I have finally had the time to collate a bunch of photos and have put together a new photo album of our travels across China. If you use Facebook then you would have seen most of these on Tom and Jared’s profiles, however there are other photos that are exclusive to this album.
On Road Adventures
One Last Day in China
Jun 25, 2009
It has taken 5700km, 74 days, 2 visa extensions and a long time sitting on our bikes, but on the 24th of June 2009 we made it to the Chinese border town of Korgos. As I sit here early on the morning of the 25th thinking about packing and getting ready to make my first land border crossing (into Kazakhstan) I thought that I would first share the adventures we had on our last day cycling in China.
The day started off as your typical cycle touring day. Wake up and peer out your tent at the beautiful view of Sayram-Hu Lake 2000 meters above sea level in the Tian-Shan mountains.
Camp was packed, a little later than usual after a leisurely breakfast of oatmeal as we had decided to sleep-in as Tom had a bad case of food poisoning the day before and we didn’t want him to rush.
Plus today would be a day of downhill!
As we started off Tom, Katie and I felt the urge to get fleeced by the locals one more time as we needed water before making the decent. Yes, I argued over 6 cents extra a bottle of water. It’s not the cost, it’s the principle.
The day before Jiao had been talking to truck drivers about the road ahead and their reply was that they hoped we had very good brakes as the road was very steep and bad. Turns out they were spot on. We were greeted with dusty dirt roads for 40 km down one of the most spectacular valleys we have been in yet and today the usual strong headwind that we have come to know and love actually helped slow our decent on the dodgy ripped up roads.
Our spirits were high but our stomachs were empty as we cruised another 20k or so soaking through beautiful green fields that had greeted us at the end of valley. Time for our last lunch break in China so we pulled in to a local trucking town.
Nothing says goodbye Xinjiang province like Da-Pan-Ji (Big Pan Chicken) so I took the opportunity to watch one last time as our cook chopped a whole frozen chicken into bite sized pieces and then fried it all up with vegetables.
For those wondering, we feed the head and feet to Jiao as he loves them and says they are the best part.
With 37km left to the town of Korgos and the wind actually in our favor surely we would be there in less than a couple of hours. Ah, but this is China and that would be boring.
The sky was starting to get very dark ahead but we were making good time on the nice highway, we would be there very soon and even a quick stop as a police car pulled us over to tell us to stay on the shoulder or they would kick us off the road wasn’t going to stop us.
That’s when Tom and I heard thump, thump, thump, bang, bang, bang. At first we all thought it was thunder in the distance, but the sounds continued and seemed to be in regular pattern. What could it be? No rain yet though, maybe, as with our previous desert experiences the big black clouds would simply pass over.
A few minutes later and the first few drops of rain started to fall. I was so overjoyed as it was hot and we hadn’t seen rain for over a month that I yelled out at the top of my lungs
“Is that all you’ve got China!”
Then it started. The rain came down, but it wasn’t the rain that bothered anyone. All of a sudden the rain turned into hail and when you are on a bike in shorts and a shirt that tends to hurt a little.
But it didn’t stop there. 30 seconds later the all visibility had gone and the hail had turned into marble sized pieces of ice pelting us from every direction hurting with every strike. I yelled over the roar of the storm to Tom “take cover!” and the two of us dropped our bikes and jumped into the ditch on the side of the road and curled up into the fetal position. We had no clue where Jiao and Dave (ahead) or Katie (behind) were.
I don’t know how long I stayed curled up for but the damn hail was hitting me hard and the only cover around was an over-bridge 800 meters ahead, so I jumped on my bike and decided to make a “run” for it. As I sped off down the road in search of shelter trying not to get hit in the face I passed David and Jiao who had also gotten caught and were cowering under their bikes. No one had found cover and where was Katie?
Just before the bridge I spotted an abandoned gas station and quickly veered off the road to find some Chinese also taking shelter. By now the ice storm had turned into hail again and I couldn’t help but crack up laughing and running back out in the storm (much to the dismay of the Chinese onlookers as they signaled me to take shelter).
