I am writing this post just to convey the events of yesterday, which may stand as one of the most ridiculous days of the journey so far.

A nice place to camp, by Andy

I woke up in my sleeping bag around 7. The wind, which was blowing so furiously the night before I thought my fly would rip itself in half, was by now completely still. Andy and I climbed out of the tents nearly simultaneously. We hadn’t showered in three days and had camped on the open grassland two nights running. We sun dried the flies and packed up quickly. I took one last look from the top of the hill over the half-mile-deep crevasse behind us and the half-mile-high mountain ridge before us. We both munched down a few handfuls of trail mix, planning to be in the next township of Yangxia (羊峽鎮) around lunchtime. Bikes packed and sunscreen applied, we began crawling up the long mountain road.

About 10 km into the ride, the scenery became so stunning I felt I was in a scene from Lord of the Rings. For days now, our surroundings have grown steadily drier, and the peaks starker. At points it felt like riding across the face of the moon, if the moon had some sparse grass, a few herds of sheep, and an occasional Tibetan. For almost the last month, our route has been so naturally resplendent and wild that I almost completely forgot we were in China.

This is what I mean by "the face of the moon," by Andy

About twenty km in, my rear derailleur cable frayed, and soon thereafter went snap, crackle, and pop, reducing my 21 speeds to 3. As roads in this part of Qinghai dive and climb more sharply than a roller coaster, this slowed the going.

At 45 km in, we arrived before the second most breathtaking ravine I’ve ever seen (after only the Grand Canyon): Longyang Canyon (龍羊峽) on the Yellow River. Just across the man-made reservoir was visible the township of Yangxia (羊峽鎮), where we had planned all along to soothe our growling stomachs. The following ten km were a giddy, winding free-fall around dozens of switchbacks. The milestones on our road from the previous town had all along seemingly counted down to the point where we’d cross the river into town. At the bottom of the switchbacks, the road suddenly dead-ended into the 383 square kilometer reservoir like a boat slip. An old man pumping water out of his boat next to the slip pointed me up a dirt road to the southern end of the dam, where the presence of a military post seemed to confirm our worst fears.

Longyang Canyon from above. Don't be fooled by the blue water -- that is indeed the Yellow River. by Andy

You see, the day before, a nice Tibetan guy the town at the head of the road, called Guomaying (過馬營鎮), who had just bought us rose-flavored soda waters — after the store owner had insisted the entire province had no bottled water — informed us we’d need a “travel permit (通行證)” to take our intended route. This sounded stupid, since no maps or signs anywhere indicated any kind of military base or hiatus in the roads there. Nor did we see any indications of this nature on the entire approach to the dam. We might have considered changing our route from Guomaying to Gonghe (103 km) on his advice, if the next fastest route hadn’t been 309 km through Xining. Since Andy’s posse (girlfriend, dad, and dad’s girlfriend) had planned to meet us in Gonghe on the 10th, we had no option but to stick to our original plan.

So, we pushed the bikes up the gravel road to the guard kiosk on the southern end of the dam. A little PLA soldier, who couldn’t have been over 18 years old and 110 pounds, threw a hefty shotgun over his shoulders (I doubt he could have pulled the trigger without being propelled out into the reservoir) and walked out. The ensuing conversation was ridiculous to epic proportions:

