| Mas viajes |
[06 Aug 2007|06:48pm] |
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mood |
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 good |
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I´ve been inwardly debating whether or not to resurrect my livejournal in the name of this summer´s adventures in Europe. While I remain unconvinced that it´s a good idea, I can´t resist the opportunity to try and reknidle my passion for documenting my experiences, so for now, I´ll go on.
My dream of going back to Asia this summer sadly did not materialise: I had some grand designs on Pakistan and the Karakorum highway, as well as a second journey to Tibet, but financial constraints and other uncertainties held me back. So, my plans, as well as my bank balance depleted incrementally, and I decided to simply remain at home and do lots of reading this summer. This didn´t quite pan out, though. I was feeling at a loss until I received an email from the careers service at university, which explained that a language centre in Salamanca, Spain, was offering a 20% discount to students this summer. I resolved that instead of travelling in order to sate my wanderlust, I should try and learn a language and stay in one place for a while. (I feel unbelievable nostalgia for everything I did last year, and I´m not sure attempting to relive such an experience just yet would yield fulfilling results.) I had wanted to study Chinese this summer but could not afford the fees (more than a thousand pounds for four weeks´ tuition, not including flights) and had no access to funds from university (to my dismay). Salamanca sounded good, and relatively inexpensive, so I booked a two-week course. I´m here now, and about to potter back to my apartment to cook myself some dinner. I´ll write more tomorrow. Adios.
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| The kind that goes out then sleeps for a week... |
[17 Oct 2006|05:42pm] |
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mood |
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 sick |
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It might seem that I've dropped off the face of the earth as of late, and in a way, it's true. I've entered a new world, a world with walls around it that ends abruptly as you slam the gate behind you and step out into the street. A world in which I feel instantly accepted, secure and stimulated. I'm immersed.
A few of you have asked whether I wish to continue this journal. And I do. But not here. I'm going to save it for the next time I go travelling, which I know will be relatively soon. In many ways I miss the lifestyle of the past eight months, but right now I am so enthralled by this place that I can't even contemplate being anywhere else but here. My feet itch constantly, though, and I will always feel the need to travel.
I'm going to try and begin a new journal at some point in the very near future. This will happen when I have a free evening or two, which is quite a tall order at Cambridge. Everything is more intense here, including my moodswings - a reason in and of itself for a new whinging weblog.
I'll post the link here when it's done but for now, thank you SO much for reading and following my movements for the past eight months. I'm sure I'll see you soon.
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| Purify the colours, purify my mind |
[17 Sep 2006|10:23am] |
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 melancholy |
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I'm going to try and describe the seemingly indescribable, if only for the sake of documenting a time in my life that I will surely look back on with a tenuous blend of bemusement and fondness in years to come. If this sounds like pretentious drivel to you, I would probably aim the mouse at the address bar and go elsewhere. If on the other hand, the contents of my brain represent a source of amusement, confusion or even interest to you then you're more than welcome to read on.
It's very strange being back here. Stranger than I thought it would be. And simultaneously, the most normal thing in the world. Perhaps therein lies the strangeness: that everything is familiar and at once so distant. My house hasn't changed. My room feels like a time capsule. My computer still contains the same files. My parents still have a lie-in on Sundays. The same girl sits in the lifeguard chair at the pool in the morning. The Spice Mahal still rakes it in and their curries are still the finest I've tasted. Iron Acton is still the most eccentric little village I know of. So much continuity.
And yet so much is different. My neighbours left for Ghana this morning. Their son James left for Australia (his gap year) the day before. We're selling the house. We're pet-less. The security and warmth I felt in my social life before I left has evaporated. I've seen a couple of friends but the group cohesion is severely lacking. Myspace scares me...the networking scares me...I feel like so much has changed and I feel entirely disconnected from it all. Life is suddenly so different. I miss the friends I met on the road...James and Charlie and Harry and Julian and the countless others with whom my contact was brief but meaningful in a subtley different way to my friendships at home.
And it won't stop here. In two weeks I am leaving again to begin another phase of my life, rumoured to be the most significant yet (surely the upward curve has to plateaux somewhere?!). My freshers' pack is lying sprawled on the floor beside my chair, a mass of printed A4 sheets detailing my life for the next three years. The opportunities are gaping in front of me, alluring and intimidating and exciting. And at the same time, the possibility of anticlimax and disappointment looms starkly in the background.
So what am I actually trying to say here? I guess I'm still going through a kind of shock process. To put it bluntly, I'm worried that things won't be the way I want them to be. That those dreams of being surrounded by the people I adore, everything in harmony, simply won't materialise. I've already tucked away so many of my memories like I thought I would. I've shared a lot with my parents but for the most part I can appreciate that travelling stories just aren't interesting if you haven't been there yourself. It's slightly heartbreaking to realise that, especially with the closest of friends, but it has to be accepted. I've always felt there are elements of my own personality that I naturally expose to some people and hide from others - I suppose this is just an extension of that same reaction. Still, it doesn't feel great.
As an afterthought I wanted to include this quote from an email sent to me by Harry, a formerly bearded Trans-Siberian companion: Are you finding yourself being disgusted by the shitty little pointless, vain lives people are leading in overpriced England? Ah well, I'll be paying £3 for a sandwich and buying DVDs and jeans and stuff soon I'm sure.
Oh and...Arab Strap - one of my favourite bands of all time ever - are breaking up. An enormous amount of salt in the already irritated wound.
To finish on an up-note, though, I got the half a million pound question right on Millionnaire last night.
Chris Tarrant: For half a million pounds...what is the deepest lake in the world?
Grace: Easy! I woke up to it two weeks ago on the train. Baikal!
(And no, I got hardly any of the earlier questions right...)
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[15 Sep 2006|03:07am] |
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It's just gone three in the morning. I'm sat in my comfy black leather Dr Evil chair in my dressing gown. I have some comforting Chinese tea in my favourite mug (the one Lucy bought me, with the old-school Penguin paperback artwork from Wuthering Heights). Smashing Pumpkins just came on iTunes. I'm at home. Stonewalls House, The Green, Iron Acton, Bristol, BS37 9TQ, UK. Here.
I feel all over the place. All I can do right now is list a few of the emotional extremes of the past twenty four hours...please bear with me, I'm not in the most eloquent of moods.
