G-318 Tibet Highway

Through an obstacle course of trucks on the mud soaked road the Laos/China border checkpoint was in sight. I joined to the cue of people in the passport control office and soon I was stamped out of Laos. The guard at the Laos side gate didn’t even look twice as I wheeled my bike around the gate, holding my passport high in the air and entered the short no-mans land to Chinese customs.

Becoming more seasoned to these crossing as the various South East Asian countries fell behind me, this was about as exciting an entry as I had experienced. Chinese bureaucracy are known for their fickle rules and the chance of them changing day by day. As I cyclist I had lied on my visa application. Any mention of a bicycle on the application is met with certain refusal, and to lie at the embassy is considered the norm.

Passport control in the China customs building was particularly quiet considering the amount of road traffic outside. I watched someone a few people in front of me pulled out of the line and directed to a burly police officer off to the side. He didn’t look too pleased about being singled out. When it was my turn my passport was studied thoroughly, almost as if it wasn’t real. I too was pulled to the side and asked to wait.

20 minutes passed before I was confronted by the policeman, a heavily armed guard at his side. His first question was “What is your plan in China?”. Shit, I just had 20 minutes to think of an answer to a question I would surely be asked, instead I had sat there looking out the window and wondering what I was going to find for lunch. “Beijing…… I’m going to Beijing, I have a bicycle with me” I muttered and pointed outside. ‘Good answer Calum, real smooth’ I thought to myself. I was directed to collect my bags for inspection in a small room away from the passport check. When I opened the first bag the officer looked inside. Before I could even begin to pull out the contents, “Ok”. The same went for the other five bags, just open and close. My whip did stir a little interest (yes I carry a whip, just like Indiana Jones). I tried to explain it was for the possibility of dangerous animals when camping or rabid street dogs but when I said “for my girlfriend”, even the bloke holding the machine gun laughed. Needless to say my passport was stamped and off I went into mysterious China. 

You may be aware of my firm stance on remaining human powered with my bike whilst on land. 10,500km of refusing to get in a strangers vehicle, on a bus or on a train was about to come to an abrupt end. Being only granted a one month visa would make it impossible to cycle the 6000km to reach Kyrgyzstan. This was the beginning of my holiday in China. 

I was heading to the Tibetan Plateau in West Sichuan. I had learned from a fellow travelling cyclist in Laos that a seemingly unfeasible area of the world to visit alone, Tibet, was much more possible than first known. The Tibet region spans much further than the questionably heavily controlled Tibet Autonomous Region, making up parts of Sichuan Province, Yunnan to the south and Qinghai Province to the north. 

The bus station was just outside the Border Control office in the China border town of Mohan. I didn’t even have a chance to take in the sights and smells of China, upon buying the ticket I was rushed onto the bus. My watch was telling me there was an hour until we had to go and my dordle towards the bus was not received well. I had not taken into account the time difference and had inadvertently just made it. 

I had brought nothing to eat or drink with me on the half filled bus, though more importantly, would I have to hold in a wee for the next 9 hours?

The world was flying by at speeds I had once known. For a short while my mood became somber at the thought I had just made the ultimate compromise to my journey, I was on a bus and couldn’t turn back. Thankfully it didn’t last long and I could enjoy looking out the window at the strange new world. If I was going to skip across China in this fashion, to make it fair, I would have to make it as uncomfortable as possible. 

It only took an hour before we stopped at the first checkpoint. Military dressed police complete with helmets and bullet proof vests bordered the bus, speaking Chinese as they walked down the aisle towards where I sat at the back. More Chinese was spoken directly too me, all I could reply was “uuummmmm”, “Passport?” in perfect English “Why didn’t you just say so?”. This happened several times at the ‘Traffic Police’ booths scattered along the highway and as the sun when down traffic cameras flashed the bus over and over like a strobe light. It was my first glimpse at the watchful eye of the extremely paranoid China Government. 

9 hours turned into 12 on the trip to Kunming, the capital of Yunnan Province some 700km north from where I entered China. At 12.30am I left the bus after barley an hour sleep, and by the time I had loaded my bike in the dark bus station carpark everyone was gone except myself and three taxi drivers. In vain they tried to solicit my business. Even with zero experience or knowledge of taxi prices in China, I knew that the 100 Yuan they were trying to get out of me was in no way a reasonable price for the 19km trip across Kunming.

Its funny to think that only the second time I had used motorised assistance (the first being the plane to Bali), I would have to negotiate a new weirdness, alone, in the dead of night. 

Getting out of the carpark was the first challenge. Two laps later I found the exit and onto the remarkably smooth wide roads of Kunming. Even if I wanted to head for a hotel I had no idea what to look for. The tall neon lit buildings all written in Chinese gave no indication to their contents. I put my head down and rode into the night. 

After an hour I saw what resembled a hotel reception through the glass doors. I managed to make it all the way to a room before my bags were taken back downstairs and, from what I gathered and reasons unknown, I was not allowed to stay. I pushed on closer into the city centre trying a few other places, they were either too expensive or I was simply ignored and with a wave of the hand, told to leave. 

By 4am I was getting closer to the north bus station for the next bus to Chengdu. Running on the sort of adrenaline that can only come from the first 24 hours in a new country, all I could do was ride the wave and keep going as the cool morning approached. 

The next bus station was not hard to find, far too early to buy a ticket I sat and sipped a beer I had been carrying from Laos to celebrate the revitalised segment of my excursion. Sat as the temperature dropped waiting for the sun, the time came to buy a ticket, north to Chengdu.

1:30pm departure, plenty of time to close my eyes. The next thing I knew I woke up with my head on my knees, for a moment completely disorientated. My bike, and even my backpack with everything of vital importance (passport and money) was still safely by my side. I curled up on the bench and spooned my backpack for another stint of sleep. 

Another 700km to Chengdu. When time came to get on the next bus, unexpectedly I was about to get on a sleeper bus. Not just a clever name, the only seat on these busses was for the driver. The remainder of the bus is three rows of bunk beds. My first thought was ‘perfect, an actual bed’, then ‘Shit, Ive been wearing the same pair of socks for the past 10 days and I am about to have to take my shoes off on a crowded bus’. Luckily everybody had to wash their feet before getting on and was given a bag for their shoes (I got two) and a pair of sandals to wear. 

