Category Archives: Travel

Five-minute friends

Posted on by
Reply

Sunset and beautiful skies at Railay

Sometimes in life, you’re destined to meet particular people. They go on to become friends, soulmates, someone to have a beer with, partners, or in some cases – eventually – you meet someone who will become a lifelong partner.

You meet through work, through friends, through school or university or perhaps by complete chance. Sometimes it can be engineered, but I’m a firm believer that if your paths are meant to cross, then at some point, your paths will cross.

I’m lucky to have some brilliant friends around me, but when I think back to how we met, there are reasons for it. Going to university on the south coast, mainly because of a relationship and applying late for a journalism course, I knew nobody. I remember walking around Southampton on my first day there with the strange feeling that I was completely alone. Three years later, I left with a group of lifelong friends, and a couple of them who have become absolute soulmates, people you trust, people you look forward to spending time with. And I knew in most cases, straight away from the moment we first met, that they were ‘my type’ of people, that I’d like to be friends with them and enjoy spending time around them.

Travelling provides so many of these opportunities. Every new place you get to, there’s a chance you could meet that new person to add to your friend list. The ‘five minute friend’ check usually makes up your mind – join them for a Chang and share a room, or leave them struggling with their rucksacks and boring stories on the pier

Where am I going with this? Let me explain – five years ago I was on an overnight flight back to London from New York with my family. It was our ‘last’ family holiday together, and we’d had a brilliant time. For the flight back, we changed all our pre-booked seats and chose some towards the back of the plane.

About two hours before we landed, I began talking to a cheerful blonde girl sat next to me. She’d been asleep most of the way, but she was around my age, had similar interests and, co-incidentally, was a journalist based in the City. After lots of chat about our jobs – a favourite hack pastime – a bit about our travels and how we got our careers, the tick box in the ‘five minute friend’ test had been well and truly checked. Her name was Hannah.

We swapped business cards, promised to add each other on Facebook, that we’d meet for coffee sometime and said goodbye at the baggage carousel.

Of course, time went on, we had a few messages every now and again, perhaps one of us would ‘like’ a status or a photo every so often, but as our lives went along separate paths, there was little chance of us bumping into each other again.

Fast forward five years, and to my last day in the Look North office before setting off on my travels, when a message drops into my inbox. Its from Hannah, the girl on the plane, who had seen my status about how I was leaving for a few months to travel the world. She too had gone through a break-up, packed up her career for a while, stuffed some clothes into a backpack and set off for a round the world trip of a lifetime. She was already in Thailand and loving every second.

“We should meet for a beer on the beach,” we agreed.

Of course, Thailand at that point seemed a million miles away. I was still to turn on my ‘out of office’, bring everything in my daily life to a halt, find my passport and work out how to get myself across Russia. Maybe we’d meet, maybe we wouldn’t, but it was nice to know I wasn’t the only one taking the plunge in such a spectacular way and wished her well for her journey.

Three months on and Hannah and I, along with her friend Laura, have just been out on one of the best nights out of my trip so far in Ao Nang, Krabi. Our paths crossed, and the five minute friend test was right. We had an absolute blast, and we’ve gone on to become really good mates.

Coffee in London...or Mai Tai in Thailand?!

It rounded off a great week of meeting new people. Having gone to Koh Phangan for the Full Moon party with the daunting prospect of not knowing anyone on the island, I ended up sharing a brilliant few days with Sarah, Emily and Brad, while yet another five minute friend, Jenny, had abused me in the street for seemingly outstaying my welcome in Haad Rin.

My ferry that finally gets me off Koh Phangan!

But alas, my time on the island did eventually come to an end and I got the overnight ferry to Surat Thani in the south, a huge transport hub that sees hundreds of backpackers pass through every day.

Sleeping arrangements on the ferry! Cosy!

I was heading to Railay, a place that had been recommended to me and where I had found bungalows just before Christmas going for around 400 Baht, or £8. It was affordable, just, and pencilled myself in for a few days.

My bags enjoying the ride to Railay

After an exhausting journey, I arrived on the beach by longtail, the only way you can get there thanks to a complete lack of roads, and a way that always evokes images of a Robinson Crusoe-esque arrival nomatter how many times you wade ashore with your bags. I made a sweaty, bag-laden trek up the steep hills to the back of Railay East and  the cheap bungalows I had found.

They were full – and had almost doubled in price.

It prompted a search high and low for something affordable, but thanks to peak season and a lot of package tourists being in the area, it was impossible. In the end, I settled for a jungle bungalow after bartering them down from £22 a night to £14. I also made a mental note to leave the place as soon as possible.

Eventually found a home in the jungle!

Then I had a message from Jenny, the girl I met in Koh Phangan who ‘kept seeing me everywhere’. She was making her way back north to Chiang Mai from Koh Phi Phi, a short ride away from Railay. Her journey meant a stopover in Krabi, a place where she’d been before, so she asked if I fancied meeting for a beer in Railay as she’d like to see it.

Being in a bungalow, it was already hard to meet other people so I told her it was a great idea, and the following day she arrived on the peninsula. We had fruit shakes on the beachfront, chatted about life back home, our families, our travels. She told me of stories about her trips through India and to the Everest base camp, and how she was gutted to be leaving Thailand in a week’s time.

We joked about the small world that finds her family running the Hill Holt Wood project in Lincolnshire, a place where a few years ago I did a bit of filming. A fellow blogger, we talked about futures, careers and aspirations. Basically, we completely hit it off and had a brilliant laugh along the way, mainly about the way we met and her abuse of me. It also turned out she had been in the same taxi as me when I arrived on Koh Phangan – she told me how she’d jumped out after realising she could walk the distance to where she was staying. Immediately I remembered the moment – I’d even shouted out ‘good luck’ as she set off on a seemingly futile trek. Perhaps our paths were supposed to cross.

Indoor fire shows in a wooden bar...safety first, as usual

In the end we had a brilliant night, watching Thai Boxing that was laid on at one of the beach bars, laughing about the lack of complete health and safety regulations as a fire dancer performed a full routine – indoors – and sipping buckets until the early hours, tapping our feet to the current Thailand anthems.

Jenny meets her match

Jenny left the following day as she continued her journey north, and ultimately on her way home back to Derbyshire, but I know we’ll stay in touch. After such a fleeting meeting in a busy street, suddenly a new friendship is formed, one that will continue, and it’s a great feeling. Its one of the best bits about travelling.

Continuing her journey home

I too was moving on, to meet up with Hannah, the girl from the New York flight five years ago. I was to share a room with her friend Laura, a complete stanger. But then it was easy to forget that Hannah was still a complete stranger to me herself. The next few days could be brilliant if we get on, but could be a disaster if it turns out we don’t!

With Laura and Hannah...after visiting 7-Elevens (keep reading!)

As it happens, they’d clearly had similar discussions as it was revealed I’d been referred to as ‘Psycho Phil’ prior to my arrival, a joke between them about how little they knew about me, yet we were to share accommodation. Infact, there was nothing to fear – the next few days were a blur of beach time, dancing in bars and making regular stops at the 7-Elevens for a new game dubbed the ‘7-Eleven bar crawl’.

Spy wine coolers...girly but deadly!

It’s a great way of saving money when you’re on a budget, where to save the £3 cost of bottled drinks in the touristy bars around Ao Nang, you simply raid the 7-Eleven ‘bars’ at the back of the shop. For just 60p, you can get bottles of Spy, a sparkling fruity wine drink, that while being incredibly girly, packed a 7% alcoholic punch!

Loving the 7-Eleven Bar Crawl!!

The rules are simple – on the way to the pub, you have to stop at every 7-Eleven you come across, pop in to the chiller at the back, pick up a drink and finish it before you reach the next 7-Eleven. Sounds easy, but there were five on the way to the main bars from where we were staying, and its fair to say we were well on the way to a morning ‘Changover’ by the time we reached them.

Flaming B52s all round!

It resulted in a couple of fairly heavy nights out, but there was plenty of banter between us, we all laughed at the same things –

He was awesome...

mainly a guy wearing a ‘I Am Awesome’ t-shirt, and they helped to sober me up after one too many buckets by force-feeding me a Burger King before going to bed. That’s when you know you’ve found some good friends…and they found it highly amusing!

After three days of hitting Ao Nang’s nightlife, raiding the 7-Eleven girly drinks cabinets and some much needed hungover breakfasts, I was ready to relax. I booked a ticket to Koh Lanta, an island a little off the tourist trail and one where hopefully I can enjoy some cheap living for a week.

I doubt whatever it was happened to be that funny!

Another 7-Eleven purchase!

New buckets please!

Saying goodbye to Hannah and Laura was more of a farewell – in a week’s time, I’m heading to Koh Tao to do a diving course, and at the same time, Hannah and Laura will be there too. We’ve agreed to meet up for more fun and games together, but in the space of just a couple of days, we had become great friends. So much so, it was easy to forget we had been strangers before – you know when you’re in tune with people when it feels like you’ve known each other for years.

Laura, Hannah and their awesome friend!

When I think back to when we first met, of how Hannah was trying out my noise cancelling headphones (not that she remembers) and telling me how she hates flying, who would have thought that the next time we’d meet wouldn’t be in a coffee shop in London, but infact on a beach on the opposite side of the globe. That if we hadn’t changed our seats on that flight, the chances are we wouldn’t have spoken at all. And if Facebook wasn’t invented, well, it would have just gone down as a chat with a random passenger on a plane.

Same could be said for Jenny. What would otherwise have been a boring couple of days without knowing anyone in Railay, and probably having to go on yet another solo night out in the hope I’ll get chatting to someone (it gets tiring after a while!) turned out to be a memorable few days. Again, thanks to Twitter and Facebook, we were able to meet, have a laugh and become friends.

The importance of staying in touch with five minute friends – you just never know when they might be in the right place at the right time for a beer and a good knees-up. Even if it is in some far flung land!

Dirk’s big break

Posted on by
4

Visiting Dirk in hospital

I had no plans to visit Koh Samui, and after three days on the island, I knew exactly why I had been avoiding it like the plague. However, this wasn’t a sightseeing trip or a bit of beach time – it was more of a mercy dash for a stricken friend.

Dirk when we were tubing in Laos

You may remember Dirk, the German guy from my tour around Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos. He of the Vietnamese mafia fame, who got chased on motorbikes after having his camera stolen and paying a wedge of cash to get it back. He who then had said camera knocked clean out of his hand and into the tubing river in Laos – and then having to pay another wedge of cash for divers to retrieve it. He who then lost his treasured hat to some driver who gave it to a street kid in Luang Prabang.

Yep, you get the picture. Poor Dirk hadn’t had a great deal of luck during his few weeks in southeast Asia. We loved him for it on the tour though, and he was a great guy to travel around with.

Unfortunately, just before Christmas, and in the middle of his Padi diving course in Koh Tao, he broke his leg. Twice.

He’d been stuck in hospital on Koh Samui ever since, and while a few others from the tour had visited, I was now the only one left in this part of the world from the tour, as everyone else had either moved on to Australia or gone home. Well, I was the only one who still had the use of both legs…

With Samui on the horizon from the beach at Koh Phangan, I felt it was my duty to go and see him and try to lift his spirits a little.

View from the boat leaving Koh Phangan

I caught an afternoon sailing from Haad Rin to the island, the largest of the islands in the Gulf of Thailand, and after the storms of recent days, there was a huge swell in the sea.

A bit of a rough crossing - some struggled!

We bobbed our way for an hour across the crystal clear turquoise blue water, which offered us some stunning views or the immaculate beaches on both islands, before heading to Chaweng Beach, quite near the Bangkok Hospital on Samui. And yes, having a hospital with another city name is incredibly confusing.

After the excesses of New Year, I’d set aside this week as a ‘cheap week’, skimping on a few areas like decent accommodation, food, drinks – you know, the stuff you normally take for granted – but with depleting funds, it’s a necessary step as a backpacker.

With many places full, the rooms I could find were starting at about 800 Baht a night. I feared the worst. It works out to be £16 a night, well out of my price range. Its one of the downsides of travelling alone, that everything is done on a room rate here, rather than by person. My luck changed a little when a guy approached me in the street for Ali Baba’s restaurant. There were rooms available, so I agreed to check them out.

Somehow it almost looks nice in the photo!

Hmmm. It was fan cooled, so pretty stuffy. The sheets had stains and fag burns on them. The mosquito covering over the window was pointless, as there were some weird building tiles that let what little air there was into the room – as well as every insect known to the Thai islands. The toilet was a non-flush bucket version, the water out of the taps was brown, the electrics looked shocking (pun intended)…but I got it down to 350 Baht a night.

“I’ll take it,” I said, taking a deep breath and telling myself I won’t be in it much.

If anything, it meant I could get my heavy bags off my back.

Home sweet home

I walked out onto the street.

“Sexxy masssaaaaaaage,” said a gaggle of girls in skimpy skirts near the doorway.

Head down. Walk on.

The beach wasn’t anything spectacular, despite what the Lonely Planet described as ‘one of the best on the island’. It was marred with rubbish, washed up weed and too many tattoed skin-headed blokes getting beered up for two weeks.

Above all, there was a perculiar atmosphere, one of tourists, holidaymakers, families and backpackers all trying to mix together. Nobody seemed to want to talk or get to know one another. Most were in couples or groups. I knew I wasn’t going to like it here.

The only photo I could be bothered to take of Chaweng beach!

However, I wasn’t here for ‘me’ I was here for Dirk, and that night, unannounced, I made my way to the hospital he’s spent just over two weeks in. It was only a couple of miles away, but taxis wanted a standard 300 Baht for the trip – £6 for a journey that would cost pennies in Bangkok.

In the end I found a motorbike taxi for 80 Baht and made my way to the particularly plush hotel, sorry, hospital that Dirk was being cared for in. I found my way to his ward, and asked the nurse if he was awake. She looked at the cctv monitor and nodded, pointing towards his door. I knocked.

“Jaaaa, come,” came a familiar voice.

Still full of beans!

