Gansu and Xinjiang, China
by Patrick Martino
Aug 27, 2005–End of September
Lanzhou-Kashgar
I came to China to travel. I came to see China’s great sand dune deserts and triumphant peaks, taste its foods, and meet its wonderful people. I came to experience all the middle kingdom has to offer.
I could have traveled by train or bus, but in the past I have found these modes of transport limiting. Traveling by train or bus, one travels from one large city to the next, from city A to city B. There is no opportunity to stop, to admire the view, or to visit tiny towns, while trapped within a metal tube. There is no adventure.
Walking is far more interesting but far too slow. Riding a bicycle is not much faster. To truly experience all China has to offer, I went for the most thrilling mode of transport: motorbike
A Used Bike
I bought my first motorbike in Lanzhou. Lanzhou is nearly the geographic center of China. It is one of those Chinese cities of 6 or 7 million people you probably never heard of.
I bought a motorbike in Lanzhou because I wanted to follow the Silk Road. In my youth, I was enthralled by tales of camel caravans and the wanderings of Marco Polo. On my journey across China, it was my thought to first trace Marco Polo’s footsteps along the ancient Silk Road.
Lanzhou was once an important stop on the Silk Road. It was the gateway to the Gansu corridor a narrow strip of fertile land surrounded by desert. Caravans would follow this corridor from the deserts of Xinjiang provence to the ancient capital of China, what today is Xian. To read more about the Silk Road go to http://www.ess.uci.edu/~oliver/silk.html
In light of my Silk Road adventure and because the motorbike I bought was brown, I named it “Camel.” I began on Aug 28th. I was on a journey west.
I had purchased my camel at a used motor bike sale, which occurs every Sunday near the motorcycle market in Lanzhou.
Despite warnings from several people I should purchase a new motorbike, I purchased a used one. I thought a new bike would be too expensive. Being a foreigner and not knowing much about motorbikes before I started, I was ripped off. I paid 2,200 Yuan about $275 for my five year old camel.
My Jialing’s problems were numerous. As I headed northwest from Lanzhou, following the Silk Road I broke down nearly every day. I had two flat tires, broke numerous spokes, and had to replace the bike’s shocks, brakes, spark plug, and battery. I even had to replace an engine piston because the engine overheated and the piston bent like a nail. My motorbike wasn’t a camel at all but a lemon. The only good thing about having such a terrible bike was I spent so much time watching mechanics fixing it, I know consider myself fairly knowledgeable about motorcycle maintenance.
I also learned a lot about maintenance from a fellow Chinese motorbike enthusiast named Zhang Hui. He was riding by himself on a 150cc Suzuki from Xian and was headed to Urumqi the capital of Xinjiang provenience, the same place I was headed. We met a few days after I left Lanzhou in the parking lot for a Chinese fort along the great wall. We became a pair and traveled for more then a week together.
Zhuang Hui was a short man with a round face and happy smile. He owns a shoe store in Xian. He taught me all kinds of great Chinese swear words and I in exchange taught him a few English ones. The result was every time we stopped riding he would get off his motorbike and exclaim while laughing “OHHHHH! My Butt hurts!”
I found him to be a great travel companion. We were very like minded. “I hate tour groups,” he told me. “I enjoy traveling by motorbike, to be free,” he said. He is the only mainland Chinese person I have met who I have been able to talk rationally and openly with about politics and problems in China. He is a free thinker and a free bird, something very rare for a mainland Chinese man to be.
Zhang Hui saved my butt on a number of occasions. When my engine overheated and I blew my engine piston he towed me 20 km into town. We didn’t have any rope to use so we used bungee cords. On another occasion my bike died with no warning. We were on a gravel road where the only things we’d seen for the last 50 miles had been mountains, rocks and camels. I thought the problem might be a spark plug so I changed it. I then thought I might have blown another piston. No matter what I tried I couldn’t get the bike started. I thought my bike was done. I was ready to abandon my bike. Then Zhang Hui caught up with me and quickly solved the situation. I was out of gas. He simply turned a lever so I could access my spare tank. Boy did I feel stupid.
He also taught me how to cool my engine after my first blown engine piston. My bike was not liquid cooled nor did it have a radiator. It was too small of a motorbike to have a cooling system. A 125cc motorbike is like a motor scooter in America. Your average Harley will have 1000cc’s or more. My bike was designed for city transport and for farmers to use over short distances, not to go across China with.
