A Sort-Of Plan

Siberia?? What the fuck do you want to go there for?? Thats what most people said when I told them I was thinking of venturing into that monstrous and vaguelyknown territory. Youre fucking crazy almost always followed when I added that I wanted to go there in the wintertime. From there the conversation usually deteriorated something down the lines of Youll be murdered by the Russian mafia and buried in a shallow snow grave to Is that in Chechnya? Those people are bad and Cooooool! Bring me back something. Then came my own moments of imagined doom: hired goons dragging me from the trunk of a mafia-black Mercedes and walking me at gunpoint out into an empty expanse of frozen nowhere; fleeing the clutches of a halfcrazed Kalashnikov-toting Siberian who wants to add extra holes to my body just because Im not from there; and those slightly disturbing vodka-and-a-gun party games. My darkest thought was that Id (posthumously) wind up scoring myself the classic half-minute local lad
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reported missing in suspicious circumstances while traipsing around in a fucked-up destination spot on the late night news back home. Horrible. Thirty seconds just isnt enough airtime. Everyone - myself included - had their own impression of what Siberia was like. But none of us had ever actually been there. I decided everyone - myself included - simply had no fucking idea what they were talking about. Questions needed answers. Was there really a Jukebox in Siberia, or have The Skyhooks been feeding us lies all these years? There was only one way to find out. * *

Id wanted to go to Russia since my bottle-feeding days. As school kids we were taught bits and pieces about the Soviet Union and we saw bits and pieces of it on TV. Ronald Reagan (the actor) had dubbed the USSR The Evil Empire and my 5th grade teacher reckoned the odds of any of us ever getting a look behind the Iron Curtain were about the same as being abducted by aliens. Its nice to think my 5th grade teacher had faith that none of his students would grow up and turn into a filthy commie traitor. I used to imagine the Iron Curtain as a physically real, twenty-foot high, three-foot thick spot-welded metal wall
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which formed an impenetrable border around the USSR. I wasnt alone in that thought - kids just dont interpret such terms in a political sense. During those times of heavyweight communism a number of cities inside the Soviet Union were off-limits to the large majority of its own citizens. These cities were (and still are) home to installations operating on a secret squirrel security level. Intruiguing stuff. Just imagine being told by the government that for unspecified security reasons, Melbourne was to be made off-limits to all nonVictorians. While the idea does have its comic appeals its a safe bet that people wouldnt be willing give up our nations nightclub capital without a good fight. No, it wasnt easy back then for us outsiders to accurately contemplate the day-to-day life of Ivan Average and his place in the socialist grind: Boris, the collective farm manager who fudges produce estimates to placate State bureaucrats. Vladimir, the favoured Party member with his State-approved two-cylinder car. Elinas drab-grey pre-fabrication apartment block. Sergey, the KGB major whose record of 567 forced confessions and counting is unrivalled in the espionage community. Olga, the hunchbacked babushka who can be found queueing for hours in department stores that dont have anything to sell. And of course, theres Alexei, who always seems to be arguing with his babushka-in-law about his wife
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Svetlanas job at the tractor factory, not to mention the amount of vodka hes been drinking lately. Meanwhile, Ivan Average is nearly freezing to death in thirtysomething below temperatures - yet another benefit of being born behind the Iron Curtain. It seemed my schoolteacher was right; none of us were ever likely to see for ourselves how Ivan did things on a day-to-day basis. Then along came 1991. The Soviet Union selfimploded and the floodgates opened for all things western to flow in, from large-scale free trade agreements to supermarkets actually having items on their shelves. Hooray for toilet paper. Words like Glasnost (openness) and Perestroika (restructuring) were on the tips of everyones tongues. Tourism companies promptly opened their doors for business while the KGB was left to ponder its fate. For the first time in decades it was now possible to see first hand how life really was in the worlds largest country. Russia was put on my things-to-do list. * *

Deciding to go to Russia was the easy part. It was the planning that took loads of work and even more decisions. What route should I take? What visas do I need and are they difficult to obtain? When is the best time to go? Whats the current political situation? Will that crazy Kalashnikov-toting Siberian really be waiting for me? All
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of these questions needed looking in to, although I decided that Id worry about the Siberian gunman if and when the time came. It came down to three very big wealths of information: Lonely Planet guide books (the Bible), the internet (facts and figures on everything from timetables to taboos) and last but not least, my good friend and travel agent Michelle, who sometimes moonlights as a drinking buddy at our local. Collectively they enabled me to solve most of the planning stage hurdles, from arranging ticketing to weather conditions to how much I could expect to be ripped off for a local beer. After considering, scratching out then reconsidering possible routes and stops, and while Michelle was kept busy making a hundred phone calls chasing up the necessary visas and other bits of obscure but vital information, a crude plan began to emerge from somewhere beneath the piles of brochures and printouts that had amassed from seemingly out of nowhere. This is how it looked on paper (subject to unforeseen screw-ups): Sydney - Singapore - Beijing, China - Trans-Mongolian train to Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia - Irkutsk, Siberia - TransSiberian train to Ekaterinburg, Siberia - Moscow - Belarus - Warsaw, Poland.
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From the Polish capital onwards Id be free to wander to whichever city, village or back-road hovel that took my interest. The only further arrangement was an open jaws airline ticket home from Frankfurt in Germany, valid for one year - plenty of time to get myself home at some later date just in case I fell in love with some place or some one, or maybe even both. A jaunt through Scandinavia was my next pipe dream. The Nordic countries had always appealed to me for the same reasons as Siberia, and I didnt personally know anyone that had been there either. Then there are those fabled six-foot tall Britt Eckland look-alikes, the sole reason for our envious jealousy of those Norse countries. There lay my natural motivation. Must be something good in the water up in those parts.

After close to three months fairly thorough preparation (yep, got the space food sticks), my visas were ready, my pack was ready, and I was sort-of ready. So far, so good

Singapore Slingshot

The constant dull thudding of a sizeable hangover. It was the morning after the night before, which entailed a couple (read: truckload) of drinks with a few close friends. I only managed a broken two hours sleep, a combined result of going over countless mental checklists and the unavoidable another one for the road call at my local. Shit happens; plenty of time to catch up on some sleep once I was on the plane. The flight was as smooth as a Fabio pickup line until we began the descent into Changi. We ran into heavy turbulence, and more than once the aircraft suddenly took an altitude plunge. Have you ever heard one hundred oriental women all screech at once? Im pretty sure that it was this single event, and not my 100-watt Marshall stack, that brought on my occasional tinnitus condition. Amidst the banshee-like shrieks and drink spillages there was also a moment of irony; a flight attendant was dumped squarely on her tush while she was checking that passengers had their seatbelts securely fastened. After endless bumpy laps in the sky over the little island nation we landed in to a clear and sunny Singapore afternoon. On the way into immigration I got the sudden urge to be violently sick and made a mad dash for the
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toilets. Another throwback (throw up) from the previous nights efforts. Countless sets of suspicious eyes bore down on me and my pathetic state, the majority of them belonging to members of airport security and the police. Having cleaned myself up and feeling slightly better than I did ten minutes before, I passed through immigration with a minimum of fuss, a fresh stamp in my passport and a half smile from the customs officer. Singapore was the same as always - hot and muggy. In the space of a few short hours I was drenched in my own perspiration, drenched by sudden heavy downpours, only to dry out and start drowning in my own sweat all over again. The ever-present smell of twenty-something different cultures and their various cuisines wafted on the air, adding spice and flavour to the thick soup of humidity. I inhaled deeply -a kind of test to find out if Id gotten over the worst effects of the previous night - and when no dry wretch followed I felt a whole lot better about things. I wasted the afternoon wandering the Orchard Road and Chinatown districts, ignoring the endless advances of pushy salesmen wanting to sell me everything from genuine copy watches to computers with capabilities that would give a NASA technician wet dreams. Having been in Singapore countless times before I automatically refused a good twenty to thirty hawkers, using everything
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from a polite no thanks to leave me alone, you fucking pest. The Singaporean salesman is a breed apart. He can sniff out and radar lock on to an unwary foreigner a mile away. He wants your tourist dollar and possesses the uncanny knack of making you and your hard currency part ways in return for something you didnt really need or want to begin with. Caveat Emptor. Id planned on an early evening dinner at the famous Newton Circus, the huge outdoor food court located just a few stops from Orchard Road. The variety of foods on offer from the numerous street stalls set up here is endless, the chilli stingray dish being one of the most famous. Twice before, Id had the pleasure of dining here and twice before Id come away with a severe dose of the runs. The high chance of getting the runs wasnt enough to stop me from coming back a third time; the food is awesome and the prices are friendly. What did stop me was the sudden torrential downpour that came just as I arrived at Newton on the MRT. With my stomach still not one hundred percent and the rain hammering down, I decided to call it an evening, making my way back to Changi to await the midnight flight to Beijing.

The China Syndrome

Name: Peoples Republic of China Capital: Beijing (Peking), 13.8 Million Population: 1.25 BillionCrikey, thats a lot of people Government: Communist Republic Currency: Renminbi (literally, peoples money) Good Stuff: The First Nation of Ping-Pong and the best remaining communist country!! Home of the Great Wall, the monstrous and nationally- important Three Gorges Dam project (depending on whose facts and figures you believe), ozone-friendly bicycles, and some of the tastiest cuisine on the planet! Also, home of athlete swimmers who look like body builders, only on a more sufficient diet of steroids. Not So Good Stuff: Tiananmen Square 1989tanks for the memories the monstrous and nationally-important Three Gorges Dam project (depending on whose facts and figures you believe). Excruciatingly difficult language to understand. With the worlds largest population, organising a national census must be a real pain in the ass!

7:30am: Welcome to Beijing, -1 degrees C

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I almost shat myself when my pack failed to appear on the baggage carousel, and it didnt take long for some suspiciously-vigilant Chinese officials to notice my slightly worried look. After a quick explanation and a check of the now-empty carousel my pack suddenly appeared off the ramp, almost ten minutes after everyone elses luggage. I wonder what happened there A persistent cabbie finally wins my fare and we set off from the airport and into the monstrous sprawl of the Chinese capital. A pocketed city map led me into believing Beijing was a compact city, a uniform pattern of ring roads and long, straight avenues that radiate outwards from the central Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square. Thinking all the central landmarks were within close walking distance of each other, I set off on foot for Tiantan (Temple of Heaven) Park, which appeared on the map to be just a stones throw down the road from my hotel. I arrived at Tiantan half an hour later, after several near collisions with the army of bicycle riders, that dominant face of private transport in China. At 270 hectares Tiantan makes Hyde Park look like your average suburban front lawn. Soon after entering the park I was bailed up by a local uni student who introduced himself as Mao, a.k.a. The Chairman. The
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Chairman said he often came to the park to chat with anyone who looked like a native English speaker. I dont have black hair or a bicycle so to Mao I stuck out like dogs balls. The Chairman chaperoned me through the park sights, taking in the Temple of Good Harvest, the Echo wall (it really does work!), and the curious Circular Mound Altar, a landmark built entirely of marble and which utilises the number nine in a mathematical layout. There are nine steps up to the altar and nine sets of concentric circles around a raised centre stone. Each concentric circle is broken up into multiples of nine. Speaking in a normal voice whilst standing atop the raised centre stone is supposed to naturally amplify the sound of your own voice. The Chairman said it was just an old superstition, but I was instantly sucked in. Enter the twilight zone my voice boomed out loudly, like I was plugged into a PA system. The Chairman thought I was having a lend of him, and wouldnt try it out for himself. Tiantan Park bustled with people enjoying many different pastimes: musical instruments were being played with masterful skill, open-air dancing classes were in full swing, birds in little cages were being taken for a stroll by their owners, and a token group of old ladies sat knitting sandals in the morning sunshine. There was plenty happening, even for a weekday morning. At the
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Long Corridor there were more than fifty card games were in loud progress. Each game attracted its own rowdy crowd, many of which were accompanied by tiny birds in even tinier cages. I watched a few hands of one card game but couldnt make any sense of it at all. Things might have been different if I spoke Mandarin. The Chairman produced a lunch of bean pies from out of his day pack, along with some kind of processed meat wrapped in plastic. It looked bad and smelt even worse. Anyone who feeds their pooch tinned food would recognise the smell instantly. Mao wasnt in the least bit offended when I flatly refused to try some; it meant plenty more for him. Sick puppy. Mid-afternoon I found myself sitting outside a variety store across the road from Tiananmen Square and Qianmen Gate, enjoying a Yanjing beer in company with an old man who went to the trouble of laying out sheets of newspaper for me to sit on. In the space of an hour and a few local brews, I was bailed up by several more Maostyle university students wanting to fine-tune their virtually non-existent English skills. The old man did all the talking on my behalf; it had been hard work explaining to him where I was from and what I was doing in Beijing to begin with.

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Leaving the old man to enjoy the rest of the afternoon sun and the pretty girls walking by, I headed across the street and on to Tiananmen Square via an underpass. In the tunnel a little Chinese boy whose flat nose was caked with a thick smear of green snot pestered me no end to buy some postcards from him. Shooing him away achieved nothing; Snot Boy kept circling like a hungry shark, eager for me to flash some Yuan and point it in his downward direction. The little brat finally gave trying to do me a deal a good rethink, and he scooted off in search of some other potential sucker. The size of Tiananmen is breathtaking. The vast square is the largest in the world. It was from here on 1st October 1949 Mao Zedong (Tse-Tsung, if youre an assertive type) proclaimed the Peoples Republic of China. To most westerners Tiananmen is infamously remembered as the place where in 1989 pro-democracy demonstrators, many of them students, had their hopes and dreams crushed by tanks - literally. These days the massacre is a taboo subject amongst the Chinese. Mention it at your own peril. But today in Tiananmen Square it was business as usual. There was no sign of any imminent government dissention or of those Falun Gong crowd and their effective suicide kits of jerry cans and cigarette lighters. Instead tourists wandered around taking photos of the
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monuments and of each other, kites flew high on the breeze, and Peoples Army soldiers stood at rigid attention around just about every monument on the square. Two soldiers took a particular interest in me while I was standing around taking particular interest in all things oriental. One of the soldiers marched directly to where I was standing and gruffly demanded to see my passport. After a cursory glance the soldier handed back my passport, did an about face and marched back to his post. It obviously gets very boring standing at attention like that for hours at a time doing nothing but trying to look mean. Tiananmen Square is a physical embodiment of the Chinese spirit. The Great Hall of the People, home of the ruling communist party, dominates the western side of the square. Just like everything else in Beijing, its a monstrous landmark, and the long row of red banners adorning its rooftop casually reminds you whos the boss in these parts. Maos Mausoleum sits in the middle of Tiananmen Square. The square-shaped building looks more like an oversized gig venue than the final resting place of one of the most prolific leaders of all time. When the Chairman kicked the bucket back in 76 at the grand old age of 93, more than a million people converged on Tiananmen Square to pay their respects. Mao Zedong (Tse-tsung, if
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youre a tad anal) today lives on in Chinese memory as a great man, possibly the greatest this country has ever produced, despite the atrocities carried out on countless millions under his rule. While I didnt make it inside in time for a first hand look at Maos waxy corpse, I passed by the long queues leading up to the Mausoleum entrance, amazed by the large numbers of people with bunches of fresh cut flowers to place before the shrine inside. By late afternoon the temperature began to drop off rather quickly so I made tracks back to the hotel for a bit of R n R. On the long bicycle-dodging walk back a loud voice came booming out over the mess of congested traffic noise WERE NOT STUPID, WERE AUSTRALIAN! I looked around for the proud Aussies but saw nothing that even vaguely resembled a westerners shadow anywhere in the sea of black hair and bicycles. Bicycles have right of way over all traffic in Beijing, which sounds like a great idea up until the moment until you actually experience the downtown traffic conditions. Intersections are a jammed mess of bicycles, rickshaws, cars, vans and buses all mingled together in a kind of large scale chaos theory experiment that would put a smile on the face of any quantum physicist worth his atomic weight. Then there are the huge crowds of pedestrians. The traffic has a tendency to move itself into
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the path of oncoming traffic, which just so happens to be oncoming from every which way. Strangely enough, theres a flow to the madness that seems to work, although walking in front of bicycles, especially on purpose, is not a good idea. You will invariably be met with an irate scowl and some harsh, unintelligible words from the rider, which presumably translates something along the lines of you fucking plick! On street corners old ladies in poo-brown uniforms armed with whistles enthusiastically conduct pedestrian movement. With the blast of a whistle right in my ear and a loud verballing from one such elderly lollypop lady I found out the hard way that it wasnt a good idea to step off the pavement prematurely.

Sanlitun Lu, more commonly known as Bar Street is the popular expat hangout in Beijing. In the early evening I headed to Sanlitun in search of good food. What I ended up with were menus with prices more suited to the wallets of well-to-do businessmen and rich tourists who dont mind being ripped off than that of your average backpacker. Having made the trip out in a taxi from the centre of town, I bit the bullet and paid the outrageous for China price. I couldnt decide if it was the lousy food,
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some kind of noodle/pasta dish with a taste of China thrown in for good measure (not to mention a salt content comparable to that of Lake Eyre), or the annoyingly bad three piece band playing popular local tunes in the corner, but I left Bar Street pissed off at myself for having bothered to go there in the first place.

Beijing: 0 degrees Celsius (comfortable) When Ulla at the Tiantan Hotel had booked me on a special price just for you day tour to the Great Wall of China, I had no idea that I was in for more than I bargained on. After doing the rounds of several city hotels our tour spastic bus was full. Myself and a German couple were the only foreigners on the days tour. On the road north heading out of the city, our ultra-cool extreme sports fanatic tour guide gives us the low-down on everything Beijing, from an in-a-nutshell version of the citys long and colourful history to the best places to sample Peking duck. Dude Guide gives his running commentary twice; first in Mandarin then again in English for the benefit of three of us. The German couples English turns out to be only slightly better than their proficiency in Mandarin. Instead
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of complaining they just nod and smile a lot. After Dude Guide makes a point of just how great Peking duck tastes for the millionth time I switch off to the commentary, and stare out the window at the surrounding hustle and bustle as we make our way through the sprawling high rise apartment block districts of Beijing. First stop is the Long Di Superior Jade Gallery, one of the largest galleries of its kind in the world. The complete process of carving out a jade masterpiece from a chunk of green stone is done on the premises, from the planning and marking out of designs on the uncut surface to emery drilling and polishing. The warehouse gallery is filled with thousands of stone pieces ranging from small ornaments like the little rabbit (my Chinese birth year) I bought, to a most impressive feudal Chinese sailing ship that had been carved out of one enormous chunk of jade stone. The intricately-carved piece measures somewhere between five to six metres in length and more than two metres in height. The amazing green ship comes complete with a price tag comparable to the budget of the entire Apollo space program. Next stop, the Ming Tombs. Located on the southern slopes of the Jundu Mountains, the tombs have a reputation amongst travellers for being about as interesting as an empty bank vault. While the masses are right about the tombs wow factor, they do give some
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insight into the ancient Chinese beliefs in Heaven and Earth, the Yin and the Yang, and the must-have accessories for use in the afterlife by those on feudal Chinas A-list. The Ming Tombs also lead me to a touch of spiritual enlightenment. Dont leave your gloves on the spastic bus. Youll deserve a numb-handed punch in the head for your stupidity. No sign of any big wall at our next stop, a lone white building in the middle of nowhere just a few miles down the road from the tombs. Dude Guide leads us inside the building, past display cabinets containing varieties of herbs and ancient drawings of the human anatomy and into a classroom. We are met by a man wearing a long white coat, presumably a doctor, and three women, presumably nurses. They smile and motion for us all to be seated. Alleged Doctor starts babbling on excitedly in Chinese before repeating his spiel once more in English for the benefit of three of us. Were at the China Academy of Traditional Chinese Medicine. Alleged Doctor gives our group a rousing rock star-like introduction to the Academys head professor, and an ancient master of herbal kung fu makes his entrance right on cue to much enthusiastic clapping from the Chinese members of our group. The German bloke and myself look at each other, puzzled. What the hell are we doing here? Wheres the bloody wall? Did we get on
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the wrong spastic bus this morning? The old ginseng guru gives us the low down on the history and uses of natural medicinal remedies, many of which have been practiced in China since some time around 4000BC. He then gives a few of our group free individual consultations. Having felt my wrists and examined my eyes Professor Poppies recommends that I take Wei Gan Kan natural remedy capsules to bring my body back to a state of natural and harmonious balance. Yin and Yang in action. Exotic herbal mixes arent a regular feature on my shopping list but if one of the leading professors of traditional Chinese medicine in China tells me whats wrong with my internal combustions and how to make them right again, then who am I to argue? With my newfound blind faith in herbal medicine I purchased a months dosage then headed back to the spastic bus, wondering if Id just been conned and really beginning to wonder if we were going to see the Great Wall at some point in our lives. With the lesson in herbal happiness over it was time for a banquet lunch in a huge Chinese restaurant, a fancy looking joint that was also situated in the middle of nowhere. Each table was delivered a huge range of dishes, some of which defied positive identification. But there
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didnt seem to be anything overly suspicious staring directly back at me except for the fish platter so I dug in, surprised at how hungry I actually was. My ham-fisted display of chopstick mastery turns out to be a good icebreaker with the young Chinese men in our group. In the end, one of them, out of frustration of having to watch me repeatedly fail in getting the food from the bowl to my mouth, went and found me a fork. The Great Wall of China stretches more than 2,700kms from the Bo Sea in the east to the empty, harsh expanse of the Gobi in the west. Its a common misconception that the wall is one single continuous structure; in fact, its many walls roughly linked to form a common defensive barrier chain. Built to keep out the riff-raff marauding Mongols to the north, the earliest known constructions of the wall date back to 7th century BC. The sections of wall most people recognise from coffee table books were built during the Ming dynasty between the 14th and 17th centuries. These served an auxiliary purpose as elevated highways that provided merchants and explorers with a safe caravan route across China. During the course of its construction the Great Wall claimed the lives of more than one million workers. Its even legend that the bodies of dearly departed construction workers were used as extra building material for the wall. Dont tread on me.

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The Badaling section, around 70kms northwest of Beijing, is a fully renovated Yuan-oriented tourist trap, complete with cable cars for those either too old or too lazy to exert the energy needed to climb the wall. And when people say they climbed the Great Wall, theyre not kidding. Its a rude awakening for the leg muscles. You know youre in for a solid workout when you realise just how many steps, steep inclines and wall defence towers there are to tread on the way up to the summit. But once youre off and climbing, its a different story altogether. The spectacular views of the Great Wall, running off down rocky valleys and rising up the sides of mountain faces all the way into the far off distance more than compensates for aching calf muscles. Every now and then the young Chinese men and myself take a rest, take in the views and sympathise with other exhausted groups making their way up and down the wall. Having seen a group of elderly Chinese ascending the wall with the aid of their cane sticks I suddenly lost all self-pity about the steep climb ahead. An American bloke jogged straight past our group up the wall, in training for either the Olympic Games or the lesser-known Worlds Craziest Athlete Championships, held randomly whenever and wherever the participant(s) gather. When the joggers girlfriend tailed up beside us a few minutes later I asked her why she wasnt jogging up
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the wall as well. Because I dont smoke crack she shot straight back. After what felt to my legs like a long haul to the fiery side of hell and back we reached the wall summit only to discover that it was a tourist trap with nowhere to run except back down the way wed come. Table stalls sold price negotiable Wall paraphernalia, from I climbed the Great Wall certificates (none genuine without the signature of a young mother running the stall, screaming toddler beating at her legs) to bronze medallions engraved with your name, while-u-wait. The best wall souvenirs were ice-cold Yanjing beers. The Great Wall gives you a hard earned thirst, and I downed two cans of the amber fluid. Chilling out at the summit before descending back down the wall I let rip with a loud coo-ee call that came echoing back from across the distant valleys. A couple of the Chinese attempted coo-ee calls as well, but none of them could quite manage that all-essential ingredient of true blueness. Finishing our Yanjings we began the descent back down the wall top path, passing hordes of tourist groups slogging it out on their way up to the summit tower tourist trap. Walking down wasnt any easier than walking up
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had been and the steep step-less inclines brought on a good dose of jelly legs. The Great Wall of China will always be high up on my list of Awesome Things. What I like best about the Great Wall is that its one of those rare places that is actually better in real life than it is in a thousand pictures. It was just a crying shame about the Badaling sections tacky carnival-like atmosphere. * *

This evening I had the sick, sorry pleasure of crossing paths with two English chaps - Jim Dowling and his travelling partner in crime, Christian Purcell. These two lunatics had just completed a gruelling overland journey which had begun in Jims garage in Reading, England and had just ended here in Beijing five and a half months later. These party bandits of acute English eccentricity had pedalled the entire distance of over 4,400 miles/7,100 kilometres (a bit more as the crow flies, Jim reckons) on Recumbent trikes. Their route through Eastern Europe to Moscow, across Siberia and down through Mongolia into China made for a journey most normal people would never dare to dream up. I met Jim and Christ whilst all of us were loitering in McTiananmens at the south end of the square. With them
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was an attractive young Anglo-Chinese girl named Cindy, whose well-defined London accent betrayed her local looks. The four of us, with nothing better to do headed for Dazhalan Jie, just off the southwest corner of Tiananmen Square. Outside McMaos two Chinese university students stopped and asked if I spoke English. Both were stoked to find out that I did, and amongst a barrage of general questions and giggles at my twisted versions of prim and proper English answers, asked if they could hang out with us for a while. We welcomed the pair to join our group. The Chinese students introduced themselves as Wang Fu Lu and Aida. Wang told us his English equivalent name was Bluenet because his favourite colour of all the time was blue. He showcased his 100% blue-coloured jacket as a kind of proof of his infatuation with the colour. I wondered what Bluenets name of choice might have been had his favourite colour been turquoise or canary yellow. We fooled around takings some pics with the illuminated Qianmen Gate as a backdrop, and Jim and Christ both don their Biggles leather flying caps, their headgear of choice while boldly pedalling where very few have dared to pedal before.

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Dazhalan Jie, a.k.a. Silk Street is the oldest street in all of Beijing. Its a colourful narrow hutong crammed with restaurants, street eateries and stalls and shops selling everything from roasted chestnuts to fake label name clothing. Its also where the very young last emperor Pu Yi liked to play under the watchful eyes of his minders. And as the street name suggests its the place to shop around for silk night attire embroidered with just about anything and everything, from graceful birds and bamboo scenes to your name, while-u-wait. Almost every step we take along Dazhalan is met with calls of Hullooo! Hullooo! and enthusiastic efforts to lure us inside tempting restaurants or to sell us cheap souvenirs. The Chairman Mao wristwatch, going cheap and featuring the great man himself pointing to the numbers, has to be one of the tackiest pieces of junk of all time. Bluenet leads us to a small restaurant down a hutong just off Silk Street, where we demolish a variety of Chinese dishes including the Forbidden City dish, once off limits to your average no-frills peasant, and servings of what is arguably the best sweet and sour pork of all time. As the night progresses and the jugs of local brew are emptied, refilled, then emptied again Jim and Christ share some tales from the road. Jim said the reason behind their Siberian crossing was simply that it was the shortest route from Reading,
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England to Beijing, China. While the pair had had their share of good fortunes along the way, theyd also had a few close calls. One incident while on the road almost transformed Christian from crazy human being into a can of dog food by a large truck. He had been undertaking the truck at 30mph, the driver didnt spot him and he came damn close to being slammed between the truck and a concrete wall. Not very funny at the time, but good for a laugh now. The lads had one particularly eerie encounter while camping in the woods along the shores of Lake Baikal in Eastern Siberia. An axe-wielding Gypsy carrying a load of wood appeared out of the pitch black of night to join the pedallers by their campfire, before disappearing back into the darkness a few hours later. The gypsy returned at dawn to get their campfire going in the pouring rain. Where he slept they say theyll never know. Although Jim and Christ were only days away from flying home to bask in the world famous English sunshine and have a well-deserved rest, their mission was to complete a global tour, pedal style. The next leg was to be the conquering of North America. I look forward to catching up with them both when they get around to their assault on the Antipodes!

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Bluenet bridged our language barriers by teaching us some common Chinese insults. Call a Chinaman Wang Ba Da (Tortoise Eggs) and expect a punch up. It takes the rest of us a while to work out why being called tortoise eggs is such an insult - apparently the Chinese consider the tortoise an ugly creature, so it packs roughly the same punch as being called son of a bitch. Other worthy insults include Qu Ni Ma De (a foul-mouthed equivalent of go away) and 250, an expression similar to halfwit or dumbass. Theres no need to go into detail about the useful expletives we taught Bluenet and Aida, except to say the list was as long as it was colourful. An awesome night was had by all, even the restaurant bill is worth a mention - the endless food and beer for six of us came to a grand total of 160 Yuan, or roughly $6 each! It had been an action-packed day; and it was time to get myself back to the hotel for some quality rack time before the train to Ulaan Baatar the following morning.

Beijing: 1 degree C (invigorating) IVE MISSED MONGOLIA.

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THE

FUCKING

TRAIN

TO

I arrived at Beijing train station at 7:10am for the 7:45 train to Ulaan Baatar. Having presented my ticket, I was directed to a monstrous waiting room for train boarding. A large electronic board displayed the train number, but I couldnt make heads or tails of the rest of the train information. By half past seven I was anxious. The train was due to depart in ten minutes time, and from the waiting room there was no view of any platforms, let alone any noisy indications of trains arriving or departing. I tried passing through the turnstiles that led down to the platform, only to be shooed back into the waiting room by a pint-sized station attendant, despite waving my ticket in front of her face and protesting loudly. I showed my ticket to anyone and everyone but the best response I got was little more than a blank stare and a shrug of the shoulders. Again I tried the forbidden turnstiles with no luck. There seemed to be no way down to the platform from the waiting room. By 7:40am I was turning frantic. I searched around desperately for anyone official looking who could be of assistance. No such luck. 7:45am came and went and the large electronic board displayed a new train number.
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I raced off in search of someone who should know something, who came in the form of a towering policeman who yelled at me to calm down. The cop escorted me to the ticketing office and an Englishspeaking clerk. The clerk informed me that I had missed my train and that there was nothing she could do for me. Id just found myself stranded in Beijing. The next Mongolia-bound train wasnt due to depart for another four days. This meant I was going to miss my connecting train on to Irkutsk in Russia, and this in turn would make my Russian visa slip a worthless piece of paper. Think quick and make a decision even quicker. Chasing down the train by taxi was my best and only chance, and I had to move fast. Rushing out of the train station I spotted a minivan driver for hire. Showing him my ticket and hurriedly explaining my circumstances, he agreed to get me to the train at a stop further up the line. One catch: the cunning entrepreneur wanted 1000 Yuan (around $250) for saving the day. It was extortion of the most evil kind, but with both precious seconds and the train running away from me I bit the bullet and agreed to his business plan . The driver and his dubious-looking offsider wanted to see cold hard Yuan up front, so we stopped off at a hole in
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the wall for me to get some money. Returning to the waiting minivan I found there were now two more business associates along for the ride. Alarm bells started ringing in my head. As we sped through the chaotic traffic the driver/rip off merchant, now sitting in the back of the van with me, whipped out a calculator and presented me with a new and improved business plan 4000 Yuan for my safe delivery to the train. I barked at him to fuck right off and to let me out of the minivan. The driver/conman and his partner in extortion suddenly went quiet, and completely ignored me sitting behind them yelling in their ears to pull over and let me the hell out. Looking at the streets of Beijing around us I had absolutely no idea where we were. Some of the thoughts of where and what I might be headed for made me shudder. As we slowed down to round a busy street corner I threw the sliding door open and jumped from the moving van out onto the sidewalk, landing hard on the pavement and scaring the hell out of the gathered crowd of pedestrians waiting to cross the busy road. Without looking back I shouldered my pack and made a bolt for safety in the opposite direction, not stopping until I was out of sight and quite sure the goons in the minivan werent coming after me. A quick check revealed some skin off the palm of my
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right hand and a sharp pain in my right ankle from landing awkwardly. Thank the Almighty for the driver of the little blue hatchback in front of us who had slowed down enough at the intersection for me to bail out. Now what? Hailing a taxi and showing the driver my ticket and a map of where I needed to get to, I yelled at him to step on it. But the cabbies English was as good as my mandarin. On both sides it was like trying to understand someone from a galaxy far, far away. Using his mobile phone the cabbie called up someone who spoke English and put me on the blower. The voice on the other end translated my destination back to the cabbie, who immediately headed out towards the freeway. Time was already against us making the train at Nankou, where the train would have an extended stop while an extra locomotive engine was coupled up for the mountain ascent. Almost a tense hour later the cabbie turns off the main road and into a small rural town. We stop to ask a young boy, who just happens to be standing on the side of the road doing nothing, for directions. Groan. The cabbie has absolutely no idea where we are.
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An old man perched atop a mule-drawn hay cart passes us by, staring down inquisitively at the lost foreigner in the lost taxi. Life certainly moves at a lot slower pace out here in Chinas mainstream peasant society than it does in the Big Smoke. The cabbie talks non-stop in gobbledygook, pointing me out various village road signs. Somehow, I know hes also asking for me to concur. All I can do is answer each time with a shrug and buggered if I know mate, you live here. A few U-turns and some more roadside directions from school children later and we were back on the road out of the village. The dashboard clock and train timetable reveal that weve got fuck all chance of making the train with the one possible exception of Zhangjiakou, 205 clicks northwest of Beijing. The cabbie isnt keen to go the distance, but a loud, forceful voice in an alien language seems to change his mind. So long as we stepped on it, there was a good chance of closing the fifteen or so minute timetable gap and be on my way to Mongolia, in accordance with Plan A. Adding to my woes was that Id heard somewhere that Zhangjiakou was off-limits to foreigners, which meant my presence wouldnt go unnoticed. Maybe thats what the cabbie had been trying to tell me.

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The deserted open highway takes us by bleak, barren farm lots, run down villages and areas of desert-like bareness gripped in winter cold. The surrounding desolation and isolation deepens the despair of the bizarre day Im having. We pass by road signs to several small villages: Hua Li, Chicheng, Xinbao and Ji Ming Yi. Passing through one such cheerless village we spot some young boys playing ping-pong on a concrete table using old bricks for a net. The speed and precision of their game and the amount of fun the youths appear to be having seems alien in contrast to their surrounds. Even the cabbie shows interest in their friendly match, and we slow down (unnecessarily; Ive got a friggin train to catch up with) to watch a fast-paced volley. As Im pondering my totally miserable day the cabbie suddenly comes up with an idea which I swear had the sole aim of giving me the shits. The cabbie started clicking his fingers together, just once, once every minute or so. CLICK! Silence CLICK! Silence CLICK! Had we been listening to music I might have understood this oddball behaviour but the radio wasnt turned on. After close to an hours worth of random clicking I was starting to lose my temper with the cabbie, raising my voice at him to shut his fingers the fuck up
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every time he clicked. But he took absolutely no notice of me. Snow began to fall, painting the endless bare dirt landscape CLICK! a hybrid white-brown colour. The misery of the CLICK! strong, cold wind (coming down from the Gobi desert in Mongolia, the cabbie manages to convey) is as sharp as the CLICK! rugged view of a distant mountain range. As for the traffic, its perfectly normal to drive on whichever side of the tar you feel like. Just swerve to avoid those oncoming heavy trucks and army transports at the last possible second and everyone stays alive. Passing through a tiny village we were slowed up by a truck that had somehow spilled its big load of coal all over the pothole filled road. The sight of the two truck drivers scratching their heads and staring disbelievingly at their load of coal flung all over the road made both the cabbie and myself crack up with laughter. After almost three hours on the road we reach the outskirts of Zhangjiakou. I spot a road sign written in English: AIRPORT. Maybe theres a chance, admittedly remote, of getting a local flight forward of the train schedule. Id resigned myself to the fact that I was now well and truly up some
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other countrys shit creek without a paddle, save my oddball cabbie, who unfortunately isnt the brightest of Chinese fortune cookies. A few ks down the road to the airport we pass a large roadside sign and reading it, my heart skips a beat. MILITARY JET BASE I yell at the cabbie to do a U-turn and get us the hell out of here but Im too late; we arrive at a heavily guarded boom gate and hes out of the cab and heading towards the fortified guardhouse with my train ticket in his hand. Instant arousal of suspicion from the Peoples Army. Several soldiers take turns looking at my ticket then look over to me while Im doing my best to blend in with the taxis interior deco. The armed soldier manning the boom gate doesnt take his eyes off me for an instant. Not that hes in for any trouble - theres no way in hell I am getting out of the taxi. Weve all seen those movies; charges of international espionage dont look too good on a resume. The five-minute wait for the cabbie to return from the watch house is the longest five minutes of my life so far. Thankfully all is well; I havent shown up on their spy suspect list, and Im not going to be held for questioning. We do a U-turn and head back down the road into town.
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Wont do that again. Zhangjiakou train station at last. The only thing bigger in Zhangjiakou is the multi-stack power station that resides smack in the middle of town, thick white smoke billowing skywards from the tops of several fat exhaust stacks. The train station is all but deserted, the tracks still warm from train #23 rumbling through here on its way to Mongolia twenty-five minutes ago. A policeman in the station escorts me into a flash office (flash compared to the rest of this place), which no doubt belongs to someone with a bit of authority in these parts. Soon the office is filled with a small gathering. Theres myself, the cabbie, three policemen, and a local wok stirrer from a box-sized eatery across the street whos developed sudden keen interests in both my plight and in the state of my appetite. A ranking policeman enters the room, gives me the once over, shakes my hand then takes a seat behind his polished wood desk. From what I can gather, this man is the local Jing Cha commander. One by one the policemen proceed to question me. Its a totally pointless exercise, and they know it. My verbal answers only add to the confusion. The cabbie does his
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best to explain the situation but I dont think even he is quite sure what hes doing this far from Beijing. I decide to let my ticket do all the talking; its the simple explanation for why Im here. 100 mile an hour conversation amongst the Chinese, while my ticket and a train schedule are consulted. Even the wok stirrer from across the street puts his two cents worth into the conversation. All I can do is sit and listen to this impromptu Chinese parliament session, making neither heads nor tails out of a single word. Even using pen and paper to bridge the language barrier failed; none of the Chinese understood English lettering (or English drawings either, which I found slightly alarming), and the only Chinese characters I know are found on a good set of mah-jongg. The local commander sits back in the depths of his comfy chair, relaxed and in complete control of the whole situation while the seven-way chatter intensifies. While his subordinates debate my fate between themselves the commander makes me feel welcome by offering food and drink. By now I had been in the police office for more than two hours. The commander then sends out a summons for a local who speaks basic English. The young man hasnt conversed in English for quite some time, but we manage to work our way through each others questions using the previously failed pen and
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paper trick. There was no chance of making the train somewhere farther north at all so I was left with the choice of either staying on in Zhangjiakou until the Trans-Mongolian passed through here again in four days time or returning to Beijing for an extended stay. The wok stirrer kindly offered to put me up in his home until the next train, but I declined; Zhangjiakou is not the kind of place you want to linger in. I ask the young interpreter about my chances of getting a flight to Ulaan Baatar in order to keep my schedule on track. A few phone calls to Beijing later he informs me that hes booked me on a flight for next Tuesday, three days away. Only problem now is that all my flight details are written in Chinese and Im not even sure what airline flying with. Asking the young man about this he simply shrugs. Id just have to sort it out back in Beijing. After close to three long hours in the police office I was cleared of all suspicions, and it was time to get back on the road to Beijing. I presented the commander with a postcard of Sydney, and with the help of the young interpreter wrote with a message of thanks written in Chinese script. The commander shook my hand warmly and bowed. I reciprocated the gesture even though I felt kind of silly doing so.
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As we go to leave the wok stirrer from across the street hounds us to come and sample some Zhangjiakou cuisine in his little green box eatery. The cabbie is keen but when I utter the word Beijing to him he changes his mind. It was a four hour ride back to the capital, and along the way we ran into a blizzard. The cabbie grew excited by the heavy snowfall, and we stopped by the roadside to take some photos on his camera. We also made snowballs, and the cabbie yelled angrily at me when I pitched a forceful direct hit at him with a tightly packed snow cricket ball. We make it back to Beijing in one piece around 8pm and the cabbie takes me to a hostel in the Chaoyang district. It felt good to be back amongst English-speaking travellers, including a few fellow Australians. A few extra days in Beijing meant that I now had plenty of time to check out those sights of this big city I would have missed had things gone to plan. But priorities first, tomorrow was going to be a day of rest, and it was going to take a nuclear explosion or a front row at a Peter Andre gig nightmare to wake me from my sleep tonight. Today was one of the most intense and intensely tiring days of my life.
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Today China has a new president. Jiang Zemin has stood down as Caring Communist Citizen #1, having been replaced by one Hu Jin Tao, a man most of us have never heard of yet will come to loathe quite strongly thanks to the media and an inbuilt inclination towards aggression on the part of the Chinese government. While Hu may not be the worlds most powerful man he is still the leader of the largest population on the planet. Thats a lot of hands to shake and a lot of babies to kiss, even with the one child policy. Hu Jin Taos first task in moving China forward might as well be ordering the removal of the soon-to-be-redundant words brother and sister from the Chinese language. What better cure for sibling rivalry? Leaving Beijing this morning in the taxi for destination unknown wed glimpsed Hus presidential motorcade as it wound its way slowly through an apartment district, where well-wishers threw flowers and much applause over the shiny black stretch limo that looked very out of place in the dusty run down workers suburb. Luckily for vote counters, the election process is a strictly one party in-house affair; counting 1.2 billion ballot papers would take years. And thats without any controversial recounts.

