Quzhou(衢州)-Baishizhen(白石镇)

Province du Zhejiang(浙江省)

-env. 60km-

Ce matin, nous ne nous levons pas trop tôt: 10h, et goûtons ce mystérieux fruit appelé « ramboutan », que j’ai acheté l’avant-veille. Et c’est en fait pas mal. Cela a un peu le même goût que le litchi, en plus chiant à éplucher.

Lorsque nous quittons l’hôtel, il est déjà trop tard pour des baozi. Nous prenons donc directement un déjeuner dans un resto. Avant de repartir, nous avons la chance d’échanger quelque mots avec un lbx, qui vient nous parler de tout et de rien, sur la Chine et les pays étrangers. Il nous fait un parallèle particulier entre la statut de paysan en Chine et celui de Noir aux États-Unis. “你们美国的总统是黑人。我们总统原来也是农民。” (« Votre Président aux États-Unis est un Noir. Nous aussi, notre Président était un paysan. »). Quelques minutes plus tard, il nous explique ce que nous savons depuis longtemps: en Chine, il est interdit de critiquer les dirigeants. Et c’était bien sûr bien pire pendant la Révolution Culturelle. Tout le monde avait un portrait ou un poster de Mao chez lui, et devait l’entretenir. Certaines personnes ayant malencontreusement abîmé le portrait du sauveur en le nettoyant ou ayant laisser les souris faire un trou sur son visage, étaient punies et emprisonnées. Mais la Révolution Culturelle, nous dit-il, n’a pas été que mauvaise: “文革也有它的好处。它教训了一些人。” (« La Révolution Culturelle a eu ses bons côtés. Elle a donné une leçon à certaines personnes. »). Tiens donc? C’est un peu comme s’il avait dit: « Le viol des mineurs a ses bons côtés. Il apprend l’amour aux jeunes filles! » ou encore « La Shoah a eu ses bons côtés. Parmi les victimes juives, certaines fraudaient le fisc! ».

Nous partons et repassons au magasin Giant, car Evan veut y acheter la même lampe que je me suis procurée il y a 3 jours. J’y rencontre un lbx d’environ 40ans, lui aussi cycliste à ses heures perdues, qui me dit être déjà allé jusqu’à Pékin à vélo.

• “我们有时候也会骑车到北京。” (« Nous aussi, nous allons parfois à Pékin à vélos. »)
• “是吗？花多长时间？” (« Ah bon? Vous mettez combien de temps? »)
• “13天！” (« 13 jours! »)
• “13天？很快！一天骑多少？” (« 13 jours? Vous êtes rapides! Vous faites combien par jour? »)
• “一天不到100公里， 大概80公里！” (« Moins de 100km par jour, environ 80km! »)
• “哦… 衢州到北京有多少距离？” (« Oh… Et il y a combien entre Quzhou et Pékin? »)
• “两千多公里，2300左右。“ (« Plus de 2.000km, environ 2.300km. »)

Trouvez l’erreur…

Un vieux erre à pieds sur les routes, palanche sur l'épaule. Nous le recroiserons le lendemain, une vingtaine de kilomètres plus loin.

Au bord de la route, une sorte de menhir, avec l'inscription: "Circulation harmonieuse"

Michelle Obama (méchanceté 100% gratuite... c'est cadeau!)

Nous prenons la national et filons vers le nord, direction Jingdezhen, ville de la porcelaine chinoise. Étant donné le froid, nous ne tenons pas à nous attarder trop longtemps dans les parages. Pas le temps de contempler les paysages. Aller vers le nord est déjà suicidaire en soi. Ce n’est donc pas le moment de traîner. Lorsque nous tombons, sans trop savoir comment, dans un cul de sac, à cause d’immense travaux, au dessus d’un cours d’eau dégueulasse dans lequel des lbx lavent leurs fringues, nous demandons notre chemin à des flics, qui nous escortent jusqu’à la nationale que nous recherchons, gyrophare allumé, mais malheureusement sans sirène… Un peu plus loin sur la route, des lbx en camion s’arrêtent en chemin pour donner 3 des nombreux huyou (胡柚) qu’ils transportent. Il s’agit d’une race de pamplemousses propre au comté de Changshan (常山县), où nous sommes actuellement.

Sale temps pour les cyclistes

Arriveront-elles à ressortir leurs fringues moins sales?

Le genou d’Andy refaisant des siennes, nous ne pouvons dans les premiers jours pas faire plus d’une cinquantaine de bornes. De plus, le froid s’intensifie et la nuit commence à tomber. Il faut donc s’arrêter. Nous tombons sur un tout petit bourg super merdique, avec une sorte de maison d’hôte qui nous prend 40yuan pour une grande chambre. Au pied du bâtiment, des lbx fabriquent de la baijiu. Nous allons dîner en face, dans un petit boui-boui tenu par un couple avec une petite fille d’environ 6ans. Nous ne manquons pas de prendre un peu de huangjiu bien chaud pour nous dégeler. Deux lbx sont également là, en train de dîner. Ils nous disent ne pas être du coin et n’être venus que pour effectuer des travaux de voirie. Le plus disert est originaire du Guizhou, mais habite à Shaoxing. Il nous explique qu’ils ont déjà terminé leur tâche mais qu’ils attendent de pouvoir percevoir leur salaire. Pendant ce temps, ils doivent payer tous les jours le logement et la bouffe de leur poche. Après 2 litres de huangjiu, nous retournons nous coucher dans notre chambre.

La petite lbx n'aime pas être photographiée par les curieux que nous sommes

Jour 97 (27/12/09)

Baishizhen(白石镇)

Province du Zhejiang(浙江省)

Dès que nous nous levons, nous voyons un mélange de pluie et de fine neige tomber du ciel. Notre départ est donc bien évidemment ajourné. En fin de matinée, nous allons dans le boui-boui d’en bas prendre un brunch fengan-huangjiu, puis retournons dans notre chambre, où par miracle, nous détectons un léger signal wifi. Notre après-midi ne sera donc pas complètement perdue.

Le Ciel n'est pas avec nous...

