Across Continents

Ken's Blog

Frustrucks and farhads

November 16th, 2010

Impeccable English. For which they’d apologised. They usually did. They were German. Philipp and Susanne. In China encouraging students to come and study in Bavaria. And terribly polite. Not even a raised eyebrow as I struggled to recall my truly appalling grasp of German – frustrucks and farhads. Breakfasts and bicycles.

I’d met them by chance, sharing the same small hotel in the walled city of Xi’an. Explained I’d followed the river Donau – the Danube – through Bavaria. Spent a couple of days in Suzanne’s home city of Regensburg. Recounted a few stories from those early days on the road. Riding with Manfred and Ute. Strange gnomes in Straubing. Pasta cooked in a kettle.

Truth is, I feel a certain kinship with the Germans. They go out in the world. Brings a wry smile to my face when I explain that in every country I’ve travelled through, encountering them is a question of not if but when. My favourite Western European nation. After my own of course.

[Author’s note: Revisiting my early writings, I’d been surprised to see how much English humour had crept into my pieces about Germany. So here’s hoping Philipp and Susanne realise my professed love of their own nation, of their culture, is quite genuine. Which it is. And pretty pleased that I remembered to emphasise the firmly ironic nature of the Straubing gnomes….]

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Stanley and the stamp

November 15th, 2010

Time for some more armchair adventure. Wrestling with officialdom, a less than useless guidebook, flurries of taxis, and an evasive stamp. Struggling to smile. Masking frustration an unenviable necessity. No matter how tempting it might be to do otherwise.

Progress hadn’t been what I’d hoped for. I’d always known it would take the best part of two to three months to cross China, comparable to my journey through Europe. But a few bouts of illness now meant I was running out of time on my current visa. Not an unsurmountable problem. Entitled to apply for a further thirty day visa whilst still in China. Not as much as I’d like, but it would do for now.

So, consulting my dubious guidebook, it was off to the local Police Public Security Bureau. I’d done my research. Photocopies of my passport. And my bank cards to show I could support myself without being a burden on the State. Couple of mug shots and a pen. What could be simpler? Quite a lot it seemed. For one thing, a friendly policewoman explained, yes, this was indeed the Bureau. But they no longer processed visa applications. Hadn’t done so for a while. That was now done at the Traffic Police Headquarters outside the city walls. Obvious really. So, helpfully provided with the correct address in Chinese, I headed off to find a taxi. First of many.

Eventually finding the right building, found myself in a large hall, packed with passport photographers, photocopiers and long queues. Quite bewildering. It was going to be a long morning. Or it would have been, had someone not encouraged me to wander up to the next floor. The visa office for foreigners. Manned by a solitary policewoman. She looked bored.

“Yes”, she said nodding, “You can apply for a new visa here”. Provided me with an application form. But my photocopies weren’t quite in order. Had to be A4. And I’d need a copy of my ’Aliens Registration Form’ from the hotel. Seemed reasonable enough, plenty of time to put everything in order and submit my request before they closed for the day. So, off I went. Another taxi.

A little while later….. and another taxi

Back once more at the PSB, the mornings helpful policewoman had been replaced by a policeman. This time there was a problem. My registration form from the hotel needed an official stamp. Smiling with gritted teeth, I enquired as to when the Bureau would close for the day. “Perhaps four” he suggested, a little shrug of the shoulders. I doubted I could make it back in time. A day lost. But surely a problem easily fixed. Return first thing in the morning.

Back at the hotel….

The hotel did have a stamp. But it was in Shanghai. Which is nowhere near Xi’an. This was not going well. I enquired as to whether John Lei, the hotel manager I’d met on my first night, might have one. Stanley, the front desk manager, assured me he’d try and contact John, away until the next morning, and see what could be done. Fingers crossed. Resigned to a frustrating evening of waiting, of hoping. Then a phone call. From reception. Problem solved. With what looked like a very shiny new stamp. Back on track.

Stamp - web

The next morning. Early

Same solitary policewoman. Still looking bored. But very helpful. And impeccable English. All was now in order. Just had to pay about sixteen pounds for the visa. Another office. Return with the receipt and I’d be finished for the day. Took about ten minutes. Return in five days to collect my passport. Things were looking up at last….

[Author’s note: Despite the term ’visa extension’ being widely used, it’s a misnomer. What you actually get is a new visa – a zero entry one as you’re already in country – obtainable from the local (Police) Public Security Bureau (PSB).

In theory, you could apply anywhere but, unless you’re a fairly competent Mandarin speaker, I’d recommend locations, such as Xi’an, where they’re used to dealing with foreigners. And where they speak English. Note that your thirty days starts from the date you submit your application, processing normally takes five working days, so once you get your passport back with the new visa, you’ve usually got just twenty three more days.

