P&M's "China by the Mile"

The southern finale

2004-11-20T08:20:00.000-08:00

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

2004-11-10T22:26:00.000-08:00

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

2004-10-22T13:23:00.000-07:00

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.

2004-10-22T13:14:00.000-07:00

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

2004-10-18T13:14:00.001-07:00

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)

2004-10-18T13:14:00.000-07:00

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

2004-10-17T13:14:00.000-07:00

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

A work of art and sniffing around

2004-10-16T13:29:00.000-07:00

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...

2004-09-21T08:56:00.001-07:00

..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)

2004-09-21T08:56:00.000-07:00

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!

Giving Golmud a chance

2004-09-19T08:56:00.000-07:00

Days #51-54

Golmud is the transit town for foreigners on their way into Tibet. This is the only entry road open for for them. Most leave as quickly as possible. We, on the other hand, stayed for several nights resting and discovering the city most tourists neglect to appreciate. It was also the largest town we had been to since Chengdu. We found a great market selling everything from full-sized pigs hanging in rows, to eggplants, to underwear. At 6pm the night market arrives; people in their carts set up tents, lay out some benches and BBQ meat in skewers for people to eat until the waking hours of 5am. Night life, wow! Every other town shuts down at dusk. This is nice. 5 hours at the post office forced us to stay another night but we finally left on
the 5th day.

We have more pictures!

2004-09-08T08:57:00.000-07:00

We have more pictures! Have a look...
www.durana.org

By the numbers

2004-09-07T23:37:00.000-07:00

We are headed further west tomorrow, closely along the Tibetan border in the Altun Mountains and will reach more desert towards Hotan roughly 2500km from now. I might not be able to post until then. I hope Hurricane Frances passes by quickly.
bye!

By the numbers:
- Days into our trip: 51
- Days left: 69
- Kilometers cycled: 2404km
- Meters climbed: 15000m
- Number of times we'd be able to cycle to the top of the Empire State Building: 34
- Highest altitude reached: 4050m
- Kilometers running: 505km- Nights spent at a hotel: 19
- Nights spent at a hotel in the past 2 weeks: 2
- Nights spent with families: 19- Real showers taken: 5
- Number of bicycle racks broken between the two of us: 8 (all of them)
- Number of times we've welded our bikes: 9
- Number of times we've had to stop due to yak, sheep, or goats crossing the road: 6
- Number of times we've been given the thumbs-up or peace sign: too many to count

Chasing Italians, Jumping-jax, & A cart full of apples

2004-09-07T19:26:00.000-07:00

Days #48-50

Since we left Tula, people along the way tell us there are two Italians, a man and a woman, on their bicycles headed towards Golmud. They are 3 days ahead. Every time we stop, we get a little more description. I make a composite of them in my head; one is rather fat according to one man, the woman had a nose ring and long blond hair, they speak absolutely no Mandarin...... I want to meet them, see what they are carrying, see where they are coming from. I am now more eager to get to Golmud.

We are climbing a couple of hills. At the top of the highest one, I see a monk in the distance making a pilgrimage to Lhasa. He prostrates, clasping his hands together, raising them high, then to his chest and then stretching his entire body on the ground, getting up, taking two steps and repeating. As I take out two pears to offer him and discreetly try to take a picture from up top, the monk stands up and does a jumping jack to catch our attention. We've been spotted. So we cycle down to meet him.

He is a 29 year old monk, as sweet as could be, and is actually passing Lhasa to reach Dharamsala where the Dalai Lama lives. His journey will take him 7 years. He covers 3km a day. He travels with a bicycle-wagon loaded with all his necessities. He invites us to spend the night with him; we gladly accept. We sit down and enjoy a quiet conversation. He has also taken a vow of silence, but I understand him much better that most people. He is expressive and patient and creative in his explanations, using the sand as drawing board. He pulls out his large stove to heat water and we eat tsampa loaded with sugar and 'talk' until late. We set up out tent beside his bike; he unloads everything and sleeps inside. In the morning he takes his bike a ways ahead, walks back to where he last prayed, puts his two wooden planks on his hands and continues his pilgrimage. When he reaches his bike, he pushes it further and walks back to continue.

The desert is here and when the clouds leave, the sun blisters shamelessly. It is day 50 and we are 140km away from Golmud. The road is straight as a needle and the wind is blowing exactly in the opposite direction. In the distance I see a tractor pulling up onto the road 2km ahead. It turns towards Golmud. Thank you! So my sister and I take turns every 3km breaking the wind, pushing hard until we reach the tractor pulling a cart full of apples. We ride up close and draft off them. What a difference! What a relief! It takes little time for them to warm up to us, soon after they start reaching over giving us apples to eat as we ride. We give them peanuts and raisins when they stop for a break. We keep each other company for 40km until they turn off onto a smaller road. The wind dies down and a slight decline allows us to reach Golmud that night.

We haven't seen the Italians yet.

A fine line between adventure and carelessness: a lesson learned

2004-09-07T18:11:00.000-07:00

Days #41-47

Now comes the tough part. The desert is showing more presence and consequently, so is the sun. We ride in a straight flat line and I can see everything in the distance. Well almost; 45km after Tadji a massive 600m steep gorge falls in our way. It takes us a while to descend and ascend, but once on the other side, I look behind and can no longer see the gorge; only the flat terrain on the other side, as if it never existed.

