30/3/97

The plan was to catch the train to London from Bristol Templemeads, and then take the tube to Victoria coach station, where the bus to Warsaw left just after 2 pm. What actually happened was that the train was cancelled ten minutes after it was supposed to arrive. Luckily Mum and Dad had stayed to see me off, so they were available to rush me to the nearest train station with a train to London; Swindon, which I had just left! I made it with five minutes to spare, and as soon as I got on I noticed that I wasn't feeling nervous anymore; already in travel mode. Got to the coach station in plenty of time for everything but a seat to sit on, but lets face it, sitting on my rucksack is something I'm going to have to get used to.

The people on buses to Poland are tremendously varied. The most unusual was a twelve year old girl travelling with her father; she had a large birthmark on the side of her face which was being gradually being given laser treatment in Britain. Apparently she's done one year and has two more to go. Anyway, off we went to Dover and onto the ferry. Since Blighty was about to disappear over the horizon for three months I felt I owed it to my country to follow tradition by getting completely pissed in the "Posh Bar" in order to throw up over the stern. Sadly, three pints of cider wasn't enough, and I just did a terrible job of chatting up some girl from a disabled charity instead.

Back on the bus, and the driver turns the heating up to sweltering; every two hours or so fifty bodies pile out and lie on the ground long enough to recover before spending truly extortionate sums buying Coke etc. I suppose it must be a good scam, 'cause when I asked for the heating to be turned down they got rather upset and turned it off completely, and we all reverted to shivering.

31/3/97

One in the morning, and we arrive at Brussels coach station. It looks suspiciously like a bombed out multi-storey car park, but perhaps this is just modernist architecture Belgian style. After half an hour, a few Poles turn up, and we progress through into Germany. Crossing into what was East Germany is -finally- new ground to me, and I feel I'm travelling at last. About 8 am, and we're at the Polish border. An hour later and we roar off - up the wrong side of the motorway! Cue half a mile of rapid reversing while half a dozen border guards fall about laughing. About thirty kilometres on we stop at a truck stop where all sorts of booze is freely available. I settle for tea while twenty extremely optimistic wallys queue for the one shower, and marvel at the desolation of the Polish countryside. Dead grass covering flat fields, with not even a token farm animal to break the monotony; no wonder they're all swigging vodka at 10 am. A Polish girl sitting at my table turns out to speak perfect English; she's doing a photography course at Newport Uni! I ask her how she makes ends meet. "Oh, I'm a hardcore jungle DJ at this club called TJ's. Do you know it?". You bet I do, I've been in there on rock nights about five times! Two days in and the incredible coincidences have started already.

We get into Warsaw about 5 pm; three hours early. I said goodbye to my seat companion of the last 36 hours, an Irishman from London. We had discussed politics, family, religion cabbages and kings during all this time, but when we shook hands we'd both forgotten each other's names; happened all the time when I went through Australia five years back! I then ran off to get a ticket to St Petersberg, only to find I was in the wrong station. Pity I didn't know any Polish, but it did make getting to the right station and getting a ticket so much more challenging. Of course, five minutes after getting my ticket I met a bunch of Russian teenagers who spoke fluent English! I thought I might be on the same carriage for the 36 hours to St Pete's, but communist attitudes are still alive and well; as the only foreigner I was allocated a carriage all to myself.

1/4/97

I woke up at about three in the morning on the floor of my compartment; Polish track is extremely rough by British standards. Given that sleep seemed rather unlikely, I decided to make myself some tea using the samovar at the corner of the carriage. My attendant (well, there was no-one else there) was propped up in his bunk reading, so I tried a little phrase book Russian. He didn't laugh at least, though I suspect my accent is a little dubious, and pointed out a few landmarks.

At 8 am I was at the Belarus border. The first thing they do is uncouple my carriage and shunt it into it's own siding. They then left it for an hour while I ran through increasingly alarming scenarios; they've forgotten me, this line goes to Siberia etc. Finally the Belarus and Russian border guards arrive, and make a great show of searching everything apart from my luggage. At 1030 we move off again, and this time I decide it's time to check out the restaurant, which is largely deserted. Despite this, they cook a good meal, which I eat with a Simonenko Vova, who has a dangerously high tolerance for vodka. I stagger back to my compartment and sleep till 6 pm, when I drink a lot of coffee before going off to see the Russian teenagers I met earlier. They were drinking vodka too, so I only stayed a couple of hours.

2/4/97

Arrived at St Petersberg about 9 am. The first impression is that it's a lot nicer than Warsaw; plenty of pre-revolution buildings. I walk outside the station to see a series of massive holes in the road, but it soon becomes clear that it's just that the Russians take roadwork's very seriously. A taxi driver prepositions me, offering to take me to the hotel for- twenty dollars! Luckily I can read Cyrillic, so using a city guide is no problem, and the Metro is extremely efficient, although the only way of telling what station you were at was by listening to muffled announcements on the tannoy; station signs are non-existent.

The Rossiya hotel looks quite impressive from the outside and has obviously been prettied up over the last year or two, but some things will take longer to change; the receptionist scolded me for being late and confiscated my passport in short order. I decided to explore the obvious sights straight away, i.e. Winter Palace etc. All rather picturesque, but the lack of people around them is a little unnerving; perhaps the locals are just bored. Once I got back, I noticed that my feet were rather painful, with blisters on all pressure points. Apparently the American hiking socks my mother insisted I take were producing some allergic reaction; fantastic start to my journeys. Limped out to some Finnish restaurant called Daddy's for dinner, then checked out a couple of local bars. They seemed to be mainly populated with drunken men dressed in shell suits and prostitutes, so I went straight back to the hotel.

3/4/97

The shopping here is quite impressive; you can get nearly anything for much the same prices as you can back home, but the majority of Russians would have great difficulty paying for them. They seem to shop from the kiosks that saturate places like parks and metro stations; my local has thirty two within fifty metres of the entrance. Booze, fags, vegetables etc, all on sale from little shacks about two metres square.

Had a look at the main shopping area; not bad at all, and very reminiscent of Scandinavia. There is a "John Bull" English pub which sells; Skol! God knows what they think of that, although the Russian man I met there said it was better than the local brews. He turned out to have had an exciting childhood in Irkutsk; he'd nicked a Lada when he was 15 and driven to Moscow in it. The journey took two weeks, mainly because of all the checking for police checkpoints that this entailed.

On going back to the hotel I got into the lift with two heavily made up floozies and a shifty looking bloke. It was perfectly obvious who they were, but I hadn't expected to be propositioned within three floors either! I declined the hard sell. Sad really; I understand that female Russian teenagers believe that the highest paying job they can aspire to is a hard currency prostitute. Funny thing is, the babe factor in St Pete's is extremely high, especially in the metro, where you fall in love every five minutes with exquisitely dressed (with their budget!) visions of loveliness, often escorting slouching monstrosities in shell suits. The nicest thing about them is when you look at them they look back and smile; not something you see on the London Underground.

4/4/97

Last day here, so I got up rather late; the train leaves at 2359. The dezurnaya (floor supervisor) was very friendly this morning; she probably heard my screams last night when I was filling my blisters with surgical spirit!

First order of business was to check my train ticket. Unfortunately, although it appears to list just about every detail up to Yeltsin's birthday, departure station is not one of them! Luckily, in the course of my wanderings around various stations I completed my sightseeing and shopping, and at 6 pm I'm sitting in the waiting room drinking truly awful Russian lager while watching Russian TV. Sadly, all the good looking women seem to have stayed on the metro, and I'm stuck with a few suspicious babushkas, along with a cohort of even more suspicious OMON riot policemen. Family photographs are produced, and all suddenly becomes peace and light.

5/4/97

The Moscow express sleeper is jam-packed, and I'm in a compartment with three other blokes. Two barely spoke, but the other, a white-haired bloke in his early fifties, was happy to chat (and share coffee!). It turns out he was born in Missouri of all places (his parents were students). Given that this was Stalin's day, I'm amazed, but go to sleep anyway.

Moscow at 8 am, and a taxi ride to the Aeroflot hotel. After dumping the gear and having a shower and nap I walk down a motorway to the Dinanmo stadium; and I'm five minutes too late to get a ticket for the match. As I walk past, a Chris Chatten lookalike runs past. Literally, same height, build, clothes, everything. The only difference was the scarf! Sadly, I didn't have a camera with me; sorry Chris. Walked back to the hotel with a cold, so decided to spend the evening in watching TV. The first thing I heard was the Birdy Song; hardly encouraging! The rest of the evening consisted largely of American films and miniseries dubbed into Russian by a solitary man; very amusing during romantic scenes! After midnight they showed the Playboy channel, but it appears that they barely employed one scriptwriter for all the programs, and he had all the erotic imagination of a herd of rabbits. The actors managed to look like they were choosing between brands of washing powder at the supermarket even while having earth shattering orgasms; it all sent me straight to sleep.

6/4/97

The major sights of Moscow are concentrated in the area around the Kremlin. I took the metro there, and started with Lenin's tomb. The man looked exactly like a waxwork; presumably the genuine article is roasting in hell. Walking around the corner from Red Square, I ran into a communist demonstration; well, fifty OAP's and a megaphone, with an interesting cartoon of Yeltsin with a boot up his backside. Whilst I'm admiring this stirring example of the proletariat, a youngish Russian woman says hello, and asks me if I speak English. "Yes, I'm British" I reply. "Would you like a tour of the Kremlin?". I tell her no thanks, but within two minutes this exchange is repeated with another girl. When I'm asked for the fourth time if I speak English I replied "Yes. Would you like a tour of the Kremlin?". The poor girl looked so confused, I felt guilty!

The Kremlin was impressive, though the Polytechnic type administration building spoilt the impression. The inside was divided into permitted and no-go areas divided by a single white line; rumour says you're shot if you step over.

GUM department store was full of western brand names at western prices, with gloomy looking Russians window-shopping. The staff are extremely security conscious; perhaps the Mafia want to bomb the place. I retired to the nearest bar, to be ambushed by a bunch of students who wanted to know everything about me down to my shoe size. I tried to enlighten them about what I did for a living, but I suspect they think I'm some sort of steelworker! Got back to the hotel in time to catch the end of a Dinamo game; my luck isn't improving, but if the number of armed policemen outside is any guide, I get the impression that Russian football hooligans are worse than ours!

I decide that, for a change, I should try to find something else to eat other than fast food, or foreign run cafes, so I spend a couple of hours walking from the Dinamo stadium towards the centre of Moscow. After passing horrendously expensive Greek and Italian restaurants, and more casino's than you could shake a stick at, opposite the next metro station down the line from Dinamo (I've forgotten the name), was a smart looking cafe, that seemed to be run by people around the ages of 20-25. They were probably a little expensive by Russian standards, but the pickled fish and black bread was good and was at least a taste of real Russia.

7/4/97

Last day in Moscow, and as I'm now off to the deep East it's time to summarize western Russia. Towns are a bit scruffy, but improving. Shops are well up to our standards, and opening hours seem to be 9 till 9 in most places. Uniforms much in evidence on the streets, both police (militia) and riot police (OMON), and people are friendly and honest. The young are surprisingly optimistic, the elderly the rather less so. Dollar exchanges are everywhere, but they don't usually ask for dollars when you pay for anything. Oh yes, if you see the sign for cafe, it usually means booze, not food!

The hotel is very close to Frunze airfield (where MIG and Sukhoi are based), and there's an open air museum. It costs two dollars to get in, but the amount of stuff there which would have been top secret two years ago is amazing; prototypes of MIG29's and SU27's, plus others like the AS3, an antiship missile so large it looks like a fighter plane. Others I had never seen before, and I'm speaking as someone who used to know them all. Perhaps MI6 will pay to develop my photos.

From there I went to Dzerzinsky square, no doubt to get my photo taken; I'm sure the KGB haven't really disappeared! I stepped a metre into E Germany as a fifteen year old Army cadet for a dare, so they'll probably find a matching photo of me eventually. Then it was back to the hotel to get my luggage and then down to Dinamo metro station for the last time on the way to Yaroslavl station.

My train leaves the station at 10 PM, and I arrive at about 8-30. The best way to imagine it is to think of an open air market on a railway platform; loads of booze and simple food (sausage, pickles, bread etc) on sale. The train will take four days to get to Irkutsk so I buy a little sausage and vodka, and present myself to the train attendant standing outside my carriage. My Russian accent has apparently not improved, judging by the grin she gave me when I said hello. I hadn't been in the compartment for five minutes before two Armenians arrive. Erik and Vladik seem to think I'm either an Iranian or Azerbaijani, though once we get going, a extended drinking trip to the restaurant persuades them otherwise! They're going to Sverdlovsk (which they interestingly refer to as Ekaterinberg), arriving just over 24 hours from now, but there's always time to teach a foreigner Russian and Armenian, and I'm grateful for all the lessons I can get.

8/4/97

Woke up to find snow covered taiga slipping past. I'm in the top bunk for a change, so I've got an excellent view of the izbas dotting the countryside. Some are half miniaturized; almost Wendy houses. Erik and Vladik decide on soup for breakfast, and during the meal I discover that Erik and I were born the same day. Made me wonder what could have happened to me if I had been born in Armenia; quite possibly dead, as I soon found out they had both served in the war against Azerbaijan.

About ten am I get my first experience on station catering, Russian style. The train pulls in, and women of all ages cluster around the carriage entrances loudly advertising hot food, sausage, cucumber and vodka. We got some hot chicken and potatoes for about 8000 roubles. After finishing, we head down to the restaurant for some drinks and, to my surprise, a soft porn film on the video. I amused myself for a while thinking of the reaction if the same thing happened on British Rail; "Dear Sir, I was disgusted etc". Incidentally, the food is much worse on the Trans-Sib train compared to Gdansk-St Petersberg, but the line is a lot smoother, so it's easier to keep everything down. Oh, now the dining car is showing Top Gun, which doesn't seem to be much of a hit with the locals, who double their drinking rate.

Went back to my compartment, and a man about my age pokes his head around the door and asks if he can practice his English ( I won't mention his name for reasons that will become obvious later). As I cause great merriment to all by practising my Russian, he quietly explains his present situation- rather grim- in English. Effectively, he's looking to emigrate to the US within the next three to four months. I had expected the usual reasons of unemployment and poverty; I was wrong.

After his service in the Army signal troops (I gathered he worked in electronic warfare), he attended trade school in Perm for two years, training in security systems, and worked for the college for two years after that. Around 1991, he realized that he would be first in line for the dole queue, and set up in business with a couple of friends, running a kiosk in Moscow. His friends ran the "shop", while he bought an ex-Army truck, and shuttled back and forth from Perm, carrying farm produce; a valuable staple in those days. After a year, they expanded by opening two more kiosks- and their problems began. In Russia, what is called the "Mafia" takes many forms. I knew that Chechens and other Central Asians were well represented in the Moscow underworld, but apparently Russians do most of the low level terrorizing. What's more, they completely lack the long term viewpoint that has always served the Cosa Nostra well; i.e., don't take it all, or they will have nothing for tomorrow. In short, their demands broke the business, and they returned to Perm. Luckily, he knew some people working in the local magenese mines, and they needed someone to sell their product for them. The state owned organization that used to do the job, had effectively lost their monopoly, and various foreign interests wanted the magenese. This career had really taken off by 1995, but then he ran into his old problems again. The local government and militia decided they wanted their cut (about twice what he owned!) and his business partner was accused of the murder of one of the mine managers, despite him having been in Switzerland at the time! Since, then he had withdrawn from most of his activities and cached his money elsewhere, while hiring a local lawyer to speed up his application for US citizenship. In the last few months a further complication had arrived; he had acquired a fiancee (a militiawoman!) and she was now two months pregnant. The deadline for getting to the States was now set in stone, and he was in a big hurry. I hope he makes it; he impressed me as someone who wants to make an honest living and work hard. His friend? Still in jail with no sign of a trial; quite normal for Perm I suppose, it was one of the great GULAG cities.

9/4/97

It's two am, and the Armenians are leaving. Unfortunately I had to turn down their offer to show me round the bars of Sverdlovsk; neither my train ticket or my visa would allow that! Another Russian arrives and goes straight to sleep, with me following him soon after. I wake up and go to breakfast, and when I return Sergei is staggering about while a series of youngish Russian women pop their heads round the door and chat. After introductions, we swapped some stories and supplies; sausage from me, Johnny Walker from him. To my amazement (I'm getting a lot of this here!) he was returning from Dubai, which he visited once a month for a week each time. He was a little coy about what he did, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was similar to white slavery, given the company he kept and the general air of the likeable rogue that he exuded. He had joined the Navy at seventeen, and served for twenty years as an officer cadet and officer; mainly in the Pacific Fleet. In his time he'd been based in Vietnam (Cam Ranh bay), Kamatchaka, Vladivostok and Yemen, but now kept to an even stricter timetable; one week travelling to Dubai, one week there, one week travelling back to Omsk. I got the impression that his wife wasn't happy with this, but that this was fine with him! He'd tried various routes to and from Omsk; he was presently using a flight to and from St Petersberg, then taking the train, but the most remarkable was definitely the drive all the way via Saudi, Kuwait, Iraq and Iran! Wish I could get that sort of luck with visas.

Sergei got off at Omsk; 2710 k gone and I'm about half way. There's no one who wants to correct my pronunciation, so I'm sitting in the restaurant car writing this. The manager is now a lifelong friend, partly because I drink so much, but mostly because I've just donated him all my leftover change from the UK, Poland etc. His collection is extensive, and includes Kirgizistani and Vietnamese notes as well as old Chinese FEC. The old Soviet notes stand out too. I get a couple of badges and all I can eat and drink in return. While I'm showing off the family photos one of my carriage attendants arrives, and over the next two hours we learn a lot about each other. She's a native Siberian (Buryat), with some of the longest hair I've ever seen; when it's down! She makes two round trip journeys a month, which hardly seems like much of a life, but I gather that she's glad to have a job at all.

10/4/97

Lovely sunny day, with 4000k gone and 1200 to go. We stop at a station, and while getting some hot chicken (that's what the babooshka's shout- honest!), I bump into a group of Swiss, Canadians, Dutchmen and Austrians from the first class carriages. They're all stopping at Irkutsk too, and two are going on to Mongolia and then on to Dalandzadgad in the south Gobi- exactly where I'm going. Perhaps I can grab a lift- they seem amenable. While discussing this and other matters in the dining car, I enquire as to what two middle-aged and married professionals (doctor and engineer) are doing eating lemon flavoured meat soup in the middle of Siberia. Turns out that they wanted to see Hong Kong handed over, and the wives didn't want to come.

Siberia is becoming extremely pretty now, with Swiss type villages dotting the landscape and large pine forests everywhere, with much less of the heavy industry in evidence. I was assured that this is the best time to come, as the mozzies and horseflies arrive in June. The other thing you notice is that night is falling earlier and earlier; dawn being at about 3 am last night. Just before I went to sleep at 9 pm the train stopped in the middle of nowhere for about half an hour. Fir forests as far as the eye could see, covered with a sky full of stars and an ethereal silence. The temptation to grab my rucksack and start walking into the taiga was surprisingly strong.

11/4/97

It's two am and the light wakes me up; definitely time to switch my watch over to Irkutsk time with only three hours to go. The carriage attendants busy themselves cleaning up while successfully avoiding having their picture taken. Now is the time to take stock of the longest train journey I'm ever likely to take. The considered opinion is that unless I'm able to get off along the way I'm not doing it again! You meet some interesting people, but too many get off during the journey; perhaps I should go on a sea cruise to properly understand isolation.

Got into Irkutsk, and into a tremendously ornate Soviet station. I'm met by a trendy Russian (well, he sported a ponytail and jeans) called Alexei; he didn't have any trouble picking me out, as Westerners with large rucksacks were unaccountably rare. After being introduced to the family I was to stay with that night, I headed back into town to assess what it had to offer; starting with opportunities to cash travellers cheques, as I figured that Ulan Baatar (my next stop) might be rather short in that department. The differences between Irkutsk and Moscow rapidly became apparent; I took a couple of hours to do what would have taken me ten minutes in Moscow. Nowhere was open during "lunch", but there were at least several bars plus the improvised ice cream shops (freezer in the street with plug leading into the nearest building) to visit, as well as a large market building. Eventually I made my way back to Lenin Prospect and the statue of the latter still hailing his taxi with his toe rammed into a light socket, where I met some Army officer cadets who seemed excessively friendly, not knowing I had spent years learning how to extract valuable intelligence from gullible communists. Shoulder flashes saying "kv" mean signal troops, right? I then progressed to the market, where I was served instantly microwaved a "laid out all day on counter" plated meal. I used to go out with a food science student (of course I mean you Rosemary!), and I had a rueful laugh as I imagined her reaction to this example of Russian food hygiene!

Going back to my lodgings on the trolleybus (one Russian word I won't forget), I relearnt how the crush of commuters means that you can avoid paying, but simultaneously get off two stops late. The apartment buildings are well spaced, but living in buildings with massive numbers painted on the side would drive me nuts! Watched TV until late, mainly violent programs about Mafiosi living in the south of France.

12/4/97

Seems strange not for the bed to be swaying, but I'll get used to it. Got a lift to Baikal at 10 am and- to my surprise- a guide. Marina was older than she looked, and a student of Japanese and English at the Institute of Modern Languages. She spoke very good English; I was later to learn that she got a lot of part-time work with various groups of Christian missionaries (including the Church of Christ). I mentioned my uncle Julian did the same sort of stuff in Estonia with the Christdelphians, which made her extremely watchful for a while until I assured her that evangelizing wasn't anywhere near my top one hundred priorities! The drive took about an hour, but the sight of Baikal was worth the wait, with the first view showing it's obvious size with the opposite shoreline being below the horizon fifty kilometres away. Apart from the estuary of the river draining it, it's still frozen to a depth of about half a metre, and we walked out to see the head of the local tour company diving through a hole in the ice. Looking down it, you could see how clear the water was, with the bottom being visible thirty metres down. The ice seemed fairly safe; apparently there's a Frenchman cycling along it's length right now- all 1000 kilometres or so. Could be an interesting week off , if I could align the time and money.

