CHINA (3) - BEIJING TO SHANGHAI
1,003
Kilometres – 25 Days26
October – 23 November 2016
Threshold
of the Unknown
I crossed into
China as though stepping through a veil — from the warm chaos of Vietnam into a
colder, stranger current. The signs were unreadable, the stares unblinking, the
air thick with a history I could feel but not name.
With my
bicycle beneath me and a river of unfamiliar rhythms ahead, I pedalled into a
country that asked nothing of me except to surrender to its vastness. Every road
felt like an unanswered question. Every day, a new way of being small in a
place impossibly large.
Pedalling the Grand Canal - Beijing to the Bund
Crossing the
Border and Entering the Unknown - Mong Cai, Vietnam to Qinzhou, China
Crossing out
of Vietnam felt like being swept along by a human tide — a river of bodies,
bags, chatter, and curious eyes. I walked my bicycle through the passenger
terminal, flanked by what felt like half of Vietnam and China, all eager to
help, all pointing, gesturing, ushering. Then the Chinese immigration building
rose ahead, austere and unreadable, its signs a forest of characters I could
not decipher.
Inside, the
officer studied my passport as though it were a rare artefact. He held it to
the light, flipped it, squinted, frowned. Perhaps they’d never seen anyone from
“Nanfei”. Perhaps they expected all Africans to look a certain way. Whatever
the reason, the scrutiny felt endless. When he finally waved me through, I
stepped into China as though into another dimension — a place of sensory
overload, of unfamiliar rhythms and unspoken rules.
Dongxing
greeted me with the blunt force of a border town. I found an ATM, withdrew
4,000 yuan, and went in search of a SIM card. The staff stared in silence,
phones half‑raised, as if I’d descended from Mars. A woman escorted me to the
main office, and by 11h00 I finally rolled out of town with money in my pocket
and a working phone — two small anchors of security in a vast unknown.
Once free of
sprawling Dongxing, I slipped onto a minor road and exhaled. Rice fields
stretched out in soft greens and golds, and villagers paused mid‑stride to
watch me pass, their expressions a mix of surprise and curiosity. The
countryside was slow, gentle, forgiving — a balm after the border’s chaos.
But China’s
cities soon rose like steel mirages. They appeared intimidating from afar, yet
once inside, their wide boulevards and orderly grids made navigation
surprisingly easy. Winter’s early dusk caught me just as I reached Qinzhou
after biking about 100km. Exhausted, I surrendered to the first hotel I found —
a posh, gleaming place, twice my usual budget but worth every yuan. I ate,
washed mud from my clothes in a tiny basin, and hung everything beneath the air‑conditioner’s
warm breath. A small domestic victory.
Mud,
Roadworks, and Seven Million Strangers - The Ride to Nanning
Breakfast was
a fiery initiation: stir‑fried vegetables, chilli, boiled eggs, soy milk. I
left with a full belly and the heartburn of a dragon, pedalling toward Nanning
under a sky thick with road dust and the promise of more construction.
Roadworks
slowed everything to a crawl. Mud splashed up my legs; potholes lurked like
traps. Eventually the chaos thinned, giving way to abandoned villages — places
emptied when residents were relocated to cities in the name of poverty
alleviation. Their silence felt heavy, like a story half‑told.
Cycling into
Nanning was a battle of scale. Seven million people, highways stacked like
ribbons, flyovers looping into the haze. Cars slowed to photograph me;
passengers leaned out of windows, phones raised. Covered in mud, I must have
looked like a creature emerging from the earth itself.
My GPS died
halfway into the city, and I navigated by instinct and frustration until I
found the hostel — on the third floor, naturally. After hauling my panniers
upstairs, I collapsed into a small, warm room and let the city hum around me.
27–28 October
– A Pause in the Southern Capital Ancient Villages and Train Tickets North - Nanning
I had grand
plans for Nanning, but the days dissolved into errands and small wanderings. From
Nanning, it made sense to take a train to Beijing and then cycle south to
Xiamen, where I’d left off last time. I bought a train ticket to Beijing — only
top bunks left, the ones everyone warns against — and took a bus to Yangmei, an
ancient village tucked into the hills.
