First grass became greener. Then cob walled huts dotted the landscape. And then sheep, watched over by their shepherds. Then trees appeared sporadically and neat green lines provided evidence of arable farming. With such excitement did I notice all these things - so keenly and with a happiness I must not forget, did I feel myself immersed again - into all that sustains and makes life rich.
I found a cafe and a cheap hotel in the middle of nowhere. The bed cost 10 yuan and every so often the unclosable door was pushed open by chickens, seeking escape from the rain.
The sky cleared and the chickens and I were happy again to be outside. They moved around, pecking at the dusty earth - only occasionally venturing from the fenceless grounds before returning again to eat.
Someone in the cafe ordered chicken. The waiter came out and caught one easily. He held it in his hand and it dangled, pre-emptively lifeless, as he stood and talked. He walked across the yard and the chickens avoided his steps. He knelt down on the floor and took a knife from his apron. The chicken was silent as he bent its neck toward the sky. And silent as the knife cut a precise slit down its throat. The man held the chicken still as the the blood ran in a slow, steady stream to the ground and the other chickens gathered around - pecking at the dust and lifting the blood in strands. For several minutes the blood ran steadily as the chicken's body convulsed violently. The slit was made deeper and as the blood rushed quicker, in pronounced, pulsing beats, the dying chicken clucked - the sound breaking in its open throat. Then the chicken lay still and died, leaving the others to devour its remaining blood.
Two hours later the process was repeated again and the chickens again were fed. In my new, meat-eating phase, I suppose the act of killing should be something I could manage. But I am afraid I would have failed as Jude and made an angry Arabella of my Chinese host.
What amazed me most was the stupidity of these chickens. The world was open and unguarded to them and several times a day they witnessed another of their number killed in front of them. But I suppose this is an inevitable amazement if your knowledge of chickens' intelligence comes from films like Chicken Run!
The next day I discovered that crossing the Gobi had cracked my rear hub and that a 600km detour to Beijing was needed to get a new one... still, at least I wasn't a chicken...
Friday 28 August 2009
Thursday 27 August 2009
China - detour to Beijing
Zamyn Uud lies in the Gobi desert, on the border with China. It is a small town and everywhere the inhospitable desert is felt. The gers are dirty and worn - marked by the sandstorms endured and indicative of a new permanence for which the structures were never designed. For, though Zamyn Uud exudes no sense of comfort, it is easier surely to stay here - to huddle like fat white penguins around the border's trade - than to return to old lives. To face once again a nomadic existence and live from a land that gives so little.
I entered China with little expectation. My last week in Mongolia impressed upon me a picture of a treacherous and uncompromising landscape: a place where the environment dictates the actions of people and not the other way around. It must be impossible to live differently. 'My idea of China must be hundreds of miles away', I thought; 'far beyond the desert. It is simply too hard to sustain that image here.'
It was a shock then to find Erlian, on the other side of the border, appearing to me as the most modern, commercially thriving town since Western Europe. The central square lay, a wide open expanse of polished stone. Trees grew amongst water features, their leaves vibrant and green, and the red rectangle of material with the little yellow stars on it, seemed proudly to declare as it danced in the heat of a Gobi breeze "This is China - we will have water fountains and ponds in the middle of the desert; our strength will allow you to forget the desert's heat and the sand that whips, and thirst and hunger too. This is China - look what we can do!"
It was impossible not to feel the energy of people. As though the heat served no longer to lull the body into laziness, but sparked a fire instead: to chase after all of capitalism's joys and to run from its discontents.
As darkness came the air fell thick - with the sweet smells of sugar and roasting peanuts - the scent of meat and spitting fat - of chilli that caught in the back of the throat and of pepper that drew water from eyes. Fresh sticky rice lent its earthy sweetness to olfactory senses and smoke swam in the warm evening air.
Everywhere a frenetic excitement filled the streets. People sold cold beer and kebabs. Photographs and plastic toys. Garish fairground rides and children playing in the square saturated the town with noise. And later it became apparent that bodies here were for sale as well.
The next day it came almost as a surprise to find the desert still there, beyond the boundaries of the town. But now the expanse slipped by, viewed from a smooth, tarmac road. And the emptiness now was interrupted. Always by telephone and electric wires, but often, too, by power stations or factories. Or with edifices unidentifiable to those without Mandarin.
Though the roads were a welcome change, I felt no longer part of the desert in the same way. From the smooth surface of the road, and scarred everywhere by the impact of humans, the desert seemed dull. And I was pleased to be continuing south.
I entered China with little expectation. My last week in Mongolia impressed upon me a picture of a treacherous and uncompromising landscape: a place where the environment dictates the actions of people and not the other way around. It must be impossible to live differently. 'My idea of China must be hundreds of miles away', I thought; 'far beyond the desert. It is simply too hard to sustain that image here.'
It was a shock then to find Erlian, on the other side of the border, appearing to me as the most modern, commercially thriving town since Western Europe. The central square lay, a wide open expanse of polished stone. Trees grew amongst water features, their leaves vibrant and green, and the red rectangle of material with the little yellow stars on it, seemed proudly to declare as it danced in the heat of a Gobi breeze "This is China - we will have water fountains and ponds in the middle of the desert; our strength will allow you to forget the desert's heat and the sand that whips, and thirst and hunger too. This is China - look what we can do!"
It was impossible not to feel the energy of people. As though the heat served no longer to lull the body into laziness, but sparked a fire instead: to chase after all of capitalism's joys and to run from its discontents.
As darkness came the air fell thick - with the sweet smells of sugar and roasting peanuts - the scent of meat and spitting fat - of chilli that caught in the back of the throat and of pepper that drew water from eyes. Fresh sticky rice lent its earthy sweetness to olfactory senses and smoke swam in the warm evening air.
Everywhere a frenetic excitement filled the streets. People sold cold beer and kebabs. Photographs and plastic toys. Garish fairground rides and children playing in the square saturated the town with noise. And later it became apparent that bodies here were for sale as well.
The next day it came almost as a surprise to find the desert still there, beyond the boundaries of the town. But now the expanse slipped by, viewed from a smooth, tarmac road. And the emptiness now was interrupted. Always by telephone and electric wires, but often, too, by power stations or factories. Or with edifices unidentifiable to those without Mandarin.
Though the roads were a welcome change, I felt no longer part of the desert in the same way. From the smooth surface of the road, and scarred everywhere by the impact of humans, the desert seemed dull. And I was pleased to be continuing south.
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