Dumped the rucksack at the house in the village I was staying at, and we set out for the local museum, where we spent an hour deciphering the local flora and faunae, plus Baikal's formation as a result of earthquake activity; must have been one hell of an earthquake! Climbing up to the local observatory past the completed and in progress hotels, I saw a sign that definitely started with "comrades" and finished with an exclamation mark. It looked like political propaganda to me, but Marina told me that it congratulated locals for taking physical exercise rather than staying in at home watching telly. I burst straight into laughter, and told her that in the UK a sign like that would be torn down in a day. Her eyes lit up, and she told me that was what the last Brit she had guided here (a man in his fifties) had said; very different from what Russians thought!

After admiring the view from the top, we walked back down discussing cabbages and kings about our respective countries. Education in Russia seems rather more rigorous than back home, and as political training ended in 1986, much of the grind was removed. Going to school in Bratsk seemed a little hair-raising at times; you could only bunk off in winter when the temperature dropped below -40C! Competition for university education was fierce; she had to wait two years before she could get in the Irkutsk Institute. People in Russia seemed to get married earlier, generally early twenties, but weddings are very different; generally consisting of a week long booze-up (or at least a minimum of two days), and often no honeymoon. They have no equivalent to the stag or hen nights; my descriptions of the former resulted in laughter, while the latter in Russia seem to consist of knitting evenings. She also seemed rather surprised as to why I was perhaps better informed than usual about Russian history (if not the language!). I just told her that I had expected to fight in a war against her country someday, which produced a lot of thoughtful talk about where we saw Russia fighting wars in the future. She was shocked to hear me mention China, but Beijing is much closer to Irkutsk than Moscow.

Later we walked back to the village which sported a Polish church, and as colossal surprise, a Japanese graveyard dating from the second world war. Marina had heard it was here, but wasn't sure where, but after half an hour of wandering around woods, we found it right next to the Russian one. The inscriptions were a little hard to decipher, but Marina managed a couple. Mostly, all I could think about was how lonely a resting place this must be, if a magnificent one.

In the evening I met my landlady, a technician at a local research centre, who lived here with her daughter and granddaughter, and Marina and I took it in turns to go to the banya in the back garden. I felt very guilty about moving all four of them out of one of their two rooms, but no other solution presented itself.

13/4/97

Up early for a hike south along the lake shoreline. Frankly with only today to go before I leave, I had no idea where to start, so I asked Marina, who was of the opinion that we should see some of the hills then walk back along the Irkutsk- Baikal railway, since she hadn't seen much in that area. We started by walking down to the ferry that crossed the mouth of the river draining Baikal, and after the walk though the local rail yards, we passed through the local village, where what looked like holiday homes were going up. There were also several dogs of an unusual character if normal in appearance; when you walked past them, they didn't bark, they just stared at you with a malevolent intelligence. Marina provided the explanation; many of the local dogs bred with wolves. We travelled another twenty kilometres south along the railway; it's a lovely place to live, and the train travels at such a slow speed past the burgeoning hotels, you could almost jump on. The railway tunnels each had sentry points inside, again left over from the last war, and the view was something you would have a hard time tiring of. This helped to compensate for the walk back, where my brand new "long-life" trainers felt rather like they had been run in for three months already; last time I buy Puma! After a short stay a one of Marina's acquaintances at the lakeside, we made for the ferry, which was largely boarded by Russian workmen. One of the drunker members tottered up to me, just managing not to fall over the side, and asked a quick question. Marina translated; he wanted to know if I was an Arab! I responded that I was British, but he looked rather disbelieving, and drew closer and said something with a large grin on his face. "He says your ancestors didn't come from Britain", Marina grinned. I showed him a picture of my maternal grandfather, which was possibly a mistake, as though he is truly Somerset bred he definitely doesn't look like it.

The evening was largely spent watching Pulp Fiction, whilst eating raw omul (fish, probably trout). I get the impression that I was supposed to refuse when Marina slyly offered me fish eyes, but they tasted fine, second only to ice cream I assured her (one of her obsessions). The raw fish was OK, but so full of bones eating it was rather a lengthy affair. I also learnt a little more about life at the Institute, in particular how some of the foreign students behave. Marina wasn't impressed by what she saw as their attitudes; they think the locals are desperate, and that they'll take anything Western. Marina isn't exactly ugly, so she presumably got quite a lot of attention.

My mentioning that I was travelling on to Ulan Baatar produced a revelation from Marina. She had lived there ten years ago when her father (civil engineer, now working at the Bratsk dam) had been working there, and she had some really interesting stories to tell; being Russian they saw how the Mongolian elite lived, and managed to meet all nationalities by attending the diplomats school at which Marina's mother had a teaching job. Her best friend at the time was the daughter of the Mongolian minister of culture, which came in useful when getting into receptions!

14/4/97

An early start as the train to Ulan Baatar leaves at 0637, and by five we were on the road, with only a brief stop at the GAI checkpoint. I'm sad to be leaving Russia, particularly this neck of the woods, which seems to show more of it's recent history to the world. Promised to send Marina a postcard from Lhasa, and I was on my way again.

I have two Russians and a Mongolian in my compartment. Nikolai is a sambo instructor and Lhasi a professional sambo fighter, who are on their way to the world championships in Ulan Baatar (sambo is a former Soviet sport practised mainly by the military which combines judo, karate and it's own unique moves). Most of the carriage was filled with amateurs in their late teens, who alternated hanging out with the pros with attempting to charm the two Danish nurses travelling in another compartment. The latter fended them off by inviting them to write in their diaries, and an orderly queue soon formed in order to write long notes in Cyrillic which would in all probability, never be read! They've been working near Maidenhead for the last three years, and will be in UB the same time, staying in the same hostel. This soon percolated through to the Russians, whose visits to our compartment were soon incomplete without winking at me while repeating "Danish girls, yes, yes!". Just so long as they don't shout it at the window tomorrow night!

All the time this was going on, we're still passing the base of Lake Baikal, which never seemed to end. Habitation here was a lot more limited though, with a great increase in desert terrain, and by our first stop you could believe that we were in Central Asia, seeing it both in the people and the buildings. Around 1845 we arrive at the border, and waited there for a couple of hours while the Russian border guards decided whether we are worth inspecting. In the meantime, dozens of traders arrive at a break in the fence outside the station and commence selling everything from sausage to stereos. When the Border Guards arrive, they haven't even removed the "GB" from their epaulettes (as in KGB), but after 1030 we start moving again over the border; straight into an even worse delay!

It seems that the poorer the country, the more numerous the police, and Mongolia is no exception. We had the Army first, then what looked like the customs, and then some shifty looking characters in plain clothes that looked like secret police, and they were thorough. We were ordered out of our compartments one at a time, had our features minutely compared with the passport photo, and our baggage well searched. I had rather hoped that the Russian practice of insisting on a declaration of all the property and currency we had brought into (and taken out) of the country might now be unnecessary; sadly, I was soon filling out yet another form. The Mongolian in our compartment disappeared for an hour -he had brought back a walkman from Moscow! Finally, at 0100, we were moving again.

15/4/97

Got into UB at 0800; it looks very industrial and dirty from the train. I wished Nikolai and his pupils well, then headed off to the hostel, which is in the far east of the city in what was apparently known as the Russian quarter in times gone by; the large bust of Georgi Zhukov at the entrance of the "estate" emphasizing this. The hotel we found ourselves at had certain endearing features that reminded you that Soviet reality and aspirations were forever divorced; things like all wall plugs being canted at an angle, and the curtains being held up with paper clips! You can just imagine the Russian/Mongolian construction brigade manager loudly denouncing the drunk foreman, and then ignoring all manner of failings to ensure he made his quota. Perhaps customer service might have altered somewhat; like hell! There were nine tourists, but only double rooms, and as no-one had paid for the privilege of a room to themselves, the guides' mind seemed to go into endless loop; yes there's one left over, but no he didn't pay for a single room, what should we do about it, it, it....! I decided to cut things short by just moving into a room anyway. We then went up for breakfast, and two parties of three sat at two tables. Another party of three arrived, and made for a spare table; and were promptly shooed off and made to sit at the first two tables. The next part of the routine was supposed to be a quick walk down town, doubtless in a crocodile holding hands; hang about, that's one spare!

Most of UB that's worth seeing seems to be concentrated on the main E-W highway, from hospitals, including a Korean one, to parliament, museums and stores, finally ending in a Lamaist temple or two. All seemed (apart from the temples) very communist in character; I'll have to go further south to see something original. Most of my travelling partners were expats from Dubai, teachers mostly, and we arranged to meet in the UB Hotel bar later, as all the books declared that this was the place to be if you spoke about three words of Mongolian, with interesting people, decent booze etc.

When I entered the hotel at 8 pm, it turned out that the bar was closed. There was however a small side bar, with practically no-one in it so I installed myself there and had a can of Tiger beer. Three women who were already there invited me over, and announced they wanted to practice their English- everyone's learning it now- and I was happy to help, while learning a little Mongolian. After half an hour, the conversation turned to marriage, and funnily enough, two were married while the other was single and at twenty nine still living with mother. The others obviously thought I was a good match, and she seemed keen, saying I had beautiful eyes. I agreed of course; they're just about the only parts of me that are, but I doubted her sanity and/or eyesight when she announced that the rest of me was as well! I was saved from a fate worse than death my the arrival of the expats and the opening of the bar. It's not that she wasn't attractive, it's just that marriage to someone keener on my passport than my person seems even less so!

The bar seemed rather quiet, and I soon learnt why. The price for 4 cans of Heiniken was 9500 Tugrik (about 13 $), and they wanted to add a 2$ surcharge to every drink as well! For this and an entry fee, we were able to watch five Mongolian men get even drunker, while five teen aged prostitutes danced to naff dance music- badly. Finally, one of our number thought we should try the local vodka, called, naturally enough, Chingis Khan. My reading of it was that "paint thinner" would be a more appropriate name, and after I got back to the hotel, I spent an hour throwing up. Final analysis; avoid the UB hotel bar!

16/4/97

Feeling awful, but dragged myself up anyway, and tea made me feel better. Breakfast here varies a little, with the staple seeming to be boiled rice gruel, usually with a little butter thrown in. I quite liked it, but drew the line at the jam they gave us to go with the bread; very much an acquired taste.

Next step, get a ticket to Dalandzadgad, so I went off in search of the MIAT office. Cynics may say that this stands for "Maybe I Arrive Today", but at the taking of hard currency from tourists, they're without peer; I was relieved of $142 for a return ticket leaving on the 19 th in two minutes flat. I'll reserve judgement on the other aspects of the service later.

My next port of call was the state department store, in a search for some toothpaste and a few other sundries, especially some sunglasses. The first thing you notice about the store is that it's state run. There isn't a sign on it or anything like that, but out of four entrances only one was open, with the others locked with an impressive array of chains; only a nationalized company would do that! Inside, there was fullish shelves, but with very little variety; the only brand of toothpaste I found was something called Lucky Mint (an LG product), which later proved to turn your teeth very yellow. They had loads of Mars bars though! On the way back, I dropped into the UB hotel (with a furtive check for any sign of my admirer first of course), to try to make a phone call home at the painfully high prices they charge ($10 a minute), but it turned out I could send email for $1.50. Thank God for that!

Talking to the guide at my hotel and to other Mongolians I've met, life here is rather grim, with 60% unemployment. The old way of things was that a high school certificate guaranteed an office job in UB, but all that has changed now, and many people are going back to the country. Even more surprisingly, many of the people I have met here left school at 14; if communist countries were good at anything, it was usually educating their young, especially in the sciences.

17/4/97

Russian TV on next door this morning; I know who my neighbours are at least. After getting up, the hostel staff seemed to think I was leaving on the train to Beijing this morning. I reminded them that I was staying another two weeks, which produced even more irrational panic, compounded by me asking to stay another night. What, one room occupied instead of none? Shocking!

I spent the rest of the day seeing a little more of UB, including sending the compulsory postcards, and signing myself up for the British Embassy expats get together on Friday night (tomorrow). I have no idea what it will be like, but any change from the usual disdain for backpackers will be extremely welcome! Later, after dodging the persistent artists making a beeline for tourists crossing Sudabaatar Square, a couple of ten year olds tried to rob me, armed with a couple of penknives. There are times when looking like an Iranian has it's advantages, and scowling at apprentice muggers is definitely one of them. They were quick to hurl abuse at me as soon as I was out of reach of course. The whole situation was very different from Russia, where beggars were usually OAP's with an obvious sense of shame; you didn't mind helping them out, especially as you knew that the pension was effectively non-existent. This lot are more like the ones back home; they think you owe them. The answer is the same too; get stuffed.

Back in the Russian quarter, it turns out I have company after all. Barry is an Irishman who has been travelling north from Thailand, and got a tour in Beijing with Monkey Business. This is the way to do it, the cost is less than a third of doing it from Moscow! Went for a run in the evening, plus a little hill training; got to keep in shape for all those Tibetan mountains.

18/4//97

I think that the hill training was slightly overdone; I think I've got a collapsed metatarsal arch again! It's happened a couple of times in the last six months, but after a lot of exercises I thought it was past me. The last time the physio clicked them back into place I nearly hit the roof, so I'll put it off until later.

That was a mistake, so I limped back to the hostel after failing to find anything other than Arkhi to relax my muscles and spent half an hour pushing the bones in my foot back into place. Pros do it faster, but although vodka wasn't used in the end, half a dozen sympathetic Mongolians clucking at the doorway made it more bearable. Afterwards I gently walked with my rucksack down to the embassy, and sat down at the entrance. The two policemen at the entrance were friendly, but in a few minutes a tall Ulsterman turns up; like me, early. His name is John Teggart, and he's working on the soon to be completed airport extension. We're let into the compound by a side door, and immediately to our left is a prefab hut named The Steppe Inn. A surprisingly large contingent of Brits turned up, most of whom worked for the Asian Development Bank; well that's what it seemed like! I met a civil engineer, map surveyor, quantity surveyor and writer in short order, all of whom were very friendly and full of little titbits of useful information (like how twenty trucks arrive from Germany every week!), if rather surprised to see me. When I explained that I had just phoned up the embassy and asked for an invitation, they were even more surprised. I had to explain that this little soiree was listed in the Lonely Planet guide, and as such, hardly qualifies for the best kept secret in the Northern Hemisphere!

The ambassador arrived with his wife, an Aussie who was probably a little stunned by the contrast with their last posting- Brisbane! I also bumped into someone famous; the explorer Benidict Allen, who was the star of the Skeleton Coast, a filmed expedition over the Namib desert with the assistance of three camels. He's reccing for a new journey through Mongolia and then China to start in September, and it seems that the Chinese government is going to provide his biggest obstacles; not exactly a surprise. (In fact I met him nearly a year later at a traveller show to find that he hadn't made it to the China after all!) I had been hoping for British booze, but there was only cans of Tiger beer, and everyone else insisted on buying. After a couple of hours, John suggested that we repair to an "expat cafe" in the building opposite the Ulan Baatar hotel; at the back, at the entrance of the Mongolian Red Cross, behind the door with a sign saying Beware of Motorhead Fans- well, I made the last bit up. It was run by the ravishing brunette wife of a World Bank exec, who clearly had better things to do than sit at home bemoaning the lack of shopping! I'm glad she felt that way, as she makes good pizza. Feeling the worse for wear after a few more beers, I tumble back onto the main road outside, and I'm acquainted with Mongolian taxi ordering. Wave at the traffic until a car stops (nearly instantaneous). State your destination (nisikh), a nod, then a price. Another nod, and you're on your way.

The airport is about 20k outside the town, but the road is OK. Presumably it's all to impress us furriners, but it isn't working yet as the place looks remarkably like Stansted; very modern buildings with no-one in them! After going in the front entrance (one security guard), I climbed up to what looked like the departure lounge, to find four more security guards and ticket agents playing cards. They were extremely friendly for locals who had a foreigner intending to freeload overnight on the floor, and offered me a place at the card game and some reheated tea. I had some instant coffee in the pack, and this was highly appreciated! After half an hour of trying to remember card games, I made to lay out my sleeping bag on the nearest row of chairs, but one of the guards insisted on showing me to what looked like the staff lounge, handed me the key, and said he would get me up in time for the flight! Well, I'm not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, am I?

19/4/97

Was woken up at 6 am by someone pounding on the door. Opened it to find an obviously annoyed senior security guard and my benefactor of the previous night looking a little sheepish. The former gave me an unmissable signal to get out, and as I didn't want to get anyone into trouble, I hurried to obey. Managed to thank my friend though, and settled down to wait for Dalandzadgad to come up on the departure screens. The flight was due to leave at 0820, but even only an hour before it still wasn't listed with all the others. My security guard came to my rescue again, and took me to the unlabeled gate where it was apparently leaving. I wish I could have known the Mongolian to do justice to all he had done for me, but I had to just settle for thank you and a handshake.

Inside the security checks, there's a fairly large departure lounge, with a fair haired foreigner sitting at one of the tables. It turned out that he was American, and teaching English in Bayan-Olgi. I asked why he had come to Mongolia to teach, and he replied that it was an honour as a Lamaisist to do so. Apparently, he had converted while at college, met the Delai Lama, and decided to spend some time here. I'm not going to say anything else about him either!

After he had left, a Mongolian girl arrived and asked me if I was British. I was a little suspicious at first, but it soon transpired that this one wasn't after my hand in marriage, just my fluency in my native tongue. As a second year English student, she needed the practice. Conveniently, she was going to Dalandzadgad too, to visit her married sister there. She kept on asking me about Shakespeare, but sadly English Lit O-level is a long time ago, and I just had to admit she was better read than I. About ten minutes before the flight was supposed to leave, there was an announcement in Mongolian on the tannoy. The direct translation was apparently that bad weather would delay takeoff. I asked her if that was really true given all that sunshine, and she smiled and said "the pilot must be late!". Well, so long as that isn't code for "pissed".

Eventually, we were shepherded to a bus, which set off towards three Antonov's on the apron- and came to rest in front of the single cargo variant! I looked at Uti to see if this was normal, but she just looked worried. After grabbing our luggage and throwing it in through the side door, the pilot spread some webbing over the rear ramp and we scrambled aboard. About three quarters of us got fold down seats along the sides of the fuselage, and the rest sat on the floor. I was half expecting a goat and a brace of sheep to be loaded on, but had to settle for a couple of kittens. Uti was sitting opposite me looking rather worried, so I grinned and pretended to be enjoying myself. I really shouldn't do that, it seems to make people more nervous, not less! She was sitting next to an Army officer and his family, so I mimed hooking up to the static line running above our seats to him- he roared with laughter.

I suspected that it would get rather cold once we were up at altitude, but we were so jammed up together that it wasn't possible, so I fell into a routine of nodding knowledgeably at the grandma at my left, while trying to ignore the little boy plucking at my right arm. An hour or so passed, then we started a descent to a fairly smooth landing, given that it was a grass strip. My first view of the Gobi was suitably bleak, but I felt I had better get a jeep sorted out, as I was keen to get a trip or two in. As it turned out Uti's brother-in-law had his own GAZ jeep, and I negotiated a trip for tomorrow to Bayanzag (Flaming Cliffs, where a major dinosaur find was made in the 1920's). I tried to ignore the fact that he smelt strongly of vodka; after all, how much oncoming traffic is there in the Gobi?

There are two hotels in town, both opposite each other. I picked the one on the left, and had a terrible time trying to pay for a room in Togrog. Uti offered to help me negotiate, and eventually we beat the old crone down to only half in dollars, which was definitely favouring her all the same. At one heated point in the discussion, she pointed to my passport photo and haughtily stated that my eyes were smiling there, but they weren't now. I snapped back that I wasn't in the process of being ripped off by a half built heap of a hotel at the time. Uti smiled, but wisely didn't translate!

The town itself had very little to see- post office, two hotels, a market (mainly selling meat that I had no way of cooking), a restaurant that was shut for the weekend, and a bank, whose manager actually spoke some English and seemed helpful. She wasn't able to cash travellers' cheques though; contrary to what the Lonely Planet guide says about unhelpful officials, this was because she doesn't know what they are! After this, there was only one thing to do; go to sleep for the rest of the day: I was tired. I was woken up at 5 pm by the sound of someone knocking at the door. Must be one of the hotel staff I thought, doubtless ever ready to divest me of my passport. Wrong- it was the bank manager, and she was inviting me to dinner for the evening! I went over to her apartment building which, in contrast with the hotel, was very well heated by a Soviet style centralized heating system which pumped hot water from a central town heating plant. Ogderel and her husband had three children (1 boy, 2 girls), and after a meal of boiled mutton, they all took turns to stare at me in wonder; it's quite disconcerting! Once I got back, I sadly discovered that since I was the only guest in a forty bed hotel, no-one was going to turn the heating on.

20/4/97

I had thought myself well prepared for an expedition in the Gobi- four litres of water, survival gear, GPS etc. It was rather embarrassing to have the jeep roar up with the driver dressed only in jeans and a T-shirt. I did feel reassured in that the vodka drinking brother-in-law wasn't driving, but had sent his assistant instead.

Driving in the Gobi looks easy, with flat desert stretching for miles in every direction, but in practice your speed can't rise above 50 km/h as dried up stream beds dot the desert. These are a) lower than the surroundings and b) made of soft sand. If you don't spot them in time, you'll dig the jeep in on it's nose, and go straight through the windscreen. The desert itself is covered with a scattered layer of grass, but life for the herds of sheep and beef cattle must be problematic. The local gazelles are there in numbers, but bound away at over 60 km/h, so photos were impossible. After 30k or so, we hit the official tourist camp; a normal hotel with a few gers around it, hardly a "real Gobi experience". We spotted the genuine article another 20k further on, but just as I was thinking of stopping, a massive dog bounded out of the ger and chased us for the next quarter mile. It was about a metre high- I jest not. I had been told that the accepted procedure was to shout "norkoi khor" (tether your dog) on approaching a ger, but with monsters like that guarding them, I think Iron Maiden's PA system would be necessary to have a chance of getting near with all your limbs still attached.

