The China you think you know

© Fozildzhon Fatulloev, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0071-0972-7

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Introduction

Why this book was written

China is the most populous country in the world, one of the most ancient civilizations, and the second-largest economy on the planet. Thousands of books have been written about it, hundreds of films have been made, and millions of studies have been conducted. It would seem that what more could be said? But it is precisely this abundance of information that creates the problem. When a country is talked about too much, when its image is projected onto screens, magazine covers, and headlines every day, a strange thing happens: instead of understanding, stereotypes grow. The more noise, the less is heard.

There’s a dangerous misconception that China can be encompassed in a single glance. That seeing Beijing, Shanghai, the Great Wall, and the Terracotta Army is enough to say, “I’ve been to China, I know what it’s like.” But a country home to over a billion people, where history stretches back thousands of years, where you can travel from snow-capped mountains to tropical jungles in a single day, doesn’t fit within the scope of a short trip. Nor does it fit within the scope of a single book. But a book can do something else: it can teach you to see.

This book does not claim to be an exhaustive guide. It does not contain complete lists of hotels, bus schedules, or ticket prices — though practical information is provided. It is not a history textbook — though historical context is present on every page. It does not aim to debunk all the myths about China — such a task would require many volumes. The goal of this book is more modest and, I hope, more useful: to show ten places that everyone knows but sees differently, and through the prism of these places, to dispel ten stereotypes that hinder understanding.

What is a stereotype and why is it dangerous?

A stereotype is a mental economy. The human brain is designed to categorize, simplify, and generalize. This is essential for survival: if we constantly relearn whether fire is dangerous, we won’t have time to pull our hand away. But when this same function is applied to a culture, a country, a civilization, the result is the opposite. A stereotype doesn’t protect. It cripples. It replaces a complex reality with a simple image, and this image takes on a life of its own, bearing no resemblance to the original.

The stereotype of China is particularly persistent because it is reinforced by visual images that are easy to remember and hard to erase. The Great Wall as one long line. The Terracotta Warriors as a crowd of clones. Pandas as cute toys. Shanghai as a collection of glass towers. These images aren’t false. They are incomplete. And it’s precisely this incompleteness that makes them dangerous. Anyone who thinks they know China because they’ve seen these images stops asking questions. And a country that stops asking questions is doomed to superficiality.

For a traveler, stereotypes are even more dangerous. They don’t just distort understanding. They distort experience. If you arrive in a country with a predetermined set of expectations, you only see what fits those expectations. You photograph what you’ve already seen on postcards. You listen to what you want to hear. You pass by what doesn’t fit the picture. And you leave with confirmation of your own misconceptions, not with new knowledge.

This book is written for those who want to see more. Not for those who seek to prove themselves right. Not for those who seek confirmation of long-held views. But for those who are ready to doubt. For those who understand: the real journey begins where the map ends, and true knowledge begins where certainty ends.

How to read this book

The book is structured around ten locations. Each one is one of China’s most visited attractions. Each one is a starting point for reflection. Each chapter begins with a stereotype: what most people think. This is followed by a dismantling of that stereotype through history, culture, and context. Then comes practical information: how to get there, when to go, what to see. And the chapter concludes with a personal anecdote — a story that doesn’t pretend to be objective, but rather conveys the atmosphere.

Important: This book is written in Russian, but is intended for readers from any country. The examples, comparisons, and contexts are chosen to be understandable regardless of where you live — Russia, the United States, Europe, Latin America, or Japan. China is a country that speaks many languages, and this book aims to be part of that conversation.

It’s also important to note: this book doesn’t contain political judgments. It doesn’t aim to criticize or praise. It describes what exists, within the bounds of respect for the laws, culture, and traditions of the country it describes. The author is not a political scientist or historian in the academic sense. He is a traveler who has spent a lot of time in China, who has walked these places, talked to people, made mistakes, been surprised, and rethought. And he shares this experience with you.

Which route shall we take?

Our journey begins at the Great Wall. Not because it’s the most famous place, but because it teaches the first lesson: don’t trust a single image. The Wall isn’t just one wall. It’s many walls, many eras, many meanings.

Next up is the Terracotta Army in Xi’an. Here we’ll debunk the myth that these figures are faceless soldiers. Each one is unique, and their mission was not military, but cosmic.

In Beijing, in the Forbidden City, we will see that the emperor was not a lazy tyrant in gold, but a man whose workday was more grueling than that of many modern managers.

Shanghai will teach us that the future doesn’t cancel the past, but builds on it. The Bund and Pudong are not two cities. They are one dialogue.