The road to Chengdu was much the same as that of my ride to Kunming. China boasts an amazing infrastructure with giant high bridges and tunnel after tunnel keeping the road as flat as possible across the deep valleys and through the mountains. Agriculture or housing is used on every square inch of available land. Vast hills all cut into massive steps to facilitate farming , I can only imagine how much of this has been done by hand.

Although now laying down on a narrow soft foam mattress, I was a good 5 inches too tall to be able to stretch my legs and sore knees kept me awake for most of the 14 hour trip north. A consolation prize was arriving at 5:30am, a far more practical time. 

One more bus to take me high into the mountains could wait until tomorrow. I had to repack and assess my inventory to tackle the sub zero temperature, high altitude roads of the Garze Tibet Region.

I left my bike at the nearest hostel and wandered off into the city to buy tomorrows bus ticket and a few warm items. On foot, and with the sun up, I could finally take in some on the sights and smells of China. The main square was brimming with police and military types. The intimidating force was something to behold. Some had long bow staffs, others armed with shotguns and armoured vehicles at every corner. None seemed too keen to return my smile and nod when we made eye contact. I didn’t really care, I could only imagine I looked like a mental patient, wandering with an animated expression of disbelief, I was actually in China.

I was on a mission to get as high as possible and freeze my nuts off. There is a plethora of things to see in China. Ancient cities, Panda’s, amazing natural beauties and a culture as old as humanity itself. All would be left behind for another time. The largest country on my route would be crossed in the shortest possible time, the visa clock never stops. 

After heading north for 9 months I would finally turn left and head west, its about time really. The 8am bus to Kangding in West Sichuan was packed with Chinese tourists. The beauty of a bus is being able to take my bike. No need to even mention it when buying a ticket, simply turn up and slide it underneath. 

The scenery leaving Chengdu was most uninspiring, hazy and grey. Had it not being for the fields of yellow flowers shining through the grim morning, the world would have been entirely in greyscale. 

Snow capped mountains slowly peeked through as we wound our way onto narrow roads and headed up to 2500m above sea level and the commencement of my ride in China. 

I fumbled to relaod my bike when we reached Kangding failing to notice the snow around until I walked out of the bus station and nearly slipped on the icy footpath. Local taxi drivers and hotel owners gather around waiting for a fresh load of tourists to arrive. I haven’t a clue what they are saying as I walk past, they all keep yelling something at me and all I can say is “its all good” and get on my bike and pedal off as fast as possible. As luck would have it I didn’t have to go far before I saw a hostel. For a moment I stood and looked around at the mountains laden with snow and colourful Tibetan prayer flags, I had teleported from the tropics to an alpine dream come true. 

Some young Chinese fellas in the hostel took me out for dinner. I hadn’t had much of a chance to eat properly, especially struggling with the menu’s written in Chinese. I had the same experience in Thailand and Laos (in their respective languages), but after a few days I would figure out at least one or two things to ask for.

The plan of where I was indeed going was profoundly vague, as was my current map. The hostel staff were able to provide me with a far more comprehensive map complete with altitudes of respective passes. The night before I was tackling my dream I studied the map and changed my plan several times. I was at the start of the G-318, Tibet Highway which runs from Kangding all the way to Lahsa almost 2000km west. As a foreigner I have no hope of going that far even if I wanted to. Instead I chose Litang about 300km west as to my first destination. I had met some people in Chengdu and I remember their sentiments about Litang, the highest town in China, and one of the highest in the world.

I was joined in the morning by Laser, a Chinese friend I had made in the hostel, for what felt like my last supper. We found a very western coffee shop for breakfast overlooking two large prayer wheels in the town centre. Tibetans marching around the wheels, clasping beads for their morning prayer was quite a contrast to where we were sitting. 

Laser became almost irate when I tried to pay, he told me I was his guest and it would be rude of me to even try. He even followed me to the supermarket where I stocked up on food for the days to come, here to I was not allowed to reach for my wallet. Before Laser had even payed for my groceries and breakfast we enjoyed each others company. He spoke well and his Chinese accent when speaking english reminded me that of a kung foo movie. I was even gifted his lucky wristband before heading off. I can only hope that someday my friends from the road will be able to visit me in Australia and can enjoy some shared hospitality.

The climb began instantaneously out of Kangding. As the tall buildings from the centre of town gradually became shorter and more sparse I was able to see the magnificent mountains. Each time I stopped and looked up I couldn’t believe the magic. It would take forever to get anywhere if the beauty continues like this. 

Multiple steep switchbacks progressively became smaller. Still too steep to ride, I was more than happy to keep walking and soak up the landscape. 

I was keeping an eye on my GPS to gauge my location. I wasn’t measuring in kilometres but altitude. My new map indicating the first pass at 4300m and the only thing I knew I had to do was to go slow as to acclimatise to the dizzying heights. 

    

The first piece of real Tibetan culture came when I saw a woman ahead of me on the road. She was taking one step, hands together above her head before stretching out face down on the road, then standing up, taking another step and repeating the process. As far as I am aware this is her pilgrimage, and will take her all the way to Lahsa. She looked as if she had been on the road for quite sometime. Her hair grey and matted into giant dredlocks and only carrying a small tattered bag. She smiled as I walked past and said “Tashi Dalek” (pronounced tashi delay) and is Tibetan for, and can be used for, hello, good bye and thank you. It basically  means ‘good luck’, although the actual translation is much more in depth giving luck and best wishes. The only phrase I’ll need to know in these parts.

I continued to climb along the mountain road. Even another series of switchbacks in the road were not particularly steep. Most of the day had passed when I began to search for a place to camp at 3500m. I knew that camping on the inside of the road along the steep face of the mountain would not be a good idea as to avoid falling rocks. Instead I spotted a clearing over the concrete barrier in a small dip hidden from the passing traffic, also nestled between a mound of dirt offering protection from the wind. 

As I rolled out my tent a farmer came past herding half a dozen cows. I think they were in fact caks, a cross between cows and yaks. I was, using hand signals, told to get out of the way. When the farmer passed , and before I could even ask, my camp spot was given approval with pointing to the spot I had chosen and given a thumbs up. 

