Friends: I caught my first glimpse of Chinese television yesterday as I slurped a bowl of noodles in a tiny eating establishment of three tables and no menu. It was the usual local restaurant with a large pot of boiling water out front and several bowls of different types of noodles to choose from. This one was a little different with a frying pan, as well, and eggs. I added two fried eggs to my bowl.
The television was mounted on the wall above me, so I could only catch peeks of some sort of singing competition of young women who all gave the young host of the show a quick peck on the cheek after their performance. My attention was grabbed when I heard the words "Number One." I looked up to see a commercial advertising eye-liner. Fifteen minutes later the commercial was repeated. Those were the first words of English I had heard other than "hello" and "goodbye" and a few others from the friendly motorcycle cop since my afternoon with May in Guangzhou last Sunday.
Its not surprising that "Number One" would be an expression entering the lexicon. China is certainly hurtling into the 21st century bent on becoming number one. I see growth and prosperity all around from the first-rate and ever-improving roads to three-story, substantial homes being erected everywhere. Satellite dishes on homes are not an uncommon site. Internet sites may be restricted such as blogs and facebook and youtube and CNN and BBC and others, but I have not experienced any censorship or harassment in the least. My panniers were not checked when I crossed into China, nor was I obliged to pass them through a metal detector as everyone else had to do with their baggage. It may have been an oversight, as at that moment I was stopped by a Scottish guy who was living in Hong Kong teaching English who had long fancied bicycling around China. We talked for several minutes before an officer ordered us to move along. The Scot guaranteed me that my bike and I would attract plenty of attention in rural China. He was right.
This is my ninth day on the road and I have yet to find a loaf of bread for the peanut butter or soy butter I brought along, just crackers. That's a couple pounds of weight that I'd like to start diminishing. Last night I put a dab of peanut butter on my bites of banana to start making a dent in it. I'm saving the soy butter as that came in a lighter plastic jar, while the peanut butter is in glass.
The soy butter was a gift from fellow touring cyclist and occasional "Reader" contributor Jeff Balch. Jeff rode a Raleigh three-speed coast-to-coast across the US back in the early '80s, a remarkable feat. I think of him and his wife and two young daughters whenever I see laundry hanging out to dry. They do the same to the consternation of their backyard neighbors in Evanston, a lakeside suburb just north of Chicago. His front yard neighbors consider the solar panels on his roof facing them an eyesore. And they all regard Jeff and his wife as crackpots for not owning a car. Such is the world we live in.
Zhuzhou is the largest city I have passed through since Guangzhou. For the first time I was approached by two young people, a 20-year old young woman and a 14-year old boy, wishing to practice their English as I had my morning bowl of noodles. They drew quite a crowd with people asking them to ask me various questions about me and my travels and what I thought of China and its food. As I ate, several people brought me extra food. The young woman worked at a nearby stall in the market, but the boy was free to guide me to this Internet outlet a couple blocks away. He said he couldn't use the Internet because one had to be 18.
It hasn't been easy, but I've succeeded in finding a place to wild camp every night so far. Last night I was sandwiched between some railroad tracks and a new four-lane divided, superhighway under construction. I feared the construction might go on all night, but it halted at nine p.m. Even though some ten million people are on trains at any given moment in China, no trains interrupted my sleep, and only one passed in the early evening and one in the morning as I was taking down my tent. If anyone looked out and saw me, they would have thought I was an apparition.
Later, George
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Li Ling, China
[10/16/09. Posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: For the first time I found an Internet cafe without having to be led to it. The few I have visited so far had no discernible identifying feature other than a bunch of motorbikes out in front, as they are popular, well-attended places. So that's what I'm on the alert for and it worked here in Li Ling. I have yet to identify a sign on them that I can decipher. They are often in obscure, hole-in-the-wall places, up a flight of stairs with no sign at all. One had a cave-like entrance into a hovel of a place that might have been a former opium den.
Since Internet use doesn't have the full approval of the government, with up to ten per cent of sites blocked, Internet outlets may have to be slightly discreet. Even in countries with a written script unfamiliar to my Western eye, as in Japan and Thailand, I could at least peer through windows or open doors for computers. That hasn't been possible here. Searching out the Internet has always been a good way to explore a city, wandering and looking. China has given me an extra opportunity at that.
Slowly, but surely, I am getting a handle on things here. But it has taken much longer than anywhere else I've been, even Japan, where I was likewise initially utterly clueless. Though I have a selection of phrases I try on people, rarely do I get the intonations right and for the first time ever I've had to pull out my guide book or map and point at words or places I want to go. But people are very patient and inordinately helpful. My eye is becoming slightly accustomed to Chinese characters, as all too frequently I'll have to compare the calligraphy of a city on a road sign to that on my map when neither are accompanied by an English version.
Men are continually offering me cigarettes. That's a first. Ordinarily in a country where I'm getting by on five dollars or less a day, people are asking me for cigarettes. When the weather cools, and I need fewer cold drinks, my expenses will be even lower. A hearty bowl of noodles goes for forty cents. That's been the basis of my diet. As I sit and read, people come over to peer at my book and will pick it up for closer examination when I pause for a bite. For most it is the first time they have seen such writing. Several times I've had people assume that since I was reading I could also read Chinese, even though it is clear I don't speak it. They'll write a string of Chinese characters on a piece of paper and slip it to me.
If I had any doubts about the creeping capitalism that is taking over China they were put to rest yesterday when I came upon a huge vinyl billboard on the side of a building featuring a sexy young woman laying on a floor in a seductive pose and the words "Elegant living, baroque floors." Not so long ago all the billboards would have been of an idealistic, propagandist nature such as I saw in Cuba, most with a picture of Che.
I knew all the billboards I've seen of Yao holding up a can of a soft drink or some other product weren't likely him advising kids to "work hard and sacrifice and obey your parents," but none of his had any English or were as blatantly commercial as this one with the woman. It was as slick a billboard as those I'm accustomed to seeing at Cannes promoting the latest George Clooney movie. At least the woman was Chinese and not a blond. A rival flooring company has gone Western, adopting Mona Lisa to push their product--tiles. This is hardly communism as Mao envisioned it. During the Cultural Revolution he was even trying to do away with money. Now the Chinese are using sex to sell and aspiring to "elegant living." Horrors.