Last night ended rather messily in the Metro Club. Copius shots of neat vodka chased with a slice of lemon combined with dancing to hideous euro-pop-trance-trash led to me hugging the toilet seat for a good half hour, before being chaperoned home by Julian and Katie (I swear they were angels in disguise - "It's okay sweetie, you can be sick if you need to be"). This morning was dire - as Charlie so accurately put it, "you just don't wanna be alive the next day" (and it would have been true if it hadn't been the day of my flight to London). After an emotional farewell to James, Charlie and Jon, I kept it together and got to the airport without any disasters. The sun was shining as I left Saint Petersburg.
The emotions I felt while in the air are impossible to describe. I listened to a playlist Harry had left on my ipod and everything came bubbling to the surface. I scribbled a few paragraphs in my journal and revelled in my gratitude at having had the pleasure of meeting such brilliant people during the course of my travels. I listed names in my head; people I need to keep in touch with, people I know I'll always be friends with, people who I don't even need to speak to in order to feel permanently connected on a fundamental level. I've seen some stupendously beautiful places, but it's the people I'll remember, the ones with whom I've shared some unique moments, our paths converging randomly only to become further and further entwined before parting abruptly. That's what travel is all about - being thrown together in surreal circumstances only to realise that you have so much in common regardless of geography, age, gender or taste. You know who you are.
I felt just about ready to explode when I saw my parents and two siblings waiting for me behind the barrier at terminal two. I had shed a few tears on the plane as we circled over London - watching the myriad lights below me; the latticed patterns of town and city, of England curving towards me beyond the wing-tip; orange on black; straining my eyes to make out shop fronts and wheelie bins. Turbulence and sweaty palms. That first hug...
The front door was draped with a 'welcome home Grace' sign left by my neighbours. It smelt like home. A moment of confusion when I realised I had forgotten where we keep the cereal bowls followed by the sheer, unadulterated bliss of two Weetabix with ice-cold, semi-skimmed milk. All this joy was tempered by sadness. My little dog isn't here anymore. The house feels so strange without pets. I keep on expecting to see her draped on the sofa or padding around the kitchen scrounging for ice cubes. 'Tonight Tonight' just came on itunes. Catharsis...
More ups and downs. I was moved to tears by a letter I received from an old friend, which was touching to the extent that I was shaking as I read it - the familiar handwriting, the muted affection. Tempered by the devastation of learning that tomorrow my house - the only one I've ever known and the one I've dreamed of coming back to for weeks and weeks - is going on the market. I can't even talk about that yet. It's so bittersweet to be back. To come home to the news that this house won't be ours for much longer. Knowing how many changes are about to overwhelm me. Knowing full well that I can deal with them all. But not really wanting to...
It's almost four.
My bed looks more inviting than ever. Night night.
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[13 Sep 2006|04:52pm] |
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mood |
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satisfied |
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I write this from an internet cafe in the State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg. This is easily the most stunning art gallery I have ever seen and one of the biggest, too. It is totally overwhelming. I spent a few hours here yesterday and have returned today to see the third floor, which features an enormous collection of Matisse, Picasso, Kandinsky and Gaugain to name but a few. It's so inspiring. I can't wait to get back to my life drawing classes.
The past couple of days have seen some violent contrasts. My Moscow misery has been replaced by an intense infatuation with St Petersburg. While Moscow was surly and sinister and intimidating, St Petersburg is elegant and bohemian and somewhat more relaxed. It's definitely more beautiful than Paris or Hanoi. You can't walk down Nevsky Prospeckt without being amazed. I feel much more at home here, and I have already resolved to return in the near-ish future. It would be a wonderful place to study, for example...
There's talk of visiting the erotica museum to see what is purportedly Rasputin's 30cm penis. I hope they don't expect you to keep a straight face like they do in the Lenin Mausoleum. I keep on having flashbacks to hilarious moments at school in my history 'A' level class...Mr Penna, Miss Van den Broek, the endless Lenin/Rasputin quips. We had such a brilliant time in that class. I'm pining for academia.
I'm going to try and write some more later. I want to make at least one more entry before I fly home tomorrow evening. Wow. That sounds so strange. I'm going home...tomorrow.
PS. New pictures of Moscow (shudder), Siberia (pictures through dirty train windows) and Mongolia (Grace on horseback) on flickr...
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| Long, dark blues |
[10 Sep 2006|10:58pm] |
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mood |
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numb |
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I have no intention of writing a sprawling entry right now. I have ohsomuch to say about everything that has happened in the past seven days but neither the energy nor the time to say it.
Right at this second all I can feel is a vague blend of numbness and disgust. Moscow is horrible. Revulsion. I can't quite string together the words to express my anger.
In all seven months of travel I have never felt this vulnerable. I remember brashly taking a tuktuk back to the hotel - alone - in Phnom Penh, the chaotic gem of South East Asia, and feeling really quite safe. Moscow is another story. I've never before felt so intuitively that a place is simply not safe.
It seems farcical that in such a cosmopolitan city one should be more afraid of the policemen than the ordinary people. I feel as though I'm swimming against a very strong current. I appreciate this is all a bit cryptic but further explanation simply fails me.
I want a hug from Mum and Dad. That's all I want right now. I'm so annoyed that I feel like this at the very end of my trip. I wanted it to end on a high.
I feel so mixed up all of a sudden. It's slowly hitting me that I'm about to go home and it's such a strange sensation. I can't even talk about it. I just want to sit in silence for a while. Let things ferment. My heart is all kinds of heavy.
Emotions are flying around everywhere. Have I made the best of my time? Should I have done things differently? Will it be the same when I get back? Will I just lock away my stories and memories and slot back into place, like none of this ever happened? Will I ever see the overwhelmingly amazing people that I've met out here again? Does anyone really care about the meandering anecdotes of a backpacker anyway? Will I feel trapped? Is this the monumental end of an era? Have I changed? Am I actually any more secure than before, or less? Do these questions even matter? Who am I asking?
Whatever, Grace. Get a grip. Thank you for reading and thank for your comments. It all means so much to me. I'll write more when I can.
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| Goodbye Mongolia |
[05 Sep 2006|01:22pm] |
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excited |
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My ipod is charged. My legs are aching from two days of horseriding in a Russian saddle. My cardgame skills are finely honed from seven months of preparation. I think I'm ready to take the trans-Siberian.
Next stop: Moscow. In 5 days' time.
Over annnnnnnnnnnd...out :)
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| She wore a raspberry beret |
[01 Sep 2006|12:06pm] |
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calm |
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I have returned from the Gobi desert and am currently sat in an internet cafe in Ulaan Baatar. It has become noticeably colder since I was here last; I even found myself wandering down the street in a daze because it felt so much like England with my scarf wrapped snugly around my chin and my fingers dug deep into the pockets of my jeans. The wind is bracing. My nose goes all red when I go indoors. It's just like home. I love it.
