Beijing

 What does Beijing sound like? A mixture of rapid fire Mandarin voices, electric motorbikes, bike bells and chirpy techno pop belted out from shops. The spring sun has banished the smog brightly polishing the city’s futuristic face. There are adverts everywhere from touch screens inside cabs to light boards in the tunnels of the crowded underground. The streets are spacious and endless, the buildings are either all-encompassing giants or small and grey tiled, decorated with red, Chinese lanterns. 

 

 

There is a sense of achievement in reaching the end of the Trans-Siberian Express but I fear it might be false. What have I achieved? Travelling for three weeks and not losing my one hair band maybe. I haven’t exactly fought off polar bears or practiced Mongolian archery on the roof of the train. Instead I rolled my pot noodle-filled stomach into Beijing after reuniting with Mairead and Barry, and finding three new friends on the final leg of the train voyage. Nick, Nile and Owen are recent graduates from Brighton and they became my sigh seeing and soul searching partners for the weekend. 

 

 

I took an immediate liking to this city of 20 million people. But behind the combination of translucent colours and boom energy I was reminded this is not a society I can reconcile with, when trying to access my blog. Along with Facebook and Twitter, Blogger is censored. The clever netizens of China have some trickery up their sleeves to circumnavigate the Great Firewall making surfing appear normal. But it is not and visiting an edgy modern art district, 798, on the outskirts of Beijing I was struck by the contrast – expression here seemed flourishing with contemporary talents such as Zhang Jingli exploring foreign influences in Chinese society and Sun Xun subtly describing home sickness and family values. As someone who relies on freedom of expression to make a living, it's hard to swallow that this isn’t the norm in a country with such dynamic potential.  

 

On Saturday night I dived into the expat community reuniting with two long lost university friends, Amy and Lee, who’ve been living in Beijing for a year and half. I say dived... Splattered could more aptly describe my brief and slightly embarrassing turn in this community; Chinese gin and tonics managed what Russian vodka didn’t. The doubles made me ill and the rest is sour-tasting history.

 

My final day then started in Amy and Lee’s spare bedroom.  Eyes confused I tried to establish focus, balance and location. After scribbling a much needed apology note to my gracious, sleeping hosts I met up with the Brighton Three for a day of sightseeing. They were organised with sun cream and pack lunches and our age gap flipped to its head as they took one look at my panda-eyes and flimsy shoes. This could only get better. 

And of course it did. Our adventures together included the Great Wall and a driver who belted Chinese opera with gusto all the way there. Words fail me, but all I’ll say is that based on this one experience the world could be a better place if more drivers sang a bit of Chinese opera. At the end of the day I hugged goodbyes to all my new friends. 

As I watched these familiar figures become silhouettes on anonymous streets a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson came to my mind: “Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.” To carry the beautiful, that’s an ambitious aim. But I don’t think you need to travel from Helsinki to Beijing. I hope in two months’ time when I take the tube from Brixton to Oxford Circus I’ll still be striving for that. Because that really would be an achievement.     

 

 

Ulaanbaatar

I find myself in a living room. At first sight it's just like any another living room in the world but letting my gaze linger I start to pick out details. There’s a Buddhist altar on the top of a shelf unit complete with miniature statues and religious blue scarves. Opposite the shelves is a colourful, handmade tapestry with an animal motif and fastened onto it, a communist medal and certificate written in Cyrillic alphabet. “For the best mother” my host, Son of Sunday, or Nyam in local language, informs me. “In Soviet times they were big on medals and certificates.” Next to the medals hangs an instrument that I don’t recognise. With some negotiation Nyam translates it as a horse headed fiddle, an old, national instrument that sounds a bit like a raw, earthy cello and is often accompanied by throat singing. Every item here seems to bare a cultural significance. I turn around to face a picture of Chinggis Khan and spend a minute taking in the mish-mash of influences in this flat. 10 hours into my stay in Mongolia I watch the bright sun cast its last rays before vanishing behind yet another Soviet tower building and worry that my four-day stay in this country will feel pitifully short.