To cool our engines Zhang Hui taught me how to spit on my engine. The area of China we were in was desert, sand, rocks, and extremely hot. We carried lots of water. Every hour and a half we would stop our bikes, put mouthfuls of water in our mouths and spit them out onto our bike engines letting the water froth and steam. What I would have done without Zhang Hui teaching me how to survive I don’t know.
Together, we saw the very end of the Great Wall of China where the wall made of mud and wattle gradually petered out amongst the sands from its long trek from the ocean over 2,000 miles to the east. We visited the famous Mogao caves at Dunhuang were merchants over 2,000 years ago built temples and painted frescoes of the Buddha onto the walls of river side caves to increase their karma. And we ate watermelons and cantaloupes in a town whose Chinese name means melon. I was sad to see my friend head back for home after we reached Urumqi together.
Into the Desert of Xinjiang
Xingjian is the largest provenience in China,16% of its landmass. The vastness of Xinjiang’s deserts is astounding. In most areas, there are no people, no water, and no plants. There are just rocks and the breathtaking beauty of the endless sand and distant mountains. It is a grand place to ride a motorbike, the perfect place to open the throttle and hurtle across the sands. An unreliable bike, however, is the last thing you want while riding in Xinjiang. If you break down in the middle of the desert, you will have serious problems, which I was all too quickly to discover.
My Jialing, prone to breakdowns, true to form, broke down on my way north from Urumqi to Kanas lake. I was in the middle of a desert. My camel had died.
Thirteen is an unlucky number in America. It was Sept 13th an unlucky day. I did have one lucky thing going for me; however, my motorbike broke down near a small truck stop. It was only two kilometers to the truck stop. If I had broken down farther away I would have been in real trouble.
I had to push my bike to the truck stop. Even though it was only two kilometers to the truck stop, the heat and dryness of the desert left me exhausted.
The truck stop had four dirty hovels littered with trash and swarming with flies. One of them was a repair shop for trucks. A mechanic opened up the engine on my Jialing and started laughing. “Didn’t you check your oil?” he said.
The engine casing was bone dry. Without oil the engine had seized up and become a mangled mess. I had changed my oil 2,000 kilometers before when I started from Lanzhou. What I didn’t realize was my camel had an unquenchable thirst for oil and the engine had been burning oil. I felt like an idiot for not checking my oil and making such a stupid mistake.
I sold the Jialing for 450 Yuan to the mechanic, about $50. It was worth more than this, but I wasn’t in a position to get much more for it. In the middle of the desert, no one was going to want a broken down bike. I am glad I could get hat I got for it.
I learned a lot of lessons from my used motorbike. Chief amongst the lessons I learned is to never buy a used motorbike again and to always check my oil.
Looking back on my camel’s death, I believe it was fate. With my camel out of commission I was able to purchase my far superior, more powerful, faster, and more comfortable Feiying.
I Buy a Feiying FY150-3
It took me two days to get from the truck stop back to Urumqi. Traveling back to Urumqi by bus I found I already missed riding a motorbike. I missed the freedom. I missed the speed. I was resolved to purchase a new and better motorbike to continue my journey west.
As an American, Chinese is not my native language, but having studied Chinese for two years I found my Chinese was adequate. Returning to Urumqi I began my quest for a new bike. I began at my hotel asking where I could purchase a motorbike. It was a strange request but the staff humored me. I was sent to a street in Urumqi known to have several motorbike dealerships. The dealerships had brands I had never heard of. The quality of the bikes also did not impress me. I feared I would experience the same problems I had with my used Jialing.
I found the Feiying dealership in Urumqi by chance. Not satisfied with the selection at the street I was sent to, I continued to ask owners and mechanics where I could find higher quality motorbikes. After several minutes of asking, a man finally told me to go to Urumqi’s motorcycle and car market.
Urumqi’s car and motorcycle market is in the north of the city. It is not the most accessible location. It is a large building of concrete and glass full of all kinds of motorcycles and cars. I think the motorcycle dealerships on the second floor were surprised to see a foreigner in such a remote location, yet alone one who could speak Chinese and wanted to buy a motorbike.
I did not want to repeat the mistake of having purchased my used Jialing so I relentlessly grilled dealers about their bikes. I asked about the quality of their bikes’ shocks, the brakes, and how much gas the gas tank could hold. I knew the rest of my journey would be a hard one. I didn’t want to break down in the middle of the desert again.