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Beijing: 5 degrees C (heat wave) I awoke late morning feeling like a million dollars after the hellish experience of yesterday. Did some food shopping at the nearby International Supermarket and found a post office to mail a package home. The post office clerk opened the parcel to inspect its contents. Nothing unusual in it, except for an English-version copy of Chairman Maos little red book, which the clerk proceeded to hold up and have a giggle at with his coworkers and the other post office customers. The hostel is a comfortable choice. Sharing a six bunk room with me are two Aussies, and eighteen year old Swiss kid who hails from a little willage in a little walley. Then theres Chris, a crazy Irish bastard who has just done a runner from his English teaching job in South Korea. Chris students were in for a bit of a surprise on Monday morning when they found out their beloved English teacher has skipped the country and left them to fend for themselves. The hostel staff helped in sorting out my flight details to Ulaan Baatar, and even arranged for my ticket to be delivered to the hostel, saving me a long and frustrating
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effort chasing it up personally. Some of the other travellers were just as surprised as me - we all thought international flights into Mongolia were non-existent at this time of year. After an in-hostel competition to find the cheapest beer in Beijing (found in a nearby supermarket by myself and a Dutch girl, Frankie - 45 cents a can), the hostel crowd threw an in-house party. It was one big shared food and beer fest, with the exception of an American girl with more chins than the Beijing telephone directory. With apparent ease she managed to slam down the entire contents of a one-litre tub of ice cream all by herself in record time, much to everyone elses quiet amusement.

Beijing: 4 degrees C (slip, slop, slap) The Forbidden City, the world renowned inner sanctum of Feudal China and epicentre of modern Beijing, is the imperial palace of the Ming and Qing dynasties. The centuries-long glory of the Forbidden City ceased with the short reign of the last emperor Pu Yi who ascended the throne in 1908 at the wise old age of three. In 1911 the winds of change brought revolution, ending Chinas long-standing feudalism and the young Pu Yis
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reign as emperor. Referred to by the Chinese as Gugong, or Palace Museum, the Forbidden City in its heyday was off-limits to your average peasant, hence its name. Only the ruling aristocrats and a handful of serving officials had free run of this elaborate city within a city. High on the Gate of Heavenly Peace (Tiananmen) hangs the famous portrait of Chairman Mao. Hanging on either side of Maos oversized noggin are two massive elongated red banners adorned with the slogans Long Live the Peoples Republic of China and Long Live the Unity of the Peoples of the World. The obligatory photo of myself with Mao, like were long lost brothers. On the recommendations of other travellers I rented the recorded tape for the self-guided tour of the Forbidden City. Narrated by Roger Moore, the recording added a certain panache to all one would ever need to know about the massive imperial city. No doubt 007 learned all he knows about the place from an eyes only portfolio held by Mi6. Altogether within the Forbidden City there are 9,999 and 1/2 bays of palaces and halls, and all but a handful are off limits to the public. But theres still plenty to see along the tourist path that runs in a straight line from the southern entrance through to the northern exit. The emperors sleeping chambers was my favourite by far.
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Testosterone-charged adolescents the world over would be in awe of this particular abode - the emperor shared his quarters with his empress and twenty-seven concubines, and jumped from bed to bed anytime he felt like it. Theres even a story of one emperor dying prematurely during one marathon bout of overindulgence. Its the stuff of legends, and I found it highly inspirational. The imperial garden, an exotic display of Chinese trees and gardens provides a welcome change after the sizeable expanses of cobblestone courtyards. Don Burke, suffer in your jocks. Exiting the Forbidden City through the Gate of Divine Prowess, I made the short, steep venture up to the Jingshan Park lookout, which provided a panoramic 360-degree view of downtown Beijing - as far as the air pollution allowed anyway. With a chilly wind coming up mid afternoon I made my way to Bluenets house near Qianmen Gate. Bluenet wasnt in so I left a note with his professor saying that I was still in town and that Id call in later to catch up with him and Aida. Later in the evening Frankie the Dutch girl, Phil from Brisbane and myself headed into Qianmen and Bluenets house. Standing with Aida on the front steps of his block, Bluenet was dead easy to find - his blue jacket would have stuck out like dogs balls to a one-eyed glaucoma sufferer standing a city block away.
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We headed for the same little hutong restaurant wed partied on in till the wee hours with Jim and Christian a few nights back, where we met a Norwegian by the name of Christer Wille who joined our little party. I mentioned to Christer that a visit to Norway was on the cards, and he offered, on the spot, to put me up at his place in Oslo should I actually make it that far. You cant buy that kind of hospitality. Our little party was once again a lot of fun, but I had to be up early in the morning for the flight to Mongolia. It was sad having to say farewell to Bluenet and Aida; theyd become instant close friends. I tell Bluenet Ill try and make it back for the 2008 Olympics, maybe earlier if he can sell the Great Wall to a dumb tourist and shout me a holiday to China. Whilst on the subject of the Olympic Games, Sydney 2000s slogan Share the Spirit could, with a minor alteration, provide China with its own society-relevant slogan: Beijing 2008 - Share the Spit. The Chinese absolutely adore hocking up a good loogey. Lots of people do it everywhere, and everywhere else lie the end results. Its virtually impossible to avoid walking over runny pavement loogeys, and I gave up trying. On the streets, in the subway, and in one particularly average
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display, in a supermarket aisle, spitting is the national pastime of China, just ahead of sports doping. And its not only the men who are guilty; I saw just as many ladies lean back, build the pressure then let rip like catapults loaded with saliva bullets. Spitting will definitely be a demonstration sport at the 2008 Olympics, even if its not included in the games themselves.

Beijing - Ulaan Baatar: Id noticed the generally grubby condition of the Air China fleet when Id first arrived into Beijing, and recall being thankful that I wasnt going to be leaving terra firma with them anytime soon. Now here I was one week later, about to board their flight to Mongolia. In the departure lounge I meet an Irish woman named Chris, who tells me that its common for flights on this route to be delayed, even cancelled. Chris also tells me that the last time she flew back to Mongolia, it was on a flight that had been delayed for two days. I didnt want to hear that; if I didnt make that connecting train onwards to Irkutsk then I was well and truly screwed.
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As if on cue, the announcement we dont want to hear comes over the P.A. Flight CA 901 to Ulaan Baatar is now delayed due to unfavourable atmospheric conditions over Mongolia. See? was all Chris could say. Forty tense minutes later another announcement is made - this time its good news. The atmospheric conditions over Mongolia have come to the party and were ready for boarding. There were only forty or so passengers on the twohour flight, and I had the fortunate pleasure of being seated next to an attractive Mongolian girl named Zaya. Zaya spoke reasonable English, and we had no problems getting acquainted. Twenty-five and single, Zaya was a medical student in her final year at university. Shed just spent a few days in Beijing and couldnt wait to be home again and away from the pushy and rude Chinese. Zaya tells me that Mongolia and Mongolians are nothing like their southern neighbours, and that the purpose of the Great Wall is to keep the annoying Chinese away from them! Having introduced Zaya to George Thorogoods Haircut album on my discman, I sat with my face glued to the window, staring down over the endless snow-white
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expanses and mountains of Mongolia far below. The first sign of civilisation came in the form of a big ugly power station which from above, appeared to be isolated for a hundred miles around. I had a picture of Ulaan Baatar in my head, and it looked different every time I imagined it. When the city came into view for real I looked down over an elongated urban spread completely blanketed in a winter freeze, and surrounded by four smallish mountains known as the Four Holy Peaks. In a single moment the smallish, isolated city below dismissed a hundred misconceptions and at the same time concurred a handful of twilight-zone familiarities. When I spotted the lone runway of Buyant-Ukhaa I nearly shat my pants. The runway was completely covered in snow and ice. The fact that it was also a Mongolian runway didnt do much for my nerves either. But the pilots had obviously done their fair bit of runway skating before; it was a textbook landing (my valuable non-pilot opinion) and we didnt plough sideways off the tarmac into any snow mounds. Dont judge Air China by their dirty fuselages.

*
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Mystical Mongolia

Name: Mongolia Capital: Ulaan Baatar, 781,000 Population: 2,447,000not many for such a big country Government: ??? Currency: Togroog Good Stuff: The land thats still forgotten, nomadic herders, and the great Chinggis Khan, ruler of the largest empire in the history of the world. Jugderdemidiin Gurragcha, first Mongolian cosmonaut (no kidding!) and large quantities of locally-produced vodka! Not So Good Stuff: Ill be a fence-sitter on this one Ulaan Baatar: -13 degrees C (slightly chilly) Immigration was simpler than a drummers IQ test result and within seconds I was approached by a taxi driver offering me a ride into town. I gave him an instant abrupt NO having just lived through the Chinese outlook on business ventures. The cabbie slinked away from me, and seemed genuinely hurt that I wouldnt accept his offer. Surely the mighty Mongol race wasnt turning soft on us.
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Priorities first, I needed a moneychanger. As I looked around for any sign posted directions, the cabbie approached me again, taking caution not to come across as a pest. He knew I needed money change and a ride, and when he offered a reasonable fare of US$10 into town I agreed to us being instant friends. The cabbie introduced himself as Puugee. Full-on Mongolian and proud of it! he says with a grin, leaving me to wonder where he picked up that kind of lingo. The money change office turned out to be well hidden, and I could tell Puugee enjoying playing the role of blind mans cane. Money change complete, Puugee shoulders my pack and leads the way outside and into a clear and freezing morning and his waiting taxi. The road into town from the airport is lined with factories, simple wood houses, gers, and large billboards advertising 21st century corporations and solutions. Some Mongolians trotted by on horseback while others preferred to ride on buses that had seen better days. Puugee was very proud of his English skills his wife had taught him, bringing my attention to some of the lesser-known local attractions. Power station number 2 he points out.
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Thats really interesting, Puugee. A bit further up the road: I dont know the number of this power station he apologises. Thats okay Puugee, just make sure you know it for next time I joked dryly. Puugee laughed loudly, like I had the wit of Billy Connolly. The most bizarre sight that Puugee somehow managed to overlook was the dirty little Russian-made car in front of us sporting a full sheep carcass half-shoved into the open trunk, spare tyre on the roof. Meat delivery, Mongolian style. On the bright side there was no fear of the mutton going off in these temperatures. We stopped off at a Western Union office where we ended up fenced in to the car park by a truck that couldnt quite negotiate the double-gate entrance and couldnt quite reverse out again. Puugee didnt seem too concerned, saying that help would be along soon enough to sort the truck out. I was busting for a leak so Puugee walked me out to the roadside fence where I let gravity do its job in full view of passers by. No one so much as batted an eyelid. I loved this town already.
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A mobile crane soon rolled up and dragged the trucks trailer sideways, freeing both itself and us from our car park prison. Next stop was UB train station to store my pack; due to train fuck-ups I wouldnt be needing any accommodation tonight. Our taxi screeched into Sukhbaatar Square. Puugee, without a care in the world, drove headlong at brown undies speed into a crowded protest rally that had gathered on one corner of the square. Several of the gathered protestors, some of them wielding banners, were almost cleaned up by Puugees driving talents, Mongolian style. Yet for some strange reason the protesters paid our taxi little attention. Skidding to a stop on the open main square (odd, it doesnt look like cars are supposed to be driving on it), Puugee insists that were now good friends, and that he can help me out with anything or anyone in his town. After thanking me again and again for choosing Puugees Premier cab service, the taxi screeched off across the snow-coated square, Mongolian style.

Sukhbaatar Square is the geographic heart of Ulaan Baatar. Named in honour of Damdin Sukhbaatar, hero of the 1921 Mongolian revolution and first leader of the Mongolian Peoples Republic, a large statue of the Axe
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Hero astride his mount sits in the middle of the square. Facing the square in front of Government House is Sukhbaatars mausoleum, impressive in its modest lack of excess grandeur, unlike that of Maos House of Bones. With no particular place to go, I headed off across the square and found a bakery, where I warmed up with a coffee and worked out a rough plan of what to do with the short time I had here. A young boy and girl followed me around the streets for a while, trailing a constant two feet behind me. Using an atrocious version of the few simple Mongolian phrases Zaya had taught me on the plane, I asked the boy his name. I must have got the strange pronunciation right as the boy introduced himself as Choogoo. His sisters name was unpronounceable for my lips. Choogoo started up with a barrage of questions. I shrugged my shoulders at all of them. The youngster laughed then reached up and patted me on the back, as if to say its ok, I understand, youre a dumb foreigner. Smart little bugger. Assuming they were after a bit of pocket-Togroog I offered Choogoo and his sister some Chinese candy instead. They both refused - until I ate one. By the time Id eaten a couple they were both well and truly into their third handfuls. Choogoos sister liked the look of my camera and figuring neither would be a hard thief to
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catch, I showed them both how to use it. A powered zoom lens can be a mystifying experience to a Mongolian child! Choogoo waited right until a passer-by walked in front of us to take a happy snap. His skill as a photographer sent his sister into a tizz and she stormed over to show him how to work the alien contraption. The pint-sized siblings followed me around for another half an hour before finally boring of candy and cameras. Shaking my hand and waving bayartai from across the street, Choogoo and his sister never once did what I had readily expected them to do - ask for Togroog. Not being very big makes Ulaan Baatar difficult to get lost in. Towering high rises and cramped city streets are a world away from this town. Communist-era apartment blocks are a dominant feature, as is the incessant horn honking of impatient drivers stuck in the chaotic traffic. My favourite feature of Ulaan Baatar were the faces of a surprising number of stunning women, and for every hottie I saw there was nearly always an even better looking one right behind her. Sure beats looking at statues.

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Zaya had arranged to meet me at 4pm to show me some of the sights of her hometown. Calling her at quarter past, she was relieved to hear from me, worried that something bad must have happened. And from now on it was a good idea to stick with her, she told me sternly. So now I had my very own Mongolian dermatologist/bodyguard to keep me safe from them bad Del boys. The State Department Store, a.k.a. the Big Shop to locals is a five-storey department store (use the stairs; the elevators are Soviet-era slow) selling everything from fashion to souvenirs to the latest in home entertainment technology. Its a far cry from the good old days, when the Big Shop was known as the place, or more accurately, the only place to shop. As we go to leave the Big Shop some policemen appeared off the street, grunting orders for a group of loitering youths to clear off. The cops do a bit of pushing and shoving and the youths quickly disperse, appearing to be genuinely scared of the uniforms, and the take-no-shit men wearing them. In the next instant one of the policemen gives us a friendly wave hello. Effective policing, Mongolian style. Gandantegchinlen Khiid is the largest and most important Buddhist monastery in all Mongolia. Meaning
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the great place of complete joy, Gandan Khiid somehow managed to survive the evil communist purges of the 1930s. One huge gold and bronze statue from the monastery was even sent to Leningrad and melted down to make bullets. Those damn Reds. A large number of the population are practicing Buddhists, and today there are over one hundred and fifty monks in residence at Gandan Khiid, some of them as young as eight years old. As we wander around the monastery Zaya says we are obliged to spin every prayer wheel, each the size of a small drum. Its an excruciatingly painful experience in the -20C temperature, and thats purely because Zaya is adamant that we can only spin prayer wheels with a bare hand. Each spin of a drum is accompanied by my own desperate prayer to Buddha to be sympathetic towards my snap-frozen hand, and to prevent it from falling off my body in the cold. Zaya, on the other frozen hand, is showing no sympathy at all. You should feel it at minus forty! she states, like Im being a wuss, Now thats COLD! My prayers are soon answered; weve rotated every single prayer wheel on the monastery grounds and my hand slowly revives a pulse that a deep coma patient would be proud to call his own.
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Inside the monastery young monks were busy going about their daily duties. Its possible to take photos of the monks, so long as you ask their permission first. I asked Zaya to ask one of the child monks for permission to take his snap. No! I am too busy! said the robed youngster, scooting off to attend his duties. Theres no arguing with an eight year old on the road to enlightenment. With the golden rays of the late afternoon sun reflecting off building faces all across town, the plummeting temperature was no match for the spectacular winter views from Gandan Khiid.

Catching a pickpocket red-handed in an outdoor market place behind the Big Shop was the afternoons adrenaline fix. Pickpockets are a bit like the plague in Ulaan Baatar, and I was keeping a close eye on the few personals I had on me. Feeling a featherweight tug on the zip of my daypack, I flung around to confront the wouldbe thief. The pickpockets hand dropped like lightning to his side, and in the blink of an eye the amateur thief disappeared into the sea of Mongolian faces. Zaya was
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oblivious to the whole thing. Ill give the pickpocket full points for trying though. That pickpocket has no idea how close he came to completely destroying my entire trip - in the back zip pocket hed stealthily managed to half open was my Russian Federation visa, a separate document to my passport. Them bad Del boys.

The Ikh Khuuraldai is an oversized ger-cum-restaurant, and it must have slipped Zayas mind to tell me that it also happened to be one of the pricier dinner-date destinations in all of Mongolia! Over whopping T-bones covered in warm garlic butter Zaya talked about her family. Her father is a surgeon, her mother is a dentist, and her brother is a lawyer. Even with all those respectable qualifications, Zayas family is still very much average middle class, Mongolian style. Following in her fathers footsteps of blood-and-guts open surgery is a all a bit too much for Zaya, who much prefers the less-gory idea of becoming a general practitioner.

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When she finishes medical school Zayas average monthly wage will be around $100US. Zayas qualifications could possibly earn her a comfortable living elsewhere, but she says that its very important to stay in Mongolia and contribute to the development and health of her own people. If the likes of Zaya and her family leave Mongolia to work abroad, the chances of finding others to replace them are slimmer than a stick figure on a Jenny Craig program. With a few hours to kill before boarding the train we head to a local pool hall, where I proceed to cop an ass kicking every game by a young local. Mongolian pool rules are so unique that I have absolutely no idea whether its fair play or a case of being had. Zaya coaching my every shot from the comfortable distance of a lounge setting didnt do me any favours either. Offering to give her a game Zaya declined, saying she didnt know how to play. Sideline coaching, Mongolian style. * *

We arrived at Ulaan Baatar train station to find the long Irkutsk-bound train sitting at the platform, the locomotive spewing out a plume of thick black smoke that choked the winter air and my lungs. There didnt seem to be much movement happening except for some station attendants going about their duties. Zaya said it looked as if the train
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was about to leave, and that Id better go and take a look.

She was right. Saying goodbye to Zaya in the taxi was the quickest goodbye of all time; I was out the taxi door and bolting to the baggage store with no time to look back. Throwing me my pack, the Mongolian in the baggage store urges me to hurry; the train is about to leave! Sprinting and sliding down the icy platform looking for my carriage in the minus twenty-something temperature is hell; my throat and eyes burn in the thick black smoke that engulfs the entire station. My first taste of Russian hospitality comes in the form of a provodnik (carriage attendant), a solidly-built woman yelling at me, presumably to hurry the hell up! Unlatching the carriage stairwell, the big angry provodnik reaches down over my head, and grabbing hold of my pack single-handedly hauls me up in to the carriage. Taking my bilet (ticket) clutched in my hand, Im left lying facedown on the deck, coughing and spluttering from the mad dash down the platform. No sooner has the provodnik hauled me to my feet the train begins to move away from the platform. That was a close call. Another provodnik appeares, this one even bigger and even scarier than her co-worker.
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FIVE! she grunts, pointing down the carriage passageway. Still gasping for air I drag myself and my pack down the passageway and into kupe (soft-sleeper compartment) number 5, where I come face to face with three Mongolian traders cramped in amongst bulky bales of merchandise. There was hardly enough room in the kupe for air, let alone my me and my pack. Great The bigger provodnik muscles her way down the carriage to the kupe Im struggling to enter. TWO! she barks. She was scary and I was scared. But it was my lucky day; kupe 2 only had one occupant, a foreigner, and there was enough room to swing a stray Mongolian cat. I was still panting hard, and laughing at my dishevelled sight my new kupe mate slapped me on the back as I tried to catch my breath. Once the train is well underway and once my respiratory system has returned to some degree of normality, the foreigner and myself make acquaintance. Philippe Rousseau is a Parisian just out on the road seeing more of the world. His English is basic, but its still a damn sight easier to communicate with another westerner than with them Del boys.
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A quick paper check reveals a ticketed departure time of 9:30pm - forty-five minutes later than the trains actual departure time. It was a pure good fortune wed arrived at the station when we did. Five minutes later and Id have been left wallowing in the misery of defeat.

With a long way to go on the two-day journey to Irkutsk and an even longer way to go crossing Russia, it was the perfect time to work on expanding my kindergarten-level Rooskie speak. With the help of a phrasebook I managed a rough note in Cyrillic asking the provodniks to teach me a few useful phrases. I also got up the nerve to sign it off with love from Sam. Approaching the provodniks kupe, both women cast me stern looks. Handing them the sheet of paper melts their looks of Soviet-era oppression into laughter, and they invite me in. The provodnik whod single-handedly dragged me onto the train introduces herself as Marsha. Her bigger stable mate is Elina. Both are Irkutsk natives. Neither woman speaks any English so it takes a while to get a grasp on the phrases they are trying to teach me, with the exception of one constantly repeated statement - ya nee
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paneemayoo - I dont understand. Marsha leaves the provodniks kupe and Elina motions for me to sit next to her, a scary proposition thats not for the faint-hearted. The bench seat fits two people comfortably but next to Elina Im left with half a space, her thick arm resting on my shoulder. Its a frightening lesson in Rooskie-speak 101. Every time I pronounce a sentence incorrectly Elina slaps me across the side of the head, and barks at me to repeat it again. Some people pay big bucks for this kind of treatment. Elina is like a cross between an angry Russian bear and Mrs. Claus, and she sure likes to laugh a lot. At least she has all her teeth, even if a few of them are gold. After a couple of hours of intense Russian lessons and even more intense backhands to my skull I look up the Russian word for headache, pronounce it slowly and carefully to Elina, then head for my kupe. On my way down the passage three ethnic Russians beckon me into their kupe, and a vodka-filled shot glass that resembles a miniature Holy Grail is shoved in my face. Id just stumbled across the geographically-invisible Vodka Trail. I protest but the Russians persist, the clear vodka burning my throat and lungs on its way down. Two more forced shots later Im feeling rather warm and relaxed. Chinggis Khaan brand vodka, they insist, is the
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best! Finding out I was Afstrahliyi made the vodka fiends excitable. Kostya Tszyu! Kostya Tszyu! one of them shouts, shadow boxing thin air with closed fists. He then reaches for the now half-empty bottle of Chinggis Khaan, my cue to POQ before Im force-fed any more anti-freeze for humans. Drifting off to sleep in my top bunk I gaze out the window as the vast open expanses roll by. Its now well after midnight and a luminous full moon sits just above the low mountain peaks, casting a magical, almost daylike glow over the remote snow covered plains. Theres no other place in the whole world Id rather be. Every now and then the headlights of a vehicle moving fast across the snowy landscape breaks the solitude. I wonder what people could possibly be doing out here in the middle of nowhere in the darkness, with no other signs of civilisation.

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Sukhbaatar, Northern (barbecue weather)

Mongolia:

-17

degrees

What a comfortable nights sleep! The train is now halted at Sukhbaatar, the northern Mongolian border town. Marsha had told us last night that the border crossing would take place around 8am. The provodnik also tells us to use Sukhbaatar stations amenities if needed, as the carriage dunnies are locked every time the train halts. Theres not much we can do but sit in our kupe and play the waiting game. The carriage soon transforms itself into a hive of activity: border guards clutter the passageway, whispered voices drift out of other kupes, oversized bags of contraband are endlessly rustled and rummaged through and Marsha and Elina push their way up and down the carriage barking authority at other passengers. A Mongolian woman named Mookhoo joins us in our kupe. Shes only with us for five minutes before two Mongolian border guards appear at our door. Apparently theres a problem with the womans documents. Mookhoo disappears with the guards, leaving her bags of clothing behind. Philippe shrugs. Not our problem.

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9am: Our carriage is sitting by itself at the platform. The loco and the rest of the train has disappeared. I ask Elina if she will open the carriage end door so I can get some fresh air. The scary provodnik obliges with a friendly gold-toothed grin. Its bitterly cold, even with the sun shining brightly in the clear blue sky. 10am: Still no sign of Mookhoo. The waiting game drags on. 11:30am: Mookhoo returns to our kupe sporting a huge grin. I wonder how much Togroog it cost for her little altercation to be overlooked by the border guards. 12:20pm: We have been sitting at Sukhbaatar platform for over four hours now. We start moving again, now its just the locomotive and our carriage. Where is the rest of the train? We roll to a halt a few hundred metres further down the track. Marsha unlocks the carriage toilets and as our self-appointed babysitter, gives Philippe and myself first option of using them. 12:50pm: Russia! The only indication that weve rolled across the border is the sight of half a dozen uniformed Russian border guards emerging from a solitary hut then trudging single file towards the train through ankle-deep snow. Our passports are taken from us and we are ordered out of our kupe while a blonde
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Russian version of G.I. Jane gives us an athletic demonstration in thorough compartment searches. 2pm: Immigration officials are tearing every kupe to pieces. All the Mongolian traders/smugglers are being thoroughly searched. Mookhoo is taken away yet again. The whole carriage is in chaos, the passageway cramped with border guards and passengers. Philippe and myself have now been ordered in and out of our kupe three times, even though the border guards dont seem at all interested in us. We are ordered to fill out customs declarations. Philippe is handed his back and mine is torn up right before my eyes. Showing Marsha the shredded form she storms off down the carriage calling for the guards. Shes a take no shit woman, our Marsha! Returning a few minutes later she says that I have no need for paperwork as Im only carrying a small amount of roubles. 3pm: Mookhoo returns with an even bigger smile on her dial. By now its plain obvious that theres a fair bit of dodgy dealing going on - have greenbacks, will travel. The other Mongolian traders, the majority of them women, are outwardly angry with Mookhoo for something. She seems embarrassed in front of two foreigners. A young Russian girl comes to our kupe informing us we require some manner of dodgy travel
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insurance while in Russia. We tell her that we dont, and goodbye. 3:30pm: We are now halted at the Russian border town of Naushki. An old babushka comes to our kupe selling something that all too closely resembles regurgitated meat in a glass jar. Maybe next time, the Frenchman politely tells the babushka. Philippe decides we should see about finding some pivo (beer) from somewhere nearby the station. Elina and Marsha give us the okay, and warn us to be back on the train before were due to depart in around forty minutes time. We set off through the snow into the wide, open streets of the little Russian border town. Naushki looks like the fairytale village with its charming wooden houses, although its obvious that the people who live here are doing it tough. A stunningly gorgeous woman dressed in fur passes us by. Her deep blue eyes are mesmerizing, and shes got snow-walking in stilettos down to a fine art. Now thats classy. We ask her where we can buy pivo and she points down the road to a small shop window. The babushka in the window is fresh out of Baltika #3, the highly recommended local brew, so we settle for three bottles apiece of Siberskaya Korona, a real bargain at 17 roubles for a half litre bottle.

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The bottles of pivo arent very cold so we improvise a makeshift fridge using my nylon dirty laundry bag and filling it with snow shovelled by hand from off the platform. Once were back on the train and underway Marsha comes to our kupe and helps us out with the US Dollar/Russian Rouble exchange rates. This woman sure has her finger on the pulse, giving us rough price estimates on everything from basic food items to taxi fares to Matryoshka dolls to the all-important vodka! * *

In The Land Of Vodka and Ice Cream

The (former) Soviet Union is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Winston Churchill Name: Russian Federation Capital: Moscow , 8.3 million Population: 144 million Government: Federation Currency: Russian Rouble Good Stuff: Largest country in the world, crossing eleven time zones! Yuri Gagarin the first man in space in 1961.
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Valentina Tereshkova, first woman in space 1963. Laika, the first dog in space! Cheap beer, cheaper vodka. Also home to the most gorgeous women on the planet, the Glasnost Gals! Not So Good Stuff: Cold War bad guys, nuclear accidents and cover-ups, Josef Stalin (ultimate nasty bastard), the KGB, Siberian Gulags, Chechen rebels, pushy hookers, and home of the filthiest, smelliest toilets on the planet! No longer a world superpower, the country is in a state of uncertain free market reform with more than 40 million people living below the poverty line. The late afternoon Siberian scenery is barren and spectacular at the same time. We pass by a railroad gang sitting huddled around a stove fire in the middle of nowhere by the tracks. There are no vehicles, no huts, not even a tent in sight to shelter the gang from the cold. Every now and then we pass by power lines lying in a state of total disrepair, cables hanging lifelessly off wooden poles that have been crippled under the harsh conditions. Mookhoo is no longer with us. Philippe last saw her on the platform at Naushki, after shed vacated the kupe. The little Mongolian woman had disappeared for a third and final time and we can only assume the outcome of her little smuggling operation.
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Over a few Siberskaya Koronas Philippe talked of his seemingly endless life on the road. The man sure had seen a lot in his forty-nine years. Never married and with no children that he was aware of, the world was his playground. Hed owned a own yacht, and had travelled to exotic destinations all over the globe. Unfortunately some clown ran his yacht aground in Madagascar two years back. Luckily for him the yacht was insured. The wandering Frog produces a bottle of vodka from his pack and makes an executive decision that both of us should get drunk - the fast way. The thought of downing more human anti-freeze makes me cringe, but after three grimacing shots of the stuff I no longer care. 11:30pm: We arrive at Ulan Ude. Elina comes to our kupe and lets us know we can get off the train. Pointing out the kupe window to a station shop, she announces pivo with a golden smile before disappearing to do her job down on the platform. Ulan Ude: Lying to the east of Lake Baikal, Ulan Ude is the capital of Buryatia, home of the Buryat people. This Mongol race is the largest of Russias ethnic groups numbering over 400,000, giving the city an un-Russian feel. The city was closed to outsiders until 1987 because of Soviet installations on the Russian-Mongolian border. The Buryatia Oblast (region) is the centre of Buddhism in
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Russia. Ulan Ude is a big station, and a huge neon station sign casts a luminous orange glow over the snow-covered platform. I watch Elina go to work dealing with boarding passengers down on the platform. The place is abuzz and the station is a hive of organised chaos. Looking back up over her shoulder Elina motions for me to alight from the carriage, and barks at the group of passengers waiting to board to clear my way. Elina the Super Provodnik! There are plenty of under the table dealings going on. I watch with interest as three men demonstrating a bit of Rooskie know-how negotiate arrangements with Elina. Their passports are thick with wads of folded roubles. Competition is fierce for a berth on this train and money talks. So long as Elina kept the rabble out of our kupe then all would be well. Coming out of the station kiosk with a fresh stock of local food and as much Baltika #3 as I can carry, a Russian Army officer wearing more medals than an entire Anzac day parade stops me dead in my tracks and begins yelling at me at 100 miles an hour. I dont have a bloody clue what the man is on about. Answering him with Ummm, passport? and a shrug of the shoulders, the officer nods and mutters ok before disappearing back into the crowds scattered up and down the platform.
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Meanwhile, Philippe had disappeared. Even Marsha showed concern for his whereabouts as the train was close to departure time. Just when I was beginning to think hed done a Frog version of going walkabout, Philippe appeared from around a corner, struggling to carry a huge amount of pivo hed just purchased from somewhere. Marsha shot him a stern look which he answered right back with a sheepish grin before we boarded the train to restock our makeshift bar fridge with fresh platform snow and the Russian liquid amber. Just before departing Ulan Ude a scrawny Russian version of Pee Wee Herman joins us in our kupe. Elina is right behind him, shaking her head. Sergei. the man introduces himself with a handshake, taking a seat next to me on the bottom bunk. It doesnt take long for us to realise Sergei is five pivos short of a Soviet six-pack. The look on Elinas face had said it all. Wed just managed to score ourselves possibly the biggest loony on the whole train, maybe even in all of Siberia, and there was nowhere to run. Once weve departed Ulan Ude Sergei makes it clear to both the Frenchman and myself that hell be sleeping on the top bunk. My bunk.
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With my mattress and sleeping gear already rolled out on it, and pre-slept in. The nutcase isnt taking no for an answer. Three times Sergei attempts to drag my bedroll down off my bunk. Three times I yell NYET! pushing Sergei out of the way and pushing my bedroll back up on to my bunk. Philippe sits on his bottom bunk shaking his head in disgust, and the Russian basket case and myself play out a pathetic game of top bunk tug-o-war. Realising hes getting nowhere fast and making enemies even faster, Sergei finally gives up, and settles on the opposite top bunk for the night. He then starts up again, making out that this had been his intention all along. We ignored him. Just when we thought things had settled down an angry soldier appears at our door. The soldier eyes our table, which is crowded with food and drink. Then he starts yelling at us. Sergei starts yelling right back at the soldier. This is pure madness. We already have one escaped mental patient to deal with and now a second one lobs up. Philippe and myself werent copping any shit from either man, especially after having been in this kupe for over twenty-four hours already. That meant ownership as far as we were concerned.
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The soldier slams his fist into the kupe door then loudly storms off down the passageway. Sergei tells us hungry soldier - no food. I felt instantly sorry for the soldier, and grabbing some muesli bars from off the table I set off down the passageway after him. But hed already disappeared into another carriage, presumably to harass other passengers. Returning to the kupe, Sergei suddenly decides the ownership rights to my bunk are still up for grabs and pulls my bedroll down from my bunk for a fourth time. In my best non-Russian accent I yell at the crazy Russian to FUCK OFF AND BURN. Enough is enough. Finding Elina in the provodniks kupe I tell her in no uncertain words our new mate Sergei is a psycho. Da. she replies, flashing those lovely gold teeth of hers, Sergeis cuckoo! In the short time I was gone Sergei must have popped a happy pill or ten. I returned to our kupe to find the idiot tucking Philippes bunk sheet into the napping Frenchmans torso. That was funny but funnier still was Philippe snapping awake with a startle to find our resident nutcase patting his leg and half his sheet jammed beneath him.
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It was probably best for Sergei that he understood very little English, otherwise he would have gotten wind of our idea to lock the kupe door and give him a senseless good walloping. The only thing that stopped us was the fact that itd be waaaay too obvious that it was us whod provided him with a complimentary touch up. Philippe was quite sure wed have no trouble finding someone on this train whod gladly bump psycho Sergei off for a few roubles. But until then we had to settle for hoping Sergei tried nicking something. It would be all the excuse we needed to put his head through the kupe wall and into the next compartment. After an hour of on-and-off ranting and lunacy, Sergei climbs up into the only top bunk he was only ever going to be sleeping in and promptly falls asleep. The opportunity of taking a photo of the sleeping Russian for unhappy memories is too good to resist. The flash went off only inches from Sergeis face, waking him with a bright fright.

During the night the train chugged its way around the southern shoreline of Lake Baikal. At over 1.6km deep near its western shore, the banana-shaped Pearl of
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Siberia is the worlds deepest freshwater lake, holding more fresh water than all five of Americas Great Lakes combined. Its rumoured that anyone willing to brave the icy waters of the lake for a quick dip is bound to return to its shores again one day. Baikal is gradually deepening as two tectonic plates separate, and will eventually form the worlds fifth ocean, splitting the Asian continent in two. Marsha wakes us at 7am. Theres still an hour to go before arriving into Irkutsk so I drift off back to sleep. Nearing Irkutsk Marsha wakes us again. I felt like a bag of shit. No shower didnt help much either. Sometime overnight wed gained a fourth kupe comrade, one of the Naushki border guards whod searched the carriage yesterday. Both Philippe and myself were leaving the train in Irkutsk. The Frenchman was heading for Lystvyanka on the shores of Baikal to party on and get amongst those hot Russian women, while I was going to be staying on in town for a few days to partake in much the same thing. Just before our arrival into Irkutsk Comrade Nutcase hauls his ass down from his rack and quickly dresses in a dinner suit (dinner suit??!!). Dasvidanya Sergei says with a cheery wave, like wed never had issues.
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Dasvidanya, psycho, see you never hopefully. Having farewelled Philippe and the Russian provodniks/language tutors/all round tough girls Marsha and Elina, I was met off the train by Alex and Stas, representatives from a local tour operator that held my onwards train ticket. Irkutsk: Situated on the banks of the Angara River and once a place of exile for Decembrists and Polish rebels, Irkutsk is a town with a solid cultural and aristocratic heritage. Gold was discovered in the region in the late 1800s and Irkutsk became known as the Paris of Siberia. With wealthy merchants and a thriving social scene, the town did not welcome the news of the Great October Socialist Revolution led by Lenin, finally succumbing to the Reds in 1920. Irkutsk, -15 degrees C (ice cream anyone, it wont melt!) Hotel Angara was a Godsend. Having registered my passport with hotel reception and OVIR - the local visa and registration office that likes to keep close tabs on the whereabouts of all visiting foreigners - Russians included - it was time for a steaming hot shower followed by a steaming hot coffee down in the hotel lobby. Thirty-four hours of riding the rails had left me feeling completely
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refreshed and totally buggered at the same time. Go figure. Irkutsk was my first for-real chance to get amongst the Siberian folk, and to walk those streets that since my grandparents youth had only been seen close up by spy satellites that no nation would admit to owning. But I was in no great rush to leave the hotel. The women here were total stunners. With a bit of luck, those phrasebook pickup lines were going to go down smoother than best brand vodka!

Irkutsk can be a dangerous place to the unwary. Forget the Russian Mafia and/or deranged locals - they come a distant second place to the crazy traffic conditions. Just because theres a pedestrian crossing doesnt mean vehicles are going to give way to you. Trying to cross slush-filled streets on foot between gaps of oncoming traffic is like playing Russian roulette, only more suicidal. The solution: stick near someone headed in your general direction and cross streets with them, taking care to put Comrade Pedestrian between yourself and the oncoming traffic. Theres no guarantee you wont be cleaned up by a recklessly speeding Lada held together by rusty welds,
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but at least it will lessen the impact somewhat. An extremely brisk walk through Irkutsks charming wooden house neighbourhood reveals the locals to be out trudging the snow-lined streets in large numbers. Everyone seemed to be heading towards and coming from somewhere central so I followed the busy fur-coated crowds along ulitsa Chekhova. People poured non-stop in to and out of buildings through huge and heavy two-way swinging doors that would bring grief to any poor soul who miscalculated the entry-exit timing sequence. Shopping, Russian style. A young temperature-braving violinists melancholy tunes echoed along the pedestrian walk. Busking in this cold must be a real bitch. Steam poured off both the instrument and its owner. At the end of ulitsa Chekhova was the two-building Irkutsk market place, a grey-coloured no-frills set up that reminded me of a boring two-piece Lego set. One building was a department store, a Russian take on western department stores minus the exorbitant price tags. Its sister building was the central market, an eye-opening food store selling anything and everything your taste buds could ever or never want. The place was packed and the accumulative noise of the market was a dull roar. In one section of the rynok (marketplace) was the butchers market. There was enough meat on sale here to make even the hardiest carnivore wince. The meat cuts
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were laid out on open counters, sitting in pools of their own fresh blood. Refrigeration was room temperature, which, believe me, was cold enough. The butchers market left me craving a monstrous T-bone, yet I was grateful that Id never have to eat some of the various delicacies on offer. Sauted entrails from a wide variety of animals, and some kind of white tripe which looked as if it had just been kicked around a footy field for eighty minutes before being put out for sale almost certainly proves the Siberians are tough lot, with even tougher stomachs. Outside the rynok was an open-air market selling everything from shaving gear (almost every stall is a Gillette outlet) to those big fur hats the Russians are so fond of to incredibly cheap CDs. I came away from the outdoor market with a double CD of Russian heavy metal band Aria for the bargain basement price of 120 roubles after haggling down the price with the young Rooskie running the stall. Some new tunes to listen to on the road, too bad Ive got no idea what theyre singing about.

I spent the afternoon holed up in a caf, where the beers and the tunes were good, and the women were even
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better. One stunning blonde girl in particular relaxing with her girlfriends caught my eye. It was then that I realised I was in a cant-win situation - my Russian was atrocious and I was yet to master enough simple phrases to possibly keep the blonde interested. There was only one thing to do. Kick back, relax, window-shop on the Glasnost Gals, and enjoy the atmosphere of the place.

