Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  “Yikes! That is just horrible! In a sense, even the women were slaves to The Wall,” Mom said.

  “Of course they were. It’s a ripple effect. How could they not be affected?” Ammon said. The whole story just kept getting worse and worse, and I began to doubt just how “great” the Great Wall was.

  “Isn’t it stupid that people worship things that people suffered to make? You know? Do you ever think like that??” Bree asked.

  “Yah, I do. And isn’t it insane that millions of people will go along with one crazy person’s idea?” Ammon added. How is it that the manpower of millions of people cannot right a wrong? How can they be controlled like helpless sheep that way? Surely the forces of a million people would be enough to stand against one man and his army. But how would they get the army in the first place? Shouldn’t they be the first to realize and try to protect the weak? How does it get to that point? I could not wrap my head around that kind of power dynamic. Or is it justifiable because it was under the name of protection? Maybe they really felt they were protecting their families.

  “It is an incredible structure. It’s so impressive to think that mankind can create such a monument, even without cranes and stuff, but it’s pretty awful to think about the sacrifice it took to do it,” Mom said, looking slightly depressed by the notion.

  “But how did it protect anybody? I mean, if it took hundreds of years, wouldn’t the enemies have been a little quicker than that? Or did they just stand around and watch while it was being built?” I asked.

  “I think that they started with the assumption that it was going to protect them, but it obviously turned into some kind of obsession,” Mom suggested. I couldn’t fathom it. All the land around me exuded history, and my head ached from the strain of trying to picture all those men working so hard and giving their lives to build it over the centuries. I tried to imagine the personal sorrows that went into The Wall. Thousands of years ago, people left their marks on the same stones and rubble I was walking on. I couldn’t help thinking that only a few could claim any credit for the masterpiece, but that the credit should go to those who sacrificed their blood, sweat, and tears for a project that led to so many early deaths.

  Was it built to protect their homeland and to please their emperor, or did they try to please him to save their heads? The rulers didn’t care about the people. They certainly wouldn’t have sent a million horses with a million letters to tell people when their family members died. They just wouldn’t have done it. I bet many of the families assumed their loved ones would die on the wall and weren’t coming back, but there is always some hope left if there’s no proof of death, or at least a written letter. They probably sat for days at their doors waiting, then weeks looking up at the sound of every horse, and years just wondering if he would suddenly come walking through the front door.

  I began to suffocate under the strain of trying to grasp the sheer enormity of the lives lost and the pain and suffering of the families who were left wondering forever. I laid my palm flat against the worn bricks, imagining I was touching the hands of those who created it. I wished I could uncover the thousands of lost stories. I tried to imagine somebody digging up my story in two thousand years and wondered whether even I would remember it that long from now?

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  In five hours, we’d conquered only ten of The Wall’s 6,400km (3,977mi), and it really helped put things into perspective. When we’d seen enough, we chose to take the zipline across the river where we could catch a small boat and then find a bus to take us to Beijing. The way the zipline’s platform was suspended somewhat precariously off the wall gave Ammon even more incentive than just the budget to suggest that we should walk the rest of the way. Despite his fear of heights, we successfully combined our female powers and overruled our leader.

  A year ago, I never would’ve guessed I’d be doing this. It’s crazy what the future can hold. I turned and watched the wall disappear into the smog behind me. The river below was sparkly and perfect. For a minute in time, I was alone up there, literally hanging between earth and sky in the zipline’s harness. It was the furthest I’d been from my family in weeks, and I was enjoying hearing nothing but the soft, zipper-like sound of metal scraping cable above my head. The deep fog obscured where we’d been, but I knew what was behind me. My destination was also hidden, but I somehow knew that there was a foothold waiting for me there. Some would call it faith, and I guess, in a way, that was how Mom felt about the whole trip. She knew there was going to be something waiting for her on “the other side,” and that everything would work out. She didn’t need to see to believe. One hundred percent. That’s how strongly Mom must feel. She just doesn’t doubt for an instant. I couldn’t see the platform until just before my feet touched the hard surface, and I had a feeling I wouldn’t be seeing the end of this journey until I tripped over the finish line.

