Smoke Me A Kipper...

Climb Any Mountain

2012-01-30T21:03:00.002Z

For a couple of reasons (which I shall go into later) I am staying in Taiwan until the 7th of February. Having done a loop of the island already I needed something to fill my time constructively, as I am not one to be able to sit on a beach for days on end. Luckily Taiwan has its mountains that I had mentioned previously, and this was the perfect opportunity to see them up close and personal. In Taiwan, however, going into the mountains is not simply a question of turning up at a trailhead and setting off at random. Perhaps it is a way of ensuring safety by knowing who is on the mountain should anything unfortunate happen, perhaps it is an environmentally-friendly way of limiting the human impact on a fragile ecosystem, or perhaps it is just the Taiwanese love of officialdom, but anyone heading to the higher mountains needs to get a permit. Sometimes two. The process is Byzantine, requires numerous forms to be filled out in triplicate, and, for the more popular trails (such as Yu Shan - Jade mountain), needs to be done several months in advance. Luckily through my host in Taipei I was able to find a group of people who were heading off on a 5-day hike and was able to join up with them.

View of the snowy peaks of Yu Shan (Jade Mountain), Taiwan's highest mountain.

The original plan was to hike part of the Nanggao Trail, a cross-island path blazed by the Japanese during their period of occupation to keep an eye on the aboriginal tribes of the interior. This being the holiday season though many people are having the same idea to go hiking and so we had to change our itinerary to fit in with available permit quotas. In the end we had to settle for a go at climbing Siouguluan Shan, Taiwan's third-highest mountain at a respectable 3860m. I wasn't too concerned as my main desire was to get out and wander the mountains for a few days and I was quite happy to let someone else organise and plan the travel details for once.

The crew somewhere in the lower reaches of the trail, where the jungle is still lush and the bamboos tall.

I had never done such a long hike before, previously only staying out for no more than three days at a time since carrying that much food, as well as my entire pack, just isn't viable. This time I was doubly lucky with my hosts Samantha and David, who not only allowed me to leave a host of unnecessary items at their flat in Taipei, but were also able to lend me a few pieces of gear, such as a camping stove and pot as well as more esoteric items like crampons and an ice axe. To be honest I wasn't expecting to use either of the last two, Taiwan is a subtropical island and my previous use of either had been for very different purposes, but the organiser had insisted and I wasn't going to argue. I bought my supplies for the trip - super noodles, porridge and a big bag of gorp - and packed my rucksack in anticipation. We left Taipei in the early hours under a leaden, drizzly sky. Not a good sign. The weather wasn't much better at the trailhead, although the rain had abated somewhat, but it was too late to turn back. Plus the weather forecast, if such things can be trusted, was predicting better things to come.

One of the nuerous landslides we had to negotiate on our way up the mountain. A mis-step could lead to a very long and terminally painful fall.

There were seven of us in the group: five Taiwanese med students (Adrian, Brian, Amy, Wei and Zhong-yi) as well as an American, Nate, who is teaching English in Taipei. The first day was pretty easy, making our way up to a cabin at 1700m and settling down for the night. The next day had us walking 16km and rising to another cabin at 2800m and at the same time afforded us a perfect demonstration of why typhoons can wreck so much damage in Taiwan. The mountains are relatively young, steep and friable and so very prone to landslides. On several occasions the path had been swept aside by landslides that we had to traverse with only a foot of loose scree separating us from drops of several hundreds of metres. And the river valleys below, though wider than most rivers in Europe, were host to only small streams, indicating that, under the right circumstances, they could easily become raging floods.

Getting up early does have its benefits, such as seeing the sun rise over a sea of clouds as we stop for a minute during our ascent of Siouguluan Shan to put on our crampons.

Whilst camping out in nature your circadian rhythm gets severely realigned. Whilst in "civilisation" I will often go to bed around midnight or later, but out in the wild, with no electricity to provide you with light, TV or internet there is precious little to do once the sun goes down, so that by 7pm I am already snuggled up in my sleeping bag. On the other hand I get up at 4am so that I can prepare breakfast, pack my bags and get going before it begins to get light. It wasn't early enough for Siouguluan Shan. There was plenty of snow around the peak from about 3000m onwards. Crisp, fresh and crunchy it gave plenty of purchase for walking on. But as soon as the sun rose over the sea of clouds beneath us, the snow began to melt, becoming slushier and more slippery, making ascending the steep slope so treacherous that we had to turn back. Not to be totally defeated by something as simple as a mountain Nate and I decided to scale the next one along which was slightly less covered in snow, steep and high. Our success rate duly improved as did our level of sunburn - I certainly hadn't thought I'd have to beware of snow-glare on a subtropical island.

Finally at the summit of something. Dashuiku Shan may not be the highest mountain, but at 3630m it still required a bit of effort to get up it in the snow. Tired and sunburnt it was time to head back.

Our mountains climbed we turned around and headed back the way we came, descending 2500m in 27km in a tiring 24 hours to get back to our waiting van, finally dump our rucksacks, have some quick eats from a 7-Eleven and a cool beer as we passed out on the back seats on the drive back to Taipei. My body still dully aches two days after my return, my lips are cracked and sore and my back is in need of the ministrations of a skilled masseuse, but I am happy at what I've seen and achieved and can't wait for my next tussle with a mountain, although hopefully without the snow this time (or at least with shoes that are waterproof).

Possibly my favourite photo of the trip to the mountains: Nate at the start of the Siouguluan ascent before it got ridiculous and we had to turn back.

Float Like A Butterfly And Sting Like A Typhoon

2012-01-22T01:31:00.028Z

Once I passed the the southern tip of Taiwan I was back in the western plain with its towns and cities that merge into each other. Kaohsiung is the island's second city and main port. If there was anywhere I was going to find a boat out of here it would be there. I wasn't feeling too hopeful though after contacting a shipping agent who specialises freighter travel who told me that due to the corruption and bribery that is endemic in the Philippines freighter companies refuse to take passengers: "in 18 years of Freighter Travel – we have NEVER been able to handle passengers to or from ports in the Philippines." The container port is vast and sprawling and impossible to get into, and there didn't seem to be a recognisable yacht harbour either (the concept of owning your own boat and sailing around, either to neighbouring countries or just within Taiwan, is not one that is much accepted in society and certainly not by the authorities). Instead I went to the customs office, and although the man I talked to was genuinely kind and wanted to help, it was not a situation that they are used to handling and could only give me the numbers of a couple of local yacht manufacturers in the off chance that they may be delivering vessels to the Philippines.

One of my favourite types of street food in Taiwan. The stall has all the ingredients set out in portions. You go around with a little basket and tongs (kindly modelled here by Adele), picking out whatever grabs your fancy (sausage, duck eggs, chicken ass, tofu, fish balls, chicken hearts, noodles, etc.) and then paying per item as they boil it up into a soup for you. Nice!

I had to accept a setback to my travelling dreams, but that's the way I suppose. I do have principles, but I'm not going to sit around forever to stick to them when there is a simple work-around, and so I've bought myself a plane ticket to Manila which only cost me a tenth of what I was willing to spend to go by boat. It's a mad world indeed. But it's also a shame that there is no boat connection between the two countries as there are many Filipinos who live and work in Taiwan (along with sizeable numbers of Indonesians, Thais and Vietnamese), but there is no competing with the convenience of air travel.

Whilst in Kaohsiung I met and spent some time with Adele, a mainland Chinese girl who was studying in Taiwan and was using her last days to visit the country before going back for Chinese New Year. For mainlanders (except for those from Beijing, Shanghai and Shenzhen) the only way to visit Taiwan is with an organised tour, and since she was from neither, this was her last chance to see the island independently. The experience of spending time in the "renegade province", and comparing reality to propaganda had a profound impact on her and it was fascinating to be able to talk to her about it (luckily her English was impeccable too) as it is rare to witness the collision of two conflicting world-views within a person and to be able to talk to them about it.

Equally compelling was talking about how she, and "Easterners" in general, view us "Westerners". Each of us is brought up within a social paradigm, where some things are considered obvious and taken for granted, whereas others are scorned or ridiculed, for little other reason than "that is the way things are and have always been". When you travel widely you learn to see past your social conditioning and accept things that may go against it, accepting practices that would instinctively shock less cosmopolitan compatriots, such as thinking nothing of eating grasshoppers and spiders, sharing a communal, mixed-sex, naked sauna, or even using your hand to wipe your backside after going for a number two. Nevertheless the conditioning is there at some level, and no matter how much you break down the walls, it still shapes the way you think and perceive the world. This blog is littered with little local quirks and foibles that I find eccentric, amusing or just plain weird. Yet there must also be things that I, and we Westerners in general, do that will seem equally eccentric, amusing or weird to people from other cultures. What are they? Talking to this student revealed another couple to me that I would like to share.

Another difference between "East" and "West": karaoke. In the West we generally go out to a pub or club with our friends, whereas here it's KTV (karaoke) joints that reign supreme for communal entertainment. This middle-aged guy was belting out songs and busting moves to his heart's content in a pavilion in a Kaohsiung park. Tom Jones he certainly was not!

One of the most innocuous, yet pervasive, is the difference between East Asians and Westerners in how we drink water. In the West we like it cold, preferably with ice, although when backed into a corner we may accept it at room temperature. For the Chinese this is unfathomable. They would never drink cold water (except on a really hot day) but instead prefer it hot, or at least tepid. Why there should be either preference is strange as each is as arbitrary as the other. Other idiosyncrasies that baffle Easterners is that we have to pay to go to the toilet, one of their pet peeves when they travel to Europe. And I have to agree. Here, and even in parts of China that are not that developed, there are numerous clean (OK, not super clean in the poorer parts of China, but that would be asking too much), free public toilets.

One of the few physical remains of the original Dutch colony in Tainan - the walls of Zeelandia fort are now overgrown with banyan trees.

But back to sightseeing. From Kaohsiung it was a short hop to Tainan, the island's oldest town and erstwhile capital. Oddly enough it wasn't the Chinese who founded it but the Dutch, who found Taiwan to be a handy base between their colonies in Malacca and Batavia and their trading posts in Japan. The Chinese only gained control of Taiwan when the pro-Ming general Koxinga realised he couldn't beat the new Qing dynasty and so turned his sights on the weaker Dutch forces that were controlling Taiwan. There are a few old remains here and there and the town has a more laid-back vibe to it than bustling Taipei. In fact the more relaxed attitude and greater appreciation of leisure time is probably the defining feature of Taiwan that sets it apart from its local peers: China, South Korea and Japan. Proof of this lies in the many expats I have met who are long-term migrants to Taiwan, and who without exception cite the mix of East Asian efficiency and the generally unhurried pace of life. I personally took advantage of it by joining my host and some other Tainan locals in joining their local ultimate frisbee practice. I used to play a lot whilst at university but had not really thrown a disc in over seven years, so I was glad to see it (more or less) coming back to me and managing to hold my own with them (afterwards I learnt that several are on the national team). Although communication wasn't straightforward sport is a universal leveller and I had a great time, vowing to myself to take it up again when I finally settle down again.

One of the migrating purple spotted crow butterflies of Maolin (little blighter refused to open up his/her wings so that I could take a picture of the beautiful, iridescent forewings, so you'll just have to imagine them).

Before heading back to Taipei for Chinese New Year I stopped in the southwestern foothills of the central mountains to investigate the purple crow butterflies that migrate from the north of the island in winter, much like the monarchs in North America to whom they are closely related. Their numbers do not rival their illustrious cousins, but it was joyous to walk along the paths in the early morning sun and see hundreds of fluttering lepidoptera drop out of the trees, seemingly materialising out of thin air. The area around Maolin is seeing a lot of construction work and it was only after I got picked up by a civil engineer who is building a bridge up the valley that I learnt that it was due to typhoon Morakot that struck the island over two years ago, but whose effects are still evident. Taiwan suffers a handful of typhoons every year, but Morakot was the most destructive in recorded history, killing over 600 and causing over $3 billion of damage. Roads and bridges are still being repaired and some houses could still be seen half-buried by the mudslides brought on by the heavy rains. Taiwan and southeast Asia may be tropical island paradises, but I'm glad that such extreme weather is all but non-existent.

The sword of Damocles hangs above Taiwan in the form of its annual typhoons that can devastate whole communities.

Site Update

2012-01-22T00:34:00.000Z

Just a quick note to let you know that I have now uploaded more photos to my albums, which are now complete up to (and including) China. The links are on the right on the website so feel free to browse and leave comments if you like.

Otherwise I have also updated my two travel maps (one with the route and the other with free-camping spots) and added a little anecdote into my east Taiwan post (Formosa) about miscommunication with my friendly trucker who gave me a lift.

Happy Chinese New Year, or as they say here in Taiwan: Xin Nian Kuai Le!

Being Choosy About The Choice To Choose

2012-01-16T09:47:00.024Z

As I mentioned in my previous post my time here in Taiwan has coincided with election season. In western Europe elections are not particularly visible to the casual visitor going about their daily sightseeing. The same cannot be said for Taiwan. Posters supporting this or that candidate, with the number to tick on the ballot paper prominently displayed, occupied every free bit of wall space and every lamp post, even in the meanest little village. Everywhere volunteers in blue waistcoats can be seen canvassing and handing out fliers whilst scooters and vans with loudspeakers diligently plough the streets declaiming to all who will listen the merits of their party over the other.

Election flags outside the KMT party offices in Taichung. The incumbent president, Ma Ying-jeou (on the left with a corny "fist-pump" gesture), was running for a second term.

And what are the merits? what are the issues? In a nutshell there are two parties: the KMT and the DPP. The former are the scions of CKS and consider themselves "Chinese" (more on that in a bit) and the latter are Taiwanese nationalists who advocate independence for the island. On the political spectrum, as far as I can gather, the DPP are mildly to the left, whilst the KMT lean more to the right. But that is merely incidental, as there is only one issue that is of any import and that dominates Taiwanese politics: the relationship with China.

This stems from history. The KMT ruled mainland China until they were kicked out by the Communists in 1949, although they still claimed to be the legitimate rulers of the mainland and even occupied China's seat at the United Nations until 1971 before it was booted out in favour of the Communists by the General Assembly. And even to this day the official name of Taiwan is actually the Republic of China, as opposed to the Peoples Republic of China.* Therefore both the Communists and KMT regard Taiwan and China as being part of the same country and lay claim to the other, which funnily enough, paved the way for the 1992 Consensus (that there is only One China, though it is not defined, so each side interprets it according to their own, very different, definitions) whereby the two sides have begun to talk to each other: Nevertheless to all intents and purposes Taiwan is an independent country no matter which way you look at it, except from the purely pedantic. But of course a declaration of independence would draw the immediate wrath of China upon it and precipitate ... well no one really knows, as the two sides are now very closely linked economically. So the current stalemate exists as an uneasy status quo where the two sides agree to disagree over politics, but hey, let's ignore that and make some money.

Strangely enough, under the constitution of the Republic of China Taiwan still claims sovereignty over a large chunk of land, that not only includes mainland China, but also Mongolia, significant chunks of Russia, India and Tajikistan as well as random bits of Pakistan, Myanmar, Afghanistan and Japan as shown by the map below.

Map showing the areas still officially claimed by Taiwan as the Republic of China (courtesy of Wikipedia). I'm sure the Mongolians especially would have something to say about that.

The China Issue dominates all political discourse and splits the country quite evenly. The northern, richer half of the country, where most of the recent Chinese immigrants reside, leans strongly towards the KMT, whereas the southern half swings towards the DPP. Younger people are also more likely to favour the separatist agenda and feel a greater Taiwanese identity. Currently the balance favours the KMT, who won the election with 52% of the vote, against the DPP's 46%, though it seems as if DPP allegiance is increasing. But at least both China and the USA breathed a sigh of relief when the KMT won as neither really wants to precipitate a showdown over independence as it would eventually lead to someone having to cede after the mountain of heady rhetoric that has already accumulated. Just the threat from China is a strong factor and swayed many who would otherwise be sympathetic to the DPP's policies to vote KMT instead. Nevertheless I feel it is more a question of when, rather than if, the Gordian Knot of natinonalism rises to the fore and will somehow have to be dealt with.

Whatever the policies, and who won on the day, it has simply been enjoyable to watch democracy in action, especially in a part of the world where there is precious little of it. People are passionate about the process and go about expressing their party affiliations with gusto: I witnessed a procession in Kaohsiung, Taiwan's second city, that closed down traffic on one of its main arteries and involved a riot of vehicles, balloons and sizeable quantities of fireworks whizzing over the heads of the marchers. It is also extremely good-natured as I neither saw nor heard of any clashes between the two sides, and even the polling day itself passed off in an orderly fashion and an impressively high turnout of around 75%. Everything was very smooth and efficient: polling lasted until 4pm, the counting until a little after 8pm by which the results were officially confirmed, people got to bed at a reasonable time, and the next day most of the posters had already been taken down and disposed of as Taiwan digested its new reality and went back to everyday life.

*I find it funny how there is an inverse correlation between the sound of a country's name and the level of autocracy exercised in it. During the Cold War, Communist East Germany was called the Democratic Republic of Germany, which confused the young me as I couldn't understand where the democracy featured, and similarly Poland during the Communist era was the People's Republic of Poland. Whereas the Scandinavian bastions of freedom, liberalism and democracy of Sweden, Denmark and Norway are all officially kingdoms, which harks of medieval absolutism. It is amusing then that North Korea, perhaps the most autocratic country in the world, feels that a simple "Democratic" or "People's" is not enough and has appended both to its name so that it is the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. I'm sure the irony isn't lost on its inhabitants.

Formosa

2012-01-12T07:00:00.003Z

Ask most people of what they associate with Taiwan and they will likely say the words "Made in". And it is true that Taiwan produces a lot of things, most notably hi-tech equipment, microchips and bicycles (more on that in a bit). As for the island's other notable points,apart from along-running political mésentente with China, you would be hard pressed to find any that are well known beyond its shores. Like its other East Asian peers, such as South Korea and Japan, it is densely populated, yet it also has large tracts of unspoilt, mountain areas. The island can be neatly divided into eastern and western halves, with most of the cities, industries and agriculture concentrated in the frenetic west. There is then a long mountain chain that runs the entire length of the island from north to south, reaching a peak of almost 4000m at Jade Mountain, whilst the east coast remains relatively sparsely populated and devoid of much economic activity apart from agriculture, fishing and tourism. It is here on the east coast (and in the central mountains) that nature lovers and outdoors enthusiasts can slake their thirst.

The entrance to the Taroko Gorge, Taiwan's most popular attraction. Unfortunately it's impossible to give you a picture of the narrowest, steepest parts of the gorge as my lens just doesn't have the wide angle necessary to catch the vastness at such close quarters.

When the Portuguese, as the first Europeans, arrived on the island, they were so taken by its natural beauty that they named it Ilha Formosa, or Beautiful Island. And any time spent on the east coast (when it's not overcast and/or drizzly, which unfortunately has been most of the time for me) will show you that the old Portuguese were not wrong. The lofty, emerald mountains, with candy-floss clouds for hair, fall steeply into the ocean that constantly batters its basalt feet. The mountains of the interior are a hiker's paradise, however the need to organise permits and the poor winter weather forced me to set my sights on less lofty goals. My initial destination in the east was the famous Taroko Gorge. This is Taiwan's premier natural sight and every visitor to the island passes through here. In places the marble walls of the gorge rise up over a kilometre and are only 20 or so metres across.Craning your neck back a full ninety degrees as you search for a sliver of sky between the towering masses of rocks (whilst keeping an eye out for potential rockfalls that occur with unnerving frequency) you really feel small. There are few places like it in the world.

The unstable geology of Taiwan coupled with often torrential downpours make this sign one that really shouldn't be ignored out of hand (like I would most such signs). The fact that it was one of the few that was left, more or less, intact added to the sagacity of paying heed (at least just this once).

Moving further south along the coast I have not had so much luck with the weather with constant winds and ranks of clouds stretching all the way out into the grey, boundless Pacific. It is a scene that any consumptive author of Gothic novels would feel totally at home in. Despite the less-than-ideal conditions there were plenty of local cyclists braving the coastal highway and its notorious headwind. cycling is, surprisingly, a big thing in Taiwan and there is a large community of lycra-clad enthusiasts who routinely circumnavigate their island. It shouldn't therefore surprise that the world's largest bicycle manufacturer, Giant, is actually Taiwanese. But whether the cyclists or the cycles came first to this island is a question I do not know the answer to. Although there is a definite two-wheeler obsession in Taiwan, as the most popular mode of transport on the island is undoubtedly the scooter, which is used by all, from the young college students to old grans off to do their weekly shopping, even the police are on scooters.

Taiwan's east coast gets the full force of the Pacific's wind and waves, which can be both majestic and a little bit scary at the same time.

The east coast, with its small towns, few roads (basically just the one) and infrequent buses makes it prime hitchhiking country. And despite the fact that hitching is not at all part of the Taiwanese culture it was, without a doubt, the easiest place that I have hitched so far. Rarely did I need to wait longer than ten minutes before a friendly local would come by and pick me up, often turning round after having initially passed me by (a new experience for me). I have even experienced my first ever lift without even (remotely) asking for one after a family saw me hauling my tired ass off a mountain trail in Taroko and offered to drive me back to town. It has been a great way to meet a diverse cross-section of society, all of whom seem to be eager to feed me. Among the highlights were a couple of guys in a pick-up covered in political banners and blaring slogans from rooftop loudspeakers who insisted I try their local herbal brew, whose list of ingredients would have covered several pages if it hadn't been written in 4-point font and tasted of dentists' mouthwash; as well as a ride from a truck driver who would relay every morsel of information I gave him via CB to his curious trucker friends. Not that communication went very far as he spoke no English whatsoever so that we had to rely on my paltry Chinese. Luckily the questions that people ask are generally he same so I could guess most of what he was saying and reply accordingly. I was quite pleased with my meagre abilities until he asked me whether I was alone in Taiwan and I said no, I have a friend in Taipei. He then wondered whether I had had sex with my friend yet (feeding off a previous comment I had made that Taiwanese girls are pretty). I had difficulty explaining to him that Steven was a guy (plus he's married) when I realised that I didn't know how to say man or woman in Chinese, which is strange as they were among the first characters I had learned (very important when you want to ensure that you choose the correct toilet). In the end I managed to get the message across by imitating some breasts and saying "bu" (no).

My friendly rides, who plied me a vile local drink, were campaigning for an aboriginal party in the upcoming elections.

The Chinese really only came to Taiwan a few hundred years ago, even later than the Europeans, and when they did they found that there were already people living there. These aboriginals, who are closely related to the Malay and Filipino people, were gradually displaced by the incoming Han Chinese, until they ended up confined to the mountains and eastern coast, where they remain to this day. Despite the marginalisation, they survived, and are experiencing something of a renaissance as many Taiwanese people strive to forge an identity for themselves, separate from China. Not that their lot approaches anything like the levels of their Han co-islanders, but at least their voices are being heard, and not just the ones performing ethnic song and dance routines for coachloads of tourists. The aboriginal customs may have been squeezed by overwhelming numbers of Chinese and Christian missionaries over the past 60 years, but they have pushed back with their drug of choice, the betel nut,which is now very popular amongst the whole population in the south and east, as evidenced by the tell-tale red spit marks that can be found everywhere on the ground, sign of an unhealthy nut-chewing habit.

Ami woman playing a traditional, double-bodied bamboo flute where you don't blow with you mouth, but with your nose.

It may be home to less than 5% of the population and be completely unheard of outside the confines of the island itself, but until you explore Taiwan's east coast you will never get a feel for the diversity and beauty that lurks in such a small island.

Auld Acquaintance

2012-01-02T07:16:00.015Z

A big reason that motivated me to come to Taiwan (because let's be honest, who goes to Taiwan?) was to see my friend Steve. We had met six years ago when I was travelling in western China and have stayed in touch ever since. One of the advantages, and also disadvantages, of a travelling life is that you end up having friends all over the world, however you rarely get to see them. Luckily with the wonders of the internet it is possible to easily keep in touch. But if I am at all close then I will certainly make the effort to meet up.

My view for New Year's Eve. Impeccable view of the fireworks from Taipei 101.

Taipei's main claim to fame is the Taipei101 skyscraper, which, at just over 500m, was the tallest building in the world for six years until it was superseded by the Burj Khalifa. (Funnily enough when I went to Kuala Lumpur back in 2005 I visited the Petronas Towers which had themselves just been dethroned by Taipei 101 as the tallest building in the world - it seems that I'm continually going after number 2 when it comes to tall buildings. As a further aside Taipei 101 is no longer going to be very special as there are currently nine buildings under construction, of which five in China, that will surpass it.) Thanks to Steve and some of his friends who happen to live close by, I got to see it in its best light as the epicentre of Taipei's New Year fireworks display.

Instead Taipei was, for me, as much a culinary voyage as anything else. With a local guide I was able to find, understand, and try a whole host of comestible concoctions that I would otherwise have unwittingly passed by. Every Taiwanese will insist you try stinky tofu. And although it is widely available on mainland China, here in Taiwan they like to claim it as their own. It certainly lives up to its name and even if you don't know what it looks like you will always be easily able to find the stalls selling it in any market. I can't say I was won over by the taste (much less the smell) although it is nowhere near as bad as you might expect. Nevertheless I preferred some of the more esoteric fare on offer. Admittedly shark is rather tasteless and needs a decent dipping sauce, but the oyster omelette, pork brain soup, hundred-year eggs and slightly alcoholic soup with sweet, sesame dumplings were all supremely scrumptious.

One of the odder delicacies on offer in Taipei: pork brain soup (even many Taiwanese I have spoken to have not tried it). Actually it is pretty good, with a subtle, creamy taste.

My eating done, I thought it better to expiate my sensory sins and head to Longshan temple, the city's main place of worship (luckily eastern religions don't really go in for sin and self-mortification). The difference between mainland China and Taiwan was most palpable here. The temple seems more alive, vibrant and welcoming and there was far more hustle and bustle than in any temple I had been to on the mainland, where they feel more like museum pieces or attractions. Here people were thronging the courtyards, waving incense sticks around, offering food oblations and burning sacrificial money. Just a great place to sit for a few hours and people-watch and perhaps take a few photographs without feeling self-conscious or intrusive.

I enjoy just sitting in a temple and watching all the people come and do their thing. Young and old, men and women, rich and poor; all come, either briefly to light a few joss sticks, quickly bow and be off again, or stay for a more lengthy bite of spirituality.

Getting To Taiwan The Slow Way

2011-12-28T15:52:00.032Z

My dream is to be able to complete my trip, travelling round the world, without needing to resort to flying. It will be difficult to accomplish, and almost certainly be more expensive and take longer than if flying, but I feel that airplanes have somehow trivialised distances so that we no longer really appreciate how far away places are. And when travelling by plane from point A to point B you do not see what is between them, how the land changes, how cultures, traditions and people connect the two. Furthermore flying is also the most polluting form of transport (per kilometre travelled) out there. (And in one of the world's ironies/hypocrisies, it is also the form of transport that is taxed the least, thereby benefitting the most affluent as well as the most profligate polluters.) The dream may not work out, but I will certainly try.

The fearsome Taiwanese army, ready to fight off any invasion from Commie China ... OK, maybe not. But they did help me cut my way through the bureaucracy of buying a SIM card in a 7-Eleven on Matsu.

From China, luckily, there is a boat connection to Taiwan. Although it is important to be specific. The boat connects mainland China to either of two island groups controlled by Taiwan which are only a few miles off the coast of China: Kinmen in the south, and Matsu in the north. I settled for the northern route. For an international ferry connection the boat was laughably small, only able to hold about 30 passengers. But I wasn't complaining. After a couple of hours we arrived in Matsu and I went about booking my ticket out of there. The lady at the ferry desk wasn't there and I was told to come back after lunch, although the schedule board above the desk, showing sailings every day, did reassure me. The lady, when she got back, however, did not. Apparently the seas were too rough for tomorrow's sailing and I should come back tomorrow at 11am to find out if the next day's boat would be leaving or not. I was not impressed. But then again neither was she as I failed to explain in my broken Chinese why I wasn't flying with one of the six daily flights like most normal people.

