Stopover

It’s either Bangkok, Mumbai or Beijing. Possible stop-overs on the way to a European winter. In early December 2008, the first two options simply aren’t. And so, Beijing. A late evening landing. The airport is – in terms of area covered – purportedly the largest human-made structure in the world. And it’s clean. So clean. The only hint of the temperature outside comes through the tiny gap between the glassed-in, tiled internal platform and the train that carries passengers back to terminal three. A smooth, silent train, as lithe as an olympic athlete. And with very good enunciation. A female voice, in both English and Chinese, informing of the one-and-only stop: TC3.
Stepping through to the enormity of the dome that is the new terminal, is like stepping into an inside that is an outside. Like entering a room in order to see the sky. The “sky’ in this case is a ceiling made of a kind of architectural skin. Slatted in white, so that behind it one can see the brighter paint of the roof structure itself. The colours change throughout the terminal – from orange to yellow, and perhaps other colours. There is white light everywhere, and at this late hour, relatively little sound. Everything is spotless. So many square metres of tiles to maintain – but there are people employed to do this. A lot of staff, with wide dust brooms, mopping up potential dirt before it appears. You could drop a vegemite sandwich spread-side-down on this floor and it would end up cleaner than before it was dropped.
Get a coat on before leaving the terminal. Tip Number 1. And a scarf, and gloves and perhaps a balaklava for the sensitive. Because even in the car park, the temperature is brisk, like a sharp inhalation. Tight molecules of air. (Note: Car park is also spotless.)
The first drive through a new country is always thrilling. It is where one encounters the idea of the place towards which one was travelling (making plans, reading guide books, telling friends) alongside the supposed reality. Mentally repeating over and over: I’m here, I’m in China. This is China. How did I get here again? And the freeway signs are in English, and the reflective silver-on-green is just like CityLink, but then there are those signs which are untranslated. It is the moment of being on the outside. Being linguistically on the back-foot. This is the necessary moment, so as to make sense of how far away one really is. Far away from being articulate, diplomatic and subtle. Quickly on the way to unwitting statements akin to: “Hello, I am a beer”.
And in the taxi, this mega-city still gets in. There is something strong in the air, potent enough to make your eyeballs sweat. And the body – the foreign, Australian body – doesn’t know what to do with this thickness, all it can do is weep it back out again, streams of the city’s density running down one’s cheeks.
Through the city’s haze, through the salty eyeball haze, there is a big sign, a cartoon, letting drivers know that they shouldn’t load their trucks, cars, or probably scooters too high with goods. A giraffe with it’s long neck sticking precariously (and illegally!) out of a sun-roof.
 If there could be a list for a week in Beijing, it might be: the smell of coal; lamp-lit hutongs; small dogs in plaid sweaters; enormous corn pancakes; putting toilet paper in the bin; fake-meat Buddhist Peking Duck; dusty department stores; dodgy rickshaw drivers; baffling queueing procedures; tiny glass tea cups; scorpions-on-a-stick; scary men in large green coats; ducks slipping on frozen lakes; people doing yelling practice at dawn; tea flasks with built in strainers; great massage; stray cats; silver, gold or lime-green puffa jackets; masterful spitting skills, little clay, paper-covered pots of yoghurt; pikelets filled with red-bean paste; bus rides for one yuan.
So maybe it’s necessary to photoshop the blue into one’s photos, since a Beijing winter sky is grey or white, from pollution probably, not so much the season. But at what other time of year would it be possible to walk ten kilometres along the Great Wall at Simitai with only a few Mongolian souvenir saleswomen for company? The green of the lake there really was the colour of jade, and catching a flying fox off the edge of a world-wonder is probably even more exhilarating in sub-zero degree temperatures.
As the back of our guide book explained, China is a communism without social security, without a welfare net. Some refer to it as State Capitalism. There can be a desperation in the air, something different to wanting to have more, it’s a wanting to have anything. But as an immaculately spoken English teacher on the metro explained, people aren’t often homeless in China. More and more people just squash into each apartment. One lives together, it seems, runny eyeballs and all.