Gone East

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

The cold war confuses the hell out of me. I can just about grasp the method, and even have go at its deranged logic... but the timescale is lost on me.

Over Half a century of bitter rivalry, ended so recently. In my lifetime even. The realization that to many of the people i meet here, soviet times were not part of some past history, but part of their youth. Strange reminders float around like ghosts from the past. We visit Kronstadt, a naval military base that has always historically guarded the city. The sailors rebellion that took place here was a solid chunk of my A level course and i find it deeply surreal to walk the same streets. Today the Russian navy still has a military presence, but on the whole the island feels deeply run down. Burned out buildings sit next to surviving soviet flats. A few old men drunkenly swan about its streets but otherwise theres a strange stillness to the place.

We head for an old cathedral at the east end of the Island. Slipping the woman guarding the place 100 rubles we're let in. Whether or not this was an official transaction, i don't know but we were left with some keys and told to go to the top of a long staircase. After a short dark passageway and a tiny winding staircase (apparently originally designed for 12 year old choir boys... not backpack wielding 19 year olds) we reach the top and there I find the most beautiful rubbish tip in the world. During the revolution the soviets turned the cathedral into a cinema. Building a roof on the inside cutting off its grand dome. Standing now amongst the dust and rusting beams is a very odd feeling. Light streams around the echoing dome bouncing shadows off the mess below. It looks stunning. Sitting amidst it all is an old badge. Though i have no idea what it says its colour scheme and famous hammer and sickle give its origins away. This is the sort of thing I'd expect to be scurried away to a museum and kept behind three feet of bullet proof glass. I see an old historical artifact. The fact it lies here, carelessly propped against the old steel seems to bring home just how recent the whole thing was. To some its still just a memory of older times.

We go on to explore the Island, ducking in and out of burned out apartments, down hill sides and over broken glass. Perhaps because england is such a small place, and land so valuable we just never see places like this. Left behind. For me its a great novelty and the site of an urban place slowly melting back into some sort of nature is fantastic.

Later id try to ask some fellow passengers on the train about times only to fall smack bang into the language barrier. I still have no idea what their recent history means to Russians today. Leaving me with only these narrow impressions and continued confusion about where the past ends and history begins.

As we head back to St Petersburg the sky yet again becomes obligingly beautiful for my camera. Within a couple of days I've moved on again.

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Lunch: Big meaty red soup

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)

Has it only been two days. Seems like longer.

Due to the bad combination of late train in and early train out, Amsterdam proved to be a bit of whistle stop tour. Europe has always just been the transit section of the plan. Somewhere i viewed as too expensive and not far enough from home to be worth a longer stay. Oh Huw... How wrong you can be.

One day in Amsterdam (even if its full) just isn't enough. I had no real idea of the place arriving, half expecting it to be some sleazy den of hookers and pot. Whilst both are present Amsterdam still has a real sense of class, though with a fair side order of crazy. Transport for one. I step off the train narrowly missing a moped riding granny gunning it down a cycle lane, something tells me I'm not in Kanas anymore. Every mode of transport has its place here. On the riverfront you can get trains, trams, boats, cycles and pedestrians all passing side by side, safe as houses.

On some good advice I decided dive into this maddness and give it a go. The best view of Amsterdam really is from a bike saddle. But for future reference, its worth checking which side of the road people drive on before setting off. Nothing like playing of chicken with a UPS truck to liven up the morning.

The city itself really holds this great sense of order. The cobbled streets are neatly separated by a grid of roads and canals. The Dutch themselves are also really friendly, stopping to cheerfully give directions whilst i squat confused over a crumpled city map. The famous "coffeeshop" effect is apparent, yet far more subtle than i'd suspect it. You often catch pockets of the smell drifting through open doors, and i'm not sure i'll ever get used to the sight of guys lighting up whilst policemen walk happily by outside. Still the entire lot seems to me as much an exercise in good tourism as liberal culture. I can't help but notice very little dutch language in these parts, Scottish, American and English accents seeming to be order of the day. I catch late night comedy show and talk to an American couple sitting next over. One comments how they moved to Amsterdam, feeling they can be "their real person here". There seem to be many tourists finding their "real selves" but most of the dutch either keep it behind closed doors or ignore it all together. Some more good advice took me to the Public Library. Hell do the dutch know how to build the things. A giant glass monolith, it looks more like the tate modern from the inside. Free Internet and a wealth of books litter every one of the floors, and the place just goes up and up and up. The top has a fantastic cafe and even better view. The food is even fantastic. I watch the chefs bake chibatta from scratch to make ham sandwiches, prepare fresh fish fresh before a quick stir fry. A wealth of smells and colour really make the place something special. And that view... wow.

I was also nervious that travelling alone would mean lonely travelling. Again anything but true. In fact typing now is the first moment to my self i've had since checking at Harwich. Everyone wants to talk and subjects are wide. From the 40 Americans on the crossing to Holland, all descendants of the original passengers of the Mayflower, now retracing all its ports of call, to the guy who attempts (with limited success) to teach me the Russian alphabet at the hostel and even the founder of a kosovan NGO who i get the train to Berlin with. Its crazy, good company and even better travel advice are never more than a conversation away.

But anyway. I could happily post the rest of this trip away. Time to turn in. Tomorrow. Berlin

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Dinner: Falafal from an awsome little cafe

Delayed reactions are funny things.

Like how, mid conversation about your pending Gap year, it can hit you. Shit. I'm going to China. I'm still not entirely sure how this minute detail seems to have missed me before. You'd think a few months of Visa applications, TEFL courses, planning and preparation would highlight the fact. But no. This comes to me, mid conversation about 9 hours before i leave.

Shit. I'm going to China.

"Where you leaving from Huw?"
"Err, Harwich, Headed for Amsterdam" I say, Distractedly pointing west.
"Isn't Harwich on the East coast?"
(Damnit. So... Which way's East?)

Ok slow down Huw. There are many land marks pointing your way there. Amsterdam, Berlin, Warsaw, Riga. That's Europe. All big cities, Surely they'll all be signposted. Then Russia, the great landmass. St Petersburg, Moscow, Irkusk. On to Mongolia. Ulaanbataar (hang on... wayy to many vowels in that word, did i just make that up?). Then... finally. Beijing. China.

Woah. I'm going to China.

Ok Huw, Checklist. You've got Train tickets. There'll be a lot of them, there are no aircraft on this trip. You've nearly packed. You know how your getting to the Ferry (free lift wooh!). And, most importantly you have a Blog. Somewhere to pretend your a REAL journalist. Pad thy ego, and appease your family, stopping you being reported MIA if you've forgotten to fire reassuring emails home every two hours. You've got Visa's... well nearly. Still need the Chinese stamp, but I have a cunning plan for that one.

Hey... I'm going to china

So this is it. T minus 9. Leave home. Leave the Country, Continent and Culture for somewhere new. Still your never that far. You've got a facebook. And Email. Shiny new blog. Keeping in touch has never been so easy.

I'm going to China. And i don't think I've ever been so excited. Now... if only i could work out which way's East.
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Todays Lunch: Cheese, Ham and Sping Onion Sandwich