Right behind me a soaked Tom, Jiao and Dave pulled in as well.
Katie pulled in a couple of minutes later with a story of having to get under her bike as the ice had been too painful. It didn’t help that she had been wearing a tank top, but at least a passing van saw her and stopped to give her shelter for a few minutes.
Soaked to the bone Tom made the comment
“You just had to open your mouth didn’t you Jared.”
David turned around and looked at Katie.
“What are those marks.”
Katie’s back was covered in welts from the ice.
Dave took his shirt off too and sure enough it looked as if both him and Katie had stood in front of a paintball firing squad.
Rewind a minute and remember the thump, thump, bang bang. Jiao asked the locals what it was. It turns out that in this area they were cloud seeding. They were actually intentionally making it rain on us!
You’d think that would be it for our last day but no. Now a our familiar friend the headwind had picked up again making us slog out the last 10km to the town.
Ah, the border at last and a place to stay at last. Nope.
After checking into a hostel the “foreigners can’t stay here” (after we unpack) song and dance began yet again with Jiao and I heading down to the local police station. After chatting for a while he directed us to another hostel which was kind enough to charge us the same as the one we had originally found. So with a quick pack/unpack of the gear we had finally made it!
I have to give it to China. There has rarely been a dull moment in our 74 days across one of the biggest countries in the world.
What will Kazakhstan bring?
Kiwi Lads in Urumqi
Jun 24, 2009
We had the opportunity to chill out in Urumqi for just under and week while waiting for our Kazakh visas to be processed. Urumqi seems to be a hub for the more adventurous types with people showing up in 4WD trucks, on motorcycles and also bikes.
This is where we had the opportunity to meet two other cyclists (brothers) Ben and Nils Koons, Kiwi’s who now live in the USA. They had just finished a month and a half of cycling in Tibet.
For those who don’t know the political situation on this side of the world, in order to go to Tibet you must apply for a permit and go on a guided tour. Cycling for foreigners (legally) is a no no. This doesn’t stop the avid cycle tourist though and that included the brothers.
As we sat around trading China stories they proceeded to tell us about having to avoid the 20 or so military check points on the way into Tibet by hiding in ditches at 4am, walking around river banks in the early hours of the morning, or simply cycling through the armed check points on dusk with the hopes that the guards wouldn’t see or stop them.
Apparently towns were the same with police cars driving around specifically looking for people to check, so for most of their trip the only time they went into a town was for supplies before heading out into the wilderness to sleep under the stars.
Yes, they were arrested once and forced to leave the Tibetan area, at which time they turned around and simply cycled back in again.
Their photos of Tibet are absolutely amazing and I would suggest checking them out if you have the time.
http://picasaweb.google.com/bmkoons
Also very interesting was the use of their schooling in engineering. Instead of paying the $400 or so dollars it costs for pannier rack holders they “borrowed” some supplies from their school back in the States and built their own.
It was a pleasure hanging out with Ben and Nils and wish them the best for any adventure they choose to do in the future.
Water Boys
Jun 21, 2009
As you would expect, riding in the desert involves carrying a lot of water. Most days we can get away with 3-6 liters on the bike and refill at small towns or villages along the way, but there have been a few days where carrying over a days supply plus enough for camping has been necessary, increasing the amount to 10-12 liters. Quite a difference in weight on a bike already loaded to the max with enough food to feed our never-ending hunger.
So when your biking along in 40 degree heat with a hot, dry headwind making every turn of the pedal twice as hard as it should be and you see a truck pull over ahead and the driver jump out with bottles of water a real sense of gratefulness comes over you.
This happened again the next day when a gentleman driving an Audi pulled up ahead of Tom, Jiao, Katie and myself, popped his boot/trunk and proceeded to give us 2 bottles each which was pretty much all his water supply.
When we caught up with David he said that an Audi driver had also pulled over and given him a bottle.
It’s simple acts like this that have really made my experience here in China a great one and from now on I will definitely be carrying spare water and a couple of snacks in the back of my car just for the chance to make another cycle tourists day.
I encourage you to do the same.
