different

kashgar, china

there are places that you think you are not going to like, and then you do, and there are places that you think you are going to like, and you don't. this is one of the former.

like a breath of icy arctic wind on the soul it is. great. woke up this morning to snow and cold, not too much to not have a look around- this is central asia like i always imagined- the faces here are a mix- as pakistan is the half step between iran and india, so here it is an ecclectic mix of russian and chinese- of course these people have been here much longer themselves, but the russian hats and fur coats that the women wear are everywhere- and even the short skirts and leather boots for winter. pale skin and holding hands, it is like a weight has been lifted to see faces and smiles of girls and women again.

here there is no squatting on the street, pissing on the side of the road, eating in a group around the gutter, or small children selling things- maybe it is too cold- or just something that they dont do on this side of the mountains.

and so it is noodles and dumplings again, although the smell of roasting mutton is everywhere from the kebabis, small weatherbeaten faces who havent forgotten the silk road. mosques, too, but everything in its own shade of brown- only the huge chinese billboards bring colour- shouting out the western dreams.

more as it happens
rx

what its all about

i just got an email from the french amazon.com that was titled 'did santa dissapoint you this year? Sell your gifts online and buy what you really want!!!'

vomit

islamabad, pakistan

the worst thing about travelling(which naturally implies not having more than two pairs of trousers)is that if you eat something dodgy on christmas day, and vomit on the first pair (well not directly on, more ricochet vomit from where it hits the street), and then go and change trousers, but happen to vomit again, you soil another pair of perfecty clean pants that you have been waiting a week to wear because of the luxury of clean clothes.

on a related note, shoes that are near the vomit site also become splotchy, and show tell tale sign of gastro non agreement with the aforementioned food.

me i was a champion last night, four consecutive hours passed with at least one trip to the bathroom each hour.

best was the fellow travellers comment as i lay groaning in misery:'well all you have to do is thank god that you are not living on a street in calcutta and watching people die evey day.'

almost helpful.

to all potential callers : )

hotmail is frozen in time for xmas:)
i cant get into my inbox, but agonizingly through messenger can see that there are 8 deleicious emails waiting to be read, no doubt this time NOT from RUready! who wants to tell me how to enlarge my already large breasts.

the phone number for the hotel where im at is : 00 92 91 279156
ill be there after 8pm local time today and tomorrow on and off
merry xmas to all
rx

orientalism

the romance of buying a carpet is, i think, one of the few pleasures left for the would be voyageur. it is, like romeo, not the idea of actually having a carpet, but the idea of going through the process of bartering, that has an attraction equal to arabian nights, a harem bigger than ala'adin himself, and being fed dates next to an oasis caravanserai.

it is the dusty incense emanating from the fabrics worn by the feet of camels, sultans, and serving girls that first entices the non buyer into a cave of orientalist fantasies- the rusted copper bells jangle on the door covered by american express and visa signs- no matter- the ancient eye of the traveller does not let himself be transported back to reality-it stops as soon as the shoes are kicked off and the tea is poured.

even better, when the blinding old man is not even arabic- that the play can be acted out with someone from 'kashgar' or 'ashgabat', or 'samarkand'- these are names worthy of buying a carpet in themselves. and so it begins. like a dance, one has to be careful not to hold too tightly, or brush too closely, or step on toes. it is a game of dominoes played out in a cave covered with blood red warmth, and the handiwork of the unseen- and one where only the lowest doubles will match.

the names start to come- this is turkmen, or kyrgyz, carried by my own hands from the finest bazaars of central asia. it is too much. the senses are overwhelmed. the sellers grandson, darting here and there for more tea, the silver spittoon, fresh tabacco for the pipe, the one of many sons translating the lip sucking, tooth clicking head shaking responses, the agreement non agreement here you are robbing from me take it i cant watch only for you and no profit for my small family-

and finally a handshake. more tea, and a carpet in a bag.

me, i was too clever, for no carpet did i buy. only some saddlebags for a donkey. now i must just find the donkey.

rx

the tooth guy

rawalpindi, pakistan

ive seen a lot of different ones: the sugar guy, who sits with a cloud of flies and chips bits of sugar off his block into his scale and then pours it directly into peoples pockets, the watch guy who sits on the pavement with a large hammer and flattens old timepieces to sell the parts, the incense guy who hobbles from his traffic cone seat to nearly set light to the obliging shopkeepers wares, and the lighter refill guys, who is an ace at refilling disposable lighters. But today i saw for the first time the tooth guy.

