How remote is the former Soviet republic of Georgia to most Americans?

Here's one measure: I recently received an e-mail from a viewer wondering if this Georgia was where our Georgians (as in our Carolinans or our Virginians) originally came from.

Silly, perhaps, but the comment raises a serious concern. It's true that, as the six-day conflict in Georgia - followed by a week of shaky cease-fire - unfolded, each dateline became more exotic, and unfamiliar, than the last: Tbilisi, Gori, Poti, Tskhinvali.

Every day, our dispatches tried to answer the questions we all seemed to be asking: why had a phalanx of international reporters parachuted into Georgia to cover spiraling violence in a breakaway region? Why - at the very height of hype and excitement about the Beijing Olympic Games - had so many of us come to witness what started out as just another ethnic skirmish in the Caucasus?

Of course, there was the obvious, quick answer: This war, like previous proxy wars, was really about what you could not see - or report.  What kept your adrenalin pumping in the wee hours of the morning: that primal fear of a military - even nuclear - confrontation between Russia and the United States.

That Cold War anxiety is something that some of us are old enough to remember – the proverbial mushroom cloud on the horizon.

It's a fear we didn't talk much about, but which grew as we watched Russia attempt to redraw its battle lines with the West. And it's that collective fear, I believe, that kept the Olympics a distant second or third on most news programs during that week.

Even after Russian President Dmitry Medvedev announced a cessation of hostilities (saying Georgia had been sufficiently punished for its attack on South Ossetia, an enclave recognized by the U.N. Security Council as Georgian) and after U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert Gates said, in effect, that the United States would not engage Russia militarily, that primal fear just wouldn't go away.

But now, with the hot war behind us, will the tinderboxes of South Ossetia and Abkhazia - the other Georgian breakaway enclave - become distant, frozen conflicts yet again?

Not likely.

On Tuesday, Medvedev said Moscow had recognized formally the independence of both pro-Moscow territories. The decision, which is not likely to be followed by many other countries, further escalates tensions with the West and puts the Kremlin in direct opposition with the U.N. Security Council. President Bush had previously issued a statement warning Russia against recognizing the two separatist regions.

Both Medvedev and his mentor, Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, have upped the ante, saying that Russia could deal with any Western attempt to isolate it and that breaking off ties with NATO was - in so many words - not the end of the world.

Some analysts suggest that Russia is trying to re-establish itself as a superpower, starting in its own backyard. If that's true, it would seem it's going to do so by driving a wedge between it and the rest of the world.

But why would the Kremlin risk that kind of isolation, not to mention international ire, over two tiny enclaves that have been fighting the ethnic Georgians for decades?

A fight for the oil pipelines is one answer.

By absorbing Abkhazia and South Ossetia, Russia puts even more pressure on Georgia's BTC pipeline, one of the few that transits oil through the Caucasus that is not under Russian control.

Then, take a look at Vice President Dick Cheney's itinerary next week.

The White House says he's bringing a show of support to Georgia, Azerbaijan and Ukraine on a trip that had, as its origin, a conference in Italy.

These three former Soviet republics all have pro-Western and anti-Russian leaders. All three countries signed a preliminary deal last year to extend a Ukrainian pipeline to move Caspian oil from the Black Sea to the Baltic Sea, and then on to the West - again, outside Russian control.

But is this really all about oil? Would Russia and Georgia - and by extension, the United States - go to the very brink and back over energy? As Russian forces begin pulling out of Georgia and reporters like myself regain some distance from the front lines, another answer comes to mind. The one thing that triggers Kremlin fears more than anything else: democracy.

Democracy's basic ingredients, the freedom to assemble, to speak, to choose - these are like kryptonite in the hands of the Kremlin's authoritarian mega-capitalists.

How often have we heard it from Russia's crushed opposition voices? Medvedev and Putin don't want a war with the West, because their clothes and expensive watches are Western, their vacations are taken there, their yachts are made there, and their children and the children of their cronies want to be educated there. No, their war is with an idea - democracy.

Look at the new geopolitical map that's redrawing itself in the wake of the Georgia conflict - with the United States, Poland, Ukraine, Georgia, the Baltics and Israel on one side. On the other is Russia, Belarus, Syria and Iran.

More than a war of power, or energy, this lays out the Kremlin's battle zone against democratic forces that - if unleashed in Russia - could destroy it. In fact, Georgia marks the new Cold War frontline between Russian autocratic rule, and democracy's Ground Zero.

Russia doesn't really fear or hate NATO. It knows very well that NATO is not the threat. The threat to Putin-ocracy - and the real threat from Georgia - is the close proximity of Western freedoms to Russia's very borders.

Russia, remember, had freedom in the 1990s, and almost drowned from too much of it. Putin and his hand-picked successor, Medevedev, won't allow that to happen again, even if it means going to war.

That's why we were in Georgia, reporting from towns with unpronounceable names, en masse. That's why the story - for a few scary days - blew away the Olympics. And that's why a simmering primal fear mixes with fascination.

 

 

As China and the United States battle to claim the most Olympic medals – with gold-medal and all-medal counts being frantically tallied and talked about – many other countries' athletes are overjoyed to take home their nations' first gold, or even bronze.

Kings and presidents make personal calls to congratulate the winners, and millions cheer on their tiny delegations with pride.

"It's a great honor for us to win Afghanistan's first medal for the Olympics," said Farhad Kheslat, President of Afghanistan's National Olympic Committee.

Behrouz Mehri / AFP - Getty Images

Rohullah Nikpai of Afghanistan celebrates his third-place win during the medal ceremony for the men's 58-kilogram taekwondo competition, in Beijing, on Wednesday.

"We are quite happy, I can't express it," Kheslat said after Rohullah Nikpai won a bronze medal in the men's under 58-kilogram taekwondo competition.

President Hamid Karzai called the athlete to congratulate him for his Olympic contribution to the war torn country that's competed in 11 Games since 1936.

Pride of Togo
Benjamin Boukpeti became Togo's first Olympic medalist when he paddled across the finish line in the men's individual kayak slalom to win the bronze on Tuesday. He was so excited that he slammed his paddle across his kayak in jubilation and smashed it in two – pumping each piece of the broken paddle in victory.

"To win – for me, this bronze medal is bigger than gold," said Boukpeti in a phone interview. "It is really amazing for me and for the country."

AFP/Getty Images

Benjamin Boukpeti of Togo celebrates after winning the bronze in the men's single KI kayak final on Aug.12.Â

Born to a French mother and a Togolese father, Boukpeti grew up in France and has not spent any time in Togo since he was a baby. Now, at 27 years old, he'll return to Togo in the next few days carrying the small West African country of 5 million's first Olympic medal.  

"Togo has given the maximum for our delegation - so the delegation has had a very good ambience and that helped me win," said Boukpeti. The Togolese Olympic delegation includes four athletes in all – two men who competed in judo and tennis, and one woman who ran the 400 meters.

Boukpeti said he wasn't surprised at the victory because he had done well in Athens – he finished in 18th place out of the overall competition – what Olympic organizers labeled "arguably Togo's best result" in the history of their six Olympic Games since 1972. 

He said he had trained incredibly hard over the last few years in France, had improved a lot, and with the huge support he had gotten from Togo, he knew he could do it.

He admitted that it was sort of funny to win his medal in a sport that many in soccer-mad Togo aren't familiar with and have only seen on TV, but he said the nation's support for him has been amazing.

"I can't really imagine what they will do when I return to Togo," said Boukpeti. He said he's gotten tons of phone calls from his father's family in Togo congratulating him on the win and encouraging him to get back there quickly so they can celebrate. "It's the first time Togo is being recognized for being really good in sports. They are very happy."

Likewise, Bahrain is embracing its first medalist, Rashid Ramzi, who won the gold for the men's 1,500 meter by racing across the finish line in 3:32.94, besting Kenya's Asbel Kipruto Kirpop who crossed in 3:33.11.

After competing in the Olympic Games six times since 1984 and going home medal-less every time, Ramzi's victory was a huge step in Bahrain's quest to make its mark in international sports.

"We are very proud of this achievement and we hope this will mark a new era in Bahrain's sports," said Nebal Bahran, press attaché for Bahrain's delegation of 15 athletes. The entire country is taking pride in Ramzi's victory – Bahrain's King Hamad bin Isa al-Khalifa was one of the first people to call Ramzi to congratulate him on his feat.

Ramzi, 28, moved to Bahrain from Morocco when he was 19 years old and has trained with the national team in Bahrain and Europe ever since.

Despite being a small nation of just 700,000, the small oil-rich archipelago has big ambitions. "Our target in these Olympic Games is to be the best among the Arabic competitors," said Bahran, adding that they are close – being tied up with Tunisia in terms of medal count. Tunisia has also won one medal – a gold as well – for men's 1500 meter swimming.

"Our goal is to build a new generation of athletics in Bahrain," said Bahran. The hope is that Ramzi's medal is the first of many.

Lending hope for peace
While Bahrain and Togo have much to be proud of, with a delegation of just four athletes who train in battle-scarred Kabul, the Afghan athletes very presence was an accomplishment, never mind winning a bronze.

"We had the hope to win, but we didn't know for sure it would be possible. But when our hopes came true, we were very, very happy," said Kheslat, head of Afghanistan's national Olympic committee.

In a country that has been plagued by war and internal strife for the last 30 years, there hasn't been much of chance for sports – recreational or professional. Afghanistan's last Olympic best was fifth place in wrestling in 1964. 

Although the three other athletes who competed in Beijing did not win medals, even Robina Muqimyar's last-place finish in the 100 meter sprint was monumental. Since her 2004 debut in Athens, she's been the country's first and only female Olympian since the fall of the hard-line Taliban that banned women from sports.

As war continues to ravage their homeland, Kheslat said that the team hopes their achievements can bring some normalcy back to the south Asian nation.

"We do our best to bring peace to Afghanistan through sports," said Kheslat.

"Afghanistan is in a war, but our pupil gives hope for peace," said Mohammed Bashir Taraki, Nikpai's coach for the last six years. Maybe by winning just one medal, he succeeded in that lofty goal.

"It's the first time for us to come to Beijing!" exclaimed sixteen-year-old Su Man Ye, eyes smiling through her tiny glasses.

Petite and energetic, she appeared younger than her years.

"Today we met so many new friends! People are so nice to us!"

Her exuberance was infectious, and defied comprehension when you learned a little bit about her past.

Stephanie Himango / NBC News

Fifteen-year-old Ding Yi Ru, left, of Beijing, and her new friend from Sichuan province, sixteen-year-old Su Man Ye, right, pose for a photo at the Summer Palace.

Man Ye traveled to Beijing during the Olympic Games with 49 other teens from Sichuan Province for a week-long camp sponsored by the Beijing Organizing Committee for the Games (BOCOG). For many of the children, including Man Ye, this trip was their first time on a plane, their first time to the capital, their first time away from home.

That home is a place the world came to know in May when a devastating earthquake killed nearly 70,000 people and injured hundreds of thousands more.

For Man Ye, home is no longer the place she once knew. As a young girl, she lost her parents, and had been living with her grandmother. But in the aftermath of the earthquake, she lost her grandmother, too. Now she is looked after by a variety of teachers and distant relatives.

Beijing students reach out
Shortly after the earthquake, the students of Beijing's No. 4 Middle School wrote a letter asking how they could help the people affected by the earthquake, according to Wang Hui of BOCOG. "When they learned that the Sichuan kids were coming to Beijing, they wanted to be a part of it," she said.

Each Sichuan student was paired up with a Beijing student for a week of exchange, fun and maybe some healing.

