The southern finale

After Kaili, we are finally back on the road – the dirt road. The mountain-side is stacked with rice terraces reaching the very top; water-buffalo, not yak are the labor-animal of choice. We are introduced to the Miao minority group, whose diet consists mostly of rice noodles. Fortunate with extremely fertile soil and climate, they also have a wealth of fresh fruits and vegetables. Bananas are the cheapest they have ever been!

We spend a couple of days with a sweet Miao family in a village called Xijiang. Since it is deemed ‘The largest Miao village in the World!’, tourism has slowly developed in this area. Staying here allowed us to learn some of the language and customs and allowed my sister to spend a couple of more restful days to regain her strength. The Miao certainly have a great talent for architecture. Their two to three level wood homes are very well built – we witnessed an entire community effort building one. Most are built into the mountainous slopes, with their livestock in the bottom level, giving off needed body warmth during the winter. They have an open room in the middle for eating and entertaining; the top is usually left for storage. The roofs are covered with bark– or mud tiles if they can afford it. Outside their homes, corn and hot peppers are strung out to dry. The Miao are know for having an abundance of festivals all throughout the year, usually including much singing and dancing.

Out for a week in the back-roads, finally away from packed civilization, we begin our strenuous climbs. In this mountainous region we are crossing an average of two mountain ranges a day. The rough and steep terrain makes it one of the most challenging roads we have yet encountered, covering little mileage but much elevation – an average of 900 meters per day. Good thing I have my steel racks now! We pass by several villages on market day where pigs, geese, chicken, water-buffalo, and – I shudder to say – dogs, are being sold. We reach a tiny, one street village called Baitou. As we sit to eat a stir-fry of vegetables on rice at the local restaurant, we pull out pictures of our travels to show our hosts. When you cannot speak much of the language, photographs are a great way to teach people about yourself and about their own country. An immediate sense of excitement overcomes them, especially when they see a picture of my sister and I dressed in a typical Tibetan costume, and they rush to their houses to get their own ceremonial wear. None have a complete outfit, so they borrow from each other. They put on their large silver headpieces, complemented with beautiful silver necklaces. Embroidery is another talent the Miao are known for – men often choose their wives according to their ability to sew. Their clothes have geometric designs embroiderd along the collars and sleeves. An ordinary looking woman suddenly becomes a radiant beauty queen. After they dress themselves up, parading and enjoying a photo shoot, they proceed to dress-up my sister. Meanwhile, all the mothers are dressing their children up with their traditional hats and gowns. The town quickly becomes a bustle of excitement. Soon though, the children go off to school, the women go to work wearing a big smile and waving goodbye, and we head on our way.

We took our glimpse at a southern region of China. While I became frustrated with the limit of our time, I am glad I had the opportunity to wet my curiosity and see something radically different from the West.

Back on the paved road in a town called Ronjiang, we head to Yangshuo in the Guanxi province. After day-tripping through the surrounding needle-like karst mountains, we finally take a bus reaching Hong Kong. It is day #118, the end of our journey, 4058km later. With our bikes fully disassembled into boxes, I am now packed and ready to go. It is difficult to clearly express the significance of these passed months. I leave wonderful friends – people I hope to see again – and leave with a thirst for exploration, learning and understanding far greater than the one I had to begin with. It is a bittersweet departure as I board the plane; while part of me wants to stay several more months, even years, another is excited to return to my familiarity and to share the wealth of images and stories I take with me. Returning to school, I intend to edit the 40-some hours of video footage, hoping to create my first documentary.

This journey would have never happened were it not for the support of so many people. Thank you for having made this experience what it was. Thank you also to all those who have followed my sister and I through these posts and photographs. I feel fortunate to have had the opportunity share this with you. After all, it is no fun keeping such a great happening to yourself.


- Pablo '06, China by the Mile

The park phenomenon

While we expected to have three weeks of riding left, travel delays and unforeseen sickness cut our time in half. It is nice to know however, that my sister and I take turns in getting sick. After my 24-hour draining stomach virus in Kashgar, it was now her turn: the flu and an unrelenting throbbing headache. It forced us to take it easy for a while - our intention to stay in Urumqi for one night resulted in a 6 night stay. We then slowly made our way towards Kaili in south-east Guizhou province.

