Breaking Free

by Jeffrey Vonk

  Time to get some cash before we start the engines. It’s approximately a thousand miles to the next big city and another thousand to Lhasa, so we’d better get organized. On the way to the Bank of China, groups of bystanders are being interviewed by a camera crew. We ignore them. I stick my card in the ATM and at that very moment you could hear a pin drop. I turn around to see what was causing the silence, and then I notice everyone watching me, including the camera crew. Seconds later it becomes clear that the machine swallowed my card. Apparently, the exact same thing happened to the group complaining on the street. Gee, thanks for the heads up!

  According to my receipt money had been drawn but I wonder whether it is gone or will return automatically to my account. With new customers lining up I prevent further calamity by writing DEFECT on my receipt and stick it to the screen with used chewing gum. I cannot help but wonder if I am either very smart or others just plain dumb. Two passing police officers stop to see what the fuss is all about but they ignore my demand for help. Arriving colleagues follow their example, they simply watch while holding their peace. By now, I am losing it and my furious behavior kicks some dents in the aluminum shutter. Standing in the starting block I just want my debit card back, so in frustration I call the owner of the bank in a telephone booth, having successfully wormed out his private telephone number. To the amazement of the police the owner shows up twenty minutes later with the key already in his hand. Due to the new dents, the shutter only opens halfway. The good news is that everyone sees his or her card returned, while receiving the promise that money will be automatically transferred to where it came from.

  All this time the cameras have been recording the escalation, unknowingly morphing the situation into epic proportions. When the camera crew draws near for a close-up, the anchor puts her microphone close to my mouth. She then asks me what I think about the bank. In the last hour of my time in the city I immortalize myself. For an exclusive coverage of CCTV I look straight into the camera, raise my middle finger and yell: “Fuck the bank!” Months later it turns out the money did not go back into my account. So I guess I’m the one that got fucked over after all. Well, let them keep it. Perhaps they can fix the shutter I battered.

  * * *

  Start buttons feel the pressure, spark plugs conduct power, engines start running and the exhaust pipes begin to shake. With a group of waving hands that will be sorely missed, our adventure kicks off. Fully packed I have to admit that we are a riding carnival attraction. No matter whom we pass, my mirrors reveal every head turning. These latest models of Jialing draw a lot of attention. New to driving dirt bikes my scrotum is not amused; I assure my travel buddy that I will no longer be able to have kids. Road maps that are not to scale and the absence of traffic signs force us to pause often enough, which is a relief. Occasionally strangers show us the way. Some of them warn us not to stay out at night in this area as local bandits smell tourist wealth from miles away. Due to these serious warnings, we spend our first night in a seedy hotel.

  Our iron horses are locked away in the garage, saving a lot of time packing in the morning. With the consultations of Mister Tang fresh in our minds we regularly change our oil. Through misty tropical hills, the winding road is getting worse by the hour. Landscapes change from light green rice paddies to valleys with wild rocky rivers, with an insanely strong current. By nightfall, we still hadn’t found a suitable spot to set up tent. Pavement has turned its back on us already and driving on these dirt roads in the dark is not exactly our hobby. Passing a slim patch of flatland, possibly the only suitable place around, we cut the cord. Sometimes you have to improvise and sometimes you have to play with the cards you are dealt with; for tonight that means we will be camping along the roadside. At night, the ground literally shakes when lorries drive by, not to mention the noise. Maybe next time we should not roll out the sleeping bags three yards from the traffic.

  As the journey continues, I notice I’m going at snail’s pace while Steve’s motorcycle has plenty of power. After intense examination I find out the break is constantly on due to a misplaced jackscrew. According to Steve that explains why my back light was suspiciously bright. “Would you mind notifying me just a little bit sooner next time?” I say sarcastically, yet in a humorous way. This and other incidents are the harbinger of much more mechanical misfortune to come.