I felt pretty exhausted after 13 days on the go without a day off. I thought perhaps I should have stayed in Kangding for a rest day before heading off but I was keen as mustard to get into the snow. It was difficult to eat dinner I had cooked before climbing into my tent. At the time I was unaware but this was the first sign of altitude sickness.

It rained a little that night and in the morning my tent had a soft layer of ice on one side. I had managed to stay warm through the night but in the morning I felt extremely lethargic and again had trouble with digestion. I googled symptoms of altitude sickness before entering China (no google in China) and racked my brain trying to remember what they were, or was I was just falling ill. I ate as best I could and somehow found the strength to pack my gear and head further up the pass. 

I was moving like a snail, and a weary snail at that. Several hours passed and I had gone almost nowhere. At 3800m I felt altogether beaten. Nausia had now been added to the list of symptoms. Learning as I go I had no idea that 3500m was high enough to effect me. I knew I had been going for 14 days without a stop yet still I felt weak inside, I was sure I was much tougher than this. I sat on a cold rock by the road for quite sometime, fighting the need to throw up. I had never given up before, then again I was yet to experience these conditions. The rest of the task to reach Litang, with passes yet to come up to 4700m, now seemed impossible. What was I to do?

The next town along the road was XinDuQiao (3350m), another 50km from where I was and over the first pass (4300m) which I was yet to conquer. If I could get there I could hopefully recover for a day and acclimatise properly for the remaining trek. 

I sat and waited for a vehicle to come past in which I could hitchhike. Truck after truck came past, all fully loaded it didn’t seem fair to try and stop the momentum of these beasts as they struggled on the ascent. The remainder of the passing cars were far and few between and mostly full of passengers and luggage. 

It pained me to do so, or ironically relieved my pain, but I made the decision to head back down. I had passed a small village before I camped last night where there seemed to be a congregation of taxis. Almost a full day of climbing on the road I had descended in less than 30 minutes, past where I had camped and back to 3000m to find a lift. 

Maybe it was because of a lack of oxygen to my brain or simply my naivety in a taxi situation, I managed to solicit a ride to XinDuQiao and later learned that I had payed about 10 times the amount that I should have. In turn I would have made the day, or even week of that particular driver. It left me feeling moderately embarrassed and particularly filthy on the driver. It was the first time I had been ripped off and I had learned a valuable lesson. 

XinDoQiao was very much the Tibetan town. Much more so than the tourist clad Kangding. There were no foreign tourists here, or Chinese ones for that matter, just me. Not only were the signs for the rows of shops now written primarily in the beautiful Tibetan scrip, along with Chinese and the most amusing english translations, so were the road signs. People walked the cold snow lined street in all their Tibetan get up, men in long woollen coats with long sleeves, women with their colourful hair extensions and plaits. Monks in all their orange robes and puffy jackets. Yaks wandered around looking for some food in a rubbish bin or a nice tree to scratch themselves against. Surrounded by intricately painted buildings, all coloured the same deep red pattern. 

I was lost in a cold happy place. 

Only by a miracle did I find somewhere cheap to stay (the sign said ‘wooden tea’). Bargain accommodation also comes at a cost beyond monetary value. The bed was warm and comfortable, which was all I really need to rest and recover for a day. A shower, however, was out of the question and using the toilet could have also spurred a bout of illness dangerous to my health. I was happy to lay low in the warm bed for a day and hopefully find an appetite.

24 hours passed with the occasional wander up and down the street, snacking on whatever made me feel good. Funnily enough chocolate was going down well. One way or another I was going to leave after the second night so I made sure I was stocked with chocolate bars. If I wasn’t going to return to full health I was determined to crawl my sugar loaded self over the mountain, or at least the next pass. Surely I can manage one pass over 4000m before I give up and head further west. 

It had snowed overnight before I left. The road itself remains dry in the sun, and with the amount of traffic the snow doesn’t really stand much of a chance. The footpaths and hills dusted with snow I stood in the sunny street before I left enjoying a cake for breakfast (let the sugar loading continue) and watched in disbelief as a small portion of the army marched down the street, chanting a very intimidating roar. I wonder what the red army are actually worried about. Would the Tibetans get all Tibetany on them?

I followed the road up the valley gradually making my way towards the heavens. It was amazingly quiet when there were no passing trucks. As quiet I was yet to encounter at all on my travels. I hardly turned a pedal as I walked myself and my bike upwards. One step at a time I felt increasingly well. Now happy with my choice to make a compromise within a compromise and leg it over the first pass to a more reasonable altitude to rest. 

The further I go the more spectacular the scenery becomes. Higher onto the plateau I pass the 3800m mark and continue to push. Just as I am about to reach the magic 4000m a tunnel appears in front of me. I knew that the road had been upgraded over the past 3 years, obviously surpassing the date my map had last been updated. My hopes of ascending to 4400m were dashed by the hands of clever Chinese infrastructure. 

It began to snow lightly while I prepared to enter the dark hole in the mountain. From what I could make out from the sign at the entry the tunnel was 5km long. I hoped my lights would see me through, they had failed me in the past. 

With no one to stop me from cycling through, in I went. Pitch black and with an awesome echo the light at the end of the tunnel literally disappeared to nothing and I was deep in the warm black mountain. I could only hope that the climb would continue on the other side. I had planned to stop at 4000m to camp and hope my body would allow me to carry on the next day. As light approached on the other side and the tunnel spat me out into the daylight I was disappointed to find the road descend once again. This was the first time I had been disappointed to have to roll down a hill, ever.

A magnificent descent, the road wound around a series of loops taking me speedily down into the valley. After the last loop I stopped at a bus stop near a small village to catch my breath and check how far I had descended. Out of nowhere a woman appeared and asked if I needed a place to sleep, albeit with sign language. Why not? I followed her to a nearby building which was less obviously a guesthouse. Again at 3500m this would be a great place to spend the night. 

Still with no hot water to have a wash I remained my slightly dirty self. Food on the other hand was hot and ready to go, and at 4 in the afternoon I was made sure not to be hungry with a returning appetite. 

