by Danny Bent
Whilst I lay there waiting for sleep, I couldn’t help thinking about religion. I went over and over the events that led me to embarking on this trip. I was beginning to feel some belief, belief in the universe. When I was having trouble with my Russian visa, I bumped into someone who worked for the embassy on the underground in London. When I was questioning my ability, a stranger would speak of the positivity which enveloped me. If someone is trying to do something that can change the world for the better, then perhaps the world conspires to help them in the same way as a humane being would encourage something that makes us feel good and reject something that makes us feel bad. Is the universe a single being that evolves? Is this God?
* * *
Spokoinoi nochi rarely means goodnight in the Stans and here was no exception. I was fortunate enough to have these three men as my room companions.
A couple of hours after I’d left them, they stumbled in. One collapsed half-on half-off his bed and started snoring. The louder of the three went next door with a prostitute (I know because their bed was next door to mine, only separated by a thin wooden wall). The third came to much the same conclusion but without the help of another. Good Muslims, huh? I'll have to re-read the Koran. I’m sure my Year 3 kids had a better understanding of its interpretation than these three.
The next morning, a turning over in my stomach was the only thing that could get me out of bed. It was freezing and I had three blankets and a duvet on top of me. I went to the outdoor loo. It’s probably appropriate to warn you that all toilets are going to be outdoors from now on. Without the sanitary levels of the West, it just wouldn’t be possible to have them indoors. This one was particularly ornate. Have you ever created sand castles by dribbling the sand between your fingers to form turrets and spires? This toilet had equally impressive compositions but they were all made out of poo, all round the sides of the hole in the floor, all over the piping systems. These people needed some intensive target practice.
On the road, the switchbacks started. Switchbacks occur when the mountain is too steep for the road and the road has to wind up it by going from side to side. Stopping to catch my breath, curse and shiver, I shimmied up the mountain. At 4,300 metres the air was so thin I was gasping for each breath. The snow was deep on either side of the road, my water bottle had frozen solid, I had frost on my gloves and needed my Buff to protect my face.
Disaster struck.
The rack holding my front panniers snapped and they fell off. I tried to fasten them back onto my bike with a spare bungee chord. My arms and hands shook uncontrollably. Each time I nearly had them fastened, a violent shiver would knock them back to the floor. I was getting colder and colder. Exhaustion sets in fast when you have no air to breath and I was beginning to get the feeling that I wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep for what would have been eternity (the first sign of hypothermia). Finally the chord pulled tight and the panniers were on, although my bike was out of balance with the right pannier pulling me towards the edge of the road and the steep run off.
It’s hard to push yourself to raise your body heat on a descent and especially one where the road is covered with snow and ice, and I could see that for miles there was nothing but snow, ice and rock. Suddenly, in the middle of a rocky outcrop, I came across a metal shack where a family lived in a single room. It was here that I tasted my first goat soup. It was revolting but I gulped down the whole lot and asked for more. A fire kept this tin home like an oven.
I was assured by the owner that this was a café. The only thing confirming this fact was the gaudy food poster I’d seen in every café since my arrival in Asia. The fruits were so bright they hurt your eyes and, more often than not, there were mistakes to be found where a computer had been used to edit the picture.
Abandoning the warmth, I continued my descent until the white Pamir mountain range came into view in the distance and I reached Saritash.
* * *
A crossroad for travellers, businessmen and traders, you’d think Saritash would be a hive of activity with vendors fighting for business, with bright signs, smart buildings and an array of over-enthusiastic people wanting to take your money off you.
None of that could be seen. It was deathly quiet. Not a soul moved.
My first job was to find somewhere where I could operate on Shirley. One of the rails on her seat had snapped as well. Searching high and low, I eventually found a mechanic working from his own home who would help me. He looked Shirley over and told me to come and pick her up tomorrow. It was a strange feeling. We’d been together non-stop for the entire journey and I was loath to leave her overnight. But I was just being silly; she’d be safe there.
As I wondered past later in the day, I popped in to see how she was doing. She was being screwed, banged, nailed and poked with a red hot iron. I had to turn away.
As I wandered through this desolate village, I met Daniel who had passed me on the other side of the mountain. He made faces at the pain I was experiencing that day, but then invited me into his home to meet his family and share some dinner.
As I saw when I approached it, Saritash is a village overlooked by the towering Pameer mountains. Thousands of people come here each year to travel the length of the Pameer highway. At the place where I was staying alone, there were seven bicycles all belonging to people who wanted to cycle to China and who had no desire to stay in Saritash. Why weren’t people making the most of the tourists’ dollars? For me it was great. The locals were accustomed to seeing tourists but there were no other tourists around so I simply relaxed and waited for Shirley to be ready and to hear word from the travellers passing in the other direction that the Chinese border had been reopened.
Rumour had it that it had been closed indefinitely while the Chinese government dealt with uprisings and protests over the communist occupation and suppression of Tibet and Xing Jiang province.
The season was coming to an end. It wouldn’t be long before all the roads were closed due to snow fall. I was just hoping they’d hold out till I got through.