I walked in, Dirk looked around and then cheered at the top of his voice. A huge smile lit up his face and he grabbed me for a manly hug. I could see he was so pleased to see a familiar face.

Then I looked at his leg – out stretched and covered in bandages and dressings where a series of metal pins and plates have been inserted during surgery.

“Its getting better – now I can move my toes a little,” he said.

Some serious repair work

I was gutted for him. Dirk was always one of the ‘cwazy’ ones in the group (as he says) giving us all a laugh, daring to be different, and nobody deserves to spend Christmas or New Year in hospital alone, thousands of miles away from family and friends back home, knowing that your dream trip around the world was at an end.

Dirk at Christmas

For the first time, Dirk told me exactly how he got such a terrible injury. Its still subject of an insurance claim, but what I can say is that it happened on a beach. After the first break was done to his shin bone, he tried to stand up and then broke the fibula, the calf bone behind it.

“I looked down and my foot and lower leg was at right angles to the rest of my leg,” he said.

“The pain..oh the pain,” he grimaced, covering his head as he relived the moment.

It was one of those horror breaks that you see footballers, boxers and other sportsmen do every now and again, usually with a story about how it ended a career. For Dirk, it was the start of an agonising 20 hours before he got to a specialist hospital. At first there was no pain relief given until insurance formalities had been completed. His leg was manipulated into the right sort of position, and then strapped onto a wooden plank to give it support.

At this point, you have to remember Koh Tao’s roads are basic to say the least, bumpy, pot holed and rutted. There was no ambulance at this point – his journey to the boat was in the back of a pick up truck.

“I felt every rock on that ground, every hole in the road. Man, it was so painful I was screaming,” he said.

Then it was onto a boat to Koh Samui, rocking on heavy seas, and finally to a hospital.

“I have never known pain like it,” he said

“It was like something else.”

Dirk, one of his nurses and his monkey mascot Whiskey

Some serious surgery followed, and a specialist had to be flown over from Germany to keep an eye on the injury. There were some huge complications too – compartment syndrome set in at one point, where the lower half of his right leg effectively began to shut down as pressure built up, cutting off blood. He told me he came within a few hours of losing his leg completely. A terrifying prospect.

With Dirk as we said goodbye in Chiang Mai, Thailand

Dirk had left Germany a week or so after I left the UK. Our paths met in Bangkok in November, and at the end of our tour I didn’t expect to see him again. While he was also travelling to Australia, he was then to go on to travel across South America, taking a completely different way home to me. He was due to return back home around June.

“I will be back,” he says, defiantly.

“This is just God’s way of saying I need to be home for a party in Germany. This is all part of my journey.

“Once I get the use of my leg back, I will fly out to Australia and complete my trip. Whether that’s in three months, six months or a year, I will do it.”

His determination is heart warming. With his constant laughing and joking, and the overall way he’s dealing with it, I admire him. Every day he’s having intensive physiotherapy to try to rebuild muscles which have been destroyed and to get his leg and foot functioning again.

I stayed until 11pm, and then walked slowly with him around the hospital ward as a last bit of exercise before he goes to bed. He is to fly back to Germany in a couple of days, and I promise to return the following night.

That night, I hardly slept. The room was hot, the mosquitos were biting – despite me taking refuge in my sleeping bag – and I appeared to have booked a room right between two huge outdoor nightclubs. LMFAO’s Party Rock song – you know, the ‘everybody’s shuffling’ song, must have played about eight times before I managed to grab some kip. I woke up in the morning with it still shuffling around in my head.

‘Sexxxxy massaaaaaaage’

I walked outside through the gaggle of skimpily dressed massage girls again. By now I’d have thought they’d have got the message that I was staying in the adjoining hotel. Instead, they tried to grab me like I was a regular customer. I smiled, put my head down and walked on to the beach.

I found it to be a huge problem on the island. While Thai massage is a huge part of life, and the culture, of Thailand, these massage parlours seemed to be of a seedy variety offering anything but a traditional massage. And there were lots of them – flyers and massage girls are in your face almost everywhere you go. While some parts of Thailand do suffer with that sleazy image – and indeed benefit from it – I didn’t know Koh Samui, or this resort, was heading such a way. They were harmless, but it got so annoying everytime I went back to my room!

I spent the day on the beach, setting up camp outside the Ark Bar and making full use of its free wifi for the price of a solitary Coke. I made sure the password was kept safe for future visits!

I didn’t speak to one person properly all day, and it wasn’t for a lack of trying. When you travel alone on a backpacker circuit, you get used to rocking up next to someone and just starting to chat. Its easy, its fun and you meet so many different people with different stories. Here, there was almost a snobby attitude – that I was some sort of outcast for being here on my own. The majority of people in the resort were Australians on their annual summer holiday, either as a group or couples on a two-week package tour. I felt uncomfortable at times. It’s quite a lonely feeling.

Back to see Dirk

I was glad to return to see Dirk that night, but I had the sad job of helping him pack his bags. Its difficult for him to move around with his crutches, so I spent half an hour walking around, collecting some of his belongings and helping him to get them inside his packed rucksack.

The sweetener for Dirk is that he’s being flown home to Cologne in style – he has to keep his leg straight to help it heal, and the only way he can do that on his Lufthansa flight home is to fly in the First Class compartment. With a doctor from his homeland to accompany him too, I can see exactly how his insurance bill is already running into tens of thousands of pounds.

Dirk in the First Class lounge awaiting his flight home!

One of the items he packed was his X-Ray taken just after the accident, showing just how badly his leg was broken. It was a clean break, and I’m sure his X- Ray will one day be an infamous trophy from his time in Thailand.

I left him that night with a handshake, a pat on the back and a promise that somewhere, one day, we would meet again. For now, his travels were over and he is heading back to Europe. A reminder to me, and to any backpacker, just how quickly your fortunes can change. Yes, its an amazing experience being in far flung parts of the world, doing things that you would never do back home. Yes, travelling around clinging to the back of pick ups or on tuk tuks is fun. And yes, if you’re so inclined, the fire shows, fire rings and burning skipping ropes on the beach at night can be an exciting thing to get involved with after a bucket.

But suddenly, with one error of judgement, or an accident caused by someone else, you can find yourself back on a plane and heading to the colder climes of home for a potentially long and tough recovery.

I have to pay tribute to Dirk. If the same had happened to me, I’d be beside myself. I can’t think of anything more depressing than being sat in that room with a shattered leg while the rest of the world is celebrating Christmas and New Year outside, and your family are thousands of miles away back home.

Yet, throughout his entire ordeal, Dirk has remained strong, in good spirits, laughing and joking with everyone involved in his recovery. Not once have I heard him moan or get angry about what happened. Instead, he looks for the positives – choosing to look on the bright side of life.

“It could have been worse – a lot worse,” he says.

“I might have gone back to Germany without a leg. Me? Without a leg? I can’t imagine it.

“This is just part of my story, part of my travels, a story for my blog. I will go home, I will get better, learn to walk on it and I will start again.”

Dirk, from me, our tour mates, from our tour leader Fon and from all the other backpackers who I have told your sorry tale to in recent weeks – we salute you.

Get well soon buddy. Your world awaits.

Christmas in Kuala Lumpur

Posted on by
2

Christmas Day in Malaysia

I knew it was going to happen at some point. Infact, I’d been preparing for it to happen. It was well overdue. I was surprised it hadn’t happened weeks ago.

No, its not meeting someone from Grimsby…although that did happen –  sort of – more later!

Nope, this was something else, and boy, did I know about it.

I got sick. Over Christmas. Thousands of miles away from home. Its not what I’d had in mind for the festive period in the sun!

Arriving into Kuala Lumpur, I checked into a fantastic new hostel called the Reggae Mansion. I’d arrived early, pulling into KL’s Central Station at 6am. I’d not eaten since the day before, but at that time of the morning breakfast options were limited to Mcdonalds, so I went for a Mcmuffin meal. It was my first Mcdonald’s for weeks.

The dorm was beautifully air conditioned and completely different to anything I’d stayed in before – each bed was in its own little compartment, complete with light, power supply, cabinet and mirror. It was like a mini bedroom, with a curtain that pulls across at the foot of the bed.

Funky dorm...that I spent a lot of time in!

I climbed in to my little bit of Kuala Lumpur for a few days and caught up on sleep that I’d missed by being sat upright all night on the overnight train. It was mid afternoon before I woke, and I felt groggy. I put it down to irregular sleeping. I went out to explore the surrounding area, buying myself a new plug adapter and taking in the Little India area I was staying in.

That night I ate pizza in the hostel bar, having a bit of a Western day away from noodles and rice. And that might just have been my downfall. Overnight, someone implanted a washing machine in exactly the same place my tummy once was.

The next morning, having had very little sleep overnight, I felt terrible. I put it down to food poisoning, with a good dose of fevering and everything else that comes along with it!

The next two days were a write off – completely bed ridden, unable to wake up, no energy. Thankfully I had wifi, so could keep myself amused by looking at everyone’s Facebook updates back home stating how they were all excited to be finishing work, going home for Christmas, travelling to see families. What a tonic to make me feel better!

I must admit, it was a little depressing, and again it hit me how far away and isolated I could be. People in the dorm must have thought I was some kind of hermit, shut away in my bed and tapping away on my laptop instead of seeing the sights and enjoying Christmas. The knock-on effect was that very few made any effort to talk to me. Not that I was in the mood for conversation anyway – and nor could I stick around too long before having to, shall we say, dash off somewhere…

Thankfully, by Christmas Eve, the stomach cramps and fevers had become much better. There was a countdown party organised on the rooftop bar, in the shadow of the famous Petronas Towers and KL tower. It was a fantastic setting, complete with a Christmas tree and decorations. I felt anything but Christmassy, not only due to my illness but also because life in Kuala Lumpur was just continuing as normal. Being a majority Muslim country, there were very few signs of the extravagance and spending that you see in the West when it comes to the festive period.

Fun on the rooftop

It was time to try to meet people. I went to the bar and got speaking to a German guy called Martin. We spoke about football – always a good starter – and then a bit about how we both found ourselves in KL for Christmas. He was visiting Thailand for a wedding and had just flown into KL from home with his friend Philipp. He invited me to sit with them, and we immediately hit it off with lots of banter about England and Germany football results over the years, World Cup goals that should have stood, the usual light-hearted fodder when it comes to our national rivalry.

After a while we moved over to the main seating area, sitting with two girls who also looked to be on their own. They were Danielle and her younger sister Alannah, from Canada. It turns out Danielle is working as a teacher in South Korea, and her sister had flown over to spend Christmas with her. After some time in Korea – at a time when it all kicked off over Kim Jung Il’s death – they’d travelled to Malaysia for some time in the sun.

Clappy hands

I risked a beer, knowing I’d probably pay a price, but it was almost Christmas and everyone else was making the most of it. So much so, that the party was in full swing. The Petronas Towers shimmered in their silvery bright light, the KL tower, complete with its revolving restaurant, was full of diners enjoying a Christmas meal. They were looking down on a rooftop full of backpackers who were waiting to count down the minutes until the big day.

Everyone had been given a party bag full of noisy hand clappers, those blowy whistles that you get at kids parties, face masks and a few had some spray snow – and over the impressive sound system (you wouldn’t want to live within at least a mile of the place!) the countdown began, just as you have at New Year.

Three, two, one…Merrrrrryy Christmaaaaas!

Its Christmas Day!

Everyone went crackers, shaking hands, giving kisses, running around with balloons. It was great – with a few classic Christmas songs, finally, I felt a little Christmassy for the first time this year. It was mixed with emotion too – it’s the first time I’ve ever spent Christmas away from home, and I knew that back home the usual meet-up in the local pub would be taking place, catching up with friends I haven’t seen for a long time, and then heading to see mum and dad for a few glasses of port and nibbles.

Father Christmas turned up on time

On Facebook, thousands of miles away, I could sense the excitement building back home with people counting down the hours. I let everyone know that Father Christmas had just flown over the twin towers and was on his way west – prompting a funny reply from one friend who’s son had told her I wouldn’t get any presents because I’d actually seen Santa Claus. It made me smile, and the party continued.

Father Christmas dropped by on his way and offered us all a free drink if we gave him a kiss. There was a huge line of people waiting to take him up on his kind offer, which naturally I joined. It was good of him to get a round in, but I worried we were holding him up on his busy night!

I refused the offer to sit on his knee

The party went on until the small hours, with more balloons and dancing on tables providing much hilarity. I went to bed at a decent time though – I still wasn’t feeling too well, but I had agreed to finally see the sights on Christmas Day with Danielle and Alanna, as both the German guys were leaving to catch their flights.

Started to get messy

Rested, and just about feeling well enough for some sightseeing, I met the girls in reception and we headed out to find the sightseeing bus that does a loop of the city. It was Christmas Day, but you wouldn’t know it. Outside, the city was a fully functioning city – people were heading to work, there were queues for the underground railway, McDonalds and Burger King were doing brisk trade and there was not one ‘Merry Christmas’ uttered by anyone. The only tell-tale sign was the odd Santa hat sat on a tourist’s sweltering head here and there, and a Christmas tree every now and again outside only the largest of department stores. It was a completely different experience to anything back home.

One of only a handful I saw this year

Thankfully, the sightseeing bus was air conditioned – it really is such a humid city, and the sun was hot when it broke through the clouds. Our first stop was China Town and Petaling Street, full of street hawkers, street food, noise, hustle and bustle. We walked through to one of the city’s most important Hindu temples before catching the bus again.

It was around lunchtime when we decided to visit the Batu Caves, which I had seen advertised on day trip posters, but Danielle and Alanna told me it was very easy to reach. I had been tempted to visit but presumed it was quite far away. Infact, a train goes directly there in about 20 minutes, so we headed to Central Station, bought a ticket and the train was waiting at the platform.

Batu Caves

By now the sun had come out and it was scorching. We were confronted with around 200 steps to get into the cave. I was making my way up them when suddenly there was a commotion ahead of me, and a rustling of bags. I thought someone was having their bag snatched, and it turned out they were – by a monkey.