Guard:     “What are you doing here? (你們來幹甚麼?)”
Me:         “We need to get over there. [pointing to Yangxia township about 500 meters across the water] (我們要過到那裡去)”
Guard:     “Do you have a dam-crossing permit? (你們有沒有過壩證?)”
Me:         “No. (沒有)”
Guard:     “Without a dam-crossing permit, you can’t cross. (沒有過壩證就不能過)”
Andy:        “Can one get a temporary dam-crossing permit? (能不能辦一個臨時過壩證?)
Guard:    “Yes, they’re 50 or 60 yuan. (可以，五、六十塊錢就能辦到)”
Me:        “Then we’d like to process a temporary dam-crossing permit. (那我們就辦臨時過壩證吧)”
Guard:    “Temporary permits are processed on the other side. (臨時證要在對面辦)”
Me:        “Then we’ll go to the other side and process one. (那我們先過去在對面辦一個證吧)”
Guard:    “You can’t cross. (你們不可以過去)”
Me:        “Why? (為甚麼?)”
Guard:    “Because you don’t have a dam-crossing permit! (因為沒有過壩證!)”
Me:        “So… how do we get across? (那麼，我們怎麼過去?)”
Guard:    “Where are you from? (你們的老家在哪兒?)”
Me:        “America. How do we get across? (美國。我們怎麼過去呢?)”
Guard:    “America! That’s really far away! (美國！好遠噢!)”
Me:        “Yes, it is far away. How do we get across? We’re really hungry, and we’d just like to get over there to eat. (是好遠。我們怎麼過去？我們現在非常的餓，只想過到那邊吃個飯.)”
Guard:    “Sorry, you need a dam-crossing permit to go there. (對不起，沒有過壩證就不能過去)”
Me:        “How do the locals get across? (當地人是怎麼過河的呢?)”
Guard:    “They have dam-crossing permits. (他們有過壩證).”
Me:        “We just rode a long way and are terribly hungry. Surely there must be a way!  (我們剛騎了很遠，現在非常的餓！肯定有辦法!)”
Guard:    “How did you get here? (你們是怎麼過來的?)”
Me:        [Andy and I, wearing bike shorts, jerseys, and helmets, both look at the bikes, which we pushed right up to the dam and which have been next to us the entire time] “Uhhhhh, on bikes! (啊啊啊啊啊，騎自行車來的!)”
Guard:    “Where did you come from? (從哪兒騎過來的?)”
Me:        [There is only one single road that leads to this point, and it comes from Guomaying 55 km to the south] “From Guomaying! (從過馬營過來的!)”
Guard:    “Then ride back there. (那你們就騎回去).” [If we rode back and around, it would now be 364 km to Gonghe instead of 46 km across the reservoir.]
Me:        “But we’re trying to get to Lake Qinghai! (可是我們要去青海湖!)”
Guard:    “Oh, you want to go to Lake Qinghai and ride your bikes? You’re going to compete in the Tour de Lake Qinghai! (噢，你們要去青海湖騎自行車是吧！ 要參加環湖比賽啊!)”
Me:        “Yes. (是的)” [We didn’t correct him on the second point since we figured it might help our case.]
Guard:    “When you came out touring, you didn’t think to process any permits? (你們出來旅遊沒想過要辦一些證件嗎?)”
Me:        “Uhhh, we got visas. (啊啊啊，我們辦了簽證)”
Guard:    “What? (什麼東西?)”
Andy:        “Passports! (護照!)”
Guard:    “…” [blank face]
Me:        “We’re in a rush here and have no time to go all the way around. That would be too far. What exactly are you afraid of here? We’re on bikes, and you have that gun. We’ll cross slowly with you behind us watching our every move, ok? (我們趕時間，繞過去太遠了。你到底怕甚麼呢？我們是騎自行車的，而且你手裡還握著那支槍。我們慢慢過去，你從後面跟著看著我們就沒事吧?)”
Guard:    “I can’t let you go without permission from my superiors. (沒有領導的批准就不能讓你們過)”
Me:        “Then please call your superiors and explain the situation! (那請跟你的領導聯系解釋我們的情況好吧!)”
Guard:    [Returns to kiosk, picks up telephone, pushes some buttons] “Hello, I have a situation here. Two Americans want to cross the dam… No, they don’t have dam-crossing permits… No, they’re on bikes… Ok. (喂，有個情況，來了兩個美國人，想過壩…沒有過壩證…不是，騎自行車來的…好的)” [hangs up phone]
Me:        “What did he say? (他說甚麼?)”
Guard:    “He’s asking. (他在幫你們問一下)”
[We wait patiently. A black sedan with tinted windows comes down the road, has the gate lifted for it, and is allowed to drive across. Now there is no doubt that the dam bridge is indeed crossable. At this point I see the CPI (China Power Investment Corporation) logo on the guard gate. In my previous life employed by an American nuclear power company in Shanghai, I used to work with this infernal company. I even shook hands with their CEO. I check to see if I had any numbers of influential people, but of course I’ve lost my phone twice since quitting. Then the phone rang in the kiosk. The guard picked it up, muttered a few words, and came back out.]
Guard:    “He doesn’t dare to let you cross. (他不敢放你們)”
Me:        “So what do we do? (那我們怎麼辦?)”
Guard:    “I don’t know. (不知道).” [He then returned to the kiosk.]