The Revolutions Will Not Be Televised
Jun 20, 2009
Or at least, they wont be televised live. Our steady stream of posts and videos is set up that way for a reason: to ensure that you, the reader or viewer, are drip-fed just enough high-quality content to ensure your continued interest. Were we to drown you in a deluge of info, you might get bored. Similarly, without a plethora of pics and posts during our desert days or mountain marathons, you might forget about us and move on to another form of entertainment – international curling, for instance, or extreme Welsh sheep herding. Hence the post-dated posts.
This thoughtful pampering of our readership has an unfortunate and unintended consequence. With 1-2 weeks of videos in the pipeline, friends and family may fail to notice our disappearance for a painfully long time. We could be stuck down a ravine in rural Kazakhstan without any hint of alarm until the witty online banter dries up, by which time our emaciated selves would have resorted to a degree of cannibalism not seen since you last rented the movie Alive. Our theoretical kidnapping by roving mujaheddin biker bandits would be overlooked until well after we’d succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome and become part of their international jihad against ignorant truck drivers and their incessant horn-blaring.
This is all slightly worrying, Please remember -a BB cyclist is for life, not just for Christmas. Keep reading, and keep watching. Our lives may depend on it!
[This post was written on June 16th. The author is still alive and well... probably. This is an automated message. This is an automated message.This is an automated message. Error: checksum 13. Communication ends]
Midnight Misadventure
Jun 18, 2009
A few days into this Tour de Fun, my dad came up with a brilliant idea: to send me one quotation for every day I’m away. I initially thought, perhaps, his words of wisdom would be sources of divine inspiration for a struggling cyclist in the throes of China.
Typical to my father’s style, however, these daily doses have covered an array of topics—connected only in their relative randomness—ranging from the foibles of females (still not sure if that one was directed towards myself, my mother, or women in general) to the politics of enjoying eggs while enduring the cackling of hens, or something like that.
This, for example, was the pearl of wisdom awaiting me on May 17:
Etiquette—Etiquette is the art of knowing the right way to do the wrong thing.
Not exactly an Oprah-level up lifter, but witty enough to inflate the spirits after a hard day’s cycling. And, actually, having just celebrated my two-month anniversary of touching down in China, I could fairly confidently say the same for diplomacy. So, perhaps my father isn’t as random in his selections as one might think at first glance.
In fact, based on the following bit of wisdom waiting for me on June 4, I’m almost positive the aim of these daily musings is to rejuvenate even the most jaded of travelers by reminding her that the art of living is the art of laughing:
America will never be invaded, our delinquents are too heavily armed.
The two Commonwealthers quite enjoyed that one, and even the man from Northern Ireland chuckled a bit, despite his understandable wariness for weaponry of any kind. Which brings me to my point, in case you were wondering if I had one tucked up my sleeve:
Humor is the single most important thing to carry with you on a trip like this. (I could probably also say patience, but since I don’t have any I’d rather not admit to its importance at this point in the journey). It’s really rather an astounding piece of equipment, when you think about it. It can keep you warm on a cool night, cool on a hot day, and sane in moments of insanity. Humor is a panacea, a paracetamol for the traveler’s headache.
The only catch to this cure-all is figuring out how to maintain your sense of it when the going gets tough. Easier said than done when you’re exhausted, overheated, underfed, or inexplicably angry at the universe for not protesting a bit more when you voluntarily gave up everyday securities for days on end of discomfort.
But, perhaps, the key to surviving a trip like this is learning to laugh at even the most ludicrous of situations—that, and occasionally throwing out a joke or two of your own when team morale is sagging. Pumping up egos with a bit of humor was, in fact, my intention a few days ago, when Jared, Tom and I were taking a breather from the bikes after a long day’s cycle.
For the last few weeks now, we’d been discussing the possibility of breaking the 200 kilometer barrier, a feat that had managed to elude us since we sheepishly stepped off the ferry in Dalian 66 days ago. (Exactly why we even cared to ante up to this challenge remains to be seen; I chalk it up to road boredom and something in the drinking water). It seemed, we all had agreed, that the universe was against us in this matter; headwinds had dogged us all the way west, and when they took a rest, it was someone’s turn for a stomach bug, or everyone’s chance to slog it up hill for the day. Very simply, the conditions had never been quite right for our legs to push beyond the two century mark.