Seeing as I now had a significant amount of time on my hands I decided to explore Nangan, the island I was on, and the main one of the Matsu group. Tourist attractions are a bit thin on the ground in Matsu (one of the main ones being giant calligraphy from Chiang Kai Shek (CKS to those in the know) exhorting the soldiers to be vigilant) so I just had a wander. One of the first things any visitor to Matsu will notice is the number of soldiers. They're everywhere. This is the cutting edge of the frozen dispute between China and Taiwan, and as such these frontier islands are heavily militarised, although the tension is nowhere near as high as they once were as I was to find out. The local internet cafe was full of young Taiwanese from the main island, all in camouflage uniform, serving out their obligatory 11-month military service by kicking the crap out of bad guys online in various computer games. I popped into a local convenience store and went in in search of a SIM card (an essential tool when travelling). I wasn't getting very far in expressing what I was after (even after I had pulled the current SIM card out of my phone and waved it at the clerk), but luckily the boys in uniform came to my rescue. There were a couple in the shop, picking up coffee and snacks, who spoke fantastic English, and helped me navigate the myriad bureaucratic steps required to procure a Taiwanese SIM card (far more complex and rigorous than getting past immigration a few hours previously).

My military friends, seeing as they were not overworked, offered to give me a little tour of the vicinity, which included a surprisingly good local museum and the aforementioned CKS memorial. When they asked me where I would be staying I said that I would probably pitch my tent somewhere (I purchased myself a shiny new one in Guangzhou, which only weighs 1.5kg, which is very good for a tent that only cost me some £30). They were horrified, and worried for my health and safety, so they stopped at the local church and asked the lady there if she could help me out. And I am most thankful that they did, because the kind lady and her family (husband and 4 sweet, little kids) took me in and gave me a bed with a roof in their storeroom when I would otherwise have been stuck outside in the cold, windswept island (I was later to find out that Matsu is renowned in Taiwan for being the coldest and windiest place in the country).

Grey day in Matsu - where does the sea end and the sky begin?

Despite the language barrier they helped me out in so many ways, finding out whether the ferry would leave the next day (which it would, so I only spent an extra one day on the island), taking me out for dinner, showing me the island's famous rice wine distillery (obviously there's not much to do on the island and it can get quite cold, so strong alcohol is an obvious by-product - much like Scotland), and the open hospitality of the islanders. It is such a small, tight-knit community that no-one locks their front doors and car keys are often left in the ignition (not that you'd be able to get far if you did decide to steal a car as the island has an area of only 10 square kilometres) - a world away from the hectic cities of China I had just left behind.

Abandoned trenches and bunkers litter Matsu's countryside - built by the retreating Chinese nationalists in the 50's fearing a Communist invasion.

On my free day I just had a stroll along the island, exploring its small fisher communities that now survive more out of servicing the large military community, and traipsing its rugged coastline. The prime draw (or at least it's on all the brochures) is a giant statue of the sea goddess Mazu, built according to the Field of Dreams philosophy of "build it and they shall come", though probably far more aspirational. I even managed to get (a little) lost in a small forest and, literally, fell into some disused trenches that criss-cross the entire island, remnants of the time when a Communist invasion was an imminent likelihood. Now they are being reclaimed by the islands' voracious nature. A calming day before the 9 hour ferry journey to Keelung, Taipei's main port. After a few hours at sea lying on my bunk I decided to head outside to investigate the monster waves that were causing all the pitching and rolling of the 80+m ferry. Once on deck there was little more than a ripple on the ocean. I slunk back down to my comfy spot, hoping never to experience a storm whilst sailing the Pacific.

Big Trouble In Little China

2011-12-24T18:05:00.001Z

Over the course of this and previous trips I have spent about four and a half months in China. A long time perhaps for a single country, but not that long when you consider its size, history, and the fact that it is home to one sixth of the world's population. In my time there I have mastered the use of chopsticks (well, perhaps not mastered, but I certainly won't go hungry), picked up a smattering of Mandarin, speaking as well as reading, developed a liking for red bean ice-cream (and red beans in general) and learnt a good deal about it. I now feel pretty comfortable travelling in China, which has a surprisingly comprehensive rail and bus network, finding accommodation, buying food and generally being a tourist. I can even ask some basic questions, although I will rarely understand the replies unless they are accompanied by hand gestures. I have come to really enjoy the (street) food and find it hard to let a day go by without satisfying my hunger for baozi. All in all my impression of China is very positive, yet there are some things that grate on me and (I feel) are intricately linked together.

In China's breakneck growth many have seen their quality of life vastly improve, but there are also many that have been left behind.

Talk to any expat living in China and there will be a shortlist of a half-dozen or so tics and mannerisms of the Chinese that will make them see red to varying degrees. Although at first seemingly disparate I believe that they all have the same basic roots which perhaps go a little to explaining China today. So what is it that the Chinese do that grates so much? They spit. Everywhere. Not a minute will go by in a busy city when you will not hear a loud expectoration. It is so conspicuous that it was the first thing I wrote about when I arrived in the country over six years ago. Things are just as bad now as they were back then. Alongside the spitting are the gratuitous and wilful dropping of litter and widespread smoking everywhere, even where there are obvious no smoking signs. They are loud - shouting at each other from across the room even when it would be so easy to move closer. They drive recklessly, endangering not only themselves but other road users and pedestrians and any rules of the road are blithely ignored. And then there is the constant pushing and shoving to get ahead, in queues, on the road, in shops. For someone of a nervous disposition, or who values their peace and quiet, then China is not the place for them.

Throughout China in its myriad national parks and historic tourist sites there are innumerable signs exhorting people to behave properly and with decorum. I can't say it's having much effect.

I may have just listed a half-dozen different things, but in fact they are all facets of a single, underlying malaise that permeates Chinese society: people don't care about others. This is not to say that the Chinese are a hateful, uncaring, miserly and deceitful bunch; they are not. I can rattle off a long list of times when I've been helped out by friendly locals who have gone out of their way to help me, been given back the correct money when I have overpaid, or been boisterously welcomed into a family gathering. No, the Chinese lack of care is more abstract, and in some ways the exact opposite of the western European approach to others. We care a lot for society in general: we obey the law, give way in traffic, queue up in an orderly fashion, put our litter in a bin, sort recycling, and so on. And yet we may be completely unsympathetic to our next door neighbours, the beggar on the street or even our own families. The Chinese, when you are face to face with them are generally lovely people, but they have no time, or patience, for people in general. In the great societal rat-race it is every man for himself as they try and get ahead and make their fortune before somebody steps on them on their own way to the top.

The Chinese government is doing its best to try and alter peoples' behaviour with innumerable advertising campaigns, signs, stickers, notices and educational pamphlets to help redress its population's errant ways. My favourite was a sign in Wulingyuan national park that had a long list of behaviour that was deemed undesirable such as: not spitting, dropping litter, smoking, yelling or shouting, picking flowers, throwing stones at (wild) animals, scrawling graffiti, damaging public property, wasting water, taking pictures of foreigners without their consent, sneezing in peoples' faces (these two I found particularly amusing), etc, etc. But what made this sign priceless was that it was addressed specifically to Chinese tourists. It is part of strange superiority-inferiority complex that is unique to China. It feels superior in its growing world economic and political clout as well as its rich cultural and historical legacy, and yet at the same time it feels inferior. afraid that foreigners will laugh at the uncouth and uncivilised behaviour of its citizens.

List of park etiquette rules for Chinese tourists in Wulingyuan national park. It's a long list!

Despite the valiant efforts of the government attitudes and behaviour are not changing. It's impossible to say exactly why this is but I have a theory (and I ran it past several Chinese who said it sounded reasonable). I think the biggest hindrance is the government itself. The arbitrary nature of laws and their enforcement, the rise of of a rich class that can get away with anything and, perhaps most importantly, the unaccountability of the system. People have little or no say in the way their country, or their towns, or villages, are run and therefore feel a disconnect. "Why should I make an effort when it doesn't benefit me and corrupt kleptocrats get away with blue murder?" Further compounding matters are the societal upheavals of the past 40 years or so. Not only the Cultural Revolution, which uprooted people from their traditional beliefs and codes, but also the mad rush towards Capitalism that lurched the country in completely the opposite direction. As a whole society's age-old moral compass has been replaced by consumerism and a mad scramble for the top.

The first time I was in China there seemed to be a genuine contentment and appreciation for what the Party had achieved, but this time around there were a number who confided in me that they were not happy by the lack of freedoms. But these are the minority, who know what it's like on the outside, know that their access to information is being manipulated, and know how to get around it. General awareness of world current affairs is patchy at best; popular websites where content is user-generated are blocked (blogs, Twitter, Youtube, Facebook and other social networks). Only state-controlled, intra-China, social sites are permitted. And at internet cafes a Chinese ID is required to access the internet (I got turned away at many, but there are some that keep a stash of ID cards - usually from parents and grandparents - that allow foreigners to actually get online). Big Brother is well and truly watching.

Changing the wealth, economics, infrastructure and development of a country is pretty straightforward. Changing societal habits and political systems? now that takes some doing. I'm curious to see how things evolve in China. Whatever happens it will affect us all.

Hidden Stories Of Fujian

2011-12-23T20:30:00.001Z

One of the things I love doing when travelling is finding little-known, obscure vestiges of history. Places that hark to a past that is not talked about, forgotten or, better yet, actively suppressed. I'm not really sure why, perhaps out of a desire to witness a truth that is being denied and thereby keeping it alive, or perhaps to satisfy my own curiosity about disputed pasts and to make up my own mind. Whatever the reason I am drawn to the forgotten stories, even though there is often little there to actually see. Some examples include the multitude of Armenian remains scattered throughout Turkey, many of which were actively destroyed, damaged or converted by successive regimes to deny, or at least reduce, a historical Armenian presence; or Palestinian towns within Israel that have been removed for the same reasons; Jewish remains within the Middle East or the Pale of Settlement where there had been communities for centuries but no longer today; or Communist-era follies in eastern Europe.

The Great Helmsman has a lot to answer for. The omnipresent cult of personality is gone, as is his Little Red Book (which is surprisingly difficult to come by in China, although, oddly enough, pretty easy in Hong Kong), though a number of statues still remain. This one in Fuzhou is one of the most conspicuous.

On my short jaunt up the coast from Hong Kong to Fuzhou, my last stop in China, I found a few such places that took me off the beaten tourist path and satisfied my curiosity for the purposefully neglected. The first was just outside a town called Shantou in eastern Guangdong. In a small, landscaped park, one of countless such parks dotted throughout China's towns and cities, is a small, pagoda-shaped building overlooking the park's man-made lake where rowing boats lie idle waiting for weekending locals. Inside the pagoda is China's only museum dedicated to the Cultural Revolution. The Cultural Revolution, which lasted from 1966 to 1976, was perhaps the darkest period in China's modern history. Mao decided that the country was becoming too bourgeois and decided to purge the capitalist elements from society. The purges were vicious and internecine, involving groups of young, fanatical students known as the Red Guard who were notorious for their intransigence and zeal. In the end almost anything of cultural value was targetted: temples, shrines, palaces, old houses, statues as well as more intangible resources such as bookshops, the intelligentsia, theatres and the like. The purge was so effective that it created a real break between China's present and its past so that many Chinese traditions are now extinct on the Mainland and only exist in Chinese expat communities (see previous post).

Picture from the Cultural Revolution museum. Everything was in Chinese so I'm not exactly sure what it depicts, but I'm guessing Red Guards punishing bourgeois counter-revolutionary intelectuals. (If anyone can read Chinese I would be very grateful for a translation of the signs.)

Instead Mainland society today experiences a sort of limbo: their cultural heritage has been uprooted plus the country has undergone tectonic socio-economic changes over the past three decades. This dislocation has set society adrift without a collective moral compass. It's not that people are bad, it's just that civil interaction has become fractured. But this is the subject for an entire post, one which I hope to write soon. So on to my other hidden treasures.

Not really a hidden treasure, but the tulou roundhouses of Fujian are beautiful and I just had to put in a picture of one.

Further up the coast, between Xiamen and Fuzhou, is the easily-overlooked town of Jinjiang which is home to the world's only extant Manichaean temple (although now it has been converted to a Buddhist one). The Manichaean religion has been largely relegated to the dustbin of history, but this contemporary to Christianity was at one time one of the world's great religions and a direct competitor to Christianity, Islam and Buddhism. At its peak Manichaeism had followers stretching all the way from the British Isles to China. Of course the other religions didn't like this and Manichaeans were quickly persecuted out of existence in the West but managed to survive for longer in the East, where the last community disappeared some 500 years ago. And so when you enter the small temple, barely larger than a shed, sitting flush against the rock face of a hill overlooking town, you are greeted with the standard accoutrements of any other Buddhist temple (candles, incense, statuettes) with the standard carving of Buddha on the rear wall. But as you look closer the carved figure, although seated with crossed legs, is unlike any other Buddha you will find in China: the facial features are different and he has a halo of sunbeams.

The last carving of the prophet Mani preserved in situ in its original temple in Jinjiang. I would have loved to have been able to communicate with the old ladies thre and ask them whether they knew its significance, or whether any of the Manichaean thoughts survive in their religious practices and superstitions.

Jinjiang is almost a suburb of the port of Quanzhou. The city is the centre of sports shoe manufacture in China, producing fully 80% of the country's - and 20% of the world's - sports shoes. Despite the holes in my own shoes they still have a number of months left in them and so I wasn't town to pick up any footwear. Instead I was there to see if anything was left over from Zaytun, once the largest port in Yuan-era China (and perhaps the world). When Marco Polo passed through he said that it was "impossible to convey an idea of the concourse of merchants and the accumulation of goods, in this which is held to be one of the largest and most commodious ports in the world". Now, as we have experienced so often here in China, that past is almost nonexistent in the modern town, apart from a couple of temples, an old mosque built by Persian merchants almost a millennium ago and a Muslim cemetery on the outskirts of town.

All that is left of the 1000 year-old Arabic-Persian community mosque in Quanzhou (aka Zaytun). It doesn't look like much but it is blatantly not Chinese, which in itself is fascinating.

These spots may not have the awe or dazzle of the Great Wall or the Terracotta Warriors, but they help complete the story of China that I have, in my own little way, been piecing together for myself so that I can, hopefully, understand this vast country a little better.

The War For Drugs (And Tea)

2011-12-18T21:39:00.070Z

Today's post is a little different from my usual ones. It's not about my travels as such (and there are no photos), but instead is about a piece of history that I have learnt whilst travelling that I didn't know and thought it important to share.

Although the most important factor making Hong Kong such a stress-free destination is the fact that most people speak English to some degree, and many often well, thanks to Hong Kong's past as a British colony. Many people like to pin all the world's ills on colonialism and its legacy, whereas I believe that is too easy a cop-out. Colonialism was often racist, mercenary and exploitative, but it also helped less developed societies to leap forward. Hong Kong would probably be the poster child for positive colonialism: a rich, dynamic and open society that is now ploughing its own furrow. Of course, what is often forgotten, is just how Britain came to possess Hong Kong and how China opened itself up to the outside world. That little episode in history is known as the Opium Wars, and is one of the darkest passages in Britain's history, and one that gets very little air-time.

When the European powers "rediscovered" China with their trading ships in the 16th century they found a country full of wondrous treasures that they dearly coveted: porcelain, silk and above all, tea. They, however, had nothing that the sophisticated Chinese needed or wanted, except silver. Luckily they had just conquered the Americas with its rich silver mines, but even so, the balance of trade for well over a century was stacked well in the Chinese favour as Europe (and Britain in particular) paid heavily to service their craving for tea. Around the time that Britain was losing its American colonies it gained a foothold in India through Bengal and in so doing acquired a new commodity: opium. Where it had failed to find a Chinese market for its guns and manufactured products, Britain succeeded with drugs. Soon thousands upon thousands of cases of opium were being smuggled into China with the tacit backing of the British government and the trade balance shifted in Britain's favour as it got huge swathes of the Chinese population hooked and craving more. Soon productivity fell, fields were left untended, people resorted to to crime to service their addictions and the whole fabric of society was being ripped apart. The Chinese tried to stop the plague, firstly by appealing to our sense of morality and justice, which fell on deaf ears as the West invented ridiculous justifications for the righteousness of drug dealing (please find below some of my favourite quotes from the time; and when that didn't work then they seized contraband shipment and destroyed it. When Lin Zexu intercepted and liquidated a shipment of 20,000 chests, or about 1000 tonnes of opium in Guangzhou (to put this in perspective that single shipment was equal to about 15% of Afghanistan's entire opium crop for 2009 - and Afghanistan produces over 90% of the world's non-medical opium) the British were incensed that someone would deny them their lucrative drug dealing operations that was destroying the country's soul and sent a fleet of gunboats to exact revenge. The Chinese were no match for the British canons when they sailed up the Yangtze to the walls of Nanjing and were forced to sue for peace, allowing the Brits to continue trading in opium, opening up the country further still and ceding Hong Kong. And so ended the First Opium War.

The Treaty of Nanking opened the floodgates and soon all the major Western powers were knocking on China's door and setting up concessions along the coast. This made Britain feel as if they were no longer special and so they decided another war was the answer. A fabricated excuse was concocted to declare war again less than 15 years later. Funnily, the majority of Parliament was against the war, so after it was rejected in a vote in the House of Commons the PM, Lord Palmerston accused the dissenting MPs of being unpatriotic and dissolved Parliament, handily circumventing due political process (not that one could imagine such a scenario occurring today...). The Brits (this time allied with the French), though heavily outnumbered, once again crushed the Qing armies and marched on Beijing, torching the Summer Palace along the way, and gaining yet further concessions (such as fully legalising the sale of opium and allowing the transportation of indentured Chinese labourers).

Following its successive defeats and the ensuing "Unequal Treaties" China was laid open to increasing foreign intervention. The opium trade not only continued but increased dramatically, and was the source of the majority of Britain's profits in all its Asian trading. Hong Kong, initially little more than a few barren islands, grew and prospered on the back of this trade to become the main entrepot in all of East Asia for both licit and illicit goods. And it wasn't until World War II that Britain finally had the decency to be embarrassed by its role as drug dealer and ended exporting opium to China. The scale of the human devastation caused, and profits accrued, by opium trafficking puts today's Latin American drug cartels and heroin-funded Taliban in the shade by its vast scale and the fact that it was fully supported by a national government, one that prided itself on its moral character. I don't know how many people suffered as a consequence of trade, but I do know that growing up in the UK I never once heard, read or saw a documentary about our history in the Far East. I wonder how much we are aware, as a society, of these skeletons in our closet.

When you boil it down to the root causes it is amazing to think that the Opium Wars were, essentially, about tea, and the British obsession with it. It may be a cliche to say that British life revolves around tea but in fact many of Britain's colonial (mis)adventures can be traced to the humble cuppa. The shameful slave trade that shipped millions of west Africans to the Americas was due at least in part to the insatiable demand for sugar to sweeten the hot beverage. In Britain's colonies in India, Sri Lanka and Malaysia, traditional farming was uprooted to make way for the noble bush; and whole populations of workers were shuffled around to provide the manpower required to harvest the precious leaves. A rather sobering thought the next time you make yourself a brew.

Nevertheless, and for the sake of trying to be objective, Britain's involvement in China cannot solely be seen as negative. China would have had to enter into the modern, globalised era at some point, and given its notoriously inward-looking stance that process was always going to be violent and painful, no matter how it was to happen. Britain's ambitions were also never ones of subjugation, instead they were after trade profits and had little interest in interfering in China's internal affairs, as long as they didn't hinder their ability to make money. And today much of the foundations for China's economic prosperity were laid by the foreign powers: the cities of Shanghai and Qingdao were little more than fishing villages before they were turned into the trading and industrial centres that they are today. Shenzhen and Guangzhou owe their prosperity to their proximity to Hong Kong. China's first trains were built by Europeans, and they also helped modernise the country's education system. And Hong Kong itself was turned from a barren island to one of the most important cities in Asia in only 150 years.

And so once again I end up realising that the overall picture is far more complex than at first it seems, there are no goodies and baddies, things just happen. But I firmly believe we do ourselves a disservice by being unaware of such history and how it shaped the world, because it continues to affect people and politics (particularly in China where the Unequal Treaties are still used as a focus for nationalistic feelings of persecution). Furthermore I believe that some of the mistakes and negative attitudes of those days are being repeated, and will continue to be, unless we learn from them.

Bright Lights And Big Bets

2011-12-15T15:49:00.000Z

At the mouth of the Pearl River, on either side of the estuary, lie Macau and Hong Kong, former colonies of Portugal and Great Britain respectively. And although they were returned to China (in 1997 in the case of Hong Kong and 1999 for Macau) they still remain administratively and politically separate from mainland China under the "one country two systems" policy and are classified as Special Administrative Regions. They are free of the all-pervasive Chinese censorship; travelling abroad is far easier; they tend to speak Cantonese rather than Mandarin; and use traditional Chinese characters to write rather than simplified characters. In fact in some ways they are more Chinese than their mainland brothers as they have retained some traditions that were purged during the tumultuous years of Mao's China. The ex-colonies are also easier to visit for foreigners than for ordinary Chinese who need a special permit to visit the SARs.

A small shrine outside a shop where incense is burnt and often a food offering (e.g. an apple or an orange) is left is a common sight in Macau and Hong Kong, but almost extinct in mainland China.

Of the two Macau is the elder, having been founded in the 16th century as a trading outpost when the Portuguese were the undisputed masters of Asian trade thanks to their strategic outposts around the Indian ocean: Malacca, Goa, Diu, Hormuz, Muscat, Nagasaki and Zanzibar to name but a few. This venerable presence is obvious in the narrow, cobbled streets of old Macau with its baroque churches and Mediterranean-style villas (Portuguese food has also made a big impression with bacalhao and pastries, although the language, despite enjoying joint official status, has had less of an impact). With the rise of Hong Kong as a trading hub Macau went into decline only to reinvent itself as a gambling centre in the early 60's For a long time the gambling scene was a seedy monopoly, but as soon as restrictions were lifted in 2001 the big American casinos, eager for the untapped potential from the gambling-mad, and increasingly affluent, Chinese, moved in, building giant, bombastic gambling palaces, recreating the look and feel of the Las Vegas Strip, on large tracts of barren, reclaimed land. Indeed Macau has inevitably earned the nickname of the "Oriental Las Vegas", although in reality its gambling revenues already exceed that of its American brother (and have done so since 2007) and look set to soar even further as more mega-casinos open up and the number of wealthy Chinese increases.

Portuguese colonial architecture dominates in Macau's old town.

Now you may wonder what could possibly interest me, an avowed miser, in such dens of chance that are designed to make you part with your money. But casinos are subtle and do this indirectly by lulling you into spending by making you relaxed and feeling good. If you are aware of their tricks then you can use them to your advantage. Free shuttle buses link the casinos with major points in town; the casinos run 24hr left luggage facilities; and there is often free entertainment in the form of street-performers inside the casinos themselves. So when I crossed the border to Macau I first caught a shuttle to the Venetian casino, which is the granddaddy of bling in terms of casinos: the largest hotel and casino in the world, and 5th largest building full stop in terms of floor area. Ultra-tacky it is immensely popular and is a garish pastiche of a doge's palace, complete with mock-frescoes, rococo frills, indoor canals and gondolas. I dumped my rucksack at the left-luggage and headed back into town to do some sightseeing. Upon returning in the evening I wandered the vast gambling hall with its baize tables offering a myriad different games of chance for the discerning punter. Blackjack, poker and roulette I know, but I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of different games that I knew nothing about: baccarat, craps, casino war, sic bo and plenty of others whose names I can't recall. And then there are the endless rows of slot machines with their esoteric signs and multitude of buttons. It seems to me that you need a special degree just to be able to understand all the baffling rules of the many games. And finally when I wanted to go to sleep nothing but the largest room in the house would do for me as I snuck into the hotel's arena, where live shows and sports events are staged, spread some dust covers on the ground between the stands and dozed off (remembering to set my alarm so as to get out before anyone was likely to turn up in the morning).

The behemoth of bad taste that is the Macau Venetian.

From Macau hydrofoils whisk whisk you the 45km across to Hong Kong in only an hour, past the beginnings of the bridge that is currently under construction to connect the two sides of the delta. Hong Kong is one of those rare cities, like London, New York and Singapore, that everyone seems to pass through at some point or another. It is the East Asian transport and financial hub and opens its doors to travellers, business people and domestic workers from all around the world. Despite being a densely built-up city Hong Kong feels surprisingly cosy and is easy to navigate on foot. This is facilitated by the extensive network of raised walkways that allow you to get around most of the central district without having to descend to ground level as well as the world's longest elevator network that makes ascending the city's hilly terrain far more manageable. Also, tucked away between the skyscrapers and designer-label boutiques one can even find some authentic tastes of China as old-school markets fill out the narrow back alleys and you can find century eggs, stinky tofu, grannies selling dildos (admittedly only in one market on the Kowloon side, but strange nevertheless) and stores with afterlife accessories. The latter are linked to traditional Chinese ancestor worship rituals where fake, paper money is burnt as an offering for deceased ancestors for them to use in the afterlife so that they may enjoy a more comfortable death. Nowadays though money is not enough (especially since you are free to make the money any denomination you want, which must be leading to rampant inflation in Hades) and it is possible to buy paper versions of pretty much anything, from iPads to irons, microwaves to Mercedes and suits to sandals. All can be bought cheap to make your great-great-great grandfather's (after)life more stress free.

Hong Kong by night, perhaps the most beautiful contemporary urban view in the world.

Where Can I Buy 4000 Pairs Of Shoes?

2011-12-09T16:41:00.013Z

I finally made it to Guangdong province on China's southern coast. The palm trees are here, as are the bananas, but the warm balmy weather is still eluding me. The name Guangdong may sound unfamiliar to Western ears, as it is more commonly known as Canton. During the 18th and 19th centuries when the Western powers were expanding their influence around the world their main point of contact with the Middle Kingdom was through the various ports in the province, particularly Guangzhou (which was also, confusingly, named Canton). This is the Chinese region that has had the greatest contact with the outside world and has always been more open to foreign influences, which is easily evident both in its people and its places.

A poignant reminder of China's bygone openness to the world. This minaret stands in the grounds of a mosque in Guangzhou, built in the 7th century AD, and therefore one of the oldest mosques in the world. There is still a significant Muslim population throughout China that traces its history back t those early days.

The most striking example of foreign influence can be seen in the small towns and villages around the provincial city of Kaiping. In the mid 19th century the colonial push into east Asia was at its peak, with the two Opium Wars, the rise of Hong Kong and Singapore as trading centres, and the establishment of tea plantations throughout the region. All this trade and activity demanded a vast quantity of manual labour, which China had in abundance. The majority of the coolies that came to work as porters and unskilled labour in the many ports of the region came from Canton province, where local jobs were scarce. Adding further fuel to this exodus was the boom in North America brought about by the taming of the Wild West: the vast continental railroads and gold rushes of California attracted tens of thousands more Chinese workers who were prized for their hard work and tractability. As more and more Chinese flooded overseas a number of them became successful and helped develop their home communities by building houses, schools and other institutions that they had seen and admired in the West. The houses, called diaolou, that they built were an eclectic mix of traditional Chinese and Western styles that had impressed the emigrants. As China at the time was quite lawless they were built as little family fortifications, complete with turrets, crenellations and look-out towers, but with Gothic, Byzantine and art nouveau frills.

One of the Kaiping diaolou, an eclectic marriage of Chinese and Western architectural styles as well as a utilitarian, defensive dwelling.

Although Kaiping and its surroundings demonstrate the past merging of China and the West, to see the equivalent process happening today you must go to Guangzhou, the provincial capital and main city of the Pearl river delta. In China today there are four principal cities, each with its own sphere of influence: Beijing is the administrative centre and holds the political reins of power; Shanghai is the business capital and sees high-level business deals being struck; Shenzhen (and nearby Dongguan), also on the Pearl River, are the manufacturing centres where most of the useless crap that is made in China actually gets made; but Guangzhou is China's marketplace. This is where everything that is made in China (and that's a lot of stuff) is bought and sold. It is here that all the import-exporters, the middle-men, from all around the world come to buy their goods which eventually find their way into the markets and shops the world over. Here, more than anywhere else in China, even Shanghai, you will find people from all countries, ethnicities and walks of life rubbing shoulders together all united in their single, united, purpose of turning a profit. Every country in the world is represented: there are Nigerians, Ethiopians, Arabs, Europeans, Russians, Indonesians, Latin Americans and many more besides. Each group has its own little ghetto in town, but they come together at Guangzhou's chaotic markets.

Guangzhou's wholesale markets see people flocking from all over the world to buy cheap, made-in-China goods.

