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.