Guilin and Yangshuo will show that the “typical Chinese landscape” is not just the beauty of nature, but an aesthetic canon that has been formed over thousands of years.

In Xi’an, in the Muslim Quarter, we will discover that China is not a monolith. It is a country of many peoples, languages, and faiths that have found a way to coexist.

Chengdu will dispel the myth of pandas as mere symbols of cuteness. They have complex politics behind them, and the city itself preserves a culinary and tea tradition that is more important than any zoo.

Hangzhou and West Lake will teach us to see art where we think we see nature. And we will understand that the best landscapes are those created over centuries.

Suzhou and its gardens will reveal a microcosmic world. A garden is not a park. It is a miniature universe, where every stone is a mountain, and every pond a sea.

And finally, Hong Kong. Not because it’s “typical China,” but because it proves that Chinese civilization is capable of producing a wide variety of forms. Hong Kong is a reminder that unity does not require uniformity.

What you will need

This book doesn’t require any special knowledge. You don’t need to be a historian, philologist, or sinologist. All you need is one thing: a willingness to look closely. A willingness to put down the camera and see with your own eyes. A willingness to hear the silence beyond the noise. A willingness to acknowledge that what you knew was only the beginning.

China doesn’t reveal itself at first glance. It unfolds gradually, layer by layer, like an onion, like an ancient scroll, like tea that only reveals itself after the third steeping. This book is an attempt to help you in this unfolding. Not instead of you, but alongside you. Not instead of the trip, but with it.

If after reading these ten places you see them differently than you did before, the book has served its purpose. If you want to see them with your own eyes, even better. If you return home and realize you know less than you thought before your trip, that’s the best result. Because the only way to understand China is to accept that it defies definitive understanding. And that’s precisely its appeal.

We are starting.

Chapter 1. The Great Wall

Stereotype

Most people, when planning a trip to China, imagine one thing: a long stone wall stretching to the horizon, built by ancient emperors to protect against Mongol troops. This image has become so ingrained in the popular imagination that it has become practically synonymous with the country itself. But if you arrive in China with this single image in your mind, you’ll only see a fragment. And perhaps not the most important one.

The Great Wall isn’t just one wall. It isn’t just one era. And it’s not only, or even primarily, a military structure, but a symbol, an engineering project, and a political message that has been read differently over the centuries. To understand China, we must understand what the wall truly says. And to do that, we must separate what we think we know from what remains in stone.

Immersion

Not one wall, but many

The first thing to forget is the notion of a single line built in one fell swoop along the country’s entire northern border. In reality, we’re dealing with a system of fortifications built at different times, in different locations, and using different materials. They are united not by a single design, but by a single function — control of space.

The earliest precursors of the wall appeared during the Warring States period, long before the unification of China under Qin Shi Huang. Back then, individual principalities built palisades and ramparts to defend themselves from one another. These were earthen embankments, wooden forts, and moats — not grandiose stone marvels, but the pragmatic engineering of their time.

When Qin Shi Huangdi united the disparate states into a single empire in the third century BCE, he ordered the existing northern fortifications to be connected into a single line. But it’s important to understand: this wasn’t a stone monument, but primarily an earthen rampart with wooden superstructures. The goal wasn’t so much to repel a massive invasion as to control the movement of people, caravans, and military detachments. The wall was a customs house, not just a fortress.

The next major stage was the Han Dynasty. The wall extended further west, into the desert regions traversed by the Silk Road. Here, it served a different function: protecting trade routes and controlling the movement of nomadic tribes. In some places, the Han Wall was not continuous, but rather a chain of forts and beacon towers, connected by sections of wall where appropriate. Engineering followed the logic of the terrain, not the aesthetics of a single line.

But what tourists see today is, in the vast majority of cases, a wall from the Ming Dynasty. It was between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries that the fortifications acquired their familiar appearance: stonework, brick, powerful towers, and internal passages. The Ming Wall is a response to new military realities: a powerful nomadic alliance arose in the north, and the empire required serious defense.

It’s important to understand: the Ming Wall is not a continuation of the Qin Wall. It’s a new project, built in a different location, with different materials and technology. In some places, it runs alongside ancient ramparts, and in others, in entirely new sections. The length of all the wall sections from different eras, when combined, exceeds twenty-one thousand kilometers. But this figure reflects the scale of ambition rather than an actual continuous line.

Not only from the Mongols

The second stereotype is that the wall was built solely to protect against the Mongols. This is an oversimplification that offends history, the Mongols themselves, and the logic of Chinese foreign policy.