Markets the world over are always fascinating places, full of verve, bustle, noise and life. Guangzhou's are no exception. Large complexes, each devoted to a particular type of goods - watches and jewelry, men's clothing, shoes, domestic appliances, toys, etc. - house a multitude of shoebox-sized, cramped shops overflowing with products hot off the assembly lines of the many nearby factories. Every shade, colour, quality and design can be found, from convincing imitations, to cheap knock-offs (no authentic products though, mind you). Individual buyers, though, are not what the shopkeepers are after, and if you are just wanting to buy a pair of shoes you might be told that half the pairs on display are not available. That is because the market caters mainly to bulk-buyers who export the goods to their own countries (and even provinces around China). Here is a sample conversation that you might hear at the market:

Punter picking up a shoe and observing it closely. "How much does it cost?" (Due to the international nature of the market many of the shopkeepers speak some English, especially when it comes to numbers.)
"Buy one or many? You buy one cost 100 RMB. Buy one thousand give you special price 90 RMB."
"Can I get four thousand in five different colours?"
"Sure, no problem. You want pick up this afternoon? Ready at four o'clock."

As befits a city of such international importance, Guangzhou is awash with shiny new skyscrapers, clad in glass and steel contorted into wondrous shapes (since many of China's cities are being almost built from scratch they are a playground for the world's architects who can let loose with their imaginations as there is nothing too gaudy or outrageous for China's new, up-and-coming metropolises). Countless 5-star hotels from all the major international chains, shopping centres galore, a clean metro system, a few landscaped parks and even some cultural centres populate this modern city. But take a little alleyway between the skyscrapers and suddenly you are transported into a teeming world of smells, noises and friendly grime as the Potemkin facade gives way to the world of the ordinary Chinese, many of whom are migrant workers, who toil away to create China's economic miracle. Living in squalor so that they can save up money to secure a decent education for their children, who are usually left back in the home town, and dreaming of a better future.

Towering high-rises sprouting like mushrooms in the boom-town of Guangzhou.

Chinese Landscapes

2011-12-03T14:49:00.015Z

I remember, as a child, seeing traditional Chinese landscape paintings. I remember thinking to myself that they didn't look real: they were permanently misty and the mountains looked like caricatures, sort of ideal mountains that a child would draw, but far more "mountainy" than any real mountain. They didn't look like anything I had ever seen in Europe and so I simply dismissed them as fantastical make-believe landscapes ... how wrong I was.

Yangshuo's iconic karst scenery and idyllic rivers make it one of China's most popular tourist destinations, and for good reason.

On my southward peregrination to find warmer climes I veered westwards to visit Wulingyuan national park as well as the region around Guilin and Yangshuo. Iconic images of the latter, of craggy, green, limestone peaks parted by black rivers, adorn almost every brochure about China and have sent many a tourist booking flights to the Middle Kingdom. Wulingyuan, on the other hand, is relatively unknown abroad. I certainly hadn't heard of it and was mainly headed there because it was more or less on my way and a UNESCO world heritage site. Little did I know of the spectacular landscape that lay in store. I wasn't initially impressed by the $40 entrance fee at the park entrance; the interminable low haze that was threatening to turn the outing into a damp squib (both literally and figuratively); and the hordes of screeching Chinese tourists who, despite the onerous entrance price, were there en masse and seriously getting on my nerves. Nevertheless I shouldered my daypack, gritted my teeth, and started climbing the stairs (this being China, the national parks are doted with wide, paved trails and stairs climbing the innumerable hills - their concept of man and his place in the environment being somewhat different to ours).

The Chinese like their nature, but as long as it is sanitised and they don't have to expend any effort in experiencing it. National parks are generally serviced by fleets of buses; paths are paved and swept of leaves on a daily basis; cable cars whisk people to the top of mountains to prime viewing spots so that they don't have to exert themselves getting there; and for those who really want to get in amongst the nature there are porters with sedan chairs waiting to carry them up those bothersome stairs.

After an hour of climbing the never-ending stairs, where I tried to retain myself from boiling over at the lack of respect I felt the Chinese tourists had for their own nature - bellowing at each other, spitting, dropping litter, screeching, squawking, smoking - I was somewhat depressed. I had reached the final set of steep steps that led to the highest viewpoint in the area and made a pact with myself to turn back should it be as underwhelming as I felt. I slowly ascended the last 20m to the peak (there were fewer tourists there - I later discovered that most of the tourists I had passed whilst ascending had taken a cable car to the top and were simply coming down, whilst here everyone had to climb, and that was enough to put off the majority of the Chinese), got to the platform and sauntered to the edge ... and then stopped to recover the breath that had been taken from me by the view. Spread out in front and below me were countless rocky columns rising vertically out of the opaque mist, most of them only a few metres across, barely big enough to accommodate a stunted pine at the top. Suddenly the money, the weather, the exasperating tourists all paled into insignificance. This. Is. Awe. I stood there for a full five minutes just soaking it in until a noisy group of locals braved the steps and broke me out of my trance and I turned to head back down again. The rest of the day I actively sought out trails inaccessible to elevators and cable cars, soaking in the sights and marvelling at the simple geological processes that came together in just the right ways to produce something so extraordinary, whilst at the same time thinking how travelling in China can be exasperating one minute and sublime the next.

Unfortunately due to the mist and haze my photographs fail to do justice to the otherworldly landscape of Wulingyuan, where thin, sandstone pinnacles rise hundreds of metres to form a majestic geological forest. If you want to know what inspired the scenery in the film Avatar this is the place to go (I'd also recommend googling some images of the park to get a better impression of what the place looks like).

From Wulingyuan I kept up my southerly bearing and made my way to the tourist mecca of Yangshuo. As a side note I thought I might mention the joys of long-distance travel in China. The cheapest and most comfortable means of getting around is by train. Trains criss-cross the country and you are almost guaranteed to have at least one going directly to your destination without needing to change. Even the so-called "hard sleepers" are perfectly comfortable, with thick, warm bedding provided and there is a constant parade of onboard vendors selling snacks, fruit and surprisingly decent meals for under $2 (something one can only dream of when it comes to trains in Britain which are experts at gouging their captive audience. However, due to the price and quality of the trains tickets are often sold out a few days in advance and when that happens you have to fall back on sleeper buses. Contrary to long-distance buses in every other country I've been to where you sit in reclining seats with variable degrees of leg room, in China the buses have individual beds. The buses are divided into three rows of partly-overlapping bunks (where the head area is slightly raised and the feet of the person behind slot in below the headrest) with two central aisles. When travelling overnight these are surprisingly comfortable compared with standard seats, though during the day it's not so easy to sit up. Furthermore if you are not short and thin then the narrow bunks can be quite torturous. Here us small people are certainly at an advantage.

The town of Yangshuo is prettily nestled amongst lush, green karstic crags and the lazy bends of the Li river. The setting is undeniably picturesque and even the strong development brought on by the many visitors can't totally detract from that. Tourism is the only industry in town and touts are everywhere. But what I found refreshingly amusing was that because of the rise in Chinese affluence most visitors are locals and the touts actually prefer to target them as communication is easier and the Chinese nouveau riche are just as prone, if not more so, to flinging away their money as foreigners. There are various tours, trips, excursions and shows on offer to visitors, but I was only really interested in exploring the surrounding countryside on foot (not only is it the cheapest option, but there are places that can only be visited on foot and the slower pace allows you to notice things that would otherwise pass you by). Although my first two days in and around Yangshuo were marked by the same cold, hazy weather that had been trailing me ever since returning to China (another way in which those traditional landscape painters had got it right) I was blessed on the last day with blue skies and sun which made the amateur photographer in me rejoice. On that day I went for a walk along a nearby tributary of the Li. Although there is nowhere in the area that hasn't been touched by tourism, it was easy enough to get away from it all. The small river sees plenty of Chinese hiring rafts (with raftsman attached) to be punted along the gently-flowing stream, and a good number of foreign visitors hire bicycles to cycle along the bank, but I didn't see a single other soul on foot. And I was glad, as the villages that line the river still retain a rural charm. Sure, many houses are being renovated or rebuilt along boxy concrete lines and the tracks leading to the villages are slowly being paved as some of the tourist money trickles down (and I certainly can't begrudge the people for wanting to improve their quality of life), but the neat paddy fields and mandarin orchards plainly show that agriculture is the mainstay of the local economy. Just ambling along the raised, earthen dykes that separate the paddies, occasionally getting lost, pocketing the odd mandarin or two from a tree, and seeing the friendly locals who invariably greet you with a combined hello-nihao made it one of my most enjoyable days. The fact that the surrounding scenery was so jaw-droppingly stunning was simply the icing on the cake. I suppose it just goes to show that if you look hard enough you can find something unique, even where many have gone before you.

By walking beside the river and wandering amongst the rice paddies I got to see some aspects of ordinary village life, like this farmer who was bailing water from the river up into the irrigation canals to water his fields and orchards.

Winter Migration

2011-11-26T16:38:00.001Z

Zhengzhou was getting too cold for me, with nighttime temperatures plunging uncomfortably close to freezing and the hazy days faring little better. Exacerbating the situation was the lack of indoor heating that prevails in most of China - people just put on more clothes when they're at home in the evenings. There was only one solution: I bought myself a train ticket, direction due south. The scenery rolling past the train (when you could see through the endless mist) was one of small, steep hills with isolated villages surrounded by paddy fields, now denuded and home only to stubble and the odd, rather lost-looking, water buffalo. As soon as I stepped off the train in Wuhan I knew I was headed in the right direction and I was even able to take off my beanie, which had become a permanent fixture on my head since returning to China.

Like many large Chinese cities Wuhan is undergoing a boom that is seeing a rise in local investment and consumption. So far 4 of the cities I have visited have metro systems under construction and many are also building swanky shopping and leisure districts such as the one above that has regenerated an old canalside.

To be honest, there isn't much for the foreign tourist in Wuhan. There are some pleasant lakes and parks, and the city is renowned in China as the birthplace of the 1911 revolution that toppled the Qing dynasty bringing about the end to imperial China and ushering in the age of the republic, but the military garrison where it all started and which houses a museum dedicated to the event fails to cater to non-Chinese speakers by having no information in English (or any other language for that matter). A shame as not only is it a pivotal moment in world history, but this year also sees the centenary of those heady days. No matter though as I had a lot of fun anyway thanks to my hosts, a local girl named Xiao and her boyfriend Marek, who happens to be from Prague. Meeting a fellow Czech (from time to time I consider myself Czech) was certainly an unexpected, yet pleasant, surprise. I was able to dust-off my rusty Czech and watch some Czech movies together. He also helped me out by taking a package of odds and ends that I have accumulated over the past few months (I like keeping ticket stubs, city maps and other such memorabilia) back with him, thereby lightening my backpack a little.

A welcome change from museums and monuments: a picnic in a park beside one of Wuhan's many lakes with my hosts Xiao and Marek and their friend Nadia. Travelling isn't just about what you see and do, but also who you meet and time you share.

Xiao and Marek showed me around bits of Wuhan that I would never have found myself. Apparently the city is famed for its myriad breakfast specialities, such as hot-dry noodles, and soup dumplings (where the soup is inside the dumplings). Luckily the astute food vendors of Wuhan noticed that people are hungry not just in the morning, but throughout the day, and so these specialities can be procured at any time of the day, which is good for someone who doesn't like to get up early like myself. But even Wuhan, famed for being one of the hottest cities in China (albeit only in summer), wasn't doing it for me and I kept on aiming south in my search for warmer climes...

I don't have any photos of the food stalls in Wuhan so I thought you might enjoy this picture of Chinese snack food. As I've mentioned before the Chinese are not big fans of sweets, but they love vacuum-packed meat. Above is a small selection (clockwise from top left): shrimp, clam, beef, spicy beef, rabbit.

Cradles And Graves

2011-11-21T12:22:00.113Z

500km inland from Qingdao lies Zhengzhou, the capital of Henan province. The province's name means "south of the river", in this case the Yellow River, and is without a doubt the cradle of Chinese civilisation. Within a relatively small radius lie the remains of over a dozen capitals of previous dynasties and kingdoms, most of the buried under countless layers of silt deposited by the continuously flooding river. For archaeology buffs it is the region to visit in China.

Zhengzhou itself is a large, hectic city of over 8.5 million people (more than Greater London) that, despite its long history, has little to show for it. But as a major railway junction it is a handy base from which to explore the surrounding region and travel back in time. If you want to work chronologically your first stop should be Anyang to the north of Zhengzhou, a rather nondescript and drab city, but sitting atop the ruins of the ancient Shang capital. Dating back to 1400 BC the ruins represent the very start of Chinese history as well as the origins of the Chinese writing system. Thousands of bones and turtle shells have been unearthed bearing the characters that would give rise to modern hanji script, and although most of them are too far removed to be recognisable, the few that have traversed the millennia almost unchanged elicit goosebumps as you feel the ancient world communicating directly to you. The succeeding Zhou dynasty moved the capital to Luoyang, west of Zhengzhou, where the historic remains include more than just excavated earthen walls and tombs with ritual sacrifices. The most noteworthy are the Longmen Grottoes, stretched out along either side of the Yi river. Here generations of Buddhist monks carved shrines and temples into the rock, from the tiny to the grandiose, with the central Buddha reaching over 17m, over a period of 300 years. Most of them survived unscathed until the beginning of the last century when the combined effects of Western collectors, Japanese invaders and the disastrous Cultural Revolution defaced the majority.

The main temple of the Longmen Grottoes with its 17m central Buddha carved from the cliff face.

Then to the east there is Kaifeng, capital of the Song dynasty from about 1000 years ago (don't worry if you can't keep up with the different dynasties, most Chinese can't either). This period corresponds to the most open era of Chinese history when there were strong contacts with other civilisations. It was during this period that a group of Jews from Persia set up shop in the city ... and are still there to this very day. I first read about the Kaifeng Jews whilst exploring a Wikipedia rabbit-hole and was immediately fascinated by this community that had managed to survive with some sort of unifying identity despite its small size, separation from the rest of Jewry, and the strong assimilating strength of Chinese civilisation. I wasn't sure what I would find in Kaifeng, as my guidebook informed me that all that was left of the synagogue, which was destroyed by a flood in the 1860s, was a well that is now in the basement of a hospital that has been built on the site. As with other cities with a similarly rich history in China, the physical remains are a disappointment, but there is still a vibrant minority quarter in the old town. Most of them are Hui, Chinese Muslims, with a mosque built in Chinese style and restaurants specialising in their own, distinctive cuisine; as well as a Christian community centred around a neo-Gothic church. Close-by is a lane that used to be the centre of the Jewish community that has now all but disappeared. But, at the entrance to a small courtyard, there was a sign indicating that there was some sort of Jewish organisation. I loitered and asked a passing man if there was a bowuguan (museum, and one of the few words I know in Chinese). He yelled into the courtyard for someone and motioned for me to wait. After a couple of minutes a young Chinese woman, perhaps 30, appeared and said, in very good English, that yes, this was her private museum and that her family was one of the last of the handful of Kaifeng Jews left.

One of the last Kaifeng Jews, I have a lot of admiration for her as she plans to rebuild the old synagogue.

I spent about an hour there listening to her story, how gradually the community had become assimilated in the mainstream so that it had, over time, lost its knowledge of its holy books, traditions, ethnic makeup and much of its history, but that they still knew themselves to be Jews and called themselves such. How her family had, through the ages, been given the solemn task to look after and maintain the synagogue. She has a very determined character and told me of her plan to learn more about her heritage and Jewish traditions and, ultimately, to rebuild the synagogue. She has recently got in touch with the local authorities to get them on board with the project and I truly believe she will succeed. Whether the community itself will manage to survive the current upheavals undergoing Chinese society is another matter.

The most famous sight in the area, and ultimately the most disappointing (and not to mention most expensive), is the Shaolin temple at Songshan. Kung fu is one of China's most successful cultural exports, and its spiritual home is the Buddhist temple of Shaolin Si in the foothills of Song mountain. Martial arts have been widely practised here for hundreds of years and have become and inseparable part of the Shaolin way (never mind the original Buddhist tenets of pacifism). Most people will have, at least once, seen a performance from the kung fu monks, some as young as 10, who possess incredible physical prowess and sublime martial arts skills. In fact Shaolin has become an international brand, with touring groups putting on shows all over the world. Cashing in on the fame there is also a kung fu academy at the temple for local and even international disciples wanting to learn the Shaolin kung fu method from the temple masters. I don't know how many students they have, but the courtyard at the entrance to the temple complex was full of youngsters in matching tracksuits wielding swords, spears or simply sparring. The entire site was one souvenir stall after another with the odd martial arts display thrown in - not really a particularly spiritual environment if you ask me. On top of that most of the temple buildings are recent constructions and the only authentic remains are some old, brick pagodas sporting tufts of grass sprouting from random crevices and a couple of forlorn gates that lead nowhere.

Shaolin is now a business, with thousands of youths signed up to learn Shaolin wushu.

And finally there is Zhengzhou itself. It may have lost its historical heritage but, as the provincial capital, it has a museum that is among the very best in China with an amazing collection of Shang-era bronzes that rival anything I have seen in terms of intricate craftsmanship in all my travels (and I have been to a fair few museums in my time). What is more the museum is free, a rare thing in today's China where some entrance tickets can far exceed anything in the West. Another reason to visit Zhengzhou was provided by an online magazine article into Chinese white elephants which published pictures of its empty, just-unwrapped CBD. It seems to me that it's quite popular to bash China in the Western press, and although some of it is justified much of it seems petty to me. The article's tone seems rather gloating to me, as if saying "look at those Chinese throwing their money away like that". It may be true that they are, or it could also be a very astute, forward-thinking move on their part. Zhengzhou is, after all, the capital of Henan province, which has a population of some 93 million people and is an important link between the north and the south of the country. And although the CBD area is pretty empty and devoid of life (according to my host in Zhengzhou), there were a good number of people out taking advantage of the public spaces, strolling, picnicking and just enjoying themselves. Also, although most of the buildings have been built they are not completed yet (my host admitted that he had bought a flat there and was waiting for it to be finished). I guess we will have to wait and see who is right: the Western naysayers who cackle at China's folly, or the Chinese urban planners?

The rather funky and futuristic-looking new Zhengzhou arts centre. White elephant or bastion of fine arts in the Middle Kingdom? Only time will tell.

Not Quite Bavaria

2011-11-16T00:22:00.015Z

I left Japan via Shimonoseki's ferry terminal, my port of entry to the country. It wasn't something I had wanted to do but there was no other option if I didn't want to fly. Not only was it my first and last stop, but the last person I saw in Japan was also my first: by chance I ran into my host from my first days in Shimonoseki, Seiji, who was seeing off another guest (a Mexican named Homero) who was also headed to China on the same boat as me. It was nice to have someone to talk to among the 24 other passengers (all of them, from what I could gather, Chinese working in Japan) on the 29 hour passage to Qingdao as entertainment options on the ferry were limited to a single channel of Chinese TV, a meagre onboard library of half a dozen foreign books, and taking long, hot showers and soaking in the public bath.

The ferry bathroom where I spent a considerable chunk of time on the crossing from Japan to China, simply because there was little else to do, and baths are a rare luxury on the road (figuratively speaking, of course), to be taken whenever the opportunity presents itself.

I was glad to get to China. Not that the passage had been rough or that I was eager to get away from Japan, but I have grown accustomed to China, how things work (or don't, as the case may be), what is expected, how to get around, and the little ins and outs of daily life. I also feel that my appreciation of a country is somewhat proportional to the availability, and affordability, of street food. As soon as I stepped off the boat I took advantage of fresh fruit, dumplings, and unidentified meat-on-a-stick, available on every street corner to make up for the self-imposed deprivation I had endured in Japan, and gorged myself silly.

A neo-Gothic church dominating the centre of the city is not what you'd expect to find in a Chinese city, but Qingdao has precisely that, thanks to its short-lived, yet defining, spell as a German concession.

Qingdao itself is an interesting place and quite unique in China. Most people know it for its Tsingtao beer, which is widely accepted to be the best in China. The reason being that it used to be a German concession during the dying days of the Qing dynasty. And although the Germans were there for only 16 years, Qingdao's current importance and prosperity are a direct result of that period - the city is one of the wealthiest in China and is home to two of China's biggest international brands: Haier and Hisense. The core of the old town, despite the current best efforts to create an identikit Chinese city, with boring skyscrapers and cookie-cutter shopping centres packed with international luxury brands (as well as obscure Chinese brands pretending to be upmarket), retains an unmistakable Central European feel, with town villas that remind me of my childhood holidays in Czechoslovakia: grand, but fraying at the edges. The old governor's office, in European palatial style, and a couple of churches (one Catholic the other Lutheran) complete the Bavarian charm. Nowhere in China has the imprint of the concession era remained as strong as here, and locals who cannot make it to Europe come here instead to soak up some of the European style. The area is also popular with young couples taking artful wedding and engagement photos. In one small neighbourhood alone I spotted over 20 couples - men in cheap, shiny polyester suits and the women freezing their asses off in impractical dresses - being seen to by an equal number of photography teams comprising make-up woman, driver, assistant and photographer. A rather surreal little circus that will be hidden in the final photographs, much like the shiny veneer that is on show in China's exuberant, modern cities, but which hides feet of clay beneath.

Another sign of China's new-found affluence is the increase in lavish weddings with all the trimmings, including the obligatory wedding photographs in idyllic settings. Since this is China there is a queue for the perfect snapshot.

Whether this is true as an allegory for the country as a whole I have yet to find out, but the contrasts of old and new, rich and poor, shiny state-of-the-art skyscrapers and decrepit, decaying hovels makes Qingdao, and China in general, a bracing place to explore.

The new, modern CBD area of Qingdao by the Olymic sailing centre.

Land Of The Rising Yen

2011-11-12T13:49:00.034Z

There are a number of eclectic skills that you pick up as a long-term traveller: you learn to memorise your passport number and issue date for filling out endless visa and immigration forms; you become adept at noticing good spots for sleeping rough, even when you don't need to; and your long multiplication, which is essential for currency conversions, greatly improves. The latter (as well as the sleeping rough one to a certain degree) was certainly needed in Japan. One pound is currently worth 120 yen. A relatively easy number to calculate with, but not one I particularly like. Only four years ago a pound would get you 250 yen, and the lowest the pound has been against the yen in the past 13 years (the furthest back I could get data easily) was less than a month before I arrived, at 117 to the pound - having lost more than half of its relative value in a very short space of time! The sharp appreciation in the value of the yen has been across the board against other currencies and is somewhat strange as the Japanese economy is not doing particularly well itself and hasn't been for many years now. Nevertheless international investors see it as a safe bet and keep buying yen, which is causing a great headache for the country's export-oriented economy. Needless to say I was not happy either, and neither was my bank account. Japan has always been an expensive country to travel in, but with the exchange rate skewed so heavily against me, every purchase, no matter how minor, was taking a significant bite out of my budget and I had to use every trick in the book to save money.

Standard budget food whilst travelling on a budget in Japan: super noodles. To make them even cheaper you should get the simple packets without a pot or bowl and procure your own receptacle. In this case it was a discarded cardboard coffee cup that surprisingly lasted for 3 days before I threw it away.

The greatest expense is almost always accommodation, and here I was very lucky in that I had three friends already in Japan who helped cover a large portion of the time I spent there. Actually they were also one of the reasons I went there as I hadn't seen any of them for several years, and one of them was an old classmate from school who I hadn't seen for over 15 years. The other two were friends that I had made on my previous travels in China and Djibouti, and had kept in touch with ever since. (I am particularly endebted to Yuriko who let me have her flat in Tokyo for an entire week while she was off on holiday in Nepal.) Of course my friends were not everywhere and so then I had to fall back on the old stand-by of Couchsurfing, and when that failed, to find a sheltered spot to sleep outside (which I ended up doing on five separate occasions: once under a bridge in Kyoto, another time in a park in the town of Nikko, once more in Himeji, this time under a railway viaduct (not a particularly good choice as I was to discover with the first train of the morning), behind a motorway service station, and finally on the porch of a youth hostel in Shimonoseki, which had closed for the season. There are countries where sleeping rough can be a risky proposition due to inclement weather and unwelcome attention from locals. Luckily autumn is the mildest season in Japan and perfect for travelling (and sleeping outdoors), and it is also without a doubt the safest country in the world and I felt little apprehension in rolling out my mat in relatively public spaces without fear of something happening to me or my bag getting stolen.

My temporary accommodation under a bridge in Kyoto that I shared with a local homeless man.

In fact sleeping rough was a golden opportunity to see a part of Japan that is often ignored and brushed under the carpet. Despite being one of the richest countries in the world, with high employment and an enviable quality of life, there is surprisingly little in the way of a welfare state to help you should you happen to lose your job. From talking with locals it seems that three months benefits is all you can expect from the state. And so, as the job-for-life concept has become eroded by modern economic realities, even in Japan many salarymen have found themselves unemployed and, unable to keep up mortgage and other payments, have found themselves on the streets. Of course, this being Japan, everything is very orderly. The homeless only become really conspicuous in the evening when they congregate in sheltered areas to set up for the night. I never saw any begging anywhere.

Other ways to save on money were with food and transport. Now for many people in the West calorie is a dirty word. For me it's the exact opposite: when travelling I am always hungry as I am continually active and on the move, so in Japan where money was tight I was constantly looking at the nutritional information labels so as to ensure that I got as many calories for my yen as possible. Which of course led to a rather bland diet of super noodles and mayonnaise sandwiches (full fat, naturally). Tea and coffee simply became a means to dissolve as much sugar as possible. Fruit, however, was way off my shopping list. It was not uncommon to see individual apples selling for $4 or more. I did, nevertheless, manage to try some typical Japanese dishes whilst I was there, since that is an essential part f travelling for me. And as for transport, despite my initial apprehension, hitchhiking worked incredibly well, despite the obvious language barrier, not to mention the cultural barrier, since hitchhiking is almost unknown in Japan. Actually it was a fantastic way of meeting an eclectic cross-section of Japanese society. Among the people that picked me up were: a Buddhist monk who was also a lecturer in sociology and spoke very good English; a twenty-something girl who was a funeral director; a retired couple in a camping van; a French expat who had cornered the Japanese market for pétanque paraphernalia; a local ski-bum girl; a number of travelling sales representatives; a couple of single, older women; two truckers; and the young couple from Saitama that I mentioned in my last post. I was particularly surprised by the proportion of women that picked me up, as they rarely pick up single male hitchers in other countries, but this is Japan where everything is safe and people don't even imagine anything malicious could happen to them.

My backpack and hitching sign for Hiroshima prefecture. It's good to make a sign that is somewhat vague so that I can be used several times.

Although it's undeniable that the cost of things did limit me to a certain degree in Japan, it did so far less than I had imagined. I was still able to travel quite extensively, try a variety of local foods, have some contact with locals, and visit an eclectic cross-section of places and attractions. In fact trying to save money became a bit of a game and I kept trying to think up ingenious ways to reduce my daily expenditure. In the end I am proud that I managed to get through almost 4 weeks of Japan, traversing half its considerable length (and back again) with an average daily spend of less than £20 a day, whereas the suggested budget for budget travel as suggested by my guidebook was £65. Not bad I think.

Megalopolis

2011-11-06T14:43:00.064Z

When I first planned this trip and drew up my itinerary on the back of the proverbial napkin I had purposefully omitted Japan for a number of reasons. The first was the cost (see next post) and the second was that it was something of a dead end and would require me to double-back on myself, something I strive to avoid at all costs. In the end both concerns were justified but were unable to outweigh my curiosity for the country, its unique culture and bracing combination of old and new.

One of the most recognisable symbols of modern Japan: the shinkansen bullet train pulling into a Tokyo station.

Nothing exemplifies the new more thoroughly than Tokyo. The Tokyo conurbation is, with a population in excess of 35 million, by far the most populous metropolitan area in the world (if it were a separate country it would be the 35th largest between Algeria and Canada) and covering an area half the size of Wales. My first appreciable experience of this urban behemoth occurred before I even saw the city. I had hitched a ride with a friendly young couple who live in Saitama on the northern outskirts of the metropolis and we were arriving from the southeast. But instead of circumnavigating the city on a ringroad they drove straight through thanks to an extensive network of tunnels and elevated that criss-cross the city. It still took over an hour to traverse though.

