Munchurian Adventures

(Or, Mukking Around In Liaoning)

In 1644, when the area north of Beijing was still a barbarian territory known as Manchuria, a plump Manchu fellow by the name of Abahai gave blessings to his son to set forth and provide an ample beatdown to the increasingly decrepit Chinese Ming Dynasty. Over the Great Wall and into the capital, the city was almost handed over on a silver platter, due to some traitorous trickery from the inside and a pussy Ming emperor who opted for suicide rather than a good fight. And thus, the son of a Manchu, Emperor Shunzhi, established the Qing, China's final dynasty, and the Manchurians would rule China until 1911. Over the weekend, I finally got to visit the place where this was all set into motion: Liaoning province.

Nestled uncomfortably close to Axis of Evil scoutmaster, North Korea, Liaoning enjoys an enviable position as transport hub, seaport and overall geographical buddy to Japan, Korea and Russia. It really fucked them in the old days, but as a modern tourist, I must say all the imperialist grappling of old made a great mark on the area. Peppered with architectural wonders constructed by the aforementioned invaders, plenty of homegrown structural beauties and healthy dose of modern construction, the province is a colorful blend of times and cultures.

The two cities I visited can be summed up as follows: Dalian equals Shanghai plus Qingdao, and Shenyang equals Xi'an plus Beijing. (Take that into consideration for planning a trip, which can be easily done in 2 to 3 days. I'd recommend Shenyang over Dalian if pressed for time. Dalian is only worth a day, for the architecture and people watching.)

Dalian, the Shanghai-Qingdao love child that I spoke of, is located on the nipple of Liaoning's boobie peninsula. It goes by many names, like City of Gardens, City of Fashion, City of Beaches, City Where Communist Cadres Go For Vacation, etc. In anticipation, I had built up an image of a beach-front paradise that would blow Qingdao out of the water and provide me with a gorgeous chocolate tan. So you can understand my dismay and confusion when I stepped out of the airport to a chilling wind gust that blew up my shorts and t-shirt and gave me a crippling case of nippleitis. Surrounded by the ocean on 3 sides, Dalian gets a proper dose of sea gust. With the sun playing hide-and-seek behind the clouds, it felt like late March in Boston. Hardly perfect weather for beach activities and nude sunbathing.

I booked a hotel that, as the web advert told me, was 2km from the ocean. Hot damn, for the price I secured, it would be some mighty fine beachfront luxury property. However, you'll remember I mentioned Dalian is surrounded by ocean... so as long as you're kinda close to the sea, everywhere is "2km from the ocean." And thus, adding insult to the injury of unexpected weather, we were staying at a hotel almost 1 hour out of the city center in the middle of nowhere. Like visiting Boston and booking a hotel in Lowell, visiting Shanghai and booking a hotel outside of Zhangjiang. The taxi driver at the airport didn't even know where it was.

Dalian's new Development Zone (Fa Zhan Qu) is indeed just that: new. They should dub it the UNdevelopment Zone (har har, clever!), with apartment buildings unfinished, monuments with no one around to snap jumping pictures of, relatively unspoilt beaches, new villas without owners, and an empty hotel with new carpeting and unused bathrooms. On any other trip, it would have been pretty cool. Escaping the crowds, staying in a virgin hotel, enjoying the beach just yards from your doorstep. However, you know I'm not that lucky. With beaching ruined by the shit weather and relaxing hotel digs made irrelevant by our short stay, it was a planning blunder that I could have avoided.

We took a peek at the seaside, which was surprisingly busy with relaxing locals. Starving, we dropped into a nearby Korean restaurant for some fresh spicy clams, kimchi ramen, and silky tofu. As usual, many of the people present probably have scant contact with foreigners, so I received a healthy dose of stare-down. A family sitting adjacent to us was my first real glimpse at real Dongbeiren (People from NE China). Sample conversation:

Mom: "All men need to drink beer!"
3-year old Son: "It's bitter..."
Mom: "NI SHI BU SHI NAN REN?!?!" ("Aren't you a MAN?!?!")

Lovely! I could have observed this overbearingly hearty mother and her unbeknowest-to-her-but-will-probably-be-gay-from-childhood-issues son for a while, being so morbidly entertaining to see a toddler forced to man-up with some beer. But the whole point was to see Dalian city, not its hobunk and slightly anti-social sibling sector to the North.

