2009 08 10 – Day 45 - Urumqi
Having been so engrossed engaging with, and consuming, the products of the night market, I'd not noticed the surprising lack of military... given the number on the streets in the day and the potential for the night market to be a focal point for any trouble, it was surprising we hadn't seen any.... Why was that? Before I'd realised the question, an answer was provided as we were returning to our hotel through the fewer non-food stalls... winding its way towards us through the milling crowds was a snake of eight or so youngish men, dressed in black and carrying what can only be described as wooden clubs! At the head of the snake paced a man in slightly more official attire, sporting a red armband, but hardly looking any more like the police or military figures that I'd seen so far. The snake slithered its way down the street, parting the crowds effortlessly, people moving to distance themselves from its near tangible malignant aura. The members of the snake walked with a relaxed confidence that could only come from the knowledge that the authorities wouldn't touch them.
There was no doubt in my mind that these 'men' would like nothing more than to be given an excuse and/or opportunity to use their privilege and primitive weapons.
I was keen to not give them their excuse and so kept my camera pocketed and my eyes fixed ahead.
The atmosphere as they passed was perhaps the most sinister and poisonous I've come across.
Showing posts with label safety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label safety. Show all posts
Monday, 9 August 2010
Urumqi Security
2009 08 10 – Day 45 – Urumqi
Though I didn't know what exactly to expect, it was not to arrive in Urumqi in the middle of a security situation. I knew that Xinjiang, and its capital Urumqi, has had a troubled relationship with Beijing in the past due to the local population wanting more self-determination. I didn't know that there had been riots and some of the worst violence for years just a few weeks before I arrived.
I have never before seen a shop where you can go in and buy a riot-shield and helmet, body armour and emergency sirens! A sight all the more remarkable given the recent troubles. Having said that, we didn't actually try to purchase anything, so maybe your average Jo or tourist can't just walk in with a bunch of cash and walk out as a fully kitted up riot-policeman.
The authorities response to the riots, after subduing them, was to massively increase the military presence. By the time I got there, there was not a whiff of trouble, but there were parasoled platforms every 100m or so on the pavements on both sides of all the major roads, with 2-6 fully armed soldiers stood keeping an eye on things.
I didn't fancy asking them to pose for me, so this was the best discreet shot I could get:
The park behind this high-rise office block had been converted into an army barracks. Those tables look in pretty good condition so I imagine they don't play with live rounds!
I hope this image in a printshop window was not intended to encourage homebrew development of the next generation of 'security' forces!
(or protesters for that matter!)
Though I didn't know what exactly to expect, it was not to arrive in Urumqi in the middle of a security situation. I knew that Xinjiang, and its capital Urumqi, has had a troubled relationship with Beijing in the past due to the local population wanting more self-determination. I didn't know that there had been riots and some of the worst violence for years just a few weeks before I arrived.
I have never before seen a shop where you can go in and buy a riot-shield and helmet, body armour and emergency sirens! A sight all the more remarkable given the recent troubles. Having said that, we didn't actually try to purchase anything, so maybe your average Jo or tourist can't just walk in with a bunch of cash and walk out as a fully kitted up riot-policeman.
The authorities response to the riots, after subduing them, was to massively increase the military presence. By the time I got there, there was not a whiff of trouble, but there were parasoled platforms every 100m or so on the pavements on both sides of all the major roads, with 2-6 fully armed soldiers stood keeping an eye on things.
I didn't fancy asking them to pose for me, so this was the best discreet shot I could get:
I hope this image in a printshop window was not intended to encourage homebrew development of the next generation of 'security' forces!
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Leaving Uzbekistan
2009 08 05 – Day 40 – Tashkent to Almaty
Eastward travel to Almaty in Kazakhstan by rail requires a road border crossing an hour or so from Tashkent and another three hours by road on the other side to the nearest city with a station, Chimkent. With no regular transport link crossing the border, Sundowners had arranged for my hotel driver to drop me about hundred metres from the border, as close as general traffic could get, and have someone meet me on the Kazakh side.
