How does one sum up one lone day in a city you never visited before? A tough task.

I touched down in Vancouver at 10.30am on Monday morning. It is my first visit to the west coast of Canada and to this city that’s gearing up for the 2010 Winter Olympics. Driving into downtown from the airport, it felt very much like Seattle – a Pacific Northwest metropolis with a stunning natural setting that takes your breath away. Mountains meet the ocean meets the rainforest greenery and old-growth forests hiding hundreds of years of unspoken wisdom.

After checking into my downtown hotel, I went out to explore. I had a 5.30pm appointment so my encounter with Vancouver was to be short and hopefully sweet. I strolled Robson Street, the main shopping thoroughfare lined with big-name stores and funky independent boutiques. It was a pleasant walk but shopping isn’t what a city makes. At least for me. Food, more so. My lunch was delicious, at a small waterfront restaurant, Raincity Grill on Denman Street, that serves organic locally sourced food from within the 100-mile radius. My salmon was succulent and perfect fuel for the walk along scenic English Bay toward the Granville Island ferry.

After what was probably the shortest ferry ride of my life (about five minutes long and $3 cheap) on the tiny Aquabus boat, I took a wander through the delightful Granville Island Public Market. The food looked so appealing that I almost regretted having had that filling lunch. What followed was a ramble along the back streets of this artist enclave chockablock with galleries and crafts shops. I loved the echoes of the area’s industrial past – once home to sawmills, warehouses and factories – and the bridge running above, giving it an urban edge. Below, a few market scenes.

At 3pm, I had the ambitious idea of zipping over to Stanley Park in a cab in order to rent a bike and see this evergreen oasis on wheels. By the time I arrived to the park’s edge, I realized I am about to enter a 1000-acre swath of dense forest and hop on a sea wall path that takes at least an hour to circumnavigate. I had to be back at my hotel within the hour so, regrettably, I had to stand up Stanley.

Or so I thought. But the evening had a lovely twist in store. After dinner, I joined a small group – two Saudis, two New Yorkers (including yours truly) and our Canadian guide Pieter – for an evening exploration of Vancouver sights. While I prefer to stumble into things unexpectedly, explore independently and get lost in cities new to me, this particular tour was a pleasant surprise. We saw the usual roster of sights: the First Nations totem poles in Stanley Park (I did make it after all, although on four wheels not two), the hip gentrified waterfront community of Yaletown, the narrowest office building in Chinatown and the panoramic views from Vancouver Lookout, a viewing deck more than 40 floors above ground with a 360-degree view of Burrard Inlet and the North Shore Islands.

But what impressed me more were Pieter’s stories, the tidbits of information only locals know, the “secret” spots like Third Beach in Stanley Park at sunset and historic Gastown, the birthplace of Vancouver with cobblestone streets and Victorian houses once frequented by sailors and now transformed into a restaurant-bar row near the edge of Vancouver’s rough alleyways. We ended the night at a Gastown sidewalk over a glass of red wine, watching the gallery of local faces – quarreling couples, quirky characters and homeless artists paraded past us, some stopped for a chat… No better way to end my single day in Vancouver than with a little local flavor.

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This isn’t Beijing. It’s on the opposite side of the country, as far away as you can get from the major Chinese travel destinations. And if you managed to get here (a feat my friend), without knowing where you were headed you wouldn’t recognize it, or anyone living here, as being associated with China.

We embarked from Kashgar (Kashi) airport into a land untouched by time. Kashgar is a time warp that could just as easily have been the set of a Star Trek or Twilight Zone. It was indeed just as exciting as stepping through that portal opening. The Han Chinese are minorities here. Uigher is the language. The people (Uighers, Tajiks, Krygyzs, and Uzbeks) seemed the happiest and were indisputably the kindest we encountered during 5 weeks backpacking China.

The West of China, specifically the provinces of XinJiang and Gansu, had beckoned me just as the Western United States has always enticed me. There are many similarities in their appeal. Still considered a no-man’s land (and marked so on a few maps), Kashgar in the Xinjiang Province is a fixture in time on the 6,000 year old Silk Road. Eight nations border to create a collision of people/culture/language, giving XinJiang’s capital, Urumqui, the title “most land-locked city in the world.”