About 90k out of Dalandzadgad, I got my first sight of Bayanzag. Think Badlands and you've got the idea of the place, red earth sculptures everywhere. Both places are known for dinosaur bones, but despite diligent searching on my part I couldn't find so much as a line of graffiti saying "T-rex woz 'ere". The desolation was impressive, but I'm glad I never had to go there to dig! The way back, was broken by a stop by some sand dunes; fairly rare in this neck of the woods. As soon as I got back to town, I arranged to go to Yolyn Am (a large mountain valley in the nearby Gov-Altai mountain range) the next day, then went off to see the local museum. It's director looked fairly surprised to see someone, but proved to be very enthusiastic about his exhibits, which ranged from geographical data to revolutionary pictures- the fact that I recognized a picture of Sudabaatar (initial leader of the Mongolian rebels in the twenties) went down very well with him. As soon as I was back at the hotel, my friendly bank manager appeared and invited me to dinner again. She's really making up for not being able to cash those travellers cheques! I can't say I'm not grateful, and I don't mind giving English lessons afterwards either. She rather surprised me by revealing that there are six Americans in Dalandzadgad teaching English, a family with three children and "a 27 year old girl who is not married". All this and she's trying to set me up too! Anyway, we're both invited to her place tomorrow night.

21/4/97

As usual, I'm woken up by the radio in the deserted room next door. Mongolia has broadcast stations now, mainly playing early nineties pop, but the old Soviet system of radios that can only receive one station from a socket in the wall is still there. The music seems rather dreary even today, but I suppose that it stopped the proletariat from listening to all those evil capitalists on the BBC; ho, ho ho!

The ride to Yolyn Am was fairly quick, at only 45 k away. As the valley narrows as you climb into the Gov-Altai mountain range there's a couple of caravans with "South Gobi Souvenirs" written on them, plus a small building housing a museum full of stuffed animals, including a couple of snow leopards. Anyway, after a look round we continued up the valley as it progressively narrowed. I could see herds of mountain goats hopping around the cliffs above us, while dozens of what looked like guinea pigs hopped in and out of holes in the valley floor. After climbing to a ridge we passed under a sign in Mongol, then descended to the end of the road about a kilometre further on, where we got out and started walking.

We quickly came to a large frozen lake which led into a deceptively small gorge, which then opened up into a frozen river. This twisted and turned for about 4k, all the while dropping over a series of frozen waterfalls. After the river opened up into a large valley we turned back, but the whole area was extremely striking; and the gorge walls made for great toboggan runs- just bear in mind that frozen ice makes the final part a little painful! All in all, definitely the best scenery since Lake Baikal, and better to see than Bayanzag, if you're pushed for time and/or money.

The way back being uneventful, I settled for another exploration of the town, this time spending more time in the market. The locals are friendlier here than in UB (certainly the bank managers!), the only obvious reason for the place existing was the large military base; though I don't expect that it would stop the Chinese for long. Perhaps the large bronze camel in the square would stun them back over the border.

I was supposed to go to Ogderel's for seven, but since the single restaurant in the whole town was now open, I thought I would go double rations for once. Despite the scruffy exterior, inside was a passable disco with bar, and the food (mutton and vegetables) was actually rather nice, and only a dollar a meal. The menu consisted of only that meal though! Walking back to the hotel to brave the ice water shower, I came across the ultimate photo opportunity. Ogderel was coming back from the market, carrying her shopping in a British Safeways carrier bag! Just imagine the contrast; Gobi desert, the supermarket back home. Sadly, I couldn't persuade her to let me take a picture. An hour later, I turned up at the flat, where Ogderel was obviously hopping from one foot to another in anticipation; OK, I'm joking! The American was a Tonya Walker, who had volunteered for a two year stint out here which she was financing herself, though she was able to charge those of the locals who could pay for their English lessons a little to live off. Luckily she wasn't another religious nut, but had come here after a small career crisis; she'd spent four years at college doing Counselling for a degree. I think I would have hung myself, so her reaction in going to a windswept desert 10000k from home seemed rather reasonable! She gave the impression of being very self-contained, but was full of all sorts of interesting information about the town. This was often acquired from her pupils, who included the local Border Police chief, and yes, there are two border crossing points into China (ideally I would have tried to cross one of them in order to follow Slavomir Rawicz's route through the area). I think that Ogderel will need to introduce her to someone different to get her married off though!

22/4/97

I leave this morning; Ogderel insisted on seeing me off from the airport. Before I went I called on Tonya to ask about the border crossings she had mentioned the last night. She very kindly rang up the head of the border police, and we went over, where he assured me that there were two crossings, and it would be OK to cross as far as he was concerned; he couldn't vouch for the Chinese (I mention their locations in the FAQ). The moral of the story is, if you want to find out about the scene, find the English teachers and ask them what they know, because everyone important is trying to learn English these days. Just don't tell Tonya that I told you so!

Anyway, back to the airport. Ogderel insisted on booking me in at "baggage", which was rather kind of her as she had a bank to run! She then left me in the capable hands of Uti for the flight back, but not before I had given her my coffee; the only thing that I had to give her other than money, which would have probably be seen as insulting. Uti was slightly amazed as to how I could be so friendly with the local bank manager, and wanted to know what I had done for her. "Oh, I just tried to get her to cash some travellers cheques" I replied; definitely one of my better one-liners! While we were waiting for the plane, a dozen primary school children started playing a version of grandmother's footsteps with me; creeping up behind me to touch me then running away, so I amused myself by making some faces at them, which sent them running in delighted terror. You would think that they had seen enough foreigners; there were ten jeeps and crews waiting for the twenty or so Germans who arrived on the plane. Sadly, this time it was a passenger variant, which prevented me from illustrating the finer points of Mongolian air travel (I hadn't been able to take a picture on the way out). However, it was at least 50% overloaded and the seats were all broken, so I can continue to claim a moral hardship allowance. Uti was much more relaxed this time, spending most of the flight quietening the baby in the seat ahead. Personally, I think the pilots were highly competent compared to the Yank who flew me into JFK last year; you would have thought that we were landing an F18 on the Nimitz.

Uti and I shared a taxi back to town so I could get an idea as to how Mongolian students lived. The answer is very simply; I've been in some grotty places, but I've never had to share a mattress on the floor, let alone put up with a hyperactive ten year old wanting to play catch all the time. However Uti managed quite well, and held down a translating job as well as college work; us Brits just don't know how well we have it back home. It was the least I could do to buy her dinner, over which we swapped life stories. She was born near Lake Hovsgol, with her granddad a famous Buddist monk; I decided it would be tactful not to ask what had become of him. This made it rather surprising to hear her announce that she was a Bahai, especially as I hadn't the faintest idea what they were! It turned out that they were people that believed in one God and that the earth should be one country. They also seem to place a lot of emphasis on near death experiences, which seemed to trigger off an old memory of mine. I had heard of the Bahai before; a colony of twenty or so moved to the Falklands in 1981- to avoid the threat of war! I left Uti at her lodgings for a quick break before she went in to work- until four in the morning.

23/4/97

Mission of the day was to find some transport out to Teredj, a nature reserve about 80k north east of UB where I hoped to do some hiking. Knowing what I know now, I could have got a bus for most of the way, followed by a bit of hitchhiking. However, I was as yet untutored in the local ways, and believing everything I read in the LP guide, I felt that I had no choice but to hire a jeep, which was somewhat expensive at $60; I arranged to leave the day after tomorrow. Dinner was with Uti who exploited the fact that the Bahai were largely Indian by cooking a curry. Very nice, especially as I hadn't had one for a month. Apparently, there's an Indian restaurant down town called the Green Club; must visit sometime. I was also told that there was local "jeep bus" that made the eighteen hour journey to Dalanzadgad once a week for 10000T (about $14); so cheap I could hardy believe that they could pay for the petrol. She didn't know anything about lifts to Teredj though, which was just as well as the thought of all that hard currency going up in smoke in one go had made me fear for my future ability to corrupt Chinese policemen!

24/4/97

In the morning I discovered some new neighbours; two Aussie's who'd just arrived from Irkutsk. They'd met all the same people I had; Sasha the bike nut, Marina etc. Funnily enough, they hadn't wanted to sample the nouvelle cuisine on offer in UB, and merrily marched off on a "ger camping trip". Hope they enjoy the Airag (fermented horse milk) and boiled mutton. Their replacements were a Frenchman and a Brit. Told them where to go for a good time- not the Ulan Baatar Hotel.

After a sojourn in the Elephant cafe for a bit of lunch after writing all those postcards. It's just east of Sudabaatar Square and is heartily recommended if you like greasy meat soup plus karaoke videos (without the sound luckily!). No, I'm being unkind, it's a lot better than most places that you'll see. Walking back to my end of town, I decided to call in on the Bahai centre (three hundred metres west of the UK embassy). Either the religion is taught only in English, or they only recruit English students like Uti, because a surprising number spoke it. I was met eventually by a Mongolian who promised to pass a message on to Uti that I would see her in few days. Let's just hope that their innocent inquiries about religion in Britain don't develop into a conversion attempt, especially as they all seem to think that I'm after Uti.

25/4/97

Up early to get into town for my ride east. Trogging down into town with the rucksack elucidated some amused grins from the locals, who have obviously seen other backpackers dressed for the Gobi staggering through town like drunk camels. I'm sorry to miss the Steppe Inn tonight, but I'm feeling a bit of a fraud hanging around town, Uti's company notwithstanding. On to the hills- and I hope I can hitch back!

My driver drove me out of UB over a series of dual carriageways, then out along a road parallel to the railway line to China for about twenty k, then swung north over a long earth track that crossed a pass, down to a small town, then finally to a large river, at which we stopped and paid the park gatekeeper about 1500T to enter the park. I thought that this was where I would be dropped off, but we continued for another 20k up a long valley, passing a tourist camp with the famous concrete dinosaurs I had heard about, and finally coming to rest in front of another tourist camp (hotel would be more accurate), with a few token gers scattered in front of it. I was feeling a little peckish, so I went in to see what it was like. The staff are very friendly, mainly seeming to consist of students on holiday jobs; the barmaid was an Economics undergraduate. Apparently, there's no-one here right now, but tomorrow a load of French schoolchildren are arriving for a French speaker's conference, so they won't want one of those "Anglo-Saxon imperialists" hanging around then. However, extensive enquiries on my part showed that the bar staff spoke not a word of French, so they'll have to speak English or Mongolian if they want a drink!

About fifteen minutes after my arrival, the staff were galvanized into action by the arrival of the hotel boss, who demanded a box of chocolates and a couple of bottles of beer, which were polished off within quarter of an hour. Then it was a bottle of vodka, which disappeared within 20 minutes! Obviously he wasn't paying for his food; dinner here for foreigners is $16, which translates as way out of my price range. Even if it had been essential I'd have had to starve all the way back to UB! Anyway, it seemed like a move was in order, and I climbed the nearest hill and hiked down the valley along the ridge line. The view was superb, and it came with an added bonus. After the first summit, tracks and footprints and all other evidence of humans disappeared, and I was left to follow a compass bearing through virgin forest; what a privilege. However the pleasures of hiking into the unknown were cut short 10k later by a rather large cliff, which was unsurprisingly not shown on the 4 cm square map of Teredj in my LP guide. The way round consisted of two alternatives; a climb for another 300m or so to a rocky ridge, or a descent into the valley. Given that it was already 4 pm, I decided to descend.

After climbing all the way back down I rounded a bend in the road to see what looked like a small tourist camp with a ger alongside and I decided to have a look- and nearly got torn apart by a rather large dog for my pains. When I had managed to approach with my throat still intact, the locals were extremely friendly; and I was absolutely amazed at their ger, which could best be described as space age, powered by a large bank of solar panels and with a two hundred channel satellite TV receiver! However the tea was still salty, and the man of family even more so; I got the impression that he wanted me to marry his youngest daughter. However, I reckoned that the day was good for a while yet, and I set off down the valley after leaving behind another City of Wells postcard; look out for them!

Moving further down the valley I encountered a tourist group on horses. They seemed to be mainly German, and friendly; five minutes after meeting them I found two of the Mongolians leading back a horse for me to ride. At times the locals are so polite and generous it hurts, but I explained that I had to go everywhere on foot, if only to avoid some good natured ribbing when I got back home. About a mile further on I arrived at the camp where they had come from; the dinosaur bedecked horror I had seen earlier. I had assumed that it was still run by Juulchin, but after poking my head round the door in search of some food, I found out that it was privately run now, and a lot friendlier than I had expected. The boss was a young man who turned out to have been a member of the Mongolian national theatre, who, I was told, had played Chengis Khan more than once; a sign that he is highly regarded within the profession. The latter was explained by a language student who was working as a translator, with whom I was speaking in a mixture of pidgin English, Mongolian and French. Her boss soon arrived, speaking in fluent French, at which stage I gave up completely and started talking in English, in which he immediately replied that he had been told that there was some foreigner here that was insisting on only speaking French! He turned out to be a VP of Siemens Nixdorf who was here on a business trip; staying here was just a weekend diversion. It also turned out that the student had been a diplomatic school in UB at the same time as Marina, although she didn't remember her.

The evening passed in a bit of an alcoholic haze, but a good time was had by all. Eventually I was left alone with one of the Mongolians drinking fruit tea, teaching him English. Looking carefully around to check we were alone, he asked me the English terms for various sexual organs! It seems that people the world over are fascinated by "dirty" words.

26/4/97

Today I took it a little easy; after all, I had wanted to do two major peaks here and I've done one already. I saw the second on the way in; a massive flat sided affair, about 400-500m high. As it's on the way out of the park, I'll do it tomorrow as I leave, something that has been forced on me by my shortage of US$; Mongolians tend to insist on foreigners paying with greenbacks, and facilities for cashing travellers cheques seem rather thin on the ground. Besides, my feet are giving me hell! I appear to have made a friend for life here, in the form of a sheepdog that follows me everywhere, even when I went for a three hour walk or to the khasi. Before you ask, no, I haven't fed him!

This evening saw some new guests arrive; two Russians seeking relief from the grind of buying copper futures. They could hardly be more different either, with Nikolai being sober, English-speaking, and a diabetic (he caused a sensation when he injected himself with insulin, with many cries of "narcotic" from the onlookers!). Alexei on the other hand was a rather more average Russian, with a wicked grin and an alarming tolerance for vodka. On learning where I was going he insisted that I consume most of a bottle of Arkhi. This was apparently going to help me on my journey, although I felt that the only journey he could have meant was six feet under. On staggering back to my ger, I found that I had company; a little eight year old called Badraa, who stared at me with all the amazed interest that Ogderel showed back in Dalandzadgad. She found my family pictures particularly interesting, but I managed to get her to leave before I fell asleep.

27/4/97

Up and away early this morning, as I've got to be in UB by nightfall. I'm sad to leave all the guys in the camp who have all proved to be good fun, not to mention all those concrete dinosaurs. Unfortunately, "my" dog was intent on going with me, and went a whole mile down the road with me before I turned round and had the cook hold him as I walked away. He whined pathetically, and I felt truly awful, but there was no way I could bring a dog with me; luckily he was soon out of sight.

About three kilometres down the road I got a lift with a couple of Mongolians in a Land Cruiser. I had hardly sat down before they insisted that I start on a can of lager; they must have met Alexei earlier! They dropped me off soon enough though, and I set off for my mountain over a meadow, staying well away from the ger there. However, the local sheep dogs must have smelt the beer, because two of them raced out to meet me when I was 500m from the ger. They didn't attack, but contented themselves with barking themselves silly for a minute, then running back to the ger. Much to my surprise, they visited me twice more in the next five minutes; perhaps they were sent, but I didn't see anyone.

The mountain started as a fairly easy climb until I entered the fir wood that covered the slope, whereupon it went to 60-70 degrees. Took me just over an hour, but 400m up the view was great. Teredj seems very like the Lake District back in the UK; except that lakes are non-existent. A extremely imaginative person might even imagine that all the ridges looked like dinosaur skeletons, but perhaps that's just the beer talking! The climb down was considerably easier, and I got to the road just in time to catch a lift from a helpful Mongolian who lived nearby. He could only take me as far as the edge of the park, but I had hardly crossed the bridge that marked the edge of the park when a large and modern BMW hove into view, and to my complete amazement, stopped. The driver was a twenty two year old law student in UB (obviously a very well off one!), who had spent a year learning English in Birmingham. The ride to UB was incredibly fast and comfortable; not what I had expected at all.

After going back to the hostel, where my reappearance was regarded with both pleasure and resignation depending on the age of the staff concerned, I wandered down the UB hotel to get some dinner. The ground floor restaurant had very few people in it, but I had sat down before I realized that my spurned suitor and her matchmaking friends were on duty. There followed a lot of rather stilted and polite conversation from her on the subject of where I had been. Luckily, a character with an attire that fairly screamed backpacker walked in, and I went to sit with him, which partly got me off the hook.

Arnaud was French Swiss, and over a few beers turned out to be a bit of a perpetual backpacker. It has to be said that he was an extremely successful one; I've never met anyone who had been to Bhutan before, which is an achievement in itself as the government bans all foreigners who spend less than $100 a day! He had just got here from China, so I found him a very useful source of information. He in turn wanted to know about Mongolia, and places to visit in UB. I was still hungry, so I suggested a visit to the Green Club, an Indian restaurant that Uti said was wonderful. It was about one block west of the State department store, and could be reached down an alley. It was when we were walking down this alley that four shadows appeared and tried to take the rucksacks off our backs. A bit of pushing and shoving followed, and I punched one of the assailants in the stomach. We then ran straight into the Green Club; only to be followed by four Mongolians who ranged from a very sober Chinese looking character, to a more traditional type who was unquestionably out of his tree. They sat down at our table, and followed us as we switched to another.

I presumed that we were supposed to pay for their dinner, and they showed that they had done this before by loudly declaring that "we friends" and "no problem". The waiter took an order from us for some curry and then turned to them. They ordered soup and two Tigers apiece. As soon as I felt I could disentangle myself I went up to the manager, and told him that we weren't paying their bill. "But they your friends" he protested. I told him no, and that he shouldn't serve them anything. I went back to the table, where Arnaud announced that he was sure that they didn't speak English beyond the few phrases that they had already used, which was probably just as well as we called them everything from faggots to wankers in the next half an hour; with big grins on our faces of course! I primed Arnaud to be ready to push off then went up to the manager and asked for the bill; which was over thirty dollars! Being severely unamused, I gave him our share and told him he could whistle for the rest, and we left him arguing with four somewhat befuddled Mongolians. Once we were back on the main road, a somewhat shocked Arnaud declared that he had been in twenty eight countries but this had never happened to him before- me neither! Lets face it though, we were lucky; they could have been sober, or actually spoken English.

28/4/97

Today was rather quiet, and was mainly taken up with administration; I've got to do my washing sometime, and an email to the parents seemed diplomatic. When I appeared at the UB hotel business centre, the PC was busy, and I had to wait with an American salesman. It turned out he was trying to sell air traffic control systems to the Mongolians. His former job was more interesting- air attache at the Beijing embassy. He however, regarded this as less of a thrill than commanding a squadron of F15's, although it had given him a small claim to fame; he thought that he must have been amongst the first twenty people in China to have an Internet connection. However, good natured requests for classified data on China's police were met with a wide smile; and nothing else!

I popped into the Bahai centre looking for Uti, and met her teacher; a British English lecturer at the University, who regarded me with a lack of appreciation that would have warmed the heart of the mother of someone I used to go out with. I don't suppose that anyone will believe me if I say that my intentions are non existent? However, she's going to go out with myself, John Teggart and his wife the day after tomorrow.

Having dinner in the UB hotel, I met a Brit who was here on behalf of a development bank. His name was Faisal Hussain, and he usually worked in Bangladesh; convenient for him, as he had been born there. I mentioned that I have an aunt and uncle working there too, one for the World Bank, and one for the IMF; did he know them? He did; the world is a very small place. Once I got back to the hostel, I realized that dinner was not agreeing with me. I threw up and hoped that would be all that was necessary.

29/4/97

I had a really bad night, with continuous tossing and turning. I had a really weird recurring nightmare in which I was closely questioned by assorted Mongolian officials as to the significance of each and every step- literally- I had taken over the last two weeks. I found this a little distressing, especially as I'm not exactly the planning type; more slapdash and hope! In the morning the shits started, so now I can say I'm a real traveller. It had to happen somewhere, and frankly UB has to be a better place than on some Tibetan mountain. Was feeling very weak by afternoon, but I managed to go out and get a copy of the local Mongol Messenger which told me that the Mongolian team had won the sambo championships; the Russians will be upset.

30/4/97

Got up feeling 100% better and set off down town for a midday RV with Arnaud; I had promised him he could have my LP Mongolia guide. He suggested a beer, which went down rather well, and wetalked about where we were going next. His next destination was Bayan Olgi in the far west, then back to China; perhaps we'll meet. I would certainly hope so, as he is definitely a character worth knowing. He was rather upset by my comment that he looked like Che Guevara, declaring "I am not a Communist!".

Went to The Bridge restaurant that evening with John and Uti; his wife was ill. The place was extremely smart, and I was assured, very sanitary and we wouldn't have any "problems with the eggs here!". I sensed Uti tense up beside me as I asked John what he was talking about. Uti was called upon to explain, but seemed a little embarrassed, so John explained that a year ago a large contingent of foreign doctors had come to UB for a conference and had suffered very bad food poisoning; the government had said it was down to the eggs that had been imported from China, the doctors said it was the local meat. Anyway, it had killed off Mongolia's only neurosurgeon, so I think that qualifies as a disaster. Anyway, we changed the subject to places we had seen. Uti had us a little amazed by her story of a religious trip she had made in Bayan-Olgi in the depths of winter. Being in the middle of a storm at -45 C when your lorry breaks down would make me a little worried too. However she found it quite amusing in retrospect; they build them tough round here.

We said our goodbyes to John and I asked Uti if she needed walking home. "Oh no, I must see my teacher before I get on the Beijing train tomorrow morning" she replied. Fair enough I thought, so I was rather surprised to get a phone call at the hostel later that evening. Well, alright, I was amazed, as I didn't know the number and I had only described where I was staying in fairly broad terms! Uti was apparently not going to Beijing after all as her conference had been "postponed". I'm to see her at the station tomorrow morning anyway.

