WORLD TRAVELLER

Leaving Istanbul

2009-10-05T03:36:00.000-07:00

I can hardly believe how long I have neglected this ongoing chronicle of adventures and discoveries, particularly as I spent the last two weeks in Istanbul, a city of endless inspiration.

This is the place that blew me away eight years ago. I was an impressionable 23 year old fresh from University and open to explore the world. It all seemed so foreign and remote back then: the mosques, the water pipes, the traffic, the stray dogs and the winding alleyways of the bazaar. Now it seems a model of civilization after the time that I spent in Asia. In fact it is a model of civilization, having been the seat of empire for centuries.

When I first returned I wandered the streets beneath the minarets and felt the profound sense of belonging in this place just as I had felt it all those years ago. As I walked, the wail of the Aazan began calling the faithful to prayer from atop the pencil sharp minarets that pierce the sky in all directions. It really hit me just how special this place was, validating all of the good memories I had and reaffirming the affection in which I hold this ancient city.

At this point I can hardly believe that over two weeks have flown by since my arrival in this place. I have a hard time recording an account of my activities since most of them were effectively wanderings through the streets to sit in parks with friends new and old, to feel the pulse of this place on the banks of the Bosphorous, to renew my acquaintance with old places that held so much inspiration for me in my younger days.

The people were what made this the time that it was. I was happy to welcome a visitor from Canada, always nice to share part of this journey with somebody and we had lots of laughs, particularly in matching Adidas tracksuits. It was also an opportunity to catch up with my friend Daniel from Germany, the great guy I traveled from China to Uzbekistan with. The one who left to pursue romance for and Iranian girlfriend. It was great to have him check back into the story, with positive results and a truly inspiring story to report. We walked the streets and sat for hours in the parks talking about life, the future and the meaning of it all when so far from home.

Perhaps the greatest surprise however was running into an old law school buddy. It was completely at random and I just spotted him in an internet cafe in the town of Goreme in the middle of Cappadocia. It was so great to see someone from back home, someone who knows me and someone who understands not only what I am doing, but also where I am coming from.

There were others of course, but I is seldom that I get anyone that I know, let alone having three people in such close proximity. It kept me here for a long time and I loved every second of it. I am hesitant to leave even now, and really want to make it back someday.

Last time I was here I was conscious of how special a place it was, conscious that I may never see it again in my life. When I walked back between the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, I felt truly blessed in this life. Not only have I lived a wonderful experience, but I have been fortunate to do it again and again.

Tomorrow is time to move on, a long haul bus ride to Tblisi, Georgia and on through the Caucas region before the next big goal: the Islamic Repbublic of Iran. I leave here with heavy heart and will miss all the people who came and went, and the friends that are staying behind. Maybe one day I'll be back...

Ich Bin Ein Berliner

2009-09-18T03:19:00.000-07:00

Those are the words of JFK upon visiting the city to confirm American solidarity with West Berlin in the face of the East closing access routes to the city. It means I am a Berliner, and I think that in many ways, it rings true today. This is one of the most vibrant and unique cities that I have ever visited. It is full of street art, high end shops, cafes, bars, clubs, restaurants, and there is a really lively atmosphere.

From Riga, I made my way across Poland, visiting Krakow and Auschwitz, before riding the rails through the night to Berlin. Since I got to this city, I have spent most of my time visiting former squats, checking out art studios and photographing graffiti, which is pretty much everywhere you look around here. I live off Kebab which is incredibly good and cheap, while pretty much everything else is quite expensive.

There are some strange bars that ou can visit including the Last Cathedral which is owned by Rammstein and looks like a church, or the Upside Down bar, where all the furniture is bolted to the ceiling. There are a couple more that I didn't get a chance to check out, like the Alien Bar where there are Aliens busting through the walls all over the place, or the Ping Pong bar, where all the patrons have a paddle and there is only one table.

The city has a real pulse to it, and there is a strange mix of crumbling buildings, and gentrified neighbourhoods. In one spot, a bunch of youth have changed a bombed out train station into an entertainment complex including a skate park, a bunch of bars, cafes and a nightclub.

I feel like this is my last dose of civilization before headed back into the dry heat of the Middle East. In spite of my mind remaining on my ever diminishing budget, I have not been able to resist the lure of three euro lattes and the occasional sushi special to supplement my all kebab diet.

The evenings also involved the occasional splurge on pub crawls to strange and wonderful places. The only factor diminishing my enjoyment of the unique nightlife were the hordes of drunken Aussies determined to provide evidence of machismo by swilling beer that increased the volume of their antics until the point where they started falling down. I can't imagine more asinine behaviour, but this is the world of the frat boy tourist, a world I have so successfully avoided for the majority of this trip. I'll be rid of them by Tehran.

девушка and Достевский in Санкт Петербург

2009-09-11T01:45:00.000-07:00

It doesn’t get more Eastern European feeling than this. I am sitting in a cafe in Riga, Latvia. There is a man beside me playing the accordion behind a flower stand. There are lots of cafes nearby and a big public square with winding lanes radiating out from it. It is nice and temporarily distracting from the night bus that I intend to board in a few hours.

Things have been unnecessarily complicated for me of late. I was offered a volunteer position with the United Nations (very appealing) in Haiti (not so appealing), designing safeguards and laws to tackle police corruption among other things. I had three days to decide whether I would accept it. I did not. This was against the background of some unexpected visa wrangling with the idiots at www.iranianvisa.com over an invitation letter to everybody’s favourite Islamic republic. I have now exchanged seventeen emails, sat in a Western Union for an hour and a half, wired them thirty five Euros and they can’t get started since they still don’t have the money.

I don’t want to worry about this kind of thing right now, I just want to enjoy the small slice of Latvia that I am seeing. I find myself in one of those little moments that fall between the cracks of such a big trip. The nice atmosphere during the few hours I spend here are not enough to really make much of a mark, but will however colour my impression of this country sufficiently to feel that I have been here.

It can’t compare to good old Санкт Петербург where I spent a week meeting девушка and even the occasional красотка, staying out of all sorts of drunken trouble making, and drinking in the amazing culture all around.

The first couple of days there, I spent looking around the streets thinking of Достевский and his characters, moving along the side of the canals and enjoying a truly European feel for the first time in years. It was a city of art and I passed a couple of days walking around in the Hermitage, winter palace of the Царь, and now one of the world’s greatest art museums. It’s the kind of place that you have to walk past the Рембант ван Рейн (Rembrandt van Rijn) if you want to have enough time to see the Пикасо (Picasso). After a few hours of such amazing art, I felt overwhelmed and made for the exit. You could spend weeks looking at the paintings in there, though I was satisfied with seeing both DaVinci masterpieces and dozens more by Matisse, Cezanne, and Gaugin among many others. It was certainly the biggest art collection with some of the biggest names that I have ever seen, second only to the Louvre in scope and perhaps the Vatican in big name artistic sex appeal.

A word on all the Cyrillic: though some may dismiss my use of Cyrillic spelling as nothing more than a pretentious attempt to showcase my infinite culture and sophistication, I can assure you that this is untrue. The point of this blog has always been to convey to the reader a sense of the experience that I have been living throughout my travels. Apart from the девушка and the красотка, which are words that may import far too much scandal to explain, all of the others are words that are recognizable, being either proper names or titles which are familiar in English. Now imagine boarding a metro and seeing nothing but Cyrillic all over the place, thinking “hmm, well c is s, p is r, b is v, y is u, н is n, д is d, и is i, so I am headed for the Nevsky Prospekt station, aha! There it is: Невский Проспект!”

It takes a little getting used to, and more importantly, requires the abandonment of the intuitive interpretation of the symbols that you recognize. It made me realize that my perception of words is a perception of symbols, in that when i see a word in English or French, or even a word in a language using a Latin script, I am capable of recognizing the word as a symbol itself, not as the sum of its component parts. In order to learn some Russky words, and to navigate my way around, I first had to learn the alphabet, including the sound each letter made, then overcome the inclination to impose my Latin pronunciation on particular letters, and finally I was able to sound out words as if I were a child first learning to read. This may sound like quite an accomplishment, though in the end it amounted to little more than feeble attempts to pronounce words without any idea of their meaning. It was useful in reading signs and menus, as the number of recognizable words is quite surprising. It also allowed me to pick up some words that I would otherwise have never been able to remember. That said, I hope that readers of this blog will indulge my decision to insert some Cyrillic, as a means to convey a significant experience from my travels in the Commonwealth of Independent States, if not as a challenge to decode them.

All of this served me well during the daytime, though did not play much of a part during some wild evenings at Петербург nightclubs inuding Fidel and Mod Club for any of you in the know. The first night out was with a group I picked up at the hostel including a couple of older Aussie guys, one of whom had been in jail. After a few beers for me, and a few Boдka shots for the Aussies, we headed out for some fun on the town. En route, I remarked that one of the girls we were with was particularly short. With no tact whatsoever I asked “how tall are you?” to which she replied “I’m 4’11” and I’m not a midget.” This led to twenty minutes of discussion of her height which ended inconclusively.

The bar was great and strange things started to happen. Soon the Midget and some lame English guy had blood all over them, from an altercation that he had likely started. I never got the full story, but understand that Aussie John had been instrumental in “diffusing” the situation. By two in the morn, most of the group had gone home, leaving myself and John the Aussie jailbird. At one point, I was talking to some people and noticed that he had just head-butted someone who was now lying on the floor. I suggested that we go somewhere else and we moved to the bar next door. We lasted there for a good half hour until I returned from the toilet to observe him pummelling somebody else with his fists. Again, I suggested a change of venue. I should note here that the bouncers took no action, apparently approving of his behaviour. The third bar was great. I did not see what happened to John there, as I was otherwise engaged, discussing a marriage proposal with a Russian girl I had met moments before. I later found out that John had made for home, spent some time in police custody, talked his way out, and found the hostel after hours wandering the streets. All in a good night’s work.

The following evening I headed to an area containing three nightclubs. I had a great time there meeting lots of Russians, and did not meet any prospective fiancées. Saturday night was probably the best though. We headed out again, back to the place where Aussie John and I had somehow managed to stay out of trouble a couple of nights before. Some of the bouncers remembered me and I was treated to a couple of free beers and taught some Russian pick up lines that I employed with limited success. I was glad to have befriended the bouncers as most of them were goons. This impression was confirmed by the fact that the night degenerated into a medium sized street brawl after midnight. As I stood there sipping a beer and spectating, I was approached by a girl intent on reprimanding me for observing the carnage. She said something to the effect of “You come to my country to watch people get in fights” to which I replied “I came to drink a beer and everyone started fighting.” She saw the validity of this response and we soon became friendly.

The evening ended with me buying МакДоналдс (McDonald’s) breakfast for a Russian guy from the hostel and a rap singing religious zealot with a massive beard who we had somehow picked up on the street. We fled rap-Rasputin and got in at about seven o’clock in the morning.

The next couple of days, I spent in complete sobriety, save for the daily beer I would purchase for the purpose of roaming the streets. This was motivated by the behaviour of St. Petersburgers(?) who consume beer as if it were a soft drink. It is common to see not only rebellious youth, but also women and men headed from work, sipping a half litre bottle of suds at any time of day. It doesn’t turn heads at eight in the morning any more than it does at eight in the evening. I found this to be a charming routine and enjoyed my daily beer stroll.

The last night was also a memorable one, ending on a Санкт Петербург rooftop with a couple of девушка talking about rap music and learning that Jza from the Wu Tang Clan had played a show in Ekaterinaburg. The девушка were big fans. I headed home that night, sorry to leave Pуссия but eager to move on over the eastern fringe of Europe to the Bosphorus strait and the edge of the western world.

Stranger in Mockba

2009-09-02T21:23:00.000-07:00

01/09/09

It’s four in the morning and I am sitting in C. ПЕЕТЕРСБУРГ (St. Petersburg) in a train station coffee shop sipping KAФФE AMEPIKKAHO. Tired from rocking through the darkness on an old Russian train, I am happy to find a strong brew. It's hours until the subway opens, so perfect time to reflect a bit on the time that I spent in Moscow.

Wandering the streets in that great city, it was hard to picture how life was there a mere 20 years ago. Nowadays, everything seems clean and modern against a backdrop of beautiful classical buildings. People wander the streets sipping beers at all times of day, and the Soviet era housing blocks are conveniently out of sight, beginning at the edges of the city centre, but then radiating out for an incredible distance. Perhaps the best reminder of the not so distant Soviet past is the massive police presence everywhere.

The streets are full of cops. So are the subways and the squares. Some of them have ordinary uniforms, while others are in combat fatigues. I even saw a few lady cops wearing high heels. Most of them have little to no interest in hassling tourists, though there are exceptions to this. I was stopped on one occasion for jaywalking, though there were no cars (except the cop car) and there were a bunch of Russians doing the same thing. I think that the police were inspired to spring into action on account of my Egyptian friend Amr, clearly not a Russian.

We had already made it to the far sidewalk by the time the cop got out of his car and started yelling. I told Amr to ignore him, but he didn’t listen. Reluctantly, I went over to see what all the shouting was about. The cop started lecturing us in Russky and that was fine because I wasn’t in the mood to listen to any sort of comprehensible reprimand. He was clearly pointing out that jaywalking was a serious offence and he demanded our passports. We turned them over and followed him back to the car, at which point he opened the back door and began gesturing for us to get in.

As far as I was concerned, that was the exact point where the entire interaction deteriorated into a farce. I have no problem getting a fine for jaywalking, but getting arrested is somewhat disproportional to the ‘offence.’ Who the hell did this guy think he was. Maybe somebody forgot to tell these goons that the Cheka is a thing of the past. I refused to get into the car, in spite of his incessant prompting. I just kept repeating “nyet avtomobil” over and over while making a steering wheel/driving action with my hands. Eventually he gave up and sat in the front inspecting our passports.

Meanwhile, the Egyptian had taken the liberty of telephoning his English speaking Russian friend and was explaining the situation and asking her to speak to them. When you are dealing with crooked cops fishing for cash on account of some minor infraction, a language barrier can be your best friend. Hence I began urging him to hang up the phone. “Hang Up, Hang Up, Hang Up, DO IT NOW.” I failed to see how providing the cops with a means to communicate the severity of our offences would in any way assist us, other than providing an accurate determination of the amount of the “fine.” Seeing as the documents were in order, and I was refusing to accompany them to bribe headquarters, and there was no way to communicate anything to us, the cop lost interest and returned the passports. Just another walk down the path of power tripping state sanctioned officers shaking down tourists. The fact that they were unsuccessful also suggests to me that they are major losers.

After the incident, we headed for the subway, which is one of the best and most unique that I have ever seen. Moscow’s Metro system is similar to Pyonyang’s in that it is buried hundreds of metres under the earth and accessed via interminable escalators that descend through whitewashed tunnels. There are few ads and the stations are decorated in a classical style with old Soviet mosaics, inscriptions, portraits of Lenin, columns, statues, archways, and scenic bridges over the tracks. Aesthetics take high priority and seem to leave a deficiency in the number of signs and maps. I found that there was seldom a sign in view when I pulled into a station, and rarely was there even a sticker in the subway car to show the route map. Most journeys required a significant amount of planning and a functional knowledge of the Cyrillic alphabet. Nonetheless, the Metro was one of the highlights of Moscow. It is like a vast spider web of track and tunnels with huge numbers of people flowing through in every direction. It is a place to see all types of Muscovites.

I can’t believe how some of the young Moscow women dress. Never before have I seen such scantily clad bodies in public. There seems to be no inhibition to strolling around, doing your shopping, in an outfit that would turn heads at a nightclub. Three inch stilettos seem to be mandatory, and I even saw a female cop wearing high heels with her uniform (great for chasing the baddies).

Men are not exempt from questionable fashion choices either. It seems that the mullet is really en vogue among Moscow youth, though this is generally a short and tame incarnation of the classic hairstyle, and comes nowhere near an approximation of “the Kentucky Waterfall.” Nonetheless there are mullteted men and mulleted children at every turn. In fact I am looking at a mullet right now as I write this (with two more in the immediate vicinity).

Put all of this together and it leads to some serious attraction between the Russians, manifest in the frequency with which I observed public displays of affection. It was a rare subway car that did not have at least one young couple lip locked and smooching in a corner somewhere. Public parks were much the same. Most people seemed relatively uninterested if not completely oblivious to the displays which created a remarkable contrast to attitudes prevailing in the countries I have visited to date.

Muscovites are not the only feature of the city that will characterize my prevailing impression of the place. There were also fantastic museums (especially if you can read Cyrillic, or better yet Russian), and iconic buildings that are some of the most identifiable places on earth. There are galleries with works by Russian masters, and places of great historical significance.

The buildings that make the biggest impression however are the cathedrals. They are all over the place, many having survived the seventy year experiment in an atheist communist society, while others perished and were reconstructed. The most colossal reconstruction was that of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour which Stalin had razed to the ground in order to construct a swimming pool. The Cathedrals are great to visit, most being colourful, painted wall to wall and floor to ceiling with the orthodox pantheon (well, what I mean is Jesus, Mary, Angels, and Saints). Throughout the day, the bells of the cathedrals can be heard chiming in many quarters of the city.

Alas the time had come to say goodbye to this grand city, and to move on to the northernmost point of my journey. It’s just past five now and soon it will be light out. That is my cue to hit the metro and scour the streets for a place to stay. I am travelling without a guidebook which is great adventure but also promotes uncertainty and disorganization. The lack of reliable information is also the principal factor that led me to wind up at such a dive in Moscow. It had a prime location, but I think my mattress was stuffed with barbed wire. Hopefully I can do better here.

The Corpse and the Terror

2009-08-29T08:49:00.000-07:00

A visit to Moscow would certainly not be complete without some time spent with Lenin's embalmed corpse in a state dungeon cum "Mausoleum" beneath Red Square. The old man is looking good, perhaps a little two good after eighty five years of decay, but this is not Mme. Tussaud's. This is the effect of quality CCCP fromaldehyde, a neatly tailored suit, special lighting, carefully trimmed hair and trademark moustache. The only thing missing was a mechanism that prompted him to sit up and wave to the guests. It was all very dignified and solemn though. Visitors beware: no hands in pockets, and no talking. They may be the original 'preserve the dictator' country, but these guys got nothing on the DPRK for making people fall into line when viewing (read: worshipping) the deceased leader.

Outside the tomb are a row of busts that commemorate various personalities from the Soviet past. The one that stands out is that of Stalin, both because the type of stone is different, and also because an aura of evil lurks all around it. I stood facing the big moustache for a while and felt a chill up my spine, just knowing that the man responsible for the Great Terror, and untold other massacres was cold and rotting in the ground less than two metres from me. After a few minutes of gaping at the bust and the grave while thinking what an evil creature lay beneath the earth, the bells of the cathedrals began to ring all at once and I made for the exit, feeling uneasy for some reason. I turned back on my way out and saw the face again, felt like it was staring at me, posthumously deciphering my 'thoughtcrime' sending out the alert. OK, not really...that kind of paranoia is a little extreme, no problems here as yet.

It's been nothing but early mornings, cathedrals, art galleries, museums, and spending Rubles so far. Breakfast this morning was 250 Rubles (about $9.00CDN) for a cup of coffee and a croissant. Just a croissant. No butter, jam or anything. I am staying in some Moscow dump to save cash and think I am gonna head out to the countryside soon to get another impression of what goes on in this country.

Out of Uzbekistan...

2009-08-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

26/08/09

Glad to move on from Uzbekistan, I had one final hurdle to clear, this one more daunting than negotiation with any taxi touts or seedy hotel managers: Uzbek customs.

Getting through involves a great deal of passport checking and inspection. They looked through all the electric plugs and battery chargers in my luggage – apparently quite the novelty. They looked through the photographs on both my cameras twice making frequent inquiries if I had any porno. I did not.

When I finally got the luggage checked, customs officials insisted that I proceed to the departure lounge three hours before the flight. This involved more inquiries about porno and inspection of the $371 USD that I had declared on the form. One of the guys asked me for a bribe and as a result of repeated inquiries, I finally told him I could help him get a visa for the UK, before buying him a pack of Uzbek smokes at a cost of 1500 sum ($0.85 USD).

Bribe paid on the cheap, complete with empty (but necessary) promises, I was ready to make my way through immigration where the cameras were inspected again (porno?) and I tried to maintain my identity as a British Citizen contrary to every instinct to tell people I come from Canada. The police were getting a real kick out of my carry on items and were playing with my laptop and cameras. One of them was really screwing around and began playfighting with me. After a few punches to my stomach I pointed to him and said “Arnold Schwarzenegger” which provoked lots of positive acknowledgement and laughter. He then proceeded to “playfully” immobilize me by twisting my arm behind my back. I played along (having little choice), amazed at the ‘corrupt and jolly’ police state feel that the experience had thus far created. I finally said goodbye, pledged eternal friendship and moved through the metal detector without having my items x-rayed and found a seat in the empty departure lounge (with no porno).

This was a fitting end to the idiotic bureaucratic ineptitude that was my time in Uzbekistan. I was now through customs clutching the collected scraps of paper which constituted my registration certificates that I had collected for the last couple of weeks at every hotel that I stayed. It’s a good thing they were not checked because one incompetent girl had managed to put the wrong date on a slip. No doubt that discovery of this fact would have sent me back to the cigarette counter to purchase a full carton of bribes. I am sure I could have wriggled out of a fine again. Without prejudice to my generally honest personality, I have developed significant expertise in dealing with customs while avoiding most hassles without paying bribes to corrupt officials. On account of its bureaucracy, getting in or out of Uzbekistan is a Major League achievement in this department.

The trick is to always look really bored, as if customs is an unnecessary formality, so they don’t take any interest in you. This works 90% of the time. Uzbek customs is a good illustration of the exception to this rule. Though I was looking as bored and annoyed as possible at the senseless and repeated inspection of my documents and luggage, the officials engaged me on both the way in and the way out. I believe it is on accountof the remote points of entry and exit that I attracted so much interest. I don’t think many tourists turn up at Madanivat (Where?), and likely even fewer fly out of Karshi (Where?).

In any event, when official interest is aroused for this or other reasons, attempt to confirm that you are worthy of interest whilst diverting the subject from the customs inspection by any means necessary: compare the officials to Hollywood stars, boast about some characteristic of your home country, tell them that you really love theirs, explain that you are broke, tell them you don’t like a rival country, or tell them they should visit you back home. If dealing with a man, bring up either football or women, or in some cases discuss both. Don’t mention that you are a Canadian, travelling for the last year and that you are presently carrying two passports, thirteen different currencies, a computer full of scathing blog material relating to their country, and whatever you do, don’t bring porno.

Having successfully employed these techniques, I was through with minimal hassle to await the flight. The three hours passed relatively quickly on account of a good book, and the televised coverage of the “Uzbekistan International Dance Festival.” This was the very event that had prevented me from properly seeing the Registan in Samarqand, and let me say that it was totally worth it. From what I could see, the festivities were attended by about 500 spectators including the president of Uzbekistan.

It began with ten minutes of music, then a couple of minutes of dancing before the performers gave way to a litany of standard bearers holding poles with the names of various countries involved in the festival (in ways that completely escape my comprehension). Among them were Bangladesh, Belorussia, Bulgaria, Turkmenistan, and Tajikistan. It truly was an international affair.

The president then got up and gave a lengthy speech that did not generate any reaction from the crowd, save for some half-hearted clapping as if to an unheard musical beat. He took his glasses off twice during the speech and really spoke to the people, I think in an attempt to be funny. This did not result in laughs or applause so he put the glasses back on and kept talking. This was followed by another speech, something to do with UNESCO, maybe plans for more carpet shops in the monuments, more fluorescent lights on ancient buildings. Seeing the event

I didn’t get to see any dancing as the doors to the tarmac opened and this produced a massive scrum with people lurching toward the exit. I waited it out for a while and walked across the tarmac to the plane. A guard had taken the initiative to have the men line up so as to allow ladies to board first. Once the ladies were on board the line degenerated into yet another wild scrum, this one even more physical since it was only the men left. I stood back and watched, observing how competitive reserved seating really is.

Touched down in Moscow after a flight with my neighbour asserting himself all over the arm rest and spilling into my seat. I didn’t care, just glad to get out of Uzbekistan. I didn’t want to deal with the taxis, the touts, the agents, the hotel bookers, and of course, I arrived in the middle of the night. Solution: sleep in the lounge and head downtown on the subway in the morning.

I note that after writing this entry, I discovered that some Uzbek customs official had sticky fingers and swiped my cel phone and the charger. It was kind of nice that the Uzbek authorities decided to treat me to a final "Fuck You" on the way out...

The Qalas

2009-08-25T06:25:00.000-07:00

24/08/09

I “celebrated” my thirty first birthday in the desert of Uzbekistan with a couple of Slovakian guys. After waiting for a couple of hours for a ridiculous pontoon bridge to open, we ripped past cotton fields over a rough road toward some untouched ancient fortresses, Qalas, deserted in the sand.

As we drove, it was amazing to see the contrast between the land near the road, irrigated by the great soviet canals that drain the red sea. They produce a green strip along their banks that fades out over the land, ending with the last irrigation ditch, ultimately giving way to the desert sand. At one point there were sand dunes to the right of us and lush green cotton fields to the right. The driver pulled off the main road and headed out into the desert. The landscape was nothing but sand and hard packed dried earth. The only life was sagebrush and the occasional goat or sheep nibbling at it.

Just when it was looking most bleak, the horizon was broken by a massive fortress that seemed to rise out of the desert sand. The mud brick walls seemed older than time, some dating back to the fourth century BCE. All lie in ruins today, the last having perished at the hands of Chinggis Khan in the early thirteenth century. The desert climate has preserved the mud walls for thousands of years, and the arid climate gives the mud a rock like hardness.

From the top of the walls, I looked out and saw the canals in the distance, scarring the desert and giving life to a channel of artificial green. The land is flat and barren, with a horizon that extends as far as the eye can see. From the top of the walls, a warm sandy wind whipped over me with gusts hard enough that I had to watch my balance. For hundreds of years, nothing had touched these ancient buildings except that wind and the occasional footstep.

The Qalas were the first place in Uzbekistan that I could really feel. We found them deserted, the area around them deserted, the road leading there deserted. There was no ticket booth, no stairs to the top, no guardrails, no areas off limits. Only crumbling archways and decaying paths between ancient ramparts that we explored, cautious to avoid damaging the crumbling fortresses as we scrambled up the walls and under archways that had once supported great ceilings of mud.

I pulled an ancient piece of grass out of a mud brick and sat on the top of the wall, feeling it between my fingers as I felt the hot desert wind blow over me under the grey sky. I was astounded to think that people could survive in such a harsh environment, particularly with such a highly developed and structured society. This was built millennia before the soviet development projects that brought water and fertility to the area.

After the driver attempted to re-negotiate the price of the car, we were off, covered in dust, but finally feeling inspired in this country by something real, raw, and spectacular. The day ended with me walking alone on the streets of Urgench, a big block soviet city with colossal squares, empty save for some Uzbek monuments. There was a ghostlike feeling in the air as that warm desert wind blew in from the horizon under the setting sun.

Khiva

2009-08-25T06:16:00.000-07:00

23/08/09

Bored to tears in the beautiful city of Buxoro (Bukhara), I had to make a move to keep my wits. Not to say there was not a lot to see, it’s just that all the ancient buildings are full of carpet shops, t-shirt stands, jewellery sellers, hat racks, postcards, and other tourist crap. The shops and stalls are not only an uninteresting nuisance that ruin most photographs, they are also impossible to avoid and have taken over EVERY SINGLE HISTORICAL BUILDING in a manner most disgraceful.

I got up at five in the morning and headed for the mashrutka stand to get the local prices. In spite of my early start, I was running a bit late and had to hop in a cab, a routine that is quickly becoming my worst nightmare. The driver and I agreed on a (high) price, but then he stopped to pick a guy up on the way. I am no stranger to this game, so I simply watched what the Uzbek man paid and deducted that from the agreed upon fare. The driver was enraged and started screaming at me. I pulled my bag out of the back while he shouted angrily from the front seat.

He began making threatening gestures, and jumped out of the car as if to intimidate me into paying up. I stood there and looked him in the eye without flinching. He grabbed the shoulder strap of my day pack and I seized his wrist and twisted it until he released his grip. This put him in check and just to be sure I kept giving him a look as if to say “bring it on.” He shut up and got back in the cab. I am so sick of this shit I swear one of these guys is cruisin’ for a slap.

Some of the Uzbeks were laughing at him, unsympathetic as he was clearly trying to take me for a ride. The guy who had shared the cab decided to take me under his wing, and soon we were off in a minivan style mashrutka, en route to Khiva via Buruni and Urgench. The Uzbek was an older man and we sat communicating in broken and very limited Russky. Having answered all of his questions to the best of my ability, we rode in silence, while he alternated between chain smoking and hacking his lungs up until finally we stopped for breakfast. We sat and ate stewed meat that tasted suspiciously similar to the way Canadian dog food smells. He ordered some vodka and insisted that I share some. I resisted, seeing as it was still before eight in the morning.

Back in the mashrutka, we made our way smoothly through checkpoint after checkpoint , until up aheard we were confronted by a full on roadblock guarded by the police. There was much discussion in Uzbek, but I was able to surmise the plan involved saying “Salaam un alaiyakum” and pressing a few thousand sum ($1.50 – $5.00 CDN???) as the driver shook his hand. It didn’t work that smoothly, but after thorough document inspection we were on our way. Almost.

Just as we were loading back into the minivan, one of the cops came up with a suitcase in his hand and a silly grin on his face. Of course he was provided the front passenger seat as the rest of us contorted ourselves into the remaining space to accommodate the large man who moved to the back. A few hours later, we were in Buruni.

This is where my day got interesting. The same Uzbek guy from the first taxi made it clear that I should stick with him. Having nothing but time on my hands, I figured ‘why not.’ It soon became apparent that we were waiting for a ride from someone he knew. I did not know where, but I was feeling curious enough to find out. Soon his son and grandson showed up in a refurbished Lada and we cruised off toward Urgench. To my surprise, we pulled into a driveway and I was invited into the house where the daughter in law served up a massive meal of plov (a national rice dish), bread and salad. I ate until I was full, but was encouraged to continue until I had consumed a ridiculous amount of food so as not to offend my well intentioned hosts.

After this, the bottles of vodka came out. The old man insisted again that I have a shot with him. Seeing as I could no longer complain that the sun had only just risen, my refusals fell on deaf ears and I ended up downing my first sip of alcohol since I was among the Mongols. This pleased the old man and he poured me another. I could see where this was going and had no inclination to get wasted, particularly since I still had a long way to go before reaching my final destination. I wet my lips but didn’t drink a drop, and this seemed to send the message fairly effectively. More vodka for him.

After taking down his address in both Cyrillic and Latin characters, I hopped back in the Lada with his son and was transported to the Avtostasi (taxi stand), where the son insisted on paying my fare to Khiva. I tried to refuse, failed, then thanked him a million times before cramming into the back of a Daewoo Tico – one of the smallest cars known to man.

I was really blown away by the kindness of that family and it did wonders to resurrect my positive impression of the Uzbeks. It is easy to allow yourself to suffocate under an avalanche bad experiences with two-bit con men, taxi touts, souvenir sellers, and other predators. I was delighted to have such a nice experience and really felt good as I rolled into Khiva.

Khiva is like an open air museum, an ancient walled city in the desert, meticulously restored and devoid of any sign of life. The buildings are beautiful, but the streets are empty. It is hard to imagine the once thriving bazaars that gave this city its reputation as a slave market. The medressas and domes sit lifeless, awaiting the occasional tourist.

It is hard to distinguish between the parts of buildings that are original, and those that have been restored, mostly by the soviets. The city would not be standing without extensive restoration including the outright reconstruction of some places on account of earthquakes that periodically shake the region.

After a few hours wandering the streets, stopping to eat some shashlik (shish kebab), I’ve had my fill and will head for the desert tomorrow to get a change of scenery. It’s not that these old buildings are not beautiful, it’s just that I feel they lack authenticity and I have yet to see something that really blows me away. Unfortunately, in spite of its potential to capture the imagination, Uzbekistan has to be the most boring place that I have ever visited.

Bukhara

2009-08-21T08:57:00.000-07:00

Disappointed in the construction site that I found at Samarqand, I hit the road and decided to make my way further into the desert of this wild and inexplicable country. This led to a total fiasco at the bus stand where we were the victims of racial discrimination in that we were not permitted to board the bus until it was clear that there were not enough Uzbeks to fill it. I got a little pissed, but Daniel lost it. After a couple more attempts on a couple more buses, we finally decided that the only option was to take a shared taxi. The price was negotiated, fixed, then elevated significantly and inexplicably.

As a result, Daniel had had enough and decided to go back to the capital, Tashkent (the city of the dead – like where is the action in a police state?). In a rash but understandable decision, he snapped and decided, get the hell outta here, to book a flight to Tehran and forget about hassles, visas and insipid taximen. As his Uzbek experience was drawing to a close, mine was picking up steam.

We rocketed over the busted up highway toward Bukhara with a couple of babushkas and an Uzbek guy in the back. The scenery consisted mainly of cotton fields and deserts. Cotton is an especially thirsty crop to plant in the desert, one of the main reasons behind the disappearance of the Aral sea. The inexplicable landscape was uninspiring at best and my thoughts began to drift. I feel weary and tired of moving around all the time. It may fall on unsympathetic ears, but I feel as if I have to find a place to relax for a while and recharge my batteries. But not yet:

The driver stopped halfway and we switched cars. I refused to pay because we had not reached our destination. While I was in the toilet, the driver took off, and when I returned a new driver told me that I could just pay him the entire sum. Strange but relatively simple right? No.

The new driver stopped a good 15 km short of the city limits and announced that we had arrived. Once he began demanding money, I responded by putting my hand to my brow, peering into the distance and repeating “Bukhara Where?” over and over. I think that the humiliation was growing stronger, but he was obviously not going to get off his fat ass to do anything about it. Instead of worrying about further renegotiation, I asked a nearby cabbie how much he wanted to go the rest of the way into town. For once, I took pleasure in hearing an exorbitant tourist price: I deducted the amount from the original fare, shrugged my shoulders and said goodbye to fatass, to whom gestured with humility and offered many thanks. Nice to come out ahead sometimes.

I hate to fill the blog with tales of bargaining and negotiation, but alas, this is the principal activity that seems to occupy my days in this pitiful place. It could be so much and such a wonderful experience. It is destroyed by incompetence and corruption on all levels, where restaurant bills have to be renegotiated even after the food is finished.

My perseverance paid off as Bukhara is like an oasis of ancient Islamic architecture in the middle of the Uzbek desert. Sure all of the buildings are carpet shops, and vendors quote ridiculous prices for everything, but the town is beautiful and the old buildings are compact, forming a skyline of colourful domes and minarets. Walking the streets at night is magic.

It’s disappointing to move through a place like this without encountering more than a handful of friendly locals. People are rude, and always on the prowl for tourist cash. This has been my experience, and is confirmed at virtually every interaction I have, not to mention in the stories that circulate round the guesthouse in the evening.

One exception to this has been the Uzbek guy with whom I shared the cab over here. He seems to be in the process of destroying himself with smokes and booze, but is a really nice guy. In fact, he followed me to my hotel on the first day and has refused to allow me to pay for anything ever since. The story is that he was deported back here after twenty years working in other countries, and I suspect that this has created a profound depression. He hates it here, and complains more about Uzbekistan than anyone that I have met.

When we ate dinner, he attempted to fix me up with our waitress. I don’t know what he said, but she took a quick look at me and offered a very brief response in the negative. He was half pissed on vodka, but informed me that she did not like me because I get in lots of fights. I don’t know what the hell gave her that idea, but I wasn’t terribly interested to begin with, so I took the rejection in stride. We then took a taxi that detoured four or five kilometres around the 500 metre route back to the hotel on account of the fact that I didn’t know what I was talking about, i.e. the drunk knew better.

The guesthouse is a great building, hundreds of years old with arches in the wall and Islamic writing over the arches. The courtyard is a square in the centre with shady trees, and over a dozen wooden double-doors which open into large rooms with high ceilings. If only there was a functional shower and the toilet were not clogged...

I am happy that this place has been such a pleasant surprise. It is such a welcome relief after the disappointment that was Samarqand, and Uzbek “hospitality” in general. I hope to be back here on the eve of my 31st birthday to kick back and relax, missing friends and family on the shady streets under colourful Medressas.

Soon I will be on my way to Moscow, standing at customs as officials inspect the ridiculous scraps of paper in my passport, the registration slips for a bunch of crappy hotels. Hours later will be customs again, and hopefully the end of the corrupt and idiotic bureaucracy that I have been dealing with of late. At least for a while. I am flying the vast distance on account of ridiculous visa complications and the three days of my life that would have expired on a post-soviet rail journey through a barren wasteland. From there it is south, just south, until the land ends and so does my journey. Thousands of miles and a world away from here.

Samarqand

2009-08-21T08:56:00.000-07:00

19/08/09

It’s not every day that you succeed in arriving at a destination that has inspired your imagination and the entire trajectory of a massive voyage, a place that will help to draw links between the Mongol steppe and the jungles of India. And when you do finally arrive, it’s not so likely that you will find the very epicentre of that place gutted, and turned into a maze of tacky souvenir stalls with corrupt police all over, blowing whistles and shouting directions in Russky.

Unfortunately that is exactly what I found upon arrival at Samarqand. I travelled through the desert to this dusty city, the capital of ancient empires with a history spanning the last three millennia. What’s left today are some scattered monuments built after Chinggis razed the city to the ground around 1220. The blue domes are every bit as magnificent as they ever were after extensive restoration by the Soviet, and later, the Uzbek governments. Unfortunately, they are found in the midst of a giant construction zone that affects almost every street and building in the city.

The powers that be have erected an enormous stage in the middle of the Registan’s ancient courtyard, in preparation for a dance spectacular that will take place in a week for the benefit of package groups. There is a large control booth obstructing the view and there are frames with lights hanging everywhere, such that they poison every picture. The place is open only in the afternoons under a searing desert sun.

It’s not all bad. There are many other monuments to the glory of Allah which are much quieter and allow more unfettered access. Among them are Shah-i-Zinda, a complex of mausoleums with magnificent tile work and plenty of domes and arches, and Bibi-Khanym Mosque, with its 35 metre high gates that dwarfed me as I entered the flower filled courtyard. I proceeded on and found myself in a cool chamber under a colossal dome with shafts of light filtering through the screening. There was no one else there, and I stood looking up, taking in the scope of the building.

Unfortunately, there is not much else to report, other than hassles trying to purchase an Uzbek SIM card (they don’t want it falling into the hands of the terrorists). I have developed a variety of strategies that I employ to avoid police and spent a great deal of time wandering the streets in search of food. The city is not terribly interesting and what is lacks in character, it makes up for in dust. Upon return to the guesthouse I am covered in a layer of grime that accumulates as I make my way from site to site.

I am headed to Bukhara next, having cut the time I intended to spend here in half. This promises to be both difficult and uncomfortable, as train tickets are hard to procure, and the buses fill up with massive babushkas carrying equally massive sacks of crap from city to city. The road ahead poses even more obstacles, including a potentially insurmountable roadblock in that the train to Moscow passes through Kazakhstan, then Russia, back through Kazakhstan, and finally into Russia for good. This necessitates visas that I simply don’t have and one that I can’t get now, not having foreseen the problem all those weeks ago in Hong Kong when I made my application. The solution is to fly, which will require me to rent a wheelbarrow in order to transport a ridiculous number of banknotes to pay for my ticket.

The other option is to pay on credit card, but this is one place where the black market money changers truly offer a much better return on exchange than the official bank rate, sometimes greater than twenty percent. Hustling on the black market sounds like a real pain in the ass. It is. Worth it however, particularly when you are handed massive bundles of cash and sit counting hundreds of bills worth about a quarter each. It’s something that I certainly don’t look forward to as the guys are hard to find and as a result a single transaction can kill an entire afternoon.

