A City, A Lake, And The Fattest Seal I've Ever Laid Eyes On

Casey writes:

My preconception of Irkutsk was a misconception. It isn't a barren concrete jungle in the middle of Siberia. It isn't freezing cold. The people aren't all rude. In fact, it's a quaint, pretty and vibrant town with a population of 587,000 people, and almost as many statues. Lenin, Alexander III and many lesser known figureheads are immortalised in stone and are omnipresent amongst the city's many parks and gardens, marking a bloody and violent history that has paved the way for a modern society.

Richard's introduction to Irkutsk was less than memorable. A dodgy meal of chicken and noodles rewarded him with a violent bout of food poisoning and a night locked away in the hostel toilet. Consequently, our following day of sightseeing was built around an itinerary of toilet stops: Kirov Square, toilet, Saviour's Church, toilet, the Old Town, toilet, Chinese Market, toilet, Volkonsky House Museum, toilet, Karl Marx Street, toilet. Fortunately, the bug passed within 24 hours and he was soon on the mend.

Volkonsky House was fascinating. It is the preserved home of Decembrist Count Sergei Volkonsky and his wife Maria Volkonskaya, who were exiled to Siberia in the mid 1800s. This small mansion epitomised to me the life of Russian high society. It was all the more fitting given that both Richard and I are currently ploughing through the 1600 pages of 'War and Peace' to while away the time on the trans-Siberian railway.

Our day trip to the tiny town of Listvyanka on Lake Baikal was a wonderful experience on the whole. Every weather forecast we checked, predicted temperatures in the mid twenties, with blue skies. We were super excited. Arriving on the shores of the deepest lake in the world (deepest point 1637 metres) we were horrified to find a temperature barely above zero due to the extreme wind chill factor. Richard, in only shorts and a tshirt, looked like an ice block, and my jumper did little to stop my body being chilled to the bone. I was shattered and at my physical limit so I sheltered in a cafe while Richard braved the cold to see St Nicholaas Church and the Retro sculpture park. My lunch of fried omul (local fish) was tasty. The still-frozen chips weren't.

The thirty minute nerpa seal show was a highlight for us both, firstly because it was indoors, but also because of the amazing tricks these Lake Baikal locals could perform. Sadly, photography was banned so the only image I can offer on this blog is verbal: picture two of the fattest seals you've ever seen in your life; one barely able to break the surface of the water with his gargantuan rotunda of blubber, while the other, at a struggle, played basketball, painted an artwork and danced circles around his massively obese lump of a friend.

The planned itinerary of our three hour Lake Baikal boat tour was altered due to the high wind and wavy conditions on the lake, which, according to our guide Kristina's broken English, could be 'dangerous to your life'. We bounced across the lake to see Port Baikal and the old circum-Baikal tourist train line, which, due to its many old tunnels, is also apparently 'dangerous to your life'. Despite the seasickness-inducing waves, the scenery was stunning, especially the snow covered Khamar Daban mountains in the distance.

Surviving the one hour minibus ride back to Irkutsk, I was sandwiched between two old Russian women and their menagerie of fish-smelling bags. They enjoyed yapping away to me in Russian, and weren't fazed at all that I didn't have a clue what they were saying.

We bunked down in our hostel for the evening, biding our time and struggling to stay awake while waiting for our 3:00am train to Yekaterinburg.

Goodbye Asia, hello Europe!

Vladivostok and Friends

Richard writes:

Vladivostok; a city in a European country with its capital further away than Darwin. Its people are unmistakably European, with their pale harsh Russian features, yet, Japan is only a short ferry ride away. Almost equidistance from London, Melbourne and San Francisco; Vladivostok is regularly compared to San Francisco, with its hilly streets, Pacific Bay and even its bridge similarly named; the 'Golden Horn Bridge'. Having visited both, I also see the comparison. The key difference being, that Vladivostok looks like San Francisco would look, if most of its prettiest buildings were left unpainted and unattended for about 20 years. The glitz would still be there from a distance, but up close and personal, the glory of past days would require imagination to visualise.

After a 3,648km journey travelling in the opposite direction from London, our visit to Vladivostok was a visit simply borne of a desire to see Russia's Far East. The six night round train trip of over 7,500km to spend two nights in Vladivostok didn't disappoint. Compared to our introduction to Siberia, the air was warm and there was a smell of the sea in the air. With instructions for catching the bus to our hostel in hand, we admired yet another statue of Lenin and boarded our bus. As instructed, we got off the bus seven stops later. We looked around us and realised we seemed to have arrived in Vladivostok's housing commission area. Surrounded by Soviet tower blocks, we found number 41a and made our way to our hostel, housed in an apartment building. On arrival we were greeted by the owner and an extremely friendly Russian girl staying there, as well as Anthony, a Korean American who for reasons we are not entirely clear had made the hostel his home. We had much needed showers (though both were cold) before heading back into the city.

Our hostel's surrounds

As referred to in earlier posts, as much as we love each other's company, Casey and I always appreciate the opportunity to meet and spend time with others wherever we can. In Vladivostok, this was not true. We spent almost two of our three days in Vladivostok with well meaning, but intense individuals.

Intense individual number one was Mark. A Vladivostok native, we met in a coffee shop in the city's main restaurant strip mid afternoon on our first day. Completely bemused as to why we would wish to visit such a bleak dull city, he helpfully assisted us with our drink order and we accepted his invitation to sit with him. Unlike most Russians, Mark spoke almost impeccable English and his young face was gentler than the harsh features seen in most young Russian men. He was ecstatic to have helped us, but didn't comprehend that without his help we would have still got by. He went on to explain that without being able to speak Russian, we would not be able to cope. He therefore took it upon himself to chaperone us for the rest of the day. Our attempts to explain that we had spent almost three months of travel not really being able to communicate, and yet had still managed, fell on deaf ears. Normally we would have leapt at the chance of assistance from a local, but on this occasion we both felt uneasy. There was something of a stalker about Mark, the offer of assistance wasn't really an offer, but rather an order. Mark also had nothing positive to say about the city we had just invested 66 hours of precious time to get to. Negativity is not something you normally look for in a tour guide! He took us for a walk showing us the best places to go, whilst explaining that though they might be the best, they were not worth wasting time on. We saw the beach, numerous fountains, stalls selling Russian souvenirs and attempted to find a restaurant. 

