I’d seen him from a short distance, twelve months previously, he travelled alone aboard a plane to Moscow. He wore a dark tracksuit top zipped over a light t-shirt, and loose pale green shorts covered the knees he cradled by his chest. His hair sprayed out in loose brown curls beneath a khaki cap, highlighted by scribbles of grey. His pale thin lips lined a shallow smile, and his early morning eyes seemed glazed with relief. As his homeland slipped beneath a thin veil of cloud, he lifted his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, his lips parted just once to release his farewell thoughts: Let the journey begin, my friend. Today, he lay upright on the rippled white sheets of a double bed, in a simple, homely room on the island of Bali. Continue reading ‘A Thousand Glorious Times’
Archive for the 'China' Category
A Thousand Glorious Times
Published July 4th, 2008 in Russia, Trans-Mongolian Railway, Tibet, Singapore, Indonesia, Mongolia, Nepal, Sri Lanka, China and India. 6 CommentsStaring intimidatingly into two fresh black eyes, I barked menacingly, ‘reach for the sky!’. No response. I yelled, ‘this town aint big enough for the two of us’. Zip. ‘It’s not a laser. It’s a little light bulb that blinks’. Nothing. ‘Somebody’s poisoned the waterhole!’. Nada. ‘Who are you calling busted, Buster?’. Zippo. He just slumped aloofly on his backside upon a grassy verge, nonchalantly chomping his way through a mound of bamboo. The lardy giant panda was seemingly uninterested in impressions of my beloved Woody, yet the cowboy in me refused to be repressed. A few days after my showdown with the 50-or-so Chengdu pandas, I was in the one-horse town of Songpan, trotting unstably towards the magically entitled, Ice Mountain. Continue reading ‘To Songpan, and beyond!’
The red-faced King of the South paced nervously around his ageing palace, closely followed by a fidgeting guard. If either dared peer out through the ornate wooden shutters and across the blood-tainted river, they would of been overcome with terror. Advancing towards them at a frightful pace were a pair of canons in search of a mount, two intense looking horsemen, a shuffling pair of holy men and a pentad of pesky pawns. Just visible on the misty horizon, stood the palace of his ageing adversary. Within the stone sanctum paced his royal rival, robed immaculately in hereditary velvets of black. I took a gulp of Tsingtao, ‘your move, loser‘. The ‘Concubine of Chess’ and my current archenemy, ignored my tactical taunts and swiftly took aim with her Chinese Chess piece. She followed with a fearless sequence of freshman moves, intent on seducing my King into an knee-trembling demise. Concubines throughout history would have been outrageously envious of Reb’s panache as a short time later an eerie silence descended, and it was over. I gulped the last of the Tsingtao and shot a blurry gaze towards the two dispirited Kings, stubbornly perched upon my fantasy’s thrones in a now barren, death-swept kingdom. ‘Draw?’, I proposed. We agreed, but next time I won’t let her off so easy. Continue reading ‘Answers on a Postcard’
My mother always said vegetables were good for me, so for 21 years I munched my way through her gloomy carrots, astringent runner beans and even the odd heap of pungent spinach. Then I cut the apron strings, and phoned her weekly, for 4 years, to ask her how to recreate the sloppy, lifeless clumps of sentiment. It was with a combination of this deep-rooted craving and my slow retreat from Chinese flesh-based sustenance that I found myself sitting in a Jinghong vegetarian restaurant, across from Reb, my recurring itch of an accomplice. Along with a feast of imitation crispy duck, sweet and sour meatballs, chinese cabbage and seaweed in flour came a vibrant 33 year old, called Joe the Bridge. Continue reading ‘Bee for ‘Banna’
Reminiscent of time attempting to tick away on the novelty ‘Mao watch? Mao watch?‘ persistently being hawked in Tiananmen Square; time stood still this week. Any attempt to capture the period in a post, would be inaccurate and, akin to Mao’s arm weakly attempting to wave time away, I’d fail to do my subject justice. Subsequently this post becomes a smoking hot, and completely metaphorical wok, in which I’ll rustle up a table full of south China’s finest backpacker delicacies derived from a colourful selection of event-fuelled ingredients, descended from the iconic bookshelf to the left of the open shop front. Imagine it as just one day, you’ll join me in the evening at the cafe to catch up over dinner. We’ll gratefully accept the fragrant yellow tinted jasmine tea to our table, before leading the cleaver-clad chef to his rustic shelves; ‘ok boss, we’ll take some of this, that, this and, whatever that is, we’ll take it. Oh, and some rice, just one bowl. And a couple of píjǐus (beer). And don’t get any ideas, clean chopsticks this time’. Continue reading ‘The Blind Leading the Blind’
I’ve been shocked many a time when using the internet, but the following session took me totally by surprise. I’d wrestled my way through a final round with the heavyweight Diaheorra Demon and was catching up on the latest football news, back in England. A soft whisper carried its way across the hostel, ‘Ant!’. My team were doing alright, life was rosy. I continued clicking ignorantly, ‘Ant?!’. The rivals were failing to live up to their summer spending sprees, ‘Ant!?‘. The next weeks fixtures seemed in our favour so I clicked on some more. A hand lightly touched my shoulder accompanied by a mellow ‘Ant!’. My eyes spared the voice a glance and my heart seemed to acquire a passport and whizz around the world, without the merest of consultation. My glance was greeted by familiar eyes. My K471 friend, Mr Wang. If you haven’t read my previous post, I suggest you do. Continue reading ‘Why did the Chinaman cross the road?’
Tired of walking, I decided to exercise my lifelong avidity to fly like a bird. I swiftly span upon a silver yuan , donned my colourful cape and followed my outreached fist over classical scenes of paddy fields and rice terraces. Moments later, I became caught in a ferocious crosswind which brought me tumbling back down with a bump. I awoke recumbent in my sleeper berth aboard train K471. “Superman caught in a crosswind” is the most acurate description of an overnight train journey I have offered to date, and on this particular journey - 47hrs and 2000 miles from Beijing to Kunming - the views I was granted from my berth, through a slither of a dirt splattered window will stay with me for the duration of my - somewhat clumsy - flying days. Continue reading ‘Mr Wang and The Curse of the Airag’