Le patron nous réchauffe une bouteille de huangjiu

Paniers de riz non-décortiqué, indispensable à la préparation de baijiu

Récipient utilisé dans la distillation de baijiu

Le soir, nous retournons dans notre cantine prendre un excellent dîner, avant que le lbx d’hier ne vienne nous rejoindre pour picoler. Le problème est qu’il est déjà bien éméché. Lorsque je le complimente pour lui dire que ses cheveux bouclés sont « cool », il se sent gêné et demande à la patronne une glace et un peigne pour se recoiffer. Au fil de la discussion, il nous montre son tatouage de serpent sur son avant-bras: un souvenir de prison, nous explique-t-il, où il est allé suite à une bagarre. Plus bourré que jamais, il nous demande une photo souvenir, mais impossible d’avoir son adresse. Ce n’est que très difficilement que nous arrivons à lui faire dire son nom: « Peing ? », « Ping? », « Peng? », … Puis il sort son livret d’épargne, sur lequel est écrit: Huang Erfa (黄尔发). Un beau nom de pecnot! Avant de nous laisser partir, il prend le numéro d’Andy (je ne me souviens pas vraiment pas pourquoi celui d’Andy…), et essaie même de l’appeler en utilisant le téléphone du patron du boui-boui. Nous repartons vers notre chambre, en rigolant bien de ce lbx complètement taré…

Andy verse un verre de huangjiu pour Huang Erfa

Le patron, déconcerté, prête son téléphone à Huang Erfa

Huang Erfa, le patron du boui-boui, Evan, Andy et moi

Jour 98 (28/12/09)

Baishizhen(白石镇)-Tongcun(桐村)

Province du Zhejiang(浙江省)

-env. 40km-

Bien évidemment, ce n’est qu’assez tard que nous réveillon, avec un bon petit mal de crâne pour Evan et moi. On se marre encore en pensant à ce lbx, son état d’ébriété et son nom qui ne veut rien dire.

Après un petit dèj, nous retournons nous reposer un peu. Evan, ayant toujours mal à la tête, demande un peu de repos. Des flics viennent soudain contrôler notre identité. Dans cette campagne, pas de problème de logement, car il n’y a pas de grand hôtel. Les petits établissement sont donc bien obligés de nous accepter. Un peu perdus, ils regardent nos passeports sans trop comprendre, notent nos noms ainsi que nos numéros de passeports et de visas sur un bout de papier. Nous nous préparons à 14h, retournons bouffer en face, où la patronne nous dit que Huang Erfa est parti hier sans payer, prétextant que nous l’avions déjà fait, alors que nous n’avions régler que notre part. Il y a donc eu une petite friction de lbx au sujet de la note, mais la patronne, excédée, lui a dit de partir et de ne plus revenir.

Une fois fermenté, le riz est prêt pour distillation

Entrée de la distillerie de baijiu, au pied de notre "hôtel"

Après donc un bref déjeuner, nous reprenons la route, mais en réempruntant l’ornière de notre passage, car Evan s’est trompé de route à la précédente patte d’oie, il nous faut donc revenir 2 petits kilomètres en arrière. Nous trouvons ensuite une petite route, plate, tranquille, sans côtes trop abruptes ni circulation intense, et avec des belles petites montagnes se dressant à l’horizon. Le parcours n’est donc pas crevant, d’autant que nous n’allons pas très loin.

Ouvrier d'une fabrique de briques

Fabrique de briques

Village au pied d'une montagne

Huyou, race de pamplemousse

Les monts sont enneigés. On se les pèle!

Contraste des couleurs d'une l'eau polluée

A 16h30, nous nous arrêtons dans le petit village de Tongcun (桐村), où nous trouvons une lbx un peu folle, qui loue des chambres pourries dans un immeuble tout aussi pourri, mais qu’elle nous loue tout de même 60 yuan (2 chambres). Un peu cher pour deux pièces froides, sans chauffage, et avec nulle-part où se doucher. A côté des chiottes à la turque qui se trouve au bout du couloir, un simple lavabo, donc le fond est complètement bouffé, par la rouille, sûrement. Lorsqu’elle me montre les chambres, elle me demande d’où je viens:

• “你是哪里的？” (« Tu viens d’où? »)
• “法国！” (« De France! »)
• “法国？法国在哪里？” (« De France? C’est où la France? »)
• “恩～～～” (« Heu… »)
• “在中国吗？” (« C’est en Chine? »)
• “不是！不是！在欧洲！” (« Non! Non! C’est en Europe! »)

Après avoir installé nos affaires, nous allons tout de suite dîner, bien que nous ne soyons qu’en fin d’après midi. Le but: nous reposer le plus tôt possible, et nous glisser le plus vite sous nos couettes, car il risque de faire froid dans la chambre pendant la nuit. A notre retour, je vais prendre une bassine et de l’eau bouillie (开水, en Chine, on peut avoir de l’eau bouillie partout, pour infuser du thé ou faire une petite toilette) pour me laver les cheveux, mais alors que je suis dans les chiottes pour prendre un peu d’eau au robinet, une coupure de courant touche tout le bâtiment. Je me retrouve donc comme un con dans le noir et le froid, au milieu du couloir, avec les cheveux plein de shampoing,, à me diriger à tâtons vers ma chambre. 60 yuan pour ces conditions… On commence à se dire que c’est vraiment cher payé!!! Nous nous contentons de nos lampes de poche, jusqu’à ce que l’électricité revienne, 20 minutes plus tard. Ensuite: sac de couchage, soirée ciné sur mon ordi et dodo.

Jour 94 (24/12/09)

Quzhou(衢州)

Province du Zhejiang(浙江省)

Tous un peu fatigués, ce n’est qu’en fin d’après-midi que nous sortons de nos couettes. Evan appelle le lbx fabricant d’avions qui ne sera libre qu’en fin d’après-midi. Après avoir pris un excellent déjeuner accompagné d’un mauvais vin jaune, lavé nos fringues et étendu nos tentes encore humides, nous allons passer tout l’après-midi dans un café wifi.

Lampe de secours anti-incendie. Traduction en anglais: FIRE FIGHTING JURY EXCITER LAMP (mot-à-mot: LAMPE EXCITEUSE DE JURY POUR COMBATTRE LES INCENDIES)

Vers 18h, notre lbx nous appelle pour nous dire de venir le rejoindre près de chez lui. Nous prenons un taxi, faisons un détour vers notre hôtel pour poser nos ordis et prendre nos appareils photo, avant de filer à sa rencontre. Alors que je m’attendais à un paysan crasseux juste un peu bricoleur, nous tombons sur un petit gars à l’apparence très jeune et très citadine. Après présentations, il nous fait monter dans sa voiture et nous emmène dans un restaurant pas très loin, encore un peu en travaux, mais excellent (mouton, champignons, poisson, …)! Sans doute une des meilleures bouffes du voyage jusqu’à aujourd’hui.

Notre Géo Trouvetou s’appelle Xu Bin (徐斌). Bien qu’il paraisse plus jeune que nous, il a déjà 35ans. Fils d’une famille de paysans, il est originaire de la région de Jiangshan (江山, dans les environs de Quzhou), qui, nous dit-il, est également la terre de Dai Li (戴笠), espion de Tchang Kaï-chek (蒋介石), considéré pas les communistes comme un traître, voire même le Himmler de Chine (中国的希姆莱).

