Late in the afternoon we glided down a long hill, basked in the warm afternoon yellow sunlight, passed through the massive city walls of Nanjing and joined the throngs of Nanjingers on bikes. It was a nearly perfect end to a nearly perfect day. Had it not been for the good Samaritan who'd given us a map the day before the experience might have been quite different. When we awoke I gazed out the heavily tinted hotel windows and anticipated something very different. First, the flag on the neighboring building was full and blowing in the wrong direction. Next, the sky was grey and a chorus of horns whined in the street below.
The first part of our journey on the miserably trafficked 321 was more interesting than the day before. It was littered with all forms of pedal-powered vehicles hauling all sorts of cargo dead and alive. The rice fields on either side of the highway were heavy with grain and looked ready for harvest. Soon we curved up towards the hills and the grain gave way to tea and scrub. We dropped into another valley. This one was lined with rolling hills, and we spied a massive temple complex atop a little mountain. The mountain had the same name as the town we were seeking so we accidentally turned up the road to the mountain before realizing our mistake.
On our way we passed farmers harvesting rice --the first we've seen in this part of China. I tried to photograph a surly farmer winnowing rice with a shovel but we were shooed off by one of his grumpy companions. Returning to the 321 for a few meters before turning off and saying goodbye forever to the highway. The rice harvest is conducted differently here than in Indonesia from my observations this is the methodology: Cut the rice at the base of the plant Bundle it and lay it across the base of the plant in the field to dry Richer farmers have machines that separate the rice grain from the plant, or poorer ones lay the stalks on the road and let passing traffic do the job The rice is winnowed using a shovel to throw the rice up in the air over the road Rice is dried on the road to be bagged and sent for processing *(some very wealthy farmers have very sophisticated harvesters, the first we've seen in use in Asia)* On every inch of our ride for the remainder of the day the road was full of rice and farmers engaging in this process.
At the first town we arrived at Andy asked directions from a driver he met on the street. As usual a huge crowd formed while I circumnavigated a traffic circle in the wrong direction. A peasant, worried for my safety in the empty street cautioned me to turn around. I stopped to take a picture and a woman gestured that we should climb the mountain to go to the monastery. A sign just before the town indicated that we were in \"a Taoists' paradise.\" A few yards down the road we set up the bikes to take a picture of them with a young water buffalo.
He was very enthusiastic about Andy's bike and began to lick the tire and rack. I thought about trying to mount the buffalo and like Laotse riding to Tibet. In effect we would be in a few days, riding a big jet-powered buffalo to India. In the next town an old commie dude took us under his wing, indicating the way to Nanjing and to a noodle shop. It was nearly impossible to eat. A small crowd of 10 peasants gathered and stood five meters from us and watched our every move. The commented to one another laughed and pointed. A short time later we were in Nanjing, where the Lonely Planet Guide refers to the traffic as \"complete chaos\".
It was that; Andy was knocked down once and bumped into more than half a dozen times. He unloaded his squirt gun on some of the less coordinated comas, weavers and competitors. Just as we were about to search for lodging we met Steve Jackson. He and his wife are professors at Nanjing University, known as \"NanDa.\" He teaches business and she English. NanDa was famous for an incident twelve years ago involving a black student who was dating an Asian. The scandal resulted in huge demonstrations and the hasty departure of several African students. Steve escorted us to the faculty hotel and guesthouse where they managed to accommodate us for next to nothing on campus.
Further, Steve and his wife Pat invited us to dinner. We mistakenly brought wine to dinner not knowing that our hosts were avowed Bahais. I likely made another error at dinner. When another guest put forth the argument that relationships *(guanxi)* were more important than marketing in China. I explained consumer behavior, the three P's and distribution, shooting holes in their rather feeble arguments perhaps too ardently. Another guest joined the fray giving more asinine examples. Steve and Andy quickly changed the subject and we were shown the door soon afterwards. Guess I failed international relations tonight. After a full day of playing tourists-on-bikes in Nanjing, we felt ready to return to Shanghai.
Chinese tourist attractions, I've decided, are never worth the price of admission, and they're all the same: badly restored imperial monuments filled with schlocky souvenir huts and lots of vendors screaming at you to buy cokes. They all seem to feature uninspired landscape design, long walks up tree-lined avenues and hordes of spitting Chinese tourists. The tomb of the founder of the Ming Dynasty, for example, ought to have been interesting, but it was not. And the view from the top of the mountain we climbed via an excruciatingly slow chairlift was poisoned by all the women demanding we pay supplementary entrance fees.