During this period of commuting, we were forced to stay in larger cities. And while at first I was not thrilled with the idea, I soon found out that there were plenty of interesting things to keep me busy. I discovered the great Park Phenomenon; wherever I went, in every city, I would see it: Swords swinging with precision, feet stomping, hands rising to the air, a drum beat in the background. The coming of a battle? No. It is just another day at the park. I am running in Urumqi early in the morning. I had seen a park on my map and so I head towards it; I am not the only one. Hundreds of people, mostly of age, are gathered in the park for their morning exercises, and socializing. Anyone who’s anyone seems to be there. Runners and walkers speed back and forth along the paved paths; off to the left of the entrance of the park a large group practices Thai Chi with their swords; at the other end, another simply with their hands, and to the right a group is swinging on the monkey bars and are using other exercise machines designed for ‘elderly persons’; further down, men gather with their bird cages to pass on gossip; a beaten speaker blares out music for couples to ballroom dance; in a pagoda, several people play their erhus and gaohus, two stringed bow instruments, while a crowd beside them sing and dance. I stop running, fascinated at the fury of activity around me. I sit and listen to the music. As I leave, a shout invites me to play badminton. The youngest player is no more than 60 years-old. It takes a couple of swings before getting the hang of the game. The majority of these people are Han Chinese, but I see some Uygurs as well. And wherever I go, people are smiling and inviting me to join them. They cheer me on as I run giving me the thumbs up. I stop by the park each day for several days to play badminton, to play hackey sack, to dance, to exercise, and to listen to music.

In every city I can count on seeing the elderly enjoying their mornings, an inspiring site of vitality. No wonder they look so healthy.

The end of the west

As the crow flies, we are less than 60km from the border with Afghanistan, 100km from Pakistan, and the mountain range to the west separates China from Tajikistan.

After another unexpected highpass, we finally ride down the Karakoram Highway - which isn't much of a highway - towards Kashgar, some 330km away. We spend two nights in a Kirgiz yurt at the foot of Karakul Lake, set on a backdrop of several peaks reaching over 7500m, including Muztagata at 7546m. Free from our luggage, we then set out on a great biking day trip reaching a 4000m plateau peppered with yak, sheep and goat and their herdsmen, who at one point take our bikes for a ride.

Back on the highway, we start descending, the snow disappears, the weather gets warmer, and the mountains give way to the desert flats once again. We reach Kashgar, a bittersweet arrival as it marks the end of our westward trek. Total mileage so far: 3500km.

We spend several days here, and experience the wild Sunday Market. At the livestock area, people argue and negotiate over sheep, goat, camels, and cows. When the deal is settled with a handshake, they proceed to pile their livestock onto their tractors or trucks to its full capacity. At the central market area, carpets, skullcaps, fruits, vegetables, watches, watchdogs, furniture, fur hats and anything you might possibly need in Kashgar is sold here. This is a truly unique place. The city however, is rapidly undergoing heavy physical changes. An influx in tourism is one reason for it. Han entrepreneurs take advantage in this money-making business. Old buildings and roads are being torn down and new, Chinese-style buildings are being built. Political reasons have propelled these changes as well. The article linked at the bottom of this post better explains it for those interested.

We leave Kashgar and after a 24-hour bus ride to Urumuqi and a 52-hour train ride we find ourselves back in Chengdu, where we initially started. With a little over 3 weeks left, we will go to Kaili in the Guizhou province and cycle towards Yangshuo in Guangzhou where the Miao and Dong minorities live. It is a completely different and unfamiliar territory for us -warm and humid weather, rice fields, a new language - and we are eager to ride the dirt roads once again. If you are interested in learning more about the different minority cultures in China, the second link at the bottom of this post is quite good.

USA Today article:
http://www.usatoday.com/money/world/2004-10-06-china-west_x.htm

Ethnic Minorities in China
http://www.china.org.cn/e-groups/shaoshu/

Lung, kidneys, intestines, and something else I cannot recognize.

Days #76-79
During the rest of our ride up towards Taxkorgan, we slept in our tent a couple of times but mainly stayed with other Tajik families. When I tell them my Tajik name, they all smile, giving me the thumbs up; instant friendship.

Riding by a bare cornfield one cold morning, we can't help ourselves and stop to help a family that is preparing the field for their new crop. Welcomed with open arms, we grab the shovels and dig down hard, pulling out all the roots we find. The children bring fresh soil on their donkey cart to spread, the able adults use the shovel to de-root and the grandparents collect the roots and place them in piles - a whole family affair. The day passes quickly and soon a heavy rain ends the work for the day. In our honor, we sit down for a meal of sheep lungs, kidneys, intestines, and something else I cannot recognize. We are encouraged to have seconds and thirds.

The further up we go, the colder it gets and the closer the snow-capped mountains appear. I wake up in our tent one morning to find the puddles around me all frozen over. The warm sun however, makes me go for a quick dip in the river. Still only a handful of cars pass us each day, until we finally reach Taxkorgan on the Karakoram Highway.

It took us a long while to complete this portion of our trip. We met so many great people along the way, it was impossible not to stop. And while we gained an elevation of roughly 2300m through the 330km from Karghilik to Taxkorgan, the winding road, rising and falling made our total ascent closer to 7000m.