A nice portion of pavement ends and we now bump our way through the dirt / sand / rocks. The road we take is one mountain range south of Qinghai Lake, China's largest lake. As a result of this rough and arid terrain, we see less people and less houses. We camp out most of the time, catching beautiful sunsets and moonrises and once waking up surrounded by goat and sheep.
150km later we reach Highway 109, headed straigh towards Golmud, and it is fast. Except for the herds of camels (that's right CAMELs!), there are little distractions to keep us off our bikes, so we are able to cover a lot of ground.

When we reach the town of Tula, we decide to take a short-cut though a smaller road in the desert for 100km. How adventurous! It starts off ok, but it slowly gets worse and worse and stubborn Pablo wants to keep going. It takes 20km of biking / walking through sand and rock to change my mind; our choice to continue would not be a wise one. It would take us much longer to cross the desert and we would surely run out of water. People had warned us about the dangers of this road, but we thought little of it; we had been previously warned of other roads and they had turned out great. So we lost a day, but at least we tried. I learned my lesson.

Flat tires aren't that bad.

2004-09-07T17:35:00.000-07:00

Day #37-41

While the road is quite peaceful, only an occasional motorcycle or truck, when we enter a town, it is as if the circus had arrived and we are the main attraction. My sister enters a store to buy fruit while I hold her bike. In a matter of 2 minutes, I am surrounded by 50 people, half of them talking to me at the same time, others just looking, and the rest touching me, my hair, and every part of my bike. They then all crowd onto the street, stopping traffic, to watch us leave. So if you are claustrophobic, don't cycle through China! Open markets are even more difficult. It is usually cramped with vendors to begin with; just add several dozen people simply standing there staring, and you have yourself a pretty good obstacle course to weave through.

We are headed towards Golmud hoping to extend our visa and are still 900km away. The nomads briefly reappear as we pass another plateau. We descend (in the rain of course) back to the wheat fields passing the town of Guina. Along the way, we have been weaving around broken beer bottle glass on the road. My sister loses. ptssssssssssss..... Great. It is getting late, a little cold, and the rain might make a come-back. We see a village 2miles ahead so we walk.
A man greets us and escorts us to his house. We are served a delicious noodle and potato soup. After the usual entertaining picture exchange, we watch volleyball on the TV and soon fall asleep.

We plan to leave the following day, but there is something about mud walls that keep us hooked. The wheat farmers town of Tadji has 100 people. Their crop is still not ready to be harvested, so in the morning we see 25 of them, men and women, helping to build a 12ft wall for an old couple. We roll up our sleaves and jump in. Now, I've done my share of winter shoveling in Montreal, but I've never had to lift it 12ft high. It is a massive undertaking and a great community effort. We break for lunch and all eat together. I feel content in this relaxed setting.

The following day, we leave with fresh bread and an entire town of waving hands. Flat tires aren't that bad. We would have otherwise missed Tadji.

Debating monks & a different world

2004-09-07T16:44:00.000-07:00

Day #34-36
We are up early to catch the debate. The monks gather in their gompa at 5am to pray. At 6am until 7:45am, they take turns debating with one another. When they make a point, they clap their hands loudly; when the other fails with his rebuttal, laughter is the protocol. It seems rather harsh at first, but it is all in good nature. While I can not understand, I am well entertained.

Once again our racks have broken, but our friend Setim take us to the master welder who does a superiour job in fixing our babies for the price of 2yuan, (12 U.S. cents).

We descend into a different world. In a short time we drop 1000m into the steep valley of Tongren. The yak and nomads give way to donkeys carrying bushels of wheat. And just as quickly as it came, it leaves: the following day we regain our altitude, the wheat fields disappear, and the mountains grow greener. 1300m later we are at 3800m with our rain coats tightly zipped shivering on the other side of the mountain-pass.

Broken bits, stomping feet, and the guessing game

2004-09-07T16:12:00.000-07:00

Days #32-33
As it always seems, the moment we begin pedaling, the rain-clouds speed up to catch us. A dirt road takes us up a mountain pass and a strong wind waits on the other side. Cold and wet, we seek refuge at the nearest town. A friendly family with a litter of kittens and a grandmother who cannot stop smiling takes us in. A little tsampa and tea to warm us up and we are off again, grateful to our welcoming hosts.

Today does not seem to be our day: My rear left bike rack breaks; chicken wire does the trick. 7km later, my sister's breaks in the exact same spot; we try a zip-tye; breaks again; more chicken wire. 10km later, we find a motorcycle shop with a welding device. The man, wearing no glasses welds our bikes back together.

After all our interruptions, the night sneaks in and we are forced to camp out on a field after only 41km.

We ride the following morning hoping for a multi-km day. After 2km we stop in front of a house. I reach over to fix a strap and before I know it, I see my sister with a shovel, helping them build a mud wall for their sheep. The husband and wife place two wooden planks at each side; as we fill it with mud, the grandmother and little daughter stomp on the mud with their feet and a heavy stump to pack it down; the planks are then raised and the process is repeated.