Man Ye was partnered with 15-year-old Beijing student Ding Yi Ru. And as early as day one of their friendship, Yi Ru's face glowed with pride and compassion. The taller of the two, her arm was draped around the shoulder of little Man Ye.

"We are new friends and we want to spend some time learning about each other,"  said Yi Ru. "We're going to enjoy the next five days together."

No ordinary camp
Urban camp life in Beijing meant dorm-living, bunk-beds and cafeteria meals of dumplings, vegetables and rice. Boys and girls still segregate themselves at the lunch tables at this age, but the spirit of the group of 100 was anything but divided.

The Beijing students were easy hosts, caring and constant companions to their new Sichuan friends. All week long, they piled into buses in matching Olympic shirts and visors. Together, they explored Beijing through visits to iconic places – Tiananmen Square, the Great Wall, and other museums.

At the serene Summer Palace, they were given the freedom to roam slowly along cool paths beneath ornate archways. They splintered off into groups large and small, and while some students were more reserved, for Man Ye and Yi Ru, there was non-stop conversation for five days.

Yi Ru told Man Ye she can't eat spicy food, like they do in Sichuan.  "But if you come to Sichuan, I'll make dishes for you that are not spicy," Man Ye responded.

The conversation jumped from topic to topic throughout the week as they window shopped, ate ice cream and played in an arcade. It didn't even stop while they took in some of the Olympic Games.

Perched high above the Olympic basketball court, and in the Bird's Nest stadium for track & field, it was clear they had become real friends.

As they clapped inflatable sticks together in unison with thousands of fans they couldn't stop laughing. Man Ye joked with Yi Ru – who playfully swatted the back of her head.

They both knew that within hours, Man Ye and the 49 students and 15 chaperones from Sichuan would have to pack-up, board buses to the train station and leave for home.

Stephanie Himango / NBC News

Su Man Ye visits Beijing from her home in Sichuan which was devasted by an earthquake in May.

Facing life with courage
While Man Ye packed her suitcase, Yi Ru reflected on her new friend, who had lost all of her immediate relatives and her home. "Man Ye is very strong, after all she has been through. She has taught me a lot of things, such as how to face life with courage," she said. "I have learned a lot from her."

"Something huge happened to her, and it's such a sad thing. But she still manages to keep an optimistic, positive and unbeaten outlook without showing any sign of stress or sadness," added Yi Ru.

While it was evident that Man Ye's courage had made an impact on Yi Ru, Yi Ru had also touched Man Ye's life. 

"She always takes care of me," said Man Ye, "like an older sister. Usually, we just play with each other, running around, jumping up and down. It is fun. The friendship with her? I feel really happy to know her. I have a great friend from Beijing."

She said when she gets back to Sichuan, she will call her new friends and tell them that she is safe, then she'll tell people at home how nice Beijing is.

Her mood turned faintly somber as she realized she was about to leave, and her ever stoic demeanor wavered ever so slightly.

"I am going to miss it here," she said. "When I first got here, I missed home. But now it's time to go, and I can't stand to leave. I don't want to go back home,"  she said. Her eyes blinked fast for a moment to clear the tears that were welling up in them, and she swallowed to hold back a cry.  

Moments later, the girls were walking away side by side toward the bus. Yi Ru was pulling Man Ye's suitcase along with one hand, while her other hand rested on Man Ye's backpack. 

They didn't hug goodbye. Some of the other teens were embracing and wiping tears from their sad wet cheeks. Some already on the bus sat with their heads down, and their red eyes and tears were visible through the tinted glass.

In the commotion of departure, Man Ye climbed quickly up the stairs of the bus and turned to wave goodbye to Yi Ru. She waved back with the same optimism they both carried all week.

But when Man Ye turned away, Yi Ru's smile was less bright, and her body caved a little as she let out a sad, longing sigh.

Here's the riddle: If you order out for Chinese food in the U.S., what do people in China go out for?

The answer: Sichuanese, Yunnanese, Shanghainese, Xinjaing, Hakka, Cantonese, Hot Pot, and the list goes on.

Every region of China has its own style of cuisine featuring local ingredients and tastes. And it doesn't all involve a wok or rice.

Maria Alcon / NBC News

A chef prepares Beijing's famous Peking Duck.

In big cities like Beijing of course, all regions of the country are represented, and so is their food.

Here's a breakdown on just a few of the varied foods of China's 22 provinces that we had the opportunity to sample on assignment in Beijing. (And our apologies if this makes you hungry).

Beijing
In general, the Northern Chinese staples are noodles and breads – called Mantou, which are steamed or baked in small thin loaves. Wheat grows more readily in the north of China, therefore the abundance of wheat based items.

The predominant flavorings in Beijing food are garlic and vinegar. Dumplings are almost always boiled, not pan fried (those are in Shanghai). And no matter where you are, the dumplings get dipped in vinegar, not soy sauce. Vegetables are often marinated in vinegar and garlic, and lotus buds – mildly flavored and slightly crunchy – are ubiquitous in vegetable stir fries.

Of course, Beijing is also home to perhaps China's most famous delicacy, Peking Duck.

Peking is the original name given to Beijing by the West, and this dish dates back to the Yuan dynasty.

Typically when Peking Duck is prepared, the skins of the ducks are separated from the meat; the duck's then given a quick dip in boiling water and hung to dry to allow the skin to crisp. It's then roasted in a fire, carved at the table and eaten traditionally in three stages – first, the skin is wrapped in thin flour pancakes along with spring onions and hoisin sauce, then the meat is stir fried with vegetables, and finally the carcass is boiled into a milky broth to finish the meal. Delicious everytime.

John Cheang / NBC News Producer

Xinjiang hand cut mutton noodles in a rich sauce made of chives,local sweet peppers and garlic.  Absolutely mouthwatering.

Shanghai
This coastal city is known for its lighter, sweet taste compared to the capital. While in Beijing you are likely to get a cucumber salad with garlic, in Shanghai, you'll get your cucumbers with a bit of sugar. One famous Shanghai treat is "nan xiang xiao long" or soup dumplings – tiny steamed pork buns with a slurp of soupy cooking juices inside.

Another popular Shanghai method of cooking is marinating raw foods in sweet wine and vinegar – "drunken" shrimp and crab are particular favorites.

Sichuan
Yes, it's spicy. But Sichuan food isn't just all about setting your mouth on fire. Good Sichuan food allows the flavor of the ingredients to shine through a veneer of spice.

Eating a good Sichuan meal will open your eyes (and taste buds) to a much wider range of spice and flavors than you ever thought possible.

Dishes are laden with Sichuan peppercorns, which tingle and slightly numb your mouth. Cold steamed chicken is dressed with a mellow hot sauce that slowly warms the mouth.

And vegetables are cooked with a couple whole peppers to give them just a slight kick.

Sichuan is also the home of two dishes commonly seen on your local Chinese restaurant's menu – Kung Pao Chicken and Ma Po Tofu.

Maria Alcon / NBC News

NBC News' Titi Yu samples some Hot Pot.

Yunnan
Yunnan province is in the far southwest of China – bordering Myanmar, Thailand and Vietnam – and the food reflects the shared geography. Here you'll find your meats steamed or grilled and the flavorings draw heavily from the wide variety of herbs that grown in the more tropical climate.

One of the region's most famous dishes is called "crossing the bridge noodles," which like many Chinese dishes, comes with a story. As the tale goes – a scholar was studying across the river from the village where he lived. His wife wanted to bring him a warm meal each day, but struggled because it would get cold by the time she crossed the bridge to his school. So she developed a way of topping soup with a thin layer of flavored oil which sealed in the heat of the broth below. The warm dish of noodle is still widely eaten to this day.

Mushrooms also grow abundantly in this warm, moist, mountainous region and when in season, simple sautéed or steamed mushroom dishes are a regional treat. Another specialty here – short grain glutinous rice (think super sticky sushi rice) steamed inside bamboo. The result is a savory sweet treat.

AJ Goodwin / NBC News

The exterior of a Xingjang restaurant in Beijing has Islamic writing reflecting the Muslim background of Uighur population that dominates the region.

Xinjiang
This province lays in far north western China, home to China's minority Uighur population. Uighurs are Muslim and more closely related to people in Turkmenistan or Uzbekistan than the majority Han Chinese – hence their food reflects their cultural preferences.

While much of China relies heavily on pork, which is forbidden in Islamic cultures, lamb is the protein of choice in Xinjiang. Most meats are grilled, often on Kebab-style skewers. Hot peppers also grow well in the hot dry north, so the food tends to have some spice. But the peppers are served fresh and sliced, while in Sichuan they tend to be dried and crushed into sauces.

Being in the north of the country, bread and noodles are the staples of choice. But once again, they have a unique regional twist. Sesame breads are cooked over hot coals and basted in lamb drippings and noodles are often cooked with hot peppers and mutton.

Although, the region is not just all about spicy lamb, Xinjiang is also famous for its grapes and abundant watermelons.

AJ Goodwin / NBC News

A chef prepares Kebab-style skewers that are a staple in Xinjang restaurants.

Cantonese
Best known to American palates because most of the settled Chinese diaspora in the West comes from this southern Chinese region, Cantonese food could be mistakenly construed as bland, as very few spices are used in Cantonese cooking. The main flavors are usually derived from soy sauce, sugar and wine, with top notes of green onion and cilantro. Garlic is used occasionally, but never to an overpowering effect.

The Cantonese live up to the saying "if it's got four legs and it isn't a table or a chair, the Cantonese will eat it," but a seafood diet is mostly the norm. Fresh fish, oftentimes pulled out of the sea or fish tanks – will be steamed lightly with green onion and cilantro, with hot oil drizzled over the finished product to create a glaze and sizzle. Shellfish such as shrimp and crab are dunked in boiling water and eaten with dipping sauces – blends of soy, sesame and sometimes vinegar.

Canton is also the region where barbecued items dominate – marinated pork, duck and goose are slowly roasted in dry hot ovens until the meat is meltingly tender and the skin brown and crisp, with drippings which marry well with white rice. (The Chinese are not fond of brown rice – it's too rough and the husks of the rice contribute an unfamiliar flavor).

Another favorite Cantonese nibble is dim sum – where a variety of dumplings, buns, and raviolis steamed in rice wrappers are wheeled around restaurants – diners merely point to what they want, and families gather at these meals for hours on the weekends.

Hakka
The Hakka are the original "boat people" of southern China, with influences both from the Cantonese and the Fujianese, so it's no surprise that seafood dishes excel. Fish marinated in a sauce of soy and sugar and baked in tinfoil – en papillote –is a signature dish.

The Hakka enjoy roasting items in crocks of salt – shrimp and chicken are done this way to exquisite results. Their method of braising pork belly in soy and sugar along with brined kale yields the most mouth watering tender pork that is devoid of any grease, yet bursting with flavor.

Fried stuffed tofu (with minced seafood or vegetables) is often served with a yellow bean stew and eaten with white rice. The Fujianese influence is apparent in the Hakka "three cup duck" – as opposed to the Fujianese "three cup chicken" – where the fowl is cooked in equal portions of soy sauce, sugar and wine to create mouth watering results.

Hot Pot 
Hot Pot, Shabu Shabu, Chinese Fondue, call it what you like… from what we could see, it's all the rage in Beijing. It consists of raw veggies, meats and tofu brought to your table to be cooked in a flavored broth. There are different versions from various regions – from fire-hot in Sichuan to meaty and savory in Inner Mongolia. But it seems everywhere we looked in the hot August heat, there were restaurants full of big groups of diners gathered around steaming caldrons.

Chinese banquet 
An everyday meal in China includes some variety of noodles or rice and a meat with vegetable. But anytime a group gathers around a table – whether it's a very special event or a Tuesday family night out – there's an expected symmetry in the dishes ordered. A nice group meal will include cold dishes along with hot, a fish, a land animal and a fowl, several vegetables and a soup.

