The Russian gateway was barely more than a patch of rough, mismatching buildings set in a barren valley. My feeble attempt to sneak through the gates was abruptly halted by an austere guard. This is what I feared; no crossing between Russia and China is permissible by foot. Depressingly, I had to dismantle my bike in minutes and shove it into the little remaining space in the cargo compartment of the coach, from the mass of boxes being transported by the chinese passengers.
This was my second land crossing into China—the first was from North Vietnam—and on both occasions I arrived at a polished immigration monstrosity that dwarfed the immigration office on the neighbours side of the border. One more fresh page squandered on an entry stamp. Suifenhezhen is a booming border city—its mass development fed by Russian consumers making overnight trips from Khabarovsk and Vladivostok, for bargain shopping and benders.
Scaffolding, concrete and that artificially green glass only seen in China, rises from the dust and rubble that defines Chinese urbanisation. Hope and dreams in the form of wealth and progression manifests in that uniquely asian way—awash with neon, noise pollution and multi-national branding.
The economic stimulation and the perfect ribbon of road with a bicycle lane the width of a bus, is short lived in a country where rural life is largely impoverished. I cycled due west into nasty headwinds. Through the dusty, parched, post-winter lands, I passed giant concrete structures with billboards depicting future grandiose housing developments rising from verdant green gardens up to fictional blue skies—the great Chinese dream.
Commercial constructions expand over what were probably entire farms. I got bared by police from the expressway so for the next three days travelled a minor, concrete road wiggling along the undulating countryside, intermittently crossing the expressway and running through shanty villages and charmless, smoking industrial towns.