Cheeky monkeys on the prowl

I’d been too busy concentrating on my footing and trying not to keel over with yet another passing fever to realise there were dozens of wild monkeys lining the sides of the steps, eyeing up tourists and working out who would be their next victim. One of them looked at me and jumped off the wall, walked over to the man in front of me and reached for his bag. I put my small daybag on both shoulder, which the monkey spotted. He then turned his attention to me, and more importantly, to my camera that was half inside its case.

Mother and baby. And someones lunch.

He came right up to me, made a grab for it and then hissed at me when I quickly pulled it away. Now, I really like monkeys, but something told me this one wasn’t quite the king of the swingers but more the king of the stealers. He was really aggressive and was determined to get something. He snatched at a carrier bag, and then someone behind me made an even louder hissing noise and shooed him away, much to the relief of everyone around me.

As I’ve said before, I don’t have too much luck when it comes to cameras, but having to tell the insurance company my Panasonic Lumix had been stolen by a monkey would have been plumbing new depths even for me.

Others on the hike up weren’t so lucky though – apparently, they presume anyone with bag will have some sort of food tucked in it. Rather than being picky, they just make a grab for any bag they can find, scattering valuable contents throughout the trees and cliffs. I do wonder whether the vendors selling crisps, snacks and even milk at the bottom of the steps work in cahoots with the vendors selling exactly the same at the top – their pink carrier bags were prime targets for the primates. One grabbed a bag of crisps to feed to its baby. It was fascinating to watch, mainly because once you’d twigged, it was just a waiting game to see which unfortunate tourist would be picked on next!

The caves were, well, caves really. There were a couple of temples inside, and the dampness and shade was welcome relief from the Kuala Lumpur heat. Another cave nearby offers the chance to see bats and rare spiders – and that’s when I realised I’d seen these caves on a BBC Planet Earth programme – before we decided to watch the monkeys in action for a bit longer.

Rascals

One woman, possibly American, was bashing a plastic bottle on the floor, trying to attract the attention of a monkey close to where she was sitting. A few seconds later, there was a scream – while she was ok, the expensive-looking camera wasn’t, and one of the monkey’s mates had disappeared through the trees with it. Its owner decided it would be a good idea to step over the fence and wade through the trees after it – close to a few baby monkeys. Cue an onslaught of monkey paws and screeching as he was slapped and scratched back to where he had come from. Served them both right!

On the way back I was talking to Danielle and Alanna about life at home in Toronto when I was mentioning about how I’d visited many years ago. That’s when I discovered a brilliant – and coincidental – fact.

Danielle was born in – wait for it – Grimsby! The only other place in the world called Grimsby is in Ontario, Canada, about an hour or so away from Toronto. I was making small talk about how I’d visited and had a photo taken with the sign when Danielle stopped me in amazement. She never normally tells anyone she’s from Grimsby (insert your own Grimsby joke here!) as its such a small town that people in Canada don’t usually know where it is, let alone someone from the other side of the Atlantic.

Good old Grimsby!

We were amazed at the coincidence. Both of our passports have the same birth town listed, albeit with a few thousand miles in between. It had taken two months, but I’d found one – I was travelling with another fish out of Grimsby!

We headed to the Petronas Towers for photos with the famous buildings, and I donned a t-shirt that my two Spanish friends Santi and Galli, from the trans-Siberian railway journey, had given me. I tagged it on Facebook complete with a Christmas message in Spanish for them, knowing it would make them smile.

A Christmas Day message for my Spanish friends - with their t-shirt!

That night I felt ready for something to eat. I’d not had anything proper for three days, and what better to start again with than a turkey dinner at the rooftop bar.

Christmas dinner

I had turkey, beef and lamb, along with an attempt at a Yorkshire pudding and a few vegetables. It was hardly one of Mum’s dinners, but it had to do. It was certainly a different backdrop to my parents’ living room. I met up with Danielle and Alannah for dinner, and we spent much of the time talking about how we spend our respective Christmas days and thinking of our families back home, who were by now waking up for the start of the big day.

With Alannah and Danielle and a great Christmas dinner backdrop

Speaking of which, it was time to Skype them. The eight hour time difference meant it was getting on towards lunchtime back home, and I knew my package of gifts from Thailand had arrived a couple of days previous. We’d agreed to have a video call where they would open them on camera, and it was brilliant fun for an hour.

Brother Andrew, mum and dad back home with my box of presents I sent. And yes, mum did get that hat for Christmas!

While I couldn’t be there in person, it was the next best thing, and it was great to see their faces as they delved into the large Thailand Post box and pulled out the newspaper wrapped presents I had packed inside less than two weeks ago.

Somehow the hand-carved flower shaped soaps for mum had just about made it home in one piece, my brother put on his Angry Birds t-shirt, even though it was slightly small, and dad laughed about the daft elephant slippers I’d bought him from the Chiang Mai walking market. They read the individual notes I’d wrapped inside the presents, and hung the Buddha charms from the White Temple in Chiang Rai on their Christmas tree.

Unwrapping time!

I might not have been there, but it was nice to know that items that I’d picked up and thought about my family back home had made it, and it was slightly strange to see them in everyone’s hands, on the other end of an internet phone call, thousands of miles away back home.

Later, or should I say early in the morning, I called them again. Dad had only been half joking when he said I should join them for Christmas dinner, so I Skyped again at 3am and while they tucked into turkey, stuffing, pigs in blankets and roast potatoes, I’d been maximised on the computer screen and became a virtual guest at the dinner table!

Stunning

Technology played a part the following day too, thanks to Twitter. My friend Simon Clark, the sports reporter for Look North, had seen my tweet stating I was in Kuala Lumpur. He’s a huge fan of Malaysia and travels to the country a lot, and sent me an article about a top English pub called Sids Pub, which is highly commended.

It turns out he visits it quite a bit, and to my surprise, Geoff, the owner of the pub, tweeted me back inviting me for a visit. It was a bit out of the way, but with a few decent Premier League matches on that night, I decided I’d spend Boxing Day evening there. The best thing was, on the menu were pigs in blankets- a whole plate of them- and having gone this Christmas without them, it was a great dish to eat whilst watching Manchester United go on yet another goal rampage against Wigan.

Pigs in blankets...and Guinness. Bliss!

I got talking to Frank, one of the owners and managers of the pub, who told me about some of the potential problems facing Malaysia – its such a multi-ethnic country, but the government’s ‘One Malaysia’ campaign is apparently dividing some sections of the community. We got talking about football, work back home, travels, and eventually about how I was getting back to Thailand. I’ve now worked out that Singapore has much cheaper flights back than Kuala Lumpur, and Frank told me it was remarkably easy to get there from KL. Infact, the buses that run between the two cities are almost like business class cabins on flights. Frank gave me a tip on the best company to use and I used the pub’s wifi to book a seat.

The KL Tower

It rounded off a great relaxing day which helped my recovery. I’d had a wander to the KL Tower and admired the view from the top, including a look down onto the hostel where I was staying. It gave a great panorama of the city, but having been up a few tall buildings in the last few months, it was noticably closer to the ground for the price! I could still see people on the ground – a far cry from the dizzying heights of the Financial tower in Shanghai a few weeks back.I did my usual trick of going up to the top half an hour before sunset, making sure i’d get to see the city from the sky at night and during the daylight. Two birds, one stone and all that!

The Reggae Mansion hostel from above

By day...

By night

I’d also taken in the other sights around the city, including the many mosques and temples, interspersed with so many colonial style buildings. Its a real mix of cultures, and of the old and new. It makes for a fascinating walk.

Gets the message across!

Kuala Lumpur is a very compact city, its possible to walk from one side of the city centre to the other in about an hour if you keep the pace up. It was on one of these walks I ventured into a huge shopping centre (there’s quite a few in KL!) mainly for a blast of cold air conditioning and to get me out of the sticky tropical heat. That’s when I came across a great indoor rollercoaster, complete with loops and steep drops. I’d have been tempted to go in, but looking at the queue it was mainly kids with parents. I gave it a miss!

Great indoor rollercoaster

Kuala Lumpur was a great place to spend a few days, but admittedly I’d been there quite a bit longer than intended. I’ll never forget my nights looking up at the glittering Petronas Towers, nor will I forget eating a turkey Christmas dinner in the heat on the rooftop bar with a fellow fish from Grimsby.

Petaling Street...home to just about everything!

I spent my last evening with the girls from Canada, wandering around Chinatown and Petaling Street, dodging people trying to sell us anything from dodgy watches to dodgy designer bags, and from dodgy Tiffany jewellery to dodgy Chelsea tops. It puts the frequent ‘fake goods’ crackdowns back home into perspective, but its good fun looking at just how bad some of the copies are. One thing that wasn’t dodgy was the excellent Chinese meal we had on the street, complete with a bucket of beer. It was a nice way to part ways, as the girls head up to the beaches of Langkawi and I head south to Singapore.

Street food in Chinatown

It was on a last minute trip to a 7-Eleven that I discovered perhaps the strangest name for a soft drink I’ve ever come across. I can imagine the marketing team coming up with the name, agreeing it was the right name for the brand, perhaps celebrating with a glass of the illuminous green fizzy drink itself. Its just a shame that they’ll never be able to market it in the West should it become the next Coca Cola.

Can you imagine the tv ads? ‘Tired and thirsty? Time to….’

It was actually quite nice!

The Powers of Hanoi

Posted on by
1

There was a watery feel to the first day in Vietnam’s capital – unfortunately, most of it was on us.

We arrived at lunchtime after a four hour bus ride from Ha Long Bay, and we knew it was another huge changeover stop. For most of the group, Hanoi was their last stop, including Colin and Sarah who had become really good friends.

After dumping our bags in the room, we walked through the bustling streets. The first thing we noticed was the noise – motorbikes, horns, people yelling from the various stalls. If this was back home, Environmental Health would be imposing a hearing health warning on the place, but it definitely had a lot of character.

More chaos crossing the roads

We were walking through the streets, heading for our recommended lunch spot, when there was suddenly a few spots of rain. Then there were a few more – those really big splodges that seem to drench you in one hit. And then suddenly there was a wall of them.

We all dived for cover under the various stalls and canopies, other tourists scattered down the street looking for a place to shelter, dozens of moped and scooter riders immediately pulled over and donned ponchos in a whole spectrum of colours, stall holders were frantically trying to pull their t-shirts, noodles and barbecuing fish indoors. The ever enterprising street hawkers suddenly acquired armfuls of umbrellas to thrust in our faces.

In t-shirts and shorts, the torrential rain wasn’t much fun, while the lack of grip from my flip-flops meant I was pretty much skating my way to wherever our tour leader was intent on taking us. In the end I went barefoot – the street muck and gubbins was already washing over my feet as rivers of rainwater made their way to various blocked-up drains, and we arrived at the restaurant wet, bedraggled and in need of a beer.

The puppet theatre (the day after the rain!)

Thankfully lunch gave us time to dry out, and the rain stopped. We walked to Hoan Kiem Lake, the centre of the city, where we came across the Thang Long Water Puppet theatre, home to a famous water puppetry show. I’d read about it briefly, and as it was only an hour long, was fairly keen to go. The group was split though – some wanted to go, some didn’t; some wanted to go the next day, some didn’t; even couples like Colin and Sarah couldn’t agree – Sarah wanted to go, Colin absolutely didn’t!

In the end, after a lot of faffing around and ‘umming and ahhing’ outside the box office, I decided to put an end to it by buying a ticket for Ricky and I. Everyone else followed suit, but the second class seats ran out so we plumped for the 100,000 Dong first class positions.

Inside the theatre

Inside the theatre has wings like any other theatre, but a pool of water instead of a stage. It was a full house, complete with a reluctant Colin who somehow bagged some of the best seats at the front of the stalls, and before long the lights dimmed, a strange oversize human puppet banged on a gong, and the theatre was filled with traditional Vietnamese music and singing.

The art form was born many years ago in the paddy fields around Vietnam, a way for farmers and villagers to entertain themselves amid the watery land. The illusion is the puppets aren’t connected to anything, as all the controls run under the water, and this was no different.

Water puppets!

As it was all in Vietnamese, I had no idea what on earth was happening. Puppets appeared from behind a screen, swished around in the water for a bit, chased dragons, had fights with water buffalos and climbed trees to collect coconuts. The music was good, and there’s no denying it’s a great spectacle – it’s by no means a West End production (Her Majesty’s Theatre would at least clean all the melted candle wax off the top of the puppets heads after each show!) but it was good fun.

Singers and Vietnamese band

The finale was particularly special when a fish somehow flapped around in and out of the water and then magically got turned into a dragon, which with the help of a bit of UV light, flew through the air and into the wings. Sadly, the illusion was foiled when it slid back down its wire in full view of the audience, but it was a nice try – and then all the puppeteers waded round to the front with another dragon to take their bow.

The final bow - and a dragon

“It was pathetic,” spat Colin as I walked past him on the way out, with a few stronger words thrown in for good measure. Sarah giggled next to him, knowing he hated every minute but secretly enjoying it herself, while others agreed the music had been a highlight. For the sake of a few quid, it was a bit of history and culture and I think, perhaps secretly, everyone had a smile or two as a result.

Cheap street drinking

After dinner that night, it was send-off time for a large chunk of the tour group, including many of those who had been with us since leaving Bangkok three weeks ago. We tried the local brew, Bia Hoi, which costs just 15p a glass, and is consumed on tiny chairs in the street. We ended up in a dive of a place called Bucket Bar, which specialised in the much-loved south east Asia drinking tradition of sticking various spirits into a sandcastle bucket and then adding a dash of Coke. I had a bit of an uneasy feeling about the place, especially when the shutters came down and the door was closed with everyone still inside – apparently its to avoid the Vietnamese ‘fun police’ who go around shutting places at midnight. Had we gone to the bar at the end of the night, I might have enjoyed it a bit more, but a few of us called it a day early and instead decided to have a clear head for a full day of sightseeing the following day, starting off with seeing a dead body – never good with a hangover.

