Walking the Wall

The border zone where the Great Wall divides the provinces of Shaanxi and Shanxi from the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region is coal country. Not far below the surface is the Shenfu Dongsheng coalfield, the seventh largest coal deposit in the world and potentially the most profitable.

Datong coal mine

Coal is the fuel that powers China’s phenomenal economic growth. The country’s coal consumption has increased almost 15% annually in recent years, and coal supplies almost two-thirds of its energy needs. It doesn’t take a crystal ball to see China’s energy future, and that future is black.

The vision for tomorrow

A more realistic version

But if coal is important to the prospects of China as a whole, well, it’s everything in the mining valleys where we walked in northern Shaanxi. There’s not a lot of water in northern Shaanxi and it’s too hilly to irrigate effectively, so the agriculture’s pretty marginal. That means that coal is just about the only game in town. Almost every village is a mining village, and those few jobs that aren’t in the mines or the coal-fired power plants are in the businesses that service the mines and the power industry. Most of the traffic on the roads consists of massive trucks carrying coal between the mines and the power plants or distribution centres. Most of the young people we spoke to in the region who are going off to university are getting their degrees in mining engineering or a related field.

A truck stop between Fengzhen, Inner Mongolia and Datong, Shanxi

Up from Shanghai for a mine inspection

There are also smaller, informal economies that revolve around the coal industry. At the big truck stops, small armies of men gather to wait for pieces of coal to drop from the trucks as they take off; they then collect these and presumably sell them. On the more remote roads that get less traffic you can see older men and women walking along with old seed bags, gathering the bits that fall to the roadside on a much smaller scale, probably for personal use.

Men rushing to collect the scraps

Waiting for the next truck

While the mines obviously bring jobs with them, it seemed to us that life was pretty tough in the area, even by Northern China standards. Everything, and we mean everything, from the roads to the people to the sparrows to the sheep, was coated in soot. It was impossible to spend even a few hours outside without looking like a chimneysweep.

Sixteen tons, whaddya get, another day older and deeper in debt . . .

A typical roadside scene

As we’ve mentioned before, we found people noticeably less friendly in coal country than elsewhere. We don’t know why, but one guess is that because many mining jobs are filled by workers migrating in from elsewhere, levels of trust within communities are lower than in more stable villages. Certainly the number of vicious, unchained attack dogs guarding homes would support that.

We wanted a photo of an unchained dog, but when you’re fending off a loose, half-crazed German Shepherd with a walking stick it’s tough to get off a shot

Then there’s the pollution. The statistics are grim enough on a global and national level. China is about to pass the US as the world’s largest emitter of greenhouse gases (though of course China comes nowhere near threatening the status of Australia and the US as the per capita greenhouse pollution champs). And air pollution, again largely from coal, accounts for over 400,000 (yes, that’s almost half a million) premature deaths in China per year.

But the local pollution impacts are especially nasty. When you consider that we were coughing up black phlegm after a few days in the region, you can imagine what it might be like to live there (and how damaging the coal dust must be to young, vulnerable lungs).

Two kids next to a New Year’s coal pyre

A lovely roadside stream of ?????

To add to the list of horrors, China’s coal mining industry is far and away the most dangerous in the world. According to official statistics, about 5000 to 6000 people die every year in mining accidents; independent estimates put the figure at 10,000 to 20,000. Although occupational safety standards in a poor country like China are bound to be different from those in the West, such a high accident rate is hardly inevitable. The death rate per million tonnes of coal produced in China is about 150 times that in Australia; the fatality rate in India, a considerably poorer country, is only 9% of China’s (if you believe the Chinese stats, which nobody does).

But hey, if it’s just all too hard for China’s coal mine owners to invest in modern safety equipment and practices, maybe putting up a slogan will do the trick.

Safety in production, unrestricted sales!

Near Xinpingbu, Shanxi province

Believe it or not, we don’t often get a good chance to take a panoramic of the wall. Walking on or near it doesn’t always lend itself to a good distance shot, and the wall doesn’t always cooperate in terms of angle and lighting.

