Leaving Tomortei

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Farewelling my friendly hosts.

Monumental gateway.

Troll vs camels and sheep.

The road goes on forever.

Breeding park seeks investors.

New breeds.

I’m stuck in a weird and highly stressful limbo.

I’m in the South quadrant of Wellington city, wanting to head North into the CBD. But I have a parcel to deliver in the South, to someone, somewhere, on the seven-and-a-halfth floor. The lift doesn’t work, the place probably doesn’t actually exist, and the rider in the North wants to come through to the South ASAP. A rant into the walkie-talkie would do me good, but the modern bike couriers use Git to record their communications, discouraging riders from saying stupid things that would end up in the log.

It’s a relief to wake up and realise that it’s all just a dream.

After tucking into a breakfast of flat noodles and leftovers from last night, I say goodbye to my new friends and head back down the hill to the intimidating town of the night before.

A huge gate flanked in quarter-cartwheels demarcates the town entrance and, further in, an impressive monument to farming sits in the town center. Shaped like a giant white fez, camels, cows and goats decorate the base of the structure, and a select few stand on top, presumably waiting for their owners to help them down.

At the town exit, billboards continue the farming theme, advertising the proposed development of an intensive breeding park.

Good vibes

Leaving the curious town.

At the next turn off, I pull into the main street of a satellite shopping village.

There are a few restaurants, and shops which sell truck parts, and groceries. Snowbound side streets refract away from the main drag, apparently leading to nothing but trees.

On the road, patches of snow require my full attention, but I can’t help but get a good vibe from this place, which I’ve come to in search of the biscuity biscuits which I love.

The reason for this is soon apparent, it’s the people. Lying my bike down outside a small grocery store, I’m suddenly faced with a group of ten or twenty middle-aged men. Some wear glasses, but all share a common dress-code, of the aged, but presentable, dark-toned Mao suit.

Whether they are retired, or on their lunch break, I cannot tell, but if they are in a rush to get back to work it’s not obvious. They are all really curious to know who I am, and they take the time to examine, and be impressed with, every component of my bike, including the tyres, spokes and cranks.

At the doorway, I negotiate a heavy blanket which keeps the cold at bay. A sparse, rustic interior dashes my hopes for my favourite biscuits, but the shopkeepers are friendly, and genuinely curious. I leave with mandarins, gum, peanuts, a green bottle of alcohol and some soup in a can, which they tell me can be consumed without heating.

Desolate distraction

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Into the mist.

Only child.

Boys and girls.

Enjoying old age.

Bird nests.

Road cones.

Toll gate.

Desolate landscape.

Out on the open road, a fresh layer of snow coats the sides of the road as I ride uphill, towards a horizon shrouded in mist.

It’s a peaceful outlook, but one accompanied by a noticeable increase in traffic, with the grade and grit conspiring to halve my projected rate of progress.

The morning is chilly but the recent rash of home-cooked meals have boosted my energy levels and the most trying aspect is the Troll’s perpetual squeaking, a fresh layer of chain oil doing nothing to resolve this ongoing annoyance.

The scenery becomes progressively boring, small features bringing intermittent relief to the desolate landscape. The clear highlight of these is the small, illustrated billboards which dot the roadside.

One features a girl with black pig tails and a pink shirt, next to a flying crane. Google Translate suggests The only child is the pillar of the 21st century. Given the historical One Child Policy and the propensity for Chinese parents to favour boys, it’s strange to see a girl portrayed here.

Another shows a husband and wife, smiling and pointing at a boy and a girl playing together. Google Translate offers Boys and girls, supporting the state’s belief that both sexes play an important role in society.

A third shows a grown woman with her arms around her mother and father. A daughter can enjoy the old age, says Google. Whether this means that a daughter should be allowed to live a full life, or that she will look after her parents better than a son, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s both.

Mongol heritage park

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White roofs.

The park entrance.

The Troll backed down when he saw this guy.

Big plans.

Newspaper lined windows.

The old town lay just over the wall.

Bucking bull.

The place was well guarded by lads on horseback.

Horseman of the apocalypse.

No translation required.

Prayer flags?

