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 authority. Show all posts
Showing posts with label authority. 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, 31 July 2010
Checkpoint China
2009 08 09 – Day 44 - Chinese Border
The Chinese border 'post' is, in fact, a station of epic proportions with imposing austere, authoritarian architecture any ambitious Hollywood production designer would drool over.
Unfortunately we were there at night, which, while enhancing my intimidation as I waited on the vast platform with the other passengers, denied me the chance of discretely taking a decent photo. For those who think that night would be perfect cover, it wasn't so dark to the eyes that you couldn't see, but too dark to take a picture and not look like you're taking a picture. It is my impression, both anecdotally and through observation, that border officials don't look kindly on being treated as a 'sight'.Eventually we were instructed back to our cabins to be present for official inspection.
When researching my trip and determining a route, I had read online of Chinese border officials sometimes confiscating Lonely Planet guidebooks as propaganda due to the omission of Taiwan as part of the nation. This contentious position is immediately obvious within the first few pages where, on a double page colour map of China, the island of Taiwan is the same grey colour as the uncontested neighbouring countries such as Russia, Kazakhstan, Pakistan, Vietnam etc. Lonely Planet guides are not cheap and I wasn't excited by the prospect of surrendering mine so, before leaving Almaty, I had carefully removed the offending map and secreted it deep within my bag such that only the most thorough of searches would expose it.
Back on the train at the border, the guard who was inspecting my bag had decided he wanted to look more thoroughly than any other border guard I'd yet encountered. He had a good rummage around and pulled a few things out to have a look at, taking particular interest in my various books. Of course the Lonely Planet China really caught his eye due to the Chinese characters throughout. He flicked backwards and forwards through the book several times, pausing every now, glancing at me and then continuing leafing through. It felt like he was looking for something... I couldn't help but think it was the missing map! He looked thoroughly enough at the book that when he eventually placed it on the upper bunk and gave it a little pat, I felt like he'd spotted something and I would face some uncomfortable questioning. Going through my other books more rapidly, he quickly established that there was nothing of interest to him. He indicated that I should repack my bag, returning my books to me. Was I off the hook?
After dealing with my bag, a second border official arrived at my door. At their indication I followed her off the train and across the now deserted platform, the stars watching our slow and small procession toward the monumental border building whose design function was now being fully realised: to make me, the outsider, feel small and insignificant. My mind raced. What had they found? What were they going to ask? The measured clip-clop of the official's heels on the concrete ate away the time till I'd know.
Inside, the building initially seemed deserted, but rounding a corner we arrived at a waiting area, largely lit by light spilling from an open doorway... the interrogation room!
However, I was pleased to see that in the waiting area were a few people sat with a guard... it was two English guys and a Japanese guy from my carriage. One by one we were called into the bright room. When my turn came I was almost disappointed at the mundanity of the questions! Why are you visiting China? Where will you visit? Etc. But really I was relieved that I wasn't about to be denied entry, happy for my experience of really dramatic interrogations to remain the stuff of fiction.
As the train pulled away into the night, it felt comforting to know that now, after racing across Europe and Central Asia for the last six weeks or so, I wouldn't have anymore border crossings, time-zone changes or currency exchanging to do for at least another two months.
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Green Market
2009 08 07 – Day 42 - Almaty
My hotel enjoyed a prime location next to the biggest market in town – Green Market – and so, still recovering, it was nice that I didn't have to expend much energy to explore the stalls.
It's quite something to see an experienced butcher speedily, methodically and efficiently remove all the useable flesh from the face of a pig until only the skull remains.
I tried to take a photo, but a jobsworthy security guy appeared out of nowhere to indicate that I couldn't take pictures. From then on I had to be discreet, particularly around the meat.
My hotel enjoyed a prime location next to the biggest market in town – Green Market – and so, still recovering, it was nice that I didn't have to expend much energy to explore the stalls.
It's quite something to see an experienced butcher speedily, methodically and efficiently remove all the useable flesh from the face of a pig until only the skull remains.
I tried to take a photo, but a jobsworthy security guy appeared out of nowhere to indicate that I couldn't take pictures. From then on I had to be discreet, particularly around the meat.
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.
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.
Kazakh/Uzbek border crossing
2009 07 30 – Day 34 - Aralsk-Tashkent train
Crossing the border from Kazakhstan to Uzbekistan, a couple of hours from Tashkent, takes place entirely on the train. Guards with big hats, big guns and big alsatians come aboard and check that everything is as it should be before we leave Kazakhstan, including opening wall, floor or ceiling panels if necessary. Then, a few minutes down the track, we go through the whole thing again to enter Uzbekistan. With the train stopped, doors open, and officials coming and going, the stops are as uncomfortable from the heat as from the border guards attention.
