the bumbling bureaucracy of border officials....

Hello folks. I'm in china now - Harbin to be exact. It's very wet here, and the city seems to be slowly flooding. I have no desire to stay here in the slightest, so as soon as I arrived I procured an onward ticket to beijing (it was really expensive but it was that or wait for three days!) which still leaves me 10 hours to have a good look around. My plan for the near future sees me in Beijing just as long as it takes me to get a train direct to Kunming, where I shall wait out the rest of my time in China until I (hopefully) get a boat to Japan from Shanghai.

The train here from Vladivostok was long and arduous, and not without incident - far removed from the unfortunate events of my last journey, however, the follys concerned were entirely the fault of my own silliness. To begin with I had to hand over quite a sizeable sum of money to the boorish guards on the Russian side of the border, having failed to register my visa during my stay in Vladivostok - You see, though the country is more open than ever in terms of travelling, to be in Russia you still need to get your visa stamped every time you stay in a new city for any length of time. Of course, I thought that I only needed the one stamp (which I got in Moscow) but no - that only covered me for the first 4 days here. I do admit to having a sneaking suspicision that I needed further stamps, but because I spent so many hours in a police station when I first got to Vladivostok, I didn't have the energy to seek out the bent tourist police. Plus I didn't want to have to tell them where I was staying - I'm not familiar with the laws for Russians regarding keeping foriegners, and didn't want to risk getting the family I stayed with in any trouble.

Still, I spent another few hours in another police station, losing another wad of cash in the process. And I would just like to take this opportunity to bad mouth border officials the world over: Despite their lowly position occupying the prickly fringes of officialdom they weild an unfortunate amount of power that leaves the humble traveller (me) entirely at their mercy. The fanatical airs they assume ensure that passage from one region to another is as painful and trying as humanly possible, and the responsibility they so self-importantly flaunt is by no means matched to their somewhat inferior intellect. By having the Belarus transit visa (which I was required to get before taking a train to Moscow) in my passport, confusion at each stage of immigration was at a fever pitch - He has two visa's! Why do you have this visa?! Where exactly do you intend to travel? (The answer to that last question I thought was fairly obvious) After much ado and superfluous tapping on keyboards I was finally free to continue my journey, no thanks to the bumbling bureaucracy of border officials.

For years this border post has been open, and has grown into an important vein of trade between the two countries. You'd be forgiven in thinking that the proceedings involved would have been smoothed out over time, and the whole affair of exiting or entering pass without too much trouble. But no. A five hour wait seems to be mandatory for everyone - the bloody checkpoint doesn't even open until three hours after you arrive!

It is not fair, of course, to say that this is typical of every checkpoint the world over. Entering China involved a lot less hassle - the border guards here came onto the train, checked visa's and passports and left with minimal fuss. The only trouble I had at this juncture was my failure to complete a statement of health properly - I don't take responsibility for this however, seeing as it was only in Chinese and Russian, and I had to guess what the questions were asking! It was like a bad exam - I entered my details, handed it to the official, she looked at it, said No, handed it back, and I tried again until I got things perfect.
No evident hassle at the Chinese border, but it was a little annoying waiting in the smoggy town of Suifenhe for nearly six hours while they changed the wheels to match the Chinese gradient. I was free to wander around though, and as soon as I left the station was greeted by the old familiar stink, that same choking fragrance of soot and exhaust fumes I've come to expect of dear old China. It's good to be back.

The Great Trans-Siberian Train Robbery

I hate being robbed.

It's happened to me twice now, and I don't think there's anything worse when travelling than opening a wallet that you last saw stuffed with lovely, crisp, green bills, and finding it as empty as the day you bought it (well, except malaria or death or something, but that's not the issue right now). The first time I was on the receiving end of some dirty thieving gypo's greasy mitts I was lying on a beach on an island in Thailand. Of course, owing to the fact that I was at a full moon party and had passed out from growing a little 'over-friendly,' shall we say, with the local whiskey, I assume full responsibility for the incident - A drunk Irish bloke lying face down on a semi-crowded beach in the early hours of the morning after a huge party is crying out to be rolled. I'm just thankful that it hadn't been an overly randy lady boy.......

The second time, however, the one that took place a few days ago, was a lot more conniving and sneaky - the bastard used chemical warfare.

