[h1]Mongolia[/h1] [h2]Ulanbaatar[/h2] A thin covering of snow still clung to the ground in early May. The city rested quietly this afternoon, nestled between its two mountain ranges. A clear blue sky stretched open and expansive as the residents below went about their day. Along the streets a single car wove through the pedestrian foot traffic and camel and horse trains. On arriving to the city from the rail station in the north, the passengers in the car wove their way south through the old streets of the Mongolian capital at a slow tick, stopping and going and weaving as the conditions of the streets dictated it. They watched the life outside the lightly tinted windows with a certain detachment, and the police officers trying to keep order. The vehicle had no escort, and feeling it was unimportant few gave way as they went about their way from home to the refineries and factories at the city's edge. A herd of bicycles whispered down the road from the other direction. The sharp rings of their bells dulled by the windows. The hum of the multitude of tires reverberated through the cab walls as they passed by. When they did, the car could finally move. The car came to the end of the paved roads intertwining themselves through the heart of the city and rolled south through long, narrow gravel and sandy roads. It bumped and weaved as it went over pot holes and molehills and weaved around large half-frozen puddles. On either side squat cement housing sat brooding in the afternoon sun, their windows and doorways dark and lifeless as a mausoleum as the route neared the river. Rounding a corner the car came to a stop and I man in a black overcoat stepped out into the street. Turning to someone else in the vehicle he traded a few words with a man inside, before turning and heading into a corner house. “Dymtro!” the man in black shouted as he stepped through the door. Pausing to kick loose snow and mud off his boots he politely pulled them off and set them aside. “I'm here.” a low rolling voice said from somewhere in the back. The man in black nodded as he tucked his hands into his pocket and walked in the direction of the voice. He stepped and turned into a small sparsely furnished dining room where a small handful of men stood sitting around a dining table playing a game of cards, standing a distance away was a tall, broad shouldered Russian. “How are we doing today?” the man in black asked genially as he walked about the edge of the room. Dymtro Radek nodded and held up his hand to his men at the table, “We do.” he responded in harsh and heavy Chinese. Dymtro Radek was an imposing figure, masonic as much as a bear in his air and composure. With a great white beard and thinning silver head he looked the form of a great old father. And like one there was wisdom behind his tired wrinkled eyes, but something more; a rage. “Is this a house call? You didn't give me much when I was told you were coming.” “This is more than a house call this time.” the man in black said, “I'm doing a little more than simple Bureau work today.” A little light shone in Radek's eyes and he smiled. “Let me prepare you some tea.” he said invitingly. “Yuri! Go back out back and fetch us some water!” he demanded sharply to a slender built man at the table. “But father, I-” Yuri protested, holding up his hand of cards to him. “I don't care. Go and fetch the water. Besides, you already lost.” Radek growled gruffly. Yuri conceded and slammed his hand on the table and stood to rise. The rest at the table laughed as he grabbed a metal bucket by the door and stepped out into the cold air. “Do you everything you need?” the agent asked. “I could use working plumbing, but that's an issue with the city.” Radek grumbled, “Besides, I don't imagine I'll be here long.” The agent shrugged indifferently, “It depends, but I think things might start moving along now. How long have you and your men been in China? Two years?” “Three.” Radek answered. He stepped to a wash basin and pulled a few dirty glasses from a rack at the side. He began scrubbing them with a towel, “It's been frustrating dealing with your government to get us home. But it's far better than hiding in the woods and hoping that some group of Cossacks won't come hunting you down because you still offend the local muscle.” “Has that always been the case?” the agent asked. Radek paused from cleaning the dishes to think, “If my entire life has been the past fifteen years: yes.” he answered, “I pray that you have never had to live under the likes of the czar!” Radek added, raising his voice. As he said this Yuri returned from out back with a full pal of water and he passed it along to Radek who took it in his heavy, scarred hands. “I've always wondered, what cut up your hands like that?” the agent asked. “The old police.” said Radek, “It was just after the Patriarch defrocked me for speaking against his majesty. But I had persisted and a local magistrate had me arrested. As punishment he had my hands beaten with a truncheon. It went on all night.” The agent nodded unsympathetically, but followed along. Radek