We did manage to find one free attraction in the Changjiang Daqiao, the bridge crossing the Yangtse, though we were forbidden to ride upon it. Also impressive and free was the huge Ming wall surrounding Nanjing, the longest city wall in the world. It was more fun wandering around the streets of Nanjing's crowded center. Across from the dormitory for foreign students we serially met Mandy --studying Chinese through John Hopkins---and Josh --on a travel break from Beijing U. Both had interesting tales to tell of their experiences in China. Other memorable highlights were stumbling upon an outdoor roller rink and finding shoes for Fred (only 12 kuai) in the night market.
A young Chinese guy we met in the street told us that he knew of a gay bar in Nanjing, but we declined his offer to take us there, figuring we'd do better in Shanghai. \--that's where we are now, busily preparing for tomorrow's departure to Bangkok and onwards to India. Yong and Nicolas are giving a party tonight, with a buffet dinner of Beijing duck (it'll be our third duck dinner in a row; we're meat-loading in anticipation of India). Right now it's eleven a.m. Nicolas is having a Chinese lesson, Fred is busy at the other computer editing photos, Yong is getting business done on the phone (I'm convinced her talent for this is unparalleled) and the adorable Thibaut is having a nap.
The next couple of months should be interesting, traveling with neither a computer nor a fixed itinerary. We've saved India for last, figuring it'll be the most intense part of our voyage, and the place we're most likely to fall seriously ill. We're both looking forward to it though, ready for some color after China's relentless gray. At the same time we'll miss China's amazing vitality and innocence, the friendliness of its people, the tasty food and the hundreds of millions of bicycles. Time to put this mess up onto the Web... We went from Thailand to India without even leaving the Bangkok airport.
The holding area where our luggage was scanned and we queued for check-in was full of colorfully dressed Indian women and their drab male counterparts. People jockeyed for position in line, nudging, bumping and even pushing one another. Just in front of us a couple dressed in western garb but of Indian heritage were carrying a number of curious-looking items. A juvenile palm tree sprouted from the husband's backpack, and in the woman's hands was a clump of what appeared to be wild grass complete with roots and dirt attached. Unable to suppress my curiosity I asked, "Are you allowed to bring such things into India?"
She replied knowingly, "India is not as strict as America in these matters; we can bring back whatever we like." She later explained that the clump of weeds was lemon grass and the palm was of a variety she'd come to love and was bringing both back for transplant in her garden. In my mind I acted out what it would look like if she presented those items to U.S. Customs \-- not a pretty picture. In line amongst the turban-headed hoards was a lone cyclist looking a little confused, alone and unhealthily skinny. His bike stood next to the counter, un-boxed and tagged for Delhi.
I shoved my way to the front of the line (I'd learned well from the Chinese) in order to introduce myself. Matt explained that he was on his way to India to begin his twelve-month trip there on his bicycle. He had quite a lot of baggage, seemingly prepared for any situation that might arise. I swam back upstream to Andy after agreeing to meet up with Matt later. While I was away a gaily decorated group of Israelis had joined us pilgrims in line. Brightly colored hair, multiple tattoos, more piercings than a pin cushion and toting requisite drums and other bangles, they drew greater attention than the bangled Rajasthanis.
It might have been because they were so loud that everyone turned to stare, or was it their attire? The four seemed noisier than the two hundred others in line. As we were about to reach the head of the line a pack of bare-footed rastas bearing dreadlocks filed in. I hoped and prayed we'd not be seated with them and the Israelis in "Bongo" class. The boarding process was decidedly more civilized than our experience China, where one risks death by trampling each time they fly. When finally settled on the plane we found ourselves just a few rows behind the rastas and the Israelis.
They provided amusement for all. Between them and the quaintly clothed Indians aboard I was beginning to wonder if we should have come in costume as well. The Sikh freaks found the Israeli freaks especially entertaining. Swathed from head to tow in white linen, beards and hair tucked-up tightly into their turbans, the Sikhs posed in front of the Israelis for a photo. They giggled and exchanged knowing glances while they acted as though recording their trip for the folks at home, Their true motive was to capture a picture of the psychedelic Israelis and the resulting shenanigans were Curly and Moesque.
Arrival was similar to that at any Asian airport. A dingy and dirty fluorescent-lit marble hall full of disoriented stony-faced travelers stood biting their lips and hoping for no hassles at customs and the baggage carrousel. We were not that lucky. Though greenhorn-Matt's un-boxed bike appeared swiftly we were left staring soberly at the idle baggage belt. I sought assistance. I asked if our bikes might be in back behind the door marked "Oversized baggage", the reply was swift. "No sir, we have already checked. Have you sure it is not on the belt?", he asked. I replied as calmly as I could that they were bicycles in boxes and you could see them from Bombay if they were on the belt.
As the aforementioned door opened and the bikes appeared 30 minutes later the clerk produced a claim form and began to ask me more questions. "I don't think this is necessary now...." Now that we all had our bikes and gear we rolled out to find the car. Matt tagged along. We'd agreed to give Matt a ride into town if the car could accommodate everyone and everything. This seemed a tall order, rather like the game of putting straws on the camels back. After all we had three bikes and corresponding accouterments, and how big could an Indian taxi be?
