Experiences

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.

Far East Youth Hostel

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The last time I was in China it was freezing cold in January 2003. The weather is fantastic this October day in 2004.

After slogging it out across Russia and Mongolia, we soak up creature comforts at the friendly Far East Youth Hostel located among the back alleyways of one of Beijing’s ancient hutongs where young backpackers pick the cheap dorm rooms next to the self-catering kitchen and laundry room in the basement and we, of course, choose a double room upstairs with all the Chinese tourists for about $25.

Downstairs is a “coffee bar” featuring a wide screen TV for viewing one of scores of dvd movies, three high speed internet terminals and a book case full of tattered novels and old travel guides.

Several tables of travelers share experiences and information…one with an Israeli guy trying to explain his country’s posture regarding Palestine to a couple of doubting Norwegians (Europe is generally pro-Palestine which is one reason the Europeans have trouble with the U.S.)

The compound includes a courtyard across the alley with a budget restaurant where I tried to order soy sauce in Mandarin (chiang yo) and got rice instead because of the tone I used.

On the back end of the courtyard are even cheaper dorms housing mostly young male West Europeans. After setting up the tiny computer speakers and coffee pot we step outside the doors of the cozy hostel and find ourselves dodging old men on bicycles between humming dumpling shops and cheap clothing stores blasting Chinese hip-hop and techno. At dinner we laugh at the English menu…among the choices are “Hot Pot of Old Duck With Chinese Medicine” and “Soup Of The Ox Reproductive Organs.” This is as good as it gets. If home is where the soul likes to be…I am there…at least for now.

And then…Bob packed up…and left.

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

Grueling Border Wait

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The wait at the Russian-Mongolian border is a grueling 5-6 hour wait for customs to go through each carriage and take our passports, return to the office to fill out forms and then return with our passports. Olga takes a six inch wad of $20 bills out of her hand bag and counts it three times.

We are desperate to get off the hot claustrophobic train and get some cold fresh air. We find a very small market a hundred yards from the train where we buy dried apricots, apples and dried noodle soup.

To relieve the bordom a young guy from Chicago (they have put most of the foreigners on this carriage) pulls out his frisbee and plays with an older guy from Australia out on the platform and when one toss ends up on top of the carriage, the guy from Chicago climbs up to get it but can’t resist the urge to pose playfully for all the cameras that appear down below…but not for long. Officials appear and grab all our cameras removing batteries, film & digital chips and tapes. They spend an hour filling out forms and waiting…for what…an offer of money? No one wants to pay money but we shuffle and wait nervously. Finally just before the train pulls away the cameras etc. are returned to their relieved owners.

The Mongol border is a good 2-3 hour wait too… Mongolian sellers and money changers come on board. Olga takes an offer from a guy wanting to exchange our Russian money but then slams the cabin door in his face as she lets in a Mongolian woman who gives us a better offer. Olga has obviously done this before.

After crossing six time zones out of a total of 9 or 10 in Russia, the train thankfully rolls into Ulaan Baatar at 7 the next morning.

The Tajik and Olga

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The Tajik and Olga
In Irkutsk, when we find our seats on the train to Ulaan Baatar, we find a good-looking 40 year old Muslim man from Tajikistan in our cabin. He has studied English in school when he was a boy by showing us how tall he was, and remembers a few words. He shows us pictures of his wife and four kids back at home in Tajikistan. We show him pictures on the computer of our trek in 1996 in Kyrgzstan although aware that the Kyrgeez and Tajiks don’t really like each other very much.

We are able to figure out that he is returning to Ulaan Baatar to operate a “caterpillar” at a gold mine after a three-month summer break with his family. We soon put our sausage and cheese and bread on the little table and he pulls out his bottle of Vodka. He is charming and has a wonderful smile and a quick laugh…I like this man.

The next day Olga, an energetic middle-aged blond, begs to move from her assigned seat near the toilet at the end of the carriage so she joins us…immediately kicking the mellow Tajik up to the top bunk and spreading her belongings from one end of the cabin to the other. Fluent in English, she says she gave up her doctoral studies in Chemistry in 1993 because there was no work in her field, to become an entrepreneur and she makes the trip to Mongolia and China every few months to buy merchandise…”everything for health” she says. She instructs us where to get a cheap hotel in Beijing and gives me an empty bottle to have the Chinese traditional pharmacist fill for my psoriasis.

