Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Some tourists can be fooled by the stories of fog and mist from their tour guides; others
become ill during their trips and post warnings on websites like VirtualTourist that caution
tourists to wear face masks or avoid China during certain seasons. The heavy smog disrupts
air traffic and creates serious traffic jams—all part of a tourist's experience of the country.
The official China National Tourist Office avoids the subject altogether; its photographs
show nothing but clear blue skies over Beijing, Shanghai and points west.
While we were in China, the official newspaper, China Daily , reported that more than
half of China's wealthiest people—those with assets over $9 million—said they planned to
immigrate to a wealthy, cleaner nation like Australia or the United States for the sake of
their children and a better standard of living. The government denies the extent of pollu-
tion not only to tourists but to its own people. Last year residents of Beijing fed up with the
lies told by their government turned to the U.S. embassy and its accurate reports on the
air index to decide whether they should hazard the smog that day. By denying that pollu-
tion even exists, the Chinese tourism industry is making matters worse for itself and for the
tourists. At the end of our trip pollution was my biggest complaint.
Lin Xi suggested that we attend a dinner-theater presentation at the Shaanxi Grand
Opera House. “This is a famous Chinese cultural event. Dinner is four cold plates, then
four plates of hot dumplings, tea and hot rice wine,” she said. “Then the theater of Tang
Dynasty music and dance, the peak of Chinese culture.”
Bill said he was game. Lin Xi said she would buy our tickets; each would cost 320 yuan,
the less formal name for renminbi. She put out her hand. Bill pulled out his wallet, coun-
ted his money and shook his head. He didn't have enough cash to buy the tickets. He
could use his credit card when we got there. Without skipping a beat, Lin Xi ordered the
driver to make a series of turns and—violà—we were in front of a bank ATM machine. Bill
climbed out with Lin Xi right behind him. She squeezed into the glass-enclosed booth,
and when the paper money slid out of the machine she blocked Bill's exit until he handed
over 640 yuan. Then she smiled.
There was no doubt that we had just witnessed how Lin Xi makes her money. She
needed the cash to buy the tickets herself and get her cut. If we had used our credit cards,
she would lose that cut and a good share of what she expected to earn that week.
The parking lot in front of the Opera was crowded with tour buses. Lin Xi escorted
us inside to a table in a large, multitiered hall facing the stage. She introduced us to our
waitress and then wished us a pleasant night. Looking around at the mix of foreign and
Chinese tourists, Bill announced, “This is a Chinese version of a Las Vegas supper club.”
The curtain rose. The bright pastel costumes were Chinese; the women's dresses were
form-fitting and showed ample midriff; their dark hair was crowned with elaborate combs.
The music had a hint of American show tunes. A heavily madeup man dressed as a Tang
emperor was the emcee. The curtain rose and fell on a dozen different songs, from spring-
time cherry blossoms to a moonlit rendezvous. A Chinese version of a dance of seven veils
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