The finding of a restaurant was a tricky business. There was no shortage of possibilities, but we were unsure as to whether Mark intended to join us. Normal sensibilities would dictate that we should have invited him, stating that he would be very welcome. Normal sensibilities were most definitely not appropriate in this circumstance however, as we both nervously hoped we would be rid of him at the earliest opportunity as we both were getting increasingly freaked out. When he asked where we were staying we vaguely explained, careful not give too much information. He understood however, and murmured something about it being close to where he lived. My freaked out level increasing by the minute. For dinner we eventually settled on a kind of cafeteria place, that served food of an unknown derivation. It was meat and vegetables, as many Russian dishes are, but it was also very flavoursome (not very Russian). Mark helped us order and watched us eat, but didn't order himself. At this point, the both of us started yawning manically, attempting to display the strongest tired body language signs we had. He got the hint, and escorted us to the bus stop home, and to our relief he didn't follow.

Photos from Vladivostok

We had arrived at our hostel earlier than planned, in our efforts to escape our stalker. We talked with fellow guests and agreed to visit the city of Ussuriysk the next day with Anthony, who was to become Intense individual number 2. Our agreement came before he went on a misogynistic homophobic rant. Our day in Ussuriysk was going to be a long one.

Neither Casey or I have ever heard of Ussuriysk, and dare say most people reading this won't have either. We learnt, however, that prior to the twentieth century, it was actually a bigger and more significant city than Vladivostok. Visited by Tsar Nicholas II in 1891, it was a charming city with beautiful buildings and a relaxed aura as well as being home to a large military college. We walked the streets with our chum Anthony, listening to what a thoroughly great bloke he was. He had been in the American army, run a series of successful businesses, written research papers, taught English as a foreign language and had retired at the grand old age of 38 to travel to Russia. We later learned that he was a man that you could not entirely rely on in terms of the accuracy of his statements. He professed to know everything about everything, but clearly didn't, and he showed very little interest about other peoples' lives. He also had some interesting opinions, demonstrated by his question; "Who is to blame for Russian men beating their wives?", suggesting it couldn't possibly be the men themselves. Despite Anthony's ramblings, we were able to zone out and enjoy our day, in what was a beautiful city. The day improved further, when we were joined by a friend of his, Svetlana. She lived in the city and gave us a proper tour showing us all the main land marks. She was friendly and genuinely lovely and her company rounded off what had been at times difficult, but an overall enjoyable day.

Photos from Ussuriysk

Despite our "interesting" company, we thoroughly enjoyed our jaunt to the Russian Far East. We enjoyed the Russian architecture, set foot on a Russian submarine that was still adorned by Stalin's portrait, admired numerous onion domed Russian Orthodox churches and walked the streets of two attractive cities. We even enjoyed a culinary first. In an attempt to sample some flavour in our food, we ordered a "spicy" pizza. This would normally mean a variety of toppings with maybe some paprika, or better still some chilli. This pizza however, had been laden with wasabi, and thus providing the nose "tickle" that only horseradish seems to give! It wasn't awful, but not an experience we are going to look for again. 

On boarding our train, we knew we had 74 hours ahead of us to Irkutsk. I am amazed how quickly long journeys pass, the days just merge into one. You sleep, eat, read and wherever possible get off the train during extended stops to buy supplies and stretch your legs, being careful not to venture too far, to ensure avoiding the disaster of the train setting off without you! The journey to Irkutsk was pleasant with some gorgeous scenery as well as some fairly mundane views. Our company has been mixed, with a mother and her baby child on the first night. Casey, in a misunderstanding, believed they were our cabin mates the whole journey, so we were relieved when they alighted at Khabarovsk. To the baby's credit, she was beautiful and quiet and the mother went out of her way to entertain her. Through broken English, we explained our trip and the mother described us as "heroes" and gave us a laminated card depicted a Russian Orthodox Saint, presumably to wish us safe travels ahead.

On returning from the restaurant car, on the second night, we found what would prove to be our favourite stable buddy so far. His name was Dima and he spoke less English than we speak Russian (we only speak about four words!) For hours however, we shared beer, communicated as best we could and showed each photos of our respective families. The rest of the journey was shared with a friendly, but quiet middle aged gent who enjoyed reading newspapers with Lenin's head adorning the top, so presumably a man yearning for the good old days before 1991.

Dima and Richard on the train

3648 Kilometres Of Entertainment

Casey writes:

Imprisoned in our third class bubble on this trans-Siberian train for 66 hours, we need a strategy to help pass the time. The Lonely Planet describes third class travel on Russian trains as akin to a 'refugee camp'. What better way than to dispel this description than to keep a running commentary on our fellow Carriage 7 buddies:

1. The first person to share our six-bed pod is a young woman we've named 'Smiley'. Smiley, like most Russians, doesn't know how to live up to her nickname. Nor does she know how to make eye contact. Fortunately she leaves us at Petrovsky-Zavod after only a few stops.

2. We greet a middle aged man who also doesn't smile or make eye contact. But he does enjoy guzzling a huge bottle of fanta. We call him 'Fantsy'. He's fairly stylish in his suede pants and suede jacket. He too is only a brief neighbour, and we aren't shattered when he also leaves us.

3. The woman I accidentally walked in on in the toilet is a sight to behold. she doesn't bother locking the door, but screams Russian insults at me when I innocently turn the handle and walk in. While waiting patiently outside. I hear flush after flush and running water and I can't decide if she has fallen in, or is making a clear point to me. After nearly 20 minutes, she emerges in her tight shorts and singlet, acting more like a teenager than the 40-something witch that she is.

4. 'Bulldog' is a severe looking woman in her fifties. She boards at Petrovsky-Zavod and refuses to return our smiles and eye contact. In fact, she moves away from us and sits at a different table, making her intentions for communication clear. As if they weren't already. Thankfully this means we no longer have vision of her black and pink lacy bra which is revealed by her dangerously low neckline and cleavage. Richard and I almost high-five each other when she puts on her lilac coat and leaves us at Khilok.

5. Finally, we think we've scored a friendly Russian neighbour! An older man joins us at Khilok and is keen to chat. He has no English, and babbles in Russian and German. He laughs frequently and we like him a lot. It all makes sense when we are trying to communicate by pointing at a map. He points to Greece and we realise that he is actually Greek not Russian! His name is Yiannes and sadly, he is disembarking at 3:00am when we reach Chita. By going to sleep early, he has missed the view out the window of the rolling Siberian plateau, which at 10:30pm is still bathed in sunlight... bizarre!

