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EXPLORING THE SILK ROAD
text + images: juliet coombe destination: the silk road/china
Journeying along the Silk Road, Juliet Coombe learns that the life of a nomad isn’t as carefree as she’d imagined but the beauty of the land they travel in is. image: anthony plummer
L
IVING EVERY MOMENT TO THE FULL AND accountable to nobody, pitching tented homes wherever, for however long – a nomad’s life on the Ancient Silk Road is one of endless freedoms. Or so I imagined. Inspired by Marco Polo, the famous adventurer who traversed what was then the most important trade link between the ancient east and west, I have travelled to far north-west China and the dramatic landscapes of Xinjiang province in search of living history. I’m intrigued by the lives of modern day Silk Road nomads and their itinerant lives that contrast so deeply with our own sedentary existence. They live along a route that Kipling described as “a river of life as nowhere else exists in the world” and I’m keen to see if such a river still flows.
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Today, the Silk Road is broken and fragmented by a changed world. Over the centuries, wars have been fought, lost and won along its length, borders have altered and cultures have changed. Yet it remains a region where the roaming spirits of nomadic mountain and desert dwellers are relatively free. The South Gashun Gobi desert is a vast petrified inland beach with great flat expanses of sand shaped in wave-like ripples. Journeying through it I can’t remember the last time I was deafened by such a force of silence. Days pass quickly and turn into weeks and the isolation hypnotises me. I feel as if nothing else exists: the rest of the world is a figment of my imagination. Only the desert is bitingly real with its extreme shifts in climate from snow blizzards to blistering heat.
I marvel daily at how the nomads find their way across a horizon free of road signs and landmarks. The desert, they say, is littered with corpses of those who never made it and demons that leave even the sceptical spooked. The novelty of riding camels across the dunes quickly wears off – and I’m even more repulsed by the dribbling, domesticated creatures after being told that the non-natives are one of the reasons the elusive wild bactrian camels, native to the area, are now endangered. Bus journeys, too, become tiring when they last 14 hours a day crossing dusty, bumpy roads, and while donkey carts amused me at first, they are no replacement for an air conditioned ride. My stamina for enduring comfort deprivation would never stand up to the grit of Marco’s
get in the know! Marco Polo dictated his tales of travelling the Silk Road to a professional romance writer while imprisoned by the Genoese.
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Only the desert is bitingly real with its extreme shifts in climate.
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and I marvel at the tenacity of King Mu, King of West Chou and reputedly the first to travel along the Silk Route in 959 BC. With over half my journey complete, I look for a more stationary experience and so head 115 kms east of hub city Urumqi to Tianchi (Heavenly) Lake, situated at an elevation of 1,980m halfway up the ice-clad Bogda Mountain in the Tianshan Ranges. Tianchi reminds me of Switzerland: snow-capped peaks couch in the great lake and clumps of fir trees, pines and cypresses grow on the terrain surrounding it. Fields nearby are filled with wild flowers, mushrooms, peppermint and rhubarb,
while higher up the mountain are edelweiss and the rare creamy Snow Lotus, believed to have magical powers as a medicinal cure. After traversing the frigid waters in a boat I drop my backpack in the first of six yurts, the traditional accommodation of the Silk Road nomads. Similar to Mongolian gers, they are made from layers of felt and plastic, stretched around a collapsible wooden frame. Their Khazak owners are able to dismantle them within a few hours when they feel the need to continue their wanderings. For thousands of years the Khazaks have moved around as the seasons change,
taking herds from one pasture to another. Living in transportable yurts has become integral to their culture. Inside, yurts are surprisingly cosy. A raised platform lined with woven mats is underfoot, a flowery cotton material covers the walls and thick duvets – well marked from years of travel and use – are rolled up at the rear. The wood and coal stove has a chimney protruding through the torn plastic hexagonal skylight. Despite the heater’s warmth, once the sun sets the valley quickly becomes a deep freezer. My guide explains that during the height of winter the entire lake
get in the know! The name Khazak came into being from the 13th to the 15th century when they were first chased west by Ghengis Khan. The name means ‘refugee’ or ‘escapee’.
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get onlocation!
DISNEYLAND
d dream o o h d l i h s to his c up, sor t of. n r u t e r n grown mieso Justin Jaion to find it’s all destinat
of courtesy iedman + jessica fr : s e g a n // im a in jamieso of americ tex t: just d states nia, unite or lif ca : n o destinati
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disney
get in the know! Walt Disney only attended one year of high school.
