Shut up, there are South Koreans in the room!

Saturday February 18, 2012

Paul, Jim and I are geeks. Specifically we are North Korea geeks. We're fascinated by everything about the most reclusive country in the world. We read voraciously about it, we dine at North Korean restaurants, we speak the language - the more they try to keep us out the more we crave her.

In fact we all met in North Korea. Paul, who is Canadian; Jim, an American; and I were all on the same tour on a visit in 2010 and have kept in touch since then.

Paul and Jim are westerners-living-in-Beijing so they kept abreast of my whereabouts in China and eventually joined me for a weekender in the north-eastern Chinese city of Shenyang. And it was only natural that we headed to a North Korean restaurant for dinner on our first night together.

Rainbow Restaurant - Shenyang, China

As the three of us entered Rainbow Restaurant we were amazed to find that it was packed with North Koreans. This may not sound like an extraordinary observation at first, but consider that the North Korean government does not allow freedom of movement for its citizens within the country, let alone allowing them an overseas holiday. Jim and Paul are veterans of the DPRK eateries in Beijing but even they were awestruck by this unusual sight.

And of course all eyes were on us too. It is very rare for westerners to be walking into a North Korean restaurant in Shenyang. They had one eye on us and we had one eye on them - it was just like visiting the DPRK all over again.

Kim Il Sung badge

We knew that the customers were North Koreans as they all wore the red Kim Il Sung badge. In North Korea all citizens receive this badge upon turning eighteen and adults wear it on a daily basis, at least in public, lest they be perceived as disloyal to the country.

We sat at a back table mesmerised by this sight of North Koreans outside of North Korea. It was just us ("the foreigners"), one table of three South Koreans next to us, and the rest were Badge Wearers. We guessed that they were one big tour group, all members of the very elite - how else could they afford an overseas trip from a starving country, let alone be allowed out?

All three of us ordered in Korean as the waitress stood in amazement. She wasn't expecting that out of the foreigners (well at least not from the white fellas sitting next to me)! And the staff were now curious about what we were about. They were delighted to hear that we had all visited North Korea and that Jim and I could speak Korean fluently. Paul's Korean is more basic, although he now holds the distinction that he has been to North Korea TWICE (lucky man!).

The band at the Rainbow, all North Korean staff.

In North Korean restaurants in China there is usually a musical show put on by the staff. It must be a requirement from the DPRK government when it licenses these venues that they show off North Korean talent to the outside world. The Rainbow was no different, as the live band and the singers started their set of Korean and foreign songs.

The show was very well appreciated by the "home crowd": There was much clapping along and appreciative applause after every number. Throughout the performance one North Korean man was particularly enthusiastic. I'm not sure if it was inebriation or nationalistic zeal (perhaps both?) but he was standing out front with the singers at every opportunity singing and dancing along with them. He was having a terrific vacation, good for him!

But when the set ended controversy reigned. The final song was a gentle number on how lovely "our home" North Korea is. After getting caught up in the emotion of that, upon its conclusion our Enthusiastic Man spontaneously started a rendition of a more brash nationalistic anthem (i.e. praising the Dear Leader and all that). He began inciting the North Koreans to stand and sing with their hands on their hearts. And the crowd obliged - it was an extraordinary scene as almost the entire restaurant began to rise in unison.

Singers at the Rainbow;
Audience in foreground are all North Korean customers

The staff realised what was happening and decided diplomacy was more important in the outside world than blind patriotism. They quickly stopped the Enthusiastic Man, and quietly advised that this was inappropriate. The restaurant management obviously did not want to offend or make anyone uncomfortable.

But the trouble didn't end there! As the North Korean diners had the wind taken out of their sails and began to sit down, another man took the microphone and started speaking in broken English. He too was immediately stopped by the staff, but from what we could gather he was trying to welcome the foreigners and perhaps explain the song that they wanted to sing.

From the to-ing and fro-ing between the customers and the staff we surmised that the restaurant management were not worried about our "foreigners" table, but the restraint was exercised for the sake of the table of three South Koreans. They understood it would be inappropriate to sing patriotic North Korean songs in front of the Southerners. Fair enough.

As Jim, Paul and I finished our meals we shared our mutual delight at witnessing what we had that evening. Sitting alongside North Koreans outside of their country is wild enough, but to have micro-diplomacy played out before us was even more extraordinary. It was an excellent night out for the North Korea geeks.

