Day 134, Touchdown Day -1
We've bonded, we've grown, we've laughed and we've cried - and we've certainly come together in a way that only friends who hear news secondhand through an amateur website can; but today is the last travel day - 19 weeks to the day since Jules and I set out from Shiga-ken in Japan.
I'm holed up in Chris and Vika's flat here in Moscow, after a whirlwind journey around town, ready to fly out tomorrow morning on a Trans Aero IL-96, direct to London. With recent family events, as well as my motivation to stick it out on the train being eroded by the fact that I'm now only a few hours from my final destination, I have decided to fly, meaning my final overland distance tally will come in at approximately 16,469kms. I have gone further than I could ever have imagined, and the offers of 'cats on laps' and other assorted Xmas cheer is too hard to resist.
From there I will attempt to maintain some of the glory of my previous travels by writing about ordinary life in a less than ordinary way. Bear with me, as I'll be less interesting, but trying harder.
Moscow has been a blast, it's easily one of the best places I've ever been. I've seen one statue of Dostoevesky, two of Karl Marx, and at least 15 of Comrade Lenin. We've been assaulted by the ticket inspector on the bus, resulting in a fantastic showdown with Chris doing some great work for the team. I've eaten at an Uzbekistani restaurant with a Sausage Casing entrepreneur while watching belly dancers, seen dogs begging in the metro (no, that's not a typo) and sampled the delights of the Metro system. The Seven Sisters buildings are incredible, as is the Academy of Sciences building, as is all of the Kremlin and the famous St. Basil's Cathedral.
I've enjoyed Russian music videos (think pigtailed milkmaids, oily monarchs, and aaaaaaging stars with dangerously young girls), pel'meni, and classical architecture. I've been so well looked after by Chris and Vika that I'm thinking of leaving them some property in the south of France.
Above it all, I miss my trusty volleyball, Julie. She's just boarded the train from Mongolia (where she cracked her tooth eating a meatball) and will arrive here a few days after I leave. Why we decided to travel our separate ways for this part of the journey is beyond me, but I expect the countdown to our reunion will be a feature of future postings.
This time tomorrow I will be washed, unpacked, and parked up at Bec and Mike's in sunny Reading, London Towne - reflecting on the last four months and whether or not I managed to 'find myself'. I'll spare you wry witticisms in summation of my time travelling for The Christmas Special Issue, but know that every topic will be covered as Bec, Mike and I catch up on over two years of not seeing one another. For all the rest of you, take a number and join the queue on the M1 headed to their house...
More detail to follow on Russia in the special photo edition of the blog, and keep checking for the aforementioned Christmas Special.
Your man, looking forward to finally not having to carry toilet paper everywhere,
Arch :)
Snow Falling On Ladas
Greetings loyal readers, I come to you today wrapped up warm just next to the Kremlin. I’m pleased to let you all know that I’ve made it safe and sound, with just a few more spicy yarns under my belt, no more scars, and baggier pants than before.
I’ve just got in really, and am still spinning at my impressions of Moscow. Rakish Richard is all alone here, feeling like he’s a very long way from home. Moscow is, well, jeepers… I don’t know where to begin. Perhaps it’s just the fact that I’m in a space bigger than 3 square metres for the first time in a week, but I think Moscow’s just fab – more on that later.
I’m paying a dear price for the use of this computer, so I’m going to pull out the notebooks and recap on adventures since the day of departure…
I left you all a bundle of nerves in Beijing, packed up and ready to go. We’ll see how my inventory paid off shortly, but for now – it’s important that I confirm to you that on that list there was one item I didn’t take with me – and it wasn’t the grappling hook…
Anyway. Here we go...
SATURDAY 4th, BOARDING:
Packed up, and bundled into my big PLA jacket, I managed to run into Cam and Bo, an Australian couple Jules and I met on Rabbit Island in Cambodia. They’re good folk, and it was great to have someone to yak to as I got ready. Train #19, the direct express from Beijing to Moscow, is a mighty long beast – over 20 carriages. It’s a Russian train, with Russian staff, and the scene on the platform smacked of Harry Potter as the chubby guards tried to exert some order over the unruly (mostly) Chinese who were boarding at my end. The signage on the outside of the cars was of course in Cyrillic, my train name was ‘Vostok’, above a herald of two birds; Velcome to Mosva!
I was assigned to car #3, berth 19, while Bo and Cam were way down in car #17. The guards are fantastic, all wrapped up in matching blue hats and full length coats, but ill-chosen for a job involving so many narrow spaces. They look heartily fed, but low on vitamins…
On arriving in my cabin, the three other occupants (all Chinese, all women) exclaimed what I can only presume was (because it certainly wasn’t the usual catchcry of ‘foreigner’!), “it’s a guy!” This was followed up by the spoiler, “Moscva?”. You all know my mood over the preceding week, so you can imagine my joy at being able to relate that yes, we’d be sticking it out together for the full following week. They could barely contain their excitement.
