Hi folks! Yup, I know, I know.
Again, I think this is going to be another bullet-point post, as I'm hungry, and I can smell something great cooking somewhere.
- Hong Kong has the best trams in the world - weird narrow double decker things that clatter along exactly as they have for at least a hundred years - oblivious to the metamorphosis of the city around them. There is nothing better then watching the city go above it's business from the top deck.
- Macau is actually a beautiful place, if you avoid the casino side of town. I ate wonderful Portuguese food, and wandering the colonial squares and alleys, I could almost imagine myself in Lisbon. They also make great pastries.
More soon..
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Shanghai
Shanghai exhausted the last of my traveling energy, leaving me is something of a slump. Unlike its cultured and self-content brother Beijing, Shanghai is a grasping, aggressive city perfectly willing to sell any soul it had for the fastest buck. All the hyperbolic descriptions ring true; there is no doubt that Shanghai is transforming at a spectacular pace, and I'm sure that this will eventually bring trickle-down benefits for the multitudes, but it is still depressing to witness the wholesale erasure of whole swathes of historical buildings to be replaced with tasteless steel and glass monstrosities. I plodded through the usual tourist attractions, the sterile hotel-like aquarium with its unimaginative presentations and procession of inmates, including particularly forlorn penguins and seals. They were incarcerated in a grim arctic simulation, hidden deep in the bowels of the cavernous complex, bathed in cold, florescent light as if David Lynch had turned his hand to wildlife documentaries.
The city is an architectural crime scene, and whilst the views from each of the record breaking towers are initially breathtaking, each are the same - grey humanless sprawl to the horizon.
The older, less sanitized parts of the city hold a magnetic charm, similar to the hutongs of Beijing, but wilder and more boisterous; even here commerce is king. My best experience of Shanghai was wandering the old quarters, self consciously sneaking photographs, unwilling to make myself any more conspicuous than I already was.
Nevertheless, the city kept me trapped in it's clutches for too long, the pull of western indulgences (bars, nightclubs, fast food) and the calculated bureaucracy of arranging onward travel conspiring against me. I met Hugo, from Lisbon, who teaches English, and is a talented photographer, and together we planned our escape, heading south to Hong Kong to renew visas, then back into the South West to discover the real rural China...
The city is an architectural crime scene, and whilst the views from each of the record breaking towers are initially breathtaking, each are the same - grey humanless sprawl to the horizon.
The older, less sanitized parts of the city hold a magnetic charm, similar to the hutongs of Beijing, but wilder and more boisterous; even here commerce is king. My best experience of Shanghai was wandering the old quarters, self consciously sneaking photographs, unwilling to make myself any more conspicuous than I already was.
Nevertheless, the city kept me trapped in it's clutches for too long, the pull of western indulgences (bars, nightclubs, fast food) and the calculated bureaucracy of arranging onward travel conspiring against me. I met Hugo, from Lisbon, who teaches English, and is a talented photographer, and together we planned our escape, heading south to Hong Kong to renew visas, then back into the South West to discover the real rural China...
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Around Jinan
I left Beijing on an overnight "hard sleeper"; triple stacked open bunks in a dorm-like carriage, crammed with people and baggage. A woman on the bunk across from me inquired softly where I was from in perfect English - it transpired she taught English and business at a University in Beijing.
I arrived in Jinan in the pouring rain, and checked into a small hostel beside a pond, with delicate carved bridges over adjoining pools. The staff spoke no English (many hostels in China are primarily for Chinese people), and I was shown to a compact damp private room, smelling of mildew and with only a small fan to stave off the cloying heat.
Jinan was a depressing sodden sight, any character long ago obliterated by identikit corporate offices and municipal white-tile high-rise apartments. Down a side-street I found the crumbling remains of an old temple, roughly walled off to deter would be visitors. The fabled springs had been callously surrounded by overpriced touristy parks, with the exception of a a jewel-like temple, sat like an oasis in the centre of looming corporate offices. Inside through the incense smoke, a statue of the God of War guards menacingly over his domain.
The next day I woke early to find a hidden village 60 km outside Jinan, recommended in the LP. At the long distance bus station I bought a ticket from a brisk, glum-looking woman, and boarded a modern air conditioned bus which sped us along flooded dirt tracks, crashing and lurching through swollen brown puddles and growing streams, dodging through the thick traffic. The city disappeared behind, and the roadside turned to muddled checkerboard fields of corn and lilies, with steep sided mountains behind rising into grey-brown mist, and the occasional dark temple silhouetted on a peak.