After a short break by the frozen shores of Lake Baikal in the middle of Siberia, I was back on the train to conclude my Trans-Siberian journey, enjoying my instant noodles, weak tea and little jaunts around the odd random station. The cabin I was in had, for the past day, comprised of a little Chinese guy who drank beer with his mates in a different carriage most of the time, and a gruff old soldier who tried desperately (and failed desperately) to hide the fact that his hair line had receded to the back of his head. After refusing to talk to me for the full 24 hours, I finally achieved first contact with this bald companion of mine when he directed an inquisitive grunt towards my CD player, and that was soon followed up by a grunt of approval and a slight nod of the head when he heard a snippet of Bruce Springsteen. A huge break through! That, however, was that - I got no more from this guy.

Awakening the next morning I found that the last bed in the cabin had been filled - meet Sasha, yet another former soldier, a short n' stout pug-ugly fool of a Took with a big stomach and a mouth full of gold capped teeth. He liked showing off the tattoo on his right arm - a horrendously bad rendering of a woman (looked a bit like Jennifer Beals from Flashdance) sporting a black eye. Now, Sasha was a very friendly guy - friendly in the sense of he talked to everyone whether they wanted his company or not. He soon managed to engage Mr Monosyllabic beside me in extended discourse after finding they both had a vested interest in a particular subject (soldiering). They talked long and hard about Afghanistan and Chechnya, Uzbekistan and AK-47's, and I watched them put on a hilarious half-assed Russian version of the scene from Jaws when Hooper and Quint compare each others scars. That was priceless, almost worth the cost of this tale in itself. Almost I say, but not quite.

Now, seeing as I hadn't had the choicest cut of company since leaving Irkutsk I decided to give the burly Sasha a go, and happy chappy that he was, he seemed to take a shine to me. The next time the train pulled into a station he ran out and took pains in buying up loads of supplies of (stale) Russian bread, (bloody) chicken legs, (rancid) salty fish, (random) meat patties, industrial strength lager and the inevitable bottle of vodka. We had ourselves a little party right there on the train.

At this juncture the more astute of you will be guessing where this story is headed and be saying to yourselves "sweets from strangers Peter, tut, tut, tut" (I know mum is), but let me explain that in my experience, and in the experience of those that write the travel guides, this is a very common occurrence; the Russians are renowned for their treatment of foreigners on trains. On the Moscow - Irkutsk leg was a veritable bring a plate affair. So you see, I was more than happy to take Sasha's food (the fact that I had neglected to bring sufficient food for 4 days on a train and the roubles in my pocket amounted to less than three dollars helped too) and gorged myself on the sublime taste and subtle textures of Russian railway fare.

But, Lords and Ladies, I'm not stupid - strong the beer may have been, and potent the vodka may have smelt, but I am perfectably capable of drinking in moderation. Heaven forbid I should overdo it and get robbed or something! (a little theft humour there) I am not so capable, however, of withstanding sleeping pills. One slight wandering of my attention was all it took for the thief's filthy mitts to drop a little something into my ale. Of course I didn't the first clue anything was happening then, as all I knew was that I was getting sleepy, very ve r y s l e ee e p y......

It must have been around 13/14 hours later when I awoke (I have to admit though it was a mighty damn fine sleep - I should have found out what he gave me), and the first thing I did, a reflex borne of travelling amongst skanky looking strangers for so long, was to check my pockets; uh oh, that wad of cash I had put in my front pocket wasn't there.... don't panic, maybe I put it in my wallet ......... shit. Sick, sinking feeling, empty wallet, slow realisation that I've been done. The kicker is that I never leave my wallet on me - I always lock it securely in my bag, but the day before I had been checking on my fundage situation and had absent mindedly kept it on me. Likewise the money in my front pocket - I had taken it from the stash in my rucksack to get it changed into Roubles in Irkutsk, had decided not to bother, and kept in in my front pocket to await Vladivostok. Our thief in this instance had been very fortunate (or me very unlucky, depending on your viewpoint).

