Gone for a walk

2012-01-23T12:23:00.002Z

Filadelfia, The Grand Chaco, Paraguay

NASA took me to Filadelfia

The above is neither misspelled or the result of interesting experiments with Guarani herbs. NASA is the name of the bus company that I used to get to the wonderful town of Filadelfia. More accurately this is the stadt of Filadelfia. This place is a Mennonite colony. Although Filadelfia itself is populated by emigrants of the Ukraine and Ex Soviet Russia, the language of choice is still Deutsch (or whatever weird ancient variant they sprechen)

For those of you unfamiliar with Mennonites, they are an anabaptist sect and a hippy one at that. Some of the original anabaptist were crazy genocidal arseholes. Mennonites are pacifists. Methinks pacifism became a wise chice after the Munsterites found out that regular Christians were more than ready to have a fight. The Mennonites still got persecuted and as a result they are spread across the globe. Here in Paraguay they are known for going to one of the most inhospitable places (the Gran Chaco) and turning it into very, very productive cattle grounds. Apparently they produce most of the dairy products in Paraguay.

The result is a very weird town. Many signs are biligual and there are very Krautlike youth loafing around doing fuck-all yet somehow looking more active than Paraguayans. They keep in tune with their European cousins by having crap hairrcuts and godawful music blasting from their ipods. It's on a very inflexible grid with neat houses and the odd museum dedicated to their forebears. All closed I'm afraid. In my wisdom I decided to come to an agricultural town full of religious nuts in high summer on a Sunday. There is absolutely naff all to see and do.

I did pop over to a church to see what was going on but the Teutons do their worshipping early so things had already started. I pondered going in but realised I didn't know when it finishes, how weird they are and how easily they would make me for a heathen. Even worse, most of them are in mufti. Some of the oldies were in costume but too few to make photography unobtrusive. The garb is like an attempt to make the Amish look cooler. The women wear still get frumpy dresses but the men get to shave and wear black shirts.

I was also tasked with a mission from one of the Kraut poker players of the hostel in Asuncion. He had come here with his parents and they had gone to worship with the locals. They met an old couple who where apparently ignorant of the story of the great German Volk. The poker player's parents remedied this by sending him a set of DVD on the history of the Germans (Amusingly the last chapter is the Weimar Republic. Nothing significant happened after that). The gambler had been waiting for someone dumb enough to go to Filadelfia. Enter yours truly. The couple in questions live a fair bit away from the hotel and it's 40 degrees so I did my duty by dumping it on the hotel receptionist.

So why am I here getting bored? The answer is the bus trip and a desire to have been to places I have heard of. In this case the Gran Chaco. This is the one famous place in Paraguay. It covers more than half of the country but has less than 3% of the population. It's where Paraguay had a war with Bolivia. Tintin's "the Broken Ear" satirised the callous positioning of western companies. Oil companies picked a side and the Bolivians got told by the Brits that they could kill Paraguayans but had better not touch the railway. As such I knew about it and therefore wanted to come here. Filadelfia happened to be the easiest town to access in the Chaco. The German god squad presence was just a bonus.

Basically I accomplished my wish by taking the bus and looking out the window. It's basicaly swampy and full of palm trees most of the way from Asuncion and then gets dry and spindly near here. It's stepping out of the bus while they fixed stuff that made me understand just why this place is so sparsely populated. It's basically a big oven with cows.

I must learn not to base my trips on borderline racist Belgian children's books.

Next stop Concepcion. A town named after shagging and hailed as the" pearl of the north".

Take care,

Arabin

2012-01-20T19:07:00.001Z

Asuncion, Paraguay

Finally made to the sunny and oh so fucking hot country of Paraguay. Famous for insane wars against much bigger neighbours, vicious dictators and very little else.

Got a night bus from Campo Grande and bid my farewells to Brazil. On the bus I immediately enjoyed being able to converse with people. I also thoroughly enjoyed Brazilans having trouble getting themselves understood by Paragauyans. Welcome to my world. Being on the move and changing countries perked up my spirits hugely. Getting in was easy formality wise although I did not check out of Brazil so I have sort of burnt my bridges for that country. Oh well.

Now in Asuncion I can relax and enjoy the many sights that this fair city offers. Or not. The heat here is insane and to be fair there is not much to see. I still like it. It's a properly lazy South American city. People do nap in the streets and you get a few mule carts kicking about. It's also wonderfully cheap unless you forget to buy beer in the day and end up at the petrol station. I am in a backpacky hostel and I can swap stories and get info. For some reason there is a large contingent of German online poker gamblers here . It's good to be back on the trail.

One sight of note is their pantheon. I will do more on Paraguay's fondness for a fight later. Their pantheon is what you would expect by day. It's a pretty, useless building topped with cross and with an honour guards consisting of 2 poor souls in full dress uniform trying not to faint from the heat. By night it gets a bit weird as the place is lit up with changing disco hues, the guards piss off and get replaced by Asuncion's finest break dancers. Beside watching that time is spent out of the sun drinkng terere. Terere is a herbal tea drank chilled in a cup with a silver straw. Half the people here walk around with a funky thermos full of ice water, a bag of herbs and a decorated cup and straw

Asuncion is fun in the detail. There are buildings so ugly they put Rio to shame but also some exquisite Beaux Arts jobs. The place is littered with statues of notable Paraguayans (oxymoron?) but what is interesting is the graffiti calling for human rights for the indigenous peoples. There are many swanky shop for the rich fuckers of this city and just in front there will be street vendors selling cheap knockoffs of the same goods. The city centre is full of cops so you feel quite safe except for drunks walking around waving tasers.

Anyhoo I'm back in traveller mode now. I will have to return here but for the moment I am going to take a bus to a place nicknamed "the green hell" to watch the amazing sight of German religious nuts making cheese. Will expain.

Take care,

Arabin

2012-01-16T13:43:00.000Z

Campo Grande, Matto Grosso del Sul, Brazil

You are officially richer than me. Why am I being charged more than locals?

This will be my last post from a country that has just bumped mine off the coveted 6th most loaded nation place. What did I think of this emerging South American powerhouse?

I should start with a confession. I was sort of prejudiced against Brazil from the start. Weirdly, it's the positive cliches that put me off this place. Samba, Carnival, Niemeyer architecture, football and beaches are all things that draw folk to this place. They also happen to be off little interest to yours truly. For me, Samba ia a military parade gone worng . 2 trumpets, 5000 tom-tom drums and what sounds like football chants. Niemeyer buildings look like a bunker specialist got his hands on Gehry blueprints. Football has always bored the crap out of me and the bigger the passion, the bigger my contempt. As for beaches; it's basically just sitting on sand.

The stereotype of the beaches being full of hot chicks wearing tiny bikinis did tweak my interest but is only half true. The bikinis are indeed small but as for the hotness...... Claiming something does not make it so. It remainds of when Brit politicians say that the Met, the NHS or the Parliament is the envy of the world. I can't help feeling they have watched to many Disney movies where a cute munchkin gets his heart's desire if he wishes it strong enough. I do have to give due respect to the chunkier women who still wear less cloth on their body than I do one one foot.

Another problem I have with Brazil is the language. Portuguese has alway been the ugly sister of the Latin languages. In Europe, Portugal is a thin wedge of the Iberian peninsula. In a way their language is nearly cute and amusing, like the way Suriname speaks Dutch. Not so Brazil. It's the biggest and most important country of the continent. It just looks like they are being deliberately awkward. If it was radically different from Spanish I would probably be less annoyed. I feel like I'm learning the piano but every third key is now a clavecin. It's just odd.

Prejudice aside, I could not miss out on Brazil. It's too big and too important. It's a country on the way up and those are often very interesting. The whole 6th biggest econmoy thing got the Daily Mail riled up but I think it's much ado about nothing. A country umpteen times the size of Britain with 4 times the population and resources a-plenty should have a bigger economy. There is also a stunning level of social inequality here. In Rio you can find some of the priciest real estate in the wolrd and areas so bad the army had to be called in to police them. Brazil does not feel like a poor country but a mismanaged one.

I can't claim to know much about Brazilian politics. I am amused by the fact their president, Dilma Roussef knows how to plant a bomb. From what I understand the problem in Brazil is actually excessive democracy. There are too many parties getting elected and some of them are blatantly there just to get cash in exchange for support. Any governemt wishing to pass laws must make a Faustian pact with these clowns regardless of how bent their own party is. That's why even anti-corruption zealots struggle. As far as I know the press is the one area of Brazilian politics that truly works.That might be comforting but I suspect it won't be enough to clean up the body politic.

My initial reaction to seeing the ads for the world cup and the olympics was to think of bread and circuses, except less fun. I have touched upon what I perceive to be an obscene lack of spending priorities. If you have billions to spare and you have a crap education sytem, fix that first ( I have been astonished at the way many Brazilans struggle with basic numbers). I will admit that the world cup does make cultural sense. Footie excellence and Brazil do go together. I supect if you had a referendum asking Brazilans to choose between the World Cup and computers in every classroom, it would be a close thing. Not so sure the Olympics but I loathe them. It's a colossal waste of cash and a pathetic ego trip for politicians. Even if all goes splendidly nothing has been gained. My life does not change one iota because some dude can jump a bit higher than other dudes.

In my opinion Brazil should not host big events but I will admit that Brazilians will want to. This brings me to an uncomfortable question. To what extent are Brazil's problems linked to Brazilians.? Some countries get lucky (Gulf states). Some countries get seriously fucked over (most of Sub-Saharan Africa). Sometimes meeting the people helps you understand why the country does well (Korea, Singapore, Germany) and sometimes not (France). And there are places where you can't help thinking their problems are linked to the way they are (most of the world sees Greece that way now). As for Brazil, I'm not sure. They might look indolent but when they work they put some effort into it. If Brazilians were callous enough to accept bent cops taking bounties for killing street kids in Rio why were people making goody bags for the river folk on the Amazon? Sometimes it seems they are allergic to planning but then again I have just taken a 20 hour bus trip that arrived pretty much on the dot.

To be honest I am speculating for nothing. Brazil's getting richer and money solves many problems. A growing middle class will want their streets safe, their schools decent and their taxes spent on other shit than villas for politicians. Eventually they will join the civilised world where corruption is like polo, a sport for the very rich. They will learn that the briefcase full of cash is very gauche and that true leaders accept a promise of consultancy "work" in exchange for favours. It's a brave new world.

So what's my take on Brazil for the traveller? I don't think I will come here again unless there is a special occasion. It's basically not my scene. That being said you can't tour South America and skip it's biggest and most important country. It does have a lot going for it for the holiday crowd if not for the culture vultures. It has got the best coastal real estate on the continent and is actaully pretty easy to get around in. There's no shortage of partying and the booze is cheap. Brazilian food (excluding Bahian) is boring but most of the cities have alternatives.

There are things that I liked with this place. I love that you can get fesh fruit juice anywhere. The transport is really quite good if you upgrade. I am impressed by the quality of the graffiiti of all things. The tags are crap but the paintings are really good. A notch above the fat letter crap you see in Europe. It's also a decent place to get your South American cliches in. Brazil has a prodigious cultural output. An easy way to test this is to try and think of 5 Brazilian cultural creations. Now try and do that with any other country in South America.

Brazil sort of reminds me of China. I'm glad I've been here but I'm also glad to get out. I'm in Campo Grande now and have been pondering whether to go into the Pantanal or not. Fuck it. It's a swamp and I need a change. Off to Paraguay!

Take care,

Arabin

2012-01-15T14:20:00.002Z

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Feliz New Year

Despite having little interest in this city, fate has provided me with a nice place to stay and a family crimbo. I have spent some time enjoying the delights of Copacabana. The beach, the sights, the music, the pouring rain, the stylish but broken pavement, the hordes of thieving favela kids. I can't help thinking about the time Rio complained about a Simpsons episode where they come here and get robbed by children, attacked by monkeys and kidnapped. Rio got an apology but I think they dropped the lawsuit. My humble opinion is that someone told the Rio tourist board they might not win if it came to court.

This is a catch up post of sorts. I have been based in Rio for a while and sort of settled. I am going to try and write about the places I saw outside of Rio before moving on to the great city itself

Florianopolis and the Iguacu Falls.

Florianopolis s a city about a 1000 k down the coast from Rio. My first impressions of the place and particularly the Isla of Santa Catarinha was that of a Brazilian Phuket. It's a kind of hippy dippy place full of rastas, surfers and other wonderful types. The beaches are nice but my problem is I tend to get bored. I swam a few times but I was interrupted by the Baywatch boys who thought the sea was too dangerous. I was mumbling about Brazilians being pussies until one of them sprang into action for some reason or another. Lifeguards who are that quick and fit indicate that they need to be.

Florianopolis itself is a large city. A fine surpise was the fun market near the bus station and a small park with a ridiculously big tree in the middle. Also of interest was the friendly tourist police who approached us and offered assistance in the risky task of ordering an avocado smoothie. Perfect English, a chummy attitude and relaxed garb made me a bit sorry for them. There was evidence of a real effort to be useful to tourists but the sad truth is that Brazilian cops are still famous for shooting kids more than anything else.

Anyhoo the next stop was Foz do Iguacu on the Argentinian and Paraguyan border. Of note was the interesting discovery of the diffrence between the luxury bus and the "normal" ones. The nice ones have seats like a plane's business class, free snacks and other perks. The basic buses have normal seats but what you are truly paying for is who you share it with. No relaxed couples going off to their beach holiday, enter the world of drunks and bizarrely deformed people. he places you stop for food and bogs are also much more downmarket.

Once in Foz de Iguazu the first priority is to get out of that place and get tpo the rgentinina side. Puerto Iguacu is a bit like Foz de Iguazu except much nicer. It's a bit odd as both towns seem to have the same economic base of tourism and cross border trade. Once settled in Argentina it was straight offt o the falls. This is a case where I recommend you google the place as it's too hard to accurately describe what is a very visual experience. In short, it's shitloads of water going downhill very fast.

After that it was back to Rio for Crimbo and New Year. Copacabana is one of those places that is a New Year's Eve place-to-be. They do put a lot of effort into it. There was huge stages, presumably famous artists and a pretty awesome fireworks display. The tradition is to wear white and I obliged although it was hard to tell if others did due to rain. More a sea of umbreallas and raincoats than anything else. It was a pretty good public party if you are into that sort of thing. I'm not.

Paraty

Post festivities it was time to go to Paraty, a resort town favoured by denizens of Rio and Sao Paulo. It's a Ye Olde town with Ye Olde Churches and houses and Ye Verye Fuckinge Olde cobblestones. Paraty takes pride in their streets and its uneven cobbles. I hail from a cobbly city and I know good cobbling when I see it. This wasn't it. I did wonder if it was just that no one had bothered to do anything about it for 200 years or if it's deliberate. Is there a commitee to maintain the cobbles and preserve the slapdash and slovenly workmanship of their forebears? Paraty itself has crap beaches so the trick is to take an overcrowded bus to a place with..........nice beaches. Done

Now onto the meat of this post, Rio de Janeiro. Locals call it the Cidade Maravilhosa. This is a true testament to Carioca pride and enthusiasm. It's also a damning indictment of their grasp on reality. In a way Rio reminded me of Paris with regards to status. It's hugely overrated and over romanticised but any visitor to the country should still go there. My problem with Rio is that I can always see the flip side.

Rio has an amazing street life. Rio has lots of quasi indigent people with litle choice but to peddle stuff on the streets. Rio has famous beaches, Sugar Loaf mountain and the Christ Redeemer statue. The sights will be overpriced and all will be overcrowded. The pavements are tiled with funky designs. Tiles are hard to maintain hence lots of tripping. Rio has the famous Carnival and will host the world cup and olympic games. Trust me, Rio has other things to spend cash and energy on. I'm always a grump when it comes to world sporting events but when a country has huge social problems it makes things even worse in my eyes. It just seems that Rio's leaders have the same spending priorities as a teenage girl.

Anyhoo it's a short post covering a lot of time because I've not really been on the move and I'm sort of low. I often need to write soon after I see a thing as it feels fresh and intersting. Time tends to delete the funky anecdotes and only the crap stuff stay fixed. I'm off to Campo Grande in the West. Changing places usually perks me up so I will decide what to do on arrival. If I recover all my positivity I will use Campo Grande as a base to visit the Pantanal. If I still feel Braziled out I will try to go straight to Paraguay.

Take care,

Arabin

2011-12-10T16:21:00.002Z

Belem, Brazil

Mangoes, mangoes everywhere yet I don't want to eat.

The avenues of Belem are lined with mango trees. It's novel and exotic but it leads to some rather interesting problems regarding slippage. This abundance of tropical foodstuffs had initially perked my appetite. However, eating random crap at small stalls because they look fun has got me to renew acquaintance with that old friend of the backpacker; food poisoning. This has 2 main consequences: My tours of Belem have been rather short and my mood towards the place has been less than charitable. There is a definite before and after. On arrival I would view typical Brazilian displays of enthusiasm as passionate and a sign of a people who wear their heart on their sleeve. Warm people who know how to have fun and mingle etc. Now I tend towards judging them for being indolent, superficial and, in some cases, quite callous. Hopefully I'll be more reasonable once I am off my self prescribed diet of lime juice, peanuts and crackers.

To add to my general toilet related bitchiness is that Belem has introduced me to a famous aspect of developing societies. The very poor amongst the obviously loaded. In the neighbourhood I am staying it's not to obvious as the place is a bit of a shithole but in the nice areas it's very striking to to point of being a bit of a cliché. Scrawny street kids trying to sell crap to bejeweled ladies. Private guards shooing away druggies from the entrance of a shiny apartment building. Macapa and Opaioque had few or no signs of wealth to provide the contrasts and poor people tend to be in small villages on the Amazon. Here, things mix. It's something I will want to look into a bit more but when I feel better and less negative.

It's not all bad in Belem though. It's a strange place as it feels like a boomtown that has slumped but is now booming again. Which is exactly what it is. The old city has loads of derelict buildings whose glory is long gone. There are rails for where the tram used to be. The port that once shipped the rubber (source of Belem's old boom) out is now too small for commercial use and clogged with rubbish. The whole place could do with a scrub up but a look skywards can explain why it won't. That's when you see the tall buildings where the new boom's winners live and work. In effect, the new Belem. The one you see when you get in by boat.

I'm also starting to realise something about colonial architecture in South America. They tend to be pale copies of what there is in Europe. The main difference being a tendency to include native stuff in the artwork. I'm sure I will find this icute but in my grumpy mood it just looks like a rather pathetic attempt to whitewash a very, very inglorious moment in the history of the Church. There is a fresco on the large basilisque here showing JC being holy to a group of Natives on one side and a bunch of whities on the other. Not shown: Whities using JC as a pretext to murder, enslave and dispossess the Natives.

As usual people and their activities come up high on good things to see. My favorite place here must be the Ver-o-peso market. There is a tourist trap section but most of it is a working market. That is unless tourists buy live rabbits, shaved coconut in 20 kilo bags or huge riverfishes. The best part of the market is the homemade remedy section. They have herbal potions for most illnesses and stuff that start to exit homeopathy and enter witchcraft territory. There are a lot of potions to get a person to like you, sleep with you or came back to you once they have dumped you. Most of them instruct you to use them on your target "em segredo". The Amazon kindly presents solutions for the eco-conscious date-rapist.

Beyond natural GHB, the one thing that I found rather intriguing is a bit of a political campaigning going on. It seems there is a vote tommorow on the status of this region. I am mainly guessing but it looks like someone wants to split the State of Para into 2 entities. In Belem at least, they are against. There are flags, adverts, stickers, t-shirts, cars with gigantic banners of the Para state flag and once what seems to be a giant papier mache kangaroo with the colors of the state and the opposiotion slogan of "Nao e nao". To add to the drama the TVs in the cafes often show a song cooked up by local artisst to oppose the move. The video looks like a straight rip-off of Live Aid. Famous folk arriving to the studio, singing while holding their headsets, the big chorus etc.

Anyhoo, I will leave Belem with mixed feelings, a stomach-full of loperamide and a few good photos. I feel a bit miffed that I didn't enjoy the place but that's life. To be fair, this place was just a destination for my boat trip.

Soon I will be on my way to the most famous place in Brazil. The home of Carnaval, samba, tiny beachwear and huge concrete Nazarenes.

Off to Rio,

Take care,

Arabin

2011-12-06T18:36:00.003Z

Belem, Brazil

I spent my last night in French Guyana next to a river in a hammock watching fireflies. I handed back my wreck and took the only form of public transport in FG (the Cayenne municipal bus service run by a union of all things) to where the share taxis depart for St Georges de l'Opaioque (AKA the border with Brazil). The place is just at the entrance of Cayenne's Chinatown know locally as Chicago. It's not as nice or interesting as it sounds. I had heard about Chicago on the radio in conjunction to the Global Aids Day. I now know why.

My last 2 hours in Cayenne waiting for the bus to fill up were spent watching junkies walk, limp and flail around. These were end-of-the-road druggies. Most had suppurating leg wounds. What clothes they were wearing were rags and they too fucked-up to even beg. Some of them would just sit in the road and talk to themselves as cars went around them. Eventually the cops showed up. Like demi-gods they bounded out of their car and sprung into action............by lifting and elderly Brazilian woman on the minibus for being in the country illegally. We pointed out that she was obviously headed to Brazil but to no avail. She was taken to the airport to be processed and deported to the place she was heading to. It's election time in France and police stats have to show action regardless of logic.

Another 2 hours of excellent French roads got me to St Georges.. There is a bridge to Brazil but the roads aren't ready yet so it was a motorized canoe ride into Brazil. The town on the other side was much more rough and ready than its French counterpart and much nicer. Unlike FG there was some street life. I had a bite to eat and watched folk do stuff before taking a night bus to Macapa, the capital of the Apama state. To make things a bit more fun there were reports of "pirates" stopping the buses with fallen trees and robbing everyone.The road was crap and I was glad I could not see the bridges we crossed (I could feel the planks though). I slept well except for when we stopped at little burghs where the Friday party was on. My introduction to the delights of Foro music.

Got to Macapa and crashed before venturing forth and getting a ticket for the boat to Belem. I found out I was stuck in Macapa until Monday. This was a bit of a mixed blessing. It's not exactly the most visited place in Brazil. There is an old fortress and a monument to the Equator. That's about it. That being said there is a nice waterfront and I had a pleasant time. I sat down at a cafe, ordered a Caipirinha and watched kite surfers do their thing. I was having a drink on the banks of the Amazon.

Once the sun goes down the whole riverbank is awash with small stalls selling anything from very good beef kebabs to ice creams and, of course, more cocktails. It's kind of fun ordering a drink from someone with a cart and two blenders but then again the result is something like a rather lethal milk shake. I decided to opt out of going to a Foro dancehall because I figured that just because the music was different they were still nightclubs; places I loathe with a passion.

Sunday was absolutely dead during the day. A combination of good catholic behaviour in the morning and no end of ungodly shenanigans the night before makes for a very, very quiet city. It was basically a day to drink fruit juices and watch a few cars and motorbikes drive around with huge banners of their favorite football club. I also stocked up on food and drink for the boat trip. A footie match between the 2 big Rio teams compunded the ghost town effect in the afternoon. In the evening said supporters gathered near the waterfront to celebrate or commiserate. Music was provided by people who think the huge stereo in the boot beloved by fuckwits back home is for wimps. They put concert sized woofers on the top of their cars.

The next day I went off to the port of Santana to catch the good ship Sao Francisco de Paula. I was set for one of the things I really wanted to do when coming to South America: the Amazon boat trip. It's also the only alternative to flying here and, to be fair, it is one of the shortest ones you can do at 26 hours. Still, it's one of the quintessential South American backpacker experiences.

The ship was a large 3 decker. The top deck is where the bar is and the other 2 have cabins for a high price or hooks for your hammock. I got there early and slung my hammock in what I thought was cramped spaces. As the boat filled I realised what cramped meant. I hitched up my hammock as high as possible to avoid the bum-in-face situation a lot of folk had to deal with. Once settled I got in and waited for the boat to depart.

It's sort of strange that a trip that is so hyped up can be that uneventful. Most of the time is spent drinking beer up top or napping in the hammock. The Amazon is ridiculously big at times to the point that I think we need new names for fecking humongous rivers. It's offensive that, in English at least, something where you can't always see the banks has the same nomenclature as the Avon. We would occasionally pass huge barges full of lumber neing pushed by tugboats. We did see a dolphin ar at least some sort of creature with a blowhole. If it was a dolphin it has the same habits as the bipeds around here and doesn't really do much when the sun is up .

A more interesting phenomenon was when we passed small hamlets on the riverbanks. Passengers would throw plastic shopping bags at people waiting in dugout canoes. The bags are full of clothes. It was a fun bit of charity giving and it impressed me a lot. There was also some very dangerous trading going on. A young kid drove his tiny speedboat (like a short version of a Thai longtail boat) into our wake and up a short ramp at the back of our boat to flog some homemade booze.

All in all it's rather bucolic. What made it special was that I had a "moment". These are times where what you are doing hits you in the face. After a gorgeous sunset I had a few beers up top, not having to face Sophie's choice of sunburn or Foro music. I would find a quiet spot away from canoodling couples and look out. I watched the dark jungle go by and , as we passed lit houses on the banks or moored boats, I would wonder what the people inside were like, what they lived off and what were they doing. It's then that it hit me. I was getting buzzed and having idle thoughts while travelling on the Amazon. The fucking Amazon! This is why I travel.

Just in case you were wondering.

Take care,

Arabin

2011-12-01T15:04:00.004Z

Dacca Village,French Guyana, France. Regular France. It's just like Brittany really. It's not a colony in any way shape or form.

French Guyana is categorised as a departement. It's not autonomous or anything. The roads are good, the cops are thick (one of them was wondering where my visa for France was), the prices are European or higher and people are snooty (the expats at least). It has got few things that are markedly different. The vast majority of people here are creoles, there are dead sloths on the road and my passport now has a French entry stamp. Another significant difference from the rest of France is that there is no public transport. This means travelling here is tricky and expensive.

The plan was to hire a car and sod off to find the only cheap sleeping optons in French Guyana which are carbets. These are basicallly shelters where you can sling a hammock for 5 to 8 euros. Chucking in a few extra euros will get you luxuries like showers. My plan failed on the first day. I had met a French couple in Suriname. We would go to the border together and they would give me a lift to Cayenne in their hire care. I would go to a car hire place and get out of the rather charmless town of Cayenne. Being in la republique screwed this plan.

The couple's car had had its window smashed in St Laurent du Maroni (France-Suriname border) despite parking in front of the cop shop. Said cops were also so busy letting crime happen that they would not take a complaint untill 15.00. This made things very tight but still feasible time-wise. France still had a trick up its sleeve. The authorities have decided to participate in the South American sport of having constant pointless checkpoints. More time-wasting and explaining to the gendarmes that Brits haven't needed a visa or France since forever. Finally got to Cayenne 1 minute after closing time and, this being France, the idle bolshevik tossers couldn't remain open and extra 10 minutes. One very expensive night in Cayenne.

The next day I hired a wreck and went to Kourou, home of the 2 famous places in this country/region. The first one is the Isles du Salut. Frenchies and students of Gallic antisemitism know this place as where Dreyfus was sent. The rest of the world knows it through Steve McQueen, Dustin Hoffman and butterfly tattoos. I decided to skip this for several reasons. I would have had to spend another night near Kourou as the boat leave at 7ish AM, the tour is pricey and I have seen islands and ruined prisons before. I therefore chose to go for option number 2 that is both free and much rarer. The Centre Spatiale Guyanais, home of the European Space Agency and named Europe's Spaceport. Being in South America doesn't seem to bother them.

It's actually very interesting and good fun. I am old enough to be impressed by space stuff and the free tour is pretty impressive. They put you on a bus and drive you around the complex (it's huge). The guides try to be educational and give you info in the form of a Q and A. Why French Guyana? It's close to the equator and benefits from the slingshot effect (my mumbled answer: If it fails and the rocket crashes into a small village in FG, the French politicians can probably live with that). Who guards the place? The Foreign Legion in what I suppose is the less romanticised part of their jobs as they basically shoo away maroon poachers before a launch. Why is the fire brigade from Paris? They are soldiers hence are cleared for high security type stuff (my answer: They are soldiers and hence can't refuse to be posted here).

The quiz was held between slow drives past the huge hangars where they prep the rockets. The final destination was the launch pad of that great example of European space pioneering: Soyuz.

Europe has developed Ariane, a huge rocket, and Vega, a small one but they needed an intermediate launcher. Soyuz was proven (It's not often but when the Russians do make something that is reliable it is very, very solid) and the Russkies have the problem of their base being really far from the equator and verything else. Basically, the ESA have subcontracted the Russkies hence the Cyrillic at the Soyuz launch pad. The guides told us there is a bizarre set-up to avoid tech stealing. The top 2 floors of the mobile hangar are European only as they put on the payload and the lower floors are only for Ivans. I presume shitloads of spying goes one.

Anyway, got to stand on the blast exhaust trench and wonder if anyone had cooked something in it. After that it was back to the main base and the Jupiter control room. Old footage of NASA launches have conditioned me to think it would be huge with many shiny buttons. Not so. PC's have really taken the romance out of Space travel. Even more disappointing, there is no button or key or anything to launch the rockets. Boo!

After that, I hunted down a carbet on a farm nearby. The plus side was that the farmer let me pick bananas and mangoes, the minus was that he showed me the whole place. I'm glad I saw where coffee and chocolate come from but to be fair it was a bit dull. I am now in a Laotian village (more evidence of a colonial past) near the Kaw swamp where I might hire a canoe or just faff in a hammock. I'm definetely hunting for Laotian food.

Not sure what to make of FG. I see why it's dismissed by the trail. Without speaking French it's nearly hopeless to visit. There is a strange resignation even in the tourism adverts. One of them asked you to spend an unforgettable experience in French Guyana. The last sentence was "no one will believe you". Quite. More amusing for those who speak French was "La Guyane, ca vous bagne". A play on words on a more famous ad campaign for Brittany and referring to the mythologised French Guyana of gold-rushes and prisons. Amusingly there is still loads of illegal gold panning here with consequent dumping of mercury and anti-Brazilian attitudes and there is, of course, a prison but it's locals only now.

It is pricey and most of its tourism industry is based around weekending expats. Apparently FGis not a cushty posting in the Frog civil service and something of a punishment which might explain the jaw dropping stupidity of the plod. Basically FG from a tourism perspective is overshadowed by Suriname. Even local people prefer the old Dutch colony for hols. The bizarre official reality of the place makes me ponder as to wether or not I have been to a different county or a very weird and moist part of France. Fuck it. I'm counting this as one in the bag and I have the stamp to prove it.

I'm not sure when I will post again. I am going to Brazil tomorrow to try and catch a boat across the mouth of the Amazon to Belem. Even if all goes well and there is no waiting it's a 2 hour trip to the border, a 15 hour nightbus to Macapa and then a further 25 hours on a boat. Realistically I will be in Belem in 5 days. Should be fun.

Take care,

Arabin

2011-11-28T22:17:00.002Z

Paramaribo, Suriname

Hello from Suriname, the nicest place you've never heard of. The capital of this former Dutch (and British on occasion) colony is a bit like Georgetown. Except cleaner. And safer. And the street lights work. And the drains are underground. Actually it's nothing like Georgetown. It is, however, awseome. It's also a non-presence on the tourist trail unless you are Dutch. That's a crying shame as this place is very, very pleasant.

I'm a happy and relaxed boy now but my entry into the "Land of Smiles" was a bit less joyful. I had to get up a stupid o'clcok in Guyana after going to bed very late courtesy of some night club near my guesthouse. It took 11 hours to get here, 4 of which were centered round crossing one river. The ferry takes 30 minutes but the Guayanese authorities have one person to do all the border stamping. The Surinamese had 2 but they compensated by having a customs check. I decided to sod waiting for my bags to be rifled and walked straight through. I might be missing a customs card but I am leaving this place on a canoe into French Guyana. No customs for me there.

Anyhoo I got here and saw very little open but shitloads of people milling about. I had arrived in Parbo the eve of the Surinamese Independence Day. This meant 2 things: My stay here would be interesting and I was absolutely fucked for lodgings. I resigned myself to a long time of trudging around with my gear getting bounced out into the heat and/or rain. Not so. The second place I tried told me they had no rooms but sat me down, sorted me out a Parbo beer and started to work the phones . For the few people who knw this place the Surinamese are known to be friendly and helpful. What could have become another traveller war story was reduced to getting a mild buzz while trying to understand Dutch. I was booked, directioned and settled an hour later.

The next day I had my morning coffee while watching the manager of this place hastily put on a police uniform with all the parade trimmings. Turns out he isn't filth but he is a very good trumpet player. I endeared myself to him by taking photos of him while marching. The pics are odd though as he was not allowed to smile or acknowledge me but at the same time he is Surinamese so his instincts go against that. the result is a picture where he looks a bit like a schoolboy with a smoking fag-end at his feet trying to look innocent.

After watching him march alongside his cop (or other drafted musicians) buddies, I loafed around the waterfront where people where eating, dancing and drinking. Boy were they drinking. Pretty soon, so was I. Suitably beered up, I made my way to the square in front of the presidential palace to see what was going on. The cops were there and laods of infantry types including a bunch of visiting French and Brazilian soldiers and a funky Surinamese unit all camoed up and armed with AK's. I was quizzical about this as the only purpose I could see of having a guerrilla type unit here would be in case of war with either France or Brazil.

My musings were halted by torrential rain. I tried to find shelter under a tree, realised it was pointless, wrapped my camera into a plastic bag and decided to stay wet and drunk. A wise move as I got to see the highlight of the parade which was their President review his people. He decided having an aide de camp with a brolly was for girls and marched out into the rain to do some looking and saluting. This was met with great approval by the crowd. Equally interesting to me and some of the gentry were the French female sailors in their white shirts after a good deluge.

The President himself is a bit of a quandary. He used to be the dictator of this place and has a standing Interpol arrest warrant on him for drug charges. He still managed to win a reasonably fair election and a lot of people I talked to like him. Oddly enough he doesn't object to a plaque commerating the 15 prominent opponents of his coup that were murdered in December 1982. This is unusual for a strongman as he must have had a hand in it especially as he used the bullshit "shot while trying to escape" line at the time. This plaque is in the old Dutch fort a few hundred yards from his residence. Then again he didn't mind a huge concert and piss-up in front of his place either. I can't imagine anyone holding a Sound System on Downing Street.

The next day after a suitable recovery period I went into town. Acording to locals Parbo is pretty dead on the weekend as everyone gets out. The weekend after ID day was even more so. Still it's a nice town. Say what you want about the Dutchies but they leave prettier burghs than the Brits. There are shedloads of churches including the Catholic one that also claims to be the biggest wooden house of JC. I'm starting to wonder how many of these I will see. I tried to find a cool gospel service with people dressed in their exotic Sunday best but all I could see through the doors was sagging heads. No thanks.

Of note is the Zeelandia Fort and museum refered to above. It was an unsettling experience to say the least. It's a small star shaped fort built by the Dutch after one of the rounds of pass-the-country they had with the Brits. It was the way I visited it that was unsettling. Let me recreate the experience. There was a huge group of Nederlanske folk getting a tour so I nipped up onto the battlements and started doing the visit in reverse. First I went through a room all about the native people. Lots of bows, stone axes and cassava root strainers. More battlements, a canon and another room. This time the theme was colonial times. It had pipes, more pipes, really long pipes, looms and other daily life stuff. Further battlements and a small room with a cobblers shop. Down the stairs to the ground level and then a right to the old apothecary. There was lots of ye olde jars, vials, instruments and HOLY FUCKING JESUS WTF IS THAT DOING HERE?

There was a plaster mock-up of a severed leg and foot from a black person. The way it was displayed it looked like it was amongst the wares. The info here was not translated into English but from what I could decipher mutilations were one of the ways of controlling the "negers" (sic). I appreciate the desire to reflect the horrors of the colonial past but a bit of warning would be in order. Next to the pharmacy of horrors there was more grim stuff. There is a small jail which is supposed to hold an eternal flame to all the people who died here including the 15 mentioned above. There was a hurricane lamp on the ground. It was out.

To be honest Parbo has not got many great sites per se. It's still an awesome place thanks to the atmosphere and the locals. The majority of tourists here are the Dutch and they are usually sound people. It's a bit weird when everybody at the table switches language on your account but then again they have the skills to do it. This is also the case for Surinamese people. They all speak Dutch but can switch to English effortlessly. I guess if you are Dutch you would force your sprogs to be good linguists as this place is about the only one where their tongue is spoken (I know the Flemish speak it but half a country doens't count). Also, unlike the Italians and the French they can't hope to meet a few dedicated people who studied Dutch for the beauty of the language. Dutch sounds like someone took German and tried to make it sound more evil

Parbo is a great place to see once everybody gets back to work. Here is a quick compendium of the little things I thought interesting and that you can't find on Wikipedia. The Israeli consulate shares a building with the admin of McDonalds. The Dutch colonist cemetery is completely overgrown, avoided by superstitious locals and amusingly nicknamed the Orange Garden. Children have birthdays parties in specially decorated roofless buses that cruise around town blasting fun music. Santa apparently likes Parbo beer if the posters are to be believed. A 50 year old woman groped my package in her street before striding off and laughing with her friend.

That's it for Suriname. I have been offered a ride to Cayenne tomorow from the border. French Guyana is basically written off as too expensive and with not much to see. My run to Rio is also being finalised and I have to be in Belem on the 9th at the latest. I have cooked up a plan to stay for cheap in French Guyana. It involves hiring a car and sleeping in the jungle, on the beach and maybe in a few decent campsites for washing purposes. European Space Centre (not in Europe), here I come. Not sure when I will be able to post again.

Take care,

Arabin

2011-11-23T21:32:00.002Z

Georgetown, Guyana, South America (maybe)

The reason for the ambivalent location of this post is, as I said in the first post, this place feels much more like the Caribbean than anything else. The ethnicity of the people, the accented English, the food and to a certain extent the history makes this country feel closer to Kingston than Rio or Caracas. It's not just me that feels this way either. Guyana played a big part in setting up a Caribbean economic union of sorts.

The Guianas (Guyana, Suriname and French Guyana) are a sort of losers corner of South America. After the Spanish and the Portuguese had divvied up this vast continent, the Dutch, Brits and French wanted to play too. They grabbed whatever malarial jungle the other 2 couldn't care less about (although there is a dispute with Venezuela on some areas) and then set themselves up in wonderfully ethical commerces using shedloads of slaves. Guyana was run by the Booker clan who held a monopoly on the sugar trade here until the 70's. All the authors who got themselves a Booker prize can thank the African slaves, indentured Indians and decimated Amerindians for their pot of cash.

The sugar trade explains many things here. The ethnic make-up, the availibility of very good food from curries to dim sum via jerk chicken and this town itself. Georgetown is a dilapidated colonial town. The houses are airy and wooden, the city is a straight grid and everywhere you can spot the remnants of British colonial life. Cricket pitches, churches, freemason lodges and the names of the streets are all wonderfully quaint even if they are going slightly to ruin. The location itself is revelatory. It's on the mouth of the Demerara river and it's below sea level so it had to be protected by a large sea wall. The streets all have deep drainage ditches clogged up by the polystyrene boxes the eateries use here (there are fishes in them though).The one reason to put a town here is to shift the sugar from the plantations to the boats (Or the slaves in reverse routes).

So have I gone into Carribean holiday mood? Have I spent my time here in the shade, drinking beer and imbibing the message behind the omnipresent reggae (forging a new identity through spiritual emancipation and self-awareness to redress the rootlessness and suffering of enslavement, displacement and impoverishment) and reggaeton (I'm tough and I like pussy. A lot)? Not really. I get bored quickly to be honest there is not much to do or see here. There are some jungle trips available but I can do it, cheaper, better and safer somewhere else.