At the hotel, we asked the front desk how much average cost to the city would be. "Oh, we can call the taxi for you! It's just 100 RMB!" Suspicious. So we got a taxi on our own and decided to leave it to faith that using the meter would be cheaper than the price quoted by those tricksters at the hotel. This is China, after all. In the cab, on the monotonous highway stretch to Dalian, I noticed a little laminated leaflet poking out from behind the sun-visor. In Japanese, English and some European language, it said "From hotel to city, only 90 RMB. No bargain!" I assume this was meant to be whipped out, pointed at, and shaken in the face of foreign tourists with big wallets and empty heads. Thankfully, we made the smart move by using the taxi meter. It only cost 70 RMB to get to Dalian. Goddamned cheats.

Dalian city is a cosmopolitan oasis in the generally dry and dusty North. Former mayor Bo Xilai, much ahead of his time, ordered a green initiative called the "Green Storm" (meh?) and the city's current state is ample evidence of the campaign's success. Tree-lined boulevards, blooming flowers and plenty of grass space give Dalian a clean and fresh atmosphere that is noticeably more abundant than other cities in China.

Before these domestic advances, Dalian was controlled by the Russians and then the Japanese (after they schooled the Russkies in the Russo-Japanese war in the early 1900s). Both left gorgeous historical marks on the city, yet there are some less obvious tidbits that can be seen even today. Our old Cold War friends are still around: on Russian "Flavor" Street, just look for the pale skin, hulking bodies, blonde hair, and awesome mullets. Stink of vodka and cigarettes optional. Our WWII pals have a more subtle modern presence: the antique Japanese trolley cars are still in use as public transportation and make a charming addition to a day in town.

Surrounding Dalian's centerpiece, Zhongshan Square, the foreign influence is on display at its finest. Gorgeous Baroque mansions, Russian influenced spires twisting to the sky, cavernous lobbies with towering ceilings, marble floors and golden chandeliers, and bold facades with stately pillars and bronze lions, each housing seemingly every bank known to man. A Bund-in-a-circle, if you will. I thought I took a wrong turn somewhere around the airspace over Beijing, because at one point, I could have sworn I was walking through the financial district in Boston. God bless invading imperialist nations. Seriously.

Balancing the city's grand historical landmarks, Dalian was also surprisingly modern and stylish to this Shanghai snob. [The city holds the annual Chinese Fashion Festival for a reason.] The young people especially are quite put together, with a unique style more varied than other cities (lots of punks, some indie kids, Korean-drama dropouts and Japanese influenced Harajuku-style freaks). The girls are "healthier" (baBOOM) than the pale beanpoles in Shanghai and the guys have more chiseled features than their southern, flat-nosed counterparts. Good eye candy, to say the least.

We spent the evening in the hip shopping district of Victory Square, dining on a big old bowl filled with numbingly spicy goodies. I had my heart set on soothing the burning sensation in my mouth with a nice Dairy Queen Blizzard treat, but was thwarted again.

Me: "Excuse me, are you open?"
DQ lady: "DA'R YANGRRRR LE'R, DA'R YANGRRRR LE'R!"
Me, perplexed: *What the fuck is "da yang le"? Big goat?!*
DQ lady, seeing my confusion: "BU MAI'R!" ("not selling" i.e. "CLOSED'R")

It was only 8:30. 8:30! For some reason, pretty much everything shuts down at 8:30 PM. It's worse than suburban Puritan America! On the way home, we asked our cabbie why everything closed so early and he replied, "LiaoningRRRRRR JIU'shiRRRR zh'yangRRRR!" (translation: That's just the way it is in Liaoning) Indeed, we should have known.

On that note, it's tangent time. Now, don't get me wrong. The people in Liaoning are all relatively pleasant, but that fucking accent mixed with their local dialect makes for almost impossible understanding. To top it off, they don't really understand our soft Southern accents either. It was like trying to decipher pig snorts and dog barks, especially with that infuriating "eRRRR eRRRRR" tacked onto everything. Everything kind of sounded like this:

"niRRRR shiRRRRR naRRRRRR lai'dEEEEeerRRRRRR?"

The gruff and surly demeanors on everyone from young girls to old men doesn't help either. They could be thanking you for saving their cat from the top of a tree, yet it would sound like they were cursing your eternal soul. Lovely people. And, important note, Liaoning'ers don't smell as bad as Shanghainese either. Trust me, I checked by smelling all the scalps within range while we were on the public bus. All fresh! Take that to the bank, Sanghei'nin. Now, back to the taxi...

