Today, February 4th, is the anniversary of the so-called ‘Battle of the Camel’, the decisive turning point of the Revolution of January 25th, when the peaceful democracy protesters in Tahrir were able to beat back a vicious onslaught by pro-Mubarak thugs who attacked them on horseback. A week later, Mubarak resigned. Part of the credit for the push-back against the Mubarak forces went to the ‘ultras’, as the most extreme soccer fanatics are called in Egypt, akin to England’s infamous ‘football hooligans.’
Today, a year later, the soccer ultras are being blamed for a massacre on a football field in the town of Port Said on the Suez Canal; but the real question is, who put them up to inciting a riot? And the even greater outrage now debated in the extraordinary session of Parliament and everywhere in Egypt is this: why did the security forces stand by while Egyptians killed Egyptians? Why the lapses in security from the beginning, not only in the case of this soccer match, but in several suspicious incidents over the past week, and indeed the past month?
In the minds of even the least conspiracy-minded of Egyptians, one answer is inevitable: at the very moment when there is the most pressure to abrogate the loathed ‘emergency laws’ under which Mubarak ruled for thirty years, and now the SCAF rules with complete unaccountability- at that very moment, the incidents of suspicious random violence are multiplying. It is hard to escape the conclusion that the climate is being created in which the SCAF can claim that the people are fed up with the insecurity in the country and are calling for a return to the heavy-handed tactics of the police and the military.
Writing about the Nasser era in my first novel a decade ago, I had said that in Egypt, soccer rivalries replaced party politics in a country with a monolithic single-party regime that prohibited any expression of political opinion. In today’s post-revolutionary Egypt, the airwaves buzz with political debate and party politics are hotly contested at the ballot box and in the media. But at what price freedom? How do you explain the spectacle of Egyptians killing each other on a soccer field for no apparent reason? One year from the day when outrage against the thuggish tactics of the Mubarak loyalists united Egyptians behind the protesters in Tahrir Square, united them young and old, Muslim and Copt, secular and religious, ultras and ulamas; one year from that hope-filled day, Egypt’s Revolution seems to have gone terribly wrong.

Tahrir Today, the first anniversary. I was there, along with so many people I met whom I knew, famous writers, major businessmen, doctors, professors. An immense crowd, at least as big as February 4th, and the same spirit: determined but cheerful and peaceful. Men, women and children, many young people, a diverse crowd, from all walks of life, from the most privileged to the most underprivileged; many secular young liberals, no harassment of women in spite of the dense crowd. The Muslim Brotherhood, if they were there, kept a low profile. No checking of I.D.'s. The difference from a year ago: the chants of "Down with the rule of the Military!" instead of "Down with Mubarak!" Actually, the word used, "Askar" is closer to "Militia."

Egypt’s Revolution : First Anniversary, Part I

So you had a revolution…and now, you have the first democratically-elected parliament in sixty years. Today was the day when the new parliament was seated, and all of Egypt watched the spectacle in the hemi-circle parliament hall as newly-elected candidates stood up to take the oath of office- or didn’t. One presumably Salafi representative tried to put his own spin on the oath, which requires him to respect the republican system and the constitution. He was finally prevailed upon to read the oath as written, and the proceedings carried on smoothly from that point on.
So what does this new post-revolution parliament look like? As expected, there was a predominance of Muslim Brotherhood, stocky men in business suits, their facial hair neatly trimmed; but also the typical thin, long-bearded fundamentalist Salafis in robes; also a sprinkling of exotic men in red fezzes and odd dress, presumably Sufis. Then there were the sleek, clean-shaven representatives from the liberal parties, and the de rigeur fifty percent quota of ‘peasants and workers’, as per the existing constitution. Women were few; a cluster of them sat together front and center, in a rainbow of pastel hijabs: mauve, pink, blue.
For the liberal movements, as for the young revolutionaries who paid the price for this free election with blood and tears, the spectacle is bitter-sweet. They paid the price but saw the prize seized by the Islamist currents that had initially sat out the protests. But a young artist I spoke to yesterday at the opening of an exhibition at a gallery in Zamalek seemed to be optimistic. I was arrested by his large-scale painting of a woman lying on the ground, violated and near-naked, pain and dignity in her face; next to her on the ground were a riot police helmet and truncheon. The message was clear: the woman in the painting stood for all the women assaulted by the police and army since the revolution began.

The young artist in a black beret, an activist member of the new Tahrir Party, was not worried. “The Muslim Brotherhood will have to be pragmatic in office- the problems they are facing, economic especially, are so huge in scale that they will need all the allies they can get to spread the responsibility around. And in a year or two, at the next elections, we’ll be ready. We’ll claim our revolution.”

It's rather disconcerting, being in Cairo these days. I imagine it must be like looking through bifocal glasses: close up, daily life carries on as usual, the social and cultural calendar as busy as ever; but in the bigger picture, every day brings 'fresh alarms', and the current crisis in the country is the sole topic of conversation, whether at dinner or lunch invitations; over tea on the Marriott Promenade; trying out new flavors of macaroons at the competing patisseries in Zamalek (mango at Fauchon and Earl Grey at Tortina); strolling around gallery exhibition openings; at book launches; power-walking around the jogging track at the Gezira Club.

There is a sense of an impending crisis to mark the milestone first anniversary of the January 25th Revolution. There are those who predict popular outrage if Mubarak is let off his trial without a guilty verdict, but almost no one who expects the actual death penalty called for by the prosecutor, and even fewer who would condone it.
Conspiracy theories are encouraged by the seeming collusion between the Scylla and Charybdis of the Muslim Brotherhood and the Military. At a book discussion yesterday attended by the author, Bahaa Taher, whom I'd met when sharing a panel a couple of years earlier, that was the scenario that dominated the discussion. Taher himself in no way underestimated the strength, organization, and professionalism of the Muslim Brotherhood, but he warned against taking their ostensibly moderate views at face value, recalling their history of international ambitions and ulterior motives. As for the Salafis, as one woman shuddered, "what they would like to establish in Egypt is Saudi Arabia without the oil."
There is some self-reproach but a great deal of frustration among women like her- the educated, privileged, secular elite- about their inability to compete with the Muslim Brotherhood in offering the kind of social services- educational, medical- that have bought the MB their support at the voting booth.
Meantime, life carries on in Cairo, but the outlying provinces, and especially the highways leading to them, are riskier to venture into. The Sinai in particular; St Catherine's Monastery, once a tourist mecca for international and Egyptian visitors alike, is a ghost town.
Ominously, the best and brightest young people, those with the most expensive educations and international experience, are starting to leave the country. But it's hard to blame them, when the latest scandal in the domestic media is the shocking political brainwashing cropping up in this year's middle school mid-term exams: "Write an essay on the great role played by the Supreme Military Council in recent events," runs one essay topic. "Write a letter of congratulations to the Muslim Brotherhood Party on their electoral victory," runs another. "Conjugate: the Revolutionaries have destroyed the country," runs a grammar exercise.

January 25th risks being the day the idealists of a year ago come back to Tahrir one more time to take back their revolution.

The day before, there had been thousands of people demonstrating against the brutal stripping and beating of women protesters at the hands of the Military Police. But on Saturday, when I went to Tahrir Square for the first time since March of this year, it was quiet and somewhat bedraggled: tattered flag banners ringed the remnants of a tent city served by makeshift stands selling tea or roast corn on the cob. Of the people lounging around, not all looked like young protesters; there were some older men in farmer garb and some who looked like homeless vagrants. There wasn't a policeman in sight, but car traffic circled around the square unimpeded under the direction of Tahrir civilian volunteers.
Earlier that week clashes had resulted in several deaths and scores of injured demonstrators calling for an end to the military power grab and an immediate transition to civilian rule. It must be a bitter irony to the young liberals who spilled their blood for that cause that those who stood to gain most by their sacrifice- the Islamist parties- had been conspicuously absent from the struggle. A transition to civilian rule would inevitably mean handing over power to a parliament dominated by the Muslim Brotherhood who, together with the Salafis as a junior partner, have won the first two rounds of elections by a landslide.
There is that sense in Egypt today, of a revolution hijacked, gone awry. Some people shake their heads, speak of a lost generation, of emigration, if not for them, then for their children. Things will get worse before they get better, they say.
The anxiety over the economic crisis is the most acute and pervasive. A stark case in point is the Mena House Oberoi, the landmark hotel where world leaders once held meetings against the stupendous backdrop of the Giza pyramids. I had lunch there today, and it was sadly empty of guests: the vast expanse of hotel reception rooms and restaurants with their gorgeous Mamluke-style wood paneling and coffered ceilings, the pools, the annexes under construction, all empty but for a handful of tourists. Seeing me look around nostalgically at the familiar landmarks of one of the fabled hotels of my youth, the eager-to-please staff offered to show me the Churchill suite; they hope against hope for better days. But we all know that with some Salafi spokesmen spewing the most ignorant and prejudiced propositions imaginable on the media, the tourists were keeping away in droves.
A final incident comes to mind. On the way to the hotel via the Pyramids Road, traffic was so bad that we decided to try an alternate route on the way back- the 6th October Axis bypass. In the middle of the fast-moving traffic on the busy highway, an accident occurred. The engine of the car involved was spewing smoke, and the man in the car looked in imminent danger of the engine blowing up. While we were trying to figure out how to call the police, we saw a man on a passing bus leap off and rush to the aid of the trapped motorist, smashing the window to open the jammed car door. Hard on his heels came two other rescuers. All three of the Good Samaritans sported the typical Islamist beard.

My interview with Frank Stasio of NPR's State of Things runs today at noon U.S. East coast time. Frank will be asking about the state of Egypt today. In the week since I've been in Cairo unsettling events have cascaded one after the other.

At a recent reading, I am seated right next to the cartoon effigy of Daniel Wallace....

Hosni Mubarak ruled Egypt for thirty years under emergency powers with the justification of ‘après moi le deluge’, an argument that played better in the West than at home. He presented his military-backed regime as the sole bulwark against the flood waters of fundamentalist Islam. Never mind that, in effect, he was making the prophecy come true: by ruthlessly repressing legitimate opposition and emasculating secular parties, he left the field clear to the underground opposition of the Muslim Brotherhood; by supporting the unbridled greed of a narrow elite while ignoring the misery of the majority of the population, he left the door wide open for the Brotherhood to fill the tremendous gap in social services. For years, the Brotherhood accumulated good will, trust, and name recognition. When the revolution broke out on January 25th, the Islamists initially held back, letting the young progressives fight the good fight, perhaps as much out of calculation as prudence: their presence in the field in the early days would have allowed Mubarak to damn the uprising as ‘radical Islamist.’
And when the revolution succeeded, the Muslim Brotherhood were ready, the only organized party in a field of fragmented, chaotic, leaderless, secular start-up movements. This came as no surprise, but the unexpected took the form of the seemingly sudden emergence of a hitherto obscure sect who called themselves the Salafis, asserting a fundamentalist approach at odds with the Brotherhood’s moderate stance.
At the polls, the first-time voter- and all Egyptians are first-time voters, after sixty years of single-party rule and single-candidate presidential ‘referendums’- the first time voter was faced with a bewildering choice of deliberate complications: independent lists, proportional representation lists, a plethora of unfamiliar parties and candidates, an electoral sheet that would have baffled a nuclear scientist- in a county where thirty percent of the electorate is functionally illiterate. The election sheets actually featured dozens of random icons like a basketball or sunglasses to identify the parties for those who could not read the names. Not only is there no literacy test for eligibility to vote, there is a Nasser-era mandate that requires 50% of the seats in Parliament to be held by ‘peasants and workers.’ Is it any wonder that the hordes of the illiterate, downtrodden and newly enfranchised citizens wielded their vote in favor of the familiar name of the Muslim Brotherhood candidate?
So now the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces is makes its power grab with the stern threat of their version of Mubarak’s conundrum: It’s the Military or the Islamists. The new constitution, according to the SCAF, will reserve supra-constitutional powers to the military and remove them from civilian scrutiny or control. No longer behind the scenes, the military will directly appoint the Prime Minister.
So what is the torn Egyptian liberal progressive to do? Uphold the principal of democracy even if it means letting the revolution he bled and died for be co-opted by an overwhelming Islamist majority government? Or endorse the military power grab as a secular counterbalance? Either way, his revolution has been hijacked: his choice is between the junta or the mullah.
There are two potential scenarios: an Islamic-leaning party wins in parliament, but proves to be a moderate and even competent custodian of the country’s economic and social good, as in Turkey and in Indonesia after Suharto’s fall. In the other scenario, Western powers intervene to nullify election results favorable to an Islamic party, as in Algeria, leading to a decade of unspeakably bloody civil war.
The Egyptian liberal prays for the first scenario, but knows that he must avoid the second at all costs.

The first inkling, for many of us in Cairo last February, was the sinister text messages that appeared on our cell phones. I remember my eighty year old mother calling me in alarm: “The military forces are sending me SMS (as text messages are referred to in Egypt) to tell me to go home and observe the peace.” I checked my own telephone and found the same unbidden message from ‘Egypt’s Armed Forces.’ They had apparently commandeered the country’s mobile servers to reach every subscriber with their stern warnings. It was the first indication that Mubarak was only nominally still in power, and that the Armed Forces were in de facto command.

The Big Brother moment was chilling. But that was back during the honeymoon period with the military, when they were seen as protectors of the people from the abuses of the police and the thugs of the Mubarak regime. When the deposed president’s helicopter finally took to the skies on February 11th, bearing him away from Cairo, the military were credited with having given him the final ultimatum. In the days that followed, the SMS messages continued to pop up in our cell phone message boxes with directives to ‘go back to work, go back to school’. Now they were signed ‘the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces’, a title ominously shortened to ‘the Supreme’ in Arabic newspaper headlines and given the acronym SCAF in English.

