Gone East

I am not a morning person.

I should admit now, I regard the entire process of waking up as an entirely unhealthy activity. Just to complicate things, I'm also not very good at it. Mornings tend to feature a solid spell of zombied stumbling whilst I grapple around trying to remember exactly where... (and some mornings who) I am...

But this one was different. From the outset I knew exactly where I was. The small city of PingYao. The warm wooden rafters of the dorm were instantly recognisable, a clear contrast to the concrete cell that was the previous hostel. Drawn to the door by a cool current of air I stepped out into the balcony above the Ming-era courtyard. Wispy fog bowed out of the morning grey coursing around stony dragons and rendering everything even a few steps distance in a muted haze. This was different allright... I knew where I was, The question was when?

Pingyao's ancient center is encircled by the old city walls. Twelve meters high, they run one and a half Kilometers on each side, broken only by the high guard towers and cavernous gates. These on their own would make the place an impressive historical monument but Pingyao's real magic is what they still manage defend. Safely sealed off from the high rises and encroaching sprawl of modern China, the center holds its original architecture, uninterrupted within the defended zone. Stepping out into the streets its easy to get sense of the history, Cafe's and shops shelter under the old rooves and behind the beautifully carved frontings. A facade-less city, the architecture extends all the way back through courtyards and mazed alleyways and into peoples homes.

Stepping out onto the cloudy streets I notice the quiet hush of background noise. The constant hustle of cars, trains, bikes and the ever present honking horns are all sealed off by the buffering walls. Instead voices rise out of the grey,
shop owners chant their wares to passers by, schoolyards scream with playing children and tour groups are shepherded by the shill drone of their guides microphone. It all fades in and out of the mist as the each passes by. Once a great center of banking and wealth Pingyao housed many impressive temples and mansions. Today these remain as museums, preserved with a genuine care. Our walks through the many Taoist or Confucianist temples are overseen by great guarding statues and giant Murial's depicting the religions teachings. Its hard to ignore the calm and tranquility of these places.

One back courtyard is filled with training equipment. Wooden stakes for balance practice, punch bags for strength and giant diagrams on form and technique are littered around. A reminder that the great caravans of gold and wealth that used to leave here needed protection outside the walls.

And that really is the key to the place. Protected by its walls and with only a few key points in and out, Pingyao holds a definite sense of security, you feel lullingly safe here. The main center is small enough to explore in a day and has a relaxed charm. Drifting through its narrow alleys you get a strange mix of old and new. Donkeys pull carts for the charcoal men, who announce their wares in an echoing chant. Pitched against these you dodge the zippy golf carts ferrying tourists blaring squeaky horns at anything that moves. But these streets are straight out of the past, you can always find one too narrow for the swirling flow to follow. A trip down these finds quieter residents, where women peel potatoes from doorsteps and kids bounce around you for cover in games of hide and seek.

I find a bit of down time to relax, a holiday from my travels. My dreamy peace a break from the city rush of Beijing. Sunlight fades into its ghostly dusk, the ornate buildings and lofty gates turn from a shroudy grey to dark shadows. All along its streets the famous red lanterns come out in force. Spilling off the main paths the light creeps into the alleys leaving pools of red in a sea of darkness. This beauty has been recognised in cinema, the setting for "raise the red lantern".

I didn't stay long in this ancient city. A few days shared between relaxation and exploration leaves little to do or see here, it being such a small place. However while it lasts it truly does this well. A dreamy place of respite from the unending urban spread. Its easy to get idealistic about places like this. Mistaking peoples poverty for some sort of "simple life", believing its the last bastion of some great happier time lost in a modern world, forsaken in the west. Memories can get obscured in the same misty haze that fills the streets. Like anywhere here, Pingyao faces its problems. Its lifeblood is obviously tourism, the double edged sword. In summer I'm told its flooded and my "quiet charm" suitably drowned. This in turn maintains the city to ensure another years good harvest travellers cash. But for now and at this time of year a sense of dormancy holds strong. Tucked in a blanket of mist its peace holds fast.

For now, Pingyao remains very much a town worth getting up for.
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Lunch: Really nice Chinese Egg and Tomato dish, Simple and damn tasty

On the fifth day the sun broke through.

