Random Impressions of a chinese city
The city is vastness. The road from the airport stretches interminably through the darkness and we follow it blindly, unable to read the hieroglyphic signs, until by chance fields morph into buildings, and we are now hurtling endlessly down city streets, sometimes 10 lanes wide, and all full of chaotic and cacophonic traffic. This city of 7 million is almost unpopulated by Chinese standards but it has spread like poison ivy across the skin of the Earth. Drivers here drive with their horns and with foolhardy bravado. They are nerveless; they are
uncompromising; traffic rules are unheeded. Staying in one lane is unheard of. If even the tiniest of spaces opens up somewhere ahead, drivers will immediately set upon it like a mongoose on a cobra.
It doesn't matter that a dozen cars are in the way and 6 others are trying to reach the same small opening. All the while horns are blaring one of many messages: get out of the way, I'm coming
through; just a reminder that I'm here; get a move-on, slow poke; you're an idiot. Would drivers here
be able to drive if their horns were disconnected? There are only two speeds allowed on the streets
and roads: as fast as possible, and faster. Given all this, there are surprising few accidents. Perhaps
this is natural selection as applied to traffic. Those drivers who could not cope with the reality of the
traffic are already dead or have had nervous breakdowns and no longer drive. Those that remain have
the reflexes of a gunfighter, the eyes of an eagle, the coordination of a gymnast and the nerves of a
high-stakes poker player.
Being a pedestrian in this city is no fun. Pedestrian traffic signals and cross walks are totally
ignored. A pedestrian has to have many of the attributes of a driver: nerves of steel, good peripheral
vision, and the ability to jump like a kangaroo. You simply stare at the cars, daring them to hit you,
but be prepared to jump in case they call your bluff.
This is a city of contrasts. Five-star hotels stare across the street of dilapidated tenements.
Modern, high-rise apartments sit cheek-by-jowl with shanty-towns. Audis and BMWs share the streets
with donkey carts, bicycles and all manner of make-shift cargo vehicles. The city is simultaneously
under construction and demolition. Buildings and elevated roads are being pulled from the earth by
gigantic cranes. At the same time, piles of rubble indicate where sad old buildings once stood. Men
with wheel barrows haul away the bricks to be used again.
The city is alive both day and night. Culture Park is the epicentre of activity, and almost any
activity imaginable takes place there. Athletes race around the 400 m track, or play football on the
enclosed field. Teenagers skateboard or shoot hoops. School children march in formation, perhaps
preparing to become the next generation of the People's Army. Women line dance to rock, not country
music. Singers, each within her own island of devotees, compete to see who can produce the most
decibels. All of this is overseen by a towering monument to culture at the park`s centre. A more
serene setting for culture is Sculpture Park. Along its salubrious pathways stand over 100 statues,
silent witnesses to the Chinese appreciation of art.
The citizens of Changchun know how to have a good time. The restaurants are always full. The
streets are always clogged with people eating, drinking, conversing. In Culture Park they sing and
dance and draw on the sidewalks. They laugh and they smile. One tour guide said that people of Jilin
Province were the friendliest in China. Who can doubt her? Perhaps there is a dark side to this
apparent happiness– not everyone drives an Audi and poverty is very apparent– but if it exists it is
hidden from the casual visitor.
Walking along city streets one’s visual, auditory and olfactory senses are continually assaulted
by a multitude of sights, sounds and smells. In many buildings the ground floor is devoted to business
and commerce. People live in the upper floors above their shops. All manner of shops line the streets
– small restaurants, convenience stores, internet cafes, beauty salons, barber shops, furniture stores,
motorcycle repair shops, and many others whose purpose remains shrouded in mystery. Each building
is separated from the street by a narrow parking zone and a sidewalk; in reality there is little difference
between the two. Both are crowded with cars, bicycles, delivery vehicles, pedestrians, and
construction tents. Vendors sell aromatic steamed or grilled corn from barrows to a continuous plea
of “get your corn here” which bellows from loud speakers affixed to the barrows. This is mixed with
the blaring of horns, the wailing of sirens, and the chatter of people to produce an auditory assault to
the ears. At night the neon signs above each shop try to imitate Los Vegas. That’s impossible, of
course, but they do their best, painting the night sky with a rainbow of colours.
There isn’t much to attract tourists to Changchun. Two days at most would give ample time
to see all the major and most of the minor sites, click the obligatory photos and move on. But 11 days
spent in the city provides an opportunity to go beyond the tourist sites. After a while it becomes
possible to feel the heartbeat of the city, to discern the rhythm of streets, and to detect its diurnal
cycles. With time the traffic begins to appear less chaotic, and being a pedestrian became less
frightening. The city detects and slowly envelopes us in its ambience. It slowly absorbs us; it makes
us part of it.