Later, George
Friends: For the first time I found an Internet cafe without having to be led to it. The few I have visited so far had no discernible identifying feature other than a bunch of motorbikes out in front, as they are popular, well-attended places. So that's what I'm on the alert for and it worked here in Li Ling. I have yet to identify a sign on them that I can decipher. They are often in obscure, hole-in-the-wall places, up a flight of stairs with no sign at all. One had a cave-like entrance into a hovel of a place that might have been a former opium den.
Since Internet use doesn't have the full approval of the government, with up to ten per cent of sites blocked, Internet outlets may have to be slightly discreet. Even in countries with a written script unfamiliar to my Western eye, as in Japan and Thailand, I could at least peer through windows or open doors for computers. That hasn't been possible here. Searching out the Internet has always been a good way to explore a city, wandering and looking. China has given me an extra opportunity at that.
Slowly, but surely, I am getting a handle on things here. But it has taken much longer than anywhere else I've been, even Japan, where I was likewise initially utterly clueless. Though I have a selection of phrases I try on people, rarely do I get the intonations right and for the first time ever I've had to pull out my guide book or map and point at words or places I want to go. But people are very patient and inordinately helpful. My eye is becoming slightly accustomed to Chinese characters, as all too frequently I'll have to compare the calligraphy of a city on a road sign to that on my map when neither are accompanied by an English version.
Men are continually offering me cigarettes. That's a first. Ordinarily in a country where I'm getting by on five dollars or less a day, people are asking me for cigarettes. When the weather cools, and I need fewer cold drinks, my expenses will be even lower. A hearty bowl of noodles goes for forty cents. That's been the basis of my diet. As I sit and read, people come over to peer at my book and will pick it up for closer examination when I pause for a bite. For most it is the first time they have seen such writing. Several times I've had people assume that since I was reading I could also read Chinese, even though it is clear I don't speak it. They'll write a string of Chinese characters on a piece of paper and slip it to me.
If I had any doubts about the creeping capitalism that is taking over China they were put to rest yesterday when I came upon a huge vinyl billboard on the side of a building featuring a sexy young woman laying on a floor in a seductive pose and the words "Elegant living, baroque floors." Not so long ago all the billboards would have been of an idealistic, propagandist nature such as I saw in Cuba, most with a picture of Che.
I knew all the billboards I've seen of Yao holding up a can of a soft drink or some other product weren't likely him advising kids to "work hard and sacrifice and obey your parents," but none of his had any English or were as blatantly commercial as this one with the woman. It was as slick a billboard as those I'm accustomed to seeing at Cannes promoting the latest George Clooney movie. At least the woman was Chinese and not a blond. A rival flooring company has gone Western, adopting Mona Lisa to push their product--tiles. This is hardly communism as Mao envisioned it. During the Cultural Revolution he was even trying to do away with money. Now the Chinese are using sex to sell and aspiring to "elegant living." Horrors.
Later, George
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Yanling, China
[10/15/09. Posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: As choked as urban China is by the automobile, rural China has been blessedly bereft of traffic of any sort. So much so that when I missed a detour sign (if there was such a thing, and how was I supposed to recognize it if there was) it did not alarm me that I hadn't seen another vehicle for ten or fifteen minutes. My concerns were finally triggered when I realized there hadn't been a kilometer marker in a while. I had gone off on a recently paved spur not yet open to traffic to the main highway 106 that goes all the way to Beijing.
Those kilometer posts had saved me once before when I took the wrong fork in the road. After a mile I noticed a different road number on a kilometer post than the road I wanted to be on. Numerals on the kilometer posts that are familiar to my Western eye are one of the rare places they are seen. Road signs rarely give the highway number, just towns along the way, sometimes in English and sometimes not. I guessed wrong at the fork, but fortunately only went one mile out of my way before catching my mistake.
As I bicycled the unopened spur, I was nervous that it might not go through. It did, though the last stretch hadn't been fully paved and I had some off road cycling to endure. I suffered similar anxiety yesterday when I went around a makeshift gate across a road. I was hoping it was an improvised version of a toll gate for motorized vehicles, as a guy was sitting beside it in a chair. He didn't react to me as I approached, so I just swung around him. When only two vehicles passed me in the next hour, who appeared to be locals not going too far, I feared the gate might have been a blockade with road construction or a landslide or a down bridge blocking the road ahead. It was at the start of a seven-mile climb to 4,500 feet, the highest point I have been so far. The lack of traffic at least made it easy for me to stop and take a mini-shower under a slight spring spouting out of the cliff wall. I also put my water filter to use for the first time. And the road did go through.
The price of bottled water has skyrocketed in these smaller villages, and only comes in small 600 ml bottles rather than the bargain-priced liter-and-a-half bottles that had been available previously. There's not much food on offer either in the small village stores. I had been relying on grocery store ramen style noodles as I had in Japan for my nightly meal in my tent, unless I was lucky enough to pick up a genuine bowl of noodles from a small restaurant towards the end of the day to put in my Tupperware bowl for tent dining. But it has been rare to find such ramen noodles lately. I have learned that I must stock up when I can. During this stretch of 54 miles between significant towns my lunch and dinner consisted of a liter-and-a-half bottle of some sort of dairy drink called Nutri-Express with some cheerios I had brought with me. The only other English on the bottle was "15 nutritional elements."
The people remain remarkably friendly and helpful. A police officer on a motorcycle escorted me to this Internet outlet and told me I didn't have to pay. He is the first person I have met in five days who spoke more English than hello or goodbye, though not much more. I have yet to encounter anyone who wants to practice their English on me. All reports were that would be a common occurrence. That may be the case on the tourist trail, but I am far from that. People are plenty curious to give me and my bike a look when I stop in villages, but they are respectful and don't linger interminably as in India. The people wear a look of general contentment. They don't seem downtrodden or burdened with concerns as is all too common in impoverished, third-world countries.
