Friends: I felt no alarm, nor even surprise, when a couple of police officers standing along the road, on the outskirts of a small town in the mountains, motioned for me to stop. I was more surprised that it hadn't happened before in the 1,200 miles of China I had cycled so far. I had fully expected to encounter an occasional officer or police checkpoint requiring a look at my passport. That was common in the not too distant past, but not any more.
I had been the one approaching police officers and going into police stations to ask for directions. Not once had any had of them asked to see my passport nor been overly inquisitive about where I was going or what I was doing. None had been less than genial and helpful, such as the officer who led me to an Internet cafe and paid for it. These officers too seemed perfectly amiable, without a hint of hostility. They were stationed at a distant outpost and just seemed to be performing a perfunctory duty, more out of curiosity and boredom than anything else. In times past anyone traveling in rural China had to regularly check in at police stations. That era of fear and suspicion of outsiders seemed to be long gone.
I was a little concerned though that a glance at my passport wasn't enough to let me be on my way. Instead, the officers gestured for me to follow them over to their police station across the street. I presumed it was simply an excuse for them to be hospitable and to take advantage of this rare occasion when a foreigner passed through their town to get to know him a little. They took me into an office and let me sit on a couch while they repeatedly paged through my well-stamped passport, not seeming to find what they were looking for, even though my Chinese visa filled an entire page. Perhaps the extra pages I had added in South Africa earlier in the year had them befuddled, as they probably hadn't seen such a fat and filled passport before.
While I sat and they paged, an officer brought me a cup of hot water in one of those flimsy ultra-thin plastic cups that most of the restaurants use. Soon after a young man not in uniform bustled into the room and announced, "Hello, I'm here to help you. You have entered a Forbidden Area. Where are you headed?"
"I'm visiting a friend in Xian who works there. I have her phone number if you'd like to call her."
"Yes we would."
I went out to my bike to dig up Julie-Ann's phone number, but when they called it they couldn't get through. I told them I had a number of another Chinese friend in Guangzhou. They tried that as well, but said that number wasn't connecting either.
I brought my map back with me from the bike and showed them the route I had already come and wondered if I had been through any other Forbidden Areas. Like many who have taken a look at my maps, the officers and the young man, the local English teacher, studiously, with an almost fiendish curiosity, examined the map as if they had rarely seen such a thing. They said I hadn't passed through any other restricted areas, not even the 125 mile stretch I had just biked through the mountains where there had been virtually no traffic.
I traced my intended route for them and asked what alternative I could take. They said I could still pass through Shiyan, about eighty miles away, but that I would have to backtrack some twenty miles and swing up around towards it. In my atlas I have a copy of the story The Reader did on me a few years ago and showed them that. That occupied their attention for several minutes as the English teacher translated some of it for them. I was hoping that might generate some goodwill, and they might relent and let me continue on this road to the town of Fang, thirty miles away, and then turn north to Shiyan, another fifty miles. But they were unbending. I asked if it was possible to take a bus, or if maybe they would give me a lift. There were half a dozen officers in on this. Surely one of them could spare some time. But they wouldn't even consider it. There were things in this region not for my eyes.
After having failed to connect with Julie-Ann and May, I asked if I might try contacting them via email. They agreed to that and led me into another room, where they turned on the computer. I emailed both immediately. The officers let me peruse my email while we waited for a response. I searched out the email from Julie-Ann with her phone number on, but when I reached it the body of the message was blank. That was the case with other older emails as well. I feared the Chinese Internet police had infiltrated my yahoo account and had begun censoring. I couldn't imagine they'd find anything to censor, but I couldn't be sure. Maybe they were busy deleting anything I'd written about China.
The English teacher asked if I was hungry. I actually was. A few minutes later a woman brought me a bowl of fried rice, which I ate while tinkering further on line, but to no avail. At this point I was resolved to having to double back and take the alternate route. It was strange though that none of the handful of people I had asked directions from yesterday towards Fang waved me off and pointed out the other route. I asked the English teacher why the stretch ahead was forbidden. He said he was forbidden to say.
When I said I was ready to go, they said I couldn't bike back, that I would have to take a bus. I didn't particularly care to do that, even though it was a somewhat demanding up and down route, but through a most beautiful gorge. They said it would be no more than half an hour wait until the next bus and that it would take me all the way to Danjangkou, about a three hour bus trip. I didn't wish to go that far, especially since it took me out of my way, but they said I had to go to this larger city and check in with the police there.
While we waited for the bus a crowd gathered outside the police station to catch a glimpse of the foreigner. The English teacher said none of them had seen a foreigner before. He had gone to school in the large city of Wuhan and had some foreign friends there. He returned to teach in this small town as it is where he had grown up and where his parents lived. He said he played a lot of scrabble at college, but he had no one to play it with here.
He told me if I had any problems in my travels to dial 110. "Its like your 9-1-1," he said.
"How did you know about 9-1-1?" I asked.
"I learned it from the TV show 'Heroes.' Its my favorite show. I learn a lot about America from it."
When the bus showed up, the bus driver had no choice but to let me put my bike in the rear hatch, which was barely big enough to hold my bike and my duffel stuffed with my panniers and tent and sleeping bag. The bus was less than half full, and fortunately no one was smoking, though a couple of men had cigarettes stuck behind their ears, a common site here, ready to light up when the need struck.
An hour-and-a-half later we stopped at a large city. I asked the driver which one it was on the map. It was one city before the intersection to Shiyan, well before the city I was being taken to. I hoped the driver would let me off at the earlier city. I bought three hard-boiled eggs at the station. When I opened my wallet to pay for it, the driver's assistant looked closely and noticed some American bills. She wanted a closer look. I showed her a one. When I returned to the bus she came back to me and held out a five yuan note wanting to trade it for the one. It was two yuans short, but I let her have it.