A few young Chinese civil engineers were also staying, one by the name of Peace (you get the translated name as I could only pronounce the real name once) could speak a little english much to my benefit. He gladly shed some insight on the strange Chinese text I had little idea about. In reality the Chinese language is a series of different shaped lines, and when combined make words as we know them. I imagine reading Chinese and converting it into english would be much easier than actually speaking the throaty language itself. The cold air and a day walking up a hill had worn me down and without a hot shower to cleanse my dry skin I had a quick nap before being invited for dinner at 7pm.

Finally my appetite returned beyond that of the humble chocolate bar as I sat around a heated table with my host and the Chinese engineers for a noodle soup. There was obviously much interest taken by their unannounced guest for the evening as they all had a go speaking to me. I really had no idea what they were saying, even when they persisted, and Peace’s english could only take us so far. It was enough for me to say thank you in the proper fashion for taking me in and feeding me. It was quite enjoyable to sit around the table slurping the noodles in the local way. An eating style likely to get you shot in Australia actually has a practical application. To slurp cools the noodles down before they can burn your mouth and to keep your face as close to the bowl as possible reduces the splash from the soup. Perhaps this is part of the reason Chinese don’t have beards, mine was dunked a few times. 

Distinct attention was taken to make sure I had eaten enough before we all finished. Food is eaten very quickly which is not my usual style. I try to keep up but the seasoned locals have much more eating stamina than I and everybody waits for me to finish. 

Everything is washed down with hot water. Ironically I had been avoiding, without avail, hot water while I cycled the hotter climates through Australia and South East Asia. In the icy mountains it had become a godsend. 

The road was to continue back down through the valley to the town of YaJiang at 2700m. I had found myself used to the thin air and didn’t really want to start again. I had little choice as it is the road which decides my fate. Down I went, the snow thinned out and winters golden gown covered the valley walls. The stream flowing stronger the further down I went. Basically a free ride down the 35km valley road to YaJiang sitting on the wide YaLong river.

Still very much under construction it looked as if the Chinese has moved right in segregating themselves on one side of the river from the Tibet people. One side looking quite modest, the other with high rise buildings on the mountainside overlooking the river. 

I couldn’t find anywhere to stay on the modest side and although receiving lots of “Tashi Dalek’s” I was still pointed over the river for lodging. 

Standing out like a sore thumb is nothing new, I expect to be pounced on by anyone and everyone at times when looking for a bed for the night. Luckily the first people I encounter are a couple of the boys from the guesthouse last night. They gladly point me to a suitable place while I fend off a few hardcore negotiators trying to get me into their hotels. 

While I too am negotiating with my new found imminent bed for the night a young monk decides he wants to have a go of my bike. “Be careful”, the last thing I want to do is cause a monk to do himself a mischief. Even in his cumbersome robes he does quite well, in the end its hard to get my bike back off him as he went round and round where I was about to rest. 

The valley narrowed as I continued to head west. Feeling stronger as the days progress, unable to avoid the now daily climb. Looking up to count the rows of road ahead, cascading over itself to climb the side of the valley. 

Three Tibetans with their humble motorcycle driven caravan parked on the side of the road called me over to join them when I passed. They immediately poured me a cup of tea from their wood fire stove. There was zero verbal communication beyond “Tashi Dalek” and every sip of tea my cup was immediately refilled. Biscuits and a banana were basically thrown into my lap, I tried to refuse, as with refills of tea, but this would surely be an argument I would never win. I even tried to share some of my own food. There was fat chance of that ever happening. Another passing couple on a motorcycle stopped to also join us on their way down the mountain. More wood was thrown into the stove and another batch of tea was prepared. It would have been nice to spend the night there with them (I assume that’s what was going to happen) but the day was still lingering in the sun and I had somewhat of an agenda to uphold. 

Nearing a village at 3500m the wind picked up for a short while. Blowing from the west and slowing me down I decided there had been enough walking up a mountain road today. Beyond the village I could follow the road with my eyes. The lines drawn on the mountainside clearly marked with the concrete barriers. Through the village at the base of the next serious clamber upwards I’m sure I could find a suitable camp spot. 

I was walking past many guesthouses in the village, each with a sign saying ‘Hotle’. My trek is always done in intervals. Go (stare at the road), rest (look around), go (stare at road), rest (look around), ect, ect. On one such rest phase I looked up to see a couple of bicycles parked outside a hotle. Any other travelling bicycles on the road are always up for inspection. It’s the unspoken code. The first rule of cycle travel, ‘Don’t tell anyone about cycle travel’. Not exactly accurate.

The owners of the bicycles were quick to notice me. It seems this is the starting point for the challenging remainder of road to Litang (110km) and the guesthouse is proud to be the starting point for said challenge. Camping soon became a warm bed and a home cooked meal. As with the previous mountain retreat I had stayed at 2 nights prior for 50 Yuan ($10 AUD), a warm bed is provided along with dinner, at 7pm sharp, and a hearty breakfast. Other cyclist arrived in mini busses just before dinner and we were ushered upstairs for a feast. The interior was absolutely beautiful. The walls and ceiling made up of individually and very intricate hand painted panels, each one different from the next. 

We ate like kings , dish after dish being placed on the table in front of us. Far too much for even the hungriest of cyclist to devour.

Breakfast was much the same, although I was to enjoy this meal alone being the last one awake and the only one still around. Left over food was bagged up for me to take with with along with some peanuts and homemade bread.

I knew for sure now that the road ahead of me would finally take me over the magic 4000m, and more, and would stay there until I dropped into Litang, which is also at just over 4000m. 

Each switchback taking me about the next giving a great view of the valley below and the road left behind. Higher and higher I went. The upgraded road was especially smooth, while this didn’t matter as I was on foot. The more I advanced up the mountain pass, the mass of brave trucks overtaking each other on the blindest of corners began to subside, breath became shorter as did the go phases of my mediative march and a need to cover myself from the freezing cold air in the shadows of the midday sun. The last time I could check the weather for the surrounding towns and cities the temperature was never quite reaching zero during the day and could plummet to -20 just as the sun would greet the morning. 

I passed the magic 4000m finally. Always wondering in my mind if I would suddenly relapse into altitude sickness. I didn’t. Eating and drinking without a hint of nausea, only a slight shortness of breath, which with my slow pace didn’t pose a problem. 

