Post 9: TURKESTAN - ARALSK - AKTAU

The train journey from Turkestan to Aralsk is spent in a shared cabin with a middle aged alpha male Russian - Vladimir. We converse little when I first get in as we are both tired. There is something quite soothing about both the movement and the sound of the train. Perhaps this is something which takes one back to being a baby rocked to sleep. Or maybe it is just because I am tired. But it is the best sleep I have on the journey so far.

The next morning whilst Vladimir snoozes on the opposite bed, I lye and read. Abruptly he wakes up, and in less than two seconds he is rummaging about and chatting away. The idea of there needing to be a transition between sleep and daytime activity seems pointless to him. In a friendly manner he lectures me about how the route I am planning is stupid, and that I should go via Moscow, not Azerbaijan. He then somehow musters up an enormous breakfast from his small rucksack, feeds me and continues refilling my plate until I explain that, if I eat any more, it may come back up as there is no space left in my body for it to go. He jokes that if I manage to hold some more food down it may help a certain body part expand - but that is not enough to tempt me.

The train slows into a town full of small white cottages. According to the clock this is the time that I am due to arrive in Aralsk, so I assume I am here and get up to leave. “Where you going? This not Aralsk”, firmly asserts Vladimir. “Oh, okay” I sit back down, and he explains it is not for quite a few more miles yet. Five minutes later he overhears some voices talking outside and jumps up and shakes me. “Actually this is Aralsk, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!” I step off just in time, as when I turn and face the train it is shuttling off. A grin finally fills Vladimir’s face as he smiles and waves goodbye from the window.

Walking through Aralsk is not an experience which could be described as enchanting. The place has clearly seen better days. Back in 1921 it gloriously responded to a hunger shortage in the Soviet Union by provided fourteen railway carriages full of fish from the Aral Sea. However, the drainage of the Aral Sea for the irrigation of cotton fields since the 1960s removed it completely from Aralsk’s coastline, leaving the town to rot. Apparently, though, the times are a-changing, as dams are being built to try and move the lake back to where it once was.

Despite being a sleepy town, when I walk through the town centre it is pulsating, not with trade but with a carnival atmosphere. Today is Victory Day - a celebration and remembrance of the Soviet Union’s role in defeating fascism. A staggering twenty-seven million of her citizens sacrificed their lives in the Second World War, and countless millions were maimed.

As well as a day of remembrance, like most public holidays around the world this is a chance to take time off work and revel in other activities. Groups of boys linger near the groups of girls, eager to flirt, though desperate not to embarrass themselves. Old folks sit on the benches and reminisce. Some of them have eyes which radiate that they have seen and experienced more than I will ever know.

Between groups of people with different ages and genders I turn my attention. I do not need to approach anyone - they call me over. I stand out like a sore thumb for at least two reasons. Partly because the town in so small that everyone seems to know each other. And furthermore because I am wearing shorts, the only person in the square to do so.

At night the atmosphere grows more exciting. The coming together of young and old is not just visually apparent but can also be heard in the music. The DJ somehow manages to blend modern dance with old rallying songs seamlessly.

Early the next morning I catch the train to Aktau. It is a thirty-four hour journey, but as I speak with others on board I soon learn that I should not complain - they have already been on this train for thirty hours, travelling all the way from Almaty. This is, after all, the ninth largest country in the World, and distances between the towns and cities are long.

I am in the lowest class of carriage, so am surrounded by many beds, and hence many people. Some of the people sitting and socialising around me are from Turkmenistan, and are taking a slow but cheap route home. They want to know everything about me, from my age and nationality to the specific details of my hobbies and my family. I ask if they are spies, and they laugh and say they are just curious as they have never met someone from England. They joke that it is more plausible that I am the spy, a real life James Bond.

In the evening I find a food cart for some peace and quiet, after many hours of chatting. But in the food cart I am called over to a table of people, this time some lads from Almaty in their early twenties. They pour me out some beer and say “Relax, man!” They are on their way to Aktau to collect some cars. As things stand import duty is remarkably low, so they can make a decent profit if they buy cars from abroad (the Middle East), collect them from Aktau port and drive them to Almaty to sell on. This lucrative trade is set to end, though, as the government is hiking up the import taxes in June.

They say that when we arrive in Aktau I can share a flat with them. I accept. The next day they stick to their word, and we are collected from the train station and driven to the entrance of one of the many concrete blocks that dominate the town. The exterior may lack character, but the interior is lovely. They cook me dinner and pour out some vodka.

We walk towards the shore of the Caspian Sea. Every fifth car is a Lada. Once the norm in much of the Soviet Union, they are slowly becoming extinct, and perhaps because of this, as well as their simple design, they appear almost quaint. Almost. And they are certainly much less threatening than the SUVs which roar around this town, a status symbol of those who are getting rich from the oil pipelines and shipping which is taking off ‘big time’.

Aktau is perfectly situated to watch the sunset. It is beautiful. I end up staying in Aktau for seven days and nights waiting to receive an Azerbaijan visa and then waiting for the ferry to arrive. Plenty of things happen, but there is a saying amongst people who are only in Aktau on a temporary basis - what happens here stays here. Thus, in respect of this rule, I shall stop there.

Post 8: SHYMKENT - SAYRAM - TURKESTAN

I awake in my lodgings in Shymkent and give Olesa (the friend of Zaur who lives nearby) a call. She meets me in the bustling city centre and we go for a Turkish coffee. She asks what my plans are, and I tell her I do not intend to stay here long, but would like to see the ancient town of Sayram before heading northwest to Turkestan. She tells me that she would be honoured to do anything she can to help, and gives her next door neighbour, Almaz, a call. She says he will take me to both of these places, and will not accept any payment off me except for the cost of the petrol. Half an hour later he pulls up next to us with a face of restrained excitement. We jump in, he navigates the traffic with ease, and we arrive in Sayram.

