The first thing to say is that the scale of Beijing is staggering. Even flying over, the city stretched far into the background, arranged into small square tiles upon which one design was built multiple times. These tiles were incredibly diverse: dense blocks of buildings might be next to agricultural plots, and all the buildings seemed to have blue roofs - copper, from what William told me. Bejing was simply without limits.
When we landed, though, I saw a different side of the country. On our long coach journey to the first hotel, we stopped briefly at a service station to use the toilet, but only a few dared to enter: the stench was so great that many simply gagged at the entrance. The walls were dampened by rot and the toilets themselves were simply pits in an enclosed area. Returning to the coach, we moved into busier traffic... and I started to get very worried.
The traffic is absolutely bonkers. Cars, bikes, trams and buses alike swerve, jostle and weave amongst each other with reckless abandon, blaring their horns angrily. The roads were utterly chaotic.
We arrived at the hotel, and barely had time to unpack and shower before we set out again. Our destination, it seemed, was the home planet of every Steve from tech support who ever lived. In fact it was Tianjin Theatre - I encourage you to have a look online. The floor layout is baffling to say the least: when retrieving my forgotten camera, I spent quite a while wandering the ground floor which honestly had a similar design to Wolfenstein-3D. Quite embarrassingly, I came across a group of young staff, who broke into excited whispers as I passed. I'm guessing it was the hair.
When I did find my way back, we were finishing the rehearsal and we went off to supper. You may have heard of Tofu: it is a vegetarian meat which fooled me for chopped chicken. I can't say the texture was to my liking; it seemed to disintegrate in the mouth, which isn't what you'd expect from meat. It was also at this time that my umbrella met a tragic end in a poking accident - sorry, Mum.
We then got to our first concert. A lot of us were very tired by now: when we were singing it was very quiet, and when we weren't we were falling asleep. Our audience was... pretty shocking, to be honest. We couldn't get through a single song without someone's phone going off, and they frequently spoke amongst themselves. We were all getting knackered, so we wrapped up and the sensible ones (Alex Farrow and I) went straight back to the hotel, while the others went for a little sightseeing.
We collapsed into bed. I packed up a bit of my stuff, but I knew I would have a little time after breakfast the next day to pack up fully. I hit the sheets and before I knew it, it was 7am. Then... it was 9:15. Fifteen minutes after we were to leave. I threw my clothes on - no time to shower - and hurriedly stuffed the remaining clothes into my suitcase, running out of the door without breakfast.
We soon stopped at another service station, and I headed for the toilets, passing a pack of pocket tissues to the girls as I did so. I asked Mrs. Comber how the smell was as we entered the toilets - again, a separate building. After being assured that the smell wasn't nearly as bad as It had been at the previous stop, I entered to find a much cleaner room and went to the nearest stall. The indicator was green, so I opened it... and found a very surprised face staring up at me.
Approximately three-point-two seconds later I was back on the coach. I would probably have just cowered on my seat, but then my stomach spoke up and I realised I hadn't eaten yet. I ventured into the service station itself - very glad to see William Wong, our pianist, translator and survival expert; there - and explored the shelves. I chose a packet of 'crisps' (a fairly hefty one at that), some chestnuts and some banana milk. It came to about twenty yuan, and after scrutinising my change, I returned to the bus and had the rest of my tissues very gratefully returned to me; the girls had fared better than I, to the point that they had even found a toilet that wasn't just a urinal in the ground.
I inspected my salvage. Of course Louise was allergic to nuts, so I couldn't open the chestnuts and was stuck with what turned out to be neither crisps nor chips, but a hybrid which was certainly edible, and what I had thought was banana flavoured milk. I then took a swig of the banana milk and resolved to never buy cheap fruit products again.
Ever.
We soon came into Bejing as the bus went through another chorus of Doe-Ray-Me. From the ground, the scenery was even more breath-taking: the crumbled blocks from just a half-mile away abruptly gave way to towering, gleaming buildings: huge office blocks and hotels stretched into the skies while coffee shops and fast food restaurants hugged the streets.
