The Life and Journeys of a Dabizi: (Big Nosed Foreigner) in China – from Mao to Hu

Copyright © 2020 by Albert Riley.

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Rev. date: 01/23/2020

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CONTENTS

October 12, 2008

January 1, 2010

April 11, 2010

January 19, 2011

February 12, 2011

June 10, 2011

OCTOBER 12, 2008

F OR YEARS, I had half-jokingly told people that I was going to write a definitive book about China. When my friends or students tried to get me to commit, I would say that I had not completed my research—I had been making annual trips to China to work on it. There is an old saying that goes, If you are working on something, you don’t have to actually do it. I had thought about writing something about China—I was just not sure what. I did not have an idea that excited me or a starting point. A Chinese friend in Miami was the catalyst—he encouraged me to get started, and I was suddenly inspired. On October 12, 2008, I put down my first words.

I was born in Tennessee and killed a bear when I was three—and the animal rights people chased my family out of the state, so I grew up and went to school in north Georgia. I would guess that the beginning would be at Acworth High School, just north of Atlanta, Georgia. My high school librarian encouraged my interest in China and Asia—mainly ancient history. During high school, I read many, many books about the mysterious Orient. Of course, in those days, my primary source of information was encyclopedias.

I was also fascinated by Asian girls—I found them very exotic and mysterious. So you would not be surprised to learn that I have been married to a Vietnamese Chinese girl for over fifty years. The only problem was that, in the 1950s, the only Asian girls I saw were in the movies—in rural Georgia in the Southern USA, there were few or no Asians. I cannot recall even one Asian student in my school during my entire twelve years. I probably met my first Asian girl when I volunteered for assignment to Tokyo, Japan, with the United States Air Force in 1958 at age twenty.

While in Japan, I met people from the American Embassy in Tokyo—and that got me to think about a future as a U. S. diplomat. After eighteen months in Tokyo, I was transferred to Seoul, Korea, for another eighteen months. After completing my tour in Korea, I left the USAF and soon after entered the Foreign Service, U.S. Department of State. After returning to my home area in Georgia, I landed a job as an insurance investigator and was planning to go back to school.

Eventually, it occurred to me to telephone the Office of Personnel at the State Department in Washington, DC. I gave them a bit of my United States Air Force history, mentioned that I was going to be back in college, and asked for some pointers on how to prepare for a diplomatic career, which they provided, and I thought that was the end of it. A few days later, they called me back and asked when I could be in Washington, DC—they would provide schooling for me. In the USAF, I had picked up two years of college credits through the University of Maryland, and the education I picked up through the State Department was probably worth several degrees. I borrowed money for my airfare from my girlfriend’s mother, and off I went and found myself a home for the next twenty-eight years. (I did promptly repay the loan and remained very good friends with the mother and father until they passed away—but parted ways with the girlfriend almost as soon as I went to Washington, DC.)

My first diplomatic assignment in May 1961 was to the American Embassy in Saigon, Vietnam, where I had the good fortune to meet my wife. I often joke that my wife was a Vietcong platoon leader whom I captured in action and that I decided to keep her. After Vietnam, we went to Monrovia, Liberia—where we had our first son—and then to Freetown, Sierra Leone, and Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, where our daughter was born.

In 1972, I received orders for Washington, DC, consultations; home leave; and transfer to the American Embassy in Rangoon, Burma (now Myanmar). We were looking forward to returning to Asia, so it was a real shock and disappointment when I arrived in Washington and was told that my transfer to Rangoon was canceled and that I was assigned to the State Department. I must admit that, after working the winter of 1972/73 in Washington, I was enjoying my job and was not so resentful about the loss of Rangoon. Then it happened.

One morning in early 1973, I was standing in a corridor of the State Department, leaning on a water cooler. While I was relaxing there, Henry Kissinger walked along the corridor; and as he passed, he gave me a look but continued on. Well, after some time, I was still leaning on the water cooler, and Henry Kissinger came back down the corridor. Once again, he gave me a look and started to walk on past. But he stopped, turned back to me, and said Mr. Riley, how would you like to go to China?

Wonderful, I said. I always wanted to go to Taiwan.

Mr. Kissinger shook his head. I said China. And that was how I was selected to be in the advance party that opened relations with the People’s Republic of China in May 1973—Henry Kissinger just wanted to get me away from that water cooler. Kai wen xiao. Just kidding. The handpicked staff for assignment to Peking was mostly selected on paper after reviewing personnel files of people recommended by various departments and then approved by Mr. Kissinger. I may have already been under consideration in late 1972, and that was why Burma was canceled, but I really don’t know. I did know that, as late as February 1973 (the time of my imaginary conversation with Mr. Kissinger related above), they were still discussing who would be assigned to the Advance Party. Even if it was a coin toss, I was selected.

In the early months of 1973, I entered weeks of special preparation and training for my assignment to Peking—to arrive on May 5. An officer from Hong Kong actually went in a few days ahead of me to work with the Advance Party early arrivals until I arrived. My training was related to my work in China; there was no time to really give me any significant information about that country. All I had was what I remembered from the books I had read over the years and the images of the Chinese portrayed in movies—images that were often unflattering. The stereotype mental picture of a Chinese was that of a short, stooped-as-if-in-a-perpetual-bow, and ponytailed person. Now I know that the Manchu Qing Dynasty, which ruled from 1644 to 1912, were horsemen from the northeast, and they required the Chinese to wear the ponytail as a sign of subservience—a humiliating practice that resulted in a lot of bloodshed. Then I knew next to nothing about China.

