A Japanese student’s “social experiment” across China

“What I experienced wasn't just a hitchhiking trip, but a journey through the very fabric of a nation.”

Today’s story is one of my favorites so far this year. It’s about a Japanese student studying in China who spent 21 days hitchhiking from Nanjing—the capital of Jiangsu Province in eastern China, and also my hometown—all the way to Urumqi, the capital of northwest China's Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region, more than 3,000 kilometers away. Along the way, he was picked up by 16 different drivers.

The student’s name is Tanikawa Hibiki. At the start of his journey, he set up what he called a “social experiment”: he would ask passing drivers if they were willing to give him a ride. If they said yes, he would then tell them he was Japanese—and observe whether they would still agree to take him. As he put it, the results of this “experiment” aren’t polling data or an official survey, but a reflection of the real, everyday human reactions he encountered across China.

After completing his journey earlier this year, his story was published on the WeChat blog of Bindian Weekly, run by China Youth Daily, and he was also interviewed by The Paper.

What I love about this story is its authenticity. Sure, it’s not an academic study—the number of drivers he encountered is a small sample size, and the randomness of the road plays a big role—but it still reveals a side of China that even I, as a native, may not always be fully aware of. This kind of immersive, on-the-ground exploration reminds me of Grassroots Governance in China (县乡治), a documentary by Miao Xiaojuan, who spent time interviewing township-level officials across Sichuan, Jiangxi, and Qinghai provinces. I deeply admire this hands-on approach to understanding China.

Documentary | Grassroots Governance in China [4K]

I’ve always felt that compared to cities like Beijing and Shanghai, China’s grassroots society remains far more unfamiliar—and complex—for overseas readers. In fact, even for someone like me, who lives and works mainly in urban areas, these stories are endlessly fascinating. I often find myself learning a great deal from them—not because they offer a clear-cut picture of something “positive” or “negative,” but because they convey a certain raw, textured sense of reality. The complexity of grassroots China is also one of its most compelling qualities. As Tanikawa himself put it: “What I experienced wasn't just a hitchhiking trip, but a journey through the very fabric of a nation.”

Below is the detailed account of this Japanese student’s “social experiment” in China, as published by BingDian Weekly.

Author | Tanikawa Hibiki

I'm Japanese, born and raised in Japan, with a thorough understanding of my homeland. In contrast, I knew almost nothing about the world "overseas." I believed that going abroad was the perfect opportunity to experience a completely new life. And in a country as vast as China, there must be "worlds" I've never seen. It was this thought that brought me to Chinese soil.

I'm a master's student at the School of Journalism and Communication at Nanjing University. During the 2025 winter vacation, when I could finally speak decent Chinese, I decided to embark on a journey—hitchhiking from Nanjing to Xinjiang within 30 days.

Why choose hitchhiking? The reasons were simple: first, no money; second, culture resides in people.

Departure

To prepare for this journey, I started my homework two weeks in advance.

First was the "route": Nanjing, Jiangsu → Wuhan, Hubei → Chongqing → Sichuan → Guizhou → Lanzhou, Gansu → Dunhuang, Gansu → Hami, Xinjiang → Turpan, Xinjiang → Urumqi, Xinjiang. Of course, this was the ideal route; the actual hitchhiking journey would have changes.

Second was "equipment." The average temperature in Nanjing in mid-to-late January is 1°C, while the destination Urumqi is about -20°C. I prepared a tent, sleeping bag, thick down jacket, gloves, emergency food, filming equipment, ground mat, map of China, laptop, and a travel fund of 1,000 yuan. I ultimately decided to use a suitcase to carry these items. This proved to be the right decision.

Third was "testing the sleeping environment." Due to limited funds, I bought a 239-yuan tent, 55-yuan ground mat, and 250-yuan sleeping bag online. Two days before departure, I specifically tested sleeping on the school's football field lawn for one night at 1°C. The actual feeling was—cold, really cold. So I decided to bring a few more winter clothes.

On January 21st, the 22nd day of the twelfth lunar month, I departed from the south gate of Nanjing University. After just two hours of trying to hitch a ride at a gas station outside campus, a young man working at the gas station was willing to take me onto the highway.