Dès petit déjà, Xu Bin commençait à réaliser des invention: à 19 ans, une machine pour buter la terre, et à 21 ans, un tricycle motorisé, évitant, ainsi à ses parents des fatigues supplémentaires. Aujourd’hui, grâce notamment à l’usine de son père fabriquant des pompes à eau (水泵), il a pu fabriquer son engin volant: un gyrocoptère (自转旋翼机), et a effectué son premier vol fin 2005. Pourquoi un gyrocopyère? Parce que c’est l’un des engins volants les moins compliqué, contrairement à l’hélicoptère. Aujourd’hui, il est de plus en plus sollicité pour des interviews. Nombreux sont les journalistes qui viennent s’intéresser à lui, ce qui lui permet de se faire connaître et de vendre des pièces détachées pour toutes sortes de machines volantes, sans pour autant avoir enregistrer sa compagnie (Mais en Chine, le marché noir est largement toléré!). Il a tout de même quatre ouvriers qui travaillent pour lui, et son business commence à marcher, nous dit-il.

Avec son gyrocoptère, il a réussi à voler jusqu’à 400~500m d’altitude. Aujourd’hui, il ne peut guère voler au dessus de 5m, car les autorités aériennes l’ont à l’œil. En effet, les gouvernement central et local ont peur que d’autres lbx cherchent à l’imiter. Pour avoir effectué un vol à un mois des Jeux Olympiques de Pékin, il a dû payer une amende de 10.000 yuan et s’est fait confisquer son engin jusqu’à la fin des JO. Délit: « vol illégal » (违法飞行). Normalement, il pourrait demander un permis de voler. Il a essayé. Mais les différents bureaux se renvoient continuellement la balle, et Xu Bin n’a donc jamais pu obtenir le sésame. Aujourd’hui, il est tout de même toléré, mais doit de préférence aller dans les endroits peu peuplés, comme les montagnes. “只要不出什么麻烦，就没有人会管你的。已经被默认飞行不是违法的。” (« Du moment que tu ne causes pas d’ennuis, personne ne va se mêler de tes affaires. Les vols sont reconnus tacitement comme n’étant pas illégaux. »). Mais il préfère faire ses essais en dehors de la province du Zhejiang, où les autorités le surveillent de près. C’est sans difficultés qu’il démonte sa machine pour l’embarquer dans sa voiture vers d’autres provinces du pays, et entre autres le Xinjiang, la plus grande.

En évoquant l’attitude exagérément policière des autorités, il nous avoue déplorer quelque peu la situation politique de son pays: « Le système politique de notre pays ne va pas. Les hauts fonctionnaires ne voient pas plus loin que le bout de leur nez. Il ne savent que bouffer, boire et jouer, mais n’aiment pas que les autres accomplissent des choses. ». Au début de notre rencontre, croyant qu’il avaient affaire à des connaisseurs en machine volantes, il semblait un peu déçu de tomber sur trois trois voyageurs errant à travers les provinces de Chine. Mais au il de la conversation, il devient vite plus bavard, et face aux étrangers que nous sommes, en vient à passer outre les barrière du politiquement correct. Lui expliquant que nous sommes à la recherche du peu de vestiges culturels préservés, il réagit assez vite: « Mao Zedong a détruit beaucoup. Les jeunes Chinois d’aujourd’hui n’ont plus de repères. ». Et que ce soit concernant les problèmes ahurissants qu’il rencontre pour essayer de voler ou pour tout autre sujet, les journalistes prennent le soin de filtrer les informations: «
Les médias parlent pour le Parti Communiste. ».

Mais ce n’est ni le système, ni ces branleurs de fonctionnaires qui mettront fin à son rêve. Malgré toutes les difficultés qu’il a rencontrées, il continue à se consacrer à sa passion: voler, améliorer ses machines volantes, enseigner son savoir à des disciples, vendre des pièces détachées, … Même sans avoir eu son bac, cela ne l’a pas empêché d’apprendre en feuilletant des magazines, cherchant sur le net, …

Lorsque nous quittons le resto, où, pour une raison inconnue, il paie la note (alors que nous avions dit que nous l’invitions), nous remontons dans sa voiture pour nous rendre dans l’usine de son père, voir son gyrocoptère. Sur le chemin, il poursuit son récit. En dépit des obstacles qui se sont dressé devant lui, il a bien l’intention de continuer vers la voie de l’indépendance et de l’entrepreneuriat. Jamais, nous dit-il, il n’ira bosser dans un bureau pour un patron. Et des obstacles il en a eu, pas seulement de la part des autorité, mais également dans son entourage. Au début, son père ne l’encourageait pas, comme tout le reste de sa famille d’ailleurs… Ils le prenaient tous pour un fou et considéraient qu’il perdait son temps. Aujourd’hui, ils sont plutôt fiers et le soutiennent. Mais il garde cependant une rancœur amère contre son père qui l’a souvent critiqué, jusqu’à précise-t-il, ruiner la vie de sa fille. En effet, Xu Bin est marié et a une fille née prématurément. Les médecins voulaient laisser l’enfant en couveuse un mois, mais sous pression du père de Xu Bin, elle n’y est restée que 10 jours. Elle est aujourd’hui paralysée…

Andy et Xu Bin devant le gyrocoptère 4ème génération

Lorsque nous arrivons dans ce qui ressemble à une usine désaffectée, un ouvrier qui bosse encore en cette nuit de réveillon, vient nous ouvrir la grille, sous les aboiements d’un chien attaché par une chaîne à côté de sa gamelle. Lorsque nous découvrons la bête, nous sommes un peu sidérés. Personnellement, quand on m’a parlé au début d’un engin volant, j’ai d’abord pensé à un avion, car le mot chinois feiji (飞机, mot-à-mot ‘machine volante’) signifie ‘avion’, mais constitue également un mot générique pour tout engin volant. Même l’hélicoptère est, en chinois, une sorte d’avion, puisqu’il se dit zhisheng-feiji (直升飞机, mot-à-mot: ‘avion qui vole verticalement’ ou ‘machine volante qui monte verticalement’). Quoi qu’il en soit, je m’attendais à quelque chose de fini, avec une carapace, une porte, etc. Mais ce que je vois devant moi paraît très superficielle. Nous ne pouvons nous empêcher de rire en imaginant qu’il ait pu voler avec ça. Ce n’est en fait que le squelette d’une machine assez simple, qu’aurait pu dessiner Leonard de Vinci. Voler dans ce genre d’engin, c’est un peu tourner un film muet en noir et blanc, c’est revenir à fin du XIXème siècle.