It has been nothing but problems and police checks ever since I entered this crazy country, and it promises to continue until I find my way out. I can’t believe that I am looking forward to arriving in Russia on account of the efficiency and organization that it will inevitably provide.

The Road to Samarqand

2009-08-21T08:53:00.000-07:00

16/08/09

Sometimes the journey is as entertaining as what you find at it’s end. This was certainly the case when moving from Bishkek to Uzbekistan. The day began at a crowded parking lot with a misunderstanding over prices that was resolved by thrusting 80 com ($2 USD) at a cab driver. We were then surrounded by over a dozen drivers all shouting destinations and quoting widely divergent prices. We settled on one who spoke some English and then waited an hour for other passengers to fill the Mercedes sedan. Eventually a babushka with child, and a fat Tatar guy climbed on board and we were off.

The driver really hammered the gas and we cruised along the highway into the mountain passes. There were several near death experiences as we screamed around the corners through a valley following the Naryn river. The driver was 19 years old and had little experience. This did not stop him from driving at breakneck speed and almost colliding with four other vehicles. We ripped along the asphalt until it was time to stop for lunch.

Lunch was quite the experience. I didn’t eat anything but the stale crusts of ripped up nan sitting in a basket on the table. My friend Daniel decided to try his luck with the kitchen and ordered Lakhman, a national noodle dish. The waitress disappeared into the kitchen and returned to inform him there was no Lakhman. He then asked for some eggs and was promptly told that they had no eggs since it was not a national dish. He ordered fried potatoes and the waitress disappeared again. She returned shortly afterward to advise that there was no potatoes, and all that they had was egg. An two egg omelette was agreed upon, and twenty minutes later she reappeared with a plate containing four fried eggs.

When it came time to pay for the meal, Daniel was initially told to pay sixty com. This quickly escalated to seventy, then eighty, skipped ninety and ultimately settled at a hundred. It was a setback that hurt more out of principle than anything else, but the bill was paid and we were off again.

I should mention at this point that the babushka faked a heart attack and jumped out of the moving vehicle upon our arrival at the restaurant parking lot. She kept beating her chest and jabbering nonsense which turned out to be a pretence to claim the front seat of the car. Her and the kid sat up front and we piled into the back, sandwiching the fat Tatar guy in between us. We were off again for more death defying passing on blind corners and tire squealing manoeuvres.

Finally we hit the Uzbek border, a small one in the middle of nowhere, seldom frequented by tourists. We arrived right around closing time and were dropped right at customs. Our timing worked to our advantage as it seemed everyone just wanted to get out of there. The Kyrgyz guys were really friendly and we joked around with them so as to avoid extortion. The pitch was only attempted once when we were asked for customs forms we had never received. We made up bullshit about how the border with China doesn’t issue them, and that they come only from the airport in Bishkek. We then discussed women and German footballers until we were stamped and waved through.

The Uzbek side was shockingly easy as well. We went in super friendly with many a hand shake and salaam un alaiyakum – this went over well. The soldiers did not have any English forms, so they simply told us what to write on the Uzbek ones. We filled them out as per the suggested responses and after a lot of stamping, passport inspection, passport re-inspection, we were waved through. Nobody thought to search our bags, though we were asked if we had any illegal narcotics.

As soon as we crossed the border, the land flattened out into fields under the last rays of the setting sun. We were entering the Feranga Valley, though I could see no valley, only fields. No matter.

We caught a minivan on the Uzbek side of the border to the nearest city, a place named Andijan. The price was negotiated and arbitrarily fixed at 2000 Uzbek com (about $1.10 USD as I later found out). We jumped in and cruised into town with a bunch of cigarette smoking Uzbeks. They all paid sums of around 600 com for the ride, but we felt it was no big deal and were happy to honour our agreement. One problem: no Uzbek cash.

This small issue grew into a huge hassle as the driver began to try to take advantage of us. First we were informed that we had agreed to pay 20 000 com, not 2000. This was clearly not the case. The price then increased to $20 USD, and then $23 USD without any decent explanation why. We brought the driver to a hotel where “mama” at reception clearly took our side. The price dropped sharply, first to 14 535 com, then to $8 USD. I held firm offering up three crisp dollar bills and the driver went through a crazy pantomime of gestures to explain the insufficiency of the funds on offer. Ultimately he accepted $4 USD, and 40 Kyrgyz com ($1 USD), more than we had agreed but still a reasonable amount to pay for him to get lost. Once he had accepted the money, he was all smiles again, and he shook our hands before saying goodbye.

The mama then showed us a couple of run down rooms, the second of which we accepted. We swapped a bit of cash and detailed a girl to show us to a restaurant. When we arrived, the girl pointed to a sign on the wall and said “menu.” It appeared as follows:

100g 1400 com
200g 2300 com
300g 3200 com
400g 4100 com
500g 5000 com

I immediately ordered 200g, but Daniel decided to inquire about the substance referred to. He did so by pointing at the menu the putting his index fingers at the sides of his head and making “mooo” sounds. This gesture seemed to amuse the staff and the chef said “nyet” and began flapping his arms like a bird. Daniel and I responded by making chicken noises and flapping our elbows, thus confirming that we wished to order chicken. The meal was delicious, and afterwards it was back to the room, exhausted after a long day on the road.

Tomorrow: Tashkent.

OK, so upon review of this entry prior to posting I can’t resist adding that I rolled through Tashkent, which has to be one of the world’s most boring cities, certainly not worthy of an entry itself. The streets are clean and the buildings are nice, but it has that good old DPRK (i.e. North Korea) feel – lots of police everywhere, no people anywhere, no action to be found, no traffic, and nothing to do.

Climbing Out of the Inferno

2009-08-13T22:41:00.000-07:00

After a pointless wait and a few too many days in Bishkek, I have an Uzbek visa in my hot little pocket, and am preparing myself for the scrutiny of corrupt border officials, this time sure to keep my copy of Hamlet out of sight to avoid arousing any controversy.

I am ready to go, and happy to have spanned the gap between my Kyrgyz visa and Russian visa so that I don't end up wandering aimlessly for days in no man's land...or prison. I feel like I have ascended through the levels of Visa Hell, leaving the most intense part of the inferno (Uzbekistan?) below me. I am catching my first glimmer of daylight.

Now its on to Tashkent to procure a Kazakh visa which will allow me to cross the steppe. The only problem is that the train runs into Kazakhstan, then through Russia, back through Kazakhstan, and finally on into Russia, raising the spectre of multiple entries and unwanted stamps permitting a few hours of transit on a $100 USD travel document. It is amazing how often I feel I am lurching out of control toward the brink of senseless and unnecessary disaster induced by the grinding gears of a massive bureaucratic machine.

I hope that I can get registration documents in order, so as to account for every night I spend on Uzbek soil. Failure to do so promises "big problem" on the way out. It seems sometimes that my attention shifts from one looming fiasco to another...

The end is in sight...

Around Kyrgyzstan

2009-08-13T22:38:00.000-07:00

Time has slipped past and I am now well on my way through central Asia, one country down, and a couple more to go before I reach Mother Russia. Kyrgyzstan has been a great introduction to the post Soviet world. I am amazed at times how western and modern it is, though it is never long until you are brought back to the reality of the developing world. Example: I have been cruising all over this country in 1990s BMWs and Mercedes – usually for a few hundred com (less than $10 CDN). It is easy to hit 140 or 150 km/h but the driver has to brake furiously from time to time in order to avoid the missing sections of the road. Modern standards meet the developing world in this little republic.

I’ve had lots of heavy meaty food, some nights in yurts, some horse rides through snowy mountain passes and dipped my feet in icy cool glacial lakes. The other side was the cities where I made friends with loads of expats and Kyrgyz. This led to some great nights sitting in the parks in Bishkek talking about Kyrgyzstan and world travel. I learned a lot about the culture here, but in my mind the most interesting part relates to marriage customs, namely bride kidnapping.

Bride Kidnapping is a practice with dubious roots in tradition that continues until this day as a viable way of procuring a mate. It is generally planned by the man’s family, who stalks a girl until the time is right, and she is grabbed and brought to the man’s house. The women of the family then sit her down and pressure her to marry the man. This may degenerate into a couple of babushkas lying on top of each other blocking the doorway so as to use their stature to inspire guilt lest they be stepped upon (or over). The girl is berated and harangued until ultimately she gives in or leaves. In the event that she leaves the home, her reputation destroyed on account of having spent the night at a man’s house. Nobody will marry her after that, and as a result kidnapping ensures either a marriage or a life of solitude. I can hardly believe that people buy into this tradition without seeing how idiotic it is.

Qualities sought after in the brides include cooking, cleaning, and cow milking abilities. The better the bride, the less the man will have to do for the next few decades. Graduations seem to be a particularly vulnerable event for the girls since it is a good opportunity for the man and his family to view a bunch of potential brides before selecting the one that will be kidnapped after the ceremony. A taxi is then rented, the driver paid extra for his complicity in the scheme. It cruises up next to the girl and she is forced inside and driven to the home of her suitor where the above described courtship unfolds. Ahhh, true love. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. I have been looking for a nice Kyrgyz girl myself, but can’t seem to find one small enough to fit in the burlap sack that I bought for the purpose. As a result, I am still single. For now.

Having failed to find myself a suitable candidate for marriage under duress, I decided to head out in order to take a look at the national game. This can be described only as rugby on horseback using a headless goat/sheep as the ball. All the men race for the goat which is placed in a circle. They fight for the carcass, punching, kicking, pushing, and scuffling until one of them has succeeded in riding around a pole with the carcass and depositing it back in a circle. Unfortunately, this description is based only on photographs I have seen as I was unable to locate a place where i could observe the festivities in person.

I have to satisfy myself with lesser contests, such as the one I undertook in deciding to visit Uzbekistan. First, I had to weasel my way into the Uzbek embassy (No Russian? No appointment? No letter of invitation? Name not on list?). I got in by negotiating, pleading, bribery and waiting a long, long time. I hope that there is a fresh visa in the printer for me as I type these words. Now all I have to do is figure out how much it costs (they wouldn’t tell me) and how to get back inside to pick it up.

Assuming I succeed, it then will be time to count the exact sum of the banknotes from thirteen currencies that I have kept as souvenirs. The sum total amounts to less than $50 USD. These must be declared upon arrival to the country otherwise it promises to be a “Big Problem” (said with thick Uzbek official accent). Rather than attract unnecessary attention to myself by declaring it, I am flirting with the idea of hiding the notes to avoid arousing any interest. I already intend to make a scrupulous effort to conceal any writing on my computer to avoid any suggestion that I have even heard of journalism – another sure fire way to instant deportation (to???). It ought to be a great lesson in post Soviet bureaucracy. A lesson I can’t wait to learn, again and again.

For now it is a few more days of heavy food and Bishkek nights while I wait for the wheels of pointless bureaucracy to grind a path my way.

Down and out in Bishkek

2009-08-07T23:35:00.000-07:00

I have spent the last few days in a wild delirium, not leaving my shithole hotel room for thirty six hours at one point. I don't know what I ate, but it induced hallucinogenic dreams with such intensity that I remained conscious of them even after waking, as if they were still happening. And then this morning, things were back to normal, like it never happened. I don't get sick easily but this time it was really nasty.

I had the misfortune to be in one of the worst hotels I have seen in a year. That is no small feat. It was a real dump recommended by an older German couple who obviously have some skewed conception of what is acceptable. The staff was surly and unfriendly, the water didn't run, the lightbulb exploded when I switched it on, and there were massive holes in the wall (one in the shape of Uzbekistan, another in the shape of Tajikistan - very helpful for planning). Some parts were fun I guess; I did manage to karate kick a filthy cockroach climbing the wall.

Bishkek is not at all what one would expect from central Asia. It is like unislamic Islam with women walking around in hip hugging jeans and singlets with the wailing of the Aazaan (call to prayer) in the background. In many ways, this city is really western, though there is a real blend of Asian and Soviet culture as well.

I am still rolling with Daniel, the German guy, and we have succeeded in making many local friends. Many people speak English (this feels like it's a million miles from China), and usually speak four or five other languages as well. I have never seen anything like it. It has led to some great insight into Kyrgyz culture.

Hopefully my health improves soon, as the plan is some days of trekking in the mountains...

Aslanbop

2009-08-05T23:50:00.000-07:00

02/08/09

I am in a small village in rural Kyrgyzstan called Aslanbop. I got here in a 1993 BMW 5 series for 650 com ($18.50 CDN), that moved at 160 km/h wherever possible. My arrival was immediately big news and many of the locals gathered around. They began making jokes and told my German friend Daniel that he could ride a donkey. This induced hearty laughter as if it was the funniest thing anyone had ever heard. We made our way up a few dirt roads looking for a place to stay. We asked some directions, and the man made the sign of the cross on his chest and started laughing hysterically, supported by the guffaws of his entourage.

Finally, we found the place, down a dusty road at a house overlooking a river valley flanked by snow capped mountains. We dumped our packs and headed back into town to interact with the locals. We chatted with large women with gold teeth, said salaamun aleyakum to about every man we met and were rewarded with heartfelt handshakes and lots of smiles. Kids appeared from all directions and everyone wanted their photos taken. This is rare, since usually it is me asking the locals to take pictures, often with negative results.

We continued down a dusty road out of town, following an old Russian pickup truck loaded with sticks. It had a Ferarri decal on the side. Losing sight of the truck, we headed up a hill and down a shady track past beautiful mud brick houses in the shadows of the peaks. It was not long before we were beckoned by a man lounging on a veranda smoking cigarettes. When we approached, we were delighted to see the truck again, now with two girls unloading the sticks. Closer inspection revealed a Mercedes-Benz, Volkswagen, and Toyota emblems attached strategically to the front in the spots that contained the least rust.

We were called for tea and obliged. Once we sat down we were presented with bread and jam, and then a big plate of cow intestines arrived. I went to the Russian phrasebook to say how delicious it looked, but that we were full from lunch. That did not prevent the man from slicing off healthy portions of the intestine and heaping them atop large slices of bread. We rubbed our bellies and reiterated the “we just ate lunch” position. This met with some success and we sat communicating about our families, a slow process since I needed to look up every word that was said in response to the statements in the book.

We said our goodbyes and made our way up the road. The man sent a couple of his kids to act as tour guides. They were very chatty and kept showing us things to which we replied with either “da” or by repeating the words back to them. In return they demanded a full-on photo pose down and we snapped away while making excuses, and finally headed back down the road for a lunch without entrails.

Back in the town we sat on a flat bed under a canopy and ate kebab and lakhman, a delicious noodle dish, with fresh baked nan. Soon we had more new friends, one of whom was initially desperate to immigrate to Germany. Upon finding out that he would have to learn German, his desperation changed and he decided Canada was a better fit. I told him he could come as a truck driver and fumbled to advise about how much he would make, where he could live, how much it would cost, what his “BC” licence would mean in Canada, how long it would take, and who would meet him at the airport. For good measure, I drew him a crude picture of what an 18 wheel looks like and think that my parents can expect a bizarre phone call from Bishkek in the coming months/years. Perhaps he won’t even call, and will just show up at the door instead, pissed that my dad didn’t pick him up at the airport. (Side note: hilarious episode, including drawing, recorded on video).

This world never fails to amaze me. This is possibly the most beautiful place I have ever been on account of the natural surroundings and the hospitality of the people. It is a forgotten corner of the globe, but every bit as amazing as the Alps or the Himalaya. The most amazing part is that anyone would ever want to leave. What strikes me is that people in the west work their whole lives so that one day they can afford to come and retire in a place like this. Maybe even buy a horse. I suppose that people always want what they don’t have.

After lunch we were approached by some large local ladies with unibrows and gold teeth who wanted their photos taken. This was a cultural experience at the time, but an exceedingly comedic experience upon review of the photos.

One Year...

2009-08-05T23:48:00.000-07:00

01/08/09

Today marks a year since I left Toronto with nothing more than a backpack and an impulse to get out into the great unknown. I had no idea then that I would find myself in Kyrgyzstan at this point, much less that I could have experienced so much in an entire lifetime. I write these words in high spirits, thinking back upon all of the places I have seen, the people I have met, the tastes and the smells and the beauty of this world.

I don’t know if I have changed much, but I probably have. I am certain that I speak differently, partly on account of the different expressions I have picked up along the way, and partly on account of my newfound inclination to say everything in simple, broken, third world English. I miss my family and I miss my friends. I miss a lot of the people that have come and gone in different places. But I am inspired, and I am ready to continue on, over this massive continent, through regions remote and unknown in the west. Though I am thousands of miles from the terminal point, it grows ever closer, looming at the southern tip of Africa. I can feel it calling to me.

I close my eyes and type furiously playing out a whole year in my mind:

In the beginning I had to find my feet. I moved from one island to another, watching them appear before me like sand dollars rising from the sea. I sat on top of the rocks looking at that beautiful archipelago panorama as the thunderstorm rumbled its way across the pacific toward me. I took to the sea and dove with the sharks, before moving on to the Land of the Long White Cloud.

The earth spewed sulphur, at the edge of the sea, on top of snow-capped volcanic peaks. The rain fell and the sky was grey as I moved from city to city, town to town, relishing in quirky differences from home, but really burning to get somewhere that was truly new and different.

I moved to the east coast of that vast terra nullius, and stood on cliffs hundreds of metres above the crashing sea and surf as a frigid Antarctic wind ripped against my cheeks. I moved up the coast to uncover links to the past and wound up surfing and fending off toothless hippies. More underwater exploration on the world’s biggest reef, and it was time to move again.

Another ocean, another archipelago, this one immense and Muslim. But not yet. Those ancient Hindu temples shrouded in jungle clouds appear in my mind, their crumbling stone and thatched roofs and the decay of centuries. From there, more temples, different levels of realization, meticulously carved by skilled hands and lost to the jungle for hundreds of years. Jakarta taught me how to see the beauty in amongst the filth, the squalor, the desperation. Then into the jungle. Dropped off in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, making things happen for myself.

A brief refuge in the modern world and then into the heart of chaos. I think to the trains, snaking their way over a spider web of steel on a continent so vast and diverse it infused itself into every corner of my mind. But not yet. First to the mountains, to the soaring heights, seeing eye to eye with the massive vultures patrolling the peaks as the rivers crash below, before dwindling to streams as the days go by. I move higher and higher and can hardly breathe. I have never seen that many stars before against such a jet black sky, a world close to the heavens. I move throw towns and temples, hilltop monasteries against a bitter wind as the prayer flags crackle with the ancient wisdom of long forgotten sages sending blessing on high out over the world. I really began to feel alive.

Back down below, through the chaos from city to city, even where it was impossible. Travelling like a local. Without tickets. I moved back up north to where the world’s two greatest ranges intersect. That community in exile, vibrant and alive on the plateau. The taste of yak butter tea still fresh on my lips, I climbed he frozen stone steps toward the felt door and the sound of the horns, the cymbals, the drums, the chanting of those Himalayan voices in the freezing cold air.

I didn’t envision this when I stood on the marble of that golden temple, watching the pilgrims bate in their sacred lake, telling tall tales to curious onlookers and taking flight from adoring fans. More trains, compliments on the beard that grew wild, the hair thick and luxurious, I looked different then. From the mountains, I moved south, first to that wild city, only now coming of age and coming into its own at the centre of a country exploding in every direction. Birds in the fields, rock cut temples thousands of years old, sculpted by ancient hands, one stoke at a time with hammer and chisel, unleashing life from the rock. The buffalo plough the fields under the smoke of the kilns cooking earthen brick to fuel the unstoppable currents of modernity that exist in far off corners of the subcontinent.

I pushed on further south to sleepy backwaters, lush jungle. I sat with my legs hanging out the train door watching the egrets spread their snow white wings against the pink sky before the light gave way to bats and brush fires at the side of the track. Thousands more kilometres and back again.

I moved through the jungles in the middle of nowhere, in places I had never heard of to see ferocious tigers sleeping so close and red in tooth and claw. Back down the dirty roads, past dirty villages, through dirty cities to that holy city of souls. Cows on the train platform, bodies close to death, I wandered through the spectral mist of the morning down to the banks of that holy river once again. The smoke still filled the air, the bodies burning to ash, the life at the side of the river, the souls drifting past on the wind, the colour, the noises, the smells, the pulse.

The train rocked along the tracks toward the jewel of the Raj, the black hole, the slums, the shit and the piss, the filth and the poverty, the beggars, the lepers, the elegance of the buildings, the taxicabs, the trams, the parks, and a million other visions that flash through my head like a flip book of days and weeks of my life. I watched the movie that the country was wild for and took to the skies back into a different chaos altogether.

I moved through the streets and met old friends. Life was sweet down on tropical beaches, with thumping music and wild nights before heading to the tribes in the hills, and racing down a rushing river through jungle vines to ancient cities and back to the heart of the chaos. Old friends leave, new ones are made, flights missed, visas overstayed and it was time to go.

Nothing was easy anymore. Nothing was available. There was no power and it was hot, really hot. Nothing cost a dime and I treaded the blood red earth of ancient empires, past thousands of monuments to the Buddha, to the Nat, and I could feel the spirit as it flowed all around me. Brutal repression can’t stifle the mind, the hopes and the dreams of a people who still laugh and live and love. I slept on floors and walked through the hills, down the railroad tracks to the lake at the end of the trail. Silly stunts in the monasteries and mysterious requests from mysterious strangers.

Back in the city of sin, I felt sad, I had to move, I had to get a breath of fresh air, follow my dreams to the north. I wound up in a huge metropolis, under neon signs, finding a place for myself in amongst the people. I drank coffee, saw the Kiss for the Whole World and walked the banks of the river at night under the soft blue lights. Through the markets and through the squares. Live sushi and barbeques and my time was up.

I moved on to the middle kingdom, to the new Rome, from which all things come, and to which all roads lead. I was overwhelmed and I stood beneath the portrait of one of the 20th century’s greatest villains, his corpse lying in a mausoleum fortress behind me, still worshipped by the thousands. More time on the rails and then through the gorges to tourist attractions as inexplicable as they were idiotic. More Chinese group tours where I learned that nature is shit without paved paths, monorails, cable cars, roads and lots of buses so as to avoid sweat and exercise, the twin dragons and ancient enemies of man. Jabbering tour guides in my wake, it was back to the new Rome, ready to head to my favourite Hereditary Stalinist Dictatorship.

Empty streets and rainy mornings in a city of souls that came alive for one precious day where we sang and danced and ate and drank together as if there were really no difference between us. Everybody has a mother. Supervisor guides monitoring every move and sometimes confidence builds to a point where revelations are forthcoming. State planned get rich quick schemes, empty restaurants and the world through a bubble. You can see it but you can’t touch it. Socialist paradise has its fair share of colossal statues, propaganda posters and empty public squares, but surprisingly, no vacuum cleaners. First we get the nukes, because when the American Imperialist Aggressors come back we gotta be ready. It will be the greatest glory of the revolution when we beat those dogs once again and fulfill the dream of |Great leader. Or something like that.

Back in the Middle kingdom I had the rooftop of the world on my mind. The train snaked its way up to the plateau, above 5000 metres, and into that holy city. The troop s in combat boots stamp between the pilgrims with riot shields, grenade launchers and machine guns. I was watched from the rooftops and sought refuge in the temples full of incense smoke, ghee, and the hum of prayers from hundreds of pilgrims. I lost myself in the great paintings, the hanging mandalas, the ancient libraries, the golden tombs, the thrones, the portraits, the butter lamps, and the guardian demons that hold the key to life and death.

We moved up past glacial lakes, eating yak cheese and moving over the passes, breathing the thin air, as we hit the rooftop of the world. I stood below the highest point on earth and it seemed so close that I could touch it. I sat by myself on the stones fingering my prayer beads and feeling the blessed winds blow down from the heavens. I hung a string of prayer flags to rip and tear through the icy mountain wind, crackling the sound of thousands of prayers for me and those I love. I know they are still blowing up there on high. I slept in the thin air and awoke to face the peak one last time.

Down below with fresh resolve, new friends and a desire to go on, I moved through the south at a slow pace, drinking in the ancient cities, and moving back to the fringe of the plateau. This was some real adventure, hitching into the middle of nowhere with everything I would need on my back. Good friends and good memories in a place untouched by time. Mother Mountain granted safe passage and the beauty of it all overwhelmed me. Nobody around but the herders with their yak. Vast amounts of butter tea in my system and it was back out on a motorcycle through muddy tracks with a massive pack slowing my bike.

I rocketed back down to the southern tip of this massive country, the hub of the world where money talks. The brands and consumer culture smacked me in the face. I couldn’t think about it and just got lost in the pace of it all. That island really moves. Time to abandon some of my dreams, and to forge some new ones. Back through the middle kingdom to another mega city and on by rail to the new Rome once again. From there, train after train, across the steppe and finally to that den of thieves in the land of Chinggis.

Hitching out onto the steppe, hiking by that glacial lake, flat tires, breakdowns, more flat tires, more breakdowns, squashed bodies, everything hurts, and it’s time to take in the three manly sports. Huge meat fed wrestlers fought for the glory as kids whipped frenzied horses toward a distant finish line out on the steppe. Vodka with the cops and more hitching into small and forgotten corners of the world. Yak and sheep, cows and horses. So that's what a sheep tastes like: no spices, no sauce, no salt...that’s exactly what a sheep tastes like.

Back for one last push through the Middle Kingdom to the far west. Fresh new people, friendly smiles, more troops brandishing weapons, seventeen years old with a Kalashnikov and boy can they march. Oblivious to intimidation, the beauty of this old crossroads represented something big for me. With the end of a year looming, I was excited, on the cusp of new adventure, new experience, new people and places in and old world.

Checkpoints and searches, military and more checkpoints soon gave way to smiles on the other side of another pass, and here I am in the thick of the action, in the thick of Asia, feeling the pulse of life here in a place that may as well not exist to most people. What an incredible part of the world. It is no longer just arbitrary borders, lines drawn on a map. It is a vision of mountains and smiling faces, mouths full of gold teeth, the call to prayer, and Mercedes overtaking old Soviet cars on rough highways twisting through the hills.

I struggle to come to terms with what I get from this experience. One thing is for certain: the most meaningful line on my well worn map is hand drawn with numerous pens. It plots an inefficient and erratic route backtracking and jumping from place to place, but every stroke of the pen was a train, a bus a boat, or some other means of conveyance. Every line leads to a point in my mind that now exists in an experience so broad and deep that it will always stay with me. I t is more than ink on paper. It is a reality that I can feel, that has shaped me and colours my dreams, both night and day.

Here’s how I did it:

44 Buses
26 Trains
16 Boats
19 Planes
20 Shared Cars and Jeeps
6 Days Hitchiking
2 Rented Cars
1 Royal Enfield Motorcycle
14 Countries

Add to this countless laughs, triumphs, disappointments and 15 000 photographs.

I move on across the world with little more than the cloths on my back, an open heart and an open mind. The figures in accounts far away are merely a means to allow me to live and perpetuate my dreams and have no value to me if they don’t allow me the freedom to live in a way that makes me feel my life with the intensity of all the stars in the dark night sky.

The road ahead is long and unknown, full of joys and perils, and it calls to me night and day. I feel the places and the people with a connection based on the utmost simplicity and openness. I live in the beauty of languages I don’t understand, touch modern cultures with ancient antecedents, put the pieces together as I move through the deserts, the plains, the mountains and the forests, back to the great oceans that separate me from my home.

Over the Irkeshtam Pass

2009-08-01T09:14:00.000-07:00

Over the Irkeshtam pass, the land turns from arid canyons to lush alpine meadows with rushing streams. The paved Chinese road soon gives way to a muddy dirt track, about as smooth as a washboard. Twenty seven hours may sound like an ordeal, but in fact, it was one of the most enjoyable rides I have taken on this trip.

The Chinese border is little more than a high security outpost complete with customs and army personnel, somehow out of place amidst the beautiful red walls of the mountain canyons. There are trucks, trash and low rise concrete buildings all over. The security is the tightest I have ever experienced. The guards searched my camera and my laptop, finding nothing. I did have one thing that aroused intense suspicion.

When I was asked to open my bag, the customs official immediately seized and inspected my copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet which was sitting right on top. I had ripped the long and boring introductory pages, leaving only the text of the play. This resulted in intensive questioning and pointing at the missing pages. I began quoting extensively from the text, but nobody seemed to be a fan of English literature. Ultimately I pointed out that the title page of the play was 1604 and that the book was much newer. I think this was understood as the contraband was returned and I was ushered on. Nothing else in my bag was inspected.

I passed through the other checks and went outside to stand in direct sunlight while the Kyrgyz made their way through with incredible amounts of baggage. Once this was all piled up, it was crammed into the bus in hilarious ways. At one point, a man was hanging with both hands from the bottom of the door at the back of the bus. Another man was supporting his at the hips so that he could kick the luggage into position with both legs – kind of a slow motion human jackhammer. Once this was complete, we all piled back onto the bus and continued to the Kyrgyz border.

This took us to the Irkeshtam pass, surrounded by glacial peaks of the Pamir mountain range. We passed through into Kyrgyzstan without incident. The bus plodded along for another twenty hours or so, toward the town of Osh. Again, I was amazed at the superhuman abilities of the bus drivers not to eat or piss for days on end.

It’s the kind of country that could disappear tomorrow without making a single headline in the west. I could not picture what to expect of this place until I finally got here. In the end it is surprisingly normal. Sure, there are lots of Russian vehicles, kebab stands, and lively bazaars, but I am amazed at how modern the city is and how freely people live in comparison to those under incessant military guard in the middle kingdom.

Osh is so tremendously different from China that It made an immediate impression. The locals are friendly and I have collected a half dozen phone numbers of new friends that I am not likely to ever call. I somehow ended up at a bizarre discotheque on my first night (long story) and among the pulsing bass, strobes, lasers and artificial smoke, the reality finally sunk in: I am in Kyrgyzstan.

At the Frontier of a New World

2009-08-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

28/07/09

After covering thousands of kilometres in only a few days, I find myself in Kashgar, an ancient Silk route city at the crossroads of Asia, a world away from China (but somehow still in China). It’s like the wild west out here: Dusty streets and donkey carts. The proximity to the rest of central Asia gives the place a real frontier feel. The borders of eight different countries lay to the north, south and west, and the people of these places are all around me.

Upon my arrival I was shocked at how easy everything was. I left the airport avoided the Taxi cab mafia by getting a cheap bus into the city centre. The driver obligingly dropped me close to my hotel without even a hint at extra cash. I walked into the hotel and found it abandoned. There are three buildings in the complex. None had electricity. I eventually found some staff in one of the buildings who checked me into a room in another building with comfortable beds and a private bathroom. Sounds great, except there is no running water.

Shock gave way to excitement when I dumped my pack and hit the dusty streets. I stopped to buy a drink and asked the price. The shop owner showed me five fingers and I handed him five Yuan ($0.80 CDN). I was amazed when he gave me back 4.5 Yuan. I moved on to grab some lunch and saw a kebab barbeque. I stopped in and asked for two skewers. Same story: I was told ‘five’ again, handed over the cash and was given 4.5 Yuan change. This is not China. It was clear that I thought that the price was much higher, but the locals are insistent on not ripping me off. The downside was that the skewers turned out to be 100% mutton fat with breadcrumbs and spice sprinkled over them. Not as bad as it sounds, but I barely managed to finish a couple of pieces. Finally, I decided to have an ice cream. I will not repeat the same story again. Suffice to say I am blown away by the honesty and goodwill of the people I have dealt with thus far.

I moved on through the city, past old Uighur men sitting outside of shops, and people flying past on scooters. There are goon squads of Chinese troops all over the place marching around with riot shields, Kalashnikovs and batons. They patrol the streets in big trucks and march through the narrow alleys in groups of eighteen. This is in response to the Urumqi riots a few weeks ago. It is most certainly still China.

People seem to ignore the army presence and go about their daily business. I have said it before, but I am astounded by the number of attractive women walking around. I try to respect culture, thus avert my gaze wherever possible, but it is difficult when I am surrounded by people with such a strikingly gorgeous genetic mix. Young women typically wear traditional dress, though not all have escaped western influence. This is seen in bizarre outfits combining beautifully patterned headscarves complemented by high heels fit for a strip club runway. It is really a bizarre sight as the traditional meets the modern. In the new China, the modern trumps more often than not. Further exploration of the city confirms this: it seems that Kashgar is in the midst of razing its ancient core of mud brick buildings to clear space for more modern construction of glass and metal. I couldn’t believe it though the evidence is as clear as day.

There is lots of construction going on. I stood for a while in the morning watching a couple of guys weld a sign. One was wearing cheap sunglasses to protect his eyes from the fluorescent light. The other was wearing a mask he had fashioned from a piece of cardboard with eyeholes cut out and a blue strip of clear plastic taped over them. It looked like a pair of 3D glasses you get at the movies. 3D welding I guess.

There are no other tourists here. This is probably because of the riots (which tend to act as a deterrent to those less determined than I). It is great in that I have the place to myself, but terrible in that there is nobody going my way with whom to share costs across the mountain passes into Kyrgyzstan.

I can’t get enough of this place, with its ancient pulse, cheap and delicious food, and interesting inhabitants. Too bad I can’t shower or turn on a light, but I am used to life sans electricity and running water.

I put out some feelers and found an Aussie guy who wanted to take a look around. We rented a taxi and headed down the Karakoram Highway to Lake Karakul. After a few checkpoints provided a welcome dose of pointless bureaucracy, we began gaining altitude, leaving the dusty plains behind. The road twists and turns beneath sheer cliffs, following the course of a raging river fed from the melt-water of nearby glaciers. At 3600 metres, once again, I stared into the reflection of the mountains and could not picture a better way to end my sojourn in the Middle Kingdom. Unfortunately that was not the end. After winding our way back through the red rock canyons a savage dust storm blew in and doused us in a fine layer of sand. It was o.k. in the car, but less enjoyable when we lined up to make it past the final checkpoint.

It’s been an amazing adventure in China (is this really China?) over the last few months. Lots of great people, places, memories, experiences, bureaucracy. Finally I am ready to move west.

The Mongolian Experience

2009-08-01T09:11:00.000-07:00

23/07/09

Mongolia inspires the imagination with wide open spaces under a blue sky that stretches for miles in every direction like a massive blanket hanging over the earth. The landscape is dotted with ger camps, livestock and men on horses. You can drive for miles without seeing anything but dirt tracks through the grass. You guess which one will be the driest, get stuck a couple of times, break down a couple more, push on and on through day and night until finally mountains break the steppe appearing far off on the horizon. The grass seems barren but a closer look reveals that it is teeming with life. Each square metre contains all variety of insects, dozens of plant and grass species and occasionally a hole made by a tasty little marmot.

The sky is dotted with the silhouette of raptors soaring in circles with wings spread, seeking a meal on the steppe. The tradition of falconry is ancient in this country. The Khans kept large aviaries of predatory birds and used them for sport hunting. Nowadays it is possible to visit the eagle hunters in the west. These horsemen carry their birds, keeping them hooded until the time comes to release them. Their powerful wings spread, they descend on the helpless creatures of the steppe returning the meat to their masters.

Back in the city the streets are flooded and everything is a mess. Thieves ply the streets looking for easy prey. The drivers are madmen and don’t stop – street crossing is an unwelcome adrenaline sport, perhaps the worst I’ve ever seen. The city is dirty and in a horrendous state of decay. It is not these memories that I will take from this place.

I will think back on the ‘three manly sports,’ the huge meat-fed wrestlers, the felt walls and smoky stoves of the gers, and all the great people who picked me up at the side of the road. Perhaps foremost in my mind is the transportation network, which is virtually nonexistent for large swathes of this massive country. Twenty seven hour bus rides, six flat tires, two breakdowns, more people than seats, the dirt tracks fanning out across the plains, sunrise through the windows and wild horses roaming under the infinite blue sky. That is what I will remember.

I can’t believe how much mutton I consumed in the last three weeks, much less how much I grew to enjoy it. If you want to know what a sheep tastes like, this is the place. No spice, no sauce, just meat. Sheep head soup anyone?

The land of the Khans remains nearly as inaccessible today as it did back in the thirteenth century. I caught a glimpse and I will take it. For now.

A Wild Afternoon

2009-07-23T01:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it feels like nothing ever happens. Sometimes it all happens really quickly. Here it is:

I made my way through the dusty streets of Ulanbaatar to the Khazakh embassy to pick up my Kyrgyzstan visa. Upon my arrival I was told that I could not pick up the passport because the Counsellor was sick. Not good enough. I managed to look sufficiently dejected to arouse the sympathy of the receptionist. I fibbed about a plane ticket in order to underscore the urgency of the passport collection. This inspired her to help me out and I was told to return at four o’clock. This was surprising as there are generally only two times of day in Mongolia – morning and afternoon.

I returned in the afternoon and stood on a bridge killing time, watching a storm blowing in from the steppe as the river flowed beneath me. Back at the embassy I was told to wait in the street. The rain started threatening and I asked the police to shelter me in their booth. I sat watching them smoke cigarettes until the lady returned with my passport.

The visa was undoubtedly the strangest that I have ever seen. The top reads “Republic of Kazakhstan” and underneath is a stamp reading “Kyrgyz Republic” in Roman and Cyrillic script. It is all handwritten and hardly inspires confidence with respect to my imminent ordeal at the Kyrgyz border. I took it with gratitude and headed back downtown.

A fierce wind kicked up and I was assailed with dust and the first drops of rain. I made the bus just in time. As soon as I got on, the rain began pummelling the city and the bus was pelted with massive drops which soon turned into hail stones. Here is where things started to get really strange.

I got out of the bus in the hail storm and was instantly soaked. I ran to the bus shelter to seek refuge from the storm. It was already packed with Mongols and I pushed my way in. I found a reasonable position under the roof, precariously close to the overflow gushing from the roof. There were about twenty other people waiting under the shelter and the smell of stale booze filled the air. There were some rough looking people including a drunk pregnant lady with cuts all over her face smoking cigarettes. I kept to myself and waited for a gap in the storm.

There was a stocky lady standing immediately in front of me. I could smell the booze on her breath even though she wasn’t facing me. She started backing up and moving closer to me, eventually bumping into me. I folded my arms across my chest and backed up a bit. She kept coming back and trying to lean against me. I moved as much as I could, trying to stay under the roof, and eventually had about an inch of clearance between myself and the aforementioned deluge. When I couldn’t move any more, she really started leaning into me. Bizarre, but still borderline acceptable.

She began rubbing herself against me and I tried to wriggle away to no avail. She turned and started winking at me with her bloodshot right eye. I shrugged my shoulders and gestured to the rain. She started making kissing gestures and cocking her head as if to say “lets go.” I shrugged my shoulders and lifted my arms as if to say WTF are you talking about. She was beginning to piss me off. Seeing as she apparently wanted me to accompany her into the hail storm, I decided to see what would happen and nodded in the affirmative the next time she invited me out of the shelter. This inspired her to push through the crowd into the hail storm (presumably under the impression I was following her – I wasn’t).

I clawed back some space and moved away from the wall of water cascading off the roof. I watched the lady out of the corner of my eye as she made a variety of gestures trying to get my attention. When it became clear that I was not following she returned the shelter and resumed her old tactics of seduction. I had used the space she gave me to put the sole of my foot against a post and get my knee up in front of me. This thwarted further attempts at physical contact, leaving her unable to do anything but gesture, wink and kiss at me. I contemplated making a break for another shelter but the hail was coming down hard.

As I looked out into the street, I felt someone tugging at my pocket. I turned to see a charming young man, clearly drunk with a rough looking face attempting to relieve me of my iPod which was pumping out some high octane Guns ‘N Roses. I grabbed his wrist and flung it back. He didn’t look at me, but rather repositioned and attempted another stealth attack. I grabbed his wrist again and pushed it away. This escalated the situation as he now turned to face me with anger in his eyes. He made a brazen lunge at my pocket and I gave him a good push back. He stood up straight and shook his fist at me and lunged at my pocket again. I gave him another push. He reared up and took a swing at me with his right fist. I narrowly averted the blow by twisting to the left. I snapped my body back around and smashed his face with my elbow. He fell to the ground bloody.