But we’ve been playing around a bit with our pocket digicam’s panoramic mode (which allows you to stitch together several individual photos into a single panorama) and came up with this shot. We thought you might like to see it because it clearly shows the sinuous line of the wall and the track we followed that day. Click on the image for a larger version. (Now that we’ve worked out how to do it, stay tuned for some mountain panoramas).

The Purple Pagoda of Pain

Normally I don’t go in for alternative health therapies. I don’t doubt that some of them work; it’s just that I’m more comfortable with the kind of medicine I grew up with.

So it’s hard to explain, even to myself, how I came to be a victim of the ancient Chinese therapy of “cupping.” Maybe it was because there were five therapists simultaneously recommending the treatment, miming how it worked, and trying to teach me the Chinese term for it – and only one of me to explain that all I wanted was a head, neck and shoulder massage. Maybe it was because I was too tired to argue with them when they told me it was just the thing for sore shoulders. Maybe it was because the “spa” at our guesthouse, like many spas at country hotels, doubled as a house of ill repute, and I was just grateful that nobody was trying to take off their clothes.

Whatever the reason, I soon found myself face down on a couch with 13 (lucky me!) candle holders suctioned to my back, without completely understanding what I was in for. Later I learned that cupping, which is related to acupuncture, is a technique where the therapist places a candle within an inverted cup until the flame extinguishes itself due to lack of air. Using the vacuum created by the flame, the therapist applies the cup to the patient at a pressure point and leaves it in place for about five minutes. The vacuum draws blood to the surface, and at least in theory, draws toxins out of the body and provides relief from pain.

Cupping also causes massive bruising, but the first I heard about this was when Emma screamed in horror as I was changing to go to bed.

Anyway, cupping did seem to work for me in a perverse sort of way. The next day, when it came time to get back on the trail and walk 30 kilometres, the pain that came from my pack rubbing against 13 giant hickeys on my back made me forget all about my sore shoulders.

As we struggle through the mountains, up hill and down dale, through thorns and over craggy cliffs, we’ve encountered another problem – no internet reception. This means we’ve been unable to keep the blog up to date. More importantly it means Brendan can’t check the NBA scores.

Please be patient with us while we get through this black hole. We have a hefty backlog of posts and photos waiting to be uploaded and will try to get them up as soon as possible. Uploading photos in a tiny village internet cafe such as the one we are in now is virtually impossible. You’d be lucky to find a working CD drive, let alone a usable USB port.

Thank you for your recent comments, it’s great to have people spur us on for the final push. We are coming up to the hardest part of the wall now (and we thought the first 2700kms were difficult), so every little bit of encouragement helps.

When we turned away from the Yellow River a few weeks ago and headed northeast along the Shanxi-Inner Mongolia border, we felt like we had passed an important milestone in our journey. We’d completed roughly two-thirds of the hike. We were moving from the western provinces of Gansu, Ningxia and Shaanxi to the eastern provinces of Shanxi, Beijing and Hebei. And we were leaving behind the desert and climbing into the mountains.

The wall ascending a ridge above the village of Baiyangkou, Shanxi province

The eastern turn from the Yellow River also marked an important transition for the builders of the Great Wall. Though the wall is generally thought of as a defensive structure, in the west it had offensive functions as well. In Gansu the wall served as a frontier outpost in a region that was and remains heavily Central Asian in character. In Shaanxi’s Ordos region the wall was an attempt at defining a permanent border in a highly contested area with a long history of shifting frontiers. But from the Yellow River eastward, the wall’s primary reason for being was defensive: to protect the Ming capital of Beijing.

