China

Photo Album

The ancient city walls of Jinzhou have fared better than those of Beijing, where they were demolished in the 1950’s to make way for the second of four ring roads. From our approach on the riverbank opposite to the walls, we see our destination, a temple that stands like a sentinel on the bulwark of a gateway. Our driver steers us over the bridge and we cross from an outside world into the living inner world of the city where life both private and public is on view in the street. From being casual observers of the landscape, we are now voyeuristically observing life in all its detail, but from the safety of our elevated seats behind the window panes of the coach. The shops are open, literally. Their entire fronts are open to the street, and goods seem to be tumbling out of them, as if the shutters were rolled back to release a landslide. On the pavement, seemingly oblivious to all the passers by, a young girl washes her long hair in a blue plastic bucket.

“Strictly forbid carrying out the goods that are easy to burning or exploding to climbing to the gate tower and strictly for bid smoking carving or hubbub when you are visiting.” So reads the carefully worded English translation of a notice at the foot of the gateway steps. Woven coolie hats like those we have seen in the distant fields are for sale at a souvenir stall. Inside the temple the distinction between museum and shop are blurred. On inspecting the antique pots on display we realise that they all have price tags. From the outside balcony we snoop on the wrinkled roofs of Jinzhou, and their backscene of shambler concrete apartments. On the pavement edge sits a man playing a simple wooden flute. He is demonstrating the wares on his barrow, and knows there are visitors from the western world around, as his tunes become a staccato rendition of Jingle Bells and Happy Birthday. He exchanges his instrument for an erhu, a Chinese style upright violin with two strings. The same slightly off-key melodies drift mournfully up to us. A tired pale orange sun hangs like a Chinese lantern in the grey hazy sky.

We descend the stairs inside the temple, and in the near darkness of the inner sanctuary, five plump polished metal Buddhas return our glances with glinting inscrutable stares.  Their hands are draped comfortably over their knees or against their chests. Silhouetted in the doorway are the sharp skinny figures of two attendants. They are crouching awkwardly on flimsy chairs, eagerly flicking freshly prepared meals into their mouths with chopsticks.   In the twilight street, an old man cycles past. The rear of his machine is an open metal truck. From the opposite direction a similar cycle approaches. On this one the riders are three young girls, porcelain dolls in perfect identical blue tracksuits. A small group edges closer to the musician, and haggling tentatively starts. Eager to receive their share of trade, the ladies at a bookshop begin to encourage custom with promises of “cheap prices”.

It’s dark by the time we leave Jinzhou. Streetlight reflections sparkle in the river. We gather pace when beyond the walls, and at the edge of the modern town we glimpse an open doorway. In the orange rectangle is the glimpse of a shadow play, a man having his hair cut.