Category: Asia

by Matt Scott
The Tran-Siberian Railway is the ultimate rail journey, the longest in the world, possibly the coldest if you go at the wrong time of year, and the only rail journey that travels across two continents on a single trip, all while staying in the same country. Without leaving your seat you can clatter along almost a third of the globe; the Trans-Siberian is an excursion of almost mythical proportions.

There are three routes that travellers can take to explore the expanse that is Siberia: The 6,000-mile-long Moscow-to-Vladivostok route, and two others that leave Moscow heading toward Beijing: one going through Mongolia, taking six days and travelling almost 5,000 miles, and one that runs via Manchuria, which takes almost a week to complete.

I was intrigued by the country that was once the home of Genghis Kahn. I knew almost nothing else of Mongolia, and that only added to my interest.

My journey started on a Tuesday night at Yaroslav Station in Moscow. Platform 3 was packed with traders loading the train with rugs, stereos, clothes, underwear, and a host of other goods that I assumed were going to be sold on the way. I expected to see many world-wise travellers in the station, waiting to take this epic journey, but there were none. And it seemed I was the only person who had not brought at least half a carriage worth of goods to peddle.

I pushed my way past bags, of what smelled like horse blankets, to find my carriage. The compartment was about as big as the bathroom at the Moscow hotel. There were roughly eight compartments to a carriage. Each compartment consisted of a small table next to the window and two beds on either side, with another two beds suspended from the sides of the carriage, but stowed in an upright position to give the illusion of space.

There was no one else in my carriage as I went through the ritual of removing my hat, gloves, coat, and the several other layers I was wearing to keep out the Russian winter. It was early January, and the outside temperature was below -20º.

I went into the corridor and looked out the window at the remaining passengers loading their wares. Until I reached Ulan Bator in five days time, this was going to be the way I would see the world. Travelling by train can be unique that way: the cultural experiences often come from inside the cars, and train travellers often have the most interesting stories to tell.

Suddenly, I was torn from my thoughts as several people walked into the compartment behind me. Confusion started as seven of us tried to lay claim to the four beds in the compartment. There had been an obvious case of overbooking and we chatted politely as we waited for the ticket collector to see who would be thrown off the train.

Luckily no one was turned away, and three of us were moved to other carriages. I went to first class: still with a toilet at the end of the carriage and no shower, but the compartment had only two beds, and for the moment I had it to myself. Not bad for a $200 ticket.

I spent the evening alone in my compartment, sipping strong Russian tea from the samovar at the end of the carriage. The high-rise flats of Moscow turned into countryside dotted with small towns. Russian Orthodox churches appeared in almost every town we passed through, lit up against the surrounding hills that were covered in snow. Yet there was barely enough time to appreciate this beauty before it passed by and another view filled the window frame. This was how much of the journey was taken up: looking out the window admiring the scenery. Every morning I would open my curtains wondering what new view would greet me as the train moved through the Urals into snow-covered forest to the Russian steppe and the large expanses of nothingness. It was hard to get bored of the scene and the anticipation of another beautiful sunset, knowing that you’d travelled almost a thousand miles and another time zone since the previous night.

The Trans-Siberian makes frequent stops to pick up new passengers and let others alight. Yekaterinburg, Omsk, Novosibirsk, Irkutsk, and Ulan Ude, near Lake Baikal, are just some of the great cities the train passes through. However, stopping for only an hour so at a time, there is little opportunity to sightsee except at the stations. If you miss the train leaving, it can be a week before another will take you to Mongolia to catch up with your luggage. I chose to stay close to the train, observing (and often avoiding) the hustle that met us at stations where traders sold their goods. Old women often came up to the doors of the train offering hot meals of chicken and vegetables or meat and potatoes, as well as soup and biscuits. A three-course meal could be enjoyed from your window if you didn’t want to visit the dining cart that day. Other people would approach with crafts such as decorated glass and crystal, paintings, fur hats, or other specialties of the region. Many workers in the local factories were paid part of their wages in the products they produced; selling these items to the train passengers was a good source of income in the struggling economy.

