A Passage to London

Trans-Siberian Express

2008-09-15T23:35:00.009+08:00

Filled with excitement and loaded down with supplies for our longest train journey yet (72hrs) we board the Trans-Siberian to Moscow. Our cabin mates are two friendly, middle-aged Irkutskian ladies named Alla and Nina.

Although only 10am, they immediately pour four glasses of vodka with the merest splash of bitter lemon. Then set about laying the table with a huge picnic of cucumber, tomatoes, a whole smoked chicken, coleslaw and dark bread, and invited us to eat. We tried to contribute our cheese and ham to the spread, but were firmly resisted. They then produced an enormous slab of cheese to add to the already groaning table.

Alla had a smattering of school-taught English, but with our non-existent Russian, our initial broken conversation soon petered out and dissolved into an exchange of smiles and apologetic gestures. Nina laughed easily and, with her red hair and colourful dress reminded us of Gill’s Mum.

In an embarrassing faux pas, I completely forgot the local etiquette of eating a morsel of food in between shots of vodka, and set about fashioning a small sandwich. Gill laughed at me when we realised the error. How English, they must have thought! Our jovial hosts didn't seem to mind at all though, and kept insisting we eat more and more.

Later that day, as the train rushed through the Siberian forest, we found ourselves struggling to read in our cosy upper bunks while the two babushkas napped down below. I noted in my diary that it was only 9am Moscow time, but 2pm in Irkutsk, so we had been awake since 5.30am. All Russian trains run to Moscow time. It felt strange to exist in two time zones. Effectively it meant we could steal an extra 5hrs sleep. With this singular thought I abandoned The Idiot and dozed, jolted semi-conscious from time to time by the slamming carriage door as a relentless stream of apparently incontinent chain-smokers visited the bathroom or smoke-room.

On a visit to this fetid pit, Gill was accosted by a huge Russian man who invited him, using the national hand signal of touching his thumb to his mouth and tipping his pinkie skywards, for a drink with his boisterous friends: "Just men, no babies! (gestures toward me)". Slightly wary of their obvious hardcoreness and of the traditional train drinking culture (anticipating 3 solid days of vodka drinking), Gill somehow managed to decline without causing offense – having also been cautioned against refusing a Russian’s invitation to drink.

At some point we made the joyous discovery of an actual opening window in the narrow musty corridor, which afforded us breathtaking (literally and aesthetically) relief from the monotony of the train. This rare luxury, lacking on any other train since Beijing, meant we could both just about poke our heads out and drink in the delicious fresh air and the riot of greens, yellows, oranges and reds that was the infinite forest. Silver birches grew tall and spindly amongst Christmassy pines, dotted with the odd lonely wooden house. We suddenly realised we had not experienced seasons for three years and relished the autumn landscape and strange feeling that we were almost home.

At Novosibirsk the next morning we said goodbye to Alla and Nina and received two new cabin mates: silent Ivan, an elderly Russian gentleman straight out of a Chekhov play, and genial Max, a young ponytailed drummer, who luckily spoke some English.

We made acquaintance with Andrea, from Venice, who informed us that it has actually been illegal to drink vodka on trains since 2006! I suppose this is another reason why beer is considered a soft drink. During a debate in our carriage on Putin and Medvedev, Max solemnly declared the new president a “muppet”. He of course meant “puppet” and his innocent mispronunciation was the source of much amusement for Andrea, Gill and I, and bemusement for poor Max - and of course Ivan, who barely followed a word.

That evening I found it quite exciting to be passing through Omsk, where Dostoevsky had been exiled, while I was reading his intoxicating prose. The next morning we were greeted by a sleety drizzle, not unlike England, falling on an industrial, grey landscape. Station platforms were populated by dodgy looking characters in sportswear, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. We felt like we were in an even more alien land than ever before in Asia, made all the more surreal by the familiar - yet not - environment.

That night I enjoyed one of the best sleeps of my life - from 9pm, motivated by Ivan’s resolute turning in, until 5am. It felt so much more natural to go to bed with the sunset and arise at sunrise and I felt so refreshed that I instantly vowed it was the start of a new habit. Friendly Max sadly left us at 7am.

It was now day 5 for our socks, unfortunately for our cabin mates. I felt pretty grimy after 3 days on the train and no laundry since Mongolia so I made my own Trans-Siberian banya. I filled an empty noodle bowl with hot water from the samovar and flannelled my entire self clean in the tiny washroom. Now, after my fantastic sleep and almost-shower I feel amazing!

We have so much food. Especially canned fish. When Gill rushed to the grocery store in Irkutsk for provisions I was mid-backpack ransack, searching fruitlessly for the lost ATM card. I called out, “we have plenty of canned fish” (left over from Mongolia), but he heard, “buy plenty of canned fish!”, so we now had 4 heavy cans of sardines, mackerel and mystery fish. Plus, 5 cup noodles, 3 loaves of bread, a huge lump of cheese, ham, 2 slices of ‘pizza’, nuts, dried fruit, a jar of peanut butter and several sachets of instant coffee. This was essential on any Russian train journey on a shoestring, which we were now stretching to its limit with our dwindling funds and incapacity to withdraw more. The restaurant cars are ridiculously expensive (in fact you never see anyone eating in there) and we needed to make our roubles stretch until (hopefully) Western Union in Moscow.

Now we discover that we are fugitives, as we neglected to get our registration stamps by our third day in Russia. Andrea regales us with horror stories of the Moscow police stopping foreigners and demanding huge fines or taking them to the station for interrogation! It’s not actually a legal practice any more, but they use your ignorance as a way of extortion. Andrea suggests we threaten to telephone our Embassy if confronted. Too bad our phone is still broken.

The speakers in the corridor are blaring out 1940s, orchestral folk music, lending a certain film-like ambience to the rhythmically rocking train, filled with larger than life characters with the backdrop of fast-moving Siberian scenery through the grimy windows.

We meet another friendly Russian, called Alexander. Again, no English, lots of gesturing and mass confusion. Like the Chinese they also seem to think that shouting louder will help us understand. Just like the English come to think of it. Brilliant fun and we are actually learning a bit. A few more days on this train and we shall be fluent! And probably slightly demented.
Alexander seems comparatively wealthy (he drives an Audi and is planning a visit London, costing him £500 just for the visa), apparently through coal mining. A self-made man with no education. The Russian Dream!

We learn from Alexander that a plane has crashed into the railway tracks near Perm. This means our train will be diverted via Kazan and I can no longer find distraction and maintain a sense of order by following our route on the map. Right now we are stopped at some random grim station in the bleak concrete wilderness. Three skinhead, adidas branded chavs stand listlessly smoking on the station, like a scene from an English town.

Ivan informs me it is in fact Krasnoufirmsk, just west of the Europe border. For the first time in three years we are out of Asia! On this stretch of rail the carriage seems to be rocking more violently from side to side. Being the last carriage (and us the last cabin) suddenly feels a bit precarious. We discuss the likelihood of a derailment whilst watching the track unfurl rapidly beneath us, and we can only see where we’ve been, from the greasy porthole in the back of the smoke-cubicle.

It seems warmer now we have left Siberia and are now in ‘Europe’ (geographically speaking). Snuggled under my duvet I can see the beautiful green forest of the Ural region unravel like a film-reel between shiny red curtains. Somebody in this carriage is cooking some really stinky fish. I wonder what Ivan thinks of us. We cannot communicate with words. Eventually he brings out a huge glossy photo album and proudly shows us pictures of his son’s wedding. The bride’s smile reminds us of Ina, and all the women look like Esperanza with their uniformly short, dyed red hair.

Day four on this crazy, wonderful, terrible train and Andrea receives word that 80 people were killed in the Aeroflot plane crash, 20 of them foreigners, one of those Italian.

For some time now Ivan has been muttering and fidgeting agitatedly. We eventually gather that the train, on its detoured route, has now bypassed his station. We stop at one of our many desolate stops in between places and in a flash Ivan is gone, with no goodbyes, scurrying across the tracks, probably still muttering to himself. Finally, for the first time, we have a train compartment to ourselves.

I realise I am the only woman in the carriage, except the lazy provodnista. The toilet smells disgusting and there is no paper. We are running 5 hours late, so there goes our day of organising things in Moscow. We are now due at 7pm. Cabin fever sets in. We pull into Gorky at 10am then start rolling back down the same track to rejoin the Ural route. Quite unnerving to be travelling backwards, with a new engine attached to the front of our carriage.

Tired of our cabin, we found the restaurant car and discovered what we’d been missing all along. How romantic. Just how train travel is supposed to be after watching too many old films. We splurged on a beer just so we could sit there for a while.

We try and work out this crazy hodgepodge train. The front part seems to be Chinese, the mid section Mongolian and the back end, Russian. The whole train is empty except for our carriage.

At the bottom of our food bag we discover Pot-Mash. Purchased under the impression it was a pot-noodle we instead found a mysterious powder that, after adding hot water, turned into gloopy, strangely comforting, mashed potato (or Smash) with weird processed meat. It made a nice change from noodles at that moment in time, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

Again I am in love with the gorgeous little wooden houses with their latticed windows and neat piles of firewood, peeking out from dense pine forest, and think how romantic train travel is. Then I remember all there is to do is sleep and eat and my legs crave exercise and I long for the journey to end.

Siberia

2008-09-13T22:17:00.000+08:00

Arriving in Russia after almost three years away from Europe was quite the culture shock. Instead of a sea of curious Asian faces we were suddenly confronted with indifferent Slavic features. It actually felt refreshing to be ignored. The air too struck us as crisp and cold, with a clear blue sky complementing the autumn-coloured landscape.

Irkutsk is possibly the pickpocket capital of the world and we lingered just long enough to buy onward tickets to Moscow and then have our bankcard stolen at the train station before we headed down to Lake Baikal. Not that I am dismissing Irkutsk entirely, we just didn’t have time to explore its more hidden charms...

The Russian holiday resort of Listvyanka on Lake Baikal is a watercolour painting of vast icy blue stretching towards snowcapped peaks. Gently rocking fishing boats provide launching pads for giant swooping seagulls, enticed by the tantalising smell of the endemic omul fish smoking in the market. Ice-cream coloured wooden cottages with fairy-tale latticed windows peep out from the coniferous forest.

After a glorious lakeside stroll we sampled the delicious omul and local beer. Interestingly, beer is actually cheaper than water in Russia, and the tap-water undrinkable. Unsurprisingly, alchoholism is a big problem.

It was then that we realised we’d lost our only ATM card. After a melancholy sunset from our rusted upturned boat we comforted ourselves with a blissfully cosy night in a real log cabin with a view of the lake, big snuggly duvet and the fragrant scent of banya wood smoke.

The next morning we caught the bus back to Irkutsk where we'd left our backpacks with the lovely lady at Downtown Hostel. We took our last shower and stocked up at the supermarket for our three day train ride to Moscow.

Trans-Mongolian Express

2008-09-10T22:11:00.000+08:00

Our cabin-mates for the 24hr “Ekspress” train from Ulaanbaatar to Irkutsk were Lara and Laura from Hong Kong, who were possibly the most well-prepared travellers we'd met in terms of home comforts (Sterling was the most well-prepared in an outward bound, boy-scout way), and most importantly introduced us to the spork.

This time we succeeded in befriending our Russian provodnitsa (cabin attendant); a flamboyant character in a blue uniform, heavy make-up and a big hair-do that grew more dishevelled as the journey wore on.

The journey soon turned into a party when we were joined by James and Sam, two brothers from Brighton ironically sporting shiny tracksuits, moustaches and bottles of vodka (to “fit in”), and the crazy Tiago from Portugal, who out-moustached everyone on the train.

We crossed the border in the middle of the night, and everyone had to return to their own cabins and sober up for the serious procedure. An intimidating Mongolian customs official sniffed around our cabin and demanded to see our vodka (moments before, our provodnitsa had hurriedly made us hide it). Upon production of the bottle he then shut our cabin door, sat down, requested glasses and poured Gill the most enormous shot we’d ever seen! The two of them toasted each other a couple of times (men don’t generally drink with women) and then he was on his way.

After an agonisingly long wait whilst all the Mongolian passengers had their bags searched I fell asleep, being woken sporadically for various checks on either side of the border, until we stopped at a station just inside Siberia at about 2am. Elated we all bundled off the train and were taken by our Siberian cabin-neighbours to a shop outside the station, where we stood in a cage and bought bread, cheese and vodka. You could understand why the woman behind the counter felt safer behind bars.

Russian train travel etiquette demands the consumption of beer on platforms and vodka in carriages. Other rules involve moustaches, tracksuits, carrying your possessions in a plastic bag and not smiling at anyone. One of the Russians partying on the platform that crazy night was Ilya, a drunken Moscovite biologist who spoke some – albeit slurred - English.

The next morning we were awoken by our hungover provodnista requesting a glass of Tiago’s port that had been left on our table. Ilya appeared proudly waving around a fish he had purchased at the last stop, which he proceeded to eat raw. With the arrival of the rest of the crew from last night, who were all continuing on to at least Ekaterinburg (a day later), the party resumed with the stunning backdrop of Baikal lake, mountains and forests of pine trees rushing past.

We arrived at Irkutsk station that afternoon not a little worse for wear, sad to leave our new friends but excited about entering another country - which felt like another world...

Mongolia

2008-09-10T00:30:00.000+08:00

The Mongolian train from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar surpassed all expectations, with a brand new interior laid on for the anxiously anticipated Olympic hordes. Our 2 cabin-mates were Grace from New Orleans and Ted, a Spanish ex-pat - also originally from the US. The ice was quickly broken by Sterling from LA, and over the 30hr journey the five of us formed a fast bond. Once we realised we were all destined for UB Guesthouse, we planned a tour into the Mongolian countryside as a team (albeit without a name, as Grace pointed out).

Excited and loaded up with non-perishable food and vodka the unnamed team set out in a battered Soviet-style van over the bumpy roads (if you could call them that), into the great unknown.

Never have you experienced such nothingness until you have ventured into the vast, rolling Mongolian grasslands. This landscape is incredible, with flat wide green juxtaposed with the biggest expanse of the bluest sky you can imagine. Every now and then a lonesome white ger tent or a stream of wild horses or sheep, yak or goats would provide momentary relief from the agoraphobia-inducing emptiness, and the occasional horseman would suddenly gallop romantically across our path.

It’s crazy to comprehend that only 2.5 million people populate a country over twice the size of Texas (with 1 million of them jammed into the capital, Ulaanbaatar). I really felt like we were exploring new frontiers, and more than once imagined we were in an old Clint Eastwood movie - riding into ghost towns; and that beautiful rolling sky reminiscent of the empty road scene in My Own Private Idaho.

The first night was unanimously agreed to be the best, after our driver searched, at first comically, then slightly worryingly for a passage across an apparently impassable flowing river - in the dark. As if from nowhere, an impossibly cinematic vision of two horses, illuminated by our headlights, rode before us - their riders indicating to guide us.

Following our romantic heroes into the river, our driver completely fluffed it and rammed the wheels into the gravel riverbed and we were ground to a very grim and silent halt. Gunning the engine even more, with all of us piled into the front (Gill’s Italian Job inspired suggestion) didn’t help matters in the slightest. “Shit.” This is the disconcerting reaction from our, until that point, cheerful driver. We opened the door to find icy gushing water about two inches away. A dark moment of reflection passed until somebody decided we might as well crack open a bottle of Chinggis (vodka)! I mean, what else does one do in these situations? After this had been passed around, and Sterling lifted the mood further by serenading the night on his guitar with the “stuck in a river blues”, we resolved to roll up our jeans and wade to a nearby spit (mainly because everybody had to pee by this stage).

In high-spirited disbelief at our hilarious situation, and grateful (as the philosophical Ted pointed out) to be a like-minded group of pragmatists, unburdened by any hysterical types, we larked about in our cold, dark watery predicament, while awaiting the help promised by the two horsemen who rode off into the night.

We managed to gather from our bordering hysterical, but now a little bit tipsy, driver that plan A was not happening, as the driver of the only jeep within 10 miles was drunk. We later found this to be a common Mongolian problem. So instead a motorbike with two riders from our intended destination family ger set off to the nearest village, 20km away, while we gathered our belongings (which was one of those, “what to take/leave behind?” moments that makes you realise how precious, or not, your stuff actually is) and walked 2k in the dark through the woods.

Our arrival was greeted with much enthusiasm considering it was the middle of the night, and we toasted our saviours with another bottle of vodka – dipping the ring finger and flicking three drops to the heavens and touching it to our foreheads before downing each shot. I think indefatigable Bobby at UB Guesthouse had really hit the mark with this place, with regards to our “genuine, rustic” requirements, and the horsemen seemed truly bemused by our presence and simply gazed at us in astonishment.

We literally collapsed into bed, despite the excitement of being in a real ger in a real farm in Mongolia! The next morning a gradual opening of the tent roof flap woke us serenely. Gill and Grace wasted no time by “helping” the lady of the house to milk the cows.

Scrambling blearily out of the mini doorway I was unprepared to be so utterly gob-smacked by the beauty of our surroundings.

Reluctant to be wrenched so abruptly from such a friendly, real living farm (adopt me please!), we piled back into the – miraculously rescued – van and set off towards the White Lake.

Lunch was an unforgettable experience in a wild west saloon style bar, with a long table seating the 5 of us plus 2 amicable herdsmen – who Sterling compared to “Jedis” with their voluminous quilted coats, adorned with geometric Buddhist symbols, secured with brightly contrasting sashes and wide sleeves covering their hands.

These two men were incredibly friendly, the older one with a wrinkled kindly face and the younger a permanent, gentle smile, both willing to make a huge effort to communicate with us despite the massive language barrier.

Another two Jedi walked in, one wearing a classic French-style beret who strangely reminded me of Johnnie Depp. I should mention here how important hats are in the Mongolian herdsmen fashion world. Most wear a kind of felt Peruvian / 1940s gangster fedora, but it seems that anything goes out here, with even the odd baseball cap making a cameo.
The other a silent, nike hat sporting jedi, with a permanent cigarette dangling from his moustachioed lip simply sat and drank vodka with us, generally looking cool.

Vodka somehow appeared, as is customary, and our “host”, the elder Jedi, offered the first shot to Gill, who performed the necessary preliminary ritual to muted approval.
After the bottle had made two rounds everyone was feeling quite merry, and somehow we ended up outside taking turns to sit on their horses!