When we finally finish, we are invited for tsampa and noodles. My sister always makes sure they know that she is the older one. We have them play the guessing game; more often than not, people think I am older. Maybe it's the beard. We exchange pictures of our families, and give them a copy of one with the two of us and our bicycles. They pull their frame from the wall containing 6 pictures, replace one of them with ours, and hang it back in its place.

We leave in the afternoon with fresh bread and shouts of "good luck!" and head straight towards several snow-capped mountains.Along the way the fields are all dotted in flowered blues, yellows, violets, and the occasional reds. We are close to the snow, but not close enough and we head down to the next valley where we meet Setim, a monk from the small Guashize village who invites us to spend the night.

Altitude Correction: a side note

2004-09-07T01:38:00.000-07:00

A side note:

Up until now I have been wrong about our altitude. When we reached the 3400m highpass a while ago, it was actually over 4000m. I've been off by roughly 650m. So from now on, I will hopefully have the right measurements.

An Olympic frustration

2004-09-07T01:26:00.000-07:00

Day #29-32
Xiahe is a beautiful town set in a mountain valley. It is the most important pilgrimage site for the Yellow-hat sect Buddhists outside of Tibet; so it is a popular tourist site. We stayed for four nights in a friendly family-run guesthouse talking to other travelers, getting lost in the backroads, and eating baudzas at the friendly restaurant where all the taxi drivers eat...the other restaurants would charge foreigners twice as much.The Labrang Monastery is enclosed by a 3km wall with over 1200 prayer-wheels. The morning after we arrive, I wake up at 5am to run and I already hear the wheels spinning. I look out and see men and women, old and hunched over, taking one small step after the other, encircling the monastery...and the wheels keep spinning until very late at night. The monks we meet here are very different than the ones we met at the Tsogetsanz Monastery ten days ago. I see most walking along with cell-phones, eating out at restaurants, staying up late at night. While they are still friendly, they are definitely not as innocent as our friend Yoni.

I am excited that the Olympics have begun and that they televise them here. But all I see is air-rifle and ping pong and the occasional fencing match. Please give me some track&field! No such luck. I leave frustrated.

After a good rest in Xiahe, we head north-west towards Tongren, 110km away.

Rain, river crossings, bread making and still more rain

2004-08-18T01:24:00.000-07:00

It's cold, the rain is coming down hard and I'm outside with an 8year-old boy and a 13year-old girl who climb 2miles up the valley like billy-goats. I'm slipping and I'm tired from our long bike ride, and it's getting dark.

We had left Lanmgusi towards Xiahe, excited to finally bike on a paved road. After a gradual highpass we roll down the hill hitting a flat plain averaging 25km/hour. It's a blistering pace in comparison to our dirt-road-bump-splosh-pace. Today could be our longest ride. We break for lunch 81km later. For the past two hours a dark cloud has followed us. It catches up. We are approached by a woman. Her brilliant gold-toothed smile invites us for tsampa; and as we walk to her house the thunder strikes and the shower begins. Our cycling ends for the day, but there is still work to be done. So I accompany the boy and girl to get the sheep while the mother milks the yak. At a river crossing I see the girl is about to pick up her brother to carry him across; the current is strong. But I move fast and pick him up myself and off we go. They giggle all along the 2 mile hike.

We work with hand signals, and between the three of us, we herd 150 sheep back down the valley to their home. We all sleep in the same single room. The morning begins at 5am for the mother and her daughter who milk the yak and let the sheep loose. We eat breakfast and I learn how to make bread. It's actually more like a doughnut, because it is all fried.

It's great having the video camera. Many have never been outside their region, so it is nice to let them see other parts of China. The family got so emotional when I showed them footage from the important Lama who visited the Tsongetsanz monastery we had been to. We give them a bag of fruit along with a picture of us. The fruit: they eat instantly; The picture: they carefully wrap it in toilet paper to keep it safe.

We leave with a small drizzle which later matures into a harsher rain. The paved road ends as we turn off and take a short cut to Xiahe.....haha.....It was the worst road yet and the rain didn't make it any easier. We spend the night in a small village and finally make our way to Xiahe, wet.

It has been almost one month since Chengdu. We've cycled over 1200km and have climbed the equivalent of Mt. Everest 1.5times and we're still very far from Kashgar....This trip is flashing by.

And finally.....pictures!

2004-08-16T12:22:00.000-07:00

We tried and tried, and finally were able to post some pictures, to add some color to this journal, click here:
http://Photos.durana.org/gallery

Langmusi: the sky burial

2004-08-12T12:22:00.000-07:00

It is a morbid fascination; something so beautiful yet equally
grotesque. We are in Langmusi, it is August 12th, and are about to witness a sky burial. The body is carried up to the burial grounds. A man cries out, calling the birds. Miles away I can faintly see a line of imposing cliffs. Like an aerial attack, out of the mist, I see dozens of birds charging towards us. Vultures - It is believed that when the birds eat the body, they will take it to heaven - They perch on a nearby hill and wait. When the body is laid to rest on the ground, they spread their wings, spanning six feet across, and dive down. It's a frenzy; we no longer see the body, only a pile of 60 birds fighting for their share. The smell is overwhelming, but the sounds, the ripping, the swallowing, the piercing screaches, all of it vibrates. The vultures leave 20 minutes later, and a stripped human skeleton is all that is left.