I was dropped unceremoniously at a chaotic mid station, buzzing with criss-crossing buses taxis and tuk-tuks, and shouting traders and hawkers, huddled in shacks from the incessant thin drizzle. A group of gleeful taxis driver eagerly crowded round, offered to take me to the village for 10 times the bus fare. I waved them away, and eventually found my rickety onward bus. The local villagers in the bus eyed me warily.
Three hours after I set off, I was dropped in the outskirts of the sleepy village. The whole place seemed deserted, and I drifted along the path between dry-stone walled gardens, and solid stone and mud houses. The ramshackle village wound its way through a steep- sided valley. The occasional duck or goat wandered across the path, and middled aged women with lined faces, bent over carrying huge bundles of firewood passed with mildly suspicious grins. I had somehow traveled back in China's feudal past - the crashing modernism of the cities a distant dream. The calm was disconcerting. I climbed to the peak of a small hill overlooking the village, and surveyed the mist shrouded vista from the balcony of a narrow temple, as giant dragonflies drifted lazily around me.
I arrived in Jinan in the pouring rain, and checked into a small hostel beside a pond, with delicate carved bridges over adjoining pools. The staff spoke no English (many hostels in China are primarily for Chinese people), and I was shown to a compact damp private room, smelling of mildew and with only a small fan to stave off the cloying heat.
Jinan was a depressing sodden sight, any character long ago obliterated by identikit corporate offices and municipal white-tile high-rise apartments. Down a side-street I found the crumbling remains of an old temple, roughly walled off to deter would be visitors. The fabled springs had been callously surrounded by overpriced touristy parks, with the exception of a a jewel-like temple, sat like an oasis in the centre of looming corporate offices. Inside through the incense smoke, a statue of the God of War guards menacingly over his domain.
The next day I woke early to find a hidden village 60 km outside Jinan, recommended in the LP. At the long distance bus station I bought a ticket from a brisk, glum-looking woman, and boarded a modern air conditioned bus which sped us along flooded dirt tracks, crashing and lurching through swollen brown puddles and growing streams, dodging through the thick traffic. The city disappeared behind, and the roadside turned to muddled checkerboard fields of corn and lilies, with steep sided mountains behind rising into grey-brown mist, and the occasional dark temple silhouetted on a peak.
I was dropped unceremoniously at a chaotic mid station, buzzing with criss-crossing buses taxis and tuk-tuks, and shouting traders and hawkers, huddled in shacks from the incessant thin drizzle. A group of gleeful taxis driver eagerly crowded round, offered to take me to the village for 10 times the bus fare. I waved them away, and eventually found my rickety onward bus. The local villagers in the bus eyed me warily.
Three hours after I set off, I was dropped in the outskirts of the sleepy village. The whole place seemed deserted, and I drifted along the path between dry-stone walled gardens, and solid stone and mud houses. The ramshackle village wound its way through a steep- sided valley. The occasional duck or goat wandered across the path, and middled aged women with lined faces, bent over carrying huge bundles of firewood passed with mildly suspicious grins. I had somehow traveled back in China's feudal past - the crashing modernism of the cities a distant dream. The calm was disconcerting. I climbed to the peak of a small hill overlooking the village, and surveyed the mist shrouded vista from the balcony of a narrow temple, as giant dragonflies drifted lazily around me.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
China
I know, I know, I'm a bad blogger. It's so hard to consolidate your thoughts in a crazy place like this. So I'm afraid it's bullet points:
- Bikes. Millions of them. Half of them electric. Despite having huge pollution problems, Beijingers probably own more electric vehicles than the rest of the world put together. They zip silently along the cycle lanes, effortlessly, making you wonder why everyone in the world doesn't own an electric bike. This along with the electric trolley buses, and natural gas powered buses, should make this the most pollution free city in the world. It isn't. The other 10 million petrol cars might have something to do with it.
- Beijing is READY for the Olympic Games. No Question. The state TV station says so, so it must be true. They staged a televised debate between two experts (both from the Chinese Olympic committee), and they both agreed that everything is going according to plan. So there you have it. Ignore any complete chaos that suggests otherwise.
- Beards amuse the Chinese.
