Long route home

Photos: Chicaque

noflyzone — Tue, 3 Jul 2012 08:00:00 GMT

Cloud Forest

Photos: Home sweet home

noflyzone — Tue, 3 Jul 2012 07:50:00 GMT

New flat

A place to lay our heads

noflyzone — Tue, 3 Jul 2012 07:48:00 GMT

I should begin by saying that we rarely do things the easy way. On day two of flat hunting, we did find a lovely furnished two bedroom appartment with a landlady who did not need us to have a guarantor.

Flat hunting in Colombia has been an experience. Unlike other countries we've lived in, you don't look on the internet or in estate agent windows. You walk around the area where you want to live, and you look for 'ARRIENDE' in the windows. Then you phone, make an appointment, and finally view the appartment. Which is great if you both speak Spanish and know which area you want to live in... On day one, our friend Duncan kindly helped us and spent a morning walking, looking and making the phone calls. He did not expect us to take a further 4 weeks to make a decision!

That's 4 weeks of walking up and down streets, 4 weeks of umm-ing and ahh-ing and 4 weeks of indecision. On the plus side, our Spanish has improved. Not only do we have the stock phrases down pat ("Tiene una apartamento para alquiler?" "Podemos hacer una cita para ver?" "Cuanto es" "Sin o con administracion?"), but now we can also understand some of the answers! On the down side, our language deficiencies meant visiting almost every place, because our eyes are far more reliable than our ears - as long as we haven't misunderstood the time/day of the appointment.

The other major complication is that many landlords want a 'fiodor' - in fact, some of them want two. A fiodor is like a guarantor - a Colombian who owns property and has a certain ammount of cash in their account, often with a certificate to say they can be a fiodor. While we have some Colombian friends, there is nobody we could really ask to be our guarantor. Plus of course, we don't yet have our visas, so some people baulked at giving a year's rental to tourists.

But eventually, after many places that were too big, and many places that were too small, some that were too expensive and some that were in completely the wrong place, we found a place that was 'just right'. Rather than risk being caught by bears, we asked a few people who spoke Spanish to ring and find out exactly what papers he'd need, and to offer a three month guarantee instead of the fiodor. Several missed calls and mixed messages later, he decided to let it to someone else who had the right papers, and we were back to trudging the streets of Chapiniero.

Second time around and we made the decision in days rather than weeks. The staff at the hostel were really helpful in making calls and before we knew it, we had 24 hours to raise 4 months rent in cash! While the rent is cheap by London standards, 4 months is still more than our combined daily cash limits on the ATM, ensuing much discussion about whether the daily limit ended after 24 hrs or midnight UK time; multiple trips to multiple ATMs and some scrabbling under the bed for the final pesos.

Which brings us to the next experience. The agent was really keen that we read and understand the contract; cue google translate to the rescue. After signing, we were sent with a man in an over sized suit to the notary office, where the notary agent pored over the contract, our passports and our other documents. We were then FINGER PRINTED before she stamped, counter stamped, signed and dated every page. It took about 45 minutes before Mr Oversized Suit took us to the appartment and gave us the keys.

We didn't move in immediately as it took a few days to find a bed - and a few more until now when it really feels like home. For the cynics, no that doesn't mean that it's untidy and filled with clutter, it means we have a sofa, table, pots, pans and even a kettle to make a proper cup of tea.

A special(s) update...

noflyzone — Tue, 22 May 2012 11:58:00 GMT

The streets are empty. Hardly a single business has shutters up. We're too high for tumbleweed, but if we weren't, it would surely be blowing down the road. Yet today is a day when few work and most have free time. This is hardly one's idea of a Latin holiday. It seems, much like Sundays, holidays are a time not to enjoy oneself but to rest. This leads to a sketchy feeling on such days – the police and military are taking a break and so the undesirables move in to the centre once more. Once lively streets are turned into abandoned, menacing alleys akin to something from a zombie movie. Bogota is not a morning city at the best of times but on Sunday mornings it borders on the absurd and holidays are even worse.

Th only public gathering seems to be on the Seventh street for the Ciclovia and in the parks. The Ciclovia is a closing of 120km of road for biking and walking. On Sundays this is quite fun, with families out and a general feeling of festivity although as holidays are typically Mondays, this undercuts the 2^nd Ciclovia and one shop in eight or so is actually open. The parks are open but one is expected to drive it appears as the public transport is perversely limited especially close to parks on Sundays and holidays.

It seems bizarre that on a day when everyone could be out spending money the shops choose to shut. Although a prime reason for moving was to experience a different culture, this is going to take a little while. Whilst I'm ideologically opposed to public holidays anyway (and Colombia has far too many) it is probably made worse by not having a house/fully developed social scene. After all, without the ability to invite a load of mates round or idle the afternoon away playing games it is harder to kill time in the hostel. The presence of semi-evolved neanderthals from various parts of the world make things close to unbearable in the common rooms and with the pubs closed...no more will I complain about the ridiculous hours of British pubs!

On some holidays things are different, we spent most of May Day in a traffic jam, for instance. We'd left town in search of the sun with a friend for the afternoon. This was somewhat preferable to the morning which involved the police teargassing the nearby worker's march. It was hard to know what was worse, the endless boredom of carbound inertia or the stinging of gas in one's throat. At least it had the feel of a special day about it. No doubt escaping the city will prove to be a typical Sunday activity, to hike, bike or just explore this seemingly fine city. It's clear that there's little going on in this normally pulsating city.

Cali G

noflyzone — Sun, 20 May 2012 05:32:00 GMT

After a lot of rushing around looking at apartments and going to job interviews, we thought we deserved a break and headed off to Cali in the south for a bit of sun and relaxation. Cali isn't very far as the condor flies and since condors don't have to go up and down 3 mountain ranges we thought we'd copy those clever condors and fly. It was a bit of an odd trip but that's for another post. Suffice to say we arrived well past midnight and fell into a deep reverie broken only by a friendly mosquito buzzing about reminding us that we were back in the weather one expects at this latitude. Sleeping under a single sheet was a throwback to previous days in the tropics, and spotting a hummingbird flitting about in the garden was an introduction to new ones ahead. The hostel was an odd affair, a lovely old house converted with ample mod-cons (jacuzzis in the bathrooms!). We found out rapidly that the much-vaunted Michelin chef had done a runner and the place was now being run by an avuncular Scot. It's fairly clear that being a hotelier is not his chosen vocation, but he made us feel extremely welcome and did so much for us in terms of sourcing information that he deserves to be a huge success. With a pool in the hostel and plenty of shady spots to work and chill out in, there wasn't much need to explore, but we fell down the hill to a nice area with an excellent little restaurant on the first day and found the zoo on our doorstep the next.