Guyana is one of the countries many South America tourers don't bother with. It feels good to believe that they are missing out because of a character flaw they have but I don't. People fail to come here out of ignorance, unwillingness to rough it a bit or outright cowardice. In reality there is a good reason why people skip Guyana. It hasn't got much to offer, it's a fucker to get around and it's bizarrely expensive as they produce very, very little here. It's also a very poor country so the combo of high prices and low wages put the locals in dire economic straits. Kind of puts some perspective on what's happening back home. Occupy Carmichael Street any time soon?

Georgetown is fine by day but by night it's really shifty. Not Caracas dangerous but a bit unsettling. There are lots of half crazy homeless guys here and very little public lighting. One particular chap who got me looking aaround for escape routes was a twitchy junkie spouting religious crap and toting a Mad Max style homemade totem consisting of a long pole with a bicycle inner wheel and a machete at the top. To be fair I don't really think he even saw me. I also nearly got knocked into a drainage ditch by one of the seemingly feral horses trying to graze the banks of what must have once been a canal. All good fun but I'm leaving soon.

Another reason I am getting out is that there is an election looming. Normally I would feel blessed and stay here to watch the fun but I have set date to be in Rio and I can't be late. There has been violence in the past after voting here and all the soldiers and cops have voted early to so they can swanp the streets. I don't think the outcome is really in doubt though. The ruling party, the PPP/C has got huge banners and billboards all over the shop with their candidates looking presidential and prime ministerial. The opposition has A3 posters nailed to electricity poles. The posters are fun and sometimes they go too far and it ends up looking more like an add for a whacky comedy than anything else.

There are some plus sides to Guyana. The people are great and love to chat with anybody. They are also quite twee and formal in their manners and greetings. The food is brilliant and spicy and fascinating people-watching more than makes up for having little else to see. Still I will leave soon. I got a Surinanme visa faster and with much more ease than the interwebs suggest. Their embassy has a dress code and some of the blogs out there claim they are really officious and annoying. I applied in the morning in less than 5 minutes and picked up the visa six hours later. I am wondering what makes Suriname so great that it's the only country in this whole continent where Brits need a visa. We will see.

Soon I'll be on another fun run to Paramaribo. 2 rivers, one border and shitloads of checkpoints between here and there. Should be intersting.

Take care,

Arabin

2011-11-22T00:13:00.004Z

Georgetown, Guyana

Finally made it to the land famous for..........mass suicides? I like Georgetown although it feels more like the Caribbean than South America. I will do more on it after some exploration tomorrow. For the moment I will write about the 48 or so hours it took to get from Santa Elena to here.

It seems pointless but for me it highlights one of the essential backpacking experiences and what differentiates backpacking from going on holiday: The ridiculously arduous trip. Venezuela shares a border with Guyana. A look at a map would seem to indicate that if you follow the coast you will hit Georgetown quite quickly. If only. To get here involved going to Santa Helena, crossing over to Brazil, heading to the Guyanese border then making it through the interior to Georgetown.

Let us start at the beginning. I went to the share taxi place in Santa Helena to get a ride to Boa Vista in Brazil. It's possible to short hop it to the border but I wanted to unload the rest of my useless Bolivares Fuertes. I was then re-introduced to a crucial part of travellling outside the First World. Faffing about waiting for the ride to be full. It was then I also realized my lack of Portuguese is going to hurt me in the future. You can't just sod off and come back later either as that could mean losing your place. I did have a 15 minute window to walk about when the driver went into a motel with what I'm pretty sure was a hooker. I stayed put.

Eventually enough people showed up and packed the cab and off we went. The border crossing was uneventful and so was the trip to Boa Vista. In the cab I was even more struck with a problem that I am sure will exacerbate itself later in my travels. I can read Portuguese, I can understand 20% (weirdly enough the more complex the dialogue the easier it is for me to understand) of what is said but I am incapable of making myself understood. A linguistical coma, if you will.

I blinked stupidly at the cab driver when he wanted to know where to drop me off and had to be helped by my fellow passengers to indicate the bus station. However, when we passed Boa Vista airport we saw a trashed row of shanty homes. No roofs, no doors and smashed furniture. The driver explained that the cops had smashed the place up so that the poor would not ruin the expectations of tourists. My immediate thought was that I could understand rumours about state sanctioned social cleansing but I can't answer when someone asks my name. My second though was. What fucking tourists?

Boa Vista is a brazilian state Capital but it's mainly a place of transience and not tourism. The only tourists ignorant enough to be shocked by the levels of social inequality in Brazil are the ones that should be made to see a shanty town. Anyhoo, being a capital it had a few amenities like cash machines that deliver currency at a real exchange rate, a nice bus station and a very comfy bus that took me right to the border with Guyana in less than 2hours. Guyanese fun started right then.

My first 10 hours in the country where basically as an illegal. The Brazilian Policia Federal stops securing its borders at 18.00 and goes home. I got there about an hour later. Fortunately the Guyanese border guys could not give a toss and told me to get into town and come and do the stamping the next day. It seems that the Guyanese authorities are from the Theresa May school of border control. Of course there is the question of who tries to smuggle himself into a poor country. Another protection is the shiftyness of the local plod. They are constantly trying to find you at fault for something so they can get a bribe. Being squeaky clean is a must.

Anyway I had also missed the minibuses to Georgetown so I had to stay at a small hotel. Something I am now rather grateful for. The next day I went back to the Brazilian border so they could let me out properly and got my Guyana stamp. The border guys were nice if slightly full of themselves. As I found out at other cop checkpoints, they have signs ordering the removal of hats, leaving beverages outside of buildings and other pompous crap. I then faffed around the wonderful border town of Lethem and participated in the local sport of hiding in the shade doing nothing as it's criminally hot. Around 17.00 I went to bag a good seat in a minibus to Georgetown. More waiting as the beat up Toyota with a cracked windshield got filled up with people and goods. Around 19.00 we were off.

It's about 600 kilometers form Lethem to Georgetown. Back home that's a six hour trip with breaks. Less if nothing links me to the car's plates. Allowing for the crap roads I still thought we would be in Georgetown by next morning. I was oh so wrong for the next 20 hours. For starters only the last 100 k is paved. The driver really works for his money. He had to avoid potholes, go through streams and occasionaly change a tire. He still kept up a very good, if terrifying, speed most of the way. Unfortunately that didn't change squat.

There were numerous halts, bent cops and checkpoints on the way., One bunch of rozzers finally got a bribe out of the driver when they realized driving in sandals is illegal. They were annoying but not a real problem to me. The snag is that there is a National park halfway to Georgetown. It doesn't allow people through between 22.00 and 04.00. After that there is a ferry crossing. Also only daylight hours. Therefore it was hammock time near a roadside shack for all of us. There was finally a plus side to being on the side of the road in the jungle at night in a dirt poor country. A phenomenal sky. The brightest and most numerous stars I have ever seen. No electricity, no light pollution.

Anyways we eventually got here so what's the problem? The snag with these kind of trips is what to do with your time. An obvious solution is to blog as I go. The problem is that it seems unwise to pull out a netbook in the sticks, in a country towards the bottom end of GDP rankings and where people repair flip flops with string. Another option is to read but that would require a few moments of stability. Not this time. The other equally obvious and sociable option would be to chat with people. The obstacle here is the apparent requirement in Guyana to blast music at teenager levels of volume. I'd like to say I was introduced to local music but no such luck. Our driver was a big fan of singers like Celine Dion, Maria Carey and Lionel Richie. To be fair this morning he switched to Christian pop which is shite unless it's classical or gospel. All the rest is like Blu-Ray DVDs or a reformed House of Lords. Good effort perhaps but some things should be allowed to die

I did get to chat with people at stops. I learned that there is an election coming. That a lot of the people on the bus wanted a local version of Hugo Chavez. I had 2 separate entreaties to come back as a colonist and retake the country (literally myself as it seems I was living the bullshit cliche that a traveller is an ambassador of sorts). One was by a roadside stall owner who wanted me and Prince Charles to come and stop tribal people killing giant otters for food and help preserve the ecology. This all being discussed 200 meters from a mining camp BTW. The other plea was from an Amerindian on the bus who believed (perhaps with reason) that things went to shit after independence) an that the firm guiding hand of Britannia was needed again. I tried to explain that the UK has long ceased to know jack about good governance and management but he would get distracted and ask me to debate the impact (his words) of "We are the world". He occasionally reminded of the lyrics too.

One less amusing thing I noticed was the tendency of people at stops to group themselves along ethnic lines. The black guys got together and spoke in their patois, The Guyanese-Brazilians (predictable for this bus route) went off to fala Portuguese and the Amerindians also grouped up. I was a sort of floater. Apparently this is one of the political problems they face here.

Beyond that there is little else to say. The suburbs of Georgetown have amusing names. Houston, Diamondville, McDoom and, my favoutite, Eccles. I guess I am writing this slightly whiny post as it is fresh in my mind. I've found a nice guesthouse in an old colonial house with very dainty rooms, I've used up half a bar of soap to get the dust of myself and I've started to relax. I am still weary and tired and am going off to sleepsies once I post this. What I want is a record of how I feel now before it all becomes some amusing tale. This kind of travel is much more interesting than taking a 2 hourflight (an option from Boa Vista) and is what makes backpacking different from a holiday. I know that tomorrow I will feel good again and won't hesitate to do another fun run so I should try and commit to writing that, at the time, it can be hard.

Tomorrow it's off to visit Georgetown and try to score a Suriname visa (the only country in South America to require one from Brits). Hopefully I'll also do a less grumpy post. Just thought I'd share.

Take care,

Arabin

2011-11-18T22:02:00.002Z

Santa Elena de Uairen, Venezuela

Got to Ciudad Bolivar. No prizes for guessing who the city was named after. There is a plaza and statue in his name along with several statues of chicks representing the various states of Gran Colombia, the short-lived superstate that he had created before giving up and declaring South America ungovernable. More interesting is a plaque on the side of the cathedral sanctifying the place where one of Bolivar's generals got put up against a wall and shot. South American politics was born.

There isn't much more to see in the city. I indulged in a few cliché ridden moments on the banks of the Orinoco. Chatting to old guys in hats, watching people shout and being annoyed by sterotypical Latin American music of different sorts blasting from different shops. I also noticed the vast amount of Yank cars here. A lot of them are big 70's mammoths. The few new cars tend to be big feck-off SUV's. The reason for this is that petrol here is very, very cheap. You can fill up for less than a dollar.

The main reason turistas come here is to use it as a base to go to Angel Falls. For those of you who don't play trivial pursuit, it's the highest waterfall in the world. Google it and you will see why it's worth the trip. Or rather, you won't but that's why it's worth coming here. The fall comes of a tepui which is a tabletop maountain. The big ones can develop funky ecosystems but the ones around Salto Angel are a bit too small for that. A picture would show you a rather thin waterfall. It looks like a trickle becase it's nearly a kilometer long. To really enjoy it you have to get close to it. From the base it's very impressive and the dribble of the picture becomes the awesome giant noisy scary thing.

The Falls are usually visited as part of an excursion. Getting there is really good fun and gives you a nice impression that you are an explorer. Albeit an explorer who gets coffee on demand, doesn't have to dig his own toilet, is certain of finding something and of returning safely. All the time reflecting on the beauty of wilderness, the power of natural forces and the sheer fucking luck that the pilot who crash landed on this was called Jimmy Angel. That's where the name comes from, nothing religious. It could have been Salto Smith

Me and a few others flew out of Ciudad Bolivar in a small Cessna. The CB airport authorities have aspirations so you can't take a knife with you although the other way you can do what you want. The plane flew at about 3000 feet so we got to see a lot of countryside and tepuis. We then landed at Canaima airport which is now my favourite airport in the world. It's a large thatched shelter with some folk selling snacks and trinkets. Security consists of a waist high fence, an indolent Guardia Nacional chap sitting in the shade and it's possible the dogs running around the parked airplanes had some sort of function. Refuelling is done in such a hardcore manner I wondered if it was part of the show. Sone guy clambers on top of the plae with a jerrycan of gas and a hose and suctions the gas into the plane.

We then set off by motorised canoe to the overnight camp near the falls. It's a 4 hour trip with the odd halt. The camp itself is a bizarre jungle dorm. It's 50 or so hammocks swung under a shelter. Chicken was roasted on a spit and served up. We then all went to bed for a nice quiet night. Sort of. I happen to love the jungle and the sounds of it. When coupled with snoring it's just horrendous. Some things don't mix. Also sleeping in a hammock sounds more relaxing than it really is. I know the trick is to go diagonal but there is a reason the locals buy beds when they can afford them.

The next day was the hike to the falls and predictable oohs and aahs. Return to camp then back to Canaima. The best bit of the trip was on the third day. I think it's a time killer they came up with as the flights tend to be in the afternoon. There is a lagoon in Canaima from which you can access a river island by boat. From then it's a short hike to a regular waterfall (low and fecking big). If you go down a small trail along the side of the waterfall you can access a hidden path behind the curtain of water that leads you to.......Well, the other side of the waterfall predictably. Unbelievably good fun and you can experience the ultimate power shower if you can stand it.

After that it was back on the Cessna to Ciudad Bolivar and onto a night bus across the Gran Sabana to where I am now. Santa Elena is a border town with Brazil whose economy revolves around taking tourists on trips to Roraima (a huge tepui that scientists love due to the unique ecosystem that developed there) and smuggling petrol into Brazil. Half the shops here sell meter long pieces of garden hose. People caught with jerrycans get their car impounded. It's rather dull but it's restfull and it's safe at night which means I can walk around a bit this evening which is a rare treat in Venezuela.

Tommorow I am off to Brazil and then on to Guyana but the trip looks a bit sketchy so Christ knows when I will be able to post again. Hence I will finish this post with my thoughts on Venezuela as a whole as my 6 days here have give me such wisdom and insight.

For me the curse of Venezuela is the crime rate. It's a pain in the arse, puts you on edge and is genuinely fucking a country that has a huge tourism potential. It's also a bit revealing. Venezuela is a petro-state which means gazillions of dollars are pouring into it. Why then should I worry about some kid shooting me for a few dollars? I met many Venezuelans from Caracas in Canaima and their life has been reduced to home, commute, work and back again. There is enough money to have a good go at crime too. Find out what the cops make with bribes, make that their salary and institute a zero policy on corruption. Plough money into the barrios and education and giving people some options better than crime.

As for Hugo Chavez, I am none the wiser about him for having been here. I was always a bit confused as to what he truly is. Some guy trying for a Cuba 2.0? A cheap populist scoring points off Bolivar and anti-gringo feeling? A man genuinely trying to find a true alternative to corporate oligarchy? The locals I have met don't seem to like him but, to be fair, most of them where middle class folk. They are dubious about the cancer story but quite hopeful that he is on the way out. Guys who rewrite constitutions to stay in power are always a bit scary but then again he drives Fox et al round the bend.

There are some sinister things about the country. The night bus stopped many times for army checkpoints. The socialist blather is a bit less amusing when it's on the walls of the school (the pictures of Bolivar doing everything from educating Yanomami kids to marrying people is still funny). Completely unrelated but still creepy are the occasional flocks of vultures circling around.

Anyhoo, that's it for Venezuela . It was a short but good re-introduction to backpacking. Hopefully my next post will be from Guyana

Take care,

Arabin

2011-11-14T13:31:00.004Z

Ciudad Bolivar, Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela (No, Really)

The puffin has landed. I have left Korea where the blog died. It was the victim of my usual MO. I get settled, I get accustomed and then I can't be bothered to write.

It is now arisen since I landed yesterday in Caracas. I was too tired to reflect that I had just landed on a continent where I had never set foot before. I was also trying very hard to look alert as this place has the kind of rep usually associated with areas that produce hip hop artists.

I am now on my way out again for reasons of cowardice. I stayed at a local hotel and decided not to set foot in Caracas. The interwebs has various opinions on Caracas. Some will claim that you are guaranteed to spend the night in the boot of a car as your kidnappers wait for another go at your ATM card. Others claim it is maligned and they went to the worst neighourhoods of the place and met such refreshing local people because they are open minded and/or well 'ard. The deciding factor for me was someone from Venezuela who was firmly in the "you will get robbed at the very least". So it's in and out for this Gringo. This means that the only observations I have for the moment are what I could glimpse on the way to the hotel (it looks poor) and the airport itself.

Airports are usually poor barometers of what lies beyond. They are often government ego projects and are usually much cleaner and modern than the country itself. The notable exceptions being Paris CDG (very crap airport but the town is worth a peep) and Heathrow (it's shit and so is London). Simon Bolivar airport does have some interesting features. Everyone and his dog is trying to change money as the government did one of those artificial hyperevaluation thingys that guarantees a thriving black market and a forced re-introduction to basic maths for the backpacker.

Also fun is the revolutionary language. There is a lot of gumph about HC being for the people and a nice use of Bolivarian Socialism (no idea what that entails) as an excuse to make you declare your crap at customs. My favourite though has got be the motto of the Customs bureau (or maybe the whole govt.). It's a wonderful demonstration of the importance of punctuation. In English it's : Country, Socialism or Death, We will vanquish!. Exactly what our the choices on offer are or what will be defeated is amusingly unclear to my pedantic mind.

I had made vague promises of putting a detailed plan of my South America trip on this blog for anyone who wishes to join me. I have already ballsed that up. I got comfy in England and therefore left later than planned. I also have to be in Rio by the 15th. In between I must visit or at least spend some time in Venzuela, Guyana, Suriname and French Guyana. So far my plan is to go to Angel Falls in Venezuala and have a look at the Papillon islands in French Guyana. I haven't chatted to fellow backpackers yet so I don't know what to see and do in the other 2. Basically, any kind of plan will have to wait until Crimbo. Until then it's getting back to travelling with a fun run.

I am already getting in the spirit of being put in annoying circumstances as I think my bank has just frozen my card . I have decided to use my British bank account and am already paying the price as they love to block your card if you use it anywhere else than a home counties Marks and Spencers. The best bit is that you can warn them all you want they will still do it. I wouldn't mind having some Bolivarian Socialism heaped on the clowns that came up with that system.

Anyhoo, It's fun to be blogging again so take care,

Arabin

2008-09-02T10:40:00.000Z

Yangpyeong, South Korea

Squid, Spam and Swastikas

Above are some of the things that give and edge to the comparative dullness of Korea. Dried squid is considered a most tasty snack and a good companion to beer. Spam is advertised heavily and often sold in gift boxes. This could be a legacy of the Korean War but then again it could just be a fondness for mystery meats. Finally, like a lot of Asian countries, there are the occasional swastikas popping up on buildings and windows. As I am in a small town I don't have the joy of seeing ignorant newcomers (from the land of the free, of course) get all riled up about them. Should one of my readers be amongst the educationally challenged, the swastikas are the original cutesy Hindu/Buddhist deal not the inverted Hackenkreuz made popular by Adolf Schicklegruber.

There are other subtle differences that make me smile. Boozing is done in places called “hofs”Maybe as an homage to the Western nation where beer is the most revered. You order drinks by their size , sort of. What you ask for is a number of cc. At some point, millilitres got confused with cubic centimetres so when you ask for a 3000cc jug you get 3 litres instead of something the size of an oil drum. That being said at 10000 won ($10) a pop, it's hard to whine too much. Fruit and squid are the commonly ordered snacks but cheap buggers like me are quite happy with the freebie curried popcorn. The décor of most hofs seem to be based on business class waiting lounges and to drink in the sun ,you have to go to a convenience store, buy your beer and sit on the tables provided.

Other customary activities can get a raised eyebrow. It's worth taking your time when flicking through the TV channels in the hunt for English language programmes. You will see the ultimate in geek TV which consists of live games of someone else playing Starcraft or Counterstrike with added sports commentary. There is also a couple of strangely egalitarian religious channels. By that I mean that at any given time you have an equal chance of landing on a catholic mass, a happy clappy ceremony, some lardy american evangelist redneck spewing simplistic poison or a bunch of Buddhist monks being wise These I would despise as much as the former 2 groups except that they remind me of the Shaolin which sort of makes them look cool.

The usual technique to see weird shit is to go for a pointless gander. It hasn't worked here but I don't really care as I get to see nice scenery. Yangpyeong is a bit strange as they have decided to put a 100, 000 people in what looks like 3 square kilometers (not sure as maps are bloody impossible to find). From the town centre you could believe you are in a big city as you can see high rises and large busy avenues. However, walk for 10 minutes in any direction and you get to fields , rice paddies (the terraced kind which have an aesthetic quality), streams, woods and hills.

Though Yangpyeong itself is ugly, the location is superb. I thought it weird that the town planners seemed to believe they were in central Tokyo but maybe they knew that it would end up being fugly so they decided to minimise the damage. Good chaps. This makes me a happily pleased bunny. After spending more than a year in a Manchurian city where a 45 minute drive will finally get you to a wondrous expanse of flat browness , I enjoy being able to soothe my shakra with nature's visual gifts.

The job is also going well. I might have given the impression that Korean schools are a uniform away from boot camp. The truth is that the kids have got a good deal at my school. The equipment is great. I am writing this on the laptop given to me by the school and I, should I get the urge, I can proofread it on a huge fecking screen. The kids also get to do some cool stuff in school hours like camping trips o going to the local stream for a dip. It's not very harsh either. My disciplinary standards are ridiculously low on the basis that I can deal with rowdiness and channel the energy into learning but I loathe passive, bored silence. Yet even a slack git like me is slowly getting a rep as a hardcase.

What fucks up kids in Korea is not the public schools but the insane amount of extra curricular learning their parents inflict on them. People who yak away on the Asian love of education has not spent any time with sleep deprived 10 year olds. Teaching about time related activities is fucking depressing. Outside of meals and public school the answer to “what do you do at xx o'clock?” will inevitably be a look of resignation and the word “hagwon” (the Korean word for a cram school).

In a way the public schools and myself are complicit. A lot of school boards have decided that if you can't beat them you should join them. I make extra dosh by teaching for a public school programme for gifted sprogs. There are no remedial classes for dunces in Korea but the clever ones get extra teaching. I have also finished a month long “summer camp” where only the smartest got to join. This sounds like a perverse incentive to me. I suspect that if someone told kids back home that good results would mean extra classes it would go seriously wrong. I know for sure that in that situation I would be spend my time trying to eat my ear, drooling, putting pencils in my nose and generally trying to look as retarded as possible.

I have tried to alleviate their suffering in my personal holiday stalag. It is usually up to the foreign teacher to create the programme for these gigs. Inexperience, laziness and , unfortunately, custom ensure that a lot of teachers just go forth, get the school to buy some exercise book in a library and make the sprogs plow their way through it for a month. On the basis that I wasn't going to spend my summer working hard or being bored, my students weren't either.

My younger students got a programme based around water. There's loads to teach on that topic and you get the school to by shitloads of water balloons as educational supplies. An added hbons is that you eventually work in pirates into the course. English is learnt even if it's in a comedy pirate accent. My older sprogs got to share my interest with things foreign and weird. Therefore my kids now think that cheese rolling is a popular activity in the UK, French people get around parkour style, an average day in Spain is spent throwing tomatoes or dodging bulls in narrow streets and that Germans are required to have elaborate beards and do the slapdance when they meet each other.

What discipline is imposed I heartily approve of. Pathetic as this might seem, I do enjoy it when sprogs instinctively bow when they cross my path. The kids here also have to clean their classroom and the stretch of corridor in front of it. I like that for I reckon it teaches them an important lesson in taking responsibility for their environment and that teamwork reduces burdens. That or they are learning that it's good to get into positions of authority as that will mean they will be the ones faffing around on the web while the lesser beings skivvy away.

Another bonus here is that you can impose semi-corporal punishment. You can't smack them around or cane the little blighters but it's standard practice to make them adopt stress positions. They get moany after 5 minutes or so of this treatment and usually won't fuck up again for a couple of weeks. I introduced the red dot punishment as I believe kids should learn from their punishment and being placed 2 inches away from the whiteboard and having nothing to look at but a little red dot tends to focus listening skills wonderfully.

It's not all fun and games and being the on the right side of the fence at Guantanamo. Occasionally, our tranquility is interrupted by an incredibly annoying PA system. As we are close to some Korean festival we are treated to sudden tests using traditional songs. The genius in charge also switches this on midway through the fucking songs so as to maximise the surprise and disruption.

Another disturbing thing are the strange proverbs on the stairs going up to my office. These are in Korean and English and are there to exhort students towards self-improvement. The English is good but just because you can translate something doesn't mean you should. We have the:

-Predictable but outdated: “A sound mind in a sound body”

-Slightly off but nothing serious: “He who laughs last laughs best”

-More off and a bit worrying: “Knowledge is power”

-Weird and creepy: “Walls have ears”

-Sexist: “Boys! Be ambitious!”

That's it for my school. All in all I am quite happy with it as I am with the rest of my lot in Korea. I have a lot of doss time at school that I pass by getting around the piss poor censorware of my school. When I can't be bothered I peruse sites by expats in Korea. Expat forums are often a whingefest and I think a good rant is great literature. The difference here is that I cannot relate to it. Within a month in China, I could go to a forum, read someone's tale of woe in the Middle Kingdom at the hands of the heathen Chinese and sympathise. I had by then experienced enough to know that it probably the truth.

In Korea, the rants make me giggle but they don't connect. I have not had any truly annoying problems and any hiccup coming from my inability to speak Korean often results in Koreans working bloody hard to make me a happy weiguk. I once had a woman outside a supermarket chase after me to give me an ice-cream as I looked sweaty. As it is I have a very high regards for Koreans. Maybe I am simply in the honeymoon period. With any luck, things should go pear shaped and I'll have something interesting to write about.

Take care,

Arabin

2008-07-18T09:19:00.000Z

Yangpyeong, South Korea

Hello from the beautiful province of Gyeonggi. Official English motto: Global Inspiration.

That’s just the start of the subtle weirdness of this country. In China, the strange and the bewildering would jump out at you every day, spit on the floor, call you laowai and make bloody sure you knew you were very, very far from home. From what I have seen in Korea so far, there is a subtlety of strangeness at work.

I haven’t yet stopped in my tracks, gawped and muttered “what the fuck?”. What I have done is glimpsed something, ignored it and then have it bounce around my head until a little voice goes: “ Hang on a bit”.

It started upon arrival. There is nothing extraordinary about Incheon airport. It’s your standard, made to impress, modern Asian airport. Customs are not particularly arsey and I was out of it in a jiffy to be greeted by a placard with my name on it and a guy whose mission in life was to put me in a pre-paid taxi to where I am now. The motorway skirts Seoul but I didn’t get to see much at 10 pm through the gangster tinted windows that Korean taxis deem mandatory. The only thing I saw was god.

More precisely I got to see shitloads of red neon crosses. To my joy and delight, the evangelical Christians have gained a strong foothold in this peninsula and they like to show off. They build more churches than necessary and then top them with a big red neon cross. Christianity meets standard Asian marketing. JC, like anything else, just isn’t real if he isn’t in flashy and visible for fecking miles

I got to the village of Yungmon (my workplace) around midnight and was met by my Korean co-teacher. She is not to be mistaken for the ever-sufferingTeaching Assistants I was blessed with in China. The classrooms here are shared domains and the Korean person is usually senior.

On this one I have lucked out. A quick chat with other foreign teachers have revealed that speaking English is rarely a requirement for Korean teachers even if what they teach is, well, English. My co-teacher not only speaks English reasonably well she is also young and pretty to look at during office hours. I had expected to start a war with her over control of the classroom but it seems that she goes against all stereotypes of the face-saving, obstinate and excessively status conscious Asian bureaucrat. Let me explain.

I had geared myself up for a long battle as my predecessor had been relegated to classroom spectator who occasionally read dialogues from the book. This worried me a bit. I think teachers should be possessive of their students as it links the student’s progress with job satisfaction. If you see them as your students then you want them to do well in only as a reflection of your skill. This might be petty but it gives decent results.

I was not willing to play second fiddle and thought I was going to be yet another classroom soldier fighting the evils of Confucianist educational methods. I would hammer on about how I want to give the children communication tools and develop new ways of conceptualising and my co teacher would try to impose the absolutist, learn by rote methods that have ensured that, from Beijing to Tokyo via Seoul, 9 year olds could ace a Western math test in half the time allowed yet will become Uni graduates who will freeze like a deer in headlights if asked to order a meal in English.

However, my co-teacher has decided to shatter my arrogant stereotype and we get along in a rather professional manner whereas I cook up lesson plans and she is generally complimentary though she does point out the odd area where she knows the students will struggle. I get to do a lot of teaching which satisfies me. The previous foreign teacher was a Korean American whose utter cluelessness made my co-teacher take the wise decision to limit the amount of damage he could inflict on her charges.

All in all I am quite lucky even if the “newbie in Korea” paranoia (mainly induced by too many horror stories on ESL teacher forums) is not quite gone yet. I have got the flat I wanted in the location I wanted, the teaching is doing fine and the teachers’ social organisation at my school is quite good and inclusive. This is not necessarily the case in Korea and social events with the foreign teacher often consists of a restaurant outing where soju (20% rice plonk) is forced on the poor soul who doesn’t get to come to the more fun stuff as the Korean teachers don’t know how to deal with wayguks (short for waygukin which is the Korean word for foreigner/barbarian/alien and is incidentally the origin for the American racist term “gook”).

My first social outing was an overnight trip to the province of Gangwon for some rafting fun. It wasn’t the most exciting trip as the river was at a record low and the rafts, along with the safety gear, seemed a bit of overkill as we could have done the thing in swan shaped pedalos without any risk. BBQ and booze in the evening followed the next day by a trip to some cave. The only prob was that we were in a typical Korean "pension" which means sleeping on the floor atop a blanket. I am not really used to that and neither are my colleagues so backaches all around.

I want to conclude by a quick clarification over my Israel posts. It looks like I have beef with the Chosen People mainly because I related happy fun times with the IDF. I am actually quite fond of Israelis and was staying with some whilst in Jerusalem. I just think they become dicks when they are in khaki.

I also don't want to venture in the blame game of the Israeli-Arab pagga that pollutes the internet and I won't presume to have some sort of solution when nearly every statesman has given it a crack and failed miserably. Some things do seem fucking stupid though. The territories are an open prison where the inmates have committed no crime. The Israelis I met know that doing their military service there fucks them up badly, more so than those who went fighting in Lebanon. It's also common sense that if you treat people like animals some of them will start to behave that way. I won’t even go over the stupidity of suicide bombings.

Long story short, I liked Israel for all its aspects. Not mentioned before in the blog is a trip to Masada for stupid-nihilistic-symbol sightseeing followed by a dip in the Dead Sea and some floating (it’s much more fun than it sounds). All this in a small car where I tried to prove that there are more aggressive drivers than Israelis; namely me in a rented car when it’s not my credit card print left behind. One final visit worth mentioning and recommending is the Jerusalem Police museum (at least I think it was)) where the Brits used to hold all the nicked Jewish insurgents of the pre-independence days. I named it the Museum of Unintended Irony after seeing the cell where 2 of these guys blew themselves up for the cause, with a grenade smuggled in an orange, and a badly made video celebrating this glorious action.

Anyhoo, I am now in my new flat celebrating being connected to the interweb by this post. I also have Korean cable now so I can watch Starcraft channels. Hopefully I will inject enough posts in my time here to keep the blog alive but no promises. I am quite content at the moment and feeling lucky that I have had none of the mishaps and fuckups that make South Korea famous in the EFL world.

Then again luck might not have much to do with it. In my last afternoon in my old bedsit near my school I heard repeated screaming and shouting. It had a pattern so I assumed this was a Taekwondo thing and ignored it. The next day I saw a huge pentacle drawn in the sand of the school's yard.

What's Korean for wickerman?

Take care,

Arabin

2008-02-28T14:52:00.003Z

Very quick post just to be an annoyance,

Above are the pictures that got me lifted in Hebron. I just wanted to put them up on the interweb as a way of expressing a heartfelt "fuck you" to the beardless dickheads of the IDF.

Final post coming soon.

Arabin

2008-02-18T12:59:00.003Z

Tel Aviv, Israel

Back in Tel Aviv after a great time in Jerusalem. I fly to Blighty tomorrow so tempus fugit and I will have to write most of my Israel post from the UK. My notes have reached 6 pages and, unless I want my last moments of my trip in a webcafe I will have to relate only a small part of my time here in this post.

The little anecdote I will now post comes from a fun day out in Hebron. The Occupied Territories are one of the most screwed up places I have seen and it was there that I had myself a little adventure. In Hebron I acquired the trendy lefty equivalenbt of an Olympic Medal: I got detained by the IDF. Let me explain.

Shabat in Jerusalem is interesting for 10 minutes then the empty streets get boring. Therefore I made my way to East Jerusalem and got into a minibus for Hebron. I was off to see the mother of all settler vs Palestinian flashpoints.

Getting there was quite quick as the checkpoints are one way only. Me and my Quebecquoise travel buddy made our way to the market in order to go to the Tomb of the Patriarch. She was semi reluctant to come but I coaxed her and she decided to join me. Her decision was to prove very useful to me later on.

The souq in Hebron is similar to most Arab souqs around a tourist spot. It is quite normal until you look up. What you see is mesh. Mesh and debris.

The mesh is there as the settlers near the Tomb of Abraham like nothing more than to tip their garbage and hurl bricks at the Arab shopkeepers below who try and eke out a living out of the dwindling number of tourists coming here. One othe other side of the row of houses live some of the most crazy bastards ever. These wankers are the epitomy of settler wrongness.

Rarely on my trip have I met people and detested them. The banality of life ensures that when you see someone they are often semi normal. You might know they are cunts of the first order but the shortness of your encounter won't be dramatic enough to make the leap from intelectual distaste to emotional loathing. Not so the settlers of Herbon.

In a way I think I have been contaminated by what emanates form the highly protected colony next to the Tomb of Abraham; hatred. Hate is all these people have. They hate the Arabs for existing and they make sure everyone knows it. They throw bricks and march through the Arab areas singing racist songs, all of them armed and ringed by soldiers. They teach their children to hate and spit at those that live there who aren't Jewish enough. They even hate the hundreds of conscripts keeping them alive.

Israel is a modern democratic state and they should do what such entities do with nutters like the settlers. This would be to evict them, try the leaders for countless assaults and place their children in care for willful endangerment. What Israel has done is put loads of soldiers so that these wankstains can keep hating and make life even more misrable for the Palestinians of Hebron.

A part of me wonders what would happen if these crazy arseholes got their wish. Would they be happy if, by some monstrous act, an ethnic cleansing of Hebron would leave them and their ilk all alone in the city? Will they suddenly get on with normal lives or would they find it dificult to spend a day without hate?.

We walked under the chicken-wire obscenity for a while and then, after several checkpoints, we finally got to the Tomb of Abraham. I knew that we couldn't enter on the Jewish side because of Shabat but I doubt I would have wanted to mingle with these cunts anyway. Hence we removed our shoes, my companion covered her hair and we entered the supposed resting place of the guy acknowledge and revered equally by all 3 of the local faiths. A point of theological unity that has to be divided physically as the Jews and Muslims cannot be in the same room together in Herbon.

Abraham is known for the truly scary nation that God is a bit of bastard. God decided to play with him a bit and told him to kill his son. At the last moment God stays the hand of the poor Abraham and tells him he was just fucking around.

Less funny and more horrid is the recent bloodletting of the Ibrahim Mosque. No God stayed the hand of Baruch Goldstein in 1994 when he walked into the mosque and slaughtered 29 muslim worshippers and injured hundreds of others with his gun. It was enraged Palestinians who stopped the massacre by beating to Baruch to death, not God. The settlers have built a memorial to this psycho as if to prove just how fucking vile they are.

After the visit we went back to the market and bought a few trinkets from the shopkeepers living there. That being done we were invited for the traditional Arab tea and long chat. We were quite clear that we thought the settles were insane dickheads and this led to an invitation to a rooftop to get a look at where these people live. We went up, had a look and I took a few piccies. That's were it all started to go wrong.

We then went into a room under the rooftop for tea, ciggies and a funy face comptetion with the kids of the guy who owned the house. As we walked out we were confornted by an IDF patrol from the next rooftop (the one we were on was one of the few not "requisitioned" byTsahal). They shouted and pointed their guns and told me to stay put. I asked them why and they responded by asking me why I was taking pictures of one of the worlds' most infamous settlements.

This was not new to me as the IDF in the Territories seem to require their soldiers to ask really stupid questions. My favorite being the idiots who asked me "Why are you travelling with these people?" on a fucking Sherut of all things. I thought this was a standard case of stating the bleeding obvious to guntoting teenagers but they had different ideas.

They surrounded us and spent 10 minutes shouting, pointing weapons and radioing. After that they informed me that I was nicked. I asked why but they didn't respond. I said that if I was being detained I wanted to talk to my consulate asap. They radioed some more and told me I could do that when they handed me over to the police. I followed them with some apprehension but no real fear. As a backup I told my mate (in French) to contact the British consulate if I hadn't reappeared within the hour. I had now been lifted by the soldiers of Zion.

The soldiers then led me down a house they control and I ended up right in the heart of the settlements. I then spent half an hour being glared at and insulted (this is a presumption as I don't speak Hebrew) by passing settlers. I also annoyed the solders by pestering them for a precise charge for my detainment. To be fair they relaxed a bit and tried to be chummy and even cracked the odd joke. I wasn't in the mood and told them that armed people holding strangers at gunoint are never funny so they could stop trying.

I knew that they had to be careful with me. I am not a Palestinian and if an unbruised Brit is what they take that is what they have to hand back. In addition a couple of guys from some NGO that monitors abuse walked by and said they would check up on me at the local nick (a bad place to be by local accounts). I killed time by taking in the sun and watching the crazy people telling their sprogs that I was yet another person to be hated. Suddenly, I heard the magic word "consulate" amongst the Hebrew and I was turned lose. I then had to walk through the settlement with beardy crazies looking at me.

I was someone astonished at the speed of my release and also somewhat bemused that, for all this bollocks about taking pictures of "sensitive" stuff they hadn't even looked at my camera. When I finally made it back to the Arab area it was all made clear to me.

While I was being sarky to the squaddies my companion had decide not to wait for an hour and got busy. She is the perfect travelling buddy as she is hippyish enough to go with the flow yet switched on enough to know what to do when things go wrong. She immediately call the British consul and they got to work. However, this was not the only step taken to help me.

The Palestinians we met tracked down some women for another NGO that sends elderly Christian ladies to get in the way of the IDF. These formidable and brave women know the ropes and they made a few phone calls of their own. Finally the impromptu "Save Arabin from spending a few hours being bored in a police sation" committe was fortunate to intercept the UN.

As luck would have it a Yank delegatiojn from the UN was passing by and the Palestinians made sure the many females working for my release would get to inform these diplomats of my fate. Therefore, despite all the many abuses they live and witness, the Palestinians of the souq and their NGO pals thrust my Montral friend in the path of the UN to explain that some guy she knew had been nicked by the IDF.

I was told of this upon my return amidst handshakes, ciggies and cups of tea. A part of me feels sorry for the soldiers. They had only taken up post in the past 2 days and I supect they were being zealous. I wonder what they felt when, 15 minutes after they took me down from the rooftops, various people started to call their CO. However the part of me that feels sorry for me is dwarfed by the part that says "fuck them". If they don't want pictures taken of military outposts in the Occupied Territories then they shouldn't bloody build them.

This farcical episode of my life will proably be recalled with great gravitas in a pub especially if silly lefty women are in earshot but there is one thing that is truly worth noting. That thing is the fact that Palestinians had been worried for me. This is truly amazing.

Let's be quite clear. I was never in serious danger of anything. I had done nothing wrong and I have the immunity that white people from rich nations have. I got a small taste of Palestinian life but I only licked the icing. I didn't experience the violence, disposessions and humiliations that they endure. The men and women of the souq knew this. They knew that I would have a fun story to tell over beers , that I could tell my tale of my time in the hands of the IDF; a time where I was confident of my wellbeing. Yet they still cared.