The Lake was stunning, and we had to cry out to our driver to pull over as we crested the hill just before sunset, and leapt out to photograph that first glimpse of its shimmering blue flanked by craggy purplish rock formations; and the inevitable, infinite and impossibly wide grassland and watercolour sky.

The next day I fulfilled one of my romantic fantasies as we rode wild horses around the lake, or rather were herded on semi-tame horses by a young ruddy-faced horseman named Mumba who let us believe we were in control of our steeds but in fact was the only one who could spur them on to their maximum speed of an infuriating trot.

The Mongolian traditional wooden saddle is not the most comfortable way to learn to ride a horse and I soon felt sore all down my inside-legs from trying to grip the beast in an approximation of the local half-standing style to avoid a painful backside.

It started to rain, and with frantic cries of “Cho Cho!” we bounded exhilaratingly along until we reached our herdsman’s homestead.

Our first glimpse of a real family ger was beautiful, with a colourfully painted wooden interior and yak cheese fermenting in a huge vat and hanging from every available space.

After the obligatory round of shots (yak vodka I think – everything seemed to be made from yak milk), our “guide” spoke the only English word he seemed to posses: “sheep” and pointed to Gill’s camera. OK, we thought, we’ll come photograph your sheep, and the men all set out of the ger. Grace and I made to follow to be met with a bemusing look of warning from the lady of the house...

At another ger a few metres away we discovered the reason for the shocked look: A sheep was lying trussed up awaiting slaughter, with a perhaps even more disturbing companion of a beautiful black dog tied to a pushcart with string, whimpering in sympathy nearby. Right, we resolved, if we’re gonna eat it we ought to be able to at least see how they kill it!

Exactly how was that he made a small incision into the struggling animal and reached his hand in up to the wrist, rummaged around for a painfully long time and finally pulled out what looked like the intestine. This seemed to spell the death knell for the unfortunate creature, which took its last breath and succumbed while its throat was slit. Then came the skinning, and it’s true what they say about a train-wreck – you think you cannot watch but simply can’t tear your eyes away. Ok, now who’s hungry for mutton?! We found out later that it was actually the windpipe he pulled out of its chest.

I probably should have mentioned the staple Mongolian diet of boiled mutton and flour, which was heartily welcomed as a cultural experience at first but gradually declined into taste-bud numbing boredom. In fact, by day 5 Grace and I flatly refused to eat any more meat altogether. I dread to imagine the state of these people’s colons! No vegetables seem to enter their diet whatsoever.

We were all having such fun on our little road trip through the wilderness we decided to extend it an extra day. We thought we had agreed upon a “family ger” (our preference to the “tourist town ger" – basically like camping in somebody’s back garden as we did on our last 2 nights) in between Kharkhorum and UB, but something either got lost in translation or our, by now fairly grumpy, driver was simply determined to get home and we ended up back in Ulaanbaatar on day 6 as originally planned. Just as well really as we had a lot of shit to sort out for our onward journey to Russia, and Gill was sick from some rather fresh arak (fermented, slightly carbonated alcoholic horse milk) we were obliged to drink at a friendly ger stop just before home.

Back in crazy, dodgy, wonderful Ulaanbaatar we sadly parted from our Mongol crew (eventually, organically named “Team Toktoi!” – “Team Cheers”), and boarded the train to Russia.

Xian

2008-08-26T06:44:00.008+08:00

An ancient walled city with a pulsating modern heart, Xian is most famous as the home of the Terracotta Warriors. The subterranean army silently guarded the tomb of China’s first Emperor Qin Shi Huang since 210 BC until they were discovered by a farmer digging a well in 1974.

Sleepy from our night train we checked in to the Bell Tower Hostel housed in the old post office building right in the middle of the city. Opposite stood the eponymous Tower itself, built in 1384 during the early Ming Dynasty. Much of our first day was wasted in recovering from the unforgiving train berths. Fortunately our hostel had a convivial common area with a wide screen TV showing the ubiquitous Olympics, but unfortunately served terrible food.

We did find some wonderful eats in the Muslim district, a vibrant area with oodles of food stalls and restaurants cooking up such delights as lamb xiao long bao (can’t get enough of those steamy dumplings!), noodle soup, some kind of Chinese crepe filled with yummy spicy minced beef and vegetables, shish kebabs and rou jia mo - the closest thing China has to a hamburger, which surely predates McDonald’s by a few hundred years.

Every day at regular intervals the performers of the Bell and Drum Towers revive the ancient traditions for tourists, which seem to be in constant supply - predominantly domestic, but a few foreign during the Games due to the proximity of Xian to Beijing.

We saw the biggest/oldest? bell/drum... erm, perhaps I've spent so long in China now I'm getting my superlatives confused. Well anyway, whatever we saw was very big and old, and the shows were admirably enthusiastic considering they have to repeat them over and again about 12 times daily.

Walking alongside the South wall just before sunset, we came across a recreational park full of people enjoying the clement weather. There were clusters of elderly folk huddled around miniature tables on tiny stools playing mah jong,

mournfully singing birds in cages at the foot of and hanging from the trees,

people played badminton and ping pong or stretched on the extensive jungle gym. I had a go on the parallel bars, to get into the Olympic spirit,

and we stopped for a green tea from a vendor and listened to some rather screechy traditional musicians with an audience of three sleepy old men and us. It was a very peaceful stroll and fascinating insight into the leisuretime of the usually frenetic Chinese.

That evening saw the whole British backpacker community cringing at the handover ceremony in Beijing, and in particular Boris Johnson. I overheard one Brit attempt to explain the strange reaction of the audience to our mayor thus: “Well he’s just Boris… we’re embarrassed he’s our mayor… he’s a bumbling fool who lurches from one massive gaffe to another… but he’s just Boris and used to be on telly so we sort of laugh and go ‘aw, bless ‘im’."

The next day we took the bus to the Terracotta Army excavation site with the lovely Kevin, a fluent English-speaking student who worked for the British Council in Guangzhou, who we’d accosted with a barrage of Chinese language and culture questions in the hostel the night before.

To those who have not visited this incredible, almost incomprehensible sight before, I cannot recommend strongly enough that you watch the film in the “cinema” before rushing headlong into the warrior pits. Without that contextual grounding you might not be able to feel the intense history or appreciate the phenomenal amount of work involved in creating the estimated 8,000 life-sized figures and in painstakingly excavating them.

On the way back to town we stopped off at a restaurant recommended by our Lonely Planet as the best place to sample Xian’s signature yang rou pao muo, an interactive noodle soup wherein the diner shreds flatbread into their bowl before the meaty broth is poured on top. Honestly, what will people think of next in attempts to differentiate their region’s cuisine?! It was all rather tedious and frustrating for this hungry diner and I’m afraid I made the rookie mistake of shredding my pieces of bread too big. Although I think the soup would be bland no matter what size the bloody croutons.

We wished farewell and good luck to Kevin, who was off to Edinburgh University next month, and scampered off to nearly miss our next night-train, this time to our final Chinese destination: Beijing.

Wudang Shan

2008-08-24T06:44:00.007+08:00

Shrouded in ethereal mist and ancient mystery, the mountains of Wudang are among the most sacred Taoist sites in China.

After another epic bus journey across this mammoth country, this time involving a horrific ghost-bus of the nocturnally chain-smoking undead from Shanghai to Wuhan that left us feeling jaded and like we didn’t need to smoke ourselves for at least a week.

Another five hour bus ride took us to Wudang, but not quite the Shan we were seeking. The entrance to the mountain was a sweaty 20 minute walk away and would have been impossible to locate without the help of a honeymooning Chinese couple who kindly led the way for the bumbling foreigners. Our stumbling passage through China has been sporadically lit along the way by a series of wonderful, smiling and helpful locals who, often without words, have provided crucial assistance in times of need and without whom we would surely have been lost in this land of mass confusion.

Another shining example of the kindness of Chinese strangers is the shy bespectacled daughter at what became our regular restaurant in Wudang Shan, who with her tentative schoolgirl English saved us no end of frustration at the neighbouring hotel, securing us first a room and later, train tickets. Her mother, a round and jovial woman, cooked up the most fabulous mushrooms we’d ever tasted – meaty and juicy and laced with fiery chilli - whilst chuckling at our doomed attempts at communication.

The mountain is traversed by a convenient stream of eco-friendly electric buses, carting all the tourists who have paid the entrance fee up and down to all the different sights free of charge. On our first evening we attended a martial arts performance on a pavilion overlooking a lake, by one of the many monasteries. These young monks demonstrated the famous Wudang kung fu (often the martial art practiced by the baddies in old Shaolin kung fu films).

The mountain was crying out to be climbed, so the next day we rose blearily with the sun to get a head start on the marauding hordes. The path wound steadily upwards, with ornate temples and pavilions providing respite along the way for the weary pilgrim. With no crowds, just us and nature with the odd prayer song or incense floating on the breeze, we felt quite serene as we slowly ascended into the misty heights.

Eventually we reached the Golden Hall, at the top of Tianzhu Peak (the highest in Wudang Shan at 1612m), a glorious multi-layered wedding cake of a temple complex, built in 1416 during the Ming Dynasty, entirely from gilded copper.

Taoist monks in their crisp blue cassocks, white stockings, soft felt shoes and tasselled black hats milled about the place looking serene.

We could understand why, in such a beautiful place with the entire mountain range spread out below like a rumpled green duvet. We too felt we had attained, if not spiritual enlightenment, at least a small amount of inner calm during our short time at mystic Wu Tang Shan, and felt ready for whatever fresh madness China had to throw at us next.

Shanghai

2008-08-21T06:21:00.008+08:00

Shanghai at night in the pouring rain is a glistening wedding cake of pink neon, skyscrapers and street-hawkers. It feels buzzing and alive, with a distinct air of excitement - like something's just about to happen.

With the price of city hotels blowing our backpacker budget, we tried our first (and last, said Gill afterwards) hostel, on the Bund. Captain's was efficient, cold and sterile, with a baffling nautical themed dorm, and bathrooms 3 floors away from the rooms, and a stratospheric view of Pudong from the accordingly priced rooftop bar.

The next day we moved to a plain, clean little unassuming hotel, which worked out cheaper than 2 beds in a so-called "youth" hostel, and conveniently located around the corner from Ming Hiker, a friendly, cosy backpacker hostel with cheap beer and free wifi.

I instantly liked Shanghai, with its mix of grand colonial architecture on one side of the Huangpu River brazenly challenged by wonderfully tacky monuments to capitalism on the other, and amazing cheap food. I think I ate xiao long bao (steamed dumplings filled with pork and delicious soup that you have to pierce very carefully or be scalded, as I’d already learnt the hard way in Singapore) almost every day, for breakfast and lunch!

We met up with some friends of mine from Singapore, Mavis and Sebastian, who took us to dinner at a palatial new restaurant that, in the Chinese ostentatious style, was nowhere near as expensive as it looked. We sampled a veritable feast of I have no idea what, but everything was delicious.

Unfortunately, apart from the historic Bund promenade, French Concession (where Seb lives) and Xin Tain Din (a bar district popular with ex-pats, similar to Singapore's Clarke Quay), we didn’t really explore Shanghai as much as we should have. Gill was actually quite poorly for the first few days, from the arctic air-con that first night in the hostel, and then it was just too damn hot or rainy to walk the streets as we are accustomed to. I don’t recommend Shanghai in August, unless you thrive in a sauna.

Of course no visit to China would be complete without the essential advance train-ticket debacle. Firstly, these trains notoriously sell out weeks, if not months in advance what with the rise in domestic tourism and the sheer volume of human traffic in this country. Then, we were trying to get about during the peak holiday period, and during the Olympics. Add to this the fact that you may only purchase tickets from railway stations – mythical places that no taxi driver seems to have heard of, where you queue for an hour and then delight in the confusion and frustration when the ticket seller does not speak English and turns out to be the only person in China who is genuinely rude and unhelpful, only to discover, once half your day is gone, that the train is fully booked.

After the train station spat us out we walked to the bus station to request tickets to our intended destination, Wudang Shan, the mystical mountain birthplace of tai chi. This it appeared was not possible for some reason, so we bought tickets to some random city that (we hoped) was close enough and figured we’d wing it from there.

Wuyuan

2008-08-17T03:04:00.010+08:00

Wuyuan is really just the name of the town that provides a jumping-off point for exploring the many beautifully preserved traditional villages of Jianxi province.

Having once taken a brilliant moto-tour in Vietnam, we knew this was the best way to take in the sights. We were immediately won over by the first motorbike driver who greeted us, with the biggest smile ever across his honest, friendly face. A second approached and then, once a spark of interest was sniffed we were suddenly surrounded by eager helmeted faces.

At 7am we were met at our hotel by our perma-grinning bikers, who knowlingly “ah”-ed their way through the itinerary we somehow managed to sketch out by pointing at a map, and eagerly set off into the gorgeous countryside.

Our first stop was a bustling street market where we ate the best ever breakfast of some kind of dumpling-like scones stuffed with silken tofu and fresh greenery, deftly rolled and fried in front of us by a delighted mother and daughter team. All of 10p and we were stuffed!

Our first village was the perfectly untouched Cixi (not in the Lonely Planet). We parked up and were led by my driver down narrow cobbled lanes where children played, chickens strutted and old women crouched on low stools in the wooden doorways of ancient whitewashed brick houses.

The roofs are the most striking feature of these clustered traditional Huizhou homes, with their peaked ends jutting skywards (originally for the practical purpose of preventing fire from leaping from one building to another, and then later decoratively elaborated with mythical animals, birds and Ming dynasty flourishes).

Our guide brazenly marched us into people’s homes where the two of us alone would have hesitated, and we were welcomed by kindly old couples who proudly showed us the stunning wood-carvings within. Dragons curling around cryptic symbols and incredibly detailed scenes of imperial life with various Emperors holding court had us enthralled. Again we lamented our lack of Chinese comprehension as the meaning of each piece was animatedly explained to us by our gentle hosts.

The architecture was all very similarly styled, just varying in levels of opulence according to the status of the owners' ancestors. A huge stone archway, often overgrown with moss and clambering vines, would open into a welcoming courtyard, usually enclosing a centrepiece of a huge iron vase of water for good feng shui - sometimes inhabited by a golden koi carp.

The house itself would be entered through a heavy wooden door, featuring lion’s head brass knockers, and usually hung with red banners painted with with auspicious characters signifying “luck”, “happiness”, "wealth" etc. Once inside your eyes would immediately turn to the open roof pierced by a shaft of light, magically illuminating the surrounding wooden carvings and hanging red lanterns.

One kindly old man, with a white beard and pale, rheumy eyes, drew our attention to the coloured glass over the door. Obviously a rather more recent addition, a little out of synch with the traditional Chinese setting, we managed to gather that it was from France in the 1930s. Observing our interest, he then excitedly pointed to a rather obscure-looking doorknob that was also French art deco in appearance.

We noticed that some of the faces of the carved figures were roughly hacked off – a cruel reminder of the Cultural Revolution, when the Red Guards deemed such decorations imperialist decadence. We felt solemn at this moment, regarding this old man in his simple peasant clothing, with his meagre belongings gathering dust and cobwebs and wondering how richly his family had once lived.

We’ve read how those branded “intellectuals” had their entire libraries of precious scrolls burned in these raids, not to mention the forced labour camps for the “capitalist roaders” – who would just be seen as middle-class by today’s standards (and in that sense rather aspirational to the now wealth-oriented Chinese). Paradoxically, a faded portrait of Chairman Mao would invariably dominate one room in many of the homes we visited.

The Jiangxi villages were occupied by wealthy merchants during the Tang Dynasty. Judging by the faded memorabilia and rusty buckets, cobwebbed baskets and straw hats forlornly hanging from hooks, the current residents now seem to be simply farmers.

And what rich abundant farmland! The rural beauty of this part of China is truly remarkable with its vibrant green rice fields and all manner of crops, sparkling rivers and forestland under a clear blue sky - unmarred by the factories we'd heard blot the landscape of most other provinces.

Our lunch in an unassuming roadside restaurant was a veritable feast of pork, spicy tofu and a huge array of locally grown vegetables, including tonnes of green stuff and the most divine mushrooms we'd ever tasted. Real home country cooking in China seems to be far healthier than its slick city equivalent.

We spent the night in a charming little town, curled around a bend in a river where children bathed amongst the weeds, called Xiao Likeng. The guidebook and internet had suggested that this was a touristy stop but we arrived at dusk, just in time to see the tail end of a snaking line of Korean camera-snappers, and had the whole place to ourselves for one perfect balmy, lantern-lit evening.

The family owners of our guesthouse almost fell over backwards to make our stay comfortable. Even piling multiple duvets onto the traditional solid wood bed to serve as a makeshift mattress. We were entertained by their adorable young daughters and fed yet more amazing local food on the restaurant terrace, facing the original village stage (used for traditional performances), as we watched them fish a carp from the river below.

Aside from the utterly idyllic rural life we had experienced, I must also mention the boundless enthusiasm and gregarious nature of our indefatigable guides - even in spite of the scorching summer heat. They had barely a word of English between them, yet somehow managed to orchestrate a brilliant trip, affording us a truly fascinating and unforgettable glimpse into a rapidly disappearing way of life that was indubitably the highlight of our travels through China.

Guangzhou

2008-08-15T06:46:00.006+08:00

We didn’t mean to stop in Guangzhou (Canton), but this gateway between the mainland and Macau did everything in its power to hold us in its grip. What with one miscommunication and calamity after another it really did seem that we’d never get out of there. That said it really isn’t a bad place. Written off by many passing through as yet another faceless modern Chinese city, Guangzhou actually retains some hidden colonial gems (Opium War architectural spoils on the island of Shamian, where we stayed), and is of course the home of delectable Cantonese dim sum!

So, whilst we were flailing around incoherently as per usual, in the vain attempt to score train/bus/any kinda tickets, we had time to promenade this strangely peaceful oasis of tranquillity in a bustling progressive city. It seems really odd to imagine the French and British living here (dividing the tiny island fastidiously in half) with the Chinese kept at bay with heavy iron gates.

We also found time to familiarise ourselves with the infamous local culture of yum cha (literally meaning drink tea). We had of course experienced a full-on Cantonese dim sum feast in Singapore, and more recently in Hong Kong, but were keen to dine in the hometown of my favourite Chinese cuisine. We therefore made a beeline for the most notorious dumpling restaurant in Guangzhou, Tao Tao Ju.