Evan et Xu Bin

Ce que l’on voit devant nous, c’est une chaise en plastique fixée sur une ossature reposant sur trois petite roulette et surmontée d’une hélice en alu. Derrière, est accroché un bidon de carburant. Devant, le pilote a la main droite sur un manche qui permet d’orienter l’hélice du dessus ainsi que les freins, et la main gauche sur un autre manche qui contrôle la vitesse. Et le tout se démonte en 2h et se remonte en 2h30. Tout simplement hallucinant!!! Il n’y a qu’un savant fou pour décoller dans un tel engin. Mais l’air de rien, notre Paul Cornu chinois a déjà atteint la vitesse de 100km/h en volant à 20m du sol. Derrière le grand local, se trouve une autre pièce qui est l’atelier de Xu Bin, où sont entreposés trois autres engins similaires, les première, deuxième et troisième génération du xubin-coptère.

"Rien à l'horizon, Capitaine!"

Étant donné l’obscurité, nous avons du mal à prendre des bons clichés. Il nous invite donc à revenir demain matin. Notre inventeur nous raccompagne alors jusqu’à notre petit hôtel merdique. Nous le remercions et montons nous coucher. Enfin…, c’est ce que nous croyons avant que quelqu’un vienne frapper à 22h30 à notre porte. Quand j’ouvre, je ne peux me retenir de lâcher un “肏” (« Putain! ») en voyant qu’il s’agit de 3 flics. C’est sans surprise qu’ils nous disent qu’on ne peut pas rester ici et qu’il n’y a que deux hôtels en ville où nous pouvons rester, tout en jetant rapide un coup d’œil à nos passeports qu’ils font mine de comprendre. Énervés, Evan et moi leur expliquons que nous voulons bien aller ailleurs, mais qu’il faut que ce soit le même prix, car nous ne pouvons pas dépenser des sommes astronomiques pour une chambre d’hôtel. Ils nous disent que ce sera sûrement plus cher. Je réponds alors: “那我们就在派出所门口搭帐篷。” (« Alors, on campe devant le commissariat! »). Embarrassés mais campés (eux aussi) sur leur position, ils esquissent un rire jaune en nous répétant que nous ne pouvons de toute façon pas rester ici. Evan monte sur ses grands chevaux. Il demande de quel droit nous sommes traités ainsi? Il y a un hôtel, une chambre, des lits, nous payons et donnons nos numéros de passeports. “这是人种歧视！” (« C’est de la discrimination raciale! »), crie Evan. Ce que nient les flics, en essayant par une maladroite pirouette d’expliquer cette différence de traitement entre Chinois et étrangers. L’un essaie d’argumenter: “你们那边也是这样！” (« Chez vous aussi c’est comme ça! »). Bien tenté, connard! On lui explique la réalité des faits: “不是！在我们国家本国人和外国人都可以随便住想住的地方！” (« Non, chez nous, les nationaux et les étrangers peuvent rester dormir où ils veulent! »). Ayant épuisé toutes ses cartes, il nous lance alors: “每个国家都有自己的规定！” (« Chaque pays a ses règles! »). Ça a le mérite d’être honnête!

Ils nous proposent d’appeler les hôtels autorisés à nous recevoir pour bénéficier d’un rabais. Mais ayant trouvé une chambre à 40yuan, nous ne voulons pas payer un yuan de plus. Ils nous disent que nous devons de toute façon quitter les lieux. Mais vu l’heure, nous demandons un minimum de clémence. J’explique à l’un d’eux: “你可能喜欢加班，这是你的选择。我可以理解。 可是现在10点半了。你们就让我们住一天吧。” (« Peut-être que tu aimes faire des heures sup’, c’est ton choix. Je peux comprendre. Mais il est déjà 22h30. Laissez nous dormir un jour. »). Réponse: non! Mais quelques minutes plus tard, alors que nous remballons nos affaires et nous apprêtons à partir vers le commissariat pour installer nos tentes, ils reviennent en nous disant que nous pouvons rester. Ils vont juste prendre nos passeports, allez dans un de ces hôtels chers pour nous y enregistrer, tout en nous laissant rester ici cette nuit. Ils reviennent avec nos passeports une demi-heure plus tard. Nous les remercions brièvement. Leur petite magouille leur permet d’obéir aux ordres sans avoir à nous déloger. Nous nous recouchons, sans savoir si nous pourrons encore rester demain.

Xu Bin seraient sûrement d’accord avec moi: les fonctionnaires sont vraiment des branleurs payés à enculer les mouches. Bon… Lui, le dirait avec d’autres mots, évidemment…

Jour 95 (25/12/09)

Quzhou(衢州)

Province du Zhejiang(浙江省)

Xu Bin nous a proposé de revenir ce matin pour prendre de meilleures photos. Nous ne tardons pas à nous lever et allons vite prendre un petit-déjeuner avant de sauter dans un taxi qui nous emmène jusqu’à l’usine. Xu Bin arrive avec un peu de retard, et nous re-photographions sa machine volante sous tous les angles. Lorsque nous repartons dans sa voiture, il nous explique devoir faire un petit détour chez ses parents. Nous découvrons sa petite fille, qui est en fait plus atteinte qu’on ne le pensait. Elle ne peut ni marcher ni manger toute seule et est aussi mentalement atteinte. Elle a besoin d’une assistance continue. Xu Bin nous fait monter à l’étage où des médecins aident plusieurs autres gamin à essayer de faire un pas devant l’autre et leur massent des jambes. A force de rester assis, nous explique l’inventeur, leurs membres deviennent paresseux, et il faut donc les stimuler pour éviter que le problème ne s’aggrave. Je me dis, en repartant, que sa fille a au moins la chance d’avoir un père inventeur, qui pourra peut-être lui fabriquer une chaise pouvant l’aider à être plus autonome.

Xubin-coptère 4ème génération (1)

Xubin-coptère 4ème génération (2)

Xubin-coptère 4ème génération (3)

Xubin-coptère 4ème génération (4)

Xu Bin et sa machine volante

Ouvrier fabriquant des pièces de pompes à eau

Nous rentrons à notre hôtel, sans oublier de remercier notre ami, et entrons discrètement dans notre chambre pour prendre nos ordinateurs avant de ressortir. Pourquoi discrètement? Car nous craignons que le propriétaire, en nous voyant, nous demande de partir! Nous allons donc passer toute la journée et toute la soirée dans un café wifi. Pour cette soirée de 25 décembre, je sors m’offrir, après un plat de nouilles hui de Lanzhou, un gâteau à la groseille dans la pâtisserie d’en face. Compte tenu des circonstances et du lieu, je déguste mon gâteau avec satisfaction. Nous repartons du café à minuit, heure de fermeture et retournons discrètement dans notre hôtel, avant de nous coucher.