That's what is worth writing about. These people are ruled harshly by a foreign military power so that some fundamentalist crazies can stay there in the hope all the Arabs will leave if they hate enough. Shops closures or property seizures for trivial reasons and curfews are frequent for the Palestinians who commit the crime of existing near a religious shrine. They are reminded daily that Israel will protect even the worst amongst their citizen at their expense. Yet they cared for a passing stranger whose birth has given him the protection they so desperately need. I feel as if a person with broken legs had crawled over to me to put a band-aid on a graze I got.

I don't want to build up this post as some sort of tale of personal enlightentmet or a metaphor for an incredibly complex conflict. All will do is tell you what I saw on both sides of a row of houses crested with razor wirte.

On one side I saw kindness for strangers, empathy for dissimilar human beings and an astounding capacity to find a place amongst personal suffering to worry about the comfort of others. On the other side I saw hate and stupidity. That is what I saw one sunny afternoon in Hebron.

Take care,

Arabin

2008-02-11T15:48:00.000Z

Jerusalem, God's own UFC cage

Made it! Fucking made it! Jakarta to Jerusalem, Indonesia to Israel, Jaksan Jala to Jaffa Gate. I crossed the finish line. I fucking rule!

For conflict history junkies it doesn't get any better than this place. It's always been a scrapping spot and it's guaranteed to continue being so. There will always be a reason to fight over the "City of Peace" (beyond irony). For the scornful atheist, Jerusalem conviniently gathers 3 major religions and their pious worshipers to snigger at in a small walkable enclosure. I am a very happy bunny.

I got to the Jaffa gate after a walk from the Hebrew Uni and gave myself a victory cheer as I passed through. This was not very smart as some of Jerusalem's many gunslingers started to take interest in me. This was not my last fuck-up of the day. I managed to leave my pocketknife in my backpack even though I knew I was going to the world's favourite flashpoint.

The boys at the Dome of the rock refused me entry because of it and the offending item had to be stashed in a nearby Yeshiva. The Wailing wall guards didn't care but then again there are so many armed soldiers there that I would be amply dead by the time I found and unfolded by puny weapon. For some reason there is no metal detector at the Holy Sepulchre. Maybe the authorities have decided that Christians follow JC's message of peace despite historical evidence to the contrary.

By coincidence I visited the sites in the same order that they appeared on earth to give a message of love and peace that would be universally ignored. Here goes:

I first went to the famous Wailing Wall. Visually it's not that impressive as it is, well, a wall. What makes it fun are the people there. Tourists with paper kipas mingle with pious Jews praying and stashing little messages in the cracks of the masonry. Chicks have a separate area and they don't get to see the tunnels which made me ponder the weird notion that gawking sightseers such as myself are welcome to Judaism's holiest place but Jewish women must be to the side. The whole hullaballoo gets an occasional boost of energy as a Bar Mitzva party bring the new man amidst great cheer and lobbing of sweets. Fantastic stuff!

I was fortunate to have with me an American Yeshiva student that could answer some of my questions about the paraphernalia and rituals of the prayers although he couldn't tell me what happens to the pieces of paper when saturation point gets reached. He also sorted me out with a free lunch and a place to hide my dangerous cutlery. Mercifully he was of a cynical disposition hence I could joke away.

After the Wall we folowed a trio of nuns to the place where Christians claim their boy wonder was nailed up, buried and resurrected. I'll pass over the convenience of thinking someone was executed and buried at the same spot. In short it is a church of medium beauty. Unfortunately there wasn't a lot of evidence of the wonderfully petty bitchfighting that the various resident reps of Christianity's branches are famous for.

Fistfights ending in hospitalisation have happened over trivial crap like doors left open and chairs moved into the shade. There is a ladder there that hasn't been shifted for over a century as this would provoke another brawl. As the Christians couldn't be trusted to act like grown ups where the Sepulchre is concerned the key to the church as been in the care of a Palestinian family for eons. I wonder if the custodians aren't tempted to give the keys to one group, set up a camera and make "When monks fight" DVDs. It could be a nice little earner. I'd buy it for one.

After another stroll through the narrow medieval streets and their shlock shops we returned to the place that the Jews and the Muslims find so Holy. This time we went to see the Mahomedans' erections and my companion broke some Rabbinical decree to the effect that Jews cannot go to the Temple Mount untill someone builds a Temple there (from the same guys who declared that walking through metal detectors does not break Shabat) . Security is tight there and you have to walk up a covered ramp overlooking the wailers. Said ramp holds a few IDF gunslingers and a big stash of riot shields. Charming.

I'll give the Muslims cred for having the most aesthetically pleasing site of Jerusalem. The dome of the rock has fantastic tilework and a big shiny roof. They have also put some nice gardens there. However, Allah's lot do get some minus points as they won't let kaffirs inside the Dome or the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Infidels also have to get out of the grounds whenever it's prayer time or nearby.

This post is a victory/gloat post of sorts so I'll end soon. More will follow. I will return to the Old City and use Jerusalem as a base for visiting Masada as well as trying to get into the West Bank to see the flip side of Israel. After that I will do a more ponderous post. For now though I will simply drink a few beers in honour of myself and my success.

Once again, I rule!

Take care,

Arabin

2008-02-10T10:23:00.000Z

Tel Aviv, Unnoficial Capital of Israel

The location header of this post is a good indication of how screwy this place is. Tel Aviv is seen by most of the world as the capital of Israel yet the Israelis say that Jerusalem is. This place is going to be interesting. However, first things first.

Before entering the Holy Land I had an extremely tiring funrun from Damascus to Tel Aviv via Petra. As Petra was my only overnight among the Hashemites I won't be doing a Jordan post. I will however mention Petra as it is a fantastic place to see.

Due to it's position in the middle of a great sandy fuck-all it, the Nabathean city hasn't been superceded by too many other buildings from other cultures save for a few Roman temples. The Romans did their usual thing of twocking something good, tweaking it a smidgeon, and passing it off as their own. On this one the Nabatheans get the 'spect as they were masters in the art of property location.

The viist of Petra kicks off with a 2 klick walk down a very narrow gorge. It's supposed to be there for religious reason but methinks there are more practical considerations. Potential invaders are bottlenecked and the defenders can pull a Thermopylae on them. That being said it does serve well as one of the visual and psychological tricks so beloved of the god squad.

As you turn a corner in the gorge you are suddenly confronted with a temple carved into the wall. This is the Pharaoh's Treasury, the most famous of Petra's many, many carved buildings. The nekulturny amongst you will know it as the showdown set in the third Indiana Jones movie.

Basically it's fecking huge and displays an odd combo of highly detailed renovations and barely recognisable bullet ridden originals. The holes are linked to the name of the place. Local lore had it that the place was where the Pharaoh stashed his dosh despite having nothing to do with either treasure or inbred Egyptian despots. The bedouin where just as keen as Indiana Jones to find the wealth of the Treasury and they undertook many searches over the centuries. Unlike the world's coolest archeologist they didn't faff about with codes, books and traps. They just shot up the place in the hope something would start glittering.

The Treasury might be famous and well worth a peek but it's not my favourite Petra place. I was very fond of the Monastery as it is just as grand as the Treasury but requires a steep 45 minute hike uphill to get there. The tour groups don't make it there early as they need to round up enough donkeys to hoist their flabby bottoms up the mountains. This ensures that the place is wonderfully quiet untill noonish. You can find a high spot in the surrounding rocks and look at the thing without having to listen to the oohs and aahs of American retirees confronted with this real history thing. That and the sound of a zillion japanese cameras.

Petra becomes truly awesome when taken as a whole. Due to Nabathean austerity or comprehensive Bedouin looting there is bugger all to see inside the buildings except for the rock itself that has interesting hues of red, brwon, yellow and black. This gets quickly boring though and the visitor is left with spotting something up a hill and debating whether or not it's worth the effort to getting up there.

Petra is wonderfully unsupervised and spread out hence it's great for wannabee explorers such as yours truly. The further you go the more desert solitude you can get and the higher the risk of slipping of a ledge. Tourists do snuff it up here and I suspect the roaming somewhat degrades the sight. One day the Jordanians will twig on to this and ask the superbly uniformed camel corps guys to do stop having their photo taken and do some warden work. This will put me in the club of those who were there before people like me fucked it up for everyone.

Anyhoo, made my way to Aqaba and from there I crossed into Israel and got the legendary Israeli welcome. This was a funfilled 3 hours of intermittent questioning, searches and lots of raised eyebrows at my Iraqi visa and the name Arabin. When they finally let me go I found out that transport to Eilat was down for some reason so I had to walk 3 klicks to the bus station. By the time I was on a bus to Tel Aviv through the Negev, I wasn't all too fond of the Chosen People.

I got here and did what most people do in TA; go on the piss. Tel Aviv is pretty much like a european city on the Med and about as interesting. It's made me realise that getting back to normal life is going to be tricky. Watching a bunch of wiggers playing drums and juggling on the beach made me long for a more exotic/fucked-up place. My only true fun here is annoying the birthright kids (Jewish youngsters from around the world who get a free trip to Israel) and the kibbutz volunteers by telling them how nice the Syrians are.

I will depart this annoyingly normal place and go to what is in a sense the final destiantion. Tonight I will have completed my Jakarta to Jeruslaem trip. I will be seeing other things in Israel but in my mind Jerusalem has all things going for it. Expect a vey long post.

Take care,

Arabin

2008-02-04T13:58:00.000Z

Damascus, Syria

Back in the big D after a quick return to Aleppo, a brief stay in Hama (big giant waterwheels and general small town peacefullness) and a fun day getting to, and away from, the Krak des Chevaliers.

This erratically spelled fortress is the top dog of all crusader castles by virtue of being fecking huge and the most famous hence its presence on the "things Arabin must see" list. Once again it's a hard sight to describe and you really have to be here to fully appreciate it. My inability to convey how cool a place is is doubly frustrating as I have a soft spot for fortresses.

It must be said that places of worship tend to be more easy on the eye than military ones in the same way designer dresses look nicer on a woman than uniforms (British WPCs excepted as they're well fit). It's the primacy of function over form that make defensive structures uglier than places of prayer but also, for me at least, more expressive.

By now I have seen a lot of buildings erected by godsquads of various persuasions. I found a lot of them quite beautiful and have even been awestruck on occasion. The problem is that I have a huge disconnect with them. Being proudly faithless I don't really understand why they went to all this effort. It's a bit like the self inflicted calvary women endure to conform to some notion of beauty. I appreciate the result but I don't really get why they bother.

Military installations are easier to figure out. Why and how the buildings are can easily be worked out. All you have to do is put yourself in the role of someone trying to conquer the place. The Krak quickly reveals why it was built and how well. The potential invader mutters a silent "fuck" at the vast array of moats, towers, murder holes, false leads and other assorted deathtraps. It might not be as pretty but it makes sense.

Of course, having been to the Krak I am now sorely tempted to make some analogy with the West's current foray into the Middle East. I will keep it brief as there are many ones floating around the interweb. I remember when Bush the Lesser slipped up and mention the War Of Terror as a crusade. The poor sods paid to justify his inability to speak in even one language had to work very hard that day. He backpedaled in the fear that this word would anger and unsettle many Muslims.

I have a different take on the matter. It's not the Muslims who should have been unsettled; it's the denizens of the West whose ears should have pricked up. The Crusades were by and large a collection of failures. The most successfull ones didn't even leave a truly lasting legacy and the fuck-ups outnumber the successes by far, whether it be idiotic peasants or children marching off to their deaths, horifying pogroms or grandstanding nobles bickering with each other. When you consider what the Muslim world at the time, the Crusades were hardly a blip.

The only ananopgy I am willing to make is one that the Krak helps illustrates. It was pretty much the height of defensive enginneering at the time and was reputed impregnable. In the tactical sense it was but it fell none the less as the knights realised they had lost the bigger battle for the Middle East and scarpered to Tartus. Being bloody good at fighting and having the best kit doesn't compensate for lack of local support and blithering ignorance.

My cheap shot at the Bushies over I guess I will get on with my overall Syria post as tommorow I will be in Jordan. I suppose I should explain what I was doing in Syria beyond tourism. I was looking for someone.

I was searching for a specific man. I know him well and so do you. We've seen him on TV a lot. He shouts a lot in a guttural language. He wears a beard. He burns flags and embassies. He speaks some words we can understand like shaheed, jihad and Allah Ackbar. He hates us and he wants to kill us. He even wants to die while doing so. He believes he will get 72 virgins if he dies slaughtering us on our way to work. He's nuts and he's our enemy. He gives us no choice but to kill him.

I figured this chap would be in Syria so I tried to see if I could locate him with the same regularity as our beloved members of the press. I confessed I failed miserably.

What I found in Syria was a bunch of truly sound people. Syria is the backpackers' darling for a good reason. Here you are never alone unless you want it. Here you are never truly lost as people will immediately spot you trying to read the street signs and guide you to wherever you wish to go. The is little of the hustle that make other places in the area tiresome. When people here invite you for a cuppa or offer to help you it is very rarely in expectaion of dosh.

A few anecdotes can illustrate this. My first taxi in Damascus was free as my co-passengers wanted to welcome me to Syria. I can't even count the amount of free coffees I got as the owners of a place or nearby patrons with whom I had exchanged pleasantries footed the bill. In the Krak I left my rucksack by the door as one Syrina had told me it was safe and that was good enough for me.

The man on the telly was also absent in the hundreds of politics chinwags I have had here. This is somewhat of a national sport here and newcomers are welcome. I'm not talking about cute "Boosh, he bad man" crap either. This is intense stuff with facts brought forth, counterpoints encouraged and perspectives discussed. Maybe he was the guy bringing the tea and was too busy.

The point I am overdramatically trying to make is that Syria is one of the most misrepresented places I have ever been to. The great quest for ever simplified and fast news distorts a lot of things but here the vilification takes the piss. My faith in journalism was a puny and illtreated creature to start off with. My travels have already caused it to be roughed up somewhat. In Syria, it has been taken outside to the pub car park by a large skinhead called Gary and has been kicked nearly to death.

For fairness sake I should point out that not everything is cute and cuddly here. Syrians may be great folk but their rulers are not and this is not a free society. I won't go into what Syria is up to in Lebanon or the truly piss poor human rights record. My personal experience has revealed a dark side of this place.

Syrian hospitality and honesty is enforced as well as customary. In the rare times I have had a wee bit of argie bargie with a local, the fear was somewhat palpable. My macho side would like to believe that a tall foreigner using variolus declinations of "fuck" caused the other sod to know the true meaning of fear but this is not the case. I learned that being on the wrong end of a complaint from a ferengi can get a local 6 months in jail, no questions asked. This knowledge has restrained me from going too mental at the few devious Syrians I encountered (taxi drivers) as I don't mind some punishment meted out for attempting to rip me off but not half a year in a Syrian nick.

I have also been doing a lot more editing of my draft posts. I usually make some modifications from the first scribbled-in-a-cafe version to the one on the web but here I have been much more active in my self-censorship. I have had to remove stuff for reasons other than style, length or not wanting my family to know all I get up to. My time in Syria and the willingness of locals to engage with foreigners have produced a slew of blogworthy anecdotes. This time I have had to be very carefull with the detaisl as some of it could land locals in serious shit. It's tempting to spin some tale of booze, weapons and/or crazyness to harp up the image of the dilletante drunk in weird climes but this could end up being read by one of Assadthe Second's many pitbulls. It's not me they'll nail for giving a bad image of Syria.

Other minus points to Syria are the dificulty of boozing and the strangely high numbers of gingers here. I should also specify that when I mention Syrians interacting with me I mean Syrian men. You can't talk to the lasses here let alone coax them into the sack. Nowhere's perfect.

My next stop should be Petra but when I post next is uncertain. My planned fun run across the Middle East has forced me to select the places I wish to see badly and prioritise harshly. Hence Jordan now gets narrowed down to Petra. I will be moving a lot and fast between Damascus and Tel Aviv so when I will have the time and energy to blog is up in the air.

I am also a bit gloomy today as I have bought a plane ticket back to Europe. I find it difficult to laugh at the irony that my favourite area so far is the place where I am the most constrained by funds. My consolation is that a part of me does not see this as the final point of a truly amazing period of my life. I will get back to this in my last post but, to paraphrase Churchill, I have the feeling this is not the beginning of the end but the end of the beginning.

Take care,

Arabin

2008-01-30T13:54:00.000Z

Beirut, Lebanon

I got myself into a share taxi from Damascus and got promptly adopted by 2 Palestinian Lebanese women who kept me fed and coffeed during the 3 hour trip. This made for a pleasant journey where, in between shoving snacks into my mouth they gave me advice to stay away from anywhere that Hezbolah dominates and never to show fear if I happen to run across one of the "ninja turtles".

The border crossing got me a bit edgy as the Lebanese visa man wanted to refuse me entry. Middle Eastern officials like crisp and intact passports and don't like putting their precious stamps on the shoddy and barely legible sponge I carry. A combination of grovelling (me) and shouting (my new Lebanese mums) eventually managed to secure my entry to the land of the Cedars. We were on our merry way to Beirut with no incidents except a bit of shouting as we drove through Sabra and one of the ladies decided to give our Syrian driver some viewpoints about what Syria is up to in Lebanon.

Beirut is the Paris of the Middle East. In a way I can see how this lazy cliche works. The Paris side can be seen in the omnipreesnce of French street names, swanky eateries, grandiose buildings and hordes of annoyingly fashionable people. The Middle Eastern aspect is revealed by the odd bullet riddled building, armed soldiers on the streets and a smattering of tanks and APCs. It takes about 2 hours for the newcomer to stop marvelleing at the common sight of some new shiny building next to one that has had the machine gun and rocket urban renovation treatment. Some of these buildings display patched up holes next to more fresh ones courtesy of the IAF in 2006.

Another sport the tourist has to try in Beirut is hassling the locals as to where it is safe to go in the city or elsewhere. This sounds, and is, a bit pathetic but it is not completly useless. A couple of days ago there was a protest in a Shia area about electricity cuts that ended in gunshots and some arsehole lobbing a grenade and killing 7 people. What constitutes too much risk is up to the individual backpacker to decide. My personal benchmark was that the moment I heard gunfire over the din of my fellow drinkers I would skedaddle to the safety of Syria. So far, so good.

Lebanon is smaller than some American cars and just as expensive to be in so my time here is short. The plus side is that you can daytrip nearly everywher from Beirut. Wikitravel has an excessively paranoid warning about some parts of Lebanon. It even advises an armed guard. This is complete tosh but it makes me feel all brave about heading down south.

After a brief lookse at the ancient cities of Sidon and Tyre it was time to enter the Party of God's stomping ground. Neocons and other rightwing fools might portray the Hezbolah controlled parts of Lebanon as the Heart of Darkness but to me it seems almost banal. Almost.

There are a few signs that the South is a smidgeon different. The first one is that you need permission from the Lebanese Army to go there. You can also spot some subtle differences in the roadside literature. Gone are the sales promotions and billboards with scantily clad models. It's all black flags, yellow flags, Nasralla's chubby face and posters of deceased martyrs. Beyond that the locals are nice and the snacks are good.

One interesting sight in the UNIFIL area is the prison of Al Khiam, a detention center once run by the IDF and their Lebanese miltias. It is now run by Hezbollah as some weird tourist sight. Most of it is rubble and the tales of Zionist cruelty must be taken with a pinch of salt though they shouldn't be written off as complete bullshit either. One strange display comes Hezbollah's bright idea to put fake (hopefully) Khaibar rockets on a site a few miles away form the border. Makes for fun photos but you can't help but wonder if today is the days the other side is going to make sure these are not a threat.

Slightly more moving are the plaques with the names of the 4 UN peacekeepers killed by an Israeli bomb in 2006. The Hezbollah guys see this as a testimony of Israel's contempt for international law and human life. I saw these plaques as yet another result of the UN's complete inability to grow a pair and have real clout. There are still blue helmets around and I wondered what it feels like being a peacekeeper knowing that the UN did fuck all in 2006 even after 4 of their own got killed.

A really strange sight outside the camp is a bullet riddled BMW. Someone really went to town on the car but I could get no explanation as to why this example of Lebanese tuning was there. It looks somewhat recent though as the bullet holes had only started to rust. BMWs are a wanker's car so maybe the locals did their equivalent of keying the doorpanels.

Nearby there is the hilltop fortrees of Beaufort castle. Hezbollah kindly put up an informative sign with a brief history of the place. It starts off quite normally with the usual history of the place (since Roman times, Arabs, Crusaders etc...) but then goes off on a long spiel with piccies about the operations ran against the IDF who were the last to use this place and its fantastic views over the area. One again Lebanon provided some symbolic overload to the effect that foreign belligerents have been using this area as a playground for centuries.

Conflict tourism done it was time to return to Beirut for more daytrips, visits to my new Lebanese mum and her family and lots of boozing. Syria makes pissartists hunt for their tipple but not so here. There are many trendy bars and the hostels don't have an issue with pre-barcrawl bevvies iether. The bars are more Paris than the Middle East as the beer is pricey, the music ethnic and the patrons trendy and blase. They even outdo Paris in the totty department. Lebanese girls out on the town are one of nature's greatest sights.

The flip side of this leery coin, as some local lads bitterly explained, is that it's all show and no go. The cruel irony is that, with marriage, the headscarved chicks are attainable but the drool inducing bar babes of Beirut have made it their mission to make menfolk understand just how much they are below them. So cruel yet so luscious.

I have already pointed out the difficulty of being bladdered and getting home in Damascus. Not so Beirut. The omnipresent soldiers are a really sound bunch who will direct you and guide you at any time and regardless of the state you are in. To me these lads were also a very interesting sight in themsleves.

I had noticed that some were armed with the ubiquitous AK while others toted the all American M16 rifle. When you see this it becomes tempting to dismiss the Lebanese miltary as a fucko outfit who can't even get their small arms supply sorted. The problem with this is that it ignores what these chaps are there for. It's painfully clear that they cannot fulfil the traditional miltary role of keeping foreign khaki wearers out. They know full well that they haven't got a prayer against the Syrians or the Israelis. What they really are is a guarantor of stability.

The army is here to avoid a repeat of the 80's when Beirut was a synonym of chaos, destruction and death. Worldwide, soldiers have to bear many burdens but the Lebanese troops are tasked with nothing less than keeping the lid on Pandora's box. The old rivalries are still there and bigger neighbours are still all too willing to use the place as a battleground by proxy or otherwise. The politicisation of religion is, if anything, much stronger than the bad old days and the recent spate of killings of politicians show that the ballot hasn't completely replaced the bullet as a method of gaining power. With this is mind, the squaddies get some serious respect from this tourist especially as they still manage to be nice to wandering pissed-up idiots.

The above shows that politics are not some bar counter abstraction in Lebanon. Over here, lenghty discussions about the state of the Middle East are a bit like the food; of very high quality, unavoidable and part of the experience. Lazy journos might claim to know what the Lebanese street is thinking. Less idle but equally misleading ones wil try and categorize the opinions of Lebanese people in a few neat categories.

In the short time I have been here I have chatted over beers with Lebanese Christians and secular Muslims, I have drank coffee in the homes of Palestinian refugees, I have swapped ciggies with guys from Hezbolah and I have killed time chinwagging with various expats. Politics was always discussed and, suprisingly, the opinions differed from individual to individual. I tend to feel uncomfortable when reading about the state of mind of the Lebanese. Putting people into categories and assigning viewpoints makes this place look quasi tribal when it is anything but

The journalistic instinct to simplify things and the complicit desire of readers/viewers for easy answers have led to a slightly patronising redux of this place. The politics of Lebanon are unbelievably complex and, unless you want to read a dozen heavy books, the best thing you can do is accept that you can't fully undertand it. You can also assume that these well-educated multilinguists can use their brains and make up their ownmind regardless of what subsection of Lebanese society they nominally belong to.

As for the tourist in all this? What should he do beyond shooting the shit? In this case nothing. Frankly I have nothing to add to the debate. No viewpoint of mine is going to be fresh and radical in this place. No fact brought forth will be unnown to the locals. I have decided to treat Lebanese politics as a lapdance. It's what you are here for so relax and enjoy what you get. However, as tempting it might be, do not get involved.

Lebanon has been fantastic and I will certainly return here. Hopefully, other nations will leave it the fuck alone. It's about time.

My next stop is again undecided but, due to budgetary constrainst, I am going turn Japanese. Not in the sense of wanking over seriously fucked-up cartoon porn but in the sense of seeing a lot of places in a short amount of time.

Take care,

Arabin

2008-01-25T15:04:00.000Z

Damascus, Syria

It's tempting to start the post on Damascus with what everyone does and make some pun on taking the road there. My chosen allegory comes from a more powerful source than religion; the silver screen. Specifically David Lean's wonderful Lawrence of Arabia.

There is a specific scene that put Damascus in my head as one of the great destinations of my trip. At some point in the flick Lawrence and his boys come across a straggling Turkish column and TE is tempted to give in to the bloodthirst and attack. Sherif Ali tries to convince Lawrence to go round the Turks and ignore the dark mutterings of "no prisoners". His final plea is the name of this mystical city. " Damascus, Lawrence, Damascus!".
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With Omar Sharif's words in my head I finally made it to this town and find myself in a bit of a pickle when writing about it. It's getting more and more tricky to describe legendary places when there are countless books, TV shows and films that can do it better. The imaginary readers I write for can be put in 2 camps. Either they have the same wanderlust as I and will doubtless have their own knowledge and idea about wherever I am or they couldn't care less and I would need to seriously work on my writing skills to give them a desire to come here. The best I can really do is give instructions of sorts to the former group if and when they come here. See below:

The best of Damascus is of course in the old city. Avoid the temptation to go straight to the biggies. Circle it then enter at dome random point away from the souvenir stalls. The city is lived and worked in so you can just get lost in the narrow alleyways and dodge the microtrucks that somehow get around the streets to deliver stuff. Areas tend to have specialties from the predictable coppersmiths to the slightly more practical ones like boilers, nappies and stationery. Enjoy the noise and chaos then head to the Citadel.

Next to the Citadel enter the huge covered market and keep going. Look up at the iron roof. It's peppered with bullet holes (the source of these is uncertain. By asking around I was told it was either the work of the French when they suppressed a rebellion, of the locals celebrating when the French fucked off or of the trigger happy Bedouins marking their entry into Damascus during the Arab Revolt) and the effect is that of a constellation of stars. Continue until you reach one of the most beautiful houses of worship in the world. The Omayad mosque. Remove shoes and enter the courtyard. Gaze at the murals and at the minarets. Take a few pics then start hopping. It's snowy here and the combination of marble floor, melting snow and no shoes policy will give you very wet and cold feet hence the hopping. Walk out and ask to go to the mausoleum of the ultimate infidel basher; Saladin. Find out that it's been renovated/beautified/upgraded and that it's closed for visitors. Whinge a bit

After that just wander again and take in as many churches, mosques, madrassas as you wish. Pop in to a museum or 2. If you speak French nip in to the one consecrated to Arab medicine. Give Syrians due cred for not pointing out that when they were developing medicine and pharmacology as sciences us ferengis were still drowning or burning old ladies foolish enough to reveal their glancing knowledge of herbs.

It's evident from the above that even a good effort on my behalf will sell Damascus short. There are better accounts out there and some of them are from bloggers who aren't too lazy to put pictures up. To distinguish myself I will have to write about some of the more funky day trips that can be done around Damascus. Here follows a wee set of instructions for going to Quneitra, a deliberately untouched set of modern ruins in the UN zone next to the Golan heights. The Israelis nabbed it after 67 and when the UN told them to give it back in the 70's they decide to hand back a pile of rubble and trashed the place. However, first things first.

Disclaimer: The Arab-Israeli conflict has the strange effect of polarizing people to ridiculous levels. Even a brief mention of it can transform a dinner party into a rabid shoutfest. I know full well that any info given locally in the Middle East will be partisan. When relaying that info I should go websurfing for other versions but I can't be arsed to trawl through endless amount of demented websites for a counterpoint to what I have been told. It's too time-consuming and depressing so I will simply write what I have been told and anyone wanting to see what the other side can google at their leisure. Good fucking luck.

This disclaimer holds until I leave the Middle East and applies to all countries. Feeble attempts to give balanced opinions will be clearly marked as such.

Now that's out of the way please see below for how to enjoy a fun day out at one of the Middle East's potential flashpoints.

First go and obtain a permit to the area. Make your way to the HQ of what is locally translated as the Secret Service (this is in the British sense of shadowy and sinister enforcer of the government and not in the American sense of highly visible, ineptly named praetorians with squiggly earpieces). Unsurprisingly it's in an unmarked building but you will know your are close by the large amount of chaps in civvies toting weapons. Drop off your passport and wait for half an hour. Get bored and decide to build a small snowman with your fellow trippers. Nickname it Spooky the Snowman and take piccies. Get a bollocking for taking photos in front of a highly sensitive building. Get given permits and passports.

Find out which of Damascus' many fecking bus stations serves Quneitra. Get there and realise that, strangely enough, ghostowns don't have many residents so you have to go to the closest inhabited village and take it from there. Hop in and out of a few minibuses until you arrive to the entrance. Hand over passport and have one of the guards take you for a tour. Think this is way cool of the Syrians until you realise they are making a point plus unsupervised tourists wandering off into the minefields won't exactly enhance their international image.

Get taken to the old hospital and see the wonderful sign on it: "First destructed by the Zionists then made into target practice". Go inside where every last square foot of the place has been pockmarked with ordnance of varying sizes. Continue to the ruined town and make you way to the border. Walk past UN barracks full of Austrian soldiers and barracks with Syrian squaddies. Have a little snowball fight with the latter group. Be careful not to make iceballs or aim too well for, however friendly they might be, it is a bad idea to hit armed men in the face with cold projectiles.

Keep walking up to the border post. Gaze across the razor wire and the minefield at the Beersheba apple orchards. Get told they are worked on by, of all things, Irish Jews. Spot bitch and little puppy trying to suckle. Point this out to the females of the group. Wait 15 minutes as they get distracted from conflict politics and coo over canine cuteness.

Walk right up to the last barrier. Wander what the point of having a movable barrier when no one has been able to cross for a long time. Squint and try to read the "Welcome to Israel" sign on the other side. See a UN SUV go through and feel sorry for the poor sods whose lodgings are in No Man's Land between 2 belligerents who are known for not giving a toss about the sanctity of the blue helmet. Get invited to take pictures of the opposition and have a niggling doubt in the back of your head that if you keep doing this kind of tourism this might be the closest you'll ever get to Israel.

Walk back the few miles to the entrance to in the hope that some microbus will pass by. Kindly get invited into the guardhut for warmth and have a wee chat. Look at your surroundings and spot the AK on the wall next to a shelf with baby formula on it. Have a fellow traveller take a photo of you and this oh-so incongruous and symbolic display. Get another camera related bollocking.

Hitch a ride back to inhabited places with the missus of the curator of the local museum that was closed for the winter. Learn that there is shedloads of ancient and apolitical history to the place. Admire the balls of the people doing archaeological digs in an area full of mines and UXOs.

Get back to Damascus in time for dindins and a night out in a Damascene cafe where the hip youth go for shisa, music and good atmos. Thanks the stars that the place is one that has an alcohol licence so that ferengis can get bladdered. Walk back very late to the hostel. Get lost for a while and reflect that labyrinthine streets make for great daytime ambling but not for getting back home when pissed. Use compass a lot.

Well there you have my Damascus entry. My next stop will be in Lebanon. Politics compel me to make haste and get in and out of the Land of Cedars sooner rather than later. In a couple of weeks the Lebanese parliament has to elect a new president and I reckon that if things go to shit it will be after rather than before that date. I know that there was another bomb in Beirut yesterday but I still reckon I am safe. The recent bombings there have all been targeted assassinations and since I don't get to schmooze with the Levant's political players (to my regret) I should be OK.

I say this to reassure my family and others who might care about my wellbeing. Going to Lebanon, like my foray into Northern Irak, is not a sign of recklessness on my behalf but of resignation. Middle Eastern politics being as they are, it is impossible to go anywhere in the region with zero risk. In my mind, there is no such thing as total safety as my odd rant about the destruction of civil liberties by cowardly politicians back home shows.

I don't decide to go somewhere on a whim and with a Devil-may-care attitude. I might laugh in the face of danger but I make bloody sure that Danger is in a good mood, has only had a few pints and understands that I am laughing with him and not at him. When I return to the West I will of course be very keen to impress to naive women that I was gambling with my life when I was in the 'Rak and the Leb'. What I won't say is that the odds were heavily stacked in my favour. A simple test will show this.

By this time tomorrow I should be in Beirut. Any reader who is based in a large Western country will be able to scan the national news and the chances are that someone was murdered there. The reader could then look the international pages and see what has gone on in the Middle East over the same period. What is very unlikely to be there is a report that a Western tourist was killed (and you can be damn sure that it would be in the news if it had). I don't know about Gott mit uns but the stats are on definitely on my side.

Next stop, Beirut

Take care,

Arabin

2008-01-20T16:33:00.000Z

Haleb aka Aleppo, Syria

Once again the backpacker grapevine has proved far more reliable than the guidebooks or official websites. For Brits, the consular route to Syria is a long and arduous one with obligatory stops at one's own consulate for letters of recommendation. For Americans it is a month long road to Calvary strewn with refusal slips. Even more fun for the seppoes is that the US government will not give a letter of recommendation but will give a letter to this effect.

The wily traveller decides not to wake the consular Cerberus and goes straight to the border where the guards will set you up in less than an hour. It's a half day wait for Americans but there has to be some penalty for that silly Axis of Evil nonsense.

I got here and found that there are two things I hadn't seen since Cappadoccia; daytime warmth and other backpackers. I teamed up with some Italians to go pressganging and we quickly rounded up a minibus and a minibus worth of fellow gawkers to go and have a look at the sights around Aleppo.

There are some deserted cities where one can climb and duck into ruined buildings and guess what they were. To be fair they weren't completely deserted as I found out after scuttling into a hole to find myself on all fours in a donkey's stable. Donkey was less startled than me.

More grandiose is Apamea where Seleucus the First built himself a city with a still standing huge central avenue. The bloke was one of Alexander the Great's generals and, after boy wonder's death, was competent enough to twock himself a piece of Big Al's conquests and start a wee dynasty. No donkeys in Apamea but loads of sprogs herding goats and sheep.

Weirder are the ruins of the St Simeon Basilica built around a pillar where this chap ended his days after a few decades living on top of this and other assorted pillars. Why he did this is unclear and there is even more mystery about how he went to the bog atop his pillars. But then these were the good old days were smelly religious nutcases were canonised not institutionalised.

In Aleppo there are a smattering of churches, mosques, souks and, the Middle East being as peaceful a millenia ago as it is now, a large and well fortified citadel. Of these the souks were my favourite for no better reason that Allepians are as fond of the hard sell as they are of bacon sarnies. Unlike Turkey, a quick "no thanks" ends the commercial part of the interaction but not the conversation itself. The best of these was the blacksmiths area but they get a little minus point for not letting me burn myself and fuck up their labour by having a go.

It's the chats that have made me get very enthusiastic about Syria. Whether in the souks, shisha joints, streets or fruit juice stands the locals seem to enjoy having a chinwag about everything and anything with foreigners. So far I have discussed local, geo-, Brit, French, Chinese and American politics. I have also blathered about travelling, mechanics, food, booze, women, religion, Koreans, visas for Syria, visas for Azerbaijan, visas for the UK, setting up a shop in Shoreditch, reasons not to live in Devon, Shakira's arse, Britney's tits, the tits and arse of some Arab pop singer unknown to me, green tea, black tea, builder's tea, Turkish coffee and homosexuality.

The last was a tad strange as it took me a while to realise what we were talking about. A vendor in the souk wanted to go to the UK and he told me he had a girlfriend there and was thinking about a civil partnership. I corrected him when he referred to his girlfriend as "he" but then he told me it was a he because he was a vegetarian. I didn't quite get what he was talking about and only twigged when he asked me if I was "vegetarian, normal or AC/DC".

A bit more disturbing was when a guy at a felafel stand asked me if I could help him with his English. I accepted and he showed me a list of words and asked for provide definitions, some help with the phonetics and some sample phrases for context. The list included: salvation, signs of the end of ages, resolution, credit transfer, I'm not interested and (Ave Borat) rape and rapist.

Creepy offhand English lessons aside I have decided that me likey Syria.

The next stop is still undecided. Most places being half a day's travel away I don't feel the need to plan too much. Also, if I head south, I am faced with a difficult choice as there are 2 places that were high on the must-see list for myself I jotted down nearly 3 years ago. These are the Krak Des Chevaliers and Damascus. What should I see first? Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Take care,

Arabin

2008-01-17T15:26:00.000Z

Antakya, Turkey

In places as evocative as Antioch I am tempted to use the old name to start my post. Here, however, I must use the current name. Whatever images the name of Antioch can conjure up are better than this place. You can dream of Seleucid courts, Roman orgies, saintly Christians a' preaching, crusaders slaughtering or Arab grandeur but you won't find much trace of it here.

It's not an unpleasasnt place but it is just a smallish Turksh town with an old church. a few bazaars and an OK museum. It's current role on the trail is to provide a few comforts before the entry into Syria.

As such I won't say more about the place but will do a little Turkey post. See below:

From a travel perspective Turkey reminds me of Thailand. It's a pleasant place with lots to see and everything is easy to figure out and generally works. I say generally since this is the third time I have had to log on again thanks to electricity cuts. As a hub Turkey is even more important than Thailand. It is on the southern end of those doing the Eastern Europe trail, the jumping off point for a lot of Central Asian trippers and the entry/exit point of the Middle Eastern lot.

For all its gems and overall pleasantness, Turkey for me shares another distinction with Thailand. It's interesting but not truly fascinating and it's nice rather than great. Snobs like me who want to be the only person in the pub to have been to XYZ are blase about Turkey before even getting here. The internal ponce can't help but whine that everything is too easy.

I don't want to short change the place either. Turkey has a lot to offer to tourists and is intriguing in many ways. For a start, Turkey is important and its woes, triumphs and debates should be watched closely.

The biggie issue about Turkey is, of course, whether or not it should enter the European Union. The prospect of membership has been dangled in front of the Turks for a while and many hoops have been jumped through yet they are still out of the club. The Turks themselves are getting a bit tired of this and I reckon if some sort of definite timetable doesn't emerge in the next 5 years they may decide to sod it and do something else.

I have given an incredibly succint and ignorant explanation of the positions of European supporters and opponents of membership in my Armenia post. I am just as lazy and ignorant in Antakya as I was in Yerevan so I won't expand on it. Instead I will quickly lay out what I see as the pros and cons of letting Turkey into the Beethoven 9th club.

If we let them Ottomans in Europe we gain a large source of cheapish labour which we need badly. We also get a growing internal market and a nice big fuck-off army in case the EU gets its act together and decides to acquire some true clout. Economically Turkey is more or less ready ready to join and anyways we can't use
that excuse anymore. Not after we let Romania join.

The cons are having a new and very big border with poorish countries/ Turkey's Human Rights record is improving but still shit enough that it will mkeep a lot of European bureaucrats very busy and at out expense (at the moment they are off the hook for they have learnt to do as the Romans and use terrorism as an excuse for any nastyness they feel like inflicting). It will also take some work to convince the Turkish army that they are now just cannon fodder and don't get to play kingmakers anymore. The cheap labour thing wll only work for a short while until Turkey catches up which is why they want to join in the first place.

I haven't mentioned the Islam issue in either pros or cons as I think it's a red herring. Talking about it makes right wing xenophobes and dippy multiculturalists believe they matter but it's not really a problem. Europe already has a large Muslim population and they are expanding quite well on their own. A European Turkey will not become the great EU communicator to the Muslim world and neither will it be the main champion of an Islamic Europistan.

