Xi'an | Travel Marmot

March 6, 2014March 6, 2014

Norwegian Wood

Original posted in London to New York blog, April 29, 2010

Beijing, China

SCALING the first set of steps onto the Great Wall of China at Badaling, you are greeted by the inevitable gift shop.

Amid the panda hats, trinkets and customary tourist tat hangs a series of T-shirts in a variety of colours and designs.

Most of them proudly display the same slogan to tempt in the mass of tourists who flock to this section of the 4,000 mile long structure: “I Climbed The Great Wall of China”.

Ancient and Modern – The Great Wall of China snakes past a Beijing Olympic sign at Badaling

Chairman Mao declared anyone who scales the wall automatically becomes a man (even if they are a woman).

So quite what he would have thought about my adventures on the wall is anybody’s guess. There certainly weren’t any T-shirts to commemorate my visit.

Not one reads: “I Threw Up On The Great Wall”.

Those of you who paying attention will remember the previous night’s meal in Datong left a lot to be desired. There wasn’t much wrong with the food, it just wasn’t what we thought it was and stretched our delicate European tastes a little too far.

Great Wall Group Shot — Flying the flag on the Great Wall – The massed ranks of the OzBus take the photo opportunity

And by the following morning, mixed in with another bout of erratic driving from our permanently bemused-looking driver, it had started to have an affect.

But all that is slightly irrelevant when you get to the Great Wall.

Always pinpointed as one of the must-sees of the trip, it is – even crawling in tourists and their related paraphernalia – a staggering place to visit.

It qualifies among the elite group of places – alongside, so far, London, Red Square and Tiananmen Square – for a group picture. But it outranks them as, apart from getting the flags the right way up this time, pretty much everybody hung around to get their own pictures taken on the wall.

Then it was a mad dash up the wall. Followed by the immediate drop in pace as we realised how steep it can be, followed by the first of many stops for breath.

And as others headed off into the distance, the combination of trekking up the hill and my less than perfect state of health all came to a head and left my mark on the Great Wall.

Or rather over it.

Only later, refreshed by something a bit simpler to eat and a more comfortable ride from our original, far more sensible Chinese driver, did we come to the conclusion it was over the wrong side – opting for the Chinese side rather than into the land once occupied by the Mongols it was built to keep out.

Obviously disappointed not to get as far up the wall as possible, it was still a remarkable experience and will rate as one of the sightseeing highlights of the trip.

What followed – via a trip to the Ming Tombs – was one of the social highlights of the trip as we welcomed our latest arrival, and met up with some old friends, in spectacular style.

From the Ming Tombs, last resting place to most of the Emperors from the Ming Dynasty, we rolled back into Beijing and a return to our previous hotel just south of Tiananmen Square.

As well as being reunited with the gear we had stored ahead of our tour of the provinces, we were also introduced to Pamela, the 18th traveller.

To mark her arrival, virtually the entire party decamped to Bar 365, the hostel bar which had become our local on our previous stay.

Even more local was the hostel housing our lovely Norwegian friends Mari and Sunniva, who first crossed our path in Irkutsk.

They trumped my tale from the Great Wall in some style, managing to shed a lot more than me to mark their visit (if you are reading this ladies, you can always send the photographic proof of your antics to my e-mail or Facebook – your story definitely needs checking closely).

With our numbers bolstered by Mari and Sunniva and residents of the hostel above the bar joining us over a few beers, by the time Nick was lured into a reprise of his bongo heroics to a rousing rendition of Wonderwall, virtually the entire bar and staff were involved in a truly international session of singing, dancing, drinking and acquisition of flags.

What followed as the Tsingtao beer flowed at about £1 a pint is a touch hazy and it needed the now traditional trawl through each other’s cameras to discover exactly what happened (which also taught Leila never to leave her camera unguarded in a bar).

Several questions remain unanswered: How did drinking for that long produce a bar bill that low? Where did Duncan get that fruit from? How did Phoebe lose the dance-off rematch with one of the waiters? How did Barry get into just about every picture? And what countries are some of those flags from?