Dunhuang is southeast from Urumqui in the province of Gansu, just south of Mongolia. Also on the world’s first information superhighway, the Silk Road, Gansu is a treasure trove of Buddhist paintings and sculptures, and the Buddhist grottoes of the Mogao Caves. The arid land and harsh climate has made the land barely inhabitable. As such, the Gansu Province is one of the 5 poorest provinces in China. Dunhuang may be poor, but when we pulled into downtown in a “taxi”, we were instantly transported from weary travelers to starry eyed tourists. The town is alight at night with magical colors that gratefully rejuvenated us. The light of day replaced the magic with a sobering reality. Yet even that meant 4 days of adventure we’ll never forget.

China is culturally and topographically vast. Unless you’re there on a prolonged stay, you’ll only see a fraction of it. If you want to take home memories and photographs that few China visitors see, Go West!

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I first visited Sarajevo with my parents in 1984 during the Sarajevo Winter Olympics. I recall walking through the cobblestone streets of Baščaršija quarter, as if I’ve walked into a fairytale. I remember savoring the sweetest baklava ever at a cake shop. I recollect staying in a high-rise with friends of my parents, in a tiny apartment with air perennially perfumed with strong coffee. I remember burning my finger on hot running water one day and sporting a painful blister for the rest of our stay. I remember the figure skating events we attended. I remember the warmth and famous Bosnian hospitality of all the people we met along the way. What I don’t remember is any talk of ethnicity, in this diverse city of former Yugoslavia where Muslims, Serbs and Croats lived together as one people.

Fast forward. It is 1992 and I am sitting at home in Zagreb with my parents, watching the news of the infamous bread line massacre in Sarajevo. Memories of my Olympic stay start flooding back, as I watch the blood, gore, missing limbs and corpses of a city I recall with tenderness. It turns out to be just one of many massacres that the city suffered over the coming years. I experience them through my Bosnian refugee friends in London in the mid-1990s and then later in the States. There are stories and stories, most involving loss and a great deal of anguish. The war narrative unrolls… but the resilient Bosnian spirit doesn’t give in. In 1995, with the city still under siege, the first Sarajevo Film Festival is held to an audience of 15,000 people, with 37 films from 15 different countries.

Fast forward yet again. It is 2006. Sarajevo is slowly waking up from post-war slumber, recovering from its many wounds. By this time, Sarajevo Film Festival is an internationally acclaimed event, with big names in the movie industry and film buffs flocking to the city each August for a few days of cinematic fun and great parties. With a friend of mine, I make my way from Croatia to Sarajevo that summer, to catch the festival buzz and see the city I loved back in 1984.

We’re awaited by a friend of a friend of a friend who would host us in his house for the next couple of days. In Bosnia, people tend to open their doors generously to friends three times removed. For the next week, there are endless parties, cool events, hidden restaurants and cafés we’re taken to (I won’t reveal the names and locations, as I promised to keep them under wraps), all fueled by copious amounts of strong coffee.

Our hosts, two brothers, had spent the entire war in Sarajevo. They talk about the siege as just another fact of life. And there’s me, who had only visited the city once as a ten-year-old, feeling intense sadness the whole entire time of my stay – during parties, film screenings, walks, talks, coffee breaks… One afternoon as we’re walking through the city streets swarmed by international visitors, our host points out the market where the war’s bloodiest massacre took place in 1994. I stand there for a while, overwhelmed, quiet, wondering how this place of horror turned into a sight, a curiosity, a point of interest for tourists.

On most days, we’d descend into town from the hillside neighborhood where we stayed, passing what I saw as the city’s most wrenching sight: the shattered Sarajevo Library. In August 1992, Serb artillery shelled the library, originally built as the town hall in 1896. Shelves and shelves of books, manuscripts and archives went up in flames, a record of the city’s rich history lost within minutes. With boarded windows and a charred facade, it now stands as a painful symbol of a shattered culture.