A boy watches us from a fort in the village of Madaoju, not far from the Yellow River

Left unprotected, this pass would allow easy entry to Zhangjiakou, just over 200 kilometres from Beijing

The character of the wall along the Shanxi-Inner Mongolia border seemed to us to reflect this change in purpose. In the west, the wall was generally built of erodible materials – rammed earth or adobe – and like the borders it defined or reinforced, it seemed impermanent. The wall we’ve traveled along for the past few weeks is made of brick and stone, and it was built to last.

Around 500 years after it was built, this tower shows almost no signs of wear and tear

We had seen the occasional stone and brick beacon tower when we were in Shaanxi (two a’s), but in Shanxi (one a) stone and brick towers became the norm. Nearly all of these towers were imposing brick structures with massive stone foundations; many were beautiful as well, with keyhole windows, nameplates and elaborate carvings.

We have no way of measuring, but we’d guess this tower is no less than 15 metres high, probably more

The distinctive keyhole windows visible on this tower allowed archers to get off shots unimpeded while remaining protected

Many of the towers we see have spots for nameplates, but nearly all of them have been removed

Since we’ve crossed the border from Shanxi into Hebei, the province that surrounds Beijing (and our last province), the wall has come to resemble even more the traditional image of the Great Wall. Virtually all of the wall we walk along these days is made of stone, and often it snakes along high, windy ridgetops for miles on end.

Many sections of stone wall, like this one, have no mortar

A classic ridgetop view

The views from the top are great of course, but the pretty scenery comes at a cost – and unfortunately, the only forms of payment accepted are burning thighs and aching joints.

Emma speeding uphill

On the narrower ridges, the footing can get rough and rocky

Just when we thought spring was here to stay, we climbed right back into winter – fresh snow the morning of April 16

ONLY 1000 kilometres to go?

From the very first day we left Jiayuguan, we have been consistently, and outrageously, wrong on every estimate of distance and time remaining on our hike we have ever made. We started out thinking our hike would be about 3000 kilometres long and take six months; 2600 kilometres, 10 months and one broken foot later, we’ve refined that estimate to 3600 kilometres and 12 months (including a three-plus month “break”).

And we’ll probably be wrong again. But it’s never stopped us before.

Using our highly sophisticated technique of drawing a line with our mapping software and then adding about 20% to whatever estimate of distance the software yields, we have determined that, from where we now stand in Zhangjiakou, we probably have no more than 1000 kilometres left to hike. So we’re setting a finish date of June 11. Or June 12. Or something like that.

And we’re sticking to it.

. . . it’s probably best not to try. Or at least that’s what the builders of the Great Wall seem to have thought.

Along China’s northern frontier there are few physical barriers that act as a natural boundary separating China from the Mongolian steppe. One exception is the canyon of the Yellow River north of Fugu.

Here the canyon walls are so steep that not even the most highly skilled Mongol horseman could scale them. To make an attempt would risk death. That’s why, at various times in Chinese history, this stretch of river served as the border between dynastic China and the northern nomadic tribes. Its sheer natural cliffs could accomplish just as well, if not better, what the builders of the Great Wall sought to accomplish.

A round beacon tower above the river. Not even the man from Snowy River could ride down those canyon walls.

Yet passes could be found. Where tributaries meet the river, it is possible to cross, and by the 15th Century, groups of increasingly hungry and desperate Mongols began to infiltrate and weaken the Chinese hold around the Yellow River. While the Ming Dynasty army was suffering from a shortage of food and horses and unable to put up a good fight, the Mongols started to occupy parts of the Ordos, carrying out regular raids on the Chinese and basically becoming a huge problem for Ming national security.

A tributary valley is visible in the background

At that time, the current Great Wall in this area didn’t exist. Walls had been given a bad rap and the Ming Dynasty ministers wanted to work out another way of dealing with their unfriendly neighbours. So the bureaucrats did what bureaucrats do best – spent the better part of 10 years arguing over the pros and cons of a full-scale attack, trade and diplomacy, or, if all else failed, a bloody big wall. All else failed. By 1474, over 900 kilometres of wall went up around the Ordos, all the way to the Yellow River at Fugu.