I often swapped some of my own possessions for snacks: a pair of warm socks got me a huge bag of berries that I enjoyed for the rest of the journey; my book, 2001: A Space Odyssey, got me a new pair of gloves.

At the end of the first day someone joined me in the compartment. Elenor was a young woman from Perm who was on her way to visit her sick mother in Ulan Ude. Her English was as broken as my Russian, but we got along well. We spent the day talking about her children and what I was doing in Russia. She would often tell me how I reminded her of her ten-year-old son and when I fell asleep on my bed she draped her shawl on me and gently sang Russian songs.

Elenor had a supply of shopping bags that she was selling at stations to pay for her journey. As the train pulled into another stop we would both lean out of the windows waving the colorful plastic bags and yelling “Sumki, Sumki!”–Bags, bags! I never sold many, but then, neither did Elenor.

Visitors would often pop into our compartment to chat, bringing gifts of vodka or chocolate. While I only understood part of the conversation, the talks were always animated and very enjoyable. Moving between carriages to meet other travellers, I would take along my bag of berries as a guest offering. I was keen to experience Russian cuisine and eat the food I found in the stations or the restaurant car; I’d often trade packs of dehydrated meals that I had brought along just in case. It was a continual source of amusement as we poured hot water into the foil packs, and a full meal was ready in minutes. Before leaving the U.K., I was worried that my Russian would not be strong enough to help me mix with local travellers. My language was bad, but I was warmly welcomed anywhere I went on the train. I never met another Westerner, and I can’t say that I minded.

The days passed too quickly, and the boredom I once feared never set in. I was hoping to finish my second book and swap it for something at the last station, but I could hardly read a page before my eyes would drift toward the window and I’d became lost in what lay outside. I had been waiting eagerly to see Lake Baikal, the deepest lake in the world, and Elenor woke me as we passed it. This huge body of water was covered in ice and stretched to the mountains on the horizon, but it disappeared within minutes as the train turned a corner and we headed back into the forest.

We soon arrived at the station in Ulan Ude; this was Elenor’s stop. We said our goodbyes and she left me one of her shopping bags to remember her by. I promised to write but after she’d gone I realized I never took her address.

Sara, “the only female doctor in Mongolia” (or so she told me) now occupied the other bed in my compartment. A gentleman from near Lake Baikal, Valery, also joined us for the brief remainder of the trip. He talked passionately about the lake and how “you can catch fish with just your arms.” He also brought food from the region: caviar, black bread, cured fish, biscuits, and other delights that we tucked into eagerly. The three of us shared stories and exchanged English and Russian lessons until we reached the Mongolian border late that evening. The border crossing took almost six hours; we ate and drank numerous bottles of vodka.

The border guards were cheery and shared the vodka as they checked our passports. They chatted to us in three languages: English, if they were talking to me; Russian, when they talked to Valery; and Mongolian at all other times. I thought I understood perfectly, but maybe that was just the vodka.

The last night on the train passed quickly, and I slept until we reached Ulan Bator–the capital of Mongolia–the next morning. I was hoping to enjoy a last breakfast in the restaurant car and get the chance to say goodbye to many of the people I had met during the journey, but as we got into the station there was just enough time to gather my belongings before being ushered off the train.

While the trans-Mongolian route of the railway continued for 1,000 miles to Beijing I would not join it for another four days. In that time I would have the chance to look around the capital city, then hop on another train for just one more day, completing one of the longest rail journeys on the planet when I arrived in Beijing.

by Ieuan Dolby
A failed or neglected city springs to mind when walking around Macau during the daytime. Around the outskirts of the islands, the doors of modern buildings never seem to open. In hotel restaurants, servers tend to sole customers with reluctance; public gardens remain empty except for the lone tramp rooting around in the bins; roads remain unsullied with tire tracks; and very often, the silence is pervasive. Inland and up the hills, cracked and uneven pathways run into the next as weeds compliment cement on crumbling gray walls; unpainted fences balance precariously around paved basketball pitches, and graffiti adds color to an otherwise drab setting.

