If there is one thing most cyclists have in common, apart from smelly socks and tan lines on wrists and fingers, it's an unspoken yet deeply felt aversion to mass tourism. It's below them in so many ways that they couldn't even begin to list all that's wrong with it. Mentality, that's what it seems to come down to. They're travelling, don't you know, under their own steam no less. They're discovering the world on their own terms, finding meaning in out-of-the-way places that aren't listed in any of the guidebooks—nevermind that it says 'tourist' on each of their visas. Some even go so far as to avoid busy tourist hubs, tailoring their riding schedule to the state of their laundry rather than the vicinity of a major sight.
Though not wholly alien to this sentiment, I try not to let my moral superiority get in the way of taking in as much as I can of the vast array of cultural wealth that's strung along my route, even if it means queueing up in the heat or being forced to pay twenty times the regular admission fee (common practice in Pakistan). And why should I? The beauty of independent travel is that you're free to go wherever you want, and that includes staying right on the beaten track. After all, what is a visit to Verona without risking a neck hernia while gazing up at the jaw-dropping frescoes of its churches? Or an overnight stay in Bruges without getting up first thing in the morning to be crammed into a tiny canal boat along with a busload of elderly day-trippers? I did it and loved it.
Here in China, the rise of the middle class means that organised tourism is booming. Unfortunately, much of what would make a good tourist destination—historic city centres, for instance—has been knocked down in the rush to modernise. What remains is often dolled up to such a degree that it is hard to tell what has been restored and what is spanking new. Not that this really matters to the average Chinese tourist, who prefers the neat and tidy over the scruffy and dilapidated—in other words, over the way much of Europe looks.
High up on the ramparts of Jiayuguan Fort, I realise that the Chinese might have a point. No need here to stare at a few weathered stones and press your mind to conjure up an image of the way it once looked. Jiayuguan Fort is real and it's as magnificent as it ever was. With its three squat towers and its double defence walls the fort sits at a location that could hardly be of greater strategic importance. This is where the Hexi Corridor, traditionally the only viable route from west to east, is at its narrowest. But the place also holds symbolic value: here, at the westernmost point of the Great Wall, ancient China ended. What lay beyond was the source of dark tales. Looking out across the wasteland through which I came, the historical significance of the fort makes itself felt in a way that few other places ever have. Scores of weary travellers before me must have heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of this fort. It signalled a return to a world of safety and civilisation.
Down in the central courtyard I get a taste of what that civilisation is about. A man with a crooked smile urges me to put on a plastic cuirass and shoot brightly coloured arrows at a couple of already badly mutilated straw puppets. Frowning, I follow the beaten track to the exit.
Though not wholly alien to this sentiment, I try not to let my moral superiority get in the way of taking in as much as I can of the vast array of cultural wealth that's strung along my route, even if it means queueing up in the heat or being forced to pay twenty times the regular admission fee (common practice in Pakistan). And why should I? The beauty of independent travel is that you're free to go wherever you want, and that includes staying right on the beaten track. After all, what is a visit to Verona without risking a neck hernia while gazing up at the jaw-dropping frescoes of its churches? Or an overnight stay in Bruges without getting up first thing in the morning to be crammed into a tiny canal boat along with a busload of elderly day-trippers? I did it and loved it.
Here in China, the rise of the middle class means that organised tourism is booming. Unfortunately, much of what would make a good tourist destination—historic city centres, for instance—has been knocked down in the rush to modernise. What remains is often dolled up to such a degree that it is hard to tell what has been restored and what is spanking new. Not that this really matters to the average Chinese tourist, who prefers the neat and tidy over the scruffy and dilapidated—in other words, over the way much of Europe looks.
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| Seems the soldiers have nipped off for a tea break |
Down in the central courtyard I get a taste of what that civilisation is about. A man with a crooked smile urges me to put on a plastic cuirass and shoot brightly coloured arrows at a couple of already badly mutilated straw puppets. Frowning, I follow the beaten track to the exit.
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