On my way back to the Angara I cross paths with a young bloke by the name of Antony, whod been walking the icy streets headbanging along to his discman. Antonys keen to know the latest on all the big-name bands in the outside world. It seems Siberia is a bit lacking in the hard rock cultural department, and Im more than happy to fill him in on the latest. We stop at a street vendor where Antony buys two bottles of pivo. We sit and drink the pivos on top of a mound of snow that has been cleared from the pavement. Its good to have a straightforward conversation without needing a phrasebook or pen and paper. Antony has one of those Really??!! Is that what you do for a living??!! kind of jobs. Hes a circus clown, and his troupe has just arrived into Irkutsk for a few dates.
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Sitting on a mound of roadside snow drinking pivo with a headbanging heavy metal Siberian circus clown is good, cold fun. Finishing off the last of our Baltikas it suddenly dawns on me that I have no idea where I am. Antony soon has me back on track, the off-duty red-nose leaving me in the Town Square just across from the hotel. ROCK N ROLL! the Siberian circus clown yells goodbye from across the square.

This evenings choice of entertainment venue turns out to be the hotel lobby of all places. The women here are just as gorgeous as anywhere else in Irkutsk, and then theres the added bonus of a short elevator ride up to bed. Mirislova, one of the hotel staff Id noticed when checking in keeps me company for the evening, coming around from behind the bar shes supposed to be working and helping herself to a seat. Were sitting so close that things could turn really ugly really quickly if some deranged Siberian calling himself droog (boyfriend) suddenly turned up. Twenty-seven, single, and a blonde
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bombshell into the bargain, Mirislova is a certifiable piece of eye candy. She too has striking blue eyes, and its hard to tear my own away from them. Even better, yours truly is the only guest for her to attend to besides the occasional late arrival wanting a pot of coffee or the mandatory vodka shot. Mirislova speaks a grand total of zero English, but a bit of pen and paper magic turns gibberish into an indepth conversation on anything and everything from family to travel to Sergei the mental hospital escapee. While my Baltika intake is increasing so is my Rooskiespeak. Having a blonde Russian babe for a tutor makes learning Russian an absolute pleasure, and its a huge bonus that she doesnt slap me around anywhere near half as much as Marsha and Elina had. Mirislova is keen to pick up on some simple Australian phrases. The girl is a natural - get stuffed bugger off and wanna beer, mate? are pronounced with flawless mimicry. If only she understood what it all meant. So does Mirislova have a boyfriend? Da she says, Alex. Mental picture of a big and deranged gun-toting Mafia mobster named Alex.
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Alex works in hotel. Mental picture of a big and deranged hotel security officer, with a brother in the mob. But shes quick to make a point: Mirislova is BAD GIRL! Ahhh, the hint of corruption in those beautiful blue eyes of hers. Around midnight Mirislova informs me that its way past my bedtime, and that Ive got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow. Yes, mum, whatever. The petite blonde is working the lobby bar through the night, and promises me a personal wake-up call when shes finished her shift. Walking me to the elevator Mirislova gives me a goodnight kiss on the cheek. When in Irkutsk I can highly recommend Hotel Angara for awesome customer service and unequalled attention to detail!

Irkutsk: -12 degrees C (surfs up!) Mirislova gives me the best wake up call of all time, something Id have no trouble getting used to at all! It was just after eight and there was plenty to do before the train onwards to Ekaterinburg later this afternoon.
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First stop was the Irkutsk marketplace to stock up on a few food items. Theres so much tasty-looking and smelling food on offer in the rynok that its almost impossible to decide on what to purchase. Jam filled sugar buns, biscuits, a loaf of khlyeb (bread), masla (butter), and a small jar of coffee leaves minimal wallet damage of around $4. Great value, even though some of the locals arent too excited by the fact that the further away from Moscow one lives, the more expensive everyday items become. It looked as though things were only get cheaper than they already were from here on in! Kegs of hand pumped pivo can be found in nearly every little food stall in the rynok. And theres no shortage of Russians, women included, drowning cups of the amber fluid, then going back for seconds and even thirds. It was a bit too early in the day for me to contemplate a liquid little lunch. Pivo is an integral part of daily Russian life, and it can be bought in just about every street kiosk on just about every street corner, in food stalls, in cafs and in marketplaces - virtually everywhere. It wouldnt come as any great surprise to find out pivo was a school canteen favourite across all eleven time zones of the Russian Federation. Around Irkutsk Russians can be seen drinking beer just about everywhere: at bus stops, on buses, at the train station, on snow-covered park benches, in the snow (or
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atop of it, just like myself and Antony had done), or even just walking down the street shooting the breeze with comrades. Australians are a prided beer-drinking nation but we have nothing on the Russians, who make us look like a bunch of tea-totalling sissies with the fearsome amounts and varieties of alcoholic amber they consume. Add into the equation the huge quantities of vodka these people like to pound themselves with and you begin to get some idea of just how much piss is required to keep the Siberians warm and happy in the harsh winter conditions. Amidst the din of the bustling marketplace I stood at a table sipping on a recycled bottle of coke. The Russians around me stood at tables drowning pivo. A middle-aged man sporting a mouthful of gold teeth approached me and attempted to strike up a conversation. Just as I was giving Goldtooth my by-now standard ya nee panimayoo reply, another man passing by our table stopped dead in his tracks and asked if I spoke English. Yes, and it was a great help the stranger did as well. Goldtooth and I had our interpreter. Having asked my nationality, Goldtooth tells me through Alex our on-the-spot interpreter that many Siberians have a deep respect for, and a sense of brotherhood with Australians. Sounds a little odd at first
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but Goldtooth goes on to explain: both peoples share a common bond of governments who sent criminals into exile to survive (or not) and make do in lands of extreme conditions, albeit on opposite ends of the scale. Siberians and Australians share a common criminal heritage and to say we are both very proud of the fact is an understatement. I liked Goldtooth immediately. I know Australia is one tough cookie, but I found it hard to put it into the same category as Siberia. Goldtooth went on to surprise me further with the story of the First Fleet and how its numbers were halved within a year of arriving at Sydney Cove. The man sure knew his shit. I tell him most Australians would consider Siberia to be the toughest neighbourhood on the planet. He tells me he feels honoured to learn that Australians even know where Siberia is. The Gulag: Russian heads of state had been sending undesirables into forced exile until it was abolished at the start of the 20th century. This system of dealing with the states least wanted was brought back with a vengeance by Josef Stalin, the paranoid dictator who ruled the Soviet Union with an iron fist from 1922 until his death in 1953. Siberia became synonymous with death during Stalins
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rule. Anyone Stalin or his henchmen considered criminals against the State were arrested and sent into forced labour programs, concentration camps and special psychiatric hospitals commonly known as Glavnoe Upravlenie Lagerey, or Gulag. The Gulag inmates dug canals, laid railway tracks and worked in factories in remote areas in Siberias northeast, with whole cities developed as Gulag centres. An estimated 20 million people lost their lives in the Gulag, making Stalin one of the biggest murderers in the history of mankind. Goldtooth shakes my hand warmly like an old friend, and wishes me Godspeed for my journey ahead, leaving Alex the instant interpreter and myself to swap stories over my soft drink and his pivo for a while before heading back to the hotel to pack.

Mirislova wasnt about when it came time to leave the hotel so I scribbled a quick note saying dasvidanya in my best Cyrillic. Natasha, another stunning young blonde thing working in the lobby then picked the shit out of my spelling mistakes. Out of frustration she ended up
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rewriting the note out for me before calling me a cab to the train station. Spasibo, Natasha, and paka.

The Russians love ice cream. They love the gelato cone almost as much as they love pivo and vodka. Most people would consider ice cream to be more of a summer time treat. Not the Russians. There are almost as many ice cream kiosks in Irkutsk as there are beer windows. The huge bonus in Siberia is that if you go shopping and for some reason end up leaving your ice cream in the car, youre almost guaranteed to come back and find it even more frozen than when you left it. No doubt this saves the embarrassment of that horrible lingering stench of spilt milk in cars that everyone hates. At the huge Irkutsk train station there were plenty of fur-clad Rooskies eating ice cream and drinking pivo. One man I saw was managing to do both; the mind boggles. I felt kind of silly buying an ice cream in the freezing cold temperature, but it turned out to be the best five roubles Id ever spent! Russians make yummy ice cream, and I can eat six here for the price of one at home. Just another great reason to cross Gosford off your as your next holiday destination and visit the Russians.
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Thanks to Alex from Baikal Komplex drawing me a detailed diagram of the train/platform schedule I had no trouble deciphering the stations huge electronic timetable. After the Beijing fiasco and the close call in Ulaan Baatar, I was slightly on edge when it came to trains and making sure I could actually get myself onto them. Siberian train schedules operate on Moscow time, which is minus five hours Irkutsk local time. Its like Auckland operating on Perth time, but it works for the Russians so it was going to have to work for me too. Train #9 Baikal Irkutsk - Moscow was a fair improvement on the train from Ulaan Baatar - and it had a dining car, which meant vodka crowds. The carriage provodnik was another good-looking Russian babe, who somehow already knew where I was from and where I was headed, even before handing her my bilet. I finally made a train before time. Its nothing to gloat about but its still a personal best. The kupe was clean and comfortable, and laid out on table was a presentation of chocolate assortments and drinks. It was to be a two-day journey on the Baikal before hitting the streets of Ekaterinberg at the foot of the
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Ural Mountains. A man of tough looking appearance enters the kupe and nods a silent greeting. Taking a seat on the opposite bottom bunk, he stares out blankly into the middle distance of nothing, not in the least bit bothered by me rummaging through my belongings and generally making a mess of the place. I find out later his name is Viktor. Hes a Siberian of few words but he does say hes headed for Nizhny Novgorod, six and a half hours east of Moscow. Viktor is a man conditioned by the freezing Siberian wastelands. His bearded face is weather-beaten and scarred. Which pack of wolves raised him is anyones guess. Viktor will be a good kupe mate; he doesnt strike me as a man who tolerates bullshit. So long as we dont cop any crazies like Sergei, this leg of the Trans-Siberian should be an enjoyable haul. Just before were due to depart Irkutsk were joined by another man, whod be at least seventy in the shade. He too says very little, preferring to potter around with his things. He arranges his mattress, then his clothes, then his shoes and finally, his pills. For his heart condition, he indicates to me. As the Baikal pulls out of Irkutsk the old man starts talking words at me. The only one I recognise is pazhaluista (please), and I give him my stock-standard nee paneemayoo, afstrahliyi reply.
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The old mans face lit up like a Christmas tree at the mention of Australia. OLYMPICS! OLYMPICS! Better watch that heart condition of yours there, old mate. When the old codger introduces himself I laugh. My kupe mates for the rail trip to Ekaterinburg are Viktor and Viktor. Once were out of Irkutsk the two Viktors change out of their day clothes and into tracksuits and slippers. This is a common travel habit for the Russians, who use train travel as the main means of transport to cover the vast distances of their country. Siberian roads arent exactly built for comfort or speed so the railway is Russias lifeline. Get comfortable, sit back and do whatever it is you do until you get to wherever it is youre going. Throw the mind into neutral and stare out at the beautiful Siberian landscape as it unfolds before your eyes, or maybe just relax with that copy of the Concise History of the Human Race you never quite got around to reading. Thats what some jokers would do. I headed straight off in search of the dining carriage, an open and spacious affair, especially with no crowd. As Im taking a seat I overhear the babushka cook telling the other babushka cook where Im from. Word sure does spread fast amongst
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comrades. The dining menu reveals a recurring theme of blandness. Not that it mattered. I had Vegemite in a foryour-convenience travel tube, masla and loaf bread. A man seated at a dining table across from my own showed puzzled interest in the yellow tube and its black contents, and passing it over to him he pretended to run it around his face. He thought it was shaving cream. Then came the taste test. The look of disgust on his face said it all but he kept eating, so as not to appear rude. 9:50pm: We arrive into Zima, meaning winter and once a place of exile. Its very dark and very cold, and the platform is almost deserted with the exception of a few locals boarding the train. Down on the platform three babushkas are selling pivo, vodka and pirozhki, a kind of meat-filled pastry, and other homemade hot snacks out of hand baskets. I buy pirozhki and pivo off one babushka and this upsets the other two, who are desperate to sell me something, anything. Platform babushkas have a generally trustworthy reputation, taking only the small amounts of roubles they need for payment and giving back the correct change. Once were back in the relative warmth of the train and underway again Old Viktor takes over the role of language tutor, using a Moscow newspaper to teach me new words. Tough Viktor throws a word in every now and again in between reading an action adventure novel. The
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books cover is a cartoon depiction of a one-man army unleashing hells fury with a Kalashnikov while pulling the pin of a grenade with his teeth. I hoped Tough Viktor wasnt going to get any big ideas during the night. After almost two hours of Old Viktors language school, we both had headaches so after a quick vodka nightcap (naturally) I climbed up into my bunk and drifted off to the gentle rocking motion of the train.

During the night we passed through the Siberian towns of Nizhneudinsk, Taishet and Ylanskaya. I awoke every now and again but for the best part I slept well. The rocking motion of the train as it rumbles on through the dark and cold Siberian night was something I was quietly going to miss when the journey was over. Around 10am the two Viktors and myself haul ourselves out of our bunks, just as were arriving into Krasnoyarsk. Theres a light snowfall and the platform is all quiet apart from a handful of passengers alighting the train, and a station hand clearing a path through the fresh layers of snow with a wicker brush. Adjacent to the station is a large wall mural of Lenin backed up by an army of workers armed with various types of farm shed
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tools. Its classic Soviet propaganda, whose use-by date has long expired. Russias Generation X dont give a shit about the ideals of Comrade Lenin and Red October, and they dont give a shit about the glorious age of the soviet state either. Antony the headbanging heavy metal clown is living proof. No doubt Old Viktor would have strong opinions on the old ways versus the new ways, but my kindergarten Russian isnt up to the task of handling that kind of indepth conversation with him. Tough Viktor is a happier camper this morning. He offers Old Viktor and myself teabags and slabs of pork fat, which from its look and smell hints that this pig was slaughtered back when Khrushchev was all the rage. I stuck to a safe breakfast of instant coffee mix and jam loaf. Another handy train habit the Russians have is using a folded sheet of newspaper as an eating tray; it saves washing plates and simply gets thrown in the bin when finished with. Thanks to Old Viktor I got to share my breakfast with a page 3 Glasnost Gal. She stared provocatively right back at me from down on the table, half caked in fresh jam. Yummo.

*
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The dining carriage was as good a place as any to waste the afternoon hours doing not much, and leaving the two Viktors to their reading I headed forward. The dining carriage was deserted except for the staff, who were busy with paperwork. I ordered a Baltika and sat down to watch the never-ending snow covered landscape pass us by. Soon after a young bloke enters the dining carriage clutching a copy of a Trans-Siberian guidebook. Grabbing a pivo he introduces himself. Craig, twenty-four, from London. So far as were both aware, we are the only two foreigners on the train. We agree that tourist off-season is great. We swap tales of our trips so far, and swap notes on gorgeous provodniks. I tell Craig about the Crazy Sergei incident, and how the Frenchman and myself came within an inch of putting his head through the kupe wall. A Frenchman? Craigs ears prick up. His names not Philippe by any chance? Craig had partied on with the Frenchman at Lystvyanka on the shores of Lake Baikal. Philippe, he said, had done a great job of causing mayhem amongst the locals, especially the women. I laughed, picturing the French love machine in action.
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The TV sets at both ends of the dining kupe screened a VERY LOUD and VERY ANNOYING music video of some Russian female singer. We find out her name is Irina Allegrora, and shes a huge starlet in her homeland. She should give it up and try for a music career instead. Lets all pray for the sake of mankind that Ms. Allegrora never hits the international big time. Promoters and record labels who unearth such excruciating acts should be charged with crimes against humanity and harshly dealt with. As one loud and annoying song gives way to another Craig decides we have been put through more than enough misery for one afternoon and asks the dining staff to turn off the TV set closest to us. They oblige, and its only then that we both notice a painful sharp ringing in our ears. Thanks a lot Ms. Allegrora, you oxygen-thieving microphone murderer. Later in the afternoon two Russian men, Sergey and Sacha, join us in our drinkathon. Both men are travelling to Moscow, having joined the Baikal in Irkutsk. Sacha automatically orders a carafe of vodka along with four shot glasses. Its going to be all downhill from here. As the hours and carafes of vodka rolled by (I lost count at four, or was it three?) the two Russian friends talk about themselves. Sacha is a Russian Army captain,
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and hes in command of a nuclear missile silo. Cool job. And what does a commander of a nuclear missile silo do when hes not busy wiping any given city off the face of the planet? Training, training, Sacha says with a sigh at the monotony of it all. Always training. I tell Sacha I hope none of his arsenal is aimed at Australian cities. This offends him a little bit. Not aimed at Australia, never Australia. They are good people! Glad to hear that, Comrade Sacha. Sacha says the missiles arent aimed at anyone in particular, but like so much of the world today, terrorists are the number one enemy of Mother Russia. Both Russians agree that the Chechen terrorist siege at the Nord-Ost theatre in Moscow was bad for everyone concerned, but Mexican stand-offs dont do Russias international image any favours. Most would agree that the Russians are a take-no-shit bunch and unfortunately, the Nord-Ost episode had an inevitable sad ending. Sergey Zoristyev and Sacha have been mates since early childhood, although he was now on an entirely different career path to his friend. Thirty years old, dadushka (grandfather) Sergey is an elk hunter from a
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little village on the northwestern shores of Lake Baikal. Sergey bears a striking resemblance to Kostya Tszyu, whom he just so happens to be a huge fan of. The hunter pipes up. America is aggressor. 1983, Grenada, the eighties with Libya and Iran then 1991 with Iraq. Sergey knows his facts. America always provokes countries, why? I dont know, Sergey, I dont know. It crosses my mind to raise the whole Russia-Afghanistan thing but Im sitting with drunk Russians who earn their livings playing with dangerous weapons. Between the four of us we manage a huge feast for dinner. We have everything; boiled eggs, brown bread, white loaf bread, ham, bacon, and roast chicken prepared by Sergeys mother. The hunter slices off a huge chunk of pig fat that has a little eye of red meat in the middle. Craig and me pass up the offer. The roast chicken is a halfcooked red colour, but it tastes damn good going down. I hoped it was going to stay that way. Sacha couldnt get enough of the vegemite, caking chunks of brown bread with the stuff and devouring slice after slice like there was no tomorrow. Good with vodka, he reckoned. Russian cuisine is generally a very fatty affair. Its not unlike the standard Australian meat n two veg family
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feed, but with one hundred times the fat content. No wonder pretty young Russian girls end up a far cry from their former selves by the time they become babushkas. I was so full I could barely move. Chicken bones, eggs, chunks of pig fat and vegemite are sprawled from asshole to breakfast on our table. Sacha decides its still vodka oclock, and orders the dining staff to keep the carafes coming until we arrive in to Oblivion, population four. The Baikal roared along at high speed, the carriages bouncing up and down and from side to side. Russian suspension, good suspension. We were riding the long stretch of railroad between Novosibirsk and Omsk, and passed countless freight trains headed in the opposite direction. This section of track is the busiest section of railway in the world for freight, which consists mostly of coal being transported between the Kuzbas Basin east of Novosibirsk and smelting works in the Urals. It felt as though we were moving at 200 mph. Our whole evening would have been spoiled had the train decided to jump the tracks at this speed out here in the frozen taiga. I dont remember returning to my kupe.

*
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Trans-Siberian railway: -7 degrees C (extreme fire danger!) I awoke at 5am, just as were arriving into Omsk. Old Viktor is already awake and surveying the platform scene from our kupe window. In Beijing Id promised Christian that Id deliver a postcard for him to a girl named Natasha who lived in the town. Carrying it personally by train to Omsk was sure to be a damn sight quicker than regular mail. Tough Viktor had kindly supplied a prepaid envelope for local mail, as the postcard had no stamp. There was only one small problem. I couldnt find the postcard anywhere. I searched my pack and my daypack, then I searched them again. I was turning the kupe upside down looking for the postcard when Old Viktor, realising what I was looking for, pipes up and tells me that hes already delivered it to our provodnik, with instructions to ensure its safe delivery to Natashas mailbox. Natasha was sure to be amazed with the efficiency of the China-Russia mail delivery service! Christian told me some time later that Natasha was a bit miffed by the speedy delivery and the fact that it had been posted locally when she knew the lads were in China. In my frantic search for the postcard Id completely forgotten about my hangover. Or rather, my total lack of
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one. In fact, I felt one hundred and ten percent. How was it possible for vodka to have such a healthy effect? Tough Viktor tells me that the less impurities there are in the vodka then the less chance there is of suffering a major hangover. The lethal vodka does have one very major downside. It completely numbs your body to any sensation of cold. At some little Siberian station last night I had been on the platform with Craig and Alexei, the trains militsiaman, wearing no more than a t-shirt and a pair of trousers. I wasnt in the least bit bothered by the minus twentysomething temperature simply because I couldnt feel it. I didnt even shiver. And while my brain wouldnt acknowledge the freeze, my body certainly must have. Its little wonder that during the wintertime an alarming numbers of Russians freeze to death from exposure after prolonged bouts of vodka swilling. The morning was whiled away in our kupe. Both Viktors had their heads buried in books so I plugged into my discman and stared out at Siberia as it went by the window. We were now in taiga, the Russian word for forest. The Siberian taiga, made up largely of birch, spruce and pine trees, stretches from Finland in the west to the northern Pacific Ocean in the east. As the endless snow-blanketed forest passes us by, so do little Siberian villages. The only indications of life in the villages are the
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occasional fur-rugged villager trudging a snowy street and smoke billowing from the chimneys of wooden doms (homes). It snows continuously all day, and the further west we travel the thicker the white blanket becomes. The blue twilight of midday and the dark shadows swirling in the thick taiga paints a beautiful but quietly eerie scene. I felt extremely fortunate to be sharing the kupe with the two Viktors. Neither man had left the kupe other than to use the carriage amenities, and my pack was in safe hands whilst I was off getting amongst train life. For the two Viktors, this train journey is little more than the quickest form of transport between point A and point B. For me its a lifetime experience. Sharing with the two men was also doing wonders for my Russian vocabulary, which had now developed nicely past the stage of tonguetwisting dribbles and sick hyena impersonations. Train amenities. Each carriage has toilet and washbasin closets at both ends of the wagon. Prior to arrival into stations the provodniks lock the toilets. If you happen to lose the fight against gravity during scheduled halts it then becomes a race against the clock to get off the train and sniff out station restrooms, which are usually even smellier than those on the train. The public tyooalets in Irkutsk, ten kopeks for the privilege of using, reeked of a stomach-churning stench so powerfully overwhelming
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that they required the novice user to hold their breaths and fight back the tears for as long as it took. According to my guidebook, the carriage amenities are locked during stops for security purposes. This is only a sideline to the real reason. The rancid Russian thrones empty directly out onto the railway line beneath, rather than collecting in onboard storage tanks. Making use of them whilst halted at stations would no doubt make for ugly smells along platforms, and even uglier views. With the amount of two-way railroad traffic crossing the entire expanse of Russia its not hard to imagine one long unbroken trail of shit stretching all the way from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok. I head forward to find Craig, whos managed to score a kupe all to himself. A few doors down from Craigs kupe is a recreation kupe decked out with two TV sets, video game consoles and a small library. Its here that we find Sergey, whos busy blasting mutant aliens off the face of the planet. Having been mortally wounded by the insect army from another galaxy, he rips his headset off. Pivo! Lets go! I sensed another trip back to Oblivion. Craig winced at the thought of more alcohol. He was in the not-sobad/not-so-great stage of a hangover, and was feeling the pinch of Sergeys beer-group pressure.
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Entering the dining carriage were greeted once again with the ear-piercing musical atrocities of Irina Allegrora. Same music video, same amount of excessive volume. One of the dining staff is obviously a big fan of the screeching scrubber. Whoever it is needs a good horse whipping. Were a quiet lot compared to yesterday, content to watch the deep dark forest roll by while kicking back with a few Admiral Kolchaks and Baltika #3s. Forest Sergey says, Siberia is forest, forest and more forest. Kraseeviy taiga, beautiful forest. The Baikal arrives into Ekaterinburg at 4:30pm. Before leaving the train I present the two Viktors with postcards from home. Old Viktor is chuffed hes got one with kangaroos on it. I couldnt have had any better luck than to share a kupe with these two Russians. They pre-empted help when they thought I needed it and showed great patience with my impromptu language lessons. Best of all was that both men had mercifully spared me the pain of endless Vodka sessions; neither man touched the stuff - now thats two rare Rooskies.
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Ekaterinburg: Founded in 1723 as a factory-fort for the regions mineral wealth, this city at the base of the Ural Mountains is shrouded in intrigue. Closed to foreigners until 1990 because of its many defence-related plants, the Ekaterinburg region is where, in 1960, US pilot Gary Powers and his U2 spy plane were shot down by a Soviet missile. Powers managed to bail out and was exchanged for a Soviet agent two years later. In 1979 the nearby Sverdlovsk-19 biological weapons plant experienced an anthrax leak, killing sixty-four people. The birthplace of Boris Yeltsin, Ekaterinburg was the scene of several Mafia and gang-related bloodbaths during the 1990s. Ekaterinburg is most famous though, as the place where Tsar Nicholas II, his wife Tsarina Alexandra and their five children were murdered by the Bolsheviks in 1918. Six years later the town was renamed Sverdlovsk in honour of Yakov Sverdlov, the Bolshevik who is said to have arranged the execution of the Royal Family. The city reverted to its original name in 1991. Ekaterinburg, -13 degrees C (game of cricket anyone?) Bitter cold. Heavy snowfall. The train station car park is packed with Ladas and Volgas coated in a foot of snow. Im met off the train by a cabbie sent to collect me by my
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hotel. He seems to be in a real rush. The tiled floor of the station is extremely slippery so the cabbie carries my pack, as if thats somehow going to get us to the hotel quicker. After scraping a fresh layer of snow off the Volgas windscreen, we fishtail out of the carpark. We spend the next ten minutes fishtailing around corners and speedsliding around traffic thats moving much too slowly for the impatient cabbie, whos also shouting obscenities at slow drivers as we slide by their vehicles. The streets of Ekaterinburg are brown slush covered paths. Cars around us spin their wheels with almost no road traction; five wheel revolutions to cover a one metre distance. I can feel the Volga doing the same thing beneath us when we were not dodging traffic and fishtailing every bend in the road. Seatbelts seem to be an optional extra in Russia. The cabbie isnt wearing one, and figuring his driving skills are more a display of confidence than a death wish I dont bother with one either. Hotel Oktyabrskaya is located a nice quiet neighbourhood, around three clicks from the centre of town. Once a popular communist party hangout for the likes of Uncle Boris Yeltsin and his gang of cronies, the hotel is nothing like the Angara in Irkutsk. No Glasnost Gals and no bustling lobby with guests coming and going. Just a quietly attended reception desk and an armed
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militsia man for a guard. I can almost sense his itchy trigger finger. The Oktyabrskaya retains a ghostly ambience of its former communist party patronage; no excess trimmings, no liveliness. It would have been the perfect quiet place to plot and scheme against enemies of the Soviet state, which during its heyday was pretty much the rest of the planet. The hotel staff are nowhere near as cold and calculating as the surroundings, and go out of their way to ensure my stay in Ekaterinburg is going to be a comfortable one. Even Trigger Finger shows a vaguely friendly side when were introduced by the manager. My room is reasonable, and after 48 hours riding the rails it was time to relax. Flicking on the TV to Channel Rossiya Im greeted by the last TV show I ever dreamed of seeing in Siberia - The Crocodile Hunter. Its great comedy - the Russian voice-over had his work cut out for him narrating the overawed natural excitement of Steve Irwin.

Fresh out of roubles after the journey from Irkutsk, the hotel staff gave me direction to the nearest bankomat (ATM). I headed off in the general direction given to me by the friendly middle-aged hotel manager but it wasnt long before I realised Id become hopelessly lost, with no
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idea how to get back to the hotel. The temperature hovered somewhere around minus your balls, and there was no sign of a bankomat anywhere. A man half-heartedly shovelling snow from the doorway of an office block pointed me off further down the road I was on, where I was faced with crossing a set of railway tracks where there was no crossing. By now it was completely dark. After waiting trackside for a log train to pass, I crossed over the tracks and trudged down an ankle-deep snow track only to find a major highway and a service station on the opposite side. The service station is little more than bowsers and an attendant supervising the whole deal from behind a glass window. A little slot at the base of the screen and a twoway microphone are the only way to do business. I approach the attendant in the window and using my best Russian accent ask for directions to Ulitsa Lenina. The tubby woman on the other side of the glass thinks about it for a moment, then leaning forward into her microphone shouts ULITSA LENINA?! BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! at me. Her voice booms out of every loudspeaker around the servo, attracting a lot of unwanted attention in my general direction. I was getting nowhere fast, and after another fruitless look at my map I guess-picked a direction and started
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walking again. I dont know about anyone else, but trudging through ankle-deep snow on the shoulder of a busy highway in the direction of oncoming traffic in subzero temperatures and in complete darkness while lost in a faraway land is not what I would exactly call being in control of the situation. A kilometre down the road an off ramp appears. Between gaps in the speeding traffic I make a bolt for it across the icy highway to the relative safety of the off ramp. A shitbox little car suddenly appears from out of nowhere. Spotting me at the last possible second the driver swerves his vehicle, narrowly missing me walking along the shoulder. I bet the driver shat himself, just like I did. It was my own fault; Im used to traffic working on the opposite side of the road, and I shouldnt have been standing in the dark on the shoulder of an exit ramp (entry ramp, as Id near-fatally found out) to a highway to begin with. Nearby is a neighbourhood of drab-grey high-rise apartment blocks, where I spot a man trudging his way through the snow. I call out to him for directions. Standing a short distance away, he simply stares at me for a minute then turns and walks away. By now frustration was beginning to show. I hurled my local map as far as I could, half-burying itself in a pile of snow.
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Just as things seem hopeless I round a corner to find a tram stop. A young boy stares up at me while his mother solves my problem on the spot. The woman asks where Im from, and found it hard to contain her excitement when I told her. Shed never met a real-life Australian before, and it had come as a bit of a surprise to suddenly find one that was hopelessly lost in suburban Ekaterinburg. I was going their way, and I should stick with them, the mother tells me. The tram fare was five roubles. A rummage through my pockets produced a grand total of five roubles and thirty kopeks. Just enough. The floor of the run-down old tram looked just like the local roads, and it was a bit like riding the insides of a giant slurpee. Melting brown snow sloshed about the floor of the tram as we bounced our way along ulitsa Lenina to the town centre. The tram ride ended up being free. No conductor or anyone else came to collect the fare. The mother and her boy give me a warm farewell before leaving the tram a stop before me. My spirits lifted when I found a bankomat a short walk from the tram stop. Finding one had just taken me the best part of two hours. Needing to shake off the winter chill I headed for the Old Dublin Irish pub for a pint of Guinness. The pub prices were a little closer to its western counterparts than that of your average Russian bar but there was a huge
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fireplace and a friendly atmosphere. A barman named Kostya asks if I have ever heard of Kostya Tszyu, the great boxer. Of course, I said. I am from the same town of Serov where Kostya Tszyu is from, and I have the same name! he says proudly.

The boulevards of Ekaterinburg are wide and long and ulitsa Lenina reminded me of Northbourne Avenue in Canberra, the noticeable difference being the heavy presence of patrolling cop cars in the vicinity of ulitsa Lenina. Given Ekaterinbergs reputation for mafia bloodbaths, there was a twisted moment in which I hoped I was about to witness semi-automatic carnage between rival gangs and the militsia, which reveals more about me than Id prefer to give away. But, no dice. The violent random sprays of 9mm rounds never eventuated and the body bags remained safely locked away for another day. I consoled myself with dinner in a fast food restaurant, a hybrid Russian take on all the popular western food chains. The place was casually busy with customers from all walks: hip
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teenagers, babushkas and dadushkas, business types, even uniformed soldiers. While I was standing in queue working on deciphering the large Cyrillic menu, two Russian versions of Beavis and Butt-Head came to the rescue. The teenagers know just enough English help me place my order of fried chicken and mash. With the greasy Siberian fast food in my hands Beavis and ButtHead leads me upstairs to join their group of friends. A cold beer with dinner wouldve gone down well, and when I mention this Butt-Head leaves the table and disappears down the stairs. Moments later the teen returns with a large plastic cup of Klinskoe, leaving me to assume theres no legal drinking age in Russia, or perhaps the pimply-faced cashiers really did believe Butt-Head when he said the pivo was for the foreigner sitting upstairs. Across from our table a woman in her mid-thirties sat watching and listening to our group with half a crooked smile. It was soon apparent that the woman was keeping an eye on me, and I hoped her intentions were wellmeaning and from the gaunt look of her, lust-free as well. The woman eventually sidles up to our table and introduces herself before handing me a business card. Anna, another girl at our table, does the translating. Her name is Svetlana. She wants to ask if you will call her at her work tomorrow.
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I could, but what would be the point? I tell Anna to tell Svetlana. Her English is as shit as my Russian. A telephone isnt going to improve our conversation any. Good point, both girls agree.

On the cardiac-arresting taxi ride back to the Oktyabrskaya the crazy young cabbie spots a pretty girl standing in the dark at a bus stop. He slams his foot on the brakes we fishtail to a stop right beside the bus stop. Winding down his window, the cabbies loud, brash mood instantly transforms into smooth talk with the pretty girl. I dont understand much of whats being said, but the word roublee suddenly fills in all the missing gaps - the pretty girl is a hooker. Having reached a price agreement Miss X piles into the back of the cab before we fishtail off up the road. I overhear the hot-blooded cabbie telling Miss X that his fare doesnt speak Russian. Arriving at the hotel, Miss X tells me in broken English HE LOVE WOMEN! Me too, I tell her, before the cab fishtails away from the hotel. It was a classic Minties Moment.
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Ekaterinburg: -14 degrees C (board shorts and tank tops) With a full day of no particular plans ahead of me I decided to do the Ekaterinburg town walk, a circular route which meanders by most of the citys places of interest. On any other day the town walk would have been an enjoyable way to waste a few hours, but today it was dark, windy, and bloody freezing. Setting off from the huge statue of Lenin at Ploschad 1905 I headed across the bridge and over the city pond, where a small wood clipper with a heavy list sat in frozen moor. The city walks points of interest mostly reveal themselves to be dull and dreary buildings. Inspirational isnt a word that casually springs to mind when it comes to Soviet architecture, and my feelings of disappointment matched the feelings of shivering cold. The Church of Blood, a smallish log structure situated on Karla Libknekhta was the welcome exception. This quaint little chapel stands on the execution site of Russias last ruling Tsar and his family. In 1918, under orders from Yakov Sverdlov (from whom this city took its name a few years later) the Romanovs and their five children were herded into the cellar of Dom Ipateva, the house that once
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existed on this small plot, where they were shot by the Bolsheviks. A few metres away from the little church stands a small iron cross, a solitary memorial to the brutal murders. The inside of the Church of Blood glitters with icons of Tsar Nicholas and his wife Tsarina Alexandra. Two old babushkas welcomed me in out of the biting cold, and proudly showed me through some of the paintings of the Tsar and Tsarina that adorned the walls of the tiny church. I wondered what the two babushkas thought of the huge monument to the murderous Yakov Sverdlov that loomed ominously over ulitsa Lenina just down the road. Within minutes of leaving the death site I was coated in a thin layer of white from head to toe. The cold wind was unrelenting, and my exposed face was whipped by falling snow in a full frontal assault of painful stinging sensations that intensified with every forward footstep. I decided Id done enough of the town walk to get a pretty good idea about Ekaterinburg so I hailed a cab for another speedy fishtail ride back to the thawing warmth of my room at Hotel Oktyabrskaya.

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Heading back into town in the late afternoon I crossed through the frozen public park adjacent to the Oktyabrskaya. In a deathly silent schoolyard across the street sat a Soviet MiG fighter plane, now well past its used-by date. The MiG fighter, a monument to the former glory days of Hammer and Sickle was as conspicuously and horrendously out of place in the schoolyard as Ray Martin calling a cricket match. A thin snow-cleared track was the only thoroughfare across the park. With snow crunching under foot I passed by two pram-handling mothers who were standing in the middle of the park chatting to each other while their babies slept, smothered somewhere beneath piles of blankets. Further along the cleared pathway I trudged by another mother with a pram. Standing beneath a tree, the woman was engrossed in a book, all the while rocking her infant back and forth in its carriage. It was going to take a lot more than minus temperatures to stop Sverdlovsk locals taking their newborns for casual strolls in the park. I headed back to Fast Food Pub, as I had now dubbed the place due to its lack of any discernible name. Fast Food Pub was casually rowdy. MTV was on giant flat screen TVs positioned around the place. MTV was soon replaced by Soviet-era cartoons, old black and whites from the 1950s.

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These cartoons would have Walt Disney turning in his grave. There were no sworn archenemies outwitting each other, no violence and even less humour - no regular kiddie thrills whatsoever. They could be used to make kids want to go to bed when theyre told. The most exhilarating cartoon of them all featured a young Soviet boy wearing the red scarf of the Young Pioneers, no doubt a propaganda move aimed at a young and impressionable 50s Soviet audience. Soviet Boy played with some wooden toys that came magically to life. A wooden cube with Cyrillic alphabet letters carved on each of its six faces levitated out of Soviet Boys hand, floated slowly through the air, then came to rest on a table with a smile and a wink. Soviet Boy was stunned with awe. It was the forgettable climax of the whole cartoon. These animated visual valiums reflect of the lengths the machine head of the Soviet Union went to on its unrelenting quest to dominate the lives of its citizens in almost every aspect. Still, credit where its due - Soviet television censors no doubt succeeded in fuelling the imaginative minds of Soviet offspring. Children of the USSR would surely have gotten off their little behinds and gone to play outside after being subjected to cartoons as boring as these.

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A while later, Yura and Ksysha, a very much in love couple in their early twenties, invite me to join them at their table. Theyre good conversation and a lot of fun, and a while later they invite me to head out with them to a local nightclub. The Eldorado nightclub was pumping, and within half an hour of our arrival the place went from being crowded to being really crowded. The dance floor was a moving sea of boogying disco ducks. Noticing a group of hotlooking young chicks sitting at a table behind us, Ksysha took me by shock surprise when she tells me pick the one you like the best. None of the girls look as though theyd have a broomstick stashed in the clubs cloakroom, so I point out the closest girl, even though she has her back turned to us. Ksysha goes off to chat with the group, leaving Yura and myself to down Baltikas and vodka shots to constant toasts to friendship. Moments later the group of young stunners joins our table. The pretty blonde piece Id pointed out to Ksysha takes a seat next to me. Fuck yeah!!! Ksysha makes introductions while Yura is busy eyeing off the girls himself. My little Glasnost Gals name is Elena, an eighteen year old law student. Her English is
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understandably pathetic but we get along famously thanks to Ksysha and some of Elenas girlfriends, who all have a pretty good handle on English and charades. Elena asks if I will buy her a bottle of champagne. Juuuuust great, the bird has only known me for five minutes and she already wants to burn holes through my wallet. Sensing my reservation Ksysha whispers in my ear that Elena isnt rudely chasing free drinks - this is the Russian way of showing shes interested. At the bar Yura orders a bottle of bubbly while I dread the expense. But the bad vibe turns out to be no cause for concern - a bottle of champagne costs only sixty-five roubles. At that price Ill happily feed Elena champagne until her eyeballs are swimming in the stuff. Before I realise it, Elena has me out on the packed dance floor for some slow dancing. I hate dancing. I dance like I sing. And my singing ability is right up there on par with Irina Allegrora the oxygen-thieving microphone murderer, so it takes exceptional or exceptionally drunken circumstances for me to be out on a dance floor busting the moves. But Elena is an exceptional circumstance, and all those vodka shots have partially brought out the soviet slow dancer in me. Besides, no one in Ekaterinburg knows me from a bar of soap so Im at peace with the idea of making a complete fool of myself. And for every Elena there are a hundred
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more potential beauty pageant winners dancing around us. I decided there and then that I could live in Sverdlovsk. Elena wants to know when I will be coming back to Ekaterinburg. Telling her probably never isnt going to do me any favours so I tell her a little white lie. Next year, I say, half convincingly. Alls well that ends well.

