August 3, 2006

I am in Beijing after trucking the bike back to Frank’s because I couldn’t get it started Sunday morning. Frank had worked continuously from the time he arrived. For some reason, the bike just didn’t want to start. We did find some contributing factors—a filthy air filter preventing air flow, an almost dead battery that just didn’t seem to want to crank the engine and several poor quality Chinese carburetors. Then it appeared that the magic worked, Frank had found the right combination and the bike started, we rode it around town, changed the battery and made preparations to leave and we waved good bye to Frank.

It was late in the day but all of us wanted to be out of China, more I think as a symbol that the real adventure was about to start. We were all aware that Tamara was facing a deadline to be in Istanbul to secure the teaching position that she had accepted. We were also facing a deadline for our Russian visas and an appointment in Moscow with the BMW dealer there.

We set off for the border; bikes running smoothly, brilliant sun, beautifully warm; we were finally on our way.

The Chinese Border Guard approached as we slowed documents at the ready, no cars ahead, this looked promising. In that universal sign language that all seem to understand he told Janet that she must stop filming and then seemed to say that we couldn’t proceed. "No, no, no!" and then in rapid fire Chinese said something that was so far beyond my comprehension that I didn’t have a clue.

It was time for Dave to come to the rescue. He asked what was the problem but could only come up with something about we cannot cross the border. It seems that the Chinese in Inner Mongolia speak a heavily accented Mandarin spiced with both Mongolian and Russian.

I protested, Dave protested, Tamara and Janet protested while the Chinese onlookers laughed and ogled the bikes and our equipment. Abruptly, he turned and walked back to the guard house. As we waited Dave talked to another guard who was now standing duty. He said the problem was that we didn’t seem to have the paper we needed to take a Chinese bike out of China. "What paper", I asked. It seems we were missing some form that was required. This could be a real problem. Time to call Guo Yun Hai again. It was now after 5:00 pm and I hated to bother him but I had no choice. "I will be right there."

Within minutes, a small van pulled up and five people poured out. There was Guo, Candy, and three others who came to help. They confirmed it. We needed a customs form to drive the bike out of China. But I countered, "I have known several people who have ridden from Beijing to Ulaan Baator and they didn’t need a form." It seems that this is a new regulation and there is nothing to do but try to get the form. Guo and party said they would work on it in the morning.

I went to look for the first guard to apologize for my outburst earlier (bad form in China to show anger or frustration, they can be rude to you but get really nasty if you are rude to them). There he was, in the guard shack, asleep! Here is a key cultural element—most lower level officials only have the power to say, "No" but that no can mean hours, if not days and sometimes weeks of delay until one finds their way through the morass of bureaucratic horse pucky in a government or organization where no one wants to take the responsibility for a definitive answer. Better to pass off the problem to someone else than to deal with it directly.

With no other option, we returned to UB and the hotel that had been home for more days than anyone wanted it to be.

I knew we were in for at least one, maybe many more, days of wait until we learned about the customs form. Fortunately, Guo’s business is in import and export so the company should know who to go to for an answer and perhaps the form.

The bike failed to start the next morning; this was another serious problem. The four of us got together to discuss our options. Finally it was decided to truck the bike back to Beijing, solve this incredibly frustrating problem while Tamara, Dave and Janet waited for word on the customs form. While in Beijing I planned to visit the main China Customs office there if there was no resolution in Erenhot. Once again I called Guo, "Can you arrange for a truck?"

We waited at the hotel for word. At 5:30, Guo and gang appeared, "No word on the customs form, maybe you can check in Beijing" ("SHIT, this was going to be a real problem"). "We have found a truck, it leaves at 6:00pm, and you should be in Beijing at 11:00 pm tomorrow night."

With some furious unpacking, deciding, not carefully, what to take and what to leave I threw most of the contents of the side car onto the ground for others to take up the two flights while we tried to figure out how to tow the bike to the truck loading area. "I need my riding pants and Jacket, my pannier and saddle bag, tank bag and computer." My medication for high blood pressure should be in there somewhere along with license, registration and passport. OK, ready to go."

"I need cigarettes and some water, maybe some food." Dave volunteered and dashed off returning a few minutes later with six Chinese bread rolls in a package, one smoked chicken leg (yuk), three small mystery meat smoked sausages, two bottles of water and two packs of smokes. I was ready

One small problem, nowhere on the little van was there a place to attach a tow rope to the bike so we decided to try to jump start the bike. "Wait; let me try to get some gas into the cylinders, maybe this will help the jump start."

I opened the chokes, gave it full throttle and cranked the bike over until the battery just wouldn’t turn the engine over any more and then the engine caught. Carefully adjusting the throttle I let it run for a minute and then said, "OK, let’s go."

