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They have a saying in China that the only men who travel alone are pilgrims or madmen.
Disagree if you will, but I must be on some sort of pilgrimage then. Or perhaps I am a borderline maniac. By that, I mean I am a maniac of borderlines. I can't get enough of fabled frontiers; the wilder the better. Borders are the places where cultures clash and connect. Where clans go eyeball to eyeball, breath for breath, with a faint whiff of wonderment and a lick of the illicit.
With that in mind, I excitedly climbed the Irkestam pass to the Kyrgyz-Chinese border. But it was a little disappointing. Despite being one of the renowned mountain passes in this area, it did not have the roof-of-the-world feel of the Kyzyl-Art pass or the intrigue of the Torugart pass, and the Chinese constructed highway has made it all too easy.
The one peculiarity about the Sino-Kyrgyz crossing was the 2 hour jump forward in time. The Chinese authorities, God bless 'em, have decided the entire nation that should span nearly 5 zones will adhere to a single time. And instead of operating on the solar noon somewhere near the
middle of the country, they determined Beijing - on the far east coast - should be that point of reference. So much for Chinese wisdom. As a result, the western province of Xinjiang is several hours ahead of itself. It is not over the small matter of chronometrics that tensions in Xinjiang have exploded this year, but it does somewhat betray Beijing's ideas of where national unity should unify towards. Of course the root causes of the ethnic riots over the summer in Urumchi, which cost 180 lives, are much more complex. From where I was standing, the Uighurs get the butt-end of the deal from their Han majority brothers. The cushy jobs are all occupied by the Han Chinese, whilst the Uighurs are left to pick up the leftovers. Take an American chain specialising in fried chicken as a working example - literally. The cashiers were Han to the man, whilst the sweepers were Uighurs to the woman. Meantime, outside the finger lickin' window anti-riot trucks continue to patrol the streets of Urumchi and Kashgar, carrying messages like, “Ethnic unity is good” - although the unfortunate translation I was sold said “purity” instead of “unity”. But let's move on
- this is a travel blog after all, not a political commentary. In fact the closest I've come to a political blog was the one about September 10th.
China has visibly changed, even during the couple of years since I was last here. Where bicycles used to dominate the streets of the cities, it is now Japanese and European cars. If there has been a similar decline in bicycle numbers in Beijing, then Katie Melua will need to re-address her “facts”. The cities are Americanising by the day - skyscrapers sprouting up where noodle bars once ruled, western faces grinning out of huge billboards, with capitalist symbols such as Coke, Nike, KFC and Microsoft highlighting the dichotomy of the world's biggest Communist state. The Chairman chose a nation of natural entrepreneurs to run with his ideals. As a Chinaman explained to me, “...the Chinese are just not very good Communists”.
The Chinese have embraced all things modern and western - except the FORK!! iPods, plasma Tvs, Nokia phones, BMWs and pizza. But yet, they refuse to dispose of the chopstick. When the pitchfork was invented, so the farmers stopped ploughing the fields with spears. Now we have pizza,
put down the chopstick, pick up a fork.
Moving through Xinjiang, from Kashgar to Urumchi and beyond, I was passing the points where the various branches of the Silk Road converged before continuing their journey east to Xi'an. Quick one for fact-fans - Urumchi is the city furthest away from any ocean. Yet squid on a stick is a popular street food. Go figure! I was working my way towards Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, to meet my friend Del. For the first time since St Petersburg, the first time in 3 months and 7,000 km, I was to have a travel buddy. Del was flying out from London to spend 3 weeks cycling from Tibet to Nepal with me. This 860 km stretch between Lhasa and Kathmandu is iconically named the “Friendship Highway” and the ride would be one of the highlights of the journey. Or that was the plan anyway. But before that story, I still had 10 days of Xinjiang to cross.
I was out of range of any global communications. As a result of the Urumchi riots, the Chinese have imposed an internet and phone blackout. There were rumours this would be lifted on
the 60th anniversary of the Birth of the Nation, but 1st October came and passed and the blackout remained. Indefinitely.
In an internet and mobile phone dominated world, I am used to global communication and access to information being as instant as noodles. So to be without it was a step back to reality.
