Day 72: Koh Phan-gan - Full Moon Throw-down

Neon paint smeared on skin, glow sticks encircling necks and wrists, cheap plastic hats and ketamine coursing through veins - they danced on picnic tables, bar patios and the midnight sand. A never-ending, undifferentiated thub-thump coursed from bar to bar in time with one’s heartbeat. At the water’s edge intoxicated males, recycled water back to the ocean. Bumbling, pale-haired girls let themselves be dragged along the beach, hand in wrist, by equally bumbling brown haired boys. I sipped from my plastic bucket filled with cheap rum, soda and M-150 surveying the human wreckage. The British teenagers sullying this Thai beach where getting on my nerves. Beside me, my compatriots (a British couple from Newcastle) put their eyes together with mine and collectively frowned a disproving 25 year old glance towards them immature teenagers. We were ready to go.

As easy and fun as it was to get in (10 people, back of a pickup truck chucking water bottles at the prostitutes along the strip), Hat Rin was another getting out. We moved from the beachfront to the clogged backstreets of restaurants and knick-knack stands, pressing through the zombiefied crowds. Dodging revelers, scammers and addicts we made our way to the main road. That symbolic sight of Thailand greeted us – lines upon lines of tuk-tuks ready to take this dross back to hideaways across the island. Their Thai drivers lounged in small groups chatting and smoking cigarettes waiting for the dawn. We were early – only four in the morning after all, but us tired and wanting to shed whatever collective regret for whatever we had become a part of, pushed on.

My acquaintances sidled up along the waiting drivers looking for one going our way. Not hard to find, but he wasn’t leaving for an hour and was charging 300 Baht. Ridiculousness, we knew what the local price was - a cool 55 Baht and we weren’t going to be swindled! Next driver, 250. Next 250, then 250 again. Next 300 – we weren’t getting anywhere, they were organized and we were their suckers. My friend Tom tried out his arguments, “hey man we took a taxi on Tuesday from here it was 55.” He flashed his spread hand twice for effect. “We’ll pay 150 that’s a fair price.” One finger, five fingers his hand said. “Go. Go. Good luck find driver 150,” the tuk tuk driver responded, waving his hand away. “No one give that price.” My friend kept up. “Man don’t play us like that, we know the score, we’re not dumb tourists you can rip off. We’ll give you 150 each. That’s 450 you’d be making.” The argument didn’t go down well. “No, out, out. I don’t want. You no pay. You walk.” This is point where the Madam got involved and when I say Madam, I mean a 300 pound, filthy talking middle-aged women covered in fake jewelry. Bringing forward her posse of tuk-tuk drivers she got in my friends face, poking him in the chest. “You drunk. What you say. Have one more drink.” She mimed tilting back a beer and guzzling it. “You drunk farang, you pay. It not much money.” Stubbornly my friend kept up. “Your driver wants us to pay 250 that’s a bullshit price, that’s dumb farang price. We’re not going for more than 150.” With that the Madam pushed my friend sending him off by saying, “you drunk you go.”

As on cue her band of tuk-tuk drivers pushed in surrounding him, one taking a stab upwards trying to connect. He responded with a drunken flurry that led a couple more drivers throwing him on the dirt road. His girlfriend at 5”10 and stick thin, forced herself in. The rest of the drivers committed throwing her on the ground, putting their boots to the both of them. It was now or never. I’d known these people for less than 12 hours. Yea, they were drunk and being unreasonable, sticking up for themselves, but now they were on the ground, massively outnumbered and being kicked into submission. Engage ridiculous reach. Time to time, being 6”5 with broad shoulders comes in useful. Especially when you have 5 or 6 pissed off, iced-up, Thais raring for a chance to knock up some representatives of farangs they had to take shit from night after night.

I knocked them off of my friends allowing them to get up and us to flee around the corner. But we didn’t get far. The same group or different group of drivers (it’s hard to tell at this point) pushed us up against the wall on the side of the road. We’re shoulder to shoulder with our arms extended warning them meth heads to come get some. They get it. We break through their encircling ring, and in the middle of the street I have two come out of nowhere and tackle me sideways into a standing motorcycle. Quickly I getup throwing out some damage - enough to make them hesitant about moving forward. Furiously I gather my compadres and flee around the corner and down the street, hopping into the back of a truck with a covered awning. It’s filled with foreigners waiting to leave. A short time later the driver comes around asking where we’re heading. He says 250. Without hesitation I get out my cash and pay it - all. No negotiating this time.