I am the one with worries, not knowing what the road is like ahead, how mountainous it will be or how far to the next town. My maps do not give distances nor show all the towns along the way, even though it is a 100-page atlas with a two-page spread for each province. Highway 106 appeared to be such a prominent road on the map, I initially feared bicycles might not be allowed on it. It goes for 2,500 kilometers from Guangzhou to Beijing. The last kilometer post I passed had the countdown to Beijing at 1,946 kilometers. I will turn off in 200 kilometers and head towards Xian. After Xian I will head back south and pick up highway 107 and try to meet up with a friend on an around the world bike trip who is presently in Laos headed to Beijing. If we're lucky we'll have a couple of weeks of bicycling together.
Later, George
Friends: As choked as urban China is by the automobile, rural China has been blessedly bereft of traffic of any sort. So much so that when I missed a detour sign (if there was such a thing, and how was I supposed to recognize it if there was) it did not alarm me that I hadn't seen another vehicle for ten or fifteen minutes. My concerns were finally triggered when I realized there hadn't been a kilometer marker in a while. I had gone off on a recently paved spur not yet open to traffic to the main highway 106 that goes all the way to Beijing.
Those kilometer posts had saved me once before when I took the wrong fork in the road. After a mile I noticed a different road number on a kilometer post than the road I wanted to be on. Numerals on the kilometer posts that are familiar to my Western eye are one of the rare places they are seen. Road signs rarely give the highway number, just towns along the way, sometimes in English and sometimes not. I guessed wrong at the fork, but fortunately only went one mile out of my way before catching my mistake.
As I bicycled the unopened spur, I was nervous that it might not go through. It did, though the last stretch hadn't been fully paved and I had some off road cycling to endure. I suffered similar anxiety yesterday when I went around a makeshift gate across a road. I was hoping it was an improvised version of a toll gate for motorized vehicles, as a guy was sitting beside it in a chair. He didn't react to me as I approached, so I just swung around him. When only two vehicles passed me in the next hour, who appeared to be locals not going too far, I feared the gate might have been a blockade with road construction or a landslide or a down bridge blocking the road ahead. It was at the start of a seven-mile climb to 4,500 feet, the highest point I have been so far. The lack of traffic at least made it easy for me to stop and take a mini-shower under a slight spring spouting out of the cliff wall. I also put my water filter to use for the first time. And the road did go through.
The price of bottled water has skyrocketed in these smaller villages, and only comes in small 600 ml bottles rather than the bargain-priced liter-and-a-half bottles that had been available previously. There's not much food on offer either in the small village stores. I had been relying on grocery store ramen style noodles as I had in Japan for my nightly meal in my tent, unless I was lucky enough to pick up a genuine bowl of noodles from a small restaurant towards the end of the day to put in my Tupperware bowl for tent dining. But it has been rare to find such ramen noodles lately. I have learned that I must stock up when I can. During this stretch of 54 miles between significant towns my lunch and dinner consisted of a liter-and-a-half bottle of some sort of dairy drink called Nutri-Express with some cheerios I had brought with me. The only other English on the bottle was "15 nutritional elements."
The people remain remarkably friendly and helpful. A police officer on a motorcycle escorted me to this Internet outlet and told me I didn't have to pay. He is the first person I have met in five days who spoke more English than hello or goodbye, though not much more. I have yet to encounter anyone who wants to practice their English on me. All reports were that would be a common occurrence. That may be the case on the tourist trail, but I am far from that. People are plenty curious to give me and my bike a look when I stop in villages, but they are respectful and don't linger interminably as in India. The people wear a look of general contentment. They don't seem downtrodden or burdened with concerns as is all too common in impoverished, third-world countries.
I am the one with worries, not knowing what the road is like ahead, how mountainous it will be or how far to the next town. My maps do not give distances nor show all the towns along the way, even though it is a 100-page atlas with a two-page spread for each province. Highway 106 appeared to be such a prominent road on the map, I initially feared bicycles might not be allowed on it. It goes for 2,500 kilometers from Guangzhou to Beijing. The last kilometer post I passed had the countdown to Beijing at 1,946 kilometers. I will turn off in 200 kilometers and head towards Xian. After Xian I will head back south and pick up highway 107 and try to meet up with a friend on an around the world bike trip who is presently in Laos headed to Beijing. If we're lucky we'll have a couple of weeks of bicycling together.
Later, George
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Rucheng County, China
[10/14/09 posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: I had to walk a narrow plank last night in the dark to get to a place to camp. It was across a deep ditch with flowing water. The distance was short enough that I could hop across, but I had to make sure my bike came with me.
As has happened more than once in these travels, I had to keep riding after dark when I was caught by a surprise urban environment. I could have stayed at the bright, neon-lit Friendly Hotel, but its implied luxury was not something I cared to indulge in. There was no adventure or challenge to that. I much prefer roughing it. Would Muir or Abbey have chosen a hotel over camping? I think not.
If I have to stay in a hotel, let it be bare-bones. Maye if the stock market hadn't taken such a tumble these past two-and-a-half years, I would have been feeling affluent enough for such an extravagance. I was still smarting from having to stay at $80 a night AAA or Best Western approved hotels last fall on my Alabama and Mississippi trip at the insistence of my traveling companion, a demand I wasn't anticipating.
I was in a region of rice paddies and sugar cane with low-lying water, limiting my camping possibilities. I had turned back three or four times after scouting out sites that weren't feasible. This plank led to a bamboo forest and didn't seem to be a trail that would attract anyone. I barely have twelve hours of riding time with it light at six and dark by 6:15, so I have been riding right up until dark. I passed up a handful of attractive places to camp in a wooded area on a climb half an hour before dark, remaining faithful to my commitment of biking until dark. As always all has worked out and without regrets.
This morning I had my first prolonged climb, over seven miles up to over 2,000 feet. It was on a stretch that was under construction and just one lane wide. I gave great excitement to all the workers I passed. No one else was bicycling this route. Passing motorists gave me the universal thumbs up too. There was no descent after the climb. I'm up on a plateau and it has cooled off dramatically, enough for me to put on my vest.