I grew up in the 1950s thinking that Russia had invented everything worth inventing because they said they did. In China, I would begin to appreciate the contribution—still an ongoing process—that the Chinese people had made across the board, including inventions. Now you will hear people joking that the five most important inventions in human history—the basis for modern civilization—were made by the Chinese: paper, printing, gunpowder, magnetic compass, and noodles (spaghetti). I was too excited about being in the Advance Party traveling to Peking to end the over twenty years of isolation and separation between our two countries to give a great deal of thought to the Chinese people. Who were they? Where did they come from? Today I know the answers—after two years in China (1973–75), ten years of working for the Florida Splendid China theme park with its emphasis on Chinese history and culture (1993–2003), eighteen trips to China from 1996 to 2013, and some fifteen years of running the China Studies Road Scholar program for Stetson University in DeLand, Florida.

We were due to depart Washington, DC, in early May 1973 on our way to Peking, but my wife had a medical problem and was unable to travel immediately—so she remained in Washington, DC, with the children, and I traveled alone. First, I stopped off in Tokyo to visit friends at the American Embassy. The thirteen years since my last visit to Japan had brought many changes—but perhaps not as dramatic as the changes I would witness in China over the next forty years. Then from Japan, I flew to Hong Kong for consultations at the American Consulate General. One purpose of our stops in Hong Kong was to obtain Chinese visas since they had no representation in the United States, and of course, our Chinese counterparts traveling to the United States also had to obtain their American visas at a U.S. Mission outside China. We were using trains from Hong Kong to Guangzhou (Canton) and airplanes to Peking because, in 1973, there were almost no international flights to and from China. There was Pakistan Airways—I flew to Karachi and returned on one of their flights, a little business trip. The Russians and the French also flew into Peking.

Look at new China. They have more choices of international flights to every part of the world than I can count, with great international airports all over the country. Before they opened the dragon gates and welcomed dabizis (big-nosed foreigners), Hong Kong was the gateway to China, and the American Consulate General in Hong Kong was our most important China-watch location—as close as we could get to the real China. Even before the U.S. reestablished relations in 1973, Hong Kong was a conduit for foreigners, including Americans, visiting China. Chinese friendship associations often invited American professionals and others to visit the mainland by way of Hong Kong. Hong Kong became a major economic powerhouse in Asia largely because of its gateway-to-China status and is still an important economic player but began to lose a bit of its clout in the 1980s, when Deng Xiaoping opened China to the world. Beijing, Guangzhou, and especially Shanghai became prime destinations for both tourism and business as international air service rapidly grew and improved. I had visited Hong Kong several times before and felt as if the only changes that I saw there was that everyone was driving newer cars. I felt the same way during my most recent visit in 2000.

Finally, after taking care of business with the Consulate General, they put me on the train to what is now ultramodern Shenzhen. In May 1973, it was the main border crossing point into mainland China. I vaguely remember getting off the Hong Kong train and walking across the border (carrying my luggage) along a covered corridor. On the other side, I took care of formalities and sat in a small waiting room until I boarded my train to Guangzhou. (We still called it Canton back then.) My clearest memory was walking across the border and seeing very young People’s Liberation Army (PLA) soldiers with automatic weapons—all looking very serious. A few years later, I would be in Managua, Nicaragua, when the Sandinistas took over, and I arrived at the airport to be greeted by Sandinista soldiers carrying automatic weapons—but the Sandinistas were very young children.

I would be in China from early May 1973 to late April 1975. As I entered China, observing the soldiers and waiting for my train, I was aware that I was arriving during the Cultural Revolution, but it took many years and many friendships with Chinese to truly appreciate what had happened since 1966—finally grinding to a halt in 1976 after my departure. Chairman Mao was a great revolutionary leader, but as a chief of state, he had a number of shortcomings. In 1957, he had the Antirightist Movement; then in 1960, he rolled into the Great Leap Forward, which had catastrophic results, and millions of Chinese died of starvation. By the mid-1960s, it was becoming apparent that he was not infallible, and both civilian and military support began to rapidly erode.

Realizing that he was in danger of being replaced, Mao used China’s youth as soldiers to attack his enemies and protect his power base. Basically, the Cultural Revolution was a bloody civil war between Mao supporters and reformers, exemplified by Deng Xiaoping. Eventually, the reformers won out—after Chairman Mao and Chou En-lai died in 1976—but first, they had to deal with Madame Mao and the Gang of Four. Allegedly, Madame Mao and her friends were trying to take power after Mao, and they used the Cultural Revolution as cover to eliminate thousands of people who did or would oppose their attempt to take over China.

Chou En-lai, a genius of a statesman, sort of stayed above it all—but when it counted, he used his influence and the military to protect important Chinese historical and cultural landmarks, like the Temple of Heaven, from the depredations of the Red Guard. I believe Chou En-lai wanted China and the United States to be pals when the People’s Republic of China was established in 1949, but we rejected him (China) because we were so anticommunist at that time. I also believe that Chou En-lai sent subtle signals to the United States suggesting that China would be receptive to a friendly gesture from Washington, and that led to the Nixon/Kissinger visit to China in 1972, which led to my assignment to Peking in 1973—and to my being in that border train station.

In due time, I was taken to the Guangzhou train and seated. Actually, I would be doing this many times over the next two years. I had numerous opportunities to act as a special courier to escort diplomatic pouches between Hong Kong and Peking—the entire trip by train. I always crossed the Yangzi River at Wuhan in Hubei Province, rattling across the bridge that the Chinese constructed with Russian assistance. Work began in 1955, and it opened to traffic in October 1957 and was known as the Wuhan First Yangzi Bridge. Now I realize that the bridge was a sign of great things to come for the Chinese.