Sayram has recently celebrated its 3000th anniversary. The town is populated mostly by Uzbeks, which has earned it the nickname ‘Little Uzbekistan’. We find an Uzbek restaurant, and spend an hour sat cross legged eating the most delicious cuisine. As we munch away the conversation flows. Olesa, although no communist, talks with sorrow about how it has become very expensive to go to decent universities since the Soviet Union collapsed. When she was younger it was completely free to study, but she says that now parents are having to amass great debts to give their children any kind of hope.

We leave the restaurant and somewhere in the distance can be heard a song which causes Olesa and Almaz to smile and join in. Apparently it is a Kazakh song which is played when a couple have just become engaged. The romantic theme continues when we get in the car, drive off and overtake a convoy of cars which have flashing lights. This usually means that there are newly weds inside.  Love is in the air.

Much of the landscape along the journey is, in a word, barren. The vast, flat ‘steppe’ which dominates the geography of Kazakhstan provides inspiration for the eyes, except for the occasional camel grazing on the dry grassland. I wonder if they are happy. Can a camel suffer from depression? One thing they can do is produce milk, and we stop off at a cottage and each drink a cupful, before continuing along the bumpy road.

Despite the barren nature, the land is not uninhabitable. There are various small communities we drive past, including some which still have the old nomadic ‘yurt’ style housing. Furthermore, the environment is more diverse than the eye can see - there are an eclectic selection of minerals and materials in Kazakhstan’s landmass, and the President (whose beaming face, shiny forehead and neatly combed hair can be seen all over the place) has boasted that they have almost every element of the periodic table available.

When we arrive in Turkestan, Olesa kindly accompanies me to the train station to sort out tickets for the rest of my journeys across Kazakhstan. She then asks around for a cheap-but-cheerful place for me to stay. They drop me off there, and we say our farewells.

The next day I potter around Turkestan. The old mausoleum is spectacular. It is situated next to a vast square, which by the early evening seems to be the place to ‘hang out’. Some lads spot me walking with what must be a distinctive gait, and they call me over. They are playing guitar, drinking beer and talking about girls. Splendid. As with previous encounters in Kazakhstan, there are different ethnicities. This becomes apparent from the word go. Well, actually, from the word ‘hello’ - some say ‘salamatsiz  ba’, some say ‘salamaleikum’, some say ‘dobridyehn’. Some shake my hand, some hold it and cup it with their other hand. Some bow. It is a satirical and fun way to celebrate diversity. They give me a can of lager and I join them for an hour.

As if to emphasise that Turkestan is more youthful than the facades of the buildings convey, when I go to the train station in the late evening I am again summoned by some people in their early twenties, wondering what I am doing in this town, and for that matter why I am leaving it. They are heading to the larger city Kyzylorda for a few days, and say I am welcome to join them. Alas, I do not have the time. I do, though, have two hours with them waiting for the train. Their English language skills vary, but as we all seem to be full of energy and lacking inhibitions, we manage to have no major communication difficulties. Their humour is very sharp and to the point. One lad in particular has the knack of entertaining absolutely everyone without ever running out of steam. He kindly gives me a present on behalf of everyone. Appropriately it is a catapult, one of the many objects he keeps up his sleeve.

The train arrives on time, and the group gather around me, carry my belongings on board and help me find my cabin. They say goodnight and move on to their carriage, and the train picks up speed. Soon not a single street light can be seen out of the window.

Post 7: ALMATY - TARAZ - SHYMKENT

I stick my thumb out to the traffic of a busy Almaty street, hoping to get a cheap ride to the bus station on the western outskirts of the city. A chap in his late teens pulls over, his brakes screeching loudly. I start to tell him where I want to go, but he signals to get in first and then explain. I throw my bags in the back, jump on the front seat, and he revs the engine and accelerates down the road as if he is in a motor race.

The five mile journey, despite being the shortest of the trip so far, is definitely the most dangerous. Although he is young, the driver has quickly learnt every trick in the book to beat the traffic. This does, of course, include throwing caution to the wind when it comes to the law. The colours of the traffic lights are irrelevant as he breezes through them whilst the stereo blasts out Jamaican Reggaeton, Hispanic Hip-Hop and Kazakh Dance Music at deafening volumes. He is more than happy to drive on the wrong side of the road to get me there quickly. Sometimes we ride on the tram lines, turning back into the road only if a tram is several feet away. From time to time he drives with no hands, preferring to sticks them through the sun roof and feel the air resistance.

When we come to a standstill at a crossroads he points at some policemen who are parked at the turn off to our left. “You…see…those…cops?” I nod, thinking I can relax that he will finally drive a bit more carefully. I am wrong - he speeds ahead so fast that I feel like my face is going to melt. He grins excitedly, perhaps because he finds it fun to plough through the roads like a computer game, but more likely because he enjoys glancing at my expression of fright. My fear only ends when he swerves 270 degrees into the parking bay of the bus station and shouts “YES!” I give him the agreed amount (about £1) and shake his hand, though I should really be shaking the hand of Mister Good Fortune that I am still alive.

I ask around where I can get a bus to Taraz and a woman ushers me onto a coach which has already started its engine. I am the last person on board, and sit down in the only remaining space next to a middle-aged man. Upon realising that I am not a local, he shows me videos of his little wolf on a camera phone. Not the most conventional way of getting to know someone, but he is only being friendly. When the bus stops halfway along its route, he treats me to dinner, refusing to let me pay for anything. Early on in the journey we had conversed very little - his third language (after Kazakh and Russian) is German. But as time goes by his English gets better and better - it is as if the cogs in his brain are like the pistons of a steam engine. And as we tuck in to dinner (chicken, mashed potato and grated carrot) he is flowing like a thespian.