What can I say about our trip? Well, I'm without my guidebook and I can't possibly remember the names of all the places we saw, but I can try and describe a few things that stick in my mind. Speeding along the countryside 'roads' (please, don't be misled by this term) in a Russian minivan, our impromptu group comprised myself, Alice (living in Berlin, originally from France and England), Katrin (from Munich but living in the UK), Marta (from Italy but living in London) and Tom (in his 21st month of travelling, from Manchester and Texas). My humble English background felt comparitively unexotic compared to that of the girls - and their collective language skills were immense. Once again, continental Europeans have helped highlight my almost complete ignorance when it comes to languages. I'm now, more than ever, determined to pick up either French or Spanish next year at University. I've been browsing the Cambridge Language Centre webpage this morning, and they offer courses in both - just a few hours a week. Excitement. I want so badly to be able to think and speak in another language. I should have tried harder at school.
I digress. Back to the Gobi. We spent five nights in the desert in total, four of which were in a ger, a round, felt tent that has for centuries been the mobile home of the Mongolian nomad-herder (much like a Kazakh or Kyrgyz yurt). Although we had only met a day before departure, our group got on so well that the whole experience was nothing but a pleasure. How lucky to have made such good friends at the end of my trip. I even didn't mind not having a shower for six days! Each night we'd cook up some vegetables and rice or pasta over a gas stove and drink Chinggis Khaan brand vodka straight from the bottle and play an addictive Russian cardgame called Durak (Kat and Marta said I'd need to know it for the train!) by candlelight. I now have two cardgames in my repetoire: Durak and Shithead (see this Wiki article for more on Durak).
One of the most memorable things about the desert was the skies at night. I've never seen so many stars. Honestly. Stepping out of the ger after sunset for the first time, I couldn't believe my eyes. Not only were there an obscene amount of stars twinkling, but the sky just seemed so much bigger than anywhere before. That's Mongolia for you. The sky is immense. It was like being in a planetarium; the stars stretched from the horizon in every direction, creating the effect of a spherical ceiling of densely-packed jewels. I've never seen the milky way look so clear - massive tracts of pale darkgreyblue dotting the sky. I saw enough shooting stars (and made enough wishes) to last a lifetime.
Nights were generally very low-key, with a couple of exceptions. Our first evening was spent at a hotel/ger complex in the middle of nowhere (the architecture reminded me of some kind of ex-Soviet military base - highly likely). It was surreal in the extreme; as soon as we arrived (the only Westerners - in fact the only customers at all) the neon 'BAR' sign lit up and pop music began to blare from a building next to the gers. That freaky Kylie Minogue/New Order mix. Completely random. We had to remind ourselves that we were actually in the Gobi desert. It was brilliant. We drank vodka and juice and eventually ended up on the dancefloor with four Mongolian people (our drivers and two ladies from the hotel), in what must have been one of the most surreal moments of my life to date. We danced for a few hours to various classics, which were being played on a CD player without a semblence of a mix. I loved it. Kitsch in the middle of the desert. We ended up dancing in couples, me with a rather gruff Mongolian man who insisted on spinning me around every five seconds and who wore an expression of frowning, aggressive concentration for the duration of the dance. The Mongolian lady from the hotel seemed particularly enamoured by Anton and Alex, from Barcelona (travelling in another van roughly in convoy with ours) and indicated that I should take her photo with them at every opportunity. See flickr - it's very amusing.
Our other notable 'party moment' came outside the ger on the second night. Marta, Tom, Alex, Anton and me had decided we weren't quite ready for sleep yet. We stood out in the chilly wind drinking - guess - cheap vodka from the bottle. I'm actually convinced it was turpentine posing as vodka, but maybe turps would be more expensive. I'm open to suggestions as to the genuine identity of the clear fluid we were swigging. At any rate, it must have been slightly alcoholic because we ended up dancing around the bottle in our very own Shamanistic ritual while Alex shouted in Spanish (I remember hearing 'fiesta' a number of times) - something between a conga and Iron Acton-style maypole dancing. We exchanged travelling stories until the early hours. It was so much fun.
Those were our nights in the desert. By day we mainly drove through the most stunning, bleak and featureless landscape I've ever seen. It would have been similar to some parts of Central Tibet had it been raised a few thousand metres in the air. At any given moment I could see the horizon stretching away for what seemed like an infinite number of miles. It was always a 360 degree panorama - in every direction, nothingness. The occasional thrust of a rocky escarpment, sticking out like a shark's fin from an endless ocean of still waters. It was literally like being in the middle of an ocean of land - the occasional rise and fall of a gentle slope, the scrubby plants spaced at even intervals like the rhythm of gentle waves. In the Mongolian landscape of steppe and desert, spatial awareness becomes totally meaningless - what looks like a couple of kilometres is usually twenty or thirty and conversely, it seemed a miracle that we could walk in ten minutes what seemed like miles to the eye. It reminded me of staring into the azure water in Thailand and not being able to tell how deep it was. Everything is distorted. It both dubdued and excited me. It's something you just have to see to believe. There is simply so much space in Mongolia. That's what makes this country so unique and so terrifyingly beautiful.
Part of what I loved about Tibet was the profound sense of personal space granted by the expansive landscape, the huge blue skies. It's the same in Mongolia - and it stands in violent contrast to the swathes of humanity that populate Chinese towns and cities. There is so much space here that I felt myself going slightly mad staring at the horizon sometimes.
There is so much more I could say about the Gobi. My words and my camera lens could never do it any justice whatsoever. I haven't mentioned airag or mutton or Bactrian camels or horses or goats or rabid dogs yet. That will have to be saved for another entry.
...
Yesterday I spent a while reading my old weblog that I've kept since October 2003 (and will resume upon my return). It was so interesting to read some of the things I was feeling this time last year (and before). So much fear, so much uncertainty, and simultaneously so much hope. This is from Christmas Eve (incidentally one of the best and most memorable nights out ever - Bryony!):
I'm trying not to think about travelling too much just for the next couple of days or so. I just want to enjoy what I have here and disregard the fact that I will be gone in a month. I'm terrified but increasingly I'm feeling like I've made one of the best decisions of my life (dare I speak too soon..) with this plan. I have that feeling that says it'll all slot into place once I get out there and get acclimatized to the new environs. I have had so much good advice from people who have done similar journeys and they are nothing but positive about their experiences.
I guess I was right. I actually remember writing that. I was so afraid, really. I hardly had any idea what to expect from Asia. I definitely had visions and dreams, but it's been so different in ways that I just can't pin down. So much better than anything I had ever anticipated.
