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3rd June 2001
Just a quick word to say day one, ground zero, went pretty well. We did Stoke to Leicester which was about 60 miles. We did have a fairly healthy tailwind though which could change at any time. We managed to cycle at similar speeds as each other for most of the time but we will be prepared to go at our own pace and meet up in towns through the day.
The group is gelling pretty well, it has a good feel about it. Scott, the somewhat overloaded American (not wanting to deal in stereotypes) was a little weighed down - he has a laptop, solar panels to drive it and lots of other unecessary stuff which he will be sending back. Personally I think he should continue to carry it all for the good of the group. I was looking forward to being able to listen to my CDs in Kazakhstan.
That's all for now, got 80 miles to do today. Should be in Brighton on Tuesday.
8th June 2001
Having sat up until 3am watching the Conservative party get a damn good thrashing in the General Election I was rudely awakened and we left between nine thirty and ten. This was the real day zero for me, leaving home for the last time. Via Lewes, Eastbourne and Hastings we reached a place on the flats near Dungeoness power station called Lydd where I managed to sweet talk our way into camping in a pub garden. Good move on the part of the landlord since we probably had 4 drinks each, bringing him a good 50 pounds. Still, Trevor and Mandy of the Royal Oak, Lydd were good to us so, if you happen to be passing through Lydd (unlikely really) pay them a visit.
9th June 2001
On to Dover where Rory and I made a bit of a mess of trying to catch the ferry. We stayed behind in Folkestone in order to look over the Russian submarine that is moored there, leaving plenty of time to catch the others up in Dover. Having seen the sub, we had two hours to get to Dover, ample to cover the seven miles. We decided however to try to follow the undercliff path, saving ourselves mounting the white cliffs.
Bad move.
The path was not even a path as such, merely sea defences and quite rough in places. We then discovered various rockfalls which we lugged our bikes over with some difficulty, not taking the hint. Finally we reached a complete dead end where the concrete just disappeared into the sea and we had about an hour to get to Dover.
We legged it back as fast as we could along the path, getting back to the road with realistically about half an hour to get to the terminal. Climbing the cliff involved pushing ourselves to the limit, as fast as we possibly could, not allowing the merest thought of getting off the bikes to enter our minds. When we reached the top near exhausted and praying that the road did not go up then down then up again etc, we had to sprint all the way. It turned out to be pretty continuously flat or downhill but nevertheless we were cycling to the limit. We eventually made it with under five minutes to spare. I was never really too bothered since if we missed the boat, we would just catch the next, but when we arrived some of the others weren't best pleased having been had a go at by the ferry people. In retrospect a fun experience though.
13th June 2001
After having a pain in my knee develop yesterday afternoon and show no sign of going this morning I decided to be prudent (Gordon Brown would be proud) and get the train on to Dusseldorf, after all there's plenty of time for heroically struggling on in Siberia.
I went for a couple of beers and some food with a girl from the youth hostel and finally went to bed surprisingly tired - it catches up with you eventually.
I was enjoying my own space travelling alone since you meet more people that way. It's just another aspect of travelling.
15th June 2001
Met the others as arranged, at the hostel this evening. They'd had a mad experience in a tick infested forest in Belgium and ended up having to perform surgery on each other, digging the ticks out with knives. And some of them were in quite unpleasant places! In retrospect a good story to tell and funny really but, at the end of the day I'm glad to have missed out!
19th June 2001
Travelling up the Rhein valley, it is amazing how it goes from deep valley with castles and forests and then further upstream it is a plain with industrial cities such as Mainz. The first bit was very beautiful picture postcard stuff. A long hard day, 100 miles to Heidelberg.
20th June 2001
Spent about 120 quid in a bike shop yesterday due to a broken rack plus a few improvements (Brooks leather saddle - hurts for the first 1000 km but then fits perfectly) and spares.
21st June 2001
After further knee pain I have caught the train on towards Prague via Cheb. Slightly worrying really.
Cheb is a beautiful town on the border, in typical central European/Czech style. The beer is very cheap, the people are great and the women are beautiful. How anyone could not love the Czech Republic I can't imagine!
Myself and an Aussie I met on the train found a small bar with a few local youths in it, it seemed more like a small private gathering of
friends than a bar. Very friendly and unspoilt, we were plied with drinks until 1am when we went back to the hotel very satisfied.
22nd June 2001
Got to Karlovy Vary, a spa town north of Prague. Took the waters and had a sauna, then, feeling suitably good went looking for a similar kind of bar to last night.
We wondered a long way into a concrete residential area and eventually found a bar which looked more like a student union than an "authentic" Czech bar but that probably made it more authentic really. We went in for one, thinking we might have an interesting experience talking to people but didn't. On the way back we saw tucked away, an underground bar serving food to local families and young people, pretty much exactly what we had been looking for. Got hammered and fed for a few quid each.
23rd June 2001
Onwards and upwards to Prague.
After arriving at the hostel and meeting a girl from Colorado I went out with her to meet some friends of hers at an awful bar called Jo's Bar, run by and for tourists. They were all truly awful. Air headed, bubble gum blowing (is there a more irritating habit?) dumb-arses from LA. Made my excuses and left early.
I wondered back through the backstreets hoping to find another tourist free bar and got solicited by a prostitute for the first time in my life. Saying no was not a difficult decision all things considered.
I'd just about given up on finding anywhere when I stumbled upon Max's Bar, underground, half empty and the staff spoke no English or German. Perfect. Had a beer and also managed to get served some food which was an achievement. After a while a guy started chatting to me, unfortunately he spoke very little English and not a lot more German. We chatted in half English, half German and managed to communicate surprisingly well, talking about Russians, Germans and Czechs; how the English sense of humour was similarly black to the Czech. I left at about two very pleased with how the evening had turned out.
27th June 2001
Went to get Russian visas today which involved a certain amount of hassle. Walking there through embassyland, we saw many different countries represented, with their flags flying, not to mention some propaganda of the "look at our great leader, isn't he fantastic" type. Right in amongst these was another official looking building with flags flying. Only this time, the flags were those of McDonalds. You've got to admire their sheer ostentatiousness, putting their embassy in amongst all the others. Did I say embassy, what I meant to say was Czech headquarters. Same difference.
30th June 2001
I went to a festival called the Open Air Field outside Prague on Friday night/Saturday morning. Amongst others Laurent Garnier, Dave Angel, The Orb and Richard Dorfmeister (of Kruder and Dorfmeister) were playing. Going to an event like that alone always makes for a slightly different experience.
I spent most of the night in the Open Air Stage because that was where Dave Angel and Laurent Garnier were playing and I had no idea what time. Dave Angel played from 2 until 4am and was really into it, taking the crowd with him, playing fairly hard beats.
A little later I discovered a really cool tea tent, serving all kinds of teas, in pots with the little China bowls to drink them out of. I had maté tea served in in a gourd and drunk through a metal straw with a strainer at the bottom. It's not tea at all really but some South American shrub with a stimulant effect and all kinds of amino acids in it - apparently some tribes virtually live off the stuff.
At around 6am I discovered that Laurent Garnier hadn't made it. He would have been the real highlight for me so I was a bit disappointed but had had a wicked time anyway. Making it back to the campsite at about 7am I met Scott who was just getting up, chatted for a little while and then went to bed, being fast asleep (snoring) within a couple of minutes of disappearing into my tent. Unfortunately I was rudely awakened at about 10:30 by the sun beating down on my tent making it virtually impossible to sleep, but I got a few hours in and am fully recovered now!
2nd July 2001
We set out late from Prague, having had a minor hitch with Scott's Russian visa, in that his replacement visa was for the same dates as the initial one, so he now has two identical visas. So if you happen to be Scott Zentack's doppelganger then I'm sure he'd accept payment in kind in return for a Russian visa.
After multiple goodbyes we finally left Prague, aiming to do about 114 km through some fairly beautiful countryside to a town about halfway between Prague and Brno, the Czech Republic's second city.
We were beginning to think about lunch when we came across a whole row of cherry trees beside the road, just beginning to ripen. We stopped and started picking, at first just eating and then getting more and more carried away, climbing the trees and collecting. We ended up with three carrier bags full that would last us for the next three days!
It turned out to be a long day, making it to our destination around 7pm we then proceeded to look for one of the several campsites on our map. After a couple of false starts we located the swimming pool/ leisure complex that was meant to house a campsite only to discover that this had closed down a few years ago, despite directions from at least two locals in the town.
So it was time for my first real free camping experience. We headed out of town in the rapidly fading light, looking for a secluded spot away from the road. We eventually came upon a little copse about 10km from town where we judged we were fairly safe.
3rd July 2001
Leaving early and eating breakfast on the road, we headed for Brno, another significant ride at 145 km, about 90 miles. The conditions were good for the first half of the day but by mid afternoon it was becoming broody and later began to rain on us - not what you want at the end of a hard day.
Using our trusty map we had located 4 or 5 campsites outside Brno, one of them on a lake, sounding quite picturesque. On reaching the centre of Brno we tried to orientate ourselves to leave the other side and find the site only to be approached by an officious policeman with nothing better to do than tell us that we were not allowed to cycle down this particular road and must return and find another route. Luckily we had been spotted by a guy with ruffled white hair, riding a bicycle and wearing shorts. He approached us and asked us, in perfect BBC English about ourselves and where we were going. He knew where we were headed that evening and said he'd cycle with us to point us in the right direction out of town. One of the many simple kindnesses you find on the road.
It turned out he was a writer who had written on controversial issues in communist times but had also been an engineer at a mine, making him useful to the government and giving him a little leeway to take more chances with his writing. He had learned English through listening to the BBC World Service and you could tell. We had wondered at first if he was an ex-pat.
Leaving town, I nearly wiped out on a wet tramline - very treacherous things. He left us on a main road to the satellite town where our campsite was located. We were fairly tired by this point and the wet dual carriageway was not particularly pleasant.
We eventually found the camping/motel complex only to be told they hadn't done camping for the last five years. Again!! On leaving we met a Dutch couple on bikes called Heidi and Stuart (not his real name but what he used for foreigners incapable of understanding his utterly unpronounceable Dutch name). Naturally they spoke excellent English and we told them the score. They'd had a hard day too so we said we were going to find a spot for free camping and did they want to join us.
They did, so we headed into the countryside and looked for a spot to camp eventually finding a secluded spot on the edge of a field. It was good to meet people and sit around chatting and eating for the evening. I even made up some stewed cherries!
As the light was dying we spotted a shadowy figure making his way down the edge of the field with what turned out to be a gun over his shoulder! We wondered what was going to happen but there was nothing we could do so we let him approach us, not without a little nervousness. On reaching us he looked at us, muttered something in Czech and made a few hand gestures before moving on. We figured that he was probably as startled and bothered by us as we were by him, being more likely to be a hunter than a farmer. We did wonder if he might return with his mates though!
4th July 2001
Crossing the border into Austria the next day we decided not to change any money Austria being prohibitively expensive. So we stocked up on food and prepared for another night's free camping. No facilities for three days - charming!
All the towns we passed through in Austria seemed to be dead, no-one one the streets; empty squares and deserted parks. As evening came we looked for our spot, eventually coming across a deserted house down a drive, away from prying eyes. It seems someone else had thought much the same previously!
There turned out to be two houses, both of them deserted and in a pretty dilapidated condition, crumbling masonry and smashed windows. Of course we climbed in and had a look around.
The place was full of junk of all descriptions. Several rooms in one of the houses were filled with decommissioned slot machines and their innards. There were stacks of papers, some official looking, even some children's exercise books. We saw cooking equipment, games, toys, photos - everything under the sun. Peoples lives were laid out in front of us, just abandoned, presumably in a hurry. It looked to us through various evidence that this was fairly recent and we figured that it was probably refugees or immigrants of some description, squatting in the place. It was quite spooky all in all, should really have been haunted. We considered sleeping on the floor inside to save unpacking the tents but thought better of it, camping in the grounds.
6th July 2001
A hard day's cycling across a dull, endless plain into a strong headwind, from Bratislava to Komaron on the Hungarian border. By the late afternoon we were knackered, with about two hours to go till the border. Then we were passed by a tractor pulling a high backed trailer. Rory raced off and caught it's tailwind, gesturing us to follow and before long we were sitting comfortably behind the tractor, being sucked along at a steady 30kmph, using virtually no effort at all. We speculated that he might even go all the way to Komaron, not believing that our luck could hold out that far. To our amazement we spent an hour following the tractor, covering the last 30km effortlessly, eventually waving a very grateful goodbye to the farmer only a few hundred meters from the border!
On the other side in Hungary we met a local who'd been over the border to buy beer. He told us the low down - please, thank you etc in Hungarian and then led us to a campsite a couple of hundred meters away with thermal mineral baths of all things. Very much appreciated after a hard day's cycling. Had a beer with him and went to bed.
8th July 2001
We have now reached Budapest having had an eventful week's cycling since Prague. This week has felt like the beginning of the trip for real, with the passing of western/central Europe and some mixed emotions including excitement, anticipation, not to mention the last opportunity to feel homesick. It is only now that I have really begun to appreciate what I am leaving behind, what is to come (in as much as I can) and the fact that we are spending virtually all our time for the next nine months together.
24th July 2001
Hungary to Ukraine
We have made it to Odessa on the other side of Europe, deep into the former Soviet Union and the former home of the Soviet Black Sea Fleet. Since Budapest things have really seemed to feel that bit more remote and different from home. I have said this before but now the trip is truly underway, we are about to set off for Chelyabinsk and Siberia and will be seeing little in the way of western amenities or even amenities or settlements of any description. Long days cycling with little or no entertainment en route await.
From Budapest we cycled relatively quickly across the Hungarian plain. Things began to change at this point. The roads became much quieter with more horses and carts and bicycles and fewer cars. Service stations to fill up with water became few and far between and we began to use the standpipes in the street that appeared at this point. The terrain was mostly flat (a bonus) but not desparately interesting.
Crossing into Romania we had a few reservations, feeling it to be that bit further from western Europe and a little more wild and perhaps even dangerous, in part based upon what others along the route had said. It's true that it's less developed but we couldn't have been more wrong about potential dangers to us.
The roads it has to be said were truly appalling with potholes big enough to fit the diameter of your wheel, although I'm sure we'll encouter worse.
On the first full day in Romania we set off around 9am and cycled for around half an hour before finding somewhere for breakfast. We went into a little shop with sparsely stocked shelves, run by a very friendly Hungaro/Romanian woman who hardly spoke any English (Transylvania has a large Hungarian population). We bought some bread and jam and a few other sundries and went to sit outside on the pavement to eat them. Before we knew it she came out and insisted on us coming back in and eating at her table in the shop. She plied us with free drinks and we tried to communicate as best we could in English and German. She seemed a little frustrated, as if she had a lot to say but obviously couldn't express it to us, we got the impression that she was probably well educated, perhaps an academic, for some reason confined to running her shop. An early example of the many small kindnesses we would meet in Romania.
I met my first real hill that day, although not a particularly impressive one at around 500m, it was still a hell of a climb, particularly given the fact that I was phisically exhausted for some reason, probably a virus. On the other side the landscape seemed very alpine, with highly decorated churches beside the road and houses in an Austrian style, although without the very obvious wealth of that part of the world.
Soon we were following a river downstream although the wind was in our faces so it didn't seem like it at all, working hard to go downhill. After a while my legs had nothing left to give and we stopped to pick up food for the inevitable free camping (Romania just doesn't do campsites). In the shop Andy got chatting to a guy with a Euro 96 T shirt on who turned out to be a leader of a Baptist summer camp for local children who wouldn't get a holiday of any kind otherwise. He invited us to cycle 7km up a side valley to the camp and sleep there, which we duly did.
It was a beautiful journey up to the camp, with a gurgling stream running alongside the road, shepherds tending their flocks, cow and sheep bells ringing around the valley and the ever present locals waving at us.
On arriving we found a half built camp nestling in the crook of two forested valleys, running on very little money and containing lots of curious children and our very hospitable host, "Chi Chi". He had a lot to say on the changes, Europe, globalisation etc and seemed a genuinely good man, working to give something to the kids.
We were fed and watered and made to feel very welcome. Late in the evening there was a fire aranged since it was the last night. This was a traditional Romanian way of doing a fire, quite unlike anything I have seen before.
A live birch tree was cut down and staked vertically into the ground on the site of the fire. It was then surrounded with branches leant against it to a height of around six feet. The fire was lit and took a while to get going. When it did it began to fry the leaves sending sparks high into the air. The fire burnt for some while, needing continuous tending and we began to wonder if it was like spin the bottle, whoever the tree falls on has good luck. Eventually it came down in a relatively managed way, but I did have my doubts. We'd have health and safety up there like a shot in the UK.
The following day the alpine valleys transformed into rolling hills. I was finding it very hard work again and by late afternoon was more than ready to stop. We had a couple of beers at a bar literally in the middle of nowhere and then moved on with still less energy, quickly realising we had to stop soon. Luckily fate was smiling on us again.
We passed a field with a wooden building and a large camper van with Italian plates. Thinking "western European" we stopped to ask if he knew of any campsites - i.e. "can we camp in your field".
It turned out to be a cutting shop for timbers for prefabricated pine houses, run by a guy called Allessio from Rome. He of course invited us to stay and we chatted with him and his local night watchman Tibor. Tibor appeared quite a comic character due to his complete lack of English and burly appearance. This wasn't helped by the fact that we saw him climbing down the well the following morning to attempt to retrieve a power tool dropped down there by a love rival.
We chatted and ate pasta with Allessio, enjoying the company greatly. The following morning we were served genuine Italian cappucino made with fresh milk straight from the local cow. The well water tasted fantastic too, despite the powertool!
Passing through the Romanian countryside, pitchforks seem to be the order of the day. Forget Ford Escorts with bass bins in the boot pumping out hard beats - it's the size of your pitch fork or scythe that counts here!
On Sunday 15th I climbed my first real mountain at 1100m. It was quite a long climb up the valley before it began in earnest. Even then I found it far easier than the previous one when I'd been exhausted. On reaching the top of the pass we found the inevitable beer stop and chilled out for a bit - a welcome reward. After that it was downhill for 40 kms, albeit into the wind, to a lake and a free campsite. The town turned out to be nothing more than a glorified bus interchange with a couple of cafes, a mechanic's shop and a tack market. Reminiscent of some places in India. It was made more bizare by the appearance of an Arriva bus (they run services in the South of England).
Overall Romania was very friendly and beautiful, I thoroughly recommend it.
So we passed into the former Soviet Union and Moldova. The border was the most complicated yet with our bags being x-rayed and lots of forms to fill in. They were very friendly though and we got photos taken with the boss! We now had 48 hours to cross the country, about 250kms.
On getting through, the roads were instantly better and the countryside was not full of people in the same way as in Romania. It seemed just a little less unspoilt and unsophisticated than Romania - the agriculture was clearly not dependent on musclepower in the same way.
We didn't have too much of a chance to see that much of Moldova but I didn't get too much of an impression of there being that much to see, outside of the capital Chisinau. This was a reasonable size town with the usual amenities and some interesting buildings that we didn't really have time to investigate.
On heading out of the town, we had stopped at the side of the road to grab snacks when we were approached by a friendly looking, bearded man called Victor who wanted to buy us beers and talk to us. Who were we to say no! He turned out to be a water eco-system scientist with 25 patents to his name but without the support to develop them. I get the impression that a lot of Soviet science has gone this way, resulting in nuclear secrets and materials finding their way onto the international black market. He was making his money through web portals and maintaing his first love of hydrology as a hobby, I suspect keeping open the hope of being able to really take it somewhere at some point.
After thanking him and exchanging addresses we moved on, thinking of where we would camp. We were passed at high speed by a couple of Tri-athletes on racers. Rory managed to catch them and make conversation, in the process gaining us a place to stay. People are wonderful.
Andrei and Vladimir knew of a spot by a lake where we could free camp and took us there, probably frustrated by our lack of speed, due to the fact that our bikes probably weighed 5 times as much as theirs.
We set up camp and Rory was taken off to get some food and drink. He was taken to Andrei's Dacha which contained an orchard with all kinds of fruit and vegetables, with which he was amply plied, not to mention the jam that had just been made.
They returned to the site after an hour or so of local hospitality and we spent a very pleasant evening eating, drinking and chatting by the lake although Andrei and Vladimir weren't drinking because it turned out thery were Moldova's two Tri-athletes and were in a race in Austria the following Friday. They will be trying for the Olympics so if you ever see a Moldovan team, cheer them on, they were great hosts.
he next day we passed into the self declared Republic of Transdniestra, complete with Russian people, Soviet ideology and iconography and dodgy currency. It has managed to spend ten years going it alone within Moldova, in an unsustainably small area, propped up basically by Russia.
The border was fun, being taken into a portacabin that seemed just a little toy soldierish. It was manned by a military official sat at a desk with a bed behind it almost like it was a genuine war situation in the field. They filled in the required forms, giving us Israeli style visas on a paper insert rather than actually stamp the passport. There was no Moldovan exit post since they don't recognise that there is a border there.vIn some ways the country was in a Soviet time warp but it did seem to be running. The capital city was obviously small and quite what infrastructure there was I'm not sure, but these are trifling matters.vOn the other side (not very far at all) we sailed through the Transdniestran border relatively easily. I got the impression that perhaps they didn't need to take things too seriously since no-one recognised them. Then suddenly the border guard asked to take another look at the passports and picked out Rory's.vHis Ukrainian visa it seems, had been given the wrong dates, expiring 10 days previously. It felt like the first major testing event - what would we do. We started making plans for Rory to return to Chisinau to sort out a new vias at the Ukrainian Embassy and he tried to call Victor to see if he could help (an amazing spot of luck that we had just made two contacts in the capital). He couldn't get through on the phone and returned to talk to the rest of us. We were making all sorts of contingency plans by this stage when suddenly, out of the blue, the Transdniestran guard told us to try our luck with the Ukrainians! I smelt a bit of a rat, thinking something was up so we went through and I think their response on the other side was so prompt it was almost as though they were expecting us - as if the Transdniestrans had called through.
We were taken into a small room by two guards and asked the usual questions for the forms. The guards were very friendly and we tried to appear as relaxed as possible. They filled out slips of paper which they attached to our visas, reading our papers and transfering details. We had carefully placed Rory's passport third from the top in the pile to maximise our chances of it not being noticed, but I don't think these guards make mistakes. All four visa slips had the same correct dates on, and they let us through, not mentioning anything, except a few hints about how nice my watch was and dropping the word presents into the conversation. They were very happy with some of our accumlation of European coins though. So Rory is in the country illegally with their tacit approval (or blind eye) I think, the visas have to be registered at your hotel which we achieved with no problem, the only thing now is getting out of the country.
So we made it to Odessa, a relaxed port with Mediterranean style boulevards, pavement cafes and grand Russian empire buildings.
Sunday was spent for Rory and I running around trying to find bike shops to fix buckled and broken wheels. I discovered a spoke ripped clean off my rim, we think by a very large Moldovan bump that literally sent me airbourne. Replacement rim it is then. We were directed by the bike shop to a repair man in a bazaar on the edge of the city and placed in a beat up Lada taxi to get there. The Ladas are cheaper than newer cars and are unmarked, simply being somewhere between light yellow and beige in colour you just have to keep trying to hail them until one stops.
