Georgia

Georgia is one of the most important geo-political countries in the world. Straddling Europe and Asia, it is a land full of impressive mountains, small quirky towns and beautiful sandy beaches along the Black Sea. The former Soviet Satellite has had a difficult recent history - not least because of its most famous son Stalin. It is a key link in the vital BTC (Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan) pipeline that supplies Europe with gas from the Caspian Sea. The pipeline subverts Russia - a canny move that has taken away some Moscow’s cards in the game for control of natural resources in the Caucasus.

Georgia hit the headlines in 2008 with its conflict with Russia, an inevitable clash. After Georgia gained its independence in 1991 tensions in South Ossetia and Abkhazia came to the fore. Territorial disputes have been a legacy of the Soviet Union’s collapse, but few have been more pronounced than those of Georgia’s. Located on the northern border with Russia, both areas are effectively self-governed with little power exerted over them by the capital Tbilisi. The regions are also notorious for organised crime and in the early 1990s, many Georgians were forced to leave Abkhazia during fighting with separatists and have never returned. South Ossetia and Abkhazia wish to be recognised in their own right, but neither Georgia nor the international community are willing to do so. As well as containing oil and gas pipelines, they also have busy ports and tourist resorts. It remains a point of contention with Russia, and is unlikely to be resolved anytime soon.

In 2007 I spent a few weeks in Georgia, prior to the eruption of violence. I arrived in the capital in time for the Independence Day parade through Rustaveli Street. The shimmering spectacle of tanks, helicopters, jets and troops was a clear sign from president Sakashvilli that any blows delivered by Putin’s Russia would not be taken lying down. Crowds lined the streets to watch and cheer with pride.

I watched the display whilst munching my favourite Georgian dish, katchapuri. This is the mother of all pasties and sold from street stalls. Georgian food is very heavy, but delicious. One glance at it is enough to make the arteries scream for mercy. After a day’s walking around the steep cobbled streets, it is the perfect way to relax, along with a glass of the famous local wine.

I took the bus along the beautiful road to Vani in in the west of Georgia. Here legend has it that Jason and Argonauts came to steal the golden fleece. Locals used to use sheepskins to trap gold particles coming down rivers from the Caucasus mountains. The fleeces would then be dried and the captured gold shaken out. All that remains from that time are chunks of the city wall, most of which nature has reclaimed, and a small museum dedicated to the Argonaut tale.

I continued onto Kutaisi, Georgia’s second city and a popular holiday destination during Soviet times. Now all but abandoned in favour of foreign parts, the town still retained a certain charm. A grand old dame who has lost her beauty and elegance but clings onto it. The town is overlooked by a lovely 1000 year old Orthodox cathedral, which is a world UNESCO site. Only one of the stunning wrought iron gates remain, the other having been looted during one of the city’s numerous sackings over the centuries.

My final stop before leaving Georgia was the delightful Batumi, another Soviet resort that lounges by the Black Sea. A perfect place to view sunsets, sample more of the local wine and an ice-cream or two, you can understand why Vladimir Putin takes his holidays along this coast. Batumi is also of note for an almost intact Roman fort where St Matthew is reputed to be buried. The fort was one of the most northerly outposts of the Roman empire and still holds a certain imposing majesty. The huge thick walls are now home to a beautiful garden full of roses, trees and songbirds. Tranquillity has at least reached one part of Georgia.

Armenia

One of the most interesting border crossings in the world has to be that of Iran and Armenia. Traversing over the river border from a declared Islamic republic to the world’s first Christian country offers a stark contrast in cultures. Almost like Superman, men and women are transformed from their long, dark vestments to skimpy Soviet garb, vodka in hand. Iran is literally shed like a skin, as they pile into the taxis that take them the mountainous 12 hour drive to Yerevan, the capital. As a final touch, the Armenian currency is the Dram.

Yerevan is the logical base for someone travelling to the main sites of Armenia. Located in the centre, it has excellent transport links and clean, cheap accommodation. Like most former Soviet cities, it is crammed with huge, monolithic stone museums, theatres and government buildings that surround cobbled squares suitable for communist rallies. With 1.2 million people inhabiting the city, it is fairly laid back and peppered with greenery, al fresco cafes. It also crawls with the obligatory NGO and diplomatic staff in cars that would cost what most Armenians would earn in a lifetime.

Lingering forlornly in the background is Mount Ararat, where Noah parked his ark, and the national symbol of Armenia. Formerly contained within its borders, the mountain is now in modern day Turkey as a result of a land grab during World War One. The ‘Young Turk’ government began a systematic genocide of the Armenian population and drove them east and abroad in fear of their lives. The new border, the river Arax, has never been open since. Turkey denies genocide, but Armenians estimate that 1.5 million perished. Relations have yet to thaw between the two countries.
Memories of the genocide clearly permeate today’s Armenia. The genocide memorial stabs into the skies over Yerevan like a thorn. Composed from a split pyramid, each side representing the east and west (the lost part) of the country‘s original area. This is flanked by 12 monolithic slabs of stone, each representing a lost Armenian province, whilst an eternal flame flickers at the heart.

Armenia is no stranger to tragedy. In 1988 it suffered an earthquake that claimed the lives of 25,000 and left half a million homeless, destroying entire towns in its wake. During the height of the Persian empire, they were also kidnapped and transported to other regions as they were renowned masons.

The heart of Christian Armenia is the small town of Echmiadzin, where in 301 the King was converted. The red cathedral is a beautiful mass of spires and domes in a walled square, lush with trees, grass and flowers. People of all ages congregate along the sides or perch on the benches to contemplate or observe the comings and goings of the church. Incense fills the inside of the cathedral, which mingles with the soft candle light and the singing of the choir to create an evocative atmosphere. Worshippers light candles in memory of loved ones or in prayer. Candles are available singly or in packs of 100 if you have been exceptionally sinful, and are placed in boxes overflowing with wax and supplication.
Geghard, another interesting church, is one of the oldest in Armenia, and is where a part of the spear that pierced Christ’s side is alleged to be housed. The public bus only travelled a part of the distance, so I had to hitch the rest of the way to the church. Putting on my most winning smile I stuck out my thumb and a minibus pulled over to let me on. I was greeted by a sea of small, eager faces - I had been recruited on a primary school excursion. None of the teachers were concerned about a disclosure, and were happy to find someone for their pupils to practise their English with. The pupils were on a history trip, and together we took in the intricate fusion of celtic and early Christian design. Highly ornamented crosses bedecked the walls, splintered by shafts of light. I spent the rest of the day bombarded with questions about who my favourite power ranger was, how many pets I had, and poignantly if I believed that the Armenian genocide happened.

Armenia has a strong history with other religions, and on the road north, there is a first century BC pagan temple. Perched on the edge of the vast Debed Canyon, Garni flouts its anachronistic classical Greek style. A former Royal summer residence, much of the original complex has been lost, but parts have been reconstructed to give an excellent impression of the original building. Held up by tall columns, which in turn are held by carvings of Atlantis, Garni still possesses parts of its original mosaics on the floor.
The Debed Canyon snakes up the northern half of Armenia to the town of Stepanovan. The last major post before leaving the country is named after the first Bolshevik in the area. Stepanovan the man was so revered that the local museum was built around where he lived, with this house as the centrepiece. I took a stroll along the top of the Canyon to a ruined fortress, flanked by two of the omnipotent stray dogs that roam the countryside. They were obviously wise to the soft tourist who would buy them tidbits from a corner shop for their companionship. Interestingly, as is common in other parts of the former USSR, puppies that will be used on farms have their ears and tails are docked. If attacked by wolves or stray dogs, these are its most vulnerable parts and could cause it to bleed to death. Dogs are guards here, as opposed to our pampered pooches.

Despite all their sufferings, the Armenians, and their dogs, are very kind, open and hospitable people trying to make their voice heard and to find their way in a post-communist world. With volatile neighbours and situated in a NATO expansionist area they need all the candles and prayers they can get.

