Ancient China amid the smog

Entering the country and half my backpack was in ruins. My head torch had malfunctioned, most clothing seams had ripped, and I had 20 batteries that refused to work.

I’m dreaming about warriors smoking cigars until the nation’s daily spitathon resumes and I gladly depart the train

I was re-importing the exports, each broken item proudly baring the mark ‘made in China’. It made me think this country was nothing but cheap quantity over desirable quality.

My preconception was pollution, concrete skyscrapers, and factories the size of Malta. Watching the Olympics I had been amazed, but mainly because they spent Africa’s GDP on fireworks.

But surely all of China wasn’t like this? They had built a Great Wall visible from space. Oh, wait, then they allowed Starbucks to put a cafe inside it.

But before burning my defective belongings in a fit of rage I gave the country a chance, setting off to see if my preconceptions were as erroneous as the toy in a Kinder Surprise.

Pingyao’s pungent odour greets me from the train. To the north lies industrial suburbia, but the smell takes me south towards crumbling perimeter walls originally built in 700BC.

Cobbled streets meander through the walled city, haphazard turns taking me past open archways and hypnotic curved roofs.

It feels like a set from the film Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, with classic Ming and Qing dynasty buildings that have joined the sewage system in resisting modernisation.

Most buildings have been converted into stores selling ancient junk: trinkets and sculpted tortoises, feng shui money frogs, 1,000 statues of Buddha.

Frail residents gesture me inside, unearthing more and more boxes of scrap when I show momentary interest. Respecting their effort to make a sale I buy a little red book of selected quotes from Chairman Mao. It becomes my defence system; flashing the cover placates pushy shop owners as I masquerade as a believer.

Each archway brings a different pleasure; shaded courtyards, smells of jasmine and chrysanthemum, men being boiled to death in a recreation of heaven and hell on a temple wall.

Through large wooden shutters I watch a monsoon consume the street, as red lights reflect off the water and innumerable umbrellas appear from nowhere.

Finding shelter in a green tea shop I turn to Chairman Mao. Sometimes he’s clear and convincing: “Learn to play the piano.” Other times he’s as inconclusive as the herbal nonsense swirling around my cup: “All reactionaries are paper tigers.”

Hidden in the book’s sleeve is a fold-out map of China. It’s a realm of possibility, with unpronounceable names filling the paper. I’ve never heard of most of the places, like Guangzhoi and Shantou, with populations greater than London.

Chonquing, a random dot on the map, has a population of 28 million. China’s railway system joins the dots; each overnight train pulling 20 or more sleeper carriages.

I’m having a strange dream about Chairman Mao smoking cigars when the carriage’s morning sounds wake me. Music is pumped through the train at 6am, a mixture of Chinese string orchestras and a monotonous bass drum.

Inspired by the soundtrack, every man, woman and grandma challenge the smog by sucking the pollution through their nostrils in an obnoxious 10 minutes of snorting.

The floor becomes a snot bath and I lose my footing, stumbling sideways into a bed and coming face to face with a grandma who doesn’t have the capacity to expel and struggles with a metre-long stretch of phlegm floating from her nose.

I alight in Xian, the ancient capital welcoming me with a blanket of smog. Visibility peaks at 100 metres and I walk aimlessly, lost in the melancholy air, fumes invading my nostrils.

It’s like a maze. The greyness reveals the city in small segments before a monumental gate appears from nowhere.

Isolated by the air, Xian’s south gate looks like a museum piece, ornately decorated and baring little ill effects from the surrounding emissions.

It’s part of a 600-year-old city wall that’s 12 metres thick. Hiring a squeaking bicycle I tour the 14km wall, spying men playing a board game beside a stone tower, a group of 50 pensioners performing harmonic tai chi, and women gossiping in dresses of red silk.

The smog is beneficial, hiding the monotonous concrete and ugly facades of the new city.

Inside the walls I look down on slanting tiled roofs, enchantingly broken stone, and red lanterns hanging from balconies. Xian’s great city defence system comes from the Ming dynasty, but a short bus ride away the Tang dynasty has recently been rediscovered.

Thirty years ago a peasant farmer dug a well and found a piece of terracotta. Digging further he stumbled across an entire army frozen in time, protecting the first emperor of China who died 2,300 years ago. It’s estimated that 8,000 terracotta soldiers are buried here, extravagant funeral art to defend a dead man.

Peering through the door I glimpse their life-size brilliance, but I can’t go inside, as a posse of polished black Mercedes arrives and the complex closes down for an hour for a visit from the vice-president of Cuba.

From above, the warriors are lifeless; a succession of neatly arranged sculptures standing in a trench.

At ground level they become real, each face uniquely marked with expression, hairstyles and moustaches.

I try initiating conversation, asking them to reveal any communist secrets they overheard. Each terracotta warrior stays true to his country, silently eyeing me with suspicion.

That night I’m dreaming about warriors smoking cigars until the nation’s daily spitathon resumes and I gladly depart the train.

Chengdu has a population of seven million people and a few very special creatures.

Less than 5,000 giant pandas remain, and as I admire their adorable black and white fur I realise they are as useless as my head torch. They live almost exclusively off bamboo, refuse to get horny and lack camouflage. And while my head torch has many relatives, there is no factory mass producing pandas.

As one chomps through a few kilos of totally innutritious sticks I find the panda symbolic of the old China I have been looking for; charming and loveable, yet endangered by the country’s industrial rise to superpower.

How long before captivating Pingyao’s streets are consumed by flashing neon? Or McDonald’s open inside Xian’s city wall?

But while you must accept spitting, smog and smells, if you visit China now there is still an enchanting ancient world to discover.

One that has more than compensated for the string of broken appliances in my backpack…