Buddha on a Bike

I don't want to harp on about how tough it is out here in the desert and how great the suffering, but as my days are filled with nothing but sun, sand and self-pity I'm afraid you'll have to bear with me one more time. Last week saw me make a little detour to Dunhuang, a sedate town in the southern Gobi that probably wouldn't exist if it weren't for the nearby Mogao Caves. This age-old temple complex, 'discovered' and subsequently looted by a handful of Western explorers at the turn of the last century, was once the centre of Chinese Buddhism. It's impressive as much for its dazzling murals and serene Buddha statues—some standing well over thirty metres tall—as for its sheer size: of the original thousand man-made caves some five hundred survive today. Of those I only managed to visit ten, and that took me the best part of a day.

Approaching Dunhuang

To get to Dunhuang I had to leave the main road leading to the mouth of the Hexi Corridor and cycle southwest for a day. The wind seemed to have anticipated this move: it was working against me as enthusiastically as it had on my west-east crossing of Xinjiang province. Fortunately, I had something to look forward to: a few days off, a bit of culture, something else than noodles for dinner. It also helped that there were two oasis villages along the way. In the first I gorged myself on watermelon, which is particularly good in these parts, and watched the melon vendor crack himself up with the 'romance' section of my Mandarin phrasebook. (Apart from the pretty universal 'Would you like a drink?' it has phrases such as 'You look like some cousin of mine', 'Piss off!', 'How about going to bed?', 'Don't worry, I'll do it myself', 'Easy, tiger!' and the rather anticlimactic 'You're just using me for sex'.)

Such lightheartedness seemed forever out of reach when I rode out of Dunhuang a few days later. I was cycling east on a narrow connecting road, and as the last houses disappeared behind me I noticed that the wind had turned yet again. And not only that. It seemed as though it too had taken a few days off, only to return nastier than ever before. Now a grit-laden gale, it took great pleasure in keeping my speed in the single digits and forcing me at times to ride with my eyes closed.

'What have I done to deserve this?' I groaned. 'Is this a case of bad karma?' I racked my brain but couldn't think of anything inappropriate I may have said or done on my tour of the Magao Caves. Torturing small animals or extorting money from poor old grannies aren't pleasures I usually indulge in, so what could it be? Bad luck? But is that possible? What are the odds of having to face a headwind every single day regardless of the direction I happen to be travelling in? Or is this how the human mind works? Could it be that we like to make a big deal out of unfavourable circumstances and simply fail to register those instances when the planets are aligned correctly and we get what we want without having to exert ourselves too much?

Melon vendor with a taste for the lurid

It didn't take me very long to realise that the way I usually deal with windy days—taking it out on lorry drivers who like to lean on their horn while overtaking me—wouldn't get me very far this time. For one, there was hardly any traffic on this back road. Moreover, the wind was so strong that it would be foolish to take a hand off the handlebar just to give the finger to a lorry driver with the mental capabilities of a six-year-old. I made a quick evaluation of the situation. Between Dunhuang and Guazhou, the next town on this road, there would most likely be nothing at all in the way of basic conveniences: no oasis villages, no settlements, no service stations. Without so much as a wall or a clump of trees to provide shelter it would be impossible to pitch my tent. And water... I shuddered to think of it. Even with the eight litres I was carrying I would have to ration myself.

As the day progressed the wind showed no sign of abating. I genuinely felt sorry for myself, which only made it worse. Then I thought of all those monks responsible for the marvel that is the Magao Caves. When they first started hacking away at the cliffside, they had no idea that their little project would evolve into one of the greatest artistic accomplishments of all time, that 1600 years later people from all over the world would throng to see the fruit of their labour. 'Just think of all the effort that must have gone into the creation of a single cave,' I told myself. The hammer and chisel, the oil lamps, the desert heat, the perseverance it took to cover wall after wall with thousands of near-identical miniature portraits of the Buddha. And then, when one cave was finished, they would move on to the next. And then to another. And another. And they kept at it for years, for decades, for centuries. Generation after generation, dynasty after dynasty.

'What is a day of pain in the face of such determination and sacrifice?' I asked myself. I divided the remaining hundred-or-so kilometres in a thousand units, using the little stone markers on the roadside to measure my progress. One marker for each cave. 'Now, the trick is to relinquish all desire for things of the world,' I lectured myself on the little I know of Buddhism. 'The pain you're currently experiencing stems from a longing for something you don't have. Forget about shade, forget about cold showers and the sound of clinking ice cubes. You should even forget about ever reaching Guazhou. Just focus on the next stone marker.'

Still, that was easier said than done. A hundred metres is a lot when the wind is giving its best to get you airbound. The on-board entertainment was pretty poor, too—I suspect that a few grains of sand messed up the intricate mechanism of my mental jukebox (see previous post). All I could do was count the pedal strokes. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight. Over and over again, marker after marker. This actually proved to be quite effective. The counting induced a kind of semitrance that prevented me from spending energy on anything but pushing the pedals.

Two-thirds through the day my attempt at meditation in motion was crudely interrupted by something that appeared on the horizon. It was like the classic mirage you get in cartoons. It started with a fleck of grey shimmering in the heat, which as I drew closer took on the unmistakable outline of a petrol station. I instantly forgot about having to let go of the base cravings of the self and allowed myself to be swept away by heavenly images of cold-drinks fridges hopping around in air-conditioned rooms.

This clearly was a test, and as the building grew larger so did the realisation that I had flunked it. It was a petrol station all right, but one that was still under construction. No cold-drinks fridges here but stacks of building materials. No air-conditioned rooms but concrete boxes with paneless windows. I stopped, lay down on the floor and listened to the wind soughing through the empty shell. Then everything grew dark.

There is no yin without yang, no day without night, no heaven without hell, no beginning without end. Twelve hours after leaving Dunhuang I reached Guazhou (or Melon Town in English). And though I can't profess to have made much progress in terms of enlightenment, some kind of nirvana awaited me there.

It didn't take me long to find the town's budget hotel, but it soon transpired that the place didn't have police permission to accommodate foreigners. Acting on a hunch I decided to try my luck at a four-star affair across the street. As I walked through the revolving doors I felt horribly out of place. This was clearly the swankiest establishment for miles around—all crystal chandeliers and bellboys pushing around gleaming luggage trolleys—and I wasn't particularly looking or smelling my best. Nevertheless, the staff seemed delighted to see me. I was offered tea, and before I got a chance to frown at their rack rates I was offered a room for little more than what I usually spend at budget hotels. 'You are very important person,' said the smiley receptionist. 'Where are you from?' 'Holland,' I replied. 'Very beautiful,' she said. 'What, Holland?' 'No, you.' And my chapped lips cracked as I smiled my first real smile of the day.

How did I ever manage without this?

And it didn't end just there. I was doused with more tea, the manager came down to say hello and suddenly it was decided that only a deluxe room would be good enough for me. 'You are very important person,' the receptionist told me again. 'You are first foreign guest.'

When I entered the room I was close to tears. Chinese hotel beds usually consist of a piece of hardboard on legs with a stained duvet masquerading as a mattress. What I found was quite the opposite. From the thick rugs to the upholstered armchairs and the fluffy towels in the bathroom, everything oozed delightful decadence. There was a flatscreen TV, air conditioning, complimentary mineral water and, my favourite item, a tartan sleeve for the remote control. 'So much for relinquishing all desire for things of the world,' I thought as I stepped under the rain shower.

Spiritual enlightenment through purity of mind—the idea rather appeals to me, but I'm afraid I'm just too much of a sucker for life's little luxuries to really make it work.