Travelling calamares and inherited genitals….asia is sure a weird place….!

Ever tried miming your menu or home address? Ever had your eyelashes curled while having supper, or your back made into a huge mushroom pattern? Well, China is the place!

„Bei” means “northern”. “Jing” is “Capital”. “Bei-jing”. “The northern capital”. (In early days the capital was in Xinyang – under the rule of Qin Shi Huang – who actually united China to one single empire, close to Xi’an, not far from the incredible terracotta army was found by farmers who stumbled across the heritage by chance back in 1974).
This is a City that is growing out of its traditional forms, with the demolishing of hutongs and old-fashioned houses, and now ploughing its way into the new century with high, shining buildings in steel and glass, looking pretty much the same as one can find anywhere else on this planet; whether it is in Dubai, London or New York.
But Beijing is hotter than ever in many senses. Not only are the Chinese busy with polishing their image as the new economical shooting star of the world, but the Olympic summer games are coming up shortly (2008) as well, and so there is hectic activity to make the place as modern as ever before that. It has its pluses and minuses. But that aside.

The useless “dong”

I arrived at noon, Tuesday the 4th of April, after an uneventful flight – approximately 7000 kilometres from home. We had crossed over St. Petersburg, down Novgorod – called Sverdlovsk in those “good, old communistic days, the legendary Baikal Lake, before we crossed Ulan Bataar – the capital of Mongolia and came into the Chinese capital, catching glimpses of desert, mountains and the Great Wall that once stretched 6000 kilometres and could be up to seven meters wide and seven meters tall. Now this mighty snake is merely a reduced, melancholic construction, falling apart mostly, but it’s hard to believe it will ever vanish for good.
As I visited China last year, I felt I had a mental advantage, and jumped on a bus heading for the city. I knew more or less where I was going at; Dongzhemen. Or something like that. Now it happens that Chinese often adds north, south, east or west to the streetnames. And “dong” which means “east”, is one of them. Subsequently there are a countless names in which “dong” is a syllable. For those who know Chinese, it’s a very logical system, and you can easily make orientation in the perpendicular hellish mase of streets.
It took me somewhere between 10 and 15 seconds to forget at which “dong” I needed to get off. Luckily I could recognize some places, and I was also fortunate to have a young helpful man at the next seat, so I found my way to the hostel shockingly fast.

Dumpling, I and bomb

Finding the way around is hard for me. Names and words are not easy to memorize – the Chinese words seem to be made up of very many “n’s” and “ng’s” – although maybe not as extreme as Vietnamese, but still more than enough to confuse a foreign ear and brain.
To be deprived of the possibility to relate to writing, just increases the feeling of being handicapped. Plus – it does not really help that people in general constantly addresses me in their mothertongue, and just get puzzled by the fact that my exterior does not seem to cohere with my interior; that I can not utter a word of Chinese (except from “Hello”, “Thank you”, “newspaper/ dumpling (which is the same word almost – but in different tones), “Norway”, “I” – and “bomb”), is a sheer mystery to most of them. But at least, I know that when I hear Chinese being spoken around me, its not the usual children-making-fun-chinese (which is oh – so unfunny!), but the real stuff.
The day was sunny. But you would not really know, unless you came from up above – which I did. The smog lies like a solid pancake over the huge city, and the sun is a pale dot without contours. But the day was nevertheless warm and the spring-breeze felt soothing for a Scandinavian anyway.
The hotel was spotless and very central. The bed was huge and neat, three windows. AC. The water was piping hot. One could boil a hen in it. Usually I don’t really bother making any remarks about where I am staying at. But here they had this peculiar little sign at the toilet, a sign that indicates that they really care for their guests – and it made me made me stop and reflect on different approach to sanitary matters around the world. So what did it say? Well in fact, it was not only one – but two.

A friendly suggestion

Let me start with second one first – the one inside the bathroom. It shows a Chinese man, bending over the toilet, as if he has been out all Saturday night (and sunday morning) and has had a few drinks too much, and now he needs to communicate with the Great God of Flowing Water. The text beneath this image says (not surprisingly), I quote: “ Please do not throw used toilet paper into the toilet, as this will cause a blockage in the pipes. We will remove toilet waste as frequent as needed. Please contact the staff if you have any problems or questions. Xie xie (thanks) for your cooperation”.
Well so far so good. I had already discovered all by myself, that previous dwellers of my temporary palace must have spotted this little friendly note a little too late, as the toilet at its best could function as an aquarium with a little slow whirlpool at the bottom. But what the heck – its not for everyone to have a water-installation in their bathroom, so I ignored that fact. It was first when I saw the poster on the outside of the door, that I started getting a bit worried. And it also put the illustration of poster no. I into new light. The poster kindly requests: “City of Beijing is short of water, please treasure the water, and don’t forget close the faucet in the toilet after use. By the way, we do not suggest you drink the water in the toilet” And under – just to make sure you know – before you have done your erends: Attention: No toilet paper offer here, please buy it in the snack counter if needed”. And whereas poster no. I was colourful and rather optimistic in its’ appearance, this one was dead-serious, typed in dark-blue, and very stiff fonts.
I was stunned. So that was what the posture on the previous poster was all about. The poor man was thirsty, and now he tried to get a few drops out of the toilet. A Chinese habit? Certainly not one of mine!

Uhm! That unforgettable jellyfish!

Infantile? Well, travelling is also to discover these little things like funny misspellings. And in China there are many. Of course, its nice that they have even bothered to make the effort to translate the signs.
But going to restaurant by myself, for instance – can be an experience by itself. Getting a menu full of Chinese signs, is nothing but a nice composition of messy lines and dots to me. Subsequently, my first meal in Beijing this time, was a little more exotic than I had hoped for.
I winded up ordering stuff from a picture-menu, and it was tasty enough. But I wouldn’t have minded so much if they let out the prickly, wobbly jellyfish that came in big, fat chunks that made it look like fat, transparent slugs.
I ate. As I desperately tried to visualize snake- or dogmeat, roasted cockroaches, crickets, ants and bugs – and anything else that may jellyfish seem like very innocent and pure food.
So when it comes to ordering of food; if there is no other solution, one can resign to imitate the desired ingredients: produce naturlike “moooos”, “oink-oinks”, goose-waddle or whatever. Or. You can draw. Personally I don’t know about the oinks and the goose-waddling, but I have tried the drawing technique – with a very disappointing result.
Once my friend Elisabeth and me were both lost, trying to order soybeans in a dreadful (foodwise) Japanese sushi-venue last year. I got my pen out, and carefully drew a bean at the napkin. Neat! The waitress were delighted by my oeuvre, and disappeared with an euphoric exclamation, as if suddenly enlightened.
We never saw any of the delicious soybeans, however. But both Elisabeth and me were utterly surprised by the, indeed adult mackerel that landed in front of Elisabeth a few plates later out in the meal.

Tai qi and rock n’ roll

In the evening, I met up with a friend, Benjamin, that I met during my last visit, when I got lost at a rivercruise down in Guilin. We sat in a rooftop-café in the hutong, sipping tea. The neighbourhood offers many picturesque eateries and venues, and they all have a homey, intimate atmosphere, reminding of something like a mixture of a grandmothers place and a postwar café where people can sit and relax and drift away to better places and better times. Benjamin told me of customs, vanishing traditions and mental gap between the younger and the elder generation, and how he is struggling for a place in the best university in China. I was also taught my third noun in Chinese (“bomb”), and we spoke of how China has become.
The vocalist in legendary Einstürzende Neubauten, Blixa Bargeld, has recently made Beijing his new home. That says it all. Even though houses and buildings are demolished en masse here, and with them; history and époques, stories and emotions, it is a sprawling place full of artistic nerve, atmospheres ranging from underground rock n’roll to traditional tai qi in the park at sunrise. The enormous art-colony in the outskirts of the capital, housing at least a hundred of highly professional galleries, can boast some of the most innovative and sophisticated art there is nowadays. It’s avantgarde. It’s pure energy, a movement with intention and will.
I don’t say that this place has not got its share of problems and downsides, and I don’t even know China well. Not at all. But it’s a energybooster, overflowing with impressions for those who are there to receive them. But you got to be willing to take that jellyfish every now and then!

Beijing. Second day

Getting grilled in good company

Not quite as warm. I quickly discovered the drawback of not having one single long-sleeved sweater in the backpack. I did my packing on one very sunny day back in Norway, and I could not imagine what cold weather would be like. Plus, I have faith in the power of belief and the magic of optimism; if you go for the best – you get the best. But. Mrs. Meteo seemed unwilling to cooperate this morning. In fact all day. A dusty, rather coldish wind swept through the city, as if it was thoroughly making fun of my bikini and summerdresses.
In the evening, I met up with a girl, with whom I shared the four-berth-compartment from southern China last summer. She generously took me to a Korean restaurant where not less than sixteen plates of yummy stuff landed on our table – all devoured within the next two hours (we chose away the eyeballmeat). With extremely attentive staff, we grilled the meat over the charcoals in the middle of the table. It was so hot, that we got slightly barbecued ourselves. At least my eyelashes curled in, and blurred my vision severely throughout the whole meal. Bizarre. What hit me again, however, was the overwhelming food-culture that exists in this country. Not only can China boast at least four very distinctive cuisines – plus imperial cooking, depending on the region, but Beijing is also overflowing with food for the most picky palate. If you have the cash – this is the place to dig in. Food is the source of pleasure, it’s a social meeting-place and a tool and framework for business and negotiation.
I can easily travel to a foreign place, just to enjoy good food. Together with Dubai and Moscow, I think Beijing is a place one can indulge for a long time without getting bored. “Decadence”, I heard someone say? Oh, indeed, decadence! But why pretending you can not have it, when you can?! I think for us single girls in their mid-thirties, exquisite food is one of the last sensual experiences left, let us have it without a bad conscience.

Taxis, grammar and that kind of stuff

I have to mention the taxis in Beijing. Very cheap. Very reliable. And they have these iron bars in between you and the driver, making you – or the driver, all depending on many circumstances, feel a lot more safe. It also makes the drivers look like prisoners.
The very trick about taking a cab here, is to have your mobile phone at hand at all times. Although they are generally mysteriously good at finding their way through the metropole, nothing is as soothing to know that you can call for H E L P!! It’s your connection to the world, your friend and helper.
And talking about H E L P! ! I was also wondering about what I would scream in case of robbery or anything else unpleasant that could happened to me. (Not unlikely, looking back at my record).
I summed up my knowledge again: “ Hello”, “Thank you”, “newspaper/ dumpling (which are still the same word almost – but in different tones), “Norway”, “I” – and “bomb. And “eight” – like the number. A new one today
Somewhere I read that the order of the words in Chinese, is quite similar to the order as we know it; subject, verb, object. Furthermore, for those especially interested in learning it; it may come as a relief to know there is no conjugation of verbs – they’re all in one tense. So when we laugh of Chinese who say: “I go yesterday to bank” – it displays our ignorance about their language, as much as their lack of grammar-skills. But regardless of conjugation, any combinations of these above listed beautiful words, would not bring me any kind of help, I believe. Therefore; tomorrow is devoted to the learning of saying: “ H E L P ! !”

Beijng – third day:

„PO MA LEU ! !“

(”H E L P!!“)
Off to Manchuria

Making a long history short, I spend some very hectic, and interesting days in Beijing. Got myself a new super-camera. And met up with yet another friend from my days in St. Petersburg. She is a journalist in the radio, translating stuff from Russian to Chinese. So we can speak! We had another feast – with her husband and her son accompanying us.
Also experienced a session of Kazakh musicians who managed to capture some very special moments with their monotonous and yet melodious chanting. Okay, it was in an ordinary, tiny café, but the audience, who came from all over the world, were commonly gathered in these moments that took us far away to completely different place.
Anyway – finally I got the meet my Norwegian friend Elisabeth, with whom I grew up, and went to school with. She was my fellow-traveller last year, and my translator and nurse when the altitude sickness hit me with all its’ power in Tibet last year. We had an excellent Burmese-Malay lunch in the embassy area at a pavement café, chatting the day away. She has been in China two years for her doctorate in social anthropology, doing some pioneer work on lesbians in Beijing. Needless to say that she is a resource and a well of information.
At last I got on that train to Mu Dan Jian, a town in northern China. From there I hopped on a bus to Heifenshe, a town nobody in Beijing had heard of. I had to stay overnight, and I spend the day wandering about, observing all the Russians who come over for trade and, also as I discovered – to insult the Chinese as best as they could, making jokes of their accent, commanding them around like slaves and getting drunk and unpleasant. It was a depressing sight. The plus was the hotel. In China you get what would be a four, five star hotel back home for 8-10 dollars. I had a fun time getting massage and cupping service. The cupping itself was not a pleasure, but I could not resist. It made me look like a mushroom, and I am unsure about the effect. But one should try everything in this life!
The staff in the restaurant was very friendly. One of them told me he wanted to go to Russia to study, but could not afford it. But he was saving. After that (Russia), he wanted to learn English. I was impressed. His self-taught Russian was not at all bad, and I just hoped that he one day will be able to get out of the restaurant and be able to deal with Russians in a way so that they will truly respect him.

