It's King Bhumibol of Thailand's 80th birthday on the fifth of December, and the whole country is gearing up for a massive celebration. The streets of Bangkok are already decorated with banners and bunting (and an occasional Christmas tree), a brass band sails jauntily through the streets on a flat-bed truck and every day the number of Thai people dressed in the King's colour of yellow increases, giving the unnerving impression that most of the population has joined a mysterious cult.
I saw the King, accidentally, when I was wandering through the outskirts of Amphon Park in Bangkok and he was driven past at unnecessarily high speed in a yellow Rolls Royce pursued by about twenty red police cars. As his car-chase of a cavalcade approached, everyone in the vicinity stopped what they were doing and stood still and silent by the roadside. It brought to mind that joke about the Queen believing everywhere in Britain smells of fresh paint - Mr Bhumibol must be under the impression that he's ruling Narnia after the White Witch has been on the rampage. Only with less snow.
But their excessive royalism aside, I had a great time in Thailand. It is much more westernised than Vietnam, Cambodia or Laos and so has had the effect of easing my transition back to London. During my ten days in Thailand, I visited Chiang Mai, memorable for its moat and organic cooking school, ancient Ayuthaya which was once the capital city of Thailand and is now a collection of ruins, Kanchanaburi and Bangkok.
For me the hightlight was Kanchanaburi, a town almost entirely devoted to telling the story of the Bridge on the River Kwai. As well as the bridge itself, in the town there is an immaculately tended Allied war cemetery, a museum run by monks containing a fascinating collection of newspaper articles written about various individuals who were prisoners of war, and an information centre which approaches the emotive topic of the Death Railway with a remarkable level of honesty and empathy. Somehow they managed to sensitively address the question of what could have caused the Japanese soldiers and Korean guards to behave as they did towards the POWs and other labourers, attempting to understand while still condemning what happened.
Stories of war and religion have dominated the last three months for me, partly because of the influence they hold in the countries I have visited, but also because I have actively sought them out. Perhaps for this reason, by the time I reached Bangkok I had reached my limit of museums, temples and historical monuments. And so, apart from attending Loi Krathong, a Thai river festival which happened to coincide with my 30th birthday, I eschewed the tourist attractions and instead spent my last couple of days holiday drifting through Bangkok's different neighbourhoods, sitting in the shade of the trees in the city's many parks, and preparing for my journey home. I look forward to seeing you all soon.
Monday 3 December 2007
Tuesday 20 November 2007
Living like the Monks
After the intensity of Vietnam and Cambodia, I was more than ready to lighten the mood of my trip - and luckily Laos turned out to be just the place for a bit of fun and relaxation. Starting off in Vientiane, I was soon won over by the slow pace of life there; it is very small for a capital city and as in the rest of Laos, there is little traffic to disturb the peace. But despite its serenity there was plenty to occupy visitors, including a Buddha Park full of bizarre statues, an unexpectedly endearing "cultural show" performed in what appeared to be a school assembly hall, and an imposing monument in the style of the Arc-de-Triomphe, which was described in an official notice nailed to the wall as a "monster of concrete".
After Vientiane, I took the bus three hours north to Vang Vieng, which is apparently famous among backpackers and turned out to be a very odd place. Set in stunning surroundings with tropical vegetation, a tranquil river and misty layers of forest-covered mountains, Vang Vieng itself is somewhat incongruous. The town is dominated by a handful of streets packed with guesthouses, TV bars playing continuous episodes of Friends, restaurants selling western food and even a McDonalds of dubious authenticity. Due, I think, to the multitude of opportunities for adventure sports - rafting, kayaking, rock climbing, caving and the backpackers'-favourite tubing (floating down the river on a tyre, often while drunk and/or stoned) - tourists started flocking to this little town, and the town responded by turning itself into a miniature version of Khao San Road. Luckily, it was entirely possible to avoid all of the above by walking just a little way out of town, across a temporary bamboo bridge and on to the tiny Don Khang island. There you could stroll by the river or relax in a hammock, and every evening after dark the local bars organised a bonfire - the perfect place to while away the evening chatting to other visitors over a bottle or two of the ubiquitous Beerlao.