Suddenly the nothingness is interrupted by a village of white roofs.

Riding through a hand painted, flared gateway, I expect to find a circus, but find I seem to have entered a Mongol heritage park.

A collection of yellow and white gers and concrete huts are guarded by fierce-some bronzed warriors on foot and on horseback.

A large board hints at gentrification, a strange bedfellow for cultural recognition. The plans seem to have stalled for winter, with newspaper lining the hut windows and frozen dirt piled up in the village center.

The village is surrounded by low, square toothed walls, hemmed in blue. Beyond these, rough speared fences are visible, and I wonder if the installation is an upgrade, or a replacement for the existing town.

A mechanical bucking bull sits smiling in one corner, its head down in preparation for a mighty buck. The Chinese seem to revere the bull, but I’m not sure that a bucking machine really fits in here either.

It seems like a strange thing to build here in Inner Mongolia. The people here already are Mongolian, so why would they need to build a park to explain themselves? Is the tension between the Chinese-way and the Mongol-way real, or am I simply imagining it?

The Hotel For The Persons Coming From The Outside Boundaries

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Comfy beds and another semi functional control panel.

Standard Dan-mess and wild repositioning of wardrobe.

Backwards bathroom.

For dirty foreigners.

Janky jug.

Please don’t worry.

After a muddy, gritty approach, I feel quietly smug when I reach Baiyin Qagan/Chagan, a town which is small on the map but quite large in real life.

But I’m turned away from the first hotel I enquire at. Offended and mystified in equal parts, I ride down the main street, looking for help. Hitting a patch of black ice at speed, I lose control and almost career into an oncoming truck. It’s not a great start, and the next tall building also declines my patronage, but this time because it’s a restaurant.

Eventually, I find a few friendly locals, and, with the help of my translation app, I deduce that this isn’t because I’m dirty, which I am, or because the hotels are full, but because there is only one place for people like me.

Following directions to the Bai Yin Bin Guan, a plaque in the foyer spells it out. The Hotel For The Persons Coming From The Outside Boundaries.

It’s a swept up affair. Presumably because it needs to be, to cater for those most high ranking out-of-towners, the rulers of other countries. Blanket rates penalise those with non-presidential status, ¥ 138 ($33.03) a night being a big call for a peasant on a bicycle. But there’s some relief in discovering that this isn’t personal. Even out-of-towners of Chinese heritage are subject to this bureaucratic branding.

As I unload, my previous smugness evaporates as I learn that my rapid progress was in part due to an empty front pannier. Since destroying its quick release mechanism in Mongolia, I’ve left it permanently attached to my bike, removing only its contents at night. Thus, the dry bag containing my expensive sleeping bag and mat are somewhere back in Tomortei. I hope that the guys can send it on, otherwise I’ll have to ride back and get it.

The lights of Baiyin Chagan

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Free as wind.

Neon arch.

Neon torches.

Look over there.

Giant fish.

Strobing fish lights.

Strobing fish lights.

Light bulb.

Park lights.

Genghis Khan.

Bronze horseman.

With the night still young, I head into town in search of something to redeem this rigid place.

I find it only a few blocks away. The large park is a dark void, brought to life by the well distributed accompaniments of a sprawling light installation.

It’s hard to tell exactly what the theme is. On the one hand, there’s the ever present Mongol influence. A red, white and yellow Mongol gateway, bronze horsemen carrying spears and tridents, and a robust Genghis Khan, ruling from a neon framed pagoda. But on the other hand, there are also white and purple flaming torches, a tall white dandelion globe and a giant colour-cycling fish.

The park is rimmed by the lights of the CBD, huge buildings glaring away under floodlights. Their pretence contrasts dramatically with the storytelling art.

TV dinner

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Local baking.

Cold soup.

Chinese Pringles.

Chinese Oreos.

Yellow mandarins.

Back at the hotel, dinner is a mishmash of my purchases from the evening and the day.

The cold soup is not great, but it does save the price of a restaurant meal. Copycat junk food makes me wonder which country actually invented it first.

I eat in front of the flatscreen TV, Chinese motorcycle riders doing loop-the-loops which even Ryan Gosling would be proud of.