Quite recently, I was fortunate to be part of a group of writers and travel agents that toured Shanghai and Beijing, arranged by Panda Travel of Manila (China Panorama Tours) and Philippine Airlines. We reveled in the obligatory tourist spots and hotel inspection, a most comfortable overnight train ride from Shanghai to Beijing, the camaraderie of good company, the amazingly plentiful and cheap good buys, gastronomic treats, and spectacular sights that even a most jaded traveler like Paul Theroux would have delighted in. Of course, with all the conveniences of modern travel, and the seamless arrangements made by Panda Travel, we didn’t experience anything like what Theroux did, but at the end of our journey, we sure had plenty of good stories to tell, not to mention the ample shopping everyone did to bring home as pasalubong.
My first visit to China was in 1992. Together with fellow artists BenCab and Ofelia Gelvezon Tequi, we had an exhibition at the Philippine Embassy in Beijing, as guests of then Ambassador to the People’s Republic of China Philip Mabilangan and his wife Ada. Our five-day stay took us in and around Beijing (including two days of biking, guided by a skinny Pampango lass, my cabalen Aileen Mendiola, who was then a student at Beijing University and is now our vice-consul in Shanghai and an overnight stay in Xian to see the excavated terra-cotta warriors).
My initial impression then of China was that of a backward country (to think we live in a third world country ourselves). I vividly remember peering through the airplane window as we made our descent on Beijing, I could see clusters upon clusters of villages scattered through the vast rugged terrain for miles on end. But the scene was not of quaint picturesque villages, stone-walled and tile-roofed houses, as one would imagine of a romanticized postcard-pretty scene somewhere in Europe. Rather, it was a picture of desolation, drabness and monotonous vista. From the air, they looked more like a heap of rubble (just like a scene after an earthquake), rather than habitable communities.
As we explored the city by bike, swept by waves of commuters on bicycles by the hundreds (it’s the Chinese main mode of transport, and yes, there’s such a thing as a rush hour even on two wheels), my suspicions were proven correct. In the wet markets, there wasn’t much to buy. One could see long queues of people buying basic necessities. Meat was rationed. Eating in holes-in-the-wall, it’s the same sautéed cabbage swimming in lard and nothing more. I remember visiting the Friendship Store hoping to buy some dried mushrooms, which my mother had requested. The shelves were pathetically near empty.
One evening, we were treated to dinner by the Ma-bilangans in a Chinese restaurant in a five-star hotel (only a handful existed then), boasting an "overseas Chinese chef" (meaning from Hong Kong or elsewhere), as most of the good local chefs fled with their wealthy employers when the Communists took over in 1949, while those who remained (whose cleavers have rusted, making do with whatever was available to cook) had their palates reeducated. Even back in 1992, we had better Chinese food in Manila, and more so in Hong Kong.
Today, Shanghai, Beijing, and most of the big cities have their share of fine dining places, representing all regions of China and other places as well. American fast-food chains like McDonald’s and KFC have sprung up everywhere, captivating the locals’ craving for everything western, including fashion and music. Public markets (and supermarkets galore!) are bursting at the seams with comestibles and basic necessities. Subway trains and air-conditioned buses transport commuters, fast replacing the ubiquitous bicycles, and more and more private cars are seen in the streets.
On our 14-hour overnight train ride from Shanghai to Beijing, one couldn’t help but be impressed by the five-star amenities provided for the comfort of passengers: Starched linen covering the folding table, adorned with a single-stem flower vase, a pen and writing pad, a thermo jug; a toothbrush, pack of tissue paper, and terrycloth sleepers for every passenger; super clean bed linens; individual LCD screens and headsets (the western movies dubbed in Chinese, though); and a menu (yummy Chinese food) and intercom to call room service. What more could you ask for? And by the way, one has two choices of toilet: Western style (with stainless steel bowl and a new wooden seat to boot) or squat-type, located on both ends of the coach.
In the 10 years since I first visited China, the country has developed by leaps and bounds. But despite the seeming prosperity everywhere, to some western observers, the economic reforms have transformed the country at an alarming rate (but to this tourist, an astonishing one). They worry if the banking system can handle its financial and economic revolution. Are they biting off more than they can chew? Political dissent has been crushed momentarily, but can the political order remain immune to change? Nobody really knows.
In 1964, my late father Renato "Katoks" Tayag, wrote in his award-winning reportage on his 23-day sojourn in Red China (as it was still called then): "Life in communist China has become a tragedy because the Chinese have forgotten how to laugh. In our country, life may become a farce if we continue to laugh too much. The Chinese can give us a little of their seriousness in exchange for a little of our laughter."
And as our Shanghainese guide Lorry deadpanned on our way to the Pudong airport: "I hope you haven’t forgotten any of your valuables: Your passports, tickets, money, false teeth …"
The Chinese have finally learned to laugh. Perhaps it’s about time we learned a little of their seriousness.