Sheets and bedding were distributed, we made our beds up, and I hit the hay after an hour or so just making certain that we were actually leaving Hades.
End of Day - 400kms
SUNDAY 5th, DAY 1:
After a fairly good sleep, I promptly glued myself to the window to take in the first snow of the trip. My trusty compass, which Jules bought for me in Saigon, confirmed my northward route, and it was all pretty much barren, windswept countryside outdoors.
I've decided to name my cellmates The Three Bears; Papa, Mama, and Baby. They're travelling separately, but their association appears strengthened by my exclusion from it. Baby (in the bunk above me) seems to be rather, ahem, 'health conscious', carrying large bottles of pills and cutting cloves of garlic into everything. She washes everything down with powdered soymilk drink. It transpires that she speaks a little English, and we started with some cracking good 'internationalisation' ;
Baby: "In New Zealand, ahh, the sex is open?"
Me: "Um, no, not really..."
Baby : "You are very romantic! You love your country! Many people want to come to New Zealand, it is said the salary is very good in Europe,"
Me : "Can I help you book a ticket to Europe? I'd hate you to make a mistake..."
Mama is the quiet one, in the upper bunk opposite me, and spent two hours doing her make-up this morning. She's barely said a word yet, but I'm working on her.
Papa is the tough cookie in the bunch, and opposite me on the other lower bunk. She speaks Russian, and serves as the communicative conduit between Mama, Baby and the staff. She's a pretty rough contender, and I didn't call her Papa for nothing. She's got a short back and sides, wears white long johns to bed, and throws a black leather waistcoat and jeans over it all for the day. The Kiwis amongst my loyal readers should be picturing a kind of Chinese Topp Twin, but that would be a little tough on dear Linda and Jules, so just throw in a sprinkling of Jake the Mus, and run with it. For me, the best demonstration of her character can be shared by this little anecdote;
Sitting in the morning light, as I was reading my second book (my war book was finished first thing this morning, I'm now onto 'The Base'...) I heard a melodious parp, and could only assume it had come from Papa Bear. I glanced up from my pages and saw she had fixed her steely gaze apon me. As she held my stare, and without as much as blinking, she dropped another of her maladorous expulsions. Those of you who now me will be surprised to hear that on this occasion I was the bigger 'man', and refused to be drawn into an unpleasant artillery battle. I returned to my book, and held my fire...
I still haven't ventured too far around the train, but am pleased to see that the Samovar dispenses superheated boiling water, and looks the part with dozens of dials, gauges and tubes. There's also detailed diagrams of all the appliances on the train, posted conveniently next to them. There's something really nice about piping diagrams labelled in Cyrillic... The toilets are fortunately of the 'western' variety - one of the many benefits of a Russian train. Sadly, they appear to be used with all the finesse of their eastern cousins, and just aren't that fun to visit.
End of day - 1988kms
MONDAY 6th, DAY 2:
Me: "Good Morning! Did you sleep well?"
Baby: "No! The train is very bad, up and down, up and down,"
Me: "Hmm, that's too bad..."
Baby: "Yes, this is the worst train I ever see. Do you think it is the worst?"
Me: "No, I've seen some that are worse..."
Baby: "Chinese trains are the best, do you think Chinese trains are the best?"
Me : "Um, no, I think Japanese trains are the best in the world,"
Baby: "Hmmm, I feel dizzy. Quiet please."
And so began the second day... It was a far earlier than normal beginning however, as we had just arrived in Manzhouli to begin the arduous border crossing procedures at 3am. Chinese immigration came through the train fairly briskly, and we were then told to get off.
As I said, we'd long ago seen the first snow, and it was starting to get progressively colder at each of the smaller stops I'd gotten off at prior to this, but stepping off at Manzouli is without a word of a lie - the coldest weather I've ever been in, in all my years. I admit now that every other time I've said I've been cold has been wrong. The cold is biting, and I understand more now than ever why Jules complains about winter so much. It also commends her tolerance all the more, for putting up with my id(i)otic chirping of, "but winter's nice!!!"
A local told us it was -25° Celcius.
I'm warm under my jacket, but extremities are cold-burned as quickly as flesh is scorched by flame. Walking the length of the platform, my eyes water and my nose run furiously. This is strange enough, but after a minute or so I can feel it all start to freeze in my beard, resulting in a crazy 'crunch!' as I smile. Cold weather people are special people. Make up the sticker and I'll put it on my next car...
I caught up with Bo and Cam for the first time since starting (hey, they're 14 cars away!) inside the customs hall, and we shared a beer before boarding to leave again at 7am.
From here, we crossed the border checkpoint (another Mig on a stand, old train engines, and Cyrillic starting to come on really strong, dude...) which was a large gate with 'Russia' written in Cyrillic; 'РОССИЯ', and a - get this - Radiation Detector - on the other...