If you want to find the PSB in Xi’an – about four kilometres outside the city walls – just show the following to any taxi driver. About £2 each way from the city centre:

PSB - Xian - web

Worked for me!]

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Cruel world

November 15th, 2010

East. West. Capitalist. Communist. Familiar divisions. But ones that have all become blurred, faded. Less apparent. Classification a very human activity, a tool to simplify, to give structure, meaning. I’d chanced on one that seemed to be much more resilient, clear cut. Giving shape to the world. Subtitles and dubbing.

It’s not perfect of course. These things never are. But simple to apply. Turn on the TV, hunt for the local foreign film channel. And wait. It can only go one of two ways. And be quite cruel. I’d the TV on in the background. For company you understand. Nice little French film. Sophie Marceau. A picture of loveliness. But forget Chinese water torture. They’d dubbed it. Into Mandarin. I mean. In China? Unforgiveable. I’d turned the sound off. Attempted to lip read. But my schoolboy French not really up to the job.

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End of the road

November 14th, 2010

Camel - web

The exact start and finish of the Silk Roads is a subject of scholarly debate. And a very academic one at that. For one thing, they were trading routes. The flow of goods rather than people, different merchants for different stages. At best you might identify hubs, marketplaces. Perhaps Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. Staging posts rather than repositories, many wares continuing on their journey much further west.

And route is probably a more apt descriptor than road, not just because they were trading routes. For I suspect that, even at their busiest, huge swathes had little by way of discernable track. Instead reliant on local merchants to ensure the smooth flow of goods. Local knowledge.

So, not an exact science. I’d settled on the eastern Turkish city of Trabzon as my starting point. And the finish? Xi’an. Whatever its intellectual rigour, its historical merits, my route had at least felt right. The path through the mountains of central Georgia, the crossing from Kazakhstan into China, through desert and into Xi’an. Intuitively at least, it seemed plausible.

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Catching up with the Community Show

November 14th, 2010

R10bannerCS

Courtesy of friends at my local radio station in Somerset, England – www.10radio.org– a chance to listen to a great piece from their Community Show. Features extracts from a few blog posts and earlier broadcasts. As well as a trade secret or two behind the regular monthly on air chats with the Saturday Morning WakeUp team. Just click on the link below to tune in.

Download Radio Interview MP3

[If you enjoyed listening to this broadcast, or any of their other programmes – you can listen online – please do consider making a donation]

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Cycling into Xi’an

November 13th, 2010

I’d been doing what I thought was a pretty credible impression of a lost Englishman. I, at least, was convinced. Her name was Duan. On her way to collect her young daughter from the creche. A smattering of English, but still much more extensive than my Mandarin.

It’d reached Xi’an’s city walls with an hour or so of daylight left. Entering via the north west gate, I reckoned that still left me twenty five square kilometres in which to hunt for my hotel. A long night loomed, not least because I’d the usual mediocre map, its legibility even in daylight questionable.

Xian map - web

Difficult to pin down the size of Xi’an. Estimates vary from between three to over eight million. Either way, it’s pretty big. My efforts at entry comparable to riding into London armed only with postcard of Big Ben. At night. Sometimes wonder how I ever got out of Europe.

Soon dusk. Then dark. And still no sign of my hotel. By now I’d dismounted, deciding it much safer to walk than to ride amongst the chaotic evening traffic. If there was a consolation, aside from what I hoped would be a hot shower at some point before dawn, it was that I thought the place quite beautiful at night. The Bell Tower in the centre at least. Tastefully illuminated.

And I’d probably have seen much more of the city if it hadn’t been for Duan coming to my aid. She knew the road I sought. There were lefts and right. Distances. Distinct junctions. Landmarks. Rare precision. And she was right.

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Dear John…

November 13th, 2010

Ibis - night - web

“You must be John” I said. With a confidence that surprised me as much as him. “Yes” he replied, looking slightly puzzled. “How did I know?” he enquired. I explained I’d made my reservation through the hotel website, seen the manager’s name and guessed that was him.

Ibis team - web

I’d finally found the Hotel Ibis inside the walled city of Xi’an. Gone eight in the evening. Not their fault. Mine. Terrible map. In the dark difficult to discern even which road I was on. A palpable sense of relief when I finally spotted their familiar red and green logo.

In my three hours of wandering hopelessly around the city I’d passed quite a few hotels. A few modest ones. Others decadent splendor. Ordinarily I’d have picked a decent looking budget option, maybe even splash out for the night on a reasonably priced mid-range. But I’d a reservation at the Ibis.

