by Jeffrey Vonk
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For the first time in my life I go horseback riding. Straight into the hazing and not just a few hours but of couple of days! I confess that it does take some time to get used to having a stallion between your legs; that is, the horse, just to be clear. For instance, it is definitely not a car with the comfort of a steering wheel. However, I learn quickly and feel quite comfortable except for when we walk alongside steep cliffs. We start out with a group of six, consisting of three guides, a young couple from Austria and me. Although Austria is obscured in snow in the wintertime, the couple bail out in the evening, stating it is too cold for them. Yeah right, and they also landed on the moon in 1969. Not that I care, it just turned into a private tour for the same price. Towering evergreens on the hillside, crystal clear springs and naturally eroded ponds of bright aquamarine are scattered across the scenery. The view is nothing less than breathtaking. Late in the afternoon we arrive at a wooden shack that would be our home for the night. Before sunset clouds roll in and turn the dry day into a fairytale with the first flakes of snow. My versatile guides are preparing a hefty meal with big chunks of vegetables, stirring an iron cauldron with a twig. The cauldron rests above a menacing fire. Any responsible person would think that’s not the wisest thing to do in a wooden shack! It does make the interior cozy though.
Outside it is snowing considerably now, erasing our tracks. Before crawling into my sleeping bag I check on the horses outside. Wiping the snow off their backs I speak encouraging words, feeling sorry for them as they have to endure the cold. While doing so I unexpectedly come face to face with a herd of yaks. The longhaired cows silently march toward the pines to seek shelter beneath dense branches. With the absence of a shepherd, they could well be wild cattle.
On the last day of the three-day trip, I am still plucking icicles out of the horse’s hair. With my toes turned to stone this trip has taught me to never wear sneakers in areas with unpredictable weather. I would not want to have missed this opportunity, but stepping off to bring Shadowfax back to the stables, I sure don’t mind airing the family jewels again!
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Flight tickets from Chengdu to Lhasa are very cheap on purpose. Authorities will try everything for tourists to skip this extended patch of land. However, I have set my mind on doing just that: going overland to the capital of Tibet! What are they hiding there that we aren’t allowed to see? Chilling in a backpackers’ café, I am working on my travel plans, making notes in my organizer while chewing on the back of the pen a bit. Then something happens that will change the course of my life for the coming two months.
A haggard-looking guy with dark curls and dark shabby beard, carrying even more luggage than I have, stumbles into the café. There’s a foot of snow outside and this guy is wearing flip-flops, his jeans wet up to the knees. Out of all the tables around he joins mine as if it is preordained. That very morning he was kicked out of a park by the police, almost getting himself arrested for illegally pitching his tent. Shivering from mild hypothermia he inquires about my plans. I indulge his curiosity by laying out my plan for making long-held dreams come true: I intended to buy a motorcycle to drive to the capital of a people with an abundantly rich and ancient legacy; through the forbidden lands of mystical Tibet.
His reaction unleashes an adventure which I can only hope they make into a film one day. He yells: “Dude that’s wicked. I’m with you!”, spattering his saliva around while his eyes almost double in size. Oddly enough, this stranger and I have been sharing pretty much the same dream. The chance to realize this impossible goal is now closer than ever. This is how I met Steve from Canada.