But even Chinese media control cannot prevent the biggest of news stories filtering through. For example, I heard that Barack Obama was to pick up the Nobel Peace Prize and that Peter Andre and Jordan were back together for the sake of Harvey. Big news knows no boundaries.
TV is still available, although I am sure the content is as censored as most things here. I did watch a bit of Chinese TV over breakfast in one hostel - it was a kid's programme and the presenter was wearing a T-shirt with “Fuck Me, I'm beautiful” emblazoned across it. I'm sure neither he nor the viewers had any idea of it's message. Add to this some other funny examples of Chinglish seen across China:
“If you are stolen, call the police”
“Don't hurt yourself carefully”
“Keep yourself from putting your shoes on my smile” -
“Deformed man toilet” -
But we native English speakers should not get above ourselves on the foreign scripture front, as it swings both ways. I had a conversation with a local girl about this and asked her about the Chinese tattoos that many westerners wear. She said she'd seen some British girls with “Earwax” and “I love camel poo” tattooed in Mandarin Chinese. Call it a score draw!
Watching unintelligible Chinese TV reminds me that I actually miss a bit of basic British TV. University Challenge, Eggheads and to a lesser extent, Top Gear. Thinking about it, maybe I just miss TV's Jeremy's - Paxman, Vine, and to a much lesser extent, Clarkson. Shame Beadle's no longer about too.
NB - I never seen the Jeremy Kyle show, so don't know what I'm missing there.
Moving on, and several monasteries and Lama birthplaces later I was in Xining, trying to arrange permission for Del and I to travel to and through Tibet. Travelling in Tibet is not a given right, it is a Chinese controlled privilege. Forget a short blog, I could now write an entire book on the procedures needed to
acquire a Tibetan permit - but only because I made every mistake in this yet-to-be-written textbook. I am from the school of “organise things out when you get there”, graduating with honours in “it always works out in the end”. Well, as far as Tibet was concerned, my entire education framework was thrown into question.
This has proven to be the biggest expenditure, both in terms of time and money, of the entire trip. Probably of any trip, come to think about it. It took me 5 days, and a lot of yuan in Xining to arrange a permit to allow Del and I to enter Tibet. Upon collection, the Tibet Tourist Bureau (TTB) informed me that they had decided not to allow Del to enter. It was officially because he was flying in from outside China (Kathmandu), not because he has a remarkable likeness to a Yeti. So Del was stranded in Nepal, and I consequently decided to slash the permit validity from 10 days to 3 days, so we could arrange a follow up permit once he was allowed in. The only way I was allowed to travel up to the Tibet plateau was via train or flight.
I opted for the train, at 5,100 metres, the world's highest train journey. I even had to sign a waiver to say I was healthy and accepted the risks of AMS - although there were oxygen vents available for a quick suck on the good stuff, if needed. And the train ride was impressive alright, both for the scenery and the feat of engineering that made it feasible.
Meanwhile Del, at considerable expense, was flying to Chengdu in southern China to arrange his own permit from there. He confirmed he would arrive in 5 days - 2 days after my permit expired. The Tibetan police got wind of the fact my permit was to run out with a days' gap before the next one kicked in, and threatened me with deportation unless I could provide proof of contiguous coverage. So much so, that they arranged a police officer to escort me from my hotel room to the airport at 9:30am next morning.
With no option of extending my existing permit from inside Tibet, the only possible solution was to ask Del to change the start date of the permit he was arranging, but short of ringing every hotel in Chengdu,
I had no way to contact him (it turns out he was off visiting pandas, blissfully unaware). It was now the night before I was to be deported (to Nepal, I believe), and I had accepted my impending fate. Despite the fact we had arranged this trip months ago, we seemed destined never to meet up. When I say we “arranged” this trip, we had agreed some provisional dates, Del had booked flights and we had done absolutely nothing else in terms of organisation.
With the countdown clock ticking and the Sword of Damacles about to fall, the most incredible hand of fortune slapped me in the face. I went to an internet cafe in order to send Del word of my downfall, and what should I see in their reception but a faxed copy of Del's passport with his round little mugshot staring up at me. This internet cafe just so happened to belong to the agency arranging his permit. So I immediately pleaded that my named be scribbled on the permit too, they obliged, and when I told the TTB they seemed satisfied that it had been there all along. There's probably a valuable lesson to be learned
By any means
Del getting a free ride in a rickshaw (a flying pigeon)from this, but I doubt I'll heed it.