Ekaterinburg - Moscow: -14 degrees C (hot and humid) The hotel manager, who by now was referring to me as afstrahliyi friendship ensures the cabbie can get me to a bankomat with English facilities before taking me to the train station for the Moscow connection, departing in an hours time. Plenty of time. Or so I thought. With the manager and Trigger Finger waving goodbye we fishtail out of hotel driveway and onto the slushy streets of Ekaterinburg. Its just gone 8am and its completely dark, the almost sideways falling snow illuminated by the Volgas headlights.
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We pull up at a bankomat, not the one I want, but when I spot the visa access sign my nerves relax slightly. But the bankomat refuses to spit out any roubles. Instead, it spit my card back out at me over and over with no explanation. Here we go again. Dashing back to the waiting taxi I order the driver to head to the corner of ulitsa Lenina and 8 Marta where I know for certain theres a serviceable bankomat. And STEP ON IT! Instead the cabbie radios in to base, confused about my card and why its not working. 8 MARTA! GO! I repeat over and over until Im almost yelling. That sinking feeling. Again. I could have read Lord of the Rings from cover to cover in the time it took for the cabbie to finish having his little socialist social chat on the two-way before he kicks the Volga in the guts and we fishtail off down the streets once more. Im almost pleading with the cabbie now to take me to 8 Marta before we fishtail to a stop, the cab half up the curb, half on the road. Dread. This is not the bankomat I wanted.
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I give the machine a go and it works! VOKZAL! (RAILWAY STATION!) STEP ON IT DRIVER! Weve wasted so much time driving around in circles looking for a bankomat in working order that its going to be a close call for making the train before time. We fishtail into Ekaterinburg train stations slush pond of a car park and Im off and running with my pack on my back. The freezing cold air pounds into my lungs while my legs carry me as fast as possible through the slush and ice. Next thing, Im staring straight up at the drab-grey sky. My legs had come out from underneath me after an encounter with an unseen ice patch. My pack saves the day, breaking my fall into a soft cushioned landing. The Russians standing close by all break into laughter. Im quickly back on my feet and doing the Harold Holt through the station, running the gauntlet of the wet tiled floor with the occasional expected slip. Showing my bilet to a provodnik standing on the platform in front of the nearest carriage, she points down the train. Waaay down the train. Off and sprinting once again down the long platform to reach my carriage. Locating the right carriage I hand my bilet to the
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provodnik. Made it. With four minutes to spare. By the time I catch my frozen breath, climb aboard with my pack and make my way down the cluttered passageway to my kupe, the train begins to move away from the platform. I find my kupe is already occupied and theres only one spare bunk. The Stepanovna family from Kiev will be keeping me company for the overnight run to Moscow. Sharing with me are father Vladislav, mother Olga and their twelve-year-old daughter Anna. At around five-feeteight already, Anna is going to be one very tall young lady. The Stepanovnas eighteen-year-old son Alexei is in the kupe next door. Why the four of them arent sharing the same kupe is a mystery and I offer to swap berths with Alexei. But the Stepanovnas wont have a bar of it, and go out of their way to make sure Ill be comfortable in their kupe. Tall and slim, Vladislav is a man of few words, unlike his rotund wife. Olga loves to chat. Chat chat chat. I nod and grin a lot, like Ive got a fucking clue what shes on about. Anna knows a little English and does her best to
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translate the mostly one-sided constant conversation between her mother and myself. After close to two hours of non-stop chit chat I feel drained, and tell Olga that I have a bolit galava (headache). My discman provides a quick escape from her constant chatter, and lying down I quickly drift off to sleep.

A few hours later I wake with a startle, which startles poor Vladislav whos sitting on the end of my bunk. The poor man jumps with such a fright that he hits his head on the bunk above. The Stepanovnas invite me to share their dinner, a mini-banquet of fried chicken, cold baked potatoes, brown bread and fish cakes, and theres no way Olga is taking no for an answer. You need to fatten up, boy! she says with a booming babushka laugh. An hour later Im so stuffed with food that I can barely move. While Olga goes on chatting and chatting and chatting Vladislav and Alexei occupy themselves with a crossword puzzle. Every now and then theyre stumped by a clue. I suddenly, or to be more accurate, stupidly,
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decide Im good at Cyrillic crosswords and I ask for the clue, which sets the family roaring with laughter. Later in the evening I decide to give the Stepanovnas some space and myself a breather from Olgas constant conversation and head for the dining carriage. As Im leaving the kupe two Russian men stagger past, then pause to turn the volume control on the carriages broadcast speaker up to maximum. They then announce we are sorry! to no one in particular before heading on to the next carriage for more of the same. Human Beings are seventy percent water. These two are seventy percent vodka. The unmistakable smell of the pair proves it. Keen to avoid the wrath of any provodnik who might just happen to spot the three of us and label me as one of them, I hurriedly follow the vodka fiends through the carriages and into the dining carriage. I order a Baltika but the two drunk Russians are adamant that theres room for one more in their antifreeze drinking session. Something tells me they arent worth the trouble, but I dont seem to have much choice in the matter. Spanner #1 seated beside me amuses both himself and his comrade by calling me every derogatory Russian word under the sun. Spanner #2, whos got less teeth than a P-platers gearbox isnt smart enough to think up any witty remarks and seems happy enough just to be
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the fucking dimwit that he is. The look and smell of the pair had me glancing around for the nearest fire hose. The silly thing is that between Cyrillic expletives both drunks keeps refilling my shot glass with vodka, toasting anything and everything they can think of in their pathetic states. This is the Russia they dont like to show you in tourist brochures, and I felt perversely privileged to be amongst it. I let loose on the pair with English obscenities, both the commonly known and the improvised. They respond by refilling my shot glass. I also suggest they should both be forced to have their mouths cleaned out with soap, or better still, be shown what a cake of soap actually looks like. More glasnost gutter language and a refill. In the end, both fools, their eyeballs drowned in vodka, tire of being assholes and stumble out of the dining carriage, leaving me behind with a complimentary full carafe of human anti-freeze. The vodka swilling statistics in Russia are unbelievable. A staggering four gallons per capita is consumed every year by the Russians, and this figure is based on every man, woman and child in the country. Alcoholism is blamed for ninety percent of all murders, two-thirds of all work-related accidents, and half of all divorces in Russia. A ballpark figure on how many times
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vodka has been mentioned in legal proceedings is anyones guess. To say the Russians like vodka is the grossest of understatements.

Moscow: 3 degrees C (soaring temps) I awaken to an almost unbelievable sight out the kupe window. There is nyet snyeg, no snow. Not even a streak of dirty ice to be seen anywhere. Where had the thick blanket of the white stuff disappeared to overnight? We were now on the outskirts of Moscow, about half an hour away from reaching the Yaroslavl terminus and the end of the Trans-Siberian railroad journey for me. First impression of greater Moscow: it looks like a war zone. Actually, people living in the worlds DMZs would take offence at the comparison. Rusting machinery and piles of scrap metal lay scattered between run-down high rise apartment blocks dressed in that favourite of Soviet colours, concrete grey. Loitering by a rusting industrial factory was a pack of stray dogs entertaining themselves with a group ass-sniff session. The scrawny-looking pack stopped to watch our train roll by, quickly lost interest, and went back to sussing out each others rear ends.
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Scattered amongst this sorry scene are Muscovites, who at first glance seem to mirror the despair that surrounds them. Even their stray four-legged comrades appear more cheerful. The sight out of the kupe window is woeful. Greater Moscow makes Bankstown look like the ultimate holiday destination. Theres a map of the Moscow metro system pinned up in the passageway and Vladislav shows me how to get from the Yaroslavl terminus to the Hotel Rossiya, which is to be my Moscow headquarters. He explains the way the metro works and where I need to change lines. Seems simple enough. Arriving into Yaroslavl its time to say farewell to the Kiev-bound Stepanovna family. Shaking hands with Olga and thanking her for everything, especially for fattening me up with an endless amount of food and for the constant one-sided chitchat, she gives me a babushkasized bear hug and a kiss dasvidanya. I have been in Siberia. There are no fucking jukeboxes.

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A cabbie shamelessly demanding a gob-smacking three hundred roubles for a five-minute ride across town and half an hours worth of walking around in circles looking for the metro entrance later, I finally located one of the underground stations. It was only the blue M symbol on the otherwise unmarked and nondescript building doors that gave it away. The Moscow Metro is world famous as a feat of architectural and artistic marvel, and at the flat rate of seven roubles, riding it is a real bargain. I marvelled at how brilliantly I had gotten myself the two stops to KitaiGorod. Those pool-side sessions of Cyrillic finger painting and the slap-fest language lessons with a couple of take-no-shit provodniks have paid off; the Metro stops, displayed only in Cyrillic, are a cinch to read. A month ago ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics would have made for a better bedtime read, and I was quietly chuffed. The underground system might be an interior decorators wet dream the but the trains themselves are quite the opposite. Alighting commuters have to fight their way out carriages, through the platform crowd fighting its way into them. Its enough to give a sardine nightmares. Along with countless others I was rammed forward through the open carriage doors, carried in with the powerful surge of the crowd. It was like being in a moshpit, only there was a lot more aggression.
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At Kitai-Gorod the process reversed, myself and my pack spat from the carriage and onto the platform like a bad enema. A ride up a set of very steep escalators (the metro stations were dug deep to double as bomb shelters) gave me a sense of vertigo, and twice I came close to taking out the hundred or so Muscovites standing behind me from unknowingly leaning back too far on the moving stairwell. I was off to a shaky start in Moscow.

The Hotel Rossiya is a gigantic grey slab of concrete which overlooks Red Square and the Kremlin. With more than 2,800 rooms, the Rossiya is a confusingly huge building. Finding the hotel entry I needed was nothing more than a stroke of luck. Upon checking in and registering my passport at the busy reception, the young girl behind the counter informs me I am only permitted to stay in the hotel for one night only, and not the prearranged two nights that have already been booked and fully paid for. What the fuck? The reception girl informs me that at noon tomorrow my visa will expire, and I will have to leave Russia. No
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visa, no stay, simple as that. WHAT THE FUCK? Handing me an elevator access pass, the reception girl is suddenly no longer interested in the bureaucratic bombshell shes just dropped on me from a very great height, and ignores my barrage of rushed questions to serve a dolled-up middle aged woman with the dress sense of Popov the clown on some seriously good drugs. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH MY VISA? I yell at the disinterested reception staff. An Ivan Drago wannabe in hotel security tells me to find the Intourist bureau located somewhere in the monstrous hotel. Explain yourself there. he says sternly before going back to bouncing the elevator area. The woman at the Intourist desk is only slightly more helpful, confirming that indeed there is a problem with the dates on my visa, and tells me that without an extension I cannot stay in the hotel after tomorrow. She should have been a rocket scientist. All I want to know is if, and how, I can get an extension on my visa.
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Yes it is possible, but if not, then you will have to leave Russia. I already fucking know this. Ok, so how do I get the extension? Tell me and lets make it happen. Well it takes time and if not, you cannot stay here. No fucking shit, Sherlock. I was at boiling point. Someone, somewhere, had fucked up big time. The Intourist desk tells me nothing can be done until tomorrow, and that the cost of a one-day visa extension will be $75US. Leaving the Intourist desk I make my way back to the elevator bouncers, who dont recognise me from ten minutes before. The hired goons give my documents and myself a thorough eyeballing before giving me the okay to use the elevator. Upon presentation of my passport and elevator pass to another disinterested staff member on the floor reception desk Im handed a room key. Area 51 doesnt have this much security. If theres such a term as stylishly communist then my
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room is to die for, and a look out the window reveals Im lucky enough to have been given a depressing view, just like the majority of other guests. Theres a nostalgic urge to search my room for hidden bugging devices, and the mental picture of Boris and Natasha monitoring my every move from KGB headquarters just up the road at Lubyanka gives me my first depression-free thought for the day. Anyone listening in from somewhere else in Moscow got nothing more than a free lesson in some very colourful foreign language.

Leaving the ridiculously huge hotel via a road underpass led me out onto the southern end of Red Square and the multi-coloured, multi-domed St. Basils cathedral. Sitting adjacent to St. Basils is the Kremlin, its orangeyred walls separating the Power and the Peasants. The Kremlin is not unappealing to the eye, and its not as ominous in real life as I remember it looking when Id seen it on TV as a kid, when Red Square was a parade of soldiers who marched funny and nuclear missile trucks that looked funny. Curiously, as I stood in the middle of the fourth largest square in the world, the first thought that sprang to mind was that of a young West German by the name of
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Matthias Rust. In 1987 the nineteen-year-old Cessna pilot took off from Helsinki in Finland, flew straight over the border and into the USSR and then made it all the way to Moscow - without being detected. After circling low over the Kremlin and St. Basils Rust landed his plane on the nearby bridge and taxied his four-seater Cessna onto Red Square. Flying at little more than rooftop heights, the young Jerry had smashed a hole through one of the worlds most impressive and expensive air defence systems. As an impressionable 12 year old I remember thinking this fella was a total legend. Of course, it was an extremely embarrassing incident for the Soviets and Rust was duly sentenced to four years in a Soviet labour camp. But the KGB, who were ultimately responsible for their young charge, couldnt guarantee Rusts safety in a general prison. Instead he was placed in a KGB interrogation centre for his own protection. Its hard to believe the feared secret police had a soft side. The extremely brave (some might say suicidal) protest stunt led to Gorbachev replacing both the Defence and Air Defence ministers, and more than two thousand other Soviet officers lost their jobs. Rust served only four hundred and thirty-two days of his sentence before being released. Lenins Mausoleum is the structural and social focus point of Red Square. Along the Kremlin wall behind the
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red-bricked mausoleum are the final resting places of Stalin and Brezhnev, along with the graves of various other communist heavyweights. The mausoleum was closed off and under militsia guard. Come back later a militsiaman replied sternly when I asked him what time the mausoleum would be open so I could get in for a look at the Red Dead Dude himself. The huge GUM State Department Store sits across the cobblestone square from the Kremlin. Built in the 19th century to house over 1,000 shops, GUM was famous during Soviet times for being the largest department store in the world that sold pretty much nothing. Today its a bustling and expensive-by -Moscow-standards place to partake in some retail therapy. Two Miltisia stop me on my way out of Red Square. Passport control. they inform/order me. I hand over my passport. Australian? one of them asks, flicking through my documents. Yep. Kangaroo, ahh?
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Yep, kangaroo. What are you doing here? Im a secret agent sent here to infiltrate the Kremlin and then I have plans to steal all your beautiful women. Tourism. Kangaroo is good, ahh? Yep, kangaroo is good. The militsiamen hand me back my passport. I ask them where I can find McDonalds. You need McDonalds? Why? Because its the ultimate symbol of capitalism in the heart of the Evil Empire. Hungry. The miltisiamen pointed me off in the direction of the Golden Arches.

McDonaldskys is an unofficial tourist attraction for westerners visiting Moscow. Lenin would roll over in his
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mausoleum if he knew that his once proud and loyal army of workers now eat Big Macskys only a few hundred metres away from his tomb. The service was unusually okay, this time it was the Muscovites who pissed me off. After spending the best part of the last century having to queue up for hours for the simplest of commodities youd think waiting three minutes in line for a Red Meal Deal shouldnt be too much of a hassle for locals. Glasnost was, in simple laymens terms, an opportunity to learn and master the time old art of pushing in. Just walk to the front of the queue and demand service. The second man who decided he was important enough to warrant walking straight to the front of the queue got a shove in the back and a wait your fucking turn. The arrogant queue jumper didnt understand a word I said but filthy looks are universal, and he settled for being served after me. Muscovites were proving themselves to be complete assholes, and a sad lot at that. On a lighter note, I returned to the counter to order a large coke. Serving me the drink, the McTeen behind the counter asked if I would like ketchup with my order. Not today, thanks love. Ha Ha.
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They say that all that glitters is made of gold so this evening I went for getting a bit of culture into me courtesy of the world-famous Boshoi Theatre. Securing a seat at the evenings performance had been as simple as looking the Intourist desks layout plan of the theatre and asking for a ticket. I didnt mind shelling out $40 - the cheapest ticket price - if it meant I got to look uppity and arty-farty in the eyes of others. If the outside of the Bolshoi is impressive then the interior is mind-blowing. Laid out in a horseshoe shape of six-tiered balconies, the Bolshoi radiates a regal yet forthe-masses atmosphere. From up on the top balcony (cheapskates paradise, where I was) the view of the stage and orchestra was as good as any, although the chances of being invited backstage after the show to get amongst the ballerinas for a couple of brewskis and a few pointers were slim. Chopiniana was tonights epic story, a ballet set to the frenzied riffer madness of Frederik Chopin. The chandelier lights dimmed and the golden curtains embroidered with the CCCP advertising slogan parted to reveal the huge square-shaped stage. The orchestra broke into a jam and the twenty-something ballerinas with one
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male lead made their tiptoeing grand entrance to much applause. Ballet tells a story in movements. The story I got went something along these lines: prance around the stage like a male alley cat in zero gravity. Do your best to impress all the female alley cats. Throw in a few artistic manoeuvres, like splitting your leotard pants right up the crack whilst in mid- air. Throw the nimble-footed ballerinas around like they arent much more than yesterdays garbage. If this is what constitutes a good love story then I was most impressed. The finale of Chopiniana was met with loud applause and cheers of Bravo! Bravo! As a ballet first-timer I was impressed, but I didnt find myself as overwhelmed with emotions of artistic bliss as some people around me. One man in particular appeared to be almost in a state of nirvana, and bravod loudly at least twenty times. Either the ballet was really that good or hed pumped himself full of opium before the show. Maybe it was both. Going to the ballet was a once in a lifetime experience. Having been a curious audience participant I now have the perfect excuse to never attend a ballet again; anywhere else other than the Bolshoi Theatre could only be considered try-hard in comparison.
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Three weeks before I left home Chechen terrorists besieged Moscows Nord-Ost Theatre and demanded an end to the Russian occupation of Chechnya. Twenty Chechen rebels, whose number included mothers whod lost sons in the conflict so far seized the theatre during a performance. They were armed with the sorts of weapons you expect extremist rebel fighters to be armed with, and more than eight hundred theatregoers were taken hostage. Three days later Russian troops stormed the building and gassed the theatre with ketimine. One hundred and twenty nine people were killed, including eighteen members of the theatres cast and crew. The Australian government swiftly upgraded its travel advice for the Russian Federation so as an extra precaution I registered my entry and exit dates with the Department of Foreign Affairs. In the event of any further terrorist attacks thered hopefully be some indication of my whereabouts at the time. If things really do turn to shit while youre in Russia and youre unlucky enough to have a personal meet n greet with some Chechen rebels, then it may just be up to you alone to establish diplomatic relations. Any of the
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following might do the trick and see you walk out alive. 1. Thankyou for showing me your marvellous rifle Im a huge fan of Kalashnikovs too. 2. I am delighted to accept your invitation to lie face down on the floor with my hands over my head and my legs apart. 3. I wholly agree with every political motive you have ever said or thought of in your life. 4. It is exceptionally kind of you to allow me to travel in the trunk of your car. 5. If you will do me the kindness of not harming my genital appendage I will gladly reciprocate by publicly betraying my own country. 6. The red blindfold will be just fine, ok, thanks. 7. These water soaked breadcrumbs are delicious. Can I have the recipe? 8. Wow! Great photo! If only my babushka was that pretty!
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9. My passport? Take it, its a gift. I dont really need or want it anyway. 10. I can get you and your jihad bros prime seats at the Bolshoi Theatre.

After the moshpit madness of the Bolshoi, I took a wander down over the Moscow River via a Metro underpass. In the tiled concrete tunnels a huge crowd of more than one hundred Russians were standing around drinking pivo. Empty beer bottles lay scattered everywhere, as did quite a few Muscovites. The underpass liquor stores were still open and there were plenty of people buying. When in Rome - I bought a bottle of Baltika. Just as I was cracking the lid I was apprehended by a uniformed security officer, armed with a walky-talky that I could tell made him feel important. You cannot drink pivo here. Move along. Well what about all these people standing around drinking? I ask.

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You cannot drink pivo here. Move along he repeats by way of explanation. The security man turned and walked away. I gave him the finger and kept drinking my cold purchase. On the south side of the Moscow River I stumbled upon a grungy little caf. It seemed like the perfect place to kick back with a few brewskis and hopelessly ponder the little problem of visa extensions. The place turned out to be a lucky find. The run-down bar was full of Muscovites who prided themselves on their English speaking abilities. One friendly nonconformist who couldve done with a good bath said that the regulars in this bar were the new breed of Russians. It is vital for us to understand English. the grunger said. English is important for travelling abroad, and for getting along with the rest of the world. We need to make strong ties with others after the isolation of the twentieth century. A man introducing himself as Dimitri invited me to join him and his lady friend Dasha in their late-night drinking session. Dasha was a lot of fun. Born and raised in the Altay, the girl was a free-spirited seasoned traveller. One time she hitchhiked from Moscow to Valdivostok,
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just for the hell of it. Dimitri admitted to being quite the opposite. He was a capital boy; Moscow had everything he could ever want or need. It was his own personal comfort zone. Why mess with such a good thing? he says. Dasha and Dimitri painted me a good picture of life during Soviet times. Their number one bitch was the lack of variety in alcohol (which might explain why pivo is so popular now), and how they had to queue up for hours, sometimes days, just to purchase trivial things like toothpaste and shoes that were your size, no matter what size you were handed. Both were curious about Australian politics, and both found it difficult to comprehend a country that has never experienced bloody revolutions and murderous dictators. Dasha and Dimitri were stunned when I told them that in Australia its quite okay, sometimes even compulsory, to hang shit on our heads of state without fear of the secret police busting down our doors and dragging our traitorous hides off to the gulag. By far, the most removed story from our western ways of life came from Dasha. Whilst living under Soviet rule, she and two girlfriends had managed to score themselves some cassettes of State-banned popular western music. Even in Dashas village in the far-off mountainous Altay
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region it was impossible to know exactly who was a party informant and who wasnt, making it a dangerous proposition to listen to the contraband tunes within earshot of anyone who might well be keeping tabs on others. The only safe way for Dasha and her friends to enjoy the forbidden tapes was to sneak out into a nearby forest in the middle of the night with a small tape player. The volume had to be set at a very soft level so as not to attract any unwanted attention. Dasha hated the Soviet regime, and I could understand why. Dimitri asked if I had encountered any gangs or robbings on the trains through from Mongolia to Yekaterinburg. Apparently the less-travelled-by-foreigners east-west route had been a mobsters playground since the Iron Curtain had come crashing down. Dimitri said he knew several people whod been victims of vicious train crimes, and also knew people who had done the bashing. I said I hadnt encountered anything worse than Sergei the Ulan Ude mental hospital escapee. Train security was obviously a lot tighter now, and between Irkutsk and Ekaterinburg we had the pistol-wielding militsiaman Alexei for company. Dasha and Dimitri decided we should head on to Rosie OGradys Irish pub, a popular expat hangout. Every car in Moscow is a taxi and out on the street Dimitri stopped the first car that comes along. Just stick out your thumb,
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flash some roubles and state your destination. I asked Dimitri if he thought this practice was free enterprise going a bit overboard. We prefer to use the term trade agreement. he replied, like a skilled lawyer who likes to play on words. We pile in to the beaten up little Lada and the car screeches off, the young driver out to impress and/or scare us with his driving prowess. We spend the next ten minutes screaming around the backstreets of central Moscow, the little Lada's back end sliding out from under us around almost every corner in the wet conditions. As we go screaming past a fortress-like wall and guards manning an entrance gate, Dimtri points it out to be the headquarters of the Russian Army. It is against the law for us to be driving past here. he says cheerfully. Why are we then? I ask. Because we are Russian! Dimtri emphasises with a huge grin. I like their style.

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Moscow: 1 degrees C (scorcher!) Today was always going to be a complete bastard of a day. It was still unclear who was responsible for the visa mess-ups, the Russian consulate or my visa sponsoring agency back home. Either way, the day was a total misery. Throw shitty sleet-carrying wind and sad sack Muscovites into the equation and the result was yours truly wishing hed paid more attention to someone at home when they said Id be better off holidaying in Dapto for a few weeks. The day got off to a flying start with the Rossiya hotel staff phoning my stylishly communist room three times with orders for my sorry foreign butt to vacate the premises by twelve noon, no exceptions. Russian Hospitality is an oxymoron in Moscow. Several heated phone calls to various Rossiya management types followed before the hotel finally relented, giving me until 7pm to produce the extension - or else. In the end I got so pissed off at hearing the same less-than-cordial line over and over that I demanded to know who exactly it would be personally escorting me to the Russian frontier, and exactly which frontier was that going to be as I still hadnt obtained a transit visa for Belarus. The knobs in hotel management couldnt answer me that. Just produce the extension - or else - was the order.
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It had been arranged for me to meet a woman named Helen at an Intourist bureau in some obscure back street of Moscow at 10am. Finding my way there using the Metro was a hassle in itself, although the sight of two stray German Shepherds barking wildly at comrade commuters on the underground platform at Kitai-Gorod injected a bit of dark humour into my morning. Good doggies, dont stop, these people deserve it. Three metro stops, a crowd of beggar and a fair amount of confused wandering around the back lanes of Turgenevskaya later, I found the Intourist office hidden down a dingy little alleyway. Helen at Intourist told me straight away how lucky I was to have located their office. She didnt mention my being an hour and a half late, and I didnt mention that Id just spent the best part of two hours turning my city map upside down trying to find the damn place. Every Muscovite I had approached for directions refused to be of any assistance, then went back to wallowing on in their own silent miseries. Once again it was those poolside sessions of learning Cyrillic that finally led me to find the place. The one-day visa extension was a rip-off at $75US, and I knew there was no point in trying to prove to the government that my plight was all their fault. Helen seemed genuinely sympathetic towards me, but as a
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middle-management employee in a fucked up system she didnt have the power of a magic wand. The extension wasnt going to be ready for collection until 6pm. My passport was required for the hurdle through the bureaucratic red tape. In its place I was handed a typed sheet of paper with all my details on it should I be stopped by the meet n greet militsia for passport control. With the rest of the day free and the situation looking up, I thought Id use the afternoon to do some more sightseeing. But things didnt work out that way. Upon my return to the Rossiya I was denied access to the elevator area. My hotel pass had now expired and there was no way the hired goons in security were letting me get up to my floor, let alone anywhere near my stylishly communist room and my belongings. More heated arguments with authorised officials followed and after almost forty minutes of getting nowhere the hotel staff relented and grudgingly granted me permission to access my room. 7pm and you are out. the middle-aged bitch on floor reception greets me with a snarl. Fuck you too, commie slag.
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By now I could no longer be bothered being angry. The way I was being treated as a full-paying international guest rated right up there somewhere between raw sewerage and a heroin dealer. Id come to the conclusion that there were two very different kinds of Russians - the friendly help-you-out type living east of the Urals who call themselves Siberians, and the class-A fucking idiots who call themselves Muscovites. I was glad Id travelled along the less-popular east-to-west route otherwise my opinion of Muscovites would have prematurely reflected on the Siberians, and I probably would have come to the conclusion that all Russians suck the big one. Finally, at 7:30pm, half an hour after my official hospitality has expired Im back at the Rossiya with a freshly-stamped visa slip in my hot little hand. Registration with the hotel staff. More red tape. Registration with the hotels Intourist desk. Even more red tape. By 9pm I was way too exhausted to bother giving Dacha and Dimitri a call, or to even head out for a night stroll around central Moscow. Instead I spent the evening in my stylishly communist room watching the ready supply of shitty black and white Soviet-era World War II movies on TV. Propaganda is the only suitable word to
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describe the heroic and valiant Reds winning every battle against the Germans, and after the events of today I unashamedly found myself barracking for Team Swastika.

The headline Jailhouse Beauty Pageant Captivates Lithuania on the front page of todays Moscow Times newspaper put a laugh into my all-too-serious day. Reality TV might be a product of the western world but it would seem we could learn a lot from the former Soviet republic. Last week the Miss Captivity Pageant became the runaway sensation of Lithuanian television ratings. What had started out as a ratings gimmick snowballed into mesmerizing armchair viewing, with two out of every three Lithuanian lounge lizards glued to their TV sets as the female inmates of Panevezys Correctional House strutted their stuff on a catwalk behind brick walls and concertina wire. The crimes committed by the pageant contestants ranged from the smallest to the gravest up to and including murder. A raven-haired twenty-one year old by the name of Samantha (not her real name) took out the coveted title of
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Miss Captivity. The pretty prisoner looks forward to receiving the 4000 lita prize money, payable on her release. Samantha (not her real name) is currently serving a five year stretch for an undisclosed crime, although she may be released sometime in the next year for good behaviour. Will the runners-up seek shower block retribution on Samantha (not her real name) for allegedly sabotaging fellow inmates pageant dresses before she walks to freedom? Stay tuned

Moscow - Warsaw: -2 degrees C (stinker) After rushing about this morning like a total madman trying to secure a transit visa for Belarus ($45US on the spot, and the embassy staff were helpful and friendly), I managed to squeeze in some last-minute sightseeing. For the final time I had no luck getting into Lenins mausoleum for a first-hand look at the Red Dead Dude. The militsia had barricaded the mausoleum again, and they werent telling why. Two men taking photos of each other in front of the mausoleum was to be the final straw in the case of Muscovites proving themselves to be a group of people the rest of the world should learn to ignore completely.
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While the two men were busy perfecting their stern, stylishly communist poses for the camera, I asked if they would take my photo of me using my camera. One of the men looked me dead in the eye, and with the bluntness of a bowling ball, said no. Both men then turned and walked away, off to have a miserable time elsewhere I guessed. Another miserable memory was the trip to the post office. The stamps refused to stick to my postcards, and the babushka behind the counter went off at me like it was my fault. A grungy-looking Muscovite queuing behind me showed a casual interest in my heated expletives, and in perfect mimicry kept repeating the word fuck over and over with a huge grin of understanding. The babushka behind the counter angrily threw me a tub of glue (which looked and smelt like honey) and a little paintbrush and I had to glue the stamps to the postcards. Moscow - where even postage stamps are hostile Red Square was slippery under the thin cover of snow that had fallen overnight, and it was good fun spotting Muscovites going ass up at random on the slushy footpaths. I stopped at a street stall, one amongst hundreds selling the ubiquitous Matryoshka dolls. Amongst various other bits of junk the tout running the stall brought my attention to a pile of Soviet military decorations. The street stall entrepreneur wasted no time with his sales pitch.
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The Order of Lenin! the tout announced proudly, displaying the medal across the back of his hand. You need one! How much? I asked, disinterested. This is a highly prized medal. It is the highest of all Soviet decorations, awarded only to the best of the best! How much? The Order of Lenin is the same as your Congressional Medal of Honour. It is very rare! Im not American! I protested, disgusted at being mistaken for a Yank. Oh? You are English then! This medal is genuine my friend, this is valuable! HOOWWWW MUUUCCHHH? Three dollars, US. The shameless tout was still trying to flog me the worthless commie relic as I walked away from the stall in quiet amusement.
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I vacated my room at the monstrous Hotel Rossiya with a farewell fuck the lot of you, have a shit life and made my way via the metro to Belarusskaya train station for the 3:40pm train to Warsaw via Minsk. Figuring out the Metro route was a breeze this time, partly because it was now familiar enough, but largely because of a friendly woman named Olga who ran a souvenir shop in an underpass near Red Square. Olga explained the quickest route to get to Belarusskaya, and even offered to take me there personally. The young woman was a welcome breath of fresh air in the asshole atmosphere that lingered over Moscow. It was a surprise to learn that Olga had visited Australia, where she had stayed with a sponsor family in Peppermint Grove, one of Perths most prestigious postcodes. The affluence of Peppermint Grove must have been a lot different to the effluence of Moscow. Olga said it had been very difficult to secure a visa to Australia, as the Russian government werent too keen to allow one of their own visit a place that may just change their mind about returning home. The fact that Olga wasnt married at the time almost cost her the chance of visiting Australia, but things worked out fine after cutting through
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a mountain of red tape higher than Everest. I asked if she wanted to return to Russia after experiencing the Australian way of life. Of course, my family is here. she said. On my way into the Metro I was stopped for a fourth and final time by the militsia for good old passport control. It was the first time the militsia hinted at being friendly. One of the officers apologised for the hassle and wished me a safe journey to Poland.

Belarusskaya made me gasp for fresh air. The filthy black smoke engulfing the entire station was so thick you could have cut it with a blunt knife. This time I was on the platform looking at my train an hour and a half before the ticketed departure time. Hindsight is always 20/20. The train belonged to PKP Polish railways, and although not as comfortable as the Trans-Siberian trains, Id managed to score a three-berth kupe all to myself. Belarusskaya station, with long distance trains sitting at its platforms made me believe that Id just stepped back fifty years in time. It was only the choking thick locomotive smoke that kept my head in the present day.
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In one of the stations shops I stocked up on some food for the overnight transit through Belarus. The middleaged woman serving me was all smiles, and turned my hand signal shopping techniques into a good laugh for both of us. I too was all smiles when the train started moving away from the platform. The carriage was mostly occupied by a Polish volleyball team on their way home from Moscow, having finished runners-up to the Russian side in the final. The conductor, a little old Polish lady, found an English speaker amongst the volleyballers to help me fill out the customs declaration form, which was written entirely in Cyrillic. The afternoon passed uneventful. I kicked back in the privacy of my own kupe and began to unwind after the fiasco of the previous few days.

There wasnt a samovar on which to heat a tinned meal so I cooked my dinner on the coal boiler at the end of the carriage. A Russian man smoking a cigarette by the boiler watched me with silent interest for a few minutes before turning into a smart ass.
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You are crazy. he scoffed, taking a drag on his cigarette. Maybe, but Im the one eating a hot meal tonight, fool. The little old conductor lady appeared at the boiler and invited me to use her kupe stove. The kind old duck also made me a pot of hot fresh coffee to have with dinner. It was slightly chilly in my kupe so I used a towel to stop the freezing night air creeping in through a gap in the window. The heater worked, but a blowfly sitting on its metal bars still would have shivered. Settling into my bunk I gazed out and up at the amazing starry skies of the northern hemisphere while the train hammered on through the night towards Belarus. Sleep came in little more than short intervals of shuteye thanks to drunken clowns banging on my kupe door at random intervals during the night. I had to unlock the door and check for some one every time; the first time it had been the little old conductor lady with some timetable information, and at some stage of the night wed all be woken to go through border crossing formalities. At God-only-knows oclock of predawn the train rolled into the bogey-changing shed at Brest on the Belarus side of the Polish frontier. Once inside the long shed the train rolled to a halt and was then hydraulically lifted off the
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rails. Railway workmen busied themselves changing bogey gauges for the Polish tracks. I didnt envy the railway workers going about their jobs in the freezing cold. The entire process took around an hour before we rolled out the other side to be greeted by the Belarus authorities for immigration. The senior Belarus immigration officer came to my kupe door, snapped to attention and saluted. It was hard not to laugh at this Eastern European version of Colonel Klink, and I struggled to keep a straight face. But the mere formalities soon degraded into an argument with Belarus Klink. Id been having these a lot in the past couple of days, and felt I was getting good at them. It started when Klink handed back my passport but not my Russian visa slip. I informed Klink that I needed the slip as proof of my visa problems (not to mention a souvenir), and that I wanted it back. This was all it took to fire Klink up. He not-so-quietly told me it had expired, and demanded an explanation. I showed him the fresh extension stamp, which he had overlooked. Klink glared at me, then disappeared off down the carriage with his gun-toting subordinates. I just snapped. Id had a gutful of being treated like a piece of shit by wankers on oppression-inspired ego trips. I stormed out of the kupe and down the carriage, yelling
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after Klink to make him understand the situation. Ill admit it wasnt exactly one of the better ideas Ive ever had. In an angry rage Klink doubled back to crush my argument in one foul swoop. MR. SAMOOL! MR. SAMOOL! RUSSIAN VISA, MY VISA! he yelled in my face, almost popping blood vessels in his neck. Klink ordered his underlings to search my kupe. I was ordered to stand in the passageway and had to watch in silence as Klinks gun-toting underlings gleefully pulled my pack to pieces. The search turned up nothing, as I knew it wouldnt. But I still had the worry of being pinned for some other made-up act of treason by Colonel Klink. MR. SAMOOL! RUSSIAN VISA, MY VISA! Klink yelled in my face again before storming off to the next carriage with his subordinates in tow. Why a Belarus official got to keep my Russian visa had me stumped. Two passengers who spoke a bit of English told me to let it be, and to go back into my kupe before things really got out of hand. The nervous looks on their faces made me nervous as well, and the thought of sharing a Minsk jail cell with a Belarussian Bubba
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forced me to listen to them. After a long wait at Brest to clear immigration, the train rolled slowly over the border into Terespol on the Polish side of the fence for the same procedure. This time there was a bit more politeness and a lot less fuss. We departed Terespol just before dawn, leaving me a few hours to get some much-needed sleep before rolling into Warsaw.

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Partyin with the Poles

Fitting communism onto Poland is like putting a saddle on a cow. - Josef Stalin There is no such thing as a bad Polish beer. - Ryszard Grzybek

Name: Republic of Poland Capital: Warsaw, 1.75 million Population: 39 million Government: Parliamentary Republic Currency: Zloty, literally meaning gold.

Warsaw: -7 degrees C (tropical) Annihilated during World War II, Warsaw or Varshahvah in Polish, is essentially a postwar city. No other Polish city suffered as much devastation or loss of life as Warsaw during the war, and by 1945 the place was little more than a smouldering ruin razed to the ground. Amongst calls for the capital to be moved elsewhere, the Old Town was meticulously rebuilt from original plans that had somehow managed to survive the Third Reich.
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After the fall of communism, they grey face of Warsaw began changing dramatically, transforming itself into a modern city with a very unique history. The train rolled into Warsaw shortly after 8am. Trying to sleep through the remainder of the journey after the border crossing proved to be impossible, and I sat looking through tired eyes out the window as we passed by farms and farmhouses scattered across the Polish countryside. I was too exhausted to be excited about arriving into a new country, and I felt like a bag of shit. A girl named Anna (who I had prearranged via Globalfreeloaders.com to stay with in Warsaw) met me off the train at Warsaw Centrum. We took a bus to her apartment on the virtually tourist-free eastern side of the Vistula River. Warsaw looked extremely drab, and my first impression of the Polish capital was miserable Moscow. Annas apartment block was a typical grey concrete high-rise slab surrounded by more grey high-rise concrete slabs. The elevator was out of order, so it was a fourstorey stairwell climb with my pack up to the apartment. Anna lived alone in the little one bedroom dwelling, which featured a tiny kitchen, an even tinier bathroom, and a small lounge room.
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Anna was all too eager to familiarise me with her country even before Id had a chance to drop my pack and sort through a few things. She asked what I knew about her country, and then wanted to know why I didnt know so much about Poland after all. Annas English was reasonably good, but it was wrapped in a strong local accent, making it difficult to catch on to everything she said. I dont mention this to Anna, but I may as well have. She was proving to be a very assertive sort of girl, and was quick to point out that my English wasnt exactly English, rather, I spoke a distorted version of the Queens tongue. And to kick me while I was down Anna added that she spoke English the way the English had intended it to be spoken. I was sick of arguments and totally agreed with everything she had to say. A visit to the nearby supermarket revealed the secret to Annas weight, or rather, total lack of it. The girl seemed to eat hardly anything and as a result she was thinner than a teen movie plot. According to Anna meat was only eaten by bloodthirsty murderers. And as I soon discovered, so was anything else I found myself wanting to eat. Every item of food I showed a cursory interest in immediately came under Annas scrutiny. So much scrutinising in fact that my food wish list was reduced to the few meagre choices that didnt disrespect our bodies or the planet on
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which we lived. But there was no way I was going to see Warsaw on a staple of lentils and rice biscuits. Anna was adamant she wouldnt have the murdering foulness of mincemeat in her refrigerator, and I was adamant that I needed to eat proper food because of the added strains of being on the road. She finally gave in, and I was allowed to bring home some freshly-slaughtered bovine on the strict condition that I thoroughly cleaned the sacrilegious taste of carnivore off her kitchen utensils when I was done eating. The thought of Anna and myself being alone together in her apartment for any length of time was, quite frankly, beginning to freak me out. I could have always made a run for it - I was under no obligation to stay - but perversely, I decided to stay and see what the girl had to say next. Leaving the supermarket stoked I was allowed to eat Satans Cuisine in Annas home, we headed to a nearby well to fill some plastic water containers. Warsaws tap water is so badly polluted that half the citys population wont drink it. Instead of the reddy-brown muck that sprouts from household taps the locals drink Oligocene water taken from wells several hundred metres deep. There are over one hundred and fifty such wells in
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Warsaw, and around a third are accessible to the public. The wells are squeaky-clean versions of public toilet blocks, and people carrying water bottles to and from them is a common sight. The locals have a deep respect for their precious supplies of drinkable water and the well we visited would have been one of the few public amenities in Warsaw not covered in grafitti. Back at the apartment with my tasty meat treat stored carefully away from what mouse servings of food there were in the refrigerator, Anna started up again on my lack of knowledge on everything Poland. She handed me a book entitled A Xenophobes Guide to Poland and told me to read it - right then and there. Sensing an outburst if I didnt I got busy reading the guide, but put it down to do other things as soon as Anna left for a while to visit her parents. She returned an hour later, and asked if Id read the whole guide. I said that Id gotten through half of it and besides, ski jumping was on TV. Surprisingly, this seemed to please Anna, and she asked if I knew who Adam Malysz was. I said Id never heard of the bloke. You should know who Adam Malysz is! He is Polands ski-jumping hero! Anna boasted, before asking if Australia had a sporting hero.
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Take your pick I told her, Weve got so many were giving them away. From the look on Annas face I knew she understood sarcasm. We watched the ski jumping for the rest of the afternoon. Adam Malysz, Polish demigod, did well, finishing in a respectable fourth place. Anna, mistakenly believing she had a sense of humour, started telling Adam Malysz jokes. Heres one I nearly laughed at: Two birds are flying along having a chat. One bird says to the other bird I think Adam Malysz is quite rude. Hes been flying with us for half an hour and he still hasnt said hello! Hmmm.

