We awoke 5 or 6 miles from the city center in the inland city of Daegu, in South Korea. It was somewhat of a late rise, for asiawheeling at least, and by the time we had take a refreshing dip in the blazing Internet connection at our love hotel, it was nearly traditional lunchtime. Progress was further hampered by the fact that the internet connection here (an Ethernet cable we’d removed from the complementary in-room gaming machine) refused to be shared by two machines.

As you no doubt remember, dear reader, Scott and I had at this point in the Korea section of the trip fallen deeply in love with the prevalent and hyper-affordable automated coffee machine. They all operated in the same basic principal: put 10 or 15 american cents in and out pops a paper cup which is then robotically filled with an ebbing jet of unremarkable instant coffee/sugar/cream product. These little buggers were positively doing wonders for our lucidity in this country, and our current love hotel had taken the entire game up to the next level by installing one in the hotel lobby that was free. You heard me.

So it was well caffeinated and nearly half past that place in the morning where our bodies would run uncomplainingly on just sticky instant coffee drinks that we mounted the cycles and headed out for a meal. We selected a small restaurant not far from the hotel, overlooking a somewhat sullen concrete walled canal and were handed a totally incomprehensible menu. Lacking a common language with our server, we did the usual, which was to pantomine to the associate indicating we would like them to recommend some dishes. This maneuver appeared to work like a charm, and I sat down on the floor while Scott headed over to this cafe’s coffee machine to get us a little pick me up. Here is what they brought us.

It was a rather large plate of cold ice cold salty pork, accompanied by a rather dizzying assortment of sides. We were instructed to take pieces of the pork and mix them up with bunches of different condiments and then eat them with similarly cold sticky rice. I guess it was a cold things restaurant. The coffee was hot, though, and we left feeling energized.

Back on the streets, we were feeling good. Scott’s bike seemed back to it’s old self, and the sun was blazing.

We headed the opposite direction from downtown, and after crossing a few canals, made short work of getting into a more rural area. The cars seemed bigger here in Daegu, much like the increase in vehicle size as one experiences as they head towards the center of America. The landscape was lush, full of lakes and rivers, marshes and forests, but also engineered. Smooth new looking roads wound amidst the plants and water, and huge concrete towers were sprinkled about.

The diversity of scenery in even a small portion of the wheel was stunning. At one moment, we would be wheeling through an imposing, almost communist feeling high-rise housing block,

then on a causeway crossing over marshy rivulets

then through strange junkyards and flea markets, the sort of stuff that would not have been so out of place in Urumqi,

then into what looked sort of like Ohio or Pennsylvania farmland.

Soon stands selling vegetables and flowers began to dot the road, and one by one the lanes fell off on either side of us until there were just two rather narrow ones left. When we hit a snarl of traffic, which appeared to have been caused by a lack of parking for one of the larger vegetable selling operations (aggravated by recent lane reduction), we pulled off the road we’d been taking and started riding a smaller, single lane farm road.

We were really out there now, and began to feel it as the narrow paved rode on which we rode dissolved into gravel, and then into more of a foot path than anything else. The footpath eventually terminated at a dam crossing consisting of large cubic concrete “stepping stones”.  So we hoisted our bikes and headed across, stopping to exchange waves with an old man fishing just downstream.

We were on a new road now, bigger than our farm path, but small enough that we felt confident it lead somewhere interestingly remote. We rode on, as the narrow lane hair-pinned it’s way between two large forested hills, roughly following the same river we’d just walked across.

Sure enough, the road did lead somewhere interesting. About a half hour of riding later, we arrived in a new blocky development. The stream which we’d crossed earlier, now more of a babbling crystal clear brook, bisected the development, and we followed it’s course noodling through apartment complexes and grade schools full of screaming children.

There was a love hotel district in this town too, some of them positively dripped with character.

There was a sleeping beauty to this landscape that we just couldn’t get over. We were feeling amazing. The air was cleaner than anything we’d breathed since Siberia; the sun was blazing, and this little river just kept leading us to ever more exciting places.

We were rather sad when finally forced to abandon the stream that had taken us on such an amazing wheel, but it seemed to be heading up into giant walled military compound, into which we would almost certainly be denied access, likely with force. Ever since the AsiaWheeling Middle East Cultural Liaison and I incited the wrath of the Syrian military while wheeling, I’d felt wary of wheeling army bases.

And so we let the river go on without us. We still had one of those delightfully empty and smooth Korean country roads to ride, and it was taking us one of our favorite places, the unknown. We pedaled on, sweating and grunting our way up a seriously grueling hill, happy that the Speed TRs had so many gears. We paused at the top, drinking water and preparing of the cool thrill of decent. When a strange black sedan pulled up behind us and just idled ominously, staring at us, we thought briefly of that strange facility which had stolen our river, and decided it was time to head downhill again.It was a beautiful long downhill through thick and bright green forest. We leaned hard into the turns and savored the rush of wind against our sweaty bodies. We were spit forth at the bottom of the hill, into a large agricultural valley.

The farms down here were so orderly and mechanized, as compared to china or india, and there were so fewer people. Of course, the GDP per capita here was 4 times that of China and over 10 times that of India. Korean labor is not cheap. When we rode past Chinese farms, they would relatively packed full of people working on all kinds of things. Here we saw more dogs than people.

We spotted a particularly come hither one and hopped onto a tiny single lane farm road. We headed out at a lazy-ish pace, riding between crops, past greenhouses sheds and silos, and sleeping farm dogs. It was so beautiful out here. I was perhaps touched more than Scott, having been raised in rural Iowa. Lo and behold, not too far down the farm path we found our beloved stream again, looking gorgeous as always.

We stopped there, laying the speed TRs down in the sandy soil near the river and took a moment to just bathe in the sun soaked emptiness of the landscape. AsiaWheeling was a study of the Urban experience, and as such of course we spent most of our time in cities. Usually these were, huge smog belching, packed to the gills, filth ridden, logistically challenging cities. All that madness could not have felt more distant, just staring into this tiny bifurcating stream. Were we mad to be living in such packed clusters? Maybe all AsiaWheeling really needed was sunny days like this and a sprig of grass to clutch between our teeth. I could rock on the front porch, playing ukulele, maybe get into fixing up old pickup trucks…The feeling began to wear off, however, replaced mostly buy a hunger for pork and internet.

In surprising stroke of luck, we managed to make our trip somewhat of a loop, riding a good chunk of the way back on a packed sand road, which follow our river and continued to feel just rustic enough to scratch the aforementioned itch.

Eventually, we were forced to get back onto on a busy highway, which got our previously relaxed back of the neck hairs into city mode again. As we were riding in terrifyingly dense traffic, which whipped by menacingly at least five times our speed, we spotted a bike path below us, which followed one of Daegu’s canals. We jumped at the opportunity to get off the highway and portaged down a muddy slope to the path.

The path was such a relief from the noise and the fear associated with highway riding (outside of China that is) that we nearly missed this giant yellow and black spider, speculation as to the species of which is invited in the comments.

As we neared the city proper, Daegu continued to pull off a soothing combination of marshy river ecosystem and brutal modern city.
Our bike path grew walls and nestled itself up against a highway as we pedaled through the sun and breeze. The bike path was essentially empty, and for much of it we could ride two abreast.

That evening we ended up at – you guessed it – another Korean at-the-table BBQ restaurant.

These places just refused to quit being delicious.

If the jimjilbang provides any indication, Koreans like to sleep on very hard surfaces, and tired and relaxed as I was from an evening of bathing, soaking, scrubbing and the like, my body is just too boney to sleep very long on a marble floor (even if it’s heated). The result of this condition is that I woke up rather early the next day. Scott was still snoozing.

I decided to head out to the spa balcony and spend a few hours typing correspondance for you, dear reader.

Scott woke up after a couple posts and came out to join me. We looked out over the city and discussed our plans for the day. We had to catch a train leaving maybe 5 hours from then headed for the inland city of Daegu. We were in no huge rush, but my growing hunger encouraged us to check out of the spa and head into the city.

We stopped just a few blocks down from the hotel to grab a little late breakfast-early-lunch. This was a hot pot place, it turned out, and like many of the restaurants we’d visited thusfar in Korea, there was but one item on the menu. I like this a lot; as it simplified what can be a bewildering ordering process. It also encourages us to order somewhat splashier dishes, which AsiaWheeling’s thirfty mentality would normally turn us away from.

