Culture

Overnight Train to Xuindao

Posted on by Laughingnomad

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Xuindao is also spelled Quindao

From Beijing, I take an overnight train alone to Quindao. Quindao is a weekend getaway for well-to-do Communist party cadres and the train is brand spanking shiny new. As I struggle to get my heavy baggage up to the ceiling storage area, I hear a compassionate “help” over my shoulder from one of my travel companions who otherwise seems to speak no English. He thankfully comes to my rescue.

I am in a “soft sleeper” with four beds…the only beds left in the cheaper “hard sleeper” with six beds were on the top bunks and it’s hard enough for me to negotiate the second bunk let alone a third that gives you only a nose full of room to breath. My three impeccably dressed compartment travelers are friendly and gracious…no strong-smelling instant noodles and piles of snacks, sunflower seed shells and chicken bones to litter the room one end to the other…no hacking and spitting…even a flat screen tv monitor showing cartoons.

When I figure out how to tell them I am from America (no one ever knows what I’m talking about when I say I’m from the States or the U.S.) A vail falls ever so slightly over the eyes…they don’t want to admit they don’t know where I am from.

Coffee Taxis & New Friends

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I take a taxi to the upscale Lufthansa shopping center in Beijing to see if a bookstore had the Lonely Planet “Shanghai.” They didn’t of course…there were a few Lonely Planets but none on China…guess they don’t want the locals to know what everyone else in the world knows about China. The books in English I’ve mostly seen in China are western classics…Shakespeare etc. Surely they don’t think western tourists are going to buy these??? And I think it must be a real slog for a Chinese learning English.

Then, thinking it’s going to be awhile before I see ground coffee again, I find my way to the indoor mall-the Oriental Plaza- with exclusive European and Asian shops to buy some Starbucks Sumatra even though I don’t buy Starbucks ready-made coffee to drink…ever…anywhere….because they charge the same ridiculous high prices in the third world that they charge in the States.

American shops seem to be limited to Starbucks and Apple Computer. The ground coffee in Mongolia neither tasted nor smelled like coffee and I looked forward to escaping the mad traffic, tucking under the fluffy Chinese comforter in my cozy room and soothing myself with a cup of jo while listening to “The Twelve Girls Band” a Chinese crossover folk/pop group that is all the rage in Beijing and reading Pico Iyer’s latest travel stories.

But it’s late Friday afternoon and the traffic is horrendous. Cars will run you over as well as look at you…in fact there is an article in the current “Beijing Today,” the English language expat rag, about a taxi driver that was fined $20,000 (which he will never be able to pay) for killing a woman. Headline: “Driver Ordered To Pay Up After Killing Wayward Pedestrian.” A law put into effect last May requires a driver “to do all he can to avoid the pedestrian and ensure her safety.” The National People’s Congress Standing Committee is quoted by “Beijing Youth Daily” as saying the law shows that legislators care about the lives of pedestrians. Yeah right! Since when is the individual in China important? They better care if they don’t want to wipe out half a dozen unsuspecting tourists during the Olympics!

I try to get a taxi in the street near the Grand Hyatt Hotel to take me to the hutung but they all refuse so I retreat to the Hyatt lounge bar a couple hundred steps up from the street to buy an International Herald Tribune, have a whisky and people watch while waiting out the rush hour…only a handful of white westerners…all the rest are Asians from who knows where.

Finally about 7 pm I try getting a taxi again. If I’m not getting refused then the Chinese are jumping in ahead of me…I try to do it faster but they still beat me to the door…I watch and try to figure out how the heck they do it…this crowding stuff is difficult to get used to. I am starting to get concerned. The last taxi I took got lost bringing me home and took me to the wrong hotel! Then three young people in their 20’s walk up and ask where I’m from. The US I say, wondering what the scam is now. But no scam…at least for me. They are waiting in front of the Hyatt to find an American to practice English…our teacher is Chinese so we get bad pronunciation they say…and we want American not British accent…English is very important, one says authoritatively…but understanding the culture is even more important. When I tell them I have to read subtitles when I watch British movies they all laugh.

They have all finished with university. They are from poor Guanxi Province where their families still live. If we know English, they say, we can get a good job. None of us have eaten so I ask them to walk me across the street to a cheap noodle restaurant and we each have a bowl of soup and a soft drink and they tell me all about themselves until late into the night.

The restaurant closes so Rose and Will and Keven (their English names) talk a taxi driver into taking me home in my hutung and they ride along to give the driver directions. They really groove on the hostel situation…look at all the English speakers…right in the middle of a hutung…and we’ve been going to the Hyatt! We hug our goodbyes and promise to email each other…practice practice we say.

