Xian dynasty pot panned (From St Albans & Harpenden Review)

Xian dynasty pot panned

2:16pm Wednesday 18th September 2002 in

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MY wife demonstrates great enthusiasm for old relics, although I have to report, from personal experience, this does not appear to extend to those approximately 61 years old.

So the prospect of taking in Shanghai Museum, on the first day of our organised tour, appealed to her. To be honest, I am not that keen on museums of antiquity, featuring such as Etruscan pottery, for I find it difficult to identify with or enthuse over ancient relics. I prefer my history served AD as opposed to BC.

Not surprisingly, ancient artefacts look much the same in China as they do in Rome but the museum visit did bring it home to me just how far advanced the Chinese were on most civilisations. I believe the Greek, Indian, Egyptian and Chinese civilisations had a head start on the rest of us, with China boasting 5,000 years of recorded history. We English are pushed to boast half that.

The lighting in the museum replicated advanced twilight, with only the display cabinets either back-lit or spotlighted from below. It was very effective and showed off to advantage one room featuring the various national costumes spanning the ages.

Walking up to one display, I was struck by the almost contemporary appearance of a female hunter with what would have passed for zebra-striped ski pants today, plus a leather tunic, spiked hair and a look of pure disdain as she stared out at a horizon, presumably visible in those far-off days before pollution.

Her demeanour was perhaps understandable because as I walked up to the exhibit for closer inspection, she turned on her heel and walked away, scowling at me over her shoulder.

Time, I thought, to give my glasses another clean.

"Look at that," enthused my wife, pointing to a spectacularly ornate bronze cooking pot some three-foot high. "Someone made that six centuries before Christ was born. They used it every day. Wish they were here to talk about it today."

With that she moved on, leaving me wondering what a housewife from Xian dynasty would make of it all, at the museum.

In my imagination, I heard a voice: "Well, beat my breasts with banyan branches! My old man, Hung Lo, would have been chuffed to bamboo shoots to see that old cooking pot so revered. It's 2,600 years since he knocked it out and discarded it because the design was not quite right. Everything had to be just so with Hung Lo.

"Mind, he was always knocking out those pots. Me? I would have been a lot happier if he had got off his backside and bloomin' caught something to cook in them.

"As for that voice in that talking branch you are holding to your ear, it says them dragons are strategically and aesthetically placed around the top of the pot peering into the inside. Well, I don't know what that means exactly, but they didn't half make it hard to ladle. I was forever catching and burning my arms on those bleeding dragons."

I decided to move on because the warrior in the zebra ski pants was looking at me, wondering what I was doing muttering at an old bronze pot.

Further on, there was a floor devoted to ancient seals made of wax and such. These seem quite significant in Chinese culture even to this day.

They failed to ignite my interest and, again, my mind wandered. What if 1,500 years from now someone unearthed a British Rail "requisition approved" stamp circa 1950. Would it be mounted on damask in a museum somewhere and labelled "Early Nationalisation period"?

The museum was the last part of a day's tour which took in the truly fascinating making of silk, the visit to a Buddhist jade temple and a special garden once owned by a very important person.

Very little of old China appears to remain in Shanghai or elsewhere as a result of the Cultural Revolution of the mid-1960's and then the more recent dramatic modernisation programmes, so it was refreshing to see a pagoda or two.

They appeared to be limited in concept; the majority being rectangular buildings with upturned roofs and, before long, I would be completely pagoda'd out.

The Chinese do amazing things with painting, fabrics, jade and copper but architecture is not their strong suit. To a degree, once you have seen your first one-storey pagoda you have seen them all and it is pretty much the same with apartment blocks.

However, the pagodas are given some intriguing names, such as the Temple of Perpertual Peace, another of Perpetual Enlightenment or Mutual Longevity and one of Eminent Favour.

Some were quite small, little bigger than a fair-sized garden shed, which prompted one Englishman to observe upon his return he would erect a sign at the bottom of the garden, renaming his shed as the Temple of Everlasting Motor Mowing.

