Saturday 30 June 2012

Technical Issue

Two days before my health decided it needed some time away from me, I asked myself one of those silly questions that have a way of turning against you. Suppose something had to go wrong with either your bike or your body, which would you choose? Easy, I told my imaginary interlocutor. My body, of course. Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't the body have this astonishing ability to cure whatever ails it? Don't go expecting it to deal with anything as cataclysmic as a brain hemorrhage, but the common flu or a nasty gash in the head are no match for the magic powers of your body. Just give it a couple of days and you'll be as good as new.

Now try that with a bicycle. 'Flat tire? Oh, let me just put it against the wall, it'll sort itself out.' If anything, that tire will be only flatter after a day or two. In fact, for its well-being my bicycle is wholly dependent on me, a clueless quack who can hardly tell his bottom bracket from his crankset. Just imagine what my poor bike must have gone through when I tried to fix my very first puncture. Having turned the patient upside down, I actually started taking snapshots of the rear wheel because I wasn't sure whether after removing it I'd be able to figure out how to put it back again. I guess it's like being wheeled into the operating room only to hear the surgeon say, just before the anaesthetics kick in: 'Don't worry, sir. We know how to cut you open, but we're still consulting the textbooks on the sewing-up part.' Not very reassuring.

Now, it's true that I've progressed since those early days. It takes me less than thirty minutes to turn a fully-loaded bicycle with a flat tire into a fully-loaded bicycle that's good to go. And, having reversed the sprocket on my Rohloff hub, I even managed to realign the chain tensioner. But some things never change. Strange sounds emanating from unidentified parts of the bike still give me palpitations. And when I'm unable to come up with an immediate solution to a technical issue, part of my mind is already working on an exit strategy: get bike on bus, book flight, go home, forget about the whole thing.

By contrast, I hardly ever worry about that other machine: my body. It's there, it always does what it's supposed to do and it never gives me troubleapart from the occasional bout of traveller's diarrhoea and, quite curiously, a different skin rash for each country I'm in. Another plus is that it's low on maintenance. Just stuff it with calories, give it the odd scrub and make sure it's in a horizontal position at the end of the day. Andvery important to those weight-conscious round-the-world cycliststhere's no need to carry any spare parts.

And then, as I rode into Korla, that trustworthy machine came to a sputtering halt. Rather than one or two parts, it felt as though my entire body needed replacing. There was a dull throb in my head, my neck and shoulders were locked in a painful clasp, my legs were filled with porridge and I was feeling low on sugar, salts and, above all, morale. It had been a long and hot day through the desert, though no longer or hotter than any other day. Still, caught in Korla's afternoon rush hour, looking for a place to stay, I found myself wondering if this is what heatstroke feels like.

A miracle of the human body I haven't mentioned is that it is capable of pushing back its own collapse. Mine got me to a hotel, where it managed to drag thirty kilos worth of luggage up six flights of stairs. Then, having closed the door behind itself, its defences went down. Fever jumped at it from a dark corner, and, just before I slipped into a twelve-hour nightmare marathon, news reached me that my bowels had decided to join the revolution.

And here I am, dealing with the aftereffects not of heatstroke, as it turns out, but good old dysentery. Which is not as dire as it sounds. Every hour or so my bowels perform some kind of Chinese contortion act, which is a sure sign for me to potter off to the shared toilets down the hall to turn one of the cubicles there into (quite literally) a bloody mess. But I'm not complaining. At least the bike is fine.

Wednesday 20 June 2012

The Chopstick Shtick

'China is a land of contradictions,' a fellow traveller I met in Pakistan told me. I must have been immersed in the food that was spread out before us, because, unfortunately, I don't recall a single one of them. Not that it really matters; I can't even get my head around the one that I've stumbled upon myself. It's something I like to call the Chopstick Shtick and it goes like this.