I’d urge anyone to go to Sarajevo, don’t mind me. It’s a delightful city, with some of the nicest funniest people you’ll meet anywhere, excellent food (don’t skip the delicious burek meat pastries and cheese and spinach pies!) and lovely cafés. There’s something very serene about listening to call to prayer as you walk the twisting streets of Baščaršija or sip coffee in a restaurant garden. And despite all that’s happened, there’s a definite cheer to the city and its people. Perhaps it was just me coming to terms with the war that ravaged my former country, dealing with a sense of guilt for not having stayed behind, for not having done more for my Sarajevo friends.

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They say that nothing in life is free. It’s true. So although I’m going to tell you how to get your accommodation for free so you can travel your heart out and extend your dollar, don’t expect it to come for nothing.

Instead, you may have to paint murals on the property, or milk goats, or harvest organic ginger, or manage a hostel or campground, or even just be a warm body in an empty house and walk the dog.

Working in trade for accommodation is also called Caretaking. Your room (and sometimes more, like food around a family dinner table if you are remotely located) is provided free of charge, in exchange for your time and effort. Some are skilled positions, and others welcome untrained hands. Some work environments are manual, others are administrative. Some involve long hours, while others yet seem too good to be true (which is rarely the case – trust me)!

The Caretaker Gazette is a premier marketer of a huge variety of caretaking opportunities; they have over 25 years under their belts, so you could say the groundwork has been well-laid. Their huge quarterly reports feature opportunities from North America to Bhutan and beyond. When I initially joined and read a listing to house-sit a vacation property on an island in Micronesia, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

Although I didn’t follow up on that opportunity, The Caretaker Gazette paved the way to my learning about permaculture and life off the grid in a Hawaiian paradise, as well as leading eco-treks on llamas and grounds keeping for a five star cottage resort in Australia. In so doing, I also turned down opportunities to manage a fruit-filled property in Ecuador, and tend a mountain resort in Colorado.

One of the beautiful things about caretaking is not only the money you save on accommodation, but the ability to dedicate the time you are not spending working to another craft or stream of income. Artists enjoy using the often remote caretaking locations as creative retreats, and retired couples find that caretaking can be a way to keep busy and stretch their retirement dollars with rent-free living. Professional Hobos like me use the free time to see a new spot in the world, as well as make money with writing to pay for incidentals and transportation to the next destination.

Caretaking positions can last from a few weeks to a few years depending on the job, so there is something for everybody from those taking a shorter trip, to others taking sabbaticals and beyond. Between quarterly gazette installments, regular updates of new positions are emailed to subscribers – sometimes multiple times a week.

So if you are looking for something different, The Caretaker Gazette may open your mind to – quite literally – a world of opportunities.

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When mulling over travel memories, I thought of my 2005 visit to Laos. That spring, I just swam out of a difficult break-up and, in my typical fashion, ran off to Australia and Asia for five weeks of travel therapy. What’s a nomad to do? So I picked up a dear friend who was then living in Sydney and together we set off on a three-week journey around Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. My first encounter with Asia, this whirlwind adventure left me craving to see more, something I still intend to do.

It was in dusty Vientiane – perhaps the most provincial of all the capitals I’ve seen – that we hooked up with a friend of mine from New York who was backpacking around southeast Asia. One of the afternoons in Vientiane, we decided to check out the herbal massage and sauna at a Buddhist temple outside of town recommended by our guidebook as the most traditional around. So, off we were in a tuk-tuk to the forested temple of Wat Sok Pa Luang.

The next thing you know: we’re up in a sort of a tree house where a couple of smiling Lao ladies order us to strip into a sarong, push us into a pitch-dark wooden cabin with heavy herbal scents and a bunch of benevolent eyes you can half-discern through the steamy air. Just as I am starting to feel faint, we’re invited back out and onto the massage table, where I am treated to what is probably, to this day, the most vigorous massage of my life. It all happened very fast, without words, and with a sense of surreal comedy about it. We laughed the entire tuk-tuk ride back into town.

After the short stay in Vientiane, the three of us hired a driver to take us up to the Buddhist mecca of Luang Prabang on the Mekong River. With the only buses up north running at night, we didn’t want to skip what was apparently some of the most beautiful scenery in Laos. So we splurged on a private drive – definitely worth it! The nine-hour jaunt was packed with stomach-churning twists and turns through the mountains and a few unexpected adventures. At a tiny village where we paused en route, we accidentally stumbled into an impromptu karaoke session in somebody’s hut. Suddenly, we were a part of the afternoon party, dancing with a pair of grinning ladies, a lone drunk (or opium-high) man and a group of kids watching us in giggles.