A complaint to the carriage attendant, the not so friendly Provodnista only brought about a bored shrug of the shoulders and a mumble of Russian I took to mean 'so what exactly do you want me to do about it?' Dead end, nothing to do but mourn my loss, put it down to experience, and get on with things. Besides, on the plus side the thieving gypo had missed the 400 dollars stuffed into my belt! Ha! (times like these you cling to the small victories) But enter the incorrigible Sasha who had been living it up in the dining carriage, my number one suspect. Just look at those shifty eyes and dirty fingernails (sure sign of a thief that, dirty fingernails). I showed him my empty wallet to see the reaction in his face. A flicker of guilt I was expecting, but no! Ferocious remorse, how could a thing like this happen! Who was it? Sleeping? It must have been the Chinaman..... very dodgy those Chinese (as luck would have it said Chinaman had gotten off a few stops previous). He quickly checked through his belongings on the top bunk and discovered that heavens above, horror of horrors, he was also the victim of crime! His was so much more than mine however - no less than 1000 dollars had been pilfered from the pocket of his cardigan.

I thought it a tad suspicious that he would have left a thousand bucks in the pocket of his grimey cardigan, but hey, I had gone to sleep with a wallet poking out of my pocket, so not really one to talk. Hey created such an uproar, such a fuss, that I was soon doubting my suspicions. People were beginning to settle into bed for the night, but Sasha made sure everyone knew of his plight - he shouted and roared, punched the walls and stomped the corridor. "The fucking Chinaman! Dirty thieving Chinese scummer" (this is of course an approximate translation to his rants). Eventually he stormed off down the carriage, I assume to complain to more people who would listen, and as I was still feeling the effects of whatever drug had knocked me out previously, I locked all my possessions up tight as a ducks rear end and went back to sleep.....

But not for long; Sasha had returned and had brought with him a bunch of Russian police, all of who were crowding into the cabin to take stock of what had happened. The burly git had demanded justice from the train security and this call had been answered by these bleary eyed policemen, who were none too pleased at having been ripped from their warm office in the middle of the night. They were also a little uncomfortable by the fact that Sasha was in tears; this hardened ex-soldier who had got shot in the leg in Afghanistan was inconsolable, probably thinking what his wife was going to do to him when he arrived home from duty empty handed. Rising me from my comfortable bed they interviewed me about the events as best they could given the limited language abilities on both parts; questions like "In Moscow there is sometimes English. Why?" were not overly helpful in clearing up the matter any. In the end their smiling 'translator' took my e-mail address ("I learn English you") and they found a passenger who could at least something with a passing resemblance to the Queens own language.....

In the end, however, it was as I had suspected. The lazy Chinese guy had, to the extent of my knowledge, absolutely nothing to do with any onboard criminal activity, and the vile perpetrator was the stout little Sasha himself. The whole "I lost six months pay" was a cunning rouse to allay suspicion and maybe garner a little compensation from somewhere. The police weren't too taken by his act, as they asked me straight out "do you think Sasha took your money," and I gave them no cause to change their minds. After giving them a rundown of the notes in my wallet, they did Sasha on the basis he had a 1000yen note and a 1yuan note on him. Stupid bugger kept what he couldn't exchange.

The irony of it all is that as I was a virtual mute on a train where I couldn't communicate effectively with anyone, I was going to put the matter behind me. It was Sasha who got the police involved. Stupid prick! When we reached Vladivostok I had to go to the police station and write out a few statements. I didn't get any of my money back as Sasha had apparently had a good time with my money in the dining carriage for the guts of a day, treating everyone and pissing away all his hard stolen cash (he even brought me some chicken steak and soggy chips at one point during my long sleep, waking me up long enough to eat half. I think that counts as the most expensive meal I have ever had). the bad thing was I couldn't prosecute him - I would have had to stay in Vladivostok long enough for an investigation and for it to reach the courts - about one month - and I wasn't going to waste any more money on this guy. Besides, as well as fining him, I think they were going to do him for wasting police time, lying to the police, and being a fat stinking bastard. (I may have added that last charge)

All in all I consider myself lucky. I was stupid enough to get drugged and robbed in the middle of Siberia, but at the end of the day it was just by a drunk looking for some beer money. I was unlucky that I had so much money sitting pretty in my pockets, but in the end I still had my camera, credit card, cd player and so on, which I'm thankful for. A real learning experience if I ever had one! Plus, in the great tradition of every cloud, silver lining and all that jazz, a guy I shared a cabin with on the Moscow - Irkutsk leg of my journey met me at the station in order to show me some of the sights, and because of my bad luck, has taken me in for a while, so I'm now living with a small family in a soviet-era tower block, getting a look at the inside workings of Russian life.