After several more hours on the bus we get off at another stop and he excitedly tells me that is possible to buy the milk of a horse and a camel. “Which you want?” I choose horse milk. He takes me over to the stall, and in the darkness, with the Tien Shan mountains no longer visible, the milk glows like a star. I am dehydrated and also in need of some nutrients, so this milk appears almost holy. We jump back onto the bus just in time - it has already started moving, so we have to step on in the same way people did on the old Routemaster buses.

Once on board I take a big swig of this milk, expecting it to taste like heaven. Food palettes are to a large extent nurtured, so the experience of flavour is highly subjective. But my awareness of this fact is of little use in stopping me from gagging. My whole body heaves, trying to forcibly remove any trace of the milk from my person, but I somehow manage to hold it down and turn to Zaur and muster a smile. “You like?” “Errmmm…” “Here, have some more!” Seen as he has paid for this gift to me it is rude not to, so I take another swig, repeating to myself that with practice it is possible to enjoy eating and drinking almost anything. This time it is not so bad, as my body is prepared for it. I thank him, but refuse all future offers, which is fine by him as he is getting almost orgasmic pleasures from necking the stuff.

When the bus finally arrives in Taraz it is wet and late. But after eight hours of my company, Zaur is not sick of me yet. He tells me I must stay at his house and meet his wife, son and father. I accept his kind offer. We take a smoke filled taxi to his flat, the second floor of a small concrete block. Zaur’s father is asleep, but his son, five years old, comes to life at our arrival. Ten minutes later, though, he is so burnt out that he goes back to bed. Zaur’s wife cooks us some midnight snacks, and we all turn in.

The next day, after laying on a large spread for breakfast, I get to meet Zaur’s father, the eighty-nine year old Oljaz. He beams at me, and as Zaur translates his face fills with pride, as does the nuance of his voice, because he has the opportunity to uninterruptedly talk about his life and his family. Many Kazakhs can trace their ancestry at least seven generations. It is only in relatively recent history that a large number of Kazakhs were nomadic - Oljaz was the first generation of his family to grow up in a permanent environment. Oljaz fought in the Second World War, and has plenty of medals to prove it. He knew plenty of people who lost their lives in the fight against fascism. He is a lifelong communist, but he asks me to take his photograph with a backdrop not of Lenin but of his ultimate hero, Abai Qunanbaiuli: “The Kazakh Shakespeare!” Oljaz exclaims.

It is Zaur’s 49th Birthday, and throughout the day the telephone rings with cousins, cousins of cousins, and cousins of them wishing him well. In between these calls, we sit on the balcony playing guitar and singing songs. He is a big fan of The Beatles, and sings well. He also introduces me to some more local songs, as well as a few he has written himself. In the afternoon we go for some Turkish coffee and watch the World go by. When we return, his wife has prepared yet another incredible display of culinary expertise.

To compliment the food a bottle of Kazakh vodka and some shot glasses are produced from the cupboard. Zaur makes a point of saying that drinking vodka is not an every day thing, it is reserved for special occasions. And as it is his birthday, and also as they have a guest from abroad, it is a cause for double celebration.

We toast the unity of an Englishman with a Kazakh - “Za Druzhbu Myezhdu Narodami!” - we toast the birthday of Zaur - “Za Vas!” Drinking premium vodka neat is a magnificent experience. Unlike the muck that can be found in any newsagent and supermarket in England, this is sensational stuff. I get a taste for it, and don’t refuse a few more. The feeling of delayed warmth is enduring. After having one-for-the-road, we say our goodbyes. I thank them for their overwhelming display of hospitality, and they say I am always welcome.

Zaur accompanies me in the taxi to the bus station. He finds me a marshrutka (minibus) going to Shymkent, and gives me the contact details of a friend he has there who speaks English. We embrace. “Stay in touch, you have problem, call me!”

The effects of the vodka kick in on the minibus, and I fall asleep. An hour later I wake up, and the bus is considerably more empty. A girl is staring at me smiling. I say hello, and go through the process of trying to explain who I am and where I am going. “Ahhh” she says, understanding what I have said, but a little perplexed by why I did not just get on a plane in Hong Kong. She takes deep breaths and then attempts to say some long sentences. She is seventeen years old and wants to improve her English speaking skills, so is glad to be able to speak with a native. The chap sat next to me does not speak a word, but just sits with a mild grin on his face throughout the journey.

At Shymkent everyone goes their separate ways. The city is full of activity. It is the capital of the South Kazakhstan region, and a place which has been a trading centre since at least the 12th Century, owing to its location along the Silk Road. Today it is quite a modern development, but as I wander through an enormous bazaar it is clear that it has not entirely broken from its past - although the goods on sale are predominantly tracksuits and plastic gadgets, rather than rare silk. After a long walk I stumble upon a cheap place to stay. It is a newly built hotel and the bedroom walls are made of glass. For the sake of privacy, though, there are curtains. I draw them together and collapse on the bed.

Post 6: KORGAS - CHINA/KAZAKHSTAN BORDER - ALMATY

I ask around in Korgas how to cross into Kazakhstan and discover that I will not be able to travel through until tomorrow as the China/Kazakhstan border is closed because of the Chinese Holiday. There are worse places to be stuck in than Korgas. As I wander about I soon discover something which will no doubt become the norm in Kazakhstan - I am no longer viewed as visually much different from some of the other people round here. When I go to find some food, people speak to me in Russian, thinking it is my nationality. This is not surprising - so many Russians live just over the border in Kazakhstan, and this side of the border has seen its fair share of Russian immigrants over the past few hundred years, not least as Russia has on several occasions incorporated Korgas into her borders.

