The hotel in Beijing was right round the corner from the Beijing train station. However, the train to Xi'an left from Beijing West, a long, non-A/C minibus ride to the northwest. I had developed a double-turtle technique with my luggage in Vancouver airport -- big pack on my back and day pack across the front. This time I was carrying a plastic bag of food supplies as well. We battled our way into the station along with a crowd of locals and picked our way across the forecourt between groups of people who seemed to have set up camp. We wound up in waiting lounge number 4, which was packed with people as it served four trains. We were traveling hard-sleeper class (soft sleeper passengers got their own lounge), which meant six berths to a compartment. We piled in, stuffed the big packs under the seats or onto the overhead rack outside the compartment and settled in as the train pulled out. Compartment is not quite the right term: the wall that held the bunks (narrower at the bottom) stretched 3/4 of the way across the carriage, with a ladder bolted to the end. Under the window between the two lower bunks there was a table, with two thermos flasks of hot water underneath and a metal tray for trash. On the opposite wall were two pull-down seats and another table. A boiler at one end of the carriage provided the luxury of continuous hot water. Hard-sleeper was the right term -- the bunks were definitely very hard, although perhaps no harder than the beds in the Beijing hotel. They came with a small towel, a pillow and a quilt. I slept with the quilt half under and half over me, but I was too tall for that to work well -- either my feet or shoulders were cold, or I had to curl up with my knees braced against the wall. The continuous loud music that reportedly used to render Chinese train travel hideous seemed to be a thing of the past, but at least three of the guys in the group snored, which was nearly as bad. Although the carpet that ran the length of the carriage was removed by morning, no one jerked the bed clothes away from us, another improvement over the old days.
The terra cotta warriors, Xi'an's main claim to tourist fame, look just like the photos. Their sheer numbers, and diversity, are impressive, but I felt no need to see them a second time. Unfortunately, for the second time I arrived in Xi'an feeling ill -- this time it was with a sore throat and impending cold. I tried rest and Reiki, along with a eucalyptus mint from my roommate that knocked out the sore throat at one go. Despite my cold I headed out by taxi to visit the Great Mosque and the Taoist temple to the Eight Great Immortals, along with the Big Goose Pagoda and the Shaanxi Provincial Museum. Not to mention the Muslim market and its seductive food stalls. The mutton kebabs were positively addictive -- a good thing since I expected to see a lot more of them as we headed west. The highly spiced bread that came with them wasn't bad, either. Then I found a donut-style confection for breakfast -- beautifully crisp on the outside, tender dough inside, with a hole filled with boiling hot syrup. The market also provided a fan -- less a souvenir than survival gear for the upcoming non-A/C train trip. In the Muslim quarter I saw men and women wearing white caps, and women wearing scarves, but outside the supermarket I saw none in the rest of Xi'an. Cathryn told us that there been a riot at the university recently between Muslim and Han students, and the restaurants in the Muslim quarter had been closed for a while as a result. Later I read that the glitzy new McDonald's, a marble temple to fast food in the main square, was bombed in December 2001.
In 629 C.E. the monk Xuan Zang set out from Xi'an in search of the original texts of Buddhist theology, headed for India. His epic 16-year journey was ultimately successful, and the Big Goose Pagoda was built to house the texts he brought back, along with the 1,335 volumes of Chinese translations. A new building behind the often restored and expanded pagoda contains a massive wood carving depicting the journey. (Richard Bernstein, N. Y. Times book critic, recently followed in Xuan Zang's footsteps, although he managed it in rather less than 16 years. "Ultimate Journey" was the result. He uses an older transliteration of the monk's name, Hsuan Tsang, equally difficult to pronounce.) The pagoda is 210 feet high and given the heat and the extra cost to climb up, I decided to admire the building from below.
Buddhism flourished along the Silk Road for centuries, but was ultimately displaced by Islam. Heading west into Xinjiang province we would move from Han Chinese lands to territories occupied by the Uyghurs and other Muslim minorities. Chinese authority has waxed and waned in this area, and is often resented today -- in September 2002 the U.S. classified one of the Uyghur separatist groups as terrorists. The Great Mosque, just inside the old walls, was notable for two things: a great sense of peace -- even when invaded by a German tour group, the courtyards remained serene -- and a strong Chinese influence. Pillars and pagodas bore Chinese rather than Arabic calligraphy, walls were decorated with carvings of dragons and trees, and some roofs even displayed fading blue tiles, the Chinese symbol of heaven. I couldn't help noticing that although industrious gardeners maintained the grounds, the buildings were sadly in need of renovation.
The elaborate main gate to the Temple of the Eight Great Immortals led to a pedestrian street devoted to commerce. Open shop fronts displayed brightly painted china statues, bird cages hung from their eaves, and books, jade and old coins were spread neatly on the ground. The inner gate, flanked by red columns and the yin and yang sign, was less elaborate. Within the gates I felt coiled power rather than serenity as I watched clouds of smoke rising from the incense burners. A highly photogenic Taoist monk, his black top knot circled by a white scarf, unfortunately declined the opportunity to be photomingraphed.
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