So, we left Dalian city and began our hour-long drive back to bumfuck beach town. On the highway, not one, nor two, but THREE chuckleheads were driving against traffic in the emergency lane. One bicycle, a scooter, and a TRUCK. A truck! Barreling headlong towards us in an apparent oblivion to the rules of the road. And we actually saw this many times over the course of the weekend. These drivers make the maniacs in Xiamen (southern Fujian province) seem relatively skilled. Fucking Dongbei monkeys. Each violator got a heavy scolding from our driver, who sounded like he was trying to cough up the flames of Hell to destroy these reckless idiots. I had no idea what he was spewing, but damn did it sound deliciously evil. In my head, I imagined it as such: "F@CK! Youc*ntdogmotherf@cker! I'll rape your mother and eat your children!" More or less.

Finally arriving back in the un-development zone, *surprisingly* unscathed, it was time for much needed rest. After a full day of flying, driving, tramming, and walking, Day 2 would prove to be equally exhausting.

(Time for a bathroom break. Sorry, in my rush to get this posted before my trip to the UK, I can't split into easy to read entries. Same goes for lack of pictures. If you're curious, there's 300+ lovely shots at http://flickr.com/photos/nzjy/sets/72157605585652804/. Enjoy! OK, pee time's over. Back to the story...)

Bright and early the next day, we emerged from our hotel to the cloudy and overcast Dalian skies, so so eager to bail town. The city was pleasant, but I was more than ready for Shenyang, the provincial capital many, many miles from any potential bone-chilling sea gusts.

We caved and let the hotel book a taxi for us. To their credit, the car was brand new and the driver was very responsible and safe. To a fault. Dude drove slower than a procession of VFW geriatrics on parade. We were passed by a turtle, a lady with a broken hip, and a mossy rock. After 4 years experiencing the hair-raising driving in China, this was absolutely infuriating. Who would have thought that safely driving the speed limit could make me so enraged?

After a quick breakfast at a joint selling donkey meat (yummy, surely, but not today, thanks), we hopped aboard the Dalian-Shenyang express train. Having endured overnight jaunts in both hard (not recommended) and soft (only slightly better) sleepers, midnight rides on standing-room-only trains, and a monumental 7-hour ride to Qingdao in a busted, no air-con coach during the sweaty summer, this relatively short (4 hours) trip should have been headache free. You know where this is going...

The first sign of doom was the little old lady occupying our seats as we boarded. This is common in China. Sometimes people will snatch your seats even if you take a measly 2-minute bathroom break. The country is just a giant free-for-all. After waiting approximately 3 hours for her to hobble 2 feet over to her ticket position, we settled down for the journey ahead. Then we became aware of the second sign of doom: her little granddaughter.

I'm still unsure about their genetic makeup, but the grandma, her daughter, and the aforementioned granddaughter were a mix of Chinese and Korean. I was heretofore unaware that Korean kids were as nasty and spoiled as the little Chinese monsters produced in the 1-Child Era, but there you have it. This beast, couldn't have been 3 years old, was hands down one of the most spoiled rotten brats I've ever seen in my life. To make matters worse, she was cute. With a smile and a head tilt, she got whatever she wanted. And if that didn't work, she just grabbed it for herself. She's ahead of her time, really, having already learned the skills she'll need when dealing with boys many years from now.

For four hours, the sweet music in my iPod could not distract me from babygirl's shenanigans. Whining, fake crying, gulping soda, grabbing, kicking, climbing, running around, tossing her ball (seriously, some parents are just retarded), ignoring grandma (who was hobbling around, picking up the brat's leavings), being ignored by mom (unless being breastfed, the only part of the trip I really enjoyed)... I was half tempted to kick her across the train like a football or a small white yappy dog. My poor and gullible friend could not resist playing with her, which was a baaaaad move. Anyone with ample baby experience could have seen from a mile away. Once you pay attention to a spoiled shit, they are on you like hobo vagrants to a food pantry or meth clinic.

First, it was cute. Teasing, playing. How adorable. Then, once the claws were dug in, the little shit started taking liberties with my friend's generosity.

To wit: Dalian is apparently a hot spot for cherries and we happened upon the prime season. So we got a bag of the good stuff and were slowly consuming them throughout the day. My friend offered one to the kid, who grabbed it, plucked out the stem with the ferocity of a boy much older than she, and proceeded to munch it down, seed and all. Then she stood there with the Puss-In-Boots kitty eyes and was given another one. Two, three, seven later, she ended up just plunging her hand into the bag, grabbing a cherry herself, and devouring it. This continued for a while, at which point I was getting angry that grandma's pleas for etiquette control were unheeded and mom was just ignoring her daughter, probably happy to have a moment's peace. When baby turned her back to pester someone else, I grabbed the bag and stuffed it away. Bitch ain't gonna eat all my cherries, unh-uh. Smack the shit outta you. The proverbial cherry on top? Her mom whipped out a bag three times the size of ours and started eating their own supply of cherries, now that baby had her fill.