We stopped at a restaurant for lunch (so I was quite glad that I hadn't eaten all those crispersonates), where I got my first feel for Chinese food - plates of food swivelled around in the centre of a circular table to be scooped up by the hawks, leaving nothing for the poor fool who gets it last. Eating with chopsticks was a novel experience, though admittedly when the fries arrived I just resorted to stabbing them.
With lunch gone, we got back on the coach - ignoring the watch salesmen - and travelled to the nearby British embassy. It was here that my camera started malfunctioning: due to a software error it would occasionally jump out of it's case and start taking photos, even though we weren't allowed to in the embassy gardens. After a brief rehearsal in the garden, we performed for a few embassy guests and Louis Ewart did some impressive improvised solo work in 'Mexico'. Sophie and Lucy would like me to mention that they were on top form, though I'm not entirely sure why.
In our next hotel, Phoenix Suyuan, we had a few minutes to rest and change for supper which we used to engage in some mild racism that I will not post here. Then, at supper, we engaged in conversation that I CANNOT post here, outside of that it involved eyebrows, death threats and genitalia of abnormal proportions.
We had intended to go bowling in the hotel after supper, but by the time we had finished our outrageous foolishness the alley had closed. Instead, we drove around Tianamien Square, and our tour guide - who we had by now affectionately named 'Big Ben' - passionately told us about the square's history and its involvement with the prestigious Numbawahns who lived near it. Since it was October, we were able to see the amazing light decorations that had been put out for National Day (October the first). We also ventured down to the food market, which - as was made in no vague terms - we were not to eat anything from, on pain of pain. After admiring the starfish kebab we called it a day. We returned to the hotel, and Alex and I hit the pillows straight away, glad that we had another night in the same hotel so we didn't have to pack our bags. After some brief snarkiness, we were both asleep.
At this point I felt I was getting a fairly good understanding of at least what Beijing was. Below is a list of what I started keeping in mind when in and around the city:
* The smog is probably the first thing that comes to mind; not only does it act as a fog so thick that you can safely look at the sun at times, but it plays havoc with the vocal chords. I spent a good amount of my time sounding like Duke Nukem. For their own sake, I inflicted my Vocalzone tablets on a number of my friends.
* The salesmen are both intrusive and persistent. Simply looking at their goods seems to indicate a potential sale, and for some reason they describe the watches they push as lollipops. By the way, they're also completely illegal. Haggling is an important part of shopping here: never pay more than a third of what they offer (Big Ben's advice), or if you're not interested, say "boo yow", to say that you don't want to buy. Repeated application may be needed.
* You need to be very careful as to what you say and do, especially around the guards which are never too far off from where we were walking. A camera pointed at the wrong place can cause quite an upset. At the same time, though, be prepared to be photographed or to be asked to pose with a stranger for a photo. Somehow we were mistaken for Russians while doing this.
We awoke the next day and I headed downstairs, determined not to miss breakfast a second time. I had what I always have for breakfast in a hotel: everything. Oddities such as fried rice and small desserts were interesting additions, as was eating French toast with chopsticks - which by now I was becoming quite proficient at using.
We returned to Timamin Square, and difference was - fittingly - as night and day. The once empty square was bustling, and around it we saw some awe-inspiring buildings: the National Theatre of China (ie. The Louvre Mk. II) and the Beijing Olympic Stadium - the appropriately named 'Bird's Nest'.
Tianamin Square itself was now abuzz with tourists, and littered with vans selling drinks and vendors pushing their goods: hats with communist stars on, mostly. The stand-out feature was the huge flower statue; though we had seen it the night before, it truly took on a greater presence here. After Tianamin Square we headed onto the Forbidden City, which strangely resembled a Serious Sam level. Although usually off-limits to citizens, we - along with a number of other tourists and locals - were able to enter and see the three Halls of Harmony within.
Our last sightseeing destination was outside the Bejing Olympic Stadium: an open marketplace. One thing I need to add to my list of advice about shopping in Bejing is that many of the shops sell exactly the same thing. I was tempted to buy a pocket watch at what Alex tells me is a Hawking, but as I approached, so too did a group of policemen and the watch vendors were sent packing.
