So here we are - dilly dallying in an airport lounge in Delhi of all places....
We had hoped to sneak off into the town but we hit a brick wall so have paid a rather enormous sum to sit here and drink complimentary gin and tonics till 2.00 am
Nine hours of gin and tonics, it could all end in tears. Still we could be stuck in some border village in Belarus without toilets, watching the wheels of the train being changed...
The lounge gradually fills with people who've entered that strange state of waiting, reading magasines about things they've never wanted to know about, eating dried up pastries and drinking complimentary gin and tonics. The non smoking area is rapidly infiltrated by the smoke from the smoking area. The duty free shop informs us that we can't buy alcohol if we're travelling on a BA flight and we've still got 5 hours to go before we're wedged into our seats on the plane.
It seems we've been on the edge of bad weather, avoiding it as we've moved. Now China, India and Nepal are experiencing the worst monsoon floods in years. Meanwhile my Dad is camping out in Cheltenham with a bath full of water surrounded by floods!
Tuesday 31 July 2007
Monday 30 July 2007
Off home!
That's it. Our minibus for Kathmandu airport leaves in half an hour. Hope the plane is OK, the monsoon rain has been falling for days and lots of the country is under water. We then have 10 hours in Delhi, not sure if they will give us a temporary visa to go to the city. If so, we plan to chill out in a nice restaurant/cafe.
Carol has promised to add more posts when we get back to UK. I think I'll be up to my ears in work that has remained untouched for five weeks...
Thanks for joining in our trip!
Cheers
Tom
Carol has promised to add more posts when we get back to UK. I think I'll be up to my ears in work that has remained untouched for five weeks...
Thanks for joining in our trip!
Cheers
Tom
Sunday 29 July 2007
Tom's random thoughts in Nepal - the final destination
Our journey is almost over. We went up to Everest Base Camp along a 70-km long track that went through rivers, deep mud, and ended up near a hostel that Michael Palin describes as one of the most grim places at which it’s possible to stay, at an altitude around 5000 m. But it’s the only hostel from which The Mountain is visible, and it certainly provided a show, popping out of the monsoon clouds as we arrived. We then got a horrid dose of altitude sickness, at the only place on our travels without decent loos… we coped as we could, using the windows (stop right now, Tom!)… The drive then took us along the scariest roads yet, mud-tracks along ravines, for about 300 km to the Nepal border. A spectacular descent from highland desert to lush rainforest. We stayed at the border town and crossed the “Friendship Bridge” on foot. Got a Nepal visa easily and negotiated a ride to Kathmandu in a Tata pickup truck. Nepal is gorgeous. The first thing we noticed is that people wash their clothes, and themselves – nobody does either in Tibet! We were booked into a “country-club” type hotel just outside Kathmandu, found on Google with the search phrase “scenic hotel swimming pool Kathmandu”. It’s gorgeous, and we hardly venture out except once to visit the madness and glory of the city, with its traffic, ancient buildings, shops, and monkeys. We leave tomorrow, flooding permitting, on a flight to Delhi and then London Heathrow.
1. What does it feel like to make such a long journey? The answer depends whether you ask the question while we are travelling, or at the end. While we are travelling the answer is something like “it’s really exciting, interesting, etc”. After the travel is over (we are resting for 4 days in a sort of country club outside Kathmandu) the answer is “blimey, I had no idea that the travel was so exhausting. I want to do nothing for the next 4 days except lounge by the pool”.
2. Some highlights? Leaving Bristol on 27 June; the flat in the old town of Warsaw; gaining access to the Moscow flat; the Siberian moonlight outside the window illuminating the 2-berth cabin on Train 4 to Irkutsk, while we still had the Springbank whisky; everything about Lake Baikal, especially the “banya” which I now want to recreate in my garden; Train 362 from Irkutsk to Ulan Bator, the one that stops every 10 minutes and that I had been dreading; all of Mongolia, but especially seeing the Przewalski horses and sitting in the driving cab of the Mongol T3 locomotive; the food, and cycling, and taking buses, in Beijing; Lhasa, especially the coffee house with free internet and cakes; the clouds parting and revealing Mount Everest; the precipitous drive from Tibet to Nepal, from mountain desert into a tropical rainforest; lazing by the pool at the Nepalese country club while local people played cricket; the madness of Kathmandu, its monkeys, and its traffic; doing this blog; the sufficient supply of Twining’s Tea Bags from England, and the insufficient supply of Springbank 10-year old malt whisky from Argyll; the salami bought in Moscow which was a lifesaver during the Tibetan dietary regime.
3. Low points? Not getting the train ticket from Beijing to Lhasa; Sue’s bad back; the squits after drinking fermented mare’s milk in a Mongolian ger; everyone getting horrid colds in Beijing; the Beijing smog; having this blog disabled for a week; Tibetan food; getting altitude sickness and hypothermia after Everest.
4. So what happened to the blog while we were in China? Who knows… First of all, it appeared that all access to the blog was blocked by the “great firewall of China” but we could still post stuff, such as the pic of Carol hanging out of the train window. But when we tried to post more stuff, we got a message from Google which said that an automatic program had found that our site was “suspected of being spam” and was therefore temporarily blocked for new posts. So now we could not see it cos of the firewall, nor post stuff to it cos of this spam nonsense. There was a link to click to try to get the site reinstated, so I clicked on that while in Beijing. In Lhasa I got a reply from Google to say that the site had been checked, was definitely not spam, and we could now use it. But we couldn’t, it still said it was blocked as spam. I suspected that some person or system had reported it as spam (Google has a way of doing this) so I wrote back to Google to ask whether such a system could be used maliciously to disable new posts to selected sites. A week later (there was no internet in rural Tibet) I got a reply from Google to say that it was now definitely OK to post new stuff – and it all works. So I wonder whether the Chinese authorities detected that new posts were going up while we were in China, and used the “spam report” route to close it down? I have heard that Google do not openly admit to the Chinese restrictions – when you try to get at the blog from China you either get a blank screen or a “too much traffic, could not find your site” message from them.
5. Best food: roast duck with apples and horseradish in Warsaw; new potatoes with dill from women on Russian platforms; more roast duck in Beijing; Shezuan-style freshwater fish in chilli soup in rural Tibet (but a Chinese, not Tibetan, restaurant); mutton curry in Nepal.
6. What have I bought? A bar of Russian chocolate; Mongolian cashmere scarves; a deck of Mongolian playing cards; a DVD of Mongolian nomad music; a silk dressing gown from China (a gift from Carol); a painting from Tibet; kitchy lenticular 3-D postcards of Buddhas; Tibetan good-luck pouches. I also have pressed Edelweiss and other wild flowers from Siberia and Tibet that will look good in frames (this was the only use for our “teach yourself Bridge” book). I regret not buying a Dalai Lama fridge magnet earlier today. Everyone else has stacks more stuff, including beautiful antique paintings from Tibet. All the selling touts give up on me long before they give up on the others…
7. What’s Tibet like? Gorgeous countryside, but everything else about it is desperate. People are really depressed about the Chinese occupation but can’t speak about it openly; awful diet, with virtually no fresh produce; very poor living conditions – smoke in tents, poor personal hygiene, diseases caused by nutritional deficiencies; all the Tibetan wealth concentrated in monasteries while the poor appear to be starving; no clear way to coexist with the local Chinese. And yet, everywhere you go, you are met with smiles and courtesy. By contrast, Mongolia seemed better sorted even though its nomads seem equally poor (and they are equally hospitable). The Mongolian gers are of much better design, are not full of smoke, and the diet seems to be a little more varied.
8. Would I do a similar trip again? Yes!
1. What does it feel like to make such a long journey? The answer depends whether you ask the question while we are travelling, or at the end. While we are travelling the answer is something like “it’s really exciting, interesting, etc”. After the travel is over (we are resting for 4 days in a sort of country club outside Kathmandu) the answer is “blimey, I had no idea that the travel was so exhausting. I want to do nothing for the next 4 days except lounge by the pool”.
2. Some highlights? Leaving Bristol on 27 June; the flat in the old town of Warsaw; gaining access to the Moscow flat; the Siberian moonlight outside the window illuminating the 2-berth cabin on Train 4 to Irkutsk, while we still had the Springbank whisky; everything about Lake Baikal, especially the “banya” which I now want to recreate in my garden; Train 362 from Irkutsk to Ulan Bator, the one that stops every 10 minutes and that I had been dreading; all of Mongolia, but especially seeing the Przewalski horses and sitting in the driving cab of the Mongol T3 locomotive; the food, and cycling, and taking buses, in Beijing; Lhasa, especially the coffee house with free internet and cakes; the clouds parting and revealing Mount Everest; the precipitous drive from Tibet to Nepal, from mountain desert into a tropical rainforest; lazing by the pool at the Nepalese country club while local people played cricket; the madness of Kathmandu, its monkeys, and its traffic; doing this blog; the sufficient supply of Twining’s Tea Bags from England, and the insufficient supply of Springbank 10-year old malt whisky from Argyll; the salami bought in Moscow which was a lifesaver during the Tibetan dietary regime.
3. Low points? Not getting the train ticket from Beijing to Lhasa; Sue’s bad back; the squits after drinking fermented mare’s milk in a Mongolian ger; everyone getting horrid colds in Beijing; the Beijing smog; having this blog disabled for a week; Tibetan food; getting altitude sickness and hypothermia after Everest.
4. So what happened to the blog while we were in China? Who knows… First of all, it appeared that all access to the blog was blocked by the “great firewall of China” but we could still post stuff, such as the pic of Carol hanging out of the train window. But when we tried to post more stuff, we got a message from Google which said that an automatic program had found that our site was “suspected of being spam” and was therefore temporarily blocked for new posts. So now we could not see it cos of the firewall, nor post stuff to it cos of this spam nonsense. There was a link to click to try to get the site reinstated, so I clicked on that while in Beijing. In Lhasa I got a reply from Google to say that the site had been checked, was definitely not spam, and we could now use it. But we couldn’t, it still said it was blocked as spam. I suspected that some person or system had reported it as spam (Google has a way of doing this) so I wrote back to Google to ask whether such a system could be used maliciously to disable new posts to selected sites. A week later (there was no internet in rural Tibet) I got a reply from Google to say that it was now definitely OK to post new stuff – and it all works. So I wonder whether the Chinese authorities detected that new posts were going up while we were in China, and used the “spam report” route to close it down? I have heard that Google do not openly admit to the Chinese restrictions – when you try to get at the blog from China you either get a blank screen or a “too much traffic, could not find your site” message from them.
5. Best food: roast duck with apples and horseradish in Warsaw; new potatoes with dill from women on Russian platforms; more roast duck in Beijing; Shezuan-style freshwater fish in chilli soup in rural Tibet (but a Chinese, not Tibetan, restaurant); mutton curry in Nepal.
6. What have I bought? A bar of Russian chocolate; Mongolian cashmere scarves; a deck of Mongolian playing cards; a DVD of Mongolian nomad music; a silk dressing gown from China (a gift from Carol); a painting from Tibet; kitchy lenticular 3-D postcards of Buddhas; Tibetan good-luck pouches. I also have pressed Edelweiss and other wild flowers from Siberia and Tibet that will look good in frames (this was the only use for our “teach yourself Bridge” book). I regret not buying a Dalai Lama fridge magnet earlier today. Everyone else has stacks more stuff, including beautiful antique paintings from Tibet. All the selling touts give up on me long before they give up on the others…
7. What’s Tibet like? Gorgeous countryside, but everything else about it is desperate. People are really depressed about the Chinese occupation but can’t speak about it openly; awful diet, with virtually no fresh produce; very poor living conditions – smoke in tents, poor personal hygiene, diseases caused by nutritional deficiencies; all the Tibetan wealth concentrated in monasteries while the poor appear to be starving; no clear way to coexist with the local Chinese. And yet, everywhere you go, you are met with smiles and courtesy. By contrast, Mongolia seemed better sorted even though its nomads seem equally poor (and they are equally hospitable). The Mongolian gers are of much better design, are not full of smoke, and the diet seems to be a little more varied.
8. Would I do a similar trip again? Yes!
The way to Base Camp
Wilfred Noyce
1917-1962
Breathless
(written at 21,000ft on 23 May 1953)
Heart aches,
lungs pant
dry air
sorry, scant.
Legs lift -
why at all?
Loose drift, heavy fall.
Prod the snow
easiest way;
a flat step
is holiday.
Look up,
far stone
many miles
far, alone.
Grind breath
Once more then on;
Don't look up
till journey's done.
Must look up,
glasses dim.
Wrench of hand, faltering limb
Pause one step,
breath swings back;
swallow once,
throat gone slack.
Go on
to far stone;
don't look up,
count steps done.
One step,
one heart-beat,
stone no nearer
dragging feet.
heart aches,
lungs pant
dry air
sorry, scant.
Carol's diary Days 19 - 25, Beijing to Lhasa.
Back on line and a lot of catching up to do!!
Hard to find the time when there is so much going on… From the monsoons of Nepal to the monsoons of Europe. The English blame it on the Cubans, the Nepalese blame it on India!!
On the train to Beijing, we met Paul and Andy from Sheffield who had cycled from Irkutsk to Ulaan Baatar with adventures that rather made ours pale into insignificance. Bear prints the size of footballs, mosquitoes the size of pigeons, Russian Mafia with purple silk ties, evil eyes and guns the size of cricket bats ...that sort of thing.
Still they were very excited to meet someone who knew where Stannage Edge was…
Day 19, July 15th, Sunday, Irkutsk to Beijing
Off the train and out into the streets, it’s suddenly very hectic! A thronging crowd pulsating in the heavy rain, a bunch of men shouting about taxis, touching us, pulling ferociously at Tom’s jacket. We push through it all to get to a gridlock of taxis. Our first taxi driver can’t read our Chinese map or the Chinese writing for the hotel. Ah! couldn’t prepare for that one. Bags back out of his boot and into the next.
A long drive down the wide streets, fringed with fashionable shops and smart new apartment blocks. We’re in Beijing and its FANTASTIC!
Past Herbal Heaven, past Beijing’s Modern Women’s Hospital, left down a narrow Hutong. Our hotel is beautiful. It’s listed as an old courtyard hotel. The low buildings are painted red and jade green with ornate ironwork and rosewood furniture, the rooms face small courtyards with trees and ornate pots of goldfish, brightly coloured umbrellas and plastic rattan chairs to sit and drink tea under.