We were the only people in the restaurant, so most of the staff just lounged and watched us. A huge mushroom and meat soup was brought out and placed on a burner sunk into the 1 foot tall table between where Scott and I sat cross legged on the floor.

We waited semi-patiently while it came to a boil. The staff tried to chat with us in Korean, and we tried to chat back with marginal success. Finally the soup was done… what a transformation!

Stomachs plenty full for the second meal in a row, we hopped back on the cycles grinning. It had not only been one of the most delicious, but also one of the cheapest meals of our time in Korea.

At the Busan railway station, we purchased two tickets on the next slow train to Daegu and commenced the usual purchasing of snacks and wheeling of bikes through crowded halls. Even though we were seated somewhere in the middle of the train, we were able to stash our cycles behind the rearmost seats of our car.It was nice to get on the train and just sit for a bit watching the scenery go by. What a journey it had been, and in these few quite moments, I could feel the experience begin to wash over me, my mind chewing over everything in the background while farms, cities, and industry flew by outside.

I after a while, I did my best shake the feeling off, and unzipped my bag to begin writing some more correspondence for you, dear reader.

And so the train rumbled on, making its way slowly across Korea as the day wore on.

It must have been 4  pm when we arrived in Daegu.

We unloaded ourselves from the train, strapped down our baggage and about half an hour of wheeling later were checking into a sort of random love hotel. Each room in this hotel was outfitted with its own windows desktop, which we promptly unplugged to make way for our electronic devices.

We were tempted to feast on the internet, but with the sun still up the call of wheeling was too strong.

Daegu was much more a working man’s town, compared to Busan. It was cluttered and active. People were buying and selling and getting things done.

Tourism seemed a nonexistent industry here. In short, it was AsiaWheeling’s kind of city.  Daegu was to be a fascinating and refreshing exploration of the inner-workings of Korea’s less glamourous economic machinery.

We wheeled our way through crowded markets and huge abandoned lots, walled off on all sides.

The more we rode, the more we began to realize this was a pretty huge metropolitan area, with gaint ring highways, canals, bike paths, tons of high rises, big wide roads. It felt great.

We didn’t want the sun to go down.

We continued to wheel through street after street of markets, specializing in everything from plastics, to seafood, to electronics.
We spotted a particularly dramatic looking barbershop and decided to stop in for a quick trim. The haircuts included massages and medicinal vitamin drinks. I read to Scott about the science of Volcanoes from the Wikireader while they finished his treatment.

The sun was beginning to sink behind the two huge towers of a downtown cathedral and a glorious sunset was spreading across the sky when the hunger began to flair up again.

We were wheeling through downtown as the golden light began to spread over Daegu. Why did this place feel so magical? Was it the proximity card based bike sharing business that seemed to be very popular here? Probably not entirely.

The sunset just refused to quit as we rode into a giant pedestrian mall, filled with brands from all over the world.

We noticed this coffee shop, whose branding spoke to us, but was closed.

Night finally fell, and we began to head back to the neighborhood of our hotel. We rode a few blocks past it to find another Korean feasting spot. We spotted this 24 hour joint, there were positively amazing smells coming out of it, and we were plenty starving, so we headed in.

Now it’s true, dear reader, that we had been feasting pretty hard already hitherto, but this meal really put the rest of them to shame.

All we ordered was a sizzling mollusk soup and a seriously giant pile of pork spine in thick spicy mushroom sauce, but the amount of food that came out of the kitchen was huge. We got at least two gift dishes, and mountains of Banchan.

We stumbled out, bursting at the gills, and headed back to our love hotel to sleep like kings.

We woke up the next morning to the smell of bread toasting at the Bebop house. It had been some time indeed since this smell had permeated our worlds. Certainly not in Bandung. Now there was a seemingly infinite supply of toast and eggs, and we relished the long forgotten ritual of dipping toast in wet yolk.

 

We were coming to like the other travelers who occupied the guest-house with us, but we declined invitations to join them for some more traditional Seoul tourist activities. We might have been lounging and speaking English in the lap of College-style luxury, but this was still AsiaWheeling and your humble correspondents felt an obligation to seek out the hidden treasures that lie in wait for the urban cyclist.

And so, with bellies full of toast, eggs, and coffee, we hit the road. The sun was finally out in Seoul and was pouring over everything that had been washed clean by days of arin. This day had a certain refreshing beauty which propelled us forward along Seoul’s smooth pavement. Everything seemed to have an orderly gleam to it. We were well caffeinated, fueled with comfort food and riding quite fast, not to mention the city smelled great.

We spent the next hours or two noodling in and out of the tiny back streets of Seoul, which seemed to contain a mind blowing number of good looking restaurants, which even this early in the mornig were eminating complicated and come hither scents.

So you’ll forgive us for being plenty happy when our hunger flared up again. We chose a restaurant at random. The place had only one dish, a kind of fried-rice-hotpot. The entire meals was cooked at your table in a large ceramic pot, which was operated (for us at least) by a moderately grumpy waitperson. The first phase was a heap of beautiful looking fresh vegetables submerged in boiling fish broth and doused in a spicy red sauce made from something fermented… soybeans perhaps?

This hot pot phase was boiled slowly, and twice we were reprimanded for jumping the gun and sneaking a bite. Eventually, the wait-person informed, sounding somewhat relieved, that we could finally eat. In no time, most of the vegetables had been eaten from the soup, the second phase began. Sticky rice and a couple of eggs were added to the bowl along with herbs, a giant pile of dried seaweed, and some mushrooms. The contents were then stirred in front of us by one of the restaurant employees until a sticky and intensely flavorful fried rice was rendered. The meal was great, but we never felt quite welcome in the restaurant.

Back on the street, we stopped in at one of the many eyeglasses shops. It is important to relates that Korea is a country that takes its eyeglasses incredibly seriously. Even before I had traveled to this fascinating place, I had encountered a number of Koreans in America, and had consistently been impressed by their eyeglasses. In fact, I had come to use the glasses as a kind of rule of thumb for making guesses as to the nationality of an Asian American. Amazing glasses pointed to Korea 9 times out of 10. At once retro and hip, but intelligent and thoughtful. Take it from us, dear reader, if ever in Korea, consider purchasing frames.

Neither of your humble correspondents, unfortunately, is lucky enough to wear corrective spectacles. Furthermore, our friends at Maui Jim had so majestically outfitted us with superior sunglasses that our interest in the frames was more anthropological than anything else.

So on we rode, out of the winding back streets of our current neighborhood. When we spotted a smaller river, with a bike path running alongside it. We figured the river must be a tributary of the great Han, so we followed it back towards the river. The closer we got, the more flood damage based hazards we encountered.

As we had suspected, this river was a tributary of the Han, and the bike path we rode on a tributary of the great Han bike-path, which we had been thilled to discover the day before. We pulled back onto the Han path, which was now bathed in sunshine, starkly well kept, and smooth as a baby’s bottom. We rode by families picnicking and old men meditating in the shade.

We continued down the path, this time much beyond where we had turned back the day before. Eventually, we decided to leave the bike path and make our way deeper into this side of the city for a little exploring. It was an absolutely perfect day, and we couldn’t help but lay hard onto the speed TRs whishing around cars and flying ever further into this section of the city. The place seemed to consist mostly of office parks, laundromats, and corporate coffee shops, all of which felt quite exotic.

Then, suddenly, Scott’s bike took a turn for the worse. He noticed it was becoming increasingly hard to pedal. On closer inspection, we discovered that the spokes on his from wheel had gone loose as spaghetti and the wheel was deforming such that it rubbed against the breaks. We attempted to tighten them in the field with our Syrian adjustable wrench, but it seemed to barely be helping. Soon, we were forced to simply disengage the front brake and head in search of a bike shop, pedaling at very low speeds. Eventually we were forced to walk the iron steeds. By the time we found a shop, Scott’s wheel was rubbing badly against the fork of the bike and making a terrible sound.

The shop we found was very posh, full of expensive and high tech cycling gear. The folks there were more than happy to help us. Long gone, however, were the days of 50 cent wheel truing jobs in Laos. This was every bit as expensive as getting the job done in America, and with a fair bit more attitiude.

The gentleman at the shop were also very shifty characters. They were happy to show us around, but, for instance, when we asked to borrow a wrench so that I could tighten some of the joints on my bike, they sternly refused. Part of it was certainly the language barrier. The men spoke barely any English and we not a lick of Korean, but none the less it was very clearly communicated that such repairs could be made, but we would not be trusted with the wrench. This meant that in the meantime, while Scott’s wheel was being trued, we entered the hair pulling process of trying to communicate how to tighten all the joints on a folding touring bike to someone who has never done it before, is uninterested in communication, and is convinced that they know better than you how to do the task in the first place.