But two questions stand out above all else: Who was that in the gents toilets? And did she get all her clothes back?

Sadly, the question which had been occupying many of us for the previous few days was not answered the following morning at the Birds Nest, home of the Beijing Olympics in 2008.

It reminded me a lot of Edgar Street, what with the rectangular patch of green surrounded by stands. It’s just a lot bigger, far more spectacular and had far more people milling around just to have a look than bother going to watch Hereford on your average Saturday.

Unfortunately, the athletics track was declared out of bounds and our planned 100m race had to be cancelled.

For the record, my money was very much on Marlo to beat Freddie, while there remain serious doubts over whether many (or, indeed, any) of us would have made it that far in the veterans race.

Getting arty – Marlo lives up to his nickname (Bigger Than Jesus) in an impromptu art installation

From one of Beijing’s must-sees, we headed off to one of those unheralded surprises this trip keeps throwing up, the 798 Artists Village.

My art knowledge is roughly the square root of bugger all, but this rambling former factory site turned art commune proved a fascinating stop with some extremely interesting photo galleries and one eccentric, if challenging (see, picked up a few phrases), modern art studio complete with a room full of pink gas.

We even tried our hand at an art installation of my own involving Marlo and a statue of Jesus rising out of a coffin.

China’s obviously had an affect – or was it just the sun?

But Is It Art? Portrait of the Artist In Room Full of Pink Gas

Either way, that was it for Beijing and China as the trip wandered off into a completely new direction – two weeks at sea on board the Diamond Princess.

Of which more next time…

March 6, 2014March 6, 2014

If You Go Down In The Woods Today…

Original posted in London to New York blog, April 27, 2010

Pingyao, China

“He’s going on about Ming, Ding and Hot Wings, I don’t know what shit is going on” – Marlo

“Don’t share with The Bear” – Ancient trip saying

THIS trip is full of contrasts as we tick off the countries, cultures and assorted accommodation.

The cramped, smelly and uncomfortable days on the Trans-Siberian, where food was limited to what we could buy on the platforms and cook with boiling water, are a million miles away from the luxury of the Diamond Princess, with an army of staff waiting to serve us an array of food available 24 hours a day and look after our every need – even if four blokes sleeping in one room is still a bit cramped.

And the differences between China, Russia and our early destinations through middle Europe are many and varied.

De Je Yuan Guesthouse, Pingyao — The main entrance, De Ju Yuan Guesthouse, Pingyao

But rarely have we swung so rapidly as the relatively short hop from Xi’an to Pingyao, which marked the start of the return loop to Beijing.

Whereas Xi’an is a modern, bustling city where you want for little, the ancient walled city of is very much hanging onto its past.

Tower blocks, new buildings and wide highways are replaced by narrow, car-free streets and single-storey shops and guesthouses, while our sparkling new hotel was replaced by an old-fashioned guesthouse.

And a charming place it was too – at least the guesthouse was.

Guesthouse courtyard, Pingyao — Open to the elements – Snow storm hits the courtyard of the guesthouse in Pingyao

Pingyao itself, once the initial charm has worn off, does not have that much on offer.

It was also the place I ignored the acknowledged wisdom of the trip and shared with “The Bear”. And what’s more, did it in a double bed.

For double bed, read huge expanse of mattress and duvet which provided more than enough room for the two biggest blokes on tour to enjoy some of the most comfortable conditions of the trip, as well as sprawling large chunks of kit all over the bed.

At one point we had four people on the bed and it was not in the least bit crowded – although one of them had to be asked to leave for eating biscuits.

Downtown Pingyao — The mean streets of downtown Pingyao

As for “The Bear”, that is the nocturnal name for Phil, all 6ft 4in of him and my only serious rival for the title of biggest snorer on tour (although we are not as far ahead as some others would like to think).

He reckons my snoring’s not actually that bad. Wish the same could be said for him. My iPod and headphones came in handy.

Away from the sleeping arrangements, Pingyao did throw up a few moments to remember – not least biting wind and sudden snow storms, little more than 24 hours after wandering around Xi’an in shorts and sunglasses.