This was my first real hitchhiking experience in life. He was an enthusiastic young man from Nanjing who had been working at the gas station since graduating high school. He loved cars and had once dreamed of driving around China. "I used to have dreams like yours, but I never took that step. Seeing you, something stirred in my heart," he told me.

We drove for about an hour and arrived at Baguazhou Service Area on the outskirts of Nanjing. This was my first time entering a Chinese highway service area. What surprised me was not only how clean and spacious it was, but that you could actually walk between the upbound and downbound lanes. After a simple dinner, I continued trying to hitchhike around 8 PM. But I didn't find a suitable ride that day. I told myself this would be a long battle and I needed to maintain a good rhythm—I set up my tent and went to sleep. Thus, I ended the first day with a smooth start.

Tanikawa Hibiki taking a commemorative photo with the first driver who gave him a ride.

Celebrating Spring Festival

I woke up refreshed at noon the next day. However, no matter how I waved or tried, I couldn't find anyone willing to give me a ride. It wasn't until evening that I met people willing to pick me up—three Chinese men around 30 years old. On the road, they talked with me about the similarities between today's Chinese youth and the previous generation.

"We started working at 19. Today's young people study desperately to get into university. Every generation is struggling."—This sentence particularly impressed me. Through these three drivers' conversation, I heard the real voices of ordinary young Chinese people in reality.

The journey progressed fairly smoothly. That evening, another group of three picked me up. They were friends returning home for Spring Festival, with constant laughter in the car and a relaxed, pleasant atmosphere.

Sitting in the passenger seat, I listened to the driver lament: "The cultural atmosphere of Chinese Spring Festival has become much weaker compared to before."

I had learned Chinese through the Chinese sitcom "Home with Kids," so I had always looked forward to experiencing that lively and warm Spring Festival atmosphere, but reality might be very different from imagination, which made me feel somewhat melancholy.

During the journey, the driver kept holding his stomach, seemingly unwell. Several hours later, I arrived at Sanjiaoyuan Service Area.

On the morning of the fourth day, it was drizzling. I suddenly had diarrhea and fever, and what was more troublesome was that the service area hardly sold any medicine.

On the fifth day, I finally couldn't hold on and decided to rest at a nearby hotel. This small town called "Taihe," located in Fuyang City, Anhui Province, unexpectedly became the first city I truly set foot in during this journey.

Although not fully recovered, I could barely get up and move around. I walked out of the hotel and was stopped by a local. He swayed drunkenly while talking to me enthusiastically. Although it was only around noon, he was already red-faced from drinking. He had brought his child back to his Taihe hometown for the New Year and seemed unable to find his way home.

Watching him stumble forward being pulled by his child, for the first time, I felt the warmth of the two words "Spring Festival."

Around 1 AM that night, I continued hitchhiking at the service area. Just when I thought I would be disappointed again, a white-haired man around 60 appeared. He said his destination was Xi'an, and I happened to be going to Luoyang along the way. He told me he had driven all the way from Fujian. When he departed from Fuzhou, he was still wearing short sleeves and shorts, but when he met me, he had already changed into a thick down jacket.

The closer we got to Luoyang, the more the scenery outside became covered in silver. He suddenly brought up his son. "My son went to study in Japan and is now looking for work there."

I was taken aback. I could sense that this father might have complex feelings about Japan. I had never carefully considered what Chinese parents actually feel about their children studying in Japan. Considering how much Chinese people value family, and considering his generation's impressions of Japan, I began to slowly understand his feelings.

Lost in thoughts, I arrived at the second city of my journey—Luoyang. Since I couldn't hail a taxi directly on the highway, I left the service area through the employee passage, walked for nearly 30 minutes, finally entered the city, hailed a taxi, and rushed to meet my friend at our agreed location.

Looking at Luoyang's streetscape from the taxi, I suddenly felt this city had some similarities to my hometown Kyoto. Sure enough, Kyoto was historically modeled after Luoyang.

