To Oktoberfest and Beyond

This story begins with a change of plans - the classic hitch - but this one was more of a boon than a hitch. Realizing that a train from St Petersburg to Munich would take over 40 hours on multiple trains while costing as much as a flight, we took the obvious option of a flight. Bidding До Свидания to Russia, we arrived in Munich a whole weekend earlier than we planned - and the weekend in question just happened to be the opening weekend of Oktoberfest 2015. So we got drunk.

Our arrival in Munich was relatively seamless as far as everything going according to plan (not counting some rambunctiosly drunk Russians butting in to the customs line). What wasn't seamless was culture shock, or should I say, economic shock. Metro rides for the past several months have cost next to nothing - 20 cents in India and Moscow, 50 cents in St Petersburg, 20 cents for a bus ride in Kyrgyzstan, a dollar for the bus in China. In Munich, however, one half-hour metro ride was $15 - enough for 10 chicken shawarma!! 

Despite the sharp uptick in general expenses, Munich was a city to behold. We arrived Friday evening to a beautiful old neighborhood, Marienplatz (not to be confused with the popular Mariannenplatz), complete with tiny bakeries, local bars, and a beautiful old gothic church right across from where we would stay. We had a quiet night that night, but this was only to prepare ourselves for the next day - the official first day of Oktoberfest, THE unparalleled event of legend for young males who love to drink beer. 

By 06:00am the next morning we were lined up outside of the Löwenbräu beer tent with hundreds (if not thousands) of other rowdy young Germans and tourists, lederhösen'd and drindl'd to the nines. (Side note: In the end we decided not to fork out the 100+ euro for a complete lederhosen set, instead adding that money to the beer budget, which was steep - if not just for the price of a stein, but for the sheer amount of steins consumed). In line we met up with my good friend Matthias, who I met while he was on exchange at UBC. It took him about 10 seconds of staring at my horrible bearded face to recognize me, but when he eventually did we snuck into the front of the line alongside him and his girlfriend Jie. The lines finally started moving around 09:00am, and we were inside at a table by 10:00, mowing down on pretzels and cola-mix (cola and orange soda, a popular beverage in Germany). At 11:00, the world-famous-ish Oktoberfest Half Chickens were available, and as we had already been up for 6 hours, we feasted on the crispiest, saltiest, most delicious half-chicken you've ever had in your life. 

You may be asking yourself, "Why weren't they drinking beer?" Well, the answer is not "because it was 11 in the morning which is far too early for most people to have their first beer", that would be far too reasonable and we are not "most people". All we were doing was waiting for the mayor of Munich to waltz into the tent and tap the first keg, which happens at noon on the first day of the festivities. And waltz in he did, along with a fantastic Bavarian parade complete with a marching band playing traditional Bavarian beer songs. Everyone stood on their chairs for this parade, and did not sit down for the rest of the day, much to the chagrin of the benches and tables. After a lull in the music and a speech from the mayor, he finally tapped the first keg and filled the first stein of Oktoberfest 2015. The first beer was quickly slammed by a drindl'd young lady on the center stage, who then proceeded to hand out beers to all the patrons surrounding the center stage. The traditional Bavarian music broke out once again, and, almost too quickly, we were four steins of beer into the biggest party of our lives (by the way, a stein is one liter of beer).

Aaaaand that's all we can tell you about day one, chiefly because we can't remember much more. The next day we were all aboard the Struggle Bus - my jeans were covered in mud, we all had headaches, and Alex couldn't walk on his left leg. Me and Paul walked around Munich for 3 hours looking for a grocery store that would give us sweet, sweet hangover relief, before remembering that we were in Munich, where grocers don't open on Sundays. Despite our disappointment, we gave ourselves a great walking tour of the city, so all was not in vain. That afternoon, our host Marie arrived, along with our pals Corina and, later that evening, Dan (who by the way will be jumping into the blog rotation after this post). We had a rational evening of light conversation and home-cooked pasta, then slept like babies. No beer tonight - no one was ready just yet. 

The next day we attended Oktoberfest again, but this time we were going to have a little more restraint... Well, that's what we hoped we would do. We didn't get there until 5:00pm, the hour at which there is usually seats available because the day-drinking crowd have drunk themselves under the tables, vacating seats for a new wave of debauchery artists such as ourselves. With the help of a server, we found seats between a promenade of young Dutch guys and an older crew of coworkers from a local restaurant. It took us one or two steins to catch up and get the conversation flowing, but soon we were laughing and bonding and hearing about how our beards make us look like terrorists. We resolved to trim our beards the next day. Soon they left (or were kicked out, I'm not sure), and suddenly we were the drunkest group at the table - four steins in and no signs of slowing. 

And that is all I can say about day two of Oktoberfest, for largely the same reasons I couldn't say more about day one. To our credit, we decided this would be the last day of the festival, and we stuck to our promise. The rest of our days in Munich were spent exploring the city - some of our favourite spots being the English Gardens and Mariennenplatz. We ate roast vegetables for dinner and had traditional Bavarian breakfasts of weißbier and weißwurst with sweet mustard. And finally, with the comments from the previous night and Marie's insistence, we trimmed our beards down to reasonable sizes, as we were in fact no longer in Central Asia, where our beards were so celebrated. 

Staying with Marie was such a great way to experience Munich - not only did we dodge the steep hostel prices and hang out with an old friend, but we got a local's insight into the best things about Munich and Bavaria; and although we didn't take her advice on when to stop ordering steins, we were enormously grateful for her hospitality. On Thursday morning we said goodbye to Corina and Marie, and with Dan in tow, took the metro to an auto shop where we were to pick up our rented camper van. Our travels were about to change drastically - no more long distance planes and trains to hotspots - now we were on our own, with the ability to get far off the beaten tourist track whenever we wanted. Let the backwoods adventures of Eastern Europe begin! 

Россия, я тибет

I'm sure most of you have heard of Russia. It's that real big country, spanning almost halfway across the globe, with rivers made of vodka and where agriculture is collectivized (well maybe not anymore, but at least there's a government subsidy on mayonnaise... Delicious, delicious mayonnaise). There's a certain mysticism usually associated with Mother Russia, and we certainly had our own ideas of what to expect from the would-be Marxist utopia. As we came to experience however, there's more to this country than what you hear on the news. 

