Kellen Smetana
As you saw from the last post, our route through northern Sichuan province was closed due to Tibetan unrest and we were forced to take other means of transportation around the region. As you also saw from the last post, we were both absolutely derailed for about a week with foodborne stomach issues. I will leave it to your imagination to picture how pleasant an eight hour bus ride and a twenty-five hour train ride are with a tummy that feels a bit like a blender.
I do want to recount one short story from the train, however, that shows pretty well the complete lack of patience in China. Early morning, I was next in line to use the bathroom. The two men waiting behind me conferred, and decided that the woman currently in the bathroom was taking too long. So, they took turns kicking the door until she exited a minute later. She walked out like nothing had happened. “No pressure,” I gulped to myself as I entered.
Rested and somewhat recovered in Xining, our new launching pad to head west (and probably another city of over 2 million people you’ve never heard of), we were ready to get back in the saddle. Fifteen minutes into the ride, it finally happened: one of us was hit by a car. Fortunately, it was nothing serious by any means. We were navigating a row of parked cars when all of a sudden a man opened the backdoor of one of the taxis and laid a Vladimir Konstantinov-like hip check on Ben, who, bike-and-all, slowly fell into the hood of the SUV parked next to the taxi. Everyone got out to assess the damage but seemed to be more amused at the scowling Ben than the newly imprinted dents on their vehicles. After all, it’s not every day you get close encounters of the traveling cyclist kind. And it’s a good thing Ben didn’t look back, as I had to admit later I was stopped behind the cars laughing hysterically at the comedy of the whole scene.
If you remember, I lamented the fact that we missed out on snow-capped peaks in northern Sichuan… well, ask and ye shall receive. From Xining, we went UP. After a day of climbing, we woke up to a cold misty rain and started to attack the first of three mountain passes through the Qilian Shan range. By mid-morning, the rain had turned to snow! We passed herds of wild yaks and the riding was beautiful.
As you saw from the last post, our route through northern Sichuan province was closed due to Tibetan unrest and we were forced to take other means of transportation around the region. As you also saw from the last post, we were both absolutely derailed for about a week with foodborne stomach issues. I will leave it to your imagination to picture how pleasant an eight hour bus ride and a twenty-five hour train ride are with a tummy that feels a bit like a blender.
I do want to recount one short story from the train, however, that shows pretty well the complete lack of patience in China. Early morning, I was next in line to use the bathroom. The two men waiting behind me conferred, and decided that the woman currently in the bathroom was taking too long. So, they took turns kicking the door until she exited a minute later. She walked out like nothing had happened. “No pressure,” I gulped to myself as I entered.
Rested and somewhat recovered in Xining, our new launching pad to head west (and probably another city of over 2 million people you’ve never heard of), we were ready to get back in the saddle. Fifteen minutes into the ride, it finally happened: one of us was hit by a car. Fortunately, it was nothing serious by any means. We were navigating a row of parked cars when all of a sudden a man opened the backdoor of one of the taxis and laid a Vladimir Konstantinov-like hip check on Ben, who, bike-and-all, slowly fell into the hood of the SUV parked next to the taxi. Everyone got out to assess the damage but seemed to be more amused at the scowling Ben than the newly imprinted dents on their vehicles. After all, it’s not every day you get close encounters of the traveling cyclist kind. And it’s a good thing Ben didn’t look back, as I had to admit later I was stopped behind the cars laughing hysterically at the comedy of the whole scene.
If you remember, I lamented the fact that we missed out on snow-capped peaks in northern Sichuan… well, ask and ye shall receive. From Xining, we went UP. After a day of climbing, we woke up to a cold misty rain and started to attack the first of three mountain passes through the Qilian Shan range. By mid-morning, the rain had turned to snow! We passed herds of wild yaks and the riding was beautiful.
Time to go up
Then we kept going up. The light snow turned into a full on blizzard, and the temperature dropped below freezing. When I had longed for snow-capped peaks, I didn’t necessarily want to be in them. But still we went up.
Entering the blizzard
Four hours later and long after losing feeling in our fingers, we reached the top of the pass: 3,793 meters! (12,444 feet – that’s high! For reference, Denver, CO is at 5,130 feet).
Only one way to go
We both cheered half-heartedly because we knew we had the worst part still ahead of us – the descent. Next time you’re driving your car through a snowstorm, picture yourself steering from the roof; that’s a bit what cycling downhill through a blizzard feels like. Winding wet roads, white-out conditions, freezing temperatures, 30km of holding the brakes, and a whole lot of wondering why you still want to bike across Asia. For the next hour, I took turns holding the brakes and flailing my arms about trying to get blood back to my fingers.
Finally a town on the horizon! I had already made up my mind I was going to warm up in the first building no matter what. I set my bike against the wall, flew open the door, and pointed to the central coal furnace. Because I looked like I had just completed an army of snow-angels face-down, the two men knew exactly what I needed; they brought up a chair right next to the fire. A minute later I waived in Ben and we spent the next 45 minutes there defrosting. “Next time,” he said, “let’s head for the mountains in late summer.” I agreed; and quickly, we also realized the building we had entered was another police checkpoint! Luckily, this one was for trucks and not foreigners, and the guards were more than helpful, even taking a photo of us two sorry cyclists.