The image most often portrayed in the media of Tokyo is of legions of black-suited salarymen marching mindlessly to the tune of the rat-race; skyscrapers clad in neon lights; claustrophobic capsule hotels; manga fanatics dressed up as their favourite anime characters; vending machines that sell everything imaginable, from drinks to meals to books and even clothes. While all these things do exist they are very much on the fringes and not indicative of Tokyo in general. Instead my impression of the city, from my hours tramping its less illustrious backstreets (saving money by not taking the metro), was one of quiet, (relatively) peaceful suburbanness. This is probably due in large part to the fact that, despite being almost completely levelled by the end of World War II, Tokyo was rebuilt along the same, dense, haphazard street layout of the feudal Edo period. Houses are low-rise and detached, and the narrow streets are dominated by cyclists (often ladies of a certain age) pedalling sedately along and who will not be hurried.

Tokyo's maze of irregular streets is guaranteed to get you lost. Even locals have to constantly consult the many public maps to make sure that they are going the right way.

But of course the main attractions are the quirky, off-beat "out there" sections of society and not the dull masses. And few places in the world do off-beat as well as Akihabara. With its bright skyscrapers of neon in a sea of blandness Akihabara was the inspiration for Ridley Scott's dystopian future in Blade Runner. Originally a district specialising in the sale of all things electronic it is now also the centre of the otaku culture that revolves around Japanese manga comics and its various offshoots. Most otakus are quite indistinguishable from other, normal people, but there are a couple of facets of the otakusphere that stand out. The first are the cosplayers - the word being a portmanteau of the English words costume and play. In a nutshell cosplayers like to dress up. Elves, maids, knights, schoolgirl sailor warriors and cute kittens and fluffy bears are all fodder for the cosplayer's vivid imagination as it searches for an outlet in Japan's conformist society. There is one particular place where cosplayers hang out on the weekends, but unfortunately the day I went it was raining and so the spectacle was pretty disappointing (animal costumes are probably quite tricky to dry). Nevertheless I did get my share of costumes on Halloween when a stroll around the party district of Roppongi produced a parade of disguises. Related to the cosplay phenomenon, but catering to those who like the idea of dressing up without having to do it themselves, are the famous maid cafes. Here you can come for a drink of coffee, a light meal, and often a choice of desserts, all in the setting of a primary school classroom with waitresses dressed either as maids or schoolgirls. If it sounds strange that's because it is.

A poster advertising a maid cafe in Akihabara.

I would have felt too out of my depth and awkward to go alone, but a local contact of mine, a guy named Yu, offered to take me to one. And as otaku culture has always held a fascination for me (I am a little geeky at heart) I jumped at the chance. The experience was a little strange for me. The atmosphere isn't sexual, at least for my tastes (though it could slide that way pretty easily), but having young, 18-25 year-old girls dress up to appear younger and then pay extra for "services" was a little unsettling. Not that these services are anything but tame: you can have your picture taken with a maid of your choice, whilst you wear kitsch cat ears and she strikes a pose with her hand near her face (I've come to realise that Japanese girls will always do some sort of hand gesture when they're having their pictures taken, usually a peace sign but also nibbling on a finger, twiddling with her hair or, my favourite, doing the cat, or nyan-nyan, pose) which she will then decorate with smiley faces; you can get a maid to decorate your cappuccino with chocolate at your table; or you can even get her to feed you. It's not sinister and in a way is a modern reinterpretation of the geisha experience, though instead of girls who undergo years of gruelling training learning to play the shamisen, properly wear the kimono and give delightful table-conversation being a maid at a maid cafe is usually reserved for freeters (underemployed youth) with a good knowledge of Sailor Moon characters. And for those of you who think that these are horribly sexist institutions will be happy to learn that there are male equivalents where the servers are exclusively young men (though there are fewer of these).

One of the other reasons I wanted to visit Tokyo was to see the (in)famous Yasukuni shrine. It was established in the Meiji period 140 years ago to enshrine the souls of those who died fighting for Japan, much like the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, the Cenotaph in London and Arlington Cemetery in Washington DC. So far, so uncontroversial. The controversy surrounds the fact that enshrined amongst the fallen are 14 class A war criminals. Add to that the predisposition for leading politicians to visit the shrine and we have a recipe for continuing friction, especially amongst the countries that suffered at the hands of the Japanese during World War II. Though for me easily the most shocking part of the shrine complex is the attached museum, which records Japanese military history. The way it portrays events from World War I onwards has been hijacked by ultra-nationalists and is blatant historical revisionism with the sole purpose of exonerating Japanese actions. A great shame really as there are valid points to be made (e.g. that the post-WW2 trials were little more than victor's justice), but these are drowned out by the ridiculous rewriting of events. Instead the overwhelming feeling is one of pettiness and poor sportsmanship and that a genuine opportunity for reconciliation and forgiveness is being missed.

The Yasukuni shrine at dusk. Despite the controversies surrounding it, there's no denying that it's a beautiful spot of tranquility in the heart of Tokyo.

Eastern Elegance And Eccentricity

2011-10-30T03:01:00.002Z

It's no revelation to say that the cultures of the Far East (by Far East I mean China, Korea and Japan) differ quite markedly in many ways to European, and even Middle Eastern, cultures. I have become particularly intrigued by the Oriental sense of aesthetic - perhaps also because the aesthetic has a clear, external manifestation, whereas it's hard for me to be able to talk about how people actually think and what they believe. The Oriental view (and I am writing this as a layperson who hasn't studied this at all, but more from my observations and experiences whilst travelling here) emphasises a holistic harmony and balance, which we see, at the most basic level, with the complementary forces of yin and yang.

The ultimate expression of Far Eastern esoteric harmony: the Japanese karesansui (dry landscape) garden, heavily influenced by Zen Buddhist principles. (The garden in the picture is at Ryoan-ji temple and is perhaps the most famous example of the style.)

This primacy of harmony is seen especially in the belief systems that arose in the region, most notably Confucianism, with its emphasis on duty to the family and nation and subservience of the individual to the community. This can lead to efficient societies where everyone is pulling in the same direction, but it comes at the cost of initiative, inventiveness and progress. Whilst in China speaking to a local, educated woman she complained about her country(men) saying that "we don't know to create." And this is a common refrain that I have heard in all three countries: people are very good at carrying out their set tasks, but if they are faced with a novel or unexpected situation then they are at a loss as to what to do. This inertia, a clinging to the status quo in defiance of all evidence to the contrary, explains why all three civilisations cut themselves off from the outside world in the Middle Ages, a move that profoundly altered the course of history: the Far East at the time was far richer and more advanced than Europe and had even started long voyages of exploration (Zheng He in 1421 reached east Africa), but by closing themselves off they stagnated and it wasn't until the mid 19th century that they were brought back into the wider world by force. The "Unequal Treaties" that resulted still rankle, especially in China.

The cultures of the Far East have also developed very different aesthetic tastes, in most senses of the word, to the West. The Eastern aspiration for harmony permeates their relationship with nature (whereas for most of its history the Western worldview was that God had created the world for mankind to which it should be subservient) and finds ultimate expression in their formal gardens where esoteric principles dictate the placing of every plant and stone so as to achieve the right balance. Grander gardens even have a number of pre-defined "views" that may even be seasonally specific. Such categorisation of beauty feels odd to me but is common across Far Eastern cultures and can be found in Chengde"s 72 scenic spots, the 4 Beauties of China, or even the 152 national treasures of Japan. Traditional Eastern music is not harmonic like Western music and often sounds discordant to our ears (in China there is a TV channel devoted entirely to Beijing opera - I can only stand a minute of it before I have to switch over); a lot of emphasis is put on elegant presentation, especially of foods, which can result in a tendency to overpackage; and sweets and desserts are nowhere near as sweet as in the West and are usually more subtle and use a wider variety of ingredients, such as red beans, sweet potato and green tea. I may sound disparaging at times, but there is much to be admired. I particularly like the simplicity and elegance of many of their products: from unadorned, monochrome Jingdezhen porcelain, to practical utensils from Muji, and the spare stylishness of Uniqlo. These were born of the same artistic impulse that spawned haikus, Sun Tzu's famous proverbs and tea ceremonies, and that turned the mundane blossoming of cherry trees into a national holiday.

Sweet pea ice cream. Although it may sound like a ridiculous idea to us, it actually tastes pretty good (other ice-cream flavours that I have come to like in Asia: sweetcorn, red bean and green tea).

In Japan these aspects of Oriental thought are taken to their extreme. Although they may not come up with many completely novel ideas, they are masters at taking a concept or development and then running with it to an apotheosis. They may not have invented swords or iron-working, but medieval Japanese swordsmiths created perhaps the greatest swords ever made, capable of maintaining their edge for centuries and even able to cut through thick tree trunks. The science of optics and lens-making developed in Europe and didn't really start in Japan until World War II, not now it's rare to see a high-end SLR camera that is not Japanese. This perfectionism is not limited to high-end products. In Kyoto I visited the traditional crafts museum (a wonderful museum not just because it's free, but because they have resident craftsmen whom you can watch at work as they make intricate and beautiful objets d'art) where the same attention to detail was extended to even the most mundane objects: to make traditional boxwood combs the artisans dry individual pieces of wood for 17 years before they are worked.

For over a millennium Kyoto was the capital of Japan. It, and the surrounding Kansai region, are home to a treasure trove of temples, shrines, gardens and palaces where the expression of the Japanese aesthetic reaches its pinnacle. As the spiritual heartland of Japan it is only fitting that the Kansai region is home to some of its most important and awe-inspiring shrines and temples. The Todai-ji temple houses a giant, 15m-tall, bronze statue of Buddha, but the hall itself overshadows, both literally and figuratively, the big Bud. It is not only comfortably the largest wooden building in the world, but following a fire 300 years ago it was rebuilt, but 30% smaller than it was originally. A few kilometres down the road lies the Horyu-ji temple complex where several of the buildings date from the 7th century making them the oldest extant wooden buildings anywhere in the world. The craftsmanship to build such resistant and large wooden buildings is remarkable, but they also clearly demonstrate the inertia inherent in the system: although the two temples were built 1000 years apart the styles and methods used in their construction vary little, whereas over the same period of time in Europe building design underwent a multitude of evolutionary steps.

The awesome (in the truest sense of the word) Todai-ji temple. To get an idea of the size look out for the people standing at the entrance to the sanctum.

Japan seems to have the strange ability to be hyper-modern one minute, with its shinkansen and adoption of the latest useless, hi-tech gizmos (such as robotic pets, toilet seats that are not only heated but also play music, and mobile phone-drying boxes for when you accidentally drop yours down the toilet), and yet ossified and retrograde the next. Following the earthquake earlier this year the whole world's attention was focused on Fukushima. Building a nuclear power plant on a coast that is prone to tsunamis is not a great idea, but then there are other aspects to Japan's electricity sector that demonstrate how common sense often gets trumped by habit and short-term expediency. Japan, despite being a relatively small country in terms of size, has the odd distinction of having two separate electric systems, with different frequencies, running concurrently, one in the western half of the country and the other in the east. They're not easily compatible and transmission between the two halves of the country is very limited, so when the earthquake struck for months after Tokyo and the east were subject to power shortages and blackouts, whereas the west had surplus energy that could not be shared. The reason? when electricity first came to Japan over a century ago it was via companies that provided energy for light bulbs. One company in Tokyo bought a generator from the US whilst a company in Osaka bought a generator from Germany, both with different generation frequencies. As generating capacity increased the two halves of the country ended up with two varying standards and there hasn't been the will to solve the problem. Or you have electricity transmission itself. In the immediate postwar period reconstruction was key and distribution power cables in cities were strung up on pylons, rather than buried, as it was the cheapest, most efficient method. Nowadays, despite having the money to bury their cables, the vast majority are still aerial, not just blighting the urban landscape, but posing a serious danger, especially in the event of earthquakes when fallen, live cables can potentially kill people. Yet rather than fixing the problem the government periodically issues obfuscations and false justifications for not burying them, all because there is an extreme reluctance to change the way things are done.

A typical Japanese city alley: with colourful signs, extremely narrow, and a canopy of power cables that always reminds me of India.

Travelling in Japan is a fascinating experience as you feel the familiarity of a developed, affluent society, and yet at the same time there are a myriad little details and quirks that just seem odd, unexplainable and downright bizarre. I wonder if the feeling is mutual? I would love to get their impressions of what Europe is like and whether they think some of our habits and customs, that we think are perfectly rational and self-evident, are more than a little bit bonkers.

8:15. The Time It's Always Been

2011-10-23T08:15:00.002+01:00

The name Hiroshima will forever be linked in the consciousness of the world with the events of the 6th of August 1945, when the first atomic bomb was dropped on Japan, ushering in the nuclear era with a bang. A bang so large that it destroyed 90% of the city and killed almost half of its population and helped precipitate the end of the Second World War (although some academics argue that the USSR's declaration of war against Japan and invasion of Manchuria on the 9th of August was a far greater reason for their surrender). The effects of the atomic bombs on the world were momentous and too great to mention here, but in Japan it led to the pacifist constitution and a widespread national desire for peace (not that Japan doesn't have its militarist nationalists, and its continued inability to admit and apologise for, rather than regret, its World War II atrocities doesn't help make it any friends in the region). The epicentre for the peace and nuclear disarmament movement worldwide is undoubtedly Hiroshima's Peace Memorial Park where a museum, shrine, cenotaphs and statues pay moving tribute to those who perished on that fateful day. The symbol of the complex is the A-Bomb Dome. The building was an exhibition hall before the war and was almost directly below the bomb - the hypocentre, or ground zero - when it exploded (the bomb was detonated 600m above the ground so that the destructive heat and shock waves would not be impeded so as to cause maximum damage) and so its vertical walls survived the devastating blast since they were perpendicular to the shock waves. Its preserved skeleton serves as a grim reminder to what happened on that fateful day.

The empty shell of the A-Bomb Dome serves as a stark reminder of that horrific day 66 years ago.

I spent a whole day inching through the Peace Memorial Museum, reading every scrap of information, every exhibit. No matter what your views may be regarding Japan's conduct in the war, it is a place that cannot leave you unmoved as story after story of innocent human suffering is described in painful detail, stabbing you in the heart. Padding through the dark halls of the museum I was reminded of Auschwitz and Tuol Sleng and the mass suffering that man is able to mete out to his fellow man. Unlike Auschwitz, where the hills of suitcases,shoes, combs, clothes and hair form a physical representation of the lives lost to the gas chambers, very little is left over from the bombing of Hiroshima because most people within a kilometre of the hypocentre were burnt to a cinder along with their clothes. Instead the power lies in the small fragments of flotsam that survived the conflagration: shreds of a child's school uniform, a half-melted Buddha statuette, a wristwatch eternally stopped at 8:15, the time the bomb exploded, and even the "shadow" indelibly left on the masonry of a building by a person who was standing nearby - all that is left of them as they were so close to ground zero that they were instantly vapourised. That person might be considered to have been one of the lucky ones. 70,000 died instantly in the initial blast and firestorm that followed, a further 70,000 died in the following months to December, suffering from acute radiation sickness, bleeding from the inside, their bodies liquefying, breaking down and wasting away in agony; unaware of what radiation even was or its effects. Since then a further 140,000 have died as a direct consequence of radiation or injuries acquired in that dreadful instant when the world changed forever (a number of them not yet born at the time but exposed in utero). What I found particularly scary was that of the 50kg of uranium in the bomb that was dropped, only 1kg underwent the chain reaction that caused the blast. 280,000 people died from just 2% of the bomb's destructive potential.

Before and after aerial pictures of Hiroshima give you some idea of the scale of destruction though they are unable to convey the scale of suffering.

The sheer horror of what happened in Hiroshima and Nagasaki made my bile rise. The justification for using the bomb was to eliminate the need for an Allied ground invasion of Japan which would have led to more casualties, which is admirable enough in theory. But then to drop the bomb on civilians with no forewarning not once, but twice, smacks me as barbaric (the 3 days between the two bombs was not enough for the Japanese authorities to fully study what had happened - the first report from Japanese scientists that confirmed the nuclear nature of the attack was presented to the government the day after Nagasaki). The West likes to claim moral principles in its foreign relations (both in war and peace time) but it seems hard for me to reconcile that with what I have seen and learnt. Does the fact that there was no malice in the decision to bomb Hiroshima, but instead cold calculation (the final decision to choose Hiroshima hinged on the fact that there were no American PoWs in the city, which, perversely, turns out to make the case for using human shields), make it any better than the killings of Roma, homosexuals and Jews by the Nazis. Although it could be argued that in the Nazi worldview these groups did not constitute people and so their extermination was just ruthlessly efficient. Whatever the case may be, the rightness of the use of the atomic bombs never made it to an impartial hearing and today the populace of these cities see it as their duty to maintain the flame of the disarmament campaign. One of the manifestations of this is that the majors of both cities write protest letters to heads of state whenever they carry out nuclear tests. Copies of the letters are displayed in the museum. As an interesting little experiment I counted all the letters that had been written since the fall of the Berlin Wall. There were exactly 100 in total. Such neatness was an invitation to see who the greatest transgressors in terms of nuclear testing over the past 20 years have been. In that period 9 countries have carried out nuclear tests: China, France, India, North Korea, Pakistan, the UK, and the USA. I was genuinely surprised to find that fully 50% of the letters were addressed to American presidents (occupying second place, with 21% of the votes, was France). I'm no anti-American at heart, but I am getting sick and tired of hearing laudable goals and statements coming from the Leadership of the Free World only to find, by digging a little deeper, an underlying hypocrisy.

It's not particularly easy to make out, but there is a darker patch on the steps of this building: all that is left of an unfortunate soul who was sitting outside the bank that morning, waiting for it to open. The building was so close to ground zero that the person was vaporised, the only evidence of their passing the shadow left upon the granite stones.

But I had not come to Hiroshima to feed my prejudices. Instead the city and its immediate surroundings display a fantastic microcosm of medieval, imperial and modern Japan. I think I've touched on the imperial enough for one post so let's move to the medieval. The shrines of Japan's indigenous Shinto religion are easily recognisable by their torii, or entrance gates. These symbolic gateways that represent the divide between the sacred and profane are a common sight throughout the country. Undoubtedly the most famous and iconic is the floating torii of the Itsukushima shrine by the island of Miyajima. Every tourist brochure, guidebook and travel programme about Japan shows the vermilion torii which seems to float magically on the water. The torii is placed in the water because the whole island was considered sacred and off limits to common people. Therefore the main shrine is built on stone piles driven into the sand in the shallows so that it is possible to be visited without technically setting foot on the island. There is also a colony of half-tame deer that have come to subsist from harassing tourists for handouts.

Sunset behind the Itsakushima shrine torii.

Shinto shrines are wonderfully fascinating places. Following Japan's defeat in World War II, and their breakneck development since then, religious belief as we live it in Islamo-Christian cultures (where faith in a deity an scriptures form an important pillar in daily life) has more or less disappeared, yet shrines and temples are still popularly frequented by many people. I would love to talk about it with a local, but it seems to me as if giving an offering at a shrine or performing a certain ritual (such as having your new car blessed by a Shinto priest) is a way of hedging your bets. Sort of like saying "better safe than sorry". It probably helps that these rituals can be done at any shrine and only take a few minutes and can be fit around your busy working schedule. And although I am an avowed atheist it grates on my Western sensibilities where religious belief implies a certain amount of sacrifice, devotion and dedication rather than fitting it in between going to the hairdresser and doing the weekly shopping.

Votive tablets, ema, hanging at the Itsukushima shrine.

As for the modern, Hiroshima is the home of Mazda. There can be nothing more symbolic of Japan's post-war success than its automobile industry. Particularly impressive when yu think that only 150 years ago all wheeled forms of transport were banned in Japan. Four of the world's top 10 car makers are Japanese and the country produces some 10 million cars annually. What's more it is possible to visit Mazda's main factory and get an English tour for free (always an important consideration, especially here in Japan). So in between school groups of raucous children our little group of gaijin were given a rundown of the company's history from its first commercial trike in the early 30's to the present day where it is known for its sporty-yet-affordable cars. The highlight was, without a doubt, the production line where workers fluidly bolted together the cars as they slowly, inexorably trundled along the conveyor belt. I was impressed to see that, with the help of computer inventories, it was possible to have several different models being assembled on the same line.

Mazda's unique rotary engine, for which it is famous.

Fishy Friends

2011-10-19T16:00:00.001+01:00

My last stop in South Korea was Busan, the country's major port, located at the southeastern tip of the Korean peninsula. The steep, indented coastline with its myriad islands as an ideal deepwater port location and has long been Korea's gateway to the world. The densely-packed city of over 4 million coalesces at the feet of the surrounding hills into discreet neighbourhoods connected with each other by an intricate maze of tunnels and bridges. Like many port towns Busan is loud and brash - at least by Korean standards where conformism and not rocking the boat are desired traits. A place where conspicuous consumption is lauded with the world's largest department store along with one of the world's tallest towers also under construction. There are few worries about the future in this prosperous city. Way gooks (white foreigners) are far more conspicuous than elsewhere in the country, and it's not just the English teachers; there's even a Russian ghetto in town where you can get your fill of pirozhki and stock up on Baltika beer.

Panorama of Busan's crowded harbor area.

Unfortunately I just missed out on the Busan International Film Festival, the highlight of Busan's entertainment calendar, but I was recompensed with the tastes, sights and smells of its fish festival where all sorts of weird and wonderful creatures of the deep could be seen in stall tanks before being skewered and stuck on a grill for the culinary delight of the punters (except for some of the smaller octopi which are quickly hacked to pieces and eaten fresh whilst the dismembered limbs are still wriggling - just remember to chew well as the suckers still function...).

The octopus stall at the Busan fish market. Mmmm, chewy.

Although ship-building and shipping have overtaken the fishing industry in Busan the same cannot be said for Shimonoseki, my port of entry to Japan. Once an important and very strategic city, guarding as it does the Kanmon Straights between the two main islands of Honshu and Kyushu, it has stagnated in recent times whilst other, upstart ports, have overtaken it in importance. Nevertheless it has maintained its crown as the fugu (pufferfish) capital of Japan. Pufferfish are not eaten in other countries (except perhaps South Korea to a limited extent) because they are highly poisonous. Fugu chefs must train for several years before they are allowed to prepare the fish for human consumption by safely cutting away the most poisonous parts such as the skin and liver. For this reason fugu is famous in the West for the frisson of danger that it offers to potential patrons, and it has become an essential item on the menu for all adventurous visitors to Japan. (Un)Luckily I'm allergic to fish and so have a legitimate excuse not to try it, not that I believe it's dangerous mind you, given the sheer quantity of fugu products on sale in Shimonoseki where cute, balloon-shaped depictions of cuddly pufferfish adorn every available space: on street signs, shop windows, posters, biscuits, children's toys and even manhole covers.

Elegantly prepared plate of fugu sashimi.

It's not just fish that Busan and Shimonoseki share in common. Both are tightly packed urban spaces spooled around steep hills. Nevertheless I was surprised by the low-rise nature of Shimonoseki's urbanism. Instead of Busan's taste for the vertical the Japanese have opted for ergonomics and everything is shrunk to its smallest usable size. Roads in residential areas are improbably narrow and usually lack pavements; to deal with this so-called kei cars are ubiquitous: tiny, ergonomic boxes that lack the sleek, aerodynamic looks of European cars but which are perfect for urban environments and impose lower taxes; even light commercial vehicles (vans) only have one litre engines and can probably be lifted by a handful of men; and flats are rarely anything but cramped, studio apartments. And although I think we would do well to learn from the automotive needs of the Japanese I am glad that I grew up somewhere I could have a room to myself.

No, it's not an optical illusion, and neither was my host Seiji a giant. Instead cars in Japan are rather small

P.S. Since leaving Central Europe over a year ago I have been travelling through the Traffic Twilight Zone, where the rules of the road are blatantly disregarded (or just don't exist), car horns are used instead of brakes, and where pedestrians are seen as being fair game. It has therefore come as a pleasant shock to the system to be in a country where drivers respect lanes and traffic lights, pedestrians are given the right of way, and the sound of honking horns is rarer than gold dust. I am enjoying this warm cocoon of traffic safety as much as possible by jaywalking at every opportunity because I know that it cannot last and soon I will have to return to the real world of car-dodging when I return to China.

Jeju See That?

2011-10-15T17:57:00.005+01:00

Wherever I went in South Korea people never neglected to recommend that I should visit Jeju. "Very pretty." "Sandy beaches." "Delicious oranges." "Good weather." Indeed, Jeju island is South Korea's Hawaii. As well as being the main holiday destination for locals it is also a volcanic island and is home to south Korea's highest peak, Hallasan, a dormant volcano. In fact the whole island is basically the mountain, whose main cone rises up in the very centre of the island and can be seen from everywhere (theoretically at least, although the peak is usually shrouded in mist). What makes it unique though, at least for geology geeks, is the numerous so-called "parasitic cones" (oreum in the native dialect) of which there are over 350 scattered around the island. Many are easily overlooked, but others form clusters of craters that pop unexpectedly out of the surrounding farmland and look distinctly otherworldly. Add to this some funky, hexagonal basalt blocks that spill into the sea and lava tubes that look like dragons' lairs and you have all the ingredients for a volcanic geologist's wet dream.

View of some oreum peeking out of the mist on the way up Hallasan.

Of course I had to bag Hallasan as it is South Korea's highest mountain, and at 1950m with a nice, well-maintained path to the top it's a straightforward walk. Though that doesn't stop older Koreans from making a meal of it with their hiking sticks and all weather gear. It was amusing to see how the sticks were more of a hindrance than a help as they often got caught in cracks and poked into their co-climbers. And whilst the slog up along the main trail was rather unspectacular as it passed through low, brushy forest, with plenty of mist, the descent along a less popular, but more open, trail afforded vistas of the entire island and forests in their autumn finery as the clouds were burned away with the strengthening sun.

Autumnal colours on the descent from Hallasan.

To keep the many Korean holidaymakers who are not into hiking happy Jeju is also crammed full of assorted museums, some are about aspects of the island's culture but many have no connection whatsoever to the island. So there's a citrus museum and one dedicated to local rock carvings as well as a paper doll museum, teddy bear museum and even a chocolate museum. Some museums seem so popular that there are three of them, so the island boasts three peace museums, three folklore museums and even, for some strange reason I cannot begin to fathom, three sex museums (unlike their Japanese neighbours, the Koreans are rather prudish when it comes to sex).

The oranges (possibly tangerines/clementines/satsumas/mandarines or other similar agrume) for which Jeju is famous in South Korea (so of course there is a museum dedicated to them too).

Painful Past, Better Present

2011-10-09T16:14:00.006+01:00

South Korea is well under the radar of public consciousness when it comes to anything other than its hugely successful industrial behemoths, or chaebols, such as Samsung, LG and Hyundai. They are household names the world over and exert tremendous influence at home with a finger in every proverbial pie. As for history, people may be able to cite the Korean War (though not that many, given its nickname of The Forgotten War), Korea's colonisation by the Japanese and a handful of sporting events, such as the '88 Olympics and 2002 World Cup. That's as far as my knowledge went anyway before I arrived. So it came as quite a surprise to learn that South Korea was under consecutive military dictatorships right up until the early 90's - the first peaceful transition of power was in '92. The fact that little is known about this period of South Korea's history is probably due to the Cold War mentality of the West supporting any despotic regime as long as they were anti-Communist - "he may be a son of a bitch, but at least he's our son of a bitch" - that also helped keep various Latin American juntas in power.

Rows of graves of the victims of 518 in Gwangju.

There were many abuses during the almost 50 years of military rule, but two incidents are notorious. The first happened in the run up to the Korean War when the citizens of Jeju island protested against former Japanese collaborators who managed to end up in positions of power after WWII. The violent crackdown on farmers that the government suspected of having Communist sympathies led to an insurrection that led to the deaths of tens of thousands of civilians, the gang-raping of countless local women (who afterwards were sometimes executed or even forced into marriages with their agressors who were then able to inherit their land), and the devastation of much of the island. The individual stories are truly shocking. The second episode of particular infamy was the Gwangju Massacre of 1980 (locally called 518 in reference to the 18th of May when the incident started). Students in the southwest started protesting against the latest military coup and closing of their university. Within days the movement had escalated into a city-wide revolt followed by the heavy-handed, indiscriminate use of special forces which led to the deaths of large numbers of civilians. And these were supposed to be the good guys that the West was supporting against the Evil Commies.

Although the protests had been violently quashed and democracy didn't come to South Korea for another 12 years, it is recognised as being one of the seeds of the democratic movement and is now widely commemorated. What has made me glad though, is that these events are talked about and remembered via the country's Turth and Reconciliation Comission and that many of the perpetrators were later brought to justice.

