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A couple of years ago, he was going nowhere in the Northwest, busing tables at Seattle seafood restaurants, searching for salvation. Then perhaps he had a personal epiphany, because suddenly he was teaching English at a university in China. It was George who, after covering several thousand clicks of the country himself, invited us over the previous year for our first Chinese motorcycle adventure.
Now, as Charlie and I blaze east through the mountains and mud of Yunnan, George — out of school for the National Day Golden Week — tears towards us across Guangxi. When we reunite halfway, it’s cause for celebration.
The Ugly Americans roll out of town the next morning, winding amongst the karst monoliths and verdant jungle groves of South China, George riding point, guiding us to Qinzhou.
It’s October, but warm and humid in these tropical flatlands, so I’ve got to keep rolling down the road to minimize perspiring, bundled up against the heat in my helmet, heavy jacket, and jeans. Charlie and George, motorcycle half-uncrashed optimists that they are, find cooler means of moving.
But when even that’s not enough, it’s time to strip down to the skivvies and dive right into a roadside reservoir.
Refreshed and redressed, we’re soon back on the flat asphalt slicing through the interlocking lengths of jungle and rice paddy. The riding day’s almost done, but Charlie always finds time for one more adventure.
He leads us off the main road onto one random route that captures his curiosity, and now we’re rollercoasting along the rutted dirt road past the farming folk who rise from the rice as we ride by.
Just a few kilometers in, we reach our course’s conclusion at an ancient and forgotten village, kept in the crook of a mountain’s arm. At its heart, a monolithic and decrepit primary school squats in crumbling preparation for the Great Leap Forward.
The children sitting in class, their youthful senses keenly attuned to the slightest anomalies in their own unswerving existence, hear the rip of the approaching engines appear so faintly that they are screaming in echoing rolls of glee and nervous fascination as we kick our bikes onto their stands in the muddy open yard that serves as both the school’s playground and the town’s center.
With Uncle Charlie in the lead, the Ugly Americans have soon made one more minute improvement to the most important international relationship of the 21st Century. You’re welcome, America!
6 Comments
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Support Barack Obama
Love it.
York, you look like one of my old G.I. Joe’s that I twisted into an inhuman pose.
I dub thee Ugly Joe.
That gives me so much glee to see those kids screaming with delight.
That has to be the whitest tush I’ve ever seen.
mmm, last frontier. must of been priceless watching you trying to get the kids to jump on 3/san.
Oh great! I love the kids jumping!! Thank YOU, Ugly Americans!
You guys make this ugly American well up with pride.