My favourite destination in Laos however, turned out to be Luang Prabang, which combined the calm of Vientiane with Vang Vieng's picturesque mountain setting and close proximity to waterfalls and caves. When I arrived at my guesthouse, they told me about the sunrise procession of hundreds of monks, who pass by every morning at 6am. As they make their way to the temples, the monks collect alms of sticky rice from locals, and bananas sold by street-vendors to bleary-eyed tourists woken by the drums. There are a lot of monks in Luang Prabang, many of them children, and they could be spotted all over town in their orange robes - sightseeing in the museum, doing the gardening outside their Wat, climbing trees, smoking, sending text messages, checking their email and playing computer games in the internet cafes... even the monks have fun in Laos it seems, and (as Barry Norman would say) why not.
After Vientiane, I took the bus three hours north to Vang Vieng, which is apparently famous among backpackers and turned out to be a very odd place. Set in stunning surroundings with tropical vegetation, a tranquil river and misty layers of forest-covered mountains, Vang Vieng itself is somewhat incongruous. The town is dominated by a handful of streets packed with guesthouses, TV bars playing continuous episodes of Friends, restaurants selling western food and even a McDonalds of dubious authenticity. Due, I think, to the multitude of opportunities for adventure sports - rafting, kayaking, rock climbing, caving and the backpackers'-favourite tubing (floating down the river on a tyre, often while drunk and/or stoned) - tourists started flocking to this little town, and the town responded by turning itself into a miniature version of Khao San Road. Luckily, it was entirely possible to avoid all of the above by walking just a little way out of town, across a temporary bamboo bridge and on to the tiny Don Khang island. There you could stroll by the river or relax in a hammock, and every evening after dark the local bars organised a bonfire - the perfect place to while away the evening chatting to other visitors over a bottle or two of the ubiquitous Beerlao.
My favourite destination in Laos however, turned out to be Luang Prabang, which combined the calm of Vientiane with Vang Vieng's picturesque mountain setting and close proximity to waterfalls and caves. When I arrived at my guesthouse, they told me about the sunrise procession of hundreds of monks, who pass by every morning at 6am. As they make their way to the temples, the monks collect alms of sticky rice from locals, and bananas sold by street-vendors to bleary-eyed tourists woken by the drums. There are a lot of monks in Luang Prabang, many of them children, and they could be spotted all over town in their orange robes - sightseeing in the museum, doing the gardening outside their Wat, climbing trees, smoking, sending text messages, checking their email and playing computer games in the internet cafes... even the monks have fun in Laos it seems, and (as Barry Norman would say) why not.
Wednesday 7 November 2007
Regardless of History
The journey from the Mekong river to Phomn Penh in Cambodia was predictably entertaining - everything I'd heard about the roads turned out to be true. For about an hour, our minibus bumped along in a cloud of dust, the vehicle shaking as though it could collapse clown-style at any moment, with twenty of us crammed into the sixteen seats and our luggage jumping all over the place. Luckily everyone retained their sense of humour and we arrived at our guesthouse with the minibus, our luggage and ourselves all intact.
When I ventured into the centre of Phnom Penh the following morning, I found it surprisingly quiet for a capital city. At first I thought it was just calm in comparison with the Vietnamese cities, but I later discovered (when talking to a Cambodian student who had been studying English and had then swapped to the more lucrative Computer Science) that I had arrived during a three-day public holiday to mark the king's birthday. My time in Phnom Penh also apparently coincided with the visit of the North Korean Prime Minister Kim Yong Il, but I had no idea about that until I saw all the flag-waving on the BBC World News that night.
Apart from an occasional pile of dead rats obstructing the pavement, Phnom Penh was an easy city for me to navigate, compass in hand. The guesthouses offered cheap whirlwind tours of the Royal Palace and Silver Pagoda, Russian Market, National Museum, Toul Sleng genocide museum and Killing Fields of Choeng Ek all in one day, but I decided to take things a bit more slowly and visit all of the above independently. On my second day in the city I went to the Killing Fields in the morning and the Toul Sleng museum in the afternoon. I thought I was prepared for what I'd see there, but I can't describe the feeling of walking across the site of a genocide, where the clothes of victims are still visible through the earth from unexhumed mass graves. You pay US$2 to visit Choeng Ek; according to the guidebooks the government privatised it a couple of years ago, despite outrage from the victims' families, and it is now managed by a Japanese company.