Trans-Mongolian Railway

If you were to ask me who I thought was the Man of the Millennium, Genghis Khan would not be top of my list.
However, judging by the vast poster declaring Mr Khan to be just that on the side of the bus shelter in Ulan Bator, the Mongolian nation disagrees. The Mongolian capital was stop number one on my 5000-mile journey from Beijing to Moscow on one of the longest rail lines in the world: the Trans-Mongolian Railway.
Armed with a Russian phrase book and vitamin tablets (in the belief that I would have nothing but mutton and vodka to nourish me for the next month, I accordingly stocked up to stave off scurvy), I had ventured into the heart of the largest land empire the world has ever seen.
The immense grassy plains, known as steppes, stretched out with sandy, calloused fingers, as if trying to grasp their former kingdom that had once touched the edges of France. The gnarled digits were speckled with wild horses and camels, and the occasional ger camp (a ger being a round, sturdy tent, a key part of traditional Mongolian life: forty-three per cent of the population is nomadic).
Ulan Bator is not just the world's coldest capital but also the farthest from the ocean. Eager to sample some of the local cuisine, I asked the owner of the guest house I was staying in where I could try good Mongolian food. She thought for a moment, then replied, "I can tell you where to get good food, and where to get Mongolian food, but good Mongolian food? No." Thank God for my vitamins.
That evening I went to see some traditional theatre. The highlight was the bizarre, mesmerising throat singing. An essential part of ancient Mongolian shamanism, it sounds rather like a grasshopper playing a didgeridoo, and has to be heard to be believed.
The main draw of Mongolia is its countryside, and a few nights staying in a ger in Terelj National Park was on the cards. With images of me galloping across the wilds of Mongolia, I couldn't resist the opportunity to horse-ride. What I didn't count on was having the most disobedient horse in Asia, with a penchant for stopping in rivers just where the flow reached my knees. That evening, saddle-sore and giving up any dreams of being a cowgirl, I drowned my sorrows with fermented mare's milk.
Contrary to popular belief, it is not possible to hop on and off the TransMongolian/Siberian Railway using just one ticket. If you wish to stop, it is necessary to purchase individual tickets for each leg of the journey. Having decided that Irkutsk, Siberia, was my next call, I managed to procure a ticket using appalling Russian, and hopped on board the train. The carriages are divided into three classes: first class has two beds in each berth, second class has four beds, while if you opt for third class you are confronted with a forest of twitching feet, as beds are essentially placed where there are spaces. At the end of each carriage, regardless of class, there is an urn of boiling water so that tea and instant noodles can be consumed whenever the urge arises. Keeping a very territorial and watchful eye over events are fearsome carriage attendants known as provodnitsas. The train stops briefly at stations along the way, allowing you to purchase goods from swarms of babushkas, including, happily for my scurvy paranoia, lots of fruit.
Following a bureaucratic twelve hour wait at the Russia/Mongolia border, the train pulled into Irkutsk - the gateway to magnificent Lake Baikal. This behemoth is the world's oldest and deepest freshwater lake, holding twenty per cent of the world's freshwater supplies, and has a smattering of small islands. The largest of these, Olkhon, was a little beyond Irkutsk, and was where I headed to spend a few nights.
Olkhon's street lamps are ablaze twenty-four hours a day. Apparently they had been installed a mere two weeks, but no-one knew how to switch them off. Though the island is small, there are plenty of beaches, woods and mountains to explore. I whittled away many a day swimming in the pure, soothing waters with tiny catfish pawing my feet, before watching the sun, as if it had suddenly blushed at realising the hour, say a bashful goodnight.
When you think of Siberia, the first things that usually come to mind are barren wastes under metres of impenetrable snow and gulags and salt mines stuffed with pathetic exiles and convicts. However, passing from Irkutsk to Krasnoyarsk, my next stop, the train was greeted by shimmying Siberian pines, the occasional sparkling lake and waving children scampering around in the summer heat.
After dumping my luggage in a cheap hotel that smelled like scuffed old leather shoes, I went for a stroll around Krasnoyarsk - one of Stalin's favourite places to build prison camps. I was taken aback when a hand was placed on my shoulder and I was asked in English, "Excuse me, are you a tourist?" I turned around to find a man looking at me inquiringly.
Unsure if this was perhaps a member of the KGB about to accuse me of crimes against the state, I cautiously answered, "Yes." After a long conversation, it transpired that the man, Andre, spoke perfect English, and had a niece the same age as me called Olga, who lived in Moscow.
He insisted that he telephone her to see if I could stay with her in her flat there. She agreed, and said she would meet me at the station.
Clutching my phrase book and sincerely hoping I wasn't going to end up for sale as an internet Russian bride, I caught the train for my three-and-a-half-day journey to Moscow.
I was sharing my cabin with an older Russian couple who were so concerned about my travelling alone and my being the only foreigner on board that they decided to take me under their wing. With the help of my trusty phrase book and much gesticulation, Mishka, Vladimir (his name was not actually Vladimir, but his real, impossibly rhotic name was far too difficult for me to pronounce, so with a shrug he accepted "Vladimir" as his moniker) and I managed to have some decent "conversations"; yet my protests went unheeded in the mornings when, after rousing me with "Rootik! Rootsky!" (their terms of endearment for "Ruth"), they would drag me out of bed to force-feed me salad and pickled fish.
In Moscow, one of the most glamorous places in the world, I felt tinged with shame as I arrived in my tramp-like state to be welcomed by Olga, who thankfully did not sell me on eBay. Olga very kindly offered to show me around the capital, starting with the hub of the city: Red Square.
From the imposing walls of the Kremlin, to the stark mausoleum of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, to the psychedelic designs of St Basil's Cathedral (a mass of swirling colours commissioned by Ivan the Terrible - when the creation was finished, Ivan had the architect's eyes put out so that he could never create a building to surpass it) Red Square engulfs you with its history and infuses you with a sense of the place that Russia once was.
Traversin on the splendid Moscow Metro is a tourist attraction in itself. Each station is completely different, though most are ornate and grand, depicting Stalin's ideals for the Soviet state.
On canvas, the State Tretyakov and Pushkin museums house many of the greatest artistic designs ever created, and Olga and I spent hours perusing the impressive collections of original Rembrandts, Van Goghs and Monets.
Olga and her family very kindly invited me to stay in their home in the nearby town of Sergei Posad, named after the man who founded the monastic scene in Russia and who is now Russia's patron saint.
Olga's mother had made copious amounts of traditional borscht (beetroot soup) for us all, and because Olga's family are huge rock 'n' roll fans my week in and around Moscow was rounded off singing Beatles songs on the balalaika.
Waving goodbye to a new-found friend, St Petersburg - Peter the Great's "Window on the West" - was calling me. Knitted together by a snaking network of canals, this magnificent, flamboyant city bubbles with charisma and vibrancy. The Hermitage (the former Winter Palace), with its incredible art collection and regal interior, is undoubtedly the cultural high point of the northern capital, oozing luxury in a way that only royalty can.
Another vestige of the reign of the tsars is the Summer Palace situated in Pushkin, on the outskirts of St Petersburg. Home to Catherine the Great's Amber Room, the gleaming surfaces were called the largest piece of jewellery in the world. Looted by Nazi soldiers during World War Two, the palace has been restored to its former glory. It is now cushioned by a lush green park, and one could easily imagine Mr Darcy emerging sodden from any one of the elegant lakes.
For the final part of the train journey, I was sallying forth to Helsinki.
Exhausted, I fell asleep with my head resting on my hand. Waking up in Europe proper a few hours later with a Gorbachev-esque mark on my temple, I concluded that I was taking the "at one with the local culture" thing too far. The mark gradually faded. My memories of the TransMongolian Railway never will.

China Life

One of the most interesting things about living in rural China has been observing the cultural differences between here and Britain. The ultimate matutinal nation, the Chinese get up at 6am every day to do morning exercise, usually some kind of tai chi or basketball, and to clear out their lungs. Despite having an effective alarm clock, more often than not I am awoken to the distinctive call of the 'hawk' - a phenomena fairly widespread in China (though dying out under pressure formthe government). They typical hawk is worked up with a great force from the belly, with a deep voval accompaniment. There is then the briefest of pauses before expectoration in a somewhat disappointing speck on the dusty pavement. One can often track a male by his Hansel-and-Gretel trail left along the ground.

Of course, when most people think of China, one of the images is that of 1.3 billion people in streams of jostling bicycles. Though Xifeng is very small, and can easily be traveresed from one side to the other on foot, one can live one's life a little more on the edge if one embarks on one's 'mighty steed'. Most bikes have no gears, and sport speed modifiers as opposed to bona fide brakes, but as Xifeng is on a plateau, this does not pose much of a problem.
At a first glance the internal workings of motoring China seem chaotic, but there is some semblance of order. Pedestrians cannot walk on the pavement as this is reserved for parking bicycles, motorbikes and overflowing skips; stalls for mending shoes and making keys; and as a retreat for those who wish to squat, smoke, play mah jong and watch the world go by. It thus follows that the parallel bicycle lanes are the domains of ambling bipeds (usually accompanied by a fluffy Pekinese trotting behind) and donkeys lugging towering rickshaws of unspeakable weight behind them.
The intrepid cyclist must therefore utilise the road - the only remaining bastion of possible travel. The road ought to have an 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter' warning on it to prepare those of weak disposition for the rabble and chicanery of the traffic. Typical obstacles include intransigent green taxis, hermit crab cyclists (literally moving their house on the back of a bike, including washing machines and three-piece suites tottering on two wheels) and the loose interpretation on which side of the road to drive on. Perhaps this is why bikes tend to be occupied by at least three people. A navigator is essential on these routes. Accordingly, post-cycling odyssey, there is a sense of exhilaration when you make it to your destination unscathed.

Another peculiarity of China is the dining experience. It is traditional for the most honoured guest to be seated facing the door, and to be welcomed with firecrackers exploding at the entrance to frighted away any bad spirits. Guests also take past in one of China's national sports: speech-making. These tend to be shouted into a microphone as the audience chatters away blithely into their mobiles, assisted by China's choice of drink/window cleaner: bai jiou. The Chinese are generally laid-back about most things, but their afternoon nap is something they take very seriously. Like flocking birds, almost everyone goes home in unison for their 40 winks. This is a part of Chinese culture Britain should definitely adopt.