Tentative beginnings in Tashkorgan
Each time I sit down in a little eaterie for a bowl of noodles, which has replaced rice with lentils as my main staple, I can't help but notice a little smirk on the face of whoever it is who's serving me. I've learnt to ignore this and focus on the food instead. I pick up my chopsticks, examine the bits and pieces that float around in the broth and set to work. Within a few minutes a faint snigger will make itself heard. Now, try as you might, but it's really hard to ignore this. You know that when you look up to find out what the hell is so funny, you're done for. All you can do is keep eating and pretend you're deaf until the moment the sniggering becomes unbearable and you cave in. This is the cue for the imp at your elbow to step forward and start commenting on the way you handle your chopsticks.

Personally, I think my chopstick skills have improved greatly since I entered China. I've never been a great chopsticksman, to coin a new phrase, but within days I found that the better part of that bowl of noodles actually ended up in my mouth rather than in my lap, and that's not something to be sniggered at. Today, I pick up the flimsiest shred of meat without even batting an eye.

For the Chinese, that is not enough. They see a foreigner with chopsticks, and for some reason that tickles them tremendously. A few days ago, one of the customers of the noodle place where I was eating started tutting and then demonstrated with great relish how it's done. He dived in, lifted half of the contents from his bowl and then gave me a triumphant look. 'Who eats like that?' I said. 'No one eats like that. You could never stuff all of that into your mouth.' Clearly, that was not the point. In fact, my indignance only added to the hilarity that spread across the joint like wildfire.

Working on my slurping technique
I looked around. People were using their chopsticks in the same way I did, with a great deal of slurping thrown in for free. As far as I could tell I had mastered the art of eating with chopsticks. Their thoughtless criticism was simply uncalled for. I tried to console myself with the thought that at least they hadn't brought me a fork, as some of the really sadistic noodle place owners like to do.

I'm not quite sure what the deeper implications of all of this are. But I think I've hit upon a pattern. Last week, looking for a bike shop selling tubes of a particular type, I asked a man on a street corner for directions. 'Xiūchē diàn,' I said. Bike shop. I could have asked for directions in Dutch or even in Klingon for all I care, and the reaction would have been the same: a blank stare. 'Xiūchē diàn,' I tried again as the man began to edge away from this stranger speaking in tongues. Then I showed him my little phrasebook and indicated some Chinese characters. 'Aaah, xiūchē diàn,' he exclaimed, and his expression changed instantly. To my amazement, the phonemes that left his mouth were exactly the same as the ones I had uttered. I swallowed hard. His subsequent directions were lost on me.

Now, what I want to know is: is the above an example of the impenetrable humour that the Chinese are famous for? Do they get a special kick out of messing with a foreigner's head? Or am I simply blind to the finer subtleties of Chinese culture?

Saturday 16 June 2012

Kashgar in 6 Shots

Most countries turn their nose up nowadays, having had their fill in the past. In China, however, good old colonialism is very much en vogue. And it's not happening in some remote overseas territory no one has ever heard of, but right here, in China itself.

The thing is, China is home not only to the Chinese—or Han Chinese, to be more precise—but also to dozens of ethnic minorities. Some of these are well-known and well-loved the world over. Take, for instance, the people of that region in the southwest whose name shall not be mentioned. You know the place: mountainous area where chaps prance about in red dresses and a certain silver-haired American actor appointed himself as Minister of PR.

North of this region lies Xinjiang, a vast desert-like province the size of Western Europe. Xinjiang means 'New Territories', and, knowing that it holds enough oil and natural gas to fuel China's economy for a long time to come, this is exactly the way Beijing treats the place. Meanwhile, Xinjiang's Central Asian minorities—Tajik, Kyrgyz, Kazakh, and, especially, Uyghur—increasingly find their culture swamped by Han Chinese moving in from the east. Before the communist takeover in 1949 the Uyghur population made up 90 percent of the province's total population. Over the years, that number has dwindled to well below half. Unsurprisingly, mass migration has led to cultural dilution. Tensions came to a head in 2009, when severe riots in the city of Ürümqi left 200 people dead.