The owner tells us cheerfully that 40 families were relocated to turn this old building into a hotel. They are now living in a high rise concrete block.
Er! Did they want to go or were they pushed?
Oh they are very happy, they have much more room now!
The chirpings of canaries in cages filters in through the window, singing as happily as the previous tenants.
Strangely and perhaps rather sinisterly we discover we can’t
actually view the Blog from China.
We try setting up another Blog called Potnoodles to see if it’s something to do with the reference to Lhasa. This doesn’t work either. The next day Patrick tells us that the Great Firewall of China is all embracing.
Day 20, July 16th, Beijing.
Tiananmen Square is huge. Much bigger than Red Square. In fact everything about Beijing is massive. It makes Moscow seem positively provincial. The taxi dropped us off way past the Forbidden City, somewhere vaguely close to the South Gate and we were immediately confronted with aggressive vendors. A big surprise because we haven’t had to deal with this at all up until now. We clambered down into the subway and came up again in Tiananmen Square…. Er, no we were just on the other side of the street, further away from the square. Down again and up to reveal we were no nearer to our goal. We walked along the railings on the south side of the road descended the Metro stairs and up again…. Still no closer. They are damn good at keeping people out of the square. Further along and this time we found a way out that led us into the square! There was Chairman Mao’s Mausoleum, ten times bigger than Lenin’s Mausoleum. The official souvenir shop was selling watches with pictures of Mao on them and Tom, who has been incensed that I could come away on a railway journey without a watch, ceremoniously bought me one. It’s rather big, hanging off my arm even when he moved the catch, but it’s lovely.
We were chased across Tiananmen Square by more vendors selling watches… and kites… and stamps and various other artefacts, till we got to the railings where people stand to be photographed before a huge portrait of Chairman Mao. Everyone here has a camera, everyone is posing and clicking, clicking and posing. An old woman looked over my shoulder as I checked the pictures I’d just clicked. Suddenly she grabbed me by the hand and thrusting her camera in her hand she asked me to photograph her, her and her sister, her daughters. Not content with this she got very excited and beaming with delight asked me to be in the photos, first with her, then with her and her sister, then with her daughters. We thanked each other profusely. I had the feeling I had just been the monkey on the stick!
Patrick, an old friend of Martin’s turned up at the hotel at 6.00 to take us out to dinner. Patrick is a filmmaker based in Beijing. He’s lived here on and off for 12 years and his Chinese is impressive. Driving through the busy streets he described a China that is changing slowly but surely towards greater personal freedom, greater tolerance. He says the official title now is; Socialism with Chinese characteristics or literally translated; Socialism of a special Chinese colour. All around us are design shops, fashion houses, elegant hotels, well built apartment blocks, and new cars. It’s a prosperous, thriving city. Strange to think that only 25 years ago there were hardly any cars here, just bicycles. Patrick said taking a driving test here doesn’t actually involve any driving. People pass their test then get in a car and drive off for the first time. They often completely misjudge the width of the car, taking a corner like on a bicycle.
Yuping was waiting for us at The Loft, an elegant noodle restaurant, and here we were treated to the best meal of the journey. Looking through the menu I found dishes with enchanting titles: Drip Fried Turtle Rim, Braised chicken in Secret Recipe, The Shark Fin’s Victory over the Rice, Quick Fried Mutton Offal with Pitaya Flower, and The Morning Star Lily is Coloured with Fish Ball. We wisely left the ordering to Yuping -Whole fish bathed in a fennel sauce, crispy duck, noodles with a variety of delicious sauces, sprouting peanuts with coriander, wafer thin slices of bamboo, cabbage in a delicious vinegar, one single strand of long green noodle. My tea was filled with tiny chrysanthemum flowers.
On the menu it’s listed as Chrysan The Mum.
We went back to Patrick’s lovely apartment to eat French Raspberry Gateau. Is this what is meant by decadence?
Day 21, July 17th, Beijing.
Tom and I cycled round the hutongs this morning. Cycling in Beijing is GREAT! My bike is too small but the saddle won't go any higher so my knees are somewhere near my chin. Beijing has huge roads like motorways full of cars but fairly wide cycle lanes and lots of ladies in uniforms with flags to help you across the big junctions.
But the air is thick with smog, which catches at the back of the throat and nose and grits up the eyes. It was so hot that all the water in my body seeped out through my skin avoiding the need for a pee. Back at the hotel I stripped off and threw myself in a cold shower.
The afternoon heated up vigorously, a great dome of thick smog trapping the damp heat. Jian, an ex PhD student from Bristol, arrived at 2.00 to meet up with Tom, and to take us for a trip to the Temple of Heaven. Rashly we took the bus. It looks like such a short distance on the map… An hour of traffic later and we stepped off the bus, wet through with sweat. My legs stuck together under my skirt which made me waddle when no one was looking. Accosted by more vendors Jian taught me how to say no thank you I don’t want it, in Chinese: Boo Eeiow! And It works! They just laugh at me good-naturedly and wander off. The Temple of Heaven was the place where the Emperor would go from the Forbidden City to worship heaven. He had another Temple on the other side of town called, of course, the Temple of Earth. The Temple of Heaven is in two parts; a plinth leading up to a highly decorated Temple and across the park a plinth leading up to nothing, or rather heaven. The place was thronging once more with people clicking cameras and this time Tom gets the monkey treatment. Laughs all round. Strange to think he‘ll be appearing on someone’s holiday snaps. At the plinth leading up to heaven a small circular disk of marble on the ground marks the central point. The plinth was thronging with visitors, mostly Chinese, all jostling for position, trying to jump onto this central disk and have their photo taken. Everyone was in a great humour, laughing as it came free and leaping forward to be the next one, like a great game. Photo achieved, step off and the next person jumped on. Above us the pale disk of the sun barely getting a look in through the thick white heat.
Sadly our train trail has gone cold. The wave function has collapsed. The cat is dead. Every avenue explored. We have tried for months to get tickets for the train to Lhasa. Various people have been to the station both here in Beijing and in Chengdu where the exciting part of the train starts. And we have been given a range of reasons why we can’t get them, from black marketing to all the tickets being sold to large travel agents; it may as well have been to Manchester United supporters. Tom has been sending texts and telephoning throughout our journey but today we have decided to take the plane instead. We head off to Lhasa on the 20th and the overland trip to Kathmandu continues....
Day 22 18th July Beijing
Aargh! I’ve got the Beijing Bug! A very ferocious cold. Sounds like the whole of Beijing has got it with all the clearing of throats. I will lie low.
Day 23 19th July Beijing
Head sore, chest sore, everything aches. Am very glad I’m not on a train climbing to over 5,000 meters right now. Tom has eaten the last of the Waitrose pot noodles. I’m popping pills to kill off all known germs and to counter the effects of the forthcoming altitude. Martin and Sue have gone off to visit the Great Wall of China. Someone has to do it…
Tom and I make a brief foray to the nearest post office. Welcome to our post office, says a beaming girl in a uniform.
Next stop the bank, and a VIP sign lights up above my head.
We walk past a VW Passta – someone has a sense of humour.
Sitting in the peaceful courtyard, the occasional mosquito sucking the juice from my legs, the budgerigars attempting to sleep on their perches, a flock of doves circle above with swishing wings, the gold fish swimming glumly in their pot. The gardeners shears snip at the bushes, a distant car hoots, blue skies.
All the places we have travelled through have been in a state of change. Nothing was quite what I expected, what I imagined. All the big cities have the same shops, the same cars, the same companies are ploughing up the land, dividing up the spoils. Russia with its brash New Rich, China with its huge work ethic. The vast stretches of wilderness in between.
Jian said to me, communism, capitalism, these are just words. What’s important is what happens in people’s everyday lives.
Tomorrow we will take the plane to Lhasa
Day 24 20th July Beijing to Lhasa.
And we’re off again! Very early in the morning, taxi to the Airport. The man in the reception seems to think we haven’t paid, which we have, and is rather territorial about the orange juice we ordered for breakfast. So we cut our losses, jump in the cab and hope all will become clear for him later in the day.
The airport is a totally different pace to the one we’ve become used to. A woman with a badge rescues us and heads us towards the China Airways check in. Strangely we bypass the queue, get dealt with straight away, tickets sorted, boom. Then she turns to us clutching our passports and tickets and demands money.
We fly above the mountains, then below us a great river, the Yurlong Tsangpo, dividing and subdividing into rivulets across the wide valley. The airport is at the end of one of these rivulets.
Lhasa and its still only 11.00 a.m. Though we are not actually in Lhasa yet. Its over 100ks away.
Tibet hits you like Nerve gas. Everything is an effort. Our heads feel light and everything is done in slow motion.
Kelsang, our guide and Noar, our driver are there to greet us. We climb into a Land Cruiser and head off. Kelsang gets in the back with the bags. Noar is solid and smiles a lot. He hoots his horn cheerfully at everything that moves, the lorry in front, the stationary van, the people walking by the side of the road. Every now and then there is a sign informing us that we are passing through a village and not to hoot. He hoots his horn at the sign.
As we pass through the villages we notice snooker tables in the streets, covered with plastic weighted down with heavy rocks. A group of young men are playing on one table. The Brits invaded Tibet in 1904. Are these a legacy from then ?
Entering Lhasa through Chinese streets with orderly rectangular modern buildings, then passing the Potala Palace high on the hill overlooking the old Tibetan part of the city, we turn off the large Chinese street and enter a different world. The Tibetan houses are white but decorated with blue and red. Everywhere are shops and stalls selling jewellery and paintings and more jewellery and bags and material and most of the people are wearing traditional clothing, old ladies and children and beautiful women with long plaits and bright red scarves wrapped round their dark hair. Our hotel is in the heart of the old city, next door to an Italian internet café, which sells cakes and real coffee! I didn’t think I would say this but it looks like Heaven.
I have entered a state of Can't-be-bothered. My head feels like it’s been hit by a plank of wood, in both directions. I keep thinking if I drink something, I’ll feel better. If I eat something, I’ll feel better. But nothing helps. The rest of the day feels like I’m walking through mud, upside down.
Day 25, 21st July, Lhasa. Potala Palace and Monastery
The day starts much too early. We find ourselves standing in a queue to enter the Potala Palace, or rather to climb up the hill to the palace. It’s huge and high, once the tallest building in the world, the home of the Dalai Lamas since the 18th century, the previous centre of Tibet’s government, now mostly a museum. Security is very tight, passports checked, bags X-rayed, Chinese officials abound. As we walk along we hear singing and on the roof of one of the buildings, the roof workers are having a knees up, standing in rows, jogging up and down, banging their tools on the ground to create the beat.
Kelsang turns out to be something of an expert in Buddhist statues and there are lots of them. The Buddha of Compassion (with lots of heads and arms), the Buddha of Infinite light, the Buddha of Wisdom (wielding a sword), the Buddha of the past, the Buddha of the Present and the Buddha of the Future (I like him the best, he lives on another planet) Tara the White Goddess, Tara the Green Goddess and all the Protectors with their huge eyes and long tongues….
Hard to find the time when there is so much going on… From the monsoons of Nepal to the monsoons of Europe. The English blame it on the Cubans, the Nepalese blame it on India!!
On the train to Beijing, we met Paul and Andy from Sheffield who had cycled from Irkutsk to Ulaan Baatar with adventures that rather made ours pale into insignificance. Bear prints the size of footballs, mosquitoes the size of pigeons, Russian Mafia with purple silk ties, evil eyes and guns the size of cricket bats ...that sort of thing.
Still they were very excited to meet someone who knew where Stannage Edge was…
Day 19, July 15th, Sunday, Irkutsk to Beijing
Off the train and out into the streets, it’s suddenly very hectic! A thronging crowd pulsating in the heavy rain, a bunch of men shouting about taxis, touching us, pulling ferociously at Tom’s jacket. We push through it all to get to a gridlock of taxis. Our first taxi driver can’t read our Chinese map or the Chinese writing for the hotel. Ah! couldn’t prepare for that one. Bags back out of his boot and into the next.
A long drive down the wide streets, fringed with fashionable shops and smart new apartment blocks. We’re in Beijing and its FANTASTIC!
Past Herbal Heaven, past Beijing’s Modern Women’s Hospital, left down a narrow Hutong. Our hotel is beautiful. It’s listed as an old courtyard hotel. The low buildings are painted red and jade green with ornate ironwork and rosewood furniture, the rooms face small courtyards with trees and ornate pots of goldfish, brightly coloured umbrellas and plastic rattan chairs to sit and drink tea under.
The owner tells us cheerfully that 40 families were relocated to turn this old building into a hotel. They are now living in a high rise concrete block.
Er! Did they want to go or were they pushed?
Oh they are very happy, they have much more room now!
The chirpings of canaries in cages filters in through the window, singing as happily as the previous tenants.
Strangely and perhaps rather sinisterly we discover we can’t
actually view the Blog from China.
We try setting up another Blog called Potnoodles to see if it’s something to do with the reference to Lhasa. This doesn’t work either. The next day Patrick tells us that the Great Firewall of China is all embracing.
Day 20, July 16th, Beijing.
Tiananmen Square is huge. Much bigger than Red Square. In fact everything about Beijing is massive. It makes Moscow seem positively provincial. The taxi dropped us off way past the Forbidden City, somewhere vaguely close to the South Gate and we were immediately confronted with aggressive vendors. A big surprise because we haven’t had to deal with this at all up until now. We clambered down into the subway and came up again in Tiananmen Square…. Er, no we were just on the other side of the street, further away from the square. Down again and up to reveal we were no nearer to our goal. We walked along the railings on the south side of the road descended the Metro stairs and up again…. Still no closer. They are damn good at keeping people out of the square. Further along and this time we found a way out that led us into the square! There was Chairman Mao’s Mausoleum, ten times bigger than Lenin’s Mausoleum. The official souvenir shop was selling watches with pictures of Mao on them and Tom, who has been incensed that I could come away on a railway journey without a watch, ceremoniously bought me one. It’s rather big, hanging off my arm even when he moved the catch, but it’s lovely.