We shortly stopped again, and were boarded this time by Russian Immigration. Everyone's dressed in matching baltic camouflage gear, and it all looks a lot like that old N64 game, Goldeneye. Our guard, a young woman with green eyes you could lose your wallet in, stared intently at us and asked our names as she inspected our passports. Come my turn, transfixed by her gaze, she read "Villiyam Bruand?" (my middle names) and all I could do was bleat a meek 'da' in reply. I have talked before of Evil Woman Magic, but these Russian lasses possess it in spades. Be careful, men of the world, be careful...
We waited around on the Russian side of the border for hours, as the bogies (wheels) under the cars were changed - Russia uses a wider gauge than China, and I changed my first Roubles and waited.
At 2:30pm (that's right - 11 and a half hours...) we rolled out again, into Russia.
Although there's snow, and plenty of it by my usual standards, there's a lot less than I was expecting. That which there is looks like it'll blow away any minute - it's a perfect spot for a labour camp, and my first thoughts were, why on earth does anyone want to live here? Tokoroa's bad enough, but at least you're not going to freeze to death on the way to the outside toilet...
I ventured down to the dining car today, and took my first bowl of Solianka, an oily meat soup. After nothing but noodles, mandarins and peanuts - it's a Godsend and is going down well. I can see this car being a handy refuge from my cellmates, as well as a good supply of ammunition, should I be forced to fire back at Papa...
Cam and Bo came down to see me as I was tucked up in bed reading book number 3. We halfheartedly talked about a beer, but they were so cold after coming through 56 doors (14 cars, 4 doors per car, two at each end) that we settled on some tea instead, and promises of more tomorrow.
End of day - 2939kms
TUESDAY 7th, DAY 3:
We turned west (over the top of Mongolia) early this morning, and I'm now making my first decent progress towards Moscva. Sunrise was loooooooonnnnng, late and extraordinarily beautiful, the sun lumbering up over little wooden cottages and puffing chimneys. There's plenty of ice on the windows inside our cabin, but it's still pretty warm inside thanks to the radiators - which are heated by the same furnace as the Samovar. Each time we stop at a station, the guards hop out and return with buckets of coal to fuel the furnace in each car, it does nothing to help thrust my impression of this experience into at least, say, the 1960's. I have three nights behind me, and will be halfway there by lunchtime today.
The landscape is still pretty much unchanged from yesterday. The sky is huge, and dusty grass pokes through the even dustier snow. It is thrown up in huge clouds by the train, and mists around the windows. There's very little sign of people or animals, but Ladas really are everywhere. Now, I thought it was all a bit of a have, you know, Spitting Image and shows like that trying to colour our opinion of Russia, but really - there's thousands of them! It's quite common to see 4 or 5 in a row waiting at the crossings, and even more surprising still - they're all running! The Lada showrooms are lush and new, and anything that can work in this climate deserves your Rouble, so get to your local Lada dealership today.
I'm dangerously low on books now, with only Ivanhoe to sustain me for the next 4 days. Drawing or sketching is difficult with the scenery rushing by, and stops are too brief to do anything more than scribble a few lines. Besides that, if you take your hands out of your pockets, you lose 'em, pal...
I'm starting to see more and more factories, also puffing away into the sky. It makes for some spectacular sunsets, and the emergence and disappearance of the sun takes up almost 50% of the daylight hours here in Siberia. Shucks, it's really beautiful...
I have a note here about how much I'm liking Russians, noting that they are just as I imagined they would be. Seriously people, they're Hagrid-sized, mustached, and have deeeeeep voices. The guards seem about 20% bigger than normal people; about 5% in height, the remainder in girth.
I started to the dining car around the middle of the day, and met Bo and Cam there shortly after, as I was sitting listening to some music on the trusty iPod. There's something extremely perverse about hearing the multiharmonied sounds of 'Kokomo' when you're watching the Siberian wastelands roll past.
What began as a social couple of beers, ended up accidentally turning into the biggest drinking session of the entire trip. We were soon joined by Bo and Cam's cabinmates; two Russians called (and I'm not kidding here,) Nikita and Anastacia. Cognac shortly appeared, which is shot and followed by either a piece of chocolate or a slice of lemon. Watching my diet, I naturally chose the lemon. We eventually managed to get through three bottles of the stuff, which is pretty uncharacteristic for a lightweight like me, who usually keels over after a teaspoon of Niaquil, let alone hard spirits.
From what I can recollect, it was a great time, sadly cut short when all my companions had to get off at Irkutsk. I somehow made it the 13 cars back from the dining car to say farewell, snapped some strange photographs, and made it back to my cabin where I can neither confirm nor deny that I lost my dignity, but I guess I'll never really know. How I made to it my car, let alone my berth, is a wonder paralleled only by the fact that I didn't lose anything else on the way. I slept.
Deeply.
End of day - 4478kms
WEDNESDAY 8th, DAY 4:
I woke up in a dark, abandoned neglected neighbourhood of HELL. Racked by all those feelings that accompany a poorly remembered night, I debated getting up, and bought some time by drying my parched (oooo, parched... like someone gentled toweled out my mouth before blasting it with a hair dryer for half an hour) mouth with a couple of slices of mandarin, before arising.