Along with a French companion, we had woken up early that morning to see the burial grounds. As we were about to leave, we heard the cries.

We run up a hill, keeping a respectful distance and wait. Along come four Chinese tourists; they stand right up close to the body and to the people preparing for the burial and begin to take pictures. I cringe. While we make an effort to stay out of the way, we are unknowningly sitting on the perching site for the vultures. The men performing the ceremony wave us down. I am reluctant to film or photograph any of this out of respect, but they actually encourage us to do so. They even lead us up close to the feeding place. I assume a ceremony was performed before this burial because no family members were present. It seemed routine for the four men laying out the body.

Maria had visited Langmusi five years ago and was amazed at how much it has changed. Most of the central wood houses were replaced by brick buildings. And while the main street, with hotels and restaurants has running water, others on the outskirts have not. It's been commercially developed in an unfair way. But while the village experienced a physical facelift, the people remain the same. You only have to walk a little further off the main road to be invited for a bowl of soup.

Sheep chase and ... more tsampa

2004-08-09T06:27:00.000-07:00

Day 22. It is time to move on. We say our goodbyes, leaving good friends, and ride off onto the dirt road. Light rain awaits. Bump, bump, bump we go until we hit traffic: sheep crossing with a woman on horseback bringing up the rear. One gets away, squeezing through a fence and onto the fields. It's a desperate battle as I see the woman running after it. Off I go, my helmet still on, sprinting ahead, hoping to corner the sheep. We work together, signalling to one another: victory. The sheep crosses the fence once again to meet up with the others.
Testing our luck we ride until near-sunset. The wind picks up and the temperature drops. Smoke signals a nomad tent in the distance. We approach and are most welcome. Along with the family of seven, we sit around the warm mud stove, fueled by yak dung. Before I know it, I have a bowl of tsampa in my hands and soon fall asleep in their tent. Our nomad family moves twice a year. They pick up and go where the grass grows thick. They own three dozen yaks. Their diet consists of tsampa, yak meat, and yak milk. Fruits are a luxury. But when we offer a bag of apples, they politely refuse; we offer, they refuse, we offer, they accept - the usual protocol - and they eat them immediately with delight. They rise with the sun to milk the cows. Actually just the women - I am discomforted by the fact that they do most of the work and I try in vain to understand the cultural roles of gender. After the milking, the yaks are let loose to graze, and it's time to get down and dirty; rolling up our sleeves, my sister and I jump in and begin to pick up the fresh yak dung as they do, to pile it up to dry; the warmth actually feels quite nice against the bitter morning breeze. Inside the tent, the grandmother cranks a wheel to separate the milk fat used for butter. I make a sign and take over, cranking for half an hour until all the morning's milk is processed. We then spend the rest of the morning sitting in a circle sharing each others pictures. It's a peaceful setting. In retrospect, I regret leaving so soon. They wave goodbye. A great storm awaits.

We do not reach Langmusi that day due to the rain. When it gets too slippery and dangerous, we find the nearest nomad tent. A mother, her two small children, and a visiting monk greet us. The rain clears, but we stay longer. We cannot leave; it's all about the company. I am given an up-close lesson on how to milk a yak. Later, the kids show me how they can ride the smaller yaks. Three hours later we set off and pitch our tent on a hillside 45km later, with a view of a tower of mountains.Tomorrow we leave the grasslands.

Breakfast consists of an array of powders. Powdered milk, soya, and oatmeal with a little honey to top it off. We still have not been able to buy kerosene. We arrive to Langmusi after a short but steep 45km. It's been 22days since I've had a proper shower. I scream with joy at the luxury of a warm shower.

Tsampa and hairy legs

2004-08-08T06:27:00.000-07:00

At the bottom of this site, I have posted a day-to-day route of where we've been travelling for those interested. I will keep updating it whenever I enter new posts.

Off to the grasslands we go! A battle begins: concrete, dirt,
concrete, dirt. Dirt wins and the roads are bumpy for the next 200km. We leave Zioge. It is 74 km to Langmusi, but we will take a small road for roughly 200km to get there instead.