We then came across a bizarre trading of dead animals. As we drove past a string of villages, men stood by the side of the road, exhibiting fresh kill for sale. At one hamlet, our driver stopped and inspected what seemed like a dead fox by poking it at several spots along the flimsy corpse. Meanwhile, we wondered whether the poor thing will end up thrown on top of our backpacks in the trunk. But we drove on foxless.

With bird flu at its most panicky height back then, we laughed out loud when the driver stopped for a lunch break at a roadside eatery. This – see photo! – was our only choice of food. Needless to say, we resorted to snacks for the rest of the long trip.

When we arrived to Luang Prabang – which stands out as one of the most serene towns of all I’ve ever visited – what awaited were a couple of days of exploring its many temples and – yet another funny episode! One sunny afternoon, we got a boat to take us to Pak Ou Cave (also known as the Buddha Cave for the multitude of Buddha sculptures that it hides) but it was only faraway from shore that we realized our boatman was absolutely wasted. It was a rocky ride, to say the least. We blamed it on the infamous Lao Lao rice whiskey, produced in a nearby village and known to be dangerously potent.

Among other things, Laos lives on in my mind as a good laugh.

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We’re a nation teetering on social burn-out. The multitude of devices designed to bind us together like links in a chain has made it difficult to go to the bathroom and be alone. Articles on efficiency are prolific: how to cut a minute off some task, make your morning shower more efficient, and speed up this or that. And yet I know more discontented people than ever. When the pundits start messing with your morning shower, who wouldn’t be unhappy? It all begs the point, if being continually connected to a large group of people and having your life maximized for efficiency can’t deliver happiness, what’s missing? Some solo time, my friends.

Ester Schaler Buchholz, PhD, an outspoken advocate for solitude, in her 1997 book The Call of Solitude writes: “We live in a society that worships independence yet deeply fears alienation. The earth’s population has doubled since the 1950s and in cities across the world, urban crowding and the new global economy have revolutionized social relationships. Cellular phones now extend the domain of the workplace into every part of our lives; religion no longer provides a place for quiet retreat but instead offers “megachurches” of social and secular amusement; and climbers on top of Mt. McKinley whip out hand-held radios to call home. We are heading toward a time when, according to the New York Times,” portable phones, pagers, and data transmission devices of every sort will keep us terminally in touch.” Yet in another more profound way, we are terminally out of touch. The need for genuine and constructive aloneness has gotten utterly lost, and in the process, so have we.”

Solo road trips (SRT) strike fear in the heart of many. Either the brain conjures up “solitary confinement” and goes downhill from there or the thought of a road trip disgorges memories of the family sedan and their Dad’s mission to see America at 55 mph. But it’s not about getting away, it’s about going somewhere….with yourself. I read an article on solo travel that recommended spending some time on a psychological sofa before heading out on a solo road trip. I beg to differ. The trip IS the psychological sofa. And there’s no astronomical hourly billing attached. Few things in our lives are as liberating, empowering, and rejuvenating as a solo road trip. Yet as good as that sounds, most people have NEVER taken one. Friends can face down a room of professionals in a board room, or the crush of orders coming in for burgers and fries at high noon, but they can’t face the prospect of being alone.

Let’s debunk a myth right off the bat about solo travel. There are those who believe the only experiences that really matter are those you share with someone else. Pifel! That’s my mother’s favorite exclamatory word and provides a more politically correct substitute for my favorite words: bullshit, crap, crapola, and whatacrock. If you asked these people in a question format “do you believe the only experiences that really matter are….” they would likely say “no.” But my SRTs have become a curiosity, and with that I’ve become a curiosity. So I hear feedback about them and I can tell you a lot of it is negative and without any ability to relate. Why? Because deep down they believe the myth and they can’t relate to those of us who don’t. Various friends and family members are so unable to relate to my road trips, they can’t talk about them. Upon my return last fall from 9 days on the open road, a best friend called and said “Okay, it’s just not right you wanting to have all that fun to yourself, and I demand to go with you on the next one.” Judy. Then it wouldn’t be a SOLO road trip. The concept is beyond her; fun should be shared. End of discussion. But it’s not the end. If it were, I’d have nothing else to write. And I’ve plenty to say, so stay tuned!