There was little to say to the Three Bears, who were well aware of the root of my ill temper, but stayed well out of my way fortunately. Nothing I could eat all morning seemed keen to stick around (Bec and Mike, your suggestion to bring baby wipes will be well paid, I shall cross your palms with gold!), but by 3 o'clock I was able to nibble on a cookie and sip some tea.
Everything was painful, movement especially so, triggering deathly attacks of nausea. My teeth felt like jagged bones jutting from my jaw, and the train seemed to be pitching extra wildly...
As for the journey, the snow has started to thicken up now, great blankets of it rounding out all the edges on the countryside. There are birches growing along the whole length of the track, and they're now dripping with snow, as are the adjacent telephone wires, it's all pretty idyllic - or as idyllic as an unpopulated wasteland can be in winter.
I made it back to the dining car, head hung in shame, and ate a gratefully received meal. Such was my hunger that in a gargantuan break in precendent, I ate, raw, the evil 'red weed' that most of you know as tomato.
End of Day - 5961kms, and three years off my life.
THURSDAY 9th, DAY 5:
Today's the last full day on the train, and the best morning yet. My horrific hangover has subsided, so I'm feeling a lot better. The change in time zones is pretty confusing - there's a 5 hour difference between Beijing and Moscow, but no zones are announced, and all the clocks are on Moscow time! According to my watch, the sun rose at midday today. I'm starting to get pretty flaky, having already gone through 4 time zones over 5 days. Just going to be when it's dark and waking up when it's light doesn't really work either, as there's only about 7 hours of useful light per day. Good practice for sunny old England tho!
Outside are perfect fields, snow covered trees, and little villages - making up the most picturesque vistas I've ever seen. Everything seems the same as I imagine it would have been 50 years ago, even when we stop at stations, where little shops have faded labels in the windows, and service is through a little 20cm square window to keep out the cold. Even the people look like faded photographs of themselves; I propose a concerted airdrop of brocolli, as soon as Bob Geldof can be contacted to lend his support.
Bread and cheese for breakfast again, as my remaining roubles run low. Scurvy is a constant worry, so I chew discarded rinds as a precaution. It's now so cold outside that my hands freeze to the door handles between the cabins, and water poured between the cars freezes immediately on the floor. You don't even want to look at the outflows from the toilets, eeeewwww...
As if my hangover wasn't enough of a punishment, I'm now racked with - to draw an analogy with "The Scottish Play" - "that ailment that comes from too many prunes" - something they say is inevitable when you're travelling, but could really have chosen a better time to rear its ugly head. I'll shake this mantle of 'Fatty' by the time I get to the UK.
Dinner is pork schnitzel again, which comes out better garnished to me than when the large crowds of Chinese order it. I'm hoping the restorative powers of the vegetables outweigh the possible harm of them being unwashed...
End of day - 7564kms
FRIDAY 10th, DAY 6, ARRIVAL DAY:
The change to Moscow time meant waking particularly early, but I'm really just counting the hours now until I arrive. I've run out of books (should have tackled Anna Karenina!) and am now re-reading 'The Victors' over my bread and cheese breakfast. It's interesting to think that this is the sort of climate that Easy Company endured for an entire month exactly 60 years ago in their stockade of Bastogne, in the Battle of The Bulge - and they didn't have half the clothing I have, let alone a nice warm train.
I saw my first 'people fishing through holes in the ice' today. Not so much ice, but through the snow, which covers the ice, which covers the river. The snow obviously covers everything, which removes all hints of infrastructure like roads, paths, and even rivers. Looking out on a small town you just see a bunch of unrelated features; a service station here, a smokestack there, but all sitting in no apparent relationship to each other.
My suspicions that I'm getting preferential dining car treatment were confirmed at lunch today, when my pork schnitzel...
Me: "Can I have the stroganoff please?"
Dining Car Attendant: "Nyet, yit is finiszhed."
Me: "How about the chicken?"
Dining Car Attendant: "Nyet."
Me: "OK, I'll have the pork,"
Dining Car Attendant: "Da,"
Me: "again."
Dining Car Attendant: "Da."
...arrived fully garnished, while the 8 other dishes of same arrived at the Chinese tables nothing more than a piece of pork on rice. After my experiences in Beijing, the temptation to say, "Well, if you just a little more polite to people..." was desperately resisted, as I enjoyed a juicy piece of tomato more that I have in all my life. It took me three days to get a smile out of the dining car ladies, but I'm reaping the benefits now. They're my ladies, and we're solid...
Disembarking came with all the hubbub of boarding, but inverted now. Inside the train, instead of on the platform, there's just as many bags and people, but less room and ergo, less places to spit. Our bedding was collected, the guards did their level best to clean and vacuum, and everyone tucked into their last remaining bowls of instant food. The approach into Moscow was pretty cool; apartment blocks all lit with incandescent lamps (as opposed to the nasty bluish pulse of fluorescent lighting you see in Japan) each with an embroidered cover. I saw the first of Stalin's Seven Sisters on the way in, as well as the massive Ostankino Tower.
