Xi'an and Beyond

With my recent spending spree in Shanghai, came a need to cut costs. So I decided to go ultra-budget and go back to my backpacking routes, electing for a 2 pound a night dorm room when I arrived in Xi'an, one of the old capital cities in China.



Despite the low price, the hostel was fantastic. Even better, it always provides an excellent way to meet new people when you are in a city with no-one you know.

I met by chance a person who was also speaking to the front-desk. After striking up a conversation, I discovered that he was fluent in Chinese and had a passion for Chinese History. Even better – he was planning a hike over a mountain pass which had only been undertaken by a single westerner since 1930. Sign me up!

Whilst preparations were made for our trip, I went off to see the Terracotta warriors. An hour's bumpy bus ride later, I walked wearily over to the three huge hangers housing the warriors. Once there, I was greeted by a whole army of warriors, some of whom were still buried, until a time when our technology allows us to salvage the colour which promptly oxidises within the first week, leading to the discoloured warriors we all know.



As a symbol of China, I find the warriors rather fitting. Individually, they are not that impressive. Whilst they are fairly well made, it's hardly going to win any prizes for best clay model ever. What is impressive is the sheer scale of the army. With somewhere close to 1600 warriors (okay, I'll admit that I wasn't listening to my guide as hard as I could, but instead taking in the view) the scale is hard to capture. I think this is rather fitting for a country like China, who are well renowned across the world for their ability to copy, rather than innovate. Parallels could be made here, but I shall leave any deep and meaningful stuff for later.



On the return walk, there was the usual affair of forced shopping trips, but my Mandarin is now good enough and I have enough stock phrases to quickly dismiss any unwanted sellers. I also saw the largest building to content ratio ever - I am honestly no joking when I say that what was shown in this building could easily fit into three "normal" sized rooms. Quite astounding!



Upon returning to the hostel, it was time to hit the streets of Xi'an before my imminent departure to the mountain pass. With one of the people from the dorm, we ventured off into the streets with the challenge of finding a full meal and a beer for under a pound. It's an exciting game, one which hones your ability to find a good bargain. With the evening drawing to a close, we took in some of the local sights before retiring to the bar for a few beers, a game of free pool and a game of “dodge the Bijo” (Bijo is a local spirit of about 50% alcohol, which tastes like petrol mixed with nail varnish remover, and costs about 70p a bottle. It's vile, but serves a good role to get one drunk.)



After a late start the next day, my new American friend and I were off to “Treasure Chicken”, a local city of a few million, about 5 hours bus journey away from Xi'an. Here we were to spend the night before leaving early to get to our destination. On the way to Treasure Chicken, we decided to take in a local museum and a tomb.



Pushing through the throngs of tourists in the dense fog, we soon realised that there wasn't a great deal to see at the top. Unfortunately, we had missed the last bus of the day to the bottom of the mountain, and with a 10km trek ahead of us in the cold, were rather cheesed off. Especially as the last bus went at 3pm!?



Luckily our white faces and the generosity of a local driver saved us from the trek after only a few hundred metres and we soon arrived in the museum.



Here we found many gems which were given more than adequate commentary by Jesse (my American friend). My knowledge of China was expanding, fast. China knows how to do history, and with a good five thousand years of the stuff, they kick even the European's ass. Whilst we were playing with rocks and flint, they had already mastered many of the things the Western world was not to encounter for another few thousand years. Consequently, the artefacts on display were pretty impressive, made even more so by the fact they were about a thousand years older than any European equivalent.



In an effort to ensure that the information was not flowing in just one direction, I attempted to fill in Jesse with any science or primitive skills I was aware of. Usually this was simply kept to what kind of elements or chemistry happened behind various preparation methods, but sometimes included items such as flint-napping and other survival techniques.

Arriving in Treasure Chicken rather late, we checked into the nearest hotel and decided to watch some episodes of the British comedy, “Blackadder” on my laptop after failing to find any bars.

