Tianjin, China
Chasing phantoms again. Something tells me I'll be using that heading a lot of times still: Only in China. At the moment there are a lot of things that strike me as really only possible here. And here's one of them:
My ticket said "Beijing - Tianjin" (both in English and Chinese) when I got on the train at Beijing Railway Station. That was right. I was going to Tianjin. Not the most interesting of cities in China ("还可以", my teacher had commented, "only so-so" - and she was right) but that's beside the point. It's the weekend and I wanted to explore. So Tianjin is a good choice for a weekend trip.
I got off the train again one hour later, checked my map and planned the circuit around the city. The first surprise was that my first destination seemed further than expected. On the map only two and a half kilometers helpful people urged me to take the bus; it would be too far to walk. Was that just people generally being adverse to walking? But really, the bus took ages to get there. Maybe distances just looked shorter on maps; besides, my travel guide did make mistakes occasionally...
The full extent of my misconception only came to light when I wanted to return in the evening: The last place of interest was near the main train station, so I decided to walk to last bit and buy my ticket before grabbing dinner. At a big crossing I asked a few workers the way just to be sure: "Is this the right way to the train station?" The group looked back in confusion. "There's no train station here." - "No train station?" Was my Chinese not good enough and I was missing something important? A joke maybe? "No", came the reply, "it's closed." - Closed?! "But I'm sure I got off the train here this morning. More confused, incredulous looks. "That's not possible." Then, how the heck did I get here?! Trains from Beijing, they explained, now go to a different station and I'd better take a cab. Still, a bit bewildered I followed their advice and caught a scooter. Sure enough, it took some 20 minutes to get to our destination. I was already biting my nails because the scooter seemed to leave all lights of civilisation behind and I was envisioning being beaten for my money in some dark construction site when we came to inhabited areas again and pulled up at the train station that I recognised now. Everyone in Tianjin seemed to know about this change, only me the silly laowai (foreigner) trudged around completely clueless. This was the place I had arrived at -almost at the other end of the city! That was why the surroundings of the station hadn't matched my map. Good business for taxis I'm sure. I swear, there was no notice of this anywhere but, hey, who'd expect they would just close a train station like a neighbourhood shop?
Later a friend asked me: "How can they just close an entire train station?" I had no answer. Because they can. Maybe this is China: Anything is possible.
Sunday, 30 December 2007
Wednesday, 21 November 2007
V.I.P.
Taiyuan, China
As a foreigner in China you'll always a) attract attention and b) draw a certain special treatment, especially if you deviate from the typical tourist destinations. In Taiyuan, capital of Shanxi Province, this has reached a new peak.
Returning to Beijing from Pingyao I had to change trains here and had about two hours to spare. So I decided to have dinner. I had been told about several local dishes I wanted to try. The problem was that in my limited time I could only see some foreign and Chinese fast food chains around the station. I ventured further, still without success until I was attracted by a pleasant looking place. "巴西" it said above the entrance. This looked familiar but I could place it immediately. I went in. A very pretty, elegantly dressed waitress was immediately at my side. What did I want to eat? She showed me a buffet (that didn't look Chinese at all). I asked her for Shanxi dishes. She apologised. They didn't have any. I inquired where I might eat Shanxi food. She called the manager. I was now the centre of attention. The manager came and I repeated my question. She said they only served "ba xi" dishes. Then it finally clicked. I had walked into a Brazilian restaurant. The manager explained that they had no Shanxi dishes but there was a restaurant around the corner that did. She even sent the cute waitress that had greeted me to show me the way.
The restaurant in question only had a single table occupied with a group of men eating and boozing. The girl explained the situation and I immediately became the V.I.P. The boss himself came up to greet me, sat me at a table, brought the menu, advised me which dishes were typical of the part of the province. Then he sent his staff to get me a bowl, chopsticks, tea. Of course, he didn't fail to ask me where I was from. I mentioned I needed to catch a train in less than an hour. I was really beginning to worry. No problem, he assured me. When I had made my choice (soup with knife-cut noodles and meat plus a bowl of deep-fried, shredded potatoes with vinegar) he went to the kitchen and shouted: "Hey, here's a German friend who wants to try Shanxi dishes. Make him some ..." At this the chefs also curiously stuck out their heads. Food was ready in record time, the boss proudly served it himself. Then he hovered next to me watching my reaction. I assured him it was very tasty (and it was). Then I tried to look like I was fully absorbed with the task of eating. I had run out of casual conversation topics that my language skills could handle. Fortunately, he knew that I needed to rush, so he left me to my food. Otherwise, this might have been a really awkward situation. In the meantime he tended to the other table answering questions about me and fulfilling the demand for more high percentage alcohol.
When I finally left and rushed back to the train station I was full and happy and had paid an impressively low price. Another one for the category Only In China.
As a foreigner in China you'll always a) attract attention and b) draw a certain special treatment, especially if you deviate from the typical tourist destinations. In Taiyuan, capital of Shanxi Province, this has reached a new peak.
Returning to Beijing from Pingyao I had to change trains here and had about two hours to spare. So I decided to have dinner. I had been told about several local dishes I wanted to try. The problem was that in my limited time I could only see some foreign and Chinese fast food chains around the station. I ventured further, still without success until I was attracted by a pleasant looking place. "巴西" it said above the entrance. This looked familiar but I could place it immediately. I went in. A very pretty, elegantly dressed waitress was immediately at my side. What did I want to eat? She showed me a buffet (that didn't look Chinese at all). I asked her for Shanxi dishes. She apologised. They didn't have any. I inquired where I might eat Shanxi food. She called the manager. I was now the centre of attention. The manager came and I repeated my question. She said they only served "ba xi" dishes. Then it finally clicked. I had walked into a Brazilian restaurant. The manager explained that they had no Shanxi dishes but there was a restaurant around the corner that did. She even sent the cute waitress that had greeted me to show me the way.
The restaurant in question only had a single table occupied with a group of men eating and boozing. The girl explained the situation and I immediately became the V.I.P. The boss himself came up to greet me, sat me at a table, brought the menu, advised me which dishes were typical of the part of the province. Then he sent his staff to get me a bowl, chopsticks, tea. Of course, he didn't fail to ask me where I was from. I mentioned I needed to catch a train in less than an hour. I was really beginning to worry. No problem, he assured me. When I had made my choice (soup with knife-cut noodles and meat plus a bowl of deep-fried, shredded potatoes with vinegar) he went to the kitchen and shouted: "Hey, here's a German friend who wants to try Shanxi dishes. Make him some ..." At this the chefs also curiously stuck out their heads. Food was ready in record time, the boss proudly served it himself. Then he hovered next to me watching my reaction. I assured him it was very tasty (and it was). Then I tried to look like I was fully absorbed with the task of eating. I had run out of casual conversation topics that my language skills could handle. Fortunately, he knew that I needed to rush, so he left me to my food. Otherwise, this might have been a really awkward situation. In the meantime he tended to the other table answering questions about me and fulfilling the demand for more high percentage alcohol.
When I finally left and rushed back to the train station I was full and happy and had paid an impressively low price. Another one for the category Only In China.
Sunday, 30 September 2007
Saving my Soul ...
Beijing, China
This one is all about Winnie, the Singaporean lady who says of her cultural heritage that she is a "banana": yellow on the outside and white on the inside. I've been staying with her and Evonne for a month. Evonne had warned me that her flatmate was ... special. She had been unsure if we'd get along. I had decided to make every effort. They were both very nice to me letting me stay at their place - not a matter of course for Asian women. Evonne had further warned that while she was a believer in God, Winnie was a very strong believer. I had assured her there would not be an issue.
I'm still not sure how successful I was with that. I guess we both tried but put an atheist in a room with a fundamentalist and make a guess what will happen.
Even though I've always sort of loosely believed in a higher power it's never (espeically recently) really been the Christian God. I've always had issues with the Church and its history of violence, persecution and meddling. Nowadays, I'm interested in religion from a purely scientific point of view. It's all a form of mythology to me. These days now and after coming to China, I'm particularly curious about Buddhism and Taoism.
Winnie on the other hand believes in what she calls the "one true, living God". She's incredibly vehement about this. She sees proof of it everywhere. She rejects any other religion as idol worship. Once she saw me sitting on her sofa in a lotus seat. I used to do Yoga for a while in UK and sometimes try it again or use it to correct my sitting posture. She told me off because, she said, with meditation I would open my soul to powers that I didn't understand and of which I didn't know if they were good or evil. I mentioned that I had done this in UK but she responded that this was Asia and things were different here. Another time she caught me listening to a CD I had bought in Ulaanbaatar, which featured Mongolian throat singing. I have to admit it does sound bizarre when you hear it for the first time. She said it was chanting. I objected that the title of the song was "Mother Mongolia" and surely the song didn't have anything to do with the profane. I sometimes hate it when my mouth opens before the brain has time to intervene! She insisted I didn't understand Mongolian, so how could I know for sure and she didn't want it played in her flat. With that the matter was off the table. And there were many more things. Small encounters like these. I don't know why they happened. I got the feeling the more I reminded myself not to provoke her the more it seemed to happen on its own accord.
I'm not sure when it started. Some time during the first or second week she must have made the decision that my soul needed saving and she began talking to me about God. As it turned out, we had both grown up without a father. I think she took that for a sign. "You have a father in Heaven", she would often say, "and he loves you." Not that I've ever really wanted a father. It was useless trying to explain to her my view point of religion. Or the matter of fathers.
One day she gave me a T-shirt. She was proud that it was a genuine Nike shirt, not a cheap copy you find on markets everywhere. She rejected that like a number of other aspects of life that are just typically Chinese. I duely thanked her for the T-shirt. Wrong again. "Don't thank me", she said, "it's from your father in Heaven. He told me to go and buy it for you." I tried not to let it show. "Thank you", I said again.
Another time she gave me three small comic books, saying it was to help me practice my Chinese. They were stories from the Bible. As comics. The angels looked a bit like Marvel heroes.
Then last week I woke up to find a brown paper bag standing next to my bed. It contained a little hand written note from Winnie and the "New Revised Standard Edition" of the Bible. In English and Chinese. A massive volume. It was also from my father in Heaven. Now, this was getting a bit creepy. Of course, I trust the two ladies. I've grown to like Evonne. But the notion of Winnie coming in while I was sleeping to carefully deposit the bag next to me is still slightly odd.
One night I was having a particularly animated discussion with Winnie about the views on religion. It was almost turning into an argument when she suddenly stopped me in mid-sentence saying: "I don't want to talk to you anymore. I only want to talk to God now." Then she began praying asking God for forgiveness for my views, to love me more and to enlighten me, and so on. Then after about ten minutes of prayer she disappeared into her room leaving me bewildered. Nobody has interrupted me in quite this way before.
Then this week, the matter finally climaxed. It was on Winnie's birthday, just before she went to the office. We were standing in the kitchen. She was talking again about our father in Heaven when she said she wanted to make a birthday wish. She wanted to pray for me. She wanted me to open myself to God. In retrospect it seems that she meant to make a final effort to convert me. I really didn't want this. I wanted to do my homework. Anything else. I felt a huge waste of time and energy coming up. However, conscience kicked in: It was her birthday, she'd been very kind and generous to me, so I should indulge her. I cautiously agreed. Winnie began praying asking God to enlighten me, to send down His holy fire, fill my heart with His love and more such things in minor variations. As her prayer grew more intense she came up to me. I tried to retreat discreetly only to hit the wall on my second step. She put her hand on my chest and went on. Could I feel how hot her hand was, she asked me. I thought that, of course, it was warm - she was a living human being. She told me to close my eyes, to open myself to God. I obediently closed my eyes and tried to think holy things. Just be patient a little longer then she'll be happy and leave you to your affairs. But she didn't. She rested her other hand on my head. She was feeling the heat, she said. She was standing quite close to me. Under different circumstances, with a different girl, it shot through my head, I would actually enjoy this a lot. I remember doing my best to keep myself from going through my shopping list in the privacy of my head. Then she said she could feel God's presence and I should sit down because when He came over me I would be weak. She lead me to the sofa in the living room and sat me down while she knelt in front of me. Winnie continued praying with her hands resting on my thighs. She kept repeating that she felt hot, that could only be God's holy fire flowing through her. The whole situation was more than suggestive, I wonder if she realised that at the time. Thoughts reared their heads that had nothing to do with praying. At the same time I couldn't help wondering what she actually wanted from me - and what would make her stop. Was she honestly waiting for me jump up and shout "Haleluyah!"? While she continued praying and put one hand on my chest again I tried to think of a way to gently but firmly tell her that it wasn't happening and that I didn't want to go on with this anymore. Eventually, she stopped by herself. She was out of breath and her hand had left a moist spot on my shirt. "Can you feel it", she asked me. I asked back if she wanted the truth. Nod. I shook my head sadly. "No." I had tried to tell her before that maybe, one day I would find my way to God but there was no point trying to rush it. At this she finally gave up and retreated to her room to freshen up. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I checked the time. We had taken about 40 minutes! When I told them about Winnie friends had already told me I should go and find my own place - soon. Some had said that she was scary. Now, I'm sure she had the best of intentions and I would certainly miss Evonne but that moment I knew that my friends were right.
Now, I want no misunderstanding. I've seen Winnie has a kind heart. She has tolerated me in her flat for a month and tried her best to make me feel welcome and at home. I'm sure that with our differences in beliefs that hasn't always been easy for her. At the same time she's been a hard test. I've never met anybody who's ultimately as fundamentalist as she. Born in a different day and time she might have been another Joan of Arc, a crusader, an inquisitor, a missionary. The way she can describe her faith, with such passion and conviction, without a quantum of doubt must be quite impressive to those who are receptive to such things. Like the Chinese girl I saw at her friend's birthday party. At the same time I note that she and a lot of her Singaporean friends from church and Bible group are middle-aged, single women. I wonder if that enormous passion they throw into their faith isn't the very same that other women might have for their boyfriend or husband. A cynical or analytical voice may even ask if all this "heat" they feel doesn't just come from some repressed sexuality? Ultimately, whatever reason there may be I find it hard to agree with or sometimes even accept her point of view. It's not only in conflict with my personal beliefs but also with everything that I've ever learnt about God. So, I'm sure even if I was Christian I would still disagree with her. I hope she'll forgive me that. I do appreciate her help.
This one is all about Winnie, the Singaporean lady who says of her cultural heritage that she is a "banana": yellow on the outside and white on the inside. I've been staying with her and Evonne for a month. Evonne had warned me that her flatmate was ... special. She had been unsure if we'd get along. I had decided to make every effort. They were both very nice to me letting me stay at their place - not a matter of course for Asian women. Evonne had further warned that while she was a believer in God, Winnie was a very strong believer. I had assured her there would not be an issue.
I'm still not sure how successful I was with that. I guess we both tried but put an atheist in a room with a fundamentalist and make a guess what will happen.
Even though I've always sort of loosely believed in a higher power it's never (espeically recently) really been the Christian God. I've always had issues with the Church and its history of violence, persecution and meddling. Nowadays, I'm interested in religion from a purely scientific point of view. It's all a form of mythology to me. These days now and after coming to China, I'm particularly curious about Buddhism and Taoism.
Winnie on the other hand believes in what she calls the "one true, living God". She's incredibly vehement about this. She sees proof of it everywhere. She rejects any other religion as idol worship. Once she saw me sitting on her sofa in a lotus seat. I used to do Yoga for a while in UK and sometimes try it again or use it to correct my sitting posture. She told me off because, she said, with meditation I would open my soul to powers that I didn't understand and of which I didn't know if they were good or evil. I mentioned that I had done this in UK but she responded that this was Asia and things were different here. Another time she caught me listening to a CD I had bought in Ulaanbaatar, which featured Mongolian throat singing. I have to admit it does sound bizarre when you hear it for the first time. She said it was chanting. I objected that the title of the song was "Mother Mongolia" and surely the song didn't have anything to do with the profane. I sometimes hate it when my mouth opens before the brain has time to intervene! She insisted I didn't understand Mongolian, so how could I know for sure and she didn't want it played in her flat. With that the matter was off the table. And there were many more things. Small encounters like these. I don't know why they happened. I got the feeling the more I reminded myself not to provoke her the more it seemed to happen on its own accord.
I'm not sure when it started. Some time during the first or second week she must have made the decision that my soul needed saving and she began talking to me about God. As it turned out, we had both grown up without a father. I think she took that for a sign. "You have a father in Heaven", she would often say, "and he loves you." Not that I've ever really wanted a father. It was useless trying to explain to her my view point of religion. Or the matter of fathers.
One day she gave me a T-shirt. She was proud that it was a genuine Nike shirt, not a cheap copy you find on markets everywhere. She rejected that like a number of other aspects of life that are just typically Chinese. I duely thanked her for the T-shirt. Wrong again. "Don't thank me", she said, "it's from your father in Heaven. He told me to go and buy it for you." I tried not to let it show. "Thank you", I said again.
Another time she gave me three small comic books, saying it was to help me practice my Chinese. They were stories from the Bible. As comics. The angels looked a bit like Marvel heroes.
Then last week I woke up to find a brown paper bag standing next to my bed. It contained a little hand written note from Winnie and the "New Revised Standard Edition" of the Bible. In English and Chinese. A massive volume. It was also from my father in Heaven. Now, this was getting a bit creepy. Of course, I trust the two ladies. I've grown to like Evonne. But the notion of Winnie coming in while I was sleeping to carefully deposit the bag next to me is still slightly odd.
One night I was having a particularly animated discussion with Winnie about the views on religion. It was almost turning into an argument when she suddenly stopped me in mid-sentence saying: "I don't want to talk to you anymore. I only want to talk to God now." Then she began praying asking God for forgiveness for my views, to love me more and to enlighten me, and so on. Then after about ten minutes of prayer she disappeared into her room leaving me bewildered. Nobody has interrupted me in quite this way before.
Then this week, the matter finally climaxed. It was on Winnie's birthday, just before she went to the office. We were standing in the kitchen. She was talking again about our father in Heaven when she said she wanted to make a birthday wish. She wanted to pray for me. She wanted me to open myself to God. In retrospect it seems that she meant to make a final effort to convert me. I really didn't want this. I wanted to do my homework. Anything else. I felt a huge waste of time and energy coming up. However, conscience kicked in: It was her birthday, she'd been very kind and generous to me, so I should indulge her. I cautiously agreed. Winnie began praying asking God to enlighten me, to send down His holy fire, fill my heart with His love and more such things in minor variations. As her prayer grew more intense she came up to me. I tried to retreat discreetly only to hit the wall on my second step. She put her hand on my chest and went on. Could I feel how hot her hand was, she asked me. I thought that, of course, it was warm - she was a living human being. She told me to close my eyes, to open myself to God. I obediently closed my eyes and tried to think holy things. Just be patient a little longer then she'll be happy and leave you to your affairs. But she didn't. She rested her other hand on my head. She was feeling the heat, she said. She was standing quite close to me. Under different circumstances, with a different girl, it shot through my head, I would actually enjoy this a lot. I remember doing my best to keep myself from going through my shopping list in the privacy of my head. Then she said she could feel God's presence and I should sit down because when He came over me I would be weak. She lead me to the sofa in the living room and sat me down while she knelt in front of me. Winnie continued praying with her hands resting on my thighs. She kept repeating that she felt hot, that could only be God's holy fire flowing through her. The whole situation was more than suggestive, I wonder if she realised that at the time. Thoughts reared their heads that had nothing to do with praying. At the same time I couldn't help wondering what she actually wanted from me - and what would make her stop. Was she honestly waiting for me jump up and shout "Haleluyah!"? While she continued praying and put one hand on my chest again I tried to think of a way to gently but firmly tell her that it wasn't happening and that I didn't want to go on with this anymore. Eventually, she stopped by herself. She was out of breath and her hand had left a moist spot on my shirt. "Can you feel it", she asked me. I asked back if she wanted the truth. Nod. I shook my head sadly. "No." I had tried to tell her before that maybe, one day I would find my way to God but there was no point trying to rush it. At this she finally gave up and retreated to her room to freshen up. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I checked the time. We had taken about 40 minutes! When I told them about Winnie friends had already told me I should go and find my own place - soon. Some had said that she was scary. Now, I'm sure she had the best of intentions and I would certainly miss Evonne but that moment I knew that my friends were right.