The road was
steep and slow, the bus groaning around each bend. Yangmei, with its Ming and
Qing architecture, felt like a pocket of time preserved. Founded during the
Song Dynasty, it was originally called Baihua — “all sorts of flowers” — for
the abundance that once grew there. I wandered its narrow lanes for an hour or
so, soaking in the quiet beauty of old stone alleys, wooden beams, and quiet
courtyards. I wandered until the last bus called me back to the present.
Northbound
Through a Sleepless Night - The Long Train to Beijing
At the
station, I checked in my bicycle and panniers, warned they might arrive days
later. The fee for the bike nearly matched my own ticket — a reminder that in
China, even luggage has a life of its own.
The train
bunks were stacked three high. My top bunk had no window and barely enough
headroom to breathe. With everyone lying down, the only place to sit was a tiny
fold‑out chair in the corridor — a stage on which I became the accidental star.
People queued for selfies. Others came from neighbouring coaches just to look
at the foreigner. Eventually, I retreated to my bunk, hiding like a hermit crab
in its shell.
The train
rolled north through landscapes I longed to linger in. Mountains, fields,
villages — all passing too quickly. By the time we reached Beijing West,
darkness had fallen. My bicycle was nowhere to be found, and the cheap hotels
refused foreigners. I walked for ages before surrendering to a taxi. Beijing, I
realised, was as expensive as any Western capital — and far colder.
Beijing was
shockingly cold. October was already too late in the season for this part of
the world, and my skimpy clothes were no match for the climate.
Beijing Winter
Finds Me in Beijing - Banks, Bicycles, and the Weight of a Goose‑Down Jacket
My first
mission: warmth. I found The North Face and asked for the warmest jacket in the
shop. My cards were declined — a shock that sent me racing back to the hostel
to call the bank. My pin had been blocked. Only my debit card still worked.
Once I’d
sorted the banking chaos, I retrieved my bicycle from the station and pedalled
through Beijing’s vastness, past Tiananmen Square, past the Forbidden City,
past millions of people wrapped in thick coats. I felt tiny, exhilarated, and
absurdly proud.
With cash in
my pocket and a goose‑down jacket on my back, I finally relaxed. I wandered the
city, camera in hand, letting Beijing’s winter light settle into my bones.
Following the
First Thread of the Grand Canal - Beijing to Anpingzhen
I left Beijing
wrapped in every layer I owned — beanie, gloves, thermal underwear, and my new
goose‑down armour. The city’s wide cycle lanes carried me eastward, away from
the monumental heart of the capital and toward the ancient thread I hoped to
follow: the Grand Canal.
Thirty
kilometres later, I reached Tongzhou Canal Park, the official “start” of the
Grand Canal, a monumental waterway system stretching 1,300 kilometres between
Beijing and Hangzhou. First constructed in the fifth century BC, it became the
world’s largest engineering project before the Industrial Revolution. By the
13th century, it spanned more than 2,000 kilometres — far surpassing the Suez
and Panama Canals. UNESCO added it to the World Heritage List in 2014. I
doubted I could cycle right alongside it, but I hoped to follow its general
course and uncover a few historical titbits along the way.
A smooth cycle
path traced its edge for a few kilometres before dissolving into the haze. The
air was thick with pollution — a grey, metallic taste that clung to the back of
my throat. My nose blocked despite the nasal spray; breathing felt like
inhaling through cloth. I eyed the face masks worn by nearly everyone and knew
it was only a matter of time before I joined them.
With daylight
slipping away, I stopped after 80 kilometres. Winter’s early darkness was not
something to challenge lightly. I found a modest room and thawed my fingers,
grateful for four walls and a door.
Fog, Freezing
Hands, and Foreign Concessions - Cycling into Tianjin
The morning
arrived colder still, wrapped in a fog so dense it felt like cycling through
wet wool. Visibility shrank to a few metres. I doubted the traffic could see me
at all. I tied plastic bags around my feet and hands — a makeshift barrier
against the cold — and pushed on.