What first attracted me to buying my Feiying motorbike was an advertisement. The advertisement had a stoic male astride his bike and snow covering his helmet and jacket. Yujian, the helpful Feiying salesman explained this picture had been taken during a trip made by a group of riders riding Feiying’s into Qinghai.
“Perfect,” I said. After I finished with the Silk Road I planned to enter Qinghai and from Golmud travel south into Tibet and visit Lhasa. “I’m going to Qinghai.” I told Yujian.
If this bike could hack Qinghai with its cold temperatures, high altitude, and rough roads I thought this bike might be the bike for me. Examining the bike from the advertisement, a stylish black FY 150-3, I became increasingly impressed. The bike had quality parts including a Yamaha engine, Yahama shocks, and high quality tires from Taiwan. Better still Yujian told me the bike ran on specially designed oil which would last for 5,000 kilometers before having to be changed - a definite plus considering the oil problems I had with my last bike. If this wasn’t enough the bike was comfortable to ride and just plan looked cool.
I was sold. I purchased my new Feiying 150-3 on Sept 17th and departed for the reminder of my journey across China on Sept 18th-the date of the moon festival a very auspicious day.
Xinjiang
At full speed I found my Feiying 150-3 had far more power and torque than my old limping camel. I could cruise along the black silk ribbon like roads of Xingjian at 100 kilometers an hour.
At this speed I made quick time. From Urumqi, I headed north. I slowed only once as I passed the same spot in the open desert where my first bike had broken down. I could still see my footprints beside the road where I had broken down. I smiled and gunned the engine again. I was relieved I was now on a reliable bike and would not find myself stuck in the desert again.
My FY150-3 was jet black, built low, and had a purring engine like a cat. I named it “Panther.”
Kanas Lake
Heading north the deserts gradually disappeared. Fragile grasslands replaced the sand and stone. Wild horses grazed on the grass. Kazaks raised sheep and lived in round tents on the land. It was a vast open place with grand big blue skies.
My goal in visiting the north of Xinjiang was to see Kanas Lake. Kanas Lake is one of the most famous lakes in China, renowned for its beauty. The lake is near the Chinese border with Russia, Mongolia, and Kazakhstan. The Kanas Lake region is unique in China because it is the only place in China where the flora and fauna is typical of Southern Siberia. Kanas Lake was not on the Silk Road, but I deemed a side trip necessary to visit a region of such splendor.
I reached Buerjin, the gateway to Kanas Lake, three days after leaving Urumqi. From Buerjin I spent two days exploring the Kanas Lake region. A beautiful paved road led from Buerjin over the Altai Mountains to the lake. Once over the mountains, all trace of Xinjiang’s desert disappeared. Camels, sheep and cows grazed on steppes of green grass. Firs, birches, Korean pines, and Dragon spruces carpeted the slopes of the mountains. The trees had turned to autumn gold. The tress sashayed in the wind, shaking their yellow leaves and throwing them to the ground like rose petals to anoint my arrival. A river of green jade coursed through the valleys to the tranquil Kanas Lake. The mountains, the pines, the fresh air and river reminded me more of Switzerland then of anything I had seen in China. The region was spectacular, well worth the journey.
I sadly did not have the lake to myself. There were hundreds of tourists who had also come to see the lake. The prices for a room in one of the small lodges near the lake were too high for my meager budget. I parked my bike in a secure parking lot watched over by a guard and took my tent to find my own peaceful spot besides the lake, far from the crowds.
A run in with the police
After buying my motorcycle I never bothered to purchase a license plate for it. I figured the process would be too time consuming, expensive, and as a foreigner the authorities probably wouldn’t want to give me a license plate anyway. The same went for getting a drivers license. I didn’t have one.
While returning to Buerjin from Kanas Lake, I approached the site of an accident. A small tractor had tipped over while going around a windy curve in the road. There were several police cars, an ambulance, and at least six police officers.
As I tried to wind my way around the accident, an officer yelled at me to stop. I ignored him. I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t have a license. In the past ignoring the police waving at me often worked because they usually didn’t have cars immediately available to chase after me. This time, escape was thwarted by my low speed trying to get around the accident and the police officer stepping directly in front of my motorbike. He was displeased and upset I had not immediately stopped when told. When I stopped, he immediately seized my keys from the ignition to prevent me racing off. I thought I was through.