Last Leg Through Mongolia

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Out of the train window, just before departure from Ulaan Bataar to Beijing on the last leg of our trans-siberian train trip, we watch about 30 Mongolians…brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandparents, parents and who knows who else on the platform wave a tearful goodbye to three girls waving back at them. Bob and I chuckle and agree that we would be lucky if we could muster up just one person to see us off anywhere these days. Nearby, an older woman is waving goodbye to…husband…father…uncle? She takes a spoon and throws what I later find out is milk-tea at the train that just ends up staining the platform white…finally throwing what was left of the empty bottle and then tossing it over the fence behind her…for “safety and good travels.”.

Our companions in our cabin for our day and a half train ride through the moon-faced Gobi desert are a slim good-lucking Mongolian guy, Khurelsukh, (“I am 23 years”) and a Chinese man fluent in Mongolian. Khurelsukh has a sweet girlfriend (Saraa) in another cabin, however, who ends up joining us for most of the trip…snuggling together for the night on one of the bottom bunks we give up to them. He was born in Russia when his parents were engineering students there. He is still a student in the university in Ulaan Bataar but says he is going to Beijing on business to see about “lingua techna” machines to use for teaching languages. Saraa’s mother is a teacher and is advising him, I think I understand. I also think, however, that this trip to Beijing over the weekend is going to be much more…”you will go to discos, I ask.” He grins broadly and says “yes!”

“Mongolians don’t like Chinese,” he says later out of earshot of the still-unnamed Chinese guy.

When the train nears Beijing we all pile out to get our first glimpses of the remnants of the Great Wall and take pictures. Back on board Khurelsukh asks us why we think the wall was built…”to keep out the Mongolians,” we exclaim…watching for his reaction. “Yes, to keep out the Mongolians,” he says with a glint in his eye…probably wondering if we get the irony.

Message from Ulaan Bataar

Posted on by Laughingnomad

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Greetings-
Have been in Mongolia for the past week–initial few days in a ger bordering on a national park–lazy, relaxing days with hiking and Mongolian pony riding (when on the horse my feet nearly reach the ground). Then had only 2 days for Ulaan Bataar, the capital. Weather was so pleasant and culture such a change of pace following Russia that we decided to stay longer. However train only passes through town once a week, more time here than what we need but that’s ok.

First couple of days we did the home-stay thing but the hostess spoke no English and was a bit shy to interact so moved to a hotel. Lodging too expensive but all else cheaper–can take a taxi from one end of town to the other for less than a buck.

Yesterday went to a huge local market. Guidebooks said to take care re thievery (advice in the realm of one’s mother saying to wear a coat). But while there my packback received a gash and a similar long slash across my pant leg in the general area where someone saw me depositing change. I was aware of the contacts so nothing lost but do have a superficial cut on my thigh. That sort of action leaves an uncomfortable feeling. I was told that the local Mongolians are equally at risk but for some reason I stick out in a crowd (boyish good looks perhaps).

This city (Ulaan Bataar) has a bit of a cowboy feel–most roads not paved and well pot-holed, horse carts compete for space with autos who obey some sense of order only peripherally, older folks still wear their long brightly colored coats (deels) with and an orange sash, everyone under 40 in jeans, black leather jackets and constantly fiddling with their cell phones (same-same at all latitudes and longitudes). Tiz too bad as all interesting ethnic features/diversities will soon be lost–well on our way to a homogenized worldwide culture.

The Mongolians have features that are different than other Asians. They seem to universally dislike the Chinese but respond favorably when asked about Russians–surprising as the country was part of the Soviet Union until 1990. All that I have talked to however are much happier with independence. Too many soviet style buildings remain in the city and many of the people within the city still live in gers (50% by one guide book estimate).

Our next move is to Beijing; then no agenda. Probably will work our way down the east coast of China to Shanghai, then either inland or to Hainan Island in So. China Sea off the coast of Vietnam. Our fixed and booked trans-siberian itinerary ends in Beijing so then the fun begins with winging it again, buying train tickets in Mandarin, etc.-Chinese characters even harder for these poor foreigners than Cyrillic. Many Chinese find it difficult to believe that someone does not speak their language. And therein is the adventure.

Hope all are well. Please send money.
RLG

Lingering Images of Russia

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Siberian countryside with endless kilometers of grassland and golden pine and white birch trees… small wooden, weathered, unpainted, picturesque, single story bungalows throughout Sibera with blue painted shutters-the banya (toilet and shower) in a small building nearby…Outside the cities groups of small two-story dachas (2nd homes with three-sided pitched roofs with garden in front providing relief from tiny flats and a chance to grow their own vegetables for those who can afford it…intensely flavored wine-red berry jam on Olkhon Island.

