After four days in Beijing last summer I reached the conclusion that many Chinese had decided—at least metaphorically—to sit back down. It was readily apparent that far too many were watching on the sidelines as the free market bandwagon, and its spoils, was passing them by. 

While the global media was attempting last year to decipher the deeper meaning of an overly elaborate birthday party, wave after wave of jack-booted, goose-stepping gendarmes slapped Tiananmen Square pavement with their missiles hanging out because, ‘Oh, the Communists do so love a parade.'

The spectacle was an exercise in hyperbole to convince the world that China really was on its way to superpower status. But my eye-opening excursion to the capital had me asking what all the fuss was about. Even the casual observer would have to admit that China is a teething giant at best.

The Middle Kingdom's quasi- (pseudo?) capitalist economy is increasingly incongruous with its Communist Party-dominated political system, and in many respects Beijing is a microcosm of that internal conflict. It is a city in the midst of an identity crisis. While the skyline is punctuated with shiny glass and steel towers, at street-level more and more people are living in squalor.

According to the mercurial Mrs. Li, our 4'11" steamroller of a tour guide and card-carrying member of the … umm, you know the rest … there are more than three million unemployed in Beijing, and a larger percentage in other cities. With a population just above 11 million—not including the three million 'floating' people transitioning through the capital daily—that means more than a quarter of Beijing is on the dole. Not exactly the workers' paradise Mao had in mind.

The creep of communist-style poverty was worse at night. Any place there was a light—including the tiny "Entrance/Exit" sign at our hotel—you would find groups of shirtless men sitting or squatting in the heat. Most were smoking or playing what appeared to be craps. Some might have been plotting another revolution, although plotting where to find the next meal seemed more likely.

Still, at least the spirit of capitalism is alive in the heart of the city. Foreigners are defenseless against the onslaught of snake oil salesmen, charlatans, or junk souvenir hawkers. Every time my foot hit the pavement I was besieged by a barrage of, "Hello, hello, hello, hello?” It was best to keep swimming. If you so much as tilted your head in the direction of the bait you were hooked. These were world-class fisherman and when they got you on the line they would not let go until you purchased half a dozen of those kooky Chairman Mao lighters that played a hymn from the peasant revolution when you lit your Marlboro 'Red'.

As we drove around the city a curious variety of more sophisticated establishments beckoned us to come with our American dollars. Neon signs screamed out names like the "You Yi Shopping City," or the "Dance AGOGO". You part with a princely sum for a meal at the "Large Forest Restaurant" or "The Great Diphouse". If you needed a change of undies you could try the "Abunderwear" clothing store, although I'm only guessing whether it actually carries T-shirts and panties.

Even with the overpriced American-style stores and restaurants you're constantly reminded of Beijing's First World pretensions, and nothing says 'Third World' like a ride down a pockmarked street in a Chinese-made van with no suspension. After an hour bobbing and weaving my travelling companion whispered to me, "This is really hard on my boobs."

It also doesn't help that Beijing's traffic is on the honor system. Every intersection is a vortex of disaster because there are almost no stoplights or traffic signs. Crossing the most innocent alley can be a testament to one's religious convictions when the stray bicyclist or small child decides to jump into the stream.

Our safety on these treacherous thoroughfares was in the capable hands of our driver, Mr. Chun. Chun, whose interest in my note taking was a definite give-away of his status as an operative, was your standard secret service type, capable of ripping your heart out with a pair of toenail clippers. His talents frequently were needed to defend against toothless postcard vendors and old women selling condoms with a life-sized picture of Deng Xiaoping on the … oh, never mind.

Aside from these outward signs of poverty, Beijing is a tourist director's dream. From the Forbidden City, made famous in the West by Spielberg's The Last Emperor, to Tiananmen Square, made famous by the slaughter of pro-democracy protestors in the hot summer of 1989, the city and surrounding area is a living monument to the best and worst aspects of Chinese history.

Of special interest—if for no other reason than Drew Carey filmed an episode of his show there—is the Great Wall of China, one of the only man-made landmarks visible from space. It was originally built in the 3rd century, B.C., but the section we visited near the city—called Badaling—was so new it was stamped with a "Born On" date, also visible from space.

Even if it was reconstructed in the 1990s, the Wall certainly was magnificent. Summer was tourist season, and you could almost hear the thing groaning under the weight of all the wheezing Europeans clad in "I climbed the Great Wall" T-shirts; although judging from the stench of urine in the battlements, more were interested in peeing on the Wall than climbing it.

On our last night in the city, Mrs. Li, recalling the Cultural Revolution of 1966-76 when an elderly and possibly senile Mao almost ruined the country by whipping it into one final revolutionary fervor, said people used to live for the revolution.

"It was like a little baby" the way we followed, she said.

 As the tanks rolled back into Tiananmen Square last October for a 'hammer-and-sickle' soiree, the big question was how long would they continue to follow.

Updated March 17, 2002

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