But the Yellow River didn’t entirely lose its role as a natural barrier – in fact, it probably helped the Ming Dynasty wall builders save a bit of much-needed cash. From what we could see as we walked up the river, it was clear that the cliffs, in parts too steep to allow passage, were actually just as good as wall. For long stretches there was no wall at all, and there probably never has been. All that was needed to defend such sections were a few watch towers and beacon towers, which were regularly placed above the river.

Where the canyon walls gave way to tributaries and valleys, leaving room for easy yet well-concealed passage, there was still a need for continuous wall. In these sections, we saw at least 200 metres of wall stretching out on either side of the tributary canyon and angling down into the valley floor. This was probably enough, or thought to be enough, defence to block an advance.

This section of wall protects a break in the main canyon wall that could allow passage

Wall stretching down to protect a side canyon

Shaanxi was the province where we finally completed our entry level course in Hiking the Great Wall of China and moved up to intermediate level. Gansu and Ningxia were both pretty flat, as you’ll recall, but over the 647 kilometres we walked in Shaanxi, we ascended nearly 22,000 metres, i.e. 22 kilometres, and descended a bit more. The average gradient was nearly 7%. That’s not flat.

We were on the wall well over half the time, for 378 kilometres, but the figure doesn’t quite tell the whole story. The wall in Shaanxi isn’t in very good shape, but it does run more or less continuously from the Ningxia border to about 60 kilometres north of Yulin. Although there isn’t a lot of wall remaining in north of that point in Shaanxi, there are still beacon towers scattered along prominent ridges.

The trip totals for the three provinces completed are below the Shaanxi statistics. The Trip Log is also updated through Shaanxi, which we passed out of on February 27. We’ve had a few problems moving large files over the internet recently, so the Trip Map isn’t updated yet but it should be in a few days.

Shaanxi Province

Days in the province: 50
Days spent walking: 36
Days spent resting, sightseeing, wasting time: 14

Location at Shaanxi’s western border: 37° 43’ 31.66” N, 107° 29’ 42.66″ E
Location at Shaanxi’s eastern border: 39° 01’ 36.08” N, 111° 03’ 48.21″ E

Kilometres walked: 647.054
Average daily distance (walking days only): 17.974

Kilometres walked on the wall: 378.260
Kilometres walked off the wall: 268.794

Elevation at Shaanxi’s western border: 1333
Elevation at Shaanxi’s eastern border: 830

Maximum elevation: 1744
Minimum elevation: 820

Total ascent: 21,761
Total descent: 22,204
Average gradient: 6.795%

Trip Totals to Shaanxi’s Eastern Border

Total days: 168
Days walked: 114
Days spent resting, sightseeing, wasting time: 54

Location at trip’s beginning: 37° 21’ 58.56” N, 104° 12’ 21.45″ E
Location at Shaanxi’s eastern border:: 39° 01’ 36.08” N, 111° 03’ 48.21″ E

Kilometres walked: 2037.274
Average daily distance (walking days only): 17.871

Kilometres walked on the wall: 1102.803
Kilometres walked off the wall: 934.471

Elevation at trip’s beginning: 1735
Elevation at Shaanxi’s eastern border: 830

Maximum elevation: 2504
Minimum elevation: 820

Total ascent: 39,784
Total descent: 40,410
Average gradient: 3.936%

In the first two provinces we traveled through, Gansu and Ningxia, our experiences with people were overwhelmingly positive. There were the inevitable problems of traveling in China – cultural and linguistic misunderstandings, being overcharged, being stared at. But these weren’t as common as we’d expected, and the friendliness and generosity of the people we met far outweighed any minor hassles.

