"For example, a yak costs thirty yuan a day to rent," he said. "I wonder how much of that goes to the owner?"
I said that I would ask someone in Qinghai, where many of the yak herds were found.
That was the first of March. In Xian I read in a China Daily that Deng Xiaoping told the visiting American secretary of state that the recent trouble in China had been caused by "a leadership crisis." It was a euphemism for a power struggle. "It is now over," he said, and added cryptically, "but it may continue for a while in the minds of the Chinese people."
Xian lay under winter mist, denuded and dusty. In sunlight it was stark, a flat city of plain buildings inside a city wall that was powerful and elegant, with great roofed gates. Xian's city wall actually looks as though it could repel an invading army. I visited the terra-cotta warriors a second time. They cast the same spell, with their eerie artistry and bizarre, half-human and buried-alive look, like an army that has been petrified by time. The curio sellers were frenzied, because this was the off-season, a winter month in which few foreign tourists visited. The Chinese are more like threadbare pilgrims than tourists. They are not spenders. They have no money. Their work units rent beat-up buses and pack them with employees, and off they go, hundreds of miles to look at a pagoda or the warriors. They also regard the hotels for foreign visitors as worth gaping at. They stood at the gates of Xian's Golden Flower Hotel ($100 a day) watching foreigners come and go. The Chinese in their innocence still regard their looking at foreigners as a form of sight-seeing.
Like many other Chinese cities, Xian was not clean, but it was very bare. The Chinese are not scrubbers, but they are inexhaustible sweepers. Sweeping doesn't freshen a city. It gives it a dis-—416—concerting baldness. The effect is of a place that has been trampled.
I walked in the back lanes of the city, among the little tumbled compounds, and the stinks of dampness and dust, and the fragrant smells of cooking. I lingered near the windows of lighted rooms, where children were doing homework and women were working at kitchen tables. I saw a restaurant—tiny; filthy; people with steamers and pots on the table. I longed to go in, but every seat was taken. On my morning walks I bought the Chinese pedestrian's winter breakfast, "fried sticks" (you tiao)—deep-fried dough, which resembled elongated pieces of Yorkshire pudding. They were fried outdoors in a wok. People on their way to the factory bought little bundles of them and ate them on the way.
On this second visit to Xian I saw that the city prospered without tourists. It had a life of its own, and its economy was that of an inland capital, dealing in industrial and agricultural products. The discovery of the terra-cotta army had given a boost to the tourist trade, but the tourist economy was parallel to the existing economy. The Chinese government had a policy of being brisk with tourists—shipping them in, squiring them around and shipping them out. They hated people who lingered and found cheap rooms and simply strolled around looking through people's windows. They really didn't want me there at all. But what could they do? I didn't have a nanny anymore. They could not keep track of travelers. It was possible to arrive in China and more or less vanish. I had now managed this, and I saw people like me all the time. Their reference point was always the local post office. I saw tall, dusty long-nosed foreigners. We exchanged glances—and there was little more than that—but I recognized them as kindred souls. Were they writing books about China? Probably. Everyone seemed to be doing that. The only justification was that any travel book revealed more about the traveler than it did about the country.
Even late on a Thursday night in clammy March the main railway station was crowded—and more than crowded. It was almost impossible for me to make my way from one side to another. I could not understand the density—the people sleeping on benches, making noodles in the corner, milling around, sitting on their luggage, nursing babies. It was a huge station and yet there was nowhere for me to sit—no spare room. There were about eight trains departing within a few hours, and they were long trains; but that still did not explain the mobs. It was amazing to see so many people on the move, and it was useful to me, because I could lose myself in the crowd.
In the sleeping-compartment lottery I was assigned with three soldiers. Even wearing thick long underwear they were much too small for their uniforms. They were young, about twenty or so, and had sweet faces. They began making tea, and remarking politely on what luck it was for them to be traveling with an American friend, and so forth.
I said, "I'd like to know whether you call yourselves 'soldiers' (bing) or 'fighters' (zhanshi)."
It was a Maoist distinction that had been introduced into the People's Liberation Army—I had been told that "fighters" was the accepted word. They agreed with this and said that "fighters" was the usual word, but that no one worried about the difference anymore. And by the way, the word "comrade" (tongzhi) was not very commonly used.
The soldiers snuggled into their berths and pulled out romantic novels; they read and dozed.
"This is very good tea," one of the soldiers said later on, lifting my can of Dragon Well Tea.
"I like green tea," I said.
"We are red-tea people," he said. "I lived on a commune that grew tea. I was too young to pick it, but my parents did."
"Were they sent there during the Cultural Revolution?"
"It was during the Cultural Revolution, but they went willingly," he said.
Farther down the sleeping car, a man was smoking a Churchillian-sized cigar. The man himself was very small, and I saw this cigar smoking as a form of aggression. The whole coach was filled with this smoke, and although the cigar was truly noxious, no one told him to lay off.
"I hate that smoke," I told the soldier. "I want to tell that man to stop smoking his cigar."
The soldier became twitchy when I said this.
"Better not," he said, and laughed—his laugh signifying, Let's pretend that cigar smoker doesn't exist.
The next time I walked past the cigar smoker I saw he had an army uniform on a hook over his berth. Officers were said not to exist in the PLA, but it was obvious that he was one—superior to the three fighters in my compartment.
I was reading Chinese Lives, which had been put together as a series of interviews by Sang Ye and Zhang Xinxin. I had met Sang in Peking just after I started my China trip. The book was a pleasure, and it was ingeniously simple and revealing. It also confirmed my feeling that the Chinese, who are supposed to be so enigmatic, can be blunt and plainspoken and candid to the point of utter tactlessness. That was why the book was so fresh.
All night the compartment door opened and closed, as people came and went. One sleeper snored for hours. Someone in an upper berth kept his light on. The door banged. There was always chatter in the passageway. The lights of stations made yellow stripes in the compartment, and then we were in the darkness again. In the morning, a man sat on the lower berth, sipping tea.
"Where you are going?" he asked.
"Xining. And then Tibet." I used the Chinese name for Tibet, Xizang.
"You'll be gasping in Tibet. It is very hard to breathe there because of the altitude."
"I'll do my best."
We were in the yellow, rubbly gorges of Gansu, one of the roughest looking landscapes in the whole of China—I knew that now. There were no trees, there was very little water except for the muddy Yellow River, which the train followed for part of the way into Lanzhou. The soil was crumbly, the color and texture of very old cheddar cheese—the sort that has remained untouched in a mousetrap all winter.