1/5/97

Up early- the train leaves at 0930. Uti makes me feel terribly guilty by giving me chocolate for the journey; students aren't supposed to give presents! I decide not to say anything about her conference but wished her better luck next time, and got on the train for last stage of the Trans-Siberian.

I had met my compartment sharer last night at the hostel; a British girl called Zoe, who had a remarkable resemblance to Marianne Faithfull (before the drugs turned her into a wizened hag!). She has travelled nearly continuously from London, only stopping at UB, and was to travel all the way through Asia to New Zealand. We also had a Mongolian diplomat on his way to the consulate at Hothot. The latter is very helpful, as our Mandarin is non existent and as I struggled to even say hello, it seemed that this might always be so! The difference between Russia and China was already evident as we passed through stations; instead of selling raw produce like sausage and bread, the platform vendors were now selling pre packaged noodle meals. Quite a nice change!

We got to the border around 10 pm, where the Mongolian border guards were their usual surly selves. I had expected worse from the Chinese, and had stashed anything Tibetan related away in obscure corners, but apart from the declarations that I was not bringing in seditious reading material, the inspection was trouble free and only forty minutes long. Immediately afterwards, the train pulled into a large shed to have it's bogies changed. I resisted the temptation to watch easily, and Zoe and I went off in search of the cafe that was supposed to be thirty metres off the railway after saying goodbye to the diplomat. Three hundred metres later we found it shut, but a little mom and pop place was open opposite the station entrance, and they were happy to serve us whatever I pointed at, which turned out to be egg fried rice. I tried the chopsticks, but was very grateful when the waitress slyly placed a fork beside my plate!

Back to the station, and we ran into a pair of Americans. One was shaved bald, wore a cowboy hat and said nothing, while the other looked like a Caltech grad and talked all the time; they turned out to be travel writers. Apparently, they were on their way to Lhasa too, so we agreed to meet at the Snowlands when they had finished "mapping" northern China. Once the train had got going, we soon decided to go to sleep, and were just dropping off when someone started bashing on our locked door. I opened it to find our two carriage attendants about to barge in; which they nearly did, despite the fact that I wasn't wearing much at the time. I got the impression that they wanted to know whether we were sharing the one bunk, but sadly for them we were in separate ones. If this is what the official Chinese are like, I'm off back to Mongolia!

2/5/97

Woke up early and watched terraced fields with lots of people working in them- no tractors. Given that cultural exchange is a little difficult when even hello is beyond you (but not for Zoe!), I wandered up the train to speak to the other travellers, who proved to be from just about everywhere, and made an attempt to get some breakfast. Encouragingly, there was food in the dining car; but I didn't feel like ordering anything just yet.

About two we saw our first sighting of the Great Wall; a nearly vertical stretch near a station. A bit further on and the full monty hove into view, complete with hordes of tourists. Nevertheless, it definitely ranks with Lake Baikal as something that you would never see back home. Soon afterwards, we started to enter the suburbs of Beijing, and at 3-30 it was all over. Final opinion of the Trans-Sib? Worth doing once, but unless I can stop and get off when I want next time, I won't do it again; you just don't see enough.

The station was fairly crowded, but not impossible, and after a side trip to the International Hotel down the road to blag some free travel maps of Beijing, Zoe and I parted while we went to our separate lodgings; me a hotel and her a hostel. It came with the train ticket, honest! We agreed to meet later for Peking duck, but now it was taxi time, once we had fended off the local dodgy types who wanted something indeterminate but definitely out of the question.

After plonking my gear down and a nap, I ventured out to see the local shopping on the way to the Qianjude duck restaurant. The variety is quite amazing, with the most unusual mixtures of shops; I saw a shop selling hair care products next to another selling air compressors which in turn was next to another selling video recorders! Medical shops sold all sorts of medicines, plus electrotherapy machines which came with blurred sheets of explanations showing where to clip yourself to the electrodes depending on what was wrong with you; it seemed that the position for curing impotence was very close to that which treated leg pain, and you did wonder what might happen if you made a mistake!

I was waiting outside the restaurant 15 minutes early, but I had hardly leant against a car before a horde of Chinese crowded round, with a young woman asking me if I was an American. I proudly replied "Yinguo", but that was where my Mandarin failed me. However, an impromptu lesson soon followed, in which I'm sure I learnt at least three words. After about five minutes, I motioned them all into a group and took a picture, only to see Zoe at the back! We then went up to the restaurant, only to find that restaurants in Beijing all shut about half past eight, and no-one was keen on letting us in. We were then approached by the manager of another restaurant who offered us places in his own place, but Zoe was unaccountably reluctant, so we ended up going the the Qianjude "takeaway" section. The Peking duck was good, but not brilliant, but it sure beat anything I got in Mongolia. Afterwards we walked up towards Tianamen Square in a vain search for a few pubs; the place was stiff with small cafe's, but apparently the average Chinaman just stays in and drinks maotai, because we couldn't find one anywhere. Eventually we reached the square itself from the south; about the same place that dozens of students got themselves shot eight years ago. The contrast with today is striking; the main activity is flying kites in the strong night wind, plus selling them to tourists. You have to hope that it will all be remembered here one day. In the meantime, the giant digital clock counting the seconds down to Hong Kong's hand over at the side of the square went remorselessly on.

Zoe and I parted later. She's going to Shanghai in a day or two, so I doubt I'll see her again; all par for the course when travelling.

3/5/97

Heard that "New Labour" have won; don't know by how much yet. It wasn't exactly a surprise, and I suppose we'll now see how that bunch will cope. Speaking from a communist country, I suspect not too well; they got the Soviets completely wrong, or more accurately they chose to ignore the evidence of fifty million dead, while finding it more expedient to vilify democracies. No wonder the Russians called them "shit eaters".

Back to China; as I'm only about a mile and a half from the forbidden city, I went there for the day. Believe me, you need the whole day to look around, the breadth of what you can see takes your breath away, and The Last Emperor didn't do the place justice. The entrance is fairly tacky and the casual racism of the different prices for Chinese, Overseas Chinese and foreigners grate a little, but the place is just amazing, with so many small corners with something new that a week might not be long enough to see it all. The locals are proving just as friendly; I had a long conversation with a pair of students who showed commendable patience at my Chinese. All right, sainthood then, but I find it almost impossible to manage certain sounds and my falling tones are hopeless too; I suppose it's early days yet.

Walking across Tianamen Square is a bit of an education about the Chinese army; even here they don't wear boots, just camouflaged plimsolls, and any Guards sergeant major would have a major eruption at the state of their uniforms. They're all very friendly though.

In summary, the most interesting places are in the north of the city, with the interesting cultural places spread down the sides. Whatever, it's a long day, and all that culture helped me forget my weakness later when I had dinner at McDonalds. It proved to be an interesting meal as a) the place was stiff with foreign students full of information and b) I got to sit with a Chinese family who proved a bit of an eye-opener. They gravely stated that dinner here was a treat that they saved up for. According to the map on the wall that showed 24 Mc D's already operating in Beijing, this must be a fairly common attitude!

Stayed in and watched Chinese TV; figured it would be my only chance as I'll go to a hostel tomorrow. The Chinese equivalent of MTV was particularly interesting, as the songs in Mandarin were subtitled; it just hadn't occurred to me that in a language that relies on tones to convey meaning, lyrics would prove very hard to understand. Sadly, the Chinese have to deal with boy bands as well, and one in particular was so pathetically effeminate that you would expect anyone seeing him at a distance to collapse immediately with saccharine poisoning. I turned over, just in time to catch one of the local soaps. They played two episodes back to back so I got the idea after an hour or so. It all revolves around this beautiful Chinese businesswoman, who has all sorts of blokes lusting after her, though they usually express this by looking after her longingly with tortured expressions on their faces while repressing all emotion when they actually talk to her. Those of you who know me might aver that this sounds a lot like me when I go "gooey", but I would deny this; there's no sign of them ever walking into lampposts with silly grins on their faces, and even less of them feeling the need to indulge in appalling cooking. Anyway, the girl concerned generally pouts over them all in between her personal disasters, but not at their inability to ask her to anything more than job interviews or medical consultations. Apparently, she's just as hopeless, and the one man who appears to have a passing resemblance to a boyfriend is stuck permanently in hospital, which actually seems quite sad in retrospect. Needless to say I'm hooked already, and the business side of me is already contemplating the profits to be made when I get it dubbed into English and get half Britain's housewives addicted.

4/5/97

Chinese breakfasts are fairly substantial, consisting of basically everything you would have for lunch plus boiled pickled eggs and various hot liquids with bits of something still in them. I had about three helpings of everything as it was my last day, plus at least six rounds of sugar soaked bread- yummy.

Got a taxi to the Beijing Sea Star hotel, which has a branch of the Jing Hua hotel's youth hostel in the basement. Barry (who I met in Mongolia) had given me a card which told any taxi driver where to take any hopeless laowai who can't even read pinyin (a transliteration into Latin script of Chinese characters- sort of). It all amused my driver mightily as he whisked me past innumerable skyscrapers on the third ring road while doing his best to find out where I was from. The pace of building here is stunning, and there's plenty of greenery around as well.

The hostel is very friendly, and at 35Y for a dorm bed, extremely cheap by Beijing standards. The Chinese guy who runs it is a fount of all sorts of information, even Internet access across China, and it's full of people I met on the train here, though truth to tell there's nowhere else for backpackers to go in Beijing, unless you pay very unbackpackerish prices. I also had a stroke of luck in meeting a French couple who were going to Mongolia next; I say luck as the lady of the pair was a physiotherapist who had a good look at the foot I had damaged in the latter country. The massage was painful, but she broke up a lot of scar tissue and it began to feel better immediately. Had dinner in a small restaurant; rice and pork in a hot sauce with a pint of beer, coming to 18Y. I think I'm in heaven, especially as the pint cost 2Y- cheaper than bottled water!

5/5/97

The hostel is almost like being in Uni again, though mixed dorms weren't a feature of halls in my day. I'm sharing mine with a Dutch bloke called Robert and a Japanese/American couple on the way to the UK and then the states; she's going to business school and he's going to be a film director. Sounds like a sensible combination, and he's coming in very useful in the translation department as Japanese characters are very similar to Chinese.

First order of business for the day; get my visa extended. I have a thirty day one at present, and I need it extended for another month so I'm not at the tender mercies of the PSB in some place like Lhasa. The visa facility is near to the forbidden city, and after struggling through phrase book mandarin that I wanted my visa extended, the officer replied in perfect English that this would be fine, but they needed to keep my passport for a week! After horrified protestations on my part that I couldn't even cash travellers cheques without my passport, I was offered the option of having it the day after tomorrow if I paid double the usual rate; 240Y. That will teach me to do this in Beijing! From there I went on a tour of the snazzy shopping area of Beijing to the east of Tianamen, where the Friendship Store and other even more westernized shopping centres reside. It's also where the embassies are located, and I took the opportunity of registering my passport at the British embassy. They're back to their unfriendly selves here, no sign of anyone other than surly local staff.

The Friendship Store was probably a mecca ten years ago, but now it looks a bit hopeless when compared to some of the modern shopping centres. However, I found some decent toothpaste that replaced the Mongolian brand, so I was happy, and had some interesting medicine rubbed on my gammy foot that I was assured would cure all my problems. It felt very hot, but didn't seem to have any long term effect!

The World Trade Centre is very similar to the New York incarnation, as are the prices, and I got the buses back to the hostel. Went to the Jing Hua cafe this evening, situated just outside the hotel. It's stocked with the usual backpacker staples- though I saw no sign of banana pancake - and a good lot of Chinese dishes. The staff are all young Chinese with a great sense of humour, and it's great place to hang out; wherein lies the problem, as you're doing very little learning about China while you are there. It has to be said that you learn a lot of travel related information though.

6/5/97

Up early to see the Temple of Heaven, with a small bonus of seeing the Chinese vlasti (Russian word, denoting Party hacks) going to work. A stream of Mercedes with blacked out windows sweep past the hotel around 8-30am, with everyone else rushing out of the way; some things never change it seems! The temple was very picturesque, but as an engineering graduate I have a very unromantic attitude to things like temples; I only find them interesting if I know about the history behind them. The Forbidden City has a well documented history, but the temple's history is largely unknown to me, so I left without feeling anything much.

In the afternoon I went to visit the Monkey Business office; I wanted to see what they were offering so I could learn just how much I had wasted by going from Russia to China instead of the other way round. The answer was an awful lot! The bloke in the office was really friendly, and we had a chat about Mongolia. The grapevine had earlier informed me that you could now get Beijing- Moscow tickets yourself for about $125, but their prices still seemed OK. He also confirmed the welcome news that the Chinese no longer charged foreigners double for all train and bus tickets, but that it still seemed to apply for air tickets. Well, it's not as if I was planning on flying much!

On the way back to the hostel on the bus, I found myself being "molested". The bus was packed, and I found myself standing next to a Chinese girl of about 21. We smiled at each other, and she turned around and gently moved back against me. So far this was just coincidence, but it became obvious that this wasn't the case when she started to rub herself against my crotch. I thought really hard about football and other related matters but I wasn't entirely successful, and she got off at the next stop with a wide grin at me that said very clearly that she knew just what she had been doing! I don't think that this was a come on at all; it's much more likely to just be a bit of curiosity as to how us laowai behave. The answer seems to be just the same as any other male!

After a little dinner with the other backpackers, some of my acquaintances decided to visit the local supermarket about 500m up the road. Much to my surprise, it was still open at 9-30pm, although the Mc D's next door was shut. Outside, a ballroom dancing competition was in progress! A series of couples were waltzing to Stravinsky, and a large crowd were watching. As I stood there and watched, I became aware that the crowd behaved very differently to one in Britain. When the couple dancing twirled you could see- and sense- them all reacting in unison. It happens at home occasionally in places like football grounds, but it was interesting to see it in the street. I decided I'd learnt a little more about China.

7/5/97

Into Beijing for my appointment with the Gong An Ju (PSB) to retrieve my passport, which was handed over with a scowl. I will enjoy breaking into Tibet; it will do much to avenge myself on these little Hitler's. Afterwards I decided to walk to the zoo; apparently there's an Internet cafe nearby and I'd like to send an email to Mom and Pop before I leave Beijing . It's a long walk, and I stumbled into the Muslim quarter by accident on the way. The glare from all the white skull caps was blinding, and you could pick out a lot of more European looking types who were presumably Uighurs. I had heard that a bomb had gone off in Beijing recently which was claimed by an Uighur group, but this lot looked peaceable enough, though not as friendly as the Chinese. After getting to the zoo, I finally found the Internet cafe (Sparkice) just round the corner. At 30Y for an hour, it's OK; you'd never know that China has only one two megabit link to the outside world.

I think I'm becoming addicted to certain Chinese practices; number one on the list would be eating sweet yoghurt from street vendors. The yoghurt itself comes in a little earthenware pot covered by paper held in place by a rubber band; you just poke a straw through the paper and suck it up. Lovely stuff, and I'm having at least four a day! Slices of watermelon on sale in the street go down well too, but you do wish that the Chinese would sell something other than jasmine tasting green tea, usually made by pouring in some hot water with a few leaves thrown on top. Ah well, I'll just have to continue my beer only diet. Another thing about Beijing's people is that half of them seem to carry pagers, all made by my former employers at Motorola; you just can't get away from them, even here.

Went to another small restaurant for dinner, and was slightly surprised to be invited to sit at a table with a middle-aged Chinese couple in rather stilted English. I soon found out that the lady spoke fluent French, and in no time I was sweating as I tried to remember all those verbs again. I think that for someone with a French godmother (well, Swedish, but married to a Frenchman), I did really badly.

8/5/97

I was off the the Great Wall this morning at eight. We were going to a section called Simitai which was rather less overrun by tourists than the others, mainly because it was a lot steeper! It was a three hour ride, but the sight of a wall ascending a knife edged ridge was worth the wait. The climb was about 450m vertically, and at times extremely steep, but when you climb up on top of the guard houses the view seemed to go half way to Mongolia- which was probably the idea! I went up with some Brits and a couple of hardy Americans; well, one was from Alaska and the other was a US Army lieutenant in the making. They were both doing a degree in Mandarin at a Seattle University, and they got credits for spending five months travelling through China- lucky bastards! The latter had had a stroke of luck in getting his scholarship through just after being a grunt had given him a knee injury. On the way back down we stopped at a small cafe, and discussed what we had each seen about China. I'm not going to the south of the country at all unfortunately, but his descriptions of life there made me all the more interested in going there sometime soon. When we got back we went out with their friend Kim to a couple of the local cafe's and got completely pissed. I woke up at 6 am on his room floor, wishing for aspirin. I think that my partners in crime must be majoring in Chinese beer tasting, as they coped fine!

9/5/97

This morning was partly dedicated to recovery, then to getting a couple of things i.e. a new pair of trainers. The pair of "long life" Pumas which had managed to wear out in two weeks and give me blisters were thrown in the bin with a lot of venom! Certain parts of life in Beijing are getting me down as well, the number one annoyance being the pedicab cyclers who hawk for custom by shouting "hello" at every Westerner they see. After a long walk through the town during which I had "hello!" shouted at me every ten paces, I was nearly at the stage of turning round and chasing after one; and I don't mean that I was looking for a ride! The buses are very unreliable as well; I get the impression that's why so many of the locals cycle. There are private minibuses around, but thinking that they might be faster would be a mistake. They usually cruise around at 5 km/h while the conductor leans out of the doorway and hawks for custom. In fact, over a 1k stretch, I overtook one minibus twice on foot!

Amongst the good things about China is how cheap the clothes are; I got a jacket for 80Y and a pair of trousers for 50Y. They look like they will fall to bits quickly, but what the hell. Besides, the market is a tremendously friendly place, and I had a great time just going round saying hello.

Tonight I went to the foreigners "going out zone" in the east of Beijing. There's all sorts of "goodies" here ranging from pubs selling cider to a Hard Rock Cafe. It was while I was progressing through the former that I met Tim, an American handyman who was doing a few jobs for his embassy, before moving on to another country. In the last two years he had worked in Uzbekistan, Mongolia and several African countries, all the time living in hotels. Right now he was in another and had an "arrangement" with the two Chinese girls who lived in his hotel room. I wondered whether the PSB had anything to say about that, but he just grinned and said working for the embassy had it's advantages. I became a little less friendly towards him when he kept on referring to his girlfriends as "bitches", but I dare say they weren't forced into the arrangement. It just seems a bit of a sad way to behave, but then again if you put up with him you've got no-one else to blame.

I had dinner at a TGI Friday further east, which was right back up to Western prices, then went to the Hard Rock cafe, which proved to be less of a cafe and more of a nightclub full of middle aged businessmen trying to get laid. It was also 100Y to enter, so I decided to go home, while managing to fend off several Chinese women in tracksuits who wanted to give me a "messagee"!

10/5/97

Today started with an attempt to get a train ticket to Xian. After one and a half hours on the buses to get to the Central train station, I found that I actually needed to go to the Western. This was a surprise to me because my "bible " mentioned nothing about this; the station had only been built a year ago! The new station was a massive structure, still not quite finished, which was rather hard to find your way around, despite signs in English! Following one of these, I went down to the basement to get a ticket and asked for a hard sleeper, partly through some Chinese girls who corrected my pronunciation. Unfortunately, no-one would give me one, and they kept pointing upstairs; going back up I saw a sign for the "foreigners and compatriots from Hong Kong, Macao and Taiwan" ticket office, where I was a little more successful. After that palaver, it was 2-30pm already, so I decided to pop over the road to see the Army Museum, where I was not welcome; perhaps it was the anniversary of the Imjin river battle or something!

Got back at the hostel in time for some more boozing; I'm glad I'm leaving while my liver is still intact. A lot of the others are also leaving, and one couple in particular are taking the train to Ulan Baatar, then going on to Hovsgul Nuur and over the Russian border there, which counts as 10/10 for sheer balls; I hope the Russians let them cross!

11/5/97

I was up early to see the Summer Palace; the train doesn't leave until 2100. I had thought of cycling, but Beijing's traffic for two hours each way sort of put me off; cyclists may lord it over the pedestrians, but the car drivers definitely lord it over the cyclists! The place itself is packed out (not surprising on a weekend), but mostly with locals rather than laowai, although the tour groups make appearances every now and again dutifully following their flag bearing guides! It's a beautiful place, and you can see why the Emperors spent so much time there. I had lunch with a Chinese family who invited me to their table- their son speaks some English- and I had the dubious honour of being selected to eat the duck's feet that came with their meal. Just so you know, they're a horrible combination of tasteless, chewy and watery! Later on I met some Chinese I had met on the train from Mongolia, and we managed to exchange some information as to where we had gone in the meantime; in their case all over Beijing buying, well, something. Must pay quite well, 'cause they both carried mobile phones, and they're horrendously expensive here, meaning worse than Britain.

Got back to the hostel, said my goodbyes, and got myself a taxi to Beijing West train station. It was only 8 pm at this stage, so I tried to find something to eat. The "convenient" English signs made no sense again (restaurants are apparently situated in building sites), but a small cafe upstairs was very happy to serve me a hundredweight of rice and vegetables, then stare at me and giggle while I demolished them. It didn't worry me, my stomach has always taken precedence over my fear of the unknown; or are the two related?

Anyway, the train arrived precisely on time, and I got on board and into my "compartment"; actually an open one with beds stacked three high on each side. Went straight to sleep.

12/5/97

Was woken up my a blast of classical Chinese music at 0630, and as sleep seemed impossible, I decided to make a run for the bathroom before anyone else though of it. I then started getting to know the people in my compartment. Three of them were men who said very little apart from their names, but the others were a mother and her adult son, who said enough for all of them put together. As per usual, the family photos were the main focus of attention. They were travelling past Xian for a holiday (didn't catch where), but were very interested in where I had been. The hubbub attracted a small crowd which turned out to contain a Chinese Mechanical Engineering PhD student who spoke some English. She was travelling with her professor, and they both worked at an ammunition research institute in Manchuria; interesting as I spent a summer doing similar work for the Ministry of Defense. We didn't talk shop much, but spent our time productively, i.e. learning each others languages. She had a small electronic translator which we used to test our pronunciation, and although the Chinese characters meant nothing to me, she could write Latin script quite well, so I struggled through a few banalities. Thankfully, the Chinese aren't like the French, and even the most appalling attempt at their language is greeted with rapture.

