Beijing

As you can imagine, after walking up several hundred steps, the view from the top of Longevity Hill should be excellent. Unfortunately, imagine is all you can do, because in Beijing pollution is so bad that on a clear day you can just about see your hand. OK, so that's an exaggeration, but you certainly could not see far beyond Kunming Lake that occupies the majority of the gardens. As such a large percentage of the gardens was comprised of water I decided that it would be a waste of my entrance fee if I didn't take a quick swim. The water was not exactly crystal clear but I thought I'd be fine as long as I avoided swallowing. Now I'd left a trail of wet footprints and bemused Chinese people all the way through the Long Corridor and the Cloud Dispelling Temple and up to the Tower of Bhuddist Incense, to be confronted by murk. I'd never really been to bothered about smog until now, but this view demonstrated not only the speed with which China has grown but also how tough solving the pollution problem will be. As is often the case however Beijing does have a novel solution to make sure there'll be blue skies over the Bird's Nest Stadium come August 8th. To reduce pollution the Party has decided traffic must be halved. But rather than some roundabout disincentive route like a Congestion Charge, they've fashioned a policy of delightful simplicity. Half the cars can drive on one day, while the other half can drive on the next. And how can they police this ambitious scheme? Simple, it'll be number plates ending in odd numbers on Monday, even Tuesday, odd Wednesday and so on. Simple, effective and I'd wager completely unworkable anywhere else.

The thing is China is not like anywhere else. The reason a scheme this blunt could work here becomes apparent at 5 o'clock every morning in the streets surrounding Tiananmen Square. People are running, not too quickly so as not to appear undignified but they are running all the same. I am running with them, trying to get in front of a huge tour group, all wearing red caps, following their leader's up-stretched umbrella. What could possible draw so many people out of their beds at such an early hour? It is the dawn flag raising in Tiananmen and thousands upon thousands are in attendance. There is nothing that would get this many Britons up so early in the morning, save perhaps a World Cup final, but people have traveled from all over the country to see the immaculately turned out soldiers of the PLA march in perfect time up to the impressive pole and raise the red cloth to the top, where it hangs disappointingly limp in the still morning air. Perhaps in advance of the Olympics, or perhaps because many Chinese now have cameras too, photographing the army no longer earns a stern frown. There are many opportunities to snap the impeccably drilled squads marching through Beijing's tree lined avenues or standing to attention to wait for the Metro.

As I stand up to look inside the lady's barrel the audience starts applauding and I realised I have made a mistake, perhaps a terrible one. I am eating in a restaurant as the guest of John Bee, whose father I gave some help to when we met in Lithuania and later in Moscow. The lady on stage is a World Record Holder, able to spin a larger barrel with her feet while lying on her back than anyone else. Or at least anyone else who has tried. After seeing her spin a barrel that apparently weighed eighty kilos I felt I must check and when John said to stand up and go to the barrel I thought he meant just to look. Unfortunately my slender grasp of Mandarin had not alerted me to the fact that the preceding speech made by the hostess, who had already undergone more costume changes than an incontinent panto dame, was in fact a call for volunteers. I realise that the lady is not going to stop at spinning 80 kilos tonight and is keen for a bigger challenge, a challenge very much the same size as me. It had taken four of the waiters to lift the last barrel into spinning position and now two more join them. They usher me to the barrels opening. I peer in, it does not look comfy even stationary but before I can request a cushion I am firmly maneuvered inside. Don't move, don't move, is their urgent and oft repeated refrain. I must look mentally unstable if they think I'd do anything to further destabilse this already precarious position and crush their star and possibly the front row of the audience. The six men take the strain and then I am lifted atop the woman's feet, the cries of Don't move losing none of their urgency. Then the spinning starts, thankfully round and round, not over and over. I have enough time to flash a couple of terrified glances from the mouth of the barrel to the watching diners and in a fit of daring I even flick the peace sign, which is well received by the almost exclusively Chinese crowd. After making it back to terra firma, the slight dizziness is not helped by the large number of Chinese men who want to down congratulatory shots of Bai Jiao with me. It looks like my alcoholic albatross will be with me throughout this journey.