The next day I manage to get a delicious breakfast, which I am told is Kazakh style. I hope this is a sign of things to come. I jump on the coach from Korgas to Almaty. There are fifteen beds on board. As I start to walk towards the back of the bus I feel a hand wallop my back.
“SHOES!” exclaims the driver.
I have made a stupid etiquette mistake by treading my dirty feet on a beautiful, clean carpet. I apologise and take my shoes off. Again I take a few steps forward and feel the same hand smack me on the shoulder.
“BUY TICKET!” he says firmly.
This is not an etiquette mistake but just simple common sense. To get on a bus one needs a ticket. I pay him the going rate, which works out less than £10. I step forward again to choose a bed, and for a third time the hand descends onto my back, this time more gently.
“This your bed” he laughs. It is right at the front.

After just a mile the coach stops at the obligatory China/Kazakhstan border, where all of us passengers get off and walk across After making it through customs with nothing to declare, I come out the other side and realise there is a potentially long wait for the bus to make it to the other side, as the beaurocrats and officers clear it for inspection. This delay is tolerable though. There are many other people waiting on the other side for their respective buses too, I ask a man how long he thinks it will be, and for some reason he perks up when he discovers I am from England.

“I love to speak English!” he says. As we start a conversation about what we are both doing here, a few more people start chipping in when they realise where I am from. When the conversation moves on from what our plans are, we enter a whole range of discussions, from the usual low key talk about football (surely England’s most prominent export in the World today?), to who the best Russian and Kazakh writers are, to the composition of the House of Lords. When the coach arrives we go our separate ways.

The eight hour (very) bumpy ride from the Chinese/Kazakhstan border to Almaty is made pleasant by the jolliness of the other passengers on the bus. I spend most of the journey talking with three people - a Kazakh woman in her late twenties accompanied by her Russian husband, and Bota, a twenty-eight year old woman who is travelling alone. At a one hour pit stop they treat me to lunch - “you are a guest in this country, we are not, so we must look after you!”

Bota speaks remarkably good English. She tells me how she is ethnically a Kazakh, but grew up in Urumqi so at school learnt to speak Chinese and English fluently. Not content with just speaking these languages, she studied Japanese and Hindi at Almaty University. And because she has lived in Almaty for a good few years now, she has also picked up Russian. Her language skills are matched by her depth of local knowledge. She educates me about the history of this area, as well as what the place is like now. “What you must understand about Kazakhstan is that only about half the population is Kazakh. The rest is made up of over a hundred nationalities. So we are a very big family. And we are very friendly.”

When we get back on the bus I engross myself in Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace (an ideal book for long journeys). A sentence immediately leaps from the page: “Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women.” Indeed.

When the bus arrives in Almaty she tells me that I am more than welcome to stay at her place. But I turn down the offer as I do not want to intrude - she is returning to her husband who she has not seen for a month. “Well at least let me help you find somewhere to stay!” she says. Her husband picks us up from the bus station, and they drive me to the centre of town. “How much do you have to spend?” “Not much” “We can find you a place for fifty US dollars cheapest” “That’s way too much” (I should really have planned ahead for my arrival in Almaty - with the influx of wealth the city has received in recent years it is the one of the most expensive places in the World to find a place to stay.) “Ah okay, we can find you a much cheaper place, but we cannot guarantee your safety” “That’s okay, so long as it is cheap!”

They reiterate that it is no trouble for me to stay with them another night, but I insist that they have done enough already, so they pull the car over and start talking to a lady dressed in a short skirt and high heels, who can apparently take me somewhere for 4000 Kazakh Tenge (£18). I thank them profusely before getting out of the car into the badly lit street.

As I start walking with this lady it becomes clear that she cannot speak a word of English - and my Kazakh and Russian skills are hopeless. With every step we take something does not feel right. Maybe it was the fact that Bota had warned me that the cheaper places are apparently not safe. With this playing in my mind, the woman I am with flags down a car and asks me to get it in. I panic, thinking that she is trying to kidnap me, so I say “Let’s walk instead.”

This results in a twenty minute stroll along dark roads between some housing estates, which is not a pleasant experience. Something went seriously wrong with architecture in the 1950s and 1960s. From the North Peckham Estate in London to the rows of apartments out here, they don’t create a harmonious aura. They were, though, built on the most honourable principle that no human being deserves to be without a home on this Earth. And as we eventually turn into one of these estates, it becomes clear that it one of these blocks which will be keeping me warm tonight.

We go through an entrance and walk up three flights of stairs. She is ahead of me and pacing every step in quite a seductive manner. For a moment I wonder if I have inadvertently landed myself a prostitute. But when she opens the door and gives me the key it becomes clear what the arrangement is. I have the flat to myself, equipped with bathroom, cooker and balcony. What more could one want? She says something in Kazakh and Russian, and then leaves.

I spend the next day wandering around the wide boulevards of Almaty.

Without a map, let alone a guidebook, I get completely lost. I stick my thumb out onto the road, and the first car to come past pulls over and picks me up. “Please take me to the Old Square” (I know my way back from there). The driver, a middle aged man, is chatting to his mother who is sat on the back seat. They barely acknowledge me for a minute or so. But when they finish their conversation and turn their attention to me, this rapidly changes. The mother says “Where you from? Amairycann? Cannad?” “No, England” “Ahhhhhh, Inglishimo!” The mother looks at me in a curious but warm way, as if I am a rare breed of bird. They deliberately take me on an indirect route to the Old Square, so as to incorporate some historic monuments. A lovely little tour of the city.