A loud burp of gluttony was the perfect end to the first home cooked meal Id eaten since being on the road (eaten with neither guilt nor remorse I might add). While I was cleaning up after myself Anna spied my travellers tube of Vegemite. Inviting her to try some, she first checked to make sure there were no offensive ingredients listed on the side label. She then smothering a slice of bread with a two-ply thick layer of the stuff. Somehow, I intentionally failed to mention to Anna that we dont
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usually put half a tube on a single slice but seeing how it was Anna. Anna couldnt get enough of the vegemite. She was genuinely excited by how similar it tasted to soy beans. There might yet be hope for planet Earth. It crossed my mind to mention the special taste of vegemite came from its saturated pig fat content but that would have only triggered Anna back into anorexic-for-a-good cause mode, just like in the supermarket.

Name day anniversaries are very important in Poland. Poles celebrate either their birthday or their name day, which is celebrated according to the day of the year that their Saint name day (most Poles are named after saints) falls on. Today just happened to be the name day of Saints Maury and Andrzej and one of Annas friends, a Warsaw University student named Andrzej had invited us along to the student dorms to celebrate his special occasion. I spent the afternoon quietly looking forward to meeting and partying on with some Poles who were a somewhat less scattered than my host.

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Annas girlfriend Iwan collected us from the apartment. Iwan and I hit it off immediately. She an attractive girl, and more appealing was the fact that she was also quite normal. Iwan made a nice change to the standard of conversation Id been having so far. We arrived at the dorm with a snow-filled bucket of Zywiec to find the party just heating up. With a warm welcome shots of vodka were passed around, complimented with slices of sour cucumber to soothe the throat in the burning afterglow. Vodka is as much the national drink of the Poland as it is of Russia, and its a bone of contention between the two nations as to who actually invented the stuff. Anna asked me if I planned on getting drunk, saying she wouldnt tolerate a drunkard in her home. I told her I was on a mission to get totally shit-faced. She had absolutely no idea what I was on about, and thankfully soon drifted into a no drinking/no eating/no fun of any description party mode. Andrzej, the Name Day lad, was having a blast of a time, which no doubt had something to do with the countless Absolwent vodka shots being passed his way. Two of the uni crew, good mates Arty and Marty, fed themselves and me shot after shot of the lethal human anti-freeze with sour cucumber chasers. In the end I couldnt down any more shots without gagging, and
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convinced the pair that it might be a good idea if I stuck to pivo. Besides the bucket of Zywiec Id also brought along a bottle of Wild Turkey which Id carried with me all the way from Australia. The students studied the bottles contents with suspicion, and after Marty downed a shot and declared that it tasted like dirty vodka no one else would touch the stuff. As the beers and vodkas sloshed down our throats and down our fronts, I joined in on the Name Day tradition of wax fortune telling. Melted wax is poured carefully through the end hole of a key and into a bucket of cold water. The cooled solid wax shape is then silhouetted against a wall and fortunes are told. My wax pouring effort resulted in not much more than a big solid blob which closely resembled well, a big solid blob. The uni students interpreted my future as being fat, very cryptic indeed. Partying hard with the uni students caught up with me some time in the early hours, as did the complete lack of sleep over the past two days. I staggered outside the noisy party room and laid down on the bare concrete floor. Overcome with tiredness I managed little more than jumbled small talk with some of the students passing by my messy heap.

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I dont recall Iwan driving us back to Annas, except for having to scrape a thick cover of fresh snow off her car before we could go anywhere, and a street brawl involving some big men, a fair amount of blood, and Anna screaming hysterically beside me in the back seat. The university crew had been an awesome bunch to party on with, and just when I thought Id left the compulsory shots of vodka behind in Russia, it seemed the Poles werent taking no for an answer when it came to the evil anti-freeze either.

Warsaw: -3 degrees C (sweatbox) Waking up to no signs of a hangover whatsoever and feeling fresh after a half decent sleep, it was time to check out the city sights. Anna gave me detailed instructions on the bus route to take and the exact spot to get off in town. I told her Id figure it out, but she wasnt so sure. Twenty minutes later I was in downtown Warsaw, stoked Anna had other things to do today. Everything was grey. The sky was grey, the buildings were concrete-grey, the streets were a slush-grey colour, even the waters of the snow-lined Vistula were an icy
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gloom. It was a dark winters day but Warsaw was bustling. Heavy build ups of ice and snow on rooftops and awnings are one of the more dangerous winter hazards in Warsaw. The build up has a tendency to break away in silence and plummet heavily to splat on the pavement. As I trailed behind two women along Nowy Swiat one such large chunk of ice gave way from the awning above. It missed the women by mere inches, giving them one hell of a fright. I walked the remainder of Nowy Swiat with my head in a generally upwards direction, keeping a cautious eye out for any more random ice bombs. Just when it seemed as if Warsaw had little more to offer than a dull monotone colour scheme, the Old Town section of the city came colourfully into view. After World War II Warsaws Old Town, or Stare Miasto, was completely rebuilt from rubble using the surviving original plans of the quarter. The level of destruction in 1945 was set at an official ninety percent. The post-war aim was to rebuild the Old Town back to its 17th and 18th century appearance, and today there isnt a single building that looks a year younger than a few centuries, rightfully earning itself a place on UNESCOs world heritage list. Stare Miasto has the appearance of a colourful fairytale town complete with cobblestone streets and narrow
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laneways. The buildings, most three to four storeys high, are brightly painted and uniquely decorated in sharp contrast to adjoining buildings. Every brick in every building, every cobblestone in every street, and every statue and fountain has been so intricately reconstructed to the original plans that its almost impossible to believe that just over fifty years ago all that existed here was a massive sea of rubble and destruction. The Old Town Square (rynek) is one the of the most attractive in Poland. In the middle of the cobblestone square theres a statue of a mermaid, the symbol of Warsaw. Half caked with snow, the mermaid made me shiver just looking at her. Another great feature of the Old Town is the Barbican, a semicircular fortress-like gate that leads into the quarter. There are four such gates in Europe, one other of which is further south in the Polish city of Krakow. Near the Barbican some axe-wielding executioners dressed in period costumes were offering the chance to put ones head on the chopping block and experience the feel of a cold steel axe blade on the back of the neck. Unlike the good old days, you walked away from this chopping block with your head still firmly attached to your shoulders. Your head, your price was the executioners fee for a good laugh.

*
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It gets dark early in wintertime in Poland. Around 3pm the light began to fade and by four-thirty it was night time proper. I was in no rush to head back to Annas; no need for me to explain why. Instead I took a walk past the offensively-ugly Palace of Science and Culture. A present from Stalin to the Poles, the building was one of eight such Moscow-planned constructions intended to rival the famous skyscrapers of New York. Built when most of Warsaw was in still in ruins, the palace was, and still is reviled by most of the citys residents, earning itself countless nicknames and insults from the Russian wedding cake to the vertical barracks. Its interesting history doesnt change the fact that its one grotesque high rise, and one that enjoys unobstructed views from any angle. Stalin sure knew how to ruin a town.

A cabbie refused to take me to a particular internet caf, saying it was so close I should walk there. Forty minutes walk in the dark cold later I found the place along Jana Pawla II Avenue. I wondered what the Pope thought of Warsaws red-light district being on the street named in his honour.

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I later learned that this district was the site of Warsaws Jewish ghetto, a 307-hectare area sealed off by a threemetre high wall. In the summer of 1942 the Nazis began a massive liquidation campaign and around three hundred thousand Jews living in the subhuman conditions were transported to the Treblinka death camp. In April 1943, with the final liquidation of the ghetto under way, the remaining Jews surviving inside the walled compound took up arms against the Nazis. The fierce fighting lasted for nearly three weeks before the Jewish command bunker was overrun. Around thirteen thousand Jews perished in the uprising before what remained of the Warsaw Ghetto was razed to the ground. Today very few remnants of the Jewish legacy remain and he district is now a crisscrossed mesh of wide, long streets, peep-shows and office blocks.

Returning to Annas apartment around 10pm, Im accused of stinking of cigarettes. I tell Anna that I dont smoke, and that it was from being in a smoky cafe. You have been drinking also! she says in a huff. I did in fact have one pivo while I was at the internet
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caf, and explained to Anna that I didnt drink any more than that because I wasnt in the mood. No, you are lying, you have been drinking quite heavily! she barked, obviously on one of her scattered trains of thought and looking for an argument. I might have been a guest in her home but there was no way I was copping abuse for something I hadnt done. I told Anna that if she was going to keep up the accusations then I had no problem at all with finding a hostel in town. Anna chucked a mental u-turn when she saw me thumbing through the pages of my guidebook for hostel locations around town. Then as Im rolling out my sleeping bag on the lounge, Anna asks if Im coming to bed - hers. Im already in mine. I tell her coldly, and goodnight. She stormed off to her bedroom without a word.

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Warsaw - Zakopane: 2 degrees C (hot stuff) I thought about staying on in Warsaw for one more day but when I awoke to the sight of Anna eating a monster breakfast of half a rice biscuit it just seemed like a good idea to get moving again. I caught a bus to Warsaw Centrum and for no particular reason decided the ski resort town of Zakopane in the south of Poland was where I wanted to go. A man at the railway information office said there was only the one night train going to Zakopane, and advised me not to ride it alone for fear of gang attacks. I wanted to leave Warsaw regardless. Krakow was my next choice and I bought a ticket for the 2pm train. With a few hours to kill before the train I decided to take another wander back through the remarkable Old Town and have some lunch. I was supposed to call Anna and make a time to meet to return her spare set of apartment keys, but I didnt feel like seeing anything of Anna except the back end of her. I decided to mail her the keys from further south. Besides being a real credit to dementia, the girl had completely demolished my tube of vegemite, a criminal act in a place where no more can be found to replace it. Id been warned to keep my wits about me at Warsaw Centrum as it had a reputation for thieves ready to relieve travellers of their personal belongings. In the past two
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days Id heard personal accounts of train robbings, platform bashings, and one case of a gang using capsicum spray on passengers travelling alone in train compartments. Waiting for the Krakow train I sat against a concrete pillar keeping a sharp eye on my gear and anyone suspicious looking, whatever that means. The two-and-a-half hour trip south to Krakow passed without incident. I shared the eight-seater compartment held four Poles, and our I thought our group made an unlikely vigilante posse. From the outskirts of Warsaw to Krakow the landscape varied little from farms and farmhouses, the occasional small town and not a lot else in between. No one in the compartment said a lot, and I kicked back with some AC/DC and watched the flat landscape roll by. About an hour into the journey the middle-aged man sitting across from me whipped out a bible and began whispered prayer recitals of the Roman Catholic variety. Poland is almost autonomously a catholic nation, no real surprise considering one of their most famous expats just happens to be PJP II himself. By 4pm it was pitch black. If someone had told me it was midnight I would have believed them. Shortly before our arrival into Krakow the Polish man sitting next to me introduced himself as Edward. Edward said hed just returned from Sweden, where hed bought some new tools for his carpentry business. Edward was heading
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home to his village, which was a short distance from Zakopane. He told me there were regular buses going to Zakopane, and that Id have no problem getting a seat. I decided on the spot to make for Zakopane; its where I wanted to be in the first place. Krakow wouldnt be going anywhere in the next few days. The bus to Zakopane departed within ten minutes of our train arriving into Krakow. The fare for the trip south on the private coachline was seven zloty, or the whopping equivalent of $2.50 for riding in total coach comfort. As the bus headed out of Krakow Edward talked about how hard life was for the large majority of Polish families, who were surviving on an average yearly wage of around $9000. Poland was readying itself to become a member of the European Union, which was due to happen some time in the next two to three years. From what Edward said, it seemed Poland had a hell of a lot of work to do in a very short period of time, and there were bound to be plenty of teething problems. Its just another cog in the wheels of change from the days of being a Soviet Satellite to becoming a free and capitalist nation operating under its own steam. With good conversation the coach trip passed quickly and before we knew it the coach arrived at Edwards stop. With a handshake and wishes for a safe journey, I was left
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to my thoughts for the short run into Zakopane. The moment the coach arrived into ulitsa Koscuiszko in Zakopane I knew Id made a good choice escaping the cities. The place had a relaxed mountain atmosphere about it, and would be a welcome change to the dominating greyness of the cities. Zakopane: This mountain resort town of 30,000 nestled at the foot of the Tatras is Polands winter sports capital, attracting a couple of million tourists every year. Zakopane has continued to steadily develop, but has fortunately managed to avoid the concrete high rises typical of most Polish urban centres, leaving the town with a true mountain village feel. Inquiring at a fast food shop as to which is the best hostel in town, the two young girls behind the counter recommend Dom Turysty, located right in the heart of Zakopane. Finding the place, I thought I had the wrong address. I was looking at what closely resembled a huge Bavarian mountain mansion, not the simple youth hostel I had been expecting. Entering the spacious and welldecorated reception area Im sure Im going to be told this is a serious zloty only hotel, and that the hostel, no doubt a dim and grim affair, was located somewhere behind this stylish building.

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But the girl behind the counter dispels any doubts I have. This is the hostel, and at 21 zloty a nights stay is a real bargain. I enter my assigned dorm to find two Canucks and an Irishman having a little party. The table is littered with food and beer bottles, empty and full. The three travellers tell me we are the only ones staying in the 469 bed hostel, and as of tomorrow itll be only myself for company, unless of course other travellers show up. One of the Canucks, Tim, was heading south into Slovakia just for the hell of it while the other Canuck, Bart, and Fitzy, an Irishman were heading for Krakow. Bart had the advantage of being able to speak fluent Polish, which meant a lower nightly rate when staying in hostels. With Polish parents and a Canadian passport, Bart considered himself to be Canolish. My total lack of Polish language skills had been cause for slight apprehension before arriving into the country. I had no idea how to say even the simplest of everyday things, and no idea how many Poles I would come across that spoke English. Warsaw had shown that if I needed to ask somebody something, ask the younger generations; the chances were good chance that theyd know some rudimentary English at the very least. A lot different to Russian, Polish is not the easiest of languages to get a handle on, and the majority of my word pronunciations
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came out sounding like pathetic tongue twisters. A few local brews, a trip to the 24-hour supersam supermarket and many conversations back in our dorm later, the lads have me all filled in on Zakopane and the hiking trails in the surrounding Tatra mountains. The small comforts are often the best; the shower heads are huge, the water is hot, my bunk is soft and warm, and it feels great to holed up in a beautiful mountain location and away from the noise and pollution of the cities.

Zakopane: -4 degrees C (sizzling!) After farewelling my dormies and returning ten empty beer bottles from the previous night to supersam (3 zloty for my efforts) I took a wander around the mountain township, enjoying the fresh change of pace. Imagine my surprise to find Id received an email from Anna, with the serious subject line heading Four Questions. The note was short and sweet: 1. Where are you? 2. Where are my keys?
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3. When will my keys be back in my possession? 4. Has something happened that you left Warsaw so suddenly? I didnt reply, having already been to the post office earlier on in the day with the keys. I saw no real benefit beyond the slightly amusing in maintaining a long distance friendship with an anorexic vegan psychopath with a penchant for false accusations. The lads at Dom Turysty had warned me about the serious lack of legal-age women around town. They were a minority group amongst the legion of teenie boppers that plagued Zakopane. Along ulitsa Krupowki, the central pedestrian mall lined with restaurants, cafes and souvenir stalls, the Teenie Bopper Battalion was out in full force, their mummies and daddies nowhere to be seen. Crowded fast food stores looked more like Kids in the Kitchen, while the licensed establishments were lucky to attract the few people around that had come of age. I know this because it was in one such quiet drinking hole that I purposely wasted a few hours of the afternoon, staying well out of the way of the Teenie Battalions before returning to the 469-bed hostel, population me.

*
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Hiking in the Tatras: Having taken care of some domestic routines I found a tourist office and purchased a Tatrzanski Park map. The map came with Bart and the lads recommendations. Theyd used it for their trek up to the Dolina Pieciu Stowow hostel, the highest and most scenic mountain hostel in the Polish Tatras. This mountain shack was my goal. The lads had filled me in on what to take along on the two day hike: a day pack with my sleeping bag ocky strapped to it, some food and all-essential bog roll. After a quick visit to supersam once more I was ready to take on the Tatras. From Zakopane it was a scenic forty-minute ride up a winding mountain road to Polana Palenica, which marked the national park entrance and the end of the road for buses. The bus had been full when we left Zakopane and by the time we reached the higher-altitude, buried-in-mist village of Bukowina Tatrzanska only three passengers remained - myself, a Polish girl and a man carrying an equipped mountaineers pack. Figuring he might be heading in my general direction, I showed him my map and destination. Youre crazy, he said, you might just make it there before dark. The mountaineer was going over into Slovakia for a few days of mountain goat imitation, and
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was heading off in another direction to me. Five minutes later we arrived at the Poland/Slovakia border crossing point. Flags of both nations hung lifelessly on poles on either side of the little bridge that marked the territorial line. Good luck, man! the mountaineer called out as he and the girl jumped off the bus. Now it was only the driver and myself. Visibility closed to about ten feet in front of the bus, and the higher we climbed the winding road the thicker fog became. Id left Zakopane a little later than intended, so I made a back up plan to stop for the night at the Roztoce mountain hostel if it looked like darkness was going to beat me to Dolina Pieciu. A few minutes past the border crossing we reached the bus turning circle at Polina Palenica. Several groups of trekkers sat idly around small fires by the entrance to the national park, waiting for their rides back down to the town. Shouldering my light pack I set off into the fog, commencing the long slow ascent up to the hostel. I passed two small groups of trekkers who were on their way out of the park, and a lone border patrol soldier brandishing a special forces-style semi-automatic rifle. I said gday to him as I passed by and he gave a friendly wave.
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Every now and then I stopped to check my bearings. With no idea of the time (no watch) to gauge my trip time it was almost impossible to tell just how far I had ascended the trail that roughly followed the route of a tarred road. What precious little light of day remained was quickly fading, but there was no cause for immediate alarm. I knew Id be safe enough sticking to the road, even if it meant a slightly longer route. Rounding a trail head I caught a glimpse of spectacular snow-covered mountains looming ahead and above in the distance. The view instantly killed the feeling of tired legs. Around twenty minutes later I passed three daytrekkers, and asked if they could pinpoint our exact location on my map. Between the three of them they couldnt quite tell either. One said that the hostel I wanted was a further twenty minutes up the road. The second said he wasnt too sure, and the third said he had no idea, admitting straight up to being completely lost. I continued on up the trail into the pending darkness. The light soon disappeared altogether but there was still enough road visible to keep going. Besides the sounds of mountain river water rushing by in a valley far below there was no other sound except silence. Using my torch I stopped to study a wooden signpost by the trail. It showed no indication of hostel names or
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distances, instead there were carved sketches of Tatra fauna, including a big and not-so-friendly-looking brown bear. Great. Keep going. Uphill. Darkness. Aching legs. Uphill. Darkness. A light ahead in the distance. It was a log building off to one side of the road, and as I got closer I could make out the silhouette of someone inside. I spent a few minutes looking for an unlocked entrance into the kiosk building before banging loudly on a window, startling the wits out of a man inside. Overcoming his initial surprise he quickly opened the door and welcomed me inside. Consulting my map we worked out I had overshot the Roztoce hostel by almost three kilometres! Pointing out the road on my map the man then told me the Morskie Oko hostel was two kilometres further ahead, and that the Roztoce hostel was closed. I had hiked straight past it at some point, unawares it wasnt even open. Morskie Oko it was then. Thanking the stranger I set off into the darkness once more. Two kilometres wasnt all that far, and it was my only option. Two very worn out legs later, a single light surrounded by a misty shroud appeared as a speck in the distant darkness, like a locomotive headlight in a long
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dark tunnel. A short time later I was welcomed inside the Morskie Oko hostel by an old lady and a young woman. Morskie Oko hostel is the most popular of the eight mountain hostels in the Tatras and at certain times of year it is extremely busy, with guests often having to settle for floor space when all seventy-seven beds are full. This month just so happened to be the quietest of the whole year, and for a second time I was the sole guest in a hostel. Downstairs in the kitchen the hostels resident cook, a young woman named Katherine, and myself got busy cooking dinner. Katherine lived and worked in the mountain hostel on a three week on/one week off rotation, and was studying to become a preschool teacher in between. Hailing from a little village in the Malapolska (literally, Little Poland) region, Katherine said she sometimes found it difficult to understand Zakopane locals in conversation. The various regions of Poland have their own indigenous dialects, although Polish is the common tongue. Quite amazing in a country that is only roughly seven hundred kilometres from top to bottom and about the same from side to side. As a rough example, twenty-five Polands would fit inside the Australian continent. Katherine served me up two massive Polish potato cakes. They were so big that I struggled to finish them both off.
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I offered to give Katherine a hand with the kitchen duties in return for the mammoth feed, but she insisted that I go and have a chat with the hostels resident mountaineer. Hed know the latest on trail conditions from Morskie Oko up to Dolina Pieciew Stawow. The gruff old mountaineer living in the room across from mine is a wealth of good information. Billy Goat Gruff says hes been up my intended trail only two days before and says that for the best part it was snow and icefree. Winter is a little bit late this year, he says, so you wont need crampons or ice picks anywhere along the six-hour trail. Unless there has been snow since then. Billy Goat Gruff was not impressed when I mention the Roztoce hostel supposedly being closed. Mountain hostels are always open - always. the tough old mountaineer grunts at the misinformation. And for a very good reason as well - they become necessary shelters in less-than-forgiving situations, a common occurrence in any mountains.

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Tatra Mountains: My body clock went off right on time and after an extremely hot and extremely long shower (it looked like being an ice-cold mountain water affair there for a while), I headed downstairs for breakfast. I was in for a huge surprise. Through the large dining room window my eyes fell one of the most exhilarating views Id ever seen. Mt. Rysy, Polands highest peak at 2499 metres loomed high in the crystal clear morning over Morskie Oko lake and the mountain lodge. Rysy was so close that I wanted to reach out and touch its craggy summit. Just as spectacular, albeit slightly shorter, were the peaks on either side of Rysy that formed a semicircular chain high above Mosrkie Oko. The old lady appeared beside me. The look on my face was something she was no doubt used to seeing on other guests. Walking up to the hostel in pitch dark had given no hint at all of the surrounding mountain magic, making this morning one of natures best surprises. Id slept well and was looking forward to a monster mountain breakfast, but my appetite was lost to the lake view. My legs walked me automatically out off the lodge verandah and along the near edge of the lake, which was now in the process of freezing over. Morskie Oko teems with fresh water trout, but theres no chance of throwing a
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line in because were in a national park, and besides, fish arent too keen on that sort of thing. I walked roughly a quarter way around the lake before my stomach got the better of me. Being the only guest in the lodge meant the normal hostel guest rules went straight out the window. The old lady cooked me up a free breakfast fit for a ravenous king, then followed it up with two huge slices of cake. I struggled to finish one slice, and saved the other for on the trail. After a gear check and the old lady making sure I had enough cake to feed a small army I set off the short distance up the road to the trailhead, which would guide me up the eastern face of the Szpiglasowy ridge. From there the trail would descend down the western slope slightly before ascending to the summit of Swistowa Czuba. The trail would then descend to the Dolina Pieciu Stawow mountain hostel, the highest in all the Tatras. The first oh, shit came before Id even left the road. Dwarfed by the towering mountain peaks I was intending to hike over, I thought Id already bitten off more than I could possibly chew. Still, the posted trail time was just over two hours, regardless of trail difficulty. I veered off the road onto the trail, and began a steady climb up the natural rock steps.
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The ascent was easy for the first half an hour; simple foot in front of foot motion and no real signs of my legs complaining. Then on an inclined section of trail my boots began to slip and slide from under me. I couldnt see any ice, but running my hand over the surface of the trail revealed the thinnest of thin layers, like an invisible primer coating. The invisible ice soon turned into visible ice which soon turned into patchy snow cover. I crossed over several snow slides - drifts that began somewhere higher up the mountain face and ended somewhere way down below. One section of the trail had chains bolted at intervals into rocks as it traversed a particularly steep face, and I inched my way cautiously across the precarious icy slope. The more altitude I gained the more spectacular the views became. Soon I was high enough to gaze down over the cradle of mist that blanketed the Roztoci valley. The snow cover thickened from patchy to a full, but I wasnt feeling the cold at all; in fact I was perspiring with exertion. From time to time it was possible to look farther ahead at sections of the trail as they appeared then disappeared, and I felt confident that even with a full snow cover the trail could still be beaten. After climbing for almost an hour I stopped for a rest on the small summit of Szpiglasowy.

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The silence was deafening. Not a single sound, not even the smallest puff of wind or the call of a small bird. Silence. I couldnt recall the last time Id experienced a complete lack of any sound, and I was suddenly overcome with a strange feeling of happy loneliness. And the views were killer, man! The snow cover continued to deepen. My feet began sinking into the white stuff, which meant exerting more energy to move forward. But it was better than having to skate over icy rocks. No snow, my ass! I thought, recalling Billy Goat Gruffs expert advice on trail conditions last night. The slope steepened to such a sharp angle that I now had to use claw my way forward and upward on all fours. I prayed there wasnt a mountain bear in a romantic mood loitering anywhere close by. Then suddenly the trail disappeared. The guiding blue markers were buried under the snow cover, hiding the magic pathway. I looked around for any sign of animal trails. Just like humans they have a preference for the easiest route possible.
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Nothing. Just fresh powder snow. Looking down behind me at the route Id just climbed, I could see the spot where Id stopped for a quick breather. But as close as it seemed it was a good twenty minutes away. I figured the summit of the face I was on couldnt be too far up, but from the angle I was sitting on it was impossible to tell exactly where the summit was. My map was good, but became redundant without any visible trail markers. Not good. I had two choices: turn around and inch my way back down the face looking for the last trail marker, and at worst, make my way back to Morskie Oko and never tell anyone I was a Tatras hiking failure, or push on and hope for the best. Fuck it, keep going. The situation wasnt good but I backed myself on coming out of this one okay. If I could locate the summit there should be a clear view of three lakes and the mountain hostel on the other side. I began crawling upwards and forwards again, double kicking each foot into the snow to make sure I wouldnt be falling anywhere. Billy Goat Gruff had told me about a two
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hundred metre section of trail where I should exercise extreme caution. I thought Id already succeeded whichever section of trail he was talking about further back down the mountain somewhere, but obviously not. My biggest fear was continuing on upwards and forwards on all fours only to find it impossible to go any further. I didnt like the idea of having to inch my way back down. From the small slides of snow Id already caused to tumble off down the face I knew it was a dangerous idea. I did what seemed most appropriate - I laughed. What was I doing alone and stuck on the side of a snow-covered mountain in southern Poland with no proper equipment or professional experience? Twenty minutes slow clawing later I was overjoyed to see the summit appear around thirty metres up ahead. The feeling of a quiet victory over the mountain was almost as good as the view of the chain of three ice-blue lakes in the valley far below. Even better was the reappearance of a trail marker a short distance away on the western face. Far below I couldnt spot the mountain hostel anywhere. A look at my map showed it should be sitting on the bank of the closest of the three lakes. My eyes found the lakeside spot straight away, although it took a little longer to actually make out the lodge itself. It appeared as a small, dark patch that blended naturally into the alpine landscape.
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The frozen views kept me loitering on the summit for a while. The high Tatras were a mixture of dark shrub vegetation, white winter, and an eerie sense of desolation. The three lakes, now ice rinks, reflected perfect stillmirror images of the surrounding peaks, adding spectacular depth to the rugged and unspoilt winter landscape. I turned my concentration back to the trail. Animal prints appeared, imprinted in the snow small and round but obviously the markings of a species of some size and weight - the prints made deeper impressions in the snow than my own two feet did. Im no black tracker but I knew it wasnt Mr. Bear or any of the other bears, which have five-claw paws the size of human hands or bigger. I decided the prints probably belonged to one of Billy Goat Gruffs close relatives. The descending trail proved to be just as tough as the climb had been, a snow trail of endless twists and turns over slippery boulders and loose rocks that tumbled off down the mountain face with every unsure footing. The animal prints guided my path, although there was no way I was following some of the short cuts the animal had taken. Half an hour after leaving the summit, I was at the edge of the closest lake, skimming rocks across its frozen solid surface.
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The trail ended with a short further walk along the lakes edge. Smoke billowing from the mountain hostels chimney just up ahead was a welcome sight. Entering the lodge it took ten minutes worth of calling and whistling before a man appeared from doing some chores. He made me a coffee strong enough to deprive me of sleep for a few days and gave me the latest on the Dolina Roztoki trail conditions. The man said the extended section I wanted further around the lake was open, and free of any apparent dangers. Billy Goat Gruff had told me the complete opposite. The only way to know for sure was to go and find out for myself. I set off from the highest mountain lodge in the Tatras to the extended trailhead of the Roztoki. This trail would lead me all the way down the ravine to the Roztoci hostel, which Id completely missed on the walk up to Morskie Oko. The extended route, which passed by a sizeable flowing waterfall, was easy to navigate. The widening path was solid underfoot with the exception of some moss-covered boulders. The trail showed signs of being well used, and the snow soon reverted back to small patches of ground cover. Around halfway down the valley I passed a group of day-trekkers. Two young men clowned around with a handycam while their girlfriends looked on, unimpressed by their childish antics of
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wrestling each other into the freezing water. I didnt envy them having to walk all the way up the valley to where Id just come from. I made excellent time down the Roztoki trail. After descending into the foliage it wasnt long before I reached the road bridge Id crossed on my way into the Tatras. From here it was just over an hours hike down the road to Polana Palenica and the bus back to Zakopane. Back in the misty darkness of the lower altitude, I passed by a little wooden bridge, where an armed soldier was manning the crossing. Spotting me from the murky distance he beckoned me over and inquired as to where Id just come from. He picked my accent straight away and his attitude changed somewhat, telling me to have a good time in Poland. He then disappeared into the woods in search of illegal immigrants attempting to sneak into his country. Back at Polana Palenica a group of carpenters were constructing a small tourist hut. They had a fire going so I helped myself to its warmth, thawing my bones from the penetrating cold. The carpenters were true craftsmen, using tomahawks to shape perfect slots into large wooden logs, while the women kept themselves busy boiling kettles of water on a stove and sorting piles of wood. Taking a break the workers joined me by their fire. One of
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the men offered me a huge slab of kielbasa that hed cooked on a stick over the fire. The big chunk of sausage tasted delicious and I promised to buy myself some when I got back to town. Three day-trekkers appeared and joined us by the fire. It was a surprise for both the teenager of their group and myself to learn we were fellow countrymen. Young Baratek hailed from Melbourne and had come to Poland with his parents to visit relatives. Barateks uncle, Bolek, spoke very good English. Bolek said he dreamt of the day his application to migrate to Australia might be approved, allowing him and his young family to start a new life. Bolek seemed to know a lot about illegal queue-jumpers, those so-called refugees who pay extortionate sums to be smuggled into Australia inside shipping containers. These criminals, as he called them, were stalling the immigration queue into Australia, and were making it even harder for people like himself who was going about the business of immigration in the right way. No one was quite sure when the late afternoon bus was due to arrive so Bolek thumbed us a ride down to Zakopane with a truck driver who was happy to give us a lift. The fog thickened as we descended. Bolek said the locals referred to this kind of weather as milk. It was slow going down the steep winding road, and it was almost an hour before we arrived back into Zakopane.
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I decided to stay on a bit longer in Zakopane. There was still plenty here to see and do, and I was in no real rush to get on the road to Krakow. The hostel was also now noisily alive with a group of Krakow university students, who were hell-bent on partying well into the small hours. Their massive vodka and beer drink-a-thon, accompanied by sing-a-longs of Polish mountain songs was a lot of fun. I still cant decide whether crossing paths with the university students of Poland is excellent for cultural intake, or just downright detrimental to my health. Its probably an unevenly perfect balance of both.

Zakopane: -2 degrees C (not cold enough!) A totally lazy day after the excesses of the last night. Damn those uni students. My only venture out of the hostel was to buy some groceries from Supersam and to pay a visit to the excellent Tatras Museum. The museum was a Tatras showcase, covering everything from flora and fauna displays (those footprints Id followed belonged to a mountain goat after all) to stories of the local people and their existence in this alpine region. Just like many cultural and heritage sites in Poland there are also stories of Nazi occupation, that dark and horrible
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chapter of history leaving a blemish on an otherwise colourful exhibit.

Mt Kasprowy Wierch: This morning was the first time the low lying mist had cleared enough to actually see the mountains surrounding Zakopane. The morning sky was a flat blue colour, and even the sun threatened a bit of warmth. Conditions were perfect when I boarded the funicular (cable car) for the twenty minute skyline ride to the top of Mt Kasprowy Wierch. The point of going up the mountain was simply the gimmick of standing with one foot in Poland and the other in Slovakia. The views from the funicular were spectacular. Riding above the treeline with the brilliant daylight reflecting off the white mountains was too good for words. At the halfway point up the mountain, it was a quick change of cable cars before continuing the ascent to the summit. At the summit station a big digital readout displayed the time and temperature. It hovered at a cosy -8C. The summit station was casually busy, and there was a good atmosphere. From the funicular station it was a short walk
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up a nearby ridge to the meteorological station, its roof adorned with various scientific instruments. Across the main high ridge, Mt. Swinica dominated the spectacular view, its craggy summit impassable to all except a good mountaineer. I wandered back and forth along the thick snowcovered ridge, doing the Poland to Slovakia to Poland to Slovakia thing over and over, which I found highly amusing. Having evaded any immigration officer who might have been hiding up there behind a rock for the umpteenth time, I took a rest, and watched two mountaineers trudging their way up the steep ridge towards me. The pair were moving slowly forward and upward through a knee-deep cover of snow. Just watching them made me exhausted. The mountaineers arrived on the ridge a short time later, just a few metres away from where I was sitting watching them. One of the pair excitedly rattled off something in Polish to me, then realised I wasnt understanding him. The mountaineer apologised in English, saying hed mistaken me for a good friend of his. The look of disappointment on his face made me feel like Id somehow let him down. But they were a friendly pair, and having caught their breaths the two mountaineers invited me to join them in
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the summit restaurant. The restaurant stocked pivo, and thats what they were here for. This whole beer drinking thing seems to be an obsession with Poles and Russians, and it sheds some light on why the Soviets lost the race to the moon. The two mountaineers, Michael and Mark, were from Lublin. Both were experienced Tatras climbers, and theyd been climbing this region for as long as either man cared to remember. Perusing my Tatras map, they almost didnt believe it when I told them Id done the trail from Morskie Oko to the Pieciu Stawow hostel. The trail was closed for winter, they said. I said Id done it only two days ago. According to the mountaineers, the trail itself wasnt all that difficult, but it was still one of the most dangerous spots in all the Tatras. Snow avalanches frequent those slopes, they tell me, and only weeks ago two trekkers on that trail lost their lives in a snow slide. Both mountaineers were mortified to learn that Billy Goat Gruff, the so-called expert had assured me that the trail was open, and safe to attempt it alone. Still, I was alive and well and drinking pivo on the summit of Kaprowy Wierch, so the dangers of the closed trail were now an entertaining memory.

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Both mountaineers laughed when I told them Australias alpine region is simply called the Snowy Mountains. Ten points for originality Australia. They laughed even harder when I told them how we pronounce the Polish name of Kosciuszko as Kozzy-ossko and Strzlecki as Strezz-lecky - a complete comedy of the correct Polish pronunciations. Apparently we are supposed to have Mt. Kost-choo-skoh and the Stche-letsky ranges. Good luck at getting Australians to pronounce either fellas. Id been thinking about going to explore some caves in another area of the Tatras, and when I told the mountaineers this Mark asked why I wanted to attend bear meetings. I suddenly had second thoughts about venturing into any caves any time soon. Michael assured me coming face to face with a little bear can be a friendly experience - its the big mother bear lurking right behind her cub in the cave darkness that is the real worry. The caves were off my list. After a long pivo and map conversation, the mountaineers invite me to come along for a little walk out along some ridges on the Slovakian side of the border - nothing too strenuous - for a change of panoramic views in the high Tatras. At one point I stood in silence while Mark and Michael debated in Polish which ridge to follow. Having reached some kind of Mexican standoff agreement, Michael continued leading the way along the
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ridge, with Mark calling out after him Yes, mummy, we will go your way! Theres plenty of trail talk: soccer is a ridiculous name for football, Poland is hopeless at cricket, American football is stupid because they prefer to carry the ball rather than kick it, why cant Australia come up with a more original name for its alpine mountain range (still devastatingly hilarious to both mountaineers two hours later), how ski jumping events in Poland used to have free attendance but thanks to Adam Malysz (all-round Polish good guy) they now charge admission to such events (which really sucks), who is the Aussie swimmer with the Polish surname? (maybe Daniel Kowalski?), stupid female tourists who walk the ridges of Kasprowy Wierch in the summertime in high heels, why cant Australia come up with a more original name for its alpine range (by now even funnier to the pair), and when are Aussies going to start pronouncing the name of their highest peak correctly? Around 3pm both mountaineers decide, for my sake, that we should head back to the summit station, as darkness would be descending in little more than an hours time. I had planned on following the trail down to the Murowaniec mountain hostel, but my chances of making it there before dark were zero. Parting ways at the funicular station, both mountaineers wished me a safe trip
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ahead, and good luck at the Bear Meeting. The last cable car of the day departed the summit at 4pm, my legs grateful for saving them the torture of the long steep trail down the side of the mountain.