We've been to many zoos abroad which have disappointed and some which have shocked, but this was a delight. Dramatic or appropriate settings can really improve a place and this zoo was set in acres of verdant cloudforest with a river running through it. Several birds soared lazily overhead and iguanas ran free throughout the park. There's a heavy emphasis on Colombian animals so we saw the wild pigs called peccaries; a whole herd of the world's largest rodent – capybara-san (he holds a special place in our hearts from Japan); both puma and jaguar (both surprisingly small); new world monkeys with their twisting tails; playful tamarins; slithering snakes the size of barrels; roughhousing llama; dozing tapir; inquisitive anteaters; sleek otters and burrowing coati; mean old crocs and lizards; bears with their goggles and birds a plenty, including the giant condor, elegant flamingoes and toucans sadly not carrying guiness. There were also a clutch of visitors from Africa and North America, but those you know of already! It's clear that we will be priveliged and happy to see even a smattering of these animals whilst in the country. Visiting the zoo brought home just how megadiverse Colombia is, with snow-capped peaks, deserts, jungles and cloudforest.

With all of the magnificent wildlife still fresh in our minds we headed off to Yotoco National Park the following day. We'd been lured by the promise of 1100 red howler monkeys, but with our hangovers we were hoping they wouldn't howl too much. There's frustratingly little information on many of the national parks in Colombia, but the hostel had helped enormously with fact-finding. When we finally got to the entrance thanks to friendly and helpful bus drivers our socks were knocked off. The road that got us there also blights the park somewhat thanks to the trucks that thunder down it constantly but the facilities were top-notch. As seems normal in Colombia there was general confusion and no real sense of structure so we watched the end of the FA cup final and drank in the atmosphere. After a little while a guide appeared with little English but he then produced a photographer who could speak but was about to leave. He immediately changed his plans and took us into the forest after another half hour or so of indeterminate delay. Jose turned out to be an engaging and warm young man who knew the forest and the area well and spun us tales from his life and philosophy too. While it was tipping it down for much of the day, we managed to stay dry all through the walk. Just as we were drawing to a close, Jose veered off to the side on a hunch that some monkeys sometimes hung out near to the ranch. Sure enough, within five minutes we were watching a howler monkey feeding and leaping about in the canopy from our vantage point on a ridge. As usual with monkeys, photos were hard to capture. After we returned to the ranch and awkwardly paid, Jose did a quick interview with us (he used to be in TV, but decided against the bright lights of Bogota) for the park. Hopefully others will follow us – there's so much there to see.

Cali Town turned out to be somewhat unspectacular, though visiting on a Sunday was perhaps unwise. Almost everything was shut and there was a palpable aura of menace running through much of the town. With the Bradt guide being incredibly sketchy on maps, we had to follow our noses to get there and ended up strolling around on car-only huge roads in blazing heat to find a park, several closed bridges and finally a Church that was quite pretty. Eventually stumbling upon the route of the mass transit we assumed it must be the centre or near enough and we then searched in vain for somewhere halfway-decent to sit and have a coffee. We ended up making an enormous loop around the entire centre finding nowt but endless stalls of videos, sunglasses and vaguely shifty characters. Del and Rodders' sort of market this was not. By the time we'd got back to the foot of the hill taking us home we hailed a cab to the zona rosa of Cali, had a coffee milkshake each then pondered our next step. Just as the day seemed likely to slide away, a loud ping came from the cellphone!

It was a friend from Bogota, who's family hail from Cali. She provided her mother's number and said she'd ring later so we sloped to a bar to await the call. Whilst there, two genial Colombians joined us, explaining they'd seen us walking around earlier and that we were real individuals. The mood started off nicely but quickly deteriorated as they insisted on making lewd comments and cajoling us to dance and drink spirits with them. Given that they were tying one on at 3PM and we were off to meet grandmothers, we made our excuses and left, something we've always wanted to do. Eventually we sheltered in a Juan Valdez coffee shop to meet the family, who whisked us away across town to a fancy areperia. We loaded ourselves up on corn pancakes and chatted as well as we could across 2 languages, with Carmen's sister doing a sterling job of interpreting where necessary. It was a welcome reminder to work harder at Spanish and like most Colombians, the whole family were really good at speaking slowly and simply to help us out. After all that excitement, it was time to bid farewell to Cali by watching the apprentice back at the hotel, annotated by frequent outbursts from the aforementioned owner and forays by the house Rottweiler looking for company...a good trip all in all.

Photos: Cali for you now

noflyzone — Thu, 17 May 2012 08:46:00 GMT

Cali...

Photos: Bogota I

noflyzone — Fri, 4 May 2012 08:01:00 GMT

Graffiti, mountains, bubblegum buildings etc

First impressions

noflyzone — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 08:55:00 GMT

Telling folk back home we were heading out on an adventure to Colombia brought two usual responses: a) "you'll get kidnapped" or b) "you'll get murdered". Well, surprise surprise, IT'S NOT A WAR ZONE. It's a perfectly civilised modern city with drinkable (actually damn delicious) water and everything. Much like some areas of London are portrayed as no-go areas but in fact have perfectly pleasant populations, so Bogota seems fine. Indeed, the only reason we've had to feel uncomfortable is that the reams of misinformation and hyped paranoia have accumulated to such an extent that we doubt the truth we can see with our own eyes. Just round from our guesthouse is a pretty plaza (where Bogota was founded) filled with herds of students grazing on cheap booze and street food, muttering inanely at one another (some things are universal). The atmosphere is less riot-in-waiting and more party-in-waiting. EVEN AFTER DARK. Anyway, the wearisome safety cliche out of the way, let's get to some travel cliches!

Exhausted as we were after the whirlwind of our departure parties, we spent much of the first weekend sleeping and adjusting to both the height (2600m) and the time. When we did venture out with the caution the guidebooks had falsely instilled in us, we were left gasping, and not just from the altitude. Elegant museums and galleries, bright and vivacious streets, stunning views. It was all we wanted and more. Bogota's Old Town, Candelaria, is beautiful, all bubblegum-bright buildings and characterful cobbled alleys. However, unlike certain staid Old Towns (like that one just next to Bristol), this one bursts with explosions of new creativity. Graffiti blooms in the city as easily as the forests do on the hills above, playful statues cavort atop buildings and little galleries of modern art hide coyly round every corner. The rest of the city has sprung up North, West and South of the Old Town but the imposing peaks of the Eastern Andes hem the city in to the East. One of the tireless thrills of the city is to glance East and see a misty mountain top at the end of the road, like a stairway to heaven. At another half a click up, there's no danger at all of the city's bold new skyscrapers ruining the majestic natural vista.

