Kellen Smetana
I’ve never been more pleased to hold a US passport. Our first morning in Urumqi we took a bus to the Kazakh Consulate to start the visa process. Exiting at a nearby stop, we walked towards the house-like building and I saw what I had read and heard about, but not truly expected to see: hoards and hoards of people – probably around 75 – all pressed against a barred entranceway pleading with the guards to take their application.
“Here we go,” I said to Ben, and acting on the advice of Garrent, a really cool Australian we had met at the hostel the previous night, we held our passports high in the air and shoved our way to the gate. A three-second examination is all it took for the guards to open the gate and let us pass. I couldn’t even bring myself to look back at the crowd; I just hustled up the steps inside. Inside looked like a small Secretary of State office with four counters and only about four people waiting in a quiet room. The English-speaker was ready to see us. My jaw dropped, and at that point I realized I had unknowingly started humming a childhood song in my head, “I’ve got a golden ticket… I’ve got a golden ticket in my hand…” I really did feel like Charlie at the Chocolate Factory with my “golden ticket” US passport, though admittedly filling out visa forms is not as fun as eating snosberries. We were in and out in a jiff, and the consulate clerk even got a good chuckle out of the word “smetana” in Russian (see Team page).
Picking it up three days later was a different story. I felt a lot less like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory and a lot more like K from Franz Kafka’s The Trial. We returned in the morning but were allowed only to pay at a nearby bank and were told the visas would be ready at 4pm. Back at 4, we were greeted by dim lights, empty desks, and dozens of people in the waiting room; every once in a while we caught glimpses of people scurrying about through cracks in the doors. Occasionally they came to help some of the people waiting, mostly Kazakhs or Chinese who had somehow caught pity from the guards. From time to time I would also see the guards bring in an application and the clerks dismiss them without much more effort than a wave of the hand (I felt so bad for the people outside).
Finally at 6pm they had our passports… oh wait, only Ben’s and the Danish cyclist we had just met who was biking home to Denmark. A couple more hours passed. Ben went out to get some food, I alternated between leg stretches in the waiting room (the clerks found this very entertaining), studying my passport copies, and dozing on the metal bench. At one point the Kazakh man sitting next to me tapped me on the shoulder and made a sign to show me everything would be ok, and he was right. At 8pm my passport was ready and all was well with the world. It seemed odd that after three days of approval it would take that long to print a sticker, but I was all smiles because I was definitely luckier than the Taiwanese cyclist at our hostel whose application was denied. Ouch! And this is supposed to be the simplest of all the Central Asian visas…
In Urumqi we also got to spend some time moving about on the buses we’ve spent the last two months dodging on our bikes. Now, I don’t know how the typical bus driver shift works back home, but I imagine each driver works for a certain number of routes and completes his/her route in a fixed, pre-determined amount of time. Here, I could swear they are incentivized to hit as many stops as possible on their shift. Literally, one driver did not even hold the brakes at the stops, keeping the bus in neutral so it rolled as people boarded. As soon as the last person’s foot was in the air, she was on the gas like a drag racer. I spent most of my time on the buses laughing because they manage to achieve this driving prowess while lighting cigarette after cigarette and screaming into their cell phones.
And as with most rest stops, we passed much of our time in Urumqi fattening up again on pretty much anything sold by street vendors, especially the fresh bread straight out of the fire – mmmm.
I’ve never been more pleased to hold a US passport. Our first morning in Urumqi we took a bus to the Kazakh Consulate to start the visa process. Exiting at a nearby stop, we walked towards the house-like building and I saw what I had read and heard about, but not truly expected to see: hoards and hoards of people – probably around 75 – all pressed against a barred entranceway pleading with the guards to take their application.