Thailand, Cambodia

Although the Chinese Spring Festival would seem to be a fantastic time to be in the Middle Kingdom, I had decided to flee the country for the time being. The month long celebration that kicks off with the Chinese New Year, is essentially a time for families to gather together and exchange gifts and money, rather like our Christmas. During this time China is expensive, it is difficult to get train tickets (would you want to do a 60 hour journey on a Chinese bus?), and is general chaos with millions of people jostling to go home to see loved ones. So off I went to the destination more compatible with my small VSO wage - the warmer climes of Thailand
My journey got off to a somewhat ominous start when I was tested for SARS in Xian airport after there had been a spate of outbreaks in the South-East of China. Thankfully I was given the all clear, and proceeded to Bangkok, possibly the most humid city in the world.
I headed North immediately to Chang Mai, a beautiful city resplendent with temples and surrounded by a moat and cherry blossom trees. Time being precious, I, along with two Canadians and two Italians, opted to participate in a day trip around the area which included an elephant trek, bamboo rafting and a visit to some hill tribes in the surrounding jungle. After a sojourn in the jungle on elephants, I donned my Huckleberry Finn guise and stood on a narrow raft constructed from bamboo poles, with another large pole to punt along the river. My training for this consisted of “Put your feet here”, as we swished over a gauntlet of small rapids and waterfalls. Needless to say I fell in. To my relief I noted that everyone else we encountered was in a similarly sodden state.
We then visited a Keren tribe that lived an hour outside of Chang Mai, groping through the jungle and absorbing the sounds of exotic birds and monkeys in the canopy above us. When we reached the village I felt like I was an intruder, a voyeur in some sort of human zoo. Much of their rituals and working methods were paraded before us while we took pictures. I wondered how they felt about it, recollecting that being constantly scrutinized in China because I was white sometimes irritated me. It was interesting to see though, and I admired them for their tenacity. It would be very easy to leave and head for bigger things in the city.
I decided that I couldn’t leave Thailand without having a Thai massage, so I ventured into a parlour, where a nice old woman was to be my masseuse. Well, appearances are certainly deceiving. With super human strength, she contorted my body into ways no body should be contorted into, the cracking and clicking of my bones making me feel like a human maraca. When she finished after an hour, I thanked her and hurpled on my way south to Kanchanburi – home to the infamous Death Railway and the ‘Bridge on the River Kwai’. It was a very poignant sight, particularly the appropriately named ‘Hellfire Pass’, a mountain that the Japanese has made POWs dig through using rudimentary tools in order to complete the railway line to further the speedy Japanese invasion of Asia during World War Two. There was a small museum detailing the horrors and the brutality of the Japanese. An estimated 16,000 POWs died – a life for every sleeper on the railway.
Subsequently I met up with a fellow VSO colleague, Alice, in Bangkok and we headed for the Cambodian border. On entering Cambodia we were jolted along to Battambong in a pick up truck with 31 people, including 2 balanced precariously on the cab roof. The roads in Cambodia are notoriously bad because of heavy US bombing during the Vietnam War - an effort designed to cut supplies to the North Vietnamese (the Vietcong). Due to extreme poverty and the tyranny of the Khmer Rouge, the roads have never been fully repaired, though work has been undertaken to remedy this. Alice had previously visited Cambodia in 1999, and was amazed at how much the roads had improved.
Cambodia is heartbreakingly poor, with landmine victims on almost every street corner, and children as young as four begging with their younger sibling strapped to their back. Often the only English they spoke was “postcard”, ”water”, and “dollar”, as they tried to sell tourists nicnacs, or more commonly, as Cambodia used to be a French colony, a pitiful “madame, madame, madame”, while pointing to their mouth.
Battambong has a substantial Chinese population, so we celebrated Chinese New Year there with the traditional arsenal of fireworks. Battambong is a pretty town, and we took a motorbike along the dusty trails around the surrounding villages en route to a monastery, where a young monk, eager to practice his fledgling English, showed us around. Small triangular pieces of material from the clothing from each person who died in the area during the regime of Pol Pot were hung like bunting around the monastery. It was very moving, as bunting is something one associates with joy, not with the devastation that these ‘flags’ represented.
We ventured on to the capital of Phnom Penh to see S21 – the notorious Khmer Rouge prison camp where so-called dissidents of the state were tortured and interrogated. It was a former school, and it is thought 10,499 people were interred here, though this does not include children (the number thought to be 2000). Following on from this we went out to the infamous “Killing Fields” - mass graves where victims were buried. In the center of the field was a large monument filled with the skulls of the men, women and children whose remains had been found in the pits, stacked in a 30ft high tower. All in all it made for a harrowing experience, and served as a reminder of the horrors that humanity is capable of.
Avoiding the spine shattering roads we took a boat up to Siem Reap to see the magnificent Angkor Wat, a temple complex built by the riches and vanity of the former Khmer rulers. It had been left to ruin in the 1500s, it is thought, and rediscovered in the late 19th century. This meant there were some spectacular sights where tree and temple had become as one. The two days there ended with watching the beautiful sunset over the complex atop a hill temple. The ancient site was spoiled however, by the availability of a helicopter or hot air balloon ride over the temples. Not only was this an appalling example of intrusive capitalism, but they cause physical damage to the temples - important symbols of Cambodian history.
In fact during our time in Cambodia, Alice commented that she was surprised and sad to see how much it had changed since she had been there, but she was pleased to see people prospering.
Bidding farewell to an amazing country, we headed back to China - our destination Kunming, the capital of Yunnan province in the South of China. Stopping briefly in Kunming, we paid a visit to the bird and flower market where one can buy anything and everything; and the conditions fauna are kept in would be enough to send an RSPCA inspector apoplectic.
Continuing North to Lijiang, easily the most beautiful place I have seen in China, we basked in the beauty of the goldfish-filled rivers and the strong Tibetan culture. We were fortunate to be able to witness part of the Spring Festival, a dragon parade, where a large dragon is paraded through the streets chasing a red ball (red is lucky in China), bringing luck to all the buildings it passes.
Feeling a little adventurous, a trek through Tiger Leaping Gorge, one of the deepest gorges in the world, was called for. Legend has it that a gigantic tiger leapt from one side of the gorge to another, hence the name. It was a very rewarding two-day affair through stunning mountains and encounters with local goatherds who still roam there.
Back in Lijiang, having just finished the trek, dusty and bedraggled, I decided to eat before I went back my accommodation and cleaned myself up. I was eating in a café, when the former Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien walked in with a Chinese entourage. He spoke to me briefly, asking me where I was from and why I was in China, during which I was filmed by cameras. For my moment of Chinese fame I really was a bona fide ‘Dirty Weeker’.
After an action packed few weeks it was time to take the 42 hour journey back to Xifeng and to teaching 300 students, giving me time to mull over my travels. It is all too easy to criticize the homogeneity that unfettered capitalism promotes, after seeing parts of the world where it has touched them profoundly in the last few years. English is widely spoken in Thailand, and many parts of that country are lifted directly from the West, including areas specifically catering to the British party culture that ,until recently, was unheard of in Asia. The American dollar is as acceptable in Cambodia as the Riel, as it is in Vietnam. Traditions that were once sacred, although still respected, now pander to the tourism industry, and seem lacking in the potency they once held for indigenous people. My journey in South-East Asia has opened my eyes to globalisation - it truly is a double-edged sword. China itself is slowly opening up to the free market, doing so in a controlled manner, but it has the economic and political clout to be able to withstand the pressure from actors such as the American Government, the G7, the IMF and the World Bank to implement capitalism quickly under rigid conditions. Weaker countries such as Cambodia do not have this power to say “No”, and this may prove devastating. However globalisation has lifted many of these people out of abject poverty, and though poverty is relative, things have definitely improved. Though this provides us with more user-friendly, exciting holiday destinations, the question is: is it worth the cost to the indigenous people of these countries and their lives?