Day 18 (August 5th) consists of mostly biking. We cover 73km through the small, but persistant rolling hills of the grasslands, and a relentless, unclouded sunshine. Night falls and we reach the impressive Tsogetsanz monastary, near Tonken. We are greeted by Yoni, a 22 year-old monk, who escorts us to his quarters for some tsampa. From fruit to waterfalls, bedsheets to baby faces, Yoni's walls are covered with an array of colored posters and pictures, anything to make his home look warm and welcoming. Throughout the evening, dozens of monks come and go, some staying for an hour, others literally for 30 seconds. Many had never seen a foreigner before and their curiosity takes over. They touch my leg, pull a little, amazed at all the hair I have; we laugh with the little Tibetan we know, and they gaze at our postcards from home and family pictures in awe. Yoni's face beams with pride knowing others are envious we are staying with him.
The following morning, Maria and I leave early to the top of the mountain, to witness the sunrise. It's quiet and beautiful, little puffs of smoke appear one by one from nearby nomad tents, the mist along Yellow River slowly rises, and prayer flags flap with the heavy wind. We walk down and Yoni greets us with a bowl of tsampa. He tours us around the entire monastary grounds, spinning the prayer wheels, visiting friends and we sit outside the gompa listening to comforting humming prayers. We meet Yoni's mother, living in a small mud house a short walk away, where we eat tsampa and yak yoghurt. We learn the holy Silosanfherden Lama from Hezuo will be visiting in two days. It's a big affair and people are already preparing for his arrival. Not wanting to get in the way, Maria and I pack light and head out on an overnight trip, taking a small single track road along the prairies and wildflowers, through gopher paradise; hundreds of gophers run around jumping in and out of their holes squeaking to one another as we ride by. We rest on a mountain ridge for the night.
We return from our trip and in the wake of the lama's arrival. Yoni goes into his room and soon returns with two typical tibetan garbs for us to wear on this important day. It's a massive jungle green thick wool coat falling down to your ankles, the sleeves twice the usual length, and a long red scarf wrapped several times tightly around the waist. Except for the monks, everyone else wears it, so I obviously feel cool.
The lama arrives 5 hours later than expected, but it does not matter; patience comes naturally when you're a monk. It's a beautiful procession. The path leading up to the gompa is decorated with white chalk designs, the monks line up along the path shoulder to shoulder according to their rank. Two trumpets break the silence as they step onto the path, the lama walking some steps behind, and one-by-one the monks peel off and follow him into the gompa. I keep a respectful distance before Yoni waves to me, frantically pointing to where I should stand for the best view. We are allowed inside the gompa for the prayer.

August 9th, day 22. It is time to move on. We say our goodbyes, leaving good friends, and ride off onto the dirt road. Light rain awaits. Bump, bump, bump we go until we hit traffic: sheep crossing with a woman on horseback bringing up the rear. One gets away, squeezing through a fence and onto the fields. It's a desperate battle as I see the woman running after it. Off I go, my helmet still on, sprinting ahead, hoping to corner the sheep. We work together, signalling to one another: victory. The sheep crosses the fence once again to meet up with the others.
Testing our luck we ride until near-sunset. The wind picks up and the temperature drops. Smoke signals a nomad tent in the distance. We approach and are most welcome. Along with the family of seven, we sit around the warm mud stove, fueled by yak dung. Before I know it, I have a bowl of tsampa in my hands and soon fall asleep in their tent. Our nomad family moves twice a year. They pick up and go where the grass grows thick. They own three dozen yaks. Their diet consists of tsampa, yak meat, and yak milk. Fruits are a luxury. But when we offer a bag of apples, they politely refuse; we offer, they refuse, we offer, they accept - the usual protocol - and they eat them immediately with delight. They rise with the sun to milk the cows. Actually just the women - I am discomforted by the fact that they do most of the work and I try in vain to understand the cultural roles of gender. After the milking, the yaks are let loose to graze, and it's time to get down and dirty; rolling up our sleeves, my sister and I jump in and begin to pick up the fresh yak dung as they do, to pile it up to dry; the warmth actually feels quite nice against the bitter morning breeze. Inside the tent, the grandmother cranks a wheel to separate the milk fat used for butter. I make a sign and take over, cranking for half an hour until all the morning's milk is processed. We then spend the rest of the morning sitting in a circle sharing each others pictures. It's a peaceful setting. In retrospect, I regret leaving so soon. They wave goodbye. A great storm awaits.

We do not reach Langmusi that day due to the rain. When it gets too slippery and dangerous, we find the nearest nomad tent. A mother, her two small children, and a visiting monk greet us. The rain clears, but we stay longer. We cannot leave; it's all about the company. I am given an up-close lesson on how to milk a yak. Later, the kids show me how they can ride the smaller yaks. Three hours later we set off and pitch our tent on a hillside 45km later, with a view of a tower of mountains.Tomorrow we leave the grasslands.

Breakfast consists of an array of powders. Powdered milk, soya, and oatmeal with a little honey to top it off. We still have not been able to buy kerosene. We arrive to Langmusi after a short but steep 45km. It's been 22days since I've had a proper shower. I scream with joy at the luxury of a warm shower.

