Zash! With a loud bang the noodles hit the table, are dragged out, then turned quickly around each other and end up with a renewed “zash” on the surface. The Uighur cooking gives us a broad grin while he lets them slip into the steaming pot of water. Then he turns around and pours plenty of oil in the wok. A flame shoots over the open hearth. Quickly he throws two handfuls of chopped vegetables, shaking it back and forth while he reaches for the chili box. "Bù là!" We call, one of the very few Chinese expressions, we get finally right on the line after two months of practice time. "Not spicy!" Another grin, then he fishes the noodles out of the water with a sieve, serves them together with the vegetables on two plates and brings us this along with chopsticks to the table. A Uyghur Laghman - how many times have we dreamed about in Mongolia. A long moment only intently chewing is heard at the table. So we spend the first days back in China almost only with eating. Wontons, stuffed dumplings in steaming baskets, sweet and sour eggplant, fried tofu and again and again fresh noodles in all lengths and thicknesses. And the freshly baked, crusty bread that you can buy at every other corner. We are living in cyclist's heaven.

But not every happiness lasts forever. After two days, we stand at the entrance of a narrow mountain valley in front of a barrier. "Border zone" is written on a large blue sign for once even in english, more than 200km before the actual Mongolian border. Soon we are surrounded by four border policemen. We should not pass without special border permit, tells us one, some english-speaking official and the paper is only issued by the Public Security Bureau in the nearest major city. We discuss back and forth. Finally, after our refusal to ride the route back ourselves, they organize us late at night two lifts in a truck convoy. A mistake, as it turns out the very next police checkpoint. Instead of twenty, our truck has loaded forty tons of granite, the barrier remains down and we are left with no choice but to set up our tent just before midnight beside the roadblock. The next morning, we finally reach the city with another lift and there we go straight to the PSB office. In the beginning, everything goes quickly, although no one speaks english and we can only show the handwritten note of the border officials. But when we go back in the afternoon to pick up the two pieces of paper, we have to handle with granite again. "Thele ale a lot of mountains thele, it's too dangelous fol you," explains the interpreter on the mobile phone quite seriously. Too many mountains?! Too dangerous?! Again, we argue, the phone is passed back and forth, but bottom line is and remains: we are only allowed to use the main roads, everything else is "too dangelous". So we ride the next days on the G216 northwards. A major route, often without hard shoulder, but with a lot of truck traffic and racing motorists. But it has no mountains here, only barren desert and is therefore not half as “dangelous” as the gravel road through the Chinese Altai mountains. Our motivation hit rock bottom.

In Burqin we turn on a quieter road towards the north, but only after a detailed clarification in the local PSB office, because in the border region of Kazakhstan, Russia, Mongolia and China are much more "dangelous mountains". The officials are again very polite and this time we hear a "yes of course you can, no problem". Our mouth slowly walk back a little higher. "The only area in China with Swiss scenery", the area around the Kanas lake is advertised. And really, we almost feel a bit like home when we go for a round trip to Hemu.

In addition to the Kazakh herders we also encounter many Chinese tourists. In small and larger groups they run into us on the narrow gravel road. Wearing brand new outdoor clothes, some already a bit foot lame, other as they want to win a marathon, while the third trot stoic forwards, as if it were an unpleasant, transmitted task by their boss on an ordinary working day. It's the first time in China that we see some kind of individual tourists, because the Chinese tourism usually takes place in masses. The sights in China are classified according to A's, the more A's a place can show, the more expensive is the entrance and the more visitors it has. The Kanas Lake is a AAAAA, which means a great highlight and on the main road we've been overtaken by crammed cars by the minute, channeling the crowds to the lake and back again after the souvenir photo. But these Chinese here do a three day trek and welcome us with an enthusiasm that is infectious. Thumbs up – we're feeling good again and so we make the 800km up to the Kazakh border in a breeze.

It's ten o'clock in the evening and we're ready for bed. Suddenly somebody knocks on the door. Not unexpected, because an overnight stay in a cheap hotel in China is always a matter of luck and depends on several factors. 1. The owner may not know the rules / take it too seriously or he must have good relations with the police, because foreigners are only allowed to stay in expensive hotels with scanners for registration, 2. Nobody blows the whistle on the owner or the foreigners, 3. The police are too lazy to care about such trifles. It seems that we've once again bad luck. Two civilians with red armbands stand at the door and point us clearly that we should follow them. Since the two neither are in possession of a batch nor an uniform, we slam the door and sit down to research the internet. Red armband - what the hell is that? Soon we find it. It's written in black and white: "... workers and pensioners were mobilized to ensure order and security. They wear a red armband with the characters "security patrol". So far so good. No problem. At home, there's also Securitas. But in China red armbands were handed out before. During the Cultural Revolution of Mao millions of people had been publicly tortured by these "Red Guards" or picked up never to return. People who have experienced this time, still live in China, remembering as a victim or were perhaps even the Red Guards and now work again as a voluntary security police ... uhhhhh ... that would be like Securitas with swastika armbands. Soon they knock on our door again. We don't answer. Change the hotel at eleven o'clock in the evening? Quite not sure! The knocking goes for half an hour more, we are fed up, banging back and screaming: “Ride to hell, we sleep now, come back tomorrow!" Arrogance helps often in China, we've learned in the past. For a time, they still discuss aloud in front of our door, then it gets silent.

The next morning we're on the Sino-Kazakh border. But it's closed. Closed for the next three days. And our China Visa expires today. "No problem," says the border officials, "come back Sunday". So a new hotel search. In any cheaper hotel we hear "mejo", the Chinese word for "don't have, don't want, don't do, couldn't be buggered" which we hear way too often. We make our way to the police station. Should they help us to find accommodation for 80 yuan. Amazingly, it worked before and it goes also well this time. We follow the patrol car to a hotel and check-in. The owner dismisses merely, as we want to give her the passport for registration. Well then - on three more days in China. Actually, we're absolutely not in mood to stay longer. And as if our state of mind attracts misfortune, we relive Chinas corrupt and unjust side once more. The next night the owner asked suddenly twice the price for the room and threatens us with the expulsion. Unfortunately we've had to pay deposit and the money would then be gone. We go straight to the police and ask for help. The massive police presence that accompanies us don't impress the women but not a bit. Unusual, because the Chinese often fear the police. Only when we roll out the sleeping bag in front of the reception and set up for the night, the situation evolves. The Security Police appear and finally we have an english-speaking counterpart and we can represent our cause without google.translate. At midnight, after about three hours of massive verbal attacks, we are allowed to move into the room again. Our missing registry is wiped under the table. This woman must have powerful friends.

Four days later we reach Almaty, together with the first snow. Here we want to obtain the visa for Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan and Iran. Although we know Central Asia already from previous trips, we would like to cycle overland back to Dubai. But when we inquire at the Iranian embassy, it turns out that we need a reference number despite contrary information on the internet and that this would, however, only be obtained after ten days. Two more weeks it would take to obtain the remaining visas. As we leave the embassy, a switch flips. Almost a year we have spent in Asia. A continent blessed with striking natural beauty and cultural diversity. We enjoyed it, but now it seems to be time for a change. Without further ado, we prescribe ourselves a "thumbs up", throw all the plans into disarray, book a flight and pull us ahead to... We look forward to!