We eventually got through it however, and even got a free bit of power washing out of the deal (whether this left our Speed TRs in better or worse shape remains unclear).

Then we noticed that the staff had begun putting the wheel back on Scott’s bike. We rushed over, breathless, and struggled to stay calm while stressing to the mechanics not to over tighten the bolts on Scott’s bike. As you no doubt remember, dear reader, Scott’s bike had developed a nasty habit of chewing through bearings not long after his collision with Stig Motta and the resulting inexpensive re-truing of the front wheel in Laos. His wheel had continued to misbehave through Cambodia and eventually calmed down somewhere around southern Vietnam (right around when we were becoming experts at replacing the busted bearings). It was not until Uzbekistan that it began giving us trouble again, and we were lucky then to have access to the extensive collection of well made Soviet tools which belonged to our dear Uzbek Bureau chief’s grandfather, Nazarkulov. That time, we had decided to remove the entire Dynamo assembly, which we found to be totally destroyed, the magnet inside shattered into 5 pieces.

All this is to strengthen our case whe we ask you to forgive us for being a little intense with these Korean mechanics. We pleaded with them to let us tighten it ourselves, and tried with all our might to communicate the fragility of the situation. In the end we just watched with clenched sphincters as they overtightened the bolt, and then loosened it with our Syrian adjustable wrench as soon as we we out of sight.

Luckily, it seemed we’d done ok, because Scott was back in action, the bike seemed solid and obedient. We were coming to find that Seoul is absolutely packed with bike paths, for it was no more than 5 or 6 blocks later that we found a new one. Suspecting this might also be a tributary to that great Han bike path, we exited the city streets and started riding.

It was not easy to leave the comfort of the Siloam sauna.

But the rain had stopped for the time being, and we were beginning to feel a little stir crazy in the mostly windowless and anecdote ridden confines of the bathhouse, so leave we did. Outside, the streets were dry and the city felt strangely ghost-like as we road out into the early morning light.

We were fully loaded, but happy to allow our path to meander across town. Our eventual destination was a place called the Bebop  guesthouse. One thing we had realized while in the Siloam was that the Jimjilbang can be somewhat of a temporal and spatial vortex… it’s very hard to come and go from it as you would a normal hotel, since the check in process involves removing your clothes and locking your shoes in a difficult to access locker behind the front desk. To make matters worse, windows are very rare, and all your needs are more or less satisfied inside. These spas were great, but if we were going to get some good wheeling in, it might be useful to do base ourselves at a guesthouse, at least until we had perfected our Jimjilbanging methodology.

As we rode on smooth new Korean pavement, we quickly noticed both bikes were making a terrible squealing racket. It was easy to locate the source of the distressing sound. Our bikes had after all been parked for about 24 hours, outdoors, in monsoon rains. Last time we’d done that was on the island of Java and we had encountered the same issue: the rain had washed all lubrication from the chains, and left them a rusting mess. A quick trip to one of Seoul’s ubiquitous convenience stores solved that problem.

Back on the road again, running smooth and silent, I began to allow myself to enjoy the comforting sensation of wheeling through a wealthy country again. Thanks in part to the good people of Seoul, and in part to the torrential downpours of the day before, the city had a rather freshly scrubbed gleam to it.

We continued our rambling approach to the Bebop guesthouse, wheeling through giant five or six way empty intersections. We were later to learn it was a bit of a holiday weekend in Seoul, but at the time it felt unsettlingly similar to the early scenes of a zombie film. When we spotted one, we decided to take a detour through a street market. I pulled my fully loaded speed TR over to examine a large pile of roasted pork knuckles, and struck up a kind of language-less conversation with the vendor. He insisted we sample some of his home-made rice liquor. It was interesting, but incredibly boozy not to mention a little sweet for my taste. We thanked him using the only Korean words we possessed and moved on.

In a very Kuala-Lumpur-esque series of events, we found ourselves unwittingly siphoned onto a startlingly busy highway. This was reassuring from the standpoint that we were finally witnessing evidence of human life here in Seoul, but quickly lost its charm as we were forced to endure a mile or two of dense traffic before we could find an exit. The highway ejected your humble correspondents into a new neighborhood, this one with much wider streets and a more corporate feel traffic was slightly more active here as well. The extended highway speeds while fully loaded had awakened the hunger that had not quite yet risen during the earlier pork knuckle incident, and we decided to choose a restaurant at random.

It seemed the neighborhood had only rather fancy places (not to mention that half of the restaurants were closed). So after very atypical exchange of logistical banter, we decided to splurge. The trip was, after all, nearing it’s end. This was a fact that had not seemed real to me, something which I had not even considered thinking about previously. But something about the departure from China and the entry into Korea had removed a mental block. Just perhaps, it seemed, we might be deserving of some celebration having made it to this clean and comfortable land.

And so we sat down and ordered a feast: a Sausage platter, a sizzling beef innards soup, a bowl of Kimchee noodles, all with plenty of Banchan. Korea, we decided, will be a good place for feasting.

We woke aboard the Weidong ferry as it’s giant diesel engines propelled the grouchy hunk of metal towards Incheon, South Korea. The sun had come back, at least for the time being, and made wise by our misadventures in dining the night before, we made sure to calculate our morning so as to just hit the window for the breakfast buffet.

The work paid off as we feasted hard on smoked fish, eggs, delightfully rank kimchee, seaweed heavy miso-esque soups, and sticky rice. There was hot water to make instant coffee with, and plastic bowls to drink from. They even had some of those sickeningly sweet probiotic micro-yogurt drinks that Scott likes. Needless to say, we were quite happy to be eating something that was not packaged in 2-6 layers of cartoon emblazoned plastic wrap, let alone this decadent spread.

The fog rolled in thick again as we made our way towards the coast of South Korea. Soon we began to spot islands in the distance, some of them with giant mansions and manicured estates on them. As we barralled on, pushing plumes of water out of the way, the fog turned to mist, which then turned to light rain. As the downpour continued, our stubborn Weidong Ferry was approached by a small craft, dispatched no doubt by one of the islands. It pulled up next to us and to my great surprise emitted a stocky Korean gentleman who sprung onto the side of our ship and scrambled aboard. Well done, sir.

We had a great pleasure of passing under the same monstrous bridge which we had seen under construction years ago when AsiaWheeling had first taken a ferry from China to Korea. The bridge was now finished and extremely impressive. It loomed way above our giant ferry and dripped the occasional stream of brown water down onto us as we made our way through the rain-free zone underneath.

As usual, Korean customs were delightful, and the people in line were excited to interact with us. We were made to feel very welcome by the officials, and our bicycles were a source of much interest for all involved. We secured a number of tourist maps from a Kiosk just beyond customs, which we began to pour over in order to make a preliminary plan for gaining access to Seoul.

First thing was first, however. We purchased a few paper cups of sticky coffee from a very cheerful vending machine. More properly caffeinated, we set out to change our remaining Renminbi into Korean Won and hop a train into Seoul. It was still misting lightly outside the ferry terminal in Incheon. The water clung to everything in big drop, which flattered the brand new bitumen and reflective paint on the Korean streets with a certain Hollywood noir flourish. It was wet but not cold, and the rain felt refreshing, so given that both of our fenders were still more or less operational (Scott’s slightly less than mine do to his accident on his birthday in Ulaan Baatar), so we used our Chinese motorcycle ponchos to cover the asiawheeling technology bags, and pedaled into the Korean suburbs.

We spotted a currency exchange that looked oddly familiar and pulled to the side of the narrow road we were wheeling. We realized it was none other than the one that we had used years ago on our first trip to Korea. The nostalgic value of using the same establishment again overtook our better judgment, and we simple changed all our Renminbi there, not really caring to inspect the rates.  Two years prior, we were wandering into supermarkets with Chinese currency in our hands, raving and jabbering to helpless staff members.  Now we were rolling up to this shack on a sidestreet and transacting with a smile, a nod, and a quick kam sam ham ni da.

It felt good to ride after being cooped up on the Weidong ferry for 30 hours, so we forsook the first few metro stations, where we could have caught a commuter train into Seoul, and rode on towards the heart of the Korean peninsula. Then suddenly, as if to object to our selection of freedom, the skies opened, and the refreshing mist became a thundering downpour. We hustled through sheets of rain, and river streets to the next metro station, arriving at the ticket machine soaking wet, but still in good spirits.