The fog never
lifted. Pile‑ups materialised like ghosts: twisted metal, stalled engines,
lines of cars stretching into the white void. I wove through the stillness on
my bicycle, a small mercy of two wheels.
Tianjin
emerged from the mist like a European dream misplaced in northern China. The
old concession districts — British, French, Japanese, German, Italian, Belgian
— stood with their stately facades and quiet streets. I found the Three
Brothers Hostel and wandered the Wudadao, where elegant houses whispered
stories of another era. By nightfall, the cold drove me indoors. I had an entire
eight‑bed dorm to myself — a rare, delicious solitude.
Searching for
Old China in a New City - A Day in Tianjin
I lingered.
Tianjin demanded a slower pace, even if it wasn’t the China I’d imagined. Old
China had vanished beneath layers of modernity: KFC, Starbucks, Carrefour,
McDonald’s. Wedding boutiques in white satin. Hip cafés with young people
sipping lattes. The riverfront — once part of the ancient Grand Canal — now a
polished business district of glass and steel.
I searched for
signs of old China, and found a few small alleys tucked behind the global
brands, places where dumplings steamed in bamboo baskets and the air smelled of
vinegar and garlic.
Still, the
side streets offered comfort. Inexpensive eats, dark little eateries with low
ceilings, and bowls of steaming dumplings that tasted like home, even though
they weren’t. I made sure to fill up before returning to the hostel and the tourist-priced
cafés of the old town. In China, nothing beats a bowl of dumplings from a hole-in-the-wall
joint.
The Industrial
Corridor - Tianjin to Cangzhou
The ride south
was bleak. The weather softened slightly, enough to shed the down jacket by
midday, but the landscape offered little joy. The ancient canal remained
elusive, and I cut a straight line toward Cangzhou through industrial sprawl
and tired farmland.
For nearly 30
kilometres, the road was lined with truck‑repair workshops — a mechanical city
of grease and grit. Cangzhou itself greeted me after 110km land with graffiti‑scarred
walls, half‑built high‑rises, and abandoned residential blocks. It felt like
cycling into a forgotten future.
The first
three hotels refused foreigners. The fourth —a gleaming international hotel —
accepted me, though at a price. I withdrew cash from the second bank I tried,
showered in a bathroom the size of a ballroom, and crossed the street for a
cheap, delicious meal. China’s contradictions never ceased.
A Long, Cold
Push South - Cangzhou to Dezhou
I overslept,
reluctant to leave the warmth. By the time I pedalled out, the city was already
in full swing. The cold kept me moving; I stopped less than usual, pushing
through the flat, uninspiring landscape for app 120 km.
Dezhou
appeared just before dusk. Again, the first hotels refused foreigners. The
third — mercifully — welcomed me. The receptionist spoke a little English, a
small gift at the end of a long day. I dropped my bags and made straight for
the dumpling stand, ordering enough food for two. They always assumed I was
feeding someone else.
Steam, Smiles,
and Steel Wires - Dezhou to Ji’nan
Morning
markets are the soul of China. Steam rose from rice‑bun stalls in thick white
plumes, twisting into the cold air. People huddled in oversized coats, rubbing
their hands together, laughing through clouds of breath. I joined them,
mimicking their gestures, earning amused smiles. With a bag of hot buns
swinging from my handlebars, I set off toward Ji’nan 127 km down the drag.
A flat tyre
slowed me — the culprit, as always, the steel wires from exploded truck tyres.
Two had burrowed into my Schwalbes. Wrestling the tyre off was a battle, but
eventually the new tube was in place.
The rest of
the ride passed through vegetable fields and brand‑new towns not yet on any
map. I thought about China’s trees — the endless rows lining the roads, the
vast parks in every city, and the Great Green Wall stretching thousands of
miles across the north. A country reshaping its landscape tree by tree.
Ji’nan
swallowed me whole. It took ages to reach the centre. Unable to find the
hostel, I surrendered to a Home Inn, then ate for two hours straight, thawing
from the inside out.