This spangly drag queen of a restaurant was on a Sunday afternoon four heaving floors of every kind of steamed, fried or baked nibble-sized delicacy imaginable, and some unimaginable. I was reminded of the saying: "Cantonese people eat everything that swims except a submarine, everything that flies except an airplane, and everything with four legs except a table". At one point we were literally bamboozled as to what animal was on the plate in front of us, being unable to discern even one recognisable feature, and rapidly lost our appetites. I think it was a snake... or possibly a turtle.

We spent a lazy day watching the locals playing some kind of foot-badminton in the park with huge shuttlecocks, and sampled some surprisingly good Great Wall wine. After much procrastication and misdirection we had eventually, thanks to the patient staff at China Travel Service, managed to purchase train tickets to Nanchang the next day, from where we hoped to travel on to Wuyuan.

The slow train to Nanchang was one of our more interesting journeys. Our 6 person berth was occupied by a middle-aged woman, two young men and a 12 year-old girl, who we later worked out was the little sister of the stockier of the two men. The other occupants were not related. This contrasted with train travel in India where everyone you meet seems to be part of the same over-extended family. I guess one consequence of China’s single-child policy is a trend of solo travellers. The thinner of the two men had a tentative grasp of English and he made overtures towards Gill to join the men’s card game. Resisting at first, Gill relented when the dude managed to get across the point that they needed a third man or could not play. What ensued was a comical struggle of communication whereby the patient Chinese guy tested his poor English to its limit in an attempt to teach Gill this game. His portly companion did not understand half of what was said, but had such a jolly laugh at them both and managed to win all the hands anyway. Gill then tried to teach them Shithead in return, which completely baffled his new friends. I think they grasped the concept but ultimately refused to fully comprehend a game so utterly pointless, until the chubby guy threw down his cards with the lament, “Why?!”

During the course of the night we managed to explain our intention to reach the elusive Wuyuan, much to the bemusement of all. The chubby guy even called a friend who lived there to check that we could catch a bus from Nanchang, and to our relief replied in the affirmative. We were due to arrive in the city in the early hours of the morning and expressed some safety concerns, as we were aware of the dodgy nature of transport hubs and had heard that Nanchang was not the most tourist-friendly of cities. Capital of Jianxi province, the industrial centre is most known for the Nanchang Uprising against the Kuomintang, and birthplace of the People’s Liberation Army.

The skinny dude seemed concerned that we were concerned, and I think it all got a bit overblown in translation, because when we reached Nanchang at 5am he escorted us through the station and into a taxi, negotiating the fare, hopped in with us and took us all the way to the bus station where he even helped us buy tickets! Then he jumped back in the taxi and headed back to the railway station, leaving us gob-smacked yet again at the supreme generosity of spirit and inherent sense of national pride shown by the Chinese. As explicitly expressed by many people we met, he was obviously keen to ensure we had a safe and enjoyable stay in his country, particularly now during the Olympic Games when all the eyes of the world were on China.

Macau

2008-08-13T14:04:00.000+08:00

Our first day in Macau was grey and drizzly but after dumping our backpacks at our wonderfully seedy hostel on Rua da Felicidades (Street of Happiness – the old red-light district) we doggedly hit the charming Portuguese colonial streets with a fellow traveller, a gregarious blonde Russian girl from Japan called Alla.

Not at all deterred by the rain Alla was good company, loving all the colourful sights and people, and commenting on the wonderful milieu of cultures. If not for her spurring us on we would probably have lazily retired to a restaurant or bar for the rest of the day, but instead we took in several gorgeous sights including the Portuguese Largo de Senado and the stark ruins of St Paul’s.

I think our guesthouse, the San Va Hospederia, has been used as a film set. With its unapologetic grime and non-English speaking staff, rickety paper-thin green panelled walls, strip lighting, lazy ceiling fans and general shabbiness it reminded me of a scene from an Eastern European arthouse film. We had met some German backpackers also searching for a cheap room that had just checked it out and hated it. We loved it instantly.

The next day a grade-8 typhoon hit Hong Kong, and then to a lesser extent swept across the sea to engulf us. We still optimistically went out in search of breakfast, considering the weather remarkably English autumnal, and wondering why all the shops were shut.

Then the coffee shop TV screen showed pictures of a wind and rain swept Hong Kong and we gradually realised what had happened. Certainly we got drenched and blown about a bit on the streets as we indomitably tried to sightsee the grand casino area, but I do rather think they make a bit of a fuss about something that in England we would just call bad weather.

Macau is a strange little island. On the one hand you have the undeniable new glitzy Vegas style, and original tacky Chinese style, casinos and then you have this charming Mediterranean old town with its Portuguese patisseries and beautiful, pastel-coloured colonial buildings, piazzas and mosaic tiled, dimly lamp-lit streets.

Even the street signs and many of the shop signboards are in Portuguese before Chinese, but as far as we can tell, only a fraction of the residents speak the language. I think there is a small surviving population of Portuguese descendents, who occupied the island since the 16th century until 1999, but you can see where Macau has gradually become more homogenised to suit the local tourists, so I suppose it’s a bit like Goa - where the crumbling Portuguese mansions are giving way to Indian-style development.

Last night we resolved to hit the town, high-roller style. Glammed up as best we could from our traveller wardrobe, we headed straight for the brand new Venetian casino – developed by and modelled exactly upon the Venetian in Las Vegas (itself apparently modelled on Venice itself).

We strolled along the mock canals to the fake St Mark’s Square, with gondoliers punting gawking Chinese tourists alongside us.

It was kitschy fun, as if Disney had recreated Venice, with too-perfect pastel mansions topping high-street shops (like Mango and Zara), and even a surreal fake blue-sky dome above us.

Prohibited from photographing the actual gaming halls (although Gill managed to shoot off a couple of sly ones anyway) we sojourned to the bar, where a Vegas-import blues band were playing in smoky, suited and sequined glamour, and ordered martinis.

Determined to play blackjack, just for one night, and even happy to lose ten quid, we were astounded to witness the amounts gambled at the tables we cruised. Who can afford to lose so much so fast?

Certainly not us travellers, so we hightailed it to the old-school Lisboa, hoping the stakes would be more suited to our budget.

But still they were HK$100 minimum chip (about £7.50) and everyone was in jeans and trainers – staring at me (the only white woman) in my nice dress.

So different to what I’d been lead to expect after the glamour of Monte Carlo. All the gamblers seemed to be old men in sportswear, and poorly dressed women all clutching Louis Vuitton handbags – what a different set of priorities!

Quite drunk and tired we returned home at around 2am (the casinos are 24hr, catering to those sad, wasted souls who feel sure they’re on to a winning streak - wild, staring eyes watching their kids’ university funds going up in a blur of black and red).

Back on the ‘street of happiness’, Filipino prostitutes lurked on every corner. We saw one of these ladies approached by a staggering old Chinese man and slip into our hostel right in front of us. I guess that’s why our place is so cheap and sleazy. Loving the fact our guesthouse is a brothel!

One cannot talk about Macau without mentioning the custard tarts! Like bak kwa and peanut brittle, they are touted on every street corner, but we had the most delectable ones at the Portuguese restaurant, Caravela and nearby Café a Nata. So rich and decadently creamy, they are almost worth a visit to Macau alone.

On our last night we treated ourselves to dinner at a “Portuguese” restaurant. The curry crab resembled, but tasted nowhere near as good as Singapore’s justly famous chilli crab (how unfortunate that Singapore has left us with such high food expectations!), and indelibly stained my nails orange.

On the way back to our “hospederia” we picked up a cheap bottle of Portuguese wine from our local shop where the family were excitedly glued to the spectacular opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics on TV. They were in such high spirits – gabbing away to us in Chinese – that we got caught up in the nationalistic fervour and cheered and shook hands with them at the countdown.

PS. we don't have any Olympic fervour pictures so here's a nice shot of some fish instead.

Hong Kong

2008-08-06T18:32:00.000+08:00

Wow, this place is mental! Like Singapore on acid, it’s a 360-degree assault on all the senses and challenge to all preconceived ideas of an Asian city. We arrived sleepily on an excruciating night-bus from Yanshuo, accompanied by a young wide-eyed Dutch architecture student, who was excited about seeing all the skyscrapers, and an even younger, but worldlier, English born, Hong Kong reared girl returning home from her gap year who very kindly passed on to us her copy of the Trans-Mongolian Express guidebook. She was only 19, but had that cocksure, laconic, “been there, done that, got rich friends all over the world” attitude, and pseudo-American accent of the International Schooled ex-pat kids we were familiar with from Singapore.

The first thing we did on arrival was head straight to the travel agency that promised to easily sort out our new China visas, cutting through all the red tape of hotel and flight bookings, for an extortionate fee. Trying to keep it cheap we then headed straight for the “backpacker” strip in Kowloon to find a hostel. On this prime piece of harbour-side real estate there exist two anomalies in the form of dilapidated buildings that look like they sprang from the depths of hell, squeezed in amongst the posh hotels and designer boutiques.

The most famous of the two, Chungking Mansions is a huge, ugly block that would probably have been torn down years ago in Brixton, but here is staring obstinately right in the face of the ritzy Peninsular Hotel opposite. Our hostel is housed in an almost identical concrete monstrosity a few doors down called Mirador Mansions (love the optimistic titles).

The street below is a simmering melting pot, with a Bangladeshi on each corner whispering of suits, fake watches and probably anything else you desire, gangs of Nigerians inexplicably hanging out in the 7-eleven, and Chinese shoppers flitting between Gucci and Prada. Our room had a mesmerising view of the mayhem below and, just about visible behind the urban clutter, Hong Kong’s iconic skyline of silver towers framed by green peaks across the Harbour in the distance.

As our passports were stuck at the Chinese Embassy until Friday, we had to wait until after the weekend to apply for our Russian visas. We knew Hong Kong wasn’t going to be cheap, but trying to survive there on a tight budget isn’t easy. I think we expected it to be a bit more like Singapore, with cheap Chinese coffeeshops and hawker centres everywhere.

We were really excited about the legendary dim sum, but didn’t manage to find any significantly better than in Singapore. I’m sure that after time and learning a bit of Cantonese we’d find out where to go. Good, cheap restaurants are always hidden away with no English signboard or menu. We did stumble upon a couple on the Island, but Kowloon is not a foodie paradise, and often our evening meal would be cup noodles from the 7-eleven.

Getting to Hong Kong Island from Kowloon is really quick, cheap and fun with the frequent ferries, and we would zip back and forth with the commuters and spend hours simply wandering the streets, gawping at the huge skyscrapers in the city centre and getting lost down interesting little alleys in Wan Chai and Causeway Bay.

We really wanted to move over there, but budget accommodation was severely lacking and the only option we did find in Causeway Bay was a scabby little room in an unfriendly no-frills hostel, which was even more expensive than our relatively luxurious (free WiFI) room just across the bay.

Neon rules the Hong Kong night, fronting every single shop and restaurant, not to mention the spectacular illumination of all the office buildings. One night we docked back in Kowloon and thought we’d wander down the promenade to view the technicolour skyline across the water, and found ourselves caught up in the heaving “viewing gallery” for the nightly “Symphony of Lights”. I’d heard of this unique show before, in fact had written about it in an ad for the Hong Kong Tourist Board back in Singapore, but had no idea what to expect. There were hordes of spectators and a voice announced the “performance” would begin in 30 minutes. All of the seating areas were taken, so some people must have got down there really early (just like Singaporeans, we thought!).

After mounting anticipation and crowds (it was a Friday night) the show itself was rather an anti-climax, with all the featured finance and technology buildings seeming to have their own agenda and flashing their clashing neon in a discordant manner, completely out of synch with the music, which sounded like cheesy 1970s elevator music. “A Cacophony of Lights” would be more appropriate. Hilarious tacky fun.

The Russian Consulate in Hong Kong is unlike any other embassy we’d experienced before. There was none of the madness and endless confusing queues and clamour, just a pristine, calm office on the 21st floor of a smart office building where we breezed straight up to the extremely helpful English-speaking receptionist, filled in our forms, waited about 20 minutes at a boardroom table reading the Wall Street Journal while they checked everything was in order and then left after being told simply to come back tomorrow.

That was the one part of the city that resembled Singapore, with sandwich shops and sweaty suited “ang mohs” (white people) in a landscape of steel and glass, palm trees and whitewashed colonial relics.

We were keen to take the “world’s longest escalator” to SoHo (meaning south of Hollywood Road), a once forgotten hilly part of old Hong Kong recently gentrified into an ex-pat bar and restaurant area – kind of like Clarke Quay in Singapore. It seemed nice, and afforded us a glimpse into what life might have been like if we’d worked there instead of Singapore, but we would have had to be earning a lot more – the prices were more comparable to London!

So instead of eating at one of the fancy new Western restaurants we found an old noodle shop still somehow clinging on amidst all this redevelopment and feasted on the most delicious wonton noodle soup for a fraction of the price, and with an extra helping of authentic atmosphere.

The day before we were due to collect our visas and move on was really hazy, partly from all the factories on the mainland, and we hadn’t done the Peak Tram yet (the top tourist attraction). The Victorian built funicular transports tourists up to the highest point of mountainous Hong Kong for spectacular city views. So we decided to do it at night to cut out the smog factor for our photos, and it was really worth it.

The best viewing points seemed to be monopolised by expensive, crowded restaurants, but we grabbed a bottle of cheap plonk from a wine shop and some plastic cups and found our own romantic spot to gaze at the dramatic spectacle of skyscrapers in peace – a fitting end to our visit to Hong Kong.

The next morning we rose early, collected our visas with glee that we were finally on our way to Russia, and caught the midday ferry to Macau, from where we plan to re-enter mainland China.

Yangshuo

2008-07-30T11:43:00.000+08:00

Yangshuo’s towering karsts are the archetypal landscape of dreams of China, and recognisable as the ethereal backdrop of many a flying kung fu scene. As our train approached we started to see these monolithic pods surreally reaching for the sky. It is a truly unique sight.

The town itself is not dissimilar to Dali, with its tourist shops and Western restaurants, but although surrounded by this stunning panorama, the thing to do when in Yangshuo is to get on a bike and delve into the compelling countryside.

So, if you’ve been keeping up with the blog then you’ll know I’m not the world’s greatest cyclist, especially in foreign countries and on busy roads. I was happy cruising serenely around the Palace of Versailles on a civilised lady-bike with a basket for my baguettes and a bell. But at the extreme opposite end of the spectrum, weaving in and out of traffic on the motorway between Siem Reap and Anchor Wat was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

Our first major junction with its swarms of buses, cars, motorbikes, pushbikes, pedestrians and poor bent-backed peasants pulling miscellaneous farm produce on wooden carts, all raring to go at once brought the horror flooding back.

Safely across and sweating from the hot sun and the fear, we found ourselves on a pleasant country lane where we stopped in the dappled shade of a tree near a decrepit stone bridge over an invitingly cool-looking stream. A lean-to shack where we bought water displayed an array of straw hats and we decided to deck ourselves out local-style and avoid sunstroke in the 37-degree heat.

We had a apparently fictional map but it did demark a road running along the Oolong (dragon) River which we followed, apart from the occasional detour up dirt tracks to signposted “viewpoints”, although everywhere you looked were amazing views. One of which trailed off into a narrow strip flanked by stinging nettles that scared me enough to wobble off and crash again, luckily into non-stingy foliage.

We had thought about finishing our ride at one of the bamboo raft docks and hiring one to take us and our bikes back to town, but we didn’t realise how slow these vessels float down the river and it would’ve been dark by the time we were back on the road, so we just turned around and cycled back.

Yangshuo at night is a riot of neon and rowdy Chinese tourists frequenting flashy KTV bars. Apparently, these bars are a very recent phenomenon in sleepy Yangshuo, catering to the nouveaux riche domestic tourist. According to the disgruntled locals, Westerners have been visiting this beautiful part of China for over 30 years, but now it has appeared on the Chinese tour-group radar it’s due for some inevitable unsightly changes.

On three separate occasions we were approached on the street by groups of extremely polite and curious students from all over China, with a list of carefully worded questions, probably set by their teachers for if they chanced upon any foreigners. These ranged from, “how do you like China / Yangshuo / the food?” and “is it very different from your country?” and one group of well-spoken, obviously wealthy teenagers from Beijing even asked us what we thought about the Olympic torch protests in France. This opened up the Tibet issue and we questioned their view. They were outraged and confused, as to them Tibet simply “belongs to China”. When we, cautiously, informed them that the zeitgeist in the West focuses more upon the violent “occupation” of Tibet by Chinese forces, followed by the exile of the their spiritual leader and suppression of their religious freedom, they were visibly shocked.

It does make you think. The Chinese are on the whole very patriotic, and we rationalised with these students that school history books in different countries tend to be slanted towards inspiring some degree of national pride. I’m sure there are disparities between the accounts of WWI and II in French and German textbooks, and I know I didn’t learn about any of the atrocious war crimes committed by the British at school.

Possibly our encounter encouraged these intelligent young people to consider another point of view. They certainly opened our eyes, having not really occurred to us before that, as far as China are concerned Tibet was always part of their country. But then, so was Hong Kong, and after 1997 it was returned to them, but retained its autonomy, and that is exactly what the Dalai Llama is asking for. During the Qing Dynasty, Manchurian China encompassed parts of Korea, Japan, Siberia and Mongolia - what if China suddenly decided they wanted any of those territories back? Anyway, that’s a whole other blog, and far beyond my scope of knowledge, so I wont rant blindly off on that tangent any more and will instead try and describe the wondrous scenery of Yangshuo!

The next day we availed ourselves of a local guide, a lovely lady who took us on a completely different, much more rural route through rice paddies, pomelo and orange groves and tobacco plantations, deep into the countryside.

At one point she stopped her bike and stooped down to rip out a bunch of leaves which, we were amazed to behold, bore peanuts at the end of their muddy roots! We had never known how they grew or how they tasted freshly plucked from the ground. She gave the bundle to Gill who happily attached them to his bike, although not without furtively looking around for an angry farmer.

The first stop was the obligatory Moon Hill, a limestone arch shaped formation that looks like a half-moon and one of the top sights in Yangshuo. We climbed for about half an hour with an unshakable guide/water-seller in the form of an old silver-cap-toothed woman who insisted on fanning me the whole way up.

We noticed on the way down that each group of tourists had the same kind of deal following them. We didn’t mind though, and she did show us a handy shortcut at one point and an awesome viewpoint at the top, so we bought some water on the way up and a can of coke to share when we reached the summit and sat under the arch itself, marvelling at its dripping stalactites.