In my friend's bed, I slept until I naturally woke up. The long-missed bed completely released my fatigue. After waking, I went with my friend to Luoyang's famous World Heritage Site—Longmen Grottoes.

This is one of the precious marks left after Buddhism entered Central China via the Silk Road. Standing before the giant stone Buddha, I couldn't help but hold my breath. That sacred, solemn figure, still standing after thousands of years of wind and frost, seemed to be telling something. Having attended a Buddhist boys' high school, I felt an indescribable "karmic connection" here.

After touring the grottoes and returning to my friend's home, I experienced my first real "Chinese New Year's Eve." The dinner wasn't as lively as I had imagined from "Home with Kids," but it had the warmth of family reunion. Although there weren't firecrackers everywhere or drums beating loudly, everyone sitting around one table, that atmosphere still moved me.

After the New Year's Eve dinner, we watched the Spring Festival Gala while listening to the endless sound of firecrackers outside. Later we also lit handheld fireworks to "drive away evil and welcome fortune," and I welcomed my first "New Year transition" in China.

Early on New Year's Day, my friend's father gave me a red envelope—this was my first time officially receiving a "hongbao," both exciting and novel.

I told him I wanted to personally experience the Chinese New Year atmosphere, and without hesitation, he took me along to "visit relatives."

In one relative's home after another, I saw countless friends and family sitting together, eating and chatting lively, children chasing and playing in the house, adults holding tea cups and exchanging pleasantries. At that moment, it felt like I had truly entered the world of "Home with Kids."

This traditional culture of "visiting relatives during Spring Festival" cannot be felt through words alone; only through personal experience can one understand the profound meaning of "family." Compared to Japanese New Year, the "cohesion of family and kinship" displayed by Chinese people during the New Year is deeply moving.

We also specifically went to Luoyang's famous White Horse Temple. This is known as one of the birthplaces of Chinese Buddhism, and the "Pure Land True School" to which my Buddhist high school belonged was born here. The temple has Buddhist architecture from four countries and has become a gathering place for Chinese and foreign tourists. Since it was New Year's Day, there were crowds of visitors, and many places required queuing for nearly an hour. Every corner showed families coming to pray with their whole families, and groups of tourists filled the square.

Standing in the sea of people, I personally felt that for Chinese people, Spring Festival is not just a holiday, but a continuation of faith and culture.

Tanikawa Hibiki at Longmen Grottoes in Luoyang.

A Chinese Person Who Doesn't Like Japanese People Gave Me a Ride

After lunch, I continued my hitchhiking journey. During Spring Festival, traffic at service areas was unusually sparse. But after waiting just 30 minutes, a man was willing to give me a ride. At dawn, I arrived at a service area in Xi'an's suburbs. This was the third city I reached on this trip.

I rushed to the famous attraction "Terracotta Warriors." The scenic area was flooded with tourists, requiring a two-hour queue to enter. I suddenly remembered news I saw years ago: "Nowadays more and more Chinese people choose not to return to their hometowns during Spring Festival, but to travel instead." This scene made me deeply agree.

That evening, I didn't return to the city service area but chose to camp at Qinhan New City Weihe Wetland Park, falling asleep to the sound of wind.

Around 11:30 AM, I was awakened by birdsong. That day, a Xi'an fan who followed me on Xiaohongshu said they were willing to treat me to a meal.

He took me to the "Site of Han Chang'an City," which was the third World Heritage Site I visited after Longmen Grottoes in Luoyang. These were palace ruins from the Western Han period, so vast they couldn't be seen at a glance. Even riding an electric tour car, it took an hour and a half to barely finish touring.

After touring, I returned to Hancheng Service Area. There were still 635 kilometers to the next stop, Lanzhou. Anxious and not wanting to waste time, I continued trying to hitchhike without rest. But no matter how hard I tried, no cars appeared. Until 6 AM, exhausted to the bone, I finally couldn't hold on and set up my tent in front of the service area's main building, sleeping in my clothes.

Around 8 AM, I was awakened by firecrackers. In a daze, I checked my watch—only two hours had passed. What surprised me was that the firecrackers weren't for celebration, but a method used by service area staff to drive away my tent. They poked the tent with brooms, saying: "You can't set up here!"