The Portuguese gave this place some amazing architecture when they ruled and controlled the two islands and small mainland peninsula that is Macau. In fact, Macau was the first European settlement in the Far East. The Portuguese beat the Dutch and British by a hair’s breadth with their establishment of this well-positioned and soon-to-be-rich trading post. Hong Kong, Singapore, and Malacca followed many years later as the British, Dutch, and other nations established a presence in East Asia, but at the beginning, through Macau, Portugal ruled the roost.

The Dutch tried many times to get hold of the territory, as did the Spanish and British. But Macau had become Portugal’s prize jewel, and they managed to retain control throughout, only giving it up in 1999 when they handed it back to mainland China according to treaty arrangements.

China now rules Macau under what has become known as a Special Administrative Region, or SAR. This basically means that Macau falls under the Mainland Chinese policy of “one rule, two systems,” a status quo by which Macau governs itself for the most part, as it makes and lives under its own laws, but strictly speaking, belongs to China.

Today, Macau is often described as a little paradise steeped in mixed history and culture. Large, imposing, centuries-old structures vie for space among the tattered remnants of cheaply built twentieth-century brick houses and towering modern glass offices. Massive and squat stone office buildings of the colonial era sit regally and steadfastly among haphazard stacks of steel girders, gray stone snubs orange brick, and the slate roofs keep out the rains where tin cladding has long since failed.

New roads bend around the coast in smooth ribbons, flowing over long and impressive bridges before swooping gracefully in arcs past flashing billboards and over reclaimed land. Newly built high-speed, two-lane motorways whiz past glittering hotels that invite money to be spent, then descend to greet history by way of Macau’s Portuguese heritage.

Working inward and upward modern tarmac meets old cobbles as the flat ground turns into a steep climb. Little lanes wend through neighborhoods that crowd in upon themselves. Antiquated buildings lean against each other and dangle precariously over paths that defy the eyes to follow. Hanging baskets of colorful flowers swing delicately from balconies that threaten to pull down the houses to which they belong, while open windows give glimpses into the crowded lives inside.

The steel and glass facades of hotels and office blocks, the colonial stone museums, and Portuguese Officialdom of yesteryear that grace the flatlands around the coast are left behind when walking inland. The hilly centers of the islands house the majority of Macau’s population; and looking in one direction at these historic structures, the place seems to emulate a fishing village in Portugal, but turn your head and you may liken the view to one of the many “Chinatowns” seen around the world.

But all is not as it would appear. Compared to the heat of the day, when cool drinks and light food go together with quiet streets and an easy stroll, the evening brings dramatic change. From the dull and fading brick work and the overgrown flowerbeds–from the graffiti and flaking paint on shop walls–springs lights of dazzling proportion. At night, a seemingly forgotten city emerges in a glittering display of neon power that transforms this place and everything into a hive of activity and purpose.

As the sun sets over the horizon, people come out to play, tourists put aside their bathing towels and no longer think of cold air, workers get ready for the night ahead, and hotel lobbies are transformed from desolate halls to crowded and bustling meeting points.

As night falls, policemen wipe the sleep from their eyes and come out of their cubby holes, ready and watchful for the evening ahead. Large-muscled men hang around doorways, arms folded across their chests as if to say, “make trouble and you will have to deal with me;” and jewelers open their doors to invite tourists to buy gold at what they say are the cheapest prices in Asia.

But what is really going on in Macau? Why do most people prefer to sleep during the day, workers and tourists alike, and what changes the city from a neglected place under the sun to a fun-filled bundle of activity in the night?

The answer is gambling.

The Macau government makes seventy percent of its revenue from gambling and associated businesses. Most Hotels are built with gambling in mind and thus they boast many casinos and gambling dens on their premises, all with sumptuous rooms and services to woe the big spenders. Limousines carry the rich to their destinations of the evening. Hotels offer special packages for those with money to lose, and girls lie in wait to help spend money that prospectors may have had thoughts of keeping. Bars keep drinks flowing to loosen punters stiff fingers, fast food is lavished on the high rollers, and the large-muscled men have no qualms of throwing out the losers, arms aching as they ceaselessly open doors for the excited newcomer and help the defeated on their way.