Tibetan pride

2004-08-04T06:27:00.000-07:00

I am having trouble accessing my home page. Please email me instead of posting any comments on the site...or you can do both!
For the past two weeks, Maria and I have pedaled up and down across the several mountain ranges of northern Sichuan, a region with a Tibetan majority. Our plans to reach the town of Zoige from Juizhaigou in two days were extended to 5 for several reasons. While we thought we would only climb one high mountain pass, we ended up crossing three; and we were offered several invitations to spend the night with Tibetan familes (which we gladly accepted). After 750km of travel and nearly 8000m of climbing, I now sit in a small smokey internet room in the town of Zoige, at the edge of a stunning grassland plateau at 3000m. It has been 16 days since we left Chengdu.
The couple days rest in Juizhaigou served us well. We walked along the Juizhaigou National Park, a surreal valley of clear blue lakes and wide-spanning waterfalls. Despite its impressiveness, I was happy to move on due to the incredible amount of tourists. They were all Chinese and Japanese tourists, though. I only saw two other foreigners. :) It is illegal for a foreigner to travel alone on a motorcyle or in an automobile. The only way to experience the backroads is by bicycle or by hitchhiking. Lucky us. From Juizhaigou on, the roads were virtually all ours. No more honking. The tropical climate of Chengdu is far away. To my disappointment, bananas are hard to come by now, but we were greeted by gorgeous green alpine landscape. Tsampa is the tibetan staple meal consisting of barley, butter, water, and sometimes sugar and dried yak cheese. Along our route, we were welcomed and encouraged by many road workers. At lunch time, we were invited to a meal of rice, potatoes and pig fat with twenty workers. It was a great moment to rest under the shade in good company.

After our second pass at 3450m, we descend to Gewa, a town of no more than 50 people; it is getting dark and we wonder where we will sleep. A boy on a motorcycle passes us, waves, and then soon returns with an encouraging wave. We follow him and find ourselves in a beautiful wooden home with a hot meal, surrounded by five smiling faces ranging from 3 to 83 years old. We spend the entire following day with them, spreading and drying their yak cheese, following their baby yaks to graze, and trying to learn how to cook. The last time a foreigner stayed in Gewa had been three years ago.
After two nights, we say goodbye and head towards Zoige. Well, we barely make it past 10km that day. We reach the town of Chuje. At the bend, we are lured by an imposing 750 year-old buddhist gompa from high above a cliff. The inside is decorated with detailed paintings and cloths. We walk around the town, peaking through the doors into courtyards. While some houses appear fairly new, they have maintained their traditional Tibetan architecture. At end of the road we see several monks painting a new home. That was enough for me; Five minutes later, I have a paintbrush in hand detailing windowframes with a rainbow of colors.
People are fortunate here: food and water are plenty in this lush mountain region. Nevertheless, life in the mountains is hard; but the Tibetans hold such a strong sense of pride; for their home and their family. They enjoy showing us their homes; they built them themselves. In Gewa, four generations lived under one roof. I admire their sense of community.
We finally reach Zoige the following day (yesterday). After reaching a pass of over 3000m, I am amazed at the sudden change of scenery. The mountains disappear as flat grasslands reach the horizon. Even the people look and dress differently. It's the romantic image of the dark-skinned Tibetan Nomad, drapped in long garbs, their face covered from the sun, their necks adorned with massive corals, riding into the dust clouds with their heards of yak or sheep.
Tomorrow we head for Langmusi (the long way, of course), hoping to meet nomads. Our bags are considerably heavier with food and water. When we reach Xiahe, internet may be available.
Thank you for all your emails. It's great to get news from home.
Until the next post!

A side note: The many thanks I owe.

2004-08-03T13:19:00.000-07:00

It is hard to believe that we are here in China with two well equipped bikes. It certainly was not an easy task. Perhaps this is a good opportunity to thank all those who helped us get here:

Thanks to McGill University and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for awarding Maria and I with a Dunlop scholarship (for the study of Contemporary Rural Architecture in Rural China) and a Burch Fellows Scholarship respectively (for Cycling Through the Minority Cultures of China) (http://www.burchfellows.unc.edu/). This funding helped make our dreams a reality.

Thanks Randi Davenport, Executive Director of the James M.Johnston Center for Undergraduate Excellence, and my UNC support unit, for providing the answers to my many questions, for taking the time oversee every detail of my preparation while at school.

Thanks Khanhthong, former downhill champ of Nova Scotia, for your invaluable help, time, and advice in buying, tuning and putting the bike together. Not only did you make sure it was rideable, but that it was in the best shape possible for the journey. We knew nothing about bikes or bike repair before this trip, and thanks to your numerous crash courses we will probably be ok on the road. So far so good!

Thanks Luke Gregoire, owner of Cycle Tecnique on Notre Dame and Atwater for giving us the best deals in town. For your patience with us, for letting us use the bike workshop late past closing time and for managing all of our bike part orders.

Thanks to Mark Gotlieb of Vulgar Equipment (bike apparel) for hooking us up with our beautiful blue Jamis bikes and various spare parts. And for the great design of our Vulgar biking shorts which we have been wearing every day. We love them. Check them out at
http://www.vulgarequipment.com

Thanks Steve Gisselman for the great panniers and for all the advice and support.

Thanks Michelle and the Kwok family for the great reception and hospitality in Hong Kong. Thanks for giving us the deluxe tour of the island and surroundings with a taste of HK cuisine (including one meal at the SARS hotel) and for driving us to the airport in two cars due to the size of our luggage and through typhoon weather.

Thanks to the Jackson-Gleich family for giving me a home in San Francisco. Thanks for the great food and the fruit juice (I've been craving one ever since, Jasper) and for making sure I was safely on my way.

Thanks Nat for your support and patience all the way through. Thank you for waiting. November is coming.