The last point is truly important as some of the more frothy mouthed chaps on the right rant the dangers of integrating so many million Muslims into our oh so secular Europe. This argument is complete bollocks. Turkey is one of the most secularist countries on earth.

In front of one of the unis in Diyarbakir I saw a thriving wig shop. Its success is due to the fact that, in Turkey, you can't even use government services if displaying any sign of religion. The shop sells the wigs to female students who want to abide by their custom without breaking the law. No tiresome French debate about "laicite" in Turkey and no silly gestures by reusenik headmasters in Turkey. The whole shebang is solved by a bit of ingenuity and entrepreneurship.

The fear of a post Erdogan Turkey going all fatwa happy has shown itself to be groundless. Just because some of the more strict Muslims felt they could have a little more leeway didn't mean they got their wish. TV's are ererywhere in Turkey and they are a nice way to kill time while waitng for a bus. I remember seeing an investigative report on the screen that amused me greatly.

The program used the standard tradecraft of journalistic dramas. There was the scrambled faces, the hidden cameras, freeze frames and arrows to highlight the misdeeds, the dramatic music and the inevitable confrontation of the heinous villain by the brave journo and the familiar running away. What was more uniquely Turkish is that the target of this sensationalist investigation happened to be a bunch of nurses or kept their veil on while working. Ataturk still trumps Mohamed in Turkey.

That's it for Turkey I'm afraid and tommorow I will be in Syria; insh Allah or more accurately insh Syrian border guard. Syrian visas are supposedly a pain in the arse to obtain but the backpacker grapevine has it that showing up at the border sometimes works. We'll see.

Next stop Aleppo?

Take care,

Arabin

2008-01-15T09:51:00.000Z

Diyarbakir, Turkey

Ying and Yang. The Chinese notion that opposing forces will balance each other and reach a desired equilibrium. A lot of Chinese medicine works on this principle and the symbol of the black and white disk is well known. You might have seen it tattooed on the shoulder of some bint who thinks she's spiritual.

My chi has been upset of late. It has struck me that flying home to see the parents for Xmas was not the most adventurous decision I have ever taken. This little psychological thorn in my side grew larger after a few days of waving toys in front of my niece's face. My little foray into what is essentially a perfect honeymoon destination did not improve matters.

The inner feminine was taking over. I had done too much cute and sensible stuff of late and balance had to be restored. How could this be done? Simple. All I had to do was to harness the stupid in me and bring back the inner man.

Being in the Turkish part of Kurdistan I decided to void my travel insurance and go to a country that is often in the news. My 2006 Middle east Lonely Planet has a tiny, uninformative section on this country which includes a few gems such as "currently one of the most dangerous places on earth", "not safe for independent travel" and "Solo travellers: You'd have to be mad". I was off to the sunkissed paradise of Iraq. My passport was going to get the backpacker equivalent of a gang tat.

There is stupidity and then there is suicide. The fundamental difference between palying with guns and palying Russian roulette. In order to be able to show off about getting into Iraaq I had to get out alive. Hence I decided to stick to the Kurdish controlled area of Iraq which is the one place in that country that isn't a complete clusterfuck.

This was made a tad complicated by the recent Turkish commando forays and bombing runs of Iraqi Kurdistan. There had been a large bomb in Diyarbakir a week before I got here and Turkish TV news was full of scenes of the aftermath. To make things worse, the Turkish PM Erdogan had gone to Washington to see Bush and they both babbled on about terrorism. Erdogan because he probably wanted permission to enter Kurdistan in force and Bush because he hasn't got anything else to say about anything.

I spent a couple of days in Diyarbakir asking Kurds about how safe it was and, suitably reassured, I made my way to the bordertown of Silopi. The area has a border with both Iraq and Syria hence watchtowers every 200 metres for bloody miles. The closer you get tp the border the heavier the concentration of tanks and trucks. The tanks are there in case Turkey decided to have a pop and the trucks are there because of the huge amount of trade.

I crossed the border without any fuss except for the giggles of the Iraqi Kurds when I declared myself as a tourist. I went to the taxi station (the main form of intercity transport in Iraq) where I met the some Yank soldiers of some tranport Corps or another. They were a friendly bunch and quite chuffed to be in the north but conversation through razor wire can be tricky so I bid themn farewell and got into a taxi for Arbil. They were the only regular US soldiers I saw in Iraq.

Arbil is quite safe but unfortunately the road there goes via Mosul which most certainly isn't. As one Iraqi told me "You go there, you don't come back". The taxi driver had no more wish to die than me or my fellow passengers so, like most vehicles, he got off the main road just north of Mosul and started to take the backroads. This was the only time I was nervous in my little trip.

In less than 3 hours in the taxi I had already got used to that wonderful feature of Iraqi roads; the checkpoints. Mainly these were manned by regular soldiers (I presume Kurds) and these were quite chummy and all offered the same advice of sticking to Arbil and not going to Mosul or Bagdad. Near Mosul though the checkpoints were supplemented by groups of armed blokes. I was told these guys were local militia who spend their evenings at the entry of their villages now that the road there has become a major highway courtesy of the insurgency.

I was tense but mainly I was a bit saddened by these guys. What kind of fucked up world do they live in where they spend their evenings with an AK on their backs, freezing their nuts off and shining torches into strangers' faces and vehicles?

Anyways we went through several of these villages then rejoined the main road. The rest of the journey was uneventful except for when I we crossed the path of another depressing Iraqi staple; what I mentally called the mercenary traffic hold-up. We passed a convoy of large SUVs with flashing plod lights. 500 yards behind them followed a long queue of Mercs and Beamers.

These are fast cars who usually speed along the roads and overtake averyone. In this case their speed was limited by the sign on the back of the last SUV to the effect that coming within 150 metres of the SUVs would get them shot. A freaky bubble of death serving as a speeding deterrent. I wondered what genius thought that things will improve in Iraq if you have enough unregulated and unaccountable mercs who feel that it is justifiable to kill someone if they get too close?

Finally got to Arbil and then had the joy of finding a hotel in the dark as electricity is usually out at night and the streets are nearly deserted after 7. Luckily there were a few Iranian Kurds street sweepers with fantastic English to direct me to the general area and then I was again lucky to be spotted by a tailor leaving his work late who helped me out. Ahmed was to become a good pal in Arbil and the next day fed me and gave me more tea than I really like.

Arbil is safe but that does not mean travelling there is a good idea. There is no hot water or heating, electricity is sporadic and few bother to run the gennies after 9 (this is actually a good thing as they are louder than the muezzins). To boot my usual assumption that there is always a shop or restaurant open was wrong. Hence my first night in Iraqi Kurdistan was a dark, cold and hungry one.

The next day I nipped off to see Ahmed who gave me an ample breakfast and sourced some hot water for my morning coffees and then I went to see one of Arbil's few sights; the citadel. The old walled city is not really amazing but I did get to meet a few interesting characters. I ran into a bunch of American mercenaries who were not the friendliest bunch. Their interpreters were sound though and sent me off to, of all things, a French cultural outpost of sorts.

After chatting with the folk at the Arbil Centre Arthur Rimbaud I went to take some snaps of the city. I found a high spot at the South Gate and took a few piccies. The very short Iraqi soldier (mental name: Pocket Peshmerga) I salaamed might have though I was one of the mercs as he saluted me. A cigarette and assurances of my status as harmless fool relaxed me and we were joined by another chap in uniform who pointed at himself whilst repeating "Captain".

More ciggies were exchanged and I asked if I could take a Photo of them/ They accepted but Captain insisted I took it from the wasit up as he was wearing flipflops. Being consumate pros it took me about 4 seconds to coax the AK off Pocket Peshmerga for a silly poser pic.

I make Pocket Peshmerga and the Captain sound comical but in a sense they are the reason I could go to a country at war, get the stamp and leave with nothing worse than smelly clothes and greasy hair. They were both Kurdish and they are the guys who make sure Kurdistan does not sink into the barbaric chaos of the rest of Iraq. I could make a pun/point about the fact that the one area where the coalition is absent(or at least discrete) is the one place where life is more or less normal. I'll get back to this later on.

I walked around Arbil and then decided to get out. My dwindling stock of dollars, my desire for something better than a cloth wash and my angst at being away from the Turkish border made me backtrack towrds the border to the town of Dohuk.

Dohuk is a thriving trading town an hour or so from the border. It's lively and this means that people are on the streets up to 9pm. It felt quite Turkish to be honest and its only highlight was a large dam and the fact that the Iraqi Kurdistan flag was painted on the surrounding mountains. The hills around looked like prime hiking material but since these mountains were the area where the PKK hide out and the Turks bomb I decided to follow the advice of a soldier and not stray from the road.

The next day I made my way back to Zakho and had the joy of getting back into Turkey. Getting to Iraqi Kurdistan was a piece of piss but getting back involvedd no end of hassle. The military, customs and passport people all feel the need to ask shitloads of questions (usually the same bloody ones) and search absolutely everything. I was quite pleased with myself as I had sent the poser pic to mates as a backup (and to show off) and deleted it from my camera which the fuckers took 10 minutes looking at. To make things worse the taxi driver had tried to use us to smuggle ciggies. I told him to fuck off but the other passengers accepted. Of course customs caught them hence lots of shouting and disappearing round corners for bribes.

I managed to go a bit faster than others thanks to a large Central Asian stash of passport photocopies but this was in vain. I was sharing a cab with 2 Iraqis from Bagdad and the Turks were not going to let them in without a fuss. visa or no visa. Later I tried to repay the kindness Iraqis had bestowed on me by helping the couple once in Diyarbakir.

The Turkish zeal is due to the situation with their own Kurds and the PKK. This also illustrates a point about how tricky Iraq is and why Bush's ignorance is so destructive. At a glance Iraqi Kurdistan looks like the success story of the invasion. This quasi autonmous region was quite chuffed when the risk of Saddam moving back in was removed for good. They then ran the place quietly and made bloody sure the jihadis stayed out. Pats on the back all round.

However a closer look reveals the bind the Yanks have put themselves into. After 9/11 much noise was made about being with us or against us. What happens when those with you are against each other? This is the case here. Washington can't afford to destabilise the one part of Iraq that works and they can't afford to piss off their best Middle East ally after Israel. Do they annoy the Turks by refusing them permission to mount large scale ops or do they risk alienating the small part of the Iraqi population that likes them by letting Turkish troops rampage around? A classic Catch 22.

I could use my very short stint into Iraqi Kurdistan to justify adding yet another opinion on the Iraq war to the blogosphere. It's tempting but it's difficult. Difficult because in a sense I haven't been to Iraq.

I haven't been to a country ripped apart by the foolishness of men from far way. I haven't been to the horrible illustration of the notion that however bad things are they can always get worse. I haven't been to a country where the fear of a cuntish tyrant has been replaced by the equally justified fear of everyone. I haven't been to a place where hundreds of thousands have died because of an experiment in geopolitics. I haven't been to where the Anglosaxon West lost any moral highground and, possibly even worse, the perception of invincibility. I haven't been to a country that serves as a rallying cry and argument for any nutcase bent on killing for Allah. I haven't been to the country that is in the grip of one of the most pointless and stupid conflicts ever.

I apologise for the rant above but let me explain it. Usually I would look back on to what I wrote and delete a chunk of it. What usually happens is that I read what I have just typed out and let loose my inner censor on it. This little chap asks me if I want to sound like yet another armchair general. He asks me if I truly believe that I know better. He tells me it's easy to pontificate from the sidelines and with the benefit of hindsight. This little voice sounds of the killer question: "Do you think you could have done better?".

In this case the answer is Yes. If I had been in Bush's, Rumsfeld's or Btemer's undoubtedly expensive shoes I would have done better. My mates could have done better. Randdom people with a smidgeon of sense could have done better. A team of school debaters could have better. A fucking monkey using sign language could have done better.

Bush has said he will let history be the judge of the War on Iraq. History is not a sentimental judge. Utter bastards are legion amongst those we see as great. Even seriously degenerate monsters sometimes get a grudging respect for what they achieved in the long run. There is a tiresome debate about why Hitler is seen as the incarnation of evil when Stalin, who probably killed more, gets off lightly and is actually admired by some. Many arguments are put forward by I suggest a simple one. Hitler blew his brains out in a bunker whilst outside a once powerful country was being reduced to rubble. Stalin died in his bed at the helm of the world's second most powerful country.

History forgives a lot but not incompetence. A tragic fact is that suffering will be forgotten and the deaths will become just a numeral (that is once a serious bodycount is done as the Geneva convention demands). What will not be glanced over is the stunning collection of mistakes made in Iraq starting with the decision to invade in the first place. No one will give a toss whether or not the Bushies (and I include Blair in this instance) meant well. People will wonder if they were drunk when they took their idiotic decisions.

Historians of the future will probably name Iraq as a possible cause of whatever topic they are writing about. There will be a Before Iraq and an After Iraq. The Vietnam analogies will not be seen as shrill but as understatements. We haven't even begun to see the consequences of the Iraqi conflict. How America votes in November might mitigate things but only a truly exceptional being can solve the Iraqi problem.

Anyways I have now added my penny's worth on Iraq. My blog is now one of the many ill-informed rants on a horrible disaster. I however, have got the stamp to prove I went there and you may be sure I will wave it around when a drunken late night discussion doesn't go my way and I need some add some gravitas to my incoherent discourse.

Off to beg the Syrians to let me in with a quick stop in a city that, coincidentally, was quite important in a previous disastrous and misguided attempt to change the balance of power in the Middle East.

Next stop Antioch,

Take care,

Arabin

2008-01-08T14:33:00.000Z

Goreme, Cappadocia, Turkey

This place is one of Turkey's foremost tourist destination which might seem strange as there is not a beach or an Ottoman grandeur in sight. What's special here is the geology and what people have done with it.

Volcanic stone and shedloads of erosion have created a stange landscape of gorges, ravines and above all fairy chimneys. These are monoliths of sorts that vary in size and shape from the mini mountain to the flint spearhead shape and some that look like the can opener on a swiss army knife. Some have been coyly described as looking like mushrooms as no travelguide likes to use 20 metre cock as a simile. It's snowing here hence making for even more gigglesome sights.

Beyong making me regress, the snow and the shifting light coming through the clouds give this place a, well faerical quality. The fairy name comes from (according to one source) the mystics who used to light candles around the chimneys. Locals believed these lights were fairies. At least those who couldn't be bothered to check out nightlights 500 yards away from their homes did.

The mystics were amongst many Cappadocians who carved into the chimneys. Homes, stables, churches, monasteries and strongholds were dug into the soft rock over the ages. I reckon because it's easier than to actually build a home since the rock is easily carved.

The local fetish for digging spread around the area and those who weren't blessed by cool rocks simply went straight down hence the smattering of underground cities in the region. These started as simple hidey holes for peasants in case raiders showed up and then got expanded by various people particularly the early Christians who needed somewhere to lay low when they had pissed off someone. The end result is a huge network of caverns on 8 levels connected by narrow tunnels.

These cities are one of the reasons Cappadocia gets my thumbs up. The sights are big playgrounds with a bit of culture thrown in. As the prospect of freezing myself on a rented scooter didn't appeal to me I hopped on a tour bus full of Koreans. The guides were 2 youngish girls one of whom was doing a bit of on the job training. I kindly helped her training by giving the chance to deal with the reckless cretin amongst docile Asians.

I started to annoy the lass by diving and crawling into any tunnel, cave and crevice in the underground city that didn't have a grill on it. I got more annoying in the open where the sight of any byzantine scribbling sent me scrambling up the rocks. Underground cities and troglodyte churhes have too much of an Indiana Jones appeal not to be jumping in, under and above them,. My concession is that I got the Koreans to witness a declaration from me to the effect that any breakage suffered as a result of my childishness would be my fault and mine only.

Playing the mountain goat was not just as a result of a Turkish coffee and baklava induced hyperactivity but was also part of a self improvement process. In a way it was aversion therapy.

Somewhere around Kyrgystan I acquired something that I never had before. A fear of heights. Before that I had the normal heightened awareness when on unsure footing at breakneck heights or above. Now I get all queasy when I am on sure ground at merely breakleg levels. This will not do.

Not that I have anything against vertigo. Some of my bwst freinds are scared of heights. I recognise and celebrate the many achievements of those with vertigo throughout history and the valuable contributions they bring to our community today. It's just not my thing hence lots of climbing and ledge walking on snowy fairy chimneys. Therapy made fun.

Anyhoo it's time to leave the cute and beautiful side of Turkey and and go and visit the grimmer, if more politically interesting, one. Off to say hi to the Kurds.

Next stop, Diyarbakir,

Take care,

Arabin

2008-01-05T11:47:00.000Z

Istanbul, Turkey

First post of 2008. It's been a couple of weeks since the last one so let's make this one a bit different.

This lapse could be explained with an amazing tale of the road complete with quirky natives, arduous travel, strange alcohols and exotic places. It could but it won't.

From Batumi I bussed to Istanbul, crashed awhile and flew to mysterious Brighton for Crimbo with the family. As pleasant as it was for me, Xmas with the folks makes for poor storytelling. Suffice to say I stuffed myself and enjoyed doing naff all in a comfy home then flew back to Istanbul.

Istanbul, f.k.a Constantinople is one of the true gems amongst the many destinations of the Asian traveller. It has the ease and comfort of a European city, enough Oriental character to feel like a stranger in a strange land and many, many awesome sights.

I could harp on about the vast Topkapi palce and its many beautiful, if dubiously attributed treasures. I'll give them some leeway on the claim thqat they have Mahomet's sword but I get suspicious when some stick it purported to be Moses' own sea-parting rod. I could also write about the Mosque that was once the great Byzantine church of Hagia Sofia or the Blue Mosque or the Basilica Cistern or the Grand Bazaar or any of Istanbul's famous sights.

I won't do so because I was distracted. What could make this city's beautiful relics of an amazing past only worth a cursory glance? How could I not be entralled by the Orient's foothold in Europe, the city that warrants so many cliches of East meets West? Simple, I met a girl.

The be precise I met the coolest and cutest girl ever; my niece. My elder sister has kindly produced this welcome addition to my family and I got the joy of meeting her on my travels, Cue several days of being a gaga uncle. Highlights include some fun crawling on the floor, being with her went she went to another continent a couple of months shy of her first birthday and great smugness when my compass and bottle opener keychain was deemed more worthy of being played with and chewed on than her own toys. Istanbul just can't compete.

Anyways, the little bundle of joy has departed this city and so will I. I will try to revert to my blase ways from the cooing idiot I have enjoyed being the past few days. Hopefully the next time I roll around the ground, grinning inanely and making silly faces will be because of the more traditional reason of trying some local method of getting shitfaced.

Off to Cappadoccia,

Next stop, Goreme

Take care,

Arabin

2007-12-17T10:28:00.000Z

Batumi, Not Quite Sure If It Is A Republic of Ajaria, Georgia

Georgia is popular with backpackers mainly for the renowned hospitality and friendliness to be found in the villages of its mountains. Wine flows, songs are sung and the guest is shown the warmth of Georgian hearts and homes. That is why many travellers come here in droves. In the summer.

In winter the tourist gets to freeze his arse off in crumbling bus stations just to be told that the road is snowed in or that the risk of avalanches is too great. From personal experience I know that Georgian mashrutka drivers are fearless creatures who believe their beat-up Ford Transit can handle like a rally car and who augment their courage with frequent swigs of chacha (local homemade voddie). If these fellows say you can't get somewhere it's sound information indeed.

If the mountains won't come to Mahomet then Mahomet can do as he bloody well pleases. If Arabin can't go the mountains he sods off to the seaside. Hence I am in Batumi, Georgia's answer to Mallorca. Here I can watch the Black Sea form under a palm tree. This is actually wise as it's sodding raining here.

Being confined to drinking Turlkish coffee and eating cheesy pastries in cafes I got to writing mainly to avoid having to answer inane questions from teenage sailors in the Georgian navy. As is my habit, I started to ponder the reasons for this region being as it is.

A map and a glancing knowledge of history helps to undertand this neck of the woods. The Caucasus is a mountainous area (easy to defend, a fucker to conquer) that links the Black Sea to the Caspian. Its neighbours include the Turks, the Persians and the Russians, all of which have a tendency towards empire building and all equally aware of the need to secure this area if they want to fuck over their rivals. Cue a rich history of invasions and dust ups. The aggro more or less ceased when the Russkies won and the area had the joy of spending many years of fun as part of the Socialst Brotherhood and get to see many fuckugly concrete monuments getting built on their soil.

The disparate peoples of the Caucasus somehow managed to a sense of self despite the imposition of dullness from Moscow. When the Soviet empire went tits-up the culturally and ethnically diverse groups of this area finally had the freedom to do what they wanted. They had a fight

Armenia and Azerbaijan had a war over the region of Nagorno-Karabakh. Various ethnic cleansing attempts on both sides kicked off this war. The Azeris had the advantage of better economic resources, more military hardware and the not-so-discrete assistance of Turkey. The Armenian fighters had an assorted bunch of homemade weapons so naturally the Azeris lost and gained a large quantity of that Caucasus specialty; internal refugees.

The Azeris seem particularly bitter about this. Having an entry stamp to Nagorno will get you refused entry to Azerbaijan and an Armenian one guarantees you a fun time at the border. I have been told about the evils of Armenia more times than I wished I had whilst in Azerbaijan. One woman even gave me an earful on the sequence of names on my guidebook. The Armenians don't really seem togive a toss as they focus their hatred towards Turkey plus they didn't have their army arse-raped by a bunch of ragtag guerillas.

Georgia hasn't fought with its neighbous as it was too busy fighting itself. Beyond fighting in Tbilisi for control of the state there was a number of regions who reckoned they should be countries. Abkhazia, South Ossetia and Ajaria all decide to secede and it went as peacefully as you can imagine. Georgia got its own lot of internal refugees. The place I am in agreed to be a half-arsed Auonous region with the Georgian government after the Rose Revolution but there are elections coming up so it's possible the newly rebuilt bridges to Batumi might be blown up again.

In case some of you might be thinking that maybe these countries would have been better off staying within Russia you only have to look to the North to the earthly paradises of Dagestan and Chechnya to see how well that idea holds up.

Anyways I now have to think of stuff to do in Batumi that doesn't involve getting soaked. I am toying with going to the Stalin Museum. The one in the mustachioed murderer's bithplace cost a very capitalistic $15 so I gave it a miss but the local hommage to Georgia's most famous child is reputedly quite cheap. Part of the Georgia tourist experience is being told nice things about one of the most reviled men on the planet or so I've been told by assorted denizens of the Baltic States that seem to be the only folk aside from me stupid enough to go to the Caucasus in winter.

Take care,

Arabin

2007-12-11T13:41:00.000Z

Yerevan, Armenia

I had a fun-filled trip from Ganja to Tbilisi that consisted mainly of being woken up by various officials and either handing over my passport or waving in the direction of my bags. The Azeri border folk got a but miffed by my persistnce in staying under the blanket but the Georgians were a jolly lot were more amused than anything else. One customs lady helped me with the custom declaration form (it was in the obscure Georgian alphabet that reminds me a lot of the Cambodian one) and agreed with me that "2 rucksacks, big and small, containing stuff" was actually a pretty good description of what I was bringing into their country.

I got into Tbilisi, secured lodgings and set about curing my stomach ills by filling myself up with the Georgian staple of various pastries filled or covered with cheese. Suitably stodged up I hopped onto a Mashrutka and set off on the scenic road to Yerevan. Well, mostly scenic. After going over the Pambak mountains I got to glimpse a huge blanket of fog. This covered the bowl that Armenia's capital nestles in. We descended into the peasoup and the first identifiable thing I saw in Yerevan was the huge neon sign of a brandy factory. An omen?

Yerevan is nothing truly remarkable but not ugly either. From what I could glimpse through the fog it has a suitable amount of nice plazas, museums and statues including a huge one of Mother Armenia holding a sword and daring someone (the Turks?) to come on and have a go. Best of all there are cafes that serve real coffee and barbecue joints that do pork.

Now that I am amongst the infidels again I am eating as much piggy as I can before I exit the Caucasus and re-enter the lands of those whose God doesn't dig swine. I am not worried about booze as I know that there are few countries on Earth were getting pissed is truly a challenge.

One thing of note to see in Yerevan is the memorial and museum commemorating the Armenian Genocide. If I decide to go there it will be on my last day in the country so as not to put to much of a downer on my short time here. This won't stop me from writing about it now.

There are some good sources on the web abouty this atrocity so I will just outline the basics here. At the beginning of the 20th century the Ottoman Empire started to attack the Armenians that they ruled over. This started off with localised massacres then escalated into a more systematic attempt at extermination with confiscation of assets, deportations, death marches and concentration areas. Estimates of the death toll range from half a million to 2 million.

It was the first genocide of the 20th centuty and sadly not the last. It can be called a genocide as the evidence points to a planned attempt to wipe out a whole people. The sequencing of events, from arresting and killing Armeniaa intellectuals in Constantinople and disarming and killing the Armenian conscripts in the Ottoman army points to something that was well thought out.

You could wonder why this matters. The reason this is still relevant today is that, should I write this in Turkey, the above paragraphs could get me sent to jail (even stranger is that you can end up doing porridge for taking the piss out of the Turkish assembly). Using the words "Armenian Genocide" apparently insults Turkishness, whatever the fuck that means. Turkey's notorious article 301 has linked historical revisionism to national identity. Turkey is so adamant in not recognising what they have done that they are actually willing to harm themselves as a result. The denial of what was done to the Armenians offers a great weapon to those who want to block Turkey in one of its most desired long term objective: entering Europe.

Whether or not Turkey shoild join Europe is a complex one but I suspect the debate hides more basic principles. At the forefront of the naysayers is France. They have many reasons to say non but what I suspect is the real motive is that France is generally unhappy at any expansion of the EU. This would go against the unavowed French policy of creating a tightly linked political entity that they would have great control over. The "Welcome Turkey" brigade is headed by the UK who do so as it helps the unavowed British policy of creating a Europe so large and diverse it becomes essentially ungovernable as a whole and therefore has to revert to one big free market area. Also the Yanks want Turkey to join and HM's governement is only to keen to do their bidding.

Turkey and its silly laws and denials allows the opponents of EU menbership to easily fuck them over whenever the subject is discussed. All an opponent has to do is make some day in some country Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day and it guarantees an overreaction from the Turks. It then becomes quite easy to portray the Turks as dodgy, childish and ill-tempered Asiatics who don't truly get what modern democracies are about. Turkey could remove this problem just by admitting that what happened was genocide and that would probably be the end of it. As far as I know there are no perpetrators or survivors alive so reparation payments would be unlikely and/or hard to evaluate.

I still don't know what is worse. Denying history or letting that denial shoot yourself in the foot. Stupidity compounded. At the moment Turkey has some success in bullying other countries into not calling the genocide exactly that, particularly with the US. Bush and Rice recently scuppered a motion by the US house to recognise the Armenian Genocide as Turkey threatened to stop being a good friend in the War on Terror. This little piece of blackmail will cease to work when the White house will have as resident someone who (privately) recognises TWOT for the nonsensical bollocks it is. Turkey will have to acknowledge that it gains more than it gives by being chummy with the yanks.

Moving on. Tomorrow I will get myself to Echmiadzin, the Vatican of the Armenian Church. They claim to have a piece of the spear that some centurion put through the ribcage of JC while he was up on the cross. The Armenian Church was a national church when the Catholic Church was but a collection of fanatics hiding in Rome, totally unaware of the vast power their church would one day have and the many young boys their successors would be able to molest. The big boss of the Armenain Chruch is confusingly called ther Catholicos which is cool but doesn't score as much fun points on terms of address as he is also a Holiness. I prefer the Orthodox "Your Beatitude". That's a title.

After that it's off to some village for a piss-up with a Peace Corps volunteer who invited me after a chat about the worlwide differences and similarities in getting bladdered. He claims getting completely aresholed in Armenai is a unique experience and I strongly believe in discovering local mores.

Take care,

Arabin

2007-12-07T15:29:00.000Z

Ganja, Azerbaijan

Finally made it to the amusingly named second city of Azerbaijan. The name is an approximate of the Azeri alphabet's name for the place. The town has nothing to do with a nickname originating in potheads trying to palm off their habit as relogious practice.

I stayed 3 days in Sheki in a restored caravanserail. This sounds cute but it's really due to a very nasty bout of food poisoning that, predictably, filled my mind with happy thoughts about this country.

Anyhoo I eat enough immodium to get me to Ganje and the next day set about trying to leave the place. This might prove tricky and for the moment it looks like this will require showing up at the train station at 3.30 in the morning and trying to buy a ticket on the train itself. Fortunately I am assisted by very helpful Azeris with whom I am related (the tentacles of my family are spread far and wide).

Being made to spend 2 days puking my guts up has skewered my view of Azerbaijan. Now that I am on the receiving end of some great hosipitality the good thing would be to reconsider my slightly negative stance on this country. I will do nothing of the sort.

There are a few things about present Azerbaijan that I could write about but the fun stuff is better put in a context of regional politics which I will post about as I leave the region. The rest is simple to lay out. The place is oil rich and the presidency was passed from father to son. Catch my drift?

So, from a place famous for, well...., nothing really, I depart to a place known for, well..., Stalin.

Next stop Tbilisi

Take care,

Arabin

2007-12-01T17:04:00.000Z

Baku, Azerbaijan

The capital of Azerbaijan on the Caspian sea smells of oil. Literally. The promenade is full of couples being romantic and trying to ignore the passing tankers and the scent of Brent Crude.

I now have a personal reason to loathe oil companies. Besides propping up dictatorships, corrupting political processes, ensuring the West's foreign policies are borderline abject, heating the planet when not fucking up the environment on a local basis, Big Oil has now sent its minions in droves to this place to make lodgings and beer very pricey for innocent backpackers. Let's all go renewable. Fuck 'em.

Baku has a reasonable array of mosques, city walls, etc to make it worth a short and expensive stay. Once again I am drawn to the local big tower. My distubing fondness for phallic symbols aside, it had a fun story (amongst many) to explain its name of Maiden Tower.

It's claimed some local lord got into his head to marry his own daughter. The girl was understanbly a bit queasy at the prospect and did the fairy tale thing of setting a difficult challenge for her icky suitor. She requested that he built the biggest tower ever for her before whe would consent to some highly unnatural rumpy pumpy. The sicko was not deterred and had the thing built. Upon completion, our distressed damsel went to the top of it and flung herself to her death. A beautiful tale for the fireside.

Amusing anecdotes about parental abuse aside, a quick glance at the thing shows the story to be bollock. The arrow slits and single entry indicate something built for defence and not to please a lady. If it had been done to please a chick it would have been far more ornate and floofy, incest or no incest.

Baku's wealth has some advantages as it is wonderfully familiar in layout, looks and services. There is a good availibility of comfort chow from around the globe, street names are visible and I don't need an envelope to carry a day's worth of cash. Even the dosh is familiar to a fault. The new manat (coins and notes) looks remarkably like the euro.

All these perks have somehow given me a wee boost and for some reason this boost gave me an idea. As I am now in an enlightened region where the entry requirements for Westerners are to show up with a passport, a smile and some dollars, I have decided to add Armenia to my little blitz through the Caucasus.

Next stop, Saki/Sheki

Take care,

Arabin

2007-11-28T09:11:00.000Z

Tashkent, Uzbekistan, Central Asia

Back in the happy capital of Uzbekistan. I don't want to disparage it but the best thing I have seen so far is the metro. The sovs were useless at many things (like keeping their system alive) but they could build a good underground when they put their mind to it. Some of the platforms are quite spectacular so it's a bit of a letdown when the place you went to see is not as nice as the nearby station.

Tashkent for me is a place were things get done. In Central Asia unprepared cretins like me are often stuck getting visas or sorting out tranport. In my case the Turkmens told me to sod off so Tashkent is the place where I will depart Central Asia. This might sound like the easy way out but Uzbekistan Airways ensured this would still be a hurdle.

Should a reader find himself in the position of having to buy a ticket from Uzbekistan's national carrier there are 2 options.

Option 1: Go to the main booking office, conclude that it looks like a Chinese train station at New Year and try to work out how things work as there are no English speaking staff.

Discover that you need to elbow barge your way to a counter, say what you want, get a chit, go to a different counter to pay, discover that the credit card machine is broken, go to nearby exchange, get a shoebox-sized wad of cash (the biggest note here is 1000 Sum which is less than a dollar), go back to pay and then return to collect your ticket.

After you have figured out the system you must choose a counter and spend a long time defending your position. Wait for an hour or so then, just as you might be next, understand that their computers have crashed and see everyone sit down for a long wait.

Option 2: Agree with a nearby Russian businessman that this is a piss poor way to do things, decide to sod this for a game of soldiers and storm out. Spend an hour walking in Tashkent mentally rethinking options and cursing impotently. Have an idea.

Walk into a 4 star hotel, go to the resident travel agency and book it through them for a $5 fee. Save more than $100 dollars on the cost of the actual ticket as they can get good deals and go through the whole painless process in 10 minutes sitting in a comfy chair and looking at the pretty Uzbek lass doing the work.

Beyond giving sound advice I suppose I should do an Uzbekistan and Central Asia post. The Uzbek one will be brief. For all its famous sights and the quite nice Uzbek people, I didn't really enjoy the place that much. I did the usual getting drunk and seeing wonderful things but for some reason I couldn't get enthusiastic about this country. I would recommend others to come here but I don't think I will come back.

I will be even more succint about the politics of this place. The guy in charge is a cunt and has been since he was the Soviet appointed cunt. Very simple.

In a sense Karimov is also very representative of Central Asian politics. The merry bunch who were in power when the USSR collapsed are still in charge and do everything to stay where they are through various methods. Kyrgystan likes to change constitutions regularly presumably so that the head boys get more power each time. The leaders of Kazakhstan just subvert the judiciary to do their dirty work and seem to model their methods on Putin. Uzbekistan uses old fashioned brutality and laughably rigged elections. Turkmenistan is just crazy.

So what did I make of my little jaunt in Central Asia?

It was nice being back on the trail again even if it a bit stranger than the East Asian one and despite the above Central Asia has got a lot going for it. I liked the sights and scenery and the folk are a fun bunch. There's no silly face bollocks here so there are no headaches working out what the people really want. I also enjoyed the combination of high police presence with their utter uselessness. The problem with being a bunch of corrupt thieves is that you hardly command respect. The sensible way of dealing with the fuzz here is to be openly contemptous. It's always fun to laugh at the impotent.

I also liked the boozing here. For A Muslim area the place is swimming in alcohol and it's wonderfully cheap. It's quite common to drink very early in the day so you don't create the misconception that westerners are a bunch of degenerate alkies.

Paradoxically it's also one of the things I will definitely won't miss. The locals tend to force booze down your throat and get slightly huffy if you decide that for one night you are going to stay off the sauce or, evcen worse, decide you've had enough. Stopping before they do is a wise course of action as they drink prodigious amounts.

I guess they mean well but I get rather defensive when drunks start trying to make me drink. I have had a few guys get quite shouty which, after a bottle of vodka, doesn't produce the best reaction in me. I have often felt sorry at the young guy who speaks English (there's nearly always one hanging about) being forced to explain to me that refusing the next round is insulting and then having to diplomatically convey to someone that I couldn't give a toss about whether or not I offended them.

There are other aspects of Central Asia I am glad to see the back of.

The local music is qute excrutiating as there are many languages that are suited for pop but those in the Turkic linguistal group are not. The food is OK but just lacks variety (it's not a good sign when people are glad to see Russian restaurants). I am often annoyed at the way the train and/or bus stations are fecking miles out of town. Bloody Soviet town planners. But these are all trivial whinges and haven't really got to me.

My biggest gripe with Central Asia is that it forced me to plan. One of the greatest aspects of travelling is that you can dispose of your time as you see fit. It's great to stay or go on a whim and that is something I have done a lot. The insane visa regulations of Central Asia make this unwise if not impossible. I cannot for the life of me figure out why they are so bloody awkward about who comes into their country. Uzbekistan is even worse as they want to know where you are at all times. As per the custom of this place I have in my passport the registration chit of every bloody hostel I have stayed in as not having them allegedly guarantees problems when leaving the country.

In case anyone wondered I am not morphing into some "No Borders" hippy. My objections are quasi colonialist. Who do they think they are? I'm hardly going to work illegally in any of the countries of the area. The last problems any of these countries face is unregistereed foreigners and I resent police states that can't even make their police scary let alone competent.

Anyhoo it's been nice coming here but as Central Asia is famous for being a place of transit I will now depart. The Silk Road was important in itself but the places at the end are why it existed. Henceforth tommorow I will get back on the way to Damascus. I will go from an area I knew precious little about to one where my ignorance is quasi American; the Caucasus.

Next stop, Baku. Then again the next stop might be bottom of the Caspian Sea if Uzbekistan Airways maintains its planes the way they run their ticket office.

Take care,

Arabin

2007-11-24T09:04:00.000Z

Bukhara, Uzbekistan

If Samarkand was built on Timur's skill at arms then Bukhara was built on the more generic foundation of human gullibility. Religion is what made Bukhara so worth a peek.

There are many grandiose sights here and I am now one of the many folk to give it the thumbs up. Some of it's monuments were spared the usual Mongol destruction allegedly because Genghis took a shine to the Kalon Minaret. Being a steppe tent dwelling oik he was a bit gobsmacked by Arslan Khan's massive erection. So am I. It's very big indeed.

Over the centuries the Karakhnids, Shaybanids, Astrakhanids and other easily mispelt dynasties have chipped in their own share of mosques, madrassas and caravanserais (even the faithful need some income) to the beautiful jumble that is Uzbekistan's holy city. The caravanserais are now tourist gift emporiums but many of the religious buildings are still in use. Mosques are full of pilgrims from Uzbekistan and a few from other Muslim countries. Some madrassas are still educating the youth in the ways of Allah as I deduced by the drying laundry in the courtyard and the very polite way they tell infidels like me to fuck off.

What distinguishes this place from Smarkand is the great strolling it offers. I enjoyed getting lost in the old town. Any random walk will throw up some old building and there is plenty of scutty alleys to compensate for the excessive tweeness of some of the beaatified parts of Bukhara. In 5 minutes I went from a kitschy plaza with a large pool and statues of camels to a dcrepit plaza with communal water pump and tethered goats.

The not so quaint part of the old town is also where I found some signs of life. Bukhara is remarkably empty. The tourist season is definitely over which has pros and cons. The good side is that I am in a position to negotiate nearly everything just by looking at the vast amount of competitors for any given good and service. The flip side is that I can't hover around French tour groups (France is Uzbekistan's main source of paunchy sightseers wearing bush jackets) getting the service of their guide for free.

The best I get is cops trying to solicit a bribe in exchange for access to locked areas. Karimov has declared that the usual Central Asian of police extortion is something that displeases him (not a good thing in this neck of the woods) so rozzers have branched out to offering something for cash instead of just stealing it.

The other activity here is locating the few backpackers, drinking cheap beer and whining about the crapness of the Lonely Planet maps of Uzbekistan's cities. In my case the maps are one of the main reasons to get the guide in the first place so I get particularly irate at the way LP's resident cartographer has decided that scale is somewhat passe and old-fashioned. I accept that the names of streets tend to change a lot as a result of de-sovietisation and personality cults but I do think that the backpackers holy scripture should be written by those aware that there is a connection between cardinal points and the way the arrow points on those trendy compass thingies.

Anyways I tore myself away from this place and headed to my next stop: Khiva

My first impression of the walled city of Ichon Qala was a mixed one. I got there at night after a long drive through the desert. The guesthouses are located inside the old city so I made my way to the place and entered through a very large gate. Inside it was like some sort of film set of Sheherazade. The visible humans consisted of me, 2 babushkas on their way out and a cop with what looked like a rifle wrapped inside a rug. I then walked about the place under brilliant moonlight (cool and useful has there is no public lighting 50 yards away from the main monumnets) to find a still open hostel.