Adrenaline pumping I turned to meet the gaze of onlookers, some of whom appeared stunned, while others were murmuring excitedly to each other. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say “whaddyado” and ran out into the hail storm.

The streets were flooded, up to my knees in some areas. I made my way through the water past a cavalcade of degenerate weirdos, women running through the puddles in high heels, and a filthy lady an old coat with the front open and nothing underneath. I was making haste, conscious of police or reprisals by my assailant. I moved as fast as I could through the flood, soaked and cold. I looked down and saw some money floating in front of me. I scooped it up and was nearly home. I got back to the guesthouse and towelled off happy to put all of the above incidents behind me.

Without a doubt, this was one of the strangest hours of the entire trip thus far. I took some deep breaths and couldn’t tell if I was trembling from the cold, or from the excitement of what had just happened. Once dry, I headed to the Tibetan Buddhist centre for a “teaching” on the Noble Eightfold Path. What a strange and peaceful way to end such a wild afternoon.

Adventures in Hitching

2009-07-23T01:33:00.000-07:00

20/07/09

Once the Nadam had finished Katya set out on a multi day hike up the east shore of the lake. We made it about ten kilometres before a guesthouse manager angrily demanded our park permits. Both of us had been in and out of the park twice and were completely unaware of any permit. It was getting late, so I told the guy we would camp and head back the next day. This was evidently not good enough, because he grabbed a large stick and began to shake it angrily at me. We were marched back the way we came under threat of a stick-beating, like POWS. Our captors followed close behind, one still brandishing the stick, the other on a horse. That was enough – it was time for a change of scenery.

The road back to Ulanbaatar was not easy. We ended up on a bus that broke down seven or eight times, blowing tires and all variety of other things. It amazes me that the owners don’t buy some decent rubber. The spare was in worse condition than the tire that blew, only difference being that it was inflated. This was not the case for long and when we rolled into Ulanbaatar 27 hours later, everyone was crowded into the right side of the bus and crammed toward the front to take pressure off the third or fourth quick fix that had been performed en route. Welcome to Mongolian public transport.

Back in the big city, we crashed for a night, before facing the ordeal of onward travel. We decided to head northeast up to the heartland of Chinggis Khan and headed out to catch a minivan for the six hour journey. The station was inexplicably closed and we stood on the edge of town for a while with all our gear and wondering what to do. A general disdain for public transport in this country begat a plan to hitchhike as far as we could and see what happens.

We started walking and before too long were picked up by a guy and his kids. He offered to take us to his cabin and we spent a couple of days exploring the surrounding area before taking to the road again.

The next ride came from an Air Force man on his way home. He pulled up drinking a beer and when we got into the car, we were assailed with Mariah Carey’s greatest hits at full volume. He was a pretty nice dude though, took us as far as a massive Chinggis Khan statue where we took a few photos, finished a beer and began walking.

It was getting late and we were looking for a place to camp when a minivan stopped and we were on our way again. We drove through the night watching a far off electrical storm illuminate the sky. The van pushed on a couple of hours, and took us as far as a strange little city with blocks of drab Soviet style apartments. We walked back out of town and found a camping spot, concealing the tent as much as possible, with little to no idea of our surroundings.

The next morning we ended up in a pick up truck, and late, a large truck carrying a crane – headed toward Tsengermandal, and hopefully beyond. When we finally arrived we had a nice lunch then decided to take a nap in an open field. I crashed for about three hours before finally heading into town and meeting more Mongolians. We were taken in by a family who allowed us to camp on the lawn and fed us tea and meat.

We ended up spending a couple of days here too and went to the beach with the family. I was told not to go into the middle of the lake (read ‘pond’) because the water would be over my head. I disregarded this advice and swam to the other side and back. This produced a great deal of shock, concern and ultimately amazement. The story was widely repeated afterwards and I feel that I achieved some measure of local celebrity, the bounds of which are apparently limitless.

Time was ticking so we said our goodbyes and hitched all the way back to Ulanbaatar in a sedan. For a while we followed a motorcycle carrying two men and a live sheep (it was kicking up a pretty serious fuss too). On to the next adventure.

Nadam Up North

2009-07-23T01:32:00.000-07:00

Finally I found myself at Khovskol Nuur, the cusp of Siberia .I am happy to report that Yak enter the narrative once again, but more on that later. Upon my arrival at Khovskol Nuur, I had the good fortune to meet a nice French girl, Katya. We had similar plans and teamed up for a variety of adventures over the next few days. There are real nomads, reindeer herders, surviving off their animals somewhere around the lake. They are hard to find, even for the Mongolians, and always on the move.

There is not much going on in Khatgal, the city at the southern tip of the lake, so we decided to take a walk through the woods on the border of the lake. We were soon accompanied by a yellow dog with a black tip on its tail which we promptly named ‘Bullet.’ Further up the path, we crossed a barbed wire fence and started off through a pasture which led to a confrontation with a very aggressive dog. Bullet sprang into action, snarling and gnashing in a fight from which he emerged the victor against a much bigger foe. For this, he earned a supper of food scraps and sausage rind. We walked through the woods and I made my way to the shore of the lake to wash my face in the cold water. Soon we headed back toward town, passing fenced pastures and rammed earth buildings. The yak are all over the road and some of them lurch toward us as we continue back through the rain. We sat in the ger and listened to storms in the night, glad of the little wood stuffed stove.

I had the good fortune to arrive in this country on the eve of Nadam – national day in Mongolia. It was completely unplanned, nothing more than good fortune to arrive immediately prior to a wild (and sometimes vodka fuelled) celebration. Nadam is a festival incorporating ancient tradition into the modern era. It involves the ‘three manly sports:’ wrestling, archery and of course, horseback riding. The entire country shuts down not only for the festival, but also for unpredictable and unexpectedly lengthy periods thereafter.

On the first day of festivities, we jumped back in a minivan, accompanied by a Norwegian fellow who was bloodied from a horse trekking mishap (“and then it started dragging me across which felt really nice”), and headed out over the dirt tracks, away from the shores of the lake to see the action in Moron. The route there was a comedy of errors. The side window of the car smashed, we broke down, miraculously restarted after dozens of attempts, and we got stuck in the mud. After a few more minor mishaps, we arrived at the festival.

The day’s events consisted of 256 wrestlers engaging in 128 matches, all vying for the honour of being the town elephant – a distinction awarded to the best among them. After watching the wrestling for an hour while eating smoked fish in the bleachers, the Norwegian pulled out a bottle of vodka which we shared around with random people. Seeing as he and I were in on every round, it was as if there was a phantom third drinker who continually changed identity as the bottle grew emptier. We grew bored of the wrestling and decided to head for the horse races. En route to the races, the Norwegian graciously offered the driver a shot of Vodka. He pulled over and we were told “do it quickly.” A glass (rather the top of a water bottle, cap on) was poured and he slugged it back before continuing over the rough terrain like a maniac.

The horse racing involved many races over the steppe and covering distances of 20 – 30 km. The riders are all 6 – 12 year old kids, most riding bareback. Some of the horses don’t make it to the finish and neither do some of the kids. There is a surprising number of horses running across the line without riders, presumably having left them in the grass, miles back. Spectators only see the end of the race. Once the horses begin to appear, they are nothing more than specks on the horizon. They grow bigger until finally there are dozens thundering past toward the finish, whipped into a frenzy across a monstrous plain by kids riding for pride.

We watched the end of a race and that was enough for the taxi. He took off without warning leaving us stranded outside town. Fortunately there were a couple of cops in the same predicament, sitting outside their jacked up SUV which was missing a wheel. As it turned out, they too were inclined to imbibe and make merry and once the vehicle was repaired they offered us a ride back into town to pick up another bottle of vodka. We rode over the field on seats with leopard print, hit the supermarket, then headed back to the middle of a field to consume our purchase. The cops were pretty jolly and ready for some fun. They took off their shirts and sat in a circle taking vodka shots and smoking cigarettes until the bottle was empty. For me, this meant time to say goodbye. The police were last seen headed back to the field with the Norwegian and a fresh bottle.

We bounced home along the dirt tracks in the dark, now accompanied by an obnoxious French couple (why is everybody French???).

The following day we went down see Nadam in Khatgal. Having seen the festivities in Moron, it was nice to get a different perspective watching it go on in a smaller venue. Khatgal was the perfect place. The events were the same, though their execution was different. It was much easier to get close to the action and some tourists were even participating in the wrestling (none got past the second round). Perhaps the nicest part of it was the setting, a lush meadow between the peaks of low mountains under a vast blue sky above.

The horse races were the most interesting feature of the day. Many steeds returned without riders, a small boy fell from his horse immediately before the finish line. He was trampled a bit, but spectators jumped in to force him up and get him off the track. There is a real element of survival of the fittest in the races, particularly for the animals as many are pushed to the brink. Some even die. It is an ancient and efficient way to determine which horses have the qualities most highly valued by the Mongols: speed, endurance, and toughness. If a horse can’t cut it, there is a strong likelihood it could wind up on a dinner table. It ‘s no Kentucky derby.

Survival of the fittest applies to the spectators too. One man wandered onto the track on his horse, just as a race was coming in. Two cops began pelting him with stones until he cleared off. By evening time, the village was full of drunks, some lying face down in the street, still holding the reins of puzzled horses awaiting instruction.

Moving in Mongol Machines

2009-07-23T01:29:00.000-07:00

11/07/09

I walk to the station, more of a parking lot full of old Russian vans, all packed with Mongols carrying every type of baggage imaginable. I am greeted by a man who waves his hand proudly toward an empty van: “Machine?”

In Mongolia everything on four wheels is referred to as a machine. There are a wide variety of options from basic and broken, to luxurious and expensive. I generally opt for the former, but have had a taste of the latter whilst toting my pack down long deserted highways with my hand outstretched beckoning vehicles to stop and give me a lift. That will come later. I’ll start with my initiation into Mongolian transportation (hopefully more interesting than it sounds).

First destination outside Ulanbaatar was a small town called Moron (no joke), a stop en route to environs more remote on the shores of a great lake: Khovskol Nuur. I headed down to the depot and waited for the vehicle to fill up. After about seven hours of waiting we were ready to roll and I left town under the pink hue of a glorious sunset, crushed into a seat with some friendly Mongolians. A few miles out of town, I was in for a surprise.

It seems that there is some sort of rule requiring drivers of the old Russian vans to take only a few more passengers than there are seats. This is clearly unsatisfactory as the strategy is to take at least twice as many passengers as there are seats. We passed a police check point where a cop came and stuck his snout into the van, took a look around and waved us through. Around the bend we stopped again and a taxi pulled up. People began piling out of it like a clown car. My amusement faded when I realized that the intention was to turn the van into one massive Russian made clown car experiment. We loaded up and ultimately had around twenty people in a van containing nine proper seats. The cherry on the cake was an enormous meat-fed Mongolian woman capable of taking up two seats singlehandedly. Only eighteen more hours like this and it would all be over.

Once we were rolling, I manoeuvred myself into a position where I could pull out some of the snacks that I intended to share. I had a preserved sausage and some bread. I started cutting it up and offered a piece to the huge lady. She took a bite, contorted her face in disgust and spat it out. I felt a little offended – she did not look like a person who had turned down too many meals. We kept rolling and the Mongols all passed out. I couldn’t believe it. It was like one big ball of limbs and bodies falling all over each other, heads bobbing as the engine of the van throbbed along the bumpy dirt track. I couldn’t sleep at all and just sat up and watched for a few hours. Eventually a couple of people got up and asked if they could listen to my iPod. I was happy to share it with them and they were happy to exhaust my battery completely.

We rolled on through the night under the light of a massive orange moon that broke over the horizon and hung in the deep blue-black sky for what seemed like an eternity before moving up higher to cast its light on the grassy plains. I pulled my hood over my face and closed my eyes. Any sleep I got can be characterized as piss-poor at best. I awoke at five in the morning to a glorious sunrise as the van stopped for gas and the passengers for breakfast. I stood around on the steppe marvelling at the beauty of the wide open space, the fluorescent sky, and the pain in most parts of my crushed body.

We loaded up again and proceeded afresh through the early morning over the dirt tracks. Finally the van broke down and everyone piled out. I took advantaged and nabbed a good hour’s sleep lying on the seat. After a lot of mechanical fiddling under the vehicle, it roared back to life and everyone crammed in again. We stopped a few hours later, just for the pure pleasure of a hike up a steep hill. I walked with a couple of Mongolians and we ate the roots of wildflowers, and tasted a couple of plants for good measure. The top of the hill had a little temple littered with half empty vodka bottles (offerings of course). I threw a couple of rocks on the heap and we were off again.

After a few more hours of ass-numbing bumps I finally saw the colourful roofs of Moron break out of the Steppe like a mirage. Almost there and ready to find my way up to the lake, Khovskol Nuur, on the frontier with Russia, Siberia lying across the border to the north. I am really in the middle of nowhere.

The Nomadic Life Continued

2009-07-05T21:07:00.000-07:00

Here I am on a patio, sipping cafe latte and looking out over the main drag of Ulan Bator, the modern outcome of all that has happened to this amazing country over the centuries. It is an ugly city, a busy city, a city where the cars don't stop for pedestrians. Stumbling drunks walk the streets at night looking menacingly at passers by. Putting all that aside however, this is not what I expected at all. I thought it would be a backwater with nothing to do or see. It is actually quite a busy place, a fast city with lots of action.

I am amazed by the number of beautiful women walking around. Wow. It is actually quite shocking. Having never met a Mongolian person before, I had no idea what to expect. Women here wear short shorts and mini skirts short enough to shock even the Beijing girls. There is an interesting genetic mix that in some cases produces big green eyes with translucent pupils. Wow.

Ulan Bator turns out to be youth running around in Hip Hop gear playing basketball and There are bars and nightclubs, named after Chinggis Khan wherever appropriate (think Chinggis Khan Irish Pub). It is truly an interesting city, though quite dirty and ugly. Mongolia in my mind is nothing but gers and horses, with the odd sand dune and camel thrown in for good measure. I haven't found anything remotely like that yet, save fro a few fleeting glimpses from the train window as I cruised into town in the early morning.

The first few days here were rewarding with trips to the museum, Tibetan monastery (longstanding and fascinating relationship with Tibet...), and markets. I always like to stock up on my supplies when in a big city and I need a few odds and ends before heading into the wild on my own. In one of my major setbacks of late, I lost my notebook on the train (possibly a vodka related incident?). It contained almost every non-blog word that I had written since I was in South Korea back in late March. What a shit situation (#*@$%#***&%) but life goes on and I was able to wipe the slate clean and find a new book. Don't know exactly what I lost because there is far too many experiences to remember them all in detail. That's why I write it down...

I am also in a position where I turned up in UB with no guidebook or phrasebook, intent on heading out on my own. This is perhaps not the wisest of ideas, and I am thinking some basic communication tool may be necessary. Everyone else is hiring guides and learining Mongolian. I am not inclined to do ei8ther, but perhaps I am taking independent travel a little too far to the extreme.

Fortunately, a French girl gave me a crappy French guidebook which will suffice for my purposes, though does not contain any words or phrases (i.e. "I can't ride this psycho horse anymore," or "I don't eat steamed sheep's head" etc.). I thought better of my plan to go it alone and I am presently in delay mode in order to organize myself in an attempt to avoid getting stranded in the middle of nowhere. I am thinking hitchiking and horseback riding are the order of the day around here and plan to do a lot of both over the next few weeks before heading back through China (one last time!) and hitting the Stans.

So far, I have only met a few Mongolians, and find myself surrounded mainly by French tourists. Je parle tout le temps en Francais et ca commence a m'embetter un peu. My favourites are a couple of hyperactive girls who I rolled into town with, and an there is also a cool Aussie/Swedish couple who provide some welcome Anglo-relief. We've been hanging around for the last couple of days drinking Chinggis Khan beer and organizing onward passage while dodging lethal traffic and engaging in bizarre re: any conceivable topic.

The other night we popped into a Korean restaurant for dinner and were hosted by a man who appeared to be some type of Mafioso. He had a gold watch, a thick gold chain, a massive gold bracelet, and a gold ring with a huge jewel on it. He even had his hair bleached in a colour approximating gold. He was really nice though and we had a great meal by following his suggestions. The rest of the evening was spent drinking beer in a tent during a thunderstorm while wild bolts of lightning crashed all around us. This was wonderful fun of course, and the Aussie guy and I sat discussing scientology and the legal principles underpinning Crown sovereignty to land.

Onward:

I am eager to make a move because time marches on (even for me) and the clock is ticking toward the beginning of my Russian visa on my thirty first birthday next month. Other significant dates looming on the immediate horizon include the one year anniversary of my departure from Canada and hence a year since I have seen all those near and dear to me (subject to a handful of notable exceptions).

At times, life on the road has brought some low moments, though thi8ngs always get better again, and I am really in a good spot now, inspired by ancient empires and the steppes of Asia which separate a quiet way of life from the obsession with development found to the south.

In spite of that, and the loss of three months' reflection on this trip, I am inspired again and ready to take it on. I think that I am past the halfway mark and will cross a couple more places off life's list in the coming weeks. No internet, no roads, no hotels, no electricity. Living like the Mongols of old has a real apeal to me, though I could do with a few more veggies and a bit less mutton.

For now, I look forward to imminent adventures, and feel that I can really identify with the nomadic life. I'm off to see it all...

Making Moves

2009-07-04T10:15:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in a comfortable little guesthouse in Ulan Bator, in the middle of Mongolia, in the middle of nowhere really, and it’s really a great departure from the scene I have grown accustomed to over the last few months. Sure this is a huge city, but devoid of the rampant consumerism that characterizes the big Chinese cities and incredibly different in terms of its inhabitants.

The road here was not as easy as it is in other places. I am getting really good at bullshitting visa applications though, and made up the name of a travel agency that had “invited” me to the country in addition to the guesthouse that I claimed I would stay at. It’s almost worth providing fictional information just for kicks sometimes because the majority of the questions are apparently pointless and the veracity of responses seems to have no bearing on the issuance of the visa.

Rather than do things the easy way, the normal way or perhaps even the sensible way, I opted to do things my way: the cheap way. I booked a ticket in Beijing on a train that stops at the border town of Erlian for about 150 RMB ($25 CDN). I had the pleasure of spending the night in a hotel, rooming with a French girl and a Korean guy, and waiting for the border to open in order to cross into the vast expanse of desert and plains that lay between me and my final destination.

After a breakfast of egg and tomato on rice, we teamed up with an Aussie guy and Swedish girl who had picked up a French dude, and made tracks to the border in a couple of taxis. We were dumped off in a parking lot full of old Russian jeeps and of drivers who spoke no English. In light of the circumstances we decided to walk across the border. We were turned back at customs on account of a idiotic law requiring the crossing to be made in a vehicle.

Me and the French dude went and made some arrangements with a jeep to take us across, but when we went back to customs, we were informed that the jeep was now carrying 11 people (it had five seats) and that it was not acceptable. This required another mission back into the heat of the afternoon to find a jeep that was suitable. Finally we found two jeeps with space and got through Chinese customs. For the record we walked.

What ensued can only be compared to a ride in an overcrowded clown car. Three of us had space in the jeep with another five people (eight was apparently reasonable, whereas eleven was excessive...) and a ton of luggage. We stuffed the bags in the back until the vinyl roof bulged and the back seat was tilted forward at a 45 degree angle. We then piled into the vehicle and chugged along while the driver hit the clutch, while jamming the jeep into gear, a process involving much grinding and repeated attempts.

We finally reached Mongolian Immigration and the difference was immediately apparent. Instead of the orderly and sterile atmosphere on the Chinese side, we were greeted by a scrum of jeeps and people all milling around and waiting for inspection. We passed through without incident and hung out on the other side duty free cigars and killing time.

Finally customs approved the jeep and we packed in again. To evade traffic, the driver jumped a curb and made some sharp swerves (one of which nearly smoked a lady full on when the unfastened driver’s door swung open). We gunned it down the open highway to the rail station where we piled out of the jeep to wait a few hours for the train. I was amused to see the driver open the hood of the vehicle and remove a couple of bags that he had stored in the space between the engine and the body of the vehicle. Clown Car extraordinaire.

We sat and played “Mongolian Poker” for a while until it was time to cram into the train. The train was worse than any I ever saw in India. The redeeming quality was that the locals started offering us shots of vodka as soon as it pulled out of the station. There was a lot of quality interaction with a big Mongolian family as we hurtled over the rails across the grassy plain.

I couldn’t drink in enough of the scenery which is immediately different from the Chinese side. The plain is full of gers (a.k.a. yurts) and there were dirty Bactrian Camels (my nemesis animal) all over the place. The azure sky blanketed a horizon that broke as far as the eye could see in every direction.

The chaos on the train was hard to ignore though and I paid more attention to conversation with locals using a phrasebook and their limited English to communicate. The shots kept coming and even the police warning was not enough to stop the flow of booze. Chiingis Khan Vodka does the trick quickly and soon there were a bunch of drunks on the carriage.

After going through every photo I had on my camera and teaching some kids how to take photos, I was challenged to an arm wrestling contest. I repeatedly declined, though this was clearly not endearing me to my new friends. I reluctantly accepted and proceeded to destroy all opposition. After about ten matches (including one loss in which I heard a number of distinctive snapping noises in my left elbow), my opponents were clearly becoming increasingly disgruntled, though unwilling to give up. I told them that my arms hurt too much to continue and shook a bunch of hands. I am pretty sure they were all pissed on account of wounded pride since they stopped sharing vodka with me at that point. There were ample reserve supplies among the gang of westerners so I fared pretty well in any event. All the action and spirit induced a restless sleep, but on a crazy train ride, I’ll take what I can get.

I woke up at about five in the morning freezing cold. When I opened my eyes, I was greeted by a magnificent sunrise. I pulled a shirt on and went to watch it from the toilet since it had an opening window and no drunks sleeping in the vicinity. I watched as a pink glow grew on the horizon with the deep blue of the sky surrounding it on the seemingly infinite flat of the horizon. The smell of the toilet ultimately killed the mood and I returned to sleep a few more hours as we approached the terminus.

Ulan Bator was finally upon us. I said goodbye to my new friends and made my way toward the start of the next adventure feeling rejuvenated and with a real sense of excitement. It had been a wild ride.

Impressions Before Leaving China

2009-07-04T08:57:00.000-07:00

Its been almost three months in the middle kingdom amongst an inescapable swell of people. I am at the end of my time in this place and trying to digest a variety of experiences. They are somewhat random and disjointed, but in the aggregate, begin to to nail down a picture of this massive country.

I am amazed at how repressive the government continues to be here in terms of allowing people freedom if information and expression. There is no access to anything that is not permitted. It feels like Big Brother is alive and well, and constantly wants to make his presence felt. In terms of internet, I can’t access my blog, YouTube, Amnesty International and as of recently, Lonely Planet. I cannot understand the perceived threats that these websites present, particularly in light of the arbitrary nature of their censorship. I can look up “Tiananmen Square Massacre” on Wikipedia and read the full article, but I can’t figure out if the western border with Mongolia is open on Lonely Planet’s Forum.

The plan is to increase the level of censorship. There is now a program that will come pre-installed in every new Chinese computer that censors access to prohibited websites. The stated purpose of this is to protect children from pornography. It will inevitably also include any site that the government takes issue with. Google was temporarily shut down and has now been ordered to stop directing traffic to any website outside China.

There are of course ways around this. I have found proxy servers set up in other countries that can handle traffic from China and thereby circumvent the controls of the CCP censor. It is a hassle though, and hardly worth it to access information that I can see virtually anywhere else in the world (Burma, North Korea excluded of course). There is no reason for China to be keeping company with these countries anymore. I can’t understand their motivation. People seem satisfied with their government by and large and in my view the CCP has a chance to maintain its authority without repressive measures through popular support. The amount of economic growth and the number of households getting electricity and infrastructure seem to have a positive effect on most people’s perception of the government. Why continue to stifle dissent. Why not open up.

The cities here are modern and efficient, nothing special really, just a mass of smog and skyscrapers with suits walking around during the day and hipsters taking to the streets for nightlife in the evening. There is traffic jamming the major arteries and construction all over the place affecting large districts and inducing gridlock. In many places the jackhammers are incessant. This is the sound of progress.

Other areas feel like they have not moved an inch. There are not really any facilities for credit cards in the majority of places. When there are, it is a huge problem if the card is foreign and not issued by a Chinese bank. Strange, since this does not present an issue in any other country with credit card facilities.

China is still a pretty far cry from achieving the standards expected in the west and even other parts of Asia. Horking and spitting culture are going strong all over the country, this while medical officials stand at the border checking everyone for fever and flu. It is like putting a plaster on cancer. There is potential for an epidemic where everyone is constantly sharing access to the contents of each other’s throats and no public place is safe to sit, touch or put anything on the ground. It is amazing that the disgorging of phlegm is still tolerated at large in a society so afraid of disease and pandemic.

There is a massive amount of competition for space in this country. This applies to everything from a stroll down the sidewalk, to a ride on a public bus. Everyone is constantly vying to occupy a limited amount of space that is highly sought after. It is anarchic in many ways. I was on the Shanghai metro the other day and a middle-aged lady took a run at me. She had positioned herself as part of a human wall to completely block the exit from the train, in favour of their intentions of boarding. Once the doors opened, she made a sudden move to her right, which surprised even other members of the human wall, and she went at me full tilt. I just stood there and take no accountability for the fact that she went flying, sprawling and scrambling to keep her balance. For that I blame physics. Even the Chinese were giving her funy looks (i.e. WTF are you doing lady). Needless to say there were plenty of empty seats on the train anyway making the entire initiative not only fruitless, but also pointless.

Another incident involved a man flying out of an alley onto the sidewalk on a bicycle. In order to avoid contact with his front wheel, I grabbed his handlebars and steered his bicycle into a small pillar for him. He recovered his balance, smiled and shrugged his shoulders. At least he acknowledged that he was behaving like a nut. Amazingly ths same scenario played out later that day with a scooter. I am getting very good at steering around me on behalf of people who can’t do it themselves. The scooter man was not as impressed as I had apparently breached the sacred right of motorized vehicle operators to do whatever they want regardless of the danger or cost to other people. He is lucky i didn’t steer him into a wall.

Nobody obeys the signs or the lines or anything that attempts to insert a measure of order into the chaos. The result is that people line up prematurely for everything. They will stampede toward the entrance or exit at the earliest available opportunity, pushing and jostling for position, only to wait on their feet holding parcels and bundles, when they could have been sitting comfortably if they had only decided to cooperate. End result: everybody competes and everybody loses.

There are always ways around this type of problem. One is cutting the line, something that people are hesitant to complain about for some reason. I don’t share this peculiar form of etiquette and have been known to tap a shoulder or two, even forcibly remove the odd old lady as she comes in with elbows flying. What I really don’t get is that the clerk at the booth always seems willing to serve the queue skippers. I can’t imagine why they are willing to serve someone who can barely push his mouth into the side to bark a request whilst thrusting a wad of bills with the greatest of indelicacy. There is virtually no defence to this assault if you are a normal person standing in line. It is incredibly strange that people will line up themselves, yet they don’t seem to mind if others circumvent the entire process.

Of course, it is hard to speak up for yourself in China since in the majority of places, people speak NO ENGLISH. I can’t underscore that enough. There is never a anybody on the bus who can say “this is your stop” or even understands “is this my stop” (accompanied by lots of pointing at map). No English anywhere, anytime. None. I am gonna kick some ass at charades when i get back home, because the last two months have been communication through ambiguous gestures and hand signals that I don’t understand. I mean, i did manage to pick up some basic words, and some numbers, but I have never had such a difficult time communicating with people as I have here.

This resulted in a couple of occasions where I had no idea where I was and had no way to find out. In one instance, I disembarked from a sleeper bus in the early morning. I had spent the last night in between an American duded and a chubby Chinese guy in constant (and unwanted) physical contact. I was happy to get off the bus at Kunming and made for the local bus stop. There were two busy roads intersecting and buses going in every direction. I tried to show some people where I wanted to go on the map, but after trying a half dozen times, I gave up and simply boarded a bus in the hope that I would recognize something along the route. Sure enough I did and managed to match the bus route up to my map by the grace of whoever installed the road signs. At least they were in English. I am not always so luck and often wind up matching up the shapes of Chinese characters against the ones in my guide, or better yet, against my recollection of what they are supposed to look like (i.e. standing around thinking: its got those three lines and the diagonal above that squiggly thing in the box).

It is difficult to do some of the simplest things here sometimes. Using a credit card is incredibly complicated. It’s a big problem if you don’t have one issued by a Chinese bank. I don’t understand how this affects anything, but apparently it does. In spite of this, money talks. Development is the paramount concern to the CCP and anything that stands in its way must be crushed (temples, languages, cultures, Tibetans, etc.). This attitude has produced some strange results in certain parts of the country.

The ancient city of Lijiang is poised to lose its world heritage status because it has become such a circus. UNESCO issued warnings and laundry lists of protective measures that they expected would be implemented. These demands rang hollow in the ears of short sighted CCP cadres obsessed with development. They are still gutting the ancient buildings to make them into karaoke bars and souvenir shops. The whole place is a farce, but as long as they are building something and attracting tourists that is all that matters. History and preservation of culture be damned!

I have already described Nature: The Theme Park in a previous entry, and I do not want to repeat myself. I do want to say that Chinese tourists don’t walk. They ride things up (or sometimes over) other things to see beautiful things that for thousands of years were horribly inaccessible on account of cursed nature with all its treacherous and sweat inducing idiosyncrasies that can now be tamed by large scale construction projects aimed at bringing it into line and increasing the mass of tourists that can trample a mountain top.

Some of the most fun here is the pointless bureaucracy. This involved lots of registration, lots of documentation of my passport number, visa number, scans and photocopies of these documents, explanations to officials where my entry stamp was that corresponds to my “zero entry visa” while I was on my way out to Hong Kong (which is part of China?!?) so as to come back with a Russia visa after obtaining a second double entry China visa and apply for a Mongolian visa.

When I got back to China, I stayed with a friend in Shanghai for a few days, which requires registration at the local police station. This required more photocopies, of not only my documents, but also copies of the lease to the apartment and other real estate documents in full Chinese so as to ensure I had no idea what any of them said. All that was fun, but the experience got better when the stern warnings began in response to my nefarious plans and intentions in China. I advised that I was not working. This was by no means a credible story and I was repeatedly warned against securing employment. It was going really well and before I left, I was happy to learn that one of the cops would be attending at the apartment to conduct further follow up investigation into my activities. I am shocked that this is the way that they treat those who are trying to comply with their idiotic regulations.

At least my mission to the police station allowed me to shake an annoying tout who was claiming that he could help me find anything i was looking for. For some reason, he had little interest in dealing with the cops.

I am going to miss the crazy details that make this such an interesting and dynamic place to visit. I will always remember my one legged friend who rode over on his bicycle to ask me for a lighter. I didn’t have one, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer and we soon became friends. We sat together and watched a guy come out of the subway and vomit rice all over the stairs before moving on as if nothing happened. This was a good backdrop for the time we spent watching the kid in the crotchless/seatless pants make use of his exposed genitals by pissing and defecating all over the sidewalk. Cute.

Another random point of interest is the fact that the railway pays employees to check train tickets for passengers leaving the station. You can't get into the station without a ticket, but you theoretically also need one to leave. This is not the case however since I have amused myself on several occasions by claiming to have lost my ticket, and they always wave me through. In the end, it seems that they check the tickets, but remain fully conscious of the pointlessness of the exercise as there are no reprecussions for not having a ticket.

The last few days brought some fairly typical experiences. Typical in that they are all strange and unexpected, largely what I have come to expect in my day to day Chinese existence.

The first was an incident with a woman who was scarfing McDonalds in a bank. I was sitting there with a British girl waiting to pay for our Mongolian visas since this was not possible at the embassy (pointless bureaucracy strikes again). Once the woman had finished her meal, she began then berating a British girl for being too loud, saying that you stay quiet in a bank. The girl replied by telling her that the McDonalds was stinking up the place (a valid complaint) which prompted the woman to call her a "bitch" and repeatedly request that she "fuck off." Nobody said anything, though I noticed the security guard snickering. Once the woman's number was called, a variety of people expressed empathy for the British girl who took the incident in stride and was really quite amused.

We left the bank and took a walk among the nighttime food stalls. There were a crazy amount of things on offer including bugs of all kinds and BBQ sheep penis. The vendors called out to promote their stalls to passers by. One was repeating "Hello Snake" over and over, but my personal favourite was a large bellied man from west China who had his t-shirt pulled up to expose his gut. As we walked past he called out "Sheep Testicles" in a low raspy, almost sleazy voice. Hilarious.

All in all, it’s been in an interesting couple of months in China but the time has really come to move on. I can’t wait to get to the vast open spaces north of the border and hit the steppes of Asia in all their isolated glory, leaving the sea of people behind.

The Hub of the World

2009-06-18T08:39:00.000-07:00

I feel like I have arrived at hub of the world. There are people here from all parts of the former empire (and the rest of the world too) continuing the trading tradition that is responsible for the city's affluence. They all bump shoulders on the MTR. It is a unique experience to visit a city with so many transient people.

There is electricity in the air here as the city hums under one of the world's best skylines. People walk about like rats in a maze of overpasses and underpasses. Many sidewalks have fences to prevent illegal street crossing (I initially scoffed at the restrictions, but barely managed to lie my way out of a steep fine for jaywalking). They are streamed past an endless parade of money spending opportunites. Double decker buses whiz through incredibly narrow passages at incredibly high speed. There are jackhammers and pile drivers all over the place.

And the horking and spitting has ended.

The first few days here were a total culture shock. I can access information on the web again. The internet is everywhere and pretty much everybody speaks English. I had not been able to speak to the vast majority of people that I encountered over the last two months in China. Everything comes easy here - provided that the money is there.

There is an incredible amount of wealth in this city. Its common to see everything from Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bentleys, Porsches, down to the old red and white taxis. The streets are lined with Louis Vuiton, Coach, Prada, Burberry, and Armani stores. Huge diamond rings sparkle in the windows. This inevitably leads to a material culture of mass proportions.

It seems that you can buy pretty much anything that you want here. I even managed to find dental floss and deodorant, luxuries that had eluded me for weeks in China. There are shops specializing in Shark Fins. The most impressive ones are huge whale shark fins in cases all dried out. The traders operate just down the road from the apartment where I am crashing.

The money here is a bit strange and is issued by private banks as opposed to a federal reserve system. HSBC has its logo printed on many of the bills, a strange situation in light of the fact it is now a British bank. Real banks and real money mean that things cost the same as they do in the west again - a little hard on the pocketbook but at least I am geared up.

A byproduct of the economic machine is the presence of those lovable Touts that were so few and far between in China and both Koreas. Finally they have come back in full force. Tsim Sha Tsui is infested with seedy hotel touts and tailor touts. There are scoundrels walking around offering to sell people hashish. You are bombarded with massage flyers every time get to a street corner. These guys are pretty hardcore but I am experienced in Tout evasion and even take the time to have fun with them wherever possible.

Though this was a welcome break from the hardships of travel in the developing world, I am ready to jump back into the thick of the action. I feel that I have seen this city well as a result of my wanderings over the last ten days. Hopefully the blog gets better again soon. I have a new China visa and a Russia visa that I can't read. The "crazy" is bound to resume in short order.

Finally Hong Kong

2009-06-10T03:25:00.000-07:00

After an odyssey across south china by bus and train, I finally arrived in Hong Kong. I feel like I am at the crossroads of the world. There is a great vibe here with people of all different backgrounds mingling with the locals.

I walked with my pack looking for a place to stay and ultimately settled on the notorious “Mansions,” a building full of guesthouses apparently run by Indian touts. In spite of this, I couldn’t decide if I was in India or Africa because there were competing numbers of kourtas and dashikis everywhere I turned.

I managed to get a hold of an old friend who set out before me on a similar trip and had managed to stay a couple of steps ahead all this time. He had a laugh at the roach infested place where I was holed up and graciously offered his couch. I am now in some primo digs and ready to make some moves in this city.

I really feel like I am at the crossroads of a lot of things. It is time to start pushing out of the far east and into central asia. That was not an easy decision because you could spend a lifetime here and not see everything. I had the urge to post up in China for a while and learn some Mandarin, but the idea evaporated between somewhere and the middle of nowhere and I began to feel the lure of the unknown again. I have to find a way to settle for a while somewhere. I am over my third round of travel burnout and once the kind folks at the Russia embassy give me my papers, it will be time to move.

For now I am just sitting back, enjoying the modern conveniences of this crazy place and sweating an incredible amount. I think the island warrants some in depth exploration and I intend to get out of the city asap. There are worse places I could be “stuck” and thank god for good ol’ Canadian backpacker hospitality...

The Last Month

2009-06-09T09:36:00.000-07:00

07/06/09

With the exception of some particularly inspiring places, the lack of blog access in China has produced an exceptional laziness within me and I have failed to keep up with the ongoing record of my misadventures. This entry seeks to chronicle the last month of trains, planes and buses to cities all over the Yunnan.

Apart from the burgers at Sim’s Cozy Guesthouse, Chengdu doesn’t warrant much of a mention. I spent about a week waiting for my Tibet permit amidst the big block buildings looking for a good panda steak (unavailable). The saving grace was a trip up to Emei Shan – a holy mountain dotted with temples and monasteries. It pissed rain almost the whole time I was there, which strangely produced a damp and mystical atmosphere. I felt like an explorer climbing through the mists past brutal Tibetan Macaqs to discover sublime monasteries with incense in the air.

After coming back from Tibet I found myself in the Yunnan province in the south east of China. It borders on Laos, Burma, and Vietnam and has a great range of ethnicities, a far cry from the homogenous north east.

Kunming was the starting point and is my favourite little big city in China (i.e. only a million people!). It has a great feel to it and there are large pedestrianized areas with archways and pagodas. There is a really hip flavour to the culture here with lots of nightlife (though I did not partake in any) and name brand stores. There are alleys full of little shops and no real designated tourist district so you can really blend in to the local scene with relative ease. I even contemplated sticking around and teaching some English for about two seconds. I threw up in my mouth a little bit, slapped myself in the face a dozen times and booked a bus north to Dali.

Dali is the first stop on the Yunnan tourist trail. There is a beautiful old town with walls and giant gates facing each of the cardinal directions. There are hordes of Chinese tourists and all the old buildings are gutted to make room for the shops selling tourist crap. I had to get out of town.

I ran into a couple of friends I met in Burma and broke the month long alcohol fast in a little bar.. I got up with a pain in the Gulliver and hiked up a long trail and along a ridge (paved of course). We finally got to the end of the trail and the cable car was closing. The operator gestured to the path down which led us on a wild scramble over the boulders in a rushing river as the path ended leaving no other way down. After a couple of hours negotiating the terrain in flip flops, I miraculously emerged unscathed (can’t say the same for the others) and we hitchhiked back to the old town for a couple more beers. There were a bunch of great people that night and we threw rocks for two magnificent golden retrievers with an insatiable desire to play fetch. A good night does not always mean a good morning. My aussie roomie woke me at about 10:00 a.m. to advise that she had purchased me a bus ticket departing in an hour. I somehow pulled it together and we caught a local bus to the station.

These types of trips are ordinarily uneventful but this one was different. The three hour ride took more like six on account of gridlock produced by a large oil spill. We got out of the bus and were informed that there was a dead baby hanging from a tree just a little way up the road. I thought it might be cute (much to the horror of an American school group) so we walked up for a look. Cute indeed. The baby had been chopped to pieces and was hanging from the tree in three transparent plastic bags. It looked like bloody mush. Apparently this is a tradition when a baby is born prematurely (which I took to mean stillborn). After a look, we were getting hungry so we went back to the bus and scarfed our apples for lunch.