  Chapter 28: A Series of Beijing Events

  We arrived at a dinky bus station in Beijing late at night, and even at that time, it was incredibly hot and muggy. The following days were no less smothering. Each time we went out to explore the city and surrounding sites, the sun seemed to get hotter and the shade less plentiful. At times I truly believed the skin on my back must be bubbling up like a thin slice of bacon on a hot frying pan. Temperatures reaching as high as 38°C (100°F) sizzled upwards from the pavement, roasting our bare legs.

  The humidity and the ever-present layer of smog over the city only added to our suffering. From the moment we’d arrived in Xi’an, the major city we’d visited the week before, a thick cloud of pollution descended upon us, and we hadn’t seen blue sky since. The ground-level cloud of cigarette smoke added to the deadly combination. We had been coughing constantly to try to clear our chests, especially Mom.

  Air quality was not the only downside of visiting the big cities. Super-sized, baseball-capped American tourists wearing uniformly unattractive white socks with sandals tromped about with big cameras strung around their necks, many of which rested on surprisingly large beer bellies. They literally swarmed everywhere, their guides’ megaphones blaring as they flocked around the gates surrounding the Terra Cotta Warriors and formed long lines at sites such as the Temple of Heaven and the Forbidden City.

  The Forbidden City was a palace used by emperors and their households for five hundred years. No one other than servants and lovers could ever enter, hence the name “Forbidden.” The whole complex had shiny, orange-roofed buildings and many big, open courtyards. I marvelled at the number of tourists, me included, wreaking havoc there as I imagined the old emperors rolling in their graves.

  Despite my reluctance to be either a tourist or a backpacker, it was apparent, even to a novice like me, that there was a huge difference between the two. Tourists came fully prepared with all the necessary comforts of home. They were able to afford the extra weight of things like hair dryers, facial creams, high heels, and a clean pair of underwear for each day of their trip, maybe even more, and their travel is usually just for a limited time.

  Backpackers, on the other hand, embrace discomfort. The ideal backpacker would fit everything needed for the entire journey in a pair of cargo pants – toothbrush and a change of underwear in one pocket, passport and money in the other. That would define the ultimate backpacker, AKA, a hardcore traveler.

  I noticed another key difference. Tourists tend to drop in for a nice, leisurely vacation. They hit the main sites and are on their way, uninterested in other tourists, whereas backpackers, despite constantly seeming to play a game of one-upmanship about things like who packed the lightest or who travelled the longest or the furthest, are always watching each other’s backs and sharing information and stories. That part of it felt reassuring, but after nearly two months on the road skipping from village to village in rural China, the obese size of “my people” pouring in on tour bus after tour bus was embarrassing.

  I found that the local city folk were noticeably larger, too. It had never been more obvious
to me how much village and city lifestyles influence people. The farmers and villagers worked very hard and ate a healthy diet of rice and vegetables, yet they looked rather weathered and worn. They were very friendly people who always took the time to explain directions and seemed happy to help us. City folk were more fast-food oriented and physically inactive, and they looked very soft and stylish. They always seemed to be in a hurry and much too busy for us, evidently having something more important to do, with their ever-present brief cases and cell phones, and somewhere more important to be. It was really like living in two different worlds, and we found both experiences fascinating.

  There were also a lot more beggars in the city areas where tourists flocked. We had seen very few, if any, in the five weeks before we reached Xi’an, but from then on, we saw more and more. Obnoxious kids chased us down far more aggressively than anywhere else, as did lots and lots and lots of cripples. They were scattered everywhere, many rolling themselves around on skateboards or crawling on their hands as they dragged lifeless limbs behind them.