                                        

Day 68: Ko Phan-gan - Get it while you can

The road is much freer with the wind in your hair – and also with it on your bare chest and between your toes. Little winding concrete road, jungle covered hillsides with the odd shack and a little Chinese made scooter between your legs – perfect for a cruise around these empty roads. I stopped at a lean-to and dropped a couple Baht for a coke bottle of what I hoped was gasoline. The road doubled back on itself getting higher and higher, finally depositing me on a dirt parking lot, with a solitary sign marking the trail’s entrance.

The path was steep and dry, the sun hot and unfriendly. The sweat came out like the waterfall before me, emerging mysteriously out of the skin of the earth to dribble down the valley. Nobody here but me and a cool spring water pool at the bottom, to reward a sweaty climb.

As I climbed down the path to the pool, my private walk was interrupted by two pairs of legs emerging from below the foliage on the path. As I got down lower the legs went up and up, and the golden brown skin with it. The skin finally petered out just below the hips, as the skin tight shorts left nothing to imagination. Her hair hung in long, waves down over the same golden brown shoulders, framing large almond eyes and a wide cheeky smile. Her friend beside her wasn’t bad either. I tried to discreetly slip past with a polite nod, but was met with the requisite questions fired at every farang. “What your name? Where you from?” “Andrew, from Canada,” I said. This was met a constant stream of giggles, groans and chattering in Thai leaving me unable to get a word in. Finally, I managed a, “your English is good, did you learn from a Canadian?” “Yes,” she replied. “Last boyfriend was Canadian, but Canadian boy no good, meet many woman, say he only need one.” What can I say I thought, Thailand was filled with sleazy expats and probably a few on them were Canadian.

Before I could reply she said, “I like you, you look honest. Let’s go in the water.” With that she took my hand and led me over the wet rocks and over into the small wading pools below the falls. I tugged at my shorts trying to keep them up as we slip slided over the rocks. “What wrong,” she asked. “Oh my swimsuit keeps sliding down on me,” I replied. “That okay, you can let them down,” she suggested with a smile, tugging on my waistband. “Ahhh you never know who you’ll run into up here, so I’ll keep them on,” I said grabbing her wrist and pulling away her hand, with a thought of regret. “Let’s sit down here,” I said. We were sitting in our clothes in a small wading pool together. Tiny minnows swirled around pecking at our feet, eliciting little gasps from us every time they chewed off a little bit of skin. She cupped her hands trying to catch them, showing me their slim, silvery bodies wriggling in her palm. I had a brief thought, instantly suppressed, of myself in her hand, wriggling back and forth. I splashed water, it falling almost inevitably in her eyes, she trying to keep her fake eyelashes on, me feeling sheepish. No bad. She splashed back; completely soaked we headed back to our scooters in the parking lot. She asking for a promise to stop by her workplace on the main road, he promising to stop on his way back from the beach.

Promises fall by the wayside as the bikes speed through the jungle, past temples, rickety shacks selling gasoline, outdoor restaurants and gogo bars. Another day in paradise. 

For the road - Andrew.

Day 51 – Luang Phabang

 In almost every city across the face of the earth a pattern presents itself. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the most modern fibre-optic covered metropolis or most god-forsakened shantytown. Those who are favoured by power sit along leafy boulevards in the center of town. On the edges sit those who have been driven out. The unwanted, the spit upon, the forgotten. I came among such a camp by accident. The narrow dragon boat pulled up to the other side of the Mekong to a village on the other side. 

Steps led up some abandoned temples. On the narrow path in the jungle I was seeking an inhabited temple, one with Monks in their orange sarongs hopefully sweeping the path or cutting the grass. Along the river I trod getting deeper and deeper, the route becoming nothing but a horse path. 

A hut and fire materialized against the jungle darkness. A hand was raised and beckoning. I drew closer. Figures were seated around a meager fire. They were passing a small clay bowl filled with the remains of a grey fish mixed with peppers, beside a soup with some herbs close to the fire a young man in nothing but a loincloth warming a bone beside the fire. A glass was held out to me. The clear liquid was fiery and burned all the way down. The figures nodded in approval. They shared cigarettes, I passed around my. Listening to DMX. We smoked asking simple questions, quiet in our sublime environment. I noticed something was off. Two of the guys had on full makeup and their hair stretched back and held by pins and combs. I realized then and their what was up, on our remote bank of the Mekong was a group of guys trying to survive anyway possible. A couple were plying their trade for those without enough money to afford the real thing, while another poled a boat down the river, and a fourth raised some meager crops on the edge of the jungle. We drank Lao lao the clear strong whiskey of region, smoked and shared stories. Nothing strange. 