By the time I get to the housing estate where I am staying it is dark. I go to a nearby pub/bar to get some food. It is one of those places where any conversation is everyone’s conversation. Thus, after asking for some Kazakh pasties, the whole place asks me in uniform “Where you from?” After explaining my nationality and my plans, a table full of men in their twenties ask me to sit down with them. They get a round of lagers in.

One of the men, Erik, speaks very good English. He translates on behalf of the others, as we knock back pint after pint at quite a speed. When it is my round the landlord, Timu, won’t charge me - “You’re a guest. Be Happy!” After an hour of exchanging anecdotes and jokes, a man called Nardi joins us. His English is almost perfect, yet he apologises for the fact he has not spoken much English since he was fifteen (he is now thirty-two). I ask him why he can speak it so well. “The Soviet Union was educating us so that we could understand all the CIA spies!”

We laugh, although this goes beyond being just a light hearted joke - he, like some of the other people I have met so far in Kazakhstan, has a level of intelligence which is enviable.  And he wastes no time showing off his expanse of knowledge. He enlightens me on some of the specific details about Alexander The Great and Genghis Khan, and gives a long explanation about how Central Asia has been carved up by various empires over the last two thousand years. As well as historical knowledge, he informs me more about Almaty today. Just as Boda had done the day before, he explains how diverse Almaty is. If this room is taken as a sample, than he is not wrong, there are all sorts: Russian, Kazakh, Turkish and Nardi himself is Uyghur.

 

Saying goodbye to people is always hard, as most human beings will testify. And for some reason alcohol can make grown men very emotional. We both know deep down that we will probably never meet again. Yet, there is warmth rather than melancholy. They give me their telephone numbers and tell me if I have any problems during my time in Kazakhstan, to give them a call.

The next day the woman who owns the flat I am staying in arrives at midday with a female friend to collect the keys off me before I leave. I am all packed and ready to move on, but they insist I stay and have a cup of tea with them. Due to the language barrier we spend the next half an hour playing a kind of charades, although in this version all of us are miming. This is very fun for all concerned, probably because of the setting - I’m not sure if I did this in a police station they would find it quite so amusing.

The two ladies then stretch themselves out across the bed, rather like two kittens. They ask me to join them, but I am overcome with shyness so feebly perch on the corner of the bed. They laugh and turn on the television. When the program ends I stand up and say farewell. They give me a hug, and I descend down the concrete steps and out onto the street.

Post 5: URUMQI - YINING - KORGAS

As the arid dessert is suddenly interrupted by modern tower blocks, it is clear that I am arriving in Urumqi. The city is apparently the furthest from the sea than any other in the World. As another place located along the Silk Road, Urumqi has for a long time been a busy settlement on the eastern edge of Central Asia. Yet, as I get off the train and find a cheap place to stay, it becomes clear from the smoothie cafes and the Mercedes Benzes that this is not somewhere which has got stuck in its past. But owing to its past and its location, Urumqi is ethnically mixed. There are Ulghurs, Dungans, Kazaks and Han Chinese (now the majority). The skyline shows Soviet, Islamic, Chinese and International styles.

During the day I potter about, and discover that on every street corner there is someone selling sliced up pineapples. Or perhaps it is just the same person following me. More likely, they are out and about as it is now a Chinese holiday, so there are an abundance of people off work.

As I wander the streets at night the place is intriguing, hard to put a finger on. It feels tense, yet not threatening. A quote from Eleanor Lattimore, who travelled through here in the 1920s, seems to ring true: ‘Urumqi is full of intrigue and electric with rumours and uneasy with uncertainty and spicy with stories.’

The next day I wander around the suitably titled ‘People’s Park’. There is something for everyone - rides for the kids, dancing for the adults, and vice versa. There are hundreds of families who have come here, yet because the park is so enormous it is not crowded. A lovely place to pass the day.

 In the evening I board the night train to Yining. As I lie in the bed and try to doze off, someone with a most distinctive laugh has got the giggles. Rather than causing people to get annoyed, it is one of those contagious laughs which it is impossible not to join in with. Soon, though, he settles down. The next thing I know, I am waking up in Yining.


The train station is brand new, and is a grand sight when viewed from afar. It is a sign of the change which the Xinjiang region is undergoing with its incorporation in the economically expanding China.

The train line never used to run this far, so it is a massive convenience for people like me who want to speedily traverse Asia. But like so many railways which have been built around the World, I wonder how it has affected the people who live round here - for better or worse, railways physically and culturally change the landscape.

I find a minibus which is going to Khorgas, a town situated near the Chinese/Kazakhstan border. Due to the bus’ cosy feel (i.e. there is no space), I am instantly thrust into communication with the others on board. Between them they can must a few English sentences together, to try and ascertain what I am doing out here. They look at me in amazement, as if waiting for me to perform some sort of magic trick or English jig, but I cannot muster anything together. They are all smiling at me except for one chap who is sat looking out of the window. He suddenly perks up when I tell them all that I am heading towards Almaty. “Almaty? I am from Almaty!”

People gradually leave the bus at its numerous stops, before finally it is my turn. As the driver helps me carry my luggage off the bus, he bellows in my ear: “Wellacomm to Korgossa!”

Post 4: LANZHOU – JIAYUGUAN - URUMQI

As a city of more than three million people, Lanzhou is busy. The change from Chengdu is apparent immediately after stepping off the train. From the sight of men with Uyghur hats selling bread, to the visual backdrop of having a city placed next to steep hills. Lanzhou was an historic bartering centre for centuries, situated on what was subsequently called the ‘Silk Road’ - an important stretch of trading routes running from Asia to Europe and North Africa. Because of Lanzhou’s central location, it has changed hands many times in the past three millennia.

