AN AFRICANOVERLAND TRIP >GST INCLUDED
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get in the know! China has a population estimated at 1.2 billion and an estimated horse population of 10,000,000 – the most in the world.
china
beijing korea
shijia-zhuang tai’an
jiujiang
CHINA ganzhou taiwan shenzhen
hong kong
text: penny watson images: juliet coombe + penny watson
A Mongolian rugby player, a tin of yak meat, a pair of chopsticks and a lot to write home about– Penny Watson tastes more than her fair share of China on a 25-hour train journey from Shenzhen to Beijing.
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N INTIMIDATING MONGOLIAN MAN WITH a wispy black moustache and WWF physique wedges himself into the seat opposite me. He has a can opener in one grubby hand and a tin in the other. With a maniacal grin spread across his unruly features, he says, in stilted English, that it would give him great pleasure if I were to share his yak meat. It sounded like a really bad come-on line. It wasn’t. The tin was designed with as much flair as Chairman Mao’s uniform and looked as enticing as the dirty fingers that held it. I guessed it was vintage 1950. As my newfound friend pried it open, my eyes scanned the Mongolian script for a use-by date. But no, apparently tinned yak meat lasts forever. He handed me a pair of chopsticks (mastered only a day or two before) and like a procrastinating child without an appetite, I prodded at the dark pink meat and dunked the coagulated floaties into the oil. It looked like tuna, smelled like wet dog and the sheep-like animals on the tin offered little consolation. On a 25-hour train trip from one end of China to the other, there was no getting out of it. China has one of the world’s busiest rail networks, an estimated 52,000km of railway
line linking towns and cities all the way from Xinjiang province in the west to Guangdong in the south and Heilongjiang in the north. Tibet, the only region without rail, will be connected via direct lines from Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou before the 2008 Olympics. With such a huge land mass (the fourth largest in the world) and a ban on tourists driving between cities (not to mention the logistical and financial nightmare of hiring or buying a car), train travel is the best way for visitors to catch a glimpse of another side of China, the China not represented by the westernised powerhouse of Shanghai or embodied in the mystique and culture of Beijing. In my case it was also an opportunity to taste some local fare, cuisine that in any other circumstance I’d probably turn down. Depending on the class – soft sleeper, hard sleeper, soft seat or hard seat, with comfort in that order – Chinese trains can be surprisingly comfortable, if a little outdated. Mod cons such as air conditioning are available in soft sleeper, while smoking, a liberal pastime elsewhere in China, is prohibited in sleeper carriages. The hard and soft seats are not known for their comfort but prices should sway most westerners toward
get in the know! At the 2000 Olympics, China won 28 gold, 16 silver and 15 bronze medals, putting it in third place overall and behind only Russia and the USA.
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choosing a sleeper carriage. To get to Beijing, we jumped on a train in Shenzhen, China’s southeast gateway. The words “jumped on” imply speed and ease but the experience was neither quick nor simple. After a sojourn in westernised Hong Kong the week before, Shenzhen station is a headache of migraine proportions. Forget English. Learn the Mandarin characters for your destination and leave the rest to Chinese good fortune. Once on the train, it was more straightforward. I had booked a hard sleeper carriage, consisting of an open compartment with two three-tiered bunk beds. The top is the least popular and the cheapest. The bottom bunks cost more, presumably because they are easiest to access. “Ni hao” (hello) was as much Mandarin as I could muster so I was summarily allocated a top bunk. As it turned out these were better suited to long lanky foreigners. On the lower levels, legs that poke out the end of the bed are fair game for passing passengers. Up high I had room to stretch out, imperative for the 2373km journey ahead. We were soon rolling out through Shenzhen’s ugly concrete jungle. Gradually, as the train moved north towards Dongguan and Huizhou, abandoned cars, factories and kilometres of litter gave way to
The bodies of farmers and their families who live and work the land are burnt after death, then buried under these big mounds of dirt.
acres of vegetables gardens. These were all meticulously furrowed, ploughed and tiered to fit around disparate housing and unfinished steel and concrete railway infrastructure. Chinese men squatting trackside, hoes in hand, stopped to watch as the train raced by. Inside, the train’s passengers were just as sedentary. Familiar with the scenery, many were already indulging in a tried and true method of keeping boredom at bay: cards. Others had been shyly eyeing us off – students who spoke limited English but were
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keen to practice. We awkwardly introduced ourselves and, like an inquisitive child, began pointing out the window: locals on bicycles, halfbuilt factories, seemingly abandoned houses and trackside workers were all fodder for conversation. Each clickety clack kilometre of rail and every window frame revealed a new take on Chinese daily life. As the train whooshed passed fields and paddocks, one of the students (Kevin was the incongruous Anglo name he’d ascribed to himself) pointed out large mounds of dirt decorated in
get in the know! In ancient China and certain parts of India, mouse meat was considered a great delicacy. You can still find it at market stalls in Beijing!
