Prelude
2,795
kilometres across China sounds impressive until you realise most of it was
spent dodging firecrackers, navigating potholed mud baths, being stared at like
a rare zoo exhibit, and trying not to lose essential items (usually hiding in
my panniers). Still, those kilometres carried me from misty mountains to
megacities, past ancient towers and modern chaos, and through a country that
surprised me at every turn. China was never subtle, never quiet, and never
predictable—but it was always unforgettable.
Keelung
to Xiamen: A Modest Little Ocean Crossing
The
Cosco Star turned out to be far more substantial than the modest ferry I’d
pictured. In fact, it was the sort of vessel that made you wonder whether you
should have worn something more formal. The interior was surprisingly
luxurious, with budget cabins containing six bunks each. I had all six to
myself, which made me feel like a minor aristocrat—albeit one who spent the
entire crossing lying flat because the ship rolled like a drunken elephant.
We
arrived in Xiamen around 9:30 the next morning, and immigration was so painless
I suspected I’d missed a step. I changed my last Taiwanese dollars, drew a few
Chinese yuan, and stepped out eagerly to see what China had in store.
Xiamen,
as it turned out, had a lot in store. The city was enormous—an ocean of high‑rise
buildings stretching in every direction—yet on the map it appeared as a polite
little dot. It sat on an island connected to the mainland by a five‑kilometre
bridge, which the Chinese had built with the casual nonchalance of people who
construct bridges the way others assemble IKEA shelves.
A
ferry ran to the UNESCO‑listed island of Gulangyu, only a few hundred metres
away, but the queue was so long it looked like a pilgrimage. I abandoned that
idea and headed to the nearest hostel instead.
Hard
copies of anything—maps, guidebooks, even a scrap of paper with directions—were
impossible to find. China had apparently leapfrogged straight into the digital
age without leaving any printed breadcrumbs behind. So I finally bought a
smartphone. I spent most of the day learning how to use it, which made me feel
both technologically empowered and mildly defeated.
The Internet
worked, but Facebook and other foreign platforms were blocked. Skype, however,
was allowed, presumably because the government had decided it was too boring to
pose a threat.
A
walk downtown revealed a bustling, modern city with department stores on every
corner and shops selling gadgets so advanced I wasn’t entirely sure what they
did. No trace of the extreme poverty of decades past remained. Everything was
clean—surgically clean. Not a scrap of paper anywhere. I suspected that if I
dropped a tissue, a municipal worker would abseil from a nearby building to
retrieve it before it touched the ground.
China
may have developed a coffee culture, but it remained a tea‑drinking nation. Tea
shops were everywhere, selling tiny teapots barely large enough to hold half a
cup. I wasn’t sure whether they were meant for brewing tea or for serving
imaginary friends.
My
hostel, BaiJaiCun, sat opposite Zhongshan Park, where elderly men played cards
under enormous trees and families pedalled boats around the canal. It was a
charming place to linger and watch China unfold.
The
next day, I found pockets of “real China” hidden among the skyscrapers—people
carrying goods in baskets suspended from bamboo poles, shopkeepers sipping tea
from delicate china cups, and a market selling what looked suspiciously like
bits of endangered species. I’m fairly sure I saw something resembling rhino
horn. I decided not to ask.
The
fish market was equally fascinating, offering every sea creature imaginable,
including sandworm jelly—boiled worms set into a collagen‑rich mould. I was
told it was good for wrinkles. I decided to keep my wrinkles.
Xiamen
to Zhangzhou: The Day China Tried to Break Me (90 km)
I
left late, assuming the ride to Zhangzhou would be short and easy. This was a
mistake. Most roads prohibited bicycles, and finding alternative routes became
a full‑time occupation. I spent the day zigzagging across Fujian province like
a confused ant.
By
the time I reached Zhangzhou, it was dark, I was starving, and my patience had
evaporated. I found a budget hotel in the centre, dumped my panniers, and
dashed out for food. Back in my room, I curled up in front of the TV, vowing to
buy a GPS before China swallowed me whole.
Zhangzhou
to Yunxiao District: The Tunnel of Joy (101 km)
Leaving
Zhangzhou was easier, as the G324 allowed bicycles. In China, even the “small
roads” had three lanes in each direction and were maintained better than most
European highways. The gentle gradients made cycling a pleasure, and the
weather was warm enough for a T‑shirt and shorts.