I want to finish this entry with a quotation from Jung Chang's Wild Swans that I found scribbled in my notebook this morning:
I thought how we were like frogs at the bottom of the well in the Chinese legend, who claimed that the sky was only as big as the round opening at the top of their well. I felt an intense and urgent desire to see the world.
How apt.
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| Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia |
[24 Aug 2006|07:54pm] |
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 contemplative |
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I'm really putting in some time to Flickr at the moment, going through the painstaking process of rotating every photo individually. It's trying my patience but hopefully it will be worth it: there are some decent images of my last days in Beijing, including Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City. Some lack colour on account of the smog. But grey is an appropariate shade for that place, I think...
I woke up a few days ago and found myself staring out of the window of a train, racing through the southern-Mongolian steppe. The sun was shining and the sky was a shade of blue I haven't seen since the Tibetan plateau. I could see no signs of civilisation anywhere beyond the parallel train tracks alongside. I can't stress this enough: there was nothing, anywhere. No people, no houses, no factories, no villages, no statues of Mao Zedong, no smog, no concrete, no flags...that moment in itself had a number of dream-like qualities. Later on I sat in the buffet carriage and stared out at the landscape, feeling like an oppressive weight had been lifted off my shoulders the minute we crossed the border. At one point I spotted a single rider galloping towards a flock of sheep. His speed almost matched that of our train. I loved it. I imagined myself in his position, going full pelt across an endless plain on horseback. It's so easy to dream and slip into a reverie when the vidual stimulus is all around you (although dreaming has never been much of a problem for me, I must admit).
We arrived into Ulaan Baatar train station at around 3pm. Immediately I noticed a change in atmosphere from Beijing. The sky was blue and the air was cool. People weren't shouting. I didn't feel any pressure to act a certain way and felt no need to throw my weight around just to manage the crowds as I often did in China. On the journey to the guesthouse I looked out of the window and saw shabby, Soviet-era apartment blocks with cracked paint, half-constructed buildings shrouded by scaffolding and lots of odd lettering, resembling Russian to my untrained eye (Mongolian is a Cyrillic language). I looked a little further and saw that after a kilometre or so the sparse, high-rise city gave itself up to the looming hills, green and alpine and stretching out further than I could see. It felt just like Lhasa! I was so happy. I love these cities that just seem as though they've been dropped in the middle of an imposing landscape, isolated hubs of humanity in amidst all that nothingness. No ghastly urban sprawl, no ring roads, no motorways. Knowing that I'm not far from nature if comforting to me.
My reverie was interrupted by some words, which I registered almost automatically as I heard them. My ears suddenly pricked as the lady from our guesthouse told the other passengers that this week in Ulaan Baatar none other than His Holiness The Dalai Lama is in town paying a visit. Yes, The Dalai Lama! I couldn't believe it! I thought I must still have been sleeping on the train. Here! In Ulaan Baatar! At the same time as me!
I hate exclamation marks usually but there is no other way! How lucky I am.
So this afternoon I set of for the Nadam Stadium in the hope that I might be able to see the man himself. I still couldn't quite believe what was going on. Walking through the gates among pilgrims, I half-expected to be jostled by a surly PSB guard or told that I must pay fifty kwai. I forgot that I was no longer in China. But I slipped through with ease and found myself looking at a stage upon which hung two thangkas. There was a big, throne-like seat positioned between the hangings. To the left and right of the stage were two oceans of maroon and saffron - the robes of Tibetan Buddhist monks. And in the middle of it all, sat in front of a microphone and gesticulating slowly, was the Dalai Lama. Madness.
I sat down and stared, not quite knowing what to make of the situation. He was speaking in Tibetan and his voice was quieter than I had expected. Every now and then there would be a Mongolian translation, but no English. It didn't really bother me; it was enough for me to have seen him and felt his presence, and witnessed his power over the hundreds of people in the stadium. I don't mean to sound sycophantic, but it was humbling for me. For so long this man has been in my thoughts, and especially in Tibet I felt his presence in my mind more often than not. I remembered how I felt walking around the Potala Palace on my last day in Lhasa with tears in my eyes. There was no mention of him whatsoever, as though he'd been erased. It hit me so strongly that it almost felt like a personal attack on my own right to know about the world, an affront to my own allegiances. Seeing the Dalai Lama in the flesh brought all of this back. It was amazing to think that we were in the same city at the same time - and I had no idea this would be the case. How sad though, that so many of the Tibetans I met a few months ago are denied even the knowledge that he is safe and well, let alone the chance to see or hear their spiritual leader extolling the virtues of universal compassion.
While I very much agree with Patrick French's realistic assessment of the Dalai Lama's actions over the past fifty years or so (you should read his book, Tibet, Tibet), I can't help but admire him for all sorts of reasons. They would probably take too long to elucidate, but let's just say I feel renewed and fortified having seen him for real.
What an adventure I have had. Tomorrow it continues. I've hooked up with some other travellers and we're heading off into the Gobi Desert for six days. We'll see the famous ice canyon (right in the middle of the desert!), the sand dunes and hopefully get a chance to ride horses for a couple of days. We'll be camping and staying in gers, cooking our own food on the gas stove since the nomadic people won't be able to cater for vegetarians and I don't much fancy sheep organs for dinner every night. I've stocked up on pasta, black olives and tomato sauce (all imported from Poland). Weeeeeeeeeeeeee.
21 days and counting. My bed! Radio 4! The fridge!
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| Goodbye China |
[22 Aug 2006|04:52am] |
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mood |
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touched |
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In less than three hours I'll be leaving Beijing train station for the Mongolian border. This morning I procured my Mongolian visa in a few hours, with very little hassle (and some extra expense). It seems that as usual, I was working myself into a stressful frenzy over nothing at all.
It's exactly 5am as I type this sentence. I've had no sleep, on account of the monumental occasion of my last night in The Middle Kingdom. In the past 48 hours I've met a number of interesting people, and despite my leanings toward solitude, have regained my enthusiasm for socialising. Many of them have been from Oxbridge, once again confirming my belief that the world is in fact a tiny place (or maybe the backpacker trail is actually rather linear, and I am believing what I want to believe). Sat opposite me a minute ago on the other computer was a guy who turned out to be entering his third year at Emmanuel college this October! In my semi-drunken, sleepless state, I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing (I also met someone from Hertford college who knew Jack this morning - mental).
Precisely. I have had no sleep tonight. In a few minutes I plan to take a shower and finish packing my things. I intend to sleep deeply on the train to Ulaan Baatar, which takes around 30 hours.