brightly coloured paper and thick burnt-out sticks of incense. He explained that the bodies of farmers and their families who live and work the land are burnt after death and then buried under these big mounds of dirt. After a year or two the remains, marked by the faded paper, are raked over the fields. The ashes return to the soil in the full circle of life. There were many such colourful memorials dotted along the railway line. After Kevin’s explanation they took on a new meaning and I found a new respect for these people whose lives were so bound up in the toil of the land, from birth to death. I silently praised my decision to travel second-class where the open-plan of the carriage and the openness of the people was teaching me details I could never find in a guidebook. You can find air-conditioning and lace doilies anywhere, but not these homespun gems. The train stopped briefly in Heyuan, Longchuan, Dingnan and Ganzhou – big cities that looked small on the map. To entertain myself before lights out at 9.30, I wandered down to the dining car, a grungy little restaurant with lace curtains, linoleum tabletops and a dusty ‘70s decor that should have sent a clear warning to diners about the quality of the food. Steam from bubbling pot noodles fogged up the windows and the smell of
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boiling vegetables made me realise that the stomach still rumbles when the mind isn’t so keen. I sat down at the table and ordered a plate of chilli beef and a bowl of watery soup, carefully avoiding a little pile of bones overlooked by the waitress. It was here I met my match with a tin of “yak” meat. The Mongolian 10s rugby team were heading back home from the Philippines and sinking a disproportionate number of beers in the process. They told me that they hated Chinese food, so had taken 120 tins of yak meat on their trip and just as many bags of dried meat to chew. Not wanting to unrest any ancient Mongol-Chinese racial tension I simply nodded and ate my portion of meat. Was the tin big or just the task? I was only too glad at 8.30pm when the waitress told us the dining car was closing. We had just passed Jian, only 1700km to go. Some babies drift off to sleep in the back seat as soon as the car starts. Now I know why. The constant 4/4 hum of rhythmic wheels on steel and side-to-side slow-mo rocking of my carriage lulled me into a deep sleep. Eight hours out of my 25-hour ride I spent curled up in peace as the train rushed through the sleeping cities of Linchuan, Nanchang and Jiujiang.
get in the know! China’s army consists of approximately 2.5 million recruits.
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get in the know! The full length robes worn by local men in Lamu are called “khanzus�.
cover story
kenya lamu
text: steve davey images: steve davey
Nestling in the India Ocean, just off the northern coast of Kenya, the historic island town of Lamu has long kept its head down and avoided the attention of its more famous cousin – Zanzibar to the south. Sleepy and laidback it is just emerging, blinking as it enters the limelight, but is still relatively undeveloped and retains its own distinct character. With daily flights from the capital and plans to extend and improve the airport, things are set to change. Try to see, or rather feel, Lamu before it changes forever. get in the know! Lamu is one of seven islands in an archipelago.
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africa
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AMU AIRPORT LETS YOU KNOW WHAT TO expect. A strangely named ‘Duty Free Shop’ selling snacks and soft drinks, an open sided check-in building and a few thatched huts are all there is. My luggage is loaded onto a hand-cart, pushed down a rickety causeway to a waiting dhow (a traditional arab sailing vessel) and I sail creakingly to my hotel. Lamu seems to be all about dhows – and donkeys. Laidback it may be but Lamu seems to be in a perpetual, yet languid, motion. Dhows have been plying the coast for thousands of years. Small dhows head out fishing while larger ones move goods and people up and down the ‘Swahili’ Coast as far as Zanzibar and even to the Middle East and Oman. A new trade is now developing: ferrying tourists around and to the neighbouring islands to take in the various ruins, mangroves or just the sunset. Then there are the donkeys: thousands of them. There are no cars on the island – just a few motorbikes and a couple of old tractors. All the goods that are unloaded from the dhows are loaded onto donkeys to be ferried around the town and the island. Walking around the narrow streets of Mokomani, the Stone Town, I am careful at each blind corner lest I meet a caravan of labouring donkeys or a lazy local catching a sneaky lift. Most of the buildings
in the old town are rendered with old coral, mined from a dead reef now above sea level on nearby Manda Island. The town was founded in the 14th Century and soon became a thriving port. Many of the ruins in the area date from this time. The Portuguese arrived some 100 years later and did what they did best – constructed a large fort that dominated the town! In the 17th century Lamu was a republic with responsibility to the Sultanate of Oman. This was the zenith of Swahili culture on the East African coast and when the island developed its distinctive style of life. The giant carved wooden doors and Middle Eastern architecture also date from this period. Standing on the ramparts of the fort and looking out over the square and rooftops of this ancient town it is not difficult to imagine its bustling heyday.