I spend the afternoon wandering around the food markets, and in the evening decide it would be nice to go and see the Huange He (Yellow River), a river which has been an important part of Chinese society since time immemorial. I get lost looking for it, and stop two people in the street, doing my best to pronounce ‘Huange He’ with the right drawl. They are mother and daughter, and the latter can speak some English. She says they are walking there right now, it is a walk they do most days of the week, and I must join them. We walk and talk, talk and walk.

When we reach the river is it much more overwhelming for me than it is for them, as I have never seen it before. Nor have I touched it. They take me down to a jetty where I can put my hands in. As I lean over they grab my body so I do not fall in - the force of the river is so strong, like a flexing muscle. A dreamy part of me actually wants to fall in and get swept away by its magic. But not today. We walk beside it for a couple of miles, and take a different route back. We pass through a park where crowds of people are dancing in unison. I cannot quite figure what genre the music is, but it is certainly Chinese. The dancing is also unfamiliar, it looks rather like tai chi being performed at ten times the speed.

We walk a different route back through some parks. Both along the river and in these well kept gardens, it is not surprising to see numerous young couples sat down looking longingly at each other, or pensively up at to the sky. We say goodnight as we reach their apartment. They offer to feed me, but they have already done enough to make my evening quite special, so I go to a small eatery and stuff myself with some local style beef noodles.

The morning train from Lanzhou to Jiayuguan takes seven hours. Normally this would seem like a long time, but the time seems to pass remarkably quickly, as relative to other journeys I have made so far this one is relatively short. As well as the beautiful scenery which the ‘Hexi Corridor’ does not fail to deliver, the journey is also dominated by what seems like a never ending spiel from one of the members of staff trying to sell everything from whiteboards to toothbrushes to children’s books.

I alight at Jiayuguan. The place is very deceptive. The sun beats down as the electric bicycles gently flow round the wide boulevards, giving the place a relaxed feel. But suddenly everything changes. In just a few minutes a sandstorm wreaks havoc around the streets. Market traders feebly try to cover their fruit as debris flies, cars swerve and people hurry for cover. There seems to be no such thing as a perfect storm when it comes to sand. It ends up in my ears, eyes, hair, not to mention other more sensitive parts of the body. I dive into a restaurant, which conveniently serves some lovely grub, and watch the events unfold through the safety of a window.

The sandstorm is completely over by the evening, so I go for a long walk around town. On my way back to the hostel I am staying at I face the choice of going an indirect way with the assistance of street lighting, or going along a small, dark lane which is a much shorter route. I choose the latter, lit only by the light of a shop in the distance. I pass several people on the way, which is an unnerving experience as their silhouettes loom past me.

I make it as far as the shop, and decide to go in and get a bottle of water. But as I enter the place I have the uncomfortable experience of discovering that this is not a grocery store, it is a sex shop. Objects are situated all over the room, enough to make even Ann Summer’s blush. The man looks up at me, as if to say “What do you want?”, but for some reason the situation has not quite sunk in yet, and my mind is still set on buying a drink. I do a hand movement which I often use to signify I am thirsty i.e. hoisting my clenched hand backwards and forwards towards my mouth. Alas, in this establishment that means something completely different. I make a hasty retreat.

The next morning I go and visit the Jiayuguan fort, the historic limit of the Chinese Empire and the western end of the Great Wall. To get there I must take a bus. I find the stop, and after asking some of the people which number I need, the penny (or Yuan) drops that I am not from round here. No one can speak more than a few words of English, yet for the next half an hour we somehow manage to interact and jokingly pass away the time. When the bus finally arrives, I feel a little disappointed that it has to end.

Luckily, though, they are all boarding this bus too. It is a squeeze to get on, yet despite being packed the new acquaintances of mine make way so I can not only get through, but also have a seat. I feel like an Emperor, albeit one that would use public transport.

After wandering around the fort, I take a deep breath and make my way to the train station, ready to leave Jiayuguan , and with it old China, behind. Traders and travellers for centuries have expressed a mixture of emotions when making this departure west. In the 1920s Mildred Cable discovered some graffiti  which read: ‘When I leave thy gates of Jiayuguan / My Tears may never cease to run’

 

I wouldn’t go that far - I do feel a little morose looking back at the town as the train accelerates, but as the borders of China and population demographics have shifted over the years, today this means I am not actually leaving China behind but going to yet another one of her thriving cities - Urumqi.

Post 3: CHENGDU - GUANGYUAN - LANZHOU

Chengdu is the capital of the Sichuan Province, and is the fifth biggest city in China. With thirteen million inhabitants, it is the size of Greater London. Also like London, Chengdu has many different districts. The area I go to stay is known as the ‘Tibetan Quarter’. Just how authentically ‘Tibetan’ the area is I am unsure, but one thing I am certain about is the skills of the painters and decorators - the eclectic colours and patterns make it near impossible not to be relaxed. I can’t imagine anyone losing their temper round here.

This part of town is quite clearly geared towards (predominantly Chinese) tourists. And yet the word ‘spoilt’ does not spring to mind, somehow the balance works. Buddhist monks meander past ladies in high heels, monasteries stand shoulder to shoulder with camping stores. And the soundtrack to it all is not heard but rather smelt - the pleasant scent of the spicy Sichuan cuisine circulates around the lanes and alleys. As I wander the streets at night, the place feels so alive. Or to use some overused terms, it has a ‘zeitgeist’ air to it and seems especially ‘chic’. Whether a teenager or a young professional, this is ‘the place to be’.