The three drunkards and the scotch-experience

Taking the train to Russia was a bit of an experience! Most of the Russians come in groups by bus, so the ones travelling by train, are the poorest, most hardcore ones.
At seven in the morning, there were about fifty, sixty of them, with maybe ten HUGE bags each, filled with goods to sell back home. A good deal of them had already had their dose of morning-vodka, and I somehow happened to attract the drunkest of them.
At the train one man with a strange nose, that sort of hung down at one side, sat down beside me. He had tattoos everywhere (which in Russia is a sort of cast-mark that you have been to prison), while his comrade, who had only half an ear on the right side – the rest sharply cut away with a knife or some other sharp tool picked me as their conversation partner. Their third friend had severe stottering problems and some really weird spasms. All of them were drunk like spring-tornados. Their wives were really upset with them, so it was only when their dames looked away, that the vodka bottle came up.
Russians are skilled traders. At all levels. Going in and out of Russia, you can bet your head that they have filled their bags to the brim with things to sell. But this version I had never ever seen before: as we came close to the Russian border, they all started to fix bottles and all kind of stuff directly to their bodies with broad scotch (no – not the drink!), until they could hardly bend. When they moved, it squeaked and cracked. The vodka is 30 roubles (1 dollar) in Russia. Only ten in China! If they caught with as much as a bottle of beer on them, they will get a stamp of denial to enter China for all future.
The guy with the tattoos told me he did some “freelance”-smuggling as well. For this he got a few kopeks. It was just sad and depressing, as well as funny and entertaining at the same time. But that is so much Russia in a nutshell for me; life is hard, but people do as best as they can – and many of them give a hell what may be the consequences. I don’t know if the three merry guys ever made it across the border with no problems. But most probably they did.
As a foreigner in a checkpost that very very very rarely see anyone else than Chinese and Russian traders, the officials were so stunned to see me, that they just hurried me through all the procedures.

A barely walking granny and Russian health

In Pogranichny – the Russian side, I had a downright disgusting Chinese meal before I sat off to Vladivostok on a bus. Again; half way, we picked up a woman, not much older than forty, but sometimes it can be hard to tell the age of Russians, because of conditions of life, drinking and all that. Anyway – she was supported by two innocent-looking happy children, and quite literally placed on the bus. She could have been anyone’s grandmother. But she was drunk out of her wits, spending all the time entertaining the rest of the bus until the driver got sick and told her to drink less next time and behave decently. Nobody was surprised though, neither me. In a nation where the life-expectancy is somewhere around sixty for men – and that is not due to warfare, to put it that way, things like this is a common sight.
I was truly moved last time I was in Altaj, and not one person I met had any dreams, goals or aims for the future, but spend all the money in instant pleasure of different kind (mostly the male part of the population, I have to admit). I had never met anyone who had no dreams before! They did not even understand my question.
Also I read an analysis of brewery business when I was living in St. Petersburg. On the world-scale list of beer-consumers Russia was pretty far down not long ago. Then they suddenly were number nine! And the industry is looking happily towards the future, as there is still no real substantial middle class here. Once it has developed properly, the consume is expected to go heavenly. When living in St. Petersburg, one could spot very young school kids with beer cans in their hands on the way to school every morning. Everywhere people had a beer ready to gulp down. Among the vast majority, beer is not regarded as alcohol, but as a soft drink. In Siberia, however, most of the people I met, preferred vodka and samagonka – self brewed firewater, as its cheaper and the effect is more potent.
But health is not going entirely to hell in Russia. Even though having a tendency to feed on mayo and fatty meat, it is a pleasure to see that more and more places have non-smoking policy. When this can be successful in Siberia with minus forty, fifty, I think it should be possible nearly everywhere else.

Magical loneliness

Moving on towards Vladivostok was interesting. It was unbearably hot, the sky was blue and clear. I have been to Siberia three times altogether (although Vladivostok may not really count as Siberia). Every time I’ve been blessed with good weather. To accompany me, I had Alison Krauss and bluegrass turned on high volume. It was a superb match with the scenery that was as if taken out of a neo-impressionistic art-movie.
The flat fields and pastures-to-be, lay there like an endless painting in beige, grey and brown. The emptiness was like an echo between the sky and the earth. Never have I seen such vibrant, shining brown anywhere, filled with melancholy and something timeless that touches the very existence. Not even in the great Sahara, have I seen such loneliness. If you are lost here, there is no point in starting to run. To where should you head? Everything looks the same, miles and miles with flat fields and an odd, dry tree here and there, like a comma in the infinite line, wetlands and mountains divided by the mighty rivers.

strong>Photographer’s wet dream

Somewhere, in Ussurisk, the weather changed. In one second it went from being warm and sunny to misty, cold and foggy. Fog is the usual weather of Vladivostok, I heard. It is a thick version, that would be every still-photographers wet dream.
The bus pulled in to my new hometown at eight in the evening. Or – actually at five, Chinese time. Although China is huge country, the operate on one single time-zone. In Russia not. So suddenly I was three hours behind.
Got on a bus to the centre, and got a cab to take me to the dorm. I was expected, and I got the keys right away.
The room is far above my expectancies. It was cleaned when I came, it has a colour TV with remote-C, lots of shelves, cupboards, central heating, a kitchenette, huge studytable, telephone, and a bath attached with a bathtub. Real clean kitchen outside, washing machine at the second floor and a lady that scrubs my room every third day. Compared with the little shithole I used to forego in back in St. Petersburg, this is really something! And all for a mere hundred dollars a month. Only the readers who have been studying in Russia can fully understand the true magic of all these benefits listed above.

<strong>PART II: RUSSIAN FAR EAST

Impressions from Yul Brunner-town

Yes, that bold Yul was a Vladivostokian. Today the town lays peacefully at the shores of the Pacific ocean, and shares topographical features with its’ geographical counterpart San Fransisco – it’s made up by hills, hills and more hills.

“Vladivostok” quite literally translate as the Lord of the East. I have no idea who this historical gentleman was, but I’ll inform you as soon as I know. It is probably not referring to Yul, anyway.
The town which once was Chinese territory, lays peacefully in the Golden Horn bay. It used to be off-limit for foreigners, and most Russians as well, during Soviet-times, and it opened up only recently. Maybe that is why its’ inhabitants are so welcoming to visitors. Compared with St. Petersburg which annually get it’s fair share of tourists, this is at the other end of the scale. Should you stand at the street with a confused look in your face, people actually come up to you and ask if you need directions. Remarkable.
The town was founded in 1860, and it served as a naval base already in 1872. In 1891, the town was visited by Tsarevitch Nicholas II who inaugurated the new Transsiberian Rail line.
The number of population is only 650.000, and so it is fully possible to discover the centre by foot. The view from the harbour is quite unforgettable; mighty and dark peaks penetrate the grey fog, and the water has spots of silver as well as all nuances from black to steel-blue. Right now, sea-ice is still glittering in the far side of the bay.
People seem to be in pretty good shape here, maybe due to the hills. But the town is also overflowing with swimming-pools and fitness-centres. Some of he tallest and prettiest girls in all Russia are probably Vladivostokians, and they seem to frequent the sportclubs all day.
From a Kafka-like processes to Paradise

” My” dorm has eleven floors – no lift, hundreds of students, most of them Russian, living under completely different standards than I do (I heard there are cockroaches from the 6th floor and upwards), quite a few Asians and a buffet at the second floor. The faculty lies just across the street, so it is an optimal situation, concerning late mornings.
The way I was greeted in the university was overwhelming, comparing with the bureaucracy-hell-mill in St. Petersburg. There, one would spend at least one week, more probably two, only to register as a student, to get all the papers for the dorm fixed, and pay all the fees, not to mention the hell of having all the right scribbling-scrabbling-signatures from Mr. This and Mrs. That, so that all the sheets were valid, and ready to be stuffed in a thick, dusty portfolio. And not to forget the medical papers that you need. If you bring them in English, they have to be translated. By an official office. And for God’s sake – let’s not forget the Stamps – everything need a stamp, and everything has to be proven by a receipt that most often disappear to the mystical universe of odd socks, lighters and their likes. They are not at all where they should be, when you need them. And so, standing in a queue for three hours, which is not unlikely at all, can prove very unfruitful as – just in that very moment when it’s your turn, the magical paper has bid farewell. God work in mysterious ways. And so do little papers. If it, against all credible odds, is to be found, then most likely, the secretary has gone for lunch.
All this for registering as a foreign student. Plus if you wanted to leave to anywhere, you had to visit many of the same offices to get permission. Signing up for courses would also be a veeeeery lengthy process. Everything seemed to be miles apart too, so you would do a marathon to finish the paperwork.
Arriving in Vladik, I had all this in mind. None of you can imagine my joy and surprise when I discovered that: A: the administration was fifty meters away from my dorm. B: It is also my faculty, where ALL my lectures are given. C: It comprises both canteens, bookshops and a library. D: All the secretaries had more than enough time for me, they were actually looking for me when I arrived (!), giving me a tour (absurd!) with full explanation. I also got all the timetables for all courses. All in one day. No tears, no screaming, stomping with the feet or general waste of energy, cash and frustration. Miracle over all miracles! It was a religious experience. If this can not bring tears to a human beings’ eyes – then what can?
After going to several lectures, I am not too impressed by the actual content of the lessons here. But the teachers and lecturers are very cooperative. They give you personal consultations in whatever subject you like to discuss or have elaborated. However, the approach to science and culture, is old-fashion. (Sic. Not!)
The friendliness does not seem to have any limits, though. Yesterday every foreign student were personally greeted with a bag of Easter-eggs and cake by one of the employees at the administration.
The concept of “here” and “there”

Originally I chose Vladik, because the cultural centre of Russia, as presented abroad, is always Piter and Moscow. I was interested in Russian culture and literature from an Eastern perspective. With Japan, China, Mongolia and Korea as neighbours – and America on the other side of the pool, it ought to be different, somehow.
Indeed, the way of forming the individual during the Soviet time, was firm, and there existed very many common cultural and social references, so that the Homo Sovieticus, whether he or she came from Syktyvkar, Riga or Jerevan, would find some similarities in the behaviour and way of thinking. The different ethnic features were not entirely eradicated, but they were not emphasized either. The degree of conformism is expressed in a funny way in the Soviet-cult-movie “ S legkom parom” (something you say after a session in a Russian sauna), where a guy is (slightly) merry (i.e. thoroughly drunk), whereupon he ends up in a plane to Leningrad. As all towns tended to have the same infrastructural systems, the same kind of architecture, the streets having the same names and so on, he has no idea he is not in Moscow anymore. The guy takes a cab to “his” street, finds “his” building, gets into “his” flat and so on. The next day, he finds himself in a woman’s flat, in a strange street, in a strange town. Surprise, surprise.
To witness how everything slowly develops in all sort of directions (maybe), is thus exciting. Russia is so huge, consisting of so many nations, ethnic groups, cultures and languages, that in a way, I can see the point and use of conformism and creating common framework, common references. At the other hand, as a foreigner, I can never justify the result of nationalistic arrogance and violence (for instance in Chechenya). It is in this sort of discussion Russians and foreigners stand in front of mental gaps that are not easily filled with compromises and understanding. And maybe I can not, as a citizen from a tiny nation who is anyway bursting with self-confidence on one hand (but also shivering from lack of the same), a strong economy and a fairly well-working democracy, understand the reality and above all – the need of always using a certain level of propaganda in the ever-ongoing-nation-building-project. The closest parallel to draw, is perhaps how we relate to our own minority in Norway; the Laps, who has got their own parliament and flag (but nobody really pays attention to their parliament). It is a complex relation. A few decades back, we were busy assimilating the laps, forced them to speak Norwegian and generally treated them like unworthy citizens. So I guess we have to clean our own backyard to clean.

Soft-boiled eggs and a beheading for breakfast

Anyway, I had quite forgotten how the mass-medias work here. It is a very different approach to reality. I remembered the happening in the Dubrovka-theatre back in 2003, where a number of Chechens took hold of a theatre in Moscow, and several people got killed. Russian television showed the dead bodies, blood and whatever unappetizing scenes you can imagine. At all times of the day.
Several of my Russian friends were truly shocked, insisting that it was not usual footage. But they were inarguably shown. And maybe it indicates an abrupt change in the ethics that the mass-medias build upon. In the light of this possibility, I should not be surprised by the news-reportage thrown in my face during breakfast the other day.
That very day a guy had – out of jealousy – beheaded his friend with an axe (because he had an affair with the wife of the first guy). The morning-news showed how the police picked up this head from the ground. And so forth.
Furthermore a Russian friend back in Norway had not long ago, some tests done of her child. She feared there may be something wrong with the coordination, since the child is way premature. However, my friend was utterly dissatisfied with the way the Norwegian doctors communicate.
– Back home, the doctors will give you a cold evaluation of the situation, telling you any little detail that may be wrong, and give you all the spectre of diseases that it can indicate. But in Norway, the doctors won’t tell you if anything is wrong. They always try to give you optimistic information. It makes me suspicious, and I can not thrust the information, she said.
So the approach to reality – both on a broader social level, as well as in personal relations, is truly quite different from back home.
Talking about hospitals, I had to have a total check done in order to have all my stamps in my passport. I had to go to six doctors, do an x-ray and so on. The only test I had to do was to close my eyes and point at my nose. Since that went well, I got everything sorted out on the spot. But please – can anyone tell me what an otolarynologist is doing? I had to go to one, but the dictionary does not tell me what kind of doctor it is.

