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.