It
was Chinese New Year’s Eve, and celebrations were in full swing. I passed
villages firing off endless strings of firecrackers, tea plantations, and tea
houses. Thirty kilometres from Yunxian, a mountain loomed ahead—but the
Chinese, being practical people, had simply dug a tunnel through it. I cycled
through it grinning like a fool.
My
hotel in Yunxian sat next to a park, which turned out to be a terrible idea. At
midnight, the fireworks began—machine‑gun‑style rolls that exploded
continuously for hours. The tradition is to make as much noise as possible to
chase away evil spirits. Judging by the volume, they were chasing away all the
spirits, including the good ones.
Yunxiao
to Chaozhou: Mist, Mountains, and Rubber Necks (122 km)
The
morning mist hung low over the city, and the streets were carpeted in red paper
from the night’s firecrackers. Breakfast shops were closed, as the first day of
the New Year was reserved for honouring elders.
The
ride to Chaozhou was peaceful, with hazy mountains straight out of old Chinese
paintings. People stared at me so intensely I feared someone might dislocate a
neck. One man pulled up beside me to announce he had never seen a foreign woman
cycling in China. I wasn’t sure whether this made me a pioneer or a curiosity.
Finding
accommodation in Chaozhou took nearly as long as cycling there. Everything
affordable was booked, and the cheapest hotels accepted only Chinese citizens.
Eventually, I gave up and booked a pricier room. The bed was so hard my hip
went numb. I contemplated sleeping on my mat.
Chaozhou:
Temples, Tea, and Being the Main Attraction
I
found cheaper lodging in an alley the next morning. At the fancy hotel, the
porter tried to help pack my bicycle but looked as though he’d been asked to
saddle a unicorn.
Chaozhou
was a historical gem, full of ancient temples and narrow lanes dating back to
the Silk Route. The Guangji Bridge—originally a 12th‑century pontoon bridge—was
a highlight, along with the old city wall and gates.
Paifang
Jie offered endless food options, including moon cakes, which everyone adored
except me. I was relieved to discover that Western‑style fortune cookies didn’t
exist in China. They're apparently a European invention.
China
struck me as a land of contradictions: massive yet miniature, conservative yet
modern, building skyscrapers while still transporting goods by bamboo pole.
Even the one‑child policy was more nuanced than expected. Many families had
more than one child but only received benefits for one. Minority groups could
have more, and government employees were restricted to one. I admired the idea
that politicians were expected to lead by example—something the rest of the
world might consider adopting.
Chaozhou:
Opera, Tea, and the Art of Staying Curious
Chaozhou
was touristy for good reason. Its opera, dating back over 500 years, featured
clowns, acrobatics, and elaborate costumes. I didn’t see a performance, but I
found a tiny shop making gowns and headdresses for the stage.
Gongfu
tea—first drunk in the Song Dynasty—remained central to social life. Teahouses
played soothing Chaozhou music with strings, gongs, and drums. It was the
perfect soundtrack for watching the world go by.
Chaozhou
to Cheonan District: The Great G324 Commitment Ceremony
The weather
continued its suspiciously pleasant behaviour. Either winter had ended early,
or China was simply showing off, but I wasn’t complaining. I stuck to the G324,
which had become my dependable—if not scenic—companion. It ran through endless
built‑up areas, the sort of places where you could buy a smartphone, a
dumpling, and a chandelier within ten metres.
I
attempted one alternative route, which promptly sent me around in circles like
a confused pigeon. I returned to the G324, deciding that until I acquired a
GPS, I should stop pretending I had a natural sense of direction.
China’s
development remained mind‑boggling, but every now and then, “Old China” peeked
through—pedicabs ferrying people for pocket change, markets selling vegetables
so crisp they practically snapped when you looked at them, and food vendors
producing dishes so delicious it was best not to ask what was inside.
The
7 Days Inn impressed with its shiny finishes, but the Wi‑Fi died after I
uploaded a single photo. It was as if the connection had decided, “That’s
enough Internet for you today.”
Cheonan
to Lufeng: Fog, Friendship, and Spring Rolls
The
first part of the ride that day ran through more built‑up areas, and the
countryside wasn’t much better. Fog hung so low I felt like I was cycling
through a damp cotton ball.
The
Chinese were wonderfully friendly, and anyone with a hint of English stopped to
chat. A man on a scooter pulled up beside me, and after a cheerful exchange, he
led me to a bookshop to find a map of Guangdong Province—then insisted on
paying for it. I was beginning to suspect China was trying to rehabilitate its
reputation by overwhelming visitors with kindness.