I got into Xian at just past 1 pm, and had hardly moved off the platform before I was pounced on by a Chinese girl who worked for a local hotel. Obviously they wait for backpackers, and I was the only one that seemed to be going handy. I managed to disentangle myself, and took the bus to the Remin Flats. Unfortunately, the possession of a good city map (bought outside the station) failed to stop me from getting off five stops too early, and I had a long walk. I get the impression that the locals know about where all the laowai go, because they kept on pointing in the direction of the Remin hotel whenever I passed by. As I walked up to the hotel, a young Chinese woman appeared beside me, and to my great surprise, produced a card for me. "Please go to Mum's cafe" she said. Looking over the road from the hotel, I saw two cafe's, one called Mum's, and the other called Dad's. A bit of rivalry was obviously in order!

The hotel was obviously used to backpackers, and I was upstairs in no time, where I met a Malaysian girl just leaving. Great, I thought, a room to myself. Becky, an Australian girl of twenty five or so, appeared fifteen minutes later! She had just flown in from Beijing, which rather explained why I hadn't seen her at the station. I asked her where she had been staying in Beijing, and she said the Jing Hua; so, why hadn't I seen her? She had apparently been staying at the Sheraton for most of this time, with some American bloke she had met! Some people have all the luck; all I needed to find was a lonely businesswoman, and I could have been in some luxury hotel- I'll bear it in mind for next time.

We decided to go downtown to see the Bell Tower, via the Muslim quarter, but we get slightly lost on the way. While going down one of the back streets a Chinese girl latches on to us (this is happening a lot here), and invites us into her art school. After fifteen minutes of looking around and explanations as to how some of their pottery was used in a recent film, she asks us if we'd like to buy anything. I decide a small painting of 120 Y would be nice to have, and Rebecca looks thoughtful. "What are you thinking of getting?" I asked her. "Oh, about four or five of the big ones" she replied; it seems her budget is a little more generous than mine! Eventually she walked away with six costing 1600Y. The gallery staff are amazed, and obviously think that the New Year came early; but as she remarked later, it would cost ten times as much back home, so why not?

After a look at the centre of Xian, we walked back through the muslim quarter, lit only by fires in the street and lights in the houses; the Chinese don't go a bundle on street lighting. On getting back to the room we met a Danish girl called Susie, who greeted us with all the joy of someone being liberated. Apparently she had spent the last week in Manchuria, where no-one was speaking English, and she was feeling a little isolated. An evening in Mum's followed, where we spoke not a word of Chinese, and I bumped into- Zoe! She had finished Shanghai and had come straight here, and was doing much the same thing as ourselves; going off to see the terracotta's, though on a different tour. We turned in after some horrifying experiences with the toilets; the women's in particular was absolutely terrible!

13/5/97

Up early to get the tour bus; it's full of Chinese from other provinces, who are lectured in high speed Mandarin by our tour guide as we pass various nondescript sights. Every five minutes she has to stop in order to receive rapturous applause from her audience. Eventually she came to the back of the bus and tells us a little of what she was saying; well, I assumed it had to be a little as she only took a minute! Susie thought we were lucky; the last time she had been on a tour, her guide had started singing as soon as she had run out of things to say.

Our first stop was at a "museum" where the eight wonders of the world were displayed in miniature form (the eighth being the terracotta army). We marked ourselves for the awkward squad by declining an invitation to pay another 30Y to see this, and instead spent the money on beer and talked to a bus full of schoolchildren; and with a redhead and a blonde our party was the centre of attention! After an hour we were back on the bus and off to the terracotta's, which were well worth seeing. You got the impression that a fair proportion of the wealth of the Qing dynasty was spent creating their graves, which could be interpreted as good or bad depending on your point of view. Photo's were not allowed, so we had to buy postcards instead, but in all it was one hundred percent worth it.

Our next point of call was a medical "institute". While Becky and Susie went off for a walk, I went into a lecture room with the locals after a bit of arguing with the guide, who rather thought I should be spared Chinese medicine! A doctor then entered the room and gave us a long lecture which seemed to be about how parts of the body were interconnected with others, which all seemed fair enough. He then motioned us all into a semi-circle and had us hold hands, and then plugged each end of the chain into what looked like a mains socket. I suffered a moment of momentary panic at the thought that I had stumbled on some secret Chinese scheme to reduce their population, but all you felt was a shiver and tingle once every five seconds or so. As we were leaving the doctor called me over and insisted on taking my pulse Chinese fashion. Instead of one light forefinger on one wrist, you get all four fingers pressed down hard on both wrists, with a single finger lifted every now and again. The doctor then told me I had weak kidneys, and I needed some medicine that only he could supply for a mere 280Y. I declined politely, as I felt that there was a much easier way of improving my kidneys; stop drinking so much!

Finally we were taken to the Huaquang Pools, which looked so interesting us laowai decided it would be better to go for a walk instead, thereby confirming us as nut cases in the eyes of the locals, who could hardly wait to rush in. They looked quite decorative from the outside, but glorified swimming pools are hardly an unique experience!

Back at the hotel, Becky started felling unwell. This could be construed as a nightmare because it would involve repeated visits to the toilets, but luckily the men's were much cleaner now, or they were until someone threw all their leftovers in the urinal; but Becky wasn't using that.

14/5/97

As Becky was still rather ill this morning we were forced to reconsider our earlier plan to climb the local sacred mountain of Huashan together. The girls would go on to Chengdu, while I would "do the mountain" in my usual brutally manly way. In the meantime, we all went off to the train station to get our tickets- me for Lanzhou- and say goodbye, where we learnt that hugging is considered very amusing by most Chinese!

Huashan is about 120k away, so I needed to find a bus. Getting a ticket is easy, but finding the bus is a nightmare; I stopped mine just as it was on the way out. I was originally on the floor, but the presence of a couple of toddlers travelling with an old man with a blind eye made me rapidly move to the engine cover, just in time for both of them to squat on the floor in quick succession. The drive was rather slow, with a lot of roadwork's in progress towards the end. It was therefore about 5 pm by the time I got to the village just below the mountain, where I had a meal, then started off up the mountain.

You go through a sort of temple before you get to the entrance to the mountain proper, then you walk under a large gate and up a very pretty valley. Much to my surprise the route is along a road made of stone and concrete, and there are drinks stalls every 300m or so. Further twinges of alarm are caused by the appearance of locals walking up the mountain dressed in cocktail skirts and suits! The appearance of a sweating Brit humping a rucksack full of backpacker gear caused much amazement, plus some extremely wide grins. So much for the manly bit then! A group of four Chinese tag along with me, and although we try to understand each other, we end up using sign language. About 8 pm the light starts to go and I start looking for a place to lay my sleeping bag, but my new found colleagues are having none of it; they want me to carry on in half moonlight! Looking back on it, it was probably the best time to climb it, as what I could see of one pitch (steps cut into nearly vertical cliff face) looked fairly hair raising; it's just as well the cocktail skirts had been swapped for tracksuit bottoms by this point. We make for the East Peak Hotel, which is within easy reach of the other summits, and there I meet a Malaysian who speaks English. There's a dorm downstairs, and we set our alarms for 5 am to catch the dawn.

15/5/97

I wish I could say that sunrise was stunning, but sadly the mist was even thicker, so I went down for some breakfast; pickled vegetables, at which it has to be said the Chinese are not as good at as the Russians! I start climbing early, and within 5 minutes my camera is refusing to work, which is a bit of a pity as the number of Chinese who wish to include me in their group photographs would do the average Japanese tourist to shame. Furthermore, as the mist clears the view becomes stunning; sod's law applies once more. I comfort myself with several pots of that fantastic Chinese invention, the mandarin orange slices in juice. Provided you can use chopsticks (I'm now an expert, due to sheer necessity!), it's a great way to pep yourself up. It's also noticeable how the prices increase as you ascend, but having seen the loads that the local porters carry up the mountain, I think they deserve everything they get.

I made it to three of the four summits in the end; the last was a little out of my reach as I ran out of time. With a train to catch this evening I have to be off the mountain by 2 pm or so, so I take the wimps way down from the East Summit via cable car. Jumping on the first bus that goes round to the base of the mountain and the main bus station, I bump into my acquaintances from the other night, who celebrate my arrival with a lot of excited babble to the other passengers. Doubtless the translation would have run to "this wally went up carrying that rucksack", but no-one laughs!

The bus station is much the same as usual; there's no official buses there, but there's an abundance of private buses, and I get a ticket to Xian for 20Y, along with a promise that I will get there by 7 pm. The bus starts once a further three people have been dragooned aboard, and we progress in the time honoured fashion; stopping and hawking for custom whenever anyone at the side of the road coughs! There is an advantage to taking the private bus though, as any queues of vehicles by roadwork's are bypassed in short order with the driver hooting imperiously. This can be a problem when you meet an equally determined driver coming the other way of course; we were stuck for five minutes while both sides revved engines and scowled at each other; our side backed down first.

On one of the stops we picked up a new conductor, a young man of 25 or so who had an annoying habit of tapping my shoulder and the spouting derogatory comments in my ear with a big grin on my face. Well, perhaps they don't see much western outdoor gear round here; anyway I concentrated on counting the absurd number of new garages being built alongside the toll motorway extension that was being built; I counted thirteen in two kilometres or so. Eventually we reach a largish town, and it becomes obvious that we have to change buses to go to Xian. I get off the bus, and the conductor grins, holds out his hand and says "you pay", obviously expecting me to pay for the second bus as well. I somewhat lost my rag at this point, grabbed him by his shirt and threw him against the bus. I suspect that the words "don't fuck with me" translated rather poorly, but the context must have been clear when I raised my fist! To my amazement, he grinned! I was about to punch him when I remembered that the Chinese are supposed to smile when nervous, something that became obvious when I drew back to hit him and he smiled even wider! The red mist fell away a little and I saw the people around us laughing at him, presumably for having lost face, so I dropped him and got on my new bus, where the driver immediately offered me a cigarette! I suppose the conductor can't have been too popular.

The drive to Xian passed without incident if you disregard the driver turning round every five minutes and giving me the thumbs up signal, and I got on the Lanzhou train in time. There I was greeted by three Uighurs and a Chinese in my compartment, plus a German, two British girls called Tiffany and Lisa, and an Alaskan DA called Ryan Bell, who had just given up his job to go travelling. I did ask him if he was worried about finding another, but he just grinned and said that there was always scum bags that needed to be put in jail!

16/5/97

Woken at 6-30 by disco music this time, and cause much comment by indulging in a little strip washing; hairy chests do that to the locals. My compartment sharers are a mixed bunch, a trio of Uighurs and a couple of Chinese. They don't talk much, but this is made up for by one of my neighbours, a young man of 22 or so. He insists on introducing himself and presenting me with his card; though with only characters on it, it's a little pointless! We have a slightly awkward chat in which he announces that he would like to be my friend, and asks whether he can have my home address. To an American this would probably seem halfway normal, but to the average Brit it's a bit of a social faux pas approximately on the level of asking which of your relatives had had certain social diseases lately! I responded in what I hoped was a suitably friendly and neutral fashion, and we discussed our lives. He works for a big company in Shanghai, and is apparently doing rather well for himself, so I ask why he is going to Urumqi. He replied that he was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him, which sounded a touch dashing, especially as it turned out that she was due to marry someone else in two days time! The story was that two years ago he couldn't ask her because he had no money, but now he did he was free to make her an offer, as it were. He showed me some photographs from two years ago of them together, and she looked very pretty; made you wonder why he didn't just marry her anyway, but I suppose money is a lot more important in the average Third World country when it comes to picking out a mate. In the end I just wished him luck and got off the train.

Lanzhou held no real interest for me or Ryan, and even less for Tiffany and Lisa who immediately departed for Xiahe, where there's a large Tibetan temple. I figured I would see quite enough temples shortly, so resisted the temptation to follow with ease! Ryan and I installed ourselves in a local hotel for a mere 50Y a night in a hotel room, and went out for lunch at a nearby restaurant where- joy of joys- we found some decent Chinese tea. It consisted of leaves with rock sugar and some round fruits of some sort (I think it's called Muslim tea in Chinese), and it tasted lovely. We also acquainted ourselves with the local booze, a beer called Huaghe, which lived up to it's name in that it tended to make you cough! I then went off to get a new camera to replace the one that broke down on Huashan, with the proviso that buying on a price basis would prove rather foolish; I'd been warned about the lifetime of Chinese cameras. I finally found a compact Ricoh which sounded foreign, and headed back off to the hotel.

I had gone about halfway when a Chinese man in his early thirties stopped his bike next to me. Laying it on the ground he asked me "How do you do?"; quite common in China, they show all the signs of having watched BBC language programs from the fifties! We talked for a while about our backgrounds; he's an economist, and I assumed that he was motivated by curiosity and an interest in learning English. I was wrong there, 'cause after a long discussion of manufacturing economics, he asked me how he could "date foreign girls"! The flippant response of "I wish I knew, I've been trying to pull Swedish blondes for years" did spring to mind, but I'm afraid that I got a little mischievous and told him that Western women preferred men who were mysterious and charming; so if any female backpackers should stop in Lanzhou in the future and be accosted by a snaggle-toothed economist sporting dark glasses and a manic grin, it's all my fault!

While looking for somewhere to eat, I spotted a rather familiar figure in the crowds; Zoe's, who recovered from her shock with commendable speed to accompany me to dinner. It turned out she had just returned from Xiahe, which she had found a little isolating as all the Westerners there had insisted on speaking Tibetan; either way she only stayed a day before coming straight back. In the process she found herself without her LP guide and it's attendant phrase book, so we embark on a fruitless search for anywhere with a photocopier that was willing to help us out; sadly, it was one of those "meiyou" days. Getting a train ticket for the next day was equally problematic, so we resorted to copying out transliterations instead after getting a little tipsy in a local cafe, then said our goodbyes. There's definitely no prospect of us meeting again this time!

17/5/97

Woke up feeling very stiff, and a quick run didn't make me feel any better. Ryan was off at 6-30 for the bus to Xiahe; doubtless he'll be US Attorney General one day. If so I promised that I wouldn't tell the papers that we shared a hotel room; unless the money is really good! Moseyed off to the bank to get the requisite wads of RMB I thought I might need to get to Lhasa, which is almost certainly the next place I can easily cash travellers cheques. There I met a set of Brits and Aussies passing through from Kathmandu via Lhasa by truck. I pumped them for information, in the process learning that the 55 year old woman who was the eldest of the party was the one that coped the best with altitude. Perhaps I should pass the word round Bournemouth when I get back!

The train to Xining was my first experience of hard seat in China, and to be frank, it's a lot better than British Rail, though the "Fast Bay Ticket Counter" was anything but! I seem to be the only foreigner, and I'm seated opposite an Army officer and a keen football player in his twenties, and after ten minutes of me writing this they were obviously bursting with curiosity, so I told them that I was going to Urumqi by a circuitous route. The army man and I carry on a spirited argument about Hong Kong and the Korean War, to which the scorecard ran to lost and won respectively! The conversation was assisted by a Fijian woman who spoke English, who had come here after marrying a Chinese man. I'll presume that she must have been consumed with passion to give up all that to come here! In the end we declared an armistice, and turned to discussing football instead; the young man was in the Xining team.

Getting off the train, I notice a hard eyed PSB officer staring at me as the only foreigner as I progress through the barrier. I'm pounced on by a lady as I come off the train, and offered a tour to Quighai lake, which I decline for the time being. I'm then asked where I'm going next, and as I begin to reply the PSB officer stealthily slides up to my right shoulder. Just as well I said Urumqi! The man had no sense of humour either; loudly saying hello in English and trying to shake his hand met with a stony stare that seemed to turn his eyes to pebbles. The reason for this high level surveillance becomes clear as I walk across the road from the station, where a series of sleeper buses are parked. I'm offered trips to Lhasa twice in twenty metres; the going rate seems to be 600-700 RMB. I'll think about it tomorrow night, but I figure I should see Quighai lake first.

The LP guide is rather out of date, and it takes me till past midnight to find anywhere to take me in; the Xining Hotel, which has three person dorms. They come with a TV and a bathroom, so I think that qualifies as luxury!

18/5/97

Xining is the usual Chinese city, with the significant difference that it is very noisy; bangers are going off everywhere. I went off to the market for breakfast, where cockles and mussels in hot sauce went down very well, though messily! The bangers were going off right next to me, so I stuffed some of the toilet paper I had been given to clean my fingers (there's no such things as napkins in China most of the time) in my ears. All six of my fellow diners followed suit with disconcerting speed; I've not started a craze before. Wandering back to the hotel, I called in on the hotel travel agency which was advertising tours to Quighai lake. Sadly, this turned out to be a bit of a scam; 120Y for the tour and "120Y for the Public Immunity Insurance", the latter a requirement in a neighbouring state and not in Quighai. This was my first experience of the public trying to fiddle me (as opposed to the police), and I left rather more in sorrow than in anger to get a tour from CTS in the Xining hotel. I then went for a very severe haircut; well, shave actually, as I wanted to avoid the need for things like shampoo. The hairdresser I selected was staffed mainly by women, and though I motioned what I wanted, they started out by trying to give me a Mao cut. Once they understood what I was after, the first hairdresser recoiled in horror, and then sent for her assistant. She was a little nervous about using the strimmer at first, but she eventually got the idea, though the gasps of horror from the other staff made it clear that this was not their preferred option! I calmed them down with by now familiar standby; show them the family pictures.

Getting back to the hotel later, I met some new roommates, both of whom were Japanese. Nobuya worked in advertising and his friend was an electronic engineering undergraduate. The former spoke good English, so we managed a useful exchange of views. They're both going to Lhasa too (big surprise!), and they knew why there was so much gunpowder going off; there were four weddings today. Turned on the telly once we had finished talking, and what should I see but my "drama series" I had last seen in Beijing; it's just as enjoyable second time round.

19/5/97

Woke up rather late; 6-55am, so a mad rush to get to the pickup point in time. I'm the only foreigner, but I meet a twenty five year old control systems graduate called Feng Yemei who spoke a little English, and had no trouble recognizing a simple control system equation. She hopes to be sent to Cambridge for an MSc in a couple of years time, so I was bombarded with questions that I couldn't answer; I haven't been there for years.

The journey started with a long climb up to 3500m (Xining is about 2200) to a pass where there was a small temple and a set of prayer flags -my first. I jogged up and down a bit and had no trouble at all (resting heart rate 61, respiration's 12 per minute), so Lhasa should be fine. We then started a long ride alongside Quighai lake, which is colossal; it took us about 4 hours to get to Bird Island. Our bus overheated at one stage, so we were treated to the sight of the driver trying to keep the lid on the radiator with a boot while pouring cold water over the top. The engine was then left for 15 minutes while the driver indulged in the universal Chinese pastime of drinking jasmine tea from a jam jar. Eventually we reached the small village by Bird Island and went into a hotel for a huge meal of fish. The oversupply of the stuff must have been stupendous, because it cost very little. We then crossed over to Bird Island proper and motored about 20k to the far end of the island where thousands of birds were flying. Sadly, being a keen non-birdwatcher, I could identify precisely none of them!

The journey back was long and via a different route once we had crossed over the pass, going through a series of interesting looking villages. By the time we got back I was starving, so after saying goodbye to Feng Yemei I marched into town for a meal and a look at the nightlife. I had dinner under a karoke bar whose staff were so overwhelmingly friendly I forgot completely about the racket; they even tried to undercharge me! Eventually I went into one of the larger karaoke bars where I had expected to see dozens of Chinese lining up to murder the mike, but the noise was apparently due only to a bunch of enthusiastic businessmen and a group of PSB officers. The compere soon approached me asking if I would like to sing a song. English subtitles were not available, but I managed a drunken and tuneless rendition of "Sailing" for my audience, who applauded with an appreciation that suggested tone deafness and/or a tendency to massercism, and then kept me supplied with drinks. The compere turned out to be a guitarist and heavy metal fan, so we swapped details of record collections until I felt it was time to leave. Sleep was easy that night!

20/5/97

I got up a little late today, and joined my Japanese friends for a traditional breakfast; momos and seaweed soup. The former are delicious, consisting of mincemeat wrapped in pastry, usually dipped in soy sauce. The latter was more of an acquired taste which began to grow on me as we discussed how we were to enter Tibet. Their experience of the trade in illicit tickets to Lhasa was that 300Y was the going rate, but let's face it, Japanese stick out rather less than us whiteys! The local PSB have obviously cottoned on to the situation though, so it might all end rather quickly. The electronic engineer announced that he was leaving today to visit a local monastery but would be back for tomorrow when they would get a bus to Golmud.

Spent the rest of the day getting some camera film and looking around the town, which is fairly standard Chinese fare. Unusual bits would include the post office "stamp museum" full of collectors and the availability of 400 film, the latter being nearly unprecedented. Nobuya and I had dinner in the "Peace Restaurant" where the staff seemed rather upset to see us; well, I suppose they had wanted to look after all those children they had brought into work. However, the food was nice so I can hardly complain. Back at the hotel, we bumped into a German of 45 or so who was visiting his Lamaist teacher locally. The latter lived in a restricted area, so getting a permit was proving a bit of a problem.

21/5/97

I got a fax through from my parents in the hotel business centre; I'm a great uncle now; my cousin Phil and his wife Suzanne have had a little girl called Victoria. As this is my grandma's first great-grandchild, I suspect that she is over the moon too. Later, I came along when Nobuya got his bus ticket to Golmud. It sounded so good I decided to go via bus instead for the princely sum of 70Y. Nobuya was promised a follow on to Lhasa for another 100Y provided he could get a permit from the police in Golmud, though that seemed a little unlikely.

