Jambo mzungu!

It was almost like getting a warm welcome-home-hug when I arrived in Kenya after a long sleepless night travelling from Qatar to Nairobi. It was a night filled with too many airplane meals and a heavy load of homesickness. I arrived weary and drained in Nairobi with tears still stinging my eyes. I filled out my visa application and waited in line. I walked up to the counter and handed over my papers and passport.

“How long are you staying in Kenya, madam?”
“No longer than 30 days, sir”
“Well, I’m giving you a visa for three months and you’re not allowed to leave before it expires”, said the man handling my papers with a big smile and a laugh. “Welcome to Kenya, madam, I hope you enjoy your stay”.

Could Kenya give a better first impression? Absolutely not! I walked out to collect my bags and went to figure out how on earth I could make my way into Nairobi. I was called over by a smiling man in a transportation booth who wondered if I was in need of a taxi, which obviously I was. I told him where I needed to go and he gave me a price. Still being skeptic by nature after a month in India I was certain he was ripping me off based on my skin color and my ragged backpacker-look. I dismissed his offer as overprized and with no further a due pulled out my new Bible, the LP East Africa. To my surprise the price they had listed for a taxi from the airport to the city centre was higher than what I had been offered, and I felt extremely stupid when I looked up at the man, who was still smiling, and had to admit that he had given me a good prize. The deal was made and I gave the exact address to where my hostel was located. It turned out that this was a distance outside the centre which would cost more, but the friendly gentlemen decided to overlook this small detail. He thereafter walked me out to my taxi, introduced me to my driver and welcomed me to Kenya. My driver turned out to be a very chatty and pleasant man, and the 40 minute drive was over before I knew it.

I arrived at the hostel and was once again greeted by a Kenyan with a big smile which beams of friendliness and warmth. She helped me settle in a dorm before she gave me a tour of the premises which included the bar, the leopard-draped lounge area and the “watchdog” Scooby who prefers a belly-rub. She finished off by saying: “Welcome to Kenya, and make yourself at home”.

My homesickness faded as my heart grew fonder of Kenya and its ppl. Maybe the reason is as simple as it seems; that it hasn’t really faded but has been satisfied. Because I did very much feel at home after just a few hours, and I have ever since.

Looks like I may have found a third home in Kenya

Three days of sanity

“You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone”. Nothing could be truer, I’ve concluded, after spending three months away from home. Therefore spending three days in Doha, Qatar has been as close to home as it gets – at least for now. It’s a breather betwixt and between past-chaos (India) and expected to be chaos (Africa).

Words cannot start to describe how wonderful and almost foreign it felt to be in a country where things actually function in a known structure and system. Where the cars drive on the right (in double sense) side of the road, are equipped with seatbelts and only use their horns to wake up a driver who has fallen asleep on a red light or to signalize to the pedestrian wandering in the middle of the road that this is its territory and he better get out of the way. What I normally would have considered noisy traffic was now close to silence. No trash flooding the streets, ppl are not staring at you as if you were from Mars and therefore not stumbling over the none-existing garbage lying around and credit cars are widely accepted. You can also look completely lost and even pull out a map trying to orient yourself without anyone offering you assistance (ahh, just like home), whereas in India before you even knew you were lost everyone else seemed to have picked up on it and were gathering around you wanting not only to point you in the right direction, but actually follow you all the way. The only thing giving away that I’m not as home as I feel I am, are the long white robes the men are wearing and that I hardly see any women (literally due to their completely black covering outfits). Also the minarets towering into the air – amongst the enormous futuristic skyscrapers – tells me that I’m still quite a distance from home.

Doha actually had a Floridian feel to it with the SUVs being the king of the road, palm trees wherever you look, warm climate, ppl constantly exercising and no pedestrian crossing (all the pedestrians are in a SUV). It is also a city where business and money flow, and there are ppl from all over the world having business lunches dressed in their suits and ties in the staggering Qatari heat. Thou some seemed to have found the perfect solution, much to my amusement. In the middle of the waterfront park there were several businessmen in their black suits sitting on blankets in the shade either working on their computer (free wi-fi park) or talking on the phone. I had to admit that it wasn’t a bad idea and decided to join them the next day, thou I left the suit-part out of it. Also, the car brands are luxurious and I was more likely to spot a brand new Mercedes, Lexus, Cadillac or Porsche than any other car.

The days in Doha were much needed and well spent. I slept in and ate late breakfasts (that meaning 9 am), enjoyed having a king-size bed with soft and clean sheets, watched BBC and finally felt updated on the world. I spent most of the days in souq waqif (the old market place) where I drank great coffee, smoked apple hookah and watched ppl and the world go by. I even got an educational boost thanks to a random Swede I ran into. I feel reenergized after a Western boost and a few days of luxury.

Bring it on, Africa!

A touch of home

After finishing yet another book I ended up going hunting for a new one, even thou I had made up my mind not to buy one until I got to Qatar. But as the minutes passed and I had read the main sections about Eastern Africa and Kenya in my Lonely Planet book, I understood that there was no postponing it and I popped into the first book store I could find.

Not knowing what I wanted to read I scanned the shelves to see if my eyes landed upon something that might catch my attention. And they did. It wasn’t a book I was looking for or a book I wanted to read for that matter, but a book that you seldom find amongst all its big brothers. It was the Lonely Planet Norway. I took it down to do some further investigation on what these ppl seeing Norway inside from the outside had to say about it.

I read thru the introduction and took a quick stop by Kristiansand which made me chuckle with amusement. As I kept flicking I eventually stopped at the small selection of pictures the book provides. There were pictures from Ålesund, stavkirken, Lofoten, bryggen in Bergen and many others. I turned another page and was faced with a close-up picture of Nidarosdomen. As my fingers ran across the picture I could almost feel myself standing in front of it looking up at the enormous cathedral from that exact angle like I’ve done many times. To my surprise I felt a tear on my cheek.

I guess the heart longs for home, thou the mind seek adventures

Thali

Today I had the most frustrating dinner experience I can ever recall having. Why? Because it was so wonderful!

I went to see a movie in Mumbai and when it was done it was about dinner time and I was starting to get hungry. I knew I would pass several restaurants along the way back to the hotel, so I didn’t see the need to go out of my way to find a decent place to eat. I walked by several places that didn’t look tempting, but ended up stopping at a place which was filled with mostly Indians, but I could also spot some white heads amongst the Indians. The place looked quite nice and I feared that it would turn out to be pricy. I found a table in the AC section upstairs which was filled with the same mix of ppl. I almost feel overwhelmed when I see the Indian menus because there are usually somewhere close to 200 dishes to choose from and the combinations even more numerous. I thought I’d make it simple and go with a dinner thali, which to my surprise was no more than Rs 100 (14 NOK). Little did I know that this was going to be my highlight mealwize in India.

When they brought the platter out my facial expression must have given away my surprise since the waiter asked me in an uncertain tone “Ma’am, this was what you ordered, right?” I nodded and smiled. Before me was a huge round plate with nine small bowls on it. In the middle lay a papadum and a spare place arrived with three rotis. Before I could get started yet to more bowls arrived. The dishes consisted of one curd, one soup, one sweet, one fruit salad, one mix veg salad, two masalas, one curry, one dal, one paneer, rice palau, papadum and rotis. Needless to say the dish was huge and I had no idea where to start.