For a truly formal meal, rice is often not ordered at all, or only brought at the end. Rice is seen as an extra filler that, if an extravagant meal has been complete, is not necessary.

So if you didn't make it to Beijing for the Olympic Games, you now have a new excuse – come to get a taste of China's diverse culinary treats all in one place.

By Ian Williams, NBC News Correspondent

GUANGDONG, China – Once the Olympic party is over, is China heading for an economic hangover?

Ben Schwall, for one, thinks the headache is already setting in for the country's seemingly unstoppable export machine.

"If you are a factory owner here, it's not like you're being kicked around. Somebody has hit you over the head with a baseball bat," he said.

VIDEO: Is China's boom about to go bust?

I met Schwall on a recent visit to the southern Chinese province of Guangdong, where he buys decorative lights for a string of U.S. retailers. "It's the perfect storm," he told me. "You've got a drop in demand. Business stinks. At the same time prices are going up."

The "perfect storm" is being caused by the soaring price of oil and other raw materials, spiraling labor costs, and the appreciation in the value of China's currency against the U.S. dollar, as well as a sharp down turn in demand as the U.S. faces possible recession.

Factories are closing right across the region where China's export boom began, with the most pain being felt at the low end – lighting and shoe factories, for instance. One of the few businesses still booming is scrap metal, teams clearing the remains of shuttered production lines.

Dong Tao, the Chief Asia Economist at Credit Swisse, just across the border in Hong Kong, calls it the end on an era of ultra-cheap Chinese exports.

"We expect that in the next three years, one third of Guangdong's manufacturing export factories will be closed down," he told me.

There are tens of thousands of factories here. If China is the workshop of the world, then this is its engine. A third of China's exports come from Guangdong, feeding the world's insatiable appetite for everything from shoes to lights to electronic goods.

"The entire world had the impression that the happy party of very cheap Chinese goods could last forever," Dong said. "I thought that. But I think perhaps its coming to an end."

The oil price affects the cost of production, but also the cost of shipping raw materials to China and then shipping the finished product to the U.S.

Cheap labor drying up
China's limitless supply of young cheap labor seems to be drying up too. The minimum wage in Guangdong has doubled in three years, and now stands at around $120 a month. With overtime, workers are taking home more than $200 a month.

The one-child policy is beginning to slow the supply of nimble-fingered young women, favored by the factories. And the new generation of migrant workers from the countryside are more choosy about work – and more savvy.

At one big street side labor market, young migrants work their mobile phones, comparing wage rates between factories. A new labor law has given them more muscle, especially since – to the consternation of factory owners – the government seems determined to enforce it.

Labor turnover is running as high as 75 percent annually at some factories.

Many of the factories in this region are owned by Hong Kong and Taiwan entrepreneurs. Men like Philip Cheng, whose company, Strategic Sports, is one of the biggest manufactures of crash helmets, bemoan the sharp downturn. "We don't have any profit now. No profit!" he told me, as helmets snaked along on the conveyor belt behind him, workers pasting on the visors. "The days of cheap labor have gone. No cheap labor. OK?"

Down the road, Dongguan Shan Hsing Lighting has just moved into a new factory, but is now operating at fifty percent capacity. It's been hit by the crisis in the U.S. housing market, its biggest customer. The company's president, Tim Hsu, said profits have dried up.

"With constantly rising prices, we have to raise our quotes to survive. American consumers will have to pay higher prices," he said.

Dong at Credit Swisse agreed."Watch out," he said, "the prices in Wal-Mart, Home Depot, Motorola, they're going up."

Other factories are chasing lower labor costs elsewhere. Dong told me forty percent of factories he surveyed recently are looking to move – either to inland China, where costs are less, or out of the country.

Cheng of Strategic Sports is looking at Vietnam, where labor costs are now around half of those of China; Schwall, the lighting buyer, is planning a visit to India.

For Schwall, there's another headache. His company, Aliya Intenational, also monitors quality, making sure manufacturers aren't cutting corners in the production process or using sub-standard or dangerous materials, a task made all the more important following last year's spate of product recalls.

He said that even before the latest surge in costs, factories were operating on wafer-thin profit margins, and now some may be more tempted to take short cuts as a way of cutting costs.

"The devil is everywhere," he told me as he examined the fittings on an elaborate chandelier he'd plucked from a busy production line. "And of course there is temptation."

He said he feels much happier when the factories he's dealing with are at least making some money, since the temptation to cut corners then is not as great.

All of which begs the question of what this means for China Inc. The pain seems most acute in the export manufacturing heartlands of the south, and doesn't appear to have yet dented China's overall growth rate, which remains above 10 percent – though many economists are skeptical about the accuracy of the official figures.

The Chinese media has carried stories pointing to a slowdown, but they have tended to follow the official line of keeping bad news off the presses during the Olympic Games. Officials in Guangdong have also played it down, describing the closures as just a normal transition away from low-end production, of the kind that took place in Taiwan, Korea or Japan. Which may well be good in the long term.

The problem is the meltdown is happening so quickly. The head of the Hong Kong Small and Medium Enterprise Association, whose members are big investors, warned in late June that 20,000 of the 70,000 Hong Kong-owned factories in Guangdong could close this year. He said the region is no longer competitive.

Economic ups and downs are not new to the rest of the world, but China has known little but boom for nearly thirty years. Breakneck double digit growth has become the norm. No other major economy has grown like China over that period.

Moreover, China's communist leaders, presiding over one of the world's most rapacious capitalist economies, have traded on their ability to deliver economic growth to dampen demands for political change.

The massive Olympic rebuilding – with its $40 billion price tag – also provided an economic stimulus, which will soon be over. The Games have given a big "feel good" lift to Chinese, about what they've achieved and where they are going.

This, and the seemingly unstoppable boom, have set expectations very high about the future, which could make a post-Olympic economic slowdown all the more difficult to manage.

At least twice a week, Wu Ying goes to a local gym in western Beijing to work out.  She joins a group of girlfriends and the occasional guy, and for a couple of hours they train with a dance instructor in a glass-walled room surrounded by treadmills and step machines. 

The whole scene – some 20-odd people working up a sweat to the insistent beat of hip-hop, under dim fluorescent lights – would be unremarkable if not for the fact that Wu is 70 years old.

Wu, aka China's pre-eminent Hip-Hop Granny, is a nimble Beijing native with an expressive face and elastic body. She has been performing hip-hop routines since 2003 when she saw the first National Hip-Hop Dancing Competition on Chinese television. 

Adrienne Mong / NBC News

A poster advertising a performance by the Hip-Hop Grannies.

"The competitors were all young people, wearing headscarves, headdresses, hats, and various clothes," recounted Wu, a retired accountant who was 66 at the time.  "I thought that was very fresh."

Inspired by "the look they had in their eyes, the way they moved their fingers, heads and bodies," Wu thought hip-hop dancing would be perfect for herself and China's aged and infirm. 

"The elderly don't like to move too much," she added. (She's right. Even though legions of elderly Chinese can be seen exercising in city parks across the country at dawn and dusk, they tend to favor slower-tempo activities like Tai Chi or ballroom dances such as waltzing.)

Wu set out to learn hip-hop dancing at a local gym and to study whatever she could about the activity.  She also began looking to put together a five-member troupe to promote hip-hop dancing by touring the country and by performing on Chinese TV.

But not many other Chinese pensioners thought the same as Wu, who scoured Beijing high and low, targeting parks, community centres, and schools for continuing education.

"[People] said, 'Hip-hop? What is hip-hop? Is that a sport for you? Hip-hop is merely for young people. How old are you? You are 66 and you want to dance hip-hop? Don't be ridiculous!'" laughed Wu as she described people's initial reaction to her idea. Even her own daughter was embarrassed by the thought of a hip-hop mom and scoffed at the notion, provoking a rift between them that lasted days.

Eventually, Wu found four other women willing to try out, and they formed a team in February 2004.  Six months and many rehearsals later, the Hip-Hop Granny Dance Team made its debut at the Beijing qualifier for the National Hip-Hop Dancing Competition.

Adrienne Mong / NBC News

70-year-old Wu Ying takes a weekly hip-hop dance class to learn new moves.

The Grannies – whose average age was 60 at the time – faced off people several decades younger. "They were professionals," Wu said.  "We seniors didn't know much so we were very nervous."  But their daily rehearsal routines paid off; the women walked off with third prize. 

They haven't looked back since, garnering further prizes and accolades every year.  Moreover, Wu's 48-year-old daughter, Guo Zhe, now appreciates her mother's dancing and even occasionally joins in.

The Hip-Hop Grannies have also drawn many more members. Over the years, they've attracted at least 1,000 different women. 

Among them is a 74-year-old who just began learning – she's the oldest member.

And there is the odd man who tries it out. But in the same period, the group has only attracted five men. 

Wu shrugged when asked why so few men participate.  "They don't like to move so much at that age?" she speculated.

VIDEO: Meet the hip hop grannies

The physical health payoff from dancing hip-hop might appear obvious, but some of the members raved about the mental benefits.

Liu Jian Zhu, a 59-year-old former pharmacist with the Chinese air force, said dancing hip-hop has been "a breakthrough" for her.

"Since I was in the military, my life had been required to be serious and intense," Liu explained. "It has really changed my life and personality."

Wen Di, 55, used to work as a railroad construction technician, but after retiring just last year she wanted to find something to fill what she called the emptiness in her life.

"I saw Wu's dancing on TV and thought that it was very inspiring," she said, eagerly demonstrating some impressive hip-hop moves for us.

It might be a bad pun, but Wu – who works out for two and a half hours twice a week (more when it's competition season) – is a rejuvenating presence. 

Although she comes from a generation that lived through some of modern China's most tumultuous decades, including the stifling Cultural Revolution era (when western cultural thought and influences were banned), her optimism is refreshing.

"We represent a new image, a new fashion for Chinese grandmothers," said Wu.  "We develop with time and connect with the world. We don't just learn our own Chinese culture. We learn cultures from other countries to enrich ourselves and our lives to lead a more colorful and high-quality life."

Wu said she plans to dance for as long as she physically can, adding that, "I think that dancing hip-hop has made me younger, happier, [and] improved my memory."

Perhaps the only drawback is that with the stress of competition her shoulder-length hair has finally succumbed to age. "It turned grey when we began entering competitions," she said, rolling her eyes in mock frustration.  "I only just started coloring it in the past couple of years!"

It went down to the wire.  Would he or wouldn't he resign?

When President Pervez Musharraf announced his resignation mid-way into his one-hour address to the Pakistani nation today, the news came as a shock to many aides, pundits and journalists who were expecting him to resign only after fighting the charges against him.  Musharraf had been under immense pressure from the newly elected coalition government to either resign or face impeachment charges for gross misconduct and violations of the constitution during his nine years of absolute military rule.

Anjum Naveed / AP

A Pakistani salesman listens to President Pervez Musharraf's resignation speech at an electronic shop in Islamabad, Pakistan, on Monday.

Dressed in a dark gray suit and striped blue tie, the Pakistani leader began his speech in a defiant mood, reminding the nation of his accomplishments, but then abruptly changed to a more emotional tone. He said he had wanted reconciliation with his political opponents but they had opted for confrontation.

"It is not the time for more confrontation in Pakistan," Musharraf said, adding that he had always put the interests of the country over his own.

"In the interest of the nation, I resign from my post today," he said. "I do not want anything from anyone, nothing from anyone."

His speech was not scripted; there were no advance copies; Musharraf spoke extemporaneously from just a few notes.