Those courier trips led me to develop a fondness for train travel in China—but not so much for the warm beer that they served. Even today when I travel in China, I almost always include trains in my travel plans. In 1996, I took the train from Beijing to Xi’an, home of the Terra-Cotta Warriors in Shaanxi Province—it took twenty-two hours in those days. My wife and I recently made the journey on a high-speed G train in four hours and twenty minutes—with a stop in Zhengzhou. My Chinese contacts must have thought that I was nuts back then—and maybe now. They were not accustomed to seeing Americans and other foreigners who would take that much time for travel. Most people wanted to spend their time sightseeing, not riding a train.

In 2007, I took the train from Beijing to Luoyang in Henan Province and then the bullet train from Zhengzhou, capital city of Henan, to the city of Handan in southern Hebei Province. (You see, I am actually Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor who unified China in 221 BC, and I wanted to visit my birthplace in Handan.) Back in Beijing, I took the train to and from Qinhuangdao and Beidaihe (on the coast east of Beijing). In 2009, I took an overnight train to Linfen in Shanxi Province and had two day trips by bullet train later in the journey, including my return to Beijing.

During my many train trips, I met many interesting people. Since the sleepers had four beds, I never knew who would be in the room with me. I shared my room with all kinds—three little old ladies, an official with two bodyguards, even a young European girl who was not shy about changing clothes in front of me. I never had a roommate who was not friendly. I am tone-deaf, and that has limited my ability to master spoken Chinese, which has restricted my communication with many of my roommates on trains. On the other hand, many Chinese speak English, and we had good visits. Other times, we had fun with my Chinglish. In any case, I speak well enough to travel, and I never got hungry or lost.

The Chinese can be proud of their rail system—there is a big difference between the twenty-two-hour ride to Xi’an in 1996 and the bullet trains of today at over one hundred miles per hour. Having said that, train stations in China can be a nightmare. There are crowds, the pushing and shoving, and a general sense of pandemonium. Airports were once like that but now are much easier to navigate. I often deal with airports on my own but always have an escort to help in train stations. Of course, trains are the main method of mass transportation in China—and I wish the United States would return to a level of train service comparable to theirs. Even as I say that, I realize that security considerations since 2001 make it sound like a very bad idea. I recently took a two-day train trip in the United States. There were late departures and late arrivals throughout the trip, and I kept telling the railroad staff that these delays did not happen on Chinese railroads. (Kidding!)

A People’s Daily editorial in September 2009 commented on security in China’s railway stations, and I found this to be a significant article relating to new China. Train stations have signs warning people not to talk to strangers—a warning to beware of con artists. During my 2009 trip, I used a backpack for the first time for my camera equipment—something that I learned by observing the Chinese. When I am in a train station (or any crowd), I am very careful to watch out for my backpack. I noticed that some Chinese carried their backpacks in front them, a practice that People’s Daily also mentioned.

One incredible comment from People’s Daily was that the train station in Wuhan had warnings for parents to guard their children because of the danger of human traffickers abducting very small children. The Chinese are very friendly and hospitable people, but the impression was, in public, they must be on guard at all times because the streets (especially train stations) are crawling with people who would try to cheat or rob them and even steal their children. China Daily, on October 22, 2009, had an article about a large ring of child traffickers being busted in south China. This is a serious, widespread problem in new China. China Daily said that thirty to sixty thousand children are reported missing in China each year. To put things in perspective, China Daily on October 27, 2009 (and U.S. media), reported that United States law enforcement agencies rescued over fifty children—mostly girls as young as ten—from sex slavery rings across the United States, with numerous arrests.

Let us return to May 5, 1973. My train arrived in Guangzhou, and I was met by another member of the Advance Party—one who spoke Chinese. Obviously, the United States had been training officers to speak Chinese for years, waiting for the day when we would reestablish relations with the People’s Republic of China. We flew from Guangzhou to Peking in a Russian-made airliner that would make a lot of people give up flying. We did arrive safely, were met at the airport, and driven into Peking. In 1973, a ride from the airport to the city was like a drive in the country—narrow rural roads lined with trees. It was really a pleasant drive—nothing like the three expressways, train line, and express bus service of today.

While I fondly recall the tree-lined roads of the 1970s, I am also reminded that—on a number of drives to the airport or the Great Wall—we found ourselves behind honey wagons. In case you didn’t already know, a honey wagon was a horse-drawn or small-tractor-drawn cart with a tank on it that contained human waste. Every day the city waste would be hauled into the countryside to become fertilizer. We got very good at holding our breath for long periods.

My first impression of Peking was that it was a drab, dreary, and dusty place. But it was a place that I would grow to love. When I received my assignment to Peking, people warned me that there would be food shortages and all kinds of problems. They said that cabbage would be the only plentiful food. That may have been true for the average Chinese but not for foreign diplomats. The Friendship Store on Jianguomenwai (the main avenue that runs east–west in front of Tiananmen Gate as Chang’an Avenue) had a well-stocked grocery department, and we actually had a very good and cheap supply of all that we needed—especially Wuxing Pijou (five-star beer). I still visit the Friendship Store and that grocery department to buy snacks when I am in Beijing. (Bulletin: I am sorry to report that the Friendship Store Grocery Department was closed at the end of 2008. There are just too many privately owned shops in the neighborhood.)