In Kashgar, the divide between the Han and Uyghur populations is painfully real. Minarets are dwarfed by modern highrises, underground shopping malls pull in customers from the street-level bazaars, and the characteristic houses in the old town are being razed to make way for the kind of faux-historical architecture that Han Chinese tourists are so fond of. Attempts have even been made to sanitise Kashgar's famous Sunday Market, where for centuries people from all over Central Asia have converged to buy and sell pretty much anything you can think of. But this is one part of the country that the Han Chinese have yet to conquer. The brand-new pavilion where a couple of traders have decked their stalls with garish souvenirs is swallowed up by the real market that surrounds it—a sprawling orgy of colours, smells and sounds that will never die down.












Saturday 9 June 2012

Hors Catégorie (3/3)

Did I mention that the road was pretty awful?
A few days later the serenity of the lake was but a distant memory. There were more serious things on our mind. At last the time had come to take on the Khunjerab Pass, a 4693-metre beast that seemed to have shaken off the ribbon of tarmac that once adorned it in one big fit of laughter. We pretended not to be impressed, tried to ignore the appalling road surface, and grew increasingly smug as officials at various checkpoints told us that we were the first this year to cycle to the top. 'And quite possibly the only,' we were quick to add.

From the icy plateau that is the Khunjerab Pass, it was a 2000-metre descent back to the village of Sost—an inevitable piece of backtracking given that the Chinese insist that cyclists bus it to Tashkurgan, the first town on their side of the border. The bus ride itself was largely spent worrying about our precious bikes strapped to the roof of the bus. Fortunately, it only took customs and immigration on both sides of the border nine hours to rifle through everyone's belongings and establish that the bales of tea carried by Pakistani traders really only contained tea and that our bicycle panniers were stashed with nothing but a harmless assortment of odd-looking tools and dirty laundry. By the time we reached Tashkurgan—it was 3am—we'd given up all hope of making it to scenic Karakul Lake the day after. We decided to take that day off and limited our activities to eating, sleeping, acquanting ourselves with a new culture (in these parts Central Asian rather than Chinese), congratulating ourselves on having reached China and revelling in the thought that the worst lay behind us.

The (very) cold, hard proof that we actually made it
How wrong we were. The two-day ride from Tashkurgan to the ancient city of Kashgar, terminus of the KKH, was every bit as nasty as anything we'd done before. On paper it looked fair enough: a 1000-metre ascent to Ulugh Rabat on the first day, then a night in a yurt on the shores of Karakul Lake, followed by a long but mostly downhill stage to Kashgar.

Had we grown too self-confident? Too optimistic at the sight of the lovely Chinese tarmac that stretched out before us? Hard to say. The only thing I know is that Ulugh Rabat, at a mere 3955 metres not nearly as high as the Khunjerab Pass, is the biggest lung buster I've ever climbed. High up on the Khunjerab Pass we'd noticed the effects of altitude—we were a bit short of breath—but on the flanks of Ulugh Rabat we were panting like pneumonic packhorses. The hailstorm on the summit did little to improve our mood.

God bless China and its heavenly tarmac
And the KKH hadn't finished with us yet. On the last day a fierce headwind tried to blow us back to Pakistan, forcing us to ride in each other's slipstream. Out of sheer exhaustion (or, quite possibly, dim-wittedness) we then missed several turnoffs to Kashgar, something we didn't realise until the flat countryside consistently refused to give way to anything resembling a biggish city. This little detour bumped up that day's total to a positively loopy 219 kilometres.

And here we are. In Kashgar. Too dazed to look back, too tired to look forward. The only mountain I'm interested in right now is the mountain of smoky kebabs served at the tiny restaurant next-door; the only lake a lake of cold, smooth, and yes, at last, legal beer.

Thursday 7 June 2012

Hors Catégorie (2/3)

The temporary alliance Emily and I had struck that morning seemed to be working out fine. 

Emily with icy backdrop
We'd first met in Islamabad, and although we'd made a point of keeping in touch, we'd never really discussed the possibility of riding together. But somehow, having reached what is probably the most challenging part of the KKH, we sensed that we could do with a companion. This little experiment wasn't entirely risk-free. Being hardcore solo riders with our own quirks and habits, there was no guarantee that we wouldn't try to sabotage each other's bike two kilometres into the first day. 