We travel back to Chengdu on Good Friday in the rain. I return to the hostel I was staying at before, where half of my luggage is stored. At night in the inner court I run into a familiar face. It is a man that I met before in Beijing where we had a brief conversation. We chat away about interim travels when all of a sudden he tells me he had this crazy experience. As he skittishly looks around he confesses, “When I was visiting the Forbidden City I was invited to go for a cup of tea by two students from Xian…”
On Easter Monday Steve and I find ourselves on the backseat of a police car. In order to understand why we ended up there, we need to backtrack a little. You see, my international driver’s license is valid in almost the whole world, except for China. Therefore, obtaining a counterfeit license became a genuine option. I mean, they copy everything you can imagine. What manufactured product nowadays does not read Made in China, right? After reconsidering, we decided to gain a legitimate license, but how in the world does one acquire a Chinese license as fast as possible? Needless to say, I was not planning in taking any lessons, if they even let me have them in the first place, being a foreigner. On a quest for some clarification on what to do, a taxi brings us to a police station where we find dumb faces instead of answers. They seem to be more interested in the bucket of ice-cream they are sharing instead of helping us out. Going from station to station, we understand there are a few strings attached. Still, we are willing to follow instructions, thus ending up in the police car. Officers are kind enough to give us a ride to the traffic center. Upon arrival we were appalled by billboards of graphic traffic accidents. Is seeing ripped-apart bodies underneath blood-smeared truck tires really beneficial to anyone?
Don’t ask me how but we convince the workers at the traffic center that our current licenses include driving motorcycles, which it does not. Well played! It saves us a practical test! Nevertheless, we still need to do a theoretical test and many days of frustration follow. While passport photos and copies of ID are easily dealt with, our papers must be filled out by the police, which is a real pain in the ass. So again, we go from station to station until we finally reach the right one. All the while hardly anyone speaks English. Luckily, we receive help from the owner of the Dragon Town hostel and The Loft. This man definitely deserves credit for his patience and kindness – a trait I found uncommon in many Chinese (not generalizing a billion people). We are thankful but not done yet as a physical examination still awaits at the hospital. Arriving at five past noon we learn that the doors are closed for the next couple of hours. The only thing you can do in such a situation is wait, and once more, our patience is put to the test. By the time nurses are ready to receive us about thirty men push their way in and cut the line, or rather the absence of it. Everyone elbows his or her way through. Just when we think this is not going to work we run into a resident who speaks perfect English. For reasons unknown, he offers to help, and that is exactly what he does. We go from room to room because the doctors refuse to help us until a man in a casual outfit gives us all the right papers, for a modest donation. Long live the bureaucracy! Now we have everything to start our test.
Our enthusiasm drains as time goes by, day upon day we fail our test. It is obvious that the regime is playing tricks on us and I am sure they intentionally let us fail. Options to get our license legally diminish, so desperate times call for desperate measures.
My new Canadian friend got hold of a business card from a certain Mister Lee – apparently the guy who can get things done. We make some calls and discuss if we should meet up, which we do the next day somewhere downtown, or as some poorly translated signs read, towndown. We dress nicely for the occasion. Mister Lee looks a bit nerdy and wears a shoulder bag with a printed hammer and sickle. Just coming from Russia myself, I ask if he bought the bag over there but he replies “No I didn’t”, and without turning his head he continues his motivation with: “It is communism on the outside yet all capitalism on the inside!” Steve looks at me with fear in his eyes. Now we know we are dealing with a serious motherfucker, so to speak. What have we gotten ourselves into?
Because we are not entirely sure about the situation we decide that it would be better to be up-front about everything, so we tell him our plans. Awaiting our drinks in a fancy restaurant he arranges a meeting with someone whom he thinks can help us, a certain Mister Tang. Clueless of what to expec
t our nerves become tenser until the moment he arrives. An ever increasing rumbling of engines draw near.
We cannot believe our eyes when three individuals drive their dirt bikes straight into the restaurant! Parking in between tables and chairs, anxious employees haste to provide food and drinks. This has to be a notorious Mob gang. As we begin to introduce ourselves to one another we try to stay as calm as possible. True colors are hard to hide, and we are sweating profusely out of places we didn’t even know we could sweat from. English not being the strongest skill of our newcomer, we have our representative as interpreter. Long story short, they advise us to return to the traffic center and go by the book. The authorities already know us, so if they catch us with counterfeit material we face certain jail time and that’s a risk we’re not willing to take. However, things get interesting when they assure us that tomorrow we will have our licenses. Who are these people?