Another tunnel where the map was displaying a 4600m pass. Gahhhh! A few hundred metres from the top I would have to concede that this was as high as I was going to get. 

The tunnel this time spat me out straight into the land of snows. Expecting the road to again fall away, instead it hugged to side of the mountain and even climbed slightly again. The valleys below looked rather shallow and ahead the sharp peaks of the initial climb became immense rolling hills dusted with snow. All of a sudden I became aware I had achieved a dream of getting myself and my BMX high onto the Tibetan Plateau.

The time had come to camp on the snow. I spotted a prospective flat under a tree about 30 metres above the road on the inside of the mountain. The snow was knee deep and I slipped my way up for a closer inspection, leaving my bike on the road. I wasn’t entirely sure what to do so I began by flattening out the snow with my feet, either stomping down to compact the powdery white ice, or pushing it aside to reveal the green earth beneath. I cleared a spot about the size of my tent and slipped back down the greasy slope to retrieve my house. My pegs required a bit of muscle to be pounded into the icy ground, soon satisfied my tent was anchored well and I could sleep on a suitably flat icy surface. Several more trips to collect my belongings were made. While retrieving my bike for the final collection two cars had pulled up to stop for a toilet break. I was offered a lift to Litang when I pointed to my tent up on the hill. Although I had a positive view of the road, anyone coming by was unable to see my green tent camouflaged under the in the white snow. The driver of one car was quite dissatisfied with my sleeping arrangements. He growled and did a claw with his hand, I assume he was warning me of dangerous animals. It took a bit of convincing to refuse the lift and send him on his way to leave me alone to ponder my decision. I was far more anxious in dealing with the weather and potential freezing night ahead than I was about a visit from a hungry animal. 

As soon as the sun vanished over the horizon the temperature suddenly dropped. I hurried to eat dinner and begin the process of filling my sleeping bag with body heat for the night ahead. Sleep had been rough at the best of times since I left sea level, tonight would be no different. 

Too cold in the middle of the night to open my sleeping bag and add more layers, I simply shoved my extra warm clothes I wasn’t wearing down my bag to pack it out. It did the trick, just. If I remained still and waited for long enough the sun would soon return. 

I survived my first night on the freezing snow. The sun warmed the earth the instant its rays found the ground. My boots, which I had kept inside my tent, still had a layer of ice on the bottom. At 4300m it was easily my most epic camp spot so far. 

By now I had no fear of becoming sick again. Plenty of energy to pack and trudge the several trips up and down through the deep snow to the road and begin another day on top of the world. 

Occasionally I tried to get on the pedals and traverse sections of flat road before my breath was quickly taken away. 

The wind began to quite literally howl across the alpine plains to the point where I was almost knocked off my feet. There was no escaping the fierce gusting air. I managed to retain my composure and keep moving forwards. To any on lookers I must have looked drunk as I swayed up the road. 

I dipped and climbed again and again. The plateau stretched as far as the eye could see. Not exactly giving a perspective of being so high with the shallow valleys and long rolling hills ahead. My GPS told a different story.

The black tar carved through a thick snow plain before I could seek refuge in an unexpected stop in a small roadside house.

This ins’t the sort of road littered with petrol stations and shops around every corner. Many of the small buildings I had passed were remnants of ex Tibetan villages. Boarded windows and doors locked with chains. Interestingly the chains looked rather new and I wondered if the residents had moved on their own accord. Tibetan people are humble farmers and their persecution from the uncompromising, possibly batshit crazy, Chinese communist government is of no secret to the rest of the world. Here I was seeing evidence of this with my own eyes.

I had also been watching convoys of army trucks roll by on their way to Lahsa, 50-100 at a time and sometimes 3-4 convoys a day. March is a sensitive time of year in these parts, the yearly anniversary of the Tibetan rebellion and uprising against, well, shit that just ain’t fair. Internet had been virtually disconnected since leaving Kangding, in fact not virtually, actually. Yet another insight into the sort of control and lengths the paranoid decision makers of this land go to to keep the people in check.

Cycling on my own was quite the contrast to being on a bus. The bus, and any other vehicles on the road are constantly photographed and stopped for I.D card checks. I was now not even looked at twice, and any roadside ‘traffic police’ were not the slightest bit interested.

I stood outside with the man who had just taken me into his home to warm me up and give me some hot water. The red army convoy rolled by, I saw the look in the mans eyes before he simply looked away and went inside. He gave me a smile before we parted ways and I tried to smile back, instead all I could do was half smile and shake my head letting him know I, in some way, could see his pain.

I followed the road down into another windy valley. The wind remained strong and icy. I leant forward as I pushed on through yet another deserted alpine village. The sun would soon be gone when the road climbed again. My legs grew weary when I found a flat dry camp several meters above the road, much more accessible than last nights snow camp. In the gale I managed to pitch my tent and protect myself from the wind so I could feed myself. I thought my cooking oil had run out when I went to pour it into my frying pan, it had in fact frozen during the day even though it had been exposed to the sun. I was getting used to the cold and had not noticed its intensity. Surely the wind chill played a roll in this. 

I wasn’t about to take another 4300m high sleep get the better of me again. I doubled my socks and put on every layer I could muster. At first this was far too much and I began to sweat profusely, but as the night grew colder it became a sufficient solution. I was finally enjoying a comfortable sleep, and using valuable experience I had gained from learning the hard way.

During the night my the condensation from my warm breath had turned to ice inside my tent. When I went to chip it off it was as if it was snowing inside my tent. I had not imagined it could have been colder than my epic snow camp the previous night. The ground had frozen my tent pegs solid into the ground. Rocks around my tent too had frozen to the ground, taking a swift kick to dislodge one to begin to dig away at the frozen ground to retrieve my much needed pegs. While I warmed up digging at the ground, I was also wasting valuable energy. 

I persisted with yesterdays perpetual climb. I had not taken too much notice of the altitude when I reached a marker for Kazila Mountain, 4718m. This was on my map which I had began to ignore after the fantastic defeat of previous passes. Not the most picturesque place for a photo, the area around the marker treated like a rubbish tip from less that environmentally conscious travellers. A depressing sight. A little up the road I found a great spot for a couple of triumphant photographs. 

Covered head to toe in suitable attire, the wind still ripped through to the bone while I exerted myself across the bitterly cold pass. 