The history of Beijing goes back to the Zhou Dynasty about 1000 BC, when they relocated a number of defeated Shang Dynasty people to Beijing as a buffer against northern nomads—then it was known as Ji, which means thistle. During the Warring States period (476–221 BC), what is now Beijing was the capital of the State of Yan and was called Yanjing (Yan’s capital). They were defeated by me—I mean, Qin Shi Huang as he was unifying China in 221 BC, and Qin would use their former wall fortifications for what would be the eastern end of the first Great Wall.

For another thousand years, Beijing was a thriving town—until the Liao Dynasty (Mongolian) established a capital also called Yanjing in 938. In 1153, the Manchu Jin Dynasty replaced the Liao and established their capital, Zhongdu (Central Capital). Then the Jin Dynasty was destroyed by the Mongol hordes in 1234 (Genghis Khan died in 1227 while on his way to invade China), and they named their capital Dadu (Great Capital). The Ming Dynasty arose in 1368 and forced the Mongols out of China. Originally, the Ming capital was in Nanjing (Southern Capital), but the capital was moved back to Beijing (Northern Capital) in 1420. In May 1644, after the collapse of the Ming, the Manchu returned to China and established the Qing Dynasty at Beijing until 1912. When the Republican government was formed after the Qing, they made Nanjing the capital, and Beijing became Peiping (Northern Peace) until the PRC was formed in 1949, and Peking/Beijing became the capital again. So except for a couple of brief periods at the beginning of the Ming Dynasty and during the Republican years, Beijing has been someone’s capital for over one thousand years—a comment on the strategic importance of Beijing and its environs.

The U.S. Advance Party resided at the old Peking Hotel, just east of Tiananmen Gate. They began construction of the new Peking Hotel while we were there. My first office was the bathroom in my room. So when I got up and went to work in the morning, I went to the bathroom. The rooms were big and stuffy but comfortable. Those were exciting times, and we were all over the place, trying to see and experience as much as we could. The Peking Hotel was a big part of those first experiences—we all especially enjoyed our communal meals at our assigned tables in the dining room.

One source of our enjoyment in the dining room was occasional food surprises. There were other groups with their assigned tables, and the waiters sometimes got mixed up and gave someone else’s food to us. On the other hand, we had to be patient when our food went to the wrong group. I have always joked that Beijing has the best Chinese cooking in the world. The food was so good (and economical) that many of our staff members would be eating out during their entire stay in Peking. My family ate out often, but we had two small children, so we tended to eat at home most of the time. (Don’t forget, my wife is Chinese Vietnamese and a really wonderful cook.)

Naturally, one of the most popular dining experiences was Peking duck restaurants. There was the Sick Duck, next to the hospital (still in operation after renovations in 2009). Then we had the Salty Duck, the Big Duck, the Little Duck, and so on. My favorite food was hot (spicy) noodles (dan dan mian). In April 1975, shortly before I departed Peking, I was in the old Peace Hotel (now replaced by a modern five-star hotel), near the north end of modern Wangfujing Pedestrian Street (near Tiananmen Square), eating my beloved hot noodles when, all of a sudden, I noticed that the huge chandeliers over the dining room were swinging back and forth. I thought it was the hot sauce, but it turned out to be an earthquake. I still love the spicy foods of Sichuan, Hunan, and Guizhou—with any type of Chinese food, I always ask for la jiao jiang (Chinese hot sauce made with red chili pepper).

Eating out in Beijing was an adventure. For one thing, they closed at six in the evening on the dot. A guest could be in the middle of a meal, and suddenly, the table would be cleared and the lights turned off. On one occasion, I ordered a bottle of wine, only to discover that it was sour like vinegar. I very politely explained to the waiter that the wine was no good and that I needed another bottle. (Today would be different, but in 1973, China had very little in the way of good wines—they tended to be very sweet tasting; however, they did have some great beers.) The second bottle was fine, but when I paid the bill, I still had to pay for the bad bottle of wine. The restaurant staff simply would not accept the argument that the wine was bad and should not be on the bill. Of course, there was no tipping for service in those days, and it was a good thing because I would not have tipped that guy!

Speaking of tipping, in 1996, I dined at a restaurant near my favorite hotel (Jianguo Hotel) on Jianguomenwai (Chang’an Avenue) in Beijing and left a tip on the table. The waitress chased me for an entire block and insisted that I take the tip back. Today she would probably chase me for a block if I failed to leave a tip! Speaking of the Jianguo Hotel, I should note that they were the very first joint-venture (Chinese/foreign) hotel in China in 1982. When I lived in Peking, the site of the Jianguo Hotel was mostly undeveloped land. Today that same area has the World Trade Center, a shopping and restaurant complex, the new CCTV building with its ultramodern design, and much, much more.

The first Chief of the United States Liaison Office (USLO) was David Bruce—a senior statesman and all-around good guy. Actually, the Advance Party became USLO when Bruce arrived a couple of weeks after I did, and that was the occasion for our first state dinner when the Chinese Foreign Ministry invited the entire Advance Party/USLO staff to dinner at the International Club, near the Friendship Store on Jianguomenwai. Since we were not a formal mission, we did not yet rate the Great Hall of the People. During the Qing Dynasty, which ended in 1912, important people would be invited to the Hall of Supreme Harmony; lesser people would be invited to the Hall of Preserving Harmony—so I suppose that, in 1973, the International Club was our Hall of Preserving Harmony.

One thing that we learned at that first dinner and had reinforced at the Great Hall of the People was that our Chinese counterparts could drink us under the table. At every table setting, there would be mao-tai—a toxic drink made with sorghum—along with beer and qishui, China’s only soft drink (like orange Kool-Aid). Toasts were exchanged by the two sides with the phrase gan bei, which roughly meant bottoms up. Choice of beverage was alternated and could have serious effects on a person with low tolerance for alcohol. A happy alternative was ban bei, which was half a drink.