We were chased across Tiananmen Square by more vendors selling watches… and kites… and stamps and various other artefacts, till we got to the railings where people stand to be photographed before a huge portrait of Chairman Mao. Everyone here has a camera, everyone is posing and clicking, clicking and posing. An old woman looked over my shoulder as I checked the pictures I’d just clicked. Suddenly she grabbed me by the hand and thrusting her camera in her hand she asked me to photograph her, her and her sister, her daughters. Not content with this she got very excited and beaming with delight asked me to be in the photos, first with her, then with her and her sister, then with her daughters. We thanked each other profusely. I had the feeling I had just been the monkey on the stick!
Patrick, an old friend of Martin’s turned up at the hotel at 6.00 to take us out to dinner. Patrick is a filmmaker based in Beijing. He’s lived here on and off for 12 years and his Chinese is impressive. Driving through the busy streets he described a China that is changing slowly but surely towards greater personal freedom, greater tolerance. He says the official title now is; Socialism with Chinese characteristics or literally translated; Socialism of a special Chinese colour. All around us are design shops, fashion houses, elegant hotels, well built apartment blocks, and new cars. It’s a prosperous, thriving city. Strange to think that only 25 years ago there were hardly any cars here, just bicycles. Patrick said taking a driving test here doesn’t actually involve any driving. People pass their test then get in a car and drive off for the first time. They often completely misjudge the width of the car, taking a corner like on a bicycle.
Yuping was waiting for us at The Loft, an elegant noodle restaurant, and here we were treated to the best meal of the journey. Looking through the menu I found dishes with enchanting titles: Drip Fried Turtle Rim, Braised chicken in Secret Recipe, The Shark Fin’s Victory over the Rice, Quick Fried Mutton Offal with Pitaya Flower, and The Morning Star Lily is Coloured with Fish Ball. We wisely left the ordering to Yuping -Whole fish bathed in a fennel sauce, crispy duck, noodles with a variety of delicious sauces, sprouting peanuts with coriander, wafer thin slices of bamboo, cabbage in a delicious vinegar, one single strand of long green noodle. My tea was filled with tiny chrysanthemum flowers.
On the menu it’s listed as Chrysan The Mum.
We went back to Patrick’s lovely apartment to eat French Raspberry Gateau. Is this what is meant by decadence?
Day 21, July 17th, Beijing.
Tom and I cycled round the hutongs this morning. Cycling in Beijing is GREAT! My bike is too small but the saddle won't go any higher so my knees are somewhere near my chin. Beijing has huge roads like motorways full of cars but fairly wide cycle lanes and lots of ladies in uniforms with flags to help you across the big junctions.
But the air is thick with smog, which catches at the back of the throat and nose and grits up the eyes. It was so hot that all the water in my body seeped out through my skin avoiding the need for a pee. Back at the hotel I stripped off and threw myself in a cold shower.
The afternoon heated up vigorously, a great dome of thick smog trapping the damp heat. Jian, an ex PhD student from Bristol, arrived at 2.00 to meet up with Tom, and to take us for a trip to the Temple of Heaven. Rashly we took the bus. It looks like such a short distance on the map… An hour of traffic later and we stepped off the bus, wet through with sweat. My legs stuck together under my skirt which made me waddle when no one was looking. Accosted by more vendors Jian taught me how to say no thank you I don’t want it, in Chinese: Boo Eeiow! And It works! They just laugh at me good-naturedly and wander off. The Temple of Heaven was the place where the Emperor would go from the Forbidden City to worship heaven. He had another Temple on the other side of town called, of course, the Temple of Earth. The Temple of Heaven is in two parts; a plinth leading up to a highly decorated Temple and across the park a plinth leading up to nothing, or rather heaven. The place was thronging once more with people clicking cameras and this time Tom gets the monkey treatment. Laughs all round. Strange to think he‘ll be appearing on someone’s holiday snaps. At the plinth leading up to heaven a small circular disk of marble on the ground marks the central point. The plinth was thronging with visitors, mostly Chinese, all jostling for position, trying to jump onto this central disk and have their photo taken. Everyone was in a great humour, laughing as it came free and leaping forward to be the next one, like a great game. Photo achieved, step off and the next person jumped on. Above us the pale disk of the sun barely getting a look in through the thick white heat.
Sadly our train trail has gone cold. The wave function has collapsed. The cat is dead. Every avenue explored. We have tried for months to get tickets for the train to Lhasa. Various people have been to the station both here in Beijing and in Chengdu where the exciting part of the train starts. And we have been given a range of reasons why we can’t get them, from black marketing to all the tickets being sold to large travel agents; it may as well have been to Manchester United supporters. Tom has been sending texts and telephoning throughout our journey but today we have decided to take the plane instead. We head off to Lhasa on the 20th and the overland trip to Kathmandu continues....
Day 22 18th July Beijing
Aargh! I’ve got the Beijing Bug! A very ferocious cold. Sounds like the whole of Beijing has got it with all the clearing of throats. I will lie low.
Day 23 19th July Beijing
Head sore, chest sore, everything aches. Am very glad I’m not on a train climbing to over 5,000 meters right now. Tom has eaten the last of the Waitrose pot noodles. I’m popping pills to kill off all known germs and to counter the effects of the forthcoming altitude. Martin and Sue have gone off to visit the Great Wall of China. Someone has to do it…
Tom and I make a brief foray to the nearest post office. Welcome to our post office, says a beaming girl in a uniform.
Next stop the bank, and a VIP sign lights up above my head.
We walk past a VW Passta – someone has a sense of humour.
Sitting in the peaceful courtyard, the occasional mosquito sucking the juice from my legs, the budgerigars attempting to sleep on their perches, a flock of doves circle above with swishing wings, the gold fish swimming glumly in their pot. The gardeners shears snip at the bushes, a distant car hoots, blue skies.
All the places we have travelled through have been in a state of change. Nothing was quite what I expected, what I imagined. All the big cities have the same shops, the same cars, the same companies are ploughing up the land, dividing up the spoils. Russia with its brash New Rich, China with its huge work ethic. The vast stretches of wilderness in between.
Jian said to me, communism, capitalism, these are just words. What’s important is what happens in people’s everyday lives.
Tomorrow we will take the plane to Lhasa
Day 24 20th July Beijing to Lhasa.
And we’re off again! Very early in the morning, taxi to the Airport. The man in the reception seems to think we haven’t paid, which we have, and is rather territorial about the orange juice we ordered for breakfast. So we cut our losses, jump in the cab and hope all will become clear for him later in the day.
The airport is a totally different pace to the one we’ve become used to. A woman with a badge rescues us and heads us towards the China Airways check in. Strangely we bypass the queue, get dealt with straight away, tickets sorted, boom. Then she turns to us clutching our passports and tickets and demands money.
We fly above the mountains, then below us a great river, the Yurlong Tsangpo, dividing and subdividing into rivulets across the wide valley. The airport is at the end of one of these rivulets.
Lhasa and its still only 11.00 a.m. Though we are not actually in Lhasa yet. Its over 100ks away.
Tibet hits you like Nerve gas. Everything is an effort. Our heads feel light and everything is done in slow motion.
Kelsang, our guide and Noar, our driver are there to greet us. We climb into a Land Cruiser and head off. Kelsang gets in the back with the bags. Noar is solid and smiles a lot. He hoots his horn cheerfully at everything that moves, the lorry in front, the stationary van, the people walking by the side of the road. Every now and then there is a sign informing us that we are passing through a village and not to hoot. He hoots his horn at the sign.
As we pass through the villages we notice snooker tables in the streets, covered with plastic weighted down with heavy rocks. A group of young men are playing on one table. The Brits invaded Tibet in 1904. Are these a legacy from then ?
Entering Lhasa through Chinese streets with orderly rectangular modern buildings, then passing the Potala Palace high on the hill overlooking the old Tibetan part of the city, we turn off the large Chinese street and enter a different world. The Tibetan houses are white but decorated with blue and red. Everywhere are shops and stalls selling jewellery and paintings and more jewellery and bags and material and most of the people are wearing traditional clothing, old ladies and children and beautiful women with long plaits and bright red scarves wrapped round their dark hair. Our hotel is in the heart of the old city, next door to an Italian internet café, which sells cakes and real coffee! I didn’t think I would say this but it looks like Heaven.
I have entered a state of Can't-be-bothered. My head feels like it’s been hit by a plank of wood, in both directions. I keep thinking if I drink something, I’ll feel better. If I eat something, I’ll feel better. But nothing helps. The rest of the day feels like I’m walking through mud, upside down.
Day 25, 21st July, Lhasa. Potala Palace and Monastery
The day starts much too early. We find ourselves standing in a queue to enter the Potala Palace, or rather to climb up the hill to the palace. It’s huge and high, once the tallest building in the world, the home of the Dalai Lamas since the 18th century, the previous centre of Tibet’s government, now mostly a museum. Security is very tight, passports checked, bags X-rayed, Chinese officials abound. As we walk along we hear singing and on the roof of one of the buildings, the roof workers are having a knees up, standing in rows, jogging up and down, banging their tools on the ground to create the beat.
Kelsang turns out to be something of an expert in Buddhist statues and there are lots of them. The Buddha of Compassion (with lots of heads and arms), the Buddha of Infinite light, the Buddha of Wisdom (wielding a sword), the Buddha of the past, the Buddha of the Present and the Buddha of the Future (I like him the best, he lives on another planet) Tara the White Goddess, Tara the Green Goddess and all the Protectors with their huge eyes and long tongues….
Saturday 28 July 2007
Friday 27 July 2007
We're back on line!
Hello
we have made it to Kathmandu in Nepal, and it seems that our blog has been cleared for use again! We have some catching up to do, and have a few days in which to do it!
Tom
we have made it to Kathmandu in Nepal, and it seems that our blog has been cleared for use again! We have some catching up to do, and have a few days in which to do it!
Tom
Sunday 15 July 2007
Tom's random observations on trains to China
We have now arrived in Beijing and, as Carol just said, we can post stuff to the blog but we cannot view it ourselves... it's so easy to find oneself banned...
One item of note. We have managed to reach China with the pot noodles from Waitrose still intact in our provisions carrier bags. For that fine "coals to Newcastle" feeling. We ALMOST ate them several times, but each time someone gave us some proper food just in time.
So, here are my very subversive observations about trains, in no particular order:
The journey started with trains that were slick, but did not have the feel of homes. Temporary conveyances, like planes or cars. It’s a whole different feel when you get beds in the compartment. The compartment becomes your home, for however long the journey takes. Like a home, you can choose to be sociable and leave the corridor door open, and the curtains drawn. You work out how to use the gadgets – the power outlets, the ceiling fan, the bed catches… and you get yourself organised. Power outlets are great, it means you can watch dvd’s on the laptop, write the diary, look at pictures. The bathroom on the Moscow-Irkutsk train, with its cold shower, was a real plus. But whether you have these refinements or not, you gradually adapt to your temporary home. For a while, you are in “messing about” mode. This lasts a few hours. You talk more, do stuff, get up, sit down, and generally fret around. After this period, you get more quiet. Read a book, doze, wonder whether to make a cuppa from the samovar (we have excellent Twinings tea and real coffee bags; also the powder soups from Waitrose are good). So, life acquires a routine. You occasionally go for a walk, see if there are people to chat to, check which loo has the sweetest smell. At some point, you may go to the restaurant car which has a kind of pub feel to it – more conversations with strangers, cold beer on request, various items of food. All the while, the vista unfolds outside – forests, lakes, cities briefly glimpsed. Like eye movements but this time it’s the world which moves!
Then comes the night. Perhaps a drink in the cabin. Make the beds. Close the door, and perhaps lock it for that extra safe feeling. Watch the stars and moon outside. The occasional light. Snuggle under the clean sheets and let the train’s movement rock you to sleep.
Technically, the feat of running these railways is formidable, and seems to put UK trains to shame. In our 10,000 mile journey there were no delays due to faults in track, rolling stock, or signalling. The climate is very harsh. In winter, LPG gas burners are used at points to stop them freezing. The approach to technology is very different. Everything is simpler, “clunky”, and easy to service. Small items may break, such as aircon systems or light switches, but the train remains viable. Much greater use is made of human labour. Each barrier-controlled level crossing has a guard who stands to attention with a marker in the “all clear” position as the train passes. Each station has a stationmaster who also shows the “all clear”. Trackside structures are simple, often locally built, and painted in the pastel shades (blue or green) used across the whole railway. Other than that, there is none of the product brand which is so ubiquitous in the UK. The low-tech, highly redundant, people-hungry approach is viable because of the low wages, I guess. But it represents a railway culture in which the train is respected (the standing-to-attention exemplifies this) rather than being seen as a marketing opportunity. Part of my views here may be driven by some kind of nostalgia, but whatever the reason, the railway to Asia is an amazing feat of engineering.
One item of note. We have managed to reach China with the pot noodles from Waitrose still intact in our provisions carrier bags. For that fine "coals to Newcastle" feeling. We ALMOST ate them several times, but each time someone gave us some proper food just in time.
So, here are my very subversive observations about trains, in no particular order:
The journey started with trains that were slick, but did not have the feel of homes. Temporary conveyances, like planes or cars. It’s a whole different feel when you get beds in the compartment. The compartment becomes your home, for however long the journey takes. Like a home, you can choose to be sociable and leave the corridor door open, and the curtains drawn. You work out how to use the gadgets – the power outlets, the ceiling fan, the bed catches… and you get yourself organised. Power outlets are great, it means you can watch dvd’s on the laptop, write the diary, look at pictures. The bathroom on the Moscow-Irkutsk train, with its cold shower, was a real plus. But whether you have these refinements or not, you gradually adapt to your temporary home. For a while, you are in “messing about” mode. This lasts a few hours. You talk more, do stuff, get up, sit down, and generally fret around. After this period, you get more quiet. Read a book, doze, wonder whether to make a cuppa from the samovar (we have excellent Twinings tea and real coffee bags; also the powder soups from Waitrose are good). So, life acquires a routine. You occasionally go for a walk, see if there are people to chat to, check which loo has the sweetest smell. At some point, you may go to the restaurant car which has a kind of pub feel to it – more conversations with strangers, cold beer on request, various items of food. All the while, the vista unfolds outside – forests, lakes, cities briefly glimpsed. Like eye movements but this time it’s the world which moves!
Then comes the night. Perhaps a drink in the cabin. Make the beds. Close the door, and perhaps lock it for that extra safe feeling. Watch the stars and moon outside. The occasional light. Snuggle under the clean sheets and let the train’s movement rock you to sleep.