I'd been woken by an unusual sensation. The sunny shafts piercing the curtains seemed disconnected from my last few days in Beijing. A siege of smog was under-way, darkening the daytime sky and rendering all in a murky grey. I'd held back on some of the tourist trail waiting for good weather, partly in hope of those blue sky postcard views and partly to minimise exposure to the throat grinding pollution. Indoor attractions had kept me busy. I'd padded around a few unexpectedly good museums, seen Beijing acrobatics, done aquariums and art exhibits. The murk even held a strange beauty, obscuring skyscrapers into peering shadows and blowing calm wisps across the Summer Palace lake. But I grew restless for blue sky, realising time was ticking by and I'd still not seen many of the capitals treasures. So looking down at the warm patchwork playing out on my duvet I could tell I'd caught a break.

The sun had broken through.

So we pitched together, grabbing our stuff we headed north of the metropolis, making a B-line for the mountains. Nestled about an hours drive away is an area known as Jinshanling. A further 10k on from there is the destination of Simtai, and connecting the two is a mixed and jagged stretch of China's Great wall.

The track wound past mountain feet and up into narrow valleys. Shepherded by their guides tour groups march up the steep slopes to enter the wall, finally hitting its giant stone steps. Once you'd leapfrogged the herded masses the way ahead lay clear. Snaking magnificently through precarious hills the wall really is a sight to behold. One of the first things that becomes clear is the insane route it takes. Riding up ridges, on cliffs and teetering on mountain peaks the construction of this stretch really didn't stop for any geographical barriers. Often it would be impossible to even approach the wall from below, let alone invade through these points.

Broken every few hundred meters by towers and even walls on the wall, the place is bristling with defences. The name in Chinese translates as “long castle”, which really is what it boils down to. A great linear fortress. Jinshanling's pristinely renovated section soon gives way as you pass the cable car escape route. From there you walk on the crumbling remains of the original renovation dated from the Middle ages. The steep stairwells decay to a shifting rock scramble but its obvious that even in well kept areas that the gradient is difficult. Lumbering along with only a backpack you've got to feel something for the guys who built and guarded this place.

From up here you get a good view of the landscape. Miles out of the Beijing sprawl the hills lie like the great duvet of some sleeping giant, bumped and rolling. Even here though its plain to see the development going on. New petrol stations dot roads, great plantations and construction projects can be seen and the distance hints at a massive lake and dam. The sheer manpower that went into building the wall is now at work building a new China. Westernisation is plain to see and shocking my expectations from this “communist” country where you're never more than 400 meters from a MacDonald, internet cafe, Starbucks or KFC. Great adverts hang around and play on buses, selling diamonds and tailored suits, executive cars plough the streets, the wealth of the cities is clear. It is however in plain context, amongst it all the poverty of the streets and the Hutongs is still present. This city mixes an interesting combination of enormous wealth and a population around that of an entire quater UK, making for a gigantic workforce. The world is becoming flat. A more even playing field. Though China may still be playing catch up in some respects, its very obviously gearing up to take the ball... and run with it.

All the way back in Amsterdam another traveller had talked to me about the Beijing Olympics. One line really resonated at the time. That China was aiming to use these Olympics in the same way Berlin did in 1936. This is China's coming out party, a show of its enormous power and sneak peek at the next decade. Whilst the good weather lasted I decided to take a look for myself.. North of the city centre is the enormous Olympic park. Huge trucks sweep in and out of the place filling the air with dusty clouds. I again find the sun hazed and the air thick, but this time its all dust kicked up by the enormous construction area. With no official public access I decided to skirt around the miles of plated fencing, to find a good place to take a look. A pile of breeze blocks finally gave me my in. Hoisting myself up I peered over the fence. The only word I can really use to sum up what I saw was, crater. Far from my expectations of a place nearly complete with little over nine months to go for until the games... it looked more like it had been hit by a meteor. China's great birds nest stadium and bizarrely beautiful water cube are framed by open soil and spindly cranes. Workers dig, push, move and build all around the place. A sense of action is everywhere. The graceful web of the national stadium's steel nest now sits with a thick coat of dust. Its a fairly surprising sight. Still I'm assured by the adverts and releases that this is merely the final stage, laying the aesthetics, pathways and trees, the main work is already over. My untrained eye just lingers on the massive earth works, such a scene of emmence wasteland even if it is only a stones throw from the paradise illustrations for the final site. I can't help but wonder if this is a sign of things to come for my own home in 2012. But those will be a very different games. When the dust settles it will be interesting to see what state China and indeed, the world, lies in. All I could do now though was gawk.