Let’s rewind. I waved a temporary goodbye to my Irish guardian angels at Olkhon a few days ago and shared my train cabin with a Mongolian geologist, Naratuya, meaning Sunrise. She gave me some tinned meat, I gave her some instant noodles and so we found a mutual language for our 36-hour journey. Despite her kindness by the time the train pulled into Mongolia's capital, Ulaanbaatar, I felt crushed. On the Russia-Mongolia border the customs officers had taken offence to the amount of malaria- and other tablets I was carrying. I admit – it’s true, I only have one pair of jeans but when it comes to sickness I’m like a one woman's walking pharmacy. I kept my chin up while the officers rooted through and questioned me about diarrhoea relief pills, tampons and other useful stuff better hidden from the whole train carriage. But after finding my hostel the next morning at 6am there was just one thing to be done: get under a duvet and let Coldplay’s ‘Paradise’ lull me to sleep. Cheesy, I know, but if it takes Chris Martin to make me feel better, then so be it.



And voila – after a few hours’ napping I felt bright eyed, bushy tailed and ready for adventure. I navigated my way through a city that hasn’t got an address system watching ancient Eastern influences fight for airspace with Soviet blocks and modern, gleaming sky scrapers. Randomly I found my way to a place called the Great Place of Complete Joy, Gandan Khiid. How beautiful are Mongolian names! Gandan Khiid is a Buddhist monastery and home to Mongolia’s spiritual leader, Khamba Lama. I followed the chants of the monks that to me resonated with an Orthodox sermon I witnessed in St Petersburg about a week ago. I understood nothing of the words but there was no need – a spirituality that transcends anything we communicate in language was there for anyone to feel.




As I returned to the more earthly pastime of photography one of my couchsurfing requests from earlier that morning texted me – Nyam was free to meet me now. Let me quickly explain. Couchsurfers are a community joined by a fascination of different cultures and people. You create a profile online and communicate with individuals through the webpage or by phone if you share numbers. You can host or stay at someone’s overnight, or you can meet them for a coffee or maybe a visit to the museum. The bottom line is you can participate as much or as little as you wish, there is no obligation. As far as I’m concerned it has revolutionised the way I view travel.

So this is how I ended up meeting Nyam, whose hospitality along with his parents’ once again left me wondering whether 'thank you' quite covers the goodness of people. We wondered around the streets of Ulaanbaatar together and he invited me to his home where I enjoyed Mongolian tea, treats and a hearty mutton stew. Sitting in this mini cosmos masked as a living room, I couldn’t help but think that maybe better than anything else this had opened up Mongolian culture to me. I’m far from pretending to be knowledgeable on the subject but on the road to understanding, it feels like a good start.

Lake Baikal - Olkhon Island

No cockroaches – how could I forget! The absence of them must be high on the list of fun things about travelling in the cold. I’m not missing mosquitoes, lizards or flies either, the latter especially in roadside toilets. In Siberia these toilets still come with their own hazards though.

I’m sure all of us have come across the ‘two planks and a hole in the ground’ type toilet too many times on our travels. Well, Siberian roadside stops make no exception. What’s more unusual here is the way everything in the hole is frozen – I’ll leave it to your imagination but somehow it still manages to smell. The planks I find myself standing on are glazed with a yellowy ice making this operation a balancing exercise even for someone more graceful than me. Then come the layers, the thermals and jeans, long sleeves, money belt, bag, scarf, gloves, a long fluffy jacket – everything seems to be in the way, there’s nowhere to put things down and this really, really, isn’t a place to drop a glove. These toilets have no locks; sometimes they have no doors. And the experience is made a little more intense by the bear size dogs kept outside, growling angrily behind a fence at the back of the loos. Maybe they are bears. Or wolves, I never stopped to look.



I never stopped to take any pictures either, you’ll be happy to know. But instead here are a few shots from the magical Olkhon Island to which Mairead and Barry kindly invited me to join them. The six hour bus ride there took us across the frozen Lake Baikal that handily transforms itself to a road for four months every year. It’s a trippy experience in glaring sunshine and an overheated, overcrowded bus. Olkhon itself is special, I'll let the pictures tell you (I wish the wifi connections here would allow me to upload more of them.) Olkhon only got electricity in 2005 and it is remote with only a few tourists, no souvenirs and one food shop. Even if my blog’s readership decides to go to this unharmed, extraordinary place en masse I don’t think the village will get spoilt but whatever you do please don’t tell Ryanair.

 
P.S. Thank you to everyone who has commented, texted or messaged, it’s so lovely to hear news from home and if I haven’t replied yet I’ll do so soon. xx

Life on a Train

4000 miles, four nights and five time zones. Lines of birch and fir trees, despondent wooden shacks painted in bright greens and blues, and an endless rail track in a flat landscape of white is what Siberia looks like so far.