poured out the bucket into an old tea kettle and set it on a wood-fired stove crackling warmly in the corner of the room. “They called it inciting revolution.” he said. “But tell me,” Radek started again, “are you ready to bring Revolution to Russia?” “Maybe.” the agent said, “If I can ask you to disperse your men I can bring in a guest.” Radek looked stunned and perplexed. Finally he came to realization and turned to the men playing cards, “Head home.” The men looked over at him, and stood to leave. As they shuffled out the door Radek turned to the agent and asked, “Who is it?” “Zhang Shu.” the agent said, “He sits on the Congress's foreign affairs board.” “Never heard of him.” Radek said “It's hard to keep track of congress, there's a lot of them there. But word's been out for a while, and he decided to look into your situation. He's requested a private meeting.” Radek nodded, “Bring him in.” The agent bowed and stepped out to the car. On his return he came back with a stout man with thinning hair and wide bottle-rimmed glasses. He wasn't an impressive man, and compared to Radek he was by far the least intimidating figure there. But there was a confident swagger as he entered the back room as Radek laid out the tea for his guests, putting out small jars of honey and jam for them too. “You must by Dymtro Radek.” Zhang Shu said with a wide polite smile. He held his hands in front of him as he bowed. His thinning hair fell loose from the top of his head and hang down in front of his face as he rose. “Is this for us?” he asked, looking at the tea. “It is. Feel free to help yourself.” Radek invited stiffly as he took a seat. “Thank you.” Zhang Shu politely remarked. Radek poured him a glass of tea and slid it across to the politician. “Now, what is the tea and honey? You're not serving bread too, are you?” “It's for the tea.” Radek told him, “You ever add anything to yours?” “No, I mostly drink it straight.” There was a moment of pause as the agent helped himself, having felt forgotten on the periphery. He claimed a distant chair and sat to watch the exchange. “Comrade Radek,” Zhang Shu began, “I'll cut to the chase. I no doubt believe you've been told I've taken an interest in your situation. Your petitions have been floating around for a while. For the past couple years foreign affairs have been largely interested in drafting or moving policy from Politburo in regards to Tibet and elsewhere. And with the Japanese question a pervasive matter there's been little interest until now.” “And now?” Radek asked. “Well I think we have the opportunity. Perhaps if you had come to the country earlier when we annexed Mongolia back into the Chinese state the momentum would have remained to press it harder, but that's a regrettable misfortune we have to deal with. But we can get the momentum back again. So what is it you need, backing to enter back into Russia?” “That at least.” Radek confirmed, “There's active revolution in the west of the country but until I can reconnect with the old party in Europe I feel nothing but useless. Russia needs to be fixed, understand?” “All too well. What's going on isn't perfect by any means. The military views it as a neutralization of a counter-revolutionary risk. But on the whole other side of things there's the natural crisis brought on by chaos across the border. I've been active in advocating a solution before the fate of the Russian nation shifts in a direction more a threat to us than the old Czar ever was. You are willing to be that solution?” Radek nodded solemnly. Shu smiled warmly, “Is there anything that would be on offer for our assistance? If we're talking war on all of Russia's factions, or even half of them then China is spending a lot in resources to do it.” “I can offer you Yekaterinburg.” “Is that so? Is there anyone you'll need to seek council with on this?” “I can bring it before my associates, but I'll forgo Outer Manchuria if it means anything.” “That's a start.” Shu acknowledged, “Granted also, I'm not authorized either to make any lasting deals, but I can get the offer moved along. Consider yourself having won your first major ally in the Congress.” said Shu with a wide beaming smile. He turned from Radek for a minute as he rummaged in the pockets of his coat and produced a small note pad and a pen. He scribbled on the paper and passed it along to Radek. “I'll have to keep in touch.” Shu said, “But here is some contact information if you ever need me. I'll see what I can do to call you and your association into Beijing for a hearing and direct contact with the departments there-in. “Comrade, I can honestly see a bright future moving ahead for you and for me.” Radek looked down at the paper and Shu. A flash of frustrated disbelief flickered on his brow before relaxing as it dawned on him that he was indeed finally making contact. “Wonderful, thank you.” he said. “Don't worry about it. So was there anything else? Tell me a little about yourself Radek, I'm curious. How does a man like you come to be?” [hr] [h1]Xinjiang[/h1] [h2]Urumqi[/h2] A wagon left the house