After negotiation, they allowed me to move my tent to a corner in front of the building, and I barely got some sleep.

At 2 PM, sunlight shone directly on my face and I was awakened by the heat. I discovered my skin had become abnormal—the routine of waking only at noon for days had me baking in the tent for hours daily, and the skin on my face had started peeling.

Plus, not having bathed for days, my body gave off a noticeable odor, and the tent was filled with my own body smell. Although nothing earth-shattering happened, this period was a "subtle but real torment" for me.

Still no cars willing to take me. Night came, and I helplessly set up my tent again and went to sleep.

I was still awakened by the sun at noon. I had gotten used to simply wiping my body with wet tissues, then starting a new round of hitchhiking attempts. Frankly, I was somewhat disheartened at that time. But just when I was about to give up, several familiar service area employees smiled and handed me a string of firecrackers, encouraging me: "Keep going!"

I lit the firecrackers. In an instant, emotions surged, I revived my spirits and started flagging down cars. Sure enough, a car stopped. The driver was a man around 30. His words completely overturned my world.

He said: "I hate Japan."

At first, I thought I had heard wrong. He even added: "I don't like Japanese people."

The atmosphere in the car immediately became heavy. My heart was full of doubts, and I finally couldn't help but ask: "Since you hate Japanese people, why are you still willing to give me a ride?"

He calmly answered: "Helping others has become my habit. No matter who it is, as long as I see someone in difficulty, I will definitely help. This is just a habit formed since childhood. I really don't like Japanese people, that hasn't changed. But who this person in front of me who needs help is doesn't matter to me at all."

I was stunned. These words, seemingly simple, struck my heart heavily. The two words "helping others" are easy to say but hard to do. It means sacrificing your own time and energy without seeking reward. Many people hesitate between "helping others" and "whether it's worth it." But this driver had made "helping others" a habit since childhood, regardless of who the person was.

I feel that perhaps this belief will plant an indelible seed in my future life. He not only gave me a ride but made me reconsider what "kindness" really is. I thank him from the bottom of my heart. I hope to see this man again someday, and I will definitely thank him in person.

The morning after Tanikawa Hibiki camped at Weihe Wetland Park during his journey.

Continuing Westward

Actually, from the beginning of my journey, I had been conducting a social experiment in my own way that could "truly touch people's hearts."

The method was very simple: I would hold up a sign at highway service areas to hitchhike, asking if they were willing to give me a ride. If they said "yes," I would tell them: "Actually, I'm Japanese." Then I would observe their reaction to see if they would refuse me because of this identity.

I compiled these reactions to calculate "the proportion of Chinese people who actually show rejection behavior toward Japanese people in real civilian scenarios."

Early in the journey, at Lindong Peninsula Service Area in Anhui Province, I met someone who directly said "no." He was the only person so far who explicitly refused my hitchhiking request after learning I was Japanese.

However, when I recalled the man who later admitted he "hated Japan" but still let me in his car, I couldn't help but have another thought: "Perhaps from now on, no one will say 'no' again."

On the 14th day, I arrived at Meixian Service Area. There was still quite a long way to Lanzhou. Without time to think much, I immediately continued hitchhiking. As if arranged by fate, after just one minute, a car stopped. Inside was an international couple—a Chinese man and a foreign woman. The woman had graduated from Tsinghua University, and I had briefly been an exchange student at Peking University, so in a way, she could be called my "senior." They also said similar words: "We had such dreams when we were young, but never realized them. Seeing you has rekindled our courage."

After arriving at Baoji West Service Area, I was surprised to find that more than half the vehicles in the parking lot were SUVs. Although there were many "Gan" (Gansu) license plates in the parking lot, not one was willing to give me a ride. The reason was realistic: there were no big cities here, most car owners were on long-distance drives requiring multiple drivers to take turns, their cars were already full, and possibly the long journey fatigue made them unable to take on more burden.

As darkness fell and the service area temperature dropped to -2°C, I had actually been trying to flag down cars in the cold night for an entire evening.