The bike ran but not with the power that it should have. It was operating on both cylinders but it just didn’t have the needed power, especially for the lightened load I was carrying. I could get to the loading area but that was about all. In fact it was all I needed.

First stop, the trucking office where once again the bike was surrounded by workers who had to poke, touch and beep the little horn that Jason had given me. I dared not shut Max down for fear of not starting again but I also knew that I couldn’t keep it running at low rpms for fear of heat buildup. Finally I had no option (looked like this was to be my life for a while—no options). Guo and Candy were talking with several workers in a loud, rattling conversation that I knew had to do with one or more of three things: they wouldn’t take the bike; they wouldn’t take me or money. As it turned out this staccato conversation was about how to load the bike!

There was a ramp! I could ride the bike, if it would start, right onto the truck. The bike started and off we went. Truck in position, oops, one problem, there was an offset of about fourteen inches from the top of the ramp up to the truck bed. With tarps and flat rocks laid out on the ramp I managed to get Max’s front wheel onto the truck bed and with the help of four or five workers they managed to lift Max’s rear wheel onto the truck.

"Candy, how much? I want to know the price before we leave."

"800 RMB." ($100USD) $400 now and 400 when the bike is on the ground in Beijing. Give the driver the first 400 now."

A deal made and sealed with two receipts.

Guo and company wouldn’t leave until I was safely aboard the truck and underway. No amount of protesting on my part could change their minds. I was their good friend (and the good friend of their boss, Zhang Shao Wei).

I climbed aboard the truck and we were off to the loading area where half the contents of one truck were loaded onto the bed of the truck with Max. The cargo was sheepskins that had been soaked in brine as a preservative for the trip to Beijing. The process took from 6:30 until nearly 10:30 that night. Finally Guo and company left after spending all day and half the night helping us.

First stop was dinner. I passed and waited in the truck satisfied with a roll and a little water. As we pulled out two other trucks preceded us and our little convoy of sheepskins and (in the third truck) a load of salt.

Between our departure time and 4:00 am the fan belt failed four times! Each time we had to get out of the truck, jack up the tilt cab, driver and co-driver/helper had to crawl on top of and under the engine to replace the damaged belt with a new one or re-seat the old one if it was not already in fragments. At one place, we went off the highway at about 2:30 am, drove through a small, dark village to a parts store, where the owner and presumably his family were asleep, to buy two new Poly-V belts. We slept in the truck until 6:00 am and had traveled 126 Kms (76 miles). This did not bode well for the rest of the trip.

At 6:00 am we were on the rode again and again the belt broke into several long strings of rubber and fabric but this time it was found that the round v-gear on one of the shafts was loose and while able to move on its shaft was the cause of the belt failure. Set screw tightened and with only one spare we headed off again.

About 10:00 am we stopped at a small fuel stop where six large bags were off loaded onto a small motorcycle/delivery (I can’t really call it a truck so much as a tricycle) cycle that groaned under the load as the driver furiously scrambled to tie the load on as we drove away. I guess the operational premise is to deliver, not to help.

We drove until 11:00 and all the drivers, co-drivers and workers wandered off towards a police vehicle that I supposed was checking documents. I thought it strange that I waited for nearly an hour before all returned to get fuel.

Getting in line at a fuel stop is no different than getting in any line in China. Trucks, instead of people pushing, blocking and jockeying for position to beat the other guy to the pump without regard to anyone or anything else was the order of this half hour that should have been ten minutes. Once fueled, we parked and all the guys went back to the checkpoint.

I was getting curious. I made my way down from the high cab and strolled across the street where I saw what was occupying the men’s attention—a card game. There they were slapping down cards with shouts of elation or frustration, money passing from one to the other. "Son-of-a-bitch" I have to get to Beijing, I have three people sitting in Erlian in a hotel cooling their heels and these guys are gambling! More frustrating, they didn’t speak a word of English and whatever Chinese I knew was unintelligible to them because of the differences in our Chinese. I couldn’t complain nor could I cajole. I just had to quietly fume with a smile on my face.

Between card games, lunch and another card game, we pulled out at 3:00 and now we were under way again. I was really surprised when we pulled into a small restaurant just before five. The guys had just eaten. Mama, the wife of the family who owned the small building ordered the trucks to back up along the side of the building and when she was satisfied, we all went into the small dining area.

10 and 20 RMB notes were quickly rolled into small cylinders and by ones and twos the guys disappeared into the kitchen, wiping their noses as they emerged. "Want a smoke?" which I knew meant "Want some coke?" was asked by one of the drivers. "Bu yao", (no thanks) was my reply. All but Young Jun, my main driver went to the kitchen, rather he went to one of the rooms and fell asleep.