So, at this particular break, having found myself once again having to swallow this bitter fact along with a stale piece of bread, and some cold noodles, I decided enough was enough. So what if the universe was playing hardball? After just four days of cycling empty roads for hours on end, of setting up camp miles from a hot shower and Internet, of stomaching food steeped in preservatives and double wrapped in plastic, I was ready to be cozying up to the comforts of civilization once again.
It was 5 pm. We’d already logged 7 hours on the bike and covered approximately 150 kilometers. We were just 50 kilometers shy of finally taking a swing at smashing past 200 kilometers. And, more importantly, we were a mere 175 kilometers from the celestial city of Urumqi, where this dirt-caked and road-worn cyclist could find a hot shower, clean bed, and fresh food.
But, looking across the table towards my cycling companions, I could see determination was waning faster than the afternoon light. With a pang of panic, I realized we were quickly approaching another night of tent pegs and sleeping bags. And so, with a wry smile, I mustered up all the wit this wilting cyclist could offer after a long day in the saddle, turned to my scruffy friends, and said:
“Can you taste that, gentleman?”
Prematurely roused from their respective reveries they looked at me and, with no small hint of annoyance, muttered, “What?”
“Can you taste that?” I repeated, “That, gentlemen, is the taste of blasting past the 200 km mark.”
There. The gauntlet had been thrown. If the universe wanted to take a swing at us, I was determined to come out swinging even harder. And smiling while at it. Now, the only question that remained was whether or not my teammates were as ready and willing as I was to take up arms against the hills and the headwinds and the fatigue.
Based on the head nodding and grunting, they were.
What followed next, I still cannot explain. Maybe it was their enthusiasm. Maybe it was the afternoon sun on my heat stroked head. Maybe it was my inner comedian sauntering onstage in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever it was that possessed me, the following words tumbled off my parched and cracking tongue into the dry and dusty afternoon air:
“Or, we could screw camping and cycle overnight to Urumqi.”
Silence.
In hindsight, I’m certain the words were as dripping with sarcasm as my back was with sweat. But, based on the ensuing response, I had clearly underestimated my audience and mistimed my joke. Somewhere between the noodles and a few bottles of iced tea, Mr. Pragmatic and Mr. Practical had made a stealth escape from the table and left me with one impractically adventurous Kiwi and a clearly insane Irishman.
“Why the hell not?” the heat-crazed duo cried in unison.
Chills ran up my spine. I trembled a bit in my shoes. Who were these people in front of me, and what had they done with my level-headed companions?
And since when did a witty man from Northern Ireland and a mouthy Kiwi from New Zealand fail to pick up sarcasm?
I, clearly, was in trouble if they were taking me seriously.
Two hours later, after scoffing down a meal of rice and spicy meat, I found myself hastily pouring Red Bulls into a 1.5 liter plastic bottle in preparation for the night’s journey ahead. The absurdity of the situation was magnified by the fact that some ten or fifteen onlookers had circled up around me, squawking and jabbing their tanned fingers in my direction.
For a moment, I wondered what they would say if they knew what we had planned for the night ahead. No doubt, about the time most of them would be emptying their tea jars and crawling into bed, we’d be cruising along a moonlit road, winding our way beneath a blanket of twinkling stars towards the city lights of Urumqi. The romanticism of it all painted a smile on my face.
We managed to coast through the next couple of hours on the enthusiasm we’d stocked up on during dinner. No doubt, the scenery unfolding before us also propelled us forward: hulking snowcaps to our right descended toward green rolling pastures dotted with sheep and the occasional tree. And as it slipped beneath the ever-expanding skyline in front of us, the sun and it’s almost slumbering rays lit up the landscape in a kaleidoscope of colors.