I
’VE LOST COUNT OF HOW MANY TIMES I’VE BEEN told to grow up. Whether it’s after administering a well deserved wedgie to my sister or an unsuspecting Chinese burn to my brother, a thirty four year old man is “not supposed to act that way!” But being a man-child is who I am, so I was wrapped to be standing in the happiest place on earth for kids: Disneyland.
for a crack at the rollercoaster called California Screamin’ I happened across the Downtown Disney District which goes a long way to making the happiest place on earth even happier. “How are your Mohito’s?” I asked Carlos the Barman at Ralph Brennan’s Jazz Kitchen, a New Orleans style bar restaurant on the main street of deep Downtown Disney. “Man, what type of
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There would have been something quite surreal about seeing one of the world’s seminal metal bands belting it out only a few hundred meters from Mickey’s Toontown. But things have changed in Uncle Walt’s since I was last there as a true child 20 years ago. Sure, the Matterhorn rollercoaster still rattles along threatening to derail at every turn. Yes, Mickey and the gang all still seem happy to let thousands of strangers wander through their backyard. Space Mountain, that revolutionary indoor rollercoaster responsible for the changing of many pairs of underwear, still beckons (although whilst I was there it was under refurbishment with the promise of an even more hair-raising relaunch in 2005). And still happy families wander starry eyed through Fantasyland, Adventureland, Tomorrowland, Frontierland and Tequilaland. Tequilaland? OK, that’s not necessarily true, but unlike me it seems Disneyland has grown up. As I wandered from Disneyland to the more thrill ride orientated California Adventure Park
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Tequila you want in it? We have 76 different types!” he said with an authentic Latino accent. Now, I’m not sure if Carlos was messing with me as firstly I didn’t think tequila was in a Mohito and secondly, after the amount of 75 proof tequila he poured into my tall glass, I was unsure how he could fit any mix in. So with a spring in my step and a slight stagger, I wandered into California Adventure Park with renewed confidence, a broad smile and a mild speech impediment. I was primed to take on the Tower of Terror, California Screamin’ and the Maliboomer. Tower of Terror embroils you in a haunted "Twilight Zone" story before lining up for a climactic freefall entailing a wonky elevator that shoots up and then drops several times. California Screamin’ is a seriously quick
rollercoaster that starts from standstill and fires you over a massive drop. There’s a 360 loop in there as well. Finishing my afternoon on the Maliboomer – a ride that fires you 180 feet straight up – was either a stroke of genius or stupidity, I’m still not sure which. I would recommend it highly as a suitable tool for Weight Watchers and Alcoholics Anonymous. Perhaps it was too many thrill rides in a row, or quite simply that the Maliboomer seriously frightened me, but after my second go there was no chance of me heading back to Carlos the Barman. Instead I timidly made my way back to
get in the know! Walt Disney was fired from the Kansas City Star Newspaper, because he wasn’t ‘creative’ enough. Several years later, The Disney Company bought the newspaper out.
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getalife!
COVER STORY: KICK BACK, RELAX AND BEACH YOURSELF
live&let text + images: juliet coombe
destination: andros/bahamas
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get in the know! In the Bahamas people drive on the left side of the road, yet most vehicles are left-hand drive.
dive Juliet Coombe escapes to idyllic Andros, a mystical island in the Bahamas.