An Introduction To Oman

Friday March 9, 2012

When my plans to visit Afghanistan were cancelled at the last minute I needed another destination accessible from Dubai as a replacement. Multiple people suggested Oman, so I paid a hastily organised six day visit.

Muttrah (Muscat), Oman

Oman is on the eastern side of the Arabian peninsula. The country has executed a remarkable turnaround in its fortunes in recent times. A generation ago it was one of the least developed in the world, with no high schools and only two primary schools [thanks to the Lonely Planet for that fact]. The locals have termed the current period a "renaissance" as it now boasts monetary wealth, terrific public infrastructure, and a highly educated population - all while retaining its traditions and culture.

Politically Oman is considered the most stable nation in the Middle East, with the Sultan famous for his "listening tours" of the country. He seems to enjoy genuine affection from his subjects for all that he has achieved in the past forty years.

The capital Muscat had always been a popular stopover for passing cruise ships, but the rest of the country has recently become accessible to tourists thanks to a network of new roads. It was eye-opening how many new expressways were being built.

The Suzuki that took me around Oman. I made it out without any dents!

From my previous visits to the Middle East the prospect of driving frightened me no end. However Oman is a sparsely populated country with many attractions being in remote areas - similar to Australia. Hiring a car made sense.

I'm glad to report driving in Oman was a pleasure. The drivers are certainly more civil than other countries in the region - just next door in the United Arab Emirates I live in fear as a pedestrian, let alone a motorist - and due to the low population once you're outside Muscat there is hardly any traffic on the expressways.

In racking up 1000km in five days I managed to visit three regions - Muscat, Nizwa, and Sur.

MUSCAT

Muttrah (Muscat): harbour in the evening

Muscat is city that is located in a strategically vital location - at least in ancient times - at the mouth of the Persian Gulf, where the Middle East meets Asia. Both for trade and diplomatic purposes Muscat was a city frequently visited by foreign ships.

In Muscat there is a glitzy, beachy part where all the luxury hotels and most of the tourists seem to be. I, of course, chose to stay in the old town - Muttrah; a beautiful harbour overlooked by old forts with a busy old souq (market), a lively morning fish market, and flanked by a lovely corniche.

Muttrah corniche

However, this harbour, with its shipping facilities, also hosts the numerous cruise liners that stop by in Muscat. Hence in the middle of the day there are many sunburnt Europeans getting about in inappropriately skimpy summer outfits (Omanis are too polite to tell them to cover up!) enjoying the corniche and the souq. On the first day I saw many middle aged British men giggling as they tried on traditional Arabic dress in the markets, then just as fast as they appeared they were all gone; back on the ship for their next destination.


SUR
Sur is a regional city close to the eastern tip of the Arabian peninsula. The newly built expressway from Muscat - which is so fresh the toll gates were not even manned - takes a gorgeous route along the coast. As strange as this sounds the scenery reminded me of Iceland; steep uninhabitable mountains on one side and the beautiful sea on the other, with the road wedged in between.

Ras al Jinz: newborn turtle shuffling to the sea

About 40km outside of the town, even closer to the eastern tip, is the Ras al Jinz turtle reserve. Green turtles return from all around the Indian Ocean to lay their eggs here in the middle of the night. Amazingly almost everyday this beach hosts at least one mother turtle. Our group was fortunate enough to see the entire act - laying eggs, burying them, and waddling back out to the sea. Unfortunately for the dignity of the mother turtle the guides shone torchlight up its cloaca so that we could witness the egg laying. Well, I suppose people film human births in hospitals these days.

Wadi Shab: entrance

There were also tiny baby turtles, just hatched, making their perilous first journey out to sea. If it weren't for the fascinated tourists scaring off the circling seagulls I don't know how those vulnerable reptiles make it to the water without being gobbled up. It's a miracle that we have green turtles at all.

Wadi Shab: tourists swimming

On the way back from Sur I visited the picturesque Wadi Shab. A Wadi is a river valley teeming with plant and animal life, and Wadi Shab is one of the finest examples of this type of oasis.



NIZWA
Nizwa was the ancient capital city of Oman, and these days is the major inland city. The Nizwa area is 150km inland, so again I enjoyed the view from driving. This time the terrain from Muscat was mountainous. Although the dry climate doesn't allow for lush plant life Oman does seem to have a lot of very steep and jagged mountains which are other worldly, as if a film set designer made them out of papier-mache.

The region around Nizwa is famous for its old castles and forts, plus it hosts some of the highest peaks in the country. I had hired a 2WD car so scaling the mountains was off-limits.