Let's start at the very beginning. We left Kazakhstan on September 2nd after spending way too much time at the BB gun shooting range in the Astana train station (and getting escorted to the cavity search room by a pair of suspicious policemen - the sight of three bearded foreigners shooting guns at the train station may have bothered them a bit, but their search revealed nothing illegal) off we went to Omsk! We eventually arrived at the border and got exit stamps from Kazakh guards who had never seen tourist visas to Kazakhstan, which really emphasized the novelty of being a westerner in Central Asia. A few minutes later, the Russians arrived with a less-than-threatening cocker spaniel who seemed more concerned about finding food crumbs than sniffing out drugs, and after a very thorough passport check we were admitted into the Russian Federation (without even having to go through the gulag)!

However, it didn't take very long for us to commit our first faux-pas. The first order of business upon arrival was to purchase tickets to Moscow via the Trans-Siberian. We went to the first available counter and in very, very broken Russian, managed to get some seats on the train. Unfortunately, the counter was reserved for invalids, a fact that was made obvious when a man in crutches started yelling at us and gesticulating to the large "invalid" sign posted above the window. Whoops. Editors note: it could be argued that our плоха (poor) language skills count as a handicap, but good luck trying to communicate that to anyone. 

Omsk Cathedral

The rest of our time in Omsk was spent wandering around the city which had an oddly pleasant industrial feel to it. Decadently decorated cathedrals mixed in with distant smokestacks and rectangular concrete buildings made up the architecture of the city. We missed out on an Avangarde KHL game but made up for the fact by enjoying some cheap shwarmas, cheap beer, and live music at the local dive. 

With Omsk ticked off the checklist, it was time to board the famous Trans-Siberian. It seems pretty obvious now that a journey across the biggest country in the world might seem interminable, but at the time we were caught up in the romanticism of speeding through the Siberian landscape à la Anastasia. This euphoric feeling evaporated after about 5 of the scheduled 40 hours. Turns out there's a limit to how many instant noodles meals and reading you can do before needing to exit the rolling box of B.O. Despite the hardships, it was one hell of an experience and not one of us regrets it. 

Naps on the Trans-Siberian

So where does one end up after such a journey? Nowhere but Moscow, capital of the Former, Soviet, and Current Russia. We dove right into the heart of Russian history and heritage with a visit to the famous Kremlin and Red Square. The Kremlin is a fortressed complex, the stronghold of the Imperial Russian Czars complete with 3 separate Russian Orthodox cathedrals (one used for crowning ceremonies, one used as a necropolis, and one dubbed the "home church"), each topped with beautiful golden domes and littered with frescoes and paintings of many holy dudes. 

Golden domes of the Kremlin

Also featured is the bell tower of Ivan the Terrible, first official Czar of Russia, who spent his time conquering neighbours, financing a multitude of spectacular building projects, and oppressing the masses. He also may or may not have murdered his first born son in a fit of royal rage. What a swell guy.  We were also hoping to catch a glimpse of Vladdi-P working away in the current parliamentary buildings also on the Kremlin grounds, but had to settle on the multitude of t-shirts decorated with his face rather than the real deal. 

Red Square

Next came Red Square ft. The onion-domes of St. Basil's cathedral. After seeing so many pictures of these spots as they appeared in the time of the USSR, complete with tanks, missiles, and military men parading around, it felt a little surreal to be standing in the middle of what was the heart of Soviet Russia. Certain relics of the time are still evident, such as the blazing red stars atop the guard towers of the Kremlin and the hammer and sickle logo still sculpted on old governement buildings. As for St. Basil's, it exceeded expectations; the colourful domes look as though they belong on an ornate birthday cake, the brickwork is laid out in intricate patterns and the inside is decadently decorated with gilded iconostases, paintings and mosaic murals - barely an inch of wall space remains untouched. 

Onion domes of St. Basil's

The rest of our time in Moscow was spent walking the city streets and seeing the Bolshoy Theatre, a monument to Karl Marx, the dreaded Lubiyanka (in soviet times, it was said that the Lubiyanka, the KGBs official headquarters, was the tallest building in Moscow as you could see Siberia from its basement... Schawing), the museum of the Great Patriotic War (also known as WWII) and a couple ЦСКА hockey games. 

Hall of Glory - Museum of the Great Patriotic War 

The next order of business was St. Petersburg which used to be known as Leningrad. In fact, some of the older man hole covers still bear the name. St Petersburg is known as the Venice of Russia due to its proximity to the Baltic Sea and the many canals that snake through the city. 

The sun rises on St. Petersburg 

We saw some of its historic sites like the Peter and Paul fortress, (this fortress houses the cannon that was used on October 25th, 1917 to signal the Bolsheviks to attack the Winter Palace and begin the Revolution) the church of Jesus Christ of the Spilled Blood (modelled after St. Basil's and built on the exact spot where Czar Alexandr II was assassinated by the Decemberist Revolutionaries in the late 1800s), as well as the Winter Palace which now houses the Hermitage Museum. Which is humongous. And filled with more culture than any one person can handle. 

Palace Square

One of our last activities in St. Petes was to recover from Alex's birthday celebrations at the Russian Banya. 

Birthday boy with his vodka-caviar dinner

This is a traditional bath house where patrons (all men. All naked. No exceptions) alternate between a 100*C sauna and ice cold bucket showers. You may also choose to purchase a leafy branch which you soak in warm water and bring with you into the sauna in order to whip yourself all over to improve circulation (it's also totally cool to ask your naked buddies to give you a couple whacks in those hard to reach places). All in all, one of the strangest experiences of the entire trip. 

We all loved Russia. It's culture and history are fascinating and its people friendly and generous. We were often accosted on the street by locals wanting to help us find our way, or in bars and restaurants by young people wanting to talk to us about our travels and our impressions of Russia. I think it's safe to say that 2 weeks were not enough, but we must bid adieu and make our way to Oktoberfest! 

Until next time,

Паша (P.Fij)

Kazakhstan - Willage where art thou?

Kachink. Welcome to Kazakhstan. Next!

I stumbled forward, bags and passport in hand, and admired the fresh red stamp I'd spent so many evenings dreaming about back home. Kazakhstan! A vast expansive land of wonder and mystique. What would lie in store for us in this country still haunted by the memory of Sasha Baren Cohen's infamous film?