We were planning to spend as much time as possible in Korea staying in Jimjilbangs. The Jimjilbang is the Korean bathhouse. I was introduced to them originally when I was living in DC working as a management consultant. Not far outside the district was one of the largest Jimjilbangs in the US, a place called Spa World. I had managed to fall into a crowd that frequented that bathhouse. And, being already in possession of a penchant for group bathing engendered during my time in St. Petersburg, I took to the pools of hot and cold water, the baths full of jets and bubbles, and the strange rooms where the spa-goer can commune with the elemental forces of different stones, metals, or earthy substances like a fish to water.
But before we could get to one of the many Jimjilbangs that we had been researching via the AsiaWheeling Lonely Planet PDF database, we needed to figure out the metro system, which is only initially daunting.

The metro was quiet and comfortable, and there was plenty of room to store the Speed TRs in what we later learned was the section reserved for those in wheelchairs.

Our train hammered through the downpour, which washed down the windows so hard and fast that it was nearly impossible to even make out the scenery going by. We were thus forced to consume the transition from coastal suburbs into the urban monstrosity of Seoul in snapshots glimpsed through the opening of the train doors.

The rain was falling harder than ever when we finally reached Seoul. Rather than strike out blindly into the downpour, we decided to consult the inter-tron as to the best reasonably proximate Jimjilbang. We decided on Angel in-us Coffee shop as an internet source, because the name made us feel sort of uncomfortable, which is how we like to feel here at AsiaWheeling, and because they served coffee which might be good and it had been quite some time since we’d had decent coffee.

The good people at the Angel in-us did their best to get us on their network, since after all we had purchased very expensive cups of coffee from them, but in the end, we all gave up just sapped connection from the Dunkin Donuts next door.  Korea was turning out to be just as fabulous as we had left it, and we were thrilled to be at just the onset of our time here.

We selected the Siloam, a Jimjilbang, which it seemed we could get to reasonably easily by wheeling our bike across the sprawling Seoul railway station and taking an underground tunnel to a distant entrance point. When we reached the exit, it was still raining like mad, small rivers of water were rolling down the steps and collecting in a drainage grating at the base of the stairs. As we stood there staring up into the storm, and preparing for a very wet ride, we were approached by an Evangelist. I had forgotten until then that Korea is a very Christian country, but quickly remembered as we did our best to politely decline salvation.

The ride was every bit as sopping and stressful as we had feared. There are so many bathhouses in Seoul, all emblazoned with the ubiquitous neon icon of a steaming pool. So miserable was the rain that I was ready to just check into a random one. Scott was more steadfast. We were both soaked to the bone and huddling in a tiny dripping doorway, trying to make sense of our navigational blunders, and sopping wet tourist maps in the deafening rain. Scott was staring into an image of the map that he had taken with his camera when he came to a conclusion about our location. He dabbed a wet finger against the LCD screen and explained his plan.

So we piled or things in a doorway, hoping no tennant of this building would hope to enter or exit, and Scott headed out to do some unencumbered reconnaissance on his Speed TR. I huddled and shivered in the doorway, awaiting his return and watching water pour off of every surface. It was not long before I heard woops and shouts of delight and saw Scott’s sopping mustache curled up in a smile.

“Got it.” he said, splashing towards me, and we piled our things back onto the Speed TRs for a final push. Then we were there. The fine people at Siloam showed us there to park our bikes, issued us keys and lockers and handed over neatly folded color coded outfits (white for men; orange for women).   They were thrilled to see us, as if awaiting our arrival since we departed from Chinese shores on the ferry.  They even took our sopping clothes and washed and dried them for free – “service,” they said.

We

We spent the next twenty hours, scrubbing, soaking, baking, ruminating, stewing, pickling, and plunging in pools of ice water. Once we were seriously clean and had been sufficiently relaxed in that way that only extreme temperature changes can relax a human, we headed to the in-house restaurant to sit on the floor and eat some Korean food. We were plenty ready to dig in to a big bowl of cold noodles with seaweed and lettuce, a sizzling bibimbap (the famous Korean meat and rice dish) and a somewhat marrowy tasting seafood and dumpling soup. As usual, the dishes came with a few of the traditional Korean side salads called “Banchan”.

There was no free Internet connections at the Saloam, only some interesting coin operated computers in the “Business Room,” but we were able to use our Shenzhen hacker’s external USB wifi card and antenna to nab some free network through the window, and share them between our two computers via Ethernet cable. Meanwhile, the sky continued to douse the already sopping capital of South Korea.

Reunited with Scott, I found China quite a bit easier to navigate. It was empowering to have wheeled such a vast distance and overcome such a potentially breakdown inducing experience all alone in this chaotic and mysterious place they call China, but I was happy to relax into the comfort of Scott handling the communications department again, and even more so a bed at the maze-like Qingdao hotel that Scott had arranged for us.  The civil engineering of Qingdao had been masterminded by the Germans, who slipped in a number of gothic cathedrals and narrow zig-zagging streets.  The Germans controlled Qingdao from the late 1800s until the English and the Japanese ganged up during World War I and kicked them out, giving it an uncanny european feel.  Our  hotel had taken a cue from this design, requiring numerous staircases and rounded corners reminiscent of an M.C. Escher painting drenched in pastels to reach our room.  Where they found the artworks on the wall and the chartreuse wallpaper was anyone’s guess.

The next morning, we packed up our belongings and strapped them to the Speed TRs for the last time on the Chinese mainland. As we road through the winding European style roads of Qingdao towards the ferry terminal, I felt a tinge of regret at not having enough time to properly wheel this town (together at least). I imagined this city must look somewhat like Communist Germany did during the cold war, with it’s blend of soviet blocky buildings, and ornate turn of the century European ones. There were big clock towers, and even a steeple or two. This made sense, in a way, given Qingdao’s teutonic heritage.

Perhaps due to the German influence, Qingdao had a little of that beloved Bia Hoi culture that we’d so enjoyed in North Vietnam. Most restaurants proudly displayed a number of empty beer kegs outside their buildings, as if advertising how crazy things could get inside, and luring customers in with a 30 cent lukewarm draft.  Of course, the eponymous Qingdao (or Tsingtao) beer, China’s most popular, is brewed in the area.  Needless to say, the citizens are proud.

It was barely noon by the time we arrived at the ferry terminal, sweating in the growing heat and the oceanside humidity, and we were thrilled to roll our bikes into an air conditioned terminal, filled with well to do Chinese and Korean nationals, preparing for the Karaoke and Soju filled journey across the sea to the Korean port of Incheon. The not-to-scale map hanging above the officer’s resting quarters confirmed we were in the right place.

We picked over the heaps of checked luggage (cervical vertebrae retractors are predicted to be huge this year) and searched for the correct counter from which to extract our paper tickets.   As we produced them, we flashed back quickly to those morning sessions in Mongolia spent speaking broken chinese over Skype to the ticket booking office, and the relief of receiving email confirmation that tickets were indeed booked.

This we did with minimal stress, interfacing with a woman in a luminous blue uniform, and an impossibly tight bun of hair. After confirming that we could indeed take our cycles onto the boat and legally store them in our 50 person communal bunk area, we headed out to buy snacks and eat a quick meal before settling into life on the open sea.

We got a couple of draft beers (when else is Qingdao a local brew?) and some rice noodle soup from one of the aformentioned vendors, located down the street from the ferry terminal. By this point the humidity was quite high, and the day was looking to be a stifling one. We had lost some of our heat endurance, spending the last 4 months traipsing the fridged north of Asia, and found ourselves positively soaked in sweat as we waited for our food to arrive.  It was glorious.

The soup was excellent and quite cheap, full of kelp, big chunks of pork and a soft tofu. We had definitely entered a new culinary micro-climate here in Qingdao, which I would have liked very much to better explore, but AsiaWheeling waits for no man.

Our departure from China was smooth, enjoyable even, and we stocked up on a few extra snacks in the duty free zone, rendering us so laden with items that claiming the gangway with our many shopping bags, packs, and fully loaded Speed TRs was a source of entertainment for all around us.

As we settled into our quarters, a mischievous fog closed in around the boat, and with it a pensive melancholy befell its passengers.

Scott and I chatted about the shipping industry and the enormous Chinese demand for all manner of things as the fog swallowed the port of Qingdao behind us.