One of the reasons the uprisings occured in the southwest is that it has been poorer and more rural than other regions, especially the southeast, which has benefited from lavish attention from successive governments. The main reason being that the various cliques in power have been from the southeast and have favoured their home region whilst conversely neglecting their traditional rivals to the west. But at least this leads to some beautiful countryside scenes, such as harvested rice which is left out to dry along many roads, and farmers on their small power tillers pootering along narrow country lanes.

A typical autumnal sight in South Korea: rice put out to dry on long tarpaulin sheets taking up a lane of the highway.

Apart from regional wealth disparities South Korea is a very homogeneous country, ethnically, culturally and linguisitcally. Everyone in Korea is Korean, except for a small contingent of expats who can be divided into three very distinct groups: the 40,000 American GIs who are based in South Korea and who are generally disliked for their attitudes and drunken and disorderly behaviour when they are let loose in town; the foreign professionals who help organise Korean multinationals by providing expertise and business acumen (their numbers are few and I never meet them); and the army of English language teachers here to help Koreans pass their English exams. This is perhaps the facet of South Korean life that I have seen the most as the majority of my hosts have been such English teachers (although Koreans are generally very friendly and generous, inviting strangers into their homes is often a step too far into the unknown and uncomfortable for them). So at least I have a good understanding of the life of an expat here, which, as everyone has told me, is pretty good: the work isn't too stressful, the pay is decent, the cost of living is cheap, accommodation is provided, and they even pay for your airfare there and back again. A good option for graduates who are finding it hard to find work at home perhaps? They are often a young and friendly crowd and I've spent a fair number of evenings in bars drinking makgeolli and soju, competing in a pub quiz, and even, a few days ago, being invited to a Canadian Thanksgiving dinner (aka "Real Thanksgiving").

Although couchsurfing hasn't worked out with locals as much as I had hoped, I have had much better luck hitchhiking. It's not at all in the local custom for people to hitch in South Korea, but I've never had to stick my thumb out for too long before a friendly, and usually concerned, person stops to give me a ride. Since crime of any sort (except perhaps corporate fraud and embezzlement) is rare here people are trusting and unafraid, so that I've even had a housewife stop for me. In fact travelling in South Korea is very easy: buses and trains (and even taxis) are pretty cheap, there is plenty of tourist information everywhere, and public amenities are plentiful (free toilets, water fountains and even free internet in post offices). In a way slightly disappointing as travelling here really isn't a challenge at all!

Masked Balls

2011-10-04T12:31:00.018+01:00

The southeast corner of South Korea is home to many cultural and historical relics, perhaps partly because it wasn't so severely damaged by the Korean war which left much of the rest of the country devastated (many historical sites are reconstructions, albeit faithful ones, of their former selves). Of the three "must-see" sights in South Korea (Seoul being another, and more on the third in a later post) is Gyeongju, which is often called the "Museum without walls" due to the many historical remains scattered around the city dating back to the time when it was the capital of the Silla kingdom that ruled over the region for almost a thousand years. Most of the remains are grassy tumuli that represent tombs of nobles and royalty and are dotted around all over the place, but there are also old Buddhist temples, grottoes, statues and rock carvings that bear witness to what was once one of the largest cities in the world.

A 1000 year old pagoda on Namsan mountain in Gyeongju.

Slightly less grandiose, but definitely worth seeing, are some of the small villages in the area that have managed to retain, at least to a certain degree, their traditional flavour. One of these is Hahoe, set in the bend of a river surrounded by concentric circles of paddy fields, now golden and ready for harvest, and emerald mountains. Houses are uniform in their colour schemes of sandy plaster, warm wood and thatch that fits in with the fields. Narrow lanes jinking between courtyard walls, ginkgo and persimmon trees laden with ripening fruit all give the place a timeless air, though not of some musty, lifeless museum, but a community that is still active. Fields are tended, fruit is left out to dry, kimchi is still prepareed in large pots outside. This is still Korea though and so modernity is there, but it blends into the village aesthetic so that you barely notice the satellite dishes, paved roads and drink vending machines.

The traditional houses in the rustic folk village of Hahue still have thatched roofs and neat, well-tended vegetable patches.

Since I have little power in deciding the exact dates that I will be in a certain place in advance I often just miss various festivals or special events (like Nadaam), but here in South Korea I was lucky to be able to catch the Andong International Maskdance Festival (thanks to my hosts in Andong who not only told me about it, but invited me back to catch the first couple of days). Mask dances have a long and important tradition in rural Korea, as, in the highly hierarchical Confucian society that reigned on the peninsula since 1400, such mask dances were the only way the common people could air grievances and criticise their feudal lords. So the masks don't look as fancy as their Japanese or Chinese counterparts, with lopsided faces and colour-schemes designed by 4-year olds suffering from Daltonism. Their charm lies in their coarseness, brutal simplicity and unsubtle sense of humour. Of course I wasn't able to understand everything that was going on during the performances, but here are a the story lines of couple of the more "out there" pieces.

Butcher ambles on stage; chats to the audience; bull appears, occasionally "peeing" on the audience with a handily placed water bottle; farmer kills bull; cuts off bull's bollocks; offers them to various audience members before wandering off stage again.

Old monk comes on stage; harangues audience; pretty young girl comes on stage; needs to take a pee; randy peeping monk scares her off; inspects her urinal deposit by sniffing it, before scooping up the drenched earth and pocketing it.

Randy monk spies the young lady taking a number one.

Obviously you need to be Korean to get it. Nevertheless it was a lot of fun and the locals were loving it. Though it is far from the only thing that has baffled me in this country. The most extreme example of complete cultural incompatibility has to be Fan Death. Fan Death is the belief that having fan switched on continuously, especially whilst sleeping, can kill you. All fans are sold with sleep timers to prevent asphyxiation by slight breeze and even respected doctors and the government talk about Fan Death in all earnestness. As bizarre and ridiculous as this may sound it is a belief held by the majority of Koreans as fervently as others may believe in astrology, fairies or even God. Logic, rationality and basic science go out the window when it comes to Koreans' bizarre fear of moving air. Korea seems to have a knack of lulling you into complacency, thinking that it's very much like Europe or North America, and then, when you expect it the least, blindsides you with some oddity that is at right angles to everything you understand.

Farewell To A Faithful Companion

2011-09-27T00:24:00.040+01:00

I said goodbye to an old friend in Seoul. I had bought my scruffy tent in West Jerusalem back in early 2007 for just 100 shekels (around £10 at the time) in a small shop just off Yaffo Street. It was the cheapest one I could find yet she served me well through my various trips since then. I had called her home in over 25 countries on 100 different occasions (to get an idea of how useful a tent can be check out my free-camping map for this trip - it helps if you initially zoom out a little), but it was now time to part ways as I will have little opportunity to use a tent in the next 7-9 months and 2kg is a lot of extra weight to carry around. I left her with my host and hopefully she will get passed on to another traveller who will be able to make use of her. My week in Seoul passed by very quickly and was certainly not enough to see it fully, but I had to keep moving. The call of the road is unrelenting.

One of the many picturesque valleys in Seoraksan national park.

Due east of Seoul, near the coast, lies the Seoraksan national park, home to forests and soaring, granite peaks. Surprisingly, for a country the size of Portugal but with the population of Spain, there are many forested mountains that are largely untouched, with most people concentrated in the urban centres that dot the valleys that they share with intensely-farmed paddy-fields and small-scale farms. It is on the mountains that you get to see middle-aged Koreans in their element: hiking. Or at least kitted out in all the latest Gore-Tex, ultra-breathable, lightweight, wicking, super-soft hiking gear, along with top of the range boots and walking sticks. Even when they're out for a short amble Koreans seem to be ready for a full-scale Everest expedition. Seoraksan certainly didn't require any special equipment with wide trails and well-maintained steps. Into the wild it wasn't, and the trails were busier than Tesco on a Sunday afternoon, but that didn't detract (too much) from the natural beauty of the mountains. And I was pleasantly surprised at how little litter there was on the mountain given its popularity. In fact I spent most of the day with a smile on my face practicing one of my two Korean phrases: anyong haseyo, or hello. Simply saying this made my fellow hikers beam and shower me with random gifts of food. In fact as soon as they see that you're a tourist and not one of the 40,000 American GIs that are stationed in Korea then it's smiles and friendliness all round. Furthermore the Czech Republic (or Cheko as they call it, which, funnily enough, is what I call it myself when I'm speaking English, as Czech Republic is too much of a mouthful) is not some unknown entity to most Koreans and I was taken aback by how many knew Prague and had even visited themselves.

The first day on the mountain saw me hike up to the topmost shelter just below the highest peak at some 1600m - the mountains of Korea are not of epic proportions, but their steep nature make them seem higher. Despite it being a Thursday in the off-season the 150-bed "hut" was almost full. I was the only foreigner there. In fact I was the first foreigner there in almost a week and I hadn't seen another all day. Not that it mattered and I was soon adopted by a group of Koreans who shared some of their food and soju (Korean rice wine) with me, and by the end of the evening we were in a circle swaying rather drunkenly to Korean folk songs. The next morning I rose early with everyone else to ascend the main peak to view the sunrise out of the Sea of Japan; only to be surrounded by our own sea of mist that clung to the mountaintop throughout the morning. So a little disappointed I headed down through the maze of canyons, ridges and fast-flowing streams of the park until I reached the coast and got to rest my weary legs.

One of the two rooms of bunk-beds at the mountain shelter. There was a party atmosphere with singing, games and gossiping amongst the inmates.

The walking was far from the most difficult that I had ever done, but the constant steps and my decision to carry my entire backpack from one side to the other (it appealed to my sense of parsimony to hike from one of the park to the other rather than leaving my stuff at the entrance and then entering and leaving at the same point) had left an impression on the muscles in my legs and they didn't want to do much for the next few days. Instead I mooched around the coastal towns of Sokcho, Yangyang and Jeongdongjin. The coast is home to small towns that live to a great extent off the short summer holiday season when locals flock to the country's many splendid beaches. To keep the punters happy many of these town have some oddly kitschy tourist attractions such as Yangyang's insectarium, Sokcho's tourist-powered ferry, and Jeongdongjin's giant hourglass that empties its contents once a year (unfortunately this year it was undergoing repairs and so was out of action). At least this was made up for by the North Korean submarine that was on display just up the road.

Seafood stall in Yangyang selling all sorts of dried marine exotica, including dried rays (hanging from the ceiling).

Seoul Of The Country

2011-09-22T12:57:00.003+01:00

Although I had very briefly been in South Korea whilst visiting the DMZ at Panmunjon, if I wanted to get there properly I had to go via China. So back it was to Dandong where I bought myself a ferry ticket to Incheon, Seoul's port city. It would have been cheaper and faster to fly, but I'm wanting to try to travel round the world without having to resort to airplanes as much as I can at least; plus in an airplane you don't get the opportunity to share a giant dorm room with over 100 Chinese.

Travelling economy class in China means something completely different to what we're normally used to. The convivial atmosphere of the large dorm aboard the ferry to Incheon.

Apart from the minor bedlam at embarkation the journey went smoothly and it was fun to see people unpacking elaborate picnics of dried squid, pickles, rice, chickens' feet and other assorted comestibles. There was a light party atmosphere and my immediate neighbours were a trio of card sharks who played poker throughout the night (I know because I awoke at 3am and they were still at it), often with a small crowd of onlookers as other entertainment was rare, although we were treated to an altercation between two middle-aged men which, after a few minutes of shouting came to blows before one was chased on deck. Not quite a Hollywood premiere, but it kept us entertained for a few minutes at least.

The old Joseon royal palace in Seoul. A seemingly tranquil and idyllic spot, but turn round 180 degrees and you can almost see into the windows of the looming skyscrapers of downtown Seoul.

It was a strange feeling to arrive in Seoul. For all the progress in China over the past few years Beijing still feels a little rough around the edges, but Seoul is a far more polished entity, at least when it comes to basic infrastructure, tidiness and traffic - the architectural cohesion of the city is another matter. Seoul was largely flattened during the Korean War, having changed hands a total of four times, and in the ensuing mad dash for development little thought seems to have been given to planning aesthetic harmony, and the tightly packed neighbourhoods are a stylistic cacophony. The only common feature that I can see are the conspicuous "dunces hat" spires of the myriad churches that dot the city. Although Christianity is something of a new arrival in Korea, its history on the peninsula barely 250 years old, since the end of the war it has undergone an explosion in popularity and is now the largest religion in the country. From the old city walls the red crosses that generally top the spires are conspicuous among the city lights, and boy there's a lot of them.

This giant church dominates the city centre of Suwon, close to Seoul. However most Korean churches are rather small yet are everywhere.

As the capital of Korea for the last few hundred years there are is a fair smattering of palaces, royal tombs and the like scattered around town, all with incongruous skyscraper backdrops. A fitting metaphor for the weird combination of conservative tradition and brakeneck, headlong rush into the future that epitomises South Korea and its society. But it is definitely the 21st century hustle and bustle of the world's second-largest metropolitan area that defines Seoul: the heaving mass of traders, shoppers, food hawkers, peddlers and gawkers in the narrow streets of Myeong-dong is intoxicating and slightly scary; half the people on the crowded metro are jabbing away at their smartphones (most of them, even the girls, playing games); scooters dart along pavements, oblivious to pedestrians; and 24-hour convenience stores cater to your every needs at any time of night and day.

The vaguely organised chaos that is the Myeong-dong shopping district in downtown Seoul.

Things seems to go at a more frenetic pace in Seoul, and yet at the same time they're frozen and immovable, perpetuating the division between progress and conservatism. South Korea is famous for having the fastest internet access of any country in the world, with cheap PC baeng (internet cafes) on every corner, and yet everyone seems to be using outdated versions of Internet Explorer which is a real drag on the surfing experience (many websites don't even work properly). South Koreans also work some of the longest hours in the developed world and yet are shockingly unproductive. Ossified working practices, deferential and strictly hierarchical corporate culture and a work environment where peer pressure obliges workers to go out binge-drinking. My host Ho worked for a large company and on most working days I was staying with him he would come home late and drunk after his boss made the team go out for drinks, and then the next morning he would have to head back to the office at 7am slightly worse for wear. From the people I have talked to such is the situation in the overwhelming majority of workplaces in the country. The ultimate irony for Ho was that he didn't even like drinking,

My host Ho might have been working his ass off during the week, but at least his company had free tickets to watch the local team play at the World Cup stadium.

Completing The Axis

2011-09-15T02:51:00.026+01:00

Whilst in Dongbei I visited the towns of Ji'an and Dandong, on the banks of the Yalu river which forms the border with North Korea. Staring out across the divide is like looking through some sci-fi time-vortex: the Chinese side is bustling, noisy, full of lights, shops, cars and the shouting mass of Chinese humanity, whereas just over the slow waters the other bank is moribund and lifeless with barely a soul stirring. As night falls there is barely a light to be seen in the enigmatic Hermit Kingdom. At the Hushan Great Wall (the easternmost section of the Great Wall which reaches right to the DPRK border) the Yalu river narrows to such an extent that the Korean border fence is only 10m away. Getting so close there was no way I was going to pass up the opportunity to visit what is perhaps the most intriguing and isolated country in the world today (with the possible exception of Eritrea) whilst also completing my tour of George Bush's infamous Axis of Evil.

The Yalu river a Yibukuo where it narrows to less than 10m. The left side is China, whilst the right is North Korea.

Visiting the DPRK, however, does not come cheap. You have to visit with an organised tour and even the cheapest, where you stay for only 3 nights and enter by train from Dandong cost around $800, more than I had spent in the previous 8 weeks. And it's not just a question of money, but also the fact that my money will be going straight into the pockets of a less-than-savoury regime. (Where my money goes when I travel is an issue that I feel is very important and I go out of my way to try and ensure that it goes to honest, local people who are providing a service, rather than some large company - I much prefer being able to physically see the person to whom my money is going, and perhaps share a smile with them.) Nevertheless I would never get another opportunity and, misgivings aside, duly signed myself up to join a Chinese tour group and soon found myself standing on the platform of Dandong railway station with 17 Chinese tourists wondering what the hell I had let myself in for. A tour to North Korea is unlike visiting any other country: you are constantly chaperoned by two guides; contact with locals is strictly discouraged (unless it's to buy souvenirs); you are constantly bombarded by Party propaganda; and you are only allowed to go where the authorities want you to go. They cannot, however, stop you from opening your eyes, and the train journey to Pyongyang afforded the perfect opportunity to observe the North Korean countryside. There were three things that struck me straight away: the absence of cars - everyone was either on foot or cycling; the neatness - the infrastructure is reasonably good, the houses that I saw in a respectable condition, and very litter about; and finally that every inch of land seemed to be given over to agriculture. Paddy fields in the flat valleys, and maize everywhere else. Even road verges and disused railway lines were given over to growing crops. This is understandable yet strange at the same time. The media image of North Korea that we get in the West is one of mass starvation and malnutrition as crops fail to cover the country's needs, and so it is only natural that such a country would want to stave off further famine by growing as much of its own food as possible, yet on the other hand I found it hard to believe that such a fertile and intensively farmed country (from what I could see) was chronically suffering from food shortages.

A typical North Korean farming village (at least representative of the ones I saw from my train and coach windows). Fields of billowing rice out front and solid and simple houses behind.

As our train rolled into Pyongyang the weather remained the same but it felt as if it had become suddenly far more overcast. The city is completely devoid of colour: the grim, Communist apartment blocks are all kitted out in various unexciting shades of grey; peoples' clothes are invariably olive drab, brown or dark grey; and, apart from a few propaganda posters urging greater work effort for the glory of the country and the Party, there are no posters or adverts and it's difficult to spot the shops for lack of signs. To live in Pyongyang is to be among the favoured of the regime and life for people there is vastly more comfortable than for those in the rest of the country. But even knowing that I was not expecting to see children roller-blading in the central square, or families having picnics in the parks, or even groups of school children hanging around together, having a laugh and buying ice-creams from the street kiosk.

Although there were a few more vehicles on the streets there is no risk of traffic jams occuring in Pyongyang any time soon, and most people are squeezed into old buses and trams. Should there be any traffic problems then people shouldn't worry as at every major intersection there's a young policewoman ... not really doing very much. Ostensibly they're there to conduct traffic, but it's obvious from the short skirts and narrow waistlines and the fact that they're all pretty young girls that Kim Jong-il is a dictator with a bit of a uniform fetish. Although I can understand: if I was an autocratic despot with an entire country at my disposal I would probably do the same. It was here that I also got my own, English-speaking guide, although guide is perhaps an exaggeration. Seeing as there was at the same time an international taekwondo tournament being held in town there was a dearth of English speakers, and so a university student had been roped in to ensure that I was kept in line.

The agoraphobia-inducing expanse of Kim Il-sung Square in the heart of Pyongyang. Grey museum buildings with huge images of the two Kims flank the Peoples' Study Palace whilst youngsters rollerblade around.

Tours to North Korea may be short, but they are certainly packed. The next morning we were breakfasted and in our coach heading for Panmunjon and the infamous DMZ (the inappropriately named De-Militarised Zone that forms the border between North and South and which is the most heavily militarised border in the world). After a couple of hours driving along a deserted highway with more rice and maize fields rolling by, we were disgorged at the incongruous Panmun Souvenir Shop. (For a Communist, anti-capitalist country, North Korea has a surprisingly large number of souvenir shops and not a single opportunity was passed up by our guide to ensure we didn't miss any of them.) After a while a military guide escorted us to the Joint Security Area and the hall where the armistice was signed in 1953 between the Northern and UN forces that brought the Korean war to a stop, but not to an end - officially the two sides are still at war and there is only a ceasefire (although according to the North Korean propaganda the "American imperialist agressors got down on their knees and begged for surrender, recognising their defeat, handing a glorious victory to the heroic DPRK army". Then we were taken the conference room, housed in a blue bungalow that is perfectly bisected by the border, where negotiations are carried out between the two sides, sitting at a common table that straddles the border. Therefore, by circling round the table, it is possible to briefly cross from North to South Korea.

The huts that house the ongoing negotiations between the North and the South at Panmunjon that srtaddle the border. The building in the background is for South Korean visitors and is called Freedom House.

The following day we were taken to Myohyang-san the site of the pompously-named International Friendship Exhibition. Two giant, modern exhibition halls, with kilometres of tunnels dug into the mountain present and display all the diplomatic gifts given to the two Kims. An obligatory place of pilgrimage and indoctrination for all North Korean school children where they are told how beloved their "Dear Leaders" are, just look at all the presents we get from all over the world. A morbidly fascinating place and the pinnacle of self-aggrandisement, it's just a shame that we were rushed through the complex by our guides and couldn't stop to marvel at the comedy of it all. Amongst the priceless objects, such as fine porcelain sets, jewel-encrusted swords (from Colonel Gaddafi), crystal vases and silk tapestries from diplomats to trade delegations and even some suspect societies (like the Japanese branch of the society for the study of Kimilsungism) were some even more priceless (in comedic, rather than monetary, value) artifacts such as seriously-dated stereo systems from the early 80's, a set of golf clubs, and a stuffed crocodile bearing a tray of drinks glasses (the latter from the Sandinistas, who must have, on the back of the gift, risen in my esteem). Laughing, unfortunately, was not allowed, as for North Koreans this is an intensely solemn place. So much so that we were all ushered into a grand hall, with the most select gifts ranged along the sides and at the far end a life-sized waxwork model of Kim Il-sung posed, mid-stride, in a bucolic, woodland diorama, complete with stuffed gambolling fawns and chirping birds, and made to bow in obeisance to the Eternal President.

Ordinary North Korean peasants may be starving, but there's enough food to be found to furnish the tourists with a good half-dozen courses.

Then it was back to Pyongyang where the propaganda continued with a visit to the Pyongyang Children's Palace. At this extra-curricular institute, gifted North Korean children are instructed in various arts, such as music, painting, calligraphy, dance, martial arts, etc. so that they can then perform in front of tourists to awe them with the superiority of the North Korean people and their immaculate educational system. Endless rooms of little kids playing faultlessly on guitars larger than themselves, strumming on zithers, punching away at pianos, practicing their plies, all the while overseen by stern teachers and camera-toting hordes of tourists. Getting into such an establishment ensures a good life for the child and its family, but at the cost of becoming a propaganda puppet and arduous work of performing at a young age. And perform they do, as we foreigners (as every tourist who visits North Korea is almost obliged to visit the Children's Palace) were ushered into a theatre and treated/sunjected to an hour of dance, music and singing performances by pre-pubescent girls and teenagers.

Young girl at Pyongyang Children's Palace performs a song and drum routine for foreign tourists.

That was not to be the last performance that day, as in the evening, after another lavish dinner, came the pinnacle of our trip to North Korea: the Arirang Festival. The festival is an artistic and gymnastics performance that is performed annually every day for two months in summer. Everything about it is superlative (not least the cost, which for 3rd class seats for foreigners cost some $130): it is held in the largest stadium in the world, with a capacity of 150,000 and features some 100,000 individual performers over the course of the evening's spectacle. The festival is one great hagiographic performance to Kim Il-sung and the DPRK, extolling the prowess, virtues, greatness and advancement of the state and its people in song and dance. I won't go into any great details about the performance, except to say that I was most impressed by the intricacy and precision of the performance's card stunt that involved perhaps 30,000 children flipping coloured cards in perfect synchronisation to create pictures and words on the opposite tribune. Incredible. (For an in-depth description of the performance, along with a host of pictures I highly recommend this website.) Yet despite the mind-blowing performance I couldn't help thinking about the resources that the Festival must suck away from the rest of the country (for many of the performers it is their main job), resources that the country can ill-afford to squander.

Scene from the Arirang Festival where thousands of performers are choreographed with precision to glorify the Kim regime.

And that was pretty much it. After a brief visit to the exquisitely decorated Pyongyang metro the next day (the deepest in the world as it also serves as a mass nuclear shelter) we were bundled into the train for Dandong. Oddly the journey back ended up being something of a banquet. The Chinese hadn't been expecting much of the Korean cuisine and so most of them had taken substantial supplies of food with them, only to find that not only was the Korean food more than palatable, but also that there was a lot of it, and so there was never any risk of going hungry whilst there.

I have various, mixed thoughts about my visit to the Hermit Kingdom. On the one hand the way that the tour is set up and with the official chaperones you only get to see what the authorities allow you to see and contact with the locals is almost zero, so it is hard to get an objective view of what the country is really like. Both the North Korean government and the Western powers have a vested interest to exaggerate their respective positions I think the truth probably lies somewhere in the middle. Life in North Korea isn't all milk and honey as they would like to put across, but quite patently not everyone is starving either. The cult of personality is certainly there, with every Korean obliged to wear a pin with Kim Il-sung's likeness and there are numerous posters and murals of both Kims around, but from the priming I had received from the media I had expected golden statues at every corner. What I would most love to know, however, is whether the ordinary Koreans themselves truly believe in the regime and the propaganda, or whether they are just going along with spiel so as to avoid punishment. Either way North Korea is as inscrutable as ever.

A video of one chapter from the Arirang performance. Breathtaking despite the dodgy message and slight groupthink creepiness.

A Life More Ordinary

2011-09-06T20:05:00.000+01:00

From Beijing I headed up to the region historically known as Manchuria. Today though in Chinese it is simply called Dongbei, or Northwest (actually, to be more accurate, Eastnorth), a far more neutral term as Manchuria is the cradle of several unhappy episodes in Chinese history: first there was the disastrous Manchu Qing dynasty that oversaw the stagnation and decline of China; and then Manchuria became the backdoor through which foreign empires, first Russia and then Japan, invaded. It's not a particularly touristy area, its major draw is the imperial mountain resort at Chengde which is popular with locals (and shows that there is a sizeable affluent middle class with disposable incomes, as the entrance ticket costs almost $20 regardless of nationality and with no reductions, even for people with fake student IDs). Even though I arrived at 8am the place was already thronged with families on weekend breaks, tour groups with matching T-shirts and baseball caps and, particularly memorable, large groups of older women doing undemanding dance routines to easy listening music. Old-timers in China are surprisingly sprightly, and it's not uncommon to see them doing tai-chi, singing karaoke or even kicking about a shuttlecock in a city park.

The "Small Potala Palace" in Chengde. Initially the Manchu emperors felt more affinity to their Mongolian and Tibetan cousins and built temples in their styles and used Mongolian script. But as time went on they became more Sinicised and looked down on them.

In the small provincial capital of Shenyang - small for China that is, it's still the size of Madrid - I spent an afternoon wandering about the city centre. Although it was the Manchu capital way back when, there is precious little remaining from its illustrious past save the old palace and a couple of tombs, the rest of the city is thoroughly new (unfortunately this is quite common for Chinese cities which lost a great deal of their long history in the disastrous Cultural Revolution). Particularly popular among the modern buildings are shopping malls. In the West I get the feeling that there is a widespread fear, or at least anxiety, about the rise of China and its new-found wealth and power. That it will somehow nefariously take over the world and overthrow the democratic ideals of the West, or some such other suitably doom-laden nonsense. Yet the reality I see on the ground is that the Chinese would rather use the wealth to go shopping and to buy Western designer brands - even in China the "made in China" mark is a symbol of poor quality and derision. There is no great conspiracy to take over the world, but simply a desire to be able to have what we have, through fair means rather than foul.

Shopping in Shenyang.

Go West, for there are greater mercantile opportunities there!

That is the realisation that is becoming more and more apparent the more I travel, the universal nature of humanity (I know it's poor writing to put a conclusion in the middle of your work - and by my ad hoc calculations I'm not yet half way through this trip). It's a thought that has become ever more present in my mind every time I spot a familiar vignette of life in unfamiliar surroundings. If that doesn't make sense I'll try and illustrate with a few examples: in a square outside a cinema in Ulaan Baatar I saw a group of concerned local teenagers accosting passersby to raise money and awareness for street children; or a Turkmen family sitting in a park having a picnic as the kids kick about a football; or a party of gays having a fun time at a club in Bishkek. All around the world people want pretty much the same things: to be able to live comfortably, to not have to worry about money, or abuse of power by authorities, for their children to have a better life, to be able to indulge every once in a while in life's little luxuries. To live a life that for us would seem rather ordinary.

Luxury box of mooncakes on sale at a street stall. Mooncakes come in all shapes, sizes and prices.