The city changes for all who are in it when the casinos open each evening. Once sleepy hotel lobbies come alive, and receptionists hurry to check-in new arrivals by the hundreds as tours from Mainland China pour off trains like ants from a mole hill. Airport-staff sweat freely, as planes land in quick succession to disgorge determined gamblers from Taiwan, the Philippines, Singapore, and other corners of the world.

Time is money that will be spent, one way or another, despite a gambler’s dreams of striking it big. Newly arrived punters race against time to grab their bags, get through immigration, and to catch a cab for their hotel and the casinos next door, above, or beneath.

Not all visitors to Macau are gamblers on a mission, however. Some are genuine tourists who wonder why the city is so bare and drab during the day and have no idea of the other face of Macau at night. Others still are from Taiwan and other first world Asian economies, and they usually come in the form of a group or package tour. Should you see these arrivals as they emerge from their planes, you will notice that they are all male with an average age of around seventy years. This is a special type of arranged tour, in that they are going to Macau specifically to find women. This other side of Macau is reflected in the availability of prostitutes who service overseas visitors or who relieve punters and gamblers of any change that may still be jangling in their pockets.

Prostitutes hang around doorways and exits from casinos, they balance precariously on high heels, and they are covered in layers of make-up that gives competition to even a skilled plasterer. Skimpy skirts ride high on slim legs and breasts heave against tight tops. Purses swing invitingly from wandering hands and sugary smiles are issued freely to those who stop to look (and glares are given to those who walk by).

As night draws on, promises of a new life are offered to punters who leave one casino in search of new ground, despite their nearly empty pockets. Fresh arrivals are given their choice of female company as they prepare to spend money and while away the night among the bells, whistles and bright lights.. A kaleidoscope of women–and men dressed as women– stand around doorways offering the suggestion of adventure and love with husky voices and girlish smiles, giving nighttime Macau a decidedly sinful air.

A neglected city it may be during daylight hours, but prostitutes, bouncers, gamblers, airport staff, taxi drivers, croupiers, fast-food hall owners, barkeepers, bus drivers, doormen, receptionists, bankers, service engineers, thieves and security guards need to sleep during the day, so that when the sun sets they will be ready for a new night of action.

And the only daylight customers you’ll see are the tourists, who never knew the other face of Macau, and the cleaners who ready the city for the next plane load of enthusiastic passengers and the next train full of excited amateurs, with pockets full of cash and dreams of a rich future ahead of them.

Ieuan Dolby
Author and Webmaster of http://www.seadolby.com

by Shane Williams-Ness
17-20 May 2002
Nee said, “I am suffering very much in my life, mum.” I know, I know, I thought–appropriate choice of words for being in Yangon (Rangoon): “suffering.”We are in a Buddhist country…Buddha and the Eightfold Path. You suffer through life–since need or want creates unhappiness, so to be able to do without need and want gives us the ability to reach a higher level of consciousness–and when we die, we are assured of Nirvana. And so, Nirvana…

To me right now, Nirvana would be to be diving into Lake George or sitting on a porch on Martha’s Vineyard, overlooking the sea, or watching the Eel River float by. Nirvana means such different things to us all.

The Burmese are Buddhists–more than 80% are Buddhist anyway–and they are gentle and kind and very devoted. And I wonder, what is it that they want that causes such suffering? They want their children to grow up without malaria, they want to live in a home that is dry, they want an umbrella that doesn’t leak, and they want a job. None of them, it seems, want to get rich, drive a fancy car, and live in a big home or go on vacation. A want for someone in Myanmar (Burma), who is not Chinese Burmese or Indian Burmese, might well be to have a family feast, with enough space in a home for their friends and relatives, or to maybe buy a fresh longhi (sarong).

Ah, Nee, I thought, we are all suffering, but you mate, I agree, are suffering more than we are. And rest assured, you will get a tip upon finishing our tour around the Shwedagon Pagoda.