I went to the only café (read: a house that served food to tourists) that remained in business. As soon as I opened the door, the warmth hit me. Beckoned inside, I was shown a small room with a low table. Straw mats were rolled out for me to sit on. This room, like all others I’d seen so far in Saritash, had a primitive and extremely dangerous heating system made from a length of wire wrapped round a section of concrete sewage piping, with each end of the wire being poked into the plug socket. The wires glowed red and radiated heat, but if you were to touch it you would be toast.
A delicious serving of goat, bread and tea was brought out. I was more than happy with this, but there was one snag: the wrinkled woman serving me the food couldn’t break the flat bread in two. I offered to help, but she was determined. She scuttled back to the kitchen and came out with a bread knife. Sawing at the bread, she was making very little impact on it. Saying “OK, OK,” I took the knife from her but couldn't break the stale bread either, however hard I tried. I resorted to attempting to dip it into my chai to soften it, but the circular bread was too big. So, with all my might, I hit it on the corner of the table, breaking it in two and reducing it to a decent size to dip into the chai to soften it and make it swallowable.
Afterwards, spending as little time in the cold night air as possible, I dashed back to my hostel room where there was a heater which made an ominous humming noise when it was on, and which was therefore too dangerous to sleep with. Unfortunately it was also too cold to sleep without it, so I was left with the choice of not sleeping for fear of being burnt alive or electrocuted, or of not sleeping for the cold.
For two days my routine was the same: rest, break bread, eat, drink chai (with soggy bread at bottom), rest and repeat.
Matt arrived on the third day. He’d heard the Chinese were considering opening their border in a few days and thought he might as well be one of the first through. He suggested I go with him. I deliberated for a bit before deciding I migh
t as well as it had to be safer with two people, even if one of you is very skinny and totally unprepared, so we started making plans to get to China.
Putting our differences aside, and picking up Shirley who wasn’t looking too happy after spending two days in a shed, we set off along the plains that led to the Pameers, well stocked with food and drink. The land was as flat as a pancake until it hit the mountains where it rocketed into the air with jagged snow-covered precision.
We passed the time singing, making jokes and taking pictures of each other (it’s one of the setbacks of the lone cyclist that you never get pictures of yourself). We then ascended into the Pameer range and my newly-welded pannier fell off again. Matt happened to be a bit of an amateur engineer and managed to fix it back on pretty sturdily. The going was steady and the ratios on Matt's bike weren’t really up to these sorts of hills, so I told him to grab the lock that hung off my rear panniers and I towed him up the hills.
Higher and higher we rose, crossing the snow line. The snow would gather around our brakes and gears, making the going tough. Every so often there would be ice beneath the snow and Matt and I would hit it side-by-side and end up falling and sliding like synchronized divers. Lying on the floor laughing our heads off, we’d get back up and carry on only for the same thing to happen again. What else could we do? If we weren’t laughing we’d have been crying.
A bit later it was my first opportunity to use my teapot. Matt’s’ rear derailleur had snapped, meaning he couldn’t change gears any more. He soon had his bike in bits working out how to fix the problem, tinkering with this and that. Chipping away at the ice and snow that had gathered on his bike, he had to remove his gloves which, in these surroundings, was terrible. Matt had laughed when he first saw my teapot hanging off my bike but he was happy to share the brew now. His hands were shaking but he was able to summon the concentration he needed to make his bike ridable again. My romantic idea of sharing my tea with locals hadn’t come true, but it still felt great to be sharing it with Matt. I think we’d bonded in adversity, struggling together to get to the top of the mountains, to pass the impassable by bicycle. All that was left was the easy bit - getting down. Or so we thought.
* * *
The roads down were treacherous. Cliff faces lined the sides and the road was made of gravel at best, rocks and potholes at worst. Ice and snow congregated in shaded areas. Our brakes were beginning to wear through and the bumping and jumping were testing our bikes to the max.
As we flew down a totally unmade road, fortune was again against us. My other front pannier rack snapped and the pannier fell off. This time it got stuck in my front wheel, breaking spokes and stopping the bike in its tracks. As you can imagine, going from 30 mph to 0 mph within a very short space of time catapulted me over the handle bars; landing me at the boots of a police officer who demanded “Passport” before my bike had quite finished somersaulting before landing on me.
As Matt checked into the check point, I ran off to the surrounding houses and found an old woman who was willing to have us stay the night. She’d made a massive pot of meat and potatoes for her and her husband and we were invited to have some. The potatoes were amazing. I could feel the nutrition flowing through my veins, but the meat was pretty damn tough. I couldn’t chew through it, so I had to suck the meat dry and then leave it discreetly on the side of my plate. The house was pitch black and you couldn’t see what you were eating which was probably just as well.
We’d ditched our damaged bicycles outside, unsure as to whether Shirley could be fixed. My wheel had bent with the impact and wouldn’t turn. My front panniers were both unable to be fixed to the bike. I was wondering whether I was going to need to hitch a lift to the nearest town which was probably Kashkar, hundreds of kilometres away and in a separate country, whose borders we were informed over lunch were still well and truly closed.
We decided to ignore all this till the morning.
