by Sewell, Ron
“I need nourishment or I’ll fade away.”
Petros shook his head. “A few hours without food won’t do you any harm and you’ve been asleep for most of the day.”
“With my delicate skin tone I need my beauty sleep.”
Petros laughed. “You said it.” Bear punched him lightly in the ribs.
Ahead, the bloom of many kerosene lamps illuminated a small wooden shed three metres from the road. Petros drove past and stopped the car. Bear leapt out to investigate and after ten minutes did not return. Ill at ease, Petros turned off the engine and got out. With caution, he let his eyes adjust to the glare of the light that had the effect of concealing most of the building. He prepared himself and crept on the balls of his feet to the side of the building. Here he hid in the shadows. Concealed, he peeked in through a small open window and was annoyed at what he saw.
He stormed inside and shouted, “What the bloody hell are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m replenishing my energy reserves.”
At a metal table, surrounded by bowls of rice, noodles and a whole steaming chicken, sat Bear. Noodles hung from his mouth, giving him a ridiculous appearance.
“Thanks a bunch. You left me out there like a spare prick at a wedding.”
Unaffected by his friend’s outburst, Bear, in one continuous motion, shovelled the steaming food into his mouth. “This is good,” he spluttered. “These noodles have a superb flavour of herbs and spices, with the merest hint of chicken.”
“Why didn’t you come and tell me? I was worried.”
In between mouthfuls, Bear managed to say, “I knew you’d come in if I left you long enough. I eat twice as much as you, so we’re saving time.”
Petros shrugged, and with his hands made it known he wanted food. The old man and woman, dressed in blue Mao suits, relaxed and smiled, their blackened teeth highlighting the gaps in their mouths. Green tea arrived in small kettles. Cupfuls quenched their thirst.
With a huge belch, Bear slapped his stomach. “That’ll keep me going until breakfast. I presume we’re driving all night?”
“You’d better believe it. I want to check the river out. This is the rainy season and floods along the riverbanks are normal. The last thing I want is to have our plan destroyed by the weather.”
The meal paid for, they returned to the car. Petros drove through the night to Men Gla where the road, the railway and the river travelled in the same direction.
He drove from the tarmac road and entered a thickly wooded copse. A quick glance at his watch confirmed the time: four in the morning. He nudged Bear. “We’ll stay here and rest. I want to appreciate this river in daylight.”
“You woke me just to tell me that?”
“My God, it speaks. I did. Now go to sleep and don’t bloody snore like a pig or you’ll be under the nearest tree.”
Bear grunted, tilted his seat back, and with a huge grin covering his face, farted.
“You’re full of shit and gas.” Petros got out of the car, leaving the door open. He stretched his arms and the wind ruffled his blond hair. While he waited, he relieved himself. Shattered, he clambered back, pressed the locking buttons and slept.
The morning erupted with a crash of thunder, and lightning ravaged the dark sky. Petros woke, grabbed an umbrella from its pocket, and, holding the door against the gusting wind, got out. The waterlogged earth, covered in leaves and low-growing shrubs, squelched under his feet. Cautious, he remained a few metres from the river’s edge. His eyes studied the fast-flowing water. He tossed a stick upstream and counted the seconds before it went past. Ten knots, he thought, it’ll be dodgy traversing the river in a rubber dinghy in the dark.
His thoughts changed to ponder alternative routes out of China. The best and most effective way might be overland, but the absence of official papers might be a problem. In reality he knew that this method was his worst nightmare. With Bear, travelling in any terrain was doable, but with a woman he didn’t know and with whom he couldn’t communicate, impossible. He trudged back to the car and once inside slammed the door hard.
Bear stirred. “I’m awake.”
“Is that why you continued to inspect the back of your eyelids? We need to get to Lao Cai and have a recon. The Red River’s in full flood and rising. It’ll be grim if we have to use a boat.”