I was met and taken to my hotel (by another one of those disarming Russian women, sigh...) where I checked in and 'registered'. I'm required to be accounted for for every night of my stay in Russia, and have to carry my passport with me all the time, lest I be checkpointed by the many guards.
After settling in, I did exactly what you would expect anyone to do who has been on a train for a week; I used a clean toilet, ate a good meal, (I kid you not, all they had was - drum roll please - pork schnitzel) took a bath, and slept in a stationary bed - without much time to let the buzz of being in Moscva hit me.
End of day, end of trip - 9004kms
Yesterday and today I've had a quick look around the Kremlin (magnificent), caught the Metro (astounding, check out these two sites - 1, 2), surveyed Red Square (site of this famous incident) and wandered in the snow trying not to look suspicious; I've already had my passport checked once already today, by a Kalashnikov weilding teenager in uniform.
Moscow is the schiznit, I love it already. Russians are great, despite their vegetable deprivation induced gruffness, the buildings are incredible, and all the media has a highly refined and hip sense of style. I hope they get the 2012 Olympics, it'd be a blast.
So, that's it, Rakish Richard's account of the journey here, I hope it hasn't kept you from putting up the Xmas decorations. At worst, it's just a really long train journey, at best - and all I was hoping from it - it's unlike anything I've ever done before and it was worth it just to meet someone called Nikita.
But,
On a somewhat more crap note, my Grandfather passed away while I was on the train, so when I checked my email yesterday I found various reports of the news and subsequent service, over which I was incommunicado. We knew he was pretty sick, but he went more quickly than we expected - at least, before he received my last letter from Beijing, about which I'm feeling very sad and guilty. He was a wonderful grandfather and a pillar of his community. He did a huge amount for my family, and is the reason I sport such trendy male pattern baldness. I will miss him.
Y'all be nice to your grandparents this Christmas, y'hear?
Your man, who wouldn't be here were it not for Jack Brand,
Arch :(
Last Train to TransSiberia
Greetings readers, it's a nervy little ball of nerves here, 5 hours out from boarding the train. Please excuse the terrible subject line, it's for the benefit of the two remaining fans of KLF, and them alone.
I tearily farewelled my beloved Julie this morning, as she heads forMongolia. It's been exactly four months of travelling together, and our first ever opportunity to spend continuous time together after over a year of distance-enforced monthly visits. I miss you already snookums...
I am, therefore, alone in China.I feel as prepared as I can be, and my inventory (clothing aside)consists of the following;
1 x Swiss Army knife,
1 x packet of cookies,
1 x packet of peanuts,
1.5kg of mandarins,
1 x packet of green tea,
1 x autographed and well worn statue of Berin "Mr. Amazing" McKenzie,
20 x sachets of coffee,
1 x baby wipes,
2 x packets of chocolate,
2 x rolls of toilet paper,
1 x packet of dried mangos (to stop the scurvy setting in...)
1 x packet of grape candy,
1 x packet of cotton buds (my daily 'treat' for ear mining...)
1 x 20m rope and grappling hook,
and1 x bar of soap (lux, blue)
I also packed the following reading, chosen from the 11 English booksin Beijing;'
The Victors', Stephen E. Ambrose,
'Ivanoe', Sir Walter Scott,
'The Base: Al-Qaeda and the Changing Face of Global Terror', Jane Corbin,
'Being Amazing; A Dummies Guide' , Sir Berin McKenzie, OBE, DFC and Bar
'1215: The Year Of The Magna Carta', Danny Danziger & John Gillingham.
I elected against Anna Karenina as it's only a one way trip and I didn't think I could finish it.
It's been a day of sights; highlights being a young mother trying to simultaneously sell me pornography and placate her infant child, and the heartwarming scene of community building as I watched 4 policemen offer then light a cigarette for a young boy of about 11. Gave me warmfuzzies, let me tell you.
Scamming has continued on an almost hourly basis, but thank you to those who offered suggestions. Merit Award to Anonomouse, who suggested impersonating a chicken, as an alternative to my frustration. Who is that masked blogger?
So, loyal readers, by the time you read this I will be somewhere north of Beijing, approaching the Russian border near Manzhouli. Think ofme as I trundle across the frozen steppes of Siberia, and I'll dropyou all a line once I make it to Moscow, and the loving assistance ofChris and Vika.
Your man, feeling a little like he did the first night he went away to boarding school, Arch :)
Go On, Hock Up A Reeeaaalll Good One…
Well, I’m back again, once more posting through my media manager – Berin McAmazing. My frustration at the internet censorship here is at an all time high, but thankfully the good old Auntie Herald seems to slip through the radar, and I’m getting my news through it. If any of you urgently need to contact me, just make it onto the front page and I’ll probably read about it in the near future.
It seems that 2004 is down to that last, warm, flat sip that’s left at the bottom of the bottle near the end of the party. Welcome to December.