 

Day 43 Hue

 Driving a cyclo (for you noobs that’s a motorcycle with no guts) in Vietnam is a experience. I rented one for a day having driven nothing motorized with less than four wheels. On the streets of Vietnam there are hundreds of these, no lanes, no speed limits and traffic circles just to fuck with you. Driving in the countryside is a breeze. Thatch roofed farmhouses in narrow terraced fields of rice and corn line the roads along with the occasional ancient ruins. The narrow road turns toward the brown silt laden river. Nobody goes above 50. I stop at the side of the road to check the map. A middle-aged lady stops beside me and asks where I’m going. She says she will show me the way to the Mausoleum I’m looking for. “It’s just a couple more kilometers up the road,” she says assuring me she lives nearby. I follow. We approach the turn-off. The bike ahead suddenly makes a turn going under the bridge we were supposed to take. I continue a little further but than stop. “Why you stop,” she asks. “We’re going the wrong way,” I say. “No just a little bit more, first we stop at my house then go to mausoleum.” “What,” I say, “no I just want to go to the mausoleum.” “No problem, no problem,” she says. “I just come from market. Children all at school, nobody home.” “No, no you said we were going to the mausoleum, that’s where I’m going.” “Please come, just for a little, no children it’s okay.” “Not okay,” I said and turned around the bike, gunned it, leaving nothing but dust.

Day 38 – Coconuts and boating; don’t mix

Imagine some short, shirtless, cutoff jeans clad Asian guys. An old rusted group of pots assembled into a drum set, a couple of guitars, and a lead singer in a Hawaiian skirt, coconut bra and Spanish sombrero. We’re on a boat in the middle of a couple islands off the coast of Vietnam. The staff on this booze cruise are attempting their boy band show. The singer is up on the table waving his coconuts in front of a shocked Vietnamese audience. The foreigners at the back are giggling and carrying on. Pause. Out comes the inflatable bar, I jump of the top deck of the boat. Hooking our toes into the side we float on inner tubes sipping orange and rum cocktails miles from shore. The bartender tries to refill my drink. I try to evade. “Don’t be lazy,” he says. “It’s hardly twelve,” I exclaim. No dice. Drink up.

Day 36 – Melancholy in paradise; Mui Ne

 I’m walking down the strip beside the sea, when some dude in a long ponytail on a motorbike comes up and palms me a flyer. “Check it out” he says, “five dollar buckets.” I have no intention but back at my bungalow I meet three American’s lounging, waiting for their bus leaving at one AM. We’re bored so we head over to Pogos, the local Boho place. Just a few backpackers inside but you can set your own music and there’s a pool table so we stay. The American’s intend to get right sloshed for their bus ride back to Saigon. I feel it’s my duty to help them. Buckets - coke and vodka. The bartender empties half a bottle into it.

I run into a fellow Canadian, Andrew, 23 from Ottawa. He’s got a surfer’s laidback calm and no shirts to speak of. He was backpacking across southeast Asia until Vietnam got ahold of him. He’s been here for four months. DJing six nights a week for room and board. Lounging in sun chairs during the day and trying to pickup whatever girls happen by. “See that one,” he points out to me, “I’ve been hanging onto her for every day she’s been here.” We order more buckets, gin this time (free on the house) while talking about home and playing pool. We’re so bad it takes and hour to finish.

At this time the Americans are gone, the girls too. Out comes the late night music. Ponytail dude and his gothic Asian girlfriend take requests. Nine Inch Nail, Deftones, Korn and Tool. We’re drinking more too. Ponytail dude keeps feeding us Rum and pineapple cocktails. I’m swooning on the dancefloor. Andrew’s friend from another bar comes over. Baggy jeans and t-shirt, and a toque pulled right down over his eyes, he doesn’t say a word just lights up his bong. We pass it around in the middle of the dancefloor. 1, 2, 5 times I don’t know, everything is spinning by this time. 