More importantly, as sure as the day was slipping into evening, we were screaming towards 200 kilometers. Our resident sheep farmer started the countdown, and I merrily joined in as the meters ticked over. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Whoop! Two-hundred kilometers! Take that hills and headwinds and stomach viruses. (Patty O’Irish gallantly snapped up the scene for posterity’s sake with his trusty camera). A reincarnated Bob Marley himself couldn’t have been higher than the three of us in that moment.
Bewitched by the beauty of our surroundings, spellbound by our recent success against the universe, we were unable to see that Reality was winding up and preparing to land a blow that would wipe the cheeky grins off all our faces.
As evening crept toward night, I could see we were all beginning to snatch up our energy reserves with the greed and wild abandon of an Enron executive in an oil field. And limited resources weren’t to be our only enemy on this leg of the journey.
Approaching what looked to be a toll gate (the likes of which we usually like to blow through before the authorities take notice and drag our law-breaking likes off ramp and away from the luxurious gradients of a paved highway) we spied a caravan of coal-carrying commercial trucks. We whipped past no less than two or three dozen of these beasts, eager to outrun the lumbering lot before the engines roared to life and ripped our peaceful night apart.
The saying goes that you often run into your destiny on the road to avoid it (another pearler from Father Tibbetts), and after barely a kilometer or two of clear highway, it was evident to all that those heaving boxes of metal and rubber had a hangman’s hold on our future.
We were to spend the next couple of hours crawling uphill alongside the chugging metallic monsters as they either blinded us with a flood of bright lights, or suffocated us with blasts of angrily churning exhaust.
To distract myself from the madness around me, I began contemplating the different methods my teammates might use to torture me in retaliation for urging them towards this dangerous and dirty destiny.
I had very nearly outlined an opening statement vanquishing myself of all responsibility in the matter of Tibbetts vs. McCloy and Mitchell, when a car whipped out from behind a truck and nearly smashed into the back of one of the plaintiffs in an ill-conceived attempt to break free of the trucking chain. I, clearly, was in for a verbal whipping when this whole ordeal was over—that was, of course, assuming we all made it out of this mess in one piece.
Visibly shaken from his near-miss with the sadistic sedan, the Kiwi pulled off the road, his defeated teammates in tow. We all agreed it was best to take a brake and grab a bit of rest and bite to eat while we waited for the truck storm to blow over. It was quickly evident, however, that we’d be waiting a while. Behind us, a seemingly endless necklace of lights stretched across the horizon.
After checking that snacks had stabilized blood-sugars a bit, I approached my teammates and extended a heartfelt apology for my role in devising this piss-poor plan. To my surprise (and relief) the two gentlemen had maintained a modicum of goodwill and refused to lay the burden of blame (or their fists) on my shoulders.
For the moment, I had avoided death by dehydration, which I was certain was my destiny as soon as my teammates decided to leave me (and my awesomely terrible ideas) behind in the dust and din of Truck Valley.
At first sight of a break in the line of lights, we hurriedly mounted our steeds of steel and scurried into the night once again. With rested legs, full bellies and a clear road ahead, spirits soared and we flew up the hill with relative ease. In a moment of weakness I even allowed myself to be deluded by the thought that we’d ridden through and survived our share of hardships for the night.
And things were looking up, until we came to the crest of the hill and began our descent. Thanks to the negligence of our friendly trucks, what should have been an easy downhill route had been transformed into a slalom course of baseball-sized chunks of coal.
For the next couple of hours the still of night was broken by the shrill cries of:
“Rock – left!”
“Rock – right! “
And occasionally:
Thud! “Rock!”
For what seemed to be an eternity, we rode in almost complete darkness, save for the pathetic shafts of light streaming from our headlamps. Then, abruptly, we eyed the nightmarish orange flames of an oil refinery. A wave of sheer fright swept over me, as I considered the possibility that we’d taken a wrong turn at the last town and ridden straight into hell. A very real blast of heat from the distant fire-breathers reminded me I had, indeed, been spared from paying dues to Satan just yet, though in my weakened state I did momentarily contemplate the comparative comfort of Hotel Hell to my current lodgings.