As we chugged north through central Liaoning, the countryside glittered with lush rice paddies and verdant hills. The generally clean feel was a stark contrast to the dry and dusty scenery I've seen in neighboring Northern provinces. Inside the train car, it was not as pleasant. Our little menace had moved on to conquer nearby passengers' seats, swiping things, screaming and being generally snotty. My constant stink-eye was lost on her, so I scowled in quiet fury, almost giving myself whiplash from the constant disapproving head-shaking. I know your game, you little shit.

A young village boy some rows down had begun to recite speeches and recipes (!?!), presumably for some oration contest at school, providing an adorable and sweet balance to the little Korean. Screw having daughters, I just want sons now. After this display, it was clear that boys are the way to go. Chinese policy has it's merits...

On that note, tangent time again. Question: we always slam Chinese parents for raising the cliched "little emperor/empresses", spoiled monsters who form a modern generation of consuming, arrogant and bratty youth. But do we ever stop to think that it might just be the only way the parents know to raise the kids? Think about it. If young parents raising little emperors are all about 20 to 30 years old, they too are probably from single child households, also raised as royalty as well, forming a disastrous and vicious cycle of doom. Food for thought on an otherwise boring train ride (and, likewise, boring travelogue. Sorry!)

With buttcheeks numb and sore (you're probably numb now too...go take another bathroom break, we're only half done), I got those fleeting pangs of desperation that accompany long trips that seem neverending. Luckily, before I was forced to jump in front of the train, we arrived in Shenyang.


PART 2 *FANFARE TIME* : SHENYANG


Shenyang, the capital of Liaoning (formerly known as Mukden), was alive and bustling in the midday heat. Honking traffic, crowds of urbanites, bikes, scooters, and pedicabs, all fighting for road (and sidewalk) space amongst the tall buildings and overpasses. Organized chaos, yet not quite a madhouse like more bumblefuck towns such as Luoyang or Kaifeng.

With wide avenues, lots of greenery, and great architecture, Shenyang was not as industrial as I had heard. It was actually quite beautiful. Considering that my favorite northern cities are Xi'an and Beijing, it's no surprise that this bastard mix of the two would also please me.

Our hotel, smack dab in the city's central area, overlooked the impressive Zhongshan Square (yes, another one), which totally kicks the shit out of Dalian's counterpart. Towering over the center of the roundabout like the jolly Red giant, Chairman Mao extends a meaty arm towards the West, flanked by a party of frighteningly intense socialist sheep, er, comrades. It's like a CCP propaganda poster come to life, giant and foreboding. It really is an awesome sight.

A genuinely fantastic lunch was had at Old Bian's Dumpling shack, a fine Shenyang eatery since 1829, where we dined on perfect dumplings with wonderfully chewy skins and pan-fried pork, our personal favorites. Recharged and primed for some touristing, we took a quick walk to Shenyang's Imperial Palace, the mini-Forbidden City that was the whole reason I wanted to visit Liaoning.

As I mentioned at the beginning, Liaoning (before it was "Liaoning") was the seat of the Manchus and the launchpad for the campaign to conquer China. Just read the Wikipedia link in the first paragraph, since I'm clearly not cut out for this historical writing stuff... The Imperial Palace is the place Shunzhi was crowned.

Construction started with Nurhaci, Shunzhi's grandfather, and was completed in 1636 by his pappy, Huang Taiji. Although it resembles the Forbidden City in layout, there are some features that make it Manchu, such as the indoor heating systems - hollow stone "tubes" lining the walls that were filled with hot air from burning kindling - used to warm the dwellings during the harsh Northeastern winters.

As we'd come to realize, almost all of Shenyang is currently under renovation in anticipation for the Olympics, so most of the structures were surrounded by scaffolding and workers busily chipping away old paint and reinforcing beams. Oh, those pesky Olympics... All the extreme makeover business didn't hamper the visit and we were able to enjoy a relatively uncrowded peek at the impressive grounds in the afternoon sun.