Back at Dom Turysty its a case of Groundhog Day. The Krakow uni gang are getting stuck into another one of their because we can celebrations. By 10 pm everyones blind rolling drunk, and by midnight the old fogey moonlighting as security guard is achieving little in telling us to keep the noise down to a dull roar. By 2 am the guard has well and truly given up trying to use authority - it simply doesnt work on the students - and leaves us alone to enjoy the remainder of the party, which by now is a mass drunken sing-a-long to Polish folk music. It was to be my final night in Zakopane. What had started out as a short visit of a couple of days had turned into a weeklong stay. Theres no resisting the powerful magic and beauty of Zakopane and the Tatra Mountains and I was sad to be leaving. There was still a long way to go in Poland and beyond, and it was time to get back on the road.
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Zakopane - Krakow: -9 degrees C (damn the winds) Thanks to the uni crew (who were all very quiet this morning, and for many vodka-soaked reasons) I travelled for free on their chartered bus from Zakopane to Krakow. When we arrived at the Akademia Ekonomika in Krakow two of the hung over party animals, Chris and a fellow dubbed the Spoonman invited me to their student dorm for a bite to eat and a hot coffee. Krakow was bitterly cold. Temperature-wise, Mongolia and Siberia had been far colder, but the relentless Krakow wind was bonechilling to the point of misery. Spoonmans nickname came from his hobby of collecting spoons from different places. Its a common hobby, but Spoonman was a spoon collector with a difference - his spoons were, well, just plain old spoons, the ordinary, everyday variety found in any ordinary, everyday kitchen. Spoonman seemed stoked with now having an ordinary Zakopane spoon to add to his collection. I needed a haircut, and asking Chris where I can get one, he whips out a brand new pair of electric clippers and grins like Freddy Krueger. Chris is quick to point out that
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hes never actually cut hair before, but now seems as good a time as any to learn. I wound up with my head over a sink in the dorm amenities and Chris muttering shit and fuck to himself while he shaped his handiwork. But my fears of walking out of the amenities looking like Scary Spice went unfounded. Chris did an excellent job with the clippers, much to his own amazement. As payment I gave Chris and Spoonman my still-full bottle of Wild Turkey, the dirty vodka that had been the cause of much suspicion and contempt. Krakow: a city with character and soul, Krakow has always been one of the major centres of Polish culture. The royal capital for half a millennium, Krakow has witnessed and absorbed more of Polands history than any other city in the country. Krakow was thoroughly looted by the Nazis, but unlike most Polish cities, came through the World War II virtually unscathed, retaining much of its history, arts and traditions. Krakow is also the home of the 14th century Jagiellonian University, and its seventy thousand students make up a tenth of the citys population. Krakow gave the world its first Polish pope, and the towns exceptional historic and artistic values earned Krakows Old Town a place on UNESCOs first ever World Heritage List in 1978. Chris accompanied me from the student dorms (courtesy of two free tram rides) to a hostel on ulitsa
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Oleandry, which was to be my residential address for the next few days. Checking in to the gloomy hostel, Chris said farewell and headed back out into the big chill. The Krakow uni crew had been a first-rate bunch to hang out with, with their human anti-freeze love affair and parties till dawn. Leaving the hostel in the early afternoon I took a walk to the centre of Krakows Old Town. The huge rynek is reputedly the largest medieval square in all of Europe, and is considered to be one of the finest examples of its kind. And one of the finest it most certainly is - the panoramic view from swivelling 360 degrees on my heels left me feeling as though I was living in a gloriously prosperous seventeenth century city. The freezing wind soon drove me indoors and I found an cosy little caf to just off the town square. On account of me not speaking Polish, one of the caf staff said he knew an American bookstore where Id be able to have a normal conversation with someone. Finishing my second cup of coffee I went off to find the bookstore. After a few wrong turns I found the little bookstore-cum-caf tucked away in a quiet back street. The friendly American couple who owned the place seemed a bit miffed at how Id come to know about their bookstore, scratching their heads at my description of the cafe man that had told me about the place.
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The titles on the many shelves were free for perusal over coffee, and all were for sale. I stumbled across a cool book about ZZ Top, which I thought was worthy of taking up some valuable pack space. The American lady was totally thrilled with me being totally thrilled with the book. Shed brought it back from the States on a hunch that someday someone would make it a welcome addition to their library. Isnt that the whole idea of selling books to start with? It seemed the bearded Texan trio had made both our days. Tonights relaxation venue of choice was a place called Music Bar #9. In this grungy pub I witnessed what has to be without a doubt one of the strangest drinks of all time. To a Zywiec-filled pint glass strawberry syrup is added. The amber-red mixture is then microwaved for almost a minute then a dusting of cinnamon is added. Then its bottoms up for some lucky punter. My money was on it tasting like bilge water pumped over the side of a cargo ship. Sadly, I admit I to knowing what bilge water tastes like. As a former submariner, I can tell you that not every minute at sea is all Hunt For Red October suspense, and real submarine captains have got nothing on Sean Connery. Boredom is commonplace on a dived submarine, and when youve run out of books to read and have had a gutful of playing cards you start seeking out
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less-obvious distractions. Like daring a crewmate to do something strange, just so we had something to joke and laugh about. Like crawling beneath the port main motor and dipping your tongue into the oily waste of the motor room bilge just to see what it tastes like. (In case youre wondering, it has a distinct grotty-hydraulic oil flavour, and others agree). In our defence I recall it being a particularly boring 6-hour night watch. But back to the beer. I found out some time later that the strange microwaved brew is called Grzaniec, and that it is definitely an acquired taste. I stuck with plain old Zywiec; I just didnt see the need to try this bizarre beverage. Polands drinking daredevils can keep their Grzaniec all to themselves.

Krakow: -3 degrees C (wind freehooray!) The ulitsa Oleandry hostel is totally shit. The six-bunk rooms have all the personality of dank prison cells, right down to the huge black numbers painted over each dorms door. As for bedding arrangements, I bet the Flintstones sleep on softer mattresses. I found out the unpleasant way the plumbing pipes on the urinals werent connected, only
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to later learn that I wasnt the first victim of the deceiving piss troughs. One of the two communal showers doesnt work, and the one that does has a split personality, changing water temperature from scolding hot to icy cold and back again on random whims. The hostel is also extremely noisy, theres a kick-out time of 10am and a letin time of 5pm. Then theres the midnight curfew. I tried calling up another hostel to see if they had any spare bunks, but the Oleandrys two telephones werent working, effectively foiling my escape plan. Besides these few little shortcomings the place really is value for money.

Today was a day of death. Instead of the usual aroundtown look-a-thon I decided to do my own kind of Schindlers List tour of Krakow. The district of Kazimierz, located just south of the Old Town on the banks of the Vistula River (it flows through Krakow too) was the first stop on the map. Kazimierz is the Jewish district of Krakow. It has housed the Jews of the university city for more than 500 years. Following the Second World War the area was abandoned among ruins and a fair-sized chunk of ill216

feeling. These days Kazimierz is fast becoming chic, and a number of trendy Jewish and non-Jewish restaurants and bars now line the streets. But like Poland in general, the actual population of Team Star of David members is small. Theres not a whole lot to see in Kazimierz. The most interesting place turned out to be a Jewish bookstore on the central square. Its here that I get my first up-closeand-personal experience of the Jewish Holocaust. It isnt a laugh-a-minute, then again, this sort of thing never will be. Just a short walk from the Kazimierz square is the Most Powstanicow Slaskich bridge, across which the Nazis marched Krakows Jews to the Podgorze district on the south side. Podgorze would become Krakows Jewish ghetto, and in time 12,000 Jews would find themselves crammed into the ghettos meagre enclosure of three hundred buildings, or the equivalent of two square metres of living space for each person. The Pharmacy Under the Eagles in Podgorze is an excellent museum portraying life in the ghetto. When the district was turned into a ghetto the pharmacys owner, a Pole by the name of Tadeusz Pankiewicz, decided to stay open for business, providing medicines and help to the thousands of Jews being forced into Podgorze.
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The pharmacy walls are covered with photographs. One of the most disturbing is of people lying dead in pools of blood outside the pharmacy doors. In the final stages of liquidating the Ghetto, the dreaded SS shot more than two thousand dead in a two day period as retribution for the Jews defiance of orders to board transports bound for concentration camps. The photographs give only the smallest hint of the feeling of mortal terror that filled these streets just over fifty years ago. Another particularly chilling photograph was that of Amon Goeth, the vicious commandant of the nearby Plaszow concentration camp. Goeth was made even more infamous by his accurate portrayal by Ralph Fiennes in Schindlers List (or as I like to call it, Sphincters Fist). Fiennes bore an uncanny resemblance to Goeth, and a handful of Plaszow survivors whod been invited onto the movie set almost shat themselves the first time they saw the actor in full SS uniform. In the photograph Goeth looks disturbed, and its easy to tell he would have been one evil son of a bitch. Accompanying his ugly mug was a copy of his death warrant and justice for all. On a brighter note, there was a table display of letters from all four corners of the globe, every letter a tale of gratitude to Dr. Pankiewicz. One letter from Sydney dated 1993 had an enclosed cheque for $250 as payment for three pills the pharmacist had given the man back in 43.
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Stepping out on to the street outside the pharmacy, I felt like I was walking on dead people. I was grateful those walls couldnt talk. Amon Goeths villa is the only remaining structure of the Plaszow concentration camp. I had no idea what the villa would look like, but it was instantly recognisable due to the fact that it sits alone on Jerozolimska street, a relic from a time of insanity. From the villas second-storey balcony Goeth randomly shot prisoners to satisfy his thirst for sadism. Today the only signs of life were a kiddies swing set sits in the semi-enclosed backyard, and smoke billowing from the villas chimney. Must be some damned good real estate agents handling this address. The remainder of the camp (the Nazis managed to destroy most of it) is now an ersatz park of trees and overgrown grass, barely used dirt trails leading every which way and the odd local out walking their dog in the winter cold. A deathly silence presides over the place, broken only now and then by the sounds of a passing train in the distance. A monument to the camps seven thousand victims sits alone on a hilltop. As I was walking along a dirt trail, I managed to disturb a bird that was nesting in the ground cover. Its shrill warning cry shattered the wintry afternoon silence. I was instantly spooked, and briskly walked off the camp site. Ironically, high rise apartment blocks a childrens playground sit directly
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opposite the villa and camp site on Jerozolimska street. On this side of the streets life was going about its business, impervious to the reminder of death and suffering just across the street.

This evening its death of a different kind - Death metal, that is. Right across the street from the hostel is a venue called The Extreme Club and tonights gig is a headbangers wet dream. Four extremely extreme bands, four extremely extreme sets. The headlining act are a brutal-looking bunch that go by the name Behemoth. Behemoth? I ask someone in the crowd of headbangers waiting for the club doors to open. They are one of Polands most well-known bands next to Vader. comes the reply. Whos Vader? I ask, still lost. You dont know who Vader is? the metal head asks, like Ive been out of the solar system for a while. The doors to the club open and the leather-and-studs
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crowd surges forward. Inside the tiny foyer I wind up squashed between the little cloakroom window and sixty other headbangers. After checking in my jacket I moshed my way from the cloakroom window to the ticket booth then slam danced myself towards the main section of the club and relative open space. This was before the first band had even started. Two young Polish headbangers invite me to party on with them, and when the first band hits the stage the place erupts into a chiropractors worst nightmare. From the relative safety of the rear of the moshpit its a spectacular sight of bodies hurling themselves at the stage, at each other, and in one especially unique display of mosh madness, a death-head hurling himself to the floor. Hard. No brain, no pain. As for the Disciples of Satan on stage, its a brutally furious arrangement of hymns of hatred. The two young Poles translate the names of the tunes for me. All have nice, fun, catchy titles such as The Demon Walks and 666- no interpreter needed for that one. The second band dishes out more of the same and by now the crowd is really warming up, danger being the middle name of everyone within twenty feet of the stage. A Swedish thrash outfit by the name of Darkane is next up, and unlike the two previous acts, their tunes actually
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sound like, well, tunes. Even better, the lyrics are all in English, although that doesnt stop the two young Poles doing me the favour of song name translations. A Swede named Daniel parties on with us while Darkane is thrashing away up on stage. Daniel roadies for Darkane, and says they have just returned from touring Japan. The Swede and myself go shouts of pivo to constant toasts to the cheap prices. When Darkane finishes their excellent set, Daniel and the lads invite me backstage for a few after-thrash drinks. The headlining act Behemoth are backstage preparing for their set, and are indulging in a bit of nose candy before taking to the stage to carve out their satanic symphonies. These guys look like the offspring of Beelzebub, and a friendly hey fellas doesnt seem quite appropriate. Their huge leather-and-studs arm gauntlets and gothic-painted faces fashionably compliment the mass of chains and upside-down crucifixes that dangle off their black outfits. So these guys are one of the biggest acts in Polandnext to Vader The Darkane lads put my name on their door list for their upcoming Wroclaw gig, and front man Andreas invites me to pay them a visit in their hometown of Helsingborg when I get to Sweden. We watch Behemoth going berserk on stage for a while before I must crawl the few metres back to Heartbreak Hostel in time for the
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blasted midnight curfew. Besides the convenience of a two-second stumble home to the penitentiary across the street, a ticket into the mayhem was only 25 zloty, a real bargain for four hours of bone-crunching sweaty noise.

Krakow: - 6 degrees C (deaf and chilly) This morning with my ears still ringing I headed back to Podgorze for a look at the Schindler factory, still in use today as the Telpod electronics plant. The factory was easy to find, located only a short walk from the ghetto area. Theres nothing remarkable about the building itself besides a small bronze plaque commemorating Oskar Schindler. Mounted next to the plaque is a no photographs sign. Naturally, I dont understand Polish signs and get some good shots of the place. Schindler himself lived at the factory for a time, and the rest, as they say, is history. Back in the central Old Town the rest of the day was taken up admiring churches (in Krakow this is a must-do), checking out monuments (funny how most of us never do this at home), dodging the thousands of kamikaze pigeons in the rynek (zero direct bombing runs on target) and
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generally just getting lost in the amazing medieval beauty of Krakow. The bible wielder on the train down from Warsaw had told me how beautiful his home city was. He wasnt exaggerating. Entering St Marys cathedral in the rynek halfway through a service, I quietly pulled up a pew amongst the gathered faithful. The cathedrals interior was a mindblowing example of fine interior decorating. Even more of a spinout was the service being conducted via a loudspeaker system. There was no priest or even an altar in visible sight. Maybe the Man Upstairs was treating us to one of His rare Live on Earth performances, although why He would choose to put on such a show in Poland is anyones guess. Maybe it was the whole Mysterious Ways thing in action, or perhaps JPII had had a quiet word in His ear.

Like so much in Krakow, the Wawel Castle is a mustsee. The political and cultural centre of Krakow until the early seventeenth century, today the Wawel is the very heart and symbol of the Polish identity. Situated on a hill on the banks of the Vistula, the Wawel is the most visited sight in Poland. It houses Royal Chambers, Senators
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Hall, Crown Treasury and Armoury, and a cathedral. Today its the safe keeper of a millennia of Polish national history. The Wawel cathedral is also Polands spiritual bullseye. It was here that nearly all royal coronations and funerals took place. Most of the nations monarchs are buried here in a surround that redefines the meaning of grandeur. Several national heroes are also entombed within the cathedral walls, including Tadeusz Kosciuszko (Kost-choo-skoe, that is) and Marshal Josef Pilsudski, the father of Polish national independence. The cathedral made St Marys in the rynek look like a run-down granny flat in comparison, and it was a real shame that photos werent permitted. The intricate designs of the sarcophagi alone made the visit worthwhile. There was a ticketed entry fee into most parts of the Wawel, and I figured if I was going to fork out money to see something then it may as well be weapons. The Crown Treasury and Armoury didnt disappoint. Huge double-handed swords that a body builder with a penchant for vanity would have difficulty swinging, jewelencrusted daggers, crossbows, early pistols, cannons, and ingenious sword/pistol combinations fill the Armoury chambers in a large and impressive display. The suits of armour were many and varied, and one suit named Husaria had a large set of angels wings sprouting from
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off the back plate. Must have been a bastard of a suit to wear in hand-to-hand combat. The piece de resistance of the Armoury is a sword named Szozerbiec, which once upon a time was used in coronation ceremonies. Standing in a cabinet inside a darkened chamber and bathed in golden light, Excalibur itself couldnt be more beautiful. Photography isnt allowed in the Armoury, so I waited until I was alone in the Szozerbiec chamber to take a photo of the stunning sword, with the flash turned off so as not to attract any attention. Its one of my all-time favourite photos. The Wawel also has an unofficial tourist draw card that the management flatly denies any existence of. According to Hindu esoteric thinkers, the Krakow Wawel is one of seven sites around the world that are centres of supernatural energies, or chakras. There are seven such chakra points on Earth: Jerusalem (Sun), Delhi (Moon), Mecca (Mercury), Delphi (Venus), Rome (Mars), Krakow (Jupiter), and Velehrad (Saturn). These seven chakra points are reputed to give out a spiritual strength more powerful than a box of Nutri-Grain with a free toy inside. Krakows chakra just happens to reside in the northwestern corner of the royal castles courtyard. Unlike countless curious visitors to the spot, I was disappointed not to have felt any supernatural energies radiating out upon me.
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While the stories of chakra may have the Wawel management in a disbelieving huff, the legend of the Wawel Dragon isnt so discredited. Once upon a time a prince named Krakus built a castle on a hill overlooking the Vistula. Things were cruising along just nicely for the town, with the exception of a dragon living in a cave beneath the Wawel. The dragon devoured livestock, and when it got the urge, pretty young maidens as well. Krakus saved the day by ordering a sheeps carcass to be filled with sulphur. The carcass was then lit and hurled into the beasts lair. The dragon ate the deadly sheep, the burning sensation hit, and the beast rushed to the river to drink and drink before exploding in a massive fireworks display, forever freeing the city from the horrors of reptile terrorism. The dragons cave was closed for the winter, which was a real shame as two pretty young maidens just happened to be walking by the caves entrance by the river, as were two of Krakows finest. The coppers were busy admiring the huge white ducks that were floating down the Vistula on ice floes. They gave me the onceover, decided I was no apparent threat to the city and went back to duck gazing. Sure beats chasing villains.

*
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Wieliczka Salt Mine: There were only two early morning trains to the little town of Kedzierzyn-Kozle, and as Id missed them both it was off to the Wieliczka salt mine for the day instead. Stefano and Simone, two Italian backpackers that were sharing my cell at Hostile Hostel were going to the mine as well, and lingered patiently around the train station while I messed around putting my pack into storage. (I had gone prepared to leave Krakow). The Wieliczka salt mine, located fifteen kilometres outside of Krakow, has been in use for more than seven hundred years. It holds the much-coveted title of Oldest Continually Operating Industrial Plant in Poland. The mine, a labyrinth of tunnels stretching more than three hundred kilometres in distance, has its deepest point located 327 metres underground. The tourist route, comprised of twenty shaft-linked underground chambers, covers a meagre two kilometres of underground passages. The Italians made me feel like Id been ripped off. In the mine reception hall Stefano and Simone managed reduced-price tickets thanks to their student I.D. cards, and unlike stupid me, they ignored the eight zloty photograph permit fee and still took plenty of snaps. We joined an English-speaking tour then our small group began the three-hundred-and-eighty step downward spiral
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to the first level of the mine. Stairwell #7: the penny drops that its going to be quite a while before we arrive at the mines first level. Stairwell #19: round and round and down we go, where it ends nobody knows. Stairwell #43: curses at the thought of having to climb back up this wooden stairwell shaft to reach the surface. When we finally arrive on the first level below ground our tour guide informs us that the mine temperature is a constant 14 degrees Celsius. As its bone-chillingly cold upstairs this suits our group just fine. Every chamber, every statue and every monument in the Wieliczka mine is made from salt. Theres a curious urge to lick the walls of the passageway to see if it really is salt, and sure enough, it is. Our group makes its way along the underground route, through chambers and caverns of varying sizes and past intricate carvings chiselled into the walls. Each carving is nothing short of spectacular, as are the subterranean lakes that reflect the luminescent green glow of strategically-placed spotlights and the shadows of the deep, dark chambers that house them.
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The highlight of Wieliczka is the Chapel of the Blessed Kinga, a grand church chamber where Masses and even concerts are occasionally held. The chapel is adorned with salt-carved ornaments, from the altar to the chandeliers to a wall scene of the Last Supper. The construction of this underground masterpiece took twenty years. As equally impressive is the monument-free salt cavern with a fifty-metre-plus high ceiling. Two separate Guinness World Records have been set in this spacious circular chamber: the first for underground bungee jumping - bizarre - but even more bizarre was the second record: the highest underground ascent in a hot air balloon. The record-breaking attempt managed a whopping three metre rise from the ground before the top of the balloon touched the caverns roof. One chamber along the route featured a life-size display of horses working a shaft pulley system used to excavate salt from lower levels. I asked the guide if they ever had to use whips on the horses. Yeah, why not? the guide said, matter-of-factly. The guide then turned our attention to an automated smallscale model which demonstrated how work in the chamber was carried out. Just as the miniature horses are doing their mechanical u-turns, the working model seizes up with a loud metallic crunch. Our guide goes into panic
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mode, frantically pushing knobs and banging on the glass top in a desperate attempt to get the display working again. Simone, who up until now I hadnt heard utter a word of English, pipes up in a loud voice from the back of our group. NEVER MIND, WE UNDERSTAND! DONT WORRY! in thick Italian-English, while both our guide and the working model are having breakdowns. The Wieliczka mine is also renowned for its healthgiving properties. Off the tourist route theres a microclimate treatment centre which provides subterranotherapy, a new medical discipline which assists in-patients with treatment against asthma and allergies, as well as cardiovascular and skin diseases. The hospital is located six levels and 135 metres underground, and we werent permitted to go there. After nearly two hours down in the remarkable salt mine our tour comes to an end and we are whisked upwards to the surface in what resembled a darkened circus lions cage at a rate of four metres per second through the darkness. The whoosh of wind rushing down as the cage ascended made for a very cool ride. The Italians and myself waited outside the mine entrance for a minibus to take us back to Krakow, which
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eventually never came. Having given up all hope of any minibuses showing up, we stood by the roadside with our thumbs out trying to bum a ride. A large slab of road ice became a source of entertainment for the Italians, who started on impressive imitations of Michael Jacksons moonwalk. Not wanting to be the odd one out I joined in. The three of us must have looked a strange sight to passing trucks as we moonwalked to our own sound effects on the dirty patch of road ice. Attempts to thumb a lift back into Krakow were a complete failure, so we trudged our way through the snow to the Wieliczka train station, only to watch the train we needed to be on pulling out of the platform. A miserable forty-minute wait in the freezing station waiting room. Stefano and myself were okay with the cold, but poor Simone couldnt stand the subzero freeze and sat huddled on a seat wishing he was elsewhere, preferably some place warmer. Back at Hostile Hostel, the Italians got busy packing for their overnight train through to Hungary, and there were now two more inmates bunking in our prison cell: Channings, from Kansas City, Missouri, and Jake, an eighteen-year-old from Taiwan. I found Channings to be typically un-American, and we hit it off immediately. After Krakow, Channings said he was heading for the
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Ukraine, where, amongst some other really fucked-up intentions, he was hoping to get a close up look at Chernobyl. Or as close as one can get before radioactive isotopes start restructuring ones DNA map. Jake was on a short jaunt through Europe before heading home to Taiwan. So whats the longest youve ever been away from home, Jake? Channings asks the young student. Ten days. Jake tells us. And how long is this trip youre on Jake? Ten days. Jake repeats. Ha Ha.

Krakow: -6 degrees C (a bright, sunshiny day!) I felt a bit off-colour this morning, and deciding I wasnt up to taking a train trip, slept until late morning. The hostel staff never said a word about me breaking their strict 10am kick-out rule. Had the generally-rude staff bothered I would have given them a mouthful and left
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anyhow. Alls well that ends well. Having done Krakow, I spent the afternoon holed up in one of the cafs Id come to frequent in the past few days. Entering the caf I was forced to step over a huge German shepherd that had sprawled itself out comfortably between the counter and some tables. The shepherds owner was just another paying customer, leaving me to assume that in Poland its quite acceptable to bring Cujo along for a social coffee. It was a relaxing final evening in Krakow. And for the final time I arrived back at the hostel just before the blasted midnight curfew.

Krakow - Kedzierzyn-Kozle: -5 degrees C (simmering heat wave!) Not an ounce of sleep all night thanks to the roaring snoring German sleeping in the bunk across from me, who also just happens to be as camp as a row of tents. Last night Fritz the Fairy had been prancing around our cell wearing nothing more than a disco-silver g-string, making loud conversation in his very thick and very gay
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Bavarian accent. Id been laying on my bunk reading while this was going on, and I found it hard to concentrate. I put the book down and decided if I couldnt read then I might as well make a mockery of Fritz. So youre from Germany? I asked, before loudly bellowing I HAVE SAUERKRAUT ON MY LEDERHOSEN! Fritz stopped suddenly mid-prance, and pouting with his hand resting on his sequin g-string shot straight back ZATS NOT GERMAN, ZATS BAVAR-WIAN! I roared with laughter and Fritz gave a camp giggle. What the hell was the difference between the two? It was pointless just lying there in the cold darkness listening to camp snoring so sometime before dawn I dressed and packed, not really caring how much noise I made in the process. Id finally become one of those despised 6am Bag Rustlers. Pre-dawn Krakow was a still quiet - except for my loud coughing and spluttering. Thanks to the nearby Nowa Huta (New Steelworks), the post-war communist initiative to give Krakow a healthy working class
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industry, I was choking on the air I breathed. The steelworks have brought catastrophic environmental pollution that threatens the health of the local community. Nowa Huta is also a nemesis to the monuments of the beautiful city of Krakow, which acid rain is slowly but surely eating away at. Once again Stalin is to blame.

The train journey to Kedzierzyn-Kozle was very slow. There was a problem with the locomotive so the train sat halted in a rusty goods yard in the middle of nowhere while a new locomotive was brought in. I shared a kupe with a woman named Iwon, who, up until I joined the train hadnt spoken English in almost two years. Thanks to the delays Iwon was now going to miss her onward connection to her village somewhere north of Katowice, and she wasnt quite sure how she was going to get herself there. A friend on the other end of Iwons mobile knew the reason for the loco problems and our delay - it was Friday the 13th. While we are halted the conductor comes to check our tickets. Theres a problem with mine - Im sitting in first class on a second class ticket. I pulled the trusty ignorant foreigner routine: Id gotten on the empty train and
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picked a compartment unawares there were any seating classes. Suprisingly, Iwon translates back to me that the conductor doesnt mind my being here and that I can stay where I am. After what seems like forever we start moving again. Iwon leaves the train at Katowice an hour and a half later than expected, and leaves me with her contact details should I decide to show up in her neighbourhood. After getting zero sleep last night I soon nod off, before awaking right on cue to the train arriving into Kedzierzyn-Kozle. A frustrating half an hour spent searching for a working public telephone followed. Polands public telephone system leaves a lot to be desired, and one phone repeatedly spat my phone card out of its bottom slot into the pavement slush like a bullet from a gun. I was at the point of wanting to punch on with Polands public telephones whenever I came across them, so instead I headed for a fast food caf. It was the first time Id ever eaten a cheeseburger loaded with corn kernels. I eventually found a public telephone that actually worked. So this was what Polands entire telecommunications network budget had been expended on - one blue graffiti-covered phone box. I gave the Grzybek household a call. The oldest daughter Kasia, who had kindly arranged for me to stay with her family
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long before Id left home, met me at the train station. Kasia was all smiles and very friendly and I got a good feeling about staying with her family. Crossing through a snow-coated park on our way to the family home I couldnt resist having a bit of a lighthearted dig at Kasia, who was sixteen. I bet you still use this playground. I joked. Yes, maybe once a week. she said, I am still a child. Not the answer I had been expecting. Even though shes a young woman, Kasia has three younger sisters, the littlest one Agatka, was only five. Kasia said this meant she was allowed to enjoy being a child for a little bit longer. Like so many Polish families, the Grzybeks live in a typical grey high-rise building, and to my pack-lugging relief, on the ground floor. The family home is modern, well-kept and comfortable, none of which is hinted at from the drab monotone exterior. Father Ryszard arrives home from work soon after, as does his wife Elzbieta (Ela), who is a preschool teacher. Ryszard speaks English fluently, while Ela on the other hand doesnt speak my native tongue at all. We soon find a language bridge in Russian, although our exchanges are still limited. Friendly
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hand signals and smiles all round compensate for any verbal shortcomings. Kasias sisters Dorotka and Ania seem relaxed with having a complete stranger bunking in their bedroom, but shy little Agatka prefers to stay out of my sight as much as possible. Every now and then Id catch a glimpse of Agatka peering around a doorway then hiding when she knew shed been spotted. Tonight we celebrated uncle Radeks birthday. With four children in the home (no offence Kasia) Id assumed that staying with the Grzybeks was going to be a fairly quiet, no partying-too-hard affair. The cap-cracking of a vodka bottle completely blew that idea out of the water. I fear theres no escaping the lethal anti-freeze for humans, the preferred choice of drink from the now far-off Mongolian steppe all the way to smallish KedzierzynKozle. Great party, great food, awesome people. I stuck with Zywiec most of the evening, with shots of vodka with juice chaser thrown in every now and again because I was forced to. Youre a very brave man mixing drinks together. Ryszard tells me, referring to the devastating after effects of mixing pivo and vodka together.

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Id been warmly welcomed into Grzybek home and a warm, comfortable bed was pure heaven after the misery of Krakows Heartbreak Hostel.

Oswiecim: -5 degrees C (just plain cold) Today Ryszard, along with a family friend, drove me the one hundred or so kilometres to the small town of Osweicim. The name of this little Polish town mightnt be familiar to most people, but chances are you know it by its German name. Auschwitz. I dont wish to speak about it. Rest In Peace the one and a half million plus victims (exact figures unknown) that lost their lives in this brutally dreadful place. Post script: At the time of writing, I found that I wasnt able to write about the things I saw in AuschwitzBirkenau. How do you put into words a place so sinister that it cannot be even vaguely comprehended by those of
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us who didnt experience it in the first person? The answer of course, is that you cant. But Ill give it a shot We left Kedzierzyn-Kozle for Oswiecim in the early morning. Long before my arrival at the Grzybeks home Ryszard had known that I intended to visit AuschwitzBirkenau, and had already made up his mind that it would be better for me if I had an escort. Its not the sort of place you should go to alone, he said. During uncle Radekss party the evening before, Ryszard had sat me down for a serious chat about where we would be going the following morning. He told me to be prepared - at least, as prepared as one can be for such a place. Ryszard added that hed visited Auschwitz once before, and that after accompanying me there he would never return. The seriousness of his words sent a cold chill up my spine. My mind was a complete blank for the best part of the long drive to Oswiecim, although there were moments in which I seriously questioned myself about where we were going, and more importantly, why I felt the need to see the largest of the Nazi death factories to begin with. After all, I never lost any family members or relatives in the camps; I didnt even know of or had met anyone that had, or who had lived through it personally. But I reasoned that it would have been a crime to have come within a stones throw of Auschwitz and then passed straight by it. It
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seemed like the easy way out. Oswiecim is a small town, unremarkable to any other Polish village. The one outstanding exception is the global infamy of its Germanised name, Auschwitz. I wondered what the locals thought about living in such close proximity to the epicentre of the greatest crime the world has ever known. Did they think about it much? Did they think about it at all? What exactly did they think about it? I decided Oswiecim would be a difficult place to live. After asking for directions at a service station we turned down a long straight road, and there it was. KL (Konzentrationlager) Auschwitz I. At the far end of the eerily-deserted car park is a long single-storey building. Sixty years ago it had been the reception centre for new prisoners. Today its a visitors information centre. There is no visitor entry fee, but Ryszard decides that we should pay a few zloty and join a tour group. We make our way into a small cinema to watch a short film made by the Red Army after they liberated the camp in 1945. The footage was gutchurning. As we go to leave the cinema Ryszard says that the film has been changed since his last visit, and that this one is nowhere near as shocking as its predecessor.

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Above the main gate leading into the camp is the cynical inscription Arbeit Macht Frei - Work Brings Freedom. Camp prisoners passed through this gate each day on their way to work for twelve hours or more, and on the small square by the kitchen the camp orchestra would play marches so that the mustered thousands of prisoners could be counted more efficiently by the SS garrison. During roll calls on the assembly square, which would often last for several hours, the SS would again count prisoners. They also carried out executions on a portable gallows and on a collective gallows, a reconstruction of which stands on the square today. On July 19th 1943 twelve Poles were hanged on the collective gallows for having contact with civilians outside the camp, and for assisting in the escape of three fellow inmates. Death for the twelve men wasnt instantaneous as it was their bodyweight that was used to strangle them in the nooses instead of being afforded a neck-snapping drop. The other prisoners were forced to witness these executions as a deterrent. KL Auschwitz I is the only death camp that survives almost completely intact, due to its preservation as a state museum in 1946 as a lasting reminder of the Holocaust. The camp blocks now house exhibitions and each barrack covers a different facet of life and death in Auschwitz. Included in the exhibitions are heaped piles of used
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Zyklon B canisters which once contained the greencoloured pellets used in the gas chambers, a huge pile of spectacles, thousands of pairs of shoes - including a large variety of ladies fashion footwear from the era, as well as babies booties; thousands of suitcases, all of which are clearly marked with the owners name and address (an SS deception plan to lead unsuspecting deportees into believing that they were being relocated), galleries featuring camp identification photos of thousands of inmates, and an overwhelming display of human hair. The products for which human hair was used included tailors lining (haircloth) and sea jumpers for U-Boat crews, who probably had no idea as to their jumpers criminal origins. All personal effects brought into the camp by the deportees were sorted, stored and subsequently transported to the Fatherland for use by the SS, the Wermacht and civilians. The camps SS garrison also benefited from the property of murdered victims, and the commandant was regularly approached with requests for items which included, amongst other things, prams and baby clothing. Despite the fact that trains loaded with plundered goods were constantly departing for Germany, the camp storehouses (referred to as Canada by the prisoners, as they represented untold wealth and promise) were always full to overflowing. As the Red Army advanced across Poland the stores were hastily emptied and the most valuable objects sent elsewhere. A few days
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before the liberation of the camp SS men set fire to the warehouses in a desperate attempt to obliterate all traces of their crimes. The gas chamber and crematorium in KL Auschwitz I are the sole surviving examples of their kind. Realising defeat was imminent the SS destroyed all other such working facilities, again in an attempt to cover up the enormity of their crimes. From the outside, the gas chamber resembles a small grass-covered hill. On top of the bunker are vents into which the deadly Zyklon B canisters were dropped on the unsuspecting victims below. According to camp commandant Hoss five to seven kilograms of the poison was required to kill fifteen hundred people. During the period from 1942-1943 almost twenty tons of Zyklon B was used in Auschwitz I alone. It was cheap, effective, and in ready supply. Members of the camp garrison competed to take part in these special actions as they received additional rations 1/5 litre of vodka, five cigarettes, and 100 grams of sausage and bread. One SS camp physician, taking part in his first special action, described the gassing and cremation process: By comparison Dantes Inferno seems almost a comedy. The gas chamber is a large and featureless rectangular room constructed of concrete. At the chamber entrance is a sign requesting visitors to remain silent out of respect to
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the countless thousands that lost their lives in this space. A door on one side of the gas chamber leads into the crematorium where two replica furnaces dominate the room. The furnaces were built by the firm Topf und Sohne, who also provided the ovens for the four crematoria in the nearby Birkenau camp. Each oven could burn approximately three hundred and fifty bodies daily. During the later stages of the war the number of daily special actions skyrocketed and the furnaces became so overworked that a number of them actually melted down. While the gas chambers represent the heart of the Nazis crimes, the most disturbing aspect of KL Auschwitz I for me was Block 11. Known as the Death Block, it was a prison within a prison, isolated from the rest of the camp. More often than not it was a Polish prisoner who wound up in Block 11, and once a prisoner entered there was almost no chance of them ever coming out again. In a room on the ground floor of Block 11 the Gestapo Police Court held its sessions. In a typical sitting, which generally lasted between two to three hours, the court might issue anything from a few dozen to a few hundred death sentences. The condemned, having been given no chance to defend themselves against their charges were then led out to the Wall of Death in the adjacent courtyard for summary execution, which was usually a
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bullet in the base of the skull. Before they were shot, the victims were made to undress. This took place in two small washrooms where, if the numbers were small enough, the executions were carried out on the spot. Wooden blinds were fitted over the windows of the adjacent Block 10 to prevent observation of the executions and tortures that took place in the courtyard below. The SS shot thousands of prisoners at the Wall of Death, and the Block 11 courtyard was also used to administer punishments like flogging and hanging prisoners to a special stake by their arms, which were dislocated behind their backs and then pulled up over their heads. The system of punishments applied by the SS in the concentration camps was part of a carefully planned programme aimed at the premeditated annihilation of prisoners. An inmate could be punished for literally anything: for picking apples, for relieving himself during work hours, for extracting his own gold tooth and bartering it for bread, or for working too slowly in the eyes of an SS overseer. As we stood in the Block 11 courtyard, a teenaged Polish girl in our group went to pieces, and sobbed uncontrollably. It still gives me cold shivers when I think about it.
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In September 1941 the first experimental mass killing using Zyklon B took place in the basement of Block 11. 650 Soviet POWs and 250 sick Polish prisoners from the camp hospital were selected for the experiment. The SS were more than pleased with the results, and the gas chambers were swiftly constructed. The cellars also housed prisoners sentenced to death by starvation for the escape of a comrade, and those whom the SS considered guilty of breaking camp rules and who thus had to undergo interrogation. A punishment known as Standing was also carried out in the cellars. Standing was inflicted on prisoners in four separate cells, each of which measure one yard by one yard, and were bricked up from the floor to the ceiling. Prisoners entered the cells on their knees through a small opening on the floor. Up to four prisoners were crammed into an individual cell, where they had to stand upright overnight before being sent back to work the following morning. Inmates were sentenced to this punishment for an average of three nights, but later on the length of time increased to periods of time measured in weeks. The insufficient air flow and sleep deprivation meant for many extreme emaciation and a slow and agonising death. Birkenau (KL Auschwitz II), located three kilometres from Auschwitz I in the village of Brzezinka, was the main extermination centre of the Auschwitz camp.
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Covering 425 acres it was the largest of all the extermination camps. The main SS guard house, known as Deaths Gate is the world-infamous building through which rail transports arrived from all over Nazi-occupied Europe. The train tracks leading up to Deaths Gate now end abruptly a few hundred metres outside the camp entrance, long since disconnected from the outside world. Above Deaths Gate is the main watchtower, from which there is an excellent view over the whole camp. Birkenau is absolutely monstrous in size. I was shocked to find that I couldnt see either end of the Birkenau perimeter fence that ran off in straight lines away from both sides of the guard house. It was also difficult to see the far side of the camp. Birkenau was divided into several fields and sectors which formed separate camps. There was a mens camp, a womens camp, a camp for Jews from Hungary, a Family Camp for Jews from Theresienstadt, a quarantine camp, a Gypsy camp and a Penal Company. The SS were masters of classification, and masters of systematic murder. The population of Birkenau reached approximately one hundred thousand in August 1944. Camp inmates were plagued by a lack of water, terrible sanitary conditions and huge numbers of rats. Soviet POWs received especially brutal treatment, and
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systematic starvation often reduced the Russian prisoners to the cannibalism of their dead comrades. Birkenau contained four crematoria with gas chambers, two makeshift gas chambers in specially converted farmhouses, and cremation pyres and pits. Upon a transports arrival at the unloading ramp deportees underwent selection, the process that decided whether an individual was to be admitted to the labour camp or sent straight to the gas chamber. The numbers are typical: from a transport containing around twelve hundred deportees, only a small handful of around thirty might be selected for work. The overwhelming majority of deportees only survived a few hours inside Birkenau before being herded into the gas chambers under the false pretence that they were going to be deloused. By mid-1944 it became obvious that Germany was facing imminent defeat, and in a final desperate bid to rid Europe of its Jewry orders were given to step up the liquidation process. The number of transports arriving into Auschwitz increased dramatically. The SS abruptly abandoned their registration and classification processes which had included tattooing inmates with their camp number - Auschwitz was the only camp to adopt this practice - and unknown vast numbers of deportees that were now arriving around the clock were liquidated without record.
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When the Soviet army liberated the camp in January 1945 they found only three thousand prisoners; the rest had already been transported to camps inside Germany. Given the sizes of Auschwitz I and II, its kind of spooky to think that even with three thousand prisoners remaining, the camp couldve been mistaken for a ghost town. An official figure on the exact numbers that were murdered in the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp will never be known. Of all the tour groups I have ever been a part of, this one was easily the quietest. For much of the three hour tour you could have heard a pin drop a hundred yards away, and the minus eight degree winter freeze reinforced the overall feeling of doom and gloom. As one member of the SS garrison so aptly put it: We are located here in anus mundi (asshole of the world).

Kedzierzyn-Kozle: -7 degrees C (refreshing!) Had a good, long sleep today. Having gone to bed last night I found it impossible to block out the many haunting faces and scenes that Id experienced yesterday. In the end I kept the bed lamp on, the decorations of Kasia and
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Dorotkas room distracting my mind until tiredness finally led me into an uneasy sleep. Ryszard woke me at 2pm, saying that hed prepared a bath for me - a full-on steaming hot bubble bath. I was stoked. After the varying degrees of comfort in hostels, not to mention temperamental hot water systems, all my stresses disappeared in a blast of bubbles, leaving me feel renewed and no longer road dirty. It was just what the doctor ordered. Later in the afternoon Ryszard and myself went shopping in a local supermarket. I planned on making the family dinner tonight as a kind of thankyou for having me stay. Showing Ryszard a packaged tray of mincemeat, I asked him if it was good quality. I hope so! he answered with a laugh, still leaving me in the dark. Dinner was almost a party itself and I got to sample Bigos, the traditional dish of Poland. Made of sauerkraut, chopped cabbage and a variety of meats including beef, pork and sausage, Id spied the rather unappetising mix in the fridge earlier on in the afternoon. Asking Ela what the stuff was, she promised that wed have some with dinner, leaving me wishing Id kept my mouth shut. Kasia says that while it looks dubious, its really quite tasty. Three
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helping of Bigos later I was in total agreeance. Bigos is unusual in that the more it is stored then reheated, the better it gets. A well-cooked Bigos several days old is truly delicious. Kasia accompanies me to the train station to find out about a connection to Poznan. The train is due at 3:30am so I suspect that tonight the Grzybek household is going to have a broken nights sleep. Id prefer to slip away quietly without waking the family, who have their normal daily routines to get on with tomorrow. The family Grzybek - Ryszard, Ela, Kasia, Dorotka, Ania and little Agatka hadnt just made me feel like a welcome guest in their home - they made me truly feel like I was part of the family. In their apartment block home I honestly thought having seven people living under the same roof would be a cramped proposition with little privacy. How wrong I was.

