Travel Diary

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12 Unexpected China
Date: Fri 04/30/2010 @ 01:32

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We were going into China with visions of a machine-like suppressed society that we would in no way enjoy mingling in. This picture came to us from a long onslaught of travellers’ stories depicting a land of uncouth, unfriendly and unhelpful people. We also had the idea of a single propaganda fuelled communist culture encompassing the whole of the country. However, our low expectations made for a pleasant surprise and proved that everyone’s experiences are paramount in forming their judgements…

In order to cross the border into China from Pakistan we along with our friend Markus were obliged to put our bicycles onto a bus and be driven over the Khunjerab pass to the town of Tashkurgan. Here, we were told, would be the formal immigration checkpost for China. Before we arrived in Tashkurgan though, the bus stopped at a new, official looking building swarming with military personnel. One of them was stabbing the air in front of him with Rambo’s knife like he was in the first psycho film. This was quite intimidating but he seemed like an obvious pick to be protecting the border. Then the door to the bus flew open and a man stuck his head in who looked like he was about to give E.T. an autopsy. He thrust his latex-gloved hand into the bus brandishing a fistful of thermometers as he spoke some muffled gibberish from behind his SARS mask. Each of us was to put a thermometer into our armpit and return it for examination by the masked man. We came to this conclusion after his small but effective charades gesture. There seemed to be no evident medical problem with any of the passengers on the bus and we were led through a room with similarly clad men. This was the baggage check room and they were quite thorough and wanted to see everything, including the contents of our books. We were let through without censorship of or reprimand for any of our belongings. It would have been interesting to have run the gauntlet with our copy of the Tao Te Ching. Would they have brought the hand of Mao down upon the ancient Taoist writings? Or would they have smiled in the presence of such an important piece of Chinese history and culture?

Our first day riding in China was to be a cold and wet one over slow rolling hills. The landscape was barren and the weather gloomy but we weren’t unprepared for the ride. After seeing the locals carrying thermoses filled with hot water, we decided to follow suit. This was good while the water stayed warm but the thermoses were cheap (made you know where) and before long the water was as icy as the wind that forced us off the road. Luckily we stumbled upon what looked like a government housing project, a group of small, identical, rectangular mud brick buildings by the road. Most of these were uninhabited so we took refuge in one until the rain stopped. Again we flung ourselves at the road and were at the mercy of the elements. Towards evening we found a clump of trees and we knew that we would have to take advantage of this in order to get a decent night’s sleep. After stopping amongst the trees, we noticed a police building hiding on one side of the road. We thought it would be best to notify the police of our intent to spend the night in the shelter of the little forest. We greeted the first uniformed man we saw with a wave and the best "Neehow" (hello) we could muster. He smiled lightly and retreated back into the building. We weren’t sure what to make of this but decided to wait for a chance to try some awkward communication. Sometimes this can be a real blast. Before long another uniformed man came out with a slightly more authoritative air. With our English/Chinese dictionary in hand we began the painfully slow rendition of our plea for sanctuary amongst the trees. To our surprise he would periodically nod his head in a gesture of understanding. However, at the end of our appeal he failed to give us his nod of approval. Instead he smiled lightly and retreated back into the building. The first man’s retreat was confusing but now it was a little worrying. It was beginning to get dark and any hope of finding other shelter was evaporating. At long last a third (and we hoped final) uniformed man came out and greeted us with a heavily accented hello or more closely, "herro". With this man we could communicate more interactively and were faced with a few questions that gave us the impression they would really like to be rid of us. After successfully answering all the questions and reiterating our plea, the man was at a loss for a solution. We could tell now that there was a general sympathy felt by the policemen towards us but this scenario just wasn’t in their book. After a quick consultation with the other men he flipped open a cellular phone and talked to yet another man who we hoped could speak outside the book. The conversation ended, the cellular phone flipped shut and the man turned and gave us his nod of approval. There were smiles all around and they took delight in our many "shay shay"s (thank yous) before we departed to our side of the road.