No thank you list is complete without a thanks to Mom and Dad who have been very brave in letting us go on this trip and for all of the little things you do for us we take for granted that help keep our naturally disorganized lives under control. Please don't worry too much and we'll call when we can.

Also, a big thanks to all of you who have encouraged us and shown interest in our plans. Your support means a lot to us. Please write and send some news from home.

Call me Paobu.

2004-07-26T07:22:00.000-07:00

*I needed to give myself a Chinese name. "Pablo" has no meaning in Chinese. I looked at my pocket dictionary for the closest sounding word and found 'paobu'. Guess what? It mean "to run." I am pretty happy with my name, to the least. If I were a girl and my name was Sarah, I'd have to be Sala which means "salad", so things turned out very well for me.

Leaving Namba on day 5, we hit heavy traffic once again. Buses race passed us, leaving clouds of dust for us to inhale. An hour or so into the ride we pass a long line of buses. A mile and a half later we still pass bus after bus. I am reminded of "Le Tour de France." People waiting outside their tour bus, start cheering and clapping; to my delight, the thumbs up and the peace sign are still cool in China. My fear of a horrible accident fades when we finally reach the end of the line and see a large truck carrying an excessively larger cylinder taking up both lanes, creeping it's way up the hill. Pablo and Maria are victorious! At the cost of thousands of waiting tourists, we have the road all to ourselves for the entire rest of the day.

Day 6 proved to be the toughest yet. Our "road map" is vague in detail, so we begin our climb do not knowing how high we'll go. 52km later and entirely exhausted, we are 2020m higher from where we started. Reaching the top of the Huangtuluang pass (roughly 3150m high) the night falls and the nearest village is a long ways down. We walk our bikes away from the road where no one can see us and set up our tent in the middle of a cow pasture.

Day 7 is a bittersweet ride downhill. 40km and we barely touch our pedals. Our entire climb yesterday, is almost all lost. We reach 1300m, and then settle at 1410m in the town of Namping 66km later. We are ownly 40km away from Juizhaigon! Lost and confused among the fast-paced town, we make friends with a little girl (maybe 9-years-old). She grabs her four buddies and happily escort us to the cheapest hotel. Once there, they scold the quick-thinking owner when he tries to charge us double the rate. Elated with their little victory, our friends happily insist on carrying our luggage to our room. We settle in, eager for an early night. Knock, knock. Guess who? So we their invitation to walk around the town. We invite them to icecream and the girl scolds her little sister for choosing the expensive one, costing 1.5yuan instead of 1 (a 5 U.S. cent difference). When we say it's alright they all put theirs down and grab the expensive one.

Three words to describe day 8: wet, muddy, and bumpy. It had rained all night and is raining when we leave. Haha for us. Our seemingly easy 40km day resulted in a much longer struggle. Up river we go with vehicules splashing past us. We arrive at Juizhaigou wet and cold and quickly take a cheap hotel. We had hoped to take a break and rest here for a couple of days, but this by far was the filthiest hotel my sister and I had ever stayed at. Stuck here for the night, we decide to go hotel shopping for our other two nights here. Tourist towns are much more expensive and we are quickly losing hope for a reasonable stay. We then accidentally walk into a small massage parlor/spa which seems desparate for business. While I doubt people ever sleep here, they will let us stay in a clean room for the same price as Hotel Filth. I am looking forward to my first real shower in 5 days.

*I am reluctantly leaving out much detail. I want to go on and on talking about every little village we stop by and all the people we meet. Every day we are welcomed with new faces, each with their own story. As much as I want to share EVERYTHING, my access to internet limits my time to write. This is a beautiful country with beautiful people; when I return, I hope to share my pictures and video footage to give better image of this experience.

Thus far we have been moving from place to place; but in a week or two, we will be furthur in the country, away from most tourist attractions, and I am looking forward to hopefully settling down in a small Tibetan village for several days or weeks to live and learn.

...continued

2004-07-26T05:36:00.000-07:00

The electricity frequently fails, so I am forced to divide this message so as not to lose the entire post (like I already have twice...arg).

By the third day we were on a country road surrounded by beautiful mountains and friendly faces. I have heard from so many people how welcoming and generous the people here are. I couldn't agree more. On numerous occasions we have stopped to rest at a village or on the side of the road and have had people offer us clean water and food. While some ask for a minimal amount of money, others flat out refuse any compensation. They just seem happy to meet us. This is the privilege of travel biking: we stop wherever and for however long we want. The journey now seems more important than the actual destination.
My favorite stop was on the fourth day. We slowly roll into the town of Namba and it's getting late. All the tour buses, heading towards Jiuzhaigou, quickly pass by. While I go for a run, my sister visits the local barber shop. When I return she is surrounded by the barber and her students. They refuse to charge and invite us to dinner. Maria's Mandarin is good enough to get us around. While I still struggle, I have quickly learned a few phrases and have managed to somehow start talking.