Zipping down to the reservoir. That's Yangxia township on the far right. by Andy

At this point I laid down on the outer wall and started mulling over our options. First I thought, maybe we should just camp next to the kiosk until they’re so embarrassed that they let us cross. Playing “face” games has usually worked in the past. Then I remembered that the Tibetan guy had said that buses could cross, and indeed we had seen a bus on the road coming from Gonghe. So I figured we’d just wait a few hours until that bus returned to Gonghe, flag it down, put our bikes in the hold, and cross that way. The guard even confirmed this would be ok. If we had wanted to blow the dam up, we could very easily have stuffed bombs into the luggage compartment of the bus and taken out some bystanders at the same time. But two guys on bikes, which we even offered to let them search if that would help our cause, could not be allowed to cross the dam, which constituted the only way across the Yellow River for well over 100 km in either direction!

As we waited, the guard seemed to forget our presence and any obligation of professionalism. Exiting the kiosk with the shotgun, he shouted to the dark green hovel behind us: “I’ve been out on guard for an hour and a half, somebody else come out and stand watch! (我上哨一個半小時了，換一個人來上哨!)” From within the hovel came a reply of “your mom’s stinky pu**y! (你媽的臭屄!)” More insults were tossed at the little guy until he finally gave up and returned, dejected, to the kiosk, gun still slung around his shoulder.

After a good while longer of sulking under the hot sun, the solution finally presented itself. A young guy of around 20, wearing top and bottom camo and an MTV trucker hat (universal hick attire) approached us. “I can get you across on my boat (我有船，幫你們渡過去吧),” he offered. The price quoted was 30 yuan, less than we would have paid even for a temporary dam-crossing permit, and so we were overjoyed.

The rip-off skiff, by Evan

We followed him down to the water and loaded our bikes onto his 20 foot (~6 meter) metal skiff. He then hopped on another boat (about ten were anchored there) and siphoned half a 10 gallon can of gas out of it. Engine gassed and running, we then found out that his boat was stuck on shore. The water level, he said, had gone down since he last went out a few days ago. So he called up his friend, who came out, started up his own skiff, and with a rope towed us out of the mud. During this de-sticking ordeal, our deliverer explained that even if locals get a dam-crossing permit, they’re only allowed to traverse the dam from 8:00 to 9:30 in the morning, all other times off limits! Anyway, we were finally off! As we passed by the side of the dam, it occurred to me how much easier it would be to attack the thing via water crossing, which was AOK with the soldiers, than from the road on top of it, which is monitored! Five minutes later we were on the other side and unloaded. The whole process had taken two hours, by far the longest we’ve ever needed for 500 meters!

On the other side, I pulled out a 50, the smallest bill I had, to pay our fisherman. He took it from me and said, “We agreed on 30, so with two people helping that’s 60, but I’ll take just take the 50 and call it quits (我們說好了30塊，兩個人幫忙就是60，可是我收你們50就夠了).” Of course, the price quoted was per person who helped, how stupid of us not to realize! Having no recourse and just relieved to have broken through to the other side, we let it go.