With another whole day of travel ahead of us, we headed off early to ensure a timely arrival with our guide. The guide had been arranged on the recommendation of the previous westerner to take the mountain pass, and was known as the local historian; an expert on the pass and its role in history.

Before the departure from Treasure Chicken, we had to take in at least a few sights though – including what was supposed to be one of the best collections of bronze artefacts. I'll be honest here, I never really enjoy the museums who follow the item behind glass formula. However, I've never had someone as informative as Jesse by my side, so often a simple jug would spark a twenty minute conversation on how various aspects of the Chinese dynasty evolved.

Thinking that the rest of our journey would be rather remote and that food may be primitive, we decided to eat at a local duck restaurant, which was almost certainly the best in town. Sitting there, backpacks in tow, we certainly didn't fit in. One would even suspect given the rather personal service we were given, that they hadn't seen a foreigner before. Actually, I'd be pretty certain.



It was time to leave.

Bus followed bus, with roads climbing and descending over endless valleys. Finally we arrived in our destination, much confusing the locals on the bus, who were vexed as to why the foreigners, who were on the bus to a tiny town, would not want to go to the tiny town, but instead to the small village in the middle of nowhere.


[Yes, the pose was taking the mick...]

Here we met our guide and were treated to a hearty reception. With most of the village turning out to see what was going on, we were ushered around, finally resting in the local communist party HQ to see a spring festival dance by the local ladies.



Later that evening, we realised that our guide had warned the local government of our arrival. The greeting party were on their way...


[They were camera shy...]

As the very fancy 4*4 Toyota cruised up to the front door of the village house, we realised this must be a government official. Everyone else in the village was lucky if they had a car, let alone one I couldn't really afford back in the UK! In the dark dust of the evening, three mysterious figures slowly emerged from the vehicle. They were from the local Communist party, and some representatives of the tourist office for the regional head town, about 40 minute's drive away. With one interpreter, the two men proudly stated their names and titles, which could be roughly translated as the vice head of the city (of about 600,000) and the head of tourism.

It was clear that western tourists didn't usually make the two day trek to get here.

Conversation revolved around the usual China items, including jobs, money (including salary) and how brilliant China is. In one rather loaded question, we were asked what we thought of China's role in the world and how it was changing. Thinking fast, I came up with the example of the recent Chinese space mission which is something the Chinese have evident pleasure in recalling. Using this as an example of how China are moving forward as one of the real global powers, I elaborated and tried to show that we were not ignorant hippies. This certainly went down well, as did Jesse's knowledge of their history and culture.

The following day we arose early to begin our trek over the mountain pass. With an estimated six hours for the trek, the pace was slow, but relentless. I was especially amused by the guide's choice of attire: formal shoes and a leather jacket. He was equally amused by mine, which he claimed would be far to thin and I would be too cold. I don't think he's seen a modern jacket before. After a bit of walking though, we were both too hot!








Taking in the (limited) scenery on the way, which was mostly obscured by fog, we slowly wound up the route of the mountain, listening to stories about the history of the pass. Just before the top of the pass we stopped – it seems the Chinese prefer to stop at the bottom of a steep bit, not at the top. Here we ate some more Chinese snacks, before continuing to the top and resting briefly in the sun.



On our steady descent, we noted there were many mines in the local area. It turns out that the area not only mines, but actually refines about 30% of the world's Zinc. This has made the local area very rich in Chinese terms.

On completing our descent, we were again contacted by the government officials, who took us to a local ladies' house for tea and some snacks. Cigarettes were also liberally offered. The concept of being a “non-smoker” was certainly viewed unfavourably – if you are to 'fit in' to your Chinese hosts, taking up smoking may be a good idea.

From here we were taken on a whirlwind tour of the local area, with various “items of dubious interest” being pointed out so we didn't miss them. They were very proud of their town, but may have been accused of trying a little too hard to create items of interest. Of particular amusement was a sign in Chinese written on the mountain pass. It wasn't written on the old road, but next to the new road which was less than 10 years old. So, you're pointing out a sign written in the old style of Chinese, which was written in the last ten years? Nice.