The next day I begin the laborious task of buying a train ticket for the next place on the route: Guangyuan. After around half an hour I am nearly at the front of the queue when the lady behind the counter goes for lunch. The whole queue is left in disarray, and scurries off in every direction to other queues, whilst I am left stood still, perplexed at what to do. Thankfully, an old woman who is in a nearby lane has spotted what has happened, and with her arms signals for me to push in front of her. I say “No, No”, thinking it polite to refuse, but she grabs me, throws me in front of her, says something in Chinese, and laughs. Two minutes later I have a ticket.

Before boarding the train I buy what looks like a pancake. Unlike the Sichuan cuisine I had filled myself up with the night before, the taste of this piece of food is remarkably bland, and not overtly sweet or savoury. But for some reason it is moorish, so I buy a few more for the trip.

The journey is, to put it mildly, an experience. The train is jam packed, and moving across the carriage is a struggle. I budge my way through, and luckily there is a space on one of the overhead racks which fits my possessions perfectly. It is as if all the passengers have subconsciously saved it for me, aware that I will need it. Somehow I also find a seat with no one sat on it, except for the pair of feet belonging to the man sat opposite it. The conspiracy in my mind is complete - the carriage is colluding in my favour. (It later transpires that I had a seat reservation, which quashes my superstition)

Sitting down into the chair, I try to engross myself in a book, but there really is no need – there are enough stories playing out all around me. A lady on the seat across from me is trying on her new shoes, which the woman next to me is eagerly watching, to see if the shoe fits as snug as it would Cinderella. The men next to her, who I think are part of her family, gaze out of the window indifferently. One has started to doze off, although it sounds like a pretend snore. Some traders walk back and forth along the carriage, some selling pairs of socks. Other people seem to be walking back and forth for no other reason than perhaps the thrill of navigating a route through. It is an assault course. As people make their way to the onboard hot water tank to activate their pot noodles, it is entertainment in itself just watching them return to their seat without spilling anything.

One table is full of card players, and the people that seem to be enjoying the game the most are the spectators, who every few minutes get very animated. Soon, though, they turn their attention to me, when I start munching away at some pumpkin seeds. I am unaware that it is not common practice to eat the outer shell. A girl in her early twenties demonstrates how to chew on one, swallow the inner seed and spit out the shell. The next five minutes is spent trying to master this art, which I am unsuccessful at. But my failure is what makes it more fun for everyone concerned. When the next card game commences, I am left to my own devices, and gaze out of the window.

In the distance there are coal power plants – China is opening more and more of these every year. Just as coal helped fuel Britain’s Industrial Revolution, the same substance is being used by the Chinese for the similar ends. The train does not pass many, though, and as the journey progresses the scenery becomes increasingly hilly, almost mountainous. It is difficult to describe, so I will not.

I become the centre of attention again when I start repeating the Chinese words spoken by the man next to me. Initially, he starts helping me with pronunciation, but eventually the joy for those watching is that I will repeat absolutely anything back to him with great inaccuracies. Taking advantage of this, the sentences get longer, and possibly ruder. Because I do not know what the words mean, I can say anything and still keep a straight face. I may well be repeating phrases which are quite crude to the people on the carriage, but it seems to be taken in good faith.

I alight at Guangyuan. Three years ago an earthquake hit here which killed thousands of people. Nearly 1400 years ago, Guangyuan was the hometown of Wu Zetian, the only Empress in Chinas long and eclectic past.

When I leave the train station my thought are not, though, on the history of the place because I have a more pressing concern - I desperately need to urinate. I find a café and ask the staff where their toilet is, but they do not speak a word of English. Hearing my voice, some teenage lads try and help out, but they too do not know what I am asking for. “Toilet? Restroom? Bathroom?” I try all possible words but with no luck, so I try to think of how I can visually demonstrate what I need to do without being coarse. I kneel down and draw a circle with my finger in the ground, attempting to draw an Asian toilet. But this just makes them even more confused. Spotting a bottle of water on the shelf, I point at it to imply liquid, but this just makes them think I am thirsty. Desperately needing to go, I give in with manners and pick up the bottle and hold it between my legs as if it is my…“Ah yes!” they say, and take me outside and point at what looks like a public toilet. Problem solved.

When I get back there are more and more teenagers in this place. I say “Knee How” to them all in turn, and they form a circle around me. I ask how many English people they have met before, and they say I am the first. It does not feel awkward; quite the contrary, they make me feel at home. They give me a glass of the local beer, and let me try some of their food. When I am finished they all say “Welcome to Guangyuan!” – welcome indeed. Before we all go our separate ways they insist on taking some photographs, then they leave with a spring in their step.

And to think this only happened because I needed a pee.

I find the bus station, and some friendly women in their early twenties translate to the ticket officer. I hit the first snag of the trip. It had been my intention to travel from Guangyuan to Lanzhou by bus across a newly constructed highway which cuts through a mountainous region. However, no such bus exists. It is my own fault for naively thinking that, like the phrase ‘where there is a will there is a way’, where there is a road there is a bus. But after lengthy broken English conversations, it becomes apparent that it is not possible. They tell me to do it by train, but my determination to go this route will not let me give in, so the girls walk me to a map and show me that it really would be a nightmare to try and cross.

This time when they look me in the eye and tell me to get on the train, I give in. It is now dark outside, and they have given me a lot of their time. They walk me to the train station and a few male friends come over and tease them. One of them clearly goes too far, as after he speaks one of girls pushes him one onto the floor. They are very generous people, but I would not want to get on the wrong side of one of them. A final act of Guangyuan kindness comes in the form of a middle aged couple in the waiting area. I leave them in charge of my bags as I go off to buy some snacks for the journey. I take a while and lose track of time, and when I get back everyone is walking through the gates to board the train. Everyone, that is, except for this couple, who are loyally stood next to the bags in the opposite end of the room. When I board the train I instantly doze off, happy at the generosity I have been shown, and partly dismayed by the fact that I cannot get some of the Guangyuan folk to join me for the whole journey back to England.