After lunch and some more luscious scenery, we entered reached the docks where ensued some serious haggling with the bamboo boat boss, who looked like a portly triad Buddha. We managed to agree a reasonable price to float us down the Oolong, which I was supremely happy about - feeling too hot and tired to cycle all the way back.

The bamboo boat trip was very relaxing, apart from the odd exciting “rapid” that consisted of a kind of mini waterfall that drenched the boat, but not us. It was powered sort of like a Venetian gondola, with a young, friendly boatman punting us along the shallow waters with a long bamboo pole.

We were met at the destination dock, as promised, by our guide and we pedalled back to town. I had an interesting conversation with her, cycling side-by-side (Chinese-style) about her only son and her longing for another child, but the government’s one-child per family policy meant she could not without incurring a 30,000 yuan fine (£2,220). As farmers, her family couldn’t possibly afford to pay that much, so only the rich can have as many children as they desire.

Although my instant reaction was one of sympathy for her, after discussing China’s controversial policy later, Gill and I couldn’t help but see a potential advantage to some kind of population control system in many third, and indeed first world countries. After global warming, population growth is the next biggest threat to our planet. Another argument could be that, the typically uninhibited growth of the poorer classes (creating a strain on the welfare state), combined with more career-driven couples waiting until their 30s before having only one or two children will surely result in a national intellectual degeneration. Gosh – do I sound like a Nazi?! Any comments welcome!

We stayed in Yangshuo a day longer than planned, partly for me to recover from a cold, and partly to take advantage of the free WiFI to research and plan our next move. Visa regulation changes and border closures have been a major headache on this trip. First causing us to fly to Bangkok from Kathmandu to get our China visas. Now we’ve finally worked out we will have to make another expensive unscheduled stop in Hong Kong for our Russian ones, because the Russian embassies in Beijing and Shanghai perplexingly stopped issuing visas to foreigners. And because we only have single-entry China visas we will then have to apply for new ones to re-enter the mainland, which isn’t guaranteed so it’s a risky move. Oh for the carefree life on the road!

Dali

2008-07-24T17:40:00.000+08:00

We were so glad we serendipitously ended up in this charming low-key heritage town. Our guesthouse, the Tibetan Lodge, was constructed in the traditional Chinese style with 3 tiers surrounding an open-air courtyard filled with stones for rainwater drainage, and even a modest fishpond water-feature for good feng shui.

Our room was miniature but cosy with nice little touches like embroidered wall hangings and a Tibetan motif curtain shielding the door, ensuring privacy whilst letting in the breeze. We had no fan, but Dali's elevation of 1900 metres made the summer feel like an English one so it wasn't really necessary.

We spent our time wandering around the old walled city, admiring the traditional architecture, along with hordes of Chinese tour groups. Whenever we stopped for a coffee (Yunnan coffee is lethally strong and with my low resistance to caffeine I felt like I was having a heart attack!) we were visited by a constant stream of wrinkled faced men and women selling various oddities like dragon's hair (furry sweets), weird-looking fruit and postcards (who uses them now, what with digital cameras and email?), who we felt very sorry for but just smiled and practiced our new phrase of the day - "bu yao, xie xien" (apologies to any Chinese speakers for the spelling!), which we hoped politely meant "no, thank you”.

The majority of people just ignored them completely. Although less effective and rather tiresome, as various other unidentifiable objects were proffered from bags and baskets, at least our method sent them away smiling instead of feeling invisible.

As recommended we set out the next day on bicycles into the countryside towards a beautiful blue lake we'd seen from the bus window, and heading for a traditional Bai village. Five minutes down the road, before we'd even left town I turned a corner at a crossroad and crashed into a parked car! I was so nervous and shaky, being unused to cycling and driving on the right (wrong) side of the road, that I just literally didn't see it being so concerned with traffic coming from all directions.

Feeling shaken I stopped and stared at the huge scrape I had made along the wing of the car and then at the woman sat behind the wheel. She got out and there ensued mass confusion with her ranting in Chinese and I stammering in English that I was sorry but didn't understand. In the end we offered her 50 yuan (about 3 pounds 50) and she seemed happy and actually expressed concern over my scraped leg. I wobbled off feeling extremely lucky that the car had not been moving and that she was so lenient. If we had been in India I probably would’ve been lynched!

We suddenly found ourselves on a scary motorway with buses and lorries thundering past with no lake in sight, although gorgeous rice-paddy farming scenery everywhere. After a while we decided to attempt to depart the direct road and find our way through the country lanes, but got completely lost and almost shaken to death by the bumpy terrain on our rickety rental bikes. Back on the road we travelled another few excruciating km before my nerves gave out after imagining anti-Westerner hit and run drivers and drunken over-takers and we conceded defeat and turned back.

That evening we got chatting to an American ex-pat who had just been fired from Morgan Stanley in Beijing for losing a few billion dollars and so was on vacation for the rest of the year. He took us to a local restaurant and ordered for us (in Chinese) a veritable feast for dinner. He had studied Chinese history and been living in China for 20 years so was really interesting to talk to about the local culture and politics, and had some interesting views on Mao Tse-Tung and local insights into the communism, capitalism and Tibet issues.

Afterwards we went to Bad Monkey, a really cool bar owed by two English guys (one who turned out to have an ex-girlfriend from my school and knew a lot of my old friends - small world!).

We were lucky enough to catch a wicked live band made up of 3 Canadian guitarists, a Chinese drummer and female Chinese singer. They had been touring China with their brilliantly original country-rocking sound that kind of reminded me of the band in the Coen brothers' film, Oh Brother Where Art Thou?

We stayed there until about 2am drinking Tsingtao and having a brilliant time meeting locals and other travellers, and wishing we didn't have a bus and train booked for the next day.

The following morning was a struggle as we packed and staggered, hungover to the bus, feeling very sorry for ourselves and contemplating just staying a few more days. But, the budget could not cope with throwing away 50 quid so we reluctantly boarded the bus.

Kunming

2008-07-22T17:13:00.000+08:00

Our first experience of China was the 24hr sleeper bus from Luang Prabang to Kunming, which was pure luxury compared to its Indian cousin - with comfy bunks, air-con, duvets, pillows, and flat screens showing a continuous stream of kung fu movies (mostly without English subtitles, but the plots were fairly obvious!).
So, we started the journey early in the morning and spent the whole day being bumped along quite merrily with stunning views of northern Laos whizzing past in a green blur.

The border crossing was a bit of a sketch, as they generally are, but with more rigorous checks of our passports, more questions and a thorough search of our backpacks. Not sure what they were looking for, but our “imperialist propaganda” (the Lonely Planet and Jung Chan’s biography of Mao) were not confiscated, as we had feared. Oddly, our hand baggage was not searched at all.

We were excited to finally be in China, after all the visa worries and rumours of border closures, and then relaxed as the sun set on the smooth new road into the promised land.
Our first stop was the border town of MengLa, where half the passengers disembarked – including a teacher from Guangzhou who had been our only link to the completely Chinese world of the bus on many occasions by translating for us (the only Western tourists) what the hell was going on.

With an hour to kill we managed to find a local restaurant with a “point and cook” policy that thankfully hurdled the language barrier. After a most delicious meal the cheerful matriarch plonked herself down at our table and launched into a rapid monologue in Chinese. Baffled, we smiled and shrugged apologetically as a weak attempt to indicate we did not understand. She laughed and continued to chat away, including some illustrative hand gestures until her curious and smiling young staff surrounded us and between them managed to translate the odd word here and there. From somewhere an English-Chinese phrasebook was produced and she would point out greetings like “it is very nice to meet you” for us to pronounce for her, and then read us out the mandarin equivalent. She was such a brilliant, lively lady, and they were all so smiley and enthusiastic to try and communicate with us, we were greatly reassured and encouraged by our first encounter with Chinese people.

Back on the bus we settled in for the night and at around midnight we were just drifting off to sleep when we pulled over at an army check post. Most of the bus were asleep and were woken by harsh fluorescent light and a troupe of armed soldiers in full green camouflage uniform, (including communist era helmets) boarding the bus, demanding their travel documents / ID.
We weren’t sure if it had anything to do with the fact that we were the only foreigners, but this time they searched everyone’s luggage except ours. An amusing incident involved the men debating how to handle two plastic carrier bags full of very unhappily squawking ducks, until one unfortunate soldier pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and did his best to check the ducks were not sitting on any contraband.

One tip for anyone planning to take a Chinese sleeper bus (particularly for non-smokers) - don’t get a bunk near the front as Chinese drivers chain-smoke the entire time.

We arrived at the mental Kunming bus station in a post-valium haze and were immediately surrounded by touts shouting at us in Chinese. We somehow extradited ourselves and were happy to pay twice the recommended price for a taxi to the Camellia Hotel where we checked into a surprisingly luxurious room for a budget hotel.

Kunming is known as the “City of Eternal Spring” because of its reliably temperate climate, and we did find it pleasant, but that could possibly be its only redeeming feature. With all the trains to our next intended destination of Guilin (for Yangshuo) booked up for the next two days we resolved to kill the time in Dali, 5 hours away.

Luang Prabang

2008-07-21T14:08:00.000+08:00

Having visited and fallen in love with this gorgeous French-colonial Mekong riverside town 2 years before, we were happy that it coincided with our route overland from Bangkok to China and used the opportunity to squeeze in some shopping in the brilliant ethnic nightmarket and a lot more research than we had intended.

The last time were here was in April, during PiMai (Buddhist New Year), when the town was packed with revellers drunkenly throwing water and anything else they had to hand at each other – utter, brilliant chaos.

This time we had the chance to experience its sleepy backwater charms, but admittedly didn’t get the chance to do much sightseeing as the whole Russian visa issue unravelled like a daunting line of red tape stretched out endlessly in front of us.

The street food in Luang Prabang is some of the best in Asia, with local spicy sausage, fresh spring rolls, baguettes, a myriad of fruit and lethally strong Laos coffee on every corner.

We spent most mornings sheltering from the frequent rain under the scant awning of a basic coffeeshop which served the most pulse-racing thick dark coffee to fuel us for our day in the nearest wifi café, frustratingly wading through reports of visa experiences from other travellers and phoning embassies in Shanghai, Hong Kong and Mongolia.

We met an American ex-pat who had just moved to the town from a tiny village up north to school his half-Laos children. He was in his forties and really active in environmental and social issues in the area, so we found it interesting to chat to him about the literacy outreach foundation he’d founded.

Once we’d felt as sure as we could be of our chances of getting Russian visas in China we booked our next journey into China at last, a 24hr Chinese sleeper bus direct to Kunming.

Bangkok & Ko Phangan

2008-07-15T13:31:00.000+08:00

We landed in Bangkok's spanking new airport, with its steel and concrete colossal industrial architecture and miles of travelators making a stark disparity from our first landing there 2 and a half years ago. It's almost as slick as Changi now. Out into the familiar searing midnight heat and straight into a waiting taxi we were cruising towards Phra Athit and feeling like we'd come home. This is where it had all begun - our Asian life.

Wandering down Soi Rambutri and Khao San Rd, which seemed even more frenetic, with its hordes of even younger wide-eyed "travellers", we remembered why we loved this crazy city.

This time we made the effort to get out of touristville a bit more and got about by skytrain, riverboat and bus, shopped in MBK and Chatuchuk, ate in Sukhumvit, explored Chinatown, and even visited some temples!

We definitely felt more comfortable and confidently Asianified this time around, after living in Singapore and travelling SE Asia - from Vietnam to Indonesia and everywhere in between. We knew how to spot a clean food stall, good fake, bad mangosteen or dodgy tout.

We couldn't resist the odd tuk-tuk ride though - there's nothing as exhilarating as roaring at breakneck speed through the streets of Bangkok, weaving through the notorious traffic with the hot wind in your hair.

Besides all that fun, we were in Bangkok for one (considerably less fun) purpose - to get China visas, so off to the embassy we went, armed with all the ridiculously meticulous planning like pre-booked hotels for the whole time there (posh hotels in HK, Shanghai & Beijing as they have the easiest online booking and penalty-free cancellation policies), bank statements and air ticket from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia (faked by a travel agency in Beijing). The sign by the door said we needed "return flights" but we hoped this would do. There was also a sign just inside the office that read something like: "the consulate does not process visa applications from agents, and does not accept responsibility for any loss or fraud". Underneath which was a desk with a stack of application forms and an official-looking agent who checked all our documents, charged us an exorbitant fee and told us to come back in 3 days. We walked out thinking that was rather easy, and then something triggered about the sign I had read and how the price he charged was almost double that of the published rates (we'd at first assumed this was because of the new regulations), so we went back in. We confronted him and it turned out he was indeed a dodgy agent who would have probably just pocketed the cash. There was a security guard standing a few feet away from where this scam was taking place, right underneath the sign about no agents! Only in Thailand. How amateur of us!

So, we filled in the forms ourselves just in time for our queue number to pop up and presented all our documents to the nice lady behind the counter. She asked to see our entry ticket to which we replied we were travelling overland. How ridiculous - of course we are entering the country, why else would we be applying for visas?! But, rules are rules and so off we went to try and sort something out.

The next couple of days were rather stressful trying to find a way of avoiding booking flights and losing the money, and I won't go into the details but we had almost given up all hope of getting into China when we found a new post on the god-sent lonelyplanet thorntree forum from a couple in the exact same predicament who had found an agency in Bangkok, right round the corner from our guesthouse, who organised the whole thing for them! So, we went there and the lovely lady, who had a friend who worked at the embassy, charged us the regular visa fee and an extra 200 baht each (nothing) to fake our flights and hotels.
With indescribable relief and a few days to kill before we could collect our visas we popped off to Ko Phangan for some much needed beach time.

The ferry ride to the island felt like heaven as we had made this journey many times before and had such brilliant memories of the place. The island had inevitably succumbed to rampant development over the last two years so we decided to stay on the quiet secluded Haad Tien, only accessible boat, and probably the only beach left that retained some of the old skool KPN hippy vibe.

We spent a very relaxing few days sunning it up and meeting cool people. I even managed to slot in a yoga class. One guy we met, Sage, an Australian originally from Lebanon lived in a cave in the jungle (with its own cobra!) and shinned up coconut trees like a true wild bushman. Most of the other people on the beach were hippy yoga types - pretentious at first but mostly nice once we got to know them.

We ended up catching the boat and night train back to Bangkok with an English Malaysian-born didgeridoo player and his 8-year-old daughter from Kuala Lumpur that we’d already met on the beach and talked about Malaysian politics. He was obviously an old pro, but this was his first time travelling with his kid and we could tell he was a bit nervous about how she would cope with life on the road. Certainly not a strict father, she seemed quite spoiled and we wondered how they would get on India – his intended next stop after Bangkok.

Sad to leave the island (probably for the last time) but elated to collect our China visas we set about with some last minute shopping and posting (Gill even had a suit made!), then took a night bus to Vientiane in Laos, where we intended to transfer immediately to another to Luang Prabang.

Bhaktapur

2008-06-24T12:57:00.000+08:00

As an antidote to the chaos and filth of the capital we spent one night in this Unesco heritage, traffic-free town that is a perfectly preserved miniature version of what Kathmandu used to be like 100 years ago.

Bhaktapur’s Durbar Square is littered with ancient monuments, palaces, temples and gorgeous quaint architecture, which we had practically all to ourselves, being the rainy off-season.

As on our trek, we felt we almost preferred being somewhere out of season - no shortage of accommodation for discount prices, less tourists and it only rained a bit and not every day.

Getting there (and back) was a bit of a mission though, as Nepal's turbulent political situation and constant protests I’d been reading about became a reality on our last two days in the country before our flights to Bangkok, as students and public transport unions decided to go on strike and blockade the streets. We managed to find a ("scab") taxi driver defying the strike for a grossly inflated price, and were told that if we met a roadblock to say we were heading for the airport to catch a flight.

We found the old town very peaceful and enjoyed wandering the streets, meeting friendly locals, admiring the beautiful architecture.

We ate the most delicious momos ever from a truly authentic local hole-in-the-wall restaurant. These places are never signposted, just indicated by a curtain over the door and billows of steam.

We met a group of really friendly local schoolgirls who were keen to practice their English on us and asked us to email our photos of them, but I unfortunately lost the address they gave us.

They were so sweet and I felt gutted we will have to break our promise, and hope it doesn't leave them with a negative impression of tourists. One even asked me sweetly if I would mind if she called me "sister" in the email. We also gave them our addresses but haven't heard from them as yet, which is a shame.

On one of our strolls, past people carving wood and making clay pots, we stumbled upon a murky river where a gathering of people stood around a huge fire. After Varanasi we presumed it was a burning ghat and respectfully kept our distance and didn't take any photos.

As the sun and the handful of other tourists disappeared an old man rang a bell in the temple opposite our ancient guesthouse and we felt like time had stood still in this place for centuries.

Kathmandu

2008-06-21T23:32:00.001+08:00

With no disillusions that the overlanders’ “Shangri-La” of the East would have remained as idyllic as in that golden era of the 1960s (before budget air-travel shrank the world), we set off for Kathmandu from our Chitwan jungle retreat on one of the infamously dangerous Nepalese buses.

It appeared that not even luxury resorts are exempt from the rule of dodgy food in Nepal as far as my stomach was concerned, so my first stop in Kathmandu was the nearest restaurant toilet in Thamel. First impressions of the place were not as bad as expected. The usual tourist tat, albeit a bit more garish (who wears those silly trousers and tie-dyed shirts? Oh… there they are…), stoned new generation wannabe hippies searching for the lost trail incongruously passing sensible sandal wearing European trekkers.

Whilst I slumped in the Northfield’s Café garden, Gill valiantly went on a reccy and found us a classic little dive, cheap, clean and cluttered inexplicably, with 1980s road-movie motel furniture.

I took a turn for the worse the next day and, feeling claustrophobic and somewhat seedy cooped up in my dark little kitchy hovel, moved sickbed to the Tibet Guest House – where the master negotiator scored us a lovely $25 room for $12.

In probably our nicest proper hotel so far this trip I spent the next couple of days mainly in bed watching the inane movie channels balanced with some Al Jazeera and then even more trash on AXN (we both love the Raybanned cop with the stupid voice in CSI Miami – although Gill officially disapproves of such mindless drivel). Thanks to the Japanese restaurant Koto I managed to survive on udon and miso soup. The rest of the food in Thamel ranged from abysmal to downright dangerous, but the whole time we’d spent in Nepal we’d shared food so we couldn’t work out why I was the only sick one. Then we figured it must be the water. I was the only one brushing my teeth with the toxic stuff, so switched to bottled water from then on.