The sun rose, bringing a new day. Eating sunflower seeds given to me by the third driver earlier, I changed strategy, sitting in front of the restroom waving to drivers. At the same time, I patrolled the parking lot every 30 minutes. An elderly couple in their 60s stopped their car. They were from Min County, Gansu, a pair of migrant workers. When I asked why they were willing to give me a ride, they laughed and said: "The seat's empty anyway, it's the same whether you're there or not."

They lived simply, spoke directly, without concerns. This was my first real deep contact with ordinary people from rural backgrounds in China. The biggest impression was—they were really straightforward.

We went together to Yuanyang Service Area. Only 198 kilometers remained to Lanzhou. As soon as I got out, I was pulled into a car by a brother two years older than me. He worked in Lanzhou and was returning to his workplace. He said: "When I was young, I also wanted to take a spontaneous journey like this." These familiar words made me smile knowingly.

Three full days after leaving Xi'an, I finally arrived in Lanzhou. By this time, I was exhausted and decided not to camp outside anymore, instead choosing a nearby internet café. The overnight price at this internet café was only 20 yuan—it was heaven. I curled up in a swivel chair in the heated room and fell into a satisfied deep sleep.

Lanzhou, the fourth major city on my journey, had four must-complete goals: see the Lanzhou waterwheels, see the Yellow River and Zhongshan Bridge, climb White Pagoda Mountain, and eat authentic Lanzhou beef noodles.

What amazed me was that behind this city stood continuous snow-capped mountains, as if in some western plateau city, completely overturning my stereotypical impression of "northern Chinese cities."

I first took a bus to Lanzhou Waterwheel Park. Unfortunately, as a foreigner, I couldn't use Alipay to activate a bus card. I stood dumbly on the bus when a woman, without saying anything, paid my fare. This stranger's kindness warmed my heart again. After getting off, I finally saw the huge waterwheel complex by the Yellow River—the visual impact was stunning.

Next I went to Zhongshan Bridge. It was a century-old iron bridge jointly built by Germany, America, and China. Below the bridge was the rushing Yellow River, above it was a sea of people—this "First Bridge of the Yellow River" truly lived up to its name.

After crossing the bridge was the third stop—White Pagoda Mountain. The white ancient pagoda sat on the mountaintop. I stored my luggage at a small stall at the foot of the mountain and began climbing.

About half an hour later, I stood on the mountainside looking out—below was the Yellow River, beside me was the ancient pagoda, ahead was a skyline where dense high-rises coexisted with snow-capped mountains. At that moment, it felt like being in a "Yellow River Manhattan."

As the sun set, I went down the mountain to retrieve my luggage, only to find the stall had closed and the proprietress was nowhere to be seen. Seeing it was getting late, I was anxiously pacing in front of the shop when a passerby called out to me. "You're here to get your luggage, right? The proprietress took your things to the police station. There's a note on the door saying 'Your things are at the duty room'!" She pointed to a bag on the door—it was a reminder note left by the shop owner. This made me feel that the further west I went, the more enthusiastic Chinese people seemed to be.

When Tanikawa Hibiki was touring Lanzhou, he stored his luggage at a small shop in the scenic area. When the shop owner closed up, she took his luggage to the police station and left a note.

After retrieving my luggage, I ate the "signature Lanzhou beef noodles." Around midnight, I returned to Lanzhou North Service Area.

That day I had homework to finish, my hands were numb with cold, typing was extremely difficult. A young driver told me: "The 'Drivers' Home' room here has no beds, but has sofas and heating. You can go in at night to warm up." This was like a godsend for me. I took off my down jacket and three layers of cotton pants—not having undressed for so long, this brought a feeling of release. Sitting at a table after so long, I finally had that feeling of "body in a room, heart also warm."

In the morning, I slowly opened my eyes on the warm room's sofa. Today's goal was Dunhuang, 934 kilometers away. This was an extremely long journey. Many drivers said, "Very few cars here go toward Dunhuang, and the vast majority don't pass through this service area."

That day, I greeted and talked to almost everyone I met, but until nightfall, no suitable car came. But this day wasn't hard to endure. Because this service area had heating and sofas. I peacefully spent a leisurely evening and fell asleep contentedly in the warm room.