But back to Shenyang. I wanted to do a little shopping of my own. I wasn't interested in clothes, or in the stalls selling fancy boxes of mooncakes for the Moon Festival, but instead I wanted to buy a book. I wasn't too fussed which specific one, but recently I have rekindled my bookworms' hunger and have been devouring books at a prodigious rate, whatever I can get my hands on (and when you're travelling in far-flung countries the selection is often limited yet eclectic). I had the address for a bookshop that supposedly had a selection of English-language books so I set off to see what I could find to slake my literary thirst. It was fascinating just to see the strange selection of books that were on offer. There were the obligatory classics of course, with a heavy inclination towards the "chick lit" end of the scale (Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, DH Lawrence, etc.), supplemented by abridged versions for learners. All pretty standard so far. But then there was the sizeable number of collections of speeches and obscure tracts by little-known Enlightenment philosophers. Yet try as I might I couldn't find a single, contemporary novel until I finally came across two very dog-eared tomes from the Twilight saga (and the final books at that). Obviously the authorities fear the subversive nature of Jeffrey Archer and the widespread panic that would be caused by Stephen King. Instead I settled for the daddy of vampire novels to keep me company and bought a copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula to while away the train journeys.

Not really much of a choice when it comes to contemporary fiction in English in China. Better to stick to the classics.

Staring At The Sun

2011-09-02T16:13:00.003+01:00

During my first week in Beijing the sun, when it was visible, was a faint, brighter dot in the city's enveloping haze. An apt symbol for the sea-change between Mongolia and China. The former has wide, open spaces with barely a soul in sight, the calm serenity and blue skies only broken by the whup-whup-whupping of a crow's wings as it passes overhead (when was the last time you heard a bird's wing beats?). Beijing is another planet entirely: loud, chaotic, bustling, choked with traffic, pavements spilling over with street vendors, air wafting with odours both salivating and unpleasant mixing with the sweat of humanity brought on by the humid summer. Beijing out-populates Mongolia by four to one (despite being only one thousandth the size of the latter). The smoggy haze is an inevitable by-product.

The obligatory holiday snap of the Gate of Heavenly Peace (Tian'AnMen) at the entrance to the Forbidden City, along with its portrait of Mao and watchful soldier.

Beijing is my third "intersection point" on this trip (i.e. a place I have been to before in previous travels) which meant that I was reasonably comfortable with the city and finding my way around the giant metropolis, which could easily be daunting for first-time visitors. I was also quietly pleased with myself at how much Chinese I had remembered from my last visit six years ago (admittedly not much, but most of it was still there). Having visited before I had also seen the big, must-see sights (the Forbidden City, the Imperial Summer Palace and Great Wall). Not that that mattered much as Beijing is one of the true world cities where there are always things to see and do, and in this case I used the opportunity to explore some of the lesser-visited, outlying attractions that may not immediately set pulses racing (anyone want to visit the Peking Man site?) but were interesting nonetheless, not least because I managed to stay away from the throngs of tourists that besiege the Forbidden City. But it also allowed me to see the outskirts of Beijing where construction is going on at a ferocious pace with several highways and raised high-speed rail tracks under construction, not to mention plenty of apartment blocks in the outlying commuter belt. China is certainly making up for lost time with a vengeance.

One of the most interesting places for me by far was the 798 art district. An old complex of disused factories, power stations and railway sidings has been given over to the arts community who had turned it into a giant art studio, with galleries, cafes, boutiques and tons of modern public art lurking around hidden corners. It is the sort of bohemian place you would expect to find in trendy new urban rejuvenation projects in the UK and France, but certainly not in China, where censorship still weighs heavily on public expression. Indeed, I found quite a number of works that I interpreted as being openly subversive of the regime and many that conveyed the message slightly more subtly. I'm hoping that bodes well for the future directions of the country and that currently issues deemed sensitive will come out in the open.

One of the paintings on display at 798 and entitled F-U-C-K. If you look closely the guy in the boat holding the baby is the famous dissident artist Ai Wei Wei and all the onlookers (the Chinese people?) are being herded away and not allowed to look. Quite blatant iconography in my opinion.

My greatest joy though has probably been culinary. People often moan about Mongolian food as being horrible and tasteless. I, however, quite liked it, but it is hard to deny that it is hard to do much when your only two ingredients are meat and milk. Given what they have to work with Mongolian food is actually very inventive. But there's no denying the far greater richness of China's cuisine that spans so many different regions, ingredients and influences. And I am taking full advantage, stopping at every street stall where I see something I don't recognise and having a go. Sometimes with undesirable consequences (I rediscovered a while back that I am allergic to frog meat) but usually my tastebuds are kept contented. And joy of joys, there is now cheap, fresh fruit in plentiful supply. I had almost forgotten what bananas and apples (not to mention persimon, pomelo and peaches) tasted like after the fruit-deserts (and not desserts) of Mongolia and Kazakhstan).

One of Beijing's many street vendors selling cheap, delicious, and usually quite healthy, food (in this case a sort of crepe). Mmmmm.

Between A Hammer And A Sickle

2011-08-25T07:02:00.004+01:00

Heading southeast from UB towards the Chinese border the monotonous landscape is broken by a few small, run-down towns amidst the unending, patchy steppe. (The curious thing about the Mongolian steppe is that, when seen from a distance, it looks lush and green, but up close you discover that there is in fact more barren ground than there is vegetation.) Pretty unassuming and rather boring by and large, although there is a wonderful curiosity just off the main road. Not signposted or marked on any maps and surrounded by a rusting barbed-wire fence some 25km north of the town of Choir are what is left of what was once the largest Soviet airbase. All the jets and really exciting equipment has, of course, been taken away, but the 50 or so domed hangars and slowly crumbling support and command buildings are still there, testament to both the sway that the Soviet Union once held over Mongolia, as well as to the frostiness of relations between the former and the other great Communist power, China. Although the site is abandoned militarily, a handful of families occupy the base with their gers and herds of goats, their only reason for being there to shoo out pesky tourists who come nosing around (why I have no idea). So although I managed to sneak under the barbed wire without much problem and even poked around a few of the hangars I was inevitably caught (ambling around with a 20kg backpack is not particularly stealthy) and politely escorted off. A shame, as there's certainly a business opportunity going begging there.

One of the hangars in the abandoned airforce base outside Choir. Once they housed MiG 25s, now they just house goats.

Mongolia's recent history is dominated by its two giant neighbours, both of whom still determine how Mongolia interacts with the rest of the world. In fact, being completely surrounded by two such overbearing neighbours it's almost a miracle that Mongolia is still a sovereign country (although many would suggest that half of the country has already been annexed by China in the form of Inner Mongolia) whilst many peers succumbed to the expansionist ambitions of the two. And although the two neighbours are similar in many ways, the opinion of the Mongol on the steppe towards them are wildly divergent. Russia is seen as being the benign and friendly big brother. During the Communist period Mongolia was heavily subsidised by the Soviet Union, many Mongolians studied in Russia, and Russian specialists and technicians built up from scratch Mongolia's industry, education sector and civil service. Indeed, it is a little-known fact, that Mongolia was the second Communist country in the world after they staged their very own revolution back in 1921. What is more, Mongolia is the poster-child for how Communism can actually work (more or less). Huge increases in literacy, life expectancy, with commensurate decreases in child mortality and wealth inequality. It helped that the Mongolians are pretty egalitarian people to begin with, but the theocracy that existed before the revolution, where almost a quarter of all males were monks and the rest of the country had to fund their indolence, was barely managing stagnation. And even today, although the country is poor by most standards, I barely saw any grinding poverty, most people have plenty to eat, a place to sleep and are pretty content, and even the least towns are relatively well kept with houses set in tidy hashas (fenced yards).

The Chinese, on the other hand, are at best grudgingly accepted, though generally flat-out detested, by Mongolians. It's hard to pin down the exact reason but there are two general strands to the antipathy. The first is historical, as the Chinese, under the Manchus, conquered and then ruled Mongolia for about two centuries (though when most Mongolians are reminded of the fact that they, under Genghis and Kublai, conquered and then ruled China themselves, they swell up with pride, somehow unable to reverse the perspectives). Then there is the clash of personalities. Mongolians are laid-back, gregarious people who are quite simple in their wants and needs and live very much for the moment; whereas the Chinese are hard-working and driven, eager to seek out an opportunity and prone to Machiavellian machinations. So when Chinese come over to Mongolia to start businesses and do deals many locals are often resentful of these rich, successful interlopers who they see as continuing in their grand scheme of "stealing their country". The contrast between the two peoples can easily be seen when trying to arrange transport. Mongolians would often rather laze around and drink a little than put in a few hours of effort to earn some extra dough (for example by giving a ride on their motorbike), whereas Chinese avarice is legendary. The lack of profit motive can be both refreshing, when you are given an honest price straight away without the need for protracted bargaining, but also very frustrating when no-one will give you a ride, even for decent money, because they just can't be bothered. Still, it's part of the charm of the country and, quite frankly, I wouldn't want it any other way.

Climb Any Mountain (Just Take A Map)

2011-08-21T20:57:00.001+01:00

In palaeontology the thin, iridium-rich, band that marks the K-T boundary is indicative of a cataclysmic event that wiped out the dinosaurs and changed the face of the world entirely. Similarly in archaeology, throughout Eurasia there is often a band of ash that is consistently found towards the beginning of the 13th century and which marks the Mongol conquests; from Novgorod to Nishapur and Kiev to Korea. They did a truly thorough job. Yet despite their prowess at razing cities the nomadic warriors were less adept at building them. Under Genghis's successor, Ögedei, they realised that their sprawling empire needed a capital and so they founded Karakorum. By all accounts it wasn't that impressive and housed mainly foreign subjects - artisans, merchants, clerics and envoys from all over the dominions, whilst the Mongols preferred to continue living in their gers on the outskirts of the city. One astounding aspect of the city, and the Mongol empire in general, was its liberalism and tolerance regarding religion. Buddhism, Nestorian Christianity, Islam, Manichaeanism and Shamanism were all represented and coexisted equally, each with their own places of worship. Something that European civilisation still hasn't really managed to properly do today.

Holding history. A fragment of 13th century, glazed, clay piping from the Karakorum ruins. Bits like these lie scattered around the site whilst most of the ruins remain under the soil.

Today, however, very little is left to show for the centre of the world's largest contiguous empire (only slightly outdone by the British six centuries later): a large-ish field north of Erdene Zuu monastery with a few mounds and the odd piece of 13th century glazed pottery still lying around (although there have been limited excavations carried out they are alway covered over again to protect the remains). The monastery also underwent some serious destruction in the 1930's following Mongolia's own Communist purges where most of the monks were killed or sentenced to prison, but since the peaceful revolution of 1990, when religion was once more allowed, it has once again become one of the main centres of Buddhism in the country. Pilgrims from around Mongolia come to visit and do ritual koras around the hallowed grounds which were recently discovered to have been constructed on top of the khan's palace.

Pilgrims setting off to perform a ritual kora (circumambulation) around the extensive grounds of Erdene Zuu, carrying (what I guess are) stacks of sutras (for added holiness).

From there I headed south to the edge of the Gobi Desert. Not having a vehicle means that I couldn't go and fully explore the fascinating region with its many natural wonders, but I did get to skirt the area nevertheless via a few interesting hitches, a bus ride or two, paying for a local to give me a lift on his motorbike, and once even bloody-mindedly hiking the 30km I had to reach the nearest town. First of all the desert is not empty. I was surprised to find that it houses the world's greatest expanse of wild chives (OK, I'm not sure about that claim, but they were everywhere and were turning the steppe white to violet with their flowers). I, however, had not been informed, and had not brought along a sufficient quantity of cream cheese. The area is also particularly rich in wonderful geological phenomena as I discovered when, whilst hitchhiking, I was picked up by a group of German geologist tourists. They would stop every now and again to admire some obscure mineral features and have impromptu mini-lectures (for example, I learnt that in desert environments algae can sometimes be found growing beneath translucent stones such as quartz).

Via various transport trials and tribulations, including catching a lift with a post van (which would be stopped intermittently by locals in the middle of nowhere and variously given a couple of bottles of fermented milk to take to the next village, or who would pick up a jerry can of petrol and perhaps their regular prescriptions, a true life-line for people living in those remote areas), getting a ride on a truck, hopping on the back of a motorbike with my backpack as it bounced along dirt tracks, or even bloody-mindedly walking 20km to where I needed to be, I made it to Baga Gazriin Chuluu. A cluster of granite that juts out of the flat, surrounding steppe like a sore thumb, the area is a beautiful jigsaw of boulders piled on top and around each other, forming a maze and little oasis of (relative) greenery and life in the harsh surroundings (follow this link to see a satellite image of the site, which shows up as a khaki oval, clearly distinct from the surrounding landscape). I spent a day clambering over the worn crags of the ensemble, just soaking up the sun, silence and serenity and spotting the odd gazelle darting amongst the rocks.

The wonderful granite rock formations of Baga Gazriin Chuluu, that rise up out of the flat, surrounding landscape. Not just beautiful and a haven for local wildlife (I managed to spot some gazelle), but also great fun to clamber around.

Baga Gazriin Chuluu was my last stop before returning to UB to pick up my Chinese visa and continue my travels ... well, almost. The city lies in a valley that stretches east to west with forested mountains to the north and south. Since I was coming from the south I thought it would be more elegant to stop at the small town of Zuunmod, due south of UB on the other side of the valley, and hike across to the capital. In theory a relatively simple task to hike the 18 or so kilometres across Bogdkhan mountain, rising only 600m to the crest before descending on the city below. I hadn't counted on two things though. Firstly the top of the mountain is a wide plateau made up of large boulder fields that are difficult to navigate and can be tricky with a backpack; and secondly the president of Mongolia. He wasn't on the mountain chasing me, but the presidential compound is in one of the valleys that leads down from it to UB. It's protected by barbed wire, soldiers with guns and big warning signs. I know about the latter because I did not go far enough west along the main ridge of the mountain and funnelled myself down the wrong valley, along rivers of granite boulders that had to be painstakingly negotiated, until I reached the aforementioned barbed wire and signs. Luckily I didn't meet any of the soldiers. Exhausted I then had to slog a trail through the dense undergrowth and steep sides over to the next (correct) valley before being spat out, scratched, dirty and sweaty at the edge of UB. It is a useful lesson for people who are travelling in Mongolia that GPS is a handy thing to have here where signs and marked trails (both for hikers and drivers) are few and far between and where it's easy to get lost. And if you can't afford a GPS device then at least take a map!

The signs on the perimeter of the presidential compound (and the accompanying barbed wire) are rather unequivocal.

The Giant Red Hero

2011-08-12T11:57:00.021+01:00

Mongolia is the least densely populated country in the world with less than two people per square kilometre. This comes as no surprise after travelling through it for any time. What is surprising though, is that the capital, Ulaan Baatar (which means Red Hero, in honour of the Communist revolution), or UB as it is affectionately known by locals and expats alike, is home to roughly 45% of the population; which means that for the rest of the country there are fewer than 1 person per square kilometre. Capital cities are often markedly different from the rest of the country, and here in Mongolia that difference reaches true antithetic levels.

Despite being a country of boundless space the traffic in UB is atrocious with gridlock affecting the main arteries throughout most of the day, exacerbated by the majority of cars here being large, space-hogging SUVs (Landcruisers are the vehicle of choice, but not a day goes by when I don't see a good half-dozen Hummers as well); high-rise buildings and apartment blocks are the norm whilst the highest building in the rest of the country is a solitary 16-storey block of flats in Darkhan, Mongolia's 3rd city; expats are as common on the streets as flies on cow-pats whereas in the rest of the country you can go weeks without seeing another white face; boutique shops abound whilst in the rest of the country you'll be lucky to find new (rather than second-hand) Chinese clothes; and it's possible to find educated locals who speak either English or Russian so communication can ascend above the level of gesticulations and mimes. Indeed whilst chatting to a young Mongolian I met in a bar a few days ago I mentioned that I was half Czech, to which his response was, "oh, the land of Jan Žižka!" Jan Žižka, though the Czech national hero, and undoubtedly one of the greatest generals in history, is little known outside his own country except perhaps to military enthusiasts. I was certainly impressed. There is even urban sprawl with districts of ramshackle gers oozing along the Tuul valley.

All visitors to Mongolia are almost obliged to pass through UB, either as their arrival or departure point; to organise onward travel; to sort out paperwork; or just simply because, like Rome, all roads lead to UB. There are a few interesting museums, it's a good place to stock up on supplies (you can even find fresh fruit here, which is difficult to find in the rest of the country, but at above-Western prices) and to find travel companions to help reduce costs. But ultimately why stay in a city when you have the limitless Mongol steppe calling? and so after handing in my Chinese visa application I'm headed off into the wild once more, this time to the south and the legendary Gobi Desert

(Although for those who like to collect superlatives then UB is an obligatory stop as it is the coldest capital city in the world, with an average annual temperature below freezing).

Buddhist Travelling

2011-08-06T05:05:00.005+01:00

Most visitors to Mongolia, even backpackers, form groups and hire a van and driver to travel around the country. If there are four or more of you this is barely more expensive than taking public transport, allows you to get to those hard to reach places (of which there are more than a few in Mongolia) and saves a lot of time. The latter aspect was made all too clear to me when I popped into the tourist information centre in Moron to get some info about getting to, and hiking around, Hovsgol lake, Mongolia's second-largest and the little sister to lake Baikal just across the border in Russia. The information centre was staffed by a Czech and a German volunteer and so, pleased at finding a fellow countryman, I ended up spending about an hour with them chatting about this and that. A topic that invariably cropped up was visas, as they were having problems with theirs. I still had 9 days left on mine and was feeling relaxed about getting to Ulaan Baatar in time to extend it ... until they informed me that applications for extensions must be submitted four working days before expiry and that the application can only be done in the capital. There wasn't a hope in hell that I would make it to the lake and back in time so I quickly altered my plans and plotted a new course heading east.

Empty vodka bottles littering the steppe. Mongolian men are more than a little fond of the hard liquor and you will often meet some that reek of alcohol, even early in the morning. Usually they are harmless, but sometimes they can get aggresive.

Such changes of plan are a common occurrence in my travels, and although it's a shame that I was unable to visit the lake I certainly don't regret foregoing the car and driver. I certainly won't see as much as some people do in a shorter space of time, and waiting for vans to actually depart has been at times exasperating. But the positives have far outweighed any negatives. The shared laughs and occasional shots of vodka. The music: Mongolians are hearty and boisterous people and sing along to their favourite songs with gusto. From heart-rending Mongolian ballads to the latest offering from Kesha (although they usually just hum along to the foreign ones) Mongolians like a good tune and a sing-song. I have got to witness the entire gamut of Mongolian society: young parents taking turns passing their baby between them; grizzled old men with skin the colour and texture of leather rolling a fag in an old newspaper; young students eager to practice their five phrases of English; well to do families taking an outing to the countryside over the weekend; and traders ferrying their bundles of goods from market to town. I have also built up an envious admiration of Mongolians' ability to sleep in a vehicle in even the most adverse conditions: being jammed tightly together like sardines whilst jolting along a bumpy road actually seems to have a soporific effect rather than the reverse. A very handy skill indeed.

Here's a video with some pics of Mongolia. The pictures aren't that great, but the song has become my soundtrack to the country - a huge hit last year you can hear it in every car radio.

The many hours on the road also give you plenty of time to contemplate and admire the scenery and the ever-changing cloudscapes and valleys dotted with gers looking like randomly forgotten, giant wheels of brie, or do a bit of wildlife spotting. As well as the ubiquitous ground squirrels I've seen plenty of cranes strutting their stuff on the steppe, marmots sunning themselves, a sea-eagle taking flight, kites fighting over scraps, jerboas manically hopping away from the oncoming car, and a rather nonchalant golden eagle posing on a fence post (not long enough for me and my camera unfortunately). Along with the wildlife is the human flotsam and decoration that is unique to Mongolia. There are the everpresent ovoos, usually perched on mountain passes, that maintain Mongolia's link with its shamanistic past despite the mostly Buddhist present. Most people will stop at them and place an offering of money, food or drink (there are usually a large number of empty vodka bottles scattered around them), and perhaps do a circumambulation, to ensure a safe journey. Also littering the countryside, though a little more haphazardly, are animal remains, and more specifically hooves. They are the only parts of animals that are not used and so are left scattered around wherever the animals happen to be slaughtered. Usually in piles but I've come across them everywhere; they're a constant reminder that Mongolian people live far more closely to the land than we are accustomed to.

An ovoo garlanded in blue khadags (silk prayer flags).

I think it apt that, in a Buddhist country like Mongolia, I had a minor epiphany about how you can get more out of travelling by applying some Buddhist thought. Earlier I was picked up by a trio of Israelis in their van. They were nice guys (everyone who gives me a lift is nice) and interested in the country, but I felt they weren't fully there. They kept talking about their favourite humus joint in Tel Aviv (for those of you who are interested, apparently Abu Hassan's in old Yafo has the best humus in Israel) and about how mouth-wateringly delicious the food is and what they would eat when they got back (they were only two weeks into a two-month trip). That's when I realised that they were not fully experiencing their travels as they were, at least in some part of their minds, still back home. I think it's appropriate that here, in one of the most Buddhist countries in the world, I have come to understand the link between travelling and Buddhism. (Bear with me, it should make sense.) In Buddhist philosophy people try to escape suffering by severing their craving or attachment to worldly things and thereby attain a state of enlightenment. Similarly in travelling philosophy, if you maintain an attachment or craving for home, be it food, TV, relationships or even your local football team, then you never fully enter into the present surroundings and truly experience them. I doubt it will lead to Enlightenment, but if you don't immerse yourself fully and let go of the line of security and familiarity that ties you to your comfort zone then I think there will always be something elluding you when you travel (not that you have to sever all contacts completely, but more important is the desire for the familiar). Perhaps I'm being a pompous travel snob, but I do believe that simply visiting a place is not enough; you have to open your eyes and your mind and try to understand what is going on around you - it may not always work, you may come away from it just as baffled, or even more so, as before, but simply going through the motions and ticking off places from a list cannot be the answer. I have seen too much of that to want to be anything like that.

Helicopters And Shamans

2011-08-03T06:51:00.086+01:00

As I've mentioned before meeting different people, from all walks of life, backgrounds and cultures is one of the most enriching aspects of travelling. A while back my mother sent me the contact details of a nephew of one of her friends who she said lives in Mongolia. It turns out that Hamid doesn't just simply live in Mongolia (actually only part-time, during the summer), but he has studied their culture extensively and films documentaries about Mongolia and its people and even runs a camp out in the far north of the country. Here was an encounter I really didn't want to pass up.

Gers, forests and mountains in the evening light.

His camp is located up in the Darkhad valley, where Mongolia pokes into Siberia. The region is home to the Tsaatan ethnic group, one of the last true nomads, who herd reindeer and move camp every few weeks; and the dominant religion is shamanism (although the people themselves refer to it as Boo). Getting there is, even by Mongolian standards, not a straightforward trip and takes a fair while (from the aimag capital of Moron to Ulaan Uul, the nearest sizeable town it is only 200km, but is a bumpy, bone-jarring, 10-hour drive away. But it was all worth it. The camp is set amongst the lazy meanders of the Shishget river with the mountains separating the valley from Hovsgol lake forming a dramatic backdrop for the dozen or so well-appointed gers - I was pampered by having one all to myself, with a bed no less (I hadn't slept in a bed for over 3 weeks). The steppe of western Mongolia was giving way to the larch forests of the taiga that continue all the way through Siberia until it becomes frozen tundra. The region may be famous for its reindeer (which I unfortunately didn't get to see, as during the summer they move to high elevations to escape the relative heat) but in this small patch of land you can find pretty much every type of animal that can be herded: sheep, goats, cows, horses and even, surprisingly, camels!

Transport in this part of Mongolia may require a ride on rickety, single-vehicle ferries, like the one above. Whilst you wait your turn you have time to sit back, admire the view, and breathe in the clear, crisp air.

Hamid was busy with a group of Kiwi tourists who had come for an adventure in the far north, to ride horses and catch some big fish in the wild rivers that few people reach. Despite not being spring chickens (the ages ranged from 50 to 68) they approached the whole expedition with gusto and didn't pull any punches. So much so, that on their first day they went for a horse ride, galloping round the local environs, and one of their party fell off, breaking a few of his ribs. This necessitated the scrambling of a helicopter from Ulaan Baatar to airlift the patient out. Luckily he was insured (the cost of the medevac was greater than my entire budget for the 3+ years I hope to travel, which is a good lesson on the importance of having adequate travel insurance)! The others didn't let this phase them, and although they were sad about the early departure of their friend, and hoped the injuries were not too serious, they got on with the adventuring task at hand. I was very impressed with their enthusiasm and determination to carry on regardless that is very typical of Aussies and Kiwis. Although I didn't get to spend much time with Hamid, it was a rewarding experience to see such a remote corner of, what is already a remote country, and also to have someone to explain the nuances of culture and custom to me. Unfortunately, for the first time on this trip, I've had real communication difficulties. For a country with such a small population language skills are sparse. Educated Mongolians might speak English or Russian, but they are few and far between, but the majority just speak Mongolian.

Ron's holiday ended prematurely with a stretcher in a helicopter.

Although shamanism is the belief of choice in the area, it's not that visible to the casual observer. Ritual cairns, called ovoos, garlanded with blue prayer scarves litter the countryside, but they are also common in more Buddhist areas of the country, where various pagan customs have survived. Hamid's deputy, who helped give me a ride back to Moron as I was leaving, is married to Ulaan Uul's local shaman, but if you were to meet her on the street you would never guess: a stout, no nonsense, matronly lady in her early 60's she has a penchant for leggings and patterned shirts. The ritual paraphernalia are only unpacked for ceremonies, and for most of the time she is the local doctor, pharmacist and full-time grandmother.

Not a shaman, but a local guy in the Darkhad who had a fantastic array of medals pinned to his deel. A few moments after taking this pic he also whipped out a bottle of vodka that was secreted amongst the folds and offered me a shot.

For those of you interested in learning more about the unique Tsaatan and their fast-disappearing way of life you can check out Hamid's documentary about them.

Wide Open Country

2011-07-26T04:30:00.000+01:00

Mongolia is a widescreen country. Some claim it is the highest country by average elevation in the world, but since there is no comparative list on Wikipedia I cannot say for certain. Nevertheless most of the country is at 1000m or more and formed of extremely wide valleys separated by seemingly low mountains, though the heights are deceptive due to the distances. You can easily see for 30km or more. The high visibility combined with the altitude means that you are not only closer to the clouds, but you can also see them coming half a day or more in advance, inching towards you like continental plates, and with the same inexorability. All of this adds up to a landscape that is widescreen in the extreme: the vistas are squeezed by the valleys below and clouds above and only allowed to expand sideways. This leads to problems for the amateur photographer who is unable to capture the details, which are inevitably far away, without losing the grandeur of the expanse, and vice versa. My camera's 4:3 aspect ratio fails miserably to capture the awe that I am seeing so I am resorting ever more often to taking sweeping panorama shots to try and get a small idea of the sheer immensity. It'll have to do, but nothing beats seeing it in the flesh.

Cloudscape in northern Mongolia (close to what are, allegedly, the northernmost sand dunes in the world).

The distances and aforementioned lack of decent roads make getting around, especially for the single, independent traveller, time-consuming to say the least. Mongolians are a lovely people but have a frustratingly languid and fatalistic approach to time. First of all nothing leaves before noon. You might arrive at a transport lot (usually a dusty patch of ground by the market) at 9am and there may be some vehicles already there with their destinations displayed prominently in their windscreens, but ask as you might the earliest stated departure time will be noon. So you leave your bag, go off for a wander, see the sights, do some shopping, have an early lunch and come back with 10mins to spare before the car leaves, congratulating yourself on your timing. Then you end up sitting in the car whilst the driver waits for more passengers. A recent 2pm departure from Khovd to Ulaangom was delayed to 3pm, then 4pm and finally ended up leaving at 6:30pm, which meant that I arrived at 1am and had to find myself a spot to pitch my tent - when I woke up in the morning I found out that I had camped next to the airport! Nevertheless locals don't seem fazed by this in the least and maintain a Zen-like calm throughout. And this was for a ride between the two major towns in neighbouring aimags. For destinations even slightly off the beaten track you can end up spending several days waiting for enough people to warrant the departure of a van (as I was penning the draft of this post I was in my 14th hour of waiting for a ride).