Don Giovanni di Beijing and Finnish crispbread

The other day, I sat in a seminar on linguoculturology, and the topic was to analyse and trace the origin of different words, put them in different context etc. One of the students told the class a saying, whereupon another girl promptly said; But that is not Russian. That is western.
In St. Petersburg, I often experienced that the one did not make a strong division between “the west” and themselves, quite the opposite. Often would the people point out the fact that St. Petersburg is the window to the west – with an underlying feeling that the word “window” could rather be omitted.
So Vladivostok – is it far east? Is it Siberia? Is it Europe? The inhabitants are predominantly white Caucasian. The culture and social patterns are easily recognisable for a European. But there is also a close relation to Asia. As the Japanese journalist living opposite of me said; It is very comfy to be Asian here, because the locals have adapted. They know our customs, our mentality, they eat a lot of fish – like us, and despite territorial conflicts, there are many common denominators. So Vladivostok is a crossroad, representing a whole range of cultures.
Yesterday I was at the academy of arts, were students performed Don Giovanni. The interesting part was that half of the singers were Chinese, and thus it was definitely a different touch to it. Dressed in wigs and 19th century European costumes (of which some were made of recreated Adidas sportswear), they could break every stereotype in the world.
And of course, globalism has reached town long ago. The Gipermarket (Hypermarket) nearby, offers anything from Crimea-wines, or ruby-red beauties from Bordeaux, to Finnish crispbreads and airborne chorizo from Spain, cheese from Holland, fresh sturgeons which swim in an aquarium situated in between glossy “Cosmopolite”, “National geographic” and “Men’s world”. You can have Chinese apples, fresh rambutan from Vietnam or Norwegian fish.
A whiff of “sea-breeze”

From my private sphere: it seem to be a well established law of nature, that in every student dorm, there must be that someone who has a fundamental need to pester life for everyone else, with his or hers abnormal passion for fish. What is a very unfortunate, that fish-adoring someone seem to always be within my radius.
In St. Petersburg I shared 12 square meters with a depressed Chinese girl who refused to speak. She spend all her time in bed. All her activity was done in bed, or from the bed. She hated Russia, and had a little calendar that she kept watching again and again, as if time would pass faster if she just kept an eye on the dates. She carefully crossed out one day after the other. Sometimes she would open her drawer, pull out the picture of her little child and husband who were waiting for her back in Northern China. She was a sad sight. I felt very bad for her.
She also had a little travel-TV, that she had on her lap, if she was not sleeping, or secretly weeping. If she was not sleeping, secretly weeping, crossing out dates or just generally being miserable – in bed – she would indulge in cooking. Of fish.
I have no idea where she got them from, but she used to buy some very small, white fishes, at the size of a thumb. I guess they were sardines or something. She usually fried them, and ate them with baoze – very tasty, airy dumplings, that she made by hand. In the bed.
Now, people may eat as much fish as they like. But since we spend all our lives in this room, it became very apparent what was on the others’ menu. Results of food processing – internal and external – were noticeable. In this room we had one small cupboard each, and a big wooden one with glass doors. To keep books. And as it turned out; sardines.
Since my neighbour had the habit of cooking extraordinarily large portions, there would always be leftovers. She would place them on the top of the books. Soon the foul gas of slowly rottening sardines would spread and penetrate all our belongings. In the evenings she would lay in bed, watch TV, sometimes remind me what a bad student I was (it is allegedly a good thing to be told off in, as it shows that you have potential, but I did not feel very special hearing this), weep or stare longingly at the picture from back home. I would sit and hold my breath, while fighting with the aspect of Russian verbs, syntaxes and a growing feeling of nausea. My sympathy was fading.
She would keep the fish for several days. It would not have shocked me if it suddenly started to levitate or forego in self-combustion. It was a primitive, but very cunning weapon of mass destruction. And sadly – every time – eventually, she would share it with me. Or in fact, she would bid me to have it all. I guess it was hospitality. Once or twice I swallowed a fish or two – with gills and eyes and all there was, while tears protruding my eyes, and suicidality peering in my mind. Not a gram of my initial sympathy was left. I did not need fish! I did not even stand the word “fish”! I was turning in to one myself!
So, I have just discovered, that the fish-syndrome has followed me all across the Russian steppe and taiga, from the cultural window to the west till the shores, where the Pacific ocean ends. True – the other day the fish-smell had to fade for the smell of boiling pigs-feet, but otherwise, it is constantly present.

Ding-dong – or simply; being persistent

So walls are ricepaper-thin. If my neighbour sneezes, a mild breeze blows through my fringe. And because of the outlet, I can easily detect whether he is home or away, as it serves as a canal for smoke from his cigs. He is, however, a funny soul; a businessman from Tokyo – extremely social, quite anarchic in his behaviour, seemingly quite professional at partying (watched a few hundred photos of his the other day. There seemed to be at least one bottle or girl in every single one of them).
Anyway, some time, around 18:00 last Thursday, my social life exploded, and for the time being, I am literally hiding in my room so to be able to fight on with the mystery of Russian morphology. It sure is a fight, since the bookshops are catering towards the Asian market., there is no good dictionaries to get for English-speakers. Or maybe my English is rotten? Or what do you guys think of how my dictionary translates “ding-dong” (three interpretations. I quote one of them, no 3):

Ding-dong: (adv, coll.): insisting, persistant, serious
(Anglo-russkij slovar’, izdatel’stvo Russkij Jazyk, Moskva, 2000)

Wish me luck!

PART III: RUSSIAN FAR EAST

A prophets report

I tried to finish this letter already two months ago. So I have had to make a lot of changes here. It is there (again) – a bit messy…. But I think you will manage….
I finished my lessons a few weeks ago, and I have been studying on my own, socialising (a lot) and done a few trips. However, we still wear hats, gloves and wintergear here, so its not very tempting to travel for a longer period. The other day I went with six girls to an island outside of Vladivostok. It was so hardcore cold; the cold, the rain and the useless campsite (light only two hour at night, no heating, no washing facilities, swamp everywhere, no bedclothes. In fact nothing at all!) and it was only due to the local amount of vodka that we survived, I think (But actually – people here drink less and less vodka, they have switched to wine and beer).
Not very long ago, I went on another trip with some girls to Khabarovsk. It was also not entirely successful, mostly due to cultural differences; three did not want to spend money and secretly ate sausages in the hotel, one had a neurotic breakdown, crying for several hours, because we could not go to a restaurant (because of the three who wanted to save money), the fourth had no sense of direction. And me. Who turned out to be some sort of a guide. It is adviceable to check the compatibility on beforehand. That is all I can say. We are still friends, though!
Sudba – destiny

However. The nature is more and more amazing, green, flowers and dramatic mountain formations. It’s the coldest summer I have lived, but very interesting. The colours here are unique, and the transformation of Vladivostok from being a grey and dusty place to become a green and flourishing town is a little miracle. So much about nature. When it came to the subjects, it was not exactly a success. I wanted to do contemporary literature here. But due to a teacher in linguistics, the teachers in literature refuse to lecture on the contemporary writers. Not because they are so bad, or because the language is offensive – but they don’t like the subjects that the contemporary are writing about! A kind of weird attitude, but okay.
One learns something here everyday anyway. The other day I saw a reportage on the telly: “How to define middle class in Russia”. Bottom line was that it was hard to find suitable criteria, upon which everyone can agree. One number that was suggested was that a wage of 600 dollars a month would barely be enough to qualify as a middle-class citizen. Also, the middle class in Russia, do not enjoy the same privileges as the middle class in Europe; i.e. holidays, luxury-items, fashion-shopping etc. is extravaganza.
Yet, they are way better off than the immigrant-workers from China, Caucasus, the former Soviet-states and students; Russians as well as non-Russians. Let me tell you about Maryan, who is in my language-class in university. Maryan is a very diligent and smart student, who came from Bulgaria five years ago because his grandfather died. Because he could not afford the return ticket at the time, he stayed on.
He does not like it very much, but this is what life gave him. Now he goes to university. At the same time, he works nightshift in a nightclub. Not because he likes it. But he needs the money; he gets 1 – one – dollar per hour. No insurance, no points for the pension, no social security advantages. Factors on the plus-side: okay – here they are: he pays no tax. This is what people around here call sudba – your destiny, and nevertheless – one of the absolute favourite words for Russians, together with suffering and Russia.

Sergej – The Rasputin

Let me continue a bit on language…since that is why I am here. While living in St. Petersburg, I learned two expressions that have been very useful in my career as a student in Russia. I remember the teacher up there forbade us to use them; “Everything is relative” (“Vse otnositel’no”) and “It all depends on the context” (“Eto zavesit ot konteksta”) – which became magical mantras for anyone who had not done the homework. These answers are always the right ones! So our teacher there hated them. He was, by the way, one of the most interesting characters I have met in the Russian educational system ever. Sergej something.
I have always wondered how Rasputin, with his dirty beard and unappealing looks could have such a magic effect on women. But after having witness Sergej giving masses on declination-systems, formation of irregular verbs and so on, while all the girls eyes turned shiny and glossy and their cheeks blushing, I realise that the chemistry of attraction is an unpredictable phenomenon.
Sergej had long, bushy beard, he was a rather smallish man, and all in all, his advantage was not manhood, but academic humour and weirdness. Besides being very animated himself, he would tell tales about his two brothers; one of them was a hashish-loving rock-musician. The other one was a priest. Sergej was probably a mixture of the two; carrying his brothers pious outlook, but preaching free hashish to mankind. Every protest on this view, was categorically and passionately refused.
So Sergej’s approach to grammar and teaching was unique. No – he did not teach grammar – he was grammar! And as we know – grammar can be very distracting, very sensual, not at all dry and boring, only listen to these terms: heteroclitica, clitica, ø-copula, masculinum, attribut, genus.
Sergej was a figure. And he went bananas if anyone dared telling him that “everything is relative”.
Life as a prophet

The quest for identity still goes on. My surroundings still have some trouble to place me. Home my inside is right, but my outside wrong, here its all the other way around. But rarely have I had such an extraordinary analysis as my neighbours gave me.
Opposite of me, there are two funny Japanese residing; one journalist, and one young student. The first time I met Masaki, the journalist, he may have been a little carried away. He claimed I was the most exotic person he had ever met. Exactly what he meant by exotic, I have no idea. And I thought it was merely an enthusiastic way of speaking. But I must have made an impression. Because next day, he stopped me, and told me in a sincere and serious tone:

Masaki: You know, you are like. . . a prophet.
I (perplexed): ?
Masaki: Like Buddha. Or Jesus.
I: Whatta . . . . . . . ? ?
Masaki: I mean, everybody must like you, even (!!) grandmothers!

Two years ago, while in Sri Lanka, I started to collect strange dialogues for an art-project. This would more than qualify for that project.
First of all, I had no idea that the ultimate recognition of someone, is expressed by the degree of which grandmothers are praising you. Secondly; Who does not like compliments? But prophet?? What the hell do you answer to such an exclamation?
Yes, there seem to be a certain dissent about just the Jesus/Buddha-thing amonth the two neighbours. Two days later, sitting with Masakis neighbour, Kochiro, we were talking about the weather – and as I had been watching the weather-forecast, I could tell it would rain the following day; whereupon he promptly said: “Oh – you must be a devil!”
So as you can understand, it is not easy to fulfil all the expected social roles here.

Stalin – the fisherman?

So for us prophets, and I think for ordinary people too, time is passing in Russia. Not only has prices gone up. Wildly! But so has the level of services and availability of luxury goods. Moscow has the highest density of dollar-billionaires in the world. They all live in a area outside Moscow, where Putin also resides, creating their happy world.
From my window, I can see new blocks in glass and steel. But I can also see houses made of cardboards, barely keeping the rain out, I can see piles of shit that someone just left, I can see Chinese immigrant workers who has to use an outdoor-toilet, I can see flee-ridden stray-dogs and so on. In many ways, the reality here in our dorm, is like the reality the rich billionaires have build in Moscow; sadly, it gives a very limited view on real Russia.
One example that can picture how isolated we are here, is the following from one of my lessons with foreign the students in university. The lecturer talks about Stalin. Then she glances at us, adding; “Oh, do you know who Stalin were?” Personally I got insulted. And I asked the professor whether we looked so stupid? She replied: “But a lot of students coming here have no idea about who he was!”