The police began to immediately interrogate me. “Where’s your license!” the first police officer snapped. “Where is your license plate!” another asked.
I could understand the officers perfectly well but I acted stupid. I smiled and spoke with them in English. “What I said. I am sorry I don’t understand you. I am just a tourist,” I said.
“License. Where’s your drivers license?” one of the officers asked and pulled out his own driver’s license as an example. He was pointing at it. “Where?” he said in Chinese.
“Oh,” I said. “You want my passport,” still playing stupid and continuing to speak only in English. I gave him my passport which is written in English. He thumbed through the blue pages not being able to understand anything. He was frustrated by his inability to communicate with me. It is very hard to yell at someone effectively if he can’t understand your language. I just kept smiling and playing dumb. Secretly, however I was very worried. The police still had my keys.
A fat police officer came to my rescue. He looked at my passport and then at me and smiled. “Bush?” he said referring to the current American president and trying to guess my nationality “Yes,” I said “Bush. America.”
“Bush, One!” he said holding up one finger to give positive acknowledgement to my citizenship. “Yes,” I said “Bush is number one!” also holding up one finger in positive acknowledgment.
With this exchange my passport was handed back and the fat officer with meaty fingers took my keys and put them back in my motorcycle’s ignition. He gave me a friendly wave, a signal I was free to go. I got lucky. The situation was also a bit ironic. I was saved by a police officer’s admiration for my president who I didn’t vote for and personally can’t stand.
A return to the desert
I left Buerjin on Sept 22 and headed south along route 217. After green valleys and forests of yellow poplars, I once again entered the desert and found it beautiful. North of Kelamayi, I visited a ghost city of stone. Palisades of dark brown sandstone, carved by time, rose from the wastelands. The stone formations resembled towers, buildings and stone apartment blocks. It was a grand petrified metropolis for unseen spirits and the wind. I watched the sun set behind the city of stone, a great red fireball dipping to the earth, and attempted to find a camping place amongst its desert streets.
I carried a lot of gear on my trip, perhaps too much. I did not have any proper saddle bags for my gear. Rather, I placed all of my belongings inside a large gray Lowe Alpine backpack. I strapped the backpack to my bike with several bungee cords. I carried clothes, a tent, tools, extra oil, water, plus other sundry items. In total, I estimate I carried probably over sixty pounds of gear. I mention all of this because with a heavy rear end loaded with gear is not good for trying to find a desert campsite.
As darkness fell around the ghost city, I journeyed off road to try to find a suitable location to camp. The soil had a hard crust but beneath this crust was dust. I rode my bike around rocks and ruts but soon found my bike irreverently stuck in a pit of dust and sand. The more I attempted to wrangle and finesse my bike out of the sand the more stuck it became. I pushed. I shoved, but with all my gear I was fighting a useless battle.
I was beginning to realize how dangerous it was to be traveling by myself. With two people my predicament would not have been a challenge.
The sun set. I was off the road, hungry and still hadn’t set up camp. I stripped my bike of all my gear and spent an hour in the darkness freeing it. I made it back to the road tired and with my shoes filled with sand. I vowed never again to try to camp in the desert lest I get stuck again. I rode in the dark until I reached the first town and stayed at an inexpensive hotel.
Over the Tian Shan
Xinjinag is divided into thirds. The northern third is separated from the southern two thirds by a grand band of mountains stretching east to west across the provence. They are called the Tian Shan.
The bottom two thirds of Xinjinag is dominated by China’s largest desert, the Taklamakan. Traders on the Silk Road often followed the northern edge of the desert where it met the mountains. To return to the Silk Road and to reach the northern edge of the Taklamakan I had to do what merchants on the Silk Road dared not: cross the Tian Shan.
I was extremely lucky on my journey. I got sponsored by Feiying! Sponsored! Throughout my trip I was added and assisted by Feiying motorcycle dealerships, friends of Feiying, and general motorcycle enthusiasts. Not knowing anyone in Xinjiang, let alone China, these friends of Feiying helped me enormously along the way. They provided advice on roads and also checked to make sure my bike was running in tip top shape. Basically they fixed anything that was broken for free. They also took me out to dinner, got me set up in hotels, took me or told me about famous sights in the area and tried their hardest to get me drunk. I had instant friends and contacts wherever I went. All I had to do was call the local dealership in the town I stopped in and they would look after me. It reminded me of the scholarship I won to Scandinavia when I was in college. It was a dream come true-too good to be true except it was. The only bad thing was I am nearly 30 and can’t handle the alcohol anymore. My tolerance has decreased significantly since visiting Finland as a Viking scholar.