The ride was exciting, cutting through traffic, crunching gears and generally having more adrelelin flowing than is really healthy. The card we were given took us to a guy called Dima. He seemed to know his stuff so we left him with my back wheel to replace the rim, my front wheel to sort out dodgy bearings and Andy's back wheel to straighten (it turned out he had a broken spoke too, but not a broken rim).
Dima turned out to be another very friendly helpful character and when we turned out to be still on the street trying to hail a cab 15 minutes after we left him at the end of his day's work, he drove past, saw us and gave us a lift into the centre of town. So if you're in Odessa needing bike parts - he's your man.
If you've made it the end of this you've obviously got a long attention span! It's taken me several hours to write but I figure we won't be seeing many internet cafe's for a while. So until Rostov or maybe Chelyabinsk in around a month.
31st July 2001
Odessa to Rostov
We have reached Rostov after a hard week's cycling; which was described to us last night by a slightly dodgy looking Lithuanian drinking with his "business partner" as the mother city of bandits to Odessa's father! It does seem a little bit like that being as how it is crawling with military - it just has that feeling in the air! It is not so far from Chechnya and the volatile Caucuses - we even met a Chechen last night who said something about being in the military but it was difficult to make out the full picture.
We rode the 789 kms from Odessa in 6 days, quite hard work but we didn't miss much on the way - there were two or three big cities but between cities in the Ukraine there really is bugger all. Cornfields that go on for ever, grain on the roads and towns that consist of precisely nothing with very little apparent reason to exist. One doesn't really like to write things off too easily, but as far as most of the Ukraine goes, it really isn't holiday destination number one.
The people as ever were friendly and curious, thinking we were mad for the most part.
One of the most enduring memories must be of turning a corner at the top of a hill in Maryopol (I think) and seeing this enormous factory complex, complete with Soviet iconography, stretching into the distance belching out all kinds of smoke into a deep red sky. It seemed to go on forever with all roads leading to it and looked like something out of a sci fi movie like Blade Runner or Total Recall (is that the one with the factories on Mars?). We had to cycle along underneath it for what must have been at least a kilometer and it really did begin to hurt your throat and lungs. Give me London smog any day!
Cycling along in the Ukraine, we were waved down by the police, presumably for riding two abreast. They asked to see our documents and at this point Rory began shaking slightly and whether he needed clean pants later he did not say. Anyway they looked at the passports and even glanced over Rory's illegal one but did not spot the mistake; they chatted to us and sent us on our way in single file!
It was not so simple when we got to the border however. After initially looking at our passports and taking them into the office, a few minutes later one of the officers returned and said "James Rory, problem!"
They explained that his visa was out of date and that they couldn't just let him pass out of the country and we did our best to look surprised, saying that we'd been stamped in so thought everything was ok. After some blustering and chatting amongst themselves thay started asking us questions like how much money we had and how much our bikes were worth! Ok course we only had about 30 dollars between us and the bikes were worth a mere 300 dollars each. They also wanted to change 100 dollars worth of Roubles (at what turned out to be a reasonable rate) but since we'd already said we only had 30 or so that was out of the question. So they went back inside and made us wait with our bikes for what seemed like an age, probably at least an hour. They were trying to contact the border that let us in or perhaps an embassy but it was a Sunday which can't have helped. Eventually they came out and said it was all ok. It's amazing how these things can be sorted when they want them to! So we proceeded through the Russian border controls and on to the customary first beer of the country.
We checked into the Hotel Tourist and having filled in a million and one forms managed to get out to have a drink. Firstly we went to an MTV style bar meeting a suited, middle aged man sitting at a table of three young girls and generally looking like it was business rather than pleasure. Moving on to a beer tent in the park, we met our Chechen friend and after chatting for a bit we decided it was time to leave after two soldiers turned up and started talking to him, about what we didn't know, but neither did we wish to find out!
Having rested for a day in Rostov (and hopefully not come to any harm by the time we leave), we proceed to Volgagrad at a fast pace, from where I will choose from either 6 or 7 consecutive 100 - 110 mile days or take a pleasant interlude on a Volga cruise. Decisions decisions!
18th August 2001
Rostov to Samara.Trains, strains and bureaucrats.
Leaving Rostov, it was still hot although not so punishing as the 40 odd degrees of the Ukraine. The roads remained long, fairly straight and, frankly boring, undulating in long up and down cycles broken up by the odd flat stretch.
I'd been having energy problems on the way to Rostov, running out of energy inexplicably mid afternoon on several occasions. This was not a matter of simply feeling tired but sheer exhaustion, being unable to do anything other than plod along at between ten and twelve miles an hour. The heat, I suspect made it worse but it remained a problem even after the weather cooled a little. So when I had the same problem after two days rest in Rostov I considered I needed a more substantial break in order to recover for the ardures ahead. Crossing Siberia was the number one priority and I felt it important that I be in top condition for that stretch of the journey after Chelyabinsk.
So the second morning after leaving Rostov I decided to catch a train to Volgagrad (aka Stalingrad). This I thought should be a relatively simple affair although I was not completely naïve to the rigours of Russian bureaucracy.
The first problem was simply getting into the station. There was a nice big, obvious front door but that would be far too simple. Then there was a second one off to the left a few metres. That too was locked but a kind Russian pointed me around the corner to a little side entrance through which I accessed the ticket office.
There were two ticket windows with a couple of fairly nebulous queues, one of which I joined although whether it made any difference which, I'm not sure. Queueing in Russia is quite different from in England and quite frustrating for someone used to our way of doing things. It is not clear quite where the queue is and who is in it. People are constantly joining and leaving the queue, apparently pushing in and it is difficult to know exactly where you stand. To make matters worse people will go to the front and talk to the person serving over the top of the person being served. It is almost impossible to get someone's undivided attention in this country. When you do get to the front, you must be forceful. If you meekly wait to be served like a good Englishman the vendor will continue with whatever they are doing, however trivial it appears to be. So you must be assertive and speak to them first, pretty much demanding service, otherwise you will be ignored. You will find other people doing this of the top of you while you are being served if you let your attention slip for one moment so it is important to hold the vendor's attention.
We have discovered that in Russia nyet does not mean nyet. When you ask if something is possible or whether someone has something be it to sell or tap water to fill your bottles (this is obviously quite a constant concern of ours), it is worth not taking no for an answer or just putting your question differently. So when I was told diffinitively that in order to travel to Volgagrad, I could travel today and my bike would go on Thursday, I plugged on, insisting as I obviously had to, that I could under no circumstances be separated from my bike. After some discussion it became possible for me to travel at the same time as my bike but only if I could "make small" or dismantle it. I was not entirely sure what they meant by dismantle but I said yes it could be, planning to simply go ahead anyway, doing the bare minimum to get on the train.
Having established that, yes there was a train to Volgagrad, today, that I could buy a ticket and yes I could take my bike, they told me that it was at two o'clock and that I should return at twelve to buy my ticket and then someone would help me to get my bike on the train, I returned to the cafe outside where the others were waiting. Having established that I would be alright they cycled off into the sunset.
So I returned at twelve, found no one who was obviously waiting for me so I queued again like the good little Englishman that I am. Where there is a problem, the answer can usually be found in a queue of some sort! Reaching the front of the queue I went through the same rigmorole as last time, hoping someone would remember me and help me out. There was no one there to explain what to do with the bike or help me pack it so I simply bought a ticket to Volgagrad. If the worst came to the worst I reasoned, I could simply carry my bike onto the train and present whatever conductor I found with a fait acompli. Sheer brute force can go a long way in these situations.
Buying the ticket involved some further unexpected bureaucracy which said something about the level of freedom in the new Russia. In order to buy a ticket, any ticket on train or boat (and I presume long distance coaches too) you must present your passport in order that the ticket can be made out with your name on it. The state therefore wishes to keep a close track on who is moving where and restrict their movement if necessary. Russia is by no means a free country. I was later told by a newfound Russian friend that the government wished to keep track of Chechen terrorists and their like. To me this seems a little paranoid and something of an over reaction to restrict the movements of the entire population to combat a terrorist threat - even our wonderfully paranoid and authoritarian New Labour government has not gone that far in the wake of the Ealing bombing has it? I don't know, perhaps it has, I am a little out of touch.
Having bought the ticket I went to wait at the cafe by the platform. I only had a couple of hours to wait, or so I thought, so I sat with my diary out and a beer on the table. There were plenty of people waiting on the platform, as if for the weekly train, so I reckoned I would be alright.
Around quarter to two I readied myself for the problems that a simple act of getting on a train might present. Two o'clock came and went, nothing happened. No problem I reckoned, trains can be late, even in England! After ten minutes or so I became a little more agitated, wondering what was going on and whether I should be worried. I reassured myself that the only way to survive this kind of situation was to chill out and wait for it to happen. By three o'clock this attitude was begining to wear thin so I asked a local on the platform if there was a train to Volgagrad and he said yes, at two o'clock. I realised that what I had suspected for a little while was true, not being conversant in the 24 hour clock, I was in for a long wait.
I had little option to buy another drink and watch the world go by, something I was not entirely averse to. The rest of the day was spent drinking beers then soft drinks, then beers, just enough to justify my place at the open air bar and excuse my eating my bread and cheese.
Around nine someone came along and said he would return around ten and help me pack my bike. Glad that someone knew that I existed, we were finally getting somewhere I thought. Still not know quite how much dismantling I would be expected to do I prepared my bags shortly before 10 and waited. Of course he turned up in Russian time at about 20 past, but I was not complaining. And then suddenly, the train pulled in three and a half hours early! He helped me lift my bike into the train with no dismantling whatsoever and we were off.
The conductor kindly showed me to a four berth compartment, instructing me to bring my bike with me and place it on the upper bunk. I was unsure about this, feeling that both I and the bike would be safer if it had less far to fall but he insisted so I locked it to one of the fittings, thinking at least there may be some warning if it rips the fitting from the wall as it falls.
Not long after, as I was ordering my things and thinking I'd done rather well for myself getting a four berth compartment, I was greeted by a knock at the door. It was a businessman from Tomsk who spoke some English, trying to explain that I must pay a further 1000 Rubles on top of the 500 I'd already paid, for the privelidge of carring my bike. I smelt something of a rat so asked that he actually got the conductor rather than just passing on the message and expecting to take my money. This he duly did and they explained first that it was business class, and then that I was taking up four berths and therefore would have to pay for them. This seemed reasonable enough although there was no question of any receipt or extra ticket, somewhat strange for a country so obssessed with paperwork. So it was to be 1000 Rubles, about 20 pounds although they made the concession that I could pay just an extra 500 Rubles and then maybe there would be other people using the other two berths. Too tired to worry and a little concerned about security, I paid up, thinking there was a fair chance I was being had but not wanting to argue. The moment I paid up, the bed was made and I was served with Russian cognac, treated, well, as if I was in Russian business class I suppose. I slept surprisingly well, awoke at half four and awaited our arrival in Volgagrad at 5am as the sun arose.vAs I left the station, the town was still sleeping, the sun was on the horizon and even the usual street vendors you find at stations were not yet active. Not knowing which way to go, I headed off in an arbitrary direction. Asking directions to the centre I seemingly confirmed that I was headed in the right direction. So I carried on, just following my nose. I came across a rather large and impressive Lenin and decided to investigate. Behind him I could see an obelix with a road leading down to it. Following the road down, I found the obelix was beside the river. Alongside it stood a derelict factory, left as it stood after the Battle of Stalingrad. It had holes blown in it and all that remained was the bare skeletal brickwork. This apparently was how the whole city looked at the end of the battle, completely devastated. It was a moving sight and was to be only one of many monuments to the war in Volgagrad.
I cycled around, finding no particular centre to speak of and then eventually came across the Hotel Volgagrad, a grand old hotel overlooking the main square, complete with Lenin statue, which had been the resting place for many famous figures, the more notable among them being Stalin, Gorbachev and several cosmonauts. I booked in, it being affordable despite it's grandeur and relaxed for the first time in days. The room had sattelite TV which was good for BBC World if nothing else and a telephone from which I could call my bank in England for those essential financial matters. The telephone would provide amusement later in the evening when it rang at about 9 o'clock and I was greeted by a voice saying "You would like Russian girls?". Not quite as abrupt as the call in the hotel in Rostov which merely said "Sex yes, sex no?".
In the afternoon I went looking for Mother Russia, the most impressive of Volgagrad's war monuments, standing 200 metres high! This is a statue of Mother Russia, sword raised high and robes flowing. She is situated on a hill which you must approach from the main road up several long flights of steps, over a distance of what must be around 500 metres. The steps climb the hill and level out at several points passing a fountain, an eternal flame and up through a semicircular wall with typically communist, angular carvings of faces and figures of all sizes subtly running into each other, all bravely fighting for the motherland and also hiding in there, a Lenin to remind everyone what it's all for. As you walk through this you are bombarded with the constant sound of battle and rousing speeches. The statue itself is absolutely immense, being visible for miles around as I would discover when I left the city. The big toes are probably about the size of the foot on an average statue. I spent a little time there before returning to the hotel to entangle myself in further Russian bureaucracy trying to use the internet, and then bed.
The following day I was reunited with the others who had had a couple of hard days cycling into the wind and the difficulties of making Chelyabinsk for the 15th were becoming apparent. Scott had to get to Chelyabinsk in plenty of time in order to sort out his visa and Rory was keen to see his dad and their friend Natasha with whom we are staying in Chelyabinsk. Which left Andy, the hardcore, fundmentalist cyclist, absolutely determined to cycle every inch of the way to Singapore and more than capable of cycling 100 - 110 miles a day for 10 days if necessary to do it.
So Scott, Rory and I decided to take a river boat cruise up the Volga to Samara, a trip lasting two days. I had already bought a train ticket to Ufa, not having expected to meet the others in Volgagrad and so after buying the boat ticket early in the morning of the 5th I now had to try to get some money back for the train ticket (I knew I could not possibly expect a full refund). That alone would have been problematic enough but by the time I got to the station, my ticket had incurred a small tear to the corner. The corner was not missing, just hanging by a small thread. This caused the bureaucratic mind to go into sheer apoplexy. Phone calls were made, glances exchanged and handbooks consulted. My ticket had a "defect" I was told and therefore was void and could not be refunded. If I wanted to try harder (remember nyet does not necessarily mean nyet) I would have to take it up with head office in Saratov. Fat chance. I wrote off the money and went back to eat breakfast at the hotel before boarding at 12pm.
We were allocated a 4 berth cabin with room for the bikes, in the bows right down near the waterline. It had openable portholes and we could feel the spray from the bows although they weren't quite big enough to fall out of without really trying hard. The boat left and then passed through a series of huge dams before truly getting underway. The Volga is absolutely immense, at points being more of a lake than a river. For much of the way the far bank was merely a thin line on the horizon. Where it was visible, the terrain was mostly rolling grasslands with little agriculture evident.
The boat trip was as expected very relaxing. We spent a couple of days just sitting around, reading, writing and drinking beers. I met a very interesting guy call Fyodor who told me lot about Russian history and politics. Apparently at the time of the changeover from the Soviet Union to Russia, when the currency was converted there was just one week in which to change your Soviet Roubles for Russian Roubles before the Soviet ones became entirely worthless. So anyone who had all their assets in cash and could not get to the bank to exchange them, was made a pauper. Along with all the other ways in which former state assets (factories etc) were simply seized by force by those with the power to walk in and take them, a great theft was conducted at the time of the changes, redistributing wealth from the many to the few.
On one evening I attempted to eat at the restaurant on the boat, arriving just before nine. Things were a little confused at first but they then told me to wait, sending someone off to the other end of the boat and probably phoning Moscow to find out whether they were open or not. Eventually it turned out that they were but could only serve a fried egg with bread so I thought better of it and ate in the cabin instead.
We left the boat to continue it's way up to Moscow (at least another week) at Samara and passed through the British Council there on our way out of town. Having spent an hour there, chatting to them and appreciating the home from home feeling we left town behind to face the journey to Chelyabinsk, aiming to make it in a week of 80-90 mile days.
23rd August 2001
Samara to Petropavlosk - an early taste of Asia and Siberia.
This stretch of the journey had a slightly different feel to it being only three of the four cyclists. The dynamic is different, the way we interact. Decisions are made quicker I think and the way we relate to each other changes slightly. Maybe it's just that we have someone else to slag off!
Between Samara and the Urals involved some relatively long days cycling, although we didn't get quite as far as we'd hoped on several occasions, and the landscape was not desparately interesting for much of the way. We did however meet some interesting people, and even got to handle a Kalashnikov, although I'm sure this was slightly less remarkable for our Texan friend!
Late one afternoon, we'd cycled around 70 miles so had another 10 - 20 to do but felt relaxed enough to have a coffee stop. Pulling up a just another truck stop cafe we sat at a table outside next to a group of 3 men eating some kind of chicken dish and drinking vodka. The intention was to have a coffee and move on but when Rory and Scott said they fancied what these men were eating, and why not a beer too, who was I to argue.
Sitting down, breaking into our beers the men started talking to us. It turned out they were plain clothes police officers (that's the former KGB to you and me!). So when they offered us some of their vodka, well, it would be rude not to!
They were on their way from Samara, over 1000 miles, to Moldova. What for I'm not sure since this is another country, no doubt with it's own former KGB. We thought at first they were just hard enough and above the law enough to be drinking their way there but it turned out that the third guy was their driver, sitting there not drinking and getting bored. One vodka turned into another, going down the only way they can, in one, and in time we had demolished 3 bottles (OK they were half bottles). So we spent a good hour or two chilling out with the secret police talking about all the changes in Russia and everything else like you do, and they even (jokingly I suspect, but then maybe...) offered us cocaine and marijuana. We felt that on this occasion it might be better to decline even if this might be seen as a social faux pas.
Being quite drunk, Rory asked to drive their Brand spanking new Lada - the best the state can do for them although one of them claimed to have a top end Volvo - I can only imagine whether this was legitimate or not. I rode in the car with Rory and the police driver as Rory span around the car park and I think both I and the driver were a little glad when it was over. Ladas have not changed said Rory, despite outward appearances to the contrary.
Naturally we did not make it more than a mile down the road afterwards, thinking it safer not to be wobbling down it with distinctly uncycle-friendly lorries hurtling along in the dusk (I say hurtling along, on Russian roads this means about 40 miles an hour, but it's scary enough for me). We found a beautiful free camping spot on a grassy downland hill overlooking a valley and a town.
Within a few days of leaving Samara we were heading into the foothills of the Urals, all quite excited about leaving Europe and crossing a land border into another continent. We knew in advance that the Urals were not a huge mountain range, being about the size of the Cairngorms in Scotland. It is their position that makes them significant.
We began climbing, slowly at first, the air becoming distinctly fresher and the landscape and flora becoming more mountainous. This near constant climbing, with some downhills (frustrating really since you have to gain the height again) is actually far more enjoyable than the continuous rolling hills of previous days. That just becomes boring and tiring whereas climbing the Urals we knew we were getting somewhere, with each hill being higher than the last and the landscape was far more enjoyable.
We awoke on the morning of the 13th August in a pine forest, with a whiff of Asia in our noses, knowing it could not be far now. At our breakfast stop cafe we discovered it was about 100km, meaing we should make it mid to late afternoon.
Then something incredible happened. We'd stopped mid morning at a cafe for water and perhaps a coffee, and Rory and Scot were fiddling with their bikes whilst I was inside ordering. All of a sudden I looked over my shoulder and there was Andy chatting to them. It seems he'd been cycling along and saw Scott from a distance and thought "oh my God, another cycle tourist" and concequently slowed down to stop. He then thought, "he looks like Scott.... He is Scott"!
Of course we were forced to stop and exchange stories over a beer. He was actually convinced that he was ahead of us since we'd been leaving messages for him at the roadside, twice in chalk on the tarmac and once on paper in my tyre which had blown out. He'd got all of these which had the time we left them on them and since he hadn't seen any more he assumed he'd passed us. He'd been doing 100 - 110 mile days every day for 9 days!
Around 5pm, coming over the top of a hill we saw what we had all been waiting for, the sign saying we had reached Asia. This was a large obelix with the inevitable line down the middle for people to photograph themselves with an arbitrary foot in each continent. Obligingly I took a photo of my bike with a wheel on either side.
Since we've stopped after crossing every border to have a celebratory beer, we weren't going to cross continents without having a beer. The inevitable cafe was actually on the European side but we had been over the line and back again so I think it counts. One beer turned into two and we cycled a short distance, leaving ourselves 70 miles to take Chelyabinsk the next day.
The ride to Chelyabinsk was a milk run, knowing we had hot showers, good food and soft beds at the end of it, and we made very good time.
Cycling into town we found Revolution Square easily and were speculating that Rory's dad would be walking across it as we got there when, who should we meet, but Carrick with our hosts to be, Victor and his daughter Kaapa. Then to top it off, we saw Natasha, Kaapa's mother, waving out of their flat window on the square, overlooking yet another Lenin.
Chelyabinsk is actually one of the most industrialised and polluted cities in the world. When the wind blows in the wrong direction you know about it but we were fortunate in that respect. The centre is pleasant enough with a park dedicated to Pushkin's fairy tales and a fantastic market buried under the large Revolution Square.
After generally freshening up (a job that badly needed to be done), and settling in, we had a meal with Victor and Natasha and family towards the end of which Victor pulled out the vodka which was duly knocked back. Somehow Andy managed to get very drunk and somewhat embarrased himself (actually he was not in the slightest bit embarassed at the time but the next morning he was suitably so). Personally I'm not convinced he drank much more than anyone else, but anyway, the less said about that the better.
Carrick had brought packages of goodies from respective families, including tyres, spare parts, clothes and general goodies. This really was like Christmas for us, the only difference being that the socks were genuinely appreciated. After a long evening I turned in at about 2am, only shortly after Kaapa the 9 year old daughter with formidable staying power.
The rest of our time in Chelyabinsk was spent sorting out bikes, buying things we needed for the weeks ahead and enjoying the company and hospitality of our host and their friends. After an all too short stay, we had an interview and photoshoot with a local paper, and whilst Rory stayed behind for an extra week, nursing an injured knee, Andy, Scott and I left for Petropavlosk in Kazakhstan and then Omsk, back in Russia where we would meet Rory.
Once out of Chelyabinsk we were truly into Siberia. Long flat roads, stretching into the distance through pine and birch forests and open marshy landscapes. Cycling can become a bit boring in these circumstances but the conversation developed to compensate.
I stood outside the tent on a cold night looking at the stars. I was struck by the absolute silence. In the abscence of light pollution the stars were incredibly bright and I could have sat there listening to the sound of silence and watching shooting stars all night but for the fact I had left my tent dressed only for the biological imperative of taking a piss.
Sitting at a cafe one morning we saw something quite bizzare. A boy, later to become known in our mythology as scissor boy, was going around a grass border, cutting it to what was meant to be an equal length with a pair of scissors. He was having difficulty however, finding the level had got higher or lower every time went around the border, and we felt that someone should point out that even in this area of the world the scythe has long since been invented.