I’d been a deliberate choice. Part of the French Accor group, same as the Novotel back in Trabzon, Turkey. You knew what you’d get. Not so much their adherence to ISO 9000 and something. That’s about consistency not quality, process rather than performance. No, it’s how they treat their people. Rather well. Bit of a pet subject of mine. Everyone an individual. To be treated with respect.

Fair to say that looking after their people is not something the hospitality industry is ordinarily all that good at. True, attention to detail, standards, matter. Of course they do. But I’d rather stop in a more colourful establishment, staffed by people who take pride in what they do. Much better that than in some sterile, airless monolith, operated by automatons.

And I wasn’t to be disappointed. Friendly welcome. The best yet in China. Non-smoking room close to the lift. Plentiful hot water in the sink and the shower. And I mean hot. Not lukewarm, which is more the norm. Spotless, well proportioned room. The next morning, a decent breakfast buffet. Lots of coffee and toast. Perfect start to the day. All for less than twenty pounds a day. Unquestionably superb value for money. Even had a lift that could take a full laden touring bike.

[Author’s note: No preferential treatment or rates have been offered, or sought, other than the online discount available to all. It’s just that I’ve been very impressed. For which the threshold is quite high. So forgive me if I wish to share the experience when it does occur. You can find the Hotel Ibis, Xi’an, at www.ibishotels.com.cn]

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Mud and mascara

November 13th, 2010

Smutty face - web

I’d given the usual assurances that I’d grab a shower. Change into clean clothes. Just as soon as I’d got to the room where I was staying. But hadn’t quite appreciated how filthy I was. A consequence of sixty miles into the centre of the city of Xi’an. A less than subtle blend of suntan lotion and diesel fumes. And a bit of mud. Admittedly I’ve not checked, but I’d be quite surprised if the Chinese MoT includes an emission test. At least one that any lorry’s ever passed.

Only later, catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, had I realised how dirty I was. Deeply ingrained. Mortified. Black smudges around the eyes, difficult to remove. As if poorly applied mascara. Or so I’d imagine. Never tried it. And even if I had, don’t think I’d be admitting to it anytime soon. Better to own up to returning to primary school with blackened palms. Spot of murder. Butler did it apparently.

[Author’s note: Curious about the butler? Then visit www.bookscumbria.com and search for a book titled “Murder in Cumbria”. By a chap called Ian Ashbridge. Chapter about a small village called Newton Arlosh. Family holidays haven’t been the same since….]

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One in a billion

November 12th, 2010

Foreigner“. The tone disconcerting rather than threatening. Bravado of the sorts I thought he’d be far too cowardly to show when sober. As is usually the case. If I was torn over what to do, it was whether to pity him or despise him. I eventually chose the latter. Excessive drinking an aggravating factor, not a mitigation or a defence.

But, distain aside, I’d found myself feeling quite disappointed. Not simply the only instance of aggression I’d encountered in China. No, it was more than that. The only less than hospitable encounter. True, I’d been ignored by a few strangers I’d sought to engage with, but that was something I’d always thought understandable. Imagining how I’d react if someone like me pitched up on a bicycle, usually asking for directions with only the most rudimentary grasp of my own language.

The present situation was one easily dealt with. I left. Already quite late. And the next day? By the following evening I’d a bag of apples, a box of moon cakes and a couple of litres of water. All gifts thrust upon me at various stops I’d made. Not that my faith in the kindness of strangers really needed any restoration.

[Author’s note: Wrestled for a while as whether or not to recount this encounter, not wishing to give, however inadvertently, a distorted picture of China. In the end, decided to publish details because it happened, a factual account rather than just opinion. Besides, it’s not really a story about aggression towards foreigners, rather one of their (almost) unequivocal welcoming by ordinary Chinese people. A case of an exception proving the rule. So far, one in roughly a billion]

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Play misty for me

November 12th, 2010

“On my own, would I wander through this wonderland alone,
Never knowing my right foot from my left, my hat from my glove”

With thanks to Johnny Mathis, American songwriter and performer

Ancient cliff dwellings. The odd pagoda I thought. Difficult to make out in the cold, heavy mist. Frequent stops to wipe the condensation off my glasses lest I come to a more abrupt halt. Emerging, eventually, into sunlight, only to encounter an abundance of coal depots. Black dust strewn across the road.

Then the town of Binxian. Familiar layout. Wide central boulevard. But just a brief stop for lunch. Eager to press on. Conscious of at least twenty miles of climb south towards QianXian, a day short of the city of Xi’an. Civilisation. And, I hoped, Bank of China.

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