Leaving the care of Rima and Serkhan and jumping on this train I found myself nervous. Equipped only with instant porridge, cans of olives and a bottle of vodka, I felt little and yet again powerless in front of life’s randomness. Somewhere – anywhere – some other people would have made a decision to travel to Siberia on this very night and I’d be sharing a tiny 2nd class cabin with them for the next 84 hours. ‘Them’ turned out to be Mairead and Barry, an Irish couple, excited and fresh faced from the cold and in the beginning of an epic-sounding 18 month journey across the world. We soon settled into a comfortable routine of taking photos and putting the world to its rights over cups of tea provided by the samovar at the back of the carriage.



But Siberia is anything but comforting by name or nature. Until the late 19th century an exile system banished Russians across the Urals for anything from murder to ‘offences’ such as fortune telling and snuff taking. During the Stalin era millions of people from across the Soviet Union lost their lives in inhumane prison and labour camps. It feels almost ungrateful, this soothing way of travel that exists thanks to the work of so many lost souls.


There is no time on this train. We pass through five time zones on the way to Irkutsk. There are no alarm clocks, no set times for breakfast, lunch or dinner. There are no set foods for these meals either. The romantic and poetic notion of train travel is squashed by an instant noodle diet. Gurkin flavour instant mash and dill and sour cream crisps are favourites. Our daily routine consists of waking up about four hours into daylight, chatting, drinking tea, taking photos, writing, looking at the map, trying to establish location and time zone and getting out at stops where we buy food from station vendors, usually noodles, sometimes fish or meat. The rocking of the train makes for a respite and my sleep is like a Siberian winter hibernation. This is how the hours pass, quickly yet leisurely.



So when did my fear of the unknown become such a safety haven? It’s curious how the exotic becomes mundane. Exotic, by definition signifies foreign and other and so it is only something that you’re not experiencing that can carry that label. Certainly to me taking the train to Siberia sounded exotic so it’s strange how cosy and relaxed I’m finding it. So far travelling has been a great exercise in learning to trust the way life sorts you out as well as my own ability to adapt. What is control after all? Perhaps it’s making a decision, a decision to take this train, number 20, “The Vostock”. But the consequences of decisions we can’t always control and that’s when you need to be able to have faith in the world, adjust and live in the present. Set in a comforting, albeit strange routine I’m happy, watching the snowy world go by in this forlorn corner of the world with my newly found Irish friends. As you do, just another Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... whatever day it is.

Finally, I’m trying to come up with reasons I like travelling in the cold:

- You can hide things you need to have to hands a lot in your massive gloves, like exact change for the bus, camera lens cap or tube tickets.

- Your winter jacket doubles up as a cosy pillow or blanket and you’re never far away from it.

- Wearing millions of layers means you can practically hide half of your rucksack into your money belt without anyone noticing a bulk and thus avoiding the ladyboy look.

If you think of any others I should be appreciating please shout out.

St Petersburg

Three reasons I like Russia so far:

- They celebrate Pancake Week instead of Pancake Day.

- You can walk on the rivers because they are frozen.

- They have diminutives for every name. Sasha for Alexandra, Vanja for Ivan, Ksusha for Ksenia... I wanted to call myself Kasha until I found out it means porridge.



The Russian’s have a wonderful knack of combining the practical and dramatic. Everyone is very direct and smiles aren’t wasted but if you get one you know it’s from the heart. A negative answer is given with a look of upset, the reactions I got when asking for directions en route to Rima and Serkhan’s made me think I’d physically hurt the person I put the question to.





After being lost for an hour and being short changed by the bus driver I finally found the correct floor and door in a towering Soviet-era block. My host, the lovely Rima hugged me like a long lost child while ushering me to put on some colourful indoor slippers, handing the house keys and feeding me a hearty portion of blinis, cakes and tea. I expressed a wish to visit the incredible art collection at the Hermitage, to which Rima’s husband, Serkhan, who in a past life used to be a DJ spinning Pink Floyd tunes generously drove me.

With very limited words we picked up communication aides such as photos, songs and dancing. Chatting about Russia’s Eurovision entry (“like five granny Beatles”) to my travel route (“you’re crrrazy!!!”) we expressed ourselves with minimalistic language and shared some golden moments of understanding universal feelings such as a longing for homeland. An Azerbaijan native and St Petersburg local since 1975 Serkhan put it simply: “Life St Petersburg, heart Azerbaijan.” Surely a sentiment and reality so many of us to relate to. “Are you going to visit soon?” I asked him. “Ten years ago. Maybe August” he replied, adding: “Unless Apocalypse.”