None of them speak English!

Take care

Soviet

P.S. Turns out that Sasha scumball was an Armenian, heading to Vladivostok to visit some friends. So I don't hate Russians, just Armenians! hence the title.........

A highly amusing advert from Kunming... 

Places I've Been

create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands

I'm cheating a little bit with the European countries, as I was on a train on the way thourgh, and Alaska is included in the USA, but apart from that these are my world trampings so far....

The Ost - West Express

.... or,

The Oleg Sokolv Experience

Okay, the obvious place to start is right in the beginning, London, just before I left. Of course, nothing exciting happened in London, save me nearly missing the train, but that's such a common complaint it's hardly even worth mentioning. Oh, the customs guys took exception to my having two knives in my backpack (one for bread, another for fruit) and I was worried about them overreacting, but everything turned out hunky dory in the end. It was my first, and most successful, brush with border control. Anyway....

...My passport back from the bloody Russians, I started at London Waterloo and made my way to Brussels, where I had an 8 hour wait before getting on the fabled Ost-West Express (I had never heard of it either, but apparently it's quite popular among train enthusiasts, those fun-loving ragamuffins). Spending my time wandering around the Belguim capial I was struck by how little the city lived up to my expectations - instead of being the vibrant and modern hub of Europe I was expecting, it was a very drab affair, full of hunched, shuffling people wandering about looking down on their luck, rather than up tight business men charging around dealing with important deals and mergers. Strange.

So, my personal verdict, don't go to Brussels - it's crap.

Boarding the train at a little after four I sought out my cabin and gracefully dumped my backpack down in front of three worn green seats, remarkably out of breath and looking forward to an extended sit down. Any desired respite was delayed however, as before I could so much as catch my breath, I was greeted by a grinning loon; meet Oleg Sokolov. Oleg and his friend Dimitri, floor managers for a huge European supermarket chain, were returning to Moscow from a training week in Paris, and had opted to take the train back rather than fly. I didn't see much of Dimitri over the next 38 hours across Europe as he was in the next cabin and had chosen to read and watch the countryside zip past; I was to share a cabin with Oleg.

At 31, Oleg Solokov had a receeding hairline and the heavy, dark set features of a stereotypical Russian male. Burst blood vessels in his cheeks and nose told of long harsh winters with more than a few open bottles of vodka, and he seemed to have the grace normally reserved for baby elephants at feeding time. Though heavily accented, he spoke very good English, and was excited to learn that he wouldn't have to spend the journey with a french or German speaker - so excited in fact, that he managed to talk almost non-stop for the next two days. It didn't seem to matter that he was repeating himself (for repeat himself he most certainly did), or if he was heading down an obvious dead-end avenue of conversation. He liked to talk. And talk. And talk.

He talked about many things - the weather, his job, European countries, Russia, Ireland - but his overriding topic of conversation, the subject closest to his big Slavic heart, was porn. He loved it, and made a passionate hobby out of collecting porn mags from every country in Europe (part of the reason he didn't fly - going through costums with a bag chocked full of pornography would be pretty embarrassing....). His dream is to work for the porn industry in Las Vegas and he wanted to know how much girls cost in London, which was, unfortunately, something I couldn't help him with. When asked if he wanted to play cards his first question wasn't what game we should play, but whether we should play with normal or dirty cards, and quickly came to the decision that normal cards where for before vodka, dirty cards for after vodka. When the train's PA system announced we were stopping in Brest, the first city in Belarus just over the Polish border, he slapped me on the back exclaiming "She said breast, she said breast!!" before collapsing in a fit of giggles worthy of a school girl. Humour, it would seem, was not Mr Solokov's strong point.

Despite his penchant for porn, Oleg was a genuine guy and spoke fondly about his home city of Moscow. He told me places to visit and plied me with information about getting around, all before deciding I had lived long enough without trying proper honest-to-God Russian alcohol and heading off to the dining carriage to pick us up an armful of bottles. And so now I am very pleased to announce that I have proved the theory that no matter where you are in the world, be it a train in the middle of the former soviet block in a full three berth cabin, when pissed it is always possible to rustle up a branson pickle and cheese sandwich.