  Our third day has a small miracle in store. The hard rain pouring from the heavens makes visibility close to non-existent. Hilly dirt roads in the jungle have turned into sludge, making them hazardous. The absence of a guardrail is not helping our cause either. We want to save money by sleeping in the tent instead of hotels, but today that’s simply impossible. Relentless downpour has us soaked to our panties and covered in mud.

  When we spot a hotel – the only hotel in the whole wide area as a matter of fact – we take shelter beneath its entrance. The girl of the front desk receives us, and so the bargaining begins. Having gained experience we round it off at a staggering three US dollars a night per person. Is that a business deal or what? Because we are the only guests, we can even park our motorcycles in the lobby. Furthermore, they serve the best lemon-chicken I have possibly ever eaten, and if that isn’t enough, by accident we learn we’re actually at a location that millions of people covet, known from TV, the world-renowned Panda Research Center in Wolan! Pretty much the only place on earth where they legally breed and survey the animals. Had it not been for that rainstorm we would never have known we passed it.

  Except for some scattered branches at daybreak, there are no traces of the heavy storm from yesterday. While underway it’s noticeable that we are closing in on Tibetan territory. Styles of houses change as well as people’s faces and their type of clothing. You have to realize how special this is to us, in a time where no one had heard of YouTube yet, having been launched only a year prior to this. Driving southwest it would be sensible to take Route 318; this is the conventional way to the peaceful nation of the monks. It’s nicknamed the Friendship Highway, for the simple fact that it is the most travelled route. Via Route 317 there is little chance you’ll find aid in case of need, that is if you find a living soul in the first place. That’s pretty much all that is known about this northern route, but with hearts of explorers beating in our chests we choose this one, aware of the risks involved. Or so we think.

  Going from Xiaojin to Danba we pull over to orientate ourselves. You see, this was well before the age of further developed digital navigation – all we had were road maps and a compass. A man dragging along a donkey shows us the way when we ask for directions. People of this village may have the best soya snacks around, they certainly do not have a sense of direction. Reaching Gouza, close to Kanding, we conclude that the man was just as smart as the animal he was dragging along. We need to make a detour for a few good hours to Xingduqiuo. Realizing this takes us close to Route 318 we begin to wonder if we didn’t prematurely judge the talking donkey, perhaps he sent us here on purpose, knowing it would be better for us.

  Sometimes we are blessed with pavement, sometimes cursed with sand, and at other times there is gravel, yet always there is an unbelievable amount of dust. My scarf is thoroughly congested with large dust particles, grinding in between teeth and whenever I blow my nose a black goo comes out. Yet we press on. It is heartbreaking to see kids running up the road with hands outstretched begging for money. Ferocious stray dogs are also running up the road but we kick them away to protect ourselves.

  Passing the villages of Tagong and Bamei the hills and meadows are green with infinite views. Never before have I seen such awe-inspiring horizons, capable of stretching across such a vast landscape. It is humbling to see how big of a marvellous world we live in. Many years from now I would still enjoy the impression it had left on me. In fact, it is here where I learn how small we are as humans, yet not insignificant. Just before we reach Dawu, mountain slopes are covered in either kaleidoscopic flags or herds of yaks.

  We set up camp to save ourselves from th
e treacherous dark. Having gained much ground in altitude, nights are well below zero degrees. Close-by peaks of the Himalaya range are ready to welcome us. Ice cold streams coming from the slopes are good for fresh drinking water but also for washing our faces, doing the dishes, and for water to boil our supper on cheap camping stoves. During comforting bonfires we eat and enjoy good conversations about God, or no God, women, and issues in our families.