It was a sunny day, through the haze of pollution, and the tranquility and certain majesty of the temples and the garden was a refeshing change to the Manhattan-style modernity of the surroundings.

We had briefly travelled on the river the previous day, peering through the fog-cum-mist at various landmarks, but the river appeared to be the ultimate in pollution.

Used as a main thoroughfare, it served as a waste disposal unit and a washing-up bowl and contained significant levels of barely treated sewerage. The guide books warned about the high mercury content in fish and stressed the need to avoid drinking water throughout China unless it came from a sealed bottle.

They advised us not to walk in the bathroom in bare feet and hotels provided felt flip-flops to keep your feet above the infection level.

We both found ourselves coughing more than normal because the pollution is that discernible.

English is taught in schools and many speak it to a fair degree but sometimes the rhythm of the language escapes them. I noted one shop in the main centre boasting, in a title of equal size in marble and gilt, like the old Joe Lyon's restaurants of yesteryear: "Cigarette and Wine Famous Shop".

Mind you, making extravagant claims is not unusual. At times, I regretted not knowing precisely when the Ming dynasty commenced at the expense of the Tang, and when was the time of the Three Kingdons or the Six Kingdons.

However, one historical figure did capture my imagination and a number of others as well. A poor man, Hong Xiunquan, failed his civil service exam four times back in the 1840's, which left him pretty short of options.

Undaunted, before long he announced he was the younger brother of Jesus Christ considerably younger by some 1,830 years but such matters are beyond our ken. His decision proved to be a good career move because he rose to prominence denouncing foot-binding, prostitution, gambling, tobacco, opium and corruption and finished up owning half of China. However, he blew it by allowing his colleagues to indulge in concubines and the amassing of wealth.

He should remain, however, a role model for exam failures.

One mildly amusing incident made us smile when walking through the tranquil gardens among the temples. Suddenly an English lady, wearing the female equivalent of a pith helmet, stuck out a walking stick to block our path saying imperiously: "Stop picture being taken".

Our Chinese guide thought this very amusing but later, at lunch, we noted the lady was on the next table.

"Are you going on the cruise?" she asked us. "See you there."

We decided she was a dead ringer for Hyacinth Bucket (Bouquet) and quailed somewhat at the thought of being quartered with her on a cruise ship for four days.

However, it was with some relief we took our leave of Shanghai as we were driven past apartment blocks that looked like armless soldiers from the People's Red Army, complete with helmets, and headed for the airport.

Now airport security in China is extremely rigorous. The body search would have really scandalised Diana Ross.

"What's that?" inquired a female airport security official as she latched on to something between my legs.

I was tempted to tell her she would not find it in Mao's little red book, but after kneading it a couple of times through her fingers, she came to a logical conclusion and moved upwards before alighting on my low-hanging money-belt.

Eventually, I made it through, admittedly with a smile, but I was soon back in reluctant take-off mode again.

There had been a plane crash in China before we had left home and there were two more while we were out there.

"Look on the bright side. Things happen in threes and that's the third," I was told.

We landed in Wuhan and were driven honking down the mortorway by our driver and guide before coming to a halt by our Yangtze river cruise ship.

There we were beseiged by a group of small, suspicious-looking characters who grabbed our luggage from the driver, loaded it on their shoulders and staggered off towards the boat. We followed behind and, upon nearing the short gang-plank, a children's band of fifes, trumpet and drums struck up a greeting.

Within five minutes we were shown to our cabin and we jokingly observed in mock disappointment that the band subsequently struck up for everyone upon their arrival, not just us.

Just as I was assimulating the facts for the next part of our tour, a voice sounded out of the hitherto undetected speaker in our cabin. We were all to assemble in the Yangtze Club on deck four for an introductory meeting within five minutes.

The voice was Germanic with a hint of Russian. A case of "ve haf vays of making you obey".

Before the speaker intoned "raus, raus", we headed for deck four.