-Never judge a restaurant by it's cover. The more brightly lit, and the dirtier the floor, the better. Order half what you think you will need. And order quickly.
- I didn't think I was a fussy eater. I was deluding myself. It turns out I am extremely picky. I won't eat insects, bones, elbows or knees (of mammals and birds), dogs, cats, most amphibians and reptiles, most land-dwelling invertebrates, eyes (of any species) eggs (fertilised), spinal cords (or other major nerves, when served plain), feet or heads, or endangered species. This can be limiting.
- Bikes. Millions of them. Half of them electric. Despite having huge pollution problems, Beijingers probably own more electric vehicles than the rest of the world put together. They zip silently along the cycle lanes, effortlessly, making you wonder why everyone in the world doesn't own an electric bike. This along with the electric trolley buses, and natural gas powered buses, should make this the most pollution free city in the world. It isn't. The other 10 million petrol cars might have something to do with it.
- Beijing is READY for the Olympic Games. No Question. The state TV station says so, so it must be true. They staged a televised debate between two experts (both from the Chinese Olympic committee), and they both agreed that everything is going according to plan. So there you have it. Ignore any complete chaos that suggests otherwise.
- Beards amuse the Chinese.
-Never judge a restaurant by it's cover. The more brightly lit, and the dirtier the floor, the better. Order half what you think you will need. And order quickly.
- I didn't think I was a fussy eater. I was deluding myself. It turns out I am extremely picky. I won't eat insects, bones, elbows or knees (of mammals and birds), dogs, cats, most amphibians and reptiles, most land-dwelling invertebrates, eyes (of any species) eggs (fertilised), spinal cords (or other major nerves, when served plain), feet or heads, or endangered species. This can be limiting.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Great Firewall of China
I will write a longer post on China soon, but in the meantime, I just wanted to note the difficulties that one encounters with internet access. I can access my Gmail email no problem, and the Guardian website is unrestricted. But access to BBC news is blocked, as is access to ALL blogs, including my own. I can, however, update my blog. Weird.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Swimming in Siberia and drowning in Mongolia
You'll have to excuse me if this post isn't up to my usual (poor) level of English. My brain is frazzled after a night sampling the Beijing clubbing scene (bizarre to say the least), and a day tramping around in the baking humidity and smog of China's capital.
So much traveling, so many experiences - there is a danger it will turn into a blur unless I write some of it down.
Irkutsk is a sleepy, messy, tumbledown city; a ragged collection of soviet blocks, and charming whimsical old wooden houses, with an almost continental feel. The buildings appear to be slowly sinking into the ground, as if the whole city is too exhausted to protest. Walking the tree-lined avenues, it's sad to see a number of houses recently burned to the ground (apparently under sinister, government related circumstances), and indeed a further historic house mysteriously caught fire during my short stay. The river through the city, which widens to enter lake Baikal, has a charming little island, with an abandoned open-air concert venue, reminiscent of a miniature Sydney Opera house.
I took a bus to the lake, and staying in a charming Dasha, run by a sweet middle aged woman. My room was adorned with old soviet posters, a giant sized painting of Lenin, and an old record player, complete with 1960's 7 inches of patriotic Russian marching songs.
The next day I walked into a small village on the side of the lake, and took a short boat tour from an old man with and aging but capable skiff. Later I ate smoked Omul (which only lives in lake Baikal), and swam in the freezing but crystal clear water. I semi-deliberately missed my bus back to town, and stayed the night in an actually rather fancy hostel (my first indulgence of the trip). In the morning I took a fantastic old Hydrofoil back into the city.
The train from Irkutsk to Mongolia was crowded entirely with Mongolians, with the exception of my couchette, which contained a wonderful Spanish couple, Pedro and Eva. They were traveling non-stop from Moscow to Ulan-Bator, and were looking forward to a shower after 5 days in the train.
The Russian border crossing took 8 hours, the only relief being an impromptu shower from a man washing his car beside the station. Afterwards the landscape through the train window gradually changed, with birch trees giving way to barren plains, dotted with Yurts.
Ulan-Bator is a strange city - part Metropolis, part slum, part campsite. The people are well dressed, but it is immediately clear that you are in the 3rd world. Almost immediately after arriving, I set off with my new Spanish friends on a two day excursion to a traditional Yurt camp in the nearby national park (eg a simulacrum of traditional Mongolian life - ecotourism if you will).