If Bukhara was feeling a bit empty then Khiva by night redefines deserted. A lot of the hostels are closed but some are there to pick up the strays like me. The notion of having an entire walled city to yourself might sound fun and to a certain extent it is but the joy gets killed off by hunger. I tried to find a chaikhana without success within the old town then expanded my search towards the modern part of Khiva. No luck. I decided to settle for a shop but still no joy. the only places open were hairdressers. I could starve but I could get a perm while I was doing so. Hooray.

At day some life is breathed into the place though not in the way I expected. I started to get curious after my 3rd encounter with some Uzbek hottie in full bridal dress. Khiva was swarming with brides, grooms and the usual cohort that follows. Apparently it's a very nice place to get married here and the best season is now. The absence of tourists means that nothing will spoil that video of the newlyweds walking through the scenic old streets. Except for the other wedding parties doing the same thing.

I have decided that Khiva also has my favourite minaret of all. It's unfinished, very fat and very turquoise. I like it because it sticks out and has a great story about it. Granted this is one of the many, many legends about Uzbekistan's many, many monuments but I choose to believe this one. The thing is unfinished because the architect snuffed it before completion. It was going to be the greatest in all Central Asia but legend has it he was ready to do the same job for the Emir of Bukhara. The local Khan got wind of this and, being a bit of a rival of Bukhara's boss, had the architect sentenced to death by being thrown off his own unfinished minaret. The building was tall but not tall enough to guarantee a kill so they had to lob him off the thing a few times before the poor sod died.

This tale is very Khivaesque in the sense that the city was known for nasty stuff. Khiva pissed off the Russkies no end by being the best place to buy a Russian slave. They alos have a perverse pride in the various horrors committed by the degenerate rulers that sometimes had the run of this place. The Zindon (jail) hasn't got a bug pit like Bukhara but they compensate by piccies of the various nasty ways the Khans of Khiva punished people. To contrast, Bukhara's Zindon is sort of out the way and the only pictures they have are photos of people who were imprisoned or whipped for trifling religious infractions.

The downside of Khiva, beyond difficulty of finding food, is that internet is non existant and electricity infrequent. Transport is also apain in the arse to acquire. I spent some time trying to work out a way of getting to the Aral sea and back in time but eventually gave up after missing buses and one wonderful occasion where me and another chap curious about ecological disasters set up a 6am meet with a car only for some guy to turn up 3 hours later to say he couldn't be bothered.

For the first time in a long while I am under obligation to be at a certain place in a certain time and it's playing havoc with my custom of going somewhere because it sounds fun. I decided to play it safe and backtrack to the Bukhara.

My next stop and the last one in Central Asia will then be Tashkent.

Take care,

Arabin

2007-11-16T19:05:00.000Z

Samarkand, Unconvincingly Fake Democracy of Uzbekistan

There are many reasons why people go to Central Asia and Samarkand has been one of them for millenia. Over th centuries, folk have put up with crap transport, weird entry requirements imposed by cuntish rulers and endless variants of mutton just to come to this place. Alexander the Great heard of the place and , like many after, just had to come here. Admittedly he conquered it instead of simply having a look but the bisexual megalomaniac started a trend.

In a lot of places backpackers are a strange reflection of the inequality of the world. Boys and girls from societies so prosperous they feel secure enough to ditch it all for months go to places 2 steps away from basic subsistence . Here the rucksack crowd and the tour groups are just the latest lot of moths drawn to Samarkand's flame. The travel bug owes a lot to this place.

Samarkand has been important since Christ was but a gleam in the archangel's eye but most of what can be seen here is from after the 14th century. Samarkand was one of many amazing places razed to the ground by Genghis Khan. He might have been invincible but he was still a unwashed tasteless prole. Luckily for the world, what one bloodthirsty conqueror can destroy, another bloodthirsty conqueror can resurrect. Enter Amir Timur AKA; Timur the Great, Timur the Lame, Tamerlane.

Timur is a bit of a cult figure in Uzbekistan. In a scary way he is the most famous local and they have to make the best of it. They focus on his conquests, the long overdue kicking he gave to the Golden Horde and the way he made Samarkand into a centre of Islamic culture and a place of beauty. They tend to gloss over his less admirable actions such as having Delhi put to the sword or they way he liked to play Jenga with human skulls. Anyways, Timur and his descendants plowed cash and slaves into making Samarkand even greater than it was.

If Samarkand embodies the Silk Road then the Registan symbolises Samarkand. It is a square surrounded on 3 sides by huge madrassas. Google it if you want to see what I am writing about but what you will never get on a screen is the sheer scale of it. However nice, a picture cannot give you the feeling I felt when I walked under it's stupendously big gates which are twice the height of the buildings behind. That is why it's worth coming here beyond the "I've taken the road to Samarkand" inner medal travellers award themselves.

The same feeling can be had at Timur's prezzy to Allah that is the Bibi Khanym Mosque. Once again you walk under insanely big arches to get to the courtyard and the turquoise domes it holds. This is actually a tried and tested trick from the God Squad all over. Cathedrals in Europe use the same method. The name of the game is to get you feeling all small and awestruck before a nice session of endoctrination. Illusionists and con artists know the importance of prepping the punters.

I must confess it worked with me. The awe and feeling tiny part, not the religion bit. That's patently nonsense.

A more contemplative experience can be had at the Shari Zinda in the cemetery which is a street of tombs and mausoleums for Timur's family, mates and lackeys (Timur and his offspring get their own separate and astonishingly discrete mausolem). The quiet atmosphere and the absence of absurd bigness let you contemplate and appreciate the delicate architecture and beautiful mosaic work.

Kudos to the artists and artisans who have create something so esthetically pleasing in spite of Islamic proscriptions on depicting, well, pretty much anything. These people were doing abstract art long before a bunch of poncy beret wearers decided to claim that putting random shapes on a canvas was significant. It also looks far better.

Mind you they do sometimes make the odd infraction to Allah's strange rules. I saw a few birds inside some tombs and one of the Registan's gates has a couple of lions/tigers on it. Lions if you believe the King who commissioned it, tigers if you believe your eyes. I suspect that the tendency for rulers of these parts to behead people willy nilly meant that if if he said lions where orange and had stripes then few would be bold enough to disagree.

There is also a bazaar here but to be honest I cam getting a bit bored of them. They are great for wandering and people watching but when you have to get a few necessities they start to be a tad tiring. Imagine going to a supermarket but having to go to the till each time you choose an item and having to bloody negotiate it.

Next stop, Bukhara

Take care,

Arabin

2007-11-13T09:20:00.000Z

Tashkent, Karimov's Subjugated Fiefdom of Uzbekistan

Another shortie. Reasons below.

I have been told to bugger off by the Turkmen Authorities before I even set foot on their turf. The mere mention of Azerbaijan had them moving me towards the door of the consulate. Repeated assurances that I was not going to take the ferry were in vain. I have been denied.

This cocks up my overland trip and forces me to fly from Tashkent to Baku at soem point at the end of the month. This is why I will do only a very short post on Tashkent as I will have to return here to fly out. Bollocks.

At first glance, Central Asia's biggest city is suprisingly sedate. Few people are out and about and I have even spotted tethered sheep in the centre. It's pleasant in a sense and long walks to find the Turkmen Embassy and other essentials have led me into very cute neighbourhoods.

I have not done much sightseeing yet as I am feeling a bit under the weather and I want to make sure I don't get Mosque Fatigue (the Central Asian cousin of Temple Fatigue) before I finish the Uzbek grand tour of Samarkand, Buqara and Khiva.

The one reason I even bother to do this post is that I have wanted to write the following line for a while.

Next stop, Samarkand.

Take care,

Arabin

2007-11-10T08:43:00.000Z

Tashkent, Tyranny of Uzbekistan.

Just a quick post on Osh as I promised to do so. The interweb being very fickle in Osh I have had to prioritise what I do. Odes to myself are fun but not that high on the urgent list. Other things must come first.

As stated in the previous post, Osh has a very Central Asian feel. Once a trading post, always a trading post. This is great fun and gives one the impression that the Silk Road never really died but just revamped itself into the legendary Assorted Crap Road. Oh to follow the trail of the cheap pair of socks.

As you might guess the bazaar is the focal point of Kyrgystan's second city. It's wonderfully chaotic and haphazard but it's a bit tricky to quietly browse here. There are loads of pushcarts (and the odd taxi) ferrying stuff around and your ears become sensitive to their cry which sounds like a reminder of where you are (OSH! OSH). If you value your shins you start to mind their call.

It's a paradox that I love bazaars and markets with the same intensity that I detest shopping but there it is. Being limited on lugagge space and being stingy I bought nowt but managed to get my knife sharpened and also to get some trousers repaired. I had ripped a pair getting out of a mashrutka and the Kyrgyz love affair with smallness and jeans prevented me from buying a replacement. The bonus is that I got a giggle from the sewing ladies who at first were trying to get me to drop trow publicly then, when I convinced them that the trousers in my bag were the ones needing their expertise, they decided to become some sort of matrimonial agency. Apparently they know eligible ladies with many gold teeth.

I have also scrambled up Suleyman's throne, Osh's answer to Edinburgh's Arthur's Seat. It's wonderfully craggy and and peppered with significant caves and one stone slide where women would woosh down repeatedly. I thought it had something to do with fertility but seeing the age range (10-60plus) of the lasses polishing the chute with their bums I am either wrong or Kyrgyz women badly need some basic Sex Ed. Also of note on Solomon's little chair were the odd couple who go for some ilicit heavy petting.

Because of this I had a very strange argument. Me and a Swiss guy were climbing up to one rocky top and from time to time paused to check that we hadn't gone up anything we couldn't get down of. We then spotted a chap dryhumping his lady on another highspot and, predictably yet childishly, had a laugh about it. Said chap noticed and started to yell at us, presumably for being pervy, to which we responded. It's hard to have a bit of argie-bargie from highpoints 200 metres across from each other and with no common language but we decided to give it a go. We somehow managed to point out that if he wanted to feel up his girlfriend discreetly he should consider options other than the one spot than can be seen from anywhere in Osh. He buggered off and we continued upwards.

I suspect couples have to be a tad subtle here as it is way more islamic than Bishkek. It's all mosques and muezzins here and the ratio of women bearing headscarfs to women from the Russian school of hookerware is heavily in favour of Allah's lot. There are a few things who's origins I am unsure of though. At the waterfall in Arslanbob I had seen a lot of rags tied to bushes and in Osh there are people going about with a pan of burning herbs connected to a tube. They blow into the tube to produce smoke which they then waft around departing cars and businessnes in exchange for some notes. These look like remnants of traditions older than Islam.

Osh is religious by day but at night it's a different story. It's very badly lit and the streets belong to groups of aggressive drunken men. A bit like a UK high street without the slappers. The classic Central Asian battle between the Arab import of Islam and the Soviet import of joyless alcohol abuse has resulted in a division of the day in Osh. To highlight the point there is a very loud bar just across the street form the mosque and I am sure some people patronise both.

I'm not against a wee bit of religious hypocrisy but here it's a little irritating here for no better reason than they don't just make the odd exception in order to have a bit of fun with their friends and family, they get bladdered Russian style. This way of getting drunk is in my opinion one of the worst kind. Alocohol is not a social lubricant but pretty much a drug. It is consumed with little or no cheer and there are precious little jolly drunks around. A truly miserable way of getting sozzled.

Off to explore Tashkent,

Take care,

Arabin

2007-11-05T11:02:00.000Z

Osh, Fergana Valley, Kyrgystan

Osh is what a Central Asian city should be. None of this rundown Krakow look. Here it's all chaos, commerce and cacophony. More about this place in a later post.

I had a nice 11 hour share taxi drive from Bishkek to Osh. We passed high peaks at dusk and then skirted reservoirs whose clifflike banks were made eerie by very strong moonlight before getting in the breadbasket that is the Fergana valley. Overall a nice trip but slightly marred by the fact the driver and another passenger decided I should be the judge of what was the best song out of an album that sounded like a playlist for mid eighties action flicks. The other drawback was the driver got there 4 hours earlier than expected so that my masterplan of arriving in Osh at dawn went tits up.

I got to Osh at stupid a.m, found some old Soviet hotel, crashed then spent the next day walking about the place trying to work out how to get to Arslanbob and having sullen teenagers in internet cafes telling me there was nyet internet in Osh today. Crashed again and set off bright and early to Arslanbob.

Though it's not far on the map, getting to Arslanbob was a half day trip consisting of taking ever worsening tranport. I grabbed a standard Merc 16 seater to Jalalabad then made my way to Bazaar Korgon (the names are fantastic) on some sort of ex-soviet truck/bus and finally spent 2 hours getting up into the mountains in a Daewoo micro combi designed for 6 people but ended up holding 7 adults and 5 kids. The arrival in Arslanbob and the disembarkation had an element of a clown car act.

In the interest of fairness I feel obliged to mention that Kyrgyz hospitality means that I often get to bagsy the best seat in whatever transport I take. My paranoid self thought that this was compo for being royally fucked on the fare but everyone else was handing over the same sums. Maybe the Kyrgyz are genuinely nice people. Central Asia is indeed a strange place.

So here I was in Arslanbob to experience what most people go to Kyrgystan for; bucolic mountains. I am too late in the year for yurt time but I got to stay with a family through some homestay programme. The house was a 3 klick hike up the hill but has a great view of the huge wall like mountains to the north. A nice stroke of luck was that the grandaddy of the house had learnt some German in his youth so my first afternoon there was a pleasant affair of drinking loads of tea, eating assorted dried fruits and nuts, and mangling the language of Goethe and Hitler.

The next day I trotted down to the village centre and pottered around the place and a few surrrounding promontories. I then returned to the main square where I had a pleasant hour or so watching folk, having bloes coming up to me for a "salam" and a handshake and getting the elders to teach me to crack walnuts with my hands. To be honest I don't really like walnuts but since they had sent a 5 year old up a tree to breakleg heights so that the little urchin could shake the branches I felt obliged.

I should mention that walnuts are a big thing here. The founder of the place Arslan Bab Ata apparently set up the huge walnut forests that surround the village before snuffing it and getting himself a small mausoleum where locals go to talk to his bones. It's also walnut harvest time so the unpaved streets of Arslanbob were full of donkeys carrying huge sacks of the not so tasty treats.

My fave moment in the hills came the next day when I followed the riverbed up to a holy waterfall. It was at the waterfall that I had a seriously cool experience that made all the arsing visa probs, vodka hangovers and shit transport of Central Asia worthwhile.

The last leg of the walk to the waterfall is a 500 metre ascent up a steep scree slope. One of the plus sides of being plump and wheezy is that once you get to the top you get a nice endorphin buzz. I was enjoying this as well as the view of the valley when a huge eagle flew past 15 metres to my left and 5 metres below. The scenery, the sound of the waterfall and the majestic birdy all came together in a truly great Wow moment.

I gingerly descended again and had a nice rest in yet another stupidly bucolic spot. It was all gurgling stream, shade from trees and wonderful calm. As the sweet melody of water over rock lulled me I had a quick thought for those I know still stuck in the job and smog world. Of course I gloated internally but now I want to share the feeling.

He He He.

Anyways, I am now back in Osh enjoying the blackouts and working out the cheapest way to get to Tashkent. I will do a post on this place before I sod off to Uzbekistan and hopefully put down some thoughts on Kyrgystan.

Take care,

Arabin

2007-10-26T07:10:00.000Z

Bishkek, Kyrgystan

Just a quick addendum to the previous post before I head south.

I have just scored my Uzbek visa and I am very chuffed with myself. It's a long one to explain but it is a typical trail tale of Central Asia so here goes.

In the great game of getting CA visas the Uzbeks are odd players. They want tourists but they do not want independent travellers probably as errant drunks are hard to monitor. Unfortunately for them, their country is where the most famous historical sites of CA are. This ensures a constant siege of their consulates by assorted scruffies wanting to get in.

Their response to this is to put up a number of bureaucratic obstacles and make things such a pain in the arse it becomes very tempting to say sod it and join a "Wonders of the Silk ROad" all-inclusive bus tour. Said obstacles include long processing times, high fees, inability to get into the consulates unless you phone up the previous day and ask (in Russian) to be put on the list and, the icing on the cake, seemingly random requests for Letters of Invitation (LOIs) by some Uzbek travel agency.

The reason for this general annoyance of backpackers is not completely clear. This is pure speculation but I suspect it has a lot to do with the general clampdown and move towards een more abject tyranny that the Uzbek authorities took after Andijan in 2005. A web check will be more informative than this blog but the basic story is that Andijan is Uzbekistan's own Tiananmen Square Massacre. It was a wholesale massacre of civilians that cannnot be excused or contextualised within any decent moral framework.

THe West boo-hissed the slaughter and slapped on a few sanctions. As a result the Uzbeks honchos got huffy and relations started to get cold. Internally, from what the interwebs tell me, the brutality of the regime got worse and the standard attempts to make the locals ignorant of everything were made. This is perhaps why the Uzbek government is none too keen to have a bunch of folk traipsing around unsupervised and, god forbid, talk to the locals.

To add to this, it seems the Uzbek authorities have a special place in their heart for Her Maj's subject sand we get to know it when we apply for a visa. Once I again I speculate but this could be because of a former ambassador to Uzbekistan up to 2004; Craig Murray. Mr Murray had somewhat managed to keep his spine intact after a stint at the Foreign Office School of Conscience Removal and ended up being Our Man in Tashkent.

He got very yappy about the horrendous abuses he heard about (boiling people alive, multiple rapes and other niceties) and wasn't too complimentary of the the folks in charge. The Foreign Office, in keeping with their tradition of helping the oppressed and abused of this world, tried to silence him and, in keeping with their tradition of competence and efficiency, failed.

I would like this to be the reason for the difficulties I faced getting a visa for no better reason than it's been a while that a Brit traveller has been inconvenienced because a an official of our country did something on the lighter side of the moral spectrum. It's a refreshing, though still annoying, change.

Whether or not this is the cause for the general twattery of the Uzbek authorities towards travellers (I am aware that it is nothing compared to what they do to their own people) there is one final hurdle for the man on his way to Samarkand: the dreaded Dragon Lady of the Uzbek consulate in Bishkek. She doesn't speak English, hates people who don't speak Russian and has been known to turf out folk who try to use the world's lingua franca on her.

In spite of dire warnings about the fate of those who faced her without the Holy Shield of the LOI I threw caution to the wind and got the staff at the hostel to call and get my name on the list of challengers. I knew the odds were stacked against me but I had a couple of tricks up my sleeve.

Local folktales indicate that the CACO (Central Asian Consular Official) can be pacified with the use of a clean and ironed short. Apparently the Caco associates this garment with people who matter. The legends say that The Shirt is at full strength when worn by a shaved and combed Englishman with glasses. Was I the chosen one?

I tried to boost my chances by using the ancient art of Fraud. I knew that any hint of my inablility to speak Russian could doom me so I tried to get enough learnt to bluff my way through the process. With the help of the guidebook and hostel staff, I drilled myself until I could say a few predictable phrases to near perfection. I was ready for a showdown.

Anyways, it worked, I'm happy and I'm off for a celebratory beer and a gamburger(hamburger meets kebab local snack). Huzzah for me.

Take care,

Arabin

2007-10-25T06:56:00.000Z

Bishkek, Kyrgystan, still

I am still stuck here for reasons of uncooperative Uzbek officials, shifting weather and a series of " You've got to come out tonight it's so-and-so's birthday/ rugby final/ random feeble excuse for boozing" and subsequent voddie hangovers

I have, however, managed to get out of the city and enjoy Bishkek's fine mountainous surroundings. I have finally managed to scoot up to 3000 odd metres and got to practice my huffing, puffing, sweating, suffering and of course work on my sunburn.

It's been a while since I have had to go for serious walkies and the trot up to the Ala Archa national park glacier was a eye-opening and lung-expanding experience. My instinct is to place the blame on China and the assorted heavy metals it has made me breathe but my lazy lifestyle in the Middle Kingdom probably has more to do with my still aching legs.

There is also a question of perspective since my last serious walking. My memories of South East Asia have edited themselves to the point that I retrospectively view myself as a mountain goat, bouncing along trails and hills to gaze at the half dead followers behind me. Selective memory aside, there is a shade of truth in these recollections.

South East Asia is full to the brim with assorted dopers and piss artists. A byproduct of this is that it is easy to compose a walking group full of people whose fitness is even lower than mine. Though I am woefully unsporty, I can still outwalk folk who have been sipping the CHhng or puffing pot nonstop for a fortnight. This gave me the real pleasure of cresting hills and gazing down at the distinctively unhappy members of whatever ad hoc rambling group I joined.

Kyrgystan is a different kettle of gasping fish. Folk come here specifically for the trekking and are prepared both in terms of equipment and body. Overnight stays in refuges are tricky for me as I seem to be the only tourist in Kyrgystan with a mozzie net but no sleeping bag. Day walks are fun but I then have to be the slow chap of the group. Nothing quite kills moral than stopping for a vital breather, hoping your legs will not buckle then looking up at your trekmates 200 yards up the hill and still prancing gaily. Poetic Justice sweeps down to punish me again.

Beyond hauling my flabby body up to altitude sickness heights I have been busy revising my plans for the umpteenth time. Bishkek is a traveller's twillight zone where everyone ends up and stays for longer than expected. The silver lining with this is that there is a lot of up to date info to be gleaned. I had already dismissed Iran as the visa takes eons to acquire and our Persian friends have started to shunt Brits on the same heavily controlled tours they put the seppoes on.

The alternative overland(ish) route is to take a ferry acroos the Caspian to Azerbaijan then go through Georgia and Turkey to the Middle East. THis sounds simple but once again the mighty gods of officialdom cast their loaded dice against me.

To get from Uzbekistan to Baku I can see 3 options each with their separate pros and cons.

1. Get a 5 day transit visa for Turkmenistan, speed through the country to the town of Turkmenbashi and try to get on the ferry to Baku.
Pros: Get to avoid flying (very eco-cool) and collect amusing stories of Central Asian sailors.
Cons: The notorious unreliability of the ferry means that the Turkmen authorities have started to refuse transit visas for that route. Even if I can score the visa the chances of getting on the boat on time are 50/50 so I might experience the joy of being an illegal in one of the most fucked up and paranoid countries in the world.

2.Take the ferry from Aktau (Kazakhstan) to Baku.
Pros: I can get a tourist visa to Kazakhstan quite easily and ditto Azerbaijan though it's time consuming and expensive. Kicking around Aktau would be risk free.
Cons: This ferry tends to sink and kill its passengers. Aside from the risk of spending my last minutes on earth with sturgeons this means that the ferry is cancelled untill someone rustles up another unseaworthy boat for the 12 hour crossing.

3. Fly from Ashgabat to Baku
Pros: Don't have to paste it through Turkmenistan so I get to see more than the golden statue of Crazyboy. I might be authorized to do this trip. Cheap fuel in the Stans means that it would actually be cheaper than the ferry and bus way. Visa on arrival in Baku. Might make Instanbul for New Year and see some family.
Cons: End of no fly ban. Central Asian planes somewhat dodgy.

Decisions, decisions, decisions. Need a beer.

Next stop, Osh, Jalalabad, Arslanbob or anywhere south of Bishkek

Take care,

Arabin

2007-10-17T08:27:00.000Z

Bishkek (f.k.a Frunze) Kyrgystan

Visas, vodka and crooked cops

The above sort sums up what I have been getting up to in this fair city. In order to make some chronological sense I will say how I got here and also because it introduces what I think might be recurrent theme in Central Asia; Borat Moments.

Borat Moments are when Central Asia gets really weird from a Western perspective. The reason I want to identify them as such is because I might be jotting a fair few of them on this blog. If I don't highlight them as out of place or one of those special moments that make backpacking interesting I fear my reports from CE might become an increasingly nasty collection of stereotypes. So here goes:

I managed to catch a Mashrutko (minibuses that have taken over from the dying public transport sytem) to Bishkek after wandering around the Almaty Bus station and pestering people. Word got around and I was identified to a huge man with a complete set of golden teeth who was trying to fill up his mashrutko and off I went. Though not as interesting as I am in China I still stood out hence a joyful Q and A in Russian. Lots of Qs, precious little As.

One chap had some halting English and happened to be a Hui Chinese (Chinese Muslims). We got to chatting in bad English and bad Chinese and had a good time as he was as Hanzi illiterate as I was and we spent some time slagging of the Chinese Alphabet. As we got closer to Bishkek he gave me his number and told me to call in case of probs. I was quite chuffed then he said that he would sort me out with a pozzie. I was pissing myself and shaking my head and he started to backpedal. Sort of. He leaned over and told me not to worry. The girl was very clean and she worked for the Chinese embassy. Borat Moment number 1.

Anyways I got myself settled in a nice guesthouse and got to chatting with other backpackers, many of whom had been in Bishkek for a while. This is odd for Bishkek is not the most charming place on Earth. It looks a bit like a rundown Almaty with a lot of crumbling Sovbloc architecture. It's not shit per se but, in a country reputed for it's mountains and trekking, it a bit strange to meet so many folk dossing around. The reason for this is visas.

A combination of dictatorial/paranoid decrees, bureaucracies based on the Soviet model and evershifting international politics means that the Stans are a place where the unprepared, happy go lucky and foolish backpacker (like me) is confronted with the same idiotic obstacles to travel as we place on citizens of poorer countries.I have had to play this game but as it is in process I don't want to jinx it by giving details.

Aside from begging for visas Bishkek is a great place to learn how to deal with the bent cops of Central Asia. They are very light fingered and prey on foreigners as they have sussed that we have an inate respect/fear of the fuzz. The name of the game for them is to isolate a tourist and remove them from public sight. They will then serach the poor soul and steal some cash. I am often spared as I look a bit Russian but I have recently lost my crooked cop virginity and managed to walk way with my dosh intact. As this blog might be read by folk who might one day come here I will now give step by step instructions on how to deal with this.

1: Get surrounded by blokes who may or may not be real cpos. Get shown badges and asked for passport.
2: Remember that under no circumstances whatsoever you should hand over your real passport and give them a photocopy.
3: Get asked for real passport.
4: Invent feeble lie about passport being at embassy, hotel, with wife etc
5: Get asked to go round the corner/get into a car/come to the police station
6: Say Nyet
7: Repeat steps 5 and 6 a few times
8: Have awkward moment of silence
9: There are 2 options here. a) cops get bored and tell you that you are free to go. b) You get bored and just walk away.

It's scary the first time but after that it's a doddle. People who have been stuck here for a long while have reached the point where they don't even stop for a play. They just tell the cops to fuck off and keep walking. I know it sounds like a very risky strategy but in fact the cops are trying their luck and ther is precious little they can do. It's not worth the risk trying to frame you and getting consulates involved for the sake of a few dollars.

Another fun thing I have been doing is getting used to drinking vodka. I still think of it as a drink for teenagers, russians or slappers so it takes a while to adapt. It's cheap as can get here but it's worth upgrading a bit. There is the less than a dollar for a litre variety which is foul and might kill you. There is is the 2-5 dollar bottles that are OK and there are the pricey bottles which are pointless because vodka is a tasteless booze anyway.

If Vodka is not your thing you can try kumyz which is fermented mare's milk (or some other animal when not in foaling season). It tastes as good as it sounds. Just say no.

I have also been to the public baths with a group of equally culturally inquisitive and mildly pissed backpackers. The baths were a collection of strange Borat Moments. We got the hint this would be weird when we got to the locker room. One drunk chap mimed to us that a lot of the people came as they don't have washing facilities where they live. as a result the place is packed and we had to wait for a locker to free up.

All good you might think but this means standing amidst shedloads of naked Kyrgyz blokes and, bear in mind this is a Muslimish country, 2 bored middle aged women who opened lockers and sold soap. 2 of our party bailed out at this stage. We eventually got a locker, stripped, felt awkward and walked into the first room. This was the shower room.

The first thing that greeted our eyes was a table where the locals lie down and get a mate to soap them form head to toe up before hosing them down. Other activities in the shower room were scrubbing bollocks in front of a mirror, shaving the bikini line (WTF???), getting a mate to aim the hose at your arsecrack and staring at naked foreigners.

We then went to the insanely hot sauna where we sweated and got instructions on how to beat ourselves and each other with twigs fomo a fat bloke who wore nothing but a Kyrgyz felt hat. Once we started to find it difficult to breathe we pegged it to the cold pool inside a large dome, dove in and shouted profanities. We repeated this a few times

After a final shower and we walked out of the baths and went to the bar. The same dress code of fuck all applies and you can buy cold beer and sandwiches. Stage as it seems it's hard to leave the bar as the combination of a sauna and cold beer leaves you very relaxed.

Anyways I am getting out from Bishkek to get some hiking done before it gets too cold. I have been sitting here getting pissed and grovelling in front of consular officials for too long. I like the boozing though as Central Asian backpacker war stories are a fuck of a lot more interesting than south East Asian ones. It's a bit more tricky to get around here so there are precious few gappers on a pisstrip here and lots of old trailers who have been milling around the world for a couple of decades on and off. There are also a lot of chaps who seem intent on making life as difficult for themselves as possible. Example below.

If any of my more sedentary readers think what i am doing is intrepid/interesting/outright stupid you might want to check these guys some of whom I have just met at the hostel (www.trabanttrek.org) just to get some perspective. They are doing a similar route to mine (the other way) but they are doing it in Trabants which happen to be both iconic and very, very crap. Getting around the Stans is annoying enough for people and you can imagine what bureacratic hurdles they face trying to do it in silly cars with 2-stroke engines. They are a good laugh though and I am suprised they are still upbeat and not suicidal.

Off to the hills,

Take care,

Arabin

2007-10-10T09:41:00.000Z

Almaty, Kazakhstan

Hello from a different world. It's a 30 hour train ride from Urumqi to here but it might as well be a 30 hour flight so different are the 2 places. I will elaborate on this later in the post.

My departure from China was reasonably uneventful. I settled in and got chatting to my cabinmates all of whom spoke perfect English which was an interesting change. As the train left as midnight is was bedsies soon after departure. We arrived at the border on the Chinese side at 7ish in the morning and then the fun began.

In a sense the border was a little of China condensed. There was some creepy authoritarianism in the form of of a bunch of soldiers standing at attention in front of each door whose mission seemed to be stopping folk from getting off. There was some out of place pinkness too as the loudspeakers blared cute songs including one about how some guy was going to look after his little sister.

Finally, as this was China, there was a rigidly enforced stupid decision. In this case, they stopped the train, locked all the toilets then woke everyone up. To boot no-one was aloud off the train for a couple of hours. Nothing feels more like China than being uncomfortable and ranting to some poor soldier. When not trying to look martial he was apologetic when I spoke in Chinese and bemused when I spoke English. To the boy's credit, after a long while listening to me and 2 Russian chaps looking at him and droning on endlessly in the usual howfuckingstupidcanyougetgivemestrengthwascommonsensebannedbyMao rant he relented and let us off for a quick dash to the bog. After that crack in the dam other passengers started to badger their green guardian and eventually people got to get off the train.

On the Kazakh side, things were a bit different. Customs were quick and cursory then we were all offloaded in a small village station to wait for the wheels of the train to be changed (Sovblock trains have a different gauge apparently to hinder invasions). During the checks I got to meet a Kazakh border guard. He popped in and started to ask questions. I was a tad nervous at first and thought the questions were part of his job and then I realised this was just curiosity and smalltalk.

The reason I was nervous is that Central Asian border pigs have got a rep. They are legendary for being corrupt, devious, thieving bastards. This reputation meant that each time the customs chappie was being friendly it made me edgy. He took me and an Australian guy to a cafe for lunch and the further we got from the station the more alarm bells were rgoing off in my head. As it turned out that he took us to a cheap and cheerful homecooking spot and gave us some useful advice on Almaty. To cap it off he gave us each a box of choccies. Even after that a part of me was wondering what the scam was and when it would hit. Some people just can't deliver what is expected.

After that it was a long train ride through lots of grassy buggerall. I have seen expanses of buggerall before but never so much uninterrupted buggerall. We stopped a couple of time in tiny villages and I mean tiny. In Kazakhstan a village is a village unlike in China where a 100 000 souls town will be reffered to as such. These places could be called one-pony towns except that I saw more horses than humans milling about. At these stops a bunch of baboushkas (or whatever they are called in Kazakh) sell fruit, veg, smoked fish, sausage and, of course, vodka.

Between these halts I busied myself at learning the Cyrillic alphabet by walking through the train with a phrasebook trying to read anything from the toilet door to the instructions on the water heater. I amused a lot of folk by standing in front of some random plaque and slowly enounciating the word before grinning like an idiot when someone nodded at me to indicate I had got it right. The consequence of this is that I am experiencing a complete reversal of my linguistical skills in China. Here I became literate in 2 days but can't understand a bloody word I am saying.

The shock of having a multilingual border guard being nice and not trying to shake me down pales in comparison of how I felt when I got to Almaty. As referred in the first paragraph, this place is worlds apart from China. It feels and looks European. It's diverse, leafy, quiet, clean and cosmopolitan. And. like Europe, it's pricey as fuck.

Everthing seems empty and quiet even though it's only in comparison with China. Seeing only a hundred or so folk on the street makes it feel deserted for me. Not hearing a zillion car horns, horrible mobile ring tones and constant shouting translates as eerily quiet for me. Directions given are always accurate and often given to me in English which means I have wasted my time trying to judge if the giver of said directions is talking bollocks to save face. The map feels wrong as the main avenues are 4 lane job and not stupidily wide and long stretches designed to make an armoured regiment pass through quickly or to glorify the great social cohesion of something or another.

I finally realised why this place feels so strange when I was nearly dancing with joy at the cheese section of a supermarket. I have been Sinofied. I have spent so much time getting accustomed to the weirdness of China that I feel strange when it is absent. May the gods have mercy upon me.

Anyways Almaty is pleasantish in a sense and the gentle upslope to the mountains give me much needed exercise as I traipse around its leafy roads and fun parks. There is a nice wooden cathedral and a few museums and shedloads of good food. At a price. That being said I face a problem as most interesting things in this country seem like are fecking miles away from Almaty.

The cost and distance here is a problem and as a result I am going to consign Kazakhstan to trophy tourism. I got here, got drunk here, got the visa to the next country and got a stamp in my passport. From now on I can say that I have been to the land of the most famous Kazkhstani on earth: Borat.

It's hard not to mention him though it's wise not to here. A childish part of me wants this place to be more like the fictional Kazakhstan of Cohen's creation. If I was standing between the village rapist and the chief gypsy catcher at the festival of the running of the Jew I could at least feel smug and civilised. As it is I feel more disinterested than I should, more Chinese than I like and poor. So very poor.

No politicky stuff this time as I haven't bothered to enquire much. I get the Head Honcho here is a dictator of sorts but not as crazy or nasty as other Central Asian Presidents. The place is not obviously bent but I would be suprised if it wasn't due to the amount of natural resources here.

Fuck it, off to Kyrgystan.

Next stop, Bishkek

Take care,

Arabin

2007-10-06T15:01:00.000Z

Urumqi, Xinjiang province, China

Howdy from China's wildish West.

I got here after one of my most scenic train rides since Sichuan. This is due to the capacity of the local people to develop an oasis when they can find one. Rock strewn desert, dunes and strange small canyons flicker past and keep you mesmerised then you go through a tunnel and on the other side it's all greenery, cattle and water. Another tunnel and it's back to martian landscapes. The arrival to Urumqi was heralded by more frequent pathes of green and some large ugly industrial buidings.

For all the guidebook hype, this town is Han. The Uygurs (I'm not sure how to spell the name) are there but seem to be in second place numerically. Anyways, Urumqi displays the usual characteristics of Chinese cities. Huge, insanely large population and, of course, a healthy dose of pollution.

I am kind of stuck here as I have to juggle with the entry date on my Kazakh visa, the availibility of trains and the wonderful Chinese National holidays. For those unfamiliar with the middle kingdom, national holidays are sort of a mix between a love parade and the 6th circle of hell. There's lots to do but the usual Chinese overcrowding gets pushed to absurd limits. Tickets are a nightmare to obtain, anything interesting will be ringed by a few zillion people and it's hard to get anything done.

I faced this when trying to go to Tian Chi (one of the many, many Heaven lakes in this country). The plan was to get a bus early, find a yurt, and chill out for a couple of days by the lake. All this fell apart when I got to the bus station. The jolly sights of thousands of tour groups complete with baseball caps made me do a quick about turn and decide that I will have all the lake and tent time I need in the Stans.

I know that I convey this image that Chinese tourists are somewhat like strange and loud herd creature. To a large extent this is true but of late I have been seeing some new breeds. Maybe due to my capability to hold a crap conversation in Chinese or maybe it's just a new trend but I have recently met a few of a species that many thought was but a myth: the lone Chinese backpacker. These are of the same cloth as the rest of the Western dorm denizen. Students whose situation allows them to sod off for a few months, youngish people in between jobs and folks who have good careers but decide to put them on hold for a while or just sod it and go as life is to short to spend it in meetings.

These rare and wonderful lone travellers should not be confused with a more common, albeit still unusual group who seems to have taken the hostel I am in. The halfway house types. Strong communal instincts make it uncomfortable for a lot of Chinese people to venture in unknown parts on their own. However, more and more people realise that being shuttled about between photogenic spots, restaurants and karaoke joints in a bus while listening to some young thing drone on endlessly about the beauty of what they are going to see for 5 minutes is, to put it bluntly ; shit.

Therefore a sort of copromise is reached. A lot of folks will go out as a group of reassuring size ( 10people minimum) but will locate hostels by themselves and sort out their own transport. They also have the quasi alpine gear of the backpacker but have not realy grasped the finer points of packing. Many times I have wrongly deduced from backpacks twice as heavy and large as mine that the bearer of this burden was in it for the long term. As it turns out they are only away for a week but often admit they got a bit carried away on the shopping. Tempora mutantur, China et mutamur in illis .

So what is there to do in the world's most landlocked city? Not much to be honest. As weird as it seems I am enjoying the familiarity of China. I can go to the park knowing that I will have lots to see, I can still odrer food and I can even chat to people in the street (mainly Chinese tourists as lost as I am). Confort crapness if you will.

What is nice here is the food. I had promised myself to stay clear of the mutton as I know I am going to eat a lot of it in the near future but I can't resist. In a way I am in the homeland of a type that has served me well in China. Wherever you go in China you can rely on good lamb kebabs from the muslim vendors (identifiable by their hats if you are crap with ethnic facial features). Xinjiang is the mothership of these purveyors of meaty goodnes and the shashlyk is brilliant. Another yummy treat the China Hand is unnacustomed to is decent local bread. The Uigurs bake big slabs of Nan type bread in tandoori type ovens and you can buy one of these huge sesame-covered treats for a kwai.

Also of note is the local museum. Unlike most chinese museums it is coherent, informative and the English is quite good. That is untill you reach the section that deals with the communist period. That's all in Chinese as they might be trying to prevent foreigners from walking about and sniggering. In my case they failed.

When I say the english is good and informative they do have a few lapses An introduction to the histroy and pre-history of the area is preluded by a statement to the effect that Xinjiang is, and always has been, an inalienable part of CHina. A display of Kazakh, Uighur or Mongol traditional dress and homes has to be highlighted as an example of how the various cultures of China work together for social harmony and the motherland.

The reason for this strange display of national assertion is not just mediocre English skills but a result of the strange sitch of this region. In a way, Xinjiang is the Tibet no one gives a fuck about. The background is different but the methods used by Beijing to keep the Uighurs in check are similar to those used on Richard Gere's favourite ethnics.

The reason Urumqi is more Han than Uighur is that the Chinese Government has been encouraging Han people to come and settle the place. Like in Tibet they have rigged the game to make sure one group progressed and the other stagnated.