Initially, nothing too exciting. A lengthy marshrutka ride to Almaty through endless golden plains, the occasional rolling hill with the highlight being the word borsch graffitied on the side of the highway (borsch, yes that's right). Nestled against the Altai mountain range, Almaty used to be the country's capital and boasts impressively sized boulevards and old soviet style bloc(k) government buildings. The wide tree lined avenues, pedestrian zones and welcoming attitude of the locals provided for an enjoyable first taste of Kazakhstan. Importantly, we were fortunate enough to stumble upon a Starbeans coffee shop, and quickly made this delicious and blatant rip-off shop part of our daily routine. Highlights of Almaty included visiting the gigantic Green Bazaar, filled with an impressive assortment of fruit, vegetables, dairy, meat hanging on hooks and every imaginable kind of knock-off Nike shoe, as well as an awe inspiring rendition of Phil Collins In the Air Tonight performed by our very own Ryan Jurgens to a sold out crowd at the Hard Rock Cafe Almaty (editor's note: the crowd numbered 12 at most, 2 over-excited fans and 10 exhausted staff members waiting to close the bar because it was 12:30 am on a Wednesday).

Leaving our mark on Almaty's electronic device scene 

We then whizzed out of Almaty and headed north to the capital city of Astana (which translates to "The Capital" in Kazakh) on the incredibly modern overnight express train. After our Indian overnight train experiences, we braced ourselves for a rough ride, but were pleasantly surprised to find clean sheets, soft pillows and comfortable beds as well as a bar car. Needless to say the journey was fantastic and everyone slept soundly that evening. 

The beacons are lit!

That morning we arrived in the glamorous city of Astana, one of the youngest cities in the world. Dreamed up on paper by a Japanese architect and brought to life only 20 years ago by high oil prices and President Nazerbayev's (Nazy-B or Biz-Nasty for short) deep pockets, the city is renowned for its ultra modern and sterile look. The main drag features the Presidential Palace at one end, a Kazakh version of the White House featuring an additional huge blue dome on top, a flower bed encrusted promenade flanked by conical shaped golden towers leading to a gargantuan beacon of steel and glass. This centerpiece of the strip rises up in the image of a torch, a large golden globe nestled in the shell of modern twisted steel. At night, LED's illuminate the frame and create an impressive light show, while for a small fee an elevator allows access to the inside of the dome for panoramic vistas. A gold-lined mould of Nazy-B's hand graces the upper level of the dome, allowing visitors to compare their hands to those of their great leader. Further down the main drag an imposing structure dominates the skyline, in what appears to be a bizarre salt shaker / hypodermic needle combination. This fascinating building is in fact the world's largest tent, and houses a massive shopping complex complete with a life size T-Rex and an indoor beach complex for those chilly Astana winters. This modern city is the flagship metropole of Kazakhstan, a beacon for foreign investors, modernity and luxury. 

The main drag in Astana

Unfortunately, when we stepped off the train at 9:00 AM, this was not the utopian city we were greeted by. Dark, heavy rain clouds and a biting wind straight off the steppes accompanied us on our walk to the hostel in the old part of town. Kitty corner from a military academy, where officers in hats the size of large dinner plates mulled around smoking, and down a deeply rutted mud road lay a non descript 3 story building worn down to a radiantly plain shade of pale brown following years of harsh winters. Our hostel. The pride of soviet architecture. The room required some DYI capabilities before proper use, such as assembling beds. Yes, literally with a hammer.  Thankfully the wifi was excellent and we were able to find new and improved accommodations for the next day. 

And what an adventure that was! After some curfufel involving Booking.com, we wound up at the Durok Hostel and back in the Soviet Union of old. The hostel was filled with a crew of Belorussian drill workers working night and day shifts on construction projects around the city. Every single one of them looked like an extra out of a Hollywood movie shot in Eastern Europe. None of them spoke a word of English, and communication was a serious challenge. I believe they called us the ya ni panimayo gang (I don't understand in Russian) because that's what we answered every time they tried to speak to us. Russian is hard. The owner of the hostel, Olga, was a short and plump woman with a face that spoke of years raising unruly children. A veritable babooshka. As we were making ourselves breakfast the first morning, she grew so frustrated with our omelette making technique that she eventually just took over. And then made us eat a plate of cucumbers. The next day, while making a cup of tea for myself, she made me sit down and placed a full plate of freshly baked goods in front of me, and then made sure I'd eaten a slice of pizza her daughter had just brought in. "Eat, eat, eat! You too skinny!". It was the most quintessential babooshka experience. 

The giant tents of Astana

But the real reason we'd come to Astana was to watch a KHL game, Barys Astana vs Salavat Yulaev. After a lot of walking and scouring the plethora of arenas built in this city (there are six for a town of under  one million), we sat down to our choice $5 seats right behind the away net. No beer was sold at the arena, but carrying in a bottle of vodka from the supermarket across the street was apparently kosher. When in post-soviet bloc countries! The atmosphere was electric, and the home team won a 5-3 thriller which included a hat trick and penalty shot goal from Dustin "dusty" Boyd, an ex-Calgary Flames player. By some stroke of good fortune, we ended up sitting right in front of all the wives of the Canadian players on the team, and enjoyed a Russian free conversation at last and some insider knowledge on Astana and the KHL. 

Of course, no trip to Astana would be complete without a brief sampling of the local night life. We took full advantage of the long weekend to brush shoulders with the rich, young and glamorous elite of Astana. Our first evening brought us to a bar filled with suits, evening dresses and go go dancers on the bar. We may have stood out a little bit...On the plus side we did make friends with some of the locals, who treated us to breakfast shwarmas and a sunrise walk home. A full day of rest was followed by yet another rager of an evening, and some incredible karaoke peformances including Eric Clapton and Snoop Dogg. Unfortunately, two consecutive evenings of nightlife sapped us of both strength and put a dent in our wallets. But when you spend time with people who's answer to the question what do you do for work is "I don't work, I just spend my dad's money" you know you're out of your tax bracket by a long shot. 

Kazakhstan was a bizarre place and at times, especially in Astana, felt very superficial. However as has been the case throughout Central Asia, people were very friendly and always curious as to why we were in Kazakstan. No one could quit figure out why we wanted to visit their country, with confused and flabbergasted looks being the most common reactions. 

