Once Upon a Hutong (July 2009)

There was a big hole outside the door of my hostel. It ran the entire length of the hutong. It was quite mesmerizing to watch, and somewhat of an obstacle coarse to navigate. A persons width had been left on either side of the street for that purpose. The trench was a little shy of 2 metres deep, and filled with incredible little men of all ages, excavating by hand. I had no idea what the end goal was, occasional questions to local voyeurs often only met with a polite smile and nod of the head. Some attempted to reply, but I didn’t understand a word they said either, so I just politely smiled and nodded my head back at them.

After a little bit of asking around I discovered that the work in the hutong was not unique to that particular street, but part of an ongoing process, mirrored throughout the city, to ‘modernize and clean up’ the traditional neighbourhoods of Beijing. For those who live in the hutongs, this process is one that has left many of them homeless and without their businesses. With shovels and picks these men battered away layer after layer, removing the spoil, via two men and an empty coal sack, to the other end of the hutong. They carried the bricks five by five with their bare hands, and hoisted scaffolding and rubber piping along the entire length of the street on their shoulders. The only machinery on site was a mini-digger which sat at the entrance to the hutong. Day and night these little doozers beavered away with an impressive amount of good-temperedness, despite the obvious wearying physicality of the work at hand. They made excellent models, often insisting on a picture as soon as they saw the camera hanging at my hip. I nearly lost my head in the process of making one such picture when some random rubble got loose and tumbled from the roof above me. I felt the breeze of it as it whipped past my ear after being abruptly pulled to one side by one of my hard hat wearing friends.

Trying to make my way to and from the hostel was a daily expedition. Any concept one might have of health and safety practices did not exist here. The street was still open for business. There was no clear walkway through most of it, just an apocalypse of broken rubble, varied rubber and plastic pipes, the occasional board or piece of metal sheeting laid down in an ad-hoc manner to provide a shaky bridge crossing over the troughs and pits that peppered the street. Where the excavation was deep you found yourself weaving and ducking the veritable climbing frame of metal and wooden scaffolding that hugged the sides of the route. Navigation was a skill in itself, never mind trying to do it simultaneously with the footwork. Add to that the frequent missiles in the shape of 4 metre long chunks of metal that seemed to appear out of nowhere at speed from around corners, precariously balanced on the a workman's shoulder, and you had a daily adventure along the strip that was worthy of an Indiana Jones sequel in itself.

Beijing is a great city for walking, and when I tired of my building site playground, I walked the little size 4’s off myself. Making my way through the new wide streets towards Tiananmen Square, it became clear very quickly that the real tourist attraction was not the city, but me! The quizzical look of amusement on the faces of local people as I bounced along with my cowboy hat side-cocked on my head and camera swinging by my hip, reminded me of how I used to look at the bevy of Aran sweater and check pants wearing Americans that used to descend upon my island when I was a child. However, one of the wonderful things about this place, is that looking is a national occupation. People do it without embarrassment or malice. After a while, I became comfortable with the attention, posed for the requested photographs, and accepted their unspoken permission to look right back.

Random people liked to come up and just say ‘Hello’. For most it’s the only English word that they know, and they appeared to enjoy using it. When I responded with a ‘…and how are you?’, they nodded their heads furiously and simply rattled back, ‘Hello, hello!’

Looking across Tiananmen Square, I couldn’t begin to imagine how many people it would take to fill it, but it’s vastness was clear. I felt like an ant in it, and people looked like ants at the opposite side of it. Across the road at the northern end, Chairman Mao’s portrait was a strange kind of magnet under which it seems every visiting Chinese needed to stand with peace sign hand, to have their picture made. Crossing the bridge and going through Mao’s gate finds you within walking distance of the Forbidden City. It wasn’t long after I arrived there that the harassment began. I’d read all about the various tourist scams involving English-fluent students trying to ‘invite you for tea’ or to ‘cast your eye over their artwork’, and once lulled into a false sense of security, ultimately unburden you of large amounts of your travelling dollars. Solo tourists are often the main target. Once I realized that I had been marked, I started to play crazy lady, waving my hands wildly and shouting at them in bad Irish. My persistence outlasted theirs, and I walked away unscathed.

The rickshaw drivers were a little more hard sell, and tended to stick to your side like glue, trying to draw you into a haggle. ‘No’ is always no with me, and it was amusing how agitated they got when I stuck to my guns. “Two legs good, three wheels bad!” I think the subtlety of that line was quite lost on them. Eventually, they fell away seeking other quarry, leaving me to work on my blisters.