  Before travelling, I could remember every single beggar I had ever seen – all three of them. I recalled each face and how one held up a sign that read, “Hungry. Out of work. No food. Help.” When I was only ten or so, a bearded man had actually asked me for some spare change in Seattle. This was one of the most traumatic things to have happened to me up to that point in my life, but China was a whole new ballpark. It made the poor man sitting on cardboard begging with his dog and his upturned baseball cap pale to insignificance in comparison.

  When I first saw limbless beggars, I tensed up and shied away from them as if they might be leprous. Their knobby limbs looked to me like they were disintegrating right off their bodies. The pungent smell of greasy sausage cooking in the streets made me nauseous, as I imagined I was smelling their rotting limbs and fatty tissues sizzling on the concrete. I knew I could not continue to jump like a spooked mouse every time a one-armed woman approached me or run out of my flip-flops if a man with two stumped knees wheeled over to grab my ankle. This inescapable reality was another challenge I had to overcome. I learned to acknowledge the brutality of these all-too-common scenes and develop thicker skin and a new mindset. How can I fear someone who is so helpless? Even when my legs ached to the bone, I grew ever more appreciative of what I had and was truly grateful for even things as basic as my ability to stand up and walk.

  Along with the beggars, we saw the occasional drunk staggering down the street at nine in the morning. On one occasion, Ammon declared, "Now there’s a sight for ya!” A man who was happily on his way to a serious hangover was swaying down an alleyway carrying an empty beer bottle in each hand. This was not such an unusual sight, but this guy was wearing nothing more than just his hiked-up socks, dress shoes, and tightey-whiteys. One side of his hair lay flat against his head, while the other half stuck out like a mad scientist’s. He did not seem to be aware of his state. In fact, he looked quite pleased with himself.

  “I mean, he’s wearing no clothes, but he still found time to put his best shoes and socks on,” Ammon smiled. Mom suggested that he might never have completely undressed.

  I loved a lot of the street food, particularly because I seemed to be constantly hungry. The streets were overrun with venders shouting “EE KUAI, EE KAUI!” (fifteen cents) and waving their items in the air. There was a wide variety of fruit, freshly cooked meat, and various dumplings to choose from. Although food prices were easy to gauge by watching how much the locals paid, bargaining was still very much part of their culture. After visiting so many markets on our journey, the constant haggling and pantomiming became almost second nature. Sometimes bargaining took little effort, while other times it involved a long “discussion” over a hot cup of tea. However, despite Ammon’s insistence that “it’s part of the culture,” I still found myself feeling guilty when we haggled prices down from one hundred ninety to ninety yuan, or from thirty-five to four yuan.

  “Hallo. Come you look,” a middle-aged woman shouted from her little shop in the middle of the market’s excitement. Ammon slowed down slightly, something which happened rarely, if ever, when we shopped. It was always he who pushed and pulled us along. We loved to window shop, even though we were never allowed to actually buy anything, firstly because of the weight and lack of space, but more importantly, because of our strict budget.

  He glanced in the shop window and wiggled his chin before whispering, “Well, I was kinda thinking about getting one of these silk shirts.” He initially kept his distance so as not to show interest and thereby immediately lose the upper hand in the negotiating game.

  “You come. You looking. Is nice,” she said, waving an arm at the dozens of shirts hanging above her head. Ammon kicked the dirt and swayed his head side to side. As part of his strategy, he was stalling just long enough to give her time to make the first desperate move.

  “Dis. Three hundred fivety. Is nice?”

  “Three hundred and fifty?!!” Mom repeated, as usual. This time I couldn’t tell if she was supporting Ammon’s bargaining position or if she was truly shocked, again, but I was not surprised to feel her warm breath on my neck and hear her ask, “How much is that anyway?” It was fifty-two dollars and fifty cents.

  “Three hundred twenty,” the woman said immediately as she stepped out of her shop, sensing us warming to the product. I knew Ammon would never pay that much for a shirt and really doubted he would be able to negotiate the price down to one he would be willing to pay. In fact, I hadn’t yet seen him buy anything that wasn’t absolutely essential, like water, food, bus tickets, accommodations, or toilet paper (and not much of that!). He was a real cheapskate, unlike we three girls who would splurge on pop, hair conditioner, and chips.