And all this ball-ache, just because a few hippies insist on protesting for a free and spiritual homeland for the Tibetan people. Without ever stopping to consider us foreign cyclists who just want an easy ride. May their dreadlocks get drenched in their noodle soup, their campervans stall and their sandals cause painful blisters!
Del eventually did arrive in Lhasa, having picked up another English guy, Adrian, in Chengdu. Due to the regulations, we had no option but to pay for a guide and support vehicle for our journey through Tibet, and so Adrian became a fundamental member of our support team - primarily the cameraman (hence the better quality of photo in this edition). The support vehicle was driven by Siri, a temperamental Tibetan, and our token Tibetan guide, 23 year old Kumshot, completed the team. Despite my penchance for independent travel, I can also tolerate a bit of teaming every so often. In fact, I'm probably the single best individual team player I know!
Lhasa is the capital of Tibet, and the only Tibetan city of any credible size. It houses the Potala palace, Jokhang temple, and Summer palace
- three iconic spiritual symbols of the Tibetan people, with hundreds of pilgrims throwing themselves prostrate around them at any given time. They are all open to visitors, as you'd expect. But all make it clear that photography is not allowed inside, as this is disrespectful to the spirituality of the Buddhist images they hold. Pay £2 to the monks, however, and this seems plenty to overcome any such concerns. Throw in a further dollar, and they'll even pose for you in front of their most holy of icons. Not immeasurably spiritual then. Even enlightenment has it's price, it would seem. I had a bottle of water confiscated as I entered the Potala Palace, but within yards of passing the guard, I could buy one from any of the Tibetan stalls inside. Such is the burden the tourist must carry.
We learned about Dalai Lamas, Panchen Lamas, and the whole Lamic institution. We learned about past Buddhas, present Buddhas and future Buddhas. About former Tibetan kings, about the cultural revolution and when the Chinese security cameras weren't looking or listening, the secret hope for a Tibetan future.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a Free Tibet - after all,
Is it a monk?
Or is it Ashley Cole? this one is dead expensive! How Brad Pitt managed to afford 7 years in Tibet, I'll never know.
Of course, there is another side to the story; The Chinese side. And if you visit the less-than-balanced Tibet Museum, you will read all about how the great People's Communist Party peacefully liberated Tibet from tyrannical rule. The region now has the Chinese stamp all over it - usually in the form of the Chinese flag flying proudly atop temples it once tried to destroy. And Tibet has not escaped the relentless Chinese building boom either. The country is one massive construction site of roadworks, scaffolding, diggers and fork-lift trucks (er, or chopstick-lift trucks?).
With some power-sightseeing of Lhasa under our Buddhist belts, we were kitted up and ready to leave for the epic ride to Kathmandu. I had sent my first bicycle home from Xining. We had had some good times together, and I will always cherish some special memories of the relationship. But it was best that we split up now, as opposed to having a long, bitter break up in the middle of the Himalayas. Circumstances had changed and she was no longer fulfilling my needs in
Yakety yak
Sod the bike! the same way she did through the smooth, flat roads of Europe. I already had my eye on another model too - a stronger, chubbier specimen from China - but it's only fair to all parties that one relationship finishes before the next begins.
I would say it was emotional separation, but in the last edition of my blog I tried experimenting with a touch of emotional insight, and to avoid the backlash of concerned feedback that accompanied it, I'll revert to my impassive norm this time round. Just to say, I am much happier now, and really taken by my new partner, whom I picked up in Lhasa.
In a similar vein, Tibet is supposedly the spiritual heartland of the most spiritual people. Tens upon thousands of pilgrims throw themselves on the floor in front of the temples. Mix this with the cloud of incense that emanates from the cities and towns, and you'd have thought I'd have felt a little bit of inner-spirituality? Not a flicker.