Most of you reading this are fellow Brits so I should mention the weather. It's been miserable a couple of days, glorious a few more and generally very unpredictable. We learned pretty quickly to layer and to make sure we're always close to shelter. With excellent coffee at 50p a cup in a range of charismatic cafes, hiding from a tropical downpour is a wholly agreeable experience. The sun can feel quite intense up here, mainly because we're almost close enough to touch it, but sunburn doesn't look like being a worry. Whilst Bogota is a lovely city with much to keep us entertained, it's certainly not set up for tourists in the way that much of Asia was. We're redoubling our efforts with Spanish and muddling our way through. Despite the lack of expat support, we're managing to sort out job interviews and apartments easily enough - this seems like a place where anything can be possible and there are opportunities rather than obstacles. The whole city seems to be hurtling towards a bright future. Life here looks like it'll be fun!

PS if you were waiting for a drug cliche, Emma did coke this afternoon. I did a Sprite. Enough cliches for now, more of the truth.

Photos: The final journey

noflyzone — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 01:19:00 GMT

Eurostar > home...

Photos: Ice-Bergen

noflyzone — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 00:31:00 GMT

Noord-Holland - Last step - via Venlo; Eindhoven; Amsterdam

Photos: Brrr-lin

noflyzone — Mon, 6 Dec 2010 00:08:00 GMT

First we take New York, then we take Berlin...plus a few shots from the FDR or whatever they call it now

Photos: Pole to Pole

noflyzone — Thu, 2 Dec 2010 23:43:00 GMT

Grey

Train-ing

noflyzone — Thu, 2 Dec 2010 07:34:00 GMT

We're on the 83 Karaganda-Moscow train, our 62nd and longest train. Trains have been the defining mode of transport for us. We've taken more trains than anything else, covered more ground and spent more time on them. We did one train in each of Thailand, Vietnam and Malaysia. All were slow and comfortable, fairly unremarkable, with the exception of pretty scenery, especially on the jungle railway in Malaysia. They were not train countries, though, so we travelled often on boats and buses. Most of our train travel has been on almost all of the world's most legendary and notable rail networks - India, China, Japan and the former Soviet lines. We're looking forward to the German trains and possibly even the French, which would almost complete us. Of course, the final trip will be on one of the oldest lines in the world, London Paddington-Bristol.

Train travel everywhere was often long. 24hrs on a train now feels short, or at least not unusual. We've spent 20 nights asleep or at least trying to sleep on trains. It's amazing how time flies on these mammoth journeys, so often did we find ourselves halfway through in what felt like a blink of the eye. It's more difficult than one might imagine to do chores, the trains often rock and sway so much that writing takes more trouble than it's worth and space is often at a premium. Card games and gazing out of the window can chew up surprising amounts of time and there's often people to watch or to chat to. It's remarkable how few people carry anything to occupy themselves. What's certainly true is that train travel beats everything else. Only ferries come close to the joy of being on a train, the romantically rythmic motion, the uninterrupted views, the feeling of detachment and the glimpse into lives. The space, the freedom make the journey to be enjoyed and savoured rather than endured. One has a berth and a bed, a buffet car and proper toilets - what more is necessary?

India was our primary train country - we covered more than 9000km there, from south to north and west to east. Any journey on an Indian train involves first purchasing a ticket, which is rarely straightforward. For a start, the ticket office doesn't sell tickets other than for short haul on the date of departure. For all other tickets, one must go to the reservations office, usually in an adjacent building. Sadly in many big stations, various touts try to misdirect tourists to the reservation office, as they want them to go to a travel agent who will pay them commission. Having dodged the touts and arrived safely in the reservation office, one can receive forms with which one can request trains. Note the use of 'request' rather than reserve. One then fills in all the details such as place of departure, the all important train number and your home address. The nice person behind the counter will tell you if seats/berths are available. If not, you will then have RAC/WL tickets. These mean you may get on the train if enough people cancel. RAC allows you to board the train, WL doesn't. There are 4 levels of RAC and unlimited levels of WL. WL80+ doesn't always mean you will fail to get on a train - there are various quotas available that you can request to take advantage of. We often use the foreign tourist quota, there are others for VIPs, doctors etc. Also, many people cancel at the last minute (cancellation is very cheap and so many people book multiple tickets for the same train) and many quotas are unfilled, thus allowing the WL holders to move up to having seats/berths. It's all rather confusing...but some stations give us hapless foreigners dedicated desks to assist. These are rather hit-and-miss though, especially in the North. At smaller stations, being European often allows us to speak directly with the station supervisor and get him to sort out problems. The New Delhi station is especially good at dealing with foreigners, even using a whole different form system specially laid out for us dunderheads.

Classes run in order of comfort and price 1AC, 2AC, 3AC, SL, II for overnight services and FC, EC, CC, SL, II for daytime services. Confusingly, many daytime trains also have sleeper cars 3AC as well. We've travelled on all classes except FC. 1AC consists of private cabins - we did this from Udaipur to Delhi - that are lockable. 2/3AC have double and treble bunks respectively in 4/6 berth open cabins, with a seperate line of double bunks perpendicular at the end. These are comfortable enough for overnight journeys although there can be a lot of staring. People are very talkative and it's rare not to chat a lot on these journeys. The berths are quite cramped in 3AC when they're all down, usually all three people sit on the lower bunk and fold up the middle bunk. There is a bit of an issue here though as the person occupying the lower bunk can in all rights just stretch out and force everyone else up onto their bunks, but mostly it's well handled. SL is a significant step down, fine for daytime journeys but not really for overnights (we did it once, from Madurai to Trivandrum). It's the same layout as 3AC but without aircon and significantly, anyone can board it, even without a berth, leading to very crowded conditions indeed. CC is a good class, air conditioned seats and like a European service but of course much slower. EC is a fancy version of the above and FC is a anachronistic dream, it appears to have been decommissoned. By all accounts it features armchairs and very plush though not air conditioned facilities. Class II is very very cheap and very very very crowded but acceptable, often cooler than the AC classes when moving because of the open cagelike windows/doors. It's possible to do this as an overnight journey but would be unthinkably unpleasant.