I
checked into a modest‑looking place in Lufeng, where even the budget rooms came
with a complimentary sealed comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, and shower cap. China
clearly believed in grooming.
It
was the fifth day of the Lunar Festival, officially the end of winter and the
first day of spring. Tradition dictated eating spring rolls, avoiding brooms
and scissors, and setting off firecrackers to scare away poverty. Judging by
the noise, poverty didn’t stand a chance.
The
news reported that 108 million people had travelled by train during the first
week of the holidays. I was delighted to be in a very un‑touristy part of
China, where the only crowds were the ones staring at me.
Lufeng
to Huidong: Strawberries, Chaos, and the Ghost of Poverty
I
woke to drizzle, but it wasn’t cold, and a tailwind pushed me along like a
benevolent hand. By midday, I'd shed the rain jacket, and the day had turned
pleasant.
The
route passed vast strawberry fields where one could pick their own. I didn’t,
but I did stop to take photos, mostly to prove to myself later that I hadn’t
hallucinated them.
Traffic
was chaotic. Vehicles drove on whichever side of the road suited them, turned
without warning, and hooted randomly. The hooting seemed to serve no purpose
other than reminding everyone that the horn existed.
It
was the sixth day of the New Year, dedicated to sending away the ghost of poverty.
People discarded old clothes, lit candles at roadside shrines, and generally
behaved as though poverty were a timid creature easily frightened by clutter
and candlelight.
At
the first hotel in Huidong, the receptionist ignored me completely. The Chinese
had perfected the art of pretending unwanted situations didn’t exist. It
worked—I went next door.
The
second hotel’s staff became so flustered by my written Mandarin request for a
single room that they couldn’t even read their own language. Fortunately,
ordering food was easier: you simply pointed at what you wanted and hoped for
the best.
Huidong
to Zengcheng: Nüwa, Silence, and Feng Shui on Steroids
According
to legend, Nüwa created the world—and on the seventh day, she created humans
from yellow clay. (I’ve always suspected God was a woman.) The seventh day of
the New Year celebrates this event, and judging by the empty roads, everyone
was at home honouring their clay origins.
Anyone
who spoke English asked why I was travelling alone. I learned that for the
average Chinese person, travelling solo in a foreign country was the most
terrifying thing imaginable. I felt oddly proud of myself.
China’s
development was dizzying, but water features softened the edges. My hotel had a
massive fountain at the entrance, because feng shui dictates that water in
front and mountains behind bring prosperity. As a result, most hotels looked
like they were auditioning for a role in a koi‑pond documentary.
Zengcheng
to Guangzhou: The Pearl River Jackpot
Leaving
Zengcheng, I passed a large, impressive park that made the concrete jungle seem
almost polite. New developments included wide pavements, parks, and separate
bicycle lanes—proof that China could build megacities without forgetting humans
existed.
The
route west rolled over hills and past rural settlements until Guangzhou
appeared. Historically known as Canton, it was the capital of Guangdong
province and home to 19 million people. It took forever to reach the hostel,
but I clung to the Inner Ring Road like a barnacle, hoping it would eventually
deliver me somewhere useful.
At
the crucial intersection, I discovered there was no bridge—only a ferry. For
one yuan, it carried me and my bicycle across the river and deposited me
directly at the hostel door. I felt as though the city had personally welcomed
me.
The
hostel overlooked the Pearl River, China’s third‑longest at over 2,000
kilometres. As I unpacked, the weather turned foul. Overnight, I went from
shorts and a T-shirt to a bundled‑up Arctic explorer. The cold front brought
freezing temperatures, howling wind, and torrential rain. I watched it all from
under a fluffy duvet, feeling smug.
With
time to spare, I ordered a Garmin GPS. Delivery was a mystery, but the weather
was dreadful, so waiting wasn’t a hardship.
A
break in the rain allowed me to explore Guangzhou, a city of contradictions—old
yet modern, frantic yet peaceful. With most people still home for the holidays,
the streets were blissfully quiet.
Temples
appeared everywhere, despite China’s reputation as an atheist nation. Roughly
30% of adults followed Buddhist, Taoist, Christian, Islamic, or other beliefs,
and the remaining 70% considered themselves atheists. That 30% must have been
very active.
I
wandered through narrow lanes revealing dusty workshops where coppersmiths
hammered away, oblivious to me. Antique shops displayed exquisite ceramics and
jade carvings, and colonial buildings stood left behind by the British and
French in the 19th century.