Entering and exiting Uzbekistan you have to declare valuables and amount of US dollars and Russian rubles. As a result, I wasn't particularly surprised when the guard checking me and my belongings, after a half-hearted rummage in my well packed rucksack, wanted to go through the contents of my wallet and neck pouch. He demanded to see this and that and the next thing before leaving, seemingly satisfied. It wasn't until later in the day, sorting through my things, that I realised he must have pinched $15! He had pulled the old magicians art of misdirection on me, because by the time we were done, I had various things strewn on my bed and the small window table. My mistake was to not put each thing away after I'd shown it to him or at least have all the things in front of me all the time, but he flustered me with his grabbing and pointing and speed. At least I didn't have much money on me, so he wasn't able to take much.
For the crossing into Uzbekistan, we also had a team of medics come on the train, sweating into their synthetic white coats and face masks while they waited for their thermometers to provide our armpit temperature. Mine was 36.5°C. One who had a little English then interviewed me to establish if I was well... fortunately I was. I think they were checking for swine flu victims.
Crossing the border from Kazakhstan to Uzbekistan, a couple of hours from Tashkent, takes place entirely on the train. Guards with big hats, big guns and big alsatians come aboard and check that everything is as it should be before we leave Kazakhstan, including opening wall, floor or ceiling panels if necessary. Then, a few minutes down the track, we go through the whole thing again to enter Uzbekistan. With the train stopped, doors open, and officials coming and going, the stops are as uncomfortable from the heat as from the border guards attention.
Entering and exiting Uzbekistan you have to declare valuables and amount of US dollars and Russian rubles. As a result, I wasn't particularly surprised when the guard checking me and my belongings, after a half-hearted rummage in my well packed rucksack, wanted to go through the contents of my wallet and neck pouch. He demanded to see this and that and the next thing before leaving, seemingly satisfied. It wasn't until later in the day, sorting through my things, that I realised he must have pinched $15! He had pulled the old magicians art of misdirection on me, because by the time we were done, I had various things strewn on my bed and the small window table. My mistake was to not put each thing away after I'd shown it to him or at least have all the things in front of me all the time, but he flustered me with his grabbing and pointing and speed. At least I didn't have much money on me, so he wasn't able to take much.
For the crossing into Uzbekistan, we also had a team of medics come on the train, sweating into their synthetic white coats and face masks while they waited for their thermometers to provide our armpit temperature. Mine was 36.5°C. One who had a little English then interviewed me to establish if I was well... fortunately I was. I think they were checking for swine flu victims.
Friday, 16 April 2010
Aralsk-Tashkent Train
2009 07 29-30 – Days 33-34 - Aralsk-Tashkent train
Having made the train with only seconds to spare, I had to walk through eight coaches to find mine. Those coaches I passed through were clearly one step down from my class on the Moscow-Aralsk train, with no compartments, no air conditioning and six berths in the same space as four... it was hot and cramped and I felt pretty awkward bundling my way through with my big rucksack.
As soon as I found my more comfortable compartment, I was immediately relocated to an available berth elsewhere in the carriage after the policeman holding a private dinner party in my original compartment had a word with the carriage guard. Settling in to my unofficial berth, sharing the compartment with a young mother and her one-year-old, the carriage guard comes and asks me for 200 Rubles for the bedsheets.... I didn't know anything of this charge I protest! It doesn't mention such a thing on my ticket I claim (not totally sure as it's in Russian) and I didn't have to pay such a fee on the Moscow-Aralsk train... He doesn't entirely understand and I'm in no hurry to give way to the charge which sounds a bit fishy... I'm not sure he won't pocket the money. He disappears for a short while and returns with a translator – fellow passenger 16 year old Julia. Now able to communicate, it becomes clear that other passengers have paid this charge... but that doesn't change my position of disappointment at hidden charges.... surprisingly the guard concedes that he can accept, instead of payment and to cover the shortfall in his accounts, a letter outlining why I refused to pay! After some consideration of the possibility that writing such a letter would create more problems than would be worth the money it saved, I decided to do it on principle, since I had the option.
Julia with my statement and her translation.