Drab, dilapidated Stalin-era block style apartment buildings that make maximum use of space but with absolutely no aesthetic value… there’s definitely a market niche in this country, Bob laments, for brooms, scrub brushes, soap and paint…. black leather jackets, Lenin-style hats (never saw any baseball style hats) and shoes with pointed curled up toes on men and women with spike heels—click click click)…. Especially in evenings, but any time of day, people strolling or standing around with an open bottle of beer in hand… Occasionally someone toppling over from inebriation to be caught by a comrade before falling…people with an aloof veneer-not an air of superiority-just reserved as in “I’m minding my own business…you mind yours”-sometimes seemingly shy but when the exterior is cracked they smile readily and extend themselves with varying degrees of warmth and good humor-especially on the train where we have an opportunity to interact……deep underground metros-monumental works of art in themselves (no photos allowed)…wonderful rich soups and more soup, each a little different than the next…

Experiencing daily life in cozy cluttered apartment homestays with friendly middle-aged to elderly single women who get 30% of what we paid. The provided breakfasts range anywhere from here’s the eggs-cook your own to elaborate spreads in tiny rooms… tiny bathrooms (literally wc’s) with sit down toilets that took three times to flush clean…overheard conversations that sound like arguments in a tone of voice you and I would take offense at but then we think it’s all just bluster…people walking in-between and in front of us with no regard for personal boundaries but not intending to be rude…urban store windows full of fashionable clothing and products that only about l% of the people can afford and then only because they operate on the black market (one woman who works for the central bank whispered “yes, we take white money and black money.”

Queuing In Russia

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Back in Irkutsk we watch women walking swiftly always carrying a plastic shopping sack or two (ovoiska from the Russian ‘ovois’ meaning ‘just in case’) of varying brands that have to be purchased)…a hold-over from Soviet-era shopping methods that, according to the British journalist Fiona Fleck who described in the ‘Guardian’ how Soviet era panic buying of bread, rice, cereal and flour affected the ordinary Russian even in late 1990’s: “whenever they go out they are constantly dropping into shops when passing by just in case something had arrived, sometimes joining queues in the hope that something will eventually arrive that day.

Queuing has always been a life-principle for the Soviet shopper and is enshrined in what must be the most roundabout way of buying in the world.” Even now at one consignment shop Bob had to stand in line to choose an item at which time the clerk wrote out a voucher that he was supposed to take this way and that way and then this way and that and then to stand in line to pay a cashier stamped the voucher indicating the item had been paid for and then stand in the first line again to show the stamped voucher to the original clerk and obtain the item. In Soviet times people would buy in bulk and shop in teams, often paying someone a little to stand in line for them.

Today, the queuing of cars is a machiavellian event . We are amazed at the ability of cars to “crowd” their way into a queuing line for example lanes merging into each other. When our driver to Olkhon Island arrived at the Ferry we were second “in line.” In the course of an hour there were about five lines across all waiting to crowd, inch by inch, into the two lanes that would lead onto the ferry. Apparently this is the accepted modus operandi…however we did see one car full of women get out of their car and take on the driver of another…yelling and gesturing and taking down the license number. The scene made me vow to never get into an argument with a Russian woman!

People have no trouble crowding to get onto a bus…in fact it sometimes becomes a matter of who can push harder. If you stand back and wait “your turn” like the nice people we learned how to be from our first grade teacher your reward will be to end up standing on the street with no ride.

Hanging Out On Olkhon Island

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After hanging out a couple days…glad to be off the train…Gregory, a former University teacher of German, drove Bob and I, three Germans and a Pole on a half-day excursion to the north of the 70km long island to visit various geological sites and views of the lake but most especially to see a world renowned Shaman ceremonial circle called Three Brothers that is sacred to two faiths practiced here, Buddhism and Shamanism. Two years ago almost 300 Shamans from the world-over came together here. We lay a one rouble coin at the foot of the prayer flag pole while the “Sarma” or east wind blows fiercely over us.

The Buryats are of Mongolian descent…nomads who spent time herding their flocks between the southern shores of the lake and what is now northern Mongolia. They lived in felt-covered yurts and practised a mixture of Buddhism and Shamanism.

Gregory is driving Nikita’s four wheel drive van…a Russian vehicle designed 30 years ago and that was so successful they used it as an ambulance. “There is only one reason Russians sent the first man into space,” says Gregory the Kamikazi driver thumping over mud hole roads at least 90km per hour…”is because of the roads!” Later he says “we at the moment are using two wheels…if it gets really complicated we will use four!” “Normally we sacrifice two persons…usually 50% survive this trip!” Any of our U.S. vehicles would have rolled over at the first turn but this one mysteriously keeps it’s four wheels on the ground.

We pass through beautiful valleys with sheep and cattle farms…two of which are rich and have beautiful houses “because they don’t drink,” Gregory says. We pass by one small house of an old woman who lives alone with her cow…the rest of the houses in the area appear empty. We are shown an area that was a gulag during the Stalin era and whose inmates produced cans of caviar from the lake sturgeon that was then sent to the Kremlin for the enjoyment of the party bigwigs). I see a straggly triangular three wooden stick affair on the top of a hill and ask Gregory what it used to be. “Local KGB headquarters,” he says throwing his head back in laughter. I ask if the Russians and Buryats intermarry. “Seldom,” he says.