The vast and expansive steppes

We now speed north to Russia, headed to Omsk the capital of Siberia, and fingers crossed our Russian visas will indeed work. Hopefully we're not headed to the gulag!

Кыргызстан

Kyrgyzstan - here is a country you wouldn't find in our original travel plans, but one that our travels wouldn't be complete without. The Kyrgyz Republic is a land of rolling plains and heavenly peaks, endless glaciers and gorgeous alpine lakes. It is packed with adventurous travellers discovering the idyllic valleys and quaint villages, as well as kind Kyrgyz locals offering alcohol-rich fermented horse milk from roadside stalls. Here we discovered a world of new cuisine, such as Blinny (Блыни), Russian-style crepes filled with whatever condiments your heart may desire (sour cream, beef, lamb, vegetables; or perhaps condensed milk and honey for a sweeter delicacy), 1.5 L beers for $1.50, more of the delicious lamb shashlik common to Central Asia, and delicious, hot-off-the-grill shawarma with fresh cilantro- more than enough deliciousness to fill us up for our upcoming mountain adventures! 

Our first glimpse of the natural beauty of this country came as the sunrise turned the Ala-too mountains pink on our 06:00 cab ride from Manas airport towards the Kyrgyz capital, Bishkek. We would then spend 7 days out of the next two weeks basking in the green valleys and alpine surroundings of Kyrgystan's mountains - something that was sorely lacking in our travels through China. Our first trekking excursion was just a 40 minute drive from the capital, where we ascended 1000 meters up the gorge-ous Ala-archa gorge and camped at an old Soviet-era alpine base camp, from which we conquered Mount Uchitel (4650 meters elevation) the next day, another 1600 meters up extremely steep scree and boulder fields. A few days rest back in Bishkek, as well as a night of debauchery at the best bar ever ("Coyote Ugly") and we were ready for the next adventure! 

The next morning we took a $10 Mashrootka (defined: a private 18-seater bus that makes up the entire public transit scene in Kyrgyzstan) to Karakol, a small, sparsely populated town with an undeniable Soviet-era vibe to it. There we picked up supplies, played Russian billiards (the impossible version of snooker), and met friends at Nice Hostel (niiice!). 

The next morning we set out from the gates of town for a 4 day excursion through the Ala-too mountains. We saw the Karakol valley and its herds of wild horses, climbed up to the glacier-fed Ala-kul lake (coldest swim ever), and ventured back down through lush meadows to the small tourist's camp of Altinaarshan, dodging the aggressive packs of bulls hungry for hot charcoal along the way. The first two nights we cooked ourselves delicious couscous meals with hearty oats for breakfast - delicious, certainly, but combined with our gruelling 5 hour days, we were left with shrinking stomachs and growing calorie deficiencies. Fortunately for us, the camp at Altinaarshan is a well-established tourist destination, so we spent our final night eating freshly-slaughtered lamb, swimming in natural hot springs, drinking 1.5L beers with fellow Trekkers, and listening to Kyrgyz ballads around the bonfire. The next days back in Karakol were spent erasing our calorie deficit with home-made spaghetti and meat sauce, and exchanging travel stories with friends. 

Unfortunately, the timing on our Russian Visas required us to move on with our travels, so on our way back to Bishkek, we spent our final night in Kyrgyzstan in the village of Tan, enjoying a sunset and a home-cooked traditional Kyrgyz feast from a yurt on the southern shore of Lake Issyk-kul.

 It was with heavy hearts that we said goodbye to Kyrgyzstan, but another country lay in wait....... Kazakhstan, the greatest country in the world........ (All other countries, we have heard, are run by little girls) ...... Leading exporter of potassium... All "Borat" jokes aside, adventures await!! 

-Ry Guy and the boyZ

Laterz, Chairman Meow; The 'stans are calling

Well travel fans, it's certainly been a lengthy hiatus, but fear not - your favourite travelling trio is back ! Since our last entry we have left the Indian subcontinent and have crossed most of the People's Democratic(ish) Republic of China, from Kuming to Xi'an and Dunhuang to Urumqi. We were quite taken aback with the availability of western style comforts, such as BEER and INFRASTRUCTURE. But that wasn't all this vast country has to offer.

Our first exposure to China was one we weren't soon to forget. We landed in Kunming late at night after a lengthy flight from Kathmandu and immediately found a taxi that could bring us to the hostel that was responsibly booked in advance. We jammed our luggage in the trunk and got in our seats, ready to be whisked away to a comfortable nights sleep. Unfortunately, the cab driver did not speak a lick of English and our Mandarin is limited to a probably mispronounced Ni Hao. After staring at each other for a few speechless minutes, we had to yank our bags out of the car, go back into the airport and find someone that could translate the hostel address into Mandarin characters. However, the friendly airport staff only wrote down the name of the train station close to our destination. So we circled the area for half an hour before losing hope of ever finding the hostel and finally managed to book a room (using a skillful combination of arm movements, pointing, and miming) at a different spot. Thankfully, the nearby street bbq stall salvaged this hectic evening.

Street bbq

Once we got to Xi'an the next day, our luck had changed. This time, armed with the hostel address written in Mandarin, we were able to get to hotel E-joy, where the owner Li spoke some of the best English this side of the Great Wall. We immediately made an impression on him with our large packs (ooooh, says Li as he timidly grasps Ryan's biceps, so strong!) and exquisite facial hair (your beard! I try, but my wife she say no! But you...... Veeeerrry coorl!). We would spend the next 6 nights at E-joy as we explored to gigantic city of Xi'an. We spent most of our time exploring the old city, an interesting mix of refurbished ancient buildings like the Great Mosque, the Bell Tower and the Drum Tower, along with countless KFCs, and Gucci stores. We biked on the walls of the Old City, visited the famous Terra Cotta warriors (housed in a gigantic airplane hangar type building, just like the ancient Qin emperor had always imagined) and ate a lot of MSG inspired meals. To complete the city experience, we mooched drinks and appetizers with our new friends Olivia and Ryan, a Canadian/Australian, couple from two Americans in town for an internship that were staying at the 5 star Sangri La hotel. Quite a far cry from India indeed!