When native tribes reach out to their gods, this must be how it feels. Lights dim, music overwhelming, multiple substances coursing through their veins, tired but not feeling it, elation taking over. ‘The Nobodies’, courtesy of family values patriarch Marilyn Manson comes on over the speakers. Slow and then it picks it up “today I’m dirty, I want to be pretty, tomorrow I know I’m just dead.” Then we’re screaming out the chorus “we’re the nobodies, want to be somebodies, will tell ya we know just who we are.” The surf keeps rolling in one wave at a time playing to its own melody. Somehow I end up back in my bungalow. Small miracles we can pray for them, but sometimes they just happen.

Day 33 – Bia hoi

One thing North America needs to import is the unstructured, coziness and friendliness of the Bia hoi. That’s short for a couple plastic stools thrown onto the sidewalk, with some battered metal tables onto which litre jugs of beer are placed. Mix with random strangers and locals along with a steady stream of hawkers, cyclos, beggars and prostitutes and nothing gets boring. 

I plopped myself down beside a guy dressed to go door-to-door for the Mormons but he  was just a English teacher, out to quaff a few down after a busy 20 hour work week. Craig, an Aussie,  was a peculiar chap. He seemed to be trying to escaping the rigidity and conformism of modern society. He railed against the regulations and endless rules of the modern state, but all with a detached shrug of his shoulders. “You see all over these streets (Saigon) no lights, no signs. People going any direction they want. It’s total chaos, but it works. It works for them. There’s so few accidents every year.” For Craig, Vietnam was a lesson for more developed countries. “Right here what we have is Chaos Theory at work. That’s completely what it is.” I’m not sure about Chaos Theory but riding through those streets on the back of a motorbike, no helmet, nothing to hang on to, potential disaster around every corner, I felt more alive than ever.

Day 32 – Pudong Airport (Shanghai)

I love irony – just not when it happens to me. In order to reach the airport on time, I thought it would make great style to take the magnetic train. It reaches speeds of 400 km/h and supposedly gets to the airport in just eight minutes. Only problem, it doesn’t even leave from anywhere near the city-centre. In order to get on this behemoth take the subway for half and hour and get off the line going towards the airport - makes sense, right? Transfer, security check, half hour wait for the damn thing to start and you’re off. 

Outcome; I get to the ticket desk one hour to takeoff. Desk lady says “we’re no longer accepting passengers, luggage has already been taken”. One fucking hour. I say, “I’ve got legs, a back and can carry my own luggage, give me the damn ticket.” Off I go. Customs – some Romanians and Chinese wielding the English language with the preciseness of a drunken newfie stall the line. My bag arrives and gets raped of anything remotely containing water. I rage telling the security guys that “I’m going to kill someone if this keeps up,” they don’t understand a word and keep on digging new things out. Twenty minutes till takeoff I run fully loaded to the end of the terminal. 

Check in and find my luggage is ending up with everyone else’s. Sweat-drenched, red-faced and huffing I sit down just before the plane takes off, next to a hawk-nosed women, missing her broom, quaffing glass after glass of cheap Chinese wine. Flight made.

Day 28 – Yangtze River; Crusin' Chinese style

I opted for the Chinese cruise instead of the international one. It makes for more interesting traveling. The tour agency gave me a sheet of paper with some phrases in Mandarin on it. Nobody on the boat speaks English so this should be a bit of a trial. I’ve packed my bags with granola bars, dried fruit and the processed meat sticks the Chinese love to snack on. The canteen sells limited meals of greasy noodles and other unpalatable, nameless dishes. 

Inside the ship the floor buckles and groans as I duck to fit through the low passageways. The sights are interesting but unremarkable generally covered in the dense fog usually reserved for Chinese cities. More interesting are my fellow passengers. Up on the sun deck they huddle in little groups under the awning avoiding the sun playing cards and constantly eating. There is a fight for the plastic seats anytime we leave and get back on the boat. 

Near dusk as everyone eats dinner things start to heat up a bit. Riotous singing emanates from the Karaoke room below decks. A lone man missing a shirt drunkenly belts out tunes for his fellow travelers. Up top the men bring out clear liquor, passing around shots of the fiery substance. As it gets darker and people start to retire below deck they start to sing folk songs. Two older men with their feet up on the rails lead. As one forgets the words the other fills in and continues. I stare out at the darkness and the lights from a nearby town twinkling down the river. A little girl has taken her parents camera and keeps trying to take my picture, flashing the camera in my face. She tries to act stealthily but the obviousness of her intention is quite funny. The river continues to pass on in the darkness.