The driver then drove us into the fanciest hotel in town, which happened to be owned by the government. Unfortunately, it cost about 40 pounds a night – with both Jesse and I looking at each other in bemusement, we didn't say anything, but our hosts were very proud when they said we need only pay 17 pounds – still enough to keep us going for over 20 nights in our previous accommodation! With our four hosts surrounding us, we weren't going to say a word and simply paid with a smile.

Following a very quick shower, it was time to eat the formal dinner, for which we had our own private room.

I'd been warned by many people, and two separate guide-books, that China has quite a few customs which are usually dispensed with in everyday life, but are often used in the setting of a formal dinner. Thinking that I would never encounter such a session, I must admit to paying little attention.

First we were greeted by our host, with each of us sitting on either side of the most important person in the room, and an interpreter sitting opposite. Here we received our sweet wine, which was poured in volumes suggesting that it was a spirit (one bottle wasn't even finished by over 7 people). After which time a toast was made to each person in turn by the head-man. However, instead of simply clinking glasses, a more involved affair was called for, whereby the glass was offered to the intended victim, only to be lowered at the last minute. Apparently, the place where the glass was eventually “clinked” signifies the relative standing of the two parties. For example, if you clinked glasses with your boss, he would allow you to make contact with your glass being lower. Given the nature of our host, we decided that we go as low as possible for every person. This repeated every time you wished to take a drink, as you cannot drink without toasting someone elses' glass.



As the meal developed, more and more dishes adorned the central turn-wheel (Lazy Susan for us Brits), each one getting steadily spicier. With only two mouthfuls of food ingested, our hosts insisted that we use a knife and fork – probably more to show off that they had such items, than due to our skills – Jesse had been using one for over three years and was probably better than they were!

With the meal drawing to a close and the table still overflowing with uneaten food, we left the comfort of our private room and were quickly whisked on a personal tour of the town – on the car-driven imitation train no less. With our personal English-speaking guide, we learned of the significance of new structures and then stopped in the prime viewing point for the town's highlight; the tallest fountain in Asia.

Surrounded by little twinkling lights on the hills which were added to imitate the stars that the city smog and lights obscured, we stood on the bridge and awaited the display.



The fountain is reported at making over 180m at full height, and it certainly was higher than I was expecting. I'll have to admit that it was pretty impressive. However, there was a strange feeling when I thought back to our guide who was living in his small house, unwilling to accept even 90p for a night's stay. It seemed like the money could have been put to so much better use, rather than imitating Las Vegas.


[Comments may be exaggerated given the presence of many townspeople]

My concentration soon shifted onto my next sight – we were presented with a very similar event to the night before, with dancing ladies all in a large ring and a good few hundred lookers-on. After smiling and laughing quite a lot, I think they got the idea that we wanted to have a go (Jesse didn't, but I'll have to admit that I certainly did!) Being whisked to the front, we then got one professional dancer each, and tried to strut our stuff. Luckily the dances follow a simple formula: It starts slow and gets faster, all the time doing the same set of motions. This was fine for the second dance, as the motions were easy, however the first and third dance were both rather difficult, and involved kicking, twisting and quick rotations whilst walking in the circle. All of this with a few hundred on-lookers.



After earning quite a lot of respect for giving it a go, and doing our respective nations proud, it was time to retire for the evening – smuggling in a few bottles of beer to end a surprisingly hectic night. First though, our hosts had other ideas.



After just finishing the dancing, we were very expertly ambushed by a local journalist. With both him and a different interpreter from the crowd following us back to our hotel room, we were quizzed on what we though of China and also what we thought of the town.