6. At 3:00am a young woman joins us, and she keeps to herself. I'm not much company either because I am more interested in sleeping. By the time I wake up in the morning, she has gone. She doesn't even earn a nickname.

7. The young bloke in the army uniform with the shaved head and the large knife is intimidating. What better name for him than 'Stabby'. He stares non stop at me with piercing unfriendly eyes. I hope he is not with us all the way to Vladivostok. Regardless, I vow not to get on his bad side.

8. For much of the second day on the train, we have our pod to ourselves. We appreciate this luxury, although the stuffy air and high temperatures make the trip not particularly comfortable. Richard tries to open the window to no avail, so our only options for fresh air are to stick our heads out of the toilet window, or fight with the smokers on the vestibule. 

9.At Yerofey Pavlovich we think we've found a friendly neighbour. She smiles and talks, but as soon as she realises that we only speak English, she lies down, rolls over and goes to sleep for the next 36 hours. We've named her 'Sleepy'.

10. I am awakened at 8:30am on the third day by an excursion of thirty school children piling onto our carriage. They start off incredibly well behaved but this deteriorates as time goes on. Fortunately they leave at the very next stop.

11. At Belogorsk two non-talking, non-smiling women join us. The older, larger lady makes her bed and lies down. Apart from her trying to break the door down while I'm in the toilet, she provides no other interaction and prefers to eat and sleep all day. She earns a nickname not suitable for publishing on this blog. The younger girl (who wears socks with her sandals so we christen her 'Socky') refuses to smile or make eye contact, but she does like to sit on everyone's bed except her own.

12. The stuffiness and high temperatures are unbearable on the third day. The unrelenting heat is making me physically sick and dizzy, with no reprise. Twice during the day we can get off the train at a station stop but ten minutes later we have to endure the discomfort again as we re-board.

13. Richard makes a friend called Sacha. Sacha doesn't smile but he likes to practise his English and seems interested in Richard's answers to his questions. It's nice to find one chatty Russian person on this train!

14. At Khabarovsk we gain a new young lady with garish jeans who becomes affectionately known to us as 'Sparkles'. She doesn't smile or make eye contact despite our attempts (there is definitely a pattern emerging here). I'll give her the benefit of the doubt because it's late (nearly midnight) and most people are going to sleep anyway.

15. The company we share in the dining carriage is interesting. On every occasion that we've strolled down there to escape the heatwave of Carriage 7, we are greeted by the posh German group who have come from first class and who are guzzling their free food and drink. They are inoffensive albeit obviously rich. The waitresses in the dining carriage are friendly and helpful and we even get to see them smile on occasion.

16. Arriving in Vladivostok we are relieved for some fresh air, but sad to say goodbye to the first leg of our trans-Siberian train journey.  

A Childhood Dream Comes True

Casey writes:

I have always dreamt of visiting Russia. As a child, my imagination frequently conjured up images of freezing blizzards whipping the cold and barren steppes of Siberia, icy landscapes from horizon to horizon, and trees bending over double with the weight of settled snow.

I realised, however, that with less than two weeks until summer, this dreamy perception was unlikely to become a reality on this trip, and that blue skies, green grass and blossoming flowers were far more probable. 

Boy was I wrong. Almost as soon as we had crossed the Mongolian-Russian border, the snow began to fall. The view outside the train window was magical. The ground became instantly white, the air was thick with huge swirling snowflakes, and the trees looked stunning with their layer of fluffy snow. This definitely wasn't summer, but it was absolutely beautiful, and it fit my stereotype of Russian landscapes to a tee.

Arriving at Ulan-Ude at 9:30pm, we began the walk towards our hostel. We had originally organised a lift to our hostel for 11:00pm because we didn't fancy roaming unfamiliar Russian streets in the dark, but when we realised we had miscalculated the arrival time, we instead decided to walk in the rapidly fading light.

By the time we walked out of the station, the snow was falling quite heavily and walking was tricky. I didn't mind at all, and in fact, I was revelling in this childhood fantasy.

However, after twenty minutes of walking, becoming increasingly cold and snow covered, we discovered that we had headed in the wrong direction. With a map in hand, we beseeched some locals for help, but the language barrier made communication impossible. Walking back the other way, we finally got ourselves back on track. By this stage our backpacks were heavy with snow, my feet were soaking, and I had to keep shaking the heavy snow off my umbrella. Richard's hair was white with snowflakes, as were his eyelashes. Attempting to negotiate the many slippery steps of the railway overpass, I slipped on the icy metal and fell heavily only a few steps from the bottom. The weight of my backpack compounded my fall. Landing awkwardly, and eventually settling on my back, I felt like a turtle lying on its shell: The weight of my bag prevented me from rolling over or standing up, and my legs were flailing ridiculously in the icy snow. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry... I think I did both. Eventually, I righted myself, and once I had confirmed that no part of me was broken, we continued on our trek to our hostel. 

Twenty more minutes passes before we conceded we were still lost. With me desperate to get out of the snow, Richard entered a supermarket to try to get assistance. In limited English the shopkeepers attempted to help him, and gave vague directions in the form of hand waving and pointing. Meanwhile, Richard had thawed out and a large puddle of slushy water was appearing on the supermarket floor beneath him, creating a nice cleaning job for the workers.

We continued walking. Ten more minutes passed before we gave up. The roads didn't match the map, which was now a soggy mess in our hands. It was dark, cold and wet, and my neck had begun to seize up from my fall. In defeat, we entered another business' premises (we still don't know if it was a restaurant or theatre or what exactly) and asked the girls there to ring our hostel for us. They did, and within minutes the owner of our hostel appeared. We had waved the white flag literally metres from the door of our salvation.

The hostel was warm, the owner was friendly, and we went to bed relieved, knowing we'd be up early to make the most of our morning in Ulan-Ude.

Ulan-Ude is known as one of Siberia's most likeable cities. It has a small-city charm, and a quiet and relaxed atmosphere. Roaming the streets at 8:00am, we discovered that nothing opened until 10:00am (despite it being a Tuesday), which gave us plenty of time to discover the city streets. The largest Lenin head in the world was definitely the highlight. I'm not sure where the rest of his body was, nor why insignificant Ulan-Ude was graced by his presence, but the statue was impressive nonetheless.