Every time we walk into one of these cafes it is amazing, within a minute of entering cheap western pop music starts blaring out of a tape player at an iritating volume. It's as if they want to impress us with their western outlook, or maybe make us feel at home with one of our less impressive exports. We don't seem to be able to get away from this one. Another thing that often happens in cafes is that they will be short of the correct change - a single rouble is not really worth all that much. So instead of your correct change you will recieve a penny sweet or box of matches to make it up! There's only so many penny sweets you can eat and they're not really my thing anyway.
The people looked increasingly Asiatic as we approached the border, although they had been doing so already for sometime, having been following the border northwards since Samara.
We have not passed through any towns to speak of. The roads we follow are the equivalent of motorways although they are single lane, single carriageway roads of dubious quality most of the time and at this point they are fairly empty. The point being that they bypass all but the most major towns, with only truck stop cafe's on the way. So it is pleasant change to be sitting here in Petropavlosk which has a definate Asian flavour, reminding me of India at times with it's mix of hectic main roads and muddy side streets.
There was something going on this morning with lots of police on the streets, roads blocked off and an organised, select crowd of people looking on to what I can only assume is the seat of regional government. The most we could discover was that there was some kind of delegation from Turkey, we think, but we couldn't be sure. It seemed to have died down by early afternoon when some of the roads had been reopened.
We now head for Omsk, about 250km away, before heading deep into Siberia, on our way to Novosibersk and Irkutsk near Lake Baikal, repositary of 20% of the world's fresh water and home to 200 unique species. And that's when it only just begins to get cold, before Mongolia!
28th August 2001
Petropavlosk to Omsk
Here I am in Omsk, only a few days after I last sent emails from Petropavlosk but in these places you take the opportunities when they arise.
Petropavlosk was a very enjoyable city, we never did find out whether it was a Turkish delegation or the esteemed President of the Kazakh republic who was visiting that morning. The guards we spoke to, who may or may not have understood us and whom we may or may not have understood, said that it was a Turkish delegation. Later in the day I was accosted by two girls who wanted to practice their English and amongst other tings I asked them what was going on in the morning. They said that their esteemed president Nursultan Nazarbayev had been visiting but when we met up with Rory in the Hotel Omsk this morning he said that he had heard (independently) of a Turkish delegation in Petropavlosk.
There was not a lot to do in Petropavlosk but enjoy the ambience - wide roads with a fair amount of traffic, contrasted with muddy tracks around the corner.
The older buildings were of a strong red brick, although this looked like it may have been some kind of "red wash" painted over the top of basic brickwork.
The city was in the midst of transformation. In the centre of town was a wide open pedestrian street lined with trees. Rather than the many shops shouting at you to enter as you would find in the west, there were many shops that you would hardly know were there. Without going in it would be impossible to know what they sold. As one of the Kazakh girls explained, there are not that many shops and we know what they all sell, so there is no problem. From what they said I would be surprised if there were more than10 westerners in the town. There were also a number of more westernised shops with signs advertising themselves over the windows but these were very much in the minority. Also, there was a museum on this main street although that too you would never know was there. Again I only knew because it was pointed out to me.
The evening had a cold tinge to it, like many places that vary in temperature. It reminded me of Nepal in February - daytime temperatures of 20 degrees, nightime ones of freezing or below. At this lattitude the evening was long and it was pleasant just to walk around, watching people and enjoying being in an unspoilt town. At the risk of sounding pretentious, it was nice just to feel that I was in a town which had absolutely no facilities for tourists, be they western or local and in which we were basically a complete novelty.
After Petropavlosk events took an interesting turn. We left at 10:30 having to reach the border back into Russia that evening before our transit visas ran out. It was around 85 miles and having left it late, we would be pushed, not knowing if the border would close or not.
Fortunately it was a pleasant day, mixed cloud and sunshine but dry and the wind was behind us as it basically has been since the Urals (this is the prevailing westerly wind, so we are told and hope). We made good progress but there was a noticeable lack of roadside cafes, upon which we have been relying. It was somewhere around 70 or 80km (50 miles) from Petropavlosk before we found anywhere to eat lunch, at around 2pm. We had been looking for sometime and were about to give up and eat our dry bread at the side of the road when we finally found somewhere.
Relieved, we went in and ordered the usual trree cawffee (rough transliteration) and then tryed to explain the vegetarian bit - it usually works out as mashed potato or cracked wheat, sometimes with fried eggs or salad. If we are lucky this is garnished by smetana, a form of soured cream - something I have gained quite a taste for along with the cracked wheat or gretchka.
Sitting down we had absolutely no idea of the fate that awaited us. Before long the two women who ran the cafe (along with the guy who we suspect was their "bitch") were attempting to talk to us - talk loudly at the foreigners and if they don't understand, try again only louder. We got the message that it was the older one's birthday and that we really ought to partake in their fortified wine (at least that's what I think it was) and birthday cake. They invited themselves to join us at our table and made themselves comfortable.
Before long the fortified wine had turned into vodka and there we were thinking "we absolutely have to make the border tonight... how do we extract ourselves from what is becoming quite an interesting and enjoyable situation, not to mention cycle to the border without crashing". So the vodkas slipped down easily as they do in Russia and the babooshkas became increasingly friendly. Before long the music on the ageing tape player was being turned up and Russian music being switched for dodgy western hits of the eighties. It was at this point that we began to get worried, perhaps the doors would be locked and we would be forced to enlarge the diminished local genepool (if there was such thing as a locality). "Come here westerners, we need your sperm".
Suffice to say that they got as far as dancing around the cafe, dragging us up, standing on stools and insisting we join them. This became a little uncomfortable, not leaast because of the standard of workmanship of the Russian stools. The thought of one collapsing and ending up spreadeagled all over the floor with a 13 stone Russian mama crushing me into the floor did not appeal.
We tried to make clear that we simply had to reach the border by the evening but they seemed quite willing to encarcerate us in their harem. Eventually we managed to drag ourselves clear of the (almost) overwhelming gravitational vortex known as the Cafe Babooshka but not before they had us sign the walls and leave photographs for their pleasure. Well I suppose they don't get many tourists!
We wobbled our way to the border which was a further 40 or so miles, at a good pace of around 25 kmph, making it around 8pm, surprisingly easy considering the late start and hour and a half lost to the crazy cafe women.
On reaching the Kazakh border we were amazed that they hardly looked at our passports. They did see mine and Andy's but seemingly only because we thrust them in their direction, and they did not even look at the visas. They did not even see Scotts passport at all. Having been waved on, we expected to find the Russian passport control on the other side. There was a big sign saying Russia and RSFR but no customs control. We thought perhaps it would be a little way down the road but nothing showed up. So after 5 or 10 miles, having covered about 95 we decided to look for that little spot in the woods for the night. Luckily we did not find a suitable one for a little while since 15 miles after the border and after passing several crossroads, and I think a couple of villages, we finally came up against Russian border controls. So we waited there for probably 20 minutes to half an hour whilst they filled in meaningless bits of paper as bureaucrats the world over are wont to do and then finally proceeded on our way. Finally back in Russia, we quickly found a field on the edge of some woods and set up camp.
For the rest of the journey to Omsk the weather can only be described as minging. On Saturday, when we had hoped to arrive we faced a strong headwind and driving rain all day, and only averaged about 10 miles an hour. Our day was broken only by the welcome respite of a couple of cafes, one of which was decorated in glorious Soviet style, with flags, pictures of Lenin, Stalin and Brezhnev not to mention the traditional Russian tyrant in all new clothes, Yeltsin. Nothing of his puppet Putin yet. They also had an enormous collection of notes and coins from around the world. Nothing to keep the end up for Brittania though but I wasn't about to part with my one ten pound note for distinctly average service.
About 6pm and 40km from Omsk we conceeded that we would not make that evening and decided to cut our losses and camp. We pitched wet and stayed wet - there's little you can do. Everything except what remains in your airtight Ortleibs is wet. When this happens for days on end I imagine it will be miserable. Particularly when it is cold too as it will be soon.
This morning was just as wet, putting on wet clothes was not really an issue since dry ones would have been soaked anyway within five minutes. Fortunately the wind had swung round behind us and we averaged around 28kmph towards the city before getting lost on the labyrinthine route in. Am now dry and, oh so looking forward to getting wet again the day after tomorrow on the way to Novosibersk.
6th September 2001
Omsk - Novosibersk - Krasnoyarsk
Omsk proved to be an enlightening place.
We arrived soaked and had little chance to do anything other than dry ourselves out, make ourselves comfortable and feed our considerable cyclists appetites on our first day.
On the following morning (27th) it was down to business. While Scott and Andy rose early and were terribly organised doing shopping etc, Rory and I, having been drinking vodka until 3am rose a little later despite his need to deal with Russian bureacracy in the morning.
We caught a taxi to the Omsk O.V.I.R office (local government administration) where he needed to get his Russian visa stamped since he'd re-entered the country from Kazakhstan on a train where there were no passport checks. We had a surprisingly easy time when we got there, walking straight into an arbitrary office on a corridor (there was absolutely no indication of what to do) and being directed to an office two doors down where the English speaking woman told Rory that he needed to pay a charge of 20 Roubles (50p) direct into an official bank account, the bank being on the other side of town.
We were in luck again however since a German guy, visiting Omsk with his Russian wife also needed his visa validating (where you stay as a tourist must be registered - quite how we would register the corner of a farmers field I don't know but they seem satisfied with just the first hotel we stayed in in the country). So our newfound friends offered us a lift to the bank and back, a journey and task that would have been a nightmare without a Russian speaker (thanks mate, I'm not sure if I still have your card so if you read this on the diary page, dropp me an email). After returning to the OVIR office we were told they were closed for lunch. It was 1230 and the sign said 1300-1400 but you could guarantee that they would be shut until at least 1430.
So, our friends offered to drive us to a market and a sports shop to find the clothes we would need for the winter ahead whilst we waited. Yet another act of kindness we've encountered on the road. We had some luck, finding some woolen socks but little else and I eventually found myself some waterproof trousers, a little expensive at 1200 Roubles but I didn't have any real choice in the matter since it's something that just had to be bought. Of course my legs will still be wet, from the inside out (I refer to sweating, not wetting myself on the bike, although this might save valuable cycling time), but at least they'll be relatively warm, slightly less wet, and windproof.
After buying my trousers I returned to the hotel where I met Andy and we chatted about our mornings works before wandering back into town to have another look around the shops. Before long we were in one of the many multi purpose shops which either have individual vendors or a central cashier who you pay your 12 Roubles for example, to before returning to say, the bread counter with receipt and picking up 12 Roubles worth of bread, or whatever. It seems a strange system to us but it seems to work, just! Whilst in the shop we were approached by two young ladies wanting to practice their English. Could they walk with us? Of course they could!
So we set out up the street with Kate and Luda. One of the pair was by far the more outgoing although this was probably because she spoke far more English. They asked us about our trip, what we were doing and showed us a few shops for things we needed before as good as insisting that we accompany them to a nightclub that evening. We didn't need too much persuasion having heard Rory's tales of an exciting night out in Chelyabinsk. We were not to be disappointed.
Having checked out the venue - Krystal, part of a cinema and bowling complex, and failing to buy tickets in advance, we had a beer before returning to the hotel in a beat up Lada cab. They're mostly not taxis as such but just drivers (always of Ladas) driving arround picking people up.
Having arranged to meet at our hotel at 10pm, we tried to hail a cab outside and, much to Kate's disgust, failed miserably. So we caught the minibus instead which delivered us to the door anyway so it was no loss.
When we arrived there were many people milling about outside and a large throng of people on the inside around the entrance (they don't do queues as such in Russia!). Andy and I went in to try to get tickets and were greeted by a rather strange but not unpleasant experience. The entrance hall was full of people trying to get tickets or just get in, but they were almost exclusively women. There we werestood in the middle of a crushing crowd, almost entirely surrounded by young Russian women. Life sucks doesn't it!
We discovered that women got in free if they brought another one with them. Unfortunately Kate's friend Luda had had to stay home so she was left to mill about trying to find another single young female to get in with.
Eventually we got in and found ourselves in a cinema with a difference. Not only was there a bar in the open plan lobby but around the corner in the theatre itself there was a bar at the back, large tables and easy chairs down either side of the cinema and wide rows of seats down the middle with small tables and enough space to stand and even dance a little. At the bottom, in front of the screen and a stage was an average sized dancefloor.
Kate said the club was unusually packed but to me it didn't seem so. For one thing you could carry drinks around easily and there was no crush at the bar. There were many seats available although the easy chairs around tables were all reserved. And you had room to breathe on the dance floor.
After some time and a few drinks a klaxon sounded and the music stopped. Imagine that happening in a club in the UK, there you are, just getting into it, loosing yourself in the crowd and the music when they cut the bloody music!! Still, what was to come made up for it. The two stage dancers were replaced by an equally lithe but even more scantilly dressed announcer. She said something, obviously incomprehensible to us and brought onto stage a couple of very attractive young women who looked like they were keen to get their kit off. It was not even clear whether they were from the crowd or paid strippers, there were both through the night, but they seemed pretty good at it. They were replaced variously by lesbian double acts, girls from the audience, strip dancing competitions and, after a pole emerged from the stage, some rather raunchy pole dancing. All this was quite normal it seemed, this was a normal, friendly, family club not a seedy strip joint, honest. As many women in the audience were watching intently as men, all in all it was a little odd, really.
On several occasions through the night we were asked by various men we'd been introduced to what kind of girls did we like, did we like Russian girls etc, before thay mysteriously disappeared returning a few minutes later and introducing us to one of their "friends". It was difficult at times to work out exactly who the proffessionals were and who were the dedicated amateurs but on that note, suffice to say no money changed hands for any of us and discretion allows me to go no further!
Amongst other things we drank vodka with a guy, to the memory of his friend who was a police officer and had been killed that day, met a DJ who played at the club (although I think the extent of DJing was fading one CD into the next) who we think made an announcement about us do to the preponderance of complete strangers coming up to us later in the night saying, "Angliski? Velocipede?". I was taught various vodka rituals and even had the chance to experience a Russian banya (some kind of steam bath) but unfortunately and much to my regret we had to leave town the next day.
All in all it was quite an intense and enlightening night with much alcohol consumed until around 6am. And we were planning to leave early the following morning. Fat chance, at least as far as I was concerned.
I was rudely awakened at 9:30 the following morning by Andy and Scott who had some strange idea about leaving after a mere three hours kip. I told them firmly that I was going straight back to bed and on reawakening just an hour later found no answer from their rooms. Eventually I managed to wake Rory a couple of hours later and found that Scott and Andy had put a note under his door saying they'd gone on and would take it easy, leaving messages on road signs, waiting for us to catch up.
So Rory and I left the Hotel Omsk with varying degrees of hangover, at 2pm wondering when we would see Scott and Andy again. Rory's knee was untested since Chelyabinsk so we had no idea how fast we would be going.
We took it relatively easy leaving town, taking the wrong M53 (??!!) and having to cut back down to the right M53 about 20km along the road. We made a mere 55 miles that day, Rory's knee giving a some mild pain, not to mention him not having cycled for 2 weeks since Chelyabinsk. After finding Scott and Andy's message we had some food and a beer at a cafe before seeing a storm approaching and camping at the earliest opportunity.
The next day we made slowish progress, the wind being against us, I took the lead giving Rory my slipstream to aid him. We made it as far as the next 100km post where there was another note from the others, where we camped. The following morning, wheeling our bikes back to the road I did a sudden double take on one, and then many of the plants beside the track. Yes, it was the genuine article, cannabis sativa (actually it could have been cannabis indica for all I know), in full bud and ample quantity. So, of course, we stopped, took out a large carrier bag, and the rest is history. The day's cycling was just one long anticipation of the evening to come. After a good days ride we stopped in a wood and having pitched tents went about trying to decide exactly how to consume a carrier bag full of fresh weed. Well not quite all of it in one go. Rory made an oven in a pot by half filling it with stones so we could dry some to smoke in cigarettes we emptied then refilled which worked to some extent but at this lattitude (on a level with Aberdeen I think) you don't expect too much from your weed. Stronger measures would be required.
The next day we saw an amazing sight. Cycling around a corner, across a bridge (rare things in Siberia's flat landscape), we saw a far rarer sight. Another cyclist!! With racks, panniers, the lot. I think he was the first cycle tourist we had met since the Czech Republic!
Boris was a journalist from Vladivostok, cycling the wrong way across Siberia (headwinds) to Europe for the winter before cycling back again next winter. I don't envy him the westbound section of the trip across Siberia. He had, it seems, come across Scott and Andy about two hours previously and obviously they had said hello, this being such a rare meeting, so he was expecting us. After a rough conversation in broken English we wished each other well, exchanged email addresses and were on our way. It is quite an emotional experience in a way to come across a fellow cyclist like this.
Later in the day we stopped in a cafe and discovered that Scott and Andy had left just 10 minutes previously. We'd been amazed that no previous cafe had commented on there being another two cyclists through the same or previous day. We decided not to race after them, feeling confident we would find them by the end of the day since we knew that for one thing, Scott had the shits and for another, they too had found fields of weed and had been out of their skulls. Quantity not quality was the key to this we would discover.
We followed their trail to the next cafe where they were now an hour ahead, and found a further note to say they were taking it easy and were going to stop shortly to get wasted. We speculated on how soon they would stop and looked for bike tracks down into fields or any other evidence but to no avail. We stopped after 150km in a field just off a mud road, built a bucket bong, made cannabis vodka and got mildly wasted, still not really finding the key to how to use this mild grass.
Scott and Andy really had been taking it easy and getting really wasted. This is the pair that couldn't wait to leave at 9:30 after being out until 6am. Cycling along in the morning, after about 20km and one hour we were greeted by loud shouting from behind. After seeing us cycle by at around 10am (the middle of the day as far as these two are concerned), they struck camp and proceeded after us, following us for about 5 miles before announcing their prescence. So we of course exchanged stories, they told us off a near run thing with a truck driver offering them vodka at a cafe and then later trying to entice them into his cab by waving his dangly bits in their direction, and we told them of the rather less worrying things that had happened to us! The conversation turned to weed and the trick it seems was quantity. They'd been cooking up about 8 heads (maybe half an ounce)in a saucepan before making the juices into a sauce. So we looked forward to the evening and made sure we had some butter with which to extract the essential oil soluble ingredient, Tetra-hydra-canabinol.
We stopped on an oil pipeline, behind a row of trees from the road. Rory and I half filled our saucepan with weed, packing it down, blanched it in water before adding half a packet of butter. We cooked this for a little while before straining it and squeezing every last drop of the precious oil out of the green mass. We then added the liquid to the rice which we ate with extreme prejudice. About half an hour later I think I was perhaps more stoned than I have ever been in my life. Can't be sure 'cos it's always so difficult to remember but... I couldn't talk, I could hardly move and everything was extremely funny. Even the fact that we were sat in a field in Siberia with no real defence and utterly incapable of even knowing if there was some danger let alone dealing with it, was funny. Scott tried to go to bed at one point but couldn't walk, and then he couldn't get into his tent, and then he zipped himself out when it had actually been open. Going to bed (turning round, unzipping my tent, crawling in, closing the tent, unzipping my sleeping bag, undressing and crawling in, not to mention finding that banana to eat) was an extreme effort. Some people just don't appreciate how hard these simple things can be!
The next day we arose about 10 and actually managed to leave by 12 noon. We were most definately all still stoned and pretty much remained so for the next twenty four hours with no additional effort. We slowly cycled the 50 kilometres into Novosibersk and found the mammoth 888 room Hotel Novosibersk where we took a suitably long time to sort our stuff out and didn't really achieve anything much for the rest of the day. Drank a few beers, had a bit of vodka and went to bed, studiously avoiding the green stuff.
Novosibersk is supposed to be the geographical heart of Russia and there is a plaque somewhere to prove it. Being in Siberia, there is also lots of space and geographically it is Russia's 2nd largest citywith wide boulevards and lots of space that no-one quite knows what to do with. It's main square is said to be the size of Red Square but since I've never been to Red Square and I'm not even sure that the square we found was the one in question, I can't verify this fact. It also has a very grand railway station, on the Trans-Siberian Railway of course, and a very large ballet theatre at least rivaling the Bolshoi in Moscow. Of course pressed for time we saw very little and were soon back on the road, although this time, the road had both bends and a few small hills, or at least undulations. There was at last it seems, a landscape! But more of that later.
9th September 2001
Novosibersk to Krasnoayarsk
One of the strange things about traveling, particularly on a bike where we have some kind of a routine is the simultaneous everyday mundanity of our routine and the sheer incredibility of what we are doing. Each day we get up, strike camp and set off. We cycle for one or two hours and stop at a cafe before continuing for about the same - 20 to 40 kilometres then stopping for lunch. We continue in much the same cycle before looking for a suitable field where we pitch camp, cook food and sleep. And the same the next day.
But things happen. We meet interesting people and get shown amazing things, not to mention just experiencing being here in this far away land. It is everyday life to us, only each day is somewhere new.
Talking of somewhere new, cycling out of Novosibersk was something of a welcome change, there were hills, bends and different flora from the unchanging Birch forests and grasslands of western Siberia. The road also began to pass through villages rather than bypassing them which reduced the monotony.
Unfortunately we were about to face further problems and upheavals which would, through dealing with them present us with new and interesting experiences.
Rory's knee was stubbornly refusing to recover naturally. Our week's easy cycling from Omsk had not presented any real problems but we had been able to take it easy and the landscape was still dead flat. On the second day out of Novosibersk Rory's knee pain became chronic again and so we were forced to make plans on the hop.
Rory had to take a lift somehow to the next major town to take more rest and see how it progressed. Since we were in the middle of nowhere the only way of doing this was hitching a lift in some way, not the easiest of things when you have a 50kg bicycle as luggage. So short of finding a bus that would take us the only real option was falling onto the back of a lorry. So Rory and I decided to hitch a lift with a Russian lorry to the next major town, Kasnoayarsk. This would not be so easy since first we needed to find one with room on the back, and then explain to the driver what we wanted.
We stopped at a cafe and talked things over, arranged to meet Andy and Scott in Krasnoayarsk in about a week whilst looking out for likely suspects. Soon enough an empty flatbed truck pulled up and I approached the driver and attempted to explain the situation whilst buying his lunch. He was happy to take us so we loaded our bikes up onto the back of his solid Russian Camaz truck.
We had thought that the roads were punishing for cyclist but were shortly to discover that truck drivers have a far worse time of it. Drivers of Russian trucks anyway. The truck was basic, lots of bare metal and decrepid fittings and very noisy. And as for the suspension... We were all over the place despite the fact that the driver seemed to know the road, regularly driving down the middle or wrong side to avoid particulary bumpy stretches. The steering left something to be desired too although he seemed to have no difficulty controlling it. It's just that he needed to turn it 20 degrees before anything happened - A-Team style driving, continuously turning the wheel back and forth. On a bike at 20kmph these roads were actually quite good - the undulations were not a problem. But jumping along the peaks at 80kmph in a truck the result was quite different. I hate to think what it's like for these drivers on the really bad roads, although perhaps the roads that are bad for us, with relatively small pits and cracks rather than undulations, allow the trucks to sail over the top.