Snacks, News,
and a City of Shiny Things
Laundry,
errands, wandering. Ji’nan was shiny, modern, full of brand names and bright
lights. But the news from afar cast a shadow: the outcome of the US election. I
wasn’t invested in American politics, yet the result felt like a bruise on the
world.
The wind
howled at 35 miles an hour. I abandoned any thought of cycling and stayed put,
exploring the pedestrian lanes and sampling snacks until I could eat no more.
The weather forecast looked grim.
Toward the
Sacred Mountain - Ji’nan to Taishan
The wind
eased, and I escaped. The ride to Taishan wasn’t remarkable, but arriving in a
traditional Chinese town lifted my spirits. The hostel sat in the heart of the
old city, surrounded by narrow alleys and steaming food carts.
Taishan, one
of China’s sacred mountains, worshipped since the 11th century BC, is a major
pilgrimage site. I wasn’t sure I was in the mood to hike up the mountain in the
miserable weather, so instead I visited the town’s temples — the traditional
starting point for pilgrims before they begin the ascent.
The alleys
were lined with mobile food carts, each one spewing steam and heavenly aromas.
It was the perfect place to grab a bite to eat, and I wandered from stall to
stall, sampling whatever caught my eye. The warmth of the food and the bustle
of the streets made up for the grey skies overhead.
In the
Footsteps of Confucius - Taishan to Qufu
A gentle
tailwind carried me toward Qufu, birthplace of Confucius. The old walled city
was beautifully restored, its stone lanes glowing in the soft autumn light. The
hostel, an old building with creaking floors, felt like a refuge.
I wandered
through the Kong Mansion, learning that Confucius’s family name was Kong Qiu,
and that “Confucius” was a Latinised invention of Jesuit missionaries. I
visited the Temple of Yan, admired its quiet dignity, then hunted down
dumplings — my daily ritual.
I stayed an
extra day. Qufu was too lovely to rush. I took nearly 200 photos, bought more
nasal spray, topped up my phone data, and marvelled at how difficult simple
tasks became without a shared language.
A Slow Day
Through Painted Trees - Qufu to Tengzhou
I woke with no
appetite for movement, as though the fog that clung to Qufu had seeped into my
bones. Packing took ages, each item resisting its place, and by the time I
finally pedalled out, the morning was already slipping away.
Yet the day
was warm, almost tender, and the distance to Tengzhou on 66 km. The road
unfurled beneath a canopy of trees so dense it felt like cycling through a
private forest. Light filtered through in soft, shifting colours. Still, my
legs dragged, my mood heavier than my panniers. By Tengzhou, I surrendered to
the truth: there’s no point forcing a ride when the spirit refuses. I called it
a day.
A Left Turn
into History - Tengzhou to Tai’erzhuang
Forty
kilometres in, a sign pointed toward Tai’erzhuang, an “ancient town.” I turned
left on impulse, following quiet country roads.
Tai’erzhuang,
founded more than 2,000 years ago, once thrived along the Grand Canal.
Destroyed in 1938 during the Battle of Tai’erzhuang — China’s first major
victory over Japan — it has since been rebuilt as a tourist town.
My hotel was
run by a man who had been fast asleep behind the counter. He woke with a start
at the sight of a foreigner. He handed my passport back immediately — I doubt
he could read a word of it — and then came the chorus of “OK, OK, OK,”
accompanied by frantic bowing. We must have looked ridiculous, the two of us
performing this impromptu pantomime.
The carpet was
stained, the bathroom floor sprinkled with hair, but the bedding was clean and
the price right. Outside, a woman sold crispy pancakes stuffed with stir-fried
vegetables. Heaven in a paper wrapper.
The Rebuilt
City and the Returned Phone - Tai’erzhuang to Pizhou
I explored the
reconstructed old town in the morning — canals, bridges, stone alleys, all
rebuilt but still atmospheric. The history of the battle hung in the air, a
reminder of how fiercely this land had been defended.
