Entrance to the People's Republic is Not so Easily Attained

            We've crossed Xinjiang province, and having made our way far across the dry and dusty Central Asian desert, we sit now high in the mountains on the very threshold of the Himilayan plateau.

It hasn’t been so easy to find a computer here, especially without a slightest shred of proficiency in Chinese. So, dispatches from here on out will be far in between. This is rugged country – worlds away from the Far East of Beijing, Shanghai, lush green river valleys, pagodas, dumplings, and even white rice. Instead, I’ve found myself in China, surrounded by Arabic script spelling out the Uighur language. I’ve seen great gold and turquoise mosques, men with long hardened beards and women under veil. I’ve not yet eaten rice, but rather thick wheat noodles made from dough to order. The tea is salty. The air burns. The oldest hard of these Silk Road cities stand tall, towering piles of human construction, thousands of years in the making, in which small mud-brick houses sit atop the crushed remain of those built for so long by the ancestors of the people who surround me now.

But, I will begin the story of how my brother and I have arrived in the mounts where now I write.

Eight days ago, I won the desperate two-week battle for a Chinese visa. What fun it is exploring national bureaucracy as it relates to foreigners. In Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, I spent three full days in search of the embassy its self. One would believe that a state house for such a nation would be so easily located online, but it was not so. My Lonely Planet book gave me the location of what used to be the Chinese embassy, and internet searches gave me the locations of every Chinese government school or other institution in all of Bishkek.

In one day-long walking tour I sweat myself stinky exploring every address that the internet hinted could possibly house the Chinese embassy. But, of course, I didn’t find it. I suppose that I should mention this as well: I speak absolutely no Kyrgyz and such flawed and basic Russian that it’s not even worth assigning a level to. I can’t remember well exactly how many days I wandered aimlessly through Bishkek. Being so stingily frugal as I am, I knew always of one easy remedy that I could elect when I gave up the search on foot.

So, one day I stopped a taxi and told him “консул китайскй” – Chinese consul (at least that’s how I think you say it). I knew all the downfalls of this method. Primarily, there was a good chance that this poor taxi driver would recognize the opportunity of having a wealthy American student in his cab to buy his family something extra nice to eat, or maybe his friends something fancy to drink. He would likely take me in some wild shape around the city while the meter racks up, the drop me off with a friendly smile at the embassy so I could fork over my money. I’m as comfortable as can be taking a taxi here, but just when I know where I am going. Once the driver catches on to the fact that I don’t actually know the location of the place that I’ve asked him to bring me, well, business is business, and he found a customer who requires some special, high-dollar service.

So, I took the taxi. I imagined all the maps I’d seen online of where the Chinese embassy could be and I tried to imagine the streets so that I could formulate some remedy to my feeble helplessness if this guy got really clever. Quite quickly, we headed straight out of town. The buildings started to fade away, the air grew clearer, and the mountains grew larger before us. I slumped down in hopelessness. Where was thus guy taking me?

“Oh my gosh,” I thought. “This is as bad as the taxi-scam could be.” What would he do? Drive me for a hundred miles around all of Bishkek then ask me to pay for it? Take me to a place where his friends were waiting to beat me and strip me of everything I own? Sell me off into the global trade of sexual slaves? I tried to express my dismay. We spoke in Russian, though I grasped very little of what he said. To my ear, the conversation went something like this:

Me: “Where?”

Driver: “…(Talking Russian)…  Chinese Embassy.”

Me: “No. Chinese Embassy, Bishkek.”

Driver: “Yes, yes, Chinese Embassy Bishkek…   …very far…  …very big… …new.”

Me: “No. Bishkek. This not Bishkek.”

Driver: “Yes, yes, Bishkek. (Talking Russian).”

            Well, it doesn’t take so many taxi rides as a wealthy American in far away places to become familiar with this story: The place that you want to go to has recently moved to a new and far away location. Come into my car and I will drive you there.

            “Great,” I thought. I only wanted to go to China, and things were getting harder every day.

            But what a surprise I encountered. Some ways out of the city heading off towards the mountains, past the U.S. Embassy and Air Force base through which all of our soldiers are shipped to our Afghan war, and even passed the Kazakh embassy, we came upon a massive military compound. The rectangular settlement was surrounded by concrete wall two stories high with big black metal spikes protruding from the top to meet anyone who had dared to approach the place with a two-story tall ladder. Guard towers watched the corners and towers inside housed a sizable and well-guarded Chinese population. In the very center a great big Chinese flag was flown high above anything else.

            I looked at my driver with a somewhat apologetic sentiment. Suddenly, I felt ignorantly defensive, overly convinced of my own value to others to have believed I was such a tantalizing commodity that I could prompt so much deceptive effort on his part.

He stretched out is open palm and said, “Five hundred.”

            “Five hundred?! Two hundred.”

            “Five hundred.”

            Ok, well, apologetic sentiment withdrawn. I considered the situation. We were the only car around this suspiciously deserted Chinese Embassy/military complex. I was in his car. Had I better language abilities I would have explained something along the lines of: “Look, I’ve been coming to this city for some months now. I know how much a taxi should cost. You would never charge five hundred, that’s ridiculous. For that I could eat for two days. I will pay you the fair price.”

            But, with my realistic communication capabilities, I said, “Five hundred bad.”

            “Five hundred,” he said in a raised and irritated voice. I considered again. There I was, and American college student out traveling the world who’d never know hard labor except in short, abbreviated, and novel instances. I had never known real hunger, never known deep sadness, never known helplessness or institutionalized humiliation. And yet, there I was arguing with the Kyrgyz career taxi driver over the equivalent of about six U.S. dollars. Whether or not I believed it at the time, I told myself that, have done so much less work for my money than this man had, it was right that I pay him what he unfairly demanded. I put the money in his hand in a manner that said, “I know this isn’t fair but I’m doing it anyway (because I don’t have any choice).” I got out of the car and he drove away.