I can’t quite bring the cheer and charm that I normally would to today’s post; 9 days in Beijing is far too long, and it’s starting to take its toll on my morale. Still, I’m sure I can get to that later, there’s plenty of good stuff to natter about, so put on the kettle and fluff up your massage pillow – this could be a biggie.
Congratulatory shout outs to my cousin Libby, for getting engaged on a bridge in Prague last week. She’s nabbed herself an English boyfriend (who I trust wasn’t living under said bridge) and I look forward to meeting him when I arrive in England in just three short weeks.
Big ups to Tom and Kerryn as well, who in their Homy van, have covered 4,714km around sunny Nu Zillund. Keep up the miles, and keep playing ‘Drivin’ at every opportunity.
So, I can honestly say that it has been the best of times and indeed the worst of times. The sights in and around Beijing are really amazing, and worth the effort of going to see, but after 4 months in 6 other supposedly ‘underdeveloped’ countries, I feel like I’ve never been so wantonly ripped off and taken for a ride as we have here. As my erstwhile traveling companions, The Tinseltowners would put it; it’s two fingers, up way past the knuckles.
My blossoming ill feeling about the city (germinating in the fertile soils of bitter cold, a vast and difficult to navigate city, and less English than a first year Chugakko classroom) got a thick, grainy dose of fertilizer on Friday.
Feeling good after splashing out on my big, green People’s Liberation Army fleecy-lined jacket, we headed into town in the back of a little motorbike taxi, after negotiating a reasonable fare of 6 yuan for the good man’s troubles. On arrival, this figure miraculously jumped tenfold, and we were stuck in the classic ‘no-common-language’ standoff. Intemperate language was exchanged (fortunately, and for both our Karmic benefits, neither party really understood the other), collars were grabbed, and we ended up leaving him a fistful of yuan in his door and walking off – having fallen for apparently the oldest trick in the book.
Tip one – write down the price…
The new species of Illfeelingus moderatus now sported a healthy stem with several vigorous budding shoots reaching for the foul light that bathes Beijing, and this I carried throughout the day until dinner time – when we were royally lubed and fingered once again.
Deciding to try Mongolian hotpot (there are some of you back home who will know this as ‘Steamboat’, from the restaurant of the same name at the top of Queen St in Auckland), which I have to say is an excellent and warming dish to end a long winter’s day on the streets of a big city, we chose a little restaurant where we were warmly welcomed (that’s 5 w’s in a row people, beat that…) inside by the friendly owner. Fortunately they had an English menu, but with no visible prices, and the carnivorous traps on my Illfeelingus Moderatus snapping at its edges, we decided to ask the prices of the component parts (hotpot, with soup and fire underneath, plate of meat, plate of cabbage, plate of greens) and thought it was all looking good. To go with our meal, we of course agreed to a little bowl of rice (and I’m talking fist sized here, about enough to fuel your standard eight year old for about 17 minutes), and two palm sized dishes of satay sauce.
Warm and replete, with my withering plant at hand, we stood to collect the bill, at which time I found that the three items we didn’t ask the price for (satay sauce and one bowl of rice) were written up as coming to the price equivalent of the rest of the entire meal put together. This standoff was even more tense than the morning’s one, involving other customers (who we’re pretty sure were on our side) and near fisticuffs between Julie and the owner. The woman was a witch, enough said… We left pretty upset, as did the locals at the table behind us, by this stage sure that the Beijing water supply connects directly with the sewerage system of Hades. My great vine of ill feeling is now a major attraction, posing a threat to local air traffic, and living in a separate hotel room.
Tip two – expect to be treated like a giant public wallet…
Anyway, in the interests of maintaining chronological order – rather than burning off the growing rage that resurfaces when I find myself writing about these incidents – I’ll try to get on to something more positive…
Saturday took us up to Tiananmen Square, where according to the National Museum “students massacred innocent soldiers in a 1987 uprising”. It’s a big old square indeed, the focal point of Beijing in fact, and as major city planning elements go, it’s quite a doozy. It sits at the halfway point of a giant axis that runs unbroken for 6km and terminates in a temple park north of the Forbidden City (more on that later.) It’s bounded to the south by the Chairman’s mausoleum and at the north by the famous Tiananmen gate. Approximately in the middle of these two landmarks is the Monument to the People’s Heros, a 36m granite obelisk. All around are people flying kites and just generally milling about trying to escape the 14 million other people who are desperately trying to find some peace and quiet. It’s a pretty cool space really, good if you like your imposing Communist architecture. (See also Albert Speer, The Berlin Wall, and the 1936 Munich Olympics.)
After a good wander around there, along with the requisite piccies in front of that famous portrait of the Chairman (I can confirm they didn’t airbrush out his rather large chin mole) we entered the Forbidden City.
With the Simpsons-like byline of, “500 years ago it would have meant instant death, but today it will cost you only 40 yuan!” we plodded in through the crowds.