When I was finally feeling better, although a bit Mrs Beckham in appearance, we visited the major sights – Durbar Square and Freak Street, Boudhanath and Swayambhunath stupas. The Lonely Planet “walking tour” to Durbar Square led us through a mental labyrinth of antique, stinky rubbish infused streets cluttered with crazy little shops interspersed with hundreds of Buddhist and Hindu shrines that you had to really watch out for or you’d miss them.

Everywhere you turned in the old town there would be a tikka stained Ganesh or gold leaf adorned Buddha just nestling in between two rickety spice or watch shops, some even with someone’s drying laundry obscuring the crumbling relic in a striking symbol of how the two religions have become intertwined and then an integral part of the cityscape.

I had been reading about Nepal’s complicated and combustible history and present political climate in a book entitled “Forget Kathmandu: an elegy for democracy”, by a local author. With the country’s massive problems, protests, mysterious royal massacre (or staged coup?) of 2001 fresh in my mind, the outrageously decadent Durbar Palace museum made for disconcerting viewing. Who cared about this or that puppet maharaja’s hunting trophies or cufflink collection when the hill-people in the Himalaya were starving and corrupt officials fought amongst themselves so much they couldn’t form a proper government?

Kathmandu’s Freak Street was the final destination of the flower-power dharma bums of the 1960s, but now resembled a ghost town. Durbar Square itself was restored to its historic grandeur after a 1930’s earthquake and made for some nice people watching with some very friendly sadhus.

The Tibetan Boudhanath stupa was impressive in size, and we learned a lot about tankha art at a nearby painting school.

The intricately painted mandalas are used by monks for meditation (but are so astronomically priced for tourists we couldn’t afford to buy one).

I could see how focussing on the symmetrical design could help clear your thoughts and, not for the first time in Asia, wished that I’d made time for some kind of study into Buddhism as a potential way of stemming anxiety (maybe cutting out coffee might help too!).

The architecturally similar Swayambhunath stupa was more interesting with its harmonious juxtaposition of the surrounding Buddhist and Hindu statues, monks chanting and cheeky monkeys swinging from prayer flags.

After over a week in Kathmandu waiting fruitlessly for the Tibet border to open so we could continue our overland journey home we rationalised it wouldn’t happen until after the Olympics and decided to move on. The logical next option seemed to be to fly to Chengdu, but we discovered the Chinese Embassy in Kathmandu had recently stopped issuing visas to foreigners.

Our only other choice was to fly to Bangkok, where we’d heard they were still processing Chinese visas, so we booked flights for a few days time and set off to the historical town of Bhaktapur – as recommended to us by an American professor lecturing Buddhist history at a university in Kathmandu that we’d met on our trek.

Chitwan

2008-06-18T15:37:00.000+08:00

13/6-15/6

Chitwan National Park is home to the rare white one-horned rhino, and a handful of very shy tigers and leopards – understandably as they’ve been hunted by maharajas and European aristocracy up until only 30 years ago. After missing out on our planned tiger trek in India, because of the heat, we decided to go for it in Nepal, even though the pre-monsoon weather was still not ideal.

Many travel agents in Pokhara offered similar budget 3-day package trips but the dubious looking accommodation was in a nearby town, not within the park itself. After a few phone calls to the top end resorts listed in the Lonely Planet we found one that was still open during the off-season and offered us an amazing 70% discount.

We made our own way by ‘tourist’ bus down south and were collected by jeep and then riverboat and elephant deep into the jungle to the Temple Tiger resort – a cluster of luxury bamboo huts with a viewing platform overlooking a swampy watering hole where rhinos regularly bathed.

We were the only guests, pampered by 30 staff, lunch buffets for two, fluffy towels and all those lovely little home comforts we’d been missing on the road, and as many elephant treks as we could handle.

The resort owned its own stable of elephants and so could limit the rides each had to make, allowing plenty of time for them to graze freely in the grasslands, whereas the cheap guesthouses would employ a government elephant for up to 5 trips a day. An elephant needs to spend most of its day eating in order to survive, so some of these government elephants are literally worked to death.

There’s something rather thrilling about riding serenely on the back of one of these noble beasts, in a traditional howdah like Raj era hunters, crashing through the undergrowth, keeping our eyes peeled for wildlife. Unfortunately we didn’t spot the elusive tiger, but our trusty steed took us closer to the prehistoric armoured rhinos than we thought possible.

The weather held out for the first 2 days, and we enjoyed leisurely rides through the sun-dappled foliage, listening to exotic birds, cruising down the marsh-mugger infested river and spying on rhino taking their baths.

When the promised monsoon rain finally arrived, there was always an obliging staff member running after us holding an umbrella as we walked from the restaurant to our hut, the jungle took on a glistening sheen and lovely earthy smell, and the rainy-day elephant ride turned out to be the most exciting. The rhino all emerged from their cooling baths and romped through the long wet grass, providing opportunity for us to see them in their full, primeval glory.

At one point we approached threateningly close to one of them and he seemed unsure as to whether to risk taking us on. Our guide assured us they don’t charge elephants (not even a tiger fucks with an elephant). Another lumbering step forward spurred him to high-tail it away – an amusing sight, although a sobering thought as to what would happen if we were on foot.

We had a brilliant time, living it up deep in the heart of the jungle, surrounded by all those mysterious sounds of nature, feeling very close to it all. Tigers and wild elephants have been known to casually stroll through the resort.

As the only guests we were treated to a feeling of absolute peace and solitude, without the clamour of annoying rich package tourists scaring away the animals. Usually it would have cost $1000 for 3 days / 2 nights, and we got away with paying just over $300! So, still a complete splurge for our meagre budget, but after 12 days trekking in the Himalaya spending less than $5 a day on basic lodgings and rice and daal we felt we deserved it.

Himalaya

2008-06-10T16:24:00.000+08:00

Day 1
We set off late from Naya Pul in high spirits through the lush green valley forged by the gushing river with our first glimpse of tantalising white peaks on the horizon. We stopped for lunch in a picturesque stone village that resembled the English countryside 100 years ago, but with buffalo instead of cows grazing nearby. As we approached Tikhedungha up gruelling stone steps it was nearly dark and rain had set in. Exhausted we feasted on our first of many Dal baat – the Nepali staple of lentil soup, local vegetables and mountainous rice, and sampled the potent locally distilled Raksi, or rice wine. We awoke in the night to find our shoes had disappeared from outside our door, and the early hours of the morning were spent fretfully resigned to walking back to Pokhara in our flip-flops. Thankfully we found that the guesthouse manager had stashed them safely out of concern that they would be stolen.

Day 2
The journey onwards and upwards to Ghorapani (ghora means ‘horse’ and pani ‘water’) started with an incredibly hard, long climb up a stone staircase to Ulleri (where we heard later a 65 year old Englishman had unsurprisingly suffered a heart attack). Schoolchildren bounded effortlessly down the steep steps and we marvelled at how the local people must be incredibly fit living in such a landscape, surmounted only by stairs as far as we could see. The Nepalis are said to believe firmly in the theory that the best route from A to B is in a straight line.

Feeling like hobbits on a grand adventure we spent an enjoyable, but strenuous day climbing up through an ancient mossy jungle. Passing no other tourists out of season added to the solitary, peaceful atmosphere.

Ghorapani had employed a welcome party of curious buffalo, who amused us with their fixed, indolent gazes as we approached their domain. As before, we chose the first guesthouse we flopped outside, run by a proud, silent ex-Gurkha, wearing a faded Singapore Police t-shirt, and his effusive Tibetan wife.

As most tourists stayed up on the hill for the views, we had the place completely to ourselves and really felt like the old couple had adopted us and enjoyed delicious home-cooked food by the log fire, where they insisted we hang our sweaty socks. Getting used to outdoor squat toilets and a hot shower only in the afternoon was part of the fun of roughing it on the road. And with our small backpacks containing everything we would need for 10 days on our backs, we really felt free and rather daring.

Day 3
We had intended to climb nearby Poon Hill for the famous views of the Annapurna range, but were rather glad when the next day dawned cloudy (as predicted by the BBC) and rested in Ghorapani enjoying momo (Tibetan dumplings) and Everest beer in hope of the promised clear skies of the following day. It was lovely just to stop and look around after rushing through places for two days. Hardworking pony trains walked resolutely past us, burdened with all kinds of loads from caged chickens to bags of cement, and small grubby children played hide and seek around us as we sat enjoying the tranquillity of the friendly farming village. The people seemed to be a mixture of Nepali and Tibetan descent, in bright coloured traditional dress, with expansive smiles calling ‘namaste’ as they passed.

Day 4
The window of clear sky arrived as faithfully expected by Gill and we set off, bundled in our warmest clothing, up the hill with torches flashing in the 4.30am gloom. An hour’s climb later, hurrying whenever we heard a rustling in the bushes for fear of snow leopards, we arrived at the summit just in time for the glorious sunrise spectacle of blushing snowy, craggy peaks. Awesome. We were surprised to be joined by about 30 other tourists. Where had they come from? Until that point, and most of the rest of the journey we felt quite alone. One of the most popular viewpoints of the trek, for its total panoramic scenery, we wondered how crowded it must get during high season and felt very fortunate.

After breakfast we were back on the road again, walking more slowly now to appreciate the fine views and lush countryside. Lots of tea breaks afforded us chances to put down our increasingly heavy backpacks and to talk with the local people.
The whole day was downhill, which far from a walk in the park as we’d imagined was killer on the knees and shoulders.

Tatopani (tato means ‘hot’) was a disappointing over-touristed town perched precariously over a brutal brand new road. Gone was the idyllic greenery, and the local kids now roved in disenfranchised gangs, dressed in western clothes. We opted not to bother with the over touted hot springs as they seemed to be channelled into one uninviting bath overlooked by the road, from where clusters of bored teenagers peered at the enthralling sight of white tourist flesh.

Our impersonal hotel, as usual with tourist traps, served abysmal food and was populated by hardcore American trekkers on their way round the entire Annapurna circuit in record-breaking time. The Jomsom trek we had chosen consisted of the nicest half of this punishing two-week challenge.

Day 5
Not wishing to hang around, although we were very tired, we set off for Ghasa through the Kali Gandaki - the world’s deepest valley, towered over by Annapurna 1 and Dhaulgiri. Lunch at the lovely Rupse Chahara was a real treat. A family of women cooked us burritos from homemade corn tortillas and beans we could see drying in grass baskets in the sun, and amiably allowed photographs of their colourful selves.

The setting was picture perfect, with the whole valley laid out like a green carpet in front of us, and traditional village life going on as it had for centuries, without the desperate clamour for tourism of some of the Lonely Planet recommended stops. We sorely regretted not staying there the night when we finally, exhaustedly arrived in the less interesting tourist village of Ghasa. Damn the guidebooks.

That night we saw the biggest spider ever, sprayed it with insect repellent only to watch it disappear through a hole and then lay quietly in bed listening to the Canadian couple the other side of the paper-thin wall freak out over what to do with their surprise visitor.

All the lodges on the trek are ridiculously cheap, from 50 to 100 rupees a night. But the unspoken deal is for you to take all your meals there, and at around 200 rupees for dal baat they make their living sure enough.

Day 6
Off we went again, this time with the determination to simply stop and stay wherever took our fancy rather than sticking to the schedule. We passed two Tibetan sisters en route and ended up walking with them. They were from the refugee camp in Pokhara and told us all the schools were closed for two weeks to mark the occasion of the present king stepping down, so they had seized the opportunity to sell their handcrafted jewellery to tourists in Jomsom and Muktinath. They were very friendly and spoke good English and Nepali, so it was interesting to have them tag along (even though we expected a sales tactic eventually) to hear about life in Nepal for exiled Tibetans and to help us communicate with the locals. The younger one was called Pinky (we unfortunately can’t remember the name of her sister) and they were great fun, always singing or laughing and joking.

We liked the feel of Kokethanti (or as Pinky’s sister named it, “Pocket-empty” owing to its lack of tourists) a sleepy little town off the road, and happily not mentioned in the Lonely Planet.

Now with our native speakers, instead of sitting in the grimy, cold impersonal restaurant we were invited into the spotless mud walled kitchen, made cosy by the flickering cooking fire. With its rows of gleaming copper pots and solid wooden table we felt rather at home at the heart of this smiling family.

Day 7
The next day we awoke to find the sisters had laid out their wares on the breakfast table and we chose a few trinkets to help them out, and because the raw materials and designs were apparently from Tibet and we would like to collect some of these unique handicrafts as it seems we won’t be able to go there as planned.

We were glad to have our ‘guides’ with us this time as the path veered almost imperceptibly away from the ugly road many times, over ridges and along dry riverbeds, so we ended up with a much quicker and more rural journey.

Lunch at the old trading town of Tukshe was the most delicious dal baat so far, in a gorgeous traditional wooden house built in the Tibetan style around a central courtyard, with an inspiring mountain view.

We broke our golden rule that day and continued on to yet another touristy town – Marpha, with its quaint whitewashed stone alleyways marred by pushy shopkeepers insisting we look at their wares every few steps. Our friends carried on to Jomsom to set up their jewellery stall. Another indifferent hotel and bad food was somewhat redeemed by copious amounts of local apple cider and a blissful sleep in an incredibly comfortable double bed with our first duvets in years.

Day 8
Freshly determined not to fall into another tourist trap, we arose late and plodded on to wherever we might end up along the prescribed route, but vowed not to attempt reaching Kagbeni too fast. A leisurely stroll along thankfully flat ground led us to the main tourist town of Jomsom, where we enquired about flights back to Pokhara in two days time but found the ATM was closed because it was Sunday. After lunch we wandered lazily down to the tiny “one road” town of Eklebatti where we stayed with a gorgeous Tibetan family, and played with their incredibly fluffy dog and affectionate baby girl.

Day 9
After reluctantly prying the limpet-like child from my leg we merrily set off on our shortest walk yet, to the ancient Mustang border town of Kagbeni. We stayed in a 300-year old house with original Tibetan carved pillars, and discovered our very room had been occupied by the leader of the rebel Khampas - Tibetans trained by the CIA to fight the Chinese Communists 50 years ago. We learned this from a Tibetan guest, with perfect English, who was born in Darjeeling and was now based with his American NGO wife in Kabul. He had returned from a trek in Upper Mustang, where he managed to pass without the requisite $700 permit as he could speak Nepali and told us about the wondrous Lo Manthang. Kagbeni is a fascinating stone village within a small green oasis perched atop a plateau overlooking the desolate Mustang valley, and if you walk to the end of the town you will reach a temptingly unmanned police checkpoint forbidding further passage into this ancient and mysterious kingdom.

Our interesting new friend, the only other guest at the Red House, turned out to be the son of one of the Khamp warrior tribe from Eastern Tibet, and his father was part of the infamous resistance and something of a folk hero. We also discussed such matters as the atrocities in Tibet and life for him now in Afghanistan.

Day 10
Instead of the day’s trek to our final destination of Muktinath at 3710m, we chose to hike halfway up the steep hill to the charming town of Jharkot, surrounded by dazzling green rice paddies. We stayed on the roof of a lovely guesthouse with a friendly family, and spent the rest of the day wandering around taking photos and resting, instead of slogging until dusk and collapsing into bed.

Gill was frustrated at all his failed attempts to photograph the colourful people going about their traditional farmland business using the guidebooks’ rule of asking first (the answer was invariably “no”). We had an impressive collection of animal portraits, but no people shots save a few accommodating guesthouse owners.

One ridiculously photogenic old woman stood atop our guesthouse roof, in flowing Tibetan aprons, with her basket full of long grass on her back, silhouetted against the blue sky, multi-coloured prayer flags and mountains. Her initial refusal and subsequent ludicrously perfect posing led Gil to mutter that she was teasing him.

Day 11
A short hop, skip and a jump later we were in the pilgrimage town of Muktinath, the end of the road. Here we met holy men from all over India, frazzled trekkers coming from the difficult Thorung La pass and a very scary yak. We had been desperate to spot these legendary creatures on our trek and when we spotted one huge hairy mammoth from the restaurant we scampered over to its grazing ground and recklessly stalked it for a photo. It was quite frightening in appearance - its shaggy black fur and huge horns reminding me of a mythical creature from a fantasy horror, grunting and huffing violently. At one point Gill got a bit too close for the creature’s comfort and it suddenly reared its massive head in our direction as if to charge us. We ran swiftly back down the hill. We learned later that only their owner can handle them, and if anyone else gets in their way they often gore them.

After exploring the famed temples we decided against staying the night in this most touristy of towns and walked back to our cosy farmhouse in peaceful Jharkot.

Day 12
That morning we rose early and set off without breakfast to make it to Jomsom before the ferocious wind that hurtles through the valley from midday. Our Tibetan friends had told us that people believe the Jomsom wind is a sign that the gods are angry about the careless building of the road that shattered many ancient stone idols and caves. There are many caves containing Buddhist idols all over Nepal, some that are believed to be naturally occurring in the limestone rock formations. Tenzing from the Red House in Kagbeni, a practicing Buddhist, had told us about a strange encounter he had with an elderly, half blind, half mad holy man who ‘guarded’ one such cave. The man had apparently turned up in the village one day and claimed to hear voices coming from the direction of the cave, to be told by a villager about the local belief. He then decided to spend the next 27 years meditating in the cave and communing with the gods living within. When Tenzing stayed in the cave he said that his guide, who had desecrated the cave by smoking inside its walls, had a terrible nightmare that two gods – one good and one evil were fighting over what to do with his body parts, especially his lungs. The old man chuckled at the story the next day and said that there were indeed two gods in the cave, one good and one evil.

The lovely Red House lodge owner, Pema with her baby permanently strapped to her back with a shawl, said that whenever the wind blows really harshly she thinks that somebody must have died today. Whatever the reason, the wind was nearly blowing us off our feet for the last hour’s trek, and we could not bear to be in it any longer than necessary, so our planned final search for yet more fossils to add to Gillie’s growing collection was cast aside in favour of getting to shelter sooner.

Jomsom is the most dull of towns, simply a string of modern guesthouses line its one paved street leading to the airport. We booked our mountain flight back to Pokhara for 6.40am the next day.