Even at the zenith of the military’s popularity with the people during the revolution, there were many, including me, who were skeptical that the generals, once they were in full control, would ever cede power again. After all, I grew up with the bitter legacy of a family devastated by an earlier ‘revolution’- the coup d’état of the colonels that deposed the king in 1952. What followed was sixty years of dictatorship by one military man after the other, Nasser to Sadat to Mubarak, backed by an all-powerful military-industrial complex. If July 23rd 1952 was a coup that later claimed to be a revolution, then January 25th 2011 had the potential of turning from a genuine people’s revolution into a silent coup by the generals. To many of my mother’s generation, it was déjà vu: it was revolution redux.

Today, nine months later, the worst fears are confirmed. Ahead of the first potentially free parliamentary elections, the SCAF seeks to arrogate supra-constitutional powers for itself and entrench its immense privileges and economic clout. The Armed Forces are squashing free speech and dissent with as heavy a hand as the reviled police ever wielded.

So it is time for the demonstrators to take to the squares again, in Tahrir, in Alexandria, and elsewhere around the country. Their courage, or their desperation, is nothing short of breathtaking. Particularly since, this time, the Muslim Brotherhood has abstained from joining in the protests, leaving the liberals and the students to battle the toxic gas and the bullets alone. In colluding with the military, the leaders of the Muslim Brotherhood have betrayed their ruthless electoral ambitions and discredited themselves in the eyes of a large part of the population, including some of their own younger rank and file who joined the protests in defiance of directives to abstain.

The only predictable outcome of this second wave of protests with its rapidly rising body count is the postponement of Monday’s scheduled parliamentary elections. The liberals, for want of a better name for a faceless, leaderless and fragmented movement- the liberals welcome this outcome: if the election had gone ahead, returning a Muslim Brotherhood majority and entrenching the military’s supra-constitutional powers, the last chance for a civilian, democratic government would have been lost. The door might have clanged shut for another sixty years, and all the blood and sacrifice would have been to exchange one autocracy for a more authoritarian and sinister one. It remains to be seen what can be salvaged of the ideals of January 25th, and if a chaos-weary public and a crippled economy can withstand another trial by fire.

As one of five editors, I am very excited about the just-launched South Writ Large online magazine of Stories, Arts, and Idea. It explores the South as state of mind, linking the U.S. 'South' with the Global 'South' in an increasingly connected world. An outgrowth of the meetings at UNC-Chapel Hill of a dynamic multidisciplinary group of writers, psychologists, artists, anthropologists, political figures and more, the magazine has been years in conception and a year in gestation. The first issue of the quarterly South Writ Large takes the theme of 'Raised to Leave' as its focus, with provocative essays from such diverse voices as Lee Smith and Roy Blount; stunning photography; an audio reading by myself; and much more. Take a look!

Sunday 16 to Friday 21st
Xian: the Warriors; Guilin: Joie de vivre and Rice Paddies; Shanghai: Irrational Exuberance; Beijing Airport: Traveler's Worst Nightmare Scenario

From Xian on the bus for the hour-long ride outside the city walls to the site of the discovery of the Terra Cotta Warriors. The museum is a vast complex built on a large esplanade with three main halls representing the three ‘pits’ in which the fragments of the 7000 lifesize terra cotta warriors and horses buried two thousand years ago were discovered by a peasant in 1974. The existing warriors on show were pieced and glued together for the exhibition. I found it somewhat disappointing, perhaps because I had in mind the colossal statues of Upper Egypt, three thousand years older than the small warriors of Xian.
We had lunch in the museum restaurant, which featured a chef hand-stretching noodles from fresh dough as easily as a pizza chef tosses pizza dough. Some of the other offerings on the buffet were dodgier, including ‘roast bowel with eggs’.
By the time we got back to the hotel we had barely 30 minutes to shower and dress up for a gala dinner and theatre show, but it was worth the scramble: we had a sumptuous Dim Sum banquet at a fancy restaurant with hostesses dressed up in fantastic headdresses. The walnut-filled dim sum, cunningly shaped like walnuts, and the bean paste purses, were my favorite on a seemingly endless succession of delicious varieties.
Outside the restaurant two glamorous policewomen in miniskirts and white Courreges style boots stood on platforms, rigid as statues.
We arrived just before the lights went out for the program to start at the theatre, where we sat around tables and had coffee or wine while the show went on stage. Astounding costumes, lightning costume changes and scenery changes, special effects from rain to fog, lights, action, singing, dancing, a tremendous show that left us breathless.
Our guide Mark had explained that when someone comes to a city, he is served noodles, as a sign of a long stretched out stay, and when he leaves, Dim Sum, so it was appropriate that our last night in Xian was a dim sum banquet.


Monday October 17
The next morning we visited the city wall surrounding Xian, where we had interesting vistas contrasting the new ultramodern city with the ancient, and where in the distance we could see high-density projects with shockingly high buildings going up for the working class.
Our Duke host gave us a talk on the Vietnam war at the city hotel followed by a Mongolian hot pot lunch, where we were each given a small pot of boiling broth over a Bunsen burner and dipped small slices of raw meat or mostly vegetable into the water just long enough to cook it and fish it out again to eat. Very light, and a change, though not nearly as good as the ones I’ve had before.
In the afternoon we visited the mosque in Xian, which is home to 100,000 Muslims, apparently one of the largest communities. Those people came with the opening of the Silk Road in the early second century AD, according to Mark, although he refers to them as Muslims and of course in 200 AD there was no Islam and therefore they may have been Arab but not Muslim. Later they went with Ghenghis Khan on his campaigns and then returned to China, so they are called the ‘returned’ people or Uighurs. Of course he mentioned nothing of the tensions surrounding that community.
There are four mosques in China worth visiting. I was curious to see the architecture compared to the mosques I’ve seen around the world, but the Xian mosque is by far the most exotic, entirely in the pagoda style, with nothing remotely suggesting a mosque other than the Arabic inscriptions on one or two walls: ‘temples are the houses of the pious’, I deciphered on one. There are several pagoda style buildings in a succession of courtyards culminating in a large hall that is the prayer area and is closed to non-worshippers. There are traces of blue paint on the roof and Mark tells us that blue is a royal color in China but that the emperor at the time made a concession allowing the mosque roof to be painted blue in part as a sign of favor.
The one thing the mosque seemed to have in common with other mosques is a sense of stillness, of quiet, especially compared to the overwhelming busyness and sensory overload of Buddhist temples where every inch is decorated and gilded and the hum and crowding and incense are an integral part of the experience. There are wash rooms, too, our guide told us, and although I didn’t try them out myself, my husband did and found them impeccable.
Mark also told us that Muslims, like other minorities, are allowed to have more than one child, but that Muslim children are kept in separate schools because, ostensibly, they do not eat pork and cannot have school lunch with other Chinese children. I wonder how that excuse would go down with our Jewish friends in the US, or if the Chinese government does not realize how segregating minority children precludes socializing them.
We were then given free time to visit ‘the Muslim street’, which is basically the same as any other commercial bazaar in China, with the same goods, so-called pashminas, table runners, silk scarves, embroidered cushion covers, etc. and the same look to the salespeople, with only a handful of veiled women in sight, and those seem to be tourists from Malaysia. I bought a few souvenirs and then went to have Hagen Daz ice cream, at $5 a scoop, in the square outside. There were some delicious looking big red dates in baskets on the fruit stands, wonderful looking fruit in general in China, including gigantic grapefruit and pears, but I didn’t dare buy any.
Our guide Mark had warned us to beware of pickpockets in ‘the Muslim street’ but there were none, and in fact I was surprised at the lack of pressure on the part of salespeople. Very different, from my experience in Cairo or Istanbul or elsewhere where you are solicited at every corner.
Another woman in the group had another observation. “It’s odd that the people here don’t make eye contact, the men don’t harass you at all.“ She had been travelling alone, a vibrant woman with long reddish hair who looked a decade younger than her avowed fifty years. She had been having trouble with the food, and been out of things for a while, and seemed generally to sit alone, although she gave me the impression of doing so by choice. I was surprised when she told me that afternoon in Xian that she was thinking of going home. She wasn't enjoying herself, she was homesick, she couldn’t eat the food, China wasn’t what she expected. I didn’t want to probe, or to ask what her expectations had been; or her reasons for traveling alone when she apparently had young children at home that she missed. But I tried to encourage her to stay for the remaining three days. I could see, though, that she was ‘mal dans sa peau’, as the French say, on this trip, and it was too late to change that. Perhaps she came to China in the wrong frame of mind, or perhaps she didn’t find in the group a clique that was a comfortable fit, and wanted to keep aloof from the ‘salon des refuses.’ Sad, because I’m sure many people would have welcomed the opportunity to know her better.
Back on the bus for the airport at Xian, crowded and noisy. Had a quick meal at the airport restaurant, not bad per se, in fact most people ate it, but I was not in the mood for it and just had fruit. Crowded flight to Guilin, plenty of Flemish and other tourists.

Part V: Guilin: Joie de Vivre and Rice Paddies
Guilin reminds me immediately of Egypt, something about the vegetation, the climate, the Li River running through it, the shaded board walks along the river banks, the liveliness of the street life late in the evening, with people sitting at cafes or strolling around, the shops open, bright lights everywhere. Also, on the side alleys on our way to town from the airport, the dingy little mechanic’s shops and small houses with laundry hanging from the windows.
Our Sheraton Hotel is right on the river bank in the nicest part of town, with a wide lobby and high atrium, and we are happy to check into our impeccable rooms, with tub as well as shower, and French press coffee pot. The hotel seems exclusively occupied by Westerners, as do all the restaurants we are to eat in while in Guilin. Apparently this is a very popular tourist destination, and moreover 100,000 foreigners have made their homes here according to our guide.

Tuesday October 18
In the morning, along the river bank, you see the locals in great number taking exercise in the warm morning air, not so much traditional Tai Chi as variations with paddles, with swords, and especially ‘Western’ dancing to loud speakers. Others seem to be using the monkey bars and other equipment that I would have thought were children’s playground objects. There is a sense of laissez vivre in this town that I find very pleasant, almost French style joie de vivre.
On the other hand, even in this resort city, traffic moves briskly, on scooters, in cars. China is a country on the move, and the flaneurs during the day are rare, apart from the retired.
We take the bus for a 60 kilometer drive to Gongshuo, a river town from which we will board the ferry for our four hour cruise on the river Li. We are on the lower deck of the boat with a party of Flemish tourists, whereas the Asian tourists seem to have congregated on the upper deck. It is quite warm but there is a breeze on the open deck and inside the air conditioning keeps things pleasant. The Li is much narrower and more shallow than I imagined- for some reason I must have had the Luxor-Aswan cruise in mind- and the Li is flanked by high, vegetation-covered limestone hills on each side. The typical Chinese print landscape, we are advised by our local guide Jo, is the Li river with the gorges in the background and a water buffalo and a cormorant fisherman in the foreground. That is the scene depicted on the 20 Yuan bill.
Our guide, Jo, a thirty something who looks twenty, is a skinny young man with a backpack and a phone earpiece who speaks perfect English in a way-cool voice. His offhand demeanor when he tries to quiz the group on what they know about Guilin grates on one person who rather pointedly quips back that we are paying him precisely to tell us about Guilin.
That he does, but rather in the detached, cool way of Miss Panda back in Chengdu, and I wonder if that is a generational gap, in comparison to the impassioned, personally intimate outreach of our two forty-something guides, Wally and Mark.
The cruise is relaxed but not boring. We slip along, crossing many other boats. The water buffalo are less big and bony than the ones in Egypt. Lunch is an interesting mix of which I partake only the angel food and watermelon dessert; I brought along a pain au chocolat from breakfast. The restroom situation is probably the most challenging of this entire three weeks, and that unfortunately colors my memory of the cruise.
We get off at the tourist town of Guongjo and wander around the market stalls. It costs 5 Yuan for a photo with a fisherman carrying a stick on which two large black cormorant are perched. The old man is so skinny and deformed that it is more than worth it. Apparently a trained fishing cormorant is so valuable that it might cost more than a water buffalo. It is trained to fish but not to swallow the fish, rather to spit it out to the fisherman.
From the market stalls- where even the KFC has only squat toilets- we take four golf carts- 6 people per golf cart- to visit the rice paddies, about an hour away. The road all the way into the village is entirely paved and smooth. We stop briefly at a rice paddy where the backdrop of the sun dipping behind the black limestone mountains makes for the perfect picture. Then we stop in a village where the rest of the group walks into a house to visit the lifestyle of the locals. I stay in the cart and observe village life on ‘main street.’ There is a female butcher in a polo shirt, jeans and wellington boots who sits behind a meager counter and combs her hair. Our golf cart driver, also a woman, gets out with her white driver’s gloves and handbag and buys some meat or fat from the butcher. A man guts and washes two fish at the tap and sink, followed by a woman who kills, plucks and washes a chicken at the same tap. There is no other running water, apparently, as I see an old woman and a young one carrying heavy pails of water suspended from each end of a stick across their shoulders, exactly like traditional Chinese prints were it not for the incongruous ‘modern’ clothing. Unlike India or Egypt, where peasants still wear traditional dress, the Chinese villagers are dressed in what could pass for western style, except for the ‘coolie’ hat, which I’ve only seen in this part of the country. I still remember the touches of saffron and fuchsia of the Indian peasant women flaming out of the green fields.
The children are coming home from school, very cute and neat-looking, while older people play cards or watch grandchildren; toddlers wear slit underwear.
Finally our group reassembles and we board the golf carts again for the drive back to the town where our bus awaits. Then another hour and a half drive back to Guilin where we shower and change before a five minute walk to a restaurant where we are served one of the better meals of the trip, with pretty place settings and Chinese cuisine more adapted to Western tastes- understandably, as the clientele is Western.
A walk around town after dinner is very pleasant, such an active street life, young people strolling and eating from street stalls or from the ice cream and other western franchises along the street. There were two weddings going on at our Sheraton hotel, and I noticed that although the food seemed lavish the guests were not dressed up. Perhaps after sixty years of communism they did not know how to dress appropriately, but that doesn’t seem a satisfactory explanation. I see people on the street dressed quite extravagantly, including women in miniskirts and fishnet stockings on scooters who, in other cultures, would be assumed to be ‘fast’ to put it mildly.