David and Evangeline Bruce were wonderful as the heads of our family as would be their replacements, George H. W. and Barbara Bush. One source of excitement for us in Peking would be a summons for Mr. Bruce to visit Chairman Mao at the official residence on the western side of the Forbidden City. Mao rested during the day and worked at night, so the unexpected summons came at any hour of the night, and Mr. Bruce would dash off with a Chinese-speaking officer to visit the chairman. The Bruces soon moved into the official residence, still the Ambassador’s Residence in Beijing at the United States Liaison Office (USLO), but was still subject to Mao’s nocturnal whims as was his replacement, George H. W. Bush.

When Henry Kissinger visited Peking, we would be promoted to Supreme Harmony status; so on several occasions, we had the opportunity to dine with Chou En-lai and Deng Xiaoping at gatherings in the Great Hall of the People on the west side of Tiananmen Square. Chairman Mao never attended these functions, so I never saw or met him. To be perfectly honest, in those days, I couldn’t have cared less. For most of us, meeting Chairman Mao would have been nice but not a big deal. Only now, looking back, do I wish that I had met the Chairman—just for the bragging rights. I once had a face-to-face with Chou En-lai on the front steps of the Peking Hotel, and on another occasion, I did some dance steps with Deng Xiaoping in a corridor outside a banquet hall in the Great Hall of the People. Actually, he was trying to exit the cesuo (restroom) as I was trying to enter. Think about that—in those days, Chou En-lai walked around in public, and top leaders shared the restroom with us commoners. Wouldn’t happen today.

In the Foreign Service, we have functional titles for working within the U.S. State Department or U.S. Missions abroad and diplomatic titles for dealing with officials in host countries. The Chinese tend to be a bit rank and status conscious. This was more evident in the 1970s than it would be today—but even today, officials deal with officials of equal rank. For me to have access to the appropriate Chinese officials to conduct day-to-day business, I was given a diplomatic title higher than my functional title. This was simply a matter of paperwork relating to how I was presented to the Chinese government, but it did make life a lot easier for me when I needed access to Chinese officials. In fact, it worked so well that I cannot think of anything that happened that I can talk about. My business was handled very efficiently and professionally, and I have no cute stories to tell.

I arrived on May 5, 1973. On June 17, my wife and two children—ages seven and four—arrived in Peking. Actually, we celebrated our son’s eighth birthday on July 2, 1973, in the Peking Hotel. He has good memories of running through the hotel corridors and especially of assembling a model of a P-51 fighter plane—and getting more glue on himself and his surroundings than on the plane. Like all of us, they arrived via Hong Kong. Our children were the first small American diplomatic kids in China since the 1940s. During our stay in Peking, the kids always got special attention from all the Chinese with whom they had contact. We have some great pictures of them during October 1 National Day events—the kids were treated as if all the games and activities were just for them. And they often were the only foreign children at the activity. I later realized that the Chinese children were required to wait on the side until the foreign children finished playing.

My wife has no vivid memories of her arrival in China. The American Consulate General in Hong Kong had arranged for her and the kids to travel with several other American diplomats on their way to Peking to join the Mission staff. She and the kids walked across that bridge into mainland China as part of a little group—and of course, her diplomat companions helped her and the kids along the way.

There is one thing that I do know from conversations with my wife. Keep in mind that this was 1973. My wife’s ancestors may have been from Fujian Province in China, but she was a native Vietnamese with relatives who had been in the highest levels of the Vietnamese military in the 1960s. The war in Vietnam was raging, and China was helping Hanoi. She was a bit fearful and very uncomfortable as she arrived in communist China. Soon after she arrived in Peking, she realized that her fears were unfounded. The Chinese, at all levels, welcomed us warmly, and she soon felt right at home. In fact, she settled in so well that some amusing things happened.

She looked Chinese—and even today, the Chinese will get annoyed with her because she doesn’t speak Mandarin, and they think she is pretending. Still, she could not blend in completely—the Chinese can recognize a foreigner by their dress, makeup, and general bearing. We have some great pictures of her walking among the crowds at the Forbidden City and Temple of Heaven with Chinese people stopping to stare at her. But my wife was completely accepted because the average Chinese in the streets, in shops, and so on did not know that she was an American diplomat. They thought she was a North Vietnamese sister, and she got special treatment—and was even taken to shop in places that foreigners normally did not go.

We settled into the Peking Hotel for a short time, and since we were just a few steps from Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City, we took advantage of every opportunity to explore our neighborhood. Eventually, we were assigned a large, two-bedroom apartment in the Jianguomenwai Diplomatic Housing Complex, very near the Friendship Store and International Club (and later the Jianguo Hotel, which is now my home in Beijing). The International Club had recreational facilities and Western dining and was very important to us in those days because there was very little to do otherwise, especially in winter. Now there are many forms of recreation and entertainment available in Beijing, so the International Club was closed and converted to office and other uses. Although the kids had to share a bedroom, they were so young that it did not cause any serious problems. Overall, the apartment was very large and comfortable and had a great view of life in the streets of Peking.

We did have our share of adventures, and many of the stories that I tell about the children were based on their own memories of events. One story that they really found amusing was about the time that our son was helping prepare a bath for his little sister. (They were eight and four.) Our son started running the water and then told his sister to call Mommy for help when the bath was ready. She took him literally, and when she thought the water was ready, she started screaming at the top of her voice—for some reason admiring her image in a mirror while she did it. Obviously, the screams brought Mommy and Daddy in a hurry. Once we had all gathered in the bathroom, our daughter calmly announced that her bath was ready.