Jabrin Castle

If one was ever curious about the Arabian peninsula I can highly recommend Oman. With decent roads only recently opening up the country it has yet to be completely trampled by tourists. At the same time it's very easy to get around - courtesy of the British meddling in their recent affairs English is widely spoken and attitudes towards women are progressive.

Moreover although it is now modern and affluent the country has still retained its sense of heritage with no tacky skyscrapers dominating its cities - a delicate balance to achieve for any government.

Omani bread with cheese and honey;
samosas;
saffron tea

And finally the food! This is one of my favourite things about the Arabian peninsula. I adore Middle Eastern cuisine, but with the considerable number of Indian/Pakistani immigrants there is plenty of excellent curry to be found too. I visited a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant for Indian workers in Muscat and had a $1.20 chicken curry (with roti) which was one of the greatest I'd ever had.

Alternating between Arabic and South Asian meals is my idea of nirvana, and my swollen belly departing Muscat airport certainly was testament to that.

The Thing

Sunday March 18, 2012

In January when I mentioned that I was visiting Finnish Lapland my Swedish colleague Martin suggested I get to the treble border point of Norway, Sweden, and Finland (and no, not in an angry "Tony, why don't you p*** off to the end of the earth" way).

I was supportive of the idea but when I asked Martin if there was anything to see at that location his answer in his inimitable Scandinavian accent was "There is a thing there."

Right. How informative. A thing.

I asked again: A building, a statue, a cannon? "Tony, trust me. There is a thing there."

Two months later I arrived at the village of Kilpisjarvi in Lapland. It is the far north-west corner of Finland - and looks and feels like the end of the earth. As well as seeking the northern lights I came here determined to see what Martin was talking about.

Kilpisjarvi: The vast lake I had to walk on.

Being well within the Arctic Circle there was still plenty of snow in March. I knew the treble border was about 12km from the lodge I was staying at. Since I had no experience of driving snowmobiles nor cross-country skiing I asked the staff if walking was an option.

Fortunately walking was possible, albeit treading the snowmobile paths. Unfortunately the thick snow meant it would be a six hour round trip.

Yikes. I had completed six hour walks in Australia in fine temperate weather... but six hours of trudging through snow? I had not even walked twenty consecutive minutes in snow before.

But I had come all this way and minor inconveniences as lack of experience in the deadly local conditions was not going to stop me. The day after I set out with a hired pair of snowshoes.

I wasn't wearing the snowshoes but carrying them as a contingency, should I encounter particularly soft snow. For those that don't know snowshoes look like small skis or snowboards and help you stay afloat on top of deep soft snow.

My damned snowshoes.

Earlier on the trip in Kemi, in the middle of the town, I strayed off the footpath slightly and landed in thigh-deep snow. For those Australians not accustomed to snow: Imagine dipping both your legs in a huge pool of 7-Eleven Slurpee. It took me several minutes in wet jeans to wade eight metres back to the footpath. So here in the wilderness sinking and drowning in soft powder sounded like a terrible way to die, hence my backup equipment.

I started the walk at midday, knowing sunset was around 6:40pm. The weather was glorious at Kilpisjarvi - the sun was out with hardly a cloud in sight - which was why I was keen to take off, despite the late start.

But an hour in I was starting to wonder what I had gotten myself into.

Disturbingly there were no footprints on the trail. Apparently everyone else was cross-country skiing or snowmobiling. My legs felt fine but my arms were aching from carrying a load of water, food, and two snowshoes. And walking on soft snow was no picnic either - it was as strength sapping as running on the beach, but ten times worse. I was expending much energy to gain very little ground.

Hang in there, just 10km to go!

As I was walking on the frozen lake I occasionally looked back to see the warm lodge getting smaller and smaller - it was a sombre thought that every step I took was another I would have to take on my return trip.

I peered into the distance where a couple of cross-country skiers were gliding effortlessly across the lake. Hmmmm, maybe I should have tried that?

In the middle of the lake a group of snowmobiles whizzed past me, all having a great time with the Arctic wind in their hair. One of them stopped and the Nordic man asked where I was going. I told him the treble border marker, bid him good afternoon, and he took off.

About 100m in front of me the group suddenly stopped. What's going on here? The man who asked my destination then circled back to me and declared "Come on, I will give you a lift."

Sweden on the left, Norway in the background, and Finland to the right.

This was my lucky day! I tried my best to contain my giddy delight, and expressed my gratitude in the most expressive yet simplest English I could manage.