HIV/AIDS Peer Education, China

December the First is World AIDS Day and Xifeng is being painted red. Not by communists or drunken revellers, but by HIV ribbons and awareness posters.
From 2005 the Chinese Ministry of Education will require that all college and secondary school students receive basic sex and HIV and AIDS education. To compliment this, part of Voluntary Services Overseas’ strategy for China is to combat HIV and AIDS though integrating it into our lessons and though peer education. Our aim is to equip students with some skills to teach this topic for when they go on to become middle and primary school teachers, and remove some of the taboo and fear surrounding it. This is crucial when you consider that there is an estimated forty million people with HIV and AIDS world wide (China alone potentially having ten million by 2010), and nine out of ten unaware that they have it. Fifteen thousand people a day are added to this tally – almost twice the population of Wick.
Spearheading VSO’s peer education initiative is the ‘Dandelion Project’. I am fortunate enough to be involved in this and attended a conference last May in Beijing to learn about it. Two of my students, Wu Ling and Lei Teng Fei also attended. The ‘Dandelion Project’ is so-called because the image of the dandelion represents the students involved in the peer education. The essential premise is that students are trained how to raise awareness about HIV and AIDS and will then spread the ‘seed’ of knowledge among their peers. By using Chinese students, the project is made more sustainable, less pedagogical (therefore less daunting), and as the lessons are in Chinese, facilitates a greater understanding of the issues around HIV.
Knowing how to protect oneself from HIV is one thing, but one of the greatest challenges to a person living with HIV or AIDS is the way that other people treat them. A key focus of the ‘Dandelion Project’ is to de-stigmatise those with HIV and AIDS. Prime Minister Wen Jia Bao recently highlighted this when he visited an HIV and AIDS clinic in China and shook hands with a patient. Additionally the Chinese Government is considering the idea of allowing HIV carriers (although not AIDS patients) to be appointed to civil service positions.
When we returned to Xifeng after the journey to Beijing, Wu Ling, Lei Teng Fei and myself trained an additional eight students (four boys and four girls) to assist us in our project. Zhang Hui, one of the ten peer educators said, “I wanted to take part in this project to help people who have HIV and AIDS. I feel it is important in my life to inform my friends and family about how to protect themselves.”
Each weekend we involve two classes, which we divide in to groups of two (altogether four groups). Each group is taught by a male and a female peer educator to encourage co-operation of the genders and show that men and women can work together to prevent HIV. So far the project has met with great success. The peer educators are doing a fantastic job and I am very proud of them. We hope to extend it to other departments in the College next term, as well as possibly to middle schools.
Education is the ultimate way of preventing the spread of HIV. Though methods of transmission, for example unprotected sex, is a taboo subject, it is essential to discuss them. Many international organizations and governments refuse to promote knowledge about contraception, but the fact is that many people, particularly women in the less developed world, have little choice about their sexual activities. Indeed gender inequality is at the heart of the HIV epidemic in developing countries. Women need to be empowered to assert their rights and negotiate relationships, and men need to be aware that this is acceptable.
If people know how to protect themselves, HIV can be stopped. Young people are the future. Working with them to give them the skills and knowledge for a healthy and happy life is imperative in the battle against the HIV pandemic. The UN Global Fund to fight AIDS hoped to raise ten billion US Dollars a year to do this, yet since June 2001 only three point two billion in total has been pledged by world governments. Apathy and denial are as big a threat as HIV itself.

Wedding, Kyrgyrzstan

We're always told that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. International experts have long recommended at least one portion of fruit, a slow-burning carbohydrate, a little protein and water to kick start the body. This particular morning my bleary eyes flitted between the three shots of vodka lined up before me, and the eager faces of the rest of the wedding party who had arisen from their comas induced by the night before. Remembering that other piece of advice, “Hair of the Dog”, my liver accepted it's fate to disintegrate into foie gras. Vitamins would just have to wait.
My friend Neil, who was visiting from the UK, and I were experiencing the day after the wedding ceremony of Umyt and Maksat (Maksat being the brother of my good friend Asel, who also works in the London School) in the small village of Kemin, a few hours outside of Bishkek. The ceremony was the culmination of festivities that lasted for one month and ran into thousands of dollars and dozens of slaughtered sheep to celebrate the beginning of a new life together for the young couple (However Central Asia also has a history of bride kidnapping - a practice that is thankfully dying out). Usually the bride moves into the family home, and over the course of the month they receive many guests bringing gifts and wishes for the future. The bride’s parents present her with a large chest of clothes and household goods, such as furniture, as a kind of ‘dowry’.
The ceremony itself was a fairly simple ritual. The invited guests gathered in the drive of the family house around the bridal car, which was adorned with balloons, streamers and a plastic wedding couple. The eldest member of the family - an nonagenarian - gave her blessing and said a prayer. She finished the ritual with the “amin”, a gesture widely used in Central Asia to “give thanks to God”, involving holding the palms out to the skies then passing the hands together over the face. After her solemn words, Maksat’s father also gave his blessing, before the happy couple and their friends packed into three cars to drive around and take photos around Kemin.
The first stop was the holy spring, so that everyone could sup in the goodness and purity before balancing it out with champagne and vodka. The wedding party gathered around the spring, and Maksat introduced everyone and toasted his new wife, before we proceeded to a memorial statue for Kyrgyz killed in the Bolshevik Revolution. Several refugees had fled across the treacherous mountain border to China seeking sanctuary from the Soviets, but alas they were not welcomed and many perished there too. In keeping with wedding traditions, the couple laid some flowers at the feet of the poignant, huddled family depicted in stone.
The final stop was a rather pretty forest with a small river running through it. The champagne continued to flow, as did the toasts. Suddenly it was decided that it would be a great idea to shoot a mini Bollywood film, so the car radios were turned to “blaring”, and the men jokingly danced through the trees towards Umyt, who was trying desperately not to laugh.
A million photographs later we arrived at the hotel for the reception. It was filled with, I suspect, the entire populous, including an ex-prime minister and two famous Kyrgyz singers. Every table was groaning with fruit, alcohol, bread and all manner of salads. Everyone stood up to welcome Maksat and Umyt as they entered the hall. They bowed to both sets of parents to show their respect, signed the register, then sat down at the top table.
During the course of the evening a variety of soups, meats, and traditional Kyrgyz dishes were served, along with an alarming number of vodka shots and toasts. This was interspersed with speeches from each table, who collectively went up to present their gifts to the newly-weds. Inevitably Neil and I had to face the microphone. I attempted the not so easy task of standing straight (my joints being rather well oiled by this stage), speaking in Russian and trying to calm my rouging face at the same time. I stuttered my thanks and best wishes and thrust the microphone into Neil’s hand. He gave a brief speech in English, and everyone politely listened and smiled approvingly at the exotic language hitting their ears, before we scurried back to our table. As a kind of wedding favour, I was presented with a book on the “Kyrgyz Steven Segal”, whilst Neil received a kalpak, the traditional Kyrgyz hat.
The subsequent cutting of the beautiful cake adorned with nuzzling swans was followed by enthusiastic dancing to a bizarre mix of new and traditional music. Needless to say my brain was operating on soft focus by this stage, and the end of the evening remains a blur.
And so I found myself of a delicate disposition on that Sunday morning continuing the liquid diet. The second day of the wedding is traditionally the day when the bride’s family visit the groom’s home to eat, drink and be merry. They started to arrive in the early afternoon, and I heaved a great sigh of relief as I saw that the majority of them were well over sixty. Perhaps I wouldn’t end up as a Damien Hurst exhibit after all. How wrong I was.
Neil and I mingled with the guests all day, and were inevitably plied with food and drink at regular intervals. Guests included one eighty year old woman who declared she never drank while necking several shots of vodka whenever the occasion arose, and a man slumped on a chair whose wife insisted he was “not drunk but ill”. The eau de vodka he was wearing seemed to contradict this, but we nodded with understanding anyway.
As evening began to fall, the whole congregation gathered around a large table laden with yet more food. The “ill” man was crowd surfed along till he reached a space where he could be propped against a wall. There was the usual toasts and gorging ourselves till we resembled satiated walruses lounging on a beach. My wedding gift to Maksat and Umyt had been a bottle of Old Poultney that I had brought with me in case such an event arose. Half way through the evening, it was used to wish everyone prosperity and happiness. Thinking of the motherland, my heart swelled with emotion and in my drunken pride I announced a toast to world peace and unity among all peoples. Everyone raised their glasses in agreement, and smiled pleasantly at the warmth that flowed from the whisky gliding down their throats.
The woman who “never touched a drop” suddenly announced that it was vital to dance outside to a loud selection of Russian pop music. We all stumbled out into the garden in the drizzling rain and boogied like there was no tomorrow. But if tomorrow did come we were prepared - there was more than enough vodka for breakfast.