Wednesday October 19
This morning took a brisk walk at 8 am along the river to watch the locals at their exercise, then went back to pack up and sit down to a very lavish breakfast. The papaya, the persimmons, the dragon fruit, are all so tempting here, and of course the variety of breads and cheeses. There is also Chinese breakfast food, of course, but that is not at all what I want for breakfast.
We leave the hotel around 11:30 for a restaurant where we spend the first hour or so exchanging views on our China experience under the direction of our Duke host. Most people’s impressions were of how Western China was, how impressive, how advanced, how insular the West was in its lack of knowledge of China, but also of the discrepancy between the big cities like Beijing and the rural back country around Guilin. I share some of the same views but my own points of reference are wider, encompassing Egypt and India as well as the US and Europe, and I can see where the role of women in China is different; where parts of Guilin reminded me of Egypt, and Beijing of a cleaner, wider New York. I also focused on China’s foreign policy, and its growing influence in Africa, for instance; even in Egypt, there are Chinese workers.
After lunch, which was good but I could barely touch after such a humongous breakfast, we set off for a tea institute where we attended a tea ceremony which taught us a great deal about the different kinds of tea, their prices, their benefits, their taste. First we were given coolie hats to wear to visit a tea plant garden. The inner shoot of the tea plant is the most precious, used for white tea, which is caffeine free. The two closest leaves make yellow or green tea, again light and low in caffeine, high in anti-oxidants. These teas are not fermented, just dried. Next comes Oolong tea, the highest grade of fermented tea, which is rolled into tiny balls by hand. Next the outer leaves make black tea, or tea-bag tea, which is highly fermented and rolled and chopped. All the leaf picking and curing is done by hand, mostly by women who earn about $15 a day.
The blossom of the tea is used for honey, and the fruit is pressed for ‘tea oil.’
Next we entered the museum to attend the tea ceremony, which involved various tea pots, both clay (good for fermented teas) and porcelain (good for all teas) and a tea tray with a plastic drawer to catch the overflow of tea that is poured over the pots and cups to warm them. The young man who conducted the tea ceremony with such delicacy and dexterity seemed very knowledgeable. We were given tiny tasted of yellow tea- no white, too expensive- which was very pale and sweet; then oolong, which smelled of apricot and was also sweet; and then compressed tea, which is a mixture of teas pressed into cakes that are then used for tea. We were told that good quality loose tea can be used in very small quantities- half a teaspoon per person- and re-used up to five times in the same day and steeped a minute or so more than the original 2 minutes for the first time.
All of which made me appreciate as never before the good tea that our Chinese friends gave us.
Following that we were ushered into the gift shop, where the typical tea mug/pot/strainer combination was on sale for the equivalent of $40 whereas I’ve seen them on sale at Southern Season in Chapel Hill for half that.
But the tea ceremony was a very pleasant interlude, after which we boarded the bus again for the airport, where we sat down to our third meal in 8 hours; I can hardly believe I tasted the chicken strips and the lotus flower root and the soup; some people at my table actually ate very heartily.
Now for Shanghai, our last stop. We’ve saved the best for last.

Part VI: Shanghai: Irrational Exuberance
Thursday, October 20th.
Shanghai’s new airport is huge, brand-new, the bathrooms are luxurious, there is not a squat toilet in sight; it is our first indication that we have left the third world far behind. But the terminal is interminable, and we drag our luggage for miles along corridors and up and down escalators to reach baggage claim and then again to get out to the parking lot.
Shanghai by night as we drive from the hotel to downtown is futuristic and fantastic. The bus whizzes along a maze of spaghetti junction overpasses that float over a neon-lit skyline that looks as if a creative child had been let loose to draw: round pink globes atop needle towers and a staggered building like a stylized cartoon sketch. Everything is new and shiny and humming along smoothly, not a scooter or a bicycle in evidence. The city is still lively at nearly midnight.
Our local guide for the short Shanghai leg of the trip is a young woman called Yolanda with a square face, a bowl cut, and earnest eyeglasses, who greets us with a red flag. Her English is the hardest to follow of any of our guides so far. The bus is a few minutes late, and our Chengdu experience comes to mind, since we will be staying at the same government-run Jin Jiang Hotel chain, but this time around when we arrive at the hotel our room keys are available instantly, and we gratefully repair to our rooms. Late as it is, I wash my hair and go to bed, and in the morning attempt to dry it with the hairdryer in the room, but since the only dryer outlet is under the desk, this requires a contortionist skill I do not possess.
Breakfast is at a civilized hour, since we are given the unprecedented leisure of setting off at 10 am on our tour of the city. Our first stop is the museum, a four-story treasure house of bronze sculptures, ceramics, paintings, calligraphy and more, probably the best general museum in China. According to the dating of some of the artifacts, all civilization begins with the Chinese, a claim disputed by the Indians, the Egyptians and the Mesopotamians. Regardless, there are examples of Bronze Age pottery stunning in imagination, detail and skill, like the cunning bowl topped with life-like yaks, flanked by two handles in the form of tigers attempting to climb up onto the rim of the bowl to get at the yaks.
But I truly lost myself in the ceramics gallery: the purity of the shapes, the delicacy of the design, the sheer eye candy of the celadon, the blanc de Chine, the rose red; the traditional blue and white, so popular in the Islamic world; the over-the-top green, pink and gold; from the tiny pots to the enormous planters and plates, from the horse to the camels, with the wild eyes and straining mouths typical to animal depiction in Chinese art, your eye keeps going back and forth, from astonishment to astonishment. For me, my coup de Coeur, my moments of actual covetousness as opposed to mere aesthetic admiration, came for two pieces, both 18th C: one was a pair of small rose petal pots with delicate lid topped with a golden stopper. I actually found, not a replica, but a piece inspired by them in the gift shop. The other coup de Coeur was for an equestrienne on a horse: the horse so alive, so perfect in proportions, and the lady so dignified, young, beautiful, with a wimple headdress and high-waisted dress reminiscent of early Renaissance women were it not for the fact that she is riding astride, not side-saddle. Her hands are lost in her voluminous sleeves but you can see that she must have been holding reins that did not survive the centuries.
After the museum we are driven to the waterfront, where the Bund, the European quarter of the French concession with its stately fin de siècle buildings, confronts across the river the futuristic new Shanghai with its fantastic skyscrapers, all built over the past thirty years. The boardwalk is alive with tourists taking pictures, an invigorating freshness to the cool air and overcast but clean sky. There are many Westerners in evidence, and quite a few who seem to be living in Shanghai as opposed to merely visiting. Indeed it does seem to be a livable city, at least for those who can afford it, as it is beyond the means of most Chinese, according to the laments of our guide Yolanda.
I get photographed taking by the horns the big bull on the boardwalk. Shanghai is to Beijing as New York is to Washington D.C., apparently; people there are all about money and hypocrisy, according to the guide, who like our other guides seems curiously uninhibited, indeed eager, to give stereotypical regional characterizations of the denizens of each city we visit.
A member of our group, Peter from Durham, points out to us the grand colonial building where his uncle had his business office in the forties. He has visited inside and has even visited the house his uncle rented in town, now an upscale bed and breakfast.
After the visit to the waterfront we go to a Chinese restaurant for lunch, and since it is late we are hungry and eat heartily, although we should be saving our appetites for the special farewell dinner promised for the evening. We walk off our lunch in the Yu Yuan Gardens, which we can only access, according to our guide Yolanda, by walking through small commercial back-alleys lined with cheap souvenir shops. It is a twenty-minute walk to the gardens themselves, in the best Chinese style, Tang dynasty Pagoda style buildings interspersed among the maze of walled gardens with their traditional landscape elements of willows dripping over pools of red carp, small bridges, and rock arrangements. There are interesting details of sculptures on the roofs. The gardens are quite crowded with Chinese locals or visitors, at 40 Yuan the entry ticket.
A long walk back to the bus followed by a tense negotiation when the group realizes that our special restaurant for the farewell dinner this evening lies in the same YuYuan neighborhood and requires the same 20 minute walk through the back alleys. Finally a compromise is reached: the driver will try to deposit us a little closer to the restaurant, although he cannot park there. After a welcome respite in our hotel rooms, we reassemble in the lobby, somewhat dressed up for the evening; I forsake the outfit I had planned, which would have involved a skirt and high heels, for a more practical flat shoes and trousers.
The walk to the restaurant is more pleasant than that earlier in the afternoon; we take an alternative route through a picturesque pagoda-style commercial area, but it is raining and quite muggy. The restaurant itself is quite festive, with an absolutely stunning view over the Shanghai skyline. I am finally ‘excited’, realizing that I am in Shanghai! In China! Not in Chinatown! The dinner is also more elaborate, with some new dishes to discover: rice-stuffed whole duck, for instance. But it is all quite heavy food.
We repair to a private room where our Duke host, Bill, sings a farewell song to ‘Mark’ our guide for the whole trip, in which we all join whole-heartedly. He also presents him with an envelope containing a collective gift from the group. Mark is touched and tells us he will save the donation for his daughter’s education, and that he is encouraging her to eventually attend Duke University if at all possible. There are several people in our group who certainly have some influence over making things possible at Duke. Mark is very popular with the group, particularly, I think, because he speaks fondly and often of his daughter, his wife, his family, and makes fun of himself and of them. Perhaps also because he deprecates China’s power and expresses his admiration for the U.S., quite sincerely, I believe.
Next come the tributes to our Duke host and his wife. Three members of the group sing songs and read poems in his honor, and he responds with his inimitable imitation of JFK’s ‘ask not’ speech.
It is a sentimental, happy and replete group that treks back to the bus, takes a final look at the Shanghai by night skyline, hugs our Duke hosts goodbye in the lobby- they are taking a direct flight to the US later in the evening while the rest of us brace for a 4 a.m. wake-up call to head back to the airport for the long flight home. But this trip is far from over for me, and my worst nightmare is about to come true.

Part VII: Beijing Airport: Traveler's Nightmare Scenario
Friday 21 October
We load onto the bus at 5:30 a.m., some of us well-rested, some, like me, groggy from only a couple of hours sleep. On the bus Mark hands us breakfast boxes, which some people tuck into heartily, and I leave untouched. The ham sandwich I don’t want, the coke can won’t make it past security, but I save the boiled eggs and Danish pastries for later.
We are leaving from the older of Shanghai’s two airports, for the first leg of our long trip: Shanghai to Beijing at 7:55 a.m., Beijing to JFK at 1 pm. By the time we get into New York at about 3 pm local time, we would have been travelling for 19 hours, and then most of us will still be taking connecting flights out of JFK for our final destinations. For me, the connecting flight to Raleigh-Durham should have me back in North Carolina by 10 pm, and with any luck in my own home before midnight Friday, that is, around noon of Saturday in China, where my body clock will be set.
Once our luggage has been checked in and our boarding passes issued, Mark bids us adieu and disappears, and we go through the line for passport check and security. I am asked to open my carry-on bag: the violation turns out to be the small container of yoghurt included in my breakfast box. But the young security man is nice about it; when I ask if I can drink it, he agrees readily, but it’s neither easy nor elegant to drink down yoghurt without a spoon as you stand in a security line.
After security we have a couple of hours to spare and I wander around, looking for a horseshoe-shaped neck-support cushion, looking through the Duty Free shops, visiting the restroom. I prefer to keep moving as I know I will be sitting for hours on end, and also because I am so sleepy that if I sit down I might be overcome. By the time I get back to the gate and find my husband and the other members of the group, our flight is boarding, and I stand in line and think to bring out my boarding pass.
That is when I realize I don’t have my handbag with my boarding pass, my passport, my credit cards, driver’s license, cash- everything. I have been pulling along my carry-on case and slinging my jacket over my shoulder, but my handbag, my all-important handbag, is missing. At first I can hardly believe it, and run back to the last place I sat down to see if I left it there. It isn’t there. I run to the last restroom I used, and check the hooks on the stalls, where I would have hung my bag. It isn’t there. I run back to my husband in line at the boarding gate and ask him to wait for me and rush back like a madwoman to retrace my steps to the Duty Free area. I see one of those airport golf carts and get on but the driver asks me for money and I have not a cent on me; I hop off.
I run on and find two security guards, both young women, and stop them, trying to explain my problem. They don’t understand, and finally walk me to the information desk to explain to the girl behind the desk in a yellow silk outfit. She is sweetly sympathetic but speaks very little English. I am frantic and have a hard time conveying the urgency of the situation: my flight is boarding, I have not a cent or a piece of I.D. on me, and time is being wasted. Either a thief is getting away with my bag, in which case there is no hope, or someone has turned it in, which would be a miracle. I ask the security women and the information clerk over and over to inquire at Lost and Found, or whoever in security is responsible for turning in unattended luggage, but they shake their head and say there is no such thing here. I ask them to call the police; the information girl finally does but five then ten minutes pass and the police do not show up; be patient, she advises me, the police is in another building, it will take a while for theme to come. I ask her to call the boarding gate, E-31, and ask if anyone has turned my bag in there; after all the boarding pass would indicate the flight. I ask them to hold the flight, to contact my husband. But the language barrier is insurmountable. The security women ask me what color the bag is, and I tell them brown, which conveys nothing, so I point to my shoes, but that does not help much. They wander away and leave me at the Information desk, increasingly desperate.
Finally I am resigned to missing my flight, but I need to tell my husband; I ask the information clerk if I can go fetch my husband, and make her promise to keep the police agent at the desk if they show up. I run again like a madwoman back to the gate, and find my husband and run back to the information desk. A young policewoman finally shows up, but by then the two security women have come back and the information clerk is getting busy on the phone in Chinese. They ask me again what color my bag was and I again say brown and they ask: “Coffee?” “Yes, yes, coffee color, dark brown,” I confirm. I hardly dare believe there is a glimmer of hope, but they tell me to go to the boarding gate and wait.
My husband and I head back, this time on a golf cart, as he has cash to pay the 10 Yuan per person, and wait at the gate. In a few moments a woman dressed like airport staff, not security, comes panting up with my bag, and I am so grateful to find my passport, boarding pass, wallet, that I give her a very substantial cash expression of my gratitude. My husband and I board the plane and find our seats; a couple of people in our group who realized what had happened ask me if I found my bag and who had taken it, and I am still too rattled and unsure myself to give a satisfactory answer. I can imagine what would have happened if indeed my husband and I had had to miss the flight; it would have been delayed till our luggage had been pulled off, and that would have meant a considerable delay for the other passengers. As it was, the flight takes off almost on time.
Finally, take-off. A little later, around 2 p.m., we are served lunch, with the pleasant surprise of fruit and yoghurt. I sleep for a while, exhausted with the adrenalin rush and the preceding sleepless night. Then I read, then I write on the computer. It is eight o’clock p.m., Beijing-time, and eight a.m. New York time when we are served our second meal, this time a sandwich. Still six hours to go before we land, and even then, it is not the end of the trip. To be continued.