Finally a town on the horizon! I had already made up my mind I was going to warm up in the first building no matter what. I set my bike against the wall, flew open the door, and pointed to the central coal furnace. Because I looked like I had just completed an army of snow-angels face-down, the two men knew exactly what I needed; they brought up a chair right next to the fire. A minute later I waived in Ben and we spent the next 45 minutes there defrosting. “Next time,” he said, “let’s head for the mountains in late summer.” I agreed; and quickly, we also realized the building we had entered was another police checkpoint! Luckily, this one was for trucks and not foreigners, and the guards were more than helpful, even taking a photo of us two sorry cyclists.
The only other thing we needed was some hot cocoa...
As it was already mid-afternoon, we felt that we had taken enough of a beating for the day, and we ought to eat and find a hotel in town. Of course, in China nothing is that simple. After a nice meal, our English-speaking hostess offered to take us to the nearest hotel. One hotel, two hotels, three hotels – no rooms. On the third, I finally said to her, “no, that’s not right… these hotels have rooms.” “Yes,” she said, “they are afraid the police will see you. You’re not allowed to stay here in Qingshizui; you must go to the tourist hotel in Menyuan.” Menyuan was a town 40km out of our way, and as you learn traveling through China, foreigners are often blocked from staying in the cheapest hotels like those in this particular town. “That’s ridiculous,” I exclaimed, “we’ll go talk to the police directly and ask if we can stay here!” (See the last post for reference on how well our debates with police normally go over).
We marched on to the police station, a small crowd in tow. I spent twenty minutes pleading with them that we were tired, they had a pretty town (they had told me it wasn’t nice enough for us), Menyuan was out of our way, and explaining to them the general absurdity of the fact that we are barred from hotels where even the room descriptions are in English. Finally, I threw up my hands, put on a big smile, and said, “Ok, we stay in Menyuan.” We thoroughly thanked our restaurant translator and walked out the door. As we descended the front steps, I turned to Ben: “Are you thinking what I’m thinking…?” “Yep,” he responded, “looks like we’re camping again tonight.” If you can’t beat the bureaucracy, go around it.
We left Qingshizui, turned away from Menyuan, rode six kilometers up the road to a small village and found a nice sheltered abandoned building in which to set up shop. A few farmers saw us setting up, and when we finally explained to them what we were doing, one returned with a broom to help us clean out the room and another returned to invite us in for tea and bread. (I even tried to give one of the kids a tour of our tents but he quickly started crying – I never knew I was so scary!) So there you have it: Chinese bureaucracy be what it is, when you peel back the layers you’ll find that the people here are still downright nice (if a little impatient… see above).
We marched on to the police station, a small crowd in tow. I spent twenty minutes pleading with them that we were tired, they had a pretty town (they had told me it wasn’t nice enough for us), Menyuan was out of our way, and explaining to them the general absurdity of the fact that we are barred from hotels where even the room descriptions are in English. Finally, I threw up my hands, put on a big smile, and said, “Ok, we stay in Menyuan.” We thoroughly thanked our restaurant translator and walked out the door. As we descended the front steps, I turned to Ben: “Are you thinking what I’m thinking…?” “Yep,” he responded, “looks like we’re camping again tonight.” If you can’t beat the bureaucracy, go around it.
We left Qingshizui, turned away from Menyuan, rode six kilometers up the road to a small village and found a nice sheltered abandoned building in which to set up shop. A few farmers saw us setting up, and when we finally explained to them what we were doing, one returned with a broom to help us clean out the room and another returned to invite us in for tea and bread. (I even tried to give one of the kids a tour of our tents but he quickly started crying – I never knew I was so scary!) So there you have it: Chinese bureaucracy be what it is, when you peel back the layers you’ll find that the people here are still downright nice (if a little impatient… see above).
Home sweet home (for the evening)
Our host for tea
The next morning, as we were packing up, Ben, who had been up to the bathroom earlier, said, “You haven’t seen it out there yet, have you…” Stepping out, I realized the clouds had cleared and we had finally reached the payoff. We found ourselves in a high glacial plain surrounded by a cauldron of 4, 5, and even almost 6,000 meter peaks on every horizon. Yes!
The payoff
The next two days were filled with amazing riding: more yaks and sheep, golden pastures, and so few cars that we were able to ride side-by-side and hold conversation for most of the day. We did climb two more passes the next two days, slightly lower than the height of the first and much warmer.
Yaks and sheep, highway companions
Umm yes please, I'll take some more of that
And on the fourth day we left the mountains with a long downhill into Zhangye. From here we will turn even further west and pick up the old Silk Road as we brace ourselves for the long trek out of China. Much more desert, and much more wind to come.
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