By that time, her brother was hiding behind a sofa. Our son discovered a very interesting feature in our building. There was a removable door in the bathroom that entered a shaft that ran up and down the building, and it was large enough to enter. In fact, I could climb in. Once entering the shaft, a person could access any apartment up and down it. The kids were using that shaft to go from one apartment to another—until we realized what they were doing!

Our old apartment building was renovated and got a nice face-lift about 2005. When I am in Beijing (at the Jianguo Hotel just down the street), I still pass by and look up at my old fourth-floor apartment. When I went looking for it in 1996, I had trouble finding the location because Beijing had changed so much. I sometimes describe Beijing as a desert when I arrived in 1973, but by 1996, the entire area had been landscaped with trees and flower beds—and, of course, new construction. Today the area is even better—Jianguomenwai received a face-lift for the 2008 Olympics, further widening and beautifying for the October 1, 2009, National Day parades and celebrations. I give a lot of credit to the Chinese because they planted trees and flowers—second only to the fact that they went from famine conditions in the 1960s to feeding themselves and becoming food exporters.

Part of the desert effect was caused by the burning of coal. In those days, our diplomatic ghetto—as it was sometimes fondly called—had a central heating system. I still don’t know where the furnaces were, but they apparently provided hot water and heating to our entire district except for one period each year—in October, when it was already cool but not yet winter. They would shut down the furnaces for many days while they performed annual maintenance. During that period, we were wearing jackets and taking cold baths. Those were the good old days! Another important part was the location of the Gobi Desert and its dust storms just across the mountains north of Beijing.

When we moved into our apartment, the Diplomatic Services Bureau (DSB)—sometimes referred to as the Not Convenient Bureau—assigned a housekeeper to us. She was a pleasant older woman, and we liked having her with us. Oddly enough, she never told us her name, and we never learned it. She simply told us to call her Aiyi or Auntie. She worked under a strict set of rules when it came to interaction with our family. She always brought her own lunch in a silver tin box. At lunchtime, she would warm her food in the kitchen and then sit in the dining room and eat. When warmed, her food smelled pretty good, so one day our daughter (aged five) went in and sat down next to Aiyi and just watched her eat. Finally, Aiyi gave in and offered to share her meal of noodles, vegetables, and tofu. Sharing could have been more significant than it sounds. Aiyi may not have had a lot of food for herself and her own family during the Cultural Revolution. I will never know, but sharing her food with my daughter may have been a bit of a sacrifice. Because of the rules, Aiyi never ever accepted any food from us—or anything else for that matter.

When Christmas came, my wife would give Aiyi gifts of clothing or items for the home, but they were politely refused. When Aiyi went home, the gifts were left behind. I can understand her motives—she could have been arrested as an enemy of the state had she been caught accepting gifts from foreigners. That was life during the Cultural Revolution. We paid her salary to the DSB, but she probably worked for the PSB (Public Security Bureau). When we requested a service or, for example, a trip to another city, the DSB would frequently respond with a terse not convenient. They never discussed or explained—it was just not convenient. So you can see why they were the Not Convenient Bureau. I still get a not convenient now and then, but at least the Chinese will now explain and even negotiate.

I had two experiences, both involving travel, that are good examples. They also tell something about relations with the Chinese. I had requested a visit to a historical location in Gansu Province that was closed to the public; only scientists and researchers were given special admission to visit. My wife had taught me that arguing, demanding, and displaying anger and displeasure were not the way to work with the Chinese. So when I was told that it was not convenient for me to visit the landmark, I whined and cried until the Chinese felt sorry for me and arranged a special tour. Kai wen xiao. (I am joking). I did gently express my great disappointment and sadness at not being able to see this famous landmark after I had traveled all the way from America—and I got my special tour. (My tour guide probably helped by vouching for my credentials.)

On another occasion in Yunnan Province, I had a similar experience; but this time, my wife was with me. I was told that it was not convenient to visit another historical landmark because of its isolated location and absence of roads. Once again, I put on my long face and expressed my great disappointment and sadness—after all, I had traveled to Jinghong (capital of the Dai Autonomous Region in the south of Yunnan Province in southwest China near Vietnam and Myanmar) just to see that landmark. Once again, the Chinese relented. They came up with a special vehicle with four-wheel drive and took my wife and me on a wild, bone-jarring ride that took three hours one way. We had a wonderful visit at the landmark and another bone-jarring ride back to Jinghong. After that, my wife said that she did not want to go on these trips with me anymore!

Despite my effort at humor in discussing the Diplomatic Services Bureau, they were very helpful to us and contributed to the warm welcome we received. Part of the welcome after the Advance Party was in place was an invitation to each of us to take a little trip of our own choice as guests of the Chinese people. I respected the choices that my colleagues made, but all of them chose trips to the most famous landmarks, like the Great Wall. I was told that I especially impressed the Chinese by choosing a place off the beaten track at that time—now it is a popular tourist destination. I refer to Zhoukoudian, home of the famous Peking Man Museum southwest of Beijing. That choice was due to my early high school interest in Chinese history—I knew about Peking man. Today there is a nice expressway heading south to Shanghai with exits to the renowned Marco Polo Bridge and Zhoukoudian—less than an hour from Downtown Beijing (depending on traffic). In 1973, the trip was a bit different.