Guangzhou:
Bruce Lee, Ivory, and Granite Grandeur
My
wanderings brought me to the humble house of the Father of Chinese Railways
down a pedestrian lane. Nearby was the union for actors in Cantonese opera, and
next door stood the ancestral home of Bruce Lee—unsurprising, as his father had
been a Cantonese opera actor.
One
temple displayed ivory carvings of astonishing detail. Politically incorrect,
yes, but undeniably beautiful. China had recently destroyed more than six tons
of illegal ivory, and legal pieces required certificates of provenance.
The
Cathedral of the Sacred Heart, built entirely of granite by the French after
the Second Opium War, featured two towers each 48 metres high. It looked as if
giants had carved it with a fondness for symmetry.
Shopping
remained challenging. I already stood out like a sore thumb, and taking photos
only made me more conspicuous. Eventually, people seemed to decide that
anything I did—acceptable or not—was simply because I was foreign.
The
temperature dropped to seven degrees, and the hostel offered no heating. It
resembled a walk‑in fridge. I burrowed into my sleeping bag and reconsidered my
life choices.
Guangzhou:
The Garmin Gamble
Nothing
came of the Garmin order, so I took a taxi to a massive electronics centre. If
you couldn’t find something there, it probably didn’t exist.
The
Garmin stand didn’t have the model I wanted, so I bought a pricier one with
features I would likely never use. The owner kindly installed an English China
map, and I spent the evening fiddling with my new toy, doubting whether it was
worth the investment.
Guangzhou
to Jun’anzhen: The Garmin Honeymoon Phase
I
was like a child with a new toy—one of those children who wake up at 4 a.m. on
Christmas morning and shake the entire household awake. I couldn’t wait to
strap the Garmin onto the bike and see whether it would lead me to glory or
into a ditch.
I
didn’t fully trust it, so I checked the map every few kilometres, just in case
it decided to send me to Mongolia. But it worked beautifully, guiding me
straight to Jun’anzhen, where a hotel awaited. I spent the evening downloading
the day’s route, marvelling at the magical little device. Small things really
do amuse small minds.
Jun’anzhen
to Chikan (Kaiping): Towers, Canals, and Time Travel
With
the Garmin clipped in, I pedalled into the countryside, discovering that
Guangdong province was far more charming than its industrial reputation
suggested. The route wound past ancient‑looking hamlets and along peaceful
canals until I reached Kaiping.
Kaiping’s
landscape was dotted with fortified multi‑storey towers—diaolou—built in
the 1920s and 30s to protect families from bandits. They weren’t ancient, but
they had the sort of architectural swagger that made you stop and stare. About
1,833 of them still stood, scattered across the countryside like misplaced
chess pieces. Twenty of the most symbolic ones had earned UNESCO World Heritage
status.
I
planned to explore them properly the next day.
Around
Kaiping: Zili Village and the Ghosts of History
Bundled
up against the bitter cold, I cycled to Zili Village, where many of the towers
clustered together like a family reunion.
The
story behind them was sobering. In the mid‑19th century, after slavery was
outlawed in most Western countries, recruiters promised Chinese labourers good
pay and conditions abroad. Instead, they were forced into brutal labour;
millions left, many died, and only a few returned wealthy. Those who did
brought back money and foreign ideas built these towers to protect their
families from bandits, floods, and Japanese troops.
The
towers stood quietly in the mist, looking both proud and slightly haunted.
Chikan
to Yangjiang: Fog, Bruce Springsteen, and Forward Momentum
The
fog was thick enough to make everything look like a watercolour painting left
out in the rain. Visibility was poor, but the breeze was at my back, and
nothing much happened. A few towers appeared in the distance, but mostly it was
just me, the road, and my iPod.
With
“Brucey” blaring in my ears, I pedalled the 100 kilometres to Yangjiang,
feeling like the world’s least glamorous rock star.
Yangjiang
to Dianbai: Fog, Drizzle, and the Lure of Hainan
I
again woke to morning fog, so I attached a flashing light, donned my bright
yellow rain jacket, and pointed myself west toward Hainan, where the climate
was rumoured to be milder. It began drizzling, and although it wasn’t cold, I
decided Dianbai was far enough for the day.
Zhanjiang:
Mist, Gadgets, and Laundry Diplomacy
The
next day the ride to Zhanjiang was easy, though still misty with light rain.
With little scenery to distract me, I played with my electronic toys—none of
which were particularly helpful. The fancy Garmin still hadn’t found me a
meaningful route, and Google Maps was doing most of the heavy lifting.