It turned out my feelings about the place were proven right. German Dirk, famous for never taking off his typically Bavarian hat and who’s becoming a bit of a character in the group now we’ve learnt we can take the mickey out of him, managed to have his camera stolen. It happened to be nicked by people who work at the bar – a bit of an inside job- and Dirk had somehow worked it out. He offered two million Dong (about £65) to those who had taken it so that he could get it, and his photos, back.

Dirk, minus his hat

The fee was agreed, and he took a taxi to a cash machine to get the money. Unfortunately for Dirk, three men on motorbikes then followed him in the taxi to the cashpoint. With the money in his hand, he agreed to hand it over once he had the camera back in his possession. He was given the camera, but then decided to ‘amend’ the deal by handing over a single 500,000 Dong note and jumping back into the taxi and telling the driver to move it.

I can only imagine his horror when the driver instead turned off the engine and took the keys out of the ignition, before telling him it was the Vietnamese mafia.

Outside the taxi, one of the men was now on a mobile phone. Justifiably worried, Dirk handed the remaining 1,500,000 through a gap in the window, before the taxi driver then decided to drive off with him still in the car. He’d now realised the taxi driver was also in on the conspiracy, and was probably about to drive the hapless European out of the city and to some warehouse for an unscheduled meeting with ‘the boss’.

Fearing an additional unscheduled meeting with a meat cleaver, he somehow made a James Bond-style escape from the moving taxi near some traffic lights, and took to his heels through the back streets of Hanoi.

“I had Dirk cowering in my bathroom last night,” said Steven.

“He was asking ‘what is going on, what is going on, this world is cwayzee (Dirkism)’, proper panicking thinking the mafia were also in the hotel,” he added, in his finest Sunderland accent.

It had cost him 60 quid, but amazingly Dirk got all his photos and his camera back, and somehow has a great tale of how he defeated – or should I say evaded – the Vietnamese mafia. Its not a pastime I intend to take up anytime soon.

Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum

The next morning I was up early to look at a corpse. Thankfully, it wasn’t Dirk’s, but of Ho Chi Minh, the man seen by the Vietnamese to have saved the nation. Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum is only open in the mornings, and there are stories about how you can be queuing for hours to get a glimpse of him. Fon, our leader, said we’d meet at 8am in the hotel reception. Unfortunately, my room mate Ricky, who stumbled in during the early hours, decided to switch off my alarm clock, and I woke up bang on 8am. After getting ready, Fon had already left, so I jumped in a taxi and made my own way there.

It turned out to be one of the best things I’d done – it gave me the entire day to wander around wherever I wanted, free from any time pressures. The tour I’m on has been brilliant, but every day is fairly structured with set times and places to meet for dinner. It was nice to just be out in the city and look around for myself. Taking a taxi, rather than walking with the group, also meant I was at the mausoleum really early, and was one of the first people to visit ‘Uncle Ho’ that day.

Ho Chi Minh

Rather like Mao, who I saw in Beijing, Ho Chi Minh is still very highly regarded here, even in death. He declared Vietnam independent of the French and Japanese in 1945, but that was short lived. America supported the French and helped transport troops to the country, so Ho Chi Minh led Vietnamese guerrilla warfare against the occupiers in 30 years of war. In 1954, he defeated the French at the battle of Dien Bien Phu, but it ended up leaving the country divided in the north and south. Along came America for the Vietnam campaign, and after years of fighting, and the US conceding it could never win the war, he oversaw the reunification of Vietnam in 1975.

Saigon was renamed Ho Chi Minh City in his honour, and after his death his body was embalmed and laid on public view at the Mausoleum in Ba Dinh Square, where he once addressed half a million of his countrymen with his independence speech in 1945. Now it’s a shrine and pilgrimage site, heavily secured with armed guards and soldiers, and as I walked into the mausoleum, everything fell silent. Vietnamese joined with tourists to silently walk around the body of one of the world’s most historic figures. The room was softly lit, and his body was in a triangular shaped glass coffin, filled with more soft lighting which highlighted his face and hands. His famous wispy beard was very noticeable, and he looked at complete peace, almost with a smile on his face as if his work on this world was done.

I moved on from the mausoleum to walk around the grounds where Ho Chi Minh lived and worked. He embraced a very simple standard of living, turning his back on the presidential palace and instead living in a very basic stilt house overlooking a lake nearby.

Ho Chi Minh's house on stilts

He apparently insisted the palace belonged to the people, and chose to live in the small rooms that are still preserved as he left them. Beneath the rooms and amid the stilts is a large desk where he would work in the shade and meet dignitaries. Nearby is a goldfish tank, complete with fish, in the same place where his own would once swim.

The nearby museum documented his life, revealing why he is so affectionately known as ‘Uncle Ho’ by his people, and telling the story of how he travelled the world in his younger years, broadening his mind and giving him ideas on how he could lead his country in later life.

Ho Chi Minh museum

Surprisingly, it included photos and documents of the time he lived in England, staying in Southampton close to where I lived at university, and working in London’s West End. As ever, the photography in the exhibitions was impressive, using press images taken by snappers who would embed themselves with the leader for years. There was a huge contrast between those showing him in his khaki uniform on the battlefields, lining up anti-aircraft guns with his soldiers, and those showing him as the kind, caring, ‘man of the people’ that he is so well remembered for. Its easy to see why his photo and image adorns everything from the Vietnamese Dong banknotes to posters in the street, and even a t-shirt worn by Colin.

After a full morning of learning about the man, I was a bit Ho Chi Minh’ed out, so had some lunch at a café I found near a museum with a Mig jet in the grounds. It turned out to be the Vietnamese military museum, but didn’t open for another hour, so after a very Western sandwich and chips I had a sit down in a nearby park and did a bit of people watching.

Mig fighter

The museum turned out to be one of my highlights in Vietnam, mainly because everything was so easy to understand about all the past conflicts, but also because there were some fascinating things to look at – including a huge pile of smashed up American aircraft parts retrieved from crash sites.

US Aircraft piece being removed after being shot down

The same piece of wreckage today

The museum started out with primitive weapons such as spears, cannon balls and bamboo spikes that would be left in holes in the ground as a painful, and lethal, trap.

A painful trap

Through the various buildings it told how the Vietnamese managed to outwit and outfight both the French and American armies, with exhibits including a shrapnel-torn French helmet, a full US airman’s flying suit, weapons from all sides involved in war and various bombs and grenades, complete with descriptions of how they work and the devastating impact they have on those unlucky enough to find themselves on the receiving end.

Seen better days

I spent a good hour though looking at the captured aircraft and vehicles left behind by the Americans, including a Chinook helicopter, various fighter jets, Jeeps and missiles.

Captured aircraft and wreckage

There was also a selection of Vietnamese fighter jets that had been put on display in celebration of their achievements. It included a MiG 21 fighter that on one night in 1972, shot down five US aircraft, including a huge B52 bomber, in one mission. The museum and nation is clearly still proud of its achievements, and steps placed next to the jet mean you can have a good look inside the cockpit.

Inside the Mig cockpit

Its was strange to look at the controls and imagine what went on in there on December 27 that year with pilot Pham Tuam in the seat. The trigger button on the control stick for the missiles has been left visible, probably on purpose, and it’s a weird feeling to know exactly what happened with a few presses of that button.

The end result is just a few paces away, with a number of B52 engines, many smashed to smithereens, parts of a fuselage and wings all gathered together as a form of triumphant trophy.

Broken warplanes

As a Westerner, you get so used to seeing and hearing stories of American victories on the battleground, of watching films which show the US armed forces celebrating as they beat the enemy in a whole ‘good over evil’ manner.

When the shoe is on the other foot, it’s slightly surreal to see the proud US Army or US Air Force logos and battle markings in tatters on crumpled heaps of metal, and the American patent numbers and part instructions stamped or engraved on engine parts twisted and mangled by the force of impact – a reminder that once it all used to be a part of a huge fighting machine that had flown from somewhere so familiar as a friend to us all.

Shot down B52 engine

While at the museum I climbed the steps to the top of the flag tower, giving a great view over the city, before making my way through the old quarter to take in the atmosphere.

Back streets of Hanoi

Like Ho Chi Minh City, Hanoi is very much a motorcycle city – everyone seems to have one, and every road is a challenge to cross. I’m getting used to it now though, with the whole ‘head down and walk’ technique proving quite useful. The narrower old streets are a bit unnerving, and every minute someone else seems to beep at you, but its all part of the fun!

On street corners, budgerigars chirp away amid the handicrafts and clothes hanging from almost every shop. The smell of incense fills the air as the sticks slowly smoulder away in doorways. There’s a real ‘local life’ feel about the place, tonnes of character and commerce blending together under the hot sun. The street names even follow what you’ll find for sale – Silk Street, Paper Street, Basket Street. It was a wonderful area to meander through on my way towards the main lake and its island temple, where yet again a few tourists stopped me to have a photograph with the tall white bloke from a foreign land!

Helping out

I bumped into Colin and Sarah on the walk back to the hotel, and we walked together, buying an obligatory ‘Good Morning Vietnam’ t-shirt on the way. That night we had our final meal together as a large group in a restaurant called Gecko. The food wasn’t great, but the dessert list was topped with a famous brand of ice cream over here, that needless to say, caused Colin a great deal of amusement throughout the trip.

Naturally, he had to have one.

Early the next morning, we had to say goodbye to so many people who had become such good friends. The lovely Verena from Germany, who made us smile so many times when she reached for her Super Mario German to English dictionary to help with conversations, my first roommate Malcolm who is returning home to run the Fleet Service Station on the M3, the Welsh girls Emma and Megan, the former who had provided so much entertainment with her dancing prowess in Hue, and Australians Tamsin and Victoria.

Changeover night

But there was a couple I was gutted were leaving: Colin and Sarah. Over the three weeks we had become such good friends – they make such an amazing couple together, both bouncing off each other with their cheeky wit and laughter, always bubbly, happy and lifting the mood around them.

I don’t think any of us will forget one of Colin’s finest moments on the trip, at a service station somewhere in Cambodia, where we were all incredibly hungry. Scanning the menus, and looking for something filling, American Assata piped up that “perhaps we should just get a few dishes and share them on the table, ‘family style’,”

The suggestion went down about as well as pork scratchings at a Bar Mitzvah, but nobody wanted to speak out. Apart from Colin, who in one move, summed up exactly everyone’s thoughts. With his hand raised, elbow banging slightly down on the table as if he was making a suggestion, he simply said “er. No.” before putting his hand back down and burying his head in the menu.

Nobody said a word at the time, and it fell silent, but afterwards we’ve all laughed so much at that moment.

With Colin and Sarah

Colin and Sarah are both individuals who even if they were not together as a couple, I would have become really good friends with anyway, and I know we’ll definitely stay in touch and meet up back home. They have another week in Thailand together before returning to Nottingham and their jobs; Colin as a tax man, Sarah as a PE teacher, and I know that we’ll stay good friends when all these travelling days are over.

There were a few tears from Sarah as we all said goodbye at 6am, before their taxi disappeared down the road. Soon after we collected our bags and jumped on our bus that is taking us on towards Laos. There’s just the small matter of a 10-hour journey to the border before then!

Hue and Ha Long Bay, Vietnam

Posted on by
1

Me' Hearties on a junk at Ha Long Bay!

I’d love to be able to write about how amazing Hue is as a city, about all its culture and history, about how its Forbidden City was just as good to look around as the one in Beijing – but I can’t.

That’s mainly because there was only one bit of Hue a large group of us saw – a bar named DMZ. Located a few blocks away from the hotel, it was where we headed during a brief respite in the rain to get some lunch. The only problem was, they had a special offer from 4pm where you get a free bucket of vodka and lemonade. Well, it would be rude to turn it down!

A flaming B52 - and so the sightseeing problems began

Colin, Sarah, Ricky, Malcolm and I had every intention of taking in a bit of culture. Instead, we took in far more Flaming Dr Pepper, Double Flaming B52, Flaming Jagerbombs and delicious Skittle Bombs (Cointreau and Red Bull – try it and taste the rainbow!) than we really ever should do in the early evening.

It was accompanied by more pool, and a particularly shocking game where I was seven-balled for the first time ever, much to the delight of everyone who saw it, by our resident tour pool shark Ricky, and after a few more cocktails we decided to head back to the hotel to meet everyone for dinner.

He did me twice in the end...

Twenty minutes later, we were on our way back to the same place – its where Fon our guide had booked a table for the night, so with more free buckets of vodka and lemonade, we were well on our way for a big night.

Feeding time

I somehow managed to regain a bit of form on the pool table later in the night, with a six game unbeaten streak and knocking everyone from Aussies, Kiwis and locals off the table, as well as Malcolm who managed to pot the black on about his second shot, but by far the strangest incident while I was at the table was a bit of rough justice by the bar staff on a Vietnamese bloke who didn’t want to pay his bill.

Dragged off a chair, and making a failed bid to grab a pool ball, he was promptly thrown flip-flop-less into the street and whacked with another pool cue a bouncer had grabbed from behind the bar. Something told me its not the first time they’d dealt with unpaid bills in this manner – and a few of us made sure we kept paying for drinks as we ordered as a result!

With departure not until mid afternoon the following day, Ricky was intent on carrying on after DMZ. It wasn’t long before Emma from Wales, who joined the tour in Saigon, signalled the end of our stay there by collapsing on a table and ending up in a heap in the corner. Undeterred, she managed to stay with us as we all ended up finding a late night bar called Brown Eyed Girl – it was a bit of a dive, but the beer was cheap.

Ricky drove but still had to pay

It had gone 4am by the time we stumbled out and into the basket of a local cyclo rider, while Malcolm and I got a lift on the back of a motorbike taxi. Back at the hotel, Malcolm decided he was sober enough to ride the motorbike, and stupidly the taxi man let him. He promptly fell off and had to pay up for the damage. I had a less eventful but enjoyable chat with my parents and nanna on Skype until around 5.30am, when it was definitely time for bed!