A three hour hike one way all of a sudden became a ten minute ride. My face was numb from the cold air and my arms were sore from holding onto the snowmobile safety handles, but this was a sensational turn of events. As the magnificent lake scenery rolled past I kept thinking "How could I have possibly walked all this way?" I would have been stranded in the dark and been eaten by wolves. Nice doggies!

In no time we were at the tri-nation border. And there it was - The Thing, in all its glory.

I now understood why Martin described it as that. It is a block of concrete not shaped to look like ANYTHING, painted in yellow. It is almost abstract in its lack of utility. The only destiny this object had since its creation was to be the border marker between three countries at the end of the earth.

The Thing, me, and the Norwegian snowmobile man (photo from the Swedish side).

The Thing from the Finnish side.

As we rested at the marker I discovered that the group was an extended Norwegian family. My generous driver's daughter, her husband, and their kids were on the other snowmobiles. They were on a camping trip in the area and were out for a joyride on their machines, and made the short detour to the border point especially for me. Apparently they took pity on the foreigner plodding like a turtle on the snow.

The Thing from the Norwegian side.

The man's daughter told me about a fantastic show of the northern lights the night before, which I had excruciatingly missed. That's the way to do it, I thought. If you want to see the lights you have to be out camping so you can keep an eye on the sky constantly.

The family asked if I was touring alone. Upon learning that I was they reminisced about silly tourists from warm countries - one Italian bloke a few years ago walked from where we were all the way to Norway to a 1400m mountain seen in the horizon. I think they said he died, or had to be rescued - their English trailed off at that part of the conversation. I didn't press for details.

The group gave me a lift halfway back on the return trail before going off to have fun on their snowmobiles on the Swedish side of the lake. The remaining 1.5 hour walk back to the Lodge again emphasised how fortunate I was not to have to hike the entire return journey.

I arrived back satisfied that I met Martin's Challenge. Here's to you back in Sydney, Martin! [raises glass]

Chasing a dream

Sunday March 18, 2012

Having grown up in a warm country almost every mundane “cold weather” phenomenon fascinates me. I still get a huge thrill seeing snow, for example. However one natural occurrence exclusively seen in cold countries has captured my imagination above all else – the aurora.

Aurora Borealis, or the Northern Lights as it is also known in the English speaking world, is a magical shimmering light show seen in the night sky in regions close to the north pole. It is caused by solar winds being deflected by the earth’s magnetic field.

Although there is the “Southern Lights” – the Aurora Australis – Australia is not located sufficiently south for it to be seen easily. The aurora would certainly be never be seen in my home town of Sydney, where we are so far away from the south pole that a typical winter day is a gentle 17 degrees Celsius (63 degrees Fahrenheit).

Ever since I was a boy I craved the aurora. They’re swathes of green curtains fluttering in the dark night sky, as if the Gods were making their beds? How can such an amazing marvel exist? Descriptions and photos of it seemed otherworldly. It defied belief. In fact it all sounded so wondrous it felt fictional – as if someone was making it all up as a joke on gullible fools.

That little boy was determined that as soon as he had the means he would travel to the ends of the world to seek out the Northern Lights.

Kilpisjarvi, Finland - even the village web site says it's the middle of nowhere!

Twenty years later I’m writing this from the far north of Finland. I’ve travelled all the way round to the other side of the globe to be in the village of Kilpisjarvi, just 10km from the point where Finland, Norway and Sweden meet. It’s sixty-nine degrees north, about 400km within the Arctic Circle. From research I know 2012 is the best in a dozen years to see the aurora, and that March and September are the most suitable months of the year. I cannot be in a better position.

Despite all this preparation, exasperatingly, seeing the Northern Lights depends overwhelmingly on luck. For one the weather has to be fine, as clouds will obscure any light show. And of course one cannot practically stay up all night looking up at the sky in freezing temperatures – the success of the aurora hunter is dependent on the lights occurring while the watcher is awake and outside.

I have done all I can. The boy is here. Please let it come.

Beijing To Ulaanbaatar The Hard Way

Saturday February 25, 2012

As a US citizen my friend James did not require a visa to enter Mongolia. However I had to ask for an express tourist visa at the consulate in Beijing, for a hefty bill of $80. Upon application it was apparent I would not be able to pick up my passport until Tuesday afternoon.

The international train to Ulaanbaatar departed Beijing on the same afternoon so we said to ourselves "Let's catch the Chinese sleeper bus to the border later in the week and try to board a local train from there."

Let the trouble begin.