This city is a voyeurs paradise, abounding in quirky things and quirky people. Of course to the Beijinger, they are just going about their normal lives in an every day way. To a barbarian watcher like myself, they were just pure entertainment. Beijing parks are among the best places to be entertained. Morning and evening, the neighbourhoods flock to them to socialise and exercise.

Dusk in particular is the best time to just wander and watch as mixed generations make their way to the appointed part of the park, many indulging in some post-meal belly rubbing to aid their digestion. They break away into little social groups to play shuttlecock football, or a competitively friendly game of cards. Outdoor gymnasiums, which at first glance look more like a children's playground, fill with with elderly Chinese who pull up, push up, sit up, cross train, wheel spin and twist with great intent and surprising dexterity.

At the open space entrance to the park, a smoking man collected Yuan from wannabe ballroom dancers, who then happily allowed themselves to be orally abused by the strictest of ladies for an hour while she tried to teach them the finer points of the Cha Cha.

In the decoratively pillared corridors that run along the sides of the Temple of Heaven park, small groups gathered for free choral lessons. Middle-aged men and women huddled around their accordion playing master, following his lead while diligently monitoring the wide-openness of their mouths with little hand mirrors. Further on, a much more relaxed and advanced group belted out operatic numbers just for the sheer joy of it, watched by an audience of peers fanning away the humidity of the day and drinking tea from jam jars. As I meandered and watched, an old gentleman wearing an under-vest, striped shorts and swinging a cane, passed me by taking his caged song-bird for a walk, all the while trying to persuade it to sing with his whistles.

It is possible to sit for hours just watching. Oft times your watching doesn’t go unnoticed, and you find yourself being pulled in to joining. It’s hard to drag yourself away, but eventually my grumbling belly did just that. Heading back to the building site, I would stop into a neighbourhood restaurant for a bite.

One particular eatery drew me in, partly with its smells , partly by the fact that it was chock-filled with locals, and partly by the western couple sitting in the middle of said locals with a table full of empty plates. The​ fuwuyuan handed me an English menu while myself and the western couple exchanged nods and smiles. I ordered a 10 Yuan beer and perused the picture list of dishes. For a short moment, I was interrupted by a teenage set of Chinese twins eager to have their picture taken with me. They were sweet as nuts, and I of course obliged.

Decision making on the food front was a chore when faced with delicacies such as sautéed pig lungs, stir fried dogs meat, and plain old flesh lump on the menu. However, I finally found something to suit my taste in the shape of some broccoli, steam fried corn bread, and sautéed pork in sweet bean sauce.

I chopsticked my way through the marinated pork, greatly doubting that it was the fillet I’m used to eating. The texture was sufficiently ‘bouncy’ for me to suspect some kind of innards, but melt in the mouth and tasty enough for me not to care. Slurping in the shredded pieces and facing the open door, I couldn’t help but continue my watching. A middle-aged man and youngish woman stumbled into the restaurant. He was very drunk, and she may well have been, but was holding it together enough to pass. They sat at the table beside me, shouting for the waiter who chose to ignore them. The man soliloquized, smoking a cigarette. She bore it and listened, pretending to smoke a cigarette. She soon tired of the pretence and quenched it right there on the table. Finally, their drink came and I returned to my broccoli.

My attention to the broccoli was snatched by a hawker. Two tables from the open front door, scratching his bared and sweaty victory pouch, he decided to ‘khawkh’ and ‘pichew’ right there. Good job I was done with the meaty innards.

The youngish woman moved to the same side of the table as her date. Almost immediately after sitting, her head was grabbed in an intoxicated whisper. Judging by the flushed cheek and nervous laugh, I suspected that 'Drunky Boy' had made an indecent proposal. I wasn’t wrong. He followed it by making a not so secret dive with his hand into the shirt of the lady in question. I rounded off my meal with a cigarette and made my way back to my hutong.


Once more in the floodlit semi-organized mayhem, the doozers flitted past me going about their business. I was stopped in my tracks by a man shouting in what appeared to be anger. Thinking there was a row brewing, I halted just in time to realize it was an order to lift. In unison, and with chain gang precision, they duly picked up a long length of thick rubber piping. I quickly jumped out of the way, only narrowly avoiding being lifted and carried along on the pipe myself.

After making their way a few yards down the street, another yell was let loose. They dropped the pipe, squatted, and waited for their next order. I squatted down beside them and watched, finishing the night with a final cigarette while trying to pick out a piece of innard from between my teeth with a toothpick I had taken from the restaurant. Puffing away beside me, the wrinkly faced workman smiled and nodded.