The Ost-West express, Brussels to Moscow. 

me and porn meister extraordinaire Oleg Solokov onboard the Ost-West express 

The God of Slackness

I can see from the date of my previous message that the last time I wrote anything for this here blog of mine was the 24th of March, two short days before stepping aboard a train pointed out of Britain, passport crisis narrowly averted, mind filled with wonder at the adventures that lay before me. So full my head was of good intentions, good intentions of keeping this blog constantly updated with every trial and tribulation I was to run up against, every exciting person I was to meet. Britain to New Zealand the long way, I had planned to wow readers on a weekly basis letting them see what I saw, experience what I experienced. However, as the man says, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and these plans of mine were dashed against the rocks of complacency, smothered by the God of Slackness.

A quick sideways glance at the Kylie calander on the wall tells me that the 24th of March was nearly six and a half months ago! We are now well into October and Christmas is once again rearing its reddened cheeks and topping up the liquor cabinet. Six and a half months! As would be expected much has taken place in the times passed, far far too much for me to relate it all here. Some good, some bad. You'll be happy to know, however, that after months of travelling by train, bus and boat (and a plane right at the end), I arrived at my destination at the end of July, and have since been eking out a life for myself at the furthest corner of Earth, way down in New Zealand. After two months in Auckland I have secured a house with three nice housemates, a car that is pretty much dead after I took it out on a road trip last week, a job that I really need to start in order to earn money, and most importantly, a nice comfy bed that is all my own and I can sleep in every night.

However, settled my life may be at the minute, I still need to empty out all these memories locked up in my brain, lest they be forgotten and all I recall is that I took a really long train journey once.... so over the next while, as long as the God of Slackness doesn't come back, I hope to be jotting a few of them down. the ones I can remember anyway.......

Nearly away.......

Having completed a two-stop whirlwind sibling tour taking in the sleepy seaside village of Aberystwyth and the bustling spit stained streets of Manchester, I am now in the charming, if overly pretentious, academic stronghold of Cambridge, visiting Mr Jimmy Wright, boxer and professional social climber. It's been a good week so far, tainted only by being in Wales for the final games of the Six nations, in a pub stuffed with a hundred or so Welsh fans and watching Ireland crumble and fall. Still, Saint Paddy's day more than made up for it; after drinking enough guinness to kill a small (but fully formed) horse, we ended up in a random reggae gig in the back of some pub. Nice.

The week has also been slightly marred by a growing sense of doom, as it was on the 22nd of February when I last saw my passport, the single most crucial document I need to go anywhere. The Russians, wise to my plan of taking over their country, had been keeping it from me for over a month, causing me to call and call, begging, threatening and pleading with the bored receptionists of the Russian Embassy in London. Because I was to be running around England for over a week, time would still have been slighty on my side had it not been for one more "tiny" problem - the Belarus transit visa I need to go through the former Soviet state on a damn train.

To cut a long and predictable story short, I eventually got my passport back today the 24th of March, which just happens to be the very last day I had in which to get it back if I still wanted to travel - tomorrow is Easter Friday so no post, and I leave early Saturday. Lordy, lordy, lordy. My life. It's like an annoying and crap melodrama. All I need now are three failed marriages, a long lost brother to turn up and an argument over the ownership of a pub.

But the main thing is I have my passport! Everything is now complete for my plan of world domination.... first Russia, then the former Soviet states, then...... the WORLD.

But first, a spot of Cambridge style punting with the two Jims I think.

Jimmy of the Hills making a right punt of himself....har har har 

The two Jims in Cambridge looking a mite shifty. As usual. Two days before departure. 

O.P. and me

Another picture of Optimus, with me sitting on his foot having a beer. Big, isn't he?

Optimus Prime

Optimus Prime, undisputed leader of the Autobots (apart from that time when he was dead) stands tall and proud on the outskirts of Kunming in Southern China: Quite possibly the best reason there is to visit the People's Republic. I mean, there's a big wall up north and all, but it just can't compete with a huge sheet-metal statue of a cartoon character now, can it?

No Grand Slam for us

After my previous post grandly waxing lyrical about how this years Ireland rugby squad were dead on target for their first Gland Slam victory in 57 years, the boys hit an unfortunate few snags; a rejuvenated and powerful French team coupled with us being crap. A score line of 19 - 26 in favour of the garlic eaters ensures there will be no Grand Slam for us this year. There remains of course, a small possibility of us sneaking the championship, so I'll shut the tragic events of yesterday out of my head and remain quietly optimistic.