In Kuytun especially, I was given much aid an assistant by my friends at the Wuyang Honda dealership of Kuytun. They organized an escort for me. Together with five other riders they guided me from Kuytun up and over the first pass of the Tian Shan on September 25th. My goal was to reach the town Kuche by the next day. The route was so difficult however it took nearly three days to traverse the distance.
The scenery was superb. We rode round walls of gray rock and around narrow hairpin turns. We passed cold mountains, their peaks like stakes stabbing the sky. We followed a coursing river and finally climbed the first pass. It was at 3,800 meters and the road and the surrounding mountains were dusted with snow. It was cold and the sky was steely gray but the mountains and our extreme height made the scenery grand.
I wished my friends could have accompanied me all the way across the mountains but they needed to return to their jobs and homes. They turned around shortly after midday.
The roads in the desert of Xinjinag, except where there was construction, were flat-perfect turnpikes of tarmac. The roads through the mountains were anything but. They were gravel potholed wrecks that were so torn and chewed up in places they look like they had been attacked by motor shells. The ride was jarring, dangerous and slow. Add to this on the high passes there was snow, even though it was not quite October yet.
I had two dangerous events occur while crossing over the mountains on my first day. The first happened when I wiped out after hitting a patch of gravel. Luckily, I was going very slow and my bike was not damaged. The second event happened when a Landcruiser came buzzing around a blind corner, hogging the road, and came within an inch of striking me.
The difficult road on my first day in the mountains meant I did not make much progress. The first night of my mountain crossing I was unable to reach a town. I found shelter for the evening with a Kazakh family. Their round felt tents were situated besides a stand of pines and next to a fast running mountain stream. Nearby in a green valley their horses and sheep roamed. I ate with them by candle light and slept in a warm tent they prepared just for me.
The husband of the family was my age, 29, and with his young wife had one son. “I was lucky.” The husband of the small Kazakh family told me. In ten more days he and his family would be moving from the valley and out of the mountains to winter pastures. If I would have passed later through the mountains there probably would have been no shelter.
The second day of my cross mountain journey was even tougher then the first. I had to go over two additional passes and the road continued to get worse. Nearing the last pass there was no road at all. The road had been destroyed by a rock slide and a heap of boulders covered what had been the road. It was impossible to pass. If I was with two or three others, in a group, we could have managed to push and shove our bikes up and over the rocks but I was again faced with the same problem I had when I got stuck in the sand. I was just one rider and could not manage to push my bike over such a daunting obstacle by myself.
All along my journey I have been lucky and on this day especially so. Two Kazakh shepherds traveling by jeep also found the way blocked. They wanted to get over the pass to a road maintenance station where they hoped to arrange another vehicle to pick them up. In exchange for giving one of them a lift over the pass they helped me to push my bike over the rock pile that had consumed the road. It was a fortuitous meeting because up until meeting the shepherds I had seen nearly no one on the wrecked and deserted road.
Over the last pass and descending from over 3,000 meters the road gradually improved from horrific to manageable. My hands began to warm again after nearly having been frozen to the handles the temperature at the pass being well below zero. I found safety and shelter for my last night in the mountains in a small town next to a beautiful lake called Big Dragon Pond. The lake was a silver mirror surrounded by snow capped mountains. I found its scenery to be far more astounding then the more famous Tian Chi’s. It was unspoiled, calm and peaceful without a tourist bus or a souvenir shop in sight.
I reached Kuche on Sept 27 relieved to be back on flat blacktopped roads and be warm again in the desert.
I have discovered a rule in my travels: the more difficult and dangerous the road the greater the tranquility and the grander the scenery. I have been to many places in China but although extremely difficult, hazardous and freezing cold the road I took over the Tian Shan was one of the most magnificent parts of China I have seen.
Onto Kashgar
My bike was covered with dust and was dirty after my journey in the mountains but otherwise held up well. The only thing my bike needed was a bit of lube for the chain and a few nuts and bolts which needed tightening.
Relieved to be back onto flat well paved roads that did not rattle my teeth as I rode them, I cruised along the Silk Road from Kuche to Kashgar in just two days.
I would have made it to Kashgar even faster if I had not discovered a problem: a fuel leak. Whether it is gas or oil, I always seem to have problems with my motorbike’s liquids.