Sunday 16 to Friday 21st
Xian: the Warriors; Guilin: Joie de vivre and Rice Paddies; Shanghai: Irrational Exuberance; Beijing Airport: Traveler's Worst Nightmare Scenario

From Xian on the bus for the hour-long ride outside the city walls to the site of the discovery of the Terra Cotta Warriors. The museum is a vast complex built on a large esplanade with three main halls representing the three ‘pits’ in which the fragments of the 7000 lifesize terra cotta warriors and horses buried two thousand years ago were discovered by a peasant in 1974. The existing warriors on show were pieced and glued together for the exhibition. I found it somewhat disappointing, perhaps because I had in mind the colossal statues of Upper Egypt, three thousand years older than the small warriors of Xian.
We had lunch in the museum restaurant, which featured a chef hand-stretching noodles from fresh dough as easily as a pizza chef tosses pizza dough. Some of the other offerings on the buffet were dodgier, including ‘roast bowel with eggs’.
By the time we got back to the hotel we had barely 30 minutes to shower and dress up for a gala dinner and theatre show, but it was worth the scramble: we had a sumptuous Dim Sum banquet at a fancy restaurant with hostesses dressed up in fantastic headdresses. The walnut-filled dim sum, cunningly shaped like walnuts, and the bean paste purses, were my favorite on a seemingly endless succession of delicious varieties.
Outside the restaurant two glamorous policewomen in miniskirts and white Courreges style boots stood on platforms, rigid as statues.
We arrived just before the lights went out for the program to start at the theatre, where we sat around tables and had coffee or wine while the show went on stage. Astounding costumes, lightning costume changes and scenery changes, special effects from rain to fog, lights, action, singing, dancing, a tremendous show that left us breathless.
Our guide Mark had explained that when someone comes to a city, he is served noodles, as a sign of a long stretched out stay, and when he leaves, Dim Sum, so it was appropriate that our last night in Xian was a dim sum banquet.


Monday October 17
The next morning we visited the city wall surrounding Xian, where we had interesting vistas contrasting the new ultramodern city with the ancient, and where in the distance we could see high-density projects with shockingly high buildings going up for the working class.
Our Duke host gave us a talk on the Vietnam war at the city hotel followed by a Mongolian hot pot lunch, where we were each given a small pot of boiling broth over a Bunsen burner and dipped small slices of raw meat or mostly vegetable into the water just long enough to cook it and fish it out again to eat. Very light, and a change, though not nearly as good as the ones I’ve had before.
In the afternoon we visited the mosque in Xian, which is home to 100,000 Muslims, apparently one of the largest communities. Those people came with the opening of the Silk Road in the early second century AD, according to Mark, although he refers to them as Muslims and of course in 200 AD there was no Islam and therefore they may have been Arab but not Muslim. Later they went with Ghenghis Khan on his campaigns and then returned to China, so they are called the ‘returned’ people or Uighurs. Of course he mentioned nothing of the tensions surrounding that community.
There are four mosques in China worth visiting. I was curious to see the architecture compared to the mosques I’ve seen around the world, but the Xian mosque is by far the most exotic, entirely in the pagoda style, with nothing remotely suggesting a mosque other than the Arabic inscriptions on one or two walls: ‘temples are the houses of the pious’, I deciphered on one. There are several pagoda style buildings in a succession of courtyards culminating in a large hall that is the prayer area and is closed to non-worshippers. There are traces of blue paint on the roof and Mark tells us that blue is a royal color in China but that the emperor at the time made a concession allowing the mosque roof to be painted blue in part as a sign of favor.
The one thing the mosque seemed to have in common with other mosques is a sense of stillness, of quiet, especially compared to the overwhelming busyness and sensory overload of Buddhist temples where every inch is decorated and gilded and the hum and crowding and incense are an integral part of the experience. There are wash rooms, too, our guide told us, and although I didn’t try them out myself, my husband did and found them impeccable.
Mark also told us that Muslims, like other minorities, are allowed to have more than one child, but that Muslim children are kept in separate schools because, ostensibly, they do not eat pork and cannot have school lunch with other Chinese children. I wonder how that excuse would go down with our Jewish friends in the US, or if the Chinese government does not realize how segregating minority children precludes socializing them.
We were then given free time to visit ‘the Muslim street’, which is basically the same as any other commercial bazaar in China, with the same goods, so-called pashminas, table runners, silk scarves, embroidered cushion covers, etc. and the same look to the salespeople, with only a handful of veiled women in sight, and those seem to be tourists from Malaysia. I bought a few souvenirs and then went to have Hagen Daz ice cream, at $5 a scoop, in the square outside. There were some delicious looking big red dates in baskets on the fruit stands, wonderful looking fruit in general in China, including gigantic grapefruit and pears, but I didn’t dare buy any.
Our guide Mark had warned us to beware of pickpockets in ‘the Muslim street’ but there were none, and in fact I was surprised at the lack of pressure on the part of salespeople. Very different, from my experience in Cairo or Istanbul or elsewhere where you are solicited at every corner.
Another woman in the group had another observation. “It’s odd that the people here don’t make eye contact, the men don’t harass you at all.“ She had been travelling alone, a vibrant woman with long reddish hair who looked a decade younger than her avowed fifty years. She had been having trouble with the food, and been out of things for a while, and seemed generally to sit alone, although she gave me the impression of doing so by choice. I was surprised when she told me that afternoon in Xian that she was thinking of going home. She wasn't enjoying herself, she was homesick, she couldn’t eat the food, China wasn’t what she expected. I didn’t want to probe, or to ask what her expectations had been; or her reasons for traveling alone when she apparently had young children at home that she missed. But I tried to encourage her to stay for the remaining three days. I could see, though, that she was ‘mal dans sa peau’, as the French say, on this trip, and it was too late to change that. Perhaps she came to China in the wrong frame of mind, or perhaps she didn’t find in the group a clique that was a comfortable fit, and wanted to keep aloof from the ‘salon des refuses.’ Sad, because I’m sure many people would have welcomed the opportunity to know her better.
Back on the bus for the airport at Xian, crowded and noisy. Had a quick meal at the airport restaurant, not bad per se, in fact most people ate it, but I was not in the mood for it and just had fruit. Crowded flight to Guilin, plenty of Flemish and other tourists.

Part V: Guilin: Joie de Vivre and Rice Paddies
Guilin reminds me immediately of Egypt, something about the vegetation, the climate, the Li River running through it, the shaded board walks along the river banks, the liveliness of the street life late in the evening, with people sitting at cafes or strolling around, the shops open, bright lights everywhere. Also, on the side alleys on our way to town from the airport, the dingy little mechanic’s shops and small houses with laundry hanging from the windows.
Our Sheraton Hotel is right on the river bank in the nicest part of town, with a wide lobby and high atrium, and we are happy to check into our impeccable rooms, with tub as well as shower, and French press coffee pot. The hotel seems exclusively occupied by Westerners, as do all the restaurants we are to eat in while in Guilin. Apparently this is a very popular tourist destination, and moreover 100,000 foreigners have made their homes here according to our guide.

Tuesday October 18
In the morning, along the river bank, you see the locals in great number taking exercise in the warm morning air, not so much traditional Tai Chi as variations with paddles, with swords, and especially ‘Western’ dancing to loud speakers. Others seem to be using the monkey bars and other equipment that I would have thought were children’s playground objects. There is a sense of laissez vivre in this town that I find very pleasant, almost French style joie de vivre.
On the other hand, even in this resort city, traffic moves briskly, on scooters, in cars. China is a country on the move, and the flaneurs during the day are rare, apart from the retired.
We take the bus for a 60 kilometer drive to Gongshuo, a river town from which we will board the ferry for our four hour cruise on the river Li. We are on the lower deck of the boat with a party of Flemish tourists, whereas the Asian tourists seem to have congregated on the upper deck. It is quite warm but there is a breeze on the open deck and inside the air conditioning keeps things pleasant. The Li is much narrower and more shallow than I imagined- for some reason I must have had the Luxor-Aswan cruise in mind- and the Li is flanked by high, vegetation-covered limestone hills on each side. The typical Chinese print landscape, we are advised by our local guide Jo, is the Li river with the gorges in the background and a water buffalo and a cormorant fisherman in the foreground. That is the scene depicted on the 20 Yuan bill.
Our guide, Jo, a thirty something who looks twenty, is a skinny young man with a backpack and a phone earpiece who speaks perfect English in a way-cool voice. His offhand demeanor when he tries to quiz the group on what they know about Guilin grates on one person who rather pointedly quips back that we are paying him precisely to tell us about Guilin.
That he does, but rather in the detached, cool way of Miss Panda back in Chengdu, and I wonder if that is a generational gap, in comparison to the impassioned, personally intimate outreach of our two forty-something guides, Wally and Mark.
The cruise is relaxed but not boring. We slip along, crossing many other boats. The water buffalo are less big and bony than the ones in Egypt. Lunch is an interesting mix of which I partake only the angel food and watermelon dessert; I brought along a pain au chocolat from breakfast. The restroom situation is probably the most challenging of this entire three weeks, and that unfortunately colors my memory of the cruise.
We get off at the tourist town of Guongjo and wander around the market stalls. It costs 5 Yuan for a photo with a fisherman carrying a stick on which two large black cormorant are perched. The old man is so skinny and deformed that it is more than worth it. Apparently a trained fishing cormorant is so valuable that it might cost more than a water buffalo. It is trained to fish but not to swallow the fish, rather to spit it out to the fisherman.
From the market stalls- where even the KFC has only squat toilets- we take four golf carts- 6 people per golf cart- to visit the rice paddies, about an hour away. The road all the way into the village is entirely paved and smooth. We stop briefly at a rice paddy where the backdrop of the sun dipping behind the black limestone mountains makes for the perfect picture. Then we stop in a village where the rest of the group walks into a house to visit the lifestyle of the locals. I stay in the cart and observe village life on ‘main street.’ There is a female butcher in a polo shirt, jeans and wellington boots who sits behind a meager counter and combs her hair. Our golf cart driver, also a woman, gets out with her white driver’s gloves and handbag and buys some meat or fat from the butcher. A man guts and washes two fish at the tap and sink, followed by a woman who kills, plucks and washes a chicken at the same tap. There is no other running water, apparently, as I see an old woman and a young one carrying heavy pails of water suspended from each end of a stick across their shoulders, exactly like traditional Chinese prints were it not for the incongruous ‘modern’ clothing. Unlike India or Egypt, where peasants still wear traditional dress, the Chinese villagers are dressed in what could pass for western style, except for the ‘coolie’ hat, which I’ve only seen in this part of the country. I still remember the touches of saffron and fuchsia of the Indian peasant women flaming out of the green fields.
The children are coming home from school, very cute and neat-looking, while older people play cards or watch grandchildren; toddlers wear slit underwear.
Finally our group reassembles and we board the golf carts again for the drive back to the town where our bus awaits. Then another hour and a half drive back to Guilin where we shower and change before a five minute walk to a restaurant where we are served one of the better meals of the trip, with pretty place settings and Chinese cuisine more adapted to Western tastes- understandably, as the clientele is Western.
A walk around town after dinner is very pleasant, such an active street life, young people strolling and eating from street stalls or from the ice cream and other western franchises along the street. There were two weddings going on at our Sheraton hotel, and I noticed that although the food seemed lavish the guests were not dressed up. Perhaps after sixty years of communism they did not know how to dress appropriately, but that doesn’t seem a satisfactory explanation. I see people on the street dressed quite extravagantly, including women in miniskirts and fishnet stockings on scooters who, in other cultures, would be assumed to be ‘fast’ to put it mildly.