            So presently, I stood before that massive wall and searched for signs human life which could provide some direction as to how I should go about extracting a Chinese visa from that mammoth concrete settlement. There was no one in site, but a booth near the great imperial red steel gate seemed promising. Inside I found a guard, and in a single word inquired where I could get myself a visa.

"Visa?"

He pointed down the wall and motioned me to go around the corner. I walked some 100 meters along this great wall, and turned the corner to find another large door under a long red pagoda roof, built rather industrially and heartlessly in the style of old east China. The sign read: Consular Office of the People's Republic of China. Working Days: Monday, Wednesday, Friday.

It was Tuesday. My god. Luckily, there was a sign outside telling me the location of bank I had to go to in order to pay the $140 for my visa. I told myself that the day had not been wasted, because at least I had located the embassy, and now I could pay and get that trip out of the way.

So, I aimed my attention at the bank. But, when I looked around, I realized again that I was in the middle of nowhere, in a place where no taxi had the business to be, and I was not likely going to find a ride out soon. I walked to the main road, which took about 40 minutes. There I caught another taxi to the bank that had been named, and was once again ripped off by the driver, who treated my suggestion of what I know to be the normal taxi fare as completely ridiculous and a downright stupid thing for me to say. 

I went in the bank, waited 30 minutes to be called by a teller, and approached him with my 140 US dollars in hand. 

"Visa Kitaiski," I said (Chinese visa), "Pay." I made a paying motion, whatever that is, with my hands. 

"Do you have the red ticket from the embassy?" he answered in fluent english.

"No."

"I'm sorry, we need your ticket number so that you can pay."

"Ok. Thanks."

I left. That sucked. So, I felt that to be all that could be done on that day. 

The next day I woke up early to head to the embassy.  My plan was thus: Go to the embassy. Get bank ticket. Go to bank. Pay. Go back to embassy. Turn in application. Tada!

The only disturbing part was the knowledge of how much money would be lost on taxis, but at least I would get it over with. I arrived at the embassy, once again got ripped off by the driver, and at last found myself waiting in an hour-long line of smelly people. When I finally arrived at the woman at the window, I said, "visa," and handed her my passport and 7-page typed visa application.

"Have invitation?" she asked.

"No."

"No invitation, no give," she so eloquently explained to me. Then, she handed me the business card of a Chinese tour agency who could arrange my invitation to be sent from Beijing, along with all the application materials I had so recently handed her.

I left. At least this time, since it was a working day for the middle-of-nowhere embassy, the taxis had swarmed to prey on needy people. I took one, and showed to him the card I'd been given with the address of the agency. Again, stupid high taxi price. He brought me to a hotel.

"What?" I inquired about by general situation out loud. He showed me that yes; in fact, the card said that the agency was located in one of the rooms of this hotel. I verified. So, I went in, climbed the stairs to room 304, and inside found 2 young Russian people filling out newspaper crossword puzzles. There was a small office with one table and 2 computers, but which otherwise was completely empty. I had no idea what to say to them, so I simply handed over the business card.

The girl took it, then discussed with the boy something. At last, she turned to me, and in fast-paced Russian, interspersed with a few basic English words, she explained to me what I interpreted as: "They left 5 days ago and I don't know where they went." So there was no Chinese tour agency there anymore. I thanked them and left.

My next plan was to call the phone number, but for that I needed to put money on my phone, a task which meant going on an on-foot search for a machine that would allow me to pay into my account. Did that. I called the number, and thank god the woman on the phone could speak English. I asked her if she was, indeed, someone who could get for me an invitation letter to China, and she said yes. Her office was neither that named by the business card, nor was it located anywhere even remotely nearby. But, I set off, once again, walking in the sun.

When at last I arrived, I sat to speak with her. I needed an invitation, she explained, and it would take 3 days to arrive from Beijing. If I wanted a visa, I would have to pay $250.

“$250?!?!?”

But, I pointed out, the application said that I would have to pay only $140. She explained: $140 or the visa, $60 for the invitation letter, and $50 for her work, which I could not find reason to believe was anything but absolutely necessary. 

And, she said, it would take 10 days.

“10 days?!?!?!” I pointed out, once more, that the application said it would take just 4 days.

"No," she scorned, as if I were some dumb dog, "10 day! 10 day visa!"

But then she clarified that for 10 days it would be cheaper, only $230, but that then the embassy would make me pay $20 to them and it would be $250. I could get a 2 day rush visa for $270, but for me she would do it for $250. I was confused with the logic behind this deal, but opted for the rush visa for $250. 

 She revealed, I would have to renew my Kyrgyz visa for some silly requirement that China has with visa over-lapse. More money. More time. More effort. More confusion.

What a simple thing I was striving to do! Somewhere to the east of me there was a land called China. I wanted to go and meet its people and see the history of its land as embodied in the mountains and deserts and jungles and rivers and lakes. I wanted to exercise my one transcendental right, to exist upon the surface of this world and perceive the spectrum of its wealth of glorious wisdom. I stood then in the high wooded grasslands of Central Asia, and I sought to descend from that plateau into the vast desert that lay below. I sought physical motion, to see a new place, to alter my surroundings by transplanting my perspective, and what futile resistance I found myself encountering.

I needed permission. Someone needed money, and someone had to know where I was. This was formality, and for that I spent so many days walking back and forth across Bishkek, emptying my pockets into the wallets of taxi drivers, banks, and various state institutions. Who had the right to demand my money so that I could descend the mountains?

But, so things are around the fringes of nations. I got my Chinese visa in the end, and my brother flew from Texas to Bishkek with his visa already in hand. We caught a car south to the Chinese border.