Photo “road trip” from wili_hybrid on Flickr

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In the winter of 2006, I visited the island of St Lucia in the West Indies. Today, as I watched the colorful sunset from my Brooklyn apartment, an evening on a terrace in St Lucia came to me. I vividly remembered the sea breeze, rainforest sounds, hummingbirds, the scent of tropical flowers… In honor of that moment, here comes a post about St Lucia.

What I saw of the area around the capital of Castries and the island’s northern part left me pretty cold. While there are plenty of resorts and hotels for a variety of budgets, it’s an overdeveloped area without much soul – not my cup of tea. But base yourself on the southwest coast around the tiny colonial town of Soufriere, and you’ll be in St Lucia’s sweetest spot. This is the land of lush rainforests, simmering sulphur springs, pretty fishing villages, gorgeous waterfalls, and stellar beaches. There’s plenty to keep you happily entertained without giving in to the tourist traps of the north.

My home in St Lucia was Le Haut Plantation, a working family-run plantation with two swimming pools, a set of pleasant rooms and, best of all, affordable prices (from $175 a double at the peak of winter season). The rooms have no television or phone – a perfect way to really disconnect! The highlight was the unobstructed view of the Pitons, St Lucia’s landmark twin mountains, from my private veranda. This vista made my jaw drop at every look, no matter how many times I rubbed my eyes to ensure I wasn’t dreaming.

A short drive from Le Haut Plantation (there’s a complimentary shuttle for guests) is the beach at four-star Anse Chastenet Resort, a lovely strip of volcanic sand. After a day of tanning and swimming, you can take a water taxi to Jalousie beach and get a stellar view of the island from the sea. For first-class snorkeling, head to Hummingbird Beach, a twenty-minute drive from Le Haut Plantation.

Don’t skip the many rainforest trails in St Lucia, a definite draw card for outdoorsy types. The island’s mountainous interior is covered by 19,000 acres of rainforest, crisscrossed with 29 miles of scenic trails. The easiest path – it takes about two hours – runs through Barre De L’isle Forest Reserve, a ridge that divides the eastern and western halves of St Lucia. If you’re feeling fit, venture into Edmund Forest Reserve for a four-hour trek through pristine bush.

For culinary pleasures, head to Jade Mountain Club, where the award-winning chef conjures up tasty tropical treats. If you have cash to splash, book a table at Dasheene, the signature restaurant of five-star Ladera. If dinner is a stretch, at least have a cocktail at Ladera’s Tcholit Bar known for its panoramic vistas. Other places to stay and eat on St Lucia’s southwest coast are Mago Estate Hotel at the edge of the rainforest above Soufriere, with a series of open-front rooms providing Piton views, and the more upscale Stonefield Estate Villa Resort on a former lime and cocoa plantation.

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Thought I’d share the latest series of short videos on Croatia that just went up on LonelyPlanet.tv. I hope you enjoy watching them as much as I enjoyed shooting them.

Photo “Sea view. Rovinj, Croatia” by akk_rus on Flickr

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My last day in Ulan Ube was leisurely. I was woken at 6am by my current weird sleep pattern problem and read for an hour until a 7am breakfast in the hotel bar. It was not due to get light until 9.30am at the earliest and the temperature was hovering around -30c at this unearthly hour, putting you off going for an early morning walk.

To cut a long story short, I did not have enough time on my Russian Visa to obtain a Mongolian Visa so I am taking the train that skirts Mongolia and ends up in Beijing.

I unpacked my backpack and decided to have a sort out, emptied it’s entire contents all over the room and threw out anything that was not absolutely necessary. I was not planning to do much, my train was leaving 4pm local time so I re-packed my bag, read for a bit, did a bit more packing and a bit more reading.

Midday I went on a fruitless attempt to procure some warmer clothes. After an hour of trecking round the small town centre I failed to find a clothes shop which resulted in contracting the first stages of hypothermia. Not nice. I could not get warm, I was shaking and sweating and then the panic attacks came. This was obviously the worst thing that could have happened as my train was at 4pm and I had to get out of the country or risk overstaying my Visa and having to deal with the corrupt and unstable Russian border officials (a recent report shows that 60% of Russian border guards are mentally unstable), they regularly have mass shootouts with each other.