Day 13
The morning of our mountain flight, anticipated eagerly by me and with trepidation by Gill, was overcast and after a 5 hour wait at the airport we were turned away. We desperately tried to fill our lost day hunting fossils on the dry riverbed and absorbing every scrap of local information at the scant Mustang Museum.

Day 14
The next day was a case of déjà vu at Jomsom airport and disappointed (or relieved in Gill's case) we set about organising a jeep for the long journey back to Pokhara. 3 jeeps and a taxi later we were home by 8pm. The town seemed really hectic after so long in the wilderness, and we rewarded our achievement with copious amounts of pizza and red wine.

Varanasi

2008-05-19T20:49:00.000+08:00

It claims to be the oldest living city in the world, and although its buildings have been destroyed and rebuilt over and again, it feels as old as time itself. A pilgrimage to Varanasi (or Benares as it was once known) and its Shiva temple that marks the spot on the banks of the ‘mother’ Ganga River where heaven meets earth is essential in every devout Hindu’s life, and the most holy place for them to die.

Our guesthouse peeps over the Ganges from Meer Ghat, less than 100 metres from the main Dasaswamedh ghat upstream, where worshippers come from all over India to bathe in the morning and pray in the evening, with the burning Manikarnika ghat about the same distance downstream, where the dead are cremated.

Bernard had decided to fly from Bombay to join us for two days in Varanasi before his flight from Delhi home, and our first morning we took a dawn boatride rowed by the surprisingly capable and cheerful pre-prubescent Vicky.

One humid night we were awoken by one of the city’s frequent powercuts (or "now light gone sir" as they would inform us in our guesthouse), and in the sweaty moments before the generator rescued us from cooking in our bed we became sleepily aware of a spooky sound. A grimly repetitive bell toll followed by a mass chanting straight out of the history books heralded a funeral procession through the streets towards the burning ghat. We had been told that the ghat was ’24 hour’, but we still wondered what kind of funeral occurs in the dead of night, and were somewhat disturbed by the images our excited imaginations conjured up.

The next day we crept fearfully up to the burning ghat, filled with dread and the knowledge that photography was ‘strictly forbidden’ and that women were not allowed on its ash piled steps – for fear that they may commit sati (throw themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre), a practice outlawed by the British.

From what we thought a respectful distance we watched in fascinated horror the wiry figures raking the smouldering ashes around a bright burning corpse, beneath cloistered towers filled with the relatives of the deceased. As we turned to leave, overwhelmed by the heat of the midday sun and the gruesome scene before us, a man in a white salwar kameez appeared from nowhere and confronted Gill with the charge that he had been taking illegal photos with the camera slung around his neck and demanded money. We refuted the claim, but suddenly another man, dressed in filthy rags, bounded nimbly over the eerie landscape like a nightmarish golum character towards us. This second creature was less diplomatic and there ensued an astonishing pantomime of good versus evil, as the two men appeared to quarrel over how severely these intruders should be treated. Golum was raging, waving his scrawny arms wildly and insisting that if we did not pay 1000 rupees then he would summon the grieving family and they would attack us for our affront, or simply smash the offending camera onto the burning pyre. I started to walk away dismissively and Bernard tried to calm the situation whilst insisting we should not have to pay.

Gill threw a worried and uncertain look over the man’s head and I responded with the plea that we had done nothing wrong, and that we should just be able to leave. The man turned towards me with startling alacrity, fixed me with a malevolent stare, and hissed through small red tinged teeth that I should keep quiet or we would "all three be crying later", emphasised by a decisive jet of paan juice that landed squarely before my feet in a blood-red splat. Recoiling in horror in the face of this otherworldly spectre, and remembering tales of brutal mob justice we realised that we had better pay the ‘fine’ and skedaddle, rather than contest the issue. Another threat directed at the precious D80 had Gill reaching for his pocket and the matter was settled.

Later, although sore over the injustice, we joked about the bizarre scenario and it seemed to be soon forgotten. By bedtime however, I realised I was actually rather shaken by the episode and visions of shadowy ‘body burners’ coming to fetch us in our sleep, to an imaginary jangling of bells, haunted an uneasy night.

We’ve settled on a regular hangout, a German bakery with wicked cappuccinos and impressive bread and cheese selection. The Nepali chef sometimes escapes the heat of the kitchen to sit and shyly chat with us. He has been working ‘the season’ every year for 10 years and hopes that next year will be his last. We asked him why he didn’t like Varanasi, apart from the heat, and he replied – in hushed tones – that it was a dangerous place, with "many gangs and too much shootings". Later, the two of us mused darkly that it would be an ideal place for Mafiosi to make people "disappear", what with the perpetual burning of bodies, and suddenly the charming old town took on a rather more sinister aspect.

Don’t get me wrong, we find Varanasi fascinating and there is a twisted beauty to the cow and beggar infested cobbled narrow lanes, dimmed by the shadows of dilapidated houses that appeals to the quixotic sense of adventure that makes us love India, but there is an unmistakable air of menace to the place that can be unsettling.

Gokul, the chef, gave us his contact details in Kathmandu and we promised to get in touch if we were still there in June – when he is due to return home – and he would take us on a hike (or "running up mountains" as he curiously described it).

In Varanasi I was reading The Age of Kali by William Darymple, a diverse collection of incisive and groundbreaking essays on surviving cultures, from the ancient to the bizarre, that really opens up your narrow tourist view of India.

Dharamsala

2008-05-16T14:32:00.000+08:00

In 1959 a failed uprising against the occupying Chinese drove the Dalai Lama and 1000s of Tibetans from their holy land, to seek refuge in this mountainous region of Himachel Pradesh. With the very beginning of the snow-capped Himalaya range on the horizon, Dharamsala became the seat of the Tibetan government in exile.

Our knowledge of Tibetan history had only extended as far as ‘Seven Years in Tibet’ (the film with Brad Pitt, not even the book), until we researched their cause in preparation for our trip. The story is a heartrending one, with the Chinese coming out as the villains who destroyed hundreds of years of cultural heritage, burned a thousand monasteries and temples, and slaughtered around a million monks.

His Holiness the Dalai Lama himself is well known for advocating a peaceful resolution with the Chinese government, and condemns violent action by his people. The Chinese claim that he is a cunning mastermind of a terrorist organisation, even going as far to suggest a link with Al Qaeda, is preposterous.

McCleod Gange, the Dalai Lama’s residence and where we stayed for over a week, is a pretty mountain village with more of a Tibetan than Indian feel. We thought we were entering another country, and since we had just learnt that the Tibetan border had been closed, we were glad to experience this taste of such a rich ancient culture, in case it doesn’t reopen before the Olympics. Although he was home, we didn’t manage to see the Dalai Lama whilst we were there. Bernard glimpsed him arriving home in his car the morning we arrived and was told this was very rare.

Unfortunately the main reason why we spent so long in McCleod was because we were both ill with colds from the sudden change in climate. We did manage to meet up with Henry (from the camel trek) and his girlfriend Yfatt a couple of times, and made some new friends at a wicked little restaurant with loungy seating called Carpe Diem, which became our local hangout. Someone always got out a guitar and sang, and the Nepali crew was brilliant at remembering everyone’s names. Definitely one to keep out of the Lonely Planet. Apart from that I’m afraid we didn’t get up to much worth reporting. The sight of rolling hills and snowy peaks tantalised us from our balcony, and many people we met had climbed up and were rewarded with awesome views, but we were never strong enough and the weather turned rainy and cold by the time we had finally recovered.

It was interesting to see how the Tibetans lived outside of

Tibet

. Unlike in their home country there were plenty of reminders of their continuing struggle. Hunger strikes, student rallies and banners proclaiming the injustice and protesting against the ‘Celebration of Human Rights Violation” that is the Olympics were visible everywhere, in amongst the fluttering prayer flags. Every night a solemn candle procession walked around the main square, led by chanting monks in their red robes. I just hope the world listens to them and boycotts

China

until they reach an agreement; Olympic glory be damned.

Rishikesh

2008-05-09T14:10:00.000+08:00

It was in Rishikesh that I made the annoying discovery that, although he’d never had a single lesson, Gillie was actually better at yoga than me. From my swot’s position at the front of the class I assumed that Gill and Bernard were larking about at the back, until I turned to see the natural yogi balanced in a perfect tree pose, with a look of complete shanti his face, whilst I wobbled precariously on one leg.

Apart from yoga the only other thing to do in Rishikesh is white-water rafting down the torrential Ganges. Close to the Himalayan source of this sacred River, Rishikesh serves up its water ice cold. But until we leapt off the boat to float downstream in our lifejackets we hadn’t realised just how cold. Once in the water the three of us quickly drifted away from the boat and further ahead at an alarming rate. The three boatmen took their time coming to reach us, so by then the initial thrill had subsided and been replaced by almost complete extremity numbness. The trip was great fun though with plenty of “woowoo”-ing down some of the steeper rapids, and a lot of floating – not too much paddling.

We drifted past a couple of beaches, one with bikinied tourists spread out on the white sand in the baking hot sun, with the obligatory crew of Indian photographers sneaking illicit ictures with their mobile phones.

The next day we set out upriver on a mission to top out our faded Goa tans. The first beach we came to had relatively calm water, but the police shooed us away, telling us a Finnish guy had drowned there two days before. The second beach seemed to have much stronger currents rushing around rocks, but nobody had died there recently so we were allowed to swim there. Despite a sign advising ‘no bikinis’ there were several girls making the utmost of the scorching sun, so after some deliberation I positioned myself strategically between two groups of sun-worshippers (hidden from the paparazzi) and lapped up my first taste of the sun on my skin since Goa. The water was too cold except for an extremely quick dip between baking sessions, and we only stayed in the midday heat for about 2 hours, like true mad dogs and Englishmen (and one South African).

We were accompanied back to ‘town’ by a sweet young Israeli girl who was travelling alone, to whom I asked the same question I always ask of such girls – how did she find travelling alone? She said she found it “interesting” and laughed ironically. But, like the others she agreed that in India one is never alone for long. I am utterly impressed by these solo female travellers, as I don’t know if I could cope alone in a country like India. Even when I pop out without Gill to the shop I receive a barrage of male attention ranging from uncomfortable stares to blatant proposition.

One lunchtime, in the German Bakery on the other side of the river, we met an Australian Billy Bob Thornton! He was on the table next to us, with an English girl we’d seen on the train to Rishikesh a few days before. They were both staring at a glass of water with a strange retro white plastic LED box balanced on its rim, with two silver rods protruding down into the water. As they seemed quite mesmerised by this contraption, so were we, until Bernard’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked what it was. The dude then laconically explained, with much deliberation and careful musing, that it was a silver ioniser that emitted a small electrical charge to dispel the precious metal from the rods into the water – guaranteed to cure any ailment. Indeed we could see trails of silver tracing into the water. His friend had given it to him as a leaving present. Bernard the entrepreneur could see an opportunity in this bizarre theory, and liked the sound of the dude’s friend - the mad inventor who never marketed his inventions, and the two of them swapped contact details.
When the girl had drunk her magic potion the dude sloped off with a casual wave, across the suspension bridge, with an Om sarong wrapped around his head. This guy was seriously cool – we really liked the cut of his jib.

Delhi and Agra

2008-04-30T13:37:00.000+08:00

Wedding season meant that all the trains from Bundi to Agra were fully booked so we spent a long day travelling on two of

India

’s dreaded buses, changing at Jaipur. We set off at 7am and when we finally arrived at our guesthouse, its rooftop view of the Taj Mahal was shrouded in darkness.

The next day we rose just after the sun to eat breakfast and drink in the awesome sight of a ruthless warlord’s shrine to love. It’s incredible to think how Shah Jehan, a man who slaughtered his entire family to become Emperor of the Mughals could be so heartbroken by the death of one of his wives that he built such a beautiful monument to entomb her, and then, shortly after its completion was overthrown by his own son and imprisoned in Agra Fort where he could only view his creation from a distance through a tiny window.

We entered the grounds of the Taj through the east gate and spent the morning gazing in wonder at the thing from every angle, with increasing crowds and light, until at midday we grew tired and hot, and went for lunch and to sift through a million photos.

We pondered that if something is so highly regarded and so often reproduced until it becomes an iconic parody of itself when you finally view it for real it can seem somehow smaller and almost disappointing, and the whole situation of thousands of people every day travelling from all over the world just to see it, rather odd. But, pushing that aside, the Taj Mahal is aesthetically enchanting; an architectural marvel of perfect symmetry and clean lines, angles and white facades.

We actually rather liked Agra itself, especially our guesthouse, on the main backpacker strip - but not in the Lonely Planet. The rooms were clean and comfortable, with a million dollar view for only 200 rupees.

That night we stayed up chatting with the cook from our restaurant, a gentle, well-travelled, well-spoken gentleman, about politics, the caste system and Indian food. A beautiful but shy boy of about 8 years would run and fetch us glasses of chai, and we learnt that his alcoholic father had killed himself by immolation (pouring kerosene over and lighting himself), 6 months ago. From reading books and local newspapers and talking with locals, we’ve been struck by how a nation with so many sad and brutal stories can also be so happy, generous and openhearted, always with a disarmingly genuine smile that shakes the foundations of a suspicious and cynical London heart.

The next day we were woken at the crack of dawn by our friendly cook who was keen for us not to miss the sunrise again and to cook us the full Indian breakfast we had been described the night before. Although probably one of our best breakfasts and experiences of our trip, we felt we’d had our fill of the Taj, in all its different stages of lighting, and hopped on the 8am train to Delhi, where we’d arranged to hook up with Bernard.

We were surprised at the fresh, clean-cut appearance of our Pushkar drinking buddy at the Ajanta hotel, all suited and booted for a business meeting, but with time for a coffee and a catch up beforehand. That evening we drank beer in Regent’s Blues, a smoky locals drinking hole in Connaught Place, and had our best night’s sleep for a very long time – the soft bed with crisply laundered sheets a welcome relief for our travel-wearied bodies.

The next day Mr Singh, Bernard’s driver, took us on a tour of the major sights. The Red Fort was impressive, and the British colonial buildings lining Delhi’s answer to the Champs Elysee were nice, but we decided that Bombay was more instantly appealing to our tastes.

Jaipur/Pushkar/Bundi

2008-04-22T12:52:00.000+08:00

I am writing this from our balcony overlooking the surging, holy Ganges in Rishikesh – “the yoga capital of the universe”, where the Beatles came to get spiritual in the 70s and started writing better music. But that’s another post.

Maybe we didn’t give Jaipur a decent chance, but compared to the astounding grandeur and natural beauty of the rest of Rajasthan It just seemed like a noisy, filthy Indian city where we were hassled at every turn. Everyone seemed intent to rip us off and just generally unfriendly. Admittedly, we didn’t see all the sights, as Gill was feeling ill, but the top two – the Hawa Mahal and the City Palace were disappointing after Udaipur, Jaisalmer and Jodhpur.

Pushkar was really beautiful, and our guesthouse had one of the best views of the sacred lake from the rooftop, where we could just sit and watch the absorbing sight of the hive of activity and holy ritual on the ghats for hours (although it is forbidden to take photos). The town surrounding the lake, consisting of one narrow street spinning outwards into a spider’s web of tiny lanes, seemed a bit like Goa with lots of Israelis, hippies, cows, health food and Western-Indian clothes shops.

Being a holy place, there was no meat, eggs or alcohol, kissing in public is forbidden, and everything shut down at 11. Being true cultural travellers, we spent much time hanging out with some new friends (Canadian Steve and South African Bernard) in a bar where the owner managed to get us some vodka (in India “everything possible’).

.
It’s much more difficult to describe a place so long after you’ve left, but the views of all the temples and havelis around the luridly green lake with the mountains in the distance was incredibly spiritual and soothing, particularly at sunset.

We took a chance on Bundi next – a tiny picturesque town, where Rudyard Kipling wrote Kim, pretty much off the tourist radar, and indeed we hardly spotted another foreigner for three days. In stark contrast to Jaipur the locals were super friendly, offering us chai and a chat as we passed on the only really ‘main’ street. The steep lanes of blue houses reminded us of Jodhpur, but on a much smaller scale. Our 200-year old guesthouse was still home to a lovely family for whom nothing was too much trouble, and they were so nice we actually felt sad leaving them three days later.

Our view was across a (dry) lake with rolling hills the other side, and a crumbling palace to one side, backed by a huge fort on the hilltop. You could see how Kipling could have been inspired in such a setting, apart from the noisy road cutting like an ugly scar around the mountains infected by a stream of hooting trucks and buses.

We soon realised we were in the middle of wedding season, and about 30 were going on in this tiny town for the three days we were there. On the first day there would be a procession for the groom, dressed like a maharaja, mounted on a similarly bedecked white horse, proceeded by all the male guests, and a typically tuneless brass band, all led by what appeared to be a mobile DJ station, with flashing coloured lights and Hindi classics pumping out of gramophone speakers. Brilliant.

Simply bystanding was not an option when we encountered one of these cacophonous, jubilant processions on the street. Gill was literally dragged into one and carried off with the flow until they stopped outside a haveli and all the men danced wildly, with Gill as their new leader! Video footage to be posted…

On our last day in Bundi we explored (yet another) City Palace, now in a very sorry state of abandonment, but with some beautiful wall paintings still surviving. The ceiling of the maharani’s bedroom was a visual shower of painted Hindu gods amongst sparkling mirrored stars that must have been spectacular to gaze up at in all its former glory.

One disturbing sight that always gives me the creeps is the red handprints on the walls that were made by the maharanis before they threw themselves to their deaths after hearing their husbands had died in battle. The ones in this palace were hidden away in one of the gloomy bedrooms, only visible under torchlight, enhancing the spooky impression.

Huge roaming packs of fierce monkeys surrounded the palace, and obstructed our tentative exit through the gates until an old man with a stick helped to chase them away. Unfortunately they then formed a monkey blockade on the very path we needed to take up to the fort.

Earlier that day, one of these particular red-faced monkeys had suddenly leapt at Gill with bared teeth when he tried to take its picture on the street. Afterwards a young man at the chai shop showed us an ugly scar from a deep bite on his arm when he was a child, and this knowledge of the monkeys’ aggression, combined with the fact that we didn’t have our rabies shots, seemed to command retreat. Gill was unhappy to be defeated in our advance upon the fort so early by these mercenaries, and we hung around debating how to guarantee safe passage.