The actual journey itself is usually unsteady - Indian trains tend to rock violently from side to side at various points. The toilets are not always in the best condition and do reek most of the time but we've both seen worse. For some reason a small bucket for flushing with has been put on a very short chain in many toilets so people have to throw the water across the cubicle so they're often wet. In 1AC carriages the toilets have shower hoses for the brave who may shower. Standards of hygiene are such here that it's not so unusual to find people eating off the floor scant yards from a cesspit of a toilet, with cockroaches crawling all around. The train doors are almost always open - so that people can hang out of them, a preferred position as it gives a good air flow. Power points are provided for one to plug in laptops and charge mobiles, which is very very useful. The toy trains from Coonoor to Ooty and the joyride in Darjeeling were great too - full of Indians living an alpine dream.

Almost every train echoes to the cry of chaichaichai as the tea seller comes past, selling shot-sized cups for just 5Rs (about 8p) a go. No sooner is the chai man past then come the cutletcutletcutlet and samosasamosasamosa guys. Each has the same tone, a distinctive deep nasal boom that rings around inside your skull. These are almost always identical products, they come from a vat that follows a strict railways of india menu. Variety can be found especially on the lower classes through hawkers. Hawkers sometimes carry food though more usually they sell other things - books, toys, newspapers, jewellry etc. Technically speaking they are prohibited, but this must be a joke Indian law rather than a real one. Luckily the law about not cooking food on stoves in carriage seems to be a real one. Beggars too are present on classes SL and II but we've yet to see them in the rarefied air of aircon carriages. One train - the 432 Udaipur mail - was a real local train, stopping everywhere, including, it would seem, for food. For once there were no food sellers at all and we had to wait 5 hung over hours until big stations came along and we could jump off and run to a shop for food and drink before reboarding.

When you finally finish the journey you are deposited at a station which is rarely a great deal of fun. There should be a bin or two, a riot of people trying to force you back into the train so they can get on, porters and cabbies yelling for your custom and so on. Very occasionally there's some useful information around. The platforms have dozens of people sleeping while they wait for trains and vary wildly in cleanliness. Big city stations often have mini villages set up along the tracks with the usual filth and squalor. Various animals scuttle around if it's a bad station.

Chinese trains got us across vast distances too, further even than India, though faster. The superfast Tianjin-Beijing train was awesome and very much a symbol of New China - it is a developed-nation train in every way. The Lhasa train also was a masterpiece of engineering and of humanity's power, winding through such inhospitable terrain. The Beijing-HK sleeper was an odd experience as there were armed guards glaring at us every time we went past stations. The sleepers across to Nanning were jerky and full of the glorious throat-clearing morning chorus. All Chinese trains had boiling water available, not that we realised that the first time and thus didn't bring cup ramen to eat on the way. It wasn't a mistake we made twice and thereafter turned up laden with food to avoid the Chinese-standard fare on the train.

It was nice in China how so many people seemed to be in large groups and would hop between carriages and compartment blocks, gossiping and chatting away cheerfully. On the Lhasa train we managed to do the same, which was very nice indeed. Every Chinese train was friendly except the Xi'An to Urumqi train which was somewhat like God's waiting room, stuffed with zimmer frames and elderly Chinese. The Chinese trains have more space than the Indian ones - the side berths are replaced by folding seats and tables next to the window, providing a nice place to play cards. There's usually more baggage space too, and even some up next to the top berths. There's a strange system whereby you swop your ticket for a card when embarking and then again when disembarking. Someone comes to effect the swop shortly before your station so you never get caught too unaware. Chinese train border controls were a bit of a pain - emptying a bag at the Kazakh border and having to disembark at the Vietnamese.

The stations were masterpieces of organisation. No-one allowed in without a ticket, everyone shunted to waiting rooms specific to each train which then emptied to the platform when the train arrived. Like India, China's poor move through the country by train and the stations reflected that - a striking illustration of migraton. As in India, there's a seperate ticketing hall to purchase ticket. It was easy and fast to get tickets in China - although lots of problems are reported we never really had any. The control was evident on the train too, no hawkers, nobody on without a ticket and all toilets locked long before the stations come into view.

The former Soviet network carried us all the way from what is indisputably Asia to what is almost indisputably Europe. Due to a lack of English/Kazakh/Chinese/Russian on various sides of ticket offices we travelled in surprising luxury - kupe (2nd) class. The third class looked fine when we popped through on an explore - it was open-plan, so it feels in many ways less invasive to share space. The slight problem with the kupe compartments were the cosiness - when two grumpy people are staring at you in such a confined space it feels a little invasive. That said, the kupe compartment I'm sitting in now is fantastic and feel really like a long train journey should feel - spacious and comfortable. We've only intermittently had people in here, too. The compartment has 4 berths, 2 up and 2 down. There are lots of rails, bars, hooks, shelves and ledges to put things on or in and a small folding table. Under the bottom berth is a box for the bags to live in, and it's essentially locked by putting bodyweight on it. Bedding and sheets are provided and clean and comfy. Outside there are seats in the corridor, some 110v powerpoints, a toilet at either end and a samovar (water boiler). There are nine compartments to a carriage, plus a guards compartment replete with three guards and a guards office. On the way to Almaty, the guards stuffed their fat faces with food at every stop, loading vast piles of bread, lakes of soups and acres of salad into their compartment.

The only internal train we took in Kazakhstan was the No.1 to Astana - a Spanish designed superfast Talgo service. Superfast on aging track means moderately fast by western standards but still the journey was a mere 12 hours rather than a day, which bought us time in Astana. It was a swish modern affair but eminently unsensible for those of us with big bags. Luckily our cabinmates had only very small bags, otherwise we'd have had to sleep with the bags again. Changing the seats round was a real faff, requiring the summoning of a guard to unlock the top bunks and swing them don, then everyone to go in one at a time and make beds. The space was just as limited in the corridor too, so we all had to file up and down when someone wanted to get past. Those guys were pretty friendly, but almost everyone else has been very grumpy. It's so stereotypically slavic scowling surliness. We've shared our compartment three times this journey, and only once before, on the internationals. Each time has been brief and we've only had a cabinmate for one night - a mumbling teenager for the final night to Almaty. We started this journey with a freindly Kazakh who was travelling not quite as far as the border, then we got two butterball ladies to the border. On the Russian side it's just been a couple of people for an hour or so at a time. The vast majority of the time we've been in splendid isolation.