That favor may have earned me some goodwill, as I was not charged for the bus ride and my escort let me off earlier than the distant town I thought I was being taken to. When we came to the town at the intersection to Shiyan, we stopped at the police station. It was lunch time and no one was at the station. My escort pulled out his phone and made a couple of calls. Several minutes later an officer showed up. He didn't seem interested in me. While the bus waited, I kept hinting that I'd like my bike and gear. We went to a second police station in the city, but no one was there either. My escort decided to relinquish me and my gear, though I was on my honor to wait and check in with the police before I continued. It was 1:30. I was willing to sit around until two.
The rest I was getting was much needed as I'd had my worst night's sleep the night before, the first time I had stayed in a hotel. A deranged rooster outside my window crowed at the moon all night long. I opted for the hotel as the gorge I was bicycling through showed no signs of camping possibilities. When I came to a small city fifteen minutes before dark a young man on a motorcycle pulled up alongside me and said, "Hello. Where are you going?"
I stopped to show him my map, but more to ask him if there was a hotel in this town. If there was, I knew it would not be some over-priced luxury hotel. He said there was one a little ways back and he would take me there. It was a wise decision not to camp, as it was a two mile climb out of the town, that I wouldn't have finished until after dark. If my instincts hadn't led me to a hotel I could well have had to ask someone for the first time if I could set up my tent on their property.
Though I didn't get much sleep, I got my first shower of the trip and was able to sort through my panniers and do some house-cleaning. I had to use the small mirror I brought along to trim my beard as there wasn't one in my room or the toilet down the hall or in the locked shower room on the floor below. The only amenities were a pair of slippers and a large thermos of boiling water, so well insulated the water was still hot in the morning.
As I sat waiting for the police to return from lunch I finished off my hard-boiled eggs and some tofu I had bought in the market the day before. At five minutes before my deadline, two officers pulled up in a squad car. I had my map and passport ready for them. They weren't interested in my passport at all. I told them I was going to Shiyan, and they just warmly pointed the direction, thinking that I was simply asking the way.
So I've had my encounter with Chinese officialdom, as inevitable I presume as being robbed in South Africa or having the Israeli military find my wild campsite while camping in the Golan Heights.
Later, George
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
halted
--- On Mon, 10/26/09, george christensen wrote:
From: george christensen
Subject: halted
To: "Julie-Anne Chong"
Date: Monday, October 26, 2009, 8:18 PM
JA: I'm at a police station in some small town 50 kilometers east of Fang in Hubei Province. I'm told I can't continue as I've stumbled into a Forbidden Zone. We tried calling you at 150 9144-3317 but couldn't get through. Is that the correct number? The police want you to verify that I'm coming to visit you in Xian.
Hope you're on line, g
From: george christensen
Subject: halted
To: "Julie-Anne Chong"
Date: Monday, October 26, 2009, 8:18 PM
JA: I'm at a police station in some small town 50 kilometers east of Fang in Hubei Province. I'm told I can't continue as I've stumbled into a Forbidden Zone. We tried calling you at 150 9144-3317 but couldn't get through. Is that the correct number? The police want you to verify that I'm coming to visit you in Xian.
Hope you're on line, g
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Some nameless town on route 223 heading north from Yichang
[10/25/09. Posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: For the second time in these travels I was the lone Westerner among battalions of Chinese tourists at one of the country's prized national shrines. This time it was at the Three Gorges Dam, the largest in the world, completed just three years ago.
It is more than a mile-and-a-quarter long and over 600 feet high, blocking the Yangzi, the world's third largest river, nearly 4,000 miles long. Only the Nile and the Amazon exceed it, though it ranks only behind the Amazon for volume of water it transports. It starts on the Tibetan plateau and concludes in Shanghai. It effectively divides China in half, north from south. Few bridges span the river.
It was a strenuous 25-mile ride to the dam from Yichang, a city of four million, up over a 2,000 foot canyon wall and through a series of unlit tunnels. The latter half of the ride was along the river and its continual stream of barges, carrying some 70% of China's shipping. The quantity and variety of vessels was almost unimaginable. It was an incomparable, otherworldly experience--the natural beauty of the setting with the river framed by cliff walls along this stretch contrasting with the great bustle of cargo carrying vessels. Though there were gorges all along the way, the dam's Three Gorges namesake are upriver from the dam, getting slightly filled with water.
The highway along the Yangzi came to a dead end at the dam, something I did not expect. The entrance to the dam was guarded by several soldiers who informed me that entry was only allowed by tour bus. Two passed while we talked. The guards halted both hoping to find an English speaking guide who could better explain the situation than they could. The second had a guide who spoke enough English to let me know I had to backtrack a kilometer, then turn down a road to find the tour bus depot. The turn I was looking for wasn't marked, so I missed it again. But I came upon a convention center with displays of the dam where I received better directions.
The bus tours were a huge operation, with a bus departing every five minutes. There was a room to deposit bags that was large enough to accommodate my bike. What we brought with had to pass through a metal detector. Neither my Swiss Army knife or tire irons raised the concerns of the guards.
A guide chattered away in Chinese the ten minutes to the dam. At least the signs and plaques at the dam sites were in English along with Chinese. There were three different stops on the two-hour tour. The first was a high overlook peering down at the dam on one side and the series of five locks on another. It takes 45 minutes for a ship to clear the locks, dropping 500 feet. Various sculptures and monuments and a pool full of carp and gold fish dotted the overlook park. A large souvenir shop contained a replica of the dam. Another guide at the location gave a lecture, banding about a pointer, every half hour.
We could linger as long as we wished, taking any subsequent tour bus. The second stop was right at the dam. It was the only stop with souvenir sales people, some highly aggressive. The final stop was at the River Closure Memorial Park on the other side of the river, looking up at the dam. We crossed one of the few bridges that span the Yangzi. It had guards at either side and a "No bicycles" sign, bad news for me, as that was to be my route.