I'm unsure if sleeper buses are common in other countries but this was the first time I'd experienced one. It was amusing to see forty people crammed in to three levels of very narrow bunks in a coach that otherwise looks normal from the outside. We departed Beijing at 4pm, but James and I were not entirely sure what time we'd arrive in the border town of Erlian.

Chinese sleeper bus

The answer: 2:30am. What were we to do arriving at a deserted bus station at an ungodly hour, not knowing anyone, not knowing where to go? Fortunately a Mongolian couple on the bus had seen James read an English book and engaged him in conversation. They were also going to Ulaanbaatar too so were happy for us to follow them.

The first step was to hop on to the back of a ute. The Mongolian couple, James and I sat on our luggage and held on for our lives, hoping not to fall out of the truck. As I lost feeling in my fingers and face I asked James "How cold do you think it is, -20C?" He had no answer, likely because he was unable to move any part of his body.

The ute took us to a local motel where we could put our heads down for four hours. We would meet with our Mongolian guardians at breakfast and they would pursue a way for us to get across the border.

The next morning there was a concern that due to the Mongolian New Year holidays we would not be obtain train tickets to Ulaanbaatar. We tagged along with the Mongolian couple as they searched all over Erlian looking for train tickets. After all the leads failed it was apparent we’d have to cross the border not knowing whether we'd be stranded.

The jeep that took us across the China-Mongolia border.
left to right: James, Oyuna, Baatar

The border crossing was an event in itself as a small jeep with four seats squeezed in eight people, along with our luggage. Everyone had someone sitting on their lap! I was sitting on James' lap with my head perpendicular to my body - the driver's warning that the door may fling open any minute intensified the thrill. My apologies to James' girlfriend for getting to know him in the jeep in ways that no other person should.


After a tense standoff at the Chinese emigration desk where the officers somehow didn't believe that I was Australian, we finally strolled into Mongolia. We wearily headed to the railway station, still without train tickets.

At the station it was a mad scramble for tickets. Tourists and locals alike were desperate to secure a seat but with the New Year holidays demand far outstripped supply, and the allocation seemed arbitrary. There was one South Korean backpacker who had been stranded for two days and finally managed to get a ticket – whereupon he yelled in glee and hugged everyone in sight.

After persistent hustling the Mongolian couple managed to secure two tickets. They suggested we play the tourist "pity" angle to solicit tickets from the saleswoman.

I tried twice and James tried once but the lady at the ticket window firmly denied us. No tickets.

Oyuna, the female half of our guiding couple, then decided drastic action was needed. She confronted the ticket window with some venom, and although James and I can’t understand Mongolian we were left with little doubt as the debate escalated into shouting:

Ticket window lady: “I told you there are no more tickets. Go away.”
Oyuna: “Rubbish, I know you have contingency tickets back there! These foreigners have come all the way from Australia and America and have reservations to meet in Ulaanbaatar. Give them tickets now!”
Ticket window lady: “I don’t care where they’re from. There are no more tickets!”
Oyuna: “Don’t lie, I saw you give those people tickets just now! You can’t leave tourists stranded here at the border. Get typing and hand over two tickets!”
Ticket window lady: “Fine, I can give them two separate single seats. You’re a pain in the backside.”

Victory! Oyuna’s fury had saved us from being stuck in the middle of the desert. I was very impressed – it seemed Mongolian women get what they want! James and I couldn’t hide our delight.

The train ride itself was an immediate immersion into Mongolian life and people. Obviously there were no spare seats, and the seats themselves were very uncomfortable – benches with minimal padding and perpendicular walls as support. There were children scrambling up and down the aisle, elderly folk in traditional clothing, and families snacking.

The train ride to Ulaanbaatar went on for an insufferable seventeen hours. James and I were separated by three carriages – fortunately in my carriage I was able to secure a bench to endure the trip supine.

Finally - Ulaanbaatar railway station!

James was not so lucky, with his carriage remaining packed to the brim for the entire length of the journey. It was no wonder as soon as we landed at Ulaanbaatar he declared “I can’t do that again, Tony. I have to buy an international sleeper train back to Beijing”. Purchasing James’ return ticket was the first thing we did in UB.

It wasn’t all a loss though. The local passengers treated James very well – plenty of homemade dumplings were shared around and they even dressed him up in traditional Mongolian garb. Initially they thought James was a Kazakh. Jagshemash!

In the Internet age when information travels in milliseconds from one side of the world to another James and I proved sending humans across adjacent countries can still take an arduous forty-two hour trip.