Throwing in some speak about the electrolysis methods they were using to purify zinc being surprisingly advanced, we answered question after question on items we had no idea about. “So then, what do you think of the future prospects of the town [that you've only just seen for less than three hours] is?”, “Is there any way you can assist us in getting investment into the town?” I think that Jesse had been hyping up my role in my previous job a little bit more than he let on, as I looked at him in a “what the...” way.



Either way, I'm looking forward to the article, which apparently will include some of our quotes and pictures! I'll be sure to post it when it arrives.

The following morning it was time to depart. On our way out, we took in a nice little temple which was sufficiently off the beaten track and met the author of some local historian books who was kind enough to sign a few copies and provide various print-outs of photos taken with him. A few gems to make the otherwise dull 14 hour rushed bus journey worthwhile.






Next time, it's off to Chengdu to see some fluffy Pandas, frazzle our taste-buds on special peppercorns and then Tiger Leaping Gorge – the deepest gorge in the world apparently!

See you then...

Medal Giving

Following the departure of Mark, the remaining four members of the team washed, cleaned and made ready for the imminent visit to an Iban long-house in Sarawak, the Malaysian portion of Borneo, approximately two days travel from our current residence in Brunei.



Each longhouse is provided with a phone from the government so that the head-man can be reached in case of emergency, or if there is a requirement to waste his time with paperwork and bureaucracy. The numbers we had for our long-house were now out of service, and any efforts made to get into contact with them had failed. So the decision was made to make a 6 hour trip to the Malaysian boarder, in order to meet someone who has a relative who lives in the longhouse and hopefully knows what is going on. Luckily it turns out that the numbers had changed and that everything was still good to go.



The following day we all set off on a journey which was to take us over two days to reach our final destination. After crossing the boarder with the help of a car from a friend of Stuarts, we spent the night at a hostel, before spending the whole of the next day on a bus, and finally riding in the back of a 4x4 pickup truck, with 1.5 gallons of formic acid between our legs. That evening we finally arrived, rather exhausted, to be greeted by the Iban headman.



Last year, when Stuart had visited the long-house, it consisted of about 300 people. When we arrived, it turns out that the long house was no longer – and had actually split into two. After enquiring why the answer of “Tsunami” was given; rather unusual given that we were 200km inland and there was nothing about it on the news! Something was amiss. But either way, there were now two, slightly smaller longhouses.

We decided to visit the longhouse of the ex-British tracker, a man called Anvil, who had worked with the British military during the two wars of the late 1950’s and early 1960’s called the “Emergency” and “Confrontation” – if only to ensure that the insurance was obtained, which stated that they would only pay out if no wars occurred! Now in his late 70’s, Anvil had been given a medal by the Malaysian government to go with the British medal he received at the time. We also had badges, a full officer’s report and pictures of the people he served with at the time, both then and now.

The Iban are an ex headhunting tribe, selected by the British military for their honour and ferocity in battle. Although I say “Ex” I really mean only just ex, as the last head-hunting happened back in 2002. At that time another tribe was placed in Iban land and started taunting their new neighbours calling them a wuss. Bad idea.

During the wars, the Iban are known for sneaking into the enemy camps, slicing the heads off half, or more, of the enemy before sneaking back out again. As you can imagine, waking up in the morning with over half of your mates head’s missing is a rather worrying thing, especially because you didn’t hear anything. This had a significant psychological effect on the young soldiers sent to fight against the British and Iban. Let’s just say that I was minding my P’s and Q’s, and paid significant attention to the cultural briefing provided by Stuart. Saying this, the Iban were some of the most welcoming and warm people I’ve seen for quite a while!

As our arrival was shortly before darkness, we had only time to meet the heads of one of the small long-houses, discuss our purpose and intended length of stay, before being offered Tuak and Durian. Tuak is a rice-wine which is fermented by the Iban from the rice grown in the Iban fields. As it is home-made the strength varies greatly, as does the quality, but one thing stays common; you have to down the first glass you are given, no questions asked. Luckily I’m not too shabby with drink, and so the Tuak was quite palatable. Durian on the other hand was a different story.



