Urban Exploration: Zhongshan Bunkers, China

China is massive. It is vast and varied, over a billion people divided between 56 ethnic groups, and between them speaking almost 300 different languages. Above all else, China is unpredictable; a fact to which the following report stands testament.

We set out one bright morning in March, in search of a rumoured network of military tunnels buried beneath a city park. We found the tunnels alright... but the expedition soon turned into a surreal odyssey featuring abandoned playgrounds, giant insects, dead puppies and Orwellian security systems.

Qingdao Zhongshan Park

There are more than 40 parks in China named 'Zhongshan', as well as one city. The name comes from Sun Yat-sen, founding father and first president of the Republic of China. In Chinese, this great political leader is more commonly known as 'Sun Zhongshan'.

When I first heard stories about a network of tunnels beneath Qingdao Zhongshan Park, it didn't sound too far fetched; on a previous visit to this city I had explored a series of abandoned military tunnels, dug beneath the nearby Mount Fu by nineteenth century German colonists.

The notion of further tunnels, right in the heart of the city, seemed to be a theory worth investigating.

Our taxi pulled up on the street outside an old Taoist Temple, and we stepped into the middle of a disturbance of sorts. Two police officers were trying to move a woman sat on the pavement, while another woman heckled them in a raised voice. We sailed past the growing throng of spectators, taking a side street that cut along the back of the temple.

This narrow lane came out by an ornamental lake tucked away into one corner of Zhongshan Park and, moving clockwise around the water, we reached a grassy hollow with a series of concrete levels rising from the sump.

The structure was built across two floors, connected by steps, the edges of the concrete crumbling abruptly into the dirt. The higher of the two featured some kind of circular base, which had likely served as a platform for a rotating artillery gun. The lower, meanwhile, was fitted with an ominous-looking entrance.

I got a little closer, and stole a look inside. Peering into the darkness I could make out a pile of black refuse bags, rising out of a sea of scattered leaves and soiled clothing. Suddenly something moved - and then I spotted a pair of feet in worn leather shoes, sticking out from an alcove to the right.

I made one last scan around the walls, looking for any kind of entrance to the tunnels beneath, before backing out quietly to avoid waking the sleeping vagrant. This first chamber didn't seem to go anywhere, or to connect to the tunnels we had heard about. Back outside, I stumbled across a square shaft that had apparently been filled in with concrete - evidence at least, that there had once been something beneath the ground on which we stood.

We proceded north through the park, ascending the hill that rose up towards the peak of TaiPingShan. Qingdao's Zhongshan Park contains a number of tourist attractions; including Little West Lake, the Sun-Wen Lotus Pond, Qingdao Zoo and the ornamental Plum Blossom Road. We were visiting off-season though, and had the park more-or-less to ourselves. The cable cars installed for ferrying passengers up to the peak of TaiPingShan were out of use and dangled lifeless, just within arm's reach.

Around halfway up the slope we stumbled across a small fun fair, a few simple rides clustered about a darkened pavilion where bumper cars sat wrapped in tarpaulin, waiting for the summer tourists. A few times I veered off the path, and everywhere I found the same holes carved into the mountainside; brick entranceways disappearing beneath the ground, as if this whole mountain had once been hollowed out like a Swiss cheese.

Many of these tunnels displayed signs of inhabitance. One example looked more like a cave, dug into a rock face on the eastern side of the slope. Plastic chairs were assembled outside to form a rudimentary patio area, while clothes hung out to dry on the surrounding rocks. Another tunnel, a little higher up, had the appearance of a brickwork rabbit hole. I climbed down into the pit to find a mattress and bedding inside, along with an assortment of clothes and other personal effects.

The Observatory

By this point we had lost the path completely, and, scrambling up through bracken, we eventually came out onto a road that looped around the mountain peak. Directly in front of us was a large engraved panel, depicting Chinese revolutionary soldiers surrounded by smiling, welcoming peasants. It reminded me of a painting I once saw of the Chinese army arriving in Tibet; the grateful Tibetan villagers gathered around with gifts of food and flowers.

From the peak above us rose a bizarre spherical installation - an observatory, from the look of it. The road spiralled clockwise up towards the white dome, and so we followed it, past a series of security cameras mounted on white metal poles.

And then a strange thing happened.

A loud crackle emitted from the nearest pole, and after a few moments I was able to make out garbled speech. A speaker was attached to the base... and from the sound of it, had been severely damaged by moisture. That's when I noticed the camera above, which had angled down to stare right at us.

We kept walking for a time, the camera pivoting to follow our every move. As we approached the next pole, this too burst into life. Although I didn't understand any of the words - and wouldn't have, even had the speaker been fully functional - it was clear that we were being addressed with some urgency. The voice was raised, and seemed to be shouting orders at us. All along the road, we could see cameras turning slowly to watch.

It didn't feel like we were in for a warm welcome at the observatory, and so we retraced our footsteps - following the road downhill instead. The cameras did not relent, as we approached the gates to a large and secure-looking facility. According to the sign it was a naval base; a naval base perched halfway up the side of a mountain.

I'm not sure exactly how we ended up so far from the approved path, but it was clear that we weren't wanted here. We contemplated our next move, speakers barking their warnings at us from both sides, and every electric eye locked squarely on us... when suddenly a whistle started blowing, somewhere inside the base.

We panicked and - unwilling to retreat back down the mountainside - dived into the bushes that separated us from the peak. The slope was steep, but pretty soon we were hidden from the road as we scrambled up the overgrown flank of the mountain. Then, as we hopped over a ridge and ducked into a gully to hide ourselves from anyone who might be following, we came face-to-face with the brickwork entrance to a tunnel.

Stooping under the lintel and into the darkness, I mused (not without a little irony) that we probably weren't the first to find shelter in these subterranean passages. Although, traditionally, it would have been German colonists evading the British Navy.

At the entrance of the tunnel, the passage split in two; to the right it fell away into an abyss, a steep shaft disappearing at an almost vertical angle. We took the left passage, and followed the winding brickwork corridor into the darkness.

Under the earth the ground was strewn with debris - clothing, broken bricks and cardboard. It was clear the area had been squatted, although we never met the residents. One passage snaked upwards, and following the speck of light at its end I eventually came out into a circular chamber. The rusted metal base set into the floor suggested at a former gun turret perhaps, while a wide-angled viewport looked out towards the observatory. Turning back and exploring the other direction, I reached a similar conclusion. This time the window faced out from the mountainside: a spectacular view of the sprawling cityscape, disused cable cars hanging forlorn in the foreground.

We headed back out towards the entrance, cautiously scanning the mountainside for security guards, angry sailors and the like. The coast was clear - but I couldn't resist going back in, and taking a look down the steeper, right-hand passage.

After half scrambling, half climbing down the earthen slope, I found myself in a rocky, subterranean cavern. The passage appeared to continue downwards, but the tunnel had been severely flooded and I could go no further. It was strangely reminiscent of Gollum's cave.

The litter here was worse than in the other passage, as locals had presumably used the steep shaft as a kind of rubbish chute. Broken chunks of polystyrene lay thick about the floor. I was just backing up against one of the rock walls, attempting to get a better angle for a photograph, when I felt something move against my neck.