Speaking of Apocalypse, on a darker note, before my travels one of the things I knew about Russia was a poor record in dealing with domestic violence. In the last decade the issue has been raised in international headlines several times. Bear with me.

But the internet doesn’t give much in how domestic abuse is dealt with in Russia in 2012. Due to lack of evidence to the contrary, it’s hard to believe in radical improvements. Articles from 2011 say there are just 25 women’s refuges offering space for a total of 200 women in a country of 142 million people. It is reported a woman dies of domestic abuse every 40 minutes.



With this in mind I was surprised to find International Women’s Day in Russia a public holiday. Filled with sunshine, happy couples, heart shaped balloons and flowers the day is a mixture of Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day and according to Serkhan second only to New Year. The juxtaposition is as great as anything I have found in Russia so far.



On my final day here I went on a walking tour arranged by local students. We strolled amongst the thousands of palaces and frozen parks stopping to follow local tradition to throw a coin at a seemingly random statue of a rabbit on the way to Peter and Paul Fortress. I met Ksenia during this walk, a 21-year old language student who looks uncannily like a young princess Victoria of Sweden. Originally from Siberia she spoke with pride about her Russia and how she and her generation wish for change and a better future. She told me how she believes in the talent of her people and wishes for a ground to nurture this talent. So far Russia has taken my breath away and I don’t mean the cold weather. With Pink Floyd ringing in my ears as my train pulls out of this city of extremes to the heartland, I hope it’s not up to the rabbit to grant that wish to her or anyone else in this incredible country.

 

Helsinki

It started on Monday. It was faint so I dismissed it. But the pain kept nagging me, slowly convincing my brain that my tooth wasn't playing a pre-travel hypochondriac stunt on me.

So this morning, worried by pictures of forceps and anasthetising vodka if I put this off for longer, I braced myself against pain and financial loss and walked through the dentist's door. A wonderfully poker faced woman in a very white room prodded, x-rayed and diagnosed me: "You have baby teeth." That sounded endearing and for a split second the terrifying pictures of forceps disappeared. Too early. "You need very complicated surgery" the dentist added matter of factly. I explained to her about my journey and she agreed I should wait until my return. But she had a bit more to add. "I too travelled to Beijing last year, I was mugged and all my possessions were taken including passport and money so you should be careful." Although none of this was news I was hoping to receive a day before hopping on a train for days on end she did give me a little bit of encouragement: other than the unfortunately painful offender I have exceptionally strong teeth. I am going to cling to this piece of knowledge because on the brink of travelling solo for the first time in my life it is soothing to know that at least one part of me has been defined strong by expert opinion.

 
This journey still doesn't feel real, maybe because of the means of travel. Normally when we travel outside our comfort zones the voyage starts with a flight. It’s a clear space in between our real mundane selves at home and the inquisitive and excitable traveler waiting to be let loose. It gives us just enough time to change our winter boots to flip flops, add a few bracelets, skim through Lonely Planet and watch a film. My flight was two and half hours and it took me to Comfort Zone Central. Let's face it for me Finland isn't exactly living on the edge. Most people I know here have known me for 15 years or more. In the last few days I have been locked in the most wonderful heart to heart conversations about life's greatest fears, childhood bruises and the Eurovision song contest.

But tomorrow at 5am I leave for St Petersburg. Strictly speaking it’s not part of the Trans-Mongolian route but it’s a five hour journey on the train and a border I have never crossed. St Pete is home to some of the world's most amazing art and history as well as being the childhood stomping ground of Russia's newly elected president. For me it has been a dream destination since a highly geeky teenager when my imagination was captured by the Russian revolution and the times before and after.

While in St Petersburg, I will be staying with Rima and Sarkhan, the parents of a friend's friend who have incredibly generously agreed to adopt me for the three days I'm in the city. I have never met them and don't know much more except that they don't speak English. I have some phrases in my guide book but better still a generally happy face and rather long arms for wafting around expressively so I’m sure we’ll be fine.

I’ll tell you soon, next time I’ll be writing I’m guessing will be on the train to Irkutsk. Just one more thing. In Mongolia the night temperatures at the moment go down to -35. Bring it on, it’s all okay, I have strong teeth, you see.