Our driver could only take us about 20km so after a short time we were sat at another cafe looking out for lifts. We wrote up signs for Krasnoayarsk and whilst asking a friendly face for the Cyrillic spelling were told that he was driving there in his coach. They offered to put our bikes on the bus and take us there. At the time I thought it was a public bus and we would be fare paying passengers but it turned out that it was his bus and he was driving Krasnoayarsk traders to and from Novosibersk where they could by shoes and clothes cheaply to sell in Krasnoayarsk. Not only were we travelling for free but since the luggage compartments were full of what were probably dodgy copies of western brands, they put the bikes in the aisle blocking in some of the 10-15 people on the bus. They did not seem to mind in the least and everyone was very friendly despite speaking very little English. The traders were largely of central Asian rather than European Russian origin, some Uzbekstanis, a couple of Tajikistanis and some Mongolian looking. This is a very mixed area of the world being on the main route from far east to west with routes north from the central Asian republics, India, China and Mongolia.
It was a long journey through some very beautiful scenery and passing through the centres of some very attractive towns. Many of the buildings here are made of wood, some of painted wooden slats and others in a dark brown log cabin style. They are often highly decorated, usually having pale blue painted window frames. One enduring image was of driving down the highway past a shanty town of wooden houses with Soviet style conrete monstrosities behind. The landscape was now more like what I had originally imagined Siberia to be like; flatish but not as a millpond with dark pine forests enclosing the road.
Stopping for the evening meal before driving through the night, we were invited to eat with a passenger on the bus. As we approached the door however we were firmly instructed by the drivers, "You, sit down" before being taken to a posher cafe up the road. On returning the first guy asked where we'd been and a dispute between him and the drivers broke out. It seems they had been fighting over who had possession of us for supper! It will be strange not to be a celebrity when we return home.
At ten o'clock the lights on the bus were switched off and quiet ensued. Not being an early sleeper this left me alone with my thoughts for three hours before drifting off into that restless non-sleep one gets on busses, trains and planes.
We finally drove through the outskirts of Krasnoayarsk, a city of 1 million, between 3 and 4am, dropping people off on the way. Our drivers had offered to drop us by the Hotel we had planned to meet the others at, a boat moored on the river but we found it did not exist, although there was another in its place. Our friends put us back on the coach and drove to a bus depot where they tried to get an automatic coach wash, discovering though that the coach was too high. So they proceeded to lovingly clean it by hand inside and out, a demonstration of the importance of it to their livelyhood.
Having done this we drove to a hotel 10km from the centre which turned out to be closed until 7am so we bought some beers, chatted for a while before being instructed to sleep for one hour. Not really being able to sleep, Rory and I went for a wander, discovering a fantastic market bustling with energy as people began to sell exactly the kind of goods that had been transported on the bus.
At 7am the hotel opened its doors and we checked in for an amazing 165 Roubles each - that's just over $5 or 4 Pounds. It was clean and friendly although no-one at that stage spoke English but we would later meet the owner who spoke excellent English. What's more it had plentiful hotwater although of course, no plug! Very tired, we decided to sleep for a few hours before moving on to the adventures that would surely follow.
14th September 2001
Vodka cannot say it all
The hotel turned out to be a classic cheap hotel. The staff initially got the impression that we wanted to rent the room for 3 hours but we managed to explain that we were not interested in such services. Our eyes were to be opened considerably over the next few days, our hotel turning out to be little more than a semi respectable knocking shop with a sideline in hotel accomodation. The owner though was a very respectable former English teacher struggling to cope with Russia's 103% income tax rate. Yes, I couldn't work out how that was meant to work either. We were the 5th westerners that had ever stayed in the hotel so the celebrity effect was to continue apace being shown around and on many occaisions invited to make use of the services available from the lobby and just outside the front door from around 10pm onwards!!! The room was clean enough and had ample very hot water (perhaps washing was particularly relevant to its regular clientelle) even if there was no toilet seat. All in all for 165 Roubles a night, not bad.
After our mamoth bus ride we were understanderbly knackered so we slept until about 3 or 4pm before deciding that we should really make some use of the day, and perhaps even see something of the city. Catching the bus in was a simple matter but arriving in the centre we soon realised we did not have a clue what we were doing so we just did it instead.
Looking for an internet cafe we followed directions given to us at our hotel but found only an official looking building with a plaque with the word Internet on it so naturally enough we ventured inside. Unfortunately all we found was a babooshka cleaning the floor who clearly seemed bewildered by us and seemed unable to give a simple Da or Nyet to whether we could use the internet. Instead, after a little while of non communication, her babling away in Russian and us probably doing equally badly in English, plus a little international sign language she went away, presumably to consult a higher authority. Russians are big on authority.
Soon enough a man turned up who spoke pretty good English and we were able to explain what we were looking for. He confirmed that it most certainly was not an internet cafe but it was one better - a centre for training teachers in the use of the internet and would we like to use their computers (despite the fact that it was the end of the day and he was probably ready to go home). The old celebrity effect again - people feel privelidged to me you - really it is us who should feel priveliged. It is good for both sides, a new experience for them to meet a native English speaker with a story to tell, and for us, wonderful hospitality and kindness, not to mention learning something of Russia and Russians.
So we had a free session in a brand spanking new internet centre opened in March by none other than General Alexandyr Lebed, former Presidential Candidate and now regional leader and the Russian Deputy Prime Minister. The people were great, even bringing us drinks and taking photos of us - look, a westerner. It's almost as if they feel something of the west's allure (for them) rubs off us. So, two hours later we made our somewhat tired way back to the hotel for what we thought would be an early night. Oh no. Fat chance!
Popping our heads into the bar for the fatal "one drink" we soon found ourselves chatting to a newlywed couple from Khakassia, a multiethnic, multilingual republic of the Russian Federation. It is a melting pot of more than 90 nationalities, although at 79%, the vast majority are Russian with the indigenous Turkic speaking people, Khakassians, making amere 11%. Other significant ethnic groups are Ukrainians at 2.9%, Germans 2.0%, Chuvash - 0.6% with the rest amounting to 4.5%.
Julia and her husband were staying overnight before heading off to the black sea for their honeymoon. He was 26, a metal worker and looked remarkably like Monkey Magic the cult Japanese TV character. His bride was only 18 years old, very pretty and quite innocent, but also quite intelligent so when she revealed that their marriage was entirely secret and that they would return to continue apparently "living in sin" it came as something of a surprise. He, it has to be said looked like the cat that got the cream, and who can blame him. Unfortunately we were unable to communicate with him except through his wife. Strangely, it seems he had no idea that his wife could speak such good English. We felt a little bad for taking her attention for a couple of hours but we were the first native English speakers she had ever met so, it would have been cruel to deny her that opportunity of our company! He was quite happy drinking the vodka in Russian style, ordering champagne for all of us and periodically ordering more food.
The next day was another nothing day really, sleeping late and entirely failing to right our body clocks. After an extended internet session - this place is creaming it in off us - we attempted to catch a bus at about 1am but unfortunately we didn't know the night bus system so ended up catching a Lada cab for what was probably an extortionate 100 Roubles.
Arriving back this late we did not expect the evening to be anything other than over but on poking our heads round the door of the bar found ourselves strangely drawn in again. Before long we found ourselves playing pool with a pair, one of whom seemed so remarkably bad that we thought it must have been put on. He really was that bad though and before long they left us and it was the turn of another pair to meet the westerners.
Alexei and Igor were fairly wealthy seeming guys who joked about being mafiosi. Igor was a trader, travelling back and forth from Beijing, importing unspecified goods, whilst Alexei was either a cop, a cop killer or some other unspecified occupation. Probably the latter. They bought us drinks and then, as we were thinking it was time to leave they asked us if we wanted to go fishing the following day. A little unsure at first but encouraged by Marina the everhelpful barmanager and her friend Olga, we were convinced of their respectability and realised that there really was no reason not to go on this adventure. It turned out that it was an overnight trip to a lake 100 km away with much vodka, food and a Russian banya.
Alexei and Igor left us with intstructions to meet in the bar the following day at 12pm, which would perhaps have been easier had it not been for a rather late night culminating when we decamped en masse to our room with a few beers in hand.
Alexei turned up the following morning explaining that Igor was held up but would be along soon so we were forced to consume more beed, not the first thing on our minds a mere 7 hours after stopping drinking. When Igor turned up he was in his Toyota Land Cruiser, of which he was very proud and there was much loading of equipment being done. We were instructed that our thermal tops and rain jackets would not be warm enough (how cold could it be?) and Igor fetched us enormous brand new Nike jackets - there was clearly money coming from somewhere. We were then shepherded into Alexei's big, old Volga car, the Russian equivalent of a Mercedes but maybe not quite so well made, and after several stops for supplies, out of the city onto the open road.
It was about an hour later that we arrived having left the main road some mile back and then eventually driving through a small village of wooden houses and mud tracks and then off road down to a lake. Here some of the plentiful supplies were unloaded from Alexei's car whilst we waited for the others in the Land Cruiser and a Lada to turn up. Soon they were with us and we were pitching frame tents and more importantly raising a table and unloading the 12 bottles of vodka and the food to accompany it. Vodka is drunk in one followed immediately by either food such as a chunk of meat or bread or a sip of juice. This way you can keep on drinking it for 12 hours or more! A barbeque was built and the initial vodkas were handed round.
We sporadically ate salads and drank vodka for sometime whilst also taking care of other tasks such as pumping up the boats for fishing at an unspecified later point. The general format continued with some noticable incidents such as the arrival on the scene of a herd of goats and later a Russian hawk circling above.
The evening continued apace with much merriement but no drunkenness, with a remarkably god level of communication despite the very low level of common language. Maybe the vodka provided that little extra social lubrication and reduced inhibitions enough to allow us to speak with our hands like true Italians!
Before long people were being brought to meet us, the trophy westerners. Ivan disappeared off in his 4x4, all 8 lights blazing despite the prescence of the sun before returning some time later followed by a local man in his trusty Russian Yaz jeep, his rifle a game bird and a gallon of milk warm from the cow on the back seat. He could not stay that long but managed to drink a good few toasts before returning to God knows where. The milk, unsurprisingly tasted very good, far more flavour and far fresher than even unpasteurised milk that I've drunk before.
The next to turn up were the DPS or traffic police. There were three guys, one quite senior complete with Kalashnikovs which we took great pleasure in posing with. I was given a DPS whistle as a souvenir and we toaasted them with still more vodka.
And then the banya. We were driven at high speed over rough ground in Igor's 4x4 to a house in the village where the family invited us into their banya. This is something like an ordinary sauna but Russians are obsessed with the comparison with Finnish saunas. To be honest I probably wouldn't know the difference, this consisted of a very hot room with pine racks and rocks over which you pour water. Somewhat like a sauna I think. The distinctive thing was being brushed/lashed with birch leaves. This was not a painful experience, really just being a light exfoliant. However you look at it we came out feeling very clean and relaxed before being served tea by the family, who spoke even less English than the rest of the group but somehow this did not seem to matter, communication was amazingly fluid.
And then, surprise surprise, it was back to the lakeside to continue with that task in hand, finishing the 12 bottles of vodka. It has been difficult to write about this experience since on paper it consisted mostly of drinking vodka and eating food. It was the people's hospitality that made it a truly incredible night with real Russians. We did not do much, apart from what has been mentioned but it was one of the highlights of the trip so far, as has Krasnoayarsk in general. We continued until around 3am, by which time the guests had gone back to their beds in the village. We were meant to rise at six the following morning to go fishing on the lake but woke at nine to find Alexei was out on the lake, probably having thought better than to wake us. Almost immediately on his return Alexei invited us to pack our things into his car and return to Krasnoayarsk, arriving back at around 1pm, in need of further sleep before the Krasnoayarsk party continued. Interestingly enough, when Andy and Scott were cycling into the city they were stopped by a policeman who said, "Singapore?", baffling them somewhat. We are not sure whether this was one of the officers we met or if the news had spread on the grapevine.
The rest of the week has been pure hedonism, drinking with local Russian people in the bar at the hotel and in their homes. We have been forced on a couple of occasions to partake in Kareoke, in particular by a yound man whose favourite activity is enticing others to join him singing as he plays Yesterday on his guitar. Still, Vladimir did turn out to be a very good host, plying us with further vodka and salad one night. Again it is difficult to do justice to the experiences we have had. They have basically involved just being here with Russian people. Suffice to say that Krasnoarsk has been very good to us and we have, more than ever, felt like minor celebrities. We were interviewed by two televsion channels for their news bulletins, unfortunately no one had a video to record them but, rest assured my friends, it did happen and Rory and I can testify that it does wonders for your credibility, having appeared on television.
So our thanks must go to Alexei, Igor and friends, Vladimir, Alena, Marina, Olga, Galina, Sergei and countless others for all they have done for us. Krasnoayarsk is a place to visit and you could certainly do a lot worse than to stay at the Hotel Kedr, you are guaranteed a colourfull experience and amazing Russian hospitality and friendship. I feel that for now at least I cannot possibly do justice to all that has happened so I will not attempt to further. Maybe when we have had a week of unchanging Siberian landscape to put it all into perspective. Towards Irkutsk tommorow, taking maybe ten days, or less if we decide to go on another mad one and catch a truck or bus! No more city centre big hotels for us.
14th September 2001
Ulan Ude. 11000km from home. 8000km cycled personally.
We have reached Ulan Ude, 10000 km from home, further East than Singapore and just over half way there. I have been having an absolutely amazing time over the last couple of weeks. Even more so than before? Is it possible? The last couple of weeks have truly been a rollercoaster ride.
Whilst in Krasnoayarsk the owner of the hotel had decided to get herself a little free publicity (is this unfair of me?) by telling the TV companies of our stay in town and arranging for an interview. This seemed like a fun idea although it is newspaper articles that are the most use since you can show people what you are doing even though you can't speak their language. So for one glorious hour we were the centre of attention, being asked all kinds of questions including did we have wives and why not, and had we been in any really dangerous situations. I'm pleased to say we haven't (and we haven't been in any dangerous situations either!). They filmed us riding our bikes round in circles and took great interest in things like cycle computers and bells. The only negative side was the media's vulture-like interest in Scott as an American, the day after Airplane meets Towering Inferno, before he had even been able to contact friends and family back home. That it seems is what the media do best!
Within hours of the interview we were again having a riotous time with the locals. We were invited to go to a the flat of a student called Vladimir to drink vodka. "Russian tradition. You must". Vladimir liked to play his guitar. He liked to play it very much and he practiced very hard. So much so that that when he played 'Yesterday', you'd never have believed it was the only song he knew. Maybe that is unfair but we saw no evidence of him playing or even liking any other song in the ten days we were in Krasnoayarsk. And believe me, we heard Yesterday a few times, even being made to join in Karaoke on one occasion. Boy do the Russians like Karaoke. It was painful at times, watching the same person returning to the mic repeatedly through the night. They seem to have a very high tolerance of tone deafness here.
Having spent a wonderful 10 days in Krasnoayarsk improving our Russian and our vodka drinking skills, Rory and I left three days later than expected, due in no small part to the local hospitality. It was that good.
Andy and Scott had left ahead of us, giving us a little more time for Rory's knee to recover and our livers to be punished. When we finally did leave, the fact that we had been off the bikes for ten days began to show.
On the road out of Krasnoayarsk we found ourselves attracting more car horns than usual and our suspicions were confirmed when a car stopped ahead of us and flagged us down, saying they had seen us on TV. They chatted to us and then presented us with badges for a Soviet football team from Leningrad (as was).
The weather was clement and the scenery was as beautiful as ever - to anyone who has images of Siberia as a cold, hostile place with an unchanging landscape and nothing to see, I advise you to come here. We passed through towns and villages in the Siberian style: log cabins with decoratively painted blue window frames and babooshkas sitting on their stools passing the time of year. The road we were on was the main, and only, Moscow to Irkutsk road and at times it would be a large open road, occasionally dual carriageway even, whereas at other times it would shrink to a local road passing through tiny villages. This was nothing compared to what was to come though.
On the first night out of Krasnoayarsk, Rory and I camped about seven, feeling a rapidly descending chill in the air. We were aware of winter coming on fast and had even been warned that it had snowed already in Irkutsk (this turned out to be untrue). So we stopped relatively early, hoping to be all packed up and in bed before it got too cold. The temperature was to fall to minus 5 that night, which is actually not as bad as it sounds. With thermal underwear, t-shirt and fleece, not to mention those thick woolen socks you can be quite comfortable in your tent at that temperature.
The following morning we awoke around nine am to find the sun just begining to rise over the now golden yellow and red birch trees. There was a thick frost and as the sun began to thaw the leaves, a very strange thing happened. The leaves began to fall, sounding like a gentle rain. And once they had all thawed, the leaf fall stopped as abruptly as it began.
That evening, cycling along looking for somewhere to camp we passed a large rock of coal, about the size of a front pannier. This set our minds thinking and we picked it up to burn later, adding many kilograms to our load. So later that evening, having set up camp we built a fire and having allowed it to get going, placed the lump on it. We then proceeded to have fun, experimenting cooking food, drying out the local produce and ultimately boiling water for hot water bottles. This was all good boys own fun and what's more we went to bed with warm feet. Needless to say we stoked the fire again in the morning and were fairly late hitting the road. This set the tone for the next few days.
Having decided that it was important to catch the others up before Irkutsk Rory and I opted for another spot of hitching. We put our bikes on a flatbed truck, and joined them for the very bumpy ride. This was just the start, on the paved if imperfect Russian roads. Before long we hit the first patch of gravel road and were glad to be on the truck as it kicked up an enormous plume of dust behind us. This kind of road can slow you down to a mere 10km an hour (about 6mph) so this was the time to be hitching. This lift took us about 70km, so only made up for the fact that we'd left late that morning but we hadn't actually made any ground up on Scott and Andy who we reckoned had been moving pretty fast. We cycled on, keeping an eye out for likely looking vehicles approaching from behind and we did not have to wait long. Our next lift came in the form of a very heavy duty 6 wheel drive Russian bus. It seemed to be in transit, with no one aboard the separate passenger compartment so we stacked our bikes up in the back and sat back to enjoy the ride. This too was a short one lasting about 20km before we were dropped in the middle of a beautiful village on the Trans-Siberian railway. It was a narrow settlement with a large and long green space along the road and railway. In the centre was a well from which we drew water and then I approached a local man, asking for moloko (milk). I was led from one house to the next in a search for fresh milk (unpasteurised tastes so much better), as if we were following a trail, zeroing in on the milk that awaited us. Eventually we struck gold and I was presented with a 2 litre coke bottle full of milk for the princely sum of 14 Roubles (about 30p). We then went to the shop and bought amongst other things, eggs although they decided that the ones in the shop were not good enough for us and disappeared off for five minutes to find some more. Having bought our supplies for the evening we proceeded through the village onto the dirt road, looking for somewhere to camp.
We found an idylic spot almost immediately in a large open field with pine tress scattered around. On reaching a suitable spot out of view of the road we noticed a fire in the corner with a guy sitting by it but decided that it was not a problem. Before long we were approached by the cowherder's ten year old son and his friend who were facinated by our bikes and very keen to help us build a fire. It was the easiest fire I've ever built, just waiting for the tinder dry wood to turn up and then applying a lighter.
The cowherder himself turned up soon enough and greeted us with a bottle of Russian "cognac". This bears absolutely no relation to any drink of the same name you may know and is closer to pure spirit. We shared a brief tipple although I was happy to stick to my beers. We tried to show him our newspaper article although we suspect that he couldn't read. This is somewhat surprising for a country that supposedly achieved a very impressive 97% literacy rate in Soviet times, actually claiming an improbable 99%. He spoke no English and his son knew just a very few words but we were able to communicate with gestures and our very basic command of the Russian language. It was a very pleasant encounter, sitting around the fire with this cowherder and his son, before they took the cows in for milking.
When they left us we continued with our pyrotechnic and culinary experimentation, making scrambled eggs on toast and refining our hotwater bottle production. Needless to say the kid was back the following morning to ride our bikes around the field and generally be "helpful". We left late after restarting the fire, hoping to achieve a lift before too long.
It was a wet day and the dirt road was streaming. It was hard in places to gain any traction at all and the mud served to drag us down to a very slow 10kmph. After two hours, constantly looking for a lift, we completed the 20km stretch and were back onto the contrasting perfect tarmac of the next section of the main Moscow to Vladivostok road. It really is bizarre following the same road for days, coming across both the worst road I have ever cycled on and some of the best road in Russia. It was only once we were back on tarmac that we managed to get a lift, 80km to a town that would become known to us as grumpy town. We asked for directions on several occasions and were greeted with surly replies and sent on a wild goose chase around the muddier, grimmer areas of town. Eventually we found our way out of town and back onto the open road where we found the Cafe Alena, a relatively high class joint where they actually took our coats and pointed us in the direction of a washroom before allowing us to enter. Understandable really, if a little unexpected. Needless to say the gretchka (cracked wheat) and eggs were the same as anywhere else.
We continued in this way for a couple of days, getting short lifts, camping and building fires before we eventually got what we were looking for, a lift taking us the several hundred kilometres to Irkutsk. This was on a brand new crane making its maiden voyage from Moscow to Vladivostok. Our driver was a very kind and friendly Georgian who spoke very little English. As is often the case this posed little problems and we all managed to make ourselves understood a fair amount, resorting to the phrase book when necessary. On this occasion the driver didn't consult the phrasebook on the move but there were times when we thought drivers would. After a while though, there was little left we could say with our basic Russian and we sat back to enjoy the ride.
Strangely in this area of eastern Siberia, we have met many people from the Caucuses - Armenians, Azeris and Georgians. On one occasion we even met a woman who had an eight year old son by an Armenian and a two year old by her present husband, an Azeri. Here's hoping that leads to a small pocket of cross cultural understanding amongst these two opposing peoples. Presumably this is a result of Stalin's ethnic blending policies, moving peoples around the Soviet Union in the hopes of homogenising them and reducing nationalist forces. This seems not to have worked too well given the history of the last ten years but it provides an interesting contrast to the ethnic cleansing of more recent tyrants (would you call Stalin's policy ethnic dirtying?).
We were dropped late at night just outside Irkutsk, right by the large, three dimensional concrete sign that so many Soviet cities have. I suppose there is something to be said for civic pride. We had decided not to arrive in the city late at night but the following morning to give us time to find somewhere cheap to stay so we camped in the middle of a cornfield, not really having too much of a clue about the lay of the land. In the morning it turned out we were within easy sight of a farm - given the fact we were actually in the corn, not such a good thing! It was another cold one, down to about minus 6 but apart from a necessarily brief call of nature about 4am I was not uncomfortable. It will get colder though.
We rolled into Irkutsk mid afternoon and had the celabratory beer in the park, not knowing whether Scott and Andy had arrived before us or not. After this the next priority was finding an internet cafe to find out if the others had left a message so we walked into the main hotel on the square for information, thinking they may have facilities. It was here that one of those strokes of luck happen, we overheard English voices and met David and Liz, a intern at the British Council (an organisation which promotes Britain, and the studying of English) and a transcontinental motorcyclist who were staying in the same guest house. We had arranged to meet at the British Council anyway so Liz already knew of us and we made arrangements to meet at the Council the next day when it would be open. Liz and David then helped us greatly by finding us a relatively cheap hotel (although at nearly ten pounds each per night by our usual standards very expensive). Irkutsk is an expensive town due mainly to its proximity to the stunning and very beautiful Lake Baikal. It took some very hard work to persuade the hotel owner to let us in with our bikes, many nyets were eventually followed by a da. Persistance is the key in Russia.