“Here we go,” I said to Ben, and acting on the advice of Garrent, a really cool Australian we had met at the hostel the previous night, we held our passports high in the air and shoved our way to the gate. A three-second examination is all it took for the guards to open the gate and let us pass. I couldn’t even bring myself to look back at the crowd; I just hustled up the steps inside. Inside looked like a small Secretary of State office with four counters and only about four people waiting in a quiet room. The English-speaker was ready to see us. My jaw dropped, and at that point I realized I had unknowingly started humming a childhood song in my head, “I’ve got a golden ticket… I’ve got a golden ticket in my hand…” I really did feel like Charlie at the Chocolate Factory with my “golden ticket” US passport, though admittedly filling out visa forms is not as fun as eating snosberries. We were in and out in a jiff, and the consulate clerk even got a good chuckle out of the word “smetana” in Russian (see Team page).
Picking it up three days later was a different story. I felt a lot less like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory and a lot more like K from Franz Kafka’s The Trial. We returned in the morning but were allowed only to pay at a nearby bank and were told the visas would be ready at 4pm. Back at 4, we were greeted by dim lights, empty desks, and dozens of people in the waiting room; every once in a while we caught glimpses of people scurrying about through cracks in the doors. Occasionally they came to help some of the people waiting, mostly Kazakhs or Chinese who had somehow caught pity from the guards. From time to time I would also see the guards bring in an application and the clerks dismiss them without much more effort than a wave of the hand (I felt so bad for the people outside).
Finally at 6pm they had our passports… oh wait, only Ben’s and the Danish cyclist we had just met who was biking home to Denmark. A couple more hours passed. Ben went out to get some food, I alternated between leg stretches in the waiting room (the clerks found this very entertaining), studying my passport copies, and dozing on the metal bench. At one point the Kazakh man sitting next to me tapped me on the shoulder and made a sign to show me everything would be ok, and he was right. At 8pm my passport was ready and all was well with the world. It seemed odd that after three days of approval it would take that long to print a sticker, but I was all smiles because I was definitely luckier than the Taiwanese cyclist at our hostel whose application was denied. Ouch! And this is supposed to be the simplest of all the Central Asian visas…
In Urumqi we also got to spend some time moving about on the buses we’ve spent the last two months dodging on our bikes. Now, I don’t know how the typical bus driver shift works back home, but I imagine each driver works for a certain number of routes and completes his/her route in a fixed, pre-determined amount of time. Here, I could swear they are incentivized to hit as many stops as possible on their shift. Literally, one driver did not even hold the brakes at the stops, keeping the bus in neutral so it rolled as people boarded. As soon as the last person’s foot was in the air, she was on the gas like a drag racer. I spent most of my time on the buses laughing because they manage to achieve this driving prowess while lighting cigarette after cigarette and screaming into their cell phones.
And as with most rest stops, we passed much of our time in Urumqi fattening up again on pretty much anything sold by street vendors, especially the fresh bread straight out of the fire – mmmm.
Hot out of the fire
The waiting period allowed us to complete many menial tasks: everything from cleaning bikes and clothes to sewing my sleeping bag and requesting Letters of Invitation for future countries.
Making mom proud
The hostel was also an excellent place for us to meet a ton of really awesome people: a German starting work in Pakistan took us to the largest bazaar in the world to introduce us to some of his friends; we played new games with Israelis and Swiss on holiday; and we went out to dinner a few times with a South Korean doctorate student.
Grand Bazaar herbal medicine. You don't want to know what's in these
Caught some races at the local rink
I even had dinner with an Israeli whose plan is to buy a camel in Kashgar and ride it across Xinjiang province – and you guys thought I was crazy. Just a friendly reminder that there are a lot of people out there doing some incredible stuff.
Who needs a market in Kashgar?
Finally, I have seen a few comments alluding to this and I’m here to confirm the rumors. I have decided to grow out my facial hair. Because that’s what you do when you bike across continents (Ben is doing the same). Those of you who know me understand why I feared my beard would look much like Sidney Crosby’s wispy whiskers by Europe, but I’ve been pleased with the progress so far and am starting to think I may look more like ZZ Top (ok, slight exaggeration).
Making dad proud
Beard and all, we’re on the last lap of this incredible country. In seven days we’ll be at the Kazakh border, and given the pace of events thus far through China, I expect the final week to be no less exciting.
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