was dealing with on whether the authority was going to acknowledge these new rules.

Beijing also fine-tuned customs that may have offended the forigner or make Beijingers seem uncivilized. Dog meat was taken off the menus, beggars were shoed away from central streets, spitting beckoned a fine, walking to your neighbour's in your pyjamas was strictly prohibited and wearing socks with sandals was a officially unlawful.

For a Westerner in Beijing, the Olympics were a pretty light on the pockets too. Back seat tickets cost just under three quid, one Subway ride cost about 16 pence, even the overpriced and undersized refreshments in the main arena weren't a burden. For an Easterner in London for 2012 is going to be a pretty sad story. I can't imagine a 5 quid Oyester card daily top-up is going to go down too well, or a six quid bottle of Coke.

Walking around the lavish Olympic village, as crowded as Beijing is, I didn't feel caged in and every few seconds there was an English speaking volunteer to direct me. With a municipitality the size of Belgium, Beijing, unlike London, had a lot of space to play with, but at the expense of homes and livlihoods of the less fortunate. Shutting down the factories was another knock on local jobs, and eventually the country's economy post-Olympics. But the ugly smog that constantly blankets the city wasn't a healthy option for international athletes, visitors and media. Residents told me they could never before see the moon so early in the evening when it was low in the sky as it was always concealed by the pollution until it was directly above you.

It seemed they had got it all down to a tee, comitted to the point of obsession at projecting the right image no matter who had to foot the bill. The Olympics have been tagged as China's coming out party - a hefty excuse to celebrate their country's leap towards becoming an international superpower. They are eager to mask their bully reputation of minorities like Tibetans and with nations like Burma and instead to direct the global focus to their new found stardom. What extent will us Brits have to go to to live up to Beijing's star performance and who's going to take the blow? As China basks in the Olympic's fading spotlight, London crouches in the shadows. Does she have it in her to pounce and give us Brits the same pride and enthusiasm that my students display?

The Birth of Li Xiang, Beijing to Guilin

A 28 hour solitary train journey where no one speaks your language is a perfect setting to eat your way through a long abandoned novel. Hiding horizontally on my top bunk with two beds below me and inches of space above me, was the only escape from noodle-slurping families and unrelenting stares. It could have been home-sickness kicking in, or just claustrophobia, but somewhere in limbo between sleep and awake, I mistook the muffled chit-chat of other passengers as Brummy talk. In my docile state I swore I was hearing stuff like, 'Pass us the McFlurry Bab.'



The monotonous journey was eased however on my encounter with Cindy, a teenage Chinese girl who took a shine to practising her English with me. Now I know Cindy isn't the first name that springs to mind when you picture a giggly Chinese 16 year old, nor was it to me. Assuming that her parents were going through a rebellious hippy phase when they had her, I quizzed her on her unconventional name. It turned out that Cindy wasn't her birth name, but the name she was dubbed with when she started to study English, 'so that foreigners can remember easily'. How considerate!

Amused by this being a completely a new concept to me, Cindy asked if I had a Chinese name. Being from the other end of the world where the English language is the bees knees, it had never occurred to me that I might need one, but as I am travelling in their country, it seemed only fair that I play their game (a similar rule to that of always learning at least, how to say thank you in their native tongue). Nominating herself to formulate my new name, Cindy compiled a list of common Chinese surnames for me to chose from: Wang, Chang, Wu, Li, Liang...And so I was hired into the family of Li.

The second part of the equation to create my given name was slightly more complex:

Cindy: 'What do you like?'

Me: 'Hmmmm...Lots of things...'

Cindy: 'Well do you like singing? Or mountains? Or the sea?'

Me: 'Ummmm, I like stars!'

Head tilted, dashing her pen this way and that to form intricate characters, she nodded and revealed my new name to be Li Xiang. And that was that.

I've since learnt that choosing a Western name is standard procedure for English students, and that their chosen names get even more eccentric, Cocoa, Summer, Sunny, Crystal, Misty, Patience and my favourite, Yo-Yo are not girls you would find luring you into the backstreets of Soho, but are regular English students of mine.