Nee, dressed in a clean longhi and navy blue collared golf shirt, showed us around this enormous religious space, built almost two thousand years ago. The main section (which looks like a giant pointy-topped bell) is just under 90 meters high, is encased with 60 tons of gold leaf, and is truly something to see. I’m just glad it was an overcast day–otherwise sunglasses would have been a must. It was built by two merchant brothers, and thousands of devoted servants, to honor Buddha, and it purportedly contains eight strands of Buddha’s hair. At the top of this structure, a 75-carat diamond is encased–supposedly still there. The sharp point at the tip of the spire would not allow anyone to scale to the top to steal it, although one bloke–a Portuguese trader and adventurer by the name of Philippe de Brito, who spent many years in Myanmar–did make an attempt to pilfer the whole top portion of the pagoda. He got as far as a nearby river, before the bell accidentally slipped into the water and remained there, stranded, for a century or more. Some stories have it that the bell itself, which had been the object of de Brito’s affection, could even be seen poking though the surface when the water was low. That was roughly in the early 17th century, and his punishment for messing with sacred Buddhist symbols remains clear: he was impaled. Unfortunately he didn’t position himself properly, for execution, and it took him two full days to die. Yikes. Poor Senhor de Brito.

The Portuguese trader didn’t make it, but the pagoda was eventually put in order, and although, later, the British tried to take it down again, and earthquakes caused damage, it is very clearly still in the middle of Yangon, able to be viewed from all parts of the city–a stunning sight.

Nee lead us through the pagoda terraces, where Buddhist novices, some as young as 6, 7, and 8 years old, with shaved heads (both girls and boys) celebrate their initiation ceremony with lotus flowers, Buddhist stone, 180 round gem prayer beads (the Buddhist mantra is said 180 times at a go), and prayer and song. If a Burmese is lucky, he will visit this sacred place at least once in his life, so people come from all over this beautiful country–the largest country in Southeast Asia–to savor the experience.

The rainy season has begun, and a storm, a cyclone to be exact, is brewing over the Bay of Bengal. The wind is strong, and we all run to find cover underneath prayer room overhangs facing the main tower. We are surrounded by statues of Buddhist deities–each representing different abilities to grant wishes to the truly devoted. The Burmese are knelt in prayer, palms together, thumbs either facing their heart, or their arms raised higher, thumbs pointing to their noses. They bend down to touch their noses to the floor, and stay kneeling for long lengths of time, concentrating their minds on the Buddha and his teaching. They are very serious.

…Eat little, and sparingly, be kind to one another, speak gently to each other, never revile another human form, live in as secluded and peaceful a place as you can, to concentrate yourselves on higher thoughts….

That sounds nice, I think. Nirvana.

The deity I spend the most time in front of blesses those who are in want of children, so I gave her a necklace of jasmine we bought from the flower venders, and placed a couple of lotus flowers in the flower pot. Why not? I thought. Couldn’t hurt.

Then Nee took us to pay alms to our respective “planet.” My husband Jamie, born on March 9th, falls under the planet for the dragon. I fall under the planet for the lion. So we pour water over the respective deities, and “clean” them, to show our appreciation for all of the luck we have in our lives. And then we concentrate our minds on the Buddha to ask for future happiness.

We didn’t find Nee, Nee found us–sort of tagged along with our tour group, and noticed two clearly white tourists, wandering around the Shwedagon Pagoda, probably thinking, Okay, awesome, giant, very gold–a bit gaudy–would have liked to see it when the British explorer Ralph Fitch fist saw it, overgrown with weeds and trees, among the low-lying mountains. But alas, the Burmese like their gold, and they seem to like fresh yellow paint. They’ve painted fresh, peaceful faces on a lot of the Buddha’s, but we thought the originals would have been so much more intriguing.