After 4-30pm, we started off. It turned out that most of our fellow passengers were Tibetans, which brought a sense of resignation to me; I had been beginning to get the hang of Mandarin, and now I had to start again with another language! As we had got our tickets first we were in the back of the bus which had two levels equipped with reclining seats with mattresses on them. By the time we were installed it was all a little crowded, especially with all the bottles of Jian Libao (Chinese honey based sports drink- good stuff) I had declared we needed for our ascent to higher altitude. Perhaps I was being a little over cautious, but we'd drunk a lot by the time we'd reached the shores of Quighai lake, mainly because the bus could barely manage 20 km/h and it was one way to pass the time! Around 10 pm we stopped for dinner at a village by the lake, only to see the entire male section of the bus run out into the middle of the road and start urinating. I can just imagine the reaction back home!

It seems that most Chinese truck stops are run by Muslims or Uighers. This lot were very happy so see us, and we were tucking into noodles and extremely hot spiced mutton in no time. The manager insisted on us having the traditional accompaniment to the meal; a clove of fresh garlic which he watched us eat with obvious pleasure while I wondered whether a) I would ever be able to taste anything again, and b) if I would now have to marry a Frenchwoman. The bus itself rolled out of town into a police checkpoint; we covered ourselves with blankets just in case.

22/5/97

About midnight we started a long climb to another pass. There was a full moon, and the sight was stunning; huge mountain ranges wherever you looked all in black and white. This helped keep me awake, as well as the jammed open window that was freezing my left ear. By the barometer on my watch it was a maximum altitude of 3750m, and there was no sign of an adverse reaction; more good news. As daylight broke you could see the surroundings more clearly; high altitude desert. From the concrete culverts at the side of the road that were obviously designed to funnel floodwater through regularly spaced bridges under the road, I surmised that flash floods were not unknown.

Golmud finally hove into view, and it looked rather better than I had been led to expect. In particular, the mountain range south of the road looked very much worth exploring. In between the town and the mountains however, it was as flat as a pancake, which would make hitching rather difficult without being noticed. For readers that are wondering why I don't want to take the bus to Lhasa, it's for a combination of reasons; a) the challenge of hitching the world's highest road illegally, b) seeing stops along the way which those on the bus just race past as they're not allowed to stop, including the world's highest town Wenquan, and c) saving money, as the bus costs about 1600Y. Of course it may not be possible; I met a writer at Independent Travellers World who had been caught three times and sent back to Golmud each time before paying for a bus ticket!

Once we had entered Golmud, the driver became very reluctant to take my Japanese friend any further without police permission, so we trooped off to the police station where a charming lady explained in fearsomely good English that they could not issue travel permits; only CITS could do that if we bought a bus ticket. Ah well, nothing's changed then. The others went back to the station and managed to get tickets for 400Y each. For research purposes I did ask, but the prices ranged from 800Y to infinity. While we were waiting for the bus to leave, we went off to get breakfast.

After momos, I searched for accommodation but the only place seemed to be the Golmud Hotel who were a lot friendlier than I had expected, and I went to the dorm room which was marked by the overwhelming smell of varnish and paint, in fact so much so I felt dizzy! It was occupied by a Japanese couple who were the original odd couple; she was so quiet you'd hardly know she was there, and he was so full of fire that you thought he was about to throw himself out of the window at a moments notice. They were up for an illegal bus ticket. Soon afterwards a German man and Swiss girl appeared, having just arrived from Tibet where they had just completed the parikarma of Mt Kailas. It seemed to have affected them a little too, as they stared into the middle distance a lot! After I had seen off Nobuya and friend at the bus station, I returned to find three more backpackers had arrived on the train; two Israelis and a man from Hong Kong who was as old as my father (55). Gideon, Gal and Yeung were all going to take the bus, though it turned out that Yeung was the best suited of all of us to to dodging police patrols; his mother had smuggled him into HK when he was 10!

Next order of business for me was to meet the notorious Mr Hou of Golmud CITS. Readers of the relevant LP guides will know him as the irascible tyrant who conned a group of eight backpackers out of innumerable free drinks and dances with their female members in order to sell them a minibus ride to Lhasa; which then broke down in the middle of nowhere. I walked in and asked for him, but there was only a sharp eyed lady called Miss Lee. I nearly had hysterics then and there (I'm a great Arthur Ransome fan), but I pressed on. Miss Lee asked me why I wanted to see Mr Hou, who was "away on business"; was it because "he was very famous in guidebook"? Oh no, I replied, I had been told that he was a great organizer, but a terrible singer and even worse dancer. At that I collapsed into a fit of giggles and had to leave. I just hope that I don't have to buy a bus ticket, as I think Miss Lee would have my entrails diced and served with soy sauce.

Dinner was extremely complex, with our preferences being voiced in English, Hebrew and Cantonese. It also turned out that Gideon, being a strict Jew, was on a diet of mifan (boiled white rice) and not a lot else, kosher fare being rather thin on the ground.

23/5/97

Today was the looking around town day, so we all piled out to have a look at the markets, which were actually quite good, with some nice bread available. Yeung went to an army surplus outfit and came out looking like the good chairman Mao, but I just got a water bottle and tried some Chinese ice cream. What can I say, but the wrapper really does taste better- I tried! While having lunch in a deserted cafe, we were surrounded by pretty girls until Gal decided to try out his phrase book. Items like "I am an Engineer" went down well, but he insisted on asking where he could get a massage; and they all disappeared except for the owner, who pointed down the road!

Later I went off with the Japanese couple to the bus station to see if we could get a ticket for them; and carried on walking straight past. There was a PSB officer checking each person onto the bus. I then tried the other bus station where I met three Danish blokes disconsolately loading their gear onto a sleeper. They had spent three days trying to get an unofficial ticket, though the prospect of smuggling blonde and bearded Nordic types through must have been a frightening thought for the locals concerned. I did ask if I could just get a lift to Wenquan, but that was out too. Lets hope the going is better out of town.

Spent 30 minutes running up and down the stairs at the hotel this evening to the amusement of Westerners and locals alike. Golmud being 2800m, I wanted to see what the effect was. The answer seems to be that the altitude does make a difference; the heart rate went up to 180 after the first 5 minutes or so, then dropped down to 150 as the limiting factor became my breathing. I really was gasping at the end, and made a sorry sight as I staggered into the shower. The others were sure that an extra hour in bed in the morning would do the trick- we'll see.

24/5/97

Recced the road out of Golmud this morning. I'm helped by the fact that there's a market at that corner of town anyway, and closer looks at the checkpoint are possible from behind the nearby railway embankment. There seemed to be only a few guards, but they did stop everything that went through, including an Army convoy. To the east of the checkpoint is open, but to the west a wall runs around the compound, so I'll go that way.

Meanwhile, the others make their own preparations. Yeung goes to the local hospital and gets a canvas oxygen bottle, while the Israelis made an astounding discovery. Apparently, the northern Israeli town of Kiryat Shamona (the one that Hezbollah rocket all the time) is twinned with Golmud, so they get a 33% discount on the tickets! Wonders will never cease, especially as I thought that China didn't recognize Israel.

Once I'm back at the dorm and a large dinner is out of the way, I pack all my gear, while indulging in the usual routine of "I don't need that, leave it behind". I've also started on the Diamox for the altitude. I go to bed early; I'll get up about 1 am.

25/5/97

Got up a little late, but was off fairly quickly. The receptionist was asleep in bed, so I avoided any awkward questions as I slipped out. I'd selected a route to the edge of town the previous day and though it seemed fairly quiet, but taxi's were prowling about everywhere; one stopped by me fifty metres from the hotel! After that I became cautious, and it took me about a hour to reach the outskirts. I stopped about 200 metres from the checkpoint in some bushes next to the road and watched it for an hour. There wasn't much traffic, but they were still stopping every vehicle. However, I didn't see any patrols, so I skirted the barracks to the west, and then started walking parallel to the road, concealing myself whenever a vehicle approached in the drainage "ditch", and by dawn at five am or so I was out of sight of the checkpoint.

From six onwards, plenty of trucks appeared, but none of them wanted to stop for me; indeed they would cross the road to avoid me. I was aware that there was another checkpoint 30 k from the town, but it was assumed to be there to check cargoes only, not passengers. As the Yanks say, current information is hosed! Finally, a Muslim Chinese on a walking tractor with four teenaged boys on the trailer stopped for me, and I started off for Lhasa at the humungous speed of 20 km/h. We passed a village on the left after half an hour, and just as the road entered the mountains proper there was a building that was obviously a checkpoint, situated 50m to the west of the cliff the road skirted. I gestured to my driver " we're going straight through?". He nodded, and I lay down in the back of the trailer, and with his sons (?) sitting around me we carried straight along the road. We motored through and after going up a small rise and round a bend I could sit up again. Two down, three to go, provided I didn't die of altitude sickness in the meantime!

We had hardly gone another 50 m before a fuel tanker rounded the bend behind us and immediately screeched to a halt. The driver shouted down "Lhasa?"; my luck appeared to be holding, and he was just as happy to take me to Wenquan. I shook hands with the tractor driver and waved him off, and started negotiations with the truckers. Eventually a figure of 250Y was agreed, and the second stage of my magical mystery tour started. My driver, a man of about thirty, had his own business; consisting of the tanker and a general cargo truck that followed behind us, and they made the round trip between Golmud and Lhasa once a week. I got the impression that they got about three weeks off a year, which counts as a hard life by any standards. Perhaps the monotony of this made them immune to playing the same tape of Chinese pop over and over again. It's my fault really, I should have brought a couple of compilation tapes myself; after family photos, they're indispensable.

The road slopes gently up along a large riverbed, and after about 100k we pull into a truckers cafe. At this point we've ascended to about 4200m, but I notice no ill effects, apart from the general bewilderment of my companions as I check the altimeter and then my heart and respiration rates. I had started off with rates of 60 and 12 respectively, and now they were 66 and 13. After an hour there we carried on to the top of the first pass, the Kunlun Shankou at 4800m, where the rates were 75 and 15. I then decided that altitude wasn't going to affect me that much after all.

Once we had reached the pass, we began an endless run over over a hilly plateau. There were mountains around us, but for the most part they were rounded affairs just a couple of hundred metres higher than ourselves. Habitation seemed extremely sparse, with just a few shepherds in view. The road itself was very "wavy" which restricted your speed to about 40-50 km/h, and after we had passed through the first of what was to become an endless series of roadwork's you could soon see why. The Chinese road builders are mostly men in their late twenties to thirties, usually supervised by Army engineers, and their road building methods were a little basic. Essentially, some large rocks are piled up on the ground, then whatever covers the local area is piled on top of that; it could be gravel or just earth. Finally, tarmac is laid on top of a thin layer of hardcore. If the local area is rocky, the road is smooth. If the local area is grassy, the road disintegrates rapidly.

Along the way, I saw several Army convoys, who all waved at me happily. It appears that the Army and the PSB have little in common, as our one sight of a policeman had the drivers mate pushing me down onto the floor! We also passed through an Army base that had a road leading off into nowhere from it; I think I now know the approximate location of all those ICBM bases in Quighai! Further on, I had a demonstration of just how thin the air is round here. We were stopped by some road builders, who then dynamited a culvert about 400m ahead. I could hardly hear anything!

The roadwork's had delayed us several hours, so it was nearly 7 pm by the time we reached Tutuo Hayan, the first town of any consequence we had come across. It was even smaller than I thought it would be; probably about 500 people in total, and we didn't stop there anyway but sped on. Night fell about 9 pm, and soon afterwards a blizzard started. It was looking like Wenquan was out of the question for today, and we finally stopped at a truckers stop at midnight, where we all dipped into a communal meal of rice and mutton, plus copious amounts of green tea. I then bunked down in the cab, while the others trooped off to their rooms.

26/5/97

I woke up with a mild headache, but nothing too bad, especially for 4700m. I had expected the others would be in a mad hurry to get going, but in fact we started about 10 am, and then only to move 200m down the road for breakfast! Just before midday, we started climbing again through the slush to what was supposed to be the highest town in the world at 5100m.

Well, what can I say, they weren't telling the truth there. Wenquan is actually more like 4950m, and to call it a town would be to slander most other habitations. It's a few concrete barracks and low houses, and very desolate. The former made me very cautious, and I decided that any stay was going to be short. I approached one of the houses and asked for some tea. It proved to be occupied by a family who seemed astonished to see me, although on reflection this is hardly surprising. They immediately put the kettle on and served me- salt tea! I suppose they might have been part Mongolian, although I must confess I forgot to try any, but they were very friendly, so much so that when I left the young man of the household insisted on presenting me with a white prayer scarf. This was very generous as the most I could muster was a signed postcard of Wells.

I trudged out of town as inconspicuously as possible, and 2 k further on started hitching. For half an hour or so I was studiously ignored, even by the truck with five Tibetans in the back under an awning, and it began to look like I was fated to cross the Tanggula Shankou on foot, but a Dong Feng stopped and agreed to take me to Amdo for 50Y. This truck was fairly crowded with two drivers, an old man and a teen aged boy that the driver stroked repeatedly; I never found out whether this was because he was his son or for another reason! We were just approaching what I thought would be the top of the pass when we rounded a bend and saw a very large traffic jam. This made me a little suspicious, so I asked the driver if it was a police checkpoint. He nodded!

This seemed a disastrous development; how could I avoid a checkpoint here, what with wide open terrain and in the middle of a snow field to boot? Leaving my rucksack behind, I went forward to see if I could see where the checkpoint was. There was a tent by the road with a policeman standing outside about a kilometre ahead, and at the rate we were moving we should reach them at dusk, which gave me some hope. Evading to the east across the snow field was obviously out, so I decided to try my luck ascending the hill to the west to see if it was practical to go that way. The first fifty metres were fine, but as I approached the top I developed a splitting headache and my face muscles started twitching randomly. I staggered back down to the truck and sat down for ten minutes, which seemed to alleviate the symptoms, but I think this was a warning on the part of Mother Nature; I had ascended less than 36 hours ago, and I should be more careful! Pity about the checkpoint; I'd have to try to slip through another way, something that was nearly blown as dusk approached, when a PSB officer ran down the line of trucks towards us, shouting at the drivers. I made myself inconspicuous, but was horrified to see the driver gesture towards me and ask him a question. I was lucky; the policeman waved away the driver as if to say "don't bother me now" and carried on down the line. I was also furious with the driver, who could have just kept quiet. I left the truck for a while until the policeman had run back the way he had come.

As night fell, the temperature fell rapidly. I had lent the old man my sleeping bag, which was probably a mistake as I then got no sleep at all, being too busy shaking with the cold. One thing kept me warmer in spirit at least; further recces on my part had shown no sign of a police checkpoint, or of any other policemen. Every two hours the driver would wake up and run the engine for five minutes to stop the fuel freezing.

27/5/97

It was four in the morning when a couple of lorries in front of us started up and turned on their lights. When a couple became ten I attempted to wake the driver, but the Mandarin for "excuse me, but we're going to be overtaken if we don't get going right now!" unfortunately escaped me. I woke the co-driver, but though he unquestionably knew more Mandarin, he was no more successful in getting the boss up! He finally woke when the first of fifty trucks roared past hooting. Sadly, an attempt to start the engine proved that we had waited too long since the last warm-up; the engine spluttered and died after five seconds. The driver and co driver grabbed some old driving gloves, jumped outside and disassembled the fuel filter, dipped the gloves in and then lit them. Waving them under the fuel lines while holding them with a pair of pliers, the co driver was berated by the driver for presumably not getting him up in time. I made the latter extremely annoyed when I stopped him punching him too; now he's "lost face" and will be looking for a way of getting back at me. By the time we had got the engine started, we were only able to move forward about 100m along with the other laggards, some of which had the equivalent of roaring log fires underneath their fuel tanks; I stayed away from those!

Thankfully, there was no sign of the police as we progressed up the pass and at midday we were finally past the roadwork's, having taken about 20 hours to go 5k. We had beautiful sunshine to the top of the pass, then I was into Tibet proper with the highest pass (5180m) behind me. The next 50k were uneventful, and I was dropped off at Amdo at the bridge leading over the river. About twenty Tibetans were waiting there and they set to teaching me Tibetan with enthusiasm for the next 20 minutes. I enjoyed myself so much I completely forgot to ask where the local police station was, so when they pointed to the yellow building just across the river I had a small heart attack! I then quickly took refuge in a small cafe on my side of the river, and discovered I was extremely hungry. The owner was a Nepali Tibetan who spoke a little English, and we swapped notes on Nepal. Finally, six o'clock rolled past, and a gaggle of PSB officers streamed out on the dot and dispersed. Just then, a sleeper bus arrived, which seemed like a gift from God; I now had plenty of "cover". Unfortunately, the town is just as much of a dump as my travel writer acquaintance warned me about a month ago, and my hopes of seeing something unusual were dashed. I can also award Amdo with the title of "Worst Public Toilet Anywhere"; the floor was covered with dried... I'll let you imagine it. Suffice it to say that a picture of it carried about your person would prove far more effacious than Immodium.

I was now faced with a choice; should I stay in Amdo in the hope of finding something interesting but with the risk of running into nice men in dark green uniforms, or should I try to get a lift to Nagqo immediately in the hope of being about to bypass the town and it's attendant checkpoints (one before and one after) tonight. The schedule for the latter looked very tight, but the toilets decided the matter; I was leaving! I climbed a small hill just out of town where I discovered that I didn't have constipation after all, and 3 k later an extremely old truck took pity on me and agreed to take me to Nagqo for 30Y. About eight pm we pulled in behind a bus at some roadwork's, and the driver suggested that I get a lift with them. Perhaps he was tired of my knee stopping him from changing gear! Anyway, I jumped out and ran up to the bus where my appearance caused a small riot. After letting me on, the mixture of Chinese and Tibetan passengers insisted that I should pay nothing at all since they were going to drop me off short of the town anyway; perhaps they were enjoying all the excitement. Anyway, I settled down in the back with a quartet of Khampa's, and we all compared our knives. Swiss army models don't rate much here, but they were soon asleep, and I struggled to stay awake so I could count the kilometre markers and therefore know when I should be dropped off; nowhere near the checkpoint!

28/5/97

I thought I had 20k to go at 0030 when the bus rounded a corner and I saw the checkpoint straight ahead of us! The bus stopped with a squeal of brakes and the door opened as I frantically pulled on my rucksack and climbed over the piles of bedding in the aisle. As I came up to the door the conductor stopped me, and we stared at each other. A few seconds later he gestured that I should lie down in the back. I asked him how much he wanted for sparing me a 20k hike and a river crossing in the dark; he said 100Y. I considered things briefly, then thought what the heck, and lay down in the back. Blankets and a couple of bales of wool were piled on top of me, and we drove up to the checkpoint.

The door opened, and I heard two people enter and start talking in Chinese. One of them shone a torch towards my position and at this stage I felt that my heart could probably be heard in Beijing! Though that wasn't logically a problem, I was having real problems controlling my breathing at 4500m. However, after two minutes the policemen left and the bus raced off; so fast I was bouncing completely off the seat every ten seconds. The idea must have been that the faster they got to the next checkpoint the less likely the people at the first were to phone them and ask them to do a better job of searching the bus! Anyway we stopped again ten minutes later. This time, they only stayed on the bus a minute and we were off. Thirty seconds later we stopped. One of the Khampa's said "Laowai, OK, OK", and I sat up to find everyone wreathed in smiles. I looked towards the conductor and asked "Lhasa?". He nodded, asked for another 100Y, and we sped off. Now it was four down and one to go!

The bus driver was a bit of a maniac, like most you meet here. For about 100k we had a race with a sleeper bus, that had it's amusing moments when it sped past us on pit stops; the driver would usually end up dragging someone with their trousers half-way down back to the bus so we could speed on. I managed to get some sleep at last, but the ride ensured that I spent most of my time staring up at the stars. This being the first clear night I had had, it was a revelation. There seem to be far more here than at home and they were incredibly bright. About five am we started a descent, and as the sun came up I was motioned down below the level of the windows; presumably we passed through the last (and probably asleep) checkpoint here. From what I could see we descended into a large valley then sped past light industrial buildings. Finally we stopped at 7-05 am. I sat up to see the passengers getting their luggage and getting out, and the conductor smiled at me and announced "Lhasa!". I tumbled out, and shook hands with a few people and looked around. Nothing seemed familiar, but the driver took my arm, pointed and said "Potala". I waved goodbye, and set off down the street, and 100 metres further on there it was; I had made it. It had taken me about 78 hours, and I had been very lucky, but I had been smart as well, and had thoroughly enjoyed my little escape and evasion exercise!

After five minutes of self congratulation, I remembered I'd had only 8 hours sleep in the last three days, so I trudged off to where I hoped I would find the Snowlands hotel. I was signed in, and then got my gear together for a much needed shower. As I walked across the courtyard, who should I see but the travel writer I'd last seen on the UB to Beijing train. He looked at me strangely for a moment, then remembered me. "You were right" I told him. "Amdo IS crap!".

As more people got up, I saw that Gideon and Gal had made it too. They appeared very late, looking like death; they'd got in at 2 am after a continuous 56 hour bus journey with one 20 minute stop. In fact they had just got their rice at the stop when the driver tried to drive off without them! They'd had terrible trouble with the altitude too, especially when trapped on the Tanggula. I gently reminded them that perhaps they should have done more training than staying an extra hour in bed in the morning- at times I do like to crow! Anyway, we then went off to breakfast.

Gideon and Gal agreed that banana pancake was definitely called for, so we dived into the first backpackerish place we found and attempted to have some. An hour later we were still waiting and I had gone to sleep, but I felt very hungry once something was plunked down in front of me. Once we had finished, we had a quick look around Lhasa, but the prospect of more sleep seemed more attractive. Once the evening rolled round, we managed dinner, then went back to bed. Pity about the karaoke club across the road!

29/5/97

Now's the time to think about where I want to go next and how I'm going to get there. Basically, I want to see Lake Yamdruk and the Karo-Lo pass south of Lhasa, Shigatse, Lhatse, Everest , and Zhangmu. Other places like Nam-Tso will probably have to fall by the wayside, especially as a trek to Everest has to be done; Tony wants his altitude data! Gideon and Gal want to hire a Landcruiser and do a similar route after obtaining a few people to share the cost. I would like to join, but there is one problem; I would be repeating the Everest section. Well, we'll see.