The following day we went to the British Council to meet the people with whom we'd been corresponding for some while. The place was run by Anatoli, aided by Masha and Nastya who owned Irkutsk's only pair of green leather trousers, of which she was very proud. They had tea and cakes prepared for us and made us feel very welcome. Before long the others walked in the door, having recieved our email and followed the directions we gave. Instantly the British Council people could not get a word in edgeways as we exchanged experiences good and bad and generally caught up. Andy and Scott had both had wheel problems, Scott breaking his "indestructable" 40 spoke wheel and had encountered various interesting characters including "bare foot truck driver" who saw them on two separate days, driving the same route in opposite directions and gave them food, gay truck driver who tried to get a little too close to Andy for comfort (and ended up being too close to Andy's fist for comfort) and some friendly construction workers who let them stay in their shack when very cold and wet. We soon checked out of our hotel into the very cheap and slightly dodgy place Andy had found us.
The British Council had said they would arrange for us to meet the local media but we had absolutely no idea of the scale of what they had in mind. They sent out a press release to 4 regional television stations, 4 regional newspapers including the regional editions of the former organs of the Communist Party, Pravda and Isvestia, and one radio station. Two days later we were to be greeted by a full blown media circus.
The press conference was due to kick off at 3pm. I had headed over to the other side of the city to do my laundry in the morning giving myself a reasonable schedule to get back. However luck was not on my side. Firstly, my route to the laundrette involved a bridge that hadn't been built yet and a wild goose chase around the student area of the city. Despite taking over an hour getting there, going from the non existant bridge at one end of the city to the old one at the other I still had enough time once my clothes were clean and dry. I set off back to the British Council, knowing my way this time until disaster struck. My chain snapped! I was stuck on the wrong side of town, with an attractive bike that was going nowhere and about half an hour to spare. I removed all valuables from the bike and locked it to a fence, having little alternative. I then tried to flag down a Lada but none of them were stopping so I resorted to a taxi bus - private minibusses that follow a set route for a resonable price. This took me via the far end of town to the centre, about 10 - 15 minutes walk from the British Council. Arriving with 5 minutes to spare, having tried to bribe the driver into driving me to the door, I was forced to run the remainder of the way, arriving very hot at 3pm on the dot, just as things got going. Changing into my freshly laundered clothes backstage, I think I managed to make the best of a bad job. This example of timekeeping may not entirely surprise some of you!
We spent over an hour sat in front of the cameras, with a Union Jack on the table in front of us, along with my broken chain (I had to explain my late arrival somehow), fielding the usual questions such as what do you do (a difficult question for me since the concept of drifter is hard to translate), what inspired you, have you had problems and do you have wives (if not do you want Russian wives!). This was all great fun but hard work and we were glad when it was over.
Also present were the regional directors of BP, who sponsor the British Council and when the conference was over we spoke to them. They were very friendly and interested and being an oil company, offered to find us oils and spirit (alcohol for burning). We arranged that we would visit them at their headquarters the next day and hopefully pick up some goodies. We had to be at the British Council at 11am to be picked up.
We arrived to find a black Toyota Landcruiser (the vehicle of preference for those that can, on Russian roads) with darkened windows waiting for us. We were chauffer driven to the outskirts of town to the Baikal business centre and greeted by the regional Chief Executive, a Brazillian called Jorge and his staff including an affable Scotsman named Mike. They were all very friendly and helpful and gave us a spot of corporate hospitality into the deal. They came up trumps, managing to get us some spirit from the Vodka factory (a by-product that is drinkable although it is advisable to dilute it) and various lubricants.
Next on our itinery was a talk to a group of over 100 students at the linguistic department of the University so we curtailed our visit and returned, again chauffeur driven, to the British Council.
We arrived fashionably late at the University having to force our way through a packed room of over 100 students, mostly girls. We were not quite sure what they wanted from us so we introduced ourselves and fielded questions. As usual the same ones come up but that cannot be helped really. We tried to impress that we were just ordinary people who had realised what was possible if we wanted it, saved money for a while and then literally just got on our bikes. We knew that other people had done similar long distance cycle touring (although I don't know of a similar trip across Siberia) and that it must therefore be possible for us. We were fairly phased by the superstar reception we were getting by this point and when we tried to impress our ordinariness upon them one of the girls piped up, "Yes but to us you are heros". Life sucks eh? We have done something unusual but we haven't been challenged greatly or heroically overcome any great obstacles in our path. All the attention was certainly fun but it becomes a bit bizarre after a while. You almost find yourself empathising with those poor rock stars bemoaning how they just want to be ordinary - "I'm mega rich, I play the guitar to adoring fans, and get as much sex and drugs as I could possibly want - life's shit!".
We narrowly avoided being made to sing "Yesterday" and are not quite sure whether they belived us when we said we stood to attention and sang "God save the Queen" every night.
Since Irkutsk it has been nice to get back on the road to relative normality. We encountered an unexpected mountain range and our first snowfall on the way to lake Baikal, camping at 900m. Andy's brakes were at the end of the road by the top of the last pass and he found himself descending 500m using his feet as an additional braking system. As we descended to Lake Baikal we were cold and wet and the cloud made it difficult to appreciate the enormity of the lake.
Baikal is about 50 miles across, over 400 miles long and a mile deep in places. On top of that it has several miles of sediment on the bottom and contains 22% of the worlds fresh water. In the winter it freezes and they drive across it. The Soviets even used to build a railway across it at one point until one year it crashed through the ice to find it's resting place far below.
Standing on the shore of the lake one evening, the Trans-Siberian Railway separating me from our tents, it was as if a mighty sea was raging before me. Waves crashed down on the rocks, spraying 10ft high. On the horizon was nothing but water. The conditions were not ideal for bathing - temperature falling towards freezing and a mighty wind raging but I dipped my feet in Baikal which I'm told means that you will return to Russia. Something I'm very happy to do. The lake is surrounded by some breathtaking scenery and this only served to remind me of the whistle stop nature of our trip and how much there is that I would like to see more of. On this trip so far, it is only Russia that I really feel the urge to return to, although this may be because of its sheer immensity and the fact that we have spent long enough here to get to know it a little, and want more.
There was some quite hard cycling between Irkutsk and Ulan Ude, between the weather and terrain. The last night before reaching Ulan Ude we built a large fire and sat around it chatting, writing diaries and cooking. When we went to bed we were surprised to find the temperature had fallen to around minus five, the fire had served us well. Later in the night the temperature fell at least as far as minus eight and this was the first night I was really cold. I woke at around 4am and having answered nature's call and crawled back into my sleeping bag, I noticed that I was really cold. I was wearing long johns, double socks, t- shirt and thermal top, leaving only trousers and fleece as extras but it was too cold to be getting out of my sleeping bag again so I dragged my fleece inside and used it as an extra blanket instead. This was in the region of minus 8 to 10 and we expect considerably colder, but there are ways and means to keep warm. It's when we get wet and cold that the problem arises. Still, only around 5 weeks to Beijing where I'm told it is a balmy 22 degrees. And then on to a South East Asian Christmas on the beach.
Ulan Ude is the capital of the Russian Federal Republic of Buryatia, the first to be granted autonomous status by Stalin, in grateful thanks for the Buryats part in the "Great Patriotic War" The Buryats are a Mongoloid people (I think this is politically correct) who were nomadic until the early 19th century. They ascribe to a form of Tibetan Buddhism. We are finally feeling far from home, the corridor of Europe within Asia that follows the Trans-Siberian Railway and Road is behind us and suddenly we are in an Asian environment.
Ulan Ude is described in the Lonely Planet as downright bizarre. I'm not sure if in my brief experience I would call it that but it is certainly different from other more Russian cities we have visited. The most visibly distinctive thing about the town centre is the disembodied head of Lenin proudly overlooking the central square. Ulan Ude ended up with it because no one else would have it and it has to be said, it is a little bizarre. It is a small town with not an awful lot going on, just a slight frontier feel to it, perched on the edge of Russia with a surviving indigenous majority unlike most of Siberia where they were severely reduced if not eliminated by the Russians as they moved eastwards.
We experienced media attention here too, without any soliciting on our part. We had to arrange special permision to cross the Mongolian border by bicycle (most irregular) and the lady at the tourist office independently arranged both for the local paper to interview us and for details of our trip to be placed on the official Government of Buryatia tourism website. The cause of tourism in Buryatia is one I'm very happy to be associated with. I urge you to see Lake Baikal - it is truly unique and this is a facinating region of a facinating country.
Until next time - probably Ulaan Bator, shortly before we cross the Gobi desert. All you vegetarians out there, enjoy a decent meal on my behalf - I look forward to rice with rice if I'm lucky as my friends eat Yak!
19th October 2001
Ulan Ude to the Mongolian border
The journey from Ulan Ude has been a beautiful one, with the transformation from Europe to Asia becoming complete. In Siberia we had all felt part of a European civilisation and the landscape had not seemed entirely foreign either. This was probably just the effect of the corridor created by the Trans Siberian road and Railway but nevertheless we did not feel we were truly in Asia. Both the landscape and people were shortly to change. As we rode from Ulan Ude towards the border the landscape turned to an awesome mountainous steppe. For mile upon mile we cycled through barren, uninhabited lands on a huge scale. This was beginning to feel like the central Asia we had expected.
30km out of Ulan Ude we found Russia's largest Buddhist Monastry, although I think this probably isn't too difficult - I don't imagine there are that many of them. The Buryats are Mongolian speaking Tibetan Buddhists (the Mongolians are Tibetan Buddhists too), but I have often wondered about the propensity of many of these Buddhist cultures to eat meat.
The monastry was set in the centre of a long, wide and open valley, some way from the main road. We eventually found ourselves outside where there was an array of stalls selling souvenirs and a cafe that couldn't serve us coffee because all its mugs were in use!
Venturing inside there was a new building under construction and we walked down the path towards it turning the prayer wheels in the correct, clockwise direction only to find the path turning leftwards - we were walking around the monastry anticlockwise. We swiftly remedied this, retracing our steps, again turning the prayer wheels clockwise, only this time from the other side of course. There were many Burats there, seeking a blessing from the Lama (for a very reasonable 10 Roubles) and not a (western) tourist in sight, our good selves excluded of course.
The main monastry building was beautifully decorated with Thankas (religious paintings framed in the characteristic red and gold silk) and the ubiquitous golden Buddhas. It was, as you might expect, a very peaceful place.
Visiting this monastry was another sign of the approach of Asia proper and whetted my appetite for more.
As we cycled towards the border, our thoughts began to turn to leaving Russia and how much we had grown to love the place. There was a genuine sadness in our conversations about this, despite the anticipation of new experiences in the lands to come. We had found the people very friendly almost all of the time and the landscape awesome. We all felt sure that we would be returning to this great land in time.
We had some respite from the cold as we headed south from Ulan Ude but this was not to last. On the second night we camped fairly high up, near the top of a pass. The land was dry and bare but it was still a warm 4 or 5 degrees when we retreated to our tents at about 9pm. So I thought, I can do without sleeping in all my clothes for once an have a little space to move in my sleeping bag. This turned out to be a very bad idea. I awoke at 4am only to find that a mild evening had turned into one of the coldest nights yet, hitting minus 8 to 10. I was so cold that I did not even want to unzip my bag to put my fleece on so just pulled it inside as an extra blanket. This of course was also a mistake, it's worth getting a little cold now to stay warmer later. Moral of the story - always assume it is going to be colder than you think. The climate was now distinctly dry, a taster of the high Mongolian plateau to come, making the cold slightly more bearable.
We fought our way into Kjahta, the border town against a strong headwind, not helped by a knee injury Andy had sustained by having the cheek to want to ride up a mountain pass at the same time as a car overtook an oversize lorry on a blind corner a few days previously. We arrived in Kjahta tired and hungry, eager to find the Hotel Druzhba, the standard stop off for those crossing the border.
The Druzhbar was a pleasant enough hotel with friendly staff and clean rooms. Our first job was to have a pensive beer in its bar/restaurant and mull over our thoughts of Russia. We also had a meal to accompany this and I must say it did complement it nicely. Again, we all felt sad to be leaving, Russia had stolen our hearts.
We decided that since it was our last night in Russia we must have one final vodka night. So we went down to the local shop and purchased, amongst other things a large bottle of vodka.
In the shop we met a mister G Tsogt, a Mongolian mining corporation executive. He was in town to meet a lorry making its way south from Russia. He seemed friendly enough and asked if we were staying at the Hotel Druzhbar. Twenty minutes later, back at the hotel he knocked on our door clutching another bottle of vodka and joined us for a few drinks. A few drinks turned into a few more. I was deliberately following the Russian rule of eating something such as a hunk of bread or cheese or a "cakey thing" as we call them, after every shot was knocked back, not wanting to be in too bad a state for the border the next day.
At around 9pm we decamped to the bar, Mr Tsogt smuggling another bottle of vodka in under his jacket. It was a rather strange bar, due in part we thought to the fact that this was a border and garrison town. There was a small dancing area on which several men and a couple of women were dancing. We suspected that these were either soldiers or business travellers letting off steam. We decided not to join them on the dancefloor, it was male dominated enough as it was and we wouldn't have wanted to decrease the other mens chances with the few ladies, if that was what they wanted. So we continued drinking the vodka at a table and only later had a bit of a dance.
A while later Mr Tsogt approached us and told us that there were people about in the bar who wanted to pick a fight with us simply because we were westerners. He seemed quite serious and anxious for us to go back to our room. We didn't want to risk any trouble so we allowed him to usher us back to our room. Rory was a little drunk it must be said (I was not sober myself) and he decided that there wasn't any genuine risk in such a public place if you weren't looking for trouble. So I followed him back to the bar - we might as well get in trouble together if at all. Andy in the meantime was being very drunk in the room, telling Scott that he would regret it if he didn't do up his shoelaces for him, not to mention help him off the floor so he could return to the bar!
Rory and I decided that we were going to order some chips since they were pretty good earlier (a rarety) and I at least wanted to avoid the loss of dignity I had experienced on vodka in Ulan Ude. We ordered sucessfully and innocently sat at a table waiting for our food. Before long Mr Tsogt had returned, anxious again to prevent trouble by returning us to our room. We explained that we had ordered food and we would return as soon as we had eaten it. This turned out be be longer than we expected since they had to call Moscow for permission to peel the potatoes but they arrived and again they were very good.
After the chips arrived we decided to take Mr Tsogt seriously, if only out of courtesy, and return to our room. Rory decided he wanted a Russian souvenir and thought that 4 Vodka glasses would be very appropriate. So he slipped them into his pocket and we made our way back down the corridor to our room. Half way down he announced that he was taking them back, saying he had been seen by the barmaid. Thinking this a little odd since he had by this stage got away with it, we returned and Rory then proceeded to try to buy them off her. She took 100 Roubles off him (I fronted it) and she made a killing at the expense of us and her employer! Vodka does wonderful things to your judgement!
The time had come the next day to leave. We packed our bags and made our way to the border via Kjahta's derelict cathedral, designed by an Italian architect. It was obiously a very beauitiful building in its day with ornate plasterwork and a high dome. The old military only border had been right next to this but fortunately for us they had just this year built a new civilian one just up the road. This was still for Russians and Mongolians only but fortunately we had permission from the Vice President of the Republic of Buryatia to cross with our bicycles. This took a few hours with questions like "Do you have any guns or drugs" being asked. I struggled for an answer, wondering what I would say if I had done, and then came up with the required "No". I also discovered by jumping on their luggage scales that I have actually put weight on on this trip.
Mongolia was to be yet another mind blower - people, landscape and live wires sticking out of hotel bedroom walls, but for now that can wait. I'm off to cross the Gobi Desert where I'm told the road is virtually non existant, a fellow cyclist last year (see www.cyclingsiberia.com) carried 20 litres of water constantly and had to push his bike through thick sand for two days, and gers (nomad's tents) are few and far between. So if I survive, I'll fill you in from Beijing (probably up to 5 weeks based on our friend's information).
Wish me luck for the hardest part of the trip.
25th November 2001
Suuk Baatar to Ulaan Baatar
Passing into Mongolia from Russia meant finally saying goodbye to European culture. Despite being east of Singapore, the Russian culture is basically a European one. We were heading into a country that was best known for conquering half the world 800 years ago and being a byword for the back of beyond today.
Crossing the border, things were instantly different. We passed from a smooth tarmac road onto rubble as we crossed the demarcation line although fortunately this proved to be temporary. The Americans had built a new road to Ulaan Baatar in the last few years (Mongolia is a strategically significant place, perched between Russia and China).
Our first night was spent in a cheap hotel in a typical border town. There was not an awful lot there but we did get a taste of Mongolia. There was lots of open land (no fences in Mongolia - no one owns any land) and lots of dust/sand. The town had an almost wild west feel to it. Our initial images of Mongolia were further impressed when seeing a couple of loose wires sticking out of the wall in our hotel Rory joked about them probably being live and touching them together to see. Of course he expected nothing but decided, just in case, to insulate himself with his plastic knife. Blue sparks flew and the hotel lights flickered. In any western building the fuses would have blown faster than you could say "what the XXXX" but Mongolian electrics are made of sterner stuff and the system bravely took the strain.
Riding through the Steppe, gers (nomads tents) are visible frequently, sat in the middle of nowhere, awaiting the next move. At the end of our first full day's cycling we were looking for somewhere to camp and saw a cluster of three gers parked by a salt lake, surrounded by a herd of sheep. We decided to camp at a respectable distance and see if they approached us. In time an old man came over to talk to us and we showed him our equipment and gave him a little food. He was particularly taken with our somewhat noisy stoves. After we had exhausted the communication possible with our mutually limited Russian he said that tommorow morning we could come across to the ger to get water and say hello.
In the morning, bracing ourselves against the cold we visited their home and were offered not only water but tsai (usually described as salty milky tea based drink) and dried yaks cheese (an aquired tast to be honest) and some bisuity things. The family were incredibly friendly and again it was remarkable just how much you can say with very few words.
From there it was on to Dharkan, Mongolia's second city, about the size of a large village in the south of England. Dharkan proudly boasts Mongolia's tallest building at 17 stories, although having been to Ulaan Baatar we suspect that this has now been superceded.
The journey to Ulaan Baatar was a bleak but beautiful one, taking about a week crossing the mountainous steppe. The hills go on, one pass following another, all looking similar to the unfamiliar eye. Rarely was there a tree and settlements were few and far between.
One of the stranger sights of this part of the trip was near the top of a pass where we found an enormous heap of goats feet, separated just above the ankle. We were later to discover that these were being dried in order for a special ingredient to be extracted. Just one of the many strange things you see in these far away lands.
By this time it was getting pretty cold and we were as good as sewn into our clothes 24 hours a day, revealing flesh only for those biological necessities. Personal records were broken for the length of time elapsed without showering or changing any items of clothing (although these were later superceded in the Gobi).
Ulaan Baatar was a strange and interesting city. It was the first place we had been since Prague that was on the backpackers circuit so being surrounded by westerners was a novel experience. It is something like Kathmandu in the respect that it is cold and isolated and people like to say they have been there, but not as colourful.
The prescence of large numbers of westerners meant western restaurants, of which we were very glad having been surviving of our basic camp food and the Mongolian diet of mutton, minus the mutton. The Mongolian attitude to food is basically, "why would anyone want to eat anything other than mutton?". And tough mutton at that.
The only unfortunate thing about the many eateries in Ulaan Baatar, apart from the price (about $3 or 4 for a decent meal!) was teh fact that Ulaan Baatar seems to close down by about 8 or 9 pm. Not knowing this on the first evening we went out hoping to treat ourselves and found ourselves eating in the only place open so far as we could tell, the same pizzeria that we had lunch and our celebratory beer in. Not that the food was bad or anything but we'd hoped for something different!
The hostel we stayed in was listed in the ubiquitous and unreliable Lonely Planet and was thus a good place to meet other travellers. Nassems Guesthouse was in fact a series of flats in a block, including the ones in which the family that ran it lived. According to demand, they rented out extra flats and put people in granny's flat too. This was where we ended up and she was very accomodating but, despite the fact that they are making money out of you not doing you a favour, you can't help but feel that you are in someone's home and have to tread lightly.
It was here that we met Ben, from Adelaide who had recently completed a boat trip by canoe, raft and rowing boat from source to sea of the Yenitze river in Mongolia and Russia. This had taken 3 months, rowing continuously in a team of three people living out of each others pockets. Remarkably they hadn't killed each other. This is what I'd really consider an adventure. What we're doing is a mere stroll in the park by comparison. The amazing thing was that prior to doing a similar source to sea trip on the Amazon last year, ben had hardly been in a boat.
One of Ben's fellow travellers, Tim, had last year cycled from western Europe to Beijing via St Petersberg and the Russian far north, crossing the Gobi in the process. Since he was passing through Ulaan Baatar we thought we should pick his brains and exchange tales. When we met him a few days later his advice was to fill us with a certain trepidation.
Tim had been carrying 20 litres of water and on one occasion had still run out. We also got the impression that food and settlements would be fairly thin on the ground. Based on his advice we judged it would take up to five weeks to reach Beijing. So I for one began to have a healthy sense of unease about the desert.
We decided it would be a good idea to register our prescence in Mongolia before proceeding across the Gobi, so headed down to the British Embassy like good little citizens. We were filling out the forms in the main lobby when first the Consul and then the Ambassador walked in. Natuarally we explained what we were doing and since they were very down to earth, chatted for a while. After letting us know what to do in an emergency they told us of a special service the British Embassy in Ulaan Baatar provided.
Every Friday night, for two hours the Ambassador and Consul played publican at what was known as The Steppe Inn, a small outhouse within the Embassy compound, decked out something like an English pub. Entrance was by invitation only but most of the ex-pat community in UB had become regulars. This was to cause the closest thing to homesickness that I have experienced on this trip so far. Shortly before heading off into the unknown perils of the desert I found myself in an English pub surrounded by English and other westerners. It was quite an odd experience being served beer by the British Ambassador to Mongolia. At one point she had to leave for an official function but said she would be back as quickly as possible and true to her word she returned within the hour. A woman with her priorities straight! True to English drinking tradition I bought two pints shortly before time was called, but unlike an English pub we had an hour's drinking up time!
This was to be the Last Supper before heading out, only it was a liquid supper. After a week's solid eating and drinking, we braced ourselves for the journey to come.
4th December 2001
The Gobi: Bleached bones, rutted roads and broken bikes
The morning of departure came and a sense of trepidation with it.
Our first day out of Ulaan Baatar was a relatively easy one. For the first 30km we enjoyed the pleasures of paved roads. Tarmac turned into rough concrete turned into nothing. We had not so much taken a wrong turning as failed to notice the track leaving the road which continued down into a some kind of coal storage facility. We asked directions for the next town and the locals variously pointed us across open pasture. So we followed the general direction of their gesticulations until eventually we came across a track heading south. This must be the Ulaan Baatar to Beijing highway!