I medicated myself with three cups of tea and a large bar of nutty chocolate which seemed to do the trick as by 3pm I came round a little and managed to drag my back pack over the ice to the station. By the time I reached the station I was back on form again and eager to get out of Russia.

I boarded the train and found my cabin. I was sharing with a Russian woman in her fifties who spoke no English. She was nice, she made my bed for me and generally mothered me and was concerned that I was travelling on my own. We had a chat about family and friends for a couple of hours and I headed for the bar to read my book and have a beer.

At this point let me introduce you to Christof because he is probably an important factor as to why you are not attending my funeral today. Christof was a well healed Polish eccentric in his fifties. He was a Borat who claimed he was an advisor to President Vladimir Putin. He described himself as a businessman but his business was very vague, vague to point of being damn right dodgy. He has been robbed on numerous occasions and had recently had his glasses stolen so could not see very well. He spoke around six different languages but his English was pretty poor, resulting in him rubbing his temples frantically when he could not remember or was too drunk to remember an English word.

He was generally pretty chilled out but when he lost his cool he would screw his face up, clench his fists until his knuckles went white, start shaking and endlessly mutter ‘the bastards, the bastards’

The mere mention of George W Bush would send him off into a trembling and silent fit of pure rage complete with clenched fists and white knuckles and it would not have been wise to remind him that he was operating on American dollars only.

Christof wore a dead animal type hat which he would never remove or let anyone touch. He even slept in it. He had a pouch with his remaining personal effects that had not been stolen, including some beads that he seemed particularly proud of and a tatty Chinese newspaper cutting which contained a photo of him and an accompanying story about him getting his bag Stolen at a Chinese railway station ten years ago.

Christof was partial to Vodka in no uncertain quantities and had a piece of material wrapped around his wrist which he used to wipe vodka off his clothing and chin when he missed his mouth.

Back to the bar, I was on the last twenty pages on my book which I was on a mission to finish. Within minutes of settling with my book and my beer, two Russians appeared and promptly forced me into a Vodka session. One of them, Vlad, was another Alan, well built, rough looking but far more intense if that sounds possible and he insisted on the hugging, the head locks and the rough and tumble. Why can’t these people just have a beer and chill. Vodka after Vodka was being poured and things were getting pretty scary. I was trapped by the window by these three hulks and there was no getting out.

When one went to the toilet I saw my opportunity and escaped, shouting behind me that i will be back.

not much more than ten minutes later I bumped into Vlad and his mate who were having a ciggie between carriages. After another attempt by Vlad at a head lock my glasses fell to the ground and I kicked off big time shouting at the bastard.

When he saw the shit I was getting, Christof appeared like a fairy godfather. Christof (affectionately known as ‘Our Man’) spoke some Russian. It transpired that Vlad was Russian Mafia and was taking a six day train journey to collect a debt in Harbin, China. Apparently he was convinced that because I am British, I worked for British Petroleum and he wanted to do business with me. My subsequent refusal had offended him and he had decided he was going to kill me. Our man Christof informed Vlad that he had friends in pretty high places in the FSB (former KGB) and the Russian mafia and told him in no uncertain terms that if he killed me dark things would happen to him. After Our Man had made some throat slitting gestures and accompanying sound effects, Vlad changed his mind about killing me, to my relief.

Afterwards Vlad got himself so drunk on Vodka that his friend had to carry him off to his carriage. Things chilled out in the bar so myself, two Welsh lads and a Scottish couple drank with a lovely young Russian couple who apologised profusely for the truly appalling behaviour of Vlad the Impaler.

The morning of day two we went to the bar carriage for some food and our man, Christof, was in there. Christof sat us down and informed us in all seriousness that he liked women with small breasts and he didn’t have much time for homosexuals.

In the afternoon Vlad cornered me between carriages, apologised for the previous night’s behaviour and tried to have a conversation about Chelsea, The IRA and Queen, his favourite band. He also made it blatantly clear that if Chelsea did not win the Premiership, he would carry out his previous night’s threat to kill me. Super.