There’s not that much to see – most of the streets blend into one after a while – but our softly-spoken guide managed to find a few places to visit, although if any of us had realised just how close we were to the guesthouse for much of the tour, he would have found it even harder to keep our attention.

He led us around the city walls in a bitter gale, an old bank, the historic local government offices, complete with prison, and (most interestingly) a Taoist temple, but the real high (and low points) came from our food and drink outings.

Our hosts treated us to a noodle and dumpling making lesson. Several of our number joined in with contrasting results, before serving up the results – and some they had made earlier – in possibly the finest feast of our Chinese leg.

It was given an extra frisson of danger by a sudden gale which blew down the ramshackle wooden scaffolding on the building opposite, although that was rather less exciting for those of us sat in the window as it clattered down inches from us.

An afternoon diversion into a tiny, sign-laden bar by Phil, Nick, Phoebe and myself (ostensibly to escape another bout of winter weather) produced another unexpected gem. Once, that was, we had discovered we weren’t meant to balance our drinks on the uneven tables, but pour them into bowls and drink from there.

Pingyao Bar — Leaving our mark in the bar in Pingyao

We left our mark with an addition to the signs which decorate the walls and while we are proud of the alliteration, we apologise for the language.

But from there it all went downhill, a disappointing meal back at the guesthouse followed by an even more unfulfilling trip to the Pirate bar around the corner, which not only failed to satisfy our growing pirate obsession (all will be explained), but has earned a nomination as the worst bar any of us have ever been in – which provides plenty of competition.

Empty, cold, black and with just a few Pirates of the Caribbean posters to suggest any pirate link, we also had to endure the eccentric landlord playing guitar to us. At least that was a break from the dreadful music we were subjected to.

Pirate Bar, Pingyao — Warning signs – The Pirate Bar in Pingyao

Duncan’s assessment (“Let’s wreck this joint”) was met with support until we realised it looked like somebody already had.

Things did improve at our next port of call – but only just. Not only did we have to put up with sporadic power cuts, but a visit to the toilet entailed walking through the middle of a foot massage parlour.

Sadly, nobody was too reluctant to hit the road the next morning, although our 6.30am departure was heralded by my opening words to Phil which, tidied up for family viewing, were: “Phil, it’s twenty past ***%$* six”.

Latest travel tip: Don’t leave setting the alarm to your roomie.

Going out in a bit of a rush and missing breakfast was not that bad an error as having no food in my stomach proved a blessing for much of the day (particularly considering the next day’s events).

Hanging Temple, Hengshau Mountain — ‘We’re going up there?” – The Hanging Temple

A fairly terrifying drive on, for large chunks, the wrong side of the road, was followed by the climb up to the Hanging Temple at Hengshau Mountain.

Composed of places of worship for Taoists, Buddhists and Confucius, the temple is built halfway up a cliff face with sheer drops off narrow wooden walkways and the path up to it is treacherous in the best of conditions.

In the snow and ice which greeted us, it was even more so, leading both to snowball fights and one or two people looking less than enamoured by their precarious position at the high point.

There was more Buddhism at the Yungang Grottoes, a series of caves containing thousands of statues ranging from 2cm to 70m tall.

Very impressive it is too, but to echo Marlo’s immortal summation of the situation, our guide bombarded us with so many names and dates, it all became just a bit too confusing and we were reduced to using the caves for shelter from the biting wind.

Listened a bit more would have paid off as Gary struck me with an impromptu quiz on Buddhism. Not was expected when asking someone where the toilet is.

Thankfully, we were well sheltered from the wind when we reached our hotel in Datong which – apart from the first bath of the trip – was notable mainly for most of us not leaving the premises in search of a drink.

The largest of the thousands of Buddhas at the Yungang Grottoes

Sadly, it was also notable for the worst ordering of the trip and left four of us trying to down a bizarre collection of fat, gristle, bones and red-hot chillies. Well, three of us, Duncan opted to throw most of his over the tablecloth as he tried desperately to show off his new-found chopstick skills.