First, the threat from the north came repeatedly and from various sources. At various times, these included the Xiongnu, Xianbei, Turks, Khitans, Jurchens, Mongols, and Manchus. Each of these tribes or groups represented a distinct civilization with its own power structure, language, and military tactics. The wall was built and rebuilt in response to a specific threat at a specific time, not as a universal defense against an abstract nomad.

Secondly, the wall was never an insurmountable obstacle. Historical chronicles record numerous instances of nomadic armies bypassing it, finding passages, bribing guards, or simply storming the gates. The wall slowed the advance, but did not stop it. Its military value lay not in absolute impregnability, but in creating a buffer zone within which the empire could mobilize forces, gather intelligence, and organize its defense.

Thirdly, the wall was an instrument not only of defense but also of governance. It demarcated zones of economic influence, controlled trade, levied duties, and regulated migration. Those living on the southern side of the rampart were under the jurisdiction of the empire. Those on the northern side were subject to nomadic politics. The wall was a border, and a border is always not only a military line but also an economic and administrative mechanism.

Engineering and logistics

To appreciate the scale of the project, it’s worth considering not just the length, but the logistics. Construction took place in mountainous areas, across rivers, on slopes, in harsh climates. Stone was quarried on-site or nearby. Bricks were fired in kilns built right next to the construction site. The mortar was made from lime, sometimes with the addition of rice water — the latter, incidentally, increased the plasticity and strength of the mixture, a fact confirmed by modern research.

The material used depended on the region. Where stone was available, stone was used. In desert regions, clay and reed were used, alternating layers. In mountainous areas, the wall followed the ridges, utilizing the natural slopes as part of the fortification. Ming engineers understood that a mountaintop wall was not only a defense but also an observation post. Signal towers were positioned so that messages of an impending threat could be transmitted from one to the other using smoke during the day and fire at night. Signal transmission speeds could reach several hundred kilometers per day — faster than any courier of the time.

Within the wall, in Ming-era sections, were internal passages, arsenals, barracks, and warehouses. This was not just a fence, but a military complex capable of housing a garrison, weapons, and provisions. Towers were positioned within bowshot distance of one another, allowing for crossfire. Stairs and ramps within were narrow and steep — to prevent an enemy breaching the wall from maneuvering quickly.

A symbol, not just a stone

But perhaps most importantly, the wall transcended its practical function and became a symbol. Already during the Ming Dynasty, it was perceived not only as a military objective but also as a sign of the empire’s unity, its ability to mobilize resources and will. Building the wall required enormous expenditures — human, financial, and material. The empire’s ability to carry out such work demonstrated its power and organization.

After the fall of the Ming Dynasty and the rise of the Manchu Qing Dynasty, the wall gradually lost its military significance. The Qing Empire itself had come from the north, and for them, the northern border no longer required such defense. The fortifications fell into disrepair, in places crumbling, and in others dismantled for building materials. The wall became a ruin, remembered as a monument to the past.

Interestingly, the Western world learned about the Great Wall primarily through travelers and missionaries of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Europeans, hearing stories of a gigantic structure projected onto the map, added mythology to it. The wall became one of the wonders of the world in the Western imagination long before it achieved such status in China.

In recent times, the wall has undergone restoration. But there’s another important point here: most of what tourists see are restored or renovated sections. This isn’t a fake, but neither is it pristine antiquity. It’s a commitment to heritage, allowing you to appreciate the scale but requiring an understanding: the stone you’re walking on may have been laid in the 20th century, not the 16th.

What the wall says about China

If you approach the wall not as a backdrop for a photograph, but as a text, you can read several lessons about the country itself in it.

The first is an attitude toward scale. Chinese civilization is not afraid of large projects stretching across time and space. The wall was built over centuries, and each dynasty considered it its duty to contribute to it. This is long-term thinking, where the outcome is more important than the lifespan of a single person.

The second is pragmatism. The wall is not perfect. It is crooked, discontinuous in places, built of clay in places, and stone in others. The engineers adapted to the terrain, the climate, and the available resources. Beauty here is secondary to function, although over time, function has generated its own aesthetics.

The third is the border as dialogue. A wall is not only a division but also a point of contact. Trade took place along it, technologies were transferred, cultures mingled. Those who lived near the wall often knew both sides. They served as translators, guides, and traders. The border generated not only conflict but also exchange.

Practice

Where to go

There are several areas available to visit, and the choice depends on what you want to achieve.