I gave everything a taste and for every bite I took the more frustrated I got. It all tasted so wonderful and I couldn’t believe that I was sitting eating alone with no-one to express my joy to. I felt like singing, chatting and laughing which would have complemented such a great meal perfectly. The waiters kept looking at me trying to decide whether I was displeased or stunned speechless by the taste of my food. The more I ate the more annoyed I got because I wouldn’t be able to finish even half of the meal. There was so much food and even thou I was hungry, I’d had to skip lunch and coffee if I would stand any chance of finishing the thali. Also I wished that I had my camera with me (not allowed to bring to movies so I left it at the hotel) to capture and savor this wonderful meal to show and tell and as a heavenly memory. I paid and chewed on the mouth-cleansing combination of aniseeds and sugar which they usually give you when you pay the check. I’ll bring my camera tomorrow because I’m coming back.

I needn’t worry about where to have dinner the following days, which are also my last days in India. Why change a winning team?

The country that defies understanding

I’m sitting in Om made cafe on the beach in Anjuna looking out on the ocean and its waves crashing into the worn red cliffs which characterizes this part of Goa. I’m sipping a iced ginger lemon tea – anything but a chilled drink is out of the question. It’s hot, humid and my skin has taken the toll for not having been exposed to the rays of sun too often in the last three months. In other words, my skin tone has shifted close to lobster-red and I’ve removed myself from the beach in fear of ending up testing out the next level of skin tone, blood-red.

The days go by so fast and my days in India are coming to an end. It’s been four long, strange and interesting weeks filled with every emotion possible. I have cried out of frustration and sadness, I have laughed off and with India. I have questioned the world I know and been grateful that I can return to it. I’ve been embarrassed over my ignorance and enlightened by ppls effort and willingness to teach and guide me. I’ve been amazed by ppls persistence and perseverance, alas also angry and annoyed at the exact same things. I’ve cursed, yelled and insulted Indians; I’ve complimented, embraced and honored Indians. More than once have I been frightened, but every time have I been brought to safety. More than anything else have I been overwhelmed and stunned in shock, amazement and disbelief. India is hard to put into words and utterly impossible to explain. After visiting India I’m certain everyone has a small lump in their stomach and a fraction of their heart filled with feelings which cannot be put into words, only experienced. One of the books I’ve read, Holy Cow, is spot on in describing this exact problem:

“[…] foreigners attempting to figure out India. I’m beginning to think it’s pointless to try. India is beyond statement, for anything you say, the opposite is also true. It’s rich and poor, spiritual and material, cruel and kind, angry but peaceful, ugly and beautiful, and smart but stupid. It’s all the extremes. India defies understanding.”

For this reason it seems like there won’t be a lot of blog posts about India (that’s at least how I see it at the moment). Maybe a couple of days rest in Qatar will let me start processing it and something solid and grasping might come out of it.

At the moment, this is all there is to say.

Peanut butter, blood and pain – a journey to India

The journey from Kathmandu to Varanasi, India turned out to be quite an adventure in more ways than one. Amongst the group I was trekking with in Nepal, George (U.K.) turned out to have approximately the same route planed for India as I. As we both realized that we were travelling into the unknown it felt safer knowing that we would find ourselves lost and confused alongside someone else.

We boarded the bus from Katmandu heading for the border town of Sonauli at 7pm, and it didn’t take us long to realize this was going to be a long bus ride. First of all we were surprised that we actually were assigned seats and felt grateful that we wouldn’t have to spend the night standing, sitting in the aisle or fearing that someone would snatch our seat at the first opportunity. As soon as we sat down thou, the seat didn’t seem like such a god-given gift after all. The seat in itself kept wobbling around as it surely was missing a couple of screws somewhere. The seats of the guys in front of us was just as uncontrollable as ours, which meant that the one in front of me leaned back so far that I could almost use the man’s head as a pillow, whereas the other seat leaned forward in a 45 degree angle leaving the poor guy sitting in it fighting to keep it close to upright the entire journey. The main problem was leg room. When I sat down in my seat as far back as I possibly could – which means your head is 20 cm above the headrest (damn these tiny Asians) – I was still a couple of inches short of being able to fit my legs between my seat and the seat in front of me. The solution turned out to be me twisting my legs behind the seat of the poor guys fighting his seat from squeezing him flat, and George – seated next to the aisle – stretching his legs out into the aisle hoping that it would stay clear of ppl. With that sorted it was time for dinner. I had namely armed myself with the killer combination of a fresh loaf of bread and peanut butter, and made an army of peanut butter sandwiches that would keep me fed all the way to Varanasi. As I happily ate my dinner – to the amusement of my fellow passengers – the roads kept taking a turn for the worse and slowly turning into the now famous Tibetan “roads”. We were tossed and turned left and right, up and down, and I was cursing the armrest towards the window which I knew would be responsible for my bruised arm the next day. It also kept getting colder due to the fact that ppl kept opening up their windows, usually all at the same time, to get some air or to spit. The draft was constant and it felt like someone had put a fan right in front of me. To top it all off, the six guys seated behind us found it amusing to sing Nepalese pop songs to entertain the entire bus. George and I had to face the facts: this was going to be a long bus journey. All we could hope for was some sleep before we got to the border town at 5 am. I reached into my bag and never before have I been so happy to find something pink in my bag, nor did I think anything pink could turn out to be a life saver, my pink ear plugs.

After 10 extremely painful hours on the bus we finally got to the Nepalese side of the Indian border. I was freezing cold, my joints were stiff and deadly painful and the lack of sleep was wearing on me. We got off the bus determined to make our way to the immigration office on our own, and the rickshaw drivers constantly nagging us did not come across as helpful at that time. After wandering around in the dark for a while we understood that we had no concept of which way the border was, let alone how far it would be to walk. We gave in and jumped in a rickshaw, changed our Nepalese rupees into Indian and hoped that we would make it in one piece as the rickshaw rode down a pitch black road with no light indicating we were on the road to the cars and moped passing an inch away from us. It turned out that the border actually was almost a 15 minute ride away and we were glad we didn’t attempt it on foot.

The Nepalese immigration office was hidden away inside a random house in the border town and I’m not sure we would have found it had we not been pointed towards it. Carrying our heavy bags, still half asleep and fairly uncertain what to do how and where, we walked into the gate to “check out” of Nepal. As George walked in front of me, I failed to notice the step up after entering the gate to the immigration office and fell to the ground with no free hands to support myself. My knees and feet took the blow as I felt the concrete scraping its signature into my legs. I stumbled to my feet and made my way into the office. I was wearing black knee-length pants and I felt the blood from my bleeding knees trickle down my legs as I entered immigration to the awaiting officials much amusement. I filled out the required forms, tried to stop the bleeding, felt sorry for myself and entered into no-man’s-land.