Late afternoon we got to the Russia/China border, by this time I was pretty keen to get out of Russia. It was dodgier than Colombia but I am glad I went. The train pulled into the Russian side of the border and surly looking border guards got on and came down the carriage collecting passport and searching for drugs and contraband. They largely left me alone whilst giving the Chinese in the carriage a good going over and no end of grief.

Myself and my new western train friends, accompanied by Our Man, left the train and went to drink beer and eat pizza for three hours whilst the train was taken into the siding for a Chinese restaurant car to be attached, the carriages to be hoisted into the air and bogies (wheels) changed as the track gauge is different in China to that of Russia.

After re-boarding the train the Russians handed me my passport back and we made the lengthy 1km journey to the Chinese side of the border where the same process was repeated (with friendly and smiley Chinese border guards) By then it was 8pm and we were not due to move again until 1am.

We left the train on the Chinese side to change our Russian Roubles, all the money changers were operating from the confines of the men’s toilet and at that point were realised for definite, we were back in Asia again!

The first thing I managed to do upon entering the continent was to accidentally set fire to one of the bins on the Chinese side of the border. I snuck away and don’t think anyone noticed it was me.

Once back on the train, there was nothing more to do than drink Vodka in my compartment with the door locked to keep out Vlad (who had been trying to track down which compartment I was in but was flatly refused the information by the carriage attendant). I passed out before the train got moving again. I was in China and sleeping.

The next morning I headed to the new Chinese bar carriage to find Our man sitting there, drunk as a skunk, lolling and grinning with a three quarter empty bottle of vodka on the table. He reasserted his slight dislike for homosexuals, briefly got angry about George W Bush and informed me that he had stayed up drinking all night as he was paranoid about the Chinese putting narcotics into his bag. It sounded like a perfectly unreasonable excuse to me.

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful, Vlad left the train at Harbin to collect his mafia debt and an air of peace and tranquility overcame the train, our man left the bar, staggering off in the wrong direction, not to be seen again until the morning, and most the Chinese passengers left the train.

Due to a 5.30am arrival in Beijing, myself and my two Welsh friends crashed out at 8pm for a well earned sleep.

5.32am, two minutes late on a journey from Moscow to Beijing (some 6000 miles), we pulled into the main station. I walked down the platform to find the Welsh lads as we had decided to go to the same hostel in a taxi. Just after they appeared from the train, Our Man staggered out looking somewhat ropey. He had four brief cases sealed in cellophane and a duffle bag. He was rather annoyed that his assistant had not turned up so he commandeered us to help him shift his baggage. The briefcase I took was very heavy and rather suspect and I was hoping the police were not going to swoop on us.

He eventually managed to procure the services of a porter and went into a forehead clenching meltdown after he could not agree a price with him. All was eventually settled; we walked alongside the porter and managed to lose Our Man so we were stuck with all his dodgy baggage. After about twenty minutes we located him and his assistant (who unsurprisingly was a young and pretty Chinese girl).

After bidding farewell to Our Man and his assistant, we got a taxi to Leo Hostel near to Tiananmen square and got a few hours sleep safe in the knowledge that The Impaler was 1000km away, debt collecting.

Photo “USSR RUSSIAN S.F.S.R. IRKUTSK OBLAST, SIBERIA, 1980 series Trailer plate” by woody1778a on Flickr

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I arrived at the Moscow train station at about 8.30pm to meet my two Aussie friends, the ones I met in Tallinn. After an endless queue to get my train tickets (I booked over the internet) we went to the platform and watched our train being shunted in backwards.

We soon made ourselves comfortable and as the train moved off, we cracked open the Vodka in our compartment. I was at the Russian end of the train and Nick and Chez were in the Chinese end, sharing their compartment with Kiwi Henny and Polish Mihail who I had met in the wonderful Hostel Comrade.

I was sharing my compartment with three Russians who got off the next morning. It was not long before a rough looking Russian called Alan from the next compartment made himself known to us. Alan had just finished a fourteen year prison sentence for knifing someone to death and was returning to his home town, Magadan in Eastern Russia.

