The legendary singing sand dunes outside of Dunhuang, China were not singing for me but they were not entirely silent, either. They say the desert sings of lost Silk Road traveler’s ghosts whose lives were taken by bandits or thirst or starvation, though it was mostly by the desert windstorms that rose like waves and extinguished all life that wasn’t smart enough to ride it out, yet all I heard were my own thoughts, desert dry, blooming, beckoning onward over the dunes and into what’s next.
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I had hit Beijing wrong. Like astronauts upon reentry, if their trajectory is wrong they bounce off the atmosphere and go screaming and spinning off into space. In my mind I felt that I did just that and set about to make it right. Tennessee Williams penned the classic line, “I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers,” and though he meant it in an entirely different context, it certainly applies to travel in China. Not only do you need the kindness of strangers, but their sympathy, their cooperation, and quite possibly their pity as well. I was only eighteen when I went to Europe alone and managed to wander about for 2 months. Back in the States, I used my thumb to crisscross the continent numerous times. You could pick me up and drop me in any city, and I would always find my way. I had a built in compass, a fairly flawless sense of direction, an almost total recall of places I’d been to before, similar to a nomad’s ability to consistently revisit watering holes in the formless desert. Later, I wandered all over the state of Alaska and survived. I also lived in and navigated my way around Central America for almost a decade, as well as numerous other places too tedious to recall. But absolutely nothing prepared me for China; traveling in this country is in an entirely new category all by itself. First of all, no one that you want to speak English, does. And even if they do, they are not going to readily admit it. This includes ticket sellers, taxi drivers, hotel clerks, hustlers, hospital workers, restaurant employees, food sellers, bus drivers, prostitutes, policemen, pharmacists, pirates, poets, pawns and a few kings. You are all on your own and no one has a clue as to what the f*** you are talking about. Next, once you get out of the airport or train station, there is barely any written English anywhere. Sure, there might be some road signs that you can decipher, but everything else is incomprehensible. Seriously incomprehensible. It looks like this: 認真難以理解認真難以理解認真難以理解. Over and over again. If you can’t point to a picture or mime what you want, you’re lost. I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. With the above in mind, I arrived in desert city of Jiayuguan, expecting it to be a small place I could easily find my way around, unaided. But when I got away from the train station, I could see gleaming tall buildings off in the distance like the Emerald City. It was too far to walk and I didn’t know where the hell I was going anyway. I had done some research, and knew I could take the #4 bus to get to the fort, (ah numbers, you can always read numbers) but according to the signs, it didn’t stop on this street. After pausing briefly at a hotel and confusing everyone, then trying to hire a taxi driver who didn’t understand where I was trying to go, I made a tactical retreat and headed back to the train station. I accosted a ticket checker and pointed to the poster for the famous fort at Jiayuguan Pass, handed her my notebook, and she scribbled something, then pointed. Encouraged, I saw the number 4 and wandered in the direction she had pointed. Hallelujah brothers and sisters, there, idling patiently, was the magical #4 bus, waiting to whisk me away and into Jiayuguan City. I paid the 1 RMB fare (approx. sixteen cents) and the bus took me on a long looping tour of the city, then to the outskirts, eventually ejecting me at the last stop on the route, the famous fort at the Jiayuguan Pass. I was pretty wowed that I had pulled this off, and with new determination haggled with a woman selling straw hats, gaining laughter and respect from the man in the adjoining booth, and the curses of the woman who had started out at 50 RMB, but settled for 10 RMB. This pattern would repeat itself all throughout this trip. Haggling is an art in China. The grounds of the fort are beautiful with landscaped parks, statues and sweeping vistas. At the visitors center, I was handed a map and an info page printed in English, then motioned to have a seat and wait. Soon, a young woman came toward me and greeted me in English. She sat and patiently answered all my questions about the fort and surrounding places of interest. This was a bright stroke of luck and afterward I went to back outside, ordered a beer and sat at a table under a sheltering Tsingtao umbrella. It was late afternoon and there was no need to rush to see everything, so I decided to go back into town and get a hotel. Waiting for the magical mystery green #4 bus, I met another in a series of desert angels who would help me when I needed it most. She came right up to me, looked deeply into my face and said, “Hi. I used to live in New Jersey.” Blinking in surprise, I said hello, and smiled as she assaulted me with her knowledge about New York, New Jersey, Atlantic City, and regrettably, Donald Trump, all in rapid-fire, well-accented English, and before I could respond, the bus pulled up. I paid her fare, and we sat together in the back. I wanted to ask her so many questions, but she was rabid to talk, so I sat back and mainly listened. She was, of course, Chinese, fit, maybe thirty-five or upward, attractive. I thought she was trying to pick me up (vanity, I know thy name) until she mentioned her husband. All along the route she pointed out so many things that later on would come in handy as I wandered about that she amounted to a living map, welcoming committee, Jiayuguan brochure, gossip columnist, tour guide, monologist, history buff, and so on, all pouring forth in a snap-crackle and pop surge of English word power. Clearly, she was another light twin. Abruptly, she signaled the bus driver, then told me that I had to get off at the next stop and walk 2 blocks north to a great hotel. And though I wanted to protest, to keep listening to her very good English, to remain in the bubble of known, shared things, the bus lurched to a stop and I fumbled my way through the standing passengers, stepped down into the street, and stood, slowly waving goodbye as she put her hand to her lips, then touched the window, moving off into the land of never seen again. God, I love China. So I walked north, and as promised, there was a hotel. Jiayuguan: Beyond Lay the Barbarian Lands, Part 3 |
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