The end of an ordeal
There were immediate pockets of celebrations in Islamabad, the capital, from his political opponents and from the lawyers who Musharraf had dismissed last year and who had spearheaded the civil society in a campaign to force his ouster. But overall the mood was one of relief that the long ordeal was finally over.

VIDEO: Pakistan reacts to Musharraf's resignation

Pakistan has gone thru a very destabilizing period for more than 18 months, during which Musharraf dismissed the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, fired 60 judges and declared emergency rule.  He then eventually resigned as chief of the army but held on to his other post as President of Pakistan.

His refusal to resign as president paralyzed the fragile coalition government and he became their sole issue to fight over. The real issues like a failing economy, soaring inflation, crippling power outages and a civil war with Islamic militants raging inside Pakistan's border areas were all put on the back burner.

Rumors had been swirling for days that he would step down as part of a deal brokered by the Saudis, the U.S. and Britain, all of whom leaned heavily on the coalition government to give him amnesty and let him leave with dignity.

In a surprise move, many local channels had backed off early this morning from reports that Musharraf would resign as the news surfaced, and that he would address the nation to refute allegations against him and to dampen rumors of his impending departure.

His spokesman, Rashid Quereshi, even went on local television an hour before the speech was to begin and issued a denial of any resignation.

Musharraf's speech was scheduled just hours before the government was to introduce impeachment charges to the Parliament. Had that process begun, the country would have entered into uncharted waters since there has never been an impeachment process in Pakistan's 61-year history.  The move would have brought the government to a standstill for months and dragged it deeper into crisis.

In his speech, Musharraf said he did not want to harm Pakistan.  He admiteed to making mistakes along the way but in the end he said whatever he did he did for the people and for the country.

"I hope the nation and the people will forgive my mistakes," he said.

And with clenched fists held high, ever the commando at heart, Musharraf said, "Long live Pakistan," and left the stage.

The Musharraf era had come to an end.

 

By Ian Williams, NBC News Correspondent

MIANZHU, Sichuan Province, China – I sat with Alex Qiang in a sunny square in his home town of Nanjing, a few days before the Olympics.

Wearing a cloth cap and ponytail, the 27-year-old was cradling an iced coffee and looked every bit a child of the new China. His resume also looked the part: having studied urban planning in the Netherlands and worked in Hong Kong, he also has an apartment in the sought-after Mid-Levels area of Hong Kong Island.

But he told me he'd now quit the Hong Kong job and had been visiting his old professors at the architecture department of Nanjing University to persuade them to get involved in re-building in the Sichuan earthquake zone, to which he was preparing to return.

VIDEO: China's youth finds purpose in quake recovery

"I am going to go back and see what else I can do to help. I'm keeping in touch with all the guys down there, all the volunteers," he told me.

Alex was one of an army of young volunteers who'd flocked to Sichuan soon after the May 12 quake struck, and he was part of a group I'd followed for Nightly News.

His generation, often called the Ba-Ling-Hou (the after-1980s generation), is frequently ridiculed by older Chinese. They are the one-child generation, born under China's one-child policy, often spoiled by their parents and sometimes called the "Little Emperors."

"People consider this generation to be self-centered, westernized and lacking a sense of responsibility," according to Fang Ning of the Chinese Academy of Sciences.

But they seem to have found a voice and mission in the rubble of the quake – for many it was a sort of coming of age, tinged with nationalist sentiment.

I'd first met Alex in a small village near Mianzhu in Sichuan. There wasn't much of the village left standing, and Alex was one of a group of young volunteers who had gathered in the village. They lived in tents and helped distribute basic supplies to the quake survivors. Others played with the children, trying to raise their spirits.

Along with Alex, I'd also met Woo Jian Xia, 27, a marketing executive with a big property company in the southern boomtown of Shenzhen. He fiddled with his iPhone, as he told me he'd persuaded his employer to allow him a month's leave to come to Sichuan. He said he felt he needed to come. "Young people are really standing up now," he told me.

"I just felt I had to come," Alex had said when we first met. "I think the earthquake is not only a tragedy, but an opportunity for us to grow up."

That was echoed by Ling Yenmei, a teacher from Xian. She's told her parents she was going on a business trip because she thought they would be frightened if she'd said she was going to the quake zone. Now, she told me, they were proud of her.

"I've seen so many things I've never seen in my 26 years of life," she said as she danced in a circle with children under the shade of the trees.

'They opened the door a little'
The Chinese media estimated that a quarter of a million volunteers, most of them youngsters, travelled to the quake zone in the days after the disaster struck, many with only the vaguest idea of how they would help – or even where they'd go.

As a generation they have grasped the new economic and social freedoms in China. Many have made a conscious decision to steer away from politics, having seen what happened to their parents, a significant number of whom couldn't even go to school during the Cultural Revolution. To many the crushing of the Tiananmen Square protests was another lesson – to keep their head down and make money.

But after finding their mission through the rubble of the quake, now a bigger question is what difference this explosion of youth activism might make for China. NGOs, who played a role in organizing some of the volunteers, told me the authorities were ambivalent when they first arrived in Sichuan. The Chinese government has a deeply engrained suspicion of non-government organizations, but seems to have quickly decided the needs were so big, any help should be allowed.

"They opened the door a little," one NGO organizer told me, "and we all barged through. It is difficult to see how they close it again."

That may be optimistic. Much of the openness that followed the quake, particularly toward the media, has now gone – especially when it comes to awkward questions about the state of school buildings, so many of which collapsed during the quake.

Jian Xia is now back in Shenzhen, where he has persuaded his employer to sponsor a school and a hospital as part of the rebuilding effort. The last time I saw Yenmei, she was still working with the kids; and of course Alex is plotting his own return trip.

"Openness is good," Alex told me. "The 1980s generation wants to see more openness – and this was a good chance for us and the government to think about this."

As political rivals China and Chinese Taipei – the name Taiwan competes under in the Olympics – stepped up to the plate Friday, the Olympic gods must have smiled down on the contentious game. After causing havoc Thursday, thunderous storms subsided, giving way to a hot, sunny, blue skies summer day. The players seemed to enjoy the weather so much they didn't want to stop playing – all the way into extra innings.

Medals were not at stake during Friday's matchup, but national pride was.

China considers Taiwan, a democratically governed island nation of 23 million, a breakaway province that must accept eventual reunification with the mainland. The issue of independence led China to boycott the Olympics for years, but the countries have enjoyed a recent thaw in relations amid a Beijing-led effort to act as "one big family" at the Games.

The Taiwanese are wild about baseball – so much so that they consider it their national sport – and were heavily favored to win Friday's game.

Petra Cahill/ msnbc.com

Zhou Yuchao, a Chinese Taipei fan, cheers for his team against China, at the Beijing 2008 Olympic Games, on Friday.

Baseball is still a relatively new sport to China. The Chinese baseball team never competed in the Olympics before this year - it was automatically awarded a chance to compete because Beijing is hosting the games.

"Chinese Taipei is stronger than China in baseball, but in other ways in the future, we have no idea," Hou Yalin jokingly said. But her younger brother, Hou Chang Chung, dismissed any political rivalry spilling onto the baseball field, saying, "We are here just to enjoy the game. It's just like a normal situation – Taiwan should win."

The Hous - sister Yalin, and brothers Chang Chung, and Cheng Lung -- all in their thirties -- came from Taiwan to Beijing specifically to cheer on their baseball team and were confident they'd handily beat China.

Amiable atmosphere
Before the first pitch, the spectator seats were full of eager fans for both sides. The Chinese Taipei fans stood out with red, white and blue baseball caps and shirts emblazoned with Chinese Taipei or the initials "CT." Many were also waving the Chinese Taipei Olympic flag, while the Chinese waved their signature red flag.

The crowd was amiable with big cheers from both sides punctuated by the loud bangs of striking thundersticks.

When Chinese fan Wang Shaohue was asked about the potential political rivalry between the two teams he simply said, "It's a friendly game." His wife, Dai Ming, quickly added, "We're all family."

In the lead-up to the Olympics, China has taken a softer line towards the island nation and has tried to roll out the welcome mat. But as far as many in the independent Taiwan are concerned, they are not all family.

When Chiang Kai-shek and his Nationalist Party lost the civil war against Mao Zedong and his Communist Party in 1949, they fled to Taiwan and established their government there – thus creating the schism between island and mainland that persists to this day.

How the country is recognized in the international venue of the Olympics has been an issue ever since. During the Cold War, China's Communist leaders demanded that the International Olympic Committee banish Taiwan from competition. But when the IOC refused, partly due to strong backing of Taiwan from the United States, China withdrew from the committee in 1958 and stopped participating in subsequent Olympic Games.

China's self-imposed exile lasted until 1979, at which point all parties agreed on the terminology for Taiwan during the Olympics: Chinese Taipei. They also designated a special Olympic flag that Chinese Taipei could fly during the games.

The 1984 Games in Los Angeles were the first to see the return of Chinese athletes as well as those from Taiwan.

Wally Santana / AP

Fans in Tapei, Taiwan, cheer as they watch the televised Olympic baseball game between Taiwan and China, on Friday.

Improved ties
Relations have improved between the two sides of late as a result of China's efforts to be a good neighbor ahead of the games, as well as Taiwan's new President Ma Ying-jeou who has taken a more moderate stance towards Taiwan's independence.

A young Taiwanese woman, Charlotte Wang, 32, who was at the game with her parents said she believes that the Olympics are definitely helping to bridge the gap between Taipei and Beijing. She said that her mother, Mady Wang, 60, has lived her whole life in Taiwan, and has traveled as far as the United States and Europe, but her trip to the Olympics was her first trip to the Chinese mainland. She said her mother had always thought of mainland China as much less developed than Taiwan, but that this trip had helped her change those perceptions.

China's attempts to offer Taiwan a warm embrace to welcome it back to the mainland were on full display at the game as many Chinese fans expressed their team support with cheery plateaus. "I cheer for everyone because the Olympics are one big family," said Zhang Chun Li, a spectator sitting with a group of Chinese fans.

But others still betrayed some lingering sharp edges across the Taiwan Strait.

When one fan not wearing any team affiliation on his shoulder was asked who he was cheering for, he curtly said, "I go for both teams because we are all one country," and walked off before this reporter could get his name.

Whichever team they were cheering for, if the fans were looking for good baseball, the game delivered in a nail biting finish. By the top of the eighth inning, it looked like an easy victory for the Chinese Taipei team which was up 2-0. But the Chinese scored 3 runs in the bottom of the eighth, Taipei tied it up in the top of the ninth and the game went onto 12 innings.

The standoff finally ended after 4 hours and twenty minutes with the Chinese winning by 8 runs to Taipei's 7 – crushing the spirits of the fervent Taiwanese fans for a victory over their mainland rivals this time around.

Related link: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26202903/" target="_blank">Taiwan accepts panda present from China 

When Guo Jingjing and her diving partner Wu Minxia stepped on to the 3-meter diving board last Sunday, a jubilant audience watched with hushed anticipation. A breathless moment… then the two partners dove into the air with a perfect back dive to the thundering applause of their adoring fans.

AFP - Getty Images

Guo Jingjing of China dives during practice at the National Aquatics Center on Aug. 5.Â

The score? Three perfect 10s and it was only the second dive of the competition. The pair went on to win the first gold in diving for China with an effortless 20 points lead.

But it wasn't her graceful somersault or dazzling spins that had the public talking the next day. It was the tiny Tiffany necklace around her neck that had the Chinese blogs abuzz.

On Sina.com's Olympic Blog, Chinese Netizens were busy dissecting the significance of wearing the necklace, apparently a gift from Hong Kong playboy and tycoon Kenneth Fok, who has been linked romantically with Guo.