A plaque at the entry to the sprawling park said the dam was "envisaged by Mao Zedong" and "demonstrated the capability, wisdom and resolution of the Chinese people to harness rivers." It went on to say that the park represented "the jubilance, courageous and painstaking endeavors of the river closure." It said it achieved three purposes--flood control, power generation and navigation improvement. No mention of or monument to the sacrifice of the million people who had been displaced nor the roads swallowed up that I could have followed along the 300 mile lake that has been formed behind the dam.
Despite the swarms of photo-snapping tourists I had no difficulty gazing upon the dam from our three different vantages, as I stand a head taller than the majority of the Chinese. Most are as slight as I am. Bulging waist lines are a rare site and obesity virtually nonexistent. It is a refreshing site. Anyone taking the tour had to be of some affluence as a ticket cost 105 yuan, about $15, or a week and a half pay for those semi-indentured factory workers who earn $500 for a year's labor. Since a meal can be had for three yuan and my daily expenses rarely exceed twenty yuan, it was a hefty ticket, more than a half week's expenses.
As I biked to the dam, not realizing how demanding of a ride it would be, not only steep, but on some rough unpaved stretches, I knew in the back of my mind that there was a possibility I would have to double back on it. I consulted with a police officer hoping there might be some road that my map didn't show. There wasn't. I could have tried for a ride across the bridge, but then I'd have the difficulty of recrossing the Yangzi later, plus the officer did not recommend the road beyond the bridge.
As I biked the 25 miles back over the rough road I had hoped to never see again, I felt further dread, knowing how difficult it would most likely be finding the unnumbered secondary road north out of the sprawling city Yichang that I struggled to navigate through getting to the dam. I knew though that it could be no worse than my first day's nightmare in China trying to change money and finding my way out of Shenzhen. I'd survived quite a few mini-nightmares since, so this one could not unravel me. If I had known how demanding the road to the dam was going to be and that I'd have to ride it twice, I might have opted for a bus to the dam from Yichang or a boat, though I no doubt would have regretted giving up my independence and freedom and felt guilty for becoming just another tourist.
Of the dozen or so people I presented my map to when I returned to Yichang hunting for the road north out of the city, all could provide help except for one whose eyesight wasn't good enough to read the small print of my map, not the first time that has happened. One of those I consulted was a young man who spoke English very well. He asked for advice from several other people nearby. One said that a bridge was out on the route I wished to go, though I could still head north on the road I was looking for, I just couldn't turn west as soon as I wished. I was lucky to learn that.
I asked the young man if there was a place to buy one of the two national English newspapers nearby. I have looked for it in every large city I've been in, but hadn't been able to find a copy. He said I could find one at the university a couple miles back. I'd done enough backtracking for the day to care to do that, especially with nightfall less than an hour away. He said they were very cheap and volunteered to send me a copy to an address where I might be in China in the days to come, more of that amazing Chinese generosity.
I still had to ask seven or eight more people the way when I came to tricky intersections before I was assured I was on the road I wanted and could continue straight. I ended up camping in thick brush well out of the city right at dark, a site that wouldn't have worked any earlier. The dark provided more of my cover than the vegetation, so I needed to escape at first light.
Now I am in the mountains, limiting my daily average speed to less than ten miles per hour. It is eighty miles of mountainous terrain to Baokang and route 318, a better road. The one I'm on is being repaved, also slowing my progress. I had been hoping to reach Julie-Ann and Xian by next Sunday, about 550 miles away, but I don't know. At least I shouldn't have to worry about asking for directions now that I can stick to the road I'm on for awhile.
Later, George
Friends: For the second time in these travels I was the lone Westerner among battalions of Chinese tourists at one of the country's prized national shrines. This time it was at the Three Gorges Dam, the largest in the world, completed just three years ago.
It is more than a mile-and-a-quarter long and over 600 feet high, blocking the Yangzi, the world's third largest river, nearly 4,000 miles long. Only the Nile and the Amazon exceed it, though it ranks only behind the Amazon for volume of water it transports. It starts on the Tibetan plateau and concludes in Shanghai. It effectively divides China in half, north from south. Few bridges span the river.
It was a strenuous 25-mile ride to the dam from Yichang, a city of four million, up over a 2,000 foot canyon wall and through a series of unlit tunnels. The latter half of the ride was along the river and its continual stream of barges, carrying some 70% of China's shipping. The quantity and variety of vessels was almost unimaginable. It was an incomparable, otherworldly experience--the natural beauty of the setting with the river framed by cliff walls along this stretch contrasting with the great bustle of cargo carrying vessels. Though there were gorges all along the way, the dam's Three Gorges namesake are upriver from the dam, getting slightly filled with water.
The highway along the Yangzi came to a dead end at the dam, something I did not expect. The entrance to the dam was guarded by several soldiers who informed me that entry was only allowed by tour bus. Two passed while we talked. The guards halted both hoping to find an English speaking guide who could better explain the situation than they could. The second had a guide who spoke enough English to let me know I had to backtrack a kilometer, then turn down a road to find the tour bus depot. The turn I was looking for wasn't marked, so I missed it again. But I came upon a convention center with displays of the dam where I received better directions.
The bus tours were a huge operation, with a bus departing every five minutes. There was a room to deposit bags that was large enough to accommodate my bike. What we brought with had to pass through a metal detector. Neither my Swiss Army knife or tire irons raised the concerns of the guards.
