TRAVEL | CHINA
I Got Lost On The Great Wall Of China
And almost died…
Okay, so maybe I’m being a little dramatic. But when I tell people I got lost on The Great Wall, they laugh, ‘How can you get lost!? It’s just one long wall.’
Our tour guide gave us an hour and a half to climb to the twelfth fortress and back again. He said most people never make it to the twelfth, but I knew I wouldn’t be one of them.
Carl and I embarked on the ascent with our group of about thirty and another two tour groups of about the same size. By the time we got to the fourth fortress, it was just me, Carl, and another couple. I practically leapt up the steps, showing off to Carl how much fitter I was. Until all of a sudden, I turned around and noticed he was a tiny little blue and red blob (he was wearing a Newcastle Knights shirt) in the distance. I stopped at the next fortress and waited for what felt like a century for him, before giving up and continuing on.
Within about thirty minutes, I’d made it to the top. I turned around to see if I could spot Carl. No sign of him. Each little fortress I’d passed on the way didn’t seem that big, but they sure did obscure significant portions of the wall. I snapped a few pics of myself and the view before my solitude was interrupted by the man we’d seen at fortress four.
‘We made it,’ he exclaimed.
‘Well, my husband didn’t,’ I joked.
‘Yeah,’ he laughed, ‘my girlfriend gave up.’
I continued taking photos of the view.
‘I’ll take your photo if you take mine,’ he said.
We both posed in front of the Number 12 fortress before making our way back down. I headed off first as he was still taking photos.
‘See ya down there,’ I called.
I remember him looking at me funny. He gave me a small wave and off I went on my merry way.
I don’t know how many stairs I’d descended until I noticed something was off. I know going down stairs is very different to climbing them, but these seemed a whole lot steeper than the ones I’d climbed. I’m talking depth-of-my-knee-steep. Petrified I was going to end up like Michael Peterson’s wife, I held onto the rails for dear life and took each step, sideways, one at a time. After about twenty minutes of traversing deathly steep steps, I realised… I was definitely on a different path.
I came across another fortress and searched for the sign that revealed its number — 14.
Then it dawned on me. There must have been two paths from fortress 12. And that’s why the guy looked at me strange. He must’ve thought why the fuck is she going that way?
I looked up from where I’d come, and it was like looking at Mount Everest. There was no way I could make it back up there, not without water and not while wearing snow boots.
The only way was down. By this stage, I knew I was lost. There was not a soul around. Just me and my side-stepping snow boots. I continued carefully down the steps, stopping to take a few photos on the way and making sure my hand didn’t leave the railing.
I started passing other wall-goers. Only they were all Chinese and none of them spoke any English. Two men smiled and pointed at me, gesturing photo.
I was white with blonde hair. In China, this basically makes you royalty. Earlier on the trip, I’d also had a Chinese girl ask for a selfie in a bathroom, so it must be a thing.
I gave the little Chinese guy my phone to also snap a photo. And while I didn’t realise it at the time, it sort of gives a visual of how steep the steps were.
I continued heading down while they headed up. Down, down, down I went. My legs were growing weary, my feet sore, my mouth parched. Until finally, I made it to the car park. I couldn’t see a single white person.
There were market stalls I didn’t remember seeing. Buses that looked different to ours. They had A4 signs in the front windows, only they were written in Chinese.
‘Excuse me,’ I attempted to ask someone for help. No one spoke English.
Where the fuck am I? I started to panic. I checked the time on my watch and officially had five minutes to get back to our bus.
I desperately searched for our tour guide's phone number. I’d taken a photo of his business card just a few days prior. Once I found it, I keyed it into my phone.
Straight to voicemail.
Lotta fucking good that is Michael.
A man holding a camera stopped me. ‘Picture, picture?’ he asked.
‘You speak English?’ I replied, elated.
‘Yes, yes, English.’
‘I’m lost. I need to get back to my bus.’
He looked at me, confused.
Maybe his English wasn’t that good.
‘Bus, bus,’ I pointed to the lanyard.
He nodded and ushered me to follow him to a car. He jumped in the driver’s side, leaned over and opened the passenger door. Please don’t murder me. Please don’t murder me. No one knew I was in this man’s car.
We drove in silence for about five minutes until he pulled into another carpark. With buses. My bus. I’ve never been so thankful to see a group of white tourists. And Carl.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I said to the photographer-come-driver. I tried offering him 100 yuan (about 20 Australian dollars).
He refused to take it. What a legend.
‘No.’ He pointed to his watch, intimating that time is money. ‘300.’
Ha.
‘Wait here a moment.’
I jogged to our bus only to be greeted by a cheering crowd.
‘Where the fuck did you go?’ Carl asked, dumbfounded.
‘Money, I need money.’
‘What?’
‘I got lost okay, and some random guy drove me back here. I need another 200 yuan.’
I paid the guy for the most expensive five-minute ride I’d ever taken and thanked him again. It may have been expensive but what was the alternative?Death from falling? Fatigue? Dehydration?
iPhone photos geotracked my trek:
Mum inspired (nagged)me to write this story.