Reappearing at the traffic center, a man riding a rickshaw laughs in our faces, he sees us every day so he knows we are repeatedly failing the test. Entering the huge examination room there are about three hundred participants. It’s basically endless rows of tables in a hangar-like building. As usual we sit all the way at the front on the right-hand side, close to the entrance, but this time two other white guys are placed next to us. They let us know they failed even more times than we did so far; it seems that the regime is not particularly fond of westerners, or am I saying something unreasonable here? Unlike the previous times we are not allowed to discuss anything; in fact, we have to hold our tongues. Upon inquiry, the guards let us know that the Press is also present. Now that’s what I call a curious matter. In the middle of taking our test a green light appears on Steve’s screen and moments later on my own. We passed the test! What this really means is that our journey can begin. When the realization of having passed our test kicks in I can’t hold my emotions any longer. Bursting from joy I slide my chair back, jump up with raised arms and yell a long and loud “Yes!”
At that very moment the unthinkable happens. The Press breaks through the doors, pushing several guards aside. All the while exams of the others are in full swing and officers present are trying to keep the commotion down. Steve and I are in full screen on the CCTV cameras. I receive a high-speed interview, followed by the anchor telling the camera how easy it is for foreigners to get their driver license in China! Can you believe it? The two white guys next to us are completely ignored and have no idea what’s going on. Yet neither do we, everything happens in a rush. Thirty minutes later, we stand outside with our brand new semi-legal winnings. We are still flabbergasted when we call Mister Lee to show our gratitude. Of course, as his phone is probably tapped he pretends to know nothing about what happened at the traffic center. Although the tone of his voice reveals a slight pitch higher to the trained ear, thus confirming that he is the brain behind all of this. Even if no one claims the honor, this certainly made our day. I shall never forget it.
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New licenses mean new motorcycles. The next day we hook up with Mister Tang, leader of the syndicate. By now, they have grown in number, as we notice when they pick us up. On the back of their motorcycles we are taken to Mister Tang’s house. In front of his impoverished apartment, with spray paint on one wall, lies a concrete courtyard. Here and there grass grows out from the cracks – this neighborhood is dusty and dirty. Laundry hangs to dry on dilapidated balconies. Mister Tang urges us to take a drive on his bike, wanting to put us to the test. What he doesn’t know is that neither of us ever drove before! Luckily, I know how to shift gear. Well, to be fair I do not, but I guess it must be the same as with an ATV. When I was still working as an outdoor sports instructor we took groups to Belgium to drive in the woods with ATVs. That is the only reference I had, and it turns out that it works exactly the same, thus saving our asses. This does not stop Tang arrogantly looking at my clumsiness and shaking his head.
After this embarrassing display we drive to an industrial area. Chaotic as it may be, motorcycles litter the surplus of low-rise warehouses, as well as repair services, more than you could dream of, not an inch is left untouched. My preference goes out to a tough Chopper. However, a strong dirt bike is highly recommended because of its excellent wheel suspension suitable for the impassable and dangerous roads to come. None other than Mister Tang himself is an expert on this. He is the first man ever to drive from Chengdu to Lhasa. Yes, he had connections and had a sponsor, which meant that a van with spare parts was driving along with him the whole way. Still, for now he is the man! Now we understand why the rest of the gang respects him as they do. We search and test bikes for half a day until we make our choice. Never before have I heard anything about the brand Jialing, but I could not care less. Converted for seven hundred US dollars each we purchase brand new dirt bikes! One in blue, the other in red. They come in cardboard boxes and mechanics assemble them in front of our eyes, we are pinching one another to see if it is all real. On account of us being foreigners no one wants to sell us insurance, meaning we have to go about without license plates. The beautiful thing about China is: nobody cares! Splendid. We collect all essentials and some funky full-face helmets.