Nearly a month had gone by. We had said goodbye to Markus and seen the transition in to and out of the desert. We had cycled up into the highlands and found ourselves surrounded by Tibetans and their yaks. It was a dramatic landscape with miles of treeless pastures dotted with traditional tents and hundreds of yaks crossing the winding highways. One evening we found a picturesque spot to pitch our tent and began to cook our evening meal. Two young men passed as they were bringing the horses back to their tent and their curiosity got the best of them. They approached us with wide, teeth-filled grins and greeted us in their Tibetan language. We were able to get across to them that we wanted to sleep there that night and they immediately invited us to their tent. We thanked them for their generosity but declined the invitation. This seemed sufficient for them and they left with the same smiles they came with. Not long after they reached their tent, a solitary figure began to move towards us. When he came close to us, we realized he must be the father and master of the tent. Again an appeal to come to the tent was put before us. We were not about to disappoint such a dignified figure so we agreed to finish our meal and push our bikes over to the tent. After a quick repacking and a sloppy push through fresh yak dung and very wet grass, we arrived at the home of a Tibetan yak herding family. We were greeted by no less than nine people of all ages donning long sleeved yak wool jackets and face stretching smiles. Immediately we were invited inside the tent and poured two cups of salty yak butter tea. A broken conversation ensued consisting of a few words and many gestures, creating a jovial atmosphere and before long we were faced with two bowls filled with giant steamed buns and similar sized dollops of yak butter. We were already quite full but we weren’t about to refuse the hospitality of this happy nomadic family that wanted so much to give us something. It was not an easy feat as the dense bread filled us beyond comfortable capacity but we managed to finish with smiles and return our bowls empty. The rest of the night was spent fascinating the family with our digital camera and its ability to instantly conjure up images of themselves with the click of a button. After a while the fascination inevitably succumbed to the power of fatigue and our hosts began to prepare for a night of rest. To our amazement all eleven of us had enough room to stretch out together inside the small nomad tent. It made for a cozy sleep filled night. We woke to the smell of burning yak manure. This smell we were already acquainted with after spending a couple nights in a yurt near Kashgar in western China. The same yak butter tea was presented to us but this time it was accompanied not with bread but a bowl of some kind of light brown flour. To the flour we were to add dried chunks of yak fat and yes, a baseball sized chunk of yak butter. Hot water was then introduced and the mixture we stirred to a thick doughy consistency. It seemed like quite a small bowl when it was handed to us but after a few mouthfuls we realized that it wasn’t the size of the meal that would give us the energy we needed for our days ride but the weight of it. A lengthy farewell later and we were back on the road, glowing from the good will and generosity that was shown to us by a poor Tibetan yak herding family in the highlands of the Gansu province.

Probably one of the most famous animals in the world is the Panda bear. Us being the suckers we are for seeing interesting wildlife, decided to go off our intended path in order to get a glimpse of one of these famous creatures. Now we were in the Sichuan province near the epicenter of the devastating 2008 earthquake. We had ridden alongside collapsed bridges and buildings, roads that had been taken over by the fallen valley wall next to them and even a car still hanging off the edge of a near gone cliff-side road. The road venturing up the valley that would lead us to the Wolong Panda Reserve was what we thought to be a good distance away from the earthquake site. When we arrived at the turn-off however there were a barricade and a bunch of anxious people waiting for approval to use the road. They told us the road was still under repairs and after recent rains they were trying to clear away any hazardous debris. There was no way to tell just how bad the road was from where we were and we knew that the reserve was only twenty-five kilometers away. The lure of seeing a real king Panda was too much for us and we decided to wait for the road to open. We were given the go ahead before the cars were and tried to get as much distance between us and the barricade as we could before being caught by a long line of impatient drivers. The road proved much worse than we had anticipated though and the going was not much faster than walking pace. Dusk was fast approaching and we were faced with having to find the safest tenting spot that we could in the "danger zone". The men working on the road were telling us to beware of falling rocks from the valley walls and so we picked our spot accordingly. A couple scares of loud crashes from falling rocks later and we were eating breakfast in anticipation of seeing a Panda bear. Before arriving at the reserve we passed through what had been a village but was now nonexistent, the local shop in the middle of the river and water flowing out of the windows and doors. Devastation was not on our list of things to see but we were confronted with it anyway, up close and personal. Further up the road we passed an abandoned hotel with a sign reading "Panda Inn". We had planned to spend the night there after playing gleefully with frolicking king Pandas but soon learned that the bears had been evacuated after the earthquake and in our minds they achieved the status of mythical creature. To top it off it had begun to rain profusely and we were without a warm place to sleep. Fortunately a nice man who must have been the caretaker at the inn lent us a worker tent to sleep in so we could be dry. We really weren’t looking forward to the return journey to the main road but it had to be done before the level of the river overtook the road and we were trapped in the valley. The road was now a shooting gallery of high-speed projectile rocks ricocheting unpredictably off the steep valley walls. Thankfully it was downhill out of the valley so we knew it would be quicker getting out than it was getting in. At one point we were stopped by a man sitting in a truck watching the rocky wall intently. There were two big trucks at the other end of a small curve in the road waiting for the signal to go. After about fifteen minutes the man got out of his truck and waved the trucks over. They started their trucks and began to move forward when a football sized rock shot across the road at windshield level. The man cringed and the trucks immediately began to back up to their starting position. Another ten minutes later and the man waved for the trucks to go again. This time they weren’t moving and it took about five minutes of the man waving at them frantically to get them going. Once they had bridged the gap successfully the man turned to us and said it was our turn. As we were navigating the slushy mud and jagged rocks we heard the ominous crashing of a rock above us. We looked up to see a rock the size of a boxing glove bouncing down the wall like a pinball from hell. We were at a loss as to whether we should speed up, slow down, stop or go back. It was impossible to tell where the rock would cross the road. In our confusion we stopped and watched in horror as the rock came down to hit the front tire of Shahla’s bike. Luckily no damage was done and we high-tailed it out of there, confident in the belief that Panda’s are mythical creatures.