After
120 kilometres, I reached a bridge where bicycles were forbidden. Fortunately,
the Garmin pointed me to a ferry port, where bikes and motorbikes were shuttled
across what I later discovered was not a river but an inlet of the South China
Sea.
I
checked into a cheapish hotel and immediately realised I needed to do laundry.
Unable to find a laundromat, I began washing clothes myself, but the hotel
staff intervened and whisked everything away. When it would return was anyone’s
guess.
Shopping
took twice as long as anywhere else, and I spent nearly the entire day finding
a few basic items. My hotel sat opposite a market, but convinced the food
contained dog meat, I skipped supper. (It may have been my imagination, but
once the idea enters your head, it’s hard to shake.)
Zhanjiang
to Leizhou: The Phantom Ferry
My
laundry miraculously reappeared in time for departure. The Internet insisted
there was a ferry from Zhanjiang to Hainan, so I searched for the jetty. There
was no sign of it. Perhaps it had never existed.
A
minor road ran further south toward Hainan, but I was already late and didn’t
want to arrive on the island after dark. I settled for a night in Leizhou.
Leizhou
to Haikou (Hainan Island): The Foreign Woman Circus
I
hadn’t seen a Westerner in a month, so the stares were constant. I was
different from the Chinese in every conceivable way, and the fact that I was
travelling alone seemed to baffle them. They didn’t say it, but their eyes
suggested they felt sorry for me.
Scooter
riders nearly caused accidents as they swung around to look. Drivers slowed
down and held up their toddlers so they could see the foreign woman. Stopping
for a drink felt like a circus performance. Some people approached; others
retreated. A little boy stared at me, whispered “WOW,” and stepped back as
though I might explode.
After
weeks without speaking to anyone, I feared losing my voice. With my iPod
blaring, I sang at the top of my lungs—“Cocaine,” “I Shot the Sheriff”—and
pedalled over the hills like a deranged karaoke cyclist. I got strange looks,
but I threw in a cheerful “Ni‑hao” and kept singing. Entirely sober, too.
Haikou:
Bureaucracy, Dumplings, and Macro Lens Adventures
In Haikou,
I checked into the Banana Hostel and braced myself for the dreaded visa
extension. The next morning, I located the Public Security Bureau easily, but
the counter was closed. I needed a letter from the hostel, so I fetched it and
returned. After filling out forms, taking photos, and getting fingerprinted, I
was told to collect the visa in four days.
Haikou’s
old quarter kept me busy—antique shops, crooked alleys, and endless
opportunities to play with my macro lens. The smell of dumplings and barbecues
drifted through the streets, and old men played board games with cigarettes
dangling from their lips.
Four
days passed quickly, and I collected my visa, ready to continue south.
Haikou
to Wenchang: Dust, High‑Rises, and a Relentless Breeze
Hainan
was popular among young cyclists, and I encountered many college kids en route
to Wenchang. Unfortunately, the ride was unimpressive. Even the beach was
dreadful—high‑rises, dust, and construction everywhere. A stiff breeze battled
me all day.
Wenchang
to Bo’ao: Shrines, Fish Farms, and a Well‑Earned Beer
The
next day was far more pleasant. I passed small villages, farmlands ready for
harvest, and fish farms operating at full tilt. Shrines lined the road, incense
curling into the air.
Bo’ao
offered a cheap room, dumplings, and beer—everything a weary cyclist could
want.
Bo’ao:
The Great GoPro Mystery
Twenty‑five
kilometres beyond Bo’ao, I realised my GoPro was missing. Convinced I’d left it
at the hotel, I cycled all the way back. Of course, it wasn’t there. I stayed
the night anyway, only to discover the camera buried in one of my panniers.
A
stroll led me to a colourful temple on the beach, full of deities dramatic
enough to frighten anyone into good behaviour. Nearby, I found a delightful
coffee shop in a traditional stone house, with a leafy garden, wooden tables,
antiques, and arty bits everywhere. Best of all, they served coffee in real
china.
Bo’ao
to Xinglong: Hot Springs, Overdevelopment, and a Hint of Illness
Cyclists
were heading to Xinglong for its famous hot spring, so I followed. Not feeling
great—something I ate, perhaps—I pushed on anyway. The cyclists I’d met earlier
pointed me to budget accommodation.
Xinglong
was overdeveloped and touristy, and I didn’t bother searching for the hot
spring. I could imagine exactly what it would look like. Instead, nursing a
budding knee problem, I spent the evening indoors.