My brain is failing me. I had planned to make this entry an epic epistle to my time in China, recounting some of my favourite moments and generally making reflective comments. However, I'm going to settle for this meagre contribution and attempt to pick up the pieces in Mongolia.
"You've been writing that for over thirty minutes, and that's what you've got to show for it."
-Oxbridge graduate who wishes to remain anon.
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| Homesick...cos I know longer know |
[20 Aug 2006|12:09pm] |
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worried |
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Someone in this internet bar/cafe/backpacker grotto has decided to watch Bridget Jones on the large, surround-sound TV standing around five metres from where I'm currently sat. Granted, I wasn't in the happiest of moods to start with but Bridget Jones, for me, represents a whole new level of monstrosity (apart from one cherished memory of being subjected to it on the bus to Paris with Bryony and laughing heartily at the clitoris joke). In addition to this already undesirable state of affairs, there is no one on gmail chat to regale me with some Bristol/Wotton/worldy gossip.
It looks like I could be in trouble with my Mongolian visa situation. Being a hapless fool, I made the fatal assumption that like the Russian embassy - famous for its endless bureacracy - would offer an express, same-day service. Apparently not. They offer a next working-day service, but no express. I have a train ticket for Tuesday morning. If I can't get my visa processed tomorrow then I'll have to forgo my ticket and wait in line for another. Being peak season, that could be days and days and days. And knowing myself and my moods, if I don't get on that train it could get ugly.
I only have myself to blame, and it seems I'm getting quite good at that.
The people I was chatting to this morning seemed optimistic that they might be able to speed things up if I wave some dollars around. I'm sure I could rustle up some tears as well (and I doubt they'll be fake). Please pray for me! Just one last coup needed and I'm on the home strait!
How awful I must sound. I'm surrounded by culture and history and opportunities but all I want to do is sit in a cafe and read my books and write bad poetry. Maybe it's not a good idea for me to be reading Wild Swans by Jung Chang at the moment. It's not exactly making me want to hug China. In fact, the sections detailing the Cultural Revolution just about manage to put me off my food.
Colin Firth has just declared his love for Bridget. How moving.
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| People say that your dreams... |
[19 Aug 2006|08:01am] |
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It seems that whenever I get lots of sleep, I remember my dreams. I'm sure there is a scientific explanation for this, but I'm not going to go there. I prefer my dreams to be a subject of pure mystery, an impenetrable wall of images and flickering scenes that I can only just glimpse the next morning if I wring my mind over a cup of coffee.
Yesterday I know I awoke with some very vivid scenes burning into my retinas, but as soon as I'd registered what exactly they were, they evaporated instantaneously. In the cafe opposite the hostel I sat with my head cradled in my hands trying so hard to remember what had left me so shaken. But my efforts were in vain, and I still can't remember.
This morning was different, though. I decided to reach immediately for my notebook almost as soon as I opened my eyes. This is a tactic I often employ, and it usually has very interesting results. This morning's jottings are along the lines of: went to The Grange [the hotel I used to work at] but couldn't see anyone I knew, so took the lift up to the 12th floor over and over. found katie sat on a sun lounger indoors. we talked briefly about french films. i took the lift again, going up again, and was so afraid it would break i was shaking. i got to the top floor, where there was a restaurant. i found rob and sandie at last and said hello and was overjoyed to see them but then i realised this was just a short trip back to england in the middle of more traveling. i told them i was leaving for france very shortly, where i would resume my trip. felt sad to go again.
This morning I was flooded with happiness when I realised that I'm not going home just to leave again. It's creeping closer.
Apart from sleeping a lot, I haven't achieved very much in the past couple of days. I visited the Forbidden City yesterday, forcing myself into action for the sake of sightseeing. It was truly impressive. What struck me primarily was the vastness of the complex; I had no idea just how big the palace really was. I liked threading my way through the small alleys between the low, red buildings. I always try and imagine what places like that must have been like hundreds of years ago. I attempted to visualise the dainty concubines in their fine silk robes tottering around on their tiny, bound feet. It was quite atmospheric, but like most other attractions in China, absolutely packed. In the end I had to zone out and listen to my entire collection of Smashing Pumpkins records on my ipod as a means of safeguarding my sanity (an ever-precious commodity).
Today I will attempt to buy some trousers for trekking in Mongolia.
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| Maybe you can owe me |
[17 Aug 2006|07:33pm] |
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I'm currently sat in a horribly overpriced internet cafe just next to Tiannanmen Square in Beijing, which seems to be glowing already in anticipation of the 2008 Olympics (it's everywhere you look!). Above the clattering of my keyboard and the TV in the background I can hear the faint honking of horns outside the blocked-off windows. I'm sipping fennel tea from my jar and feeling calm, if somewhat forlorn on account of Jack's departure this morning. I'll miss our giggles. I find myself in the increasingly familiar situation of being suddenly alone after a few weeks of the constant company of somebody close to me. I'm in a daze.
Yesterday we completed the 10km trek along the Great Wall, from Jingshanling to Simatai. It was tough work in the damp, blazing heat, and perched atop the wall my exposed skin burned easily despite sun cream. The sweat felt inhuman, but the views were stunning. One plaque along the way described the wall in this section as looking like a beautiful dragon sat upon the golden mountains. It wasn't hard to envisage this scene; as the wall receded into the distance its rugged turrets did remind me of the spiky spine of a dragon. Silhouetted high above us and hazy from the thick, humid air, the scene took on an air of the exotic mystique that first drew me to Asia - remote, alluring and visually arresting. It confounded my expectations and more than lived up to the hype.
Sometimes China overwhelms me and I can't deal with it - something that I didn't really feel in South East Asia. I had a horrible moment in Tiannanmen Square a couple of days ago. The heat was oppressive; the crowds teeming and pushing and everywhere you looked there were people waving flags or selling things or taking photos. I felt my shoulders burning, the sweat on my brow beginning to trickle. All of a sudden I panicked. I felt tiny and defenceless in the midst of so much humanity, and the Communist imagery all around me was as emotionally stifling as the Beijing sunshine. I can't describe it very well but I couldn't stop myself from crying. I slumped down in the subway and leant against the wall, half-embarrassed, half determined to defy the ridiculousness of 'saving face'. It was just one of those horror moments. The Tibetan Lama Temple calmed me down a bit - I reminisced about Lhasa and pined inwwardly for the Jokhang.