A smiling Xu Bin stands next to his fourth-generation gyroplane, by Andy

I first became acquainted with the legend of the LBX who built his own flying machine about two years ago when a friend sent me a link to this viral video on Youku. I was blown away at the time but hadn’t given any thought to the feat — or any of the other LBX-built flying jalopies popping up on the internet — until Andy and I got a chance tip from our Free More News interviewer, Lu Junting. Responding to my personal interest in aviation, she told us she had followed for a story — and more importantly knew how to contact — the nongcun Leonardo of web fame: Xu Bin (徐斌). Armed with his general location, Quzhou city in southwestern Zhejiang province, and his cell phone number, we made plans to stop in on our way west to Jiangxi.

A few days before arrival in Quzhou, I called and arranged a meeting. Xu sounded understandably confused on the phone — “You’re three foreigners… riding bikes… around China… and you want to talk to me…?” — but in the end all was arranged. Once our injured teammate/photographer Andy had bused into town to rejoin us, we set our meeting on the night of Christmas Eve.

As promised, he was waiting for us in the new economic zone way outside the city center, looking even more confused than he had sounded on the phone to see three scraggly bearded foreigners piling out of a cab to see him. All the same, he transferred us into his little Toyota sedan parked in the courtyard of his family’s hotel next door and drove us to a fish restaurant he knew around the corner. Once in, the 35 year old Bin, about 5’4″ and weighing maybe 120 pounds soaking wet, finally asked what we were up to. He betrayed a glimmer of disappointment upon learning that we were not in fact foreign aviation experts, the same disappointment he expressed later to find out that we Americans haven’t quite achieved Jetson’s-like frequency of personal aircraft ownership.

From Farmer to Flier

Xu Bin, you see, was born a peasant in Jiangshan about forty kilometers from where we were dining. His father had been a carpenter (in addition to being a farmer, like everybody else at the time) who had learned how to build water pumps. Once he had the art down and the planned economy was opened up, the elder Xu hung up his carpenter’s square to open a small manufacturing operation out of his house. It was in this environment that Xu Bin grew up and acquired all the machining skills he would later put to more creative uses.

Even before his father opened the small shop, Xu had always been technically inclined. He recalled for us his disdain for the laborious chore of planting rice seedlings and how he invented a motorized planting machine to ease the burden. Later, around the age of 19, he assembled from a salvaged small tractor engine and various scrap parts a three wheel motorcycle for his family’s ease in getting around their mountainous village. At the time, motorcycles existed in various places but were neither available nor affordable to such a backwater family as Xu’s.

Xu studied only to the second year of high school before dropping out to work in his father’s workshop full time. School, it dawned upon him, “couldn’t teach me anything useful anymore.” In the following year or two he “learned all there was to learn” in the factory about simple pump parts, the designs to which his conservative father never allowed him to modify. Brimming over with unvented creative energy, Bin saw it was time to get to some really important business: realizing his lifelong dream of building a flying machine.

He began in 1995 with the grandiose vision of assembling his own helicopter. Mind you, back then the internet wasn’t available for peasants like him. So he had to rely on pictures in periodicals and whatever technical material was available in circulation — so not a whole hell of a lot. Unfortunately, it turned out that helicopters are about the most impossibly complicated machines around. “America is so advanced, but look at all the helicopter crashes they have,” he said by way of explanation.

However, a few years later his lucky day finally came when he first read about gyroplanes (autogyro is the formal name). It’s the easiest flying machine for a novice to build and arguably the safest, since it glides gently to the ground under its rotors in the event of engine failure. Thus it happened that with some rough designs he had seen in the magazine, his few years of accumulated amateur aeronautical knowledge, and a whole lot of gumption, he headed into his father’s shop and got to work. Several times over the next few years he polished his designs and paid frequent visits to the China Helicopter Design Research Institute in nearby Jingdezhen. At the same time he built a test gyroplane to be hauled from behind his friend’s truck to teach himself how to handle the thing in the air — an internationally accepted training method he employed hundreds of times before actually attempting powered flight. Over the years that he worked on his machine, the internet gradually became available, allowing Xu to further polish his creation, which he frequently tested at extremely low heights and times to guarantee its safe handling.

When finally he did fly more than a foot off the ground in 2005, the media was there (video in Chinese). He took off not far from his father’s new pump factory, which had moved to the industrial zone of Quzhou a few years earlier. After the flight, which stirred up instant buzz all over the country, Xu was summoned to the local Civil Aviation Bureau (民航局), where he was told that he had “brought honor to Quzhou.” In a pretty clever political move, he had painted “Made in Quzhou” on the side of his gyroplane for the event. The next time he flew with cameras in the area, however, the headlines highlighted the flight’s illegality, rather than the innovation. That’s where the trouble started.

The Fight for the Right to Flight

The authorities were less cordial on his second trip to the Civil Aviation Bureau of Quzhou: “Who told you you could go around flying like this?” The eventual result of that little visit was a 10,000 yuan (~$1500 USD) fine and a warning not to violate again — or else.

The law for which he had been cited was flying without permission, not flying an unlicensed machine. According to Xu, his aircraft is perfectly legal in China even without a license. The laws governing aviation in China, he told us, were essentially borrowed directly from the US aviation code, including those concerning ultralights. The US law allows for aircraft under 155 kg and carrying less than 19 L of fuel to fly without restrictions. Unfortunately for Xu, however, what’s written on books often doesn’t carry over into actual implementation in China’s legal system. Local officials play stalling games every time he requests a takeoff, so he’s effectively forbidden to fly in his home of Quzhou.

In an attempt to throw down the gauntlet, Xu made a trip to Shanghai to speak with members of the State Aviation Bureau, whom he described as extremely glib but completely unwilling to hear his case. He stepped it up a notch by bringing press cameras with him the second time out, which elicited an unexpected reaction. “They talk and talk when I’m alone with them, but show the officials a camera, and they shut right up,” said Xu. Even when he threw a copy of the actual aviation code, highlighting the portion about ultralights, onto the desk of the Bureau in Shanghai, they told him flatly, “No go. We can’t give you authorization.” Eventually a few months later, they gave him a call and admitted, “We’ve discussed the matter out and reread the law. We see no reason you can’t fly as long as you get authorization from the local bureau.” Unfortunately, the locals have yet to see it Xu’s way and continue to give him the runaround.