This is my fifth day in China and I have seen only one portrait of Mao, in the office of the owner of a thriving gas station. He led me back to his office when I showed him my map and asked directions to the next town. It was a little complicated, so he wanted to draw me a map. He spoke not a word of English, nor could he write numbers that I could understand. He wrote everything in Chinese so I could show people if I needed help. He had a water dispenser in his office. I waved my water bottle at it gesturing that I'd like to fill it. Instead he generously gave me two one pint bottles of water. After I returned to my bike he brought out a chilled one-and-half liter bottle.
A couple days before, while I was waiting for the small passenger-only ferry to cross from the island in Hong Kong where the airport was to the mainland, a guy assisting passengers offered me a cigarette. When I declined, he went off and returned with a chilled bottle of beer. This at seven in the morning. When I stopped in at a small business here in Rucheng to ask where an Internet outlet might be, they offered me their computer. The great hospitality of China does not stop.
This is much more the land of Yao than Mao. I see several billboards a day with the NBA basketball star Yao Ming advertising something or other.
Later, George
Friends: I had to walk a narrow plank last night in the dark to get to a place to camp. It was across a deep ditch with flowing water. The distance was short enough that I could hop across, but I had to make sure my bike came with me.
As has happened more than once in these travels, I had to keep riding after dark when I was caught by a surprise urban environment. I could have stayed at the bright, neon-lit Friendly Hotel, but its implied luxury was not something I cared to indulge in. There was no adventure or challenge to that. I much prefer roughing it. Would Muir or Abbey have chosen a hotel over camping? I think not.
If I have to stay in a hotel, let it be bare-bones. Maye if the stock market hadn't taken such a tumble these past two-and-a-half years, I would have been feeling affluent enough for such an extravagance. I was still smarting from having to stay at $80 a night AAA or Best Western approved hotels last fall on my Alabama and Mississippi trip at the insistence of my traveling companion, a demand I wasn't anticipating.
I was in a region of rice paddies and sugar cane with low-lying water, limiting my camping possibilities. I had turned back three or four times after scouting out sites that weren't feasible. This plank led to a bamboo forest and didn't seem to be a trail that would attract anyone. I barely have twelve hours of riding time with it light at six and dark by 6:15, so I have been riding right up until dark. I passed up a handful of attractive places to camp in a wooded area on a climb half an hour before dark, remaining faithful to my commitment of biking until dark. As always all has worked out and without regrets.
This morning I had my first prolonged climb, over seven miles up to over 2,000 feet. It was on a stretch that was under construction and just one lane wide. I gave great excitement to all the workers I passed. No one else was bicycling this route. Passing motorists gave me the universal thumbs up too. There was no descent after the climb. I'm up on a plateau and it has cooled off dramatically, enough for me to put on my vest.
This is my fifth day in China and I have seen only one portrait of Mao, in the office of the owner of a thriving gas station. He led me back to his office when I showed him my map and asked directions to the next town. It was a little complicated, so he wanted to draw me a map. He spoke not a word of English, nor could he write numbers that I could understand. He wrote everything in Chinese so I could show people if I needed help. He had a water dispenser in his office. I waved my water bottle at it gesturing that I'd like to fill it. Instead he generously gave me two one pint bottles of water. After I returned to my bike he brought out a chilled one-and-half liter bottle.
A couple days before, while I was waiting for the small passenger-only ferry to cross from the island in Hong Kong where the airport was to the mainland, a guy assisting passengers offered me a cigarette. When I declined, he went off and returned with a chilled bottle of beer. This at seven in the morning. When I stopped in at a small business here in Rucheng to ask where an Internet outlet might be, they offered me their computer. The great hospitality of China does not stop.
This is much more the land of Yao than Mao. I see several billboards a day with the NBA basketball star Yao Ming advertising something or other.
Later, George
Monday, October 12, 2009
150 miles north into China
[10/13/2009. Posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: I have no idea what small city I'm in as it is too small to be identified on my map and even if it were, it isn't big enough to be one of the few marked by Romanized lettering as well as Chinese characters. All I know is that I have penetrated 150 miles into China from the coastal city of Guangzhou.
The cycling has turned gloriously carefree on well-paved roads with hardly any traffic. It is a great joy and relief to be pedaling along on a highway that I can stick to for the next three or four days before I turn off to visit Mao's birthplace.
I am on highway 106, a main thoroughfare that was six lanes wide out of Guangzhou for over 70 miles, then narrowed to four lanes and then, 30 miles ago, to just two lanes as the terrain turned semi-mountainous. It had been flat for over 250 miles from Hong Kong through the Pearl River Valley, giving my legs a chance to warm up before the strain of climbing.
I passed a pillar marking the Tropic of Cancer 30 miles north of Guangzhou. The temperatures have been somewhat tropical in the 80s with humidity to match, forcing me to buy a lot of liter-and-half bottles of cold water for 25 cents. There has been a continual haze blunting the sun, so no need for sun block to keep my nose from turning red. There are occasional gas stations with detached toilet facilities and sinks, where I can give myself a soaking. I can't get too eager when I spot a service station in the distance, as quite a few of them are closed down, victims of a recently constructed nearby superhighway that has siphoned off the majority of the traffic from this road.
I have yet to need my sleeping bag, or even my liner, other than to lay on. A shirt is enough to keep me warm as I sleep. I am happy to be heading north to cooler temperatures. I thought it might be cold enough up in my northernmost destination of Xian, just south of the province of Inner Mongolia, to bring my down sleeping bag. My friend Julie-Ann, a former roommate in Chicago, who I am visiting in Xian, emphasized how cold it could be there, another thousand miles or so north.
Even though I started out in the tropics, I never would have guessed it by the vegetation, as there was virtually none to be seen for over 150 miles through the urban concrete jungle of Guangdong Province. Its not much bigger than Illinois, yet has a population of 94 million people, the most of China's 22 provinces, and more than any country in Europe. Shenzhen, just across the border from Hong Kong, is a city of five million. Its sprawl continues for over 100 miles to the equally large metropolis of Guangzhou.
