The Long Hitch Home

by Jamie Maslin

  It was an error of judgement that I would bitterly regret.

  There is something about hitting the road at first light that pays dividends when hitching. People seem far more inclined to pick you up at this hour rather than later on, perhaps before the rigours of work have worn them down and clouded the optimistic and generous outlook that seems to spring naturally from the inception of a new day. So this morning, two easily sought rides arrived in quick succession, taking me past charmless gray architecture and rows of bare leafless poplar trees, ridged in the cold, to the main road north.

  Ahead stretched cold and barren nothing. I decided to hike for thirty minutes down the road and then to turn around and head back again, just to get my blood circulating. After twenty minutes of trekking along a route that would once have seen caravans of camel trains a thousand-strong, a car stopped.

  Four guys sat inside: two in their middle years, one elderly, and a driver in his twenties. I squeezed in the back. It was delightfully warm, and soon my core temperature was smiling again. The piece of paper that I gave the driver had the destination Guazhou on it, but it turned out to be a far better ride than that—all the way to Hami, about 330 miles away through the desolate no man’s land of a frozen desert and on into Xinjiang itself. The low-lying cloud and steamed up windows prevented much in the way of a view for a lot of the journey, but every now and then a distant snowy mountain or sprawling wind farm on a barren plain revealed itself.

  We said goodbye at the turning for Hami, where a convoy of eight identical mining dump trucks was parked by the side of the main road. They looked fresh off the production line, but it seemed that one of them had some sort of mechanical problem. Around the vehicle were gathered the trucks’ collective drivers, one of whom lay on the floor poking a flaming piece of wood underneath the engine section. What this was for, I had no idea, but while they were stationary I took my opportunity. Ambling over, I presented a likely-looking driver, a guy about my age, with one of my notes. He read it and smiled, then went back to staring at the truck. I wasn’t sure what this meant, but ten minutes later when the problem had seemingly been fixed, he waved me over. His truck had been the one receiving maintenance. I climbed into the cab, still covered in fresh showroom plastic, and we were on our way.

  I managed to confirm that he and the other truckers were going all the way to Urumqi, making my decision to push on without acquiring winter clothing in Yumen seem a sound one. Or so I thought. Soon the weather took a turn for the worse. The little sun there was disappeared behind a layer of dark gray cloud with violent howling gusts lashing at the truck, churning the air into a fury of murky dust. We passed another bank of wind turbines, spinning in a frenzy amid a bleak and angry landscape of snowy rock and gravel. It was a comforting thought to be safely cocooned inside the heater-induced false micro-climate of the cab, looking out as a mere spectator on the unfolding drama of the landscape, not a ravaged participant within it. In total, the ride to Urumqi would encompass over 350 miles, making for a long drive and late arrival, and after several hours on the road nighttime fell. Darkness lay all around, broken only by a lone passenger train drifting into the black expanse on a distant track, its windows glowing a warm, cozy-looking yellow. I watched enviously as it overtook us, disappearing into the void ahead. The thought of simply buying a ticket in one city and hopping off at your desired destination seemed the height of luxury.

  Around 1 a.m. our warmth and security became exposed for what it was—fragile, fleeting, and artificial. The truck released a spluttering retch from its inner workings and moments later let out a groan, slowly grinding to a halt on the side of the road. There was little passing traffic, and within minutes the cab went from comfortable to freezing. Our breath began billowing great clouds of steam and the windows started frosting over with a creeping incrustation of ice—the water vapour from our breath rapidly turning from steam to solid on the glass. Several attempts were made at starting the engine, every one concluding in failure. This was worrying. I had a rough idea where we were but retrieved my map and got my companion to pinpoint our location. It was pretty much as I had thought—we had broken down on the fringes of the Turpan Basin, the lowest and driest basin in all of China, about three hours outside of Urumqi. The region was renowned for its extreme temperature differentials, which in summer can see the thermometer soar to nearly 50°C (122°F), and in winter plunge below minus 40—and that’s both Fahrenheit and Celsius, with the two converging at this point. I had no idea how low the temperature was tonight, but there was no doubt about it, it was the coldest I had ever experienced. My companion pulled his arms in from his fur-lined coat, approximating an upper-body sleeping bag. I retrieved my proper one, and, unzipping it, cast it over both of us like a blanket. We shared a stoic nod and huddled in together on the double seat of the passenger side. The cover helped, but not much. Without being enclosed inside the bag it trapped little air-space or warmth. Slowly the cold consumed me, its pervasive presence invading my person, leaching into the marrow of my bones. I’d never known anything like it, and wished to God I’d had the presence of mind to buy a proper jacket in Yumen, whether lightweight and portable or not. My flimsy fleece was practically useless.