Lijiang is the second stop on the Yunnan tourist trail. We rolled in on the bus and I called Mama Naxi’s Guesthouse for station pickup. It cost two kwai ($0.40CDN) and soon we had our digs settled in the dorm. The guesthouse was old and authentic with a great courtyard and staff who somehow managed to pull off the surly/friendly combo. I hung around for a couple of days doing laundry and exploring the old town but dined each night at the guesthouse where Mama and her niece prepared a huge feast each night for 15 kwai ($2.75CDN). The food was delicious and it created a great atmosphere in the courtyard with foreigners from all over the world sitting together well into the evening.

The town is beautiful – downside is the same as in Dali: every building gutted to make way for tourist shops. There are bars and clubs pumping loud dance music and the usual hordes of Chinese tourists singing karaoke well into the night. It is really an odd scene as all of the nightlife is located in centuries old wooden buildings in the old town. There are women dressed in traditional costume which, strangely, connotes prostitution on account of the matriarchal history of the Naxi who traditionally inhabited the village. This perception arises from the historical freedom in the culture that allowed women to take men as lovers outside marriage. I understand that the modern manifestation of this tradition (i.e. prostitution) arose from Chinese tourists visiting in pursuit of the legend of promiscuity. Apparently demand has created supply, though I did not see any illicit business first hand.

Lijiang itself is an amazing old city with winding cobbled streets, wooden buildings, water wheels, wells, and people in traditional dress walking amongst the lanterns (and fighting through the tourists) in the cool of the evening. It is presently a UNESCO world heritage site, though I subsequently found out that UNESCO plans to strip it of its status on account of the theme park atmosphere that has taken over. Apparently this is the first time that a site has lost its status but the town has failed to conform to prescribed measures designed to preserve its historical atmosphere and general authenticity. What an embarrassment.

Time was ticking on my visa and it would take seven days to extend in Lijiang. I had to make tracks, skip Tiger Leaping Gorge (Yunnan tourist trail stop number three) and head for Shangri La (Yunnan tourist trail stop number four - known as Zhongdian before they decided to turn it into another tourist trap). Both Dali and Shangri La feel like Lijiang Junior. They have both adopted the same “pump the tourists through” model and the old towns are gutted to make way for shops selling the same tourist crap. Both have redeeming features in the hills and mountains around and are worthwhile places to visit.

Before I left Mamma Naxi’s Guesthouse I was given a necklace by Mama herself, and her niece insisted on a big hug. I complied and she started smooching my neck...weird...there had been a bit of pawing too, but i thought nothing of it at the time. Anyway, I left with a bizarre 62 year old man who never shut up with lame stories. We got our Visas extended the afternoon we arrived and by the end of the evening, I was sufficiently appalled with my new acquaintance (see the entry “Backpacker Heroes – Anecdote #2) that I had to ditch the guesthouse the next morning.

I strapped up the pack and walked through the cobbled streets of the old town. There are beautiful wooden buildings in traditional Tibetan style. Some of the shops are selling what initially looks like tiger and leopard skin. I later found out it is dog hid painted with stripes and spots. They also sell dusters made out of yak tail. The real yak stuff is outside the old town where you can buy full yak ribcages, dried yak liver and yak skulls that are proudly displayed outside a variety of shops...but I digress.

I settled on the Harmony Guesthouse which is a 140 year old building made of wood and rammed earth. The water is inconsistent and the bed is hard, but at 20 kwai ($3.75CDN) per night, the wooden fireplace and the people I met more than outweighed the inconveniences.

There was a massive festival in town when I arrived, supposedly involving horses, yak and Tibetan Mastiff, though only the horses made an appearance. People had brought their animals in from all over to showcase their skills in races and trick riding competitions. Even the heavy Chinese military presence could not shut down the jubilant atmosphere, though the government did manage to thwart the yak and dog events.

The races were somewhat disorganized. Some riders were bareback, while others had saddles. Some rode ponies while others rode stallions. There was even a ladies division. Before each race, the horses were led on to the track by the rider and a handler. The rider would then mount his steed, while the handler would control the horse until the race began. This was hilarious to watch as there was no starting gate and the beginning of each race involved six horses facing different directions. Some would rear up and attempt to gore the handlers with their hooves, though none of the riders were bucked off. The handlers fearlessly struggled to bring pull the animals back onto four hooves.

Each race began when one of the handlers lost control of his horse and the animal bolted. This meant a mad scramble for the handlers to get across the track while the riders whipped their mounts into a frenzy as they turned to chase the instigating animal. There was some near trampling, but little more than minor injuries.

The festival continued all weekend and there were many stalls and games out front of the stadium. These included roll the tire around the cigarette pack and spin the animal top under the bucket. I got to see some novice monks gambling and vendors making candyfloss on bicycle powered machines. My favourite of the stalls was certainly the beer tent. We were offered free beers as part of a promotion. I initially declined, though my friends were more obliging and we took a seat. A photographer started taking pictures and requested that I pose with a beer. He then asked me to drink it (for a good picture of a drunk westerner no doubt) and I refused. He couldn’t understand what I was saying and eventually I gave in and began sipping in moderation.

At this point, the heavens opened up and a downpour began. The girls wouldn’t stop cracking fresh bottles and handing them to us and soon I felt quite drunk. They gave us a free lunch and passed out more beers. There were a bunch of kids who kept coming back and doing chugging contests, the spoils being a free case. The elder of the group was likely no more than 13. Last I saw, they were riding off wasted on a scooter with their free case. The rain wouldn’t stop so i decided to hitch a ride back. A couple of guys picked me up in a nice SUV and after a few detours and U-turns had me back near my guesthouse, still drunk.

I was really beginning to enjoy Shangri La and met a bunch of great people including an American couple, a Finnish woman, a Canadian guy, a Scot, an Aussie, and the Aussie girl. I stayed for a few days and began to feel replenished in time for my ten month anniversary since leaving home.

Now I am on a long haul mission down to Hong Kong – from 3200 metres to the sea. I ended up on a hilarious sleeper bus last night which was clearly not designed for a man of my dimensions. I ended up in the middle berth, sandwiched between an American dude and a greasy Chinese guy who kept coughing on me all night. I couldn’t move and was in constant physical contact with my unfortunate neighbours, but I miraculously got a reasonable amount of sleep. Back in Kunming, I took a wild guess and got on a city bus that delivered me to an area that i recognized. After a half hour hike with the 22kg pack and a breakfast at McDonalds (not that I don’t love Chinese food ALL THE TIME FOR THE LAST TWO MONTHS!!!), I arrived at the Hump hostel where the post Tibetan adventure began. I made a schedule for the next three months of my life, and got a ticket to Guangzhou for tonight. I am moving every time I sleep, but things are picking up steam and starting to go my way...

Nizu

2009-06-09T09:34:00.000-07:00

05/06/09

The trip into the unknown proved to be better than i had even imagined. I started on a bus from Shangri la that slid and careened down a muddy track of switchbacks to the village of Luoji, a small outpost in the North East of Yunnan. The group consisted of myself, a Canadian guy and an American couple, all of us intrepid enough to brave the unknown without any assurance of a place to stay or transportation in or out of our destination. We arrived in Luoji and made sleeping gestures by putting our palms together and resting our heads against them. This generated some options and we settled on a skanky room with four beds for ten kwai ($1.75 CDN) for the night. We ate delicious local food and retired to our beds, ready to set out on the reall adventure the following morning.

When we awoke, we strapped on the packs and headed for the road. We hiked 10 km over five hours up the muddy tracks and didn’t see a single vehicle come our way. Finally a pickup truck came by and fortunately stopped. There was a Tibetan mastiff guarding the path forward, snarling and barking at me and we decided to hop in the back of the pickup. We bounced along for an hour or so, past the most idyllic scenery imaginable. I was in the back, sitting on my pack and leaning on a large leaky barrel of gasoline. Finally we arrived at Nizu.

There was a man where the truck stopped with a cheek moustache (later dubbed “wolverine”) who greeted us and showed us through the village, along dirt tracks, through the fields, across a stream and finally up to a local house. When Wolverine opened the gate, we were greeted by pigs, a cow and chickens sitting on their chicks. The stable is underneath the house. We entered the house and were overtaken by the dim interior with rays of light shining like beacons through a couple of windows. In the dark smoky room, we were served cup after cup of yak butter tea until we could not drink anymore. We ate yak cheese, very strong flavour and delicious with the tea. We mixed barley flour into the tea, which is a staple of mountain life in Tibetan regions.

Halfway through our reception, I went out onto the porch to get something out of my bag and witnessed a hilarious scene. The lady of the house was chasing piglets off the porch with a stick. They were all scrambling to get down the long staircase, but their hooves had no traction on the wood. They were flying and jumping all over each other and were soon back down below with the other animals. It seems that they love to hang out on the porch and they had made their way back up by the time we exited the house to go to our rooms.

The rooms are in a guesthouse that is presently under construction. There is no plumbing or electricity and water comes from a diverted stream. We took in the view and I walked among the barley fields brushing my hand against the top of the plants as they blew in the gentle breeze. We went down to the river and jumped from a bridge into the freezing water. Nightfall began to set in and we retired to our rooms.

Nizu is set in a spectacular mountain valley. The villagers subscribe to the Bon religion and fled from Tibet somewhere between four and seven hundred years ago to flee Buddhist persecution(!). This coincides with the foundation of the Gelupa sect of Tibetan Buddhism but I would like to learn more about any connection. There are no temples or monasteries in the village, just the mountains, rivers and the deep blue sky. The villagers believe one mountain is female with its lush virgin forest, and the other is male with a harsh rock face. These are the protectors and spiritual guardians of the people. Spending some time in the village really allowed me to feel the power of the mountains and the guardian spirits housed within.

The Bon religion is what may be called an animist faith and is the religion of ancient Tibet. There are shamans and witchdoctors, though the religion is now practiced by only 10% of Tibetans. The people of Nizu are authentic Tibetans and survive in a very traditional way. The men carry large handmade machetes wrapped in the cloth about their waists, and utility belts with small metal compartments. They wear various different amulets and pendants from their necks to protect their hearts from evil. The women wear traditional dress and Mao hats. I did not find out what is under their clothes.

The village is organized according to families and many people were high in the mountain with their yak. They climb higher as the weather grows warmer, and spend the summer at altitude, rather than in the warmth of the lush valley around Nizu.

The houses are made of wood and rammed earth. Villagers build the houses using massive logs harvested from the surrounded hills. The logs are slid down the hills and into the rivers, then pulled into town by teams of huge yak. Houses are constructed communally and the workers receie three meals a day from the family building the house. The frames are assembled and laid out like dominoes, then raised one by one and attached with massive beams at the top. After that the real work begins and walls gradually take shape out of stones and mud rammed into a hard solid state. The houses are then whitewashed and ready for habitation.

We all slept beautifully the first night and set out on a hike up the riverbed the following day. We found some wild mushrooms growing on a log and picked them. Our host prepared them into a delicious dish that evening and we feasted on the vegetables and pork that we had carried in. We were also provided with liberal doses of home brew made by boiling barley to the point of fermentation.

After another legendary sleep, the Canadian guy and I set out on a hike. We moved up a riverbed through alpine meadows, walked over a ridge, then down into a valley and ultimately back to the rushing waters of another stream. This led us down to a larger river which we followed to a beautiful waterfall. There were a dozen cascades over the mossy rock and it was like something out of a dream. After bathing in the frigid water, we set out for the village and proceeded through a meadow with wooden yak herder shacks and along a mountain path. Time was not on our side and it began to grow dark as the rumbling of thunder echoed in the distance. Soon darkness was setting upon us. We had no light and no choice but to continue. Buying into the Bon tradition all around, I began imploring Mother Mountain to grant us safe passage.

We walked and ran and scrambled over the dirt track in the fading light. Lightning ripped through the air and the rain started. Finally we saw a fork in the path that i recognized. I felt an adrenaline surged and clapped my hands in excitement. At precisely the same moment a bolt of lightning illuminated the valley causing an eerie sensation that the mountains were toying with us. We kept going through the rain and finally got to a bridge across the river back to the village.

We made our way up the hills, one last push through the fields to the village. One more obstacle: a massive farm dog, part mastiff began chasing us and I grabbed some rocks and a stick to defend myself. I ran and jumped over a stone fence using the last of my energy. We made it back by nightfall safe and sound to find that Wolverine, his daughter and the old man had waited for us to eat dinner. We ate fried yak fat (tastes like bacon), mountain greens and rice, with butter tea to wash it down. Old man is an amazing fellow and we got to see the machete he made when he was sixteen. The blade was well oiled and the handle made of ivory which he and his father had traded for in the south of China many years ago. He also wore an ivory amulet and snorted tobacco. He had made a six hour trek down from the mountain in order to meet us, leaving his wife in charge of the yak. We went to bed exhausted, having hiked the mountains for eleven hours, resting only three.

The next morning we fired up some dirtbikes that an American guide had brought in before horse trekking out. He asked us to “do him a big favour” by riding back to Shangri La with them. Seeing as our other options would involve two days of hitching and hiking, we reluctantly accepted the offer. The bikes were lots of fun, though I was carrying a huge pack on my back containing our cooking gear and clothes which must have weighed at least 15 kilos. We stopped at one point for a photo and I planted my feet and posed. After the snap was taken, the bag shifted one way and i moved to correct it. This caused the bike to shift the other way and embarrassingly i dropped it on its side. Generally this would be no big deal, but in this instance the clutch lever cracked. Rather than turn back, I decided to make do and rode about 150km holding the lever against the handlebar. I would leverage it against its housing when I needed to shift (not an uncommon requirement for a ride in the mountains, particularly when carrying the pack). We rode for an hour in this fashion.

Eventually I passed the vicious mastiff that had deterred me from walking any further on the way in. I was in the wrong gear but I gunned the engine and pushed the bike into a large rut left by the flow of water on the dirt road. I was not about to stop and flew over the uneven ground listening to the engine fade as it pulled me uphill. I prayed it wouldn’t stall. The mountain spirits were on my side and the road flattened out, saving me from the jaws of the anima. I pushed on through puddles that came up over the wheels and down ravines until finally we reached the main road. We dodged errant yak at 80km/h and were soon back in Shangri La.

It was an amazing trip and one of the best things that I have ever had the fortune to discover. There are only a handful of white people who have ever seen the village, and even less who have seen the water falls in the mountains. I thank the spirits of the Bon for the blessings they gave me.

Tibet III

2009-06-09T09:31:00.001-07:00

22/05/09

The last part of leg of my time in Tibet took me back up to the deepest blue of the sky, almost to the top of the world: Mount Everest is one of the most awe inspiring sights imaginable. It really puts you in touch with the world and makes you feel that you have seen it. The Everest region contains four of the world’s ten highest mountains, visible from the panorama that breaks in front of the pass up above 5000 metres.

There is a vicious wind at 5200 metres that rips over the valley floor toward the mountain itself. I attached a string of prayer flags to a small stupa and then sat in awe of the view for an hour or so before the guide announced it was time to leave. We made our way back to the camp which was a tent ‘hotel,’ better described as a tent where I sat and watched the sunset cast its glow over the mountain. The sun gave way to a black sky rammed full of twinkling stars and after enjoying them for a while in the cold night, I retired to the warmth of the tent and ate a mysterious blend of fried cabbage, white rice and sand for dinner. Bed time was soon upon us and I disappeared under some heavy yak wool blankets and slept surprisingly soundly considering the altitude.

The next morning I awoke to a cold draft on my face. I left the tent to check out the mountain in the soft light of dawn and it was every bit as spectacular as I had hoped. After using one of the worst toilets I have seen on this trip, I packed up my things and we made our way back to Shigatse. Another flat tire high on a pass provided a last opportunity to say goodbye to the grand mountain and its sisters and after a few hours we were well on our way back to town.

I had an amazingly disappointing lunch on the way back. The menu consisted almost entirely of western food, but I located some veggie momos (Tibetan dumplings) and ordered accordingly. So much for my theory that locals know how to make good local food. They were terrible. I was pretty pissed when the guide and the driver were provided with a four course meal of delicious looking Chinese fare, free of charge (the money comes from the exorbitant price that the tourists pay). By the time I got back to 3950 metres, the air felt thick and I got the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks.

So it’s not seven years, but seven days in Tibet has been enough for an eye opening glance at the region, its culture and its inhabitants. Regrettably it has also provided a crash course in methods to repress a minority population. I would love to stay longer, but any more time here would have caused the usual visa nightmare, not to mention the exorbitant price of hiring a government approved guide and a driver.

Like anywhere else, Tibet did contain its fair share of idiosyncratic features. Every city is saturated with outdoor pool tables. This is particularly bizarre considering the extreme climate in the region. It results in a lot of torn felt, though this does not seem to sap the resolve of local pool enthusiasts who gather around shooting games until darkness falls.

“WE FUCK THE FAKE SHIT” hats are another unusual phenomenon that is taking the Tibetan world by storm. I don’t know how to say it any better than that. I saw a shop selling these baseball cap style headpieces and managed to note at least a half dozen people sporting them proudly.

The region also seems to be overwhelmed in knock off ‘Tide’ laundry detergent. I observed Tidu, Tian Dian, and Tiden, among others that I did not have the good sense to record before i was distracted by another “we fuck the fake shit” hat.

The propaganda sometimes takes a sadly humorous tone as well. The guide refers to to 1959 as “the year living standards improved” – not exactly the punchy tagline that would help to sell the Chinese takeover.

Of course there are Chinese tourists all over the place. As usual they were behaving in their charming ‘me first, get out of my way’ fashion with incessant blather for good measure. Discussion with them is very strange as they think that Tibet should become more Chinese, yet they are flocking in droves to visit the region and prowl about its monasteries waving little flags and wearing stupid hats. They take pictures of the oddest things. The road to Nam Tso lake was shut due to ice so the tour group spent a great deal of time pushing their way in front of a sign with pictures of the lake and making peace signs.

One regret at the end of my time here: I never got a chance to see a Tibetan Mastiff, a huge and vicious mountain dog. Maybe thats a good thing.

I leave Tibet with deep regret, feeling that I could have spent months here. Gotta keep moving as Central Asia beckons...

Leaving for Nizu

2009-06-09T09:31:00.000-07:00

30/05/09

Into the Wild

I am setting out on some serious adventure. No guesthouses, no transportation except horse and foot, mountain passes, pristine valleys and living off the kindness of local Tibetans – it promises serious challenge and adventure.

The town is called Nizu. It is not on any map or in any guidebook. It is a cluster of houses on a peak in a beautiful valley surrounded by snowcapped mountains. I am catching a bus part way and hitchhiking the rest of the distance because it is so disconnected from the rest of the world and there is no public transit.

From Nizu I intend to hike some unmarked trails way up into the mountains to find the glacial lakes and mountain waterfalls. I am likely to have a couple of nights in a tent with some yak herders cooking on a fire and sleeping in the wilderness. The region is surrounded by the only virgin forest left in southeast Asia.

Tibet II

2009-06-09T09:30:00.000-07:00

20/05/09

The experience in Tibet has really struck me and opened my eyes to a culture so remote and beautiful that it defies description. In spite of its best efforts, the secular restrictions imposed by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) cannot stifle the ancient traditions that remain strong despite the restrictions placed upon them.

I spent the bulk of my time visiting monasteries and observing the Buddhists go about their business. Most monasteries belong to the Gilupa sect, which is the most influential and came to Tibet the 14th century. The founder is revered and his image is everywhere in temples. Buddhism in the region is much older though and reaches back to the 8th century when monks came across the Himalaya from India and Pakistan.

After leaving Lhasa, first stop was Pelkhor Chode Monastery in Gyantse. It contained massive Buddhas, butter sculptures, and an eight story pagoda with a hundred and eight shrines to various deities. There are statues in each room and ancient murals depicting different features of the god or demon inhabiting it. It was without a doubt some of the best artwork that I had ever seen. Ancient and remarkably well preserved.

We moved on to the Rongphu Monastery at the foot of Qomolangma (Mt. Everest in English). At 5200 metres, this is a chilly place with some small shrines and some hardy monks. A lot of the shrines were locked so I had an elderly female monk unlock a couple for me so I could light some incense and get a better look. The monastery is not run by the Gelupas, but by a smaller sect and this leads to a slight variation in the representations of the different shrines. There is one to an ancient monk who came from Pakistan in the 8th century and founded the sect. He had a large moustache. That may explain why the sect attracts so many female monks. When I arrived in the freezing cold of the mountain morning, I found them chanting and hitting drums ready for another day of worship in the thin alpine air.

The final stop on the monastic trail was Tashilunpo Monastery in Shigatse. This is the seat of the Panchen Lama and contains the tombs of Panchen Lamas nine and ten, the ones not destroyed during the cultural revolution. The ninth Panchen Lama now shares his tomb with Panche Lamas 5, 6, 7, and 8 on account of the destruction of their tomb. The Lamas salvaged what they could and transported an assortment of hair and fragments from the original tombs to the present resting place. The admission price was reasonable in this monastery but the camera fees were extortionary. Photographs were 75 to 150 ($15 – $30)Yuan and Video would set you back 1000 to 2500 ($200 - $500) PER CHAPEL!!! Shocking. I didn’t take any photos.

The monasteries are beautiful though the distinctions between them are subtle. Typically, you enter through a threshold guarded by demonic looking protector deities to find a courtyard and a variety of ancient inner chapels. All of these have colourful painting all over the walls, and are full of mandalas, statues, icons, incense smoke, butter lamps, and ghee. The sounds of drums , cymbals, bells, and horns echo through the halls as streams of pilgrims flow past, spinning prayer wheels and paying homage at each shrine by prostrating themselves before the grandeur of the Buddha and a pantheon of other deities. The surrounding hills are full of prayer flags crackling in the wind and sending blessings up to the heavens.

Each monastery has a demonic protector deity lives in fire. These figures sit in a shrine in the back of the compound with their faces covered. Apparently the face is too horrific to remain on permanent display. It is revealed only once a year or so for ceremonies. The rest of the time it sits guard over the monastery protecting it from evil spirits.

Nearby you can find sites where sky burial takes place. This is a custom whereby a dead body is placed on a hilltop. A holy man cuts it up and smashes the bones and skull. Once it is sufficiently pulverized, the holy man steps back, leaving the body to the mercy of the vultures who carry it into the heavens piece by piece.

Another unique custom involves a goblet made from the cranium of a human skull, decorated and carved and used ceremoniously. This is based on one of the original monks who crossed the Himalaya with his skull cup and founded a sect that continues to this day. I am not sure how often this tradition is observed in modern times, but you can purchase the skull cups in the bazaar.

In spite of what remains of the Tibetan Buddhist world, much has been destroyed. This was principally the result of the Cultural Revolution (which my guide begrudgingly admitted after much browbeating). Many of the temples were torn down in whole or in part and many aspects of the culture and religion remain forbidden to this day. The Tibetan flag is still illegal in China. The greatest split from tradition is evident from the treatment of the Dalai Lama. The Tibetan people still regard him as their leader though they cannot talk about him and he is regarded as something of an outlaw.

As everyone knows, the Dalai Lama is presently in exile in India. He is a topic that is completely taboo, though the guide is happy to discuss the historical Dalai Lamas. When I pressed him on the present one, I was advised that he is still the leader and that Tibetan people respect him, but that he is free to come home but he doesn’t come back. The same effectively applies to the large Tibetan refugee community that lives in India and Nepal. The official policy is that the Dalai Lama has abandoned his people and does not want to come back despite the best efforts of the CCP. There are no images of the Dalai Lama in the temples. This provides a strange contrast to the stated willingness to repatriate the Dalai Lama.

When it comes to the Panchen Lama, there is another story altogether. The Panchen Lama chosen by the Dalai Lama and revered by the exile community was kidnapped by the Chinese government when he was a young boy about fifteen years ago. He is now about eighteen years of age (if he is still alive). The exiled community has no idea about the fate or the location of this Panchen Lama.

There is presently another Panchen Lama that meets with the approval of the CCP. The guide explained that this is the “real” Panchen Lama and that he was chosen by the elders of monasteries from all over Tibet. He lives in Beijing and studies languages and was a ward of the government. The guide knows about the other one but won’t give any indication of what people think about the situation. In any event, I am sure he has no clue what happened to the boy.

Though the experience of Tibetan Buddhism is beautiful and authentic, there is a sad undercurrent flowing from the destruction of so many aspects of its traditions. The people are not at liberty to lament this and must soldier on as if everything is still perfect. In some respects the Tibetan exile community that I encountered in Nepal, Dharamsala, Bodhgaya, and Ladakh retains a much stronger connection to tradition, though its ability to access religious sites is limited since they cannot re-enter Tibet freely.

To be fair the situation is not all bad. The CCP has built many roads, rails, and installed a great deal of infrastructure in Tibet over the last decades. Cynics would say that this is to facilitate the immigration and settlement of Han Chinese and increase the appeal of Tibet to people who are used to more modern living standards. I am unsure how much benefit the nomads of the plateau derive from the roads. They existed for centuries by living on what their animals could provide for them. It is a shame that the guided tour did not provide much occasion to interact with these people for they are the backbone of the culture and provide a direct link to its origins. The future of the people remains to be seen.

Tibet

2009-06-09T09:29:00.000-07:00

17/05/09

As the train crosses the pass at 5200 metres, a great plateau opens up with snow capped mountains on either side: welcome to the land of mountains and lakes, nomads with yaks, prayer wheels , flags, incense, and temples. Tibet.

It is high here, really high. It is a chore to climb stairs. Of course my room is on the fifth floor of a hostel with no elevator. Lhasa is located at 3650 metres above sea level. The air is thin and breathing heavy

Lhasa:

Lhasa is not what I expected in the least. The immediate impression of the city is one of new avenues lined with name brand shops. There are signs everywhere with large Chinese characters on them and a small line of Tibetan writing above the Chinese. The guide says that it is not a rule that the signs must have Chinese writing on them. I don’t believe him because they are all virtually identical in their layout. One day in and already I can tell the guide is shit.

When I managed to break off on my own, I was able to discover the old town. This is more what i had envisioned Lhasa to look like. There are winding alleys, bazaars, shops selling everything imaginable, people panhandling, kids playing and dogs fighting over scraps in the street.

Most of the alleys lead to the Barkhor area which contains the Jokhang monastery, holiest site of Tibetan Buddhism. The area is crowded with pilgrims circumambulating the building, sellers supplying religious goods, and army troops marching around in formation carrying riot shields.

There is an army of people prostrating themselves for hours by bending to their knees, then sliding their hands forward so that the body is flat and face down on the ground. They then push themselves back to their knees, stand up and reach to the sky. This is repeated 108 times for some people. Others spend entire days doing it. The most hardy of all perform the motion once then take a step to the side and eventually circle the entire monastery in this fashion.

Next stop was the Potala palace, which is Lhasa’s most famous landmark and the epicentre of the Tibetan Buddhist world. It contains the relics of many Dali Lamas. There are a variety of shrines, chambers, meeting halls, prayer halls and administrative offices. Not much happens there except for large Chinese tour groups passing through (with typical loud and incessant mandarin commentary) and it was sort of sad to see all of the rooms that have fallen into virtual disuse on account of the Dalai Lama’s exile.

There was more action at Drepung Monastery outside Lhasa. It had the feel of a working monastery and I sat and watched monks debating in the warm afternoon sun. This is particularly interesting because they end every point with a flourish and a clap of their hands. It is quite an ‘in your face’ rhetorical technique and ranges from the serious, to some good humoured exchanges.

Police:

Lhasa has the feeling of a police state. This is more so than either Myanmar or North Korea. Though the regime is not as repressive, it is certainly making itself visible. There are squads of troops who march around the main square of town, forcing their way among praying pilgrims on their circuit. There are troops stationed on the rooftops with binoculars and walkie talkies, and there are troops standing at the ends of many streets armed with shotguns, grenade launchers, batons and riot shields. It is strange to watch them marching amongst praying pilgrims.

It is strictly forbidden to take photographs of these troops. Trouble can arise even if the troops appear in the periphery of a photograph intended to capture an entirely different subject. They are young men walk around with stern faces, and an air of self importance. They can sometimes be seen through doorways with their guard down, smoking cigarettes or having a laugh. It is an unpleasant feeling to have goon squads all over the place, particularly these ones who appear ready to crack some skulls.

The guide offered a most unsatisfactory explanation for their presence. He claims that they are here to protect the residents from illegal people. Apparently this is a completely ambiguous group of people with no identifiable characteristics, other than their propensity for trouble making.

The Countryside:

I have had the chance to observe thousands of kilometres of the Tibetan plateau from the train, and thousands more from the jeep. The countryside is spectacular, sometimes covered in snow, with jagged peaks towering overhead in every direction with glacial lakes carved out of the valley floor.

There are villages from time to time, which are generally tiny and consist of a few single story stone houses with small courtyards bound by stone walls. The houses are generally covered in rammed earth and whitewashed. Every house has a gate that is made up of elaborately carved and painted wooden doors with big metal handles. Outside the gates are chips made of yak dung, and firewood stacked in neat and symmetrical piles.

The roads wind through the dusty earth past turquoise alpine lakes, purple flowers and small villages. They climb over pass after pass, repeatedly topping 5000 metres and then plunges back down toward the valley floor, never dropping below 3500 metres. To the north is the world’s highest railroad snaking its way through the mountain passes for thousands of kilometres to Xining, Xi’an and ultimately, Beijing.

Yak:

There are Yak all over the place and they are frequently marked, or even decorated with brightly coloured cloth and bangles to signify ownership. They are herded across the highways and up the hillsides by their keepers. Sometimes large woolly dogs assist in the enterprise. People dress them up with manes to look like lions as they sit for hours like sentinels guarding the herds. They are all shedding their thick winter coats and look very patchy.

On the plateau, you can get any yak product you ever dreamed of. You can eat yak three meals a day – some Yak dumplings in the morning with a bit of yak milk, some momos with yak meat for lunch with some yak tea, some dried yak cheese for a snack and a nice yak steak for supper. Yak products are everywhere. The sellers in the bazaar proudly show you innumerable objects made of yak bone (more likely plastic),and yak wool items are also easily obtainable. You can even purchase a decorative yak skull if you are so inclined.

Propaganda:

It was not until now that I really felt the impact of the Chinese propaganda machine. First of all, the Tibetan flag is illegal here and has been since 1959. Secondly, we have a guide who can tell us a lot about Buddhism and Tibetan culture, but seems perfectly content to tell us absolute bullshit about the CCP and its policies in the region.

It seems that the government has carefully contrived to place the Chinese flag in strategic places in order to claim iconic Tibetan institutions. One example of this is the flag in the square opposite the Potala Palace in a position to ensure that it graces many souvenir photographs. This is not as out of place however as the large monument to the People’s Liberation Army for its role in he 1959 conflict that led to the exile of the Dalai Lama. There monument has only got Chinese writing (understandably).

Socialist Paradise Through the Window

2009-05-05T06:08:00.000-07:00

I left Pyongyang in the fog under a drizzling sky. The train coasted slowly out of the city and through the fields back toward freedom. Thus concluded my carefully controlled journey through a country out of reach. It was a sad morning and the weather effectively captured how I felt about my experience. Writing it doesn’t seem to come close to living it. It defied superlatives. Be warned: this is the longest blog entry to date, written over several days. I apologize in advance for any discontinuities and errors that this may have caused. Here goes:

Entering the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK a.k.a. North Korea) is like moving back in history to a time where Totalitarian Socialist states still had a stranglehold over this continent. It stands alone now but has not given up on the fiction, which is like being in a closed room with the lights out and pretending you are not in the dark. We crossed the border in the morning into a land of farms and labour, so isolated it is difficult to even comprehend.

After invasive searches by customs with particular attention paid to books, cel phones and cameras we turned our care over to the benevolent hand of the Great Leader (Kim Il Sung – deceased but still president of DPRK) and lumbered over the rails toward Pyongyang. The tour guides were waiting on the platform. They double as minders and met us right away with an airtight itinerary that minimized contact with the local population and eliminated unsupervised contact altogether. A surreal feeling took over me and stayed with me for the time that I spent in DPRK.

The next days were filled with meals in empty restaurants, visits to empty shops, and nights in empty hotels. I felt as if I were watching a movie in the sense that I could see things but could not interact with them. I felt like nothing was real, the illusions and falsehoods serving to sustain the fiction of some utopian socialist ideal. I felt like I was in a real Orwellian nightmare where anything that isn’t specifically permitted is forbidden. You have to play by the rules to visit North Korea. After all, Great Leader had our passports.

The Tour:

To get into DPRK, I had to join an organized tour. I couldn’t envision a better tour in terms the experience that was delivered and the passion of the organizer. There were ten of us in all, nine really great people and one a total idiot (from Canada too) brimming with negativity but hilarious in his mannerisms and absurd commentary.

We didn’t exactly fit into the typical demographic of tourists visiting DPRK and certainly did not engage in the typical behaviour. In fact, there were a lot of excursions to beer bars and the amount of suds and soju consumed really set the tone for a lot of what happened. The Pyongyang vodka was a factor as well. The Guides took well to our attitude and joined in the festivities wherever possible. I think that they were happy with our behaviour, save for my attempt to steal a hotel towel. I was called out on it and successfully bullshitted some excuses. I would have just bought it but there are no stores I can go into.

The guides are agents of the government and regardless of how pleasant they were with us, this was hard to overcome on a personal level. They were always watching and our bribes of booze and cigarettes were nowhere near enough to have them depart from their carefully contrived and strictly mandated management of the group.

We woke up the first morning in Pyongyang and looked out from the 33rd story of the Yanggakdo Hotel at the mist lingering over the river, at great monuments to the Revolution, at wide empty streets and a mass of block buildings with square windows. Music drifted up to my window from far off loudspeakers broadcasting socialist anthems. I wanted to throw myself into it but that would have to wait. We were scheduled to head to the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), Panmunjom near Kaesong City.

The Official Version:

This country lives in an entirely different reality based in a mixture of myth and fact stretching back over half a century. There is no better illustration of this than the guided tour of the DMZ. The bus moved through long tunnels guarded by soldiers in foxholes and past anti tank defences that sit waiting for use. The spectre of an American invasion looms over the entire populace as it has for the majority of modern history. Afterall, they want to destroy this socialist paradise.

The tour explained how the “American Imperialist Aggressors” came to attack the Korean people and goes on to chronicle events surrounding the glorious victory that resulted in the “Liberation.” The general pointed out that we couldn’t hope to understand because it is an incredibly “complex situation.”

The proudly explained that the DPRK is the only country to defeat the “American Imperialist Aggressors” in war (obviously unaware of 1812…). He then makes a variety of remarks about the cowardly behaviour of the “American Imperialist Aggressors” in the negotiation and signing of the 1953 Armistice that ended the Korean war and would ultimately make this the most isolated nation on earth. Particularly disgraceful was the use of the United Nations flag by the “American Imperialist Aggressors” so as to avoid admitting defeat in signing the Armistice. The struggle may be over, but according to the guide, the conflict between these two countries continues to this day (true to an extent I suppose) on account of “American Imperialist Aggression” (somewhat more dubious a claim). It seems that the American invasion of DPRK is imminent. As a result constant vigilance is required and the army is everywhere.

In a nutshell, the DPRK were clear winners of the war and achieved glorious victory singlehandedly through the heroic exploits of the Great Leader. . There is no mention of the Soviet sponsorship or the hundreds of thousands of troops that Mao sent over the border. They made great initial gains, were pushed back a bit and wound up where they started with Pyongyang in ashes. Glorious victory indeed. Socialist paradise. Clearly the preservation of this glory requires the perpetuation of a geopolitical reality that died in the 1950s.

Moving forward, the government has declared that the main desire of the DPRK “people” is reunification of the peninsula. This takes on the character of a national obsession. It guides policy and makes powerful subject matter for massive propaganda billboards that I was not supposed to photograph. I did not hear a single mention of reunification when I was in South Korea. Dear Leader (Kim Jong Il) says that it will be achieved when the Korean people from north, south and abroad join hands and come together in peace, to make one country with two systems (one being socialist paradise). Dear Leader sounds like he has all the details are ironed out so I can’t understand the hold up.

The visit to the US “Armed Spy Ship” Pueblo, provided another intensive crash course in propaganda. The ship was captured in the 1960s by the Navy in DPRK territorial waters. It is now a museum and testament to the imminent threat of the “American Imperialist Aggressors.” It is complemented by another unmanned spy vessel, captured in a separate incident and displayed outside. References are also made to the incident in the 1800s where another US ship attempted to sail up the river into the DPRK hinterland. Surely the sum of these three incidents substantiates the need for a brutally repressive regime to stand vigil against the designs of the “American Imperialist Aggressors.”

The capture of the Pueblo sparked an international incident and led to the year long detention of eight American crewmen. They faced execution in spite of their heartfelt written apologies (i.e. DPRK ass kissing). The situation was ultimately resolved by an apology from the US government: more ass kissing that is prominently displayed for public viewing. The crew were returned, but the ship was kept on the grounds that it was a “trophy” that would last for “hundreds of years.”

Though this incident may be worth a footnote in an American History textbook, it is massive in mythology of the North Korean nation. Days after visiting the ship I was showing a group of kids some of my photographs. None spoke any English but when I got to the snaps of the ship, they started exclaiming “Pueblo.” They were no more than five or six years old. It doesn’t matter that the incident happened over forty years ago. The threat is as real today as it ever has been, ingrained in the psyche of every child.

The “American Imperial Aggressors” are not the only threat to socialist paradise. The brutal Japanese occupation in the first half of this century has not endeared the “Japanese Punitive Army” or “Japs” to the DPRK. For a change this appears to be a legitimate grievance. The strange part of it is that the images of atrocities and details of the occupation still figure prominently in contemporary press and propaganda. It has been over sixty years now, but the country has not moved forward. Great Leader is continuing the struggle posthumously after heroically ridding the country of this scourge in the 1930s and 40s.

The Revolutionary Martyrs’ Cemetary deifies those that have perished in these struggles and is a popular destination for North Korean people to pay their respects. It provides another poignant reminder of those who perished in the ongoing struggle against the capitalists. Naturally, the persistence of these threats means that the DPRK must maintain its vigilance to prevent attacks on Socialist Paradise and to safeguard the vision of the Great Leader. The army is everywhere.

The stories that help to perpetuate the myths are incredible. Most of them involve heroic deeds of the people who produced things like steel or coal at incredible rates well in excess of their quotas to please their beloved Great Leader: “Blah blah blah, then Great Leader said we need X amount of steel a year from now and then the workers worked around the clock and produced X tonnes in a month and it was so incredible and everybody was so happy because it is a socialist paradise blah blah blah.” For those of you with mathematic inclinations, the value of X no doubt approaches infinity.

Other stories that were amusing involve one of a revolutionary woman who was so tired marching that she fell asleep while walking across a river. She smashed her rifle butt on a rock. News of this reached the Great Leader who found her that evening attempting to repair the rifle butt. He watched until she fell asleep and then stayed up all night to repair the rifle butt himself. She awoke the following moring and basked in the kindness of the great leader and thus did he love his people blah blah blah.

Another one involved the mother of Dear Leader, Kim Jong Suk (see below) who shot a duck with a handgun from a great distance. The said handgun is now on display and I believe it to be the same one that graces a postage stamp.
The hospitality shown was wonderful, though I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a thin veil masking a well orchestrated attempt at indoctrination of western sympathisers.

Leader Worship:

Paintings of the Great Leader (Kim Il Sung) dominate public places and depict him walking among peasants, guiding revolutionaries, having a laugh with actors and generally being a man of the people. There are a great number of statues showing the Great Leader, arm raised to beckon the glorious socialist future. He is everywhere.