Technically, the feat of running these railways is formidable, and seems to put UK trains to shame. In our 10,000 mile journey there were no delays due to faults in track, rolling stock, or signalling. The climate is very harsh. In winter, LPG gas burners are used at points to stop them freezing. The approach to technology is very different. Everything is simpler, “clunky”, and easy to service. Small items may break, such as aircon systems or light switches, but the train remains viable. Much greater use is made of human labour. Each barrier-controlled level crossing has a guard who stands to attention with a marker in the “all clear” position as the train passes. Each station has a stationmaster who also shows the “all clear”. Trackside structures are simple, often locally built, and painted in the pastel shades (blue or green) used across the whole railway. Other than that, there is none of the product brand which is so ubiquitous in the UK. The low-tech, highly redundant, people-hungry approach is viable because of the low wages, I guess. But it represents a railway culture in which the train is respected (the standing-to-attention exemplifies this) rather than being seen as a marketing opportunity. Part of my views here may be driven by some kind of nostalgia, but whatever the reason, the railway to Asia is an amazing feat of engineering.
Help, we're having trouble seeing our Blog!
Just got to Beijing, off the train, into our hotel which is wonderfully quiet. But the internet here won't allow us to view the blog. Very strange... Perhaps all blogs here are banned ? But I think we can still add to it. Well we will try...
Carol's diary Days 15 16 and 17
Day 15, Wednesday, July 11th, Ulaanbaatar.
Mongolia and its raining!
I woke with an urgent need for the toilet. I climbed off the top bunk in the dark, trying to remove myself quietly from the hot, stuffy cubicle. Out in the corridor the sun was breaking! And there, from the window of the train, was Mongolia in all its glory. Well, as I imagined it would be, rolling grassland, hill after hill, a vast empty place. The train slowly, heavily, trundling along, mile after mile, horses, some houses, more horses. And then as the sky glowed with gold and pink, camp sites in all directions, as far as the eye could see, small groups of Gers on the hills, with smoking camp fires, horses with their riders lying asleep in sleeping bags next to them and across the slopes, distant cars slowly kicking up the dust.
In between even more visits to the toilet, I stood with my head at the open window, enjoying the cool air. Excited, I tried to wake the others who were pretty indignant about it so I left them. The Spanish families rose noisily and packed. We were due to arrive in Ulaanbaatar at some ungodly hour, though no one seemed quite sure when, or could even agree as to what the time was right now. I asked the Providnista and she told me we would be arriving in 20 minutes. The others were still fast asleep in their hot nest and ready to lynch me when I woke them again but they leapt up and started dressing wildly and throwing things into bags. We were just about ready when we drew into the rather drab Ulaanbaatar station.
We’re staying in the Soviet Ulan Bator Hotel, Lenin’s statue standing heroically in front. It’s the most expensive place that we stay in on our trip but we’re ready for a treat. 7.30 am and our rooms were ready! Yes! And we showered off all the dirt and smells from the train, breakfasted like we hadn’t seen food for a week and headed off to find the stadium where the official opening ceremony of Naadam is held.
Map in hand, we strode off up the main road, pavement of potholes and sand, past a derelict house strewn with banners and protest placards, belting out loud Mongolian rap music. Ulaanbaatar appears to be one huge building site. A crowd was gathering and as we turned to look, a host of silk and fur clad horseman were riding in procession towards us. The crowd ran alongside and behind, so we joined them, crossing roads full of traffic controlled by whistle blowing policemen waving small lollypops. Old ladies dressed in silk with their best hats on held hands with tiny children wearing pointed hats, The pavement is dirty grey sand and rubble, sandals and high heels alike were a uniform dusty grey.
Finally we reached the stadium and Tom ran off to buy tickets from the black market touts while I joined a queue of ladies for yet another nationality of toilet. It’s going to be that sort of a day….
The toilet was delightful. Tom was successful in his quest for tickets and we entered the stadium in good spirits, found some seats surprisingly near the front of the vast crowd and breathed a sigh of relief. And then it rained…. But not for long!
Out came the parade. Horses and riders and archers and women dressed in traditional costume, mythical figures and then the New Rich sporting suits and dark sunglasses, more horses, Dragon figures with enormous heads and finally the Bikers. A group of Hells Angels on Harley s followed by a group of brightly coloured Japanese bikes. This to the strains of the Mongolian equivalent to Mick Jagger, bouncing around with his microphone, an old rocker who everyone still loves, we were reliably informed by the man next to us.
Naadam is a celebration of three sports, Wrestling, archery and of course horse racing.
I asked the man next to us what his favourite sport is.
“Football” he says quickly,
I wasn’t expecting that answer.
“Oh…What’s your team?”
“Liverpool”
We spend a few minutes discussing the finer talents of Stephen Gerrard while wrestlers of various shapes, sizes and stages of undress enter the arena.
Mongolian wrestling appears to the ignorant eye to be a casual form of Sumo. The pairs of men grab each other when they are both ready, lock on in crab position, and slowly scuttle about until one gains the upper hand and squashes the other beneath him in a satisfying thunk.
The stadium starts to empty, Most are heading out of the city to the place where the horse riding will take place. We wander through the crowded market area. It all feels relaxed and friendly. Ulaanbaatar has got to be one of the ugliest cities I have ever visited but somehow it feels good to be here.
Day 16, Thursday, July 12th, Hustai National Park,
Przewalski Horses.
Munguu is to be our guide for the next two days. She is a small, gentle, smiling woman and we immediately warm to her. Our driver is called Zhorrihgtor and tells us proudly he is the exact look alike of the Mongolian president. He produces photographs of himself in newspaper cuttings, one with him shaking hands with the president himself! He tells me later how he was chosen to drive in the cavalcade of George Bush… and his wife…. and also Hilary Clinton!
We head off into the steppe, south west of the city. We are going to spend a night in a Ger, to see the reintroduced Przewalski horses in the wild. Half an hour out of the city we pass the horse racing site. It’s the camp that I had seen from the train the day before. In the distance we suddenly see a line of horses galloping down the hill, and Zhorrihgtor turns the car down a sandy track towards the finishing line. The riders are small children, boys and girls of four to ten. But they are incredibly strong riders and very excited to compete. We arrive near the finishing line as the last half of the riders struggle in. Emotions are high and no one wants to be the last. Munguu tells us the words of the song that is sung to the child who is last:
Because of foolish owner, the reins were too short,
The rider was too young and the whip was too short.
Too many sand dunes happened on the way,
As well as many hills and ravines.
As always there were obstacles
And though the jockeys tried hard to overcome,
All of them, still too many remained.
The young colt lagged behind all.
But the next year, the rider will be leader of 10,000 horses.
Continuing on our journey, Munguu tells us a little about Mongolian history. How Mongolia became part of the Soviet Union in 1920 and how when the Russians moved out in 1990 no one knew how to operate the power stations. Mongolia is a vast area of untapped resources, oil and minerals and the government of the new democracy sold the mining rights to foreign companies who can exploit and damage the land of the traditional Nomads with little benefit to Mongolia. Interestingly the main companies are Canadian and Australian. But who knows what George Bush was doing here. Independent Mongolia is in its infancy, struggling to find its way but the majority of the population are Nomadic people and it’s hard for their voice to be heard.
At the Hustai National park we are shown to our Ger, traditional Nomadic Tent. Our Ger turns out to be the Ghenggis Khan version with an enormous bed and chairs like thrones. They obviously saw Tom coming!
Over a beer Munguu explains the way the Ger is traditionally divided. The door always faces south - the prevailing winds come from the north. The north is reserved for objects of respect, the altar and visitors, the west is the man’s domain, his bed and all the riding equipment and the east the woman’s domain, her bed and the kitchen. The two upright poles symbolise the father and the mother, the three ropes around the outside of the felt awning symbolise continuity, past, present and future. Even the hole in the centre of the roof is divided into 8 so that the sun acts as a sundial to tell the time. The nomads are wary of corners believing that bad spirits reside in them. The round shape formed by panels of wooden latticework spreads good energy and spirits. It is remarkably comfortable and pleasant. The wooden furniture is painted orange the colour of fire and blue the colour of sky.
As the day draws to a close we set off to see the wild Przewalski horses who gather at a nearby stream every evening to graze and drink. The last wild horse in Mongolia was seen in 1964 but in 1992, 84 horses from European zoos were reintroduced. The horses are the colour of the land, sandy brown with darker manes, well camouflaged. It’s a thrill when we spot them galloping down a nearby hill. We spend an hour or more quietly watching them at a respectful distance, spotting the odd marmot and large insect with a spike on its tail. The horses are happily doing their evening thing ignoring us watching.
Driving back in the half light along the valley over the potholed sandy track I see an incongruous 30 km hour road sign at the side of the road. There is nothing here!
Day 17, Friday, July 13th, Back to Ulaanbaatar,
Mare’s milk and young colts.
Munguu suggests that we call in on a Nomadic family on the way back to Ulaan Baatar. We pass a couple of Gers with a small enclosure of horses up on the hill.
Zhorihgtorr suddenly pulls his well looked after and spotlessly clean Mercedes van off the road and drives up to them over the hard scrub. We arrive completely unexpectedly and uninvited, tumble out of the van and hover uncomfortably wondering what to do next. None of us look like Julia Roberts! (who spent a week with a whole film crew visiting a Nomadic family!!) Three boys of decreasing size are shoving the small foals out of the enclosure, down the hill, away from their mothers. This is hard work, the foals are digging their heels in. Martin suddenly grabs the other side of one of the foals and the boy and Martin shove push and pull till they have reached a long rope further down the hill and tied the foal to it. The ice is broken and Martin spends the next couple of hours in happy physical activity. We are invited in to the Ger and it is exactly as Munguu described . The North part is filled with medals from their horse racing victories. They are trainers. We are offered hot tea which is like hot salty milk and then some fermented mares milk, Airag, which we were told, ferments in goat skin bottles on the side of the horses, some curdled butter and some hard cheese. This is their main diet, with the goat’s meat that hangs drying at the door. They eat practically no vegetables but survive healthily. Surprisingly the mare’s milk contains a completely balanced intake of nutrients.
Eventually we leave hoping that we have not taken up to much of their time. It’s been great to pop in on them. Sue imagines what she would do if a Mongolian family suddenly turned up unannounced. Hospitality is a huge thing here… And striving to do things well.
In the evening we go to a concert of traditional folk music and dance in the state theatre. It’s fantastic. Every single part of it is perfectly performed, the quality they display is breathtaking. As I watch them I wonder what is this New Mongolia? There is such a sense of strong national identity and pride in every thing we have seen. Two thirds of the people live out in the wilds, families with their horses. The rest live here in the city, a pile of rubble with factories and power stations belching out smoke and new buildings shooting up on every corner. Somehow the city is …booming.
.
Mongolia and its raining!
I woke with an urgent need for the toilet. I climbed off the top bunk in the dark, trying to remove myself quietly from the hot, stuffy cubicle. Out in the corridor the sun was breaking! And there, from the window of the train, was Mongolia in all its glory. Well, as I imagined it would be, rolling grassland, hill after hill, a vast empty place. The train slowly, heavily, trundling along, mile after mile, horses, some houses, more horses. And then as the sky glowed with gold and pink, camp sites in all directions, as far as the eye could see, small groups of Gers on the hills, with smoking camp fires, horses with their riders lying asleep in sleeping bags next to them and across the slopes, distant cars slowly kicking up the dust.
In between even more visits to the toilet, I stood with my head at the open window, enjoying the cool air. Excited, I tried to wake the others who were pretty indignant about it so I left them. The Spanish families rose noisily and packed. We were due to arrive in Ulaanbaatar at some ungodly hour, though no one seemed quite sure when, or could even agree as to what the time was right now. I asked the Providnista and she told me we would be arriving in 20 minutes. The others were still fast asleep in their hot nest and ready to lynch me when I woke them again but they leapt up and started dressing wildly and throwing things into bags. We were just about ready when we drew into the rather drab Ulaanbaatar station.
We’re staying in the Soviet Ulan Bator Hotel, Lenin’s statue standing heroically in front. It’s the most expensive place that we stay in on our trip but we’re ready for a treat. 7.30 am and our rooms were ready! Yes! And we showered off all the dirt and smells from the train, breakfasted like we hadn’t seen food for a week and headed off to find the stadium where the official opening ceremony of Naadam is held.
Map in hand, we strode off up the main road, pavement of potholes and sand, past a derelict house strewn with banners and protest placards, belting out loud Mongolian rap music. Ulaanbaatar appears to be one huge building site. A crowd was gathering and as we turned to look, a host of silk and fur clad horseman were riding in procession towards us. The crowd ran alongside and behind, so we joined them, crossing roads full of traffic controlled by whistle blowing policemen waving small lollypops. Old ladies dressed in silk with their best hats on held hands with tiny children wearing pointed hats, The pavement is dirty grey sand and rubble, sandals and high heels alike were a uniform dusty grey.
Finally we reached the stadium and Tom ran off to buy tickets from the black market touts while I joined a queue of ladies for yet another nationality of toilet. It’s going to be that sort of a day….
The toilet was delightful. Tom was successful in his quest for tickets and we entered the stadium in good spirits, found some seats surprisingly near the front of the vast crowd and breathed a sigh of relief. And then it rained…. But not for long!
Out came the parade. Horses and riders and archers and women dressed in traditional costume, mythical figures and then the New Rich sporting suits and dark sunglasses, more horses, Dragon figures with enormous heads and finally the Bikers. A group of Hells Angels on Harley s followed by a group of brightly coloured Japanese bikes. This to the strains of the Mongolian equivalent to Mick Jagger, bouncing around with his microphone, an old rocker who everyone still loves, we were reliably informed by the man next to us.
Naadam is a celebration of three sports, Wrestling, archery and of course horse racing.
I asked the man next to us what his favourite sport is.
“Football” he says quickly,
I wasn’t expecting that answer.
“Oh…What’s your team?”
“Liverpool”
We spend a few minutes discussing the finer talents of Stephen Gerrard while wrestlers of various shapes, sizes and stages of undress enter the arena.
Mongolian wrestling appears to the ignorant eye to be a casual form of Sumo. The pairs of men grab each other when they are both ready, lock on in crab position, and slowly scuttle about until one gains the upper hand and squashes the other beneath him in a satisfying thunk.