With our sightseeing for the day done, we headed to the University of Peking, where we had probably our largest concert of the entire tour: a huge concert hall seating upwards of one thousand. As usual, we did not have a full house - the balconies were left completely untouched - but we did have a stand-up comedian for a presenter, though none of us could understand him. Though tired, we put on a very successful performance. On our return journey, however, the mood began to sour. I might have made a few death-threats and sworn vengeance against Doe-Ray-Me.
The morning was uneventful... for me, at least; my other half might have had fifteen cups of coffee. We were now on the beginning of a few days of sightseeing: a rest we would thoroughly enjoy. Today we would visit probably the biggest landmark in the entire country: the Great Wall.
On our journey over, another aspect about China which I had struggled to pinpoint made itself clear. As we passed through the countryside - past trees painted with white paint instead of cats' eyes - we saw buildings in disrepair, cracked roads and barely adequate housing. But then, in the middle of all of this, there appeared a giant flower-vase statue as we had seen in Tianamin Square. As Ben spoke over the microphone about the Great Wall's history, I began to realise that there was some huge lack of maintenance: once sparkling buildings were simply left to rust.
Then Ben mentioned the countryside's fresh air, and we all had to stifle a laugh.
There is one factor of the Great Wall of China that I was only half expecting: the tourism. Stands surrounded the path leading up to the cable lift, all selling pretty much the same things: the same t-shirts, the same medals, the same chopsticks and other such memorabilia. We ascended up to the cable lift, but we passed a toilet on the way. Trusting that the Rule of Three would be on my side, I entered. An empty cubicle that seemed clean enough presented itself to me. I lifted the seat... and it came off in my hands, distinctly wet. I decided I didn't need to use the toilet after all.
We hit the cable lift, which would have provided us with some breathtaking views were it not for the smog that reached even here. At the top, Alex Farrow and I took the lead and power-walked from tower 14 to tower 19, discussing the applications of the Great Wall, the efficiency of building such a defence, and the military accuracy of Age of Empires. We concluded that the wall's main purpose was to prevent the Mongolians' cavalry from crossing into China, slowing them significantly.
We reached the nineteenth tower before anyone else, and Alex practically keeled over: by this point his morning caffeine had worn off and he had hit a massive low. I drained my bottle of water and decided to move on to the next tower, up a set of continuous steps that must've reached several dozen metres high. Alex began to follow, but soon fell to wimpiness. Promising that his sacrifice would not be in vain, I continued on.
At the top, I was greeted by a woman, clapping enthusiastically. I took a moment to catch my breath, and realised that I was quite thirsty. The woman beckoned me over to her stall. Perfect! She had bottles of water, so I picked one out. The price was twenty yuan: a hugely extortionate price. Realising that by this point it would be rude to decline, I got out my money. I didn't have enough in smaller amounts, so I got out a fifty yuan note. No, I don't want your medals. No, I don't want a postcard either. Just give me the change for my fifty. Alright? No, you've given me ten in change. I said I didn't want the medal!
This went on for a while, as she clutched the fifty yuan in her hands, desperately trying to get me to buy something else. I decided that I had had enough, handed back my change and asked for my fifty back. All I got was shouting. A few of my friends came over to try and make sense of her, and after a lot of arguing which the other party couldn't understand, she returned my fifty yuan note but I was down ten.
It seems I need to revise my earlier statement. Chinese vendors are not persistent, they are relentless. Not just from this one woman, but as I went back through the marketplace, I realised that these vendors have a very selective understanding of our language. "No thank you" means "please continue to push your goods into my face" and "I'm not interested" means "I am fascinated by your cheap tat". I suspect that "piss off" has a similar translation, though I have yet to try it.
Our next stop, following lunch, was a specialist tea shop, and one of the more beautiful buildings we had been in so far - unfortunately, we weren't allowed to take photos. We were shown to a room where we were given a presentation on a variety of Chinese teas, all of which had a suspicious list of vague effects: "good for skin, weight loss, insomnia, clear mind, extend your yuan in 6 weeks". We were also shown a device called a Mr. Pee-pee; a device that was used to check when the tea-water was hot enough by... well.