Day 24 – Lhasa to Chongqing Express

The platform is virtually deserted as I run to the train. I’m late but still have to rush through three sets of soldiers providing security. The big green locomotive has already started as I hop aboard. First class for the two day journey to Chongqing. Riding second class on Chinese trains is a little much. Six to a compartment and 3 narrow bunks on either side. The Chinese make no distinction for gender placing male and female together. First class only has 4 bunks and actual carpeting. Not the cheap, spit drenched linoleum of the other areas.

This time only one bunk is filled. He’s a Malaysian in his 50’s from Sabah. Mr. Wong pores over his little book of Chinese railways. He’s been traveling by train in China for a month and on his way back home by way of Thailand. He doesn’t work anymore, just travels. Underneath his bed is one modest sized backpack with a change or two of clothes and some ramen noodles. His wife has called him home to visit his daughter studying in England. We exchange routes. Wong keeps trying to get me to go by train to Hanoi through Yunnan province. It sounds exciting but means a day or two more on the train and I’ve had about enough of Chinese trains as I can bear. I’m surviving on mandarin oranges and ramen, sucking back oxygen and hoping I don’t have to use the piss covered toilet.

Sitting on my bunk because of nowhere else to sit, it induces a feeling of not knowing where I am. Especially with the unchanging Tibetan plateau that stretches on unbroken, brown punctuated by patches of shiny white snow. I haven’t seen any green for almost two weeks and it would nice just to see a tree or two.

Day 20 – Everest Base Camp

 The pounding headache had become a permanent fixture. I am doubled up, clutching my stomach, staring at the floor as we climb the final pass towards Mount Everest. The Himalayas snow covered peaks emerge in the distance from the dusty brown hills on either side. Around and around we go, slowly descending. The tourist van has to slow to a crawl to take the corners. The gravel road lends a constant jittering that goes through my entire body. I drink water and piss it out. Drink and piss. This is supposed to help. No idea if it does, it still feels as if everything is pressing down.

At the end of the dry river gully, buildings form. Clutching the side is Ronbruk Monastery. Elevation is  at 5000 meters. This is the highest monastery in the world. In the same frame sits Everest. The sky is a deep blue. Wisps of clouds swirl around its peak. The mountain thrusts itself up from gully floor. The top is dark and barren. Snow covers below. Walking up a little hill to get a better view utterly exhausts me, but I don’t feel it. The wind whips around. I hide behind prayer flags for shelter and pop out to take pictures like I am firing arrows at the holy mountain.

Fatigues and drinks

 Day 16 – Lhasa

In its past isolation Lhasa developed mythical qualities that lent an aura of exoticism and spirituality for those entering the city for the first time. Unfortunately that time is long past. Fifty years of Chinese occupation have created, ‘surprise’, a Chinese city. The first thing you notice on leaving the train station is the gates closing up behind you by a unit of soldiers. The way behind is barred. Convoys of military trucks line the road into the city. Red flags overhead. The first thing I hear from a Tibetan’s mouth is, “this is not mainland China. Rules here are different.” Sliding through the city I notice soldiers in glass boxes at every major intersection. First morning in Lhasa I took an early morning stroll behind the hostel in the heavily Tibetan ‘Barkhor’ district. Across the street soldiers chant as they march back and forth. In the narrow winding streets schoolchildren hurry to class and adults begin to open up their stores. It’s very quiet. Around every corner groups of soldiers watch the early morning action. At this time of the day they outnumber everyone else. Their eyes follow me until I turn the corner whereupon a new set of eyes takes their place. This is the Tibetan reality. The military presence cannot be ignored. It clouds every action and movement within Lhasa.

Day 18 – Lhasa

After a heavy day of looking like a clueless tourist, I went in search of food and drink. Walking along Beijing Dong Lu (quaint name for the Lhasa’s main street), I heard loud laughter and hectoring abuses coming from a balcony above. I went up to investigate. Druze Restaurant is a classy joint with groups of well-heeled Westerners daintily picking at their food. Through the double doors out onto the balcony was a different scene. Empty bottles of Jack Daniel sit on the table. Cups are scattered. Hanging over the edge are two middle-aged and two younger males yelling in thick Aussie accents at the clueless and frightened Tibetans below.