the tooth guy sits in the gutter and sells (and presumably buys)human teeth. they are arranged very nicely mind, incisors with incisors, and molars with molars in a clean glass case. i guess his official title is semi permanent dental prosthetic surgeon. he's got all different sizes, and gold and silver ones too. even better, he will fit it and install it for you right there in the street. all for a special price my friend. worryingly he has a large mallet just like the watch guy, but obviously is not as concerned with time. as i sat conversing jovially with him, at least three passers by ran up, pulled their jaws wide open at me and screamed with pain, along with a vigourous shaking of the finger.

anything you want. absolutely anything.

rx

islamabad,pakistan
amazing what you can find. islamabad is great-more like a park with a few buildings than a city- mynahs, jacarandas, bouganvillias, it could be south africa. here for a few days to try and get the chinese visa- we see tomorrow.

thats all for now...
rx

aloof

lahore, pakistan
one of the reasons i never wanted to go to india was a fear of aloof travellers. there is nothing worse. the kind who wont say hello because you havent been in the country long enough, or dont eat only street food, or who are obviously much more spiritually linked to the country than you, man. I hate it. makes you feel like you should in fact try a bit harder. me, i like my way of life. if it means having pizza hut once a month in pakistan, thats fine. if i never ate pizza hut when i wasnt in my own country, i wouldnt have had a deep pan for about eight years, and i like them far too much for that. it goes back to having your own motives for doing things, but please dont impose them on me. i think you look absolutely ridiculous in a full length pakistani tribal outfit my friend, and, no, you dont fit in, not when you have earrings and long blond hair. incense in the dorm room? no thanks. either go all the way or be quiet. there is always someone who is more spiritual then you. these guys need to go to khaosan road in bangkok and see the foreigners who have become buddhist monks, walking barefeet up and down the road with shaved heads and a begging bowls, sleeping in the street and doing their thing. that is a bit spiritual. but bright clothes and a joint in your hand at a youth hostel? come on, youre missing the point.

that said, i arrived in the big city today, first foreigners ive seen for a few days, and man, where are all the people who are seeing the world to find the similarities, not the differences?

loose ends

Bahawalpur, Pakistan
it all seems a bit more normal now. i was going to write 'not much happening over the last few days' but i guess that is not altogether true. Have been sick, and now better, and spending more time in the hotels than out- i had the train ride from hell the other night, a day and a half of heat and dust, through a desert and out the other side. arrived to bahawalpur, and for the first time the stereotype is true: dark skinned rickshaw wallahs, hello you are beautiful my friend, bloodshot yellow eyes, beggars with any and all parts of the body missing or on display, bright colored fabrics and palm oil greased hair with gold noserings, cows and camels and humans pulling carts and barrows and livestock, children sellingsellingselling sweet ladoos and homemade coconut candies and bananas and chilli pakoras, and of course the heat and the dirt all the time.

now too the trees are palms and mangoes, not green but brown and grey from the dust, i never realized there was a secret agency in the developed world that goes around cleaning the tree leaves like i used to see the maid do in south africa.

the food too is good- curry all all the time- even the eggs for breakfast. oranges and bananas and yoghurt with mint although last night i had a pizza that cost three times as much as the night in the hotel- 'yes sir it is true we are having the only pizza restaurant in the punjab'

today marks more than halfway for this little walkabout- and i havent even got a proper tan yet.

more as it happens
rx

bored?

read this first:no more backpacking

If all the world and road were young, And truth in every tourist's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee in one's own groove.
Time drives the bus from bump to bould-er , When gendarme rage with guns on should-er; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complain of cares to come.
The showers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon trap, soon quicken, soon are blinding, In comfort ripe, in sloth are binding.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To live with thee in one's own groove
But could youth last and love still breed, Had visas no date nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move to live with thee in one's own groove.

all apologies to mr. raleigh

different

walking through the blue smoke of the cars that chokes everything, i finally found the commercial section of the pakistan railways office, quetta division. an old colonial building, which also houses the quetta railway officers club, strictly no admission to non members. old brass cannons and a guard in full military uniform including a large red feather in his hat. I get directed to an office with four officials obviously relaxing.