We would not be spending that night at a hotel, instead, we left Beijing on an overnight train to Shanghai. We arrived early in the morning, having had very little sleep, and headed for the Oriental Pearl Tower, which (censored: this user has exceeded their quota of phallic jokes). On the way, we met Agnes - our tour guide for Shanghai - and her pet panda umbrella. I am not making this up.
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| Pictured above: not Agnes. That is her umbrella, though. |
We headed for the observation deck, some two-hundred and seventy floors above the ground (a journey which passed so quickly on the elevator that it made my ears pop). From there, we saw a phenomenal vista: the walls and floor were glass, showing the city stretching out in all directions, as far as the eye could see (which, due to the smog, was not very far). Like our first view of Beijing, Shanghai was very quick to impress. Of course, we were in full tourist mode by now, and some of us were silly enough to squat up and down while looking down. It was fun.
We returned to the hotel to catch some much-needed rest, and from there we were let lose on the city. We grouped up - I joined Alex Farrow, Sam Slattery, Maxim Del Mar and Joseph Shalor - and we set off, in search of a marketplace, a treasure and a bargain.
Our first stop was Costa. Milkshakes in hand, we poured over a map and scoured it for a target. One presented itself to us: Old Shanghai. We set off down the riverside, then turned into the streets. Cars disappeared in favour of scooters and the familiar "cheap cheap" of marketplace vendors could soon be heard. We wandered for a while in these dusty streets, hands hovering protectively near our pockets. It wasn't long before we found what we had been looking for.
I've made frequent use of words such as 'beautiful', 'breath-taking' and 'awe-inspiring' so far. Those same words seemed not to have the same meaning in Old Shanghai: miracles of architecture didn't tower above us, there were no grandiose displays and there wasn't a neon light to be seen. Instead, traditional curved walls surrounded a tightly packed street and sloped roofs seemed to shelter from the city beyond. The blaring of bus horns was nowhere to be heard, replaced by the excited chatter of tourists and vendors. Without a doubt, Old Shanghai stood taller than any other in the city in my mind, and I was not alone in my opinion. Unfortunately, I had not brought my camera, for fear of it getting nicked, though I'm sure that nice Mr. Google Images can reaffirm my views.
My budget was the remaining fifty yuan, so I set about looking for my purchase: a pocket watch. Though I found a very good looking wind-up, at eighty (down from three-hundred, thanks to Joseph) it was above me. Instead, I found one that was battery-powered for twenty-five. Chuffed with my purchase, I regrouped with the others and we headed back, with my new chronometric companion by my side.
It was broken before we got to supper.
We were not staying in Shanghai for long, and though we had been wowed that morning by the scenery from above, that night (after a supper that basically consisted of - surprise! - rice) we took a boat tour over the river Huangpu. Beneath the night sky, one side was dominated by glass-walled skyscrapers covered in garish neon lights of all colours, and on the other stone buildings were bathed in a golden glow from above. On any other day, it would have been a true sight to behold. However, we had now spent a few nights in Beijing, and skyscraper after skyscraper had left me, for one, jaded by all the architects trying to make up for their incredibly small yuan. I busied myself taking photos - hundreds of them - then I returned below deck, worn out from the long day.
The very next day we would leave Shanghai and Agnes, but before we did, we made two visits. One was to a Buddhist temple, the home of one of the original Jade Buddha statues brought to Shanghai. The other, a silk factory which completely destroyed any remaining appetite I might have had for lunch by showing us exactly how the silk worms were harvested. We were then shown to a show floor containing some extremely luxurious - but very expensive - silk clothes and bed items. I proved myself to be an utter stooge by purchasing a single pair of chopsticks for fifteen yuan, while Mr. Farrow proved that he has far too much money, a condition I generously offered to cure him of.
It seemed we were on a souvenir-buying binge. Mr. Miles had also bought in with a ten yuan recorder of sorts which he greatly enjoyed playing with in public - even though we asked him to do it quietly - and which, in great tradition, was broken within a few hours of purchase.
The morning was soon gone, and we headed to the airport. After bidding farewell to Agnes, we headed for Guangzhou. The flight over was mostly without event; it was only when we were landing that Maxim struck up a conversation that somehow hit harder than it should have. His question was very innocent, and it was not the first time - even on that tour - that I had been asked it. He wanted to know what I was doing about my career.
