By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (27 page)

We were able to stay long enough to see some of the ceremony and have a couple of Himalayan scarves we’d bought blessed by the monastery’s lama. We hoped that would bring us some more of the kind of luck we’d had in our short time in this wonderful country. By chance we’d been here when Nepal became a Republic and amazingly, only twenty-four hours later, we’d met Sir Edmund Hillary’s son with Everest in the background, fifty-five years after it was conquered.

Back in the chopper Russ asked the pilot if he could take us to the Friendship Bridge - a narrow gorge with tree-lined hills where we’d originally planned to make the crossing to Tibet. The pilot guided the chopper to a little town squashed between the hills. A string of dilapidated buildings marked the Nepalese side and harsh-looking concrete structures the Chinese. We hovered: drifting halfway across the river, the skill of the pilot just about keeping us in Nepalese territory. We were so low we were in the town and could see the number plates of the trucks backed up along the road. Russ had the door open so he could film the point where we’d planned to cross before China closed off Tibet. Chinese soldiers were gesticulating angrily. Watching through binoculars, we saw a couple get on the phone.

‘Maybe we should go,’ Russ yelled.

The pilot had no choice but to bring the chopper about in the hover - if we had gone any further forwards, we would be in Chinese airspace. It’s a really hard manoeuvre and for a moment it was a bit hairy; then we were climbing so steeply and so close to the trees I could make out the veins in the leaves.

The flight back took much longer than it had on the way out because the clouds had drifted into the gorges and we had to avoid them. We skirted south in an arc to make sure we had plenty of visibility; no pilot flies in cloud in this area and they rarely fly beyond midday.

Back in Kathmandu we discovered that the Chinese had been on the phone to the Nepalese Aviation Authority demanding to know what the chopper had been doing and what we were filming. We were very grateful to the pilot, and hoped we hadn’t accidentally got him into trouble and that, at most, he would only get his knuckles rapped. The NAA did want a report though, the Chinese were insisting on it. We asked them to hold off until we’d left if they possibly could: the last thing we wanted was to be accosted at the airport and have the rushes confiscated.

17

Tales of the River Bank

There is no question it had been one of the great days of my life. In fact the whole Nepalese experience had been amazing, and on top of everything else we’d been able to raise awareness for UNICEF: the vaccination programme being another example of how the money you donate is spent.

Mentally I was floating with happiness, but physically I was feeling pretty bleh. I had the poops and my stomach was churning; I also had the beginnings of a bothersome toothache. Once again I couldn’t sleep, and in the brief moments when I did manage to drop off my dreams were so vivid I kept waking up. I was thinking about Olly and the kids and all of a sudden I felt incredibly lonely. I know that might sound stupid, even selfish given the day we’d had, but I had to admit it again - I missed my family. I’ve been away from them so much over the past couple of years - I just wish there was some way I could have them with me.

Tomorrow we were to take off for China, so with a little time to myself I jumped in a cab and paid a quick visit to Craig, a New Zealander I’d first met in London. It had been one of those chance encounters. I’d been about to get on my bike one morning when this guy walked round the corner. He was working on a house nearby, and he told me he was taking part in the ‘Rickshaw Run’, a tuk-tuk race from Kathmandu to southern India. He wanted some advice on getting sponsorship so that he could raise money for a prostate cancer charity - his father had been diagnosed with the disease.

It was purely by chance that we were in Kathmandu at the same time. I found him working on his tuk-tuk in a yard alongside a whole bunch of other racers. It was dark blue with a line of polished air horns on the roof and a map of India painted on the front. They’d rigged up a canopy to keep the sun off while they were working and the tuk-tuk was almost ready to race. I loved the idea, a sort of Gumball Rally on three wheels. We chatted for a while and compared tuk-tuks - Craig’s was two-stroke like ours, but in much better nick. I wished him luck and headed back to the hotel.

Next stop China.

 

We flew overnight to the city of Guangzhou, north of Hong Kong. It was a new city, built when Hong Kong became too overcrowded. We were acutely aware that we had vowed not to take a regular airline flight, but the Tibetan border remained closed and Burma was, of course, out of the question. It was disappointing, but we really had no other option.

The airport was very state-of-the-art and westernised. With its McDonald’s and Starbucks, it was like landing in America. We had expected customs to be a nightmare, but in fact it couldn’t have been easier. Walking through laden with camera equipment, the officials just stamped our passports and waved us on: they didn’t ask us what we were doing, what we were filming or anything. Outside it was hot, humid and raining. Hailing a cab, we were soon whizzing down a modern motorway in a very modern city, all high-rise offices and apartment blocks. There was a lot of industry here, in particular a large cement works; we’d arranged to cadge a ride on a cement barge downriver to Wuzhou.

When we arrived in Guangzhou we met up with Shiyi and Taotao, a couple of Chinese girls who would interpret for us. We also caught up with Matt, Mungo’s mate, who would be filming at least as far as Vietnam. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly, everything, that was, except my toothache. A pressurised cabin was the last thing I’d needed and what had been the odd twinge had turned into a sharp, jagged stab. I had only managed about an hour’s sleep before the intense pain woke me up.

There’s nothing more debilitating than toothache and I knew I had to find a dentist. Fortunately it hadn’t been this bad when we were in Kathmandu because I’m not sure I’d have gone to the dentist there.

Shiyi took me to an ultra-modern clinic where they spoke English. It was fantastic - as far as any visit to the dentist can be fantastic - everything spotlessly clean and white. They had all the latest technology, and after three injections and a lot of drilling, I’d had some work done on a root-canal. It wasn’t a permanent fix, we weren’t going to be there long enough for that, but the dentist told me it was good for a couple of months. At that moment I didn’t care how long it was good for - walking out I felt like a new man.