"Does this mean she'll be married after the gold?" wrote one enthusiastic Netizen. Another blog, in true PerezHilton fashion, posted a blow up picture of the necklace hours after the competition with speculation on the price tag.

The persistent interest in Guo's personal life reflects the changing attitude the Chinese public has toward athletes.

Once seen as property of the country's public collective, now athletes who rake in the gold are encouraged to pursue all the perks that come with stardom – money, fame, and corporate sponsorships. And with it, a new image for the Chinese athlete.

"Before the 1980's people saw athletes as their own family," said China Daily Columnist Raymond Zhou, referring to China's economic rise in the early '80s. "Now people see them as individuals."

In China's past, athletes worked for the glory of the Communist Party. In the new market economy of the $40 billion dollar Olympics, heroes are those who can bring in the cash. "People used to see athletes as folk heroes. Now they are professionally managed celebrities," added Zhou.

Celebrity status, at a price
No one typifies this newly minted celebrity status more so than Guo. Her face has taken over cosmetic counters, billboards and the cover of magazines. Guo Jingjing, is the highest earning female athlete in China. According to Chinese news reports, she earns close to $2.2 million a year. An astonishing amount for a Chinese athlete. With endorsements from McDonald, Coca Cola, Budweiser, and countless cosmetics, snack food companies, Guo trails behind only Yao Ming and Liu Xiang in earnings.

But this celebrity status came with a price for Guo. That she is a brilliant diver and the most recognized female athlete on Team China is unquestionable. But the more medals she won, the more corporate sponsors wanted her face, the more obsessed the public became with her private life.

Rumors of her romantic entanglements began to circulate when she shot to stardom at the Athens Olympics four years ago by winning two gold medals. Her close relationship with teammate Tian Liang, another gold medalist in Athens, set the gossip websites speculating about a secret romance between the two. Although they denied the reports, the pair nevertheless fueled the rumor by appearing at media events together.

She's also been the center of many public antics, like when she referred to an opponent as that "Canadian Fatty" at a press conference and was kicked off the national team for "excessive commercial activities." Coupled with her high profile commercial appearances and tabloids speculating "are they or aren't they?" about her romances – her life reads like the storyline of any Hollywood celebrity.

And as her fame continued to rise by winning four consecutive World Championship titles in a single event, making her the only athlete to accomplish such a feat in the history of diving, the public became even more entranced with her growing relationship with the Hong Kong tycoon Kenneth Fok. The two are dogged by paparazzi wherever they go.

This past May, trouble hit again as the Chinese gossip grapevine dropped a bombshell that Guo was pregnant and would not be competing in the Olympics. The rumor spread quickly until the government's official news channel CCTV stepped in with a report denying it.

Cinching her first gold for China this week definitely helped redeem her in the public eye. She also has the opportunity to win what would be her fourth gold medal this Sunday and solidify her place in China's Olympic record books.

But what happens to her image among the Chinese public if she wins again or loses?

Guess we'll have to check the blogs on Monday.

By Kevin Tibbles, NBC News Correspondent

It is a centuries old, elaborate tradition simply called "the Peking Opera."

Acting, singing (although to the western ear that is debatable), tumbling and all sorts of other sundry stuff makes it an enjoyable, if not incomprehensible, evening. 

So, to be allowed to "suit up" and partake in a production of traditional Chinese theater in Beijing was both a privilege and honor.

VIDEO: A day at the Peking opera

My role? I was to be the "Ocean King" in a production of something no one bothered to tell me.

But, as all the other guys were dressing up like little fish and crustaceans, I was being transformed by the Picasso of the Peking Opera Mr. Lee. 

The make-up job took over an hour and involved several layers of grease paint that made me look like a cross between Gene Simmons and Freddy Krueger. It was an absolutely elaborate affair, and Mr. Lee is a true artisan, everything was done with painstaking detail.
(The pain being all Mr. Lee's, since he was dealing with me.)

In the end it was all topped off with a regal head-dress, lashed onto my head with a series of straps and strings that eventually started to hurt like heck. Why did it hurt?  Because two guys tightened it around my ears like a tourniquet.  (More to come on that later).

 As the Ocean King, I was given a big sword and marched out to the stage for my singing lesson.

Headpiece in place, Tibbles is ready to take to the boards at the Peking Opera.

That lasted precisely one minute, as the vocal coach became so frustrated he threw up his hands and went back to the giggling group of fish and crustaceans in the corner.

Then, finally, I was given a speaking role. 

One word – "Zou!" (Sounds like "Go!" and actually, it means "Go!" too).

The music started, the tumblers tumbled and the fish and crustaceans ran about the stage. 
They all were dressed wonderfully and comported themselves like total theatre pro's. 

Then the Ocean King kind of rolled out, lamely waved his sword about, yelled "Zou!!!" and it was over.

And it wasn't over a moment too soon either, as by that point the thing strapped to my head had cut off all circulation to my skull. I could no longer feel my head. 

But, it was all a great colorful success, and the 12 people watching applauded politely, all the while sniggering under their breath.

In closing, I would like to say "Thanks".... Xiexie (pronounced "shay shay") to everyone at the Opera.

They were gracious and patient and I had a wonderful time – and I have plenty of photos to entertain my family and friends.  

And, I am sure, sooner or later, the circulation will return to my scalp.

By Ian Williams, NBC News Correspondent

SICHUAN, China – It is easy to be seduced by the glitz of the new Beijing, the modern face and the charm offensive turned on for the Olympic Games. But travel 1,300 miles south west of Beijing, and a tragedy is being played out that shows how little some things have changed.

A week before the Olympics opened I travelled to Sichuan province with a Nightly News team, to revisit parents who had lost a child in the May 12 earthquake. It was my third visit there since the quake, which killed 70,000 people.

VIDEO: Parents of quake victims still in shock

It was the deaths of so many children, an estimated 10,000 of them buried under the rubble of their schools, that had triggered scenes of raw grief in the days that followed, as devastated parents searched for their missing child. Their anguish so acute because for most this was the only child they were allowed under China's one child policy.

In the weeks that followed, anguish turned to anger, as parents demanded to know whether shoddy construction was to blame for the collapse of 7,000 classrooms. As I discovered this month, they are still waiting for answers.

As soon as we arrived in Mianzhu we were surrounded by police, demanding to see our documents. "The story's over," they told us, before ordering us to leave, escorting us out past the Fuxian No. 2 Primary School, where 127 children died. The police had sealed the school entrances with ugly gray walls, and painted slogans beside the gate – "Be grateful to the Communist Party."

The story isn't over, though the authorities clearly wish it were; and gratitude towards the communist party is not something widely shared among parents, whom the authorities are now trying to silence - urging them to put the quake behind them and move on.

When we first visited Fuxian school soon after the quake, parents had turned the rubble into a shrine covered with scores of photographs of the children. The police have ordered the photographs removed and, as with schools across the quake zone, the authorities were clearing the debris - and with it, parents feared, any evidence of possible shoddy construction.

It was at Fuxian school that we'd first met Sang Min, standing in silent grief, cradling a photograph of her eleven year old son Feng Junwei, who died under the wreckage of his school. She still keeps his photographs close to her.

"Every time when I miss him, I take his photograph out and talk to him. I know he can't hear, but it makes me feel better," she told me during our most recent visit.

Also at Fuxian, we'd met Yuan Changhui, whose 12-year-old daughter also died. She'd dreamed of being a doctor.

"It took us so many years to bring up our children," she told me. "They disappeared in one moment."

Yuan Changhua also lost her husband, a mineworker, who was buried underground when the mine collapsed during the quake.

The authorities have offered parents compensation - 60,000 Yuan, which is almost $9,000, a lot of money here, but there's a catch: they have to sign an agreement not to protest.

We saw a copy. It reads: "From now on, under the leadership of the party and the government, we will obey the law and maintain social order."

It goes on: "We sincerely appreciate the help and care from the party, government and party."

Both Sang Min and Yuan Changhui have signed. They felt they had no choice.

"They said we had to sign it," Yuan Changhui told me. "What else could we do." Shaking her head, and wiping away tears she said it was "impossible" parents would ever learn the truth about the schools.

At the same time, the authorities have moved to silence local bloggers, who have catalogued the damage to schools, and suggested local corruption may have resulted in corners being cut on construction. One, a school caretaker named Liu Shaokun, travelled the region posting photographs of collapsed schools. He has been arrested and sentenced to one year re-education through labor.

"He's just a volunteer in the quake zone. How much influence does he have?" his wife told me.

Closure
The government has told parents they are allowed to have another child, though most we spoke to said it was much too early to decide.

The last we saw of Sang Min, she was boarding a train from Sichuan for a factory job in southern China. She could no longer wait for answers, and needed an income. The shock that turned to anger had now given way to exhaustion and emptiness.

It's unlikely, though, that the closure officials are demanding of parents will come by government edict.

On Tuesday - the three-month anniversary of the quake - all eyes were on the incredible spectacle of the Beijing Olympics, a world away from the grieving parents of

By Mark Mullen, NBC News Beijing CorrespondentÂ

Beijing's architectural feats -- most notably the Bird's Nest, which has become the structural symbol of the Olympics -- have received a great deal of attention and praise.

But what is not seen in the television pictures, is the almost invisible army of 7,000 migrant workers who built the iconic structure, not to mention all the other spectacular venues. Their contribution is remarkable, although they are often paid little and receive even less recognition. 

In our extensive travels around China, we were very impressed by the men who work with such dignity, and sacrifice so much to provide for their families, who they almost never see. So, more than a year ago, we decided to profile one of the Bird's Nest's migrant workers in the hope that at least one of the vast array of workers would remain nameless no more.

The workers behind the building boom
Of course, gaining access to a migrant worker at the Bird's Nest proved no easy task. We began submitting multiple requests through every local, national and international agency that had any part of the Olympics. Finally, after months and countless faxed interview requests, officials produced for us an executive with the principal construction company building the Bird's Nest. That, of course, was the Chinese bureaucratic way. With good intentions, officials figured that a project as important as the Bird's Nest should have an executive of high caliber speaking about it. I had no luck in trying to explain that it could be a terrific tribute to show the working guys building it.

Ultimately, it didn't matter because we got lucky. During that interview, we happened to meet a great guy on the building site we would come to spend a fair amount of time with over the course of a year: a 34-year-old migrant worker named Zhang Tao'An.

Like many of China's 150 million migrant workers, Zhang comes from a rural Chinese village where farm machines have replaced many men and the jobs which do exist don't pay as much as those in the cities where China is experiencing its explosive building boom.

So, Zhang traveled to Beijing in hopes of making up to $90 a week – joining a transient population of two million migrant workers who staff some 10,000 construction sites, building floor space that if laid out, would be three times the size of Manhattan. 

The migrants live at the work site in aluminum dormitories, sometimes 12 per room. They have no heat or air conditioning and it's helpful to know how to sleep with noise around. The construction sites alongside the dorms usually operate 24/7.

Many of the workers work at least six days a week and have little to no health benefits or legal protection if a bad boss cheats them. Zhang said he had some bad experiences, but that he would keep doing the work.

Despite the difficulties, Zhang's motivation is identical to that of parents everywhere: If his work can somehow make it easier for his son and daughter to attend college and live a better life, then it's worth it, he said. He hopes that the new opportunities available to his children's generation, which were not available to him or his parents, will also help. Though he admitted, he misses his family very much.

With many migrant workers sending home most of their salary, they can afford to see their families only once a year: during Chinese New Year. Over the holiday, the construction sites of this massive country are silenced, and in a reverse migration, more than 100 million workers head home.

Last February, during this year's holiday, Zhang invited us to go home with him. He was excited. With the little money he had scrimped and saved, he went into a local market to buy presents for his family and friends. It is sign of generosity and prosperity to have ample gifts for the folks back home. So, he loaded his sack for the trip.