We had been on the road for six hours, on express trucks that were to reach Beijing in less than twelve hours and at no time had we driven more than two hours without some kind of break for repairs, a rest, conversation, or now a lively game of marjiang with more money on the table than at the card game. So I waited. In fact I waited until 4:20 am before we left—nearly twelve hours!

There seemed to be a permanent group of four at this little restaurant/dormitory (four beds to a room with about seven rooms), the mother, father, young daughter and another woman. I couldn’t resist trying to speak with the daughter,

"Hello".

"Hello" she said. Good start.

"How are you?" This is the first question. If they repeat the question I know they can go no further but she replied, "Fine sanks yo anda yo?" Terrible pronunciation but understandable.

"What’s your name?"

"Wang Yu Hong."

Try as I might, that was as far as she would go—too shy with maybe the first foreigner she had ever seen. As I watched her, stuck in this miserable little village with no apparent friends and chores that required a man I couldn’t but help feel sorry for her. But there are millions and millions of children just like Wang Yu Hong in China and the majority have it much worse.

Then there was the mystery lady who took me by the hand into a second dining room and spoke Chinese to me. "Ting bu dong" was my constant reply. Then she went for paper and wrote out what she was trying to say and pointed. I laughed, reading Chinese is far more difficult that speaking it. "Bu dong, bu dong, bu dong. I don’t understand!"

She beckoned me to follow her down the hall to a locked room, now unlocked she bid me enter and closed the door. Against one wall was a kong, a bed built over a brick and cement enclosure in which the Chinese build a small coal fire to heat the thin sleeping pad on top for a warm sleeping surface in the cold winters. At one end was a sad collection of cosmetics, hair brush and assorted toilet articles all in disarray. On the floor was a large basin, a bottle of water and a bottle of orange drink and the ever present large thermos of hot water. Perpendicular to the kong was a traditional hard, single bed with a brightly colored quilt, emblazoned with cute dogs, askew on the gray sheets.

"Zoa" (sit) she said. I sat.

She sat next to me and pointed to me and said "Ni" (you), then pointing to herself said "Wo" (me) and then making the universal hand sign for sleep she then pointed at the bed. Now I understood she was a prostitute offering me "special services" for 100 RMB ($12.66 USD).

"Dui bu qi (I’m sorry) maiyo (I don’t need it)". Or at least that’s what I think I said.

But I didn’t leave, I stayed because I understood her to tell me that she wanted to learn some English and for the next half hour or so I was a teacher again while faces appeared in the glass panel above the door. The drivers and workers curious to discover what the foreigner was up to with the special services lady and not quite sure what to make of the fact that both still had all their clothes on!

At 11:00 pm dinner was served, a large bowl of potatoes, sheep spine (I think) and cut-up chicken with bones in place. There was also a bowl of noodles—half potato noodles and half regular noodles, assorted pickled vegetables, cabbage with soy sauce and vinegar and bottles of beer.

For all the time I have been in China, for all the Chinese meals I have eaten, it occurred to me that this was the first time I had eaten with workers. All other meals were shared with other foreigners, teachers, leaders, etc.

This meal was different. Workers with grease, oil and dirt stained hands, in work clothes at least two days old bent over the small table sucking bits of chicken from small crushed bones—not cut clean by cleaver or knife. Slurping sounds from little cups of tea and glasses of beer or from bowls with a combination of potato and meat and gravy. Food chewed aloud and with open mouths, bones spit onto the table or floor and then the belches and burps of food satisfyingly settling into the stomach. Then the hawks and coughs and phlegm spit onto a floor littered with bones, meat, napkins, cigarette butts and ashes. I have seen all of this before but never so much and all at one or one place. This is not my world but I am here for now and I must accept their world for a while longer. Time for bed, except those few who persist in more marjiang.

I was awake at 3:40. No signs of life so I went outside for a smoke. There they were the stars and Milky Way of my youth when we could still see stars in the clear New Hampshire nights. They hadn’t gone anywhere I just couldn’t see them through the air and light pollution that seemed to follow wherever I have been. The Big Dipper, brilliant against the black space hanging low in the sky. Like a boy scout, I followed its direction to Polaris, the North Star. I thought, "This is the best light show ever!" Even better, I will have this view night after night as we ride across Mongolia until it fades once again as we move deeper and deeper into Russia. But for now, just enjoy and remember.

Sit and wait, almost too tired to sleep. Mama tells me to go back to bed. Its OK I tell her. I wait some more. At 4:40 I hear one, then another truck start and then Mama waves me to the truck, time to leave and everyone is waiting for me. Ironic.