A few hundred metres of walking in the rapidly strengthening sun were required to, between and from the border control buildings, which would be fine under normal circumstances, but that morning my stomach had taken a turn for the worse and all my limited energy became focused on keeping the lid on it.
Adding to my suffering at the Uzbek departure point were a confused throng of an eclectic mix of people, ranging from locals with a basket or two of unsettled chickens to some Brits taking part in the Mongol Rally, chasing a short supply of pens to be able to fill out departure cards. The uncomfortable queuing was an exercise in mind over matter. Only in hindsight did I realise that, despite the strong warnings regarding accountability, no one checked the accommodation registration and currency exchange receipts which had dogged my decision making and flexibility.
As with arrival in Uzbekistan, crossing into Kazakhstan I had to declare the value of Rubles and Dollars I was carrying. The baggage scanning machine was a border guard and a table. He looked at my passport and arrival card, looked at me, looked at my rucksack on the table, checked no one else was looking and said “$10”, clearly giving me the choice of an uncomfortable and drawn out inspection of my bag, or easy passage. In other circumstances I would have called his bluff, but my stomach cramps were controlling my brain and it was worth $10 to pass through the border swiftly and cleanly without anything passing out of me swiftly and not so cleanly. Fortunately for me, I only had $35 on me and $10 of that was in $1 bills. The guard didn't much like the look of those, I think people here suspect $1 bills are fakes, and he was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of taking more than half of my Dollars with the $20 note, so he swiped the $5 and dismissed me to his colleague for passport stamping.
The drive from the border to Chimkent coincided with my realisation that nearly all Central Asian vehicles had a cracked windscreen.
After an unpleasant roadside snack of the local sour and salty milk and dry salty milk balls, that my driver was convinced would help my stomach, I was extremely grateful that, particularly as I was ill, I did to not need to squat over this pit toilet.
The few broken wooden slats masquerading as a floor would have made an Indiana Jones rope bridge seem stable.
Eastward travel to Almaty in Kazakhstan by rail requires a road border crossing an hour or so from Tashkent and another three hours by road on the other side to the nearest city with a station, Chimkent. With no regular transport link crossing the border, Sundowners had arranged for my hotel driver to drop me about hundred metres from the border, as close as general traffic could get, and have someone meet me on the Kazakh side.
A few hundred metres of walking in the rapidly strengthening sun were required to, between and from the border control buildings, which would be fine under normal circumstances, but that morning my stomach had taken a turn for the worse and all my limited energy became focused on keeping the lid on it.
Adding to my suffering at the Uzbek departure point were a confused throng of an eclectic mix of people, ranging from locals with a basket or two of unsettled chickens to some Brits taking part in the Mongol Rally, chasing a short supply of pens to be able to fill out departure cards. The uncomfortable queuing was an exercise in mind over matter. Only in hindsight did I realise that, despite the strong warnings regarding accountability, no one checked the accommodation registration and currency exchange receipts which had dogged my decision making and flexibility.
As with arrival in Uzbekistan, crossing into Kazakhstan I had to declare the value of Rubles and Dollars I was carrying. The baggage scanning machine was a border guard and a table. He looked at my passport and arrival card, looked at me, looked at my rucksack on the table, checked no one else was looking and said “$10”, clearly giving me the choice of an uncomfortable and drawn out inspection of my bag, or easy passage. In other circumstances I would have called his bluff, but my stomach cramps were controlling my brain and it was worth $10 to pass through the border swiftly and cleanly without anything passing out of me swiftly and not so cleanly. Fortunately for me, I only had $35 on me and $10 of that was in $1 bills. The guard didn't much like the look of those, I think people here suspect $1 bills are fakes, and he was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of taking more than half of my Dollars with the $20 note, so he swiped the $5 and dismissed me to his colleague for passport stamping.