We were armed with a stick, borrowed from our palace ‘tour guide’ (who basically just read out all the signs for us, and also held the dual role of ticket officer at the bottom of the hill, and ticket collector after he raced after us to the top), but waving it about and tapping it on the ground, as we were instructed, didn’t have quite the same menacing effect. I think the monkeys could easily sense our fear in the way our bravado crumbled as we hesitated before them. In that moment both parties gazed uncertainly at each other, determining the potential threat, until they decided we were weaker and by a swift advance ensured our rapid retreat and loss of that battle of wills.

Then we looked upwards to see the monkeys had disappeared and a few Indian tourists were casually winding their way up the hill. Seeing our chance of safety in numbers we scampered after them and soon found ourselves breathlessly high above the blue town circling the ruined fort, accompanied by an Indian couple with whom we formed a wordless alliance. It felt eerily desolate up there.

The former glory of the lost empire would reveal itself forlornly in faded traces of colourful frescoes or a mighty elephant gate hanging from its hinges. For me, this wild ghostliness and sense of solitude - except for the watchfully prowling monkeys (who merely tolerated our presence in their kingdom) - made the decision to head back down before sunset a welcome one.

Thar Desert

2008-04-17T14:56:00.000+08:00

Thar Desert Camel Trek (10th – 11th April)

Every guesthouse, travel agent and tout in Jaisalmer is clamouring to take tourists on a camel trek to the dunes. After many good reports we decided to go with Sahara Travels, run by the ‘original’ Mr Desert. At first we didn’t know what this moniker meant, but upon meeting the gentle, smiling, bushy-bearded old gentlemen sat behind a desk, underneath a huge poster for a cigarette advertisement featuring him as a younger man, and surrounded by calendars and other faded memorabilia we began to get the idea that he was some kind of celebrity.

We opted for a short trek, starting at 3.30pm with an hour in a jeep out to the dunes where we would be met by the camels and ride for another two hours to camp, where we would sleep one night before setting off at sunrise in the same manner to arrive back at 11am.There were four others on our trip – Scottish Henry, with whom we formed an instant alliance, and three middle-aged French ladies.

Our guide was a font of local knowledge and himself a descendant of the Rajput clan (original warrior caste in the ancient Hindu varna system). He told us a story of the one time he ventured to Delhi and was assaulted by a gang of rickshaw drivers who wanted to cut off his ears for his ornate gold flower ear-studs (indicators of his caste), but he somehow fought them off whilst shouting something like “you are city people. I am desert people. We are warriors” or, as we roughly interpreted, “you don’t want to fuck with me”, basically.

He also told us the sad story behind the disturbing sight of women, wrapped in their elaborate sarees, labouring in the merciless desert sun: The freak storm we had experienced a few days ago had washed away their crops, and as the state of Rajasthan depends mainly on agriculture, the government was “giving them other work”. I wondered: was there not less harsh work they could do instead? And, where were the men? It made me think of the forced labour camps that all the street beggars were sent to in A Fine Balance. It is sobering to be reminded how little things change for those in poor rural areas whilst business in Bangalore booming.

The riding itself was surprising comfortable, once we learnt to relax into the gentle undulating motion of the camel, and just enjoy the unfolding landscape of barren scrubland to great, rolling sand dunes, towards the setting sun, with our scarves and sarongs wrapped around our heads in various interpretations of the obligatory, makeshift Lawrence of Arabia get-up.

Our arrival at camp was perfectly timed with the beginning of a magnificent sunset. Dismounting a camel is not an elegant procedure (but not as scary as mounting one for the first time) and we had to hold on tight whilst we were rocked violently forward, then backward as they folded their spindly legs and flopped down in the sand. We jumped off quickly and all scattered excitedly across the great dunes, our clambering feet sinking deliciously into the unblemished sand, each to find our own perfect view.

We could see our camp-beds had already been set up for the night, arranged in clusters of three, two and one, strategically positioned away from each other but sharing the same serene setting in a massive sandy crater surrounded by dunes, lit by the orange setting sun. A simple vegetarian dinner around the campfire was followed by a couple of beers and a smoke, then an early night in the best hotel in the world – under a thick blanket and billions of stars, surrounded the incredibly absolute silence that you only hear in the desert.

After a spectacular sunrise and a simple breakfast, the camel train headed back to Jaisalmer, where “Mr Desert” was awaiting our return. Our guide had informed us the night before that his employer truly was “the original Mr Desert”. Every year, Jaisalmer hosts the Miss and Mr Desert contest, and he was the very first winner in 1988, and in fact won three consecutive years until the title stuck and from the resultant fame and lucrative modelling contracts (hence the cigarette ads, calendars etc) he established his camel safari business.

Jaisalmer

2008-04-15T17:02:00.000+08:00

(7th – 9th April)
On our second day in Jaisalmer we were lucky enough to find ourselves right in the heart of Ganguar madness (Hindu festival celebrating the love of Shiva and Parvathi). It was late afternoon and there was quite a crowd of women in a dazzling array of coloured sarees, brightly decorated camels, traditional musicians and official-looking men in turbans gathering in front of the palace, all waiting for the Maharaja to arrive in his ‘vehicle’ (I imagined an elephant or something similarly exotic, but when he eventually arrived an hour later it was in a 4x4).

After some time inside the palace he emerged to cheers, looking quite regal in his white tunic and multi-coloured turban, whilst the effigy of Parvathi was placed carefully upon the head of a heavily veiled woman. This golden, gem encrusted symbol of female devotion, glinting in the sunlight high above the many veiled heads, and then the king on his white horse - appearing quite precariously balanced (we learnt later because he had been drinking all day), then led the huge procession of women, carrying various offerings to pray for as happy a marriage as their gods’, or - for single women – a good husband.

Winding our way down and out of the fort, through the huge gates, towards the lake, you could easily imagine his annual festival unchanged throughout the centuries, apart from the odd motorbike and auto-rickshaw that found itself unfortunately caught up in the surging crowd.

We soon reached the lake; although we couldn’t get close enough to observe whatever rituals were being performed at its bank. Every colour under the sun, each more vibrant than the last, clashed spectacularly to form a beautiful montage of literally thousands of women, some holding their hands together in silent prayer, framed by the incredible backdrops of havelis, temples and the formidable fort above.

Surrounded by desert, Jaisalmer is home to the world’s last “living fort” - now with almost 25% of the city’s population, descendants of the proud Rajput caste, living within its walls.

Sadly, this means that the fort itself is actually sinking into the sand; having been built to withstand attacks from Moghul hordes, but not the strain of so many residents, now with running water eroding its foundations, and the annual onslaught of tourism.

Apart from the grand City Palace and the ridiculously intricate havelis, the most impressive structures within the fort are the Jain temples. We spent an afternoon gazing in wonderment at their beautifully preserved carvings depicting various gods and erotic, dancing women.

Jainism is based mainly on belief that the eternal soul can only be freed by separating the physical self from the outside world. Jain sadhus avoid killing any living creature, don’t own any possessions and beg for all their food and lodgings.

Jodhpur

2008-04-14T00:36:00.000+08:00

2/4 – 6/4

The colossal Meherangarh fort that proclaims the might of the Rajput Empire looms high above a rabbit warren of countless hilly lanes lined with a higgledy-piggledy pile of lovely blue houses.

The old town of Jodhpur has a good vibe that enchanted us as we wandered aimlessly through the streets, dodging cows, cyclists, scooters and bull-drawn carts.

Children would pop their heads out of tiny blue-framed windows and call hello and wave merrily. In fact everyone was friendly and helpful, so we never got lost for long.

Yogi’s guesthouse, at the foot of the imposing fort is a traditional blue haveli accessed by a gate through which the ‘fucking rickshaw mafia’, as Yogi described them, would not dare enter. Yogi is a charismatic and very talkative host, who likes a drink, and a joke, and you never can really tell when he is being serious.

A real highlight of a visit to Jodhpur is a “village safari”, where you are taken in a jeep into the countryside to different villages, each specialising in its own traditional craft.

We saw people making pots, carving wood, weaving rugs and blankets, block printing sarongs and embroidering decorative bedspreads (and grinding opium and filtering it into tea!), and saw how they lived in simple mud huts lined with cow dung which kept them amazingly cool inside.

In an auto-rickshaw on our way back from cocktails at the palace, the humid night air was suddenly assaulted by freak wind that whipped up all the dust and sand. There ensued a total blackout, throwing the already hectic main road into even further chaos. The temperature dropped so suddenly, and we weren’t sure at first what all the haze was, so in the gloaming it appeared to be fog illuminated by the weak headlights from the traffic, creating a medieval scene as we approached the old walled city. The wind was followed, as always in Asia, by torrential rain by the time we reached Yogi’s, and we squelched our way through the mud home. All the locals said this is very unusual for the time of year.
The rain stayed at an almost constant English-style drizzle for the next two days, with the occasional break of sunshine until the next onslaught. Gillie had caught a cold in Udaipur and this only exacerbated it and, what with the rain and intermittent power cuts we spent a couple of days mainly in our room.

Our last day with Si was suddenly sadly upon us, as he finally confirmed his flight home from Delhi. Luckily the weather had cleared by the afternoon and we decided to climb the fort and find a good spot for sunset over the blue city. We didn’t actually go inside the walls as the officious guard was demanding Rs 250 even though we said we only wanted to walk around the outside and not enter the museum, which was about to close. Although we tried all our diplomacy, this stalwart, bushy-moustachioed general, wouldn’t yield, giving us some idea of his ancestors’ staunch resistance to the Mughal invaders. Like furtive hobbits we clambered around the rocky path encircling the fort and stopped outside a Hindu temple on the western wall to enjoy a free view, and a chat with a passing IT student, who said he liked to study in the quiet of the temple.

Marring the ancient cityscape were ugly mobile phone towers that are erected on rooftops by some, and poison with radiation the rest, of the inhabitants. One time we sheltered from a sudden downpour in a rooftop restaurant we spoke at some length to the owner, on his loathing for this and many other matters, from cows shitting everywhere, global warning and Partition. We met quite a few interesting characters in Jodhpur, and on our travels so far have found Indians in general are always eager to make conversation.

That evening we had a few drinks on the cold, sodden rooftop to say farewell to Si, and listened to Yogi’s drunken stories, including one about how peacocks mate. Apparently the male peacock proudly displays his glorious plumage only to discover he has ugly scrawny legs and so sheds a few tears, which the female drinks to become pregnant. Hmmm, must Wiki that one…

Our last day in Jodhpur, and first day on our own, dawned clear and we finally tackled the glaringly obvious fort itself. The intricately carved stonework was as delicate as lace, and the views afforded over the town below, spectacular.

The audio tour was informative on the various Maharajas excesses and painted a particularly atmospheric scene of the women’s courtyard, which was the most beautiful, where I sat for ages imagining all the Maharani’s, their ladies in waiting and even the courtesans all gossiping together in this opulent setting.

We were sad to leave Jodhpur, and Yogi’s, but were keen to embark on a camel safari in the deserts of Jaisalmer so hopped on yet another night-train with another adventure waiting at the end of the line.

Udaipur

2008-04-10T17:06:00.000+08:00

31/3 - 3/4

One advantage of night-trains for habitually late-risers (as we three are) is for the rare chance to see a place at its bustling, vibrant best – the early morning activity in the golden dawn light. From our little café, we watched a serene procession of women in vibrant sarees wander down to the ghat on the bank of Lake Pichola with huge bowls of laundry balanced on their heads.

Following them we are confronted with a stunning view of the lake with the famous Floating Palace in the middle, and the colossal City Palace and various other white architectural wonders all around.

The left hand side of the ghat is a flurry of activity as women wash themselves and their clothes, while the men noisily perform their morning ablutions on the other side.

With grand palaces, delicately latticed facades of old houses and beautiful temples at every turn the town feels like a film set, which in fact it was – parts of Octopussy were filmed here. The Bond classic was screened nightly on our guesthouse rooftop restaurant, so we had the surreal experience of watching it over a chicken tikka with a view of the Floating Palace (Octopussy’s ‘women only’ island) on the lake to our left, and the Monsoon Palace (where Bond is held captive), illuminated on top of the mountain in front of us.

Our guesthouse, Hotel Ganguar Palace, is a lovely 500-year old haveli, with balconies set in the traditional style around a peaceful courtyard. Heavy wooden, studded double doors open creakily into our lavishly ornate room. Faded frescoes depicting maharajas, tigers and elephants run along the walls, and an inviting window seat provides a perfect view of the ghat on one side and up the quiet street on the other. As I write this I can see an elephant framed by the elaborate archway, swinging its trunk and flapping its ears to cool down while its owner seems to be taking a nap in the chair strapped to its back.

 One wing of the colossal City Palace is still occupied by the Maharaja, with the other wings – built by his ancestors over the years dating back to 1600 now an impressive museum.
The palace women could observe social functions in the courtyards below through narrow shuttered windows, following the custom of purdha (women should be shielded from the lustful gaze of men). Our enthusiastic tour guide whisked us past a dizzying series of elaborate colonnades, trellised arches, portraits of maharajas, blinging mirrored bedrooms, and glass peacock mosaics.

PS. Since this post was written we have been to Jodhpur and I am finally uploading this from Jaisalmer (always seem to be a few days behind with the blogging) just about to embark upon a camel safari, so I will update when we return to (relative) civilisation in Jaipur in a few days time...

Mumbai

2008-04-03T12:53:00.000+08:00

Thursday 27th March - Mumbai
Our 2nd class air-con sleeper train was a marked improvement on the standard sleeper with blankets, pillows, even soap in the toilets, and altogether a different class of passenger. The ticket price was a lot higher and the Indians in our carriage looked well to do, and instead of gawping shadily, just watched in bemusement as Gill grappled with the paranoid packsafe. Consequently, Mumbai’s CST station (formerly Victoria station – and indeed it would not have looked out of place in London) saw us arrive at 6am relatively refreshed. We checked in to our second choice Lonely Planet recommended guesthouse, Maria Lodge, and snoozed for an hour before hitting the sunny streets. Bombay is bustling yet strangely calm, chaotic yet well ordered, friendly, cosmopolitan, tolerant, simultaneously modern and ancient, surprisingly clean, with a colourful charm and pleasant climate. We all liked it instantly. We spent our first day wandering north from the Gateway of India, a grand archway facing the harbour built to commemorate the visit of King George V (a mere 24 years before the British left India for the last time) towards the old Fort area, getting lost and photographing grand colonial structures and fascinating daily city life.

Friday 28th March – Mumbai
Today was one of those days spent trying to sort things out and seeming to achieve very little. Surprisingly, the internet was painfully scarce and slow. Spent a frustrating hour using the wi-fi in MacDonalds on the laptop uploading the first two entries of the blog. I do feel it worth noting how amazingly clean our laundry was when it returned. A curry stained white top I’d almost written off came back spotless. Apart from the obligatory travellers bar, Leopolds, we discovered a much more authentic feeling, dingy working man’s drinking den where we had a few cheeky nips (small bottles) of local vodka with lime soda. We ate the most amazing masala dosas at Laxmi Villas.

Saturday 29th March – Mumbai
Gill and I explored some key sights while Si went camera shopping. Bombay University was a real treat, with a serene courtyard flanked by Victorian structures reminiscent of Oxford University, and the fascinating library with its high vaulted ceilings, dusty shelves crammed with everything from Pinkerton and Shakespeare to Hindu and Mughal texts, and swallows roosting in the high stained-glass window ledges inspiring the reverence of an institute of learning – my kind of temple. We met Si at the High Court next door, a rabbit warren of courtrooms, unfortunately not in session, it being the weekend. The architectural detail was impressively intricate, with one of the stone pillars featuring a cheeky one-eyed monkey holding the scales of justice. Unfortunately we had been required to check our cameras at the entrance. These looming colonial edifices fronted the Oval Maidan where casual games of cricket were being played in the afternoon sun, and players downed glasses of sugar cane juice. After yet another delicious thali we caught a taxi to the Dhobi Ghat, the world’s largest washing machine, and saw first hand the reason for our incredibly clean clothes was the sheer strength of the washers (Dhobis) thrashing the dirt out against the stone. Dhobis are traditionally a lower caste, but this is fast changing as they take great pride in their work and their effectiveness is being recognised by international clothing manufacturers who send their product there for its first wash. So chances are, your Topshop vest has paid a visit to this ghat. We stopped by Chowpatty beach on the way back, but were too early for the famous night hawkers and sunset promenading couples.
That evening we went out on the town but Gill’s scuffed sandals prevented entry at anywhere remotely upmarket. Thus ensued a frantic mission to purchase the cheapest shoes possible, valid for one night only, which did indeed fall apart almost immediately, but did the job and we gained entry to the Ambassador’s bar. The evening ended in Polly Esther’s, where we hit the disco-coloured light tiles to some of the worst music dredged from the 70s and 80s.

Sunday 30th March – Mumbai – Ahmedabad – Udaipur
The day train to Ahmedabad left at 1.45 and was scheduled to arrive at 7.45, but seemed to go on forever. The carriage was a cacophonous chaos of rowdy young men, howling infants, and the constant aisle traffic of chai, coffee and snack hawkers, beggar children and freakish men in saris who would clap loudly and rudely demand rupees. Note to selves: next time, request window seats.We pulled in to Ahmedabad an hour late leaving us only an hour rather than the two we expected before our connecting sleeper to Udaipur, just enough time to sketch around getting lost and grab some food. Our platform lived up to the images conjured by writers on India from Theroux to Kipling. Red turbaned porters hurried back and forth pulling two-wheeled luggage carriers and the evening gloom provided an ambience heightening the anticipation and sense of adventure I always feel just before a long train journey. The train seemed older and was narrower than the previous ones, with only one side of two sets of three bunks in each ‘section’. Our bunkmates were a friendly young Indian couple from Udaipur with whom we carried out an animated conversation comparing cultural differences. She said she usually wore a sari but insisted on jeans for visiting their friends. We were fascinated by their arranged marriage, which had evidently worked out perfectly as they seemed ideally matched, and they in turn were shocked and confused by our unmarried status.