The difference between Nepal and India was slight at first, apart from the most obvious aspect of all: the seas of trash floating around everywhere. Being half in a daze I didn’t notice it at first, but it soon came to my attention that I had to mind my step. Cow dung, food, plastic, tins, paper, you name it; absolutely everything! Our next task was to find the Indian immigration office to register our arrival and visas. Before we found the hidden away office we passed customs which consisted of three guys sitting in chairs waiving us along, not bothered to being bothered. The ppl at the immigration office, which we found without realizing that we found it, had the same attitude as the lads at customs and were more annoyed and concerned about us spelling Sonauli the Indian way rather than the Nepalese way (Sunauli). We got accepted (wow) and were now determined to find the bus station to get a bus to Varanasi. We eventually found the right bus after asking around for a bit and occupied a couple of seats just to make sure we actually got some. These seats were sturdy and the legroom was plenty, at least compared to the Nepalese bus. At 7 am the bus departed and there were still a fair amount of free seats still. So far so good I thought to myself as I reached into my bag to have breakfast; a tasty peanut butter sandwich.

As the villages and the countryside passed the bus kept filling up even thou it never stopped. The best and only way to board a bus is at speed, so timing is everything. It is also safe to say that the recognition of the term “full bus” does not exist in this country. When I thought the bus was completely packet as far as my western eyes could see, they still managed to squeeze another 30 ppl on. As we were the only white ppl on the bus we drew a lot of attention and sunglasses are a blessing when having at least 20 pair of eyes fixed on you for about 10 hours. Not only am I white and blond, but I was also breaking a strict cultural rule; I was only wearing a tank top, in other words, my shoulders were showing. At this point we’d reached midday and roasting alive. I was drenched in sweat and thirsty beyond thirsty, and the thought of putting on a t-shirt to shake off some stares would tip me over the top. Since the stops were few and short and everyone was fighting to squeeze one butt cheek on to the corner of a seat, the image of what would happen if I actually left my seat to use the toilet would be close to a stampede. Hence no toilet breaks. I was seated next to the window so I was hoping to get some air, but being a rookie in Indian transportation I wasn’t swift enough to opening the window which slides sideways before the guys in front and back of me had opened theirs, and therefore jammed shut both my sources to fresh air. It was time for lunch and I had another peanut butter sandwich, only this one didn’t do its magic as the others had done. Only 5 more hours to go…

Around 5.30 pm we finally arrived in Varanasi; exhausted, sweaty and tired. We were immediately surrounded by rickshaw drivers wanting to take us to “my friend has nice guesthouse by the ghat, cheap and clean”. This is rickshaw drivers’ language for saying: “this is where I get commission”. Not knowing where we were staying only what area we wanted to stay, we asked one of the drivers to take us in that direction. We got a fair deal and jumped in. Since we hadn’t specified a hotel the driver understood that we had no place to stay and therefore took the opportunity to show us his brother’s hotel in a back alley far away from where we wanted to go. After telling him to get back in the god damned vehicle (?) he took us to the main road and said that it wasn’t possible to drive to that area even thou it was right down the road. So we got out, paid and started walking towards the area which was unreachable with a motorized vehicle, which of course turned out to be bullshit. He only wanted to get rid of us since he wasn’t getting his commission after all. We made our way between mopeds, cars, cycle rickshaws, motor rickshaws, cows, dogs and ppl in streets built wide enough to fit three cars, but the somehow managed to fit six. This is Varanasi for you and we had been warned that the traffic in Varanasi is as crazy as it gets in India. It’s in every way unexplainable; the noise, smell, traffic moving in every direction possible, someone constantly screaming “rickshaw?” for every meter you walk. We had also been told that if we could survive Varanasi we would be fine anywhere in India. At that very moment thou, we weren’t doing that well.

We ended up reaching the area we initially wanted to go to before we got sidetracked by yet another guy telling us that there was a very nice place to stay right around the corner. Reaching desperation and mentally drained from the traffic we decided to check it out. It turned out that right around the corner is a 10 minute walk around many corners before you find yourself far away from what actually was the finish line. Both George and I had lost our patience at this point walking around with our huge backpacks in the humid weather, and we took off heading for the Ganges which we knew would take us back to where we wanted to go. The same guy was following us recommending a place right around the corner for every ghat (platform or steps leading towards the Ganges river) we got to. When we got to the main ghat we popped into the first hotel we reached and asked for a room. The location of the place was good, but the room was shabby as hell. As an extra addition to our lucky streak the biggest Hindu festival, Diwali, was also taking place, where Varanasi – the holiest city for the Hindus – being its main hub. Room prices were therefore at least doubled. We couldn’t care less thou being exhausted, hungry, sweaty and annoyed. We got ourselves sorted and I texted home to inform that I had made it to India safely, but that we weren’t getting a long so far. Thereafter we entered back into the madness hunting for food and we jumped into the first place possible and ordered an Indian thali. As I ate my food, my blood sugar rose and my heart beat settled down I came to realize that this might not be too bad after all. We might even come to learn to understand and appreciate one another, India and I, but nevertheless it takes some getting used to.

I’ll give it four weeks to work its magic.

Himalayan adventures

After about 3,5 weeks in Nepal, whereas 18 days have been spent trekking the Annapurna Circuit in the Himalayas, my pants fit looser around my waist as I have regained all lost leg muscles and then some. During the majority of my stay in Nepal I would have to say that I’ve mistreated my body in numerous ways and at the same time as having giving it quite a treat. It’s undeniable that trekking for almost three weeks is good for you and my body has been craving exercise. On the other hand, resources are limited when staying in basic tea houses with little or no hot water, a narrow selection of food (thou it’s amazing how many varieties of spaghetti, noodles and rice one can come up with when mixing ingredients like egg, veg, cheese and fried) and hard sleepers. The other factor added is the pitiful supply of do-good-toiletries packed in your bag to survive three weeks in the Himalayas, which basically means: two “outfits”; one to hike in and one to wear in the evening, sleeping bag, additional warm clothes, water purification tablets, a book, deck of cards, hand sanitizer, toothbrush, sunscreen and first aid kit. Anything else is close to be considered luxury, in other words, wave bye-bye to refreshing lotions and cleansing milk for a while. Let’s put it this way: the one person who all of a sudden smells clean or fresh will stand out and smell odd to the rest of us.

Having spent some time in the Himalayas in Tibet I had a fairly good idea what to expect from the Nepalese side of the mountain range, but it wasn’t until I got over Thorung La pass that it eventually resembled geographically what I anticipated. Terrain-wise on the other hand, never came close to my expectations. If we were to ascent 200 meters in Tibet it would be a walk with “false flat” terrain, meaning that the ascent was gradually and barely noticed. It turned out to be a completely different ballgame in Nepal where we usually found ourselves descending 400 meters before we had to ascent another 600 to climb the total of 200 vertical meters. It almost felt like the mountains were playing games with us as we sometimes did several of these a day. In Tibet up was up and down was down; in Nepal up is up, but not without down ahead of it.

