Beijing: The Final Chapter

The Korean stint was over. 192 tequilas suggested it was time to head home, but not before stopping over in Shanghai for a visit to the folks. I expected this to be a month of relaxing, reflecting and repenting for the heathenous episode that had been Seoul 2011.

 For the most part it was just that. Tea houses, pearl markets, even the odd chicken-heart BBQ seemed pretty casual after the previous year of debauchery that I knew would dwarf anything the future could throw. There was a weekend looming however, which would put my newly thickened skin to the test. I was heading North, to Beijing, solo, and I had no idea what awaited me.

I booked a ticket aboard the famous bullet train which, after 12 months on the flawless Korean subway was always going to disappoint me. Four and a half hours from city to city didn’t, I felt, deserve such a prestigious title and would be more aptly named the cap-gun carriage.

The most startling thing about China and Chinese transport in particular, is the numbers. 1.3 Billion is a difficult number to conceive until you’re swallowed by it. The Apartheid-like preference that whites enjoy in Korea, just a stones’ throw away, is polarized by the resentment harbored by Chinese locals. You’ll be cut from queues, pushed from ferries and spat on in the street if you’re not on your game. Whether it’s a cultural issue or just every man for himself – it can be brutal.



What this meant for me was that even a pre-booked seat didn’t guarantee a spot on the train. It seemed to be first-come first-serve, which made me wonder why I had purchased a ticket in the first place, (don’t Google the question, the answer has been censored by the Chinese government). So I was forced to hustle onto the train and even without the Johnson bull-horn to assist me, a bit of pushing and shoving got me to seat 14C before the other competitors. Once down I used the “foreigner sleeping” pose that I had picked up when hitching transport (ticketless) in Korea ,and which never failed. There is no Asian conductor willing to try his hand with a sleeping Westerner – regardless of whether he’s in the wrong seat, train or country.



The hostel didn't instill confidence



I arrived generally unscathed with the exception of a few squid-heads that my neighbor had been snacking on and consequently depositing on my lap while I slept. (Imagine what these people would do for a pack of biltong). I booked a return-ticket once in the terminal, after standing in more lines that you’ll find on Durban’s new pier during a sardine-run. I decided to splash out and purchase a 1st class ticket which entitled me to a seat, rather than the chance to win one. From there I took the subway, a bus and a road unworthy scooter to the Chinese Box backpackers lodge – which TripAdvisor had given 5 stars for character and 2.5 for cleanliness. I booked two nights in the deluxe suite which granted me access to a cellar with bunk beds and a wall picture of Nelson Mandela playing basketball with the Harlem Globetrotters – which I suspected was not authentic. There was also a seasoned edition of Lonely Planet’s “China on a Shoestring” which recommended Bhurma as China’s most popular retreat. It also suggested a trip to the peaceful nation of Korea. Not North or South. Just Korea. I guessed that this was a touch outdated.

My roommate was Kay; a Malay Canadian, which meant that he was Malay and was hoping to win a Canadian citizenship lottery. He told me he was planning a trip to South Africa and I advised against applying for citizenship there because he would undoubtedly be granted it and therefore struggle to travel anywhere other than Columbia on the passport.

My primary motivation for the Beijing visit was not its stellar accommodation, and over a few beers that evening the modest community of travellers that had unwittingly found itself at the Chinese Box Inn discussed options for the Great Wall trip the following day. There was a mixed bag of individuals at the table. There were the Brazilains. A trio of grease-balls that would have made an impressive South American Hanson tribute band. There was Hans, a Dutchman who built churches in the horn of Africa, (or some philanthropic crap that made us despise him). There was an American middle-class family, who would probably sue their travel agent upon their return for recommending this dump. Kay, myself, and Sophie – the Chinese receptionist who was 15 and sleeping with the Hanson trio because she thought they were the original.

When it comes to the Great Wall of China there are a couple of options to choose from. First is the American option. This takes 2 hours by bus, a 10 minute walk and you’re there. There are several advantages to this choice. 1. It’s quick. China is a big place and this option lets you tick off a natural wonder of the world and be back in time for lunch. 2. It’s been reconstructed. No climbing stairs and tripping over roots to get a good view. It’s basically a tarred road. You could skateboard on it. 3. It’s the Great Wall of China. Regardless of which part you visit, you are on the greatest thing ever made. 4. There are so many people here, you could cross off Spain’s running with the bulls while you’re at it.