I jumped back from the wall, and, shining my torch across the rocky surface I discovered it to be thick with crawling insects. The closer I looked, the more I saw - until I realised that every surface in this dank cavern was covered with jostling, chitinous bugs. Their sizes ranged from miniscule, through to larger specimens which were as much as four inches across, whip-like antennae eagerly probing the darkness.

I made a swift exit.

The Descent of TaiPingShan

This whole expedition had been mounted on a whim. We had no concrete evidence to go on, only rumoured reports of tunnel entrances. That, bolstered by my past discovery of military tunnels on FuShan and the existence of the nearby Mount Qingdao Fort Museum, had felt like enough - and it had been justified. With no idea what other wonders we might find on TaiPingShan, we took the opposite path down from the peak, heading in the direction of the Qingdao Television Tower.

Not much further along, we came across a couple of abandoned concrete huts. The buildings appeared to be some kind of lookout point perhaps, but had been stripped entirely bare over the years. Inside we found a gruesome scene: two dead puppies, apparently beaten to death with rocks. One of the pups lay spread in the centre of the floor, a stone balanced on its corpse. The corner of the room was scattered with what appeared to be human faeces.

The cable cars continued on this side of the mountain, descending towards a station near the base. Much like the first one, it had been closed down for winter. The thin scattering of shops had their doors barred, and windows tightly shuttered. Heading on towards the television tower (itself resembling Shanghai's Oriental Pearl Tower), we passed by a series of small, domed huts, set behind a chainlink fence. The meshwork was covered with a thick hanging of padlocks and ribbons, romantic gestures that had rusted almost beyond recognition.

The huts were brightly painted, but securely locked; despite the scenic location, not one featured a window. I was wondering what the purpose of these shacks could be, until we found one decorated with an image of two children kissing; these were lovers' retreats, available to rent by the hour. I narrowly avoided stepping on a discarded condom as we moved on down the path.

We reached the bottom soon enough, where our path emerged through a desolate playground populated by broken plastic animals. A towering giraffe with three legs appeared to be fleeing from a malformed Tyrannosaurus Rex. We were at the entrance to the zoo now. As we stepped out of the playground, we almost bumped into a group of marching soldiers. I froze for a moment, remembering the tannoy systems, the cameras and the urgent whistling.

The troops marched on by however, to be replaced by a man in a monkey suit who danced behind us all the way to the main road. It was a suitably surreal ending to the day's exploration.

It's hard to say how far the Zhongshan Bunkers spread beneath Qingdao's TaiPingShan; assorted oddities aside, we had found three or four distinct tunnel entrances. All of these had at some point been blocked, however - either with water, concrete or sleeping tramps. I think it's reasonable to suppose that subterranean passages had once connected all of them as one, which would have represented a vast underground network threading through this small mountain. What tunnels there might once have been beneath Qingdao Zhongshan Park however, are now sadly lost forever.

More Urbex...

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Dark Tourism: Old Melbourne Gaol, Australia

Between 1845 and 1924, Melbourne Gaol housed some of Australia’s most notorious criminals – including the outlaw Ned Kelly, and a serial killer believed by some to have been Jack the Ripper.

The three-storey museum charts the lives and deaths of both prisoners and staff, with often-morbid exhibitions including the death masks of executed criminals. Meanwhile, many visitors report disembodied voices and strange goings-on around the cellblock, sparking the interest of paranormal investigators.

I visited the gaol not just to feed my own fascination with Australia’s history; but also to better understand how a site linked to so much death and suffering, could yet become an enduring landmark of Australia’s ‘Garden City’.

The Old Melbourne Gaol Museum

Located on Russell Street in what is now the city’s CBD, the construction of Old Melbourne Gaol began in 1839. It opened its doors to convicts in 1845, and, located adjacent to the City Courts and City Police Watch House, Russell Street soon became the heart of Melbourne’s judicial and penal system.

The Old Melbourne Gaol Museum is now reckoned to be one of the most-visited tourist attractions in all of Australia. The three storeys of this remaining wing have been opened up to guests, its cells filled with letters and memorabilia, photo archives and death masks.

Melbourne’s first gaol was built on a plot of scrubland, northeast of the city. It was known locally as ‘Wintle’s Hotel’, named for the gaoler George Wintle who was appointed to the task in 1838.

As the population of Wintle’s Hotel grew though, construction began on a new site. Melbourne Gaol was built on the corner of Russell and La Trobe streets, but by 1850 it was already overcrowded. The Australian Gold Rush (following the 1851 discovery of gold in the newly founded Colony of Victoria) brought a huge influx of people to Melbourne – and with it, a surge in lawlessness.

To meet this demand, a new prison wing was built between 1852 and 1854 using bluestone in place of the sandstone used for the first gaol building. Over the following years further extensions were added. The new wing grew considerably from 1857 to 1859, and was joined by a north wing in 1860, which incorporated a series of entrance buildings and a chapel. These new plots followed the established form for prisons of the time – with many design characteristics inspired by London's notorious Pentonville Prison.

Up until this point, male and female prisoners had lived in mixed cellblocks. However, unsavoury conditions prompted the building of a female cellblock between the years of 1862 and 1864; around the same time that women’s rights advocates such as John Stuart Mill were preaching gender equality overseas.

By the time of the gaol’s completion in 1864, the complex covered an entire block, and featured bath houses and a hospital, exercise yards and a chapel. Many of the gaolers and their families lived within the walls, with a total of 17 staff houses appearing along the side of Swanston Street.

Following World War I, parts of the gaol were incorporated into the neighbouring RMIT University, and excepting a brief period of use during World War II, those parts of the gaol not torn down were preserved in the form of a museum.

Meet the Inmates

Passing through the entrance building and into the lofty cellblock of Old Melbourne Gaol, visitors are free to explore for themselves. The ground floor and two higher levels, connected with metal stairs and walkways, are each lined with cells.

A few of these are locked closed, whilst others provide spy holes onto tortured mannequins dressed in prison smocks of the period.

Most of the cells have been turned into exhibition rooms however, chronicling the lives of the gaol’s inhabitants through a collection of personal effects, letters and contemporary news clippings. Most striking of all, are the death masks.

The study of phrenology, developed in 1796 by the German physician Franz Joseph Gall, was reaching peak popularity around the middle of the nineteenth century. Although largely discredited now, phrenology was nevertheless an important precursor to modern neuropsychology; looking to connect the characteristics and traits of an individual with localised areas of activity within the brain. It was believed that different urges and emotions had their origins in particular regions of the brain... and that the physical size of these regions could be used as an indicator for the magnitude of the impulse.

With this explanation in mind, many physicians became increasingly fascinated by the shapes of skulls. Needless to say, those of convicts were treasured in particular, as experts would measure the contours of the head in order to find links to their behaviour. It was hoped that in time, an understanding of phrenology could inform a kind of 'early warning system' for violent offenders.

Many of the inmates executed in Old Melbourne Gaol became unwitting contributors to this great experiment. Immediately after hanging, the head would be shaved entirely for the application of a plaster cast. This would later be used to create wax replicas for study.