Now that he’s pretty sure that testing his luck again with this bunch will end in something pretty bad, he doesn’t try flying more than a few feet off the ground at home base anymore. Nevertheless, the resourceful Xu has been successful in finding ways to get airborne. His entire gyroplane, including rotors, can be deconstructed in two hours and packed into his Toyota sedan (yes, it’s really that small). This mobility allows him to bring his air show on the road frequently, to various localities where he’s been invited to put on exhibitions, to visit friends in more flight-friendly areas, and to any other unpopulated areas where he can get the gall up to fly. This summer Xu plans to travel to Xinjiang in response to the invitation of a flying club there to showcase the craft and try to break some new personal height records. So far he’s gotten his craft up to a height of around 500 meters and a top speed of around 100 km/h.

What’s more, Xu has adopted several “apprentices” in the art of building and flying gyroplanes. The two closest of these kindred spirits come from Anhui and Guangdong. Both have much better relations with their local aviation bureaus, and Xu often finds himself making the trip to visit them for a spot of implicitly permitted, semi-illegal fying. In addition to granting him access to more aviation sites, his apprentices, and by extension all those to whom they teach the trade, are all potential customers in Xu’s grander scheme: manufacturing and selling custom gyroplane parts.

A Look to the Future

After all the stories had been told, and we’d stuffed ourselves on the delicious food, Xu rushed to the counter to pay for the meal despite the fact we’d invited him and were all screaming with hundred RMB notes in our hands at the server. Despite his quirky history, the man’s Chinese core comes out when it’s time to display generosity. After dinner, he loaded us in the car again to drive us over to his pride and joy for picture taking and more discussion. When we arrived at his dad’s pump parts factory five minutes later, I commented how conveniently everything was spaced. “Oh yes, reporters love coming to interview me. We put them up in the family hotel, where we live. The factory is just around the corner, and so is the site where I first flew.”

A worker in the Xu family factory produces pump parts, by Andy

Once past the locked gate, the barking dog, and the old man sleeping behind the front door, we were inside a little wonderland of machines, pump parts, wildly strewn scrap metal, and… several chickens, just in case we had forgotten we were in China. Right in the corner adjacent to the door sat the shining beauty, which honestly looked like a glorified three wheel go-kart with a Chinese flag themed aileron welded to the back. Xu led the close inspection, pointing out the throttle, the steering stick, and all the other moving parts he had assembled from scratch. In a shed out back which seemed to have been the site of an explosion, Xu showed us three more gyroplanes — including a two-seater — in various states of disassembly. “This is my workshop,” explained the quintessential messy genius. The engines, the most expensive bit, were all secondhand, Japanese-made machines picked up here and there. He claims to be able to build an entire gyroplane on less than 40,000 yuan (~$5900).

One thing was missing from all of the planes though — hey, where are the rotors? He led us back to his fourth-generation model and pointed at the rotors he had disassembled to fit the machine through the door easily and which go back on, “in a snap.”But then I noticed behind the machine not just one rotor, but nearly a hundred aluminum blades stacked neatly against the wall, and finally Xu’s plans for the future unfolded.

“It’s illegal for me to sell a whole gyroplane, or even to sell something as a part of one under current regulations in China. Of course, I could try, but if there were a problem, they’d come find me.” So what Xu does instead is sell parts he personally machines in the factory or rotor blades of his own design that he has manufactured by the hundreds. Since the essential parts he sells are almost unheard of in China, and he’s the biggest name in gyroplanes due to his media attention, business has been growing exponentially for Xu. Once he realized he could prosper from his gyroplane business alone, he washed his hands of the pump business and devoted all his energies to his new endeavor. Currently he’s adding an additional wing to his father’s pump factory, under construction when we visited him, which he told us will house his own aeronautical works — with neatly arranged pieces and machines, he promised — and even his own employees one day. Once his gyroplane line is more or less perfected, Xu hopes to begin experimenting with other forms of ultralight flight, maybe even fixed wings.

Is he worried that the regulations won’t slacken up, or that his business will be shut down? “I’m convinced that over time the officials will understand that this is harmless and allow us to fly with fewer restrictions.” Is he worried that the economy might tank and discourage potential buyers from frivolously spending on flying gadgets? “As far as I’m concerned, everything always has to get better, so the economy should keep on getting better too.”

That night the pictures we took came out a little dark, and so we met him again on Christmas morning for general cheer and more shots of the flying gismos. This time around he met us with his personal business cards, which featured the name of his company which has not been registered and probably couldn’t be registered since it includes the word “flying machines,” a picture of him flying for the first time, offers for parts and training for flying machines, and his personal bank account number. The over-the-top cards rounded out the feeling of his whole enterprise as distinctly rural Chinese — complete with that allure of shanzhai je-ne-sais-quoi. All in all, the feeling we got was that Xu’s future prospects are on the up and up.

The Personal Life of a Misunderstood Genius

Despite the rising star over Xu’s niche of Chinese private aviation, it hasn’t quite been smooth sailing back at the homestead. For one, his impassioned pursuits have put great strain on his relationship with his father, whose mindset is as bullheadedly traditional as Xu’s is pioneering. Once Xu got bored with his repetitive work at the pump factory, he started neglecting his duties there to the point that business was affected. His father, along with many in his family and the greater community, saw his tinkering as grossly over-extended, adolescent time-wasting. Nobody from his close circle, a group of people who had grown up during and immediately after the darkest years of Mao’s specter over the country, saw value in much outside of pure survival, let alone countless hours pored on reconstructing a seemingly impossible apparatus that could bring no apparent benefit to the family. Nevertheless, his father never denied use of the factory and equipment to Xu, despite vehement disapproval of his lifestyle. Everything took a positive turn in family relations for Xu from the day of his first successful flight, after which he told his pops something along the lines of, “I ain’t gonna work in the pump factory no more,” withdrew himself entirely therefrom, and devoted all his creative energies to his own business.

Strife, however, is a two way street in the Xu family, as Xu told us that he blames his father for the condition of his daughter. Little Xu Wei, we were told, was born two months premature and was placed into the hospital’s ICU due to her severely low body weight. The doctors ordered that she be cared for in an incubator for at least a month to be given a shot at growing up normal. The extremely traditional elder Xu, however, insisted that she be brought back to the family home in Jiangshan immediately. After a heated fight with the hospital staff, Xu removed his little daughter after only seven days back to their mountainside village home, far from modern medicine. Xu is sure that it was the hasty retreat from the hospital that resulted in his now 7 year old daughter to be unable to walk or use her hands very dexterously. “I’ll never forgive him for that,” said Xu, who on that very day was going to drive his father back to Jiangshan to help him process his government pensions. Thus is the Chinese way: burying bitter enmity toward kinfolk while seldom deigning to dally in the realm of the unfilial.