One subtle sign fo this can be seen on any street corner in Urumqi. The Pinyin (latin alphabet version of CHinese) that I had relied on everywhere in CHina is gone and has been replaced by Arabic. This might look like a nice concession to local culture but in fact it's a result of a massive Fuck You. Uighur is Turkic and up to the mid 80's they used the latin alphabet. This was discontinued and Arabic was imposed by Beijing. The reasons for this are unclear. The Lonely Planet claims that this was because the Uighurs had a huge advantage over the Hans in learning English. More likely is that to impose restraints on a language restricts the written culture to all but a very educated (and very monitorable) few.

Another visible sign of Peking's nastiness is just as widespread and innocuous: Children. When the bell rings, Chinese cities are taken over by hordes of sprogs wearing their school uniforms (aka: shellsuits). They make noise and clutter up the pavement when buying horrible snacks. Urumqi is no different than any other city in this respect and that's the problem. The annoying pack of kids here look exactly the same as the ones in Changchun, Beijing, Kunming etc. I would expect a certain percentage of the little blighters to be Uighurs but it was a couple of days untill I spotted one. This tells me that the educational opportunities might be slightly biased towards the Han.

The last of the trivial signs of what is happening here is something I do many times in a day. I glance at my watch. This seems like nothing but it has some significance. In the pursuit of the myth of a unified China, all clocks in he country are set to Beijing time. The snag is tha Urumqi is a fair few thousand miles West of BJ and the utter darkness circa 7am reminds you off this. Opening hours are mindfull of daylight hours and the strange result is that banks close at 8, schoos kick out around the same time and fuck all happens before 10am. The Uighur restaurant next door to my hostel has set their clock to local time (2 hours behind official time) and I understand that a lot of locals do this. The upside of this silly situation is that Urumqi is a town that respects my natural body clock. Wake up at 9, coffee-up until 11, lunch at 2 and dindins around 9.

The above are the things visible to any visitor but behind the scenes a lot more bastardry goes on. The government in this case follows the lead of industry by seeing something developed in the West, making a piss poor copy of it and hoping no-one will realise the difference. The ever trendy boys in Beijing have justified their recent clampdowns on Xinjiang by invoking that wonderful American concept of the War on Terror. The Middle Kingdom has seen the benefits of this stupid notion and have seen the way cowardly statesmen around the world have used it to excuse a state power grab.

On this one the West has played along probably since all moral highground was thrown away along with a large batch of individual liberties. The Chinese have been quite savvy on this. They have tried to palm off the Dalai Lama and the Free Tibet lot as terrorists in the past but got rightly mocked as a result. Muslim clerics and separatists are easier to portray as jihadis nutters and they have bumped off a fair few of these with a thumbs up from the West. Another brilliant result of TWOT.

In a way I am glad that this is my last stop in CHina. I have grown fond of the place and it's easy to forget what a shower of cunts the rulers of this country are.

I guess I should do a last "What now for the Dragon?" post but in a sense I already have. My views on the political aspect of this place have not changed and I have covered these in previous posts. What has changed is that the future of China will matter to me on an emotional level.

If China becomes the nemesis of the West aswwe all want the same resources for our bloated countries than I will have to remember the people I have met here when the happy demonisation process begins back home.

If CHina supplants the US as the biggest fish in the pond and does an even crappier job at ruling the world I will have to remind myself that behind the policies are lots of people I care about.

Finally, it's also possible that China will cock things up. Their economic strength is built on their capability to produce a lot for very cheap. The snag with this is that they have now reached a catch 22 situation. The reason Chinese products are so cheap is that they pay the workers close to bugger all. They can also build factories willy nilly and not give a stuff about the environmental impact. Inflation here has crept up quite a bit and wage inflation will soon follow. The Chinese are also aware that if they don't want to lose a million workers a year to health problems they have to impose some sort of limit on what can be dumped into the atmosphere and the water. If they do this, goods won't be so cheap and other countries, such as Vietnam, are all to keen to step in.

If all goes tits up for China I don't think I will be able to snigger to much as an economic downturn means that a lot of good folkare going to get it in the neck. I will however laugh at the chappies learning Mandarin in London and New York just as I laughed at the ones who where convinced Japanese was the new language of business.

Anyways, That's all for my last post in CHina,

Next stop, Almaty

Take care,

Arabin

2007-09-27T06:31:00.000Z

Dunhuang, Hexi corridor, China

I am constantly amazed by China. A vast land of constrasts whose wonders seem to jump out of nowhere and whose friendly people help you challenge your own preconceptions.

Sorry for the drivel above, I am just practising backpacker bullshit. This is because I am truly one of the scruffy turtle race again. I got here after a 30 hour train journey followed by a 2 hour drive through the desert as the sun rose. As scenic as this seems the drive was a result of a fuck-up. My outdated guide left me unaware of the new train station in this town so I had to get here the old, long and scenic route. Like anywhere in China where money is to be made, frenzied construction is the norm. What this meant for me is that my guidebook is obsolete and worthless.

Hence the true backpacker experience. I had to track down a cheapish yet decent hotel whilst lugging my bags and cursing Chinese entrepreneurs and Lonely Planet writers in equal measure. I then had to haggle down the price of the room despite being obviously ready to give one of my kidneys for a lie down and a hot shower.The joys of the road.

The main reason to go to this small towm in the middle of bugger-all is the Mogao caves. A series of artificial caves, dug and decorated over the centuries by Buddhists. These vary in size and content from the basic 10 square meter, statue and fresco job to huge sitting and lying Buddhas.

The chaps in charge have to balance greed against preservatio so only 10 of the 100 or so caves can be seen. And this only with a guide. All the caves have doors and locks on them in case you feel like ditching the tour and going walksies. To add to this, the staff refused to let me join a Chinese tour despite my insistence that I didn't really care and I had to twiddle my thumbs for an hour untill enough whities could be rounded up. Still worth it though.

The one cave everyone gets to visit is the one where a local chap found a huge stash of ancient documents around the start of the 20th century. These where promptly swiped/bought for paltry sums by explorer types from cannon owning countries. One of last on this list of rogues did make me laugh. Langdon Warner, an American, arrived late in the game as is the custom of his country.Upon finding that more timely Old Worlders had already twocked the best stuff he decided that he was not going to be outdone by effete Yirrupeans. Showing the cultural sensitivity that makes Yanks loved worldwide, he simply chiselled out huge sections of frescoes and nabbed a few statues for good measure. America was now a recognised player in the great game of stealing old and pretty stuff from the poor and coloured of this world.

Why the caves came about is still a bit confusing to me. The guide claims it originated form a vision by a passing monk followed by eons of the residents of Dunhuang celebrating their faith or having fuck-all else to do than dig into cliff faces. Guidebooks claim the main impetus for the construction of these holes was merchants coming back through the Silk Road giving thanks for their safe passage. A vaguely remembered CCTV(China's national telly setup) feature I watched stated that the caves were commisioned by wealthy chaps on their way West to ensure safe passage.

Like most acts of faith, I choose to believe what is most convenient for me even though I know CCTV is about as reliable as a cheap Chinese watch. I like their version better as it makes me a pilgrim of sorts. I like to think that I, like many others before me, have gazed upon statues of the Big B before setting off on the Silk Road.

I know the Silk Road kicks off in Beijing but for my purposes it starts here. Tomorrow I will be in Xinjiang which culturally and ethnically is Central Asian in spite of the best efforts in social and racial engineerring of the Chinese government. Here is where the land of rice, chopsticks and weird creatures wok-fried with MSG ends and the kingdom of the lamb kebab starts. At my next stop I will be amongst those submitted to Allah instead of those who believe a number, colour, age, foodstuff, setting off 20 kilos of explosives over a fortnight or letting a fucking pile of cabbage rot on yur doorstep is lucky for some reason or another.

Before I scoot off I should mention my stay in Shanghai. I guess I did the usual backpacker stuff of watching the BBC, stuffing myself with foods all over the world and catching a choir performance of Beethoven's 9nth. I stayed with my ex boss and indulged myself in some worldly comforts.

One thing worth mentioning is that I went to the aquarium.It's all fish but a couple of things did get my attention. There is a huge underwater tunnel which has a shark, rays, and other large dangerous things section. Once I got there my contemplation was spoilt by some chap who decided to be as loud as possible. I have seen this before in Chinese blokes of a certain age but this time it struck me as odd. Usually it is a face gaining procedure often triggered by the combined presence of pretty Chinese girls and foreign blokes. Was he worried that the sharks will promise the girls a green card and further deplete this country's stock of women?

The other thing that I found amusing is when I got to the area where they have seals playing around. They basically swim in circles and come up to the window. A few couples where there as the girls obviously thinks they as cute as her Hello Kitty umbrella and they hail them as the seals swim by. What they actually say is "hello".

I found this odd but it sorts of make sense once you've been here a while. The logic maybe goes as thus: Non-Chinese are foreigners, foreigners respond to "hello", seals aren't Chinese people hence they are foreign hence speak English. It's weird but frankly it's the best explanation I can muster.

Finally, to illustrate the point of strange leaps of Chinese logic, the Beijing rozzers have kindly furnished me with a recent example. Recently they raided Sanlitun which is the big expat bar area near the embassies. This was a targeted raid. By that I mean they seized every black man they could find, roughed them up and carted them away. If I reapply the law of Chinese logic, the reason for this little exercise in Apartheid police tactics is the following. There are drugs being dealt in Sanlitun (true), the dealers are mainly Nigerian (probably true), Nigerians are black (highly likely) therefore all black men deal drugs. Let's roll!

This might backfire on the local plod as they managed to beat up the son of the ambassador of Grenada. Methinks a few people are soon going to get posted to Inner Mongolia.

Next stop Urumwi, Ulumqi, Wulumqi or whatver they are calling it this week.

Take care,

Arabin

2007-09-13T08:20:00.000Z

Qingdao, somewhere on the yellow sea, China

My first true backpacker post in a while and somewhat of a test in itself. I am going to try to revert to my trademark collection of half-truths, snap judgements and silly anecdotes. Here goes:

Qingdao has been around for a while but the distinguishing feature of this place, historically speaking, is that the Germans tried to make it into their own little Hong Kong. Like many Teutonic attempts to emulate the Franco-British sport of colonialism it didn't really pan out though, to be fair, this was less disastrous than other affairs. Their legacy seems to be churches, quaint houses and beer.

Beer is omnipresent in China but here it is nearly revered. The Germans built the Tsingtao brewery which makes the only famous beer in China (ie: one of the few breweries who can produce something consistently fit for export). One difference between here and the rest of China is that the 60odd cl bottle is no longer king. Here draught beer is the norm. It's a bit of a shock as I am now used to wrapping my lips round the cool neck of the beer bottle with the same regularity of oral insertion as the scrawny chap done for tax fraud in a tough prison.

It is nice change though and it is not difficult to find a pint. The many small fag and snack shops in Qingdao's old town all have four or five kegs under an umbrella and you can just stop and get them to fill a mug or, if you don't walk around with a beer stein on you, a plastic bag. As trampy as it seems it is fun to drink beer out of a shopping bag with a straw. This was a bit unsettling until I saw someone get a refill as I thought the local hobby was to carry around bags of foamy piss.

Beyond silly daytime drinking the main things to do here are beach bumming and eating seafood. These two pastimes make the fame of Qingdao around China. My train from Beijing was full of people assuring me how great it was though very few of them had actually been there. I decided to take their advice and start working on my sunburn. The beaches are cleanish and the water not to murky. I took my first dip in the great brine pool in a while then watched Chinese chaps digging up the beach in search of crabs. It wasn't fantastic but I am making the most of it as my next swim in the sea will be in the Med and in 2008.

Seafood here is nice, cheap, plentiful and, unlike Changchun, doesn't transform your arse into a bladder. Particulalry of note are tiger prawns (local name) which don't really look like prawns at all but are much nicer. More like a yummy sea-dwelling centipede. Then again a lot of things are tasty after a few bags of beer.

I'll leave it there as this is just a post to get into the swing of things. The next bit is a recap of what I did prior to reaching this alarmingly clean city and a slightly wussy introspective waffle that I am writing down for my own sake.

I left Changchun and went straight to Beijing, the big BJ. I been there before and had no intention of seeing anything but was out to score a visa for Kazakhstan. This was the initial purpose of my stay in the increasingly charmless capital of China. I eventually got my visa and had my first encounter with member of a species that I suspect I am going to be very familiar with: The Lesser Powered Central Asian Official.

This was in the shape of a fat knacker who got huffy that my visa apllication from was a blatant collection of lies. Previous experience with visas is that you only need to let them tick the boxes. This man seemed intent on checking the crap I had written down and it wasn't looking good. I was looking at having to rewrite the form, get interviewed, cough up 55 dollars and wait for 5 working days (these exclude weekends and Tuesday which, in Beijing, seems to be some sort of consular Holy Day). I pointed out to the chubby fuck that his government might want to be a tad more accomodating if they wanted to develop a tourism industry and suddenly all things changed. Exeunt annoying lardy twat and enter smiling friendly woman. She took my form, drew a line through half the stuff the officious prick had scribbled, told me to come back the next afternoon and charged me the princely sum of 160 yuan. All this with a big smile.

I am not sure what happened but I am guessing I used the magic word: Tourist. For all his zeal the fat bastard had failed to check what type of visa I wanted and made me go through the hell they inflict on Chinese migrants or expat businessmen intent on corrupting Kazahk officials to grab some of the country's oil. Once they twigged I was just some dosser with no intention of stealing the manufacturing jobs of Kazaks by working for cheap I got fobbed off to the resident consular worker who still has a soul. Objective completed.

The other task that appeared in Beijing was that of re-adaptation. This came out of the blue and forced me to reconsider what my time in China meant for me.

I knew I would be a bit moody as I left Changchun and once in BJ I dealt with it in the time honored fashion of getting sozzled and showing off. I enjoyed passing myself off as a font of wisdom on all things Chinese, basking in the admiring gaze of young backpackers when accomplishing the tricky task of ordering food and getting unsuspecting fools to try Baijio.I doled out tips, anecdotes and warnings with casual confidence and got drunk untill I morphed into that beloved creature; the pissed wanker who stumbles into the dorm at 4am and wakes everyone up by trying to be quiet yet spends 20 minutes dropping stuff.

One evening I went to the common room and got started again. Suddenly I got tired. Tired and bored. I didn't want to introduce myself for the umpteenth time. I didn't want to go through the predictable Q and A again. I didn't want to resume the past 2 years of my life to a 10 second backpacker's soundbite. I didn't even want to pass myself off as some sort of Old China hand. I slunk into the chair and drank quietly watching my fellow backpackers and giving very short answers to any forthcoming questions. I then realised what was happening. I was homesick.

I had managed to convince myself that my time in Changchun was part and parcel of my little jaunt. I would pack my bag and up-stakes with the same ease I used to leave a guesthouse. I was, of course, wrong. Whether I like to admit it or not, Changchun was a home for me for more than a year. The patterns and habits, joys and annoyances, likes and dislikes, freindships and enmities I experienced there were not the ephemeral ones of the trail but the deep lasting ones that affect, influence, integrate and modify one's identity.

As I am back into the happy world of hostels and sightseeing I now have to admit that I have come back to the same mental spot when I landed in Jakarta what a long while ago. I am not a tanned and seasoned traveller but someone who has just left home. In a sense it is even worse as, unlike the friends and family in Europe I have to face up to the brutal reality that it is unlikely I will see more than a few of the Changers crowd again.

Hence my time in Beijing was also a period of acclimatisation. I had to enjoy myself when I was up to it and ride out the stroppyness when it occured. The real switch was when I got to to the unfamiliar town Qingdao as I had to go through the rigmarole of finding lodgings, getting settled and planning the next move. I am now backpacking again.

Next stop, the bejewelled and expensive whore of the Orient: Shanghai

Take care,

Arabin

2007-09-01T05:35:00.000Z

Changchun, China

Last post from the town that was my home for more than a year. Once again I am unemployed and of no use to society. Thankfully, I am middle class and abroad so I am “travelling”.

I find I have little to write about after my time here. I have not gained any wise oriental insights into life, I have not grown as a person although my gut has and my Chinese is still piss poor (my CV might not reflect this). My socio-political look on the place is seemingly less acute than when I got here. In a sense I have fallen victim to the great Chinese syndrome of reverse knowledge. The more you know about the place, the more ignorant you realise you are.

On a personal level this past chapter of my life has been like so many others. I have met good people and enjoyed their company. I have met tedious people and mentally filed them as part of the scenery. The good thing is that there are a precious few of the latter amongst the foreigners as the very fact that they have chosen to live in this smog-filled paradise tends to make people interesting. Another bonus is that personalities become much more distinct here or maybe I just mentally typecast people.

The Chinese people I have met are nearly all inherently fascinating. As you get to know them you play the happy game of finding out what aspect of them is a product of their culture and what is one of the zillion of idiosyncrasies that make us so similar and yet so different.

My skewered view of other humans as actors in the great play that life puts on for my pleasure has been a blessing here. The cast of “Arabin in China” has been tremendous. Bravo.

The other part of my life here is something that generates mixed feelings. I am referring to that tedious necessity in life: work. I am unsure if this has been the easiest or most difficult job I have held. The doss part are laughably low hours and basing your job on a skill that all but the simplest of creatures master. The tricky part is that teaching has little or no autopilot. You have the focus on what you do. No playing solitaire or daydreaming about torching the office.

What was even harder for me is that, unlike spreadsheets or the Tuesday budget review in Warrington, I actually started to care about the recipients of my work. I pride myself on being able to disconnect what I do for a living and what I am and have become frighteningly good at it. Work related stress is not something I will ever be a victim of. However, this past year has seen some worrying new developments. I started to actually like the kids.

Before I became a teacher I held a view that children were somewhat of an unavoidable annoyance. Loud little creatures that selfish people had inflicted on society as they needed something to do after their ambitions have come to nothing or couple conversation has morphed into a dull litany of clichés and complaints. Yet now I think I understand why people decide to effectively bugger up all that was sweet about their life and start to spawn. As a teacher I manage to get myself some of the unconditional adulation that, I guess, parents get and it is fun. My former self probably wants to deck me as I am now toying with the idea that some day in the far future I might go out and get myself one of these things. The 5 year old models are the best.

Now I am faced with describing what my life was here. Having a job and a regular life has killed off a lot of my fascination for my surroundings so I find it tricky to discern what might be of interest. I have nixed the idea of listing what I have done or seen in the past year or so. Instead I will make a brief list of what aspects of China I will or won’t miss.

Things I will miss:

-The Raj lite: After an evening of obnoxiousness and doing what the hell we want it is hard not to see myself as a privileged, quasi-colonial expat. Never having to consider money in a nightly foray, taking taxis for 500 yards when it’s cold, waving a beer bottle out the window so the recyclers can come and clear up the green clutter and abusing the local inability to distinguish boorishness from cultural differences are things one gets very used to.

-The lies: Sweet, wonderful lies. Nothing massages the ego quite like a Chinese person telling you obvious bullshit about you being smart, handsome and interesting. It used to make me want to shake the dispensers of these fallacies but now I like it and crave it like a smackhead.

-Selective stupidity. My level of Chinese is somewhat a tragic monument to lazyness after a year and a half but it is not inexistent either. I have enough basics to get by and can eavesdrop a little. I love being able to do as I want by pretending not to understand a word of the poor sod trying to prevent me from doing something forbidden. Dealing with tall loud foreign creatures is tricky enough and if you add the frustration of not getting your obvious point across it is quite easy to completely shatter whatever confidence the chap had mustered and get him to give up.

Things I won’t miss:

-Being poisoned:
There are hundreds of elements in the periodical table and all of them have been converted to gaseous form and pumped into the air of Changchun. The socialist free market is a wild unfettered beast that spews its deadly waste with gay abandon. Feeling strange for no reason, inexplicable aches and seeing clouds of strangely coloured smog are part and parcel of living in the world’s factory.

As if coating my lungs with mercury wasn’t enough, China will occasionally make sure you have a fun packed couple of hours living in your toilet. Getting the trots here is not a symptom anymore but a regular visitor. A strange byproduct of this is that, in the land where manners have all been shot during the cultural revolution, farting is a no-no. At least when you are out of running range of a clean pair of trousers.

-Being deafened: Atmospheric pollution is a concept known in China even if nothing substantial is done to rectify it. Noise pollution is a notion that has yet to earn its Chinese character. Midnight is a great time to do roadworks. 5am is when I most want to be woken and informed that I may give away any surplus cardboard. Of course I want to hear what you are talking about on your phone so thank you for shouting. It is good of you to sound off your horn, mister taxi driver, as I was unaware of your presence blocking my way as I try to cross a busy street. I easily forget that it is the New Year Festival so a fortnight of fireworks is just what I need

-Being illiterate:
I have been told to start learning Chinese characters and to be fair it is good advice. What ticks me off a bit is that you have to learn 4000 symbols to be considered literate. Pictographic alphabets are essentially cave drawings with delusions of grandeur. I am not impressed when being told there are an estimated 50000 Chinese letters out there. All that tells me is that 49000 letters ago they should have realised that this was getting stupid and ditched it in favour of something based on sound.

-Mei You: The two words that guarantee to get me seething with rage. Basically it means that you are not going to get what you want. For full effect it should be delivered with mild resentment that you asked a person to provide what you require or bemusement that you are stupid enough to believe that the item you have bought in the store daily for the past fortnight will be there today. A personal favourite is when it comes with a brief admonishment that I should not be so tall, fat or bigfooted if I want to buy something.

-Being racist:
As you might have guessed from some of the above, I can get petty and frustrated. I have experienced my fair share of Bad China Days. These are days where it just gets to you. Minor annoyances keep piling on and you lose the ability to laugh them off. You then start to loathe anything Chinese and project your anger through a general disparagement of a culture. You create a unified stereotype in your mind and blame it for all your ills regardless of merit.

I think what annoys me the most about this is that it has revealed an ugly side of myself. My inner monologue has sometimes become an embodiment of the narrow-minded bigoted fucknuts I have had the misfortune to meet in dreary pubs. The above is a beautiful example of the condition. I blame China for what I am.

Things I bitch about now but will probably miss:

-Mandopop and Chinese music: It’s truly vile and so syrupy you could coat your nipples in it and get a broadminded person to lick it off. Someone has found the very worst of late eighties eurodance and built a huge industry off its rotting carcass. I do think I will miss it though. There is nothing quite like seeing a heavyset 40 year old man lipsynch and bob along to some horrible ditty that sounds like they got a 7 year old girl to talk about her favourite lollypop.

-Pinkness. Pinkness is the generic term I use to describe the huge amount of fluffyness and cuteness that has spread around this country like a bio-engineered form of Ebola. No mobile phone is complete without 49 dangly hearts attached to it. No item of clothing will be unembroidered. The kitten is god. If you had a gaydar it is now useless as the metrosexual/rent boy look is the norm. Good luck trying to fantasise about some superb local girl as all the visual cues on her are conjuring up memories of childhood.

-Chinglish. If you are interested, google it. Chinglish is what happens when a Chinese sentence get run through babelfish. It’s everywhere and tremendous fun. A legendary local example is a chain of restaurant who revamps itself constantly but failed to remove the item on the menu that is an instruction to put arsenic in a pot. Chinglish is sadly endangered as the government wants to ban it presumably so that visitors to the Olympics will forget that they are corrupt murderous cunts since they can spell so well.

-Chinese medicine. Complete and utter bollocks that gets lucky occasionally. It is said to work slowly as opposed to western medicine which explains why your daily soup of platypus scrotum has had no effect whatsoever on your ingrowing toenail. It’s nice though as I can listen to advice and reject instantly despite being a complete dunce in science

-Baijo. Wrongness in a bottle. The local rotgut. The best description I have ever heard is that it tastes like poverty. It is foul and even the smell of it now makes me queasy. The plus side is that it encourages stupid behaviour so it’s fantastic to coax a newcomer to lose his/her baijio virginity. I myself will never drink the stuff again regardless of the occasion.

I am going to stop now and just be satisfied that I have managed to post again. I will update once I get to an unfamiliar place. Off to Beijing tomorrow to try and get a visa for Boratland.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-07-14T14:55:00.000Z

Changchun, China

I’m back. I’ve been off the blog for longer than I have ever been. For those of you who have an interest in what I do or see, I apologise. Basically, what I was worried would happen did happen. No, I didn’t end up in trouble with the Chinese fuzz which would at least have been interesting. Worse; I got settled.

By settled I mean I am now a plain old worker. I focus on my job, my social outings and my humdrum life. What surrounds me has become background, stuff I glimpse at on my way to places but don’t register anymore. I have lost my eye for detail and my curiosity. For me to sit down and write about what I see or do had lost its appeal. It felt like I was telling people about what I had for lunch or that I had a good day at work. Though content with my life at present, I am no longer inspired by it.

After a few reminders from folks to get scribbling I decided to take action and jolt myself back to writing mode. I took a bus to Jilin, a medium size town 2 hours away from Changchun. It’s not the most interesting place to go but it was unfamiliar. After 30 minutes of faffing around trying to work out which bloody bus station I had been dropped off at, I started to feel all lost, confused and backpackery. I missed that feeling. I was half tempted to go searching for a cheap hostel just for old time’s sake. I got my bearings and headed for the river, sunglasses on, some of my favourite travel tunes in my ear and, after a couple of miles, sweat running down my back. I was back in the game.

There isn’t much to see in Jilin in the summer. It’s more of a winter place so I will have to go back there at some point. Anyway what mattered to me is that I was once again content to observe the Chinese. I did go to a Confucian temple though and was a bit disappointed. The main interest of this place is that they have maintained/restored/recreated/ outright fabricated the examinations cells where candidates would live, sleep and write for days on end. Closed for my little eyes I’m afraid. My guess is that they were being spring-cleaned as I could see museum display cases stacked outside a locked building with English signs on the door. I reckon it’s going to be a while before they reopen too as most of the staff of this place were busy collecting and boxing the fallen fruit from the various trees in the courtyard.

Other than that I strolled around a strange market area. In Changchun segregated mercantilism is the norm. You go to one place for such and such and another for this or that. In Jilin it is all mixed together. There were two main shopping streets that resembled a UK highstreet except for the speakers mounted outside blasting shit Chinese Pop at ear splitting volumes and women clapping (they do this to attract customers but why it works is beyond me). These 2 streets were bisected by 2 more scruffy market streets . Of note in these is that whoever is in charge decided to put the spice, roots and herbs vendors at the entrances therefore attracting you with pleasant exotic scents and getting you far into the street before the more customary smell of rotting fish, meat and veg hits you. Also, for some reason, a lot of the shops seemed to flog stuffed deer often arranged as cute dead Bambi families.

Anyways I had fun noticing stuff I had forgotten was interesting and am now ready to write again.

Ego trip.

Not much going on except that my sprogs are going mental in the heat. I recently subbed for another teacher who had warned me that the class he was asking me to take was somewhat out of control. I decided I was not going to put up with any crap, especially if I was doing a favour. Chinese people aren’t to keen on brutal changes and surprises and the kids are no exception except that they seem content just to be flummoxed and don’t get arsey about it (a great tradition in English schools is the chorus of insane complaints about a new teacher’s weight, height, accent, knowledge of English that the parents cook up to mark their displeasure of losing their familiar teacher).

I knew I had a 10 minute window where they would stare at me in fear and awe and I used it to set the tone. Minor background noise was silenced with a roar, slumpy postures were corrected with intimidating stares and horseplay during opening games was a one way ticket back to their seat. I was helped by the resident class clown/evil little shit my colleague had warned me about. The brave boy obliged me by acting up and taking the piss within 5 minutes therefore allowing me to use the classic technique of punishing one poor sod pour encourager les autres. He had the joy of standing by my side in front of his peers, staring at the wall and trying not to cry as the Chinese assistant translated to the rest why he would not play any games during the class and that any other would be comedians would also be banned from all things fun.

Anyway, my little intimidation blitzkrieg worked a charm and the sprogs were impeccably behaved from then on. This was such a change from the routine that the Teaching Assistant came up to me and commented on how unusual it was to get them to do as they are told without mayhem breaking loose. After this little ego boost I, of course, decided to share my professional views on classroom management with my colleague in order to help him with a difficult class. I did this with regular pisstaking and little jibes to the effect that some people can command respect whereas some people simply cannot.

At this point the great deity of Poetic Justice decided to step in and put a stop to my immature behaviour. Sure enough, for my next 4 classes of the week, kids I know and have bullied and drilled into fascist stormtrooper standard discipline, decided to run riot and ignore me completely. I feel humbled.

Laowai Life: It’s not China

As a consequence of losing my interest in the little details that make China what it is, I have started to do as many expats do and occasionally decide that I need just a few hours that are not… well, not Chinese.

Changchun is not Beijing or Shanghai where a determined xenophobe could spend a year with nearly no interaction with the locals but it has a few hiding spots. One of these is the swimming pool in the leafy German compound where you can swim and doze far away from the noise and the weirdness. The drawback is that after 2pm you get German children running about.

Another place to go is swanky hotels when they hold a themed food night (Mexican, Italian etc). This does misfire a bit though as you start off ordering stuff in crap mistoned Chinese and, instead of going through a few mimics or staring at you while they work out what you might have been saying if you hadn’t fucked up the tones, the staff confirm your order in flawless English.

I am however, limiting my time in designated expat boozers. I was helped in this by the world cup and the accompanying “football nights”. Though I try to adapt to places and people there are a few principles that I think should be maintained at all costs and are not contextual or relative:
-Do to others as you would have done onto yourself.
-A human life is sacred
-Suffering is felt by all
-People should be judged by what they have done, not who they are
-Footie fans are morons and pubs with widescreen TV’s showing football should be firebombed.

Know Your Masters: Guanxi

China being a Commie dictatorship there are 2 things that are constant here. The bureaucracy is vast and intrusive and nearly everything is forbidden or, at best, requires a Homeric struggle with officials to be authorized.

Given these hurdles, how come China is booming alarmingly? Right wingers have more than their fair share of wrong calls on their rap sheet but I tend to agree with them on the notion that bureaucracy and legislation tend to hinder more than help business. So how do Chinese entrepreneurs drag their country into the present when they have all these rules to abide to? In short, they don’t. They get around the whole lot with Guanxi.

Guanxi is what allowed me to work here. I waltzed in here with a tourist visa, landed a job and got to work without even having to cross a border and apply for a working permit. My passport got taken away from me and returned in 48 hours with a new visa and working permit and I didn’t have to even sign an official from. This would be impossible in any European country if you are not a spook or a Mafiosi. Here, mere mortals can pull this stunt thanks to guanxi.

Guanxi is not just simply corruption, though bribery is a large element of it. It is also the art of developing contacts and giving and owing favors. There are elements of the French piston system where it is expected that you will help out friends and family. Here you can develop these friends and it is an important part of business. My boss has got good guanxi so he can get things done very quickly. Owning a school I suspect a few of our kids (the dumb annoying ones particularly) are there as a favor to people who help out the business or who one day might.

Guanxi is what makes China work and prosper. It is also why the government is so irredeemably corrupt. They tend to have periodical crackdowns on the worst excesses but in a way the authorities know that to do things to the letter of the law would make China jump back 20 years. Plus they would lose most of their workforce. People here want to work for the government because it is very lucrative. On the basis they had to pay to get the post, or will have to pay it back someway one day, it even seems fair.

The flip side of guanxi, besides the usual problems of having a corrupt administration, is that it might hurt China business wise in the future. China is already on thin ice with regards to world trade because of copyright infringements and other issues. The WTO could crack down and their big trading partners might have to impose trade sanctions if there starts to be some serious political upset on unfair trade practices and domestic job losses. For the Chinese, business rules are things to be circumvented or ways by officials to make money. China might end up in a Catch-22 situation where it has to reduce the omnipresence of guanxi in Chinese life in order to access capital and markets but can’t as it would mean paralyzing the country.

WTF: Pajamas, Snoopy and gay kids with guns.

The pajamas is something that I quite like here. As I have mentioned before. When it’s warm there is a great street life here. People go out to eat off the pavement or walk around the block. What I find great it that some of these get ready for bed beforehand then scoot out for a walk therefore you will see lots of blokes in jammies and slippers buying stuff at the local store. I love the idea and I am trying to convince people to have a pajama night out of our own to show that we can adapt.

Snoopy. As I have said before, cutesy schlock is always present in China. I mentioned what the girls wear in my last post and I should point out that the blokes are not exempt. On a doomed hunt for trousers that would fit my long, European legs and my fat European arse I was often confronted and confused by shops with a “Men’s clothing” sign in English (not necessarily for laowais but often to lend a “It’s western therefore trendy” cachet to the place) yet had a window display of frilly pinky crap that only teenage girls or Abba fans would ever wear. Having seen Chinese males in nightclubs and trendy bars these were in fact men’s clothing stores.

This been said, the schlock sometimes appears in really odd places. Plod cars are everywhere here and often parked haphazardly while their drivers do something important like getting free meals in restaurants. I was recently surprised to see that one such driver had decided to put Snoopy seat covers in his squad car. Who says a police state can’t have a sensitive side.

The gay kids with guns comes from observing my charges and the kids whose school entrance is in the courtyard of my apartment block and who delight in being loud at 8am when I am hungover. They are perfectly normal in most ways but have surprised and scared me recently. Chinese kids love to show off their toys and the boys amongst them are heavily into the weaponlike stuff. As such I have seen sprogs walk past my window with the usual slingshots, water pistols, toy guns and some less usual like nunchaks, extendable police baton and full size realistic replicas of World War 2 grease guns.

The gay part comes from what some of my kids have decided to wear in class for the 2 months in Changchun when it’s not bloody freezing. I have mentioned the slightly effeminate stuff adult men wear but the kids take it to a whole new level. Amusingly it s often the cocky class clown/tough kid who will wear the gayest stuff. By gay I don’t mean a bit pink or frilly but 1985, Frankie Goes To Hollywood concert in Brighton gay. It’s quite funny to see a kid try to make his peers fear him while wearing a black mesh wife-beater and fake leather shorts. A bit creepy too.

The one thing I can conclude from the WTF stuff is that one day the concept of kitsch will make it to China and that is going to be very, very painful.

That’s all folks. I will try to be more regular.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-06-09T06:40:00.000Z

Changchun , China

I am finally making progress in Chinese. By that I mean that I stop using set phrases and I am starting to mix and match stuff. I noticed this at my last lesson when I had not done my homework for reason of going to the pub. My old schooldays instincts woke up from their long slumber and made me use the tried and tested technique of playing for time. I am very proud that my Chinese is now good enough to steer discussion towards fun and irrelevant stuff instead of going over directions and public transport as we were supposed to. Necessity may be the mother of invention but I found that procrastination, laziness and a complete absence of willpower when facing beer have finally spawned the mental flip I needed to get serious about using my vocabulary. I feel ashamed and proud at the same time.

Usual categories will be dropped for this post as I’ll focus on my haunts for the past week:

Park Life.

I have taken to spending my afternoons in the many parks of this place as they are pleasant, full of local life and I can attempt to recuperate my now-faded South East Asia tan. It’s a great place to chill out with your colleagues, watch the dozens of kites permanently airborne, bitch about work, munch on some fruit bought off street vendors or just go by myself and be contemplative. By that I mean that I ogle Chinese women.

China is not a land with an unusually high ratio of babes but there are a fair few stunners around. Chinese women between 18 and 25 (the age when they are supposed to bag a hubby) are fanatical about how their body looks and spend several hours in the gym to ensure their charmingly petite bodies are all trim and yummy. Umbrellas are out in force as, like a lot of places in Asia, they want their skin to be as pale as possible. Add to that the fact that they move around in groups and like to hold hands, hug and touch each other a lot and it all makes forgreat stuff to watch from behind mirrored sunglasses.

What sometimes spoils my happy perving moments is the Chinese sense of fashion. One of the big gripes of laowai men here is the insane tendency amongst Chinese women to perm and dye their beautiful silky jet-black hair. Bad, Bad, Bad. As for clothing I am unsure if I should love or loathe the local talent’s dress sense. Like a lot of British women, Chinese girls have sort of twigged that a man’s appreciation of a garment is inversely proportionate to the square yardage of the cloth. So, in a strange telepathic bond between the high streets of Essex and Jilin, the general attire for summer comes straight from the Street Corner Hooker school of seduction. It’s all crop tops, tight T-shirts, teensie little shorts and fuck-me boots. However, as the local women live on the treadmill and don’t down 7 pints of cider each night before a greasy kebab, Chinese women carry off this fashion much better than the lasses of my country.

You could think it’s all good and wonder what I am bitching about. I admit it’s not much but there are two things that sort of freak me out about the way they dress. The first one is furry bras. They love silly stuff on bras and particularly fake fur. I suppose it would look fantastic on its own but when added to a cute little top it often looks like they have a strange sprout of hair sticking out form their cleavage. Also, when I say cute I mean cute in the nauseating sense of the word. You will often spot a very nice piece of tottie walking towards you. As the sweet thing approaches you start the up-down scan and put a few tentative numbers on the shaggabilty scorechart each man has in his head. When she gets close enough for final marks you can’t help but see what decorates that wonderfully tight top. It’s all sparkles, teddy bears, hearts, “I’m a pretty girl” in cursive and other candyfloss type shit. I just find it a bit freaky. It’s like getting invited back to a woman’s place and finding that she has shedloads of teddy bears in her bedroom. It shouldn’t matter but it still feels weird.

So am I going to “sign up for advanced Chinese”? This is the euphemism used by resident expats for going native in the bedroom. I understand that a Western boyfriend is very appealing to the local chicks for several reasons. The usual income disparity, hope of bagging an exit visa, free English practice, fashion statement and street cred, more gallantry and general pandering to whims than local boys, a guarantee that it will annoy the fuck out of the old guard and of course penis size, though this might be wishful thinking on behalf of the resident male whities. The problem with going local is that you are unsure of the real motivations of the girl or have to be callous enough not to give a shit.

For the moment I am going to give it a pass. What I know about women from my culture can be written on a matchbox so having to deal with Chinese culture as well might lead to consequential misunderstandings. I have also had a sign from fate that prompts me to be wary. I met a very nice Chinese girl who was all flirty and doing a good job at petting my ego by pretending I was knowledgeable and interesting. She was pretty much clued up on most things and had gone out with laowais before so I thought she could be the best of two worlds. Right up to the moment I found out her last boyfriend had lost it and tossed himself out of a window. Therefore, as with pharmaceuticals and wine, I am going to stick with imported. A lot more effort to acquire but no nasty surprises.

Though leering at the local fluff is one of the main activities in Changchun’s parks other things are on offer. Apparently a day out with the kid wouldn’t be complete in China without guns. There are various electric car rides in the big parks but for some reason they all include a toy gun of some sort and targets on the side of the rails. I must say I find it a bit worrying that the local sprogs are going to have fond childhood memories of playing at drive-by shootings with Daddy. God help us if they get nostalgic and try to get Proust’s “Madeleine” effect.

The shooting stands are also a good place to draw a crowd if a laowai indulges. Our tendency for afternoon bevvies on our days off means that a trip to the park involves regular sessions of waiting for the girls outside the toilets (blokes can, and do, take a slash wherever they want without raising eyebrows). Enterprising locals have put their stands just outside the bogs and they are a good way to waste a few minutes. Westerners with guns being fascinating to Chinese blokes you will get a crowd who will very kindly sound impressed if you manage to hit something.

As with all parks in the world you can also have fun mocking the groups of teenage boys who are trying to look tough and intimidating. A great source of mirth back home, except for tabloid readers and those prone to urban hysteria, it is particularly amusing here due to Chinese mores. There is a widely believed and semi-official creed that there are no homosexuals in China. A casual visitor might think otherwise as it is common and acceptable for boys to hold hands, hug each other, sit on each other’s lap and even groom each other’s hair. It’s hard enough not to laugh at a teenager’s stare-down but it’s somewhat impossible if the wannabe tough guy has got his pal’s head in his lap and is stroking his hair.