Now, I want no misunderstanding. I've seen Winnie has a kind heart. She has tolerated me in her flat for a month and tried her best to make me feel welcome and at home. I'm sure that with our differences in beliefs that hasn't always been easy for her. At the same time she's been a hard test. I've never met anybody who's ultimately as fundamentalist as she. Born in a different day and time she might have been another Joan of Arc, a crusader, an inquisitor, a missionary. The way she can describe her faith, with such passion and conviction, without a quantum of doubt must be quite impressive to those who are receptive to such things. Like the Chinese girl I saw at her friend's birthday party. At the same time I note that she and a lot of her Singaporean friends from church and Bible group are middle-aged, single women. I wonder if that enormous passion they throw into their faith isn't the very same that other women might have for their boyfriend or husband. A cynical or analytical voice may even ask if all this "heat" they feel doesn't just come from some repressed sexuality? Ultimately, whatever reason there may be I find it hard to agree with or sometimes even accept her point of view. It's not only in conflict with my personal beliefs but also with everything that I've ever learnt about God. So, I'm sure even if I was Christian I would still disagree with her. I hope she'll forgive me that. I do appreciate her help.
Indecent Proposal
Beijing, China
It was on her birthday party a few days ago that Winnie first brought this up. A business proposal since I had mentioned I was thinking about earning some money to finance my stay in China. It was like this:
A friend of hers (who was also at the party) had an architecture or design business. Would I be interested in making a short business trip for her a week later, stay at a classy hotel, enjoy all sorts of luxuries, do practically nothing and even be paid US$300 for it?
Do nothing? Get paid? That sounded almost too good. But I've become a suspecious person. What was this about? Winnie's friend needed a Western face to represent her company to some potential Chinese customers. I would only have to attend a business meeting or two, look professional and pretend not to speak Chinese at all. Surely, I could do that? Now I was curious. How would we communicate? Why did they need me? Because of the prestige. In China, a Western face adds positive credibility to a company's business. There would be a translator, so I didn't have to speak any Chinese. I wouldn't need to negotiate anyway, the customer just wanted to meet one of the Western business people in person. And why was I asking so many questions? I was being offered money for doing nothing, I should appreciate that. Well, after two wars we Germans don't appreciate the pleasures of blinder Gehorsam (blind obedience) anymore. I dug deeper. Finally, I was told that an architect from Canada had been supposed to fly over but had cancelled at short notice. I was filling in for him. But I wasn't a trained architect, I objected, how could I fill in for one? Winnie was getting annoyed now. I wouldn't need to do any talking. I could just enjoy my stay. It was all very easy really. They were even offering lots of money for it. This was a godsend. Her friend wanted an answer. If I didn't want it I should say so and they would find somebody else.
Now, it's not like I don't appreciate presents but I don't like being put under pressure and the way they were waving the benefits of the whole thing in my face it felt as if they were hiding something. Winnie wouldn't even tell me which city I would be going. The whole affair stank. Things are never as easy as people say they will be. Besides, this was blatant fraud. I was uncomfortable at the idea of being uncovered as an impostor. How much support could I expect from this friend of Winnie's. She might just deny everything. If things went awry $300 might not be nearly enough to get myself out of trouble again. Of course, on the other hand she had me hooked. $300 plus a fancy hotel for a few days...
I did the old Who-wants-to-be-a-Millionaire trick. I called my good friend Shu and talked things over with her. She didn't have a good feeling about it either but she knew that a Western face sometimes might help close a deal. I might really have very little to do. And why not do something crazy or adventurous for a change, I added.
In the end, I agreed with Winnie that I would go but on the terms that I should receive a detailed briefing before I left. And maybe they could throw in the suit that I'd need, as well. Some of her initial enthusiasm had dissipated by now. She'd call her friend and tell her. That was the last thing I heard of it. They didn't need me anymore. Apparently, the real guy had turned up, after all. Much ado about nothing.
I still wonder what might have happened. The whole thing did feel exciting, like Mission Impossible. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, will be..." Is this really how they do business here?
It was on her birthday party a few days ago that Winnie first brought this up. A business proposal since I had mentioned I was thinking about earning some money to finance my stay in China. It was like this:
A friend of hers (who was also at the party) had an architecture or design business. Would I be interested in making a short business trip for her a week later, stay at a classy hotel, enjoy all sorts of luxuries, do practically nothing and even be paid US$300 for it?
Do nothing? Get paid? That sounded almost too good. But I've become a suspecious person. What was this about? Winnie's friend needed a Western face to represent her company to some potential Chinese customers. I would only have to attend a business meeting or two, look professional and pretend not to speak Chinese at all. Surely, I could do that? Now I was curious. How would we communicate? Why did they need me? Because of the prestige. In China, a Western face adds positive credibility to a company's business. There would be a translator, so I didn't have to speak any Chinese. I wouldn't need to negotiate anyway, the customer just wanted to meet one of the Western business people in person. And why was I asking so many questions? I was being offered money for doing nothing, I should appreciate that. Well, after two wars we Germans don't appreciate the pleasures of blinder Gehorsam (blind obedience) anymore. I dug deeper. Finally, I was told that an architect from Canada had been supposed to fly over but had cancelled at short notice. I was filling in for him. But I wasn't a trained architect, I objected, how could I fill in for one? Winnie was getting annoyed now. I wouldn't need to do any talking. I could just enjoy my stay. It was all very easy really. They were even offering lots of money for it. This was a godsend. Her friend wanted an answer. If I didn't want it I should say so and they would find somebody else.
Now, it's not like I don't appreciate presents but I don't like being put under pressure and the way they were waving the benefits of the whole thing in my face it felt as if they were hiding something. Winnie wouldn't even tell me which city I would be going. The whole affair stank. Things are never as easy as people say they will be. Besides, this was blatant fraud. I was uncomfortable at the idea of being uncovered as an impostor. How much support could I expect from this friend of Winnie's. She might just deny everything. If things went awry $300 might not be nearly enough to get myself out of trouble again. Of course, on the other hand she had me hooked. $300 plus a fancy hotel for a few days...
I did the old Who-wants-to-be-a-Millionaire trick. I called my good friend Shu and talked things over with her. She didn't have a good feeling about it either but she knew that a Western face sometimes might help close a deal. I might really have very little to do. And why not do something crazy or adventurous for a change, I added.
In the end, I agreed with Winnie that I would go but on the terms that I should receive a detailed briefing before I left. And maybe they could throw in the suit that I'd need, as well. Some of her initial enthusiasm had dissipated by now. She'd call her friend and tell her. That was the last thing I heard of it. They didn't need me anymore. Apparently, the real guy had turned up, after all. Much ado about nothing.
I still wonder what might have happened. The whole thing did feel exciting, like Mission Impossible. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, will be..." Is this really how they do business here?
Monday, 24 September 2007
Winnie's Birthday
Beijing, China
Another birthday party. This time it's Winnie's big day and she wanted to celebrate in style. I still hardly know her so I bought a big bunch of flowers for her at the florist opposite her compound. I realised, not for the first time, that I have no bloody clue about flowers. I left it to the lady and her husband to put the bunch together telling them only it's for a woman's birthday. My Chinese doesn't really allow me to say much more yet. Then I got in a cab and managed to be directed to the club she had designated. This was a club in a very Old-World, British sense with lots of marble and expensive woodwork and waitresses in cocktail dresses - not the modern "thump, thump", "binge, binge" affair. I have hardly any formal clothing with me, so I felt horribily underdressed.
Most people here were again from the church or Bible group. This brought back some scary memories. There were a number of Westerners, too, this time. I chatted politely but somehow felt a bit left out. But Winnie had asked me to be the photographer. That gets me every time. Later, Winnie announced, there would be a gettogether at the home of one of her friends, an American couple, with Bible discussion and "sharing".
The Americans lived in a compound like most foreigners do. It's for safety and convenience purposes. Evonne and Winnie do. That where the similarity ends, though. Evonne's and Winnie's compound has four tower blocks and a community building in the middle. This compound was a fenced-in district in itself. The moment we passed the gate it felt more like crossing from China into a miniature version of America. It was heavily guarded, too. We were immediately hailed by uniformed guards who radioed back to central confirming who we were and where we were going. As we entered the building almost every door was secured with a key or code lock. People that lived here were seriously afraid of something. I had never felt that threatened in Beijing. A playground for rich foreigners, it seemed. Then came the flat and I realised how right my first impression had been. It had white marble, gold-plated railings, a fluffy, white plush carpet. To say it was "luxurious" or "lavish" doesn't quite capture it. I've never seen an apartment with Roman-style columns. They had a live-in 24-hour Filipino maid and a spoilt, little, white dog matching the carpet. The only word I could think of was "decadent". Somehow it reminded me of the descriptions of the villae of rich Roman citizens where they lived with their family and slaves.
I was also a bit apprehensive about the "sharing". Would they try to make me tell a story about how I had recently experienced God?
I didn't need to worry. Everyone gathered on the plush carpet and, being the host, the American quickly volunteered. He told an impressive story about his dream where he found himself in a sort of cathedral, the sky opened and God spoke to him fitting him with holy armour and a flaming sword telling him to be His servant. Everyone nodded. "Amen", some agreed. Then Winnie herself told the story of how her friend had been unhappy for a long time and she had gone over and they had prayed and sung together and waved around a white flag to cleanse the room when they had seen a dark shadow, a demon, retreating for their sight. More agreement and amens.
I can't help myself. The whole gathering felt a lot like a group of people bullshitting each other. Who can get the most attention? Who's the closest to God? Humans love to compete, humans love attention and social acceptance and this is just another arena. The stories I heard this evening could I have been straight from a Dungeons & Dragons game session. I could have written stuff like that (and I have made a mental note to reuse some of the stuff I heard tonight). You just have to be part of the group so that you have credibility. Then you can probably tell people anything. Still, I wonder if people tonight really believed what others or even they themselves said. No matter how much Winnie tries to convince me I find it harder and harder to identify with this kind of faith, let alone believe it.
Another birthday party. This time it's Winnie's big day and she wanted to celebrate in style. I still hardly know her so I bought a big bunch of flowers for her at the florist opposite her compound. I realised, not for the first time, that I have no bloody clue about flowers. I left it to the lady and her husband to put the bunch together telling them only it's for a woman's birthday. My Chinese doesn't really allow me to say much more yet. Then I got in a cab and managed to be directed to the club she had designated. This was a club in a very Old-World, British sense with lots of marble and expensive woodwork and waitresses in cocktail dresses - not the modern "thump, thump", "binge, binge" affair. I have hardly any formal clothing with me, so I felt horribily underdressed.
Most people here were again from the church or Bible group. This brought back some scary memories. There were a number of Westerners, too, this time. I chatted politely but somehow felt a bit left out. But Winnie had asked me to be the photographer. That gets me every time. Later, Winnie announced, there would be a gettogether at the home of one of her friends, an American couple, with Bible discussion and "sharing".
The Americans lived in a compound like most foreigners do. It's for safety and convenience purposes. Evonne and Winnie do. That where the similarity ends, though. Evonne's and Winnie's compound has four tower blocks and a community building in the middle. This compound was a fenced-in district in itself. The moment we passed the gate it felt more like crossing from China into a miniature version of America. It was heavily guarded, too. We were immediately hailed by uniformed guards who radioed back to central confirming who we were and where we were going. As we entered the building almost every door was secured with a key or code lock. People that lived here were seriously afraid of something. I had never felt that threatened in Beijing. A playground for rich foreigners, it seemed. Then came the flat and I realised how right my first impression had been. It had white marble, gold-plated railings, a fluffy, white plush carpet. To say it was "luxurious" or "lavish" doesn't quite capture it. I've never seen an apartment with Roman-style columns. They had a live-in 24-hour Filipino maid and a spoilt, little, white dog matching the carpet. The only word I could think of was "decadent". Somehow it reminded me of the descriptions of the villae of rich Roman citizens where they lived with their family and slaves.
I was also a bit apprehensive about the "sharing". Would they try to make me tell a story about how I had recently experienced God?
I didn't need to worry. Everyone gathered on the plush carpet and, being the host, the American quickly volunteered. He told an impressive story about his dream where he found himself in a sort of cathedral, the sky opened and God spoke to him fitting him with holy armour and a flaming sword telling him to be His servant. Everyone nodded. "Amen", some agreed. Then Winnie herself told the story of how her friend had been unhappy for a long time and she had gone over and they had prayed and sung together and waved around a white flag to cleanse the room when they had seen a dark shadow, a demon, retreating for their sight. More agreement and amens.
I can't help myself. The whole gathering felt a lot like a group of people bullshitting each other. Who can get the most attention? Who's the closest to God? Humans love to compete, humans love attention and social acceptance and this is just another arena. The stories I heard this evening could I have been straight from a Dungeons & Dragons game session. I could have written stuff like that (and I have made a mental note to reuse some of the stuff I heard tonight). You just have to be part of the group so that you have credibility. Then you can probably tell people anything. Still, I wonder if people tonight really believed what others or even they themselves said. No matter how much Winnie tries to convince me I find it harder and harder to identify with this kind of faith, let alone believe it.
Tuesday, 4 September 2007
Of Sardines and Flying Dutchmen
Bus 731, Beijing, China
No, this it not about old sailors' legends but actually buses in Beijing.
Today I found the bus that goes non-stop from Chaoyang District, where I currently live, to Wudaokou, where I go to school: it's 731. I tracked it down north of Wudaokou station following its route without finding any stops. Still, 731 buses kept passing as if to taunt me. But every time I did reach a bus stop it did not serve no. 731. Now, I don't believe in ghost ships and the Flying Dutchman but this was just too similar: a bus that goes past but stops nowhere. Surreal!
Finally, after surely an hours or so, I tracked it down to its terminus. There an attendant told me that 731 only starts back at Wudaokou station. I had really been chasing phantoms.
And sardines? Well, that's the condition of people on the bus during rush hour. Like sardines in a tin, squeezed together with hardly any way out, with other people's crotch pressed embarrassingly against your knee if you sit. If we can somehow squeeze another person in we will just push a bit harder inward.
And then the speed of the bus in Beijing's traffic is, on average, also that of a can of salted fish. At least I'm sitting. Now, the rest of the trip can only be a matter of days.
No, this it not about old sailors' legends but actually buses in Beijing.
Today I found the bus that goes non-stop from Chaoyang District, where I currently live, to Wudaokou, where I go to school: it's 731. I tracked it down north of Wudaokou station following its route without finding any stops. Still, 731 buses kept passing as if to taunt me. But every time I did reach a bus stop it did not serve no. 731. Now, I don't believe in ghost ships and the Flying Dutchman but this was just too similar: a bus that goes past but stops nowhere. Surreal!
Finally, after surely an hours or so, I tracked it down to its terminus. There an attendant told me that 731 only starts back at Wudaokou station. I had really been chasing phantoms.
And sardines? Well, that's the condition of people on the bus during rush hour. Like sardines in a tin, squeezed together with hardly any way out, with other people's crotch pressed embarrassingly against your knee if you sit. If we can somehow squeeze another person in we will just push a bit harder inward.
And then the speed of the bus in Beijing's traffic is, on average, also that of a can of salted fish. At least I'm sitting. Now, the rest of the trip can only be a matter of days.
Monday, 3 September 2007
Birthday Evening
Beijing, China
Tonight I was invited for a birthday party. The birthday lday is one of Evonne's and Winnie's friends from their Bible group. For that we just had to go across to another block of their compound. Most other attendees were also expats - Malaysian or Singaporean - except for a single Korean guy and a Chinese girl maybe around my age. Even the pastor had turned up for the occasion. They had ordered a huge banquet (so it seemed) including a whole fish and some Malaysian specialties. I learnt that the Korean guy was Evonne's and Winnie's neighbour and the Chinese girl worked for CCTV (the main public TV channel here).
The pastor said a prayer for the friend whose birthday we were celebrating. Then there was entertainment: Karaoke. There were several folders with songs. Great! I've always wanted to try karaoke. I don't know what kind of songs I had expected. I was naive when I first picked up a folder. There wasn't much choice. Two folders were full with Chinese songs. The third had a mixture of English songs of praise and (from my point of view) ancient pop (we're talking Roy Orbison here). The pastor himself was taking the piano. Evonne had spotted me. Did I want to sing anything? I could always ask the pastor for one. My mind went blank, then it came back with a list of songs. The list went like this:
Sympathy for the Devil - Guns'n'Roses
Highway to Hell - AC/DC
Holier Than Thou - Metallica
etc.
"Go on!" The little devil on my right prodded me with his trident. "Ask her if they know any of these." I was at a Christian gathering and this was all I could come up with. The angel on my left prevailed. I declined. I didn't know any songs. Smile. I couldn't even sing. Others could and did. Songs of praise in Chinese and English.
But the evening also had a very disturbing moment. The Chinese girl was interested in Christianity. Maybe she even wanted to convert. I'm not quite sure, they spoke Chinese mostly. I got the idea that they wanted to speak a blessing for her. At some point after the birthday prayers they sat her on a chair where the birthday lady had been sitting. One lady stood behind the chair resting her hands on the girl's shoulders. Two others were standing on either side their hands extended above the girl's head in a gesture of blessing. They began to pray. It grew intense. Something like strain was showing on their faces, especially the one leading the prayer from behind the chair. The two other ladies waved their hands about. Other people started joining in the chorus. Strain now also showed on the girl's face. The words, the pleas for God's aid, blessing, whatnot seemed to grow in intensity, urgency until they finally stopped. I wonder if the girl has come out of this as a believer. She was supposed to experience the Christian God. Call me a sceptic but I believe what she experienced was much more mundane than that. What's more, the praying and chanting and waving around to me had very little of a Christian ceremony. Much rather it reminded me of an excorcism, a mass suggestion, the rites of an ancient cult. Winnie has accused me of not understanding God, that our European ideas of Christianity and God are too limited. They have a relationship with the one true living God, she says. But I refuse to believe that this is it. They say that Buddha and Tao and everything that Chinese culture has been built on for thousands of years is all supestition. Still, I can't see anyone giving her an overview of Christian beliefs or values or history or the Bible and then tell her to see a priest. The wasn't even a priest present - the pastor had left. She's impressionable maybe because she's looking for something to believe in. And all I see is that they try to collectively brainwash and indoctrinate her. Maybe this is exactly how the Church has gathered new converts over the centuries. The difference is this: the Church has always been looking for new converts who'd pay regular tithes. These women have nothing financial to gain from their new "sister". They act on conviction. They firmly believe that God is guiding them the right way, that they are wrestling her from the clutches of demons and false idols, that this is the will of God. And that sent an icy shiver down my spine. There can be such a thing as too much faith.