  Morning rays are the signal to zip open the tent, and discover a cloudless day with bald eagles circling above. As the sun rises, the earth slowly warms up. Heavy frost has turned our tents white. After breakfast Steve takes a dump across the river while I enjoy the newly-lit fire. I look up as an angel appears from the bushes. It’s a young woman, clothed in robes of her tribal heritage and wearing decorative pieces and colorful barrettes in her hair. We stare at each other while she places herself right next to me, not saying a word. I’m sitting face to face with her big black eyes with that typical Asian squint, sculpted cheekbones and flawless hazel skin, elegantly joined by a pink blush. A gentle smile follows. I am lost in her gaze and short of breath when our hands touch. The ceremony only lasts a few minutes before she gets up and vanishes into the nothingness she came from. It ignites a flame of continuing interest in the inspiring culture and nature around. She barely left when Steve returns and finds me with a mysterious glow of inner piece on my face. To this day I do not think he believes my encounter actually took place.

  Later that day something else happens that I can hardly believe. Riding into the village of Luhuo Steve appears to have a high fever. Because he’s not in a state to drive he strolls into a hotel to ask for help. While I watch over the bikes, I notice him from a distance getting into a car with another man. Without a word, they take off and I am left standing there with a question mark above my head. Observing my surroundings, I watch cows freely roam about, eating whatever they can find. Polluted streets serve rotting food and even a newspaper. They do not seem bothered by the bad menu. A small group of squatted individuals are checking out the engines while others, somewhat resentfully, point out my quality hiking boots.

  Six hours pass and still I haven’t got a clue what’s going on. Surely, I can’t leave our stuff unattended, but my worries surpass my patience. Carefully keeping an eye on our belongings, my investigation begins. Asking around for an hour provides the winning answer. An old man sitting on a bench guides me in the direction of a door of a carriage house. Wavering I grab the rusty handle and cautiously open the squeaking door. To my surprise I see my friend on a bed, in a deep sleep with his clothes still on and his head pressed in the pillow as if he is trying to end his life. It is not a spacious room, yet large enough to park the still fully equipped motorcycles between the beds, which I do on the advice from the owner of the carriage house for safety purposes. The sound of the engines causes Steve to awake from his coma, which he falls straight back into after a brief moment of recognition. Having endured a night among heavy petrol fumes it turns out that our friend was in the hospital for a while, and got knocked out by all the medication. Still not knowing what caused the attack he recovers remarkably quickly.

  Our last day in the Peoples Republic of China draws closer. Multicolored prayer banners are flapping a welcoming “Hello!” This route has many roads above 5,000 meters, which allows for amazing views as well as headaches and lightheadedness. The surrounding snow is the purest of white. We are wearing double pairs of gloves and pretty much all of the clothing our backpacks have to offer. Obviously, this is where traveling differs from going on holiday. Horrible roads and sharp winds are one thing, driving uphill in second gear only is very frustrating. Thin air at these altitudes just do not provide enough power for the engines. As our journey becomes more intense, our bodyweight reduces hand in hand with the temperature. It takes determination to stay sane. Still I wouldn't want to miss this for the world. A camera duct taped to my handlebar records the harsh conditions. Unsecured steep cliffs, slippery rocks, icy gravel roads and sandy dirt tracks are what we’re fighting against. It’s a slight comfort that we are not the only ones; semi-truck drivers are facing a similar penury. When passing one another we respectfully wave and smile, as a way to carry the burden together. It’s like letting the other one know you understand what he is going through.

  Swiftly we transform from clumsy loons to experienced drivers, like taking a crash course. Although one of us takes that a little too literally. Right before I disappear behind a cliff in a curve I check my mirror, only to see my friend sliding over the ever-precarious road. Hastily I return, even quick enough to help him get out from under his motorcycle. Except for disheveled clothes and some bruises he is doing okay. Never get overconfident, this is a lesson well learned. A local Good Samaritan rushes from his nearby hut to aid. With a wet back and iron rod he bends crooked parts back to their original position. After I adjust some mechanical parts we are again, good to go.

  Wherever we make a stop to purchase food or go to the bathroom, we are surrounded by interested parties in no time. Taking a picture here or stopping at a gas station there, they flock about in large quantities. In that sense, nothing has changed since we started – still the riding carnival attraction. Judging from their smiles, locals are of a loving nature and genuinely interested. How nice would it be to talk to these people and get to know their thoughts? Surely, we would have participated in a game of pool, as no other country in the world has so many outdoor pool tables. Indeed, a great help against boredom and unemployment too. As of yet verbal communication is impossible – no one speaks even one word of English. So far, we are well received everywhere.