We trekked and rode tiny protesting Mongolian horses across the plains, and on the second day rode for 4 hours through the most incredible freak rain storm. The rain continued through the night, turning our cozy Yurt into a sauna, as the cental wooded stove heated the tent to boiling temperature, and dried our sodden clothes strung from the decorated roof supports.
We spent a last day visiting ornate but somewhat shabby Buddhist temples in Ulan Bator, and walking through the ramshackle slums, filled with children playing improvised games in the caked mud paths, and older men playing pool on outdoor tables. The next day I left my hostel early and boarded the contrastingly smart and efficient train to China...
So much traveling, so many experiences - there is a danger it will turn into a blur unless I write some of it down.
Irkutsk is a sleepy, messy, tumbledown city; a ragged collection of soviet blocks, and charming whimsical old wooden houses, with an almost continental feel. The buildings appear to be slowly sinking into the ground, as if the whole city is too exhausted to protest. Walking the tree-lined avenues, it's sad to see a number of houses recently burned to the ground (apparently under sinister, government related circumstances), and indeed a further historic house mysteriously caught fire during my short stay. The river through the city, which widens to enter lake Baikal, has a charming little island, with an abandoned open-air concert venue, reminiscent of a miniature Sydney Opera house.
I took a bus to the lake, and staying in a charming Dasha, run by a sweet middle aged woman. My room was adorned with old soviet posters, a giant sized painting of Lenin, and an old record player, complete with 1960's 7 inches of patriotic Russian marching songs.
The next day I walked into a small village on the side of the lake, and took a short boat tour from an old man with and aging but capable skiff. Later I ate smoked Omul (which only lives in lake Baikal), and swam in the freezing but crystal clear water. I semi-deliberately missed my bus back to town, and stayed the night in an actually rather fancy hostel (my first indulgence of the trip). In the morning I took a fantastic old Hydrofoil back into the city.
The train from Irkutsk to Mongolia was crowded entirely with Mongolians, with the exception of my couchette, which contained a wonderful Spanish couple, Pedro and Eva. They were traveling non-stop from Moscow to Ulan-Bator, and were looking forward to a shower after 5 days in the train.
The Russian border crossing took 8 hours, the only relief being an impromptu shower from a man washing his car beside the station. Afterwards the landscape through the train window gradually changed, with birch trees giving way to barren plains, dotted with Yurts.
Ulan-Bator is a strange city - part Metropolis, part slum, part campsite. The people are well dressed, but it is immediately clear that you are in the 3rd world. Almost immediately after arriving, I set off with my new Spanish friends on a two day excursion to a traditional Yurt camp in the nearby national park (eg a simulacrum of traditional Mongolian life - ecotourism if you will).
We trekked and rode tiny protesting Mongolian horses across the plains, and on the second day rode for 4 hours through the most incredible freak rain storm. The rain continued through the night, turning our cozy Yurt into a sauna, as the cental wooded stove heated the tent to boiling temperature, and dried our sodden clothes strung from the decorated roof supports.
We spent a last day visiting ornate but somewhat shabby Buddhist temples in Ulan Bator, and walking through the ramshackle slums, filled with children playing improvised games in the caked mud paths, and older men playing pool on outdoor tables. The next day I left my hostel early and boarded the contrastingly smart and efficient train to China...
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Strange train situations.
Hi people.
No time right now to write a long post, but just a few observations about Russian trains.
Motherly Babushkas, offering to make you tea, but tutting loudly and wagging fingers when you make noise or are awake after 10 pm.
Thickly smoke filled smoking sections at the end of each carriage, with no ventilation, crammed full of sweaty topless Russian men.
Plump flirtatious train cleaning-girls, speaking no English, who pinch your arm, and drag you protesting to their booth, where they simperingly try to sell you a dubious looking DVD about the trans-Siberian, unrelentingly for 1 hour.
At every station stop, various hawkers and traders, selling ice cold beer, and delicious pastries and freshly picked fruit.
Quiet,childishly young-looking russian soldiers, and their hot-panted girlfriends, who point-blank refuse to share your vodka, despitite all your cajoling. Vodka is not the drik of choice on the trans-Siberian.
All for now. More soon
No time right now to write a long post, but just a few observations about Russian trains.
Motherly Babushkas, offering to make you tea, but tutting loudly and wagging fingers when you make noise or are awake after 10 pm.
