the latitudes of home

We came to China to explore - as much as our ignorance and inability to communicate would allow - the rhythm and pulse of life on the fringe. While a bike can take you beyond the beaten roads, boots let you avoid roads entirely. And with many villages in the Kham region of eastern Tibet (now considered Yunnan province) still inaccessible by road, we had a compelling reason to take to the trail. In the end we decided on a 15-day pilgrim's kora around the sacred Kara Karpo mountain range, which forms the eastern tip of the Himalayas and acts as a natural barrier between the Tibetan Autonomous Region (political Tibet) and Yunnan. On one side of the range the muddy slug of the Mekong river roars south into Burma, and on the other side the Salween river carves itself into a coffin gorge before churning into southeast Asia. In this range the alpine, temperate and tropical crash together, with glaciers from 6500m+ peaks sliding down into lush forests, and lower still forests transitioning to cactus-pricked desert. Great slashes of rock and ice pierce the sky, and green nooks of populated land nestle beneath the staggering peaks. This, more than any place I've ever seen, is Shangri-la incarnate.

So we swapped saddle sores for blisters, and over the course of two weeks wandered from remote village to remote village as Buddhist pilgrims do every year, although the trail itself was nearly deserted since it wasn't the pilgrimage season. After some glorious glimpses of the mountains in the first few days of hiking with Laura Boggess, clouds smothered the range every time we climbed a pass, so we had to take their existence on simple faith alone. But stunning as the rest of the wilderness was out there, the most beautiful aspect of the experience was the people we met. There were the endless bowls of tsampa and cups of yak butter tea (for you eager epicures, the recipe for the latter is quite simple: take about a liter of tea-seeped water, add two generous handfuls of pure yak butter, and churn violently until the consistency of melted fat is achieved). We met one family that upon our arrival pulled out all their children's finest clothing and had them dress up and dance for us (see photo). Later in the kora we joined up with a group of horse and mule packers whom we dubbed the Kawa Karpo Kowboys, who shared their food and accomodation with us and best of all, gave us major street cred with the locals.

This kora took us through both a wilderness and a cultural landscape, and through it all I couldn't help but marvel at how disconnected we were, they were. Not for long though, with the framework for roads being established everywhere - at least a few kilometers of the kora have been widened and paved with gravel in anticipation of building a road. While I must admit that I'm an incurable romantic, and that side of me deplores the dissolution of traditional ways of living in close communion with the land, the realist in me recognizes I'm among the minority in thinking that having to hike for six days to reach the nearest excuse for a road is pretty damn cool. It's fine to lead a simple, defined life so long as you are content within those definitions - when such a life is sought, not imposed. The kids we met in these villages hunger for Britney and Backstreet and blue jeans, for neatly paved roads leading directly to cities, where all their dreams can surely come true. And even if I don't share their longings, I am in no position to blame them.

After we completed the kora, we hiked, then hitched, then bussed, then flew back to a village, a town, a small city, and Beijing. We've spent the past few days here in full-on "bright lights, big city" mode, with our wonderful host and pal Thompson Paine doing his best to tolerate our shocked and giddy reactions to seeing cheese in a supermarket, for example (cheese, chocolate, wine, and good coffee were the subjects of countless hours of salivatory conversation while biking and hiking). We made it out to the Great Wall for some hiking and hawker-dodging, but otherwise we've mostly spent hours walking the city, easing ourselves through the transition back to civilization. Normally I'm not a big fan of cities, but Beijing has won me over - and it's not just the cheese, chocolate, wine and good coffee. Instead, it's the dancing. At any given park on any given morning, people crowd the parks and greet the dawn with dancing and tai chi. One night Thompson, Mel and I had dinner and then wandered over to Exhibition Square (I think that's what it's called) in downtown Beijing, which was packed with bodies in motion. From traditional to modern beats to ballroom dancing, the people of Beijing were getting their groove on.

My favorite was, curiously, the ballroom section, which was strangely and movingly beautiful to watch. It was the same sort of feeling you get if you accidently catch your parents dancing together. It's not that the dancers are particularly graceful or skilled (sorry mum and dad), or that the music is great. It's that the dancers move together with a deep, spontaneous, and unconscious connection and joy. At the square, stout little old ladies with curler-coiled hair danced together next to middle-aged couples gliding around with practised ease. Occasionally couples would spin and change directions with a dramatic, flourished kick, a move that would normally strike me as hilarious, but it was performed with such innocence and gravity by such understated people that I didn't have the heart to laugh, funny and incongruous as it was. No one was dressed up, and the crowd gathered around never clapped once. This wasn't a show, a performance - this was just what Chinese people do on any given night in Beijing.

I was happy to just watch, but being a blatant foreigner in a crowd of Chinese meant that I was an obvious victim and soon enough a Chinese man set his wife aside and swept me out into the action. Fortunately, the song was basically over and the music stopped. Unfortunately, a new song came on before I could escape, so I was resigned to stomping on toes and flailing as my partner spun me around in front of a massive, silent, watching crowd. While I never quite got the hang of the dance, my partner kept giving me encouraging 'thumbs up' signs so I took heart in that. When the song was over, I thanked him and dashed over to where Thompson and Mel had been standing, determined that my dear friend should have the same rewarding cultural experience. But Mel, who knows me far too well, had all-too-conveniently disappeared in the crowd.

What honestly blows my mind is that the elderly in particular have witnessed such anarchy and chaos and drastic change within their lifetimes, from the Cultural Revolution to the capitalist-esque fever that now rages in China, and yet they still dance. And really, why not? What else can and could they do? China is a pulsing, beautiful mess of contradictions - but so is everything, and everyone. One reason I love traveling is because it forces you to acknowledge this, both about the world and about yourself. Boxes burst, categories combust, your carefully constructed pigeon holes collapse under the gravity of their own presumptions. And in the dust and debris that remains when your world sighs and settles down again, you might, peering closely, discern some truths. "In the end it is not what I saw or did that is important; it is what truths I came to." (Saul Bellow)

So although the dust has not nearly settled yet, the truths I have come to - which are by no means universal - are these: Life for me is best lived - best felt - in the shadows of mountains, in the distilled air of altitude, and beneath the inscrutable stare of the stars. And because someone else (Robyn Davidson, who crossed Australia on a camel) said it first and best, "As I look back on the trip now, try to remember how I felt at the particular time, or during that particular incident, try to relive those memories that have been buried so deep, and distorted so ruthlessly, there is one clear fact that emerges from the quagmire. The trip was easy. It was no more dangerous than crossing the street, or driving to the beach, or eating peanuts. The two important things that I did learn were that you are as powerful and strong as you allow yourself to be, and that the most difficult part of any endeavor is taking the first step, making the first decision..."

So on that dangerously (and rather disgustingly) preachy note, I'll declare Cycling Silk officially over. Many, many thanks to everyone who supported this expedition, whether through donations to Kham Aid, or simply through cheering us on as we biked and bounced along these backroads. It's been an amazing ride, but back we go to the familiar latitudes of home.

Shangri-la?

Dancing kids.

Yak on pass.

Mountain sunrise.

Horse packers.

Ignored beggar.