Moreover, I was a bit wary of riding with a legend in the making (sorry, Emily). Although she'd never say so herself, her story so far is nothing short of amazing. One day, this former London bicycle courier got it into her head that cycling around the world (and when I say around the world I mean: all the bloody way around the world) might be a nice way to spend a year or four. She more or less settled on the Silk Road for the first leg of her journey, very wisely applied for a Pakistani visa before she left the country, realised that she would have to cover the entire distance from her hometown in Wales to faraway Pakistan within six months or else she wouldn't be allowed to enter the country, and then set off anyway.

Sometimes even legends need a breather
Like me she started her trip in September (albeit one year later), but instead of heading for sunny Spain she cut through eastern Europe, braved arctic conditions in eastern Turkey and western Iran (check her superb blog for some gruesome pictures) and made it to Pakistan with only a few days to spare. By that time the entire cycle touring community was raving on about her. 'Have you heard about that girl from Wales?' we would ask each other. 'Did you know she's putting in 200 kilometres a day?' As I told her in an email, she made us male pedal pounders all look like pathetic underachievers.

Rather disappointingly, it turned out that she isn't quite the female hulk we had imagined her to be. In fact, I would like to dispel all rumours that she has bicycle chains for breakfast. A sprinkling of diced knobbly tyres on her cereal is enough to keep her going.

Tuesday 5 June 2012

Hors Catégorie (1/3)

The ultimate defeat for a cyclist is the moment he has to get off the bike and push because the road is either too steep, too bad or too non-existent. My most recent walk of shame was brought about by a combination of these factors. I'm only very slightly exaggerating when I say that, an hour or two beyond Karimabad, the road I'm referring to went up almost vertically and I was standing knee-deep in loose sand. By putting all my weight behind the handlebars and with a good deal of grunting I managed to inch my way forward. It wasn't a pretty sight. Fortunately, the sense of humiliation was somewhat alleviated by the fact that, twenty metres behind me, someone else was doing the same.

Attabad Lake (with me for scale)
The hill we were climbing wasn't exactly a hill but a natural dam. Two years ago, one of the mountains directly adjacent to the KKH decided to take a refreshing dip in the Hunza River, with rather catastrophic results: like a clogged-up toilet the upstream gorge filled with water. Not just the KKH but entire villages straddling the river were submerged. Today, the situation is much the same as it was two years ago. The scale of the disaster is so immense that there are plans to leave the lake for what it is and drill a tunnel through the surrounding mountains.

Whatever the method, something needs to be done soon. Pakistan's economy must be suffering considerably now that the only land route to China has been rendered useless. A few entrepreneurial souls, however, have managed to turn the situation to their advantage. God knows how they got them there, but several wooden passenger boats that normally bob around in the harbour of Karachi, some 2000 kilometres south, now ply Attabad Lake, as it's officially called. At 100 rupees per passenger (300 for foreigners willing to bargain aggressively) someone must be making good money here.

From an aesthetic point of view it seems a shame to pull the plug and drain the thing. I haven't seen that many in my life, but this must surely be one of the world's most stunning mountain lakes. The turquoise expanse clashes spectacularly with the blue skies above, while the sloping mountainsides open up one breathtaking vista after another as the boat winds its way to an unseen shore twelve kilometres away.

A taste of Karachi high up in the mountains
Sitting aboard, taking it all in, waves of ecstatic happiness washed over me—the kind of happiness that most travellers will be familiar with, and yes, the kind that usually makes for pretty lousy travel writing. These moments, rare though they are, can occur at any given time and are not limited to otherworldly scenery alone. I vividly remember riding down an unassuming hill in France and experiencing something similar when the sun pierced the clouds and set the dull landscape ablaze. My first glimpse of snowy peaks in the south of Spain caused me to stop and swallow hard. What have I done to deserve such splendour, is all you can think at times like these.

Munching on a chunk of dense Hunza bread with home-made marmalade I glanced at Emily, the first cycling buddy I've had since that memorable ride into Istanbul. I think she felt the same. Covered in dust from the long push uphill, we sat there grinning like idiots.