Xinglong
to Sanya: Knees, Russians, and Tropical Lazing
There
wasn’t much to be done about the knee except hope it behaved. Oddly enough, it
was perfect while cycling—only complaining when I stopped, which felt like a
betrayal. The map promised hills, but I pedalled over them without incident,
passing rural hamlets and farmlands until big, lively Sanya appeared with its
20‑kilometre stretch of beach.
I
headed straight for Dadong Hai, where the map claimed a hostel existed. It
did—Backpacker Hostel—tucked behind high‑rises and right in the middle of the
action. A real haven.
The
next day I did almost nothing, drifting between the beach and nearby food
stalls. The dominant languages were Chinese and Russian, which made me feel
like I’d accidentally cycled into a Cold War summit. With year‑round sunshine
and temperatures around 25°C even in January, Sanya was immensely touristy.
Pearls were sold everywhere, and although giant clams were endangered, their
shells were sold everywhere too.
I
stayed another day—Sanya had interesting people to talk to, and my knee still
felt questionable. I bought a knee guard and rubbed on some Chinese lotion. The
guard was clearly designed for slim Chinese legs, not my sturdy stompers, but I
squeezed it on anyway.
Sanya
to Huangliu: The 108‑Metre Buddha and a Quick Escape
After
taking photos with the hostel staff, I cycled west. Thirty‑five kilometres
later, a massive Buddhist temple complex appeared, swarming with tourists. The
entrance fee was hefty, especially for something so artificial, but I joined
the madness anyway.
At
the centre stood a 108‑metre‑tall Buddha statue on a man‑made island—larger
than the Statue of Liberty. It was impressive, but the crowds were
overwhelming, so I snapped a few pictures and escaped.
The
rest of the day was blissfully normal—small hamlets, quiet roads, and a
welcoming guesthouse with mobile food traders outside.
Huangliu
to Changjiang: Rural Charm and Surprisingly Civilised Cities
The following
day unfolded into a delightful ride through picturesque countryside dotted with
traditional communities. Farmers guided ploughs through rich soil, and the
scenery glowed golden as the sun dipped.
Changjiang
appeared with accommodations conveniently lining the main road. The sprawling
cities I’d seen from afar turned out to be surprisingly well‑designed—wide
roads, greenery everywhere, and dedicated lanes for cyclists and motorbikes.
What looked intimidating from a distance became leisurely and enjoyable up
close.
Changjiang
to Jialai: Trees, Journalists, and Sun‑Shocked Onlookers
I
packed up and pointed the bike toward Haikou, meeting other cyclists and even a
journalist who took photos and asked questions. The scenery was lush and
green—too organised to be natural. I suspected a massive tree‑planting project,
and the authorities had beautified the road with dense, colourful plants.
Not
expecting accommodation, I was surprised to find a small village offering 50‑yuan
rooms.
As
usual, I crossed the road for takeaway food. Eating under intense scrutiny was
uncomfortable. While waiting for noodles, bystanders stared without blinking,
inspecting my feet, hair, and—most shocking of all—my bare arms, which had
clearly been exposed to the sun. To them, horror.
Jialai
to Haikou: A Pleasant Ride and a Familiar Bed
The
weather was perfect—overcast but warm—and I set off to Haikou in high spirits.
The route passed scenic hamlets where I bought lunch but carried it to Haikou
to avoid the staring. The Banana Hostel became my home once more, and with that
I completed my ride around the island of Hainan.
Haikou:
Volcanoes, Lava Villages, and a Homemade Torch
Outside
Haikou lay a volcano park. Not expecting much, I cycled there anyway. The last
eruption was roughly 13,000 years ago, and one could hike to the crater rim
overlooking the countryside. The rim revealed more craters—almost 36 in total.
Nearby
Rongtang village was far more exciting: a historic lava‑rock settlement built
entirely from volcanic stone about 900 years ago. Mostly abandoned now, it
still had a few elders living there. A 90‑year‑old lady, bent nearly in half,
offered to show me the lava tunnels. We set off with her homemade torch—bamboo,
cloth, and paraffin. The interconnected tunnels had been used as hiding places
during the Japanese occupation. It was extraordinary.
Haikou:
Hash House Harriers and Lens‑Cover Hunting
I
lingered at the hostel, doing very little. A crowd from the Hash House
Harriers—mostly Australians—were in town for their annual gathering. They were
a cheerful bunch.