Laos, Vietnam, Southern China

Slurping my noodle soup from the bowl, I became aware that no one else was guzzling their food in the same fashion, choosing to use the provided spoons instead. Perhaps I was making a social faux pas? Don’t they eat like this in Laos? Living in rural China certainly does not help one’s table manners. I decided to use the spoon.
I was in Luang Prabang for my holidays - the second biggest city in the tiny country of Laos. Though not as developed as its neighbour Vietnam, investment and infrastructure are slowly seeping into this sleepy backwater. It was the perfect antidote after a hectic end of term when the nerves of teacher and student alike are frayed. I had come to Luang Prabang after a couple of days in the capital Vientiane, and in the backpacker haven of Vang Vien (The main lure of Vang Vien being ‘tubing’, where you float down river in a rubber ring beside fellow troubadours while supping on a cool beer. As you drift, there are a few siren-like locals who entice you with their sweet words of, “Beer Lao Beer Lao Beer Lao”. Should you succumb, they ‘fish’ you over to the side with a bamboo pole, and replenish your beverage.).
Luang Prabang is the perfect place to meander, admire the winding Mekong and indulge in the local poison: Lao Lao whisky. Traditionally, it is served from a jar with snakes perched inside, and, if you are lucky, a few choice spiders and lizards. The locals claim it is very good for you, particularly for the libido. I suspect, however, that it will make you blind rather than being a miracle aphrodisiac.
Phonsavan is a day’s bus journey away from Luang Prabang, and is home to the mysterious ‘Plain of Jars’. These are giant, ancient relics that are thought to be burial urns from thousands of years ago. Incredibly, the majority of the hundreds of jars remain unscathed. Laos has the distinction, albeit rather dubious, of being the most bombed country on Earth (1.1 million tones of explosives were dropped on between 1965 and 1969). During the Vietnam War, both the CIA and the North Vietnamese flouted the 1962 Geneva Agreement that stipulated Laos was neutral territory. The CIA launched a brutal and indiscriminate carpet bombing campaign in an attempt to destroy the ‘Ho Chi Minh Trail’ in eastern Laos that the North Vietnamese communists used for supplies. My guide was a young boy when he and his family were forced to flee Phonsavan for the safety of Vientiane. When they returned there was, “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The Agent Orange had killed all the trees and plants, and the bombs had destroyed all the houses”. Indeed the unexploded ordnance used still poses a real threat to the large population of farmers tending their land and to playing children, with devastating results. In fact a bomb had been removed from one of the jar sites just the day before I went there. The government has launched a massive campaign to raise awareness about bomb safety and to train locals how to detonate them. Today the land is still deeply pockmarked, and in some areas the flora is sparse, but the scars of Laos and her people seem to be healing slowly.
I proceeded to neighbouring Vietnam, where Hanoi was resplendent in red flags commemorating 75 years of communism under the stewardship of ‘Uncle’ Ho Chi Minh, as well as the upcoming Vietnamese new year, ‘Tet’. Exhausted, I decided to splash out on a single room instead of a dormitory, with the luxury of a television. I switched it on and was presented with pictures of a scrum of sweaty puffing men in a street. I had a feeling I had seen this place before, and realized it was a documentary on ‘The Ba’ in Orkney. Gob smacked, I reminisced for a bit before heading into another scrum outside – the motorbikes of Hanoi.
The motorbikes resemble swarms of livid bees buzzing around, seemingly determined to bring anyone within a metre of them to the verge of a heart attack. Crossing a Vietnamese road is an art form that I never quite perfected, and I take my hat off to those who can casually stroll to the other side of the street while dodging hundreds of speeding bikes aiming for you from all directions.
The main attraction of Hanoi is the bustling old quarter. Full of architectural wonder and a million interesting shops, temples and snack stalls tucked away in every corner, it is the epitome of classic Vietnam. Despite possessing a map, I was perpetually lost, with even a trip to buy fruit taking an hour as I hopelessly wandered around the deceptive labyrinthine streets.
I went on a three day boat trip around the Vietnamese coastal area of Halong Bay with its 3000 islands piercing the glassy Gulf of Tonkin. ‘Halong’ is derived from the Chinese for, ‘where the dragon descended into the sea’, on account of a legend that says the craggy karst peaks were created by a dragon with his thrashing tail. Although it was drizzling and bitterly cold, the bay was stunning. After a year and a half of not seeing the ocean, it was fantastic to get the chance to kayak in the azure waters and flit in and out of caves, arches and beaches.
I also visited the Northern minority tribe area, Sapa, well known for its rice terraces and techno-coloured markets. The ridged terraces ran along the hills and mountains as far as the eye could see. Though not harvesting season, it was easy to imagine the backbreaking work that the farmers endured during the summer months. I attended one of the local markets – a throng of minorities haggling and vending in their long pleated hair and stunning scarves and dresses. It is possible to distinguish the minorities by the colours and styles that they wear. I was not very successful in my observations, as I was being beaten up and thrown aside by determined old women making their way to somewhere important; and gasping at the dog carcasses doomed to be dinner and the raucous cock fights.
Feeling it was time to head back into more familiar territory, I went north into China, through Guangxi province to the Paris of the East: Shanghai. It is a truly dynamic place pinned down by the gigantic Pearl and Jin Mao buildings on the Bund. It is unlike anywhere else in China - even Beijing. Glittering and groaning with decadence, luxury and liberalism, it resembles Europe more than Asia. It is not hard to believe that this city is one of the steaming engines behind China’s surging economy. Entranced by the abundance of neon lights and foreigners, I couldn’t resist hitting the tiles before I headed back to my sedate life in Gansu Province. With the chosen venue full of inhabitants who looked like they belonged on a Star Wars set and a smattering of classics by The Village People and Kylie, my holiday was rounded off nicely.
Arriving back in Xifeng after gruelling train and bus journeys across China, it was eerily quiet as most people had gone back home to the countryside for the Spring Festival. The town was sprinkled with red lanterns signalling the end of the holiday, the occasional firecracker wielding child and a sky aglow with fireworks. The next day, as the population returned to begin work in the year of the rooster, there was a parade through the town centre. Strangely similar to the Gala Week parade (though sans the plethora of coppers and air perfumed with vodka breath), the main features were Chinese opera artists and innumerable dragons, dancing and pirouetting to the beat of huge drums to bring good luck and prosperity to everyone. I hope it works.

Kyrgyzstan - The Deep South

They say that a week is a long time in politics, but I am inclined to believe that it is even longer in Kyrgyzstan. This was especially true of my week-long holiday spent traversing around the Southern part of the country with Kelly (who hails from Texas), a fellow teacher from the London School in Bishkek.
We bundled ourselves into the shared taxi on a dreich Saturday morning for the twelve hour game of chicken that was the road to Osh - Kyrgyzstan’s second biggest city. En route we stopped for a bite to eat in a small lake-side restaurant. Being vegetarian, I opted for the only non-meat option of fried eggs. After struggling somewhat with using the single fork that had been provided to hack up my heart attack on a plate, I requested a knife. The proprietor obliged me by giving a bloody cleaver a quick wipe on a rag and handing it to me. Not quite silver service, but close enough.
Eventually arriving in Osh, we discovered that there was no water in the entire city. Our hotel assured us that the water would return by the evening, and offered the puzzling explanation that every time it rains the government turns off the water to prevent flooding. Too tired to question, we repaired to our beds in order to get an early start the next day.
One of the oldest cities in Central Asia, Osh is thought to have been founded by King Solomon, hence the name of the great crag protruding from the city’s heart: Sulayman Mountain. We clambered to the summit where it is said the Prophet Mohammed once prayed, and took in the clear views of the city, the sun glinting off the occasional mosque and Orthodox church. Osh is also known as the home of the traditional kalpak – the slightly comical felt hat that instantly transforms one into a garden gnome, and is sported by older generations of Kyrgyz men. Accordingly we stocked up, not only to do our part for the local economy, but also to mask our increasingly dishevelled appearance.
On returning to our hotel, we asked if the water was back on. The rebarbative middle-aged attendant with hennaed hair grunted, “Nyet”. Did they have anywhere we could go to use the toilet? Pouting her head towards a door, she barked, “The foreigners want a toilet!” Promptly, two minions came scurrying out with large pails of river water in their hands, and escorted us to the rather malodorous facilities.
Later that evening, feeling very cold, we requested more blankets to supplement the paltry bed clothes we had been given. Despite being practically the only residents in the hotel, the attendant stubbornly refused to part with any sheets as “other guests might need them”. Wearing all our clothes in our rickety wooden beds and resembling homeless tramps huddled on benches, Kelly and I decided that it was time to move on.
Taking a shared taxi (the easiest method of transport in a land lacking in tarmac and timetables) north to Jalalabad the next morning, we were chauffeured by a man with a full set of gold teeth, and by all appearances, an appetite to match. He quizzed us non-stop the full two and a half hours it took to reach Jalalabad, with oddities like, “Do you have mushrooms in Scotland?” “Do you like watching cows?” He did not hesitate to tell Kelly that at twenty nine she was far too old for marriage, but that he would happily take her on. However, in order to be a good Kyrgyz wife, she must behave, or he would beat her with a horsewhip. When Kelly replied that actually she would beat him with it, he shook his head forlornly and mumbled that the marriage could never work. We made our getaway as quickly as we could.
Jalalabad was also sans basic sanitation, but it is known for its natural hot springs, which potentially offered salvation from our tramp-like state. At the spa the matronly woman on duty informed us that there were no towels or soap and shoved us into a room with baths partitioned off from each other. She pointed me towards a large tub slowly filling up with steaming water. Unsure quite what I should be doing, and afraid that if I took off my clothes I might be arrested for indecency, I shouted over the partition to Kelly, “Are you taking your clothes off?” “I’m already in!” was the response. Dutifully I slipped in and wondered at how much dirt one could accumulate whilst on the road. Post-soak we had the dilemma of nothing to dry ourselves off with. Luckily I had brought our supply of toilet paper, and after co-ordinating our movements by ducking round walls and open doors, I managed to give half of the sandpaper-esque roll to Kelly. It was not the most effective system of drying I have ever used, but it did offer some exfoliation as an added bonus.
After a few days strolling around the bazaars and parks, we felt the desire to go explore the snow-covered peaks that cradle the South of Kyrgyzstan. Despite the sound of its name, Arslanbob is a pretty mountain village right on the Uzbekistan border and home to some of the largest fruit and nut trees in the world. We were able to stay with a young family, who fed us and showed us around the area as part of the fledgling ‘community based tourism’ movement. Misha, the head of the family, arranged for us to go horse trekking along the small yet powerful river that gushed through the village. The flow was fuelled by two beautiful waterfalls, each adorned with cloth ‘wishes’ and ‘prayers’ from hopeful visitors. It was tempting to try to have a proper wash in them, but our horses continually bickered and couldn’t be left alone for fear that they would nip each other to death.
Misha then took us to visit his grandparents. His grandfather was one hundred years old and his grandmother eighty-six. He was husband number three for her, having been horrendously abused by the previously two unsuitable matches her parents chose for her. A rather sweet couple, the grandmother looked constantly startled with her large jam jar glasses tied on with a piece of string, and they both had a penchant for dropping off during conversation. It was hard to reconcile them with the image of the story that they told. Misha’s grandfather had been sent to Berlin during the Second World War and served there for five years. While he was at the Front battling Nazis and avoiding Stalinist purges, Misha’s grandmother raised nineteen children alone. Six of her children had died, but her sister had also passed away leaving progeny, and she had taken them on as her own. After the end of the war, they continued with the farm, eking out a living from it, which they continue to do today with the help of their family. We left Arslanbob feeling a little humble, and ready to head back to Bishkek.
Our rickety old bus was held together by rust and dirt, and looked like Fred Flintstone should be at the helm. Rather pleased we had managed to secure the spacious back seats, we were joined by a one-eyed vagrant who plonked himself down beside us. Alas the already stifling air was made even more oppressive as he muttered constantly, breathing fumes that ought to have been declared a weapon of mass destruction. A few hours into the journey, just as we were wishing we had brought our chloroform with us, our bus spluttered to a standstill. Still some distance from the nearest town, we heaved a big sigh and squatted in resignation at the side of the road. We watched as the other passengers yelled and screamed at the two bus drivers, who seemed to have no idea how an engine worked. Giving up any hope of vehicular assistance, we were all about to attempt the long slog home, when help came in the most unexpected form. A bus full of Muslim imams pulled up and offered us a lift all the way to Bishkek. Alas, the only space they had for us was in a small ‘roof rack’ on the inside of the car. After scrambling up into it in a rather ungainly way, we were able to lie across it in relative comfort, noses not quite scraping off the top. We stopped several times so that the imams could do their ritual ablutions, and they insisted that they were not allowed to see us: we had to we had to wait for them to get out of the bus before we could come down from the roof rack and go up before they came back. Whether this was because we offended their beliefs or nostrils, I will never know.
Nine hours later we were dropped off outside our home at 3.30 am in the pouring rain. After a hot shower I stretched out wearily in bed, appreciative I didn't have to share with baggage.