  After about an hour, one of the other trucks pulled up in front of us, its rear red lights emanating a diffuse aura that highlighted the almost horizontally sweeping snow. It must have doubled back to check on where we’d got to. Out jumped its driver. With his head hunched in against the cold, he battled his way toward us through the onslaught of wind and snow. He heaved open the passenger door. A gust of freezing air rushed into the cab, its icy chill attacking me as if imbued with a thousand tiny knives. Seeing us both huddled on this side, he shut the door and headed over to the drivers’ side. Another momentary exposure to the bitter world outside, and he was enclosed within, plastered now with a layer of settled snow. For some time the two drivers discussed the situation, then, all of a sudden, the one from the other truck headed back to his vehicle. He drove off, disappearing into the frozen night. It was hard to tell what was going on, but from their shared mannerisms, it seemed that he had left to get an engine part to remedy the problem—presumably ascertained during their earlier collective examination of the truck back in Hami.

  Ghastly hour after hour dragged by but I didn’t sleep; neither of us did, it was too cold for that. We just sat there and shivered together in silence. Before embarking on my trip I had longed for new adventure and experience. I had got it now all right, although it wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind. I thought back to a survival course I had taken years ago, where those instructing had told the class about two people trapped in separate vehicles on the same freezing night: one, a slight professional woman in a little hatchback, the other, a big macho backcountry guy in a pickup. The guy had died but the woman lived, doing so after having the wherewithal to rip the insulation out from her car’s spare seats and stuff it into her clothing. If it wasn’t for my sleeping bag we might have had to try it.

  Time roughly equivalent to a full working day passed at an agonizingly elongated rate, doing so as if drawn from a clock near-frozen in motion by the cold, but finally our long and hideous wait was over, when, just after dawn, the truck returned, now accompanied by another. The two drivers came and joined us, and after a brief conversation, they and my icy comrade got out of the cab and began tinkering with the truck below. I knew very little about engines, but should I have gone out with them as a sign of solidarity? Maybe, but the hideous cold and my lack of a proper jacket stopped me from making any futile gestures. Eventually they returned and tested the ignition.

  A long drawn-out stammer came from the engine, as if teetering on the edge of life, before finally it awakened. The driver wasn’t about to lose her now, and began revving the engine into a wailing frenzy to the point where it almost begged for mercy. The other drivers ran back to their trucks and all of a sudden we were on our way, the heater blasting cold air before it finally began warming up. A
s we drove into a gradually lightening world of snow and ice, my thoughts turned to our arrival in Urumqi, and thawing out there under a steaming hot shower for an inordinate amount of time.

  I’m sure it was my dazed perception of things, or possibly our route of approach, but Urumqi seemed to begin from out of nowhere, as if the tiny back country road suddenly metamorphosed into a sprawling metropolis of three million people, with nothing by way of middle ground in-between.

  I was dropped near a bus stop crowded with people wearing thick puffy coats with fur-lined hoods, and chunky hats and gloves. Many of them were of Uyghur origin not Han Chinese. (Uyghurs are instantly recognisable from the Han, being larger, both in height and build, having darker skin and features that are more rounded and Central Asian in appearance. Many of the men also wear distinctive four-sided patterned skullcaps.) Ahead stretched frozen urban bedlam. Endless vehicles passed by, belching exhaust fumes into the frigid air like great industrial discharges. People hurried every-which-way on the slippy sidewalks, while municipal workers in padded blue and gray outfits scraped at the paving underfoot with shovels, creating an unmistakable tinny noise as steel clanged hard against concrete through a compacted coating of snow and ice. Endless gray buildings lay ahead, many brightened by colored Chinese characters running down their sides. Hawkers sold food from aged wooden carts: roasted chestnuts, patterned bread, sweet potatoes, colorful rice, and corn on the cob—skewered through the middle with rods that rested above metal boxes full of smokeless burning charcoal, throwing the surrounding air into a shimmering heatwave. I was hungry, but more for warmth than food.