The stadium starts to empty, Most are heading out of the city to the place where the horse riding will take place. We wander through the crowded market area. It all feels relaxed and friendly. Ulaanbaatar has got to be one of the ugliest cities I have ever visited but somehow it feels good to be here.
Day 16, Thursday, July 12th, Hustai National Park,
Przewalski Horses.
Munguu is to be our guide for the next two days. She is a small, gentle, smiling woman and we immediately warm to her. Our driver is called Zhorrihgtor and tells us proudly he is the exact look alike of the Mongolian president. He produces photographs of himself in newspaper cuttings, one with him shaking hands with the president himself! He tells me later how he was chosen to drive in the cavalcade of George Bush… and his wife…. and also Hilary Clinton!
We head off into the steppe, south west of the city. We are going to spend a night in a Ger, to see the reintroduced Przewalski horses in the wild. Half an hour out of the city we pass the horse racing site. It’s the camp that I had seen from the train the day before. In the distance we suddenly see a line of horses galloping down the hill, and Zhorrihgtor turns the car down a sandy track towards the finishing line. The riders are small children, boys and girls of four to ten. But they are incredibly strong riders and very excited to compete. We arrive near the finishing line as the last half of the riders struggle in. Emotions are high and no one wants to be the last. Munguu tells us the words of the song that is sung to the child who is last:
Because of foolish owner, the reins were too short,
The rider was too young and the whip was too short.
Too many sand dunes happened on the way,
As well as many hills and ravines.
As always there were obstacles
And though the jockeys tried hard to overcome,
All of them, still too many remained.
The young colt lagged behind all.
But the next year, the rider will be leader of 10,000 horses.
Continuing on our journey, Munguu tells us a little about Mongolian history. How Mongolia became part of the Soviet Union in 1920 and how when the Russians moved out in 1990 no one knew how to operate the power stations. Mongolia is a vast area of untapped resources, oil and minerals and the government of the new democracy sold the mining rights to foreign companies who can exploit and damage the land of the traditional Nomads with little benefit to Mongolia. Interestingly the main companies are Canadian and Australian. But who knows what George Bush was doing here. Independent Mongolia is in its infancy, struggling to find its way but the majority of the population are Nomadic people and it’s hard for their voice to be heard.
At the Hustai National park we are shown to our Ger, traditional Nomadic Tent. Our Ger turns out to be the Ghenggis Khan version with an enormous bed and chairs like thrones. They obviously saw Tom coming!
Over a beer Munguu explains the way the Ger is traditionally divided. The door always faces south - the prevailing winds come from the north. The north is reserved for objects of respect, the altar and visitors, the west is the man’s domain, his bed and all the riding equipment and the east the woman’s domain, her bed and the kitchen. The two upright poles symbolise the father and the mother, the three ropes around the outside of the felt awning symbolise continuity, past, present and future. Even the hole in the centre of the roof is divided into 8 so that the sun acts as a sundial to tell the time. The nomads are wary of corners believing that bad spirits reside in them. The round shape formed by panels of wooden latticework spreads good energy and spirits. It is remarkably comfortable and pleasant. The wooden furniture is painted orange the colour of fire and blue the colour of sky.
As the day draws to a close we set off to see the wild Przewalski horses who gather at a nearby stream every evening to graze and drink. The last wild horse in Mongolia was seen in 1964 but in 1992, 84 horses from European zoos were reintroduced. The horses are the colour of the land, sandy brown with darker manes, well camouflaged. It’s a thrill when we spot them galloping down a nearby hill. We spend an hour or more quietly watching them at a respectful distance, spotting the odd marmot and large insect with a spike on its tail. The horses are happily doing their evening thing ignoring us watching.
Driving back in the half light along the valley over the potholed sandy track I see an incongruous 30 km hour road sign at the side of the road. There is nothing here!
Day 17, Friday, July 13th, Back to Ulaanbaatar,
Mare’s milk and young colts.
Munguu suggests that we call in on a Nomadic family on the way back to Ulaan Baatar. We pass a couple of Gers with a small enclosure of horses up on the hill.
Zhorihgtorr suddenly pulls his well looked after and spotlessly clean Mercedes van off the road and drives up to them over the hard scrub. We arrive completely unexpectedly and uninvited, tumble out of the van and hover uncomfortably wondering what to do next. None of us look like Julia Roberts! (who spent a week with a whole film crew visiting a Nomadic family!!) Three boys of decreasing size are shoving the small foals out of the enclosure, down the hill, away from their mothers. This is hard work, the foals are digging their heels in. Martin suddenly grabs the other side of one of the foals and the boy and Martin shove push and pull till they have reached a long rope further down the hill and tied the foal to it. The ice is broken and Martin spends the next couple of hours in happy physical activity. We are invited in to the Ger and it is exactly as Munguu described . The North part is filled with medals from their horse racing victories. They are trainers. We are offered hot tea which is like hot salty milk and then some fermented mares milk, Airag, which we were told, ferments in goat skin bottles on the side of the horses, some curdled butter and some hard cheese. This is their main diet, with the goat’s meat that hangs drying at the door. They eat practically no vegetables but survive healthily. Surprisingly the mare’s milk contains a completely balanced intake of nutrients.
Eventually we leave hoping that we have not taken up to much of their time. It’s been great to pop in on them. Sue imagines what she would do if a Mongolian family suddenly turned up unannounced. Hospitality is a huge thing here… And striving to do things well.
In the evening we go to a concert of traditional folk music and dance in the state theatre. It’s fantastic. Every single part of it is perfectly performed, the quality they display is breathtaking. As I watch them I wonder what is this New Mongolia? There is such a sense of strong national identity and pride in every thing we have seen. Two thirds of the people live out in the wilds, families with their horses. The rest live here in the city, a pile of rubble with factories and power stations belching out smoke and new buildings shooting up on every corner. Somehow the city is …booming.
.
Friday 13 July 2007
Irkutsk - Ulan Bator, 1113 Km
The journey continues from Lake Baikal. Transfer by minibus to Irkutsk took a bit less than six hours, so we had time to go into town and have a meal which consisted almost entirely of piles of grilled meat. Carol got groped by the taxi driver on the way back to the station. He used one hand to fondle her breasts and the other to exert occasional control over the steering wheel. I was in the following taxi and videoed the crazy driving.
We were rather dreading Train 362, the slow daily train on the Irkutsk – Ulan Bator route, because it stops every 10 minutes at stations some of which are just a kilometre marker post. But the slow progress of the train meant less jolting and so I slept better than before. We were squashed into one 4-bed compartment (this will be the norm from now on) but it was OK as long as we occasionally took walks up the train. There were some Buryat lads drinking beer in a hard class carriage; we joined them for a bit and tried to talk Russian.
The border with Mongolia took 8 hours. The “foreigner” carriages were detached from the rest of the train and just stood in the little border station. We were free to walk into town, even to have showers in a new station building. The remaining carriages were, I think, searched for smuggled goods for the whole afternoon. We larked about, and the Mongolian driver allowed us into his cab in the huge T3 loco to pretend we were driving it etc. It was our first experience of what turns out to be a trait in Mongolia – the people are lovely, friendly, and never hassle you. I knew little about the place, but what I have seen in the last few days makes me want to come back for longer. In the night, the train stopped at a remote station to allow another to pass (the track in Mongolia is single-line working). A young boy was asking if we had plastic bottles – he must have been collecting them for their (minimal) recycling value. We gave him a few from the train bin, and he indicated that he was hungry and did we have any food? We threw him a Russian sausage from our provisions bag. He sat down, opened the packet carefully, sniffed it to check that it was not off, and then ate some of it in silence. He saved the rest, beamed a thank-you at us, and shuffled off. I realised that we were no longer in Europe –the poverty here is great. However, there was something dignified about the whole interaction which moved me. The Mongols are proud, dignified, and unfailingly polite, even if their circumstances are harsh.
We checked into our hotel in Ulan Bator and made off to the opening ceremony of Naadam, on foot across town. There was lots of traffic and cops with shrill whistles. We reached the stadium and I easily found a ticket tout who sold me 4 tickets at a huge markup, but even then they only cost a fiver each. We found our seats, and the ceremony began – how lucky we were with our random timing! It was fun – processions of horsemen, Miss Mongolia, but also motorbikers and kids. Many banners had the swastika symbol. It was explained to us that this was the symbol of Ghenghis Khan, and Hitler was a great fan of his so he copied the symbol. Ghenghis is a great hero here – every main street is named after him, as is a popular beer.
We watched some wrestling and then headed back to the hotel. Needed to catch up with sleep. Dinner in hotel – good food, crap service. They still operate on the Soviet model of catering.
Next morning, we were up bright’n’early for our “tour” to the Hustain Nature Reserve to try to see Przewalski’s horse. This is the only wild horse in the world (yes?) and went extinct here in the 1960’s. It began to be reintroduced from European zoos, and the numbers are now above 400 (with around 80 having been introduced). Our guide, Mungo, explained about all this and about Mongolia generally. 4 million people of which 3 million are still nomads, living in “gers” (round tents from wood, felt, and canvas. The Russian word is “yurt”). Mongolia became a satellite of USSR in 1921, and this persisted until 1991. The Russians were disliked, but they had a big effect on the infrastructure, and even the language – the alphabet used is the Russian one and many words are similar. This is because there was effectively no schooling before 1921. The country’s mineral wealth is now being exploited by western companies. George Bush stayed in our hotel…
We saw the end of one of the famous horse races. Small children aged 4-10 are the riders (boys and girls) and they hurtle across 30 km of steppe on amazing horses. There are many injuries both to horses and riders. Winning is a huge honour, but all participants get medals and the “wooden spoon” is delivered in the form of a song to the last finisher, to make him/her feel better and to suggest that “Next year, you will be the leader of 10,000 horses”.
We arrived in the Prewalski Horse area, and immediately saw camels. The vegetation was interesting – sandy soil, with wild rhubarb everywhere! Lots of marmots, some mice, fine butterflies. We checked into our “gers” (Martin and Sue got a real one; Carol and I got an imperial concrete one). Each was laid out traditionally, with a central stove. The door on each faces due south, so that anyone seeing a ger immediately knows where south is. The top has a round window which acts as a sundial – you immediately know what time of day it is from the direction of illumination. The kitchen is on the southwest side, the mother’s bed on the west, the man’s on the east, with visitors/medals/mementoes on the north side.
We travelled in the van for about half an hour just before dusk, and were rewarded with several sightings of the wild horses. They were lovely, and were used to humans (the older ones are still the ones moved from the zoos). I particularly liked an old stallion who was now a bachelor as he lost his harem after losing a fight. He received an injury on his nose and was thought to be in danger of dying; but he recovered and now grazes alone, with a white scar visible on his nose.
We met some English people even more mad than us – they had run across the Gobi Desert!
Next day, we returned to UB via a real ger settlement. The people were not warned of our arrival but the code of hospitality is strongly observed and we received a warm welcome. They had lots of horses, and were busy hauling out the foals from the corral so that the mares could be led to the same, separate, place, for the daily milking to take place. Mare’s milk is a delicacy here. It is never cooked or processed, but left to ferment. It becomes mildly alcoholic and is surprisingly delicious, sour like lemon-flavoured yoghurt. Martin and Carol helped to move the resistant (and hugely strong) foals to be tethered 100 yards away. It began to rain and we were invited into the ger for tea/fermented milk/other treats. The family were happy to show us around. We did not stay too long as we were aware of their need to get on with the jobs. It was a glimpse into a wholly different life from ours. Winters are severe, with temperatures dropping to -50 degrees C. Life is harsh, and it is this which apparently leads to the very strong code of cooperation and politeness.
Back to UB, to a factory producing Cashmere products to buy some presents. The others then went to an evening of music, while I rested with a somewhat fragile tummy (mare’s milk?) and to do emails and the blog.
Tomorrow, we board the train to Beijing!
We were rather dreading Train 362, the slow daily train on the Irkutsk – Ulan Bator route, because it stops every 10 minutes at stations some of which are just a kilometre marker post. But the slow progress of the train meant less jolting and so I slept better than before. We were squashed into one 4-bed compartment (this will be the norm from now on) but it was OK as long as we occasionally took walks up the train. There were some Buryat lads drinking beer in a hard class carriage; we joined them for a bit and tried to talk Russian.
The border with Mongolia took 8 hours. The “foreigner” carriages were detached from the rest of the train and just stood in the little border station. We were free to walk into town, even to have showers in a new station building. The remaining carriages were, I think, searched for smuggled goods for the whole afternoon. We larked about, and the Mongolian driver allowed us into his cab in the huge T3 loco to pretend we were driving it etc. It was our first experience of what turns out to be a trait in Mongolia – the people are lovely, friendly, and never hassle you. I knew little about the place, but what I have seen in the last few days makes me want to come back for longer. In the night, the train stopped at a remote station to allow another to pass (the track in Mongolia is single-line working). A young boy was asking if we had plastic bottles – he must have been collecting them for their (minimal) recycling value. We gave him a few from the train bin, and he indicated that he was hungry and did we have any food? We threw him a Russian sausage from our provisions bag. He sat down, opened the packet carefully, sniffed it to check that it was not off, and then ate some of it in silence. He saved the rest, beamed a thank-you at us, and shuffled off. I realised that we were no longer in Europe –the poverty here is great. However, there was something dignified about the whole interaction which moved me. The Mongols are proud, dignified, and unfailingly polite, even if their circumstances are harsh.
We checked into our hotel in Ulan Bator and made off to the opening ceremony of Naadam, on foot across town. There was lots of traffic and cops with shrill whistles. We reached the stadium and I easily found a ticket tout who sold me 4 tickets at a huge markup, but even then they only cost a fiver each. We found our seats, and the ceremony began – how lucky we were with our random timing! It was fun – processions of horsemen, Miss Mongolia, but also motorbikers and kids. Many banners had the swastika symbol. It was explained to us that this was the symbol of Ghenghis Khan, and Hitler was a great fan of his so he copied the symbol. Ghenghis is a great hero here – every main street is named after him, as is a popular beer.
We watched some wrestling and then headed back to the hotel. Needed to catch up with sleep. Dinner in hotel – good food, crap service. They still operate on the Soviet model of catering.