To show our appreciation to our collaborators we invite them for lunch at a mediocre restaurant. They serve the same shit everywhere anyway. Mister Lee translates a question for his nebulous associate, asking what kind of bikes we drive at home, leaving Steve and I looking at each other with frowned eyebrows. I reluctantly reply that we do not have a bike and come clean that Tang’s motorcycle is the first we ever drove. Hearing these words Mister Tang jumps out from his seat, his black beady eyes sparkling from excitement. He yells in poor English with a thick accent: “What? You want to drive to Tibet this way? You are fucking crazy!’’ Slapping his hand on his bald head, roaring with laughter. From that moment on he lets go of his attitude and is the friendliest man alive. He was initially looking down on us because he thought we were horrible bikers. Now that he knows we are two complete idiots about to embark on the impossible, he gives us mass respect. He consults on what tools to bring and all the ins and outs regarding motorcycle care. Since they are the only ones able to give us a hard time we pay them for their services, still just a nickel and dime in our own currencies. Saying goodbye never felt so good. Now we are free to go wherever we desire.
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Our last week in the heart of Chengdu doesn’t pass without a struggle, but, overall, we collect wonderful memories. In fact, we move from one thing to the next. For instance, we plant actual trees in the city and enjoy tasty street barbecues, without getting diarrhea. In the marketplace, we find big tubs filled with huge frogs, almost as big as a football – definitely skipping those. Furthermore, they sell pineapple on a stick for nothing, as well as delicious soya snacks and dried fruits. These dried fruits come in a plastic wrapper with the ingredients in both Chinese and English. They often translate things wrong but this one takes the cake. Apparently, dried strips of peach are sweet potato fucks. You can’t make this up.
Another cool thing is that we are invited by a photographer who was working on a big art project. We have to stand on top of a skyscraper dressed in camouflaged army uniforms with Kalashnikovs in our hands. Guns, grenades, sandbags, fake blood, the whole nine yards. It is somewhat of an honor to participate. As a way to say thank you he takes us to a posh restaurant afterwards. It’s kind of a shame that all those gorgeous female models aren’t joining. Flirting with one of his cute daughters makes up for it though. Unfortunately, we never got to see the results, but apparently, our dumb faces were exhibited in some Asian museum.
Our hostel in town permanently houses a German beauty who got knocked up by her Tibetan boyfriend, who visits whenever he can. Things are hard for them as he spends a lot of time in prison for the silliest of reasons, receiving blow after blow.
Hearing his heartbreaking story he is undoubtedly innocent, yet corrupt jurisdiction sure knows how to find this guy. Having escaped to Chengdu he is saf
e for the moment. But doing something as simple as shopping for groceries always leaves him watching his back. He teaches a lot about political issues and the dirty games the Chinese government is playing on the suppressed Tibetan people. Let us not forget their lands were confiscated in cold blood and are still occupied today. While the whole world monitors the Middle Eastern conflict, and seems to have an opinion about that matter, no one bats an eye to the largest Buddhist genocide, and it is grossly ignored.
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It is not easy to leave the only place in the world where I am registered with an address. Back home I didn’t even have a mailbox or anything, while here, legislation concerning my driver’s license forced me to register. In any case I am spared from the horrendous earthquake that would befall this city two years later with an ungraspable number of nearly 70,000 deaths and nearly 20,000 missing. New friendships here became closer than expected. Some give us gifts in the form of Buddhist relics. Others, like the owner of the hostel, give us T-shirts with printed logos from their businesses. He has done so much for us – we wear them gladly. Staff also write encouragements on our new T-shirts with a black marker, and even the cleaning ladies do not let this chance slip by. This special occasion almost moves me to tears. Tibetan friends place a Khata, a white silk scarf around our necks and bid us Tashi Delek which means good luck; such kind gestures. This small ceremony is performed when, inter alia, dear ones are departing. The free helmets we got when buying our bikes are placed on the wall in the lobby, with our names and signatures written on them. For a moment we feel like true heroes and our journey did not even begin yet.