Wednesday October 19
This morning took a brisk walk at 8 am along the river to watch the locals at their exercise, then went back to pack up and sit down to a very lavish breakfast. The papaya, the persimmons, the dragon fruit, are all so tempting here, and of course the variety of breads and cheeses. There is also Chinese breakfast food, of course, but that is not at all what I want for breakfast.
We leave the hotel around 11:30 for a restaurant where we spend the first hour or so exchanging views on our China experience under the direction of our Duke host. Most people’s impressions were of how Western China was, how impressive, how advanced, how insular the West was in its lack of knowledge of China, but also of the discrepancy between the big cities like Beijing and the rural back country around Guilin. I share some of the same views but my own points of reference are wider, encompassing Egypt and India as well as the US and Europe, and I can see where the role of women in China is different; where parts of Guilin reminded me of Egypt, and Beijing of a cleaner, wider New York. I also focused on China’s foreign policy, and its growing influence in Africa, for instance; even in Egypt, there are Chinese workers.
After lunch, which was good but I could barely touch after such a humongous breakfast, we set off for a tea institute where we attended a tea ceremony which taught us a great deal about the different kinds of tea, their prices, their benefits, their taste. First we were given coolie hats to wear to visit a tea plant garden. The inner shoot of the tea plant is the most precious, used for white tea, which is caffeine free. The two closest leaves make yellow or green tea, again light and low in caffeine, high in anti-oxidants. These teas are not fermented, just dried. Next comes Oolong tea, the highest grade of fermented tea, which is rolled into tiny balls by hand. Next the outer leaves make black tea, or tea-bag tea, which is highly fermented and rolled and chopped. All the leaf picking and curing is done by hand, mostly by women who earn about $15 a day.
The blossom of the tea is used for honey, and the fruit is pressed for ‘tea oil.’
Next we entered the museum to attend the tea ceremony, which involved various tea pots, both clay (good for fermented teas) and porcelain (good for all teas) and a tea tray with a plastic drawer to catch the overflow of tea that is poured over the pots and cups to warm them. The young man who conducted the tea ceremony with such delicacy and dexterity seemed very knowledgeable. We were given tiny tasted of yellow tea- no white, too expensive- which was very pale and sweet; then oolong, which smelled of apricot and was also sweet; and then compressed tea, which is a mixture of teas pressed into cakes that are then used for tea. We were told that good quality loose tea can be used in very small quantities- half a teaspoon per person- and re-used up to five times in the same day and steeped a minute or so more than the original 2 minutes for the first time.
All of which made me appreciate as never before the good tea that our Chinese friends gave us.
Following that we were ushered into the gift shop, where the typical tea mug/pot/strainer combination was on sale for the equivalent of $40 whereas I’ve seen them on sale at Southern Season in Chapel Hill for half that.
But the tea ceremony was a very pleasant interlude, after which we boarded the bus again for the airport, where we sat down to our third meal in 8 hours; I can hardly believe I tasted the chicken strips and the lotus flower root and the soup; some people at my table actually ate very heartily.
Now for Shanghai, our last stop. We’ve saved the best for last.

Part VI: Shanghai: Irrational Exuberance
Thursday, October 20th.
Shanghai’s new airport is huge, brand-new, the bathrooms are luxurious, there is not a squat toilet in sight; it is our first indication that we have left the third world far behind. But the terminal is interminable, and we drag our luggage for miles along corridors and up and down escalators to reach baggage claim and then again to get out to the parking lot.
Shanghai by night as we drive from the hotel to downtown is futuristic and fantastic. The bus whizzes along a maze of spaghetti junction overpasses that float over a neon-lit skyline that looks as if a creative child had been let loose to draw: round pink globes atop needle towers and a staggered building like a stylized cartoon sketch. Everything is new and shiny and humming along smoothly, not a scooter or a bicycle in evidence. The city is still lively at nearly midnight.
Our local guide for the short Shanghai leg of the trip is a young woman called Yolanda with a square face, a bowl cut, and earnest eyeglasses, who greets us with a red flag. Her English is the hardest to follow of any of our guides so far. The bus is a few minutes late, and our Chengdu experience comes to mind, since we will be staying at the same government-run Jin Jiang Hotel chain, but this time around when we arrive at the hotel our room keys are available instantly, and we gratefully repair to our rooms. Late as it is, I wash my hair and go to bed, and in the morning attempt to dry it with the hairdryer in the room, but since the only dryer outlet is under the desk, this requires a contortionist skill I do not possess.
Breakfast is at a civilized hour, since we are given the unprecedented leisure of setting off at 10 am on our tour of the city. Our first stop is the museum, a four-story treasure house of bronze sculptures, ceramics, paintings, calligraphy and more, probably the best general museum in China. According to the dating of some of the artifacts, all civilization begins with the Chinese, a claim disputed by the Indians, the Egyptians and the Mesopotamians. Regardless, there are examples of Bronze Age pottery stunning in imagination, detail and skill, like the cunning bowl topped with life-like yaks, flanked by two handles in the form of tigers attempting to climb up onto the rim of the bowl to get at the yaks.
But I truly lost myself in the ceramics gallery: the purity of the shapes, the delicacy of the design, the sheer eye candy of the celadon, the blanc de Chine, the rose red; the traditional blue and white, so popular in the Islamic world; the over-the-top green, pink and gold; from the tiny pots to the enormous planters and plates, from the horse to the camels, with the wild eyes and straining mouths typical to animal depiction in Chinese art, your eye keeps going back and forth, from astonishment to astonishment. For me, my coup de Coeur, my moments of actual covetousness as opposed to mere aesthetic admiration, came for two pieces, both 18th C: one was a pair of small rose petal pots with delicate lid topped with a golden stopper. I actually found, not a replica, but a piece inspired by them in the gift shop. The other coup de Coeur was for an equestrienne on a horse: the horse so alive, so perfect in proportions, and the lady so dignified, young, beautiful, with a wimple headdress and high-waisted dress reminiscent of early Renaissance women were it not for the fact that she is riding astride, not side-saddle. Her hands are lost in her voluminous sleeves but you can see that she must have been holding reins that did not survive the centuries.
After the museum we are driven to the waterfront, where the Bund, the European quarter of the French concession with its stately fin de siècle buildings, confronts across the river the futuristic new Shanghai with its fantastic skyscrapers, all built over the past thirty years. The boardwalk is alive with tourists taking pictures, an invigorating freshness to the cool air and overcast but clean sky. There are many Westerners in evidence, and quite a few who seem to be living in Shanghai as opposed to merely visiting. Indeed it does seem to be a livable city, at least for those who can afford it, as it is beyond the means of most Chinese, according to the laments of our guide Yolanda.
I get photographed taking by the horns the big bull on the boardwalk. Shanghai is to Beijing as New York is to Washington D.C., apparently; people there are all about money and hypocrisy, according to the guide, who like our other guides seems curiously uninhibited, indeed eager, to give stereotypical regional characterizations of the denizens of each city we visit.
A member of our group, Peter from Durham, points out to us the grand colonial building where his uncle had his business office in the forties. He has visited inside and has even visited the house his uncle rented in town, now an upscale bed and breakfast.
After the visit to the waterfront we go to a Chinese restaurant for lunch, and since it is late we are hungry and eat heartily, although we should be saving our appetites for the special farewell dinner promised for the evening. We walk off our lunch in the Yu Yuan Gardens, which we can only access, according to our guide Yolanda, by walking through small commercial back-alleys lined with cheap souvenir shops. It is a twenty-minute walk to the gardens themselves, in the best Chinese style, Tang dynasty Pagoda style buildings interspersed among the maze of walled gardens with their traditional landscape elements of willows dripping over pools of red carp, small bridges, and rock arrangements. There are interesting details of sculptures on the roofs. The gardens are quite crowded with Chinese locals or visitors, at 40 Yuan the entry ticket.
A long walk back to the bus followed by a tense negotiation when the group realizes that our special restaurant for the farewell dinner this evening lies in the same YuYuan neighborhood and requires the same 20 minute walk through the back alleys. Finally a compromise is reached: the driver will try to deposit us a little closer to the restaurant, although he cannot park there. After a welcome respite in our hotel rooms, we reassemble in the lobby, somewhat dressed up for the evening; I forsake the outfit I had planned, which would have involved a skirt and high heels, for a more practical flat shoes and trousers.
The walk to the restaurant is more pleasant than that earlier in the afternoon; we take an alternative route through a picturesque pagoda-style commercial area, but it is raining and quite muggy. The restaurant itself is quite festive, with an absolutely stunning view over the Shanghai skyline. I am finally ‘excited’, realizing that I am in Shanghai! In China! Not in Chinatown! The dinner is also more elaborate, with some new dishes to discover: rice-stuffed whole duck, for instance. But it is all quite heavy food.
We repair to a private room where our Duke host, Bill, sings a farewell song to ‘Mark’ our guide for the whole trip, in which we all join whole-heartedly. He also presents him with an envelope containing a collective gift from the group. Mark is touched and tells us he will save the donation for his daughter’s education, and that he is encouraging her to eventually attend Duke University if at all possible. There are several people in our group who certainly have some influence over making things possible at Duke. Mark is very popular with the group, particularly, I think, because he speaks fondly and often of his daughter, his wife, his family, and makes fun of himself and of them. Perhaps also because he deprecates China’s power and expresses his admiration for the U.S., quite sincerely, I believe.
Next come the tributes to our Duke host and his wife. Three members of the group sing songs and read poems in his honor, and he responds with his inimitable imitation of JFK’s ‘ask not’ speech.
It is a sentimental, happy and replete group that treks back to the bus, takes a final look at the Shanghai by night skyline, hugs our Duke hosts goodbye in the lobby- they are taking a direct flight to the US later in the evening while the rest of us brace for a 4 a.m. wake-up call to head back to the airport for the long flight home. But this trip is far from over for me, and my worst nightmare is about to come true.

Part VII: Beijing Airport: Traveler's Nightmare Scenario
Friday 21 October
We load onto the bus at 5:30 a.m., some of us well-rested, some, like me, groggy from only a couple of hours sleep. On the bus Mark hands us breakfast boxes, which some people tuck into heartily, and I leave untouched. The ham sandwich I don’t want, the coke can won’t make it past security, but I save the boiled eggs and Danish pastries for later.
We are leaving from the older of Shanghai’s two airports, for the first leg of our long trip: Shanghai to Beijing at 7:55 a.m., Beijing to JFK at 1 pm. By the time we get into New York at about 3 pm local time, we would have been travelling for 19 hours, and then most of us will still be taking connecting flights out of JFK for our final destinations. For me, the connecting flight to Raleigh-Durham should have me back in North Carolina by 10 pm, and with any luck in my own home before midnight Friday, that is, around noon of Saturday in China, where my body clock will be set.
Once our luggage has been checked in and our boarding passes issued, Mark bids us adieu and disappears, and we go through the line for passport check and security. I am asked to open my carry-on bag: the violation turns out to be the small container of yoghurt included in my breakfast box. But the young security man is nice about it; when I ask if I can drink it, he agrees readily, but it’s neither easy nor elegant to drink down yoghurt without a spoon as you stand in a security line.
After security we have a couple of hours to spare and I wander around, looking for a horseshoe-shaped neck-support cushion, looking through the Duty Free shops, visiting the restroom. I prefer to keep moving as I know I will be sitting for hours on end, and also because I am so sleepy that if I sit down I might be overcome. By the time I get back to the gate and find my husband and the other members of the group, our flight is boarding, and I stand in line and think to bring out my boarding pass.
That is when I realize I don’t have my handbag with my boarding pass, my passport, my credit cards, driver’s license, cash- everything. I have been pulling along my carry-on case and slinging my jacket over my shoulder, but my handbag, my all-important handbag, is missing. At first I can hardly believe it, and run back to the last place I sat down to see if I left it there. It isn’t there. I run to the last restroom I used, and check the hooks on the stalls, where I would have hung my bag. It isn’t there. I run back to my husband in line at the boarding gate and ask him to wait for me and rush back like a madwoman to retrace my steps to the Duty Free area. I see one of those airport golf carts and get on but the driver asks me for money and I have not a cent on me; I hop off.
I run on and find two security guards, both young women, and stop them, trying to explain my problem. They don’t understand, and finally walk me to the information desk to explain to the girl behind the desk in a yellow silk outfit. She is sweetly sympathetic but speaks very little English. I am frantic and have a hard time conveying the urgency of the situation: my flight is boarding, I have not a cent or a piece of I.D. on me, and time is being wasted. Either a thief is getting away with my bag, in which case there is no hope, or someone has turned it in, which would be a miracle. I ask the security women and the information clerk over and over to inquire at Lost and Found, or whoever in security is responsible for turning in unattended luggage, but they shake their head and say there is no such thing here. I ask them to call the police; the information girl finally does but five then ten minutes pass and the police do not show up; be patient, she advises me, the police is in another building, it will take a while for theme to come. I ask her to call the boarding gate, E-31, and ask if anyone has turned my bag in there; after all the boarding pass would indicate the flight. I ask them to hold the flight, to contact my husband. But the language barrier is insurmountable. The security women ask me what color the bag is, and I tell them brown, which conveys nothing, so I point to my shoes, but that does not help much. They wander away and leave me at the Information desk, increasingly desperate.
Finally I am resigned to missing my flight, but I need to tell my husband; I ask the information clerk if I can go fetch my husband, and make her promise to keep the police agent at the desk if they show up. I run again like a madwoman back to the gate, and find my husband and run back to the information desk. A young policewoman finally shows up, but by then the two security women have come back and the information clerk is getting busy on the phone in Chinese. They ask me again what color my bag was and I again say brown and they ask: “Coffee?” “Yes, yes, coffee color, dark brown,” I confirm. I hardly dare believe there is a glimmer of hope, but they tell me to go to the boarding gate and wait.
My husband and I head back, this time on a golf cart, as he has cash to pay the 10 Yuan per person, and wait at the gate. In a few moments a woman dressed like airport staff, not security, comes panting up with my bag, and I am so grateful to find my passport, boarding pass, wallet, that I give her a very substantial cash expression of my gratitude. My husband and I board the plane and find our seats; a couple of people in our group who realized what had happened ask me if I found my bag and who had taken it, and I am still too rattled and unsure myself to give a satisfactory answer. I can imagine what would have happened if indeed my husband and I had had to miss the flight; it would have been delayed till our luggage had been pulled off, and that would have meant a considerable delay for the other passengers. As it was, the flight takes off almost on time.
Finally, take-off. A little later, around 2 p.m., we are served lunch, with the pleasant surprise of fruit and yoghurt. I sleep for a while, exhausted with the adrenalin rush and the preceding sleepless night. Then I read, then I write on the computer. It is eight o’clock p.m., Beijing-time, and eight a.m. New York time when we are served our second meal, this time a sandwich. Still six hours to go before we land, and even then, it is not the end of the trip. To be continued.