I order some drinks and talk to the youngest one Harry, 19. He says the other young guy is his best mate and the really drunk old guy making faces and sputtering noises is his dad. The guy with long greasy locks and a Hitler stash is a friend of his father who’s hosting them in China. I become the ‘Canadian’ and am asked if I want to roast some marshmallows over a fire. I reply I wouldn’t mind except some people might object to starting a fire on the balcony. The Aussies are celebrating being able to drink after being unable to do so for a couple days due to elevation sickness. Harry tells me of his night before, hiring a taxi driver to help them pick up prostitutes and how after arguing over the price they booted the driver and drove the taxi themselves.

The father finally has some success with his hectoring. A Tibetan has given up his 50cc bike, which he takes for a spin down the main drag, weaving in and out of traffic, kicking his legs out to side for effect.

Harry comes back from an unsuccessful bathroom search in which he accidentally went into the kitchen. The kitchen he says has week-old pots stacked up and cockroaches crawling on the floor. He promptly asks me if I want to help him trash the place for keeping such dirty facilities. I politely decline. “It’s the Aussie thing to do,” he says. “Were crazy, yesterday my mate accidentally hit a soldier and I had to keep giving him smokes to keep him calm.”

Mule train

Day 13 Hua Shan

Travel is often characterized as delays followed by mad rushes. Even in this day of modern transportation it still holds true. Witness my day trying to get to the holy mountain Hua Shan about 170 km outside of Xian. Take a city bus from the hostel to the train station in the morning rush. What should have taken ten minutes morphs into 30. Find the public tourist bus among a parking lot of others. A sticker the size of my fist distinguishes it. Wait for 40 min for it to fill up. Hour and a half bus ride to the town nearest the mountain. Take a taxi to the visitor’s center. Rush onto an overpriced bus for 10 min to get to the trailhead. Wait in line for two hours for the cable car that eventually deposits you 1500m up after a five min ride. Take two hours to hike behind a pack of people so dense it’s impossible to pass them up the trail. Occasionally some stop to take pictures or to take a breather, so you briefly rush past them only to get stuck behind another group.

I’m beginning to develop a mature hatred for tour groups. In their matching baseball caps and guide leading them with a little flag they look like school children. They stick together in packs making lineups a hassle and frequently block off entrances and exits. Fuck them. 

While Hua Shan is one of the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen with it’s sheer, white rock thrusting out of the ground like bony limbs and vibrant greenery clinging to the sides, the human element is another story. What is supposed to be one of the five holiest mountains in China has turned into an amusement park. The cable car has permitted anyone with half-a-brain to make the climb. You see elderly fresh out of the nursing home, women in dress shoes, kids being carried up by their parents and lots of people climbing in their jeans. Souvenir shops and snack bars proliferate. You can get your name carved on a medallion to show you climbed the mountain or stop for lunch halfway. Dozens of photographers hawk their abilities promising instant photos you can carry down with you. Knickknacks, souvenirs plastic shit that break a couple miles down the road, this is now what the mountain is covered with.

Maybe I being unfair, places of beauty are there to be shared by all. But somehow the mass consumer tourism manages to diminish everything it touches.

The carnival atmosphere is actually welcome at the ancient temple at the bottom; fireworks crackle continuously, incense drifts in huge clouds, priests give out fortunes. In the streets outside, every little souvenir imaginable is being sold but there is much more than that. I see old man playing Chinese chess, one-man-band, beggars missing arms and legs and one with a grotesque growth on the side of the head, a midget and countless day-trippers swarming around. The chaos here seems right at home.

Left for dead

 Day 9 Pingyao, Shanxi Province

Spent the day traveling with an ageing hippie couple from San Francisco. They’re a sight by themselves; 70 and 71 years old, long grey hair and long grey beard for the chap and they like to do the same things as all the young backpackers, such as staying in a cheap hostels and eating wherever it’s convenient.

We rented a taxi today and went up into the northern hills about 40 km outside of Pingyao. The area is dry and dusty with few trees or tall buildings. Everything is low to the ground. The road eventually narrows into a small track barely wide enough for the car, as it winds its way along the side of the hills. Deep and sudden gorges permeate the land. Everything is a dull tan and dry as a bone. No green shoots poke up from the ground. The hills rise in steps from the terracing. The land looks as if it has been inhabited for thousands of years. Every foot shows evidence of man’s habitation.