A guide chattered away in Chinese the ten minutes to the dam. At least the signs and plaques at the dam sites were in English along with Chinese. There were three different stops on the two-hour tour. The first was a high overlook peering down at the dam on one side and the series of five locks on another. It takes 45 minutes for a ship to clear the locks, dropping 500 feet. Various sculptures and monuments and a pool full of carp and gold fish dotted the overlook park. A large souvenir shop contained a replica of the dam. Another guide at the location gave a lecture, banding about a pointer, every half hour.
We could linger as long as we wished, taking any subsequent tour bus. The second stop was right at the dam. It was the only stop with souvenir sales people, some highly aggressive. The final stop was at the River Closure Memorial Park on the other side of the river, looking up at the dam. We crossed one of the few bridges that span the Yangzi. It had guards at either side and a "No bicycles" sign, bad news for me, as that was to be my route.
A plaque at the entry to the sprawling park said the dam was "envisaged by Mao Zedong" and "demonstrated the capability, wisdom and resolution of the Chinese people to harness rivers." It went on to say that the park represented "the jubilance, courageous and painstaking endeavors of the river closure." It said it achieved three purposes--flood control, power generation and navigation improvement. No mention of or monument to the sacrifice of the million people who had been displaced nor the roads swallowed up that I could have followed along the 300 mile lake that has been formed behind the dam.
Despite the swarms of photo-snapping tourists I had no difficulty gazing upon the dam from our three different vantages, as I stand a head taller than the majority of the Chinese. Most are as slight as I am. Bulging waist lines are a rare site and obesity virtually nonexistent. It is a refreshing site. Anyone taking the tour had to be of some affluence as a ticket cost 105 yuan, about $15, or a week and a half pay for those semi-indentured factory workers who earn $500 for a year's labor. Since a meal can be had for three yuan and my daily expenses rarely exceed twenty yuan, it was a hefty ticket, more than a half week's expenses.
As I biked to the dam, not realizing how demanding of a ride it would be, not only steep, but on some rough unpaved stretches, I knew in the back of my mind that there was a possibility I would have to double back on it. I consulted with a police officer hoping there might be some road that my map didn't show. There wasn't. I could have tried for a ride across the bridge, but then I'd have the difficulty of recrossing the Yangzi later, plus the officer did not recommend the road beyond the bridge.
As I biked the 25 miles back over the rough road I had hoped to never see again, I felt further dread, knowing how difficult it would most likely be finding the unnumbered secondary road north out of the sprawling city Yichang that I struggled to navigate through getting to the dam. I knew though that it could be no worse than my first day's nightmare in China trying to change money and finding my way out of Shenzhen. I'd survived quite a few mini-nightmares since, so this one could not unravel me. If I had known how demanding the road to the dam was going to be and that I'd have to ride it twice, I might have opted for a bus to the dam from Yichang or a boat, though I no doubt would have regretted giving up my independence and freedom and felt guilty for becoming just another tourist.
Of the dozen or so people I presented my map to when I returned to Yichang hunting for the road north out of the city, all could provide help except for one whose eyesight wasn't good enough to read the small print of my map, not the first time that has happened. One of those I consulted was a young man who spoke English very well. He asked for advice from several other people nearby. One said that a bridge was out on the route I wished to go, though I could still head north on the road I was looking for, I just couldn't turn west as soon as I wished. I was lucky to learn that.
I asked the young man if there was a place to buy one of the two national English newspapers nearby. I have looked for it in every large city I've been in, but hadn't been able to find a copy. He said I could find one at the university a couple miles back. I'd done enough backtracking for the day to care to do that, especially with nightfall less than an hour away. He said they were very cheap and volunteered to send me a copy to an address where I might be in China in the days to come, more of that amazing Chinese generosity.
I still had to ask seven or eight more people the way when I came to tricky intersections before I was assured I was on the road I wanted and could continue straight. I ended up camping in thick brush well out of the city right at dark, a site that wouldn't have worked any earlier. The dark provided more of my cover than the vegetation, so I needed to escape at first light.
Now I am in the mountains, limiting my daily average speed to less than ten miles per hour. It is eighty miles of mountainous terrain to Baokang and route 318, a better road. The one I'm on is being repaved, also slowing my progress. I had been hoping to reach Julie-Ann and Xian by next Sunday, about 550 miles away, but I don't know. At least I shouldn't have to worry about asking for directions now that I can stick to the road I'm on for awhile.
Later, George
Friday, October 23, 2009
Zhijang, China
[10/23/09. Posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: My cycling guardian angels were on heightened alert trying to help me find the bridge over the mighty Yangzi River to Jingzhou late yesterday afternoon. For half an hour or more I must have been causing them no end of amusement and consternation as I circled about and doubled back more than once, stopping every few minutes to pore over my map once again, or to ask someone else the way.
I could see the huge, majestic, mile-long toll bridge that was part of an expressway that prohibited bicyclists a couple miles away. With nothing else in sight and some people seemingly directing me to the bridge, I cycled up under it, straining to see if any cyclists were passing along. Unfortunately not, though it would have been an ordeal to get up on to the bridge, with its entrance a considerable distance away through a residential area.
The narrow byway atop a dike I was cycling didn't get near enough the river for me to look for another bridge and my view of the river was blocked by trees and buildings. How was I to know everyone I asked was directing me to a ferry, the only other way to cross the river. "Ferry" was not a word in my very limited Chinese vocabulary. My map indicated the road I had been following, route 209, continued across the river to the east of the expressway bridge.
I was beginning to think the locals in the area were having some fun with me with their directions, though they didn't seem to be the type, and surely not everyone could be in on it. There was no significant traffic for me to follow. Traffic on highway 209 had died out about eight miles back when it intersected with the expressway. At last I saw a surge of motorcycles come off a narrow path of a road from the river. I turned on to it and just a little ways ahead was a small passenger ferry that could also accommodate the two, but not four-wheeled. From the middle of the wide, wide Mississippi of a river I could see just the lone expressway bridge, the only bridge for miles and miles.