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Kedzierzyn-Kozle - Poznan: -6 degrees C (summertime blues!) Unbelievable. After having the family awakened at 3am to say goodbye, Ryszard drives me to the train station, where we discover that Polish Railways have rudely introduced a new timetable overnight, and that the newly-scheduled service onwards to Poznan had departed just after 3am. Next service at 9am. Kasia had done all the talking at the ticket office yesterday, and the station staff never mentioned anything about a new PKP timetable. Back to the Grzybeks. Even though its not through any fault of my own, I feel really bad for the sleep interruptions. Welcome home! Ela greets me with a smile on my way back through the front door. One small consolation is a few hours extra sleep before Ela wakes me with a thermos of hot coffee, biscuits and cake for the trip. I now had to do the whole farewell thing with the family again, which I found a lot harder the second time around. Ryszard takes me back to the train station, where an announcement is made that my train is running late. Ryszard was going to be late for work thanks to me, but he wouldnt go until I was on the
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train. Ten minutes later the train arrives. Ryszard and I part with a handshake. Its a tough moment. How long will it be before we meet again, and will we meet again at all? The best I can do is promise myself to make that effort.

Entering my assigned kupe, I find three backpackers already settled in and our small space loaded up with all their gear. Where abouts in Aussie are ya from? one of the three asks me in my own accent. Unbelievable again. Obscure small-town Poland in tourist off-season and I come across two Australians. Chris and his girlfriend were schoolteachers from Melbourne and their mate Joe who was travelling with them was from Washington State. The three were on their way to Dresden before heading home after a six-month jaunt through Africa and the Middle East. They asked if Id visited Auschwitz, like they had. I said I had. A long silence followed. Auschwitz has this effect on people.

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Poznan: A large industrial centre and the provincial capital of Wielkopolska (literally, Great Poland), Poznan is known as the City of International Trade Fairs, of which there are more than two dozen throughout the year. Poznan was also the scene of the tragic workers strike of June 1956. Tanks, leaving more than seventy dead and nine hundred injured, crushed the spontaneous demonstration that demanded bread and freedom. The protest was to be the first of many on Polands long road to ending communist rule. Poznan: -4 degrees C (no snow!) Joanna Kolan, who, through Globalfreeloaders.com had kindly arranged for me to stay with her family in Poznan, was suffering from a dose of the sniffles. Unable to meet me off the train, Joanna emailed me directions to find my way to her home, which was a twenty minute tram ride from the city centre. Once again Im struck down by Murphys Law. Setting off in one direction in search of a bankomat proves the nearest one to be in the completely opposite direction. If theres a wrong turn, wrong direction or wrong road to take, then Ive pretty much discovered them all.
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Joannas directions however, are easy to follow and soon after I arrive at her familys apartment block. I climb the eight flights of stairs to the family home, only to be greeted by Joanna telling me that I should have used the lift. Mr. Murphy is having a field day with me. Joanna is twenty-three and drop-dead gorgeous. She also has one very dry sense of humour. To my good fortune, Murphy didnt see her coming. The Kolan family - mother Barbara, a Polish literature teacher who doesnt speak English, and Joannas two brothers Tomek and Michal, are all very friendly and welcoming. My first taste of Polish hospitality had been Anna, the Wafer-thin Witch of Warsaw, and while first impressions can often be a gauge of things to come, the Grzybek and Kolan families have well and truly dispelled that myth. I wanted to take Jo out for dinner but she wasnt feeling up to it so we settled on staying in, and spent the afternoon playing Jos guitar (the girls a natural at Metallica!) and getting acquainted. Rummaging through my pack, my boxers were almost instantly stained brown when, looking through my flight ticketing I discovered that my open-jaws ticket home from Frankfurt was dated for today. Even worse, Id stumbled across this critical oversight just four and a half hours before the flight was ready for boarding. Id been
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having so much of a good time on the road that any thought of having to get myself home again at some stage had been completely forgotten about. Jo quickly swung into action. After we discovered that there were no Singapore Airlines offices in Poland, Jo put a call through to Germany, and was able to change my return flight date just in the nick of time. Skin of my teeth touring. Jos father Marek, a computer scientist, arrives home from work in the early evening. He doesnt speak English, but that makes no difference to his friendliness, which basically means were constantly nodding heads and smiling at each other. Jo keeps me awake until almost 5am with good conversation, though shell disagree to being the only guilty party. Jos mastery of the English language is shamefully better than my own, and if theres a word in the conversation she doesnt know the meaning of then theres a well-worn dictionary at hand! Jo is a very intelligent and warm girl. Its a real shame that we live on opposite sides of the planet.

*
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Poznan: -3 degrees C (snow overnight!) Im blaming Jo for my late start to the day - its her fault for being a very interesting night owl. Shes still not feeling the best and decides to stay in while I take a tram (yet another free ride thanks to Barbara kindly lending me her monthly pass) into the city centre for a look around central Poznan. A wander through the town rynek as usual, although by the time I actually got there the light of day was quickly slipping away. I wandered aimlessly around the city centre for a while before heading to the train station to buy a ticket to Torun. I now had buying tickets in a foreign language nailed. Polish train stations have a huge central board with the names of nearly every city and town on them, and train departure times. Then it was simply a matter of writing jeden bilety (one ticket) followed by the town name, the desired departure time, and finally zloty? on a bit of paper and handing it to the ticketing staff. Works like magic. As with the Grzybeks, I offered to cook dinner for the Kolans as a way of repaying them for their generous hospitality. Marek was supposed to be working until late but he made an early appearance, having cancelled a meeting just to sample my culinary skills. The pressure
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was now on to whip up something worthy of meeting cancellations, although Marek seemed a little disappointed he wasnt going to be sampling kangaroo fillet for dinner. Luckily, dinner wasnt too much of a tragedy. Marek and myself got busy with the washing up, an oddly silent chore as neither of us could swap a common word besides a joint thumbs up when we were done, and humourous imitations of his daughter gasbagging endlessly on the phone. Relaxing later at the family dining table with a few after-dinner Zywiecs, Marek and myself embark on an indepth conversation on everything from what life was like in communist Poland to current job opportunities to the uncertain future of this Eastern European nation. Marek sure had done his fair share of standing in queues. This popular communist-era pastime, one that Id heard plenty of first-hand stories about, leaves me eternally grateful that I live in a country where people get pissed off with queueing for anything longer than a few minutes. Poor Jo has to act as translator for the whole backwards and forwards conversation, and comes through with flying colours. Dziekuje Jo! Once again Jo and myself mess around on guitar for a while, and once again Jo keeps me awake until 5am with
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ghost stories and good conversation!

Poznan - Torun: -6 degrees C (snow blinding!) Jo gave me a call at around ten so I made an appearance at eleven to a delicious breakfast of cold meats and buttered bread. Jo also made me up a foil of food for the train trip. Sadly, it soon came time to leave. The more I got to know Jo the more I liked her, and it really sucked that I had to get back on the road. Its a major downside of travelling - fare welling people who you come to know and like, and not knowing how long it will be before your paths cross again. Twice in the space of a few days Ive had to say goodbye to people who mean a lot to me. The Kolans are a great family, and they too had made my time in their home very relaxing and most enjoyable. Two days ago they were complete strangers. Now they are permanent fixtures on my Christmas card list. Again its a free tram ride direct from the front of the Kolans apartment block to Poznan Glowny, arriving fifteen minutes before my train is due to depart. Perfect
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timing, and lifes certainly a lot easier when you dont have to sprint down icy platforms with your heart in your throat. The train to Torun was crowded with Polish soldiers heading somewhere on training exercises. It takes a while working my way through the carriages before I find a spot with enough room for my pack and myself, which turns out to be in a baggage storage compartment. It wasnt uncomfortable, and there was the added bonus of a working heater beneath my bench seat. The scenery on the way to Torun was a never-ending blanket of snow coating the open countryside. The other cool sight was of a mother sitting with her deaf son at the other end of the baggage store. They were engaged in some kind of sign language comedy routine, and kept each other in stitches all the way to Gniezno, where they left the train. Torun: A wealthy Hanseatic port with a long and rich history, Torun is a small city that retains much of its medieval character in its huge churches, narrow streets and many museums. Torun is also famous as the birthplace of the great astronomer Mikolaj Kopernik, better known as Copernicus. Toruns historic core was placed on UNESCOs World Heritage list in 1997, and the city provides the chance to step back in time in relatively
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tourist-free surrounds. On Bart the Canolishmans recommendations, I headed for Schronisko Turystyczne Fort IV, an old Prussian fort that is now in use as a hostel. The bus ride to the old fort located on the outskirts of Torun was yet again a free trip. If there are any Polish transport authorities reading this, I love your nations system of no ticket inspections! So far I have ridden Warsaw, Krakow and Poznan trams and buses for the unbeatable price of nothing! Should you wish to claim the above-mentioned fare monies, Ill happily deposit twenty dollars or thereabouts into an account of your choosing, as all the above-mentioned public transports are fast, reliable, easy to get around on, and I certainly used them a lot! Id gladly recommend their use to anyone heading for Poland! Passing through the huge iron front gates of Fort IV reveals a moat surrounding an inner garrison burrowed into the side of a snow-covered hill. Theres no one about, and the old fort is deathly quiet. Weapons of medium destruction lay about the place, from modern-day artillery batteries to a mortar launcher. The only thing missing are the live rounds, which subdues my excitement somewhat. Entering the tunnelled garrison Im greeted by a bearded middle-aged caretaker who rambles on
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incessantly, even after its painfully obvious I cant converse with him using anything more than pathetic grunts and a lot of head nodding. Still, its not hard to guess why Im here, and Im lead through a series of whitewash brick tunnels to a small single room. Its a comfortable little space, a private quarters fitted with a heater that actually works! The one hundred bed hostel is lucky to have more than a handful of guests at this time of year, and before he goes to leave the caretaker hands me a set of room keys, along with some instructions in Polish, which I can only assume translates something along the lines of dont lose them. I rested for a few hours then took a free bus ride back into the town centre. After a good and reasonably priced (cheap) dinner of meat stew in a cosy little restaurant, I stumbled across a cellar bar called Art Caf, where a band was tuning up in one corner. The cellar digs was full of university types, a bunch of whom invited me to party on with them, even though it was them who had joined me at one of the large corner nooks. The band was a romantic funk outfit that went by the name Spleen. Their tunes got better with every number, sounding a lot like a cross between the Chili Peppers and a mates band, Bludja. Each set was louder than the last, and the cellars tunnelled curves added a grungy depth to the music. When its all over one of the caf staff tells me
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about a hard rock club called Ptaszarnia, just around the corner. Rolling in to another underground club (literally), Im greeted by the very loud and very live strains of Led Zeppelins Kashmir. The place is packed and jumping. Theres rock memorabilia everywhere, and someones chest and skull x-rays hang pegged over the bar, nicely complimenting the run-down grunginess of Ptaszarnia. I arrived back at Fort IV shortly after midnight, only to find the huge iron entrance gates shut and locked. But before I could begin to contemplate shitting myself, the duty gatehouse mans face appeared through the slot before letting me in to my toasty warm and comfortable room. It was then I discovered my ATM card missing.

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Torun: -5 degrees C (amazing clear skies and sunshine!) After experiencing near heart failure last night, things worsened this morning when I also discovered I had just enough zloty on me to be homeless and starving by lunchtime. The bearded caretaker paid me a visit, and I assume he wanted to know if I would be staying on for a further night. I couldnt think of a way to tell him that my plastic had gone AWOL, and his non-stop alien chatter soon turned to anger in the face of my own temper, which was quickly fraying with every garbled question. After a few minutes of combined heated gibberish, the caretaker stormed off in a huff, leaving me to wonder how the hell I was going to survive alone and penniless in an obscure little place on the other side of the planet. I remember using a bankomat somewhere in the centre of Torun. The bankomat had been located inside a security access room, so hopefully someone with a conscience had found it and handed it in to the bank staff this morning. Fingers crossed, else Im screwed. I made a beeline for the nearby bus stop, careful not to cross paths with the motor-mouthed caretaker who wanted money I just didnt have. It was a beautifully bright and clear day, and for the first time I noticed the suns low elevation in the winter sky. At 11am one could be forgiven for thinking that it was no later than eight.
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Free bus ride. I found the bank almost immediately, and after explaining my predicament to an English-speaking staff member, she opens her desk drawer and produces my missing plastic lifeline. A feeling of relief that even morphine couldnt provide.

Mikolaj Kopernik a.k.a. Copernicus was born in Torun in 1473. His name is all over town, on everything from street names to monuments to local pierniki (gingerbread) shops. Copernicus was the great astronomer who stopped the Sun and moved the Earth, and Torun is very proud of their famous local boy. Dom Kopernika, or House of Copernicus is a fascinating museum that features replicas of the mans astronomical instruments and provides a glimpse into the life and times of the Kopernik family, who obviously werent short of a dollar back in their day. A visit to the house museum was well worth the time, even though the astronomer only spent his youth here before relocating to Krakow to continue his studies.
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Taking a casual walk along the snow-lined banks of the Vistula I met Gwendoline, a French girl studying at the Torun University. Both of us were out enjoying the sunshine, and Gwendoline tells me this is the most perfect Torun day shes seen in a long time. While we are admiring the views of the Old Town, a paraglider sails straight by us, no more than a few feet off the ground. Were standing in the perfect spot at the perfect time, and as the paraglider powers by we swap greetings with the pilot before he pulls his machine upwards into the clear morning sky. Before we part ways Gwendoline invites me to a student Christmas party this evening at the university dorms. First hand experience says Polish university parties are nothing short of chaotic rides into oblivion, so its an offer too good to turn down. Walking around Torun is like walking through a time warp. Its a comparable small-town Krakow with its castle ruins, leaning tower (not as famous as its Piza counterpart), and the misleadingly-named Toilet Tower, which had no public amenities anywhere to be seen, leaving me busting for relief. In the Torun rynek sits a small fountain topped with a statue of a boy playing violin, with bronze-cast frogs sitting at spaced intervals on the fountains rim. The fountain is a monument to a local legend reminiscent of the Pied Piper of Hamlin. The story goes that once upon a
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time a witch came to Torun and was less-than-favourably greeted by the locals. In revenge for the townspeoples take on Moscow hospitality, the witch invoked a curse and Torun was invaded by a plague of frogs. The town mayor offered a reward of a sack of gold and his daughters hand to anyone who could save the day. A peasant boy showed up with his rustic violin and began to play. The frogs became enchanted by the melodies, and followed the boy out of town and into the woods. Torun was saved, and a legend was born. I have no idea if they all lived happily ever after - I was just passing through. Back at Fort IV the bearded caretaker hunts me down, still angry with me for something. I hand him the zloty for the extra nights stay, making us square. He then storms off down the tunnelled corridors muttering loudly to himself. Strangely, he reappears at my door minutes later in a far more pleasant disposition, although Ive still got absolutely no idea what hes rambling on about. I think hes just plain senile.

Back at the very cool Ptaszarnia in the early evening I strike upon good conversation with Ana, who works in the club. Tonight is her night off, and she invites me to join
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her seated along the bar. With someones x-rays hanging over us and hard rock tunes pumping through the below ground digs, Ana takes me on an in-depth journey through Polands long and colourful history, from its beginnings as a formed nation in 966AD to the post-communist modern day. The girl is a living, breathing library of Poland facts and figures, which strikes me as being totally out of place in the grungy Ptaszarnia, whose name translates roughly as bird cage. Ana takes me to a delicatessen for a bite to eat before seeing me off in a taxi to the university. Arriving at the students Christmas party, Im shocked to find that its a totally lame affair, and none of the ten or so gathered is in party mode. Accountant forums are more exciting, so after a one-drink chat with Gwendoline I made my way back to Fort IV, disappointed for the first time with Polish university students and their legendary parties. It was just after 1am when I arrived back at Fort IV (the gatekeeper had shown me the night buzzer on my way out) and with a few party-intended Zywiecs still in my daypack I offered Ryszard the night watchman a Christmas drink. His eyes lit up at the prospect and we sat in the small gatehouse drinking Zywiecs. Ryszard gave me a 2am tour of the old fort. There are lots of interesting chambers inside the garrison, and cast-iron rotating machine gun nests which rise conspicuously out of the
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snow-caked hilltop. The dead of night temperature hovered somewhere around minus fifteen, and on several occasions my camera refused to function in the cold. Ryszard didnt at all mind being a midnight tour guide; it gave him something interesting to do in the long and cold night hours with no one around.

Torun - Gdansk: -7 degrees C (shiver me timbers!) Leaving the awesome Fort IV mid morning I took my pack to the train station to be stored until the evening service onwards to Gdansk, leaving me the remainder of the day to see more of picturesque Torun. Besides Copernicus, Torun is also famous for its pierniki, (gingerbread) which has been produced here since the town was founded. The recipe for Torun pierniki is a closely guarded secret. The finished product comes in a variety of shapes and forms, including the obligatory gingerbread figures of Copernicus. At Sklep Kopernik, the queue to purchase some of the secret bake was out the door. The patient queuers were here to stock up on goodies for Christmas, now just a few days away.
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After ten minutes standing in a queue shivering and no closer to the front doors of the shop, I decided to come back later. Ana had recommended me not to miss a visit to the Torun planetarium, a high-tech venture installed inside an old gas tank. In this astronomy-mad town the planetarium is a very popular attraction, and the mad rush of the crowd to get up the stairs into the auditorium put a crowded pen of sheep waiting to be sheared to shame. Strangely, it was the older generations, many of them wielding walking sticks, who were responsible for the stampede. The planetarium feature show was a look at the Christmas story, and the relevant stars and phenomena attached to biblical descriptions. Lasting around an hour, I walked out of the planetarium amazed by the special effects, and not so amazed that I hadnt understood a single word of the Polish-narrated story. I wasnt leaving Torun without some gingerbread. Back at Sklep Kopernik, I waited in line for almost half an hour (including ten minutes freezing my nuts off again - in the queue outside) before finally making it to one of the busy counters. There were so many different varieties of gingerbread on offer that I had no idea what to buy. I hoped the pierniki I walked out with was worth the long wait in line.
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I spent my last few hours in Torun at Ptaszarnia, where Ana was busy getting the place as ship-shape as possible (impossible) before the hordes of grungers started turning up. Ana took a self-indulgent one hour break, and made sure I got my free glass fill of Torun hospitality several times over! Na Zdrowie Ana! Torun was a most excellent place to pull up for a few days. Theres plenty to see and do without being surrounded by hordes of tourists. A visit to this interesting and scenic town comes highly recommended for those wishing to escape large crowds and the endless monotony of drab-grey high rises (although they do exist here, just like in every Polish city), and will leave you feeling as though you had travelled back to medieval times. I had no justifiable reason to visit Torun besides because its there, and left with plenty of justifiable reasons to return.

Waiting on the platform for the evening train to Gdansk to arrive I met a girl named Joanna (another one!) and I asked her what my ticket said about class and carriage number. She told me there were no classes on this particular service, and when the train arrived we boarded to share an empty kupe. Joanna lived in Torun
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and was going to Gdansk to have Christmas ith her parents. The kupe is cold and damp and the bar heater doesnt work. Joanna spies a young girl sitting by herself in the next kupe and decides for the girls safety and our own warmth that we should join her. Like so many other Poles Id talked to, Joanna was adamant that the nations railways were an unsafe place to be alone, although I was yet to see any evidence of this, touch wood. On the slow trip north to the seaport city of Gdansk via Bydgoszcz, where the train is halted for half an hour, Joanna asks about my plans for Christmas. I had hoped to be in the far north of Finland by Christmas day, but the good time I was having in Poland had all but shattered that plan. It looked as if I was going to be holed up somewhere in Gdansk for my first ever White Christmas. Joanna tells me that if I have no other plans then I am more than welcome to join her family for dinner on Christmas Eve. What can I possibly say about Polish hospitality towards a complete stranger that hasnt already been said! The train arrived into Gdansk shortly after 11pm, and a slip-sliding icy walk later I arrive at a youth hostel Id picked out of my guidebook. The hostel looks like a boarding school and its a clean and well-run. Sharing a three-bed dorm room with me are an Irish chap named Kenneth and a sharp-witted young Pole, Maciej Eric
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Janczuk. Eric was from the small seaside town of Ustka, a small town on the north-western coast of Poland. The three of us stay up talking well into the wee hours. Our room is warm and comfortable, and even has its own washbasin. Ahhh, the simple things.

Gdansk: -2 Degrees C (sea breeze and snow!) Known as Danzig in German, Gdansk is the largest city in northern Poland, and along with the two nearby urban centres of Gdynia and Sopot, is merging to form a single metropolis known as the Tri-City. World War II kicked off in Gdansk on 1st September 1939, when a German battleship fired the first shots of the war on the Polish military post at Westerplatte on the port entrance. By 1945 the city virtually ceased to exist, the level of destruction equalling the devastation of Warsaw. The restoration of the Main Town took well over twenty years, although some work continued on well into the 1990s. In December 1970, 44 Gdansk shipyard workers were left dead after a massive strike, pacified by the communist authorities. Gdansk is also the foundation of Solidarity, the 1980 shipyard strike ending with government
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negotiations and no bloodshed. Lech Walesa, the electrician who led the strike, became the first freely elected president in post-war Poland.

I awoke to Eric telling me like it is. You are twentyseven? Then you are an old man! The twenty-year-old Pole has a penchant for humourous insults, as Kenneth and myself had well and truly found out last night. The young extrovert spent a lot of time in Gdansk, and was a regular guest in the youth hostel. You wouldnt believe some of the morons I have met in this place! Eric shakes his head. I tell him this must happen every time he looks in the mirror, but Eric is thick-skinned. The young Pole then has a dig at Kenneth, whose slightly impractical idea of traipsing around foreign countries with a laptop crammed in his backpack he considers just stupid. I could tell Eric and myself were going to get along just fine over the next few days. Sure beats sharing with a dorm with any of those morons Eric so fondly recalls.

*
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Gdansk is a city with a salty fragrance in the air. It was the first time since leaving home that Id come anywhere near the sea, and my first whiff of the Baltic, which smelt like, well, a sea. A nearby marketplace bustled with Christmas shoppers stocking up on meats and seafood. Im not a big fan of seafood and my stomach churned at the sight and smell of fresh Baltic Carp laid out on racks for sale. I decided Id never subject myself to the disgusting pleasure of Carp - unless it was a matter of life and death. A girl at a t-shirt stand directed me towards the Royal Way. Turn right and you will be in the most beautiful street in Gdansk. At only five hundred metres in length, the Gdansk Royal Way is a picturesque strip of architectural and artistic marvel. In 1945 this colourfully decorated street was nothing more than a heap of smoking rubble. Being a seaport Gdansk pays homage to the sea god Neptune in the form of a bronze statue fountain. Constructed in the early 17th century, the fountain is the oldest secular monument in Poland. The fountain was fenced off in 1634 after a legend began that Gdansks own brand of vodka, Goldwasser, began spurting out of the sea gods trident. Neptune suddenly found himself besieged by drunken locals, and in a vodka-soaked world of
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danger! A few doors down from Neptune is the Golden House, which has the richest facade in the whole city. Built in 1618, the elaborate buildings exterior is adorned with twelve intricately carved scenes, and also features busts of historic notables in the friezes between stories. Statues of Cleopatra, Achilles, Antigone and Oedipus, who all appear to be waving at the passing crowds, top the Golden House. On the waterfront along the icy Motlawa River is the massive Gdansk Crane. Built in the mid-fifteenth century, the double-towered gate was used to hoist loads of up to two thousand kilos onto and off cargo vessels, making it the biggest crane in medieval Europe. The Crane was operated by human treadmill, put in to motion by dock hands walking the inner circumference of its five-metre diameter hoisting wheels. The Crane, like so much else in 1945 Poland, suffered considerable damage before being carefully rebuilt. Today the Gdansk Crane is the only fully-restored relic of its kind in the world. For churchgoers who like to be fascinated theres St Marys Church, which sits smack in the middle of Gdansk. Its the largest old brick church in the world, dating way back to 1343. Around twenty-five thousand sinners can repent in comfort inside the churchs whopping half-hectare interior. St. Marys has a multi278

denomination history, switching from catholic to protestant during the times of Reformation, later reverting back to catholic following the Second World War. St Marys is also famous for its astronomical clock. At the time of its construction in the mid-15th century it was the largest clock in the world. Besides the time, the clock also displays the day, month, year, phases of the moon, and the positions of the sun and moon in the zodiac cycle. And if thats not enough to please die-hard timepiece fans, the astronomical clock also features a calendar of saints, figures of apostles, and saints that appear at predetermined times. For the icing on the cake cast models of Adam and Eve ring the bells every hour. Rolex eat your heart out. Part of the clocks legend is that its constructor, one Hans Duringer from Torun, had his eyes put out (presumably against his own free will) so as to prevent him from building another clock that might outshine his master creation. Out of fear for its safety during the Nazi occupation the clock was dismantled and hidden outside Gdansk, and it wasnt until the mid-1980s that the costly reconstruction began. For lovers of lapidary, Gdansk is the place to buy amber. The Baltic region boasts the worlds largest deposits of the precious stone, which is actually fossilised tree resin aged between forty to sixty million years old. Besides use in rosary beads and amulets Baltic amber also
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has the unusual property of being able to generate static electricity when rubbed, and in some pieces, the ability to fluoresce. The altar in St Bridgets Church is made completely from amber, all six and a half thousand kilograms of it. Shame I never saw it.

Only Eric and myself at the hostel tonight. Kenneth has headed south to Gliwice for Christmas. The Irishmans farewell note gave us a good laugh: Guys, if you want you can contact me at address below. Czesc! Kenneth OBoyle Kialla Co. Mayo IRELAIND Irelaind?? Over a banquet of fried chicken, Erics mums cutlets and Zywiec, Eric and myself hopelessly ponder the existence of the fine nation of Irelaind. It has to exist, the young Pole muses, Kenneth is from there!
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Just to carry on the joke we go to the hostels reception, where theres a large map of the world hanging on the wall. We search the map for the secret and mysterious nation of Irelaind but we cant find it. We decide its probably one of those little island nations you dont even know exists until its hit by a cyclone or a coup detat. Having exhausted all leads to the precise location of the mysterious nation of Irelaind, the conversation turns to American daytime soapies. Eric starts upon his own soapie script impersonations, a twisted take on all those shows that give watching paint dry a run for its money. Eric does the impersonations tragically well, and both of us are kept in fits of laughter for hours. The following is a rough transcript of the Pole keeping both of us amused well into the early hours: Father: Our family empire must never fall. (stare). Ridge: I am sorry I disappoint you father. (stares back). Father: That woman is bad for our filthy rich family. (stare). We must crush her like ice before the family dynasty is in ruins. (stares sharply). Try this totally shit caviar, son. (stares harder). Ridge: But I love that bitch father. (stares long and hard).
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And she loves my big American jaw and my smooth American close shave. (stares some more). Father: You must drive to Santa Barbara tonight. (stare). I will contact Lord Vader of your arrival. (stares and Darth Vader sound effects). Together we will become more powerful than you can ever imagine. (stares and Darth Vader/Light Sabre sound effects). Ridge: Why is my square jaw so damn big? Why do we stand around staring so much? (stares off into the middle distance). Both our stomachs hurt from the constant laughter. Were just like two kids on a school camp who lie awake giggling at really stupid things, themselves included. American soapies, you suck!

Gdansk: -3 degrees C (baking on the Baltic!) First words I hear this morning: Oh well, looks like Ive missed that train. But Eric wasnt too fussed; there would be more trains heading to his seaside hometown of Ustka later in the day.
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Later in the morning I paid a visit to the Monument to the Fallen Shipyard Workers, which is located just around the corner from the hostel. The towering monument consists of three forty-two metre high steel crosses and at its base was a large arrangement of wreaths and flowers, placed in memory of those killed in the Gdansk shipyard riots of 1970. The monument marks the birthplace of Solidarity in Poland and, unveiled in 1980, has the unique distinction of being the first monument in a communist regime to commemorate the regimes victims. It is the very symbol of Gdansk, and an impressive landmark. The multi-language inscription cast on a series of bronze plates best sums up the monument: A token of everlasting remembrance of the slaughter victims. A warning to rulers that no social conflict in our country can be resolved by force. A sign of hope for fellow-citizens that evil need not prevail. Monuments like this make me truly appreciate my own country even more.

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Eric appeared back at the hostel in the early afternoon, having gotten himself a ticket for a later train to Ustka. We had a Christmas drink in our dorm, then I accompanied the Polish comedian to the train station, and made sure he actually got himself onto the train, a pastime Im no stranger to. Erics final farewell is another venture into the world of shithouse daytime soapies: Okay Ridge, tell father I will make contact with him and Lord Vader. Merry Christmas! With Eric on his way home to keep his family amused (laughing with him or at him Im not sure) over Christmas, tonight its myself for company in the comfortable hostel. It had to happen eventually - Im stricken with stomach cramps and a dose of the runs. The sad part is that its my own stupid fault. Last night Id gotten thirsty a few times, and too lazy to go and chase up some bottled water (its freezing outside man!), Id conveniently been drinking straight out of the basin tap in the hostel room. So long as no creepy-crawlies come busting outta my guts then Im hopeful my newly-acquired skill of being able to shit through the eye of a needle will pass with a dose of Lofenoxal and a good nights sleep.

*
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Gdansk - Malbork: - 4 degrees C (whiteout!) The famous Malbork Castle is around fifty kilometres by train from Gdansk, and as I was feeling a bit Gdansked-out I jumped on a train to pay an overnight visit to the little town with a big castle on the banks of the Nogat River. Malbork Castle is the largest and arguably the greatest castle in Poland. Built by the Teutonic Knights beginning in 1276, Malbork took shape in stages, eventually covering an area of twenty-one hectares. The castle features three rings of defensive walls that are strengthened by dungeons and towers. Malbork was seized once in 1457 during the Thirteen Years War, forcing the by-now weakening Teutonic Order to make a hasty retreat to Konigsberg (present-day Kaliningrad). Malbork Castle then became the residence of Polish kings visiting Pomerania, but gradually slipped into decline from the time of the Swedish invasions. During the Second World War the monster fortress was shelled, and the restoration process that had begun in the 19th century had to begin all over again. Malbork Castle dominates the small town of the same name, and looks much the same today as it did six centuries ago. The brilliant sunshine reflecting off the heavy snowfall was blinding, making it virtually impossible to get a view
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of anything from the train window. But as we crossed over the Nogat and slowed into Malbork station, I got an all-consuming, albeit quick view of the monstrous orangey-red castle. The hostel listed in my guidebook was a one kilometre trudge through snow away from the train station. I arrived there a while later only to find it closed for the Christmas period. Malborks tourist information office was also closed for the festive season, and as I seemed to be out of options I decided to head back to the train station and ask around there. In the end I found the most excellent Szarotka workers dorm, which as Murphys Law dictates, was situated right across the street from the train station. Id just taken a scenic two kilometre trudge with my heavy pack around Malbork in search of accommodation only to find it right back where Id started. The workers dorm, complete with a decorated conifer Christmas tree standing outside in the freeze, was a welcoming and friendly place. Having defrosted in my small comfortable room, I headed back out into the cold for a wander around Malbork (even though Id seen most of it already), and to check out the famous castle. Walking around the perimeter of Malbork Castle, I stopped to watch a couple of local families who were bum sledding (no idea what its really called) down the
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slopes around the fortress. A bum sled (no idea what theyre really called) is a thin plastic seat with a handle; it looks a bit like the head of a shovel. You sit on the seat, grip the handle between your legs, then hold the hell on for an out-of-control ride down the slopes. The speedy bumpy ride ends in a snow-spraying stack on the frozen surface of the Nogat River. Its fast, its crazy, and I was an instant fan. Even the grandparents were in on the action, screaming down the slopes and yelling whoopee! as they spun out of control. In the crowded marketplace near the majestic castle I ordered a hamburger for a late lunch, only to be handed a bun smothered in some description of creamy pink sauce, and no meat visible anywhere in the slush. The hamburger looked a bit suss, but as Id already paid for it I took a bite, spattering my t-shirt with a browny-pink goo. Hurling the weirdest burger of all time into the bin I headed across the street to a chicken stall, which sold roast chicken and absolutely nothing else! Half a roast chook was delicious, and a real bargain at only five zloty. The evening was spent holed up in the excellent workers dorm with a dinner of fried chicken, kielbasa and a few compulsory festive season Zywiecs.

*
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Malbork: -5 degrees C (Christmas Eve!) The plan for today had been to check out the grand interior of Malbork Castle. But on my way there I spied bum sleds for sale in the window of a toyshop, and all thoughts of the castle (my sole reason for coming to Malbork in the first place) went straight out the window. Eight zloty later I was set to take on the powdery slopes around the famous Malbork Castle with my brand new Bum Transporter. I bummed those slopes for hours, and I had a total blast! Sometimes I made it all the way to the frozen river, most times I didnt. Not that it really mattered. Every ride was bumpy, crazy out-of-control fun. I was excited that I was heading to Scandinavia, where there would be plenty of bum sledding opportunities. At the local pizzeria for lunch the staff looked on in amusement as a foreigner, still half-caked white from head to foot in fresh powder snow, bum sled by his side, munched his way through a humungous and dirt-cheap meat pizza. It was only when I went to leave the pizzeria that I noticed the huge puddle of ice water on the floor beneath my table. I could have easily bum sledded the afternoon away, but it was Christmas Eve. I needed to get myself back to
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Gdansk to find some new accommodation (the excellent Gdansk youth hostel was closing for the festive season) before heading to family Wisniewskas for Christmas dinner. So thats Malbork - great castle (from what I saw of its outsides!) and awesome bum sledding!

I caught a train back to Gdansk in the early afternoon. My carriage was empty, with the exception of a rotund Polish woman and her daughter. Both appeared to be destitute, and carried those large red, white and bluestriped bags - the hallmark of the homeless. When the conductor came through for ticket inspection the bag women ordered him to deal with me first before turning his attention to themselves. The conductor did as he was told. He stamped my bilet then, with a knowing smirk that said lets see you talk your way out of this one, followed the bag women to the carriage end for a private chat. Watching with mild interest through the glass window in the carriage door, I could see the bag women pleading what was obviously a good case for riding gratis. The bag women must have been blessed with the gift of the gab,
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because the conductor came back into our carriage shaking his head at me with a grin. Im tipping they pleaded the spirit of Christmas, not a bad idea in an autonomous catholic nation. I wish Id been smart enough to think of that. The bag-daughter disappeared off the train with her dog somewhere outside of Gdansk, leaving me as the sole target of her mothers attention. You know today is Christmas? the plump woman asked, just in case Id somehow forgotten. Yep. Where is your family? she asks, like Ive run away from home. At home. In Gdansk? Not quite. You know people for Christmas is Gdansk? Yep.
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The Polish Inquisition, carrying everything she owned in the world with her, appeared satisfied with my answers and left me to my thoughts for the remainder of the journey.

Having gotten myself a free bus ride all the way out to a hostel on the outskirts of Gdansk only to find it didnt open until 5pm for check-in, I wound up at the totally shithouse Hotel Zaulek in the heart of Gdansk. For the rip-off price of 50 zloty per night and the pleasure of having a hostel all to myself once more, there was no hot water (it had been turned off for the duration of the quiet festive season), and it was a three-storey climb to my large and bare concrete-floored dormitory, which was somehow colder than the outside temperature. The chilly misery of the former workers dorm made me wish I was back in Krakows Heartbreak Hostel, which was the Waldorf in comparison to this dump. It was Christmas Eve, but that didnt stop the bitch at reception ordering me to be back before the 11pm curfew. An argument later and I was given an extension till midnight. Unfortunately there was nowhere else in Gdansk offering budget accommodation, and I was stuck
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for options. On the bright side, at least I had a place to sleep, even if it was in surroundings that would have scared off a hardened Neanderthal man with a damp cave fetish.

Christmas dinner at the family Wisniewskas. Joanna (from the train) is from a well-to-do Polish family. Her father is a civil engineer and her mother is a lawyer. Her sister Margaret hoped to move to London to continue her English studies. Having broken bread with Christmas wishes all round, we sat down at the dining table, a lavish spread of hot and cold dishes. Its now that I find out that on Christmas eve in Poland, dinner is a strictly seafood-only affair. Tradition dictates that meat is only eaten on Christmas day proper. And its only now that the Wisniewska family find out that Im not a big fan of anything that ended its life on the end of a fishing line. In spite of my personal dislikes I make an effort to sample the few dishes I can sort-of identify. Joanna tells me it is tradition to sample every dish on the dinner table, but neither my stomach nor my mind can even begin to
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contemplate the plate of fish pieces set in some kind of solid clear jelly, or the grated carrot and herring dish. The crumbed fish fillets look as appetising as they can possibly be to someone craving a big juicy T-bone, and I help myself to one. Just as Im bringing my fork to my mouth for a first bite Margaret announces Im not sure if you will like the taste of that - its CARP. My stomach churns itself into knots but I force myself to chew whats on my fork. Margaret is right; the oilybrown Carp tastes like something thats been scraped from the bottom of an industrial dumpster. Thankfully, the family is understanding of my limited foreign tastes and with half the Fillet oFilth eaten Im mercifully excused from putting myself through the torture that is carp. Thank God for biscuits and coffee. Seafood aside, Christmas Eve in the Wisniewska family home was most enjoyable. I was even given a framed drawing of the Gdansk Crane as a Christmas gift. The family also has a good laugh at another Polish Christmas tradition - an extra place set at the dinner table for an unexpected guest. The Wisniewskas had always practiced this uniquely Polish tradition, but they never expected it would actually come true!

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Back at Hotel Zaulek just after 1am - I didnt give a toss about their rudely imposed Christmas curfew, and nothing was said as I climbed the freezing stairwell to my even colder dorm room.

Gdansk: -3 degrees C (Christmas Day!) Slept until the early afternoon as there was little point doing anything or going anywhere in a city that was shut down and virtually deserted. Tonight is your last night here. the evil bitch at reception informs me on my way out of the miserable Zaulek. I was boarding a ferry to Sweden the following day, and glad to be leaving this travesty of accommodation behind I told the old cow that going elsewhere would be my pleasure. Christmas lunch was an unceremonious banquet at Gdansk train station McDonalds, about the only place open for business. The homeless of Gdansk were also well aware of this fact. Toothless derelicts took turns standing over my table-for-one, confronting me with
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silent and generally grubby facial expressions. I lingered on over McChristmas lunch as it was the warmest public place in all of Gdansk, before half-heartedly heading back out into the freezing wind. Across from the train station I was stoked to find a cinema complex that was open. I purchased a ticket to the 7pm showing of K-19 and spent the remainder of the afternoon looking forward to Christmas popcorn and a large coke. Harrison Ford and Liam Neeson with bad Russian accents took my mind off the misery of Christmas day and the lack of any warmth at Hotel Zaulek. After the movie I wandered around central Gdansk searching for some place, any place, that might be open, but no dice. This catholic nation, along with its shopkeepers, takes Christmas very seriously. Just when Id given up all hope of finding some food to keep me from starvation I rounded a corner to the sight of a lit Tyskie sign on the front of a delicatessen. Just as I was about to dismiss the bright neon sign as a vicious tease a man emerged from the deli doors with a bag of groceries. Christmas was saved! Back at the workers dorm a rolling drunk middle-aged woman whos well and truly swimming in the depths of Christmas spirit greets me at the dingy reception counter. Shes on the anti-freeze, and its made her a lot friendlier
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than the other middle-aged bitch who runs the place. The woman happily fills my thermos with hot water so I can enjoy the simple pleasures of a bird bath and a shave. Christmas just keeps getting better! With the wind howling and snow falling outside, Christmas night is spent in my Spartan dorm room under a pile of old blankets. Ive got a big tin of peanuts, chocolate, Tyskie beers and the excellent ZZ Top book Id purchased in Krakow. I wondered what my family and friends who were all a very long way away from here were doing right now, and hoped that they were all having a lot better time than the one I was having. My first White Christmas, and one I wont forget in a hurry.