Overall, our experience travelling in China was a positive one. We were treated as equals and shown the respect that should be common amongst all people. We were enveloped by amazing scenery and drastically differing climates, from cold, snow covered land to hot and steamy tropical jungle. We saw a nation under construction and at the same time finding time to celebrate their many cultures. It was vastly more diverse than we had anticipated, strengthening our belief that culture is a product of its physical environment. Chow mien anyone?

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11 Back to Bikes
Date: Fri 04/30/2010 @ 01:31

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10 Digging in the Roots
Date: Fri 04/30/2010 @ 01:30

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Pakistan

I could see in Shahla that she was anxious to see if the Pakistan she knew from childhood was what was waiting for us across the border from Iran. I, however, was prepared to view Pakistan as objectively as possible. The moment we crossed into Pakistan Shahla breathed a sigh of relief and took off her headscarf. I couldn’t help but smile and think to myself that I just might like it here. The initial feeling I had as we made our way to the house of Shahla’s childhood was peaceful and relieving. Even though I had never been to the country before I felt somehow connected with its people. They were kind and hospitable like in Iran but with different mannerisms. I heard Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan playing from a man’s mobile phone and welcomed the sound of music with a swelling heart. This was the beginning of a long stay here in Pakistan and I felt like I could enjoy calling it home for a year. As the time passed, I noticed the Pakistani people were regarding me with caution that could sometimes be mistaken for disdain. The feeling of relief was slowly slipping away from me. I once again began to feel like an outsider in a foreign land. I watched as people went about their everyday business and saw that they were not only looking at me with caution but also to their Pakistani brothers. After contemplating this for a while I came to the conclusion that it would not be easy for the Pakistanis to leave this caution behind them. They had fought with their brothers before in a bloody battle that separated families on two sides of a border that Gandhi fought so hard to keep down. If someone can feel mistrust and hatred for their brother, then they can feel this for anyone. I don’t blame them for their caution and can only try to imagine what they’re going through mentally and emotionally. I did eventually get used to living amongst the cautious Pakistanis and am grateful that their caution didn’t transfer itself to me. This is just one aspect of the people and of course there are many but I think now it’s time to address the environment that the people are living in. We didn’t visit the coast but what we did see of Pakistan was diverse. There are vast arid areas reminiscent of the African savannah, lush green fields and of course the awe inspiring Himalayan mountain range. To be in the beauty of the Himalayas is an experience that can never be forgotten. It is so serene and yet so ruthless and powerful. The mountains have claimed so many lives and have been the inspiration of many to fulfill their dreams. It’s almost as if they are portraying the duality of man. And man is just another animal. The wildlife of course is equally diverse, consisting of animals like monkeys, parrots, camels, vultures, leopards and wild boars. The domestic animals are mainly water buffaloes, cows, goats, sheep, chickens, dogs and cats. I especially like the water buffaloes because they remind me of hippos the way they bathe themselves in any available pools of water. They also have skin that looks shiny like hippo skin and they seem to have the same calm contentedness. Another favourite animal of mine is the monkey or more accurately the macaque. They can behave just like humans and always make me laugh they way the young ones play in the trees swinging and jumping from branch to branch. They are like Shahla and me, the way we are jumping from country to country and culture to culture. I am grateful for the opportunity I’ve had to jump into the country and culture of Pakistan and regard it as a valuable experience.