After I crossed the Yangzi it was a steep push up a ramp with four sets of stairs to a fifty-foot high dike that followed the river for miles. This dike had a slightly wider road than the one on the oppostite side of the river. I could proceed into the huge city of Jingzhou and connect with highway 318, my route west, or stick to the dike and see where it led. I decided to go with the leisurely cycling on the dike.
I passed the first Buddhist Monastery I have seen in China. If it had been a little later, I would have asked for a spot for my tent. But the riding was good and narrow bands of trees had been planted along the dike on both sides that could provide a place to pitch my tent once the light began to wane. After half an hour the traffic thinned considerably, but there was still enough that I couldn't make a bolt for the trees without being seen.
By six I had the road to my self and could dart for the trees when I came upon a thick enough patch. When I saw one ahead, a shepherd with a flock of sheep was passing in front of it. Fortunately they were heading towards me and had already passed the forest I had designs on. It was a forest of pines with thick foliage providing plenty of shelter from straying eyes. This was easily going to be my best campsite of the trip, the most distant from a highway and the quietest by far. I was congratulating myself for pushing on and not taking the seemingly easy way out, looking for a hotel in Jingzhou, an option I barely considered.
This more than compensated for my earlier exasperation trying to find my way across the Yangzi. When I couldn't find a bridge permitting bicyclists I was on the verge of giving up and simply following the dike on the southern side of the river until I came to another bridge, maybe fifty miles or more further, with the likelihood that there too bicycles would not be permitted.
The next morning I continued on the dike for several more miles before heading down a rare paved path into a town where I picked up a couple of greasy flour pancakes with a spicy sauce from a sidewalk vendor, then proceeded for another ten miles on pretty much of a bikeway until it intersected with the main highway. Those 25 miles from the ferry had been the best 25 miles of these travels and the best camping.
Now to find the dam.
Later, George
Friends: My cycling guardian angels were on heightened alert trying to help me find the bridge over the mighty Yangzi River to Jingzhou late yesterday afternoon. For half an hour or more I must have been causing them no end of amusement and consternation as I circled about and doubled back more than once, stopping every few minutes to pore over my map once again, or to ask someone else the way.
I could see the huge, majestic, mile-long toll bridge that was part of an expressway that prohibited bicyclists a couple miles away. With nothing else in sight and some people seemingly directing me to the bridge, I cycled up under it, straining to see if any cyclists were passing along. Unfortunately not, though it would have been an ordeal to get up on to the bridge, with its entrance a considerable distance away through a residential area.
The narrow byway atop a dike I was cycling didn't get near enough the river for me to look for another bridge and my view of the river was blocked by trees and buildings. How was I to know everyone I asked was directing me to a ferry, the only other way to cross the river. "Ferry" was not a word in my very limited Chinese vocabulary. My map indicated the road I had been following, route 209, continued across the river to the east of the expressway bridge.
I was beginning to think the locals in the area were having some fun with me with their directions, though they didn't seem to be the type, and surely not everyone could be in on it. There was no significant traffic for me to follow. Traffic on highway 209 had died out about eight miles back when it intersected with the expressway. At last I saw a surge of motorcycles come off a narrow path of a road from the river. I turned on to it and just a little ways ahead was a small passenger ferry that could also accommodate the two, but not four-wheeled. From the middle of the wide, wide Mississippi of a river I could see just the lone expressway bridge, the only bridge for miles and miles.
After I crossed the Yangzi it was a steep push up a ramp with four sets of stairs to a fifty-foot high dike that followed the river for miles. This dike had a slightly wider road than the one on the oppostite side of the river. I could proceed into the huge city of Jingzhou and connect with highway 318, my route west, or stick to the dike and see where it led. I decided to go with the leisurely cycling on the dike.
I passed the first Buddhist Monastery I have seen in China. If it had been a little later, I would have asked for a spot for my tent. But the riding was good and narrow bands of trees had been planted along the dike on both sides that could provide a place to pitch my tent once the light began to wane. After half an hour the traffic thinned considerably, but there was still enough that I couldn't make a bolt for the trees without being seen.
By six I had the road to my self and could dart for the trees when I came upon a thick enough patch. When I saw one ahead, a shepherd with a flock of sheep was passing in front of it. Fortunately they were heading towards me and had already passed the forest I had designs on. It was a forest of pines with thick foliage providing plenty of shelter from straying eyes. This was easily going to be my best campsite of the trip, the most distant from a highway and the quietest by far. I was congratulating myself for pushing on and not taking the seemingly easy way out, looking for a hotel in Jingzhou, an option I barely considered.
This more than compensated for my earlier exasperation trying to find my way across the Yangzi. When I couldn't find a bridge permitting bicyclists I was on the verge of giving up and simply following the dike on the southern side of the river until I came to another bridge, maybe fifty miles or more further, with the likelihood that there too bicycles would not be permitted.
The next morning I continued on the dike for several more miles before heading down a rare paved path into a town where I picked up a couple of greasy flour pancakes with a spicy sauce from a sidewalk vendor, then proceeded for another ten miles on pretty much of a bikeway until it intersected with the main highway. Those 25 miles from the ferry had been the best 25 miles of these travels and the best camping.
Now to find the dam.
Later, George
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Lixian, China
[10/21/09. Posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: The Chinese love fireworks. They are one of the ubiquitous sounds of China. As their inventors, the Chinese are as devoted to them as Americans are to baseball, mom and apple pie.
People seem to set them off on any whim or for any occasion. I've gone to sleep with their sound in the distance and have been woken by them in the morning. I'll be enjoying a nice quiet bowl of noodles at a restaurant when a barrage of noise and smoke will suddenly erupt nearby for a minute or two. I've seen them tossed out of buses and trucks, some just randomly and others as part of some procession, funeral or otherwise.