on its way into the city. Outside the bedroom window goats bleated in the sun and butted their heads against the wooden and wire fence as a woman and her daughters stepped out into the yard with baskets of that morning's refuse under their arms to throw to the goats. Their calls became more expectant and demanding as they watched their keepers approach the edge of the paddock with lunch under their arms. Inside, laying across cots set aside for guests two young men lay still dozing in the warm spring sunshine, their snoring loud and boorish in the rising morning. The two lay face down in the straw pillows of their cots, ignorant of the time of day but all together not caring for it either. They had all last night sat up, singing with the patriarch of the household and dipping into wines made from the Uyghur's grapes. As the hours drew late, the nomads retired into the guest room and fell into a deep paralyzing sleep. It wasn't until well into the afternoon the young nomads stirred awake. First the one, then the other. As the first turned from his cot and sat crookedly upright he sat staring down at a dusty floor with half lidded eyes. His head throbbed. It felt as though it had been filled with dynamite and lit off; his skull had held but what was left inside had been stirred into a sloppy mass that smoldered away inside him. Every movement he made sent pangs of pain through his head and stirred his stomach. He leaned to the side and thought about going back to sleep, but as he moved he realized his bladder was full and leaning back only stabbed his gut with a sudden wet pain. He felt his groin strain and he dropped his head and moaned as he staggered to his feet. He wore nothing but a wrinkled undershirt and a stained well worn underpants. He scratched lethargically at his groin as he hobbled over to a pair of pants thrown onto the floor, he knew not if they were his or his friend's, for now he cared little. He slipped them on and staggered out into the rest of the house, holding them up as he went, dreary eyed and numb. As he threw open the door he winced at the sudden explosion of daylight sun streaming through the windows. The room was filled with many windows, set high along the walls. Each shutter was open wide letting in such sun to melt his fragile eyes. He recoiled back and almost let loose his bladder but he recoiled again at the threatening warmth in his crotch and spun back and thundered across the living room with a hand held up over his eyes as he staggered towards where he thought the side door was. Leaning himself up against the wall, he released the unbuttoned wool pants as he deftly slapped the wall until he found the door. He turned the latch and stepped outside and caught the pants before they nearly fell down to his knees. But here the sun was worse. It shone up from the light stone and packed clay of the yard and he swore he was going blind as his vision went white even with the protection of his hands. He squinted and tilted his head upwards and peered under his hand for the outhouse and staggered half-blind to it. He made it, and threw himself inside. His head hit the far wall with a dull thump but a splitting thwack to his skull and he groaned in agony and discomfort as he let the pants fall to his ankles and he fumbled to get his cock in his hands and urinated into the lye-filled pit in front of him. He sighed in relief as he emptied his bladder, and nearly fell back asleep as he finished. But he shook himself asleep as he began slipping to the side. Groggily, he hitched the pair of pants back up, and deftly buttoned them back together as he staggered back out into the light. He held his hands to his face, they smelled like piss but they did not let the brutal sun get to his sensitive eyes. He stood there in the open for five minutes, not moving and simply trying to recover some compsure. “We should get you something to eat.” a soft voice said behind him. The nomad startled and turned to look around him, just between the smallest crack he dared to open his fingers as he scanned for the voice. There he saw a young woman, her hair done up under a niqab. Under one arm she held an empty wicker basket and with the other she held out her hand for him. He groaned as he allowed her to take him inside and she sat him down at the main table. The Uyghur's home was sparse and plain. Scattered about were wooden chairs covered in sheep or goat skins. A small portrait to Hou Tsai Tang hung along one of the walls next to a half-full book case and a small table with a worn down radio. He allowed himself to be guided into one of the wooden chairs and he dropped his weight onto the rough unfinished table before him. He dozed in and out of consciousness as the young girl went about some work in the kitchen, he could hear the thudding of wood in a stove and the striking of matches as plates and utensils were arranged. Minutes later she reappeared with a glass of water in one hand, and a bowl of diced plums in the other. She put them down in front of him. “Eat and drink this.” she demanded in a soft voice