"Stop and smell the roses"
Whenever I see a challenge, I'm eager to grab it. I've always pushed myself and the physical aspect of travel biking was very appealing. Though it is a great feat to travel the furthest distance in as little time, it's a great shame to miss out on all these other opportunities. I am glad we did'nt press straight through Namba. I am slowly learning to take it easy here, to stop and smell, taste, listen, and see as much as I can everything.

on the move

2004-07-26T04:43:00.000-07:00

Hello fellow pingyoumen,

Eight days have passed since we left Chengdu. We've covered 525km and have climbed a total of over 4000m. We've stayed in a 5-star hotel (for a fraction of the price), in an empty room at a truck stop at the side of the road, in our tent surrounded by cows... I will try to recap what has been an unbelievable experience in a reasonable amount of space.
Day #1
Leaving Chengdu was no easy task. With all the cars, buses, bikes,
rickshaws, and people going in all directions, and my sister and I with a heavy loaded bike, it was a relief to soon get away from all the urban havoc.
On the first night in Shefang, after 75km, we stop at an empty family-run restaurant. 10minutes later, it's a full house. Did we attract the business, who knows? We pay 11RMB (around 75cents each!) for a generous meal and I'm in bed by 8:30.
Day #2
We leave the bustling town of Shefang and head towards the mountains, finishing in the large town of Beichuan after a 101km day. Tired, we approach a fancy hotel and ask where we can find a cheap place to stay. They reduce their price so much that we end up stayng! It's amazing how quickly the scenary changes. During the day, we went to a bathroom next to a pig corral. Now, we are in a beautiful 5-star hotel, sleeping in white sheets with a balcony view of the town. How posh.
...

Where to begin

2004-07-17T07:50:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone!

I am writing from a little internet cafe in Chengdu. It's been a great effort for my sister and I to get here, but we've finally made it to our official point of depareture. From Montreal to Toronto, Vancouver, San Francisco, Tokyo, Hong Kong, and now Chengdu, I feel very far from home to say the least. Though I have yet to bike a single kilometer, I've already had my fair share of amazements.
Delights I've eaten so far:
- Duck's tongue (Minus the cartilage, pretty tasty. I ate this in the restaurant of the infamous hotel where SARS first broke out in Hong Kong. Don't worry! SARS is long gone from here).
- A tuna bun roll with seaweed (From a local bakery...mmm....I wanted more).
- Pig hoof (An apparent specialty in a humble Chengdu restaurant. Everyone was eating it. The menu was all in Mandarin, the waiters spoke no English. Pointing blindly at the menu, we waited for our surprise. I'd call it an acquired taste.)

I arrived to Hong Kong at night on the 12th and was met by Michelle, my sister's McGill friend. What an amazing city. While several cities have more habitants that Hong Kong's 7+ million, I doubt they are as condensed. Rows and rows of buildings, street after street. If you don't like crowds, this is not the place for you. People are everywhere! But for the first time, I felt like a tall person. :) I enjoyed my runs here. It was quite humid, but I did not mind. And spitting is illegal, which proved to be quite a difficult test of restraint. Spitting is a runner's habit that is hard to control.
Though I was fascinated by the city scene, all the sights and smells, I was eager to get on my bike and head for the mountains.
We arrived to Chengdu late last night. Feeling smart, we emailed a recommended guesthouse prior to our arrival and reserved a room. We arrived however, to a NO VACANCY sign and a stubborn man. We luckily found another hotel, carried our bikes and luggage to our room and passed out on the beds. We had completely taken apart our bikes to fit them in as small a box as we could. To my amazement, we were not charged for excess luggage in any of our flights. It would have cost us $630 had our boxes been slightly bigger.
Today, we ate pig hoof and spent the day building our bikes. Tomorrow we will take a day trip to test out the bikes, make any additional changes and buy our supplies. The day after, we'll wake up with the sun and head north to the mountains. The journey begins!
To those I've spoken to, thanks for writing. Until the next posting.......
best regards.

p.s. A special thanks to my wonderful hosts in Hong Kong and in San Francisco. What a great way to start my trip.

Day-to-day route

2004-07-16T07:27:00.000-07:00

Start - Chengdu
Day #1 - Shefang
Day #2 - Beichuan
Day #3 - Ape-King Grotto
Day #4 - Namba
Day #5 - A truck-stop in-between
Day #6 - Our tent in a yak pasture at the Huangtuluang high pass (3150m)
Day #7 - Nanping
Day #8 - Juizhuaigou
Day #9 - Juizhuaigou
Day #10 - Juizhuaigou
Day #11 - Our tent at 2700m
Day #12 - Daru
Day #13 - Gewa
Day #14 - Gewa
Day #15 - Chuje
Day #16 - Zoige
Day #17 - Zoige
Day #18 - Tsogetsanz monastery
Day #19 - Our tent on a mountain ridge
Day #20 - Tsogetsanz monastery
Day #21 - Tsogetsanz monastery
Day #22 - A nomad tent
Day #23 - Our tent on the grasslands
Day #24 - Langmusi
Day #25 - Langmusi
Day #26 - Farmer's house outside of Luqu
Day #27 - Tibetan home on a backroad towards Xhiahe
Day #28 - Xiahe
Day #29 - Xiahe
Day #30 - Xiahe

testing

2004-07-15T13:15:00.000-07:00

1,2,3...testing