Myself and Nick got dragged into his compartment for some more Vodka and to share his food which consisted of some bread, some cheese and some sort of feathered beast’s leg which had no doubt been dispatched to the great hen house in the sky by his own fair hands.

It wasn’t long before Alan was Vodka’d up and started to get pretty scary. Whilst ( was passing through the bar car, he demanded I drink Vodka with him. He had grabbed my coat in a vice like grip and would not let go for love nor money.

The scary and starey eyed bar man had no interest in helping me out and found the scenario to his great amusement.

Not wanting to offend the crazy bastard due to safety concerns, I ended up having three shots with him before managing to escape to the safety of my friend’s compartment.

Alan was persistent though. No matter how many ways we tried to lock the door, he managed to get in. He made several attempt to kiss my neck which is Russian tradition after Vodka apparently. He gave up in the end and went on the rampage elsewhere. Crazy Alan was not fucking about, he went on a forty eight hour Vodka binge and finally crashed out for twenty four hours and looked rather sheepish for the remainder of the journey.

We spent the first night in the bar with some more Westerners – six Swedes, an Englishman with a very posh upper class accent, an Irish guy called John and a Russian who claimed to have murdered two Chechnans – he was not very fond of Chechnans apparently. He was another that I though best not to offend in anyway, despite my lack of Chechnan characteristics.

The night was finished off with a snowball fight at a station we stopped at and then to Linnea, the Swedish girl’s first class cabin for a lot of drunken nonsense ranting.

There was snow lying deep in the countryside after leaving Moscow and for the rest of the journey. The days were spent looking out of the window at the frozen rivers and the snow covered pine trees. Transversing several time zones over land leaves you somewhat dazed and confused.

The whole journey is scheduled on Moscow time so you never really have any idea what time it is locally, how much daylight is left or what time you have got up or gone to bed or woken up. The days seem to meld together and stops are welcome so we could buy beer and food from the platform traders and get our feet on some solid ground. By day three we were starting to go pretty crazy.

The last full day I was on a bit of a downer because I had realised I would arrive in Irkutsk at 4am and had nowhere booked to stay which did not sound good to me. The main reason I was a going to Irkutsk was to obtain a Mongolian visa. I was as nervous as a whore in a church, to put it mildly.

A friendly Belarusian guy called Serge had a chat with the starey eyed bar man and it turned out I could stay on the train until Ulan Ube and get off the train at 1pm the next day (local time). The only problem with this was my ticket was only to Irkutsk so it would mean moving out of my cabin, saying farewell to the Russian carriage attendant and moving into a spare bed in the Chinese end of the train with Irish John and Sergio, which was not problem for them.

I had spent three days in the Chinese section of the train with my friends so I assumed the Chinese guys thought I was on that carriage anyway. They were pretty chilled out and probably didn’t care much that I was jumping the train ticketless.

This afternoon the train pulled into Ulan Ube and I said a sad farewell to my new friends and hailed a beat up old Lada to take me to the hotel. The taxi driver was another crazy guy who was not going to let the snow and the ice on the road put him off flooring the accelerator. I made the ten minute drive in one piece and he gave me his number in case I wanted to hire him again. I think I will probably not.

I am in a rather nice hotel which is not cheap so I may move to a flea pit tomorrow but having a decent shower after four days of train skankiness is worth it.

This afternoon I hung out in the town square practicing my Russian by chatting to the locals. I think I am the only foreigner in this small chilled town and all think I am crazy for coming to Siberia at this time of the year.

The square has a vast, sinister bust of Lenin’s head made of black granite (biggest in the world I believe) with icicles hanging from his nose and all around people are making huge ice sculptures of bridges and palaces, presumably for Christmas. It is -20c outside so any trips out have to be kept fairly short and to the point in order to avoid hyperthermia.

It is Saturday today (I think) and I am stuck here until Monday when the Mongolian consulate opens but there are worst places to be stuck. Hopefully this visa process will be smooth but if anything goes wrong I will get the Beijing train that does not go through Mongolia as my Russian visa expires soon and I don’t fancy much spending Christmas in a gulag. As it stands it looks like I will be spending Mongolia in Christmas which could be good!

Photo “Cruzando el río Lena congelado” by ntx on Flickr

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