I had to stop and hide from the wind in a disused hut with no doors or windows. I sat and boiled some water when a family of three Tibetans showed up with the same idea. Travelling on their motorcycle with a small child, the seasoned cold weather people looked as cold as I. I shared whatever I could with them and gave the small boy a bag of lollies and my spare beanie I had picked up in Chengdu. I was most happy they accepted, they must have been genuinely cold to accept from a foreign traveller, the first to do during my visit to this region.

Kazila Mountain was as high as the road could take me, I could be sure of that. Litang was now just a day or two further up the road and deeper into Yak country. 

Long descents without the free rides owing to the enduring westerly gale, having to pedal down steep slopes over and over. 

A Korean cyclist by the name of Kim (unusual Korean name) was coming up the mammoth Kazila mountain just as I had reached the valley floor. While I greeted him without a slither of skin exposed to the air including a pair of ski goggles, there Kim stood in a thin fluorescent yellow rain jacket, lycra pants and thin fingerless gloves. He looked freezing while he fumbled with the luggage on his bike. I told him it was about to get very cold up the next pass and asked if he was carrying a tent. I saw where he was pointing but the extreme lack of bulk to his bags made me wonder what sort of shelter he could be carrying with him. We laughed as we shivered on the side of the road, clouds loomed above not giving me any confidence as to the afternoon ride Kim was about to tackle. I didn’t say anything beyond what I knew about the road, as I waved goodbye I was a little worried for his near future.

The sun shone again half way up the last hill for the day. Kim had shared that the final village before Litang was just over the crest of what looked like a tiny hill. So small, the road was visible in its entirety from the base to the summit. When I reached the top I was once again thumped by the frigid zephyr. What I hoped was the final crown remained in sight, my inert motion became frustrating, the irrevocable target appearing to be further away with each step. Less than one kilometre in an hour, I looked up and yelled at the road “C’mon, you’re right fucking there”. And it was right there, as it had been for the past hour. “One more, one more”, possibly a down and out lie to myself, surely it was the tangible summit. 

No where to hide from the wind, it was most certainly the epilogue I had fought to grasp. The final mountain village of HongDong was clearly in sight on the other side. A final pedal down, headlong into the now light blizzard blowing straight into my face. Overcome by the slowing force I walked, and even pushed my bike down the final stretch. 

Safety again in the first guesthouse I could find, I thawed out and prepared for the final run to Litang.

The army trucks were roaring past early, the wind subsided over night, and the crisp sunny morning was free to trounce. Still quite high the first climb was without toil, and the most spectacular of descents into a long open valley.   

A chance encounter with a cycling swiss couple who had just come from Litang tell me the final pass into the mountain town had been replaced with yet another tunnel effectively shortening the road by 20km. As much as I was hoping for one more camp before having to say goodbye to the high plateau roads, quietly I was glad to have the end in sight. 

The final tunnel came quickly, as did the light at the end of it. Spread across the vast grassy plains beneath the backdrop of a jagged mountain range was Litang, China’s highest town, and one of the highest in the world.

My first impression as I reached the edge of town was not pleasant. It looked like an actual dump, a by product of China’s perpetual construction. I wondered why the hell it had been so highly recommended to visit here. When I reached the town centre it became more clear that the dump was kept well away from the the preserved old town and fantastically huge monastery on the hill.

Litang has a long, deep-seated history with Tibetans. Not ony is it the highest town in China, It’s the birthplace of two Dali Lama’s and the home of the largest prayer wheel in Tibet. A massive horse festival is held here each year bringing in people from as far away at Lhasa and other horse men and women from all over Tibet, and high above the old town stands a monastery built by the 10th Dali Lama. 

Litang was also one of the epicentres of the modern day Tibetan uprising against the repressive China Communist Party Government. A definite air of tension could be felt when I first explored the streets, even amidst the smiles and “Tashi Delak’s”. 

Shops selling various prayer items such as flags and beads sit amongst those selling more conventional everyday staples suck as Yak butter. Tibetan restaurants serving the most delicious of Yak meat noodle soups and warm butter tea make for a comfortable place to escape the cold.   

One day exploring the wonderful Litang was more than enough. Ive tried to keep moving across China as quickly as possible, everyday standing still adds a little more strain to an already dwindling bank account. 

At the hostel I called home for two nights, my host, ‘Tiger’, had organised my transport out of Litang while we spent the night enjoying a homecooked indoor BBQ of Tigers favourite, pigs heart and tongue. Enjoy being the operative word.

Tiger’s inside knowledge of local transport took the strain out of the imminent struggle between myself and the gaggle of minibus drivers who would surely be keen to harass me into their vehicles.

Not far out of Litang, squashed into the back of a minibus between a smoking Chinese man and a large suitcase, my bike firmly strapped to the roof, it was quickly evident why there were no regular busses to take me north. The road deteriorating from the fast flowing river, slowly eroding the road from underneath, the minibus wound its way safely around each obstacle. 

Half way to north to Ganzi, about 150km, we stopped and switched transport. Now I was sat in the new bus, wedged between two monks and sat on a small plastic chair in between two seats for the remaining 150km bumpy ride to Ganzi. 

The bus was full, of course this didn’t stop the driver slowing down at the sight of anyone on foot, winding down the window crying out at full noise “Ganzi, Ganzi, Ganzi” in an attempt to fill the bus further, which he somehow managed to do.

A first step out of the minibus in Ganzi and I was swarmed by about a dozen blokes. Each with their own agenda to take me somewhere and have me pay them to do so. Their lack of regard for my personal breathing space made it impossible for me to even load the bags back on my bike. 

The persistent crowds of minibus drivers that hover around bus and train stations to drum up business is truly a sight to behold. A total circus of men chasing people around the street who dare come to close to the madness, especially those who are stupid enough to be carrying a backpack. The world circus is most correctly used here. A circus, after all, is supposed to be fun, and I can clearly see that the daily grind is carried out with the best possible intentions. The drivers chasing not only unsuspecting passers by, but also each other, play fighting and getting on with their own style of banter. Something I most enjoy being involved in as I love to give, just as good as I get.   