Smelling of old socks mixed with cheese, the fruit durian is often banned in many public places in more civilised areas of Asia. Although I didn’t really like the smell, I wasn’t put off it, and so tucked in quite gladly. The taste was quite nice, similar to that of a pear crossed with a slimy star-fruit. But there was something extra, a little fizz on the tongue, something I didn’t like… After about a minute it became apparent what that taste was, I was having an allergic reaction to it, and it was rather strong.

So, here I was, in the middle of the jungle, at least 3 hours drive by 4x4 away from the nearest village, having an allergic reaction of unknown potency to a fruit I’d never tried before, within 10 minutes of meeting a tribe of head-hunters. Things could be better.

After quietly informing the other guys, I gobbled down three anti-histamines and proceeded to go very quiet and try to relax in the corner. With my airway slowly closing up and a bad itch spreading over my body, I hoped it would end soon.

Luckily after only an eternity filling 45 minutes, the symptoms subsided, leaving me with an asthmatic sounding breathing and a swollen tongue which would slowly fade over the next few hours. That’s drama one over, fingers crossed we wouldn’t be having any more!

The next day was filled with a trip to a “Local” field, about 2 hour’s walk away. On route we were fed almost every fruit in the jungle, felled a different palm to be taught about taking the pith for use as tinder for fires, the leaves for weaving, the heart for eating and many other uses besides.




We saw that the Iban we were with were the real deal. Nothing had been put on for tourists (especially as we were the only whites they had contact with, ever) and these people really did think of the jungle as their supermarket. Even small children, who were depressingly dressed in shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops, wondered through the jungle picking up food like no tomorrow. One child, who must have been no older than 8 years, walked right into the river with a needle made from a local palm, rummaged around for about 5 minutes whilst we were gathering tinder, only to emerge with 5 small fishes attached to the needle. Amazing.





Whilst we were slipping all over the place with our big boots and jungle gear, the Iban were dancing amongst the rocks with either flip-flops or bare feet. It’s also true that mosquitoes must like the exotic flesh. I can just imagine the conversation now
“Fancy another Iban tonight dear?”
“No thanks, I hear there’s a good English wondering through today. Never had that before and my friend says it’s like Iban but softer and sweeter – sound good?”
“Lovely, I’ll get the friends round and we can all eat some English.”
English, Scottish and Welsh were certainly high on the mosquito menu, as usual.



Once arriving at our destination, we marvelled at a home-made shotgun, made from some pipes the loggers had left behind and bits of wood. Then food was thrust in our face in the form of a creature which was half rat, half porcupine. We all chipped into removing the spines, before it was roasted over and open fire, and the traditional fare of née bong, sticky rice and assorted jungle things fed to us all.



From there we tromped back through the jungle, which had large swathes removed by recent logging activity of the logging companies who had moved into the local area with the approval of the government, for an evening of celebration and merriment. For we were being told that tonight there would be a traditional Iban festival in our honour given the purpose of our visit…

In preparation for the festival a pig was captured and we all donned suitable headwear – a hat which had feathers placed in various holes, each of which containing symbolic meaning. For example the Hornbill, whose feather was in the centre, was the most important element of the headdress, which often was used to symbolise the beginning of something important (often in Iban culture this was a battle!)



After being given our head-dresses, we were led out of the longhouse and told to march in a specific order to the front door. Here we met the pig, who after being jammed into a bag, carried 400metres squirming, squealing and being dropped multiple times, was already having a bad day. Stuart was then given a spear and told to stab the pig in the throat. Given that the pig was still in a bag, with only a snout protruding from one corner, this was not an easy task, and I suspect he hit it closer to the shoulder on the initial strike. After some jiggling around the squeals began to turn into gargled sounds and key parts of the anatomy were breached.