We met Xu’s precious little daughter playing cards by herself under the protection of her grandmother in the hotel’s lobby. All things considered, she is probably lucky to have for her father the resourceful Xu, who looks at his daughter’s condition as just another challenge in the complicated puzzle of his life. Upon learning that the best care for children in her condition is regular physical therapy, Xu located and contacted a group of reputed therapists in far away Shijiazhuang up in Northern China. Seeing the difficulty in regularly transporting his family over a thousand kilometers for treatment, he conjured a very elegant solution to his problem. First he rallied all families of special needs children from his area together, and then he invited a group of specialists from the northern hospital to establish a permanent clinic on the second floor of his family’s hotel, in addition to providing them free rooms. Now not only does his daughter have access to therapy nearly seven days a week just a flight of stairs above her home, but similar children from all over Quzhou have access to treatment not previously available. Talk about making lemonade. Since the birth of his daughter, Xu and his wife of 29 have had a son, who was born in good health.

Xu Bin posing with us in front of his newest gyroplane, by Andy

Despite all the various obstacles in the way of his dream, Xu Bin is a man spilling over with optimism and energy. “Flying has completely changed my life,” he told us. ”I used to be afraid to talk to people I didn’t know or even to leave my home. Now I travel all over the country and love to promote myself.” He has found his calling in the development of personal flight in China and sees himself — justifiably — as one of the pioneers in that field. We certainly hope that the next time we find Xu, who warmly welcomed “his first foreign friends” to return to visit as often as possible, he’ll have surmounted even more of the walls in the way of his greatness.

For more photos from Xu Bin’s workshop, click here.

Chinese material on Xu Bin:

Article 1

Article 2

First and foremost, I’d like to wish everybody who cares a Merry Christmas. As I write this post on December 25th in the Sun Party cafe of Quzhou, I am physically surrounded by cheap Chinese renditions of Christmas paraphernalia and stereos blaring a strange holiday music mix of about ten songs on endless repeat, but as for the rest of the world outside the window, today remains just another day in a big, polluted, frantic urban mess. In a way I’m relieved that the commercial nightmare back home snuck up on us without my realizing it.

Back to the blog, here goes a review of our activities since last I updated. Before leaving Jingning, I stumbled across a She clothing shop all done up in quasi-traditional wooden motifs outside and was culturally compelled to enter. In the store the two young She girls working the floor explained to me that the She people’s traditional symbol is the phoenix, and let me tell you, they put it on everything. The shop, they told me, is one of a very few in the whole world that produces traditional She wardrobes (most She now dress the same as their Han counterparts, i.e. neo-modern tacky for youth or standard black LBX garb for the older generation). Apparently they even sell some outfits to overseas Chinese restaurants as uniforms — cool. Upon request, I got a tour of the upstairs workroom, where I had a funny conversation with the head seamstress. “The phoenix is the symbol of us, the She people. (凤凰是我们畲族的吉祥物),” she told me. Oh, you’re a She as well, I asked. “Well, no, but I know a lot about that sort of thing.” Oh you silly poser Han! At the end, I wanted to pick up one of their really cool shirts, but realizing it impractical to lug around for the rest of the year, I compromised and had a phoenix sewed onto my Under Armor shirt — now equally sweat-wicking and auspicious!

A sampling of traditional She minority outfits on sale in Jingning. They are used almost exclusively for formal She events and song/dance galas.

It's not the size of the phoenix - it's how you wear it

Next door to the clothiers we followed our curiosity into a store selling the local specialty Huiming Tea (慧明茶) and asked the young girl at the counter for an explanation of the tea’s history and characteristics, to which she responded with a blank look of stupefaction. Not five seconds later, however, a middle aged man emerged from within and magnanimously offered to respond for the girl, whose face flushed with relief (must have been overwhelmed by our stunning good looks). Mr. Lin, a friend of the owner who happened to be sitting in the shop doing some work, instructed the girl to pour us all glasses of the shop’s finest leaves and led us into the back room to sit, savor, and speak. “You can’t stand and drink fine tea,” he explained. “Drinking tea is all about the culture of it — appreciating the aroma, taking small sips, enjoying your environment, and accompanying the experience with refined conversation.” And refined conversation we had. Mr. Lin, a Han, talked at length about his home of Jingning, the She, tea, and the changing times. He spoke wistfully of bygone days when people appreciated the culture of their own home, saw beauty in good traditions, and valued their own dialect (his own children have forgotten their native tongue and speak to him in Mandarin) — things he sees slipping off the face of the land and into the realm of history. Amazingly he then added, “We can’t even be sure the culture will be preserved in history, because as you know, the history in the books here isn’t always true.” Wow. After thirty minutes of enlightened discussion, we exchanged information and parted — but not before one last question. What is it you do for a living that your speech is so scholarly and you spend afternoons in tea houses, Mr. Lin? “I write party history (我写党史).” His avowal both stunned me and made sense at the same time — he has the perfect vantage point to see what’s going on, even if he’s a part of the process he laments at the same time. Alexis today found that he had written about his encounter with us in his blog (in Chinese). Apparently we made quite an impression on him.

The next morning after a brief return to the clothing shop to pick up some spare phoenixes (you just never know), and a little chat with the owner (a She woman who was recruited at the age of 18 to sing and dance for the local Department of Culture and never left the entertainment circle and her Han husband who collects and resells ancient stone artifacts from the area), we took our leave toward Quzhou, where we’d pick up Andy, finally feeling knee-ready. Of course, we didn’t make our goal of arriving halfway to our final destination (I don’t know why we still bother to make plans), and night fell on us in the middle of a secluded, mountainous back road. A quick search yielded a flat bank along the side of a clear babbling creek, down to which we scrambled the 4 meter drop and set up our tents only just before it went pitch black. Again I slept poorly in the tent, plagued by weird nightmares about wolves with razor blades. Alexis hardly slept at all due to the cold, which we found in the morning had manifested itself in the form of ice everywhere — on the tent, on the ground, on the bikes, and in our bones. We didn’t get up the gumption to start packing until 9am (had to wait for it to warm up), and by then a road crew had installed a metal barrier along the road above our location, adding a level of complication to our sortie. How they happened to be scheduled for that installation on that exact part of the road on the day of our frigid misery is really evidence that there is a force greater than we in this world — and that force has a sick sense of humor.

Think we were cold sleeping in those?