  He stood still and maintained his sceptical look for a bit, as if to say, “Hah! Never in a million years!” “But what is the discount price?” he finally asked cheerfully.

  “Three hundred. Is good price.”

  “I am a poor man. I can’t afford that kind of price. You’ll have to do better than that for me,” he said in a friendly, joking manner.

  “Okay, you come. You look. Feel. Is very good silk. Real silk,” she said as she ran back inside to get a sample for him.

  “Ammon, that’s a really nice shirt,” Mom said, when the lady was no longer within earshot.

  “Yah, they are actually pretty nice,” he admitted, shortly adding a strategic and honest, “but what am I going to do with it, even if I could get it for a good price?” Just then, she reappeared with a very attractive, black silk shirt with a subtle but sexy Chinese dragon stitched on the front. He obviously liked it, because he lifted a brow in the woman’s direction and started low. “How about thirty?”

  She waved her hand out in front of her to signal, “No, no!” and defensively clutched the shirt. We girls could tell this was the start of a long process with that kind of price difference, so we left them to it.

  When we came back forty-five minutes later, he was sitting just inside the doorway on a tiny wooden stool, his knees practically hitting his ears, sipping tea. We entered curiously, wondering how the bargaining session was going and whether they had come to any kind of agreement.

  “Is good man,” she told us when we entered. “Is good bargain man!” she said, almost proudly. She immediately began telling us how so many tourists came by her shop and bought things without even trying to bargain. “My friend there, with bracelet shop, she say fifteen. American, he buy fifteen! No bargain. No even try,” she said, shaking her head like it was craziness. “We laugh at this people. We don’t give respect. Next time we say twenty, France, he pay twenty.”

  I was surprised and relieved to hear that. I had been slightly worried about how our bargaining appeared to the locals, despite Ammon’s reassurances. A few times when I had negotiated a ridiculously low price, I had felt somewhat guilty that I may have ripped them off. But she confirmed that bargaining was a respected part of the culture, and that they wouldn’t
drop their prices any lower than they could afford to go. At the same time, I hated that Ammon was right again!

  In the cities, more people spoke a bit of English, so we were able to get some firsthand information about their culture, lifestyles, and perceptions of things. She appeared very proud of her culture and was not impressed by the tourists’ evident lack of awareness.

  While the three of us took this opportunity to refill our stock of feminine needs, like trying to find tampons or deodorant and any type of skin lotion that didn’t contain bleaching agents. Due to light skin being highly valued in China, virtually all skin-care products contained some sort of bleaching compound. Ammon had managed to get a lot of information from her. While they had enjoyed tea, he learned that she lived above the store with her parents. Since her husband’s house was too small for them to live together, it made sense for her to care for her elders there. In this culture, children often took care of their parents when they reached the age of retirement, and many of the shops are family run and have living quarters upstairs. I felt a bit sorry for her, and wondered if she had any siblings, and whether she and her parents got along.

  When she saw that we were ready to take Ammon away, she got off her small stool and grabbed the same silk dragon shirt we’d seen before.

  “Here. You take. One hundred,” she said, smiling graciously. Ammon raised his brows and then let out a surprised laugh.

  “You are a good lady,” he said, nodding to her as he took it.

  “And you, very stubborn man,” she said with a wink.

  On second thought, she doesn’t look unhappy. She seemed to be quite light-hearted and energetic, and not the slightest bit unfriendly. I couldn’t see how that was possible. I could not quite comprehend how someone with so little could still appear to be as happy as she. At home, I’d somehow come to believe that only homeless people lived in apartments. The only nice apartments I remembered were five-bedroom penthouses, so now, I couldn’t even come up with what I considered a suitable word to describe her circumstances, living in a two-bedroom flat above a shop with her aging parents. But still, poverty and happiness don’t go together...do they!?