On the sixth day north of Lanzhou we reached the great sand-dunes which make what might almost be a possible automobile trail impossible even for Chinese carts. Great ridges of pure sand, everywhere given a corrugated surface by the winds that had piled them up during the centuries, stretch from some unknown distance back in the country.
Xiangsha Wan, or the "Singing Sand Gorge," was a worthwhile tourist trap, if only for the Mongolian throat singers who serenaded us while we ate lunch overlooking the huge dunes, which ex-tend some 250 miles. Marco Polo thought that the sounds of the sandslides were whispering demons trying to lead travelers astray.
We'd have none of that, so we hightailed it to the heart of Hohhot and the luxurious Hotel Inner Mongolia, where gas masks in a drawer next to my room's minibar were a reminder that breathing is seldom easy along this industrial corridor. The Mercedes contingent was toasted at a reception by a representative of the Inner Mongolian government, who invited DaimlerChrysler to build more assembly plants in the region (they currently make large industrial trucks there). Perhaps instead DaimlerChrysler could offer its expertise in depolluting the factories China already has. We were then shown a video montage of Mongolian industry, with repeated footage of bloody slaughterhouses. Goat tartare canap, anyone?
We savored Thursday morning's drive. Brand-new tollways, Denise and I on a mission, and Alex P cowering in the back seat, caressing his zoom lens. Hilly brown topography dotted with brown mud huts and barns that virtually disappeared into the November landscape. Tens of thousands of new trees planted at the roadsides and in the medians. Handsome stone retaining walls. Smooth pavement. Police who seemed concerned mostly with enforcing weight and load limits for trucks, a legitimate issue since exceeding payloads here is the norm: tippy-toppy trucks routinely are piled so high with strapped-on goods that they would never make it under a typical U.S. freeway overpass.
Thursday afternoon was not so expedient. A trucker strike brought traffic on a two-lane road to a standstill. There we were, penned in among chuffing, diesel coal trucks, ratty old tractors pulling trailers full of bricks, and vendors pushing wheelbarrow apple carts. In the midst of it all, a line of Mercedes-Benz E-class sedans and G-wagen support vehicles. The locals crowded around the Benzes, peering into the cabins and grinning at the hapless Westerners.
. . . the peasants here and there were felling big trees squarely across the road, and letting travel drag its way around them as best they could, or wait until the trunk had been sawed up. The traveler in rural China is constantly being reminded that he is an unwelcome trespasser on private domain.
When we finally arrived in Badaling at the Commune by the Great Wall, a complex of contemporary villas designed by noted Chinese architects, it was too late for a Great Wall tour but certainly not too late for a glass of Great Wall wine. Dinner was hosted by Dr. Z himself, DaimlerChrysler CEO Dieter Zetsche, beaming with relief that our caravan of Mercedes-Benzes had made it all the way from Paris to the outskirts of Beijing with little more than some flat tires and a few broken windshields.
It was only fifty miles on Friday morning to Beijing, where our caravan paraded by Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City before arriving at the newly rebuilt Yongding Gate and a pomp-filled press conference presided over by Zetsche. What had we learned as we zoomed through China? That the Chinese had better get a handle on their booming economy's pollution, or living conditions will become so miserable that they will pine for the days when our American friend, Harry A. Franck, traveled by pony. That despite such challenges, the Chinese are riding on a new air of optimism. That the People's Republic of China is really, really big and a fun place to drive. And that vehicles powered by clean diesel engines are ready for prime time in America.
We were off again quite as usual, therefore, at five in the morning for a twenty-third day of travel; though, including stops, we had been less than twenty-one full days on the road from Lanzhou, which is seldom bettered.
We bettered it, by Bluetec Benz.