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Published: June 13th 2012
"There once was an old farmer with one son and one horse. The horse ran away and the man was unlucky. When the horse returned it had found a mate, now the man had two horses and was very lucky. His son tried to ride the horse and fell off, breaking his leg. Now the man felt unlucky again but soon the nation went to war and all of the young men were called to fight. Luckily, because of his recently broken leg, the farmer's son was excused and he was again lucky"
A swiss man told us this story at Chinese customs the other day as we were receiving a bit of unexpected news. The Irkeshtam pass bridges the border from Kyrgyzstan into China's wild west in a gap where the Tien Shan technically meets the Pamir. Really, there is no real pass at Irkeshtam itself and an eastbound cyclist has already crossed several passes leading up from Osh to the Alay Valley. There is a drainage divide twenty kilometers before the border but it is insignificant, especially given the glassy, new Chinese road that is just now being finished from the border to Osh. The previous five days
had illustrated the very reason that we tour by bicycle. Big passes, perfect river valleys, and wide open spaces to pitch our tent had made up a fine backdrop for our last days in Kyrgyz territory. The children were a bit obnoxious in several villages but (luckily for us if not them) they are all quite flat-footed and cannot run as well as their lith, Ethiopian counterparts. It was easy to laugh at them trying to noisily splat along in a culture where running is a 99% nonexistant concept.
We decended into the village of Sary Tash on the evening of my birthday and celebrated with ramen and beer, the only real food available. The village has an end-of-the-world feel to it and it is easy to imagine the large amount of shady activity that reportedly goes down in this high, cold border zone on the crossroads of classic Central Asian trafficking routes. The wind was whipping stiff and chilly as we setled in for the night but we awoke in the morning to find rather agreeable weather for our last day in Kyrgyzstan.
As we rode through the Pamir Alay that day with 7000 meter peaks towering
white above our heads and small encampments in the distance along a carless road, we reflected upon our two months in the country and all that had happened there. By this point in the game, our Rusian had become more conversational than ever before. This gave us an opportunity to get beyond the language barrier to the labrynths of cultural translation. In truth, this did not always please us as many a diatribe came our way, namely the age old questions about wealth and children. Answering questions about our income and the cost of our lives is something we can get over, but trying to explain our childlesness to people is a not as simple a task as one might think. It is also strange to hear such strong suggestions that Allison should be kept at home pregnant to do laundry and cook while I work nonstop to feed the precious babies that would supposedly bring so much more meaning to our fruitless lives. We have no inherant problem with the idea of parenthood. In fact it doesn't sound so bad at all but the cycle of poverty, pregnancy, and ignorance that pervades tradition in so many developing countries (and
we use the term developing purely semantically as many of these places seem to be unravelling) is a course that we cannot always swallow. For the most part, we refrained from speaking harshly to those who have taken a moment to chat along the way but as our tongues became more informed, so they also loosened and we let a few folks in on our side of the cultural picture.
Logic and reason is not something we expect everyone to subscribe to. In fact, absolute subscription to cold calculus may be closely related to many of the failings of our own society. To some extent, however, we did endeavor to try to paint a picture of the strings relating say, ten children, to the despairs of an impoverished, overworked trucker. The limited resources and essentially short term economic outlook of many Central Asian regions does not bode well for the hundreds of hapless children running around on school days. Even from a perspective that includes experiences in Sub-Saharan Africa, Albania, and a few dozen impoverished places along the way, the number of children wandering, fighting, and ambling about along the roads is a bit surprising. We ran this by
a few people but they seemed far too entrenched in the rites of tradition to let it sink in or even respond to it with any gesture beyond shaking their heads and staring off into space. It is worth noting that most (perhaps all) of these proponents of large families were men. The subjugation of women is paramount in many of these environs for such a game of undereducation (and concurrent high birth rates) to continue. Additionally, it is difficult to hear the feelings of women when they never had the opportunity to learn Russian in the first place. This idea seemed so ingrained that many men spoke coldly of women, including Allison (right in front of her) and were surprised to learn that she also understood their sophomoric ideas quite clearly. In the greater scheme of saced traditions and deeply rooted cultural ideas, we can only say: Buyer Beware!