Later I was walking down the street and came across a western girl with a scarf across her face; she rather surprised me when she pulled it down, as half her face was badly burnt. Sarah had just got back from the Ganden-Samye trek and made the mistake of leaving her face uncovered. Strangely for someone with red hair, she'd forgotten to bring anything for sunburn, so I gave her my lotion; being such an "Iranian-looking" type I had precious little need for it. It also turned out that she was looking for a 4WD tour as well, which could well prove useful, and we arranged to meet that evening for dinner so she could meet the others, who now included Yeung. The rest of us looked around the Barkhor area then I faxed Mum and Dad, thereby avoiding endless questions and breaking all the potentially worrying bits easily. I did ask about email, but according to the guy who ran the fax/computer bureau next to Tashi's, you would have to ring Chengdu to get access to a router which he saw as a bit expensive. He also had a few problems with power cuts, which are rather common here.

I appear to have adapted to the height fine now, with all readings the same as at sea level, but Gideon is having a few problems with a heart rate of 90! However over a heated planning session in the backpacker hangout Tashi's I decided to try some "Lhasa Beer", and soon discovered that the altitude makes you merry very quickly.

30/5/97

The hangover made the running up and down the stairs even more difficult than the altitude; I only managed 20 minutes. It was then time to see the Jokang temple, which is the world centre of Tibetan Buddism. The entrance is covered in prostrating pilgrims, but it has to be said that the atmosphere inside was magical. The first thing you're supposed to do is follow the pilgrims route of a series of contracting clockwise circuits of the inner temple, spinning long lines of prayer "cylinders". Once inside the inner temple, there are a series of shrines to various deities, before which people affix money and endless yak butter candles; the smell is overpowering. Upstairs I met some Mongolian pilgrims escorted by a trainee monkess of about sixteen or so who spoke fluent English, which came in very useful in explaining each shrine. I soon realized that I had forgotten most of my Mongolian, but managed "sain baina u" all the same. We then managed to get permission to go onto the roof, where there are a series of solid gold statues, plus an excellent view. It's all very different from anywhere else I'd seen in the past two months, and well worth visiting.

In the afternoon my Kiwi roommate Angela took me on a tour of a local sewing shop, and I promptly decided to kit Mum and Grandma out in Tibetan gear. I figured that I could do with something a little more efficient than a mountain shirt on those freezing passes, so I got a wool "cagoule". Walking back I was privileged to witness a Lhasa thunderstorm. I say privileged, because the locals were obviously delighted; the first peal of thunder caused a huge cheer!

31/5/97

I've decided I'm on the 4WD tour; it may be repeating some bits, but I should get to see all that I'm interested in. It's being arranged with a semi-permanent resident of Lhasa and the Snowlands hotel; an American woman called Chris. Basically, a week seeing most of Southern Tibet should total 1100Y each, which is doable. There is a small problem; the PSB will need our passports for a day so we can get our Everest Base Camp permits. I'm sure that you can get them actually at the Chay checkpoint, but I suppose that they have to have a means of checking who came in legally or not! Angela, who eventually had to come in by bus after trying hitching and illegal bus tickets, had an extremely amusing story about Miss Lee at Golmud. Apparently, after a promise by a driver that he would take them to Lhasa, they were sitting in the bus waiting to go when a "policeman" got on and ordered them all off. He then escorted them to the Golmud CITS office, where a vengeful Miss Lee insisted that they buy full price tickets after their passports had been confiscated by the "policeman". At that point, one of the party noticed that the supposed policeman was actually in the staff photo on the wall of the CITS office! All hell broke loose, embassies were called, and half the backpackers staged a sit-down in the middle of the office. Six hours later, Miss Lee gave in, handed the passports back, and sold them half price tickets! Nice one.

We went to Tashi's II for dinner with Sarah and one of her acquaintances from Chengdu, an Italian called Angelo who spoke fluent Mandarin. It was suggested that we all go to the local nightclub after dinner. This surprised us somewhat, as the thought of a nightclub in Lhasa, especially one opposite the Potala Palace, made the eyeballs boggle somewhat. However, we set off for the place via a karaoke bar or two where Sarah absolutely refused to demonstrate her trained singing voice; perhaps it's just as bad as mine! After reaching JJ's as it's known, we were pleased to find that it had no entrance fee, only to find that the booze prices would put Stringfellows to shame. However, it had other unique features too.

The first was immediately apparent as we walked in; five policemen were standing against the walls. They didn't stay there long either; within a minute of us sitting down we had two standing a metre behind us, either because it was assumed that all backpackers are so poor that they always resort to pick pocketing, or more likely because there is a law about Chinese nationals "associating" with foreigners. Invitations to sit down with us met with a stony stare!

The dance music was all western, but 15 minutes after we entered it stopped and we were treated to what looked like a fashion show, as five models trooped in and out of the stage entrance wearing various outfits. After the last had swayed off stage, doubtless balancing an imaginary copy of "Thoughts of Mao" on her head, a band fronted by a pretty Chinese singer came on. It has to be said that she didn't garner much attention, perhaps because her stage presence of a rather small mouse just run over by a truck. However, a few pairs of Chinese men were enticed to dance with each other while we quietly giggled. However, after three numbers she went off, to be replaced by a snappily dressed Chinese singer who patently had an extremely high opinion of himself. Angelo gave us a running commentary on what he was saying.

He started by joking with the audience that he was very tired as he'd been playing mah-jongg all last night. I could sympathize with this, as the last time I was in University accommodation Chinese men playing mah-jongg had kept me awake all night! He then treated us to a dazzling smile and a couple of numbers (in that order of importance), but as the crowd ceased to treat him with the required level of adulation, he started showing a few signs of boredom; pointedly glancing at your watch between verses is a bit of a give-away! By the time he had reached his fifth number, he was telling the crowd that they were going to get the next song whether they liked it or not; there had been a lot of calls for one of the local favourites, which he wasn't keen on singing. Anyway, once he'd removed himself and his ego off stage, we were treated to some dance music- the same dance music, or more accurately a total of four songs on continuous loop. I didn't like Bjork to begin with, and here she was, once every twenty minutes! Anyway, we thought it was time we hit the dance floor, which we hoped might also relieve us of our faithful followers. Being that three foreign men going out there alone might make the PSB a little nervous, we dragged Sarah along as well as we dived into the middle of the pack- followed by three policemen ready to gun us down if we as much as smiled at anything female. It was all just hilarious, but undeniably effective!

Once we left, we were ambushed by a series of taxi drivers keen to drag us into their taxis, so we ran to the first one and got in, only to find that there was no driver! Another mad dash later, and we were finally on the way home. Gideon and I decided to try the karaoke bar next door, but found it extremely boring, though all those pictures of naked women on the walls were, er, tasteful. Took us five minutes of bashing on the hotel door, but they let us in eventually.

1/6/97

The jog up and down the stairs was somewhat harder today; I've picked up a sore throat, not something you really want here. Lets hope it doesn't last, I really could do without it. Anyway, we all went off to the Drephung monastery which proved to be both impressive and possessed of a beautiful view. We then delivered our passports to the tender mercies of the PSB, and went off to the Pentoc Hotel, which is trying to increase it's popularity by showing films on video to all and sundry. Tonight was the Last Emperor, which was broken at regular intervals by power cuts.

2/6/97

This is the day before departure, so it's the usual rush. Step one is to visit the Potala palace, which is actually better than I had been told. Sheer scale saw to that, and it's incredible that they managed to build it here using no nails; there's some religious objection to that. As Lhasa has regular earthquakes, they had to pour molten copper into the walls to keep them standing. The coffins containing former Delai Lama's were fairly awe-inspiring; some contained up to four tonnes of gold. Finally, the view over Lhasa was great, though you rather wished that there was fewer industrial estates to view.

The rest of the day was spent getting a few things ready, like money and food, and sending off the family presents; I'm assured that they do get there eventually. Got to bed early, as we're leaving at 0645 tomorrow.

3/6/97

Woke up late, which was slightly embarrassing; I was the guy who usually got everyone else up! By 0650 we were picking up Sarah and on the road. After 60k of flat road, a stop for momos and crossing a river, we begin our first climb to the pass overlooking Lake Yamdruk. The view there shows the lake to be a beautiful shade of blue, and we then descended to the lake shore and along to Nagartse, where dozens of locals hang around the streets looking bored- you half expect Clint Eastwood to turn up. We then visited the local monastery after some arguing with the driver who thought the police might object, which was suitably isolated and next to a police post. The view was good and things were friendly, but by this time monasteries were all looking the same, especially after the Jokang, so I wasn't that interested. I'm afraid that by this time I was feeling like a little boy being dragged around old churches back home!

Getting back to the village, we looked over the local ruined monastery, then walked back into town to find a basketball game in progress. Gideon and Gal play at home, so I was dragged in to make up the team for the locals vs foreigners game, while Sarah concentrated on entertaining the younger ones; red hair causes a real fascination here. I think the result was just about even, as we had more experience (myself excepted), but the locals had all the puff; it was about 4600m here. After the inevitable egg fried rice, it was whist by candlelight until we turned in.

4/6/97

Up early, and the first intimations I had that this wasn't my day was when I accidentally locked everyone out of the room; including the hostel owner as he didn't have a spare key! Luckily Gideon managed to squeeze through a window. I then thought I'd say thanks by ordering breakfast. On the way out of the kitchen I gaily leapt over the doorstep, forgetting that the door jamb was lowered. Cue me rolling on the floor in agony with my head in my hands. After I'd then spilt half my tea over my leg, Sarah suggested that I do as little as possible before I broke a leg as well; I was doing my best to be very quiet as we started off again.

After a couple of hours we were at the Karo-La pass, where the Tibetans had first met the Younghusband Expedition of 1904. At the time, the good colonel thought that he could bluff his way past without firing, but unfortunately that wasn't to be. The Tibetans opened fire, and the British replied causing very heavy Tibetan casualties. In truth, they were even heavier in moral terms, as the locals had all been presented with an amulet by the then Delai Lama which he had assured them would protect them from all bullets. Firing stopped quickly, and a British officer described the sight of the remaining Tibetans walking off the battlefield with their beliefs destroyed as the saddest of his life. Today, I could find no sign of what is supposed to have been the world's highest battle at 5000m, if you discount the pointless glacier war between India and Pakistan; not a single 303 cartridge. On the way down from the pass we saw three Westerners cycling up; it's nice to see that some people manage to get past the restrictions, which included another checkpoint situated in a narrow valley; they must have had permits.

Gyantse had another temple, which was actually interesting, in particular the large tower which you spiral around as you climb, seeing a series of shrines along the way. We then had a little yak for lunch, followed by an attempt to visit the fort. The locals weren't very effective in keeping Brits out in 1904, but these days they're getting their revenge by charging 120Y for entrance, which we didn't feel was worth paying! People like us are not allowed to stay overnight, so we then went on to Shigatse for the night. After a long search for a restaurant that served egg plant, the Israelis showed some signs of being a little narked with China; the word "meiyou" got them very annoyed, while the Brits and Hong Kong contingent stayed calm; perhaps it's the endless rain which gave us the patience! We were staying in the Fruit Hotel (perhaps for nut cases) which was friendly and opposite the local monastery, which we resisted the temptation to visit.

5/6/97

We were awakened by the blare of the local Army barracks loudspeakers, presumably spouting propaganda, and were on the road to Sakya monastery by 9 am. This is most of the way to Lhatse, and is reached via a 20k turnoff. It had it's points, particularly the massive earthen wall that surrounded it. It also had a friendly restaurant that supplied Gideon with all the egg fried rice he could eat, which turned out to be quite a lot! After an enforced stop caused by an engine overheat, we carried on to Lhatse where we were to stay for the night. The Lhatse Hotel seemed OK, especially the manager, who told us where the local night-clubs were as well as informing us of all sorts of other things.

The nightclub proved to be very quiet, with practically no local women there at all, and none of them would dance with Gideon and I. The local lads enjoyed themselves dancing with us, even buying us beer at one point. It was time to reflect once more on the fact that 2-Unlimited have achieved levels of cultural penetration throughout China that have evaded Coca-Cola. Just say "No-no, nono-no" to anyone here, and they'll hum it back to you! After a few pints we were all in, and we wandered back to the hotel, apart from Sarah who managed a lift on a motorbike.

6/6/97

It was Rongbuk monastery and Everest today, and we started off by stopping at the checkpoint just outside Lhatse, where we waited for half an hour while things were scrutinized. We then started a climb south instead of continuing west on the Kashi road that led past Kailas. For future evaders, you'd have to travel a way north to box the place! We reached the highest pass I'd been to at 5220m, and I tried a quick 100m sprint; it's tiring. Just on from there, the "Friendship Highway" disintegrated somewhat, before we got to see our first sight of the Himalayas. They looked big, even from this far away. On reaching Xegar, we were stopped by the local Army checkpoint for a while, then went on a couple of kilometres before turning off the the highway onto the base camp road.

After passing through Chay and paying our 60Y for our "permit", we started a very long and laborious climb to the Peng-la pass. If anyone doubts that the Himalayas are new-fold mountains, they should look out of the windows at this point as the folded sediment layers were starkly visible on the surrounding cliffs. From the pass, you had a great view of the mountain ranges ahead, but as was usually the case, the top of Everest was hidden behind cloud, making it seem shorter than the ones around it. We then descended through a couple of villages to Peruche where there was a cafe that served "sweet tea"; milky and very sweet, but a nice change from the yak butter variety. We then travelled on over a high altitude plain at 4300m where there's quite a lot of arable farming, supported by extensive irrigation. The people here have very dark skins, in fact the darkest I've seen anywhere in Tibet, which became more obvious as you progressed up the valley, which closed in as we got futher south. After a five or so hours, we rolled into Rongbuk monastery at about 5050m and quite late.

We'd heard that the monks hire out rooms these days, but had been warned to bring some food. I can now reveal that there is food at Rongbuk; tsampa, noodles, mantou (tasteless bread buns) and sweet tea! We spent a lot of time gazing at Everest, which dominated the head of the valley. It's size was accentuated by the clouds passing by well below it's summit. We'll walk to base camp there tomorrow, along with an Israeli and Brit who want to climb to Camp III at 6400m. If only I had the time!

7/6/97

We should have been up early, but it was freezing so it was ten before we got going. I decided to be a hard bastard and go carrying the pack; well, got to tell Tony how it feels here! The valley is magnificent, but it was a gentle but difficult climb. Gideon got one of his migraines after 5k so we left him to recuperate in a small stone enclosure near a ruined monastery. Yeung went next, though for a guy of 55 he's probably super fit! Sarah and Gal started slowing down more and more, and eventually I left them behind as we climbed up a small rise (which had the heart rate at 170 and respiration's at 45), after which there was a gravel plain all the way to base camp, which consisted of an accommodation block (!) with a few Pakastani's sitting outside drinking beer and playing Chinese checkers. They all wanted to know where I was from, and after the "passing of the pictures" I asked about them. Apparently they got here over two months ago, and have already made five attempts at the summit, but have been turned back by bad weather each time- you can see the plume of snow being blown off the summit very easily. The expedition leader (a police general) explained how they get a climbing pair to the top in a three week process from base. After two weeks, they're at 7500m and climb to 8300, where they spend the night on oxygen, then hopefully climb to the summit and down to 7500m again in a day. Tomorrow another pair will try again, followed by another the day after. I wished them luck and then set off back to Rongbuk to find the others who had failed to appear in the hour I had been there.

I meandered a bit on the way down, but failed to find any of them. I got rather worried when I got back at 3-30 to find no-one else back yet! Gideon and Yeung came back at 5; they'd been sleeping off the road somewhere, but not where I'd looked it seems. Sarah and Gal got back at 8pm, by which time we were about to send out the search parties. They'd been looking for me! Why, I asked? Sarah smiled and said that I had set off this morning with "a strange gleam in my eye!". Well yes, but I'm just not that nuts!

While drinking some sweet tea later, we were talking to an 18 year old German girl when our driver entered the room. He grunted appreciatively at her, and to our astonishment she seemed to think that this was some sort of greeting and grunted back! The driver and his mates all saw this as very amusing, and the former motioned me into the kitchen and told me I would be "game on" in Shigatse in gestures if not in words. The poor girl had to leave soon afterwards, lest she attract any more nods and winks! Amazing how easy it can be to misread situations.

8/6/97

Up early to leave; we've got to make Shigatse by evening. It was a long drive but we made it, though there was a lot of snoozing in the back. Finally got to the Fruit Hotel, where it seems that the shower block is nearly finished! Wonders will never cease.

9/6/97

At this point I was going to leave our little group and the others were to find alternative transport to Lhasa, but buses to Zhangmu that I could get off in Tingri to start a trek to Everest were extremely rare, (about three a month) and Yeung pointed out that as the 4WD was going back to Lhasa anyway we might as well pay another 60Y each to go back there. I could hitch from Shigatse of course, but with the checkpoints involved, I'd get delayed to the degree that I might not be able to safely get to base and back again and then hitch to the border and travel to Kathmandu by the 25th of June; my cut off date for the flight home. So I decided to join the others in going back to Lhasa and try to get a bus leaving from there.

We went back the direct Shigatse-Lhasa road which was very fast and sported a checkpoint where the road crossed the Bramaputra. I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn't hitching back along here! Once we were back in Lhasa we went back to Sarah's old hotel the Banakshol. It's a great improvement on the Snowlands, being clean and willing to do your washing for the same price! My God the beds are comfy too. Sarah finally chose this evening to show us what she carried in her rucksack; all sorts of books, painting gear (well, she does have a Fine Art degree) and other assorted bits and pieces. How did she manage to carry all this on the Ganden-Samye trek? "Oh, I got the blokes to carry it" she replied with a smile.

10/6/97

Good news; there's a bus leaving Lhasa on the 12th, and I'm on it. Since I've got two days to spare before setting off for Everest again, I go to get a Nepalese visa, but unfortunately due to power cuts shutting the photo bureau I wasn't able to get it today. The others will go on to see Nam-Tso lake; on horseback, I'm informed by Angelo who has just returned from doing the same thing. I'd like to see them stagger back after a few days in the saddle, but 'tis not to be. I'll just imagine it as I slog my way around Everest when I wonder why I wanted to do this anyway! In case you're wondering why I want to go again, it's partly to see if I can go a little higher on the mountain and do some "medical" research for my friends Tony and Steve, and partly just to experience Tibetan trekking before I leave.

Went back to the Pentoc tonight to see Braveheart in the company of three Scots. I think I'll have to make a film about all those marauding Celts one of these days; of course Channel Four won't fund this one! Went on to JJ's where there was no sign of the police (it wasn't a Friday or Saturday), and hooked up with a load of educated Tibetans who quietly complained about the Chinese. I fear that they'll never leave unless they're thrown out, and it's looking less and less likely as time goes by. Anyway, enjoyed my chance to dance with whomever I want for a change.

11/6/97

Sarah announced she was going to write her journal this morning. The lads had said they were going to the Potala, but the groaning and throwing of water bottles when I suggested they got up persuaded me that this was likely to be later rather than sooner! Went for a jog again around the courtyard and up and down the balconies; the only other person doing anything similar was an American doing the Chinese exercise thing, which was quite a thing to watch. I'd seen the park version once in Beijing, but never seen a "tourist" join in except in fun.

The Nepalese proved very helpful about the visa once I'd got some photos together, and in between visits to the consulate I got some muesli, sausage etc for the journey to Everest. It's not quite luxurious fare, but it'll do, particularly as I tend to drink rather than eat on the hills. Yeung will leave for Hong Kong via Chengdu tomorrow, and Sarah, Gideon and Gal will be off to Nam-Tso by the local bus tomorrow; I shall miss them. However, this is the last leg of my magical mystery tour, and I'm in good spirits apart from a persistent sore throat. At dinner I slightly overeat with an excess of apple pie and custard (first I've seen of it for two and a half months) and I spend half the night throwing up; not a good start!

12/6/97

Saw the others off to the bus, and went back to wait for mine to leave, which it finally did at 11 am. With a mere 2 Brits, 1 Chinese girl, 3 Singaporean's and 3 Japanese it isn't crowded; until you add the rucksacks! It turns out the other Brit and his Chinese girlfriend (Met in the UK) are getting off at Tingri for Everest too, so I won't be alone after all. The ride down to Shigatse wasn't eventful, and for a change we went off to stay at the Tensing hotel rather than the Fruit. The former isn't as good as the guidebooks say, but it's all a bit irrelevant as we're leaving at 5 am tomorrow, as the others have to be at Zhangmu by tomorrow night.

The Singaporean's and I then go out for dinner at a local cafe. It turns out that they are all primary school teachers on a month's holiday, and they all speak perfect English because the language of instruction there IS English; I hadn't realised. I've heard a lot about how their local welfare system is the envy of the world, insisting that all save 20% of their net pay every year to pay for their retirement, but this lot are refreshingly non-sensible about the prospect. One of the girls, Mei, explained it to me in a form I could easily relate to. "I've got $70000 in the bank" she explained, "but I can't get at any of it until I'm too old to do anything with it"!

13/6/97

I'm not getting any better at sleeping in minibuses, even when it's dark. About 9 am we arrive in Lhatse for some breakfast that is extended somewhat when the driver discovers a puncture. After hitting the checkpoint, we discover that the nice Mr Penpa from the Banakshol didn't bother to get us Alien Travel Permits to go any further, but the policeman is thankfully honest and fines us all 50Y, the same amount it would cost to get one in Lhasa. Mei sensibly insists on us all getting individual receipts that we can all use as a ATP's in the meantime; just as well. Back on the road again for three hours until we hit the Xegar checkpoint, where we receive a large surprise. The Chinese girl is allowed to go no further without a permit, which is a real turnup for the books! She goes off up the road to Xegar proper to wake up the PSB from their siesta, while the rest of us have some dinner at the small restaurant at the checkpoint. Luckily, after some hand waving she gets her permit and we're off again. Mei confides that she will stay in Zhangmu for a day. "It could be interesting" she insists!