A pretty cathedral, snow covered streets, a supermarket and a shopping centre made up the sights of the rest of our morning, before we headed back to the hostel enroute to the train station.

Russian train tickets are incredibly confusing. All timetables are aligned to 'Moscow Time', meaning that Russia's nine timezones cause regular confusion (to foreigners at least) when trying to work out what time the train will arrive at a local station. Staring at the electronic board at the Ulan-Ude station, it showed that our train would be arriving at 08:31. We had to add five hours on to work out the local time of arrival, and thankfully, we counted correctly. With many more train trips ahead of us, fingers crossed our maths skills don't let us down!

A Photo Never Lies (But it Costs a Lot)

Richard writes:

So back in surburbia with four days to entertain ourselves before our train ride to Ulan-Ude in Russia, we set about exhausting Ulaanbaatar's attractions and exhibits. We barely saw Ulaanbaatar in the two days before our trip to the Mongolian wilderness due to the snow and rain, so it was a relief to wake up to sunshine and blue skies on the first morning after our return, It was actually quite warm too (though Casey would dispute the use of the adjective warm, and replace it with chilly! Australians are so soft!).

Whilst walking around Ulaanbaatar, it immediately became apparent that the city had completely transformed from the small sleepy capital I had visited eight years previously. The traffic in Ulaanbaatar makes London's roads look free flowing and there are more high rise buildings under construction than in New York in the 1920s. There is no better illustration of this metamorphis from village to metropolis than the city's (and country's) only theme park. Eight years ago, myself and two friends from University, Ian and Oli, visited Ulaanbaatar's theme park which housed some of the most dilapidated rides you could wish to see. This theme park still exists with some of the rides we rode on eight years ago.

The old rollercoaster

However . . .  new rides have been installed and have turned the park into something approaching modern, including a massive vomit inducing track of twisted wires. When it comes to rides of such ilk, I tend to be quite cautious, considering the human need to have my body violently transported from one direction to the next. However, after Casey exerted significant peer pressure I relented and rode the Mongolian, steroid fuelled rollercoaster. Within seconds of it starting, I was uttering 'I don't like it', and mid loop the loop I was screaming every expletive under the sun. By the time it had come to a close, I nervously stumbled off and had a bit of quiet time to recover my composure and to consider whether my Mongolian BBQ lunch tasted better the first or second time.

The new rollercoaster

Other than the city's rapid expansion, my other main observation is that the taking of photographs of the city's exhibits is not encouraged. I would love to fill this blog with photos of the treasures we have seen over the past few days in the many museums we have visited . . . but I can't, as we don't have any. This is not to say that you are not allowed to take photos, but the charge to do so in museums is astonishing. The most striking example of this was at the immense Winter Palace of the Bogd Khaan, the last Mongolian King, who's reign ended in the early 20th century. The "Palace" almost looks like a ruin and is situated an hour's walk from the city centre. The sorry state of the building gave us no clue for the wonderful exhibits housed within. It seems Bogd Khaan was an avid collector of taxidermy. He had more animals than Kruger national park (albeit stuffed): there were penguins, hawks, armadillos, a tiger, a lion, a seal and almost anything else you could care to think of. One of the armadillos was particularly spectacular, it was enormous (the size of a large wombat). We were desperate to take photos of this amazing exhibit, however the charge for taking photos was 50,000 Togrog (about AU$30). Now considering this represents half our daily budget for food, booze and sightseeing, this seemed a bit excessive, especially as entry to the museum was only 10% of this. Normally with such ridiculous pricing strategies, I would take a few sneaky pics using my body to shield the camera from museum workers' prying eyes. Unfortunately the museum's management had decided to spend the last ten years' building maintenance budget on CCTV; there were cameras everywhere, the bloody irony! All I wanted was a few photos, but I couldn't because every move we made, was being filmed and no doubt scrutinised by security guards eagerly waiting to produce the exorbitant bill on the first sight of a camera lens.

The next item we saw at the palace was a beautifully carved wooden bed that we were both in awe of. Not only was it a fantastic exhibit, but it stimulated ideas for the furnishings of our home when we eventually arrive in London. We are under no illusions about our financial competitiveness when it comes to property in London, most likely, all we will be able to afford is a poxy studio. The bed at the museum would be perfect for a small living area: it was like a four poster bed with walls as well as a small entry area housing drawers and shelves. Perfect for a studio and very stylish! I immediately said to Casey, if we can just take a few pics, and send them to my Dad (who is a dab hand with a bit of wood and a saw), he can knock this up by the time we arrive in Blighty. Foiled again. I tried every angle to avoid the gaze of the cameras, but absolutely every angle was covered. After yet another disappointment we sauntered around the rest of the museum and its temples muttering about the unfairness of the CCTV.

The Bogd Khaan Winter Palace

On returning to our hostel, we immediately did what we always do when we have been somewhere that is either hilariously crap or has some other unique feature (such as a charge to take photos ten times the admission cost): we went on Tripadvisor to see others' comments. It has occurred to me, that we have somehow missed the point with Tripadvisor, most people use it to help them decide where to go, we merely use it to confirm that other people think something is terrible as well. The Tripadvisor consensus on the Bogd Khaan Winter Palace seemed to concur with us; brilliant exhibits, the buildings need some work and expensive photos!

During our foray onto Tripadvisor we noticed that another museum we had visited was not even listed on the things to do in Ulaanbaatar. The museum was called the "Memorial Museum of Victims of Political Persecution". We had noticed it when we had got a little lost wandering around Ulaanbaatar looking for the theme park, and vowed to return. On arrival the old wooden building looked shut, and we almost dejectedly gave up on visiting. However, a middle aged gentleman, who looked considerably more life worn than the average person of his apparent age, appeared out the front door and beckoned us in. The museum had an array of rooms with photos and exhibits from the 1930s when apparently Mongolia was a dangerous place to live if you were out of political favour or had a few ideas of your own that were out of sync with Uncle Joe's ideas in Moscow. A few annotations were in English but the vast majority were in Mongolian. The museum director (the guy who beckoned us in) also proudly described every item in the museum, in Mongolian, even though we had politely explained that we were not well versed in the language. This did nothing to deter his explanations however. The final room was a collection of human skulls (akin to the Cambodian Killing Fields, but on a far smaller scale) recovered from a political massacre somewhere in Mongolia from the 1930s. A sobering end to a museum where we had learnt little, but are now committed to learning more of the seemingly gruesome political history of 20th century Mongolia.