Irkutsk…”Paris of the East”

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Off the train again, we dump our luggage at Nadia’s, our homestay and look for a cafe where there just might be an English menu. We find one…not too expensive…that looks full of the city’s hoi paloi. A tall man in a 3/4 length leather coat and fairly long hair by Russian standards, slowly enters the cafe. He moves almost majestically and sits at the coffee bar drinking a single espresso..jeweled ring on each pinky finger…while he waits for a table…whispering solemnly in the ear of the pretty, attentive waitress. He takes off his jacket and carefully hangs it before sitting down. He has a blue shirt on with pink stripes. I want to cast him in a movie.

Later, behind me on our way to the internet cafe, click, click. I move my smooth slow stroll to the side. Click click, she quickly passes on a mission to some unknown destiny.

To Siberia & Lake Baikal

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Video

We boarded a Moscow train at midnight. We are headed across Russia on the trans-siberian train system. However we will be breaking up the trip by getting off in Yekaterinburg and Irkutsk, with a side excursion to Lake Baikal, in Russia and Ulaan Bataar in Mongolia on the way to our final destination…Beijing China.

The next morning one of our cabin-mates, (there are four of us…two racks on each side of the cabin) Vladamir, starts his day with a bottle of beer. Enjoying the changing colors of the trees as we climb and dip through the Urals our cabin mates and we share all our packed lunches with each other and Vladamir, who knows no English shares his vodka with us. Diana, who is a translator in German/Russian for a Moscow law firm) does speak English, tells me there is no Russian like Frank Sinatra…and that she doesn’t like Antonio Banderas because he is “dark.” (We have discovered that anyone “dark” is called “black” and is discriminated against…as are homosexuals…hardly anyone out of the closet here.)

Unknown to each other, they are both traveling to their home town of Yekaterinburg, the third biggest city in Russia, to visit their parents. On the way our rich Moscow train passes through dirt-poor even though picturesque villages and Vladamir gets off at a town famous for it’s glass factory to buy a set of crystal glasses (about a dozen glasses for about $20) and bag of apples from the sellers who are tapping at our window. Regulars know what to buy at each stop-whether a bag of berries picked by bucket in the forest or a baked chicken from a babushka (grandmother). We even saw men hawking huge chandeliers. One man was trying to sell a stuffed bird with a wing span six feet wide!

An ex-pirate by the name of Yermak, who is recognized as the founder of Siberia, crossed the Ural mountains and challenged the fur traders for control of the land. In November 1581 he raised the Russian flag. By 1900 over a million people had made he long march to the squalid and overcrowded gulags of Siberia and the word, Siberia, came to mean a place for criminal and political exiles.

In 1891 Tsar Nicholas III began construction on the railway from Moscow to Vladivostock on the east coast of Russia near the Sea of Japan. The greater part was built without heavy machinery bu by men wit nothing more than wooden shovels. Nevertheless, they could lay up to 2.5 miles of rail in a good day, according to the Trans-Siberian Handbook. Most of the labor force had to be imported as local peasants were already employed on the land and the workers came from as far away as Italy and Turkey but the Chinese coolies were terrified of the Amur tigers with which the area full and the government subsequently turned to the prisoners in the gulags to relieve the shortage of labor.

The trans-Mongolian line (to Beijing) branches off from the main Trans-Siberian route (to Vladivostock) at Zaudinsky and follows the well worn route of the ancient tea caravans that traveled between Beijing and Moscow in the 18th and 19th centures. In those days traders made the 7865km journey in no less than 40 days. Since the railroad began operating in the mid-1950’s the journey now takes about 5.5 days.
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Traki, Karaites & Kibini Pastry

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Trakai, on the outskirts of Vilnius, Lithuania, is a small settlement placed in the middle of five large lakes that is home to about 350 members of the Keraites, a minority community originally from Mesopotamia (modern day Iraq) who later migrated to Turkey. Keraite literally means “reader”. Their religion is a form of early Judaism mixed with reading of the Koran. (Imagine that !!—maybe we should inquire whether they have insights for current situations.)

Traki used to be one of Lithuania’s many capitals and the Keraites served as guards to the palace/castle…which Bob wanted to buy and occupy. We tasted the Karaites’ traditional dish called Kibinine, a small piping hot pastry stuffed full of delicious chopped meat and onions…juice squirting down one’s arms with each bite.

In an area selling crafts I met a woman who was exclaiming over two drunk locals…I asked her what country she was from and she said “San Francicsco.” She went on to say she was enjoying herself “but they won’t take our dollars here!” Speechless, I decided against asking if she had thought of visiting a money exchange window.