The drive from the border to Chimkent coincided with my realisation that nearly all Central Asian vehicles had a cracked windscreen.
After an unpleasant roadside snack of the local sour and salty milk and dry salty milk balls, that my driver was convinced would help my stomach, I was extremely grateful that, particularly as I was ill, I did to not need to squat over this pit toilet.
The few broken wooden slats masquerading as a floor would have made an Indiana Jones rope bridge seem stable.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Uzbek Roads
2009 07-08 - Uzbekistan
Only slightly less organised than their currency situation, though reasonably well maintained, Uzbek roads have their own rules. For the most part people travel in the same direction on one side of the road. - usually the right. How big one side of the road is is dependent on the number of vehicles travelling in each direction, how aggressive everyone is driving and if those in front hear the horns of those wishing to squeeze past! In the cities I did sometimes see some road markings, but they were only treated as surface decoration or as if someone had accidentally spilled some white paint on the road... in very straight, evenly spaced lines. On intercity roads, donkey carts are more frequently encountered as the roads run through the widespread rural areas. These 'vehicles' follow their own rules and just need to be avoided by the rest of the traffic. On these roads the side-of-the-road situation is simplified a bit as they usually have concrete barriers running down the middle, which limits the number of cars, side-by-side across the roughly two lane highway, to three. These central concrete barriers have breaks in them every now and then, near-ish to side-roads, which are usually dirt tracks at right angles to the main road, but as they don't align and there are no feeder lanes or traffic lights, a couple of wonderful safety enhancing scenarios are created when trying to turn left (assuming you'd been driving on the right like most folk):
Either
1. overshoot your exit, manouvre into the fast lane before breaking hard, possibly to a standstill, to facilitate a U-turn across to the other side before driving to your exit
OR
2. Switch lanes through the gap that precedes your exit and drive to it against the flow of traffic.
Either option is entirely valid. This 'system' functions is because most people, other than bus drivers, don't drive that fast, the roads are not too crowded and everyone uses their horn liberally to announce their imminent attempt to overtake. I suppose the fairly regular and permanent police check points also help to sort out the chaos with their short one lane per direction funnel approximately every 30-50km. Other than the buses, lorries and donkey carts, the majority of vehicles on the road are old Ladas or new, Uzbek constructed, minivan Daewoos.
Only slightly less organised than their currency situation, though reasonably well maintained, Uzbek roads have their own rules. For the most part people travel in the same direction on one side of the road. - usually the right. How big one side of the road is is dependent on the number of vehicles travelling in each direction, how aggressive everyone is driving and if those in front hear the horns of those wishing to squeeze past! In the cities I did sometimes see some road markings, but they were only treated as surface decoration or as if someone had accidentally spilled some white paint on the road... in very straight, evenly spaced lines. On intercity roads, donkey carts are more frequently encountered as the roads run through the widespread rural areas. These 'vehicles' follow their own rules and just need to be avoided by the rest of the traffic. On these roads the side-of-the-road situation is simplified a bit as they usually have concrete barriers running down the middle, which limits the number of cars, side-by-side across the roughly two lane highway, to three. These central concrete barriers have breaks in them every now and then, near-ish to side-roads, which are usually dirt tracks at right angles to the main road, but as they don't align and there are no feeder lanes or traffic lights, a couple of wonderful safety enhancing scenarios are created when trying to turn left (assuming you'd been driving on the right like most folk):
Either
1. overshoot your exit, manouvre into the fast lane before breaking hard, possibly to a standstill, to facilitate a U-turn across to the other side before driving to your exit
OR
2. Switch lanes through the gap that precedes your exit and drive to it against the flow of traffic.
Either option is entirely valid. This 'system' functions is because most people, other than bus drivers, don't drive that fast, the roads are not too crowded and everyone uses their horn liberally to announce their imminent attempt to overtake. I suppose the fairly regular and permanent police check points also help to sort out the chaos with their short one lane per direction funnel approximately every 30-50km. Other than the buses, lorries and donkey carts, the majority of vehicles on the road are old Ladas or new, Uzbek constructed, minivan Daewoos.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Bus to Samarkand
2009 07 31 – Day 35 - Tashkent to Samarkand
The bus station is just a big tarmac space with numerous buses strewn across it.