The city is vastness. The road from the airport stretches interminably through the darkness and we follow it blindly, unable to read the hieroglyphic signs, until by chance fields morph into buildings, and we are now hurtling endlessly down city streets, sometimes 10 lanes wide, and all full of chaotic and cacophonic traffic. This city of 7 million is almost unpopulated by Chinese standards but it has spread like poison ivy across the skin of the Earth. Drivers here drive with their horns and with foolhardy bravado. They are nerveless; they are
uncompromising; traffic rules are unheeded. Staying in one lane is unheard of. If even the tiniest of spaces opens up somewhere ahead, drivers will immediately set upon it like a mongoose on a cobra.
It doesn't matter that a dozen cars are in the way and 6 others are trying to reach the same small opening. All the while horns are blaring one of many messages: get out of the way, I'm coming
through; just a reminder that I'm here; get a move-on, slow poke; you're an idiot. Would drivers here
be able to drive if their horns were disconnected? There are only two speeds allowed on the streets
and roads: as fast as possible, and faster. Given all this, there are surprising few accidents. Perhaps
this is natural selection as applied to traffic. Those drivers who could not cope with the reality of the
traffic are already dead or have had nervous breakdowns and no longer drive. Those that remain have
the reflexes of a gunfighter, the eyes of an eagle, the coordination of a gymnast and the nerves of a
high-stakes poker player.
Being a pedestrian in this city is no fun. Pedestrian traffic signals and cross walks are totally
ignored. A pedestrian has to have many of the attributes of a driver: nerves of steel, good peripheral
vision, and the ability to jump like a kangaroo. You simply stare at the cars, daring them to hit you,
but be prepared to jump in case they call your bluff.
This is a city of contrasts. Five-star hotels stare across the street of dilapidated tenements.
Modern, high-rise apartments sit cheek-by-jowl with shanty-towns. Audis and BMWs share the streets
with donkey carts, bicycles and all manner of make-shift cargo vehicles. The city is simultaneously
under construction and demolition. Buildings and elevated roads are being pulled from the earth by
gigantic cranes. At the same time, piles of rubble indicate where sad old buildings once stood. Men
with wheel barrows haul away the bricks to be used again.
The city is alive both day and night. Culture Park is the epicentre of activity, and almost any
activity imaginable takes place there. Athletes race around the 400 m track, or play football on the
enclosed field. Teenagers skateboard or shoot hoops. School children march in formation, perhaps
preparing to become the next generation of the People's Army. Women line dance to rock, not country
music. Singers, each within her own island of devotees, compete to see who can produce the most
decibels. All of this is overseen by a towering monument to culture at the park`s centre. A more
serene setting for culture is Sculpture Park. Along its salubrious pathways stand over 100 statues,
silent witnesses to the Chinese appreciation of art.
The citizens of Changchun know how to have a good time. The restaurants are always full. The
streets are always clogged with people eating, drinking, conversing. In Culture Park they sing and
dance and draw on the sidewalks. They laugh and they smile. One tour guide said that people of Jilin
Province were the friendliest in China. Who can doubt her? Perhaps there is a dark side to this
apparent happiness– not everyone drives an Audi and poverty is very apparent– but if it exists it is
hidden from the casual visitor.
Walking along city streets one’s visual, auditory and olfactory senses are continually assaulted
by a multitude of sights, sounds and smells. In many buildings the ground floor is devoted to business
and commerce. People live in the upper floors above their shops. All manner of shops line the streets
– small restaurants, convenience stores, internet cafes, beauty salons, barber shops, furniture stores,
motorcycle repair shops, and many others whose purpose remains shrouded in mystery. Each building
is separated from the street by a narrow parking zone and a sidewalk; in reality there is little difference
between the two. Both are crowded with cars, bicycles, delivery vehicles, pedestrians, and
construction tents. Vendors sell aromatic steamed or grilled corn from barrows to a continuous plea
of “get your corn here” which bellows from loud speakers affixed to the barrows. This is mixed with
the blaring of horns, the wailing of sirens, and the chatter of people to produce an auditory assault to
the ears. At night the neon signs above each shop try to imitate Los Vegas. That’s impossible, of
course, but they do their best, painting the night sky with a rainbow of colours.
There isn’t much to attract tourists to Changchun. Two days at most would give ample time
to see all the major and most of the minor sites, click the obligatory photos and move on. But 11 days
spent in the city provides an opportunity to go beyond the tourist sites. After a while it becomes
possible to feel the heartbeat of the city, to discern the rhythm of streets, and to detect its diurnal
cycles. With time the traffic begins to appear less chaotic, and being a pedestrian became less
frightening. The city detects and slowly envelopes us in its ambience. It slowly absorbs us; it makes
us part of it.