It all added up to an early night, but it was to bite back in some style the next day.

Of which, more next time…

March 6, 2014March 6, 2014

Working For The Xi’ankee Dollar

Original posted in London to New York blog, April 24, 2010

Xi’an, China

RIDING along with us – or hidden somewhere in Phil’s bag – is a folder containing pretty much all the trivial (and the odd important) facts we need to know.

Emblazoned on that folder are a variety of stickers, the largest of which reads: “I am not a tourist, I live here”.

We shirk away from accusations of being tourists. We will tell you, at great length after a few beers, that we are travellers.*

Xi'an - Big Wild Goose Pagoda — The sun beats down on the Big Wild Goose Pagoda

But for a few days in China, guided around by Gary and a succession of local experts, we joined the tourist trail for the major sights of the provinces.

It was all a bit of a culture shock.

Used as we are to being a largely self-contained group, informed by Phil’s whirlwind histories of 20th century Europe (“Someone invaded, people died, somebody else invaded, more people died”) or guides he knew before securing their services (the wonderful Anna and Galina in Russia), we suddenly found ourselves among the hordes.

All of a sudden we were one of many buses being delivered to a restaurant – all entered or exited through a gift shop – to join the conveyor belt of tourists, dominated by large gaggles of Americans, to be processed and spat out towards whichever major sight was next on the agenda

Nowhere was this more apparent than the trip to the Terracotta Warriors, which – sadly – ranks as a disappointment.

Our trip out to the warriors followed our overnight dash to the city of Xi’an, right in the centre of China, and the pace never slackened throughout the day.

Whisked away from the station by our diminutive guide An, we were fed a huge breakfast at the hotel and spirited away for a whirlwind tour of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda, which once housed the first Buddhist scripts in China.

It comes complete with the requisite gift shop and my discovery that being born in the Year of the Dog makes me honest and loyal. I will also roll over and let you tickle my tummy for a treat, but draw the line at chasing sticks.

From there it was off to another shopping opportunity at a jade factory – adding a piece of neophrite to the growing collection of things dangling around my neck – and, via the conveyor belt roll-em-in, feed-em, ship-em-out lunch, onto the Terracotta Warriors.

Built to guard the tomb of Emperor Qin and discovered by farmers in 1974, the attraction is billed as the Eighth Wonder of the World (wasn’t that Patsy Kensit’s short-lived pop band in the 1980s?).

And while it is impressive, it just doesn’t really live up to that billing.

What you rarely get told in the blurb is that Qin’s successor ransacked the tomb and wrecked the warriors, meaning most of the many thousand there are either undiscovered (so how they know how many there are, goodness only knows) or broken.

The Terracotta Warriors stand guard in the elegantly named Pit One

Restoration work continues apace (well, quite slowly actually) and while what is there is worth checking out, it is not on the sheer scale we were expecting – most of the huge pits on view are devoid of warriors.

Underwhelmed by what we had seen, we headed back to Xi’an and, stumbling off the tourist trail for the evening, again fell across a real gem when least expected.

Tucked out of the centre on a main ring road, our hotel – possibly the pick of the trip – was not exactly blessed with too many neighbourhood bars or restaurants, so the usual suspects stumbled down the road to the nearest noodle bar with the express intention of a quick snack and a quiet night.

What followed, once our idea of keeping the ordering simple ended with our table being presented with a whole chicken, complete with head, on a plate of prawn crackers, was a real taste of China and its people – with the odd piece of ornamental fish kidnapping thrown in.

We first attracted the attention of a bunch of young lads who were determined to drink and eat as much as possible, make as big a mess as possible and practise their limited English on us.

Terracotta Archer, sadly without his bow

By the time they had gone, Phoebe and celebrity traveller Marlo were chatting – or attempting to chat with – four older Chinese guys, so as the others left, the easy solution was to join them and finish my beer.

But for the next couple of hours, it magically never emptied – every time our glasses dropped below half full, they were refilled by our hosts, who refused to take a cent from us in repayment.

One of our new companions was the oldest there, therefore he was the host and had to pay for everything – a system worth introducing whenever drinking with Nick for the rest of the trip.