I also heard that the Angkor temples are privately owned, by the owner of a luxury hotel in nearby Siem Reap, but I don't think this is true. However, the hotel resorts certainly epitomise the extremes of rich and poor in Cambodia. These resorts and the nearby French colonial areas have the look and feel of continental European boulevards, while just a couple of streets away are neighbourhoods that are clearly those of a developing country. Even my guesthouse, located in quite a tourist-orientated part of town, was set back from an unpaved track where the pavement was an obstacle course of rubble.
I spent a day exploring the temples, beginning with the obligatory 5.30am sunrise at Angkor Wat. But although Angkor Wat is the most famous, the most striking (to me, at least) was Ta Prohm, a 12th century Buddhist temple which - unlike most of the others - has not been restored or preserved in recent times. As a result, the jungle has taken over and giant tree roots have gradually grown over the walls (as in the photo above) or worked their way in between the stones to push the buildings apart. When I saw Ta Prohm, it reminded me of the Bill Woodrow sculpture "Regardless of History" which was displayed in Trafalgar Square a few years ago. The sculpture made quite an impression on me at the time, and I was excited to finally see in real life an example of the phenomenon that perhaps helped to inspire it.
When I ventured into the centre of Phnom Penh the following morning, I found it surprisingly quiet for a capital city. At first I thought it was just calm in comparison with the Vietnamese cities, but I later discovered (when talking to a Cambodian student who had been studying English and had then swapped to the more lucrative Computer Science) that I had arrived during a three-day public holiday to mark the king's birthday. My time in Phnom Penh also apparently coincided with the visit of the North Korean Prime Minister Kim Yong Il, but I had no idea about that until I saw all the flag-waving on the BBC World News that night.
Apart from an occasional pile of dead rats obstructing the pavement, Phnom Penh was an easy city for me to navigate, compass in hand. The guesthouses offered cheap whirlwind tours of the Royal Palace and Silver Pagoda, Russian Market, National Museum, Toul Sleng genocide museum and Killing Fields of Choeng Ek all in one day, but I decided to take things a bit more slowly and visit all of the above independently. On my second day in the city I went to the Killing Fields in the morning and the Toul Sleng museum in the afternoon. I thought I was prepared for what I'd see there, but I can't describe the feeling of walking across the site of a genocide, where the clothes of victims are still visible through the earth from unexhumed mass graves. You pay US$2 to visit Choeng Ek; according to the guidebooks the government privatised it a couple of years ago, despite outrage from the victims' families, and it is now managed by a Japanese company.
I also heard that the Angkor temples are privately owned, by the owner of a luxury hotel in nearby Siem Reap, but I don't think this is true. However, the hotel resorts certainly epitomise the extremes of rich and poor in Cambodia. These resorts and the nearby French colonial areas have the look and feel of continental European boulevards, while just a couple of streets away are neighbourhoods that are clearly those of a developing country. Even my guesthouse, located in quite a tourist-orientated part of town, was set back from an unpaved track where the pavement was an obstacle course of rubble.
I spent a day exploring the temples, beginning with the obligatory 5.30am sunrise at Angkor Wat. But although Angkor Wat is the most famous, the most striking (to me, at least) was Ta Prohm, a 12th century Buddhist temple which - unlike most of the others - has not been restored or preserved in recent times. As a result, the jungle has taken over and giant tree roots have gradually grown over the walls (as in the photo above) or worked their way in between the stones to push the buildings apart. When I saw Ta Prohm, it reminded me of the Bill Woodrow sculpture "Regardless of History" which was displayed in Trafalgar Square a few years ago. The sculpture made quite an impression on me at the time, and I was excited to finally see in real life an example of the phenomenon that perhaps helped to inspire it.
Wednesday 31 October 2007
A Ride on the Vietnamese Conveyor Belt
I'm definitely a city person at heart. I love living in London and I can't imagine settling anywhere else. But if I were Vietnamese, I think I would have to live by the river.