  This would be the third location where I had succumbed to catching a local bus since setting off. (The others beings Darwin and Kunming). I required two buses to reach my inner-city destination: a hostel. Although in most locations I loathe such places, not quite so somewhere like this. When you’re this far off the gap-year backpacker track, the people you meet in hostels are of a different calibre: proper travelers, often with fascinating stories and invaluable tips for the path you intend to tread; and what’s more, I fancied some English speaking company. I got off in a built-up area near several ice sculptures depicting curious abstract forms, located down the road from a towering skyscraper, whose glass top resembled a staggered frozen pyramid. After much bewildered searching, I finally located the hostel down an icy side-street. Climbing some snowy steps that led to its entrance door, I finally reached permanent shelter, and a great wave of relief washed over me.

  My senses seemed out of sync, the blessed warmth of the interior registering before my eyes caught up and made sense of the surroundings. A large communal room containing a spacious central bar area stood before me. Sitting at a table with views down to the street below was a lone European-looking guy, studying a chunky travel guide with rapt attention. At a small reception was a Chinese woman stroking a ghastly-looking white cat with an unfortunate black square-marking beneath its nose, giving it the appearance of having a Hitler-style mustache.

  Finally the moment I had been longing for had arrived. I beelined for the bathroom to check out the shower. The tank was cold. I tugged the cord and went over to my bed, swaddling myself in its covers. It was marvelous to be indoors, but it was going to take far more than that before I fully defrosted. Eventually the shower was ready. It is no exaggeration to say that I found the shower emotionally warm. I stood beneath it for a very long time, trying to suck its glorious heat into my core as the room took on the rapid appearance of a sauna. I only stopped when the water’s temperature began to turn. By the time I’d finished, my extremities of skin and superficial flesh were hot and flushed, but, nonetheless, I still felt cold. It was an unsatisfactory feeling, like eating a meal at a restaurant with stingy portions but sky high prices, where despite the expense you still leave hungry and wanting.

  I dried off and got dressed, then headed to the communal room where I helped myself to a free cup of hot water from an urn at the bar. The European-looking guy was still seated at the window, now nursing a cup of tea. He had piercing blue eyes and a thin defined face that spoke of frequent exposure to the wind and sun. From his left ear dangled three large but slightly graduated silver loop earrings, and on his chin grew a bushy tuft of flaming red hair, contrasting with his short graying mop on top. I wandered over.

  “Where you heading next?” I asked.

  “Kashgar,” he replied in a soft German accent.

  “Nice spot,” I said, inviting the inevitable.

  “Have you been there?”

  “A few years ago, yeah.”

  That was good enough for both of us; I sat down and settled in for a chat.

  My newfound buddy was Danilo, a German fluent in English. Although quiet and unassuming, he was an accomplished traveler who after exploring Xinjiang planned to make his way around the rest of Central Asia before heading on to Iran and western Afghanistan. A male nurse by profession, he had the perfect arrangement with his employer: he would work in Germany for a few months at an old person’s home, then, when the urge took him, set off and travel for an extended period, before returning and repeating the process all over. Like me, his main reason for coming to Urumqi was to visit the consulate of Kyrgyzstan and apply there for a visa—a process which he had a wealth of information on. Danilo had yet to apply, so we agreed to go to the consulate together when they were open next in two days’ time.

  Through the window he spotted two cyclists down below, clad in chunky red and orange jackets, carrying their touring bikes up the hostel’s snowy steps.

  “French couple. They’re going to Kyrgyzstan too.”

  A sprightly, cheerful-looking pair appeared at the top of the stairs, brushing off the remains of snow from their jackets and tea-cozy-like woolly hats.

  “Ah, hello again!” said the woman enthusiastically on spotting Danilo.

  They came over and joined us.

  “How is it out?” asked Danilo.