The one snag with Chinese parks is finding somewhere to chill out. The authorities like the idea of everyone staying on the concrete paths being grateful at the kind gift from a benevolent government instead of actually enjoying the place so a strict Stay Off The Grass policy is in effect. Like most rules in China, is it somewhat subjective but you should try to find a discreet area for your picnic. I have learnt to avoid places where you can hear singing as this will be the Lovers Grove where Chinese couples go and serenade each other. Beyond that it’s quite easy to find the area where the rules don’t apply. In any case I can pretty much do what I want as the signs are in Hanzi and I reckon that if the regular plod can’t deal with Laowais, the parkies certainly aren’t going to bother.

That’s it for this post. Can't be arsed to to political stuff and the sun is shining so I'm going out.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-05-25T01:06:00.000Z

Changchun, Jilin province, China

Shorter post this time which shouldn’t be difficult. I’ll get my tangents done with as swiftly as I can.

One thing unrelated to modern day China that I would like to waffle on about is the recent decision by Cambodia to start legal proceedings against those responsible for the killing fields. About fucking time you might say but I fear this might not be cause for any celebration. The UN has been rightly concerned that a purely Cambodian run show would be a stunningly corrupt and ineffective affair since the government has little interest in seeking justice. The alternative would be a Nuremberg style trial where the perps are tried by chaps from other countries in a snatch-and grab Milosevic style but that would piss away any cute notions of Cambodians sorting out their own affairs.

From what I’ve got the solution is typical of the UN. After many years of threats, blusters, cajoles and backrubs, the fine legal and diplomatic minds working at the UN have eventually come up with a half-arsed compromise. One prosecutor will be foreign and all the decisions will have to be rubber stamped by outside jurists. I suppose the idea is to “help” the Cambodians finally get some justice. My take is slightly less positive and I’m not too impressed.

As laughable as it may have looked, the Milosevic trial still had one principle that I hold dear: A crime against humanity knows no borders and neither should its punishment. This isn’t like benefit fraud. The name of the game is to put these scrotes away for a long time content with the knowledge that, unlike their victims, they had a chance to defend themselves. Whether this happens in the Hague, Phnom Penh, Nuremberg or Milton Keynes is irrelevant. The perps in this case will be able to throw sand (or briefcases full of cash) in the cogs of the Cambodian machine and my guess is that the outside legal eagles will have to override the locals so much they might as well take charge fully. This could end up in a very morbid farce.

My personal solution would be to sod cosmetics and send in a few special forces types to do an Eichmann on these pricks. They could be tried in Belgium since everyone else seems to be (there are enough exiles in Europe to get plaintiffs and witnesses) and sent to do porridge in France for no better reason that prisons are shit there. Folk will whine about sovereignty and neo-colonialism but what matters is that somewhere in the paddy fields, a Cambodian will know that true bastards are being longcocked in the showers of La Sante prison for having ensured that he has no uncles or aunts despite his parents coming from 6 kid families.

Anyways, Jacques Ob and Mr Nuts will doubtless have a better take on the subject as their legal knowledge, unlike mine, goes beyond having read some John Grisham pulp and spouting off the pub legend that it’s technically legal to kill a Welshman with a bow and arrow after midnight in Coventry. So it’s back to China with me.

Ego trip:

I have recently felt the first pangs of travel hunger. Having a job and a flat inevitably means having to create some sort of routine. Obligations and necessities override what I feel like doing and I now have an average day of sorts. A serious upgrade in living conditions has made the transition pretty easy but now that I am settled and settled on the greener grass and have found somewhat of a daily routine I occasionally get hit by doubt and a strong yearning for the road.

This tends to happen when I have an uneventful day where what was once special is now ordinary. A song, a scent or my still not completely unpacked rucksack in the corner of the room will make me look west and want to hop onto a train. I guess this will pass if I can remind myself that however anodine my daily actions are I am doing them in China. In a way it also forces me to keep my curiosity alive and notice the small things that might intrigue me.

Backpacking is the ideal way of discovering places for those of us brought up with a telly and who have the attention span of a goldfish. Constant motion means constant renewal so the thirst for novelty is always satiated. Now I have to put some effort into discovering a place.

So what’s this increasingly familiar town like? The vital stats of Changchun are that of a medium to big Chinese city, 6 mil in the greater area, a fair dose of industry, pollution and a vast urban sprawl. It’s not on the tourist trail but neither is it one to avoid at all costs. Its real claim to fame is that it was once the seat of the puppet government of Manchukuo the Japs had set up with the complete waste of space that was Pu Yi, aka the Last Emperor. Heavy Jap presence has ensured that you sometimes come across the odd Art Deco With A Japanese Slant building. Oh, and they also put in most of the crummy waterworks of this city.

Basically it’s nothing special which is good for me. I want to experience an average China, a working China and Changchun is quite good for this. The pollution is nasty but nowhere near as nasty as Guangdong or Beijing and the brass monkey bollock freezing temperatures of the Changchun winter is actually a plus in my view. It has got more parks than the average Chinese city so I can access some greenery and try to learn the great Chinese art of sitting on a bench and staring for hours. It’s less of a pain to master than Tai Chi.

Laowai life: Somewhat of an overlap with my Ego Trip as I have decided to describe my job. This is one shared by a lot of Anglo laowais so it’s not too self-obsessed.

When I decided to settle my dusty arse in the Middle Kingdom I had hoped to bag a Uni teaching job as the perks are better holiday wise. My innate sense of timing meant that I arrived a month after I should have looked around and 5 months before the next recruitment period. Got a few offers but all for late summer and I didn’t want to do endless visa runs and deplete my finances even further. I therefore hunted around for a private school with a half decent rep after a few run-ins with dodgy outfits confirmed all the interweb rumours.

Like most schools that recruit foreigners, my employer recognizes the need for youngish expats to do very little and have a lot of spare time to learn the Chinese language , the culture or just go on one massive drinking spree. My teaching load is quite light and though my weekends are essentially fucked my week has a total of 5 teaching hours, all in the evening. In short I have a lot of spare time on my hands to do things like this blog.

The basic requirement for teaching in China is to be a grad from an English speaking nation. TEFLs are a plus but anyone who knows the elaborate networks of fake diplomas and referees based in Bangkok or Hanoi realizes that they are worthless. Even the basics can be ditched if you agree to very dodgy working conditions, possible illegal residency and a slurry of problems. I once met a 19 year old French guy who taught at one of these. He didn’t look happy.

A Chinese classroom presents many challenges beyond the fact that I don’t know what I am doing. Discipline is mostly the preserve of a Chinese teacher who is paid a third of what I get for 3 times the work. Also Chinese deference towards teachers ensures that they don’t piss about too much. The one problem that everyone on the same gravy train as I faces is how to know if they grasp something or they are just repeating. The capacity to parrot of my kids is amazing and a bit frightening. For reason political and cultural, Chinese schools work on a brutal rote learning system where independent thinking and learning by fuck-up is discouraged. As a result my kids probably wouldn’t even sigh if I got them to repeat a sentence 100 times but freeze like a deer in headlights if I shift the context a tad when working on some vocab.

I am surprised that I like the little bastards and actually enjoy what I thought would be a hamster wheel of a job. Once they stop fearing you they can be really great especially when they twig that fun is tolerated when taught by a foreigner. They then develop a scary affection towards you. Usually it’s quite a boost to the old ego but it has drawbacks. Many a time I have strolled out of my place of work with my earphones on, generally oblivious to the world after a short day’s work only to be reminded of reality and gravity by being nearly rugby tackled by some sprog I teach deciding to run up behind me and hug my leg while screaming my name.

In a way the parents are the ones I have trouble working out. They are periodically allowed to come into the classroom to see what we are doing with their progeny and generally sit in the back understanding even less than their kids. When they do get something across it is often along the lines of why don’t I favor their precious, legally mandated, one child over the others. All sorts of hints of favours tend to come along with these comments. Even weirder is their attitude to class discipline. I am by no means the most relaxed of teachers and I am blessed with a voice that can, if needed, stop 19 Chinese kids in their tracks and even hurt their little eardrums a tad. I use this often and to good effect. Yet the parents do not like even the odd lesson based game as it clashes with the disciplinarian hellhole they experienced as nippers.

Another comment that filters to all new teachers after a while is a subtle hint by parents that it’s perfectly alright to belt their child from time to time. This would horrify most parents back home into legal proceedings but here it’s SOP. Amusingly, if I wanted to get the parents to flid the only thing I have to do is send a rowdy kid to kick his heels and calm down in the corridor for 5 minutes. At that point they react as if had done like the Vatican’s finest and taught their 5 year old how to pole-dance. The reason for this is face.

Know Your Masters: Giving and Losing Face.

The reason the parents lose it for what would seem like a mild sanction for misbehaviour is that to isolate a kid from his peers is a major loss of face for the parents. It implies that they are not raising their child as well as others and that really insults them. Face is omnipresent in most of Asia but here it is taken very, very seriously.

I am still learning what can make one lose or save face but I have had the joy of many encounters with it. A typical example is when I ask for directions. A Chinese man will lose face if he admits he doesn’t know where the Great Hall of the People is even if he has been in the town for 5 minutes. To save face, the bastard will quickly invent a fictitious location and send you off on a wild goose chase. It took me a month in China to set myself the golden rule of always asking women for directions. Women are not expected to know more then men, regardless of origins so don’t lose face if they tell me they don’t know but a Chinese man is expected to be more knowledgeable than a Western bloke on anything to do with China so will rather die than fess up to ignorance or more accurately will rather see me off on the wrong bus than ask someone around him.

The tourist guides will tell you that the biggest mistake a Westerner makes with regards to face is to get shouty and lose his temper. This is a great loss of face and will get you nothing except the total loss of any respect the locals had for you. A stroll through a Chinese town will immediately reveal this bit of advice for the tosh it is. I have seen countless shouting matches and even the odd punch up over trivial matters and I can safely say the Chinese are not averse to a good bit of argie bargie. What does matters however is when to get rowdy or not. You basically have to try and work out where you are on the very subtle pecking order of Chinese society and then yell downwards. Giving verbal to the upper echelons such as anyone with a uniform, even a train conductor, will result in loss of face for both parties but mainly for you. Bullying the lower orders such as the poor or women for little reason is conversely a face gainer.

It would take a lifetime for me to work out the intricacies of face and its origins but it will take me minutes to judge it. It’s complete and utter tripe. I don’t care how much it is ingrained in Confucian values or whatever it is essentially schoolyard tough kid mentality. The younger generation, or at least the members I have met, tend to agree with me and it dicks them off even more as they have to live with it constantly whereas I have some leeway as a foreigner. Ego is something that should be curbed not bloody enshrined as a cultural asset.

Mind you I should start to care about it a bit more now that I live here as my backpacking reaction to displays of face gaining or face losing has been open mockery if they were dumb enough to use me for on of these exercises. I have had to do this the odd time particularly when some drunk tosser decides thumbing his nose (sometimes quite literally) at a laowai will be a great face gainer. The result of a contemptuous snigger by me is as pantomimesque as the initial approach with hands sunk in pockets, hunched shoulders and prolonged staring at shoes. I have been told that this is because laughing at someone who pulls this stunt makes them lose mucho face. I have also been told to be careful doing this as once I have derided their weird challenge to only way for them to save face would be to beat the crap out of me. I will be more wary now that I live here. Probably

WTF: Haircuts, hairdryers and man in a box.

The haircut come from a fun hour when I decided that my young pupils will probably find me funny enough without me looking like Shaggy out of Scoobidoo and that poncy locks would have to be on standby for a year along with my sandals. I walked in to my local barber and signaled for him to generally shorten everything. I am not that much more precise with the cutters back home so I didn’t intend to learn any specific vocab. I have much to learn in Hanyu but “highlights” is one word I’ll probably die ignorant of. Anyway the guy got snipping tentatively but eventually realized my hair was made of the same dead keratin strands that grace the heads of his regular patrons and got cracking.

He worked all around my head, asked me if it was ok and started over again. I figured was going to continue until I said stop and let him go on until I got what I wanted. All this time I had noticed the folk behind me staring intently but I didn’t mind and sort of expected it. What I saw when I got out of the chair did surprise me a bit as a small crowd of onlookers had gathered outside. I waved, they laughed and all went well but the barber asked me to wait for a mate of his to arrive with a camera so he could prove he had cut blond hair.

The hairdryer is actually unrelated to haircutting but connected with health issues. As I have mentioned before, street barbecues abound and you have to be careful if you don’t want to spend the next day on the bog. This is easy enough at mealtimes where the number of local patrons will give you a hint to how good the chow is but trickier for post boozing munchies when you the sole customers around are you and seriously gambeied businessmen. That’s where the hairdryers come in. The more established place have raised the capital to get a hairdryer to keep their coals hot. This tells you they do a lot of grilling and therefore are probably safe. It’s all in the details.

Man in a box is just that. I was walking under an overpass near my home where all sorts of scrap merchants congregate. They are a friendly bunch and usually beckon you over for a quick bout of having nothing to say to each other. This time I noticed a big box on a bicycle/cart job, where people went to and put a handful of cash in it. I then noticed that on this fine day a well dressed bloke was hunched in that box receiving the cash. Why, how, what? I don’t know

That’s it for this post,

Take care,

Arabin

2006-05-11T04:18:00.000Z

Changchun, China

First of the “my time living with the Chinese” post.

Before I kick off I should make thing one thing clear. When I refer to China and my life in it I am talking about China Mk. II. This is the 3-400 million strong, modernizing, urban China that goes online, hosts Olympics, gets told by their government not to piss in the bushes when visiting Hong Kong Disneyland and pays the likes of me to teach English to their one precious child. This is where I live, work and get sloshed and what will follow for he next year will probably be mainly about this version.

There is another, bigger, quieter and, in some ways, more significant China that I have only glimpsed or walked through on some nature jaunt. This version has not changed much in the past few centuries and is not getting a piece of the pie. I am talking about rural China. The peasants of China have always been disregarded and treated like manure but this time they are getting huffy as they know that some of their brethren have ceased to suffer as they do and they have even had the odd riot against bent officials. According to the government there are 300 million of these chaps still living in abject poverty and proper sources put the figure at 800 mil.

If we start seeing Europe, the US and China as greedy lardies fighting for the same resources, rural China is actually of great significance to our privileged little hides. There are essentially two scenarios that matter to us. The first possibility is that the recently decreed New Socialist Countryside masterplan will work and millions of Chinese will be ushered into the 20th if not the 21st century. This would be good news for the Chinese and bad news for us. It means we will be suddenly have a numerically superior bunch of people with the same sense of god-given entitlement to anything on, in and above land or sea if they can pay for it. They will want to acquire, upgrade and uptrend their cars, gadgets and appliances just as much as we do and, like us, they will only care about how they will be able to pay for it.

Scenario 2 is that, like all programs with the word Socialist in them, the masterplan will go tits-up and the conditions of the peasants not improve on bit. China 2.0 will carry on draining resources out of the old version and fuck them over and things could get nasty. The locals have already protested against some of the depredations inflicted on them and got repressed brutally. This will in all probability re-occur and the leaders will probably respond by even nastier clampdowns. The past protests may seem paltry back home but when you consider that in China public dissent is a synonym of suicide it shows how bad things are in the sticks.

The core of the problem is the institutionalised corruption of Chinese mandarins (will do one post on this little pleonasm at some point). Essentially, rich townies get in cahoots with local supremos and grab some land. The folk who work and live on said land get bugger all compensation and face the prospect of starving or joining the vast crowd of illegal migrant workers who sift through my rubbish, build the skyscrapers around me and have less rights to travel freely and work than I do in their own country. Unsurprisingly this annoys them a bit and I suspect that stupid glory stunts like putting men into space might make them question the truly egalitarian nature of the Socialist Brotherhood of Man they live in. Hence, revolt.

This could very well lead China to take a big step backward and kick off a low intensity civil war between the townies and the oiks. The government would stamp out what small freedoms they have doled out and the great economic expansion would probably brake suddenly as foreign investors bail out. The government might then use the tried and tested method of diverting the locals’ interest in domestic matters by going all nationalistic and belligerent about Taiwan, Japan, the Spratlies or some perceived slur by the US. However this time they might get serious and things could get out of control.

As I am on a Nostradamic rant I might as well push my hypothetical musings to the end and see what it would mean for the West. Basically China would probably cease to bankroll the American economy which would then go into recession which would in turn hit us Europeans. We would eventually recover from that probably thanks partially to selling shedloads of weapon systems to very jittery Taiwanese and Japanese citizens and we would get back to taking out loans (by now underwritten by Indian consortiums) for a bigger flat screen TV without having to worry that some chap in Shanghai wants one as well and will pay more for it. We might even take a break from watching internet videos of numbnuts injuring themselves or putting cats in washing machines and use our new handheld, wifi equipped, communications and entertainment device filled to the brim with African nickel and cadmium to fire off a quick email to Amnesty in support of the thousands of Chinese farmers now languishing in a growing network of gulags.

The sweet irony of this is that the solution to the problems in the Chinese countryside is obvious and easy yet impossible for the boys in Beijing. All they have to do for this shit to stop is to make local officials accountable to the peons by having them elected and not appointed by the Party. They can them use the 800 billion US dollars cash reserves they are sitting on to help the rurals with some hope it will get to the beneficiaries and not just transform itself into a new fleet of Mercs with inbuilt karaoke systems. They won’t do this as this would start a very novel trend of questioning the infallible wisdom of the Party and that can’t happen.

For what was going to be a quick qualifier on my blog the above has gone off on a somewhat tedious, weirdly alarmist and lengthy tangent but since I have spent the last half hour pondering and writing it I’m going to post it.. Soz for that but my point is that it is in our interest to keep an eye out for what is happening in the paddy fields as it will affect us as a group. Plus, as you people don’t need to use an ever dwindling list of proxy servers to get reliable info about this country I am kind of hoping you’d give me a heads up if things seem to heat up. Anyways, as there are better geopolitical blogs out there written by well informed and rational people who haven’t been swigging cheap Chinese brandy for the past 4 nights in a row I will get back to more usual task of trying to make myself sound interesting. So as per last post’s categories:

Ego trip: I am now a member of an “expat scene”. This differs from the backpack crowd in as much that we have bothered to learn how to say our address in Chinese for the drunken taxi ride home and the reality that we can’t avoid facing the consequences of our latest pissed up misbehaviour by sodding off to another town. The local expat crowd consists broadly of 3 groups.

There is a Volkswagen plant here so there is a large contingent of Germans who live in secluded neighbourhoods and have made themselves popular by barring Chinese people from their favourite haunts. Then there is a number of Russians here involved in all number of shady deals (most of the pirate DVDs here have Russian as the default language) who can be easily spotted from afar as the women look stunning and the men look dangerous. Finally there is a big bunch of assorted Anglos which include the usual countries we think off plus some Nigerians, Ghanans, Philipinos and a honorary bunch of French and Italians. The latter group spend most of their time teaching English, getting drunk, sleeping with one another, making jokes about the Germans and weighing up the opportunity of scoring with a normally way-above-their-league Russkie beauty against the likelihood of getting a severe beating by chaps in black leather jackets called Arkady.

As I have no problems sharing facilities with Chinese people and I don’t know how to dismantle a Makarov pistol I have accepted that my assigned expat crowd is where I am going to be doing most of my liver damage. I am however still backpackery enough to be snobbish of those who spend more time with their likes than the locals plus at the moment the weather is nice. What this means is that the streets in my neighbourhood come alive at night as everyone goes walking about or plonks furniture on the pavement next to enterprising blokes with barbecues and beer crates. I love places where there is still such a thing as communal street life so at the moment I am quite happy getting sozzled and eating barbecued bread and lamb just outside my building while my neighbours enjoy listening to me mispronounce whatever new vocabulary I am trying to learn. My persistent cocking-up of the colours was quite a hit and one guy now brings some crayons with him just to ensure there will be some fun with the laowai while the coals heat up.

Laowai Life: For a category I though would be prolific with anecdotes I find I have little to chuck n here. The only thing I can think of is that I now have a Chinese name. This was made official by the opening of a bank account. I was ready for the worst so I got a Chinese colleague to babysit me and refused to believe her when she said it would take 5 minutes. Back home such a process requires 2 weeks and nothing short of a sperm sample so I was geared for a long wait. It did indeed take 5 minutes most of which I spent worrying about the teenage security guards with shotguns lugging bags of coins to an armoured van and finding it cool that the tellers still used an abacus. Anyways, I walked out of there with a cash card and an account under a new name that I still have trouble pronouncing.

I was going to write down what it is but considering tat I have managed to put in nearly every sensitive key word except for Dalai Lama and Falun Gong (might as well go for it now) in the text above I reckon that giving out a legal name would be making the authorities’ life too easy if they decide to have a pop at foreigners blogging in China. If I am going to get in trouble I would rather they put some effort into it. What I like about my Chinese name is that it has a poetic meaning to it. This is not unusual as Chinese names often have a literal meaning. When kids get to choose an English name for the class they often come up with fun stuff from the predictable (Tiger, Dragon, Flower) to the strange (Dumpling, Ricecake, Fist). This is why most teachers just present lists of names for the kids to choose from in order to avoid fuelling future pisstakes.

The way my name came about is that I told my real name to my Chinese colleagues who then got one of the staff who didn’t speak English to try and pronounce it. They then took that version and brainstormed word combinations that sounded similar but wouldn’t end up with me walking around calling myself Electric Pillowcase or something. This is often a big problem with people called Ben as, with the right tone, Ben is Chinese for stupid. However, they managed in my case to find something reasonably bucolic. When I finally get back to the backpacker trail what happened above will, for purposes of impressing Scandinavians females, have mutated into some tale whereupon my natural mystique, virtues and/or some noble deed prompted folk to call me by a cool sounding moniker. Saving puppies from burning buildings might have to occur. Possibly even orphans.

Know your masters: This category also left me scratching my head about what facet of Chinese society I could write about as I hate to expose my ignorance more than I have to. Thankfully, Jacques Ob put down a comment that gave me a choice topic to rant about. He mentioned that some of the boys back home had a wee chat about my reports and the position that a man called Romj took, namely that murdering 1.2 billion human beings is a good idea.

Had it been anyone else I would have been seriously concerned about how the feelings this blog originates but thankfully all that happened is that the Chinese have just joined the long list of people whom Romj believe should be chastised in some way for existing. If memory and bar anecdotes serve true these include; people he hasn’t known for ten years that look at him funny or might, people he has known for ten years but who at some point had a half forgotten argument with him or anyone that he thinks should be allowed to live, people he knows and likes but believes a bit of a beating would improve and, of course, Gypsies trying to sell roses to people in cafes.

Anyways, the comment did lead me to ponder an aspect of Chinese society that I dislike and, to an extent, fear. I am talking about widespread racism. The virulent hatred of the Japanese I can sort of understand in light of what Tojo’s boys did here and the fact that they are constantly being fed anti-Japanese mantras by their government. What bothers more me is the condescension and contempt towards other Asian nations.

I should be honest now and say that as a white laowai the worst I suffer is inflated expectations on my capabilities and the odd occasion where people check my clothes to see if I have dressed properly for the weather. I actually benefit from it in any ways. The Africans in Changchun however, do not have it so good. One of my Nigerian colleagues is now used to the inevitable chorus of protest from parents when he starts a new class or takes on over from a departing colleague. His classes are also conspicuously smaller than all other teachers. I often get a shock when chatting to youngish anglophone Chinese people as they seemed well clued up and genuinely open but will suddenly come up with vicious stuff that you wouldn’t hear back home from anyone who has spent more time in school than prison.

So, in view of my last post, is this something I can category claim as wrong without being prejudiced myself? Not really.

I have given some thought on the subject and I am now wondering if I can really be judgmental. I am not trying to be some patronizing twat who smiles benignly on the Heathen Chinee as they “don’t know any better”. I am simply acting on my views on what racism is, why we don’t like it and why it is condemned in most Western societies. I don’t really think racism is good or bad. What bothers me about it is that it’s stupid. It’s the Us versus Them position for those who are so fucking thick they can’t even remember enough facts to be nationalists. It’s placing people on an inexistent natural scale of merit based on the amount of melanin their body produces. Bewilderingly dumb.

Therefore what’s the problem then? Idiots abound and always will. Who cares? We all do. Racism is rightly shunned in the West not because of some great moral enlightenment but out of self interest. It’s been a while since there’s been a link between nationality and ethnicity in western countries and multiculturalism is now a fact. As such racists are essentially people who make life difficult for the rest of us. We all have to get along somehow and we all piss someone off to some extent by being and doing, just as they annoy us. Juggling this is tricky enough without a bunch of tits trying to create more aggro based on complete bollocks that makes them feel better about themselves. Particularly since the logical conclusion of any racial conflict theories is at best civil war and at worst genocide. Hardly the aspirations of any society.

An easy metaphor for this is to picture society as a busy road in rush hour traffic. We are al trying to get somewhere and having to share the same tamac makes this difficult/. SO when we’re not flipping through radia channels in a futile quest to find a station that doenst play fecking Dido, we are maneuvering, braking nd accelarating, cursing others for hindering us yet doing the same thing to other drivers. The more shouts, insults, beeps and rude hand gestures abound, the more likely we are to start indulging in pointless tantrums ourselves. In this context a racist is a moron who adds to the chaos by deciding to pester and harass all blue cars. In extreme cases, one of these geniuses will ram a blue car, which is no skin of my red car driving nose except that traffic grinds to a halt and everyone gets screwed. It’s therefore in everyones’ interest that these wankers get put on the side of the road where they belong and they can grumble at blue cars all they want while going nowhere.

I am not a fan of censorship or legal action against anyone regardless of how vile their statements are. Personally, I am convinced of the effectiveness of ostracism, contempt and ridicule towards racists. Still, regardless of what method one prefers for dealing with these twats what matters is that racism is generally seen as a problem and something must be done about it. We fight racism in the West not because we are wonderfully good chaps but because we can’t afford not to. Necessity, not humanism, created Rock against Racism.

So in that view how does China fit in? Basically they have never had a great need to quell the inner tosser that resides in all of us. The local tourist boards love to harp on about their ethnic minorities but 2 months moving around the place have shown me is that China is fundamentally Han (google it if you care). The governments’ track record on minorities is not to brilliant so oppression is a state owned monopoly. In short they can spout all the crap they want as it doesn’t affect their society much and they don’t have race riots to act as wake up calls. The Us vs Them posit is so much bullshit here as it is elsewhere but here there actually is an Us and a Them. There are loads of Laowais faffing about China but none have citizenship (who the fuck would want that anyway? It’s pretty much like signing off most of your human rights).

Basically it pisses me off but I’m not going to be too haughty about it even if it does worry the shit out of me. The Chinese are going to be very powerful one day and it does not bode well for the future if they see other humans as inferior.

I might as well finish off with a brief rant on the rabid nationalism that is common here. Sometimes it’s funny like the claim from a graduate that all Roman architecture was copied from the Chinese or seeing a trendy pop group spin a ditty whose chorus includes the line “the Chinese people are upright and honest”. Still, it irritates just as much as British football chants or French claims to be the birthplace of human rights. Regardless of the accuracy of any praise of a nation’s track record, nationalism (and its more acceptable version called patriotism) is still a pathetic attempt to get kudos for something you played no part in.

No Greek man alive gave advice to Plato, no Italian can say he was a bricky on the Aqua Claudia, there isn’t a soul in Marrakech who came up with algebra and I, though I wish otherwise, did not spend a fine day in Waterloo pumping grapeshot into the part of the French Army that some short-arsed Corsican had forgotten to leave behind in Russia as ice sculptures just as I didn’t spend my 19th birthday wearily strapping myself into a battered Spitfire for the umpteenth time to send the Luftwaffe’s finest for a swim in the Channel.

A nation’s deeds and misdeeds can inspire and teach but to be proud or ashamed of these when you did not have a role in them is nothing more than the geographic equivalent of “my daddy’s stronger than yours”. In a weird way it pisses me off more than racism probably since I have never been with a racist crowd (being middle class has some perks) yet I have had to listen to people I like tell me they are proud of being X, Y or Z. The offshoot of this is that I have sometimes done nothing more than sigh or frown when I hear some horrible racial stereotype from an English speaking local but I have enjoyed pointing that being proud that the Chinese invented gunpowder amongst other things must have been of little comfort when a bunch of whities showed up who had taken their fabulous invention, decided to sod this firework malarkey and develop these wonderful “gun” things instead.

So, exeunt the “I am so bloody deep and thoughtful” bit and enter the weird stuff.

WTF: Dirty jackets, green men running and great donkeys in a joke of a city.

The complete nonsense above is a sample of things I have noticed in the past week that I thought quite cool. I’ll leave it to you to decide if it all reveals me for a bit of a yokel.

The dirty jacket refers to a mystery that I only solved 2 days ago. Many a time I have woken up feeling delicate and decided to nip down to the store for assorted hangover palliatives only to discover whilst dressing a dirty and dusty patch on my jacket at chest level. This was a regular occurrence and has prompted many an attempt to figure out what I had done last night that caused my chest to rub with dirt. The absence of injuries or any other stains made this even more cryptic. My mind was finally put at ease 2 days ago when I decided not to follow up an evening of bowling with a night on the lash and hailed a cab. I knew I was decent before leaving as the bowling alley is on the 4th floor of a hotel swanky enough to consider barring a laowai if he/she is too scruffy. When I got home the mysterious stain had once again materialized but this time I was sober enough to work out what happened. The answer to the riddle lies with the fact that I am one of the few people in China to bother putting the safety belt on if it is on offer. General neglect and disuse means that these little lifesavers accumulate vast amounts of crap just waiting for some idiot to give them a quick clean with his jacket and that’s where I fit in. Mystery solved.

The green men running is just an observation of a somewhat smart way of regulating pedestrian traffic. As in most of the world China has the standard red and green hieroglyphs to tell fragile humans that they can cross the road without having to dodge overladen buses with crap brakes. Once your time on the tarmac without being killed is drawing to end, the Chinese have rigged the green man’s legs to start flashing in sequence displaying an image of someone who is seriously legging it. This is an exhortation you would be wise to follow.

Donkeys. Like all Chinese cities, Changchun sometimes presents the weird site of a donkey drawn cart (used for collecting scrap and crap) amongst brand new cars and traffic. I am now very used to this 2-worlds-colliding imagery so it took a very neat convoy of 4 of these carts negotiating a roundabout to catch my eye. Only then did I notice that all the blokes were sitting in the back of the carts doing naff all. No tugging or even holding reins, no giddyap or translation thereof and not even that highly annoying clicking sound people with horses sometimes do. The donkeys were happily negotiating their own way through the lorries and cars and this whilst keeping formation. I an now seriously wanting to acquire one of these miracle asses as I suspect it might be a more reliable way to get around than taxi drivers having to listen to me mispronounce Culture Square.

Finally the joke that is Changchun. This is not a slur on this fine city but a play on words that locals find amusing. Changchun has a literal meaning like a lot of places in China. In this instance Long (Chang) Spring (Chun). This is taken as an accurate description outside of Manchuria and people elsewhere have told me that I would enjoy spring should I choose to live there. The joke is that the great Changchun springtime is not only shorter than promised, it is also inexistent. All residents know that Changchun is a 2 season burgh consisting of a seriously long and cold winter and a brief summer. The closest they have to Spring is now where everything is confused and you will often find yourself wrapped in a blanket indoors as the heat is turned off as winter “officially” ends or becoming a sweaty mess as you were foolish enough to believe that the thermals you needed yesterday would be appropriate today. How amusing.

That’s it for this post and it’s more than enough. It may be long, pompous and in serious need of editing but it was either doing this or prepping for my classes.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-04-25T06:18:00.000Z

Changchun, Jilin Province, China

Long time no post. I have had a few emails about my careless disregard for regular updates. These were mainly of the kindly concerned nature but I also detected the odd twinge of smackhead withdrawal symptoms. I am guessing that I have cut off the source of yet another 15 minutes of dossing material that the workplace computers won’t identify as porn. I am back now so please copy and paste onto a Word doc and pretend to read a memo. Printing it and highlighting random parts with a frown on our face is always a good way to look like you’re working.

I must state now that I am in no trouble whatsoever and the period of silence since my last post is one thing I cannot, unfortunately, blame on the Chinese authorities. Aside from laziness, a small change of plans has interrupted my regular blog related musings and put my mind on things more worldly. In a way I have had to consider whether or not to continue writing at all. See below for details.

Oh to be a backpacker and roam the world freely! To flit around like a bohemian chasing the endless summer. To be part of the biggest party in the world where instant friendship and cold beer can be found with great ease in over a dozen countries. TO be effectively homeless and unemployed but to be bourgeois enough so that it gets called “traveling”.

I am living in that particular Eden and have adapted to it frighteningly quickly. It seems like a lifetime that I left the grey life and, in some ways, this is the most fun I have had since Oasis did albums worth buying. Therefore I have recently taken the wise step of fucking it all up and plunging back into the grim world where having a watch actually matters. I am now gainfully employed in the cold north of China. I have joined the gravy train that is teaching English in China, helping the children of this noble county to express themselves clearly when they start running the world.

SO why, oh fuck why, have I done such a thing? There is no one reason but a combination of things that just made it seem like a bright idea and yes, beer was one of these. From a practical perspective this little stint will hopefully mean that my wanderings won’t be a complete CV write-off. It’s been a while since faffing around in foreign countries has been a plus for employers especially now that every western school leaver whose parents own a Volvo or better has joined the malaria risk club. If a recruiter tells you that it was a factor in choosing you it is a way of saying they want to bone you or that the other candidates looked sort of funny and they needed some reason to tell them to sod off.

And that’s for grads and teenagers. At my age, having a good collection of visas on the passport is tantamount to telling someone to keep the job description handy as you won’t be around long. Therefore I reckon that if I stay here and learn some basic Chinese (for CV purposes this translates as “fluency and expertise in cultural attributes”) it might make some greedy sod dumb enough to employ me in the hope of getting their hands on some of the 800 billion dollars the Chinese govt is hoarding. Just hedging my bets.

As for why I have decided to stay in this heavily policed neck of the woods; that’s when it gets complicated. Basically, China challenges me. Most countries I have been to are easy to suss, daily life-wise. China still perplexes me after 2 months and I have not yet had a day where I didn’t see something that I thought odd or bizarre. A lot of times this is something that pisses me off but that’s part of the fun. I can quell my inflated ego long enough to realize that the Chinese have other things to do than act weird to annoy laowais and this makes me very curious. Additionally, I have also found that some preconceptions about the places I have been to were not all false. China is the exception here. Most of my previously held ideas about China, its people and its culture have revealed themselves to be complete bollocks.

This makes the place one of those where knowledge decreases over time. The longer you stay, the less you realize you know. Hopefully I will reach the blank slate stage at some point and start to get to grips with this seriously weird country. That’s why I will continue this blog. A lot of what I write is actually intended for me as I know that time, selective memory and nostalgia will one day make me as clueless to what I am now doing as someone who reads this on a lunch break. I like the idea of seeing my own evolution and sniggering at m past self for his naivety.

Another good reason to continue this is that it will force me to get out and go hunting for anecdotes instead of growing a gut in expat bars or staying home watching pirate DVDs of movies 2 weeks before they are released back home. I will also try to structure this blog somewhat though I know that will probably go wrong very quickly. The categories I see should be thus:

-Ego trip: This will be like most of the crap I have done so far. An arrogant testimony to my sense of importance. What I am doing, job anecdotes, bar tales etc…

-Laowai life. Laowai is the term used by the locals to describe foreigners. Sinophiles claim this is a reasonably friendly term but Chinese people you know will tell you that it isn’t. It’s not an outright insult but it’s on par with calling the locals “chinks” Basically laowais are treated like idiot savants. They are often perceived to hold some great know-how (mostly false) and at the same time be incapable of the simplest things without assistance (generally true). This means you will be asked weird questions about the complexities of International Law or something yet draw concerned looks and offers of help when you say you are off to buy some detergent. This will be the “funny” clash of cultures section.

-Know your masters: I suspect the Chinese will replace the yanks as alpha dog in the next half century and that my country’s bold leaders will be just as pathetically sycophantic. It’s quite possible that, one day soon, some sleazy Brit PM will decide to send troops alongside “our good friends in China” into some ill-conceived invasion and, then as now, my countrymen will need to alleviate their own guilt by being patronizing and self-righteous towards the citizens of the country to whom we can’t say no. I hope to help this by explaining a few key Chinese concepts and notions. This will be the part that will provide retrospective cringes for my future self.

-What the Fuck?: This is where I will put down all the weird shit that I don’t get or find really amusing such as men bashing manholes with rocks or slash-and-burn park maintenance (both seen yesterday).

All the above are but a rough plan and will there is a fair chance they won’t survive the next post.

Finally, as we live in the golden age of the spineless and God forbid I should be misconstrued here comes the cultural relativism, I call it as I see it, all cultures have pros and cons, isn’t it a funny world etc, craven disclaimer about what I will pen down. Doubtless I will be very critical of my hosts and this might be seen as racism or cultural imperialism. There are arseholes out there who will go as far as to frown on criticism of clitorectomies out of misplaced guilt so I reckon that, for example, my labeling of Chinese males over 40 as insecure and arrogant pricks might raise the odd pierced eyebrow. Therefore I have come up with the Blame Mao defence.

Chinese civilization is 5 millennia old as they point out oh-so-bloody-often so deriding it would show a contemptible inability to see traits as part of a bigger picture and therefore warrant the dreaded R word. However, having seen Hong Kong and Singapore as well as the odd Chinese enclave I know that there is nothing intrinsically selfish or nasty about Chinese culture. Therefore what I dislike I will blame on the Cultural Revolution or more accurately the Cultural Extermination.

During this happy period a lot of the customs and mannerisms of China were condemned as relics of a feudal society and discouraged/brutally repressed. Though I am not fond of pointless niceties and traditions I concede that they are often part of a vast array of solutions that societies have developed in order to get along. A lot of these are gone here and this has had some slightly nasty effects. Hence I can blame Mao most of the time since he is generally indefensible. For the few who like what the twat did the only discussion I wish to have with them is in Morse code through slaps on the back of the head.

The best I can do is to try and distinguish what I don’t like due to cultural preconceptions masquerading as gut reactions (e.g.: Eating dog. If I can chomp down o Fluffy the lamb, I should be ready to slow roast Rover with some garlic and thyme) and what I think is wrong within a consistent moral framework (e.g.: Punching women during public domestics; unfortunately not rare here. A gutless numbnuts who attacks someone they believe to be weaker in order to save face is a loathsome creature in China just as he is in England, Alaska, Patagonia, the Congo or anywhere else on the planet). Should I get this wrong I hope those of you who have my email will set my straight.

So that’s the way it should go from now on. I doubt I will get shut down whatever I write as laowais seem to live in a different legal sphere (the regular police can’t touch us except in dire emergencies) and are not worth the bother. Plus as my blog is inaccessible in China they probably don’t read it.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-03-27T10:01:00.000Z

Beijing, China's Head Office

I had built myself up to dislike this town as I had associated it with two things that greatly annoy me; high levels of pollution and dictatorial governments. These were both present in abundance but my reaction so far has been a slight wheeze and brief bursts of internally suppressed anger. Beyond that I am rather enjoying the place and I was surprised that there is an energy that I thought would be in Shanghai but failed to discern. So what's in this place that makes breathing in little amounts of the Gobi desert worthwhile?

One of the really interesting activities in Beijing is to stroll around the hutongs. The hutongs are century old neighborhoods crammed with one storey houses around a courtyard. Originally designed for one family these were rearranged by the commies to house 5. The plumbing facilities are still communal so I guess that makes for strange neighbourhood meetings. They are mainly inhabited by old people who spend most of their time outside indulging in quiet pastimes such as mahjong or, apparently, sitting and watching. Like a lot of nice things in China, they are under threat. They are being torn down left right and centre to make place for glitzier stuff and Olympic related crap. The authorities have sort of caught on that they are popular with tourists and have responded by maintaining a couple that they couldn't resist transforming into sanitized tourist traps. The really nice ones are marked for the bulldozer and I have been told that if you spot one that is surrounded by billboards you had better dive in as it's not long for this world. Some might be saved but the combination of real estate developers' zeal and the legendary corruption of Chinese officials makes this unkilely.