Tonight I was invited for a birthday party. The birthday lday is one of Evonne's and Winnie's friends from their Bible group. For that we just had to go across to another block of their compound. Most other attendees were also expats - Malaysian or Singaporean - except for a single Korean guy and a Chinese girl maybe around my age. Even the pastor had turned up for the occasion. They had ordered a huge banquet (so it seemed) including a whole fish and some Malaysian specialties. I learnt that the Korean guy was Evonne's and Winnie's neighbour and the Chinese girl worked for CCTV (the main public TV channel here).
The pastor said a prayer for the friend whose birthday we were celebrating. Then there was entertainment: Karaoke. There were several folders with songs. Great! I've always wanted to try karaoke. I don't know what kind of songs I had expected. I was naive when I first picked up a folder. There wasn't much choice. Two folders were full with Chinese songs. The third had a mixture of English songs of praise and (from my point of view) ancient pop (we're talking Roy Orbison here). The pastor himself was taking the piano. Evonne had spotted me. Did I want to sing anything? I could always ask the pastor for one. My mind went blank, then it came back with a list of songs. The list went like this:
Sympathy for the Devil - Guns'n'Roses
Highway to Hell - AC/DC
Holier Than Thou - Metallica
etc.
"Go on!" The little devil on my right prodded me with his trident. "Ask her if they know any of these." I was at a Christian gathering and this was all I could come up with. The angel on my left prevailed. I declined. I didn't know any songs. Smile. I couldn't even sing. Others could and did. Songs of praise in Chinese and English.
But the evening also had a very disturbing moment. The Chinese girl was interested in Christianity. Maybe she even wanted to convert. I'm not quite sure, they spoke Chinese mostly. I got the idea that they wanted to speak a blessing for her. At some point after the birthday prayers they sat her on a chair where the birthday lady had been sitting. One lady stood behind the chair resting her hands on the girl's shoulders. Two others were standing on either side their hands extended above the girl's head in a gesture of blessing. They began to pray. It grew intense. Something like strain was showing on their faces, especially the one leading the prayer from behind the chair. The two other ladies waved their hands about. Other people started joining in the chorus. Strain now also showed on the girl's face. The words, the pleas for God's aid, blessing, whatnot seemed to grow in intensity, urgency until they finally stopped. I wonder if the girl has come out of this as a believer. She was supposed to experience the Christian God. Call me a sceptic but I believe what she experienced was much more mundane than that. What's more, the praying and chanting and waving around to me had very little of a Christian ceremony. Much rather it reminded me of an excorcism, a mass suggestion, the rites of an ancient cult. Winnie has accused me of not understanding God, that our European ideas of Christianity and God are too limited. They have a relationship with the one true living God, she says. But I refuse to believe that this is it. They say that Buddha and Tao and everything that Chinese culture has been built on for thousands of years is all supestition. Still, I can't see anyone giving her an overview of Christian beliefs or values or history or the Bible and then tell her to see a priest. The wasn't even a priest present - the pastor had left. She's impressionable maybe because she's looking for something to believe in. And all I see is that they try to collectively brainwash and indoctrinate her. Maybe this is exactly how the Church has gathered new converts over the centuries. The difference is this: the Church has always been looking for new converts who'd pay regular tithes. These women have nothing financial to gain from their new "sister". They act on conviction. They firmly believe that God is guiding them the right way, that they are wrestling her from the clutches of demons and false idols, that this is the will of God. And that sent an icy shiver down my spine. There can be such a thing as too much faith.
Thursday, 30 August 2007
Storms of Change!
Beijing, China
Today I finally understood what my friends were trying to tell me: China is changing fast.
One friend once told me that, after being away for four years, she could hardly find her way in her own home town. It had changed so much. She said entire roads were moved. Now I finally understand.
I tried to find a big market near Wudaokou where I had bought a shirt last year. It was gone. Not the shirt but the market. Gone. Not closed but gone. And not only the market but the whole damn street! Where I remembered shops and eateries and said market there was now a large parking lot framed in some greenery. At first I thought I had took the wrong turn. This couldn't be right. I swear, I just stood there for a few minutes with my mouth open, staring blankly. Buildings get finished, new constructions get started, that's normal. But for an entire street to disappear without a trace within a year, for that I was not prepared. For a major traffic artery, Qianmen Dajie, with its historic shops and restaurants to be simply closed for renovation like some neighbourhood cafe - that just seemed impossible. I liked those places - didn't think there was anything wrong with them. Maybe a bit of cleaning up would have done the trick...
These are not the famous Winds of Change - it's bloody tornados!
Today I finally understood what my friends were trying to tell me: China is changing fast.
One friend once told me that, after being away for four years, she could hardly find her way in her own home town. It had changed so much. She said entire roads were moved. Now I finally understand.
I tried to find a big market near Wudaokou where I had bought a shirt last year. It was gone. Not the shirt but the market. Gone. Not closed but gone. And not only the market but the whole damn street! Where I remembered shops and eateries and said market there was now a large parking lot framed in some greenery. At first I thought I had took the wrong turn. This couldn't be right. I swear, I just stood there for a few minutes with my mouth open, staring blankly. Buildings get finished, new constructions get started, that's normal. But for an entire street to disappear without a trace within a year, for that I was not prepared. For a major traffic artery, Qianmen Dajie, with its historic shops and restaurants to be simply closed for renovation like some neighbourhood cafe - that just seemed impossible. I liked those places - didn't think there was anything wrong with them. Maybe a bit of cleaning up would have done the trick...
These are not the famous Winds of Change - it's bloody tornados!
Monday, 27 August 2007
The Qing Dynasty Hails You
China
Firstly, let it be said how efficient the Chinese are with their border crossing. Where Russians took four (4) hours for no apparent reason, taking away passports and detaining people in a baking hot train the Chinese have a system like at the airport. I don't know if they really verify every detail on your passport (including mother's maiden name for sure!) but here it's stamp, type, type, stamp, done. They even smile. Sometimes.
Then, the next morning you wake up to the magestic canyons and mountains of northern Shanxi Province. And, as promised in the guidebook, you get your first glance at China's greatest ever building project: The Great Wall. For many kilometers it snakes along in and out of view across the northern mountain range. Some villages seem like they've been built right into it. With mighty fortresses on both sides, whose turrets have outlasted the centuries while elsewhere entire kingdoms crumbled the Middle Kingdom welcomes me back. And I am thrilled to return.
中国欢迎你。
Impressions of Mongolia - Finals
Train 4 from Ulaanbaatar to Beijing
Impressions of Mongolia probably have to be divided clearly between city and countryside. In the city, mainly Ulaanbaatar, people behave like city people anywhere else, too. There are beggars and people who try to cheat you. People shout bits of English after you trying to get your attention. You have to be a bit wary of everyone.
And here, I also noticed, people drink a lot. Mainly men actually - it seems a similar problem as in Ulan Ude. This unnerved me a bit since I didn't know how drunk Mongols will react or behave. But it's a bit sad to see the descendants of this proud people stagger through the streets, leaning on their wives/girlfriends to stay upright. I don't envy Mongolian women.
In the countryside things are very different. People seem very honest and genuinely friendly. Kids don't beg for money but say hello and want to be photographed and get excited over the pictures. Here we saw a couple of really cute children. People are hospitable and invite you into their ger, offer you food and drink, which it is rude to decline untasted. It's a joy to meet them.
Sadly, or rather frustratingly, I'm still not comfortable taking photos of people - and shy to ask if I can. People wear their colourful national dresses to the temple or just in the street. I would love to take a photo but I feel like an intruder and choose not to. Maybe it's better like this.
All in all, I can feel the closeness to China now. Not only because people look Asian now - maybe like people from Northern China but there's more.
The traditional music using strings and pipes, for example, reminds me strongly of Chinese tunes I've heard before. There's also the architecture of temples and pavillions with sweeping roofs. I wonder who influenced who here - it's difficult to get an answer. Mongolia officially, in its national museum, claims it once ruled all of China while the Chinese will claim that China has always been China but for some time Mongolia also belonged to it. Buddhist monks chant their prayers and there is brush calligraphy in flowing ancient Mongolian script.
But I learnt the feelings about China are mixed. There are so many Chinese products around but people don't only welcome them. Whenever something went wrong with the car Gorin would blame it on Chinese parts. Don't eat those peanuts, he told me once, they're the bad Chinese ones. We sometimes wondered if all that could be serious. This all seems to be for historical as well as contemporary reasons. In the past, Mongolia accuses the Chinese Manchu rulers - the Qing - to be particularly cruel to Mongolian people. These days, Chinese businessmen can be ruthless, a Chinese traveller at the hostel told me. But then, of course, there's the story about the road from the border crossing to China to Ulaanbaatar that was supposed to be built by Mongolian companies but was held up by corruption and lack of organisation. In the end China is now itself building the road on Mongolian territory. Otherwise, they claim it will never get finished. A problem I've heard about before just with different country names.
Still, I hope I will get the chance to return here and explore more of this exciting country.
Impressions of Mongolia probably have to be divided clearly between city and countryside. In the city, mainly Ulaanbaatar, people behave like city people anywhere else, too. There are beggars and people who try to cheat you. People shout bits of English after you trying to get your attention. You have to be a bit wary of everyone.
And here, I also noticed, people drink a lot. Mainly men actually - it seems a similar problem as in Ulan Ude. This unnerved me a bit since I didn't know how drunk Mongols will react or behave. But it's a bit sad to see the descendants of this proud people stagger through the streets, leaning on their wives/girlfriends to stay upright. I don't envy Mongolian women.
In the countryside things are very different. People seem very honest and genuinely friendly. Kids don't beg for money but say hello and want to be photographed and get excited over the pictures. Here we saw a couple of really cute children. People are hospitable and invite you into their ger, offer you food and drink, which it is rude to decline untasted. It's a joy to meet them.
Sadly, or rather frustratingly, I'm still not comfortable taking photos of people - and shy to ask if I can. People wear their colourful national dresses to the temple or just in the street. I would love to take a photo but I feel like an intruder and choose not to. Maybe it's better like this.
All in all, I can feel the closeness to China now. Not only because people look Asian now - maybe like people from Northern China but there's more.
The traditional music using strings and pipes, for example, reminds me strongly of Chinese tunes I've heard before. There's also the architecture of temples and pavillions with sweeping roofs. I wonder who influenced who here - it's difficult to get an answer. Mongolia officially, in its national museum, claims it once ruled all of China while the Chinese will claim that China has always been China but for some time Mongolia also belonged to it. Buddhist monks chant their prayers and there is brush calligraphy in flowing ancient Mongolian script.
But I learnt the feelings about China are mixed. There are so many Chinese products around but people don't only welcome them. Whenever something went wrong with the car Gorin would blame it on Chinese parts. Don't eat those peanuts, he told me once, they're the bad Chinese ones. We sometimes wondered if all that could be serious. This all seems to be for historical as well as contemporary reasons. In the past, Mongolia accuses the Chinese Manchu rulers - the Qing - to be particularly cruel to Mongolian people. These days, Chinese businessmen can be ruthless, a Chinese traveller at the hostel told me. But then, of course, there's the story about the road from the border crossing to China to Ulaanbaatar that was supposed to be built by Mongolian companies but was held up by corruption and lack of organisation. In the end China is now itself building the road on Mongolian territory. Otherwise, they claim it will never get finished. A problem I've heard about before just with different country names.
Still, I hope I will get the chance to return here and explore more of this exciting country.
The Land of Blue Sky
There are almost too many impressions to digest. So, in this post I'll leave out adjectives like amazing, breathtaking, stunning and so on - there would just too many.
The landscape was very varied and the interesting thing was it wouldn't merge or gradually change but switch quite clearly. In fact, we got the impression that in Mongolia, terrain types come in blocks with a clear division to the next block. First grassland, now steppe, now desert - a very tidy country, we agreed.
First we visited the Rocky Mountains, as Bolod had called them. They turned out to be a rather alien sight, as giant had piled up huge slabs of rock in the early days of the world. From a distance I thought the sharp formations almost resembled the skyline of a city. I loved taking photos but somehow a photo was never enough to capture the strangeness of the sight. We camped right amid the rocky spires and heated some canned food for dinner (this would become our standard procedure). After watching the sunset we talked into the night around the cooker - feeling very much like travellers in the old days. That night the wind was very strong, strong enough to rock Gorin's car and damage our tent.
The second objective was the White Cliffs, a solitary rocky drop in a flat reddish desert. I didn't find them that white but, hey, I didn't name them. This day was actually the first time we saw Gorin uncertain. It turned into quite an adventurous hunt through the desert. Gorin had first intended to follow another jeep driven by his friend. But when he took a shortcut believing the other car was right behind us we lost them. That visibly upset him. He searched the horizon for the car but nothing. One moment we thought we spotted a cloud of dust but it disappeared again. We proceeded on our own. Some hours later he stopped, searched the horizon, then turned back. We followed a different track for a while then turned back again. Then we encountered a lady at the roadside - the human souls all day. What was she doing here alone? Gorin stopped, talked to her, then asked us to make some space, we'd take her along to her home, which was not far. They made conversation; later Gorin related she had told him that their herd of sheep had been attacked by wolves. In a way this was our first encounter with the harsh wilderness of this country. We were invited into the ger tent for a drink while Gorin (as we later learned) asked for the way the White Cliffs. We set off again. But something was still not right. Gorin asked at another ger - they pointed in a different direction. Obviously the locals didn't really know where the place was - I had read this: local people are often unaware of such places of special interest to travellers - they're just not interested. We followed the new road and then another. We were a bit worried now. We trusted in Gorin's ability to find to the and we had food for some days. Still, to feel lost in this huge land is a bit worrying. Finally, Gorin stopped for a long while scanning the horizon with his telescope. Then, at last, he smiled and laughed. He had found what he was looking for. We arrived just before sunset. His friend had got there long before us. There was a big hello. I still wonder what the two guys had to say to eachother over their tea in the evening.
The next day we reached Yol Canyon, which houses a small river that can be frozen long into spring or summer time. Here after all the time in the open plains and desert there were green hills and mountains again. We found no ice but instead encountered a Mongolian boy who spoke French and good English, too, and was taking a couple of French kids around. That night we camped near a ger and while we cooked our dinner Gorin went over to say hello. It became quite cold once the sun went down but the sky was crystal clear as I had never seen it before. We sat around the cooker for a long time, stunned, under a black dome sparkling with millions of stars. Against my will the line from the film Madagascar came to my mind: "Man, that must be millions of helicopters." I guess in a way that's how we city people felt. The next morning we were awakened by the goats that had gathered around our tent. Then a young horse came over and before we knew it had found its way into our tent. We spent an interesting time coaxing it out again.
This day we continued on to how we had imagined the Gobi Desert to be like: sand dunes. In truth we had spent the last one or two days in the Gobi desert - the sand dunes are only a small, if pictoresque, part. Sadly, here the weather was not all desert-like. So, what was the Gobi Desert like? Cold and cloudy - bit like England. Surprised? Well, we learned the Gobi is not a desert like the Sahara: it's not hot all the time. The clouds were an unfortunate consequence of this being the rain season. Still, the dunes were nonetheless impressive. Some are said to be up to 300 meters high. So, we climbed a few and took the obligatory photos diving off sand dunes and surfing like on water. Also, at this point we were as far south as we would go - a mere 400 kilometers on to China - you can almost smell it. Here we also encountered the toughest little girl ever at the ger where we spent the night. She was about six, I think, had to struggle with two bigger brothers that kept pulling on her clothing. She fought them off again and again with impressive force. Then one of them took her for a ride on his motorbike. When she had a enough she just jumped off - without waiting for him to stop, rolled over on the ground, dusted herself off and walked over to Gorin as if nothing had happened. That had us dumbfounded. Cool kid!
The fifth day of our trip the weather was still cloudy but at least the haze of the previous day had cleared a bit. Thus we arrived at the Red Cliffs. Surrounded by a stunning open landscape and more goats we spent a rainy, stormy night. Under the canopy of cloud the night here was so pitch black that a few paces were enough the loose sight of the ger entirely. Made going for a leak rather unsettling - imagine getting lost in such inky blackness!
As the saying goes "rain is always followed by sunshine" the next day we woke up to the kind of magnificent blue sky the Mongolia is famous for. This was the last day for us to travel over flat terrain - we never appreciated it while we had it. In the afternoon we reached Ongiin Khiid, a ruined monastery town on the borders of a little river. The place is not so impressive as the story that must have taken place here. In their effort to reduce the influence of Lamaism in Mongolia the communists had the monastery destroyed and the monks taken away or killed - something, Bolod had insisted, was not done by the Russians but the Mongolian "KGB". Looking at the size of the site a great tragedy. On the upside, the clear sky afforded us another beautiful celestial panorama that night. In the evening, the young camel of the guest house was attracted by the leftover food at our ger. It unnerved Nicole who wanted to read a book. It kept trying to push its snout into the ger or into the bag with food. When that failed it just mournfully rubbed its big head against the ger. It was a bit daunting handling the animal which was still bigger than your average horse. We weren't sure how it would react to pressure, so we were careful with our big guy. In the end I managed to lure it away but Rupert, as I began calling it, was a curious fellow and kept coming back. I turned into something like the "Camel-whisperer" but to no avail. Nicole didn't get to read her book until Rupert found food elsewhere. A baby camel? One hell of a baby! How is Rupert now, I wonder?
The next day the sky was still a pristine blue with only a few clouds in sight. Now the really tough going started: we headed for the mountains and the Eight Lakes. Of which, as we heard, only one or two remain because of draught. The road - and thus the car - not only went up and down but also hillsides but also over rocks. Being jolted back, forth and from side to side was more than tiring - even though we were just sitting in the car. Tension rose with fatigue. Still, Gorin mastered the road without so much as a remark. Then when we finally reached our destination it was suddenly all worth it. Over the crest of a hillside the lake came into view. Situated in a small valley it was about as blue as the sky. And cold as I later found out. After Lake Baikal I was not going to miss this one and it was about as cold. But also very invogourating. Gorin said I would sleep well that night. We still sat around the camp fire for a long time, once again admiring the countless stars of this country. And Gorin was right, despite storm and cold that kept Nicole awake I comfortably slept through the whole night. Nicole would have none of it. No more tents: from now on we were sleeping in gers!
And true enough, the weather was changing. When we reached the nearby waterfall (after seemingly endless kilometers of rocky road) it had clouded over again. It had also got colder. We had to wear jackets now. Rain was coming. Fortunately, there were only two more days left. So, that night we had one last fiery sunset reflected on white-grey clouds. The waterfall itself while beautiful was not as impressive as the ravine it tumbled into. A deep cut in the landscape for kilometers and kilometers. On foot it would surely take a day or more to march around.