I feel more than ready to get on my train to Mongolia. As raucous and dynamic as Asian cities undoubtedly are, I find myself craving the kind of landscapes that surrounded me in Tibet and Xinjiang. I would love to be back at Karakul right now, staring up at a stupendously starry sky and looking forward to an exhilirating gallop around the lake the next morning. Hmmm.
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| Visual delectation |
[13 Aug 2006|06:25pm] |
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Just to let you know...
There are a load of new pictures on flickr; some snaps from the fantastic Shanghai Museum and a few just around Shanghai, including The Bund.
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| I'm guessing this must be the place |
[12 Aug 2006|02:06pm] |
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Shanghai has me hooked. While Hong Kong felt somewhat friendlier than this vast city, Shanghai pulsates with a progressive energy that seemed lacking on the island. So far we've been here for three days and already I wish I could stay longer. Despite a few hiccups and annoyances (surly Hostel staff, horribly Western prices, cloying humidity), my mood has improved since my last entry and this afternoon I'm looking forward to visiting the Shanghai Museum, which is rumoured to be quite a stunner.
The Shanghai skyline is breathtaking, particularly the views from The Bund, which have become something of a prestigious symbol of snowballing Chinese commerce. On our first night here we sat outside the sixth floor bar at the hostel and watched the myriad lights; colours shifting and reflecting in the water, the bright red of electronic billboards shimmering over the dark waves hundreds of feet below; painfully familiar brandnames staring across at us, unavoidable and universally pervasive. I couldn't quite believe I was actually there - it was quite a special moment. They say that Shanghai is changing and growing faster than any other city in the world, and I feel privileged to be able to absorb some of this city's dynamism. An American expat we met described the glaring disparity between Shanghai and Beijing (with the latter being noticably more conservative), which I'm intrigued to witness first hand next week. Shanghai does seem remarkably progressive in comparison with other places I've been in China, and really couldn't feel much further from cities like Kashgar and Lhasa. Once again, this country has blown my mind with its vastness and diversity. It's difficult to grasp, even after travelling for a couple of months here. I think you would need years to appreciate the sheer scale and might of China.
Last night was quite monumental. After plenty of planning and research on Jack's part, we came up with a plan involving numerous bars, happy hours and finally some dancing. We began on Tongren Street, finding ourselves in the surreal quandry of happy hour in a bar playing a grotesque mix of S Club 7, Abba and Barry White. We swiftly polished off our drinks and headed next door to a bar called Judy's, packed with expats and Chinese (and some belly dancers) all getting a bit rowdy. From here we went in search of a club which might provide appropriate conditions for some raucousness of our own and ended up in a place called dkd, which proved to be a good decision. I got an intense buzz from seeing so many people from different nationalities dancing together and loving it. We danced until three in the morning, then took a cab back to the hostel for giggly latenight noodles. It was the first time since Hanoi that I really let go, and it was brilliant. There are lots of amusing photos, maybe a few of them will crop up on flickr...
In a couple of days it will be exactly one month until I return to Bristol. On Monday I have to stand in a line for two hours to obtain my Russian Tourist Visa, which I'm very nervous about. Russia is notoriously difficult to get a visa for, and I am attempting to get one by myself without the assistance of a travel agency. I have all the required fake documents (!), I suppose I just need a bit of luck to boot.
See you soon. Don't forget the party. I'm already planning the music and the food. There won't be a single noodle or grain of rice to be seen!
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| It's not something I would recommend |
[08 Aug 2006|06:04pm] |
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Yesterday was, for the first time since Singapore, a day devoted almost entirely to shopping. This is not something I would usually advocate (at least while travelling), but most of my clothes have now got holes in and over the next couple of weeks Jack and I are hoping to see the bright lights of Shanghai, Beijing and Hong Kong. And I can't very well do that in scruffy combats rolled up to my scarred knees and shabby old khaki sneakers. So we've hit the shopping malls of Causeway Bay and Kowloon, big time.
I have very mixed feelings about shopping. I view the process as something of an ordeal; a trial of my own self-esteem and a sure-fire way to send my head spinning in an atmosphere of hardcore, exclusive commercialism (I call it Singapore Syndrome). Hong Kong has been particularly intense. Yesterday was quite miserable. Although I have tried to keep this journal mainly free of my angsty hang-ups and darker reflections on myself (which have in no way diminished as a result of travel), I feel the need to do a little venting here. Those of you who know me well will know that I often feel very uncomfortable about my own body and general countenance (I gained a bit of a bad reputation for sneakily deleting photos of myself from the cameras of my friends). Well, sometimes I become so overwhelmed by this that I feel like I no longer want to stroll through the streets at all and my vulnerabilities nag at me like screaming children. Yesterday I tried on clothes in a number of different stores, sizes and styles. Standing in front of the mirror inside the tiny, softly-lit cubicles, scrutinizing myself and my body, I almost lost control. It was horrible. All my confidence, built up over months and months, gone with a single glance. Just like that. A pair of pinstripe shorts was all it took. Completely ridiculous.
Shopping has been something that I've done very little of in the past six months, so to be suddenly thrust back into such a situation, Western in every single way (from the air-conditioned interiors to the models in the photos and the helpful assistants fetching a different size) was not enjoyable. I love the fact that in so many of the cultures I've been exposed to in Asia, the concept of low self-esteem or self-loathing simply does not exist. In Tibetan there is no way to translate these phrases, for example. I've also loved the fact that immersing myself in these worlds has left me feeling refreshed by the knowledge that in the West we pay far too much attention to our image and the general facade of lifestyle. In SE Asia I'd just throw on a tshirt and shorts, smile and hope for the best. I might even go so far as to say I found this somewhat enlightening, as a teenage girl with the usual teenage worries. It affirmed what I already knew to be true: some things we can't change, but that's okay, because some things don't need to change. Appearances matter to the extent that you let them affect your attitude to yourself and those around you. No one wanmts to spend time with a moody, mopey girl who refuses to smile in photos.
I found it particularly powerful to see Buddhist principles, some of which I studied in RE, put into action before my very eyes. Buddhism teaches us that all things are transient (anicca) and constantly in a state of flux, and that in essence, we have no 'self' (anicca). These are the rules of the universe. Feeling negative emotions towards yourself is simply unhelpful, and represents a hindrance to your spiritual development. Self-hatred is especially destructive, and one should realise that the consequences of loathing oneself can be more far-reaching than is immediately apparent. And since we have no essence, this emotion represents aimless anxiety, which can only serve to cloud your judgement and drag you down. These concepts have helped me through some very difficult times. I wish I could be more strict with myself and apply them all the time, but I'm a terrible, use-it-when-it-suits-me Buddhist.