I awake in the morning as the train is shuttling across the southern part of the Gansu Province. When the trains speed slows it starts jolting, rather like an ill person hiccupping. But it soon gets back to full health and rides around changing terrain. The greenery is now starting to fade, and almost disappear.

I am invited by two old men to sit with them on the lower bed bunks. They do not want to talk, though, they just wanted to me to have access to gaze out of the window with them. I sit there for hours. There is something almost hypnotic about the experience. The old men are almost meditating, their attention spans are incredible, and it starts to rub off onto me and I feel no desire whatsoever to seek out some mirth.

The experience does, though, come to a crashing end when one of them gets a call on his mobile phone and starts gabbing away, probably to his wife.

The train yet again arrives on time. Maybe the British rail networks could do with some Chinese Officials to take charge of their tracks.

Post 2: ZHAOQING - GUILIN - CHENGDU

As I get onto the bus from Zhaoqing to Guilin, there is the surreal experience of hearing Lily Allen playing on the onboard radio, which feels terribly out of place. However, this is followed by some Chinese voices, and thankfully the music returns to some home grown Canto-pop for the rest of the eight hour journey.

Looking out the window on this bright morning highlights some of the contrasts there are between Southern China and the Western end of the Eurasian landmass. It is the same sun, and the grass is just as green; but the colour schemes of the buildings are unfamiliar, the roofs are slanting differently, the arches are not Roman and many edifices are covered in tiles.

The landscapes is, for want of a better term, jaw dropping. Much of the Guangxi province is comprised of ‘karst’  i.e. weathered limestone formations. They are visually pleasing, and not surprisingly have been the inspiration for poetry since at least the 6th Century AD.

Throughout the journey there are also glimpses of rice paddies, growing what is one of the staple carbohydrates for many of the inhabitants in this part of the World. The workers toiling the fields serve a reminder that vast areas of China are still rooted in the agricultural economy.

The bus has a halfway stop off, where a charismatic lady serves a range of Cantonese cuisine. As I tuck in I have almost no clue as to what I am eating. But, unlike McDonalds, that is part of its charm and adds to the culinary experience. Mind over body, body over mind, and all that malarkey. Or, to use the words of Captain Frank Younghusband back in 1896, ‘The Chinese are remarkably good cooks, and, though the dishes are often served in a way which is not very palatable to Europeans, there is no doubt that the actual cooking is excellent.’

Quite a distance into the trip the driver pulls the bus over to the kerb and turns round to us all and shouts “Yangshou, Yangshou!” at a volume of around 120 decibels. This is the name of the stunning little village which we are passing through. A few passengers get off, and I only just resist the temptation to join them.

I arrive at Guilin and find some cheap lodgings. The main roads through the city are haphazard to cross, perhaps in part because the place, like many Chinese cities, is ‘booming’. And yet, whilst there seems to be the constant clanging of construction work coupled with the continued beeping of car horns, when I takes a few steps off any of the main streets there is a completely different atmosphere. Somehow a space of three yards acts as a sound barrier; the noise dies down, there are no cars in the side roads, and no flashing lights. The boom is replaced with tranquillity. Whilst the shops on the main streets have plenty of electronic devices to keep people occupied, the main form of entertainment in the back streets is undoubtedly Mah Jong and card games.

The next morning I awake and, aware that I have a twenty-six hour train journey to Chengdu ahead of me, decide to rent a bicycle and get a final burst of exercise before I depart.

Riding around the busy roads of Guilin is something that no amount of cycling proficiency training can prepare someone for. Every second counts as all sorts of vehicles speed in every direction around me. It feels chaotic, but part of the problem is my own stupidity. After a while I realise that I have been cycling on the wrong side of the road - salmon may be able to swim upstream, but a naïve Englishman cannot, and should not, breech Chinese traffic regulations. I reach the Li River on the outskirts of town and the resulting view is well worth it.

I briefly sit by the bank of the river, but as soon as I put my feet up it is time to put them back down again. I speedily race back to the hire place, getting my last burn of energy for the foreseeable future.

The amount of people piling into Guilin train station is incalculable. There is a vague etiquette which seems be promoting queuing, but it also helps to be quite forceful too, rather like trying to order a drink in a busy nightclub. As I make it through I find a space to sit in the waiting area, and get chatting to the man sat next to me. His English is remarkably polished - he is an engineer born, bred and based in China, but has also spent some time in Sudan working on various projects.

I find my assigned bed on the train, and by chance I am on a bunk above another English speaker, this time a Chinese woman in her thirties who has learnt several languages to become a tour guide. Tourism is really taking off in China, and it is projected to be the most annually visited country in the World within ten years. Her Anglicised name is Maggie, and she is on board with her mother and her son, who unlike her can only speak Putonghua. We talk about China, we talk about travel, we talk about having children (not with each other).

Wandering down the coach, I am accosted - in a pleasant way - by some ladies who are scoffing some sunflower seeds. I munch on a few with them, then work my way down the carriage to get some more substantive food. I look outside as I slurp on the noodles, and see flashes of willow pattern imagery, although maybe I am hallucinating, as the view quickly fades into just the evergreen trees.

The lights go out in the carriage at 10 o’clock prompt, and silence descends upon a once animated carriage as everyone, almost in unison, gets into bed to doze off. The next morning the energy returns to the coach. People of all ages seem to be excited that we are most the way to Chengdu - the end of the rail road is figuratively in sight. When the train finally arrives in Chengdu (exactly on time), everyone bids farewell to each other and we all descend onto the platform.