The next morning it started to rain again. We set off quickly because the siblings didn't like the rain and Gorin was worried that about the roads. We reached our last destination, Kharkhorin without much of a problem. Here we hit an asphalt road again. Oh so easy after what we had been through. Next to Erdene Zuu monastery, built on the site of the ancient city of Kharakhorum, we picked a guest house. This was the saddest ger I had ever seen: in a backyard, surrounded by a board fence, with view of the toilet. It smelled and was not well built as the wind that night tore off part of the roof covering. After all the nights spent in a virtually boundless landscape it felt confined and tiny. A harsh return to reality.
Our final day still turned out to be quite the adventure. We expected asphalt roads all the way back to Ulaanbaatar. Not so. The government was building a new road. The old one had been demolished. The rain of the previous days had washed away the dirt track that filled in for the much travelled main road. At times, it felt like riding a piece of soap. Just don't stop, keep moving or we'll be stuck. Mud splattered, the engine roared. How some other people that we passed expected to get through in a normal car without four-by-four was beyond us. In the end, our super driver got us through and we finally slid back onto asphalt for good and our adventure came to an end.
It felt strange to be in the city again - no other town we passed was anywhere near the size of a city. There were so many cars, and even traffic jams. Driving among so many cars again must feel strange after days on the road with not a single vehicle in sight for hundreds of kilometers. Here you have to stop at traffic lights and indicate direction. But one thing we did look forward to, the rarest of all things on this trip: A bath. Out there in the vast plains noone smells you.
The landscape was very varied and the interesting thing was it wouldn't merge or gradually change but switch quite clearly. In fact, we got the impression that in Mongolia, terrain types come in blocks with a clear division to the next block. First grassland, now steppe, now desert - a very tidy country, we agreed.
First we visited the Rocky Mountains, as Bolod had called them. They turned out to be a rather alien sight, as giant had piled up huge slabs of rock in the early days of the world. From a distance I thought the sharp formations almost resembled the skyline of a city. I loved taking photos but somehow a photo was never enough to capture the strangeness of the sight. We camped right amid the rocky spires and heated some canned food for dinner (this would become our standard procedure). After watching the sunset we talked into the night around the cooker - feeling very much like travellers in the old days. That night the wind was very strong, strong enough to rock Gorin's car and damage our tent.
The second objective was the White Cliffs, a solitary rocky drop in a flat reddish desert. I didn't find them that white but, hey, I didn't name them. This day was actually the first time we saw Gorin uncertain. It turned into quite an adventurous hunt through the desert. Gorin had first intended to follow another jeep driven by his friend. But when he took a shortcut believing the other car was right behind us we lost them. That visibly upset him. He searched the horizon for the car but nothing. One moment we thought we spotted a cloud of dust but it disappeared again. We proceeded on our own. Some hours later he stopped, searched the horizon, then turned back. We followed a different track for a while then turned back again. Then we encountered a lady at the roadside - the human souls all day. What was she doing here alone? Gorin stopped, talked to her, then asked us to make some space, we'd take her along to her home, which was not far. They made conversation; later Gorin related she had told him that their herd of sheep had been attacked by wolves. In a way this was our first encounter with the harsh wilderness of this country. We were invited into the ger tent for a drink while Gorin (as we later learned) asked for the way the White Cliffs. We set off again. But something was still not right. Gorin asked at another ger - they pointed in a different direction. Obviously the locals didn't really know where the place was - I had read this: local people are often unaware of such places of special interest to travellers - they're just not interested. We followed the new road and then another. We were a bit worried now. We trusted in Gorin's ability to find to the and we had food for some days. Still, to feel lost in this huge land is a bit worrying. Finally, Gorin stopped for a long while scanning the horizon with his telescope. Then, at last, he smiled and laughed. He had found what he was looking for. We arrived just before sunset. His friend had got there long before us. There was a big hello. I still wonder what the two guys had to say to eachother over their tea in the evening.
The next day we reached Yol Canyon, which houses a small river that can be frozen long into spring or summer time. Here after all the time in the open plains and desert there were green hills and mountains again. We found no ice but instead encountered a Mongolian boy who spoke French and good English, too, and was taking a couple of French kids around. That night we camped near a ger and while we cooked our dinner Gorin went over to say hello. It became quite cold once the sun went down but the sky was crystal clear as I had never seen it before. We sat around the cooker for a long time, stunned, under a black dome sparkling with millions of stars. Against my will the line from the film Madagascar came to my mind: "Man, that must be millions of helicopters." I guess in a way that's how we city people felt. The next morning we were awakened by the goats that had gathered around our tent. Then a young horse came over and before we knew it had found its way into our tent. We spent an interesting time coaxing it out again.
This day we continued on to how we had imagined the Gobi Desert to be like: sand dunes. In truth we had spent the last one or two days in the Gobi desert - the sand dunes are only a small, if pictoresque, part. Sadly, here the weather was not all desert-like. So, what was the Gobi Desert like? Cold and cloudy - bit like England. Surprised? Well, we learned the Gobi is not a desert like the Sahara: it's not hot all the time. The clouds were an unfortunate consequence of this being the rain season. Still, the dunes were nonetheless impressive. Some are said to be up to 300 meters high. So, we climbed a few and took the obligatory photos diving off sand dunes and surfing like on water. Also, at this point we were as far south as we would go - a mere 400 kilometers on to China - you can almost smell it. Here we also encountered the toughest little girl ever at the ger where we spent the night. She was about six, I think, had to struggle with two bigger brothers that kept pulling on her clothing. She fought them off again and again with impressive force. Then one of them took her for a ride on his motorbike. When she had a enough she just jumped off - without waiting for him to stop, rolled over on the ground, dusted herself off and walked over to Gorin as if nothing had happened. That had us dumbfounded. Cool kid!
The fifth day of our trip the weather was still cloudy but at least the haze of the previous day had cleared a bit. Thus we arrived at the Red Cliffs. Surrounded by a stunning open landscape and more goats we spent a rainy, stormy night. Under the canopy of cloud the night here was so pitch black that a few paces were enough the loose sight of the ger entirely. Made going for a leak rather unsettling - imagine getting lost in such inky blackness!
As the saying goes "rain is always followed by sunshine" the next day we woke up to the kind of magnificent blue sky the Mongolia is famous for. This was the last day for us to travel over flat terrain - we never appreciated it while we had it. In the afternoon we reached Ongiin Khiid, a ruined monastery town on the borders of a little river. The place is not so impressive as the story that must have taken place here. In their effort to reduce the influence of Lamaism in Mongolia the communists had the monastery destroyed and the monks taken away or killed - something, Bolod had insisted, was not done by the Russians but the Mongolian "KGB". Looking at the size of the site a great tragedy. On the upside, the clear sky afforded us another beautiful celestial panorama that night. In the evening, the young camel of the guest house was attracted by the leftover food at our ger. It unnerved Nicole who wanted to read a book. It kept trying to push its snout into the ger or into the bag with food. When that failed it just mournfully rubbed its big head against the ger. It was a bit daunting handling the animal which was still bigger than your average horse. We weren't sure how it would react to pressure, so we were careful with our big guy. In the end I managed to lure it away but Rupert, as I began calling it, was a curious fellow and kept coming back. I turned into something like the "Camel-whisperer" but to no avail. Nicole didn't get to read her book until Rupert found food elsewhere. A baby camel? One hell of a baby! How is Rupert now, I wonder?
The next day the sky was still a pristine blue with only a few clouds in sight. Now the really tough going started: we headed for the mountains and the Eight Lakes. Of which, as we heard, only one or two remain because of draught. The road - and thus the car - not only went up and down but also hillsides but also over rocks. Being jolted back, forth and from side to side was more than tiring - even though we were just sitting in the car. Tension rose with fatigue. Still, Gorin mastered the road without so much as a remark. Then when we finally reached our destination it was suddenly all worth it. Over the crest of a hillside the lake came into view. Situated in a small valley it was about as blue as the sky. And cold as I later found out. After Lake Baikal I was not going to miss this one and it was about as cold. But also very invogourating. Gorin said I would sleep well that night. We still sat around the camp fire for a long time, once again admiring the countless stars of this country. And Gorin was right, despite storm and cold that kept Nicole awake I comfortably slept through the whole night. Nicole would have none of it. No more tents: from now on we were sleeping in gers!
And true enough, the weather was changing. When we reached the nearby waterfall (after seemingly endless kilometers of rocky road) it had clouded over again. It had also got colder. We had to wear jackets now. Rain was coming. Fortunately, there were only two more days left. So, that night we had one last fiery sunset reflected on white-grey clouds. The waterfall itself while beautiful was not as impressive as the ravine it tumbled into. A deep cut in the landscape for kilometers and kilometers. On foot it would surely take a day or more to march around.
The next morning it started to rain again. We set off quickly because the siblings didn't like the rain and Gorin was worried that about the roads. We reached our last destination, Kharkhorin without much of a problem. Here we hit an asphalt road again. Oh so easy after what we had been through. Next to Erdene Zuu monastery, built on the site of the ancient city of Kharakhorum, we picked a guest house. This was the saddest ger I had ever seen: in a backyard, surrounded by a board fence, with view of the toilet. It smelled and was not well built as the wind that night tore off part of the roof covering. After all the nights spent in a virtually boundless landscape it felt confined and tiny. A harsh return to reality.
Our final day still turned out to be quite the adventure. We expected asphalt roads all the way back to Ulaanbaatar. Not so. The government was building a new road. The old one had been demolished. The rain of the previous days had washed away the dirt track that filled in for the much travelled main road. At times, it felt like riding a piece of soap. Just don't stop, keep moving or we'll be stuck. Mud splattered, the engine roared. How some other people that we passed expected to get through in a normal car without four-by-four was beyond us. In the end, our super driver got us through and we finally slid back onto asphalt for good and our adventure came to an end.
It felt strange to be in the city again - no other town we passed was anywhere near the size of a city. There were so many cars, and even traffic jams. Driving among so many cars again must feel strange after days on the road with not a single vehicle in sight for hundreds of kilometers. Here you have to stop at traffic lights and indicate direction. But one thing we did look forward to, the rarest of all things on this trip: A bath. Out there in the vast plains noone smells you.
Sunday, 26 August 2007
The Super Driver
Train 4, Ulaanbaatar to Beijing
"I'll get you one of my super drivers", Bolod had said. He didn't exaggerate.
Gorin turned out to be big, strong, stocky guy with a square grin, wrists thicker than my arm and hands like paws. It felt like a big, friendly bear was maneuvering our (well, his) Land Cruiser around the country. His English proficiency may be the only thing Bolod has exaggerated a bit. Still, it was enough to communicate and once we got used to his way of speaking we understood each other quite well. Initially very quiet, he quickly warmed up and shared good natured jokes and anecdotes with us.
Gorin also proved to be a very skillful driver. We probably encountered terrain and roads of almost any type - from asphalt (oh so easy) over flat dirt or gravel tracks (watch your cup vibrate off the dashboard) and rocky mountain trails (extremely bumpy - watch your head) to washed-away, flooded mud (feels like riding a piece of soap, stop and you're stuck). Gorin mastered all of them with his optimistic humour - "this road maybe problem", making sounds of "bump, bump". A few times we even needed the full four-wheel drive but Gorin avoided using it much as it eats lots of petrol (he explained gesturing gulp, gulp, shit, shit).
He found it amusing, it seemed, that Marc and Nicole preferred not to eat meat (Nicole being vegetarian, Marc having a sensitive stomach). It often took some effort on his part to explain owners of eateries we passed to make two bowls of rice and not to put meat inside. The reaction was generally that of bemused confusion. Mongolian life requires lots of energy, so meat is an important part of everyday food. So, I followed Gorin's example. He knew, so I chose to have whatever he picked. Typical fare was befshteaks (a chip-steak), kotlet (a steak) and most of all buuz (boiled dumplings with meat filling). Makes you strong! Gorin ordered eight every time and I followed suit. They don't look like much but I found eight more than enough. Another highlight were the peanuts - a lot imported from Germany (of all places to find Ja Erdnusse), some other kinds from China - that seem a common snack. Gorin liked them, "good for men", he told me with a wink.
Gorin also seemed to know people and have friends everywhere in the country. Maybe because he did the same tour 20-odd times per summer. So, once in a while we were introduced to the Mongolian version of public transport: hitch hiking. Sometimes, we would visit the hikers' ger afterwards and be introduced to Mongolian hospitality and customs. Don't show the host the soles of your feet, they are the lowliest part of you. If you are offered something eat or drink a bit - that is polite. If you finish your bowl you will be offered more, if you don't want more don't finish. If you drink alcohol it is customary to dip your finger in it and flick some over your left and right shoulders and then upwards. A shamanistic tradition: Offerings to earth, fire and the sky. Unique specialties included yak milk yogurt (deliciously sour!), milk vodka and home made cheese. The cheese also turned out to be the only time I couldn't finish what I had started: Silly me picked a large piece not knowing what it was. It turned out to be very sour, way too strong. I'm embarrassed to say that I never managed to finish it; I let it disappear into my pocket and disposed of it later along the road. I hope no one noticed!
In the end, Gorin was the man, who we knew we could trust with anything. He repaired the car when we had a flat tire or broken suspension, found the right road from the networks of unmarked tracks, chose the right eatery in town and found us a place to stay for the night. Still, he would always decide in his humble way saying: "maybe here good place to sleep...?" He explained to us the history of important places as best he could and told us about traditions. Don't pat a Mongol on the shoulder, it's rude. Gorin was, as a matter of fact, also the ultimate good natured "Grobmotoriker" (German for someone who prefers to use force to fix things). When we lacked a hatchet to hack firewood one night he just picked up entire logs and slammed them on a rock the break them. Finally, there was his good-natured humour that never failed to make us laugh. Making hoohoo noises in a dark cave; returning to capital he even stopped at a crossing giving us a questioning look. "Maybe Ulaanbaatar this way?" Once we encountered encountered a few Australian (?) punks wearing black heavy metal T-shirts and leather coats, speaking in very hoarse voices (too much smoking maybe). Gorin was still imitating them hours later. They thought they were the real tough guy but we knew that the true tough man was sitting humbly at our table quietly munching his rice.
It was good to have him around and I miss him now. Imagine having an uncle like that!
"I'll get you one of my super drivers", Bolod had said. He didn't exaggerate.
Gorin turned out to be big, strong, stocky guy with a square grin, wrists thicker than my arm and hands like paws. It felt like a big, friendly bear was maneuvering our (well, his) Land Cruiser around the country. His English proficiency may be the only thing Bolod has exaggerated a bit. Still, it was enough to communicate and once we got used to his way of speaking we understood each other quite well. Initially very quiet, he quickly warmed up and shared good natured jokes and anecdotes with us.
Gorin also proved to be a very skillful driver. We probably encountered terrain and roads of almost any type - from asphalt (oh so easy) over flat dirt or gravel tracks (watch your cup vibrate off the dashboard) and rocky mountain trails (extremely bumpy - watch your head) to washed-away, flooded mud (feels like riding a piece of soap, stop and you're stuck). Gorin mastered all of them with his optimistic humour - "this road maybe problem", making sounds of "bump, bump". A few times we even needed the full four-wheel drive but Gorin avoided using it much as it eats lots of petrol (he explained gesturing gulp, gulp, shit, shit).
He found it amusing, it seemed, that Marc and Nicole preferred not to eat meat (Nicole being vegetarian, Marc having a sensitive stomach). It often took some effort on his part to explain owners of eateries we passed to make two bowls of rice and not to put meat inside. The reaction was generally that of bemused confusion. Mongolian life requires lots of energy, so meat is an important part of everyday food. So, I followed Gorin's example. He knew, so I chose to have whatever he picked. Typical fare was befshteaks (a chip-steak), kotlet (a steak) and most of all buuz (boiled dumplings with meat filling). Makes you strong! Gorin ordered eight every time and I followed suit. They don't look like much but I found eight more than enough. Another highlight were the peanuts - a lot imported from Germany (of all places to find Ja Erdnusse), some other kinds from China - that seem a common snack. Gorin liked them, "good for men", he told me with a wink.
Gorin also seemed to know people and have friends everywhere in the country. Maybe because he did the same tour 20-odd times per summer. So, once in a while we were introduced to the Mongolian version of public transport: hitch hiking. Sometimes, we would visit the hikers' ger afterwards and be introduced to Mongolian hospitality and customs. Don't show the host the soles of your feet, they are the lowliest part of you. If you are offered something eat or drink a bit - that is polite. If you finish your bowl you will be offered more, if you don't want more don't finish. If you drink alcohol it is customary to dip your finger in it and flick some over your left and right shoulders and then upwards. A shamanistic tradition: Offerings to earth, fire and the sky. Unique specialties included yak milk yogurt (deliciously sour!), milk vodka and home made cheese. The cheese also turned out to be the only time I couldn't finish what I had started: Silly me picked a large piece not knowing what it was. It turned out to be very sour, way too strong. I'm embarrassed to say that I never managed to finish it; I let it disappear into my pocket and disposed of it later along the road. I hope no one noticed!
In the end, Gorin was the man, who we knew we could trust with anything. He repaired the car when we had a flat tire or broken suspension, found the right road from the networks of unmarked tracks, chose the right eatery in town and found us a place to stay for the night. Still, he would always decide in his humble way saying: "maybe here good place to sleep...?" He explained to us the history of important places as best he could and told us about traditions. Don't pat a Mongol on the shoulder, it's rude. Gorin was, as a matter of fact, also the ultimate good natured "Grobmotoriker" (German for someone who prefers to use force to fix things). When we lacked a hatchet to hack firewood one night he just picked up entire logs and slammed them on a rock the break them. Finally, there was his good-natured humour that never failed to make us laugh. Making hoohoo noises in a dark cave; returning to capital he even stopped at a crossing giving us a questioning look. "Maybe Ulaanbaatar this way?" Once we encountered encountered a few Australian (?) punks wearing black heavy metal T-shirts and leather coats, speaking in very hoarse voices (too much smoking maybe). Gorin was still imitating them hours later. They thought they were the real tough guy but we knew that the true tough man was sitting humbly at our table quietly munching his rice.
It was good to have him around and I miss him now. Imagine having an uncle like that!
Saturday, 25 August 2007
Entering Mongolia
Train 4, Ulaanbaatar to Beijing
Mongolia. So many impressions crowd in on me. I didn't have much time to write, so all this had to be written in arrears, so to speak. All of a sudden I met scores of people, saw endless, breathtaking places. I've tried to order my thoughts, though I'm not sure how successfully. :) Let me be your guide.