The next morning, we met him at the bus station, which was filled with workers.
Zhang was wearing his best clothes, including a suit jacket that was ill-fitting and slightly stained. He wanted to look his best for his family.

We boarded the bus with him for the four-hour journey home, but we ran into one of China's worst winter storms on record. Snow and ice covered the highway with numerous accidents stopping traffic for hours. On board, Zhang swapped stories with other workers speaking of good jobs, bad bosses and the reunions with family they were anxiously anticipating.

Eight hours after starting, the bus finally arrived at the depot and we took a quick cab ride to his small village. Jumping out of the cab with a smile on his face, his best clothes and his sack of presents, he set off for the final steps home, eager after so many months to see his family. Our camera was in tow ready to see the warm embrace.

But shortly after arriving, he discovered that it was so late, his entire family had fallen asleep. There would be no reunion tonight. It was a major disappointment, but he just turned to us and smiled. He was just glad to be home.

And he made the most of it. The next morning he had the chance to give the kids their presents and most important – himself. His three children happily played soccer in the courtyard of their traditional Chinese house.

He had a good laugh at our camera crew and me. The temperature outside was about 20 degrees Fahrenheit and like many Chinese who live in the countryside, every door and window in their home was wide open for fresh air. They merrily went about their business with warm weather clothes and pink cheeks. We toughed it out for about three hours of filming before running into our van, cranking on the heat and emerging once again to see the family all smiling at us.

For Zhang the holiday represented a joyous three weeks out of the year when he could enjoy spending time with his family, and in many ways get to know his wife again.

All year, she raises the kids, tends farm fields and looks after his mother – alone. She, like tens of millions of migrant workers' wives, works as hard as her husband. The home villages of migrant workers are easy to spot: they are filled with women, children and seniors. The working age men are in the city; except for during the holiday.

Zhang had an intimate but happy Chinese New Year dinner of dumplings – knowing that soon, the work cycle would continue. We thanked Zhang and his family for graciously inviting us into their home to share the holiday and said goodbye.

How Hwee Young / EPA

Fireworks go off over the National Stadium, known as the Bird's Nest, during the Opening Ceremony of the Beijing 2008 Olympic Games, on Friday.

Another job
We did not see Zhang again until two weeks ago at a construction site several hours from Beijing where his current job is to install insulation. With Beijing shutting down construction for the Olympics, many migrants were forced out of town.  

Zhang knew we might want to interview him a final time before the Olympics, so he wore a nice red polo shirt and khaki pants, looking more like the property owner than one of the workers. It was only moments after the interview that he showed us the reality of his new job.

He gave us a tour of his bedroom, which was located in the concrete shell of the apartment building where he was working. For a mattress, he slept on the same sheets of green insulation that he installs. But in trademark fashion, he showed us this not to complain, but to say "It's better than most other sites where I've worked. It's nice and cool in here."

So the next time you hear about the legendary, hard working Chinese labor force, remember it has a name. It's Zhang Tao'An.

Zhang's biggest motivation remains bettering the prospects of his children, though he did confide one secret wish to us. He said one day he would like to attend an event in the Bird's Nest though he quickly added that he wasn't counting on it.

The sad reality is that many of China's migrant workers know they may never be able to afford or gain access to the very event venues, office buildings and condominiums they construct.

By day, Michael Pettis is a finance professor expounding on monetary matters at China's prestigious Beijing University (known here as Beida).

By night, he's chain-smoking and tending bar at D-22, a vanguard club on the capital's explosive rock music scene.

"Beijing is probably among the five or six most exciting cities in the world for music, and it's all really happened in the last few years," said Pettis, who opened D-22 two years ago in the city's northwestern Haidian district, a sprawling university enclave that is also home to China's Silicon Valley.

Seven years ago, the 50-year-old Pettis was an investment banker on vacation in China.  A long-time specialist in emerging economies, he said he was immediately "blown away by the excitement here."  So much so that he decided to move to China.

Adrienne Mong / NBC News

AV Okubo undergo a sound check before a performance at D-22.

Pettis quickly landed a teaching assignment with Tsinghua University, another top-rated university in Beijing. "The idea was to stay here two years, teaching and learning about China," said Pettis from his perch behind the bar at D-22 one afternoon, as one of seven bands prepared sound checks ahead of their performances later that evening.  "As you can see, that plan didn't quite work out."

Pettis wound up moving to Beida, where he now teaches twice a week. Then, "at 9 p.m., I come here every day," he grinned, gesturing around the club.

The scene
In contrast to its monster local reputation amongst those in the know, D-22 is a tiny venue sandwiched between Chinese restaurants in a strip mall off a main road running through the Wudaokou neighborhood in Haidian.  

Tuesday through Sunday nights, D-22 hosts live gigs featuring punk rock, university bands, experimental noise, acoustic music, jazz, folk, even Beijing Opera.  "There is so much interesting, exciting music being created out there that we can have lives every night, except Monday when we have to rest," said Nevin Domer, the booking manager at D-22.

Adrienne Mong / NBC News

Michael Pettis launched D-22 onto the Beijing music scene in spring 2006.

And despite initial concerns that the Beijing authorities' attempts to clean up the city ahead of the Summer Olympics would extend to shutting down some live music venues, D-22 and a handful of other clubs have stayed open, entertaining loyal crowds of fans.

"What's happening here in Beijing is unique to Beijing," said Berwin Song, a writer for Billboard magazine.  "The most exciting thing about [it] right now is the energy.  Just a crazy force of energy.  I had forgotten that music could have that kind of raw power.  These are bands you can see up close and personal."

What Song describes as an organic growth of music didn't happen overnight.  In fact, it's taken Chinese rock more than two decades to reach this thrilling stage of growth.

In May 1986, a shaggy-haired young man named Cui Jian broke out with a rock ballad called "Nothing to My Name."  Three years later, students demonstrating in Tiananmen Square embraced the song as their theme.  Cui went on to enjoy a long musical career in China hampered only by government officials fearful of rock's rebellious potential.

But apart from Cui and occasional talent like heavy metal band Tang Dynasty, the rock scene in China appeared to languish in the twenty years that followed his initial success.

When Pettis moved to Beijing, he began haunting the local clubs in search of good music.  At the time, however, he said the music scene in China – although full of talent – was largely derivative. 

"The audience really wanted Chinese bands to sound like foreign bands," said Pettis, who also ran a club in New York's East Village during the 1970s and 80s, becoming a fixture in the city's downtown punk arena.

Then around 2003, the former investment banker noticed that the diverse group of highly talented musicians with potential was growing.  "I thought with the right kind of support and the right kind of infrastructure behind them, there was a possibility within five or six years Beijing could have a really exciting music scene."

D-22 opened its doors in May 2006, and within a year, said Pettis, "it was clear that Beijing was going through this massive explosion.  Bands started coming out from everywhere, [and] we started seeing musicians of all kinds."

Adrienne Mong / NBC News

One more sound check for AV Okubo at D-22.

Musicians like Zhang Shouwang, who is the guitarist and lead singer for Carsick Cars, a young trio that comprises arguably one of the country's most exciting underground rock bands.

Zhang, whose main introduction to contemporary music when he was a teenager was the Canto-pop of Hong Kong, said it was hearing the Velvet Underground that prompted him to want to start a band a couple of years ago, "I was so surprised by their sound."

After having been cut off from the rest of the world for decades, suddenly "the Chinese discovered all this avant-garde experimental music at the same time," explained Pettis.  "It's like opening a huge toy store and picking and choosing whatever music you want and mixing with it, playing with it."

Not unlike their counterparts in the arts world, musicians in China experiment with different genres and forms, not hidebound by conventional disciplines.  Zhang, for instance, cites influences as varied as Arnold Schoenberg, Philip Glass or Philip Oakley. In addition to playing guitar for Carsick Cars, he performs with an experimental noise band called White and has written chamber orchestra pieces for the BBC.

Performing with more than one band seems to typify many of the Chinese rock musicians.  The drummer for Carsick Cars, Li Qing, is a self-composed young woman who plays guitar and writes lyrics for another popular rock group called Snapline. 

Another common thread is the apparent absence of politics in the music. "There are definitely lines you don't cross," said Pettis.  "There are things you don't do.  But that sort of pressure [to remain below the censorship radar] might actually make the scene in some ways more interesting."

"A lot of bands are very subtly political," said Song, the Billboard writer.  "Even a band like Carsick Cars, [their music] might not necessarily be saying anything specific, but it is a statement of individuality and being an artist… In the new China…a sense of individual identity is able to be expressed right now.  I think that's what a lot of the music is about."

Carsick Cars' breakout song, "Zhongnanhai," is a catchy, raucous anthem for Chinese youth.  The name references the highly secretive compound housing all of China's state leaders, but it also is the name for a Chinese cigarette brand.  (At D-22, when the band performs the song, listeners toss cigarettes onto the stage.)

"'Zhongnanhai' can mean many things," said Zhang.  "The young generation don't really care about politics anymore… [They] care more about their own stuff."

That "stuff," continued Zhang, is "life around us…We just write songs about our life. The things happening around us or friends... We don't really use music as a tool to tell people our political idea."

Nothing about Zhang's initial appearance suggests he is a force of creative nature on the music scene.  Skinny with an unassuming air, Zhang is a 22-year-old student whose shyness and soft-spoken manner also characterize his fellow band members. Fluent in English, he speaks carefully as though weighing every word.

Even on stage, his presence is low-key.  He plays the guitar with intensity, oblivious it would seem, to the throngs of fans slam-dancing to "Zhongnanhai" or "Rock 'n' Roll Hero."

"We're kind of shy people," said Zhang over a spicy Hunan meal before a performance one night.  "We don't want to watch the audience sometimes.  We really enjoy what the sound [we make] when we perform."

Later, as we sat in a room overlooking the D-22 stage, Zhang laughed when I asked about the meaning of the band's name.  "Carsick Cars," he smiled.  "I don't know. We liked the idea. So many cars in Beijing."

Zhang's understated and somewhat nerdy style is in stark contrast to the man some people call China's Jim Morrison.  When we saw Yuan Bian perform one night at D-22, he was sporting a fedora, tight leather pants, and a frilly silk purple shirt.

Yuan is the frontman for Joyside, which enjoys hamming it up during their live performances, exuding a noisy vigor.  Seven years old, Joyside is one of Beijing's older punk rock bands, and its four band members – though they appear young – like to play up their image of louche, hard-drinking rockers. 

In person, however, they are all quite friendly and approachable – though a little reticent discussing the transformation of Beijing's music scene.  "Financially, we're doing better," said Joyside's bassist¸ Liu Hao, as he took a swig from his bottle of Qingdao beer.  "We get to drink more beer now.  It's free.  We can thank Michael for that."

KHOTAN, Xinjiang Autonomous Region – Across much of China, strangers upon being introduced will ask each other, "Where is your ancestral home?"

Adrienne Mong / NBC News

An Uighur couple in Khotan

But in the far northwestern province of Xinjiang, they ask, "Are you Han Chinese?"

Xinjiang, which means "New Frontier" in Mandarin, is home to China's restive minority Uighur population. It's a remote and rugged region long known for its simmering ethnic tension, an historical antipathy towards the majority Han Chinese, and the occasional outbreak of separatist activism.

And with the Summer Olympics upon us -- an event which Beijing hopes to carry off seamlessly -- Xinjiang's unique population and the potential conflict they could create, have come under heightened scrutiny from central government authorities.

Officials in Kashgar, scene of a bomb attack that killed 16 Chinese policemen this week, have said they've tightened controls on potential troublemakers who might attack the Games.