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ROM THE AIR I WATCH AS FOOTPRINTS mysteriously appear on the long stretch of beach below, only to vanish again before my unbelieving eyes. According to local legend, they’re made by spirits of the Lucayan tribe, the 16th Century Indian inhabitants of Andros, the largest and most mysterious island of the Bahamas. Trying to trace these elusive sandy trails in search of the invisible men is not only impossible but also foolhardy according to Peter, my local guide. He explains that “the sinking sand will suck you under into Never-Never land.” Maybe that explains why Andros is also the most sparsely populated of all Bahamian islands. In 1492 Christopher Columbus, for good reason, dubbed Andros ‘La Isla del Espirito Santo’: the Island of the Holy Spirit. A large part of its magical charm stems from the strong sense of mythology that pervades life here. One mystical story is that of the Chickcharnies, mischievous red-eyed, tree dwelling creatures said to be half bird and half human. Legend says if you see a Chickcharnie and show it respect, you’ll be blessed with good luck for the rest of your life. Be careful not to sneer at it, however, or your head will turn completely around. Then there’s the sea monster called Lusca, said to be the Loch Ness of the Bahamas. The mythical half-dragon, half-octopus creature apparently lives deep in the ocean’s ‘blue holes’ and likes to drown unwary divers, or so locals like to tell you. The Yahoo and the Bosee Anansee are another two lesser-known but just as intriguing
creatures that roam the mangrove-choked swamps and thick pine bush of Andros. Alighting from the island-hopper plane, I’m greeted with the smiles of my hosts from the Small Hope Resort who tell me the only rules while staying here: “No shoes, telephone calls, email or contemporary magazines.” With these words I know I’m in my kind of paradise no matter what otherworldly creatures inhabit its seas and shores. The hardest things I need to master are the art of hammock swinging and how to mix Goombay Smash cocktails while munching on addictive Conch fritters and enjoying the fairytale sunset. The island is an Eden-like paradise teeming with lush green foliage, spunky land crabs and wild orchids of every possible colour. It was also once a favoured haunt of pirates and for those who have come in search of treasure, there’s no better place to start looking than Small Hope Bay. This is where Henry Morgan, the region’s most notorious bad-boy buccaneer, buried enough gold to buy the island several times over. But as forewarned by the resort’s name you’ve small hope of finding his stash. In fact it was Morgan himself who named the bay saying that it was a “small hope” that anyone would find the treasure that he had buried. Even so, Jeff Birch, the resort manager, claims he came across an 18th Century cannon while swimming in the bay one afternoon. Then there are the die-hard treasure hunters who, despite the odds, rummage optimistically through the jungle and scour the seas fuelled by sunstroke dreams of a gold bullion hoard.
get in the know! There is only one bank on Andros island – the Scotia Bank in Nichollstown.
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get tested!
With local spirits appeased, Juliet Coombe battles the elements and sheer rock faces to reach South East Asia's highest summit, Mount Kinabalu. text: juliet coombe // images: jen bird + juliet coombe destination: sabah/malaysia
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get in the know! Kota Kinabalu City has previously been known by four different names: Deasoka, Singgah Mata, Api-Api and Jesselton.
M
IST SWIRLS ALL AROUND ME AND ALL I CAN see are my boots. Somewhere out there, towering 4,101 metres above the lush tropical jungle of northern Borneo, in the state of Sabah, Malaysia, is Mount Kinabalu. I trudge on along the path of broken stones and steps, praying that I won’t step off the nearby edge in my fog-induced blindness. The secret to beating this mountain, says my guide Sapinggi Bin Ladsou, is to not rush it: there
Every year 22,000 people visit Kinabalu, their objective to conquer the summit in the boot prints of Sir Hugh Low, the first westerner to beat the mountain in 1851. Things have changed since his rough and ready ascent; there are now 2,500 steps, fresh tapwater stops every few kilometres and rest shelters. After an hour of relentless walking my heart leaps for joy at the sight of the 2.5 kilometres to go marker. But I know the most tiring section
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Indigenous Duson people believe that two days after a person dies, their spirit leaves the body and takes one of the many pathways up the mountain. are no prizes for racing up its slopes. Unless of course you want to compete in the Climbathon. Local runners in training shame my pace, flitting past light-footed, like gazelles on heat. They make it look easy doing the return trip in two to three hours. Most tourists take three to six hours and that’s just to reach Laban Rata where you stay overnight before climbing the final 2.7 kilometres for a summit sunrise. One year, a five-month pregnant woman from Kiau won the Climbathon.