In the distance walls and then houses emerge out of the ground. The same tawny tan colour. They’re oddly shaped. As we get closer it’s possible to see how the land and houses are one. Holes are drilled into the side of the hills leading to caves. Sometimes mud brick continues above forming a second storey. Many of the caves are abandoned. Debris lines the floor and the mud straw plaster is peeling from the walls. A few are still inhabited. Amongst a cluster of houses 10 or so elderly Chinese squat, staring at us the strange visitors. Their deeply browned faces hold many lines. Not one is under fifty. This is what passes for village in these parts. All the young have left for the cities. Only the old and disabled live in these cave houses anymore. 

Our driver takes us into one ladies house. In it are two rooms. One for storage with all her root vegetables and the other for living. An old coal fired iron stove dominates the middle, heating a fire underneath the raised bed. The only modern contraptions are a TV and humidifier. There’s no running water, gas or sewage. Tools are basic and everything is done by hand. The old lady says she’s in her 80’s and now lives alone. See can’t see well and say’s see needs glasses.

We walk to the next nearby village. Up a hill, the feet of hundreds of sheep have turned the dusty sides into sand. We enter a courtyard that’s seen better days. The driver calls out but nobody responds. He opens one of the cave doors and I follow closely behind. All I see first is an old mottled foot; they lead to an ancient Chinese man resting on his bed. He doesn’t notice us and appears dead. The driver is backing out quickly and pushes me back out of the cave. There are two other doors but we don’t try them. We quickly head back to the car as the driver tells us this village is not one for exploring. It’s the last refuge for the sick and dying. Too frail to move to the city to seek help and no young people around to care for them, they just wait for their final breath.

Complications

 Day 3 Beijing

Once you get past all the scams and hucksters trying to milk you for every last dollar, China is a pretty cool place. In the Forbidden City a random young man with passable English randomly came up and started talking to me. He said he was and art student from the country on a school trip in Beijing to display some of their artwork. He asked if I wanted to see some of it I declined. He then asked what I was going to do in Beijing. I mentioned going to see the Great Wall. By coincidence his school had rented a minibus and was going there tomorrow. What great luck for me that I could join for only 160 Yuan. I quickly made my exit.

Day 4 Beijing

Possibly the most weirdest human impulse is to preserve the bodies of great leaders in death. The Egyptians did it. The Soviet Union famously preserved Lenin for a time. Today China is the one, if only country that continues this dastardly ritual.

At the south end of Tiananmen Square lies a squat square building done up in socialist style with forbidding columns, extended windows and a flat enfolding roof. After storing all my stuff in locker I passed through the security detail running a metal detector over anyone entering the square. I was so eager to get in line to see Mao because the Mausoleum was closing in less than 30 min, that I bumped the supervising policemen. He turned towards me slowly moving nothing as though he were on a pedestal. I looked at him and he stared back behind his wraparound sunglasses and oversized police cap. I gave a slight bow not knowing any Chinese and he turned slowly back. Nothing more than a gnat I was.

Beyond, a line snakes around the side of the building, inexorably moving forward like a slow-moving river. Piles of lighters form alongside as the men get rid of their last forbidden items. Past another security checkpoint people finally enter the building. A statue of the Great Leader dominates the first anteroom. Piles of flowers almost conceal it. Officials keep the crowd from stopping, pushing them forward into the next room where Mao’s body sits. Lying in a glass container all I see at first is a body draped in a flag. Coming around the side a head starts to take shape. It’s huge and the only flesh exposed. The flesh is pinkish with a reddish undercolour. It seems completely alien and unreal. Plastic in a way. But it’s only seconds and we're out the door, into the bright sunshine and past the inevitable souvenir stands selling bric-a-brac with Mao’s (younger) face on them.

The calm before the storm

It's a very calm in this apartment (apartment if you can call it that). Korean officetels have a singular squishiness that is only matched by what people have to endure in Hong Kong. Up on the 12th floor, overlooking a big intersection it's chaotic. Traffic backed up for a mile, people scurrying to the shopping centers and cafe's that are packed on a Saturday such as this. They've at least dropped their masks and look happy. Lot's of kids running around too. I went for lunch and played peak-a-boo with the little scamps while waiting for my order.

Monday it's Beijing but tonight is the final farewell party. Seoul's going to be hoppin' and hongdae will bring it's usual youth energy and licentiousness, but that's a positive. The Clubs don't close till the last person leaves. This is going to be a long one.

For the road - Andrew