Thickly smoke filled smoking sections at the end of each carriage, with no ventilation, crammed full of sweaty topless Russian men.
Plump flirtatious train cleaning-girls, speaking no English, who pinch your arm, and drag you protesting to their booth, where they simperingly try to sell you a dubious looking DVD about the trans-Siberian, unrelentingly for 1 hour.
At every station stop, various hawkers and traders, selling ice cold beer, and delicious pastries and freshly picked fruit.
Quiet,childishly young-looking russian soldiers, and their hot-panted girlfriends, who point-blank refuse to share your vodka, despitite all your cajoling. Vodka is not the drik of choice on the trans-Siberian.
All for now. More soon
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Yekaterinburg
I wasn't quite sure what to expect of this city. I've just finished reading the unrelentingly bleak "In Siberia" by Colin Thubron, which I highly recommend, but I'm finding my trip so far to be almost the mirror image of his experience. He travelled here about 10 years ago, when the Soviet Union was still the overreaching feature of most peoples lives for as long as they'd known, and dramatic changes at the collapse of Russian communism were freshly experienced, and acutely felt. Thubron sees a country in decline, on the verge of collapse even, and a people who have lost their identity.
This is not the feeling I get as I walk the streets of Yekaterinburg a decade on. Of course, it is easy to be tricked by the basic material changes; the Ladas replaced by Hondas, the packed coffee shops (not to mention MacDonalds) on every street. But when talking to Russians, they seem to have put their demons to rest. "That is our history" they say. "It is important, but it is history".
On arriving in the city, my first reaction was to agree with Thubron that this is a fairly bleak-looking place. The detritus of Soviet collectivist architecture litter the skyline like some apocalyptic science fiction film. The first night in my hotel did little to detract from the notion that I has somehow been transported back to the 1970's. I spent yesterday wandering the town, and with the exception of a few grim but interesting examples of Soviet municipal architecture, or humourless monuments, I remained fairly unimpressed. "But this is Russia!", I kept reminding myself.
That eveing I was determined to salvage some sense of fun, and boldly strode from the hotel determined to sample the Yekaterinburg nightlife. Like all tourists, I fought the pull of the Irish theme pub, and lost, finding myself in an anonymous Dublin-esque boozer, surrounded by Guinness posters and photos of Temple Bar. I ordered a pint of Harp, and tried to make faltering conversation in Russian with the unimpressed barman. I looked hopefully over at a lively group of 20-somethings at the other end of the bar, immersed in their own quick Russian conversations. I was about the leave, and was asking the barman to point out tourist sights on my map, when one of the group overheard our conversation, and came over to help translate. She spoke excellent English, and was soon joined by her equally eloquent friend. Almost before I knew it I was welcomed into their group, introductions made, the two English speakers translating my answers to their multitudinous questions for their less English speaking friends.
After a quick introduction to Russian hitchhiking, I was taken to one of their friend's small neat flat, some way from the town centre, where they prepared a midnight feast of fresh sushi, and was introduced to Ukrainian chili vodka. All of them were incredibly friendly, with even the least able at English commanding that their friends translate their questions, and waiting patiently for the translation of my no-doubt tedious answers. We made toasts in the traditional Russian way, laughed, ate, and drank copiously. The night spun into a blur, but at some point my phone number was given out, with a dedicated drunken invitation to take me to visit important sights in the morning. I humbly accepted, whilst insisting that I not take up any more of their kindly given hospitality, and fully expecting that the offer be tactfully forgotten in the harsh glare of morning.
At midday today I was roused from my drink-eased (fully clothed and booted) slumber by a phone call from my new friends. They insisted on meeting me later to drive me to a Monastery in the countryside. Sure enough, at 3pm, a gaggle of them arrived in a smart new Astra, and greeted me like an old acquaintance, polite enough not to mention my clearly hung-over state or my likely cultural transgressions the night before. With Russian rap music blaring from the stereo, we sped out of the town on the potholed Russian roads into the Siberian forest. After winding lanes we arrived at the wood built Monastery, completely hidden from civilisation in a clearing in the woods. My companions explained that they were all dedicated Orthodox believers, and enquired as to my religious status, to which I mumbled something about Anglicanism. I was quite surprised to see the reverence of these young people, who the night before has been so drunken and lively, if not exactly debauched. The girls donned headscarves and wrap around skirts lent at the entrance for the purpose of concealing shorts and jeans.