What surprised me the most about the Annapurna Circuit was the level of commercialization. Even in the smallest villages there would be a tea house and a restaurant, and several of these places consisted only of a place to eat and sleep. It was as if the immerged only to lodge and feed trekkers as they make their way along the mountains. In every single place we passed thru there wouldn’t necessarily be anything to see, do or buy, apart from the fact that there would always be some built-in pantry booth that sold Pringles, Snickers, toilet paper, water and Coca-Cola. A guaranteed income source thanks to the sugar drained and butt-wiping tourists. Also due to the huge commercialization the restaurant prices seemed to correlate with the altitude, meaning the higher we got the pricier it became.

It’s mindboggling being a westerner in a developing country with such a remarkable community spirit as you find in Nepal. To think that Nepal, in turn of monetary income, is the third poorest country in the world with $310 per person is indeed a wake-up call. In these villages the phrase “all for one; one for all” really blossoms, and it would be safe to say that without this bond the villages would surely not exist or persevere. It’s almost makes me sad to realize how dependent they are on tourists with all their likes and preferences and to what length they go to meet them, but approaching it from a different angle I see how we are contributing to their income and making sure they get by when taking use of their services.

All in all, Nepal is a brilliant country to visit with their ingenious geographical location. They have been granted the spectacular Himalayas in the north, the middle consisting of both small and larger cities with their own uniqueness, and in the south the jungle and wildlife roams. Aside from the attractiveness given by nature, it would not be fair to neglect the friendly and smiling ppl or the heartwarming and open culture. Nepal has captured a small part of my heart and I feel I was right when saying that Nepal was a gem hidden between two major tourist spots, namely India and China, which get too much attention.

I am most certain that it will not disappoint, only spellbind 

The best advice

I’m not going to lie; I’m fairly tired after 10 days of hiking. We started of at 700 meters and reached out highest peak at 5416 meters when passing Thorung La. Having a couple of rest days I very much needed and handy. The scenery has been breathtaking at several points and 7- and 8000 meter mountains start to feel like everyday sights- not a big deal anymore. I hate to say it, but the autopilot has been turned on subconsciously…

Thankfully my dear cousin gave me the best advice I could ever get before I left: stop up every now and then, breath, look around and realize where you are! I keep having these “moments” fairly frequently where a big smile spreads across my face, my body starts to tingle and I feel as happy as I could possibly be.

Yet again I find myself in a jeep driving amongst or between the Himalayas. As I’m bouncing around in the jeep, driving past what’s left of a river I “come to life again” understanding how freaking lucky I am to be here in Nepal in the midst of the highest peaks of the world. As I’m looking down at the remains of the river, I see ppl walking along it looking for fossils which are being sold everywhere in the small villages in the mountain range. At this very moment I realize that I’m looking at one of the world’s highest points which millions of years ago used to be the sea floor.

We keep on driving off-road on similar Tibetan “roads” in a jeep pumping with popular Nepalese pop music with several Nepalese guys jigging to the beat and singing along. My grin gets wider as I’m humming and trying to follow the rhythm while the jeep keeps tossing my left and right.

I’m loving every single second of it. 

The Thorung La

3 am and the alarm clock goes off. Today is the day of the big climb thru Thorung La; 1000 meters of altitude gain from Thorung Phedi at 4450 meters. Breakfast is finished and we’re ready to leave by 4 am. It’s pitch black outside and those who have headlamps are “armed” and ready. The path is steep, rocky, zigzagging and full of cliffs. Not having had time to digest my breakfast the start is needless to say hard. After a while I find a steady pace without getting completely out of breath. As I am passing several ppl with headlamps, I suddenly find myself without light but the path is perfectly lit up. I turn my head towards the sky and spot the moon lighting up the entire valley from a cloud free night sky. I’ve never seen a moon shine so bright and I’m realizing that the ppl with headlamps are missing out on something truly wonderful. The rest of the sky is filled with twinkling stars which complements the glowing moon perfectly. All around me I see snow covered mountain ranges and peaks outlining the valley, making the sky darker and in a mystical way shedding light on the road up ahead.

The climb towards 5200 meters, where allegedly tea-break is, goes nice and steady. Due to the experience from the trek around Mt Kailash in Tibet, there are dos and don’ts to this sort of climb. Whatever you do, don’t stop, or at least stop as little as possible. The reason is that the energy it takes to get back on a comfortable pace is worth saving. Another factor is that your muscles are sore and tired fairly early on due to lack of oxygen, and therefore stiffen up terribly quickly. The most important reason; it’s fucking freezing (- 6 degrees). Another factor that will get you to and over the top is finding a steady pace that you can stick to without getting too much out of breath (I sound like a whale when walking in this altitude because I’m breathing heavily thru my mouth). Keeping this no matter what pace your group or the ppl in front or behind you keep can be alpha omega. Preserving energy is most likely the key to success and a way of doing so is taking long steps. This recipe has so far gotten me to the top of two passes above 5000 meters, so for me, it’s a winner.

After having a couple of cups of the at the tea stop at 5.30 am (the most expensive cup of tea I might add, 120 rupees – 12 kr) and chowing down chocolate and energy bars, we were frozen solid and the sun had not yet broken over the peaks stretching from 6-7000 meters surrounding us. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long thou, so we kept on walking to regain some body heat. After walking for about 20 minutes I felt a warm sensation at the back of my thighs. I stopped and felt how it spread to my hands, shoulders and head. The sun had finally awoken. With a new urge to keep on going, we reached the pass 40 minutes later. The glimpse of prayer flags made tears sting in my eyes due to complete exhaustion. My knees ached, my toes and fingers were none-responsive, my heart was racing and my breaths were weak and short. When 5416 meters officially was reached, all of the above went away and all that you could see were big smiles, hands stretched triumphantly into the air and exclamations of joy were expressed. I got to the top not far behind the first member of the lead group and was soon followed by the remaining two. There were more high fives, hugs and kisses and the 30 cold minutes we spent at the top were fun, crazy and memorable in every possible way thanks to three funtastic great guys!

Crossing borders

In the last two months I’ve crossed a few borders and every border crossing is the same yet different in many ways. The most fascinating so far is indeed the border between Tibet and Nepal. Leaving a country where every document is checked thoroughly as well as your bags (especially the Lonely Planet tends to get much attention from the Chinese customs) and you’re ticked off a list of Tibetan permit holders. From there on you cross “the friendship bridge” – the biggest oxymoron I’ve seen in my entire life. The bridge crosses a major rafting river and is the only connection between Nepal and Tibet for miles. You leave the archway on the Tibetan side and cross the 100 meter long bridge of friendship. On this short, but beautiful bridge you find around 15 Chinese soldiers armed with semi-automatic weapons – major symbols of friendship if you ask me. After spending a 100 meters in no-man’s-land you enter Nepal where there are no armed soldiers or soldiers in any sense and you literally have to go house hunting to find the immigration office. When you finally find this overcrowded little room, you fill out the forms, stand in line, pay the visa in USD, get a signature from the immigration officer (who is playing Tetris on the computer with his daughter) and of you go. Welcome to Nepal!

Entering Nepal coming from Tibet is an experience in itself due to the fact that the border is separating two worlds completely different from one another, and it seems to be keeping them separate as well. I’ve pointed out some opposites that came to my mind on the first few hours in the car on the way to Kathmandu. These are mere observations than facts, and in no way does it state that the one is better than the other. I thou feel that I visited the countries in the correct order, as it makes you appreciate the countries uniqueness more. You might find yourself getting disappointed arriving in dusty and brown Tibet after leaving green and tropical Nepal.