… The border was relatively straightforward and especially easy for me (yay) and we found ourselves sitting in a small restaurant/ shop sipping tea and waiting for a bus that wouldn’t arrive till the afternoon. When it did arrive, it was reminiscent of African buses in quality but we didn’t have much choice so we spent the night shifting uncomfortably and arrived, again in the wee hours, in Quetta. We camped out at the train station where we eventually got a foreigner’s concession for the train ticket and then got tossed from one window to the next in an attempt to actually get the tickets that we had the concession for. Finally they told us that there were no seats left, let alone sleepers but that we could get on anyway. So we did. We sat and made small talk with people on the train for most of the thirty-four hours, occasionally occupying a top bunk for a couple hours nap that we took in turn with each other as well as other passengers. Eventually people came who had reserved the seats we were sitting in but most of the people were nice enough to make room for us somewhere. We ended up sitting with the Kabuddi “world champion” from 1976 (I think) who was quite entertaining as well as some other nice men who chatted with us and bought us food and drink or gifted us cigarettes. At the end of the train ride it felt a little weird to be on solid ground again but we found a nice guy whose father changed ten US dollars into rupees for us. He found us a cab and we piled in and went straight to the house. My old house. I rang the doorbell and then walked in through the gate. It was kind of late but I wasn’t about to make it this far and not get in. Feroz (my cousin) opened the door and let us in…

It was crazy seeing the relatives again. Almost immediately after saying hello for the first time in fourteen years, it was just like I had never left. I was eating the same home cooked meals at the same table as when I was ten years old. I was flooded with the memories of everything I had loved and loathed about the country. So much had changed yet so much had stayed the same. The city of Islamabad was almost unrecognizable, but my relatives were just as I remembered them. In fact almost everything about the Pakistani people was as I remembered it. They were still hospitable and curious but at the same time quietly judgmental. I felt that it was a shame that a people that I felt so connected to were still so distant. It is almost the exact opposite to Western culture. In the West, you need to crack the outer shell of people to find that they are really warm underneath, but here people are warm at first and reserved underneath. There seems to be a fear pervading every aspect of Pakistani life. If people can’t immediately relate to you, they will smile but hold you at arms length as though they are afraid to bring you closer. It’s like a second shell to crack underneath the smiles and hospitality. My relatives were bold enough to tell me what they really thought of us but I am sure that they have the same double shell when dealing with other people.

As for the city, almost everything was changed. All the things I remembered from childhood were either gone or totally different. The house was much the same except for the fourteen years worth of dust and lizard crap, and it was here that I remembered the little memories that make up a life. Most of my time had been spent within these walls and every room had another story. I can’t say that I had enjoyed living here, so the reminiscing was somewhat melancholy but it was an amazing experience to come back. I felt like I was uncovering something ancient, not from my own life but from some distant, long-forgotten past.

I guess overall I don’t feel as connected as I thought I would. Everything and everyone seems far away, as on the other side of a canyon with only my memories reaching across to bridge the gap.