The conversation then inevitably turned to boys, English boys and Chinese boys, which ones I preferred; English girls and Chinese girls, and which ones I thought were more beautiful. A Western nose is apparently more desirable in Cindy's opinion, as she lifted her head to reveal a scar the size of a paper cut where she had paid - what would be peanuts to the Western pocket - for a nose tuck to reshape her pretty oriental face. Then the camera came out and we posed - peace sign prominent, so she could prove to all her classmates and tutor that she had practised her English on the train with a Western girl with a small nose.

Beijing Grubs Up Nicely

Reminiscing Central Asian cuisine doesn't exactly make my taste buds tingle. In the barren nothingness of the Steppe, there was not much on offer in terms of vegetation, hence the inhabitants' age old love of mutton... Bad news for a vegetarian.

On leaving Mongolia and entering China on the Trans-Mongolian Express, the train swapped its wheels and its restaurant carriage to that of Chinese compatibility and I finally saw the back of stinky mutton fat and rock hard bread. Breaking my chopsticks and looking out the carriage window, it was clear that I was still in the arid and relentless Gobi desert. But beyond this desert, this landscape which I had become so acquainted with on my road trip to Mongolia, China's lush environment was abundant with crops, every inch of land seemed to sprout veggies and the wet and warm climate apparently makes cultivation a speedy process, 'Like boom!'. It's a far cry from the bleak and harsh Mongolian terrain.

Beijing's noodle bars and food markets dominate the streets serving copious meat (like Scorpion, Sea-Horse or Silk-worm on a stick), vegetables and fruit - a stark contrast to Mongolian culinary variety. The best and cheapest I found nestled in some of the Hutongs - quaint little alleyways of cobbled paving stones that are littered with resident's laundry hanging out to dry and the sound of moped horns. Dodging the puddles, bicycles and taxis and taking in the aromas drifting from the many street stalls and cafes down one of Beijing's Hutongs is enough to get your taste buds jangling. Halogen-strip lighting beckons you into the local joints which offer some really interesting delights such as:

'The hashed meat mixes the surface'

'The stem burns the delicate chicken'

'Dryly stirfrys before stewing the cow'

If you're just peckish, of course, you could just go for the 'One article fresh and one small sheep leg', and, unlike Mongolia, there are also options for us veggies, 'The Joss-stick mixes needle mushroom gold'

'Fierce appearance point pepper'

Or simply, 'Harsh Cabbage'.

Feeling experimental? Then go for the, 'Fragrant imperial concubine mutton strip'. If like me, you can't stomach the Mongolian favourite, you could try the curious, 'Xinjiang does not need criticism red'. Sounds spicy...

What's depressing about this contrast of Mongolian mutton vs. Chinese chopsticks is knowing that at the time I left Mongolia, the weather was about to drop below zero and stay that way until Spring - the most unpredictable and dreaded season on the Mongolian calendar. Winter in Mongolia is probably what gives Mongolians their robust reputation and open minded outlook. Temperatures drop to -40, and stay below freezing for up to six months, making it impossible to grow any vegetables and tough to keep livestock living. Many Mongolians don't make it through the winter. City dwellers in Ulaanbaatar have it slightly easier being within civilisation, which is why more and more Mongolians are giving up their nomadic ways and pitching up their gers in the capital, if they can afford a ger and a 'Hasha' - a family ger enclosure costing $15. The city has an employment rate of around 40% and is becoming more crowded every year with not enough business to accommodate the new arrivals' job hunting. There is a high level of alcoholism with the men and there are hundreds of street children, many of whom live underground to escape the cold and get warmth from the heating pipes that connect with the city's buildings, when they are switched on. The poorest families in the suburbs survive only off sheep's heads and often have to chose between buying fuel or food, to starve and be warm or eat and freeze?

Of course China has its own problems with poverty also, but since the Olympics came to town, beggars have been moved along out of sight from international tourists in Beijing. Just one of the many alterations Beijing and China has made to scrub up for the big games...