I hadn’t reckoned on Beijing’s roads being so dangerous: the cycle lanes doubled as bus lanes and at pedestrian crossings policemen waded into the roads to help. Even then the drivers didn’t stop — the desperate policemen waved their flags with cars screeching past all around them.

At one crossing a policeman almost waved me into an unmarked sewer hole, reminding me of Denis Leary’s observation about New York: “This is the most exciting place in the world to live. There are so many ways to die here.”

I reached the Forbidden City just in time for the lowering of the Chinese flag. Nearby another ceremony was taking place: a row of street cleaners stood in perfect symmetry with their brushes pointed to the sky.

After the flag ceremony, the cleaners picked up their buckets and spread out in choreographed pincer.

“Hello” one of them giggled.

“Hello,” I replied.

“Where are you from?”

“England.”

“You welcome in China!”

The Great Wall of China

The next morning myself and some other backpackers took a minibus to the Great Wall.

For a while we clattered through dusty hills, then the driver stumbled to a stop at a wind-worn house where he tooted his horn.

Nothing happened.

The driver hit the horn again — this time more violently.

An old man emerged from the house. A hat hid most of his wrinkled face and mittens hung from a clothes line at his waist. His shoes looked as if they had walked 1,000 miles and like their owner were ready to give up.

The man hobbled to the bus and opened the passenger door. He tried to jump into the leather seat, but it was too high, so it took him three attempts.

The driver pointed to the newest passenger: “Here is your guide.”

I almost choked.

“He’ll never make it,” I thought. “He looks older than the Wall for God’s sake!”

I scanned the bus for a doctor. It didn’t look good. We probably didn’t have a career between us — let alone a certificate to perform emergency surgery.

Several minutes later we stopped at the foot of a hill.

The old man grinned back at us to reveal a set of chipped teeth — which perhaps were a homage to the Wall. Then he pointed to the shadowy peaks of the hills and, with that, he was off.

Up ahead he drifted over the terrain like a puppet on string; we darted after him, clambering up the footpath, slipping on loose stones.

After clearing the first hill he looked back to see 15 tourists — 50 years younger than him — struggling to breathe.

He nodded in the direction of the Wall and said: “Landscape!”

Then he was off again.

Only two more words passed from his lips; and the first didn’t really count because it was just a noise his throat made as he spat phlegm. The second came as we hurried down the hill — he didn’t break stride as he shouted: “Steep!”

Back at the bus the old man opened the passenger door. This time it took him even longer to get in— which prompted another backpacker to remark, “I guess he is human after all.”

The Beijing Hutong tour

I thought the Great Wall would be the last tour of that day, but in the evening a bike attached to a filthy carriage pulled up next to us.

The driver patted the carriage, “Hutong Tour! One dollar!”

“One dollar?” I said.

The driver nodded.

The others thought the deal was too good to be true, but I wanted to know what a one-dollar tour looked like.

I climbed into the carriage and moments later we were trundling through the busy streets.

The guide’s information on the local area was limited: “Old street! Nice street! Famous street!” he yelled as we knocked pedestrians out of the way.

That was when the trouble started.

We veered into an alley and pulled up at a faded building. Through the window, I saw a woman with more make-up on her face than clothes on her body.

She beckoned me closer with her forefinger.

“Massage?” smiled the driver.

I shook my head.

The driver nodded and we screeched off again.

Moments later we stopped at another window with another woman.

“Massage?” asked the driver.

I shook my head and we trundled off again.

That pattern continued for another 20 minutes until the “tour” finally came full circle.

I got out of the carriage.

“25 dollars!” scowled the driver.

“No way,” I replied. “You said one dollar.”

“One dollar per minute!”

The argument that followed was long and pointless. Eventually, I got bored of it, thrust a dollar into his hand and walked off.

When I turned around to check he wasn’t following he had already picked up another “dollar” fare.

The other backpackers were waiting for me at the hostel bar.

“Well,” they asked, “What does a one-dollar tour look like?”

“Not great,” I replied. “It turns out he wasn’t a tour guide at all.”

“What was he then?”

“He was a pimp,” I replied. “A pimp on a bicycle.”