It was eerie to say the least, walking through the cells of Melbourne Gaol and reading about those who lived their last days inside its walls; watched all the while by the waxen faces of those very same convicts.

These rich characterisations are the real treasure of the museum; each death mask accompanied by personal effects and news headlines, charting the history of the wicked, the desperate, and sometimes the unfortunate inmates of Old Melbourne Gaol.

Take Basilio Bondietto, for example – a 65-year-old Swiss-Italian migrant worker, who was accused of the murder of a colleague in 1876. Without speaking a word of English, and with no interpreter, Bondietto remained seemingly naïve of his fate on the gallows right up until the last minute.

Another victim of the rope, An Gaa, was an immigrant Chinese miner working on a claim beside the Loddon River. He murdered his mate Pooey Waugh, apparently without motive, after the two had been smoking opium together in their bark hut. Governor John Castieau mentioned him in a journal entry dated 29th August 1875:

“The Chinaman who is to be hanged tomorrow was very restless,” Castieau wrote after a visit to the chapel, “and made such a noise with his irons that I was obliged to get the clergyman to stop the service and have the condemned man removed.”

One of the more notable convicts executed at Old Melbourne Gaol was the serial killer Frederick Bailey Deeming. Deeming began his career when he ran away to sea at the age of 16; after years of theft and fraud, in 1891 he was found responsible for the murder of his first wife and their four children in England. Later that same year, his second wife suffered a similar fate in Melbourne.

Frederick Bailey Deeming was executed at the Old Melbourne Gaol in May 1892, to great public applause; with as many as 12,000 people gathered in the streets outside. The violent and misogynistic nature of Deeming’s crimes - along with the time he spent in England - led many contemporary commentators to speculate a link to the 1888 murders of Jack the Ripper.

Of all the gaol’s residents though, none were quite so infamous as Australia’s notorious bushranger and outlaw, Edward "Ned" Kelly.

Ned Kelly

Ned Kelly was born sometime towards the end of 1854, his father an Irish convict who spent most of Ned’s childhood in trouble with the law. Ned made a name for himself early, when he saved a younger child from drowning in a creek, and was awarded a sash for his bravery. After John "Red" Kelly died in 1866, his son Ned adopted a lifestyle of bushranging and petty crime.

Following an incident at his home in 1878, Kelly went on the run. Acting on behalf of Victoria Police, Constable Alexander Fitzpatrick arrested Dan Kelly at the property, and in his report claimed that he had been fired upon by Ned Kelly. Other sources, including an interview with Kelly himself just prior to execution, state that Kelly had been 200 miles away at the time.

However, when Kelly and his gang later killed three policemen while on the run, his fate was decided for him.

The gang were finally confronted in June 1880 at Glenrowan, Victoria. Kelly entered the gunfight wearing home-made armour forged from plough blades; following the bloody confrontation, Ned Kelly was taken back to the Old Melbourne Gaol and hanged for murder in November of the same year. As was common practice at the time, his head was detached and taken for phrenological study, while his headless body was buried in an unmarked grave. He was 25 years old.

It’s interesting to note that despite his reputation for violent crime, Kelly remains an enduring icon of Australian history, remembered fondly by many for his pioneering and independent attitude. His struggle is also deeply symbolic of the resistance of Irish-Australian immigrants against the ruling Anglo-Australian classes.

Ned Kelly’s death mask now stands in an imposing cabinet on the ground floor of the gaol, placed where it can gaze out along the length of the cellblock. His skull itself was once displayed here too, until its theft in 1978.

Meanwhile, beside the death mask cabinet, a mock-up suit of armour in the style of Kelly’s hangs on a wooden stand. “Kids,” the exuberant sign invites, “dress up in Ned’s armour!”.

The Art of Hanging

There were a total of 135 hangings conducted at Old Melbourne Gaol. The scaffold can still be seen today, jutting out from the first floor landing at the rear end of the cellblock. Women were hanged here as well – starting with Elizabeth Scott on 11th November 1863, the first woman to be hanged in Victoria.

It’s a somewhat macabre feature in the museum, and during my visit I observed three different groups playing with the rope, or posing for photos around the lever which operated the trapdoor.

A display case on one wall contains a model of the hanging mechanism. A tiny figurine stands on the gallows inside, a noose around his neck – and when a large red button on the exterior of the case is pressed, the body drops through the trapdoor to dangle on a piece of string.

A young child was playing with the exhibit when I arrived; he conducted six successive hangings before his parents called down to him from the next floor, and he moved on.

The cell beside the gallows had been re-imagined as a small exhibition, showcasing ‘the art of hanging’. A hand-written table in a case on one wall showed a series of weights and measures, detailing the mechanics of the procedure. It quotes Charles Duff, who in 1928 wrote his book, 'A Handbook on Hanging'.

"Hanging is a fine art and not a mechanical trade," according to Duff. "Is not a man an artist who can painlessly and without brutality despatch another man?"

If the rope was too short in relation to body weight, it would bruise and suffocate rather than breaking the neck. Too long, and the momentum of the drop was liable to pull the head clean off.

A fine example of this theory in practice, comes from the execution of Colin Campbell Ross in 1922. Ross was a bar owner, convicted of the rape and murder of a 12-year-old girl. The hangman used a new four-strand rope, and the force of the drop did not prove sufficient to kill; instead, Ross was slowly strangled by the rope for more than forty minutes prior to death.*

Before long, the gaol switched from a conventional knotted noose to using leather tubing around the rope, which would slide effortlessly through a metal ring to tighten. The last execution held in the Old Melbourne Gaol was Angus Murray, who died here in 1924 on the same day that the gaol was finally closed. Later, in 1932, the scaffold was re-erected at Melbourne’s Pentridge Prison in Coburg. Most of the work was conducted by David Bennett, a carpenter accused of rape, his own being the first life to be taken by the Pentridge scaffold.

The original scaffold was returned to Old Melbourne Gaol in the 1970s, and went back on display in 2000.

The City Watch House

Old Melbourne Gaol is more than just an artefact, as it aims to engage visitors with immersive first-hand experience; the gaol hosts after-dark ghost tours, as well as regular dramatisations of the story of Ned Kelly. One of the most interesting experiences of my visit, was being arrested at the City Police Watch House.

This building stands adjacent to the gaol, directly across a grassy courtyard now used by the university. I had signed up to experience the arrest procedure when I bought my entry ticket, and at the appointed hour a bell rang, inviting arrestees to the City Watch House.

I gathered outside with a group of eight others (including Australian, American and Chinese visitors), to be led in single file through the main entrance. This site was in use as a holding facility up until the 1990s, making the arrest experience feel all the more authentic.

The Charge Sergeant on duty provided each guest with an information sheet – allowing them to answer questions on behalf of a predetermined character – before heading into the cells. Here we were given a good telling-off, searched for concealed weapons, and then confined to a pitch black cell for five minutes.

On the way out, my fellow convicts queued in line for souvenir mugshot photos.

I headed straight outside, pondering all that I had seen. Old Melbourne Gaol is a truly fascinating museum, not least due to the level of interaction that visitors are permitted. Having seen a pre-teen child playing with a mock scaffold however, and two American girls posing for photos, pulling gruesome faces with a rope twisted around their necks, I found myself questioning the nature of that interaction.