So, I find myself back here - square one - all over again. Just like I felt last year. Or the year before. Any delusions I may have had that this trip has boosted my confidence and self-esteem seemed to have shattered yesterday. To make things worse, I feel very angry at myself for even letting these issues exercise such powerful control over me. I know it's stupid and irrational and pointless to look in the mirror and freak out and want to hide and stay in bed, but I am an irrational being, and one who thinks in visual terms about so many things.
Sometimes I'm all over the place, I really am. And all I can do is sit down and write about it and hope that some of the weight on my shoulders lifts a little when I click 'update journal'.
Fingers crossed, here goes.
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| I heard it on the grapevine |
[07 Aug 2006|11:58am] |
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There's talk in the Jackson household of a party to be held on the 22nd of September as both a hello and (another) goodbye. I go away to Cambridge on the 27th.
Tell my friends, tell your friends, tell your friends' friends...you know the drill.
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| Incessant surreality... |
[05 Aug 2006|05:24pm] |
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It's been an uncharacteristic few days since I last wrote here, so I thought that whilst killing time before our impending departure to Hong Kong, I would attempt to string together a few words. I write from Yangshuo, a "backpacker's mecca" - not unlike Lijang - in the south of China and an overnight bus ride away from Hong Kong.
My last entry came from Urumqui, where I ended my Silk Route trip and flew to Chengdu to meet Jack. Perhaps the first thing that struck me about the capital of Sichuan Province was the skin-hugging humidity that rushed to greet me as the plane doors swung open. I hadn't quite anticipated that. But it felt good to have moved on from Xinjiang; my anxities and frustrations with the language barrier and a few other minor points were beginning to take their toll on me. Chengdu promised a new chapter in my travels, and - dare I say it - the beginning of the long road home, which is still to take me up the east coast of China and back through Mongolia and Russia towards Europe.
As you might have seen from my flickr page, in Chengdu we visited the giant panda research and breeding centre, which was quite an eye-opener for me - on par with the orang utans of Sepilok, Malaysia (though distinctively Chinese in terms of its presentation). Having never before seen a panda bear, I was instantly taken by their black and white cuddliness and odd, bulky elegance. It was nice to see them lounging around on branches, although very sad to realise just how precarious the future of their species really is (with less than one thousand left in the wild). The red pandas were invariably, predictably gorgeous.
After an ordeal on Mount Emei Shan involving a torrential day-long downpour resulting in clothes that still haven't dried, being terrorised by cheeky Tibetan macaques and a public transport nightmare getting back to Chengdu, we came south to Yangshuo. I'm pleased to report that we've done basically nothing in this town but drink coffee (Jack is really quite addicted, I'm worried), eat and anticipate nights out in the cities. After six months of frenzied sightseeing, my enthusiasm for photo opportunities and touristic box-ticking is seriously waning, and I'm beginning to see the charm of lazy afternoons spent reading in cafes in a whole new light. I suppose I'm trying to aspire to a normal life again, in preparation for my return. I'm a little aprehensive about my reaction to home. I hope I won't feel boxed in or trapped. But hearing Mum and Dad's voice on the phone last night has instilled in me a new fondness for Stonewalls House. Mum promised a week of my very favourite meals, starting with fish and chips on my first night. The stomach rumbles.
Today I booked my flight home. I return to the UK on the 14th September in time to say a sad farewell to James, my neighbour, who is departing for his own gap year adventure on the 15th, and his parents, who are leaving on the 16th to teach in Ghana for a year. I'll miss them immensely - they're the best neighbours ever, especially for putting up with (and getting involved in) our antics nextdoor!
I remain uncertain as to who exactly reads this weblog but wanted to thank those who do. I'll keep sending postcards until St Petersburg!
Zai jian,
Grace
PS. In the ever-popular card game of Shithead [the unfamiliar should click for an explanation], Jack and I are currently even at eight victories each. I am keeping a record.
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| It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth... |
[26 Jul 2006|12:14pm] |
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First things first. I want to publicly (as best I can, through this journal of mine) congratulate my sister Sadie on her graduation as an ODP Nurse. She's worked so hard for this and thoroughly deserves this success. I wish I could have been there. You should all go and look at her pictures by clicking here. Seeing these images has brought on a sudden surge of pining for my home, my parents and my siblings. And only Mum could pull off that dress [click] looking gorgeous! Curses.
I'm wondering what exactly I'm doing back here in the most landlocked city in the world while at home the British summertime is in full swing. I bet the park looks lovely today. Instead of looking forward to a cold Pimms and lemonade and a knock around on the tennis court with my neighbour, the highlight of my day will be a trip to Carrefour to indulge myself with the sorts of Western comforts one learns to associate with such supermarket chains (ie. replenishing my supply of scented tissues, toothpaste and instant coffee). It really has come to something when Carrefour inspires the same kind of excitement as would a trip to the cinema to see some exotic piece of world cinema at home on a Friday night.
So, another twenty four hour sleeper bus has brought be back to Urumqui from Hotan. This time we crossed the Taklamakan desert, looping back around after taking the Southern Silk Route for a few hundred kilometres. The journey itself was reasonable, and the views were breathtaking in a way I hadn't anticipated. The sand dunes at Dunhuang were very special (the biggest in China, I believe) but the Taklamakan took it to a whole new level of utter vastness. I could literally see nothing but sand as far as my eyes could strain. The dunes had been whipped by the wind into intricate, voluptuous patterns for miles and miles. I followed the crisp line dividing the sky from the sand as it curved up and down and around, not quite believing I was actually in a desert. In the distance I could see huge funnels of sand blowing up into the air like yellow geysers erupting into the baking atmosphere. Every fifty kilometres or so we would reach an oasis of Poplar trees and reeds, visibly toughened by the inhospitable conditions of the Taklamakan. Looking forward, the road was straight virtually all the way. The grey of the tarmac eventually receded into blurry streaks of heat, wobbling in the sunshine. As night crept on I lay back, my eyes groping the darkness for stars. Eventually they revealed themselves. I felt very, very lucky and extremely lost.
Looking back through my journal, I found this quotation scribbled near the front. It's from Haruki Murakami's 'The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles', which I was reading in Sri Lanka. Next to it in my journal I have written 'Mongolia?', but I think it's relevant now:
Sometimes when one is silently moving through such an utterly desolate landscape, an overwhelming hallucination can cause one to feel that oneself, as an individual human being, is slowly unravelling...The surrounding space is so vast that it becomes more and more difficult to keep a balanced grip on one's being...The mind expands to fill the entire landscape, becoming so diffuse in the process that one loses the ability to keep it fastened to the physical self.