With the help of their restricted English, our even more limited Chinese (you can’t get very far with “How are you?”, “Thank you” and “Cheers”) and the translator on our host’s phone, we stumbled through a conversation – I was “heavy, but with a good soul”, making me sound even more like a Labrador, while Phoebe has “temperament” – until the passing Gary was dragged off the street to help out and a hugely enjoyable evening ran well past closing time.

The next morning saw me run into one of our companions again.

Or, to be more accurate, he nearly ran into me while riding a bike around the ancient city walls of Xi’an.

Xi'an's City Walls — The ancient city walls in Xi’an

The walking option had seemed more appealing, but a group had headed out to do a full circuit on two wheels. Others completed the full 14km loop on foot, although Julie and Gerda paid the price with a touch of sunburn as the Mediterranean-type climate produced a lovely day.

After an afternoon fighting off the salesmen at another market, it turned into a lovely evening back at the Big Wild Goose Pagoda, enjoying the spectacular fountain display, before adjourning to the hotel and a late-night, filling street snack which cost six of us the grand total of just over £2.

And that was that for Xi’an, a city which succeeded in charming us during our limited stay.

The third biggest city in China – after Beijing and Shanghai – it has a much more relaxed feel than the capital (unless you are sat in the back of a taxi, where relaxing is the last thing possible) and while you can give directions around Beijing using branches of KFC as guiding points, you get the feeling Xi’an is much more like the old China.

Big Wild Goose Pagoda at night — All lit up – The light and fountain show at The Big Wild Goose Pagoda

But nothing like as old as our next stop – Pingyao, of which more next time.

Coming up: Sharing with The Bear in Pingyao, Redecorating the Great Wall and Norwegian Wood in Beijing.

*NB – The traveller v tourist argument is the oldest in the travelling world. Having worked in the travel industry since this blog was originally written, it is quite clearly pointless and merely a form of snobbery. The whole point of travelling is freedom and experiencing the world around us – how each of us do it is down to the individual.

March 6, 2014March 6, 2014

Senses Working Overtime

Original posted in London to New York blog, April 22, 2010

Beijing, China

DURING his excellent Googlewhack Adventure stage show, Dave Gorman launches into a string of coincidences and absurdities which have occurred during his attempts to compile a chain of elusive Googlewhacks.

Each tale is linked, in increasingly frantic tones, by the phrase: “It doesn’t make sense”.

Alive or Dead, Sir? – The menu in a Beijing street market

And after 10 days in China, that is one phrase used more than any other (with the possible exceptions of “same again, please”, “No, I don’t want to be dragged into your market stall to see your range of tourist tat”, “Oh look, another Buddha/ temple/courtyard”, “Who’s clothes were they anyway?” or “What flags have you got?” – explanations follow in the next couple of entries, but the last two must wait until we are out of Chinese jurisdiction).

The sheer number of people – it doesn’t make sense.
The inability to drive in a straight line or on the right side without an accident every few hundred yards – it doesn’t make sense.
The fact all the market stalls appear to sell the same thing, yet they make a living – it doesn’t make sense.
The fact we managed to buy pretty much everything for a fraction of the asking price (bar one Irish haggler who started with a high offer and tried to work down) – it doesn’t make sense.
That you can stuff yourself silly 24 hours a day for mere pennies, yet the entire population seems to be thin and healthy – it doesn’t make sense.
The sheer number of western, capitalist brand names in the high street in such a supposedly closed-off, communist society so proud of its own culture and traditions – it doesn’t make sense.
That we went from getting sunburn on Xi’an’s city walls to snowball fights on the road to Datong in the space of three days – it doesn’t make sense.
The foresight of previous generations to build all the major attractions on the other side of a gift shop from the entrance – it doesn’t make sense.

And neither does so much more about this wonderful, intriguing, mystifying country.

But throw it all in together, check your western preconceptions in at customs and somehow, taken as a whole, it makes perfect sense.