While
exploring this ancient town, I realised I’d left my phone in the handlebar
holder. I rushed back. Miraculously, it was still there. China astonished me in
moments like this.
I changed my
route and followed quiet lanes to Pizhou, passing villagers who stared openly,
unaccustomed to foreigners. Along this stretch, the Grand Canal was still alive
— barges moving slowly through its ancient waters. A thrill ran through me. The
canal still breathed.
Decisions on
the Road South - Pizhou to Xuzhou
My visa was
nearing its end, and my mother’s 90th birthday approached. Flights were rising
in price by the day. December is high season in South Africa. It made sense to
leave China now and return in spring, when the cold would no longer gnaw at my
bones.
I booked a
flight and set off toward Xuzhou with a light tailwind. The city was enormous
and not particularly charming, but it had hotels near the train station, and
that was all I needed. I checked into a 7 Days Inn and bought my train ticket
to Shanghai.
A Train Missed, A Sleeper Gained - Xuzhou
to Shanghai
Morning brought a small comedy of errors.
I wheeled my bicycle and panniers to the baggage department, where everything
was weighed, tagged, and swallowed into the system. With hours to spare before
what I believed was an evening departure, I paid for a late checkout and
lingered in my room, grateful for warmth.
At the station, reality struck: my
train had been at 9h30 that morning, not 21h30. I stared at the ticket in
disbelief, wondering how I’d managed to misread something so simple.
Fortunately, the staff changed it to a later train — but only a seat, not a
sleeper.
The train was packed to suffocation.
People stood in the aisles, bags wedged between knees, elbows, shoulders. I
squeezed into my seat, bracing for a long, uncomfortable night. Around
midnight, a flurry of radio chatter erupted, followed by a dozen curious faces
turning toward me — the foreigner causing a stir again. Moments later, I was
ushered to a sleeper coach, where I stretched out gratefully until dawn.
The Bund, the Box, and the Goodbye - Shanghai
to Cape Town
We arrived in Shanghai at the ghostly
hour of 5h00. The city was still asleep, its skyscrapers silhouettes against a
pale sky. I caught a taxi to the hostel, only to find it closed. A security
guard waved me into the restaurant area to wait for the staff. When they
finally arrived, the verdict was disappointing: fully booked.
I found another place around the corner
and dropped my bags before stepping out into Shanghai’s morning light. I had
never felt drawn to this city, but it surprised me with its elegance. The Bund,
with its art deco facades and colonial grandeur, felt like a stage set from
another century. Once the “Wall Street of Asia,” it had seen rice, silk, and
opium change hands in fortunes. Now it was a polished promenade of history and
ambition.
East Nanjing Road pulsed with life —
neon signs, fashion houses, the iconic Apple store. It was hard to imagine this
had once been China’s first department‑store district in the 1920s. The city
reinvented itself with every generation.
I retrieved my bicycle from the train
station four kilometres away and began the familiar ritual of searching for a
bike box. Later, I met Ingrid De Graeve, a Facebook friend living in Shanghai.
We shared stories, laughter, and the strange comfort of meeting someone
familiar in a place so vast.
Then came the final task: packing up.
The bicycle disappeared into cardboard; the panniers were strapped and sealed.
At the airport, I felt the familiar tug — the bittersweet ache of leaving a
place before I’d fully understood it.
China had been bewildering, exhausting,
surprising, and endlessly fascinating. It had challenged me, frustrated me,
delighted me. And now it was time to fly home to Cape Town, to celebrate my
mother’s 90th birthday, and to return another season — when the cold no longer bit
at my bones and the road south would open once more. This is not the end – just
a pause.
Leaving
the Unfinished
By the time
Shanghai’s skyline rose around me, China had become a mosaic of half‑understood
moments — fog and dumpling
steam, rebuilt towns, ancient echoes, cold mornings that bit through every
layer.
I left with the sense
of closing a book mid‑sentence,
the story still breathing behind me. Some places refuse to be finished; they
ask you to return in another season, with warmer hands and a heart ready for
more.