The next day most of us woke up just before the midday checkout, and unsurprisingly headed straight back to the DMZ bar for lunch. Ricky and I demolished both a pizza and a burger meal, while everyone else filled up ahead of the overnight train ride to Hanoi.

Heading north

The transfer to the station took us past the Forbidden City, so at least we saw a bit of it. Our guide Fon was laughing – she knew very few of us had seen anything of the city, but I think she knew we also needed to let our hair down a bit, especially with all the rain. Without getting wet, there wasn’t much else we could do apart from camp out in a pub!

The train to Hanoi was scheduled to leave at 2.43pm, but as could be expected, it was running an hour late. A few of us had planned an evening of poker onboard, so we were hunting for poker chips at the local stalls. Unsurprisingly, there were none to be found, so having weighed up the ideas of playing with boiled sweets, peanuts or Bombay Mix, I spotted something hidden away at the back – cotton buds.

Everyone agreed, and £1 down and two packs of cotton buds later, we were waiting on the platform for the train. There were a lot of locals waiting too, while others walked towards us along the tracks, using the rails as a convenient cut-through.

Railway children

A group of Dutch tourists were also waiting alongside us, who then caused problems when the train finally arrived by clogging up the narrow corridor in the carriage. A few of us were stranded outside, being beckoned on by the train crew desperately wanting to make up time, but we were stuck as there was no room inside the doorway for 10 people and all our bags.

The train arrives, the Dutch prepare to annoy us

One train guard ushered me into a second class carriage, but there was then no way for me to turn round. As I shuffled down the carriage to a doorway, so I could back my rucksack in and turn around, I then got yelled at by another railway worker who must have thought I was heading to the wrong carriage. It was all a bit of a mess, but eventually I found my way to my bunk.

Poker fun on the overnight train

The journey was a lot of fun – it’s a very comfortable train, and I have to say much nicer than any of the Russian and Chinese ones I travelled in across Siberia. We even got given free water, a freshening towel, and – a pot noodle!

The only problem was our poker plan hit a snag when the table was deemed to be too small – a rack was screwed into it for water and snacks. It soon came off with the help of a screwdriver in my multi-tool kit, and play was underway. With a 50,000 Vietnamese Dong buy-in (about £1.50, so by no means mega money!) it’s amazing what you can improvise with. The dealer button for the night was one side of an Oreo biscuit being passed around the table, while the cotton buds were carefully cut in half and became worth 2,000 Dong each.

Cotton bud chips, half an Oreo as dealer button. Vegas would be proud!

With a few beers and a pot noodle, the time flew by as we had plenty of banter and laughs as the sun set and we rattled our way through the countryside and north to the Vietnamese capital. It started to get late, and the game was ended with a crazy round of pre-flop raising and betting which saw me all in with Ace Jack. I was quietly confident with the hand, but Ricky ended up taking my chips, and second-place Stephen’s too.

Steven, Malcolm and Verena with Pot Noodles at the ready!

It was 4.30am when we arrived in Hanoi, and we were immediately on a bus for the four hour trip to Ha Long Bay, a beautiful stretch of coastline to the east of the capital and a Unesco world heritage site.

Cliffs at Ha Long Bay

It was nice to see and feel the sun shining on us again as we set off for lunch on a traditional junk. We’d been asked if any of us didn’t want seafood, so of course I opted for the non-seafood option. There was everything from barbecued pork, chicken, beef stir fry, vegetables and chips. Between four of us, one of whom is vegetarian, there was plenty to go at, summed up by a series of photographs secretly taken by Alissa which made it look like I’d enjoyed some sort of private dining experience!

Hmmm, quite nice...

'Would sir like some more spring rolls?'

I'll try some of that over there?

Rumbled!

By the end of lunch, we were approaching the spectacular limestone cliffs that rise so impressively out of the sea. There seems to be hundreds of them, everywhere you look, each covered in greenery.

The bay

We stopped at one and were taken inside a cave, where apparently the stalactites and stalagmites form the outlines of animals, according to our guide. There was one that looked a bit like a dolphin, but I think much of the experience relied on an active imagination.

In the cave, or a 'Kip' as our guide called it

Colin had by far the best spot of the day however-  high above us he’d noticed what looked like the back end of a horse hanging from the ceiling. Strangely, that wasn’t mentioned in the official tour.

The Colin Craig 'Horse bum from ceiling' discovery

Back on the boat we sailed around the cliffs to a spot where we could hire a kayak canoe.

Ricky and I agreed to hire one, and off we went paddling through limestone gaps and tunnels, venturing out into the choppy sea and around some of the rocky islands.

Ha Long Bay

Emma and Megan spent much of their time trying to keep up with us, so we towed them along for a while, and at one point a fish managed to jump out of the water and into their canoe, sparking panic. It was only a tiny thing, but nonetheless we had to do the manly thing and save them from the stickleback that was harmlessly flapping about in a puddle of water at the bottom of the boat. He swam off in the sea without a care in the world.

With a few beers and photos on the sun deck as darkness fell, it was a very relaxing journey back to the port.

Sailing to shore

Dinner was at a recommended place called Bamboo Bar, which managed to serve up not only the worst meal of the tour so far, but a good dose of unintentional comedy too. They didn’t have enough chairs, so were were all perched on top of incredibly tall bar stools around tables that you couldn’t get legs under, while the swarms of staff looked like they’d never had more than three customers in at once. I had a fake bamboo tree next to me, meaning the only way I could get comfortable was by angling myself away from others. There were just six menus in the whole place, the staff lost track of who had ordered, food was arriving while orders were still being taken, Dirk was arguing because they’d asked him to pay before the food arrived, and European-style techno music was blaring almost full blast from the speakers.

I ordered a chicken club sandwich, which arrived with one tiny sliver of chicken in it, while Colin seemed to wait an age for his sandwich. At one point, a man walked through the place with two loaves of bread, quite obviously for our orders, while Ricky was left so hungry from the measly portion he tried to order another dish. Except despite being one of the world’s largest exporters of the stuff, the restaurant had managed to run out of rice. It was almost farcical, and with little else to do in the area, many of us went to bed early.

Road hog

The next day we headed back to Hanoi, with the usual game of ‘what’s on the moped’ from the bus throwing up this little beauty. Sausages for tea?

This little piggy went to market...

The Killing Fields, Cambodia

Posted on by
2

When you look around in Cambodia, there are very few old people. There’s a reason for that – just outside my lifetime, almost half of the population was wiped out by the Khmer Rouge.

It’s a staggering fact. The population dropped from more than seven million people to three million people as communist Pol Pot and his army systematically murdered the middle classes in the mid 1970s. Anyone who was educated, who could possibly question him and his regime, was sent to one of hundreds of killing sites and buried in one of more than 10,000 mass graves.

Mass graves near Phnom Penh

I knew a bit about what happened – I remember hearing about the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot on the news as a kid, but I had no idea about the full scale of the genocide, how many people were killed, the reasons why or the brutality behind it.

The visit to Cambodia’s killing fields, and the capital’s main prison, was harrowing.

One of the reasons for travelling is to broaden the mind and to educate, and today that certainly was the case. I knew it wasn’t going to be a day by the seaside, but its hard to fully prepare for what you are about to learn about and see.

Some of the tour group had decided to miss the visit having heard about how gruesome it can be – after all, the main memorial to those who died is a monument filled with the skulls of those whose bodies were found in the grave.

For me, learning about atrocities and what happened in the past is important, nomatter how hard it can be to take in. I visited the D-Day beaches in Normandy last year, and struggled to take in the utter waste of life caused by war on the sand in front of me. I had a similar feeling in Cambodia, except these were not people who were fighting for a cause – they were completely innocent people, who shared a similar will to live a normal life like me, but yet were dragged from their homes and murdered for no reason other than they’d tried to give themselves a better life through education and work.

Skulls of victims in the memorial

Pol Pot’s regime aimed to bring a single class to Cambodia – city dwellers were sent or forced from their homes to work the fields in the countryside. Nobody was allowed more than just a few grains of rice a day. Khmer Rouge soldiers patrolled and killed anyone who breached rules.

We travelled to Choeung Ek – one of the sites chillingly known as the Killing Fields – and our guide was a man who was born during the regime. His father and brother were killed by the Khmer Rouge, while his sister died of disease due to the poor conditions in the country. All the doctors had been killed as they were educated, and so healthcare was non-existent.

The site is one of the main memorials to the more than 1.7million people who were murdered – and its also one of the main mass grave sites. There are still hundreds of bodies buried beneath the soil, while thousands more have been exhumed.

We stood by one of the largest graves where blindfolded prisoners were led to, tied around the necks with rope to prevent them running away, hands tied, before being told to kneel, bow their heads and sing along to patriotic Khmer Rouge propaganda songs blaring from loudspeakers. One by one, they were hit over the back of the head with axe handles or spades – to save ammunition – while razor sharp palm branches were used as spears and knives to ensure any signs of remaining life were snubbed out.

It was truly barbaric. Our guide, despite doing this tour probably hundreds of times, took no pleasure from relaying to us what happened. Instead, he’s just glad that people will go and listen to him. The Cambodian government actively encourages tourists to visit the sites, learn about what happened and take photographs. It ensures the outside world is reminded of the atrocities committed here.

“I warn you, you may find some bones or teeth on the ground, still coming up from below, but don’t worry, you don’t need to feel bad about walking over them,” our guide tells us.

“Those who died, and their spirits, are just glad you have come to remember them and to tell others of their loss,”

Many of the group had a tear in the eye.

Teeth of victims still being uncovered

Sure enough, as you walk around the site, there are small piles of teeth and bone fragments, brought to the surface by heavy rains and flooding from the nearby river. The ground has hollows, dropping around three feet below the surface, where attempts have been made to recover bodies, but the simple fact is there are far too many here to fully recover them all.

All around there is cloth and pieces of rag on the dusty surface. Its only when you look closer that you realise its not rubbish or old rags – they are victim’s clothes.

Victims' clothes

There was no escape from the Khmer Rouge – even babies were murdered, bludgeoned against a ‘killing tree’ that still stands next to their mothers’ mass grave. Their theory was it would prevent an uprising in late years when the angered children grow into adults and seek revenge for what happened to their parents.

It was the sort of place where you need to spend some time, even to sit in silence for a while, just to take in and appreciate the depths humanity can sink to.

Photograph showing the site being exhumed

The walk around the graves ends at the memorial Stupa, filled with some 8,000 skulls of those whose bodies were recovered. They are arranged into groups – young women, older women, older men, children.

Memorial

Its always hard to explain how you feel at moments like that, looking at the remains of so many innocent people. Like any other decent human being, I felt anger and sadness at such a loss of life. There was almost a sense of guilt – that somehow you wanted to apologise for what other fellow humans had done to those whose skulls stare hauntingly back at you.

They are long since absent of eyes and features but yet somehow seem to be looking back at all of us who visit. I quietly paused and looked at some, trying to imagine what they may have looked like, the families they had, the jobs they did in this far flung land.

“Take photos, its important that people know,” one man said.

At just this one site, there are 129 communal graves. Only 86 of them have been exhumed, revealing the remains of 8,985 people who were exterminated here. Across Cambodia, almost two million people met their end at terrifying fields like this. It was hard to take in.

Sadly, our guide seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, and I was soon wishing I’d made my own way to the site to take it in at my own pace. Instead, we headed to Tuol Sleng, the main prison in the capital Phnom Penh, where most prisoners were taken by the Khmer Rouge before being murdered nearby.

Tuol Sleng prison

Until 1975, Tuol Svay Prey High School was filled with the sound of children and teachers. That was until Pol Pot’s henchmen turned it into Security Prison 21 (S21), the largest detention centre in the country. Between 1975 and 1978, more than 17,000 people were taken there and tortured before being sent to Choeung Ek. Those who died under their brutal treatment were buried in another mass grave at the site.

Small wooden cells

Every prisoner was photographed, and their images stare out from huge boards all around the site, in former classrooms that went on to see unimaginable horror. Many are photographed wearing a number – a tell-tale sign that they faced certain death within the next few hours.

Photographs of victims

One of the main questions I had about the regime was how it was allowed to happen – why the Cambodian people went along with such a horrific regime. The simple reason is that most, out in the countryside, had very little knowledge of the death camps. After years of civil war, they believed the Khmer Rouge would bring stability and peace, even celebrating when they first gained control of the capital. But it wasn’t long before many were sent for ‘re-education’, often duped into believing better jobs were on offer or that they had been headhunted by Khmer Rouge leaders because of their exceptional skills. Instead, they were being sent to prison, and ultimately, their deaths.

Torture cell and image of how it was found

The prison’s torture cells were particularly grim, having been left almost exactly as they were when the Khmer Rouge fled – often killing the inmates before leaving. Blood stains could still be seen on floors and ceilings, around the bed that an inmate was once strapped to.

Water torture bath found at the prison

Elsewhere, the tools and machines of torture, such as a water torture bath and shackles and chains, were still in rooms surrounded by depictions of what life was like.

It was graphic, but it was also real life- something that happened just five years before I was born. With the Second World War, you visit sites and learn about what happened in the knowledge it was sixty or seventy years ago, and that history had supposedly learned lessons. Yet somehow, years after the Beatles had risen to fame and Concorde took to the sky, this horror took place. It wasn’t the first of its kind, and by no means the last, but it was worthwhile going to learn about it and gave me a fuller understanding of what happened and why.

Only a handful of people made it out alive, among them Bou Meng, who managed to survive the prison until the Vietnamese liberated the area. His wife was murdered in the nearby killing field after also being held at the prison. He was busy signing his book, which tells of his life before and after he was captured, under a canopy near the cell he was held in.

With prison survivor Bou Meng

Incredibly, he was spared because he was an artist, put to work by painting pictures of Khmer Rouge leaders.

“I am a victim of Pol Pot,” he says

“And I was able to survive because of pictures of Pol Pot.”

I bought a copy of his book, which he signed and dated, before gratefully shaking my hand and posing for a photo.