The first major task was to find of like-minded people to travel with. Most of Mongolia's sights and activities happen far away from the already extremely sparse centres of population. The country is huge and public transport practically doesn't exist (people give each other lifts as I found out later). The most basic things you need is a car and a driver who knows not only the roads and lay of the land but also how to get to the places of interest. Not many Mongolians know or have a sense of where or what tourists find interesting or want to see. What to the traveller might be the breathtaking White Cliffs might be a completely meaningless feature of the landscape even to people living next to it. If you want to hire such a driver with his car on your own you end up spending shit loads of money, so the common thing to do among backpackers is to frantically search around for people with the same destination and group into a car. A daunting task at first considering the number of guesthouses and tour operators in Ulaanbaatar these days and the number of tourists coming and going all the time. You could go brute-force and try to talk to everyone or leave a note in strategic places. I tried brute-force. I've never been a friend of notes because you never know when and how people will reply. Luck was on my side once more when I ran into Marc and Nicole. The two were siblings from Switzerland staying in the very same guesthouse as me. The also wanted to go to the north of the country. What was more they would be leaving on the same train as me. Talk about coincidence! The average jeep holds three people, so our search was pretty much done.
Now to plan the details of the trip. Our host, Bolod, has a lot of experience and lots of good reviews, so we decided we didn't need to look further. Khovsgol Lake and the plains in the north of Mongolia... Then there was this other Swiss girl (lots of German speakers, I know - I practically felt at home). She'd been around the country already. "The north is a lot like Northern Europe and the Alps", she told us, "if you want to see something new and exciting go south to the Gobi Desert." Nicole was the first to succumb. Maybe she was right. Then it got me too. In the end, Marc was gently overruled and we planned a route south. Hey, we're backpackers, we're allowed to be spontaneous.
So, Bolod organised us a Toyota Land Cruiser with, as he said, one of his "super drivers", who could even speak English. "A tour of Mongolia is an adventure", he said. He would be right.
Thursday, 16 August 2007
Sprichwortforschung (proverb research)
Mongolia
I've probably become a bit cocky. I've spent days watching my two Swiss companions refuse pretty much anything local and live on canned food they brought or boiled spaghetti with mashed tomatoes (seems to be the only thing they can think of to make for foreigners who don't want meat - it really doesn't look tasty). For her it's because she's vegetarian, he worries about indigestion because his stomach is sensitive, they both worry about cleanliness of food. Unfortunately for both of them Mongolia is not really a country for vegetarians. Every time our driver has to explain to shop keepers our special needs there's a lot of confused stares and shaking of heads. I've been trying to eat whatever our driver had. And as a former selective eater I'm a bit proud of myself.
I hit my limits sooner than expected, however. When visiting the ger of one of Gorin's friends (he seems to know everybody, no matter how remote the area) we were offered the usual drink of liquor and morsels of home-made cheese. Now, I love cheese and was very curious. Marc and Nicole were cautious but it looked tasty, so when it was my turn I even took one of the bigger pieces. To show I was being keen. I regretted it when I took the first bite.
There was a literal taste explosion in my mouth. Acidic, soapy are adjectives floating around my recollection now. Maybe it's somewhat similar to French Roquefort, which I didn't like either. The thing is, when people are being polite offering your their food you cannot really spit it in front of their feet. So I munched and swallowed. I tried to smile. I think I said something along the lines of, "it's good". I hope I didn't completely embarrass myself. I couldn't really ask for a drink.
Then I was faced with another problem: the rest of the cheese nibble was still in my hand. Tossing it back in the basket was not an option. The tiny morsel suddenly seemed as big as a whole wheel of Dutch Gouda.
I kept it in my hand, toying with it absently while listening to the conversation. I bravely nibbled at it. There was another explosion. How on earth was I going to finish all of it? The question of how to get rid of the cheese seemed a matter of national importance. Finally, when it was time to go I slipped it into my pocket as discreetly as possible. I still wonder if any of our hosts puzzled later at why the strange foreigner kept cheese in his pocket.
This time both the Swiss and me were in agreement that the cheese was way too strong. I quietly dropped the morsel by the road at our next stop. Not a word was said about it. I guess this is what they mean by "bite of more than you can chew".
I've probably become a bit cocky. I've spent days watching my two Swiss companions refuse pretty much anything local and live on canned food they brought or boiled spaghetti with mashed tomatoes (seems to be the only thing they can think of to make for foreigners who don't want meat - it really doesn't look tasty). For her it's because she's vegetarian, he worries about indigestion because his stomach is sensitive, they both worry about cleanliness of food. Unfortunately for both of them Mongolia is not really a country for vegetarians. Every time our driver has to explain to shop keepers our special needs there's a lot of confused stares and shaking of heads. I've been trying to eat whatever our driver had. And as a former selective eater I'm a bit proud of myself.
I hit my limits sooner than expected, however. When visiting the ger of one of Gorin's friends (he seems to know everybody, no matter how remote the area) we were offered the usual drink of liquor and morsels of home-made cheese. Now, I love cheese and was very curious. Marc and Nicole were cautious but it looked tasty, so when it was my turn I even took one of the bigger pieces. To show I was being keen. I regretted it when I took the first bite.
There was a literal taste explosion in my mouth. Acidic, soapy are adjectives floating around my recollection now. Maybe it's somewhat similar to French Roquefort, which I didn't like either. The thing is, when people are being polite offering your their food you cannot really spit it in front of their feet. So I munched and swallowed. I tried to smile. I think I said something along the lines of, "it's good". I hope I didn't completely embarrass myself. I couldn't really ask for a drink.
Then I was faced with another problem: the rest of the cheese nibble was still in my hand. Tossing it back in the basket was not an option. The tiny morsel suddenly seemed as big as a whole wheel of Dutch Gouda.
I kept it in my hand, toying with it absently while listening to the conversation. I bravely nibbled at it. There was another explosion. How on earth was I going to finish all of it? The question of how to get rid of the cheese seemed a matter of national importance. Finally, when it was time to go I slipped it into my pocket as discreetly as possible. I still wonder if any of our hosts puzzled later at why the strange foreigner kept cheese in his pocket.
This time both the Swiss and me were in agreement that the cheese was way too strong. I quietly dropped the morsel by the road at our next stop. Not a word was said about it. I guess this is what they mean by "bite of more than you can chew".
Saturday, 11 August 2007
Impressions of Russia, Finals
Train 4, Ulan Ude to Ulaanbaatar
It's quite interesting what your lasting impressions are when you leave a place. Russia was the first major stop on this trip and after all these cultural, historical, linguistic, culinary experiences what is it that I take away from here?
In no particular order:
Crazy car alarms. They sound a lot like some classic 80's arcade games. And they are on hair triggers. Go off for no apparent reason (maybe a fly settled) and every time I was thinking: "Aw shit, here comes Pac Man!"
Burning dust bins. Or at least smoking, smoldering even. Throwing glowing cigarette stubs in with old newspapers is not a good idea. Adding plastic wrappers rounds off a bouquet that is breathtaking. Literally.
Beautiful girls. Yeah, we knew that one was coming. I've mentioned them before. But it was a consistent phenomenon throughout the country. A definite highlight!
Scary police. They pull over cars for little or no apparent reason. I kept being reminded of the adventuruous stories you read in some guide books and hear from other travellers about people basically being robbed by police officers. Once, in St. Petersburg I already thought they had me. When I took a photo in a Metro station and was putting my camera away a uniformed man approached waving his hand. "No photo." My heart sank. Would he ask for my passport and wallet next, as I had read. He didn't just made sure I left my camera in my bag. I got out as fast as casually possible before he changed his mind. To be fair, though, apart from this incident I was never bothered.
Crazy drivers. The bane of any Parisian. If you walk confidently into the street in Paris you can count on drivers stopping for you. Here, they accelerate.
Language. I found it more difficult to get my head around even a few sentences of Russian than Chinese. At least, I managed to remember the alphabet in the end. Still, I was happy for every anglicism.
People's reaction to foreigners who speak no Russian is mixed. Some repeat the same thing over until you smile and nod or say OK or go away. Some just refuse to talk to you. Yes, ticket office clerk in Irkutsk, I mean you. Otherwise, the cliche of the taciturn Russian only holds up until you get acquainted a bit. Then the people I met were very kind and friendly.
Toilet paper bins. You don't throw it in the toilet after using it. That really needed some getting used to. I kept thinking: "Do you really want to keep this stuff?!" It sounded like a joke but every toilet has a little bin next to it. They do seem to get emptied quite regularly. The reason, I learnt, is that the pipes in old buildings can't handle the volume of the soaked paper and clog up. It's something that would accompany me throughout Mongolia and China. That's defintely one habit to get rid of before going home!
Goodbye for now, Mother Russia. Dosvidania!
It's quite interesting what your lasting impressions are when you leave a place. Russia was the first major stop on this trip and after all these cultural, historical, linguistic, culinary experiences what is it that I take away from here?
In no particular order:
Crazy car alarms. They sound a lot like some classic 80's arcade games. And they are on hair triggers. Go off for no apparent reason (maybe a fly settled) and every time I was thinking: "Aw shit, here comes Pac Man!"
Burning dust bins. Or at least smoking, smoldering even. Throwing glowing cigarette stubs in with old newspapers is not a good idea. Adding plastic wrappers rounds off a bouquet that is breathtaking. Literally.
Beautiful girls. Yeah, we knew that one was coming. I've mentioned them before. But it was a consistent phenomenon throughout the country. A definite highlight!
Scary police. They pull over cars for little or no apparent reason. I kept being reminded of the adventuruous stories you read in some guide books and hear from other travellers about people basically being robbed by police officers. Once, in St. Petersburg I already thought they had me. When I took a photo in a Metro station and was putting my camera away a uniformed man approached waving his hand. "No photo." My heart sank. Would he ask for my passport and wallet next, as I had read. He didn't just made sure I left my camera in my bag. I got out as fast as casually possible before he changed his mind. To be fair, though, apart from this incident I was never bothered.
Crazy drivers. The bane of any Parisian. If you walk confidently into the street in Paris you can count on drivers stopping for you. Here, they accelerate.
Language. I found it more difficult to get my head around even a few sentences of Russian than Chinese. At least, I managed to remember the alphabet in the end. Still, I was happy for every anglicism.
People's reaction to foreigners who speak no Russian is mixed. Some repeat the same thing over until you smile and nod or say OK or go away. Some just refuse to talk to you. Yes, ticket office clerk in Irkutsk, I mean you. Otherwise, the cliche of the taciturn Russian only holds up until you get acquainted a bit. Then the people I met were very kind and friendly.
Toilet paper bins. You don't throw it in the toilet after using it. That really needed some getting used to. I kept thinking: "Do you really want to keep this stuff?!" It sounded like a joke but every toilet has a little bin next to it. They do seem to get emptied quite regularly. The reason, I learnt, is that the pipes in old buildings can't handle the volume of the soaked paper and clog up. It's something that would accompany me throughout Mongolia and China. That's defintely one habit to get rid of before going home!
Goodbye for now, Mother Russia. Dosvidania!
Friday, 10 August 2007
More Stranger Strangers
Ulan Ude, Russia
It seems that every new evening lets me cross paths with more weirdos - I mean, interesting people.
First of all, I changed hotels. The kids from the previous night had told me of a much cheaper place. This was Hotel Kolos. Nobody spoke English but the rate was less than half that of the previous night. Somehow I managed to check in. This was an all Russian hotel: bathroom (and toilet) down the end of the hall, using the shower cost an extra 30 rubles, key to the shower available from the floor's janitor (who seemed to be absent chatting with the cleaners a lot). The room was not great; first, I had to eliminate the unwanted room mates (fast little buggers but my shoe was faster). But then again, it wasn't much worse than my room at the "international" hotel with its smelly bathroom.
That night I decided to celebrate my nightly savings of 400 rublesby going to a restaurant that had been recommended in the guide book. On this warm summer night there were no free tables outside on the terasse. Inside, shiny music videos were playing on a large, sexy plasma TV. There were hardly any people except at one or two tables. I ordered and watched the other customers, notably a big table in the middle of the room with three girls. The table was obviously for a larger group and full of bottles and glasses - the remains of a party. One girl in particular was being very loud and happy. At some point she noticed me looking, I smiled and she said hello. Where was I from? Germany? Would I like to sit with them? Sure. I took my food over. Her English was uncertain but understandable. This evening looked to be interesting: sitting with three pretty girls in party mood, the night still young, hey! We made small talk and I was introduced to her friends (who seemed a bit soberer than her). The girl next to me spoke better English and had even been to Germany - quite close to Bonn, actually. Coincidences! They were celebrating another girl's birthday but everyone else had left. Why were they still here? They were waiting for the guy who would pay the bill. Where was he? They weren't sure. The drunk girl was trying to reach him on the phone. He had vanished in the direction of the toilet a while ago - sleeping it off already maybe (don't laugh - I've seen it happen). While waiting the girls started arguing with the staff over the bill. Some of the numerous bottles hadn't even been opened but figured on the bill. The waitresses weren't happy about it; they had been ordered.
Then the wallet man made his entry - still as drunk as you could possibly imagine. Don't know what (other than God's will) kept him upright, somehow he managed to lurch over to our table. The drunk girl was delighted. He, however, didn't seem happy at all to find another man at the table after his absence. His eyes seemed to say it all: I was not only another man, a rival, but also a foreigner. I didn't like the looks of him: too big, too drunk, too unpredictable. After my experience in UK I knew I had to be careful around him. Between wetly kissing the drunk girl he kept staring at me with bleary, unfriendly eyes. "Hey, American!" His accent was thick. He wanted to shake my hand a second time. The girl next to me explained that I was not American but German. "Hey, American!" "Germania", I said politely. "American." He collapsed into silence. I tried to ignore him, concentrate on the girls, make conversation with them. They didn't seem comfortable either. But he was not to be ignored. "Hey, American!" His volume was increasing. Had I been to the army? Yes. So had he, he boasted. A para-trooper, he claimed to have been. Oh, great! "American", he repeated his mantra. Despite my waryness he was beginning to get on my nerves. At the same time I realised that that was exactly his intention: he was trying to pick a fight. "Ya is Germansky", I told him. He didn't believe it. When I tried to ignore him he swore at me. Then the girls persuaded him to go and pay the bill. Within moment an argument errupted between him and the staff, loud enough to attract the security guard from the door. He looked like a member of spec ops in an American film. "Hey, fucking American!" I patiently corrected him again. It did no good. He didn't like Americans and he didn't like me, so it was one and the same to him. I tried to make conversation with the girls but he interrupted again. "Hey, fucking American!" "What?!" I had thrown caution to the wind and snapped at him before my brain kicked in telling me I was being stupid. The girl next to me said sorry and he had had too much to drink. I knew that but it was no excuse to misbehave like this. I also excused myself and said that it was probably best if I left. The girl agreed. Then I took the opportunity and walked out. I almost felt like apologising to the security guy - I didn't know why but I felt bad for him.
I'm beginning to wonder how common this excessive drinking is here. Drunk Buryats in the street, drunk Russians in the cafe. Fighting, door security even for a normal restaurant. It's like UK all over again! What would the next day bring?
The next day I had almost given up the hope for another encounter when...
The next evening I wanted to try pose - dumplings and a speciality of the region I had read. But where to go. I knew the place from the day before but maybe there was a place that was known for good pose...
While I stood there thinking, looking at my map a young man spoke to me. I didn't understand, I'm from Germany. "Parlez-vous francais?" Hot damn, the guy spoke French. He looked harmless (compared to previous encounters here positively boring). We began chatting. How did I like Ulan Ude? Over there - he pointed - was the original site the city was built. That over there was a concert hall. I was surprised how much French I could still dig up. Sometimes he wouldn't understand or lacked a word. Then we switched to English. And finally to sign language to describe what we meant. The whole conversation must have been an interesting mixture to and outsider. Still, he was eager to talk - he reminded me of some encounters I had had in China.
Then I mentioned I would really like to try pose and did he know a good restaurant for them? He said he mainly ate at home. But Ulan Ude has many restaurants, he would take me there. I followed him. I began realising there was something wrong when he headed straight for a pizza place, went in and asked for pose. Of course, the answer was a clear no. Where else could we go? They didn't know. He proceeded to ask random people in the street who in turn pointed in random directions, giving him strange looks. We tried other places at random. All without success. This one was full, that one was closed, yet another one had no pose. The closest we got was a shop that sold pose but only in the morning. His face was assuming a slightly harrowed look. We had covered most of the old town by now. I followed him trying to tell him not to worry, it wasn't important. He didn't understand - maybe refused to. How could I politely tell him to forget it (because I didn't want to waste the entire evening) without hurting his pride as a local? I knew he was trying hard but this was pointless!
In the end we ran into a friend of his (who also didn't know where to eat pose). After brief introductions and chat I took the opportunity. My hotel was nearby and I really wanted to go back, I told them. So, after shaking hands and thanking him we parted - or I escaped, as you like it.
I wound up in the restaurant from the previous night.. No drunk Russians here this time. Enough adventure! With a plate of pose in front of me I relaxed. I'm not sure what to make of people here. They are nice, but sometimes a bit strange.
It seems that every new evening lets me cross paths with more weirdos - I mean, interesting people.
First of all, I changed hotels. The kids from the previous night had told me of a much cheaper place. This was Hotel Kolos. Nobody spoke English but the rate was less than half that of the previous night. Somehow I managed to check in. This was an all Russian hotel: bathroom (and toilet) down the end of the hall, using the shower cost an extra 30 rubles, key to the shower available from the floor's janitor (who seemed to be absent chatting with the cleaners a lot). The room was not great; first, I had to eliminate the unwanted room mates (fast little buggers but my shoe was faster). But then again, it wasn't much worse than my room at the "international" hotel with its smelly bathroom.
That night I decided to celebrate my nightly savings of 400 rublesby going to a restaurant that had been recommended in the guide book. On this warm summer night there were no free tables outside on the terasse. Inside, shiny music videos were playing on a large, sexy plasma TV. There were hardly any people except at one or two tables. I ordered and watched the other customers, notably a big table in the middle of the room with three girls. The table was obviously for a larger group and full of bottles and glasses - the remains of a party. One girl in particular was being very loud and happy. At some point she noticed me looking, I smiled and she said hello. Where was I from? Germany? Would I like to sit with them? Sure. I took my food over. Her English was uncertain but understandable. This evening looked to be interesting: sitting with three pretty girls in party mood, the night still young, hey! We made small talk and I was introduced to her friends (who seemed a bit soberer than her). The girl next to me spoke better English and had even been to Germany - quite close to Bonn, actually. Coincidences! They were celebrating another girl's birthday but everyone else had left. Why were they still here? They were waiting for the guy who would pay the bill. Where was he? They weren't sure. The drunk girl was trying to reach him on the phone. He had vanished in the direction of the toilet a while ago - sleeping it off already maybe (don't laugh - I've seen it happen). While waiting the girls started arguing with the staff over the bill. Some of the numerous bottles hadn't even been opened but figured on the bill. The waitresses weren't happy about it; they had been ordered.