So we rolled into the border checkpoints at Irkeshtam (some half dozen of them) with such an interaction fresh in our heads. The Tajik trucker (another father of 10) just before the border turned out to be one of our last long Russian conversations. We rolled through Kyrgyz customs
in the morning without a hitch and strode into the Chinese customs hall to find some irritating news from a man with eerily perfect english. The encounter was courteous in every way but incredibly strange. He told us that he had bad news but that every bad news comes with good news. The bad news was that we could not ride the next 145 kilometers to the new immigration office as we had planned. This was a direct contradiction to everything we had heard about the Irkeshtam and we were sad. Every meter unridden begins to feel like a shame on these tours and the abuse of putting our bikes on transit was not appealing in the slightest. 100 kilometers in a truck are worse than 10000 on the wheels and truckers tend to be crusty swindlers who love to smoke cigarettes. The official gave us the two options of turning back or taking the truck so the choice was clear but his perfect English and strange demeanor reaked of a scam and we were prepared for the worst.
He spoke with a Uygher driver who became immediatly frustrated but agreed to take us, for free, to the checkpoint.
He also did not seem to have much choice in the matter as the official held sway over his destiny as well. We were forlorn as we loaded up in the truck but our attitude changed when we saw the 145 kilometers of dusty construction site ahead. The trucks were driving like sixteen year old boys with 700 horsepower at their disposal and the road was like deep chalk. At times we screached to a halt only to watch the settling dust reveal the back of the truck in front of us, only a meter away. Seeing other vehicles in such heavy traffic seemed impossible. Riding that stretch might have been survivable but, then again, maybe not, and definately not pleasurable. We saw the good news that had followed the bad and, in the end, we felt lucky when we just unloaded our bikes onto perfect pavement and rode away with noting more than a friendly wave to the driver. No scams, no bullshit, just big bald tires and plastic roses in the endless construction sight that is modern China.
The truly strange part was the official at the border who left a lasting impression on us. He spoke with such perfect annunciation yet he had all the alien characteristics one might expect from a man working one of the worlds most remote border posts. It was like the mysteriousness of culture perfectly translated. A strange thing it is to understand every word but feel totally lost as to the overall meaning. This odd situation will await many bike tourists in the next few years as the small road that runs from the border is, like so many other roads here, being replaced by a four lane highway. We can only imagine what plans lay in store for this ancient trade route but let us just say that development in Central Asia may not always be so centered on the future of the tiny states themselves.....
Hanging out in Kashgar, we are (unsurprisingly) quite pleased with China. The tensions between the native Uyghers and their new neighbors from the east are hard to ignore but such is the case as the world quickly changes. It seems unlikely that the general course of things will roll back any time soon and for our sake, we are happy with all that the tiger economy has to offer. Good food, friendly people, easy navigation and dry weather are painting a nice picture for the next stage, despite the fact that it crosses an unhospitable desert. It is interesting to see Central Asian Islamic culture juxtaposed with skyscrapers and fashion shops but who says that Vitton handbags can't go with a hijab? For us, the ability to greet and be greeted in peace is enough to keep us happy.. along with homemade ice cream and fresh vegetable hotpots with tofu. The fake roses are tacky table ornaments, but given the amount of new money here, tacky suits the aesthetic just fine. Consistency is kind of nice simetimes.
As to the bicycle situation in Arslanbob, we were able to procure a nice, new Giant at the Kashgar store for about a third the asking price of a used one in Bishkek. This morning we sent it off on the long journey to Aslanbob with a fellow traveler and we are feeling quite satisfied with this little philanthropic developement. In the face of monster construction projects and unsurmountable changes to the face of the landscape, helping a small cause in a small way seems somehow all the more rewarding. Now there is again nothing left to do but eat one last kebab, mount up, and ride across the desert, riding the westerlys and a wave of good luck.
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Mark Lindow
non-member comment
Good to hear from you
Chad: So great to hear from you and enjoy your adventure vicariously. I know who no one who has taken the time to so embrace the world as you and Allison have done. Many wonderful miles await, I am sure. When you grow weary of engaging Chinese border guards, perfect enunciation or not, cheese enchiladas await you in San Antonio.