Terminal 3: Departures to the afterlife

We finally left Xi'an and headed for Dunhuang, a small town halfway to Urumqi. This was our first Chinese train experience, and it did not disappoint. Our train left at 10:30 AM and was scheduled to arrive at 9:30. So we settled in for a pleasant journey in the "hard seat" class, sampling some of the cart food (anybody want single packaged chicken wings or quail eggs?) and playing too many crib games. As 9:30 approached, we double checked with the attendant - yes, was the answer, Dunhuang at 9:30. And so it came. And so it went. A little disappointed (since we had heard so much of the punctuality of Chinese trains) the train finally slowed down at a station around 10:30PM. As we took our bags off the racks, the rest of the passengers looked quizzically at us, until someone pointed out that we were actually meant to get to Dunhuang at 9:30... AM the next day. Goddammit. The whole compartment burst out laughing. We also laughed (but mostly cried inside) and settled back in for an additional 12hrs. Hooray! Once in Dunhuang our troubles were soon forgotten. We spent some time at a quaint little homestay on the outskirts with Johnny, a Brit that had cycled all the way from London. We also snuck under the fence guarding the nearby sand dunes to avoid paying the $24 fee and enjoyed a beautiful desert sunset. Next stop, Urumqi!

The dunes of Dunhuang

Urumqi was an interesting place. We started off on the right foot our first night as we shared a meal with our friend Abdul whom we had met on the train - delicious lamb kebab and Xianjiang noodles. This was in the Uygurh sector of the city. Uygurhs are the local ethnic group that once made up 90% of the population of Xianjiang province but have now been reduced to 40% due to the massive influx of Han Chinese in the region since the founding of the PDRC. As a result, there is a fair amount of ethnic tension, which can sometimes turn to violence, i.e. the 2009 race riots that killed several hundred people and culminated in a takeover of the city by the army and a 10 month Internet blackout. The aftermath is still felt today. There are cameras on every street corner and army personnel with guns, bayonets, and tanks guarding everything from government buildings to Gucci stores. There are also several illogical rules, such as not being allowed to carry water on the bus (beer and lighter fluid are ok though). The only answer provided for this - the government said so. Fair enough.
In spite of these restrictions, we met some of the friendliest people in Urumqi. Locals were very excited to have foreign travellers come so far to visit this remote corner of China. We were given free bubble tea and fruit platters and had many compliments on our "good height" and facial hair. Overall, China was one heck of an adventure. But it's now time to head into greener pastures and less Internet restrictions. Bring it on, Central Asia!

A tank guards the parking lot of the Gucci store

Ode to India

We've covered a lot of miles and stayed in many new cities this past week as we slowly made our way out of India, passing from Leh to Drass to Srinagar to Delhi to Varanasi and finally to Raxaul on the Nepalese border. Along the way we drove along perilously steep, muddy mountain roads, discovered northern India's Bayou swamps, glimpsed Himalayan peaks from 40 000 ft up, watched sacred puja ceremonies along the banks of the holy Ganges, and re-discovered the simple pleasure of travelling by rail in sleeper class. Now we head north, towards Nepal, China and a whole new set of adventures. 

As I sit on the train, the warm humid summer air drifting through the open windows of the sleeper section, the mellow late afternoon sun casting passing rice fields in a warm, beckoning hue of green, watching the herds of goats, sheep and water buffalo lounging in still pools of amber water, I realise I will miss India. I'll miss the chai-wallah hawking his hot, spicy, sweet tea loudly as I try to sleep on the night train, miss wandering aimlessly through busy, colourful, smelly market districts, miss the pastel coloured buildings against the pale pink setting sun, miss walking around a street corner to find a towering, muscular, indignant holy bull staring me down, miss the adrenaline rush from crossing the street, the hesitation in the first step and the relief in the last, miss the head bobbles and namastes, miss the broad spectrum of vividly coloured saris against the backdrop of green fields, miss how everything is always "no problem", miss the trains, buses, metros, tuktuks, mopeds, bikes, rickshaws and all the pandemonium associated with them. 

I'll long for the satisfying click-click-click of a well spun prayer wheel, the frenetic dance of the red, yellow, blue, green and white prayer flags caught up in the howling winds of a high pass, the arid, alien mountainsides tastefully brushed with teal and crimson red sediments, and the thin, cold high alpine air never providing quite enough oxygen. 

I'll remember fondly the people we've met along the way, the smiles on the faces of the boys who invited us to play cricket on our first day in India, the frail and gangly tailor with the theatrical stage name of Mr. India in Jaipur, the ever high guest house staff in Manali with their calls of "full power" at every possible occasion, the kind, weathered shepherds who graciously helped us with our fire and brought us fresh goats milk, the three defiant and demanding Israeli girls refusing to accept their seats next to "three large men" on the cramped bus to Leh, Stanzin the quiet, calm and collected Ladhaki guide who spoke passionately about his culture, Buddhism and the hope for a free Tibet, and the two Canadian women who so fiercely debated their views on women's rights with a fiery passion. And who could forget Emma-le, our first true travel friend, the down-to-earth, quick witted, smiling American student from New York and her friends the carefree, jovial and hilarious Dutch quartet of ecologists. These people have all combined for a unique and incredible Indian experience, and I hope that someday soon our paths cross again. 

It is hard to fully capture the essence of India and its effect on oneself properly on paper. It's a struggle all three of us are currently grappling with as we speed on into the night, field by field, town by town, getting closer to Nepal and further from our own Indian experience. We'd heard the tales of other travellers before arriving, but nothing can quite prepare you for the human chaos, the assault on the senses, the incredible sights and above all the beauties and wonders present in this country. It is not always easy or pleasant or comfortable, but it is a life altering experience. The human experience in its rawest form. 

Though our Indian chapter is coming to an end, it is by no means the last Indian adventure we shall have. We have but scratched the surface of a tiny corner of this vast subcontinent. Many more experiences await, more adventures around the corner, more tales to be written. But that is a story for another day. 

An assortment of pictures from the past couple weeks. 

Emma-le, the Dutch ecologists and us on our last night in Leh

The swampy houseboats of Srinagar

Smiles all around after getting blessed in Varanasi

Running the holy cow gauntlet in Varanasi 

Desecrating holy monuments by the Ganges (there are, surprisingly, urinals in those locations)

Keeping it hood in the sleeper car

Is There Life on Mars?