I expected Shenzhen to be a typical border town of shanties feeding off the wealth of Hong Kong. Quite the contrary. It is a thriving prosperous city of futuristic glass skyscrapers. There were banks everywhere, though I couldn't find an ATM machine that would accept either my Visa credit card or Master debit card. I tried 15 or more in two hours. I was feeling most frantic and desperate. I had a small taste of that at the Hong Kong airport, being denied by the first three ATMs I tried. I was resigned to not spending any money in Hong Kong, but then a fourth ATM from Standard Bank at the exit to the airport accepted my debit card. The only money I spent in Hong Kong was for a ferry and a train, neither of which I could have avoided. I don't know how I would have managed if I'd only had US, not Hong Kong, dollars, though, of course, some kindly soul would have eventually come to my rescue, either exchanging US for Hong Kong dollars or covering for me. But I'm glad it didn't come to that.
When I came upon a Standard Bank in Shenzhen I thought I was saved, but like all the rest in Shenzhen, it didn't want to give me money either. I still had the receipt from the airport and went inside to plead my case. No deal. I was prepared to call Julie-Ann, over a thousand miles away up in Xian, for assistance. She had lived in Shenzhen a couple years ago and still had friends here. As a last resort, I decided to return to the huge Bank of China and beg for some mercy. I found some kindness there. They would advance me money on my Visa card, but at a 3% commission. At that point, I wouldn't have hesitated at 50%. I changed more than enough to get me to Xian. But I am spending so little, with a hearty bowl of noodles costing less than 50 cents, I may not have to change money again. I was prepared to get by on $10 a day. It looks as if I might be able to keep my expenses under $5 a day.
With all my attempts at using my two credit cards it raised suspicions with their issuers. My roommate back in Chicago received phone calls from both Visa and Master Card later that day saying they'd noticed irregular use of their card and wondered if it might have been stolen. I rarely use them, so I won't find out for awhile if they've been red-flagged and disabled.
The bicycle is clearly in decline here with the booming economy giving people money to "upgrade" to motorcycles and automobiles. Through the industrial corridor not even one per cent of the traffic was on bicycle. The only gladdening surge of cyclists I have seen came yesterday morning when there was a great rush of cyclists and motorcyclists in a small city on their way to school and work.
The bicycle is in transition here from a vehicle of utility to a vehicle of leisure. A Trek bicycle store just opened in Guangzhou. The young woman who let me use her computer and then unsuccessfully led me around the city for over an hour in search of a better map than what I had, hadn't been on a bike since her student days. She knew about the Trek shop, though she'd never heard of Lance or even The Tour de France.
Almost as many cyclists ride into traffic as with traffic. There is a wide enough shoulder that it isn't too perilous, though it does keep me on alert, especially with scooters coming head on sometimes too in that lane. I have seen only one other person with a helmet, a Kentucky Fried Chicken delivery guy in Guangzhou.
This is the first Internet cafe I have found. I needed to be led to it. I never would have found it on my own. There was no open window or door to peer in to see the row of computers, nor a sign outside that had any meaning to me. It is 30 cents for an hour, less than one-tenth the cost I'm accustomed to paying in Europe. I have no access to my blog here in China, as blogs are deemed dangerous and blocked by the authorities, so I'm back to sending out full-fledged, not so well edited, emails. I'm hoping the friend who set up the blog, Jeff Potter, will be able to post them for me.
Later, George
Friends: I have no idea what small city I'm in as it is too small to be identified on my map and even if it were, it isn't big enough to be one of the few marked by Romanized lettering as well as Chinese characters. All I know is that I have penetrated 150 miles into China from the coastal city of Guangzhou.
The cycling has turned gloriously carefree on well-paved roads with hardly any traffic. It is a great joy and relief to be pedaling along on a highway that I can stick to for the next three or four days before I turn off to visit Mao's birthplace.
I am on highway 106, a main thoroughfare that was six lanes wide out of Guangzhou for over 70 miles, then narrowed to four lanes and then, 30 miles ago, to just two lanes as the terrain turned semi-mountainous. It had been flat for over 250 miles from Hong Kong through the Pearl River Valley, giving my legs a chance to warm up before the strain of climbing.
I passed a pillar marking the Tropic of Cancer 30 miles north of Guangzhou. The temperatures have been somewhat tropical in the 80s with humidity to match, forcing me to buy a lot of liter-and-half bottles of cold water for 25 cents. There has been a continual haze blunting the sun, so no need for sun block to keep my nose from turning red. There are occasional gas stations with detached toilet facilities and sinks, where I can give myself a soaking. I can't get too eager when I spot a service station in the distance, as quite a few of them are closed down, victims of a recently constructed nearby superhighway that has siphoned off the majority of the traffic from this road.
I have yet to need my sleeping bag, or even my liner, other than to lay on. A shirt is enough to keep me warm as I sleep. I am happy to be heading north to cooler temperatures. I thought it might be cold enough up in my northernmost destination of Xian, just south of the province of Inner Mongolia, to bring my down sleeping bag. My friend Julie-Ann, a former roommate in Chicago, who I am visiting in Xian, emphasized how cold it could be there, another thousand miles or so north.
Even though I started out in the tropics, I never would have guessed it by the vegetation, as there was virtually none to be seen for over 150 miles through the urban concrete jungle of Guangdong Province. Its not much bigger than Illinois, yet has a population of 94 million people, the most of China's 22 provinces, and more than any country in Europe. Shenzhen, just across the border from Hong Kong, is a city of five million. Its sprawl continues for over 100 miles to the equally large metropolis of Guangzhou.
I expected Shenzhen to be a typical border town of shanties feeding off the wealth of Hong Kong. Quite the contrary. It is a thriving prosperous city of futuristic glass skyscrapers. There were banks everywhere, though I couldn't find an ATM machine that would accept either my Visa credit card or Master debit card. I tried 15 or more in two hours. I was feeling most frantic and desperate. I had a small taste of that at the Hong Kong airport, being denied by the first three ATMs I tried. I was resigned to not spending any money in Hong Kong, but then a fourth ATM from Standard Bank at the exit to the airport accepted my debit card. The only money I spent in Hong Kong was for a ferry and a train, neither of which I could have avoided. I don't know how I would have managed if I'd only had US, not Hong Kong, dollars, though, of course, some kindly soul would have eventually come to my rescue, either exchanging US for Hong Kong dollars or covering for me. But I'm glad it didn't come to that.