The Chinese are a people of many customs, rituals and superstitions. The number four is avoided, as its similar to death. How one places chopsticks in a bowl has meaning, good and bad. I avoid incurring chopstick ill-fortune by relying on the plastic fork that comes in each ramen-style bowl of noodles I buy in the grocery store for my dinner.
Those forks are the only time I see a utensil other than chopsticks, except on that rare occasion when I'm provided with a porcelain spoon that is more of a scoop than a spoon with a bowl of noodles that is more soup than stew. Occasionally when I decline to use the chopsticks that are placed in my bowl, my waitress will think I'm concerned that they aren't sanitary enough for me and will give me a fresh set in a sealed plastic bag.
Yesterday may have been a propitious day of some sort, as I passed by a series of conflagrations of fireworks, some with a large red inflatable arch in front of a house or business. A couple of the structures were buildings under construction, implying the fireworks were a celebration of some stage of the construction or perhaps an offering seeking good fortune for its continued construction.
At times some of the explosions were so fierce their smoke filled the road, limiting visibility, halting traffic. With rockets blasting skyward, one risked being struck if one misfired and went errant, another reason to wait until all was quiet. Only the brave or foolhardy or well-armored ventured through the smoke, everyone else waiting for it to clear before they proceeded.
For the first time in four days I didn't have to roll up a rain soaked tent this morning. I've been traveling around the southwest perimeter of China's second largest lake. Much of its moisture seems to have been sucked up by the heavy cloud cover and sprinkled back down.
I didn't overly object to the first day of rain. as it was on my ninth day on the road and provided me with the excuse I needed to cut short my riding and give my legs a rest. I was lucky to have been mis-directed out of a city on the back roads route to my next destination rather than via the main direct route, as it made it easier to find a secluded spot to pitch my tent in early-afternoon.
It took several tries to find ground that wasn't already saturated and appeared to be on high enough and solid enough ground not to turn into a lake. The rain actually stopped some time during the night, so I didn't have to take down my tent in the rain. Having set it up in the rain, my sleeping bag absorbed some of the moisture from the tent floor. It is still damp, as is much of my gear.
I'm a week or so from Julie-Ann in Xian. She warned me before I came to bring chap stick and lotion, as it is very arid in her region. I will welcome that.
The rain has somewhat stalled the harvest of rice, or at least its drying. Sections of the road have actually been blocked by the grain spread out to dry, sometimes with chickens pecking away at it.
There have been quite a few vendors of oranges and grapefruit along the road the past day. Many of them set up for days at a time living out of cylindrical tents large enough to have a bed and a television. Some of the tents are only used during the day and left empty at night. They offered a possible camp site for me if I couldn't find one on my own.
For the first time someone stumbled on me just as I was getting ready to take down my tent at 6:30 this morning. It was an older man with a shovel. I had just discovered I had my first flat tire in the 900 miles I have come. When he questioned me, I showed him my flat tire, indicating that is why I was forced to stop there. It was caused by a tiny thread of metal that took some doing to extract with my tweezers.
Next up is the Three Gorges Dam, the world's largest.
Later, George
Friends: The Chinese love fireworks. They are one of the ubiquitous sounds of China. As their inventors, the Chinese are as devoted to them as Americans are to baseball, mom and apple pie.
People seem to set them off on any whim or for any occasion. I've gone to sleep with their sound in the distance and have been woken by them in the morning. I'll be enjoying a nice quiet bowl of noodles at a restaurant when a barrage of noise and smoke will suddenly erupt nearby for a minute or two. I've seen them tossed out of buses and trucks, some just randomly and others as part of some procession, funeral or otherwise.
The Chinese are a people of many customs, rituals and superstitions. The number four is avoided, as its similar to death. How one places chopsticks in a bowl has meaning, good and bad. I avoid incurring chopstick ill-fortune by relying on the plastic fork that comes in each ramen-style bowl of noodles I buy in the grocery store for my dinner.
Those forks are the only time I see a utensil other than chopsticks, except on that rare occasion when I'm provided with a porcelain spoon that is more of a scoop than a spoon with a bowl of noodles that is more soup than stew. Occasionally when I decline to use the chopsticks that are placed in my bowl, my waitress will think I'm concerned that they aren't sanitary enough for me and will give me a fresh set in a sealed plastic bag.
Yesterday may have been a propitious day of some sort, as I passed by a series of conflagrations of fireworks, some with a large red inflatable arch in front of a house or business. A couple of the structures were buildings under construction, implying the fireworks were a celebration of some stage of the construction or perhaps an offering seeking good fortune for its continued construction.
At times some of the explosions were so fierce their smoke filled the road, limiting visibility, halting traffic. With rockets blasting skyward, one risked being struck if one misfired and went errant, another reason to wait until all was quiet. Only the brave or foolhardy or well-armored ventured through the smoke, everyone else waiting for it to clear before they proceeded.
For the first time in four days I didn't have to roll up a rain soaked tent this morning. I've been traveling around the southwest perimeter of China's second largest lake. Much of its moisture seems to have been sucked up by the heavy cloud cover and sprinkled back down.
I didn't overly object to the first day of rain. as it was on my ninth day on the road and provided me with the excuse I needed to cut short my riding and give my legs a rest. I was lucky to have been mis-directed out of a city on the back roads route to my next destination rather than via the main direct route, as it made it easier to find a secluded spot to pitch my tent in early-afternoon.
It took several tries to find ground that wasn't already saturated and appeared to be on high enough and solid enough ground not to turn into a lake. The rain actually stopped some time during the night, so I didn't have to take down my tent in the rain. Having set it up in the rain, my sleeping bag absorbed some of the moisture from the tent floor. It is still damp, as is much of my gear.
I'm a week or so from Julie-Ann in Xian. She warned me before I came to bring chap stick and lotion, as it is very arid in her region. I will welcome that.