This is a tale of Ice Giants, ancient Tibetan mantras, and dusty Martian valleys. This is our account of our march through the Markha valley, where the nights are cold, the days are hot, and the thenthuk is even hotter. Life in this remote northern valley is retrograde – dinner is cooked on wood stoves and having a door on your dirt poop-hole is a luxury. With that in mind, let me begin...

Our last night in Leh (for the time being) was spent in style, sharing beers and Biris with a quartet of Dutch ecologists and a climate research student from Vermont. We told mediocre jokes and 'learned' each other some foreign expletives before catching a few winks to fuel our first day of walking. Parantha breakfast and a 3-pound lemon cake for lunch was all the juice we needed to make it through high-walled valleys and babbling brooks to our first stop – a single-house 'village' called Yurtse. There we made friends with a quaint British couple and sang songs with a group of Polaks after an enormous meal of rice, dal, and vegetables. Songs include "The Good Old Hockey Game", "Ag Pleez Daddy", "Loch Lomond", "Afternoon Delight" and many more nameless French and Polish folk songs. 

The next day had us crossing the 4950m Ganda-La pass, and though the weather was erratic, the experience did not disappoint. The day began with us slowly ascending towards the cloudy skies, eventually reaching the snow line in an hour or two. 3 hours and 800m of altitude later, we were at the pass, being bombarded by snowy winds. The sun burst out from behind the clouds on the descent down through the Indus Valley towards the village of Shinggo (and had us sweating in our boots), before a squall of torrential rain bucketed down on us an hour before we arrived at the guest house. There we dried our boots, learned the English rules of cribbage, and attempted to make Tibetan momos, with little success. 

The next two days were long, flat marches through Markha valley. Once having reached the meeting of the Indus Valley and the Markha valley at the village of Skiu, we marched two days past barley fields, tiny settlements, and massive outcropping rock faces. Neither gaining nor losing much altitude, our third night was spent at the village of Sera while our fourth was spent at the slightly larger village of Hankar. Sera was our favourite stop, merely for the incredible hospitality and comfort we experienced in the care of A-ne-le (the woman running the homestay); while Hankar was our final homestay of the trek, situated near a high plateau right on the edge of the rushing Markha river.

The next day (Day 5) was possibly the most challenging of the entire trek – we gained 1000m in altitude between having apricot jam+chapati breakfast at Hankar (3950m), and eating our potato and pancake lunch at 5000m, high above  the settlement of Nimaling (4750m). The extra altitude was due to a slight, purposeful detour towards the base camp of the 6400m Kengyaze, a true beast of a mountain and the highest around for many miles. We then descended down to Nimaling, where there awaited us individual tents, vast plains of grazing yaks and goats, and a refreshing stream to bathe in. That night we enjoyed the company of a group of teachers from an international school in Singapore who were taking their students on a camping/trekking summer excursion, complete with horses, porters, and the finest camping meals you could ask for (pizza, pasta, tibetan food, birthday cake, etc.). After our own delicious meal of (you guessed it) dal, rice, and veggies, we settled in for a cold night and an early start for the much-anticipated crossing of Kongmaru La pass (5150m).

Another blue-bird day had us in high spirits, and we were at the pass before we knew it – it took about 1.5 hours to ascend the short 400m climb. Upon reaching the top, we revelled in the near-360 views and took pictures, while our guide took his regularly scheduled smoke break and made some phone calls (being so high up means great cell service in these parts). Once we had taken in all the views we could muster, we descended through an epic gorge, crossed the river about 40 times, and dipped up and down and around on the winding trail that can accurately be described as Nature's stair-master. We stopped for tea a couple of times and played leap-frog with the porter horses of another trekking group from the Czech Republic, until finally reaching our destination of Shang Sumdo a hefty 18km later. A delicious meal of Thenthuk and the prospect of not having to do any walking the next day was truly rewarding, and we spent the night being regaled with tales of winters in the Zanskar valley by our guide Stanzin. The next day we scouted out Thiksey Monastery (complete with a 40 foot tall golden Buddha statue) on our taxi ride back to Leh, and settled in quickly to the abundance of restaurants and easy-access snack shops. 

It may have been the best week of my life. The Tibetan, Ladakhi, and Zanskari people were like a blast from the past- simple, honest, intelligent, and happier than you would have though possible considering how hard they work just to acquire the basic necessities in a harsh, unforgiving landscape. Being in such an alien place was astounding (if you had told me I was somewhere in Afghanistan I might well have believed you) and the isolation is surprisingly refreshing, both mentally and physically. The grinding, physical meditation of trekking, as well as waking and sleeping in tune with the rising and setting of the sun, was like pushing a giant biological reset button, and at the end of 7 days of this, the feeling was incredible.

Since being back in Leh, we have already met plenty of new pals and have had new adventures, including mountain biking down the highest public-access road in the world, Kardung-La pass – 40km in length and dropping nearly 2000m. Our next adventure includes a car journey to Srinagar and a flight back to Delhi, where we will then catch a train to Varanasi (the holy capital of India), then to Birgunj, where we will cross into Nepal for a flight from Kathmandu to Xi'an, home of the Terracotta Warriors and the once-capital of the great nation of China. Goodbye, until our next Namaste or Ni-Hao! 

-Ryan / R.A.P.

Gettin' Leh'D

Jule!

RAP signing in from Leh, the capital of the Ladakh region of the state of Jammu and Kashmir, northern India. The past week had us leaving the comfort of quiet Dharamkot and undergo a lengthy and perilous bus journey from Dharamkhot --> Manali --> Leh. We finally arrived in this breathtaking mountainous desert and are preparing for our most ambitious trek yet, which will take us through the Markha Valley and the snow leopard capital of the world.

Our stay in Dharamkot was fairly pleasant, if you ignore the daily intestinal Troubles (shout out to our shepherd buddies and their fresh goat's milk). The multitude of Israeli hippies and (mostly) stoned locals helped create a very calm and relaxing atmosphere, a perfect recipe for recovery. The brief sighting of Mr. His Honourable Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama as he exited a conference in nearby McLeod Ganj, and our participation in a local yoga class (note: no amount of Om chants could help me touch my freaking toes. Damn flexible Indians and their yoga) added to the experience. As wonderful as this little mountain retreat was, we soon grew restless and organized ourselves well enough to leave the region and ride north.