The Memorial Museum of Victims of Political Persecution

As well as the museums mentioned, we also visited the National Museum of Mongolian History and The Zanabazar Museum of Fine Arts and we also attended a Mongolian cultural show featuring contortionists, dancing, music and throat singing (a bizarre skill that allows the "singer" to make two noises concurrently with their throat). All attractions were brilliant, but sadly no photos, apart from the exterior buildings!

Drinks in Ulaanbaatar

Our ten awesome days in Mongolia had drawn to a close, and yet again we were sad to leave a country, but excited about the month in Russia ahead of us. We boarded our 24 hour train from Ulaanbaatar to Ulan Ude (in Russia) with Nathan, an American guy who was staying at our hostel, who is doing a similar over land trip to us, but from Hong Kong to Tennessee. Coincidently Nathan was sharing our train cabin, along with a young Mongolian guy, who held an elongated eerie stare and didn't like answering his extremely loud ringing phone during the night. We shared food and chatted and admired the blizzard that greeted us almost as soon as we crossed the Russian border. Our entry to Siberia was a picture perfect scene of deep snow, exactly meeting all of our Siberian perceptions.

The snow from the train

Please Help Yourself To Some More Goat Intestines

Casey writes:

What do you think of when you hear the word 'Mongolia'? Perhaps camels, horse riding, the Gobi desert and Genghis Khan... and not much else. Well this was about the limit of my expertise too, when we set out on a five day journey into the Mongolian wilderness.

We arrived in Mongolia's capital, Ulaan Baatar, following a 30 hour train journey from Beijing. With the knowledge that it was only three weeks until Mongolia's summer officially began, we emerged onto the train platform with high hopes. They were shattered instantly as we shivered in a temperature of one degree celsius, as we waited for our hostel pick up. Golden Gobi Guesthouse immediately felt like home, and equally importantly, it had excellent heating. Apart from a brief venture to Sukhbaatar Square, we remained in the warmth of our hostel for the rest of the day, promising ourselves that when it was warmer the next day, we'd be far more active.

We woke the next morning to an Ulaan Baatar covered in a thick layer of snow. This again limited our time outdoors to an unsuccessful attempt to collect train tickets, a shopping trip for warm socks, and an evening meal with friends we'd met on our North Korea tour.

When we met our tour guide Alma, and driver Bazargur, who would be with us for the next five days on the Mongolian steppe, we were instantly at ease. Seven hours of driving on the first day took us 370km to the ancient mongol capital of Karakorum. We stayed the night in a ger camp, where little did we know that having a whole ger to ourselves was in fact a luxury that would not be repeated. We had snowball fights with a three year old Mongolian girl, built a snowman and realised that the so-called 'outhouse' was in fact just a very large hole in the (freezing) ground. Our attempt to help Alma make 'buuz'(Mongolian dumplings) with horse meat, proved that neither Richard or I would ever make good Mongolian chefs.

The next day we were privileged to visit the Erdene Zuu Monastery during a Buddhist ceremony, where we were able to listen to the rhythmical chanting of the monks, before exiting the temple backwards, as per Buddhist custom.

Later we were to drive to a local family, to stay with them in their ger (round tent). This presented two problems. Firstly, the family was nomadic, so they had moved from their last known location on the steppe, and secondly, they had no idea who we were or even that we were coming, which is apparently normal custom in Mongolia. As soon as we arrived we were greeted with biscuits and warm sheep/goat milk tea. The family had around 500 sheep and goats, which kept us entertained with their antics when we went wandering around the fields at dusk. Sitting in the ger after dark, we quickly did the maths and realised that the three beds were not going to be enough for the husband, wife, Alma, Bazagur, Richard and me. Richard and I ended up sharing a single, lumpy bed, and suffice to say, didn't sleep particularly well.

The snow storm the following morning did not deter us from our promised camel ride. When we asked the whereabouts of the camels, we were told that the husband had gone out to catch them. CATCH THEM! I had visions that I would soon be sitting on a wild camel that was galloping off towards the horizon. We were kitted out in full Mongolian garb to brace against the sub zero temperatures, and we were off. I envied my camel's lovely long eyelashes, until soon they were plastered shut with snowflakes. Our guide held the reigns of Richard's camel, and in turn, Richard was given the simple task of holding my camel's reigns. At the first burp of camel bad breath, Richard in a flap let go of my reigns. All I could hear through the pouring snow and screaming wind was the muffled cry of 'oh no...Caasseeyy...'I was hanging on to my camel's hump so hard that its hair was coming out in tufts. Fortunately, our guide came to my rescue and my earlier vision of a wild galloping camel didn't become a reality. Richard, to his credit, is still treading on eggshells around me.

A few hours later we found out that one of the camels had collapsed while being ridden by someone else, due to a combination of weakness and freezing weather. How do you cure a feverish camel? It's simple. You ask your guests if they have any paracetamol, they hand it over, and then you mix up six tablets in water, and force feed the concoction to a grunting, groaning, bellowing, miserable camel. 

The next day we made our way to our next nomadic family homestay, driving through horizontal snow and screaming wind. The cows on the road trying desperately to get out of our way looked like they had ice skates on as they tried to manoeuvre off the slippery bitumen. Again the nomadic family were unaware of our impending arrival. This time, the ger was very different. It was poorly insulated, the wind was whipping in, and it looked haphazardly constructed. Animal corpses hung from the wooden scaffolding, and the smell was unpleasant to say the least. We were helping ourselves to sheep/goat milk tea when suddenly, four drunk men from a neighbouring ger rushed in. They were fascinated to see western tourists, and invited us over to their place to share their food. We piled into our car for the drive to their ger, which was not actually neighbouring at all, but seemed miles away. What awaited us was true Mongolian tradition. A goat had been slaughtered half an hour previously, and what was left of its corpse was hanging up inside the ger. The rest of it was in the giant pot that was being proudly presented to Richard and me. We watched each organ being taken out, sliced up and presented to us. With the help of Alma's translation, we learned that we were eating goat intestine, kidney, liver, stomach, blood sausage and 'the bit where waste comes out'...I didn't probe her further, I just closed my eyes and ate. Richard instinctively reached for the bowl of candy on the table, to take the taste away. He popped one in his mouth and instantly looked like he'd eaten poison. The pink sweet wasn't strawberry flavoured at all, it was crab flavoured, and the look on his face was priceless. Back in our homestay ger, and trying to process what had just happened, we were presented with our bed: blankets on the floor. The heat from the stove kept us warm for part of the night, but by the early hours of the morning I'm sure the temperature in the ger was below zero. On my trip to the toilet (I use that word loosely, as the barren steppe offered no hiding place for naked buttocks) in the dark, I came face to face with a huge cow. He wasn't half as startled as me, and I scurried back to the ger as quickly as possible.