I must say that the DSB laid on a red-carpet, VIP trip for us. I can’t really recall most of the drive through the suburbs of Peking at that time, but I do recall crossing over a beautiful ancient bridge. Our escorts never mentioned at that time that we were crossing the Marco Polo Bridge. I learned the name of the bridge much later. The bridge really should not be called the Marco Polo Bridge; that was a Western nickname. The correct name (used by the Chinese) is Lugouqiao, which roughly means reedy ditch bridge. Reedy ditch was most appropriate because, during dry season, the river was a reedy ditch. By the time I saw the bridge again in 1996, no vehicles were allowed to cross, and there was a small trickle of water; and just below the bridge, they had blocked the flow to form a pool in which kids were swimming, and women were doing laundry, even a car or two being washed. My most recent visit in 2007 found the stream completely dried up, and the area above and below the bridge was nicely landscaped for the benefit of tourism. In 1996, I walked beneath the bridge, looking for bullet holes from World War II; on the bridge at both ends, there were so many vendor booths that one could not take a decent photo of the bridge. In 2007, walking in the riverbed was not allowed, and a very nice market area had been provided to remove the vendors from both ends of the bridge.

Seven hundred years ago, there would have been enough water to act as a security barrier to protect Beijing from the southwest, but now water that would perhaps flow there instead flows into a reservoir to provide water for Beijing. This dried-up river is not a rare case—all over north China, waterways have ceased to flow. Even the mother of Chinese civilization, the Yellow River, dried up in its lower reaches during part of the year in 1997 and only flows year round due to dams and reservoirs in the middle reaches that are used to control the water level during the dry season. The tomb of Confucius in Qufu, Shandong Province, was built according to good Feng Shui practices—fronting a river, but that river no longer exists. The river under the Marco Polo Bridge was clearly definable at 800 feet side to side, and the bridge is 874 feet long.

On the Beijing side of the bridge is the walled ancient town of Wanping—constructed by the Ming Dynasty in the 1600s to defend against Chinese rebels. As it turned out, the rebels entered Beijing in 1644 from another direction and ended the Ming Dynasty. The wall around the town is still standing—some 35 feet high and about 15 feet wide on top. During the Ming Dynasty, beginning in 1368, this was standard construction for long walls like the Great Wall, for city walls like Wanping, and for other cities like Pingyao in Shanxi Province (an ancient financial center) and, of course, Xi’an in Shaanxi Province, home of the Terra-Cotta Warriors. I have walked on all these walls.

On the wall at Wanping, I was able to take a long walk, basically looking down and watching the people inside going about their daily routines. The wall disappeared in the distance, so I decided to retreat and go down into the town. This walled fortress town guarded access to the Beijing area from the southwest, serving as a customs and immigration post as well as a military base. In those days, the Lugou River—now called the Yongding River—was not so easy to cross, which made Wanping the main point of entry into the Beijing area.

In 1153, the Jin Dynasty (Manchu) established their capital in the Beijing area and decided that the wooden bridge then in use was no longer adequate. They ordered the construction of a new bridge, which was completed in 1192. Marco Polo visited it in 1290 and mentioned it in his famous book, and that is why we know it as the Marco Polo Bridge. The bridge was damaged by floods in the 1400s and 1600s, and when it was restored in the 1600s, it featured baseball-plate-shaped stone formations on the upstream side to help protect against the pressure of flooding. The bridge is 26 feet wide and has 485 carved lions along the balustrades (287 large ones, 198 small ones) in varying postures. Actually, the Chinese say that the number 485 is wrong because some of the lions are pregnant. The bridge was widened by 5 feet on each side in 1969, improving the surface but leaving a 16-foot-wide central lane that preserved the original fitted stone surface (something like cobblestones but much larger).

Lugouqiao’s claim to fame for the Chinese is that, on July 7, 1937, this was where they first resisted the Japanese invasion. The Japanese had invaded Manchuria in 1931 and, in 1937, were at the gates of Beijing. They were not really trying to capture Lugouqiao; they wanted the railroad line that was a few hundred yards above the bridge. In Wanping, there is a large museum dedicated to the struggle against the Japanese—which I visited in 2007.

In 1973, we drove across the Marco Polo Bridge and continued on to Zhoukoudian to visit the Peking Man Museum—and all in all had a wonderful outing that has left some fond memories. I returned to Zhoukoudian in 2007 and found that it has been extensively expanded—lots more walking. Plus, they have made good use of modern technology to update and enhance the overall experience. The original Homo erectus fossils were discovered in the 1920s and then lost in 1941 while being transported to a Chinese port for shipment to the United States for safekeeping at the beginning of World War II. Many efforts have been made to recover the missing fossils with no success. In due time, excavations resumed at Zhoukoudian, new discoveries have been made, and work still continues.

During our stay in Peking, we could look down from the little balcony of our fourth-floor apartment in the Jianguomenwai housing complex at the broad avenue below and be amazed at the number of bicycles. Of course, early on, we would purchase bikes and do our fair share of riding although we were always a bit intimidated by the crowds. We all rode for pleasure, but my wife went native. While I was at work and the kids were in school, my wife would ride her bike on shopping expeditions—and I thank heaven that she did. There were many interesting and intriguing shops within riding distance of our residence. Sometimes I went with my wife and explored dusty dark shops, peeking behind bead curtains and so forth to find treasures. There were also open markets with lots of interesting goodies.

In recent years, the Chinese have built Silk Street, a huge, five-level marketplace on Jianguomenwai between the Friendship Store and my Jianguo Hotel—and about three blocks east of our old apartment. To modernize the area, they have consolidated the open markets and scattered shops into one big complex. In 1973–75, the fact that my wife was Asian and that she could explore by bike proved to be an advantage when it came to shopping.