There was, of course, much to enjoy about Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). When I was buying bananas from smiley women in conicle hats, or watching Vietnamese students try to sell Graham Greene's The Quiet American to every passing tourist, or drinking coffee in French-style cafes while the world rushed past, I felt that the cities were fascinating and welcoming places. But then I would spend a couple of hours negotiating the frenetic streets, dodging motorbikes and sweating in the 80% humidity and I longed for a bit of peace and quiet.
After two days in Hanoi, it was quite a relief to escape to scenic Halong Bay, a tourists' favourite due to glowing reports in the Lonely Planet and the prevalence of cheap boat trips. Unlike Russia, Mongolia and China, the South-East Asian countries are beginning to move into high season, and so Halong Bay was heaving with little tourist boats on the sight-seeing conveyor belt. It was soon obvious how carefully scheduled these tours have to be. As we pulled into a small beach for our allotted 30 minutes of swimming, another boat was just pulling away - and our hour of kayaking and 45 minute climb through the caves of stalactites (holding on tight) and stalgmites (pushing up with all their might) were equally well choreographed. On the morning of the second day, as we sat down for breakfast at 8am sharp, I looked out across the water and saw exactly the same picture unfolding on boat, after boat, after boat, after boat...
The Bay was beautiful, but by far my most memorable experience in Vietnam was visiting the Cu Chi tunnels near HCMC. The tunnel network stretched from Saigon to the Cambodian border and was instrumental in the Vietcong's control of the area. Before we went into the 'jungle' we watched a short film about the "War Against the American Imperialists and their Lackeys" which was so fabulously propagandistic I had to keep reminding myself it was also largely true. At Cu Chi you can see examples of booby traps and spider holes, take a turn firing a gun (only 2000 Dong per bullet!) and there was even an old tank you could climb into and pretend to drive, if you wanted to look like a wannabe UK defence minister.
Needless to say, I declined the last two and went straight to the main event, a chance to crawl through a widened section of the tunnel for 35m or 100m depending on the extent of your claustrophobia. I was extremely glad to emerge after 35m and find it incredible to think that not only soldiers but whole villages used these tunnels and lived underground for years. Our guide in the tunnels, Minh, fought with the South Vietnamese and so had many stories to tell. He was almost unremittingly cheerful - "it's over now!" - except when explaining that the War Remnants Museum in HCMC paints an incomplete picture. "There are no winners in war," he told us, going unexpectedly off-message, "and afterwards only one side of the story is ever told."
As part of the day trip to the tunnels, we also stopped off at a Caodai temple during morning prayers, for what turned out to be the most appallingly intrusive tourist hotspot yet. As monks dressed in spotless white chanted and prayed ritualistically in the temple, we were actively encouraged to crowd round the edges of the room to take photographs. As our bus joined the constant stream of tourist traffic roaring down the narrow streets away from the temple, passing within feet of small wooden houses where children swung in hammocks, I was shocked to realise I'd inadvertently become part of the damaging side of the tourist trade. And what's worse, I'm not sure how to avoid doing so again.
And that brings me to the Mekong Delta, where I finally found the peaceful side of Vietnam, sailing through calm floating villages and relaxed markets selling fresh fish, sweet potatoes and coconuts. From here I took a boat across the border into Cambodia and then a minibus to Phnom Penh, which was not quite so peaceful a journey. But that's another story.
There was, of course, much to enjoy about Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). When I was buying bananas from smiley women in conicle hats, or watching Vietnamese students try to sell Graham Greene's The Quiet American to every passing tourist, or drinking coffee in French-style cafes while the world rushed past, I felt that the cities were fascinating and welcoming places. But then I would spend a couple of hours negotiating the frenetic streets, dodging motorbikes and sweating in the 80% humidity and I longed for a bit of peace and quiet.