A swift comparison: Tibet and Nepal

Eating with chop sticks à eating with your right hand

Traditional clothing à more western clothing in addition to the saari

Yak à donkey/mule

Yak traffic jam à donkey/mule traffic jam

Begging children à playing children

Cold climate à humid climate

Straight faces à smiles

Brown landscape à trees

Stray ppl à ppl everywhere

Getting ripped of à more set prices

Desert à tropics

Tractors à Suzukis

Four-by-fours à motorcycles

Few English speakers à most ppl speak English

Cheap beer à expensive beer

Very good food à alright food

Hard and emotional haggling à easy and happy haggling

Guided tourists à “free” tourists

Flies à spiders

Pac of dogs à pac of chickens, hens and roosters

Monks à holy men

Clean streets (apart from the dust) à streets filled with garbage

Smell of yak butter à smell of sweat

Dirty, shitty, disgusting toilets à clean and inviting toilets

Off the top of my head. It seems like Tibet is getting dragged thru the mud, but it’s undeniable that it will always be an underdog to Nepal when crossing the border. The reason would be that after three weeks in the middle of nowhere in Tibet, civilization will always feel very welcoming and more homely. Then again, trying to explain what Tibet is like is in many ways the hardest thing I’ve done so far, because it truly is an experience and an adventure in a world that is closed off to the outside world and only open to those who walk the extra mile.

My advice is simple: make the effort 

On the road towards Mt. Everest

Driving across the Tibetan plateau in a four by four Toyota Land Cruiser isn’t what I would think to be eventful or entertaining. We’ve had some long 10 hour drives to get from point A to B, and there have been days where the scenery has been stunning and others where every mountains and steppes look the same. By now, seeing a herd of antelopes, horses or donkeys have become regular, but we all get excited when we see a rabbit or fox crossing the road.

As I said, driving on the roads can be boring, but when you’re driving towards Mt. Everest Base Camp and the roads cannot be defined as roads anymore, things tend to get a lot more exciting. The “roads” now consist of rocky paths with major holes and dams. Of course a lot of these “roads” are correctly described as cliffhangers as well. It’s been quite a few times where we’ve held our breaths (not a good idea by the way, when in 5000 meters altitude), hoping that the road is wide enough or that the rocks that make out the outline of the road actually will hold. It’s safe to say that we all bare marks of the bumpy roads when these cars are not equipped with seat belts. We hold on as best as we can to the hand rails and to each other, but bruises on arms and legs that take the hardest blows are unavoidable. A couple of times we been just short of a couple of concussions as well. At one of our breaks, an Englishman expressed: “I feel like I’ve been in a blender!” He couldn’t have been more spot on!

As we entered the bumpiest part of the road, we all felt both shaken and stirred and almost dreading the final hours of the ride. To our amusement the driver suddenly put on a CD containing western music, but not any kind of music: romantic tunes. We’re talking Celine Dion, Shania Twain, Bette Midler, etc. What to do when losing your mind on a rocky road in Tibet? Sing along! We all agree that there’s nothing like some romance when crossing the plateau towards Everest on so called “roads”. I must hand it to them thou, the Toyotas and not to mention the drivers, they really do an amazing job. I’m absolutely shocked that these vehicles are still in one piece after the treatment the “roads” have given them.

Apart from music which the bumpy ride added an extra beat to, we would regularly pass by a few houses which outlined the village center. Even thou we passed the village with good clearance, it seemed as if the children had some sort of radar built in. They would come running down the hills, across the steppes and rocks to greet us, lining up waving, smiling and giving us the thumbs up, even thou they know we’re not stopping.

We eventually reached our final destination at Rombuk Guesthouse, with a view as spectacular words can hardly explain. Seeing the clear, blue sky framing the outline of Mt Everest’s 8848 meters with its snow kissed peaks and glaciers, is thrilling and spellbinding at the same time. After a visit to Everest Base Camp at 5200 meters above sea level, which was extremely windy and cold, we returned to the common room to have dinner (the standard selection: vegetable fried rice, egg fried rice or yak noodle stew). We all refilled our energy compartments and had ourselves a well deserved beer and defrosted in front of the fire kept alive by yak dug. We also learned the lesson – quite involuntarily – that if the dug isn’t dry enough then it produces enormous amounts of smoke. After being smoked out, I laid in my bed for the night, looking out the window and seeing the top of the world right in front of me; it’s beyond imagination and incomprehensive, thou I’m very aware of its reality. 

5670 meters

I’m trekking the holy kora around Mt. Kailash in Tibet. The air is getting thinner by the minute. In the shade it’s freezing cold and the temperature is somewhere around minus 5 degreesm, and if you add the head wind it’s probably as bad as 10 degrees below freezing. Most of the trek is either false flat or gradually steep uphill. I see the hill rising in front of me. The last kilometer and the last 300 meters of altitude that stand between me and the top of the pass at 5670 meters. Thankfully the sun has managed to stretch above the tall mountains at 7000 meters. The icicles my fingers and toes have turned into slowly start to defrost and the numbness is at retreat. A last sip of water, thou most of it has froze, before the painful, yet exciting, ascent begins. All I see is stones, Tibetan signs and a stray prayer flag here and there; all which lets me know that the pass is within reach. One step at the time; one step a second. By this time I’ve gotten used to random yaks loaded up with trekkers gear running past whenever, with the yak guy right behind whistling his commands. Right after the yak has passed a Tibetan will come running (at least compared to what us westerners are doing) up the hill in his traditional outfit, chanting his prayers while spinning his or hers prayer wheel and counting of their prayers on the bead necklaces they hold in their hand. More and more payer flags are becoming visible and I can only hope the top is close by. I have to yield to a horse coming running down the path before I can continue the climb which has turned quite painful. Every breath contains far too little oxygen, every step makes my knees ache and the thirst which comes with the heat is grueling. Alas, I cannot stop because there is no energy left to jumpstart me if I give in to thirst. I’m starting to let my mind drift and at the moment I’m wondering what Harry Potter’s going to be up to next (I’m halfway thru book four). Now I finally see it, the major pass with prayer flags painting a colorful picture in the midst of the mountains and snow. As I’m using the last of my stored up energy I hear a few of the guys up front yelling “Only 50 meters to go, Kiki!” I feel a second wind coming as 50 meters turn into 40, 30, 20, 10. I made it! Adrenaline is flowing thru every inch of my body as I’m greeted with “high fives” and cheers.

 So what to do when at 5670 meters? Eat an Oreo, probably the best one I’ve ever had. Needless to say, it’s also a Kodak moment so we huddle up for a group picture, lay down our prayer flags and realize that we’re all fairly hungry. It’s time to start our descent towards the lunch tent which allegedly is an hour away (that is, if they haven’t packed up and left for the season). Our expectations are low as we know pot noodles is the hottest – and the only – edible thing on the menu. We reach the tent and we all sit down for lunch. If one was to peek in it looks like we’ve all been slaughtered and piled on top of each other. We skip the pot noodles and chew on whatever snacks we have available before we gear up and re-motivate us for another three hours of walking thru a long, beautiful valley to get to our destination for the night. After the three longest hours the most of us have ever experienced we reach the guesthouse, pop open a beer and realize that once again pot noodles are today’s main course. We finish our beer and noodles, open our sleeping bags and dive into them. Lights out at 9 pm.