We visited Hustai Nuruu National Park to try to spot the wild Przevalskii horses which had been reintroduced to the Mongolian steppe after their near-extinction. We saw a herd of six horses on a hill in the distance, but were unlucky not to see any closer herds. Our final night was spent with a Kazakh family. Again we got lost trying to find their ger camp, but upon arrival, we were greeted with the prettiest scenery yet - snowy rolling hills lined with some of the only trees we'd seen in days. The family had a warm cosy ger, and two young boys: A sweet two year old who liked to hug, and a four year old who liked to hit, kick and punch anything in his sight: his brother, his dogs, and us. The Kazakh wife cooked us 'suivan' for dinner, which is a traditional Mongolian dish of pasta and meat. It was delicious. Her husband played his 'dombra', which is a type of Kazakh guitar. Bed time consisted of sleeping on the floor, next to the hitting and kicking child and his father.

Heading back to Ulaan Bataar, we stopped at a giant 40 metre high steel monument of Genghis Khan. An elevator took us to the top and we emerged peering out from the top of his horse's head. We then detoured into Gorkh-Terelj National Park to ride horses, before making the long journey back to our hostel.

Richard and I both easily agree that our five days on the Mongolian steppe was one of the highlights of our trip so far. We learned so much about Mongolian traditions, customs, and lifestyle, and we were welcomed by strangers into their own homes over and over again. We feel privileged to have had this experience, and, now that my hands have finally thawed out, I am able to type this blog post from the comfort of the luxuriously warm Golden Gobi guesthouse.

Beijing Part 2 - A Chance to Unwind

Richard writes:

So after our DPRK adventure we returned to China and Beijing. On crossing the Chinese border it felt like returning home, we relaxed and felt at ease in our Chinese surroundings. We checked into the same hostel we had stayed before the trip, and yet again its convenient location was a god send, a two minute walk from Beijing Central Train Station. To be honest, it is a good thing its location is so good as it is about the only thing going for it, the staff are rude and the mattresses are about as thick as flat noodles.

We spent our day of arrival back in Beijing in a western style cafe sipping drinks and using their wifi to upload our DPRK photos onto Dropbox so they could be viewed on the blog. We also visited a market where I bought a warm jacket after checking the very chilly weather forecast for the Mongolian desert that we will be visiting a week later. A Chinese meal later and that was the sum of our day, a very lazy one that we felt we deserved after the hectic time we had had in DPRK.

The next two days were equally quiet, though we managed to fit in a bit of sight seeing amongst doing some washing, sorting out our bags and visiting a post office to send some of our souvenirs back to the UK. We visited the Great Hall of the People (the Chinese "Parliament"), Beihai Park (the site of Genghis Khan's grandson Kublai's Chinese capital) and the Police museum. Amongst this, we were lucky enough to catch up with friends from the DPRK trip for dinner on two nights. As much as Casey and I enjoy each other's company, it is great to spend time with other people too!

So with a sad farewell to Beijing and China overall after having an amazing time in the country we are on the K3 train from Beijing Central bound for Ulaanbaatar (arriving 30 hours later). I am writing this eight hours into the journey and so far so good. We have free meal tickets and a cabin to ourselves. Mongolia and our ninth country of the trip; here we come!!!

Three Kims, Two Perspectives, One North Korea

As we think our trip to the DPRK (Democratic People's Republic of Korea) was quite special, we have both written posts, with slightly different perspectives.

Casey writes:

Despite leaving North Korea over four days ago, I have been reluctant to put pen to paper (or more accurately, fingers to keyboard) to compose a blog entry. In short, I am still grappling with trying to develop my own perspective and understanding of this place that is thousands of miles from home, both figuratively and literally.

On the surface, the DPRK is hardly dissimilar to any other city we have visited so far. The middle class citizens of Pyongyang live their lives and go about their daily business, much like I would do in Melbourne. But there are subtle differences. They dress extremely professionally, always corporate, but their outfits lack any hint of colour; black and grey is the norm. They are incredibly self-restrained, showing little or no emotion, their faces are set with serious and focused - almost mechanical - expressions. Technology is not a staple part of the Pyongyang lifestyle. Very few mobile phones exist, no internet, no cameras, and most oddly, no sunglasses (it's interesting what you notice, isn't it?). Children are too scared (or perhaps too bewildered) to wave back at a smiling western tourist, and the absence of laughter and general chitter chatter is deafening. Every resident of Pyongyang wears a badge bearing their leaders' faces on their left lapel, every household has their framed photographs in prime position, and around every corner is another building with their images or another huge statue - the beaming faces of Kim Il Sung and Jong Il are omnipresent and oversee each citizen's every move.

I am not sure how to explain the treatment that western tourists receive in North Korea. In some ways, we had far more freedom than I had expected, but in other ways, we were merely puppets on the DPRK government's string. We were monitored at all times, restricted to visiting only tourism approved sites, and even simple actions like leaving our hotel unsupervised would have seen us arrested and deported.

Entering the country by train, we were searched thoroughly at the border, our bags opened and checked, and we had to show all of our technological items such as cameras and phones. The border officials checked the photos on our cameras and we had to show all books we were bringing into the country. GPS cameras are banned. As an example of the type of bureaucracy blanketing the country, we had to scratch the GPS letters off the sides of our cameras before we got to the border, and despite it being very obvious that this is what we'd done, we were still permitted to take the cameras in.

Our tour was excellent and we saw many places, but we were only ever taken to middle class - 'trusted class' - sites. Other classes - the majority of the population - are not ever allowed to enter Pyongyang, and the farmers in the countryside are desperately poor. To be honest, the entire country looks like a time machine from the 1950s, with old fashioned bicycles, rundown dirty concrete buildings, no farming equipment, no technology and virtually no cars. The only piece of advertising I saw in four days, was the Pizza Hut logo on my T-shirt. And of course there was absolutely no mention of the labour camps that we obviously would never be allowed to visit anyway.