Clambering up the final hill we could see the last of our wall down to Simtai. From there the long castle takes on a vertical mountain and wins, riding over ridges and peaks across the horizon. But our hike ended at the sparkling river. Beyond here you cannot continue, its too dangerous to walk. Its worth noting the wall ultimately failed. The Mongols broke through somewhere less well defended , conquered and ended up founding a dynasty here. The wall changed hands. There's a saying, "the wall is strong because its built on the bones of its people", a great effort that was in some places practical defence and in others far more a show power, a definite statement of “because I can...”, but that is China's past. The question that lingers on my mind, is what will the China of tomorrow be built upon and ultimately what it will look like.

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Lunch: Wall top "Cucumber & Cherry tomato" flavoured Crisps stuffed in a Sandwich

That pack of cards was all that kept me sane.

The train had ground to a halt at the Russian border some nine hours ago. Within 15 minutes the burly customs staff had turned the the train inside out, quickly pursued by grim military officers reaping our passports and papers with black expressions. Then... nothing. For hours. Nine of them to be exact.

My carriage turned out to be conspicuously full of foreign travellers. A fact which proved a blessing in disguise allowing for conversation, mutual complaints about border crossings and the explanation of complex rules for card games. A life saver that held the gnawing urge to garrote oneself on the emergency stop cord until the last moments before the train shunted onwards. Rattling forward a few meters we unceremoniously crossed the border... straight into Mongolian border control. The brakes screech on and I once again began eyeing the dangling cord.

"Hello!" Comes a voice. "How are you?" Looking around I realise the sound emanated from a jolly plump man at the door to my compartment. There's an awkward silence before i notice the military insignia on his badge.

"May I see your papers please?" Perhaps I'm being mugged, surely this beaming man isn't customs. I reluctantly hand them over. "That looks great." He says returning them quickly. Before disappearing i notice a his mouth contort into a strange upward expression... It almost looked like... nah, couldn't be... did he just smile? I enter a trance that's only broken by his interrogation of the group next door.

"Are you carrying any weapons or drugs?"
"No." Comes a startled answer.
"Why not?" He laughs the reply.

This was my first introduction to the strange phenomenon of friendliness that seems a raging epidemic amongst the Mongolian people.

Ulaanbaatar is a strange place. A big city in a small country it holds over half of the entire population. Even then its only at a million people. At first glance the center appears nothing special, dusty partly run down streets don't quite hold up to the sheer grandeur of cities like St Petersburg. Fortunately this is a city with personality by the bucket-load.

A stroll through the suburbs leads me past construction sites for shiny new apartments that spring up out of the traditional Ger districts. Gers being the fold up felt tents traditionally used by nomads that now cluster in city districts. Amongst this I find religion. The first Buddhist temple I sees a six story gold Buddha staring benevolently down. Peace descends on the place as tangibly as the pigeons who calmly flop around after the generous monks who cast bird seed their way. We peer in on morning prayer, a hypnotising chant that floats about the place. Lost in the music i fail to notice a monk detach himself from a back row and make for the door. As he brushes past i notice him take out, not one, but two, mobile phones, texting on one as he calls on the other. Mongolia is a country on the move. Progress its newly glistening office buildings hint towards. I move on to a second temple.

A quieter affair to the south where i discover Buddhism may not be all it seems. The peace loving, chilled out religion-for-personal-enlightenment I'd always thought I'd known seemed in vast contrast to the murals covering wall and ceiling. Pictures of terrible tortures being exacted upon screaming people. Disembowelments, eternity of nakedness in a freezing cave and being eaten alive by giant worms. This grim procession is presided over by monstrous gods, who stare down with wrathful looks at the entire scene. Slightly lost i ask the caretaker what these people could have possibly done.

"Oh!" she beams back, "they're people who refused to believe in the Chochin lama."
"I see..." Again suspiciously eyeing the pictures
"You are Christian?" she continues.
"No, actually I'm Atheist."
For my confessions i get a sad, its been nice knowing you, smile before returning to sweep the corner.

