Leap...........!

The reaper grins and will decide for those who don’t decide for themselves.

Seven lanes of freeway leave the frenetic land border crossing from Hong Kong into Guandong Province, mainland China. Immediately we swerved around a naked man standing in the middle lane. The driver said this was a common sight. Not bad for a first vision of China. I wondered if we had arrived in a land that would surpass India for head twisting apparitions.

We’d driven a mile passed our freeway exit when the driver slammed on his brakes, skidding into the emergency lane. He shifted into reverse and started the perilous haul back. The hard shoulder was narrowing to naught, who the hell’s going to rear end us!

Patience snapped, he turned the yellow target one eighty and proceeded back toward the exit against the furious flow of traffic. Neither of us could speak beyond gasping. We were in the video game Galactica with missiles flying down either side. I didn’t hear a single horn blast us, maybe the horror turns you deaf, part of a sensory shutdown to protect those bearing down on the final fear.

There was no way we’d make it to the exit and then we did. The unruffled driver accelerated down the off ramp smoking his cigarette. Most people would have got out right there, but we were very late for work and in shock.

Half way to Guangzhou the cab pulled up in a densely populated slum bordering rice paddies and odorous fish farms. The driver disappeared into a shack. Had we survived freeway chicken to be robbed and goosed and tossed into pungent ponds? He emerged bare-chested outside the neighboring hut, beer bottle in hand and sat down to succulent catfish under a flapping tarp.

The other teacher in the cab spoke Cantonese and splashed her way through the puddles of pot holes to castigate the famished chauffeur. She was told a Confucius poem about the digestive consequences of eating whilst riding a horse. We’d reached the point of adios but the only alternatives were aquatic, the original slow boats into China; we arrived in the city tardy after dessert.

In Guangzhou, Molte bello historic districts were lining up to take their turn under the wrecking ball. Ancient alleys ran up against acres of wooden scaffolding and buildings that trade sunlight for fluorescence. Streams of bicycles dominate the cities, to cycle in China is to cascade, be the small drop that flows in flood

The intervening months of work and wander lured me west, by rail and river and road and much Lady Look.

The hardest part of train travel in China is getting on the train. Guangzhou’s central train station looks like a human storage depot, people sleeping atop piles of sacks and bags and boxes, endless bundles and huddles of heads in long wait for a carriage home. The first instinct is too flee when neophyte eyes scan the human maze of chaos. Under vaulted ceilings there’s no discernable path from buried ticket booth to platform sea. Which line leads where? What is the Chinese script flashing in red? Is that man dead or dreaming? Sudden surges, throngs rush by and stun the dozing, is my train leaving? Should you emerge from the hordes, you’ll find a pristinely dressed uniformed guard at each carriage door. In their still calm they impart an air of, the chaos stops here. Except in my case, as the rail side houses move slowly by the window, my departing thought is, fuck, is this the right train?

Buses by contrast are much easier to find and board, they save their shocks for the ride. I’d been told about a sacred mountain to climb whose trails begin in ancient, spring fed villages and weave upward through lush farm terraces to pristine plateaus that would shame Shangrila. Of course such treasure is a few days off the beaten track and several bus changes away.

I was in a small Sichuan town and about to take the last bus across the mountain to the lost peaks. The old vehicle looked war ravaged in the bright sun. Fortune found three Israelis ahead of me already bargaining down the fare. For decades Chinese government policy mandated all foreigners pay three times local prices. In recent years the Party reversed this law, but the people were reluctant to cease gouging. Thus savvy visitors learn quickly to count up to a hundred in Mandarin and basic phrases like, ‘How much is it?’ ‘Quit with the fist, that’s too much.’ (T’as gwei lar)

Israelis are supreme hagglers. I watched with patient delight as they chipped away the 100 yuan requested fare down to the actual 35 Yuan. The full bus was delayed several minutes until the driver intervened and instructed the conductor to let the four ‘fucks’ pay the same as everyone else.

We sat on the first row of nine behind the driver, two females and a male from Israel, trading tales and tips about the region. The girls, Renen and Hava had just done three years of compulsory military service and were getting as far away as possible. Noam had got out of the army seven years ago and went straight to India, the perfect antidote to tanks and guns. He traveled north to Kashmir with a group that expanded to seven; more is merrier and safer when you’re Jewish.

We began the ascent through spectacular verdant terraces, Noam’s words were equally captivating. He recalled in minute detail how the seven of them were kidnapped in 1991 near Srinigar by Kashmiri separatists. They were held prisoner for days in the woods, but the terrorists found these backpackers difficult to break down. The captives hatched a plan to disarm the guards. In the break out they overpowered their captors, killed two Kashmiris and lost one of their own. They punched and shot their way out, their pursuers lost them in the woods. The attractive girls were as wide eyed as I was, which made we wonder if Noam was furnishing fiction to reap fornication? He was a tad rotund after all.

We reached the top of magic mountain and began a vertiginous descent down the far side. At this altitude, it was too steep for farming, the terraces gave way to cliffs. We began descending a narrow helta-skelta of hairpins. Our speed was about 10 miles an hour when two male passengers behind us jumped out of the open middle door, the only door on the bus. I did not think this too odd until they were followed by another pair? The remaining two dozen passengers and conductor were shouting horrors back and forth.

The driver said nothing, he was anxiously pumping the brakes as the bus was picking up speed. The brakes were shot, it was a sheer, cavernous drop on the left side. Inside it was like a plane load of crazed parachutists, pushing each other for their chance to leap at the mountain. Passengers hit the ground hard. Behind us was a dusty trail of lemming leapers. Torn clothes and flesh. Bones cracking.

Desperately pumping brakes, while we go faster and faster, the locals had seen this before, they knew the drill – Jump! The Israelis and I were weighing the same odds…....

Leap and break a leg, don’t leap and break a neck?
All eyes fixating on the frantic foot and spiraling cliff edge.

We have years to prepare, but never pack.
The conductor, mid moan, jumped out of the front right window, thud. Last hope hit stony slope. The end looms, bring on the broom, ineluctable sweep, into chasm deep.

The four of us shared winces of deepest mire, this was rolling quicksand. Noam and I clambered to the wide front window and the girls scrambled back to the middle door. We were descending at over 40 mph, to jump was certain injury. The only other passengers still on the bus were an elderly couple at the back. They showed no fear of the impending flight into the abyss. We came to a straighter section, up ahead were a gang waving wildly. They had seen the runaway bus coming down the mountain. They were heaving a boulder into the middle of the road – BRACE – CRASH!

The big rock stopped us dead. We picked ourselves up off the bus floor and lauded the driver and rock movers. Noam didn’t waste a minute, he broke open his medicine kit and lead us back up the mountain to administer triage. ‘Spray antiseptic on all wounds and bandage!’ They were soldiers again and we the uninjured rushed to others’ aid. Noam identified several broken limbs, mainly arms. Those that couldn’t walk he treated and carried downhill. He didn’t understand their grateful words, but the conductor’s eyes said it and more, ‘Sorry’. Foreigners wouldn’t have to haggle on his bus again.

Noam had strong hands.
They heal in China,
and kill in Kashmir.