After two days in Hanoi, it was quite a relief to escape to scenic Halong Bay, a tourists' favourite due to glowing reports in the Lonely Planet and the prevalence of cheap boat trips. Unlike Russia, Mongolia and China, the South-East Asian countries are beginning to move into high season, and so Halong Bay was heaving with little tourist boats on the sight-seeing conveyor belt. It was soon obvious how carefully scheduled these tours have to be. As we pulled into a small beach for our allotted 30 minutes of swimming, another boat was just pulling away - and our hour of kayaking and 45 minute climb through the caves of stalactites (holding on tight) and stalgmites (pushing up with all their might) were equally well choreographed. On the morning of the second day, as we sat down for breakfast at 8am sharp, I looked out across the water and saw exactly the same picture unfolding on boat, after boat, after boat, after boat...
The Bay was beautiful, but by far my most memorable experience in Vietnam was visiting the Cu Chi tunnels near HCMC. The tunnel network stretched from Saigon to the Cambodian border and was instrumental in the Vietcong's control of the area. Before we went into the 'jungle' we watched a short film about the "War Against the American Imperialists and their Lackeys" which was so fabulously propagandistic I had to keep reminding myself it was also largely true. At Cu Chi you can see examples of booby traps and spider holes, take a turn firing a gun (only 2000 Dong per bullet!) and there was even an old tank you could climb into and pretend to drive, if you wanted to look like a wannabe UK defence minister.
Needless to say, I declined the last two and went straight to the main event, a chance to crawl through a widened section of the tunnel for 35m or 100m depending on the extent of your claustrophobia. I was extremely glad to emerge after 35m and find it incredible to think that not only soldiers but whole villages used these tunnels and lived underground for years. Our guide in the tunnels, Minh, fought with the South Vietnamese and so had many stories to tell. He was almost unremittingly cheerful - "it's over now!" - except when explaining that the War Remnants Museum in HCMC paints an incomplete picture. "There are no winners in war," he told us, going unexpectedly off-message, "and afterwards only one side of the story is ever told."
As part of the day trip to the tunnels, we also stopped off at a Caodai temple during morning prayers, for what turned out to be the most appallingly intrusive tourist hotspot yet. As monks dressed in spotless white chanted and prayed ritualistically in the temple, we were actively encouraged to crowd round the edges of the room to take photographs. As our bus joined the constant stream of tourist traffic roaring down the narrow streets away from the temple, passing within feet of small wooden houses where children swung in hammocks, I was shocked to realise I'd inadvertently become part of the damaging side of the tourist trade. And what's worse, I'm not sure how to avoid doing so again.
And that brings me to the Mekong Delta, where I finally found the peaceful side of Vietnam, sailing through calm floating villages and relaxed markets selling fresh fish, sweet potatoes and coconuts. From here I took a boat across the border into Cambodia and then a minibus to Phnom Penh, which was not quite so peaceful a journey. But that's another story.
Saturday 20 October 2007
One World, One Dream... One Party
Something unexpected happened when we arrived in Beijing. I got the opposite of culture shock (culture recognition perhaps?) brought on by the buzz of a massive city, the prevalence of KFC / Starbucks / McDonalds and the numerous English language signs. After rural Mongolia, this Westernised metropolis almost felt like home. Soon however, from behind the skyscrapers, the coffee chains and the 24-hour consumerism, the China I had been expecting started to emerge.
There'd been hints before we arrived - other travellers advising us to hide our guidebooks as they recognised Taiwan's independence and were routinely confiscated by customs officials - but it was after a few minutes of watching China's English-language news channel (part of the entertainingly named CCTV network) that their version of reality began to come through. Advertised as a standard domestic and international news programme, there was something of the Demon Headmaster about the smiling presenters parroting unfailingly good news about China's prosperity, international prestige, moral strength and perfect readiness for the Olympics. (Attempting to ride the packed underground trains or even more overcrowded buses soon put this last proclamation in doubt, proving that London is not the only Olympic city in danger of being brought to a standstill by the Games.) Even more blatantly, it seems the Museums of the Revolution and of Chinese History are often closed while history is altered. He who controls the past, controls the future, indeed. And visiting Tiananmen Square was an unsettling experience. I don't really know what I expected, but it wasn't a giant portait of Mao, traders selling postcards and a huge Olympic-themed flower sculpture where a memorial should be.