before turning around and disappearing again into the kitchen. The nomad looked up at the food and drink and his stomach turned at the thought. How could he expect to hold down anything the way he felt? There was so much he did feel he realized as he looked at the food that he wondered why he was still alive. The thought of being sick made him sicker and simply reaching out for the breakfast make him gag. But slowly, he overcame it and was slowly reaching out for and eating the breakfast laid out before him. As he ate, the girl returned with a platter of toasted Nan. He picked through this and drank the water, the girl rotating between the kitchen and the table refilling his glass as she went. Over time he began to feel better and was sitting up. His head still ached, but it was only a tenth of what he had been feeling. His stomach still felt volatile, but it was no more at risk in rejecting its existence as he was in dying of a sudden stroke in that moment. A little bit of humanity came back to him, and while he avoided looking at the windows themselves he could sit up straight. It was then his partner woke up. He watched him from the corner of his eyes as he went about the same ritual as he did before being guided to the table. The girl brought them out some more food, boils of raisins and bread and let the two eat in peace. After about an hour the two were in the mood to speak. “Chao.” said the partner. “Guo.” said the the nomad. They looked at each other through hung over eyes and mumbled incoherently to themselves. Both each asked what the other said, both said nothing and fell into a silence. Chao and Guo were both young men, fresh out of school. Under cover of darkness as they would tell each other they executed a plan to set off from their home in rural Hebei to see China. Guo had acquired an old motorcycle his uncle kept from his army days and they thundered off into the night with a half-working head lamp to light the road ahead. Neither cared for the world around them, not feeling strongly either way for the China their fathers and uncles had fought for, no matter the side they were on. To them, it was restlessness of being kept up in the open prison cell of their village, hearing the war tales that expanded the world for them. Of high mountains and rocky deserts, hot summers and cold winters. They had become restless, had come to know all the girls, and now wanted more. For over a month the two had struck out across China, bartering for fuel, working a day or two or three here and there for the gas, clearing snow or chopping fire wood. And now they had made it to Xinjiang and came into the bosom of the Chinese frontier they had begun wondering where they were to go from here. Was there a road left to follow beyond China? Could they go home after this? The two exchanged glances over plates of half eaten flat bread and raisins. “Are we moving on?” Guo asked. “Might as well.” Chao agreed. The deal was made, and with such a quick brush of the hand the powers of youth had decided to forego caution and beyond all commonsense go beyond China. They registered not the potential in danger, or the crude foreign world beyond the Chinese border they calculated to be no more than a day's ride away on the old motorbike. But where to? “My sister's in Africa.” Chao said almost without thought to it or the distance. To call it out was the same as it would be to throw darts on the map. He could have well said they should turn the bike around and try to drive it straight into America. “Africa? What is she doing there?” Guo asked. Chao shrugged, “Joined up with some group. Last I checked they disappeared and all of a sudden they turned up in Africa. They broke out, we might as well to.” “But... why is she there?” Guo asked. “Some aid shit.” Chao said indifferently. Without caution Guo took the decision at face value and conceded to the suggestion at this affirmation. “So, where at?” he asked. It took Chao longer to think of where she might be. He leaned his head into his hands as he starred down at the lines in the table. “Was it...” he began, “Mombassa?” he said, trying to recall where the last letter had come from. Or maybe it was Nairobi. He scratched his scraggly black hair and ran it through his fingers. “One of the two.” “So I don't suppose we can just drive out of the country?” Guo asked. This gave Chao pause for a moment. Could they just leave? By all accounts he heard people needing permits to leave. But the border was long, there had to be plenty of places to get out of. He wondered about it, then shouted, “Where did Yusup go?” he grimaced at the pain caused by his own loud voice. “To town.” the young girl said from the kitchen. That was all she had to say on the matter. Guo and Chao slipped into a listless silence. Between the two, Chao was certainly the tallest. He stood a head clear over Guo and was what some might say: handsome. His soft features had a childishness to it still despite the growing late adolescent maturity slowly filling him out. He was lighlty dimpled and his chin was narrow and sharp. His