Things changed in Shaanxi. In central Shaanxi, where we spent most of January and early February, this was mostly due to poverty. There, the areas that we walked through were much different from what we’d encountered in the irrigation country of Gansu and Ningxia. People were not dressed as well, they were considerably shorter and less healthy, and they looked less happy. They rarely invited us into their homes, and understandably so – people had nothing to spare. On several occasions we were turned away from homes when looking for water – not because they didn’t have water, but because they seemed afraid of us. While we couldn’t possibly blame people who had nothing for being reluctant to take us in, as precious and petty as it may seem to say so, inevitably this affected our mood.

In the northern Shaanxi coal country things got a bit nastier. Though the people were better off than in central Shaanxi, they were also less than kind to us with some regularity. For example, normally people call us wai guo ren, meaning simply “foreigners,” or even wai guo pengyoumen, meaning “foreign friends.” In northern Shaanxi, for the first time in the trip, we were routinely called laowai, a term whose meaning ranges from a neutral though not especially polite term for foreigners, to a derogatory slur. When it’s shouted in your face from five feet away – Laowai! Laowai!!! Hey, LAOWAI!!!! – it’s not tough to figure out which meaning is intended.

In Shaanxi our Wall Angels were more important to us than ever, not just because of what they gave us directly, which was plenty, but also because they sustained us through the most difficult part of our trip (things have been much more positive in recent weeks). When it seemed that everyone was either afraid of us or unfriendly, they reminded us that the large majority of our encounters with people, even in Shaanxi, have been happy ones. When we were becoming suspicious and short-tempered, our Wall Angels replenished our emotional reserves.

Gong Zhi Yang

Mr Gong was one of the few people who approached us in the poor and remote hill country southeast of Anbian, and for Brendan’s sake, he came along at just the right moment. At that time, we were still doing short days and short weeks to rehab the foot, and we had come to the end of the distance we’d allotted for that section.

The problem was, we were miles short of the town where we’d hoped to have a rest day. The hills were getting steeper, and the canyons deeper. To top it all off, Emma was starting to whine.

When we saw a paved road in the distance, the first for days, we thought we had it made – paved roads usually mean buses, and buses mean towns and guesthouses. But those hopes soon faded – after watching the road for two hours as we descended the mountain, we saw all of two cars. The only thing we could think of to do when we made it to the village was argue.

Enter Mr Gong. He strolled out of his courtyard with a huge smile on his face, whether it was from watching us squabble or just friendliness we’ll never know. When we asked if we could catch a bus from this village, he said no, but not to worry, his son was a driver. Next thing we knew we were sitting in his cave dwelling, sipping tea, and chatting with Mr Gong, his daughter-in-law and son, who eventually took us to the next town.

Mr Gong and family

It turns out that, like many trail angels in the States (see Wall Angels, Gansu Province for an explanation), Mr Jia had a history of helping hikers. Some years before he had hosted another wall walker, a New Zealander, who almost certainly was Nathan Gray.

It’s funny to think that there must be a whole team of people in villages across China who see, at least once or twice a year, a backpack-laden hiker stumble into their courtyard looking for water or a ride. The wonderful thing is that these people rarely hesitate in offering one or the other. In the case of Mr Gong, he offered both.

Liu Wan Yuan

A few weeks after Mr Gong rescued us, we found ourselves in a similar fix – at the end of a hiking week, further away from town than we wanted, low on food and out of water.

We spotted a small shack that looked like a temporary worker’s house near a road next to the wall and decided to ask for water, just enough so we could then think and decide how to get in to Yulin given we were still far from the highway.

It’s not uncommon that stopping in for water turns into an hour-long process that involves many cups of tea. But stopping in for water at Mr Liu’s took more than an hour, mostly because we could actually understand each other and were enjoying having a conversation with someone other than ourselves. We had been having a really hard time deciphering the Shaanxi dialect with people we met, but talking with Mr Liu was just like talking with someone from Beijing.

It turned out that he was a notary by training (he still carried his books in his hut) but was currently working on the oil line that was going in around Yulin.

Liu Wan Yuan

There was something very kind about him – maybe it was because he too was living away from his family, in a small hut barely big enough for one person. He saw to our transport, knew quite a bit about the wall, and kept on pressing food and tea into our hands.