Though while I struggled to load up I thought, “Fuck this, Im not staying here” It was the afternoon and I still wanted to go another 500km west to Yushu where I knew the highway returned to go north to Xining.

“Yushu? I want to go to Yushu?”. I was given a small notepad and a pen to start my bidding on the next ride. I wrote down a big zero. Of course that’s how much I wanted to pay and to open the bidding with the correct amount would be ludicrous. 

A quick back and forth and a bargain price was agreed, finally, and I was straight into a station wagon with my bike safely in the back. When I did get away from the crowd I turned and waved a nice big “Bye everyone”. At once they all turned and almost in unison returned with an equally big “Byyyyyeeeee”. Hahahaha!

Thinking I was going to be the only one travelling was a foolish thought. We spent an hour going up and down the main street, each pass picking up another passenger. 

Now four in the back and squashed against the window again it was one last stop to pick up some final luggage from a narrow alleyway. I noticed a few police around the car when my door was suddenly flung open and a police officer, breathing heavily from an obvious run to reach our vehicle, stared straight at me and asked, “Where are you going?” “Yushu” I said confidently. “Where are you from?”, “Australia, I mean Ordaylia” (China speak for Australia). He looked at me, held out his hand and said “Welcome to China”. I returned the handshake with a loud slap as our hands came together. “Cheers mate”. 

I couldn’t wait to get out of this crazy mountain city. The main street was at a near gridlock when we tried to negotiate the final few turns to the highway. The traffic police trying to control a busy intersection we were trying to cross. When I made eye contact with the officer in the middle of the road he immediately stopped everyone moving and waved us through. My driver had seen this after trying to squeeze his way through and poked his head around his seat to look at me remarking “They love you!”.  

The ball kept rolling, extremely glad to be able to keep moving, possibly saving a day travel in the mean time. 

The sun slowly set over another jagged mountain range. Part of me was still yearning to be out on the road with my bike, the other part had firmly accepted what was my current reality. 

The pass over the mountain was as rugged as I had seen. The road turning to slush with what I could only assume was a shortcut. Cramped and tired in the backseat of the wagon, my travel companions wasting no time in falling asleep and using me a pillow. 

In the night we continued to travel at a decent speed until we reached Yushu at 1:30am, 17.5 hours after leaving Litang and now in the remote southern corner of Qinghai province and right on the Tibet Autonomous Region border. 

I didn’t really want to pay for a hotel bed for just a few hours, still its where I ended up and could get at least a few hours sleep. One of the first people out onto the morning street I went in search of the bus station. I asked with great success a young man who was opening a shop. Following his impeccable directions he soon appeared on a motorcycle for me to follow so I wouldn’t get lost. Which I would of, a large building written only in Tibetan and Chinese signs and not a bus in sight. 

I somehow managed to buy my ticket, the ticket lady was in no mood to even try to read my map where I was pointing to Xining. Another angel appeared to help me out as usual, and now only a 9 hour wait in Yushu for the 15 hour sleeper bus ride to Xining. 

Yushu was quite the modern city. In true Chinese fashion it had been rebuilt in an effort to promote tourism, . namely the preservation of Tibetan culture in the area. 

A trio of hot noodle soups later (two out of three were bought for me), and most of the day wandering the new old streets I was getting on the bus. This time I made sure I was wearing clean socks.

It always hard to know whats going on when we stopped each time. 5 minute toilet break or enough time for a meal, I can only watch as others do. After a few hours though people start to warm up to me and offer a little help when I’m looking absolutely confused (which is most of the time).

15 hours pass and we reach the hazy city of Xining just in time for the day to begin. I have no intention of spending the day here either and, without delay, go about searching for the bus to Urumqi in the far north west of China. 

A short morning ride through the bustling Xining morning traffic to another bus station I am simply told “no bus”. Any effort to find out if there is a bus to Urumqi at all falls on deaf ears. Expecting an angel to appear to save the day this time didn’t happen. I wandered back outside and slowly over the huge main train station next door. I had avoided taking trains even though they can be cheaper, and sometimes quicker, because I have to send my bike as extra luggage. A process which would leave me stranded without wheels for about 3 days. Here I had no choice.

I stood in line to buy a ticket, hoping that the person sitting behind the glass could speak English and tell me what to do. When I reached the front the assistant looked at me, got up immediately and walked away. ‘Not a great start’ I thought while I stood there with a long line building up behind me. Until a woman named Mai came and sat down in his place. 

All I was armed with was my map and a photo of my bike on my camera. It was terribly cute to listen to Mai explain to me what I needed to do. She had obviously been learning English for sometime and was yet to use it in the real world. She took great care in her speaking and I could see her intently thinking about every word. I managed to buy a ticket, a seat on the high speed train being the only way I was going to get to Urumqi today. Then Mai came and took me personally to the excess luggage area and helped me send my bike. She filled out all the necessary forms for me and made sure it was safely taken away. I didn’t have to do a thing except chose one bag to take with me. 

While we, or more Mai, was sending my bike to Urumqi, another of Xining’s train staff had been called. Tan was the real english speaker in the train station and had rushed down to help out. Although Mai was doing a steller job on her own. Tan was there to simply cross the t’s and dot the i’s. 

Everything was happening extremely fast when I noticed on my ticket my departure time, 15 minutes. No wonder they had been moving so fast. 

It was the first time I had left by bike with anyone since I began my adventure and I felt nervous at the prospect of less than diligent baggage handlers taking care. It was too late for a second thought as my bike was now gone. 

Mai and Tan grabbed the bag I was taking and ushered me all the way to the platform, and even still my seat when the train arrived. They had both taken a personal interest in my train journey and I had been hand delivered as far as they could take me.

Within 3 hours of stepping off a 15 hour bus ride I was sat in my seat on the high speed train, chugging along at a healthy 200km/h for the next 12 hours to Urumqi. 

Half way through the journey I was sat next to by a young Chinese man named Chen. That’s about all I was able to get out of him. I bought him a beer to try and easy the anxiety he was having trying to get his point across to me. I did understand that he was offering me a place to stay at the other end. He could muster the words “follow me”, which I had definite intentions of taking him up at the other end and agreed. 