Which came first - the dissociation from morbid reality that allowed such interaction, or, did the interaction with death serve to normalise it; to commoditise it, as dark tourism experts such as Dr. Philip Stone have hypothesised?

To further complicate matters, Old Melbourne Gaol is one of the oldest institutions in the state of Victoria; and yet its most famed exhibit, Ned Kelly, was a folk hero who lived in rebellion against that same state. The gaol is certainly not being marketed as the scene of past atrocities - no apology is offered for what happened here - but rather it offers an insight into how things were done back then. It is merely an outdated precursor to Melbourne's current penal system.

Whatever the answer, the museum is certainly not to blame. The artefacts and information contained within are presented without bias, and without politics. An estimated 140,000 visitors come each year, to immerse themselves in this world of death masks and scaffolds. I would imagine that for many of them, these gruesome exhibits are simply fragments from another world, a world completely detached from their own reality. One thing is clear from these figures, though: death sells.

Visit the official website for Old Melbourne Gaol

More Dark Tourism...

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*Ross was later found to have been innocent, and received a posthumous pardon in 2008.

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Editorial: May

The month of April saw the end of my current travel spree, as I retreated to my Black Sea lair in order to write up some of these recent adventures; while simultaneously saving money for my next trip. This editorial should give you an idea of what you can expect to see appearing on The Bohemian Blog over the next month... as well as sharing the usual round-up of noteworthy links.

Link Roundup

For your consideration this month: some superb recent photography of Chernobyl, a fascinating infographic about Hong Kong's most notorious slum, Indonesian abandonments and a smattering of communist ghosts.

Abandoned Resorts on an Indonesian Island
A Couple Vagabonds

Kowloon's Walled City of Anarchy
Weird Asia News

Forgotten Space Shuttles of the Baikonur Cosmodrome
Urbex France

Chernobyl 2013
Fragglehunter on Flickr

The Decline of Old Kashgar
Environmental Graffiti

Back to Bulgaria

I flew back to Turkey just a couple of weeks ago, before taking a coach up and across the border to Bulgaria's Black Sea coast. Here, back in my own apartment, I'm revelling in the relative luxuries of a shower, a washing machine, and having a whole bedroom to myself.

It was roughly this time last year that I was setting off for Kiev, on the first leg of my overland journey to China. I have barely stopped to rest since then, and in the last 12 months I've visited Moldova, Ukraine and Russia, Romania twice, China four times, Hong Kong and Singapore, a month in Kazakhstan and three separate trips through Turkey; I've passed briefly through Malaysia and the United Arab Emirates, made two visits to North Korea, two visits to Thailand, and spent a five-week stay Australia. In the last year I've taken 22 flights (and missed a few more), as well as spending more than a fortnight in total on trains.

Needless to say, I've got a lot to write about at the moment.

April Features

There has been some great publicity for the blog this month, starting with a recent interview I gave for Emily Luxton's travel blog. The article, titled 'Postcard from North Korea', focusses on my recent trip to the Rason Special Economic Zone.

Photography from The Bohemian Blog has been used for a feature about the Buzludzha monument, appearing on the website of Slovenia's main television channel: 'Radiotelevizija Slovenija', or RTV SLO.

Finally, I've also had a photo featured on Tipsy Nomads. This site is run by Brenden from the travel blog 99 Boomerangs, and invites visitors to send shots of beverages from around the world. I contributed a photo of the Bulgarian national spirit, rakia, being produced illegally in a secret village still. I expect that story will become its own post, one of these days.

Coming Up Next

First things first, and I've got to start somewhere. So, following in the wake of a series of urban exploration reports, I'm going to redress the balance with a piece of dark tourism.

In this report I'll be taking a look at the grisly history behind Old Melbourne Gaol, and its links to the story of Australia's most notorious outlaw: Ned Kelly.

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*For anybody who's interested, here's a list of my flights from the last 12 months:

Almaty-Abu Dhabi, Abu Dhabi-Bangkok, Surat Thani-Bangkok, Bangkok-Guangzhou, Guangzhou-Qingdao, Beijing-Pyongyang, Qingdao-Beijing, Beijing-Istanbul, Sofia-London, London-Sofia, Istanbul-Singapore, Singapore-Melbourne, Melbourne-Singapore, Singapore-Hong Kong, Hong Kong-Shanghai, Shanghai-Qingdao, Beijing-Ordos, Ordos-Beijing, Beijing-Kuala Lumpur, Kuala Lumpar-Bangkok, Bangkok-Kuala Lumpur, Kuala Lumpur-Istanbul.

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Urban Exploration: Don't Forget Your Past, Bulgaria

Of all the posts on this blog, the one that seems to have sparked the most interest was my report on the House-Monument of the Bulgarian Communist Party, located on Mount Buzludzha. I've now had countless emails from people asking for advice on visiting this truly unique site; and I've spoken to at least half a dozen people who were planning a trip to Bulgaria purely to see it for themselves.

As reported elsewhere, there have been some recent changes to the Buzludzha monument; most notably, the metal bars that now stand over the entrance. Some sources will tell you that entry to the site is no longer possible...

I beg to differ.

Here's a report on my latest expedition to Mount Buzludzha - the dense mist creating an otherworldly backdrop for this bizarre monument to a failed regime.

House of the Bulgarian Communist Party

I don't usually make a habit of giving out location information, for a number of reasons. Firstly, because I think it takes the fun out of things. If it weren't for the hours of online research - usually followed by at least as much time spent locating sites and finding their potential entrances - there would be no point calling this urban exploration. Some missions end in failure... and for me, that's half the thrill of it.

The other reason is that by drawing more attention to these places, they will inevitably receive more traffic. The results of this can vary - from an increased density of graffiti, through to tightened on-site security. Neither of these things are desirable.

However, while I may remain obstinately tight-lipped regarding the location of abandoned factories and youth camps, military tunnels and drains, I look at the Buzludzha monument a little differently - and I tend to get a huge kick out of the incredulous reactions of first-time visitors.

Another factor that differentiates Buzludzha from the average abandonment, is that nobody is trying to hide this one away. The Buzludzha monument is removed from sight as a result of its obscure location; but it shouldn't be assumed that everybody here wants to forget their past.

It wasn't all that long ago that the House of the Bulgarian Communist Party was being touted as a national treasure. On my way back home, I waited for a bus at the depot in Kazanluk... only to spot the faded likeness of the Buzludzha monument, peering down at me from an outdated advert for local coach tours. Needless to say, tours don't run there anymore.

Earlier this year I contacted the custodian of the Buzludzha monument, on behalf of a film crew planning to shoot a documentary at the site. They were adamant about reaching the peak, despite the heavy snow that covered the Balkans at the time; but if they were able to film with permission, so much the better.

I was a little taken aback by the positive response I received.

"People should see this place," my contact said. He went on to explain that the warning signs littering the peak of Mount Buzludzha are exactly that: a warning of the very real dangers inherent in entering this decaying building. The barred entrance is merely symbolic.

"They'll still get in if they want to," the custodian said, "but we can't be responsible for them."