Not far past the smokestacks, Sir Tom informed us that he’d started using the rumble strip between the road and shoulder to shake himself back into semi-consciousness. I decided a mandatory hour of shut-eye was in order. No one argued. (A first, perhaps, since our first pedal nearly two months before).
A couple hundred yards beyond the next bridge, we parked our bikes and found a grassy spot to rest our crumpling bodies. It was 3:30 am.
A mere five minutes had past when I was abruptly shaken from my slumber by the disconcerting feeling of something poking me in the back. For a moment, I thought maybe it was a camel, chewing on my jacket.
With a jerk, I turned over to confront my enemy, only to come face to face with a scraggly Irishman. Scary looking, but relatively harmless when he’s not on the whiskeys. It had been an hour. It was time to hit the road once again. After a heavy sigh, I heaved myself upwards and stumbled towards the bike.
An hour later, as the paling sky prepared to greet the sun for a new day, the three sleep-deprived, but severely stubborn cyclists, pulled aside for yet another breather. By this point, we had all pretty much hit a wall of weariness. The 1.5 liters of Red Bull had done little except leave me with a somersaulting tummy and the shakes. To make matters worse, I’d chewed through all of my stale bread. My food situation was looking about as grim as my teammates. All that stared back at me from the bottom of the bag was a half-eaten container of raisins and a jar of peanut butter, neither of which were particularly appetizing at hour 15 on the bike.
I was in the midst of mentally waving the white flag and setting up my tent when a rogue mosquito politely reminded me it was time to hit the road…again.
This arduous and arguably asinine cycle of riding and breaking continued with little change, except in the landscape, for the next few hours.
As if to punish us more fully for our foolishness, a light headwind kicked up just as we approached yet another set of hills. The bike computers confirmed we were approaching the city outskirts, but our pace had slowed to such an extent that at times I wondered if I was possibly riding backwards.
I was about to call it quits and give up biking for good when my eyes locked in on the sight of rectangular objects on the horizon. Optical illusion, or urban omen?
We pulled into a gas station down the road and stumbled toward the counter, where we applied our very best gesticulated Chinese to determine the approximate location of this place called Urumqi—a place we were beginning to wonder existed. The clerk confirmed that it awaited us just three or four kilometers up the road.
Our relief was short-lived upon realizing that, at our current pace, the town was another hour or two away.
But, luckily, while the last few hours of headwinds and hills had very nearly depleted our energy stores, it had also increased our determination to hit a hot shower, get our hands on some cold water, and, most pressingly, ditch our damn bikes.
So, we pressed forward until, at approximately 11 am on June 11, 2009, 325 kilometers and about 27 hours after the first pedal into this sadistic episode, we dragged our coal-and-sweat-encrusted bodies into the parking lot of our hostel.
Ironically, we were greeted by the smiling face of another cyclist, who had recently arrived from Tibet. In time, this spritely fellow would spin tales of border crossings and mountain passes that made our story look tame in comparison. But that would come later. For now, we basked in the glory of our recent victory.
One hot shower and cold beer later, I happily plopped myself down in front of my computer, eager to reconnect with the world after nearly a week away. True to his word, my father had continued to send me daily quotations, and on June 10, 2009, the very night of our biking debacle, he had unwittingly chosen this one:
Climbing K2 or floating the Grand Canyon in an inner tube; there are some things one would rather have done than do. (Edward Abbey)
I’d have to agree with good ol’ Ed on this one. But, on the flip side, as time has softened the pain of this gal’s banged-up ego and healed my teammates’ bruised asses, we’ve all started to look back and have a good laugh over the whole ordeal.
While you couldn’t pay me enough in either beers or bucks to press repeat on the whole midnight misadventure, I’m glad to have the story to tell. And I’m relieved my teammates are good-natured enough to have let me live to tell it. Clearly, in addition to a good bike pump, every cyclist should carry a spare sense of humor.
Braking Boundaries to Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan
Jun 15, 2009
We are now in possession of our Kazakh visas. They have an entry date of June 25th, giving us a definite exit date for China. We can’t enter Kazakhstan before that date and, barring any unforeseen complications, should comfortably reach the border by then.