Sufficiently pooped, we retreated to the old sanctuary of the green mermaid who blesses us with coffee beans: Starbucks. Oh man, excuse my addictions, a day without coffee is bad enough, but two days of straight travel with no rest is just unthinkable without a dose of caffeine to get the eyes twitching. Mere steps from our hotel, indulgence awaited and I happily fell prey to her devices (i.e. a mega dark chocolate frappucino and some apple pie... Lord!). Exhausted, we lounged about until we realized in horror that it was getting late and past the magical closing hour of 8:30. In our coffee-induced daze, we had inadvertently delayed dinner for too long, thus forcing us to a sub-par hotel buffet meal. The only thing we could find in the vicinity of our "bustling" area.

Sweet, sweet sleep came hard and fast. On our final day in Shenyang, we opted to skip a scenic nature area outside of town, which was a wise decision, for the North Tomb and Pagoda were unexpected gems.


(Take another pee. Grab some warm milk. Digestive biscuits. We're almost done...)


The North Tomb, not to be confused with the East Tomb, is the final resting place of old Huang Taiji (a.k.a. Abahai, a.k.a. HTJ), the lovely chap who united the Manchurians and set the stage for his son's success. The tomb is located in Beiling Park, a sprawling mass of land in the northern section of the city, about 40 minutes from Zhongshan by bus. After walking for ages from the South gate entrance to the auspicious Northern tip where HTJ rests, passing through archways and doorways and gates, we arrived at the site itself, Zhaoling tomb.

Refreshingly different from other memorial burials in China, HTJ's tomb is just a giant mound of earth topped with a lone tree. Circled by a slanted stone pathway high above the ground below, it's a subtle and relatively understated resting place for someone so historically important. The basic structures surrounding the mound have more detail than this pile of dirt, which is not to insult it's importance. Just saying.

After a quick lunch of more Dongbei treats, we wandered through back alleys and deserted avenues to get to the North Pagoda, one of four structures that supposedly marked the city's boundaries. This Tibetan Buddhist temple complex is really a diamond in the rough. Surrounded by austere apartment complexes, a highway and dusty factory in the distance, the quaint and relaxing temple grounds are a great way to find peace and quiet in this mad city. Presumably severely underfunded, the structures are not in the best condition, but it adds to the overall charm. They should probably consider charging an entrance fee...

Buddhist prayer wheels (note: start spinning them from the left side of the temple and circumambulate clockwise, lest your prayers backfire...ahem...), colorful prayer flags blowing in the wind, a whole mess of stone steles with Chinese and Manchu script, and the crowing glory, a big ass white stupa (like the Peace Pagoda near UMass Amherst) surrounded by Buddha statues. Seriously, this place is well worth a visit.

Since we had a late return flight to Shanghai, there was quite some time leftover after we finished with the pagoda. Nearby, the September 18 History Museum, commemorating/memorializing the date when the evil Sushi Demons invaded Shenyang in 1931, seemed like a viable option to fill time. On the surface, it's much like the Nanjing Massacre Memorial - whose entire reason for existence is to remember the events that happened after the Japanese worked their way south from this spot in Shenyang - but that's about all we got. The surface. Turns out the museum is closed on Mondays. What luck.

Left without enough time to do anything productive, yet more than enough time for us to get bored, we returned to the old Chairman for some last minute photo-ops. The weather cooperated quite well and we got some stunning shots. (Go to Flickr!!!)

Some KFC and a much-needed bowel movement later, it was sadly time to make our way home. Although my father's family is from South China, I have a strange, unspoken affinity for the Northeast. Having been born and raised in the Dongbei of the USA (i.e. New England), I claim association with these people by rights of geographical similarities and ass-kicking sports teams (Dalian's soccer club is the ManUtd of China). If I had to pick a second-favorite Chinese cuisine, it's definitely Dongbei. Even my last name (Yang) supposedly has roots in the Manchu Jin dynasty (or so I read a really long time ago...). Barbarians stick together.

The pleasant weather, modest and earthy locals, and ancient energy of Liaoning were a refreshing change from Shanghai. However, when the airplane touched down in Pudong, the previous 3 days of typhooning (even some hail!) that we luckily missed had washed away the ubiquitous grime and left a clean sheen over everything. After a few days of dust, it was a sight for sore eyes. Just like that, all those misguided thoughts of how the Northeast was better than Shanghai were cleansed from my mind. How dare I second guess my current hometown? And thus, the purpose of travel was successful again. The time away was just enough to give me a quick breather from the hustle bustle of Shanghai AND just enough to make me miss it. Dongbeiren or not, Shanghai is still home for now.