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is yet to come. Two-thirds of the way up, the steps disappear into a bumpy rock face. The higher you climb the harder it is to breathe, forcing more stops as your body tries to adjust to the thinning atmosphere. The rain quickly turns the rocks into a moving waterfall, but I keep climbing, knowing there is hot food and a warm bed less than a few minutes away. There isn’t much to do at Laban Rata,
get in the know! Sabah is known as “Land Below the Wind” because it is located below the typhoon and monsoon belt.
which translated means ‘place of the sacrifice’, except eat, sleep, play cards and take headache tablets to combat altitude sickness. I join the guides to talk about the mountain they hold so dear. They explain that Mount Kinabalu is the spirit of Borneo and the home of all ancestral spirits. The indigenous Duson people believe that two days after a person dies, their spirit leaves the body and takes one of the many pathways up the mountain. The dead are burned in villages near the mountain base and the family prepares food for the spirit’s journey, rolling rice into the shape of cannon balls to work out if they are happy or not. If the ball stays together it foreshadows good luck: if a few grains fall on the table it means the spirits aren’t happy. If the rice ball falls apart altogether things are going to be very bad: such omens have proved to be warnings of typhoons and landslides. To appease the spirits a sacrifice of seven eggs, seven white chickens and a set of beetle nut, tobacco and lime is made on the mountain side. The pagan ritual is followed by prayers and gunshots. After checking that no rice balls have collapsed recently and that the spirits were in good spirit, I return to my bed exhausted only to be shortly awoken. It’s 2am and time to climb the summit. The guides laugh as we stumble our way across the side of the mountain.
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GET THE TRUTH! CONFESSIONS OF A TOURIST
Ed Waller was in Israel. He was skint. His options were limited: kibbutz slavery, the building siteor shagging on camera for loads of cash. Hmmm... text: ed waller destination: israel
OT EXACTLY HOBSON’S choice is it? Admittedly, the birthplace of three of the world’s greatest religions is not known for a thriving skin trade, but it’s there, hiding amid Tel Aviv’s gleaming office blocks. My introduction to the world of the circumcised cum shot came through being a commercials extra for an agency run by a gay 40-something called Rudi. After a couple of ad shoots, Rudi brings up the question of doing nude shots for a magazine. Nude sounds nice, doesn’t it? Artistic, even. With thousand-dollar day rates dangled in front of me, that was it and I agreed to return the following day for a screen test. Next day, there I am in Rudi’s apartment, where he introduces me to a large beard with a guttural name and a camera. Once I’m naked, I’m told to lie on the bed and “handle myself”. At this point coyness was not an option, so I do and I don’t mind telling you, there was a certain amount of introspection going on. I mean, I had a degree for Christ’s sake; I didn’t need to flash my tackle to old men for money. While they professionally assessed my holiest of holies, I found myself looking around the apartment and wondering how many bemused travellers had studied this floral pattern wallpaper. After a few more snaps Beard gave me the OK and we made another date. #88 get lost! ISSUE #03
Well, girth obviously beats length... doesn’t it? Throughout the next couple of hours Beard would direct us porn pawns and snap accordingly. I got the impression that we were going through a porn positions checklist. Spit roast - check; sandwich - check. As it turned out, Beard didn’t want any gay action but there were several moments in the final double blow job scene where I felt my sexuality was being challenged. The scene led to its natural conclusion and we set about the cold and arduous task of post-coital dressing. By this stage, Beard’s film was not the only thing that was 35mm, and I was much happier with the Levi’s back on. That night I spent my $300 on a feast of felafel, cheap Carmel vodka and a plane ticket home. As my El Al flight left Ben Gurion airport my sordid history was finally behind me. Looking back on my brief flirtation with the Israeli skin trade, my only regret was that I never got to keep a copy of the magazine for posterity. I may not include ‘porn model’ on my CV these days but I do think it's something I'll enjoy remembering in my flaccid dotage. Besides, I can't deny a frisson of pride knowing that, when money is tight and options limited, I can still rise to the occasion.
’M I , D E K A N ONCE I’M IE ON THE BED TOLD TO LDLE MYSELF’. AND ‘HANOINT COYNESS AT THIS P AN OPTION WAS NOT On my return the next day I found myself ushered into a room with the ‘actors’: a young lady and another bloke (worst luck). As Rudi was being pleasant and Beard was busy setting up some very harsh lights and arranging a collective noun of cameras, the three of us were left to chat amongst ourselves. I seem to remember talking about the South African election – not exactly the stuff of erections. I admit, I was quite excited by the blonde but there was this nagging worry; what the fuck was he going to be doing? After a word from Beard, the two started getting their kit off and I followed suit. Blonde turned out to be quite fit, and the bloke’s knob, although slightly longer than mine, was decidedly slimmer.
get in the know! The world record for the longest kiss, which lasted 30 hours and 45 minutes, was recorded by a couple in Tel Aviv on April 5, 1999.