This, we would come to find, was not the Karaoke and booze filled cruise that we had experienced when we had taken an analogous ride on AsiaWheeling 1.0.

Coming across the main stairwell full of clocks, we fastidiously set our timepieces to match our destination.

A storm whipped up around us and rain and wind hammered our fair ship and she struggled her way across the yellow sea. Passengers were grumpy and vomited frequently into the specialized vomit receptacles in the on board bathroom.

We wandered the ship, attempting to join wireless networks, and plugging cat 5 cables into dubious Ethernet jacks. Eventually, we came to the conclusion that there was no internet to be had on this vessel. To make matters worse, though some error in our calculations, we managed to miss the small window of dinner service on the boat, and found ourselves forced to subsist on the many salted and fishy snacks we had brought from Chinese duty free, supplemented of course by some Korean treats from the on-board 7-Eleven.

The next morning I awoke alone for the first time in a while. I was in an orange and brown hotel room, filled with oddly shaped mirrors, oblong modern end tables and with scruffs of shag carpet glued to the walls. The bed frame displayed the company logo “elephant” in orange tinted reflective plastic letters. Outside the lay a chilly city in somewhere in the early morning of northern China. The sun was just beginging to spill across the pavement as I pulled myself out of bed and crawled over to my computer to map out my upcoming ride to the airport, and the subsequent one down into Qingdao. Both were going to be sizable; about 40km to the Harbin airport, and another 35 down to central Qingdao. And all these kilometers would be fully loaded.

Just then a knock came on the door. It was the hotel staff bringing the usual plastic bag breakfast. This one consisted of some steamy rice drink, sealed into a felxible plastic bag which I was encouraged by the hotel employee to puncture with a straw that she handed me from a pocket in her apron. There were also a couple of manufactured sweet buns, each in its own plastic pouch, and a hardboiled egg which I set to work shelling. To be honest, none of it was very tasty, but I shoved it all down, knowing I would need the energy.

I bid my thanks and farewells to the hotel staff, strapped my things down amidst a growing crowd of cigarette-break-taking construction workers, climbed on the cycle, and began to head across Harbin towards the airport. I was in good spirits. It was looking to be a bright sunny day, I had plenty of time to make mistakes (which I undoubtedly would), and riding from Harbin into the countryside would be no doubt enjoyable. Traffic was pretty dense wheeling from the hotel across town, but there were plenty of other cyclists headed in the same direction, and the bike lanes were wide and plentiful in a way that only China really does it.

I rode for a while side by side with a fellow on a scooter, who hung close next to me as I rode. We shared a conversation with very few mutually intelligible words. He seemed pleased with the amount of items I had strapped to my body and bicycle, and I was pleased to have a reassuring smiling character next to me. When we finally parted ways, I asked him to confirm that my route to the airport was still on track. It was, he indicated, and we bid farewell in Chinese (one of the few things I could say) before I took a right and he headed off straight. From Google maps, it had seemed as though I needed to only go over one block in order to get on the main road which would connect to the airport road, so I did exactly that and took my next left.

This turned out to have been the wrong move. I grew increasingly certain of this as the road deteriorated into gravel and then into less of a road and more an area of packed dirt in a rather ghostly construction zone. Construction seemed to have long ago been forced to stop, though, for people had come in to begin to build a kind of makeshift village amidst the half built foundation of what may have once been intended to be a skyscraper . The residents seemed genuinely thrilled that I was wheeling by, though, and we exchanged plenty of waves, and shouts as I pulled an uber-Liechtenstein and headed back to the road. It was not until I was well onto pavement again that the crowd of children running alongside my bicycle petered out.

A few more streets up, I was blessed with a Romanized version of the street name I was looking for, and following it had me heading onto a giant 10 lane road. It was right. I could feel it.

I was pedaling fast and hard now, knowing it should be a straight shot from here to the airport. Soon the farthest lanes to my right began to be filled with parked cars. The fellows in these cars were all climbing out and attempting to hitch a ride. I found this behavior puzzling and slightly unsettling.

Eventually, the cars on the right reached a peak, spilling out into three of the five outbound lanes, and sides were crammed with passengers looking for rides in vans and cabs, presumably bound for the airport. My unsettled feeling began to increase markedly as I began to notice the people by the side of the road were pointing and laughing at me.

Shrugging off the criticism in true AsiaWheeling style, I pulled onto a giant newly built airport expressway. There was a giant sign advertizing that tractors, motorcycles, and rickshaws were not allowed. There was technically no picture of a bicycle there, so I decided it was worth a shot.

It was a wild road. Mostly empty, but the few cars that drove on it were flying at breakneck speed engines winingin a doppler effect as they blew by me. Occasionally, a car would even honk at me as they passed. A few even slowed down to yell things in Chinese, most of which genuinely appeared to be inspirational messages, punctuated perhaps with some bits of sarcasm.

Then I heard the sirens and I realized I was being pulled over. I stopped my bike and leaned it against the concrete barrier. One cop opened the passenger door while the other sat inside the car. He approached me with a deeply unsettling look on his face, which as he grew closer distorted into a terrifying visage which could only indicate insanity. Once he was about 6 feet from me, the snarling mask ruptured into a grinning and before I knew it the man was giggling.  I realized I was sweating through my clothes.

The cop and I spoke in bits of English, bits of Chinese, plenty of hand gesturing. So comfortable was I in the conversation, that I even tried some bits of Russian. These he received as if they were a brilliant joke, letting out a belly laugh but then looking at me inquisitively. Over the course of the conversation, much was said, but the only thing which was really communicated to me was that what I was doing was not allowed, and that he would need to escort me off  of the expressway. I asked whether there was a different road I could take to the airport. He giggled again for a while, and said yes there was and that he would lead me there.

And so it was with full police escort that I rode to the old airport road. When i got there, however, I found it to be absolutely crammed to the gills with barely moving gridlock traffic. The traffic had spilled over onto the shoulder, even, which made cycling a death defying game of weaving around exhaust belching trucks to find the next bit of pavement that might let you get again a few vehicle-lengths. I gave it a real shot, and was moving faster than the traffic to be sure, but not fast enough to reach the airport which was at least 20 km away still. To make matters worse, I realized I was slightly suffocating. So finally I turned around and headed back to the giant cluster of people looking for a way to go to the airport and joined the crowd.

The crowd was huge, disgruntled, and boisterous. To make matters worse, sightings of empty cabs were rare. I decided that trying to catch a cab heading the opposite direction (coming back from the airport), and then convincing him to turn around and head back to the airport might be better than competing with the throngs on the other side of the road. And sure enough, after my third denial, a cab that had headed off shaking his head, slowed down, and, some 20 meters in front of me, threw it into reverse, changing his mind, and pulled back.

100 Yuan, he said (about 14 bucks). That seemed like a lot to me. But he assured me that it was not, explaining in a mix of pantomime and Chinese that it included the airport fee. I want the meter, I said pointed to the device. He continued to refuse, saying that 100 was fair. He explained that he would run the meter and cancel it at the end, and I would see he was being fair. He just wanted to avoid the cab company’s cut, perhaps. Regardless, I needed to get to the airport, so I agreed.

Then we were off, flying like crazy down the expressway. I told him my story of being pulled over by the cops and he found it hilarious. The effort of communicating all this with only a handful of mispronounced Chinese words and plenty of pantomime had exhausted me, so I soon fell silent and just rode, giving the driver a chance to call all his friends and tell them the story too.

Finally, we pulled up to the airport. The meter read 76 Yuan, which plus the 20 that he’d paid for the airport toll, would have totaled 96. The four Yuan extra was just fine by me.

I gave him a 100 Yuan bill and he piled my things on the curb of the drop-off zone. There was as good a place as any,  so I folded up my bike, strapped foam over the fragile bits, took off the pedals, and stuffed it into its bag. I grabbed a luggage cart and piled all my stuff on, heading for the China Eastern Airlines check in counter.

The gentleman of course, wanted to charge some extra money for the cycle, but we were able, after much discussion, and some repeated weighing of the bike, to settle on a bargain: I would head over to pay a friend of his 20 Yuan to wrap the thing in cellophane (normally a 10 Yuan service), and he would get half of the profits. Fine by me.

Then I was off towards my gate. The Harbin airport was impressive and just packed to the gills with shops selling sausage. Sausage, it seems, is a Harbin specialty. I should have bought some, but instead I spent the last of my cash on cans of sticky sweet canned coffee from an overpriced vending machine, and headed on towards the gate.