He seemed a nice man, who had moved beyond a need for personal revenge by finding peace in educating others, in the hope similar atrocities can be avoided in the future.

“I want everyone to hear my story and the misery of other victims of the genocide. Demanding justice for the victims of the Khmer Rouge regime is always in my heart and soul.

“I will not give up my efforts in demanding justice. Even though justice cannot compensate the victims, it will prevent the atrocities from happening again.”

Bou Meng faced his tormentors by giving evidence at the Khmer Rouge Tribunal. Five top Khmer Rouge leaders are held for crimes against humanity. Their trials have just started.

Hitting a Wall

Posted on by
1

I quite like being tall. It helps in the supermarket when the only pair of BOGOF biscuits are left on the top shelf. It’s useful at music festivals when you can look over people’s heads to see the band. It’s also quite good when you’re decorating walls and you don’t have to keep using and moving the ladders to paint up to the ceiling.

However, today was not a good day to be tall.

Not happy!

Our bus to the Great Wall of China picked us up at 6am. It was still dark, slightly chilly and far too early. None of us had slept very well as we knew we had to be up at the crack of dawn. We had chosen to go to Jinshanling, a part of the wall that had been recommended as it was only partly renovated so was in ruins in some parts, while it boasted amazing views of the mountains and fewer tourists than other spots. There’s the odd horror story of not being able to move for hawkers and tourists at the popular spot of Badaling, where it has all been repaired and made to look immaculate. To me, that’s not the proper wall, so we shelled out a bit more, around £30 in total, to go somewhere better.

The only problem was its around 170km north of Beijing and takes over three hours to get there, hence the early start. The bus, however, was made for Chinese people, who are, shall we say, quite a bit shorter than people from other parts of the world like Europe…and Grimsby. Therefore, buses in China can be made smaller, but still contain the same number of seats, as little people mean little legs – producing some of the most ridiculously packed in displays of awful leg room I have ever experienced.

So at 6am, facing the prospect of having my knees up to my chin for more than six hours, it was not a good start to the day. Combined with the fact the bus had seen better days and my chair fell off the base every time the driver stamped on the brake – which he did a lot – even the Mcdonalds breakfast provided by the tour driver failed to crack a smile.

Thankfully the bus wasn’t full, so we were able to at least twist ourselves into a slightly more comfortable position, even getting some sleep on the way.

The scenery on the way was great, and there were plenty of glimpses of the Great Wall as we drove through valleys and passed mountain after mountain, arriving at Jinshangling at 10.30am.

The map...and top of our guide

We were shown a map and told there would likely be a few farmers wives following us, trying to sell us souvenirs. It was pointed out that it was a long way to the far end of Jinshangling’s wall, but the better, fitter people might be able to make it. A five windowed tower was pointed out, but there was a warning that we had to be back for lunch at 1.30pm, and the bus left at 2pm.

Naturally, that was seen as a challenge by the blokes, and we set our sights on it.

By now Id started talking to a guy called Justin. He’d been sat in the seat in front of me on the bus, and I’d broken the ice by letting him know he could recline his chair if he wanted to. Justin is originally from the UK, but now lives in San Francisco and works as a computer chip designer in Silicon Valley. We agreed that we’d stick together and help with photos, and along with Santi and Galli, we set off to walk the wall.

French guys...and an army of farmers' wives

We hadn’t got far when we noticed our small group had more than tripled in size. Looking back was like something akin to the Pied Piper, with about 30 older women following us all. We just presumed they’d get fed up after a while and leave us all alone, but we were wrong.

Justin, Santi, Galli and I set an early pace, marching off up the steps to the wall at a decent pace. Then two French guys took over and stole our thunder, but they were welcome to it, there was no way we could keep up the speed! The old dears following, however, could more than keep up.

'I can see the pub from here'

We soon reached the wall, and after a climb up some final steps, soon had a great view of its twists and turns across mountain tops as far as the eye can see. Its only when you get on top of the wall that the full scale of it hits you. To think that it crosses such an enormous distance, and was built so many years ago, is incredible.

The Great Wall

After a few photos, we noticed others had started moving on, and so the wall walk began. We had been warned that this section of the wall was more of a ‘hike’ and only recommended for people who could manage. It started out as a breeze, with nicely paved, and obviously restored, walkways through watch towers and around lookouts.

Gali and Santi on the wall

The weather was perfect for it, with the sun in a great position and distant mountains shrouded in a slight mist. It was the picture postcard image of the wall that I’d seen countless times on travel programmes or in magazines, but nothing prepares for being there in person.

Nothing prepares for the incessant chase by the farmers wives either!

We walked for around half a mile on the restored wall before we started hitting the crumbling ruins, but still they were very passable. Most of our group were still keeping up, and we’d take it in turns to have a quick joke and a smile as we continuously overtook each other, took photos, got overtaken again and so on. There was a really good spirit among everyone.

Part of our group goes ahead

By now, Justin and I had realised there were two women following us, and showed no sign of giving up. We quietly joked between us – not that they would understand – that we had a couple of chaperones desperate for our money. Me being, well, a bit tight, was having none of it. If I wanted a piece of tat or a book about the Great Wall, I’d go to the souvenir shop at the end. Determined to shake them off, we agreed to step up the pace, and were now almost at a slow run.

And still, they kept up.

Steep!

The wall had, by now, hit some incredibly steep bits. After climbing to one watch tower, the wall snakes down into another valley and up an even steeper climb to the next watch tower. At one point, up to the Flower Tower – so called as it had doors and windows made with flower-engraved marble – there was a rise of around 100 particularly steep steps up an almost vertical hillside.

Help!

Our older ‘chaperone’ somehow shot off up them like a rat up a drainpipe, but not wanting to be outdone, I shot up them even faster, overtaking her halfway up and then struggling all the way to the top without stopping, and somehow without passing out.

Suddenly, the warning you had to be fit started to hit home. Our smiling chaperone decided to give me a round of applause and offered the words ‘do you want a book’. I decided against pushing her off the wall.

By now, Gali and Santi had decided to stop. Gali has a dodgy knee, caused by bad shoes apparently, which has messed up his tendons. It’s why they both have rather snazzy wheely suitcases instead of the usual backpacks, as weight on Gali’s back causes more problems. Justin and I said goodbye at one of the towers, and set our sights on the five-windowed tower about a mile away.

Not a bad view to leave Santi and Gali with!

For a moment, our group splitting in two confused the two women, but they quickly decided to give chase. Justin and I walked even faster, but nomatter what we tried or how fast we went to lose them, they would not slow down. While we were gradually losing layers, gasping for air, having breathers and stopping for water, they were breezing it like an evening stroll along Cleethorpes prom.

On the wall

“Be cawfool,” they would say as we crawled our way up and down some of the worst parts of the wall, at some points on our hands and knees among the rocks and boulders which have come loose. By now, time was starting to get on, and we set ourselves a cut-off point of midday, at which point we would turn back.

One of the watchtowers

At 11.30am, we still had a fair way to go, but we could see the tower we were aiming for. It was a good challenge, and it was fun to keep stopping for photos as every twist and turn in the wall revealed more stunning shots.

We made the five-windowed tower with 10 minutes to spare. It meant a well deserved rest and a Snickers.

A break at the top

The two French guys who overtook us at the start were also there – apparently they had walked another kilometre ahead and were already on the way back. They said the view was stunning from the next tower. I told them I was happy with the view from where I was – I couldn’t go any further!

Justin and I at the top of the wall

Justin and I chatted about what our reasons were for travelling at the top. We both sat on the edge of the wall with a fantastic view of it disappearing into the distance. He told me he’d quit his job as he wasn’t getting on with his boss, and so had a few weeks to travel. I told him about Mongolia and the rail journey and he admitted he was tempted to go stay in a yurt!

It was one of those chats that you have and then suddenly pinch yourself. Looking out, it dawned on you that you were sat on top of one of the wonders of the world. It may not, contrary to popular belief, be visible from space, but how on earth this incredible structure was built is baffling. It sits right on the mountain tops, and if it seems hard enough to walk and climb along it, quite how they managed to cart millions of tonnes of rock to the tops of these mountains to build the thing is beyond me.

Quite how the two old dears had managed to stick with us all the way was also beyond me, as they both stood grinning from a doorway.

Our older chaser racing ahead

“We’ll have to give them something at the end. They’ve earned it,” Justin said.

I had to agree. In the pursuit of the tourist Yuan, they were definitely committed. And I was starting to warm to them too, particularly the older one. She had a big toothy grin, and she held onto me as I tried to take a particularly arty shot by hanging over the edge of the wall (It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’s have held on had I fallen either!)

Wildlife on the Wall

Just after midday, we took in our final views from the top of the wall and started the hike back. The two women told us there was a short cut, that seemed to go along an eroded cliff edge.

We decided to stick to the wall ruins, as precarious as they were in places, but sure enough, we soon saw their smiling faces way below us as we slipped and stumbled our way down some loose and slippery steps.

“Be cawfool.”

A wave from our old dear

We were back to the wall entrance well within the time limit – after all, we didn’t want to be some of ‘those’ people that hold the group up! But before we went for lunch, the final sales pitch came from the older woman, brandishing a book full of details about the wall and I have to admit, some particularly good photography.

“Onwee 120 yuan. I’m poor, no food, fwom Mongowia,” she said.

Yes, that is my follower below!

Justin and I had already agreed on the walk back we’d give them something – we’d deliberately waited until the end incase one or both of us slipped and broke a leg, so at least there’d be someone around to help! And we both agreed, although we didn’t ask them to follow us, nor sell us a book, that they had worked bloody hard for the equivalent of £12.

Except I only had 100 Yuan left in my wallet.

Justin bought his without bartering, but I thought I’d try my luck by offering the crisp 100 note.

“No, 120,” she said, flashing me another toothy smile.

The only other notes in my wallet were three US Dollar bills and a 500 Icelandic Krona note, somehow still languishing in there from my work trip the month before. Its a similar size and colour to a Chinese 100 yuan note, but quite simply, useless in the depths of China. My new friend, however, was intrigued. Unsurprisingly, it was the first time she’d seen Icelandic money.

My final offer turned out to be 100 Yuan, three dollars, a pound coin and 500 Icelandic Krona. I managed to avoid offering some scruffy receipts or the shirt off my back. Justin had only known me a few hours, but I could tell he was rolling his eyes!

“Ok, ok,” she said, mercifully.

Aww!

By now we were all laughing together and we all had some photographs. She had quite a sore lip, so Justin gave her a tube of Blistex cream. She didn’t know how to get it out of the tube, so we helped her squeeze it onto her finger. Then I noticed that inside the book, there was a certificate, so I asked her to sign it for me. She laughed, and wrote her name – Leovantin

We walked back towards the café together, and Leovantin was clearly joking with her friend and looking at the Icelandic note. I was busy working out I had paid far more than the asking price of 120 Yuan – not that she would believe me!

Chuffed - and with a lip of Blistex!

Lunch was cold rice and noodles that I couldn’t really stomach, and so we headed to the bus.

Leovantin was waiting for the next group of tourists to arrive. That afternoon she would do the gruelling hike all over again.

The Paris of Siberia

Posted on by
1

Irkutsk – October 22-25 2011

“Some crazy Irish guys have just arrived in a Volvo”

Not what I was expecting to hear from a fellow backpacker as I bundled through the main door of the hostel after the trip to Lake Baikal!

Irkutsk -near the big lake towards the East!

A well-travelled registration plate!

Sure enough, parked up outside was an old Volvo 940, complete with Irish registration plates, an Irish flag sticker and a load of sleeping bags and belongings inside.

Its owners are married couple Cameron and Julie, an Australian and an Irish girl. Incredibly, they’ve driven all the way to the far side of Russia from Dublin, having left the Emerald Isle in August. Along the way they’ve stopped off at Stockport to see friends, before making their way to Harwich for a sailing across to Holland, and then driven across Europe, through the Russian border, and after a few weeks battling the crazy way of driving here, managed to reach Irkutsk.

Cameron and Julie...and their Volvo!

I’m amazed – having thought my trip was a bit of an adventure and ‘off the beaten track’, driving the entire 8,000km in a 1991 Volvo pretty much trumps everyone’s traveller story, and we sit around for a few hours digesting their tales of how the engine erupted into flames at a petrol station, yet somehow still manages to work. Of how they had so much trouble bringing the car through the border. How they’ve been asked for photographs by members of the public with their number plate. And all along, we’re drinking shots of Russian vodka which had been given to them by a well-wishing trucker at their last truck stop, full of praise and admiration for their intrepid adventure.

Their story makes me smile, as one of my first ideas when I was starting to think of my trip was to buy an old van and drive it to Moscow, to help save on transport and accommodation costs. I’d have kitted it out with a mattress in the back, much to the amusement of my friends Matt and Siobhan back home.

I wouldn't fancy driving in this lot!

They had visions of me being arrested in lay-bys somewhere in Eastern Europe. It wasn’t that thought which put me off however – it was the problems with bringing a car into Russia and potentially having to leave it there while the journey continues around the world. It’s a bureaucratic nightmare to say the least- and the Russian authorities are very much against any western cars being left on their soil!

Cameron and Julie seem to have a plan, although I won’t go into it here in public for obvious reasons – but their blog is at www. wanderwithus.tumblr.com if you fancy seeing how they get on (after you’ve finished here of course!)

Nearby street

I had an important reason for being in Irkutsk – the small matter of a visa for Mongolia. It was something I desperately wanted to get before leaving the UK, and had planned to make a visa dash to London on one of my days off before leaving, but my Chinese visa application took a lot longer than it should have done – more on that in a future scribbling!

Lenin statue near the hostel

Anyway, it turned out that the Mongolian consulate was only around the corner, but when we arrived I was told they could only do a ‘next day’ service. That somewhat scuppered my plans to get a train that night to Ulan Bator, but these things happen. It meant an extra day in Irkutsk, so more time to look around.

