Clueless

One of the many delights of this trip is getting lost. It's not that I particularly enjoy taking wrong turns or putting in extra miles, but it often leads to pleasant surprises. I once asked a man in a shiny SUV how to get to Tehran. 'Tehran?' he said. 'Why go to Tehran?' Two small children in the back were giggling. 'Come home with us. We'll have lunch, I'll show you around. You can stay as long as you like. Please don't say no.' And I'll never forget that time in Spain when I wasn't sure whether the road I was on was in fact the right road. I stopped. There was not a soul in sight. After a minute or so a bus pulled over. An elderly lady dressed in conservative blue got off, her spine bent not only by old age but also by a leather suitcase she was carrying. I addressed her gently and asked for directions. 'Cross the river at the next bridge,' she told me in rapid Spanish, and in the same breath asked where I was from. I told her. 'And you've come all the way by bicycle?' I said yes. She tutted, took my hand and said something I didn't quite follow. Then she picked up her suitcase and walked off. When I opened my hand I found a plastic rosary. Now, I wouldn't even know how to say a Hail Mary, but that simple act of well-wishing touched me tremendously. I've kept it in the back pocket of my cycling jersey ever since.

Wherever you go, people can relate to a stranger trying to find his way. Language barriers aren't an issue. I always start with the local equivalent of 'hello' or 'good afternoon' to break the ice, have a go at the name of the place I'm looking for, and try to look a bit clueless. If this triggers a lengthy explanation in a language I don't know, which is usually the case, there's always enough pointing involved for me to get a sense of where I'm supposed to be heading. I thank the person who's come to my rescue, he or she says something to the effect of 'you're welcome' or 'don't mention it', and we're on our merry way again. It's human communication distilled to its essence, a successful exchange of information against the odds.

Chinese people doing Chinese things

Not so in China. The trouble starts when I try to catch someone's attention with a simple 'nihao'. I can see the panic flare up in their eyes. What, me? Before they get a chance to run I corner them and slowly state the place I'm looking for, taking care not to make it sound like a question. In Chinese, intonation is not the frilly thing it is in Western languages. My phrasebook has a good example of what happens if you get it wrong: mess up the tones of the word 'wàijiāguān' and you're introducing yourself not as a diplomat but as a rubber U-bend pipe. But no matter how hard I try, most people simply don't get what I'm driving at. Even if I do manage to get my point across, it often turns out to be a complete waste of energy. Not only is every syllable of their explanation lost on me, it's usually accompanied by such a confusion of gestures and exclamations that I end up none the wiser. 'So let me get this straight,' I will say. 'Do I turn left (I point to my left) or right (I point to my right)?' A single nod of the head. Yes.

More than ever I now depend on road signs. On main thoroughfares these tend to be bilingual, but on country roads they read like small puzzles. Several times a day I stop to match the Chinese characters I find on road signs with the characters on my Chinese map, which I then compare with the place names on my English map. Memorising them takes some imagination. The characters for the city of Xi'an, for instance, resemble a pi symbol taking a foot bath and a stick man crossing his legs. The trick here is to remember more than just the first character or you'll end up in, say, Pingyao rather than Pingliang.

This really is a wonderful country. The scenery can be stunning, the food is great and on the whole the people are nice. But in China even the most hardened traveller will sometimes feel like an illiterate deaf-mute left to his own devices.

Homework

On foot, on foot, on foot, on foot, on foot. The boy in the pink polo shirt has nearly filled a page when he looks up. I sit down next to him and eat my ice cream. We're surrounded by stacks of boxes filled with soft drinks and instant noodles. The wind is playing with the tarpaulin overhead. I sigh contentedly, glad to be off the bike for a minute. The boy, however, is determined not to be distracted from his homework. His face a mere two inches from the paper he picks up where he left off: after 'on' the horizontal stroke of the f, then the vertical stroke, the two o's—clockwise—followed by the t, in the same vein as the f. What is he practising, I wonder. His English or his Roman alphabet?

One step at a time

Sitting there in the shade I try to relax a bit. No more desert, I tell myself once again, though that's only partly true. Physically I've made it to the other side. But my mind is still busy catching up with reality. Even though there are trees all around, and people working the fields, and villages with small convenience stores, I'm still pushing myself as hard as I did in the desert, when I desperately tried to limit the number of days spent in between towns, and I'm still carrying enough water to extinguish a wildfire. Beneath all this is the inarticulate anxiety that tends to accompany you in hostile environments. No matter how often I told myself it was all just a game, that I could hail a car in case I ran out of water or spend the night in a drainage pipe if I didn't make it to a settlement before nightfall, everything in me remained geared to survival. That in itself was as exhausting as the miles I put in.

