February 23, 2016
Xing'an for a visa extension
a short ride down the X086
The rain has stopped, but there's a fine drizzle in the air that coats me in a layer of dampness before I find a place selling steamed buns, just 100m down the road from the hotel. It's around nine and there's that Monday morning feel about the town.
I walk down some steps to the river bank to take a snap and feel chilled even with my socks and waterproof spats on and wonder how many of the Marchers still had the flimsy woven straw sandals that they’d been issued with when they left Yudu over a month before. They were likely barefoot and it was late November. They didn’t have a bridge to get across the Xiang and it must have looked even more miserable to them than it does me.
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
The Xiang flows northeast from Guanxi into Hunan province. It’s about 50 metres across where the First army crossed it at Jieshou between November 25th and December 3rd. The first marchers didn’t have a serious problem, but those at the rear, who were trailing around a week behind, got caught by Nationalists forces positioned to the north and south, as well as those chasing from behind.
Compounding all this, Nationalist planes bombed Red soldiers trying to cross the water on the narrow pontoons. It was chaos and its said around 40,000 Red soldiers were lost, with the river turning red from the bloody corpses floating down it.
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
From having 86,000 men six weeks earlier, the number of Communists was down to 30,000 after the river crossing. It's thought that most deserted. It’s worth bearing in mind that the younger ones had been either seduced by the idea of radical change, or were coerced into joining. After a while the novelty would have worn off: they didn’t know where they were going; conditions were tough; the future was uncertain. If I’d had been one of them, the sight of the top brass being carried all the way in litters – kind of wheel-less rickshaws – wouldn’t have helped my morale. For the privileged few, it wasn't really an actual march.
A massive Long March monument was built in Xing'an, but that's about 15km south from the main river crossing at Jieshou. Soldiers from the Red Army also crossed the river in two other places to its north: Dapin, some 20 kilometres away, and Fenghuang - both of which I passed by as I rode along the S303 yesterday: there wasn’t much left to see. The fiercest fighting is thought to have occurred around Dapin, over on the west bank.
The surviving 30,000 marchers made a beeline west, into the rugged hills and mountains, while I'm going to be riding south on a small road, the X086, to Xing’an to get my 30-day visa extension. It means doubling back a bit, but actually following the Reds’ exact path west from river is a no-no on a bike, as they trekked along dangerous mountains tracks measured in centimeters, not metres. There are stories or men and horses falling to their deaths.
Visibility is bad as my glasses are peppered with beads of water. My feet are chilled. At least the route is flat, but it's a pretty drab hour or so of cycling and I'm pleased about riding around 90km yesterday to save rushing about in today's wetness.
It's around noon when I find the office for visa extensions. It's only the size of someone’s living room. None of the four staff sitting behind the counter speak any English apart from ‘hello’. A call is made and then one of the guys walks me up the street to a fancy hotel, because I need to register there before they can process my application.
I’ve seen smaller supermarkets than the marble-floored lobby. It's a relief when the English-speaking manager sorts out my registration and quotes me reasonable rate for a room. The bike is put inside. How long the visa extension process will take to sort out remains a mystery, but there's talk of me having to go down to Guilin, at least a day’s ride south. That’s not what I want to hear, even though it is a tourist haven. The result is I have to go back to the police office at 3pm, which gives me some time to wash my clothes.
The helpful manager, Robert, shows me the industrial driers in the basement and asks the female laundry workers to help me out once I've hand-washed all my dirty gear. There's no charge. What a star.
Back at the police office at three, it's form-signing time. I give them a passport mug shot I have and everything seems fine, but then they said I will have to collect my visa from Guilin tomorrow. Apparently, Xing’an is just a small office. If I'd known, I'd have gone directly there, or got it done back in Daoxian. But the worst news is yet to come.
A woman who speaks English talks to me on the phone. She’s been faxed my application. She says my original visa was a type M, which turns out to be a business one, not a tourist visa. It means it can’t be extended. I have to leave China by the end of the month. The Long Ride is going to be pretty short.
Like thousands of Reds, the Xiang River is as far as I get. What a complete shitter.
Today's ride: 20 km (12 miles)
Total: 1,187 km (737 miles)
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 0 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 0 |