The flight was uneventful, though the chap next to me did explain a few times that he hated flying since it kept him from smoking. I attempted to express my condolences, but they seemed of little comfort. He then spent the remainder of the flight obsessively chewing and spitting out piece after piece of Wrigley’s double-mint chewing gum, munching away while fingering individual cigarettes in his pack. It was a little jarring to be next to someone so obviously suffering. By the end, I would have been in support of him just lighting up, so good would it have felt to see the relief on his features.

I landed in Qingdao right on time, and headed over to pick up my Speed TR and backpack  from the conveyor. They were already there when I arrived, reminding me what a cracker jack job the Chinese air handlers do. Furthermore, the bike was no worse for the wear. 1 point China Eastern Airlines 0 points to Go Air.

I unfolded and re-assembled the thing outside, attracting the usual crowd of people, interested in the retail price and country of origin of the Speed TR. Most of their questions, however, I was just unable to understand, lacking Scott’s Chinese skills. In the end, I just apologized for my lack of their language, and headed off.

I headed out onto the highway, and stopped near an under construction on-ramp to ask some of the construction workers for directions into Qingdao. Just then a cab pulled up alongside me, and began asking me questions in Chinese. I had no idea what they wanted to know, and apologized, but I was able to ask how to get to Qingdao.

Armed with that knowledge, I pulled onto yet another freeway, and experienced the same honking and shouts of sarcasm laced moral support as I rode. I was feeling great. I’d made it to Qingdao and my fellow traffic seemed thrilled to have me on their road. It was a straight shot to Qingdao and all I had to do was pedal these last 30 km! …and then there were sirens behind me again. Twice in one day! And in two different cities in China, 1400km apart!? Was wheeling illegal in China all of a sudden?

The cop was explaining, as the other had earlier, that I could not ride on the freeway. However, this time there was no police escort, or helpful directions as to how to get back to civilization legally, just a stern directive to head off the road. “Where,” I asked?

The cop just pointed off to the right, into what looked like a giant industrial wasteland connected by muddy gravel roads.

Fair enough. I walked by bike off the road, and began to hoist it over rivers of muck and piles of garbage to get over to the closest road.

Then I was wheeling again, this time through some very intense industrial landscapes.

I was soon joined by an auto rickshaw. The driver seems absolutely tickled pink to see me here, and though he said nothing to me, he hung out next to me and we shared the road for a while, pulling over from time to time to let a giant cement truck or semi by.

Eventually we entered a township and he pulled ahead of me, exposing the back of his rickshaw. The back door was open, and swung back and forth as he drove, exposing an interior of bright pink and red, like a kind of twisted Barbi motif.

I headed on, stopping from time to time to ask which direction was south, fording giant puddles of sewage, and traversing a stretch of land between two power plants.

Here the earth positively boiled, as both power plants were releasing boiling water into the dirt, leaving giant steaming puddles along the roadside. As I went, I noticed that there were men fishing things out of these boiling pools, and collecting them to large brown cloth bags. What they were harvesting I may never know, but if any of you dare speculate in the comments, I would invite it.

I was part relieved and part upset when my surroundings began to become more familiar and urban. This had been a fascinating wheel thusfar.

The urban nature of the landscape grew and grew, and with it things got cleaner and cleaner. Soon, I was riding through a kind of night club district.

What a wheel it had been. I glanced down at my watch realizing Scott’s train should have gotten in. I pulled over and purchased a kind of Chinese knock-off Coca Cola-type product, and gave him a call which rang out. He called back in about a second.

We decided I should meet him at the train station, which was about 10 more kilometers away. So while Scott headed off to find a hotel, I began to process of riding, then stopping and asking in terrible unintelligible Chinese where the station was, then riding some more and asking again. I kept meeting very friendly Chinese people, who were infinitely patient and helpful with me. I would speak some 8 words of broken Chinese with them, and they would leave with warm goodbyes and compliments on my mandarin skills. Crazy.

The closer I got to the city center, the more European things began to look, with narrower streets, and more imperial architecture. The European vibe was most likely attributable to the historical German colonial interest in the city, though it had long since fizzled.

When I finally arrived at the train station, which also looked just a bit like the one in Munich, I wheeled into the central pedestrian section. I was then stopped, for the third time that day, by the police. The officer explained to me that this too was not a valid area to cycle in.

So it was on foot, walking my cycle, that I finally was reunited with Scott.

“Wu Tang reunited?” I said and stuck out my hand.

“Reunited.” He replied, taking it. We walked our bikes out of the pedestrian zone, and wheeled off into the city.

It was to be our last morning in Harbin, and it began as any morning at the Elephant Motel does, with the surly knock on the door at 7:30am sharp, advertizing the arrival of plastic bagged breakfast. This morning was no different, and offered the same lackluster plastic cup of hot soymilk and a few steamed buns. I was pleasantly surprised by the addition of a salty tea-boiled egg, but still ate little of it. Time was flying as we sopped up the last few minutes of in-room ethernet. For some reason, Harbin had chosen that day as the appropriate one to test the city’s emergency siren system, so we were serenaded by shrieking tones, emanating from key points all over the city. We began to pack our things, and take our freshly washed clothes down from our makeshift in-room clothesline. With our bags almost packed, Scott unplugged his cell phone from the wall.  We had been sharing a SIM card, due to the inflated prices in Beijing, and I offered him a shift with the card, which had been in my phone. He obliged, snapping his phone open, whipping out the battery, and clipping the SIM in.

The sirens were still raging as we made our way outside to pick up our clothes and my Dahon bag from the pleasant old woman who had agreed to repair the many rips and holes which both had acquired throughout the journey. Her work was good, though she missed quite a few of the (admittedly dozens of) holes in my Dahon bag, and the price was certainly right. We walked out of the shop 3 dollars lighter, and unfolded the cycles for the short ride into the city. The sun was shining and we had plenty of time. As we rode we discussed revisiting the California themed noodle joint that we had enjoyed the day before.

As we pulled onto the main street headed for the station, traffic was thick and fast. It was a mild downhill, so I took advantage of the potential energy, racing ahead of Scott. I flew down the street, whipping around busses and cabs which were changing lanes to pick up passengers from the steady stream emanating from the huge soviet-looking train station.  I went by the noodle place on my way downhill, but in order to get there I needed to find a way around the large metal and concrete barrier which separated the lanes of Harbin’s main street.

At the bottom of the hill, I took a right and headed for a round-about, which would allow me to get at the noodle joint. I paused there, scanning for Scott. I could not make him out anywhere in the traffic. Figuring he may have discovered a better way to get across all the traffic and over to the noodle joint, perhaps by riding subversively, I took the roundabout and headed back up to the restaurant.

I waited there for 20 minutes. With no sign of Scott, I dropped my stuff off in the restaurant, exchanging smiles and a lack of mutual intelligibility with the waitress, figuring Scott would spot it if he showed up, and headed our unencumbered. Wheeling hard up back to the last place I saw him, and retracing the route again. Still no sign of Scott.

I returned to the restaurant, and waited another 20 minutes, finally leaving once again to ride through the front of the railway station, in case Scott had headed there. He was nowhere to be found.

Our train now left in about 40 minutes, so there was still time. I put my growling stomach on hold, and began digging through my wallet. We had been using the card which came with the SIM card to jam the device which regulated the power in the room into the “on” position, allowing us to charge our devices even when not physically in the space. Luckily, I had grabbed it. On the back was Scott’s cell phone number. I first went into the noodle restaurant, hoping against the odds that Scott had arrived there in the meantime. I spoke in bits of mis-toned Chinese and pantomime to the women there. They confirmed that they had not seen him. I asked to use the phone, but upon discovery that it was a Beijing number I wanted to call, they refused.

I headed out onto the street, walking my bike, and stopping strangers asking in bits of Chinese and Russian to use their phone. The Beijing number must have been quite expensive to call, for the first three people refused. Finally, I found a chap smoking cigarettes outside of an electronics shop who took pity on me. I called Scott’s phone, but all I got was a Chinese message indicating that this phone was out of service. Shucks.

The train was now leaving in 30 minutes. I continued to leave my stuff at the restaurant and headed to the front of the train station and set up shop on a kind of pedestal in the center. I began scanning, keeping my Vietnamese motorcycle helmet on so as to be more visibly AsiaWheeling. As cops passed, I would ask them in ugly bits of Chinese if they had seen a foreigner who looked like me around. All of them said no.