The borders have been pretty easy too - a strict check of the visas and passports, of course - with funky little laptops! Bagwise they've had varying levels of indifference - no check at all when entering Russia. Russia were confused by our nationality - English, British or UKish? Phone calls were made, the appropriate box was located and we were logged in. Entering Kazakhstan we ran into a well-spoken army man who spoke with great candour about his life on the border post. He told us of his friends in the SAS, having to check the bags of Kazakhs bringing so much from China, the border boredom and the dangers of the land. We laughed at first - "the hills are full of beers, very dangerous" then it wasn't so funny "they killed two men this year. This is why it is dangerous. We must kill everything. Wolves, beers...". Luckily at that point he was recalled by a gruff supervisor and we went on into Kazakhstan. The scenery was then mountains, by Astana plains and then hills, forest and even rivers as we wound towards Moscow.

And of course we started the journey on what is still the world's most iconic train service - the Japanese shinkansen aka bullet trains. Although we eschewed them after Nagoya in favour of local services, that first intercity trip was blindingly fast on a 16 coach Nozomi. It remains the most beautiful train we've used. Japanese trains are incredibly punctual, well-engineered and efficient of course and have the nice touch of allowing every seat to swivel so you can choose which direction to face. Many of the prettiest journeys were in that achingly pretty land - Shikoku's Yawatahama-Matsuyama express in the dying light a particular highlight, but also the Kagome to Nagasaki. All Japanese routes have names and often individually different trains, quite unlike the boredom of samey trains elsewhere. So we travelled on Sonic Expresses and Romancecars, which was nice. The local services that we used in Japan were our shortest journeys - mere four hour hops. Of course, these trains were not intended for long-distance travellers with tonnes of baggage so it was often a struggle to get everything on. The fellow passengers were always polite, of course and sometimes even friendly too. The oyaji express from Hiroshima was stuffed with elderly baseball fans just out of the stadium. Stations were mines of useful information - maps, lockers, timetables and everything efficient and speedy. With the exception of the train to Beppu which was a real rural line, we always had plenty of options when looking at trains and never had to wait too long for one to roll around. The stops were brief at most - often less than a minute, even for a change. The food comes from stations and is, in an indisputably Japanese way, a Big Thing. It's called ekiben, meaning station-box (of food) and regionally specific. It's by no means unusual to find Japanese travelling for kilometres just to sample a particularly highly-rated ekiben. We had hiroshima ekiben - salty and umami in taste, adorned with a whole okonimiyaki.

It's Baltic

noflyzone — Wed, 1 Dec 2010 05:14:00 GMT

[We are sorry to report we are having technical difficulties, the blog will of course continue, but the laptop is snarled up and we may not be able to fix it until we hit the UK. Updates may be even further behind than usual!]

Here we are - in Schengen, free from visas and the expense, wasted hours and form filling that goes with them! In this wonderland, one can skip between countries without nay a border check, without even showing a passport.

Our 5 day romp through the Baltics was an impulsive decision based on very little research and a large dose of whimsy. It meant jumping through countries at a rate of knots and spending only a short amount of time in each of these picturesque capitals. But, gidddy with our new found freedom, that was half the appeal. That, and a budget dented from the days in Russia and Finland, we booked a cheap ferry to Estonia.

Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania have a lot in common, and historically the borders have been very flexible. Lithuania of course was once a largest power in Europe, but that was a very long time ago. As tourist destinations, they are appealing with kitschy shops and pretty old town areas.

But it doesn't take much to see past the snow-sugar coating, they all have a difficult recent history, having been ripped apart and fought over by both Nazis and Soviets, rampaging through like children fighting over a prized toy and ripping it to pieces. The Nazis scorched earth policy left very little in tact, then followed the years of fear and scarcity under the Soviets. It's hard to beieve that it was only 20 years ago that they gained their independence. Images of a chain of people holding hands from Tallinn to Riga to Vilnius to campaign for independence reflect the shared history, unity and similarities of these three countries.

We spoke to a couple of people along the journey about occupation and visited the Museum of Genocide in Lithuania. The Genocide Museum is a a well put together history of Lithuania's time under occupation and documentation of the numbers (and stories) of people who were killed, starved or forcefully re-located. Housed in the former KGB headquarters, it included a spooky execution room, an eavesdropping room, and access to the prisons and exercise area below.

One Lithuanian train companion explained that Christmas was banned in Soviet times because it was a religious festival (do you remember being told the Soviets would take away Christmas?), while a Polish girl told us her parents had not been able to learn Polish or proper history in school. Small examples of a living European history that is very different from ours.

The tensions between Russians and locals remain - in Helsinki we'd seen a short film about the removal of a Russian war memorial about 2 years ago, which ended in riots and deaths. Oli sensibly took the soviet badge off the Cherkessian hat.

As a tourist, the horrors are easy to forget while wandering around the chocolate box old towns. Especially in Tallinn, which was probably the prettiest with its turreted city wall and steeply gabled roofs. Tallinn, Riga and Vilnius would all fit nicely on a Christmas card, especially as they were iced in sparkly snow, and all played up their 'ye olde' atmosphere. Riga boasts some wonderful Art Nouveau, built in the 1920s with lovely stuccos of people hanging from the pillars and supporting window sills. Vilnius is home to a castle on a hill which was sadly shut when we got there. Everywhere we went there were Christmas markets with wooden stalls, gluhwein, sausages and all kinds of wooden toys, jams, and glittery decorations. Some of us were more taken with the festivities than others.

Food wise, the traditional Lavian food is very similar to the traditional Lithuanian and traditional Estonian food. All are heavy on the meat, especially pork, potatoes and pancakes. All have various red soups and pea/bean and bacon dishes. All go extremely well with beer. In Tallinn we ate snacks in Hell Hunt, followed by traditional food in front of a not so traditional dvd fake fire. In Riga we dined in a sadly empty medieval cellar on hunks of meat with potatoes and bread and in a xmas pub with yet another fake fire. Our favourite meal was probably a pub in Vilnius, where Oli devoured a huge hock of ham.

Money wise, we raced from Euros to kroons (which will probably have become Euros by the time we post this update), to Lats to Liti to Zloty, debating the exchange rates with every payment as the same cup of coffee seemed ludicriously cheap to one of us and expensive to the other depending on who'd lost the zero.

Our stomp through the baltics was at times baltic, with frequent back pack laiden trudges through the snow. Old towns were also cold towns. We've lots of pictures of sun rising and setting, since it spends a couple of hours climbing up, hangs around for 5 minutes and then spends a couple of hours cllimbing down again. We didn't spend enough time there to do anything more than get a taste of each place, hopefully we'll be able to return one summer and see it all in the sun.