The Eminem-clone of Ekaterinburg

The other day, I asked my Chinese neighbour, Alla, what differences she sees between the Russians and the Chinese culture. The first thing she pointed out, was the way the two peoples relate to work vs. free-time.
– If there is a leakage in your house on a sunday afternoon, or during a holiday, you can just call the plumber, and he will be there immediately to fix the problem. But here, if something breaks, you have to wait until the working hours. No way you can get it fixed before. The Russians guard their leisure-time thoroughly. Of course, for the human being, the Russian way is more pleasant, she concluded.
That Is not entirely true, though. Let me tell you of my visit to Ekaterinburg three years ago. 9th of May it was. I remember the date, because it is the Djen Pobedy, the Victory Day (II WW), and every single person in town was in the centre, celebrating, having great fun. I was heading home, and I felt quite lonely, sleepy and tired. When I came home, the door (with NINE locks) would not open. So the landlady had to be called. And a locksmith (who looked like an exact Eminem-clone). And thus I spoiled one of the greatest partydays in Russia for two people back in 2003.
But on the whole, Allas point is not at all unfamiliar…

While the bear is asleep…

There is yet another difference. Because of racism, and maybe also tribalism – the Chinese students (especially girls) refuse to go anywhere one by one. In fact they pretty much refuse to go anywhere at all. They have this idea that Russia is a very dangerous place, and that all sorts of crime and murder can happen all the time. So using the old nature-trick; protection in numbers, they will move like one huge Chinese organism from building to building. Otherwise, they stay in the dorm. Many of them have to study here for years, and it is not rare that they will leave this place afterwards, without a single Russian friend.
It is not entirely wrong though. A recent Amnesty-report states that the racism in Russia is completely out of control, there has been a double-ciphered number of killings and triple-ciphered number of attacks already so far, last incident was done by neo-nazis killing in cold blood, a nine-year old girl of Tadjik origin in St. Petersburg. Apparently the Russian government does nothing about it, and when people are taken to trial, they are not charged due to racism-paragraphs, but maybe violence or some other less serious charge that looks better on the official statistics and also gives considerably lower sentences.
This racism is of course also very visible when it comes to other, not-mainstream groups. Gays have a hard time here, they just tried to have a sort of happening in Moscow. They were not guarantees security, and of course there came to confrontations with the church and other conservative groups. So when the Russian bear is asleep, all sort of unacceptable (in my point of view) political directions are flourishing. To put it that way; if you are an African gay, it may be more fun to go to San Fran than Moscow for the weekend.
But then again – Russia is huge, and no need to panic!

“U nas nje kurjat!”

This initially was meant to be a letter on health. Maybe because of the inspiration I found in the local museum.
It was suppose to be a nice, harmonic visit, watching the amur tigers again (stuffed – but very successfully placed in dramatic groups, as you could see last time). Instead, I ended up nearly puking.
They had a temporary exhibition, items from Kunstkamer, in St. Petersburg. Now Kunstkamer must be one of the weirdest museums on earth’s surface, containing everything from foetus of Siamese twins, the oversize-member of Peter the Greats African servant, a sitting mammoth, inner organs of all sorts and so on. Three floors. Upper floor also has the sickest collection of live cockroaches and millipedes I have ever seen (in aquariums), they come in all colours, and sizes).
Here in Vladik, they only had some 20 – 30 items, but the focus was clear: Inner organs, and how dreadful they look after a few drinks, cigs or (ab)use of narcotic substances. The guide was very well-informed, and she told me in details about the effects. I could see little – and big – holes in the brain – all from (ab)use of narcotics, I was shown lungs of a smoker, lungs with tuberculosis, a heart with an enormous blob – thanks to syphilis, I saw kidney-stones – wow – they are huge (!), and very pretty – good for a necklace or a wind-chime – white and round like little stones you can find at a Greek beach or something. They were carefully placed in a glass-container, and it looked mysteriously similar to any standarised IKEA-decoration (sterile, boring, pseudo-innovative), I saw the result of some sexually transmitted diseases that I will not even try to describe for you, and a few foetus; Siamese, a healthy one, and one very unhealthy one (due to mothers intake of alcohol). I was close to throw up many times during the guiding. Finally the guide told me; So, these are the result of unhealthy lifestyle. I hope you will keep that in your mind.
In all Russia, there are more and more places with the sign: “U nas nje kurjat” – No smoking. Drinking in public is prohibited. Officially. At least. But you really don’t see that many drunkards around. But to die in public is still permitted. Two days ago the sun came out. And along with it, all the heavy alcoholics. I just passed by when the police and paramedics picked one up, carrying him away in a worn out, dirty installation that most of all looked like a huge fish net. It was sickening.

“Skip the protests! Buy perfume!”

The last thing I will mention, are all the national feasts they have in the spring, its an endless row of days, possibly only conquered by the official Calendar of Malta (it’s a 365-feast). One of them, I already mentioned; Den Pobedy. 9 april; Victory Day. No need to specify which victory, I believe.
You will automatically notice when it approaches in time, as the medias slowly fill up with historical movies, documentaries and debates. Second World War is incredibly important here in nation-building projects. But interestingly enough, as my professor said: “You will not find many of the older generation who will tell you about the war. Not because they don’t want to, but most of them have blocked out the memories. They were too gruesome.”
Another funny day here, is 8th of March, which is a day when women gets flowers and gifts. My very first Russian teacher in Norway, told me that during the Soviet times, the authorities used to explain the demonstrations and parades abroad with the fact that: “All western women are suppressed and subsequently need to protest. But here, in Soviet, we have solved all these kind of problems. So we can spend this day for pleasure, giving each woman flowers and chocolate and small gifts like, for instance, perfume”. Sweet.

strong>Vladivostok – just around the corner

Due to very high prices everywhere, I had to wave my dream Kamtchatka and Sakhalin goodbye (for this time. . .), and I head for Japan already next week. It will be great to see my friends there, but also sad to leave the excellent people I met here. Most of my closest friends have left already anyway; Matthew from USA, Evy from Germany, Samir from everywhere. . . but I still have the boxer-fighter Johanna (German) with the iron-hand, and Astrid (Austrian), Jeff (USA) left, as well as the lovely Koreans Chang U, Chi Ho and Natasha. And Gota from Japan, a bit of a anarchistic philosopher that I will miss dearly. But there is always departure-time! And now that I have been here once, it seems incredibly close from home!

PS: an advice: if you ever want to hide your credit card, don’t hide in the fridge. I did. And it somehow froze, or it just got stuck. I had to wait for the ice to melt, and then I spend three hours, a fork, a spoon, a knife and some other surgical instruments to get it our again. It was safe. Very safe.

Ah – and a joke (but maybe mostly funny for insiders….):

A Russian man comes into a zoological shop, wanting to buy a parrot. There are three to choose in between. The first parrot, a lovely, yellow beauty, costs only 100 roubles. The salesman says: – Ah, this one can speak ten words, but its’ potential is enormous!
The second parrot is a blue one, and under the cage hangs a note: “50 words. 200 roubles”.
Then the man comes to the third cage. A blue, rather disgusting bird sits in the corner, half sleeping. The note says: “Two words. 12.000 roubles.”
The man asks him, quite stunned: But why so expensive? The other birds know so much more?!…
The salesman says: – Oh, yes, this one knows only two words, but on the other hand; such words; national project!!!

PART IV: JAPAN

With a license to shout

A cry from Japan . . .

This letter will be about contemporary Japan, rather than to retell the history, because truly – this is a country if contrasts and sometimes very weird organisation.
Leaving Vladivostok, was not easy. I had got used to watch the trains on the way to cross the whole transsiberian line from my window. I loved that place! But from Vladivostok I went by ferry to Fushiki. Of course the departure was delayed with 6 hours, and only thanks to my friend Dima, I did not collapse of boredom. The actually trip, was a very pleasant surprise. Food was abundant, and it was an interesting social experience as well. There were only a handful of Japanese, and most of the passengers were Russians going to trade cars. The crossing took one and a half day, and it was very comfortable to sleep and eat my way fro Russia to Japan. Highly recommendable.
Arriving in Fushiki was a warm, humid shock. With 35 kilos on my back, I felt like returning to Vladik immediately. But thanks to my Japanese co-students Yumi and Rjuku, who were going home, I had a very soft start on my stay. They gave me a lift to the nearest bigger town, and put me on a train to Takayama.
The landscape was a great surprise. Let me put it this way: I thought I had seen mountains until I came to Austria. I thought I knew forest until I travelled through Siberia. I thought I knew what green was until I came to Japan. Japanese alps, they are just stunning!

The monk and the shoe-game

Takayama. I found a temple to stay in. The cleanest place on planet earth, most probably. Even by Japanese standards! (Yes, Japan is very clean!) I spend a few days here, getting very amused with the group who stayed in the same place. They were actually quite a naughty lot.
One night we started to drink the Japanese sake. Because after all – it was Dereks (Canadian) birthday. Now the temple had lights-out at 22.00 policy. But that is no hinder for thirsty people. So the four other tourists staying in this temple, decided to sneak out a window. To do that, they first had to get their shoes form the front-door area. (In Japan you place the shoes by the door).
As I heard, they had an extraordinary, adventurous time in the Takayama bars and karaoke parlors. Around six, they came back, through the window, and went to bed. So far so good. The interesting part was checking out time at ten. I got up early and packed my stuff. Then the head-monk came around. He had discovered that the shoes had been moved during the night. And he was not particularly mild-spirited, or impressed by the nightly activities of his guests. So he woke up one after the other. Everyone still slightly drunk, were told to leave! And imagine the confusion when they discovered, as a revenge, the monk had hidden all their shoes, and he was not at all willing to hand them over again.

A disorderly humming

On the bus to Tokyo I met my first sign of one of many notorious “don’ts” and “no’s”. Being in a very good mood, I was humming a little tune to myself as we drove past the green fields and dramatic mountains. Then this little geeky student leans forward and tells me off: “Ssssssh! You are disturbing the whole bus!”
Coming from chaotic Russia, that sort of orderly behaviour is quite a shock. But of course, I had no wish to disturb the whole bus, so – end of humming.
Arriving in Tokyo I can understand why silence is a precious thing. Forget Cairo! Forget Teheran, Moscow and Berlin. They are not cities! Tokyo – such a mess, such a fascinating world of light and sounds, running people, glass, steel and extreme traffic. Getting down in the metro – still with 35 kilos – was like being thrown into a kettle in hell. Hysterical ants. A beehive! I heard Japan suffer from declining birthrate. You would not notice in Tokyo! (Because Japan also suffer from migration from the countryside to the cities).
I found my little hotel in Ueno. My cell – consisting of two tatami-mats (abt 3.5 square meters to roam in), was a medium-sized room. And so I learned another thing; together with silence, space is a really precious thing in Japan.
The best thing about the hotels, is that all of them seem to have the Japanese version of public baths; a rather large bathroom with a deep bathtub. The water is so hot, it feels like your skin is about to fall off, and you can enter only gradually.

When the trousers come off

The next day I was woken up by Tomomi and Satchiko with whom I used to study and share the flat with in Damascus. The program they had prepared is not to be described. They certainly had prepared themselves, turning up with a full supply of tickets and information. We went to the temples of Asakusa, and to the old capital of Japan, Kamakura, they generously fed me in the gems of restaurants, and I stayed with Satchikos family for one night as well. Their generosity seemed to have no limits at all. I especially appreciated that they took a whole weekend off to show me Japan.
Because they, like most people in Japan, work sick hours. People often get up at five, six, to commute into town, where they stay at the work until late in the evening. They would have just enough time to get back to their houses before sleeping time. And so it goes, day in and day out. And no sweet two, three weeks holiday like back in Europe.
In addition, often you may have to take your customer out for a dinner in the evening. And as I learned from Tomomi and Satchiko, this is not a particularly funny event: “Ah, you have to sit and smile stiffly all evening until it hurts in your cheeks. And these businessmen, they would come on to you. And when they get drunk, many of them just pull off their trousers. In the restaurant. It’s very unpleasant!”
I can well imagine.
“May I see your licence, Sir?”

However. The girls took me to the traditional theatre; kabuki. It is hard to describe, but they are traditional, historical dramas, played mainly by men only. The costumes and the stage-decoration is exquisite. The singing resembles the high-pitched miaowing of the Beijing-opera. It is a highly estetic experience, but also a slightly weird and sometimes funny; during the play (for which many people allegedly first and foremost come to enjoy a nap), one or two people would shout out their praises, and maybe clap. But only one or two. I asked my friends about this. And we learned from the lady in front of us, that these people have a license to shout and clap! The clue is that there are different times in the play, where you are allowed to do this, and it is very hard to know exactly when is the right moment. So you need experience!
But how to you get such a paper? And if I clapped in the wrong place, would someone come up to me and ask me to produce a license?!. . . My friends meant that it was not entirely unlikely. I was nearly more amused by this fact than the play itself.

“Attention, please!”

I also had the pleasure to meet yet another former roommate, this time from my stay in Sankt Peterburg, Russia. Yoshiko and me shared a little rotten room for some time, and indulged in wild eating orgies and I learned much about Russian ballet in this time, as Yoshiko is a fanatic about just that. She used to go to the Marinsky theatre nearly every day for a whole year.
So Yoshiko really has a heart for culture. And thus we spend the whole week going from one excellent museum to the other, watching century old ink-works and Japanese art. If we were not in a museum, we would most probably eat. With Yoshiko its easy to get fat and wobbly.
One night we went with her husband to a café. A big, fancy place. And I got to know how you can draw attention in one second. I was just explaining how to gain respect in a classroom as a teacher. And to illustrate this, I was banging my fist moderately hard in the table. As I said, the café was a huge room. There must have been a good 100 – 120 people there. In one second, they all went silent, and their heads turned towards us. An irregular noise? What was this? Yoshiko and me started to laught uncontrollably, and they just stared at us, as if we were trolls with two heads, having coffee and cake.
It was hilarious, but in the big picture, it also says something about the appreciation of order and not standing out in the mass.