The next option I’ll call the German option. Europeans love this part because it’s beautiful so they can use the cameras they bankrupted their countries buying on tax-free credit. It’s also a bit of a walk but the Croats and Norwegians wear white tennis socks with any kind of footwear, so they can handle it better than the barefoot Californians smoking joints at option 1. Finally, this area is free of American and, more importantly, the English.

The last option is one that you won’t find in any travel-guide and one that we had never heard of. It’s called Badaling which probably translates to “Devils Peak” or something just as sinister. Sophie only brought it up after her 7th brew, and even then told us we couldn’t handle it.

“Onleee fo Chiynameen”, she told us.

At this “Kay and I looked at each other and knew where we were headed. Sophie wasn’t sold though.

“Onleee Chiynameen goh der, no tourist!”

When we reminded Sophie that her government had tortured people for a lot less than sharing national secrets with foreigners she looked like a cornered hound. When we began debating the penalty for a 15yr old girl sleeping’s with a US pop group in between shot gunning beers, she had to fold.

“Okay okay, I get you der”

Kay and I decided that since the 4am departure was only 45 minutes away, we’d have another beer or two”

Beijing Part II

4am and the two of us stood outside the hostels like lost refugees. Drunk, cold, regretting both the decision to have that last beer and to remain in the same clothes. In my hand was a letter from Sophie to our pending transport. It either said, “drop these idiots at Devil’s Peak” or as we expected, “kidnap these two, one is Canadian”. Before long a Suzuki van puttered up to the curb and out jumped a dazed old local who we hoped was just tired and not in the same state that we were.

Fortunately the Wall route that we were on, which I’ll call the Mongolian option was 4 hours away - which gave us time to recover from our boozed stupor. Unfortunately it was just enough time for the hangover to kick in and by the time we arrived we were desperately hoping that what lay ahead was the next leg of the drive. It wasn’t.

The Mongolian option is unique in a few ways. It is steep, it is long, and the only tourists you’ll find are those that have arrogantly/drunkenly claimed to be seasoned climbers. The route is as much about hiking through bush as it is about clambering along crumbly wall structure that hasn’t been repaired since it was built. Early on in the trek we spotted 2 lost-looking outcasts among the hardened locals that were sherper’ing up the mountain. The 4 of us embraced the way re-united spouses do after serving drug-muling prison sentences in Bangkok. As chance would have it, they were Yanks on the way home from a year’s teaching in South Korea, (proving that the coolest people on Earth do this).

Teary hugs aside, we set off on the 12km hike that to this day is the most memorable of my life. I’ve climbed Soraksan with best friends, the Drakensberg with family, but nothing can quite compare to those few hours with complete strangers. For most of the trek there was not another human in sight, but for the few Mongol farmers who were guiding us. They do this every day, and honestly put tri-athletes to shame. I wouldn’t have refused a Disprin, but the experience just about washed away the hangovers that day.

The drive back to Beijing was pretty exhausting and as stimulated as we were, exhaustion set in. Even the 2nd hand scooter suspension keeping us from death couldn’t keep us awake. By the time we got to the hostel we were spent and in no mood for conversation. We gave Sophie a hug and signed something that (she convinced us) was a non-disclosure contract concerning the Badaling national treasure, but was more likely an admission of guilt – testifying that we tortured Sophie into giving us the secret route’s coordinates. We were about to hit the sack when the Brazilians rolled in with an announcement.

“So there’s this Japanese indi-rock concert tonight. We can make it if we leave right now”

There wasn’t much debate. In 48 hour-old attire we headed into old-Beijing, to an underground rock concert which didn’t offer a word of English, but still blew our minds. Tequilas were flowing (for a change) and it didn’t take long for things to spiral out of control. We were slowly realizing that the Brazilians were pretty popular in China, and may be more than just Hanson look-alikes. Things moved to a posh club which resembled Vera, and seemed to induce the same kind of madness in people. Ultimately we ended up with the band who, by some miracle got us into the VIP – stinking running shoes and “I climbed the Wall” T-shirts which screamed tourist. The bell curve peaked, as it does in VIP rooms, and we hit our own great walls. “Kay and I spooned on one of the couches and probably missed out on a K-pop celebrity oil wrestling match. But we were only human, and even the South African body has a limit.

Beijing Part III

9am

I awoke to the sound of a hoover sucking last night’s buffet off of my shoes. I was a mess. The Malay had abandoned me and I had lost my phone. After performing the traditional walk of shame past the cleaning staff, I found the exit and stepped out into the light the way a mole surfaces after taking a wrong turn. The golden arches of McDonald’s beckoned me and I spent my last 19RMB on a revolting meal claiming to have an affiliation with breakfast. I was so buggered that my only option was to rest my bones on the table and close my eyes. Fortunately this is not as disgraceful in Asia and I had a few comrades alongside me, also wearing similar consequences for the night’s events.