Next morning, we were up bright’n’early for our “tour” to the Hustain Nature Reserve to try to see Przewalski’s horse. This is the only wild horse in the world (yes?) and went extinct here in the 1960’s. It began to be reintroduced from European zoos, and the numbers are now above 400 (with around 80 having been introduced). Our guide, Mungo, explained about all this and about Mongolia generally. 4 million people of which 3 million are still nomads, living in “gers” (round tents from wood, felt, and canvas. The Russian word is “yurt”). Mongolia became a satellite of USSR in 1921, and this persisted until 1991. The Russians were disliked, but they had a big effect on the infrastructure, and even the language – the alphabet used is the Russian one and many words are similar. This is because there was effectively no schooling before 1921. The country’s mineral wealth is now being exploited by western companies. George Bush stayed in our hotel…
We saw the end of one of the famous horse races. Small children aged 4-10 are the riders (boys and girls) and they hurtle across 30 km of steppe on amazing horses. There are many injuries both to horses and riders. Winning is a huge honour, but all participants get medals and the “wooden spoon” is delivered in the form of a song to the last finisher, to make him/her feel better and to suggest that “Next year, you will be the leader of 10,000 horses”.
We arrived in the Prewalski Horse area, and immediately saw camels. The vegetation was interesting – sandy soil, with wild rhubarb everywhere! Lots of marmots, some mice, fine butterflies. We checked into our “gers” (Martin and Sue got a real one; Carol and I got an imperial concrete one). Each was laid out traditionally, with a central stove. The door on each faces due south, so that anyone seeing a ger immediately knows where south is. The top has a round window which acts as a sundial – you immediately know what time of day it is from the direction of illumination. The kitchen is on the southwest side, the mother’s bed on the west, the man’s on the east, with visitors/medals/mementoes on the north side.
We travelled in the van for about half an hour just before dusk, and were rewarded with several sightings of the wild horses. They were lovely, and were used to humans (the older ones are still the ones moved from the zoos). I particularly liked an old stallion who was now a bachelor as he lost his harem after losing a fight. He received an injury on his nose and was thought to be in danger of dying; but he recovered and now grazes alone, with a white scar visible on his nose.
We met some English people even more mad than us – they had run across the Gobi Desert!
Next day, we returned to UB via a real ger settlement. The people were not warned of our arrival but the code of hospitality is strongly observed and we received a warm welcome. They had lots of horses, and were busy hauling out the foals from the corral so that the mares could be led to the same, separate, place, for the daily milking to take place. Mare’s milk is a delicacy here. It is never cooked or processed, but left to ferment. It becomes mildly alcoholic and is surprisingly delicious, sour like lemon-flavoured yoghurt. Martin and Carol helped to move the resistant (and hugely strong) foals to be tethered 100 yards away. It began to rain and we were invited into the ger for tea/fermented milk/other treats. The family were happy to show us around. We did not stay too long as we were aware of their need to get on with the jobs. It was a glimpse into a wholly different life from ours. Winters are severe, with temperatures dropping to -50 degrees C. Life is harsh, and it is this which apparently leads to the very strong code of cooperation and politeness.
Back to UB, to a factory producing Cashmere products to buy some presents. The others then went to an evening of music, while I rested with a somewhat fragile tummy (mare’s milk?) and to do emails and the blog.
Tomorrow, we board the train to Beijing!
Sunday 8 July 2007
Tom's diary Irkutsk - Lake Baikal by road & ferry ca. 1200 Km
Train-trail diary_Tom
Sat 7 – Mon 9 July 2007, Days 11 – 13
Irkutsk – Olkhon Island (by road & ferry, ca. 1200 Km)
Train # 4 rolled into Irkusk pretty much on time, at around 5.20 AM on Saturday. Of course, the notion of time was all a bit strange anyway since I had not been updating my watch with the five extra hours of time difference from Moscow, for the reason that all Russian trains run on Moscow time, all station clocks show this time, and the timetables as well. So it really felt like we were going to dinner earlier each day, until it felt like lunch, and the arrival time was scheduled at just after midnight. The lack of night outside added to this illusion of time – so arriving anywhere was bound to feel weird, since the rest of the world (outside the station) runs on its local time.
To my intense relief, this time there was a friendly Russian giant called Victor waiting for us in the underpass under Irkutsk station, with my name on a piece of A4 paper. We were joined in his Nissan minibus by two backpackers, Gideon and Barnaby. Gideon was a Bristol Uni student studying Earth Sciences, and Barnaby was his brother who had just finished a philosophy degree at Cambridge. Our fates are intertwined for a bit, since not only are they staying at Nikita’s Homestead on Olkhon Island, our destination in the Nissan, but also they are travelling to Ulan Bator on Monday on the same Train # 362 as we are.
Victor diverted via a cash machine so we could replenish the kitty, and then showed us a bit of pre-dawn Irkutsk. Mostly run-down houses, with a few beautiful 19th century wooden Siberian buildings. Then the open road, with dawn shining through occasional layers of mist in wooded valleys. Stopped for breakfast at a caff – fresh doughnuts, sausage rolls, tea. Disgusting loos. Prices one-fifth of what they were on the train. Back to Russia!
I sat at the front with Victor and he talked to me in Russian. I understood around half of what he said. His mother had been a Polish political deportee to Siberia. He had been a fireman fighting forest fires. He had a great love of the area, knew its fauna and flora. He pointed out the eagles flying over the road; a marmot risking its life crossing in front of a car; he screeched to a halt to look at flowers he had not seen before (a type of convolvulus) and at the same time he showed us an edelweiss growing by the road; and most of his explanations were aided by hand gestures during which he would let go of the steering wheel, the Nissan would veer to the right, and he would catch the wheel just before we would meet our death in the ditch at 100 km/hr. He was a bit of a driver, especially when the tarmac ran out and the Nissan hurtled along the dirt road overtaking most things in its path (I like the word “hurtled” at the moment). The Nissan was a Japanese-wreck import, with right-hand drive and instruments in Km. The windscreen was cracked all over from stones, or perhaps passengers who head-butted it since the seat-belt attachments did not work. Random warning lights glowed and flashed on the dashboard. But it was good at hurtling.
We reached the ferry at a place called Mrk or some such. Long queue of cars, small ferry but luckily Victor told us that we were to go aboard as foot passengers and would be met by a new van on the other side. A new guide, Sergei, came aboard with us for the short crossing to Olkhon Island on the huge and beautiful Lake Baikal. He then loaded us into an ancient Russian van which zipped along the one road on the island, progressively filling up with exhaust fumes and probably leading to CO poisoning but luckily we reached Nikita’s homestead while we still had some haemoglobin left.
What a bizarre and wonderful place we have come to! A set of wooden buildings outside the island’s only village. A reception and central canteen in the centre, also a bar called the Happy Olout (a local fish from the lake). All meals are included. Our rooms were in a wooden house close to reception. Large rooms, with no running water but a bucket and ladle, and a sink draining into a canister. Carpets, nice rustic beds, a sole lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling (mains power is a new arrival on the island). We were knackered after the early start and the six-hour road journey so we went to bed before lunch.
The food is great. Typically, a soup followed by a small piece of baked fish for lunch; for dinner, a salad, then a stew, then a piece of cake. Breakfasts are great, with porridge with cranberry syrup, fried eggs, bread, and pancakes. There are pots of various kinds of tea freely available. The whole thing weighs in at 15 pounds each per day with all meals included.
Just below the homestead there is a gorgeous sandy beach with clear blue lake water. That’s where we headed after lunch. The sun beat down – what a hot place Siberia is! We settled down on the sand and dipped toes into the water – OUCH! Bloody cold. We dipped my watch in it and had a competition to guess the temperature. The watch thermometer settled down at 11.8º C. But it had to be done, so we saw how many seconds each of us could survive. At first it seemed a chore, but later, all sweaty from the heat of the beach, the sudden immersion in icy water became a sensual pleasure.
Dinner and bed.
The next day was a Sunday. Carol and I rented two bicycles and set off with a small hand-drawn map, to traverse the island. The first stretch was horrid, along the corrugated sandy island road for 3 km. But then we turned inland, up the steppe. A little track leading up into the hills and forest. Alpine flowers everywhere, including a whole field full of edelweiss. The forest at the top also had lots of flowers including some that may have been orchids. Marmots in evidence. Meadows with more flowers. We turned around after 3 hours so as to make it back for a late lunch, taking another 2 hours for the descent, with some exhilarating hurtling!
Time for a last bit of beach. More glacial immersions to wash off the dust of the cycling. Then, with some trepidation, our first banya. Like a sauna but with buckets of hot and cold water, which you mix in bowls and wash yourself with. It’s the only way to wash in this place with water delivered by bowsers, and it was gorgeous. I normally hate saunas, but this was better cos it had a window to ease the claustrophobia, and the washing was delightful. We washed each other’s hair and splashed each other with water of various temperatures. I want to build one in my garden back in Bristol!
Beer before dinner in the Happy Olut, then more with dinner. A stroll to the beach to watch the sunset over the lake. Conversation with a drunken man from Irkutsk whose wife had told him to get out for fresh air. Back to the Happy Olut for more beers. Tomorrow we have a minibus booked for 12.30 and the internet café is open from 10 so we will try to post this on our blog.
Sat 7 – Mon 9 July 2007, Days 11 – 13
Irkutsk – Olkhon Island (by road & ferry, ca. 1200 Km)
Train # 4 rolled into Irkusk pretty much on time, at around 5.20 AM on Saturday. Of course, the notion of time was all a bit strange anyway since I had not been updating my watch with the five extra hours of time difference from Moscow, for the reason that all Russian trains run on Moscow time, all station clocks show this time, and the timetables as well. So it really felt like we were going to dinner earlier each day, until it felt like lunch, and the arrival time was scheduled at just after midnight. The lack of night outside added to this illusion of time – so arriving anywhere was bound to feel weird, since the rest of the world (outside the station) runs on its local time.
To my intense relief, this time there was a friendly Russian giant called Victor waiting for us in the underpass under Irkutsk station, with my name on a piece of A4 paper. We were joined in his Nissan minibus by two backpackers, Gideon and Barnaby. Gideon was a Bristol Uni student studying Earth Sciences, and Barnaby was his brother who had just finished a philosophy degree at Cambridge. Our fates are intertwined for a bit, since not only are they staying at Nikita’s Homestead on Olkhon Island, our destination in the Nissan, but also they are travelling to Ulan Bator on Monday on the same Train # 362 as we are.
Victor diverted via a cash machine so we could replenish the kitty, and then showed us a bit of pre-dawn Irkutsk. Mostly run-down houses, with a few beautiful 19th century wooden Siberian buildings. Then the open road, with dawn shining through occasional layers of mist in wooded valleys. Stopped for breakfast at a caff – fresh doughnuts, sausage rolls, tea. Disgusting loos. Prices one-fifth of what they were on the train. Back to Russia!
I sat at the front with Victor and he talked to me in Russian. I understood around half of what he said. His mother had been a Polish political deportee to Siberia. He had been a fireman fighting forest fires. He had a great love of the area, knew its fauna and flora. He pointed out the eagles flying over the road; a marmot risking its life crossing in front of a car; he screeched to a halt to look at flowers he had not seen before (a type of convolvulus) and at the same time he showed us an edelweiss growing by the road; and most of his explanations were aided by hand gestures during which he would let go of the steering wheel, the Nissan would veer to the right, and he would catch the wheel just before we would meet our death in the ditch at 100 km/hr. He was a bit of a driver, especially when the tarmac ran out and the Nissan hurtled along the dirt road overtaking most things in its path (I like the word “hurtled” at the moment). The Nissan was a Japanese-wreck import, with right-hand drive and instruments in Km. The windscreen was cracked all over from stones, or perhaps passengers who head-butted it since the seat-belt attachments did not work. Random warning lights glowed and flashed on the dashboard. But it was good at hurtling.
We reached the ferry at a place called Mrk or some such. Long queue of cars, small ferry but luckily Victor told us that we were to go aboard as foot passengers and would be met by a new van on the other side. A new guide, Sergei, came aboard with us for the short crossing to Olkhon Island on the huge and beautiful Lake Baikal. He then loaded us into an ancient Russian van which zipped along the one road on the island, progressively filling up with exhaust fumes and probably leading to CO poisoning but luckily we reached Nikita’s homestead while we still had some haemoglobin left.
What a bizarre and wonderful place we have come to! A set of wooden buildings outside the island’s only village. A reception and central canteen in the centre, also a bar called the Happy Olout (a local fish from the lake). All meals are included. Our rooms were in a wooden house close to reception. Large rooms, with no running water but a bucket and ladle, and a sink draining into a canister. Carpets, nice rustic beds, a sole lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling (mains power is a new arrival on the island). We were knackered after the early start and the six-hour road journey so we went to bed before lunch.
The food is great. Typically, a soup followed by a small piece of baked fish for lunch; for dinner, a salad, then a stew, then a piece of cake. Breakfasts are great, with porridge with cranberry syrup, fried eggs, bread, and pancakes. There are pots of various kinds of tea freely available. The whole thing weighs in at 15 pounds each per day with all meals included.
Just below the homestead there is a gorgeous sandy beach with clear blue lake water. That’s where we headed after lunch. The sun beat down – what a hot place Siberia is! We settled down on the sand and dipped toes into the water – OUCH! Bloody cold. We dipped my watch in it and had a competition to guess the temperature. The watch thermometer settled down at 11.8º C. But it had to be done, so we saw how many seconds each of us could survive. At first it seemed a chore, but later, all sweaty from the heat of the beach, the sudden immersion in icy water became a sensual pleasure.
Dinner and bed.
The next day was a Sunday. Carol and I rented two bicycles and set off with a small hand-drawn map, to traverse the island. The first stretch was horrid, along the corrugated sandy island road for 3 km. But then we turned inland, up the steppe. A little track leading up into the hills and forest. Alpine flowers everywhere, including a whole field full of edelweiss. The forest at the top also had lots of flowers including some that may have been orchids. Marmots in evidence. Meadows with more flowers. We turned around after 3 hours so as to make it back for a late lunch, taking another 2 hours for the descent, with some exhilarating hurtling!
Time for a last bit of beach. More glacial immersions to wash off the dust of the cycling. Then, with some trepidation, our first banya. Like a sauna but with buckets of hot and cold water, which you mix in bowls and wash yourself with. It’s the only way to wash in this place with water delivered by bowsers, and it was gorgeous. I normally hate saunas, but this was better cos it had a window to ease the claustrophobia, and the washing was delightful. We washed each other’s hair and splashed each other with water of various temperatures. I want to build one in my garden back in Bristol!