Slowing down

Days #71-73
The flat fertile oasis greens of the Karghilik area are fading in the back and the mountains begin to take presence. We leave at 1400m. As the road gets steeper it 'conveniently' gets rockier as well. A 2200m high-pass later, we descend upon the valley where the Yarkan river flows. The river, clear and turquoise, winds around steep and jagged mountains. At every turn, a new view of even taller and imposing mountains seem to appear - a refreshing change from the monotonous flat desert scenery. And on occasions, patches of lush greens show signs of life. Fall is approaching, and trees are now turning to their true reds and yellows.

Our mileage seems to decrease every day; the road dances up and down, then up again, sometimes weaving itself along side steep cliffs. And whenever we cycle through the odd cluster of trees, friendly faces wave us in for a snack. Here we finally meet the Tajiks; time to learn a new set of words. The road gets rougher and now only a handful of vehicles are passing us each day.

Call me Turdebai (Tour-duh-by)

Day#74-76
(This is my longest post yet,but for good reason. It is a definite highlight of this trip)

We wake up to the brightness of the full sun lighting up an
amphitheater of mountains. We spent the night in the open in our sleeping-bags, off the side of the road, hidden down a slope on a sandy beach beside the river. It is a lazy morning and we take our time to leave. 40km into our ride, a strong-voiced Tajik man stops us on the road to invite us to his home for lunch. We gladly accept. We follow him down the road until we reach a wooden bridge leading to his village. Almost instantly, the locals gather around, each wanting to shake hands. "Sacato!" ('hello') I say and they smile. As a custom, after a hand-shake people place their hand over their heart - they seem impressed that I already know how.

Turdenias (Tour-duh-knee-as), our host, leads us to his house where his sweet, elderly parents are waiting outside. The mother greets us with a kiss. We sit and eat whole-wheat 'shpik' (bread) with chai. I already know I am going to like it here. They live in a wood and mud house, but the inside is completely decorated with beautifully hand-woven carpets, giving it life and color. A hole in the ceiling lets the light in and the small stove, fueled by dried corn cobs and animal manure, heats the room. After we eat, Turdenias dresses up in a home-made costume - a white sheet around his waist, with a white tail attached to the back and a paper and wire figure head of a horse in front, making it seem like he is riding it. People start arriving. The stringed instrument comes out and he begins dancing what they call the "usul" dance, twirling around, one hand raised in the air. Everyone in the room cheers and claps. By now, most everyone in the village knows of our arrival. We are the first foreigners to visit and it is building quite a commotion. We gladly accept to spend the night there.

The grand tour begins and Turdenias leads the way. We enter to at least a dozen different homes and sit for chai and a plate of sticky rice with vegetables which everyone eats with their hand.It is customary to serve something to your guests; by the last few visits, I battle to eat at least a few bites. You are luckily not expected to finish everything. And despite our polite refusals, we leave each time with our pockets stuffed with fresh walnuts, almonds, dried apricots, pears, peaches... I can barely walk.

Luckily for Maria, Mariamgul is a very popular Tajik name. My name however, is far from Tajik; so Turdenias gives me the name of Turdebai (Tour-duh-by), a kind of brother name. And when they give us the traditional Tajik hats to wear we begin to look more and more like them.

The six of us, Amat and Almajan (mother and father), Turdenias and his wife Ranjan and Maria and I, sleep in the same room together. The following day is spent learning more about the village. Completely self-sufficient, they diverted a stream to water their crops, they use another to push one wheel that gives them electricity and another that grinds their wheat; they have small nets to catch fish, they take turns leading their livestock up a small valley to graze for weeks, etc; Everything they eat is freshly grown from the village. I also spend some time helping Turdenias to fertilize his fields by placing fresh soil in sacs onto his donkey-cart and then spreading them on the ground. In the evening, we gather - my sister is the only woman unfortunately - in a large community room for more singing and dancing. As the guests of honor, we are asked to dance quite a bit. We then introduce the latin merengue dance to the Tajik culture; they laugh and cheer wildly.

We leave in the morning with fresh bread and an emotional goodbye. With our visa soon to expire, we are forced to move on. Packed in my bag is one of the carpets from Turdenias' home that his mother had sewn 25 years ago. If there is only one place in China I could return to it would be here.

On the road again...

MORE PICTURES

MORE PICTURES of the desert and the Karakoram highway. Check them out at www.durana.org

A work of art and sniffing around

Days #65-70
We are officially in Uygur county. Uygurs are a clear majority here in Hotan. The market, its sights and smells resonate a distinct Muslim feel. You stand out if you are not wearing a skull-cap. And even the gasoline station has a large, Muslim onion-shaped dome on its roof. Still few signs of tourists. My front right aluminum rack is now broken beyond repair; time to get creative. We walk along the winding side-streets of the old city, passing hidden mosques at every odd corner and tall wood and mud homes with colorful entrance doors, hoping to find an answer. It comes with the sounds of clanging. We turn at the bend to find a proud middle-aged blacksmith in his workshop. Fifteen minutes later, I have in my hands an exact steel replica of my rack, a little heavier version though, but a true work of art. Problem solved!