If you're going:

Central Hostel in Riga - very good, perfect staff.
Lux buses - wifi and good customer support for snow delays
Jumping Jack's in Vilnius - really childish hostel

Photos: A right ball-tics up

noflyzone — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 23:42:00 GMT

Estonia; Latvia; Lithuania

Photos: To Hellsinki and back

noflyzone — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 00:05:00 GMT

-18!

To Hell and back

noflyzone — Sun, 28 Nov 2010 05:06:00 GMT

[Dear patient and dedicated readers, I am sorry. Oli was left alone in Helsinki and this is what happened. Personally, I think a pun fest is preferable to jumping in ice pools, joining the Hells Angels or sustaining headbang related whiplash, you may or may not agree. Em]

It's official! Hell(sinki) has frozen over. As we step off our luxurious ferry, we're walking across compacted snow. There's a wonderfully chocolate-box quality to Helsinki in this weather. We've had a lovely cruise across the Baltic, playing cards (aces high), sipping cocktails and watching a dance show. A taster of Finland is given by the dancers incorporating Children Of Bodum into their act. Even the night rain is a treat - reminding us how lucky we are to be inside when it's so cold outside. Helsinki is small and very well organised so a ten-minute stroll brings us to the hotel. Not our hotel, mind, but Mum's. It's a bit of a surprise, as they've come out to meet us in Finland. It's great to see her and David, and makes for a lovely start for our return to Europe.

Of course, culture isn't finn on the ground and there's plenty in the way of museums. Ateneum functions as a national gallery but it's absurdly expensive and they aren't even displaying Rodin. Kiiasma is much the better bet, showcasing both modern Nordic-Baltic art and a touring YBA set. The star attraction is the building itself, a dazzling wraparound curve that allows unfettered access for all. That's typical of Finnish building - no vulgar displays of power or architecture of aggression. Even the ministry of defence is open and free. This philosophy carries even to the cathedrals. They might have faith no more but the finns have elegant places of worship still to worship the lordi. The deco-esque Olympic stadium is elegant and austere still, with its tall tower stretching up into the sky. Deco is a key reason for Mum visiting Helsinki and we all stroll around for as long as we can manage in the bitter cold, pointing at one nice building after another. The Sibelius monument is elegant and perfectly set, as is the nearby Church in the Rock. We're especially delighted to find that the latter has a free concert rehearsal going on so we stop and listen for a while until our toes have regained feeling.

With the cold november rain and iced earth, it's really the weather for sitting inside and ruminating upon things rather than stomping about from place to place which suits us very well indeed. With so much to catch up on we've got lots to talk about over many pots of coffee and half-litres of beer. Like all things in Finland, eating out is very expensive but you get what you pay for with generous portions of tasty if rather basic fare. The highlight was Troika, a charming little cottage of a restaurant serving exceptional Russian food. Even the water's good, slightly metallic,a strange taste but otherwise OK, certainly not poison. Bakeries served up caraway and cardomom flavoured bread products, to a Finn t'roll must taste that way or it's no good. Trams appear to be free, simply stroll on and no-one checks. It's not at all clear whether we're breaking the law or not.

England might be the home of Heavy Metal but nowhere is the genre celebrated more than Helsinki. Even chavesque bars are banging out speed metal and there's a plethora of metal bars. Rock and metal seem to have transcended from alternative to the mainstream. A succession of bars and people is a fine way to drink the night away. In true Nordic style everyone is both friendly and slightly deranged. It's absolute mayhem for much of the night, especially at Bar PKRL (a naughty word in Suomi). Everyone speaks English with aplomb, although one extremely drunk girl is convinced that I can speak Suomi and keeps trying to test me. Her twisted sister blew me a kiss but she was a real iron maiden and so I had to breakout of there. It's really quite strange to be in late bars where half the people are dressed up properly and the other half are in sensible sweaters. In the mornings it feels like the angel of death has come for me but a few painkillers later and I've recharged my battery. My Finnfriend Michael looked after me well the first time I was here so it's nice to see him again. His roots are from Karelia, which is really cold - he told me about when your eyelashes freeze together at -40!

The hostel is very well organised, there's a system of a down payment before logging onto the internet but it turns out to be non-existent in reality. The rooms are well equipped with ac/dc power points. Getting the laundry done is about the only hard thing to do. The dryer seems to be permanently out of order so after a quick rage against the machine and without the right tool from Halfords it's time to give up, let the hammer fall from our hands and hang up the clothes in the room.

Well, how many metal/rock puns can you count? There's a russian doll for the winner!

Guides

noflyzone — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 07:35:00 GMT

We started with three guidebooks on this trip and now we have none. Rough Guide to Japan was left with Christopher in Beijing after 18 months of bookmarking, dog-earing and scribbling in during which it served us very well indeed. Lonely Planet's South East Asia on a Shoestring found its way onto the bookshelf at the Coliseum Hotel's Planter's Bar having guided us there, among many other great places and the Rough Guide to India was sold for a surprisingly high price in Kathmandu. Now we are using web guides such as wikitravel and relying on word of mouth, tourist information or web searches. Do we think guidebooks are good or bad?

A guidebook is a big, heavy, expensive part of your bag. All three were 1000 page monsters. They've been annoying to lug around in the day bag and there was never any chance of pocketing them. While they are very useful, this is a major point against them - a website weighs nothing. However, the computer that makes sense of those 0's and 1's does weigh something and is much more expensive and fragile. If it's not in your pocket then you have to find one and that can be tricky and time consuming, especially in India. Using a webguide in India would have been very impractical and wasted a lot of time. Browsing offline is very convenient but online browsing is (mostly) impossible on trains, ferries and buses. Web connections can be fast or slow but you must get to the line. Books, on the other hand take a few seconds to find the correct place. As for money, you pay once for that guidebook and it's equal to about 20-30 hours of browsing. After that, the web's costing more.

Something we called the Gregarious Planet problem emerges in many places. Basically it runs like this - Lonely Planet give a good review, leading to more custom for one place. Everywhere around there then adapts to try and lure away this business. Local flavours and customs are lost in the stampede to provide what foreign (usually Western) tourists want and we end up with bacon and eggs or banana sodding pancakes on every menu. Character and personality goes out of the window, replaced by blandly identical beach shacks, traveller hangouts etc. Many places suffered from this although Thailand is by far the worst. The bubble is created and then sustained as it feeds on itself, encouraging more people into these dens of cultural irrelevance.