Beijing Street Market — In the market for a snack – On the search for lunch in Beijing

To the extent that being thrown straight back into the western world – this is being written on one of the many poolsides of the Diamond Princess cruise ship as we sit dockside at Qingdao on our second day at sea – is equally as big a culture shock as arriving in China in the first place.

Admittedly, by the final day in China more than one of us needed an escape from the mountains of Chinese food (or food as they call it in these parts) which were routinely placed in front of us.

Thankfully, Old McDonald had seen fit to build one of his golden arches just down the street from our hotel, causing some frantic backtracking from early scorn poured on those with fast-food habits. Never has a Big Mac tasted so good. Nor been served so politely.

China has treated us well and has moved straight to the upper echelons of places to visit again.

But let’s rewind to where you left us – in our Beijing hotel attempting, without success, to flick M&Ms into Fran’s mouth in the early hours of Day 32.

What followed on the rest of Day 32 – for those of us who eschewed the trip to the Summer Palace – was a rare off-day and a chance to catch up on washing and get a little personal time.

So the day was spent arguing with a tumble dryer (and the French people who kept taking my stuff out of it) and being accosted by over-enthusiastic vendors, convinced new T-shirts, jewellery, handbags, statues of Buddha, Mao’s Little Red Book or whatever they were peddling was top of my shopping list.

Topping the list of memorable sellers are the bloke selling our favourite snack “sticks” with the constant tab on the go, the guy who nearly set fire to my arm (twice) as he tried to prove his lighters worked and the young Chinese girl who was actually dangling off my arm at one point as she tried to physically drag me into her shop.

By the evening my clothes still weren’t dry – it took an early-morning alarm to chuck them back in the dryer to be ready for packing – and the normal suspects were reconvened for another mountain of food in a traditional Chinese restaurant.

Eight meals, eight sets of drinks, assorted side dishes, decent tip which they insisted on chasing us out of the restaurant with to hand back – 320 yuan. About £4 each.

We then retired for a quiet(ish) evening in our new local, the still flag-strewn Bar 365, which was enlivened by our elder statesmen Duncan and Mary taking to the dance floor and Mike’s perfectly-timed tribute to Roy Keane – one of which was charming, the other reduced us to giggling fools for at least five minutes.

Mike was at it again the next morning – after we had stripped down our bags with merely enough clothes for our five-day tour of the provinces – when he spoke at just the wrong time during our tour of a silk factory, inadvertently volunteering to eat the by-product of production, the worm.

He had the perfect opportunity to wash it down with something more appetising on our next stop, downtown Beijing’s main, big-name shopping area.

While most of the group scurried around the designer stores, went hunting for much-needed necessities (our hunt for deodorant was still proving fruitless) or, in the case of Irish compadres Dave and Leila, got lost on a single street, our motley little crew found our idea of shopping heaven – a market street crammed with street food vendors.

Not that everything had us licking our lips. Even Phil’s willingness to eat almost anything was not enough to persuade him to try scorpion on a stick or entire baby bird, while the starfish on a stick were priced out of the market.

Having fuelled up on spring rolls, sticks and some weird dumplings whose liquid filling Phil managed to spray all over Mike, we headed to our toughest shopping test of the trip – the Pearl Market.

Night train to Xi'an — Set for a last night on the train – Note spilt beer in tray

It is difficult to explain quite what an assault on the senses this is – a four-storey indoor market selling designer label clothes (of distinctly dubious origin), leather goods, jewellery, electrical goods (of even more dubious providence) and pretty much anything the modern global traveller would want.

But that is only half the story.

Each stall is manned by one or more assistants who are not going to wait for you to have a look at their stock. They will shout at you, physically pull you to their store, block your way and generally get right in your face.

It could be intimidating, but it is, largely, good natured and amusing. The trouble is, if you smile at it, they take that as a sign of interest and double their effort to lure you in.

By the time we emerged, blinking and shellshocked into the sunshine to compare our purchases – and tried to outdo each other on how much we had haggled them down to – we were all a bit exhausted.