Paranoia turns the eyes of angry deities towards me. I resolve to move on to pastures slightly less blood soaked. Which in turn leads me to the cities wacky museums. I happy regress into visiting the dinosaurs at the natural history museum. The Gobi is a treasure chest of fossils, a wealth which is displayed impressively here. At the "museum of international intellectuals" (known to us as the puzzle museum) I am shown the expert works of a man who started making puzzles and games at the age of 11. He appears out of no-where at the end of the tour and happily shows me a mix bag of slightly obvious magic tricks before taking me away from his impressively carved pieces to show me his collection of toys. Only on the way out do i see pictures of the man shaking hands with US presidents and other world leaders. The puzzlemaster himself a strange enigma.

Our hostel owner turns out to have a cousin with a farm. He sets up an excursion out there. A bumpy local train and some rough tracks later and I find myself camped up in a woolly Ger nestled in a the sweeping landscape. Hidden in a mountainous valley just above the rolling steppe the landscape holds a grand beauty. The first frosts of winter only intensify this, crystallising the nearby river with blooms of Ice as it starts to freeze.

We ride Mongolian horses (who i discover... don't speak English, a slight problem when you've learned the words for "go" but not "FOR CHRIST SAKE STOP BEFORE WE HIT THAT RIVER"), climb the nearby mountains and explore the creepy ruins of the nearby sanatorium. All the while our host gushes Mongolian hospitality, A hearty laugh, Delicious food and blazing stove make the whole thing feel comfortingly homely. Add to this the good company that I'd now been travelling with since Baikal and the whole experience proved deeply satisfying.

In the evening our host teaches us a Mongolian card game. A shaky start is soon smoothed as we pick the game up, the mongolian measures of "scotch" whiskey also helping the process along. Eventually having lost my share of Twenty Togrogs (two pence, we wasn't quite big money) I escape the biting cold by digging into a camel hair sleeping bag and without quite noticing slip off into a deep sleep.

Mongolia was worth the nine hour wait.

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Lunch: Mutton, Mutton and even more Mutton

Siberia. The name has always conjured images of a frosty world of barren wilderness for me. Permafrost blanketed in heavy snow, broken only by pine forest and the obligatory swarms of bears. The reality sees me far to the south of this massive region, closer to Kazakhstan if anything. With an area far larger than Europe, it proves to be a massive, and yet diverse, place and for my part at least its been unexpectedly mild.

Time seems to work differently on the train. Not helped at all by the confusing mix of zones we pass through. All timetables run uniformly on Moscow time, no matter which one of Russia's Six time zones your passing through. Body clocks flit indesicivly between local and Rail time the difference between day and night are lost. Even when you do know when you are. Things tend to pass at different paces. Three and a half days is a long time to be contained in a few cramped meters but this potential prison never quite reaches that stage and for a few days at least theres plenty to do. For the most part, this involved gazing out the window.

The landscape here rolls past in slow cycles. Waking this morning i find myself speeding parallel with a great river. Sharp valley walls rise up on either side, covered with neat rows of pine that occasionally break for giant rocky outcrops. For a few confused minutes i wonder if we've overshot and somehow made it to Alaska. Sooner or later this is replaced by flat expanses of wiry birch that closely hug the track. Dense clumps stubbornly ignore the biting wind parting only for the boggy fields and scrub grass.

Its barren and desolate, but bathed in the golden sun it proves mesmerising beautiful.

Small towns and villages rise and fall back into the scenery. Massed hulks of factories cluster these concrete oases. Broken glass and subsided walls seem to be the standard architecture. The sheer extent of decay paint entire settlements with an rusty orange hue. Oddly fitting many seem cunningly camouflaged against the grasslands betrayed only by belching smokestacks in white and faded red.

There's a sense of poverty here that i really hadn't quite expected from Russia. The elderly seem especially weathered as they hobble the platforms selling food from plastic bags. Again things seem straight out of the history books, faces almost identical pictures of starving workers in Petrograd. The progress of European Russia seems to have skipped its eastern bulk. However, i remind myself sweeping generalizations are easy to make from where I sit. Siberia's size and my thin strip through it make it difficult to get a real sense of place through my keyhole window. However I can't help but notice more passengers seem to join the train than leave in these places.