Fortunately for me, I've already paid (probably far too much) for this bus journey through Sundowners, so the hotel driver guides me through the chaos to a bus shortly to depart for Samarkand. He pays someone who seems to be connected to the bus, we stow my main bag and then they direct me to a front seat, uprooting some poor local passenger in the process. I protest that it's ok, I can sit further back, but my protests are only met with stronger assertions that I should sit in this front seat. I accept my nominal VIP status and sit where instructed.
Across the isle from me a man stashes his bricks of money in non-descript plastic bags.
Now I can catch my breath and look around a little and observe the organised chaos outside, it quickly becomes clear that these buses are run like big shared private taxis. There are a few young lads working for this bus, harrying anyone who gets close-ish to the bus to buy a ticket and climb on board. One woman was almost dragged to the bus before she managed to free herself and her shopping bags and go around the bus as she'd originally intended!
When the bus is half or two-thirds full, the driver starts the engine and rides the clutch, revving the engine – making it clear to all those within eyesight, earshot and those stood 2cm in front of the windscreen that were about to go, so get on now or get out of the way or you'll be left behind or run over!
I'm joined in my VIP front row by this chunky fellow who wedges me in securely enough that I'm not so concerned about the lack of seatbelt. An exchange of sounds reveals that we don't speak each others language, but it does result in a mutual showing of passports... English characters in his reveal that he's from Internal Affairs. After I decline his kind, and presumably illegal (?), offering of hash, he takes a big wad in his mouth and spends much of the journey chewing on it and leaning over me to spit, with varying degrees of accuracy, out of the windowless door.
Uzbek roads are good enough to allow our battered bus to be the fastest thing on the road. Not because everything goes really slow, but because our driver is fearless and seems confident that other road traffic, including the donkey carts, would be well advised to stay out of our way! He does his best to dish out such useful advice to those we're about to pass with energetic and liberal use of his horn.
I don't know if I should be unsettled by the resin-filled head-sized hole in the windscreen in front of me. The multiple screen-wide cracks radiating from the wound don't fill me with confidence that the thing will hold together the entire four hour journey.
During the course of the journey we pass through at least eight road blocks. These are not because of some extraordinary security situation, but just part of the everyday monitoring of the movement of people from one region to another. Traffic is filtered through a speed-bumped single lane 50 metre stretch next to a guard building. While negotiating this bottleneck, guards have the opportunity to ask vehicle drivers to pull over to have their vehilce inspected. At each stop, one of the young lads managing money and passengers jumps out with a piece of paper that he gets stamped before we can go on our way. The whole process if very quick and we almost don't stop. Thankfully our bus was never chosen to be inspected.
Uzbekistan seems to have a fair bit more green than Kazakhstan.
A short stop enables passengers to buy apples from this orchard, while the bus crew fill the vehicle's water tank from the irrigation ditch. Some of the poor bedraggled creatures who emerge from the bowels of the bus make me realise how fortunate I am with my well airated VIP seat by the window-less door.
Half way through the journey, some locals, standing in the isle in anticipation of their stop, try to strike up conversation... the problem is their limited English and my lack of Russian. They do however persuade me to take a phone from one of them and talk to some guy they know who can speak English... It was a very strange conversation - he didn't know who I was, I didn't know who he was or where he was, we couldn't see each other, we'd never met and the reception wasn't great so half the time we couldn't even hear each other! Just before his stop, a teenager invited me to see his village... I have to say I was curious, but we hadn't even spoken to each other before that and the Uzbek authorities require you to register in each place you stay... in hotels that's a straight forward process, but for private residences, I'm not so sure... and I was expected at my hotel in Samarkand. So I thanked him and declined his kind offer.