When we returned a few days later to resume hiking, we stopped in and gave him a present. He was embarrassed but when we told him it was for his wife he accepted. On showing us to the wall, he took us to the beacon tower nearest to his hut and took Brendan up to show him the view. Apparently it had been a favourite sunrise spot for foreign photographers and he thought we would like it.

Surveying the desert with Mr Liu

He Xiao Hu

In Shaanxi we were so often quoted exorbitant prices for cab rides there wasn’t even any point in haggling. When you’re quoted a price three times the going rate for locals, the cabbie’s not trying for a good price, he’s trying to rip you off. Anyway, it may take a while, but there’s always someone who will take you for a fair price. And who’s almost certain to be better company.

He Xiao Hu was that guy. After a break day in Shenmu we needed to get back to the wall, only 20 kms away. The first taxi driver said it would cost 100 yuan, so we politely closed the door and walked away. Mr He pulled over and, with a huge smile, said it would cost 1 yuan a kilometre. Now that’s what we like to hear.

He Xiao Hu

With not much wall around Shenmu, we had to do a lot of walking on roads. This meant finding a good driver was paramount. He Xiao Hu was good – fun, smiley and safe. And he was on a mission to teach his three-year-old boy English and learn a bit himself. So, whenever we were in the car, he plugged in a children’s tape, which gave very simple lessons in English greetings, names for animals, family members and so forth, The lessons were set to catchy little children’s tunes and used the tried-and-true Chinese instructional method of endless repetition – “Zaoshang hao, good morning, good morning, good morning; Xiao zhu yi yang Pig, pig pig.” If the songs stick in his three-year-old’s mind like they did in ours, the boy will be fluent in no time.

GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!

On any extended journey – a really long trip, several months or several thousand kilometres long – there always seems to be a trough in the middle. You’re far away enough from the beginning that the novelty’s worn out. You’re too far away from finishing for the end to be in sight. Every day is just another day of plodding through a mental and physical rut, and it seems that the only thing on the horizon is more horizon.

Along the Great Wall of China that trough has a name. It is Shaanxi.

To say that Shaanxi has not been our favourite province is . . . well, enough said. Or at least once we’ve finished with this post enough will have been said.

Oh! To be in Australia!

To be fair (not that we intend to), it wasn’t all Shaanxi’s fault. After putting up with winter in December and early January, we really didn’t need another six weeks of it. The BRRRR! factor when we checked the thermometer in the morning wasn’t impressive any more, it was just cold. Falling on our butts as we crossed icy rivers wasn’t that funny (except when Emma did it), it just hurt.

Not exactly Christopher Dean

But she does a passable Jane Torvill

Of course we could have taken consolation in the scenery. If there had been any. We love the desert as much as anyone, but after 1500 kilometres, is it too much to ask for a tree? One?

We meant one that was ALIVE!!

If it weren’t for the difference in texture between rammed earth and wind-blown dunes, we wouldn’t have known we were on the wall

OK, all right, the red bushes are pretty

Actually, it wasn’t all bad. It was lambing season, and “kidding” season, or whatever you call the season when baby goats are born; and the cute little guys were jumping, literally, all over the place.

You gotta be kidding me

The proud billy

Village life was often picturesque, despite the poverty, which was considerably worse than in other areas we’ve visited, and which we’ll write about in a more serious post down the road.

The tiny village of Cai Xiao Gou Cun. The slate on the rooftops is taken from an adjacent cliff.

Yulin, the largest city in northern Shaanxi, was one of the nicest cities we’ve visited, with vibrant street life and a beautiful old section of town.

A “pedestrian” mall in Yulin – for some reason it didn’t stop the traffic

A Yulin nut vendor

And, as always, whenever we got down (or needed an uplifting end to a whiny post), the children of China were there to lend a hand.

No wonder they’re hiding – the slogan on the wall says “Study to the best of your ability, over and over, every day”