Amar our willowy Sikh guide and the driver were not only willing but giddily enthusiastic about the challenge. From nowhere a small regiment of five helpers appeared and began stuffing and stacking gear into and on the cab with military precision. With a few remaining chunks resting on our laps the doors slammed and we were off. The vehicle looked not unlike the Clampet's truck as they drove into the driveway of their new house on the first episode of the "Beverly Hillbillies." And a fine machine it was, our cab. A gleaming new Ambassador (which look surprisingly similar to 25 year-old Ambassadors) with its fifties-ish rounded lines and upright posture shuttled us into town.
I learned an important lesson early \-- be wary of the question "Why?" Unsuspectingly I asked "Why is the taxi-meter mounted on the outside of the car?" "Because that is where they put them," was the answer, given in a polite, firm and typically sing-song tone that indicated that there would be no further discussion of the matter. Delhi air was thick with an ungodly amount of dust fogging my vision, adding a dreamlike quality to the streetscene but turning my throat into raw meat. Upon arriving at our rather overpriced but swank launching point for our Indian adventure we ditched the car, checked into our hotel, and helped Matt navigate to his hotel.
After dropping our gear we hit the street to discover Connaught Circus by night. Though only eleven P.M. on a Saturday night it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop; even the sacred cows were snoozing. Nothing was open, not even an Indian 7-11 and we were without drinking water at the hotel. Though chowing on the thick and chunky air, I began to feel a little hungry. We stopped at the one open food stand on the circle. I was just opening my mouth to order a samosa when behind the counter and server, a rat skittered across the stove.
No longer hungry but still thirsty as hell we sought transportation to find something to drink. We finally found an *autorickshaw* (a three-wheeled scooter-taxi hybrid, like a small covered Thai *tuk-tuk*) that would take us to find water and then back to the hotel for only fifty rupees (later we were to learn that we could have gone back and forth to the airport for the same amount). After the water mission, upon our arrival back at the hotel, our driver brought forth the rest of his broad and rich product line. With his head bobbing he said, "You want to go fucking place, one or two hours, very cheap?"
We politely refused and exited the vehicle, after which he called after us, "I have very good hashish too." It was comforting to know all this was available. The next day we arose early and began assembling our bikes in the forecourt of the hotel. Here we first learned of the mechanical curiosity of Indians. Within a few moments of cracking the box and tightening the first bolt every idle worker at the lodge was having a peek at us and the bikes. It was clear that our transportation was far more interesting than us and elicited the bulk of the questions put to us.
Not unfamiliar to us were: "Did you bring the bicycles from your country?" and "What is the value of the cycles?". What was new was the rather intense fascination with the gears. "Multi-gear systems" are apparently rather rare in India and attract more than their fair share of attention. Later that day we set out for an afternoon bus tour of Delhi. Near the tour's designated meeting place was a rather stark little restaurant called the Coffee Home. The restaurant was relatively easy to find, however the tourist office was behind off of an alley and nearly impossible to find. Asking Delhites directions introduced us to the Indian universal answer.
It is hard to describe, but have you ever seen one of those artificial dogs that sit on the rear window ledge of a car? Their heads roll around from side to side with the center of gravity somewhere near their nose. That is the movement Indians make when they answer a question of which they are unsure of the answer. We saw a lot of head bobbing before finding the tour office. Following the first of many frighteningly cheap and satisfying meals we caught our bus at the tourist office. With us were three other white tourists from France and a gaggle of women that seemed to have rolled themselves into yards of bright fabric.
Our guide entirely lacked enthusiasm except in how he shepherded us. We found some solidarity in the company of our fellow tourists. Somehow we bonded with the group of Indian women and their overseer. After just a few moments of conversation we learned that the wads of cloth were actually prison guards at the Bangalore Women's Correctional Facility. Their tough eyes of experience beamed proudly when they told us of their occupation. In under three hours we managed to hustle through the Red Fort, Ghandi's Grave, the tomb of the second moghul emperor and drive by various other points of interest.
One strange phenomenon we came to observe frequently was Indian tourists toting their suitcases around tourist destinations. No matter how crowded the sites, how challenging the terrain or otherwise impractical to do so, there they were with their big molded plastic bags. Most perplexing was when we'd come upon an unattended bag. Imagine if that occurred somewhere like, say, Britain? The next day we'd arranged to have breakfast with Matt. We were anxious to hear his plans for India and share ours. He reluctantly told us that he was unsure of how to proceed. We found that we liked Matt, and were happy to have him join us when we set out the next day.
He too liked the idea so we settled on a meeting time and planned to leave the environs of Asia's dustiest capital.