But politics aside (if it is possible to put politics aside in China), Beijing is a fantastic place to visit and its historical sights have far exceeded my hazy expectations. The Great Wall in particular was unforgettable and although the 10km scramble up and down the steep sections between Jinshanling and Simatai was exhausting, the views of the wall snaking away into the distance made every step worthwhile. The Forbidden City too was breathtaking, although far too big to take in during our half-day visit and teeming with hundreds of tour group tourists in matching baseball caps, all jostling to take the same photo at the same time.
A few days into our stay in Beijing, Amber and I took a two-day trip to Xi'an, home of the Terracotta Warriors. I didn't know much about the Warriors before we arrived, just that they'd been buried for centuries and had been rediscovered in the 1970s, so I was surprised to discover that the excavation and restoration process is nowhere near finished. After we'd watched a scene-setting film, our tour guide led the way into the main 'pit' - the original site of the discovery with an exhibition hall built round it. In one section, a large collection of soldiers and horses stand in lines, in another the mishmash of broken pottery shows the condition of the statues when they were discovered. A third large area is still covered with earth. As with the Great Wall, I find it hard to comprehend the immense amount of time and effort that must have gone into such a project. I think it comes of not being a natural 'completer-finisher' myself, that I find such great feats of time and energy fascinating but slightly unimaginable...
Beijing marks the end of my Trans-Siberian journey, and as Amber flew home on the 14th it is also the start of my solo trip into South-East Asia. Special mention at this point goes to the perceptive people at CAAT who bought me a compass as part of my leaving present in July - pathfinding alone with my sense of direction, I would have been lost in Beijing many times without it, and I have no doubt that it will be invaluable as I continue my journey!
There'd been hints before we arrived - other travellers advising us to hide our guidebooks as they recognised Taiwan's independence and were routinely confiscated by customs officials - but it was after a few minutes of watching China's English-language news channel (part of the entertainingly named CCTV network) that their version of reality began to come through. Advertised as a standard domestic and international news programme, there was something of the Demon Headmaster about the smiling presenters parroting unfailingly good news about China's prosperity, international prestige, moral strength and perfect readiness for the Olympics. (Attempting to ride the packed underground trains or even more overcrowded buses soon put this last proclamation in doubt, proving that London is not the only Olympic city in danger of being brought to a standstill by the Games.) Even more blatantly, it seems the Museums of the Revolution and of Chinese History are often closed while history is altered. He who controls the past, controls the future, indeed. And visiting Tiananmen Square was an unsettling experience. I don't really know what I expected, but it wasn't a giant portait of Mao, traders selling postcards and a huge Olympic-themed flower sculpture where a memorial should be.
But politics aside (if it is possible to put politics aside in China), Beijing is a fantastic place to visit and its historical sights have far exceeded my hazy expectations. The Great Wall in particular was unforgettable and although the 10km scramble up and down the steep sections between Jinshanling and Simatai was exhausting, the views of the wall snaking away into the distance made every step worthwhile. The Forbidden City too was breathtaking, although far too big to take in during our half-day visit and teeming with hundreds of tour group tourists in matching baseball caps, all jostling to take the same photo at the same time.
A few days into our stay in Beijing, Amber and I took a two-day trip to Xi'an, home of the Terracotta Warriors. I didn't know much about the Warriors before we arrived, just that they'd been buried for centuries and had been rediscovered in the 1970s, so I was surprised to discover that the excavation and restoration process is nowhere near finished. After we'd watched a scene-setting film, our tour guide led the way into the main 'pit' - the original site of the discovery with an exhibition hall built round it. In one section, a large collection of soldiers and horses stand in lines, in another the mishmash of broken pottery shows the condition of the statues when they were discovered. A third large area is still covered with earth. As with the Great Wall, I find it hard to comprehend the immense amount of time and effort that must have gone into such a project. I think it comes of not being a natural 'completer-finisher' myself, that I find such great feats of time and energy fascinating but slightly unimaginable...
Beijing marks the end of my Trans-Siberian journey, and as Amber flew home on the 14th it is also the start of my solo trip into South-East Asia. Special mention at this point goes to the perceptive people at CAAT who bought me a compass as part of my leaving present in July - pathfinding alone with my sense of direction, I would have been lost in Beijing many times without it, and I have no doubt that it will be invaluable as I continue my journey!