Finally, I found a ride. Perhaps because I had stayed at the service area too long, several employees specifically came out to see me off, shouting: "Have a safe journey!" The male driver who gave me a ride was two years younger than me and was returning to work in Xinjiang.

We drove northwest, and after about two hours, he dropped me off at Anmen Service Area. Initially hearing this name, I had no concept of it, but as soon as I got out, I understood—this place was completely different. The architecture here had strong Tibetan style, with carved doors and windows, bright colors, even the service area signs had Tibetan script. This was a service area at 3,500-4,000 meters elevation, belonging to a Tibetan autonomous county.

I felt a strong cultural shock here—the architecture, clothing, and language were all quite different from Central China. I felt incredibly fortunate to briefly stop at such a unique place. But my good luck seemed to run out there—that night, I didn't get another ride.

At 3 AM, the temperature dropped to -17°C. I put several plastic chairs together as a bed, crawled into my sleeping bag, curled up in a corner of the service area, trying to sleep. Outside were cold winds, starry sky, and the silent plateau.

Having not bathed for a week, the first thing I did after waking was pay 10 yuan and enter the service area's shower room. The moment hot water flowed over my body, I almost cried with emotion. But after washing, my skin actually got worse—perhaps washing away the thick protective oil layer, facing the dry, bone-chilling air, my skin immediately began cracking and peeling.

I walked out of the shower room and saw Mayashan Mountain facing me. A snow-capped mountain reaching 4,447 meters, standing before me like a deity. This was my first time witnessing peaks and mountain ranges higher than Mount Fuji. Sunlight shone on the summit, the snow glare was blinding, I stood in place unable to move my gaze for a long time. At that moment, language could no longer describe the shock in my heart.

On the Beijing-Xinjiang Highway, Tanikawa Hibiki said this was a snow mountain scenery he would never forget in his lifetime.

The Destination

Just as I was struggling to wait for a car while holding a sign saying "Please take me to Urumqi," an SUV stopped in front of me. The driver was a Han man from Gansu. He had spent New Year with his family in his hometown and was now returning to his workplace in Xinjiang. I curiously asked: "Why don't you go develop in big cities like Shanghai or Shenzhen?" He said: "Because I like Xinjiang." When he said this, his eyes were frank, his tone certain: "It's like falling for a girl—I just like it here, so I stay."

I smiled. The most moving reasons in this world never need explanation.

That night, the lowest temperature reached an astonishing -20°C. Before dawn, I was awakened by the cold. Shivering in my sleeping bag, I couldn't suppress my inner excitement—I had already completed two-thirds of the journey. Although my body was exhausted, my nerves were quietly excited. This journey was really approaching its end. Wrapped in clothes, I walked around the service area to warm up. The entire parking lot was bustling early in the morning—it turned out that many car engines had frozen due to the extreme cold. People gathered around car fronts, pouring hot water on engines, waiting for the sun to rise and thaw them.

I stood at the restroom entrance as usual seeking a ride, but what stopped in front of me was a top-tier SUV worth several million yuan.

"We're traveling around the world, our current destination is France," a man said cheerfully. Two SUVs, a team of brothers, they enthusiastically invited me to ride along.

The driver seemed to have studied abroad in an English-speaking country, revealing a broad perspective in his conversation. This was my first time riding in a top-tier SUV—just the stability and capability galloping across the Gobi Desert was unforgettable. What surprised me more was that their car actually had two license plates. They explained that one plate marked "rescue" was a special license for "rescuing others" in no-man's land. They didn't just drive for themselves but also carried the responsibility of saving people in the desert.

I secretly set a goal in my heart: "One day in the future, I too will own my own off-road vehicle."

Due to route directions, I got off at Guazhou County before Dunhuang. Here, as far as the eye could see was endless Gobi Desert, and in the center of this desolate land stood a lonely and solemn sculpture—"Son of the Earth." This sculpture was created by a professor from the Sculpture Department of Tsinghua University's Academy of Arts & Design. The statue seemed to grow from underground, head held high, posture steady, very much like an incarnation of this land itself.

