Sebrand and I have officially and at long last completed our four thousand mile journey. From the arid sands of the Gobi to the salty beaches of Pattaya. It’s hard to overstate my satisfaction.
The points on our map make a beautiful line through a large portion of Asia, all of which we’re so lucky to have seen. We’re both a little sunburned, I’ve got weird rashes on my arms and legs, and we could probably be a little cleaner than we are.
But, we’re far out of China and we’ve arrived on time. So I’m glad we got burned and roughed up. We learned so much, we’re still alive, and we got the experience of a lifetime.
When I began writing this post late last night, I had already titled it. I had no clue the last night would make it seriously appropriate. We were nearly hit by trucks and chased by packs of dogs all night.
But after twenty three hours of no sleep, we’ve completed our final day and lay at the sunny beaches of Pattaya.
This is what it feels like to have the bredth of a continent rolled into our tires.
Our trip faces a dire threat: Mongolian hospitality. This is our second night under the conical wooden ribs of the same Ger, owned by a water-selling, shepherding family in Inner Mongolia. I’m lying on the floor on a wool rug. Sebrand is on a table. Last night he was on the floor, unconscious from baiju they had been forcing us to drink. He had been carried there. I think they’re intentionally sabotaging our trip.
We arrived here on Monday. We never really intended to be here. We were having the best day of cycling yet. We had made 70km in three hours, the wind was at our backs, the scenery was beautiful and green again, and puddles of water sat on the sides of the road.
water! holycrap its so pretty in the wild
Image of windmills
We rode through green swards, and a forest of windmills that broke suddenly into an enormous emerald basin dotted with mud cottages and white sheep.
Whenever we stopped, we were treated as celebrities.
One couple pulled over and gave us 6 cans of beer just for being there. The point is, our ride was going great.
Then, shortly after we passed the paper lamp marking our current prison, two girls on a motorcycle caught up to us. They matched our speed, and the girl on the back, who was certainly European and spoke perfect English, motioned me to take off my head phones. That was where the trap was sprung. We were invited to dinner at the ger, and we had no reason to refuse. Clever bastards sent their English speaker to lure us in.
She was French Canadian, Marie-Christian. She’s on a four year journey walking alone from Beijing to Morocco. Essentially making our trip look quaint. She just graduated college like Sebrand, has never done anything like this before, and has a budget of two dollars a day. She’s been staying with this family for six days. They got her too. I can only imagine she’s as much unwilling to leave such kind hosts as she is afraid to walk through the Gobi.
But anyway, we met Arugot, a stout Mongol with a big laugh and love of flying kites. He’s the son and I assume to-be operator of this traveler’s snare. He and his smaller buddy with a ponytail, Satahn, herd up the sheep at night, and sell water from the well to passing truckers at all hours. His older sister, Alema helps their mother prepare food and care for the livestock. They run a small restaurant out of their house. The father has his own operation elsewhere, but when he’s here I’ve seen him preparing the iconic folded and steamed bread of Mongolia. father folding bread
Really, actually, they all pretty much do any job as needed. There doesn’t seem to be a consistent person responsible for any given task.
On the fateful first night they stuffed us with bread, sour grasses picked from the fields, potatoes, broccoli and lamb. Then put us on a steady drip of beer, which led to songs and laughter, then baiju (Chinese rice wine), then a morning of nausea.
When they pour beer into bowls and start taking turns downing it, have no part. Run away. The baiju is soon to follow, and they will give you your own bottle of it to finish.
this was just the beging
If Marie-Christian and the older sister hadn’t poured some of mine out and replaced it with water half-way through, I’d have ended up like Sebrand, having to wash himself in a bucket.
Baiju is sinister stuff. It does not taste good. Once they had Sebrand, my back-up, out of commission, Arugot implored me not to go in the morning. Without support, not to mention a clear head, I couldn’t refuse. I agreed we’d go out into the steppe with the family after breakfast.
After breakfast six of us piled into this little broken down Chinese car. Then this happened:
(video)
He just drove off the road and started herding the sheep. Completely without warning. In this thing:
This little off-roader took us through the fields to a hill for some photos and a big mushroom for dinner.
It took us to some really tall grass.
And we got to watch a true nomad at work.
We spent the afternoon and evening lazily watching Arugot fly a kite and listening to the sounds of the pasture.
Eating goat butter on bread. Arugot again implored we stay with the promise that the next morning we could ride horses. They served us pickled herbs and soup for dinner, for which we were momentarily joined by a very confused sheep, who butted in the door suddenly then took on an “oh shit, wrong bathroom” expression and quickly made its escape.
It didn’t take long for these friends to call us family. I don’t know when we’ll be able to break away. They’ve made it difficult.
Edit: we didn’t ride any horses. They did bring out their saddle though and insisted that we sit on it sans horse.