Lake Son-Kol, Kyrgyzstan

Life in Bishkek is not exactly akin to a rat race, but sometimes one is gripped by rodent-like feelings and an overwhelming urge to escape to the sanctuary of the surrounding lakes and mountains. Hence I found myself trundling along the bumpy road to Son Kol, a pristine Alpine lake situated to the south of the Kyrgyz capital. Hailed as a jewel in Central Asia’s mysterious crown and famed for its rich jailoos, or pastures, it is used as a summer camp for both nomads and London School teachers alike (an international quartet of Kelly and Brett from America and Matt and I from Britain). My reverie of galloping across vast plains and rounding up stray quadrupeds was interrupted as our bus came scraping to a stop. Everyone scrambled out to investigate exactly which vital part had dropped off, and we were greeted with the mangled remains of a rear tyre. Lacking a jack, but fortunately not a spare, the men folk had to attempt their best Jean Val Jean impression and hoist the vehicle as high as they could so that the wheel could be replaced. The female contingent, namely Kelly and I, supervised.
Eventually, after all the activity that would make a chiropractor weep, we rolled into Kochkor, the nearest town to remote Son Kol. We immediately headed for the large blue “Community Based Tourism” sign that stood out like an oasis in the dusty brown street, hoping to find their representative. This popular grass roots scheme arranges for travellers to stay with local families in traditional Kyrgyz yurts, or tents, with most of the profit going to the relatively impoverished hosts. The representative was basking in the rays outside the office, and after confirming our reservation, she pointed us towards a sturdy-looking jeep that would, tyres withstanding, take us to a little piece of heaven 3,013 metres high on Earth.
A few hours later as our jeep slowly clambered over the rolling hills, the glinting surface of Son Kol grew bigger and bigger until we found ourselves confronted with an expanse of strikingly blue water that looked as if it was being cradled by the craggy limbs of the protective mountains. The jeep grumbled to a halt outside a pair of yurts, and our hostess came out to greet us with a babe in arms and another child shyly clinging to her legs. She showed us to the larger of the two yurts and went to prepare a light supper for us, while some men materialized from nowhere to construct a pit latrine. Taking off our shoes, we stepped through the heavy felt door of the conical yurt (which always faces east) and gazed at the neat trellis of wooden poles that supported the white structure. The floor was covered in bright and intricately patterned rugs called shyrdaks that were illuminated by shards of light that shot through from the tunduk. A circular frame at the top of the yurt from which smoke escapes, the tunduk is so intrinsic to Kyrgyz culture that it is the centre-piece on the national flag. Indeed the highly portable yurt was at the crux of Kyrgyz life for thousands of years until the forced settlement of communities by the Soviet monolith, and still evokes nostalgia in the hearts of the population today.
After a leisurely cup of afternoon tea accompanied by thick, crusty bread smothered in cream and a selection of homemade jams worthy of The Savoy, we went for a stroll along the calm shores of the lake. Unbelievably quiet, the only movements were the waves gently slopping on the sand, the occasional bird twittering anxiously and flitting among the reeds as we walked past its nest, or hovering stealthily above the waters, selecting the most succulent catch from the writhing shoal. Even the distant yurts blended in perfectly with the landscape, resembling squatting clouds mulling over the day’s events. A small family cantered past us, the youngest boy clutching a twitching, glistening prized fish. His ruddy face beamed with pride as he tottered after the soft footsteps of his father’s horse.
Returning to our yurt our hostess nodded towards the dozens of horses scattered gracefully over the pasture and asked if we would like to, “eat one”. I politely declined, declaring myself to be vegetarian. I couldn’t understand why she looked so puzzled until Kelly pointed out that I had overestimated my Russian abilities and that she had actually said, “ride one”. I immediately resolved that my Russian dictionary would be my bedtime reading.
Dinner was a large bowl of steaming noodles, without a hint of equine, which we ate sitting on the floor around the small table in the middle of the yurt. As a digestif we were offered a drink of traditional Koumys – fermented mare’s milk. Legendary for challenging the stomach, I tried a little before deciding it was not really for me, and I would stick to tea. Matt however necked two cups. I feared for him, and our latrine.
Without any warning, the mountainous air suddenly turned bitterly cold and enveloped our foolishly t-shirt clad bodies. To get warm, we made up the beds on the floor, ensuring we had at least six blankets each to huddle under, rather like princesses without peas.
With chattering teeth we took in the beauty of the sunset that cast soothing pastels across the wide plain. It touched the tops of the yurts and the backs of the slumbering horses with a soft light, and transformed the lake into the colour of thick blue paint that would eventually shade the sky too.
We put out the gas lamp and settled into sleep. Or tried to. Our driver decided to practice his DJing skills with Russian pop using the car stereo for an hour. Finally, hardly able to move under the weight of all the quilts, I drifted off trying to remember the exact final words of Captain Oates, should I need to use them.
I woke up in the morning speckled with beads of sweat thinking that perhaps I had been excessive in my frostbite paranoia. We guzzled breakfast and sat by the water’s edge, skimming stones across the crinkled surface for a while, before being summoned to our jeep. We were rather far from Bishkek, and to avoid being stranded (as had happened to Kelly and I on a previous venture and had to hitch back) in the middle of nowhere we had to leave early to catch the bus. Thanking our hostess, we clambered into the car and staggered off along the slopes towards the twisting and ragged road that led north. Several times we inched our way through clusters of shepherds urging their livestock ever forwards: camels, goats, sheep, horses, cows – and teachers – all plodding on to pastures new.