When I came upon a Standard Bank in Shenzhen I thought I was saved, but like all the rest in Shenzhen, it didn't want to give me money either. I still had the receipt from the airport and went inside to plead my case. No deal. I was prepared to call Julie-Ann, over a thousand miles away up in Xian, for assistance. She had lived in Shenzhen a couple years ago and still had friends here. As a last resort, I decided to return to the huge Bank of China and beg for some mercy. I found some kindness there. They would advance me money on my Visa card, but at a 3% commission. At that point, I wouldn't have hesitated at 50%. I changed more than enough to get me to Xian. But I am spending so little, with a hearty bowl of noodles costing less than 50 cents, I may not have to change money again. I was prepared to get by on $10 a day. It looks as if I might be able to keep my expenses under $5 a day.
With all my attempts at using my two credit cards it raised suspicions with their issuers. My roommate back in Chicago received phone calls from both Visa and Master Card later that day saying they'd noticed irregular use of their card and wondered if it might have been stolen. I rarely use them, so I won't find out for awhile if they've been red-flagged and disabled.
The bicycle is clearly in decline here with the booming economy giving people money to "upgrade" to motorcycles and automobiles. Through the industrial corridor not even one per cent of the traffic was on bicycle. The only gladdening surge of cyclists I have seen came yesterday morning when there was a great rush of cyclists and motorcyclists in a small city on their way to school and work.
The bicycle is in transition here from a vehicle of utility to a vehicle of leisure. A Trek bicycle store just opened in Guangzhou. The young woman who let me use her computer and then unsuccessfully led me around the city for over an hour in search of a better map than what I had, hadn't been on a bike since her student days. She knew about the Trek shop, though she'd never heard of Lance or even The Tour de France.
Almost as many cyclists ride into traffic as with traffic. There is a wide enough shoulder that it isn't too perilous, though it does keep me on alert, especially with scooters coming head on sometimes too in that lane. I have seen only one other person with a helmet, a Kentucky Fried Chicken delivery guy in Guangzhou.
This is the first Internet cafe I have found. I needed to be led to it. I never would have found it on my own. There was no open window or door to peer in to see the row of computers, nor a sign outside that had any meaning to me. It is 30 cents for an hour, less than one-tenth the cost I'm accustomed to paying in Europe. I have no access to my blog here in China, as blogs are deemed dangerous and blocked by the authorities, so I'm back to sending out full-fledged, not so well edited, emails. I'm hoping the friend who set up the blog, Jeff Potter, will be able to post them for me.
Later, George
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Guangzhou, China
[10/11/2009. Posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: If the Chinese people weren't so overwhelmingly hospitable, bicycling China would be a nightmare of epic proportions. It has been quite perplexing and frustrating, bordering on the horrific, trying to find my way so far, though I have been kindly assisted by nearly everyone I have turned to, few of whom have spoken a word of English.
My latest benefactor was a young English-speaking woman who saw me huddled over a map with a security guard who spoke no English. She intervened, asking, "Can I help?" After locating where I was on the map in the heart of the monstrous port city Guangzhou, formerly known as Canton, and determining the best way to exit the city, I asked her if there might be a place to use the Internet nearby. She invited me to her l9th floor apartment, just a block away, to use her computer, where I am now. It has been such acts of kindness that have prevented me from unraveling and have kept me going, as I struggle to solve the mysteries of bicycling China.
I have pedaled 120 miles from Hong Kong in a day-and-a-half through a non-stop urban sprawl. There was not a single breath of greenery all the way. Still I have managed to wild camp both my nights here--the first night in a patch of trees not far from the Hong Kong airport and last night in a vacant lot behind an abandoned house in the heart of some big city.
I will be heading north now, hopefully out into rural China. At least I didn't have to dread my approach to the urban sprawl of Guangzhou, as it was just more of the same. I made my way mostly by dead reckoning, using my compass and the sun to guide me, as the road signs are entirely illegible and English-speakers are virtually non-existent. I had to double back several times when I made wrong guesses.
Another of my rescuers was a cyclist who guided me to the Hong Kong/China border. Hong Kong may have been returned to the Chinese, but there is no free passing between it and China. I was told by just about everybody I asked, including the trio of people working at the airport tourist information desk, that I couldn't simply bike into China, but would have to take a train to make the crossing. I doubted any of them had first-hand experience and didn't really know, so rather than seeking out the nearest train station, I biked the 25 miles to the border, the last five with the assistance of the cyclist, a young man with a couple of water bottles on his bike and a cyclometer, out for a morning weekend ride, not particularly caring where he went.
He had never biked into China, but thought I could take a bus across the border. He delivered me to the bus station just before the bridge to the border. There was plenty of room on the bus for my bike, but I was denied entry. The bridge had a no bikes and no pedestrians sign. I might have ignored the sign and attempted it if the bicyclist hadn't been there to take me another two miles to a train station, one stop before the border, the end of the line.
The train deposited me at a full-fledged border-crossing, with forms to fill out and a row of immigration officials checking passports and a metal detector to pass through and a hodgepodge of places to change money from Hong Kong dollars or whatever into Chinese yuan.
Much more to report but I can't ignore May and usurp her computer any longer.
Later, George
Friends: If the Chinese people weren't so overwhelmingly hospitable, bicycling China would be a nightmare of epic proportions. It has been quite perplexing and frustrating, bordering on the horrific, trying to find my way so far, though I have been kindly assisted by nearly everyone I have turned to, few of whom have spoken a word of English.
My latest benefactor was a young English-speaking woman who saw me huddled over a map with a security guard who spoke no English. She intervened, asking, "Can I help?" After locating where I was on the map in the heart of the monstrous port city Guangzhou, formerly known as Canton, and determining the best way to exit the city, I asked her if there might be a place to use the Internet nearby. She invited me to her l9th floor apartment, just a block away, to use her computer, where I am now. It has been such acts of kindness that have prevented me from unraveling and have kept me going, as I struggle to solve the mysteries of bicycling China.
I have pedaled 120 miles from Hong Kong in a day-and-a-half through a non-stop urban sprawl. There was not a single breath of greenery all the way. Still I have managed to wild camp both my nights here--the first night in a patch of trees not far from the Hong Kong airport and last night in a vacant lot behind an abandoned house in the heart of some big city.