The rain has somewhat stalled the harvest of rice, or at least its drying. Sections of the road have actually been blocked by the grain spread out to dry, sometimes with chickens pecking away at it.
There have been quite a few vendors of oranges and grapefruit along the road the past day. Many of them set up for days at a time living out of cylindrical tents large enough to have a bed and a television. Some of the tents are only used during the day and left empty at night. They offered a possible camp site for me if I couldn't find one on my own.
For the first time someone stumbled on me just as I was getting ready to take down my tent at 6:30 this morning. It was an older man with a shovel. I had just discovered I had my first flat tire in the 900 miles I have come. When he questioned me, I showed him my flat tire, indicating that is why I was forced to stop there. It was caused by a tiny thread of metal that took some doing to extract with my tweezers.
Next up is the Three Gorges Dam, the world's largest.
Later, George
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Yiyang, China
[10/20/09. Posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: It was cool and damp, not even sixty degrees, when I broke camp at 7:15 this morning, one of the few times I've needed my jacket. It remained on for a couple of hours until I began overheating on a long gentle climb.
Moments after I paused to shed my extra layer a young cyclist with longish hair stopped beside me and blurted in rapid-fire English, "I've been chasing you for ten minutes. Sorry, I'm all out of breath, but I wanted to ask you some questions."
My first reaction was shock at such fluency. "Wow, your English is excellent. How did you learn to speak so well."
"Thank you very much. I study very hard and watch a lot of American movies and television."
"Are you still a student?"
"No, I graduated two years ago. I work as an accountant at a factory a little ways back. I was going to work when I saw you. I hope I'm not bothering you?"
"Not at all."
"Can you understand me? My teachers tell me I should speak more slowly."
"You do speak fast, but I can understand you perfectly."
"Oh, that makes me very happy. Where are you from?"
"America."
"America! I've never met an American, just a couple of Australians. Their English isn't so easy to understand. Do you know Kobe Bryant?"
"Yes, and Yao Ming too. They're both great players."
"Where in America do you live?"
"Chicago."
"The home of Michael Jordan. He was the greatest."
"Do you know Lance Armstrong?"
"Yes he finished third in the Tour de France this year. He won it seven times. He's a great person. My name is Jay, what is yours?"
He wondered where I spent the past night. When I told him I'd camped about 20 miles back he thought that was a dangerous thing to do and told me I could get a hotel for 30 yuan then offered to write out "Where is a cheap hotel" for me in Chinese to make it easier for me. I told him I'd greatly appreciate that. He exuberantly replied, "I am so happy to be able to help you."
We continued chatting about my route and my impressions of China and where else I've traveled and his longing to visit America. When I asked if I could take his picture with his bike he was astounded that I would want his picture, but was delighted. We exchanged email addresses before we parted and went our separate ways. His last words were a final, "I'm so happy."
Never before in my 30 years of traveling the world on my bike have I encountered such non-stop genuine warmth and welcome. The Thais certainly lived up to their reputation of being The Land of Smiles and in Columbia, where bicycle racing rivals soccer as their national sport, I was continually feted, but the Chinese truly seem to go out of their way to be kind and to be of assistance. Again yesterday I was given some food at a grocery store by a person making a delivery there.
The touring cyclist always attracts attention, but here it is of a respectful curiosity. People are drawn to me, but don't linger interminably as in India. The Japanese are known for their politeness. The Chinese I've encountered are close rivals. In my preparatory reading on China I read warning after warning about being wary of scams.
A cyclist who wrote a book about touring in China advised carrying only one water bottle on one's bike, as people would think you didn't need more than one and would ask for your extras. I'm carrying my usual three and have had no such problems. Maybe China's increasing affluence has made them more kindly and giving. My friend Lisa, who traveled and taught English in China a little over a year ago, gave me a set of phrases. One of those was "you cheated me." I asked how often she had to use it. She said maybe twice. But then she was frequenting areas that drew travelers and tourists. So far no complaints from me, other than road signage.
Later, George
Friends: It was cool and damp, not even sixty degrees, when I broke camp at 7:15 this morning, one of the few times I've needed my jacket. It remained on for a couple of hours until I began overheating on a long gentle climb.
Moments after I paused to shed my extra layer a young cyclist with longish hair stopped beside me and blurted in rapid-fire English, "I've been chasing you for ten minutes. Sorry, I'm all out of breath, but I wanted to ask you some questions."
My first reaction was shock at such fluency. "Wow, your English is excellent. How did you learn to speak so well."
"Thank you very much. I study very hard and watch a lot of American movies and television."
"Are you still a student?"
"No, I graduated two years ago. I work as an accountant at a factory a little ways back. I was going to work when I saw you. I hope I'm not bothering you?"
"Not at all."
"Can you understand me? My teachers tell me I should speak more slowly."
"You do speak fast, but I can understand you perfectly."
"Oh, that makes me very happy. Where are you from?"
"America."
"America! I've never met an American, just a couple of Australians. Their English isn't so easy to understand. Do you know Kobe Bryant?"
"Yes, and Yao Ming too. They're both great players."
"Where in America do you live?"
"Chicago."
"The home of Michael Jordan. He was the greatest."
"Do you know Lance Armstrong?"
"Yes he finished third in the Tour de France this year. He won it seven times. He's a great person. My name is Jay, what is yours?"
He wondered where I spent the past night. When I told him I'd camped about 20 miles back he thought that was a dangerous thing to do and told me I could get a hotel for 30 yuan then offered to write out "Where is a cheap hotel" for me in Chinese to make it easier for me. I told him I'd greatly appreciate that. He exuberantly replied, "I am so happy to be able to help you."