Badaling is the most famous and closest to Beijing. It’s an hour and a half away by bus or train. It boasts well-restored sections, convenient ramps, and cable car cabins. It’s the choice for those who value comfort and want to see the classic view: a wall running along a ridge with towers on the horizon. The downside is the crowds. On weekends and holidays, it can get so crowded that walking along the wall becomes a queue.

Mutianyu is a little further away, but significantly quieter. It’s also well restored, with a ski lift and toboggan run. The scenery here is more picturesque: more trees, higher ridges, and wider views. If you’re in Beijing for a few days and want comfort without the crowds of Badaling, this is a reasonable compromise.

Jinshanling is for those willing to spend more time on the trail. It’s less crowded and more authentic. This section combines restored and dilapidated sections. You can see what the wall looked like before restoration: stone, overgrown vegetation, and crumbling towers. This section requires good physical fitness, as the climbs are steeper and the railings are missing in places.

Simatay is even further away, partially closed to visitors at various times, but considered one of the most dramatic in terms of terrain. Night tours with lanterns are a unique experience, but require reservations.

How to get there

Tourist buses run from Beijing to Badaling and Mutianyu from the metro stations. You can also book a car with a driver — this is convenient for groups. It’s best to travel to Jinshanling by rental car or with an organized group, as public transportation requires transfers and takes several hours.

When to go

The best time is late autumn, September-October. The sky is clear, the air is dry, and the mountain foliage is turning yellow. Spring is also lovely, but April-May can be windy. Summer is hot, and the exposed sections of the wall lack shade. Winter is cold, but if there’s snow, you’ll get one of the most spectacular views: a white snake among white mountains. The main thing is to avoid national holidays, especially the week of Golden October in early October.

What to take with you

Comfortable shoes with good soles are a must. The steps up the wall are steep, uneven, and crumbling in places. Water and snacks are essential — there are no cafes in the remote sections. A warm jacket, even in summer, is essential: the wind is stronger at higher altitudes than at lower altitudes. A flashlight is recommended if you plan to stay until sunset.

Personal

I remember the sunrise on the wall at Mutianyu. The climb began in the dark, and the first forty minutes were just stairs up until you reached the level where the wall runs along the ridge. The wind was strong, and I had time to think I’d made a mistake with my clothing. But when the sun rose, the mist that had been lying in the valley began to lift, and the wall, stretching east and west, emerged from the gloom in pieces: first the nearest tower, then the next, then a line lost in the clouds.

At that moment, there was no one around. Tourists arrive around lunchtime, and in the morning you’re left alone with the stone, the wind, and the silence. And this silence is the most important thing the wall can tell. Not about battles, not about the Mongol hordes, not about the greatness of the empire. But about what has passed. About how people laid stone after stone, not knowing if anyone would see the result. About how all this power is, above all, labor. Thousands of hands, millions of stones, centuries of work.

As I was descending, I encountered the first visitors. They were climbing, taking photos, laughing, buying souvenirs. And that was also right — the wall lives on like that today. But I was glad I had managed to see it before it became a backdrop again. A backdrop for photographs, for performances, for stereotypes. And before that, it was just a wall. Long, old, tired. But real.

Chapter 2. The Terracotta Army

Stereotype

When someone first sees photographs of the Terracotta Army, a common image springs to mind: endless rows of warriors, lined up in strict order, as if ready for battle. They all seem identical — the same pose, the same face, the same armor. It’s as if an ancient emperor created a gigantic factory churning out thousands of copies of a single soldier to protect his peace from enemies. This image is so powerful that it has become a hallmark of China, along with the Great Wall. But it’s deceiving twice. First, the soldiers are not identical. Second, they were never intended for war as we understand it.

To understand this marvel of ancient engineering, we must move away from associations with modern military equipment. This is not a battalion, a garrison, or a guard. It is a message to another world, composed of clay, bronze, and human labor.

Immersion

The Emperor Who Didn’t Want to Die

To understand the Terracotta Army, one must first understand the man who commissioned it. Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of a unified China, reigned in the third century BCE. He came to power at the age of twelve, united the warring kingdoms into a single empire, standardized writing, weights, measures, and currency, and began building a road network. His rule was strict, centralized, and aimed at creating a state that would outlive him.

But along with his political will, Qin Shi Huang also possessed another trait: a fear of death. He searched for the elixir of immortality, sent expeditions overseas, and consulted with magicians and alchemists. When it became clear that physical immortality was unattainable, the emperor turned to another method: creating a world in which he would continue to exist after death. This world was to be an exact replica of his earthly one, but eternal.