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Lamu airport lets you know what to expect. A strangely named ‘Duty Free Shop’ selling snacks and soft drinks, an open sided check-in building and a few thatched huts are all there is.
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Islam is the predominant religion in Lamu and gives the place a relatively conservative feel. Only a few bars are to be found and public nudity is severely frowned upon – even on the miles of golden beach on the outskirts of town. Conservative dress is expected, most local women wear black headscarves and some don the all-covering bui bui. Islamic festivals are celebrated here. Visit during Ramadan and you will experience a completely different Lamu. The Maulidi (the popular name given to Milad-un-Nabi, an Islamic festival held during the third month of the Muslim calendar) has more of a local feel. Centring on the Riyadha Mosque, the festival celebrates the birth of the Prophet Muhammad with overnight prayer vigils, songs and donkey racing! One of the stranger aspects of Lamu is its odd collection of ex-pats who have washed up here over the years. Some arrived on the island decades ago. Others have just fallen in love with the place and bought property, opened a restaurant or settled down and married a local – or, in one unique case, built a fort on the beach. It might be the isolation or the frontier feeling from the perennial bandit activity on the mainland from Somalia but propping up the bar of the legendary Peponi Hotel – one of the
get in the know! Dhows were traditionally made completely of wood – with no metal nails at all.
few bars in town – I encountered the most eclectic bunch of people I have found anywhere on the continent. Although you wouldn’t come to Lamu for lazing on the beach – rather just for lazing – it does boast a long and relatively deserted stretch of beach three or four kilometres out of town at the village of Shela. Most of the better accommodation is located in Shela and the village has benefited from foreign investment. Strolling down the beach in a pair of shorts it seems strange to come across a woman dressed in the full bui bui who, behind the impenetrable black shroud, is watching her children paddling in the ocean. More incongruously, as I stand observing this scene, a dhow full of tourists and proudly flying a fluttering Bob Marley flag sails past and I catch the unmistakeable whiff of dope. Nowhere is the western influence on Lamu more evident than with its boat boys. Caught between their Islamic roots and the lure of Western liberalisation and money, they seem somewhat lost in the middle – seeking refuge in Bob Marley! Many have dreads and both reggae and spliff can be found on many of the dhows. These self-styled boat captains hang around on the waterfront, lightly hassling tourists for dhow
Peponi Hotel Peponi is one of the classic hotels of Africa. It has been run by the Korschen family since 1967. Popular with the rich and famous for years, it was arguably first put on the map by Mick Jagger in the 70s. The bar is presided over by the laid back Charles, who will knock up one of the house ‘old pal’ cocktails that will leave you staggering (vodka, angostura, soda water and sugar). The bar is Charles’ domain and rumour has it he once threw Jagger out for smoking a ‘funny cigarette’ at the bar! With 24 rooms set in shady gardens and an infinity pool shaded by baobab trees, Peponi is a close to paradise as you can get. The food is probably the best on the island and the bar is a lively meeting place for tourists and ex-pats. www.peponi-lamu.com #50 get lost! ISSUE #08
get in the know! Lamu is the oldest living town in Kenya, dating back to the 14th century.
confessions
ENTAL Mgul
Jabba was as ill-gotten as it gets and she was prepared to grin and bear it, until it got too much. Tara Strong explains why playing chaperone to a Bangkok mogul’s mistress can cause distress.
