23/7/25
Eating breakfast we felt as though we were being stared at more than usual. Choosing a Chinese only hotel made us feel as though the other guests knew too. Investigation revealed that cTrip.com allowed us to find the hotels that were off limits. Fear of being fined for filling out forms incorrectly is the reason for their apprehension.
A nice variety of options were on offer. Noodles and vegetables. Several dishes had been mixed through with meat. No doubt a sign of high standards for everyone else. Sufficiently pleased ourselves, we decided we would book another night here.
Retrieving our bicycles was the first task. Though DiDi immediately brought us a car, the driver refused to take us. Too far for the money. Disillusionment, and fatigue, with this ride hailing app was setting in. Instead, to presumably avoid cancelling the trip himself, the driver took us to the “short distance passenger transportation station”.
Another car park full of yellow minibuses. He identified the bus to Caoke for us, which was empty, and we thanked his disgruntled head. Only ¥21 minutes each to take us, but we’d have to wait till 11am, another hour before we left. Slowly the bus filled up. People and cargo, mainly meat, joined us.
Finally ready to depart, we laughed as the incessant beeping, indicating someone had failed to secure their seatbelt, infuriated the driver. The man behind us had headphones on and hadn’t heard the shouting. Encouraging the wearing seatbelts was high on the priority list for the Chinese. Two roads line the river valley to Caoke, three including the highway. We’d utilised the west bank but now we took the east bank. Far bumpier and hillier. We eyed the opposing side, hopeful it would still be open for our return journey.
Repacking the bikes took at least an hour. If not more. The tyres needed inflating too after sitting for so long. As a thank you for looking after our bikes we had bought the lady a box of Tibetan brick tea, a small bottle of alcohol and a bottle of macadamia nuts. We’d bought the nuts for ourselves, but they’d been cooked in milk so we were gifting them instead. Sadly, the woman wasn’t there. A young girl, we assumed was her daughter, appeared eventually. Frankie also had a yellow dress she’d bought in Thailand that wasn’t worth carrying anymore. The girl was pleased with it. There was also the ¥400 we owed for the ride to the hiking path.
Simultaneously elated, and nervous, we started descending quickly. Less than a mile later and we were brought back down by the realities of Chinese roads. Stopping us in our tracks was a blockade. Or cones and a man. Twice we double checked. A whole fucking hour. That’s right. On the plus side we could tuck ourselves, and bikes, in a shaded spot under some metal sheeting propped against a stack of chopped wood. Flabbergasted was an understatement.
Underpromise and overdeliver is the Chinese way, we were allowed to go after 45 minutes. The 7km descent allowed us to get used to the bikes again. Pedalling felt a little weird, not difficult. Looking up the road we’d hoped to take towards Detuo, we could see the tunnel entrance. Cement lorries lined the road. No traffic went that way. It must be closed. Back to Shimian we must go.
We knew exactly where we were going now. Back through the three tunnels. The first seemed far longer than we remembered. Some of the road was in a worse state than we’d encountered on the way up. Much of it had continued to be worked on. They had concreted the sides of the cliffs while we had been walking around staring at the unsanitised beauty of the rocks.
When we stopped for water in Xinmin the wind suddenly started up. Frayed flags flapped vigorously. Thunder rumbled in the mountains behind us. Locals rode past, glancing upwards, fearing the possible storm. Willing us forward even faster, the wind was in our favour. Mostly. On occasion, it was in our face.
Whizzing along, the buoyancy of altitude adjustment in our legs, we aimed to have the ride finished as soon as physically possible. Traffic increased as we got closer to the city. Never had we been so happy to see ‘Asbestos’. Shimian translates directly to ‘stone cotton’. The city was a hub for asbestos manufacturing for many years, producing hundreds of thousands of tonnes.
Feeling relieved to have obtained the bikes, and successfully got back on them, we parked up in the underground car park. Already almost 7pm, we took a stroll to find some dinner. Unlikely though it was, we unknowingly ended up in a chicken restaurant. Within minutes a crowd of at least 20 people, staff and patrons, had us surrounded. Puzzling over the menu always took time, and we were apparently an intriguing spectacle.
Shimian had a wonderful riverside walking area. Hundreds of people were enjoying the cooler air. Continuously an object of amusement, we strolled along in the night. A couple with a baby stopped to talk to us. The lady had spotted us eating our barbecued seitan the night before. Foreigners in Shimian were rare. Their main curiosity was how we could possibly afford to travel for so long. We couldn’t help but feel sheepish, and impossibly lucky. Emotions that were difficult to convey.
Surly They Won't Make It 