We continued chatting about my route and my impressions of China and where else I've traveled and his longing to visit America. When I asked if I could take his picture with his bike he was astounded that I would want his picture, but was delighted. We exchanged email addresses before we parted and went our separate ways. His last words were a final, "I'm so happy."
Never before in my 30 years of traveling the world on my bike have I encountered such non-stop genuine warmth and welcome. The Thais certainly lived up to their reputation of being The Land of Smiles and in Columbia, where bicycle racing rivals soccer as their national sport, I was continually feted, but the Chinese truly seem to go out of their way to be kind and to be of assistance. Again yesterday I was given some food at a grocery store by a person making a delivery there.
The touring cyclist always attracts attention, but here it is of a respectful curiosity. People are drawn to me, but don't linger interminably as in India. The Japanese are known for their politeness. The Chinese I've encountered are close rivals. In my preparatory reading on China I read warning after warning about being wary of scams.
A cyclist who wrote a book about touring in China advised carrying only one water bottle on one's bike, as people would think you didn't need more than one and would ask for your extras. I'm carrying my usual three and have had no such problems. Maybe China's increasing affluence has made them more kindly and giving. My friend Lisa, who traveled and taught English in China a little over a year ago, gave me a set of phrases. One of those was "you cheated me." I asked how often she had to use it. She said maybe twice. But then she was frequenting areas that drew travelers and tourists. So far no complaints from me, other than road signage.
Later, George
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Shaoshan, China
[10/19/09, posted by JP for GC. China blocks blogs.]
Friends: Even on a Monday morning Mao's birthplace was swarming with busloads of tourists and pilgrims. I was the only foreign devil amongst them and the only one with bare legs in the heavily overcast, 60 degree temperatures. Ten days in China and I have yet to encounter a fellow Westerner.
The only person to have a word with me at the various Mao sites here in Shaoshan was a security guard asking me to lock up my bike elsewhere before I set out for Mao's statue and his home. There was a long line to enter the house where he was born in 1893 and spent his childhood. It was in a tranquil rural setting overlooking a pond and surrounded by rice fields.
Mao was alternately referred to as "Comrade Mao" and "Chairman Mao" on the assorted plaques and maps. There were two tourist offices, but in neither did anyone speak English. There was a ceremony being conducted in front of his twenty-foot statue complete with military guard and groups of marching children. I couldn't find anyone who could tell me if it was a daily event or a special occurrence. Many people approached his statue and bowed. There were quite a few women walking about selling Mao buttons and memorabilia, but they too left me alone. Shops carried a vast array of Mao busts and statutes and framed photos and other trinkets. If I'd been here a couple weeks ago during the celebration of China's 60th anniversary Shaoshan would have truly been mobbed.
I get a look at Mao whenever I spend money as his face graces every bill from one yuan to one hundred. I have yet to encounter a coin. The one yuan bill is worth about fifteen cents. There are actually bills of half and one-tenth that value without Mao. People look closely at any bill over five to make sure its legitimate.
If I hadn't missed a turn coming out of Zhuzhou yesterday I would have arrived at Shaoshan late Sunday afternoon, something I wasn't sure I wanted to do, so I didn't greatly regret the extra twenty miles my mishap cost me. I am in no rush right now. I am happy to be experiencing whatever I am of China. I just regretted having to ride along a muddy bypass beside a major highway being widened with construction work going gung ho even on a Sunday. There is no restraining these Chinese.
Not everyone is busily at work though at all times. I frequently see people playing mahjong in front of small shops. A Chinese friend in Chicago has long promised to teach me the game. If only she had, I could stop and look over the shoulders of those playing and pick up some tips. I occasionally see pool tables, but not a single ping pong table so far.
Later, George
Friends: Even on a Monday morning Mao's birthplace was swarming with busloads of tourists and pilgrims. I was the only foreign devil amongst them and the only one with bare legs in the heavily overcast, 60 degree temperatures. Ten days in China and I have yet to encounter a fellow Westerner.
The only person to have a word with me at the various Mao sites here in Shaoshan was a security guard asking me to lock up my bike elsewhere before I set out for Mao's statue and his home. There was a long line to enter the house where he was born in 1893 and spent his childhood. It was in a tranquil rural setting overlooking a pond and surrounded by rice fields.
Mao was alternately referred to as "Comrade Mao" and "Chairman Mao" on the assorted plaques and maps. There were two tourist offices, but in neither did anyone speak English. There was a ceremony being conducted in front of his twenty-foot statue complete with military guard and groups of marching children. I couldn't find anyone who could tell me if it was a daily event or a special occurrence. Many people approached his statue and bowed. There were quite a few women walking about selling Mao buttons and memorabilia, but they too left me alone. Shops carried a vast array of Mao busts and statutes and framed photos and other trinkets. If I'd been here a couple weeks ago during the celebration of China's 60th anniversary Shaoshan would have truly been mobbed.
I get a look at Mao whenever I spend money as his face graces every bill from one yuan to one hundred. I have yet to encounter a coin. The one yuan bill is worth about fifteen cents. There are actually bills of half and one-tenth that value without Mao. People look closely at any bill over five to make sure its legitimate.
If I hadn't missed a turn coming out of Zhuzhou yesterday I would have arrived at Shaoshan late Sunday afternoon, something I wasn't sure I wanted to do, so I didn't greatly regret the extra twenty miles my mishap cost me. I am in no rush right now. I am happy to be experiencing whatever I am of China. I just regretted having to ride along a muddy bypass beside a major highway being widened with construction work going gung ho even on a Sunday. There is no restraining these Chinese.
Not everyone is busily at work though at all times. I frequently see people playing mahjong in front of small shops. A Chinese friend in Chicago has long promised to teach me the game. If only she had, I could stop and look over the shoulders of those playing and pick up some tips. I occasionally see pool tables, but not a single ping pong table so far.
Later, George
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