Sunday 7 October 2007
Camels & Eminem in the Dust
As soon as we completed our six-hour customs stop at the Russia border and the train trundled slowly into Mongolia, it seemed as though everything changed. The scenery was more varied, the sun was shining (in contrast to Russia's near-constant rain) and the people seemed more relaxed, making the lack of a common language much less daunting. All the Mongolians we met laughed a lot, especially when asking us (jokingly... I think) why we had come to visit their country without our husbands; and when meeting a vegetarian. Not eating meat is unheard of in a country which survives on mutton for breakfast, lunch and dinner (in fact, with meat so central to their diet I was surprised to learn that 98% of Mongolians are Buddhists, as I'd previously identified that religion with vegetarianism). In any case, the animals all appear to be 'free-range' and every part of them is used to help ensure the family's survival through the winter, so at least this is meat-eating borne of necessity, even if it's a necessity I'm grateful not to have to accept!
We spent a day in Ulan Batar before starting a nine-day tour of Western Mongolia, but it is not a beautiful city, even in the perennial sunshine. Low, grey buidings and blocks of flats and offices stretch into the mountains, the roads are full of potholes and on more than one occasion we almost stumbled into open manholes apparently left permanently uncovered on the pavements. The poverty in Mongolia is more evident in the city than the countryside, even before you come across the street children who live in Ulan Batar. Apparently their number have dropped sharply since an NGO was established to help them, but it is clearly still a huge problem with an estimated third of the city's population living below the poverty line.
In contrast to the sprawling city, Mongolian countryside is sparcely populated and we often drove for miles without seeing another vehicle or building. More prevalent were the animals - sheep, yaks, goats, dogs, horses, rodents and even on a couple of exciting occasions camels and vultures! All of this wildlife kept us entertained as we bumped along the dusty road, with Eminem and Justin Timberlake blasting from the car stereo. Our guide initially told us that it was the favourite music of our driver (who was also her uncle). This seemed unlikely, but not wanting to stereotype we weren't quite sure until she confessed that she'd instructed him to buy some western pop music from the petrol station and this hip hop compliation cassette was the only one they had. We heard it many, many times over the nine days.
During the tour, we stayed in Gers; round tents with wooden frames covered in layers of felt, with a wood-burning stove in the centre. This stove was soon our favourite feature as the evenings and early mornings were freezing, and it was invaluable on the day when I misjudged the stability of a plank across a stream and ended up knee-deep in water. Thanks to the stove nothing took long to dry, although I think my trainers will now always be the colour of Mongolian mud.
After threatening for days, the snow finally arrived just as we were leaving Mongolia, swirling round the train while melodramatic Mongolian music was piped through the carriage speakers. The music provided a strange but oddly fitting soundtrack to the snowy landscape, and a satisfying and atmospheric end to our time here.
We spent a day in Ulan Batar before starting a nine-day tour of Western Mongolia, but it is not a beautiful city, even in the perennial sunshine. Low, grey buidings and blocks of flats and offices stretch into the mountains, the roads are full of potholes and on more than one occasion we almost stumbled into open manholes apparently left permanently uncovered on the pavements. The poverty in Mongolia is more evident in the city than the countryside, even before you come across the street children who live in Ulan Batar. Apparently their number have dropped sharply since an NGO was established to help them, but it is clearly still a huge problem with an estimated third of the city's population living below the poverty line.
In contrast to the sprawling city, Mongolian countryside is sparcely populated and we often drove for miles without seeing another vehicle or building. More prevalent were the animals - sheep, yaks, goats, dogs, horses, rodents and even on a couple of exciting occasions camels and vultures! All of this wildlife kept us entertained as we bumped along the dusty road, with Eminem and Justin Timberlake blasting from the car stereo. Our guide initially told us that it was the favourite music of our driver (who was also her uncle). This seemed unlikely, but not wanting to stereotype we weren't quite sure until she confessed that she'd instructed him to buy some western pop music from the petrol station and this hip hop compliation cassette was the only one they had. We heard it many, many times over the nine days.