Exploring Buzludzha

Numerous things have changed since I chronicled my first visit to the House-Monument of the Bulgarian Communist Party. For starters, the graffiti slogan that once adorned the front entrance is gone.

Last time I was here the words FORGET YOUR PAST were emblazoned above the door in heavy red lettering, but have since disappeared beneath a coat of bland grey paint. The new management of the site are keen to see it restored to its former glory; it's a tall order, and the cost of renovation would be staggering. Until that day though, they are doing what they can to preserve the dignity of this monument. It might not be moving forwards, but neither will they tolerate the contribution of 'vandals'.

On this expedition, I approached from the south; stopping off first at the imposing monument downhill from the saucer itself. The two stone fists - each holding a flaming torch - are deceptively large. It's not until you get up close that you realise each finger is the size of a man. Scrawled across this installation appears the word "Ataka"; it's the nickname of Bulgaria's nationalistic and far-right Attack Party, their own existence in many ways a reflex response to the former communist regime.

On this occasion the peak was wrapped in a heavy fog, but every so often the wind would tear it away... revealing glimpses of a vast concrete saucer perched on top, its adjacent tower bearing the familiar Soviet star.

The first time I visited Buzludzha, I just strolled on up to the main entrance and walked through the door. It's not so easy now though, as thick metal bars have been welded in place across the entrance. This needn't be a deterrent: it only took me a few minutes of scouting the perimeter, before I was pulling myself up and in through another, accidental entrance to one of the interior stairwells.

From here I was just a few flights of steps away from the vast, central chamber - and in this storm, it was more dramatic than I had ever seen it before.

The noise was almost deafening, a roar of metal on metal, as the harsh winds whipped at dozens of loose plates hanging from the roof. The mist had penetrated right inside the building, so that the hammer and sickle motif above was almost lost from sight. Meanwhile, sharp winter sun fell through the holes in the ceiling, in beams as bright as stage lights.

The effect is something that you cannot prepare for; and something I have never experienced - nor would expect to - anywhere else. I can only liken it to entering the command centre of a battle-torn spacecraft from another world; hostile, alien, and yet somehow alive.

For the more adventurous, there is also another way inside the monument; opened since my last visit.

Several concrete plates near the rear of the site were smashed open just this last winter. On this occasion, I passed a couple of gypsies driving away from the monument with a truck full of scrap metal; it seemed they been foraging around in the tunnels beneath Buzludzha, which until recently were completely inaccessible.

Judging by the nearby piles of manure, these gypsy raiders were using horses and ropes to pull heavy metal pipes up and out of the shafts. You won't need to bring your own horse - but if you want to take a look around these subterranean passages, you will need rope.

I hadn't come prepared for this. I sat for a while on the edge of a deep shaft, peering into the darkness beneath. These tunnels seemed to be completely detached from the basement level, which is accessed by a stairwell inside the monument itself. In the gloom I could make out a series of large metal tanks and twisted pipework.

Dropping in wouldn't have been too difficult, but getting back out looked a lot harder. There was a thick metal pipe set in one wall, which might have provided an escape route; but I couldn't reach far enough to test its strength, and if I climbed down, there was absolutely no guarantee of getting out again.

Looks like I'll be coming back again soon.

Other than that, the House-Monument of the Bulgarian Communist Party remains as it was; dead in the eyes of some, while to others, merely biding its time.

There's new graffiti around the rear of the building, most of it childish and tasteless; if you've really got to deface such an awe-inspiring monument, be sure that you have something worth saying.

Meanwhile, deep down in the basement level of the Buzludzha monument, a new tag has appeared. A simple phrase scrawled in a sloppy hand, it nevertheless offers a bold counter to the once-iconic slogan above the main doors; and seems to capture the current mood of this secret national treasure, lost somewhere on the road between death and rebirth:

"Don't forget your past," it reads.

More Urbex...

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If you're curious to know more about this site, to learn a little about its history and read translations of the verses that decorate the outside of the building, take a look at my in-depth first report on Bulgaria's Communist Party Headquarters.

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Urban Exploration: Pyongyang Metro, North Korea

Seventeen stations spread across two lines, with names that translate into triumphant slogans such as "Victory" and "Reunification," "Comrade" and "Red Star". Add to that rumours of a much deeper, extensive network of secret military bases, nuclear bunkers and government transport depots... and you could only be talking about North Korea's Pyongyang Metro.

During a recent visit to the DPRK I had the opportunity to ride on the world's most mysterious subway system - and as it turned out, I went further than the usual tour-approved stations, visiting underground facilities rarely glimpsed by foreign eyes. Here's the report.

Building the Pyongyang Metro

Construction began in 1965 under the guidance of President Kim Il-sung, this first series of stations opening between 1969 and 1972. According to official sources, the Pyongyang Metro incorporated: "over 30,000 square metres of natural marble and 40,000 square metres of granite".

At an average depth of 110m, it's the deepest metro system in the world; and there are many indications that the passenger lines (which have a daily ridership guessed at between 3,00,000 and 7,00,000 people) are only a small fraction of a much larger subterranean network. Stations are regularly patrolled by the military, and reportedly link to underground defence complexes - while a series of secret lines are used exclusively by high-ranking government and military officials.[1]

The two publicly declared lines of the Pyongyang Metro are known as the Chŏllima and Hyŏksin Lines. The Hyoksin Line takes its name from the Korean word for "innovation" (혁신선), and appears as the green line in the diagram above. It's the more recent of the two, this 10km track being opened to the public in 1975. The red, Chollima Line on the other hand is the original line, and named for a mythical horse in ancient Korean folklore.[2]

Chollima Speed!

The legendary winged horse Chollima (천리마선) was said to have been able to gallop 400km in one day, and appears in a number of East Asian traditions. Here in the DPRK, the name is synonymous with speed and efficiency.

The 1956 Chollima Movement was a nationwide initiative striving for rapid economic development, and massive rebuilding in the wake of the Korean War. There are parallels with Mao Zedong's Great Leap Forward in China. The movement was born from the words of President Kim Il-sung, "rush as the speed of Chollima."[3]

Chollima appears on banknotes and propaganda posters; it's the nickname of the national football team, and the winged horse appears on statues and monuments across the country. What better name then, for the nation's first subway line?

Out of the two lines, the Chollima Line is the better documented outside of North Korea. It was completed in 1973, with a total of eight stations spread across a distance of 12km. An accident in 1971 put a serious dent in the project however, when as many as 100 workers died beneath the Taedong River while building the Ponghwa Station. Nevertheless the line was completed, at Chollima Speed, to be greeted with a grand, Presidential opening on 6th September 1973.

The first cars to roll down these tracks were Chinese; DK4 rolling stock, produced in 1972 by the Changchun Car Company. Sometime around 1998 the Pyongyang Metro switched to using German technology, buying in old stock from Berlin. True to form, North Korea has maintained throughout, and contrary to other evidence, that all technology utilised in its metro was Korean-made.

In 1994, North Korea published an English language guide to Pyongyang Metro, now available from gift shops and museums.[4] It says, "the Pyongyang Metro is not only the traffic means but also the place for ideological education". Later, in explanation of the metro's elaborate décor, it tells us, "its inside decoration is depicted artistically so as to convey to posterity the glorious revolutionary history and the leadership exploits of the great leader President Kim Il Sung."