Saturday October 15
Last day in Chengdu, indulged in a lazy start to the day, and checked out of our hotel at noon. We went to lunch, went for a walk in the pet and flower market- amazing fish, birds, bonsai- visited the stunning Brocade Museum- embroidery on silk so fine that, backlit, you see the hairs on a panda’s back. Bought a couple of scarves. Went for another walk, to the Wide and Narrow Street pedestrian neighborhood, lined on both sides of the streets with cafes and restaurants, clearly a hangout for locals and tourists alike. Some fun trompe l’oeil three-dimensional murals.
Finally off to the airport for our late flight to Xian, a short flight of an hour, but I was exhausted.
Sunday October 16th
Xian, Terra Cotta Warriors
Xian is the home town of our tour guide Mark and he is visibly excited when we land late last night. It is an ancient city that was once the capital of China, and is today a bustling city of 8 million revitalized by the tourist boom after the discovery of the thousands of terra cotta warriors put it on the map for the west. Its other claim to fame is the largely intact city walls that surround the modern downtown with its incongruous high-rise buildings.
Our hotel in Xian, the Metropark, is a high rise and our room is adequate but unattractive. The weather, though, is splendid, sunny, crisp, cool, and everyone’s spirits are up as we meet at 9 am for our first day’s tour. We visit the Buddhist Big Wild Goose Temple, a large garden complex comprising a 1300 year old temple surrounded by construction of new ancillary buildings. Inside the temple, a gigantic gilded Buddha, but none of the incense-stuffiness we remembered from Tibet. Ten percent of Chinese are Buddhists, we are told.
Back on the bus for the hour-long ride outside the city walls to the site of the discovery of the Terra Cotta Warriors.

Part III Chengdu: Panda a Day
Thursday October 13
Chengdu the Spicy City
Up very early to fly from Tibet to Chengdu, a smooth 2-hour flight. Cheng du, capital of Szechuan, is an ancient city of some 10 million people and lies in the dead heart of China; once a crossroad on the silk road, it is traditionally known as the brocade city, as well as the hibiscus city. I haven’t seen any hibiscus, but there are flowers and trees and parks and greenery everywhere, a sign of its humid, subtropical, perpetually overcast climate. That absence of sun is credited with the pale complexion of the women, who are known both for their beauty and for their ‘spicy’ temper, whereas the men of Chengdu are known to be hen-pecked husbands. All this local lore is relayed to us with an absolute straight face both by Mark, our permanent guide, so to speak, and by Jiji, our local guide, who exemplifies the reputation of Chengdu women: a contrast of white and black, as round and pretty and cute as a small panda.
The other reputation of Chengdu is for being the most ‘laid back’ city of China. Perhaps that is the reason we have to wait for twenty minutes for our bus at the airport, and another couple of hours in the lobby of the Jin Jiang Hotel to check into our rooms. The hotel itself is a large, opulent, old-fashioned government-run hotel with a Sikh doorman. It is centrally located by the Brocade river and apart from the check-in snafu, the hotel staff are prompt and helpful.
Chengdu may have a reputation for being laid back, but on the street people are moving along at a brisk pace, the women in short skirts and skinny jeans; many scooters as well as small local cars. Taxis here are lime-green, in contrast to the blue and white taxis in Lhasa. Chengdu is an intel industry hub, and the downtown is dominated by the great luxury brands from Louis Vuitton to Gucci.
We have a free evening, and my husband and I take advantage of it to have a Western meal at one of the hotel’s restaurants: it is a nice change to have a perfectly-cooked pan-seared salmon fillet in red pepper cream sauce. Later most of the group go to a local, outdoor theatre show featuring Chengdu’s typical theatre arts: face-changing, puppets, comic skits, etc. While they watch, the spectators are served tea, peanuts, and an optional foot massage or ear-picking.
Friday October 13
Panda Reserve
After breakfast we take the bus for the hour’s drive to the Panda Reserve outside of Chengdu. We arrive at the same time as wave upon wave of impossibly cute elementary school-children, wearing red, yellow or white caps to distinguish each school group; holding hands two by two, boy and girl, waving and calling to us in English: “Hello, good morning!”
The pandas themselves can barely compete in cuteness. As we walk along bamboo-shaded alleys, we stop to photograph the small groups of pandas we see mostly lying around scratching or lolling on tree branches. Whenever one of them turns over or summons the energy to move around or chew on a bamboo shoot, the whole audience of spectators exclaims and applauds and cameras click away for all the world as if we were watching the biggest movie star. The pandas themselves are more beige than white, although the yin yang coloring of the panda- black and white- is part of its importance to Chinese lore. Our guide Jiji entertains us with riddles: What does a panda dream of? Taking pictures in color.
And lying around dreaming seems to be mainly what pandas do. They need to conserve e energy as they absorb very little nutrition from their 14 kilos of bamboo a day.
Pandas seem to be clueless: they have no interest in mating or even an instinctive knowledge of how it is done; they need to be shown panda porn, so to speak, to instruct them on the process. Artificial insemination is the default method of reproduction at the reserve. But even when a female panda, who is fertile only 5 days a year and can carry only one cub every 2 years, actually does deliver a tiny one-pound slithery foetus, she has no maternal instinct to guide her, and often swats away at the poor infant until the reserve staff intervene to save it.
Just as you begin to wonder if the panda is a species worth going to so much trouble to save, you visit the panda baby nursery: there are four adorable, furry little babies lying on a wooden baby crib, nuzzling each other, baby scales and baby bottles and Similac milk in the room, for all the world like human babies. For a mere 180 dollars, you can have ‘private time’ with a baby panda and be photographed holding it. In our group, only one couple goes in for the ultimate panda baby bonding experience.
Lunch at a restaurant in the reserve features several bamboo dishes. After lunch, we group around long tables on the banks of the swan lake to listen to our Duke faculty host, Bill Chafe, talk about Nixon’s legacy and his visit to China. At first there is too much noise from the surrounding school children noshing on what looked like the Chinese equivalent of Twinkies, but Mark hushes them and they obligingly wander further off, so that in the end it is a satisfactory experience and rather a pleasant change, to listen to the lecture in the open air while sipping jasmine blossom tea.
It occurs to me, as we recalled the years before China opened up to the world, when in the West we thought of the Chinese as an undifferentiated mass of automatons marching in lockstep to the orders of Chairman Mao, that all the time they were people just like us, individualistic, materialistic, ambitious, family-loving, very much aware of their regional differences and distinctions and proud of them. The ‘other’ is always dehumanized, always seen as a monolithic mass until you get to know them personally. That hasn’t changed, even if the designation of the ‘other’ has.
After a final stop at the Museum souvenir shop, we board the bus for the hotel. A couple of hours later we are picked up again to go to dinner at a local Szechuan restaurant. It is very much a local dive sort of place, and the service is somewhat brusque. There are some Szechuan cuisine dishes on the table, but as they tend to be very spicy, there are few takers. There is a dramatic dish called rice cake soup, which is not bad, but there are also other dishes that are unfamiliar in texture or presentation that are less successful.
The problem is that most of us are tired of Chinese food after 10 days. Our guides try to vary it with regional dishes, but to us it is still Chinese food, and we are all bored with it and longing for Western cuisine. It’s an insoluble problem.

Wednesday October 12



As it turned out, we had an interesting experience with Chinese medecine yesterday evening. My husband didn't feel too brilliant, and the hotel suggested calling a doctor to administer oxygen. The doctor, a Chinese woman who spoke not a word of English, promptly showed up and there ensued an experiment in using the computer to translate; but eventually the services of the handsome young receptionist were required and offered with the best good humor. The oxygen tank was left with rather summary instructions, as well as several ampoules of dark liquid oral medication that smelled very much like roach traps but seemed to do the trick. We ordered room service for dinner instead of yak dinner number 2.
This morning, Wednesday, at breakfast in the hotel’s dining room, there is some discussion of the day’s program, and a more a la carte option is offered. After a talk by our Tibetan guide on his native culture, the bus will take the main group to visit a traditional Tibetan home; another group will be dropped off for shopping; yet another couple of people will stay behind at the hotel to take oxygen- everyone wants to be in shape for the highlight of the Tibetan trip and probably the whole tour, the Potala Palace, 500 steps and thirteen stories high.
I opt for the Tibetan family option. A low house, with large peonies in the courtyard, and a long low room with a long low table on which a tasty selection of toasted seeds and beans are spread. Our hostess is a dignified woman in her fifties, with a cute teenage grand-daughter who serves us little cups of yak butter tea. I donate mine to Bob. We sit around and ask questions, most of which are answered by our guide Pasan rather than the host family, which speaks no English. Interestingly, he admits that his mother would be dismayed if he were to marry a Han Chinese woman but would object much less to a Western daughter-in-law. We buy a few of the fabric goods the family makes: aprons, pouches, all colorful and typical.
Following the visit and the opportunity to photograph the stunning Potala Palace from a vantage point across the square, the bus takes off for a restaurant for lunch. My husband and I and another three people pass up lunch and take taxis back to the hotel.
At 1 pm we leave for the Potala Palace climb; everyone, even Carole and Maria, who were ailing, are on the bus. At the Potala, we look up at the iconic soaring walls with their regularly-spaced, curtained windows and took a deep breath and gave up our passports in exchange for tickets into the hallowed halls. Tickets to the Potala are timed, but our guide had us moving at a brisk pace. We made the 500 step climb in less than the forty minutes allowed, under blazing sun, without water. Once inside the palace we jostled a couple of other tour groups through chamber after high-ceilinged, highly-decorated chamber, into the inner sanctum of mind-boggling solid gold sarcophagi and giant solid gold statues incrusted with turquoise and jewels. Nothing comes close, not even King Tut’s treasures. It was a revelation to me that the Dalai Lamas, associated in my mind at least with Buddhist renunciation of earthly affairs, should have accumulated these unimaginable treasure and been commemorated in such extravagant idols.
The smaller rooms, and the corridors between the grand halls, are narrow, dark, and stuffy, so that I personally was not tempted to linger past our allotted time. In any case, Pasan had another adventure scheduled for us immediately after: the bus drove us a way out of town to a monastery where we entered a tree-shaded courtyard and watched scores of maroon-robed young monks in training ‘debating’ with elaborate hand gestures. They looked like they were having fun and couldn’t help grinning as they caught the eyes of the tourists all around video-taping them.
Back to the hotel for a lightning quick change in time to get on the bus again for dinner and a show at ‘The Crazy Yak.” Dinner was buffet-style, a bit of a scramble with the other tourists around the very large dining hall; the food was authentically Tibetan, and included sheep tongue soup and yak meat dumplings. I tried a taste of ‘barley wine.’ The entertainment was typical Tibetan dances, with yak-costumed dancers, and men and women in colorful costumes singing and dancing. The final was a sort of Conga line dance around the room, and when Lori, who was sitting right next to me at table, got up and joined the Tibetan dancers on stage, several of our group members did the same, and danced around the room. As someone said, ‘what happens in Lhasa stays in Lhasa.’
Tomorrow, off to Cheng Du and the giant Pandas.