The bus station is just a big tarmac space with numerous buses strewn across it.
Fortunately for me, I've already paid (probably far too much) for this bus journey through Sundowners, so the hotel driver guides me through the chaos to a bus shortly to depart for Samarkand. He pays someone who seems to be connected to the bus, we stow my main bag and then they direct me to a front seat, uprooting some poor local passenger in the process. I protest that it's ok, I can sit further back, but my protests are only met with stronger assertions that I should sit in this front seat. I accept my nominal VIP status and sit where instructed.
Across the isle from me a man stashes his bricks of money in non-descript plastic bags.
Now I can catch my breath and look around a little and observe the organised chaos outside, it quickly becomes clear that these buses are run like big shared private taxis. There are a few young lads working for this bus, harrying anyone who gets close-ish to the bus to buy a ticket and climb on board. One woman was almost dragged to the bus before she managed to free herself and her shopping bags and go around the bus as she'd originally intended!
When the bus is half or two-thirds full, the driver starts the engine and rides the clutch, revving the engine – making it clear to all those within eyesight, earshot and those stood 2cm in front of the windscreen that were about to go, so get on now or get out of the way or you'll be left behind or run over!
I'm joined in my VIP front row by this chunky fellow who wedges me in securely enough that I'm not so concerned about the lack of seatbelt. An exchange of sounds reveals that we don't speak each others language, but it does result in a mutual showing of passports... English characters in his reveal that he's from Internal Affairs. After I decline his kind, and presumably illegal (?), offering of hash, he takes a big wad in his mouth and spends much of the journey chewing on it and leaning over me to spit, with varying degrees of accuracy, out of the windowless door.
Uzbek roads are good enough to allow our battered bus to be the fastest thing on the road. Not because everything goes really slow, but because our driver is fearless and seems confident that other road traffic, including the donkey carts, would be well advised to stay out of our way! He does his best to dish out such useful advice to those we're about to pass with energetic and liberal use of his horn.
I don't know if I should be unsettled by the resin-filled head-sized hole in the windscreen in front of me. The multiple screen-wide cracks radiating from the wound don't fill me with confidence that the thing will hold together the entire four hour journey.
During the course of the journey we pass through at least eight road blocks. These are not because of some extraordinary security situation, but just part of the everyday monitoring of the movement of people from one region to another. Traffic is filtered through a speed-bumped single lane 50 metre stretch next to a guard building. While negotiating this bottleneck, guards have the opportunity to ask vehicle drivers to pull over to have their vehilce inspected. At each stop, one of the young lads managing money and passengers jumps out with a piece of paper that he gets stamped before we can go on our way. The whole process if very quick and we almost don't stop. Thankfully our bus was never chosen to be inspected.
Uzbekistan seems to have a fair bit more green than Kazakhstan.
A short stop enables passengers to buy apples from this orchard, while the bus crew fill the vehicle's water tank from the irrigation ditch. Some of the poor bedraggled creatures who emerge from the bowels of the bus make me realise how fortunate I am with my well airated VIP seat by the window-less door.
Half way through the journey, some locals, standing in the isle in anticipation of their stop, try to strike up conversation... the problem is their limited English and my lack of Russian. They do however persuade me to take a phone from one of them and talk to some guy they know who can speak English... It was a very strange conversation - he didn't know who I was, I didn't know who he was or where he was, we couldn't see each other, we'd never met and the reception wasn't great so half the time we couldn't even hear each other! Just before his stop, a teenager invited me to see his village... I have to say I was curious, but we hadn't even spoken to each other before that and the Uzbek authorities require you to register in each place you stay... in hotels that's a straight forward process, but for private residences, I'm not so sure... and I was expected at my hotel in Samarkand. So I thanked him and declined his kind offer.