I hate waiting around waiting on the whims of others and have taken matters into my own hands by trying to mainly hitchhike. Mongolians are friendly and helpful people and I've had little trouble getting rides ... when cars have been going my way. And therein lies the problem. You can wait a hell of a long time before a car comes by going even remotely in your direction. A couple of days ago I waited for 7 hours at an important intersection of two major roads (at least that's what it was marked as on the map) before a car went along my chosen branch. But at least it picked me up.

Mongolian nomad on his modern-day steed, decked out in a blue, traditional deel with matching baseball cap. Friendly guy gave me a ride for a few km.

A couple of days before that I was sitting at another intersection. I had been perched on my rucksack for a few fruitless hours already when the dozen children from the nearby gers collected up enough courage to come and investigate me more closely. I offered them some aaruul from a big bag that I had been given earlier that day as I was leaving the village and they decided that I wasn't dangerous. They motioned me over to their ger where I met the parents and their extensive cast of domestic animals. There were cows, goats and sheep as well as a supporting crew of several horses. Summer, for Mongolian herders is a time of plenty, but also a busy time of year. Enough food has to be gathered and stored up to last through the hard winter. For the most part this is milk and anything that can be made from it, and Mongolians have become pretty inventive with their dairy produce. Of course there is the milk itself, which is used straight away to produce the ubiquitous Mongolian milky tea, though rather than having it sweet locals prefer it laced with salt. Then there is butter, sour cream, yoghurt and other dairy comestibles that I don't even know how to start describing. Most of it, however, gets turned into aaruul, a form of tangy, hardened curd that seems to keep forever. Garlands of it were hanging throughout the inside of the ger whilst still more was being dried outside Aaruul also comes in a rarer, sweet variety, which seems to be mainly fed to younger children. Then for the older members of the family there is airag, a lightly alcoholic milk tipple similar to Kyrgyz kymyz, and shimin arikh the distilled version of the former (think vodka with a slightly lactic aftertaste).

Aaruul hanging out to dry inside a ger.

I ended up spending the entire day with the family (whose names I could never quite get) playing games and taking pictures of the kids and observing the milking, herding, food preparation and rain drill before an approaching rain cloud. I also pitched in a little, helping to herd the sheep and goats and rounding up the calves during milking (the calves are allowed to suckle for a while so that they can feed but also to stimulate lactation), although I doubt I was much real help as it probably required more effort to explain to me with gestures and gesticulations what was required of me than for them to do it themselves - the father could only muster up a thumbs up and saino (good) although the girls and mother were able to get a few more ideas across. Nevertheless I was calmly accepted into the family's life with little fuss, and it was an invaluable experience for me to see how a simple Mongolian family lives. When animals weren't being tended to this often involved either popping over to the next group of gers along, where the father's brother's family lived along with the clan matriarch, and having milk tea and buurtzug (fried sticks of dough) and sweets, or having the aforementioned relatives around for tea instead. Those gers also contained a little platoon of children which mingled with "my" family's kids, so that in fact I wasn't completely sure as to how many children they actually had. They all seemed to be shared amongst the gers and did whatever tasks needed to be done. Mongolian gers/houses are open to all throughout the day and friends and relatives pop by unannounced at any time and tea is central to all of these visits. It will immediately be poured (there is always some on standby in a thermos) into a small drinking bowl before the important business of having a chat can begin in earnest, and be topped up regularly throughout. A lot of tea gets drunk in Mongolia and, along with vodka, it is the social lubricant of choice.

Kids milking the goats early in the morning. Goats are notoriously uncooperative creatures and so need to be tied together like a big, braying garland.

When dusk came with still no sign of anything resembling traffic, I was given my own patch of floor in their ger. By 9pm everyone was asleep. The days are long and the scant electricity means that when the sun goes down so do the people. But when it rises so do they, and when I awoke at 4am the next morning the mother had already got the fire going and the kids were out herding the animals to be milked. I also got to witness the production of the family's shimin arikh using their home still. By 9am nothing had passed and I was getting impatient and decided to walk the 50km to the next town, where there would hopefully be better transport connections (i.e. there might actually be some). I said goodbye to my adopted family, shouldered my pack and set off. I was in luck as I managed to grab a ride on the back of a bike for a major chunk of the distance; until a river which had to be forded got in the way. Finally I got to the fantastically-named town of Baruuntuurun and was able to carry on with more conventional transport. And although waiting a day to hitch a ride and then finally giving up would normally be considered a failure and a wasted day, it perhaps allowed me to have one of my most authentic and rewarding experiences on my trip so far.


Shimin arikh still. It may look very DIY and slightly dangerous, but you can't argue against dairy vodka.

Self-Promotion

2011-07-22T12:54:00.002+01:00

A quick message for all my readers who receive this blog via e-mail. I have been entered into the Blogger's Choice awards for best travel blog (admittedly by myself, but sometimes you need a little self-promotion). If you feel my blog merits it (or even if you don't but would still like to be supportive) you can either follow this link or go to the blog itself and click on the link in the top right and vote for me. Also if you haven't been on the blog in a while there are photo galleries from the trip so far up until Kyrgyzstan (Kazakhstan and more to follow soon) as well as a map of the route I've taken.

All the best, Erik.

P.S. Feel free to spread the word and get your friends to vote for me too!

Trust Fund

2011-07-20T09:52:00.044+01:00

At the Mongolian border the asphalt stops. Some would say it's the end of the road, whereas other, more optimistic souls, would say that the road just got wider: the broad, grassy valleys of the high mountain steppe that slope gently up and down from one pass to another are the spiritual home of the off-roaders whose only boundary is the capability of their cars. Often a single track crosses a pass only for it to split into half a dozen or more a hundred metres later as drivers continually strive to find a smoother ride free of corrugations. It's a tough country for cars, nevertheless the backbone of the vehicular population are old Soviet UAZ jeeps and vans, many of which are older than I am. And they aren't treated with kid gloves either, but hurtle along bumpy roads often overladen with twice as many passengers as they were designed for plus luggage and perhaps a sheep as well for good measure.

Lake and mountains in Altai-Tavan Bogd national park. On the other side of the mountains lies China, just 10km away.

From these boundless steppes came waves upon waves of conquering, horse-riding peoples spilling westwards: Huns, Avars, Turks, Uighurs and most famously the Mongols headed by Genghis Khan. The legend of Genghis and the Mongol hordes thundering across the steppes on their small, hardy steeds, cutting a swathe through all opposition is very attractive to people today. And here in Mongolia, perhaps more than anywhere else in the world, there is a direct connection to those bygone days. Many families still lead nomadic or semi-nomadic lives driving their livestock from pasture to pasture and live in gers (yurts) in a way that would be instantly familiar to Genghis were he to come back today. Of course some things have changed: Mongolians don't do as much marauding as they used to (unless they've had a few too many vodkas), and the gers are quite likely to have a solar panel and satellite dish parked outside.

Kazakh ger near Tsengel with a large satellite dish - essential for those long, winter nights.

Many people dream to ride in Genghis's hoofsteps. Whilst waiting for the interminable Russian border formalities I met two Greek guys and a Canadian girl who were planning to buy horses in Olgii (the first major town after the border) and ride over 1000km to Ulaan Baatar, aided by little more than GPS. They had little experience with horses, had never been in the country before and couldn't speak a word of Mongolian (or Russian or Kazakh for that matter - two languages which are potentially of more use in Mongolia, especially in the countryside far off the tourist trail). The project had disaster written all over it.

I had no such plans. The few times I've ridden horses have not been totally unpleasant, but they haven't been thoroughly comfortable either, and my travels are unpredictable enough without needing to add an animal into the mix. Lutz was heading to a national park in the far western corner of the country. I hadn't considered going there myself due to the difficulty getting there alone, but now I was offered a ride and so I accepted. It was a way to brush up on my German skills which I had barely used in the past year, although his thick Swabian accent did need a fair amount of deciphering. In certain ways he was a typical German, with an overly-cautious character and a slightly superior stance to his surroundings (although that is not uncommon amongst Westerners travelling in less developed countries), but he had also been around a bit and had some interesting stories and experiences to share (plus, like many Germans, he was a bit of a grease monkey and so I learnt a little about cars). The Altai area on this side of the border is even more spectacular than on the Russian, thanks to its remoteness and inaccessibility (among other things you need to get yourself a border areas permit as the park is on the border with China). Snow-capped mountains, forests, rivers, lakes and the odd petroglyph like in Russia, but with the added beauty of Kazakh ger camps adding an authentic rusticity.

The excursion did have a sting in the tail though, and one which I certainly wasn't expecting. When Lutz invited me to come he asked if I could share some of the fuel costs, to which I agreed as it would only be fair. Having travelled together for 4 days I trusted him to calculate a fair share and when he quoted the amount I handed it over unthinkingly. After several hours of contemplation I realised that something wasn't quite right and I contacted him and we met up (luckily we were still in the same area still). I confronted him with my doubts and asked him to show me how he came up with his figures. To my mind they were very dubious, using odd conversions and what seemed to me inflated distances. In spite of the overwhelming evidence he had the gall to stick to his claims. But what rankled the most was that he had backdated the counter to when he picked me up at the Russian border, despite me obviously being a hitchhiker (I only accepted to share costs once we reached Olgii and he proposed that we travel to the park together). All this despite him recounting tales of how he had hitched round America with truckers, sometimes being given rides for several days. To have had such experiences and to still treat a fellow traveller with fewer means in such a way left a bad taste in my mouth. In Germany Swabians are infamous for their stinginess, yet, despite my sometimes inappropriate jokes, I hate to see such negative stereotypes realised.

In all my travels so far I have not only been showered with a great deal of trust and kindness from complete strangers, often by people who were financially worse off than myself which certainly wasn't the case with Lutz, but I have also gone to great lengths to save a dollar here and there, so to have so much effort wiped out in one go and on top of that by a person whom I trusted leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Nevertheless, to let this one bad experience change my generally optimistic outlook and disposition to put my trust in people would go counter to my travel philosophy and experiences, so far so I shall chalk it down to experience and bad luck and move on. In the end it is only money.

Sorry For The Inconvenience But Our Country Is Closed. Please Try Again Later.

2011-07-15T08:27:00.001+01:00

Travelling through Russia was certainly far easier than I had imagined. People were generally polite and helpful, the roads were of good quality all the way to the border, I had no trouble with the police (one did stop by me whilst I was hitching, but more out of curiosity and to have a chat than to try and extort money), and hitching was a breeze.

The gorgeous Altai landscape (even the people and the outdoor toilet can't detract from the beauty).

The Altai corner of Russia is famed for being one of the most picturesque in a country full of natural marvels, and for good reason. Green, forested valleys watered by wide, gushing mountain rivers touched only lightly by human hand (with a population of only 200,000 for a state the siye of Hungary there is plenty of room). It is possible to stop at will pretty much anywhere and find a serene, secluded camping spot amongst some trees and by a clean river to do a spot of fishing or just relax and soak up the fresh air. All that makes the region popular with Russian holidaymakers who treasure the Great Outdoors. Turbazas ("Turist Baza"), resorts and rest-stops abound and cater to the local tourists offering everything from spas to multi-day adventure excursions of rafting, horse-riding and even paragliding. There is so much on offer and a good infrastructure network, yet you will not see any non-Russians due, in no small measure, to the hassles of getting into the country. A shame really as this could easily be one of the adventure sports capitals of the world, but it seems to me that at least part of Russia (namely the part dealing with its relations with foreigners) is stuck in the old KGB past.

That didn't bother me too much as I was quite content with the hitchhiking and free-camping opportunities that made my peregrinations relatively cheap. I was particularly pleased with myself that I had managed to hitch the entire length of the Altai Republic from Gorno Altaisk to the Mongolian border … that is until my very last ride. I had made it to within less than 10km of the border town of Tashanta when I camped for the night. The next morning I quickly packed up my tent (quickly so as to flee the steppe sand-flies for the safety of the tarmac of the road) and managed to flag down a car to take me the last few kilometres. My ride happened to be a border guard.

"You do know that the border is closed?" he said in passing.

"Excuse me?"

"It's not open for another two days. The Mongolians are on holiday."

"Bugger!"

I knew that it was Naadam, the three-day Mongolian national holiday, where traditional games are staged throughout the country, but I had assumed that the borders, like other essential services such as electricity, police, hospitals, etc., would be open. Obviously not.Neither was I the only one who had failed to read the small print. A group of fishermen from Novokuznetsk, some 1000km away, rolled up in their van only to discover that their holiday was over before it had even begun. I was disappointed because despite being so close I would miss out on witnessing Naadam, but at least it doesn't seriously affect my plans - time is one thing I have in abundance.

My surroundings after I was forced to stay in Russia for two extra days. I can think of many worse places to spend two days than by a mountain stream in the sun.

I backtracked some 50km to Kosh-Agach, the main regional town, as I had no intention of spending two days in Tashanta with its two shops, two cows and trio of kites hovering overhead scanning the village detritus for scraps of food. Although I knew what I didn't want to do I wasn't sure how to spend my next two days of enforced R&R. I sat down in the shade of the local mosque (most people in this corner of Russia, as well as just across the border in Mongolia, are ethnic Kazakhs and therefore, nominally, Muslim) and wrote drafts for my blog as I pondered my next move. Kosh Agach is a strange town. Dusty roads and wooden houses give it a distinctly Wild West feeling. Things are obviously going well though as there are plenty of new houses and more under construction. It must be due to a booming cross-border trade as there is no industry to speak of and although there is livestock farming, the sparse mountain steppe can only support a limited number of animals (whilst hitching I was picked up by a local farmer who explained how, due to the long and harsh winters where temperatures regularly hit -40 degrees, his cows can only be put out to pasture for five months of the year and must be given fodder for the other seven).

As I headed to the shops to procure lunch I spotted a kitted out Landcruiser and three touring bikes parked together. Obviously they were foreign overlanders almost certainly in the same situation as me. I sidled over to see whether they were amenable to more company. It turned out that they were a group of five Swedes headed for Magadan in the far eastern corner of Siberia. They had left Stockholm some 10 days previously and had covered 6000km since then, but were now as involuntarily immobile as I. Since we were in the same boat we decided to spend the next two days together camping on the bank of the Chuya river in a beautiful valley. Sometimes a bit of relaxation and destressing are necessary, especially as travelling can be a 24-hour job. It also gave me time to wash some of my clothes and I was inordinately proud to come up with a novel way of washing that is both environmentally friendly and requires next to no effort: all you have to do is find a fast-flowing stream and place your clothes in a suitably strong current, weighing them down with some stones, and just let the water dissolve out all the dirt and bad odours.

Anna and Richard relaxing by their Landcruiser before re--embarking on their journey to the edge of Russia.

The two days over, and my mind and body rested, I got my thumb out to hitch the road again. Four rides got me all the way to the border post where I managed to cross despite having overstayed my visa by a day (a crime which usually incurs a penalty fine and often deportation to your home country). I was very lucky to run into Lutz and Jana, a German and his Akita dog, travelling overland in their Pinzgauer, who agreed to give me a lift to Olgii, the main town on the other side of the border. I've been picked up by all manner of vehicles, from flash BMWs to clapped out Ladas, but Lutz's Pinzgauer has to take first place for coolness. And although I'm generally not a fan of 4WD cars (let alone 6WD) Mongolia is one country where they are truly needed.

The Pinzgauer in its element: the wide, wild Mongolian steppe.

Saying Goodbye To Stan

2011-07-07T05:00:00.021+01:00

My last stop in Kazakhstan and Central Asia was Semey, also known by its original, Russian name of Semipalatinsk. The town is one of the oldest in the north of the country and the centre is dotted with Tsarist-era log cabins, with their reassuringly organic lines, still clinging on to existence amongst the concrete apartment block. Semey is (in)famous throughout the world for its Soviet past where it, or at least a nearby patch of "uninhabited" steppe was home to the Semipalatinsk Polygon where the Soviet Union tested its atomic bombs. In all there were over 100 above ground nuclear explosions. Although the Soviet authorities were not so stupid as to kill their own citizens in the explosions, they kept quiet about the effects of nuclear radiation and fallout so the area is still haunted by abnormally high levels of birth defects and cancers.

The memorial to the victims of the Semipalatinsk memorial. Very moving, but strangely located in a patch of foresty wasteland on the other side of the river from the town.

As I mentioned before my next destination is Mongolia. However Kazakhstan and Mongolia do not share a common border and are separated by roughly 50km of either Russia or China which I will have to transit. My route was decided for me by simple practicality: the only land border open to foreigners to enter Mongolia from the west is with Russia. I have spent a lot of time in the ex-USSR (over 7 months in total visiting 13 countries) but have purposefully avoided Mother Russia. Among travelers Russia is notorious for the bureaucratic hoops prospective visitors have to jump through to get visas, as well as a stifling system of registration and police corruption once you are in situ. Quite frankly this has made me feel that the government doesn't want me to come and so I have obliged by spending my money elsewhere. Now there was no other option but to bite the bullet. Luckily transit visas are a different beast to their tourist brethren and, apart from the interminable waiting outside the embassy in Astana, proved relatively straightforward to acquire.

So there I was at Semey train station climbing aboard the train that would take me to Barnaul, the capital of Altai Territory and the beginning of my first tentative foray into Russia. I expected there to be little difference with Kazakhstan, but that idea was dispelled very quickly. Although the language remained the same (most ethnic Kazakhs in the north prefer to speak Russian and often have only a basic grasp of Kazakh - which is one of the reasons for a north-south divide in the country) the ethnic makeup had tipped very much to the white. But that's just people; the less blatant differences marked me more. The relative "quality" of cars (an easily visible proxy for affluence) on show from the train window was a little lower in Russia, but conversely the towns and houses were markedly neater, tidier and better looked after and the general infrastructure was of a noticeably higher quality; and something that came as quite a shock, people were reading in the train. In Asia you don't see people reading on public transport for fun, but that's exactly what at least half a dozen people were doing in my carriage alone (the guy opposite me was reading Хоббит which made me smile as it had been a childhood favorite of mine). Perhaps the Russians aren't all evil Commies? I'm looking forward to having my preconceptions shattered.

I suppose this is a good place to summarize my thoughts on Central Asia, having spent the past three months criss-crossing the five 'Stans. I had high hopes for the region as the Silk Road "missing link" between Persia and China, but unfortunately much of the magic of that bygone era has been erased by the heavy Russian and Soviet influences. It is only in Bukhara that you can get a taste of what has been lost elsewhere, and if Karimov and his daughter keep running things in Uzbekistan then even that will be sanitised out of existence as it has been in Samarkand and Khiva. Nevertheless it has been a positive experience but for reasons I was not fully expecting when I first arrived. The most obvious perhaps is the mountains, especially of Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, which have thoroughly enchanted me despite my coming too early in the season to fully take advantage of them. And although the dominant Turco-Persian culture of yesteryear is mostly gone the importance of hospitality certainly hasn't, and neither have some of the smaller cultures on the fringes of the region like the semi-nomadic Kyrgyz and Ismaili Pamiris. Even some of the more harmless autocratic oddities are amusing in their own little way. In Dushanbe (or Doosh to its friends) dirty cars are forbidden within the city limits. Given that most roads in Tajikistan are dirt roads this amounts to a $1 tax to enter the city payable to anyone living on the outskirts of the city who has a garden hose. Police in the 'Stans also seem to have a single function and that is to extract small bribes for petty traffic offences. In each country the uniforms may vary, but the fluorescent batons dangling from each officer's wrist used to motion over unsuspecting victims, are the same. In one small town in Tajikistan I saw six policemen huddled round the town's only traffic light ambushing every other car that passed. And then there are the posters: sometimes of the leader or at least a pithy quote exhorting fellow citizens on to greater nationalism and extolling the 20 glorious years of independence so far.

A nice photoshopped poster of Tajikistan's president, Emomali Rahmon, amongst some poppies (obviously a big opium fan) saying (more or less): "It's important for the youth to remember the glorious past of Tajikistan as they are the holders of our future independence." bla bla bla. (For those of you who speak Persian and can read Cyrillic then you can try and decipher what is written for yourselves.)

But for the same reason that the Silk Road grew obsolete, landlocked Central Asia is still a largely forgotten and neglected corner of the world. It only enters the consciousness of the outside world as a source of raw materials and energy security, or as a handy place from which to bomb Afghanistan. In both cases stability is the desired state of affairs so the countries are run as petty fiefdoms according to the whims of their presidents. Some may be more enlightened than others, but there's no mistaking the smell of autocracy. I was very surprised, however, to find that many locals also adhere to the "stability over individual liberties" point of view, or are just totally politically apathetic, even ones that have been educated abroad and travelled extensively. To my Western paradigm that is anathema, especially given the levels of corruption on display. Nevertheless some of the leaders, especially Nazarbayev, have genuine support for, what seems like, having not plunged the country into a bloody civil war, not thrown everyone in prison (only genuine political dissidents, and we all know they're scum), and not stolen every last penny from the country's coffers. (I happened to meet a man in southern Kazakhstan who had twin sons who he had named Nursultan and Nazarbay, and I tried to imagine someone in the UK calling their twins Tony and Blair - it sent shivers down my spine.)

I personally cannot see the Central Asian countries progressing as things currently stand: they are far too weak and fractured, with impractical borders and little industry, and completely at the whims of outside interests. Only by joining forces and helping each other do I see a possibility for improvement. The main problem is Uzbekistan. As the most populous country in the region and the only one to border all the others it should be the regional lynchpin and transit hub. But Karimov has managed to antagonise every one of his neighbors by closing borders, hiking tariffs and opposing development projects. In democracies they say you get the government you deserve, but I certainly do not think that is the case for the kind and friendly people of Central Asia.

Steppe Outside

2011-07-02T13:06:00.002+01:00

The Soviet Union was the largest country in the world by area by a considerable margin (more than twice the size of Canada at number 2). When it split into its 15 constituent republics the lion's share of that went to Russia, but Kazakhstan still managed to become the 9th largest country in the world (just a Croatia shy of Argentina at number 8). Kazakhstan is a big country. And with most of the 16 million population concentrated around the edges a lot of it is taken up by the wide, flat steppe. In the dryer, hotter south the predominant colours are already yellow and brown, with a little pale green mixed in, as the summer has already set in for a while, but as you head further northwards the deep green of growing grass takes over. The landscape is easy on the traveller, affording you long moments without changing much, allowing for plenty of time for reading and sleeping.

In the middle of this green monotony, springing out of nowhere (relatively speaking, because you can already see it from over 30km away) is Kazakhstan's new capital Astana. Previously the capital had been Almaty, but 14 years ago that title was transferred to Astana (called Akmola at the time, but since the name means White Tomb - not a particularly auspicious designation for a capital - it was renamed, using a great deal of imagination, to Astana, which means Capital), ostensibly to have a more central capital with closer links to Russia, which is still the most important trading partner, although more cynical people claim the real reason to be Nazarbayev's desire to consolidate his grip on power as Almaty was too large and independent to bow to his whims. There were drawbacks to this move though, the mains ones being the vicious winters of the area (temperatures in January often fall to -40 degrees, not counting windchill, as devastating winds come sweeping in from Siberia, making it the second-coldest capital in the world), and perhaps more importantly, that it was a small, provincial town. Since then there has been a frenzied level of construction to create a showcase capital causing the population to triple in 10 years. The skyline has been transformed with new, fanciful towers springing up every year often designed by the who's who of contemporary world architecture, the only constant being the forest of cranes that whir and hum at break-neck speed. All this has come at a price, estimated to be around 10% of the national budget every year. Some of the buildings are indeed beautiful, but there is no over-arching harmony so instead the place feels rather soulless. Some of the more interesting creations include: a giant, indoor aquarium/sea-life centre which includes a 70m long underwater walkway where you can get up close and personal with sharks and other creatures of the deep (must have cost a ridiculous amount as the sea water had to be shipped in especially, and Astana is thousands of kilometres from the nearest sea); a giant 150m high tent with a transparent roof that is home to a shopping and entertainment centre; as well as an entirely new governmental complex with grandiose ministry buildings (although, as opposed to Ashgabat, it does look like these are getting some use).

Shiny new skyscrapers in the new administrative centre of Astana may look pretty...

And whilst Astana may look sleek and shiny, with plenty of chrome and glass, it has done nothing but reinforce my dislike for planned cities. Not only has the pedestrian been completely ignored in the whole planning process, with impractical distances and no real centre, but the glitter is superficial and masks a large number of shoddy workmanship. Whilst walking around yesterday it rained for half an hour in the afternoon. The town planners though, in all their wisdom, had failed to include a decent drainage system and so there were puddles of standing water all over town and tanker trucks were scurrying about vacuuming them up for the rest of the day - not clever. The designers were also fond of polished granite, an admitedly beautiful building material, but it is generally used as a cladding material, and generally in thin slabs at that, which means that many are already cracked and broken. Or some clever soul decided to use the polished slabs on a raised walkway, and then once it was built people realised that it was too slippery to walk on when wet and so the entire surface had to be sanded down. The more time you spend in the city the more such idiocies you spot around every corner.

...but under the veneer the city is rather shoddily put together (here a truck is "vacuuming up" rainwater as there is no adequate drainage system.

Many of the other cities of the steppe are even less pretty, the reason for their existence often being visible far before the rest of the city comes into view in the form of belching smokestacks and vast mining complexes. This is mining country. Many of these places date from the days of the Soviet Union and started their lives as labour camps, part of the infamous Gulag Archipelago. The most famous of which is Karaganda, which was home to one of the largest such camps, known as KarLag, that covered an area the size of Wales. "Undesireables" of the Communist regime were sent here from all over the country, mainly Volga Germans, but also Poles, Ingush, Chechens, Ukrainians and many others from all over the Soviet empire to mine the rich coal deposits in the harsh and unforgiving Kazakh steppe. Even after the Gulag system was finally dismantled the town remained largely German and Russian until the break-up of the Soviet Union after which the Germans packed up and left for Germany. Nowadays the town has gained a majority Kazakh character, like most other major towns in the country (the population decreased by 2 million following independence as the ethnic Europeans left, increasing the Kazakh majority, and the population still hasn't reached the Soviet peak). All around the town for miles upon miles huge mine shafts dot the otherwise featureless landscape. Nowadays of course the labour isn't forced but is run by multinationals, in this case ArcelorMittal, the Luxemburg-based steel giant.

Interestingly, this shameful episode of history is not swept under the carpet but is instead remembered in a moving and informative museum (probably the best in the country) housed in the old KarLag administrative building. Indeed, Kazakhstan is unique amongst its Central Asian peers in that the most negative episodes of Communism and its devastating effects are openly commemorated in several museums throughout the country, covering the repression of the intelligentsia, purges of the 30's and even the imprisonment of female relatives of "subversives". In the other 'Stans the Soviet era is seen as a golden age of employment, relative prosperity, stability and grandeur. And although in comparison to their current, miserable political situation that's probably true, the Soviet past is viewed totally uncritically, which cannot be good in the long run. Kazakhstan, on the other hand, has managed to emerge as a multi-ethnic, (somewhat) liberal and (more or less) functioning state, although its status as such is threatening to dissolve as it continues to suffer a skills and minority drain, which would be a shame, as there are few other places in the world where you might meet a person who is a quarter Finnish, quarter Ukrainian, quarter German and quarter Mordvin* and yet feels that they belong to another country altogether.

*A real ethnic smorgasbord and the true family tree of a person I actually met. In fact many people who are considered Kazakh often have other ancestry, including Uyghur, Bashkir, Tatar and, of course, Russian.

Historical Turning Points, And Crayfish

2011-06-30T13:02:00.002+01:00

The road from Almaty was initially a railway. The town of Kopa is a forgotten stop on the edge of the steppe on the line heading west out of Almaty. Only one train a day stops there and on that particular day I was the only person to get off. It is, however, the nearest town with any sort of public transport to Tambaly, where there are the greatest collection of petroglyphs in Central Asia. OK, perhaps not one to get the hearts racing, but interesting nevertheless. I sat myself down on the road out of town hoping to get a ride the 30km out to the site. At least the tumbleweeds kept me company. My wait wasn't as long as expected and the very first car that passed took me all the way there (hitching is not only reasonably common in Kazakhstan, but I also don't feel uncomfortable asking for a free ride here where the standard of living is significantly higher than the rest of Central Asia). And in a textbook example of things generally working out in the end, as I was wrapping up my visit of the site, and beginning to wonder how the hell I would get out of there, I spied a group of visitors (the only ones to visit that day apart from me) who had obviously come by car. So I went over to see if I could bum a lift, at least to the main highway. They turned out to be a group of 3 Mexicans living in China, a Kazakh girl (girlfriend of one of the Mexicans) and her father. Certainly not people you would expect to meet in the middle of Kazakhstan. Nevertheless they said, sure, they could take me to the highway as they were going back to Almaty that evening anyway. And so once they had finished visiting the site themselves we set off. I was happy as I got to practice my Spanish which was encased in a sizeable coating of rust, but at least I was still able to conjugate the verb chingar in several different levels of impoliteness, which impressed the Mexicans considerably. As we approached the highway Aina (the girl) suggested I come crayfishing with them. It was getting late, it was in my general direction and I had never been crayfishing before (hell, I hadn't even ever seen a live crayfish before) so I heartily agreed.