Soon she and the Tajik are really going at it in Russian…the bluster again…and I ask her what they are talking about. Olga is incensed: “He leaves his wife in Tajikistan to work in another country but when I ask him if she works he says no she has to stay at home and only leave when she is with him!” This goes on for awhile and is actually quite entertaining to watch…then she non-plusses Bob by showing him a picture of man (XY) and woman (XX) and showing him that with an unfinished “X” (referring to the “Y” that “there is a mistake!” When he objects she says “well maybe women are more clever. He just looks at her.

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.

Five Hours to Olkhon Island

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The next morning we are picked up at our homestay in Irkutsk by a sullen driver who drives us five hours over pot-holes, through the taiga and across a bay of the beautiful blue Lake Baikal to the small Buryat fishing village of Khuzhir on Olkholn Island with a population of 1500 (half are Buryat). Urr0g6ZfQ7ttYL19duYJfg-2006170133924757.gif

We stay at Nikita’s Guest House (Siberia’s only real traveler’s hangout) for five days. Nikita, we are told by some of the guests, was at one time Russia’s table tennis champion. Two multi-lingual Russian girls seem to keep things hanging together and they serve us great garlic-charged meals in a communal dining area. The guests are all European…no Americans…and the conversation is spirited…two Swedes quickly challenge a comment I made that they interpreted as being critical of Socialism.

We enjoy the banya (bathhouse) with wood-heated hot water we can pour over ourselves…although the first time we signed up we were the first on the list and the water was still cold.

Goodbye to Vladamir

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Vladamir makes crying motions with his fingers running down his cheeks as we prepare to leave him on the train. Astrakhan in 2–5 he writes on a piece of paper…Astrakhan in 2005 we say to him as he helps us to get off the train with our baggage…carrying his address and phone number carefully in my backpack.

To Irkutsk With Vladamir

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The evening we are to leave Yekaterinburg on the train, Bob loses his change purse containing a credit card getting out of a mini-bus. Olga’s son drives us in his car to the internet cafe on the way to the train station so Bob can email the bank.

Waiting for Bob, he and I have an interesting conversation. I make a comment about the importance of having all the information you can get your hands on and he agrees…free press or no. He tells me he has been reading a web site about American foreign policy and is afraid, that since we invaded Iraq, that someday we might go to war with his country. Alarmed, I try to reassure him that this would be very unlikely and give him my email address and ask him to send me the url.

We get on the train at midnight to find two adult women and a child in our berths and no amount of turning on the lights and loud talking and piling of our luggage in-between the beds will dislodge these people who are stubbornly pretending to be asleep.

We collar the carriage “mother” as I call her (who almost wouldn’t let us on the train in the first place because she was confused by the fact that we were ticketed through to Ulaan Baator) and she finds us a new cabin with Vladamir (is every Russian man called Vladamir?) who seems to be pretty familiar with this route. He is a diesel engineer on his way further east to Chita to “advise,” we gather, considering we have two words in Russian and he has maybe three in English. We settle in, glad there are only three of us instead of four.

The next morning we share each other’s food and he orders delicious Russian borscht for us all from the attendent at the end of the carraiage who makes our soup in a space maybe four feet by three feet at the most. Then Vladamir wants to talk…to tell us everything…in Russian. We get maybe a tenth of it by interpreting body language. “Maxi, maxi, he says and points to Bob when he shows him the map of Nepal and Mt. Everest.

I see some Russian girls dressed in skin tight pants with flat stomach showing beneath a short jacket and above a very short mini-skirt and knee-length spike-heeled boots with very pointy toes and with little short-handled purse slung over the shoulder clicking along the platform. “Russian girls,” I say to Vladamir. This he understands. “Russian gerls! Russian gerls! he exclaims proudly. Cick click they go down the concrete platform. They love the clicking…you can tell. They will spend a month’s earnings on a pair of shoes. There are websites with 40,000 of these girls looking for western men to marry, Sasha told us in St. Petersburg. They are sharp and are disappointed in their own men who only seem to want to spend their time drinking beer and vodka.