Then the wallet man made his entry - still as drunk as you could possibly imagine. Don't know what (other than God's will) kept him upright, somehow he managed to lurch over to our table. The drunk girl was delighted. He, however, didn't seem happy at all to find another man at the table after his absence. His eyes seemed to say it all: I was not only another man, a rival, but also a foreigner. I didn't like the looks of him: too big, too drunk, too unpredictable. After my experience in UK I knew I had to be careful around him. Between wetly kissing the drunk girl he kept staring at me with bleary, unfriendly eyes. "Hey, American!" His accent was thick. He wanted to shake my hand a second time. The girl next to me explained that I was not American but German. "Hey, American!" "Germania", I said politely. "American." He collapsed into silence. I tried to ignore him, concentrate on the girls, make conversation with them. They didn't seem comfortable either. But he was not to be ignored. "Hey, American!" His volume was increasing. Had I been to the army? Yes. So had he, he boasted. A para-trooper, he claimed to have been. Oh, great! "American", he repeated his mantra. Despite my waryness he was beginning to get on my nerves. At the same time I realised that that was exactly his intention: he was trying to pick a fight. "Ya is Germansky", I told him. He didn't believe it. When I tried to ignore him he swore at me. Then the girls persuaded him to go and pay the bill. Within moment an argument errupted between him and the staff, loud enough to attract the security guard from the door. He looked like a member of spec ops in an American film. "Hey, fucking American!" I patiently corrected him again. It did no good. He didn't like Americans and he didn't like me, so it was one and the same to him. I tried to make conversation with the girls but he interrupted again. "Hey, fucking American!" "What?!" I had thrown caution to the wind and snapped at him before my brain kicked in telling me I was being stupid. The girl next to me said sorry and he had had too much to drink. I knew that but it was no excuse to misbehave like this. I also excused myself and said that it was probably best if I left. The girl agreed. Then I took the opportunity and walked out. I almost felt like apologising to the security guy - I didn't know why but I felt bad for him.
I'm beginning to wonder how common this excessive drinking is here. Drunk Buryats in the street, drunk Russians in the cafe. Fighting, door security even for a normal restaurant. It's like UK all over again! What would the next day bring?
The next day I had almost given up the hope for another encounter when...
The next evening I wanted to try pose - dumplings and a speciality of the region I had read. But where to go. I knew the place from the day before but maybe there was a place that was known for good pose...
While I stood there thinking, looking at my map a young man spoke to me. I didn't understand, I'm from Germany. "Parlez-vous francais?" Hot damn, the guy spoke French. He looked harmless (compared to previous encounters here positively boring). We began chatting. How did I like Ulan Ude? Over there - he pointed - was the original site the city was built. That over there was a concert hall. I was surprised how much French I could still dig up. Sometimes he wouldn't understand or lacked a word. Then we switched to English. And finally to sign language to describe what we meant. The whole conversation must have been an interesting mixture to and outsider. Still, he was eager to talk - he reminded me of some encounters I had had in China.
Then I mentioned I would really like to try pose and did he know a good restaurant for them? He said he mainly ate at home. But Ulan Ude has many restaurants, he would take me there. I followed him. I began realising there was something wrong when he headed straight for a pizza place, went in and asked for pose. Of course, the answer was a clear no. Where else could we go? They didn't know. He proceeded to ask random people in the street who in turn pointed in random directions, giving him strange looks. We tried other places at random. All without success. This one was full, that one was closed, yet another one had no pose. The closest we got was a shop that sold pose but only in the morning. His face was assuming a slightly harrowed look. We had covered most of the old town by now. I followed him trying to tell him not to worry, it wasn't important. He didn't understand - maybe refused to. How could I politely tell him to forget it (because I didn't want to waste the entire evening) without hurting his pride as a local? I knew he was trying hard but this was pointless!
In the end we ran into a friend of his (who also didn't know where to eat pose). After brief introductions and chat I took the opportunity. My hotel was nearby and I really wanted to go back, I told them. So, after shaking hands and thanking him we parted - or I escaped, as you like it.
I wound up in the restaurant from the previous night.. No drunk Russians here this time. Enough adventure! With a plate of pose in front of me I relaxed. I'm not sure what to make of people here. They are nice, but sometimes a bit strange.
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Strange Encounters of Three Kinds
Ulan Ude, Russia
This day could almost have been boring until the evening came.
First, I encountered Bolad and his brother-in-law Sorik while enjoying the sunset near Uda river. Sorik was obviously drunk which made me very weary of him; Bolad was better but also smelt of alcohol. A common problem, I had been warned, among Buryat people. Their own liquor, Tarasun, is said not to cloud the mind but the Russians introduced vodka, which does. Bad combination. People were not prepared for that and are still getting used to it, so drinking and drunkeness are problems.
Communication with the two wasn't easy. I would have avoided them but Sorik came right at me. Where was I from, I understood. Germany. "Fascist", Sorik kept saying. Germans are well-known here, too, it seems. Then Bolad would scold him and try to talk sense to me. "Me Bolad", he would say beating his chest. "Pashli", which means "let's go". Where to, I wondered. There was no wriggling out of their attention. At least we were keeping to public places, for the moment. A very strange couple.
It was these two that set me before two young girls and tried to chat them up. I thought they knew each other. I got the impression the guys wanted to get the girls to translate. It turned out they actually did speak some German. The two introduced themselves as Vika and another name I forgot. Then I realised the guys were trying to pick them up. I guess, showing off a foreigner was a good pick-up line. The girls didn't seem to appreciate this kind of company and remained weary. When more of their friends turned up Bolad and Sorik finally took off. The girls visibly relaxed.
Vanya and Tanya were their real names, they now confided. Judging by how naturally they picked their aliases this kind of approach seems all too common. Their friends were Dennis, a guy who loved computer games (Starcraft his favourite), Tunan, about who I learnt nothing, and Alina who spoke quite good German - with a very cute accent. She had been with a German guest family earlier this year. All of them were Buryat but of an entirely different type. Nice guys but over the excitement of meeting them I forgot all my important questions. I guess, both sides want to learn as much as they can about each other.
My last encounter of the day was outside the hotel when I went for a late-night breath of fresh air at the entrance. I noticed a pretty lady sitting on the steps alone drinking a beer. When I noticed her smiling at me I plucked up my courage and went over to talk to her. Another lonely traveller maybe, I thought, looking at the beautiful stars. She had the most beautiful smile and spoke some English. Was she a traveller staying at the hotel? No, she was from Ulan Ude. A terrible suspicion dawned on me. She was tipsy, very touchy - meaning she kept touching my arm, my hand, even gave me a kiss on the cheek. Tobias, what a beautiful name that was, what a beautiful man I was. Nice to hear that. Hey, it was all explicable with the alcohol.
Angela was her name, she said. What did she do for a living? She didn't answer but just started singing in a beautiful voice. Should we go to my room? I pretented not to understand but that moment I knew what she did. I knew for certain who she was. When her "friend Jack" arrived things became a bit awkward. She was saying things in Russian to him, probably calling me naive. When more interested people, all drunks from the hotel, arrived I extracted myself. The knowledge, however, filled me with a deep sadness. Seeing her drink, trying to catch every passing man's eye. She didn't look happy. Do I pity her? I don't think so. I was upset that my conversation with this pretty girl had taken this turn. I was upset seeing a girl like this. People here can be rough. I wonder if her "friend" can adequately protect her. I worry about her. I was, of course, tempted to engage her services (who wouldn't be) but this was not right. I wish her well and wish we could have met under different circumstances. Be safe, Angela, it's a dangerous world out there.
This day could almost have been boring until the evening came.
First, I encountered Bolad and his brother-in-law Sorik while enjoying the sunset near Uda river. Sorik was obviously drunk which made me very weary of him; Bolad was better but also smelt of alcohol. A common problem, I had been warned, among Buryat people. Their own liquor, Tarasun, is said not to cloud the mind but the Russians introduced vodka, which does. Bad combination. People were not prepared for that and are still getting used to it, so drinking and drunkeness are problems.
Communication with the two wasn't easy. I would have avoided them but Sorik came right at me. Where was I from, I understood. Germany. "Fascist", Sorik kept saying. Germans are well-known here, too, it seems. Then Bolad would scold him and try to talk sense to me. "Me Bolad", he would say beating his chest. "Pashli", which means "let's go". Where to, I wondered. There was no wriggling out of their attention. At least we were keeping to public places, for the moment. A very strange couple.
It was these two that set me before two young girls and tried to chat them up. I thought they knew each other. I got the impression the guys wanted to get the girls to translate. It turned out they actually did speak some German. The two introduced themselves as Vika and another name I forgot. Then I realised the guys were trying to pick them up. I guess, showing off a foreigner was a good pick-up line. The girls didn't seem to appreciate this kind of company and remained weary. When more of their friends turned up Bolad and Sorik finally took off. The girls visibly relaxed.
Vanya and Tanya were their real names, they now confided. Judging by how naturally they picked their aliases this kind of approach seems all too common. Their friends were Dennis, a guy who loved computer games (Starcraft his favourite), Tunan, about who I learnt nothing, and Alina who spoke quite good German - with a very cute accent. She had been with a German guest family earlier this year. All of them were Buryat but of an entirely different type. Nice guys but over the excitement of meeting them I forgot all my important questions. I guess, both sides want to learn as much as they can about each other.
My last encounter of the day was outside the hotel when I went for a late-night breath of fresh air at the entrance. I noticed a pretty lady sitting on the steps alone drinking a beer. When I noticed her smiling at me I plucked up my courage and went over to talk to her. Another lonely traveller maybe, I thought, looking at the beautiful stars. She had the most beautiful smile and spoke some English. Was she a traveller staying at the hotel? No, she was from Ulan Ude. A terrible suspicion dawned on me. She was tipsy, very touchy - meaning she kept touching my arm, my hand, even gave me a kiss on the cheek. Tobias, what a beautiful name that was, what a beautiful man I was. Nice to hear that. Hey, it was all explicable with the alcohol.
Angela was her name, she said. What did she do for a living? She didn't answer but just started singing in a beautiful voice. Should we go to my room? I pretented not to understand but that moment I knew what she did. I knew for certain who she was. When her "friend Jack" arrived things became a bit awkward. She was saying things in Russian to him, probably calling me naive. When more interested people, all drunks from the hotel, arrived I extracted myself. The knowledge, however, filled me with a deep sadness. Seeing her drink, trying to catch every passing man's eye. She didn't look happy. Do I pity her? I don't think so. I was upset that my conversation with this pretty girl had taken this turn. I was upset seeing a girl like this. People here can be rough. I wonder if her "friend" can adequately protect her. I worry about her. I was, of course, tempted to engage her services (who wouldn't be) but this was not right. I wish her well and wish we could have met under different circumstances. Be safe, Angela, it's a dangerous world out there.
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Impressions of the Pearl of Siberia
Irkutsk, Russia
Thinking back to my stay in Irkutsk I remember my first walk around the east of the city among the old Siberian style buildings and the Chinese market. My first taste of China, I thought excitedly. For the first time in weeks I felt a bit at home among people I could at least remotely understand.
Still, the east side of Irkutsk is only now being developed. There are a lot of construction sites and even more original but neglected buildings. And some high-rises still hailing from socialist days. "This is the most beautiful city of Siberia", I thought, " the Paris of the East? Will the rest of the area even be worth it?" And I started worrying about my planned three days in Ulan Ude.
The good news was/is the city has a lot more to offer - and at far more reasonable prices than Moscow.
The first day after my arrival the weather was brilliant. The guys I had met on the train (the Danes left without a word of goodbye) headed straight to Lake Baikal. But I thought: "fools", I thought, "first get to know the city a bit before you already leave it." Of course, that kind of attitude was punished straight away when the weather turned cloudy and hazy the next day. I couldn't even see the other side of the lake. The clouds only cleared when I was on the bus back to the city. Grr!
In the process of getting around a very familiar fact occured to me: they also use minibuses here. I had first encountered them on my trip to China last year. The popular transport (many used vehicles imported from Japan and hence having the wheel on the right (wrong) side) is used a great deal in Russia. Minibuses go everywhere around the city and its suburbs and small villages. Thus the Avtovogzal (main bus station) is a big mess of people looking for or waiting for their transport. If I hadn't by chance encountered a Russian family also going to Listvyanka I'd probably still be waiting.
In terms of locations the city has a nice waterfront - not the southern one facing the train station, mind you. That one has been screwed up with new high-rise developments behind the train station. I mean the western one near the district administration. It seems well popular for wedding photos. Lots of teens also come here for their ball games and chats and (supposedly) dates.
Interestingly, the city also features a mosque. It features among the sights mentioned in my guide, so I went to have a look. Sadly, it turned out it was damaged by the communists - very reminiscent of China where countless temples were damaged or destroyed. It turned out this mosque had little to do with buildings you might know from Arabic countries. It reminded me more of the train station in Bonn. No minarets, no lofty cloisters. Obviously it was built for the harsh weather during winter here. The main prayer room had scores of radiators along the walls. Here I met a very friendly Russian muslim who spoke quite good English. He explained to me the place and some of its history. The was a plan to reconstruct the minaret but money was a bit of an issue. Russian muslims have their own troubles since Russia has suffered from terrorists since the 90's. Thus, muslims have had it difficult, even without American involvement and Bushisms. Still, everyone was very friendly and appeared happy about my interest in Islam. Maybe, if more people were interested that would avoid many a prejudice.
I think, on the whole, Irkutsk is a place I can feel at home in. It's not such a mega-city as Moscow or St. Petersburg is. It's about as big as Cologne and that's more of a size and scale I can deal with. You can walk places in the centre. It's actually possible to know the city and not just a district. Still, it's international with Chinese and Buryat people and a number of foreign students. There are even cafes with English menus for those that don't speak Russian. You only have to stomach the foreign tourists having their last (or first) taste of Russia, getting drunk on cheap vodka, trying to hit on the local girls.
Thinking back to my stay in Irkutsk I remember my first walk around the east of the city among the old Siberian style buildings and the Chinese market. My first taste of China, I thought excitedly. For the first time in weeks I felt a bit at home among people I could at least remotely understand.
Still, the east side of Irkutsk is only now being developed. There are a lot of construction sites and even more original but neglected buildings. And some high-rises still hailing from socialist days. "This is the most beautiful city of Siberia", I thought, " the Paris of the East? Will the rest of the area even be worth it?" And I started worrying about my planned three days in Ulan Ude.
The good news was/is the city has a lot more to offer - and at far more reasonable prices than Moscow.
The first day after my arrival the weather was brilliant. The guys I had met on the train (the Danes left without a word of goodbye) headed straight to Lake Baikal. But I thought: "fools", I thought, "first get to know the city a bit before you already leave it." Of course, that kind of attitude was punished straight away when the weather turned cloudy and hazy the next day. I couldn't even see the other side of the lake. The clouds only cleared when I was on the bus back to the city. Grr!
In the process of getting around a very familiar fact occured to me: they also use minibuses here. I had first encountered them on my trip to China last year. The popular transport (many used vehicles imported from Japan and hence having the wheel on the right (wrong) side) is used a great deal in Russia. Minibuses go everywhere around the city and its suburbs and small villages. Thus the Avtovogzal (main bus station) is a big mess of people looking for or waiting for their transport. If I hadn't by chance encountered a Russian family also going to Listvyanka I'd probably still be waiting.
In terms of locations the city has a nice waterfront - not the southern one facing the train station, mind you. That one has been screwed up with new high-rise developments behind the train station. I mean the western one near the district administration. It seems well popular for wedding photos. Lots of teens also come here for their ball games and chats and (supposedly) dates.
Interestingly, the city also features a mosque. It features among the sights mentioned in my guide, so I went to have a look. Sadly, it turned out it was damaged by the communists - very reminiscent of China where countless temples were damaged or destroyed. It turned out this mosque had little to do with buildings you might know from Arabic countries. It reminded me more of the train station in Bonn. No minarets, no lofty cloisters. Obviously it was built for the harsh weather during winter here. The main prayer room had scores of radiators along the walls. Here I met a very friendly Russian muslim who spoke quite good English. He explained to me the place and some of its history. The was a plan to reconstruct the minaret but money was a bit of an issue. Russian muslims have their own troubles since Russia has suffered from terrorists since the 90's. Thus, muslims have had it difficult, even without American involvement and Bushisms. Still, everyone was very friendly and appeared happy about my interest in Islam. Maybe, if more people were interested that would avoid many a prejudice.
I think, on the whole, Irkutsk is a place I can feel at home in. It's not such a mega-city as Moscow or St. Petersburg is. It's about as big as Cologne and that's more of a size and scale I can deal with. You can walk places in the centre. It's actually possible to know the city and not just a district. Still, it's international with Chinese and Buryat people and a number of foreign students. There are even cafes with English menus for those that don't speak Russian. You only have to stomach the foreign tourists having their last (or first) taste of Russia, getting drunk on cheap vodka, trying to hit on the local girls.
Monday, 6 August 2007
The German Nutter
Listvyanka, Lake Baikal
I wish I could write an amusing tale here about some other German tourist doing stupid things. Make some good-humoured fun of other people. I can't. Can't mock anyone but myself.
Evidently, two weeks into my trip I still have a lot to learn. I can almost hear Yoda say: "much to learn this one has." Let me give account. I set off for Listvyanka yesterday from Irkutsk not really knowing what to expect. I only had the vague plan to hike from here to the next village called Bolshoy Koty, a trip that was about 7 to 8 km - on the map. On a path that people at the hostel told me about no problem for an afternoon stroll. Then take a ship back and cruise across the lake. The first surprise came here when the local tourist information office told me it was not 8 but 20 km. Maybe I could make it before nightfall but I wouldn't be able to get back this day. I weighed my chances.
I hadn't brought a towel nor supplies. Despite planning a dip in the lake I had forgotten my swimming trunks. I wasn't even wearing socks and was now painfully discovering how rough the inside of my damn hiking shoes was. I hadn't even started and blisters were already forming. Not really good conditions for a 20-kilometer hike you say?
Being who I am and none else I thought: "fuck it, I'm here now. Let's do it." So, with a bottle of water, a packet of cookies and two apples I set off. Two plastic bags doubled as cushions for my now aching feet which were now already quite sore. I would have to re-adjust the bags every 10 minutes and do a lot of swearing and cursing about my damn shoes.
The next surprise was that what had been described as a path was really just that. Back home a path means a simple, not paved but perfectly walkable track through the woods (maybe). Here a path is still a path: A narrow barely trodden track leading through the wilderness. Near Listvyanka there's an entire network of them. Wasn't easy finding the right one: After a lot of searching and climbing up and down the cliff side in vain I came upon a group of hikers and asked the way. Yes, they spoke English and, yes, it was the path to Bolshey Koty and, yes, they were also going there. So, I just started following them.
Soon, I was impressed with their pace. After a few stops for photos and adjusting the "pads" they were already out of sight. And they were carrying way more baggage than me - big backpacks with tents as I later learned. I tried to follow their trail and after another scramble through a deep valley I met them again on the other side. They were resting. Of course, they had taken the easy way around. Nuts!
There were six Russians, three guys, three girls, and one guy from Bosnia who was visiting one of the girls. After introductions I continued to follow them until they decided to camp for the night. Camp? How far was Bolshey Koty from here? Another six hours at least. Was I planning to get there today? Err ... yes. Should have asked earlier! "Crazy plan!" Lena was the group's guide and had done this trip before. Not entirely safe after dark either.
Since I suppose I looked a bit lost one guy offered me a place in his tent. I should have dinner with them. I hesitated, not wanting to be any more trouble. But in the end I had to admit that Lena was right - going on was not realistic. So, I gladly accepted. They bestowed on me more of the Russian hospitality that I had encountered on the train. They shared all their food and later one of the girls even offered me her sleeping bag. She would share with her boyfriend. In return for all these blessings I offered to share what little I had with me and help where I could.