It’s been a long day, but absolutely one of the best days of my life. It’s doubtless the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done, thou it felt good putting my perseverance and stubbornness to the ultimate test. I’m proud and pleased with myself as I lay tucked in between my sleeping bag and numerous layers to keep me warm thru the cold, cold night. I take a last look out the window where I see the stars twinkling like diamonds and the Milky Way bright and white. Life above 5000 meters is not half bad.

The daily life of a traveller

While out travelling the world you know and your daily routines are literally turned upside down and then some. A new bed, a new room in a new city every other day or so, and I find myself in a constant circle of adjustment.

I just got back from the supermarket here in Lhasa without knowing what 2/3 of the groceries actually are. When going to the supermarket at home I don’t like to rush, so take my time to pick and choose exactly what I need and want. Reading between the lines, you might have picked up on that I’m not Speedy Gonzales. Needless to say, while walking thru the aisle in a foreign supermarket with a different written language, it takes me forever! There are so many different things to see and to try to figure out what is. There’s dried donkey meat, plastic bagged yoghurt, fried duck, glazed pig feet, vacuum-packed meat and swimming turtles in the fresh food section trying to get out of their glass cages. This alone keeps me occupied for a while and then I have to start buying my own groceries. When trying to find one out of hundred different kinds of pot noodles that doesn’t contain meat, you better not be in a hurry. Since I’m also allergic to all kinds of dairy, buying crackers etc in itself is like going on an expedition. I’ve managed to teach myself the Chinese symbol for milk, so it’s an adventure how many different types I need to read the ingredients on before I hit jackpot. Alas, not containing milk doesn’t necessarily mean they’re tasty thou. Anyway, today I got some cookies which I think, and hope, are green tea cookies. I found some orange juice, which turned out to be nectar (I’ve more or less gotten used to this by now). I eventually ended up deciding on some bread that looked good, which turned out to be sweet (not a shocker when in China) and I also got some instant coffee that did not what so ever taste like coffee (better of sticking to Chinese tea). I did on the other hand get some dried bananas and some laundry detergent, which both turned out to meet my expectations. Apropos laundry, whenever I’m staying somewhere more than two nights I pull up my sleeves, fill up the sink, put on some music (often enough pop open a beer) and get down to business. Specially after getting off a Chinese train where you have been stepping in urine and god knows what, it feels absolutely heavenly to clean all the filth and dirt of your clothes. Even the soles of my shoes get a scrub!

The places we’ve stayed so far have been close to western standards, which mean that all the little extras I find in my room are confiscated. Toilet paper, soap, shower gel, cotton swabs, toothpaste are all tucked away for when they might come in handy and they always do. Another routine I’ve allowed to spoil myself with is morning tea. There are always a couple of teabags provided in the room and with a water heater it magically becomes tea. I’m almost starting to feel like a Britt. The water heater comes in handy also when it comes to purifying water and making it drinkable. First of all it gets pricy when having to buy several bottles of water a day, and second of all it’s not very environmental when considering all the plastic that’s being wasted. I therefore boil water and refill the plastic bottles, and it tastes just as good. Impatient as I am I never have time to wait for that water to cool off, so I’ve gotten quite used to drinking warm water.

Another feature that has more or less grown attached to my body, is my money belt. Unfortunately there have been episodes where ppl have gotten things stolen from then, or have felt someone trying to get into their backpack or pocket. It’s extremely frustrating being such a visible target, needless to say we stand out quite a bit, but then it’s way better to take precautions and be safe rather than sorry.

Blending in as a tall, white, blond girl is absolutely not the easiest challenge I’ve been given. Ppl point, stare, take pictures, follow you around, giggle, and if their able to they’ll utter one or two worlds in English. Here in Lhasa I keep bumping into small kids everywhere who absolutely adore speaking a few words of English with you. They are the cutest and most adorable children I’ve encountered so far. Thankfully, I have yet to experience impoliteness, but have several times been discriminated against mainly due to being taken as an American. In the group I’m travelling with now, we have an exceptionally hard time not sticking out. Not only does our group have the blond, tall girl, but we also have a guy who has fully tattooed arms and two other guys what are 200 cm tall. We have become quite the attraction to say the least! Even my small ankle tattoo tends to draw a lot of attention. Once again ppl point, stare and take pictures. Today, even a group of monks passing me by stopped to take a closer look, giggling like crazy.

What I’m finding the hardest to get used to is not being able to make my own food; whatever I want, whenever I want it. Of course, this is a problem of luxury… “Poor little white girl who’s traveling the world for eight months and have to eat out every day.” I’m not going to disagree, and I still cannot fathom how lucky I am to be given this opportunity. Still it gets tiresome spending around 3-4 hours a day finding a place to eat, ordering, waiting and then eating. Hopefully I’ll be able to make some dinner when I get a kitchen or something similar to a kitchen available when I hit Nepal.

Better be off, dinnertime.

The Great Wall and the bananas

I was lucky enough to go to the Great Wall of China twice. The first time I went with a group from the Trans-Siberian to a part of the wall in Jinshanling. This is a part of the wall that is very old and most parts of it has not yet been restored. It was absolutely amazing, and for someone like me who’s not all that into China and all its tourist to-dos, it blew me completely away! Since this part of the wall was a part of the oldest it really was a tough hike including climbing steep stairs and steep descends. Thou the wall was challenging, we ended up walking 16 km. And the best thing about the Great Wall? Ppl are selling beer on top!

The second time I went was with the new group I’m travelling to Tibet with. We went to a more touristy part of the wall called Badaling which has been completely restored. This part of the wall is literally nothing compared to the first part I visited. Since it’s the part of the wall that draws most tourists (it’s only a 2h drive from Beijing), there were a lot of booths selling souvenirs, food, fruit, etc. I was really craving a banana, so I was thrilled when I saw bananas amongst the fruit. I walked up to the women managing this part of the booth and asked for two bananas. How much? 25 rmb. I pulled out 20 rmb and the lady signaled that it was sufficient. Happy with my bananas I walked to catch up with the others, when it dawned on me how much I actually had paid for the bananas. 20 rmb = 20 kr. I couldn’t help but laugh when I realized that I had had my mental currency calculator set on either rubles (Russia) or tukruks (Mongolia), which then would have made it a pretty good deal. What to do, but to laugh and smile that I probably had made someone’s day a bit easier.

When I eventually got down from the wall I wanted more bananas, but this time I wasn’t about to get fooled. Once again I asked for two bananas. I was told 12 rmb. I gave her 10 rmb.

It’s not easy being a bananaholic when dealing with foreign currencies.