The Dear Leader (Kim Jong Il) is not quite as prominent, but also figures largely in the iconography that has saturated every aspect of public life here. He is often shown giving “on the spot guidance,” a hilarious expression for what happens when he turns up and starts giving orders. The hammer, sickle, and calligraphy pen are apparent all over as well and signify the farmer, labourer and intellectual

From the way people talk about the great leader, and from the written materials that are widely available, you would think he is still alive. Though he has been dead since 1994 the guides happily explain he is still “our president,” and his 100th birthday next year promises to be a wild affair.

This may be an appropriate time to mention two of the most beautiful species of flora known to humankind: Kim Jong Iliya and Kim Il Sungiya. These have an international following including the “Nordic Kim Jong Iliya Appreciation Society” (which appears to be two white people and a load of North Koreans). There are also two festivals annually: the Kim Jong Iliya Festival, and the Kim Il Sungia Festival. Apparently there was simply too much glory to fit into one festival. Images of Kim Jong Iliya are frequently seen beautifying billboards and signs around the DPRK.

Seeing as the North Koreans appear to believe that tourists love their leaders as much as they do, a great portion of any tour involves visiting monuments to the Great Leader, including the Mausoleum where his decaying body lays on permanent display. A visit to this place required me to dress up and I managed to cobble together a “smart outfit” by donning one of my two pairs of pants and a well worn collared shirt. I added a touch of class by wearing shoes for a change. The Mausoleum is entered through a network of moving sidewalks, that one is not permitted to walk on for reasons unknown. This results in long waits as mausoleum staff blow past (walking) on the pathway to the side of the sidewalk. The painfully slow process eventually leads to a shoe cleaner which is a number of rollers with bristles.

Once the solemnity of the moving sidewalk experience subsides, you enter a hall with soft lights that fade from blue to pink around a large statue of Great Leader himself. After passing through this room, you are led into an area where you get an audioguide that explains the sparkles in the floor are created by the tears of the Korean people who mourn the loss of their Great Leader in perpetuity. At only three years, the official mourning period was clearly not enough.

Following this, it is on to see the corpse which is lying in a state of semi decay and projecting a sinister aura around the chamber. After bowing at the feet and both sides but not the head (of course), you are hustled on to a hall of medals provided by many countries and universities to the Great Leader. To my relief, none were from Canada, though a couple came from American universities.

A final note pertains to Kim Jong Suk, the mother of Dear Leader. She was elevated to the level of saint and her image began to enter into the propaganda at a later date than that of Great Leader. The obvious explanation for this was in order to further legitimize the succession of Dear Leader. His mother’s elevated status bolsters his claim to power since he has no revolutionary credentials save for a couple of stories where little baby Dear Leader is with his parents like a demented little revolutionary Christ child or something. Disturbingly, there is presently a move to elevate the status of one of Dear Leader’s baby-mamas to secure the position of his chosen son who is not yet involved in politics. I believe it to be the world’s only dictatorship to follow the laws of primogeniture.

Hopefully the inevitability of the American invasion will allow the family to cling to power.

The People:

Everyone dresses alike. The most important article is not a garment, but rather a pin bearing the image of the Great Leader. Virtually everyone wears it. It is not mandatory because everyone loves the Great Leader so much (but you must wear it). I am advised that sometimes people also wear Dear Leader pins too, though none were doing so during my visit. I don’t know how much to make of that, but it could speak to the present political climate.

The rest of the clothes are old style communist gear. Apart from the military uniforms, and the fatigues worn by the volunteers, the men wear dark coloured suits consisting of a pair of slacks and a button up shirt in either army green, black, brown or navy blue. Some wear western style suits. The women appear to take their cues from 1950s fashion magazines and wear conservative slacks, sensible skirts and jackets, low rise black shoes and white socks. On special occasions where they wear colourful traditional dresses. Some even wear makeup.

One exception to this are the “Traffic Girls” who are dressed in fetish-friendly bright blue uniforms with skirts and high socks. They stand in intersections waving wands to direct passing vehicles with razor sharp precision of movement. I only got to see them through the bus window but can report in spite of their stern faces, a friendly wave reveals their susceptibility to break into a smile from time to time. Apparently only young pretty women are qualified to perform this job. As a result there are no streetlights.

According to the guide, 40% of DPRK’s population are farmers. They are everywhere in the countryside walking for miles down the side of the empty highways, hunched over in the fields, shovelling the earth. I only saw them from the bus, but it didn’t appear that any of them were singing songs to the glory of the Great Leader.

The other classes of people are intellectuals and workers. I could not distinguish any of them from the masses of people that I saw from the window forming massive lines for ancient Soviet buses.

The kids in the country are being groomed to adopt the Socialist dream and embrace the status quo that affords them paradise on earth (with starvation and rations). There are a lot of youth groups and many young people in the uniforms of volunteers. Parents often dress their young kids in tiny military uniforms (how cute). In one instance, an adorable child with a toy Kalashnikov was being coaxed to fire it into the chest of my fellow Capitalist, to the delight of all those looking on.

They are groomed from so young to adopt the ideals enforced by the regime and this leads youth to volunteer for the Army to show their bravery. In the end it leads to teenagers running around the train platforms with Kalashnikovs at the ready. I don’t know where the perceived threat comes from but they are on the alert with firearms loaded.

I felt that people were very curious about me. I saw many looking my way, though if I established eye contact they would look away and pretend as if they hadn’t noticed me. It seems as if there is a prohibition against interaction with foreigners, though I am not sure if this is true. Regardless, they are reluctant to smile or interact, and attempt to avoid it. In some cases, a friendly greeting does not even generate a response.

Impressions through the Window:

Generally speaking, the closest that you can come to contact with local people is the view from the bus as you are shipped from hotel to monument to restaurant and back. I am limited to what I could observe and where I was permitted to observe it.

As would be expected in socialist paradise, there is cultivation everywhere. The entire countryside is dominated by farmland. I passed through well over 1000 Km of the country and as far as I can tell, it is virtually all cultivated, mostly by hand. I saw less than ten tractors, and a only handful of emaciated cows in all this time. The rest of the work seems to be done by an innumerable army of peasants that are all over. Sometimes huge and isolated apartment blocks rise out of the fields

Villages pass by from time to time and generally consist of small clusters of identical huts. Throughout the fields, workers are hunched over the land at 90 degree angles, sowing, tilling, digging, harvesting. They are miles away from the nearest settlement and have no means of conveyance other than the occasional bicycle. Everybody else walks. Heavy loads are transported using muscle power and there are hardly any beasts of burden to be seen.

The fields extend to the very borders of Pyongyang, which appears out of nowhere like a big-block warehouse that stores people. The city is quiet. There are no advertisements anywhere, and there are virtually no signs. There are no neon lights and the shops are initially hard to spot. After a while I was able to discern them through the windows that reveal sparsely covered shelves making up for the shortfall of the government rations of rice, fruit and veg. After dark it is like being in a ghost city.

The wide open roads have virtually nothing on them as very few people own cars. At least this means no smog and pollution and a huge contrast to China. Massive highways run through the country, some with eight lanes, but no cars on them.

The Bubble:

“Your phone will be sealed in this brown envelope and returned to you when you leave.”

“We will keep your passport until further notice.”

“You can’t have any Korean money. If you do manage to get it, you can’t spend it anywhere.”
“Parts of the tour will be cancelled without notice. You can’t go in the foreign language bookshop – it is closed to tourists. You can’t go to the bowling alley. You have to stay with the group.”

“You can’t take pictures from the bus. You can’t talk about forbidden topics. “

“Now line up. Now line up in two lines. Now line up in four lines. Now bow. Now bow again.”

“There is no web access. If you want to send an email, you can send it from a government email address that will screen it and forward it on if appropriate.”

“You cannot enter any department stores that accept only local currency or any other markets. You are allowed fifteen minutes in the one that accepts foreign money.”

The department store was pretty bare anyway. It had no displays, no advertising and only a sparse amount of merchandise. Shopping opportunities came at the stamp shops and bookshops which accept foreign currency and are not open to locals. I picked up a copy of “How the American Imperialists Started the Korean War” which offers a balanced perspective on the issue. The shelves are always full of other musings of Dear Leader and Great Leader. I also managed to pick up a phrasebook containing such useful phrases as “I wish Kim Il Sung long life and good health.” I am advised this statement is not appropriate since he has been dead fifteen years.

Breaking the Bubble:

I was sick of living in a cage, watching everything but unable to get any grasp on the reality of it all. I had to know what they really thought and devised a way to mine one of the guides. I started by telling her about my life and what things are like in the western world. I painted a picture of my scandalous capitalist past involving daring intrigues and various romantic interludes. After winning her confidence I began to ask her about life in the DPRK.

We talked about what life was like as a university student. She told me about her family and about her boyfriend. Her boyfriend sells insurance which I found incredibly strange in light of the fact that the government owns everything and there is virtually no private property. Her father has a car, which is a huge thing and put me off asking anything else about him (i.e. he is likely connected to the regime and thus likely a sensitive area of conversation). She even showed me her apartment building which is adorned with a beautiful painting of Kim Jong Iliya.

We started by talking about opportunities for the Korean people to make a living and ran through how jobs worked. It is somewhere that you have to accept what the status quo will allow. The government pays the cost of housing and provides some rice, fruit and vegetables to the people. Anything above this must come from a meagre income scraped together through extensive labour. Curiously, there is no equivalent of a criminal lawyer in DPRK because officially there is no crime. Questions about prisons and concentration camps risked negating the trust I had gained. I took a different angle: the glorious history of Socialism.

This led me to the most revealing part of the conversation. It centered on the fall of the Berlin Wall. She asked me what I thought about the division of Germany and I told her I think people are happy it is over. She asked me why I said that, and I explained that the East has a much higher standard of living now than before, though the West is still paying for it. She asked me how it happened and I told her that the East decided they wanted to adopt capitalism and reunify with their countrymen. I was astonished when she expressed her approval of the decision. Clearly a statement that is analogous to the situation in DPRK though it does not make any specific reference.

Pleased with myself and my ability to turn up in formation against all odds, I continued to push further. There is a campaign here centered around 2012 – the 100th birthday of Great Leader. She conceded that the DPRK economy is bad right now compared to other countries. I ran her through the GDP per capita the US, Canada, EU, India and China (i.e. nice way to say “your economy is really bad” without saying it). In his infinite wisdom, Dear Leader has designed an ingenious plan improve the situation.

The DPRK will begin to produce nuclear weapons which in turn it will sell for big bucks (its a really hot market these days, lots of demand). All I have to say is Caveat emptor, but I digress. The money will then be used to build electrical infrastructure because this is the basis of all production. Following that, the DPRK will take the world by storm by producing a wealth of goods (which ones have yet to be determined) and selling them on global markets. This makes sense, apart from the whole ‘lets build a nuclear weapon first to make money so that we can make electricity so that we can make something to get money’ part.

The spoils of this brilliant scheme (thank you Dear Leader) will first be spent on the military, and eventually on the people. In other words, it will never be spent on the people. This is of course because the relentless threat of the Capitalists is a beast lurking in the dark and ready to pounce. I am advised that this is a satisfactory explanation that people accept on account of their love for the Great Leader and their commitment to the ‘struggle.’ Once all of this transpires, the DPRK will be open and have normal relations with the rest of the world. The exact way in which this will happen remains a little ambiguous; I don’t know if it includes the American Imperialist Aggressors or not. I take this idiotic scheme to mean that Dear Leader thinks that Perestroika and Glasnost can happen by magic. WTF???

The more you push for answers, the crazier they seem to become. There is a serious tension between not pushing for information and alienating the subject by pushing too hard. Nukes, Cash and Friendship by 2012. I left it at that.

The Questions that Can’t be Asked:

Some things are over the line. This is regrettable but trying to push them would likely result in the destruction of trust, a swift deportation, or worse. In any event, here is a sample:

Do they really think that tourists love the Great Leader as much as they do? I was instructed to bow to his corpse and his image at different times, and there was ample opportunity to purchase bouquets of flowers in order to offer condolences for his loss back in 1994. I think that after 15 years, I am almost over it.

Do you really believe this shit? First we get the Nukes, then we get the Money, then we get the friends...

Can people leave their villages? Or are they stuck in a permanent police state that rules their every movement with brutal authority.

Are there concentration camps? What happens to people who speak out against the regime? Likely they are dead.

Is the famine over? If not, where are the starving people?

Redeeming Features:

In spite of regime’s best efforts, there were some genuine moments where I connected with people in spite of living worlds apart. One such example was a tour guide who went through a well rehearsed spiel about the construction of a large dam. Once finished she said she wanted to sing a song to us. She went on to say that “everyone has a mother” so she wants to sing a song about mothers. It was really beautiful and she was a fabulous singer. It made me think that we are all the same in lots of ways though we live in entirely different realities.

The undisputed highlight in my mind came with the May Day Celebrations. This provided a platform for interaction with the locals and I took full advantage of it. We attended the Daesongsan Funfair and lost in a tug of war, then members of the group joined in a game of football while I broke a way for a strategically timed bathroom break. It was the first time that I was walking alone with the people and it produced an incredible feeling. When I got back, I sat on a wall watching the fair and a couple of kids started looking at my camera. I put the strap around my neck and handed it over to them. They were delighted and soon I had about a dozen new friends who were hanging on my every move. We went through all of my photos and then I took a couple of them which provided quite a thrill.

We left the place and went for a walk up Moranbong Hill which is the epicentre of the May Day festivities. There are people singing, dancing and cooking BBQ everywhere. We joined in with the dancing and I was snapped up by a septuagenarian woman who really played to the crowd. She successfully rebuffed the efforts of others to steal me away and to the great amusement of onlookers, we danced together in the crowd for the better part of an hour. I also received an invitation for BBQ and Soju, though it didn’t really work out and had to be cleared through our guide who looked nervous at best.

Getting Out:

After an evening at the Diplomatic Club (which was empty except for our group) we headed back to the hotel after one too many glasses of soju, Pyongyang Vodka, Spanish Red Wine, or DPRK Beer. A feeling of sadness took over me. I felt like I had only scratched the surface and wanted to see more.

I spent the wee hours of the morning backing up my photos and hiding the files and my notes on my computer. Inspection on the way in was pretty invasive and I was sure that it would be much the same on the way out. This proved to be true and many of the photos I had taken were deleted by customs. Good thing they didn’t have the sense to inspect the computer. They never would have found it anyway.

Getting back across the river into China was a sigh of relief, a return to freedom and modernity.

I loved my time in North Korea and wish I had more freedom to immerse myself in it all. People are not so different the world over, in spite of our widely divergent circumstances. They drink and smoke and laugh and love just like anyone else. We still want the same things and have the same dreams. We all have mothers.

Tour Hell in Nature (the Theme Park)

2009-04-23T00:08:00.000-07:00

The difficulties inherent in travelling among billions of non English speakers have led me to abandon my usual policies wherein I avoid tour groups like the plague and make sure I do everything with an eye to the pocketbook.

Tours:

For the last six days I have been at the mercy of tour guides who don’t speak a word of English and all seem to have money making agendas that dictate the plans. The more I think about missing the last two of the Three Gorges, the more pissed I get, particularly after realizing that the reason is almost certainly the commissions made by the tour guides prompting detours to amazingly low quality tourist attractions. It really smarts after all the time, effort and money I spent getting down here. I am also mad at myself for being talked into attractions that I knew would be terrible and left me traipsing around after a large group with full Mandarin explanation of everything (and I mean FULL). I am kicking myself but resolve to get back to basics. I am sick of thinking about wasted money and time.

I am also tired of being stuck with the same people all of the time, some of whom are lovely while others are quite disgusting. There is a group of men who smoke all the time everywhere. They smoke while they eat breakfast and do lots of horking. One was spitting phlegm on the floor of the restaurant. Really nasty.

The food was no better though. It was the same every day and I was forced to buy it, partly by the guide, and partly by the lack of alternative options. Breakfast consisted of a thin rice based gruel with doughy buns and pickled veggies on the side. Lunch and dinner were always the same terrible mix of various animal organs, hog fat, tripe, peppers, and onions with white rice on the side. Nobody ever finished the terrible meal.

The tour was not all bad, and I have to say that they tried hard in spite of language barriers and general screw ups. They enlisted the services of an off duty English speaking tour guide who was assigned to “make sure that I had a great time.” The guide’s name was Jiang Rai, a girl who Anglicized her name to Ivan for my benefit. I found this out after two days of calling her Irene. She was really nice though a little bit of a babysitter. She did make arrangements for me to break away from my group for the majority of the tour and explore the park on my own. She also got me out of a number of visits to souvenir depots which are effectively a commission racket for the guides. In fact commissions are the guides’ only form of compensation. The point is that in spite of all my criticisms, the tour company was trying to show me a good time.

I am finally through with the tours. I feel as if I have just escaped a prolonged captivity. I am ready to throw myself into this country to a greater degree than before, whether or not things run smoothly (which they certainly won’t). I am headed to Xi’an where I will independently visit the army of terra cotta warriors, then back to Beijing to initiate ‘mystery plan’ that I have been working on for a while (details to follow). Nobody speaks English and I don’t care.

Having got all that off my chest, I cannot ignore the more positive aspects of the tour of the area around Zhongjiajie. This is the base for a massive park containing hundreds of stone columns. The scenery is some of the best I have ever seen. Rocks rise in every direction like giant sandstone fingers scraping at the sky. They tower hundreds of metres above the forest floor and make an impossibly beautiful panorama. This place is tremendously difficult to access without a tour company. In fact I saw no other western tourists the entire time I was there. This is particularly notable considering the thousands of Chinese tourists that visit every day. In spite of the beauty still present in this place, I felt sad about what it has become. They have proudly turned nature into “scenery,” and turned a park into a theme park.

Nature World – The Theme Park:

The typical characteristics of the Chinese tour were present throughout. The guides speak incessantly, using a loudspeaker making Mandarin language commentary incessant in nearly all areas of the park. I know now for a fact that some of the information that they are giving is bullshit. They make up stories about the rocks and give them all cute names like “Old man picking herbs” and “Monkey man staring at the moon” and many other much stranger ones that I should have written down. The fact that a lot of what they are saying is nonsense makes the incessant noise even less palatable. You cannot hear Mother Nature at all, lest you should happen upon a steep and long staircase that tour groups won’t climb.

There is no feeling of isolation in the park as the cable cars, elevators, roads, and the monorail undermine the power of the landscape dramatically. There are hordes and hordes and hordes of tourists all toting cameras and pushing past each other in long winding theme park style lineups. In addition to this, they all want to see the main “attractions” when the park itself is the attraction. It is beautiful everywhere you look. I can’t understand why every single person desperately wants to stand on a natural stone bridge with an immediate need to take photographs that won’t even capture the bridge they are standing on.

Huge amounts of aggravation arose from the crowds who physically moved me on several occasions to take idiotic pictures of people making ‘peace signs’ in front of spectacular vistas obstructed by other tourists. Other examples of nature at its idyllic best are two dozen tourists screaming and yelling as they violently shake a small bridge (which regrettably did not collapse) and a man blocking a pathway by treating a tree like it was a stripper pole (hard to describe any better than that).

The reality of the tour really sunk in on the first day, when I was given the option of walking up to the summit of a 1080 metre hill. I gladly opted to do so and was happy to save 48 Yuan ($8.50 CDN) in the process. I was soon advised that everyone else in the group would be taking the cable car and that they did not want to wait for me so I had to get behind the other lemmings and do things the easy way. Thi8s was the basic tone of the entire group dynamic. When we got the cable car, there was a massive line where I was trapped in front (and at times in between) a very pushy ancient Chinese couple. We waited for about an hour and when we got to the front, they didn’t have a ticket anyway so they had to wait. I note that I could have been nearing the top at this point had I proceeded on foot.

The presence of large numbers of vendors really detracts from the experience as well. At every turn there are people selling fish on sticks, beer, fried potatoes, handicrafts, Chinese language guides and maps, jade, gems, necklaces, statues, cowboy hats and a bunch of other crap unworthy of note. This is in addition to the monks telling fortunes, people taking photos, sedan chair men carrying out of shape tourists, and girls in ethnic dress waiting around some most unlikely corners to destroy wonderful views for a fee. To get into the park you need an electronic RF card and also need to scan your thumb print into the system.

Nightlife:

Not much to report under this heading. The first night of the tour I stayed in my room reading a book after trimming some excess parts of my sandals. In the background, I was conscious of some sort of historic drama on the TV in which one of the characters was definitely Mao. One of the scenes involved a depiction of peasant life where everyone was singing and pulling plows like animals. I assume this is an accurate depiction of the Great Leap Forward. God bless that philandering little schemer and his zany ideas about progress.

Just as I was getting into the show, there was a knock on my door. It turned out to be an unsolicited prostitute sent by parties unknown. She didn’t speak English, but I think it was pretty obvious what she wanted. It was equally obvious I was sending her away though she didn’t seem to get it. She must have finally figured I wasn’t interested when I closed the door in her face. Pretty shocking - hotels in Thailand don’t even go this far. I was later advised that this is relatively common in cheap hotels and plays into a commission racket with the management. Big surprise. I think I’ll stick to the hostels.

The following evening, I was coaxed into attending a bizarre variety show for an embarrassingly high price. I was persuaded by assurances that it was famous all over China and that it was a really amazing show. Surprisingly I loved it, but perhaps for all the wrong reasons.

It started with an auction of traditional Chinese art. After this, the curtain rose to reveal a massive screen projecting “local” images while beautiful women danced all over in traditional garb to quasi hip hop with Chinese lyrics beneath cow sculls as a mask wearing character surveyed the scene. The scene was over as quickly as it had begun and out came the auctioneer, now wearing a sequin encrusted sport coat. It turned out was also the host and had the crowd in stitches with jokes I couldn’t understand.

The evening continued with some contortionist gymnast women performing seemingly impossible physical feats, and a sword swallower who really made me squirm. They asked for volunteers at one point and this netted them a fat old man from Taiwan who stood on stage and thrusted his crotch in a perverted manner for the duration of his involvement in the show. My favourite though was the “shriek singer” (my term).

This was a man who sang normally at first then began to “shriek sing” in the highest pitch I have ever heard a male voice produce (including children). Much of it was like a woman screaming in a bad horror movie. The audience at it up and delivered thunderous applause. He continued singing with more quasi hip hop booming in the background and then they cut the music so he could really show his stuff. He just kept on shriek singing higher and higher until my ears actually hurt. Then he really surprised me by lifting his right foot over his head and doing the splits while standing on one foot. Of course, a good portion of the audience was smoking under cover of darkness while all of this was going on.

The evening concluded with a tremendous struggle to push to the front of the stairs of the courtyard where some monks were doing gong-fu (kung fu) tricks having stuff piled on their abdomen then smashed. I had a bunch of cameras in my face, held by people standing behind me. At one point a man started resting his chin on my shoulder, I suppose because he was shorter and this was a good way to gain some sustainable height. Another one grabbed me by the shoulders and tried to physically move me. I gave him a stern look and shook my head no. He mirrored my gesture to indicate that he understood.

Moving On:

The trip ended with me sitting on a bench in a supermarket to avoid a commission based trip on the souvenir train. I had to use the toilet and had a hilarious experience watching Ivan get increasingly upset at the directions she was receiving toward locked doors and abandoned hallways. It seems that none of the staff knew where the toilet was. Really weird. Once that was taken care of, we sat on the stairs because someone had placed a couple of mattresses in front of the bench we had previously occupied. From here, we watched the Security Guard boss drill the security guards who stood at attention, saluted, and did the foot stomping thing at certain points. They still managed to maintain the impression of being a complete mess.

From there I got back on the bus for one last taste of captivity. We hurtled along the highway past a bunch of kids walking home from school. Some were playing in the road and had to scramble out of the way at the last minute with the bus bearing down on them. No tour would be complete without a stop at a souvenir food market. I was delighted to discover that this one was set up like a theme park line up. I felt like a rat in a maze moving through the aisles of dried packaged food toward the exit. I stopped to examine a poster advertising lethal looking crossbows, then went and sat in the parking lot while the others gradually trickled out to smoke. Finally, I was dropped at a roundabout in Zhangjiajie where I figured out where to catch the bus by word and gesture (more gesture than word). That’s it for tours…for now.

Gorgeous Gorges

2009-04-23T00:03:00.000-07:00

After the 41 hour train ride I arrived in the city of Chongqing. I had never heard of it, but apparently five million people live there, with 26 million more in the surrounding municipality. The city is quite nice and sprawls all over a hill between the banks of the Yangtze and Jialing Rivers. I spent the day wandering around downtown. Half the time I was barefoot on account of an unexpected footwear crisis. At least this gave my wandering a purpose. It is very flattering to search for flip flops in China. It made me feel like I had massive feet because almost nothing fit me. I did manage to find a pretty slick looking pair of flip flops in my size. They are likely to last at least a week after which I will be back to square one.

Back at the hostel I organized a cruise up the Yangtze through the Three Gorges and beyond. I wanted the cheapest one available and booked a third class bunk on a Chinese tour boat. I stocked up on instant noodle and fruit and made for the boat. We departed at nine in the evening, sailing out beyond the brilliant display of neon and spotlights on both sides of the river. For reasons unknown to me, I was upgraded to a second class room much to the confusion of both myself and Neil, the only other westerner on the boat (who foolishly paid for second class accommodations). The best explanation that I can offer is that there is only two classes of room on this boat. Net savings is over 100 Kwai ($18 CDN). I generally don’t like to capitalize on this type of error, but find myself in a position where I am unable to explain what has happened to anyone other than Neil.

Initially they put Neil and I in different rooms so as to save face as it was clear we had booked different classes. Neil was soon berated in Mandarin by a diminutive room-pimp tour dude and our ‘handler’ sorted it out by putting him in the room with me and two middle aged Chinese women. The beds are rock hard and the blankets are square shaped and can’t cover my shoulders and feet at the same time. The Chinese ladies laugh at everything that we say or do. At one point Neil asked me if they were eating bugs with a horrified expression on his face. We tried the snack to see and the results were inconclusive.

The boat is full of the silly hat wearing, flag waving tourists that I have come to know and love. I am officially a member of one of these groups, though I don’t know which one since nobody speaks English. No matter because I generally ditch them at the first opportunity. I do recognize our guide as the woman who resolved the room conflict. My usual tactic is to follow her until she provides me with an admission ticket and then take off, walking quickly in an attempt to get to the attractions before the rest of my group swarms in on them.

The boat is a real cast of characters. Everyone (except Neil and I) is Chinese. There is smoking everywhere in spite of non-smoking sections. Establishing a smoking section on this boat makes about as much sense as making a pissing section in a pool. The smoke goes everywhere anyway. There are dudes who sit in their rooms and smoke all the time. The doors are left open for ventilation and this provides good views of the hilarious things transpiring inside. Our neighbouring room contained four chubby men who all took their pants and shirts off and lay in their tighty whitey briefs in their bunks with door wide open smoking cigarettes and yakking in Mandarin. Another open door revealed that they were not the only ones who had removed their clothes. I observed a man sitting on the bunk in a set of briefs with his gut spilling over the waistband. I don’t understand why they wouldn’t just close the door. Simple right?

People keep coming into our room without knocking. I don’t know why. Generally they yell shit at our roommates in Chinese and then take off again. Sometimes they just take a look and close the door again. The little room pimp came in at one point yelling shit with a cigarette in his mouth. He is the only one I really felt like kicking out, the others are generally an amusing diversion.

On the first day of the tour we were awoken at six in the morning to get ready to visit Fengdu: the City of Ghosts. We passed through some gates and temples, souvenir stalls (which were all selling books containing soft core pornography in addition to the usual tourist crap), and moved up a staircase to the main part of the city. We were directed toward a doorway which led to a bizarre funhouse/ haunted house based on myth and legend about hell. It included a variety of different dragons, kings, spirits, devils and people getting tortured. At one stage 5 Kwai (|$1 CDN) was extorted from us for reasons unknown. We then found out it was for a ride on the ‘ghost train’ – a little two person cart that completes a 15 second circuit on a track past all sorts of scary ghouls and specters. It was really hilarious and over before we knew it. We blasted through the rest of the madhouse and found it much larger than I could ever have imagined. When we finally got outside again, the tour groups were beginning to filter in.

We made our escape by scaling a hill to more temples, amused to see that we climbed faster than the chairlift moved. At the top were temples with figurines depicting various tortures from hell. Some of them were pretty lame such as getting your head cut off. As Neil pointed out “That is not punishment. That is called death.”I think he has a point.

Though the level of authenticity of the Ghost city is extremely low, the experience was certainly enjoyable from other perspectives. Same type of rationale goes for the boat. It is hardly comfortable or tourist friendly, but at the same time it is wildly entertaining. There is laundry hanging everywhere in the hallways. I don’t get it. I brought enough clothes for the three day trip. I would have thought that everyone else would too but the evidence suggests otherwise. One lady had hung a pair of underwear in an exit that was later used by the passengers to disembark. Nobody wanted to touch the undies and they performed all sorts of maneuvers to avoid them while passing through the doorway.

The following day started with a lame tour to the White Emperor City that I didn’t bother to go on. The afternoon tour was much better, taking in the “Lesser Three Gorges” which is a narrow tributary with massive cliffs on either side. It was some of the most spectacular scenery imaginable, and reminded me a lot of Milford Sound in New Zealand. The only thing that detracted from the experience was the incessant commentary in Mandarin broadcast everywhere on the boat at full volume. I can understand making some remarks or explaining some things about the Gorges, but this was incessant yammering for at least four of the five hours that we were on the boat. We could not conceive of what the woman could possibly be saying, and she burst into song on a few occasions toward the end. This was complemented by people shouting at each other periodically. At one point I was berated by a member of the ship’s staff. He kept holding up three fingers, tapping his watch and making an ‘around the corner’ hand gesture while yelling at me in Mandarin. I adopted a “hey, chill out buddy” demeanour and went downstairs to wait in the massive lineup of people pushing to be first out of the still locked doors.

The tour group was behaving in a very curious manner that was quite amusing at times. Our sullen guide (three days, zero smiles) did not come on the cruise with us, but rather detailed a man to babysit. To him this meant grinning a lot and offering us cigarettes at every available opportunity. At the beginning of the cruise, it was like a stampede for all of the optimal viewing areas. After an hour of scenery with commentary, almost everyone had apparently gotten bored and gone back below deck. They just sat downstairs for the majority of the time listening to the guide’s incessant blather. By the end of the trip Neil and I were the only two people on the deck. The views were no less spectacular. I don’t get it, they were all just sitting downstairs listening to the guide sing.

They sprung back into action when the boat stopped at this newly constructed tourist town, the highlight of which was an old tree that someone had incorporated into a brick wall. Everyone was posing for pictures with it and touching it. I have no idea why. We barely got into the town and for some reason were the only two people on the entire boat (probably about 150 people) who didn’t receive tickets. They tried to get 50 kwai ($10 CDN) out of each of us and we just stood around looking dejected and refusing to pay. Eventually the ticket collectors felt sorry for us and let us in for free. Maybe they were just tired of guarding the gate. I don’t know how we were the only two without tickets. Anyway, it was really crap and I would have been upset if I had paid to see the stupid tree. The whole village was just a bunch of shops selling souvenirs and snacks. We didn’t buy anything and feasted on street food once we got outside. We avoided the pig faces and chicken feet, opting instead for some fried potatoes, a fried egg, some sort of fritter thing, and a greasy pancake with onions in it.

The last day of the cruise was not terribly interesting. We had sailed through the second and third of the Three Gorges during the night. That was a bit disappointing, particularly in light of the crappy side trips that we had stopped for, including trips to tourist sites that were crappier than one could even imagine. Having seen their behavior on the Lesser Three Gorges cruise, I suppose the majority of the boat would have been bored after seeing one of the gorges anyway. I did manage to get a look at the Three Gorges Dam too. Its pretty big...i guess.

I am not entirely certain what possessed me to join a massive Chinese tour group. I am even less sure why I am still on it – though at least it guarantees that there is someone to pick me up at the train station (though she didn’t show up) and that I will get to see the main sights (at breakneck speed with loud and uninterrupted Mandarin commentary). I have two more days of it too. I am currently on tour number two in Zhangjiajie, an area with some amazing landscape. I gotta get back on my own again...

Finally China

2009-04-17T01:04:00.000-07:00

Though I miss the comforts and modernity of Korea, it is nice to be in a mass of humanity again and I am eagerly embracing the unavoidable chaos produced by the world's largest population. It is hard to be a tourist here...

Impressions of Beijing:

In spite of the millions of people, I find that Beijing still manages to maintain the illusion of space. I wandered over 30 kilometres the other day and felt like i had not really gotten anywhere. Massive high rise buildings dominate both sides of the wide boulevards. The separation between them means they don't form the type of skyline that is caused by the compression of buildings in the downtown core of so many cities. I am shocked that the city can feel so wide open in light of the number of people that live here.

A trip on the Metro quickly dispels the illusion. The trains are unbelievably packed, and there is even a transit employee who specializes in pushing the hordes of people into overcrowded cars as if she were stuffing more crappy souvenirs into an already overpacked suitcase.

There is a network of small winding alleyways called Hutongs that provides another contrast to the wide roads and spaced out buildings. They contain busy food stalls, traditional houses, men playing checkers, bicycles whizzing past, workers with wheelbarrows full of rubble, and fluffy little dogs barking at everything that moves. They are characterized by single story buildings, mostly residential with roofs covered in curved clay tiles. The Hutongs make for a great morning walk and provide a better glimpse into local life than the impersonal and massive streets. They provide an escape from the traffic and congestion of the greater city much of which feels overwhelming and larger than life.

The smog is inescapable and clouds my vision of the city. There is a brown haze that hangs in the air, tinting the blue sky an ugly yellowish brown. Dust and particles thicken the air and lots of people walk around wearing surgical masks. I had to get out for a day so I booked a minbus to the Great Wall of China.

The Wall and Tourist Stuff:

I managed to find a tour that goes to an area of the wall that is officially off limits to tourists. To me this meant no cable car so no tourists so no hawkers: perfect. No one would tell me exactly where we were going was and the whole thing took on the feeling of a real adventure. We picked up a 71 year old guide in a village. He spoke no English and hiked like a madman, running up and down the uneven loose earth, sometimes through the vegetation that clings to the side of the hills. It took us an hour to get to the small gap where the bricks in the wall had collapsed allowing access. We hiked through the watchtowers and along the crumbling pathway, some of which had been overtaken by weeds. The wall affords an unforgettable panorama of the rolling green hills of the countryside. There was not another tourist for miles around and I smiled to myself as we sped back to Beijing past sections of the wall mobbed with the matching hats of the huge Chinese tours.

These tours are everywhere and in huge numbers. This message was driven home when I woke up early to go check out the embalmed body of Mao in Tiananmen Square. I don’t know why this seemed like a good idea. Perhaps I have some morbid fascination with the mummification of villainous tyrants. Fortunately I am not alone. When I arrived, I saw the most gargantuan line I have ever seen in my life. It took me about 45 minutes to walk from where I was to the end of it, and I was in a state of complete shock. It was composed entirely of Chinese tour groups, identifiable by their flag bearing guides and their silly red/pink/purple/blue/orange matching baseball caps. The mass of people snaked around more than half of Tienanmen Square (which is HUGE) and doubled back on itself.

After a few days in Beijing, I have managed to visit the Forbidden City and surrounding area. I checked out a couple of other spots including the shops on Wangjujung Street and ‘food alley’ where you can get cheap eats (including scorpions impaled on a skewer, still alive with legs wiggling). Also had a chance to check out the Sanlitun area at night though I did not take part in any of the revelry or nightlife available there. Other than that, I have been living on cheap dumplings which are not only cost effective, but also easy to preview before ordering. The only real exception to this general philosophy was the obligatory meal of Peking (Beijing?) Duck at a nice restaurant. It included table service by a cleaver wielding chef and a certificate setting out the duck’s pedigree and authenticity. Fortunately I didn’t have to order anything myself so the meal went perfectly.

Language:

Simple communication has become tremendously difficult. There is really no English in this country. Nobody speaks it and I feel completely illiterate, unable to pick out the simplest things on menus. From time to time, I manage to string a couple of words together, but nothing even close to what I need in order express myself or ask simple questions.

I am on a train right now from Beijing to Chongqing where I intend to arrange a boat down the Yangtze through the three gorges. Nobody on the train speaks English. Everyone keeps asking me questions that I presume are quite straightforward and I feel embarrassed of my inability to answer them. I have a phrase book with me which I am finding next to useless, lest I want to say things such as “good morning Mr. Li, my name is John and I am from Canada.” Not practical at all. I also have audio lessons on my iPod which guide me through such things as a trip to the supermarket, or more morning greetings. I could really do with one that told me how to say “Sorry, I don’t speak a word of Mandarin, so please stop repeating yourself ‘cuz I just don’t get it” or words to that effect. “Could you please stop chain smoking” would also be useful though likely unpopular.

Smokers and Drunks:

China is up there with Egypt and Indonesia as a great smoking nation. I put it in this elite group, not because of the number of people smoking, but rather on account of the variety of places you can smoke. I am currently watching a man chain smoke in an enclosed compartment of the train. I have slept in clouds of cigarette smoke for the last four nights, not only the two on this train (yes two), but also two in a hostel. For some reason it’s entirely acceptable and there is not really much I can say. It makes me miss India, where stick touting policemen would menace smokers on the open air train platforms at the slightest provocation.

The smokers are not the worst behaved element of my little train family. That title certainly goes to the drunks. One of the friendlier ones approached me in the dining car and berated me in Mandarin about something or other before insisting that I share whatever spirits he was slurping out of a clear glass bottle. I declined, though that took a lot of gesturing and repetition of mutually incomprehensible statements. My favourite drunk though, was the one who came and started shouting at some of the staff who were sitting around admiring me. He counted several times on his fingers then returned to his seat. He returned shortly after and projectile vomited a bunch of noodles and booze all over the floor at the foot of my bed. That scattered the staff who had to spring into action in order to clean up the mess. He proceeded to stroll about the carriage in his underwear for the rest of the afternoon.

Special Treatment:

For reasons unknown to me, I have become something of a pet to the staff on the train. Perhaps it is because I am the only westerner on board, perhaps it is because of my rugged good looks. Though many train workers have taken an interest, there are three teenage girls in particular who are inexplicably fond of me and believe me to have “beautiful eyes.” They are all seventeen, and yes, they are aware that I am a thirty year old man with a beard. Anyway, they seem fascinated by me and have really been going out of their way to take care of me – providing snacks and a personal escort to the dining car at meal times. The rest of the time they just sit on the bench opposite me and stare at me while I read, interrupting periodically to ask me questions that I cannot understand. They love my phrasebook and we sit around sometimes asking each other how our mornings are going. They wake me at the crack of dawn each day so as to ensure that I don't end up sleeping in (for reasons unknown considering I am stuck on a 41 hour train ride). They are among about a half dozen people who have asked for my phone number. I oblige on each occasion and I am soon expecting a variety of phone calls from people that I cannot understand.

It has been fun so far, though a little challenging at times. I am looking forward to the next step which will take me out of the city into the countryside for a few days via the mighty Yangtze. Guess I'll have to leave my fan club behind.

Leaving Korea

2009-04-10T01:36:00.000-07:00

For the first time this trip, I feel like I am leaving a place too soon. I have spent just under two weeks here, staying in Seoul most of the time and feel that I haven't even scratched the surface of this place. After a ton of complications, I now have visa and flight ticket in hand and spent my last afternoon here walking around the Myeong-dong fashion area taking photos of all the places and people that give it so much life. I have to move on though. Minjung (my friend and guide) is moving back to study in Australia soon. As for me, the world beckons across the vast steppes of Asia, enticing me with new adventures and discoveries.