I will be heading north now, hopefully out into rural China. At least I didn't have to dread my approach to the urban sprawl of Guangzhou, as it was just more of the same. I made my way mostly by dead reckoning, using my compass and the sun to guide me, as the road signs are entirely illegible and English-speakers are virtually non-existent. I had to double back several times when I made wrong guesses.
Another of my rescuers was a cyclist who guided me to the Hong Kong/China border. Hong Kong may have been returned to the Chinese, but there is no free passing between it and China. I was told by just about everybody I asked, including the trio of people working at the airport tourist information desk, that I couldn't simply bike into China, but would have to take a train to make the crossing. I doubted any of them had first-hand experience and didn't really know, so rather than seeking out the nearest train station, I biked the 25 miles to the border, the last five with the assistance of the cyclist, a young man with a couple of water bottles on his bike and a cyclometer, out for a morning weekend ride, not particularly caring where he went.
He had never biked into China, but thought I could take a bus across the border. He delivered me to the bus station just before the bridge to the border. There was plenty of room on the bus for my bike, but I was denied entry. The bridge had a no bikes and no pedestrians sign. I might have ignored the sign and attempted it if the bicyclist hadn't been there to take me another two miles to a train station, one stop before the border, the end of the line.
The train deposited me at a full-fledged border-crossing, with forms to fill out and a row of immigration officials checking passports and a metal detector to pass through and a hodgepodge of places to change money from Hong Kong dollars or whatever into Chinese yuan.
Much more to report but I can't ignore May and usurp her computer any longer.
Later, George
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A Tour de France Course Marker for Christian VDV
Those course markers are a hallowed object to anyone who has followed The Tour, as I have done the past six years. His autograph would make it even more hallowed.
But I wasn't so much interested in Christian's autograph as I was to see his reaction to the course-marker. I wondered if Christian would recognize it, as the riders don't need to pay attention to the markers, led as they are by a brigade of motorcycles along a route lined with fans most of the way. The course markers, though, are hard to miss--a black arrow on a day-glow yellow background with the Tour de France logo in a corner. They can be seen from half a mile away.
Christian didn't discernibly light up at the site of the marker, as I always do when I spot one as I'm bicycling the route ahead of the peloton, sometimes the evening before, but he did acknowledge that he was most familiar with what it was and handled it with genuine respect, as if it were a holy relic, as he autographed it. I later regretted that I didn't ask him if he had one himself, wondering if it would be as prized a souvenir to an actual Tour rider as to those of us who follow the route. If he didn't have one, I would love to have the assignment of nabbing one for him.
As luck would have it, I encountered him seven months later in Monaco at The Tour start, as he and his Garmin teammates were setting out on a training ride. They pulled up alongside me as I sat astride my fully loaded bicycle at a stop light. I quickly blurted, "Hey Christian, remember me, you autographed a course marker for me last December."
"I do," he said, "You sure do get around."
"Do you have a course marker yourself? If you don't, I could get you one."
"That would be great," he said. And then the light changed and off they sped.
This was my sixth Tour and at every one I have gathered a handful of markers to share with friends. There are probably a couple hundred of them scattered along each day's route at intersections and round-abouts. They are put up the day before each stage and the Tour fans give them their utmost respect, leaving them in place until the peloton passes. Then they are fair game and disappear fast. They are attached to light poles and road signs with a wire strip that is twisted so tightly that one needs pliers or wire cutters to free them. I generally garner mine out in isolated rural areas where there aren't too many fans. The past couple of years I didn't intend to harvest any more, but when I come upon one that has yet to be plundered, I can't resist, knowing that it will thrill another friend back home. I was happy to know that the next one I found would end up in the hands of Christian.
It wasn't until the third stage that I had the opportunity to nab one of those sacred signs. It was just beyond the town of Les-Baux-de-Provence, about 25 miles before the city of Arles, that I pounced on a marker before any one else. I could have sought out the Garmin team bus and presented it to Christian the next day before the team time trial in Montpellier, but I preferred to wait until we both returned to Chicago when we would be less harried.
A friend who knows Christian's dad conveyed the message that I had a marker for him and would be glad to take it out to his house. I mentioned I was a bicycle messenger, so was accustomed to making deliveries, and that I was also preparing for a two-month bicycle tour of China, so needed to get in some extra training miles.
Christian emailed me giving me his address. We arranged to meet when he returned from Interbike in Las Vegas.
It was a fairly strenuous 30-mile ride into the wind through Chicago's southwest side and then through a series of suburbs to the distant suburb of Lemont where Christian grew up and continues to call home. Christian lives in a gated community around a golf course. A security guard called to announce my arrival. It was a few blocks further to Christian's house. When I came around a bend, I spotted him standing in his driveway awaiting me wearing a Garmin baseball hat. He greeted me with a broad grin, as if I were a lifelong friend, and asked, "How was your ride? I hope the wind wasn't too bad."
He led me into his house through his garage, past half a dozen bikes hanging from a wall. I didn't notice any golf clubs. I asked if he'd taken his clubs to Las Vegas. Even though he played on his high school team and has a brother who is quite an accomplished golfer, he said he hardly plays any more. "When I was in high school I spent a lot of time on the course, playing and caddying. I also worked on a crew that planted the trees on this course. It was hard work. My dad said he hoped it would inspire me to get a good job . But I just wanted to be a bike racer."
And that he has, one of the best in the world for the past decade. Not only has he finished in the top ten at the past two Tours, he's one of only two Americans to wear the pink jersey of the leader of the Giro d'Italia and is a two-time Olympian. He hopes for his third in London in 2012. "I'd like to make that my final race," he said. He rode the first of his seven Tours de France as a 22-year old in 1999 as a teammate of Lance, the year Lance won it for the first time.
The sign at the Lemont city limits announced itself as the home of the 2001 state champion high school marching band. I told Christian the sign ought to mention him. If this were France or Italy or Spain or Belgium, it certainly would. He admitted that would be nice, but he also likes being able to go out in public without being recognized, something that isn't so easy to do in Europe where cyclists are superstars and receive tons of attention from the press.