I ended up gathering firewood. This turned out to be more exciting than it sounds because it made me realise what the side effects of camping on a lake side are. Water + warm summer = mosquitoes. And we were camping in mosquito-county! I've never found myself in a cloud of the damn blood suckers! Like a hydra you swatted one and ten other took it's place. The bites were beyond count.
What followed was actually an amazing experience. Swimming in Lake Baikal is said to add 25 years to your life (while dipping a hand in gives you 5 and a foot 10), so you can't go there and skip the dip in the lake. Neither did we. And since I had forgotten to bring my swimming trunks I waded in in my underwear. Never have I swam in water that cold! I was out again in a minute feeling like every shrivelable part of my body had indeed shriveled. Respect to the Russians, they spent at least ten minutes in the water and came back for more later. I didn't even see them shiver!
Later we ate a simple dinner and played a ball game that seems very popular here. It reminds me of a game seen in China where you have to keep a little sack/ball in the air by kicking it between players. Then there was more swimming but I chickened out this time. After dark it was just too cold. All the while I was fighting a loosing battle against the swarms of mosquitoes. Now I know why people become vampire hunters! Only in the tent I was safe in the end.
The tent itself was technically only a one-person issue. It was an interesting way to get to know Mita, the generous guy who and offered and also spoke some English. He was a programmer like myself. So, I met him. Really up close and personal. I'm even more grateful to him for offering and making the sacrifice.
The next morning I was ready to go on. Now Lena explained the rest of the way to me. At least 6 more hours. I would not make the ship back since there was only one per day. It would be a real forced march. Nuts! Finally I gave in. My feet were killing me and the I was itching all over from the mosquito bites. Sore and scratched and stung all over I wouldn't make it. So, my pride was ultimately defeated. I said my grateful good-byes and turned back. By noon I reached Listvyanka again.
Here, the last (and only) Baikal tour of the day had just been cancelled because of a broken ship engine. Is that Karma? I smell bullshit!
So, what did your German nutter do instead? More walking, of course! Climb a mountain even. With three more hours to go the last bus I decided to do a 12 kilometer walk. Maybe I could make it before the last hydrofoil went. That would be fun, right? I think I made it in record time. Raced up despite raw feet, even had some spare time to enjoy the view and check out another pretty Russian girl. Raced down again.
I reached the harbour just in time to learn that the last hydrofoil had left an hour earlier than expected. Had I misunderstood again? So, I caught the last minibus instead.
The last nod from Karma (as I call it now) was that the clouds and mist that had obscured the view all of this and the previous day cleared the moment the damn bus set off. One day I'll know who to complain to about this. For now enough insanity - one more day of simple city sight-seeing. Geschichten, die das Leben so schreibt.
I wish I could write an amusing tale here about some other German tourist doing stupid things. Make some good-humoured fun of other people. I can't. Can't mock anyone but myself.
Evidently, two weeks into my trip I still have a lot to learn. I can almost hear Yoda say: "much to learn this one has." Let me give account. I set off for Listvyanka yesterday from Irkutsk not really knowing what to expect. I only had the vague plan to hike from here to the next village called Bolshoy Koty, a trip that was about 7 to 8 km - on the map. On a path that people at the hostel told me about no problem for an afternoon stroll. Then take a ship back and cruise across the lake. The first surprise came here when the local tourist information office told me it was not 8 but 20 km. Maybe I could make it before nightfall but I wouldn't be able to get back this day. I weighed my chances.
I hadn't brought a towel nor supplies. Despite planning a dip in the lake I had forgotten my swimming trunks. I wasn't even wearing socks and was now painfully discovering how rough the inside of my damn hiking shoes was. I hadn't even started and blisters were already forming. Not really good conditions for a 20-kilometer hike you say?
Being who I am and none else I thought: "fuck it, I'm here now. Let's do it." So, with a bottle of water, a packet of cookies and two apples I set off. Two plastic bags doubled as cushions for my now aching feet which were now already quite sore. I would have to re-adjust the bags every 10 minutes and do a lot of swearing and cursing about my damn shoes.
The next surprise was that what had been described as a path was really just that. Back home a path means a simple, not paved but perfectly walkable track through the woods (maybe). Here a path is still a path: A narrow barely trodden track leading through the wilderness. Near Listvyanka there's an entire network of them. Wasn't easy finding the right one: After a lot of searching and climbing up and down the cliff side in vain I came upon a group of hikers and asked the way. Yes, they spoke English and, yes, it was the path to Bolshey Koty and, yes, they were also going there. So, I just started following them.
Soon, I was impressed with their pace. After a few stops for photos and adjusting the "pads" they were already out of sight. And they were carrying way more baggage than me - big backpacks with tents as I later learned. I tried to follow their trail and after another scramble through a deep valley I met them again on the other side. They were resting. Of course, they had taken the easy way around. Nuts!
There were six Russians, three guys, three girls, and one guy from Bosnia who was visiting one of the girls. After introductions I continued to follow them until they decided to camp for the night. Camp? How far was Bolshey Koty from here? Another six hours at least. Was I planning to get there today? Err ... yes. Should have asked earlier! "Crazy plan!" Lena was the group's guide and had done this trip before. Not entirely safe after dark either.
Since I suppose I looked a bit lost one guy offered me a place in his tent. I should have dinner with them. I hesitated, not wanting to be any more trouble. But in the end I had to admit that Lena was right - going on was not realistic. So, I gladly accepted. They bestowed on me more of the Russian hospitality that I had encountered on the train. They shared all their food and later one of the girls even offered me her sleeping bag. She would share with her boyfriend. In return for all these blessings I offered to share what little I had with me and help where I could.
I ended up gathering firewood. This turned out to be more exciting than it sounds because it made me realise what the side effects of camping on a lake side are. Water + warm summer = mosquitoes. And we were camping in mosquito-county! I've never found myself in a cloud of the damn blood suckers! Like a hydra you swatted one and ten other took it's place. The bites were beyond count.
What followed was actually an amazing experience. Swimming in Lake Baikal is said to add 25 years to your life (while dipping a hand in gives you 5 and a foot 10), so you can't go there and skip the dip in the lake. Neither did we. And since I had forgotten to bring my swimming trunks I waded in in my underwear. Never have I swam in water that cold! I was out again in a minute feeling like every shrivelable part of my body had indeed shriveled. Respect to the Russians, they spent at least ten minutes in the water and came back for more later. I didn't even see them shiver!
Later we ate a simple dinner and played a ball game that seems very popular here. It reminds me of a game seen in China where you have to keep a little sack/ball in the air by kicking it between players. Then there was more swimming but I chickened out this time. After dark it was just too cold. All the while I was fighting a loosing battle against the swarms of mosquitoes. Now I know why people become vampire hunters! Only in the tent I was safe in the end.
The tent itself was technically only a one-person issue. It was an interesting way to get to know Mita, the generous guy who and offered and also spoke some English. He was a programmer like myself. So, I met him. Really up close and personal. I'm even more grateful to him for offering and making the sacrifice.
The next morning I was ready to go on. Now Lena explained the rest of the way to me. At least 6 more hours. I would not make the ship back since there was only one per day. It would be a real forced march. Nuts! Finally I gave in. My feet were killing me and the I was itching all over from the mosquito bites. Sore and scratched and stung all over I wouldn't make it. So, my pride was ultimately defeated. I said my grateful good-byes and turned back. By noon I reached Listvyanka again.
Here, the last (and only) Baikal tour of the day had just been cancelled because of a broken ship engine. Is that Karma? I smell bullshit!
So, what did your German nutter do instead? More walking, of course! Climb a mountain even. With three more hours to go the last bus I decided to do a 12 kilometer walk. Maybe I could make it before the last hydrofoil went. That would be fun, right? I think I made it in record time. Raced up despite raw feet, even had some spare time to enjoy the view and check out another pretty Russian girl. Raced down again.
I reached the harbour just in time to learn that the last hydrofoil had left an hour earlier than expected. Had I misunderstood again? So, I caught the last minibus instead.
The last nod from Karma (as I call it now) was that the clouds and mist that had obscured the view all of this and the previous day cleared the moment the damn bus set off. One day I'll know who to complain to about this. For now enough insanity - one more day of simple city sight-seeing. Geschichten, die das Leben so schreibt.
Friday, 3 August 2007
Web Exclusive: Dining Car Adventures
Baikal Express, Russia
This is actually a true web exclusive because somehow it never found its way into my hand written journal. I guess I could write any number of entries about the Baikal express.
One things that stuck to my mind no matter how minor were the curtains in the dining car. Not that I went there to eat, it's waayy too expensive (about 3 times the price of a normal cafe). We did have a beer there once, the Danes, Mikhail and I. The curtains caught my attention because they had maps printed on them. At first, I assumed it would be maps of Russia - obvious, right? Then I looked closer and realised to my excitement that it wasn't Russian at all. It had English names on it but none I had heard before. I read things like "The Dark Lands" and "Zorn Uzkul" and "Zharr". It was a map of a fantasy world. Probably RPG. That got me all excited - in the middle of Russia. I know it's geeky, so here is my confession. I spent the next several hours trying to remember which world it was. It sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. Greyhawk? No. Forgotten Realms? No. I tried to ask staff but they didn't know. Probably never knew where the damn curtains came from. Now you have a try: here's exactly the map I saw.
Then it hit me like a hammer: two names "Skaven Lair" and "Realm of Chaos" - it was Warhammer. Skaven being creatures in that game and Chaos being a faction. Should I be proud of figuring it out?
In the dining car I also encountered another strange fellow traveller: A Russian lady that spoke some English. The Danish guys had warned me that she seemed to try and pick up every guy on the train. And sure enough the moment she saw me she homed in on me. The two Danes smiled and retreated making off-hand jokes about her. Well, what can I say - I'm better than that. So I stayed to talk. She invited me for a coffee and a vodka - straight from her glass. She was actually from Irkutsk going back there for business. She had several degrees in things like law, pharmaceutics (if I remember correctly). I think she was a bit drunk (already) so she probably stretched the truth a bit. Anyhow, she was so keen to talk and find new topics - to make me stay maybe. She was going to Listvyanka, a village on Lake Baikal, straight after getting to Irkutsk. I should join her there for a drink. Whoa! Aggressive didn't even begin to describe it. The Danes noticed me talking to her. Now their bad jokes really reached the peak. "Would you f**k her if you got the chance", they asked. "You would, wouldn't you?" I didn't even answer that question. I think they failed to notice one important thing about her, maybe why she was so aggressive. She kept mentioning previous unsuccessful marriages and some guy she really liked and who she had met on a holiday. Maybe, just maybe that lady was simply lonely. I'm sure we all know how it feels. Sure, maybe she didn't choose a clever way to deal with it - I guess as a woman it's easy to be labelled a slut if you behave like this. Still, it's no reason to treat her like shit. So, I entertained her for a while even though her thoughts jumped around like crazed crickets sometimes. She would talk but responding was impossible because either she wouldn't understand or she wouldn't listen but instead go on to a new topic. Still, I think I still learnt a few things - at the very least how to be courteous. In the end I didn't take up her invitation to Listvyanka, that was a bit too hot for me after all. But still we parted in a civilised way by shaking hands. The Danes left without even saying good bye. Says a lot about people doesn't it. I hope she finds what she is looking for.
This is actually a true web exclusive because somehow it never found its way into my hand written journal. I guess I could write any number of entries about the Baikal express.
One things that stuck to my mind no matter how minor were the curtains in the dining car. Not that I went there to eat, it's waayy too expensive (about 3 times the price of a normal cafe). We did have a beer there once, the Danes, Mikhail and I. The curtains caught my attention because they had maps printed on them. At first, I assumed it would be maps of Russia - obvious, right? Then I looked closer and realised to my excitement that it wasn't Russian at all. It had English names on it but none I had heard before. I read things like "The Dark Lands" and "Zorn Uzkul" and "Zharr". It was a map of a fantasy world. Probably RPG. That got me all excited - in the middle of Russia. I know it's geeky, so here is my confession. I spent the next several hours trying to remember which world it was. It sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. Greyhawk? No. Forgotten Realms? No. I tried to ask staff but they didn't know. Probably never knew where the damn curtains came from. Now you have a try: here's exactly the map I saw.
Then it hit me like a hammer: two names "Skaven Lair" and "Realm of Chaos" - it was Warhammer. Skaven being creatures in that game and Chaos being a faction. Should I be proud of figuring it out?
In the dining car I also encountered another strange fellow traveller: A Russian lady that spoke some English. The Danish guys had warned me that she seemed to try and pick up every guy on the train. And sure enough the moment she saw me she homed in on me. The two Danes smiled and retreated making off-hand jokes about her. Well, what can I say - I'm better than that. So I stayed to talk. She invited me for a coffee and a vodka - straight from her glass. She was actually from Irkutsk going back there for business. She had several degrees in things like law, pharmaceutics (if I remember correctly). I think she was a bit drunk (already) so she probably stretched the truth a bit. Anyhow, she was so keen to talk and find new topics - to make me stay maybe. She was going to Listvyanka, a village on Lake Baikal, straight after getting to Irkutsk. I should join her there for a drink. Whoa! Aggressive didn't even begin to describe it. The Danes noticed me talking to her. Now their bad jokes really reached the peak. "Would you f**k her if you got the chance", they asked. "You would, wouldn't you?" I didn't even answer that question. I think they failed to notice one important thing about her, maybe why she was so aggressive. She kept mentioning previous unsuccessful marriages and some guy she really liked and who she had met on a holiday. Maybe, just maybe that lady was simply lonely. I'm sure we all know how it feels. Sure, maybe she didn't choose a clever way to deal with it - I guess as a woman it's easy to be labelled a slut if you behave like this. Still, it's no reason to treat her like shit. So, I entertained her for a while even though her thoughts jumped around like crazed crickets sometimes. She would talk but responding was impossible because either she wouldn't understand or she wouldn't listen but instead go on to a new topic. Still, I think I still learnt a few things - at the very least how to be courteous. In the end I didn't take up her invitation to Listvyanka, that was a bit too hot for me after all. But still we parted in a civilised way by shaking hands. The Danes left without even saying good bye. Says a lot about people doesn't it. I hope she finds what she is looking for.
Size of Russia and Fellow Travellers
Baikal Express, Russia
People pass the time as best they can. The Russians next door - three men and a boy - apparently have a TV of some sort (do they have a licence??) and watch DVDs. The Dutch and American guys down the aisle seem to have nothing better to do than drink the night away. A lot of others join them in their efforts. The first night me and the Danes spent with a simple card game. After a few rounds of getting used to it luck seemed on my side, I kept winning consistently. So, eventually they urgently had to go and read their books. This night when I asked again they were not keen on a replay. :)
Outside, the countryside goes by and crawls into infinity. Buildings we see have changed to the typical - so I read - wooden Siberian style structures. They are Dachas, I am told. This is where rich Russians from the west spend the hot summer. Some are colourfully painted, made of boards, others are genuine block houses. We're sure there must be bears and wolves around here even though we don't see them.
I try to take as many photos as I can. The landscape may be vast but shooting something from a moving train proves trickier than I thought. All too often something blocks the view just when you're ready to shoot or you realise you've caught the moment the electricity mast is in the middle of the window. I wish I could cover both sides of the train at once. You take a photo or just a look on the left and in the meantime something really interesting rushes past behind you. And all that assumes the windows are actually clean.
I'm also getting a bit annoyed with the two Danish guys. I feel they show so little appreciation for the chance they've been given here. They call the little villages we pass "shitholes" that people will never get out of. They refer to Roubles as "fuck money". And they keep making fun of Mikhail because he doesn't understand English. This most of all infuriates me. He is such a kind man. It's unfortunate that we can't communicate because he knows a lot more about this part of the world than we do. It's certainly not a reason to call him a bear and giggle when he snores in his sleep. They may be only kids - mentally they sure are - but they should know some respect for the places they are allowed to visit and the people they get to meet. This is a great chance to learn and experience. Otherwise, why go on a trip like this at all?
People pass the time as best they can. The Russians next door - three men and a boy - apparently have a TV of some sort (do they have a licence??) and watch DVDs. The Dutch and American guys down the aisle seem to have nothing better to do than drink the night away. A lot of others join them in their efforts. The first night me and the Danes spent with a simple card game. After a few rounds of getting used to it luck seemed on my side, I kept winning consistently. So, eventually they urgently had to go and read their books. This night when I asked again they were not keen on a replay. :)
Outside, the countryside goes by and crawls into infinity. Buildings we see have changed to the typical - so I read - wooden Siberian style structures. They are Dachas, I am told. This is where rich Russians from the west spend the hot summer. Some are colourfully painted, made of boards, others are genuine block houses. We're sure there must be bears and wolves around here even though we don't see them.
I try to take as many photos as I can. The landscape may be vast but shooting something from a moving train proves trickier than I thought. All too often something blocks the view just when you're ready to shoot or you realise you've caught the moment the electricity mast is in the middle of the window. I wish I could cover both sides of the train at once. You take a photo or just a look on the left and in the meantime something really interesting rushes past behind you. And all that assumes the windows are actually clean.
I'm also getting a bit annoyed with the two Danish guys. I feel they show so little appreciation for the chance they've been given here. They call the little villages we pass "shitholes" that people will never get out of. They refer to Roubles as "fuck money". And they keep making fun of Mikhail because he doesn't understand English. This most of all infuriates me. He is such a kind man. It's unfortunate that we can't communicate because he knows a lot more about this part of the world than we do. It's certainly not a reason to call him a bear and giggle when he snores in his sleep. They may be only kids - mentally they sure are - but they should know some respect for the places they are allowed to visit and the people they get to meet. This is a great chance to learn and experience. Otherwise, why go on a trip like this at all?
Thursday, 2 August 2007
The Size of Russia
Baikal Express, between Tatarskaya amd Baradinsk, Russia
It's amazinghow much time you realise you have on a train ride of this magnitude! On both sides of the train the landscape races past, extending as far as the eye can see, dotted here and there with small villages. Every few hours (!) we reach a larger town and stop. As the second day draws to a close and we've just covered a bit more than half the distance I begin to realise just how big this country is. The awe is building, you might say, with every kilometer we cover.
And after some time you realise that you've done you could to pass the time before. Played chess with Mikhail - check; read Chinese book - check; talked to fellow travelers - check; ate food - check; taken a nap - check; followed landscape for a few hours - check. Now what? Go through the cycle again?
It's not so much boredom - it's always interesting to look outside again - but you realise how long time becomes. It crawls by like a snail, like the endless distant horizon. And so I look on as the sun sinks to another fiery death behind the trees.
It's amazinghow much time you realise you have on a train ride of this magnitude! On both sides of the train the landscape races past, extending as far as the eye can see, dotted here and there with small villages. Every few hours (!) we reach a larger town and stop. As the second day draws to a close and we've just covered a bit more than half the distance I begin to realise just how big this country is. The awe is building, you might say, with every kilometer we cover.
And after some time you realise that you've done you could to pass the time before. Played chess with Mikhail - check; read Chinese book - check; talked to fellow travelers - check; ate food - check; taken a nap - check; followed landscape for a few hours - check. Now what? Go through the cycle again?