Beer before dinner in the Happy Olut, then more with dinner. A stroll to the beach to watch the sunset over the lake. Conversation with a drunken man from Irkutsk whose wife had told him to get out for fresh air. Back to the Happy Olut for more beers. Tomorrow we have a minibus booked for 12.30 and the internet café is open from 10 so we will try to post this on our blog.
Carol's diary Day 5 to Day 10
Day 5, 1st July, Moscow;
Heading back from Red square we decide to try the metro. In the underpass a line of violinists are jauntily belting out Vivaldi to an appreciative audience. Their violin case is rapidly filling with 10 rouble notes. The metro proves difficult. We are looking for line 3 but we can only see signs for lines 1 and 2 and to cap it all, each station has a range of different names. It turns out these signs refer to the platforms so we jump on the next train. We get off after only one stop and have gained little if anything at all. But in the underpass we stumble across another wonderful music moment. An entire rock band has set up its speakers and an enthusiastic crowd is swaying and dancing wildly to the music.
From the apartment the Novyi Arbat darkens from day to night. Neon signs and flashing lights dominate and the new rich, in their large expensive cars built like tanks, parade the wide street.
Day 6, 2nd July Moscow;
Sue, Martin and I walk down Novyi Arbat to attempt the Kremlin again. Today it’s open but a long queue renders it less than inviting. We decide instead to explore the streets nearby, diving into this church and that. Trying to cut through to the river Moskva where later we meet Tom for a river boat trip.
We sit at the back of the boat. A family gets on; mother, father, daughter, son and girlfriend. The girlfriend spends the entire trip posing for the camera as if she were competing on Russia’s Next Top Model. Her arms flung expressively in the air, her eyes flirting with the camera. Mother looks on singularly unimpressed.
We stop at a large white cathedral with a great golden dome and cross over the footbridge with padlocks bearing the names of countless lovers.
Day 7, 3rd July, Moscow;
The tickets that should have arrived with our pick up taxi are due to arrive at noon today. Sasha arrives from the apartment but no one comes from Real Russia and no tickets.
The train leaves Moscow spot on 21.35, and we unpack our bags and make the beds. This will be our home for the next 4 nights. Sue and Martin are in compartment I and Tom and I in compartment II. The two compartments share a shower between them. Unlock door, lock doors to both compartments and turn on a cold hose. Mirrors on either side of the sink reveal that this is going to be as good as I’m going to look for the next 4 days. It’s downhill from now on.
Cabin sorted, bags stashed away, food bags, replenished in possibly the most expensive supermarket in Moscow, now reorganised and pushed under the seat and Tom and I set off to investigate the restaurant car. It turns out to be miles away. 4 doors to open and close at the beginning and end of each carriage. The restaurant car is run by a Russian called Victor with a big moustache, blue eyes and a worried expression, in contrast to his cheekily turned up nose. His crisp white shirt is tucked into rather baggy black trousers. He brings us beer and plates of omelette generously sprinkled with dill. Some of the other passengers from our carriage have also made their way along there. A Norwegian couple, and a young English man called James who would make a good candidate for the Apprentice, and Horkan from Sweden with whom he shares his compartment. A sudden loud jolt and all the bottles on the back table fall over, some break. The train comes to a screeching stop and Victor, looking very worried now, makes a gesture with his hand drawn back quickly against his throat. Someone has jumped? Someone has been run over? we wonder. An animal?
The train stands still for only a few minutes then moves off again.
It can’t have been a person can it?
Victor is quietly replacing the bottles on the table. He has the look of someone who has seen it all before.
We bring a plate of omelette and a cold beer back for Martin and Sue who have settled in for the night and next door we set up the computer to watch Heartlands about a man from Sheffield travelling through the Pennines to Blackpool on a scooter. A sweet film, I love to hear the accents and spot places that I recognise. Film over, we sit for a while in the dark sipping whisky, looking out of the window. We are in our own road movie and it’s so exciting. By the time we clamber into our firm bunks it’s 2.45 and nearly light again
Day 8. 5th July;
The bed is pretty hard and the pillows impossibly large. Good for Tom’s giant shoulders but Sue has had a difficult night. We doze our way through the morning. Reading and sleeping, looking out of the window. Time and the countryside whiz by.
The first stop is in Danilov to change the locomotive. The platform is filled with brightly dressed Babushkas selling food, men push along trolleys laden with Russian tat; china vases, ornate vodka glasses and the most hideous cuddly toys. We buy oranges and strawberries and meat patties with potatoes and a couple of deep fried doughnuts. And as we pull out of the station we eat our lunch.
I discover that the toilet in the next compartment to ours functions with rather less odour. A foot pedal dumps the contents of the metal bowl onto the track and a good squirt of water washes the bowl. A hand made red wire brush hangs at one side to aid the whole proceedings. A note in the handbook suggests keeping well clear when pressing the foot pedal. Under certain conditions it is prone to backfiring…
Our toilet seems to be rather waterless. Tom admits that when he last pushed the foot pedal a large metal bolt fell off. This could explain everything.
I spend the afternoon perusing the Trans Siberian handbook that Tom has brought along. Sadly now out of print, it’s full of interesting bits of information, from how to work out our speed to descriptions of each village along the route. Am I becoming a Train Nerd? I wonder.
The stations we pass through are painted a bright sea-side jade green and a lighter shade of green, with the occasional two tone blue. The buildings, the poles, the pipes, this colour scheme has been consistent since Belarus. Thousands of miles of standard railway seaside green paint.
At some point in the afternoon the air conditioning is turned on. The carriage cools down blissfully. Cooler, and then cooler still, till we all start to shiver and wrap up in fleeces and blankets. The Chinese guards stand in the corridor and laugh, then the air conditioning goes off again.
Day 9, 5th July;
Day 8 or it could be day 9. Tom doesn’t even know where his trousers are…Here we are on train number 4, in compartment II baggage stowed, beds made, trying to keep it shipshape. The rails are no longer welded so the train goes clickety clack, clickety clack. Every now and again it slows and all the carriages whack into each other with a loud jolt. A slight bend and it j-j-j-j-j-udders. A long stansa of bumpy swoosh, followed by a sideways shake, the music and rhythm of the great train. Our compartment has a fierce fan which circles and turns its head towards every corner but at night we prefer to lie in the still heavy heat, lulled to sleep by the movement of the train. In the night as we slept, we wound our way through the Urals, down to the West Siberian plain and into Asia. The countryside has gone from forests of birch and pine and black poplar, through the gentle edge of the Urals and opened out now to the taiga of the Tyumenskaya Oblast, flat marshy ground covered with grasses and wild flowers. Wooden houses with iron roofs, expanses of water and trees, and on either side of the tracks, forming long parallel lines, wooden telegraph poles carrying electricity to the villages along the route. Now we are in Siberia, the land of exile for hundreds of thousands of people forced to leave their homes and families forever. The train forges on unceremoniously, on and on, over the river Irtysh and stopping briefly at Omsk. When the train stops in a station it is usually surrounded by Baboushkas with bags selling potatoes and chicken fresh vegetables and wild strawberries, breads and fried potato doughnuts and beetroot and fish salads. At Omsk the platform is empty and the passengers hop off and stroll along the side of the train, wary of its departure. Tom is delighted to discover that the locomotive Us2-175 is made by Skoda in 1983 at the Lenin locomotive works in Pilbzenb. More worrying is the fact that I am writing it down. The number 1, Moscow to Vladivostok train pulls into the station a few minutes behind us. Soon our train starts to steam and whoosh and the Chinese guards standing patiently at each carriage gesticulate that it’s time to climb back on. I hop up the nearest steps and walk through the endless corridors till I reach the familiar glossy brown veneer of carriage number 9. The guard looks relieved at my arrival and so does Tom. It’s quite an achievement to get everyone back on board, all accounted for. With another whoosh the train slowly pulls forward into the Baraba Steppe. The line between here and Novosibirsk, the capital of Western Siberia has the largest amount of freight traffic in the world.
Our Chinese guards are very cheery. When we first got on at Moscow one of them took our passports and tickets and tried unsuccessfully to find us on his own list. “We’re going to Irkutsk,” Tom explained, “then Mongolia. But later…first Irkutsk.” This explanation didn’t seem to help. The ticket was confusingly all together in a wad of paper. The guard continued to look blankly through the pages of ticket and at his list.
Tom tried again, “We’re British, English.”
“Ah Yinglish! Yirkutsk, Yinglish!” The guards face beamed. “Yinglish!”
Now every time he sees us he smiles broadly and says, “Yirkutsk, Yinglish!”
I asked him how to say Thankyou in Mandarin as he filled up my cup from the boiling samovar.
“How!” he said with an upwards intonation.
“How!” I repeated with the same rising tone.
I use this expression repeatedly, only later realising it is completely wrong.
Day 10, 6th July;
The night is full of loud jerks. In the top bunk I have a vision of the train stopping suddenly and me falling off into a broken heap. It’s hot and we leave the fan on. On the top bunk I’m at the same level as the fan and as it circles onto me it feels like I’m lying on an aerodrome. At some point in the night I switch it off, relieved at the quiet, which soon turns to an oppressive, sticky stillness. People emerge slowly in the morning, everyone has settled into a relaxed rhythm, nothing very much, followed by nothing very much. And its delightful. A longer stop in a town around lunchtime and I buy potato dumplings and pork patties and chicken and a smoked cheese plait and strong cold beer, enough for two meals.
Earlier we asked the tall Chinese guard to turn the air conditioning on again. It turns out this is only possible when the train is at standstill, a strange design fault. It comes on again after the last town and the carriage gradually cools, though some water crisis occurs at between the two 1st class carriages with water pouring everywhere. James is gesticulating wildly about the electricity going off and Claire and Jacqueline from Geneva tell me that the water in the toilet runs if you pump it with your foot several times.
Heading back from Red square we decide to try the metro. In the underpass a line of violinists are jauntily belting out Vivaldi to an appreciative audience. Their violin case is rapidly filling with 10 rouble notes. The metro proves difficult. We are looking for line 3 but we can only see signs for lines 1 and 2 and to cap it all, each station has a range of different names. It turns out these signs refer to the platforms so we jump on the next train. We get off after only one stop and have gained little if anything at all. But in the underpass we stumble across another wonderful music moment. An entire rock band has set up its speakers and an enthusiastic crowd is swaying and dancing wildly to the music.
From the apartment the Novyi Arbat darkens from day to night. Neon signs and flashing lights dominate and the new rich, in their large expensive cars built like tanks, parade the wide street.
Day 6, 2nd July Moscow;
Sue, Martin and I walk down Novyi Arbat to attempt the Kremlin again. Today it’s open but a long queue renders it less than inviting. We decide instead to explore the streets nearby, diving into this church and that. Trying to cut through to the river Moskva where later we meet Tom for a river boat trip.
We sit at the back of the boat. A family gets on; mother, father, daughter, son and girlfriend. The girlfriend spends the entire trip posing for the camera as if she were competing on Russia’s Next Top Model. Her arms flung expressively in the air, her eyes flirting with the camera. Mother looks on singularly unimpressed.
We stop at a large white cathedral with a great golden dome and cross over the footbridge with padlocks bearing the names of countless lovers.
Day 7, 3rd July, Moscow;
The tickets that should have arrived with our pick up taxi are due to arrive at noon today. Sasha arrives from the apartment but no one comes from Real Russia and no tickets.
The train leaves Moscow spot on 21.35, and we unpack our bags and make the beds. This will be our home for the next 4 nights. Sue and Martin are in compartment I and Tom and I in compartment II. The two compartments share a shower between them. Unlock door, lock doors to both compartments and turn on a cold hose. Mirrors on either side of the sink reveal that this is going to be as good as I’m going to look for the next 4 days. It’s downhill from now on.
Cabin sorted, bags stashed away, food bags, replenished in possibly the most expensive supermarket in Moscow, now reorganised and pushed under the seat and Tom and I set off to investigate the restaurant car. It turns out to be miles away. 4 doors to open and close at the beginning and end of each carriage. The restaurant car is run by a Russian called Victor with a big moustache, blue eyes and a worried expression, in contrast to his cheekily turned up nose. His crisp white shirt is tucked into rather baggy black trousers. He brings us beer and plates of omelette generously sprinkled with dill. Some of the other passengers from our carriage have also made their way along there. A Norwegian couple, and a young English man called James who would make a good candidate for the Apprentice, and Horkan from Sweden with whom he shares his compartment. A sudden loud jolt and all the bottles on the back table fall over, some break. The train comes to a screeching stop and Victor, looking very worried now, makes a gesture with his hand drawn back quickly against his throat. Someone has jumped? Someone has been run over? we wonder. An animal?
The train stands still for only a few minutes then moves off again.
It can’t have been a person can it?
Victor is quietly replacing the bottles on the table. He has the look of someone who has seen it all before.
We bring a plate of omelette and a cold beer back for Martin and Sue who have settled in for the night and next door we set up the computer to watch Heartlands about a man from Sheffield travelling through the Pennines to Blackpool on a scooter. A sweet film, I love to hear the accents and spot places that I recognise. Film over, we sit for a while in the dark sipping whisky, looking out of the window. We are in our own road movie and it’s so exciting. By the time we clamber into our firm bunks it’s 2.45 and nearly light again
Day 8. 5th July;
The bed is pretty hard and the pillows impossibly large. Good for Tom’s giant shoulders but Sue has had a difficult night. We doze our way through the morning. Reading and sleeping, looking out of the window. Time and the countryside whiz by.
The first stop is in Danilov to change the locomotive. The platform is filled with brightly dressed Babushkas selling food, men push along trolleys laden with Russian tat; china vases, ornate vodka glasses and the most hideous cuddly toys. We buy oranges and strawberries and meat patties with potatoes and a couple of deep fried doughnuts. And as we pull out of the station we eat our lunch.
I discover that the toilet in the next compartment to ours functions with rather less odour. A foot pedal dumps the contents of the metal bowl onto the track and a good squirt of water washes the bowl. A hand made red wire brush hangs at one side to aid the whole proceedings. A note in the handbook suggests keeping well clear when pressing the foot pedal. Under certain conditions it is prone to backfiring…
Our toilet seems to be rather waterless. Tom admits that when he last pushed the foot pedal a large metal bolt fell off. This could explain everything.