Every now and again we pull through a major city. Soviet solidity reigns supreme here. Whilst at first their hard edges seem equally bleak they often hold little treasures of great soviet art. Statues of strong Russian workers hold their petrified children up in a cheery wave to departing travelers. Unfortunately attempts to capture these views on camera never seem to turn out quite so well. A mysterious murk slaps itself on every one blurring away the beauty before me. As we pull in to Omsk i decide to stretch my legs only to be blinded by the bright sun and vivid colours outside. For the first time i get a good look at the greasy film of muck that coats the outside of the train rendering pictures out in a powdery brown. Alternatively i burn through my remaining books, albums and Chinese lessons.

Conversation also proves a staple occupation. I discover the "nun" sitting across from me is actually a piano teacher (though i maintain she's on the verge of quitting to a convent). We all generally get to understanding what we're saying as they continue to probe my life's story. The biggest source of questioning centers around why I'm not in the military (seeing as Russia as two years compulsory service for men). I reply with "Nyet", shake of the head and miming salute for army, Huw speak for... "nah we don't have service". This receives an unexpectedly enthusiastic response. "No military?" they reply with gleams in their eyes. Only later i realize that the word "conscription" and "service" had failed to translate, leading my over-eager companions to take my statements to mean... we have no army thus leaving our borders undefended. They seem to take this sentiment rather too well, and i do my best to patch up this gaping mistake before invasion proves pending.

I'm pretty sure i managed it... I think.

And that's pretty much how it is. The miles glide past with the days. Eventually we make Moscow time +5 Hours. Contained in this timezone is my final stop on the Russian leg, Irkutsk and the appropriately mammoth lake Baikal.

Till then.
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Lunch: Fantastic smoked fish generously shared by the piano teaching Nun

Breathing is a very healthy exercise. It helps fuel the body, providing energy and calming your nerves. Perhaps this is why in situations like this, a pause followed by a period of just breathing is advised. Its 12:30 and suddenly my life has turned into an episode of 24. In precisely one hour my train leaves the station, the station on the other side of Moscow. And I… I'm still searching for the offices holding my ticket. A mix of poor planning, crappy opening hours and my fair share of bad luck left me running very late.

Emerging from a disorienting metro I check the $2 compass I've been using for navigation, failing to notice the large Iron bridge just to the south of where I'm standing, throwing the needle off. A though which only occurs to me having jogged 300 meters down the road, only to notice my compasses change of heart. Stupid piece of junk.

So perhaps understandably when I DID FINALLY make it to my train, minutes to spare and with freshly pressed ticket in hand, I was somewhat disheveled. Add to this the fact that my compartment, nay… my entire carriage seemed to be populated by slightly angry looking Russians- who didn't speak any English – and I think its safe to say my first impressions of trans-Siberian travel were not too good. Fortunately, yet again my first impression was proved wrong.

The train itself is slightly aging, but comfortable. It has a solid air about it. Though I cannot fail to notice the maintenance staff who bash hammers into the wheels peering inquisitively for any sign of cracks or weakness. Over all it reeks of character. As, do the people inside.

I am joined by a motley crew through the first few days, from a one eyed man, with a hearty laugh and crushing handshake, to the woman who either is -or strongly aspires to be- a nun. Yet again things feel slightly surreal. I continue to practice my new found still of conversation without language. It makes of an interesting time as even the most basic of sentiments take hours to put across, and inevitably receive a resounding cheer when everyone finally understands what your trying to say. I am given lots of time to brush up on my Russian phrases, though sadly, my previously proud attempts and Russian pronunciation seem to be a great source of amusement… if a little frustration. A fact I compensate for by loudly praising my Chinese vocabulary, which I've become convincingly skilled at faking.

For the first time on this trip I see snow. Moscow giving me a true Russian send off in a blanket of white. The bitter drops that assaulted me around Red Square and the Kremlin look particularly pretty when your separated by glass and central heating. Heating which, if anything is a little high a measure I'm convinced is an attempt to put everyone to sleep and create the least hassle for the attendants.

