sofasurfers

Resist the panda merchandise, I self-chided. Resist!
 Oh, argh, ohhh, nooo! Too late. A panda pen jumps into my hand and out
of the shop. Needless to say,  the ink ran out even faster… But my
furry friend did make me pretty popular on the choo choo train.

 (Oh no! Resist the Chinese camera salute – resist! Oh no!)

And kept me company on a ride down the Lijiang River past these
lovely, leafy, limestone camel humps, on the way to my next stop, Xing
Ping…

It seems that my first two-week spell in China didn’t really
acclimatise me: my return (first stop Chengdu, a city with a
population the size of London) has filled my mind and camera with a
veritable freak fest: a male security guard wearing frosted coral,
1950s grannie lipstick (yes, I was too cowardly to snap) – presumably
to protect his lips from the cold, a young girl eating clementines the
size of a cherry, another young girl eating a purple dyed cake, two
boys playing badminton using a road as a net

people scooting along wearing their coats backwards to keep their
chests warm (a major trend, it seems; photo soon, I hope), speakers in
the street disguised as rocks playing “Look Happy for the Tourists”
jazz musak,

hoods for coats slung over chairs in restaurants,

dentists in shop windows (transparency one step too far, surely).

So, London is cold, huh?! Actually, when my (new Russian) host in
Karaganda (some 4 hours south east of Kazakhstan’s capital) said the
outside temperature was minus 15 degrees C, I whooped; he just looked
at me with disdain. It’s true, my ‘the colder, the better’ optimism
was unarguably tourist folly – a local would never be so flip (not
least when the mercury hits minus 40 degrees). But this was what I was
here for: I wanted to touch the frozen frontier. I wanted to
experience deep freeze, I wanted to know what this shock to my system
would feel like: it’s what locals have to negotiate every winter – so
I wanted to negotiate it too. When the moisture in my nostrils froze,
when my trousers felt like sausagey ice-packs wrapped around my legs,
when my fingers stung after just a couple of seconds of exposure, when
the sharp, cold air tickled my throat as I inhaled, I felt a warm glow
of satisfaction. In Moscow, a Kazakh had told me, “In Moscow, no one
looks at anyone else in the street, but in Kazakhstan, everyone
watches for everyone else to see if the tips of their noses have gone
white, to tell them they have frostbite.” Up till now, I’d presumed
this pure Kazakh myth; what Kazakhs tell their fair weather friends to
illustrate their colder climate and their warmer hearts. Now, it
seemed like it could very well be a reality. So, I asked my host: do
people suffer frostbite much here? “Yes,” he confirmed. “Actually this
is a real problem with alcoholics, because they don’t feel it
happening.” So vodka: not quite the anti-freeze it’s presumed to be.

And so to Karaganda’s city square, where like all good former Soviet
towns who know what’s good for them, a formidable statue of Lenin
stands proud, here his mighty gaze facing Moscow. These little
torpedos of snow can try all they like, but Lenin’s hold is
indestructible.

My host isn’t so impressed though: “Lenin was wrong. Communism suits
the lazy, the people who can’t be bothered to get a job – the
government just gives it to them.” Capitalism gives people an
incentive to succeed, he argues… It’s certainly seems to drive the
fruit sellers to the market.

“They’re very excited. It’s a big shock to see a British girl here.”
We’re in the local market, to buy fruit and veg, and despite the
temperature, it’s very much business as usual, with the market
operating for full nine-hour days. My host goes to buy some Persimmon
– but aren’t they frozen? “Yes,” he says, “but they taste better this
way – they’re much sweeter.” [When I eat one at home, with a spoon,
it's like a pure fruit sorbet – yum]. Anyway, as soon as I pull out my
camera to snap a stack of fish in nature’s refridgerator there…

and how they keep their little fishies warm there

people clamour to be in my photo

and so a kind of two-way tourism takes place. “Angliya?!” they say,
with awe and wonder. But, I ask my host (who happens to be blond and
blue-eyed – and might I point out, despite its irrelevance here, my
host’s blond hair is over two foot long), why can’t I resemble
European Russian? Why can’t I blend in in this multi-ethnic nation?
“Russian girls dye their hair. They dress differently. You just don’t
look like you’re from here.” True, there’s no mink or rabbit chapka on
my head, no trashy patent leather black spike heeled boots worn on my
feet in all weather. As we catch a bus home, a Russkette with crisped,
yellow hair comes unavoidably into our view. “See what I mean about
the dyed hair?” says my host. And actually, it’s a thrill to be the
odd one out: it really confirms that a frontier has been crossed.

Rally cars stuck and stranded on the Russia / Mongolia border.

Sheep soup before [Ollie adds: remember the tale of the slaughter video?]

Sheep soup afterwards [Ollie adds: well done Fleur... but you didn't lick the bowl!]

“The Kennel” [Ollie adds: makes you cold just looking at it]

Fleur’s rail friends [Ollie adds: I'd like to add a comment on the guys hair-doo, but I'm speechless]

Hello all. Ollie here.

Well, the leg’s rested up a bit [squeamish people might like to skip the next sentence...right...about...now] and my surgeon in London has now sewn-up the holes made in Rio de Novosibirsk (!) so here’s the 1st photo-set to celebrate. (Don’t worry…there’s no photos of the leg). No, these 1st pics are from our 2nd stop-off - Yekaterinberg. Well, when you’re on and off the rails, sometimes it just happens that way round! Gawd I wish I was still out there. But Fleur is in touch regularly and it sounds like she’s definitely sofasurfer-ambassader-ing for the both of us Go Fleur!

The photos try to tell the story of our journey into, around and about Yekaterinberg. And it’s gargantuan Godly glinting golden globules. With perky Polly and her friends. (It’s a Russian tongue twister I made up, to make sure you’ve not had too much vodka with breakfast). And then of course, there’s the inevitable farewell that takes place all too often on a 12,000 km overland sofa-surf in less than 12 weeks. As Fleur wrote previously - there was quite a build-up waiting for Polly to arrive…as she was abroad in Turkey for the first day and night that we stayed at her house. (That’s the ultimate gesture in sofarific-philanthropy for you.) I look forward to the build up of her arrival again - when Polly hopefully comes to couch in London in 2009. (We’ll try not to be away when she does ;-))

Moscow pictures to follow shortly too, as well as a set on Flickr.com.

And so…Enjoy! Click here!

http://www.digitoli.com/sofasurfers/on-and-off-the-rails/

(There’s a slideshow, with captions, if you press the ‘ > ‘ play button that loads. It takes about 5 minutes to watch, so brew a cuppa, sit forward, and as they say in Russia … “dos vidania”

Ollie