I spend the afternoon perusing the Trans Siberian handbook that Tom has brought along. Sadly now out of print, it’s full of interesting bits of information, from how to work out our speed to descriptions of each village along the route. Am I becoming a Train Nerd? I wonder.
The stations we pass through are painted a bright sea-side jade green and a lighter shade of green, with the occasional two tone blue. The buildings, the poles, the pipes, this colour scheme has been consistent since Belarus. Thousands of miles of standard railway seaside green paint.
At some point in the afternoon the air conditioning is turned on. The carriage cools down blissfully. Cooler, and then cooler still, till we all start to shiver and wrap up in fleeces and blankets. The Chinese guards stand in the corridor and laugh, then the air conditioning goes off again.
Day 9, 5th July;
Day 8 or it could be day 9. Tom doesn’t even know where his trousers are…Here we are on train number 4, in compartment II baggage stowed, beds made, trying to keep it shipshape. The rails are no longer welded so the train goes clickety clack, clickety clack. Every now and again it slows and all the carriages whack into each other with a loud jolt. A slight bend and it j-j-j-j-j-udders. A long stansa of bumpy swoosh, followed by a sideways shake, the music and rhythm of the great train. Our compartment has a fierce fan which circles and turns its head towards every corner but at night we prefer to lie in the still heavy heat, lulled to sleep by the movement of the train. In the night as we slept, we wound our way through the Urals, down to the West Siberian plain and into Asia. The countryside has gone from forests of birch and pine and black poplar, through the gentle edge of the Urals and opened out now to the taiga of the Tyumenskaya Oblast, flat marshy ground covered with grasses and wild flowers. Wooden houses with iron roofs, expanses of water and trees, and on either side of the tracks, forming long parallel lines, wooden telegraph poles carrying electricity to the villages along the route. Now we are in Siberia, the land of exile for hundreds of thousands of people forced to leave their homes and families forever. The train forges on unceremoniously, on and on, over the river Irtysh and stopping briefly at Omsk. When the train stops in a station it is usually surrounded by Baboushkas with bags selling potatoes and chicken fresh vegetables and wild strawberries, breads and fried potato doughnuts and beetroot and fish salads. At Omsk the platform is empty and the passengers hop off and stroll along the side of the train, wary of its departure. Tom is delighted to discover that the locomotive Us2-175 is made by Skoda in 1983 at the Lenin locomotive works in Pilbzenb. More worrying is the fact that I am writing it down. The number 1, Moscow to Vladivostok train pulls into the station a few minutes behind us. Soon our train starts to steam and whoosh and the Chinese guards standing patiently at each carriage gesticulate that it’s time to climb back on. I hop up the nearest steps and walk through the endless corridors till I reach the familiar glossy brown veneer of carriage number 9. The guard looks relieved at my arrival and so does Tom. It’s quite an achievement to get everyone back on board, all accounted for. With another whoosh the train slowly pulls forward into the Baraba Steppe. The line between here and Novosibirsk, the capital of Western Siberia has the largest amount of freight traffic in the world.
Our Chinese guards are very cheery. When we first got on at Moscow one of them took our passports and tickets and tried unsuccessfully to find us on his own list. “We’re going to Irkutsk,” Tom explained, “then Mongolia. But later…first Irkutsk.” This explanation didn’t seem to help. The ticket was confusingly all together in a wad of paper. The guard continued to look blankly through the pages of ticket and at his list.
Tom tried again, “We’re British, English.”
“Ah Yinglish! Yirkutsk, Yinglish!” The guards face beamed. “Yinglish!”
Now every time he sees us he smiles broadly and says, “Yirkutsk, Yinglish!”
I asked him how to say Thankyou in Mandarin as he filled up my cup from the boiling samovar.
“How!” he said with an upwards intonation.
“How!” I repeated with the same rising tone.
I use this expression repeatedly, only later realising it is completely wrong.
Day 10, 6th July;
The night is full of loud jerks. In the top bunk I have a vision of the train stopping suddenly and me falling off into a broken heap. It’s hot and we leave the fan on. On the top bunk I’m at the same level as the fan and as it circles onto me it feels like I’m lying on an aerodrome. At some point in the night I switch it off, relieved at the quiet, which soon turns to an oppressive, sticky stillness. People emerge slowly in the morning, everyone has settled into a relaxed rhythm, nothing very much, followed by nothing very much. And its delightful. A longer stop in a town around lunchtime and I buy potato dumplings and pork patties and chicken and a smoked cheese plait and strong cold beer, enough for two meals.
Earlier we asked the tall Chinese guard to turn the air conditioning on again. It turns out this is only possible when the train is at standstill, a strange design fault. It comes on again after the last town and the carriage gradually cools, though some water crisis occurs at between the two 1st class carriages with water pouring everywhere. James is gesticulating wildly about the electricity going off and Claire and Jacqueline from Geneva tell me that the water in the toilet runs if you pump it with your foot several times.
Tom's diary Train Moscow-Irkutsk Days 7-11, 5152 Km
Train-trail diary_Tom
Tues 3 – Sat 7 July 2007, Days 7 - 11
Moscow – Irkutsk 5152 Km
The train pulled out of Moscow on time, and soon cleared the suburbs and the ring road. Villages with wooden houses and allotments with bizarre home-made huts, some of which seemed habitable. Our carriage (number 9) is five places ahead of the “PECTOPAH” (restaurant) car, which we went to. The waiter is a bit brusque but basically friendly, and sorted us out a couple of ham omelettes and beers, and the same to take back to the cabin for Martin who wanted to stay with Sue. The beer was cold and ok, and the average price for a main course, such as kebab with cheese and salad, was around five pounds which is not too bad. We were really excited to be going along in the “big train” and sat up for ages. The presence of a mains socket in the cabin allowed us to watch a video, and we went a long way towards finishing the superb Springbank malt whisky. Damn! Should have brought two bottles!
It started getting light again around 2.30 AM, time to go to sleep. We awoke to the sight which was to stay with us for several days – flat green fields, increasingly wet, with forests composed of silver birch trees and, on the west side of the Urals, other trees too such as spruce. East of the Urals (in Siberia) the trees are mostly birch. There are also lovely flowers in the wet fields – meadowsweet, giant hogweed, the ubiquitous willowherb, and occasionally pinks, daisies, lupins, and blue things that could be vetch (am rusty on my wild flower names).
We settled into a routine. Breakfast was taken in the cabin, with hot water from the samovar supplying tea and coffee. We had stocked up with lots of tiny cartons of UHT milk (MOΛOKO) for the tea, coffee, and cereal. We finished the last of the lovely Swiss muesli from Bristol and then started the fruit’n’bran from the millionaires’ supermarket in Moscow. Fresh fruit came initially from the millionaire peaches, and then from the wares sold on platforms. Every time the train stops we can get off to walk around. The larger stations, such as Omsk, have booths selling beer, cigarettes, water, and other useful but unexciting stuff. However, the smaller stops which have no stalls allow women to come and sell whatever they want, and that is where you can get delicious meat patties, boiled potatoes, roast chicken, apples, biscuits, chocolate, ice-cream, smoked cheese (platted from strands)… The prices vary but tend to be cheaper than the restaurant wagon.
The fellow travellers in our carriage are all western. An Australian couple (film-makers), a young lad called James who wants to be a stockbroker, two women from Geneva… we meet them in the corridor, and also in the restaurant car. Most are travelling through to Ulan Bator or Beijing, but a few, such as a wonderfully ebullient Italian now domiciled in East London, are getting off at Irkutsk as well in order to visit Lake Baikal.
I love the train. The days merge into a relaxed routine. I am doing much less than I thought I would. A bit of Teach Yourself Russian, some light reading, a bit of diary writing, and essentially looking at the view out of the window – flat wetlands, occasional wooden villages with wells in the gardens, factories, wagons with crude oil, little stations whose names are often too long for me to read in the time it takes for the train to rush past. Ponds with kids swimming in them. Level crossings with ramps that prevent cars driving past the barriers.
We usually eat lunch from the Moscow provisions and the instant soups from Waitrose, and dinner in the restaurant. Their Borshch is good, with plentiful lumps of chicken at the bottom. We watch videos at night. The moon shines in through the window. It’s great to have a shower, albeit cold, and a basin to wash ourselves and our clothes. The loos are OK, especially the one in the next carriage up (number 8) which flushes properly and therefore does not smell. Loo paper is provided. Our tablecloth in the cabin has been changed. The more you ask, the more you get. The staff are very attentive at stations, and wave us back onto the train in good time.
It’s the kind of journey which you settle into, and wish it would never end. A little moving world that occasionally stops and connects, briefly, to the real one which, for the rest of the time, only exists as a moving tableau outside the window. The railway paraphernalia are fun, such as the gas cylinders and pipes which are used to heat the points in winter so they don’t freeze up. The Bryn Thomas book is a very good guide to the world outside and within.
Poor Sue has constant back pain, and both that and the effects of the painkillers are having a bad effect on her. She has gone quiet and has lost appetite. Martin is concerned about her, and Carol and I are concerned about both of them. The beds are hard, and there are many jolts at night which will bother someone who is already in discomfort. We may try to buy an inflatable mattress in Beijing. Fingers crossed for Sue.
Tues 3 – Sat 7 July 2007, Days 7 - 11
Moscow – Irkutsk 5152 Km
The train pulled out of Moscow on time, and soon cleared the suburbs and the ring road. Villages with wooden houses and allotments with bizarre home-made huts, some of which seemed habitable. Our carriage (number 9) is five places ahead of the “PECTOPAH” (restaurant) car, which we went to. The waiter is a bit brusque but basically friendly, and sorted us out a couple of ham omelettes and beers, and the same to take back to the cabin for Martin who wanted to stay with Sue. The beer was cold and ok, and the average price for a main course, such as kebab with cheese and salad, was around five pounds which is not too bad. We were really excited to be going along in the “big train” and sat up for ages. The presence of a mains socket in the cabin allowed us to watch a video, and we went a long way towards finishing the superb Springbank malt whisky. Damn! Should have brought two bottles!
It started getting light again around 2.30 AM, time to go to sleep. We awoke to the sight which was to stay with us for several days – flat green fields, increasingly wet, with forests composed of silver birch trees and, on the west side of the Urals, other trees too such as spruce. East of the Urals (in Siberia) the trees are mostly birch. There are also lovely flowers in the wet fields – meadowsweet, giant hogweed, the ubiquitous willowherb, and occasionally pinks, daisies, lupins, and blue things that could be vetch (am rusty on my wild flower names).
We settled into a routine. Breakfast was taken in the cabin, with hot water from the samovar supplying tea and coffee. We had stocked up with lots of tiny cartons of UHT milk (MOΛOKO) for the tea, coffee, and cereal. We finished the last of the lovely Swiss muesli from Bristol and then started the fruit’n’bran from the millionaires’ supermarket in Moscow. Fresh fruit came initially from the millionaire peaches, and then from the wares sold on platforms. Every time the train stops we can get off to walk around. The larger stations, such as Omsk, have booths selling beer, cigarettes, water, and other useful but unexciting stuff. However, the smaller stops which have no stalls allow women to come and sell whatever they want, and that is where you can get delicious meat patties, boiled potatoes, roast chicken, apples, biscuits, chocolate, ice-cream, smoked cheese (platted from strands)… The prices vary but tend to be cheaper than the restaurant wagon.
The fellow travellers in our carriage are all western. An Australian couple (film-makers), a young lad called James who wants to be a stockbroker, two women from Geneva… we meet them in the corridor, and also in the restaurant car. Most are travelling through to Ulan Bator or Beijing, but a few, such as a wonderfully ebullient Italian now domiciled in East London, are getting off at Irkutsk as well in order to visit Lake Baikal.
I love the train. The days merge into a relaxed routine. I am doing much less than I thought I would. A bit of Teach Yourself Russian, some light reading, a bit of diary writing, and essentially looking at the view out of the window – flat wetlands, occasional wooden villages with wells in the gardens, factories, wagons with crude oil, little stations whose names are often too long for me to read in the time it takes for the train to rush past. Ponds with kids swimming in them. Level crossings with ramps that prevent cars driving past the barriers.
We usually eat lunch from the Moscow provisions and the instant soups from Waitrose, and dinner in the restaurant. Their Borshch is good, with plentiful lumps of chicken at the bottom. We watch videos at night. The moon shines in through the window. It’s great to have a shower, albeit cold, and a basin to wash ourselves and our clothes. The loos are OK, especially the one in the next carriage up (number 8) which flushes properly and therefore does not smell. Loo paper is provided. Our tablecloth in the cabin has been changed. The more you ask, the more you get. The staff are very attentive at stations, and wave us back onto the train in good time.
It’s the kind of journey which you settle into, and wish it would never end. A little moving world that occasionally stops and connects, briefly, to the real one which, for the rest of the time, only exists as a moving tableau outside the window. The railway paraphernalia are fun, such as the gas cylinders and pipes which are used to heat the points in winter so they don’t freeze up. The Bryn Thomas book is a very good guide to the world outside and within.
Poor Sue has constant back pain, and both that and the effects of the painkillers are having a bad effect on her. She has gone quiet and has lost appetite. Martin is concerned about her, and Carol and I are concerned about both of them. The beds are hard, and there are many jolts at night which will bother someone who is already in discomfort. We may try to buy an inflatable mattress in Beijing. Fingers crossed for Sue.
Tuesday 3 July 2007
Day 7 - setting off for Siberia!
We are about to leave our temporary executive-style apartment in Noviy Arbat and taken to Yaroslavski Station, to catch Train 4 which leaves at 21.30 today (Tuesday) evening. Due to arrive at Irkusk in Siberia early on Saturday, when we will travel for 6 hours in a car to Olkhon Island.
There won't be any more posts in this period, and it's not clear whether we will be able to put up any more stuff in Siberia. If we can't, then this blog will resume when we get to Ulan Bator in Mongolia on Wed 11 July, eight days from now. We will have had to endure Train 362 before that, with stops every 10 minutes in the middle of nowhere...
Do zvidania!
There won't be any more posts in this period, and it's not clear whether we will be able to put up any more stuff in Siberia. If we can't, then this blog will resume when we get to Ulan Bator in Mongolia on Wed 11 July, eight days from now. We will have had to endure Train 362 before that, with stops every 10 minutes in the middle of nowhere...
Do zvidania!
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