Máo’s Maze

Part of A Better Guide to Beijing

Until 2008 it was possible, not far southeast of Qián Mén at Xī Dǎmóchǎng Jiē 62, to descend, through its last public entrance, into a dark and musty labyrinth of tunnels spreading out beneath Běijīng.

The Underground City (地下城, Dìxia Chéng) was a key sight for Red Tourism — the fashion for visiting sites of revolutionary importance, many of them with invented or embellished histories, that has become part of an odd nostalgia for the pseudo-certainties of the era of the fully-planned economy, romanticised as a time when there was supposedly little crime and no corrupt officials.

Following the beginning of border conflict with the former USSR in the northeast’s Hēilóngjiāng Province, Máo ordered the urban populace across China to dig tunnels in which they could either hide or through which they could escape to the suburbs. Those brought up in the 1960s spent time after school ‘volunteering’ their assistance with this and similar large projects, such as tearing down the city’s walls and building dams.

The labyrinth created under Běijīng was once accessible from many points throughout the city. In the ’70s and ’80s no foreigner’s visit was complete without being shown a hidden trapdoor at the rear of a Wángfǔ Jǐng or Xī Dān shop, one of many through which it was boasted that the entire population of Běijīng could rush underground in three minutes and no doubt be tidily vaporised in the same spot.

Altogether the Underground City was said to cover 85 sq. km, with restaurants, hospitals, schools, and other facilities.

There was even an underground hotel in operation, which accepted foreign guests at a time when the list of hotels that did so was very short.

But the construction of large modern buildings with deeper foundations has penetrated, blocked, or destroyed much of the warren, although in theory special permission is still needed before tunnels can be closed.

At the same time army engineers were instructed to build a vast secret underground complex for the Party leaders, with a sub-surface highway, large enough for four lorries abreast, connecting Zhōng Nán Hǎi, the Great Hall of the People, and various other central points with a military command centre in the Western Hills.

Visitors to Bā Dà Chù will still note the large number of military camps, and indeed this area was long off-limits to visitors. The complex had offices and its own hospital, which was where Máo’s body was taken for embalming.

At this particular entrance the stairs down at first had the atmosphere of a Victorian public toilet, but passages brought you quite soon to a map of the complex, past the odd pick and shovel of the kind used to excavate the tunnels, and a section with a stuccoed ceiling and Máo slogans on the wall.

Beyond intriguing side turnings used for storage (one had a Christmas tree) and past some vaguely religious display you reached the end, which seemed disappointingly to be a large underground space containing a souvenir shop.

The interesting part of this space was in the far right-hand corner, however, which was the entrance to a series of narrow, dank, and dimly lit passages (once the fúwùyuán had turned on the lights), and you were once permitted to explore these on your own.

‘Come back here,’ they would say, and the meaning of this became clear as you passed unlit turnings signposted to familiar points such as Běijīng Station, Tiān’ān Mén, Tiān Tán, and beyond.

Large steel doors with rusty handles stood ready to block the path of invaders, ancient electrical and telephone cables dangled from the ceilings, and there was odd detritus on the floor, while the dust deadened footfalls as the light faded down the side turnings.

However, there were stories of enterprising foreigners getting lost for several days at a time, and later a guided tour was compulsory. A new generation of fúwùyuán took over, young people dressed with dubious taste in camouflage kit, who just giggled and whispered to each other when they saw a foreign face; they clearly didn’t see many.

But it was still all rather creepy, and a more fitting monument to Máo than the mausoleum in Tiān’ān Mén Square.

The official illuminated route brought you round in a five-minute circle, but the fúwùyuán said if you took one of the turnings you could pop up elsewhere. That seemed unlikely since the air was mostly dead, although there was a slight breeze from the Běijīng Station direction.

With a torch it seemed you might slip away to investigate further, although perhaps never to be seen again.

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