messy hair was wavy, and crowned his head in all matters of breezy wind-swept curls, he sported a soft tan, and his arms sported a clear muscle structure from a life on a farm. By comparison, Guo was my modest, more normal. He had no significant muscle definition, his face was still clearly baby like and pocked with acne scars. He wasn't so much lightly tanned as he was clearly burned and his eyes seemed darker and moodier. Next to Chao he seemed fumbling, awkward with a staggering gate and legs held further apart than need be, his hands and arms were thick with stubborn baby fat and while barely twenty-two his hair seemed to be receding from his head. Both were youths, fresh from out of university. On the lamb from a future of whatever, restless. And their eyes looked horizon bound. Even groggy and hungover, they looked ahead to the future, and what challenge lay ahead. [hr] [h1]The Dragon Diaries[/h1] Li Chao [i]May 15th, 1960. Sunday. Year of the Metal Rat[/i] We set off from Jiuquan sometime around five in the morning on the 13th. Having finished a few days work with a local apothecary we received our gas and some extra cans for the road to Urumqi. Hui Han wished us well as we pulled from his shop and store, and we set off down the long desert road. The sun was out then, bright. But it was cold, all despite the late-morning sun; it felt like a frost. We left the town as a band of Mongolians was coming with their camel train. From the look of their train, I would think they came in to sell their sheep. I do not know when the season to trade lambs is, I did not get a good look so I could not say. Travel was rough, which is smooth in this parts. It is amazing to watch as we leave the valleys how the landscape changes so fast. After leaving Jiuquan all the spring green slowly disappeared into the hillside as if being swallowed by the earth itself. I pointed this out to Guo, but he did not seem to notice. Before long we were driving gravel roads through rocky and sandy hills and mountains. Already as we drive west I miss home, I never thought I would miss green. The trip went without any incident and it took almost an hour to realize we had crossed the border into Xinjiang. But when we did the sun was already setting so Guo pulled over to fill the tanks from our reserves. This gave me the opportunity to stretch my legs and take a piss, the side car is cramped. I did not get much time to sit down to write, when all was said and done Guo came wondering if we should stop there for the night and rest or if we should continue on. I said we might as well, and volunteered to drive. The stars at night are an amazing sight to behold. I hope on the voyage ahead or home there will be more opportunities to look up and see the sky before we come back into the east. On a clear night you can see the band of stars clearly defining the milky-way. And against the desert hill scape it feels as if I was driving through space itself! Surprisingly, the old bike held up and handing over the bike to Guo come morning I was asleep by the time we arrived in Urumqi. This part of the country is poor, it is almost depressing to see the clear differences in conditions between here and Beijing. In this city there is hardly electrical power, what exists goes into the street lights around the administrative buildings and the few off public radio venues scattered about. We stopped at a small tavern or inn near one of these and listened to the news as we tried for the first time Kamuk. I found the taste thick and off in a sweat way, but I do not suppose it was rancid because I felt fine after. I asked Guo what he thought and it was alright to him. This was the 14th. Later that evening we met an old man who said he lived in the outskirts of town. We talked to him and it sounds as if he actually has electricity and a radio, though neither of us can think of anything particular to listen to. He says that he raises goats and sheep, and he was enamored with our quest. He agreed he would give us what we need for the journey for a day's work handling his livestock and doing some odd chores. His name is Yusup Bahtar Turns out that the old man had children, but nearly all of them daughters. He said he had one son but he went east and hasn't written for all of six months. But because he hasn't gotten word from the government itself he doubts he's dead, but he's worrying. All the same, his daughters are fine women, I would not mind seeing what is under their dresses in the barn; but they're are all either young or betrothed in some ancient Uyghur marriage rite. I did not think to ask. To my honest surprise they worked alongside us in the field. We worked the rest of the day, and went to sleep. They have some cots in a spare room. I can not say I slept in worse, but they were certainly uncomfortable. We woke early, and went again to the pasture to work. Between then and sundown I can not help I did something to make the master of the house happy because he brought us wine! I didn't know whether the Hui can really drink or not, but we will soon find out.