China Notes, Part II continued
Monday October 10
Lhasa: Yak a Day and Yaba Daba Do
As we step outside the Lhasa Airport, it feels like suddenly seeing a film in 3-D after flat, color after gray; after the smog of Beijing and Cheng Du it’s like a gray veil has been lifted. The mountains detach themselves crisply against a solid cerulean sky, the sun is so bright that although it is 18 degrees C it feels hot. Our guides have been super-efficient, and before we even leave the airport we are handed out our room keys and number-coordinated stickers to identify our luggage.
We load ourselves onto a bright green bus for the hour-long trip to Lhasa on a new superhighway. In addition to our now familiar Mark, we have a local Tibetan guide called Pasan. He is quite emphatic about his name, and not at all willing to be called by a nickname; fair enough, since Tibetans only get one name each, no middle or patronym or family name. He is typically Tibetan, very small and fine-boned, with dark tanned skin, longer face, prominent teeth, shiny black hair. His English is excellent if heavily accented; he claims to have learnt it in Lhasa. Our Duke host speculates on how old he might be, as he looks about 25, according to Bill; I’m not so sure he looks younger than his age, as all that sun and dry air must be very aging to the skin.
Pasan makes no bones about his Tibetan nationalism or his Sinophobia; he is critical of all things Chinese, even the airline. Awkward for poor Mark, but it’s rather a good thing that our guides feel they can air their differences and grievances. As we drive along the impression I got from the plane is confirmed: Tibet is indeed going through several years of drought and the land is parched. Here and there are cows and of course yaks, with their splendidly silly long hair and horns. A huge billboard announcing the Tibet yoghurt festival apparently refers to a major national event. I am looking forward to trying yak yoghurt, although Mark has warned me that all of Tibet, according to him, smells of yak butter. I thought I imagined a faint pervasive whiff at the airport, but that could have been the power of suggestion.
The main crops here, Pasan tells us, are barley, wheat, legumes, and the main animals cultivated are yaks, cows, pigs. Interestingly, Buddhists, who frown on taking life even for food, prefer to kill large animals like yaks for meat rather than chicken or fish, as the former would feed a family for so much longer than the latter, and a life is a life. So according to that logic a flea’s life should be worth a horse’s. No distinction between higher animals and lower. Interesting.
Lhasa is a new-looking city, with a wide central avenue lined with billboards and stores in three-story buildings. The people are a mixture: the traditional Tibetans, with their hats and long braids, the women in long skirts and striped aprons , down to their facial features looking so very much like Peruvian mountain people. Many of the Tibetan women have their faces covered with surgical masks or with scarves, which Pasan explains as either protection from the sun and elements or a form of traditional dress. Then there are the Han Chinese, looking much like they do elsewhere in China. There are also soldiers in uniform at quite regular intervals; our guide has warned us not to photograph them.
We arrive at our hotel; it’s not the Ritz, by a long shot, but perfectly adequate, and I for one am enchanted by the weather and our perfectly adequate and well-equipped room. I do feel a bit of a headache, but nothing like the dire warnings we have been given about altitude sickness, so I take a couple of aspirin and slip on the bathrobe and just stretch out for a few minutes on the bed. Next thing I know, it is 6:30, and we are supposed to meet at the bus at 6:45 to go to a restaurant. My husband and I are the last to scramble onto the bus, but everyone is very gracious about it.
At the traditional restaurant downtown we have our first taste of yak: a little chewy, easily mistaken for beef. Also excellent nan bread, curried chicken, delicious tomato soup, vegetables, all just a bit salty for my bland taste.
Back at the hotel, switch on the news on TV, BBC has sickening news about sectarian violence in Cairo. I’m heart-sick. It’s clearly a very complicated situation and bodes no good for the elections.
So tired we fall asleep anyway, easiest sleep I’ve had since we traveled to China. Altitude apparently agrees with me better than pollution. Not the case with several people in the group, unfortunately, and oddly enough it’s the women who seem to be falling sick.
Tuesday October 11.
Woke up bright and early, in fact it was still dark and very cool, as Lhasa is at least three time zones behind Beijing, but all of China operates on Beijing time. So 6 am in Lhasa is probably the equivalent of 4 am. We were among a handful of early birds in the dining room before 8 am, but the staff had a super breakfast buffet spread out, to rival the Ritz’s. I got to try Yak yoghurt, and it is excellent, very rich, not a hint of an off smell; it was pre-sweetened, I would rather have been able to sweeten it to tast, but delicious.
This time we were the first on the bus, but when we left we were minus two of the group. Our first stop was the Dalai Lama’s Summer Palace; very pretty informal gardens, tended by uniformed gardeners, not monks or lay friars. In fact didn’t see any monks at all, except for a seven-year-old monk in training, a cute little boy in robes and an orange hat with a bill that stuck out like a cap. His traditionally-dressed family were with him, including his mother, who had highly rouged cheeks. I asked if I could photograph, she shook her head. Other people in our group had the same experience with old women in braids and traditional dress. I rather respect them for it.
It was delightful to take deep breaths of the pure air in the garden against a backdrop of mountains. The palace itself is a two-story building, a bewildering succession of highly decorated rooms: your eye doesn’t know where to rest amid the riot of colors, paintings, sculptures, vases, artificial flowers, benches, hanging tapestries, reclining beds; the rooms are generally somewhat dim in contrast to the blinding sunshine outside, and the scent of incense is everywhere, so it can feel a little stuffy, and several of us ducked out into the courtyards from time to time to catch a breath of fresh air. Our poor guide Pasan went into detailed explanations of every last Tangka in his soft voice. There are actually two palaces, a modest one the Dalai Lama uses and a more elaborate one completed in the mid-fifties and abandoned as two luxurious by the D.L. The living quarters actually seem quite modest to Western eyes; the Pope’s villa it is not.
From there we head on to the Museum close by. Problem is, we have been touring the Summer Palace for 3 hours, during which we were not allowed to bring our water to drink, or use the restroom. By the time we get to the museum we are all desperate. I sprint through security- without bag, hat, sunglasses, or water bottle, all verboten- and dash up two flights of very steep stairs to the restroom. Only when my heart starts to beat madly do I remember the injunction against rapid motion while adjusting to altitude. Too late.
The museum itself is full of immensely interesting artifacts, from cunning jade carvings to crazy giant masks, but marred by galleries of sheer Chinese propaganda. I am unable to take in all the glorious stuff because Pasan has allotted us too little time but also because I am gasping for water, and to have a drink I must get out of the museum and go back on the bus. Sometimes the human body is such a burden.
Next stop, the market quarter and a local dive for lunch. My husband, who feels sick, has gone back to the hotel by cab to join the three other incapacitated members of our group- we are dropping like flies. The rest of us sit along a long table and are served tomato soup, nan bread, spinach, beef stir fry, curry chicken, rice- essentially the same menu as yesterday but low on salt, perhaps Pasan has warned them beforehand. The apple fritters are the first edible dessert so far in China. The restroom is a real challenge which several members of our group find insurmountable. I borrow someone else’s husband to hold my handbag as I need both hands free- lucky there are so many gentlemen on this tour.
Next comes the big spiritual highlight of the day: The Jokhang Temple, dating to the 8th C, the holiest shrine in all of Buddhism. It is walking distance from our lunch place. This being a holy day on the Buddhist calendar, there are more pilgrims than ever, and the place is packed with Buddhist worshipers squeezing by each other shoulder to shoulder, men, women, babies, mostly typically Tibetan in appearance. There are very few tourists like us, but we run the gauntlet and get in and out in a single file, hanging on to each other’s hands, slipping along the waxy uneven stone floor, craning our necks at the painted ceilings and the gigantic statues of various deities, some distinctly stern in appearance. I covered my head and face with my scarf and swallowed my claustrophobia till we emerged.
Mostly I felt bad for the genuine, simple-hearted worshippers, that there were these foreign skeptical critical presences among them. There is something to the system followed in many churches and all mosques, where tourists are not allowed during service times.
After God we were to worship Mammon, but I opted out of the visit to the bazaar to go back to the hotel with another member of the group in a taxi; I really felt I should check on my husband.
Tonight, yak dinner number two, if we have the stomach for it.

Internet access being limited, here is a backed-up log of the China tour so far:
Part I: Beijing: A Duck a Day
Wed Oct 5
China Air takes off twenty minutes late for our scheduled 4:30 pm flight from NY JFK direct to Beijing. The seats seem roomier than some American carriers, and there’s a more original choice in dinner entrees: duck. Actually sliced duck breast, quite good. All entertainment in Chinese, but then most of the passengers are Chinese; announcements in Chinese, little English. Hostesses polite but perfunctory. I took Melatonin and slept a lot more than I normally do on plane, in spite of an upset tummy. “Breakfast” a couple of hours before we landed in China consisted of beef and broccoli.
Thursday October 6th.
After a fourteen hour flight, we land at 7 pm local time. No need to change time on watch, as it’s a 12 hr difference.
Beijing Airport: like Beijing, new, modern, vast. Very little indications or instructions. Curiously uncrowded. Zipped thru passport control and immigration, doesn’t feel at all like a closed society, none of India’s paranoid scrutiny of passports. Bathrooms clean but as many squat toilets as Western style. First thing you notice when you step outside is the dense smog . Apparently it was even worse a few years ago.
We meet up with our Duke group and board the bus. We stop for dinner at a basic Chinese place on way back from airport; not really hungry myself as we had eaten on plane a couple of hours earlier, but most of the fellow passengers ate with gusto, as did our Duke host and his wife, who had been in Australia and met us at Beijing airport. Two guides, one for the trip, Wang Chao Fen, otherwise known as Mark, a small, wide-eyed, lively man, and one guide for Beijing only, Chen, who goes by Wally, and has the typical wide flat Asian face. Not sure how I feel about using these nicknames; it reminds me of Mark Twain in Innocents Abroad, joking that the American tourists insisted on calling all tour guides, from Italy to Istanbul, “Ferguson. “
Beijing is vast, modern, gleaming, wide ring roads and boulevards, new cars. All new infrastructure dating 30 years back at the earliest. Fanciful buildings that look like the Titanic, or a feather, or some other product of an unbridled imagination.
The Hotel Ritz Carlton in the Financial District seems to be the ultimate in luxury. Very fast elevators, modern security measures with key card to activate elevator floors. Hotel room entirely automated by console next to bedside table to open drapes, lights, etc; huge TV set, but all channels in Chinese except for CNN, BBC, MNBC and TV 5 Monde. Two double beds in vast room. Bathroom has closed off toilet and shower areas, as well as double sinks and tub. Endless towels and robes and slippers, all embroidered with lion motif, and thoughtful touches like umbrella in closet.
Friday October 7: Of Emperors and Concubines
Breakfast the next morning is an excellent buffet, all the usual western options plus dim sum and a full menu of cooked Chinese food. I’m already eager to find fruit and yoghurt.
Internet supposedly free in lobby but in effect works best in café only. $20 in room for the day.
Our guides have thoughtfully provided bottled water on bus for 50 c bottle.
The Forbidden City is impressive by sheer size of successive courtyards but the actual architecture not so much, especially compared to Indian palaces with their ruby-incrusted marble walls,. Museum closed as it was holiday. Outside along the moat as we walked back to the bus, first and last beggars we saw in Beijing, mutilated, handicapped, dwarf, etc, sitting or lying on sidewalk.
Otherwise, no beggars, and amazingly uncrowded for a city of 20 million. Orderly city, buses, cars, bicycles, scooters, mostly new and in good condition, sharing the road. No jaywalking, unlike NYC. Clean, clean. We were told that fines are imposed on littering and spitting. All started with sprucing up for Olympics.
Hutong area: lunch in the back-alley home of a woman who does this for a living. There is some discussion of her life story and it becomes apparent that the cultural revolution is still being fought by our two guides, Mark being critical of it, as befits a ‘black-root’ (bourgeois) and Wally, who had earlier repeated ‘all China cried when Mao died’, ambivalent. Lunch was simple but good, marred only by an awkward moment when the hostess snatched a $20 bill out of my husband’s hand as he was asking our Duke host for change for the mandatory rickshaw ride scheduled after lunch. At least the rickshaws are newer and the drivers look healthy and strong enough to be up to the job, unlike their skinny straining skeleton counterparts in India.
Hutong alleys are clean, with expensive cars parked (Chinese made VW, etc) in contrast to the modest dimensions of the freshly cemented and white-washed houses; toilets every few intersections, marked ‘men’ and ‘women’ in English, oddly enough, as well as Chinese, as if for tourists. Little squares where old people play checkers and young kids play in sand by the street. But open doorways show a very different picture of poverty, dinginess, rags, rotted old bikes. Very much the feeling of seeing behind a stage set.
There are one or two signs in green Arabic lettering, advertising Islamic food. According to the Beijing guide book I downloaded on Kindle, a mosque nearby is listed as a main attraction. But our guide Wally avoided all references to religion in the Forbidden City, and did not point out the various shamanistic Manchu, Taoist, Confucian and other temples that the guide book says represented the beliefs of the successive dynasties that ruled there for 500 years. Wally entertained us exclusively with stories about concubines.
Wally apparently believes in entertaining the troops in the most extravagantly tour guide style, singing for us- he is a frustrated singer who was given no choice in his current profession- and recounting heart-warming tales of the Mongolian girl he has adopted by long distance. The one child policy creates an imbalance in the population, to the advantage of the prospective bride who can demand an apartment, a car, and a honeymoon in the US. Both our guides emphasize the expensive standard of living of Beijing, and Mark, in particular, laments the materialism of the young.
Peking Duck dinner that evening in a pedestrian shopping street with huge Sephora and Rolex shops. Dinner itself in a traditional restaurant that oddly enough closes at 8 pm. We went up to the second floor where three tables for 8 were reserved for us. Good appetizers, if somewhat bewildering, but the featured highlight, the Peking Duck, not nearly as good as Mr Chow’s in London. So this was duck dinner number 2; we will be having one every day in Beijing.
Several of the Jewish members of the group expressed an interest in attending a synagogue for the start of the high holy days, said they would inquire with the Israeli embassy. If so, next day plans would be changed. Apparently it didn’t work out as plans were unchanged. One couple had one of their bags left behind at NY, Delta’s fault from Atlanta, not China Air, but at least she had some of her clothes in the other bag, so not entirely without a change in outfits. They are a younger couple; he used to work in media. I offered to lend her clothes, but she said she would wait.
At dinner we were seated with a very tall, fair-haired couple, gracious but not big talkers; also a nice woman who was worried about altitude sickness when we get to Tibet and advises laying off coffee and tea and alcohol; and a stylish older German woman who speaks French. She is one of at least two people to ask me about Lagnado’s book; the German woman met Lagnado at a writing course. I think several people in the group, all of whom must know by now we are of Egyptian origin, are curious what religion we are. Also at our table that night, a couple of southern women, both with that pleasant Southern social manner and accent, one an older woman with a sense of humor, one younger, a Baptist who volunteered at an orphanage in Morocco. Another woman, a New York lawyer with long reddish hair, who looks to be in her late thirties, swims every morning, more power to her.
There are a couple of other younger women, but the majority of the tour members, as to be expected, are retirees, and there are half a dozen women traveling alone.
Saturday October 8
Went on internet this morning at breakfast, but no Face Book or Blogger; I could only use email and log onto my personal website. Afterward attended our Duke host’s talk- Bill Chafe is a historian of the US- mostly reminiscing about his first visit to china in 1980. Opted out of visit to pearl market and another one of those lunches without regret- although I might have enjoyed the rest of the program, the visit to the Summer Palace, all on the West side of town, as I wanted to go to the east side to the Hard Rock Café to buy my son a souvenir cap. Took a taxi, with instructions and map from guide and concierge. The city gets more dismal as you go east but especially aware of the pollution today, could hardly breathe and my chest burned. Jumped into and out of the shop, they charged 22 dollars for a cap. Then we wanted to buy batteries and we went into a nearby shop, they were helpful. Also found a place to buy a sim card but didn’t have the phone with us and it is 50c a minute to call US.
Went back to hotel; my husband was supposed to rejoin the group but he didn’t, he wandered around and explored, found Starbucks, McDonald, huge Costco. I explored the spa, very tempting, but felt too tired for some reason, didn’t sleep last night or perhaps jet lag kicked in; spent afternoon in bed reading and caught up on the news on TV. A little hungry but glad I skipped lunch.
We were driven for dinner to an imposing traditional restaurant at the far end of side street that crosses over a bridge. The willow trees wilting over the lake on both sides of the bridge and the lanterns twinkling through the mist made for my most memorable and evocative image of Beijing, in spite of the trash littering the alley on the way over, an unusual sight on our trip so far. Inside the restaurant, our group split up among 3 round tables- we still do this at random, no set patterns yet; I made the case that spouses should not be seated right next to each other, at least. I had our Duke host on one side and a Connecticut retired finance man on the other. Dinner was billed as a royal banquet and did not disappoint, it was the best we’d had in Beijing. It was served as usual, dishes placed in succession on a lazy susan and each guest helping himself with chopsticks or spoons; we had small plates, but given the many helpings of multiple plates, I doubt we ate less. The duck was much better than that of the dinner last night- as it should be, the meat was moist and the skin crisp. So duck dinner number 3.
Sunday October 9: The Great Wall
Woke up very early today for the visit to the Great Wall, over an hour to the north west of Beijing. So another grand buffet breakfast, then on the bus, and heading out in the worse pollution yet. We visited the Badaling section of the wall, the most accessible to Beijing, and of more recent construction, dating to the Ming dynasty. The wall is as iconic as advertised when viewed from a distance, the crenellated walls winding up and down with the rolling hills covered in autumnal trees. My husband and I made the mistake of taking the more ‘accessible’ of the two hikes up the wall, and although we got quite far quite fast, it was anything but a reflective experience, as we shared the narrow steps with a couple of spare million of the 20 million residents of Beijing, all of whom managed to climb, shout, and eat non-stop at the same time. It also got hot quite quickly.
We soon headed back down, and did not see the rest of the group, who had opted for the steeper path less taken; we sat in a dismal coffee shop and bought souvenir t-shirts until the agreed upon meeting time, upon which we discovered that the rest of the group had also tired of the wall early and were waiting on us on the bus.
The rest of that afternoon was a somewhat disorganized experiment in group management; some people wanted to visit the Bird’s Nest at the Olympic Village, according to schedule; some wanted to visit a gallery exhibiting Sun Young Sen memorabilia; some wanted to go shopping. We drove around amid rising heat, pollution, traffic (first day back to work for most employees) and frustration. The Bird’s Nest turned out to be closed, and the bus circled around in vain looking for a vantage point for photographing. One priority the entire group could agree on was lunch, and our guides duly took us to a restaurant that seemed under construction but was otherwise fine; the menu featured chicken nuggets but also a good deal of vegetables and whole steamed fish.
My husband joined the group that were dropped off at the gallery, while I went back to the hotel, and still others headed out to shop and others to prepare for an evening at a show of Chinese gymnastics. As for me, I could only think of getting out of the sticky street and into the spa. Now I am normally the last person to go to the spa at a hotel, as I always find something more interesting to do when I’m traveling, but yesterday evening it was just what I needed. The spa at the Ritz is one of the most luxurious I’ve seen: corridor after corridor of dimly lit pool area, changing rooms, massage rooms, Jacuzzi, sauna, and curtained chinese-style beds and comfort rooms. For hotel guests, free, including robe, slippers, cap, shampoos, water, etc. The large pool has a huge screen on the far wall to entertain swimmers, and there is a wet trough swimmers must go through to enter pool area to ensure no one shoes in with shoes. The screen was projecting ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ with Spencer Tracy, sound off, Chinese subtitles, while incongruous, faint zen music played in the background. After a swim and a very brisk hot Jacuzzi, showered and sat at one of the vanities in the dressing room. There were two women there, one a Korean woman of forty, and the other a soft-faced young Chinese woman who worked for Google and told us she got two hours of a day to breastfeed her baby, ‘by Chinese government request’ as she put it, rather than any policy of Google’s. The Korean woman and I wore our robes while we did our hair but the Chinese woman was totally unselfconscious about being in the nude.
Skipped dinner, with no regrets, although it ruined my half-hearted experiment in experiencing a ‘duck a day’ while in Beijing. In any case, we have to get up at an unearthly hour to take a plane for Lhasa, Tibet. I am very much looking forward to the pure air we are promised in Tibet, but also heedful of the warnings of the effects of altitude sickness in the oxygen-poor atmosphere. One should avoid alcohol, apparently, which for us in China so far has been beer, something I never drink anyway; but also coffee and tea, and that I am unwilling to sacrifice unless absolutely necessary. I have some mild over the counter diuretic in my bag, but should really have stocked up on Diemark and Advil.
Part II: Lhasa, The Land of Pure Air but too little of it
Monday October 10
In the morning, after getting up at 5 am for a breakfast that included neither fruit or yoghurt, my breakfast choices, we head out to the airport. I had asked our Duke host the night before what we were doing about a gratuity for Wally, who is leaving us at this point, and he told us at breakfast that he would offer it on behalf of everyone in the group. Actually Bill did better; when Wally sang a farewell song to us on the bus on the way to the airport, Bill responded with a farewell song of his own. As for Mark, he is coming with us to Lhasa and staying with the group at the hotel. He seems as skeptical of the reputed piety of Tibetan monks as he is of all religion; but he did make a rather interesting point, that the Chinese considered they are ‘liberating’ the Tibetan commons from the repressive rule of their feudal lords, rather, it seems to me, as the U.S. ‘liberated’ Iraqis from Saddam.
On the flight to Cheng Du, our short stop on the way to Lhasa, we are served a second breakfast, of which the less said, the better. Lunch on the second leg of the flight is unexciting. I am very glad I bought a bag of pears at Beijing Airport.
The Tibetan mountains, from the plane, are like brown robes thrown over sleeping giants, with here and there an emerald pond in a valley. Can't wait to land! Photos to follow.