The road was simply a path followed by vehicles over time, there was absolutely no engineering to it. When it got bad, vehicles took another path resulting in there being many parallel tracks, some of which were smoother than others. In general though the road was far from smooth. It was corrugated meaning that our bikes and our bums were being continuously pounded, at this time the Brooks sprung saddle was greatly appreciated.
We asked for directions at a semi permanent Ger encampment and after taking water from their spring moved on, camping soon afterwards in the central reservation of the UB - Beijing highway. By this I mean the space between two alternative paths the road had taken. The road was virtually silent except for a rush hour between about seven and nine when maybe two or three vehicles passed us.
On this first night the temperature dropped below minus 10 (where his thermometer stops working) although it was probably minus 15 since the inside of his tent is generally 5 degrees warmer than outside! Cold enough to know about it anyway! We soon learnt to keep a water bottle inside our sleeping bags and fill a pan ready for melting in the morning.
We began climbing, reaching 1700m before the landscape began to level out, leaving us exposed to the harsh winds. It was not long before we came across a cluster of 4 or 5 houses where we were invited in for tsai (a salty, milky liquid that supposedly has some tea in it). Actually we as good as invited ourselves in but when it's that cold you don't worry about technicalities like that!
At this point the landscape was still rolling steppe, much as it had been before Ulaan Baatar - hard, sometimes rocky ground and sparsely vegetated. Where the passage of vehicles had revealed the ground beneath it was left either thick with gravel or rutted to about twice the depth and wavelength of corrugated iron. Not fun for bike or rider in other words. It would continue thus.
It was the constant pounding of these corrugations (or dongles as they are called in Africa I believe) that caused the first injury to a member of the team in the Gobi. Rory suffered a fractured bolt on his front rack. Whilst he replaced it we were again treated to local hospitality, it having had the decency to snap near a small cluster of dwellings.
The people live in two room houses with a warm kitchen heated by a stove in the centre of the building. We were invited in to the living room/bedroom and treated to a mini feast of tsai, dried yak cheese (an acquired taste), biscuity things, doughy things (we have acquired our own vernacular for snacky things and other miscellaneous foodstuffs) and a sort of sweet sandwich of soured cream between two slices of thicker solid cream.
Cycling along in the desert, musing on just how deserted it all was we came across what looked like a 1960s urban monstrosity. Genuine Stalinist brutalism (ok so time periods are a little out of sync here but bear with me). Out of nowhere loomed this enormous block of flats that looked like it could have been transplanted direct from Sheffield, Birmingham or Minsk. As we got closer we saw bumps in the ground which it became clear were hardened aircraft hangars and the airstrip came into view. A relic of the time when Mongolia was the Soviet Union's Airstrip One in it's standoff with China.
The block of flats was bizarre. Not actually that old despite its architecture, it had been completely stripped when the Soviets/Russians left in 1993, leaving nothing but the concrete shell and a few strips of wallpaper hanging off the walls. It must have housed hundreds if not thousands of people and the services needed by such a community. The Mongolian nomads probably weren't that much interested in it anyway, it says more about the paucity of Russia than anything else. Stripped of security fences and the other paraphernalia of secret airbases that you find in deserts, this looked somewhat out of place. As did the MiG 21 pointing skywards, skewered on a iron girder. We spent some time looking around, spoke to some Mongolians who had temporally made it the site for their Gers and were on our way again.
Over the days that followed the vegetation became more sparse. Where previously we had seen many wild horses, cattle, birds of prey (including a golden eagle) and rodents, as food sources became scarcer we saw less of the large animals and the birds of prey that fed off them and the main wildlife was the desert marmot, a small perfectly camouflaged rodent which, when you look carefully, is everywhere. Eventually even these disappeared leaving the occasional herd of camels and those animals carefully tended by the nomads.
This was not all that lurked on the desert plains however. Out of the corner of his eye Scott saw something moving rapidly across his field of view. When he pointed, as first we couldn't see it because it was well camauflaged but when we looked carefully we could just make out a herd of antelope of some kind. They stood till for a couple of seconds and then disappeared at high speed.
The landscape began to take its toll on the bikes at this point. Punctures were becoming very frequent due the thorned plants that make up just about the only vegetation able to survive here and the lack of a distinction between on and off road. Cheap Chinese tyres may not have helped. Picking out thorns became a regular evening ritual.
Andy and Rory began to have problems with their front racks. They both suffered sheared bolts on a couple of occasions and also had welds fail too. Mending these with pliers, brute forces and hose clamps took a little time and sometimes ingenuity on their part. Other major problems we would face were a derailleur on Scott's bike demolished by Rory's pedal (when the bikes fell over whilst leant together) and my chain continually snapping and refusing to stay fixed. The grit was taking its toll on the moving parts.
Carcasses and bleached bones were a regular part of Gobi life. Horses, cows and even one or two camels (where the rest go I don't know - perhaps they don't die). There is rarely much left of the bodies except the dried skin and bones. On seeing a cow carcass Scott pulled on its horns and unexpectedly they came away in his hands. He kept them and tried to find a way of fixing them to his bike to complement his eagles claw (salvaged from road kill in Kazakhstan) and rubbery alien. This gave me an idea. The next time we saw a dead cow I removed a horn and that night attacked it with a hacksaw blade and red hot nail, trying to turn in into a musical instrument. After much work - horn is a very hard material) I managed to drill a hole through the tip and fashion a mouthpiece and it did actually strike a note. I went to bed very late but quite satisfied. NB Normal bedtime in the Gobi was between 6 and 7 and even in the slightly warmer climes of China it is rarely later than 8.
The endless plains and shallow undulations continued for 10 days until we finally reached China. We knew the Gobi continued for hundreds of kilometers on the other side of the border but we did not know in what state we would find the road. It could be more of the same for all we knew.
We finally reached the border on the 1st of November. The passport control people took great interest in my passport in particular. Apart from the fact that I look like a terrorist at the best of times mine is one of the new ones where the photo is digitally scanned and printed into the passport. This baffled the Chinese who kept on running their fingernails over it trying to work out why they could not feel the impression of a stuck in photograph. The hologram saying British passport over the top of my mug shot did not seem to make much difference here.
When we reached the other side the contrast was to be amazing but that's another story.
5th December 2001
China: Before Beijing
After a Mongolian border town with sand billowing around the streets and cows grazing out of skips that Scott compared unfavourably with the stone age we suddenly found ourselves in Erlian, a busstling, modern fast growing Chinese city with all mod cons. We were very pleased to discover, after 3 months or so in culinary purgatory, that there is a choice of foods for vegetarians in China and the concept does not cause great bewilderment, amusement or apoplexy. We can eat tofu, beansprouts, beans, eggs, rice, noodles, a variety of pancakey and fried things, and many interesting vegetables. Compared with gretchka, rice, or potato with fried eggs three times a day, every day, this was heaven. The honeymoon would not last forever though, as every traveller knows, there's only so many egg fried rice's, biriyanis or doses of the shits you can stomach before you are yearning for the nearest MacDonalds or Pizza Hut! This point was to be reached somewhere between Beijing and Wuhan.
We spent the night in a cheap hotel which, like many of the cheap hotels we have stayed in, served as a place of work as much as a place of rest. Apparently there was a steady traffic along the Trans Mongolian Railway from Ulaan Baatar of those looking for "work" in Erlian.
The road out of Erlian across Inner Mongolia (the Chinese side of the Mongolian plateau) turned out to be an absolute dream. After nearly two weeks of having our backsides and bikes taking a battering from the ruts and rocks of the Gobi here was an absolutely brand new road on which the paint was barely dry. Progress was rapid, rising from around 60 km a day to between 100 and 120. The desert continued for a while though but after a while we began to see signs of Chinese engineering attempting to green the desert. Slowly we began to see some agriculture and also a few trees. We were still around a mile high though and temperatures had not improved.
We had not known what to expect of China. We knew that it was the current bete noir of the United States and that it has a pretty repressive regime in some respcts. We also knew all independent travel outside cities to be illegal for foriegners and free camping to be illegal. Naturally we were concerned to be discrete on our first few nights in China. It was not to be, due at first to the distinct lack of anything that could be called landscape or vegetation and latterly due to the fact that every inch of available land is flattened and cultivated, leaving no clumps of trees in which to hide.
So when we finally saw the peoples police up ahead, standing around by the side of the road we opted to put our heads down and cycle straight on trying not to catch their eye. It was with some surprise then that we saw them waving and smilling, giving us the thumbs up sign and saying hallo. This happened several times and they never even batted an eyelid when we cycled along the motorway (actually quite a pleasant experience since it cut through some large mountains and gave us a birds eye view of the valleys between). So much for "avoid the police at all costs".
Crossing Inner Mongolia we had some howling winds, most of them headwinds but at times they got behind us. The most incredible of these was when we left a city in the morning with the wind belting us along at between 30 and 40kmph. This carried on for around an hour until we turned a few degrees west and headed up a minor pass. The hills channelled the wind into our faces and as we reached the top it would get worse. As we reached the plateau the wind was the strongest I think I can remember with the exception of the gale that blew across southern England back in October 1987 taking most of our trees with it. It blasted us from our left and we cycled along leaning 20 or 30 degrees into the wind just to stay on our bikes. If it had been in our faces cycling would have been litterally impossible. So would pitching tents. Lucky it wasn't then. This only lasted a short while as we crossed between two peaks and then for a few golden miles we turned so the wind was behind us, coasting along at 40kmph. It was still quite sandy at this point so the wind blew the sand along the road with us making wonderful patterns as it went. Again, having this in our faces would have been hell.
Within a couple of days we reached the 40km downhill off the Mongolian plateau we had been told of. This was not a moment too soon. At the top of this we passed through a steep valley in late afternoon sun and encountered original stretches of the Great Wall. At this point the "wall" only ever consisted of communications towers every few hundred meters from which fire signals could rapidly raise the alarm. The mountains were pretty effective anyway and Chinngis Khan (that's Ghengis to you westerners) knew that a wall is only as good as it's guards and all guards have a price. Chinngis Khan was a rich man and China was his for the taking! The towers did not fit any classical image of the great wall being circular rather than the square ones on the wall itself but were very beautiful sillouetted against the darkening sky.
Passing out of the ravine we wondered at the prescence of leaves on trees and wondered why the hell it wasn't getting any warmer. We actually began to see snow on the ground for the first time which seemed perverse but the plateau is very cold and dry, the lower ground is warmer and wetter thus more amenable to snow. This also meant the begining of the haze that would cover China for most of our journey southwards.
The attention we recieved in cafes only increased on the road to Beijing. We would regularly draw crowds as the owners would drag friends, neighbours and relatives to see the white boys they had managed to catch. We felt like we were in a human zoo, being unashamedly stared at whilst trying to eat. It was mostly harmless but when you are tired or feeling run down it can begin to get to you. In one of these cafes as we walked in a man walked out clutching a live rabbit by its feet. We sat down inside and five minutes later the man returned, still clutching the rabbit by its hind legs only this time it had no skin. Within half an hour it was in several small pieces in a bowl in front of Rory and not long after that in his stomach. They say you should make sure the food you eat is fresh in these countries.
Another amusing site on the road to Beijing was at one of the many newly erected petrol stations. These take an interesting form in China with large pyramids on their roofs - imagine the roof over a large petrol station forecourt and then imagine a square bottomed pyramid that size. Sometimes they even look like temples. Anyway a new one was being opened as we passed, so the Chinese being the Chinese were celebrating it... with fireworks! This seemed a little strange to us, letting off fireworks near so much petrol. Still these guys have been playing with fire for thousands of years so I guess they know what they're doing.
We breezed the last few miles into Beijing along the motorway and then through the endless suburbs eventually finding our way to the infamous Tiananmen Square, site of the Forbbiden City, Mao's Mausoleum and the events of 11 years ago when reactionary students massacred brave Peoples Liberation Army soldiers before finally being subdued - trust me, I've seen the photos and I could have stuck those guns on with Pritt Stick glue better myself. People don't talk about that here though.
Beijing is a cyclist's heaven, at least in terms of cycle path provision. Bikes almost rule the road. Bike lanes take up about a third of the road and are packed. Bikes, bikes, everywhere. Cycling is quite fun because of the density of the traffic and the fact that they're all going so much slower than you on their one speed Flying Pidgeon bicycles so you can weave in and out of them at will.
After our celbratory beer we found our way to a relatively cheap hostel popular with packpackers. It had a good bar run by the friendly and generous Wayley. Her bar had a free juke box, a pool table (free if you played her) good food, cheap beer and good beer (note the distinction). Chinese beer is weaker than it tastes and has some kickass chemicals in it that let you know the next morning. Your body does get used to it though so we were able to get drunk by the end of the week without feeling too bad.
We spent a week in Beijing, of which more later.
27th December 2001
Beijing
We spent a week in Beijing, recovering from the rigours of the Gobi, taking care of things that needed to be done, such as tending to our bikes as well as our bellies, developing films and just having fun.
We arrived in Tiannanmen Square after spending some time trying to find it, although I must say Chinese roads are generally well signposted. We posed for photos in front of the portrait of Chairman Mao, benevolently smiling down and I couldn't help but think of him smiling down upon the events of the 4th June 12 years ago. It was bizarre. Here we were, within metres of the site of the massacre of hundreds of non violent protesters and yet everything seemed serene, with the exception of certain driving manoevres. Chinese and foriegn tourists taking photos in front of the Forbidden City, and Mao's mausoleum. It was only later that Andy would see the very rapid arrest of a woman within seconds of unfurling a banner in Chinese which I can only assume was of political content. She was arrested by the police patrolling the square who radioed for help and within seconds a van careered round the corner and she was bundled into the back. Never to be seen again...?
A lot of our time was spent in Waley's bar at the hostel at which we stayed. It made a welcome relief after a relatively austere few weeks since Ulaan Baatar, the beer was cheap, the hospitality was very good courtesy of Waley who was good enough to treat us to the occasional free drink or food, not to mention supplying us with personalised T Shirts explaining our trip. The bar was almost exclusively patronised by the westerners who populated the hostel and it made a pleasant change just to be normal, doing normal things like getting pissed.
My first couple of days in Beijing were spent getting my bearings, wandering the streets, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of a city on the move. Beijing is a fast changing city. The phrase "warning, country under construction" might well be used to describe the state of the whole country. Sky scrapers are springing up all over the place, joining the many already there. Shiny office blocks, public buildings and shopping arcades exist cheek by jowl with sleepy alleys, insipid open sewers and crumbling slums.
The city is also choc-a-bloc with bicycles, a welcome change given the low status given to bikes along much of our route. It's not so much that bicycles rule the road here, as that they fill all the gaps left by motorised transport and often through sheer weight of numbers award themselves a de facto right of way. Weaving in and out of the traffic on our multi geared bikes, rapidly accelerating and decelerating to avoid collisions, outrunning both motor transport and the ubiquitous Chinese Flying Pigeon bicycles. It was only later when I hired a Flying Pigeon for the day that I realised that although you can make quite a respectable speed on one if you put in the leg work, it is impossible to stop without considerable forewarning. I didn't feel safe going at much more than the same gentle pace that the Chinese cycle at. Perhaps improving brake technology is the next necessary step on the Chinese's road to world economic domination!
Whilst wandering the streets on my second day, I found myself in a tiny backstreet buzzing with life as street vendors stir fried meals over open coal stoves. Actually, I didn't find myself there at all, I purposefully followed the stream of people taking styrofoam cartons into shops for the owners lunch. They must know a good thing I reasoned.
Along the alley were self service stir fry stalls. They gave you a container and you stuffed it with as many of the multitude of vegetables (or meat if you're that way inclined) available, indicated whether you wanted chilli, garlic, salt etc and passed it to the man with the wok. They are cooked of an interesting kind of stove consisting of a vertical clay tube just larger than a special type of briquette used as fuel. These are cylindrical bricks about 15 cm high with multiple 1cm holes drilled vertically through. They are made from a mixture of coal and clay so as they burn they hold their shape but crumble when prodded hard enough, allowing them to fall out the bottom. For just a few Yuan (11 to the pound) I had an excellent personalised stir fry and rice in a cool setting as people bustled past and clouds of steam rose into the air.
When I left I was persuaded to buy a sugar cane. Always up for a new experience, I didn't quite know how to eat it but was delicately shown the suck, bite, spit action. Unfortunately I was not able to expel the fibrous remnants with the same expertise as the locals. I made a mental note to learn to spit like a true Chinese.
Speaking of which. Amongst the other sounds of the street is the regular sound of people hawking and the expelling at high velocity. It seems to be a national hobby, to be practiced anywhere that does not have a carpet - street, shop, cafe, home, classroom etc. To be fair, when it is a really big one it is polite to withdraw outside before depositing on the ground.
It was in Waley's bar that we met Nick, a Quebecois travelling in China for six months or so. Waley, in her true quiet and unassuming style offered to buy us all a drink if Nick were to walk up to two Belgian girls sitting on the other side of the bar and do a mock bird mating dance ritual. Eventually he agreed and walked across, stood in front of them and waved his wings as he made cooing noises and raised one foot then the other. They thought he was mad but were basically amused and later joined us.
The next day was to be Liesbeth and Katelijne's last day in China and they didn't know whether to do the Great Wall or the Forbidden City. Nick and I had been planning to do the Great Wall the next day and persuaded them that if you're into temples then the Forbidden City would be great but we were going to see the wall and thought it was probably much more unique and special. They concurred and we arranged to meet at seven the following morning to catch the several busses needed to get to Hui Hot, an unreconstructed, relatively tourist free section. Nick and I then proceeded to drink until four in the morning.
Hui Hot is described in the Lonely Planet as a quiet, tourist free, unreconstructed yet relatively intact section of the wall where you go for that "real" experience. Thanks to the Lonely Planet it probably has a year or two at most before it is crawling with backpackers. It's the travellers dilemma - what we value in a place is destroyed by the very value we place on it! You cannot visit and observe remote places without leaving your mark. The more unspoilt a place, the more you want to see it and the greater the imperative to stay away. Unfortunately there is no Star Trek Prime Directive to police the observation of remote cultures.
Unsurprisingly we woke late and it was 11am before we left. This was compounded by the fact we walked around in circles trying to find the long distance bus station for an hour. We had to take a local bus to Tiananmen Square, a metro to the bus station and then two busses to Hui Hot. It was between 2 and 3pm by the time we arrived.
On arriving we found ourselves in a valley with just a few houses lining the road. There was a river running down it which had been dammed at the point where the wall must have spanned the ravine. No prizes for guessing where the construction materials came from. We had to cross the dam to reach the section of wall we were to climb and this was a somewhat hairy task. The top of the dam was no more than four feet wide and only inches above the water which lapped onto the top. There was no rail or even lip on either side of it and it had snowed the night before which had turned to ice on parts of the dam.
Finding no obvious route onto the wall, the cross section of which rose vertically leading up the steep hillside in front of us, we scrambled up into the watchtower facing us. This was not the regular route we discovered on our way back. I didn't feel particularly sure footed wearing my decrepid cycling shoes, hardly designed for grip or support and took it slowly as a result, at one point dislodging a brick that had lain in place for hundreds or thousands of years.
Riding steeply up a mountainside, the wall was not easy going, particularly in the snow, requiring a certain degree of balance and care to avoid falling along it or, in places, off it. The views were spectacular though. We walked for about an hour before realising that there was only one bus home and it would take us at least an hour to get down.
Again I found myself trailing the others with their fancy trainers or hiking boots. And then within a minute of starting the descent my legs began to cramp up. It was cold and I was probably slightly dehydrated from the night before. I slowed to a snails pace and wondered if I could get down in time for the bus. Not a problem for me if I didn't, there were guest houses in the town but the others had to get back for their flight the next day. We made it however, with a modicum of slipping and falling. At the bottom was the necessary minibus driver offering to take us for five times the bus fare and insisting there would be no bus until tommorow. We smiled broadly at him as the bus approached. He smiled back.
It was only when we returned that I remembered that we had promised a student we met in the street that we would speak at his university. Scott had forgotten too leaving Rory and Andy to keep the British end up. Apparently they did this very well, getting themselves into the Beijing Youth Daily and being treated to an enormous meal, not to mention the smiles of some beautiful Chinese students.
The previous day we had met Stephane, our 5th man. He had broken his foot weeks before departure in May so been unable to come, flying out to Beijing once he was fit. Before departure we had all collectively misread his name as Stephanie and Andy had emailed him to say how disappointed he was not to have a woman aboard, after the accident.
When we returned from the wall, we were having a drink with Stephane when he called a girl he had met on the street. He invited her to join us and told her it would seem like an eternity as he waited. When she finally turned up Stephane turned on his silky smooth patter. She wouldn't take a drink though. She said that she got drunk once and didn't like it. She came home and went to bed without taking a shower first. She felt so ashamed. What could we say.
Before long she said I looked like that English actor... "Hugh Grant?" I said. "Well, um, actually" I said, "don't tell anyone this, because, you know, I'm trying to keep it quiet, but I'm actually taking a few weeks off, trying to hide from the Hollywood pack" Like Divine Brown she swallowed it whole. She also thought Nick looked like Brad Pitt and it was easy enough to persuade her that we were on an incognito break in Beijing. After she had left (without Stephane) we joked that Andy looked like Anthony Hopkins, Scott like Mel Gibson and Rory, well Rory!
Nick at this point broached an idea that had been brewing in his head for a while. He wanted to buy a bike and some panniers and join us. Like some of the best decisions it was spontaneous. The others were basically positive providing he was prepared to see how it went and if it was too much, go his own way. This was not to be a problem however.
So the following day Scott, Nick and I went out to buy a bike. There was a fair choice of Chinese quality mountain bikes including a few obviously pertaining to be made by manufacturers who wouldn't put their name to such bikes, most notably Giant. Whilst there was a good choice, the choice of really suitable bikes was slim. Nick ended up coming away with a middle of the (Chinese) range bike, two panniers and some sundries all for less than US $150. And the bike would pay for itself easily by reduced (zero) transport costs and very low accomodation costs since 80% of the time we would be free camping. It seemed slightly strange to us but I'm sure to Nick the feeling of just walking out and buying a bike to cycle to Hong Kong was even more bizarre.
The last days in Beijing were spent tying up loose ends and getting drunk. As ever, there's never enough time so you just have to prioritise. My liver didn't thank me for this but sometimes you have to do what needs to be done.
We met some great people in Beijing, most notably Waley our very generous hostess (in the bar if not the hostel), her friends and our fellow travellers. I came away from Beijing with a good impression of a city on the move, changing rapidly and on something of a high in the wake of the decision to award it the 2008 Olympics. Evidence of this was everywhere, even to the extent of overhearing station attendents on the underground practicing their English as all people with jobs in public service such as taxi drivers, are obliged to do.
We left the city glad to be on the move again and keen to reach warmer climes. This would take rather longer than we'd hoped and involve some real adventures on the way.
1st January 2002
Beijing to Wuhan: How not to show your appreciation of hospitality.
We left Beijing glad to be on the road again, as we usually are after a while in the city. It's not just the money thing (presently in Hong Kong we must be spending over 10 pounds a day, maybe more, compared with around one pound on the road (two meals plus snacks, accomodation free). It's also that we get itchy feet. We feel (I think I can speak for the others) like nomads, uncomfortable in the same spot for too long, eager to move. It's almost like running across water, slow down and you drown! Coming home will be interesting in that respect. I'll have to find another outlet for my energies!