India

THE rickshaw zigzagged deftly through the swarming, pulsating throng that passed for traffic in Delhi.
Two lanes were marked, but there were definitely 4.5 rows of cars, rickshaws, motorbikes, taxis, cattle and pedestrians blaring horns, throwing up dust and jostling for supremacy.
For one who has convulsions when she hits the Longman roundabout, it was rather disconcerting. However, my rickshaw, like most others, had a shoe tied to it acting as a talisman to ward off the "evil eye". All would be well.
Of course there are a lot of preconceived notions about India, but nothing ever really prepares you for what comes ahead. One of the first things to strike you about the former jewel in the Empire's crown is that it is truly a land of contrasts, however clichéd that may seem. The smog-smothered streets are punctuated with luxury buildings and cars: bold markers declaring the wealth and success that is spreading here, and of a behemoth seeking its rightful position in the world.
Life constantly mills around these status symbols. In the morning you are woken up by the soft batting of cricketers completing runs around the bovine spectators, as armies of workers (often those who have moved to the city from desperately poor provinces) make their way to their place of employment. Women flit through the dirty brown streets like birds of paradise in their vibrant saris to clean houses or cars, while men carry Herculean weights of goods to be sold at market. Or maybe to work in one of the countless textile factories crammed into every available space in the city. Each nimbly avoids the numerous filthy bundles at the roadsides which suddenly reveal themselves as a homeless family, a fattened, slumbering stray dog or a pile of refuse proving irresistible to a cow.
Though there seems to be a never-ending supply of menial tasks to keep people in employment, in a country of 1.1 billion it has not prevented the lowest castes from falling into the Stygian hell that is beggardom. There is truly nothing more heart-wrenching on this Earth than to have a bedraggled two-year-old child pathetically tap your foot in want of a banana, or a hunched old woman desperate for few pounds that would shelter and feed her for several months, or to see a man with his fly-infested leg slung over his shoulder drag himself though the streets. The poor are with us always, but they seem to be particularly omnipresent in India. It occurred to me, as I watched part of Delhi's old city wall being restored by extremely poor labourers carrying huge chunks of brick on their heads, that all the magnificent buildings I planned to see had literally been built on the backs of the poor. India's architecture is certainly a testament to creativity and ingenuity, but at a poignant human price.
Still, the Taj Mahal in Agra was utterly astounding. A memorial to Mumtaz Mahal, Shah Jahan's second wife, who died in childbirth, it was just breathtaking. In typical Mughal style, it is surrounded by geometric bodies of water alongside lush green lawns that lead up to the legendary marble dome. The four pillars that flank it are imperceptibly tilted out so that if there is an earthquake they will collapse on unsuspecting tourists, rather on than the attraction itself.
The other reason people go to Agra is to see the rather opulent Fatehpur Sikri. This was a planned city built during the 16th century by the wily Emperor Akbar, who had three official wives: one Hindu, one Christian and one Muslim (and hundreds more concubines). The partial ruin contains an enormous functioning mosque, incredibly intricate and well-preserved artwork, and an escape tunnel to Lahore. However, although the king may have been thinking about the afterlife, he forgot about the here and now, and built his town on a dry area. Not long after the entourage had settled there they had to leave because the water supply ran out. Perhaps Buddha had been peeved at the snubbing of his faith.

Ruth has a go at riding a rickshaw in Agra.
One of the most interesting places that I saw in Delhi was Chandni Chowk. You step off the new pristine metro and find yourself catapulted into meandering streets full of spices, clothes, beautiful buildings, hidden temples, shrines, orange garlands and the lingering scent of incense. The food served along the way in tiny restaurants and kiosks looked and smelled fantastic, but the family who were showing me around (and with whom I stayed) insisted that I shouldn't eat, "That... that... that... that... that... that or that." A little dejected, I also didn't want Delhi belly, but what I did eat was rich in flavour and texture, and cooked to perfection. It was also a vegetarian's paradise, with a vast array of dishes to choose from, though as an egg-eater (the theory being that eggs give life) I was not considered as bona fide.
MUCH more glamorous and affluent, and only a bit less effluent, the Bollywood capital of Mumbai is one of the fastest-growing cities in the world. The best way to get around Mumbai is to use the local trains. These are divided into men's and women's compartments (a few men have a penchant for groping in crowds) and are utter chaos at peak times. It is no wonder that yoga originated in India, as you see people hanging out of the train doors, clinging on for dear life, or lounging on the roof. This costs one or two lives daily, but no-one takes heed of the warning signs. Rather foolishly I had thought that the women's compartment would be somewhat civilised for travelling – but, as I found myself slowly becoming part of the wall with my face in a variety of armpits, I was proved wrong.
Of course, we went to see the obligatory Bollywood film. Bollywood is one of the most popular film industries in the world, and is mostly light-hearted, surreal fun with Eurovision-style songs sprinkled liberally throughout. Having been advised on a film to watch, I entered the cinema and took my rather wobbly seat, cheese-flavoured popcorn in hand. The screen flashed: Stand up for the National Anthem. Was this a trailer? No. I stood up, hands on my heart, contemplating with the rest of the audience what the nation had had to do for independence. The film was set in London, and was about five hours long. There was the usual "one moment on the Tube being shot at by gangsters, the next moment dancing around Trafalgar Square with flowers singing love songs at incredibly high pitches", but I thought that actually it wasn't too far-fetched for a typical Saturday night out in the capital.
India is famed for its national parks too, so in order to get some tranquillity and a wee bit of karma I went to the Bharatphur nature reserve, near Jaipur in the north. After two weeks of the constant barrage of noise and humans and dirt, the silence and cleanliness was a bit discomfiting. Hiring a bike and cycling around the park for a couple of days whilst keeping eyes peeled for exotic birds (alas no scorries pass through here on migratory routes) and animals was the ultimate way to end this mere dipping of a toe into this unique land.
It is no wonder that India has always held so much fascination for so many. The sheer assault on the senses is both repelling yet incredibly tempting. As the global spotlight focuses on Asia, this is a siren whose song will lure many more.

Uzbekistan

I PASSED through Kyrgyzstan’s western border with dozens of sun-baked men and women shuffling along beside me. The men wore dark colours and thick boots, while the women were best viewed from behind sunglasses, lest the garish colours and sequins render one blind. I was on my way to the eastern part of Uzbekistan known as the Fergana Valley, once part of the ancient Silk Road. My first stop was the small town of Andijan. A pretty place in its own right, it will always be remembered as the site of the 2005 massacre of pro-democracy protesters by the government, with hundreds thought to have been killed. The incident and the subsequent exodus of refugees into Kyrgyzstan has put a considerable strain on Kyrgyz/Uzbek relations, and led to the EU imposing an arms embargo, though the previous year the British ambassador Craig Murray was allegedly relieved of his post by the British government for criticising president Karimov’s appalling human rights record lest access to Uzbekistan’s gas and mineral reserves be blocked.
After a stroll through the tree-lined streets I enlisted one of the hundreds of “shared” taxis and set off for my next stop, Fergana city. My fellow passengers, two teenage girls, struck up a conversation with me, which was slow and painful on account of my poor Russian. They were on their way to their friend Monica’s house, and invited me along as she had studied English at university and didn’t get to meet many native speakers. She was now a housewife with a one-year-old boy. Interestingly her parents were magicians, and the evening was spent with Monica and her mother regaling me with stories of their performances around the Middle East in the 1980s and ’90s.
The next day they took me to see the still-functioning circus in the nearby town of Kokand. The acrobats, with clothing and piercings that would not have looked out of place in a punk band, must have raised an eyebrow or two amongst the conservative locals. Kokand was once a major religious centre in Central Asia, though only a handful of the old buildings remain. The most impressive structure in the town is the former palace of the khan, who was forced into exile in 1874. The entrance looks like a yawning mouth, the drawbridge like a big lolling stone tongue. The thick walls hide beautiful courtyards and a small rock garden. Monica’s mother revealed that she was descended from the khan’s sixth concubine (the busy man had four wives and a 43-strong harem), and had been told only a few years before by a cousin. She, naturally, gets in for free.
After bidding farewell to my new friends, I went to the capital Tashkent, the fourth-biggest city in the former Soviet Union. It is a typically drab Soviet city but it is peppered with interesting statues, in particular that of Tamerlane, or “Timur the Lame”. Descended from Genghis Kahn, he was born near Samarkand in 1336 and became one of the greatest rulers of Central Asia. His domain stretched from Turkey to India in the last half of the 14th century, and his offspring founded the Mogul (a corruption of Mongol) empire in India. The Moguls were renowned for their architecture, particularly domed “onion” roofs, which can be seen throughout their former realm, the most famous example being the Taj Mahal. As with most “heroes”, Timur is far more revered in his homeland – flowers are still placed by his statues and mausoleum – than in those he subdued, where he is viewed as a tyrant and a pillager. Not too surprising if you consider his idea of fun was to cut off the heads of those he conquered and put them on display. Rough estimates put the death toll of his 40-year reign at 17 million.
The reason the majority of people visit Uzbekistan is to see the ancient cities of Samarkand and Bukhara. These cultural and intellectual centres remained hidden from much of the Western world until the “Great Game” played between Tsarist Russia and Imperial Britain. The term, popularised by Rudyard Kipling, refers to the period of exploration and espionage in the 1800s when the two powers vied for the mysterious and uncharted deserts and mountains between their empires.
Timur made Samarkand his capital with the Registan square at its centre, flanked by three colossal domed medressas (Islamic schools). About 200 students would have lived and learned in each school, now given over to trinket and carpet sellers. Unusually, one of the medressas depicts huge snarling beasts that look like tigers – Islam forbids the representation of living creatures. These were where some of the greatest mathematical and astrological minds studied, including Timur’s grandson, the ruler and famous astronomer Ulug Beg. Ulug Beg’s star maps of the 1420s are considered some of the most accurate ever written, and the remains of his enormous observatory lie on the outskirts of town. I decided to go there, passing a cemetery en route. I was stopped by an elderly couple, surprised by my lone trek, who insisted that I went with them into the cemetery to look at the headstones. They were on their way to pay their respects to family members’ graves. They took me to an area on a hillock that overlooked the city and showed me the resting places of their mother, father and brother. “I will be over there,” the man chuckled as he pointed to a plot. A mullah approached and had a brief conversation with the couple. Before I knew it, the four of us were praying and chanting in a ritual over the graves as the woman wept loudly. I figured my best course of action was to look at the ground and mumble a bit. Afterwards I thanked them for letting me join them in their private moment, and I wandered back in to the old city. Dazzling blue tiles, hectic bazaars and minarets jutting authoritatively into the skies as the call to prayer rings out are a heady feast for the senses that catapult you back to the days of the Silk Road and a golden age.