From there we continued in our usual undulating up and down mountain cycling pattern along different streams and through various small villages. Lunch was fried rice noodles and eggs à la Zhejiang (鸡蛋炒粉干), the same thing we eat almost every meal these days, but augmented by a plate of fried fungal delicacy. This region, we found, in addition to being planted with the highest proportion of tea trees we’ve seen so far, is through the roof in production of shiitake mushrooms (香菇) — hardly any farm we passed for two days was without rows of mushroomery. Seeing a farm woman pulling the visqueen from over her rows of mushrooms, we stopped to request enlightenment. Apparently around this time every year the locals go into the forests to chop live wood and bring it back home to pulverize it. The wood chips are then stuffed into little plastic sacks, into which the farmers place some shiitake cultures before stacking them out in the sun. Every morning at 4am somebody goes into the mushroom shelter to look for new growths in the sacks and cut a little hole to let them emerge. Once given a space through which to grow, the mushrooms are full sized and ready to be picked in 2-3 days. What does our farm girl think of the flavor of her shrooms? “We’ve been around them for so many years that I can’t stand the taste of them anymore,” she confessed. All the same they’re selling for 8 yuan / kg, the highest price she can ever remember. Incidentally, I thought they were a homerun.

This kind women, here lifting the plastic coverings from her mushroom green house, explained to us how Shiitakes are cultivated in the region

Inside of the Shiitake green house

Down the road a little we came across Shicang village (石苍村) some of the most beautiful architecture we’ve seen so far — several well preserved, white walled, slanted-roofed, very large structures that seemed like temples at first sight. Upon closer investigation, we found out that they were in fact large, familial, communal houses, over a hundred years old apiece. The story goes that a long time ago the Que (阙) family moved into the region and set up shop. Gradually the Que’s grew to be the biggest name in the village until eventually — as now — they were the only family. The large houses we saw were built from necessity to hold ever expanding branches of the Que family. The inside of the houses were gorgeous, something right out of a book, and the kind of place you’d hardly expect to find outside of a museum. In the middle of the largest house throngs of old Que’s sat in a courtyard focused around the Que ancestral shrine, where old women were worshiping as we visited. It was like stepping back in time 100 years. The only man in the house who could speak Mandarin explained that the house had survived the Red Guards since the houses weren’t owned by landlords but rather by families already leading a traditional, communal lifestyle. It turned out that the winter solstice, to be the day after our visit there, was the Que family’s biggest holiday, and again we were invited to stay in the village. Alas, we had to push on to reunite with our long lost teammate. On our way out of the village, past old men sitting around smoking pipes, operating mushroom-drying rooms and drying woodchips destined to be fungalized, a mentally handicapped woman ran up to us wailing before being called back into the house by another villager. It may just be time for the entry of a new surname or two to revitalize the Shicang gene pool.

View of a Que house from the road

In front of the largest Que house. Notice the drying mushrooms.

Entrance to the largest Que household

Old Que woman worshipping at the ancestral shrine

Shiitakes drying in Shicang

Not as psychedelic as some of their relatives sold in Amsterdam, but pretty delicious anyway

That night we again fell short of a distance goal and crashed out early — utterly exhausted I should add — in the mid-sized county capital of Songyang. The next morning we both woke up feeling sick and called Andy to push back our glorious reunion (not to mention the day I’d finally be getting my new camera) one more day. A day of rest under our belts, we woke up refreshed and scrammed as fast as we could to cover the 120 km to Quzhou, albeit after an 11am departure (we’re bad about this). We finally did get here after 7pm that night, riding the last 35 km in the dark alongside a national highway (exhilarating as always). In town we found a Giant bike shop and had some much-needed repairs done on the bikes. You see, 2 days before in the middle of a long tunnel my chain had broken and fallen off, and at the same time my front derailleur twisted in on itself in such a way as to impede my riding the bike — all inexplicably. In the dim light of the tunnel next to passing trucks I jury-rigged the puppy into semi-functionality, but then proceeded to click-click the rest of the 2 days of riding. Anyway, our new Giant bud showed me yet another time why I’m an idiot and pulled my chain from over the flap of metal I had caught it on. After some other adjustments and equipment purchases, we rolled blissfully noise-free toward the long-distance bus station into which Andy would be arriving presently, thus beginning the beginning of our Quzhou police saga.

The first hotel we tried showed us a room and agreed on a price before somebody remembered, “oh yeah, foreigners can’t stay here.” Oh well, it happens. So we went a little further and tried again. Again, the boss lady showed us a room and agreed on a price, but balked when she realized we had passports and not Chinese ID cards (what was she expecting?). Strike 2. We tried a more expensive looking joint, and again after agreeing on a price and being on the verge of moving in, the boss’s wife popped out of the woodwork to tell us it was a no-go. Strike 3, and it was time to try a new strategy — but just then Andy called to request a pick up from the station, except now it was raining. And Andy was sick. It was one of those days. Alexis and I deposited him in a Lanzhou noodles shop and determined to ride to the police station to demand where we could be lodged affordably. You see, in cities of this size, local regulations require foreigners to stay in laowai-lodging-license holding fancy expensive hotels. Just before we got to the cop shop, we spotted another small hotel and gave it a try — this time successfully. After fetching our Andy over to the little dump, we thought it was all over.

Christmas Eve, the following day, we met up with Xu Bin, the peasant who builds his own aircraft, and our whole reason for coming here in the first place. A post on him is coming next. At around 10:40pm that night after we had already gotten cozy under the covers, a familiar, heavy knock echoed through the tight, damp little wooden room. “Goddamn! (我操!),” Alexis exclaimed in Chinese to the two cops standing in our doorway. What came out of their mouths was predictable: “it’s not convenient for you to stay here,” “foreigners should stay in certain hotels,” “your countries have the same regulations,” “you can’t register properly here,” etc. I immediately shot back that we were already properly registered (I took special care to enter all the info into the computer system) and that their behavior was openly racist toward guests of the city. Alexis chimed in that we’d move only if they found us a hotel the same price as the one we were in and that we’d camp in front of the police station if a reasonable solution was not found. Seeing that we meant to make their implementation of a ridiculous regulation a giant headache, they finally took our passports to another hotel, registered us there falsely, and returned our documents to us, whereupon we were left in peace. We realized, of course, that they didn’t actually care whether we left or not but that they’d probably lose their jobs if their boss thought we hadn’t been relocated. So presto change-o, on the books we had moved, and the illusion of security was restored.

This morning we headed back to take more pictures of Xu Bin’s gyroplanes, and that brings us to back to right now in the Sun Party cafe. Barring any additional stupidity, tomorrow morning we’ll leave this middling abyss of Middle Kingdom oblivion and head to the traditional center of Chinese ceramics, Jingdezhen. Until then, I hope you all got less coal in your stockings than China deserves jammed where the Sun Party don’t shine. Good night.