Once into the township of Yangxia, we quickly noticed that it was a decrepit ghost town. More than 2/3 of the buildings were abandoned and decaying. It was a creepy place, like a city from a zombie movie after everybody’s contracted the virus and is incubating underground. We found human activity only on a small stretch in the middle part of the town’s main street, where a few shops and restaurants were operating. The Mongolian owner of the noodle restaurant where we gorged ourselves informed us that it had been greatly built up during the construction of the dam and power plant, but that most of the buildings had sat empty for over twenty years since the work crews left. Oh China!

The badlands of Qinghai, by Andy

The ensuing route to Gonghe wound us through what looked like the American badlands on crack. This was what I had always envisioned when thinking about China’s Great Northwest (大西北)! Then on the final approach, the road was lined by farmhouses built of mud and stone, surrounded by earthen walls. Grasslands full of sheep and yaks gave way to farm fields, full not of Tibetan barley, but ripe wheat, which threshers were harvesting. We had returned to Han-dominated land, for the first time in over a month. Familiar old cries of “Hallo!” and “Laowai!” completed the transition. Finally, 100 km into the long day, we labored into Gonghe, government seat for the Hainan Tibetan Autonomous Region (海南藏族自治州). The city, from which I type this post, turned out to be a miserable bastion of modern development, centered around sprawling concrete government complexes situated on a wide boulevard. For the first time since leaving the Sichuan basin, there was no doubting that we were indeed still in the PRC, a fact we had happily forgotten over a month in the frontier. Our frustrating recrossing of the Yellow — ten months after first traversing it in Shandong — symbolized not only our return to Northern China, but also the beginning of our approach to the city from which all the evil of Chinese modernity flows: Beijing. If only I had a ring of power to destroy, I’d be feeling a lot like Frodo.

. . . . . .

The view from the mountaintop overlooking the Suoke Tibetan Monastery and the divergence of the White and Yellow rivers. To the right side of the Yellow River snaking into the distance is Gansu Province; to the left is Sichuan Province. Under normal circumstances, we never would have seen this view, as getting anywhere close to the village requires a 50 yuan ($7.38) entrance fee. Fortunately, being with a local, we were able to see the area for free.

. . . . . .

As we walked into the old town in the morning we witnessed what Alexis called ‘Chicken Auschwitz’, a Muslim meathouse where the patrons slit hundreds of chicken necks in rapid succession before tossing them into a pen to bleed to death, the blood streaming out into the street in big thick streams. Only later did we find out  that the town’s main industry is the processing of animals, purchased from Han Chinese farmers, slaughtered in Halal fashion. The meat is sold to other Muslims all over the region, as far away as Beijing, and the skins sold to leather manufacturers. Of course, most of the slaughter of larger animals happens away from the old town.

My overall view of Zhangguan was similar to what’s developing into a pattern: newly developed sections bad (as in I wouldn’t make my childhood bullies live there); old and traditional good (as in I see them as places suited for humans to live in). The difference here is that the inhabitants of this town stick together more cohesively than most places since their bonds are religious as well as regional. How well do they stick together? Over 90% of the city is surnamed Zhang (张). There were also a lot of 40-something grandparents running around carrying babies for their hardworking 20-something kids as most here tend to get married at 20 (still haven’t figured out how that works in light of the new PRC marriage age minimums of 22 for women and 24 for men). Moreover, they were by far the warmest and kindest to us of any group of peopple we’ve encountered so far on this trip. Almost every smile and “nihao” was returned warmly, and one family even took us into their house. The hotelier family we stayed with gave us free breakfast and tried to let us stay for free. Of course, the breakfast included a huge plate of goat liver (local specialty), but nothing worthwhile is easy…