Shiyi told us that over the last ten years things had really taken off in China: the country had embraced capitalism and the economy was booming. We took a walk through narrow streets with vibrant, colourful shops selling just about everything, and apart from the signs you could be in any modern European city. On our travels we bumped into a skinny guy called Mah, who was riding a tricycle with a large storage box on the back. He told us he was in the recycling business. He’d ride through the streets buying rubbish from shopkeepers: paper, cardboard boxes, Styrofoam, aluminium cans . . . pretty much anything that could be recycled. The shopkeepers stored it until he came round then they’d barter for a price, Mah working everything out on his homemade set of scales.

It was fun to watch; lots of hand waving and finger gestures. He paid twenty yuan for a six-kilo parcel, which he then sold on to the recycling plant for thirty. It was an interesting concept, and I wondered if it would work in Britain.

Mah had a second bike so I jumped on that and followed him on his rounds. The streets were narrow and there were lots of cars, but everything seemed very calm - people just ambling along, without the great cacophony of horns we’d become used to in India. But I got the same reaction cycling as I had when I rode the rickshaw - people stopped and stared, kids pointed and laughed. I had a go at bartering for some cardboard boxes and discovered that the shopkeepers, mostly hard-case women, happily fleeced me. They said five yuan and I said two; they said five and I said three, they said five and I said four. I was useless. I did fill the cart, though, and I paid for some of the stuff with my own money, so at least Mah’s profits went up.

That evening I took a call from Mungo, who told me that his knee was getting there but it was not as good as he’d hoped. He was actually booked to see the physio on the day he was due to fly out to Hanoi and realistically he thought he might need another week. I told him there was no point in coming out until his knee was fully operational; the last thing any of us wanted was for him to break down and have to fly home again. He sounded pretty down. He’d been to his grandfather’s funeral the day before. I told him to keep his chin up and reminded him that if he hadn’t done his knee in, he wouldn’t have made the decision to go to the funeral. That was fate and when fate strikes you just have to roll with it.

Not all of Guangzhou was high-rise. Close to the hotel there was a suburb of smaller, tightly packed buildings with red tile roofs that looked much more traditional, and the following morning we went exploring there to buy food. We found a cool indoor market selling not only a vast array of fruit and vegetables, but live shrimp and fish. There were live chickens, too: you pointed out the one you wanted and they killed it, plucked it and you took it home for dinner.

The revised route was taking us south-west towards Hanoi, and somehow Lucy had managed to locate a family that operated a cement barge. They lived on it permanently, working their way up and down the Xun Jiang River with five hundred tonnes of cement dust in the hold. We were due to meet at midday after they’d unloaded their cargo and were preparing for the weekly run west to collect another load. Shiyi knew roughly where the barge would be and we found it nestled up against a bunch of other barges in one of the older and more tumbledown river districts. To get there we had to make our way through some pretty dodgy backstreets, little alleys between old brick buildings, most of which looked as though they were about to fall apart. I had my suitcase on my head and was making my way between the houses when behind me this dog leapt from a doorway. Barking and snarling it lunged at Russ. For an awful moment he thought he was going to get bitten. Thankfully the dog backed off, more bark than bite. We had all been concerned about rabies, but it was only protecting its territory.

When we arrived at the mooring we clambered from deck to deck until we reached our barge. Black-hulled with blunt bows, it was basically a cargo hold with a wheelhouse and living quarters at the back. Taotao told us that the southern provinces (where we were heading) had had the most horrendous weather recently: massive thunder storms, torrential rain and gale force winds. She said that though it was naturally wet in that part of China, this year had been exceptional and as many as a hundred thousand people had been displaced. In the last couple of months ninety-three had died in the storms and because of the swollen river; only yesterday someone had drowned and another person was missing. It was disturbing how so many countries we’d been travelling through had been struck by natural disasters, and the thought of a grotesquely swollen river was hardly comforting, especially when we realised there was no rail around the deck on our barge. There was just the wheelhouse and then flat, open deck, nothing to hold onto in bad weather. I had visions of getting up for a pee in the night, missing my footing and splash -
hasta la vista
, Charley.

Leaving the mooring we steamed down-river. It was busy here, the water thick with cement carriers and barges transporting household goods, or loaded to the gunwales with lengths of bamboo. Chi-Chi, the eldest son, was driving; he looked about twenty-two. Wearing shorts and a singlet, he sat in a cane chair, constantly adjusting the wheel. We couldn’t speak each other’s language, but he had a broad smile and so did I and I guess that was all we needed.

Seven-eighths of the barge was devoted to the cargo hold, whereas the living area and wheelhouse seemed to have been an afterthought. The bridge was no more than a rudimentary console with a couple of garden chairs, a fridge and an old TV. The living quarters consisted of a couple of cabins and a rough kitchen. Not that it mattered: there was a really nice atmosphere, just Mum and Dad and their two boys. This was home; their space, their work place.

Mum was called Ayi; a small, smiling woman who ran the ‘house’ while her husband and sons ran the business. I chatted to her as she washed vegetables using a hose that pumped river water. Later I discovered that when you squatted over the knee-trembler toilet, whatever you deposited was dropped directly into the water.

Ayi’s husband was called Liang-Su. He told me the round trip was a two-week cycle of steaming west to pick up cement dust to unload in Guangzhou. The only time anyone got a break was every three or four months or so when Ayi went to visit her mother. Sometimes their younger son would go with her so he could hook up with his old school-friends for a few days. Liang-Su stayed on the boat: he’d been on this river all his life and he’d never had a mishap; no collisions, no running aground, and in thirty years we were his only passengers.