Goa

2008-03-29T00:41:00.000+08:00

Monday 17th March – Agonda
At 5am we were rather rudely awoken and unceremoniously dumped at what we presumed was the bus stand in Palolem - an hour and a half before we were told we would arrive. Groggily we took a rickshaw to Agonda and dozed on the beach until dawn when we checked into Romance Coco-huts - lovely but overpriced huts on stilts right on the sand, with awesome sea views. There ensued a perfectly uneventful day of sunbathing and swimming. A cheerful bongo seller from Varanasi stopped for a chat even though we assured him we did not have space in our backpacks for one of his beautifully carved bongos. Apparently the police tax the hawkers Rs200 for just 3 hours on that particular beach – even more on the more busy ones – and so if they don’t make a sale then they lose money. Looking along the almost deserted beach one couldn’t help but feel sorry for his chances. I know Gill dearly wished we could buy one, it’s such a wicked, jungly sound. Just then, as I was hunting in my bag for sunscreen I discovered the funny little nut thing that the old saddhu from Kashmir had given Gillie in Singapore. The bongo seller (who’s name I have forgotten) was suddenly animated at the sight of it and told us it was the real deal and very rare and expensive, and confirmed that it was indeed a lucky charm. He said he keeps several on his person and some with his stash of cash at home to guard it against theft.

Tuesday 18th March – Agonda
After a miserable night being violently sick (I suspect from a dodgy prawn), I convalesced all day with probably one of the best sea views one could hope for from any sick bed.
Wednesday 19th March – Palolem
Although we truly were living in paradise, it was eerily quiet and the boys were determined to find some form of nightlife so we decided, before heading up to north Goa, we would try another couple of nights on Palolem. They had taken a ride there yesterday to get medicine for me and were surprised by how busy it was. The reason, they were assured by the same dodgy Indian wide-boy guesthouse manager from before, was because of the English girl who had been murdered in Anjuna – sending hordes of scared girls down south. Rather unlikely I thought. More likely the police were now under international pressure to crack down on illegal parties and actually enforce the 11pm curfew rather than accept bribes as usual. Either way, it did not bode well for our intended antics up north.
Thursday 20th march – Palolem
Another blissful day of sunbathing and swimming, with a bit of eating and shopping thrown in when we could be bothered. As usual, somehow managed to sniff out a decent Italian restaurant for some pizza – the only food I could face after my bout of food poisoning. We both knew we would get sick at some point in India, perhaps more than once, but didn’t expect it so soon or almost at the same time. It makes you look at menus in a whole new light. Everything could be the next dodgy prawn (or in Gill’s case, Greek salad) you never know where it’s lurking.

Friday 21st march – Anjuna
We were increasingly getting that forlorn sense of being in a holiday resort out of season. Even Anjuna was like a ghost town. Where are all the party people? In fact, where are all the people? It didn’t help that ominous storm clouds darkened the horizon and a distinctly English drizzle had set in by the time night fell, which culminated into a tumbling crescendo causing us to turn around and high-tail it to the nearest empty bar, all adding up to that evening’s search of any life ending in us return empty handed and very wet. Couldn’t help feeling a sense of sadness at the thought that we were walking the same muddy, dingy streets that poor doomed Scarlett did on that, her last, brutal night one month ago.
Saturday 22nd March – Anjuna
Walking in the bright sunshine to breakfast we’d forgotten it was the Indian holy colours festival, and were ambushed by a group of children, none over 6 years of age, who insisted on streaking our faces in psychedelic coloured powder paint with their tiny little hands. We hired bikes and set off on another coastal road trip, passing lush green fields and tropical forests. At Mandrem beach we spoke to a middle-aged English couple. He had been to Goa 18 years ago and seemed envious of our trip. The next, and ultimate stop, Arambol was teeming with travellers and had a lively atmosphere. A yummy fresh tuna toastie was the decider – we would move there tomorrow. Then the heavens opened and monsoon style rain pummelled the beach. The road became a river of mud, flowing down to the beach, toppling parked motorbikes. This didn’t faze the local weekend tourists in the slightest as they splashed happily in and out of the sea. The monsoon eased into a steady drizzle and we drove back in stinging rain - nasty. After the most appreciated hot shower we’d had probably since Sapa two years ago, we embarked upon an even more horrid, but unavoidable, mission to the ATM in even worse rain and terrible traffic on mud roads dodging crazy drivers - drunk from celebrating the holy weekend.

Sunday 23rd March – Arambol
In the sunshine of the next morning Anjuna beach looked lovely. Lots of sleepy cows – some with coloured bindhis painted on their foreheads from the day before. Had the best breakfast so far at the Shore bar before returning the bikes and grabbing a taxi to Arambol. There were still groups of Indian men jumping in and out of the sea like kids in their tatty pants, or gawping openly at the bikini-clad foreigners. Gill’s mum called to remind us it was Easter Sunday and we wondered what kind of celebrations might be happening in a largely Catholic state such as Goa. The beach lulled us into that never-never land of the lotus eaters state and we once again forgot the time, the day, or even which country – a beach is just a beach after all. Apart from when we’re on the road and see the mad colourful sights you are reminded you are actually in India (even though Goa is supposed to be very different from the rest of India after its colonial, hippy and now tourist invasions) on beaches you really could be anywhere in the world. The sun, sea and sand are just slightly different heats, shades or transparency.

Monday 24th March – Arambol
Rained all day. Watched a bizarre holy cow dance on a saddhu’s knee while another man played a flute. A power cut affecting the whole town, including internet shops and travel agents (we really needed to book our train ticket to Bombay), more British style rain and the wine shop being closed meant an afternoon of updating the blog on our balcony until the laptop battery died. That evening we enjoyed playing pool in a bar on the beach until some hustler locals beat us off the table. The power returned and we tried to book our train tickets for the next day to be told the train was full but we could try going to the station the next day. For dinner we ate the most amazing pizza at an Italian restaurant called Fellini’s that was so popular, mostly with an old-school Italian traveller crowd, that we had to wait for a table. I realise our trip so far seems to involve a fair few Italian restaurants, but there are only so many times you can eat the rich, greasy curries before you crave something more familiar. I am also trying to document the names of any good restaurants (and guesthouses and beaches) to help other travellers. While planning our trip I found the most relevant information through Google blogsearch rather than the unreliable Lonely Planet.
That evening ended with the killing of the music at 10pm, as promised, and our polite but firm ejection from the Loeki café at 11pm – the manager fearful of the police after another bar had actually had its license revoked the previous night. It seemed ridiculously heavy-handed, particularly as we had been drinking in the bar he spoke of (Dreamcatcher) earlier the night before, and although they were banging out trance music there were only about 5 other people there. A stoned young crusty who was learning firesticks (but hadn’t progressed to the lighting stage yet) told us he was playing guitar on the beach at midnight and was moved on by the police. How this infraction could possibly bearb any relation to what happened to that poor girl is beyond me.
Tuesday 25th March – Arambol
Another grey day set the mood for getting up to Bombay as quickly as possible. I waited at the guesthouse while the boys went to the station to try and secure tickets for that evening. After a massive sketch they returned with tickets for the following night.
As we’d already checked out of our guesthouse, we found a new place tucked away in a labyrinth of muddy paths and staircases that I got lost in every time, feeling like I was in an Escher painting.
We ended up having dinner on the beach with our new neighbours, a guy and girl (just friends) from Sydney who seemed pretty sound. They’d come down from the north and hadn’t been to Hampi yet so we exchanged information. They also recommended Amristar, much further north than we’re planning on venturing - close to the Pakistani border in Punjab – which sounded so awesome we’re all considering trying to make it there.
Wednesday 26th March - Anjuna
After breakfast, our new friends (Emily and Anthony) amazingly gave one of their Lonely Planets! I must have mentioned that we’d lost ours. Even more sorted - they offloaded another book, City of Djinns, to replace The Great railway Bazaar I was reading and also sadly lost. Drove to Anjuna for the famous (and we discovered last of the season) flea market. Indian hawkers crooned their wares lyrically – “silver, carving, painting, sarong...”, whilst nonchalant western stall owners silently offered their overpriced clothes, that were suitable only for a party that didn’t exist, along the narrow dusty lanes of the sprawling ramshackle beach-front bazaar. Most of the Indian paraphernalia on offer had obviously travelled from Rajasthan so we resolved to collect it later on. Very sweaty and shopped out we met up with Emily and Anthony in Looda bar, evidently the place to see and be seen, packed full of serene old timers unfazed by the combined cacophony created by a jesus crew on electric guitars battling it out with a warped sound-system on the opposite side. It was a fittingly raucous end to our, albeit short encounter anyway, and we said goodbye over a few beers and burned it back to Agonda to collect our bags and make for the train.

Goa and Hampi

2008-03-29T00:17:00.000+08:00

Monday 10th March – Varkala – Goa
We were keen to embark upon our first Indian railway journey, and the 20hr trip from Varkala to Canaconda, Goa, did not disappoint. Once we figured out the complexities of assigned berth numbers, we relaxed into the rolling motion of the train as the lush tropical scenery, dotted with shanty towns and farms whizzed past the window. We whiled away the day reading and sharing stories with a well-travelled German couple named Ooly and Yasmine on the bunks above us who provided us with useful local knowledge. As night fell we climbed into our bunks and, once I had assembled enough hanging sarongs to block out the inevitable curious stares, were rocked to sleep.

Tuesday 11th March – Palolem
We arrived at Canaconda station at 5am and caught a motorised rickshaw to Palolem, the nearest beach. We sketched around for a while, looking inside the first shabby huts on the beach (the manager had a bizarre faux London accent) until conceding we were too tired, and the hour too early, to hunt for better options.
After a couple of extra hours sleep we took a stroll to the southern headland and over the rocks to a couple of tiny, quiet neighbouring beaches. Our first impression of Palolem was of a one-time typical traveller beach with ramshackle coco-huts that was rapidly succumbing to tourism. You could easily mistake it for any beach in Thailand.
The north end of the beach however was much quieter and less developed and we resolved to stay for a couple of days. That evening we met two Russian girls – one pretty little thing, that Si was quite involved in talking to, and her less attractive friend, who I did my best to distract in an effort to increase his chances. Gill for his part concentrated his attention on an English guy who also seemed to have his eye on the pretty Russian girl. The night ended fruitlessly for Si however when she received a phone call from her - before unmentioned - English boyfriend.

Wednesday 12th March – Palolem
The next day we hired bikes and rode up the coast to investigate some different beaches. We fell in love with beautiful Agonda, a clean stretch of white sand, with a handful of shacks and a much more laid back vibe. Further north we came upon an ancient Portuguese fort on the tip of a peninsular overlooking the sea for miles around. From there we could spot some idyllic little white-sand bays and set off to find them. According to our rubbish Rs20 map one of these should have been Betul beach, but after several wrong turns, dead ends, baffling signposts and directions from locals we just couldn’t seem to find it. At one junction we asked a row of three peacefully resting locals - a leather-faced old woman and two men, who pointed back up the path we’d come from to the main road and down a dirt track we’d previously dismissed. Following these instructions we careened down the hill to find ourselves right back at the same junction facing the same three bemused faces and realised we’d just driven in a circle. I will always remember the wrinkled face of the old woman as she shrugged slowly and gazed at me with sad but kindly eyes. This quest for an elusive Shangri-la had become a frustrating but hilarious mission, and just when we’d finally conceded defeat and were heading back to Agonda for lunch, Si stopped to ask an old woman waiting at a bus stop if she needed a lift and she replied no thanks, she was going to Betul beach!
Thursday 13th March – Hampi
As the train approached Hampi, the golden afternoon sun lit up the famous boulders, piled up in curious formations like peaceful Buddhas all around. Hampi is a small village close to the ruins of an ancient city, with hundreds of temples scattered about the lush landscape of rice paddies, banana plantations and swaying coconut palms, all set against the dramatic backdrop of the surreal giant boulders.
Friday 14th March – Hampi
I sensibly spent the entire day resting my ankle while the boys soaked up some culture in the temples. I was pleased we had been advised to stay on the ‘other’ side of the river and from our Mowgli guesthouse I had a most beautiful view to distract me all day, and the company of a pair of Swedish stoners, Erica with a strangely Bristolian accent apparently acquired from an English boyfriend, and dreadlocked Eric, also bizarrely with a Californian drawl from an American father.
Saturday 15th March – Hampi
Today we hired bikes and set off into the countryside, climbed over 200 steps to the Hanuman temple (where one cheeky monkey stole Si’s glasses); took a million photos of cows, colourfully dressed rural villagers and gorgeous scenery; gave school-pens to hordes of excited children and jumped off a huge boulder into a deliciously cold lake.

Sunday 16th March – gill sick, Hampi-Agonda sleeper bus
Poor Gill spent the whole of the next day in bed with food poisoning, but was recovered enough for our overnight trip back to Goa. The Indian sleeper bus is like something I’ve never seen before. Two levels of comfortable bunks, not quite narrow enough to be singles, nor wide enough to be classed as doubles, line both sides of the coach, creating a veneer clad plywood corridor with the occasional opening where you can spy a foot, a hand or a head. The heat inside was unbearable until we managed to force open the windows and the bus got moving. It did feel rather strange lying on a bed with the roadside squalor and deafeningly honking traffic whizzing past - certainly not as pleasant an experience as the sleeper train. Our scheduled stop at about 8pm was a fairly dark moment, with probably the most sketchy toilet experience ever as a German girl and I took it in turns to shine a torch for each other with crowds of curious truck drivers lurking furtively in the dark.

Kerala

2008-03-28T17:01:00.000+08:00

Saturday 1st March
We arrived at Kochi airport at midnight. Gill’s sheer relief that his feet were securely on the ground overcame his excitement and he slept as the car sped through the sultry night, whilst I peered in vain out the window for the first glimpses of this mysterious new land, and bombarded the driver with questions.
Our pre-booked guesthouse, Ballard’s Bungalow, in a heritage building, was predictably lovely – being well over budget to guarantee that necessary first-night comfort.

Sunday 2nd March – Fort Kochi
Breakfast was followed by the unexpected arrival of Amanda and Ben, followed shortly by Simon, and the new travel crew eagerly attempted to catch up on the last two years over a celebratory bottle of wine.
Fort Kochi is a beautiful little fishing town, with a rich Portuguese flavour. Looming cantilevered Chinese fishing nets creaked skywards, groaning with the weight of their catch. Bustling chai stalls conducted a roaring trade; the sweet tea poured expertly into tiny glasses from a great height at impressive speed. Uneven pavements of rubble gave way to ornately tiled promenades. Catholic schoolgirls in their regulation crisp white shirts and flowing blue skirts scuttled past crumbling colonial mansions that offered glimpses of the port town’s former decadence with their sun-bleached colours and European features. Our first taste of India couldn’t have been more relaxed, with the unhurried daily life of a sleepy fishing village unfolding before us. Tuesday 4th March – Alleppey
The five of us must have collectively viewed about 10 boats, all in various states - veering from luxury to sinkable, before settling upon our trusty vessel and home for the next two days. We chugged away from the docks and the lush tropical canopy soon gave way to open water as we traversed a large lake, busy with local and tourist traffic. Flashbacks of the congested tourist trap of Halong Bay in Vietnam were soon dispelled once we cleared the initial gridlock and felt we were indeed embarking upon a journey into the heart of darkness. But Joseph Conrad surely never experienced such an idyllic landscape - with women beating clothes clean in the same calm waters as children bathed and fishermen wreathed in their nets. There is possibly nothing so relaxing as this - simply lazing on the sundeck or in hammocks, with riverside life drifting past and our working life in Singapore fading into the realms of distant memory.

Wednesday 5th march – Keralan backwaters
Day two was much alike the first, with swimming, eating, reclining, chatting and reading the general order of the day. Just as well for me - having sprained my ankle on the darkened stairs the night before. Whilst moored for lunch, Simon gave our chef a swimming lesson and the sight of the funny little man splashing ineffectually but enthusiastically in his lifejacket was the cause of much amusement to all on board. Tiny Indian women impressively rowing leaky canoes offered us fresh seafood, but none of the river hawkers were quite as remarkable, or to us as welcome, as an old man, wearing nothing but a sarong fashioned in the local style to resemble a kind of nappy, selling the locally brewed coconut rum in a metal urn. Apparently it ferments inside a plastic bottle, attached to the tree somehow by a tap that collects the sap. It tasted like slightly carbonated coconut juice, but with a pleasant kick that roused us from our mid afternoon lethargy. We discovered we were moored for the night close to our super-friendly captain’s house and somehow invited ourselves over to meet his family. We were greeted warmly by his shy, smiling wife and beautiful five-year-old daughter. The tiny house was built in the local colonial style, with a veranda fronted by grand columns where the five of us were seated on all the available chairs and served chai and a platter of peanuts and Bombay mix (not sure if that’s the proper Indian name for it). The kitchen was a lean-to shack with a tin roof, separated by several feet from the living quarters. Our hosts were overwhelmingly hospitable, although with almost no English, and from what we could spy inside the house, lived very simply in only three small, cluttered rooms. It was a fascinating experience to actually see into the lives of some of the people who lived on the river, and humbling that our captain lived so modestly, and welcomed us so gladly to his home, whilst we exhibited such decadence on board his boat.

Thursday 6th March – Varkala
We docked after breakfast and headed straight to Alleppey bus station for the next leg of our journey: south to Varkala. We had originally determined to travel by train whenever possible, it being the most civilised, comfortable and safest form of transport, but we would have had to wait two hours for the next one and were assured our destination was only 1.5 hours away. Six hours, two buses (one of which we had to abandon after the lunatic driver crashed us into a truck) and one taxi later, we arrived in the pretty little seaside town, perched on top of a crumbling cliff overlooking the turquoise ocean crashing onto an inviting strip of golden sand.

Friday 7th March – Varkala
Realised we would have to lose a few days here for my ankle to recover, but there are definitely worse places to be stuck in, with the added bonus of spending a few more precious days with Mindy and Ben, who were leaving for Chennai in two days. Varkala is probably the least developed of the Keralan beaches, with the package tourist hordes discouraged by the steep access to the beach, but is quickly becoming a new stop on the India beach trail. We found it very relaxing, with a chilled hippy vibe, lush seafood, good sunbathing, although very rough sea, and all the usual yoga, Ayurveda and Tibetan handicrafts. The Indians we had encountered so far were all incredibly friendly, with every question answered by a comical, somewhat ambiguous head waggle that seemed to either mean ‘yes’, ‘maybe’ or ‘whatever’. All the children we met gave us big genuine smiles and waves, sometimes shouting ‘hello!’ as we passed.

Saturday 8th March – Varkala
Sunbathed, swam. Wicked little bar where we befriended a waiter to give us super-strong cocktails whilst another one, wearing a gay biker’s cap and a huge grin under his even bigger moustache, danced wildly on the porch like a Bollywood star. This became our regular sunset spot for the next three nights.