For the record, my purchases were leather cord necklace (most of the guys are now festooned with more necklaces than the girls), a shirt of exceedingly dubious taste and a T-shirt, which resulted in me being briefly held captive by three small Chinese women who would not let me out of their stall until Phoebe and Fran turned the corner and distracted them.

What we needed after that was a good rest. What we got was our final night on a train, heading south to Xi’an and the Terracotta Warriors.

Exiled to the back of the train – 12 carriages away from the rest of the group with only Marlo making the long, late-night trek down to visit in his train-issue paper slippers – Nick’s Bar stocked up for one final time with beer (before any of us remembered we didn’t have a bottle opener), vodka and rice wine and welcomed new resident Dave for his indoctrination into life in the bar.

He instantly made himself at home, showering his beer bottle over Nick’s bed in an attempt to open it using the door handle.

He was in good company, Mike had already soaked Nick’s bed in a bizarre exploding beer can episode.

At least three of us had a good, dry night’s sleep…

March 6, 2014March 6, 2014

Seventeenth Chinese Brother

Original posted in London to New York blog, April 20, 2010

Beijing, China

“I do hope Berlin’s cafes are well stocked because everybody seems determined to eat out the moment they arrive” – Captain Edmund Blackadder

“Whatever I need, I’ll go out and get it in Beijing” – Just about everybody on the trip

Tiananmen Gate, Forbidden City — The Tiananmen Gate into the Forbidden City, Beijing

THANKFULLY, our cunning plans to restock our kit and refresh wardrobes ahead of 15 days on a cruise ship have proved rather more successful than Blackadder and Co’s plans to eat as soon as they got “sausage side”.

Even with large chunks of stuff left back in Beijing for our return, our scaled-down bus which is currently whisking us from Xi’an (of which more in a later episode) to Pingyao (pronounce as if a bullet is ricocheting off a bucket, Ping-yao) is rammed with bags stuffed full of gear plundered from Chinese markets. And toy swords and cutlasses (again, more later).

It hasn’t always been easy.

Mike and Nick’s search for deodorant took five days before it paid dividends (much to the relief of the rest of us), Phoebe has discovered the Chinese are not all that big on pirate gear (as in Captain Pugwash, not knock-off gear – we know we’ve got plenty of that) and we have all been manhandled, chased and, in my case, physically prevented from leaving a market stall by three small Chinese women hanging onto me (tune in next time for that tale).

Marlo even got whipped by belts from eager sellers, but he lost any sympathy when he went back for more.

Marlo, Tiananmen Square — Coke, Mao and Marlo – Mixing it with three cultural icons in Tiananmen Square (and rescuing one from his adoring public)

But that’s all getting ahead of ourselves, let’s rewind to where you last left us, rolling towards the Mongolia-Chinese border (and the Great Firewall of China which has hampered updates, or would have done if we’’d had much time to write them) on the Trans-Manchurian Express.

It would have been a remarkably quick, efficient border crossing – once they had finally realised it really was Mike in his passport picture – if we had not had to wait for hours while the wheels were changed on the carriages to fit Chinese tracks.

The whole process involved plenty of shunting, banging and moving us into a big shed before lifting us off the ground and onto our new wheels.

Sadly, if you are looking for an informed, educated insight into exactly how such a mammoth task was undertaken, rather than watch on from the corridor window, the residents of Nick’s Bar slept through most of it.

That at least meant we were wide awake for the final approaches into Beijing which included a free breakfast (prompting much jealousy from Nick as he watched one of the staff tuck into one of his beloved dippy eggs), the discovery that my much-maligned railway platform biscuits went well with Freddie’s discarded peanut butter, a free lunch about two hours later (a first attempt at chopsticks for those of us who shunned the use of a ‘spork’) and endless miles looking for the Great Wall which finally stumbled into view on a green hill far away.

Beijing - The Great Hall of the People — The Great Hall of the People, Tiananmen Square

The sustenance and rest was needed as we rolled into Beijing, which lives up to its billing as one of the world’s great cities.

Having been escorted to our hotel (we are living in relative luxury on this leg of the journey) by Gary, our guide for the circuit of China, we spilled out onto the streets in late afternoon to get our first taste of Chinese life.