When foreigners travel the Chollima Line, they will typically be starting at Puhung. Most of the accounts online talk about tour groups travelling one stop from Puhung, to Yonggwang Station.[5]

It seems virtually unheard of for tourists to travel more than a couple of stops on the Pyongyang Metro; and so I was overjoyed when our Korean guide was able to pull a few strings, authorising us to travel a further three stops: alighting from our journey at Kaeson Station.

Puhung Station

We started our journey at Puhŭng (부흥), which means "Revitalisation". Apparently it costs five North Korean Won (significantly less than £0.01) for a ride on the Pyongyang Metro, although I never saw the money; instead our guide gave us a token each, to use at the turnstyle entrance.

The station itself was breathtaking. The first thing to strike me was the lighting, great glowing orbs of silver and purple. The walls were decorated with murals and carved metal, many of the images depicting the usual socialist themes; industrious workers, valiant soldiers.

The cars looked tired, but clean. Some sources have reported spotting German graffiti on the subway cars however, dating back to their earlier usage in Berlin.[6]

The Pyongyang Metro Guidebook has a few things to say about Puhung Station;

The works of art at Puhung Station represent the appearance of the country which is prospering day by day and the happiness of the working people who enjoy the equitable and worthwhile creative life to their hearts’ content thanks to the popular policy of the Workers’ Party of Korea and the Government of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

In the underground station is the mosaic mural “The Great Leader Kim Il Sung among Workers” which depicts the great leader who, regarding “The people are my God” as his motto, devoted his whole life to the people, sharing life and death, sweets and bitters with them.

During rush hours, trains arrive as often as one every two minutes. These clunking Soviet-style monstrosities look about as much wood as they are metal, and their arrival is heralded with frantic whistle blowing by station staff. The Metro guards are yet another branch of the nation's all-encompassing military; their crisp uniforms, combined with the colourfully optimistic propaganda artwork around them, gave a strong sense of contemporary national culture in North Korea.

I remember the noise of the station as well. The heavy train doors were manually operated, slamming closed with a thud every time a train was boarded; this rose with a cacophony of voices, whistles and engines, all set against a backdrop of rousing communist anthems: the obligatory government radio station.

We boarded a train, squeezing in shoulder-to-shoulder with the locals. Most people avoided eye contact, but it didn't seem to be from lack of interest; everywhere I glanced I'd see heads swiftly and discreetly turning away, as if the whole carriage were trying to steal a secret glimpse at us. The train interior was elegant yet bare, simple seating and wood-panelled walls, watched over by two familiar faces; at the front end of the carriage hung a pair of framed portraits, the faces of President Kim Il-sung and Generalissimo Kim Jong-il.

Yonggwang Station

Yonggwang, our second station, was opened later - on 10th April 1987. We alighted here to take a look around.

The word "Yŏnggwang" (영광) means "Glory," and the décor in this station did a good job of setting the tone. The extravagant light fixtures are designed to look like fireworks; great clusters of multi-coloured bulbs that hang down from the ceilings in starburst formation. Two mosaic murals adorn the walls, each 80m long and depicting the Taedong River which flows through the capital.

The inspiration behind the theme of Yonggwang Station, like most things in North Korea, can be traced back to a military source. According to the guidebook, "the illuminations ... bring to view the victory celebrations after the war".

The station was undoubtedly beautiful, its grand and opulent design striking me as heavily reminiscent of the Moscow Metro. The socialist murals and slogans, too, have their parallels in Moscow: such as those at the Sverdlov Square, Komsomolskaya and Revolution Square stations.

As tourists are usually limited to just two stations on the Chollima Line, there are suspicions that these sites may not be typical of the system as a whole... and such theories seem well-founded. Puhung and Yonggwang are two of the more recent stations, both having been opened in 1987. The other stations on this line were finished in 1973 however, and many seem dated in comparison.

Another possible reason is that these outer stations see less traffic; by taking tourists to stations located towards the end of the line, it reduces the potential for interaction between foreigners and locals at busy terminals.

However, we were going three stops further than most - giving us the chance to see the 1970s-era socialist artwork on display at Kaeson Station.

Kaeson Station

"Kaesŏn" (개선) means "Triumph," and this station takes its name from the Arch of Triumph located directly above. Pyongyang's Arch of Triumph was styled after the Arc de Triomphe in Paris - though in true North Korean style, the DPRK built theirs bigger. At 60m in height, it's the largest triumphal arch in the world.

The guidebook mentions this station, when discussing the revolutionary quality of the metro system; "This can be seen throughout the various embossed carvings at Kaeson Station which has the portrait of the great leader making a speech after he liberated the country through the arduous and bloody anti-Japanese war and returned home in triumph."

Our train rocked its way into the station before the wooden doors were thrown open, and a thick crowd of people spilled out onto the platform. A group of school children boarded at Sungri, and I had spent the remainder of the journey in a crush of white shirts, red neckerchiefs, and quizzical, upturned faces.

Kaeson Station was notably older than the first two we had visited; bright single lights in a whitewashed ceiling taking the place of marble and chandeliers. Nevertheless, it was grand in design; a half-formed statue of the Eternal President looked down on the platform from a dias at the end, his lower half still encased in a block of bronze.

Along either wall, behind the train tracks, shone colourful murals of field workers, citizens and soldiers.

This being our final stop, we left the station by the main stairs. Our tour bus had driven round to the Kaeson Station after dropping us off at Puhung, and the driver was waiting to meet us outside.

Pyongyang Metro is undoubtedly one of the most attractive public transport systems I have ever seen. The government stress that it was built, not for profit, but rather to provide an invaluable service to the citizens of Pyongyang as a whole.

It would be tempting to believe that the ornate stations shown to tourists were a poor indicator for the condition of the others.

Having seen four of the older, 1970s stations however (we disembarked briefly at each of the Ponghwa, Sungri and T'ongil stations before reaching Kaeson), I found them to be much as I expected: tired, traffic-worn and perhaps even a little shabby, but clean despite that; and fascinating above all else.

It could be an example of the common paranoia of North Koreans; tour guides in particular will often seem afraid to let you see too much, erring on the side of caution rather than risk getting in trouble with their superiors. It results in blanket rules such as restricted photography and acting to hide social issues behind a wall of extravagant hospitality.

This is a country who desperately want to be seen at their best; (sometimes) painfully aware of their isolation from the rest of the world, North Korea seems to feel a great pressure to account for its alternative lifestyle choices. Their secrecy regarding public facilities, agriculture, military activity and even day-to-day life is not purely the result of party misdirection policies, but rather seems deeply woven into the national psyche. Even social problems common to every corner of the globe (poverty, hunger, theft) are hidden from foreigners, as if from fear of discrediting the Juche Thought.

I think it's fair to conclude that limited foreigner access to the Pyongyang Metro is not due to the poor state of most stations, as some past visitors have theorised. These stations were constructed at a time before foreigners were ever likely to see them, and besides, opulent public facilities such as these serve as another cog in the state propaganda machine.