-Haruki Murakami, from 'The Wind-up Bird Chronicles'
Please don't let that description fool you into thinking the journey was non-stop romance. It wasn't. It featured all the classic vicissitudes of Chinese public transport, including incessant staring, smoking and theatrical spitting from the group of men congregated at the front of the bus (I think they sit there to keep the driver from falling asleep). At one point I became quite worked up when three of them lit up a cigarette at one time. Since I had the bed at the front, it was like falling asleep in a pub. The driver then spat in that ridiculously noisy way they love to spit, just to make sure that even the people at the back knew he was getting rid of whatever was lingering at the top of his throat. I felt like that little animated man, Stressed Eric, with the vein in his temple throbbing and his blood pressure soaring. I muttered some English obscenities under my breath and manically plugged myself into some very loud music, cursing the fact that I had no English-speaking companion to whom I could complain.
In the end I calmed down and decided to make a deliciously bleak playlist on my ipod; something that would compliment the scenery:
Great Lake Swimmers - Merge, A Vessel, A Harbour
Pro-m - (Not sure of the name)
Radiohead - Street Spirit
Whalebone Polly - Swimming for Gold
Berg Sans Nipple - Dilate in Rhythm
Cinematic Orchestra - Dawn
Arab Strap - Screaming in The Trees
Bjork - Generous Palmstroke
Simon and Garfunkel - Wednesday Morning 3am
Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah
Jose Gonzales - Crosses
Lou Reed - Perfect Day
Malcolm Middleton - The Loneliest Night of My Life
Jason Molina - Spectral Alphabet
Electrelane - Birds
Cat Power - Maybe Not
Ryan Adams - Wonderwall
I then decided it had been more than a year and a half since I listened to Grace by Jeff Buckley, and that the Taklamakan desert is not a bad place to rediscover one of the best albums ever. And it wasn't.
The sheer distances I'm covering with these mad journeys will make the drive up to the Lake District (and even Scotland - yay) seem like a short hop. In China three or four hour journeys are one half of a day trip! I digress.
I mentioned that I had caught the bus from Hotan to Urumqui. A little about Hotan. This town on the Southern Silk Route is allegedly a centre of silk carpet production, with original methods still in use. I didn't have high hopes for Hotan, although it turned out to be much worse than I anticipated. It was a rough little place, and one of the only towns I've visited in which I would not feel safe walking alone at night. As we (myself and three other travellers) sat outside drinking a piju and playing cards, a very drunk man was chased out of a shop with a broom - this was actually quite comical but the atmosphere was awful out on the street. It was instinctive for me, at least, and I've learned that it's quite important to listen to your instincts while travelling, especially alone (they're often all you have to go by in an unfamiliar situation).
Earlier that day I had been walking around by myself in search of an internet cafe, at around 4pm (ie. in broad daylight). All of a sudden, from behind, I felt a shower of rocks and dust assail my head and shoulders. I spun around, in shock, to see an old man glaring at me from the floor five metres behind. I couldn't quite believe what had just happened, and without thinking I turned and ran away back towards the hotel. People stared but no one offered a smile of sympathy and no one said a word to the man. Although I wasn't hurt badly, I was shocked and afraid, and tears welled up in my eyes. I ran all the way to the hotel room and collapsed on the bed, cursing the people of this Godforsaken town in the middle of nowhere and deciding that I simply couldn't cope with the stares, the alien treatment, the lack of smiles any longer. I longed for Cambodia and Malaysia and Lhasa (I miss Lhasa so much). While its true that my reaction was a product of my brief panic, I can't help but note that Xinjiang Province lacks a certain human warmth and friendliness that other places I've been possess in abundance. There is palpable tension here between the Uighuir people and the Han Chinese, and I'm almost certain that has taken its toll on the openness and even happiness of the people.
Kashgar was a different story, though. I loved it there. Walking through the Old Town was in itself like stepping back in time, but not in a touristy, museum-piece kind of way. It had genuine charm and felt totally at odds with the new Chiense buildings encroaching around its knotted mesh of narrow streets. The food in Kashgar was lovely, with masses of tiny stalls on the street serving meals for one or two Yuan. I tried a number of different dishes including spicy chickpeas, noodles and poached eggs. For breakfast a man set up his cart just outside our hotel, selling fried bread which you'd dip into a glass of warm milk. Everywhere you looked there were donkeys pulling cartloads of melons, people sat on the pavement with their baskets of peaches and apricots and figs or bread being pulled out of a hot, round oven by sweaty, red-faced boys. Outside the Id Kah Mosque Uighuir men and women would sit and chat in the shade, drinking yoghurt with shaved ice. Kashgar had a fantastic atmosphere and I was sad to leave. It was so exciting to catch a glimpse of Central Asian culture. I wished that I was joining some of my new friends on their voyages into Kyrgistan, Pakistan and Uzbekistan.
The statue of Mao in Kashgar is one of the biggest (and surely most ridiculous) in China. Funny, that.
Tomorrow I fly to Chengdu, capital of Sichuan Province. For now I'm off to Carrefour. Maybe I'll treat myself to some imported cheese. Cheese! How I miss thee...
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| The crystal lake |
[24 Jul 2006|10:09pm] |
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This is where I've been for the past twenty-four hours:
From Kashgar I took a shared taxi with three other travellers to Karakul Lake, which is about four hours' drive south, on the Tajikistan border. The journey was (possibly) more spectacular than any I took on the Tibetan plateau. We travelled along the first part of the Karakorum Highway (the legendary route into Northern Pakistan) and I've never been more blown away by mountain scenery. It galvanised my resolve to take this rugged route into Pakistan sometime in the not-so-near future.
The local people living in Karakul are mainly Krgyz, living in traditional yurts (the round tent-like houses, similar to the Mongolian ger). We stayed overnight in one of these, which was quite an experience. It reminded me of the sleepovers I used to have in my early teens, with everyone bedding down next to each other on top of rugs and pillows, snuggling into sleeping bags and chatting in the dark. Last night's sky was similar to that of Tiger Leaping Gorge and Kiau in Borneo - the sheer number of stars made my head spin. I didn't know where to look. It made me think of one of those heavily-sequined evening dresses.
This morning I decided to jump on a horse and ride around the lake by myself. It was definitely a highlight of the trip so far; just cantering and cantering and cantering through what must be some of the world's most beautiful landscape. At one point we ventured up the hill towards the glacier. It was the most free I've ever felt.
I could write much, much more but my time is running out and I think the pictures provide a much better description than my clumsy words could ever evoke. Check flickr for camel shots!
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