With the pig still twitching, we hopped over it and began to tour the long-house, shaking the hand of everyone. Once the tour was complete we sat in a line and were jabbered at by an older man who was holding two chickens, but still had a cigarette in his mouth. It seems that the ceremony was important, but it wasn’t going to interrupt his usual smoking session!

The chickens obviously knew what was coming, so one pecked his fag and took a deep drag before spluttering it onto the floor. Amusing as this was, we all tried to keep a straight face, it’s important stuff, even if you do look like a wannabe peacock.



Now it was time to create the meals for the spirits, who must eat before we can continue our greetings. About 15 items were carefully split into piles on a plate – my lucky number was 5, so that meant five piles of everything. Some people only had two piles; other people were really lucky and had a tiresome 9 piles to make. Due to the required repetition, this took about 30 minutes to complete.

Unfortunately, Scott by this time was feeling VERY unwell, probably due to a bad case of dehydration from the earlier walk, but with the real reason remaining a mystery until this day, poor Scott was desperately trying to keep down any food he had eaten. I’m not sure what the Iban would have done if he had chundered over the meals of the spirits who protect the long-house, but I suspect they wouldn’t have been overly happy.

Chunder still well and truly in his belly, Scott managed to make it through the ceremony. Now was the time for us to present the medals, make the speeches and for everyone to eat and then make merry! Don't ask me where the headman got his suit from, that's just one of those things which shocks you when you go on your travels - how civilised everyone actually is, despite their location!



Following the medals and speeches, it was traditional for us to dance. First the head-man danced, so that we can see how it’s done. The dance was very slow, with a rhythmical beat you had to keep to. The main impression was to tell a story, often of a battle. One had to start off with an impression of a horn-bill (told you that bird was important!) before moving onto your story, which mostly looked like a slow swooping, combined with pecking like a chicken.



Both Stuart and I gave this a go, with Patrick feeling tired from the walk, and Scott zonked out on a bed the far side of the long-house feeling very ill. Stuart’s was very similar, ending in the traditional props of a parang and shield, but I decided to spice mine up with the use of two sticks and a “heaven six” stick movement from my martial art’s class as an ending. The idea was for free laughs from the impression of a horn-bill and fascination from the crazy white-man’s stick twirling. It seemed to be well received.


[No videos of me dancing - sorry!]

After our initial round and the dances of some of the other members of the long-house, I decided it was time to give it another go. It’s time to have some fun and play charades! I got up for the dance and tried to act out hunting a pig, including searching for it, tracking it down, fighting it, dragging it back, cooking it over the fire, and finally eating and going to sleep.

With this fresh in his mind, Stuart added a similar story-dance, but his ended in running away from the prey. Both seemed well received and hopefully provided amusement to our hosts, mostly at our expense!

The next two days were filled with observing weaving, eating the same meals over and over again and assisting around the camp. On one day I helped build a chicken hutch.



During the construction of the hutch, it became necessary to move it into the final position. At the time the head-man (remember that he is aged about 70-80 years) and one of the young men were lifting the hutch, which wasn’t light in its construction. I quickly offered my help in place of the head-man, which he was happy to oblige. After seeing him easily handle the hutch, I was rather surprised to find it very heavy, so with him not rushing on the positioning instructions I strained, desperately trying to ensure that I didn’t let him realise that he’s probably twice my strength! These people are amazing – although far smaller than an average western man, they should start strength competitions – they would kick our ass!

With our visit drawing to a close, it was time to head back to Brunei, of course with a 5 hour wait in the middle of nowhere to try and find a bus…



As we had all traded pretty much everything we owned, including knives, flint-steels, hats, gloves and back-packs (for some of the guys at least) there was only one hat left. We were then left with a wonderful choice. Sit under the shade, and get eaten by mozzies, or stand out in the sun, with the one remaining hat, and roast alive. I prefered the sun option and as the hat was mine, spent most of the time lookng like Stuart in this picture, holding a sign with the name of the city we needed to get to!

Until next time – have a great Christmas and a Happy New Year!