Conformism vs. extremism

Which brings me to another story. In Takayama I met this photographer from New York (Akira Ruiz), so while in Tokyo, he took me to Shibuya, a district with a very young and energetic feel. Here you can see, I would claim without any fears of being wrong, the most bizarre looking girls in Asia.
These girls (and some boys too) rub their faces with a dark brown substance, it appears to be shoeshine or chocolate. On the top of this, they smear colours and make up on their faces to the degree, it is just grotesque. Of course peroxide-bleached hair and extremely plastic-looking clothes come with the image. They are sort of tribal and hang out in groups. I am uncertain of what hey actually are doing. They seem to just hang around certain cafes and venues, just like buffaloes gather around waterholes on a hot day on the savannah.
So maybe the extreme conformism in Japan, is also producing some extreme needs of breaking loose from prohibitions and rules, creating these kind of very special girls and boys.
The metro is a good place to observe the public behaviour-patterns. Although there are several eccentric individuals to spot, it is basically a place of silence and no eye-contact whatsoever. No excessive movements. No chit-chatting with the man next to you.
Yoshiko told me a general rule (of course a bit of an anecdote), of how to tell Japanese, Korean and Chinese apart. “If you smile to a person on the street, and he or she smiles back, it’s probably a Chinese. If the person looks at you, but do not really know how to react, it may be a Korean. If there is no reaction at all, it could be a Japanese”.
But as Akira told me, being half-Japanese himself: “You know, even Japanese, appearing to be so polite – deep, deep, deep down inside, also they say “Fuck you!”, you know.

No helmets!

And so he pointed out the fact that peoples emotions are really just all the same no matter where you are. It just comes out (or not) differently. But even though people are the same, systems are not. Time has come to say something about the Japanese love for inventing systems.
Typically you can be in the middle of nowhere in Japan. Mountain. Forest. Beach. Wherever. But you will never be alone. Together with you, there will be at least one vending-machine. You can always have an ice-cold drink. Or a steaming hot one. Or batteries. Or beer (although the age-limit is supposed to be 20 ys.). Or used – dirty panties. No. I won’t elaborate on that one. If you are such a wacko, you can go there and figure out the details yourself.
Furthermore, you will often find yourself carrying these empty bottles for the rest of the day, as there are no dustbins anywhere – due to fear of terrorism, and secondly, because the government wants you to think about your consumption and waste.
Unlike many other places, you can smoke inside of restaurants and bars. But not outside! In the streets you can see specially designated areas for smokers. No butts in the streets. Goes without saying.
For operating the toilets, you would need a certificate. There are so many buttons and functions, you could spend long hours to figure out the joy of all of them. Japanese have also raincoats for their dogs, rotating garages (due to lack of space) – which quite literally lifts your car up in the air until you come to take it down again, they have a practical one-hand-umbrella-parking-operating system, and sausage-like bags for the umbrellas you would bring into a shop.
The buses are luxurious and you can make a bed out of your seat. But they are all empty, because the extraordinarily expensive trains go faster.
Even though Japanese are obsessed by hygiene and cleanliness, it is the first country I have been to where hotels have no sheets. Bring your own. Or sleep without any.
It is also impossible not to mention all the “No!” and “Don’t” signs. They are in your face all the time. “Don’t run!”, “Don’t smoke!”, “Don’t shout!”, “No dogs”, “No talking” and so on. My favorite “No”, was to be found on the door of a convenience store: “No helmets”

Kamikaze-bikers

The counter- reaction to all these regulations, can best be observed in Kyoto. Kyoto is a relatively flat city, Chinese lay-out (perpendicular streets. With names! In Tokyo the streets mainly have no names. Only numbers. And thus the maps are very precise, but without names. Leaving the foreigner in total confusion). All these factors make Kyoto a perfect biking-ground.
If you ever dare getting on a bicycle there, make sure you have a helmet (but for God’s sake – do not forget to take it off if you should go to the convenience store!), and other devices to save your life. The bikers go in all directions, in all files. Always withy the umbrella is one hand (against sun. or against rain). Nevermind the child who sits in the back, or all the vegetables piling up in plastic bags in the front basket. Light? Excessive luxury. The most important; bike as if Satan were right behind you, ignore the streetlights, ride in a most surprising and unpredictable pattern; left, right, middle, sudden u-turn. Still not amused?? Try a bike-slalom using the little grandmothers and death-drunken businessmen as turning-points.

“Is this a brothel. Or…?”

So being in the former capital (another one) – Kyoto, I had the chance to live with another former co-student from Russia, namely mister Iwao – the most famous Japanese of all times in Sankt Petersburg. No matter who you ran into in Piter, they had always met Iwao.
Staying in his apartment, made a perfect base to see Nara – a former capital (yet another one!!!), Osaka and also the inside of some pretty funny clubs.
One night, we ventured out in nocturnal Kyoto with he and Janosz from Warszawa. It was memorable. The karaoke was unforgettable. You rent a little room for as long as you need, and hey bring you drinks. It is very similar to brothel. And yes – the place was pink from the floor to the ceiling. Because we were in the ladies floor. Whatever that means.
Iwao was working really hard while I was there, and I am very grateful that he let me stay. One day his vacuum-cleaner exploded. Others would be stressed out of their wits. But he told me he did some exercises of staying calm. Impressing.

Businessmen – and their biceps

They say that if you cant drink a lot, you will be a poor business man in Japan – because of the need to take customers out in bars all the time.
Before I came, I looked forward to see the bathing monkeys hopping in the onsens. Never got there. My second expectation: to observe business men.
Drunk out of their wits, looking a bit like monkeys when they travel home (or not), half dead because of their insane schedules at work and the drinking (obligation/ to take of stress), they are a bit of a phenomenon to watch, as they hang from one arm in the metro, rotating like little human helicopters, ties pointing sadly down towards the ground.
One night I went to Osaka with a colleague, with whom I worked with in the EMAAR-symposium in Dubai a few years ago. Masahiro Hasegawa. On the way to Argentina, he first had a vernissage in Osaka, and I came along. The opening was a great happening, and afterwards, we went to a bar. And I met some real businessmen.
Now businessmen are very exotic creatures to me. I never understood what is a real businessman. And why would anyone wish to become one. And what do they actually do? How do they live their lives?
In this pub I had the chance to discuss Meaning of Life with some very representative businessmen. And later on – also to armwrestle with a few of them (my favorite-moment of the trip).
I was surprised how unhappy they seemed with everything. They hated their schedule. They dreamed of a quieter life. How unhappy a society is when people still seemed forced into crazy working-hours, just to make a survival. To me it is more an existence than a life.

“Hiroshima, mon amour”

Hiroshima – meaning broad island next. I had very high expectations. And I was not disappointed. Except from the A-bomb, I met and stayed with David Hurley and his family – one of the nutter Paul Bradbudys friends (I met his other friend, Tom Bidwell up in Tokyo where we had more than enough beers. On beforehand, I read that there are more than 4000 bars in Hiroshima. More than one for every hundred citizen. And I had heard rumours of Hurleys endurance. Which proved right.
I remember one book, I think by Margerite Duras, called “Hiroshima, mon amour”. Although I never finished it (because my patience with French language ran short), I remember one sentence: “You know nothing!” referring to the fact that if one was not in Hiroshima at the actual time of the bombing, there is no way to imagine what it was like.
But the museums and memorial-halls are doing a darn good attempt to convey the real experience. The stories, the images and the models were so shocking, I walked around with tears in my eyes for several hours. Some of the stories were so gruesome, I did not manage to read them till the end. The halls were full of people, but there were no sound, no talking, everyone had this strange, paralysed look on their faces. Outside was hot, steamy, humid, the lively town surrounded by green mountains and divided by waters and rivers seemed so relaxed and untouched – could it be the same place?
Truly, I have never been so impressed and maybe depressed by any museums in my whole life. This place alone, made my trip to Japan worthwhile. Every politician in the world should be forced to spend some days here! It was also great to talk to the people, everyone seemed to be extremely conscious about the importance of peace and peacekeeping work.

Oh dear! Naughty, naughty deer!

My favorite nature-spot in Japan, must be Miyajima. It is an island with a huge Shinto-complex. However, the island is also famous for its tame deers who are just wandering about, pestering tourists. In Nara they are present too, and it’s all because they are regarded as holy animals. But these holy animals have no respect for human beings.
In Nara it’s said that they are polite deers. Japanese deers. So they bow. Still I saw one hungry deer eating the map of a Dutch tourist. Now well, as the maps have no streetnames, it’s hardly a disaster to loose it. But the guidebook warns you to take care of your valuable JR-trainpasses (which can only be purchased outside of Japan – another weird system!), as these very expensive tickets can not be replaced. And yes – it has happened that naughty deers ate them! I also saw a deer going into a shop, helping himself with wooden toycars. The seller turned choleric, and watching her hunting down this respectless Rudoplh, was a hysterical sight.
One of the funniest women I met on this trip, was a Japanese who insisted we travel together to Miyajima. She could only speak Japanese, but her stream of words was unstoppable. As we got to the island, she saw one deer chewing on a handkerchief. Very decisive, she fought with the animal to take the cloth away. Finally the animal gave up, and she raised the wet, little slimy cloth in the air, like a proof of victory. Now as you remember from a few chapters up, there are no dustbins outside. So she had to carry it for a while. But then she got sick of it. And headed towards a mailbox. She stuck one of her hands inside to inspect the space. Then she threw the slimy cloth inside as she giggled wildly. She must have been around 55. She was great!
But these deers? Holy or not – someone has got to stop these wild beasts!

The fishy drink and sea-urchin icecream

Finally I got to Shimonoseiki. This town reminds me a lot about Istanbul. And it actually has a friendship-town-agreement with just Istanbul. The Kanmon-strait (which you can walk under to the other side in a tunnel), is busy with huge ships and oil-tankers and one little UFO-shaped boat for sightseeing. A lot of the people I met here, were so welcoming and friendly, that I felt a bit sad that my Japan-trip had come to an end.
In the nearby town, Chofu, I saw some Samurai-temples. The Heike/ Minamoto and Heiri clans clashed into a major battle here centuries ago.
The town is also famous for the fugu-fish. This fish contains tetrodotoxin “a poison that makes cyanid look like chicken feed”, according to the Australian Bible (Lonely Planet – who has made the planet overcrowded with enthusiastic backpackers who needs to meet indigenous tribes and starving Africans in remote villages). The poison is in the liver and other organs. Chefs must have a certificate to prepare it, and a number of people actually die from it every year. Irresistible!
There are not many challenges left in this world. The north pole has been conquered along with the south pole. Man has walked on the moon. But a fugu-meal!? That was definitely going to be my major goal in Shimonoseiki!
But as it turned out to be a sickly expensive treat. And the hotelkeeper told me it is not worth the spending, because the fish has no taste at all. So I did well with the sake – set on fire as it was brought to the table, and inside; a fugu-fin. Very unusual combination. It smelled of fish. It tasted fish. Not bad. But an aquired taste indeed.
Still – it can not beat the soft ice cream, flavoured “Sea Urchin”.

Floating all the way to Korea

The ferry over to Korea was a positive surprise. It had a huge onsen (Japanese bath) inside. It is a quite interesting experience to sit inside the water and watch how the waves of the sea outside are transferred to the pool-water inside of the boat.
. Altogether, I learnt a lot in Japan. But the highlights were to see my friends. Japan as a place to live, is way too orderly and organised for me. When I was not with my friends, I also felt quite lonely. I found it is quite hard to connect to people.
Unfortunately, Japan is far too big to cover in just three weeks, but I was lucky to see some amazing places anyway. I think that I am mostly struck and fascinated by the contrasts within the society and people.

<strong>PART V: SOUTH KOREA

Where tigers and foxes marry

I arrived in Busan on a very rainy day. It kept pouring down for a week. All the rain I was spared for in Japan, was to be found here. In fact, it seemed that all the rain in the whole world came down in this coastal town of South Korea.
I checked in to a love-hotel, an invention for couples who need a hideaway for a few hours. But these love-hotels hold quite high standards, so I don’t mind staying there. The only difference from a normal hotel, is that you can check in for a few hours, and they have all the “needed supplies” in the bathroom. Right behind the hotel was a huge international market, and lots of Russian pivny bars – and also a lot more dirt than in Japan.
You may wonder – did I have a rush of sentiments of “My country” when I arrived? I feared I would have to deal with a broad spectre of complex emotions. But in fact, I was disappointed over my own reactions. Strictly spoken, knowing myself, I expected a little more hysteria than usual! It did not even get close to an average Oprah Winfrey show. It was special for me to get there – I mean: the idea. But where the hell was the rush of heavenly self-insight? Where were my sentimental reactions? Hello?

A sacred place

The first temple I went to, Pomosa, was a great surprise. It is a almost mysterious place, situated in the northern hills of Busan. As I walked around, I recalled David Hurley’s (from Hiroshima) words: “Koreans seem to take their religion pretty seriously”. The sound of bells, drumming, the sight of kneeling and meditating believers, put me in a most spiritual mood.
Therefore, it was sort of disturbing getting approached by the only other foreigner there – who was an extraordinarily talkative one too! He kept following me around, asking me questions about the number of countries I have ever visited, telling me the exact number of “his”, and bragging about how he was going to North Korea the week after. Going there, you have to cash out an absurd sum of money, then you will be followed around at any time by guards, who take you to well prepared showcases. So you will not experience the “authentic” North Korea in any case.
North Korea seem to attract two types of people; politically interested people. And travellers who need to have the place on their “list”.
Anyway – his presence was just enough to ruin my peaceful visit. I tried to hide in a temple, pretending to meditate. But even though I sat in the temple for half an hour, he waited outside until I finished, and did not leave me before we were back in the centre of the city.