On the road again! We leave Hotan towards Karghilik, 240km away, with our bags full of baked sweet-potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, loads of freshly baked bread, carrots, pears, and a generous supply of honey. The desert greets us with a burst of head-wind and a cloudless sky so the sun helps us sweat a little more, but we nevertheless manage to ride a little over 100km. The second day is much of the same. We stop at a rare shaded stream however, when a group of road workers invite us for apricots. The road keeps pointing straight and there are no signs of a town; the flat terrain also prevents us from hiding our tent from the road. As it gets dark, we luckily come upon an underpass and slip right under for the night. After a cold, but comfortable night, I find tiny lizard foot-prints all around my sleeping-bag as well as another unrecognizable, and rather larger set of prints. They look like paws, but I would rather not know. Whatever it was, it came sniffed around and went on its way. Nothing to worry about.

We reach Karghilik, our turn-off point, and leave Highway 315 to head further west on a dirt road to towards the Yarkan river and the Pamir mountains.

It could have been the tofu...

..or the fruit, water, soup, joudzas or meat, that we ate and drank at the market in Golmud. Not to be a pessimist, but a trip just doesn't seem complete without one day of sickness. I always seem to get sick at least once: this one just happened to come in the desert and was for more than one day, and it happened to be not that much fun.
We set off from Golmud on a dirt road heading towards Hotan. Loaded with water for 3 days, we spent several nights sleeping behind sand dunes in the bitter cold. The mid-day sun would then shine without forgiveness. My sister had a mild day of sickness two days into our ride; mine came two days later and it came with full force. The infrequent cars that passed were either too small or too loaded to give us a lift, so we had no choice but to bike to Urt Moron, the next village 23km away, stopping occasionally for vomit and diarrhea; but somehow I made it to the village and passed out, sleeping for 15hours.
Someone is looking out for me: the following afternoon, we decided to head towards a larger town. Just as we began our ride, the biggest, meanest Ford F350 heavyduty pick-up truck (the first Ford we had seen in China) with four oil engineers pulled up from nowhere, offering us a ride. We gave in and gladly accepted. They took us further, to an even bigger town, passing every truck and car in the spirit of off-roading. I had forgotten what fast felt like. A week's worth of biking flashed by in a couple of hours.
Fortunately I had a bathroom all to myself that night in a hotel and wearily paid it a visit several dozen times. But from then on, I slowly got better. Gracias Mari.

Am I still in China? (A fast-forward to a new world)

Days #61-66

We begin to reevaluate our journey: 1300km left until Hotan, and it is all desert. Our main interest is to meet people; this portion of the road has almost no inhabitants. We have only two months left and decide it is not worth it to spend all that time cycling through the same landscape. I am also still not well enough to cycle anyways.
After four days of travelling, (a truck, a bigger truck, and two buses later, and it is longer than you think) with a high pass of 4000m, then dropping 2900m in elevation, we finally arrive to Hotan in the Xinjiang province and to a different world. The Uygur minority group dominates this region in numbers. They are muslims and speak their own language. It does not surprise me that they wish to separate from China, as Tibet does. Most signs are now written in the arabic script and the streets are filled with men wearing skull-caps. The Chinese government has started a large campaign to send thousands of Han out west, hoping to gain a numerical majority. But still, I do not feel in China anymore. So it's time to learn the basics: Yahshimsis (hello), rahmed (thank you)......... I had read that the Uygur food is the most exciting and savory in central Asia. I agree. As a trading post region of several ethnic groups, the Uygurs have picked up different cuisine influences from all around. Fruits are abundant (eight different kinds of raisins!), breads of all sorts (even bagels!), pastas (tortellini!),rice, empanada-like hotpockets filled with veggies and meat, their staple kebabs (BBQed not fried!)....... Along the backroads grapevines hang over the roads, and further down, rice paddies and wheat and corn fields spread along this desert oasis.
We are staying in a small, cheap, but very clean Uygur guesthouse with 'hello kitty' pillow cases and an endearing owner which we found by luck at 2am upon our arrival. I was even able to recruit three more foreigners to stay there: they looked lost and stressed as I passed them in front of the bus station during my run this morning. Much to our friendly host's delight, they followed me to the guesthouse.
Tomorrow we head towards Kashgar (Kashi) by bicycle; the long way of course. We hope to take a small road that meets up with the Karakorum highway which leads into Pakistan. While we will not cross the border, we will travel along what is said to be on of the most beautiful roads in the world, passing several 7500m peaks along the way and hopefully visiting Karakul Lake. We estimate 2 weeks of travel.
Until next time! Thanks for all the email!