It's not so much boredom - it's always interesting to look outside again - but you realise how long time becomes. It crawls by like a snail, like the endless distant horizon. And so I look on as the sun sinks to another fiery death behind the trees.
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
Russian Hospitality
Baikal Express near Yekaterinburg
It does pay off making the effort, I think. Or maybe Mikhail is just a genuinely nice guy. He shared two of his meals with me today as if it was the most natural thing in the world. When I tried to tell him I had brought some food of my own he just waved the remark away and insisted. So, we shared roasted, cold chicken with bread, pickled gurkins and tomatoes. A real feast considering I only have soup noodles!
The two Danish guys missed out - maybe because they were sleeping both times. Maybe because they don't really make an effort to communicate with him. Yeah, it's not easy but it's still an interesting challenge - he's willing to try. I guess, being only 20 years old and moreover travelling together they don't understand how important travel companions are.
I for myself wish I could communicate better with our Russian companion than I can. I would like to hear his story. The best I could do, though, was to offer him a game of chess, which he accepted. After a hard struggle of nearly two hours he had me check mate. I should practice more. Maybe this is my chance.
It does pay off making the effort, I think. Or maybe Mikhail is just a genuinely nice guy. He shared two of his meals with me today as if it was the most natural thing in the world. When I tried to tell him I had brought some food of my own he just waved the remark away and insisted. So, we shared roasted, cold chicken with bread, pickled gurkins and tomatoes. A real feast considering I only have soup noodles!
The two Danish guys missed out - maybe because they were sleeping both times. Maybe because they don't really make an effort to communicate with him. Yeah, it's not easy but it's still an interesting challenge - he's willing to try. I guess, being only 20 years old and moreover travelling together they don't understand how important travel companions are.
I for myself wish I could communicate better with our Russian companion than I can. I would like to hear his story. The best I could do, though, was to offer him a game of chess, which he accepted. After a hard struggle of nearly two hours he had me check mate. I should practice more. Maybe this is my chance.
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
The Greatest Journey of my Life
Moscow, Baikal Express
As the train leaves Moscow Yaroslavsky Vogzal the thought hits my mind: "if I take one more step I'll be the furthest away from home I have ever been." (Lord of the Rings). This is the greatest journey I've ever embarked on. - traversing Russia kilometer by kilometer on the train. One of the Danish guys in my compartment, Michael, jokes: "set your clocks, it's only going to be three more days [to Irkutsk]". Only it's no joke - this little compartment, shared with Michael, his friend Mes and one Russian man named Mikhail, will be my home for the next 75 hours. Mikhail actually already looks like he's is worried about a long boring trip - he doesn't speak anything but Russian. It strikes me that this shouldn't happen to him in his own country. Technically we're the ones who can't communicate but, hey, I guess that's life - Geschichten, die das Leben so schreibt, like Christian said. Maybe this is my chance to learn a bit. Mikhail is going to Olkhon Island in Lake Baikal, so he'll be with us all the way. In a sense, there we have the old spirit of travelling. This train takes in all our fates and stories and intertwines them for the next few days before letting us go. Like the great loom of the Norns. For good or ill, where it'll take us we don't know. That's what makes it exciting. Now I feel the excitement again. This is finally it. Outside, the landscape begins flying by in the growing dusk as the train speeds us toward our destiny.
As the train leaves Moscow Yaroslavsky Vogzal the thought hits my mind: "if I take one more step I'll be the furthest away from home I have ever been." (Lord of the Rings). This is the greatest journey I've ever embarked on. - traversing Russia kilometer by kilometer on the train. One of the Danish guys in my compartment, Michael, jokes: "set your clocks, it's only going to be three more days [to Irkutsk]". Only it's no joke - this little compartment, shared with Michael, his friend Mes and one Russian man named Mikhail, will be my home for the next 75 hours. Mikhail actually already looks like he's is worried about a long boring trip - he doesn't speak anything but Russian. It strikes me that this shouldn't happen to him in his own country. Technically we're the ones who can't communicate but, hey, I guess that's life - Geschichten, die das Leben so schreibt, like Christian said. Maybe this is my chance to learn a bit. Mikhail is going to Olkhon Island in Lake Baikal, so he'll be with us all the way. In a sense, there we have the old spirit of travelling. This train takes in all our fates and stories and intertwines them for the next few days before letting us go. Like the great loom of the Norns. For good or ill, where it'll take us we don't know. That's what makes it exciting. Now I feel the excitement again. This is finally it. Outside, the landscape begins flying by in the growing dusk as the train speeds us toward our destiny.
Encounters in the Park
Moscow, Russia
I was in for an interesting encounter when I went to Orekhovo station to see the nearby reconstructed palace. Built originally by Catherine the Great, later destroyed or abandoned (never really caught that bit) and never finished it was meant to be a second Versailles. Now it is being restored and finished according to its original designs. At the moment it is still pretty much a construction site - one of many here. Some of the buildings around the huge park are being finished. The main work now seems to be the sculpting of the park itself. A mammoth task of putting in plumbing for fountains, building stairs and paths, planting the right vegetation at the right place and the like. Then all the tracks from the heavy vehicles have to be cleaned up. And then the tracks of the cleanup crews. Situated on a hill, within vast forrested grounds I think it will be a grand place once it's done.
Here, on the way from the Metro, I met Ludmilla (or Ludy, she said). A very grandmother-like, kind old lady who I just asked for the way to the palace. She spoke no English but understood what I wanted and, I think, told me that she was also going there. What followed was her giving me a two-and-a-half-hour tour of the grounds, eagerly explaining things in Russian. She seemed to know the history and background very well. When I didn't understand she would repeat things over and over and then look very embarassed when she realised she couldn't get the message across. "Dvarich," she would say, "bolshoy dvarich." That I later understood to mean "big palace". "Dom" I learnt to mean house. And a few other things. There was the main palace, houses for lower aristocrats, an opera house even. Sometimes she'd remember words in German which helped, so we somehow managed to communicate. Now I have an idea what the first ambassador or traveller must have felt like, learning a language from zero with noone to teach you. Unperturbed, she'd go on talking and repeating and trying again and again. Her patience was impressive.
I understood she was upset about the damage the construction was doing to the park. The used to be wild flowers, she showed me, but they were cut to make way for lawn. She clearly preferred it the way it was. But a palace attracts tourists and tourists bring money. So, civilisation eats into the wild and imprints itself. I guess that's the way it goes.
Thanks, Ludmilla, bless you.
I was in for an interesting encounter when I went to Orekhovo station to see the nearby reconstructed palace. Built originally by Catherine the Great, later destroyed or abandoned (never really caught that bit) and never finished it was meant to be a second Versailles. Now it is being restored and finished according to its original designs. At the moment it is still pretty much a construction site - one of many here. Some of the buildings around the huge park are being finished. The main work now seems to be the sculpting of the park itself. A mammoth task of putting in plumbing for fountains, building stairs and paths, planting the right vegetation at the right place and the like. Then all the tracks from the heavy vehicles have to be cleaned up. And then the tracks of the cleanup crews. Situated on a hill, within vast forrested grounds I think it will be a grand place once it's done.
Here, on the way from the Metro, I met Ludmilla (or Ludy, she said). A very grandmother-like, kind old lady who I just asked for the way to the palace. She spoke no English but understood what I wanted and, I think, told me that she was also going there. What followed was her giving me a two-and-a-half-hour tour of the grounds, eagerly explaining things in Russian. She seemed to know the history and background very well. When I didn't understand she would repeat things over and over and then look very embarassed when she realised she couldn't get the message across. "Dvarich," she would say, "bolshoy dvarich." That I later understood to mean "big palace". "Dom" I learnt to mean house. And a few other things. There was the main palace, houses for lower aristocrats, an opera house even. Sometimes she'd remember words in German which helped, so we somehow managed to communicate. Now I have an idea what the first ambassador or traveller must have felt like, learning a language from zero with noone to teach you. Unperturbed, she'd go on talking and repeating and trying again and again. Her patience was impressive.
I understood she was upset about the damage the construction was doing to the park. The used to be wild flowers, she showed me, but they were cut to make way for lawn. She clearly preferred it the way it was. But a palace attracts tourists and tourists bring money. So, civilisation eats into the wild and imprints itself. I guess that's the way it goes.
Thanks, Ludmilla, bless you.
We're not in Kansas anymore
Moscow, Russia
Internet connection at the hostel is down today. All day. And last night, too. May yet be for days. In UK or Germany this would be cause for public rioting. Here, our host just shrugs. Maybe he could choose a new provider. If it goes on. Until then, sit tight. Things are different here.
Internet connection at the hostel is down today. All day. And last night, too. May yet be for days. In UK or Germany this would be cause for public rioting. Here, our host just shrugs. Maybe he could choose a new provider. If it goes on. Until then, sit tight. Things are different here.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something true
Moscow, Russia
It's the old song again: "girls, girls, girls". I can sing it quite well now. It goes round and round my head. This is a special verse, though. The girl that handed me the tickets for my onward trip from Moscow at Real Russia's Moscow office to be precise. Long dark hair, tall, slender - she'll know who she is. Sadly, I didn't even catch her name. Nonetheless, she gets my official crown for being the most beautiful girl in all of Moscow. None smiles sweeter than she does!
The new Transformers film really kicks ass! I know this should be about Moscow but I watched it here and it's just too awesome. Decepticons attack, Autobots roll out, "one shall stand and one shall fall" and all that jazz. Or rather metal - heavy metal. It was enough to bring tears to an old fan's eyes.
The German book series "WAS IST WAS" - popular science for young readers - also exists in Russia. I grew up on those books and now I saw shiny new editions displayed in a shop window here. What a nice surprise. Good ideas spread.
If you throw something away there will always be someone to pick it up - be it a pidgeon pecking at bread crumbs or a beggar gathering the coins that tourists throw at a plaque in the ground off the Red Square. Some (fellow Russians I believe) even throw coins at him - in contempt as it seems. He takes it and just stoops and gathers up the money. Sad but true.
It's the old song again: "girls, girls, girls". I can sing it quite well now. It goes round and round my head. This is a special verse, though. The girl that handed me the tickets for my onward trip from Moscow at Real Russia's Moscow office to be precise. Long dark hair, tall, slender - she'll know who she is. Sadly, I didn't even catch her name. Nonetheless, she gets my official crown for being the most beautiful girl in all of Moscow. None smiles sweeter than she does!
The new Transformers film really kicks ass! I know this should be about Moscow but I watched it here and it's just too awesome. Decepticons attack, Autobots roll out, "one shall stand and one shall fall" and all that jazz. Or rather metal - heavy metal. It was enough to bring tears to an old fan's eyes.
The German book series "WAS IST WAS" - popular science for young readers - also exists in Russia. I grew up on those books and now I saw shiny new editions displayed in a shop window here. What a nice surprise. Good ideas spread.
If you throw something away there will always be someone to pick it up - be it a pidgeon pecking at bread crumbs or a beggar gathering the coins that tourists throw at a plaque in the ground off the Red Square. Some (fellow Russians I believe) even throw coins at him - in contempt as it seems. He takes it and just stoops and gathers up the money. Sad but true.
Metro!
The Metro in both St. Petersburg and Moscow is really something to write home about - as positively as possible. Especially in comparison with London's Tube. It's highly efficient for starters: even in a busy city like Moscow with its extensive Metro network I don't think I've ever waited for longer than two (2) minutes and something for a train. I know because there's a clock that resets every time a train comes. Three minutes is minimum wait in London, I think. I haven't seen any signals fail. Trains haven't been standing on the tracks for no apparent reason. All trains are old but, hell, they work well.
On top of all that, there are the stations themselves. Meny are monumental - literally - with mosaics or iron sculptures or reliefs and domed ceilings. They are sights in themselves, actually. It makes using the metro a real experience.
Finally, it's even quite cheap. 17 rubles even in Moscow with a discount for carnet tickets.
Sorry, but eat your heart out TfL.
On top of all that, there are the stations themselves. Meny are monumental - literally - with mosaics or iron sculptures or reliefs and domed ceilings. They are sights in themselves, actually. It makes using the metro a real experience.
Finally, it's even quite cheap. 17 rubles even in Moscow with a discount for carnet tickets.
Sorry, but eat your heart out TfL.
Monday, 30 July 2007
Moskau!
Diese Stadt ist eine Dirne,
Hat rote Flecken auf der Stirn,
Ihre Zähne sind aus Gold,
Sie ist fett und doch so hold;
Ihr Mund fährt mir zutale,
Wenn ich sie dafür bezahle,
Sie zieht sich aus, doch nur für Geld,
Die Stadt, die mich in Atem hält:
Moskau - Раз, два, три (one, two, three) ...
The first thing that came to my mind when the train entered the city were these lyrics to the song by Rammstein (I miss my music!).
The second was, of course, the descriptions of Sergey Lukianenko. We actually passed Ostankino TV Tower when we pulled in. For some reason that got me really excited. I had read about it, seen it on TV and now I'm here. For real. It was - more even then the Red Square itself - the signal that I was actually in Moscow. A sharp needle, more than 500 meters tall, piercing the clear morning sky. I still can't get enough of it.
The Red Square was, of course, another highlight. I remembered it most from the film Red Heat (80's action with Arnold Schwarzenegger), so it was exciting to see it with my own eyes. There's something about it. The red Kremlyn walls on one side, the grand department store ГУМ - GUM - on the other, limited at either end by the historical museum and St. Basil's. It's a place where you can feel history. Lenin's Tomb reminds of recent past while the fortress has evolved out of the historic city centre over hundreds of years. The whole layout reminds me of Tian An Men in Beijing. The politics, the tombs, the grand gates, the wide open space.
In Moscow, I managed to hook up with a Russian girl who lives here. I had written to her via a website called couchsurfing.com. She replied, so we met on my first afternoon here. Her name is Julia. I wasn't sure what to expect. Johani had used the website a lot saying that the girls he had met seemed to see the meetings more like dates. Not that I'd be opposed to that (who would?) but it could easily eat a nasty hole into my budget (on top of sight seeing prices). Plus, it would be stupid to invest time, emotion and money into something that already has an end date.
However, it turned out to be none of this. Julia was a very sweet girl very eager to show me around and curious about me. She showed me to some places not so frequented by tourists. In the end, I'm almost tempted to say that she took her "duties" as a guide a bit too seriously. She was almost professional about it. What I mean is that I enjoyed talking tp her and exchanging thoughts and views. Sometimes she would then interrupt and say "here, this is typically Russian" or "here, have you tried this". It's not an easy balance, I guess, because if you're showing someone around you want to make sure they get the most of their stay. Still, for me the absolute highlight was that she and her friend Olya found a cinema that showed films in English, so I could finally watch Transformers. Thanks a million times, girls! For that (if nothing else) I love you. I hope to return the favour one day.
So, do I now understand the lyrics from the beginning better? Maybe a bit. Everything in Msocow seems to have its price. Still more than St. Petersburg. Double ouch from my wallet!
Gold teeth. People do have them here a lot, that's true. Every smile gleams and sparkles. A guy on the train here said that Moscow was dirty and run-down. I guess, to a certain extent he's right. It's also not as grand a place as St. Petersburg. Still, a lot of restoration and improvement work is being done. Like old decay being covered with gold.
The city feels young and vibrant where Piter felt merely historic. There are young people everywhere, in parks and squares in the evening practicing scate-boarding, roller-blading, drumming or the artistic use of little balls on a string (god knows what it's called) or just chatting. And you see the new gold everywhere in the form of posh shops and expensive (read: phat) cars. Very happening place, Moscow.
So, in front of the Bolshoy Teatr, old Karl Marx looks down at me propagating his "proletarians of all countries, unite" while a very capitalist advert screen flashes colourful messages across my back. I wonder what he'd say to that...?
Hat rote Flecken auf der Stirn,
Ihre Zähne sind aus Gold,
Sie ist fett und doch so hold;
Ihr Mund fährt mir zutale,
Wenn ich sie dafür bezahle,
Sie zieht sich aus, doch nur für Geld,
Die Stadt, die mich in Atem hält:
Moskau - Раз, два, три (one, two, three) ...
The first thing that came to my mind when the train entered the city were these lyrics to the song by Rammstein (I miss my music!).
The second was, of course, the descriptions of Sergey Lukianenko. We actually passed Ostankino TV Tower when we pulled in. For some reason that got me really excited. I had read about it, seen it on TV and now I'm here. For real. It was - more even then the Red Square itself - the signal that I was actually in Moscow. A sharp needle, more than 500 meters tall, piercing the clear morning sky. I still can't get enough of it.
The Red Square was, of course, another highlight. I remembered it most from the film Red Heat (80's action with Arnold Schwarzenegger), so it was exciting to see it with my own eyes. There's something about it. The red Kremlyn walls on one side, the grand department store ГУМ - GUM - on the other, limited at either end by the historical museum and St. Basil's. It's a place where you can feel history. Lenin's Tomb reminds of recent past while the fortress has evolved out of the historic city centre over hundreds of years. The whole layout reminds me of Tian An Men in Beijing. The politics, the tombs, the grand gates, the wide open space.
In Moscow, I managed to hook up with a Russian girl who lives here. I had written to her via a website called couchsurfing.com. She replied, so we met on my first afternoon here. Her name is Julia. I wasn't sure what to expect. Johani had used the website a lot saying that the girls he had met seemed to see the meetings more like dates. Not that I'd be opposed to that (who would?) but it could easily eat a nasty hole into my budget (on top of sight seeing prices). Plus, it would be stupid to invest time, emotion and money into something that already has an end date.
However, it turned out to be none of this. Julia was a very sweet girl very eager to show me around and curious about me. She showed me to some places not so frequented by tourists. In the end, I'm almost tempted to say that she took her "duties" as a guide a bit too seriously. She was almost professional about it. What I mean is that I enjoyed talking tp her and exchanging thoughts and views. Sometimes she would then interrupt and say "here, this is typically Russian" or "here, have you tried this". It's not an easy balance, I guess, because if you're showing someone around you want to make sure they get the most of their stay. Still, for me the absolute highlight was that she and her friend Olya found a cinema that showed films in English, so I could finally watch Transformers. Thanks a million times, girls! For that (if nothing else) I love you. I hope to return the favour one day.
So, do I now understand the lyrics from the beginning better? Maybe a bit. Everything in Msocow seems to have its price. Still more than St. Petersburg. Double ouch from my wallet!
Gold teeth. People do have them here a lot, that's true. Every smile gleams and sparkles. A guy on the train here said that Moscow was dirty and run-down. I guess, to a certain extent he's right. It's also not as grand a place as St. Petersburg. Still, a lot of restoration and improvement work is being done. Like old decay being covered with gold.
The city feels young and vibrant where Piter felt merely historic. There are young people everywhere, in parks and squares in the evening practicing scate-boarding, roller-blading, drumming or the artistic use of little balls on a string (god knows what it's called) or just chatting. And you see the new gold everywhere in the form of posh shops and expensive (read: phat) cars. Very happening place, Moscow.
So, in front of the Bolshoy Teatr, old Karl Marx looks down at me propagating his "proletarians of all countries, unite" while a very capitalist advert screen flashes colourful messages across my back. I wonder what he'd say to that...?
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