Bukhara is Central Asia’s holiest city and produced Avicenna, the father of modern medicine, and Rudaki, the Persian Shakespeare. Full of beautiful mosques, medressas, mausoleums and stone pools, this oasis is exactly the place of wonder its name conjures up. It is also known in British minds as being the last stand for one of the Victorian era’s legendary spies, Arthur Conolly.
Around 1840 a British agent named Colonel Charles Stoddart went to see the megalomaniac Emir of Bukhara, despite being advised not to, to try to bring him onto the British side during the war with Afghanistan. The emir, peeved at the lack of gifts or a letter from Queen Victoria, threw him in the notorious “bug pit” in jail. Conolly arrived about a year later on a rescue mission, but was thrown into the pit too. In 1842 the emir had them march out to the front of his citadel, or ark, to dig their own graves before being beheaded.
No creepy-crawlies remain, only shabby mannequins and money thrown in by tourists. The ark is virtually intact, its impenetrable walls scorching in the sun. It offers a fantastic panorama of what is left of Bukhara’s azure skyline after the Soviet invasion.
I stood on the battlements looking down onto where Conolly and Stoddart had lost their lives, and at the dozens of tourists wandering around. The journey to Uzbekistan may be less perilous today, but it is certainly still as exotic as it always has been.

Iran

THE wind snatched my headscarf and carried it away. Aghast, I raced after it, grabbed it and tied it back on with my bumbling hands as quickly as I could. I looked around anxiously. No-one in the smoggy streets seemed to have noticed. Heaving a sigh of relief, I dodged my way through the unrelenting traffic to meet my friend Reza.

It was my first day in Tehran, the capital of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Reza, whom I had met in Kyrgyzstan, had been kind enough to invite me to visit and had arranged for me to stay with his friends and colleagues around the country during my one-month trip. I was a little apprehensive about going to Iran because I had applied for my visa when the Revolutionary Guard had "kidnapped" British sailors – how would I be received as a lone female Westerner? I need not have worried.

As Reza had to work, his mother and sister adopted me and took me on a tour of Tehran. The decadent palaces of the shahs were now museums to a foregone age that had ended with the 1979 revolution. Each was filled with incredible masterpieces, lush lawns and neat gardens with Persian fables depicted in vivid tiles. In the Golestan Palace there was a young girls' school trip. Clutching Barbie schoolbags they gazed attentively at whatever their teacher instructed them to and skipped hand in hand around the gardens, just like any other children. Except they were wearing white hijabs to cover their hair. Islamic law states that, after the age of nine, girls should cover up when outside of their home. Older, conservative women wear the black chador, holding it closed with teeth or hands (the chador, meaning "tent" in Farsi, is just a big piece of cloth), but the Iranian reality is that women have bright headscarves barely on their heads, hair carelessly flowing out, loud make-up, tight jackets, increasingly risqué hemlines and stilettos that would make Naomi Campbell gasp.

I headed 400 kilometres south to Esfahan, where Reza had arranged for me to stay with Faridae, who was 25 and an accountant. Iran's bus system is incredibly cheap (petrol is subsidised by the government), efficient and comfortable. Men and women are segregated and snacks and drinks are included in the ticket price, which is most welcome for the massive distances covered. A former capital, it was known as "half the world" in Persian times because of its cultural and architectural diversity and wonder, including its stunning bridges. In the centre lies Imam Square, formerly Shah Square, which has a palace and two stunning mosques, the most beautiful being the Lotfallah. Originally for the shah's harem to worship in, the cream tiles of its domed roof change colour to reflect the mood of the sun throughout the day, contrasting beautifully with the rich greens and blues inside. Still a place for contemplation, a young woman was sitting down on the mosque floor vigorously typing into her laptop, oblivious to the slow, shuffling gait of tourists.

The Armenian quarter, New Jolfa, was founded in 1606 when the shah kidnapped the entire population of Jolfa, famed for their artistic skills, near the Armenian border and relocated them to Esfahan. The area is a series of twisting lanes with distinctly Christian architecture, in particular the striking Vank cathedral bearing grisly images of saints being tortured, and containing one of the world's smallest bibles, weighing just 0.7 grams.

To round off the day's sightseeing, Faridae and I went to an old teahouse that was straight out of 1001 Arabian Nights overlooking Imam Square. The smoke from hookah pipes twirled and vaporised into the twinkling night as she told of the frustrations she felt living in Iran, particularly of her lack of freedom to travel: the permission of a father, brother or husband is needed before a woman can go anywhere. All of the women I spoke to felt this way, and there is an increasingly powerful movement among both men and women to allow equal rights.
Friday is the Muslim day of rest, and when almost the entire population of Iran goes for a picnic. Faridae had to work, but her friend Atifeh, keen to practise her English, invited me to join her and her family in the park. The park was packed with groups dining on enormous banquets of roasts, breads, rice, salads and ice-creams whilst supping tea from large urns they had taken from their kitchens. I was amazed at the sheer quantity of food that was consumed and how on earth it fitted into the car. Sitting in the shade to get protection from the fierce sun, Atifeh's family began to talk about their strong dislike of their government, the current political situation and fears about an American attack. I felt great pangs of sadness and guilt when they asked me what I thought was going to happen, a question I would be asked many times. Potentially my government could drop bombs on these moderate people who had shown me nothing but incredible warmth, respect and kindness, wishing nothing in return.

My next stop was east in the oasis city of Yazd, where I was to stay with Leila, a secretary for a tile manufacturing company, who was fiercely independent and drove faster than Schumacher. Yazd is the heart of Zoroastrianism, the first religion to embrace the dualist concept of good and evil and a single god, Ahura Mazda. Zoroastrian symbols permeate the city: two huge "towers of silence" sit brooding on the outskirts of town, and an eternal flame blazes within a fire temple in the town centre. Worshippers believed a dead body to be unclean, and to bury it in the earth would pollute it, so the body would be placed atop a tower under the watch of a priest, who would observe which eye the waiting vultures plucked first. If it was the right eye, the soul would fare well; if the left then certain doom.

Going still further south to Kerman – famed for pistachios – Bijan, a computer analyst, and his wife Marian and their daughter were kind enough to put me up for a few days. Like everyone in Iran, they constantly fed me huge plates of food, cakes and sweets. From breakfast till the late 10pm Iranian dinners I could feel my body crying out for mercy from the gastronomic onslaught. Their English was quite rudimentary, but Bijan's cousin Mohammad was fluent and more than happy to take time off from work to show me around. He was the manager of an insurance company, but had been the BBC's translator after the 2003 Bam earthquake when 26,000 were killed. Bam was renowned for its enormous citadel, the biggest mud-brick structure in the world, which had collapsed in the disaster. Mohammad hadn't been there since, and was shocked at how it had changed. He recalled that when he was young it would take four hours to walk around. It now took four minutes. The site is being rebuilt with the help of UNESCO but will never achieve its past glory.

Shiraz, brimming with rose-filled gardens whose scents permeate the air, is the birthplace of the famous grape, and of Iran's most famous poets Hafez and Sade – the Shakespeares of their time. Indeed it is said that Hafez is more revered and read than the Koran, and people are to be found in every park engrossed in his works. A young family, one of whom spoke English, allowed me to be their guest. Ali was a musician with the Shiraz symphony orchestra and Firozeh was a new mother to 10-month-old Dorsa and had studied English at university. Dorsa and I were at the same Farsi level, much to the mirth of everyone else. We would both point at things, delighted that we knew what they were called, grinning widely at the praise this received.
The main tourist draw in Shiraz is the ancient ruined city of Persepolis, which dates from 500 BC and was ransacked by Alexander the Great. The grand stairway leading up to the huge Gate of Nations has shallow steps so that dignitaries could glide up with their robes flowing majestically behind them. The immense marble walls of the complex are adorned with reliefs of subject countries bringing gifts to the Persian king, legendary battles and elaborate mythical beasts. The former grand halls and temples, full of cuneiform (one of the oldest alphabets in the world) tablets, are protected by huge statues of bulls and griffins that are still awe-inspiring. Even at this tourist site, locals, a little shyly, would stop you to ask if you needed any help, to welcome you to Iran or to invite you to dinner at their house.

Every week Ali and Firozeh had a dinner party with their friends, most of them also in the Shiraz symphony. The guests brought their instruments rather than an illegal bottle of wine, and the evening was spent singing and dancing to Iranian songs. It ended in great laughter as they tried to remember the words to the only English song they knew: "Hotel California". I couldn't remember the words either.

I took off my headscarf as I left Iran and entered Armenia, the first country to declare itself Christian. A dour Russian with bleached hair and a skirt up to her oxters glared at me while her colleague scowlingly gave me a visa. I had not even left the border town and I was feeling nostalgic about saying farewell to such a fascinating place. My Iranian companions were not. They were already in shorts and T-shirts and filling their bellies with vodka.