More than anything else, it was the wording of his question that hit a nerve: what was I 'doing'? The answer was very simple; I wasn't. At that point in time, schoolwork seemed a distant memory, and in being reminded of that I felt a pang of guilt. This tour was an escape; one word I found myself using a lot was simply 'Wonderland'. I hadn't been kn social networks, my once religiously-followed YouTube channels had gone unchecked and my Economics folder lay forgotten in my suitcase. It was liberating... and a part of me didn't want it to end.
We arrived only in time to meet our next tour guide and have supper. This new guide was Thomas, and he wasted no time in gaining popularity by announcing a 10:30am start the next day - a statement that earned him a standing ovation. Many of my friends made full use of the lie-in, but even after a few late-night matches of Worms with Alex, I was one of the first up. I took the time to ready myself at my own pace, glad for just a little respite from the constant noise and activity.
It was at breakfast that I was approached by a woman who seemed to recognised my uniform. She asked whether I was from King's School, and upon my answer, she said something extremely profound:
"You guys are awesome."
Those words seemed to resonate in my head. I struggled to find words of my own to respond to her; a very drawn out "thank you" was all I could manage. Had the choir's reputation really preceded them in such a fashion?
"See you in Hong Kong." She turned and left, leaving me utterly bewildered.
We only had one day in Ghangzhou, but we were determined to make the most of it. Our venue that night was the South China university, and the hall itself was the best we could have asked for. The acoustics were simply unparalleled by any other building I had performed in: sound resonated perfectly, allowing us to adjust to each other; timing, dynamic balance, tuning... it all allowed for us to make a much more powerful performance, and we used the advantage for all it was worth. It was, of course, a two-sided sword: any mistakes would be heard clear as day, but after three days without singing, we relished the challenge. The atmosphere was so alive that even before the concert began we were singing - as hearty as I'd heard - in the hallway, waiting for the go from Mr. Todd.
The concert was, without a doubt, our best yet. Even the trickiest of sections fell into place (besides some trademark King's Men Modulation - well done, chaps) and the increased awareness brought more complex pieces such as Sleep to an entirely new level, and even allowed us to clone Lewis Cullen for the photo below - my thanks to the lovely Reo Jones for pointing this out.
We left on an absolute high, but not before I caught another glimpse of the woman from that morning, just a few feet from me in the crowd. She had been in the front row, looking with such a gaze that I couldn't help but feel we had made eye contact on a number of moments.
Words with which to greet her simply didn't come to me, but I was quite sure it was her. Was she a parent of a pupil? A past chorister? As we got back on the coach, I felt a pang of regret that I didn't thank her again. What I didn't know was that it would be the last chance I would get.
We arrived back at midnight, but we were to be up again in just over six hours, leaving Ghangzhou for Hong Kong. Finally, we were off to the highlight - and the finale - of our tour.
We arrived in the morning, after a train journey which I spent writing up a silly little blog. Our first order of business, as per usual, was to drop off our bags at the hotel and to meet our guide, Bertha. Our hotel was - and I promise I'm not making this up - the YMCA. I'm fairly certain that the jokes make themselves, so I'll spare you the more obvious ones. Our rooms were not yet ready, so we were sent off to find lunch. The good news from this was that we would finally have a change of pace from Lazy Susan meals and rice. The bad news is that we ended up at McDonald's.
Our rehearsal that afternoon was strained. Many of us were running on very little sleep, myself included. I called it quits halfway through the rehearsal and sat down to take a power nap, letting the sounds of Bare Necessities wash over me in spectacularly wobbly fashion. We were all feeling low, and we needed a rocket beneath our pine-striped backsides.
We were treated to a very unorthodox supper that evening, though none of us were disapproving of what was on offer: a selection of what was essentially aperitifs and desserts, with nothing in between; all while overlooking the night-lit city below.
There was a nasty surprise waiting for us when we got back; it was just before we went on stage that I realised that this would be the last concert of the tour.