Now, this was a pretty impressive sight really, acres and acres of palace buildings, countless terraces, and massive porphyry courtyards. I think this is where Bertolucci’s ‘The Last Emperor’ is set, but don’t quote me on it… A lot of it is under reconstruction for the Olympics (as is most of Beijing – I have counted at least 50 buildings over 30 stories tall under construction, that’s a lot of food parcels…) but it still maintains its effect. The buildings are almost all raised on giant red plinths, at least as tall as the building itself. While none of the individual buildings are as beautiful or intricate as those I saw in Japan, the effect of these buildings in forming outdoor spaces is incredible. Each major building is linked to the next with long galleries (much like the encircling galleries at Angkor), and terraces drip down from the main buildings to break down the scale of the courtyard spaces. Scattered everywhere are giant bronze vats, designed to hold water in case of fire. Good luck…
That evening, and on the way back from the Forbidden City, we managed to catch the flag-lowering ceremony in Tiananmen Square just on sunset. There was a pretty large crowd assembled, but Jules and I managed to nudge our way to the front (pushing is a national pastime, exceeded in its popularity only by spitting, which is preceded with a great hocking noise before the participant deposits his/her phlegm wherever they happen to be. This includes on buses, trains, in carpeted restaurants, hotel lobbies, or on your shoes) and had a pretty good view.
As the ceremony got underway, the supreme palace guard marched out from the Tiananmen Gate – a collection of crack troops trained to march at precisely 108 steps per minute, of exactly 75cms. They all carried some of the most glimmeringly clean rifles (with fixed bayonets of course) I’ve ever seen, except for the leading three. The middle officer brandished a perty silver sword, while the two officers either side of him carried – fans of Alec Baldwin movies get ready – chromed folding stock AK47s. I’ve never seen much marching (the NZ infantry guy was sick on the day I went to see them), but it’s pretty impressive, almost cinematic. I was kind of waiting for someone to abseil in and create scripted chaos, so entranced was I with the marching that I didn’t actually notice the flag coming down. A cool thing to see, check it out if you come this way.
Let me now just say something about the transport system as it stands here in Beijing. There exists a subway system which runs basically around the main ring road that encircles a 5km radius out from Tiananmen. These stations are pretty easy to find, with the ticketing system easy enough to work out. However, (oooo, you just knew there was one of them coming didn’t you) in not one of these stations could we find a sign saying just which station it was; of course there was nothing on the outside of the station, and infuriatingly, even the subway maps inside the station didn’t include a ‘you are here’ marker. This led to more than a few annoying trips underground, to ask the attendant “Which station is this?” Of course, that’s a drastic simplification of the whole process, as it usually involved a lot of finger pointing (down, that is; “here!!!, here!”) and gesturing (shrugging mainly, “where??”) before trying to reconcile the answer with the completely unrelated Romanized spelling of the place name. The inner circle of hell deserves a specially warmed, name-engraved seat for the inventor of pinyin, a worthless system whose pronunciation bears absolutely no resemblance to the actual Chinese words it is supposed to represent.
Deep breath… and, ooooout…
Things better be better by the time hundreds of thousands of non-Chinese speakers pour into this city, or by hokey there’ll be trouble. You’re not too old for me to put over my knee and give you a damn good…
Sunday took us back to the square, for something I’ve been looking forward to for a really long time; my first preserved Communist leader. Now, my media agent has been kind enough to forward comments onto me from the blog, and there appears to be some consternation at the fact that I didn’t manage to visit Uncle Ho while in Vietnam. The reason for this are simple – he wasn’t there.
Now, lying around on display is pretty tough work for a dead guy, and just once in a while (say, September to December, if that happens to coincide with my blimmin’ traveling timetable!) our favourite goateed old guy has to make a trip to Russia, where he is ‘maintained’. This presumably entails some sort of checklist;
“Uncle Ho?” - check
“Still dead?” - check
Who knows, but apparently he takes a little looking after, and that’s where he was when I came to see him. Sadly that thwarted my plans to see the Big Three; Uncle Ho, Chairman Mao, and Comrade Lenin. I’m saddened, but have decided to keep going.
Anyway, this is Uncle Ho; different decade, different country, different distinguishing hairstyle. Let’s get back to the man in question.
The Chairman is kept on the south side of Tiananmen Square, in a purpose built (not to be confused with off-the-shelf) mausoleum. He’s only open certain hours, so be careful if you’re going to arrive when he’s ‘open’. We checked our bags (over the road to the east of the square, don’t tell them there’s a camera in there and you’ll only pay half) and joined the queues. Those of you who have queued for other preserved leaders could confirm here, but we really rocketed along in the line, moving at a brisk walking pace. About halfway before entering the actual building, there’s a little stall, where you can splash out 2 yuan on some plastic flowers to leave as a tribute (we passed). After scaling the stairs, you enter “The Splendid North Hall”, where a white statue (think of the huge seated Abe, but smaller, and not Abe, but Mao Zedong) sits surrounded by plants. This is where the faithful leave their plastic flowers, before filing around either side to line up for “The Magnificent Hall of Last Respects”, where Mao lies.