10am

I woke up for the second time that day, in one of those blind panics you have after realizing you’ve sent a saucy text message to your girlfriend’s father instead of her. My train to Shanghai was leaving in two hours. I bolted. My current priorities were.

1. Make the train

2. Devise a cunning explanation as to how my phone was stolen

3. Cry

My only money was at the hostel, as were my belongings and Kay who I would murder if time allowed it. I had to catch the subway to the hostel, then to the train station. An unforeseen benefit of smelling like a coal miner was that I was given ample space on the subway, so I could add ostracized to my list of emotions.

11am

I arrived at the hostel, got my things and asked Sophie if:

- I would make my train? (“no”)

- She could possibly poison Kay? (“probably not”)

I got back on the subway, again given a wide berth due to my appearance and odor. I now had 45 minutes to get there. It would be close.

11:52am

I got to the station, ran to the subway exit and slid into the slot what I thought was my subway card – but of course was my 1st class train ticket.

11.57am

Had security, engineers and locals trying to understand what I’d done with my ticket. I was now blaming them for not understanding English or Korean, although I would have no idea how to explain myself in either tongue.

12:00pm

Ticket in hand, I was sprinting through the terminal screaming “WAIT!” A certain terrorist threat.

12:02pm

At the train gates, inserted my ticket. Denied. (Priority 3 off the list)

No phone, no ticket and no excuse to the officials. I’d have to buy another ticket, this time a second-class. I thought about that glorious, air-conditioned 1st class seat, coasting so Shanghai – with nobody on it. I wondered how long it would be before someone would be using it to store their squid legs. I felt like I was walking on squid legs. I bought the 2nd class ticket and because of my brief 1st class status felt more entitled, but looked more impoverished than anyone else. I got to my seat and saw a man, a man in my seat. I had heard about these situations and how to deal with them. Call the conductor – show him your ticket – he’ll sort it out. Not today. I showed him my ticket like it was an FBI badge. There was zero courtesy and zero cultural sensitivity. I put my bag in the cabin above and looked at him curiously, wondering why he was even considering the challenge. He started out something but I shook my head, and I saw the cogs beginning to turn in his mind. He smelt me, looked me up and down, and left. I sat down, and my neighbor followed him.

The conductor ambled down the aisle, alerted by the commotion and here to sort out the dispute. I’d been told on, no doubt about it, and I was in the wrong. By the time he got to me though, I was out cold. “Foreigner sleeping”. But this time, it was far from a scam.

Mudfest

More like shitshow. When Korea’s biggest calendar event happens to coincide with your birthday and Mackenzie’s last weekend in the country there’s just no telling what’s going to happen. We expected a debauchery; that much was certain. But by the end of the day we would all have been subjected to a gay Asian’s junk in our faces, broken limbs within our ranks and the ecstatic howl of a wolf as he made sweet love in the ocean.

Boreoyoung is not a place that you would find easily on the map and even though Korea does not boast world class beaches, the barren wasteland that is its shoreline does suggest a more glamorous location could be found for an international spectacle. We've concluded that it can only be the sheer size of the sandy dump that makes it the destination for over a million people that make the pilgrimage there each July. It isn’t muddy either, as the million alongside us probably expected. They create the mud, which begs the obvious question; why not sandfest, beach fest or beerfest?

I was hoping to slip under the radar and somehow escape without too much birthday punishment. But in hindsight I should have known what awaited me, and upon our arrival at the dance area I was mercilessly abused by “friends” from every direction. From classy Jager shots to aggressive Soju chugging which was, well, less classy. The heavens opened almost immediately and the beach party transformed into a showery mess. People seem to lose all inhibition and sense of moderation when soaking wet and the scene was soon looking less like a beach and more like something you witness at Papa Gorillaz in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Speedo’s and body paint were the order of the day and it was clear that even the meek had submitted any sense of self-control. Nobody took it easy.

After a day of madness which included Scott almost getting us killed as well as the takeover of the main stage by a pack of raccoons, a power nap was desperately needed. We got back to the pension to find bodies strewn across the floor like there had been some kind of epidemic, (strangely this was not far from the truth). Mackenzie and I tried to get some privacy but the only room intact was occupied and there were disturbing grunts coming from inside. Upon closer inspection we agreed that there was no female voice involved which either meant that Dorian had taken something hostage – or that GQ & John were going at it. When they finally emerged Q ushered us in, by that stage against our will and ordered us enjoy ourselves - the way a pimp might do after renting out one of his girls. The damage had been done in that room though and the smell of primal love-making that was still in the air drove us to settle for the linen closet – by then lacking any kind of libido.

