Dalian

25/02/02

Dalian is big, clean, modern, and full of attitude. Gone are the wide-eyed stares of the Yellow River country bumpkins. In Dalian, the people are as modern and tall as the tall, modern buildings they inhabit; the girls, especially, are well dressed, sexy and way too occupied with themselves to stop and stare at just another bunch of scruffy foreign backpackers. They're too busy getting their hair done, or eating, or chatting, or just being cool.

The city is said to resemble the profile of a tiger, the eye of the tiger being Zhongshan Square, which is the hub and crux of the city, although not really a square, actually circular, eye-like, a huge roundabout from which a bunch of side-streets, home to hairdressers, hardware stores, ice-cream parlours, seafood restaurants, bars, nightclubs, coffee shops, banks, bus depots, hotels and fast food takeaways, branch off. We amuse ourselves in laid-back fashion during the day by walking about these busy streets, then return to them at night to eat and drink. It's all we have the energy to do now. A quiet end to a manic holiday. A winding down. It began at breakneck speed, like the fastest bus ride you've ever been on, and has ended like a pensioner's stroll in the park.

We're knackered. We need a holiday from our holiday. We're sick and tired of hotel rooms and filthy jam-packed trains, had enough of noodle shacks and blocked-up toilet drains. We don't have any clean clothes any more. I'm looking forward to getting back to Harbin, meeting up with the others, and comparing travel stories. We've certainly got a few.

One story I'm going to keep to myself was trying to cross Zhongshan Road this afternoon. The road, the main artery into Zhongshan Square, is the widest, busiest and noisiest in the city, so chock-a-block with traffic that it's virtually impossible to cross over-ground. This is where the underground markets come in. Similar to the underground market in Harbin, but on a smaller scale, dank, white-tiled passages are flanked by cheap shops on either side, forming a sweaty, smelly, noisy, colourful maze underneath the city centre roads. Perhaps only in China, when you simply want to cross a road, you have to go window shopping.

Danuka and Tam are at the hotel; I've popped out for one last bit of wandering before our we leave. I'm trying to get back to the hotel, but it's proving more difficult than I'd thought. The trouble is, I can't read the signs that hang from the ceilings of the underground passageways. I presume they're streetnames, or directions north, south, east and west; or something. Who knows? Stupidly, I follow my instincts. It's a straight road, I can't really go wrong... can I? Go down the steps, enter the noisy, colourful corridors, walk striaght, oh, left here then, umm, nice jeans, should I try... no, better not, oh, turn right here, no choice, follow your nose, ugh, no don't, where the hell am I? Aha! A ray of light. Here we go... and up... and... what the..? I'm on the same side of the road I started on.

I go back down, follow the passageways, come back out into the crisp air and traffic noise, and find myself in the same place. Twice. It takes me thirty minutes. I decide to wait for a lull in the traffic and then leg it over-ground across the road. I wait about ten minutes. There's a chance. I clamber over the barrier, jump down onto the tarmac, and suddenly my ears are screaming. A little guy in an orange vest is bolting towards me, blowing a whistle like an angry football referee. He stands beside me, not shouting, but whistling, his arms moving frantically, shooing me off the road and back onto the pavement. I climb back over the barrier and get scornful looks from two incredibly tall, skinny, gorgeous women who are walking past.

I go back down again, follow the passageways, taking different turns from the last time, or at least I think I am, but still I emerge into the early afternoon glare at the very same place where I started from! I assess my chances of running across the road, but the guy in the orange vest spots me, shakes his head, and puts his whistle to his lips. I go back down into the market, get totally lost, find a passage I know, and again emerge at the exact same point. It's been nearly an hour now! An hour to cross a road! This is ridiculous. I decide to make a break for it. I wait for another lull in the traffic, clamber back over the barrier, hear the peeps of the whistle, look up, see the little guy running towards me, look both ways, and sprint across the road. The whistler starts running after me, his whistles turning into shredded, gasping peeps as he puffs and pants behind me. Phee! Phee! Phee!

I reach the other side, climb over the barrier, look back, and see the whistler shaking his fist at me comically, then I walk away fast.

As I write, Tam and I are in a little tearoom, near the red-light area we got drunk in a few nights ago, uphill from the hotel. We must look like two satiated old men, who've seen and done it all and shall take no more part in the world. All we want is our teapot regularly filled. In the words of Thom Yorke: No alarms, and no surprises. Please. The tearoom is a traditional affair of mild greens and browns, the walls bedecked by vases, china horses, and other such ornaments, perched on split-level monkey-puzzle shelves. Each table is home to a cut-glass bowl of soft satin red and green flowers. Comfortably cushioned wooden chairs and green and white chequered tablecloths are our only companions in here, save the polite and helpful waitresses in green aprons.

We were on perhaps our fourth or fifth pot of green tea when, a few minutes ago, there was a power cut. We sat in the semi-darkness, in the deepening dusk of our holiday, and hardly noticed. As the kind, attentive waitresses panicked around us, we sat unperturbed in the gloom. Today has the feeling of 'home-time'. The lights have gone out. Time for bed.


26/02/02


Fireworks


It was the last night of the Spring Festival, and the locals were out celebrating. So Danuka and I stayed in.

Danuka has a pathological fear of explosions, which, having lived so long in Belfast is understandable enough. When we're outside, and someone sets off firecrackers, she jumps two feet in the air then curses them in seven different languages. Dalian was a war zone of fireworks, firecrackers, homemade bombs and colourful light. I watched it for a while from our eighth floor window. Tam went home tonight. It's just Danuka and I, trying to eke out our holiday by one more day. She suggested we get some beer in.

The fireworks continued long into the night. The next morning, they were still spinning through my head, flashes of light and colour, flashes of fireworks.