So, I don’t really know what to say, if you don’t want to hear anything about it and would rather see for yourself, then skip on a couple of paragraphs, but otherwise, here’s Rakish Richard’s rundown on the whole thing:
The beloved leader lies draped in the hammer and sickle flag, in a truncated rectangular pyramidal glass case. He’s quite a chubby little fella, with no visible legs, and when I first entered I found his head so brightly lit that I actually thought it might have a light inside it! Anyway, once I got almost side on to the great man, I commented to Jules that he looks kind of ‘anguished’, to which she replied, “Well, he did die…”. I thought this was a good point. He also looks more than a little waxy, and there’s some debate as to whether he might in fact be a copy. He’s my first one, so I’ll reserve comment until I’ve seen Mr. Lenin. So, he doesn’t look ‘happy’ per se, but neither does he look angry, in fact he kind of looks like he’s got some sauce dripped onto his pants, and it’s just starting to soak through but he doesn’t want to let his hosts know that anything has happened.
On the way out you run the gauntlet of souvenirs, which are plentiful, not to mention original. There are figurines, portraits, books of quotes, little tanks and artillery made of bullets, and other unimaginables.
Good fun. He’s Chairman Mao, admission’s free, and he’s in town for all of eternity.
After that we headed up to the China Art Museum, which had some amazing 20th Century art. Funnily a lot of it was anti-Japan, but I can’t quite work out why… Good pieces anyway, and I was feeling a little uncultured besides. By this stage we hadn’t been more than mildly conned in at least 56 hours, so I was pretty weary…
We rolled into bed on Sunday night, ready for Monday’s excursion – a trip to some wall north of town.
It was a long ride out of town, in peak hour traffic, and – as you do – we got talking with Ruby, a girl from the Philippines who was staying in the same hostel as us. She was showing us a wooden comb she’d bought, and I made the usual humbling, self deprecating comment about how I didn’t really need one. To this Ruby made the priceless reply that, “mmm, yes, my brother, he is the same. He was 24 when his hair failed…” Other people laughed.
After almost 4 hours in the bus, we arrived at Jinshanling to begin a 10km walk along the Great Wall of China.
It was great. (haw haw…)
10km flew by in no time at all, and the sections of wall we saw varied from fully restored to ancient and decrepit, with the whole range inbetween. It was pretty cold when we arrived, but once we got up on the wall itself and started walking we soon warmed up, and all was good. We were looking out over Beijing province to the south, and Inner Mongolia to the north, with nary another object in sight. Our only interruptions were the incessant touts, whose main tactic on the wall is to walk 5kms with you, chatting about the wall the whole way, before saying, “I walk home now, long way. Please you buy book before I go?” This is the cue for intense guilt and a subsequent sale. Determined not to be stiffed again, I screwed the lady for two packets of postcards at wholesale rates, and have to guiltily admit I felt better.
Tip three – find a better way of dealing with China than I did.
The worst consequence of all this is that I now trust no-one, and suspect that everybody is trying to rip me off. This is unfortunate, but the only way I can protect my precious yuan. If anyone (especially you Fred, you lived here – give me some tips to ease my anger!) can help, go ahead in the comments please.
In true form, our hike was designed such that to exit the section of wall we bought a ticket for, we had to enter the first hundred metres of the next one – resulting in needing to buy yet another admission ticket. Clever. Or just extortionist, I’m not sure which. After paying to cross a swingbridge, we then had to pay again to cross back over the same river, this time by flying fox, so it was kind of worth it. 20 seconds, one extremely steep ravine, and about 150 metres in distance, it was quite the ride before heading home.
The Great Wall is great, get on out there. One of the benefits of going in winter is that there are very few tourists to contend with. This does mean that in terms of touts there’s proverbially ‘more lions, less wildebeests’ but it can be overcome. Anything less than an entire day would seem far too little. You can stay out there overnight (at Simatai, where our hike finished up) but you’d have to pay for another admission ticket the next day.
Photos have been snapped (some will be printed, and there’s a lucky few of you who should check their postboxes in 10 days or so), sights have been seen, and now we’re waiting for the next journey. Apparently my Russian visa has been processed ok, and my passport is on it’s way back already. I’ll leave on Saturday night for Moscow, Julie will leave for Mongolia the same morning, and we’ll separate for the time she’s traveling through Mongolia, Tibet, Nepal and India …
Beijing’s been an experience, and I’m grateful I don’t live here. Staring is endemic, with the guards on the train looking at me with such distain you’d think I was mincing babies. At any given moment you can look behind you and guarantee that people’s eyes will be fixed on you, mouths open, huge glob of phlegm ready. It takes a really long time to get around, it’s expensive, and we seem to have been magnets for bad experiences. Short of getting shot by a band of gypsy children, anything that happens in Moscow will be a welcome relief.
Well, I’ve taken up too much of your time already, it must be time to get the spuds on. Keep up the hellos, and hopefully I can access my comments once I get to Russia.
Your man, getting just a little bit cynical about the world’s most populous nation,
Arch :)