I found this country to be more developed than the west in many ways. The buzz of commerce is everywhere, appearing at all angles in the cities and at the roadside throughout the country. There are a number of huge companies here, and consumerism has reached a high level. There are multi level malls carrying only designer brands (Gucci, Prada, Dior, etc.) and catering to the label obsessed market that exists everywhere here. This is the first asian country that I have visited where I saw no traditional clothes except for a handful of monks and an old man that walked slowly past as I sat on the patio of a cafe sipping a 3500 Won ($3.00 USD) coffee.

I am no expert on Korean culture, but the erosion of tradition appears fairly evident in some respects. There are an amazing number of Starbucks style cafes that exist alongside the numerous BBQ restaurants. There are even brands that went out of business in Canada a long time ago (anyone remember Mister Donut?), and they are busy morning to night doing a roaring trade. No Tim Horton's though, so what's the point really...

In other ways, this country seems determined to preserve its identity and avoid the encroachment of western influences. There seems to be some strong Korean attitudes that prevail beneath westernized appearances. It is really busy here and people push past each other in the street without saying a word. English is not widely spoken (not sure if people know it or not) and I am always addressed in Korean. I am a humble outsider and don't mind - besides, I am pretty good at guessing what people are saying when my interpreter is not present.

Another thing that I have observed that seems unusual is the amount of drunk people on the streets at night. I am not talking about bums, but I nearly always see a few people staggering if I am out past 11:00. This could include anyone aged 18 - 60 and sometimes involves two friends who are propping the drunk up and urging him along to wherever they end up. I point it out only because it strikes me as unusual for Asia. In the other countries I visited it is the westerners who are intoxicated and seldom the locals. Here there seems to be a much more liberal culture of consumption and less negative stigma to deter such behaviour. It is refreshing to see a more liberal attitude toward behaviour, even if this is perhaps not the most pleasant manifestation of it.

There is a real mix of people here from punks, to suits, to soldiers. There are some areas where you walk up the road and the little restaurants and bars are full of young guys eating dinner and smoking cigarettes in their combat fatigues. There are some real slick looking people who are obviously concerned for style and image and labels. For some, this extends to their vehicle, though it is not always a car: I have never seen so many souped up scooters in my life. There is one model that has a ton of plastic body moulding making it look like two wheeled limousine. Another style has a scooter body and what appears to be chrome Harley-Davidson style handlebars. These are two among many. Owners seem to take great pride in customizing their bikes with decals and large speakers attached under the spedometer. Its really something unusual.

On another note, I have successfully uncovered an idiosyncratic belief held by Koreans that seems to defy many well established laws of physics, chemistry and biology. It is the concept of "Fan Death" - essentially that you can die by suffocation, poisoning or hypothermia if you sleep in a room with a fan turned on and no open windows. For more specifics on the scientific impossibility of the phenomenon, I recommend the following article: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fan_death. It also does a nice job of setting out the government's official position on the perils of fans at night. Though the issue may seem fairly innocuous and uncontentious, it did cause a bit of a row between me and Minjung on a packed subway car. Ultimately, I challenged her to provide me with one instance of "Fan Death" that took place outside Korea (where people are dropping like flies from this menace!) and she suggested that instead we simply canvass the issue with other people on the subway. I quickly chickened out, realizing that I was not only in the minority, but also quite lonely there. For the sake of harmony, further research on the topic remained hilarious though inconclusive.

I will miss electric feel of this city: the panoramic views observed after climbing up the steep and winding streets to hilltops crested with the ancient city walls. I will miss the neon signs that light up the night and the well dressed people rushing about. It is truly time to move on though and after the usual visa fiasco, I am counting the hours until I sink somewhere into the most populous country on earth.

Adjusting to the Action

2009-04-04T08:06:00.000-07:00

Its been a week in Korea now and I am really liking this country. It is great to be back in the cool air, where everyone around has things to do. They hustle down the stairs to the metro, stand in suits on packed platforms agitated and waiting to get somewhere. They push and shove to get into the trains and then rocket off toward their destination. It is such a change of pace from the rest of the countries that I have spent the last six months that it stands in stark contrast to the laid back lifestyle where time seems elastic and stretches beyond the limits of what you would think possible.

I have had it easy here, staying in a guesthouse with down duvets, and visiting a girl I met in Bangkok who is showing me around and eliminating the need for me to learn any Korean (which is really culturally insensitive) though I have tried to pull it together with a few words.

I have spent most of my time in Seoul, though we managed to go down to Pusan for a few days. That was quite an experience as it entailed four hours on the most luxurious bus I have ever been on in my life. It was really impressive and the chairs were more comfortable than Lazy-Boys - three to a row, footrests, lush padding etc. We wound our way along the big modern highways, through tunnels and past enormous complexes with dozens of identical high rise apartments, past valleys bustling with industry and it was all very civilized, productive and normal. No cows or goats in sight - incredible.

Pusan itself is a lively port city, certainly second fiddle to Seoul, but nonetheless bustling with activity, a three line metro and an incredible amount of shipping and fish. On the way into town, we passed yards of shipping containers that stretched for miles. The harbour is full of cranes that seem to be constantly loading and unloading the ships. We stayed by the Haeundae Beach which was a nice area, though much too cold for sunbathing - fine by me. Also visited a great park that was on a peninsula surrounded by the sea, and walked the perimeter looking at all the ships, the birds and the views.

For reasons that escape me now, we decided to hit some fresh Korean style sushi for lunch. We went down to the fish market and looked around for a while, walking the endless rows of stalls peddling all variety of fish and even whale meat (which looks to be mostly blubber and apparently tastes like shit). With the assistance of a fishmonger, we picked out an octopus, some oysters, a huge mussel, a fish, a couple of clams and some weird little creature that looked like a sausage but tasted more like chewy skin. They sashimi-fied most of the stuff and served the octopus with tentacles still writhing around on a plate with some lemon and green onion. I ate a bunch of it and felt the suckers sticking to the inside of my mouth. Once I swallowed, it was almost as if the thing was trying to climb its way back out of my stomach and into my mouth. Not unpleasant but very strange. The other stuff was pretty good except the weird sausage thing (sea cucumber?) which tasted like chewy skin and was not enjoyable at all.

Overall, the food has been absolutely great. I have been feeding my face on pretty much everything in sight, but the highlight is certainly the BBQ that is available everywhere and similar to the ones back home but somehow so much better. It is a feast of thick pork slices that I generally wrap in a lettuce leaf along with garlic, kimchi, onion, and whatever else appears on the table. Really good, particularly when accompanied with a cheap bottle of Soju, the local rice wine, and not drinking to the point of drunk, but just to go with the pork...

Back in Seoul, the city is electric. Neon signs are everywhere, layered on top of each other and stretching down entire streets, flashing in every colour imaginable. So many areas are packed with people, shops, restaurants and culture and I just want to soak it all up. We have spent a couple of days walking around the various neighbourhoods and taking it all in. This city is really big enough to swallow me up - just so full of action. I managed to hit a couple of tourist attractions, palaces and an art gallery, but I don't want to bore the reader with the details of that.

There is lots of nightlife and the drinkers come out on friday night giving the immaculate subway cars the stench of booze and cigarettes as everyone finds his way home. One of these individuals was scribbling strange english things in a calender beside me when he wrote "I am a singer/songwriter - Do you know the words to Country Road by John Denber [sic]. I replied "yes" and he asked me to write it down. I miraculously came up with most of the words to the chorus which he then requested that I sing. I obliged and then he proceeded to write out all of the verses before announcing that his "terminal is Dongdaemun Stadium." I advised him that this was the station where we got on the train ten minutes ago, so he jumped up and got off.

Next stop is to get a Chinese visa and then...

Back in the Cold

2009-03-29T19:09:00.000-07:00

Its cold here, but to me it feels like the cold of the developed world, a cold that pushes people quickly and busily between the tall buildings, on and off of trains and buses. It means that no one is standing around idle watching the world go by. Everyone has somewhere to be and something to do. I haven't felt it in a long time, since the biting chill of the mountain air above 3500 metres all those months ago. I can't remember the last time i felt the temperature dip below 30 degrees. This is different. Very fresh.

Korea's got Seoul. This city really moves. I arrived in the night and walked the crowded streets beneath the neon signs looking for the little place where I could fiinally rest. I feel like I am back in the real world for the first time in ages. There are no impromptu booze bars on the sidewalk, there is no music pumping from shops, everybody is wearing a shirt, and most notably nobody tries to sell me anything. No touts offering tuk tuks, massage, ping-pong shows, handicrafts, street snacks, street bars, suits, and anything else you could imagine at a big sick carnival that runs on base instincts without regard to morality.

This is a real place and though there are some tourists and westerners, it is nice to be out of the tourist bubble and back into a city where people are too busy to look twice at you. Maybe that sounds unfriendly, but to me it is just right, almost a western style of nonchalance arising from a life where there are other things to worry about; where I am not a walking ATM that you must only crack the code for lucrative withdrawls.

I managed a long walk around this busy little area yesterday and found a Roots store that was going out of business, almost bought a "Toronto" hoodie, but decided against it - will stick with Indian army sweater for the time being. Had a coffee and a sandwich for about $4 CAD and really felt like I was living again. I happened upon an ancient palace and popped in for a while before moving back to the hostel to do my taxes and wrangle with Law Society bullshit (CRA + LSUC = puke x puke).

Don't know how to put it exactly, but I know that I am now in a country that lots of those other backpackers on the Khao San road will never visit, deterred by cash etc. and therefore denied of a totally different experience. It's accessible here and though developed, still no less foreign and exotic than all the other tropical places with their humble local lifestyles, hedonistic tourist pleasures, poverty, and problems that float in the beauty of it all.

I see the whole world spread out in front of me - countries blend into continents and continents into a route home. I have no fixed dates anymore, just a rough idea of what and to a lesser extent, when. I am at the mercy of archaic communist (or post communist) requirements for Visas, invitations, permits, and logistics. I have grown increasingly brash when it comes to this sort of thing. I don't do research anymore, just go. It certainly catches up to me at times (see "Shock and Solutions" re: broke in Myanmar). Most of the time I can work through it though and I have become more inventive in discovering ways around the bureaucracy and rules.

It is not easy to travel round the world on one way tickets, particularly when you intend to leave over land or on some god awful boat that will take days to get anywhere. Entering Korea presented exactly such a problem so I solved it by getting myself a fake "confirmed flight" out (SEL - YVR April 25/09) on Khao San road from a crooked travel guy I know and love. Worked like a charm.

So that leaves me thinking a couple of weeks from now I will be in Tokyo paying a fortune to sit around waiting for some Chinese bureaucrat to assess my fake and non Tibet related travel itinerary only to do the same thing in Beijing a couple of weeks later while some other bureaucrat assesses my real and Tibet related itinerary and doing it again two weeks later that while some Russian bureaucrat assesses my every move across that huge continent back to the occident and out again. For now, I am just going to enjoy being here and leave the logistics for later.

Leaving Myanmar

2009-03-25T00:09:00.001-07:00

25/03/09

It has come time to move on from this country and I feel that I have seen all that I really can as a tourist. I did not stay all 28 days that my Visa permits, but did see everything I wanted to in the areas of the country that are not forbidden to tourists. I could have spent twice as long here, though the government will not allow travel to certain sectors.

The authoritarian spectre continues to haunt me as I prepare to board the plane out of one of the most beautiful and silent lands I have ever encountered. I will always remember hushed conversations in tea shops, laughs with street vendors, playing jokes on waiters, and passing candy to delighted kids in incredible landscapes dotted with stupas and temples. I will remember the villagers I saw who really have nothing except maybe a few chickens or pigs and the crops growing in the surrounding fields.

I will miss the faces painted with Thanaka glance my way as the people go about their daily routine. I will miss seeing the women who have the most beautiful waist length hair. It cascades down their backs like a sheet of silk. I will miss the men with their longyis (sheet like skirt that they traditionally wear as pants) and betel nut smiles.

In fact, almost everyone smiles but it seems to conceal a tragic silence that blankets this country. People don’t talk to each other. I sat on a ten hour bus ride and didn’t see a single local conversation. Incredible. It was even more pronounced here in the hills, real quiet with no electricity (or running water). People sit outside their shacks staring off at the horizon. At night time, the chirping of crickets drowns out the faint sound of some action movie in the distant background. Total darkness sets in once the generators go off.

I set an example by being open to them, interactive as opposed to the usual reservation that characterizes the way they behave. I want to show that you don’t have to keep to yourself and that you can talk and have fun. The response is good and people are overwhelmingly friendly once engaged. I wonder if these interactions will even have a trace impact once I leave.

I found that everything I learned about this place is based on speculation and opinion as there is no way to verify even the simplest of facts. Everyone has different opinions and consensus is elusive. I constantly have to ask myself If I believe what people have told me and sift through all the things I have heard to try and make sense of it all. I am nowhere near making sense of it.

I stare out the window of an overnight bus back to Yangon. Trucks roll past in the night, piled high with massive teak logs, slowing to avoid the bullock carts and buffalo that lumber down the side of the road. People have congregated at tea shops where the generators allow DVD entertainment under the streetlights made of fluorescent bulbs tied to poles. The bus passes two dozen trucks packed with troops, a reminder of the reality that underlies this place. I can’t sleep and see the city approaching in the soft dawn light.

I have a couple of odds and ends to take care of before I get on the plane. I decide to have my sandals repaired by a man on the street. The soles are coming unglued and it should be cheap and easy to fix. The man asks me for 1000 Kyat and I agree, knowing it is too much for the job. He must have felt guilty because he decided to improve the sandals as well as repair them. He started cutting the soles up with a razor and putting new pieces into the bottom of the straps. He used a variety of tools including knives, pliers, a screwdriver, a coarse stone, and of course his fingers. In spite of my protests, I now have a pair of sandals that are better than when I bought them (hopefully).

I will not miss the tourist paranoia that is like a plague everywhere you go. I found that those from countries with citizens who often travel here were generally cool, but most of the others were not. As a result, I have spent the last three weeks speaking more French than English since more than half of the people I seem to encounter are from France, Belgium, or French Switzerland.

Another thing I am glad to leave behind are the chairs. I think that I sat in two comfortable chairs in the last three weeks. For the most part, cheap plastic lawn furniture seems like a luxury. Most tea shops have stools no more than a foot high and certainly designed for children. Others have wooden stools that are a bit higher, but no more comfortable. There are wooden chairs in most restaurants, but these typically have the back set at a 90 degree angle. The seats are usually slats of wood that are wide enough apart to dig into you the entire time you sit. It is also difficult to move around and get comfortable because pointing with your feet is considered rude, the feet being a filthy part of the body.

Always sad to go though, particularly from here. Time to move on.

Nine Posts

2009-03-25T00:09:00.000-07:00

Reader Beware!

I have posted no less than nine entries that I made while in Myanmar without access to any website involving the word "blog" (that is of course when the internet worked at all). I have tried to include original dates in the entries. Hope you all enjoy.

Hike in the Hills

2009-03-25T00:07:00.001-07:00

19/03/09

The Hike:

After the bus ride from hell (4:00 a.m. departure, seat on top of motor feels like its on fire, dust every where, bumpy roads, crammed like sardines, two breakdowns, etc.), I rolled into a town called Kalaw in the cool air of south Shan state’s hills. From here I organized a three day journey where I would walk about 50 kilometres to Inle Lake. The area is remote, though populated by villagers who are never far away harvesting tea, planting rice, feeding their buffalo and carrying heavy loads to the market.

I am joined by a Belgian guy who has the idea to stock up on candy so we can distribute it to the children during the trek.

We move from village to village distributing treats to the kids who appear from everywhere once they spot us. They are shy in taking the candies, but grow wild with excitement as they examine the golden foil of chocolate coins. It’s really nice to see them in such a frenzied state, since there isn’t much for kids to do around here. One game that provokes a lot of interest involves each child removing a sandal and throwing it at an assortment of elastic bands laid out in the dirt road. They scamper about avoiding the bullock carts that pass by. I couldn’t grasp the objective, but it could be to move the elastics. In this context, candies cause quite a sensation. Sometimes the kids don’t stop coming and we have to get moving or face a mob of disappointed kids without enough chocolate to appease it.

Leaving the village, we hike along the railroad tracks for miles, the same tracks laid by the British during the colonial era. Some of the old wooden supports are clearly rotten and the track is thin, metre gauge, awaiting an upgrade that is decades overdue. I hear the horn of a train and move out of the way as it passes. Villagers pass by barefoot carrying things home along the track. They are evidently poor and most of the villagers work in the fields harvesting produce, picking tea or burning brush in preparation for the rainy season.

We move through a beautiful landscape of rolling hills with plantations all around us. From time to time a man passes by driving a team of oxen over the uneven ground. We stop in a schoolhouse for a break and I can’t help but think how sparse it is: two tables, two benches and a blackboard. We move on through the village and the guide points out the unique way that the locals dress. Each village has its own colour scheme, recognizable to the other villages around. Modernity has not affected this area in any real sense and it is easy to imagine life as it was two hundred years ago.

After hours of walking the dusty roads and paths, we arrive at the village where we will sleep. Accommodation is a thatched hut with no electricity or running water. There are Burmese film posters all over the woven bamboo walls surrounding a small Buddha shrine. The bed is a bunch of mats on the bamboo floor. I am delighted because it is so real and so ‘local.’ We eat a vegetable curry feast (seven different types!) and sit in the candlelight talking for a while. The candle burns out and it is time for bed. I wrap myself in the blankets and the darkness is everywhere. Almost asleep there is suddenly a crash and a bang.

The Night of the Rat:

The Belgian guy tells me that there is something moving in room with us. The guide tells us it is a rat. He gets up and lights another candle and we inspect the area for the creature to no avail. We decide to try to sleep but as soon as the light goes out the thing starts scurrying all over, bumping and crashing into things and coming really close to us. The Belgian gets scared and decides to move his mat(tress) between myself and the guide, leaving me on the outside to deal with the vicious little creature singlehandedly.

We try to sleep for a while but the thing is everywhere. Soon it is in the next room making a lot of little noises. I began to make threats toward the rat and in an attempt to intimidate it, declared that I would l kill it with my bare hands. The noises continued and the guide had had enough. He got up and went after the thing wielding a butcher knife in one hand and a candle in the other. Lots of things were smashed and broken as he lunged repeatedly at the creature without success. He came back and told us “it’s a big one” showing the size of the thing with his hands. He apologized over and over and I couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous the whole thing seemed. The guide got a mosquito net and fixed it over the two mattresses that the Belgian and I are on. He declared it rat-proof, a claim that I found dubious at best, but we retreated under its protection and lay in the darkness listening to the filthy claws tickling the wooden floor as the creature emitted little squeaks in the darkness.

For reasons unknown, I began to find the situation increasingly humorous. I asked the guide if it is normal for rats to appear in the night and he said that it does happen from time to time. I asked what local people do in these situations and he told me that they go to sleep. Satisfied, I pulled a rat-proof blanket over my head and listened to the thing scurrying around, sometimes inches away from me, before falling soundly asleep until morning. If you want the experience of living like a local, you take what you get and can’t let these types of things ruin the fun. I hate rats as much as the next person, but it certainly made the night memorable.

The following morning we have a good laugh about the incident and the guide said he was really angry because the rat kept coming inches from his head in the night.

Day of the Rice Wine:

We had breakfast and after giving a healthy tip to our hosts (with a little extra for the rat), we hit the trail for a long day’s hike to the monastery. We moved through fields and villages, back along the train track, over the red earth of the fields and up the trails made by the wheels of bullock-carts. After a couple of hours the guide tells us that we are near the place to get rice wine. I am lukewarm on the idea and ask him if he wants to get some. He clearly does so we make our way along a road toward a small house in the distance. I see one of these bizarre vehicles that have the motor hanging off the front and I make a video. The driver likes the attention and offers us a ride, so we hop in this thing for a couple of bumpy kilometers before jumping down and giving him some tea money.

We get into the rice wine shop and get a couple of water bottles filled with the stuff for 300 Kyat ($0.30 USD) each. I thought it was a little early to start drinking but the guide was already dipping cup in bucket, and swigging healthy portions. He filled it and passed it around so the Belgian and I obligingly sampled the product.

At this point we wanted a little music so I set up the iPod speakers in my backpack and rocked Iron Maiden’s “Best of the Beast” from beginning to end. We continued on through the countryside, pausing periodically at the behest of the guide to swig more wine and smoke cheroots (massive Burmese leaf rolled cigars). It was like a party hike for about 90 minutes and the villagers got a real kick out of it. It began with puzzled stares and ended with big smiles. There is so seldom anything that really breaks the silence in this country that we were really putting ourselves out there. People responded to it with good humour and a little shock.

By lunch the guide was drunk and by sunset he couldn’t walk in a straight line. It was a great long day through farms and beautiful countryside, past wandering buffalo and villagers dressed in colourful traditional clothes. Finally we arrived at the wooden monastery where we would sleep. After dinner I was out like a light on the floor.

The Monastery:

A bell began ringing at 5:00 a.m. and monks began chanting prayers immediately thereafter. It made a soothing sound and I lay and listened for a while, somehow managing to drift back into sleep toward the end. I finally awoke refreshed and went down to breakfast where I had occasion to meet a bunch of the novice monks who were fascinated by my iPod. I showed them how to use it and they were delighted to choose a whole bunch of songs.

We made our move toward the lake at around 8:30 and walked fast. I was feeling the last two days of walking as it had taken a bit of a toll on my body. We made good time anyway over the rocky uneven track (which I would pay for later) and arrived at the boat jetty just ahead of a thunderstorm that had pursued us for the last couple of hours. On the way, the guide told us a story about a village that was cursed by devils. It goes as follows:

A girl had been carrying water from the river some years back when a bolt of lightning split a massive boulder that tumbled down the hillside and killed her. Since then, she returned to the village every night seeking her clothes, jewellery and thanaka (face paint). All of the villagers had seen her and were terrified. As a result the chief decided to move the village 500 metres across the road and since then she has not bothered the villagers, though she still lurks in the area where the old village once stood. Creepy, but we made it through unscathed and were soon having lunch at the boat jetty, but that is another entry.

Inle Lake

2009-03-25T00:07:00.000-07:00

19/03/09

After lunch, we boarded a long canoe shaped vessel powered by a large diesel engine. The boatman turned the crank and the motor roared to life spewing black smoke into the air. We were off at a swift pace as he navigated around bends in the channel and over small dams and bamboo barriers to the lake.

The lake is absolutely stunning with flocks of swallows overhead, some fluttering down so that their wings graze the water. We whipped past monastaries, villages and bathing buffalo. Suddenly the weather took a turn for the worse and we were at risk of capsizing. The boatman pulled into a small channel at the side of the lake where wave after wave pounded over the low walls of the vessel. We got stuck in the weeds and were ultimately rescued by another canoe that obligingly took us to a restaurant on stilts. We were soaked but happy for the illusion of solid ground. We hung out until the weather improved (slightly) and then continued on through driving rain for the better part of an hour. It was the first time I have been cold in this country.

I was filthy from the trek and had no choice but to take a cold shower upon arrival. I was freezing but I emerged feeling like a new man. My legs were destroyed from the uneven ground that we had walked and every joint, tendon and muscle was feeling it. I took an early night and found that it was even worse in the morning. I felt I should do something relaxing the next day and decided to go for a tour of the lake with some of the friends I had made.

One of the unique features of Inle Lake is that the boatmen in the traditional canoes use their leg to paddle. It is really strange to see and their balance is amazing. They perch on a tiny flat area at the end of the canoe and wrangle with fishing nets, one leg on the boat, the other wrapped around a paddle moving the boat forward. This frees up their hands for other activities such as fishing or waving at tourists. The lake is covered in fishermen who smack the water with bamboo poles and use nets to scoop up the fish. I am not exactly sure how this works, but they have been doing it for generations so I suppose it must be reasonably effective.

The trip took us to a fishing village, a lotus weaving shop, and a cheroot factory. After this everyone in the boat was still tired from trekking but we had to push on and see the indisputable highlight of any trip here – the “jumping cat” monastery.

I guess the monks don’t have much to do at this place because they have trained an army of cats to jump through hoops. It is idiotic and hilarious all at once. They have an assistant who stages the show, using the hoop to pull cats over to him as a senior monk presides over the spectacle of a dozen cats taking turns jumping through a small hoop. The show was unfortunately brief.

Feeling exhausted, though much more cultured, I went back to the hotel for some much needed rest.

Bagan

2009-03-25T00:06:00.001-07:00

13/03/09

For the last few days, I have moved from temple to temple on the vast Bagan plain where 4415 temples were constructed between the 11th and 13th centuries and over 2000 remain. This is really an amazing place where ancient bricks and mortar crumble all around under the blazing sun.

The land is beautiful, covered in thatched huts and flat fields where villagers cultivate crops with teams of oxen. It is the hot season now so the earth is arid and many of the rivers have dried up. There is dust everywhere and the temperature approaches 40 degrees daily. The rain will come soon unleashing a sea of green on the plains and allowing the farmers to scrape a much needed income from the newly fertile soil.

I move through the sandy dirt roads on an old mountain bike. My tire goes flat on account of potholes and the bike has only one gear (the highest) making the rolling landscape more challenging. I put about 50 km on the bike each day, seeking out the best of the best ancient frescoes. The flat tires are not really much of a problem since everyone has bicycles or small displacement scooters that are pumped up manually. I just ride the rims to the nearest village and generally they are very obliging and actually insist on doing the pumping. On one occasion I happened upon a family rocking out to music videos in their hut. They were very entertained by my air guitar and this resulted in invitations for tea and other things that I could not understand.

I stopped for lunch at a village where people live in thatched huts with leaf roofs. They made me a great meal of boiled vegetables and white rice with a fried egg on top. After eating I wandered around among the oxen and cart wheels followed by some local kids. Amazing how simple life is in the village where the men go out to earn an income any way they can, and the women stay home sorting peanuts for hours. There are spinning wheels and looms, wood fired brick ovens, and woven mats on the ground among the ancient pagodas. People are all very friendly and I make some jokes with them to get the classic betel nut smile.

Back on the road. There are two more temples that I plan to see and many more that I will stop at on a whim. The temple paintings are something really special. They represent the zenith of Myanmar Buddhist art that still exerts an influence to this day. Regrettably, many have been destroyed by a variety of forces including a 1975 earthquake, the cooking fires of locals while they hid from the Japanese during WWII, and regrettably, modern graffiti. I caught a local girl drawing flowers over an 800 year old painting of an elephant. I shrugged my shoulders dramatically and asked “what are you DOING?” lifting my palms upward in disbelief . She was embarrassed but I am sure she persevered once my back was turned.

There are virtually no tourists here. It is good for me but sad for the people who have no other real source of income. Some are paid about 20 000 Kyat ($20 USD) per month to watch over the temples. They spend their days waiting for the tourists that never seem to arrive. There is an air of desperation among the people and it is possible to purchase beautiful artwork for next to nothing. The handicrafts sit day after day in the blazing sun without arousing any interest from the few people that do visit the temples. In spite of it all, the sellers are very good natured and generally follow you around the temple explaining things as the prelude to a sales pitch. The instances in which I have successfully explained why I can’t buy souvenirs from everyone have generally evolved into lengthy discussions on the temple steps about my life and the outside world.

It can be wearisome to answer the exact same questions every time I get off the bike (What country? What is name? How long in Bagan? Where you stay? First time Myanmar? You like painting/shirt/cold drink/statue/laquerware? Etc.) but I bear it politely and rather than just refusing, I try to explain why I can’t buy something from everyone. This meets with remarkable success and builds a bit of a conversation which sometimes twists in strange and interesting directions. I find people here very easy to relate to and they seem to enjoy talking about the differences in our lives. They always want to inspect my watch and my sunglasses and it is almost embarrassing to tell them how much each one cost. I tell them anyway, and have found that it is a good way to illustrate the way people live in the west.

At the end of the day, I think that we are not so different. We want the same things, the difference being that they are easily attainable in Canada, while they are impossibly hard to reach for many people here. Even things like basic education and health care are sufficiently costly to preclude the average person from accessing them in any meaningful way. One of my friends told me how his elder brother had died of a fever in his early twenties and the hospital had refused to provide him with any antibiotics because he couldn’t afford them. Another young girl was the number one student in the five surrounding districts. She is extremely bright, but now sells postcards to the handful of tourists who happen across her temple.

From what I have seen, most tourists are really dismissive and view the sellers as little more than a nuisance. They don’t take the time to talk to anyone and view the people as an annoyance more than anything else. I have found the sellers very easy to engage. They generally speak English, can interact with tourists without arousing the suspicion of officials and they are sometimes open windows into a culture struggling to survive under a brutally repressive regime.

There are a wealth of artists who copy the temple paintings and sell them to visitors. It is sad to think that 800 years ago they would have been painting the temples for a royal stipend, while now the fruits of a week’s work will net them about $20 USD (a good bit of money, relatively speaking). The problem is that there is nobody to sell to, with some temples seeing a single visitor in a day if any. They are hungry in every sense and I am sympathetic, hence why I try my best to take the time to talk to them even if the sales pitch continues to raise its head throughout.

The one instance where this became a real nuisance was when I was eating dinner the other night, listening to the iPod. The waiter asked my permission to talk with me so I took out my headphones. He started by telling me how poor he was, that he made only 300 Kyat ($0.30 USD) per day and that he would like to get gifts from tourists. He then began telling me about his family to reinforce the desperation that he faced. I was still sympathetic at this point, though all I wanted to do was eat my dinner. It was then that he began trying to sell me on everything imaginable. He knew people who could provide taxi tours, horse carts, paintings, handicrafts etc. and he just stood over me trying to sell while I ate. Ultimately, I ordered a bottle of water to get rid of him and put the headphones back in, and tried to look busy perusing my notebook. I didn’t look up when he came back and he took the hint. It wears on you sometimes.

The absence of tourists allows a real glimpse into daily life. I am almost always able to find a quiet temple upon which to watch the sunset. Sometimes you get quite a good view of the locals too. I watched a boy hunting with a slingshot. He disappeared down to the river for a while, and I saw him coming back swinging a small bird triumphantly by its wing. Meat is hard to come by.

After getting my fix of temples, monasteries, ordination halls and stupas, I decided to visit Mt. Popa, traditional home to the Nat, who are the spirit guardians of Myanmar and still figure prominently in the culture here. It is a long climb to the top where there are golden stupas adorned with bells and chimes that jingle constantly in the cool wind. There are great panoramic views of the surrounding plain and I had fun with the cheeky monkeys that bounce all over the pathway up. It was a wild ride to get out there as the road was covered in potholes and I was on a motorcycle. I had no helmet since no helmets are available so I just hung on and hoped for the best. After the four hour round trip, I was a little worse for wear and decided to have a good rest.

Night comes around 7:00. There are no lights and after rinsing the dust and sweat from my body I walked in the darkened streets, prowling for dinner. After that I went back to the hotel for some reading and to digest the day’s events. I don’t know when I will leave this place or where I will go. I just take it day by day and enjoy every moment.

A Strange Conversation

2009-03-25T00:06:00.000-07:00

17/09/03

I am in the middle of a three day trek through the hills down to Inle Lake. I was speaking at length with one of the guides tonight. He is an older Seikh man who has a lot of knowledge about the country and is not afraid to share it. A summary of his point of view:

Business and Trade:

He began by giving up the goods on trade with the rest of the world. Private business circumvents the trade embargo against the country by setting up shell companies in friendly nations to get the natural resources out. There is thus no problem for the few Burmese companies who wish to export the abundant natural resources harvested here. It is business as usual.

The companies are run by a very small segment of the population who exploit the workers. Some of the mining and timber companies provide opium to their workers (slaves) who must then continue to toil in order to sustain their addiction.

The price of foreign commodities is strictly controlled. A 1980 Toyota costs $60 000 USD here because the government doesn’t want cars imported. If you are to import a car, the permit alone is now $60 000 USD and the duty and taxes amount to another $60 000 USD. This is in addition to the price of the vehicle meaning that a new Honda Civic would go for around $180 000 USD. A Mercedes can cost up to $700 000 USD putting it out of the rich of everyone save the “handful” of rich that constitute less than 10% of the population. By contrast a hut in a village is about $200 USD while a brick and concrete home is about $15 000 USD. A shop in the downtown core of a major city is valued around $250 000 USD.

Government Controls:

There are spies everywhere. They are all among us, perhaps even at this monastery. They are the chiefs of villages, required to submit detailed reports on the foreigners that pass through. They know where we are at all times.

The government subsidises about 70% of the monks in this country so as to maintain loyalty and according to the source, they did not take part in the September 2007 protests. The protests were poorly coordinated as there is no real method of communication between or organizing different groups of people, particularly those living in rural areas.

The currency is entirely unstable as it is artificially pegged at 6.5 Kyat to the USD while the exchange rate is more like 1000:1 everywhere except government run banks. Apparently some Japanese tourists have been burned making transactions at the bank.

The opium crop continues to flourish despite propaganda to the contrary – both western and indigenous, and that the government allows it to persist out of goodwill toward the people of these regions for maintaining peace and quiet. The government does not make a dime from illegal drugs.

I am thankful that this guide explained a final curiosity that I had puzzled over for some time before. The reason that cars drive on the right side of the road, while people drive on the right side of the car stems from a dream that General Ne Win had in 1974 that this would somehow be safer. It was changed accordingly, as no one in the cabinet protested the stupidity of the idea (a certain way to get yourself shot). The bizarre and system continues to this day, and seems to function largely on account of the fact that most people can’t afford cars anyway.

The Reality:

I don’t trust this man. Though he is friendly and supports his views effectively, some of what he said can’t possibly be right. Conversations with other people suggest that he is completely incorrect in a lot of his information (i.e. others claim a 1980s Toyota is only $10 000 USD – still too much for the average person in any event).

The guide blames the people more than the government for the state of affairs that the country currently finds itself in: the tribes are very proud and have competing interests in dealing with the government and there is no organized form of opposition. He claims that people have accepted the government, while most other sources I spoke with say the exact opposite – that the present regime produces misery deep down within people.

His explanations of the drug trade are incredibly simplistic. In reality the government has little control over drug producing regions and the army continues a guerilla war. Rather than the junta destroying its international reputation because of some strange benevolence toward the “peaceful” warlords producing opium, it is more plausible that there is a complex system of kickbacks and bribes in place to sustain the drug trade. The consensus explanation seems to be that the government exacts large sums of money from the trade of illicit drugs.

It is impossible to verify information here and everything is based on speculation, even for the locals. I am inclined to believe something only after hearing it from several sources. At the risk of sounding paranoid, I suspect that the guide monitors tourists, other guides and guesthouses for the benefit of the government.

The Road to Mandalay

2009-03-25T00:05:00.001-07:00

09/03/09

The road to Mandalay was a long one, spent on an overnight “luxury” bus with my knees in danger of fusing to the seat in front of me and the diminutive ticket collector nestling into me as he slept. The worst part of it all though was certainly the entertainment. For the first couple of hours the TV was blasting a mix of Myanmar hip hop and house music. The hip hop was strange in that all performers were accompanied by a large entourage of fairy tale looking mythical creatures. The house music was the worst that I ever heard and a lot of the visual effects seemed to be old Venga Boys videos with even crappier music dubbed over top.

After a couple of hours of terrible music, the main event started: a six hour marathon of some idiotic Myanmar sitcom that involved the most contrived slapstick that I have ever seen (face burned with iron, people falling over/off things in improbable ways, lots of fighting, 3 men stuck inside a ladder etc.). At one point no less than four characters tripped over a live fish that was flopping all over the kitchen floor. The highlight for me was a scene where one of the women drugged everyone in her family, apparently to sneak out of the house undetected, though I couldn’t understand her motive in spite of intensive observation. Really shit. It mercifully ended at around midnight and aside from the military spot checks and my neighbour’s aggressive display of sleeping, I managed to doze off for a bit.

The bus rolled into Mandalay a couple of hours early and I rode into the downtown on the back of a scooter. I probably overpaid, but I have effectively stopped bargaining here because everything costs so little and the locals haven’t developed the bad habit of doubling their prices for tourists. I think it speaks volumes about the number of Westerners who visit this country. Readers of this blog will no doubt be pleased that this promises to spare them the inane details that accompany my daily bargaining heroics.

I slept for a while in the Guest House lobby and then for a few more hours once my room was ready. Waking up refreshed, I began exploring and found some great little Paya (Pagodas) where I made friends with some monks before moving on to a lively local market. As the afternoon drew on, I decided to go up Mandalay hill for a view of the city at sunset. The favoured mode of transportation here is a ‘trishaw’ which is like a bicycle with a sidecar welded on that is divided into two seats – one facing front and one facing back. I paid the guy a thousand kyat for the half hour ride.

I climbed the stairs to the Paya on the top of the hill and was amazed by the number of monks with SLR cameras on the top. There was obviously some kind of monk trip since they all had commemorative bags with identical monk print on the side. The view was great but watching the monks scramble around taking photos was much more interesting.

I have yet to meet any like-minded Westerners since arriving in Myanmar. Those that I have encountered have been either strange or completely paranoid. One guy went as far as to cancel a bus ticket and move it to another day because he had met someone who casually asked him where he was going next. He also made a bunch of excuses to justify the behavior of the gay monk (see last entry) which led to a bit of friction since I was certainly not in the mood to hear it.

I also met a set of girls who were leaving early having spent three weeks doing nothing because they didn’t want any money to go to the government. While I can appreciate their idealism, they spent their entire time here moving from city to town to city without seeing anything. They didn’t even go to Bagan which is one of the most significant temple complexes in the world. I don’t get it. Why come at all? You already paid the government for a visa, plus airport fees. It’s sort of like going to Egypt then sitting around in your hotel the whole time without visiting the Pyramids (or any other ruins for that matter). They were nice though, and we brokered a complex ‘dirty USD for Kyat and crisp USD’ transaction since they were gonna get ripped on one side of the exchange while I was taking it on the other.

Having seen enough of Mandalay, I paid a man fifteen bucks to double me around some of the surrounding towns for the day, three of which were the capitals of ancient kingdoms. He had a ticket to the various sites around that I could use if I wished. I was all for minimizing the amount of USD going to the government so I accepted. One catch though: I had to impersonate a Swiss woman named Denise Guettinger. I think I did a fabulous job, putting on a quasi French accent at the ticket booths. They didn’t speak much English, but I was worried I wouldn’t be able to spell my own name if it came down to it.

It all went off without a hitch and I visited an immense wooden monastery, a hilltop pagoda, some crumbling monuments, a leaning tower (with drunken youth on the top), and the world’s longest teak bridge (what a claim to fame!), stopping repeatedly at local tea shops for a break from the searing heat of the day. The bridge was the highlight because it was so full of energy and covered in monks and locals going about their daily business. I sat for a long time, making friends with people passing by (min gala ba goes a long way) and got some great photographs.

The day ended with me taking in an evening performance of the famous ‘Moustache Brothers’ theatre troupe. The Brothers come from generations of comedians and performers, and have been entertaining for forty years. At one time they travelled village to village through the countryside staging traditional all night shows involving dance and puppets. This tradition was effectively squashed by the junta and as a result the Brothers did some performances in protest in Yangon. This led to years of jail time and now they perform for tourists, using the show as a platform for harsh criticism of the junta.

I can’t understand how they remain immune from further arrest, and this has given rise to rumors that they are in cahoots with the government (see paragraph about paranoid tourists above). After seeing the show, I am totally convinced of the sincerity of the Brothers. They donate money to families of prisoners of conscience to make the trip to remote areas to visit loved ones, and they provide tourists with DVDs to promote anti government action when they leave the country.

The show is effectively an overview of traditional Myanmar entertainment with demonstrations of different costumes, dances, traditions and lots of comedy for good measure. One of the Brothers makes many disparaging comments made about his wife, offering the crowd “hush money” payable in Zimbabwe dollars. Spectators are encouraged to smoke throughout the performance and large cheroot (Myanmar leaf rolled cigars) are provided for this purpose. Apparrently it is very good for health and long life.