And what a ride north it was.

We first had to swing by our old haunt in Manali to catch another bus that would bring us to Leh. We quickly booked the last remaining seats on a night bus that would allegedly have us leave Manali at 1:30 AM and arrive at 9:00 PM the same day (Allegedly. After 5 weeks in India, you would think we'd have learned our lesson and realized that nothing really works the way it should in this place. Call it innocence, naivety, youthful exuberance, whatever. We were set to learn that lesson all over again). We punctually arrived at the pick up spot and climbed into the rolling metal box that would be our home for the next while, and lo and behold - our last minute tickets had us seated at the back of the bus (classic) on a bench that, in its better days, could have comfortably accommodated maybe 3 people if they were less than 5'5" and weighed 150 lbs. Thank goodness we fit that description. We squeezed ourselves in this sardine can and swung down to pick up the remaining passengers, one of whom would have to join us in the party seat. And as the lucky Israeli girl glimpsed her fate, she immediately exclaimed: "It is impossible for me to sit in a seat that does not exist! There are three men (insert high fives) in this seat! I cannot do it! I must seat in front!" So the honour of joining us was awarded to a diminutive Nepalese dude who wasn't as worried about the lack of space.

Fast forward a few hours to the foot of the Rochang La, a 3800m ish pass. We had been driving a solid 5hrs and had covered about 30km (mainly due to the fact that our driver wasn't that well rested and needed himself a little catnap to avoid any undesirable events). The sun was rising and exposed the mountain peaks that surrounded us as we sipped hot chai at a roadside stall. Suddenly, all of the discomfort of the past hours was forgotten; we were in the middle of the Himalayan mountains at the time when night gives way to day and the snow capped peaks were bathed in golden light as the last of the stars faded away. Amazing.
The progress for the remainder of the day was just as slow as the beginning of the journey. Fortunately the bus was equipped with a sound system and the aforementioned Israeli girl entertained us with a mix of Hebrew songs, as well as our personal favourites, Nickleback and Alanis Morissette. These classics seem to transcend all cultures and religions - seemingly, the new world order will be ushered in on the wings of Chad Kroegers harsh, constipated belch and Alanis' insufferable whine. Shiva take us all.
At 8 PM, we were still about 9 hrs away from our destination. The passengers took a vote and we all decided to stay the night in Sarchu, a little roadside stop with a few restaurant/sleeping quarter tents. We fell asleep on a bed of rocks (literally) and awoke the next morning to find that the bus was unable to start, due to the diesel being frozen in the tank. S'all good though - our fearless driver just lit a nice little cardboard fire under the tank to loosen up the fuel a bit and we then pushed the bus onto the road and down the hill for the ol' "push-start" maneuver. No problem. The morning's success endured the rest of the day as we crossed high mountain plateaus and Taglung La, the second highest pass in the world, to arrive in Leh around dinner time.

Leh. Ladakh. Gettin' Leh'd. This place is absolutely magical. Nestled in the heart of the Ladakh range, a desolate range of 5000m+ peaks, the town of Leh is a true melting pot of cultures. Calls to prayer can be heard from the muezzins and Hindu shrines dot the cliffsides. But it is the Tibetan/Buddhist influence that is the most obvious; chortens, gumpas, and manni prayer wheels are found around almost every corner. The ancient Leh palace dominates the skyline. We spend the afternoon exploring its many rooms (note: once you get in these historical spots there's no limit to what you can do. If a door is unlocked, if a wall can be scaled, if a pee can be taken in an old latrine, its all good. Anything goes in India, the land of no-rules, as long as you have the gonads to do what it takes) and taking in the gorgeous views that surrounded us. This palace belonged to the Ladakhi kings of ancient times who adhered to Buddhist law and Tibetan customs. For example, we learned that no wheels we're allowed in the region (except prayer wheels) as they were prophesied to dismantle the social structure of the time. Also, dances to exorcise the ego were commonplace; costumed men and women would stab voodoo like dolls to symbolize the need to embrace the higher spiritual self and letting go of the ego to embrace your all-oneness with the universe.

As we explore this magical town, we can never get away from spectacular views of the surrounding mountains. So, we have organized a trek through the Markha Valley that will take us from village to village. There, we will stay with local families who will feed and lodge us (and our guide. I guess we've learned that much from our past camping adventures) as we explore the Ladakhi wilderness.

Peace out my hombres. Keep well. Have fun. RAP out

Roller Coaster

This week we got to experience the highs and lows of travelling first hand, with some of the best and worst moments of the trip thus far. This is that tale. 

We arrived in the small mountain town of Daramshala after a cramped 10 hour bus ride from Manali on windy mountain roads and immediately set out preparing our next trek. The goal was to head up to Kareri Lake and return to McLeod Ganj over the course of 5 days. Determined to improve our alpine culinary experience, we loaded up our bags with kilos of lentils, potatoes, onions, peppers and enough cookies and crackers to host a smashing tea party. As they say, an army runs on its stomach. With our 50 lbs bags in hand, we started off. The trail had us meandering through pine forests and remote Hindu villages before shifting to lush jungle foliage and eventually alpine meadows as we slowly ascended the steep hillsides towards Kareri Lake. 

Camp 1 in a farmer's field by Kareri village

Our campsite on the second night was as picturesque as they come. A soft patch of flat ground right next to a glacier fed stream nestled in a steep valley below the lake. The sun beamed down on us, the cool water beckoned and cows grazed uncomfortably close to the tent. As we settled down to enjoy some post-dinner lemon honey ginger tea on the flat rocks by the stream, a local shepherd came by looking for a few of his goats. We offered him tea and cookies, and he gladly accepted our offer. He spoke no English, and us no Hindi so well timed smiles and hand gestures proved key. He thanked us and continued on his way, the goats still nowhere to be seen. 