  Unfortunately, we can’t say the same about where we’re heading. Tales of tourists going missing and becoming imprisoned are abundant. We don’t have a permit to enter Tibet, nor do we know the exact location of its border. However, as time passes along something appears that might resemble one. Militarized watchtowers on either side of the road, shadowed by a red arch above it. According to our crumpled road map it should be here somewhere.

  About a hundred meters in front of the possible border we discuss our options with engines running. The fact that no other vehicles appear to be present in the area greatly increases our chances. From this point on it’s uncertain if there are any soldiers in the towers or anyone in wait. Being so close to my long-held dream to enter Tibet I decide to take the initiative and yell: “Follow me!” Engines roaring, I spurt away at full throttle, followed by the Canadian. Abdominal muscles tense up while I hold my breath. From the corner of my eye I detect the left watchtower manned, and filled with anxiety I check my mirror to see if they open fire. So far so good. Riding as fast as we can for a couple of miles we pull over, leaving a trail of dust behind us. By not being chased down or blown to pieces, it dawns on us that we are writing history, because, as of yet, it is undocumented whether anyone else has managed to do this before. Overjoyed at our accomplishment we celebrate our successful journey. It is hard to believe that we really made it to these raw forbidden lands, hidden from the public. Our hearts overflow with solemnness.

  It is a peculiar thing to feel so at home in a place you’ve never been before. With the absence of a permit nor any official authorization, this is how we enter into Tibet, a sacred country, known and admired since ancient times as the Roof of the World.

  4

  Tibet

  For some reason the majority of people picture Tibet as a place with rocks, snow and ice, and not much else. This cannot be further from the truth. Perpetual flatlands, solid pine forests, green rice fields and barren deserts, you name it. Everything is here and it is nothing less than breathtaking.

  Close to Jomda one can’t help but notice the paradox of the beautiful nature. Concrete and steel is going through the roof, humongous ugly construction sites wherever you place your eye. They are building tunnels and dams as if it were paper-mâché. Also hundreds of miles of roadwork. Just what is going on here? All this time the amount of asphyxiatin
g dust in the air has not diminished, it is simply inexpressible if you have not experienced it for yourself. Disarrayed, we long for a shower, it is not exactly an excessive luxury given we have not bathed for a week. Tonight’s place to crash also denies us the opportunity. Yet we cannot complain; we get a room with two beds for ten yuan, which is but one US dollar. Surrounded by poverty it feels awkward at times to spend without limit. In spite of the low prices we are almost out of cash.

  Riding into the city of Qamdo, also known as Chamdo, which to our limited knowledge is being pronounced as Changdu, we drove our first thousand miles and just spent our last pennies on a tasteless meal and gasoline. Then the hunt for a much-desired ATM starts. Local banks, nameless banks, the Agricultural Bank, we spot all of them. We visited a total of seven in this fifth largest city and no Bank of China. Steve has Canadian dollars and Traveller Cheques, I have euros and US dollars. When none of the banks are willing to exchange our money a rare occurrence takes place that could have ended a lot worse. We are relatively young and haven’t yet learned to control ourselves.

  The idea of not having any money makes our already frustrated minds totally desperate. So we snap. My friend kicks the front desk shouting: “What kind of bank are you? Change the goddamn money!” While I am discussing options with the manager, the employees call headquarters to see if they are allowed to provide a onetime exception. We find out that during this first week of May, the country has a national holiday. Nobody answers the phone in Beijing, so no exceptions are granted. Now patience has left the building. We refuse to leave without being served, even as the last customers close the door behind them and guards already lower the shutters. We do not have any elaborate plans, but the next step comes so in sync that it seems we can just read each other’s minds.