They drove along the mud-covered road for another two hours and stopped in the car park next to the Lao Cai border crossing. Petros walked one way and Bear the other, each studying the movement of guards at the crossing point.
Cold and tired, Petros drew his coat around his body while he stood beneath a sloping roof. The rain cascaded onto the road, washing away discarded rubbish. A bus stopped, its brakes squealing. The border guards shouted until the passengers alighted. Each person stood sullenly in the pouring rain as the soldiers checked papers and baggage. More often than not they emptied the contents of rucksacks and suitcases onto the sodden ground, rummaged through, removing what they determined contraband. From what he saw, the right to complain did not exist. Those who dared disappeared into the guardhouse. Finished, the guards bawled at the saturated band of travellers to get back on the bus.
For an hour he wandered along the border. While poorly guarded and not the equivalent of the Berlin wall, no easy route across existed. A journey through the mountains necessitated the proper equipment to climb and combat sub-zero temperatures.
When Petros returned to the car, Bear told him, “Waste of time, I reckon. Those guards check the border in each direction. I saw them taking bribes from their own people.”
Petros stared out at the rain. “I’d do it if we knew who to bribe. With our luck we’d pick the wrong man.
“There’s still the river,” said Petros.
Bear frowned. “One of my instructors told me once: When you’re desperate and think of an idea, it’s usually a waste of space. The river flows under a bridge with chains and steel booms. Hit them in a flimsy boat and you’re fish food, that’s providing the guards don’t shoot you first.”
“Let’s take another look. We might have missed something.”
Since the morning storm, the water level appeared to be rising. Bushes on the bank were now submerged. At the rivers edge, he looked downstream at the bridge spanning the river and shook his head.
Squalls killed the visibility. “I guess we walk over the mountains into Vietnam. Let’s find out if we can get a hot drink and food.”
Bear rubbed his hands. “Now you’re talking my language.”
Under a corrugated tin sheet a street vendor grilled lumps of meat over hot coals.
Bear stared at the little man with dark eyes, turning the food with his mucky fingers. He held out the local currency and raised his hand indicating five.
With a grin, the man took the money, speared several chunks of meat, sprinkled something on them and handed Bear five. Two plastic cups full of beer rested on the makeshift counter.
Having passed two to Petros, Bear devoured his in as many seconds and asked for five more.
“Bloody delicious with chilli sprinkled over them,” said Bear, “What meat is this?”
“Dog, cat or rat. Take your pick. Why don’t you ask him?”
Bear turned and pointed to the meat. “What is it?”
The man smiled at him, shrugged, and gave him more, but this time held out his hand for the money.
With full stomachs they headed back to their car. The return journey took a full day of hard driving in unrelenting rain.
“I’m off for a long, hot shower,” said Petros.
“Me too,” said Bear.
Later that evening the two men sat in the lounge and stared at the torrents of water running like small rivers along the illuminated drive.
“If this bloody weather continues,” said Petros. “We can forget the river.”
“Why don’t we go home? We don’t need this job and, let’s face it, a traveller’s paradise it is not.”
“You
may be right.” He stretched his arms in a yawn. “I’m going to bed.”
Bear checked for a member of staff. “I’ll be right behind you. Must order a few sandwiches.”
The next morning the rain persisted. Undeterred, Petros drove in what they thought the right direction to Nan Ping. The daylight turned grey and the rain lashed the windscreen while they hurried along the new motorway out of Kunming. Major road works slowed the traffic to a crawl until it returned to the old road.
“If the roads are like this all the way it’ll take forever,” said Petros.
“I was talking to an American in the lounge this morning and he explained the Chinese construction policy. Chinese planners draw the line of the new road and use hundreds of migrant workers to hit it. They believe one year of total disruption is far better than a dozen of purgatory. Mind you, having seen the conditions they work under, I’m not so sure.”
“They get the job done but I suppose it’s not traffic-friendly for a while.”