We awoke to the kind of screaming that you’d expect to hear in a Vietnamese village as it was being pillaged by rogue G.I’s. To our horror the reality was not far off. I will never forget it; the sight of Q clutching what remained of the birthday Jager and thrusting his groin at victims of the day’s events who were slumped limply against walls and powerless against such aggression. When everyone came around, horrified and appalled, it was time for a bite to eat.  Some had understandably lost their appetites, for life, but the rest of us headed to the roof. We prepared what may have been pork but could also have been rat. Either way we wolfed it down and continued with whatever brew was on hand.

When it was time to head out to town we stayed behind and one by one celebrated the good times with our closest friends over a bottle of Patron that the awesome Mackenzie had given me as a present. Each toast that was made seemed more dramatic and emotional than the last, but possible because we were inhaling Patron at a rate of knots and it was wasn’t helping the dronk vir driet. After a teary speech from Jono which was delivered before a fireworks display and left us all in pieces, we found ourselves suited up in the street and ready for to razzle. Well, most of us were suited up. Jono was still in his jocks, ready for action. We gave him a pass since his speech had been such a framer and none of us were in great shape after that damn Patron.

Being the classy individuals that we are, we decided to abandon the clubs and head straight back to the beach with a couple of beers in hand. We met up with Kelly; generally acknowledged to be the heaviest drinking girl in the world but the worst drunk. Another stroke of bad luck met us when we stumbled upon the kitchen appliance himself – who was in unusually dismal form and was creeping out every girl we passed with his Mop-the-pedophile grin. Events after that will have to be second-hand since the birthday shots finally won the battle and I was taken to bed by Mac, who must have been getting sick of her role as undertaker but gave me a break on my birthday. Apparently Dorian headed to the clubs, of course not paying but rather sneaking in on someone else’s wristband – a trick he learnt back on the streets running with the gang. Scotty was missing from early afternoon until the following morning; a blunder that was only forgiven because it occurred on a weekend of similar shortfalls all round. Fly kicks and shotguns were attempted but both probably failed miserably. The group seemed to split as each wondered in his own direction looking to follow Wolfish’s earlier feat of closing the deal with a girl in the sea. Jeff creeped out his usual quota of girls - this time coaxing victims with a well-dressed story about running a social experiment involving breasts and other such phenomenon. Nobody died but by the sound of things, it came frighteningly close.

The troops awoke on Sunday exhausted, sun burnt and a little sheepish after a weekend in which most did not perform at their best and some (Scott) never really got out of the starting blocks. Mac and I had spent another couple of hours resting in the linen closet and were relieved that we had because in the meantime a belligerent Q had snapped the door handle off of the sex room and nobody knew what had become of the occupants. We all grabbed a bite to eat before heading home but quickly regretted the decision when pitchers of beer began to take their place at the table. We split before things got too out of hand and headed to the station, where we hoped the whole ordeal would come to an end.

Once at the station it became clear that everyone had overshot the mark and grossly overestimated their drinking capabilities. We collapsed in a heap of defeat and Jager fumes outside the toilets, and I began to dread the fact that Mac and I had booked standing tickets for the 3 hour ride back to civilization.

To be honest, it could have been worse. We crashed in the food car which stocked everything from dried squid to choco pies, but in our state we could only stomach water. All the action was in the very last car though, where they had crammed all the heathens in hope of keeping us away from normal humans nearby. Apartheid all over again. The spark ignited when an idiot who had chosen to ride in our car objected to our drinking game. Now, I’ve seen our crowd getting rowdy on public transport before and have always felt a little guilty. But more often I have been approached by hammered Koreans who put us all to shame in the obnoxious category. On this occasion we were actually keeping to ourselves. We had not turned over new leaves by any means, but three days of drinking had reduced us to shells of the gung-ho individuals we had been on the way down. The fool made his stand, one against ten. He had studied his English, that was for sure, but if that kind of language was used in my classroom the soap would be out in seconds. He pulled out all the stops, the classics. “You’re in my country, you’re American, follow the rules or shut up.” It ended without bloodshed, but when Jono Styvie is in your face shaking with rage, it very rarely does.

The subway ride back home was similar to any Sunday return to the outskirts of Seoul. Me asleep, Mackenzie holding my head in one hand and all of the luggage in the other. The same things always seem to be running through heads countrywide when an event like the Mudfest comes to an end. Everyone is alive, we all survived.

It was closer for some than for others.