The boy looks at me again. Then he pulls a small exercise book from under his notepad and indicates a sentence. 'How do you go to school?' I read out aloud. There are two options: by bus or on foot. 'Do you go on foot?' I ask. He smiles but doesn't reply. Then he points out another phrase, and another. 'These are my friends,' I say. 'This is our classroom.' By now, his mother, who sold me the ice cream, has started to take an interest. Sensing that here is a perfect opportunity for her son to practise his skills, she tries to bully him into engaging in earnest conversation. The boy, preferring the monastic approach, picks up his pen and resumes his work: on foot, on foot, on foot. This infuriates his mother, who now begins to shove him around. I try not to laugh. Only when I get up to leave do I realise how right this little boy is. Rather than the frenzied 'by bus' mentality of his mother, who wants him to seize every opportunity and get ahead, or, for that matter, of myself, having just crossed a desert as if chased by demons, here is someone who chooses to take life as it comes. One step at a time.

Buddy

I've always felt that people who treat inanimate objects as though they were live beings with thoughts and feelings ought to be put on some kind of medication. You know the kind. Loners who think only their stuffed toy really understands them. Sad souls who say 'good morning' to the coffee machine. But having spent so much time with no one but my bicycle for company I'm beginning to see what makes them tick. We are social creatures. We need someone to talk to, a sympathetic ear. And if there happens to be nobody around anything will do, even a chromoly frame on wheels. Tough days on the road become a bit more bearable when I tell myself that my bike is suffering as much as I am. And after a nice long ride I like to pat it on the saddle and say: 'Well done'. To which my bike replies: 'Well, I'd never have made it without you'.

Actually, it's a miracle how well we get on. When I first walked into my local bike shop two years ago I knew next to nothing about bicycles, though I thought I did, having spent a week or two browsing online bike forums for bits of relevant information. The conversation I had with one of the technical chaps who worked there went something like this. Technical chap: 'You know, those Edelux headlights are really nice, but you'd be better off buying a battery-powered headlight and investing your hard-earned cash in a Chris King headset.' (A headset is the set of bearings just above the fork.) Me, repeating what I had just read in Stephen Lord's excellent Adventure Cycle-Touring Handbook: 'A headset is a headset. I'd rather have a decent light on my bike so I won't get killed in one of those unlit tunnels they have in Italy.' Technical chap, shrugging: 'Very well, have it your way.' Two years later, I still don't know what the added benefit of a Chris King headset would be. But I do know that obscene floodlight of mine managed to convince oncoming cars in many a pitch-black tunnel to stick to their own lane. Then again, my midrange headset could snap tomorrow and send me straight off a cliff.

And that's exactly what it is

What I'm trying to say is that, even though it was a nitwit like me who picked each and every component, the team at Van Herwerden managed to build a bike that turned out to be just right. There really isn't anything I would like to change, and for someone as finnicky as I am that's quite a statement. I love the way it becomes part of my body when I click my cleats into the pedals. I love the way it darts off when the traffic light turns green. I love the way it seems to suggest the right gear when the road suddenly tilts up or down. And I love the many faces it has. When it sits against a wall, basking in the sun, there is something unmistakably feminine about its curved handlebars, the delicate geometry of its frame, the dimples in the saddle. Sometimes it behaves like a grumpy old man who can't keep quiet about his ailments. Dry-dry-dry, it groans with every stroke whenever I've neglected to grease the chain. And when I turn it upside down to fix a puncture it's like a child holding up a bloody knee, patiently waiting for me to come up with a patch.

There is only one thing that worries me slightly. Unlike me, it doesn't seem to wear out. So far, I've only replaced the rear tire, the chain and a couple of brake pads. In fact, save for a few scratches on the paintwork it still looks new. If it weren't for me it could easily keep going for another two years, and probably much longer. I haven't yet broken the news to my buddy that we're reaching the end of our journey, that I'll have to disassemble it, put it in a box and ship it home. I'm afraid it will never forgive me.

The Beaten Track

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.

Seems the soldiers have nipped off for a tea break

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.

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.