The first day in Shanghai proper and I would wind up burnt to a crisp, boasting a particularly ugly t-shirt tan, with the look of an inverted Arsenal shirt, like the pathetically unguarded and ill-prepared, post-winter white boy I am. Meka, on the other hand, survived the day intact. This would be because we spent more than 12 hours of the day roving the streets of this collossus, with the sun beating down, consistently, relentlessly and without interruption.
Our sweaty journey took us from the confined, tightly packed streets of the traditional old Chinese quarter, where you find more hanging laundry per square metre than you do people, to the neon intensity of Nanjing Street, at night, which must burn up more electricity than the local bus fleet and bares more than a passing similarity to Tokyo’s Shinjuku.
Exiting the apartment, our first destination was the antiques market, where our eyes were rapidly drawn to all-manner busts, figurines, commemorative plates and badges bearing the beatific looking mug shot of Chairman Mao. With old couples sat outside three storey buildings more longstanding than themselves, analyzing our every step, the pervasive aura could not have been more different than the one experienced the previous night outside Cartier.
Moving on to the food market, we were met with a cacophony of action, noises and smells. From the sight of frogs leaping up and down in a covered basket, awaiting their inevitable slaughter, to that of an old woman carrying nets of scrambling turtles over her shoulders, to the not-remotely-alluring stench of durian, this simple street offered a feast for the senses, all of which were found under successive lines of fresh washing.
Turning off it we delved deeper into the old city, with functioning roads quickly compressed into slender passages, home to butchers, working without the aid of refrigeration, hacking up their necessarily fresh wares, mothers hoisting infants in the air to allow them to urinate cleanly onto the street and men wearing nothing more than a pair of underpants, tending to their makeshift containers of dried foodstuffs.
Our wandering took us through these alleys of surprisingly overt public nudity, past the paradox of Shanghai’s oldest – and perhaps most unassuming – mosque.
From here, the pull of Yu Yuan could be felt as its impacting and eye-catching traditional (if relatively newly built, mock) structures came into view, demanding further exploration. At once the dynamics shifted, as locals going about their daily business on rusting three wheeled bicycles were replaced with marauding tourists eager to tick off the sights from their Lonely Planet and quaff its recommended local dishes as they did so.
Unashamed and impressed with the prevalent, elaborate wooden structures, we joined them, fueled by a hearty dose from the most renowned dumplings peddler in the vicinity, the handily named Nanxiang Steamed Bun Restaurant. Later we’d add the soup dumplings to this list, a renowned, traditional Shanghai speciality that came equipped with a not-so-traditional plastic straw to aid us tourists in supping out the piping hot broth therein, before putting away the white dough surrounding it.
Clocking up the touristy clichés as we mooched, our next port of call was the Huxinting tea house, a quirky, dark, wooden, perfectly-preserved 300-year old building that has played host to the likes of QE2 (the granny, not the boat) and Bill Clinton in the not-too-distant past. Already tarnished by association as we clambered up a rich, wooden staircase, we feared we might be in for a bit of a bigger shafting than Lewinski and our suspicions proved accurate as we were handed the most expensive list of tea options we’d ever seen. Bracing ourselves for the hit, we plumped for one of the more moderate priced and not particularly Chinese options, mint tea. It proved suitably inoffensive and we sipped it unenthusiastically as various families arrived, sat beside us, took one glimpse at the menu and left.
With the sun continuing to blaze down like a burnt out star possessed, and with practical issues to attend to, the time seemed right to find an Internet café. This was to prove a task of some magnitude in the first city I’ve visited in Asia where none make themselves obvious. Preempting these difficulties, we consulted tourist information who gave us vague directions to a road that might contain some, 10-minutes walk away. Around two hours later, having followed the road traffic signs to reach this lengthy, uninspiring concrete strip, in a massive circle, presumably along a mighty inner ring road, we collapsed outside a hotel, my skin now redder than that of an Essex girl on the third day of an Ibiza holiday. Fuxing Road had proved disappointingly scantily clad with life!
Having taken 10-minutes out to catch our breath, a light breeze and some respite from the heat, in a last throw of the dice I approached the hotel to plead for web access. With spirit-crushing efficiency, they promptly delivered, immediately negating around 40-minutes of our walk, as we’d passed and considered asking this exact same venue earlier. Frustrated at our uselessness, we slumped into their chairs, lapping up the aircon and unconcerned at the heavy restrictions the government imposes here. Less facebook, means greater effectiveness in accomplishing real tasks, after all. These we pursued.
Mission accomplished, we headed back to our starting point, which was, as it transpired, a mere five-minute walk away. Asking for directions once more and taking the time out to actually note the response, we made for the Bund, taking a route through a local shopping street peddling the cheapest array of accessories I’ve seen on this continent. Sunglasses for 9.9 Ruan. Don’t mind if I do sir. I’d snap up some of your jewelry too, my man, but plastic beads are not really my style.
Locating the Bund with more success, we were promptly blown away by the most startlingly futuristic skyline ever to smash into our consciousness. Or mine. I was practically dancing around in awe, waving my camera around like a hyperactive child, crunked up on orange squash.
Let’s recap here. When it comes to a skyline, London boasts little more than the Gherkin and Canary Wharf, prompting my companion to ask “is this it?” on her last visit there. Her surprise was inspired by a year or so of living in Tokyo, whose multitude of tall buildings, many of which may have been spawned from one another, lends it a horizon with more pits and bumps than an adolescent’s skin. Shanghai, on the other hand, looks like the kind of place where the Jetsons are likely to swoop into view at any moment, before being hastily chased off by a fleet of Darth Vadar’s militia. UFOs haven’t just been spotted. The aliens have landed and are setting up shop in the Radisson Hotel. It’s like a catwalk for architects, with each one seeking to out do the last with a wackier, more ambitious and more impacting design. Bed down in a posh hotel here and you’d be sleeping in a work of art.
From the Oriental Pearl TV tower, which looks primed and ready to embark on its mission to super-space, to China’s tallest building, the Shanghai World Financial Center, which resembles a giant’s bottle opener, the district of Pudong looms over the river, giving thousands of visitors strolling down the Bund the glad eye, inviting their gaze and rewriting their expectations.
The Bund, itself, is the centre of Commerce of the old Shanghai and has an almost European flavour, its grand, stately financial and governmental buildings offering a longstanding connection to a bygone era.
As the sun finally slumped down, having exhausted us with its intensity, Pudong lit up, lending a sparkle to the sky that the most expensive and expansive fireworks display would struggle to out do. We walked, we looked, we sat and looked again. Then we made our way home, along Nanjing Road, pushing through the hawkers, pimps and drug pushers, keen to avoid another invitation to buy a fake watch.
No comments:
Post a Comment