'The New Frontier'
The Han, or ethnic Chinese, comprise more than 90 percent of China's 1.3 billion population. The rest come from the country's 55 officially recognized ethnic minority groups.

Of these, the Uighurs make up a tiny fraction and number fewer than nine million. The population's relatively small size would be unremarkable were it not for several factors.

One is culture and ethnicity: the Uighurs practice Islam, speak a Turkic language, use an Arabic-based script, and don't look remotely Chinese. Second, they are concentrated in Xinjiang, an autonomous region that is one-sixth of China's territory -- sensitive frontier land that borders Central Asia and brims with the promise of vast oil and mineral riches.

Third, many Uighurs have long resented the expanding Chinese presence, which over the decades has grown so fast that, in fifty years, ethnic Chinese have gone from making up under ten per cent of Xinjiang's overall population to nearly half.

Adrienne Mong / NBC News

In Khotan's main square, one can see statues of Chairman Mao greeting an Uighur, Kurban Tulum, in 1958.

This demographic shift was clear as we travelled around the region recently. On my first trip to Xinjiang in 1994, most of the towns evoked Central Asia with their dusty oases, mosques, low-rise clay houses, colorful open bazaars, and dirt roads. This time, they looked more like Chinese cities: gleaming but nondescript boxy high-rises, paved highways, and cars everywhere.

Moreover, most Han Chinese people we met this time were not migrants to Xinjiang but locally born. And their growing numbers has meant tougher competition for jobs and fewer resources, and, as a result, greater ethnic tension.

In Korla, we encountered a young Uighur man who was about to vacate the house he had called home all his life. The building was built by his grandfather and – along with others on former farmland on the edge of the city – was primed for demolition to make way for a high-rise populated by ethnic Chinese.

The young man, crouched on the dirt next to his 80 year old mother, said life had grown hard for them since they had stopped farming on their land a few years ago. Jobs for people like him, he said, were scarce; when they did find work, it was of the menial, low-paying variety. "Our Chinese is not very good," he explained in heavily-accented Mandarin. "So we can't find good jobs."

Despite a policy of inward investment dubbed "Go West" that was launched eight years ago, many Uighurs say they have not benefited directly from Beijing's development strategy and appear to be languishing on the fringes of Xinjiang's economy – farming or working in cottage industries.

Some Chinese, however, believe the source of the problem isn't economic policy but within Uighurs themselves. One night in Korla, we went to a dinner organized by a fixer – an ethnic Chinese woman, born in Xinjiang, who had helped organize logistics for other foreign journalists. Savvy and clever, she joined in a frank discussion about the opportunity gap between the Han Chinese and the Uighurs, and betrayed some of the local stereotyping.

When one of the guests, an English teacher at an elite local school, observed that there were fewer than ten Uighur students compared to hundreds of ethnic Chinese, she piped up. "Oh, the Uighurs are always complaining about opportunities," she said. "But they are lazy and unmotivated. They don't work hard."

Adrienne Mong / NBC News

Correspondent Ian Williams, cameraman Kyle Eppler, and soundman Simon Ballmer film a standup on the dunes outside Khotan

The income gap amplifies long-simmering ethnic tensions in the province. Like Tibet, China's other troublesome ethnic region, Xinjiang enjoyed intermittent periods of independence and autonomy until 1949, when the Communist government took power in Beijing. The area was declared a Chinese province and, six years later, was deemed "an autonomous region" under the People's Republic of China.

Although there are signs of Islam everywhere – people go to prayer on Fridays and women wear headscarves – mosques are forbidden to broadcast the call to prayer on loudspeaker, imams are vetted by the state, and, according to Nicholas Bequelin of Human Rights Watch, young men must be over the age 18 before they can set foot in a mosque.

"There is a very strict framework for religion in Xinjiang," said Bequelin. "Anything outside of [the state-sanctioned religious system] is considered illegal religious activities [sic] and invites immediate state repression."

VIDEO: China tries to control tense province

Heavy-handed police tactics have increased with the advent of the Summer Olympics; some Chinese analysts have said the key issue here isn't economic or ethnic disparity, but terrorism.

"The main problem of Xinjiang is separatism," said Li Sheng, Dean of China's Borderland History and Geography Research Centre at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. "Terrorist activities, including activities using human rights, sovereignty, and other extreme religious activities, are all parts of the main problem."

Provincial officials this year claim to have uncovered several "terror plots" in Xinjiang and a handful of suspected bomb attacks have been reported, including one this week that killed 16 policemen in Kashgar, near the border with Pakistan.

But many observers discount the terrorism threat, saying it has been hyped up by Chinese authorities in order to justify a sweeping crackdown on Uighurs.

"Since 1998, the Chinese government itself has not documented one terrorist action in Xinjiang," said Bequelin. "They claim to have foiled many plots but there is no hard evidence that there is any kind of Islamic inspired terrorist movement in Xinjiang at the moment."

The real danger, these skeptics argue, is that the worsening economic gap and stepped up repression and censorship over the long run will transform resentment into extremism, driving underground legitimate movements pressing for greater freedoms.

Click here for complete coverage of the Beijing Olympics.

By John Yang, NBC News White House Correspondent

BEIJING--It's not often that the President of the United States finds himself on the periphery of events. But that's where President Bush seems to be at the Beijing Olympics.

With his wife by his side, Bush was just one of about 80 world leaders lining up like so many airline passengers waiting to go through security -- sandwiched in between South Korean President Lee Myung-bak and an anonymous-looking leader -- to shake hands with Chinese President Hu Jin-tao before the welcoming luncheon for the Beijing Olympics in the Great Hall of the People.

Later, as the leaders walked up a grand staircase to lunch, CCTV caught the remarkable shot of a Chinese aide literally steering Bush from a spot slightly behind Hu to the position directly to the Chinese president's left. Bush, already holding Laura Bush's right hand with his left, immediately took Hu's left hand in his right. With his free hand, Hu reached over and affectionately patted the U.S. president's hand.

Mandel Ngan / AFP - Getty Images

President Bush and First Lady Laura Bush greet Chinese President Hu Jintao and his wife Liu Yongqing before a reception at the Great Hall of the People, in Beijing, on Friday.

Tensions
The friendly gestures between the leaders came despite tensions over Bush's speech in Thailand in which he urged Beijing to improve human rights. China responded by saying no-one should interfere with their internal affairs.

At the dedication of the new U.S. Embassy in Beijing – just hours before the luncheon -- Bush lauded China's "grand history," but also used the opportunity to reiterate his concerns.

Calling the U.S.-China relationship "constructive and cooperative," he declared that the United States would "continue to be candid about our belief that all people should have the freedom to say what they think and worship as they choose. We strongly believe societies which allow the free expression of ideas tend to be the most prosperous and the most peaceful. Candor is the most effective -- is most effective where nations have built a relationship of respect and trust."

Baggage dispute
However, that "respect and trust" seemed to be fraying early Friday morning when a dispute over the handling of gear and luggage delayed reporters, White House officials and Secret Service agents in the president's traveling party from deplaning from the press charter for about three hours after it arrived in Beijing.

It turns out it wasn't only the press charter that had difficulties. There were issues about Air Force One, too.

NBC News has learned that there was a similar dispute over who would unload the baggage from the hold of the presidential aircraft. The Chinese insisted they do it rather than the usual practice of Air Force personnel doing it. The White House eventually gave in -- only to be told that there would be a delay because Chinese crews were busy unloading other VIP planes.

The First Family's luggage was not affected; it's transported in the cabin, not the hold, and handled by White House valets.

Later, Bush will address the U.S. Olympic team before the game's Opening Ceremonies--where the president will be a mere spectator.

 

 

 

By Petra Cahill, msnbc.com Editor and Reporter

Beijing is in bloom. Tree saplings line highways leaving the airport. Roses and irises burst from busy rings roads. At Tiananmen Square, hundreds of thousands of flowers make up an elaborate, terraced display of Olympic proportions.

After reading dozens of stories about the stifling levels of smog in Beijing, visitors may be surprised at just how green, and floral, this city is. In fact, more than 40 million flowers have been planted across the city in preparation for the Games set to begin on Friday.

The ancient city's fresh new landscape is intended to "create a harmonious and friendly environment," Wang Sumei, vice director of Beijing Landscape Forestation Bureau, told a press conference at the end of July.

VIDEO: From the medalist's bouquet, above, to parks and highways, Beijing is in bloom.

With over 100 gardens and parks, the capital city has long had a tradition of green space, which has been greatly augmented in the build-up to the games. According to Wang, since Beijing was chosen to host the Olympics in 2001, 24,000 acres of new plants have upped the city's "green coverage" from 36 to 43 percent of the urban center.

'A moment of change'
"I am here enjoying the sunshine, enjoying the green trees and the happy people," said Chen Guotian, 55, an English school teacher who was stretching in Chaoyang Park early Tuesday morning.

The largest park in the city – 790 acres compared with New York's 843 acre Central Park – it will be the site of Beach Volleyball competitions once the games are underway. As such, it has been meticulously manicured and is full of elaborate flower beds, as well as basketball courts and exercise equipment.

By mid-morning, the smog-filled sky cast a haze over the highrise buildings surrounding the park – serving as a reminder that the shady, flower-filled park was a clean, calm respite from the busy city.

An area with nearly two dozen ping pong tables was packed with young and old enjoying a morning of friendly competition while an onlooker practiced Tai Chi.

Petra Cahill/ msnbc.com

Chen Guotian stretches in Chaoyang Park on Aug. 5.

"The Olympics is a moment of change for the Chinese people. The trees are so beautiful, the fresh air, it is a transformation," Guotian said, describing her excitement for the Olympics, and her appreciation of the improvements they brought to her daily life.

"From the airport road to the four rings – it has changed greatly in the last two to three years," said Chen, a lifelong resident of Beijing, referring to the roads that circle Beijing.

Indeed, the roads around Beijing are lined not just with trees and run-of-the-mill marigolds, but with red and yellow irises, deep blue salvia, and pink and white cleome.

Chen said that she and her husband bought an apartment near the park a few years ago so that they could be closer to it and could take more advantage of its benefits. "The environment is very important for old people," she laughed. Admitting that she is not old now, but would be some time in the future.

Beijing's parks are a haven for older people who take advantage of the shady spots to escape the humid summer heat and to socialize and exercise. In a smaller park in the Yayuncun neighborhood, about a dozen older couples were dancing to traditional music Tuesday morning.

Petra Cahill/ msnbc.com

Roadside flowers near Beijing's Chaoyang Park.

Can it last?
Of course, all of the improvements beg the question: What will happen after the games? Water is a major issue and will continue to be one. At a recent news conference regarding Beijing's landscaping and forestry, Qiang Jian, vice director general of Beijing Landscape Forestation Bureau, deferred on questions about irrigation and the fact that using so much water on the plants ran counter to many of the cities goals to conserve water.

"The greenification is very closely related to the irrigating efforts," said Qiang. How the gardens may be maintained after the games was not fully explained.

VIDEO: Parched Beijing diverts rural water supply

Nevertheless, there is one more group of flowers that were specially designed in honor of the games: "The Red Flame" – the name of the bouquet that will be handed to Olympic medalists.

Three years in development, the Red Flame bouquet was created to be easy to handle and small enough that it would not overwhelm or block the view of a small athlete, according to Wang Lianying, President of the Flower Association.

Wang also explained that the bouquet's designers left nothing to chance when it came to numerology – the bouquet features nine red roses ("nine" is a lucky number in China because it rhymes with the word "everlasting" and represents unity) and six of each of the supporting grasses and flowers (apparently the word "six" sounds like the Mandarin word for "success").