NYC on route to China. Such a different, more energetic vibe than London or Paris, the European capitals seem so stately by comparison.
China Air direct to Beijing, long flight but we had duck for dinner!
Beijing is nothing like I imagined. Everything is on a vast scale, the buildings, the ring roads, the avenues- modern, new, gleaming. No congestion, although there are reputedly 20 million people. Even in the hutongs, the back alleys, it's not that crowded. The rickshaw drivers- why is it that every tour included a rickshaw ride?- the rickshaw guys here are stocky and strong, not the skinny straining skeletons in India that had me wanting to get out and walk.
The Ritz Carlton Financial District, the latest in luxury, and stupendous breakfasts that are a mixture of Western and Dim Sum. The Forbidden City is nowhere near as splendid as the maharajas palaces, but impressive, again, by sheer size. Peking Duck for dinner last night- almost as good as Mister Chow's in London.
No Face Book, no blogger available from China. But my cairohouse website works. Interesting. Now for the Great Wall...

In the Middle East, the Western superpower is withdrawing its occupying troops. In Egypt, the sudden overthrow of a military-backed autocracy, followed by ‘a series of ephemeral revolutions’, plunges the country into a state of political uncertainty and general insecurity; foreign ambassadors are threatened. Various Western governments vie for influence in the new Egypt; but it is a regional power, Turkey, that takes advantage of the power vacuum to revive the dominant role it once exercised over the region.

It is 1801, and Bonaparte’s Army of the East is evacuating from Egypt; hard on its heels come the Ottoman Turks. Three years earlier, the French invasion has routed Egypt’s Mamluke military dynasties; in the free-for-all that ensues after the evacuation, Istanbul sees its chance to reassert its former dominance over a province that no longer paid much more than nominal allegiance to the Sultan.

Egypt was not to face such uncertainty about its future again until the January 25th Revolution overthrew Mubarak’s military-backed dictatorship.

In the Egypt of the Arab Spring today, people joke about ‘Ottomania’. When Turkish Prime Minister Erdogan visited Cairo this month, he was greeted as a cross between a nationalist hero and an unlikely rock star. He made public speeches and gave television interviews as if he were running for president of Egypt. His uncharismatic picture was plastered on billboards all around Cairo; crowds gathered behind rope lines to shake his hand; and journalists covered his every move.

To a hyper-sensitive Egyptian psyche in search of dignity, Erdogan embodies empowerment. To a newly-liberated Egypt desperate for role models, Turkey represents the paradigm of a successful Islamic democracy, a versatile hanger on which the fractious factions of Egyptian society can hang their mantle: a secular democracy for the liberals; a military power for Egypt’s military-industrial complex; a free-market economic success for the capitalists; an Islamist party for the Muslim Brotherhood. Erdogan seems to hit all the right notes: a defender of his country’s national honor over the Gaza flotilla debacle and a champion of Syrian revolt and Palestinian statehood, heralding a remarkable turnaround in foreign policy for Israel’s staunchest ally in the region.

But if the Egypt of Tahrir looks to Turkey as the unique regional, Muslim-majority role model, the relationship is a co-dependent one. For some time now Turkey, repeatedly rebuffed by the European Union, has been turning eastward to the traditional sphere of influence of the Ottoman Empire: the Arab world. The Turkish charm offensive took many forms in Egypt before the January 25th Revolution, from the flagship Turkish luxury retailer Beymen to wildly popular Turkish television dramas.

But my first direct inkling of Turkey’s new role in the Arab Spring came three weeks after President Mubarak resigned on Friday, February 11th. Two days after witnessing that unforgettable moment first-hand in Tahrir Square, I left for a long-planned trip to India. Miraculously, Cairo Airport was open and operational, and I was able to fly to Delhi to join the University of North Carolina tour group I was traveling with. Three weeks later, on the plane returning to Cairo, I wondered what the new post-revolution Egypt would be like. The first surprise came promptly upon landing at the airport: instead of standing in line at passport control, passengers of all nationalities seemed to be allowed to just wave their passports in the air and sail right through. I was told that, since Turkey had announced that it was waiving visa requirements for Egyptian and Tunisian nationals as a gesture of solidarity with their revolutions, Egypt could do no less than follow Turkey’s open door policy.

This apparent abandon of security measures would have been alarming were it not for the fact, shortly before my flight to Cairo landed, an imposing young Egyptian had risen from his seat and authoritatively collected the passports of all the passengers, inspected them, and returned them with a smile. It takes more than a revolution to disrupt Egyptian bureaucracy, inherited from centuries of Ottoman rule.

That heritage is selectively recalled with fondness today, but that was not always the case. In that part of the world, it has been said, the past is not history, it is not even past. The last time Egypt found itself in such a crisis, a country up for grabs, so to speak, was after the brief French occupation 200 years ago destroyed the existing regime and left a power vacuum. No one could have predicted, at the time, that it would be an obscure Ottoman officer, Mehmet Ali, who would take advantage of the infighting in Egypt to shoot to power and persuade an insecurity-weary Egyptian public and ambitious Azhar clerics to accept him as Viceroy of Egypt. He would go on to found a dynasty that lasted 150 years, ending only when King Farouk was deposed by the 1952 coup d’état of the Colonels. Today, if Field Marshall Tantawi and the Supreme Military Council do not abide by their promise to hand over power to a civilian government, Egypt is in danger of having had a revolution that brought the military to back to power. That is one reason the country’s liberals are pinning their hopes on a Turkish-style democracy that accommodates, within strict limits, the influence of both the military and the religious parties.

I remember when London was the best place to get arrested- if you were Arab and not Irish, that is. That was back in the seventies, when I was a student at London’s School of Oriental and African Studies. At the time, the terrorists setting bombs in the ‘Tube’ and blowing off people’s legs on the escalators were the Irish Republican Army, not Al Qaeda; Arabs and Iranians were the ones shopping on Bond St, being overcharged on Harley St, and looking for London apartments as safe havens from potential revolutions in their home countries.

Then there were all the students, like me, studying at the universities. One graduate student we knew, a Jordanian, had just heard his mother had died back in Jordan; he was devastated. “I’m going to go get drunk and pick a fight,” he muttered as he stomped out the door. The next morning his friends bailed him out of jail after he took a swing at a London policeman who tried to arrest him for drunk and disorderly conduct.
“Why did you have to pick on a policeman?” I lamented.
“But a Bobby is the safest person to pick a fight with!” He retorted. “The worst that can happen is that he’ll lock you up to cool off overnight. I wasn’t so drunk as to get into a fight with a hooligan who could really do me some damage.”

I no longer live in London but I still visit regularly; I spent most of June there this summer, taking long walks in Hyde Park and enjoying the live music wafting across the Serpentine from the Boathouse. So it came as a shock to see the images of arson and looting on a scale I never saw even at the height of the revolution in Egypt this past winter, when there was no police presence at all on the streets for four days and nights in a row and the prisons were broken into and criminals let loose. Every street set up an effective neighborhood watch against isolated criminal elements or the even greater threat of Mubarak regime henchmen deliberately trying to create chaos and panic.

No, the London riots were a manifestation of anomie that had nothing in common with the societal solidarity of the Egyptian revolution, when citizens displayed a civic-mindedness unknown under ordinary circumstances.

If Prime Minister Cameron and the British public are enraged, it is understandable. But to exploit that rage to crack down on civil rights is to go down a dangerous road. If it becomes legal to interrupt cell, Blackberry and internet connection to foil ‘rioters’, who is to decide when there are rioters and when there are legitimate protesters, as there were in Egypt? Once such laws are on the books, they are near-impossible to abrogate or to monitor in the application; Mubarak ruled under just such ‘emergency’ powers for thirty years since the assassination of Sadat, and even a revolution has not succeeded in abolishing those laws, they are still in effect.

Another measure is evicting the entire family of a convicted rioter from subsidized public housing. Is this not a form of collective punishment? Civilized societies reject collective punishment, retaliation against an entire community for the act of one individual. But even from a pragmatic, let alone moral, point of view, what is to become of the parents and young siblings of a teenage looter? Is putting people on the streets not putting society in even greater danger of criminality?

Another measure being debated is more ‘muscular’ police action, along the lines, perhaps, of the U.S. Taken too far, such action can lead to abuses that risk alienating entire societies from their police forces and delegitimizing the police, as happened in Egypt.

There has been much criticism of the London police, who initially seemed to stand by and let the looters carry on under their eyes. In Egypt, when the streets were left lawless and unsecured during the revolution, it was understood that the police’s intention was to humble the public into acknowledging their indispensable role. This backfired in Egypt. But the parallel in the U.K. is curious: the London Police stood by during the rioting just as a 20% budget cut in the force had been announced. This reduction in the police force is highly unlikely to be put into effect after the riots.

The Egyptian Revolution and the London riots are worlds apart, but there are lessons to be drawn. Keep London the safest place in the world to be arrested!