While the bedsheets charge was being addressed, the policeman whose compartment I was supposed to share arrived at the doorway and inquires, through Julia, why am I traveling alone? Who will help me if something goes wrong? I reply, through Julia, that I don't know, that I'll deal with problems when they occur and I'm sure local people will help me. His response is a grunt that sets him in motion back to his compartment. Was he indirectly threatening me? I ask Julia... she thinks he was just drunk.
Curious and charismatic fellow passenger Ruslan (left) invites himself into my compartment and, requisitioning my Russian phrasebook, leafs through for a word he probably won't find to help his enthusiastic questioning. Intoxicated policeman (right) interrupts for a brief while, asking the same questions as before and insisting I take his photo.
Ruslan and I get on quite well and share some beers at the next station stop and spend much of the rest of the afternoon in entertaining banter with some assistance from Julia, her Mum, Ruslan's friend and my Russian phrasebook.
The second day on a train seems to be when all the locals really want to get to know you and I spent the last hour or two before Tashkent being quizzed by these friendly locals on what seem to be the standard topics – Where am I from? Why am I traveling alone? Where's my wife? Why aren't I married? Apparently I should find myself a nice Uzbek girl...
Having made the train with only seconds to spare, I had to walk through eight coaches to find mine. Those coaches I passed through were clearly one step down from my class on the Moscow-Aralsk train, with no compartments, no air conditioning and six berths in the same space as four... it was hot and cramped and I felt pretty awkward bundling my way through with my big rucksack.
As soon as I found my more comfortable compartment, I was immediately relocated to an available berth elsewhere in the carriage after the policeman holding a private dinner party in my original compartment had a word with the carriage guard. Settling in to my unofficial berth, sharing the compartment with a young mother and her one-year-old, the carriage guard comes and asks me for 200 Rubles for the bedsheets.... I didn't know anything of this charge I protest! It doesn't mention such a thing on my ticket I claim (not totally sure as it's in Russian) and I didn't have to pay such a fee on the Moscow-Aralsk train... He doesn't entirely understand and I'm in no hurry to give way to the charge which sounds a bit fishy... I'm not sure he won't pocket the money. He disappears for a short while and returns with a translator – fellow passenger 16 year old Julia. Now able to communicate, it becomes clear that other passengers have paid this charge... but that doesn't change my position of disappointment at hidden charges.... surprisingly the guard concedes that he can accept, instead of payment and to cover the shortfall in his accounts, a letter outlining why I refused to pay! After some consideration of the possibility that writing such a letter would create more problems than would be worth the money it saved, I decided to do it on principle, since I had the option.
Julia with my statement and her translation.
While the bedsheets charge was being addressed, the policeman whose compartment I was supposed to share arrived at the doorway and inquires, through Julia, why am I traveling alone? Who will help me if something goes wrong? I reply, through Julia, that I don't know, that I'll deal with problems when they occur and I'm sure local people will help me. His response is a grunt that sets him in motion back to his compartment. Was he indirectly threatening me? I ask Julia... she thinks he was just drunk.
Curious and charismatic fellow passenger Ruslan (left) invites himself into my compartment and, requisitioning my Russian phrasebook, leafs through for a word he probably won't find to help his enthusiastic questioning. Intoxicated policeman (right) interrupts for a brief while, asking the same questions as before and insisting I take his photo.
Ruslan and I get on quite well and share some beers at the next station stop and spend much of the rest of the afternoon in entertaining banter with some assistance from Julia, her Mum, Ruslan's friend and my Russian phrasebook.
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
The Kremlin
2009 07 25 – Day 29 – Moscow
Surrounded by an imposing red wall with many towers, The Kremlin always used to conjure up such imagery of Cold War politics, that I wasn't expecting the array of 4 cathedrals and its history of use as a public space as well as a governmental one.
The one Cold War type administrative building I saw in there:
The rest were more classical like these:
3 of the 4 cathedrals
Interior of one – typical of them all.
The Tsar's Cannon... did they really use this?!? Or was it just for show? A Tsar's plaything.
The Kremlin wasn't just administration, religion and war though, it was also nature with a small well-tended park.
Surrounded by an imposing red wall with many towers, The Kremlin always used to conjure up such imagery of Cold War politics, that I wasn't expecting the array of 4 cathedrals and its history of use as a public space as well as a governmental one.
The one Cold War type administrative building I saw in there:
The rest were more classical like these:
3 of the 4 cathedrals
Interior of one – typical of them all.
The Tsar's Cannon... did they really use this?!? Or was it just for show? A Tsar's plaything.