Fishing on the Angara, Irkutsk

I went back to the hostel and searched for the trains to Ulan Bator the following day. I was quite alarmed to see there was no availability – especially as my Russian visa expires in a few days, so I needed to get out of the country. With a two-day journey to Mongolia, things were getting a bit close for comfort if I had to leave in two days time. By my rough reckoning, the Wednesday train would see me clear the Russian border by a matter of hours, delays not included in the equation.

I decided to head to the railway station in Irkutsk to try my luck there. I went with another backpacker, Hannah, who’s originally from New Zealand but lives and works in the financial district in London. With my handwritten Cyrillic ticket request (I think its harder to write with their alphabet than it is to read it) we braved firm ‘nyets’ from a number of stern female Russian ticket sellers on at least four different windows before eventually finding the international ticket window (again, no signs or help anywhere, you’re just expected to know where to go!)

Irkutsk station - confusing!

Thankfully, the website was wrong, and a second class lower berth was mine on tomorrow night’s service from Irkutsk to Ulan Bator for 4,600 Roubles, or about £90. I was relieved- it gives me a day to play with on my Russian visa, and I wont have to face the wrath of any angry border guards!

Irkutsk

Hannah and I went in search of some lunch, which is easier said than done here. Its so hard to spot cafes and restaurants, as there’s very few of them. The Russian view on eating, I’ve concluded, is completely different to that in the West, where its seen as a sociable way to enjoy time, with nice food and good company. In Russia, judging by some of the pre-prepared buffet-style food I have managed to find, its simply a means to an end; a way of staying alive!

Crazy tram drop-offs in the middle of busy roads

I’m used to fast food usually being available everywhere you look. So far, I’ve seen just one Mcdonalds sign in Russia, which is probably good for my addiction to the place, while there’s nothing in the way of KFC, Burger King or Pizza Huts, the usual venues for a quick but unhealthy fill.

Rows of 'food' stalls

Instead, there are hundreds of little stalls all over the place, selling cakes and biscuits and various breads through a little hatch. My musings have already prompted concern from my parents and on Twitter that I’m not eating properly. The problem is, fresh fruit and veg is hard to buy, and proper cafes or restaurants are few and far between. Even when you find them, it’s a game of Russian Roulette – or lucky dip as the travellers call it – running your finger down a menu and hoping for the best. There’s absolutely no way of working out what on Earth you’re ordering!

Park in Irkutsk

We gave it a good go trying to find something authentic. We looked for a café that was recommended, and it seemed far too pricey. We looked for another in the guidebook, and it had changed into a United Colours of Benetton (still the height of fashion here!) and eventually found somewhere that sells Russian pancakes. We settled for that, hoping for a savoury filling. That was a no-no, as only sweet fillings were left we were told! We decided to have two each, with apricot jam on the side, and laughed about having to have dessert first.

The main course was a Subway that we managed to find on the way back to the city centre. Well, we did at least try to be authentic!

Trubetskoys house

The rest of the day was spent seeing some of the sights, including Trubetskoy house, once home to Sergey and Yekaterina Trubetskoy, who caused a whole load of trouble back in 1825 when they tried to mount a coup, which failed, and so lived here in exile. By far the best thing about it however was the sign on the gate. All I’ll say is I was there on a Monday…I didn’t want to take the risk the next day!

Hmmm... I'll give Tuesday a miss

That night a few of us went ten-pin bowling at a nearby complex, which was a lot of fun.

Bowling fun

The first game was full of male competitiveness between Cameron and I, for the highest score, although his flukey Turkey blew my hopes to bits. The second game was much more fun – we’d seen the system showed your bowling speed, so invented a new game of taking the heaviest ball and seeing who could bowl, or should I say throw, it fastest!

Butterfingers at work

Of course, the 15 ball had really big finger holes, and I dropped a clanger by trying to put all my energy into it, just as it slipped off my fingers and into the air behind me. As we were the only ones in there, the noise surely alerted the staff to our shenanigans.

Male pride...

If it didn’t, the next calamity certainly did. Matieu, a French guy, bowled it as fast as he could, except the machine was still in the process of clearing pins away. We all gasped. We knew what was coming. Time did that weird slowing down thing as we hid behind our hands and cringed, almost wanting to look away, but actually really wanting to see what would happen. BANG. Pin clearing machine was broken!

Thankfully, the camouflage-wearing (!) security guards weren’t alerted, the machine was repaired for us, and we finished the game. I won the game, but Cameron won the real game. With a speed in excess of 35km/hr!

The rest of my time in Irkutsk was spent picking up my Mongolian visa, which set me back $100, and wandering around through the streets of the city. Its called the Paris of Siberia, and with its river, pretty streets, churches and cathedrals, it was easy to see why.

Damaged Cathedral of the Epiphany back then

The city centre had a display of historic photos, including some of its original cathedral that had to be pulled down after being damaged in the civil war, and others of its recently restored, and rather colourful, Cathedral of the Epiphany. An amazing restoration judging by the photos of its damage

 

Cathedral of the Epiphany today

 

I opted for a strange bit of Russian cuisine for lunch from one of the little stalls near the city stadium.

Mystery pasty-esque food

The best way I can describe it is as a deep-fryed Cornish pasty containing yet more mystery meat. I ate it sat on the banks of the River Angara, near to the Trans-Siberian railway memorial, dedicated to the work of those who built the line I’m travelling on.

Trans-Siberian Railway memorial

After stopping at a shop to buy some supplies for the train journey – some bread rolls, cheese, tea and apple juice, it was back to the hostel to pack. There’s a two-night journey ahead, and another country to discover.

Lake Baikal

Posted on by
Reply

Sunday, October 23 2011

Lake Baikal

I woke up in a panic – I knew I’d pressed the snooze button on the phone alarm, and I had the guy who runs the hostel waking me up. I had a trip organised to Lake Baikal, the world’s oldest and deepest lake, and the pick-up was at 9.50am.

Thankfully, I still had 20 minutes to get ready. I’m staying at the Nerpa backpacker’s hostel in Irkutsk, close to the city centre. It’s clean, homely and friendly, everything you need when you’re adjusting to life as a backpacker. They’d booked me a trip to the lake after I saw it on the noticeboard, and it was one of my main reasons for stopping off in the town – the other reason being that it has a Mongolian consulate, so I can get a visa for the next country on my trip.

I was under the impression that it was an organised trip, and as the minibus turned up, I was quickly taken to the town’s market. An hour later, and the minibus now full of locals, we were on our way to the lake, 60km away. It was a pleasant journey, a couple of passengers tried talking to me and kept repeating the word ‘London’ with smiles and a nod. I kept smiling and nodding back!

The journey

The journey took me through some fantastic countryside – long straight roads cutting through evergreen forests, rolling hills and villages made up of tiny wooden huts, a typical sight in Siberia. It did not feel like the Russia I had imagined – it felt much more like I was in the French Alps. It was about an hour before we reached the lake, stretching out for miles and meeting snow-capped mountains on the far side.

Chillaxing!

We arrived in the lakeside town of Listvyanka, the minibus driver gave me a list of car registration numbers I could get a lift back with, and I went off to explore. Some fellow backpackers told me there was a ski-lift to take me to the top of the hills around the town for a great view of the lake, so finding that was the main objective. I quickly found however that the town was very spread out along the main road at the edge of the lake. I read my guide book on the shore for a few minutes, before deciding to walk to the main village.

The water was incredibly clear and blue, lapping onto the pebbly beach. On the horizon, snow-capped mountains, and the borders of Mongolia and China.

Listvyanka

The sheer scale of the lake is immense – it’s known as the ‘Blue Eye of Siberia’ for a reason. It’s the world’s oldest lake, formed 50-million years ago; the deepest at 1,637m (5371ft) and is among the largest lakes on the planet, stretching 400 miles long and between 20 and 40 miles wide. There’s so much water in it, that if everyone’s taps ran dry in the world, Lake Baikal could keep the entire population of Earth going on fresh water for 40 years! And its so clear and clean, that the locals simply put a bucket in and take it home – I even saw one man who works at a diving company filling two cups, presumably for a warming cuppa, straight from the lake.

Siberian village by the lake

The guide book revealed how it was a nice walk to the town’s church, nestled at the back of the town in a valley.

The church, minus its 5-star toilets!

Walking through the streets was like walking back in time – people were in their gardens turning over soil, tending to their vegetables, while rusting cars and tractors were dotted around. Most houses are wooden, many are falling apart, but nearly all of them have beautiful painted shutters adorned with carvings.

One of the reasons for finding the church was because the guide book told me some concessions had been made for tourists, and that there were some new five-star toilets located behind it. I thought that would be a ‘convenient’ stop after a while travelling, so headed towards them. There were some cheery waves from people as I walked past, and after about fifteen minutes, I found the church…and the ‘five-star’ restroom. Needless to say, I didn’t use it, but did spend the walk back to the main road chuckling about how many other travellers must have followed the words of the guidebook expecting to find a shiny, sparkling w.c, maybe with hand driers, basins, mirrors, the works – only to find a shed and a hole in the ground!

An Omul fish, unique to Lake Baikal

I walked along the path and headed to the easternmost side of the town, which looking at the map seemed to be a short walk. I failed to look at the scale, and three kilometres later, I eventually found the Baikal museum. It cost about £3 to enter, but I’m afraid to say it has to go some way to rival The Deep. There were a couple of endangered freshwater seals swimming around in a tank that was clearly far too small for them, along with a few other exhibits of wildlife unique to the lake, including the Omul fish. People were selling these fish all over the place, normally barbecued and at the side of the road. Its supposed to be lovely, but my dislike of fish makes this delicacy off-limits!

My map shows the hilltop lookout as being behind the museum, so I set off to try and find it. Yet again, Russia’s aversion to maps and helpfulness means I walk around in a big circle for a while, getting trapped on some form of wooden walkway, and then asking the person at the museum which way it was. Helpfully, she gave me instructions in German, although her pointing gave me the general idea of where to head.

As I walked up a dusty track, and then climbed steps to another dusty track, I wondered if I was on yet another Russian wild goose chase. There was no ski-lift to be seen, just hills and trees. I walked up a hill, and was about to head through some gates, when there was a whistle from behind. One of the locals, wearing a traditionally big and fluffy Russian hat, motioned me to turn left – mainly as I was about to walk up to a military camp!

The world's slowest ski lift!

After what seemed like an eternity aimlessly walking up dusty tracks, looking for signs and wondering if a hilltop viewpoint actually existed, I began to see a metal building and heard a familiar noise – the low drone of a ski-lift winding its way up a hillside!

It was a fairly hefty £4 to take the lift up, but after a good few hours hiking, I was ready for a rest, and I rest I certainly got. It was possibly the slowest ski-lift in existence! I’d have probably crawled up quicker if I’d tried, the chairlift slowly bumping over each wheel on the pylons at a boredom inducing pace, but it gave me a chance to analyse the slope below me, obviously a piste when it snows, and by the looks of it, a short but challenging run!

Success -I found the top!

The wait was worth it, the view at the top was spectacular. The sun was in completely the wrong place for photography from the peak, but I still managed to get some nice shots. Below, the lake flowed into the River Angara, which itself flows all the way up to the Arctic Ocean. I met an American man from Charleston in the States, he’d asked me to take a photograph of him and his wife at the top, and he seemed as surprised as I was to find someone else who speaks English! They are few and far between around these parts, so we both enjoyed finding out about each others’ travels. He was there with his Russian wife –they had married in May and so had both now travelled to her home country to meet family.

The view from the top!

Also at the top was the Russian man in the furry hat, the local who’d whistled at me. He asked me to take a photograph of him on his phone, and then motioned to the sun and managed to gesture enough to me that it was a good day to visit the top of the hill. He seemed to enjoy telling me all about the lake in his native language, motioning how deep the lake was, how big it was, the fact Mongolia and China are on the other side.

Cheese!

Clearly proud of living there, and now having the opportunity to show off this amazing natural wonder to tourists, we both leaned on the railings admiring the view for about an hour, taking it in turns to try to explain different things to each other. He would be giving me facts in Russian and hand signals, at one point writing numerals on the ground (it was how deep the lake was) while I showed him maps of where I was travelling to and showing photographs of life back home (Russian people absolutely love this!)

Eventually I decided to go – he shook my hand, smiled, and said pretty much the only bit of English he knew: ‘Goodbye my friend’

Mountains in the distance

I decided to walk down the hillside, and comprehensively beat the chair lift down to the bottom, before walking the three kilometres back to the marketplace. While there, I bought a barbecued kebab. I asked if it was beef (‘rosbif’) but he just said it was 150 roubles and gave me it anyway. It came with a blob of ketchup and some onions, and it has to be said, was very, very nice. I sat on the beach eating the meat – be it beef, pork or yak – watching as the sun started to drop behind the mountains. There was a really nice atmosphere, people strolling along the prom, sitting on the beach, laughing and joking, despite the fact temperatures barely rose above freezing point all day. It was so cold, my camera battery died really quickly, so I wasn’t able to get any shots of sunset over the lake, but it was stunning.

Lucky ribbons - a Siberian tradition

The man from America walked past me and said hello again, and asked if I’d had a good day. He joked if I didn’t hurry up, I’d miss my bus – but I had one more task before heading back to Irkutsk…

Legend has it that the Baikal waters are holy, and that if you dip your hands in, you will add an extra year to your life. Well, I’d done that just to wash the greasy mess off from the kebab – but if you dip your feet in, apparently you add another five years on to your life. So off came the shoes and socks, and I felt a bit stupid as I walked over the cobbles and went for a paddle.

It was icy cold – the lake freezes over with three metres of ice for much of the winter – and it was almost unbearable. But being slightly superstitious, it was worth it for another five years!

As for the legend that a swim in the lake adds an extra 25 years to your life – judging by the temperature around my feet, I don’t think I’d have seen the sun finish setting that day if I had gone for it.

Some superstitions are worth forgetting about!

A Trans-Siberian adventure

Posted on by
3

After a quick stop to see the Kremlin and St Basil’s Cathedral lit up at night, I made it to the station with an hour to spare before my train. Totally unlike me, I know, but it was nice to be relaxed for once!