An Evening in Tashkent
2009 07 30 – Day 34 - Tashkent
It seems this is the way to get from one platform to another in this part of the world.
Arriving in Tashkent in the searing heat of early afternoon, I was glad to be met by someone from my hotel, who whisked me away to my air-conditioned room where I was glad to be able to wash, rest and hide from the heat.
The city is more human at dusk. The temperature is comfortable, the air friendly and it doesn't hurt to look at anything brighter than black. Sunlight disappears quickly, but the streetlife continues. Many people are out for dinner, drinks, shopping, a walk in the park. Although there's street lighting, it's not particularly strong and there are plenty of dark corners and shadowy areas – there's every reason for me to feel, uncomfortable and/or vulnerable walking by myself and unable to speak the language. But I don't. There are a couple of times I give some groups a wide berth or become a bit more alert for trouble, but more out of caution than anything else. I don't really feel threatened and it's nice to be able to wander anonymously amongst the locals.
Open air film screening at a nearby hotel.
Later that evening my hotel's driver takes me on a wild-goose chase around the bigger hotels in Tashkent. The big hotels have the only cash machines in town it seems... but none of them work! I feel like I'm in a film as we cruise the near-empty, wide avenues, chilled by his cool jazz radio.
It seems this is the way to get from one platform to another in this part of the world.
Arriving in Tashkent in the searing heat of early afternoon, I was glad to be met by someone from my hotel, who whisked me away to my air-conditioned room where I was glad to be able to wash, rest and hide from the heat.
The city is more human at dusk. The temperature is comfortable, the air friendly and it doesn't hurt to look at anything brighter than black. Sunlight disappears quickly, but the streetlife continues. Many people are out for dinner, drinks, shopping, a walk in the park. Although there's street lighting, it's not particularly strong and there are plenty of dark corners and shadowy areas – there's every reason for me to feel, uncomfortable and/or vulnerable walking by myself and unable to speak the language. But I don't. There are a couple of times I give some groups a wide berth or become a bit more alert for trouble, but more out of caution than anything else. I don't really feel threatened and it's nice to be able to wander anonymously amongst the locals.
Open air film screening at a nearby hotel.
Later that evening my hotel's driver takes me on a wild-goose chase around the bigger hotels in Tashkent. The big hotels have the only cash machines in town it seems... but none of them work! I feel like I'm in a film as we cruise the near-empty, wide avenues, chilled by his cool jazz radio.
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Train to Helsinki
2009 07 22 – Day 26 – Kemijärvi
I'm sure I'll never see the attraction of train-spotting around the UK where they all seem the same. Train-spotting around the world, however, I'm starting to see a glimmer of the appeal. This was the beast to haul us 12 hours through the night to Helsinki.
Watching the pretty lakes of Finland roll by from the comfort of the dining car with a glass of wine in hand, Nunnu & I nattered away into the not-so-dark night.
Eventually returning to our cabin, we discovered I hadn't managed to shut the door properly and it was slightly ajar... I was greatly relieved to find passport and other valuables still there! It was the first time on my travels that I'd left my passport off my person, thinking it safe. Perhaps it will be the last time. Thanks to the good nature of Finnish people my first potential disaster was avoided.
I'm sure I'll never see the attraction of train-spotting around the UK where they all seem the same. Train-spotting around the world, however, I'm starting to see a glimmer of the appeal. This was the beast to haul us 12 hours through the night to Helsinki.
Watching the pretty lakes of Finland roll by from the comfort of the dining car with a glass of wine in hand, Nunnu & I nattered away into the not-so-dark night.
Eventually returning to our cabin, we discovered I hadn't managed to shut the door properly and it was slightly ajar... I was greatly relieved to find passport and other valuables still there! It was the first time on my travels that I'd left my passport off my person, thinking it safe. Perhaps it will be the last time. Thanks to the good nature of Finnish people my first potential disaster was avoided.
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