An array of delicious boiled sweets was laid on the table and we were encouraged to finish them off, which we very kindly did.
When I awoke the next morning, I could hear the sound of metal on metal combining with a donkey mewing and Kyrgyz talking loudly. I peaked outside and there was Shirley laid out in front of Matt with a crowd of locals around him, many of whom were still sitting on the donkeys they took to work. Shirley, although not looking the best, was resembling a bike again. Matt had managed to round off the wheel and attach my panniers to the rear.
I couldn’t believe it. How lucky was I to have been picked up by Matt on his way through.
* * *
We weren’t far from the border but we underestimated how long it would take to get there. Matt was still riding a single speed bike which made the hills near enough impossible. My knees were beginning to give way after we had worked together to get through the mountainous scenery so far, climbing through valleys with beautiful rock formations on either side of us, with blue skies above us and towering mountains all around.
Starving hungry, we found ourselves in a massive queue of trucks trying to get through to China. As we passed them, Jon, an Israeli, travelling on a bus full to the brim with Kyrgyz, beckoned us over to give us some bread and honey. The taste was supreme. We stopped to brew a tea to share with him.
We made our way to the front of the queue, winding in and out of trucks whose drivers had turned off their engines and placed stones behind their wheels as handbrakes, and were now congregating under their trucks to avoid the sun.
The gates were still closed.
Chapter 25
China had closed its borders for fourteen days owing to the National Day celebrations. I reached them the first day they re-opened, arriving at 2pm. The Chinese authorities had decided to close them again for lunch.
At 4pm the guards finally marched up to the border post from their barracks. Their shoes were polished to perfection, their khaki green uniforms were pressed, and they were clean shaven and wearing flat army caps. The rhythm of their marching was so perfect it was almost hypnotic. As they arrived at the gate, expectant truck-drivers started their engines, passengers scrambled back into their trucks, and we hopped onto our bikes ready for the race to the front of the passport queue. The gates did not open. Instead, the soldiers pulled out dusters and mops and started mopping, sweeping and polishing everything in sight. You could already see your reflection in the brass knobs and could eat your dinner off the sparkling paving stones. Eventually, a man, who’d been standing on a pedestal, started waving his flags in a manner that said the border was fit for use and things were ready to proceed.
The gates swung open and a scrummage erupted, generating a dust ball that exploded over the guards as the trucks whizzed down, leaking gasoline onto the pristine road surface, dirty finger prints tarnishing everything they touched, as people tried to leverage themselves into prime position,
Eight different officials checked our passports. We proved we didn't have any fruit, the swine 'flu or a map of Taiwan showing it as an independent state (the Chinese still consider it part of their empire). I was stamped, saluted and ejected from the gleaming immigration centre into the single filthiest village either of us had ever seen or smelt – Irkeshtam.
Donkeys and dogs rummaged amongst rubbish piled high on the streets. Nuzzling through newspapers, beer bottles and cardboard packaging, they sought out the severely rotting flesh of fruit and vegetables thrown away by the street sellers who sat amongst the filth on stools waiting for customers to whom, on all accounts, they sold rotting fruit and vegetables. A layer of dirt sat on the road mixing with the water coming down from the mountains, and splashing against buildings and passers-by as trucks accelerated to leave. Fast food restaurants served noodles and rice from large cooking pots outside their restaurants. The only thing fast about this food was how quick you’d be running to the toilet after eating it.
The cafés must at one point have thought it would be a good idea to buy in pool tables and leave them on the street to attract cu
stom. Unfortunately, with the disregard that the people of this town paid to its upkeep, the tables must have been left out in the rain time and time again until they resembled the Pamir mountain range rather than the flat Taklamakan desert that we hoped would to take us to Kashkar, the capital of the Xing Jang province.
The largest province of China, Xing Jang covers 1.6 million square kilometres. Only 4.3% of its land is fit for human habitation. We may have just left Moscow's sphere of influence and entered Beijing's, but border or not, this wasn't really China yet. Throughout history, the Chinese have maintained a decidedly intermittent hold over Xing Jang province as it has also convincingly been claimed by the native Turkic Uyghur people - closely related to the Kyrgyz, Kazakhs, and other Central Asian types back over the Tien Shan mountains - who have lived on this land for two thousand five hundred years.
Irkeshtam did have one thing in its favour, though - packaged foods. From the shop we could buy crisps and chocolate, nuts, and an array of Chinese snacks that, although they bore no resemblance to European food, were decidedly tasty after eating goat and bread three times a day.
A law in China prevents foreigners from staying in anything except special state-sanctioned hotels, so logistics dictated that this dump of a town was ours for the night. Our hotel room may have been officially approved by the CCP (The Chinese Communist Party), but it certainly hadn't ever been cleaned. Outside the hotel was an old chest of drawers hanging together by a few wooden fibres. Matt opened the drawer and dropped in his old derailleur. Inside, the hotel was no better. There were human-shaped sweat-marks on the sheets, dirty hand-prints had been dragged across the walls, and piles of old food and empty bottles sat in the corners. It wasn’t quite what I was expecting from my first night in China.