I believe that each of the seventeen stations of Pyongyang Metro would have been fine in its day; but for a government desperate to save face, these foot-worn platforms and second hand trains are apparently better left unmentioned.

More on North Korea:
Tourism in Pyongyang
Kaesong
The Ryugyong Hotel
The Korean Demilitarized Zone

More Urbex...

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[1] See, for example, a DPRK defector's account of Kim Jong-il's secret subway, appearing on the South Korean news site The Chosun Ilbo.

[2] These four are just a small sample of the enthusiastically named stations of the Pyongyang Metro. The stations of the Chŏllima (천리마선) Line are named as follows:

Pulgŭnbyŏl (붉은별) - Red Star
Chŏnu (전우) - Comrade
Kaesŏn (개선) - Triumph
T'ŏngil (통일) - Reunification
Sŭngri (승리) - Victory
Ponghwa (봉화) - Torch/Beacon
Yŏnggwang (영광) - Glory
Puhŭng (부흥) - Revitalization

...while the nine stations of the Hyŏksin (혁신선) Line bear the names:

Kwangbok (광복) - Restoration/Independence
Kŏn'guk (건국) - National Foundation
Hwanggŭmbŏl (황금벌) - Golden Soil
Kŏnsŏl (건설) - Construction
Hyŏksin (혁신) - Innovation
Chŏnsŭng (전승) - Complete Victory (in Battle)
Samhŭng (삼흥) - Three Rejuvenations
Kwangmyŏng (광명) - Shine/Enlightenment
Ragwŏn (락원) - Paradise

[3] Chollima Speed!

[4] This guide has been fully transcribed, and made available on the unofficial Pyongyang Metro website. As well as a brief history of the project and explanations of some of the ideological process behind the design of stations, the guidebook offers a number of whimsical anecdotes appertaining to times the Eternal President Kim Il-sung visited various stations. It's highly recommended reading.

[5] Such as the thorough, and well illustrated report on At Home in the Wasteland.

[6] Including the account of a BBC reporter, who in 2000 took an unguided walk around the city of Pyongyang and observed, "old East German trains complete with their original German graffiti."

[7] For every station that closes (such as Kwangmyŏng (광명), situated beneath the mausoleum of Kim Il-Sung and closed since 1995), more are being built. On the Hyŏksin Line, the new stations Yŏngung (Korean: 영웅) and Ch'ilgok (Korean: 칠곡) are set to continue beyond Kwangbok station. On the Chollima Line, there are plans to extend the track by two stations in either direction - to incorporate the Ryŏnmot (련못), Sŏp'o (서포), Ch'ŏngch'un (청춘) and Mangyŏngdae (만경대) stops.

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Urban Exploration: Wonderland, China

Somewhere between Beijing and the Great Wall of China, towering over the Hebei plains and the nearby Chenzhuang Village, there stands a lonely, broken castle. The site was once conceived as a parallel to Disney's great amusement parks; the dream passed however, and now this gothic tower - no more than a crumbling concrete shell - marks the miscarriage of Asia's largest theme park.

They call it Wonderland.

In Search of Wonderland

The tattered remains of Wonderland offer a poignant hint at the cracks in China's economy, and lend credence to analysts' fears of a developing property bubble. Funded by the Thailand-based Reignwood Group, it was intended to become Asia’s largest theme park; covering a total area of 120 acres.

However, the park soon fell victim to financial problems. After failed negotiations with local officials and land owners, construction of this amusement park was abandoned in 1998. Despite subsequent attempts to revive the project in 2008, Wonderland remains no more than a skeleton of a dream.

I first came across photos of Wonderland Castle in a report by the Washington Post. Digging a little further, I managed to find the castle on Google's satellite maps; its gothic spires casting long shadows across the surrounding fields.

I made the trip from Beijing, where I had got chatting to two Australians in a hostel bar. They were both keen to go, and, as chance would have it, one of them had already been looking for a way to visit Wonderland for herself.

There are semi-regular trains that connect Beijing station to the small town of Nankou in the north, a walkable distance from Chenzhuang Village and Wonderland. We headed out to try and book our tickets. I’ve taken a lot of trains around China in the past, and it was somewhat foolish of me not to plan further ahead this time; the station was a purgatory of security barriers, ticket halls and seemingly endless queues, and it took us a good half hour before we had worked out where to buy tickets. We queued for another half hour, only to be told that no seats were available on any train that would get us to Wonderland before sunset.

I had my heart set on getting there... and fortunately, my Aussie friends were just as keen. We flagged down a taxi outside the station, and after a heated bargaining session we talked the driver down to 600 Yuan for the 40km journey.

We were almost certainly paying too much by Chinese standards – but I was tired, desperate, and (at around £20 each for the day trip) I wasn’t in the mood to argue more.

Tourism in China is very often a case of following the herd. With such a colossal population, the more interesting or famous destinations are invariably rammed shoulder-to-shoulder with domestic tourists – and as a result, there is a tendency for people to allow the crowd to guide them.

It can sometimes be hard, for example, to explain to a Chinese tour guide or taxi driver that you want to visit one of the quieter sections of the Great Wall. A common mentality here is to assume that the crowded parts must be the best parts: so imagine the pained confusion on this taxi driver’s wind-burnt face, when we tried to direct him to an abandoned amusement park in the middle of nowhere.

He offered to drive us to the Great Wall, or to the nearby Ming Dynasty Tombs. He even suggested Shijingshan, a fully functioning theme park in a suburb of Beijing.

As we pulled up on the busy highway outside the faded yellow turrets of Wonderland, the driver looked at us in dismay.

"It’s closed," he said again in Chinese. "No rides today."

The Magic Kingdom

Rather than approach the main gates and risk drawing unwanted attention, we opted instead to hop the fence at the corner. As it later transpired however, our presence went entirely unremarked. Scrambling through a trench and over a pile of dirt and plastic debris, we stepped abruptly into a picturesque Bavarian-style street; the recent snow lay crisp and unspoilt beneath walls topped with battlements.

Many of the Wonderland images floating around the web seem to have come from a visit in 2011 by Reuters photojournalist, David Gray. His photographs show the outside of the castle, the elaborately tacky streets and a few shots of a rusted pavilion. As striking as these images may have been, they gave little indication of the building interiors. I was here to finally satisfy my curiosity; to infiltrate Wonderland.

Walking along the Bavarian streets, many of the doors I tried were locked. The entrance beneath one of the corner towers opened at a push however, and so I stepped into the darkness.

I was surprised how clean the building was inside: no litter or graffiti, only thick dust and the occasional rubble from crumbling walls. A series of white-washed rooms led to a circular chamber in the base of the tower, and from here a spiralling metal staircase ascended towards the blue spire above.

Once up top, we walked out onto the balcony to admire Wonderland. We were inside and above the city wall, which marked the front perimeter of the park - spreading out on either side of a central plaza. Beyond the wall lay a cracked expanse of grey tarmac: the car park may never have been used, but its hedges and borders were nonetheless attractive and well maintained.

Behind us meanwhile, lay Wonderland Castle itself.