Finishing our first country, the largest one of the trip, will be a massive psychological boost to the team. Although still some 700-800km away, Kazakhstan seems almost close enough to taste. It will be an entirely different experience – new language, culture, and rules, and I think we will all approach this new stage of our adventure with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. There are many unknowns, but it’s going to keep life interesting for the next month or so.
Squatters Rights
Jun 15, 2009
I said before the trip that it would make us appreciate the simpler things in life. One of those things would definitely be the use of a proper porcelain throne.
Squatting is the norm for pretty much all of Asia. The people here have been doing it all their lives and have developed the necessary leg muscles for comfort. Unfortunately, the same can not be said of us. It’s not exactly possible to relax and read the Times.
Bathroom standards vary wildly, but the majority of rural or small town WCs would easily be worse than any grotty public loo you’ve encountered in the west. Many are just covered holes in the ground over a septic tank of sludge. Film buffs among you who remember Slumdog Millionaire will have the right visual theme in mind.
Furthermore, the majority of Chinese plumbing seems incapable of handling toilet paper in any quantity. Most bathrooms have signs directing the user to a basket in which to deposit used paper, a rather smelly alternative to flushing it away. I don’t know about you, but I personally won’t be worrying about Chinese world domination until they popularize loos that don’t clog up after the first piece of Andrex extra-soft.
Of course, there is always the option of answering nature’s call behind a bush. The freedom of the great outdoors is infinitely preferable to perching over a slit trench in a dank, malodorous petrol station bathroom, and in a country this size, there is no shortage of picturesque piddling locations. Remember, my son. The world is your toilet.
Jiaos Surprise
Jun 13, 2009
I introduced Jiao in my last post as our much needed morale booster after a a rough week slogging it out in the Gobi desert. Now let me tell you a story about our new friend.
It was the 2nd day after meeting Jiao in the town of Anxi and we had just spent the night camping in the Gobi with plans of doing the same again but stopping earlier than 10pm so we could actually enjoy each others company and maybe have a well deserved meal and a small party in the desert.
With this in mind we knocked out 150km ending up in the the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t even a hint of a small town in sight. Fortunately we had thought ahead and ordered a double serving of noodles from the truck stop that we had stopped for lunch 5 hours earlier, but no one had wanted to carry liquid other than the 10 liters (each) of water needed.
As we unpacked our bikes around 7pm in the 40 degree desert heat 500 or so meters off the road behind a small sandy mount just big enough to avoid nosy/noisy truck drivers as they passed by, Jiao announced that he would be right back as he wanted to find a surprise.
Before we had time to question what he was doing or where he was going he had dropped all his bags and jumped back on his trusty giant mountain bike and was heading back to the road.
Looking at each other we wondered where he would go and when he would be back, but we had work to do putting up tents and preparing dinner.
Jump forward 2 hours and picture 4 hungry cyclists sitting around watching a desert sunset , but starting to wonder “where is Jiao.” He had been gone a long time now. Should we wait a little longer to eat? An hour later and it was 10pm. There was no waiting anymore. I put my rear light on flash and placed it at the top of the sandy mount we were behind thinking maybe he would see it from the road and we sat down to a meal of noodles on macaronis and cheese that I had been carrying since leaving Korea.
By now theories were cropping up as to what had happened to our Chinese friend. He had been gone for over 3 hours and here we were in the middle of the Gobi desert with all of his bags and gear.
Had he been injured?
Did he get lost?
Did he find a place to stay and get too drunk to ride back?
And my favorite. Was he getting a gang of bandits to attack us? Ludicrous as this sounds the mind wanders when you are in the middle of nowhere.
It’s 11pm now and the little light that dusk had provided had faded into a moonlight night. Tom and I decided to venture out to the road for a quick look around before we all called it a night. There would be no search party in the dark as we would all end up lost. Tonight everyone would be going to sleep wondering what had happened to Jiao.
Alarms went off at 5.30 am. Time to get up and start the day. Still no Jiao.