And, will the bouquets last? Wang assured the assembled crowd at a recent press conference that the flowers would be refrigerated from the time they are cut until they are arranged – so they will be as fresh as can be. But, floral details aside, I'm guessing that holding "The Red Flame" while receiving an Olympic medal is a memory that lasts forever.

Click here for complete coverage of the Beijing Olympics on msnbc.com

"Are you a Protestant?" the fresh-faced church member, dressed in a blue blouse and crisp pants, greeted me as I walked into the foyer of Beijing's Kuanjie Church, which President Bush will visit on Sunday.  Around her, dozens of other members, dressed in identical uniforms, directed incoming churchgoers - many dressed in white baptismal robes  - into the main chapel. 

After years of reading about China's suppression of religious freedoms, I must admit that I honestly didn't know what to expect. Bowed heads and hushed tones, maybe.  But what I encountered was exuberance.

NBC News

Kuanjie Church members watch as fellow worshippers are baptized at the government-sanctioned church in Beijing on Aug.3.

It was Baptism Day, which only occurs twice a year.  Chinese men, women and children jammed the pews of the main chapel.  Everywhere I looked, beaming faces were mouthing the Chinese verses to "All things bright and beautiful."  One by one, white-robed parishioners were led into a small wading pool and tipped backward to a chorus of prayer and religious songs.

Seeking solace
Li Jian'an, the chief pastor of the church, had a questioning face with eyes that lit up when he spoke about his faith. He said that each baptism adds some 200 new parishioners to the church's ranks. With a broad smile, Pastor Li said that more and more younger Chinese, trying to solve problems they can't solve otherwise, are finding God. Many are seeking solace to alleviate stress in their marriages, jobs, or children's education - problems that sound all too familiar to the Western ear.

Kuanjie Church is one of several Chinese government-sanctioned churches in Beijing. Tucked away off a hutong just north of the Forbidden City, it's an unimposing two-story building, which one would not pay much attention to but for the massive cross on its roof. But come next week Kuanjie will become very well known because it's the one church that President Bush has chosen to worship in during his trip here for the 2008 Olympics. Exciting as this event may be, church officials hint it could be a double-edged sword - as it will raise the church's profile right under the lens of the attentive Chinese government.

Illegal 'house churches'
In China, the right to pray is not frowned upon, but you must do it in the correct place. For many years Christianity was marginalized by China's officially atheist government. The ruling Communist Party requires all religious organizations to register with the state, giving it broad latitude in running the church. Despite that, unauthorized "house churches" - many run out of small living rooms - have sprouted up across the country. The government has repeatedly cracked down on them and hauled their pastors off to labor camps, stating that such worship houses "destabilize the public order." However, after winning their bid for the Games, Beijing officials allotted money to several sanctioned churches so they could revamp their facilities in order to put forward a better face for international visitors.

Although China has repeatedly denied any form of religious oppression, try asking even a state-sanctioned pastor about the issue. Pastor Li has visited the United States only once. He recalled how "loose and carefree" worship was there, where people wear shorts and flip-flops to services and play the guitar. He said he had heard of evangelicalism, but hasn't seen it in action. He intimated that such forms of worship might be something he'd "consider" in the future, but admitted it's a long way off. A Chinese church worships "according to its own feelings and inspiration," he said.

Church numbers swell
Li said he thought that the recent spate of house church arrests stemmed from the jitters the country has over the Olympics - but expects that leniency will come after the Games are over. He doesn't venture as far as to condone the existence of house churches, but feels a strong affinity for them as they all "worship the same God" as he does, and he is happy that they can all "share God's glory and testify to God." He has invited house church worshippers to visit his church and attend his services. In return, he has visited their churches. When asked why there is such a strong need in China for house churches, he said that the low numbers of state-sanctioned churches cannot satisfy the great number of worshippers.

Within the last decade, church attendance numbers have swelled. The World Christian Database estimates there are 70 million Christians in China - a number that includes all the Christian faiths - while China's official estimate hovers at a far lower number of around 21 million. Whatever the true number is, with Bush due to attend Kuanjie this Sunday, Pastor Li might just find a few more people to baptize next time.

NBC News' John Yang will be with President Bush as he visits Kuanjie Church on Sunday. For more on this church and the President's visit to China, tune in to NBC Nightly News on Sunday, Aug. 10.

Click here for complete coverage of the Beijing Olympics

XIAN, China – We walked right into the Terracotta Army exhibit, standing side-by-side with 2,000-year-old relics. Imagine visiting the Constitution and being invited inside the glass.

We filmed, uninterrupted, for three hours. For my on-camera element, what we call the "stand-up," I was given permission to walk among the warriors. The security guard begged, "Very be careful!"

The tour was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. But, the road to get there was a study in Chinese bureaucracy. Here's how it happened:

Dreamstime

Thousands of terra-cotta warriors watch over Qin Shi Huang's mausoleum, in Xian, China.

First try
It sounded like an unforgettable Friday. First-class tickets to Xian, home of the Terracotta Army. One of NBC's best cameramen as our crew.

The exhibit is made up of roughly 8,000 figures, dating back to 210 B.C., that make up what's essentially a clay army. The warriors are considered one of the most significant archeological finds of the 20th century. A family of farmers accidentally unearthed them in 1974, while digging a well, searching for water.

But, after a 5:15 a.m. wake-up, a 30-minute airport shuttle ride, a two-hour flight to Xian, and a one-hour private van to the museum, we hit a roadblock. Her name was Madame Zhou.

Madame Zhou is Assistant to the Section Chief of the Xian Province Relics Bureau (try fitting that on your business card). She was also our government "advocate" – meaning her job was to facilitate NBC News' access to shoot the warriors. On day one, we got access to the museum alright (indeed, the statues are very cool,) but just never got to shoot a frame of video for broadcast.

Not so fast
For nearly five hours, we waited – our gear stacked in the van – as museum and provincial government officials tried to sort out our permits. They shuttled us from one smoke-filled, unventilated room to the next, serving us refreshing glasses of water exclusively available in two temperatures: hot and steaming.

Despite the assurances we received from Madame Zhou while still in Beijing ("Everything is taken care of," and "I guarantee you will be satisfied"), we left empty-handed. An NBC first for all of us.

The museum folks blamed the local government and the local government folks blamed the museum for not completing the application process properly. I even hand-carried the pre-set filming fee all in cash. It didn't matter. Money wasn't the issue. Whatever the problem was, even though it was Friday, apparently, it couldn't be corrected until Monday. Welcome to China's bureaucracy. Here, when it comes to reporting, nothing comes easily.

We decided to overnight in Xian's Old City at the trendy Sofitel Hotel and try our luck the next day.

(Which leads to a question: When presented with a free Friday night in central China, where would you dine? At a Japanese seafood restaurant named Koi? (Remember the closest ocean is better than 500 miles away.) Azur, Mediterranean. (Even further.) Or Le Chinois - Chinese food – or just food, as it's called here. We went with the Mediterranean, of course. If you're ever in Xian, I recommend the Fusilli Arabiatta. Just terrific.)

Wall lifted
The next morning, if only to snap a few photos for ourselves and give it one last try, we returned to the warrior museum. Again we were assured money was not the issue. (In fact, we learned the Chinese government had ordered all filming fees be waived during the build-up to the Olympic Games.) Our permits had been issued properly. Apparently all the museum wanted was an apology from Madame Zhou. The Relics Bureau, it seemed, hadn't gone through the proper channels before our visit.

But Madame Zhou was MIA.

With our infamous madame out of the picture, the grey cloud seemingly began to lift. At the museum's gates, we were met with open arms.

A three-man greeting party was awaiting our arrival. Our translator, Joy, hopped out first. Then, after a short conversation, she turned back to the van, smiling and waved us in.

Mark Avery / AP

A terracotta statue, on loan from China, is seen at the Bowers Museum in Santa Ana, Calif., on May 6.

The museum is divided into three sections – Pit 1, Pit 2 and Pit 3 -- named in order of when they were discovered and excavated. Our van was directed straight to the outside of Pit 1 – the largest pit that's filled with columns of soldiers followed by chariots.

Inside, when cameraman Ray Farmer began setting up to shoot from the general admission area alongside the mass of tourists, our escorts looked at one another, confused. Then, they lifted a red rope, "This way, please!"

The statues are life-like and life-sized. Actually, they're larger than life. During the Qin Dynasty, the average man was 5 feet, 4 inches tall. The clay warriors stand closer to 6 feet. Historians believe Qin Shi Huang, the first Emperor of China who commissioned the statues as part of his mausoleum, surrounded himself with the biggest, strongest men in the land. There are over 8,000 terra cotta soldiers in total – as well as chariots and horses. No two alike.

Rounding out our shoot, we interviewed the museum's top tour guide, named Tiger. (He was born in the Year of the Tiger.) He was the perfect interview, punctuating every soundbite was a smile and a boyish laugh.

On the way back to Beijing, our cameraman Ray Farmer summed it up best: "Today made my entire trip to China a success."

The Chinese bureaucracy can be complicated and confusing, but by the end of our Xian trip, it was clear, our hosts saw value in letting us share their relics with the American audience.

Madame Zhou, you were right. We were satisfied. Satisfied, indeed.

Watch Peter Alexander's report on the Terracotta Army exhibit on the Today Show later this week.

By Ian Williams, NBC News Correspondent

HANWANG, Sichuan Province –

I was standing in the middle of a muddy path, lined by row and after row of prefabricated buildings, when a little girl caught my eye. She was sitting on a motorized cart, on top of a pile of boxes and blankets, waving a small Olympic flag.

Her parents were among scores of homeless moving into their new makeshift homes, and her gesture was another sign of the enormous passion and pride the Olympics are generating here.

The resettlement of 4.5 million families made homeless by the May 12 Sichuan earthquake is being driven by Olympic deadlines. Chinese authorities had hoped to have them in temporary homes by the time the torch goes through the area Monday, but are now aiming to complete the task by the time the Games open on Aug. 8.

VIDEO: Millions of quake victims in temporary housing

Prefabricated "towns" are rising from the fields, together with makeshift hospitals, schools and shops – even a tented Internet café. Each family of three – mom, dad, and their single child – are being allocated a 200-square-foot room. They're pretty basic, but at least it is a home for those who have spent almost three months in tents or other rudimentary shelters.

I met Wang Tianyan as he was sweeping out nails from the floor of his new room and rearranging some bricks that will form the base of his bed. His wife and daughter waited outside with two boxes of possessions – all they were able to salvage from the wreckage of their homes. They've been living in a local stadium.

"This is good for us," Wang told me. "It hasn't cost us a penny.

Outside, the lanes were alive with chatter and laughter as families took possession of keys and struggled with belongings. Tractors and cars chugged though the mud.

Priority is being given to families who lived in the cities, many of which will have to be completely rebuilt. Even where buildings still stand, they can never be lived in again; most of them are riddled with cracks.

Villagers will have to wait longer, and there is some resentment.

"We'd love to move there," said one farmer, whose collapsed home is just across the road from the one new pre-fab town. "But we are not allowed." So he continues to live in a tent.

Villagers have been promised cash to rebuild their homes. Many are reluctant to move away from their land, and they are still waiting for the money.

The area we visited is close to the city of Hanwang, where thousands died. Tents still line the road into what remains of the city. The center is like a ghost town, blocked by the police, who play a constant game of cat and mouse with an army of scavengers picking metal from the rubble.

They can earn around 20 Yuan ($3) for a bundle of the metal reinforcing bars that proved so inadequate during the quake.

The pace at which pre-fab homes are being erected is impressive, but the scavengers serve as reminder that livelihoods were also shattered by the quake. There are few jobs, and a great deal of desperation among the survivors.

Click here for more on the Beijing Olympics