During that time, China was still very economically isolated. By that I mean they were not in line with world economic realities—that would come in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when the reformers took power. The point is that shopkeepers did not know how to charge for those treasures that I mentioned. As a result, we were able to buy antique furniture, art, dishes, cloisonné, and other items at very, very good prices (for us). Shopkeepers probably thought that they were ripping us off. Even my wife cannot recall exactly how she did it, but when she discovered and purchased a heavy load—a piece of furniture, for example—she was able to arrange for the item to be delivered to our apartment. She did this on a number of occasions, which raised a question. Who transported her purchases? The private Chinese did not have delivery vehicles, only the government. And they did not have telephones to call for delivery assistance. Did the Diplomatic Services Bureau follow us around and deliver our goodies for us? I guess that will remain a mystery. In any case, the purchases were delivered.

When we were preparing to leave China in April 1975, my wife went on one of her last shopping expeditions on her bicycle. She was going to Vietnam to visit her family and wanted to buy ginseng and herbal medicine to take to her family but did not know where to find those items. Keep in mind that the Chinese on the street were not allowed to talk to foreigners (Asian or not, my wife was obviously a foreigner), and therefore, she could not just stop someone and ask directions. Fortunately, she pulled into a bicycle parking lot, where people could leave their bikes for a small fee while they were shopping or visiting. The parking lot attendant was a lady, and since my wife was a customer, I suppose it was technically legal for her to enter into a discussion. I should mention here that when I say discussion, I do not mean that my wife could speak Chinese. She spoke a little Cantonese and studied Mandarin while in Peking but was far from fluent in either. This meant that all her shopping trips over the two-year period were conducted mostly in sign language and a few words of Mandarin. Yet she somehow made great purchases—and got them delivered.

So she somehow communicated to the parking lot lady that she was looking for ginseng and herbal medicines. The parking lot lady understood and told my wife that the shops were very near and that she should park her bike so that they could walk together. My wife said that the walk was actually quite long, but the parking lot lady was with her and, along the way, asked my wife where she was from. My wife replied that she was from Yuenan (Vietnam) without mentioning north or south. To this, the parking lot lady responded that the Vietnamese were good people, they were not lazy, and they worked very hard—not like the Japanese. (She apparently remembered World War II.) Upon arrival at the medicine shop, the parking lot lady told the shop owner that my wife was a pengyo (friend) and to take good care of her. She then excused herself and returned to her bike parking lot. Thanks to the parking lot lady, my wife had another successful shopping trip—plus a pleasant adventure.

When our daughter was five and old enough to go to kindergarten, my wife recalls that she would sometimes take the little one to school on her bike. This was (and is) a no-no in Peking, and one day a policeman stopped my wife and very nicely and politely told her that she was not allowed to have a passenger riding on the bike’s handlebars. My wife thanked him and walked about a block—until she was out of sight of the cop—and then she and our daughter remounted the bike and rode on to school. School was about two miles from our home through quiet residential streets.

Our daughter still remembers shopping for her very first bike in Peking. When one of the Marine Security Guards asked her if she knew how to ride, she said, Sure, I just get on and pedal as fast as I can. She soon found that it was not that easy. She still has little scars on her fingers because of her bike. Our bikes in Peking did not have side kickstands; they had a triangular stand at the back that lifted the rear wheel off the ground when in use. She had the bike on the stand and was spinning the wheel when she decided that the way to stop the spin was to grab the spokes with her fingers—a really bad idea!

Our son also had his adventures riding his bike in Peking, including a crash in the parking lot of our apartment building that resulted in the need for stitches in his upper lip. Now that I think about it, he was probably the first American kid to require medical treatment in Peking. (These days, I bike as much as one hundred miles each week, and both my wife and daughter ride bikes.) Most of our staff members would have bikes—great for recreation but also great for exploring and learning about Peking.

Since this was during the Cultural Revolution, biking was a good way to get around town to read big character posters, signs that would be posted on walls and so on with political statements, protests, and even news. The posters gave us an idea of how the political winds were blowing that day. We could also check the political winds by reading the local newspapers—just to look at the news photos. For example, one week there would be a group photo with Chairman Mao in front with a certain official by his side. A week later, we might see another photo with Chairman Mao in front, but that certain official would now be in the back row of the group—a good indication that this person was on his way out. He probably would not even appear in the next photo.

The leader of our dabizi biker gang and our most famous biker was former president George H. W. Bush, then Chief of the United States Liaison Office in Peking. In those days, only government officials and diplomats had cars—the general population had bikes. Having bikes or cars to explore Peking did not mean that we had complete freedom to roam around; foreigners were restricted to the immediate Peking area, which did include the Great Wall and Ming tombs. In Peking and other places that we visited, there were areas in which foreigners were not allowed and often signs that stated in English No foreigners beyond this point. I enjoyed jogging and biking in China and I was often confronted by those signs. If we did happen to enter a no foreigner zone, local people would show us the way out. Even small children would take us by the hand and lead us out of a restricted area. Now I suspect that many of the no foreigner signs were intended to keep us out of more economically challenged areas, not to protect sensitive government or military facilities.

As diplomats, we were authorized to bring a car from the United States. I shipped a beautiful Plymouth Scamp to Peking, light blue with a white vinyl top. That car made many trips to the Ming Tombs and the Great Wall at Badaling. I have some good photographs of my Scamp parked next to an elephant, one of many statues that lined the sacred way at the entrance to the Ming tombs. In 1973, the Sacred Way