I discovered the leak while stopping to get a bite to eat. From the left side of my bike steady droplets of fuel dripped into the sand. An examination of the fuel line and the fuel valve showed the gas was not coming from either of these two sources. I deduced it had to be coming from the fuel tank.
I was later told by a mechanic, the extreme mountain roads I had taken the bike over had perhaps loosened the nuts holding the tank. He believed the loose tank then rubbed against the motorcycle frame causing a microscopic hole in the tank.
Luckily I was only a few kilometers from the large town of Akesu when I discovered the problem. I also had plenty of fuel to get to the Feiying dealership in Akesu.
The Feiying dealership in Akesu was very pleased to see me. They quickly discovered the leak and set about patching it-all of course for free. I was also given a lesson about Chinese gas stations.
That morning, I had filled up my gas tank in Kuche. Generally it cost me about 40 to 50 Yuan about $5 to fill up my gas tank. I could travel on a full tank for 400 to 450 kilometers about 250 miles. I could have made it to Akesu without gassing up but I always enjoyed the safety of knowing I had a full tank of gas at the start of the day.
The first gas station I found leaving Kuche was a small one. It had only two pumps and the gas was cheaper. It was cheaper for a reason.
Draining my tank of gas so it could be fixed, the mechanic chastised me for going to a small gas station. “Only go to big gas stations,” he said. “Look this fuel is very dirty.”
Indeed the gas wasn’t clear like water as it should be but was a light yellow and was so shockingly dirty there were small stones and bits of sand in the bottom of my tank. I had no idea the quality of gasoline in China could be so awful. It was a good lesson to learn.
My stop in Akesu was more memorable then for just the repair to my gas tank. I also got to participate in a parade. It was late by the time my tank was repaired so I needed to stay over in the city.
The next morning the Feiying dealership invited me to participate in a dealership event. All of the dealers in the city were driving their bikes in a parade through the city. I rode in a pack along with other Feiying motorbikes. I had a great time honking my horn and waving at all of the curious onlookers no doubt wondering what a foreigner was doing on a motorbike in their town. I felt like a shriner but without the tiny red fez.
Leaving Akesu on Sept 29, I thought my problems with my gas tank were behind me. They weren’t. Nearing Kashgar and stopping for a bite to eat, I discovered my gas tank was again leaking. The day before the leak had been a gentle drip. This day it was a stream.
I knew from yesterday’s leak where the problem was. The leak was located near the front of the tank. I had a theory gas only started to leak while I was stopped because momentum while I was riding pushed the gas towards the back of the tank and away from the leak.
I created quite a scene in the tiny town where I stopped. Not only was I a foreigner on a motorbike but my motorbike was leaking gas. I sat down to eat. I hadn’t eaten any lunch. I explained what the problem was to curious onlookers but they wouldn’t listen to me. One after the other they came up to me to tell me I had a leak. “I know what the problem is,” I politely told them, but more and more villagers came. Some wanted to fix my bike for a fee others wanted to buy it. “Your bike is leaking. It is broken. I will buy it,” One man offered. “I’ll give you 3,000 Yuan. Will you sell it or not?”
I told him the bike was brand new, worth twice what he was offering, and that I wasn’t interested in selling it. I grew increasingly irritated by people who kept poking around my bike as if they knew how to fix it. One man by accident broke off a plastic side panel on the bike because he was trying to pull it off to try to get a better look where the leak was coming from. Another man was even stupid enough to light up a cigarette while trying to find the leak!
I got angry. I yelled at the villagers from my seat where I was eating noodles. “I’ve already told you what the problem is. It’s not the fuel line, and it’s not the fuel value. Stop trying to see what the problem is. It’s the gas tank. It has a leak and I’m going to get it fixed in Kashgar. Get away from the bike!”
I wanted to go to Kashgar to get the leak fixed because Kashgar was only 150 kilometers away and I didn’t want to get stuck in a remote town with no hotel. I also didn’t want to risk the shady mechanic who kept saying he could fix it.
The villagers were upset by my rude outburst and I was upset at the villagers for breaking my side panel and not listening to me.
After I finished my noodles, I filled up the gas tank to replace the fuel I had lost and angrily zoomed off to Kashgar. I hoped my theory about the gas not leaking while I drove would hold true and I would not run out of gas before reaching the city.
Next update Kashgar, the Karakorum Highway and more.