More annoying still is walking into somewhere and finding 20 twatpackers smugly shouting at one another as if they were a mile rather than a metre apart. Almost everywhere in the LP SEAsia suffered badly from this - it wasn't too bad in India or Japan. It's a situation easily remedied by avoiding their recommendations - a sort of list of places you don't want to visit. A familiar feeling was turening up to places and finding them gone or changed beyond recognition. Japan and India especially had quite high turnover rates and enormously mutable cities and thus a two-year old guide book was often wrong. Travelfish.com and talesofasia were very useful in this regard, regularly updating and checking details and info. Seat61 was also absolutely critical for many of our tricksy connections. It wasn't always easier online though as many websites feature wildly out-of-date information and of course are never checked/edited or display dates. Recommendations are hit-and-miss in a guidebook. We found many places we would never have known about or discovered without the books, such as the Coliseum in KL, the fact we could stay in Da Lat's crazy house or the Atlanta hotel. On the other hand, online comment veers so wildly to extremes that they often become unusable, either denigrating places entirely or hyping them to absurd levels.

Critical to the use of a guidebook is understanding the writing style. With the LP SEAsia it was very much aimed at young gap-year students with little life experience or cultural interest. The most important points were adjudged to be, in order, easiness, driving price down as far as possible at any cost to quality and 'authenticity'. The last one is perhaps the most pernicious and the most outrightly false. The other guides were never quite as bad as the LP, which was written by and for people with little or no interest in contemporary culture, politics or society. It looks down on malls and praises traditional dance performances, despite the fact that these shows survive only on tourist money and usually have no relevance to everyday life in the country. It encourages you to go to the same place all the other apes go rather than looking at what the locals do or thinking for yourself. One gets the feeling that quite a few LP researchers haven't actually travelled or lived all that much and thus rave about places endlessly. The web engenders a huge range of sites covering thousands of sights. There are dozens of violently conflicting opinions on pretty much every topic. This is great if you're sitting at home with hours to kill on a wet tuesday night in November but a real pain if you're searching quickly for an answer at an improbably expensive cybercafe. Furthermore, the most distracted you'll ever be is looking at Sumatra longingly, not flicking quickly to football365 to see what's going on and suddenly losing half an hour of that precious time.

In conclusion then, guidebooks are very important parts of your kit but not the definitive tomes they're often made out to be. You wouldn't rely on one shirt, no matter how nice, and neither should you rely on guidebooks alone. On the other hand, travelling without one at all for any long amount of time is ridiculous - comparable to those that travel without proper shoes, shirts or trousers. They're usable on the beach, in a cafe or a train. They're quick and usually reliable. They've often been checked and edited. They're focused. They're indispensable.

St Petes

noflyzone — Wed, 24 Nov 2010 07:32:00 GMT

Peter's

St Petersburg, Petrograd, Leningrad, St Petersburg again. Whichever name you prefer, it's still the city built on bones. It's still the home of the October Revolution, perhaps the defining event of the 20th century. It's still brass monkeys cold. It may be European, it may be Russian, but in many ways it transcends both and belongs to neither in the way that Big Important Cities so often do. The city is cultured, friendly and fun, as comfortable gazing at a Rembrandt as knocking back vodka under busts of Lenin. It's a pity to leave so quickly, as we remarked to the passport officials, but our papers were in order so sadly they let us go.

The food has been marvellous. Prices are Western European, but the quality is outstanding. Not since Japan have we eaten so consistently well. Pies, soups, creamy sauces - everything is good. The food is rich - lots of cream and butter in almost everything. Favourites included a perfect stroganoff and a superb broccoli soup. We can certainly see how some Russians balloon up, it's hard to avoid ordering seconds or even thirds.

St Peters' has one particular cultural highlight - the world-famous Hermitage museum and gallery. The place is enormous, about 400 or so rooms, and replete with European art and Asian artifacts from Egypt to Japan. Of course, the actual building itself is a highlight, being the legendary Winter Palace of the Tsars. Looking at everything would take a week, so we skipped through in a day and got a good overview. Given that we have several fine European collections in London we focused on the Asian artifacts and were rewarded with quiet rooms and displays the like of which we've never seen. Gorgeous Kyrzyk wall paintings, sumptuous Siberian statues and splendidifirous Armenian icons - what treats they have! Everything is laid out sympathetically and well presented. It would be easy to suffer from overload with this number of exhibits but they avoid that.
Some halls are left in state, showing how they would've looked in Tsarist times and it's easy to see how hatred of the bourgeosie would've gained traction. The gallery layout is infuriating - all toilets and the only cafe are all on the ground floor, which cannot be fully walked around, leading to much trailing up grand staircases and back down again. It's somewhat like a maze to get around, further compounded by the fact that some rooms are closed, not where they should be on the map or moved. The closing is a pain - no Rodin, Faberge or most of the North Asian art is on display. There are little Samsung machines though that plot and then print a route to whichever highlights you select, which is supercool.

Having given only a day to the Hermitage, we have plenty more time to spend in this charming city. Walking through the old town throws up another cathedral or seven, the magnificent Peter and Paul fortress stretching up to the heavens from the banks of the Neva, and more museums. Further out and we visit the incredibly moving memorial to the 900 day siege of Leningrad. Hitler's boys were kept at bay thanks to some quite incredible Soviet sacrifices, a million dead soldiers and even more civilians. The building is sombre and dark, the main bulk being underground and featuring a brilliantly iridescent matching pair of mosaics - one with dark fear and one glittering with the break of freedom. For what feels like the millionth time on this trip we wonder how this insanity can happen. The other museums complement the Hermitge well rather than being lost in it's mighty shadow. Political History feels like a game, chasing through closed halls and searching for wings of the building that appear to have ceased to exist. Some halls must be entered backwards and nothing is in the right order. English comes and goes but the bulk of the museum seems to be in roughly the right place and is well presented. The political cartoons are especially good. The Kunst Kamera is a dubiously named but very enjoyable romp through Asian cultures - perfect for the day we sail to the EU! We delightfully recap all that we've seen, from Japan to Indochina and India to Central Asia, then sidle off to the curiosities to marvel at monsters. It's all very strange and ghoulish - cut up babies stuck in some jars; siamese twins; cyclopses etc.