I am going to move south to the ruins of Bagan and the hills where I plan to do some trekking. There is lots of history here and a slow pace. It is a nice change from Yangon and I feel as if I have been descended a ladder from Bangkok’s chaos, through Yangon’s sleepiness, to the laid back feel of Mandalay.

Both Sides of a Story

2009-03-25T00:05:00.000-07:00

11/03/09

The Good:

This is a beautiful country with warm and friendly people who will happily help out with no expectation of reward. I have attempted to provide “tea money” on account of some good deeds and it has been almost universally refused. The hospitality has been the most authentic that I have experienced on the entire trip thus far. I sense that people are really happy to have a window to the outside world and are delighted to share their culture. They sit and smoke and talk, drinking tea and chewing betel nut. Unlike India, these activities are not gender specific and it seems that women are equally able to spit streams of betel juice on the ground before sparking up a massive cheroot. It makes for some really amazing smiles with blood red lips and rotting brown teeth.

One of the main idiosyncracies that I have observed comes from pop music. When it is not Myanmar hip hop (wildly popular and wildly strange), the rest of the pop seems to be western music where the singer has taken the music note for note and simply erased the western vocals and supplied their own instead. The technique seems to span virtually all genres and outside a temple I heard moving renditions of Jefferson Starship’s “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” and Shania Twain’s “You’re the One I Want” on a grainy sounding radio. Other highlights included “Black Magic Woman” by Santana, “I Didn’t Steal Your Boyfriend” by Ashlee Simpson, and “After All has Been Said and Done” by some boy-band I can’t remember. It is just as crappy in Burmese.

The style of salesmanship here is really amusing in that little kids will swarm you calling out “you are very handsome!” over and over. Once sufficiently flattered, I suppose the susceptibility to cheap tourist grade souvenirs increases multifold. The kids are really nice and will often follow me for a long time, talking and asking me all sorts of questions since there are really no other customers. Too bad they are not in school – many are obviously bright and can speak several languages with sufficient competence to make sales (“tu est tres beau”…)

Unique sales tactics extend to official ad campaigns. Take for example Spirulina Beer: it is advertised as an “anti aging drink” with the slogan “stay young forever.” If only that were true I would get wasted all the time. This is not just something that passes under the government’s radar, but rather a campaign initiated by the Ministry of Industry that proudly stamps every bottle and billboard.

Perhaps one of the strangest things I have observed relates to the roads. There are not many people with cars, so chaos on account of volume is minimal. In spite of this, chaos reigns supreme because of one of the most idiotic sets of road rules I have ever seen. Vehicles are required to drive on the right side of the road (first time I have seen this in seven months) though most of the steering columns are located on the right side of vehicles. Considering the amount of blind overtaking that goes on here, it makes for some hair raising situations since the driver of the car or bus is the last one to see if anything is approaching in the oncoming lane. It seems that the ass backward status quo shall persist until further notice.

Buses and shared pickups are rammed with people and many ride on the roof. It is not uncommon to be overtaken by a loaded pickup with a roof full of monks, their crimson robes flowing in the wind as they wave and gesture to me. Other vehicles have nothing covering the engine, making them look as if it has just been tacked on to the front somehow.

The Bad:

Life in this country gets sadder and sadder the more you dig. People are desperate in many ways and have no way out. This blog has never been a platform for political diatribe but some things must be said – take from it what you will:

There are plain clothes police everywhere – spies among us. They are in the restaurants and the guesthouses. The government has enlisted an army of taxi drivers to eavesdrop on conversations. This may sound like it is paranoia but I received the information from several sources including some serious dissenters who are not afraid to make ripples. They are not easy to find.

I spent the evening with one of the organizers of the opposition – a student leader for this area who has been jailed repeatedly for a variety of things including peaceful protest and speaking against the government. His father was the head of the opposition in the Bagan area and spent eight years in prison as a result. His brother died of a fever because the family could not afford medical treatment. The family now survives by selling things on the black market including gasoline and marijuana.

I made contact with the guy at a temple where I was sitting watching the sunset. Conversation started in the usual way: where you from? etc. He made a couple of anti government comments and at first I was apprehensive and let him take the lead. Once I gained confidence in his sincerity I started to tell him how horrified the western world was at the treatment of the monks in 2007 and the way the government handled cyclone relief. We had a long talk about changing things and he thinks that words may become action in 2010 when elections are scheduled.

I was invited to meet his family and spent my evening sitting in a very humble home talking about life, dreams and opportunity. It is amazing the reality that some people must face every day where there is little hope for the future and the main concern is raising sufficient funds to eat. Education is only a dream to many people since even the government run schools cost money. No books, pencils, paper or rulers are provided and families must scrape together enough to afford uniforms as well. Many people take their kids out of school at an early age, and in this area, they wind up selling postcards to tourists, no matter how bright. When kids ask me where I am from, I sometimes show them on a map in the back of my guidebook. I can tell that some of them have likely never seen a map before and can’t locate anything including Myanmar or its neighbours. This is in spite of the fact that many have learned four or five languages to sell souvenirs to tourists.

It is easy to remain oblivious to the latent authoritarian activities that are taking place everywhere. Police do not wear uniforms and aside from roadside checkpoints, the army seems to sit around the barracks until called upon to stomp some skulls. I am sure I could get up close and personal if I tried to get into a restricted zone (which covers the majority of the country) but I have no desire to make trouble.

The package tours that come through give big money to a government starved of cash. The larger hotels pay big money for the privilege of operating and the government imbeds sympathetic people among the staff to make sure that everything runs smoothly. They make money on every visa, on the departure tax, on trains, buses, boats, airlines and anything else that a tourist needs. I am trying hard to avoid this by taking buses run by private companies and staying in family run guesthouses. Still the ten dollars I spend to visit the temples here goes to the government and undoubtedly lines somebody’s pocket. UNESCO is responsible for all of the restoration and upkeep of the monuments while corrupt generals drive their Mercedes’ past impoverished people.

There is a monstrous AIDS epidemic here and the government has shut down private programs to provide care and treatment to the victims. Some of the organizers have been jailed. It started when the government demonetized the country in the late 1980s and declared all notes worthless (bizarre notes too – denominations included 5, 10, 25, 35 and 70 Kyat). Destitute, many women went to border regions to work as prostitutes. Many returned with HIV which continues to spread rapidly through the population. It is a virtual death sentence here. The prostitution continues and has expanded, with many women now shipped to the border with China or to Dubai.

There are almost no trading partners left. All goods now come and go to India, China, Russia or Thailand. In classic authoritarian fashion, the government sends staple goods to these countries to raise money while the population goes without. Myanmar sells electricity to India while its cities are in darkness, it sells rice to China while people hardly have enough to eat. Goods that enter Myanmar are of a terrible quality (the ‘Lucky 7’ brand toilet paper in my hotel room is “MADE IN CHIMA”) and locals have told me that it is impossible to get simple things, like a reliable watch or a wallet that will last more than a month. They want to trade me things for my T-shirts, sandals, watch, sunglasses, etc.. There is really just nothing worthwhile coming in from the outside.

It’s not getting any better.

A Bad Experience in a Beautiful Place

2009-03-25T00:04:00.000-07:00

6/3/9

Strange things happen in strange parts of the world. I visited Shwedegan Paya – a Buddhist temple in the center of Yangon. It started off poorly. For reasons still unknown to me, the ticket clerk refused to accept a ten dollar bill because it had dirt on it. This resulted in me spending almost all of my Kyat, leaving me with slightly less than the magic 1500 that I would need for a taxi home. Though the temple was spectacular (stepakula as it was later described by a monk), I couldn’t shake my annoyance for a while.

As soon as I entered, I was approached by a friendly monk. Unfortunately I wasn’t in the mood for him at the time so I blew him off in a friendly way and proceeded to make my rounds. Another monk approached me and wanted to show me around. He spoke no English and I wasn’t in the mood for an excruciatingly difficult conversation so I just lagged behind and took photographs. He did know the word ‘donation’ and I really wasn’t feeling it, mainly on account of me being broke again. He took the hint to an extent, but invited me to come and sit with him and a chubby monk who spoke slightly better English. This inevitably turned into a temple tour, when all I wanted to do was sit and watch the pilgrims in action.

Ordinarily I really enjoy spending time with monks, but the whole thing reeked of a cash grab so I was a bit skeptical. Having circumambulated the temple, I sat with the chubby monk and talked for a while. Finally he hit me with the request for a donation (payable directly to him and not the temple’s readily available collection box). I peeled off my last 1000 Kyat note, leaving me with a dirty ten and about 350 Kyat – enough for about nothing. He took off to see his friends and at last I was alone for a while.

I sat for a few minutes watching the people and ended up in a nice conversation with some Burmese youth. This lasted until the sunset when I decided to go get some snaps of the temple. I sat for a while, but the peace and quiet was interrupted by a large group of Aussie seniors who were discussing a number of very distracting things. Finally they moved on.

This was where things began to get strange. I continued walking and was about to leave when I was approached by another monk. He was thin and short and had a strange triangular micro-tooth (fang) between his front two incisors. His mouth was stained with betel juice and when he spoke, his breath had the distinct aroma that always accompanies that filthy habit. We sat for a while talking about life and our families and everything seemed cool. I told him I hadn’t eaten and he suggested a great local place nearby. As we walked, he began to make remarks about my muscles, squeezing my arm and pinching my back. Weird and creepy but perhaps culturally acceptable (?) so I didn’t sweat it. We finally arrived at the restaurant.

The restaurant was cool, authentic and packed with locals watching a Chuck Norris movie. I had a great Noodle Soup and a cup of tea and we chatted for a while. In light of what had happened I wanted to get out of there and back to the hotel. Enter the dirty ten dollar note. Since my money was unacceptable, the monk said he would pay for me. This was clearly unacceptable so I reluctantly told him I would give him some cash back at the hotel.

We left together and he began repeatedly grasping my hand as we walked. I felt a bit uncomfortable at this point so I devised a variety of excuses to remove it from his clutches. We continued on for some time in this fashion at which point he ‘accidentally’ brushed his hand over my crotch. Definitely weird, perhaps inadvertent, but it happened a couple more times, each one seeming less accidental than the last. At one point he stuck his thumb in my waistband. I moved away and said “ok, enough,” quickening the pace back to the hotel. All I wanted to do was get rid of him. What a strange night it was turning into.

He kept grabbing at my hand and I reacted the same way as before. He started pinching my back again and telling me he wanted to come up to my room for a massage. This elicited a firm “no way” from me. I made some excuses and went up to my room to get the cash, telling him guests were not allowed. When returned with the money and he had made it halfway up the stairs and was looking curiously at the door to the guesthouse. After initiating a lot of unnecessary and largely non-reciprocal hugging, he finally left on the assurance that when I return to Yangon I will stay with him in his monastery and he will cook for me. This produced a happy three-toothed grin and he took off.

The more I think about it, the more I am sure that if he had not been wearing monk’s robes, I would have got the hell out of there a lot quicker. What a weird day. I do not need this kind of shit and I am having a hard time shaking it off – downright creepy.

Gay monk gropers aside, Yangon has been a great experience. It is so hot here that I have a hard time staying awake through the afternoons. I generally nap and walk around in the relative cool of the evening, accomplishing a minimal number of tasks each day (get bus ticket, get deodorant, get lunch etc.). All of the other people I have met have been friendly and I really enjoyed every minute of it, though I feel it is time to move on. Next stop is Mandalay, right at the heart of this forgotten country.

Shock and Solution

2009-03-25T00:02:00.000-07:00

Shock:

Yangon: temperature is in the high thirties as I roll out of the airport on about $82 USD to navigate the mayhem caused by dozens of taxi drivers angling for a fare. I am now officially impersonating a plumber for the next month pursuant to the fib I told to get my visa. It’s a noble yet apolitical profession, just right for a country where lawyers raise the spectre of those dirty words: human rights. I roll into downtown past golden pagodas and street stalls, pick-up trucks packed with people, amazed at how developed and clean this city is. Although it is home to over five million people, there is a somehow relaxed feel to things . Compared to Bangkok this city is asleep.

My cabbie starts complaining about the government, and I hold fire, unsure what is appropriate in terms of response, and not wanting to find anything out the hard way. We pass an early 90s Lexus (branded Toyota) and the driver gives us a hard look as he takes over our lane. “Military” says the cabbie. “Proud faces and nice cars.” That just about sums it up I suppose. I get out of the cab and pass through the streets. Women and children have a dried yellow paste applied over their beautiful faces. I can’t help but get excited as I know I am a world away from anywhere.

I find a place to stay for $5 USD per night and inquire about changing money. The guidebook said to bring USD but did not mention that Travel Cheques are completely useless and impossible to change anywhere. I think its no problem since I stocked up on some Thai Bhat to have some hard currency on me, but that is also useless. No ATMs. Nowhere will accept credit cards. I am cruising on eighty bucks. Welcome to the end of modern civilization.

No idea what to do, I walk the streets for a couple of hours eating fried food at street stalls wondering how long the cash will last. I didn’t come this far to turn around. I sit at a tea stall and break a plastic stool with my big western ass. Everyone laughs and I have new friends offering me huge Burmese cigarettes rolled in tree leaves, chewing tobacco and tea. I can’t get over how friendly everyone is and I start to tell them that I have to “find money.” This inspires more laughter. I sit for an hour or so and the exhaustion from the heat sinks in. Its been over seven months on the road now and I am tired. Have to find a way to recharge or my body is just going to quit on me. Sleeping is a good way to save cash too.

Before I can go back, one of the men – Haroon – insists that I accompany him to inspect a construction site that for whatever reason he is extremely proud of. We climb six stories, stopping on each floor to tour empty one-room apartments with concrete floors and freshly painted walls. We get to the rooftop and look out over the city with its shining gold spires and dilapidated buildings, some covered in bamboo scaffolding and mesh. Haroon is 65 years old and boasts of his strength. He starts joking around and showing me how he could fire a machine gun and throw grenades from the rooftop. What a start in this crazy place.

We climb down and I say goodbye, promising to return tomorrow for more tea and simulated paramilitary activity. I make my way through the streets finding my way back to my guesthouse without the benefit of any signs. When I arrive I sleep for several hours.

I wake up in the evening and the reality of coasting on virtually no money sets in deeper. I begin scouring the Lonely Planet and asking myself why I carry this book, so heavy and useless. I go to the local market where I hope that some moneychangers hang out, hoping to swap some Bhat. It is closed and I walk the street for a while longer past long rows of men playing checkers, some playing chess, and I find a street stall that looks halfway decent. Dinner was noodles with a fried egg and meat –predominately bone with scraps of the flesh of some animal fused to it. I make my way back to the guesthouse. No power. I shower by candlelight until I knock the bloody candle to the floor smashing the ceramic plate that it is sitting on, not before its flickering light allows me to observe a two inch long cockroach scuttling about the stall among the mosquitos.

This may not sound like Club Med, and I’m not gonna lie: it isn’t. It is however exactly the type of thing that I was looking for after Thailand where everything comes easy, and the money evaporates without a trace. Adversity hardens my resolve. I came here to climb through the hills, visiting the tribespeople between the temples, sleeping in their villages and eating food from their fires. I came here to visit the 800 year old relics of a lost empire on the Bagan plain at the intersection of isolation and distance. I am not about to turn around now. Don’t know what the hell I am gonna do, but I am really determined to figure something out. What can I sell? How can I get some cash? Amazing what I had taken for granted. I knew that this place would be extreme, but this was really a shock – complete disconnection from the rest of the world, beyond anything that I had imagined possible.

The city dies around 9:00 and the power cuts out long before that leaving the streets black, save for the occasional bus lumbering to some far off terminal. People sit in stalls under the hum of the generators, snacking and drinking tea, laughing and talking quietly in the night. I am determined to make this work, having come too far to turn around.

Solutions:

I sleep like a log and wake around 10:00. I try to shake off the burn out from a month in Thailand. I sit and drink coffee until my fingers start to tremble. I decide that I am going to find the black market and raise some cold hard cash. The heat of the day is starting to set in, perfect timing to watch the money changers sweat.

I venture out and find a man with a fist full of Kyat. He approaches me and I feign disinterest. I inquire about changing the Thai Bhat and the Indian Rupees that I have on me and he shows me some rates on his calculator. I haggle a bit and tell him I have to go back to the hotel to get the cash. The rates improve, and I return a short time later with 9000 THB ($300+ CAD) and 3500 INR ($100+ CAD). The value of the money seems completely arbitrary as it is not worth the paper it’s printed on if I can’t convert it into local currency. The man enlists the assistance of a friend who takes me to some dirty little coffee shop where we sit and wait. He turns up later with the calculator and we figure that the cash is worth just under $300 USD (real value closer to $400). I have no choice, but don’t let him know that. I insist on getting USD rather than local currency so the man leaves to raise the money.

I am looking for the angle. I play it cool, entertaining onlookers with the handful of Burmese phrases that I am trying to master. I order a drink and watch as the waiter removes the cap, conscious that a false step could result in me waking up hours later wondering what happened to my money and my passport. People in the coffee shop are watching me now. Two ladies are inspecting the largest diamonds that I have ever seen. One of them leaves and the other is all smiles. She hands me the little dish with the jewels and I take a look. I tell her I need a girlfriend before I need a diamond and she somehow understands so we have a laugh. I return the gems to her and focus myself back on business at hand.

Another man appears and the assistant tells me I am dealing with the “Boss.” He is well dressed and has a stern face but a friendly manner. We confirm the transaction and he peels off $290 USD. I inspect every bill in the light and he laughs at me. Once satisfied, I remove the wad from my back pocket and he proceeds to inspect them in the same way. I tell him that we are not so different after all. At this point I want to take while the getting is good, so I reveal that I have $70 CAD in my belt and he swaps it for another $50 USD. We are buddies now and I start to talk more candidly about what he will do with the money. He tells me about the network, which involves sending people on runs to other countries where they can swap the money back into USD. I am cashed up enough to survive for a while, but not to do what I want.

I ask about a black market for traveller’s cheques and the original man I was dealing with says he knows a hotel that will deal with it. We walk over and I get the sense that someone from the coffee shop is following me. I glance back and can’t tell if it is just coincidence or not. We continue on to the hotel and a lady tells me she doesn’t deal with traveller’s cheques. She recommends another place within walking distance. When I come back out, the guy who followed me from the coffee shop is out of sight but I can’t shake the feeling that he is waiting in the wings. I tip the money changers out for 1000 Kyat ($1 USD). They are happy and tell me they will split it up later. I jump in a cab to shake the situation and head a short distance to another hotel.

I turn up at the hotel and they are pretty straightforward about the transaction. They gouge me with a 10% service fee and then peel off $440 USD and 96 000 Kyat ($100 USD on the black market, $14 769 USD according to the official government exchange rate, but more on that later). It takes forever to count since the biggest note here is 1000 Kyat. I talk to the lady and ask her how she will change the cheques. Same story: send someone to another country and convert them back into USD cash at a better rate. I walk out ready to take on the rest of this country and jump back in the cab. I tell the cabbie to take a little tour and have him drop me a distance away from my guesthouse. I have an immense feeling of satisfaction as I have done something now that I was told would be impossible.

A Note on Money:

The government here has established an official exchange rate of 6.5 Kyat to the US Dollar. There is absolutely nothing to substantiate this as the black market trades around 1000 Kyat for a single USD. It does however raise the question of what would happen if you went somewhere and paid 1500 Kyat for a meal on a credit card. Once the credit card company did the conversion, it would result in a bill of $230 for a meal worth $1.50. Fortunately this is only a theoretical possibility as all the banks and financial institutions packed up and left in 2003 making credit cards virtually useless.

There are a couple of hotels in town that accept credit cards and I viewed this as my primary option. One of the people I dealt with explained that they route their connections directly through another country. In spite of my inquiries, I couldn’t understand how this was possible so I have nothing more to report on the subject.

Aside from the hotel ($5 USD per night), nothing seems to cost more than a dollar. It is amazing that I was successful in raising so much cash in such a poor country. My research indicates that the GDP per capita is about $1700 per annum – ranking Burma at 172nd in the world. In spite of the relative poverty, everyone seems to subsist, and there is even a hint of affluence in some areas (tempered by the frequent power outages) where people drive in big beefy American made jeeps. I will have to go much further afield in order to see the reality of things.

Other Notes:

I have never encountered so many friendly people in such a short time. The sight of a westerner seems to inspire smiles that spread even wider when I come out with min gala bah which is equivalent to hello (though it literally means ‘it’s a blessing’). Mastery of ce-zu tin bah deh (thank you very much) provokes a similar reaction and I try to use both phrases as liberally as possible. I am working on “how are you” and “it is very nice to meet you” but I haven’t got them pinned down yet. Trial and error will no doubt be an experience in itself.

The people here are an amazing mix of ethnicities. Some look entirely Indian, others look entirely Chinese. The ethnic Bamar are an interesting mix of the two, and seem to comprise the majority of those who I have thus far encountered. There are monks and Muslims, civilians and soldiers, and a real mix of everything else. What a vibe!

The Other Side of Thailand

2009-02-25T01:48:00.000-08:00

In the last week I have undergone a Thai culture blitz, taking in everything from remote hill tribes, to the relics of the three ancient Thai kingdoms. It started with a twenty four hour mission from the idyllic islands in the gulf of Siam to the Hills north of Chang Mai. We left the party and the ‘Maurice buckets’ (same as regular bucket but mixed in coke bottles with every bit of the red bull, though a slightly less potent whisky mix) for detox, sweat, jungle and villages in the hills.

Chang Mai:

The airport lounge in Ko Samui was better than most of the hotels that I am staying in. We sat for a while in the open air, soaking up the tropical heat on comfortable wicker furniture, watching tv, and capitalizing on the free wifi. By evening we were back to a weird three bed hotel room with a filthy bathroom – worst toilet imaginable not just because of feces all over it but also because it didn’t flush. When we touched down, there was nothing open and we had problems finding a place to stay (hence the dump we ended up at).

We moved over to better digs the following day and had the feeling to really make some things happen. W started by visiting a Tiger park where we played with some young indo-chinese tigers and got some geat tourist snaps. Pushed on afterwards toward the highlight of the day: a remote local village made up of five different tribes living in loose association. It was really something to see the local people going about their daily business among pigs and chickens and rice paddies. We visited their church and their school - it turns out that intensive missionary activity has resulted in the conversion of up to 80% of the rural population – and made a small donation to help get the kids some supplies.

We spent the majority of the time talking with the locals, some of whom spoke passable English, and playing with the kids. One area of the village is populated by the Karen Tribe, famous for the jewellery worn by its women to produce amazingly long necks by depressing the collarbone over the course of many years. We learned that they had resided in Thailand since fleeing Burma because of the Military Junta and spent a long time talking about their experience. One of our new friends pulled out a guitar and began serenading us in the Burmese language as we sat around watching the mischievous kids running around playing games.

Once we said goodbye to our new friends, we headed back to Chang Mai for the evening. We felt a bit restless from the long car ride back into town and decided to go for a walk around town. We were attacked by a pack of vicious dogs who wasted no time running at us, barking and snarling. They must have seen the fear in my eyes because they grew bolder and came really close with teeth bared. Some sort of animal instinct took over and I brandished my fist and moved toward the pack growling as threateningly as I could. A scrappy little stocky mutt was the leader of the pack, even he didn’t want to test me out and backed off snapping and gnashing his teeth.

Once the adrenaline had subsided, we found ourselves outside a large monastery full of monks walking in their orange robes. We walked around back and found a beautiful bamboo bridge built out over a lilly pond leading to the monastic residence. Before we could even get across, we were called over by one of the young monks who invited us to join the conversation.

We sat for the next couple of hours talking about life, happiness, suffering, material wealth, love, livelihood, focus, meditation, intentions and Terry Fox (a personal hero of the monk’s). The mosquitos began to feast on our feet so we said our goodbyes as the monks flocked into the main hall of the complex for evening chanting and meditation. We followed them in, and sat cross legged on the cool wooden floor, mimicking the monks and trying to focus our minds. It sounds simple enough, but thinking of absolutely nothing is extremely difficult and must take years to perfect. In spite of our inexperience with the application of Eastern philosophies, we emerged with a sense of mental clarity that arose from the nothing (or as close an approximation of nothing as we could possibly achieve).

The monks make a serious impression, talking about how they have eliminated all worldly desires, producing an unparalleled level of happiness from the simplicity of life and the elimination of desire. It is a philosophy that was incredibly far removed from our western lives. The Monks don’t judge and never preach. They aim to produce a conversation where both sides can learn from each other and bring different perspectives on life.

From the monastery we walked through the crowded streets and found some delicious barbeque at the night market. After taking it all in, it was time to move on to the evening’s activity: Muay Thai fights. We arrived at the stadium and though the seats were not all filled, there was a real feeling of authenticity with many locals spectating and gambling. All fighters were gracious in victory, except one, who took the wad prize money in his mouth and ran around the ring, stopping to kneel at each side and growl at the crowd. Maurice and I made friendly bets to the outcome of each fight. Nine fights: Maurice was correct five times, myself only once. Good thing I’ve never been much of a gambler.

Into the Hills:

The following day we made for the hills. We ended up in a group of ten people from various backgrounds and began to make our way up through the jungle to the village. A couple of personalities are worthy of note.

I will start with the eighteen year old English dude named Jay who takes pictures of himself swearing at animals. The first time I took notice of him was when he asked our guide the idiotic question “Why is your name Pot?” (reader to supply thick accent from just outside London).

He followed up by demanding soy sauce for his meal from the sweet old lady who had made it. It appeared that she didn’t speak any English, so he raised his voice and demanded “how can you not have any soy sauce?” Later he revealed that he had never tasted curry before, leading me to wonder how he knew that it would need soy sauce. In any event, he thought the meal was “pretty shit.”

My favourite Jay-related anecdote came on the way up the hill. As we paused in the middle of the pristine jungle to wait for some stragglers, he emptied his water bottle then remarked to me “I don’t see any garbage, so I guess everywhere is the garbage” to which I replied “just give it to me.” He did. I threw it in the recycling later.

The other noteworthy personality from the trek was also from Britain: a girl named Neela who was travelling with her husband. We got well ahead of them and were hearing rumors all the way up that there was someone really struggling with the trail and that she may not make it. Sure enough it was Neela who arrived completely filthy and smeared with mud after vomiting at every possible opportunity on the way up, ultimately leading her husband to physically carry her to the top. Both looked like they had stopped to play in a pig pen but enjoyed the Pink Floyd on the iPod and cheered up a bit.

The three day trek cost 1600 Bhat ($64 CDN) and included all food, accommodation and the activities described below. This inevitably led to some pretty basic meals that seemed to get worse as the trip went on. Breakfast was a plate of cold toast, a boiled egg for each of us, and a jar of jam and a tub margarine split ten ways. Remarkably, lunch was even cheaper and consisted of a large pot of instant noodles. Dinner is always served after dark (can’t see the food…suspicious?) and consisted of a very bean heavy tofu dish and a chicken curry that had no chicken in it.

Throughout the climb we were drenched in sweat, and kept going down to soak ourselves in the river running through the valley floor. There were a bunch of groups on the same track and we quickly passed them as they were taking repeated rests. Those that follow this blog know that I love trekking; I suppose that I have a bit of a knack for it and can keep a pretty good pace. Maurice was no slouch either and we were not inclined to wait around watching people smoke cigarettes while the jungle loomed above us. We had a guide with us who had massive calf muscles from years of climbing. In spite of this, he was not terribly enthusiastic about the climb; I later found out he had consumed several bottles of moonshine the night before. We were way ahead of him and grew tired of waiting at various intervals.

We decided to abandon the guide and find our own way through the jungle. We took a small party of likeminded people with us and headed up the hill past the wild banana trees. One of the girls with us asked us if we were in the army and in spite of my repeated denials, she couldn’t believe that we didn’t have some sort of special ops training. It was quite flattering, and as 30 year old guys, we were happy when we reached the village ahead of the youthful pack of trekkers.

The village itself was as basic as one could possibly imagine. All of the buildings were made of wood and bamboo. There was no electricity and we sat in the candle light by a fire singing songs as one of the villagers played guitar. The biggest luxury we had was the mosquito net in the 16 person bamboo bunkhouse. We relaxed for a couple of hours on the bamboo deck, listening to Pink Floyd albums and messing around with a Thai phrasebook. The locals were quite amused and we had a real laugh as kids tried repeatedly to steal Maurice’s hat as he lay in the sun.

The following day we made our way down through the jungle (think sweat beyond sweat), pausing to swim in raging waterfalls. We encountered a man with a shotgun and he obligingly let me do some macho poses with it. We continued on, trekking across fallen logs, slimy rocks, through bamboo groves with tropical vines cascading out of the trees and tropical flowers appearing round every bend.

That evening, we arrived at the second camp: a Bamboo structure on the bank of the river. It was open faced and had no front wall at all, allowing sounds of the river to mix with the whine of the crickets under a sea of stars. We swam in the river, letting its current pull us downstream, and weary of the elephant droppings on the bank as we climbed out. We built a bamboo fire and ultimately went to bed and slept amazingly soundly. This was a refreshing change as I had been suffering from intense and psychedelic dreams for the last few nights (possibly the malaria pills?).

The following day was as packed with activities as one could imagine. During breakfast the mahouts arrived with three full grown elephants. I dropped 20 bhat ($0.80 CDN) on a bunch of bananas, and the animals ate better than we did, sticking their trunks through the railing to scout the breakfast table for more. Apparently a full grown elephant eats about 200 kilograms of vegetation per day. The bananas are an added treat. After breakfast, we climbed aboard the elephants and made our way through the jungle and across the river, the animals plodding along the bottom as the current washed around their massive bodies. The gentle mahouts talked softly to the animals, coaxing them across the river and up the steep gradients of the banks.

At this point we were still living in our bathing suits and it was a good thing because no sooner than we had climbed off the elephants, we were boarding a white water raft to make our way back downstream. After an hour in the rapids the river flattened out and we moved to a traditional bamboo raft. My assistance was enlisted and I was handed a bamboo pole. Punting is tougher than it looks, particularly as everyone in our group kept standing up and trying to push each other into the water.

After another hour or so in the current, we arrived at the terminus of our trek. We were the first ones there and we lazed around on benches as other groups passed through, carted back to town in pick up trucks. Two hours waiting, time ticking, first to arrive last to leave, finally leave, stop en route, into town over an hour late, grab the packs, make our way to the station and then miss our bus by a half hour. We sit in a dirty little restaurant beside the station with a squat toilet and no bathroom door. We kill a couple of hours listening to locals crooning Karaoke. Frustration starts to sink in, but we put it out of our minds.

Sukothai:

We rolled into Sukothai at about 1:00 a.m. without much sleep on the bus. Upon arrival we hired a bizarre reverse tricycle style rickshaw who took us into town where we found all guesthouses full. We wandered for hours in the night and just when it looked like we would have to crash on our packs on some veranda, we managed to find a place on the other side of town with the assistance of a German and his cel phone. We hauled the packs through the hot night, checking in to an overpriced guesthouse at about 3:00 in the morning.

After some much needed beauty sleep, we got up and jumped on local transit to get out to the historical area. This was a large truck with wooden benches in the back and no glass in the windows. Sukothai is the ancient capital of the first Thai kingdom. For years it grew to fill a void as the Khmer kingdom of Angkor began its decline in the mid 13th century. The new city is nothing special, but the ruins contain the legacy of Khmer architecture amongst the Thai style wats, chedi, and sculpture. There is even an element of Sinhalese (Sri Lankan) Buddhism mixed in for good measure. We rented granny style bicycles and rode through the ruins calling ourselves the “Rough Riders.” We sat for a long time to talk about history, art and religion, as the legacy of all three topics punctuated the view in all directions.

The heat sapped our energy and we decided to call it a day. We were fully within the grip of an urge to keep moving and we hit the bus terminal to find a way down to Ayutthaya, the seat of the third Thai kingdom.

Ayutthaya:

Thai buses are generally modern and comfortable. You even get treats and drinks on board. The private ones are well looked after and even have colourful cartoon characters airbrushed all over them. The problem comes from the good old ‘drop the farang off in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night’ routine. We got off the bus on the side of a busy highway interchange at 3:00 a.m. about six kilometers out of town. The local taxi cab racket was only too obliging in their attempts to assist us in disposing of our money.

This did lead to an amusing incident where I browbeat a guy into a significant discount. Still not happy, I pushed harder only to have the cabbie take a serious dislike for me. We met a couple of Canadian girls, one of whom appeared to be a sever anorexic, and tried to negotiate a group deal. Ultimately, the cabbie took the girls and refused to take Maurice and I, even at his originally quoted price. I suppose that is what you get for standing your ground. We paid a couple of guys to double us into town on their scooters and we whizzed through the dark streets still wearing our packs, straps dangling off the rear of the bikes.

The first place we tried was full, but this time we were fortunate to stumble onto a place right across from the “P.U. Guesthouse.” We were not only amazed that it had space, but also that reception was still open for reasons unknown.

The following day involved more granny bikes as we pushed through the ruins. According to the locals, it was the hottest day in recent memory. We sat in the shade of the temples and soaked it all in. We passed the carcass of a dog rotting on a bridge and moved on to more temples. There were not many tourists, but we did meet two Japanese girls near a Buddha head in a tree. They were all layered up, each wearing two shirts, a hooded sweatshirt, jeans and a crazy hat. Unable to believe our eyes, I called them over and began gesturing with ‘what the hell are you thinking’ type of motions. They explained that they don’t want suntans. Unbelievable. The heat was really draining and we decided to go back for some rest.

After relaxing for a while, Maurice went for a shower. The moment he got into the bathroom, a torrential downpour broke out. We donned bathing suits and went into the deluge, much to the amusement of the locals. We greeted everyone we saw with “Sawadee Kap” (hello!) and they were all smiles at the sight of the two Farang drenched in the rain.

That night we got drunk with a bunch of Thais (the end of post-island detox). The girls really drank us under the table, polishing bottle after bottle of cheap local Whiskey, carefully measured (a capful at a time). They poured capful after capful into glasses, and when the bar closed, one of the girls re-opened it and started feeding us free beers. By the end of the night they had drank five bottles of booze to the eight beers we had between the two of us. We were joined by a preachy Farang from Boston who kept preaching about how things worked in Thailand and responded to anything we said with “how long have you been in Thailand.” He was a total goof and got taken down a peg by one of the Thai girls (by virtue of words far too scandalous and inappropriate for this forum).

He had a charming friend too – Holly – a waste case English girl who bitched the whole time about her Thai boyfriend. She got extremely hammered before she drove off, consuming at least three shots of whiskey and a large Leo beer during our short acquaintance. After spending ten months teaching in the city, she was moaning that if the “relationship doesn’t work out, the whole time I spent in Thailand is a total waste.” She was a real drag and we were glad she was leaving even as we tried to tell her to chill out and sober up for a while.

One of the girls went on to reveal that she had just spent a year in a Singapore jail for an ecstasy conviction. Then she showed me some naked pictures of herself on her cel phone. Time to call it a night. Maurice and I had a good laugh as we walked back to the hotel, ready to move on in the morning.

Back in Bangkok:

Bangkok is a city that is difficult to escape. It takes over and doesn’t let you up for a breath. There is a 24 hour carnival atmosphere and crazy sights every time you turn your head. We rolled into town with less than 500 Bhat ($20 CDN) between us. Neon lights, traffic, farang, souvenirs, touts, tuk tuks, buckets, chaos. We found ourselves some digs in the center of the action. What a fast city.

We had a few last minute things to take care of so we headed back to the Khao San road. The variety of things for sale is completely overwhelming: fake IDs, tasers, wooden frogs, knives, ninja stars, t-shirts, Burmese cigarettes, buckets of booze, Buddhas, Elephants, novelty lighters, swords, beer, fake dreadlocks (which my hair is unfortunately too short to support).

We targeted some souvenirs and made our way through the shops between the impromptu booze bars that take over the sidewalks. We watched rats rob a temple of the rice and fruit left in a shrine by the devout. We passed through a crowd of Thais who were waltzing in the street wearing numbers on their backs, ran into a couple of guys from Scarborough, and headed to the night T-shirt market.

The shirts are really edgy. Every stall has at least one with a naked model flipping the bird. There is a random assortment of strange messages everywhere you look: Spray Walls, More Beer, Pimp Shot, Freak, Over Scene, Who am I? We walked in the streets until late, sampling the local brews (Singha, Chang Beer, Archa Beer) out of the 7/11.

The next morning, we got up and hit the MBK mall which was a bit of a disappointment, particularly since many things cost more than they would back home. We ate at “Santa Burger” which was really slow and had some of the most piss poor presentation imaginable. Couldn’t figure out any logic behind the Christmas theme, but the burgers were tasty and cheap though. After lunch we rode the Sky Train to nowhere and then both fell asleep in a cab on the way home.

One last night, a couple of final details to take care of, a couple of last beers, goodbyes to friends, and Maurice left for the airport. I am back on my own again, though I feel I know half the Farang in Bangkok as a result of our exploits over the last three weeks. I am sick of talking about money with tourists, and eager to get back to the unknown: Burma. I am stocked up with new t-shirts that have never felt the wrath of an Indian dhobi-wallah. I have a new pair of knock off sandals with big treads that I plan to wear down over the next few months. Simple things.

The world beckons and I am getting ready to fall back into it…

The Biggest Party on Earth

2009-02-19T04:00:00.000-08:00

There has been nothing on the blog for a while. The reason for this is not laziness on my part but rather the fact that I have been travelling for the last couple of weeks with Maurice and did not have the inclination to spend much time online. Instead, we have compiled the following account of our activities. It is lengthy and will not appeal to everyone. On that note, I advise discretion before continuing as the following sets out a sordid chronicle of vice and debauchery that is not for the faint of heart.

In a complete and total reversal of everything that I have done for the last three months, I am emerging from one of the biggest parties on the face of the globe. Lazy days lying on the beach mitigate the damage done by long nights with thumping music. We found our way back to Ko Pahgnan which was absolutely packed with Swedes, but also lots of Israelis, and the odd Canadian, American or Australian. Regretably, there was a lot of topless scandanavian women playing paddleball on the beach.

Maurice and I took it pretty easy, but most other people drank a bunch of buckets filled with Sang Som whiskey, Red Bull and Coke. In fact, you can bring any quantity of any alcohol in any vessel (glass, bottle, bucket) to any location on the island without any questions asked. It makes for some pretty wild debauchery.

There was a good crowd with us, and all were great but peculiar in their own ways. We met most of our gang in the back of the pickup truck that we rode into town. They were Canadians who loved each other for most of our time on the island before the emergence of extreme personality conflict toward the end, including at least one exchange involving a great deal of profanity and insults.

The two Canadian guys were real pieces of work. One had worked in a variety of hostels and proudly held the title of “Laundry Room King” for those of his exploits that did not take place in showers or toilets. He stayed out until 6:00 a.m. every night, but could never account for any of his behavior after being ‘separated’ from the group (i.e. ditched).

The other Canadian guy was no better, and specialized in drinking 26 ounces of liquor each and every night. This resulted in colourful behavior and he was certainly not afraid to scream “Fuck Off” whenever he deemed appropriate. He came to our hotel room one night and when I opened the door, he burst into the room and began doing barrel rolls all over the bed until he fell off. He also kicked Maurice and I off the bar stools that we were dancing on (quite inexplicably) . He had a sweet tattoo of a car and a truck on his left arm. It said “O.E. Mopar or No Car.” We grew weary of his behavior and ultimately conspired to ditch him as well (with great success). One of the british girls we met really liked him, but I suppose that is none of my business.