During the tour, we stayed in Gers; round tents with wooden frames covered in layers of felt, with a wood-burning stove in the centre. This stove was soon our favourite feature as the evenings and early mornings were freezing, and it was invaluable on the day when I misjudged the stability of a plank across a stream and ended up knee-deep in water. Thanks to the stove nothing took long to dry, although I think my trainers will now always be the colour of Mongolian mud.
After threatening for days, the snow finally arrived just as we were leaving Mongolia, swirling round the train while melodramatic Mongolian music was piped through the carriage speakers. The music provided a strange but oddly fitting soundtrack to the snowy landscape, and a satisfying and atmospheric end to our time here.
Friday 28 September 2007
Choosing not to freeze in Lake Baikal
Of all the places we have visited in Russia, the village of Khuzir on Olkhon Island - where we stayed for 3 days - has definitely been the most different from home. Olkhon Island is near the west coast of Lake Baikal in Siberia; The lake is 50 million years old and holds enough fresh water to sustain the entire population of the planet for forty years.
Khuzir is the island's largest settlement, with a collection of wooden houses, sandy tracks for roads and other wooden buildings housing cafes, bars, shops, an art gallery and at least three internet cafes. Cows, dogs and cats wander the streets and although the island only got electricity a couple of years ago, mobile phone reception is excellent. Oddly, the island is also covered in litter. We saw beer bottles, rusty old machinery, broken glass and other rubbish everywhere, in the villages, forests and on the beaches. It's hard to understand why the residents tolerate this, but it does seem to be due to local lack of interest in the environment rather than disrespectful tourists (although no doubt they also play a part).
During our first evening on the island, we decided to join an excursion to a 'traditional' Buryat village. The Buryats were historically nomadic people living near Baikal long before the Russian colonists arrived. They are the largest ethnic minority in Siberia and have their own republic south of the lake. Visiting their village was a bizarre experience, partly as the tour was entirely in Russian, but also because it felt like we were watching people perform a fake version of their lives for tourists to take photos of. It made me feel a bit uncomfortable, but hopefully it is profitable for the people who live there and that's why they choose to do it.
On day two we went on another excursion, a day trip to the north of the island, where there were stunning views across the lake. The scenery on Olkhon Island is spectacular and varied, from sandy beaches to snow-capped mountains, and the lake is perfectly clear and a brilliant shade of blue. It was also very cold and windy, but despite this a favourite activity among the other backpackers staying on the island was to sit in a banya (sauna) on the beach before plunging into the freezing lake and then running back to the banya. According to the myths, swimming in the lake adds 25 years to your life (if your heart can stand the shock, presumably)... but even so I wasn't convinced!
Khuzir is the island's largest settlement, with a collection of wooden houses, sandy tracks for roads and other wooden buildings housing cafes, bars, shops, an art gallery and at least three internet cafes. Cows, dogs and cats wander the streets and although the island only got electricity a couple of years ago, mobile phone reception is excellent. Oddly, the island is also covered in litter. We saw beer bottles, rusty old machinery, broken glass and other rubbish everywhere, in the villages, forests and on the beaches. It's hard to understand why the residents tolerate this, but it does seem to be due to local lack of interest in the environment rather than disrespectful tourists (although no doubt they also play a part).
During our first evening on the island, we decided to join an excursion to a 'traditional' Buryat village. The Buryats were historically nomadic people living near Baikal long before the Russian colonists arrived. They are the largest ethnic minority in Siberia and have their own republic south of the lake. Visiting their village was a bizarre experience, partly as the tour was entirely in Russian, but also because it felt like we were watching people perform a fake version of their lives for tourists to take photos of. It made me feel a bit uncomfortable, but hopefully it is profitable for the people who live there and that's why they choose to do it.
On day two we went on another excursion, a day trip to the north of the island, where there were stunning views across the lake. The scenery on Olkhon Island is spectacular and varied, from sandy beaches to snow-capped mountains, and the lake is perfectly clear and a brilliant shade of blue. It was also very cold and windy, but despite this a favourite activity among the other backpackers staying on the island was to sit in a banya (sauna) on the beach before plunging into the freezing lake and then running back to the banya. According to the myths, swimming in the lake adds 25 years to your life (if your heart can stand the shock, presumably)... but even so I wasn't convinced!
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