The Kremlin wasn't just administration, religion and war though, it was also nature with a small well-tended park.
Military Moscow
2009 07 24-25 – Days 28-29 – Moscow
I didn't manage to get a photo that adequately illustrates the number of police on the streets of Moscow. There were plenty though. Even more around the Godzillas Hostel because a central headquarters was opposite... which would normally make you feel safer, but the Russian police's reputation is not entirely positive... for example, in the Tall Ship Races hand book issued in St Petersburg, a special phone number was provided specifically for dealing with cases of police corruption, harrassment, blackmail etc! At least someone recognises there's a problem which the beginnings of solving it... meanwhile, back in Moscow, there was a couple of times I crossed the road, regardless of whether I needed to, simply to avoid some bored looking policemen.
Some places in the metro, as above, there were groups of police just hanging around, I don't know if they were transport or standard police. At other stations, other isolated officers gave themselves something to do by telling me to stop taking photos. There was also a uniformed official in a little booth at the bottom of each escalator – I don't know if that was to stop crime or running – which I suppose is a crime – but it seemed to be employing someone... even if sometimes that someone was asleep.
In addition to the uniformed police and quasi-police, who knows how many plain clothes officers there might be? There were also plenty of military personel, seemingly off duty, but significantly more than I would expect to see around London – the next biggest European city. All in all Moscow has plenty of authority figures kicking about...
I didn't manage to get a photo that adequately illustrates the number of police on the streets of Moscow. There were plenty though. Even more around the Godzillas Hostel because a central headquarters was opposite... which would normally make you feel safer, but the Russian police's reputation is not entirely positive... for example, in the Tall Ship Races hand book issued in St Petersburg, a special phone number was provided specifically for dealing with cases of police corruption, harrassment, blackmail etc! At least someone recognises there's a problem which the beginnings of solving it... meanwhile, back in Moscow, there was a couple of times I crossed the road, regardless of whether I needed to, simply to avoid some bored looking policemen.
Some places in the metro, as above, there were groups of police just hanging around, I don't know if they were transport or standard police. At other stations, other isolated officers gave themselves something to do by telling me to stop taking photos. There was also a uniformed official in a little booth at the bottom of each escalator – I don't know if that was to stop crime or running – which I suppose is a crime – but it seemed to be employing someone... even if sometimes that someone was asleep.
In addition to the uniformed police and quasi-police, who knows how many plain clothes officers there might be? There were also plenty of military personel, seemingly off duty, but significantly more than I would expect to see around London – the next biggest European city. All in all Moscow has plenty of authority figures kicking about...
Saturday, 25 July 2009
Permission....
2009 06 - pre-departure
What a mission!
I currently have the following visas in my passport:
India - 1 year - multiple entry
Uzbekistan - 15 days - single entry
Kazakhstan - 30 days - double entry
China - 6 months - double entry
Russia - 30 days - double entry
On the road I'll also have to get visas for :
Nepal - can get in Lhasa or on the border
Cambodia - can get in Bangkok
Vietnam - can get in Bangkok
Laos - can get in Bangkok
China - for a second entry further away than 6 months (no 1 year visa allowed for me)
Thanks to the Uzbekistan embassy taking 2 weeks to do nothing - thanks for nothing! - I had to get the speedy & more expensive options on both Russia and China visas... The Uzbeks seem to run a 1 man operation - the most expressionless man I've ever met... though his eyebrows were extremely communicative! When I went to enquire as to what was taking so long (all other nations' visas take 5 days max) he printed it for me on the spot! It clearly pays to be there in person!
What a mission!
I currently have the following visas in my passport:
India - 1 year - multiple entry
Uzbekistan - 15 days - single entry
Kazakhstan - 30 days - double entry
China - 6 months - double entry
Russia - 30 days - double entry
On the road I'll also have to get visas for :
Nepal - can get in Lhasa or on the border
Cambodia - can get in Bangkok
Vietnam - can get in Bangkok
Laos - can get in Bangkok
China - for a second entry further away than 6 months (no 1 year visa allowed for me)
Thanks to the Uzbekistan embassy taking 2 weeks to do nothing - thanks for nothing! - I had to get the speedy & more expensive options on both Russia and China visas... The Uzbeks seem to run a 1 man operation - the most expressionless man I've ever met... though his eyebrows were extremely communicative! When I went to enquire as to what was taking so long (all other nations' visas take 5 days max) he printed it for me on the spot! It clearly pays to be there in person!
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