As we entered the compound, I realised that I had read about the place in Thubrons book. It is a newly built Monastery, on the site where the Czar and his family were dragged by the Bolsheviks, still alive, after their brutal butchery in Yekaterinburg itself (that site now marked by a grand but gaudy new cathedral). The bodies were burn with petrol and sulphuric acid, and the remains buried unmarked.
The site of this horrific event is a slight depression in the ground, now covered by wild flowers and (I suspect deliberately planted) lilies, and ringed by a covered wooden walkway. The area is dotted with traditional Orthodox wooden churches, some still under construction, built by hand. Despite feeling strongly reminded of my own lack of faith, there was something ethereally peacefully about the place.
Afterwards I sampled some tasty monastic food (mushrooms in pastry) and was made the gift of a bizarre-looking monk-made brew (from raisins, bread and honey), which apparently has healing properties. My new friends drove me back to the town, and we said teary goodbyes and made promises of meeting again. I truly hope I can keep mine.
This is not the feeling I get as I walk the streets of Yekaterinburg a decade on. Of course, it is easy to be tricked by the basic material changes; the Ladas replaced by Hondas, the packed coffee shops (not to mention MacDonalds) on every street. But when talking to Russians, they seem to have put their demons to rest. "That is our history" they say. "It is important, but it is history".
On arriving in the city, my first reaction was to agree with Thubron that this is a fairly bleak-looking place. The detritus of Soviet collectivist architecture litter the skyline like some apocalyptic science fiction film. The first night in my hotel did little to detract from the notion that I has somehow been transported back to the 1970's. I spent yesterday wandering the town, and with the exception of a few grim but interesting examples of Soviet municipal architecture, or humourless monuments, I remained fairly unimpressed. "But this is Russia!", I kept reminding myself.
That eveing I was determined to salvage some sense of fun, and boldly strode from the hotel determined to sample the Yekaterinburg nightlife. Like all tourists, I fought the pull of the Irish theme pub, and lost, finding myself in an anonymous Dublin-esque boozer, surrounded by Guinness posters and photos of Temple Bar. I ordered a pint of Harp, and tried to make faltering conversation in Russian with the unimpressed barman. I looked hopefully over at a lively group of 20-somethings at the other end of the bar, immersed in their own quick Russian conversations. I was about the leave, and was asking the barman to point out tourist sights on my map, when one of the group overheard our conversation, and came over to help translate. She spoke excellent English, and was soon joined by her equally eloquent friend. Almost before I knew it I was welcomed into their group, introductions made, the two English speakers translating my answers to their multitudinous questions for their less English speaking friends.
After a quick introduction to Russian hitchhiking, I was taken to one of their friend's small neat flat, some way from the town centre, where they prepared a midnight feast of fresh sushi, and was introduced to Ukrainian chili vodka. All of them were incredibly friendly, with even the least able at English commanding that their friends translate their questions, and waiting patiently for the translation of my no-doubt tedious answers. We made toasts in the traditional Russian way, laughed, ate, and drank copiously. The night spun into a blur, but at some point my phone number was given out, with a dedicated drunken invitation to take me to visit important sights in the morning. I humbly accepted, whilst insisting that I not take up any more of their kindly given hospitality, and fully expecting that the offer be tactfully forgotten in the harsh glare of morning.
At midday today I was roused from my drink-eased (fully clothed and booted) slumber by a phone call from my new friends. They insisted on meeting me later to drive me to a Monastery in the countryside. Sure enough, at 3pm, a gaggle of them arrived in a smart new Astra, and greeted me like an old acquaintance, polite enough not to mention my clearly hung-over state or my likely cultural transgressions the night before. With Russian rap music blaring from the stereo, we sped out of the town on the potholed Russian roads into the Siberian forest. After winding lanes we arrived at the wood built Monastery, completely hidden from civilisation in a clearing in the woods. My companions explained that they were all dedicated Orthodox believers, and enquired as to my religious status, to which I mumbled something about Anglicanism. I was quite surprised to see the reverence of these young people, who the night before has been so drunken and lively, if not exactly debauched. The girls donned headscarves and wrap around skirts lent at the entrance for the purpose of concealing shorts and jeans.
As we entered the compound, I realised that I had read about the place in Thubrons book. It is a newly built Monastery, on the site where the Czar and his family were dragged by the Bolsheviks, still alive, after their brutal butchery in Yekaterinburg itself (that site now marked by a grand but gaudy new cathedral). The bodies were burn with petrol and sulphuric acid, and the remains buried unmarked.