We were told when we could and couldn't take photos, when we could and couldn't talk to the locals, and any questions we wanted to ask our guide had to be screened first. We had to use the terms 'DPRK' or 'Korea', because 'North Korea' could be deemed offensive to a government who believes they will very soon see reunification with the south (under their terms of course). 

Any time we mentioned Kim Il Sung in conversation, we had to precede it with the word 'President'. Kim Jong Il's title was 'General' and Kim Jong Un was 'Marshall'. To address the three Kims in any other way would have been deemed disrespectful. Any time we visited their statues, we had to bow in unison, and were gently reminded that Koreans would see it as a kind gesture if we were to purchase large bunches of flowers to lay by their feet.

Our itinerary was rigid and inflexible. We were only taken to 'tourist' souvenir shops and 'tourist' restaurants, and were rarely allowed to see how the Korean people really live. Once we stopped to look into a Korean shop window, and our panicked guide urgently hurried us on, telling us that it was 'not a shop for foreigners'. Whatever that means... it was merely selling stuffed toys and children's gadgets.

Having visited the mausoleum of Chairman Mao in Tian'anmen Square only a few days earlier, we felt we were well prepared for our venture to the mausoleum of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il. Wrong. We were completely under-prepared for the palava that awaited us. The rules of how we had to behave were incredible: no crossing our arms, no hands in pockets, no leaning on the escalator rail, no loud talking... actually any talking at all was met with frowns of discouragement. We had to bow three times to each Kim's body, as well as to all statues of them, and had to walk in perfect lines of four at all times. It was surreal, and the look on my face must have been priceless. We were not allowed to walk between each area of the mausoleum, and instead had to stand silently on a moving travelator that forced our group to keep a large distance from the group of Korean ladies in traditional dress in front of us. We passed corridor after corridor of giant photographs of the two beaming leaders, which seemingly told an unwritten story. We saw the 358 medals and university degrees of Kim Il Sung, and the 411 of Kim Jong Il. Bright chaps, so I've been told. 

In Pyongyang itself, we visited countless monuments, the war museum (including the USS Pueblo which is the DPRK's 'trophy' after capturing it in the 1960s), art gallery, main square, sports precinct, Arch of Triumph, Juche tower and the birthplace of Kim Il Sung. We travelled on the Pyongyang metro train system (only five stops as per the government's permission for western tourists), where the trains are very old, imported from East Berlin.

Despite me ranting on about the DPRK's infinite rules and restrictions, there was, in fact, one occasion where we were free to mingle with the local people. On May Day (May 1st) we visited two parks and saw the only relaxed atmosphere of the whole trip. Being a day off for workers, people were having picnics, singing and dancing and having what looked to be great time. In one park we could walk around unsupervised, and we bought fairy floss and went on a (very old fashioned) roller coaster. We paid for the fairy floss with a 10 Chinese Yuan note (equivalent to $2) and received 10,000 Korean Won in return (equivalent to $160), such is the muddled exchange rate in North Korea.

In the other park we had to stay with the group the entire time and the minute we paused we were urgently herded along like sheep. In some parts we could join in the singing and dancing. One of our group members got a bit excited and while dancing, tore up some blank notepad paper he had and threw the scrunched up balls into the crowd. Suddenly a whistle blew and what looked like an undercover policeman dived on the woman who caught the paper and there was a bit of panic. Perhaps the paranoia was that the paper contained western literature, but it seemed the people were being watched, even on their day off.

We went to a place called 'The Children's Palace', where middle class children enroll in after-school activities. The same notion exists in Australia, and in fact, all over the world. The only difference is that in Pyongyang, the children participate in their activity five days a week, for three hours every day. We saw dancing classes, accordion playing, embroidering, calligraphy and more. The children were honestly brilliant and so so talented, but I can't help but wonder how they feel about dedicating 15 hours a week to the same pursuit. There was silence, no giggling, no eye contact, nothing... just complete concentration and focus on the task at hand, with some very fierce teachers patrolling on the periphery.

Some of the less likely pursuits we engaged in while in North Korea were pistol shooting, tenpin bowling, a fun fair (where a power blackout saw rollercoaster riders suspended mid air for a period of time), karaoke and significant alcohol consumption. In terms of the cuisine, it was incredibly bland, with no spices, and if I am completely honest, no taste at all. Barbecuing our own meat was commonplace, and we ate substantial portions of duck, pork and beef. There was always far too much food on the tables, and it resonated to me how hard the Korean people were trying to impress foreign tourists, as much of the country is experiencing food shortages and famine (the brown barren fields we drove past in the countryside attest to this).

Standing on the border in the DMZ (de-militarised zone) and looking across the minefields into South Korea was sobering. Most tourists do so from the opposite side of the border, and I felt privileged to be able to stand where the armistice was signed. I still cannot quite fathom how two countries can still share so much disunity. 

Brilliantly, we had the opportunity to visit the Unesco World Heritage listed site of Kaesong University, claimed by Korea to be the oldest in the world. This may be true, however their other claims to fame (such as being the first country to invent spoons), meant we perhaps took the information with a grain of salt. The farms we saw along the two hour drive were all so poor. No machinery, only a handful of oxen, brown dirty fields with almost no crops, and people doing backbreaking work even in the pouring rain. Children worked alongside the adults even on weekdays, despite our guide telling us that ten years of education was compulsory for children.

My take on North Korea? I have no idea at all. I've left with more questions than when I arrived, and definitely less certainty. I have not a clue of what to make of the negative press and controversial media reports which make their way out of the country and which are devoured by the rest of the world. My observations have proven that the people of the DPRK live incredibly different lives to me, but who am I to try to be the holier-than-thou judge of their level of happiness. I do hope, however, that one day, when the regime falls and the real Korea is revealed, any injustices are dealt with and the common people do not suffer. It makes me realise how lucky we are to have the lives we have.

So, after visiting three dead communists in the space of a week, we are now taking a break from the red saturation, and are now on the trans-Mongolian railway bound for Ulan Bator, with our sights on the trail of the ghost of Genghis Khan.

Richard writes:

Wow. What an experience. Our jaunt into the secretive Stalinist state had been put on a pedestal as a probable highlight of the trip, and the Democratic People's Republic of Korea didn't disappoint. The DPRK delivered bizarre and unique experiences in spades and proved to be what will probably be the most action packed four days of our entire journey. 