The metal pavilion pictured in the 2011 images was gone, while the cornfields had been replaced by rocks and dead grass. Beyond a desert of browns and greys, right in the centre of the park, rose the hollow spires of the concrete castle.

After a quick foray along the battlements, we made it back down to ground level. On our right were the shallow buildings which formed the front wall of the park, topped with crenelations and tiled steeples. The building on our left was much larger however, and when we headed inside we found ourselves in a vast, barren warehouse.

It's hard to imagine what had been planned for this drab empty space, and there weren't any clues inside. A mountain of red corn cobs had been left to dry in a corner, while a pile of boards stacked against a far wall looked suspiciously like asbestos.

Stepping over a broken wooden pallet, I headed up a freestanding flight of concrete steps to the upper level. There was only a little graffiti to be seen here, much of which appeared to have been left by site labourers. One end of this higher floor could almost have been planned for a restaurant, judging by the large double doorway opening onto a rooftop terrace.

I had a look around the rooftops at either end of the building, admiring the view of the abandoned castle across the field. Then I headed down to the street. A central courtyard here featured some of the most ornate buildings we had so far passed; grand palatial facades, decked with balconies, turrets and shuttered windows. In many ways, the faux-architecture on display here felt like a gaudy, technicolour parody of Romania's Bran Castle.

We had split up a while back, but met again as we made our way out of this wing, and into the main plaza. A group of Chinese were sat on a stone bench in the centre, an ornate herbaceous border behind them. We approached tentatively, but they seemed more amused at our presence than anything else.

The man started speaking to me as I came closer, while the two women with him watched on.

"听不懂," I replied.

Pronounced "Tīng bù dǒng," this handy little phrase means, "do not understand". However, it seems that through overuse I have somehow refined this statement to a fine standard of pronunciation. The result, ironically, is that Chinese people sometimes assume I simply haven't understood them on an ideological level.*

The man proceded to elaborate.

Luckily, one of the Australians spoke enough Mandarin to have a basic conversation with these people. They were curious to know where we came from, and what had brought us to this place. When he explained that we came from Australia and Britain, that we didn't know each other but had decided to visit after seeing photos of Wonderland on the Internet, they found the notion hilarious.

After saying "goodbye" ("Zàijiàn"), we crossed the plaza to check out the opposite wing. It wasn't hard to picture how this area could have been. An attractive square bordered by crafted hedges, the metal framework of the ticket booths and the queuing lines behind that. Out beyond the car park, a stylised walkway spiralled up and over the busy road.

"Wonderland Amusement Park" read a painted crest above the door ahead of us, the text accompanied by the park's dragon mascot.

The next building was in worse shape than the last. The gold crowns that topped each spire had been taken over by birds; twigs and straw poking out the top like a coarse mop of hair. Inside, the halls and corridors smelt of dead birds and urine. The Bavarian street - a mirror of the last - took us to the southeast corner of the park, where a side road looped out around the fairytale facade to reach a series of huts at the back.

These wood and metal constructions were numbered one to three, backed up against the drifting snow beneath the city wall. Most likely they had provided accommodation for site labourers; it's not uncommon in China to see workers shipped in from other provinces, living in crude shelters on a construction site.

The builders left Wonderland a long time ago though, and now these huts were used for storing (what appeared to be) farming equipment.

By now we had explored the entire length of the street, and had nowhere else to go; the time had come to get a closer look at Wonderland Castle.

The Enchanted Castle

The path to the castle broke off from the paved central plaza, passing between broken pillars marked with the Chinese characters for "don't go in" and "dead"; it meandered through the dried-up husks of a corn field, past the shells of warehouses into a field strewn with concrete boulders.

When David Gray photographed Wonderland in 2011, he captured a haunting view of the castle seen from beneath a canopy of girders. All that now remained were a neat grid of concrete boots, knee-high, waist-high. The pavilion itself had been destroyed, taken down and presumably sold as scrap metal.

We took a look inside one of the warehouses.

The sharp winter sun spilled in through cracks in the boarded-up windows, to fall across a mountain of dry sacks. Plaster, concrete, cement: row upon row of building materials, stacked up and gone to waste. There was a pile of excrement in the far corner - human, from the look of it.

We drew closer until we could make out a clean blue hatchback parked beneath the fairytale castle, a Chinese brand, and a handful of workers in the adjacent field. They looked at us in bewilderment as we approached. No attempt at communication - we must have seemed too alien for that - but when I smiled at a middle-aged woman hoeing a plot of seeds and gave her a friendly "Ni Hao", she smiled warmly in reply then got back to her work.

The castle had looked imposing from a distance, but up close it was colossal: a concrete titan.

Walking around the wide concrete base, I found myself trying to imagine how the construction had worked. There was no way of getting up to the higher floors from here - other than with a grappling hook or by reassembling the original scaffold.

From where we stood the ground level appeared equally inaccessible, a heavy grey shell. Following clockwise around the castle wall, we came to a sharp inward corner. Another local was loading wood into the back of a car, and didn't seem to notice us. A stack of concrete bricks leaned against the castle wall, beside a large cavernous opening in the concrete. I climbed through the gap, and swung my legs over the darkness.

It must have been about eight feet down to the bare earth floor within. The ground level of the castle had been dug down into the earth, below the intended floor level; as if to install sub-floor heating, perhaps.

I dropped myself down into the bowels of the castle and crossed a series of chest-high concrete barriers, which divided this inside area into a row of earthen cells.

Aiming towards the heart of the castle I hit a dirt bank, a high ridge of soil ringing its way around the central chamber just beyond. It wasn't too hard to scramble up this, until I was back at ground level and looking down at a wide trench on either side of me.

This semi-subterranean foundation level was built around the square base of the tower. The base was sealed on all sides, other than a large rectangular window, roughly ten feet from the ground. The wall looked close enough to jump to, so I tried it; I managed to catch the ledge, landing with the soles of my feet against the wall. From here I got up onto the windowsill, and looked down on the heart of Wonderland: a deep concrete chamber, overflowing with shadows and dust.

I met the Australians outside, and together we walked back toward the main road; pausing every few steps for another backwards glance across the abandoned amusement park.

China's Wonderland never came to be, and now even this thin scattering of half-completed buildings is beginning to fade away. Meanwhile, a team of staff from Chenzhuang keeps the car park free from windblown litter, trims the hedges, weeds flowerbeds.

The return of the farmers tells another story though, as they tentatively reclaim this land for agriculture. Here, in a country where communism, for many, is more than mere memory, it serves as a perfectly poignant illustration of failed capitalism; a post-apocalyptic Disneyscape crumbling beneath the workers' feet.

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UPDATE - 9/5/2013

'Wonderland' has been destroyed. The demolition project began in late April, due to finish tomorrow, on 10th May.

I had no knowledge of this when I visited the site at the end of March. It's sad to think that such an iconic ruin has gone forever... but I'm glad that I managed to get there in time to see it for myself.

China-based That's Mag have written an informative piece covering the demolition, on their Beijing Blog.

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*There's possibly another factor to this. China being such a terribly big place, a lot of Chinese people will live their entire lives without meeting a foreigner. The concept of someone not being able to speak Chinese can strike some people as odd, and potentially hard to process.

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