Bear continued to examine the map. “Found it. The roads are crap. You’re good for a couple of kilometres. After that, God knows. Drive on, McDuff.”
Chapter Fourteen
Police Commander Ding Lang sat at his desk studying a report. The information it contained detailed two British passport holders. These two men had arrived in Kunming during the night and booked into the penthouse suite of the best hotel. The younger, a London Cypriot, had for a time served in the British army. The other, according to available records, did not exist. This intrigued him. He signalled for his sergeant to enter and passed him the papers. “Follow them and see where they go, who they talk to, everything.”
* * *
The constant rain and the swish of the single windscreen wiper sent Bear to sleep. At Kaiyuan, the surface changed from concrete to a well-worn tarmac. Yawning potholes, filled and hidden by water, waited as traps to snare the unsuspecting traveller. Twice the offside front wheel hit one so deep it required the strength of Petros’ arms to prevent them careering across the highway. He glimpsed at Bear who remained asleep. He nearly missed the turn off from Yanshan to the 323 road, which according to the map went straight through Nan Ping. This proved no better and Petros reduced his speed to twenty kilometres an hour.
Without any warning, the car dropped hard into a hole and veered to the right. “What the hell?” shouted Petros. He clung to the wheel. In the rear-view mirror, he glimpsed an articulated truck, its trailer skating across the width of the road.
The cab bulldozed their hired SUV up and over the edge of an embankment. Black water at window height seeped through the damaged bodywork.
Petros straightened himself and gasped. For an instant the shock of a thousand volts charged the length of his right arm. The pain subsided. “Shit. Just what I need, a busted wing.” He turned towards Bear. “You in one piece?”
Bear grimaced, his thoughts chasing one after the other. “That’s your deposit up the Khyber. I was having a lovely dream of roast beef and the trimmings, and I wake up with my bum soaked. What the hell happened?”
“A bloody wagon went out of control and shoved us off the road. My right arm’s broken. Get out. Sitting here with a wet arse is doing nothing for my mood.”
They got out, waded to the embankment and glanced at the truck balanced on the edge.
“PK, fucking run.”
Grass hidden by the depth of water wound itself around their feet. With his good hand, Petros held his damaged arm against his chest and stumbled in an awkward fashion out of the way.
Bear made the road first and ripped open the driver’s door. The man lay slumped unconscious over the steering wheel. “PK, are you clear?” he screamed.
“I’m behind you.”
Bear’s heart raced as in one movement he grabbed the man by his cloth jacket and dragged him out. The truck groaned, rolled and tumbled, coming to rest on top of their battered hire car.
The driving rain continued, drenching Bear as he placed the unconscious man under the shelter of a tree. He turned to Petros. “Let me check your arm.”
Petros lifted it, ignoring the pain, while Bear’s fingers found the break.
“It’s good and clean. I’ll find something to use for a support. Get you fixed up in a jiffy.”
Bear tore strips of cloth from his shirt and used thin branches from a willow to make a splint. “Not perfect but it will do.”
“Thanks, mate. The driver, how is he?”
Bear strolled across to the unconscious man, checked his pulse and his breathing, and placed him in the recovery position.
In time the rain stopped but the sky remained full of dark, menacing clouds.
The day turned into night. A car drew to a halt and a small man wandered over to examine two men propped up by a tree trunk. He jumped, startled, when Bear snapped his eyes open, stood, and towered over him. The man’s raincoat covered him from shoulders to feet. He said something in Chinese and went to his car. On returning, he held out his mobile for Bear to recognize. The man punched in a series of numbers, shouted at the handset, and gave a cheesy grin. He raised his right hand and flexed five fingers four times. Bear gathered this meant twenty minutes.
A police car and ambulance arrived. The police guided Bear to their car. The truck driver and Petros endured the austere comfort of the ambulance. The rescue team spoke among themselves, waving their arms as they chatted. Bear stared out of the window, leaned back and relaxed.