An hour and a half later we're at Tingri and the trekkers get off. First order of business; get something to eat, so we're up for the rice and yak meat. Second, we walk away from Tingri and the crowds of marauding children screaming "hello, hello" and "gumbi, gumbi" (Tibetan for pen). Someone should tell them that "gumbi" can have an other meaning in English, particularly for Americans, though their teachers probably wouldn't know that. Besides, I suspect that they probably train them; next year the kids will probably be begging for exercise books! After walking for half an hour we set up camp for the night. I drop to sleep imagining what I would do to the twit who handed out money, pens etc to these kids to begin with.

14/6/97

Up and away at 8-30; it's light at 7, but until the sun reaches you at 8 it's bloody freezing. We soon make an unfortunate discovery; we're on the wrong side of the river, east of Tingri. We should have been to the east of the river to begin with, and now it looks like we'll have to wade the blasted thing. After half an hour trying to find a way across keeping our feet dry I leave the others, and carry on our side in the hope of a bridge, and another 5k on I find one. After crossing, I wait for an hour, but I can see no sign of the other two, so I carry on alone.

The first village I pass through, Lungjiang, is full of the usual pesky kids, so I don't linger but push straight through where I meet a local who is also travelling to Rongbuk, and we walk together for a few k's along the side of the river. After we cross a couple of stream beds and a mini-pass, we meet some of his friends with a donkey and cart which I help to push up a few inclines. This gains me some chang, but I decline the offer to carry my rucksack- honest Tony! I draw ahead of them as I go along as the donkey seems to be making heavy weather of the terrain. About 25k south of Tingri I'm at 4700m, and the track and the river turn east and start to climb. This is now becoming difficult, but 5k further on the path flattens out as I ford the river; unfortunately getting my feet thoroughly wet, much to the interest of the shepherder and his assistant I meet there.

Another 2 k and I can see a nomad camp off to the south, so I go in in company with my other friends who have now caught me up, and get some butter tea for 1Y. The locals are surprised when I drink it all and ask for more, but the fact is that if the butter it's made with isn't rancid it's OK. I then carry on until the track forks; I take the right fork which is supposed to take me over the easier route over the Lamma- La pass ahead. By this time it's 7-30 pm and I'm getting very tired, so I find a large rock to lie behind and lay down the bivi bag. By the time the sun goes down I'm asleep about 40k along a journey that is probably about 90k long- not bad. Of course the locals are already across the pass or somewhere near it!

15/6/97

Wake up around 7 as the light arrives with respiration's at 15, but resting heart rate of 90! I content myself with some sausage in my sleeping bag until the sun reaches me. After the 2k my carefully dried feet get wet again as I ford another stream; why did I get those goretex boots anyway? After that it's another 2k to the top of the Lama-la pass at 5150m, which is unusually marked by a cairn and a single prayer scarf. You can soon see why; there's a valley between me and a second pass at the same height; people are so pissed off seeing this they don't regard crossing this pass as something to celebrate! In the valley are some nomad tents (about 5100m- highest ever settlement I've seen!) and some extremely efficient dogs who keep me a long way away. After the second pass, I meet a couple of porters carrying gear for Rongbuk. I must look tired at this point, as they press some sugar crystals on me before going off down the valley which gently slopes down to Zonmug.

Zonmug was a hoped for rest stop 10k down the valley where I was to obtain a little butter tea, but after crossing the valley to see the place it appears deserted, with only a couple of dogs and a wild horse to keep me company. Ah well, back down another 5k to the river by the 4WD track that I had travelled along last time, where I found the two porters waiting for me; kind of them. However, it was obvious that they would get to Rongbuk before dark and equally obvious that I would not. Near perhaps, but not there!

Crossing the raging torrent to the 4WD track appeared to guarantee me a ride to somewhere an awful long way away; Xegar perhaps (!), so I turned south and moved up the valley next to the river through two more ruined monasteries, trusting that there would be a bridge. There was one just as the valley forked 10k further on; left to Everest, right to another mountain. However, by this point it was nearly 7-30, and I was too tired to go any further. I managed to stay awake for a while looking at Everest's summit, just visible over another mountain.

16/6/97

Woke up feeling fairly bad. The sore throat was now definitely a lung infection, and my left lung was rather painful. I understand that erythromycin makes you dozy, so I put off taking any, especially as the course lasts a week. Instead, I trogged over the bridge, and on up the 4WD track. After about 5k, a Toyota bounds down towards me and stops. Inside are two of the Pakistani's I met last time I was here. They're moving out today and have some bad news; both the attempts on the summit failed, one at 8620m which must have gutted them. The wind was just too bad, and that was that after two and a half months here. I sympathized, and moved on. Moving up the track I notice what looks like shortcut footpaths, and they are worth taking! Finally, after 15k of uphill I'm back at Rongbuk.

The expedition truck was just loading up, both with the Pakistani's stores and whichever of the locals could fit on the top. They will drive down to Kathmandu and stay there for a week, then fly home; I get the impression that Kathmandu is the preferred option! While watching them go, I see another Westerner.

Ross is a Czech who got here a week ago, and wandered up to base camp to see it and nothing more. The Pakistani's were friendly, and suggested that he come with them to the next camp to retrieve some gear. We'll feed you and have a yak carry your rucksack he was assured. They then spent the next week taking him all the way up to Camp III! He was grateful for the opportunity, but the joke wasn't quite funny yet! As we settled down to drink gallons of sweet tea, an Israeli walked in.

Shy must have been pacing me along the way, but he was in better shape than I was; he wanted to walk back out along the 4WD track, while Ross and I were definitely for taking a lift if we could get one, at least back to the highway. The first chance arrived at four when a Landcruiser with two Germans arrived. Unfortunately, they explained to us that what with their driver, guide and cook (!"!!) they wouldn't have room for Ross, who was in a bad state. I bit my tongue before saying what I thought of them, but left wishing I could bomb Berlin! Ross had a healthier outlook; he would never ask for anything from a German. Going back to the cafe, we ordered some thukpa (meat and noodles). Part of Rongbuk's essential charm is the fact that you never get what you order, not to mention the fact that it's usually 2 hours later when you actually get your noodles minus the meat. This is a monastery, so you can't really expect meat, but it might help if the shopkeeper stopped trying to play the guitar and sing; I swear that Everest itself would run away if it had the chance!

17/6/97

Woke up, and Shy and I wandered off to base camp. It was easier than last time, and we took great pleasure at motoring past the Germans at mach 9; they soon gave up, and called up their Landcruiser. The base camp was deserted now the Pakistani's had left, and Shy and I contented ourselves with gazing longingly at Rongbuk glacier which I certainly was in no condition to ascend, then went back.

Once we had got there, who should we see walk in but the British/Chinese couple I thought had given up on my first day. They looked worn but happy, and were somewhat non-plussed to have the evil faced little so-and-so (not a monk) who runs the monastery's "hotel" operation try to ensure they paid the full hotel rate to pitch their tent 20m from the monastery. We stopped to listen, but this enraged him all the more and he tried to push me over shouting that it was none of my business. He soon learnt that you don't shove people 4 inches taller than you, and an amicable compromise was reached. Thankfully, the majority of the monks here are much friendlier!

At this time Ross felt he had to leave as his visa ran out on the 21st. There was no sign of a lift for him, and if he had to walk all the way to the highway before getting a lift he had to start moving straight away. Shy and I should probably have gone with him.

18/6/97

SNOW! I was disappointed to see cloud cover Everest, but it was a little magical all the same. Shy and I make a snap decision to walk out immediately; perhaps we'll catch Ross. Besides, who is going to drive up here if this continues? The Germans also decide to leave, but despite our quick pace down the valley there's no chance of us catching them! As we reach the fork as the Everest valley meets the main one a Landcruiser speeds past, filled with good-looking girls. Sod's law again!

We make rapid progress down the valley to Chosang where we spend half an hour having butter tea with the teachers in the school before pressing on down to Passum, where the local kids guide us to the Passumpah Teahouse (actually has the sign in English). The owner has a pitted and swollen face that suggests an intimate acquaintance with leprosy, but he's a good cook and chapatis and sweet tea make me very happy. Shy, who has just spent a month in Nepal, is even happier! As there's no one else here; not even Ross sadly. Hopefully he's a little further ahead, but his absence leaves us with the rooftop room with brilliant views of the Himalayas. Pity about the toilet being across the street; neither of us could reach that far!

19/6/97

Up for a breakfast of watery noodles which we both fail to finish. It's quite expensive here at about 60Y each, but last night made it worth it. Unfortunately, as we walk towards Peruche, the noodles start to have an effect on me that I could do without. I stop for tea at the village, but as we walk out up towards Holum I start suffering diarrhoea, and the episodes repeat themselves once every kilometre. Shy shows no ill effects at all, but he is a truly mad bastard who loves to eat tsampa! I try immodium, but this is laughably ineffective; the tablets are out the other end within ten minutes. Eventually, after 10k of fertilizing the local hillsides, I crawl into Holum, and Shy gets us somewhere to stay; in a small Tibetan house with a young man and his mother.

I start on anti-bacterial antibiotics, but make the mistake of washing down the first tablet with some warm water. It washes out again almost immediately after I make a dash for the rooftop toilet! The next tablet is taken with a sip of cold water, and I decide not to drink anything for a few hours. I may dehydrate, but it'll be worse if I have the shits as well. While lying down, I can see the locals going about their business; eating tsampa for dinner and churning yak butter in a large brass-bound cylinder for a quarter of an hour at a time. I reflect that my sense of timing is appalling; getting food poisoning at 4600m just before our highest pass must be the worst of my luck in the last three months! Shy promises me a stock cube or two tomorrow morning if I'm able, but giving one to the son of the family proved a little problematic as he stuffed it straight in his mouth before we could demonstrate that they were supposed to be added to hot water. He enjoys them both ways, apparently!

Didn't get much sleep, but a couple of hours after taking my second antibiotic pill, I start to drink my home brewed anti dehydration fluid. By midnight I'm throwing it down, and I then start on the plain water with no ill effects as yet. It then occurs to me that it's just as well I'm not on erythromycin, as it may be incompatible with my anti-bacterial pills. Aren't I lucky then.

20/6/97

The stove is started early at about seven, and I feel much better though tired. I manage some soup, then we're off. The first two hours of the ascent go well and I maintain a good pace. As we hit 5000m however, I start slowing down something terrible with the lungs giving me grief. Shy, who has been trailing me up to now, passes me with ease. Remember the tortoise and the hare? I should have! Eventually I reach the top of the pass and resolve to get a lift down to the road if humanly possible. Just to rub it in, the first of eight Landcruisers appear going in the opposite direction! After about 200m of descent, a Landcruiser approaches us going in our direction. It slows; then speeds past with the Brit/Chinese couple in the back shouting "surprise!". I contented myself thinking of the time a year from now when I'd come across them on a deserted back road in the pouring rain. I'd slow; then repeat their performance!

Thankfully, a few hundred metres on I got a lift! A trio of Japanese stopped, driven by a driver I recognized from a couple of weeks back. Shy decided that he wanted to walk down to the road on his own at this stage, so I thanked him for seeing me over the pass and confirmed our trilateral arrangement to meet in Kathmandu before speeding down to the road at several multiples of the speed I had been travelling previously. I was down on the Friendship Highway by two, where I donated my loose change to my benefactors, and stood at the side of the road adopting my now familiar hitching pose, which was immediately abandoned for a ditch as a police jeep hove into view! The very next vehicle was a truck, which screeched to a halt on the dirt road. The driver was Nepali, and he was very happy to take me to Zhangmu for 150Y.

The driver and his mate are both Nepali, though the mate was born in Lhasa which presumably makes him some sort of exile. They already have another passenger, a Chinese man of about thirty who runs a shop in Zhangmu, and we have a stilted conversation until we reach Tingri again and stop for a break. While the others drink butter tea, I pop over the road and get myself some Jian Libao to keep me going for the time being. I'm followed by the driver's mate who walks off into town. An hour later, we get back in the truck minus the mate, and drive to the western end of town, where the driver hoots several times. A minute later the mate appears from a large house doing up his belt, with a couple of women putting on his jacket. So that's where he's been!

It's strange, but either the British Empire still retains some magical influence here or some other factor applies to persuade lorry drivers here to drive on the left unless forced otherwise. I'd seen it elsewhere in Tibet, but not really noticed it, perhaps because most truck drivers, maniacs they may be comparison to back home, drive in such a suicidal fashion as my present one. We'll be driving on the left until there's a hundred metres in it, then swerve with impressive skill to avoid the oncoming vehicle. Anything going in the same direction is fair game too; we put a bus in the ditch as we squeezed by at 60 km/h.

One hundred kilometres on from Tingri we hit two 5000m passes in quick succession, followed by the sight of a huge snow-capped "table top" mountain that must have been the 8000m peak Xixabangma. Sadly, at this stage I had two frames of film left and thought I should save them- possibly a mistake. We then started a 100k long descent.

It started with a series of shortcuts across the hairpin bends as we descend, then we were on a long straightish road down to an Army checkpoint, which delayed us very little, then it was on to Nyalam. You have to cross a ravine to get to the town, and there's a PSB checkpoint on the other side. I took my cue from the driver and marched in with the rest of them into the building, where we handed over our passports. The policeman gave me a baleful look, but handed back my passport without comment, and we were off again.

From Nyalam the valley we travel in narrows, and the road becomes something carved out of the side of a cliff. Also, the terrain rapidly changes from high altitude desert to lush monsoon jungle as we descend through the clouds. This part of the road is called the "Descent into Hell", and you can see why! The road has about a metre spare to the right before a long drop, and there's barely room to move on the left. Our driver bounced his way along this track in way that seemed to guarantee we'd drop off the side at any moment, but thankfully we didn't join the lorries that do apparently fall off; about one a month was the figure I had heard mentioned. There must be some sort of time window system in operation, because I saw no traffic coming the other way- just as well, really!

After a 1000m drop, we arrived at the PSB checkpoint outside Zhangmu where I had an unpleasant surprise. The officer there spoke extremely good English, and demanded to know where my Alien Travel Permit was. I decided to see if a brazen lie would work, and told him that I had been fined 200Y at Lhatse for not having one, but the receipt was a group one that someone else had. He accepted my explanation without comment, which rather surprised me as I thought that he would ask me where was this group I was supposed to be with! Anyway, by now it was 8-30 pm and the light was fading fast, so the lorry driver dropped me off. I finally found somewhere that would serve me my last Tibetan momos, then got a room in a truckers hotel for the night.

21/6/97

I'm somewhat misinformed about the location of the bank. My obsolete LP guide showed it next to the police checkpoint at the top of town, so I was there at 10 am to change my money over, along with a crowd of locals who were waiting in a queue outside. From what I could see, the bank manager was in bed fully clothed! At this time I was rather short of patience, so I stormed in through the open door and told him I wanted to change some money. He just turned over and mumbled "meiyou" in whisky speech, so I dragged him out of bed and stood him up, whereupon he explained that the other bank changed money. I left him as the beaming locals came in!

If there's one way of describing Zhangmu, it would be mud. The road through the town is a dirt one, and despite the best efforts of disconsolate PLA soldiers tipping rough grade gravel on the top, the ruts are fairly impressive. As you descend along the switch backs the buildings become smarter, and I was halfway down when a voice said "hello"; it was the Chinese bloke I had had a lift with. He ran a small electronics shop, and we had a beer together, but was definitely time for me to go if I wanted to get to Kathmandu by nightfall. I found the bank- hopefully the last white-tiled monstrosity I would see for a while- cashed in my RMB for dollars and went to the border post, on the way getting some rupees from a trader. The border police kept me a mere five minutes, then gaily cancelled my visa and let me go on my way; they must have been keen to get rid of me.

After the checkpoint it's about 10k to the actual border at Friendship Bridge, and I'd hardly walked ten metres before a truck driver offered me a lift for a dollar or so. I then settled down in the back with a Chinese trader, sitting on one of his boxes of Huaghe beer. In a couple of minutes we were joined by a Sherpa woman and her daughter who had just come back from visiting their relatives in Xegar, and we went slowly down the road for a couple of kilometres until we hit some roadwork's. They seemed likely to stop us for several hours, so we joined the trail of people going down the footpaths that served as shortcuts down the valley. Finally, we were at the bridge, and despite a strange temptation to linger, I stepped into Nepal.

Everyone here is very keen on selling you things, everything from tickets to Kathmandu to orange juice, and I was so overwhelmed at getting an immediate ticket I forgot to register at customs; after all, I already had a visa. Once I stepped on the bus, a chorus of voices shouted hello, and I saw some Americans I had last seen in Lhasa. They had got here by hitching from Lhasa direct, with nary a hitch except when they were all arrested and slung out of Gyantse; all credit to them.

The journey to Kathmandu took about five hours, interspersed with two meal stops and regular police checkpoints, the reason for which was a little obscure as we hadn't actually been checked at the border! The road had been built by the Chinese and was by the standards of an average PLA road, extremely good. Presumably, when the invasion forces ride to Kathmandu they don't want to waste time! We got to Thamel about 6 pm, and I followed the others in. Room prices were very cheap, and the plethora of things like faxes, email, book and outdoor shops stunned you. I then made a phone call to the guy who was going to put me up while I was here; Dr Piggott of the WHO. I was extremely lucky in this, as my younger brother Ivo was one of his son's friends. I was surprised when he said that he'd be along in twenty minutes though; the traffic here was such that you'd expect him to be an hour. However, a Land Rover turned up at the appointed time and I was driven to Sanepa in no time; this being the weekend, the traffic outside Thamel was light. Dr Piggott was alone in his house at the moment, with his sons at school or university and his wife in Switzerland, so we talked about a few things before I went to bed.

22/6/97

It appears that early breakfasts are the rule here, and as a bonus they're held on the roof. Dr Piggott pointed out various areas and some of the local mountains. The monsoon was about to start, but for the time being the air was fairly clear. Later, he took me off to various of Kathmandu's cultural sites and to the major Lamaist temple. Sadly, as the day went on I found it harder to pay attention; I was feeling ill again. By the evening I was once more esconsced in the toilets, though these were considerably more comfortable than the roadside on a mountain pass. I suppose this could be called an appropriate introduction to the Indian sub-continent, but that would be very cynical!

23-24/6/97

Spent these two days lying down watching videos, running to the toilet when the mood grabbed me. Not the best way to see the city, but there was little alternative. I also got an explanation why Thamel was so frantically competitive; Dr Piggott called it the "photo lab disease". When the first local opened a photo lab in Kathmandu, he made a lot of money. Everyone else saw this, and regardless of the actual demand for these services, they all went out and bought photo labs of their own. Now no-one makes money! I thought of those thirteen garages I saw inside two kilometres near Xian; way more than was needed. Perhaps someone needs to go to business school. The locals here all drive on the left too, which partly explains why Tibet is so left-minded, but it was suggested that the origin of this could be religious; if you drive on the left you're always passing people in a clockwise direction, which is an angle I should have thought of. The checkpoints on the road to Kathmandu were declared a health hazard; I couldn't understand why! It turns out they're there to verify that the driver has obeyed the speed limit, which seems like a bit of a waste of money to me, but it turns out that many of the drivers drive just as fast but occupy their now "spare" time by visiting what must be practically "drive-thru" prostitutes, thereby spreading VD!

25/6/97

OK today, so I'm off to explore Kathmandu after paying for the plane ticket. Given that I had so little time, I'm mainly going to see Thamel, which has a bewildering array of shops etc. The street traders are very persistent; one began by offering me me a carved elephant. I wasn't keen, so he wanted to know if I wanted to "change money". When I said no to that too, he offered me pot, which I also declined. It might have been interesting to see what he might have come up with next; probably women. Surprisingly, the number of bars here is limited, with the best probably being Tom and Jerry's which has an Aussie flavour with all the Victoria Bitter beer mats. Sadly, they only sell Tuborg or San Miguel, who appear to have the whole market sewn up here. Frozen yoghurt is another staple, and very nice it is too.

On the way back to Sanepa, I went off to see a local procession that I had been told was within two miles of where I was staying. I got completely lost in the dark, and got caught by the monsoon, which really is equivalent to standing in the shower with all your clothes on. In this fashion I explored the city's back streets, where I learnt that the Nepalese share a certain characteristic with the Irish; they're so keen on being friendly they'll tell you where you need to go even if they don't know themselves! Finally I made it back, looking like I'd spent the evening in the bath.

26/6/97

This was the last day in Kathmandu, and the second to last day before I got home. In the evening I was to meet Shy and Ross provided they made it here at the Everest Steakhouse, but in the meantime I intended to get very merry in anticipation of paying off my debts in the months ahead; not a pleasant prospect. Fate provided me with two drinking partners in Shawn and Abullah. The former was a South African my age who had just got a divorce from his American wife, who was a diplomat considerably older than he was. The latter was a Quatari diplomat in Bangladesh who was having a rest of sorts here; Bangladesh not exactly being somewhere you could relax. The afternoon passed in reminisces until I remembered that I was to meet Shy and Ross shortly.

I was a little late to the Everest Steakhouse, as my formerly keen navigational instincts had atrophied somewhat, but I was very glad to see Ross safe and sound. He had trekked out and then got a lift to the border just in time, while Shy had got here the day after me. From here we all split; Shy goes to Thailand while Ross is off to the States. We then did our best to eat the huge steaks that were placed before us, with limited success. In the end we just drank to happy travels and went on our way.

27/6/97

Up very early to get to the airport at 7 am, where I have another reason to be grateful to Dr Piggott. I'd assumed that I didn't need to get it stamped on entrance to the country, but the talk was that I was going to have the Foreign Affairs ministry to get this sorted out. Thankfully, Dr Piggott's diplomatic passport got the whole mess sorted with a small fine. I was lucky on two counts; my mother would never have forgiven me for missing her fiftieth birthday party on the 28th!

The flight started as the usual long haul dreary affair. However, after changing planes in Qatar I was sat next to a Bhutanese civil engineer who explained that he was to undertake a two week training course in transport planning in... Swindon. It seemed that having travelled so far away from the place to see distant lands and their people, they were all now rushing to go to the place I was trying to forget. Anyone who can make sense of that one will go nuts!
© Rupert Fiennes 1998