FEATURE STORY
Biking for Breath Around the World
 by Paula Holmes-Eber
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Part III: From Mongolia to Thailand
The lush Japanese mountain valley lies below, a small sparkling brook twisting its way among tall reedy bamboo groves, brilliant red fall
maples, and the fronds of an occasional palm tree. A tiny hamlet of bamboo-screened homes with silver tiled roofs sits perched above us,
clinging precariously to the mountaintop.
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A home-cooked meal in Taiwan. | |
Alternately cursing and laughing, my thirteen-year-old daughter, Anya, and I have given up pedaling the eighteen percent grade with our
heavily laden tandem, resorting to the more pedestrian method of pushing, cajoling, and threatening the tandem on foot upward along the
cliff-hanging climb. Ahead of us under a grove of mandarin orange trees, my husband, Lorenz, and eleven-year-old daughter, Yvonne, have
paused in front of a Buddha shrine to gulp down some water and examine the various offerings of fruit and incense set before it.
Sitting on a stone veranda, an ancient, wizened, brown-skinned man peers down curiously at us from under his conical bamboo hat. Sweating
and panting, we continue to trudge upward when suddenly the little man motions wildly to us. Then, grinning toothlessly from ear to ear, he
sprints nimbly to a persimmon tree in his garden and begins to snap off -- one, two, four, ten -- large, ripe, juicy orange persimmons, and
hands them gently to Anya and Yvonne.
"Arigado," we say while smiling, offering one of the only words we know in Japanese, which means "thank you."
Like so many other precious moments on our extraordinary journey from Mongolia to Thailand, this simple gesture of kindness and generosity
remains indelibly inscribed in our hearts and journals -- a wordless gift bridging the thousands of miles of culture, history, and ocean
between us.
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Crossing a bridge on the coast
of Taiwan near Pattaya. |
We had arrived in Ulanbator, Mongolia -- our tandems packed into colorful plastic Russian bags stored under the seats of our coal-heated
carriage on the trans-Siberian railway -- feeling much trepidation. Road signs in unintelligible characters; rural farmers who had never
seen a white face and spoke no more English than we spoke Chinese, Mongolian, or Japanese; and unpronounceable menus with unrecognizable
ingredients. How would we cycle through Asia?
For three months we did, indeed, spend many hours turning maps upside down, compass in hand, arguing over whether the squiggle with the
four lines at the top really meant Beijing. Despite the language barriers (and because of the color differences), our family is featured in
local photo albums from Ulanbator to Bangkok, where excitedly chattering dark-haired drivers abruptly pull over on the side of the road to
take group photos with the blond-haired Americans on bicycles. Guessing at culinary names at local night markets and restaurants has
resulted in such gourmet experiences as fried worms, tripe soup, seaweed stew, and wiggling algae with mushrooms.
Yet at every turn we were met with polite, cheerful, helpful smiles -- and laughter. A carefully drawn map would be handed to us with
explanations in Japanese, directions in hand language, and laughter -- the international language of friendship. Shouts of "Jai yoh!, Jai
yoh! (Go, go!!)" would fuel us up the steep coastal mountains of Taiwan, a beaming moon-faced farm woman greeting us at the top with a
bottle of water or a handful of mandarin oranges.
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The Great Wall of China
In Ulanbator, the motherly owner of our guesthouse, insisting that Anya and Yvonne needed warmer clothes, marched us off to the black
market to haggle excitedly over the prices of knock-off name-brand coats, hats, mittens, and long underwear. North of Beijing, our feet
were frozen from pedaling through a snowstorm. An English teacher and her husband searched for an hour for a hotel for us, finally locating
a spa with overnight rooms. For two delicious hours, the four of us massaged our icy toes and aching legs in the hot mineral waters and
steam rooms, before sleeping a sound, warm, dry sleep.
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The tandems always got stares in Asia |
On the island of Shikoku, Japan, we woke up one morning to a cheerful, "Good morning." Peering cautiously out of our tent, we were greeted
by the beaming face of Naoki, the kindly Japanese man who had helped us locate new spokes for our bicycles the previous evening. Standing
proudly in front of a folding table spread with a checkered tablecloth and set with steaming hot coffee, buns, and little sandwiches, he
smiled shyly.
"My wife, Nikki, and I -- we made breakfast for you," he said.
South of Kaohshing, the monks of a Taiwanese Buddhist monastery insisted that we spend the day and night sharing their simple vegetarian
meals, watching the daily meditation and gong ceremonies, and sleeping on futon mattresses in their tatami-mat dorms. And during Christmas
in Hong Kong, the manager of our hotel kindly offered us a free upgrade to a two-room suite. Delighted with a bed and a room of their own,
Anya and Yvonne busily decorated the rooms festively with a gold-tinsel Christmas tree, homemade paper snowflakes, and red Chinese apples.
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Tiananmen square
Yet perhaps our bicycle-less visit to Thailand (our tandems packed up for the flight to Australia) taught us what a gift pedaling as a
family through Asia really is. Rather than cycling through remote countryside, we were confined to Bangkok and the prostitution-laden
tourist beaches of Pattaya, where we were only seen as rich tourists to be harangued, heckled, and scammed.
There is something wonderful and magical about pedaling into a tiny Chinese village, using hand signals and a picture book to order a
steaming bowl of noodles while sitting side by side with a smiling curious farm woman dressed in capri-length pants and a pointed bamboo
hat. Although blond and foreign, you are accepted as a special guest and friend -- your bicycle and children a bridge to a world that few
foreigners have ever entered.
The Eber family departed on their sixteen-month cycling tour around the world for asthma on May 6, 2003, World Asthma Day.
To read the other installments of the story, check out Part I, Part II, Part IV, or Part V.
To follow their progress or to make a donation for asthma research and programs, you can visit them at
www.bikeforbreath.org, send them mail at: World Bike for Breath,
P.O. Box 11581, Bainbridge Island, WA 98110, call their headquarters at: (206) 855-2907, or email them at
bikeforbreath@hotmail.com.
Photos courtesy of the Eber Family
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