On May 10 at noon, three months and nine days after my departure from Amsterdam, I reached the border of China. I could see the Dulata crossing in the distance. It was a moment I will always remember. I was about to enter the last country of my journey, with a string of 17 others already behind me. To say I felt a sense of accomplishment would be an understatement. I was overjoyed, with many thoughts running through my mind: the distance I had cycled, the realization that my Journey to the East had reached its final chapter.
When I regained my senses, I began to approach the gate, observing its design, which was very different from all the other borders I had crossed. No barbed wire, roadblocks, sandbags, or foxholes to navigate through. Just a simple, clear-cut building, framing the gateway into China. Its shape vaguely referenced traditional Chinese architectural styles. The doors were open. On the upper cornice, the words 中华人民共和国 (People’s Republic of China) were displayed, the most self-confident country branding I had seen so far. Above the text, the national emblem and a single flag completed the statement.
As I prepared to enter China, I expected personnel stationed either in a guardhouse by the road or right at the gate, ready to check my papers. However, I rode about 20 meters into China before someone finally emerged from a door in the main gate building. He noticed me, but his hesitation made it clear that he didn’t immediately know how to respond. It must have been the first time in his career that he had seen a cyclist arriving at this remote crossing. Instead of asking the obvious question—requesting my passport—he started a conversation. Did I know China? Had I been there before? What brought me here this time?
I was struck by his curiosity, not about my trip’s purpose, but about why I had chosen this particular place and this particular mode of transport. Within minutes, relying on my basic Chinese, we were discussing his country.
When he finally decided to proceed, he explained that he wasn’t authorized to check my passport on-site. Instead, he had to take me to a nearby office building, where he invited me to sit and wait for his superior, who would handle the formalities. After making a phone call, he told me it would take a while because his boss was on his lunch break, including some nap time. Then, smiling knowingly, he added, “I’m sure you understand,” as he had already learned that I had worked in China before.
Realizing the awkwardness of the moment, he instinctively took action to break it. He opened his own lunch box, placed a piece of paper on his desk, and carefully divided his meal, sliding half of it onto the paper before handing me the container with the other half. To complete this unceremonious yet incredibly empathetic gesture, he took his chopsticks out of the package, broke them in two, and handed me a pair. For a while, we ate in silence. It was my first Chinese meal since Lucky Star restaurant in Trauweiler, Austria.
“Welcome to China,” he finally said.
This post contains a preview of a forthcoming book about Journey to the East, highlighting the perpetuating tensions and sometimes awkward dialogues between East and West as found on my quest for a New Silk on an Old Road.
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