We know our chances of getting back to Kunming on this death trap are very, very slim indeed. But six days on the road, scaling mountains and defying snow storms has germinated a combination of hubris and rash boyishness. The plan is to make it back to Kunming in three days, with a first leg to Xiangcheng or even Shangri-La, then Dali and finally Kunming. If the motorbike survives, the cost of the bike, the express courier and the lodging would be less than the two of us taking public transport back home. Plus it would be a lot more fun.

Contraption of doom
Contraption of doom

We put on a total of 8 layers of clothes against the cold, deliver our bicycles and luggage to STO Express, and elicit a couple of laughs from bystanders as an unintended wheelie nearly launches our motorbike into a flock of SWAT police. Upon regaining control, we make an elegant exit out of town and ride towards the sun that is slowly rising over the Litang plain.

Everything works smoothly although the engine seems to be a lot less powerful than the advertised 200 cc. The engine stalls on a first hill and the only way to get the bike running again is when I hop off. I catch up with Sandy but the engine soon stalls again and we are unable to fire it up afterwards. Luckily we have a long downhill that extends almost to the next village, where we get a motorbike mechanic to look at our problem.

Our Wuyang Guangzhou with a Lifan 200 engine
Our Wuyang Guangzhou with a Lifan 200 engine

The oil cup is the culprit, he says. While he replaces the damn thing, we drink Yak tea and have a chat with the local police officers whose main duty seems to involve drinking, gambling and chatting by the side of the road. The repairs are 150 RMB which strikes us as a bit expensive, but we really have no idea.

Up another hill, the exact same thing happens, now with the spark plug cable melting and smoke coming from the engine. This isn’t going to be our day. We roll back down the hill and end up walking the bike several kilometres to the nearest town. Shortly before arriving, however, some Tibetan kids emerge from a nearby hamlet, fighting over who gets to fix the bike. In the end, a young alpha-male jumps in the saddle, manhandles the kickstarter and sure enough, gets the engine to switch on.

First repair
First repair

We ride the last kilometre into town and bring it to a mechanic, who first confirms that our earlier repairs should not have cost more than 70 before telling us that there is something rather fundamentally wrong with the engine. It’s losing power, so we won’t be able to do hills. We half expected something to go dreadfully wrong, so we are mentally prepared to go on the road and start hitch-hiking. Right about then, someone pulls up on another motorbike that needs a small repair at the brake. He offers to sell us his bike for 1900 RMB if we give him the old one.

It sounds rather expensive, but the mechanic says the bike is in a fairly good condition. Boyishness still fermenting in our stomachs, we decide to spend everything we can find in our pockets on this other bike and ride off. It works perfectly, effortlessly taking us across the first mountain pass. There’s a faint smell of oil but that’s not uncommon with older bikes. It’s finally working! Our motorcycle dream is coming true!

Pushing
Pushing

Or, as we find out a little later, it isn’t. Halfway the pass to the plateau, the driver’s foothold drops onto the road. A Tibetan and his family help us re-attach the piece to the motorbike with our supply of cable tiers and bits of string. It looks rickety but it may at least hold until the next town where getting it bolted back on should be no problem. A little bit ill at ease at so many problems, we continue our ascent carefully but steadily.

Until I spot a trail behind us. We’ve just passed a spot where workers were painting the roads, so we figure it’s just some paint sticking to our wheels. But the wet trail doesn’t disappear, and there’s also an increasing smell of – GAS! GAS! Quick boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, taking the clumsy helmets off and sticking a finger into where once sat a valve feeding fuel from the tank into the engine. We find the valve, loosely hanging around on a tube, and try to screw it back on. Still leaking gas – there must’ve been a small washer thing.

Obstacles on the road back to Shangri-La
Obstacles on the road back to Shangri-La

As we try to catch the fuel in stray bottles (thank god for litter), we stop cars for help and a few of them pull over, but are unable to offer anything but advice and a ride. We decide to accept the latter, hopefully to a place where we can get a replacement valve and then come back, fit it, and then ride on. We leave the bike locked by the side of the road.

By the time we reach Sangdui and Daocheng, however, it’s already getting dark. Our boyish germs are finally killed off by the cold feet we get thinking about going back in the dark. To ride a motorbike that may possibly have many more faults, and to risk having to stay the night on the freezing mountain. We deem it safer to stay the night in Daocheng, but then there’s no way we will still reach Kunming in time. So we abandon our plans and start making arrangements for getting back to Shangri-La and Kunming in just two days.

To cut a long story short, we end up taking one of the minivans to Shangri-La with a group of women that have just hiked the Niru river to Daocheng, which are then filled out into two SUVs, one of which really is just a poxy 2-wheel drive. Some of the women are from Liaoning and their white faces contrast sharply with the dark and rough style of the Tibetan drivers, who matter-of-factly explain their culture to us baffled tourists. It’s endearing to see Chinese people just as ill at ease in their own country as us foreigners.

Carmates, roommates
Carmates, roommates

The road back is just as bad as the way we came and it takes loads of hoovering dust through our noses, waiting for diggers to clear the road and trucks to find their way through the heavily rutted mud before we finally reach Shangri-La. With the help of our Chinese friends, we find a very decent new hostel where we’re the only dorm room dwellers. We pay 25 yuan each, marking the end of the tourist season. In return, we invite them to eat Indian food at the Tara Gallery before we bid goodbye.

The next day, we all part ways. We catch a day bus back to Kunming and arrive just in time for work.

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