  “Freezing!” responded the Frenchman in a thick accent, accompanied with a beaming smile. “I check my thermometer. It is minus fifteen.”

  “So that’s how cold it is,” I exclaimed, intrigued to finally have a figure to attach to my unfortunate sleeping arrangements of the night before, which I briefly mentioned now.

  “Oh no, it was far colder last night,” said the Frenchman. “Went down to minus twenty, and that’s in the city, it would have been much colder outside it.”

  No wonder I was still feeling it in my bones.

  They introduced themselves as Etienne and Manon, a married couple traveling across China by bike, train, and bus, cycling some sections, catching public transport on others. Their next big section on two wheels would be from the distant western town of Kashgar (a famous Silk Road trading post), across the border to Kyrgyzstan. Like Danilo, neither had been to Kashgar before, so after asking what their plans were there, and listening to their itineraries, I ventured a suggestion of my own: to visit a place none of them had heard of, nor any of their guidebooks mentioned—Shipton’s Arch, the world’s highest natural archway at over 1,200 feet (taller than the Empire State Building), one of my all-time favorite places anywhere; a wonder of the world that barely anybody knows about.

  I first became aware of the existence of this phenomenal span of rock after flicking through a National Geographic Magazine in a doctor’s waiting room. “Journey to Shipton’s Lost Arch” announced the headline of the article, which described how this incredible formation was found, then lost, then found again. The photographs of the arch and the amazing story of adventure undertaken to reach it, grabbed hold of me and set my imagination alight to such a degree that I knew, without doubt, I would visit it myself one day.

  The arch was first brought to the outside world’s attention by legendary British mountaineer and explorer, Eric Shipton, who wrote of its existence in his 1947 memoir, Mountains of Tartary. At the time Shipton, who was without the necessary modern equipment to measure the arch, estimated its height at a
round 1,000 feet. Guinness World Records featured the arch before subsequently dropping the listing after sending a team to verify it, who, failing to find the arch, wrote it off as a hoax. Largely forgotten thereafter, it wasn’t until 2000, when National Geographic Magazine sent their own team out to Kashgar that the arch’s existence was finally confirmed, with their group becoming the first outsiders to visit it since Shipton.

  A member of the diplomatic service, Eric Shipton arrived in the isolated outpost of Kashgar in 1940 to take up the role of British Consul. Perched on the margins of the mighty Taklamakan Desert, and at the doorstep of some of the world’s highest mountains, Kashgar is the quintessential Silk Road town, permeated with two thousand years of history, and even today contains parts where time seems to have stood still, with houses made of mud and straw, and donkey carts regularly used as taxis.

  During Shipton’s tenure he launched myriad expeditions into the area’s majestic surrounding mountains, and from time to time caught tantalizing glimpses of an intriguing peak hidden deep within a chaotic larger range that, bizarrely, had a gaping hole through the middle of it. His curiosity piqued, he made up his mind to find a route through the labyrinth of twisting conglomerate towers and narrow slot canyons to reach it. The extreme nature of the uncharted terrain made this no small undertaking, but if anyone had the credentials for the job, then it was Shipton.

  In 1929, aged just twenty-two, he made the first recorded ascent of Mount Kenya’s Nelion peak. By age twenty-four he and a group of five others were the first to scale India’s Mount Kamet, which, at 25,447 feet, was the highest anyone had ever climbed at the time. And just two years later in 1933, he got within a thousand feet of Mount Everest’s summit, and subsequently pioneered the route that in 1953 would see Tenzing Norgay and Sir Edmund Hillary finally make it to the top.

  But despite such mountaineering prowess, Shipton’s quest to reach the arch was foiled on three separate occasions by the terrain that stood in his way: a mindbogglingly complex maze of shoulder-width canyons and tortuous barricades of rock that soared thousands of feet into the air, and closed in so much as to obscure the sky to the point where he was forced to light a match to see. Shipton changed tactics. Abandoning the southerly approach from where he at least had a glimpse of the arch when setting off, he rounded the entire range and began investigating from the north. From here the arch was invisible and the landscape just as challenging, but eventually he and his team, consisting of wife Diana and faithful golden retriever, Sola, discovered what they were looking for. Writing of the experience in The Mountains of Tartary, Shipton recalls: