A new six-lane superhighway led out of town, and we had it practically to ourselves. It seemed too good to be true --and it was. After thirty kilometers of brisk pedalling, a large city (Lengshuitan) spread out before us, one that wasn't on our intended route. My logistical screw-ups always put me into a foul mood and this was no exception. My nerves were already frayed from this morning's argument with Fred (who has changed his stance on luggage distribution no fewer than three times in as many days), not to mention the incessant gawking of everyone in sight. Trucks, tractors and fully-loaded buses would ride alongside us so their occupants could stare, their expressions identical to zoogoers at the monkey enclosure.
I was half-tempted to satisfy their curiosity by flinging feces at them, but settled for insulting them verbally. No, I was not being a happy camper, especially when we learned that the road back to our intended route was badly asphalted, rife with dusty road construction and running through rugged hills. This morning was definitely one of those odd moments of this trip where I wasn't thrilled by my status as BikeBrat. Things went from bad to worse when we finally made it back to the main road, where solid lines of truck sped by in both directions. Even with a wide paved shoulder it was miserable.
I suggested to Fred that we hop a bus to Hengyang, still over a hundred kilometers away. We stopped at the first drinks stand we saw and watched the trucks roll by, leaving most of the water we'd purchased untouched as they had obviously been refilled with tap water (is Hunan the rip-off capital of China?). Oddly, once we got back on the road, the traffic situation improved dramatically. Had we taken a wrong turn? Were all the truckers eating lunch? A lot of rolling hills brought us to the vast concrete horror of Qiyang. We cruised the town --resembling nothing so much as a giant abandoned construction site---looking for lunch, weighing various options --none of them very savory looking.
Settling down at a streetside place on a busy intersection was probably a mistake. While the food was palatable the gawking crowds were not. Extra irritating was the young woman who sat next to us to practice her English. \"Excuse me,\" she said, \"may I ask where you are from?\" \"Far away,\" I snapped sourly, in both English and Chinese. \"I see,\" she continued, \"and what is your opinion of our city?\" \"I think it's a godforsaken shithole and find solace in knowing I'll never return. Which road leads out?\"\ She pointed vaguely towards the North and we were on our way.
Shortly thereafter we were cruising through rolling hills against the now-familiar headwind. We saw a \"wild man\" by the side of the road wearing a skirt. Though obviously inhabiting another reality, he must have sensed that I wanted to stop and take a photo. He removed the skirt just as I was applying the brakes and considering the tastelessness of including a \"crazy person gallery\" \--full of photos of what we've found to be a common sight on China's highways and streets. They're easily spotted in this country of conformity, usually sporting the same distinctive look: unkempt hair, wild faraway eyes set in filthy visages, tatters for clothes and always alone.
After skirting the ugly industrial hell of Lijiaping we encountered yet another rural traffic jam caused by road construction. This one was far worse than the others we'd seen, permitting us to ride two abreast on brand new concrete slabs for many kilometers. By the time we hit Qidong, dusk was settling and we were pretty wiped out from riding. So we hopped a bus into Hengyang, Hunan's second biggest city, still fifty kilometers away. I was hassled the entire length of the ride by a pair of sleazy self-styled hustlers from Guangzhou. One wanted to sell us his cheesy fake Rolex while the other wanted to buy dollars from us at a \"friends\"
rate of eight-to-one (on the street we can get 8.6 or better). The sprawling mass of Hengyang appeared out of the gloom. We loaded our bikes and asked our usual question: \"Where's this town's [best]{.underline} hotel?\" First we were directed to a gilded dump of a place, with a dazzling lobby, a rotating restaurant and filthy rooms. A bit of poking around found us more suitable lodgings. Starving, we scoured the town for an acceptable restaurant and devoured a streetside vegetarian feast (though Fred remains unconvinced that tripe is a vegetable). On our way back to bed, we bought some tasty mooncakes for breakfast the next morning.
(*We had the good fortune of arriving in China while the locals celebrated the period around the \"largest moon\" of the year. As part of that celebration the Chinese give one another gifts of small pastries called mooncakes. They have a dry pie crust-like casing, are about the size and weight of a hockey puck (often just as tasty) and are filled with a variety of sweet things. They are embossed with a various designs and finished with an egg yolk glaze. Fillings range from dried fruit and nuts to bean paste or egg yolks and lotus seed. Some of the really cheap ones have stuffing of what seems to be the center of a jellybean.
It is said that mooncakes change hands like currency, that one person could give them to another and that person to another and the gift could be recycled until it makes full circle and is given back to the original owner. The best American parallel might be the fruitcake. -- f*)