I wasn't there when it happened so I don't know what happened.

         I know what the motorcyclist said happened.

         I know what the bicyclists said happened.

         And I know what the police decided.

         But I wasn't there so I don't know for sure.

         By the time I got there it had already been long enough for a few cases of cans of sweet eight treasure porridge to be purchased and handed out to the waiting bicyclists.

         None of us were hurt so I don't suppose we really needed to wait.

         On the other hand, if we'd gone away and left our support truck driver unsupported against a local who was blaming him for an accident it wouldn't have been very nice. And, although none of us thought the accident had anything much to do with us simply walking away from it wouldn't have been particularly honorable.

         So we waited.

         It took over an hour after my arrival for the traffic cops to arrive.

         It took an hour after that for them to make their decision.

         While we waited.

         And ate more cans of porridge.

         And drank more water.

         And put on more clothes.

         And did more stretches.

         And started finding headlights and flashlights and blinkies.

         When it first happened our driver offered the motorcyclist 150rmb to simply go away. This is the way things are done. Even in the city where a wait for the police is nowhere near as long. Something happens between two drivers and after obligatory yelling and chest thumping one of the drivers offers the other one a sum of money to go away. Not neccessarily the driver who is at fault, simply the one who least wants to sit around and get the police involved.

         But the motorcyclist wouldn't take the 150rmb. He felt that the sum was far far too low for the damage to his motorcycle, his passenger, his body, his clothes and his pride.

         So we had to wait.

         He should have taken the money when it was offered. Because when the cops finally came they decided in our favor.

         Maybe because one of us knew one of them.

         Maybe because we hadn't actually struck the motorcycle (merely been very nearby when it went out of control and fell down).

         Or maybe because the motorcyclist had been drinking.

         By now, however, with another 45 kilometers still to go between us and dinner and our hotel we'd used up the last of the late afternoon sunlight waiting.

         We left the town in a tight group with one truck in front, one truck in back, our motorcycle on the side playing sheepdog, and no more than one headlight for every two bicycles. It was going to be a night ride and it wasn't going to be pretty.