We stopped at 6:30 for no apparent reason other than to chat but at 7:30 we are rolling again and I see my first sign, Beijing 250 km! Fifteen more minutes of driving and we stop again to wait for one of the truck that has fallen behind.

In less than two hour driving increments we move towards Beijing. First by highway and my spirits soar, we will make really good time now and then the highway ends at a small village. People squat in the dirt beside the road offering fruit, roasted corn and other items for sale as a way to earn a little money to supplement whatever other income they may have. The road climbs and our speed is cut to a crawl. We stop again to fix a loose battery terminal and then again to check it. We move on.

I didn’t realize it at the time but we are moving over the mountains that lie north of Beijing. The steep road is punctuated with switchbacks, "U" turns and a steady ascent and the scenery is spectacular. In the distance I can see a section of the Great Wall as it snakes its way down a mountain ridge. This is the real thing, not like the section of wall reconstructed just north of Beijing for the tourists.

Soon I can see the wall descend into the valley where it will cross the road we are on and here I sit with no camera, still or video. But I have my phone with built in camera, crummy resolution but a memory none the less. The village at the foot of this section of the wall is built with stone, probably taken from the wall. Signs of tourist related commerce but still people selling roasted corn, vegetables and fruit predominate the dirt that borders the road.

The road climbs higher and higher, trucks laboring in first gear to conquer the steep grade. In the distance I can see the road twist and turn in an effort to climb through the mountains. In some areas the land falls away at an alarmingly steep angle and plunges hundreds, if not thousands of feet to the valley floor.

Suddenly we are at the summit and begin the even slower descent. A runaway truck would have no chance of survival here so the drivers extend the space between the trucks as a safety measure. No sooner had I had this thought than we saw a truck that had jumped a barrier and smashed into the steep wall of the canyon.

Trees have been planted along the road. You can tell by built up ridges of soil that surround the fragile trunks. Wild roses have also been planted along the side of the road. Brilliant red on a bed of green grass and black earth. The Chinese work very hard at making things beautiful, even at the expense of badly needed social services like education. But this is their priority and I can do nothing but accept their ways, I have tried and failed too many times and no longer have the interest or the energy.

We travel, ever so slowly, through these mountains for hours. I am frustrated that we have taken such a slow road but thrilled at the opportunity to see such spectacular scenery, to see the people, the villages and towns so remote from the main road. This is the real China.

Young Jun has been in contact with Mr. Kong from Frank’s Classic Sidecars and arrangements have been made to meet near the truck terminal in Beijing. A call to Ella Song, The Head of School and my link to all things Chinese, confirms this and before long we are in the southeast corner of Beijing parked near a major intersection. We wait, we eat a watermelon and we wait while Young Jun removes the truck’s generator.

A blast from a horn announces Kong’s arrival. He is in a small flatbed truck and in moments Max has been transferred from one truck to another and we are heading off to the shop. From start to finish, a 47 hour journey that was supposed to be 12. The bike unloaded at the shop I take my bags and get to a hotel for a shower, clean clothes, a beer, Chinese spare ribs and a bed for a much needed rest.

I wrote for a while yesterday, went for a Mexican lunch at Pinnacle Plaza near the Euro Village, just a 12 yuan taxi ride from Frank’s shop and then went to the shop to see about the progress on the bike. There Max sat like a sad invalid—no work done. Kong was there with his two helpers but not Frank. I looked at Kong and with thumbs up asked, "Hao?" (Good?) and then thumb down, "Bu hao?" (Not Good?) He squatted next to the bike, looked at the engine and said, Change-a, Jimu Beijing, 3-4 days-a, maybe then."

I knew that Jim was due back in Beijing in a few days but now I was being pressed for time and money. Waiting for a decision to change the engine would cost at least another week and that would mean it would take almost one month for what had been planned as a week’s travel. An engine change would also necessitate a new registration and a new carnet. Both difficult and both expensive.

In the meantime, I heard from Guo that Erenhot Customs had decided to allow us to take the bikes out of China. That was great news but time was starting to become critical for Tamara. We had to consider what to do. Maybe she and Dave should ride to Ulaan Baator and then take the train to Moscow or even take the train from UB or Erenhot directly to Istanbul. At least this way, both Tamara and Dave could use their existing Russian visas. No decision yet. If they do go by train, Janet and I will get new visas and ride our original route west through Mongolia and then on to Moscow where I have an appointment to meet Vladimir at the BMW dealership, pick up the communications system ordered from AEROstich and then go south to Istanbul and once again connect with Tamara.

Then we have to decide if riding through Syria and Jordan to Egypt is safe. All in all an exciting, fun filled odyssey. More important however is that Janet isn’t discouraged. Rather her resolve to continue has been strengthened by the setbacks. Tough lady.

On the road,

Jack and Janet