Along the Friendship Highway we travelled, from Gyantse to Shigatse and onwards and upwards towards the Himalayas. The highest and hardest day of the ride was also the hardest and highest
climb. We climbed to 5,220 metres - with 40 percent of usual oxygen levels, at -4 degrees centigrade, and into a fierce and freezing headwind, it was really hard going. So much so, that I was thoroughly unashamedly wearing lycra leggins and pop socks. But in a weird way, it was also fun battling the worst elements that nature can throw at you. You'll have to ask Del if he agrees. I didn't want him thinking it was easy though. The route through the Himalayas was undoubtedly spectacular - in between avoiding rockfalls on cliff-clinging tracks, skidding and sliding across the tarmac, staring down yaks who refuse to budge from the middle of the track, and watching wolves wander the wayside, there were numerous other highlights.
One of which was a trip to the north face of Mount Everest - or to give it its local Tibetan name, Qomolangma. The Nepalese call it Sagarmatha. The rest of the world refers to it by the name of an English surveyor, much to Chinese discontent. About half way along the Friendship Highway was the 85 km detour to visit Everest Base Camp near the Tibet-Nepal border. Not possible by bike, but
our Land Cruiser was just about up to the job - except for the odd slide backwards in the ice, usually halted by a frantic scramble for a rock to jam under the wheels. But we made it to Base Camp for dawn, and despite the biting cold, we were treated to a clear close-up of the world's highest mountain.
Then a last few kilometres cycle, mainly downhill, to the border where we prematurely celebrated with a big night out. Like most border towns, Dram is a dirty dive teeming with money-changers, traffickers, truckers, and seedy nightclubs. For some reason we decided it would be a good idea to try out one such nightclub. The rest of the evening is a blur, but the photos suggested we had a good time. The ride in the fresh air next morning was a welcome relief for Del and I, but for Adrian the prospect of another bumpy Jeep journey proved to be a vomit-inducing step too far, and he painted Del's cycle gear a sweetcorn colour during the night.
Exiting “China” was a much simpler affair than entering it, and we were in Nepal in no time. In fact, due
to the time difference, we entered Nepal 2:15 hours earlier. Nepal is the one country in the world that aligns itself to a time zone on a quarter hour deviation from GMT. I believe this is to distinguish itself from India - it's domineering neighbour.
We had been warned that tight-fitting lycra may be deemed offensive in Nepal. But I refused to accept that anybody could actually be insulted by Del and I's muscle-clinging stockings. So we did not heed the warning. Again!
No more than an hour into Nepal, the big incident happened. A truck was overtaking us, but once he has passed me, he decided to smash Del off the road. Not in the playlike way that Russian trucks toy with you by squeezing out your space, but he physically turned and collided into him. Metal on metal. Del didn't see it coming and tumbled into the sewage ditch beside the road. I saw the whole thing from behind, and was shocked into inactivity for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. I wanted to chase after the truck, but at the same time needed to make sure Del was not too badly disrepaired. It was
a definite pre-meditated attempt to cause injury. Throwing ineffective insults down the road, I helped Del and his bike out the ditch. I was as angry as he was shocked. I can accept that the occasional “accident” might happen on the road, and I have had a few scrapes myself, but this was no accident. I also felt guilty that it was not me that took the brunt of the hit-and-run given he was only out here for a few hundred kilometres. But after we recovered and settled down, I realised it served him right for his offensive lycra outfit.
The last two days ride to Kathmandu were uneventful by comparison. There was one Nepali guy who chatted to us at a roadside cafe. Firstly he grabbed my shoulder-blades saying how strong they were. Then my arms. Then my belly. It was too late before I realised where he was heading next. He must've been either mightily disappointed or mightily impressed by the fistful of padding that stood in his way. We quickly paid and left.
The last day will be remembered for the 26 kilometre uphill climb before Kathmandu. Even at this oxygen-filled altitude, it was lung-testing work.
Keep movin
..and check out those lycra long-johns But hitting the top of the pass was like reaching the top of the rainbow, with Kathmandu being the pot of gold at the end of it. And so we sauntered the last few kilometres through the Kathmandu smog and into a western world of delights such as good grub, bottled beverages, comfortable accommodation and internet non-interference.
Del flew home, still exhausted. Adrian continued his travels to India, still hungover. I returned to a life of biking and blogging, still no change there.
Keep movin' on,
Tim
www.fullcycle.org.uk
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Vince
non-member comment
Is that really his name?
Kumshot? Really? Brilliant. I find chopsticks very backwards too.