South of Beijing, our newly expanded group (Stephane and Nick joined in Beijing) took the National Route 107, a fairly major trunk road, although as in Russia, you never know when a trunk road will transform into a country lane with passing places. The landscape was completely flat, although unlike Siberia every inch of it was cultivated. The only trees were those in and very close to villages. And it was to be some time before we saw the sun again, although there was no sign of rain or even cloud in any aqueous sense! We were in China's main eastern industrial belt and visiblity was probably less than a kilometre.
One of the most striking things about the landscape was the phenomen of earthmoving. The Chinese obviously like to move earth. It's one thing terracing a mountainside to make maximum use of space. But here there was a basically flat(tened) landscape, with the occasional regularly shaped column of earth protuding or similar regular hole. These holes did come in handy for camping in sometimes though.
As is bound to happen, we all go through periodic ups and downs, loving or hating the country we're in, having fun or being pissed off. What is interesting is the way this happens to us collectively. At times we take on a collective mood or consciousness. The group moves and feels together. South of Beijing this happened quite noticably. There was a general malaise about our physical and mental health for a while. We all became sick to some extent, ranging from a mild under the weather feeling to quite unpleasant heavy colds. The pollution wasn't helping and perhaps I was finally begining to become proficient at the national passtime of hawking. I don't know where it all came from! The road was basically busy, dirty and not desparately interesting. We felt like we were in Groundhog Day, not for the first time on our trip - get up, cycle on flat road, get dirty and endure the same dull conditions. At one point when the sun finally came out Scott remarked, "The sun's coming out, quick, put some more coal on the fire!"
We spent a lot of time taking advantage of the flat roads and relatively slow speeds of trucks, tuk-tuks and other vehicles by slip-streaming them. The basic principle is this. Hear a vehicle approaching from behind that sounds like it's about the right size and speed, match its speed as it comes alongside and then duck in behind it as it passes. With a large enough truck going at the right rate we were able to sustain 40kmph (25mph) for some time without too much effort. This may not sound too fast but on a 50kg touring bike you're doing particularly well. This was of course particularly welcome when we were facing a headwind that was otherwise holding us to under 10mph. It's fun racing along behind a truck but it's still hard work maintaining that kind of speed and it takes a lot of mental effort too, constantly matching the speed, holding your distance and being aware of the road conditions and ready for emergency manoevres!
A few days out of Beijing we had our first major cross cultural experience of this leg of the trip, although I'm not sure how good an ambassador for Blighty I made. We were sitting in a pleasant enough cafe, getting ready to settle the bill when the 18 year old girl serving us got chatting to Stephane and rapidly invited us to stay at her parents house.
This sounded like an interesting idea and since we were just about ready to call it a day we agreed to check it out. She had a bike too so she finished work early and led us a few hundred metres to a track that led to her village.
It was a village of narrow straw lined streets, livestock wandering about and with a sleepy feel. Cool I though - that genuine local experience. We got back to hers to find ourselves in a smallish courtyard surounded by a brick wall, with single storey buildings on two sides. One of these was clearly still in the process of being built or converted. There was more of the Chinese earthmoving going on. The buildings were a couple of feet above the level of the courtyard they bordered, the courtyard showing signs of having been lowered at some point. Unless they had piled up 2 feet of earth on which to build, with no surrounding ground to hold it up. Now however there was fresh earth being piled into the gaps, apparently the courtyard was being filled. There was work in porgress, whatever the final outcome would be. And in the corner was, a brick shithouse, of which more later.
At this point it should be noted that back in the cafe I had been unable to finish my food. Most unusual for me, I wasn't quite sure why.
Stephane and Mi-Ow were getting on famously and at one point he came up with a comment which he hasn't yet lived down. "Her parents are away, her sister's been sent to stay with friends, it's all been arranged." Not long afterwards we heard the familiar sound of a mini tractor idling outside the gate as daddy opened it to let himself in only to find our tents pitched in his parking space. You could almost hear the game show style "not this time" sound and the look on Stephane's face was priceless.
After moving onto the bare concrete of the house under conversion we were treated to grand hospitality by Mi-ow and her parents. We went to the local shop and bought beers and asked Mi-ow what her father liked. Rice Wine. We tried to buy this but somehow Mi-ow got in first, unfortunate since we were trying to buy a gift to show our appreciation. He got pissed either way though.
After a large meal had been forced down our throats, a few beers had been consumed and we'd been shown off to friends, neighbours and relatives, thinking I'd got my appetite back and was basically ok but tired I decided to take it easy and go to bed. I slept for a short while before being rudely awakened by a dangerously explosive feeling in my belly. Basically it felt like it had been pumped up with air and was going to explode! Seconds later, I became aware that I was going to have to run like hell to make it to the earth closet just outside my tent (closet is actually a misnomer - it had a wall on two sides, but more of that later). Grabbing my toilet paper, left in a convenient position and grappling with the tent's zip I emerged and made it to the toilet in time for the previously mentioned gasses to explode violently, taking a fair amount of liquid with them. Here we go I thought, I've finally got the shits.
So I went back to bed, fully expecting to be up again before too long, and needless to say I was. After my second trip I heard a rapid fumbling with a zip followed by the sound of someone in a hurry and then the most godawful explosion. I was not alone!
Sticking my head out when I heard footsteps returning to a tent I saw Scott and we exchanged pleasantries. We would be leapfrogging back and forth to the loo all night.
At around 10pm - it seemed much later but I'd been in bed for hours already - I awoke again - here we go again I thought. All went as normal until I steadied myself by resting my hand against the wall behind me as I squatted. The lightest of pressure was too much and my heart leapt into my throat as I felt the wall disintegrate behind me. There was an enormous crash. Everyone must have heard this I thought. I just stood and stared, completely unable to think what to do. Really there was nothing I could do except perhaps put the bricks into something of a neat pile. They had been held together by mortar that had degenerated into wet sand. I couldn't really feel too guilty. Just embarassed. I rearranged the bricks and again pondered my situation before going back to bed. I had no idea what to do in the morning, but for now that would wait!
When I did get up I found that a makeshift shield had been errected around the toilet to protect the dignity of those using it. I can only assume our hosts knew it was me - afterall, it was me that disappeared off to bed early. Nothing was said and we gathered our things and prepared to leave. Mi-ow was very upset that we couldn't stay an extra day, but all things considered, we thought it best we didn't impose any further. We thanked them and continued our journey.
A couple of nights later, as my gastric problems continued, we camped late in a field on a crop. The fact that abosolutely everywhere was cultivated made it very difficult at times. As it got dark we tried to avoid giving away any signs that we were there, such as making unnecesary noise or shining lights. I was in bed shortly, preparing myself for another night of interupted sleep, making sure I knew exactly where my toilet paper, torch and shoes were. At around three in the morning, on one of my regular trips outside, I saw three shooting stars in quick sucession. Unusual but I thought nothing of it. It was only the following morning that I discovered that I had missed the biggest meteorite shower in 100 years because the others had thought I was ill and wouldn't want to be disturbed. I wasn't getting much sleep any for Christ's sake, I might as well have been outside enjoying the show.
We were all sick to death of the road 107, being noisy and polluted as it was. We took an early opportunity to take an alternative road that was far quieter and passed through some wonderful villages. It was at this stage that we really began to get the star treatment. At every cafe, a crowd would gather, sometimes of 50 people or more. Whilst we sat and ate, they stood and stared. It was truly like feeding time at the zoo! Most of the time it's friendly enough but there are times when you just want to be invisible and left alone. This will be both one of the strange and nice things back at home - to be Joe Normal again! Patience is the only way to deal with it though. It is entirely understandable really - when the first westerners you have ever seen turn up in your village you're going to want to have a look, see if they really do look like Pamela Anderson of David Hasselhof. It's something akin to aliens landing in our hometowns!
It was not long before we discovered the joy of fireworks. We had stopped to by snacks but our eyes were quickly diverted by the large strips of firecrackers on sale. Rory was the first to buy, needing absolutely no encouragement whatsoever. A roll of firecrackers 40cm across and about 8 deep was my choice whilst Rory bought some slightly smaller firecrackers and several bangers the size of about 15-20 cm high and about 5 across. These were later to be used to blow up his decrepid cycling shoes that had lasted an impressive 10 years.
That night we camped in a ditch and full scale warfare ensued. Andy discovered that his catapult made a very good delivery system for his firecrackers, firing them at Rory and not even desisting when Rory sought shelter behind Andy's tent. There'll be tears before bedtime I thought. Next we discovered that Rory's seat tube made a very effective mortar when a lit firecracker was dropped down it and followed by a projectile. The most effective projectile we found was a stick glue container, fitting snugly into the tube. We managed to make this fire several metres over the roof of Nick's tent. Scott seemed a little concerned that his tent would be damaged and probably wasn't too amused when I informed him that the correct attitude was to damage yourself or your equipment, find it hilariously funny and then continue until something worse happened!
We reached Zhenzhou a few days later, which really resembled something out of Blade Runner - spotlights scanning the sky and a constant public address system basting out over the central square. It actually had some beautiful boulevards which we passed on the way in but we weren't staying anywhere near there. We arrived looking filthy and exhausted, sitting on the steps of the hotel whilst Andy and Nick negotiated a price. I thought I had recovered from the shits at this point but on the last night I ate at a dodgy cafe by the station and was off again.
Our quiet country road was in the process of being converted into a major highway, meaning that many stretches of it consisted of mud or gravel. This slowed progress considerably, and it was at the end of a tiring day that we pulled into a cafe in a small town called Mang Zhang Dian, to find something to eat.
We were quickly thronged by a million and one school children, not to mention all the other passing souls. Managing to order, eating was a little difficult due to the sheer weight of numbers. Before long the childrens' English teacher turned up and we were able to explain what we were doing and where we were from. He seemed very interested and eager to speak to native speakers.
He asked us if we would be so good as to speak to his school the next day. We were quite happy to do this if he would help us find a cheap binguan (guest house). Of course, he was more than happy, after we had paid up leading us through the streets and eventually reaching a guest house where we were ushered in. We had negotiated a price and were in the process of unloading our bikes when who should turn up but the people's police.
They talked to the English teacher and through him explained that they wanted to take us to a hotel where we would be more comfortable. Nearer the police station. For our own protection!!! We weren't quite sure what to make of this and tried to explain that we were perfectly happy with this hotel and felt quite safe. They explained again that it really was in our interests to come with them, and that we would be safer there. After some dialogue it became perfectly clear that there was not to be any negotiation, they wanted us where they could see us! The comment that finally persuaded us was when the English teacher said fairly bluntly "It WOULD be better that way". Ok. Anything for an easy life. The closest we got to negotiation as insisting that we would pay no more than we had agreed for the current hotel.
After a long walk through the town, pointedly avoiding the main roads where people might see us, we reached the other hotel which was similar to the first really. The major difference was that the police were there and ready to bed down for the night, "to make us feel safe". Of course we felt very safe once they had secured the place and made sure there was no way in (or out) for those who should not be wanting to enter (or leave).
Before long the police chief for the town turned up with many forms to fill in just in case we weren't entirely sure of our own identities and needed help with the documents. They were of course, all very friendly and not intimidating in the slightest, mainly it was amusing to see such a fuss being made over us. We felt sure that the officer who had masterminded the operation was angling after a promotion, and given the unusual nature of the case, was probably going to get one, just so long as he didn't mess up and allow us to escape into the Chinese countryside. After much fuss the police finally left us to our beers, two of them remaining downstairs for our protection. We prepared ourselves mentally for the task of being ambassadors for our countries at the local school the next day.
The English teachers turned up early and fed us at a local restaurant before taking us to the school for our first class. We were somewhat perturbed to discover that they wanted us to speak individually to classes of around 100 children. When we had done this kind of thing before it had been as a group and we had been able to play off each other. This was another matter entirely.
Taking my first class, I was asked to talk a little about my country and myself and then about the trip. Naturally I spoke of my home town and what a great place it was and also what I had been doing with my life. So, I explained that I had worked at the Houses of Parliament which is where the British people elect people to represent them from whom our Government is chosen. This done I spoke a little about our trip and what a good thing it was to travel, to meet people and see how other people live and how their countires and cultures work. Then came the questions.
What is your name was an early one. I thought I had got this out of the way at the begining by introducing myself and writing my name on the blackboard but apparently not. There were a few questions about the trip but the children seemed remarkably uninterested. They seemed far more interested in asking "What do you think of China joining the WTO" to which I replied that if it meant more contact with the outside world then that was a good thing, and "which do you think is better, Beijing or Taipei?" Never having been to Taiwan this was a difficult question for me. I said "is this a political question?" being somewhat surprised by the 8 year old's spontaneous interest in such an issue and then went on to explain that I had only been to one of the two cities and couldn't realy compare them. But if they really wanted a political answer I could give them one. Fortunately this wasn't required.
After speaking to another two classes, covering the entire school of around 1500 kids between us, we were taken downstairs for tea. I was amazed to see in the room we were taken to a row of mugshots of great communists we have known. Ok, the obligitory Mao is to be expected but I wasn't aware that Stalin was still revered as a great man here. The full line up included Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, Mao, three other Chinese revolutionary leaders plus Deng Xioping.
Marx, Engels even Lenin I could understand. They still have their admirers in Russia and the west. But Uncle Joe? The Russians gave up on him nearly 40 years ago. And what seemed more strange was the fact that the Soviet Union and China were at each others throats for many years. But apparently it is still drummed into Chinese youth that Stalin was a great man. Something of the attitude became clearer later when I was speaking to someone else and said, yes but Stalin killed 10 million people, more than Hitler (actually there are documents coming out of the Soviet archives that suggest it was actually closer to 40m), he killed people for merely disagreeing with him. The reply came, "Like chairman Mao!" It seems murdering your opponents is acceptable here. This was the first time I think I had seen an official image of Stalin although there are plenty in Russia who believe that Russia too needs to be ruled with an iron hand. I said to one of the teachers that Russians (generally) accept that Stalin was a murderous tyrant but whether that meant anything to them I don't know. After this we were taken to the junior school for much the same routine before being bought lunch and recieving a police escort out of town. Just to make sure we really had gone!
It was another couple of days to Wuhan where we would take a well earned rest. Unfortunately the night before arriving it began to rain and this was not to truly abate until we were close to Hong Kong nearly three weeks later.
Along with the rain, Wuhan was to be the begining of the major mountains which though hard work made a welcome break from the somewhat boring and polluted lowlands. But more of that later.
8th February 2002
Liu Yang to Hong Kong - broken spokes prevail
From Liu Yang we had to move quickly to make up for the time we had lost, cycling further into the mountains. The peaks became higher and the river valleys deeper and one evening we found ourselves camped at an idyllic site beside a beautiful river where a bamboo raft just happened to be tied up. Seizing the opportunity Rory and Andy punted their way across the river to the steep slope of the other side. We slept to the sound of the gurgling of the river and in some of the most stunning scenery yet.
The following morning we were to follow the river upstream meaning a steady gentle climb. This continued for some time before quickly turning to a steep climb up the head of the valley. We reached a village nestled in the crook of the valley and ate lunch thinking that we were near the top of our climb. The road headed out of the village uphill but it could not go much further, there didn't seem to be anywhere to go.
We continued for a few kilometres, finding ourselves in the bottom of another steep sided valley. Continuing along this one, it was not long before the road became unpaved and headed up the thickly forested valley sides. The road seemed to go on indefinitely. Everytime we reached what seemed to be a natural end, the head of a valley or what appeared to be a gap leading to the long awaited downhill, we would turn the corner only to find yet another mountain of similar proportions to the last, challenging us to climb it. What was truly amazing was the degree of cultivation this high up the mountain. However steep the hill, the Chinese still manage to terrace it and make use of the land. One moment the road would be clinging to the side of the hill where the only way was down, the next you would turn a corner and find a village with terraced fields growing out of the hillside.
The views from this climb were truly stunning. We rose up through the cloud and were able to look down and watch as a misty white sheet of cloud worked its way into the minor valleys and crevices filling the space below before dispersing and reforming continuously.
The climb eventually turned out to be around 1000m, taking us to an altitude of 1600m, about the height of Ben Nevis. When we finally did reach the top it was 4pm and cooling rapidly. We had lost Stephane somewhere on the way so headed down the (thankfully paved) road in search of the first cafe where we could wait out of the continuous rain.
He had not turned up an hour later so we decided we had no option but to try to leave a message at the cafe and move on to the town below, hoping that he would try to contact us through email. In one of life's little coincidences, while we were booking into the hotel, I was thinking that we would meet up easily, just bump into each other and that he would cycle past at some point, if only someone happened to be looking at that moment. I looked over my shoulder and saw Stephane's trademark white helmet flash past on the road outside. Dropping everything (literally - my bags were only half off the bike), I jumped on the bike and cycled after him at high speed and with little regard for traffic regulations (blending in quite nicely there!). I caught him and we were reunited at the hotel in time for a beer. It turned out he had had three punctures on the way up. Bad luck comes in threes.
Eating in a cafe the next evening, we were approached by a young local man whose English name was Jason. He spoke excellent English and wished to talk with us, at first as we ate and then inviting us to stay at his parents home. He said that they were very hospitable and would love to have us. It was cold, raining and our clothes and tents were wet. Faced with the choice of a soggy field or Chinese hospitality it was not a hard decision. So long as his parents were happy, we agreed to stay.
That evening we were treated to a fantastic meal courtesy of Jason's mother, his father's homemade spirit (quite what sort I'm not sure but it did the job for him). Father's friends came round to visit and joined in the party, we sent one of our number out to add some beers into the mix and a great time was had by all. Such a great time was had that father had to be put to bed by his wife and son and the following day Rory was suffering from the combined effects of too much alcohol and the snails he had eaten the night before.
That morning Rory was to perform a fairly impressive task given his condition. Rory and I were cycling along, a little way behind the others, when Andy came to a dramatic stop, wobbling across the road. His derraileur had exploded into his wheel taking a spoke with it. It was completely unsalvageable, but fortunately for Andy, I was carrying a spare. We removed the remains of the old one and inspected the damage. The frame was not damaged but the dropout that holds the deraillieur and takes the bullet for the frame, was twisted quite badly. We managed to straighten it enough to fit the new derailleur and within the hour were away again.
The ride through southern China continued through stunning scenery as we tried to make it to Hong Kong for Christmas. The mountains were steep but lush and beautiful covered with bamboo, bananas and lush foliage. It was around this point that I began to have problems with my back wheel.
It started with one spoke. And then another. These were easily replaceable but seemed to make little difference - they just kept breaking one after the other becoming almost comical after a while. Replacing a spoke on the left hand side of the wheel, away from the chain is easy - the old one unscrews and you feed the new one through. On the other side however the gearing is in the way and all this has to be removed in order to get at the hub and feed the spoke through. So when one broke on that side we had the job of trying to remove the gear cassette from my wheel. This was not an easy task since when my bike had been repaired previously it seems the mechanic had screwed it as hard as he possibly could, leaving me screwed at this point! To remove the gear you have to secure the gear cog (usually with a length of chain) and then turn the screw inside it to remove the cassette. This involved Scott wrapping a length of chain around the cassette and bracing him and the wheel against a tree whilst Rory put the spanner deep into the wheel and hit it as hard as he could. This resulted in us going flying rather than the screw turning. It proved impossible to remove and thus impossible to change the spoke.
We stayed in Renhua, a small town with a frontage on a river that seemed to me to have an almost European sub Alpine river resort feel to it. The hotel was large and spacious with good sized rooms and facilities. On the staircase was a peculiar art form that we had come across on a couple occasions - that of gay horses frolicking freely across a plain. Really rather comical. Scott, Nick and I spent the evening in our room watching a film in Chinese called The Emperor and the Assassin. Our understanding was aided by the fact that like much Chinese TV, it can be appreciated on a purely visual level (lots of fighting and thunderbolts) and also that Scott had seen it with subtitles in the US. Based on a true story of a paranoid, tyrannical emperor it was quite enlightening really.
The following day I had four missing spokes by noon and no way of replacing them without removing the cassette. So I hopped on a passing tuk-tuk and rode the next seven kilometres to a village where I found a mechanic's shop where they had a vice. It was time for some brute force.
When Rory and Andy caught up we put the wheel in the vice, clamping the gear cogs and then forced the screw undone with a larger spanner. Once done, replacing the spokes was easy and we were soon on our way again, albeit about an hour behind the others who had cycled on. Rory, Andy and I continued at our own pace for the rest of the day and camped on a track leading into the undergrowth within a very short distance of a gently burbling river. The sky was overcast (what's new in China) and it looked like rain. The only place left was in the centre of the track, along the fall line of running water. Ignoring "sensible" advice to look further up the path for somewhere off to the side I camped in the middle of the path and woke up in a large puddle of water!
We set off, riding the first 30 km out of the mountains before breakfast. At one point I was separated from Rory and Andy and apparently they saw a dead body, probably of a vagrant, beside the road seemingly left unattended for someone to recognise as a family member and pick up.
When we stopped at a café the other three who we'd parted from the day before were just leaving so we synchronised watches and arranged to cycle until a certain time and then look for camping, leaving signs for each other. As Rory, Andy and I left the café 45 minutes later we approached a hill and about halfway up, a truck was passing me at just about the right speed so I grabbed hold of it and got a tow. At the top I slipstreamed behind it and rode for several kilometres at about 40kmph before it had the temerity to go a different route, but by that stage I was on a roll and kept pushing, cycling at between 25 and 30kmph unaided. I managed to slipstream a couple of other vehicles but basically cycled for two hours at around 30kmph hitting 50 miles and making up the 45 minutes the other three had on us, by noon. The four of us stopped for lunch and as we were leaving some time later, Rory and Andy arrived somewhat bemused at my having taken off at high speed. I was just in that kind of mood where you feel like pushing it for no particularly good reason. On leaving I decided to check my wheel for broken spokes and was not surprised to find another. This really was it. I was out of spares and could only assume that they would continue to break.
With some regret I decided I would have to catch a bus down to Hong Kong to try to get it fixed so I cycled into Fougang, the nearest town to make arrangements. It felt good to be alone again, just following my nose. I was out of money so decided to find a bank. Cash machines were out of the question so it was a matter of changing my last dollars into Yen. I found the Bank of China and was loitering in the lobby when I was approached by an earnest young man who worked there, wanting to talk to me to practice his English. First things first, I got him to help me change my money and then was happy to sit and chat. He told me about the town and himself and asked what I was up to so I explained my situation, that I needed to find out information about buses to Shenzhen (on the border of Hong Kong) and also needed to find various other facilities. As he walked me out onto the street I thought he was going to point me down the road in the right direction but he walked me halfway across town to an internet café, tried to pay for me and then said to come back to the bank at 5pm when he would find out about bus times for me.