Kareri Lake from the ridge 

Later that evening, in the true spirit of camping, we attempted to build a fire. A true struggle due to the severe afternoon rainstorm which had drenched nearly every piece of kindling we found. Our pitiful wood supply slowly ran out as we desperately tried to fan the embers and get the larger pieces to catch, to no avail. As hope for our fire slowly faded, two lights appeared on the trail, moving towards us. As the got closer, we recognized the shepherd from earlier and one of his friends. They brought a pot filled with fresh goats milk for us and quickly took over the fire building process. In a matter of minutes, they had constructed a roaring fire from the feeble embers we had initially. Leave it to the experts to do it right. They both had dark, leathery skin typical of people who work outdoors, and could have been as young as 35 or as old as 60. The older man jokingly mocked our fire building skills, miming that he could see our pitiful attempt from his hut and decided to intervene. All said in a mixture of Hindi and hand gestures of course. Both men exhibited an intense curiosity at the headlamps we had on and at Ryan's GoPro. It's not everyday three crazy goras wander into their neck of the woods. We heated up the fresh goats milk, added some tea leaves, and watched the stars come out as we sat around the fire with the two shepherds. Smiles spread to the faces of all as we savoured the magical moment, and sipped the delicious gift of goats milk. It was an indescribable high point on the journey so far. 

Little did we know how far we'd come crashing down some 24 hours later. 

In hindsight, drinking raw goat's milk after a lengthy hiatus from lactose may not have been the best decision. But when in India. 

The gastrointestinal blitzkrieg began late afternoon the next day and continued unrelenting throughout the night. Shock and Awe was the unfortunate tactic employed by the enemy, with devastating results. Needless to say, everyone slept poorly that evening. A rapid return to civilization was required by all. A trying day lay ahead, as lack of food, dehydration, fatigue and exhaustion took their toll during the 20 km slog back down to the valley floor. By some miracle we were able to catch a bus from the town of Gheera and avoid what would have been a debilitating climb back up to McLeod Ganj. The next 24 hours were filled with 20 hours of sleep and 4 hours of discussing leg pains, bowel movement comparison or thinking about sleep. Two days later and still no one is 100%, but never has a flushing toilet been more appreciated. 

As we were sitting around the campfire on that incredible evening, Ryan stated that "this makes every crappy moment worth it". It's to experience moments like the one around the fire that we accept to put ourselves through uncomfortable situations and moments. Like 18 hour bus rides. It's important to recognize when you're living a high and to respect the fact that the lows are part of it too. India is in many ways a roller coaster ride, and I look forward to whatever lies around the next bend. Be it good or bad. Such is India. 

Paul gets in touch with his wild side 

Roller Coaster

This week we got to experience the highs and lows of travelling first hand, with some of the best and worst moments of the trip thus far. This is that tale. 

We arrived in the small mountain town of Daramshala after a cramped 10 hour bus ride from Manali on windy mountain roads and immediately set out preparing our next trek. The goal was to head up to Kareri Lake and return to McLeod Ganj over the course of 5 days. Determined to improve our alpine culinary experience, we loaded up our bags with kilos of lentils, potatoes, onions, peppers and enough cookies and crackers to host a smashing tea party. As they say, an army runs on its stomach. With our 50 lbs bags in hand, we started off. The trail had us meandering through pine forests and remote Hindu villages before shifting to lush jungle foliage and eventually alpine meadows as we slowly ascended the steep hillsides towards Kareri Lake. 

Camp 1 in a farmer's field by Kareri village

Our campsite on the second night was as picturesque as they come. A soft patch of flat ground right next to a glacier fed stream nestled in a steep valley below the lake. The sun beamed down on us, the cool water beckoned and cows grazed uncomfortably close to the tent. As we settled down to enjoy some post-dinner lemon honey ginger tea on the flat rocks by the stream, a local shepherd came by looking for a few of his goats. We offered him tea and cookies, and he gladly accepted our offer. He spoke no English, and us no Hindi so well timed smiles and hand gestures proved key. He thanked us and continued on his way, the goats still nowhere to be seen. 

Kareri Lake from the ridge 

Later that evening, in the true spirit of camping, we attempted to build a fire. A true struggle due to the severe afternoon rainstorm which had drenched nearly every piece of kindling we found. Our pitiful wood supply slowly ran out as we desperately tried to fan the embers and get the larger pieces to catch, to no avail. As hope for our fire slowly faded, two lights appeared on the trail, moving towards us. As the got closer, we recognized the shepherd from earlier and one of his friends. They brought a pot filled with fresh goats milk for us and quickly took over the fire building process. In a matter of minutes, they had constructed a roaring fire from the feeble embers we had initially. Leave it to the experts to do it right. They both had dark, leathery skin typical of people who work outdoors, and could have been as young as 35 or as old as 60. The older man jokingly mocked our fire building skills, miming that he could see our pitiful attempt from his hut and decided to intervene. All said in a mixture of Hindi and hand gestures of course. Both men exhibited an intense curiosity at the headlamps we had on and at Ryan's GoPro. It's not everyday three crazy goras wander into their neck of the woods. We heated up the fresh goats milk, added some tea leaves, and watched the stars come out as we sat around the fire with the two shepherds. Smiles spread to the faces of all as we savoured the magical moment, and sipped the delicious gift of goats milk. It was an indescribable high point on the journey so far. 

Little did we know how far we'd come crashing down some 24 hours later. 

In hindsight, drinking raw goat's milk after a lengthy hiatus from lactose may not have been the best decision. But when in India. 

The gastrointestinal blitzkrieg began late afternoon the next day and continued unrelenting throughout the night. Shock and Awe was the unfortunate tactic employed by the enemy, with devastating results. Needless to say, everyone slept poorly that evening. A rapid return to civilization was required by all. A trying day lay ahead, as lack of food, dehydration, fatigue and exhaustion took their toll during the 20 km slog back down to the valley floor. By some miracle we were able to catch a bus from the town of Gheera and avoid what would have been a debilitating climb back up to McLeod Ganj. The next 24 hours were filled with 20 hours of sleep and 4 hours of discussing leg pains, bowel movement comparison or thinking about sleep. Two days later and still no one is 100%, but never has a flushing toilet been more appreciated. 

As we were sitting around the campfire on that incredible evening, Ryan stated that "this makes every crappy moment worth it". It's to experience moments like the one around the fire that we accept to put ourselves through uncomfortable situations and moments. Like 18 hour bus rides. It's important to recognize when you're living a high and to respect the fact that the lows are part of it too. India is in many ways a roller coaster ride, and I look forward to whatever lies around the next bend. Be it good or bad. Such is India. 

Paul gets in touch with his wild side