Another highlight was the Great Wall. I happened to do a touristy restored portion of it but this doesn't bother me much as I will surely be able to find some more derelict and secluded portions. The thing is 4000 miles long and even Chinese tour groups cannot occupy that much space. It is a fantastic sight and a good reminder of how advanced the Chinese were. The wall was already being used when Hadrian built his to ward off violent Scots, a feeling shared by all bartenders in London. The main differnce is that the Great Wall is truly a feat of engineering and logistics whereas Hadrian's looks like something to keep in sheep. I particularly enjoyed the sight of large groups of people going through the many towers of the wall. This is fun to watch as the things were constructed specifically to make this difficult by bottlenecking attackers and reducing whatever numerical advantage they had to fuck all. Combined with the locals' inability to queue or give way it makes for great entertainment until you try and get through yourself.

Of course one cannot go to Beijing and not see the Forbidden City. For half a millenia the privilege of walking around this place this was mainly for royals or eunuchs. Now that the entry requirement of having good bloodlines or your testicles in a varnished box is gone, all may enter for a small fee and indeed all do. Many a website will give a much better description that I can so I won't really bother but suffice to say it was quite amazing. Films like the Last Emperor do render it better but Bertolucci did not have scaffolding and the sound of jackhammers to contend with. The whole place is being beautified for 2008 so that it looks really good for the swarms of foreigners who will come to see athletes choke on Beijing's truly foul air.

The downer with the Forbidden City is that you get to it by walking along Tiananmen Square. It's insanely large as only states who love military parades can build and has got Mao's mausoleum on one side and the Forbidden City on the other. It has a monument to the glory of the people or whatever in the middle and is lined by sick looking trees, soldiers standing at atttention at seemingly random spots and annoying touts who want you to see their art gallery. The downer bit is that I couldn't help looking down the side streets and wondering if this was one where students were slaughtered.

My last pick of historical things to recommend is the park around the Temple of Heaven. The temples are only really great if you haven't spent a good month seeing one after the other but the park is great fun. As you enter you see a panel with a whole bunch of forbidden signs. Some of these are reasonable such as a ban on littering, fires and motorbikes but I was somewhat intrigued by the ones that portrayed rifles and trumpets. I know the latter is targeted specifically at trumpets and not music in general as I spent a few hours watching groups of people cluster around musicians (not trumpeters) and join in on a singalong of nationalist ditties. What also caught my eye was old people making strange calisthenics at random moments. This is not Tai Chi but obedience to the recommendation of doctors to do a specific gestures so many times a day.

More contemporary sightseeing can be done in the numerous markets of the town. Some of these were replete with an incoherent jumble of stuff that went from the sublime to the ugly and sometimes the abject. The Ugly is the massive sculptures on sale. These vary from small budhas to 7 feet high stone lions, demons etc. Who buys this crap is a mystery and I was told most of them are destined to decorate businesses but I think a few of them do end up in homes especially the lottery winner schlock like cherubs atop tigers or what looked like a 2 ton statue of Jeanne D'arc. The Abject I found amongst the vendors of Bolshie nostalgia. Some of these were amusing in a kitschy sort of way but a few items were downright macabre. The prize for bad taste must go to small porcelain figurines of a screaming Red Guard with red book in one hand and pistol in another looming behind a bound man with a dunce cap on his head. These little gems of interior decoration seem to commemorate the obscene humiliation of the victims of the Cultural Revolutiuon before they were shipped off to jail or killed for being an intellectual or something.

Overall, my favourite market moment was watching the sale of caged singing crickets. What made this remarkable is that the buyers seem to be looking for a specific sound to grace their home as the vendor gives them a tube-like contrapion that allows customers to listen to the song of an individual cricket. I thought of buying one but I think my dorm mates find my snoring annoying as it is without adding a chirping locust to the din.

Food and booze are also very good in this city. I had held off eating duck elsewhere as I wanted to eat Pekin duck in Pekin. A group of like-minded gastronomes was quickly rounded up and we all went to a small place in a unlit back alley that had a great rep. The rep was confirmed as the waiting room/very narrow hallway was decorated with photos of prestigious patrons such as ministers and diplomats. I personnaly reckon a few of the people in the pictures must have been chancers as Geoff Hoon is already tricky to indentify but the ambassador of Peru is outright impossible. As we waited we could look at the duck oven and the rows of glistening birds slowly becoming succulent. The roasting is ended by the removal of the fat in the bird. One guy takes the now crimson bird and removes the cork in it's arse upon which a gush of hot fat drains out of the duck into a massive basin. Really appetising.

The alcohol fix was much the same as many other cities with the exception that you can haggle the price of beer in Beijing. The touts will drop the price of bevvies until you agree to walk into their bar but you still have to go through the rigmarole of pretending to leave as they try to renege on the deal by putting silly conditions on the price such as they only meant alcohol free beer or it doesn't count if you sit on the couch. You eventually get your beers at the agreed price and it makes for a pleasant bonding experience with fellow bar cruisers as unified responses are the key to good bartering on this deal. The bad side of boozing in Beijing is the end of evening rice wine that American students are fond to buy and want the whole dorm to share. It's fucking vile and gives you crippling hangovers but it always seems like a great idea at 3AM.

My experience of Beijing was heightened by my best mooch so far. Through a friend I got into contact with a couple of French expats who decided to welcome my scruffy self for the weekend in their splendid home. I got to live better than a backpacker ever does and better than I would anyway. They enjoyed their perks but were smart enough to click that it wouldn't last and therefore would be spared the shock of going back to the home country which is apparently a common problem with their peers. They have also limited their forays into the closeted world of the expense accounbt crowd and have done a lot of exploring and indulging in weird habits like learning the language. This meant that I had the rare pleasure of getting a knowledgeable guide without being dragged to a jade factory run by their cousin. I feel like a very blessed parasite.

Anyways, I will soon have to leave this fine city at my regret. I will wash my cashmere jumper and thermals and head oop north mayhaps to peer across borders at North Korea or Russia.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-03-20T06:17:00.000Z

Xian, Shaanxi, China

Back on the mainland. I knew I was really in a different country when I started to notice again what I have come to call the laowai wobble. This is when some poor soul nearly ploughs his bicycle into the ground because he just couldn't resist staring at you. I didn't get it during my day in Shenzen as they have seen foreigners en masse before and they don't really care about you. The locals are on the lookout for HK residents as Shenzen is the SAR's discount shopping mall and brothel. It was a village 30 years ago when the government decided to experiment and see what happens when you let the Chinese do business with a minimum of hassle and made the place a Special Economic Zone. It is now one of the biggest and most prosperous cities in China.

Got out of there but due to weird train connections I had to overnight in Fuzhou, a large but nondescript provincial capital and boomtown. I did get to see an interesting side of modern China due to the kindness of strangers. My guidebook hardly mentioned the place but I chatted with a young chap from Hong Kong on the bus and he sorted us out rooms in a businessmen hotel for the price I expected to pay for a dorm bed. I had my first hot bath in months and the sheer bliss of privacy.

The slight drawback to this is that the besuited local guests were on the piss big time and kind of hauled me along probably for novelty purposes. This was all good except for the curse of gambei. Gambei is the magic word they use on drinking sprees when everyone has to polish off their glass regarless of content or quantity lest you seriously insult whoveer bought the stuff. Mercifully their enthusiasm was not matched by capacity and they decided I was allowed to leave without causing offence once half a dozen of them were snoring on the table.

Fuzhou is also the place were I encountered a new blight in my life as a foreigner in the middle kingdom: the Monkey Man. This is a beggar with an ill-kept monkey on a leash that he promptly releases to climb all over you. I ususally deal with beggars with the customary feeble attempt to be friendly whilst trying to ignore their misery and very presence. This is tricky when you have a mangey ape clambering on your shoulders. I have had had to keep my calm as the guy then hassles you for reward money for siccing his primate on you.

After Fuzhou I find myself in the showcase of Future China that is Shanghai. I wasn't as awestruck as I thought I would be as Shanghai sets itself apart mainly from other Chinese cities but it is still a bit of a yokel in comparison to Hong Kong. The centre is pretty much divided between the Bund on on side of the Huangpu river and the French COncession on the other. The latter is were most of the hyped modern buidings are and they have so many of these it starts to look like a campaign to highlight the problem of drug abuse amongst architects. The Bund is the colonial era strip that presents a postcard contrast.

The Bund area was strangely compact and cramped but then again I suppose the streets were designed for 5 rickshaws and the odd Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. It was weird to walk around narrow Chinese streets with their accompanying raucous bustle and then look up and see Art Deco buildings. You don't spend too much time looking at these though as you have to keep an eye out fo rhe silent but deadly electric bicylces that zoom along the place and of course Monkey Men.

All the tourist areas have decided to push the Ye Olde Coloniale Shanghai thing a lot so you find a lot of nostalgic schlock around. I confess that Shanghai in the 20's and 30's has a certain appeal to me but why the locals are so enthusiastic confuses me (by this I mean that the domestic tourists are really into it). From what I recall, Sanghai had the same glorious birth as Hong Kong but with less guilt for Her Majesty's citizens as loads of other countries got in the act and grabbed a piece of the pie. A few crumbs of said pie went to Chinese nationals (pimps, gangmasters, union breakers and other such pillars of society) but mainly the Chinese were treated like 2nd class citizens in their own country. To add insult to injury it asn't just the big hitters of the day that carved out little hometowns on Sino soil but any country with half decent weaponry could come in and grab some real estate. Things are bad when you get colonised by the Italians.

To cap it all of the departure of most powers resulted in the rule by the one lot who would behave even worse :wartime Japanese. Maybe that's why the 30's were regarded as a sort of heyday. It takes some seriously barbaric behaviour to make a period known for child prostituion, de facto slavery, rampant opium addiction and "No dogs or Chinese" signs look like some sort of Golden Age.

After a very, very strange St Paddy's Day afternoon drinking spree that included finding out that there is a Chinese language version of Danny boy, I put my aching head on the pillow of a sleeper train and got to Xian. Xian is mainly known for its terracotta army but has a few interesting spots within it. I had built myself a strange mental picture of a twee smallish town and soon got a reminder that provincial capitals in China are never small. The great Bell TOwer even reminded me of Paris in the sense that they decided to surround one of their famous monuments wih a huge and cacophonous roundabout.

I made my way to the site of what has been apparently dubbed the 8th wonder of the ancient world. Who came up with this I don't know but I strongly suspect the Chinese Ministry of Tourism. After watching several beautiful Nationial Geographic photo spreads of the place as well as many cleverly edited documentaries with great lighting and dramatic music the real thing was somewhat of a letdown. It's worth seeing and still a must see on the China trail but it just didn't have the Wow factor. It might do in a few years though as it is still an excavation site and they reckon shedloads more of the 2 millenia old stone squaddies are yet to be found.

One thing that struck me is that the whole thing was mildly creepy and must of ben really spectacular when they were all standing (most pits contain freakish jumbles of limbs and heads) and painted. What makes this really weird is that the soldiers all have individual features as far as I could see. When they were entombed they were armed with the latest and therefore valuable weapons of the time. The guys who came up with this mausoleum imperial guard really were building a proper army albeit with the slight drawback of all being lifeless.

Maybe it was a not too subtle dig at the current miltary bigwigs of the time. When you invest shedloads of dosh into an army that will guard you when you are dead it's not exactly giving a show of confidence in the army that is supposed to keep you alive. I'm going with that theory anyway as pissing people off is something that makes sense to me whereas religious beliefs don't.

Setting off soon for some world-famous duck, a forbidden city and many a happu moment laughing at farcical commie propaganda in the capital of this vast and fascinating country. I'll be a backpacker in Beijing.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-03-10T05:05:00.000Z

Hong Kong, China, Sort Of,

Hong Kong! For those of you who are a bit slow and tend to read with an inner monologue whilst trying not to move your lips, the name of this place should be spoken a bit louder than usual. A sort of defiant, in your face shout like a declaration from a cocky teenager. In Chinese terms, Hong Kong is just that. A nephew that was raised by weird foreigners who let the boy do pretty much what he wanted. He's back in the family hone now but he's got his own room and he's faffing about with his ipod and doesn't give much 'spect to the old ones. They would winge but they've gone a bit gaga recently and the boy pays more than his fair share of rent as well as knowing a lot about business and computers and stuff.

I admit that I sometimes get overenthusiastic about places particularly if they contrast a lot from were I have just been. Hong Kong has got me hopping around with excitement and fascination. I have wanted to see this place for a while and I am not disappointed. Compared to the mainland it's a different world in a different century. One Country 2 Systems, my arse.

I had even toyed with the idea of starting my travels in HK but I got lured by the prospect of a 4 months piss trip in SEA. That and it doesn't have the same ring as Jakarta to Jerusalem. Hong Kong to Haifa doesn't really work.

I am thoroughly enjoying being here and watching the great modern bustle of this place. I am also delighted to be anonymous again. On the scaringly monocultural mainland people stare a lot and you stick out. Here I am just another face in a wonderfully diverse place. I have also become a strange devotee of public transport. In HK you can go overland, underground, above ground, on ferries, on great wooden tramways, insanely long series of escalotors and a funicular. Just getting about is fun.

Walking about is great too. You can trek on the peaks, get lost in Kowloon or walk along the business avenues of Central. The latter still has surprise in it as there are loads of alleyways between the grand skyscrapers where you step in the gesticulating shouting match of Hong Kong street stalls. Also great fun is seeing massive buildings being built and maintained whilst scaffolded in bamboo. I have indulged in little home comforts like going to the cinema or eating sushi. The beer scene is fun and lively too but it's killing my budget. Being a brit I get a 180 days no visa deal but I think 2 more days here is all I can afford and I will have to spend a fair few nights in dorms on the mainland to make up for it. It's all worth it though.

This place is even more amazing once you know its history. The acquisition of Hong Kong is the kind of tale that makes my bosom swell with pride at being British. In short is was a mugging from a drug dealer. Britain had moved into dealing smack (well, opium so I guess it's smack Lite) to earn a bit of dosh and we were selling a lot to the Chinese. For reasons difficult for the Western mind to comprehend, the inscrutable Orientals got a bit upset at our benevolent policy of keeping their population junked up and a bit of a tiff ensued. Thanks to the lion's courage of the British fighting man and the odd century's worth advantage in weapons tech, we got the Chinese to sign the Treaty of Nanking which gave us HK island in perpetuity. After another kicking we nabbed Kowloon on the same terms and a lease for the New Territories for a century. Heroic stuff.

HK was a village before that and it took a few years to blossom. In spite of the despicable way we got our hands on it, we seemed not to fuck things up too much and let the locals get on with it whilst we built banks. I have often seen cases of good intentions producing horrible results and HK is the opposite of this paradox.What started life as an illustration of how heinously vile a colonialist country can be has become one of the most amazing places on earth. Maybe there's a lesson in that. Places with dodgy beginnings like Australia or HK end up all right yet countries that begin life as a noble and well intentioned experiment such as Liberia end up like, well, like Liberia.

This leads me to the fundamental question about the end of British rule over HK. Why, oh God why, did we ever give this place to the Chicoms? A massive moneymaker and one of the places where the locals did not actually loathe us and we just gave it away. To make things even more perplexing is that in the same year the Thatcher government kicked off negotiations about HK we fought a war about another dubiously held piece of land miles away from home. Against all logic we seemed happy to hand this city over but we went to war over the Falklands?! We decided to send Her Majesty's finest to kill and die for the sake of a few barrels of salt fish, the governor's daughter and half a million Rockhopper penguins yet we wouldn't even gripe about losing Hong Kong to a bunch of vicious, incompetent and corrupt old gits? Someone really needs to have a chat with the Foreign Office about lunchtime drinking.

I'll grant that the PLA is a tougher nut to crack than hypothermic Argie conscripts but it's not that good either. The Vietnamese once gave them a kicking with their B divisions and Taiwan is still independent regardless of the weird fiction that the international community has constructed. The people that the PLA seems most efficient at defeating are Tibetan monks and unarmed Chinese students. Plus we could have got the Russkies and the Indians to chip in a few squaddies as they didn't like China much at the time. Or now for that matter.The very least we could have done is set up a democratic regional authority. Fucking geniuses.

Anyways off out for more Hong Kong exploration and constructing neo-colonialist fantasies. There is some consolation in the fact that HK remanes a Special Administrative Region for 40 odd years. Beijing is torn between their compulsive desire to meddle and fuck things up and the knowledge that if they do they'll kill the golden goose. Maybe that's were I underestimated the boys from the FCO. China hasn't got the first clue about what it's going to be like in 40 years but Hong Kong is pretty sure of what it will be: still rich. I get the feeling that Hong Koong is going to become a model and not some strange exception.

Take care,

Arabin the gweilo

2006-03-03T06:51:00.000Z

Yangshuo, Guangxi, China

Signing in from Oh So Scenic Yangshuo, a small town that has become one of China’s must-see tourist spots. The reason is the following. The next time you pop in to your local chinese for some sweet and sour, glance up to the walls and you will probably see some painting of stalagmitesque hills with rice paddies at the bottom. I can now see the same thing with the difference that I espy sweaty tourists on rented bicycles at the bottom instead of some old guy dispensing wisdom. Postcard China in essence and I’m not really that enthralled. Maybe I’m slowly tiring of tourism as I seem to get more satisfaction in people watching than spotting scenery however grandiose.

This is ironic as I spent 12 hours in Guyang failing to do just that. I gave myself a pointless day stop in this place as a way to make the Fun Run more bearable. Pointless as I found out that Chinese hard sleeper trains are eminently civilised since, unlike hard seat, there is a correlation between places available and people on board. I should point out at this stage that in this classless society the terms first and second class are not used and therefore hard and soft are substitutes. This has little connection with the upholstery but it might have once. As it was bloody freezing I hid in some café and did not indulge in anthropological contemplation.

Before this I had the joy of being in hilly Chongqing. It was a bastard to walk about and it was conspicuously devoid of the one silent thing in China; bicycles. Not much to report but I did like it. One thing worth mentioning is that I discovered the most flagrant case of the importance of being foreign. I was trying to get a train ticket, which is always a frightening affair in China, and was confronted with 12 counters each with a savage mob in front of them. I had seen this before but never to this scale so I wanted to pinpoint the correct queue before wading in. I went to a copper who was protecting the access to 3 separate, quiet and semi orderly queues and got acroos that I wanted to know which particular scrum I should join to get to my destination.

The copper looked at me then at the battling masses and ushered me towards his special lanes. The other lucky few to access this haven were people who waved what looked like a Party card, people who used sign language and people in wheelchairs. I’m not sure if being a laowai marked me as a VIP or as Special Needs but I was glad in any case. I must confess that this was only the most blatant case of me being queue-jumped, taken through a separate door, ushered, babysat and generally spared the crap that the citizens of this place have to put with. Bless them.

This being the birthplace of silly notions about Ying and Yang, how do I make up for being treated like porcelain on the sole basis of being ethnically different? Well, thanks to my faithful friend Beer, I might just have found a way to make my whiteness be usefull to the locals. See below

It started in a backpacker haunt where me and a Californian decided to wile away a few cold ones by discussing politics. We disagreed frequently and gradually slipped into national stereotypes, him loud and boisterous and me aloof and sarky. We were having fun though and many of the Chinese students (they hang around these places to improve their English or maybe because we’re fun to watch) hovered around us looking fascinated. We tried to get them to join in but could only get soothing platitudes off them since they are unused to discussing politics in public and also in confrontational discourse.

We carried on and somehow got around to the topic of freedom of speech and particularly the truly odious and pathetic attempt by my government to ban speech “glorififying terrorism” whatever the fuck that means. This did get some comments off the locals and one thing led to another and we ended up showing them how to circumvent the Great Firewall and some of the stuff you can discover when your web is unsanitised. They really got into to it and were happily searching away most of the crap they had been taught when it struck me that we might have done them a disservice. I asked and discovered they knew very little of the extent their online forays are watched and restricted. We then held a briefing of sorts and managed to convey the 2 golden rules.

The first rule is never to discuss what they learn about and how to find it in emails or chatrooms. We also told them that being registered as jadedragon234@somewebmailprovider.com was no guarantee of getting away with it. Amongst the many things they did not know is that their glorious leaders had jailed people who let their thoughts go through the outbox. The other thing they did not realise is that some webmail providers have become the corporate equivalent of a bistro owner skulking around the side entrances of the Paris Kommandatur and telling the local Gestapo that his neighbour’s real name is Cohen.

The second rule was to use the Farrakhan Doctrine: Blame Whitey. The governement doesn’t really care what foreigners look up or write about and even if my emails, searches or this twaddle started to piss them off the very worst that could happen is that they would deport me. This in turn would affect me only in that I would have to revise my travel plans and would try and score hero-worship shags off civil liberties activists. We reckoned that if they used webcafes frequented by foreigners they would face much less risk. of discovery. I don’t think they would end up doing hard time for getting around futile attempts to censor the web but in a society where the state has its fat fingers in all pies their prospects could be reduced by the odd mark next to their names.

So there’s where I soothe my conscience. By offering our little privileged hides up as scapegoats I think I go some way to redeem the perks travellers get in this happy land. If not it pleases me to make life difficult for the 30000 strong cyberplod (which actually have their own cute and cuddly mascots) that China has set up.

On a more somber note I have turned 30 since my last post. This does not make me a happy bunny but I find comfort that I am in a strange land doing my best to balls-up the efforts of governments. So fuck you Khronos, The Fates and the Norns. I will not grow up and I will remain puerile until I decide otherwise.

I’ll soon be posting from Hong Kong.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-02-25T07:34:00.000Z

Chengdu, Sichuan, China

It took me 2 weeks but I have finally managed to leave Yunnan. I had to do a 40 hours Fun Run to do it due to snowstorms denying me access to the Trans-Himalayan Highway. This involved the Great Chinese Sleeper Bus with its great dampness and cold then a tremendously interesting hour or so trying to cross a vast industrial town to get to the train station in the dark wee hours with only the vague meanderings of some drunk guy in Lijiang who might have said that he thought bus 64 would take me there as guidelines. I eventually found the correct bus and got on a Great Chinese Hard Seat Train. Imagine taking the Tube at rush hour, imagine everyone is smoking, imagine that you have got to swallow some generously offered, but seriously disgusting, unidentified snacks and then imagine doing this for 15 hours. Sounds fun doesn't it?

The positive side of this “getting there is half the pain” stint is that I was treated to great scenery most of the time. Gorges, vast rivers, great mountains and loads of terraced agriculture were all on display except when passing the numerous industrial cities that litter China and produce the stuff we all buy. At night these become nightmarish scenes of fire belching smokestacks and neon lit heavy machinery. It was like getting a slide show of some dystopia out of a early thirties sci-fi novel.

So what have I been doing since my last post? In short I have one of the most popular backpacker trails in China. The Dali to Zhongian trip. Also known as the Shangri-la run.

The first stop was the town of Dali. This is an old and quaintly restored walled city that is a major attraction for domestic tourists. It had a weird Disney Does China feel about it and I strangely preferred the new town 20 kilometers away as the daily activity of an average Chinese burg still holds some fascination for me. Of note in Dali are the old women who try to sell ganja to you. Not just weird because of their age and quaint Dai costumes but also puzzling as all you have to do to get some of the local stuff is walk a few klicks out of the city and pick your own from the big bushes that dot the side of the road.

Next stop north was the UNESCO heritage site of Lijiang. Lijiang is what Chinese towns look like in Chinese cinema epics. Low houses with wooden facades slapped chaotically along a network of narrow canals and bridges. Also a domestic tourism hotspot but that was fun in itself as the main drag was alive with groups of waitresses in local costumes trying to outsing each other to attract the vast groups of drunk Chinese to their restaurants. To add to this fun you sometimes spot wax paper flowers with a candle in them floating down the stream as the more sober groups of women would buy and release them for good luck. Getting back to the guesthouse through the non-developed part of the Old Town after a drinking spree reminded me of waddling through the Petite France area of Strasbourg whilst drunk. I had to be slightly more alert as the cobbles were more slippery and there is a great lack of barriers to stop you falling into an icy cold stream.

I procrastinated more than I should in this pleasant place before moving on, northwards again, for some hiking at Tiger Leaping Gorge. It’s hard to put in words how great that was. I scrambled breathless (from the altitude, the hike and my fondness for ciggies) along a trail up on the mountains alongside the gorge pausing occasionally to look at the Wile E Coyote drops top my left. Frequently our little party of me, a Swiss couple and a Colombian guy (all much more used to hiking and altitude than me) faced the rush hour of long haired goats and packed mules that frequent the 2 foot wide trail. My legs were cramped and my feet were blistered but it was a fantastic 2 day hike in one of the most scenic spots in China

So how are the authorities living up to their role of curators of this marvel? By destroying it of course. Up on the ledge we heard what could have been thunder except that the sky was clear and the rumbles came across as slightly too sharp. This was the merry sound of dynamite blasting. Parts of this protected area are already used for marble quarrying but a lot of stuff is getting blown up in preparation for a new dam. The commie fondness for hydroelectrical projects and the some shady connections between the promoter and party bigwigs have ensured that Tiger Leaping Gorge might one day become Tiger Swimming Lake. This is one spot were I will be sad not smug to say that I was there before it got fucked up. 2008 will be the year of the Beijing Olympics and the year where the obliteration of the gorge begins. Twats.

After some DIY chiropody I continued north to the town of Zhongdian, highly inappropriately nicknamed Shangri La, a charmless town that sits on a beautiful plateau at over 3000 metres . Being dainty of foot I was reluctant for more hiking and discovered to my sorrow that that is the only reason to stay in Zhongdian. The only thing of note is that there are a lot of folk originating from Tibet around the place and amusing herds of cattle meandering along the town centre. Beyond that I found out that the nice (ie: scenic, dangerous and arduous) road to Chengdu was blocked and that beer at 10, 000 feet makes you drunk very quickly. On a grimmer note I was bemused at the amount of Tibetan schlock omni-present in backpacker haunts. Whether it be tea, steak, soup or clothing, all were stamped with the backpacker friendly tag of Tibetan. If the government is so bloody keen on promoting the appeal of Tibetan culture in bordering towns why are the morons putting so much effort in destroying it at its birthplace? Again; twats.

As I was getting all boisterous and political I decided to do a Fun Run to Chengdu. Chengdu is one of those big modern Chinese cities that can be dull if you don't have any interest in metamorphasizing societies. The only real attraction of the town is a Panda breeding centre. I made enquiries as I wanted to verify the urban legend that boffins had made special videos to get the male Pandas excited but I was told that Panda Porn was a myth and/or that they would certainly not let me see some. I am therefore reduced to strolling around the town for my cultural enlightenment.

One thing I noticed that was perhaps excessively symbolic of modern China was a great statue of Mao saluting a shopping complex that included McDonalds and a Cartier outlet. What also puzzled me was that the chubby boy was saluting in a open right hand, palm downwards fashion more reminiscent of German dictators than the standards leftie clenched left fist. As I said, maybe too symbolic.

So, no more Yunnan fun for me and, judging by the time left on my visa, very little Sichuan fun either. Time to head to Hong Kong as it apparently counts as an exit form China. Off to enjoy some more insanely spicy food before moving on to Chongqing.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-02-13T09:14:00.000Z

Kunming, Yunnan, People's Democratically Popular Republic for the Liberated Freedom or Whatever of China

More often than not I slap myself on the forehead for my idiocy but this time I can pat myself on the back, scratch myself behind the ears and give myself a biscuit for having a good idea. Even rarer are occasions where I find that sharing a tiny cabin with 3 sailors was part of a great experience.

The boat trip up the Mekong was tremendous fun and one of the most scenic border crossings I have witnessed. I left Thailand a week or so ago after many a tedious hour faffing around the docks waiting for a boat to be loaded up and depart. After a long afternoon watching some guys load the top deck with beat-up Thai cars destined for Burma I got the all-clear to run up to immigration and get my passport stamped. The spirits were high on the dock and my last encounter with a Thai was a swat on the arse from some merry docker using the short sticks they use to count up what has been loaded. I must have looked a bit huffed as he made a show of swotting all other backsides within range whilst smiling at me to impress that he had not singled me out.

The human cargo on the boat consisted of me, a woman who taught French in China and 4 monks who were escorting a statue of Buddha and some ceremonial bells up to Myanmar. We went up to where the Thai authorities have built a large statue to mark the Golden triangle border and I noticed the sharp contrast between the neons and karaoke joints on the Thai side and the vast amount of fuck-all on the Burmese side. Sailing at night at this time of year is too dangerous due to low water levels so we only got a few klicks north before tying up for bedtime at a floating petrol station that seemed to also be a bar and mah-jong gambling joint.

For the best part of the trip I distracted myself by getting the captain’s kids to teach me Chinese pronunciation and tones, trying to ignore the wrecked and stranded vessels along the way and watching the amazing scenery. Fun breaks in the routine were provided by rapids where the sailors (all from the mountains of Sichuan) scrambled along the rocks of the bank to hitch a rope that was then used to winch us up.

One happy distraction was going with the crew into Burma to fish. They used a pack made of a plastic jerrycan rigged up with straps and 2 car batteries that connected to a rod. They ran current through streams in the hope of stunning the shrimps. This failed but it did let me add Burma to my “countries entered” list even if this was just for an hour. I am also proud to have done it illegally and without coughing up the visa fee for the paranoid brutes who run the place. Fighting tyranny in my own small way.

After 2 days we stopped at a Burmese river port where the monks got off (only after the scrounging gits scabbed some of my fags) and, after a few hours wondering what was going on, the French lady got the crew to fess up that we would be stuck there for 4 days because of some chap not showing up to collect the dodgy cars. They were unfazed by this but we pointed out that our weird foreign background made dossing around in a hammock near a concrete pier for several days a bit annoying. They shrugged as if to say Tough Luck but just as dinner was served and I had niched out some dollars with the perspective of hiring a speed boat they got us to scramble our crap and hop on another passing boat.

Finally we got into China where our bags were thoroughly searched though for what I don’t know. They mainly seemed interested in my camping crap and my shaving kit. They looked at my books though and I was glad I had given my copy of Chris Patten’s East and West to a comely Dutch girl in Thailand as I thought she was interested in geopolitics and also as a creepy way to ingratiate myself to her for she was rather yummy. We then caught a bus to the small (by Chinese standards) town of Jinghong.

The bus trip was another beautiful introduction to China as it raced along crappy mountain roads sometimes braking suddenly to pick up bags of meat that the Chinese carry around for the New Year feasts and that had fallen off other buses. The driver was well chuffed with this windfall and sped up as a result. The fear was alleviated by the discomfort of the tiny seats, the smell of 20 people in a minibus all chainsmoking and the uniquely Chinese background noise of people hawking loudly before spitting out the window or on the floor.

I was also introduced to Chinese toilets; a legend in their own right. A culture based on the importance of the group, overpopulation and commie ideas about privacy have made for interesting bog etiquette. Toilets consists of a series of yard long trenches running perpendicular to the wall. In the more luxurious ones a 2 foot high wall separates these but that’s as much privacy as you will get. Nature’s irrepressible call as well as loads of chillies for brekkers helped me overcome years of cultural taboos about being alone when taking a dump. To add the joy of this pleasant new experience I was confronted to Chinese (and male) curiosity and the fact that they see no rudeness in staring. Cultural enlightenment at its basest.

Anyway I am now in Yunnan’s capital of Kunming. It’s big and charmless so I have bugger all to say about it. The only thing I like about it is that it’s cold and provides a welcome change from oh-so-fucking hot SEA. I will soon head north to the scenic towns of Dali and Lijiang as well as attempting to hike the Tiger Leaping Gorge in winter before heading to Zhongian, aka Shangri-la on the border with Tibet.

On a final note, my blog is inaccessible in China so I have to use creative ways provided by geeks to get around this so, if this gets through, I would like to say a big Fuck You to Cisco systems et al.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-02-03T11:33:00.000Z

Chiang Saen, Thailand

Last post from South East Asia. I am currently kicking my heels in this quiet town waiting for some weird dispute to be solved between Thai traders and Chinese cargo haulers to come to an end. The official cause of the delay is that the river is low but it has been for the last month. The Thais reckon the Chinese are stalling in order to get more cash so they can make back the dosh they doled out to their employees as part of the New Year traditions. Therefore I can wile away the hours by watching the 2 protagonists yell at each other by the riverside. Fun, fun, fun.

This is also my last uncensored post until god knows when. China is going to be the biggest problem but I will try and work something out by using proxy servers. A lot of countries I am aiming to blight with my presence, as well as a few I have already been to, would no doubt also wish to silence the sweet sound of critical keyboard stroking but they don’t really have the financial clout to do it well. China, on the other hand, has the money to recruit the best such as Cisco, Microsoft, Yahoo and now Google to help them keep their kin silent and ignorant.

I am mildly amused by the way this much vaunted new generation of cyber entrepreneurs (with their Segways, crap haircuts and No Tie policies) stopped humming John Lennon ditties and sank to their knees in front of the Great Red Panda. I’m sure they contribute the odd thousand to Greenpeace or whatever but when real money is waved at them all they can do is try to suppress their gag reflex as the plums hit the gums. Yahoo even helped track down some poor sod who wanted to email some of his opinions to his friends and got himself a 10 year stretch as a result. That I was less amused by.

Enough ranting about China and rich geeks for the moment as it’s time for Arabin's Happy Report on Thailand:

To be honest I haven’t got that much to say about the place. I failed to connect with Thailand somehow (“connect” in the hippy sense of “giving a toss”). There’s nothing wrong with the place and I have had some fun but it was the type of fun that young, idle people with ample supplies of cheap booze and drugs will create for themselves wherever they are. I get the feeling that I enjoyed the peripheral benefits of backpacking (the party atmosphere, the ease of encounter etc..) without any real exposure to foreign weirdness, which is the whole point of this little journey. I also know that this is out of lazyness on my part and I could have tried harder.

Not that being in Thailand hasn't affected me. I spent the afternoon doing stuff that I will have to avoid once out of Siam such as getting lunch from the back of a pick-up truck and being trustful of the locals. Basically I’m getting soft and dopey and I will need to wake up before I hit China if what other backpackers say about the place is true. This happy little daze of mine is also disturbing as it seriously pissed me off in others when I first got here.

I remember being annoyed at people that made the same type of comments that I do now about Thailand and it’s inhabitants; they are so friendly and nice etcc. These comments riled me as it seemed to me as the flip side of racism . Though not as nasty, seeing people in a purely positive light is to negate their humanity just as much as making brutish assertions about a whole group when propping up some bar in Yorkshire. Thais are just as flawed and annoying as other humans and just as nice. Sometimes you are not sure if fellow backpackers are talking about humans or smurfs when they describe why they like the place

The real reason this fucked me off is of course hypocrisy. I do the same kind of generalizations constantly. No one likes a mirror thrust in their face especially when their reflection has 2 red braids in their hair, pupils the size of pinpricks and a nasty scab on their shoulder after getting a “tribal” tattoo.

I guess that’s why I just did not bother with Thailand. It is so easy to shift about until you find a place you like and a crowd you get along with that you don’t force yourself to stay in one place and experience it, warts and all. Also most of what I have seen lacks the extremes that usually get me all pensive and pompous. Thailand seems to be plodding along nicely, getting richer without obsessing about it Malaysian style and the locals seem generally content.

Even the politics did not interest me much despite reading at least one of the English language papers on a nearly daily basis. The PM of this place, Thaksin Shinawatra, is like a Thai Berlusconi without the entertainment value. He is in a spot of bother at the moment for a bungled sale of his company to Singapore but nothing to really scream about. Him and his friends are definitely bent but they do it by rigging the economy to maximize their profits instead of the Snatch and Grab Cambodian School or the Legislature for Sale sign that Indonesia’s finest have put up. This is not too detrimental to the population at large and is nothing that doesn’t exist in the west. Arguably it’s a fuck of a lot better than the Dick Cheney/Halliburton connection. At least here no one gets killed for stock options.

In a way this last post is an admission of failure. I hope to fare better in China, Central Asia and the Middle East. I hope that a slightly less defined backpacker trail will remove the easy options and make live a place a bit more even if it means I get less immediate satisfaction.

So in final, would I recommend Thailand? Not for the rucksack crowd. I suspect for backpackers the end is nigh in Siam. Dropouts such as me who are set to travel as long as their banker allows them to are the minority here. Holiday makers and expats constitute the bulk of the vast farang community. Thailand in a way resembles the Costa del Sol. A place where you should settle down and stay long if you really want to get to know the people and country or a place where you can assemble 20 of your mates and get completely smashed. Most backpackers now see Thailand as a hub and not their personal playground anymore. Things change.

Hope my next post gets through the Great Firewall.

Take care,

Arabin

2006-01-27T06:47:00.000Z

Chiang Saen, Thailand

Chiang Saen is an old walled city that sits on the banks of the Mekong at the point where Laos and Burma meet. It’s a moderately busy riverport whose walls and temples are quaintly overgrown due to a 200 year stint where the town was kept empty as a result of conflict with Burma. It’s a nice place to visit if a bit noisy due to an excess of riverfront karaoke joints. It’s at it’s nicest when the amateur singers are note quite ready for their warbling and you can eat on the promenade where foodstall owners have laid out bamboo mats and low tables on the ground. It’s also barbecue paradise with anything from fish to huge cockroaches being seasoned and put over the coals.

I am not here for the charms of this place though as I am on a mission. I have finally organized my exit from the overtravelled Siamese kingdom. The rumors and recommendations of backpackers have once again shown themselves to be more useful than the travel books and I have found a cabin on cargo boat for China. I will get to see the Golden Triangle from the relative safety of being in the middle of the Mekong. I will not be able to get off the boat until China as I have got no visa for either Laos or Burma. I guess it makes sense to the border guards. Or at least I hope it does.

I will have to wait a while as I was dumb enough to try and catch transport to China 2 days before Chinese New Year. I was very politely informed of my stupidity and after a short flurry of mobile phone calls I was told I could maybe get a ride on the 3rd. Chiang Saen is nice but I am going to return to the Hills form whence I have just come. I have been staying in an Akha Village and enjoying myself thoroughly and, as it’s the only place in Thailand I have had difficulty leaving, I am sort of glad I get to go back.

The Akhas are originally a Tibetan people who moved to Burma before having to up stakes and move to Thailand due to the Burmese government’s enlightened policy of integration by rifle fire. The place I have stayed in is owned by an Akha so it has quelled my anxieties over some of the negative aspects of hill tribe trekking. To be honest I have done little trekking and have just enjoyed taking walks in the immediate area, taking sporadic dips in the pools of a nearby waterfall, getting humiliated at impromptu slingshot contests by the local kids and sitting by the fire with old betel-nut chewing women. Even the walks are made easy as the village dogs come along with you and show the way back. And all this perched on a hill overlooking a beautiful valley dotted with terraced paddies, tea plots and jungle. Life can be harsh when you're on the road.

The village was actually installed there by Apae, the guesthouse owner, as he wanted the kids to go to school despite the best efforts of the Thai state to keep them stateless and without rights (they have only recently given them ID cards). He moved the village to the end of a new road and opened a guesthouse to get some income,. He has been successful and has managed to open a sister guesthouse in a quiet neighborhood of Chiang Rai on the river banks.

The success story stops here though as someone wants to put a 5 star resort on the island opposite Apae’s new place and have started to plot a road that will go straight through the 2 month old guesthouse. As the developers are linked to the Prime minister’s family and he is part of an impoverished minority, the chances of stopping this are slim. A few of us guests did start a petition but I fear it will not do much more than provide a bit of moral support. After a few beers we also cooked up a few plans that involved planting archeologically significant artifacts or protected on the island to put a hold on construction.

Anyway I am going back to the hills for a last bit of peace, quiet and good living.

Take care,

Arabin