The Scene:

On our first night in Ko Phagnan, we decided to attend a ‘pool party.’ This is another term for a wild free for all with soaking wet people running all over the place. It featured a cement hole filled with a murky mix of piss, alcohol, drunks and possibly even water. As Maurice and I watched the spectacle a dunk guy entered the pool with a big splash. Assuming he jumped, and displeased by the amount of the above mentioned fluid that wound up on my clothing, I shot him a look. Moments later, I was approached by another drunk who demanded to know why I had pushed his friend in the pool. I replied “who is your friend?” and he pointed to the very drunk who had splashed me. I explained that I had done no such thing, but this proved quite unsatisfactory, and the “splasher drunk” exited the pool to escalate the confrontation. By this point, both Maurice and I were trying to explain that I had been minding my own business, and that the only reason I looked his way was because of the splashing. We asked where they were from and they replied “Burnaby, B.C.” so I said “Canadians” and offered a high five which was accepted. This went a long way toward diffusing the situation, though I was unable to persuade the drunks that I had not pushed anyone in the pool.

Every night, the beach is covered in people playing with fire. Some are sober and some are drunk. Mr. Truck Tattoo consumed a large quantity of Kerosene and blew it out of his mouth onto a flaming torch several times. Apparently, kerosene tastes like “shit.” He survived unscathed. Others were not so lucky. I saw a guy with a burnt shirt drinking a bucket. I approached to find out what had happened. He told me that it was only a flaming jump-rope accident. He showed me the burns on his torso and said it was no big deal and that I needn’t concern myself. Though his shirt was in tatters, I replied that it was “hardly noticeable” and went back to join my group.

On this note, I should mention that there are an amazing amount of injured tourists here with everything from black eyes to broken legs to cuts, scratches and scrapes. We have started documenting this but find it hard to keep up with the number of bandages and neck braces that we see on a daily basis.

Ko Phagnan is a strange place. Muay Thai fights and pool parties are promoted by a truck driving around alternating between the Final Countdown and a bizarre Fereng voice promising “the night of your lives” and spectacular fights. One of these included a 320 pound man imported from America to fight two thais at once.

The Full Moon Party:

The full moon party itself was a wild affair. Estimates range from 20 – 30 thousand revelers on a small stretch of beach. There was an ample quantity of alcohol to satiate the crowd, but unfortunately, not nearly enough toilets. Seeing as the party happens right next to the ocean, the water becomes very murky and extra salty as guys stand and girls squat. It didn’t seem to bother the nude scandanavian guy who was dancing on the stage. On this point, it would seem that scandanavian women take off their tops during the day, while the men wait until nightfall before exposing themselves.

Some people were really out of control and there was nothing one could do to inspire better judgment. For example, a drunk girl staggered up to Maurice and began flailing her arms around furiously in a possible attempt to dance. She soon collapsed to her knees. Feeling that this was not appropriate, Maurice helped her back to her feet only to have her collapse again and again each time he attempted to assist. He helped her off the stage and threw her back into the rabble.

A swarm of thieves patrol the beach looking for easy prey during the party. They are quite professional, but Maurice and I thwarted a couple of attempts by keeping our wits about us. Maurice was the prospective victim of a lovely lady-boy and had to forcibly remove his/her hand from his pocket. I, on the other hand was pre-emptive and observed a guy scoping my pockets. I waited until he made his move, then turned around, stuck my hand out and said “Hi, I’m Johnny.” He was startled, but removing his hand from the vicinity of my hip pocket he shook my hand and withdrew sheepishly into the crowd to find a drunker target.

This was not the most appalling ordeal I had to face by any means. In a far more traumatic incident, a girl snuck up behind me and forcibly ripped the stuffed monkey from my back (why was I wearing a stuffed monkey???). I whirled around, immediately identified the culprit who had already taken flight. I grabbed her by the arm and spun her to face me, gripped my monkey and removed it from her clutches, uttering something to the effect of “don’t touch my monkey.” She was deadly embarrassed and I then realized that she had co-conspirators lurking nearby. I offered to have a drink with them, but they slunk away shamefully.

The aftermath:

I did not make it to sunrise, but Maurice did, and was able to observe the beach is strewn with bottles, buckets, cameras, money, cigarette butts, and drunks sleeping soundly on little sand pillows. People come to scavenge the beach for valuables among the chaos left over from the night before.

The morning after a full moon party is really a spectacle to behold. There was a man-girl fight that was broken up despite the fact that she really wanted a piece of him. The dude stood there sheepishly and accepted the barrage of insults too scandalous to print, accompanied by lots of crotch grabbing and other tasteless behavior.

I have it on good authority that there was a girl approaching drunk men passed out on the beach and picking them up (literally) at around 9:00 a.m. as she continued to drink buckets. I think she had five buckets. She also picked up a stray dog, but at least she didn’t try to make out with that.

On another occasion, the same girl stumbled home to find her own room occupied by a bunch of girls. She decided to try the room next door and found it to be occupied by two sleeping men. She proceeded to wake one and ask if its alright if she shared his bed. He acceded to the request and she lay down. Shortly afterward, she decided that the morning might be a little awkward, so she returned to her own room. At least this was better judgment than the other girl who passed out on the lawn.

Ko Samui:

We went over to Ko Samui to meet a couple of American friends for a night out. We decided to take a day tour, during which we met a variety of people. Upon seeing a couple of them later, I said hello. This led to an evening where they stuck to us like a couple of parasites, intervening in any interactions we had, and particularly those involving our friends. Both Maurice and I began by subtly telling them to relax. After he attempted to steal the bug spray from behind the front desk of our hotel, only to be chased out by a very angry thai man, we had to escalate to the point of harsh criticism followed by firm yet polite requests that they move on. None of this worked. At least we got a laugh at the plumber butt on the lady-boy they introduced to our little group.

When we met our friends, we wound up at the “Monkey Dance Bar” that served us all overpriced beer, only to kick us out ten minutes later since they wanted to close. It was an interesting place and had a fountain with two monkeys sculpted in a manner that led them to piss on each other. It was a great night nonetheless, complete with a fireworks display, equally as unexpected as spectacular, and some great company, parasites aside.

We closed out the night at “Reggae Pub” on the recommendation of a security guard who recommended we go to “Lickie Bar.” I knew what he meant instantly as this was not the first time someone had refered me to a “Lickie Bar.” Back on Phangan, the manager of the hotel had told me to check out “Lickie Bar.” I repeated this to him several times and, still baffled, asked him to spell it. He remained silent and I started saying “L?” (ya) “I?” (ya) “C?” (ya) before realizing he had no idea how to spell it. I then asked him what the next letter was and he smiled and said he didn’t know. The breakthrough was produced by his decision to say “you know, lickie music” which he accompanied by pumping his arms. “Oh, Reggae Bar!” – Suffice to say that the second time it came up I had no problems. \

Wild times, but they are over now...From the islands we headed up into the hills away from civilization and even electricity...I will save it all for the next entry...

Final Thoughts

2009-01-30T23:21:00.000-08:00

I leave for Thailand tomorrow. Sad to leave India: yes. Ready to leave: yes. I am eager to get back to higher standards, away from urine, feces and garbage. I have greatly enjoyed my time here, though if I stay any longer the horns, smog, traffic, garbage, and constant haggling are bound to taint the overall experience. Ironic that my perception has changed such that Thailand now appears a bastion of cleanliness and organization, but I suppose that is what a couple of months in India will do.

Before I go, I can't resist making a couple of comments about some of the more quirky things that I have observed over the last couple of months.

Service:

Room service in India is one of the strangest things that I have ever experienced. In fact, when hotel staff come to a room for any reason, it is their policy to first knock on the door, then open it without waiting for the occupant to answer, and enter the room. This leads me to wonder why they even bother knocking. Also, it would be more acceptable (though still completely unacceptable) if they were to follow this course only when attending the room at the behest of the guest. The bizarre nature of the practice is compounded by the fact that they enter the room unannounced and unsolicited for any number of equally bizarre reasons.

Waiters have some equally bizarre habits. Upon arrival at a restaurant, they provide menus to diners, then stand over them watching and awaiting the order. Sometimes they assist diners by turning the pages of the menu for them and randomly pointing out various things listed. On two specific occasions, I ordered something that was unavailable, but rather than disappoint me the waiter said nothing, disappeared into the kitchen and re-emerged later with a completely different dish. Once presented, I would comment "this is not what I ordered" only to be informed at that point "we NO have chicken tikka masala" I would then tuck in to some altogether different food rather than waste time adding to the confusion. The waiters generally stand watching you eat with their hands tucked behind their backs. They sometimes make conversation with you while you are chewing your dinner, and in some instances are unafraid to belch or pick their noses in a manner most conspicuous.

Barbers are another service oriented business that operate in a strange and amusing way. As readers of this blog already know, I have been growing an elegant beard lo the past three months in addition to cultivating a most attractive mop of hair. I decided it was time for a trim and found an english speaking barber. I explained that I wanted to preserve as much beard/hair length as possible as I had been working on it for quite some time. He indicated he understood and then proceeded to deprive me of the fruits of all my efforts. I didn't complain as the barber was smiling and head bobbing, apparently quite pleased with his work. As a result, my physical appearance once again approximates a state of near normality.

Having said all that, I realize that there is perhaps no better way to describe the strange and wonderful things that make this country tick than a brief synopsis of some of the news stories I have had the pleasure of reading over the last month. I have tried to classify them into categories for the reader's benefit.

Kite Related Deaths:

A group of children stoned another child to death in a dispute over a kite on the eve of a wild kite festival that engages large swaths of the country. No further details proffered.

In another instance during the same week, an adolescent was killed after falling from a roof while chasing a kite.

Booze Related Deaths and Beatings:

A man attacked and killed his mother when she refused to provide him with 25 Rupees ($0.63 CDN) for his daily dose of Hooch. The man was drunk at the time and is now apparently remorseful.

There were dozens of deaths occasioned by drinking Hooch, which is home brewed liquor, and without summarizing all articles on this topic, suffice to say that it is a significant problem resulting in multiple deaths at parties.

In another incident, a man who had begun to run a booze can out of his first floor apartment administered a savage beating on his landlady with the assistance of his clientele. The weapons used were sticks and steel rods.

Tiger Attacks:

A girl was mauled by a tiger that had strayed close to her village. Thinking that it was a dog, she tried to frighten the animal away only to suffer a brutal attack that was interrupted only by villagers beating the animal with sticks and stones. One of the rescuers was also mauled, though not as badly. The animal was tranquilized, but sadly died, as too much tranquilizer was used.

A fishermen on the Sunderbans was attacked by a tiger that had been stalking his party all afternoon as they collected crabs. His brother leapt from the boat and beat the animal with a nearby stick, scaring it off into the jungle. They then took the victim to a hospital two hours away in their fishing boat. He may yet recover, though he is missing large portions of his face.

Miscellaneous Deaths:

An experienced long distance swimmer took to the water to commemorate the victims of the Mumbai attacks by swimming between Mumbai and an outlying island. He was killed when he was caught in a fishing net.

A 57 year old man took it upon himself to propose marriage to his 10 year old neighbour with whom he had always shared a "close" relationship. Upon hearing of the proposal, the girl's father and eight other neighbours tied him to a tree and beat him to death.

The Hippocratic Oath:

A mother was admitted to hospital to deliver her baby. When she was unable to pay the 4500 Rupee ($112.50 CDN) bill, the doctors imprisoned her in the hospital to work as an ayah (cleaner). They sold the baby for 1.1 lakh Rupees ($2750 CDN) to a child trafficker even though the woman's husband was begging them to structure a payment plan and release his wife.

Another woman who was set to go into labour was turned away from several hospitals. She went to the train station to try to get back home but went into labour before the train's arrival. Upon seeing this, other women cleared the men away and formed a circle around her in which they assisted her in delivering the baby. She was then admitted to a hospital that was sympathetic to her situation.

Provocation:

Several shocking articles chronicled the rash of sexual assaults that seem to plague the country. Choice articles are those that claim the assailant and the victim are equally to blame i.e. she was dressed provocatively and thus inflamed the passions of her attackers. Some also suggest that western women should not dress so provocatively (t-shirt and shorts) if they want to avoid being the victim of the "uncontrollable urges of youth who cannot be held accountable for their inflamed desires." The "fairer sex" (as women are commonly referred to) do not fare too well, and perpetrators often escape justice as the victim returns home prior to trial (if there is one at all).

Prevention:

Railway police in the Bihar state have begun performing monthly Pujas in order to combat crime on trains. Foolproof.

Disclaimer:

This is of course a brief summary of a months worth of bizarre news articles. Bear in mind that I do not read the paper every day. Also worth of note is the fact that the news generally deals with issues such as politics and the economy and that I have handpicked the above articles because they stood out. They do not represent the standard news story, though there are generally one or two a day that are sufficiently strange to attract my attention.

I do not propose to offer any sort of overarching conclusion to summarize my time in India, and must admit that I would not know where to begin. Rather I am looking down the road to the next adventure. I will keep you posted...

From Jungle to Jungle

2009-01-25T23:11:00.000-08:00

The rolling hills of central India are where Kipling set The Jungle Book. Exploring the region was all I had hoped for and provided a well needed break from the general chaos that is India. In the Kanha Wildlife reserve, I managed to see most of Kipling's characters including a tiger, a leopard, a jackal, a sloth bear, wild boar, elephants, indian bison, monkeys, deer, eagles, owls, vultures, tons of other birds. No wolf boys though.

The way back to the city where I would catch my train was almost equally as colourful. I am always amazed what the villagers bring with them when they travel. One lady pitched about a half dozen empty water bottles into the bus and then hobbled on carrying a bag stuffed with more. Others turned up with small bundles of broken wood, presumably to burn later when making dinner. I don't know why these items must be transported for hours as they seem readily available pretty much everywhere. The highlight of the trip was an irate man who berated the conductor, ticket collector and luggage boy for about twenty kilometres. My grasp of Hindi allowed me to discern that he was outraged over the 20 rupee cost of the trip and the fact that the tourists had seats and he did not. He did smile at me and head bob though, so I guess there are no hard feelings (just headaches).

Going to Varanasi is always an experience. The train is jam packed with pilgrims bringing all sorts of things, including a man who at first I believed to be dead. He was carried to the side of the track on a blanket with four guys holding the four corners. He then lay on the platform motionless as a swarm of flies crawled all over him. Eventually I saw his head lift slightly, but this was the only indication I had that he was alive. Even Indian people were giving him strange looks.

As my train drifted through the dawn light to the holy city of Varanasi, I got up to watch life pass by in the fog. As we rolled into town there was a lot of activity and dozens of people defecating on the railway tracks. I got off the train and checked my bag before wading through a sea of predatory touts and making my way to the ghats for the day.

I walked for a while and stopped to go watch a couple of bodies burn. It really amazes me to think that they have been burning bodies here at all times since I last witnessed it three years ago. It had the same effect on me as it did last time as the smoke rose up and mingled with the mist over the river. The action never ceases with people chopping wood, building pyres, unloading boats, carrying bodies, washing bodies, decorating bodies, and finally, burning bodies. Though the burning ghat is a sombre place with people weeping quietly to themselves, it is full of sound as bells chime from the small mandirs, axes tear into the banya logs, and trains of pilgrims chant to send the deceased to the realm of Shiva.

I sat near the ghat and sipped chai from a little clay cup as the charred bodies were consumed by the flames. Life around the ghat is very normal and within fifteen metres of the flames you can find chai stalls, men getting shaved, shops, hotels, restaurants, boatmen, and dhobi wallahs to name a few. Cows wander all over the ghat itself as stray dogs chase stray goats. There are flowers everywhere and lots of colour. Ultimately these fall to the ground and people sweep them up into big piles along with the shit of all the animals.

I proceeded down along the ghats to check out the rest of the action. As usual, there is some sort of festival going on here, meaning that there are endless crowds moving in every direction creating a colourful spectacle as they work, bathe and pray. Lines of beggars hold bowls out for the rice offered by pilgrims and boatmen approach me every five metres offering trips out on the river.

This place is truly unforgettable and I am happy to have come back. It is like nothing else in the world.

God's Country

2009-01-18T06:09:00.000-08:00

The state of Kerala is known locally as "God's Country" and with good reason. After passing through Hubli, the self styled "city of industrial valves," and enduring the the usual railway fiasco out of Mumbai, I spent the last few days in the impossibly idyllic landscape that gives rise to the nickname.

I started in Cochin which is an ancient trading hub that for hundreds of years has attracted merchants from all coasts of the Arabian sea and beyond. Many have left their influence giving rise to a variety of interesting features. There is a significant Christian influence here, first brought by the Apostle Thomas shortly after the death of Christ, that has continued to this day. This stands in contrast to the Roman Catholicism and Anglicanism brought later by the colonial powers. In addition, the local Islamic tradition may be distinguished from that of the north in that it arrived here on ancient ships and took root through cultural exchange as opposed to conquest as was the case in the Mughal north. These traditions exist alongside indigenous traditions including a bizarre ritual of spirit possession (where people go nuts) to complete a unique mix of religions views and practices.

Worthy of note is Marco Polo's account of some unusual customs in the region. He points out that Indian people have a unique method of drinking from bottles, where the drink is poured into the mouth and gulped without touching the lips. He noted this (the original blog) when he visited south India in the late 13th century. The custom is still widely practiced. Some things never change.

The cantilevered Chinese fishing nets that dot the backwaters provide further evidence of the mix of cultures. It is really amazing to watch the men engage in their ancestral profession, pulling fresh fish out of the water and fending off the hungry sea birds. You can then purchase the fish by the kilogram (rates negotiable) and take it to a number of local restaurants who will cook it for a fee (not negotiable i.e. what are you gonna do with your fish if they don't cook it).

The state of Kerala is ruled by a communist party, freely elected, and seemingly quite popular. There are party propaganda posters at every turn bearing hammers and sickles alongside images of Lenin and Che. I don't see the typical communist attitude though, and if anything, this area is quite a success story, boasting a 91% literacy rate and one of the highest standards of living in the country.

The landscape is the major draw. Outside the cities you are surrounded by lush green fields fringed with palm trees. I spent a couple of days exploring the backwaters in a canoe and on a converted rice barge. It is amazing to see village life up close, especially some of the industry that sustains it. To this end, I was taken to a village where I watched women making rope out of coconut fibre. Eight hours of work generates a lot of rope, allowing three people to divide the spoils of the labour: 135 Rupees ($3.40 CDN). The whole enterprise is amazing from an economic perspective. In spite of an abundance of local coconuts, the raw fibre is imported from the neighbouring state and purchased in bulk. Once turned into rope, the product is sent on to a factory and turned into other products. I am also informed that the global economic crisis had hit this industry quite hard as people are spending less on doormats and other items that are made from the rope.

After some more cruising through narrow waterways, we stopped for a break and some coconut juice. One boatman climbed a 15 metre tree and lobbed a number of coconuts from the top. My boatman then produced a large scythe, held the coconut in one hand and proceeded to hack away violently until there was a hole big enough to accommodate a straw. I am surprised he still has all ten fingers.

The next day's cruise covered about 80 km from Kollam to Allepey the "Venice of India" according to Lonely Planet. This would be an apt moniker if Venice got knocked down and reconstructed out of concrete and rebar, then smeared in shit. The cruise was amazing though, passing through lush green fields as hundreds of fish eagles circled above us, periodically plunging from the sky to scoop up a snack.

Rural India has certainly been a highlight for me this trip. It is really a different world that I don't think many tourists bother to consider. You can keep the Taj Mahal: for me watching villagers lay their crops on the road to be crushed by passing cars and trucks is in many ways more memorable (btw - motorcycles generally attempt evasive maneuvers). The lush green dotted with birds and bullocks and farmers is really unforgettable. Watching a man plough his fields with a team of cattle is like going back hundreds of years. Its certainly a long way from the inescapable squalor of the cities.

And now for some random observations that I simply need to get off my chest:

Laundry:

Laundry in India is big business. Those with enough rupees pay dhobi wallahs to thrash their garments back into submissive cleanliness. This entails soaking the clothes in soapy water, smashing them repeatedly (and quite energetically) against a rock, rinsing and repeating numerous times. The activity generally continues for hours at a time, and sometimes filthy river water is used at all stages. I cannot figure out what the smashing part is supposed to accomplish, but it is certainly fun to watch.

Light Switches:

I can't understand how you can have more light switches in a room than you have lights. Not just a few more but many more. This is generally in addition to the master switch outside the room and the panel behind the reception (which often boasts hundreds of switches). I have yet to encounter any switch that is marked, and employ a system of trial and error. This often involves leaving my room and descending several flights of stairs to petition the desk clerk to switch on power to the switch that controls the switch that operates the hot water heater (which may or may not work anyway).

How are You?:

The default response to this question appears to be "fine" no matter what the circumstance. I have asked this question at least a hundred times, in all corners that I have thus far explored, and have received only two incorrect responses: "good" and "ok." Everyone else is "fine," and the populace in general apparently remains that way all the time, no better, no worse. In one instance, a man who did not understand the question had it translated by our driver and the only part of the translation that I understood was "I'm fine." The man thereafter immediately offered this as his response. There must be some sort of national policy behind this as it seems to transcend geography, wealth and caste, and most interestingly, mood.

Men:

Holding hands is old news; other easily observable man on man behaviour includes sitting on each other's laps, spooning while standing in line, public massages, complimenting my physique, reaching into someone else's front pocket and cuddling around the shoulders. I withhold further comment.

Well, now its off to parts more remote to make good on my jungle ambitions. Only two days of virtually uninterrupted train travel to get there. Off I go...

Old Fashioned Complications

2009-01-10T05:46:00.000-08:00

Everything is always complicated. I mean, ya, its India and I know that means I can't expect the same standards, but does it really have to be so complicated?

Try renting a motorcycle for example. You can't actually rent one, but rather have to buy it and sign a contract that the vendor will later buy it back from you for a stated amount. This will permit you to then rent the bike from the vendor for a sum in addition to the purchase price, reservations must be made in advance.

Reservation of the motorcycle requires a large deposit. The vendor does not accept credit cards. I attended the ICICI Bank in person, and was advised that I could not withdraw any funds without attending at my bank in Canada. After fighting my way through the bureaucratic ineptitude, sorting out the deposit and reserving the bikes, I continued my extraordinarily complicated oddessey through the world of Indian banks.

Purchase of the motorcycles entailed coming up with a cash deposit for the entire purchase price of two motorcycles (55 000 IDR or $1375 CDN). Since most banks dispense a maximum of 6 000, 10 000, or 15 000 Rupees, this required visits to several banks. I couldn't use any however since I had already used my card in a machine that very day to withdraw the whopping sum of 6 000 Rupees ($125 CDN). In the end, I ended up countersigning all of my traveller's cheques as tender for the purchase, rendering them useless in terms of security. But we got the bikes and all was well.

Motorcycling in India is crazy. There are some informal guidelines to get you safely to your destination, but not many. Among my favourites:

1. If it is bigger than you, it has right of way
2. If a vehicle flashes its lights it means "I'm comin' through"
3. Speedbumps are frequent and unmarked
4. Signs are mostly Hindi
5. Stated distances sometimes increase the closer you get
6. Cows are a wildcard in traffic
7. Trucks are not afraid to hit you
8. You can drive anywhere on the road for any reason
9. Honk whenever possible

The bikes were a total blast, though some situations were a little hairy. Also, it would have been nice if they did not stall while idling, since they operated on an unreliable kick start mechanism that would inevitably not co-operate when the light turned green and every Indian with a licence was sitting behind me honking.

Other modes of conveyance are no less complicated than getting a motorcycle. Getting from one place to another often takes more than five vehicles (including rickshaws) and upward of 24 hours. This is not only for journeys between small towns, but also out of Mumbai, which makes an excellent hub since it has a tourist office in the train station. This allows the ticket vendor to access the tourist quota tickets, a very special privilege that is avaliable only in Mumbai and Delhi. If you are outside of these centres, you generally end up on a waiting list that is confirmed in some instances, and not in others, though you do not find out without attending at the station prior to the departure of the train. Should you decide to refund tickets, you are generally sent from window to window about four times before realizing that you were at the right window in the first place and the guy was just lazy. You then fight your way to the front of a mob, reach through a ticket window, and grab a Reservation/Cancellation form. After entering your name, age, sex, address, destination, point of origin, train name, and train number, the agent generally asks you to provide superfluous information such as passport details etc. You then repeat the procedure to book a new train and days later reach your destination after switching at three separate stations.

Or you can take a page from my book, buy an unreserved ticket, sit on your bag by the doors and pay the fine when the collector comes. I sometimes even end up with a seat!

Some parts of this trip really make me feel like I am going back in time. In the early morning on the way out to Nashik from Mumbai we passed a row of about two dozen bullock carts, each pulled by a team of the beasts. This is the norm, tractors are the exception. There are ploughs that are pulled by animals, and virtually everything is done manually. Small town kids run by rolling hoops with sticks, like something out of an old time movie. In the mornings, women sweep with hand brooms made from a bundle of twigs tied up at one end.

Many of the construction techniques are the same ones that have been in place for hundreds of years. Teams of men dig up massive ditches by hand in order to install sewers or to do repairs. Many of them don't wear shoes. Driving through Karnataka you see large piles of clay bricks built over stacks of wood. Once the pile is finished, the wood is set ablaze to bake the bricks. You can then visit 500 yer old temples constructed of the same type of clay bricks, likely made in identical fashion. Scaffolding is made of bamboo bound by handmade rope with planks laid across it. Ladders are made of similar materials. There are few machines as manual labour is incredibly cheap and plentiful. On the roadside there are people smashing rocks by hand in order to make screening or gravel. Some people here work incredibly hard.

Other people here just stand around all the time. I can't quite figure out what they do, because they appear just to be hanging out. It is not uncommon to attend at a place of business and observe the proprietor surrounded by four or five other individuals who have no ostensible role in the operation of the business, but hang around all day nonetheless.

Then there are the touts, against whom prior blog entries have made sufficient insult. To add to the growing compendium of complaints, I was berated yesterday morning by a tout who wouldn't stop following me. Eventually he began yelling "I know people like you, I know how you are" because I had refused his rickshaw tour, FOR THE SECOND TIME!!!

They are particularly predatory in the little village of Hampi, which is a tourist mecca on account of its ancient temples, jungle setting and boulder strewn landscape. Its really an incredible place, but the downside is its packed with dreadlock hippie wierdos wearing either pyjama bottoms or 'Hammer' pants (i.e. MC Hammer pants) covered in Ohm signs. Temples are amazing though and it is one of the best sites I have ever visited in india.

I am always amazed by what these civilizations have produced, particularly in the face of the dilapidated buildings that are currently under construction. I have reached the conclusion that 75% completion generally passes muster for Indian buildings. As a consequence, buildings often end up with missing stories and rebar sticking out everywhere. Ahhhh rebar. For those of you who don't know, rebar is the name of the steel rods placed inside concrete to give it strength. It is incredibly popular over here. When not sticking out of buildings, you frequently see it getting carted around by men pushing two wheelers. You also see it featured in advertisments next to beautiful women in virutally all metropolitan areas. I can't understand how they put up the Taj Mahal without it.

Well, soon I am headed back to Mumbai and will say goodbye to dad, leaving me on my own again for a couple of weeks. I have some action packed plans, and then off to Thailand in early February for the next adventure.

Mumbai

2008-12-31T22:55:00.000-08:00

No Bollywood movie this time, but in order to promote and sustain my celebrity, I did take the time to make a cameo appearance on the evening news for a soundbite about terrorism and the illusion of security. In fact, Emtiaz and I asked if we could be on the news and gave the interview in front of the Cafe Leopold where the bullet holes are still visible in the marble and in the windows. The plan is to install metal detectors there in order to make everyone feel safe.

Metal detectors in India:

As already remarked by my brother during his time here, metal detectors in India are half-assed at best. A recent article in the India Times newspaper was accompanied by stills taken from a video of the Mumbai attacks, that showed police sitting around recording fictional names of the people they searched without stopping a soul. This is quite typical of most Indian security measures in that you pass through a metal detector, lights flash and it makes a noise like an alien spacecraft, a guard then arbitrarily decides to 'wand' you and upon finding that you have an ample supply of metal objects on your person, waves you onward without conducting any further inquiry. The illusion of security is no security.

The security measures did, however, have a large impact on the new year's activities happening around Mumbai. I went down to the gate of India to watch the fireworks with a squad of international travellers. We were ushered away from the 'family' area and spent the majority of the evening accompanied by a large number of Indian men. There was no organized countdown, but rather several sporadic and half hearted attempts to coordinate one. My favourite instance was the guy who, unsatisfied with the participation in his first countdown, did another one a few minutes later with somewhat more success. We heard firecrackers but did not see any. At 12:05 the police began blowing whistles and brandishing sticks to usher everyone out of the area.

Mumbai has been a great experience thus far. The first day was spent with Emtiaz, getting up to our usual hijinks. Really good fun and we put on a show for lots of locals. A couple of Indian cops asked to borrow our sunglasses to pose for somebody's picture, so we got a snap with them too. We proceeded to the market where Emtiaz haggled and brow beat the merchants while I sat on a stool and watched the hash driven economy unfold as all the sellers approached the gorahs, while others stood watch, observing the motions of various police officers in the area. We ended the day in a large Muslim area with the call to prayer floating down from the minarets, followed by lengthy sermons in the vernacular. We said our goodbyes and I headed back to my hostel in Colaba, located kittycorner to the Taj hotel. I was sad to see the back of Emtiaz, but I am confident that there are several street merchants who felt otherwise.

The following day, I began making arrangements for motorcycles so that dad and I can head south soon after his arrival. This is more complicated than it sounds as rental agencies in Mumbai are scarce and sketchy. In the end, I agreed on a price with a man on the phone and had to deposit 11 000 Rupees in his ICICI bank account. I attended at the bank and was told that I would have to go to my own branch to withdraw the funds. I received no sympathy for the fact that my bank was located on the opposite side of the earth and was told that this was the only way I could get funds. I told the banker lady that I could withdraw the funds from her ATM and she told me that this was impossible. She was wrong, and treated me with a much better attitude when I returned five minutes later with funds in hand. That was one thing sorted.

I returned to my humble abode at the Salvation Army which is something of a backpacker's Mecca in Mumbai. I ended up meeting a good group of people from various different parts of the globe and I have been rolling with them ever since. Some of us took a little sightseeing trip yesterday to Dharavi, one of the most notorious slums in Mumbai, and in all of Asia for that matter. It is located quite centrally and has all types of industries there (from potters, to weavers, to metal workers etc.), producing an annual economic output estimated at around $650 million USD. In fact over 50% of Mumbaikers are said to live in slums.

Upon entering Dharavi, we were initially told by some locals that we needed a permit to visit, but further inquiries of "permit hai?" occasioned blank stares from the organization administering the area, so I decided we should just go it alone. The trip was a truly amazing experience as we passed through narrow and squalid alleyways, swarmed by a contingent of local children who were wild with excitement at the arrival of foreigners. They all had tops which they were proudly spinning and displaying for us as they pushed and shoved each other to get our attention.

We were offered tea by the local 'big men' who are a set of goons that regulate access to the scarce resources in the slum. We declined since they wanted to search our bags, and we proceeded on our way. I diffused strange looks from the locals by headbobbing and greeting all adults as 'auntie' or 'uncle.' This put smiles on many faces and we were well received by friendly people throughout the maze of alleyways and dirt paths. We encountered a group of youths who did not speak much english, but were able to communicate to me their intention to get piss drunk for new years eve. Life in Dharavi appears fairly normal at the surface with complex levels of social organization readily apparrent. Beneath this, underground economy exerts a tight grip on the area though it is difficult to decipher its scope and effects with any precision without a functional understanding of Hindi.

In spite of a lack of sanitation and the general squalor that it contains, Dharavi even had some new year's decorations in the form of scarecrows holding an empty bottles of booze with a cigars in their mouths. Having passed several of these, one of the kids told me that it was Santa Claus. I was confused for a while, but later discovered that it is an effigy of the old year that will be burned to welcome the new. It is thought that the origins of this bizarre tradition relate somehow to Guy Fawkes but apart from the burning of effigies, further connections are not clear enough to me to make any comment.

On account of such forays amongst some of the poorest people in the world, I have accustomed myself to seeing the conditions in which they live; it takes quite a bit to shock me. Dharavi did not do the trick. It was actually quite orderly. The same cannot be said for some of the conditions in Colaba, the main tourist area in Mumbai.

On one occasion, I was walking with a friend for a cup of coffee when I almost stepped on a naked infant lying unattended on the sidewalk. There was a nearby child begging the gorahs, who was the likely custodian of this pathetic little thing. I was lucky not to be scraping baby from my shoe.

In another notable incident I saw three toddlers lying on the sidewalk wearing shirts on top and nothing on the bottom as their mother slept next to them beneath a ragged sari. One was on his back with his legs spread and his genitals exposed to all who passed by. I would not even have noticed, if my Algerian friend had not pointed them out to me. All of the children were filthy and live on the street begging for their parents. It is hard to convey the impression that such experiences leave and I document them not for the purpose of sensationalism, but rather as a record that they exist. These people live an impossibly hopeless existence and are easy enough to ignore. They beg outside as the locals sip expensive lattes in western style cafes. On a side note, I cannot figure out who impregnates these women, many of whom have severe and ghastly disfigurements, as there are rarely men to be found at such scenes.

It may not all be pleasant, but for now I am going to absorb as much of Mumbai as possible until it is time to move on again. No doubt the time will come soon.

Making Our Own Fun

2008-12-26T23:59:00.000-08:00

After passing through five metal detectors, five frisks, a secondary search, five passport checks, and a baggage identification procedure we boarded the plane from Leh and headed back to Delhi over the glorious Himalaya. Emtiaz avoided some of the security that I went through by engaging a customs officer in a conversation about how Canada is the only country to have beaten America in a war. It is a pretty obvious technique if you think about it.

We had a few things to take care of in Delhi, but of course our main purpose was to find, engage and destroy as many touts as we could. This resulted in some true hilarity over the last few days, which promises to continue for the next few. For those of you who don't know, touts are sensational liars who prey on inexperienced tourists for cash kickbacks. Our general strategy is as follows:

We walk into a tout infested area and stage a loud argument about how we have to get to Agra and whether we need three or four nights in the hotel. When approached by a tout, we claim to have just arrived in India and ask questions to bait him into the aforementioned sensational (and often impossible) lies. Having elicited a wealth of spurious infomation, we thank the tout profusely and feign complete and total submission to his every suggestion. We begin accompanying him to whatever travel agency he wishes to take us to, but walk so incredibly slowly that he continually has to stop and backtrack to encourage us to speed up. We never begin descending a staircase until the tout is already at the bottom (unless he is watching). From time to time, we duck behind pillars or into stores when the tout is not looking so that he has to search for us. We take interest in everything that we pass and stop to bargain over any type of object that comes across our path. The objective is to waste as much tout time as possible. The difficulty is maintaining tout interest over a sustained period without doing anything the tout says.

The key is to maintain a high level of interest in what the tout is suggesting and ask lots of questions to bait him further. Once we finally get close to the destination where he and others will rip us off, we concoct an excuse to go on a lengthy diversion and request that he accompany us to continue 'helping.' Here is how it plays out:

We knew of a reliable travel agent at Connaught Place and both needed plane tickets so we set off to that den of touts.

The first tout was a rickshaw driver agreed to a cheap fare, then insisted on taking us to a "government" tourist agency. We demanded to know his commission and he told us that it was 100 Rupees ($2.50 CDN). We had agreed to a 40 Rupee fare so we said that we would go only if he paid us 20 Rupees each and he could keep 60 for himself. He was not impressed, so we told him to pull over near our destination and got out.

The second tout approached us almost immediately and told us that he could arrange a private mini bus to Agra and hotel for four nights (as three was not enough). He refused to discuss prices on the street and insisted that we accompany him to his office a long distance away. We told him that this was fine, but on the way we had to visit Emtiaz's uncle. For this visit, we ducked into the travel agency we intended to visit (which mercifully does not employ touts) and made a couple of airline bookings. All the while, our tout lurked around out front motioning and gesturing through the window. Emtiaz exited first and arranged for the tout to get his ears cleaned by a man who showed up with a stick. We used this as a diversion to escape but the tout paid the ear cleaner, and ran after us. We couldn't stop laughing at this point so it was pretty clear to him that we were messing around. No hard feelings because he spotted a couple more "gorahs" (white people) eating in a cafe. He bade us farewell and began milling around to await his next victim. This was still just a warm up.

The third tout was one of the most flagrant liars that have ever tried to scam me. He approached us and after learning that we had only been in India for one day, told us that the trains were not safe and that Paharganj (the area where we are staying) is even worse, but that we should be ok if we followed his advice and made all our bookings at his behest. He warned us about "very clever people in the tran station that would take money from us" and that we should avoid all travel by rail. I thanked him for his kind advice and we began walking. The sales pitch didn't take long: "I don't stand to gain anything, I just want to practice English" (by telling us that "it would be better" to go with him to a travel agency and book all tickets). After telling him that we liked the sound of his proposal, we told him that we had to meet our (fictional) friend Mark who was at Subway restaurant on the far side of Connaught Place with three Swedish girls. We then argued over whether one of the girls was Norweigan and began to speak to each other in patently fake German. He did not catch on.

After walking to Subway at a snail's pace we were all dismayed to discover that Mark was not there and neither were the girls. We then announced that he must have gone to the bazaar at the other side of Connaught Place. We made our way over stopping everywhere possible, and at one point running down an alley and around the corner when the tout turned his back. After he found us again we entered the bazaar to search for Mark. We couldn't focus on the search though, and ended up bargaining at pretty much every stall we passed without buying anything. The tout became agitated and started asking some of the shopkeepers for commissions. This resulted in some heated Hindi words and we proceeded through the bazaar. The tout told us that we had to leave because the travel agency would close at 5 (then later said 5:30, then 6, then 6:30 etc...). We ran away again and hid in a store for a while, disguising ourselves by trying on hooded sweatshirts. He was too clever though, and found us there too. We continued on through the bazaar and ultimately 'gave up' the search for 'Mark.' We exited the bazaar and stopped for a rest. The ruse was becoming ever more blatant, particularly when the tout began to walk off and was summoned back by Emtiaz bellowing "HEY TOUT!"

He returned, and we headed back across Connaught Place for the third time. When we were finally approaching the agency that the tout wanted us to visit, I suddenly remembered that I had left my camera memory cards at a shop to be copied. We made another lengthy diversion across Connaught Place to pick these up and it became obvious that the tout was becoming increasingly fed up. I probed a couple of the lies that he had told us, revealing several contradictions, then I put it to him that he was lying to us. At the two and a half hour mark, he finally lost interest and with one final lie, he disappeared into the night.

I cannot ennumerate all of the tout related dealing that we have generated as it would make this blog entry unacceptably lengthy. Suffice to say that the above examples are representative. We felt like white knights, exacting karmic justice for all those poor newbie travellers who have fallen victim to the various scams and lies perpetrated by these people. We found also that after the last incident we were having problems securing another tout to mess with. I am certain now that we have gained significant notoriety in the sleazy tout underworld that they are all avoiding us and looking for easier gorah targets.

Delhi has been fun and we have enjoyed some very good meals and hitting the local favourites as much as possible with the exception of a Maharaja Mac at McDonald's. We have some catch phrases that have been going over really well, and seem to amuse the locals. We call kids "Babu" and adults "uncle," and we make a big fuss over virtually all those we come in contact with. We stop and engage anyone who shows the least bit of interest in selling us crap we don't want or need, and enjoy pointing out the fibs of the merchants by demonstrating inadequacies of their sales tactics. I have dismissed both the "burn test" by bending a flame tested plastic belt until it nearly broke, and also the "bite test" by biting my own arm to demonstrate that biting a hide does in fact leave marks.

We have also been doling out compliments indiscriminately, calling people bollywood names, and congratulating them at the slightest accomplishment. To this end we generaly give a hearty pat on the back while exclaiming "shabash" over and over. Shabash means "good job" in Hindi. Its the kind of thing you would say to a kid who brings home a good mark on his report card. I repeated this over and over to a taxi-wallah who managed to get lost no less than seven times in a half hour.

Alas, my partner in crime is leaving shortly so after our grand finale in Mumbai, I will be on my own again...