Thankfully they still use numbers - Train 44 was mine!

Although it was cold and dark, the station was full of people, laden down with suitcases, rucksacks, carrier bags and the odd animal here and there.

'The train now standing at Platform 3 goes to Asia'

The train I’m booked on goes right across the entire width of Russia to Khabarovsk, some 8,500km, so naturally many people have supplies for the trip too. Some travellers seem to have brought an entire shop with them!

I’ve already come prepared – a trip to Tesco before I left the UK means my rucksack is full of Batchelors Super Noodles, some cheap Tesco home brand noodles (thought I’d give them a try!) pasta snack pots, crisps and biscuits to keep me going, as I’d been advised by my guide book.

Im in carriage 10, and given berth 10 by the carriage attendant as I clambered onboard the train.

My train, the Moscow-Khabarovsk service

Its warm and cosy inside, with wood panelling, Russian-style carpets, curtains and a soft light. I’m in a top bunk in a room with four beds, which actually works out quite well because I can put all of my luggage in the compartment above the corridor.

Soon after I get in, a Russian family arrive and start stowing their suitcases everywhere.

In the corridor I see someone wearing a German football tracksuit top. I asked if he was German, thinking that he’s likely to speak a little bit of English if he is. Turns out his name is Igor, and he’s Russian – but his English is fantastic.

Igor

Igor works in the cosmetics industry, and told me of his trips to Italy on business. He seemed surprised I was on the train on my own, and even more surprised when I said I was heading to Irkutsk. He’s heading to Yeketeringburg to see his family, a couple of days away, but he gave me his business card and told me if I needed any help to go and see him. A nice guy.

Back in my cabin, and the family are getting settled. At first, I didn’t think anyone could speak English – I worked out there was a mum, a teenage daughter and a younger girl who kept appearing from down the corridor, clutching a cuddly camel. At first, communication was through smiles and nods, but then we introduced ourselves. Nastya Kristell, the 15 year old daughter, knew a little English, and worked as translator. Then her dad Andrey appeared from down the corridor – their friends were in another cabin, and so were spending their time between the two.

Andrey and his daughter Nastya

I spent many hours that night talking to both Nastya and her father – they had just returned from a family holiday in Hurghada in Egypt, and were now embarking on an 18 hour overnight journey to their home city of Kirov. Never again will I complain about a two hour drive back from Manchester Airport after a week in the sun!

Beers all round!

Andrey offered me a beer, and at first I politely refused, but then remembered from reading my handbook that it can be seen as rude to refuse. When he asked again, I accepted, and we laughed as we all tried to swap English and Russian phrases together. Nastya was practising her English, and secretly whispering Russian phrases to me as I tried to remember them, to our mutual amusement! As the lights of Moscow outside changed into the darkness of the Russian wilderness, we all fell about laughing many times with our stories and bad translations, and after sharing some photos our lives back home, before we knew it, it was 2.30am and time for bed.

Its quite perculiar trying to sleep on a train. First there’s the movement, and while I’m sure I’ll get used to it, it does move around a lot! Its more of a gentle wobble really, with the occasional jolt added just for fun. Then there’s the noise- the tracks aren’t especially smooth, so there’s the traditional clackety-clack, clackety clack that’s disappeared back home with better rails. The rest of the noise is passing trains – my head is right by the window, so anything going the other way is pretty noticeable, especially as it seems to be a Russian rail tradition to sound horns as the locos pass each train!

I slept like a log in the end, so much so that I struggled to wake up the next morning. The motion of the train kept rocking me to sleep, and while I woke up at around 10am to have a look around, I made the fatal mistake of getting back into my bunk. Cue more soothing rocking and the repetitive clackety-clack, and I was dead to the world once again. I needed it though, the past few weeks had left me shattered, and to be honest its nice to be able to switch off and relax a little.

My home for four days!

Aside from the sleep, Im completely cut-off from the outside world now. As we head towards the 1,000km marker post, mobile phone signal is something of a rarity, while my new USB Data Modem stopped working as soon as we left Moscow. Without my music (iPhone issue again!) and having to preserve battery in my netbook, I read my Trans-Siberian Handbook for a while, planning the next few weeks, and decided to explore the train.

Im finding it really comfortable, although Igor tells me it’s a very old train, and the newer replacements are much better. The only thing that is a bit grim is the bathroom – but even then, I’ve been in much worse. I’ve tried to get water out of the tap twice in there now though, and without success. It’s got two big cogs above it, which I presume are for hot and cold water, but try as I might, I can’t get any H20 out of the tap. It works, and I know it works as someone has splashed water everywhere, almost to tease me, but I give up for now.

My trans-Siberian carriage

Each carriage in second class has about nine cabins in it, all aligned to one side with a corridor along the other side. At the end of the carriage is a samovar, a coal-fired water boiler which has an endless supply of water, and is also responsible for the intense heat which seems to build inside the train!

The samovar...teas, Super Noodles, intense heat...

Every now and then, somebody walks past with a bowl of steaming noodles or soup, and from somewhere there’s a supply of tea in a glass cup with a handle. I’ll look for those later!

I decided to head down the train, and over the slightly daunting joins between the carriages where the tracks are whizzing by in the big gaps below you at 40-50mph. The restaurant car is only two carriages away, but it seems quite pricey and from what I saw, the food didn’t look that good. I decide to stick with the Super Noodles from the samovar for now, and pick up some supplies from the station traders as we stop along the way.

I searched through my book for answers about how to get water out of the taps in the bathroom – and there it was. Apparently, you have to use a little lever right underneath it. I ventured to the bathroom to give it a go, and out the water came! I was quite relieved – I was in need of a wash by now, so freshened up. Then I went to the carriage attendant and asked for some tea – its 10 Roubles for a teabag and glass, so about 20p. More importantly, it came with a spoon, so I can now stop slurping my noodles straight out of the Tesco Snack Pot container I’ve fashioned into a reusable bowl!!

Back in my bunk, Andrey and his family are preparing to get off. He told me how he wants to go to Thailand next year, and I showed him some of my photos from my visit earlier this year. He’s got a battle on at the moment, as his daughter wants to go on holiday on her own. He asked me what age children in England are allowed to go on holiday on their own, and disappointingly for Nastya, I told him around 18. She rolled her eyes and laughed- she was pinning her hopes on me taking her side… I told her you’re never too old for a holiday with your parents!

Andrey gave me some Egyptian jam and a teabag as a gift from his family, and took some photographs of me with them. I took some of them too, and I knew Nastya was impressed when I told her that I worked for the BBC, and knowing I had a BBC Open Centre pen in my bag, I gave it to her as a present. Just the BBC logo on it meant something to her as she ran her fingers along it – I think the BBC is still so well-known and respected here. She gave me a hug, as did her father, and we said our goodbyes.

Andrey and his family at Kirov station

I watched through the window as they ran out to meet their family who had met them at the station. They turned around and waved at me. I was sad to see them go if im honest – they had made my first daunting night onboard such an enjoyable experience. I realised we were stopping at their station for a while, and as they were still on the platform, I went out to get one last photograph of them all together as a family. The camera was quickly taken from me, and I was ushered into the middle for a few photos with me too.

Saying goodbye to Andrey and family at Kirov station

It was lovely to meet them, and I wished them every success in the future before they headed to their cars and their nearby flat. If everyone I meet on this journey are as friendly and fun as Andrey and his family, this will be a fun trip!

I bought some Coke from the station shop and got back onboard. Two older Russian men were now in my cabin, and although they mustered a ‘hello’ didn’t really say much else. Thankfully I bumped into Igor who was heading for a cigarette, and we spent the night chatting. We got off at one station and walked the entire length of the train, getting some much needed fresh air, and watched as the locomotive was swapped over at the front for the next leg of the journey. It’s a cold night, our breath drifting into the stillness. Police dogs and guards are patrolling the tracks, checking the trains, while a maintenance man does what the maintenance man does at every station I’ve seen so far- walks along whacking every axle with a long-handled hammer and listening to the noise it makes. It sounds strangely like a xylophone.

Back on the move – with all axles intact – and after another hour of talking in the corridor, Igor and I are politely told to shut up by another passenger, so we went to bed!

A morning stop in Yekaterinburg

The next morning I wake up as we approach Yekateringburg, some 1,816km from Moscow. It’s where Igor is getting off to meet his family, but he gives me a guide as we drift into the town, pointing out the main factories and a huge towerblock that was built on unstable ground without planning permission. Even Igor says it was a crazy thing to do!

As we arrive in Yekateringburg, I walk to see Igor off the train. His mum and dad are there waiting, and he introduces me to them in Russian. The only bit I understand is the word BBC, to which there are raised eyebrows, gasps and then hugs all round! I think his parents must have been parked on double yellows or something, as they needed to be off in a hurry, and Igor gave me a manly hug and a pat on the back, and wished me well for my trip before walking down the platform with his suitcase and parents in tow.

There’s an old lady in my cabin now. She got on in the middle of the night in Perm. She wears really thick glasses and fairly bright lipstick for a grandmother. At first im not sure how to take her – she looks a bit serious, and clearly cant speak much English. I think she’s a little unsure of me too. For anyone reading this who went to Healing School, she reminds me of Mrs Storey, same height, build, even looks very similar.

She motions me to sit down near her on the lower bunk, pats my knee and says something in Russian. I do my usual ‘Sorry, im English, I don’t know Russian’ act with a big smile and a wave of my hand near my throat (I don’t know why that seems to indicate we cant speak the language!) In broken English, she asks my name, and the ice is broken.

Yekatarina (left) and Yuri and his partner

Her name is Yekaterina, and she’s on her way to visit family at the last stop for this train, Khabarovsk, not far from the Sea of Japan. A lot of our conversation is done through pointing, smiling, motioning and looking at photos on her camera and on my laptop. I work out she’s got a son, and her grand-daughter is a student. That’s when the food offering starts again, and she pulls out what look like some uncooked Findus Crispy Pancakes. She tells me I must eat three of them, as it’s a Russian tradition, and thrusts one into my hand.

Another stop in Siberia

I’m not entirely sure what was in it, I think it was minced chicken or something, but it tasted quite nice. It’s a good job, as I wasn’t going to be let off with just one, and two more later, I’m quite full. I offer to get her a cup of tea to return the favour, but she asks me to fill her cup with hot water instead. She’s got her own supply of teabags, and looks at me as if I’m daft for buying one from the carriage attendant!

The train takes a breather at Novisibirsk

Outside, the scenery is changing. Until now, much of the view has been of trees and forests, but as we’ve headed west, its visibly turned from Autumn into Winter. In Moscow, trees were still hanging onto leaves, rather like back at home. Gradually, the leaves have disappeared, and are now all on the ground. Igor had told me its unusual not to have snow by now – maybe I’ll see some before we arrive in Irkutsk.

Getting colder!

The trees are also thinning out, with lots of empty grasslands and meadows, interspersed with a few huts and houses here and there. Every now and then, we’ll stop at a station, the longest today being at Tyumen. A young couple get on, meaning for the first time on the trip the cabin is full. Yekaterina talks to the guy, and shows me his bracelet/necklace thing he’s playing with. Its something to do with the game Warhammer apparently. Ive never played the game, and I probably shouldn’t say this, but associate it with geeks – and despite him not knowing much English, he strikes me as the sort of person that would play Warhammer! I think there’s been some Warhammer convention on somewhere, and he’s heading home to Novosibirsk, where we’re due to arrive tomorrow. Nice enough couple though.

Life onboard is getting to be a bit of a routine now. The trick is not to think of it as a journey to somewhere, and to count off the hours until you get there, but to enjoy it as an experience.

It was certainly fun trying to have some form of decent wash in the toilet earlier – and I mean in the cubicle, not in the actual pan, before anyone says anything!

Space is limited, so I managed to hang my clean clothes up on the peg, filled the bowl with water thanks to my squash ball plug (a great travel tip by the way – they block up sinks and you can play with them!) and basically gave myself what can only be described as a standing-up bed bath! It was awkward, water was sloshing around everywhere, but I didn’t care as before long there would have been complaints from fellow travellers…or I’d have to start handing out nose pegs! It felt much better to freshen up and have clean clothes on, and I returned back to my cabin and an admiring glance and squeeze of my shoulder from Yeketerina!

Another trans-Siberian train pulls in

Im fascinated by how many people are using the train, and indeed how many trains there are travelling backwards and forwards across this vast country. Back home, I had visions of an empty railway line with one or two trains a day trundling along, each with a few tourists doing the same as me, knowing they can add ‘worlds longest railway journey’ to their list of things to do before they die.

Another station and more passengers!

These are actually really busy railway lines – at least one train passes us every 10 minutes or so, be it a passenger or freight train, and most of the compartments onboard are full of people travelling around this huge country.

Speaking to a few of them, they reason that the train is safer that flying. Russia has a dubious flying safety record at best, so its understandable. Its certainly more relaxing – I’ve got my nose into Piers Morgan’s ‘Don’t You Know Who I Am’, his follow up to ‘The Insider’, and the first time I’ve properly read a book for years. I sometimes get ridiculed for this, being a journalist and not reading much doesn’t seem to compute with some people, but the fact is I hardly have the time! On here, I do, in between dozing off for a few minutes after being rocked to sleep. Its just what I needed, and something I certainly wouldn’t have considered on a normal annual leave holiday- I’d have seen it as being stuck on a train for a week and wasting my time off, rather than treating it as a once in a lifetime experience, as I am able to now.

Once in a lifetime or not, im certainly getting fed up of Super Noodles. I went for the chicken flavoured packet tonight. I’d hoped that the station vendors would be selling sandwiches, or something useful to eat. Instead there seems to be lots of packets of fish strips, manky chicken and big Russian Pot Noodles, none of which particularly float my boat at the moment!

Irkutsk-bound

I take myself down to the restaurant car in the end, not to eat, but to sit and watch the world go by with a beer and my book.

Today seems to have flown by, and already we’re almost halfway to Mongolia.