Image of Marnix on horse saddle
We decided we’d stay till lunch any way. Sebrand got to try his hand and sheering sheep while I got to feed this adorable lamb that has no mommy.
To fully grasp our experience, readers should know that while we’re cycling we mostly don’t talk to each other. One of us is usually ahead of the other and out of earshot, and besides we can’t keep a conversation going at all hours of the day, especially while we huff away for eight hours on our bikes. Most of the time, on those long difficult stretches where there’s not much to hear but the roaring of the wind and passing cars, I’m listening to music. Sometimes on quieter parts, usually at the start of the day when I’m not out of breath, I’m singing some old favorites, but mostly my iPod Classic is on and I’ve got my earbuds lashed in with my headband. Here’s what excites me when it comes on shuffle during parts of our adventure, in no particular order:
1) The Legend of Zelda Overworld music (particular the orchestrated version)
2) Gerudo Valley (also from Legend of Zelda, but deserves mention for being perfect desert music)
3) I Give Him Balance and He Gives Me Speed (from Kino’s Journey, the show that inspired us back in the day)
4) The Legend of Ashitaka (from the OST of Princess Mononoke, a film from the famed director Hayao Miyazaki)
5) Feeling Good (Nina Simone, always my favorite song)
6) Rock Anthem For Saving the World (from the first Halo game, came on during the last stretch to Zamiin Uud and gave me a much needed adrenaline boost)
7) Symphony No. 2 (Sibelius, those later movements can utterly change how you perceive a landscape)
8) I Can’t Make it Anymore (Richie Havens, for when I feel like bitching)
9) Always Look on the Bright Side of Life (Monty Python, for when I’m done bitching)
10) The Sunlit Earth, Prohibited Art, or the Prologue (from the OST of Shadow of the Colossus, a truly epic adventure game whose settings seemed inspired by Mongolia)
11) Ain’t Got No (Nina Simone, she keeps me positive when the going is rough)
12) Time in a Bottle (Jim Croce, one of the few songs Sebrand can play on guitar that I know the words to, so a common choice for singing)
13) Twilight (ELO)
14) Greenback Dollar (Kingston Trio, a classic road song)
15) I’m Tired/Where Am I (Savoy Brown, I wish the title matched the lyrics as well as it matched how I feel at the end of some days)
16) Speak Softly Love (Andy Williams, because sometimes you just need cheesy love songs)
17) Anything from Tchaikovsky, particularly the Nutcracker but also the Sixth Symphony can help change the mood
18) The Sorcerer’s Apprentice (Paul Dukas)
19) Firebird Suite (Igor Stravinsky)
20) the Mountaineer (Edvard Grieg)
21) Summertime (George Gershwin)
22) Star Wars OST (John Williams)
23) MacArthur Park (Vic Damone)
24) Fire Emblem theme
25) The Elder Scrolls IV: Skyrim OST
26) Lord of the Rings music
Video games have so many good songs for long journeys. But there’s plenty to draw from in other genres as well. Music can really help the longer hours pass, and if shuffle cooperates, it can occasionally set the right track and make a moment that much more memorable.
[embeded]http://v.youku.com/v_show/id_XMTI4MzY5NTUwOA==.html?sharefrom=iphone&from=singlemessage&isappinstalled=1&x[/embeded] Before the trip, after great effort, I was sad to discover that rear-mounted paniers weren’t possible on my bike. I was skeptical, but settled for the alternative orientation at the fore. Now, however, my doubts are lifted. Front-mounted gear is the only way to go for would-be desert travelers. It began in the worst […]
The wind is howling over our lodging tonight. It is our first night in China after successfully crossing the border (a story in its own right). But tonight, as mysterious rapping echoes through the dusty halls and truck horns moan on the nearby road, I want to explain where we are and how we got here.
From the collapsed sign out front, we deduced that we’re in an abandoned traffic police station.
There is still a brilliant red banner lined by gold to that effect in the main hall. Sebrand notes that it’s bizarrely clean for its musty surroundings: flaking ceilings, dust tracked floors, and moldy walls. The whole place smells of paint solvent and decayed plaster. We’re in the front office, windowed on all sides but the inner wall. There is a window to the entry hall that we opened to clear the air a little.
How did we get here? We biked for many miles out of Erenhot, still a part of the Gobi, but today uniquely windy and sunless. Dark clouds loomed. Fed up with the gusts, we pulled aside at a sandy lot, in front of a dim shop to which the stairs had been destroyed or never built. The lot looked like a construction area, but the tracks weren’t clearly from cars or from bulldozers. We might have thought the shop was closed if we weren’t so accustomed to these run down places sparing electricity. We climbed onto the patio and entered the shop, and, being inside, lost the heart to bear with the wind any longer. With hand motions we asked the old shopkeeper if we could set up our tent out front. At first he ignored us, but with some pleading, he beckoned us to follow. Out of the dirt he brought us next door to a locked gate, large and ornate like that of a manor, complete with gold trim and fresh red paint (noted from the paint stains we saw on the grass). In the courtyard there was a small tree and two dilapidated buildings. One looked like a residence and was a bit further.