Having
lost a lens cover, I wandered downtown to find another. The stroll through the
old quarters and city park was lovely. Parks were lush, full of water features,
and perfect for watching people practise Tai Chi. Pavements were lined with
hawkers selling colourful umbrellas, steaming corn‑on‑the‑cob, and rice in
banana leaves.
Haikou
to Beihai (By Ferry): Celebrity Status and a Private Cabin
Cycling
to the port, I met a German couple travelling with their four‑year‑old daughter
in a trailer. She sat happily listening to stories while her parents pedalled
up hills. I could barely get myself up hills, let alone pull a child.
Instead
of backtracking 150 kilometres to Zhanjiang, I chose the ferry to Beihai. To my
surprise, I was something of a celebrity. A few days earlier, a newspaper had
run an article about my travels, and everyone seemed to know I was South African.
They were astonished I’d sold all my possessions. My newfound fame earned me a
private cabin. The ferry departed at 7 p.m.
Beihai:
Lost Keys, German Cyclists, and Seafood Adventures
The
ferry arrived on time, but I couldn’t find my bike‑lock key. In a cabin that
small, losing anything felt like a personal failure. I had no choice but to cut
the lock.
Outside,
I met two German women travelling by bicycle. They’d started hitchhiking,
bought bikes somewhere along the way, and had been travelling for a year and a
half.
Beihai’s
old quarter was wonderful—historic streets, a bustling river, and a fishing
harbour. Music drifted from an open doorway, and someone waved me inside to
listen to a rehearsal.
Fog
and howling wind kept me in town the next day. The market was colourful and
fascinating. Seafood was slightly out of the ordinary—some creatures looked
like bait—but oysters were cooked on coals and sprinkled with spices, not eaten
raw “like barbarians.”
Chinese
food was delicious, fresh, crisp, and flavourful. You could pick your seafood
from a tank and have it cooked however you liked.
Beihai
to Qinzhou: Fog Lifting, Fishing Hamlets, and a Two‑Word Friendship
Leaving
Beihai, the fog slowly lifted, revealing quaint fishing hamlets. To one side
lay the ocean; to the other, an inlet with busy harbours. Eventually, the route
veered inland through forestry plantations, sawmills, and woodworks.
At a
traffic light, I stopped next to a lady on a tricycle. I said, “Ni‑hao.” She
said, “Hello.” We laughed, knowing those two words were our entire shared
vocabulary. She continued in Chinese; I replied in English: “Yes, I am going to
Nanning, and I am from South Africa.” Perhaps that’s what she asked. The light
changed, and we waved goodbye like old friends.
Qinzhou
to Nanning: Mud, Misery, and a Bee with Bad Timing
Shortly
after leaving Qinzhou, the road deteriorated spectacularly. It veered inland
over mountains, then turned into a muddy, potholed disaster zone. At one point,
the mud was so thick I had to walk the bike, slipping and sliding like a drunk
penguin.
Covered
in mud, I battled onwards, wondering whether Nanning was even reachable. Then a
bee stung me on the jaw, presumably deciding I needed one more challenge.
Halfway
to Nanning, a restaurant kindly let me use their outside tap to spray down the
bike. It helped for about ten minutes before the chain clogged again.
This
continued until I was roughly 30 kilometres from Nanning. At around 18h00, I
finally crawled into the city—filthy, exhausted, and starving—only to discover
the hostel I’d planned on had closed. Give me strength. I booked the first
hotel I saw.
The
next morning, I cycled to the Green Forest Hostel. A private room cost nearly
as much as the hotel, but I had a plan. Hostels meant people to talk to, and I
needed to wash my mud‑encrusted panniers (in the shower). It turned out to be
Spring Day—a good day for spring cleaning.
The
hostel arranged Vietnamese visas at no extra cost, and Vietnam was within striking
distance. I handed in my passport and waited.
Nanning:
Chopsticks, Clouds, and Night‑Market Heaven
With
time to kill, I wandered into town and found an outdoor store selling
chopsticks and a spoon instead of the usual camping knife‑fork‑spoon set. Why
this surprised me, I don’t know.
Hostels
are usually well located, and Green Forest was no exception—close to
everything, especially the night market. The only downside was schlepping the
bike and panniers up two flights of stairs because China counts floors
differently.
I
waited for the night market to open so I could get my beloved wonton soup. I
learned that “wonton” literally translates to “swallowing a cloud,” which is
exactly what it looks like—tiny dumplings floating dreamily in broth.