A Uyghur fellow wandered up to me, no doubt attracted by my strange behavior, and complimented my mustache in English. Revealed to meet someone with whom I could fluently converse, I explained my situation, and he offered to let me make another call on his phone. I did, but still no answer. Why was the damned phone off?! The Uyghur hung around with me, playing translator with a cop who had strolled by. We were begining to attract a crowd. This was good I thought. It would make us more visable. The cop radioed Scott’s description and last known whereabouts to his team. I heard them radio back one by one. None had heard anything about my freind.

Now it was getting down to the wire. With about 15 minutes left, I returned to the California Beef Noodle King USA and grabbed all belongings, strapping them back to my bicycle in what must have been an insanely sweaty an animated manor, for the staff of the restaurant exited to watch me, which caused another crowd to just begin formation by the time I finally wheeled off.  I headed for the station, sweated and grunted my way through security, and hauled my bike up and across a bridge and down to our train’s platform. I stood there on the platform, with my cycle and helmet, hoping frantically that Scott would arrive, but still no sign of him. Now the train was leaving in 5 minutes.

I had learned during our misadventures trying to get up Haba Snow Mountain in Yunnan with Stewart Motta that a passanger on the Chinese railway could exchange their tickets one time for no charge, but only if they had not been punched. Punching happens when boarding the train, so I refrained from climbing on.

Where was Scott?!

I tried not to think about the possibilities, but could not help myself. Traffic had been dense, what if he’d gotten into an accident? Or what if his bungees had gotten snarled in his wheels again… he could have lost control…

The train was blowing it’s horn. I could hear the engines revving up a bit. The attendants were doing their final dance and climbing one by one onto the train, eyeing me with confusion… or was it pity? I looked down at my ticket. To the best of my knowledge, Scott was somewhere in this city, maybe hurt, maybe even in an ambulance or hospital bed. I couldn’t get on the train.

Ans so I let it leave.

I headed back downstairs, carrying my cycle haphazardly down the escalator, with my technology bag strapped to it. At the bottom, I was sternly reprimanded by a station officer in Chinese. I stood and stared dumbly at him for a bit and then headed back out onto the street. My head was swimming with adrenaline and a lack of blood sugar.

What to do now… well, there was going to be no way to think critically without anything in my stomach, so I headed back to the same noodle place, still hoping against hope that I might find Scott inside. No dice. I ordered the beef noodles, and slurped them down in a hurried and joyless way, staining my shirt heavily in the process. I headed from there back out on the cycle. What I needed was a SIM card. That way I could send Scott a text with my number and once his phone was back online, he would be able to contact me.

So I began to wheel in search of a China mobile shop. A couple blocks into the wheel, a man called out, zdravstvuite! I was for one reason or another positively iraationally exctatic to hear Russian. Perhaps it was a reminder of being in a foreign country where I could more smoothly operate? Regardless, I pulled over and began babbling semi-coherently in Russian with a Chinese man who explained to me he was from Sichuan Provence. He introduced himself as Chai and flashed me a huge smile full of nearly Uzbek-style gold teeth. I explained my predicament, and he assured me that he knew of a very nearby place to buy a cheap SIM card. So I followed him, walking my still fully loaded Speed TR to a set of crumbling stairs that lead down into a dark basement shop. He helped me to stow all my worldly possessions in a nearby bush, which, after fluffing the foliage fervently he, assured me was an invincible hiding place. Strugging, I rather stupidly headed down the steps into the damp and cavernous mobile shop. The owner, a rather scantily clad young woman, perhaps 15 years old, snubbed a cigarette into an overflowing Disneyland mug, and  greeted my new Sichuanese friend warmly. I wondered whether my things were being pillaged above as the two barreled right into a furious explanation of my predicament.

The girl twirled her finger around in the air in a eeny meeny miny mo type gesture and then selected one of the many phones on her desk. She popped the back off and removed the SIM card from it, then made a few notes with a large smelly permanent marker in a big book of graph paper. I put the chip in my phone and paid her 30 yuan (about 4 bucks) and headed upstairs. I gave Scott another call, and sent him a text. His phone was still inactive. Hopefully when he did activate his phone, he would get the text, and then know my number and call.

I headed back to the Train station one more time, asking the same few cops if they knew anything yet. Still no nothing. I waited for a little while longer, and then decided that the next place to go would be the Elephant Motel. So I began to wheel back. I asked one more cop had seen any signs of Scott. I have no idea if he understood me at all, but he basically told me to get out of his face.

Back at the hotel, I attempted to communicate to the women at the front desk. She seemed to understand that I was looking for Scott, but not that he was missing, which I must admit is a subtler distinction. The going was tough, but eventually I was able to get the message across. They had not seen them, but with a little cajoling, graciously allowed me to plug into an Ethernet jack in the lobby. Once online I booted up Skype. I decided to call our dear Mekong Bureau Chief, Mr. Stig Motta, and began to type in his number. Just as my finger hovered above the return key, and at precisely the moment that my brain sent the signal to push down the button and initiate the call, an incoming call popped up and the icon turned from a “call” button to an “answer” button.

“Woody! How are you!” The voice belonged to Claudia, our most valued East Asia cultural liaison, and Scott ‘s sister.

“To be honest, Claudia, I am pretty medium…” my voice trailed off as I pondered how much information it would be appropriate to disclose…

“Hello? Are you still there? What’s wrong?” She sounded worried.

I decided to just be honest, and attempted to relay the story in the least alarming way I could. I explained that I was about to call Motta, who was versed in all things travel emergency related, and that we would together figure out the wisest next steps. She offered her help in any way that she could. And I thanked her, turning back to the task at hand.

Motta answered in a couple of rings. “Wai?”

“Motta, it’s Woody. I’ve got a bit of a situation…”

And so we began to work through the logistics. “Do you think he could have gotten on the train?” Motta asked.

“It’s possible,” I replied, “but I really don’t think it’s likely. I was around the train station, attempting to make myself pretty visible, and I never saw him. Also, to be honest, I just don’t think he would have gotten on the thing. Our seats were right next to each other, so he’d have to know that I wasn’t there.”

“Ok, Man. I hear you.”

“He’s an eagle scout after all, and I feel like during that training, they instill a Marines-like never-leave-a-man-behind-type mentality.”

“Ok… well I guess the next step is to produce some images of Scott for the cops to use.”

“So we’re taking it there?” I asked.

“I think Cops are the next step. The Chinese are going to be slow, but they speak the language and they have the power. If someone is going to be calling all the hospitals, it can’t really be you or me. And it should probably be them.”

Claudia had been of the same mind, so I agreed. I put Motta on the phone with the ladies at the front desk of the Elephant Motel, and he explained the situation. I continued to communicate with them through pantomime and snippets of text produced using Google translate. After a few false moves, I was able to procure an email address belonging to one of the receptionists, and sent 2 images of Scott that I took from this website and a Google map showing his last know whereabouts along with some translated text describing the situation to a woman upstairs who proceeded to print them.

Below is a copy of the text I sent along with the images:

中文翻译：

这是我的朋友斯科特。他失踪约上午11时，2010年9月18日，当我们乘车沿着在此地图中显示的主要街道火车站。

非常感谢。

Then they called the Chinese police. As Stewart had related to me, the Chinese police have adopted a 24 hour policy with missing people, due to the large population, but it had been suggested that Scott’s foreign nationality might encourage the police to hustle a little more sooner. When the woman got off the phone, she asked me to call Stew for him to play the role of translator again. He answered right away, relaying the message back to me that they were indeed going to observe the 24 hour policy, but that since he was a foreigner, they would begin collecting information starting now (fair enough). And that at any time over the next 24 hours, I should be prepared for a call or even a visit from the cops.

Well, that was it. The beast was in motion. I next got on the phone with the US embassy in Beijing. The phone line that I called gave me two choices, all spoken by a very stern male voice not unlike that of John Wayne, the first option was “if you would like to report the death, injury, arrest, or abduction of an American citizen, please press one.” The second was “if you would like to learn more about the services offered to US citizen’s abroad press two.” I guess mine fit best with “one” and so I hit it.

A Chinese woman picked right away. She spoke passable English, but I felt I needed to repeat and rephrase my communications a little much for a US embassy. Finally, I was able to get my point across, and she told me she would connect me to the correct contact in the embassy. There was a clicking and fizzing noise that came through my skype connection, then a stern voice picked up on other end, almost yelling into the phone.

