Scott's Bike Trip to the Great Wall

In the Land of Confucian -- Foreigners in China

Man and the Great Wall Series by Scott Urban

Week 7 (October 10, 1997) -- Wing Tip

"He who has not been to the Great Wall, is not a great man." -- Chinese Proverb

Introduction: Scott Urban went to China in 1994 to work at the China Daily newspaper in Beijing, where he stayed until 1997. While in China, Scott contracted a severe form of bicycling mania, which manifested itself in his 6,000-kilometer bicycle journey to Xinjiang in 1995 with friend Brice Minnigh. Scott and his bike

In the Fall of 1996, Scott Urban and another friend William Lindesay spent every weekend possible cycling to the Great Wall of China to find lost sections of the Wall, with nothing more than curiosity, bicycles, and a map of the greater Beijing area. The trips involved comparatively big distances and tough conditions, but the payoffs were rich: in store could be anything from a swath of rubble to a grand section of Ming Dynasty ramparts with intact towers and inscribed tablets. This fall we invite you to join the ride and see the China that's not usually seen.

Scott currently resides in Denver, Colorado, USA, and is involved in a number of China-related projects. He can be reached at rrurban@aol.com.

(Continued from last week)

The village rested at the lower reaches of the mountain this stretch of Great Wall resides on, and the road into it soon turned into a trail. On the sides were small homes and pens for sheep. Occasionally coming down the trail were guys hunkered over with several pounds of tree branches on their backs.

We cycled and pushed the bikes up the trail, knowing we'd soon have to ditch them and hike. To our right was a quintessential scene of fall in North China: a persimmon tree, its branches bare but laden with bright red persimmons. We stopped for a photo. As it would soon be time to climb the mountain on foot, I took off the long underwear and made some other clothing adjustments.

A few metres away a man was picking persimmons from his tree, taking an interest in us. He told us the same thing three kids had just told us: "You can't get there (the Great Wall) from here!" We routinely hear such words, and our tradition is to sprinkle them with salt.

The persimmon guy was adamant -- not so much about diverting us from our planned route, but to have us leave our bikes in his house for safe-keeping. "There are lots of non-locals roaming around here," he said. "Who knows if your bikes will still be where you put them when you come back." I wasn't sure of his intentions.

"It’s for your own good!" an elderly sounding voice yelled from a distance. I looked up and found that it came from an old man high up in another persimmon tree, joining in the conversation. He'd interject something every time the first guy paused, and the whole scene made for a comedy: one guy on the ground talking to us and an old man hanging from the tree yelling various interjections.

First guy: "In our house, your bikes will be safe and sound."

Old man in the tree: "Then you can be at ease!"

Will: "I think we're okay, thanks."

First guy: "Never know who's out at night."

From the tree: "It’s for your own good!"

The first guy seemed so insistent, I wasn't sure whether to conclude he was a jerk or just honestly concerned.

We continued about a dozen metres and locked the bikes to a post. That's when Young Cao caught up to us.

Since it was a Saturday, this young man wasn't in school. His parents are both living away from the village to earn money, leaving him with his grandmother, who at 70 is too old to keep track of a 15-year-old lad.

"You can't get there from here," said the salt-and-pepper haired kid, the Great Wall looming above us on the mountain top.

We'll find a way, I said.

"How about I take you guys up there?" he suggested.

We dismissed his words, believing he didn't know a way -- he'd just said it was impossible. We put the packs on our backs and set off up a dry creek bed. Young Cao came along, having nothing better to do on a weekend day.

I walked along, grunting as I heaved my pack up the ravine, along with a third pack we take turns carrying over the chest.

"Can you teach me English?" he asked. "It's my favourite subject at school."

I tried to humor him.

The trail led to a series of abandoned terraces, then petered out. This happens every time. It left us to climb a ravine strewn with berry bushes and thorny trees, all of which exacted a toll on our legs. Getting through this stuff was slow, and not fun.

The ravine was steep, and we'd get bogged-down in thorny vines and thorny branches. Those on the tree branches were one or two centimetres long and strong. These bring one to a crawl, struggling to dislodge from a few and avoid the rest, and move forward all the while.

Before long, I was hunched-over in a particularly bad thrush, unable to move, with a thorn in the crown of my scalp. "I'm in trouble over here," I calmly called over to Will. I would need time to get out of this predicament.

"I'll open a route," offered Young Cao, scrambling around me and beating through the foliage. It helped a little, and we got to a clearer spot and had some water.

"It's great that you guys can speak Chinese," he said. "If you couldn't speak Chinese, it'd be no fun. I wouldn't have come along."

He offered to take the third backpack, and the three of us made it up to the foot of the Wall, beneath a section where a cable car brings tens of thousands of tourists up from the other side of the mountain.

Our appearance below quickly drew attention, and Young Cao led us along a trail following the base of the Wall.

Along the way, a young girl on the Wall spotted us and screamed to her parents: "Mommy! Daddy! Foreigners! Foreigners! They've got backpacks on! The foreigners have shorts on! Foreigners! Foreigners!"

I laughed, and Young Cao turned around to flash a smile. I think he may have realized what it feels like to be such a freak.

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