The officers appeared concerned and asked for their papers. These formalities complete, forty minutes later, and after an alarming journey, they arrived outside a grey concrete building – Kunming Hospital. The police driver tried to drag Bear by his arm. Stubborn, he refused to move until Petros was inside the hospital.
The ambulance driver shouted at a young nurse who bellowed back. Two male nurses dumped the lorry driver on a trolley and scurried away.
“Good evening.” The educated English voice came from along the corridor. Both men stared in amazement at a tall, thin man with cropped dark hair who strolled towards them. Lines around his eyes portrayed a face aged before its time, but a softness emanated from him. “Nathan Davenport. British or American?”
His scrutiny over, Petros greeted the man with a cheeky smile. “English.”
“London, born and bred,” said Bear, “and he’s Cypriot.”
“Right – to business. The police said one of you had a broken arm and the other’s fine. I don’t need my degree to figure that out. I will check you both.” He studied the makeshift splint. “Who did this?”
“I did,” said Bear.
“These days we can improve on willow twigs. Follow me and mind where you walk. You will have noticed the Chinese habit of clearing their throats and noses by dumping it on the floor.”
The two men grinned and got in step behind Doctor Davenport.
“Where did the lorry driver get taken?” asked Petros.
Nathan halted. “The Chinese are treated free. You pay, so you get me, the foreigners’ doctor.”
They continued walking through the hospital’s corridors, listening while Davenport gave orders in fluent Mandarin to members of staff. Not once did his stride falter.
Davenport’s office, although devoid of any frills, doubled as his consulting room; two chairs, one desk and a trolley which contained instruments any general practitioner might use.
“Sir,” he pointed to Bear. “Relax, I’m taking your friend to x-ray and then I’ll fix his arm. We’ll be an hour or so. Make yourself comfortable. Sorry I can’t give you a drink or a magazine. Tell anyone who enters my office, ‘Wo shoushangle’. It means, ‘I am injured’.”
Petros, directed by Davenport, walked along bare concrete corridors until they arrived at the x-ray department. Davenport shouted at the technician who jumped and guided Petros to the machine.
“Is this hospital finished?” asked Petros.
Davenport chuckled. “This, my friend, is the most modern hospital in Yunnan Province
. It’s well-designed and serves its purpose.”
The radiographer cleared his throat and spat into a bucket. “I’ve trained him to spit in a bucket. At least keep it in one place, and they have to wash them out before going home,” said Davenport.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
Davenport chatted while they waited for the x-rays. “Long story, but the abridged version is: mother, a raging alcoholic, died of liver cancer, and dad married a younger woman. She had the sex drive of a Gold medal Olympic champion. If it were alive and kicking, she would want it. Mind you, I had my way with her every morning when father left for work. The sway of her hips in silk pyjamas was a sight to see. One whiff of her perfume and away we went. She was up for it twenty-four hours a day, a right nympho. I found her to be, let’s say, different. To be honest, her intelligence level on the odd occasion jumped up to zero. Father returned home one afternoon and discovered us in an interesting position on the kitchen table. He never hesitated and threw us both out. We stayed together until she discovered someone more perverted than me. I did the backpacking thing for a few years and ended up here. Now, I’m a senior consultant and the foreigners’ doctor. I have a life I enjoy helping people and a stunning Chinese wife and a son, aged six. Right, let’s examine the x-ray.”
He held the x-ray with his right hand to the light, ummed and aahed, and turned to Petros. “Your friend did a first-class job. The bone is in place. Wait here. I’m off to get plaster and bandages to make a cast.”
Two minutes later he returned, fixed Petros’ arm and placed it in a sling.
“So how long have you lived here?” asked Petros.
“Eight years, give or take a couple of months. I made Kunming my home. Don’t miss blighty. The first travellers to this region called it Shangri-La. It’s not. The young are leaving and the old are dying. Everywhere you look are unattended farms. The new world has arrived and everyone wants their slice of it. The rich get richer and the poor stay poor.”