“US Marine guard! Beijing unit 3!. How can I help you!”

I stumbled over my words a bit, “Hello… marine guard unit three, I’m calling to report a missing person.”

“Sir or Madam,” the man replied, “is the person in question a US national or citizen?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Are you, the individual who is reporting the disappearance?”

“yes” (sir)

“Are you a US citizen or national?”

“”Indeed.”

“Hold on a minute.”

A new choice came on the line. “ Equipment and Supplies. This is Ervin.”

I told the story again, this time with full detail.  Ervin, explained that he would begin putting the wheels in motion. He thanked me for calling, and told me I was doing the right thing. “I’ve got just a few more questions,” Ervin continued.

Just then, one of the front desk women from the hotel came over to me. She began to indicate that the police were on the phone. I explained to Ervin that I would have to call him back. “Can I have your direct line?”

“Ehh…” he replied “no can do. Against Policy.” Just call the front desk again and ask for the marine unit 3. The operator there will connect you to me.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and I hung up.

“The Chinese police officer was female, and sounded nervous. She barely spoke English, and did not know the meaning of the English phrase “sight seeing” and had a bunch of trouble with “tourism.” So when she asked me what I was doing in China, and Harbin in particular, she became troubled. “You are not valid visa for working job in Harbin.” she explained “Is your friend valid?” I was unsure how to answer. I took a new tack, explaining that we were just traveling on folding bicycles, seeing china.

She bagan to laugh. “You are travelers!” “Are you valid travelers! Have you registered in your hotel?” I was almost sure we were and had and offered to hand her over to the women at the front desk, who paled a little when I looked at them.

She began to ask about Scott. “Is he a Chinese American? What color are his pants? How tall is he? What is his passport kernel?” The kernel was tough, but his passport number seemed eventually to have settled it. “I will call you larger than one hour.”

Right back at you, mam, I thought. Then I heard a click. There was no goodbye.

I got back on the phone with the US embassy, then the marines. Marine Guard Unit 3 sounded almost happy to hear from me again, and furthermore had determined my gender by that point. Soon I was back on the phone with Ervin. We continued to talk about the situation, and to play out possible scenarios. Ervin seemed to think that the Chinese police were probably now calling hospitals, and would call back with more info. It was likely that Scott’s status as a foreigner was accelerating the process.

“What happens now on your side, I asked”

“Well, with the 24 hour policy in effect, we’ll need to stand by until tomorrow at 11am. Then we’ll get involved. You should stay in Harbin.”

“Of course,” I replied.

I hung up with Ervin, and transferred over to my email, refreshing once again in hopes of word from Scott.

There was a new email in my inbox. I opened it.

It was from our friend Kristin in Beijing. It seems Scott had called her brother, the one and only MCK… from the train.

Here’s the message:

This is Kristin. MCK just received a call from Scott. The phone is out of credit, but here is the number he’s been using 15011343792. We will
try to add credit if we can when we return to Beijing tonight. Here is the number from which he just called. 13708969060.

He was able to get on the train to Qingdao which arrives tomorrow at 4pm. Did you make it on the train? Hope you’re ok.”

Scott had gotten on the train! How? Why? When?

I was flabbergasted and confused. First thing I did was call text Claudia, who was no doubt asleep by now it being 5am her time, letting her know that her brother was ok. Next thing I did was call Scott. It was good to hear his voice. That feeling faded as I felt frustration rise up in me “You got on the train!? Where the hell did you go!?”

Scott explained that his technology bag had fallen from the back of his Speed TR, where it had been strapped, and he had stopped to repair it. Then, I believe he waited there a bit for me to turn around and come back. When I did not, he headed to the train station, and, not seeing me there, and being unable to recall which specific Noodle spot we had eaten at before (in his defense there were quite a few California Beef Noodle King USA branches in Harbin), chose one at random, and ordered a bowl of noodles. From there he headed into the waiting hall for our train, and not seeing me there as well, climbed on board at the last minute.  As the train was leaving, he decided to stay onboard, in hopes that I might have gotten on in a different car, and still be on my way to our compartment.

“We already had reservations on the ferry to Korea,” he explained “There was no obvious right decision.”

Scott’s phone had chosen just this day to run out of credit, and since we were roaming from Beijing was refusing to even receive calls.

Fair enough, I thought. There was no use being frustrated and flabbergasted at this point.  I needed to figure out how the hell I was going to get out of Harbin, and down to Qingdao in time to meet Scott and catch our ferry to South Korea. So I went online to look at airline tickets. A direct flight from Harbin to Qingdao came up on Kayak.com, it left the next day, there were still seats, and at 150 bucks it seemed like an easy solution. Scott was still on the line, using this other passenger’s phone. I explained to him that I would be landing in Qingdao about two hours before his train arrived, and would wheel into the city to meet him and then hung up.

What a whirlwind! Just then the Chinese police called again. It was a new officer this time, slightly better English. I struggled to halt what was no doubt going to be a serious barrage of questions and I explained to him that Scott had been found. “Where is he found?” the cop asked, sounding angry.

“He’s on a train to Qingdao.”

“You said to my other officer that he was not on the train. I will have to change the report.”

I frowned and looked at my shoes, holding the hotel reception phone, and feeling like crap. “My mistake, officer. No need for further action on your part.”

But the officer did not seem to want to hang up “Why he did not call you?”

“I don’t know.” (was he rubbing it in?) “It’s been a long day, officer. I’m sorry for causing trouble.”

“Where did he park his bicycle, then?”

What was this interrogation? “His bicycle is on the train. Again, I’m sorry to have caused problems. Bye Bye.” And I hung up.

He got on the train. Wild.

“US Marine guard! Beijing! unit 3! How can I help you, Sir or Madam?”

“Hi, it’s me again.”

“Hello, Sir!” The marine sounded happy to hear my voice.

“Could you just pass on the message that my missing friend is now found?”

“Alive? Excellent news. Do you need to make a report?”

“Ah. No no. All is well.”

I purchased another night at the hotel, and headed up to my new room. When I got up there, the electronic lock on the door was broken, so I left all my stuff in a pile and trudged downstairs and got a new room and a new key, then headed back up. When I finally threw my stuff down on the bed, I was begining to feel waves of hunger and exhaustion flowing over me. I plugged my computer in and decided to take one last look at my email before heading out to find food.  I was about to head out when I noticed that Orbitz had not sent me a confirmation for tomorrow’s flight.

I went to the website, and under the “my trips” section, it showed that the trip had been canceled. I immediately booked the flight again, and got on the phone with Orbitz.

And thus began an hour and a half long dosey-doe with the Orbitz staff. There was something about the transaction that was preventing the ticket from being issued. But it was too soon to get the full report, as the system takes a few hours to churn that data out. I didn’t want to wait around for hours before I knew if I would get to Qingdao the next day or not, so I pushed for an immediate solution. Piper, the Philipino woman that was helping me, thought that it was a problem with my Mastercard. Finally we canceled my current booking and redid it over the phone with a different card. By the time I got off the phone, I was very good friends with Piper, starving, dejected, baffled, and quite a few other things.

I threw on my leather jacket, as cold Harbin night was falling outside, and headed out in search of food. It felt good to walk, and I indulged in a little of the classic Russian gulyat. I bought a cold beer from a corner shop and sipped it while I strolled, allowing the events of the day to wash over me. After about 40 minutes of strolling, I found myself outside of a chicken head stand. I watched in a kind of stupor while the man battered and freind head after young chicken head. I got paper bag full of piping hot heads (spicy style) and headed back towards the hotel, buying another beer on the way.

Back up in my room, I had just put on Tom Waits album “Alice” (it had always been a soothing force in my life) and was just about to crack into the chicken heads, and open the second beer when I thought to look at “my trips” again. No ticket had yet been issued, and the itinerary was pending cancelation. I frowned and thew the chicken head I was about to eat back into its bag. And so began another hour an a half fiasco, involving booking and canceling a number of tickets. We finally identified the problem as being a request from the airline for valid ID, to which Orbitz had replied with my credit card number. Credit cards are not valid ID in China, so the tickets would not be issued. Elementary my dear Watson. The very nice Pilipino guy who I was working with, named Amman, assured me at the end of the call that this one would go through.

At this point, the beer was warm, but still tasty, and paired well with the heads, which were cool now but hit the spot more or less. I only got through part of both of them, however, before exhaustion took hold. I was sure to set a few alarms. Tomorrow was going to be another big day.