Myanmar, or Yangon, really, in the short time we’d been there, seemed an overgrown, decaying colonial outpost. At one time beautiful and efficient, remnants of what it once was had been left fairly unattended to for over 50 years. The lovely old estates are crumbling and many are now deserted–shadows of colonialism–weeds and trees covering once pristine lawns and parks. Handsome white-washed stone walls, elaborate wrought iron gates, lush gardens, water fountains, homes with stylized facades that reminded me of gingerbread detail, all stand side by side with the Burmese timber structures that were as character-filled, if not as imposing as the Anglican churches nearby. The infrastructure is more efficient than Vietnam and Cambodia–less traffic, no motorcycles, more traffic lights, and people obeying them. But Yangon could use a new coat of paint, a bit of sprucing up, a burning of the opium fields, and a benevolent leadership, I think. Myanmar is currently governed by a military junta that often turns a blind eye to a fair judicial system. There has been a history of suppressing democratic ideals, which has repeatedly led to the mistreatment of the members of the democratic opposition. A case in point: the largest democratic political party, the National League for Democracy, is headed by a Nobel laureate and peacemaker Aung San Suu Kyi; she has been in and out of house arrest and forbidden to leave her country (or at least forbidden to return, if she does leave) for much of the past decade or more.

Our tour guide operator (not Nee, but our proper guide) looked, in my opinion, exactly like Aung San Suu Kyi: beautiful, chiseled, medium-to-long hair, cleanly pulled back in a pony tail, about 50 years old (maybe older), but looked much younger. She had beautiful skin and kind eyes, and was very somber–almost angry when she was not smiling or when she was not talking with someone. But when she smiled, she beamed, and you knew that was who she was, truly. Her name was N’uahn.

Of all the people we’ve met in Southeast Asia, the people of Cambodia, I thought, were most beautiful. Something about their eyes, and their inner spirit–they glowed… Especially the children. But the people in Myanmar, both the men and the women, are elegant and confident. They seem to know who they are and where they’ve come from, and despite colonialism followed by harsh military rule, their cultural heritage remains basically intact. All the men wear their traditional longhi, a long Indian-type sarong, with either a colored golf shirt or cotton button down shirt; and the women wear something similar–a long straight batik skirt and matching top. The Burmese now live their lives with virtually no outside influence, as opposed to the Cambodians, who had much of their country and culture destroyed by the Pol Pot regime and various tomb raiders. The Vietnamese, a bit similar to Cambodians for being as lovely as they are, are under considerable outside pressure from Western commercialism–which in a way has resulted, or has seemed to result, in a mania for money and all of the “evils” surrounding want and entitlement.

It seems that the Burmese are not very interested in serious merchanting or business. They just want to live, have a job, and have a family. It seems to be the influence of the Chinese and the Indians that creates an almost avaricious atmosphere, desperate for money. A fast buck here, a few chats there, sell, sell, sell. Wear more gold watches. Appear rich. Make more money.

The Burmese, I bet, before the British ruled the country, and let in thousands of Northern Indians and in the process a tidal bore of cultural diversity, were an isolated, easy-going, agrarian society. Spending their time and money on Buddhist devotion, and in the creation of lives and religious devotional sites. In the 1960s, approximately 12 years after the British left, the Burmese literally rounded up the Indians and Chinese, and told them to leave the country–taking with them no more than 75 chat (currently, approximately 50 cents), and whatever else they could carry. Clearly some time between then and now, they’ve been let back in, to better or worse consequences.

Food in Myanmar is not a strong memory: some curry, some rice, fruit, asparagus, lemon leaf, okra, sautéed crickets. In all, I noticed that among the ethnic Burmese, food is not such a big deal. The monks eat only until noon every day, and most Burmese have gone through Buddhist training. Gluttony, we realized was frowned upon. The Chinese Burmese, on the other hand, love their food and their feasts, as a time for family and celebration. I am more Chinese than Burmese, I’ve decided.

This is a country to move slowly through, making one’s way up to the northern hill tribes–to Inle Lake near Mandalay, and Bagon. Burma has over 35 ethnic tribes–the ones closer to Nepal are the Himalayan Burmese; the ones further south, the Shan; the Wa (who Jamie likes to read about) reside within one of the 14 “states,” ruled by a mafia-like warlord who doesn’t allow foreigners in and is said to be the main cultivator of the opium trade. We’re not going to Wa.

So with Nee gone, and the cyclone moving closer to Yangon, Jamie and I start our time in Myanmar. In all, we hope for a nice taste of a country that should also be seen in the dry season, and never with a bus full of Singaporean tour guides, I’ve decided.