Inventing an alphabet – the Hangeul

Korean alphabet, Hangeul, is a constructed alphabet (Joseon dynasty) , when King Sejeon in 1446 decided that Korea needed an alphabet by its own. Until then, Chinese characters were the only tools for writing. Chinese characters are still used in both Japan and Korea. But while the characters were simplified in China during Mao’s time, the Koreans use the complex ones.
The Hangeul is commonly known as the “morning alphabet”, as its said to be so simple that one can learn it during half an hour over the breakfast in the morning. That is an exaggeration. But it is not hard to pick up. And it is worth learning it, because the transliteration system sucks, and many signs will be in Korean only. My Korean speaking abilities, however, is a joke. I know the names of much food. But I still can’t produce the most common greetings. It is not something I am particularly proud of, but that said – talking to Koreans is very complicated. They have the Confucian tradition of giving each other social status, following the rules of five relations: king and subject, father and son, man and wife, older and younger brother, and friend and friend. Depending on the relation of the person you speak to, you use different endings on the words.
Creating sentences are also confusing. Word order is chaotic, seen from an Indo-European, or even Semitic standing point. Korean belongs to the Ural-Altaic language group to which under also Turkish, Mongolian and Japanese are classified. Sentences are created by adding suffix after suffix (suffixation) on a “base-word” to create a full meaning.
Therefore: Korean sounds surprisingly Mongolian, Tibetan or Central-Asian, rather than Chinese or Japanese. Also a lot of the music sounds much more Turkic than Chinese.
There was a second reason to learn the alphabet. I wanted to try dog while here. They believe it’s very good for the health – and probably the stamina too (stamina-food is very big in Korea). But I wanted to decide myself when the dog is to appear on the plate. Alphabet seemed to be the key. Finally my conscience told me not to try it, however, as the dogs are severly beaten before cooked, as this is allegedly the way to make the meat more tender.

The luck of fermented beans

Food was also the factor when I met the Lee-family who immediately took me under their wings.
The first night in Busan, I wandered about in the small street, under the heavy rain, I was starving, and everywhere I looked, I could not find any readable menus. All of a sudden I found myself in the front of a tiny eatery, engulfed in the most repelling odour you can imagine. I wanted to puke. Or run away. But then there was this moment when the woman working there, caught my eye. And I felt very obliged to step inside.
The smell was penetrating. But I ordered a plate of it. Fermented beans. Very fermented, it seemed. Then there was this guy sitting in the place, together with his daughter. Mr. Lee. He explained me what I was eating – and which anyway turned out to be extremely tasty. The second sentence he uttered: “I wish you would come and stay with my family in our house, at least for one night”.
I thought he was joking. But he was not.
The next day I met up with him and his wife, Sun Hee, who is an English teacher. We had lunch and coffee, and next thing; they invited me to go to the mountains with them that weekend. What a hospitality!

Silly names, and a devoted Norwegian

But first I went to Gyongju. Ii is the former capital of Korea, during the Silla dynasty. It is famous for the Bulguksa temple, numerous other shrines and temples, graves which are scattered about in the area, resembling green giant pimples and other ancient structures.
Of course I was happy that I had arrived in the right town. Because names of Koreans towns, especially when your pronounciation is as lousy as mine, seem to be all variations over one name. Just try these ones: Gyongju. Gwangju. Gongju. Yeongju. Jeonju. Cheongju. They are all different towns.
The first evening I spend over a bottle of plumwine with a Scottish girl. And it was she who told me about the temple Golgulsa. It is the world-centre of the martial arts-form: Sun Mo Do.
She told me that she had met a Norwegian who was teaching there. And quite right – there was this boy, only 23, already a teacher. Some three years ago, he had been on an excursion to South Korea with his school at the time. He decided to stay to learn enough so to open the first teaching centre in Norway. Following a most strict regime (getting up at four every morning!) starting his career by bowing not less than 3000 times. Per day! I was really impressed by his attitude. He may be only 23, but his reflections upon balance, physical and mental harmony, plus breathing control, was deep-felt and sincere.
Gyongju was furthermore a fine place to bike around, spend weeks trekking and meditating. I had no time for all that, but hitchhiking around, I managed to cover quite a lot anyway.
Discovering Korean potato-fields

Back in Busan, I caught up with Mr Lee and his two children. We immediately went to the mountains around the Jiri mountain. There Mrs Lee joined us, with a group of teachers from her school.
We stayed on an organic farm-complex/ hotel, belonging to Mr Lees brother and his lovely family. In the middle of the wild, wild nature, in the mountains, surrounded by dense forest, and a huge dam, they cultivate their own organic vegetables and emphasizes traditional life. The main building had electricity, but their wooden huts had no lights but candles, there was an outdoor toilet. In the garden, the huge kimchi-jars were piling up, one after the other.
I had many expectations arriving in this land, but I could I never have guessed that the first weekend in South Korea, I would stand with my feet in black, wet soil, harvesting potatoes the good, old way. I have glittering memories, doing that with my grandparents and my nanny ages ago, now all these childhood-images came back. Thanks to this prosaic vegetable, I was doing some serious bonding to this country, standing with my feet in a potato-field. Bizarre!
The whole weekend was a neverending feast of food and tastes, great company as one family after the other arrived and stayed overnight. In the evening we sat around the longtable, every one had to perform in the lights of candles; songs, games and some martial arts. I had to sing the Norwegian song: “Eg heiter Håvard Hedde” for the fourth time during this trip. Thanks to my insisting primary school music teacher for equipping me with such a fine cultural-bridge-building-tool.

“A squid waffle?”

Back in Busan, I continued to stay with the Lee-family in their modern, comfortable flat. They are very healthy, Mr Lee getting up at four, like the monks, to meditate. Mrs Lee was a compassionate yogaist, and both the children were taking martial arts classes every day.
In general Koreans seem really healthy. Smoking is regarded as incredibly bad – much worse than drinking (Koreans are, by the way, said to be the latinos of Northeast-Asia: parties, socialising and a some very adult drinks are always welcomed there, it seems). The mountains are all swarming with trekkers and hikers, virtually every Korean knows one or another form of martial art, gyms are very popular, and golf, tennis, biking and all kinds of outdoorsports are cultivated on a great scale.
The food is also a part of the healthy lifestyle. Before I came, I heard so much about the Korean barbecue and meat. But most of the everyday-diet consists of vegetables. I can not imagine an average Norwegian man being satisfied eating so much vegetables, as the Korean men do.
You would think it makes people small. But getting proteins from all the soya-products, fish and egg, makes them very healthy and fit. The later generations are very tall and solidly build, also thanks to dairy products.
I managed to get pretty addicted to dried seaweed there, and the blood sausage stuffed into pork-intestine was also a great surprise. But the hot squid-waffles that have an intense smell of burnt hair and skin, will never ever be my favourite-dish.

“Be a good boy, finish your plate!”

While in Busan, I had the chance to see Tongdosa-temple complex as well. Mrs Lee, who I met in the mountains, took me there. We had lunch in there as well.
Lunch is offered in many of the temples in Korea, but don’t take more than you can meet. Leaving as much as a grain on the plate, is frowned upon.
The next day, TaeYuen, the son of the Lee-family, took me to an island right next to Busan. From here, one can spot some Japanese islands, if the day is bright. Unfortunately it was a very hot day. All of a sudden, he said: “When the weather is changing many times during one day, we say that Lions get married. Lions or foxes”.
That was a curious thing. One can discover quite a few things about the national psyche and folklore by tracing the origin of such sayings, phenomenons or habits. But neither he, nor anyone else I asked, knew the origin or explanation of this saying.

Two dog lovers

Leaving the Lee-family was sad. They had given me the full freedom of staying as long as I wanted. They had fed me. And most of all – they had taken great, great care of me, from the very first second.
But I have this rule that I heard somewhere a few years ago; food and guests go bad after three days. Although it is silly to apply such general rules to every situation, I still believe it is a quite wise saying. Besides, their son was about to leave for a year to America a few days later.
So I took the ferry to Jeju-do, an island in the south. I met so funny people there. For instance a couple in love (Jeju-do is “love-island”, couples in love, and newly married go there to celebrate loooove). However one of the problems they had was this. The boy loved dog-meat. In fact it was his favorite dish. While he told me, he was sending sideways glances towards his girlfriend, as if to calm her down. “You see, she loves dogs. She has quite a few, “ he added. Many? “How many? Four? Five?” I asked. “200,” she told me.
She – and her family started out with a considerably lower number, but as they take care of streetdogs, they soon found themselves having a whole menagerie of the Korean national dish running around in their private garden. “I think it is crazy! It cost a fortune to feed all these animals,” said the boy, with a disbelief in his voice, as if this fact was new to him too.
Not exactly bikini-island…

In Japan I was told that despite beautiful beaches and unbearable hot weather, only children swim. I thought Korea would be better. And yes, people go to the beach. But. I found myself being the only girl in bikini, among thousands and thousands of holidaymakers. It was not very pleasant. Or, the men seemed not to mind. At all. But I had some very suspicious looks from a few grannies and other women. No need to upset the locals, I thought. God knows what an annoyed Korean granny could be like! So therefore I slipped into my decent shorts again and – soon I resorted to the mountains. To be honest – I started to be a bit sic of this Asian summer, especially as reports from Norway ticked in, and I knew there was 40 degrees back home and people were practically living right on the shore, never coming out of the water.
Well. The tropical Jeju island can offer lots of volcanic mountains, waterfalls, craters and also the tallest mountain in Korea is to be found there. In the hills you can see flocks of horses grazing alongside with cows. From the top of the mountains you can see the ocean stretching for miles and miles. It is amazing!
Just like the Japanese, the Koreans are very honest. One day I took a taxi, I was standing in a little shop after I paid him. After a good quarter of an hour, he managed to track me. Meanwhile, he had found my camera in the back of his car. I was so perplex, I don’t think I managed to thank him fully, like I should have done.

About face and outfits

Several times people told I have a traditional face. What on earth did they mean by that? Turned out I have a face with features typical of the last century. Or the one before that. Or as a girl told me: – You know, these days women undergo plastic surgery in order to look better.
Silence.
I was puzzled. Finally I decided to be happy to not have an untraditional face. At least.
Anyway – these days North-Asians are taller, fatter and more solidly built than earlier. Dairyproducts, fast food, better economy – it is all changing the physics.
Anyway, when it comes to dressing, I figured I prefer the Korean national costume to the Japanese and the Chinese (although Chinese are very numerous, but I am talking about the slim, tight-necked type). Japanese can hardly walk in their complicated kimonos, and the Chinese look great, but they can not really sit or eat while wearing their stuff. But wearing the hanbook, as Tae Yun said: “Even fat people will look good in it.”
Its wide-sleeved and voluminous, but according to women, it is anyway very unpractical, as it gets in your way. But – it is great for food orgies!

Travelling calamares

Feeling rather tired, I was half asleep in the bus on the way to Seoul. Tired, okay – but hallucinating? All of a sudden I thought I saw calamares! Once, when hitchhiking to Poland, I was so exhausted, I saw ostriches in the field on the way to the Auschwitz camp. But calamares? Turned out that it was a transport of live seafood. I was on the way to Seoul. And so were they. In the truck, they had little windows to tap on with their shiny tentacles. In the front, the driver was whistling away. As if it is a perfectly natural thing to drive a truck with a whole little sea in the back. And what were these travelling squids thinking with their small brains, as the Korean landscaped passed outside in the speed of a 110 k’s an hour? Truly – man is a weird creature. But well, it’s a good thing to know that fresh seafood means fresh seafood, even in Seoul which is an inland town.
The scene also reminded me of Laurie Anderson’s great performance “The ugly one with the jewels”, where she tells the story of the man who claim he can communicate with whales. Telepathically. And one of the whales which are swimming around in a great tank, keeps asking the same question again and again: “Do all oceans have walls?”

Modern times

In Seoul I had my birthday – do you know they count one year extra in Korea, as they count the time in the womb as effective time as well? I splashed out and had Korean blood-sausage, a surprisingly super-tasty thing wrapped in real intestines. Not for the faint-hearted there.
I spend one week just being in Seoul, going to exhibitions, I saw the show of my Japanese artist-friend again, Mr. Hasegawa. I was taken to the biggest salsa-society in Korea by my friend Kang who is teaching there – that was great, great fun!
Also got my Mongolian visa, and managed to meet three of my study friends from Vladivostok. Two, Jin Hi and Se Yun, were even in my group in the university (we were only five). They really knew how to take care of a guest! We had lots of fun, and I enjoyed hearing them talking about how it is to be caught in the middle of a cultural bridge. They have been living in Russia for a considerable amount of time. Now they have trouble to accept the Korean lifestyle, especially their status as women. The women are generally more independent and freer in Korea, than for instance in Japan (by far!), but the cultural code is still Asian, the strictness of the Confutian moral structures, still puts the women as a second best only. According to my friends. And they are not very willing to accept this. Still they were dreading the perspectives of getting a Russian husband, just in case the standard package applies: too much alcohol, hanging around and just not do very much at all.

My toe who/ which visited North Korea

One of the “must-do’s” in Seoul, is to go to Panjammun, the Northern Korean border. I could not resist. And well, it was interesting to see the Northern Korean tourists on the other side, and allegedly we were standing at their territory at one point. Not that my foot really noticed. Apart from that, it was just another border, and you could learn just as much from sitting quietly in your hostel and read about it.
Finally – with the most devilish hangover, I got on the ferry in Incheon. I recommend the ferries in Asia for everyone with a little spare time. So comfy, and always with these spa-like installations. On the way we also passed mystical mountains, said to be Northern Korean territory.
I had a personal stalker on the ferry, but apart from that, it all went very well! Had spend nearly one month in Korea, and it was time to move on. I was going back to China. My favorite place. I was really excited about it!