'salaam we alekum do you know where i need to go to get a student discount concession slip?'
'sir, you are in the right place, but most unfortunately, it is friday and we are closed.'
'ah, no problem, i can come back tomorrow, i just come to find out if this is the right place.'
'ok sir, see you tomorrow.'

walking away feeling slightly elated at having guessed the right building and with a concrete vision of tomorrows activities, i hear over my shoulder, and coming most earnestly and pleasantly from one of the clerks, almost in the same tone as if he were going to do me favour and sort out the slip for me today-

'excuse me sir, but would you like to smoke some hash with us?'
'it's ok, thanks' i say, 'i dont smoke, but thanks for the offer'
'of course, sir, you are welcome'

i smile and walk out the gate.

dirt

Quetta, Pakistan
to quote from the (new, photocopied) guide book:' arriving in quetta from Iran is likely to be a mild shock to the system as everything suddenly gives way to the subcontinent.

True. But good. there is something challenging about being made to feel absolutely nervous just by walking down the street. no guns or drugs for me, but just a walk to the centre is enough. Enough blue smoke to choke on, taxi rickshaws, open sewers, a large afghani population, men eating paan nuts and spitting, a nice colonial hotel with a garden courtyard- this is where i first escaped when i read 'kim'.

of course the usual desert mountains surrounding, and 1000 kms to go before it gets any greener. Everything tastes better with a little bit of dirt no?

earthquake

Bam, Iran
last two nights were spent in a tent, the guesthouses dont exist anymore. Half of the town lives in shipping containers, and the only people who drive around in brand new 4by4 's are the aid workers. it makes it a little uncomfortable to be on the street when all of a sudden you are the one with dollar signs all over you thanks to internatioanl aid. the romance of development work has disappeared for me quite quickly.

nothing left of course, no hot water, internet connection, but as always people move on. ha, i am almost embarrassed to turn the scene into another memory to be packed in cottonwool and put in the photo album when i get back. I guess it makes it very easy- so mny people i meet are here for the iranian hospitality- maybe i am too cynical but it is like they go fishing with themselves as the bait, the big fish to catch is a free dinner and maybe even a free place to sleep. ya i think i am too cynical.

on a different note, happy birthday to I.

I cross the pakistan border in a few hours and will be on the bus for a little bit:P

More as it happens
rx

primary school teachers

today we went to the ancient persian ruins of persepolis. a huge site in the side of a mountain where countless slaves were used and then used up. Huge, massive, desolate.

More interesting was the conversation centering on hamburgers being preferred to kebabs, and the small dried figs which were mixed in with the sultanas we were eating. all were also in agreement that the orange juice around these parts is really good. Then we got on the bus back and had a great dinner with lots of tea drunk through sugar cubes.

priorities people, priorities.

rx

Back on the trail

Shiraz, Iran

one of the best lessons to learn from travelling is that you are, in fact, not special. To sit around and listen to the conversation on an average night when stories are being told over cups of tea and water pipes, is to be humbled. There is always someone who has gone further, longer, higher, deeper. Last night stories were being told of bus rides through rebel infested territory, a guy who is driving from australia through asia, the middle east and europe and on to africa down to cape town, near escape stories of hashish, opium, and the pakistani police, the relative ease required to secure afghani and iraqi visas (both possible of course, only the jordanian border is open to travellers into iraq, and afghanistan is fine as long as you use only the main east-west road apparently). Travel to china? A japanese guy did it on a horse and on arrival, ate the horse in order to keep its spirit alive.

These are the kind of things that make you examine why you are doing what you are doing, and if there is any reason for it- i'm a bit stumped personally.

I lost my guide book last night. Forgot it in the last town by (a big) mistake, and realized when i got off the bus bleary-eyed and nervous at 4.52 am and thought of looking for a hotel to continue the nights sleep in. Boy did i wake up quickly. The event itself is not so important, but i woke up this morning with an amazing feeling of having (been forced to) let go. I'm still thinking more about what it means, but if anyone knows a cheap hotel in Kerman, the next city on the route, let me know.

more as it happens
rx

lunchtime

in the midst of:
SHOUTINGSCREAMINGSNARLING
SMOKINGRAGINGBLAZING
PAINFULNOISY
DIRTYSTINKING,

it is amazing how much cool,
delicious peace can
be created with
cucumber
yoghurt
raisins
mint
dill

and a pinch of salt.