India

… The day before the Holi festival there were lots of street vendors selling water guns, balloons, dye powder and other various paraphernalia used in the festival. Shahla and I armed ourselves with a water pistol each, a bag full of balloons filled with coloured water, and a bag of dye powder. There was a posse of about seven or eight of us going up the streets doing battle with the local kids. I had a blast and am going to try to keep my shirt and pants as a souvenir. After we were covered in colour we jumped into the sea and around us was an aura of colour that looked a lot like an oil tanker sinking to release an oil slick. Shahla said that it’s common to use salt water to set the dye into fabric so we’ll see if mine stays in. So far so good. There was an old town carved into the island that fell apart except for a small area and now they are considered caves and can be explored for free. It was a nice place to spend time in the heat of the day and great for playing my Mosquito. Sitting inside one of the numerous rooms gave rise to thoughts of how prosperous a civilization must have been to have such a town in such a good location. Was it the destructive hand of man or nature that spelled the downfall of such a magnificent cave town? I tried to imagine the people going about their day buying, selling, working or playing in the streets of cave town. What it must have been like to be looking at earth in every direction, all day. There were some sky-holes cut in most of the rooms so it was very well lit up. I wonder if mankind will eventually follow the predictions of “The Time Machine” and begin colonies of people under the surface of the earth. I guess it’s already begun with underground shopping centres, laboratories, transport systems, etc…

… We arrived in Varanasi in the rain and after being totally disgusted by rickshaw drivers and their greed, we decided to walk to the Shanti guesthouse. We made it to the Ganges at Manikarnika Ghat where we found a nice couple enjoying the view and sat and chatted for a while. The Ganges was dirty, of course, but not full of garbage or floating corpses. In fact, I am sure I have seen several dirtier looking rivers. It was also much smaller than I expected. The far shore was sandy and stretched quite far away so I guess the river must double or even triple in size in the rainy season. We eventually made it to the guesthouse and spent the next few days mostly sheltering in the shade of the rooftop restaurant and watching an old Frenchman smoke joint after chillum after joint, and drink bang lassis all day. We made time to walk along the river and watched almost an entire cremation (2-3 hours). We encountered an interesting argument about respect – a local was yelling at an Italian tourist for taking photos of the burning ghat while the Italian was yelling at the local man for trying to sell him stuff at such a sacred place. Neither one, according to the other had any respect for death. Either way, I thought it was odd that people who got the proper permission (from Delhi) would get up close and personal with their cameras. And also the fact that there was any solemnity at all, seeing as dying in Varanasi allows you release from reincarnation and entrance into Nirvana. If these people had respect, shouldn’t they have been celebrating? ...

If Pakistan and India was the introduction to Asia then it was a good one and now we are ready for China…

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09 Sand and Water
Date: Fri 04/30/2010 @ 01:28

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It is amazing to think that such a vast deserty area as the middle east is where civilization chose to take hold. The environment is not always an easy one to live in. Although I must admit that the abundance of several different kinds of dates makes it much more tolerable. The truth is that where a desert may seem difficult and forbidding, the locals who have lived there since the beginning of time are, of course accustomed to its sands, its winds and its waters. Water seems to dictate life here though in some places you can find life where you would think that there shouldn’t be any. I sometimes thought of people wandering through the desert (for reasons I could only guess at) and stopping to make camp in what seems like the middle of nowhere, and then just staying there and making a village or a town. Somehow making life work. But the question would almost always follow: why didn’t they keep moving? What possible reason could they have found for not continuing on to someplace that would have been easier to live in? I used to picture people finding the most beautiful place they had ever seen and calling it home. In the middle east, I pictured people finding a hidden fresh water spring in the desert and being so thankful for being saved, they decided to stay and pay homage to that moment for the rest of their lives. And their children’s lives.

That is not to say that all of the middle east is a wasteland. Actually, there are many places with a perfect Mediterranean climate. Palm and olive trees, goatherds and camels tethered to light posts. Even some places of lush greenery with small waterfalls cascading over mossy rocks. And of course miles and miles of fertile farmland. But one thing that can be felt in all of these places is history. This is where forgotten civilizations came and went leaving rocks carved into impossible shapes. This is where people who worshipped the sun are dug up from deep under the ground and their carcasses put on display. Where evil shopkeepers will swindle you out of anything and everything they possibly can and where smiling strangers invite you into their homes for a royal welcome.

One great experience of the middle east is the underwater life. Just being in the water is dizzying, with colours and shapes that you would never imagine. But to float in the water is really like flying. Or as close as mankind can get right now. You feel as though you are flying over fish cities and coral forests, occasionally coming face to face with a creature of the deep that looks at you and seemingly into you. The desert on land is in perfect juxtaposition with the intensity of life just under the surf. To experience them both is to better understand the area not just in terms of culture but in terms of its place on mother earth.

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08 Homesick so why travel
Date: Fri 04/30/2010 @ 01:27

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