We stayed in the closer one with the fallen police sign. One of the glass doors to the building had been shattered, though the shards had long been swept away. There were red paint splatters on the stairs surrounding a discarded kitchen kitchen knife, lying there ominously in front of the door.
With our bikes, we followed our shelterer, who bore a sweet but uncomfortable smile, through the shattered door, stepping through its empty frame. Inside was somber. Translucent plastic drapes, the kind you might see in a quarantine tent, separated the entry hall from the main hall. We pushed these aside to find the bright red banner underneath which we rested our bikes. The old man showed us to our office and left us on our own with a shy grin and a bow.
As I write this, it is dark. The wind still roars over the building and through the shattered front door, exciting the medical drapes to tap like footsteps in the entry hall. I keep expecting to see the man standing at the window we opened, but of course there’s no one there. Sounds I can’t identify pitter-patter through the walls. There are cameras at every high corner. Drips can be heard like the gnawing and salivating of an animal. Shadows of the pointed fence posts glide along the walls swiftly like rows of knives as cars hiss down the road. We hope for a good night’s sleep.
P. S.: We hid the knife. We felt maybe that it was too much of a Chekhov’s gun to be left where it was. That gave us some peace of mind.
It seems strange writing about Ulaanbaatar now. We’ve been on the road for days, and they’ve all meshed together. But let’s make this blog as complete a record of stops as possible. UB was our first. We arrived in a couple of Japanese Prius’s, which are the most abundant car in Mongolia. When I say Japanese, I mean complete with right-side steering wheel (even though Mongolians drive on the right), kanji menus, and sweet female Japanese voice speaking instructions to you that ostensibly no one in the car understands. Oh and these are pretty much the Mongolian taxi service by extension of the fact that every single driver on the road is a possible taxi service (Uber not necessary), and almost everyone drives a Prius. Or a Land Cruiser.
But enough about the horses we rode in on. Our guesthouse was in the courtyard of some apartment complex above some hidden-away offices. It didn’t look great. The entrance looked like the back-door to a dive bar. But go up the stairs and through the heavy door and it’s actually a pretty standard hostel. I’d solidly recommend UB Guesthouse to anyone visiting the city. Even though it’s said to be closed permanently on Google. It’s not closed. I don’t know what that’s about.
The mess across our beds was common place.
For the first two nights our bikes were stored on one of the many tiny terraces and on the third day we put our bikes together by the front door next to a small children’s park. The third night we locked our bikes up in the secure-enough stairway.
The garbage men took an interest in our bikes and, in the Mongolian fashion, physically examined the thing that drew their curiosity. Which was fine.
With rushing catharsis I’m pleased to declare that this trip is. Actually. Happening. Any of you incredulous heathen dirt beasts who didn’t believe in our abilities to get this thing together, to you I say, “Nyeeeeeh”, with the appropriate scornful flaring of the nostrils and lips. We’re gone. Actually there weren’t really any doubters. I don’t know who I’m writing this to. I’m sorry, I just wish there were skeptics I could sneer at to garnish my excitement and relief with sweet vindication. You all were far too supportive and kind.
Well, it could not have happened later, but our Chinese visas, the last unobtained prerequisites to the initiation of our plans, have arrived. The visas, as a going concern, are no longer as such. Their advent is secured. That is to say, we have them. Praise the sun. Never mind that we’re also leaving for the airport to Houston within the hour to face a possible tropical storm delay. A mere rough patch of weather cannot stop us. On the 18th, we’ll be in Ulaanbataar, sweltering in the sun on the steppe. Helen, you’re the best.
The day before yesterday, we got out bikes boxed and ready to be put on the airplane. The sheer size of them demands they be in 3 over-sized boxes, which will set each of us back $325 in luggage fees. Extra costs aren’t nice, but the bikes are coming with us. Nathan Roberson, our official cycling consultant, was absolutely invaluable in this.
(Edit: the people at check in on Louisville only charged us 100$ total for having 1 extra box.)
In other news! Last night we camped and used our stove:
It’s a very nice stove.And this morning we laid out all of our gear for you guys to see what we’re taking:
Two bikes, a whole bunch of essentials and a miniature guitar.I feel like I should have hidden Waldo in there somewhere. Hmm…. 5 points to anyone who spots the knife I’m not going to use for evil. This is it guys. Everything we’ll have for the next 106 days. This is what will keep us alive and happy. Wish us luck.
Biking Across China 