28 July, Action-Man, Beijing

This morning, at 8:30, an hour late, a brisk Chinese man came to our hotel and led us to his tour bus, bound for the Great Wall of China. The bus was full of Westerners. It was tight, like most Asian buses, but weird to rub shoulders not with a rajah or Brahmin priestesses, but with Europeans and Americans.

Progress was slow as we got on the road, and when a ten minute gas station stop turned into something longer, the Americans started to complain. Ahead of me was a group of silent Italians, and beside me were two Frenchmen. One had a dark tan and the other was fair with a big jaw and mouth and a broad forehead. Behind me were two shamefully talkative Americans.

The shelves of the gas station were sparse and the floor of the men's bathroom was very sticky. The problem, I think, is that they don't clean the bathrooms. They smell like frog dissection. They should keep the pipes to the urinals attached and use clean water when they mop. Western toilets undoubtedly excel the squatting toilets of the East. Outside the gas station, heavy orange trucks with green tarps tied over their cargo lined up on the shoulders of the highways. Apparently, the police are starting to crack down on weight restrictions and the truckers were waiting for the officers to leave the area.

Many hours later, we arrived at the Wall. It is higher up in the hills than I expected and I didn't expect so many steep stairs. The walls were packed with British and French tourists. But suddenly, looking to my left out in to the sharp hills, I spied the Mongol army approaching. Piles of wolf dung in the towers of the wall were lit and a chain of fire appeared on the horizon. All the watchmen were alerted. Just then arrows started to fly towards the sentries who took cover behind the ledge. A Mongol warrior pulled his arrow from a full quiver on his back. He set the arrow on his ox horn bow and took aim, as when hunting a bear or a tiger in the forest. He dug deeper in his stirrups and pulled the tasseled bridle of the snorting warhorse. In the distance, I heard the blow of a conch or a deer horn. The battle was on.

We left two hours late from the Wall and stopped at the same gas station as before. At first, the bus started to smell gamey like the Cono bus after a varsity soccer game. Sure enough, the big jawed Frenchman behind me had taken off his shoes. Then, after the gas station, the smell of store-bought cookies filled the air. Drew got back on the bus and said, "What's worse than a gas station bathroom?" He went on, "A Chinese gas station bathroom." I read until the sun went down, then turned across the aisle and talked to a young Brit named Joe Barnsley. He was my age and was a good conversationalist. He was the only guy that I was really in the mood for. We hit every important topic.

Sam