We shared another beer, then another before a fellow passenger offered us both a drink from a large plastic bottle containing a while spirit. Chen got 2 cups and poured us both a large shot. It wasn’t too bad actually, I don’t know what I was expecting? I suppose when alcohol is served in a large classy plastic bottle, you’re never quite sure what you’re going to get. 

The second shot was quite the bit larger.

At the next stop we got off to stretch our legs, trying to get back on the train was not as easy as I remembered when I had gotten off. Like I’d been hit with a sack of potatoes my legs became very wobbly, I held out my arms to balance myself the entire three steps to reach the train door. Luckily my seat was just as close. Literally in the blink of an eye we had made it to Urumqi. 

Chen was shaking me “come, come”, he already had my bag and was moving off the train. It was dark and cold, I had no time to wonder where the hell we were when we got off the train. I had been poisoned by the amazingly strong vile spirit, much to the amusement of the Chinese on the train, and subsequently passed out. Or as I like to call it, fall asleep very very very quickly then wake up wondering what the fuck happened.

Chen had his friend pick us up and soon I was in his home on the outskirts of the city. It was warm and comfortable and even though Chen and I had just met and couldn’t even really speak to eachother, I felt quite at home. My wallet and passport were still with me, Chen had kept me safe. 

I spent the next three nights with Chen. Eating with his family and meeting all of his friends. He gave up his bed to me and let me sleep it off for as long as I needed. 

Urumqi is located in the north west corner of Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous region. The largest province in China primarily covered in desert, but also home to the Eastern arm of the Tien Shan Mountains, or ‘Celestial Mountains’, one of the most picturesque mountain ranges in the world. 

The people in Urumqi are mostly Uygur people, an ancient sub culture of China made up primarily of Kyrgyz, Kasakh, Tajik, Uzbeks, Russians and Pakistanis. But they aren’t any of these, they are Uygur. They have their own language which looks like arabic when written (even the road signs are in Uygur), which is where the similarity ends. It sounds more like Russian when spoken. 

Urumqi has been the target of unrest in the recent past, something that China does not take lightly. The show of force here is especially strong. The most shocking thing I have seen from my entire journey was here. Army types walking around (true to their show of force in the street) carrying axe handles as crowd control devices. Not too shocking I suppose, except for the young army officer who I witnessed wielding what looked like a home made baton, the end protruding nails like a medieval weapon. Not like, it was. When I noticed him marching towards me and then noticed his weapon my jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. With my mouth open and my eyes wide from surprise and shock I stared straight into the young soldiers eyes as he walked past. 

Three nights passed without spending one Yuan. The mere suggestion that I pay for something nearly sent Chen into a spin, I had to be careful not to even offer.

My bike finally arrived at the train station and I managed to leave Chen without him holding my hand all the way out of town. I now had to get a bus to Kashgar in south west Xinjiang, China’s most western city and my launch pad out of China and into Kyrgyzstan.

At the bus station China was already feeling like a distant memory. Uygur is clearly the predominate culture in town and the people look anything but Chinese. 

A final long sleeper bus ride (24 hours) to finish off my whirlwind journey across one of the biggest countries in the world. 

The second one on the bus that was supposed to leave at 2pm. At 2:30 I fell fast asleep on the relatively empty bus. 2 hours later I woke to find us still sitting at the bus station although now I had been joined on the bus by the cast of Borat.

I hardly caught a glimpse of Xinjiang’s wild west rocky desert before the sun disappeared. There wasn’t really much to look at anyway. When we stopped and I could have a good look the scenery was much the same, flat and baron. It was one of the most desolate places I have ever been in my life. At least the Australian outback has an abundance of life spread across its vastness. Here not a blade of grass stood.

Kashgar, found on the mighty Karakoram highway. To the west, Kyrgyzstan and to the south, Pakistan. Very much an ancient silk road city in the Uygur region as far from anywhere as you could ever be. I might as well have left China already had it not been for the ‘peoples square’, a monument to modern China’s founding father. Other than that I was in another world. 

In the old town (which China had knocked down and rebuilt to look old, ??????) men sat in the street blacksmithing kettles and pots out of copper, fruit and nuts are sold from large bags on the side of the road, and the Kashgar night market is beaming with evening life. A great place to eat ‘pollo’ the local food. Rice and meat served with vegetables made in large woks everywhere. 

Uygur people hold bread as very sacred to them. Large round Naan bread is found everywhere but it comes with rules. Don’t eat it walking down the street and what ever you do, don’t drop it. It all sounded a bit scary really, although before I left I did manage to try some, in the privacy of the hostel of course as not to offend anyone if I did it wrong. 

Crossing into Krygyzstan could be one of the most challenging crossings I will have to face. An uncycleable stretch of no-mans land on the China side stretching for 160km from Wuqia to Irkeshtam across the millennia old Irkeshtam pass. There are two real options, the first is simply a bus from Kashgar to Osh in West Kyrgyzstan, the second being two taxis. Sharing the cost of the second option makes for a half price trip. At least.

Lucky for me I met an enthusiastic soul named Lukas, a Swiss guy hitching his way home from South East Asia. Unfortunately for Lukas hitch hiking across the Irkeshtam Pass was illegal so he would have to pay. The upside for both of us is that we found eachother and agreed to share the cost. 

The first taxi to the China immigration building was absolutely no problem. Lukas and I met at the bus station, I was worried my bike could cause a problem, perhaps the driver using it as leverage to increase the price. In the end I was worried about nothing and my bike was simply tied across the back with the boot open. 

China customs took forever. By far the quietest customs building I had ever seen, there were twice the amount of people working there as there were people trying to leave and still they made us wait. We had to solicit out next ride before they would stamp us out of the country. I soon found a driver out of the hordes of three people standing around and had he not piped up for us we could have been stuck there for 4 hours. We had just made the 12pm cut off, after that everything stops for four hours for lunch. 

We were running on Xinjiang time and the borders run on Beijing time, as do the busses. A ridiculous two hour difference between them, Beijing being about 6000km to the east.

One hour, five passport checks and 50 metres closer to Kyrgyzstan later, we were off………..

And that’s where the story ends, hurtling towards the Kyrgyzstan border somewhere out in the eroded desert mountain no-mans land of the silk roads Irkeshtam Pass. So what happens next? Do I get arrested by the army? Robbed? Kidnapped? Maybe, maybe not……