Nanning:
Modern Marvels and Ancient Alleys
Determined
to photograph modern Nanning, I headed down the pedestrian mall past endless
designer stores. China’s achievements were astounding—over 400 million
people lifted out of extreme poverty in 20 years, 14 years ahead of schedule.
People love pointing out China’s flaws, but that success is undeniable.
Behind
McDonald’s and Pizza Hut, I found narrow alleys full of old‑world charm.
Laundry hung across cobblestone lanes, red lanterns swayed, and people pushed
building materials in three‑wheeled carts. Sagging roofs, crooked windows, and
mysterious doorways made far more interesting photos than the modern skyline.
Rounding
a corner, I found a silversmith melting and pounding tiny pellets into
jewellery. My excitement was disproportionate, but that’s travel for you.
My
passport returned with the Vietnamese visa, leaving only three blank pages. I
needed an SA Embassy soon.
As
the day wore on, I reconsidered Vietnam. I’d already cycled it, and going again
would be a costly diversion. The weather up north was improving, and Shanghai
beckoned.
Nanning
to Tong’an (By Bus): The Great Change of Plans
Still
unsure which direction to go, I visited the train station to ask about trains
to Xiamen. Apparently, none existed—at least none they could explain in
English. I suspect there was a train, but it probably involved a transfer, and
explaining that was too much for everyone involved.
So I
headed out of town toward Vietnam. In the process, the road led past the bus
station, and on impulse I asked about buses. By 14h30, I was on a sleeper bus
to Xiamen. So much for indecision.
The
bus had tiny individual beds—barely wide enough for me—but at least one could
lie horizontally. It hardly stopped, except once around 20h00 for food.
Tong’an:
Highway Abandonment and a Much‑Needed Nap
Around
7h00, I was woken with a start and told I had reached my destination. The bus
had stopped beside the highway, and, disoriented, I hurriedly stumbled off. I
felt somewhat abandoned being left like that.
My
phone told me I was twenty kilometres outside Tong'an. Luckily, I didn't need
to ask anyone where I was. Imagine that! Far too tired to cycle to the next
town, I opted for the shorter 20-kilometre ride to a nearby hotel. With all my
devices charged, I showered, ate something, and napped.
Tong’an
to Quanzhou: Visa Gymnastics and Ancient Mosques
The
ride to Quanzhou was effortless. The city was enormous, and it took ages to
reach the old part.
My
visa expired in three days, so I tried extending it. The officer wasn’t in, so
I returned the next day—only to be told that the branch didn’t issue visas.
They kindly drove me to the correct office.
There,
I learned they couldn’t extend an already extended visa. Quanzhou was
notoriously difficult for visa extensions.
I
could have tried another town, but time was up. My best option was Hong Kong.
I
bought a bus ticket for the following night. With formalities done, I explored
the area and found the Qingjing Mosque, built in 1009—the oldest in China.
Quanzhou:
Low Gear and Temple Wandering
I
drifted around town drinking coffee and visiting temples until it was time to board
the sleeper bus. Thankfully, it had bunk beds, so one could lie down
comfortably.
Quanzhou
to Hong Kong: Illegal Cycling and Rugby‑7s Chaos
At
7h00, the bus reached the border. Once out of China, I asked the driver to let
me off and continued by bicycle—only to be stopped by police and told cycling
was illegal on those roads. There wasn’t a single alternative route. A few
minutes later, the same bus came past and picked me up again. I felt like a
stray parcel.
Hong
Kong Island was a frenzy of skyscrapers, buses, and trams. I felt tiny and
tried not to collide with anything.
Accommodation
was a nightmare. The Rugby‑7s were on, and every hole was filled. Eventually, I
found a room at Alisan Guesthouse—only the staff room was available, with a tiny
bed included. It was cheap by Hong Kong standards, so I took it.
That
night, only the Holiday Inn had space, which says it all about prices.
Later,
I met up with Carlos, a South African friend living in Hong Kong, for coffee
and a long-overdue catch‑up.
Epilogue
Looking
back, China gave me everything I didn’t know I needed: knee troubles that
vanished only while cycling, temples that towered over entire coastlines, visa
puzzles that required Olympic‑level patience, and more curious onlookers than a
circus performer could handle. I arrived covered in mud, left covered in
stories, and pedalled every one of those 2,795 kilometres with equal parts
bewilderment and delight. China was vast, contradictory, chaotic, generous—and
it left me pedalling onward with a fuller heart, stronger legs, and a deep
appreciation for the unexpected. I will be back.
