Silk and steel: Modernity vs. tradition in China

Silk and steel: Modernity vs. tradition in China

Bucky Knight, Grade 9, Jakarta International School

The ceiling of the Beijing airport is supported by industrial
steel beams that crisscross in a repeating geometry, yet the
carpet is decorated with dragons and phoenixes. The mix of old
and new is already apparent.

Simon, the tour guide, leans his narrow frame nonchalantly on
the cement wall with a wide grin propping up his high cheekbones.
His slit-eyes are squeezed almost shut behind rimless glasses; he
is apparently blinded by the reflection of halogen lighting off
his braces.

He waves the tour group to a distant corner of the facility
into a rickety staff elevator, while he makes a wiser decision to
take the stairway down to the basement car park. The sharp angles
of a white and blue tour bus contrast with the fluid curves of
sport and luxury cars spattered around the parking lot.

Simon describes the Beijing city plan, interchanging the
pronunciation of "r" with "l" and "s" with "sh": "The shitty is
enshircled by lings of highways, yah, and each ling takes us
crosher to downtown."

The highway tunnels through a wall of evergreens on both sides
and, by the third ring, buildings begin to peep over the walls as
the wide road gives way to smaller bicycle paths. To the right,
government workers water the hedges, resembling a chain gang of
prisoners in their neon orange and yellow jumpsuits. Squatting
next to posh downtown high-rises, the cracked and peeling paint
of working class housing is almost hidden by a jungle of moss
growing down the sides of the buildings.

The tour bus stops in front of the home of China's former
emperors, the Forbidden City courtyard, and Simon hops off waving
his hand again. The effect of the afternoon sun glinting off his
gold ring makes him look like a groupie at a rock concert waving
a lighter to the band.

Pressed up against the ancient Forbidden City are Western
fast-food restaurants, shops, arcades and a murky green river
that looks like a giant factory drainage pipe. It's as if a young
boy is pressing with fear against his grandpa at the top of a
steep cliff and, in the process, pushes them both off the edge
into oblivion.

The Forbidden City flows like old blood into the heart of
Beijing and is then pumped back out again into the lungs of its
people -- lungs starved for the kind of oxygen that could give
some meaning to life beyond the pursuit of materialistic values.

It is a monster with a skin of horned clay walls, a back
formed by its yellow roof, and a gaping mouth gate that snaps
with indignation at the challenge of a modern art gallery
recently built nearby. Two large but jaded bronze lions guard the
entrance to the 9,999.5 rooms of the City, lifelike in every
detail from luxurious manes to wavy tails.

Inside the Forbidden City, bronze studded doors open into the
Temple of Supreme Harmony, which is a place where emperors of the
past conducted matters of state. The wooden door panels are
sheathed in cracked, red leather, shielding them from the
elements; years of rain and snow has eroded their surface into
faded brown sandpaper. Below the Temple of Supreme Harmony, a sea
of Chinese visitors flows over the smooth white marble of the
Lotus Terrace.

The monotonous roar of crowd drowns out the soft music of
ancient Chinese instruments. A giant pot, which sits just behind
the Temple, whispers that its rough and worn bronze surface had
once been covered with gold-leaf, and about the importance of its
former duties: "Listen to me. I was once the fire chief of the
Temple, filled with water to pour in case of fire. And I was the
chief executioner as well, boiling those alive who dared to defy
my power."

The Forbidden City is imprisoned by a nearby guard of abstract
modernity called Tiananmen Square. It is a slab of concrete that
stretches out like the Great Plains of the United States with a
few buildings jutting out here and there like boxy geological
structures. The technological power of China is symbolized by a
space ship positioned in the Square, around which dance the
emperor and the empress in the form of a giant dragon and phoenix
made of braided flowers.

Flying high above a vast crowd of visitors, a flag proclaims
the Chinese Communist Revolution with 5 burning stars. But it
weeps different words when the soldiers turn their backs: "You
murdered our children here."

In the year 1100, the imperial family commissioned the
construction of the Summer Palace to provide them with a suburban
retreat from their daily life at the Forbidden City; and, after
centuries of construction, the former became five times larger
than the latter. It is built in the same architectural style as
the Forbidden City, but includes a man-made lake and mountain.

Ancient statues dot the outer courtyard, carved in oblong
shapes with speckled stone; and these alone would be more than
sufficient to fill even the largest art museum. Vast quantities
of art lie invisible to the naked eye. Far beyond view, hidden
pictures are painted on the ceiling tiles; and glimpses of
horses, fish, children, and even the Forbidden City are painted
inside white clouds on the roof beams. The walls are adorned with
decorations of flames and flowers in glossy jade green, azure and
vermilion.

At the fabricated lake, modern sleek cigarette boats clash
with the antiquated imperial marble vessels. On the bridge with
17 arches that spans across the lake, remnants of ancient
engravings can still be seen on its scratched and cracking stone
railings. Another bridge, which is pearly white in color, is the
best maintained structure in the Palace. The carvings of
alternating male and female lions are clearly visible every
meter, poised majestically, each in different stance.

Hundreds of miles from Beijing in the city of Xian, the
terracotta warriors sleep in three open pits. They toss and turn
as their slumber is disturbed by music emitting from a modern
sound system, which rings off the steel roof beams shrouded in
shadows. They suffer nightmares foretelling the humiliation of
China by foreign powers and by the government's abuse of its own
people.

Inside the first pit, many rows of soldiers stand fast,
guarding their emperor for all eternity. Each warrior has a
different stance and face, and his own story to tell. They keep
their secrets behind stone faces.

Their studded leather armor has been lovingly crafted by the
skillful hands of Emperor Qin's best artisans, and their coats
are ruffled by an imaginary wind howling through the tunnels.
Each warrior wears his own distinct attire; some have their hair
tied back with coarse string, others have deep wrinkles in their
uniforms. The archers wear silk scarves and cloth shoes; the
generals' bulging bellies protrude from their silk belts.

The Great Wall, which is located several hours by car from the
city of Beijing, has tried in vain for thousands of years to
protect the northern border of China. Although it was mortared
with the blood and bones of the Chinese people, this could not
protect them from continuous invasions by northern hoards such as
the Mongols and Manchus.

Now, no one prays for the souls who sacrificed their lives to
build the Wall. The only prayers are those offered by street
vendors, chanting the virtues of their trinkets and knickknacks,
praying for a sale.

It is a 5,000-step climb from the base of the Great Wall to
the top, from which there is a surreal view of the Wall snaking
across mountain tops like a mystical dragon. At the top, the
stone tiling on the floor of the walkway has been polished smooth
by a million feet, but the wall stones are still rough and
grainy. The occasional guard tower is welcome relief from the
fierce heat of the sun. To the east, the shelter of a forest
blankets the countryside.

The conflict between old and new is as powerful today as it
has been throughout China's history. Perhaps it was best
described in The Ballad of the Army Wagons by China's most famous
poet Du Fu, who lived during the Tang Dynasty:

But have you not seen

On the Black Lake's shore

The white bones there of old

No one has gathered,

Where new ghosts cry aloud,

Old ghosts are bitter,

Rain drenching from dark clouds

Their ghostly chatter?

This travel piece is an original student work that was completed
as part of Jakarta International School's Project Week, and
includes only minor editing in keeping with The Jakarta Post
style.