And what a taste.

Bang in the heart of the action, with Tiananmen Square and Mao’s Mausoleum at the end of the road, we scurried off down the side alleys (Hutongs) to experience what Beijing had to offer. Or find some deodorant.

It is a frantic, bustling mass of people, noise, smells (not all of them pleasant – even with deodorant) and sights. Nick, Mike and I fell instantly in love with the place.

Yes, it is daunting, yes it is in your face and anyone selling anything is onto you as soon as you go near their shop or market stall.

But it is a thrilling assault on the senses and the people are so good humoured and genuinely excited to try out their English or get to meet Westerners, that we were grinning long before our first encounter with Chinese food.

Crowds in The Forbidden City — The colour-coded tourist groups flock into The Forbidden City

That came from a street vendor with what we originally christened “sticks” – wooden skewers of cooked, spiced meat of occasionally questionable origin – which have become our staple snacks when out and about. Delicious, hot, filling and all for about 25p each.

By then we needed a rest from all this scurrying about, so found a bar down a side street and settled in for a couple of beers, only to add some Beijing Duck, a beef platter and some sweet and sour chicken – complete with obligatory rice – to the order.

It was our first proper taste of what was to come – the most beautiful food served in huge mounds at ridiculously low prices. That little lot, complete with beers, set us back about £5 each.

So enamoured were we with our new find that when we met the others back at the hotel – all wide-eyed and talking too fast from their own explorations – we took them back to the same place and, what started as one quick drink, eventually ended with our hosts waiting for us to leave so they could shut up.

In between there was much singing, drumming (Nick led us all in a version of Wonderwall on a drum), dancing (Phoebe led us all, and one slightly bemused young Chinese guy, through several versions of… well, not quite sure actually) and making friends (hello Katie and Rachel from Wolverhampton).

Which is why some of our number were still up and about for the 2am arrival of Dave – the latest (17th) addition to our ranks.

The rest of us met our second Irish tourist rather bleary-eyed over breakfast before heading out for a day seeing the sights.

And most of China had turned up to greet us when we descended on Tiananmen Square.

Either that or they were waiting, patiently and in co-ordinated hats to designate their different groups, to enter Mao’s Mausoleum.

It is hard to reconcile the friendliness, politeness and air of calm – even with so many thousands of people milling around – with the events which made this place so famous in the west 20-odd years.

Certainly any fears that we would be met with suspicion and doubt were quickly dispelled – as they have been wherever we have gone in China – by the welcome we received.

Because so many of the people in the square and the Forbidden City are tourists from rural China, they are not used to seeing Westerners and so we became tourist attractions in our own right.

At times it was surreptitious. You would turn round and find a camera pointing at you and any smile or wave would send the photographer scurrying for cover.

At other times, you would suddenly find somebody stood next to you while their companion took a quick snap.

But the braver ones would come up and, in whatever English they could muster, ask for a photo with us.

Think we all got approached at some point and such was the delight and interest they showed in us, it was a pleasure to help them out.

But nobody had to deal with as much interest as Marlo.

He has been a tourist attraction since we entered Russia and a black man in Tiananmen Square is always going to stand out.

Group Shot, Imperial Gardens — Reinforced group shot in the Imperial Gardens

And once one guy had approached him for a picture, a crowd soon gathered – our Dutch master of cool taking it all in his stride and responding to each request with a smile. He was even spotted signing autographs at on point.

While we were walking tourist attractions in our own right, there was plenty for us to see and photograph as we wandered through the Forbidden City (a trek of more than five miles evidently) and, via an exquisite banquet for lunch, the Temple of Heaven and a rickshaw ride through the backstreets of Beijing.

After all that, you could excuse us an early night but…

Gary came up trumps as we headed out to a district where a lake is lined with bars and restaurants and the bustle of people.

We instantly felt at home and tried out the facilities before retiring to the hotel and a few bottles of Tsingtao bought from reception and downed in the empty restaurant – complete with Mike using Fran’s mouth for target practise with M&Ms.

Tag: Xi’an

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