After the myriad obligatory photos with our hotel family, we tardily headed Southeast through some soul-rending industrial sectors and after a relatively short ride of 88 km arrived just shy of a place called Madian (麻店), where we decided to try a new strategy for lodgings. We cut off the highway into some farmland covered by corn, cotton, paper trees, and dates and started trying to ask the locals where we could camp for the night. The general concensus (at least we think it was – we could understand maybe 20% of what was being said) was that nobody gave a shit about us camping in the fields, although everybody tried to persuade us that there were hotels to be found. So with the most stealth we super colorfully dressed white boys on giant bikes full of luggage, we lit off the dirt trail and headed into a paper tree grove right up against a bunch of cotton plants and waited until dark while drinking the last of the Scotch that was given to us in Hebei (thanks again to Victor). Once safe, we threw up the tents in a line behind Andy’s (the most camo), and crashed nervously, not knowing if anybody would actually care.

Thankfully at 5:30 when we got up, we were surrounded by a dense fog that blocked vision past 20 feet and had gotten no bothers from the cops or locals, and after our morning situp/pushup routine were on the road a little after 6:30.

For the route yesterday, I picked a road from the map that ran a long ways along a big river. Once we got to the river, we found only long dusty dirt roads on top of a long levee winding through probably the prettiest farmland we had seen so far. After 10 km or so we arrived at a huge sluice gate upon which was printed “Control the Yellow River Sluice Gate of Lanjia.” Aha! So that’s the big river! Two old men with decent Mandarin explained how the gate is used for flood control (amazing since during the 90′s the Yellow was so tapped for industry that it made it to the ocean only 9 of 10 years) and told us about the pear orchard next door.

Curious and desiring pears, we wandered into the facility adjacent to the orchard and asked if we could buy 3 pears. At first we were met with skepticism as to our desires (frequently the first response), but once we got to a group of men moving boxes and munching pears, the “leader” presented himself and tried to give us more pears than we could fit in our bags. Now when I say that these are Asian pears, freshly picked the day before and just pulled from the fridge facility, understand I mean this was the best pear experience I have ever had. After receiving the pears, we got into lively conversation with the group of middle aged men, and – surprise of surprises – posed for about twenty cell phone pictures. Interestingly one man, after trying to pry median American and French salaries for workers (still haven’t thought of a good ready answer to this yet) also told us they were taking down 3000 yuan a month, which would be great for Beijing, let alone the stix of Shandong.

At lunch we had a feast of Shandong food (good hearty stuff) in a small restaurant next to some chickens (though they told Andy and Alexis there was no chicken on the menu) where I played with a 3 month old rabbit hunting dog (to be trained soon) and we were force treated (they don’t take no lightly) to 2 cigarettes each (smoked a puff and thew out once the coast was clear), and a particularly wasted ex military man picked up our tab on the premise that we always tell our foreign friends that “Binzhou people” are hospitable. So here I go: everybody, people from Binzhou are hospitable! We’re also spending less and less money due to camping and freebies. This may become our new fiscal tactic.

Finally we crossed the Yellow River (after making it a little bit yellower from the top of the bridge). Interestingly, apparently the Yellow River is not navigable. It’s full of pontoon bridges for local roads to cross – not even a toy sailboat could go more than 10 km. From there we headed south to a crappy highway boomtown recently rapid-developed (read: I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than spend another day here) after the discovery of oil in the area called Chunliang (纯梁), where we bedded down. On a comical note, this morning when we tried to buy mooncakes, the saleswoman told us, “a little over 1 yuan each. By the way, I’ve never seen foreigners before.” After we put 9 in a bag, she asked us for 45 yuan. I guess I’d try the old “foreigners don’t know math” trick too if I lived here.

The last few days have been great, but hopfully we can find more villages and less terrible industry on the way to Qingdao. We have heard and witnessed from the side of the highway that central Shandong is China’s biggest steel producing area in addition to being a general industrial hub. To say that the air contains some particulate is like saying Everclear is mildly alcoholic.

Alright, that’s it for now. Wish us luck.

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