The site of this horrific event is a slight depression in the ground, now covered by wild flowers and (I suspect deliberately planted) lilies, and ringed by a covered wooden walkway. The area is dotted with traditional Orthodox wooden churches, some still under construction, built by hand. Despite feeling strongly reminded of my own lack of faith, there was something ethereally peacefully about the place.
Afterwards I sampled some tasty monastic food (mushrooms in pastry) and was made the gift of a bizarre-looking monk-made brew (from raisins, bread and honey), which apparently has healing properties. My new friends drove me back to the town, and we said teary goodbyes and made promises of meeting again. I truly hope I can keep mine.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
In Siberia
Ok again I've been a little slack in updating this. This is just going to be a quick one, rather than my usual verbose ramblings, due to time constraints.
Moscow is a great city (well obviously, in the sense that it's one of the great cities), but actually the first word that comes to mind is fun. It's also surprisingly easy going, on balance less stressful than Paris or London. And a lot of places are open 24 hours, which is a mixed blessing. I will return in the winter some time, which I think is really the best time to see Russia.
I've just arrived in this sprawling hotel in Yekaterinburg, and it feels like I'm right back in the Cold War. The staff are hilariously rude in a way that only Russians can be (but paradoxically incredibly helpful and friendly), and I had to go through a 4 stage check-in/security process before I even got to my room. Why have one person doing a simple job, when you can spin it out into bureaucratic employment for 6!
Any how, I'd better go and look at the city.
Moscow is a great city (well obviously, in the sense that it's one of the great cities), but actually the first word that comes to mind is fun. It's also surprisingly easy going, on balance less stressful than Paris or London. And a lot of places are open 24 hours, which is a mixed blessing. I will return in the winter some time, which I think is really the best time to see Russia.
I've just arrived in this sprawling hotel in Yekaterinburg, and it feels like I'm right back in the Cold War. The staff are hilariously rude in a way that only Russians can be (but paradoxically incredibly helpful and friendly), and I had to go through a 4 stage check-in/security process before I even got to my room. Why have one person doing a simple job, when you can spin it out into bureaucratic employment for 6!
Any how, I'd better go and look at the city.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Brief update
I'm sorry to have neglected this blog lately - unfortunately my actual traveling has taken precedent over writing about it. I am now in Moscow, having been to Bulgaria and the Ukraine previously. Bulgaria was warm both literally and emotionally, and it was interesting to see how the country had developed since my last visit 5 years ago, but unfortunately that process has inevitably taken some of the charm out of the country. The streets overflow with expensive cars, and in the centre of Sofia posh European and American brands have replaced local shops.
I will write more about Kiev soon, as I think it warrants it's own separate post. For the moment I will just say that Kiev is a confusing and contradictory city, with much to recommend it.
Yesterday I arrived mid-morning in Moscow, and after getting a little lost in this most sprawling of cities, arrived tired and hot at my hostel mid afternoon. After a brief power-nap, I ventured out to explore the nearby sights, and walked through Red Square and the circumference of the Kremlin wall. As I strolled through the gardens, the heavens opened, and I retreated the the shelter of an archway, which I soon shared with a growing group of drenched tourists, and bizarrely two mounted policemen and their nervous grey horses. As the storm grew ever more fierce, we we treated to a spectacular lightning storm, and watched as the small babushka at the nearby ice-cream kiosk fought to keep herself and her parasols and tables from being swept away. The rain become a torrent, and fierce gusts of wind blew the downpour into our shelter, prompting shrieks from the huddled group. As the visibility reduced to feet, I was amazed to see the rain turn to hail, and then quite suddenly the storm broke, and one by one we emerged into the light.
A few minutes later as I crossed Red Square towards St Basils Cathedral, the rain briefly returned, and I sheltered in a Russian Orthodox church (no doubt famous) by the side of the square. Inside I stepped dripping into a scene that could have been 500 years old - a mass with the most haunting singing I have ever heard. As the rain recommencing its drumming rhythm outside, the alternating voices of the priest and congregation almost seems to be directed at the weather, and indeed as the mass reached a crescendo of singing and chanting, the bells of the church rang, and again the rain stopped. I returned to my hostel with a light step, looking forward to what else this overwhelming place might throw at me.
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