#44 - Old Man of the Lake

The line stretched from the entrance of the Mausoleum around its east wall, where it doubled back again in serpentine fashion. Though the crowd was predominately Chinese, a few white faces were speckled throughout. I happened to join the queue just in front of an enthusiastic American couple. They were wearing matching I Love Beijing t-shirts, with the word love represented symbolically by a red cartoon heart. Julie was not with me. She had decided that looking at the waxy body of a dead revolutionary wasn’t interesting to her. Instead, she was reading at a Starbucks a few blocks away. I was planning to join her there once I had seen Mao with my own eyes.

As the line progressed, I watched young girls pose for photos with Tiananmen as a backdrop. Couples strolled past arm-in-arm, barely interested in the political monuments surrounding them. A few children flew small paper kites with parents at their side, gently coaching. The formal soviet architecture of the place felt like a poor match for all the fun people appeared to be having.

“What a place, right?” An American voice said.

I turned to find the I Love Beijing couple smiling at me. “Is this your first time?”The man asked.

The couple looked to be about the same age as my parents, possibly late fifties or early sixties. The man had an arm around his wife. They were one of those older couples that have been together so long they look like they could be siblings.

“First time to Beijing, or first time here?” I asked. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized that my answer would be the same for either question.

“First time to the mao-soleum?” The man said, intentionally mispronouncing the word to incorporate the name of the man we were waiting to see.

I laughed politely. “Yeah, it’s my first time. To Beijing, too.”

“We love it here.” The wife chimed in.

“Yep.” I said, “It’s pretty cool.”

“I’m guessing – by your accent – that you’re an American. Is that right?” The man asked. We all shuffled a few feet forward.

“I am. Denver.”

“Great place!” The wife said. I imagined she might have been a cheerleader in her early years.

“We’re from Oregon.” The man said. “Go Ducks!”

I smiled. “I’ve never been to Oregon, but I need to. My sister-in-law is from Bend.”

“You should!” The wife said. “I might be biased, but I think it’s one of our prettiest states.”

“That’s what I hear.” I said. The line was moving and I turned to catch up.

“We have Mount Hood, the Three Sisters, beautiful scenery everywhere.” She continued. Her husband nodded in agreement.  “Forests and trails, the coast, hiking, boating. Anything you can imagine!”

The husband jumped in. “Crater Lake National Park!”

“Wow, yeah, I’d love to go.” I said. “One day I’ll head out there.”

“Crater lake is just something else. You’ve never seen water that crystal clear.” He said.

“And it has the Old Man!” The wife said, grabbing her husband’s arm in excitement.

“Craziest thing you’ll ever see.” The man said. I wasn’t really interested in hearing more about Oregon, but they weren’t finished. “The ‘Old Man’ is this tree – well, a giant log, really – that’s been floating in Crater Lake for hundreds of years. It’s become something of a tourist attraction. We’ve seen it, I don’t know – “ He looked to his wife. “- four or five times?”

“More than that.” She said. “But dear, is it really hundreds of years old? I was thinking it’s more like a hundred years old.”  

“Who knows? But it’s old.” He said.

I was having a difficult time imagining why a floating tree would draw tourists, but I said. “Sounds cool. Does it do anything?”

They both laughed. “Not much. It bobs a bit – up and down, up and down.” The wife said. She did a little bobbing dance, bending slightly at the knees, adding more support to my theory that she had been a cheerleader at some point in the past.

“It doesn’t do anything, but we Oregonians love it.” The husband said. “It’s like a mascot. Not as popular as the Ducks, of course, but we love our old man.”

The line was moving quicker than I had expected. We had already made it past the serpentine bend in the queue and were finally facing roughly in the direction of the entrance.

“Look at all these people.” The husband said. He said it as if there was some great significance in acknowledging the people around us. He leaned in toward me and almost whispered. “It’s sort of sad to see all of them lined up like this to worship their great dead leader, isn’t it?”

I glanced around. Everyone in sight looked to be having fun. Even those queuing with us seemed more like they were waiting to see a long anticipated film rather than lining up to pay homage to some long-dead political figure. The mood was light, not solemn.

To avoid contention, I agreed with him. “They do seem to still like the guy.”

“Terrible man.” The wife whispered. “I don’t understand why they plaster his picture everywhere.”

I nodded in agreement with her. “Yep. It’s a bit strange.” I said. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. We were standing only feet from Chinese soldiers in olive green uniforms. Not to mention the Chinese citizens surrounding us on every side. Julie and I had only arrived a week earlier, but had been surprised by how many English-speakers we had met already.

“I mean, the guy’s dead. It’s time to move on.” The husband said.

The line inched forward. I could actually see the entrance.

“Where else have you been? I mean, in China?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

The wife’s eyes brightened. “Shanghai, and gway…gway something, and that city with all those soldiers. The stone soldiers.”

“The Terracotta Warriors?” I said. I had read about them in the brick-sized Lonely Planet I had carried with me on the plane ride over.

“Yes!” The husband said. “Just fabulous. You have to see that.”

“We’re planning on it.” I said.

“You’re not traveling alone?” The wife asked. We had reached the steps leading up into the Mausoleum. A Chinese soldier looked at us and held a finger to his lips. The international sign for shut your trap. I whispered my response. “No. My wife Julie is here. But she didn’t feel like seeing Mao.”

We ascended the steps in silence. Near the top there were two women distributing plastic white flowers to anyone willing to drop a Chinese dollar into what looked like a donation box. There was no English on the box to designate what the money was for, but I dug into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled green bill and dropped it in. The woman handed me a flower and I stepped through the entrance. Inside, without the sound of traffic or kids laughing or the clatter of soldiers' boots marching across the granite surface of Tiananmen Square, the room felt eerily quiet. I watched the Chinese tourists ahead of me drop their flowers at the edge of a large glass tomb. Inside the tomb, resting peacefully and preserved, was the body of Mao ZeDong. He was still wearing his revolutionary suit, with the Chinese flag draped across his body like a blanket. I glanced at his face briefly, and then quickly dropped my flower and stepped away.

Stepping out the Mausoleum’s back exit, the frivolous, relaxed atmosphere was instantly restored. The walkway leading to the back gate was lined with vendors selling every imaginable type of Mao paraphernalia. Mao watches. Mao wallets. Mao cups, plates, bowls, spoons, and chopsticks. I saw a Mao t-shirt and wondered to myself if the Oregonian couple would buy a matching set. Everywhere I looked, Mao’s face stared back at me.

The husband found me as I was checking out a pack of Mao playing cards.

“Well, what did you think of that?” He asked. I just shrugged and laughed.

“He sure is dead, isn’t he?” The husband said.

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To learn more about the Old Man of the Lake, read the original Wikipedia article HERE.