The question now was what do we do? We have his gear and no clue where he went. Do we take it to the nearest police station?
Just as we were about ready to leave there he was, cycling slowly along the road looking for our campsite.
In he rolled still with a smile on his face and 9 bottles of beer strapped to the back of his bike.
“Jiao, where did you go? We were all very worried.”
This is his story, a story that still makes me smile as I sit here with him and the team on a train bound for Hami (a week later).
[in his words]
“I wanted to get beer to have a big party in the desert with my friends so I biked to a radio tower that was 7km away, but there was no one there. So I asked a road worker where I could get beer. He told me that there was a road workers campsite another 8km down the road so I biked there. At first the road workers said “May-oh” (none here in Chinese) but I asked and asked until they lead me to the camps leader. Then I told him that I had 4 friends from all over the world and they were really tired and didn’t have much water so beer for them would be great. At first he said no, but I kept asking and said I would pay more. He finally offered me 5 beers but I wanted a bigger party so I told him to give me 9 which he eventually did.
I then started to ride back but the road was uphill and I had a headwind so it was very hard and the night was getting dark. I biked and I biked but I could not find where we had stopped to camp and I did not have my headlamp so I finally gave up and found a small bridge and crawled under it for the night. That is where I stayed. It was very cold and I had no food except some peanuts, but I knew that in the morning it would be light and I could find everyone.”
We looked at him stunned. “You slept under a bridge?”
“Yes.”
As we looked at his bike there were 9 bottles of beer still stacked on his bike.
“Why didn’t you drink some of the beer?”
Still with a smile on his face he said “I wanted to have a big party with my new friends in the desert. I was cold but I am happy to find you, so lets ride to Hami.”
Here was a man that had biked an extra 30km after an already long day in the desert heat just to get us a beer so we could enjoy our trip just that little bit more. I said at the start of this story that he has been our teams morale booster. Personally I think that that is an understatement. He is more like a traveling angel who has been with us now for just under a week making our lives here in China easier, happier and definitely more interesting.
The Day It All Went Wrong
Jun 12, 2009
Since our last day off (now about a week ago) we have had a grueling push to make it to Hami in time to get our visa’s extended one last time. It turns out that 4 days of battling non-stop headwinds, 130km days, 35-40 degree desert heat and dry bread and crackers for breakfast and lunch is all that it takes to crack 4 extremely tired cyclists.
Time for the first team meltdown.
As we hid under an expressway bridge from the afternoon heat still being slammed by the ridiculous hot strong headwind that we had been battling for hours, a very heated discussion/argument was had. I believe that as a team we had finally found bottom.
That’s right folks, when you are living in close quarters with 3 others it’s not fun and games all the time. Of course as with any argument issues were brought up, potential solutions were listened to and we finally rode off into a beautiful desert sunset after finding some neutral ground and agreeing work on other issues.
After having a very late dinner (about 11pm I think) we were yet again tasked with trying to find a place to sleep for the night and it looked like it was going to be one of those towns where prices were incredibly inflated and foreigners weren’t welcome at the cheaper hostels leaving only expensive hotels.
[Enter Jiao]
There as I stepped out of a hotel to let the others know that it was going to cost more than we wanted was a English speaking Chinese cyclist talking to Tom. It turns out that he (Jiao) was on the road a few hours behind us and he too was looking for a place to stay.
He immediately offered to find us cheap accommodation with him. Of course nothing is easy when you agree to help foreigners and at 12am, yet here was Jiao, Katie and myself in a tiny police station trying to convince the local police that we did not have a lot of money and were happy to stay in an “Unapproved for foreigners” hostel.
Somehow Jiao did it. He had shown up just at the right time. Had we not been stuck with another crappy day of headwinds, a team breakdown and been turned away from our initial accommodation choices, we would not have had the chance to meet Jiao.
Surely tomorrow would be better.
[Since the time of writing Jiao has become a welcome guest with the BB team, become a great friend and decided to ride with us to the Kazak border before continuing on his own adventure. I will be writing more about him shortly]