When I did this he had information prepared and wanted to talk to me over food. His initial suggestion was to go to the bank kitchen where staff could cook their own food. There was a rather unattractive selection of food left out on the table from earlier in the day and general odds and ends, he didn't seem to know quite what to do so I suggested eating out, i.e. a noodle stall, on me. We did this and a friend of his joined me but before I could pay the bill he'd thrust some Yen into the hands of the woman who served us. The next morning he showed me to the bus station helped explain the bike and even tried to pay my bus fare! Obviously I couldn't allow this but I had a hard job making him take the money. The generosity of people you meet on the road is absolutely incredible. The people you meet have so little, but they have so much to give!
As I took the bus down to Shenzhen crossing the Tropic of Cancer on the way, the sun came out and the landscape appeared somehow warmer. Shenzhen is China's answer to Hong Kong, a capitalist special economic zone bordering Hong Kong. Chinese citizens need a special permit to cross the border into Shenzhen and westerners must show their passports. It felt rather bizarre sitting on a bus, entering a region of China watching ordinary Chinese people being escorted off the bus for not having permits.
Once within the border there was a very showy civic feel to the place. Well watered lawns and blooming flowerbed signs bounded brand new dual carriageways leading straight to the city centre. This was Chairman Dung's dream of a dynamic wholly Chinese city built from scratch within twenty years. Reaching the central train station I was met by Ida, a friend met in Beijing who would put me up whilst awaiting the others and trying to fix my wheel.
Shenzhen was an interesting place, though no great tourist attraction. It was something of a sprawling metropolis of Asian capitalism, as far as I could see, having no real centre as such. It was even more of a building site than the rest of China, full of skyscrapers and as I visited holes being dug on every street to accommodate the new Shenzhen metro. All material needs are provided for in Shenzhen and it seems it is common to order take away food on a daily basis - Ida and her flat mates didn't even possess a kitchen to speak of, just a sink and a fridge!
Two days before Christmas I swam in the South China Sea, being accused of being crazy by Ida for swimming in the sea on a day that was roughly equivalent to a hot day in May in England. This was mid winter and people wrap up in winter, seemingly irrespective of how warm it actually is - it's all relative to where you're from.
I had some interesting conversations with Ida and her family and friends in Shenzhen, providing some insight into the Chinese character. When I saw a large icon of Dung Xiouping I asked if he was a great man, a strong leader and they said yes. So I asked if he was a great man in 1989 when he ordered the massacre of students in Tiannanmen Square. They knew of the event and that some people had been killed but could not believe that the figure ran into hundreds. If that were so, surely there would be thousands of family members speaking out. Fear is a great silencer, especially when others have already been disappeared. More disturbing was the acceptance of this action to keep law and order. "China is a large country with divergent tensions. It needs to ruled with an iron hand". If these people had to be killed to hold the regime's grip on power, so be it! Bread on the table comes before human rights, understandable in many ways but it was the complete acceptance that bothered me.
I explained that I had seen the pantheon of Communist leaders and theorists displayed in schools in a row on the wall - Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, a Chinese revolutionary, Mao and two of his premiers and Dung Xiouping. Leaving Mao out of it for discretion's sake, despite the fact that he was probably as much of a tyrant I asked about Stalin. I was particularly surprised at Stalin being present in schools. Firstly because China and the Soviet Union fell out around the time of the end of his leadership. Secondly, because the global consensus seems to be pretty much that he was a paranoid, murderous tyrant who killed between 10 and 40 million of his own people and was little (if at all) better than Hitler. They were taught that he was a great man I was told. "But he killed all these people, you could die for simply disagreeing with him, he killed his political opponents" I said. "Just like" [the great] "Chairman Mao" I was told. I was pretty much gobsmacked. Kill millions of people, crush all opposition and get your country into an unsustainable arms race that will eventually bankrupt it and lead to it's demise, and you too can be on the wall of a Chinese primary school. The strength of feeling of a Hong Kong Chinese guy living in Shenzhen also surprised me - I thought that Tianannmen Square scared the shit out of Hong Kong and led to a rush on British Passports. He was very pro Beijing and told me that Hong Kongers had been surveyed and preferred the Beijing government to their own. I was later to find out that the elected government Hong Kong was going through a rough patch and had low ratings. This is what happens in democracies and when this coincides with an election you get a new government.
There is a lot of learning to be done for westerners of the Chinese mindset.
I crossed into Hong Kong on Christmas Eve, not considering the hundreds of Hong Kongers returning for Christmas. I queued for well over an hour to get through customs before boarding the shiny new train that leaves every five minutes for Kowloon.
5th March 2002
Hong Kong to Vietnam - we make our escape
Arriving in Kowloon peninsular, Hong Kong at around eight pm I had the name of the hotel my friends were staying at but no idea where it was. Getting a taxi was not an option since the roads in most of Kowloon were closed to traffic and jam packed full of partying people. Eventually I managed to follow directions to the right building but this had scores of hotels and hostels in it. I found the right one by sheer chance, getting off the lift on the right floor and walking into Rory and Andy. I rapidly deposited my bike, grabbed a beer and went out to wander the streets with them.
Hong Kong has various facilities that we had been looking forward to. Western goods and foods and services in shops etc but first on the list, having cracked open the beer, was the fish and chip shop. Quite a treat! The party atmosphere on the streets was amazing. As far as we could see there was no trouble and the police were very friendly. It was kind of reassuring to be around officers whose uniform was familiar in that it showed some evidence of British influence. We partied late, finding my way to the hostel bed at 3am.
The hostel, on the 16th floor of Cheungking Mansions it has to be said, was a bit of a dive. There were rats that let themselves into the kitchen, greasy walls that hadn't been washed or painted in years and a general lack of care and attention to the place or its inhabitants. The most advantageous thing about it was for Andy. A guy who worked freelance for movie makers used Cheungking Mansions as a feeding ground for budget travellers to work as walk-ons in films. In this case, the next Jackie Chan movie! Look out for a hospital scene in which a patient hides under the bed and has his hand run over by a trolley. Yes, Andy even had a stunt double for his hand.
It was an expensive week in Hong Kong. My bike cost 100 pounds to repair (more than the cost of Nick's Chinese bike!) and food and beer were very expensive, not to mention the 5 pounds we were paying every night for the privilege of sharing the rats' home. We were very glad to moving on to Macau although Andy and Stephane stayed behind to complete their unfinished business.
Rory, Scott, Nick and I took the boat into Macau and found it a small place with a pleasant atmosphere. We crossed a rather idiosyncratic bridge that was flat for most of its length but rose steeply in the centre to allow ships to pass underneath.
We made our way to a beach on the other side of the second island, passing through a very pleasant little village on the way. The whole of Macau had a very southern European feel to it, due to the Portuguese colonial influence, far more so than Hong Kong felt English. I felt very much as if I was on a European holiday. We spent a couple of days there, recharging our batteries after the hectic week in Hong Kong, relaxing on the beach and exploring the islands.
On our last night in Macau I suffered the misfortune of having a pannier taken from under my flysheet, rummaged thorough and having various items stolen. Some soap, wet wipes, sun tan lotion, nail clippers, toothpaste and a towel. They made a clean getaway (sorry).
We left Macau wondering why Stephane and Andy hadn't come to the beach as arranged and assuming they would be ahead of us. As we crossed back into China proper, the familiar smog reappeared and we knew we were back.
We had previously decided to travel to Vietnam via the city of Nanning and pass through the more northerly Friendship Border, however we suspected that it would be possible to cross the southerly one at Mong Cai. We also suspected that there would be a way to cross the wide estuaries between Mong Cai and us and therefore make a shortcut south of Nanning. Of course the thought of overtaking Andy and Stephane filled us with great pleasure!
So we took the southern route, making very good progress with the wind behind us and as expected found ferries of various descriptions to take us across the river. The most fun was the concrete punt onto which we squeezed our bikes after cycling down a windy path through a sugar cane plantation. We were peacefully transported across the river to another path from which we had to find our way back to the main road.
The style of the buildings changed quite significantly in this region beginning to look slightly more European and generally built of brick rather than concrete as in much of China. We passed through a few small towns with tall buildings lining the road and leading out onto squares with central monuments of various descriptions.
Shortly after crossing one of the larger rivers on a motor ferry we cycled through the town on the rivers edge and were swarmed by curious children when we stopped for food. There are many Chinese walking around in clothes emblazoned with logos which they have no understanding of. Scott saw one that took the biscuit however. A little girl of no more than about 6 or 7 years old was wearing a sweatshirt saying "Sex doggy style, sit up and beg and take it from behind." Somewhere there is a clothes designer laughing himself silly.
We eventually met up with Andy and Stephane in Quinzhou after leapfrogging them for several days. We had thought they had been ahead of us and after receiving a message on a mile post (standard practice to leave messages every 50km) we cycled the next 50km in an hour and 45 minutes to see if we could make up some time on them, only to find no message at the next 50. We're not sure how that happened but somehow we overtook them and ultimately cycled into Quinzhou at about the same time, bumping into them on the street as we were both looking for a hotel.
In Quinzhou we had a quite bizarre evening courtesy of the owner of a food stall where we ate. After explaining what we were doing in China and that we would very shortly be in Vietnam he asked us if we wanted to go to a nightclub and then led us across town to a place where he knew the owners and could get us in free.
After he had bought a couple of rounds of drinks we began to explore the club and the dance floor. The dance floor was very bizarre. It was mounted on springs meaning that not only did you find yourself catapulted into the air, but because springs only resonate at a certain frequency, it was very difficult to dance do any music that wasn't at that particular speed.
It took us a little while to notice that every time we approached a woman on the dance floor, we would find ourselves ignored (not the treatment we had grown used to in China or much of the trip). Not only that but they were usually dancing with other girls that we had assumed to be their friends. Slowly it dawned on us that we had not seen a single heterosexual couple on the dance floor and that all the men were dancing with men and all the women with women. It seemed normal enough at first for them all to be dancing with friends, since sexuality is not always flaunted in Asia but after a while, our lack of success combined with the fact of the same sex couples led us to realise that it was not going to be a good night for lonely travelers. The strangest thing was that the club in no way had any gay overtones or decor and the clientele did not seem obviously gay either. Stephane of course, did manage to find himself a nice, young Chinese girl who was persuaded of his charms. But that's just the way it always is!
By the end of the evening we had drunk many pitchers of beer and staggered out onto the street not knowing exactly where we were (our host had long since left). So we decided to go for the Chinese variation on the motor rickshaw - the Honda motorbike with a rear axle bolted on and space for about six people over the top. Nick decided that it would be a good idea to hang onto the metal frame that encloses the passenger compartment and drag his feet along the road. I wish him no ill, and much as I love him it would have been absolutely hilarious to see his hands slip and his jaw hit the tarmac! Such scenarios are best left in the imagination however.
When we reached the hotel Andy was far from ready for bed and keen to persuade Nick and myself to share in taking the evening further. Nick was briefly tempted but the lure of his bed seemed that bit more tempting than that one last shout.
We left for the border the following morning, making good time and crossing into Vietnam earlier than expected, that evening.
22nd March 2002
Back in 'Nam 2002
Our first night in Viet Nam was to be an eventful one.
After crossing the border at about 5pm we immediately noticed on cycling through Mong Cai that Viet Nam has a bar and café culture. The streets were lined with pavement cafes and bars, a welcome change from China where it was all or nothing � it was very difficult to find somewhere you could just sit and drink, be it tea, coffee, or beer. There seemed too, to be a certain French colonial hangover, unsurprisingly really. The buildings were quite different from China, tall and thin, detached, rendered houses, often with balconies on the first floor.
We decided to try to camp on the beach at Tra Co, a beach we had seen on our maps, so cycled about 10kms to find it. When we arrived it seemed very nice, a great first impression of Vietnam. It was a holiday resort primarily serving Vietnamese and Chinese tourists and the main (only) street was very quiet with sand encroaching its borders.
Having taken a look around we found a bar in which to have the traditional first beer after crossing a border. This was in a café on the beachfront, with plenty of capacity but no customers. It was very low season! The beach was a beautiful, long, wide and shallow affair with characteristic Vietnamese fishing boats bobbing around beyond the low tide mark. Scott said it reminded him of a northern American beach resort in winter � nothing much going on.
Having had our beer we set about the task of deciding where to camp. There was a long promenade bordering the beach with many little cafes, mostly closed, behind it. At our end of the promenade was an area of grass and we decided to camp ostentatiously on it, thinking no one would care. Having set up our tents, with some assistance from some very helpful and intelligent children (one of our better experiences with "helpful" children), we decided to look for something to eat. Stephane said he wasn�t hungry and would stay with the tents.
We made our way up onto the main street and walked up and down to see if there was anyone willing to serve us. It was dark, with little or no street lighting and as we looked around we could tell very little, but there didn�t seem to be too much activity. Eventually we were directed to a café where we managed to get some basic food and just relax a little, taking the air. We discovered that the Vietnamese make baguette style bread, a very welcome change and the first bread as we know it since Russia. They also do a very nice line in fried egg and salad baguettes.
We returned to our tents and soon after Stephane was away with the clouds, whilst the rest of us talked, made hot drinks and wrote our diaries. We had a visitor. He was very polite, but very firm, we must accompany him to the police station.
When we got there, we found the local English teacher had been dragged out of bed to translate and it was fairly simply and straightforwardly explained that camping was not allowed in Vietnam and we would have to book into a hotel. Hotels cost in the region of 100 Dong ($6) and they would be happy to take our money. We explained our situation and that we were very tired and could we just sleep there tonight and be off in the morning. Eventually they relented and we were allowed to leave. On the way out, the English teacher asked if we could come to talk to her the next day at the school, where she lived. We were very happy to, I think she had probably never met native English speakers before.
The following morning, after striking camp we made our way to the school and were welcomed in by the teacher. She sat us down in her room and generally talked to us about the trip, our homes and our lives. Before long five fellow young women teachers joined her and she invited us to stay for a simple lunch. Stephane disappeared for a while whilst Rory and I played frisbee in the yard. On his return he explained that he was working on one of the girls and since "there�s six of them, there�s six of us!", perhaps we should hang around and stay another night. I don�t think this was what was in the young ladies minds however and having met the police the previous night and been informed of Viet Nam�s laws on independent camping, we thought perhaps it would be better to leave this sleepy little resort behind us. It was with some bewilderment that we persuaded Stephane of this, and, it has to be said that, the young teachers, pillars of the local community, were fairly relieved to see the back of us.
Our next port of call was to be Cat Ba island in Halong Bay, a world heritage site famous for its pillars of rock standing proudly out the see for miles on end. But not before a fun afternoon�s cycling for Rory, Nick and I.
We had been approaching our port of departure, Halong City along a road used to transport large quantities of coal. The result was a black film upon everything close to the road, including cyclists. It was fairly unpleasant, both due to the coal, and the trucks transporting it, even though it did pass through some great scenery and pleasant little towns.
It was in one of these that we decided to stop for lunch, a relatively simple affair in a small caf�. We noticed it sold beer by the pitcher... It was a hot day... So a beer seemed in order. This was very pleasant and seemed only right that we should order a second pitcher and then Nick, Rory and I decided that a third would be a very good idea. The others were keen to get on and perhaps not quite so enthralled at the prospect of cycling on Vietnamese roads whilst under the influence. So we stayed behind for another pitcher (or possibly two � it all blurs into one) whilst the others made their way to Halong city.
Once we had decided that we had had enough for now we paid the bill and moved on, flying like the wind, partly in order to catch up and partly because we were drunk and it seemed like fun. Now alcohol is a diuretic (it dehydrates you) so at this pace we rapidly became thirsty and the Vietnamese tap water in our water bottles just didn�t seem to cut the mustard so... we stopped at the next café where they too served beer by the pitcher. What fun we were having.
Having satiated our thirst for now we proceeded onwards to Halong City at stupid speeds giving our bikes and ourselves a battering on the less than perfect roads as we went. Once there we rapidly found a hotel and emailed the others to find out where they were and what their plans were. It turned out that they were on the other side of the river, a ferry boat crossing away so we let them know where we were and found ourselves a café to eat dinner in. It was here that we met Christophe, a Frenchman from Bordeaux who was going to Cat Ba the following day. Christophe was accompaniedby a helpful local trying to sell him a package to see Halong Bay and reach Cat Ba island the following day and when we worked out that if seven of us (6 cyclists and Christophe) chartered a boat it would be cheaper than the ferry we jumped at the chance. We would see the bay, stop at several of the famous caves and maybe a beach island, taking a whole relaxing day to reach Cat Ba, probably taking a crate of beers with us for the journey. Fantastic.
We located the others and narrowly prevented them from taking a similar deal and set off the next morning having stocked up on food and beer for the journey. It didn�t turn out to quite as generous as we had been led to believe! We passed through the spectacular scenery of Ha Long Bay, through many little bay and enclosed areas, completely shielded from the sea beyond. We saw villages on water, each house seemingly with it�s own dog, a little restricted in it�s exercise possibilities we thought (they could swim I suppose), and saw many small fishing boats and oyster catchers.
The caves however were not to be. After a while we began to get the feeling that we were heading fairly directly for Cat Ba. This turned out to be the case and the boat trip took about three hours less than expected. We felt a little cheated not to have seen the famous and spectacular caves but we had seen some amazing scenery and had an enjoyable day on the boat.
It was a struggle to persuade the pilot to take us to the port and resort that we were expecting and it later became apparent why. On eventually reaching it we made our way towards the jetty but when we were nearly there we found ourselves to be stationary. The boat it seems had grounded. This would explain the presence of a large dredger taking sand from the bay near the jetty.
So, we were left with only one option. Load our bikes onto tiny (and quite unstable) little boats with just enough room for one bike and several bags. We were a little uneasy about this but there was no real choice. With trepidation we lowered them down and made our way to the shore whilst our boat awaited high tide to float him off the sandbank. Serves him right for trying to curtail our trip in order to get another fare in!
We spent a very pleasant few days on Cat Ba relaxing, enjoying the food and generally doing very little, although some of the group did rather more energetic variations on very little. I will mention no names but both local business and Anglo-Swedish relations did very nicely out of some of us.
On returning to the mainland, we proceeded rapidly towards Ha Noi. Ha Noi is a very pleasant city with only one thing that might be seen as a major drawback, the traffic. The streets are jam packed with motorcycles and to a lesser extent bikes. There are cars too of course but motorbikes form the majority of the traffic. When pulled up at traffic lights you are absolutely surrounded by motorcycles waiting for the off. At this point it pays to be in a low gear so that when the lights change you can rapidly accelerate and keep pace with the flow of the traffic. It is safest to cycle as fast as you can in order that the speed of the other traffic relative to you is as low as possible. This allows you to move around and cross the carriageway much more easily. Accidents were a regular sight although only one of the ones we saw looked serious.
We stayed in the old quarter, near the lake that is at the centre of Ha Noi. The streets were narrow and characterful, lined with shops, cafes and hotels, not to mention the street vendors selling everything from egg baguettes to rain capes (these appeared on stalls apparently out of nowhere within seconds of it begining to rain). The area catered for backpackers very well - Viet Nam is a popular and rewarding destination. There were many fine arts and craft shops, displaying a rich variety of wares - wooden carvings, ornaments and traditional utensils such as chopsticks as well as fine painted fabrics, and clothes. The backpackers hostels provided western and local cuisine for those that needed a taste of home but there were many local restaurants too, some of which served Bia Hoi. Bia Hoi is local draught beer at a low price and also a correspondingly low alcohol content. Tastes fine and allows you to drink far longer (for both financial and biological reasons) than you would be able to should you be drinking imported or bottled beer. Fortunately one of these places was right opposite our hotel and since it also served food, it did a very good trade for the week we were there.
Whilst in Ha Noi I visited "Uncle Ho" (Ho Chi Minh) in his residence of 25 years in central Ha Noi. It is an impressive building, standing proud in the centre of pleasant gardens, a black marble affair with an entrance, an exit and and no perceptible windows. I have to say, for his age he is looking very good. Seriously however, the mausoleum is very impressive and dignified with guards standing to attention at the entrance, in the corridor and at the four corners of his coffin. There is a very genuine love and respect for Ho Chi Minh in Viet Nam and it is reflected in his mausoleum. I did not visit Mao in Beijing but my friends who did said that Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum was more impressive and dignified. Next, Lenin and perhaps in a few years time, Fidel.
Another reminder of that era was the B52 museum, presently under construction but with several outside exhibits it is possible to walk around. There is a Mig 21 fighter plane with details of the planes it shot down, various anti aircraft guns again with macabre statistics and a lot of twisted metal from the engine, wings and fuselage of a downed 52. There is also meant to be the remains of a B52 pointing out of a lake where it was shot down and I spent some time trying to find it but completely failed.
We had contacted the British Council in Ha Noi and talked to them about the possibility of talking to students and interesting the local media in our trip and the British Council's work - a mutually beneficial arrangement. In two days they put together an afternoon of events which included speaking to children from a local school, talking to the media about our trip and taking classes of older English students, mainly proffessionals from government and business. At the end of this we had our payback in the form of a few beers with the dirictor David Cordingly (thanks to all at the Ha Noi BC). An interesting, fun and worthwhile afternoon for all.
The following night was an eventful one. After a few beers Andy had returned to the hotel for an early night and it was not to long before I did so also. Andy was convinced that we were being watched by German evangelical gay activists from the building opposite. I think this was probably a result of a deeply repressed aspect of his psyche trying to find its way out to be freely expressed but nevertheless he retreated to his bed with the light off and the curtains drawn. We were both fast asleep (it was 3am) when we were rudely awakened by first laughter and then our door being opened by someone. It was soon apparent that it was not one but two people and they wished to occupy the third bed in our room. Both Andy and I felt it was a little rude bursting into someones room in the middle of the night and demanding to use their room with little intention of sleeping but it seemed we had little choice in the matter. So, the bed was occupied but before very long our friends retreated onto the balcony for a greater degree of privacy. It was at this point that Andy and I were able to confirm that we were both pissed off and Andy had the bright idea of turning the light back on. I did this and not only did it prevent their returning for the sake of their modesty but it provided a backlight for observers on the street below. It is quite cold at 3am but then they did have each others body heat.
After a while they began to fail to see the funny side of things although Andy and I were still very amused by the situation and like to think we have rather longer attention spans than the youth of today. At one point we were asked to have a little respect which we found particularly amusing and ironic. Ultimately a Vietnamese Army helmet Andy had managed to aquire turned out to be within grabbing distance of the door and was used as a modesty curtain for our female friend. All's fair in love and war as I had been taught on Cat Ba!
Our week in Ha Noi was a very enjoyable one due to the pleasant nature of the city and the wonderfully friendly Vietnamese people. They are some of the nicest people we have met on our trip, and there is a high standard. Alway pleased to see you and help you if they can, they have broad smiles, deep hearts and strong reserves of courage and resourcefulness (this came in handy a while back). They bear no grudges although Scott (from Texas) did occasionaly find himself asked his age (32) whilst they calculated that he could have played absolutely no part in the conflict. The calls of hello (Xin Jiao) we had from the sides of the road as we cycled in Viet Nam were some of the warmest and most heartening we have recieved on this trip and we always tried to return them with equal warmth. The 100th hello of the day does become a little more difficult however but it is hard not to reply with the same enormous smile they have given you.
Eventually it was time to move on from Ha Noi southwards. As we moved southwards we saw more signs of the war. More craters, more pill boxes and rusting metal but the national character remained the same.
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