你好, Beijing

I went to sleep in the Gobi desert’s endless flat sand dunes and earthy colors with nothing but a scattered house to see and flocks of animals, and I woke up to the green fauna of the Chinese mountains with small lakes passing regularly. I had finally come to China, the country too small for its ppl and yet too big to comprehend or ignore. Also the country I have no expectations towards as I’m only passing thru to get to my next destination. I find many are immensely fascinated with this country thou, as if there’s something that drags them towards it; they have to visit, to experience and to explore. It’s the far east, supposedly a different world.

I have come to realize that I’ve so far been held as a fool by all the stereotypes that roam the west – and probably the world – about China. My expectations were low and close to none existent, since China wasn’t a specific choice I made to travel to, but rather a country to travel thru to get to the destination Nepal. The easiest way to Nepal is via Tibet, which in itself didn’t seem repelling at all. And here I am, my third day in Beijing, and I cannot do anything but take my hat off and admit that I have been wrongly influenced by twisted prejudgments, being my own fault of course. I’ve always heard of how filthy, smoggy, noisy and unpleasant Beijing is, but on the contrary. As I got up bright and early today I found myself walking under a clear blue sky with the sun caressing my shoulders as I walked to get a morning Starbucks. It was a wonderful moment where one can almost hear the world go “aha!”. I constantly met ppl sweeping the roads, cleaning railings, dusting whatever might be filthy. I also noticed that even thou the early morning traffic jams were taking place in front of my very eyes, the cars were merging as a oiled zipper without making a whole lot of noise as one should and could expect. Words cannot describe how nice it is to finally be able to cross the street again without fearing for your life (a huge contrast to UB to say the least)! As for the smell, I’m not going to lie, there are a lot of different odors that I’m not used to,  but nothing as bad as I had pictured (if you can picture a smell that is).

What impressed me the most was the metro. First I must say that I like metros. I like their function, the rapidness of moving from one place to another, the environmental aspect of it and their non-rocket science level to figure out. After “having done” quite a few metros in my life, I have never been more amazed over any metro like I have this one. The cleanness, the directories, the signs, the security, the prices, the modern style and futuristic look all adds up to a metro experience like no other (did I mention the prices?!). I believe it’s in its place to give some credit to the Olympics for this well-functioning system, but I’m certain they had a great foundation to further develop upon. A small detail as having English announcements and signs in and on the metro makes the world for a tourist, in an almost none-English speaking city, a whole lot easier.

And by the way, Chinese now come in taller versions as well. In other words, yet another stereotype can be washed out of the world along with many others. 

The first self reflection

The first leg of the journey is over and I’ve reached my temporary final destination in Beijing. Now it’s time to change travelling buddies, destination, climate and language. At least for this trip the currency, time zone and way of travelling will still remain the same. Next stop: Tibet, Mt. Kailash and Mt. Everest. For three weeks we’ll be trekking thru Tibet and the Himalayas. I don’t know what to expect apart from cold weather, a tense history as well as present, a hidden non-recognized culture, sore muscles, hard hikes and loads of fun. I can’t wait to be on the top of the world!

Looking back on the first couple of weeks of my trip, I’m somewhat amazed about how much you can learn about yourself in such a short period of time. I bet by the time I get home I’ll probably rediscovered a whole new me… So far it’s not the grand revelations, but more so small things that I never had to actually encounter to rethink.

First of all I’ve finally admitted to myself that I’m not a big city person who likes running from one tourist attraction to the next. In most of the larger cities we’ve visited so far, there’s been a time limit on how long we have to do the “mandatory” tourist sites. From one museum to the other, then a building that played an important role some time ago in the country’s history, before you head off to one of the three wonderful cathedrals the city rightfully can brag about. I had to get to Beijing before I actually looked in the mirror and asked the question: “why?” I’ve thought a lot about it and come to the conclusion that travelling thru certain cities comes with an expectancy of things you are suppose to do. You can’t go to Paris without seeing the Eiffel Tower, New York without Times Square, Kuala Lumpur without the Twin Towers, Beijing without the Great Wall, etc. These “rules” have been made up along the way and have become huge income sources for both private and state driven corporations. It’s amazing how much you can milk a tourist attraction like the Great Wall; there is no end to it! Today’s society created this monster called need-to-see-places, and if you don’t do what is unconsciously expected of you, you’ll be the odd one out who gets all the “whats” and “whys”, which one of course have to answer over and over again. I won’t deny that I wouldn’t be without the wonderful experience we had at the Great Wall (both times), but when reflecting around the reasons I do these things in the first place, I strongly dislike concluding that my to-do-tourist-o’meter is on autopilot. I started to dread coming to a new city where there were more to-dos, but it only took me a few second thoughts before I had a chuckle and decided to be both a sheep in the herd and the odd one out. I figure it’s a doable combination.

Second of all I’ve experienced how affected I get by being around grumpy and ppl who lack the ability to smile. The transition from Russia to Mongolia was enormous, and in fear of turning into a cliché, it truly was night and day. After about 10 days in Russia where smiling, not to mention laughing, I believe is prohibited, coming to Mongolia where you were greeted with a smile and a friendly face seemed like you had died and gone to heaven. The level of service and friendliness I experienced in Russia was next to nothing. If you politely asked them something in English with a spasiba added to it, they’d give you the famous sigh and a reply in Russian. Another example would be if you only had big bills to pay a smaller sum. Once again the sigh was to be expected. Turns out Russia isn’t all that interested in tourism and their way of thinking seems to be that we’re lucky to have them as opposed to they’re lucky to have us. This we encountered numerous times while working our way thru Russia, not to mention the restaurant cart at the Trans-Siberian which eventually turned into a farce. In order to underline how extremely non-tourist friendly it is, let me mention that there is no tourist office in Moscow (!). Honestly, we all agreed that Russian politeness is an oxymoron. I tried to ignore the feeling of not being welcomed and just go with it for the most of the time, but I didn’t understand how much it had affected me before I got to UB. It felt like waking up to life again after feeling suppressed and uncomfortable – which had become the natural state – and coming to understand how much impact a smile, friendliness and a kind word really have on me.

First lessons have been learned, and meeting and greeting ppl all along the way will most likely put me into quite a few situations where self reflection is inevitable and almost required. As long as there’s a smile along the way, I know I’ll do fine.

Mongolia

So as I’m sitting on the Trans-Mongolian train in the middle of nowhere, I’m trying to digest my days in Mongolia. I look out the window and realize once again that I’m a long way away from home. In the distance I can see the contours of the mountains and every now a then a small house passes by. I feel like jumping off the train and go knock on the door to figure out who lives out here in the middle of the desert. Apart for these few glimpses of life, I have the joy of watching numerous flocks of wild horses running and playing as the train passes by. What a sight!

The first word that popped into my mind when we arrived in Mongolia was “chaos”. We arrived late at night by train to a small city. We got off the train and rushed into the waiting room due to the lack of degrees above zero. Needless to say, we stood quite out as we stumbled shivering into the small area which already was crowded as it was. A Canadian travelling with us, being 1,90 m had Mongolians walking past him deliberately, only to look up at him and his enormous height (Mongolians average at barely 1,60 m). We then huddled up to find the closest store to get some piv (Mongolian for beer). We found a small house with piv, vodka, water and cookies and had our needs fulfilled. This place was also extremely crowded and waiting ones turn didn’t seem like something they were familiar with. We – aka the happy campers – got our piv, returned to the train and had ourselves a “hurray-we’re-in-Mongolia-vodka-and-piv-party”.  The happy campers had strangely enough turned into tired campers when we woke up bright and early the next day at our final destination Ulaanbaatar.