I panicked. This was it? After all that rest leading up to the previous night, we were already at our peak? I felt certain that we could go further; if only we had more time at this pace, we would reach some elusive plateau of what a school choir - even one from King's - could do.
Alex must have noticed my state. He took me aside and said four simple words: "Don't lose it now."
As always, he was right. There was no sense in letting this concert go to waste simply because we were nearing the end. I steadied myself and walked onto the stage.
The hall was half-full at most. We took our places, but as Mr. Todd raised his hands to start the Parry, I found myself glancing quickly - even fearfully - at the audience, hoping to catch a glimpse of that one person. That lady from the previous day.
The choir would have, on any other day, hit a low under these circumstances. We were much more tired than the previous day and the perfect acoustics of that hall were no longer around to aid us. What's more, we had been without several members during our rehearsal which had been cut short by focusing on new music for an evensong. We should have sucked.
Of course, I say we 'should' have. It seemed to occur to us at the same time: a few bars into the Parry, we all came to the same realisation: we didn't need that buff. We practically came to a halt mid-line: sopranos and basses both quieted, balancing with the middle parts. Tuning became tighter, timing became tighter, even the clarity of the words improved. The choir began to listen to itself, not for reference, but for feedback. Then, it began to smile. In the quick glances I stole of the choristers around me, I found eyes fixed ahead, mouths wide and grinning.
The King's Men only served to aid our resolve: they strategically placed pieces of contrasting quality in order to improve the choir's perceived skill. And by that I mean to say they weren't very good; for once the Swingers appeared to have the upper hand, despite having fewer numbers. That was when the unexpected happened. With the Swinger'a pieces done, they remained in place... and were joined by the Men.
Two of the most prestigious - and competitive - music groups came together on the stage. Their piece? 'Happy Birthday', of course.
So
finished our final concert of the tour. I never saw the person I had so hoped
to thank, so I must conclude that she was not at the concert. Perhaps, though,
it didn't matter. As a choir, we had finished our tour; all that was left, it
seemed, to go home. Not so. Now we had a day and a half to relax, and to enjoy
the spectacular country we were now in.
Some
of us decided a good place to start was alcohol.
That
evening should have ended as the happiest of the entire tour. Instead, a select
few let themselves go at the post-concert reception, and the entire mood came
crashing down. The late hours of the night were spent watching over those
inconsiderate fools as they leaned over a sink, waiting for their investments
in the alcohol market to liquidise. The next morning, then, was tense: trying to ascertain just how conscious our peers - and our teachers, who had spent much of the night dealing with fools - were.
We were headed to Llama Island, which meant a lovely boat ride: perfect for those with less than stable stomachs. There, we were treated to a lunch of seafood that was dangerously close to still moving - I personally wasn't able to take a byte bite, though it appears my friends were as they took great pleasure in eating all the parts of the fish they weren't supposed to.
We had one final performance in Hong Kong: an evensong at a cathedral tucked between the towering buildings of the city. Besides some new material and a general sense of fatigue in the choir, we felt we were ready for the encore of our trip.
Reactions from the choir were mixed. Some say the concert went fine, others say it was a mess. I personally didn't hear it: having lost my trousers, I had retreated to the balcony of the church where the choir was drowned out by the 'organ' (read: 'speakers').
That evening we finally reached what I had been anticipating throughout the trip: Hong Kong's Night Market. Located on Temple Street, it is a huge collection of stands selling everything from iPhones to "I ♥ HK" t-shirts to dubious watches.
Alex Farrow, seemingly right at home, took the lead. Although conscious of the fact that we had very little time, we wandered, taking in the intoxicating atmosphere. We would dip in and out of stores, playing what Alex called 'the game'.
We emerged to regroup with the rest of the choir, showing off our gains. Besides a few gifts, I had made but one purchase: a shiny new pocket watch.
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I'm afraid the conclusion to this blog has been put on permanent hiatus. In the meantime, I encourage you to visit my homepage. If you're really lucky, I might have actually put something on there by the time you read this.
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I'm afraid the conclusion to this blog has been put on permanent hiatus. In the meantime, I encourage you to visit my homepage. If you're really lucky, I might have actually put something on there by the time you read this.