So I sit… slightly worn out and more than a little dozy. For hundreds of miles silver Burch trees fly past with delicately iced branches waving in the fierce wind. But by then I'm oblivious to most of it. Emptying my pockets before I finally fall for the attendants heated trap I notice my compass reliably pointing us west and we turn away from the setting sun… Someone remind me to bin that thing.
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Lunch: ... yeah kinda missed this one

Somethings going down in St Petes...

I'm not really a firm believer in karma, but today i get the feeling it does exist, and actually reads this blog for ideas at how to get back at me. Specifically following my admission of bricking it in front of foreign uniforms.

Walking round St Peters today the place was literally CRAWLING with millitary. I discounted the 100 soldiers that followed me round the Military history museum as being on some kind of trip (which granted... they probably were... and probably weren't strictly following me either). But then exiting the place they were EVERYWHERE.

There were genuinely at least 3 on every street corner. Groups of 15 or more trudged around. Half looked like they were on a jolly. Others looked like some sort of coup was about to take place. I thought of taking pictures... but then decided this wasn't the best way to lie low. I'll try some super spy skills tomorrow and get real pictures, because without them, you really can't believe just how crawling the place is.

So... Karma. If you should be reading this. I formally apologize for shoving that mars wrapper into that drain yesterday instead of finding a bin. Now please, leave me alone.
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Lunch: Pie!

1 Week + 1 day.

Going east through Europe has proven to be a pretty good way of escaping the culture shock. Amsterdam eases you in nicely, everyone speaks English, the people are friendly and the city, small. Berlin's big... but again plenty of English speakers, in a friendly (if somewhat stoic) nation. In Warsaw the number of English speakers drops, but they still exist and once you've got to know it, the city feels perfectly safe. Riga, I gave up on speaking English to people on the street. No use and effectively paints TOURIST on your forehead. Yet still small, still cosy. Russia though sees it beginning to bite. English speakers are few and far between, as is my Russian vocabulary. Interaction is also different. In private and in person I've found Russians to be incredibly kind, generous and helpful. Something my currently stint in a friends apartment is pure testament too. However this all seems to shed when you hit the streets. People speed along actively doing their best to ignore each other, road rage and horn bashing seem standard practice and momentary eye contact tends to provoke a stare down. Its all a bit like a Monday morning rush hour, and theres an uncanny sense of familiarity to the whole thing. All the same, It can get cold outdoors in Russia.

Still again, this was not totally out of the blue. This phenomenon seems to increase the deeper you get into ex-soviet territory. The only constant all through being my total terror of local police. European police dress code seems to take slightly more than a leaf out of a Military SAS styling. Germany and Poland especially see commando styled cops nonchalantly patrolling the streets. Russian forces carry themselves with an air of total authority. I find things best put by a Brit i met in Warsaw "They say jump, I ask how high". Added to that Russia's ridiculously overcomplicated visa system. (Though i would like to state on the record that should any Russian Police or Official happen over this post, i have nothing against your great country nor your visa system... Its all hyperbole... honest). Each time my papers are intently eyed by border guards or police checks, theres always nagging suspicion that theres some tiny bit of paper you may have neglected or a single box that missed a tick, the result of which is about to cause your summary execution at the hands of foreign police. In these situations, where a fight or flight response is clearly a recipe for disaster, the brain tends to tick over into its third option. "Holy Shit we're all about to die" mode.

Eastern Europe also seems to have a fairly liberal response to health and safety. Coming from an island where kids practically need permits to climb a tree, the realization that a red traffic light is subjective out here, takes you a little off kilter. The tube literally has gaps that you can fall into. And the train... you genuinely need to be a gold medalist in both High and Long jump to make it aboard in some places. So it seems after all, there is no true way to escape the Culture shock. If your on the move, it will catch you.

And yet... Its all such a relief. A tour of European capitals hardly plums the deeper reaches of adventure. Whilst it proves to be a fantastic intro I find myself longing to get a little more off the beaten track. A little more cultural deep end. Situations that refreshingly force thinking outside of the usual responses (even if it is "Holy shit"). Culture shock seems to happen eventually and theres not a lot to do about it. Still I realize now that its exactly these sorts of things that make far away places so alluring.

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Lunch: "Local" Kebab/Sandwich Hybrid (also a Warsaw Staple)