I’ve been asking myself what there is to say about Ulaanbaatar (UB), and I haven’t come to a conclusion yet. It’s a surprisingly metropolitan city, but the distance between the urban and rural, rich and poor is disturbing. We went for a walk to see a temple with a 25 m high Buddha statue in it which was a few blocks away from the main square. As we passed a densely trafficked road (which btw is dangerous since red light apparently means “go” and so does green!), we came to realize that we had taken a step into the part of UB that had not yet encountered the globalized touch other parts had. It was as if we had walked off one stage and on to another, without knowing there’d be a difference, but in reality the road separated two world; where the earthly soil was a trashcan, asphalt had turned into dust and solid brick houses was replaced by a shed barely staying upright with the help of a few nails and in a few cases, ropes. Several times we turned around more or less to double check that this was reality and that we were still in the same city we’d been in a few minutes ago. All in all, UB It’s a city filled with many random smells, exhaust and layers of dust, not to mention the random hazardous holes in on the street that kept popping up around the corners every now and then. I soon came to call it little India.  To be fare thou, I hardly saw anyone begging on the street. My impressions adds up to conclude that it’s a city preparing for tourism, doing its best to become what the west wants it to be so they’ll make the effort of visiting Mongolia. In many ways I’ve come to feel it’s a city trying to run before it can walk.

The reason I’ve always wanted to go to Mongolia was to go horseback riding, and I did. We went up to a Ger camp inside the Mongolian national park, which is absolutely one of the most wonderful experiences I’ve ever had. We lived and slept in a jert which is a very basic tent/cabin with a couple of beds, an oven and a table; no electricity and no heating except for the oven. The jert has the form of a circle held up by several wooden sticks connected in the center of the ceiling and the outer walls. The walls are made out of lattice covered with layers of felt and plastic to keep it dry and warm. I actually find it an amazing lifestyle when one keeps in mind that ppl live in these small houses all winter with degrees creeping to below 40 degrees. Apart for eating wonderful homemade Mongolian food – which is some of the best food I’ve ever had – we went horseback riding in a landscape as mesmerizing as I’ve ever seen. The scenery is rocky and dramatic, but at the same time smoothly outlined and covered in a non-typical mountainous dust-like color. What surprised me the most is how I expected the mountains to be bare, which was not the case. Turns out the ground is covered by nothing except for weeds and a small bush here and there, and the trees are located up in the rocky mountainsides. At a point we all stopped taking pictures, agreeing that a picture would be a disgrace to the wonderful sight, since there is no way a photo could capture what we were experiencing.  So far, this is the most wonderful experiences I’ve had and one of the most spectacular sights my eyes have ever seen.

The sun is setting in the Gobi desert, and I’m grateful for my front row seat to this magnificent sight onboard the Trans-Mongolian railway. I only hope that my journey thru life will bring me back here one day.  

Heaven in Siberia

We arrived in Irkutsk at 0616 local time (0116 Moscow time) and had gotten somewhat adjusted to the time difference. It’s about + 3 degrees outside, which is what we’ve decided to call fresh. We had a mini-van picking us up where we had a Russian guide who actually spoke English (that’s a first!). She kept going on and on about Irkutsk and Lake Baikal; information we would get repeated the next day. Needless to say, I was a bit tired, so I plugged in my iPod, closed my eyes and tried to relax. It was pitch black outside as it was still fairly early, but as time passed (it’s roughly a two hour drive to Lake Baikal and Listvyanka) night turned to day. I could see the sky getting lighter, and the early morning sky was playing hide and seek with me amongst the trees in the Siberian forest. My iPod was playing a James Horner tune, “the Rose”, and just as the song reached its climax the trees disappeared and the hillside lay open bathing in the morning sunrise. The silhouette of a few trees could still be spotted, but had a hard time getting attention next to the colorful picture the sky had turned in to. Going from almost white, to light blue, bright yellow towards darker yellow before it turned into peachy orange, then red and finally numerous shades of pink. I’m certain I saw a glimpse of heaven.

Knowing I’m only seven days into my long journey, I’ve come to realize that I’ll probably get quite a few samples of heavenliness along the way.

Life in Siberia

As I’m sitting here looking out the window watching the world pass by on the Trans-Siberian, I can’t help but notice how far back in time these last few days have taken me. Between all the trains passing us going the opposite direction, we go by (or fly by) small villages with houses in dark brownish colors which are actually the original wooden color of the houses, thou they’re partly rotted away. Every now and then thou, there’ll be a bright green or turquoise (which seem to be the hip color in Siberia) house in the middle of them all, breaking up the somewhat sad scenery. It’s like a hint of fresh air. The houses contain maximum two rooms, if not only a one­ room, and I doubt the windows (which there seem to be a lot of) are all closable. Amongst the stray mixed-bred dogs, wrecked cars and a lady tucked into several layers of clothing and a scarf wrapped around her head, you can actually spot a family life where the backyard is the centre of attention.  The gardens are neat and very well attended to, as it probably is where they get both their food and drinks from. You can see fields of potatoes, cabbage and carrots, and by the food we’ve bought of these sweet old ladies at the different stations, we all agree that they’re wonderful cooks. Cabbage dumplings and fresh bread is heavenly to all of us being stuck at a train with a restaurant where they don’t speak a word of English and where utensils and ovens tend to break down all so often – except when the party of French ppl are about to eat.

Russian seems so far away, and ppl keep asking how long it’ll take to get there. Truth is it’ll take longer to get to Greece from Norway than to Russia by plane. Russia is very close in distance, but at the same time very far away. It’s quite a different life these ppl live compared to us. We all get out at every station to get some fresh air (which is a luxury after three days on a train), and the scenery I meet almost makes me feel ill sometimes. To think that these ppl hang around the station all day with their food and beverages waiting for the trains to arrive so they can earn some money to be able to make food to sell the following day makes me feel filthy rich. They sell their food amazingly cheap and still I hear ppl bargaining with them over dumplings which are 50 rubles (10 kr), only wanting to pay 40 rubles (8 kr). To us it’s random money lying around in our pockets, lucky if they ever get used. But to these women it’s a matter of being able to buy and grow the ingredients needed to make the food that insures their income. Usually our stops are around 15 minutes, but when the train is running late we stop only for a few minutes which don’t leave us with enough time to fill our lungs with fresh air or buy some food. The disappointment is written all over the old ladies’ faces, as they probably see half a days’ income pass by.

Right now the trees are still green, going on red and yellow, surrounding the tiny houses as if their protecting them from the rest of the world. They all look like puppet houses you see on children shows, made out of clay – a bit deformed as they should be – only here they’re real and still halfway-collapsed. It seems you’re lucky if you still have a complete wall which at least will give you some protection when the cold, expected winter hits Siberia. This is home; a battle to survive relying on ppl buying your goods of a train which you’ll never afford to get on, best of luck.

Welcome to Siberia.