In so many ways I was surprised at what we found, and I immediately realised that so much of what we hear through the western media is exaggerated. The people aren't robots, they have humour, they don't all have the same haircut and they like a drink. It was also clear that locals we happy to interact with us, whether it be waving to us from the farms as the train passed by, or to approach us, to generously give us ice creams in the park. I also felt confident that what we were seeing was not staged. It is true the sights that were saw were carefully selected and that we were rarely able to escape the gaze of the DPRK guides, but what we saw seemed very real with real people going about their daily lives around us. During our time in the DPRK (especially in Pyongyang), we must have seen several thousand locals, be it on the underground train network, at theme parks or during May Day celebrations. Even the most ardent conspiracy theorist would have found it impossible to argue that all the people we saw were actors, placed to give us as tourists a positive image of the country.

I was also surprised at how much fun I had in the DPRK. I rode two roller coasters (one old and rickety and an uber modern superman one), I drank more alcohol than the rest of our entire trip so far, sang several karaoke songs (including American Pie, which with hindsight was an odd choice!), played table tennis, fired an air pistol at a firing range and went ten pin bowling. All these activities seemed available to Pyongyang locals too. It was clear that North Koreans have plenty of practice at table tennis as the barmaid at the hotel effortlessly thrashed us westerners between serving drinks.

It might seem that I have painted a picture of a modern fun loving hedonist's paradise, with little of the political control that is normally portrayed. If this is the picture I have painted, read on, as I am now about to tear up that canvas and put my paintbrush to work, to reflect the other side of the DPRK we experienced.

The DPRK countryside looks like how I imagine the British countryside looked in the 1850s, with armies of people cultivating the land with only the aid of an ox. Modern farming machinery was almost non-existent. It is not difficult to see why the country relies upon food aid so heavily, when trying to feed 20 million people with such primitive methods. It is also clear that a wide variety of food stuffs is simply not available. In an apparent effort to prove to us that food was not scarce, our restaurant tables were always filled to the brim with food (more than we could eat), but the food almost always lacked flavour. 

The first time we saw farm land was almost as soon as passing over the border from China. I could only wonder what the Koreans made of the modern Chinese skyscrapers in Dandong that are clearly visible from the DPRK, a world away from the lives and dwellings of those living in rural North Korea. 

Pyongyang, several hours from the border, was certainly more advanced than the farms, but was in so many ways backward compared to a modern capital city. The buses looked slightly ramshackled, the buildings were concrete and lifeless and at night the city was still dark as the dim lights barely radiated out of the small tower block windows. Electricity is clearly a precious commodity and certainly not reliable. Restaurants lights frequently flickered, we visited a museum completely in the dark and when arriving at a theme park the power completely failed leaving thrill seekers marooned mid-ride!

The cult of personality as a system of rule, developed so well under Stalin in the Soviet Union, is certainly alive and kicking in the DPRK. The advance of technology and communications makes this system almost impossible in the modern world. The DPRK's solution to this; deny the people access to technology and information. On entry into the DPRK we had to declare all electronic devices (to check we still had them when we left) and all books were checked to ensure we were not planning to distribute information. This paranoia was evident as we toured, where we were regularly told what we could photograph and what we couldn't. Once arriving back at our hotel we were told under no circumstances were we to leave the grounds. We, like the locals had to show love and devotion to leaders past and present. Wherever we stopped at a statue or portrait of President Kim Il Sung, General Kim Jong Il or the current leader Marshall Kim Jung Un, we had to bow to pay our respects. Everybody in Pyongyang walked with pins on their jackets displaying portraits of the leaders and there are portraits on all significant buildings across the city of the two deceased communist leaders.

The most spectacular display of leadership through cult of personality was at the Kumsusan Palace of the Sun, the Mausoleum of the deceased "Kimmies". We had been informed before the tour that it would be closed, but if we had been able to go, formal attire was required to ensure we adequately showed respect to the dead dudes that had previously ruled the country in dictatorial fashion. Having had the memo regarding its closure, hardly anybody brought with them the correct clothes. No jeans were allowed, and certainly no shorts, so when on the evening before May Day we were informed we were going, panic ensued. On meeting in the hotel foyer the next morning, our tour group's efforts looked hilarious. Many of the guys were wearing ill-fitting borrowed trousers, including one guy who was wearing a pair of women's trousers! I went down a slightly different route of wearing the ever fashionable combination of a smart shirt with tracksuit pants and a belt. I looked a mess, but I wasn't in shorts or jeans, and most importantly I got in, to what was an incredible display of decadence, waste, propaganda and above all a theatrical display of the power of state and cult of leaders.

On entry we were thoroughly searched and not allowed to take anything inside. The next step was to have the underneath of our shoes cleaned before travelling for what seemed several kilometres on travelators whilst staring at pictures of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il in various poses with tractors, computers, factories etc (to display how adavanced the North is, even though we saw no evidence they have such things). Next we arrived in a huge hall with two massive statues of the previous leaders at the end. We lined up and bowed, before moving on to where President Kim Il Sung's body lies in state. Before entry we travelled through a weird tunnel thing that blows powerful jets of air onto you (with no given reason as to why, all just part of the theatre). We entered the vast hall where his body lies draped in a red flag, with just his head and shoulders visible. Four people at a time bow at his feet, and each side of him, but not for some reason his head (I nearly made this faux pas, but managed to successfully cover up my mistake). After paying our respects we then entered a room that displays the numerous awards and achievements bestowed on the great leader, before entering further rooms that show the modes of transport he travelled in, his Mercedes, his private train and even a private boat (all whilst still inside the mausoleum). We then went through deja vu and did EXACTLY the same thing for Kim Jong Il. Seven bows later, which involved leaning forward for a lengthy period of time, my back was feeling the strain, but it was all worthwhile to experience the sheer theatre of the mausoleum.

The whirlwind four days in the DPRK has provided me with one of the most interesting travel experiences of my life. As to whether I have any greater understanding of the country, I am actually probably more confused. I do know however, that I had an absolutely fantastic time and met some great likeminded people from around the world and it will be a trip I never forget. If the regime ever does fall, I will be desperate to return and to ask North Koreans what they really thought about the regime, as this is the question I am desperate to know the answer to, but never had any hope of gaining an understanding of whilst visiting.