The needle has been dropping the whole time. We arrived in the station at 6am to find daybreak depressingly far away. Then we could walk without gloves - on our final day a walk across the Neva left us so cold we couldn't hold the camera or do anything more than huddle and shiver for a few minutes when we finally got inside. It's very inhospitable - though returning from the rock bar at 2am was OK. One can see why so many Russians drink - it's so cold that a beer jacket is essential and the bars are good. Our favourite was probably Zov Ilyicha, filled with Lenins and general Commie memorabilia. Most places are friendly though the cavernous environs make the atmosphere a bit flat sometimes. Anyway, having stomped through the snow to get to our boat, it's time to wave bye bye to Russia and return to the land of freedom...EU here we come!

If you're going:

Zov Ilycha is a wonderful place to eat, drink or best of all both.

Zoom Bar is aimed at travellers with wifi, English speaking staff and wonderful food

Apricot Hostel is centraly located and cheap for St Petes. The price doesn't reflect the service, unfailingly helpful, wifi, tea and coffee and a washing machine all freely available for use.

Future shock

noflyzone — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 22:53:00 GMT

As you can tell from this slightly jumbled round up, our race through this huge country left us reeling - so many glimpses of people's lives, so many stories and so many possibilities. It's hard not to wonder what the future holds for India. This beguiling nuclear power presents its technological and industrial prowess to the world, but close up, it seems to be held together by sticking plasters and stretching the seams - the great Indian tradition of jugaad. The recurring question in our travels has been, how can the rich/successful minority with their MBAs and new ideas, pull this vast, uneducated majority out of poverty? Having a population of a billion puts everything on such an unprecedented scale. There are so many people that it's easy to find success stories, plenty of English language speakers to fill the call centres with cheap labour. But those jobs and successes are just drops in a huge ocean of corrupt disfunctionality.

To begin with, the caste system lives on, whatever politicians may say. It is no longer enshrined in law, but societies' prejudices make it hard to move anywhere on this complex social hierarchy. That caste system is not only repugnant and outdated to us, it's also a huge block to progress. Vast groups of society believe they can never be more than street cleaners and beggars, for that is their place - and we saw few who had ambition to change that. We didn't give to child beggars, because it encourages them to spend their lives begging, but nothing we saw suggested there was any other option for them, both because of their own expectations and because of those of the society around them.

In countries like Vietnam, Thailand and even Cambodia there was an energy, an ambition to progress, and we had a sense that the internet brought knowledge of possibilities and other worlds that made people demand rights they would not otherwise have known about. Perhaps because of the high levels of illiteracy, perhaps the lack of internet access, we never had a sense that the disposessed and lower classes of India might be able to effect any changes to their lives.

And while the poor are stuck at the bottom, power is crystallized with an elite at the top who seem blind to the poverty, or too tied by the red tape, self interest and corruption to make any major steps forward The negligence of leadership shows itself in so many ways. From the overgrown gardens to crumbing museums and the pot-holed roads, it often feels as if nobody cares. Nobody cares enough to drive proper road building to meet the ever growing numbers of cars, nobody cares enough to implement any meaningful birth control, or to sterelize the stray dogs that multiply on the streets, nobody cares enough to clean the streets, to bring in proper refuse control, to build public toilets. It is an exaggeration to say that nobody cares - there was a group called Sulabh who had built a few toilets at key points, but so few they might as well be pissing in the wind.

Politics continue to be dominated by the Nehru-Ghandi clan, in a democracy that is more hereditary than Japan. Sonia Ghandi is said to be more powerful than the elected Prime Minister, while her son is viewed as the obvious next PM. The much vaunted democracy is stuck in quicksand like so many things. The Commonwealth Games held the headlines for much of our stay, and are a good example of all that holds back India's development. It should have been a chance to showcase India's prowess to the world, they had the money, they needed the infrastructure and here was the time to build. we were so happy that the Games passed without incident, like the much vaunted Indian wedding metaphor, everything came together at the last minute. The venues didn't fall down, Dengue fever did not infest the village, and India's sports men and women did the nation proud.

But, the success doesn't change the fact that they spent billions of dollars more than they needed to on roads and venues that will not last. Overpasses with one lane instead of four to save money, which are useless for Delhi's traffic, stadia built on poor foundations with poor materials, whose paint is already washing off in the rain, metro stations rushed to open on the day of the Opening Ceremony without the proper safety checks. You could argue that hosting an international sports event in a country where people are starving is itself extraordinarily wasteful, and that may or may not be true. But to spend almost a billion pounds, to embezelle so much money and only deliver what are essentially temporary venues, to bring the nation's failings to the eyes of the international media, that can only be described as criminal. The arguments over who stole what, the scapegoating and blaming was still going on when we crossed the border. It looked as if Kalmadi will take most of the blame, but I'm sure the corruption was everywhere, just as I'm sure it infests every level of Indian Government.

As one guy said to us on a train, "of course it's all been left to the last minute, by creating an emergency, they get more money - and more money means more baksheesh for everybody. That's the Indian way". We talked to him more, and to others who had this fatalistic acception of the corruption. They say, this is India, we have too many people and corrupt politicians, what can you do? We said, this is a democracy, surely you could vote for someone else? And there seemed to be no answer. It is sad that people can blame corrupt politicans for everything, yet do no feel they have a role to play - either in electing or corrupting their society

The Games are a simple example of corruption and heavy footed delivery. As travellers, time and again we were struck by the way that the country cannot keep up with the level of its population - everything always feels out of control and overcapacity - the roads are crammed with vehicles, the trains crammed with people, there are power brown outs because they can't generate enough electricity, there's nowhere to put the rubbish, not enough schools/teachers, and as the infrastructure groans under the growing weight of demand. Reading people's impressions from 30 years ago, nothing has changed, they've just grown more people!
It seemed to us that India doesn't have the infrastructure for the number of people living there, and doesn't have the political will, or organisational capabilities to get ahead of the game - by the time they've finished a new road/new power plant/new school, they need 10 more! Comparisons between India and China are often made but it's like comparing apples and oranges. Quite apart from the fact that one side eats noodles and the other bread, they're also poles apart in terms of development. India is backwards and traditional, close to Africa in terms of human development. China is modernising, within touching distance of Europe.

Can the successes of microfinancing, the foreign businesses setting up factories, the ubiquitous call centres hold out? What will happen as those people find it harder to get to work, if the factories crumble or gain a reputation for shoddy workmanship? In no other place we've been have the levels of human suffering made us seek progress and hope for the future as it did in India. The size of the states and the numbers of people mean that driving change will require immense effort, co-operation and selfless leadership. But as the twins of corruption and neglect flourish, and the millions who survive below the poverty line continue to grow. It is hard to see where the vision and desire for lasting change might come from.