PART VI: CHINA

China; the land of dreams

. . . and perversions ?

I nearly missed the ferry to China, due to some experiments with South-Korean drinks. The hangover was inevitable. So as I climbed on the train from Seoul to Incheon with my luggage, struggling with the surprisingly muscular Korean grandmothers who, due to a most cunning Confucian-system, rule every seat in the public transportation in South-Korea (and presumably in North-Korea as well), I cursed a) my luggage b) the weather c) the ferry-schedule d) all grandmothers on the Korean peninsula.
However, I just made it in time. And the trip was gorgeous. We passed mystical islands on the way (I heard they were Northern Korean territory, but that seemed a bit odd to me that they would allow commercial ferries to pass every day), the moon lit the up the sea and there were hundreds of little fishing boats blinking their lights up against the horizon.

Qingdao – Munchen in thirty minutes

I stayed several days in the coastal town Qingdao, which is situated relatively close to the very sacred mountain Taishan. In fact, it was in the Laoshan mountains that the scholar Lao-Tzu gave birth to Taoism.
These days Qingdao is famous for a) Their German brewery and b) nice beaches. Subsequently it will host the regattas during the 2008 Olympic games. You can already feel the vibe. Posters and banners hang everywhere: “Civilized Qingdao Greeting the Olympic Games”
There was a beer-festival on when I arrived. The Tsingtao beer is said to be the best in China. A ridiculous number of Germans had arrived to do a beer-pilgrimage. They were to be spotted in the beer halls with huge, naked bellies, one-litre glasses between their German hands, and yodelling out their favourite national beer-tunes.
Unfortunately beer is hardly my favourite drink, so I did not really get to celebrate the German gift to Chinese beer-lovers. But I went with my fellow travellers; Sky and Asia (yes, those are real names!), to see the at least 20 000 Chinese and foreigners there altogether. All of them seemed to sing karaoke, eat grilled squid and partake in drinking competitions. So it was a very colourful experience nevertheless.
My Korea-experience was somehow prolonged as I stayed in a Korean guesthouse – it was perfect in the sense that it was two minutes away from a clean beach, and one minute away from the best massage-parlour in Qingdao. For three days I was commuting between the two places.

“Six thousand bridges and clever merchants”

My trip in China was severely aborted, due to my upcoming Mongolia-experience. So the only place I went to after Qingdao, was Suzhou, a city near to Shanghai.
Suzhou is not what I thought it would be. But that is not Suzhous fault. To be honest, it is not really mine either. I thought Suzhou is a sort of a backwater province-town. Last year, while in Beijing, CCTV (Chinese TV), showed a reportage about Suzhou. And they had filmed only the quiet, serene and idyllic places. I just knew it was close to the Grand Canal – Da Yun He,
It is quite a sight to see the barges go upstream and downstream on this enormous construction, that is beaten in grandeur, possibly only by the Great Wall.
The first sections of the canal were dug already 400 BC. Later on – in the 7th cent. AD, under the Sui emperor Yang Di, as many as six million men may have been pressed into service for its’ construction. It links the Yellow river to the Yangtse, and locals like to point out that whereas the Great Wall was designed to stop contact and communication, the Grand Canal was made to further it.
So Suzhou was early connected to trade. The place is famous for heavenly gardens, beautiful women and silk. And Marco Polo wrote; “six thousand bridges, clever merchants, cunning men of all crafts, very wise men called Sages and great natural physicians” – these people were allegedly responsible for creating the stunningly beautiful gardens here.
The gardens are still wonderful – a word that hardly describes the fumes from the cars, the jams and the dusty, crowded streets in this huge city.

“No disappointed at all!”

Anyway, Tong Li, nearby, was exactly what I was hoping for. I spend a marvellous day there, sketching and strolling along the canals from garden to garden, from one museum to the other.
Oddly enough, Tong Li is housing the only sex-museum in China. And the poster outside says: “Welcome to you for visiting this museum, you can see what you never see, know what you never know, and will be no disappointed at all.” I mean – how could I resist? After having read this intriguing teaser, it was with rather high expectations that I entered.
What can I say? It was interesting. And yes: I was not disappointed. At all.
The museum had four departments, plus an outdoor exhibition arranged in the following category; “Sex in primitive society”, “Marriage and women”, “Sex in daily life” (with the sub-category: “Disgusting prostitution”) and “Unusual sexual behaviour”. The explanations were elaborate, written in decent English and put in historical contexts.
I learnt that sadism and masochism, zoophili and a number of other -isms and –philis, unknown to me, can be listed under the category “Unusual sexual behaviour”, although the criteria remain a bit unclear. It became very evident that one’s cultural standing point influence severely on your tolerance, as homosexuality is defined as follows: “ . .. is psychological disease (…) we should help and guide them (homosexuals), and not discriminate and crack down on them”

“Quanlity per serving” and “Penis to the next generation! Now!”

In this museum I came across many very special exhibits. But I think maybe the sculpture in the garden takes home the very finest medal: a man with absurdly long earlobes with a woman placed on his back (or just a female-looking gnome) and an enormous penis coming out of the top of his head (!), and now – the crown jewel of an artistic idea: a turtle (!!?) on the top of the member! Please – someone with deep knowledge of culture/ history/ psychology/ sexology (or preferably – all of this together); Explain!!! It gets even more confusing as the title of this masterpiece reads: “Using penis for later generations”.
So language is not always pure joy. For those of you who remember the first letter from China, I can amuse you with some more interesting translations. For instance, why bother with the two terms “quality” and “quantity”? Quanlity per serving is all you need!
But I don’t complain. At least they try! Personally I haven’t made impressing progress with Chinese. The four tones and the one tone that is not a tone, drives me mad. For instance; “Norway” in Chinese is pretty much the same as in English. But with specific tones. You would be surprised how many different ways you can combine only four tones. And the result is always wrong. I can count to one million in Chinese now. But I am the only one who understands what I mean. And plus – how useful is it really to count to one million in Chinese? The social life does not improve much with those kind of skills.
Another fact is that dictionaries are stupid. You can not find the sentence you need. If/ when you find it, you can not pronounce it. And when/if you get a reply, you have to guess what it is. And what is that silly sentence doing in the dictionary anyway; “I do not speak Chinese?”
All you need is love

After a short trek to some neighbour towns, and a Kung-Fu lesson in the sunset by a lake, I headed for Beijing. The train was very luxurious, every bed had a television set with remote control, and the service was impressive.
In Beijing I met my friend Benjamin, who showed me his dormitory in the university. Imagine you stay with six other people in one room, you have about 5×5 meters to organize your life on. And you stay there for five years. You just have to love your neighbours! In this room they had all their belongings, all their books, television sets and every other thing you need for a normal life. I swear: I shall never complain again about little space back home.

First swallow, then ask

Since my hotel was crowded with hundreds of Israeli, Swiss and German backpackers, I was very happy to escape. My Chinese friend Shaozi who I met last year, took me out of the town one day. We spend a whole day wandering about in the eight temples ground, an enormous park outside, with . . . eight temples scattered about. Later on I ate in their flat. She had just got secretly married a month before my arrival or so, so I met also her husband and her mother who had spend the whole day cooking. We had authentic Chinese food, among this: pigs’ feet. Many. Very many.
In Korea, I was dared having blood sausage wrapped in intestines. I had had fermented mares milk in Kazakhstan a few years ago. I had feasted on gall-green intestine- and respiratory/ oral-tract-soup in Georgia (for breakfast!!!) even before that. And who hasn’t at some point eaten the little maggot in the bottom of the tequila-bottle? . . . So what harm could these carefully prepared pigs’ feet do?
They were delicious. But weird. The texture is remarkable. Typical Chinese maybe: a bit chewy – like an old rubbery something, a bit like jelly. Somehow hard to define precisely.
I think some of the trick of eating “exotic” dishes, is to first eat, then ask questions.

Into the great Dzhenghis Khans birthplace

Soon I was on the way to Mongolia. I was very exited, as I had been promised a meeting with Miss Mongolia Bodybuilding in Ulanbataar. Meanwhile, I spend two days in the train, watching the Gobi-desert pass outside the window, pale, yellow, stony and monotonous. After five years in Middle East, I have had my share of sand, I don’t really like desert.
I was very lucky to share the compartment with a woman who was fluent in Russian. It was such a rush to communicate after months with Japanese, Korean and Chinese!
I imagined Mongolia would be similar to Tibet. I could not have been more wrong. I wanted to spend a few days there only. I thought it would be a bit boring and predictable. Instead I fell in love with the people, the landscape and the culture there. Mongolia is hard to describe in words. But I will try in my next letter. All the best to you!

PART VII: MONGOLIA

The art of satisfying Gods…

. . . or listening in to the silence

2006. It is the right year to arrive in Mongolia. 800 years ago, in 1206, the great Dzhingis Khan founded the state of Mongolia, and soon the fellows from the steppes had gathered the largest empire the world had ever seen.
Eventually it fell into decline because: Although the Mongols were good at conquering – they could shoot from their horses, sleep as they rode, they had no provisions that the enemy could destroy (they fed on bread and horseblood, if they were exhausted) – they were poor administrators. The Mongols who were nomads, had no skills of social organizing. Usually they managed best in the places were the locals were governing for them.
The Mongols caused so much damage in certain places were they came, that some countries never really recovered, and fell into centuries of regression. They were however catalysts for other cultures, like after they killed the ruler of Baghdad (they rolled him in a carpet and let horses trod on him. This way no blood was spilled. Mongolian tradition), the Mameluks took over, and the culture bloomed like ever before. In the wake of their plundering and victories through Asia, they also opened up for the long trading routes, and thus modern inventions from Asia (maybe most of all form the very well developed China), reached Europe, which raised the level of civilization. During the Pax Mongolica (13th and 14th cent.) the commerce and communication between east and west reached new heights.
It is a typical misconception to think that Khan & friends were nothing but a devilish, murderous, blood-drinking lot. I mean, okay – it is not good humor to boil someone alive in a black iron cauldron. Neither is it a typical friendly gesture to pour liquid silver down the throat and in the eyes and ears of a living human being. Even if he is a Persian governor. Even if he happened to have a Mongolian messenger killed. But in fact, the Golden Horde often preferred negotiations and peace to killings and slaughtering.
You just don’t question the grandeur of Dzhengis Khan with Mongolians. They are terribly proud of him, and it reflects in naming of streets, dogs, hotels, vodka, sons, beer and anything else that can have a name.

Dalai who…?

But grand men are still alive. I was lucky to spot one of them on the way to my hostel right after the arrival. To the tunes of the Mongolian Version of “Hotel California” (which was also one out of two songs we had during the whole trip to Mt. Everest base camp last year. The other one was half of an Ace of Base-hit. After a week with these two songs only, it made me wonder whether Satan is a DJ when business is quiet), I saw Monsieur Dalai Lama! The local guys in the front seat did not react at all. They just thought it was annoying that the traffic had been temporarily clogged up.
Later, the woman from my compartment, Bulej, told me that Dalai Lama pops in every second year or so, and since people are not very serious about religion (thanks to the Russians who gave the monasteries the same treatment like churches in Russia: total destruction), monks and lamas are the only ones getting euphoric.
When Dalai Lama comes to town the Chinese frown upon the Mongolians, and they close their borders. Not that they have a sweet relation anyway (and it got worse last year when a Chinese doctor cut a 9 year old Mongolian girl open and stole her inner organs – in open daylight on a market). But it certainly does not help.
Shops are all filled with Korean and Russian goods only. Already in Korea I noticed the tight relations between the countries. In the south, on Jeju-island, there is a dialect in which a lot of the words and phrases of Mongolian origin is preserved. Many people there, seemed to be proud of the common Mongolian genealogy. There is a huge Mongolian community of workers in Korea too.
So despite the fact that China is next door, there are hardly any Chinese products to find. You see no Chinese people in the streets, and even Russians keep away, even though Ulanbaatar is constructed by them, and it looks like any Siberian industrial town.
The traffic is one big jam, and the architecture is a far cry from being unforgettable. Ulanbataar will never be the new Byzantine.
There are many tourists, but most of them are adventurous Europeans going to and from Siberia, or Israelis saving their pennies.