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E: A SWEATY, CRATER-PORED, MONEY-HUNGRY Austrian fashion mogul with a business exporting to Europe, a nightclub in Paris, and a penchant for disgusting hedonism, young models and exploiting his staff. His unnaturally evil behaviour, as well as his uncanny likeness to the drooling, bug-eyed being from Stars Wars, caused me to baptise him ‘Jabba’. Like Mr Hutt, all his minions lived in fear of him. Me: his house model-cum-aspiring designer, with a healthy disrespect for ill-gotten gains and a longing to visit the home of fashion and the ‘City of Lights’ – Paris. Jabba would dangle this glittery carrot of a prize before me, but never manage to come through. He also wanted me to sleep with him. The Place: Thailand in the ultra-hedonistic 80s. Jabba had a probable coke problem and a lecherous streak wider than his jaw was flaccid; he also had thousands of poorly-paid staff in his factory, churning out cartoon-print pyjamas and many other things no man in his esteemed position would ever dream of wearing. I didn’t like the clothes, I didn’t like the way he treated his workers and I didn’t like him, but if being house model to an over-indulged ego-maniac would get me design experience and a trip to Paris, well, I was prepared to compromise. One day I was summoned to his office, which was unusual. “I want you to do something for me...?” he paused, (oh God, what?), then assumed a cajoling benevolence, “I have a girlfriend coming from overseas... and I want you to look after her...take her shopping... keep her happy.” Wonderful. Becoming the nominated bimbo-sitter #88 get lost! ISSUE #08
image: andrew bennett
would be a great career starter. He reached into a drawer, “Will 10,000 be enough?” I hesitated. Ten thousand Thai baht ...well... a restaurant, some clothes... it could be done, quite generous really. His clammy paws pushed a bundle of notes over. It was US dollars! Even if he was the richest foreigner in Thailand I still didn’t expect this level of ... you couldn’t call it generosity. Obscene excess? Jabba gave an oozing smile, “The car is waiting out the front... have a good time”. Sliding from one side of the glossy Daimler seat to the other I fumed, damning the fact that I would have to look after his jumped-up tarts and overlook my guilt over ethics, money and my inability to forgo Paris. Victoria turned out to be surprisingly likable, a fresh-out-of-Yale looking girl with a twinkle for trouble in her eye that matched mine. But did she have some sick fetish for grossly repugnant members of the opposite sex or just low self esteem? We went shopping to blow the ten grand. It wasn’t hard at places that stocked Comme de Garcon, a famous Japanese label back in the day. Back at her hotel room, after we’d got the pyjama party for two kicking along at a chatty pace with her stash, we looked at the menu. The Krug seemed to have the largest number of zeros next to the price tag, so we ordered it. Twice. We were thirsty. It washed all that Beluga caviar down beautifully. Predictably, Victoria didn’t last long. The phenomenally expensive hotel bill that I knew nothing about had Jabba’s eyes threatening to depart their sockets. But it was baby-sitting model French Francine that ended my tenure with Jabba. She was young, very young – just nudging 17. A cruise on Jabba’s 105 ft boat was planned in her honour and I felt obliged to go for her protection, if nothing else. Things started going awry after we wrecked the jet-skis trying to fulfill our Bond-esque fantasies of alighting bikini-clad on a white atoll – you should never take a jet-ski up onto the sand, for future reference. Things went from awry to awful after we returned from clubbing on Phuket Island. Lined
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text: tara strong
Sliding from one side of the glossy Daimler seat to the other I fumed, damning the fact that I would have to look after his jumped-up tarts and overlook my guilt over ethics, money and my inability to forgo Paris.
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up outside the tawdry old lech’s suite were endless pairs of hookers’ shoes. Soon, Francine was urgently pleading with me to let her into my cabin. “ ‘E wants me to sleep with zhem... mais non! I cannot dooo eeet!” Repulsed – she was 17; he was mid-forties – I concocted a plan. At first light we sneaked off the boat and flew back to Bangkok. We bribed an employee for Francine’s passport, which Jabba had locked in his office. My guerrilla-style tactics were not appreciated and Jabba and I parted ways with strong feelings of mutual disrespect. Months later, I finally arrived in Paris determined to discover what gleaming treasure the ‘City of Light’ held for me. One night I found myself clubbing in Jabba’s joint among the all beautiful people. And there, in the corner booth, a slithering mass, its arms groping the young things giggling around it. Jabba! Ordering a large drink I walked up to him with a conciliatory ‘let’s put it all behind us’ smile, while his ever-present legion of sycophants looked on. “Would you like a drink?” I asked, tipping it over him. “It’s fully paid for.”
get in the know! Thailand’s red light district is called Patpong and is home to the famous ‘ping-pong ball’ act.