Monster from the deep comes face to face with a crayfish.

As we came to the lake it was clear that Aina's father was a bit of a hunter-fisher and had done this before. Not only did he have a rifle in the back of his car as well as all the various nets, cages and waiders to go after crayfish, but he was also kitted out with a table, stools, cooker and other paraphernalia to make passing the time more agreeable (certainly less hungry). The whole process of crayfishing was surprisingly straightforward and required little effort. Set up special crayfish nets, place bait in middle, lower to the bottom of lake (ensuring that you've tied a float to it), wait 10 mins, pull out with a couple of kilos of crayfish, and finally throw into a big bag, being careful not to get nipped in the process. By the end of the evening we had about 20kg of the clawing little blighters stuffed in a bag, whilst not having to do much ourselves (although it's true that Aina's dad did most of the work). Unfortunately I didn't get to taste any of our catch as it was too late and they were to be taken back to Almaty whilst I stayed on and camped at the lake. Nevertheless Aina and the others left me a parting gift of bread and samsas for breakfast the next day.

The next day, strangely, started by getting woken up by a policeman knocking on my tent at 5am. God knows what he was doing at the lake but he wanted to see my papers and then suggested I go down to the station with him to explain why I was there or pay him a bribe to leave. As paying bribes is against my religion I told him to wait a couple of hours, as that is how long it would take me to pack up all my stuff, which was handily strewn around the tent. Seeing that there would be nothing in this for him he just left me alone. The rest of my travels in southern Kazakhstan, via a combination of hitching and bus, were comparatively uneventful (although did include several instances of aggressive hospitality, always from an inebriated male, that generally required me to eat - a lot). Anyway, enough of that and onto the historical-educational part of the blog.

The march of history is inexorable and incremental. There are few people who, by their deeds alone, make a decisive impact, and even fewer single moments that can be decisively said to have altered the course of history. Despite Kazakhstan not being a country overly-endowed with much in the way of historical sights, southern Kazakhstan is home to two separate locations where world history could have tipped one way or another and whose impacts are incalculable.

The Talas valley, which is split between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, was the site of a battle between the expanding Chinese Tang and Arab Muslim empires in 751 AD. The Arabs won the battle, thereby assuring the supremacy of their religion in the region and halting the advance of the powerful Chinese - the battle marked the furthest west the Chinese empire ever reached. But perhaps even more importantly it is thought that from the prisoners captured by the Arabs the secret of paper-making was gleaned and spread to the West. Unfortunately the modern town of Taras is a rather forgettable place, with only a few old mausolea to hark back to its substantial history (I was disappointed to find that there isn't a museum dedicated to the battle).

More tangible remains can be spotted further up the Syr Darya valley at the ruins of Otrar. In the early 13th century it was a prosperous town on the Silk Road and a northern outpost of the Persian Khwarzmshah empire. In 1218, flushed with his success of having conquered China, Genghis Khan sent a trade caravan to Otrar. Its mission was to see whether trade or conquest was the best course of action for the lands to the west of Genghis' new empire. The governor of the town, fearing that the mission was comprised of spies, had them executed. It was this action that swayed Genghis into decision and the next year, at the head of an army of 200,000 he swept through Central Asia, putting Otrar, and anyone who would stand in his way, to the sword. The sweeping continued until the Mongol Hordes reached all the way to Europe, getting as far as Poland, Hungary and even Croatia and didn't stop until Genghis kicked the bucket. For Eurasia in the 13th century Otrar was Ground Zero. (For me, personally, it was a bit of a pilgrimage as I have been to countless sites throughout the region where the general story is: there was an amazing city/castle/garden/church/whatever here until the Mongols came through, and this is where it began.) Of course not much is left of Otrar, except for a large, raised mound overlooking the surrounding plain and its fields, although archaeologists have unearthed a multitude of treasures from the site. And as you drive through the surrounding countryside you notice more and more of these mounds, some larger, some smaller, almost all victims of the Mongol onslaught almost 800 years ago. A once-thriving civilisation, if not wiped out, then at least fundamentally altered in an instant. If you're inclined to ponder then it would make you think long about the transience of human endeavour and the vicissitudes of fate. Luckily I don't ponder ... much.

The Big Apple

2011-06-20T18:19:00.023+01:00

Apart from the general sightseeing I did have an important task to do in Almaty: get my Mongolian visa. (I know what you're thinking, "oh no, not another visa anecdote"; and I'm sorry to bring it up - although I will be brief. But visa acquisition forms a large part of a traveller's daily preoccupation - where do I get it? what documents do I need? how long does it take? do I need to do it via an agency? etc, etc - because, very simply, without overcoming these hurdles you can't do any travelling. And the whole visa system in this part of the world in particular is so arbitrary and capricious. It's a universal rule that if you get two travellers sitting down and talking together, within an hour they will be swapping visa stories. Nevertheless I shouldn't complain, as getting into the EU or United States with a passport from Central Asia for simple tourism purposes is nigh on impossible. But back to the story...) So I made my way to the embassy, which is very inconveniently located in the southwest corner of town in a random residential area down a very nondescript little alley, on Monday morning, only to find a little, handwritten sign tacked to the gate saying that the embassy would be closed until Thursday. I was not impressed.

My view of Almaty, with the ever-present Tian Shan mountains behind decked in an approaching thunderstorm. One of my first pics with my new camera - obviously I need to learn how to use it properly.

Still, I had other things to keep me occupied, not least of which was finding a camera to replace my unfortunate, recently deceased, companion. Almaty may be Central Asia's metropolis, but that still doesn't mean that I was going to have an easy time finding a suitable replacement. I'm not a keen shopper at the best of times, preferring to make a list and execute a quick in-out operation, spending as little time in the shop as possible (the desire to get the deed done at an accelerated pace often leads me to forget to consult my list, resulting in not buying everything I had planned, but that's another matter). From my local contacts I got the locations of several tech stores and set off to see what I could find. Broad, tree-lined avenues may be an easy or elegant way to set out towns especially when you have plenty of room (and Kazakhstan has plenty of room), but they are not conducive to an urban environment that is amenable to pedestrians. No discernible town centre to speak of where one can easily amble from one conveniently located shop to another or pedestrian zone of any note, it took several hours to traipse between the various vendors and size up their wares and compare prices before going online to do some further research and finally making my decision. The next day I made my way over, picked out my camera, a padded bag to carry it and extra batteries. I then handed over my credit card which the vendor handed straight back to me before packing his wares away. Despite being the most developed country in the region your flexible friend will not help you much at TsUM (Tsentralni Universalni Magazin). So I then had to spend another hour trying to find an ATM that would give me a large enough amount in one go for me to return and finally buy the camera. Since then I've been spending a fair amount of time poring over the user manual and trying to come to grips with the multitude of new buttons and specialist functions.

Beautiful waterfall just a short hike from the city.

I also tried to do a couple of day-trips from Almaty, to nearby scenic spots and petroglyphs, but found my attempts thwarted by uncooperative public transport: either there is only one bus a day at a ridiculously unsociable hour, or trains are fully booked with no means of getting aboard, even for a short hop of 100km. In the former Soviet Union trains are oversubscribed and so you have to plan several days ahead if you are planning on hitting the rails, not something I'm generally good at. Nevertheless I managed to fill my time in Almaty thanks to the friendly locals. With a small group I explored some of the nearby hiking trails in the mountains that rise up from the southern edge of the city, where thankful locals can get away from the stress of the big city and into high, alpine valleys decked with spruce and pine by simply hopping on a bus in the centre of town. And on another occasion I was lucky to be invited to a dinner party held by some Uighur friends. Uighurs are best known in Central Asia for their cuisine, especially lagman (noodle and meat stew, which is far better than it sounds) which is wildly popular throughout the region. And so I got to witness how the thin noodles are individually rolled out and spun around in an almost balletic ritual that reminded me of how pizza dough is traditionally tossed in Italy (not that I've actually been to Italy in my travels, but from what I've seen on TV).

The alpine valleys above Almaty are a welcome escape from the city.

Apple Strudel

2011-06-15T18:35:00.001+01:00

There are some things that we consider to be so quintessentially of a certain place or culture that it comes as a shock to learn that its origins are often very different. There are many examples: who can imagine England without tea, Italy without football, Wall Street without (neck)ties, or even Ireland without potatoes. Yet these come from China, England, Croatia and Peru respectively. And why am I thinking about the origins of things? Well, I am now in Almaty (formerly Alma Ata), Kazakhstan's biggest city and former capital. The name means "Father of Apples" because, believe it or not, the common apple, that is so much a part of the European landscape and even culture, has its origins in the foothills of the Tian Shan. Similarly the walnut, another European mainstay, is also from the region, with the region of Arslanbob at the eastern fringes of the Fergana Valley being home to the largest walnut forest in the world.

And although Almaty can only count on apples for making it unique in the world, it is certainly unique in Central Asia. Arriving from Bishkek I was greeted by the standard wide, tree-lined grid of streets of Russian imperialism. But there were obvious differences to other towns in the region: rubbish bins conveniently placed all over town, a cycle lane (though to be honest, that was a little deceiving as I was to later find out, as I was let off the bus on the only street in town that actually has a cycle lane) and even drivers who stop at zebra crossings to let you cross - something I haven't experienced since perhaps Poland. Indeed, Almaty is an island of Western order in the sea of Asian bedlam (not that I dislike Asia's organic chaos, which is very stimulating and exciting). Upmarket boutiques, swanky bars and restaurants, flash cars and designer clothes are all commonplace and your average Almatian is as refined and educated as their counterparts in Amsterdam or Andalucia. Although Almaty is no longer the political capital of the country (that title, as of 1997, belongs to Astana) it is still very much the commercial and cultural capital. Certainly a far cry from the image we might have in the West where, for the majority, the only Kazakh personality that is known is Borat, Sacha Baron-Cohen's fictional racist, homophobe, anti-Semite, chauvinist. Interestingly, when talking to Kazakhs about him they are quite savvy and realise that it was actually Americans who were being ridiculed in the film, and are glad that their country got some publicity (the president, on the other hand, didn't get the joke and the film was banned in the country).

Such cosmopolitanism is also evident in demographics. The two main ethnic groups in Kazakhstan are the Kazakhs themselves and the Russians. To a casual observer it may seem that these are the only people in the country comprising, as they do, almost 90% of the population. But there are a myriad other ethnic groups in the mix: Uyghurs, Uzbeks, Dungans (Hui - Chinese Muslims), Koreans, Ukrainians, Belorusians, Germans and Poles are also in the mix thanks to Stalin's displacement of populations throughout the Soviet Union. At the national museum in town, a big, brooding, Communist edifice, there is a section devoted to every minority in the country including, surprisingly, an Assyrian minority that numbers 540 souls (of which half are in Almaty). Quite how they ended up here would surely make an interesting story (and perhaps it was recounted in the display, but I read Russian far too slowly to try and go through every caption).

Also fascinating in the museum was the section on recent independence. Although the president, Nazarbayev, is not fostering a blatant cult of personality around himself he has been in power since the very beginning of Kazakhstan's independence 20 years ago. This section was like an ode to his greatness, with speeches where he pontificates on lofty subjects like freedom, equality and justice and pictures of him hob-nobbing with various world leaders. This of course means that amendments to the constitution that allow him to stand for presidential elections as many times as he pleases (note, the amendment applies only to him personally), the bestowing of the title "Leader of the Nation" and the fact that he has won every election with over 90% of the vote usually over 95%) are treated as being natural and obvious. (For some strange reason the section failed to mention that Kazakhstan was found to be in the bottom 25 countries for corruption worldwide a few years back.) Of course, this discrepancy between autocracy and apparent liberalism is only possible thanks to Kazakhstan's enormous reserves of natural resources that have allowed for an increase in living standards despite widespread corruption and embezzlement. It's not only oil and gas (Kazakhstan has among the highest reserves of both in the world) but also uranium, zinc, copper, manganese, chromium, lead (for these six it is in the top 5 in the world for reserves), coal, iron and gold (only top 10 for the last three). Quite frankly, with all these riches and the country's small population, if the quality of life wasn't improving the leadership would have to have been grossly incompetent (take note Turkmenistan).

Kul

2011-06-10T10:36:00.000+01:00

Kyrgyzstan is a land of mountains, but also of lakes (and also of horses, but I'll touch on that later). To get a true taste of the country, both metaphorically and literally, you need to leave the towns and cities - Bishkek feels like a relaxed, provincial eastern European town - and head for the hills, where the nomadic Kyrgyz soul resides. The first place I made for was Issyk Kul lake (a bit of a tautology as kul means lake in Kyrgyz). Talk to any Kyrgyz person and they will tell you that you haven't seen Kyrgyzstan until you've seen Issyk Kul, which is seen as the jewel in the country's crown. It is indeed a special lake. Although Kyrgyzstan is a small country, smaller even than Britain, the lake is one of the biggest in the world (10th by volume, and 7th deepest). For the landlocked Kyrgyz it is their beach destination and is suitably equipped with hotels, deckchairs, parasols and all other beachy paraphernalia. Even the water is salty. However, due to it's high altitude - 1600m - it's not particularly warm despite its name (which translates as "Hot Lake"), as a brief dip unequivocally demonstrated. (The name refers to the fact that, because of its depth and high salinity, the lake never freezes, even in the depths of winter.) This means that the "beach" season is very short, outside of which there's barely a soul to be seen. Not that I was particularly interested in taking a dip, the surrounding landscape is far more interesting to me. The lake is surrounded on all sides by tall mountains and in the east, on a clear day you can spot the challenging 7000m peak of Khan Tengri on the tri-border with China and Kazakhstan, lording it over the other lesser mountains of the surrounding Tian Shan range - not that I ever saw it as at this time of the year the mountains are almost constantly shrouded in a blanket of cloud, at least at the higher elevations.

A "popular" beach on Issyk Kul, framed by a spur of the Tian Shan mountains.

Nevertheless at lower reaches the mountain valleys are spectacularly lush and alpine and are perfect for a day's wander past rushing streams, grazing cows and steep, forested hillsides. The town of Karakol at the eastern end of the lake is the administrative centre of the region and best base to explore the lake and its surroundings. Although now very much a tourist destination during Soviet times the town was very much off limits because it housed a secret, experimental submarine base since it was so remote and safe from prying eyes. The towns in the region, as opposed to the yurts, have a very Russian feel to them. Of course there are the Communist apartment blocks, but also the family houses have the same colour scheme as those of Ukraine and Moldova: whitewashed with sky-blue doors and windows.

Kurut on sale at a souvenir stall. These little, sour dairy balls can be found everywhere in central Asia and are a popular snack.

The other lake I wanted to visit was Song Kul. Located in the centre of the country in a high mountain bowl, it's said to be the country's most beautiful lake, surrounded by summer mounain pastures - jailoos. I arrived at the nearest town, Kochkor, under a leaden, evening sky. It didn't inspire me with confidence, but I decided to wait until morning to get more information about conditions. In the meantime I wandered around the bazaar where innumerable herdsmen had come down to sell their products: kymys (a mildly fizzy and alcoholic beverage made of fermented horse milk that is wildly popular amongst Kyrgyz - very much an acquired taste in my opinion), kurut (small, dried balls of sour curd which are a nice accompaniment to beer, but unappetising under any other circumstance) and mountain honey. The news the next day was not good: the pass to the lake was still covered in snow, it had been raining heavily recently, and there were thunderstorms forecast. I decided not to go (the main hiking season occupies a small window from July until Sptember). I had, however, bought plenty of food supplies in anticipation of the 4-day trek and needed to find some use for them. Luckily I met an Israeli traveller, Dekel, who was in the same situation as me and so we decided to join together for a smaller amble up a nearby valley to a more accessible lake.

The hike started off unpromisingly, under a gloomy raincloud; but that was quickly whipped away by the mountain winds to reveal blue skies and green pastures. At least in this corner of the mountains the herders had already moved to their jailoos and the valley was dotted with circular yurts that had recently been erected and countless fat-tailed sheep, cows and horses grazing away to their hearts' content. The brisk winds made the clouds scud overhead but we were happy to see that the thunderstorm was confined to the broad valley behind us where Kochkor was getting a thorough soaking, Indeed, we were almost at the level of the cloud and could see the vertical lines strafing the town. Then our luck turned for the worse. First, whilst crossing a small stream I slipped on a loose rock. I managed to catch myself so that only a foot got wet, but my camera bag got dunked too and despite the leather case the camera did not escape a soaking (I was later to find out that the damage was irreversible and so am now having to spend time scouting for a new camera). Secondly the wind changed direction. Instead of blowing sideways across the valley it was coming upwards from the town - bringing the big, black, evil cloud along with it. Burdened with our rucksacks there was no way we were going to outrun it, and soon enough we were enveloped in cotton wool with visibility down to 20m or less. Then it started to rain, but only for a short while as the rain transformed into hail the size of large, painful peas which turned the ground from green to white in a matter of minutes. And then, the icing on the cake, came the lightning. Luckily there wasn't much to fear as the tall peaks caught most of that, but I spent a good 10 minutes cowering behind my rucksack hiding from the (worst of the) hail. Wet and miserable we plodded on with grim determination until, upon clearing a crest, the lake hovered into view through the mist. We weren't really in much of a condition to appreciate it and set about pitching our tents and trying to get warm and dry before falling asleep exhausted, listening to the patter of the rain on the tent.

A rare break in the clouds allowed me to take a picture of the valley we were heading up (before my trusty camera decided to join Davy Jones in his locker.

The next morning though, the privations of the previous day and night became worthwhile with a splendid sunny morning, blue skies, crystal alpine lake with requisite mountain backdrop and not a soul around. I'm not a religious or even spiritual person, but moments like that are the closest that I feel I'll ever come to what other people may call a "religious experience". We took advantage of the sunshine and brisk wind to splay our damp belongings on the ground to dry before quickly packing up and heading back to Kochkor before getting hit by the afternoon rains again, glad that we had managed to at least spend a little time in Kyrgyzstan's superlative mountains.

Young Kyrgyz urchin on a large horse. In the countryside the horse is the most important tool: source of food, transport and money. Needless to say everyone can ride from an early age.

Whilst travelling through Kyrgyzstan I was struck by a random little oddity. For those of you wondering where our half-used "stuff" goes then Kyrgyzstan is definitely part of the answer. Public, inter-urban transport, like in many developing countries, is by minivan (aka marshrutka, maxi-taxi, dolmuş, colectivo or sotrama depending on the country); usually a Mercedes or GAZelle. Mercedes are usually European hand-me-downs, often from Germanic countries. You can tell because the Kyrgyz don't feel the need to rebrand or repaint their vans, and so along Kyrgyzstan's roads it is possible to see removal men from Bavaria, fishmongers from Jutland, Dutch electricians, mentally handicapped Swedes and even a Saxon sky-diving club. Passenger cars also display their foreign origins in national bumper stickers that linger long after changing owners, changing continents. D (Germany) and LT (Lithuania) are particularly popular. But it's not just vehicles. The British supermarket chain Morrisons must have recently undergone a rebranding campaign. Not that I've been back in the UK, but many shops sport Morrisons carrier bags which must have become obsolete back home and have been sold on. At least it's good to see that these things are being put to use and not simply discarded.

A van that belonged to a German car mechanic in a previous life. Now it ferries people from Kochkor to Bishkek.

A Morrisons carrier bag thousands of miles from the nearest Morrisons shop.

Close Encounters Of The Foreign Kind

2011-06-04T07:30:00.001+01:00

I never knew my paternal grandfather who died of cancer a couple of years before I was born. All I know of him is through faded photographs and my father's reminiscences. One anecdote has particularly stayed with me. When my grandfather visited London from Czechoslovakia in the 70's he would wander around the local neighbourhood, but he would leave his watch at home on purpose. This gave him an excuse to go up to people to ask them the time and so strike up a conversation and use his limited English. I do something similar. I like asking people for directions. Often it is necessary as maps and signs are often inadequate, but usually I will ask more often than is really required so that I can practice my limited local language skills and create a human contact. Rarely does anything bigger come of it, but a transient conversation and a smile are the ephemera that make travelling special. I think my grandfather and I would have got along well.

These contacts are the palette that colour my days: even the dullest places can become exciting and the most cosmopolitan metropolis a morgue depending on who you meet. Tashkent is supposed to be Central Asia's cultural capital whilst Bishkek is but a backwater with, quite frankly, nothing going on. Yet for me the roles were reversed thanks to the people I met. Tashkent was OK, but Bishkek has been a revelation. I've met some fantastic people who have led me down the rabbit-hole of unexpected activities such as playing ping-pong in the central, Panfilov park on a Thursday afternoon and going to a private, Soviet-era banya in the bowels of a swimming pool complex. The most unexpected though was through my couchsurfing contact here, a girl named Selbi. A very forceful and energetic individual who is an activist for LGBT rights in Kyrgyzstan. That in itself is extraordinary as in the region homosexuality and even sexuality issues in general are ignored, swept under the carpet and plain denied. Although homosexuality has been legalised in Kyrgyzstan (as opposed to all the other Central Asian republics where it is still illegal) it isn't recognised and there is still much discrimination and certainly little understanding. So when she invited me to come along to a gay club in Bishkek I was very eager to see what it would be like. I was surprised to find that it was in a very central location and not hidden (although it wasn't advertised as a gay club), though the bouncers at the door made sure that only known clientele and foreigners got in (foreigners aren't seen as being homophobic and so are accepted as LGBT supporters). The club itself was pretty ordinary and could have been anywhere. There wasn't even that much overtly homosexual action, but instead it was a place where the LGBT community could let their hair down and relax and have a party without fear of interference. It was nice for me too as I put on my best T-shirt and dusted off my dancing shoes (well, sandals) and bust some uncoordinated moves on the floor. It seems to be a universal law that gay people are not just better dressers, but also better dancers. It was funny to see that there were two groups at the club that night. There's the hard dance fans with their pumping beats, but as soon as I Will Survive hit the amps they fled the dancefloor to be replaced by the camp, cheese crowd (to which, I must admit, I belong). Seeing that there is a gay scene in this, in certain respects, conservative part of the world and that the LGBT community is working to make its voice heard and get its rights.

Vortex Of Unrest

2011-05-30T19:26:00.000+01:00

I've wanted to visit Central Asia for a long time now. It's a region that falls well underneath the radar of most peoples' consciousness and yet has a rich history and varied ethnic and cultural patchwork. In fact it is the cline at which the Indo-European and Oriental peoples meet, producing physiognomies from classic European to Han Chinese with everything in between, especially in Uzbekistan and Afghanistan. The town of Osh where I am now epitomises both the best and worst aspects of this fact.

The main entrance to the Osh bazaar says "World Peace" along with a monument with three doves, whilst behind lie burnt out stalls from last year's clashes.

Osh is situated at the eastern end of the Fergana Valley, which is quite a misnomer as it's more of a flat, oval-shaped bowl. The Fergana Valley is the most fertile and densely populated region of Central Asia where all manner of crops thrive. It is also a mainly Uzbek area. Nevertheless it is split between Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan forming a complex vortex at the very heart of Central Asia. The convoluted borders, including two Uzbek and one Tajik enclaves in Kyrgyzstan and another Tajik enclave in Uzbekistan were drawn by Stalin in the 20's when he was Commissar for Nationalities in a classic piece of divide and rule. Even the different nationalities themselves are the creations of Russian colonialism - before the arrival of the Russians there was no consciousness of a Kazakh, Kyrgyz, Uzbek, Tajik or Turkmen nation. During Soviet rule this did not make much difference as internal borders were mainly administrative and did not form real barriers, and all nationalities were subordinate to Communist dogma.

If the Central Asian states were at all prepared for independence, then they were prepared by the Soviet system.

When the union collapsed in '91 so did the region. Borders sprang up where before there had been none, separating once close communities; subsidies from Russia withered away; once-integrated industries and supply chains fell apart; and there was a mass exodus of the Russian and German intelligentsia who often held key positions in academia, the arts and industry. And as the chips fell the people holding the reins of power were the Party Secretaries and other Communist strongmen. People not well-versed in democracy, market economics or the rule of law, but experts at propaganda, cronyism and intimidation. So whilst paying lip service to democracy, usually by changing the name of the Communist Party to some combination of People, Freedom and Democracy and holding elections where no opposition was allowed and (just in case) the votes rigged, the same old guard has maintained power. Of the five post-Soviet, Central Asian countries only Kyrgyzstan has managed to change its president in the 20 years since independence, and that only thanks to popular uprisings and protests (for my pedant readers Turkmenistan has also had a change of leaders, but that was due to Turkmenbashi having a heart attack and he has since been replaced by his named heir who is just as bonkers - not what I would call a regime change). Arbitrary arrests, torture and disappearances are common in Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan (and not unknown in the others) whilst the various presidential families have accumulated assets in the billions of dollars. To fill the ideological void propaganda-bloated national narratives were created by massaging history, or even making it up altogether, in an effort to create a nationalistic, jingoistic glue and to deflect from the mass theft propagated by the ruling classes.

In all the countries, except perhaps Kazakhstan, buoyed as it is by huge oil and gas revenues, living standards plummeted and are only now, slowly, reaching their Soviet levels. No wonder the Soviet times are viewed with nostalgia and longing by the majority of people old enough to remember them. The West doesn't particularly care. At first because these countries were so strategically insignificant and then after September the 11th concerns such as human rights and free speech were relegated way behind stability, the War on Terror and energy security.

Being at the the edge of Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan Osh is a mixed city with peoples of different backgrounds all rubbing along quite peacefully: from conservative Muslims all the way to hip young students and everything in between. This is one of the reasons why the city's bazaar is/was so famous as being the largest, liveliest and most colourful in Central Asia with plenty of cross-border trade. Which is why the violence that flared up in Osh last year was so unexpected, both in its suddenness and intensity (the stories, and some of the mobile phone clips, are truly disturbing). The overriding narrative in the Western media was of inter-ethnic fighting between Uzbeks and Kyrgyz, but the reasons were far more complex (in the same way that the Troubles in Northern Ireland were not about theological disagreements about the infallibility of the Pope) and murky - many blame the ex-president, Bakiyev, who had been ousted a couple of months before as well as a lingering resentment over the Uzbek's business success. Walking round the town today it is hard to imagine that such atrocities happened, the only indication being the odd burnt-out shops dotted around here and there and the preponderance of shipping containers doubling as stalls in the bazaar. Nevertheless there is a simmering rage that hides below the surface that shows itself if you are willing to ask the questions. Hopefully it will die down rather than rear its ugly head again.

The violence, or "civil unrest" according to the official euphemism, (I detest such dishonest hijacking of language - it makes the situation which led to the deaths of two thousand people sound like it was caused by excessive coffee consumption.) had as one consequence the influx of a veritable alphabet soup of INGOs such as the OSCE, OECD, and ICRC to name but a few. I was extremely lucky to find a guide and friend in Aiday: a Kyrgyz girl who helped me remember that I travel in part to shake up my Western parochialism with regards to "developing countries". Well-educated, bright and more fluent in English than many Brits, she had lived in Europe but had returned home because she could have a better quality of life back in Kyrgyzstan. She also works for UNICEF and introduced me to the secret, and somewhat incestuous, world of the INGO ex-pats. I have always found this community to be particularly curious and was thrilled when she invited me to the weekly ICRC Friday party. There was, however, one thing I needed to do before attending. No-one is allowed in without being part of the club and so I had to devise my own TLA (Three Letter Acronym) so that I wouldn't be found out as soon as I introduced myself ("Hi, this is John from WASH [WAter, Sanitation and Hygiene], pleased to meet you, I'm Sue from ACTED."). So I became "Erik from TIT" - Trans-International Travelling. It didn't take long for the penny to drop: "TIT? I haven't heard of them. hey, wait a minute, you're just an unwashed backpacking hobo." Although my cover was blown I already had my foot in the door and managed to affix myself to the bar.