Travelling with assholes
If you want to go anywhere in Mongolia, you can either go by horse or camel, or by Russian van. There is a third option: some sort of public transport. But it is only for the most dedicated masochists.
I found five people to share a car with, and a great, great driver. We did a big loop, going from the heart of Mongolia, up to the north, and back to UB again. The van was very comfortable. But the chemistry of people was a disaster. Two of the guys in the car were treating the rest of us like slaves, telling us what to eat, when to eat, how to eat, when to wake up (very early), when to sleep (very early), when to ride horses (very early), when to stop (hardly ever. One day we drove seven hours with no toilet or lunch breaks. And only after I started to cry (it was very humiliating), we were granted a tiny rest). They even commanded us out of the tent to watch the full-moon (“The moon is full, and those who wish to have a look, should go out now!”).
Further; they were eating our food, pissing at the backside of our ger, walking on our clothes and blankets with dirty shoes, plus – they were the stingiest people I have ever met. I swear; every second time they spoke, it was about money. And they always complained. They haggled with every single Mongolian, acting incredibly suspiciously and aggressively. Camping was for free, they just had to pay less than 1 – one – dollar for the camping-ground (because 2,5 dollars for sleeping inside, incl. two hot meals, tea and fire was too much for them). But they even made a fuss about that. I was so embarrassed.
But looking back, the good impressions are overshadowing their behavior. In a way, the friendly and helpful Mongolians, also kind of balanced the situation. Everywhere we came, we were met with unlimited hospitality, openness and accept.
We visited the old capital, Khar Khorin (Kara Korum), and spend a few days at the White Lake (Tsaagan Nuur), as well as in the north by Khopsgol lake. During the daytime we were riding horses or trekking, meeting locals or just sitting in the ger, enjoying the heat from the stoves. Mongolia is suffering from serious deforestation. No wonder when you see how much wood the people use there. And no wonder they do exactly that, as it gets down to minus 50. At some point it was minus 10 during our trip. I felt miserable. The Mongolians thought I was weird and funny.
The Przewalski wonder of the world

One of the factors contributing to Dshengis Khans success, was the tiny, but incredibly strong horse: The Przewalski horse. Mongolia has just as many horses as cattle. People keep them along with sheep, goats, cows, yaks and camels. They use them as means of transportation as well as a source of food and milk. The mares milk, is very tasty and popular, because the level of polysaturated fat is very high, it is also considered healthier than cow milk.
At one point, the wild horses were almost extinct, but thanks to a national project, the steppes are roamed by these beauties again.
Because there were some generations who lost the knowledge of herding (much due to urbanization, and communism), the newer generation have to learn it all over again. This – in combination with some harsh winters, lead to some disasters, first in 1999-2000, then later on in 2001-2002: Zud – a word that means any disaster that prevents the livestock from getting enough food. The number of animals fell from 33 millions to 24 millions.
So it’s an interesting fact that Mongolians have more space – and horses per capita than any other people in world – but all these animals need food. And it does not matter how much space you have if it is all frozen. As much as Mongolia is a real beauty, there is no point in pretending that life is easy here. They suffer from bad economy, bad health, a lot of children do not go to school, and spreading of the desert along with deforestation and overgrazing is a serious threat to future generations.

Mmmm – a nice cuppa tea…

Following the life in a ger, means you have the possibility to try more dairy products than you could possibly imagine existed on Planet Earth. Some of them are very tasty, like the unsalted fresh cream, almost thick as butter. Others are less tasty. Like the semi-dried cheese, which resembles the parts we tend to cut off and throw in the dustbin here. And some is not tasty at all. Dried milks curd (aarul) which looks like stone, is hard as stone and tastes – like stone, is maybe the reason why the children in the countryside are well known for having very hard and very white teeth. I don’t know if I would give my children stones for a snack, but maybe it is probably far better than chocolate and Coca-cola anyway.
The second thing you have to be prepared for, is mutton. At all times of the day. If you think that old Earl Grey is a little bit uninspiring, you can even have pieces of dried muttonfat in your buttertea. Oh yes! By the way the buttertea is lighter than the Tibetan version, for those who worry about their BMI.
This curly devil is omnipotent in Mongolia: they roam the steppes, they peep into your ger as you sit and contemplate, the meat is hanging from the roof to dry. Thanks to the sheep, Mongolians survive. Thanks to the sheep, foreigners nearly die.
Actually I shouldn’t be joking about this. I read that up to 48 percent of the children in UB suffer from Barlow’s disease, because of lack of vitamin c.

Satisfying Gods

In Mongolia people may not be devoted Buddhists. But they sure have a lot of rituals connected to shamanism and animism. The belief in the presence of divine powers in every creation can lead to a respect for nature, environment and animals, that quite a few of so-called more developed religions and ideological systems could learn quite a few things from.
The opening of the Ger is always pointing to the south, and the water is regarded as holy. In fact it was regarded holy to the extent that taking a bath, or washing yourself with water, was punished with death in earlier times. Although we had the pleasure of having only one shower during two weeks, (and a swim in two polar-lakes), we felt quite clean. I am not sure how the locals solve the problem of hygiene during the harsh wintertime.
Another ritual I really liked, was the offering a little bit of food or liquids when you drink. If you have, let’s say, a glass of vodka. You first dip your right ring-finger into the glass (the left hand is regarded as dirty), then you flick it into the air four times – to honor the sky Gods and the four directions. Finally you stroke your forehead (possibly in the reverse order, I experienced both versions).
Once we (a French psychologist and me) had some drinks with some locals along the river that runs in the southern part of UB. The turn came to my French frère. The Mongolians eagerly showed him what to do. However, due to unarticulated body language, there was a slight misunderstanding, so the French guy simply put the whole of his finger down the glass, and then stuck it in his own mouth.

Drink-driving on one-horse power vehicle

Some of my favorite drink was maybe airagh – the fermented mares’ milk. Not to be confused with arkh – which is just regular vodka – which has its’ own charm.
One fine day I found some men having a little vodka-break in the grass, near the shiny White Lake (Tsaagan Nuur), and I felt quite interested in sharing some time with them in the sun. And some firewater. Racing home afterwards, feeling very euphoric, with two bags to hold, a huge camera and two jackets – on a Przewalski horse, made a long-lasting impression on me.
Hardcore drinking is another part of the Russian legacy. The famous/ infamous Asian anti-alco gene does NOT apply to Mongolians. As it does not apply to Chinese. Or Koreans. Or Japanese. I suspect many Mongolians to be able outdrink any English football supporter, or Russian, Polish or Scandinavian student on a Friday evening.
The backside of the medal is of course not so funny. I saw people who had just simply crashed in the middle of the street in the middle of the day, sleeping in playing-dead-positions.
Luckily young people follow the trend in Russia where vodka is out and beer is chic. Yet the Mongolians knew how to enjoy wine before the Russians. When they first came to Persia, it is said that they very much favored the sweet, red Persian wine.
But I shall be fair. For those into real food-orgies; do not despair. Ulanbataar can offer the finest cuisines, all from Italian to Czech, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Ukrainian and so on. You will not starve in Mongolia! And a restaurant may also be the place to start the expedition out into the diverse and fancy UB clubscene!

Poverty makes people . . . noble?!

Life on the countryside is a true contrast to the lively bars and the fashionable girls in UB. Rural life is no pink dream. The second girl, a sociologist, in our van managed to say: “Simple people (she meant Mongolians living in gers) are happy people, because they do not have the need or ability to be philosophical, or think about problems, like us.” The statement provoked me a lot. It is so colonial. So patronizing.
What is this idea about people having some mystical, positive qualities, because they are poor people? Does poverty make people noble? Is that it? In my opinion this is to underestimate people. We got into a quite bad discussion, but finally I realized there was no point, as she stood up for circumcision of women, claiming it is a good, healthy and interesting tradition that we should not criticize. She made me sick. How is it possible to defend a tradition that means molestation of someone, as a part of a gender-related suppression- mechanism? To me that is a little too understanding. She just thought that every national tradition and habit had no negative sides, and should remain the same forever, just because it was a national tradition and habit. But the most annoying was the way she just expressed that people living in gers is a homogenous group, with no horizon beyond that.
Let me tell a story. Once out on the countryside, I was talking with one of the farmers, a young man with dirty hands and a serious face. He had been working in Japan. Who could have guessed? He had a Master in Japanese, and he spoke English with ease, and with almost no accent. He was autodidact. For three years he had been running around doing his 16 hours per day computer-engineering work in Tokyo. As he pulled off his cowboy-hat, he said he had had some fun time in Tokyo. But after all: home was home, and he was happy helping his brother and his family building their ger-camps.

30 dollars a month . . .

Of course, the picture is not black and white. I am quite sure the closeness to the elements and the nature can add certain dimensions to life, that any stockbroker or real estate agent who is working 16-12-365 will never experience.
But people I met and spoke with, were not all happy. In fact, very many people have left Mongolia. The population within the country is roughly 2.5 millions. 870.000 are living in Ulanbaatar. The waves of emigration are huge. I heard that a few millions have left already, but I can not find the exact number. However, there is no doubt that people are eager to leave, in search for jobs. Average wage for a skilled worker, is around 100-150 dollars per month. For unskilled workers, it can be as low as 30 dollars. The small elite is rich, and to a certain extent corrupted. When you add up unemployment, poor public health care, homeless children living in the sewage pipes and so on… who can blame those who left?
But in 1990, when the country turned into a democracy, others chose to migrate internally: they left the towns and cooperatives and went back to herding again. Not without risk, as already mentioned above. A lot of the traditional knowledge had simply faded and only slowly did some of them readapt to the nomadic way of life

May I offer you a Mongolian orgy?”

Generally, I can say that Mongolian men are very shy. In fact the shyest men I have ever met. Although they are very macho, proud of their riding-upside-down-while-drunk-and-the-horse-propels-off-in-full-gallopp-skills, and the traditional wrestling (Mongolians have also the two best sumo-wrestlers in the world), and a few other very masculine show off talents, they giggle, blush or start to stotter if you approach them with a simple: “Hi there!”
But. There are exceptions. In the city of UB, things seem to be slightly different.
For those of you who dream of the ultimate ethnic-sexual experience, Mongolia is the correct place to be. Casual sex is very prevalent in Ulan Bator. And so are STDs as well. Although less than 500 people (due to CIA’s facts page on Mongolia) are registered as AIDS-victims, syphilis and other nasty diseases are widespread. But many people do not seem to care. And many people do not also seem to mind the wedding-ring (which most often happened to be in the jeans-pocket of the guys I met).
So one afternoon I found myself on a private ger-ground with three guys: the national champion of Judo, a Mongolian movie-star, and the couch of the national basketball-team. I had run into the Judo-guy a little earlier as I was waving down a black taxi.
They invited me to the countryside, and of course we stuffed the whole backseat with drinks and food. On the way there, they admitted that they all had wives and kids back home.
The trip was lovely. We sat close to a river, the movie-star played the guitar, the coach told anecdotes in broken Russian, and the judo-champion tried to follow the conversation. We all tried to hide the movie-star, as his sister in law suddenly appeared in another merry company. As the sun sank lower on the sky, and the bottles got emptier, the songs got louder. Finally one guy, the actor said: – Ah, I would really like to stay overnight here.
I said: – Well, so would I, but unfortunately I have some plans for tomorrow morning. He: – Oh, what a pity, because . . . otherwise we could have an orgy here.
Hm. I told him that orgies aren’t really my thing. In fact I haven’t even been to one. And I don’t think Mongolia will be my first experience. Later on, we just packed up our stuff and they took me back to the city, like regular gentlemen. What can I say? Peculiar!

The warped version of Arabic

Towards the end of my stay, I met up with Bulej again, the girl, with whom I shared the compartment from Beijing. She and her friend Oyunaa, took me for a great lunch, giving me some of the best moments on my whole trip. It was like meeting real old friends. The lunch turned into a dinner, and then to a pub-visit in the Dzhengis-brewery.
They tried teaching me how to make words sound correctly. Impossible. Mongolian is very guttural. Some sounds are impossible to produce unless you practiced for a while. You simply haven’t got the right physical qualifications. I strongly suspect Mongolian to be like that.
They use the Cyrillic alphabet, but they also have their own traditional one. It looks like Arabic turned 45 degrees. It is borrowed from Uyghur, who took it from – well – Arameic, hence the similarities. I suppose.
Anyway, I have forgotten to mention the kamikaze-drivers in Mongolia. They are the most scary and creatures in Asia. They all seem to aim to kill you if you try to cross the streets. They never, ever slow down. So, Bulej told me this joke:
There is a young man in UB, taking his elders for a ride in his new car. The father is in the front seat, his mother in the back. Already after a few minutes, she panics, and begs him to stop the car. She has had enough, and wants to get out. The son says: “Mum, calm down, no need to panic, God is with us!” As soon as she is out, the wild ride continues. Soon the father says to the young hero: “Please, will you slow down, or I else I would like to leave the car as well.” The son replies:” Dad, why worry? Sit back and relax, God is with us!” But a few hundreds meters down the road, the father taps his son’s shoulder again, and he says meekly: “ Son, also God wants to get out!”

Absolute silence

Finally I cancelled my flight from Beijing. I don’t like flying anyway. Sleeping to Moscow seemed great. Cheap too, in comparison, only 100 dollars in a second class sleeping wagon!
I had no desires to go home. Personally I felt very home in Mongolian, with Asian-looking people, but in many ways, having a more European/ Russian behavior than Asian.
In this landlocked, wide and monotonous country, I also found one of the quietest places on earth, the same silence that exists only in between the dunes of Sahara – the kind of silence that speaks to you about eternity.
Do you know what silence is? Absolute silence?
Try to sit down and listen out into the air. I promise you; there will always be some sort of sound.
Mongolia made me realize how truly sick I am of the stress back home with papers and documents and the burden of everyday life, the thousands of things and objects pinning you down. It put a lot of things in perspective: reminding me about the importance of focusing, and being in balance. Mongolia definitely changed me.
Mongolia is not for everyone. To be honest: I have had better food (by far!), I have enjoyed better weather and more complex and challenging landscapes elsewhere. And yet – no other countries have left such a deep impression on me.
For the time being, there are 82 registered foreigners living in Mongolia. I truly, truly would not mind being number 83!

Tags: Beijing, China, Korea, Travel

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