As Christian plopped down the three course markers I had brought, one for him and another for his dad, also a two-time cycling Olympian and his sister, a former Olympic cycling hopeful, he thanked me again for bringing them out. I told him it was a pleasure, that I am happy to spread them around.
"This was my sixth Tour," I said, "I always bring back a handful for friends. A couple of friends have them in their office windows in the Loop, and I've given some to my favorite bike shops in the city. I even gave one to the Antler Guy at The Tour this year. He'd never gotten one. I'm sure you know him."
"Yeah. We used to not like him, as he'd only cheer for the Discovery guys, but now he has a Tyler Farrah outfit and cheers for us as well."
"I met him the day he unveiled it this year. He said he and Tyler are fellow Washingtonians."
"I didn't know that. I figured he was from Texas."
"I did too with that Texas longhorn football uniform he wears for Lance. But he's actually from Seattle and works for Boeing. He's a fairly normal guy. When I met him he was out of uniform and I had no idea who he was until he told me."
"He's a pretty tall guy, isn't he?"
"That's right. About 6'2". He's got a long stride so he can keep up with you guys."
As we chatted, Christian hopped up on his kitchen counter, as if he were in training abiding by the racer’s axiom to never stand when one could sit and not to sit when one can lie down, even though his season had ended three weeks before when he broke a couple of bones in his hand at the Tour of Missouri, a race he had won the year before. He had ridden the Apple Cider Century, a long-time touring event in Michigan, the day before, and he said the bones were still hurting. "I'm going to have to see the doctor again if they don't feel better soon," he said.
The world championship bike race had taken place the day before in Switzerland, a race Christian has competed in representing the U.S. I asked if he had seen the two-hour coverage of it on the Universal Sports station. He said he missed it since he was in Michigan, but that he had Tivoed it to watch later. He said it must have been a hard race for everyone to be so spent that they couldn't stay with Cadel Evans when he attacked near the race's conclusion.
"You would have been on his wheel, wouldn't you?" I said.
"I would have," he said with a smile.
Christian is known as one of the nicest guys in the peloton. He was certainly proving it. He was in no hurry to get me on my way. We leisurely chatted away as if we were pals of long standing. I was wearing a Bouygues Telecom jersey of one of the French Tour de France teams. It was a souvenir I had gotten near the summit of Mont Ventoux on race day. It was so windy and cold up there that fans were besieging the van that was distributing them, desperate for an extra layer of clothes. Christian commented that he heard the Caisse d'Epargne team had been giving away jerseys as well. I'd gotten one of those, too, earlier in the race. Christian was surprising me with the fan minutia he was aware of that I figured the racers would be oblivious to.
Christian took me down to his basement and rummaged in a closet, then presented me with a couple of Garmin jerseys and a pair of tights and the team's trademark blue argyle socks. There was a large box just outside the closet with dozens of Cliff Bars
"Take whatever you'd like," he offered. "There's way more there than I need."
I was so boggled by his generosity I didn't know what to say. I was hoping I just might come home with a Garmin water bottle. I'd even brought along a couple of extras I'd scavenged from other teams--Cofidis and Telekom--to trade.
Rather than gushing my thanks I kept talking cycling.
"I was surprised Chris Horner wasn't at the world championships," I said.
"He's still recovering from a broken hand too," Christian said. "I saw him at Las Vegas."
"I read somewhere he was going to be riding the upcoming Tour of Lombardy, so I figured he had to be back in Europe ."
"That's still two weeks away. He'll be ready by then."
"Has he signed with anyone for next year yet?"
"No. I'd love to have him as a teammate. He's an exceptional tactician. He's going to make a great team director.”
"I thought for sure he'd have signed with Lance by now."
"Lance wants him, but Lance is like a CEO trying to get the best deal he can. Chris will probably end up with him."
I had many more topics to bring up, but Christian kept diverting the conversation to me. He wanted to know about my bicycle messengering and touring and where I'd grown up. He told me I ought to follow the Giro some year. He asked how many miles I ride a year.
I told him, "About 10,000 miles touring and another five or six thousand messengering and getting around."
"That's what I do," he said.
"Yes, but your miles are at a high intensity. You guys really push it. The effort you put out is just incredible. I go all out as a messenger, but I know I don't dig as deep as you do. I have no illusions in the least that my cycling compares to what you do. You have my utmost respect.”
Christian wondered what climbs I had done in this year's Tour. I bypassed the Pyrenees after riding the first five stages, but I did several of those in the Vosges and the Alps along with Mont Ventoux.
"That climb just before the Colombiere, the Col de Romme," I commented, "Might have been the worst. Its first couple of kilometers were brutal."
Christian agreed, saying that it came as a surprise to even him as it was the first time it had been included in The Tour.
"Isn't that where Sastre tried to attack like he did on L'Alpe d'Huez the year before, but it was too much for him?" I asked.
"That's right. He had a rough Tour. Its a shame because he's a really nice guy."
"Did you know his 17th place finish was the second worst of a defending Tour champion?"
"I didn't know that. Was Pereiro's the worst?"
"No, it was some guy in the '30s who finished 31st."
Christian mentioned he was off to London later in the week to attend the wedding of his teammate David Millar. Then he'll be going out to California for a charity ride from San Francisco to San Diego.
We slipped out to the garage after an hour or so of talking biking like American sports fans talk baseball or football. After we shook hands and said our goodbyes we kept talking for another ten minutes. There was always one last thing. Christian said he was eagerly awaiting the announcement of next year's Tour route, just a few weeks away. Me too.
As I rode the thirty miles back home, even if I hadn't had the wind at my back, I would have been flying. All the way I kept replaying our conversation and thinking of countless other things I would have liked to have asked him. I was curious about his philosophy of tossing empty water bottles during a race. Did he do it randomly or did he look for a worthy recipient? I never saw his trophy room nor asked if he had a place of honor for his course marker. I had a whole series of questions regarding his team director Jonathon Vaughters and yellow wrist bands and his greatest thrills in the sport, as well as his dad's career, which included an appearance in "Breaking Away" as one of the villainous Team Cinzano riders.
But most of all my thought was preoccupied with looking forward to next year's Tour. I would save those argyle socks until then. I know they'll have me flying up the climbs faster than I ever have.
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