On the Gobi Desert around the statue grew a plant called camel thorn. I reached out and gently pinched it—"snap," it crumbled. That dry, fragile texture, as if it wasn't a plant but stone, made me truly realize I was in desert territory.

I held up my sign seeking a ride, and an enthusiastic uncle living nearby stopped his car, willing to take me to the next service area. Thus, I smoothly arrived at Bulongji Service Area. From here to Urumqi, only 1,038 kilometers remained. But that night was really too cold, the cold wind cut like knives, and I had no desire to flag down cars. So I told myself: "The remaining journey, continue tomorrow." I wrapped myself tightly in my sleeping bag, lay on chairs inside the service area, and slowly fell asleep in the bone-chilling cold and quiet silence.

In the morning, the temperature was still a bone-chilling -16°C. I opened my eyes on the chair and tugged at my frost-covered sleeping bag. A thought suddenly emerged in my mind: this might very well be the last car. So I began doing something I hadn't done in a while.

I walked among the people in the service area and began asking one by one: "Do you think I can successfully hitchhike from Nanjing to Urumqi?" Everyone answered without hesitation: "Yes, definitely!" Simple affirmations, yet they warmed my heart. At this moment, a service area employee I had become familiar with silently handed me a bowl of breakfast. Eating the steaming hot porridge, an unprecedented firmness rose in my heart. So I stood up once again, raised my sign, and began looking for the "last car" of this journey.

About two hours later, a car stopped in front of me. The driver was a young man in his 20s from Gansu, currently working as an art teacher at a middle school in Xinjiang. We headed north and arrived at Hami Service Area, which was as lively as a market, not at all like being on a highway. People in ethnic clothing moved among the crowds. The service area had large chunks of mutton, bone-in barbecue, baked buns, pilaf, as well as naan bread, yogurt, and milk tea—rich and fragrant.

After the meal, we continued on the road. As the elevation rose and temperature dropped sharply, a huge snow mountain rainbow suddenly appeared among the mountains. This was my first time seeing a "snow rainbow"—not after rain but in snow. I felt as if I had crossed into a fairy tale world.

It was already 7:30 PM, but the sky was still bright as day. Calling friends in Nanjing, I learned—Xinjiang has a two-hour time difference from the east. What I felt wasn't the time difference, but the vastness of this country.

At 12:57 AM on February 11th, I arrived at Urumqi Sanping Service Area. I had thought I would cry, even fantasized about falling to my knees and sobbing the moment I got out. But at that moment, my heart was incredibly calm.

This journey made me experience: the bitter cold of winter snow nights in a tent, the extreme pain of diarrhea and fever, the panic and gratitude after losing belongings, the real faces of kind "ordinary Chinese people" that shocked me one after another, and countless first-time life experiences.

I didn't just complete a hitchhiking trip—I traversed the real texture of a nation.

At 2 AM, one of my ethnic minority friends came to welcome me. I would stay at his home for three days, beginning a real "Xinjiang life."

Finally, I embarked on my return journey. My way back was by green train. Departing from Urumqi, it took a full 56 hours to finally return to Nanjing. I bought a "standing ticket." Outside the window, scenery slowly flowed by. The cities I had passed through were like a movie replay, also like settling memories.

On the 29th day, at 1 AM, I returned to the south gate of Nanjing University's Xianlin Campus—the starting point of my journey.

At the south gate of Nanjing University's Xianlin Campus, Tanikawa Hibiki at the starting point of his journey.

At the beginning of my journey, I set up a "social experiment": asking if they were willing to give me a ride—if they said "yes," I would tell them "I'm Japanese"—observing whether they would change their minds because of this.

In the end, among 17 drivers, only 1 refused me after learning I was Japanese. That is to say, 94.1% of those "willing to give me a ride," even knowing I was Japanese, still chose kindness and help. This isn't some poll data or official questionnaire, but real person-to-person reactions in civilian life. For me, it's more precious than any statistics. Because this is the China I walked out with my feet, saw with my eyes, and felt with my heart.