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Gdansk - Nynashamn, Sweden: Left the decaying Hotel Zaulek around 2pm. The ferry across the Baltic to Sweden was due to depart at 6pm. Id been told the ferry terminal was in Gdynia, around half an hour from Gdansk by local train. I arrived at Gdynia only to find out the ferry terminal was at Nowy Port Gdansk. Once again Id taken a wrong turn, but nothing too serious for a change. But what had been simple error turned out to be a case of meeting the right stranger at the right time. The Gdynia train station ticket window blinds were drawn closed just as it came my turn to be served. A bubbly fuzzy-wuzzy blonde woman whod been queuing in front of me asked if I needed any help. This woman was Pixie-Ann Wheatleys long lost Polish twin, from her looks to her constant high-pitched giggle. Pixie-Ann said she had a bit of time to kill before her evening train departed for Zakopane. She spent the next twenty minutes finding me an alternative route to the Gdansk ferry terminal, as she knew that the regular line was temporarily closed for track work. Without this piece of local knowledge its almost a certainty I would never have made it to the ferry terminal in time. Pixie-Ann even went to the trouble of walking me to the right platform with detailed directions
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on where to get off the train, and how to get myself to the ferry terminal from there. As the local train is about to depart I ask the giggling blonde woman her name. Magdeleine! she says, followed by a classic PixieAnn laugh. Goodbye! Have a great time in Sweden! she giggles with a wave from the platform as the train pulls out of Gdynia. The kindness of strangers.

Passing through immigration at the Gdansk ferry terminal, the customs officer beckons me over to inspect the screen on the baggage x-ray machine. What has he found? The bazooka given to me as a gift by the Russian Mafia? The Hydrogen bomb? The drugs? A dirty fork? I study the black and white monitor closely, scanning the x-ray vision of my pack for the incriminating contraband. My eating irons, thermos and bottle opener are the only bits of gear I can clearly make out. The customs officer takes his time, closely studying the x-ray of my pack while the other queuing passengers take really good looks
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at me, maybe so they can clearly picture my face five years from now when Im still incarcerated somewhere in the Polish prison system. The customs officer sure is being thorough. How come none of the other passengers have been so closely scrutinised? Just as Im hearing my cell door slam shut the customs officer stares down on me. You are free to go. he says, like hes disappointed to find everything in my pack isnt made of cocaine. He missed the dirty fork. Once aboard the Silesia Im almost beside myself to find I am the sole occupant of a four-berth compartment, complete with its own shower. Even better, it is fitted with one of those huge showerheads that everyone loves. I havent had a wash since staying in the workers dorm in Malbork, so Im a bit on the crusty side. Steaming hot scrub. Look and feel almost human again even before the ferry has cleared the Gdansk port entrance and made its way out onto the Baltic. From the aft of the massive ferry I watched as the orangey glow of lights of the Tri-City area and Poland slipped further into the darkening distance.

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Before arriving into Warsaw Id known hardly anything about Poland, other than it existed. Almost a month later and I had experienced a large chunk of what this country has to offer - from aimless wanders around amazing medieval cities to mountain hikes, from the selfless help of complete strangers to the unrelenting generosity of families, from wild university parties to wild bear meetings - even if I sanely decided not to show up at those particular functions. Then theres the pivo. Ryszard Grzybek is right - theres no such thing as a bad Polish beer. I can back him up on that one; I tried them all! And last but not least theres the vodka. The lethal anti-freeze for humans. The invisible Vodka Trail has continued on a lap of Polska and still shows no signs of coming to an end, let alone slowing down. Maybe its punishing path will cease to exist somewhere out here on the darkened chilly waters of the Baltic. Only time will tell. A final gaze at the night time glow of Gdansk, now a barely-visible speck of light on the far-off horizon. I was already wanting to return to Poland.

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I had no idea what to put down for Polands list of Good Stuff/Not So Good Stuff so funny man Eric a.k.a Ridge came up with his own list Good Stuff: 1. Poland is the geographical centre of Europe. 2. The event of the year in Poland 2003: a cheaper vodka - the government project to cure Poles of alcoholism 3. The Pole can do it: 3.5 promiles of alcohol in the blood will kill you Facts: gravedigger from Krakow, 9.5 promiles - survived. 57 year old man from Lodz, 10.1 promiles - survived. 4. The best beer in the world - Tyskie (but take your pick, theyre all good). 5. Polish TNT (Traditional National Treasure) - hot chicks. 6. Highest social distinction in Poland - finding your name on vodka labels eg: Chopin, Mickiewicz, Slowaki. All are Polish legends. 7. Copernicus - held the Sun and moved the Earth. 8. Lech Walesa - held communism and moved capitalism. 9. John Paul II - the Vatican version of Weekend At Bernies. 10.Patriot drinks eg: U-boat - a glassful of vodka submerged in a mug of beer.
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Not So Good Stuff: 1. Hosts usually attack guests withslippers. 2. Poland moving forward: 19km of highway built in the past 7 years. 3. One of the most difficult languages in the world. 4. Anyone who doesnt drink vodka is regarded as a rebel who consciously decreases government revenues. 5. A German holiday advert: Go to Poland - your car is already there. 6. Corruption - and lots of it. 7. Gangs: Poland is the worlds second biggest retailer of baseball bats, even though there arent any baseball teams. 8. If somebody asks how youre doing it is unacceptable to say fine, thanks. The correct answer is old misery. 9. Giant beaureacracy. 10.Poles suffer from total depression due to a lack of sunshine for almost seven months of the year.

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A bit of Swedish Therapy

Name: Kingdom of Sweden Capital: Stockholm, 800,000 Population: 9 million Government: Constitutional Hereditary Monarchy Currency: Swedish Kronor Good Stuff: Land of the fabled six-foot blonde babes, massage, and Abba (depending on your musical tastes)Also the spiritual home of the Nobel Peace Prize. Sweden is one of the worlds wealthiest nations, with high standards of living, a low crime rate, and large numbers of moose roaming the forests of Scandinavia!! Not So Good Stuff: Land of Volvo and Volvo drivers, Abba (depending on your musical tastes), the high standards of living in a welfare state means its bloody expensive Swedes consider themselves to be far superior to their Norwegian and Finnish neighbours (or so Norway and Finland both claim!) Watch out for that moose!!

Of all the rotten luck. Its 5am and I have a pounding toothache. Its so painful that I would gladly listen to Irina Allegrora the screeching socialist songbird for a
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week solid if it meant I could be rid of this agony. By 6am Ive sought out the ships doctor, who does all he can for me in the form of two pain relief tablets and a wishful try and get some sleep suggestion. Its small comfort that were only hours away from Sweden and first class medical facilities. Lying in my bunk I considered myself lucky not to have suffered this condition in Russia, or even worse, Mongolia. But theres a far more sinister thought. How much does a visit to a Swedish dentist cost? The Silesia berths at Nynashamn mid-morning. The immigration process for non-EU citizens seems to take forever until an English-speaking line is opened. The customs officer is in a good mood. What is the purpose of your visit to Sweden? To party! To party!? Then I will come to Australia and drink some Fosters! Aussies dont drink that camels piss! What beer do you drink then? Victoria Bitter. Ok, I will come to your country and drink Victoria
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Bitter! Have a good time in Sweden! Passport stamped. Hooray! Sweden! Its a fifty kilometre train ride from Nynashamn into central Stockholm. I couldnt find any ticket office at the train station so it was just going to have to be another free trip, a small consolation for the world of pain I was in. Once in Stockholm I head straight to St. Eriks hospital dental department. Its just gone 2pm. Im handed a waiting room ticket. The two-digit electronic counter displays number 97. I look at my ticket. Groan. Number 55. Ten minutes later the counter ticks over to 98. This is going to be an extremely long first day in Scandinavia. Two hours later the counter displays 22. Im not going to be seen for hours, and having spotted a pizzeria just across the street I decide to make the best of a sorry situation and kill some waiting time over an early dinner. Ironically, the fresh garlic and melted cheese smell wafting in the pizzeria takes my mind off my tooth, unlike the hygienically-pungent aroma lingering in the dental waiting room. Four of Stockholms finest enter the pizzeria, and to my dumbfounded surprise, each one in turn says hello. These cops obviously never trained at the Goulburn academy. The pizza is excellent, and by the time Ive eaten my way through half of it I can almost see
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my plate. A whole pizza and a coke probably arent the most sensible things to be eating right now, but when I return to St. Eriks two hours later Im in better spirits, and the waiting room counter is now up to number 50. My number finally comes up on the electronic display, and a speedy half an hour with the Fang Nazis later Im on my way out of St. Eriks with a mouthful of anaesthetic. By now it was late evening and I still had to find a hostel. Im stoked to find an available bunk on the popular af Chapman, a well-travelled old sailing ship that is now a floating hostel at Skeppsholmen. From the af Chapman there are unobstructed views across the water to the Royal Palace and Gamla Stan, the oldest part of Stockholm. I shared a cabin with a well-to-do family from London. The family had come to Stockholm to partake in a bit of retail therapy. English Daughter, who was fifteen going on twenty-seven, proudly showed off her fabulous new leather boots, and her cosy new hand-knitted jumper. The fashionable teen said both must have items were a real bargain, which I worked out to be a rough equivalent of my entire budget for Sweden. In the hostels shore-based kitchen and combined dining room I got talking to a group of lads from New York City. Two of their gang were good mates Kiwi Dave
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and Kiwi Bruce, whod found the bright lights and rush of NYC better than being alone with sheep. Their New Yorker buddy Ben was also an easygoing lad but Abe, one hundred percent Uncle Sam, was a well-oiled motor mouth. Abe even boasted that he loved being a chatterbox. Ill keep on talking cos I like to talk, even if no one else is listenin, I just love talking, is that okay with you? Its okay with me, talkin is good. Yep, Abe was a spanner. Another Ben, along with his son Andrew, were from Tacoma, Washington State. Ben was Swedish-born and they were in Sweden to catch up with family over the festive season. The NYC gang insist that I come out and party with them, and ignore the feeble protests that come out of my numb mouth. Besides feeling totally drained after a long and painful day, I cant really afford to be out partying in Stockholms wallet-crucifying nightclubs. A bit of arm twisting later and I was heading out from the floating hostel with the NYC gang and into some of the most upmarket nightspots in all of Scandinavia. Its no great surprise to find a pint of beer cost a whopping 35 kronor (around $8), although it was still quite a shock to the system after the bargain- basement prices of Poland. But partying with the NYC gang sounded like fun. Before leaving the af Chapman Id
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made a strong point that I simply couldnt afford to go getting into shouts, let alone have too many local brews myself at these highway robbery prices. No problemo, the NYC gang said, well take care of that. It was a great night out. The NYC gang were loaded, and didnt mind throwing cash around, especially at bar staff. I mustve drank a solid ten pints, even though I only remember paying for one. The NYC gang were a totally cool wrecking crew (wrecking themselves and me) - with one notable exception. Abe, who was suffering (more likely enjoying) a severe case of verbal diarrhoea talked and talked to everyone, and was still talking to people even after theyd struck up a conversation with someone else.

Stockholm: -8 degrees C (wheres my beach towel?) The Fang Nazis have left me with a razor sharp edge on my tooth. I hadnt noticed it last night due to the anaesthetic and all those Uh-Merikan funded beers, which acted as a kind of local anaesthetic. It was Sunday and
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the dental rooms were closed, leaving me no choice but to quite literally grin and bear it. With no sign of the NYC gang this morning, I made my way to Gamla Stan. The city of Stockholm began here back in the 13th century and continued to flourish until the castle of Tre Kronor, the symbol of German-Hanseatic power, was burnt to the ground in the 17th century. I lost myself for hours in the maze of cobblestone alleyways in Gamla Stan, and thats a good thing. A short walk from Gamla Stan is the Royal Palace, the residence of King Carl XVI Gustaf of Sweden, his wife Queen Silvia, and their three kids. Princess Madeleine, the youngest of the royal gene factory, is a total babe. Why she hasnt bothered to return my calls is a mystery. With more than six hundred rooms, the Swedish Royal Palace is the largest royal palace in the world. I wondered if Lizzie and Phil were at all jealous. Confronted at every turn with eateries charging highway-robbery prices I went to a supermarket, where just the basics for dinner and a few extras burnt a $50 hole straight through my back pocket. I arrived back to the af Chapman in the darkness of mid afternoon to find the NYC gang plotting another drink-a-thon. They tell me that Im coming out to party
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with them again, and theres to be no excuses. There goes my but Abes a pain in the ass reason for staying in and catching up on the sleep I missed out on last night. It doesnt feel right to be scabbing a second night out so I make the NYC gang a deal. I supply tonights dinner, they can buy me a few beers later on. None of them have even considered a decent meal before going out to run amok, and we have a deal. As were ploughing into tacos we receive word of a hostage situation in progress at Centralstationen. No one knows for sure whats happening up there, except that a disgruntled man has explosives strapped to himself, and is making slightly irrational demands. By early evening my sharp-edged tooth is giving me grief so I take a walk back to St. Eriks on the slim chance therell be an emergency Fang Nazi on duty. I pass right by Centralstationen, where police wearing bullet-proof vests and do not cross tape are blocking every entrance to the underground station. None of them are saying hello this time. I was a bit surprised by the number of interested bystanders loitering around Centralstationen. Were they all waiting to see if the bomb would end up being detonated, blasting all of them into oblivion? Even with a live look at the situation, I saw and heard nothing more interesting than the jostle of the expectant crowd. No one had any idea at all what was actually happening down
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below. St. Eriks was closed, just as I had expected, so it was going to be another night of misery. On my way back to Skeppsholmen via Centralstationen a young Swede tells me that apparently its a Russian man whos so inconsiderately brought central Stockholm to a standstill. Probably the usual story, the young Swede sighs, another Russian with no money who thinks he deserves some. I thought being Russian his demands would have been more along the lines of a bottle of vodka, some ice-cream, and freedom of passage out of Sweden with a one-way ticket to the sponsoring nation of his choosing. Returning to my cabin on the af Chapman, English Daughter, who is all shopped out after a rigorous day handing over more of Daddys money in return for bargains, invites me to stay in for an evening of card games with her mother and herself. Its a difficult choice go out for a rolling good time with the NYC gang or stay in and play snap over soft drinks and chips. I might be back a little bit later, Im telling English Daughter when Kiwi Dave sticks his head in to our cabin and says were ready to go.
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English Daughter seems a bit peeved. Shes still got a few years to wait before she can get amongst the fashionably expensive clubs and pubs of Stockholm. Until then its board games and lollies. The NYC gang and myself rock n roll our way through more of Stockholms kronor-thieving nightspots. This time weve got a Swedish chaperone by the name of Casper, who, along with his girlfriend lead us to some of the better nightspots. We work our way through a number of clubs, and Abe works his way through endless conversation with anyone wholl lend him an ear for suitable bashing. In the wee hours our by-now staggering group end up in a fast food place packed with drunken party animals. On my way into the pay-as-you-go toilets, a pissed Swedish skinhead with some serious facial scars introduced himself and proudly informed me that he was a Stockholm gangster. He said if I ran into any problems I only had to give him the nod and hed sort it. I told the skinhead that if I encountered any real problems while I was eating my greasy burger and fries then hed definitely be the first to know. The kindness of bad-assed strangers.

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Stockholm - Tallinn, Estonia: - 7 degrees C (rockin and rollin!) Stockholm is completely snowed under. At 6.53 this morning the Russian at the centre of the Centralstationen siege surrendered quietly to police, demanding no more than a cup of coffee and a little lie down. No bombs were detonated. My next stop was going to be Helsinki, but this morning quite by accident I discovered that as an Australian I didnt require a visa for entry into Estonia. Estonia? Where was that exactly? Whats the price of a beer there? A quick read of my guidebook later I decided Estonia would be as good a place as any to welcome in the New Year. All I had to do now was book myself a ticket on the overnight ferry to Tallinn. Washington Ben, who spoke fluent Swedish, and his son Andrew were on hand to assist me with my telephone booking, and when the woman from the ferry office answered the phone in a strange language I called for help. Ben took the phone, listened for a moment then started laughing. The booking clerk was speaking Estonian, and he wasnt quite sure what she was saying.
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Ben persevered in Swedish, and soon has me booked on the Tallink line for that evenings ferry service to Estonia. With a few hours to kill before heading to the ferry terminal young Andrew and myself honed our bum sledding skills on the steep slopes around the af Chapman hostel. This time theres an added danger - failure to stop at the bottom of the slopes will result in a plunge into the heart-stopping icy waters of Stockholm harbour. On one bum sled run I crashed straight into Andrew. It was pure good luck. My bum sled sped out of control, and had Andrew been standing anywhere else I would have found out just how cold the gloomy harbour waters really were. Myself and the NYC gang were all going our separate ways. Wed had plenty of Stockholm shenanigans. Ben and Andrew were flying to Gothenburg to visit relatives, while the NYC gang had hired a car to drive to the same destination. I felt sorry for them. Id put money on bulletlips Abe talking the balls off a brass monkey the entire journey. With my pack loaded and my bum sled stowed I made my way up to Centralstationen. As I was crossing through Kungstradgarden, the central park with an ice skating rink, I was knocked clean on my ass by an overexcited and overweight Pommie Git whod just spotted the crowds of ice skaters.
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Gawd, will ya look at that! I want a PHOO! the fucking ignoramus blurts out to his mates, failing to notice that in his burst of childish excitement hes barrelled me over into the snow. I lost the plot at Pommie Git, and yelled at him that he was a fucking wanker. Pommie Git just looked at me and wondered what the hell my problem was. I wouldnt have been so pissed off had the place been jostling with a decent-sized crowd. But there hadnt been anyone within ten metres of where Id been walking when Pommie Git had knocked me over. GO BACK TO THE OLD DART YA FUCKIN TOSSER! I yelled at Pommie Git as I brushed the snow off my jacket and pack. But Pommie Git was much too excited by the ice skating rink to pay me any attention. At Centralstationen I met a Latvian couple that were also heading for the ferry terminal. On their way home to Riga, they said. The Latvians had a spare Stockholm Card, which they kindly gave to me. More free rides on public transportation. An hour later I was onboard the massive Tallink ferry Fantaasia for the overnight jaunt across the Baltic.

*
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Baltic ferries are oversized floating entertainment venues. Along with an ala carte restaurant, steakhouse and caf, duty-free store, perfumery, and a mini supermarket the Fantaasia also had two nightclubs. How was I supposed to get any sleep with so much going on around me? In the Melody Bar I was pleased to find the prices were Estonian, which made me and my wallet very happy after the crucifying Swedish price tags. A group of ten or so young Swedes who were well into partying before the DJ has even kicked off invited me to join them at their lounge tables. The Swedes were going to Tallinn to party hard because its cheap. With that kind of outlook I sensed morning would bring quite a few hangovers with it. As the evening progresses the nightclub fills with fun seekers. The young Swedes dominate the floating nightclub scene - the dance floor (where they constantly harass the DJ for more hard rock), the bar, and any halfway attractive young woman that gives our group even the smallest of sideways glances. Our group soon doubles in size and its a good party. The one problem with floating discos is the floor having a tendency to move while youre moving around on it, and I managed the first of the evenings inevitable
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ass-ups. One moment I was upright and the next I was sprawled in a heap on the waxed wooden floor with a close-up view of others shoe sizes. The Baltic wasnt all that rough, but it was still playing tricks on anyone with a few Sakus under their belt whod forgotten their sea legs. After a brutally fun snow fight on the upper deck we continued the party in our cabins. The Swedes cranked the music up and cracked cans of Norrlands Guld. By Godonly-knows oclock bodies lay sprawled in the passageway outside the cabin, and with a sea/beer legs combination just making my way back to my cabin (located somewhere on the ship, but where?) was a considerable feat in itself.

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Bloodthirsty Estonia

Name: Republic of Estonia Capital: Tallinn401,000 Population: 1.44 million Government: Parliamentary Democracy Currency: Estonian Kroon Good Stuff: Second former Soviet Republic to achieve independence, 1991 Estonians are a rural people who are happiest when their nearest neighbour is a mile away! Almost every family name is nature related. The locals arent big fans of their former Russian occupiersAlso the last cheap stop before hitting Scandinavia again! Not So Good Stuff: Estonia has a reputation for producing bloodthirsty foods: sausages prepared in blood and wrapped in pigs intestines (what the??), blood pancakes (yuck!), blood bread (crikey!), and balls of blood rolled in flour with chunks of pig fat thrown in for extra flavourwell, whatever turns you on. In 1994 Estonia suffered Europes worst peacetime maritime tragedy; 852 people died when an Estline ferry sank enroute from Tallinn to Stockholm.

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Tallinn: -15 degrees C (Brrrrr!!) An announcement is made at 10am that weve berthed in Tallinn. The voice over the ships intercom echoes in my head, and the backs of my eyeballs have felt better days. I was tipping the young Swedes were feeling the same. A short while later another announcement is made, this time a request for all passengers to depart the ferry by 3pm. Back to sleep. Some time in the early afternoon I managed to get myself sorted, and made my way off the ferry and into a bare metal version of an airport boarding tunnel mounted high above the wharf. The freezing temperature bit at every square inch of exposed skin. The chilly boarding gate led me to the immigrations entrance, where I found the glass entrance doors locked and no one about. I bang on the doors repeatedly with demands of let me into your country! but its a useless exercise; theres not an Estonian to be seen anywhere. I sat on my pack in the freezing tunnel for more than an hour before it was clearly apparent that the Estonian immigration officials werent going to know that Id arrived safely into their country. There had to be some way of getting someones attention. The freezing boarding tunnel led to somewhere further, so I went for a look. At the end of the tunnel I was greeted by two Estonian
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soldiers, who both seemed really surprised to see me. You cannot come in this way. one of the soldiers says, This is the exit gate, you must board the ferry. I explain that Im trying to get IN to the country, not out of it. This confuses both soldiers, even after explaining that Id just disembarked from the Fantaasia that had arrived this morning from Sweden. The soldiers consult each other with an air of puzzlement before one of them asks for my passport. The soldier then disappears behind the immigration screens. While hes gone the other soldier introduces me to his friendly Labrador, which isnt in the least bit interested in having a sniff. A few minutes later the soldier returns with my passport, freshly stamped for Estonia. The soldiers then direct me through the exit terminal and outside onto the streets of Tallinn. Stepping into a cab for the short ride into the centre of Tallinn, Im greeted by Men At Works Down Under starting on the radio. Its a bit of a culture shock. This is the last place I would have expected to hear one of our unofficial national anthems. The cabbie cranks the stereo up to full blast, and as we make our way along the snowcaked streets towards Tallinns Old Town, Colin Hay and the Estonian cabbie sing in unison. The cabbie yells the chorus, and as hes eager to know the rest of the lyrics, I
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break with personal tradition and join in the sing-a-long. The Old Town is a pedestrian-only zone so the friendly driver drops me off as close as possible, which just happens to be right beneath a huge Australian flag hanging from the awning of a bar. The coincidence arouses the first twinges of homesickness in me, but from my Estonian experience so far I was really looking forward to my time here. The Varn Tom hotel was full so I headed for the aptly named Hostel, from where I could see the ferry terminal Id just come from a short distance away. Hostel is Russian-owned and operated, but it was nice to find the Rooskies here didnt share Moscows unique outlook on hospitality. I shared a dorm room with an Uh-Merikan named Chris, who was on a festive season break from his English teaching job in some small Estonian village further south. Chris had been teaching in Estonia for about a year, and only planned to return to California when he could actually afford to live in his Santa Monica home. Right now it was rented out to a family who could afford to live there. Because Chris is a Yank, I felt compelled to make jokes about his beloved country. Most Americans wouldnt know where to find Estonia on a map! I chuckle, already working on my next witty and down321

putting remark. Most Americans wouldnt know where to find fuckin France on a map! Chris fires straight back. He had me there. For anyone whos not too sure of its geographical whereabouts, Estonia lies to the west of Russia, and sits above Latvia, which sits above Lithuania. Sixty kilometres to the north across the Gulf of Finland is Helsinki and Finland. Chris was Tallinn-savvy and filled me in on the local scene. Due to Tallinns close proximity to Helsinki, the Estonian capital is inundated with Finns, who make day trips across the Gulf on shopping jaunts and drinking binges. The numbers of Finns in Tallinn has led to the city being dubbed a suburb of Helsinki, much to the disgust of locals. Later in the evening Chris persuades me and my subsiding hangover to head out to shoot some pool. We head for one of Chris regular haunts, where some Finns are playing a game of pool. As Im placing a coin on the table, the Finns tell us that the white ball is missing. They seem happy enough to keep playing their game anyway until Chris reaches down to the ball return and produces the missing white ball, holding it up for the Finns to see. The pair of Finns seemed slightly embarrassed and hurriedly finished up their game and left.
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Gotta watch those Finns man, theyre fuckin crazy! Chris chuckled as we racked up for a game. Just around the corner from Hostel is a Russian nightclub called Mr. Robinson, not very Russian-sounding at all. Chris is keen to get amongst the Glasnost Gals, but I need a fair amount of convincing before Im willing to donate kroon to any kind of Russian cause, even if its in the name of a good time. The jungle-themed Mr. Robinson is full when we arrive, and shitty Russian pop music blares from the nightclubs powerful sound system. We score ourselves a table and kick back with cold pivos and crap tunes. Weve only been seated at the table for a few minutes when a tall and sad-looking Russian girl stops and stares at us like weve stolen her table. And apparently thats exactly what weve just done. Fuck em Chris, Im not moving, theres no reserved sign on the table. After the way Id been treated by these Moscow types (who were also under the impression they still ruled Estonia as well) there was no way I was going to be accommodating any of their requests any time soon. Chris appeared to be slightly on edge when it came to dealing with the Russians, even though it had been his idea to
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come here in the first place. I tell the girl theres plenty of room at our table, and that shes welcome to join us. Now she just stares at me like Ive just stolen her handbag as well as her table. Then, as if shes announcing a major threat to both of us, says RUSSIAN! Yes, we know you are love, and were sorry about that. The droopy-faced dyevachka walks away with an even droopier face than the one shed shown up with. Moments later Droopy Face returns to our table/her ex-table, followed closely by her backup troops, who are all sporting that stylishly-communist look of oppression. Theres plenty of room for all of us and we motion for them to take a seat. One by one they sit down and shuffle along in a blatant attempt to push Chris and myself off the end of the table. Its like playing corners on a school bus, and we push back. Were not giving up our table that easily. The Russians refuse to acknowledge either of us, and are just looking for any chance to gain two extra bum spots. Chris and I fight back with a well-coordinated strategy of one of us going to the bar while the other stays put at the table. Queuing for drinks its the same old story. The Rooskie trademark act of going straight to the head of
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the line is in full swing, and both mine and Chris comments of wait your fucking turn are met with sad stares. This place sucks. As the atrocious Russian pop music (no Ms. Allegrora thank God) gets louder, the assholes at our table all link arms and begin swaying along with the beat. They make sure Chris and myself cop our fair share of accidental shoves and prods while theyre at it, and we fight back once more, this time with spiteful imitations of their linked arm-swaying manoeuvres. If theres a way to make a Muscovite even sadder than he already is then we must have hit the spot because they up and left the table with plenty more miserable looks at us both. I hoped the battle for our table reminded the Russians of Afghanistan in some small way - they didnt win that one either. Theres a strip bar downstairs, so naturally, I go for a look. On a small stage is a butt-naked and most buxom Glasnost Gal, whos dripping oil all over her curvaceous figure and using the dance pole in more than one suggestive way. Ive been watching her little show for about ten minutes when a man comes over and tells me that if I want to stay then I must pay. Having already copped more than an eyeful without making a donation to the Russians for the privilege I tell the pimp that Ive seen enough of luscious Glasnost Gal anyway, and head back upstairs. Sad stares from the Russian.
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I return to our table to find Chris with a young Russian girl by the name of Rana. He says shes his Tallinn girlfriend, and when I look at him dubiously, he admits straight up that shes really a prostitute hed befriended over previous visits to Tallinn. At least Rana is fun and friendly, a welcome change to Droopy-Face and her sadcase friends. I left Chris and Rana to it sometime in the wee hours. I was all Russiand-out. Hooray for no hostel curfew.

Tallinn: -13 degrees C (New Years Eve!) Tallinn has it all. The Old Town is a living, breathing, medieval masterpiece of fortified walls and turrets, Gothic architecture, and winding cobblestone streets. Medieval Tallinn had a reputation as being one of the most fortified burgs in all of northern Europe, no great surprise as the town has been under siege or under threat of siege for most of its long history. The Middle Ages aura of Tallinn makes it all too easy to forget that youre living in the 21st century of rushed lifestyles and rapid progress, and the Old Town district has righteously been restored and protected under UNESCOs World Heritage program.
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The Estonian capital is centred on Toompea, a hill whose origins are shrouded in legend. Kalev, a mythical giant from Tallinns distant past, is said to have founded the city after a prophecy led him to the site. When Kalev died his wife was so overcome with grief that she overdid his burial mound, and piled so many stones on his grave that it eventually formed Toompea hill, which looms over the Old Town. When the Russian Orthodox Alexandr Nevsky Cathedral was built on Toompea in the late 19th century, the legend of Kalev continued with stories that the giants ghost, unhappy that his eternal sleep was being so rudely interrupted by the Russian Cathedrals construction, caused structural damage to the grand building. The Russians just cant take a hint. The very heart of Tallinns Old Town is Raekoja Plats, or Town Hall Square, a picturesque cobblestone area surrounded on all four sides by a mix of restaurants and cafes. In medieval times Raekoja Plats was Tallinns bustling marketplace; today its a modern meeting place dominated on all sides by centuries-old architecture. The Raeapteek located on the square is one of the oldest apothecaries in Europe. No one knows for sure when it first opened for business, but records show that the pharmacy was already on its third owner by 1422. During the dark medieval times Raeapteek provided burnt bees and mummy juice as medicinal treatment, while these days it stocks the usual supplies of packet pain reliefs and
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condoms. Its also a museum, displaying centuries-old medical instruments and other curiosities. A reminder of one of the more bizarre tales from Tallinns medieval history can be found on Raekoja Plats, in the form of two long cobblestones that form an L-shape arrangement on the Square. The story goes that in the late 1600s a priest walked into an inn for a meal. What he got was hard as the sole of a shoe, so he promptly sent it back. The following two servings were deemed by the priest to be even worse and an argument broke out. To make his point clear, the priest went and found an axe then slaughtered the waitress. Retribution was swift on the priest, and for his unusually violent crime he was promptly hauled out onto the square and beheaded. The L-shape cobblestones were laid down some time later to mark the spot where his head was chopped from his body. Just like traditional Estonian dishes, its a bloodthirsty story. The Cats Well is just as oddball. During medieval times the well near the Town Square was one of the citys main sources of water. According to legend, some locals got it into their heads that an evil spirit lived in the well, and was threatening to make all the citys wells run dry if he wasnt honoured with regular animal sacrifices. A few head of cattle and some sheep were thrown into the well to keep the spirit happy, but the majority of the wells
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victims were stray cats that had been rounded up and thrown down the shaft, quite often while they were still alive. The practice became so commonplace that the locals dubbed it Cats Well. The evil spirit must have been satisfied because the citys water supply never ran dry, although it didnt do a great deal for the water quality. The well was so contaminated by the mid-nineteenth century that it fell into disuse - a bit of a shame as Tallinns army of stray cats no longer have anything to fear. Up on Toompea hill is a medieval cannon tower, with a name that would strike fear into the heart of any man: Kiek in de Kok. Lets not even begin to contemplate that one. While the name conjures up less than desirable mental images (depending on your twisted fetishes), it actually translates as Peep into the Kitchen in Low German. From the towers upper floors it was possible to keep watch over the entire town, even the kitchens. Thank my lucky boxer shorts for that. But for me, by far and away the most bizarre sight is of the Old Towns McDonalds, which looks as if it belongs on another planet instead of here. It conspicuously faces the twin towers of the vine-covered Viru Gate and its surrounding medieval walls and turrets. Maybe its site was a carefully thought out marketing ploy - its impossible to miss. Its a crying shame theres no stopping progress sometimes.
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Back at Hostel in the early afternoon, Im greeted by an elderly Russian man who repeatedly hassles me in rough English You! Dont be a funny! All Id done was walk through the front door. The old man is having a hard time staying upright, and reeks of the all-too-familiar antifreeze for humans. The Vodka Trail is alive and well. Walking down the hall towards my dorm the vodkasoaked Russian is still calling after me You! Dont be a funny! before being scolded by the young woman who works reception. We had three new additions to our dorm: Sture Tangstrand, a solidly built Swede from Gothenburg, who proudly tells me that the English translation of his name is Seaweed Grass, and a young Latvian couple whod just arrived off the bus from Riga. Theyd made the trip up for tonights New Years Eve celebrations. Stures English is fairly rough for a Scandinavian and no matter how many times I attempt to get his name pronunciation right, I fail miserably. In the end I settle for calling him Stone to which he adds Seaweed Grass. The Swede is very proud of his family name, even if it refers to something thats commonly walked all over or eaten.
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With the afternoon to kill before welcoming in the New Year Estonian-style, I decide to take a trip out to Tallinns Kadaka Turg markets, a collection of stalls stocking everything from Soviet-era trinkets to suspiciously-cheap CDs. The markets are a twenty minute bus ride from the Old Town. Chris had recommended a visit to Kadaka Turg, but the American had also warned me to be prepared for the chilly bus ride. I actually purchased a ticket for a change and jumped on an old Soviet- built bus for the ride out of town. The outside air temperature hovered somewhere in the minus teens, barbecue weather in comparison to the inside temperature of the bus. Even though I was well-clothed and insulated nothing could have prepared me for the painfully cold experience that Chris had told me about. As the Soviet-era tin can rattled along through Tallinns outer suburbs the biting cold began to penetrate through my leather boots, and my toes stung like they were being scolded with boiling water. Even with gloves on, my hands were also in a world of hurt, and just as quickly as I warm themed up with my breath they were painfully refrozen again. I glanced around the bus at other passengers, mainly locals who were no doubt used to this kind of cold, and it was a small consolation to find I wasnt the only one suffering in the stinging freeze. Several passengers had icicles forming on their exposed
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faces, and you couldve snapped your own breath clean in half, that is if your fingers didt fall off in the attempt. Twenty frozen minutes later I bailed off the bus and into the relative warmth of the subzero conditions. But my afternoon trip was short-lived. It was snowing hard, I couldnt locate the markets anywhere, and I had no luck finding anyone who spoke enough English to point me in the right direction. The bus trip back to the Old Town was only slightly less painful, and only because this time I was mentally prepared for another ride on a rolling refrigerator.

If someone had told me six months ago that I would be partying in Estonia on New Years Eve, I would have told them to get off the drugs. But here I was, and all that was left to do was find a good place to welcome in the New Year. The young Latvian couple had tickets to a doof-doof nightclub but neither Chris, Stone Seaweed Grass or myself were interested in having our ears bashed with Eastern bloc techno. Just a stones throw up the street from Hostel was a grungy club called Levist Valjas, which sounded like a good a place as any to celebrate.
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The underground (literally) club name translates roughly as out of range, as mobile phone signals cannot penetrate the cellar walls. This fact alone convinces us that were in for a great night. Entering the casually busy Levist Valjas, were instantly hit by the totally different vibe of the place. Trendy fashion-conscious types dont frequent this place, which means there is no attitude. Even better, the pivo is cheaper than in most other clubs. It seems weve found the best place in all of Tallinn to sing vodka-soaked versions of Auld Lang Syne. The long-haired grunger running the cellars simple bar gives the Swede, the American and myself the once over, decides were ok and serves us our first Sakus of the night. Seated along the bar is a forty-something bearded Estonian man wearing an old US Army paratrooper shirt. Not so long ago he probably wouldve been shot for wearing things like that. Estonian Man seems curious about us, and wants to guess where each of us comes from. He pinpoints the Swedish and the American accents no problem (and my name means Seaweed Grass Stone proudly informs him), but my origins have him stumped. Its the first time Ive been accused of being a white Zimbabwean. Estonian Man says so long as were not Russian then were fine - he hates the Russians. And so does nearly every other Estonian he adds, to nods of agreement from
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other club patrons. The Estonians wish the Russians would just pack up, piss off, and leave them alone after all the trouble theyve been in the not-too-distant past. Most Estonians can speak Russian, although the majority of locals refuse to converse in Rooskie-speak - it is, understandably, regarded as the language of occupation. We invite Estonian Man to party with us. Hes a friendly enough fellow, so long as you dont mention the Russians. He says that any Russian who attempts to set foot inside Levist Valjas will be back out on the snowy street before they realise whats hit them. We tell Estonian Man about our little venture into Mr. Robinson last night. Hes disgusted to learn that we bothered going there in the first place, and says its full of assholes from across the border. Chris and myself agree. Stone Seaweed Grass is in fine New Years Eve form, wearing a wristwatch on either arm. One is set on Tallinn local time, the other on Sweden time. So he can celebrate twice, he says. Stones eye on his local time reminds me of the celebrations going on at home, then I realise that at home New Years has already come and gone. Right now thered be plenty of drunken bodies lying comatose on beaches, and hung over bodies sprawled messily across city parks everywhere. The first sun of the New Year would already be rising high in the summertime sky, and thered be a mass consumption of Berocca to soothe nasty
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hangovers. Meanwhile our party was just beginning. Rana the happy-go-lucky hooker makes an appearance, but we dont mention her nationality to the Estonians. Rana couldnt respond to questions even if she wanted to; shes on the nod on some very powerful narcotics, and is almost completely non-comprehendus. She struggles her way through a glass of water then promptly passes out at our table. Id spoken to her with Chris earlier in the afternoon. She said she had to go and see some friends and wanted one of us to accompany her to one of Tallinns outer suburbs. Friends = Russian Mafia, and there was no way either Chris or myself were going down that road. At midnight the club patrons make their way outside onto the street to watch the fireworks display over Tallinn. Its a balmy -22 degrees. Locals who have somehow managed to climb the medieval city walls and turrets let off fireworks in an awesome display lasting for more than twenty minutes. On the streets below bottles of champagne are cracked and passed around, along with plenty of handshakes, kisses, hugs, and best wishes for a happy new year. Rana meanwhile, is lying comatose in the grungy club and missing the celebrations, courtesy of the Russian Mafia and their narcotics. When the fireworks display ends we make our way back into the non-trendy cellar club to continue the party.
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A while later Chris decides hes had enough for the night, and stumbles out the door carrying Rana, who hasnt got a clue what planet shes on right now. Stone and myself stay on in Levist Valjas with Estonian Man and some other locals until the wee hours before making the short distance stumble back to Hostel. We noisily enter our dorm and flicking on the light we totally surprise ourselves and the young Latvian couple. The Beast With Two Backs was busted! The Latvians were red-faced but still managed to see the funny side. Me and Stone saw a lot more than just the funny side! Thats the risk you run doing this sort of thing in a dorm, and I found myself admiring the daring Latvians. Christmas sucked, New Years Eve rocked!

Tallinn: -14 degrees C (New Years Day!) Slept off the effects of last nights brilliance until the early afternoon, just like everyone else in our dorm. The Latvians are on their way out the door for the bus back to Riga just as Im hauling myself out of my bunk. Before they leave the girl, not a bad sort at all, leans over my
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bunk and gently kisses my forehead and says goodbye. Next time, Im going to Riga. Stone Seaweed Grass has already cracked a Saku from the carton wed purchased yesterday, on the big Swedes foresight that nothing would be open today. Stone figured that as there was nothing else to do in Tallinn on new years day, he might as well just get drunk again. Cracking a second can Stone excitedly tells me that we have a new dormie, a Polish girl who is apparently a bit of a hottie. Shed checked in and gone out again so instead we perve on Stones map of Scandinavia, which he presents to me as a New Years gift. Of all the possible Scandinavian destinations, from Helsinki to the Arctic Circle to Oslo, Stones first recommendation is a visit to the Lappeenranta - Parrikala area of Finland. According to the Swede, this is the best place to pick up a Russian hooker, although theres a Finnish price tag attached. Been there, have you Stone? Yes, yes, several times. By mid afternoon I was feeling pretty good, and with Stone twisting my rubbery arm, we commandeered the hostels dining room for a New Years Day Saku session, complete with garden gnomes and candles to amuse
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ourselves with. The old babushka running the place isnt too pleased with us playing with her things but she calms down once she realises were not going to destroy any of her beloved gnomes. Our Polish dormie, Ewa, makes an appearance and joins in on the Sakus. Stones right; shes a bit of a hottie. Ewa was on her way home to Gdansk after a month roaming around Finland, and shes a wealth of good information on what to expect from Helsinki onwards. Ewa was also familiar with the Lappeenranta area, but didnt rate it quite as highly as the big Swede had. The three of us head back to Levist Valjas in the early evening, and its a bit of a surprise to find the place is open for business. Longhaired Grunger behind the bar inquires as to whether or not any of our party had read the notice on the door of the club last night. I tell him wed seen it, but as none of us understands Estonian, we decided to ignore it. With double infinitives, fourteen cases and a lack of gender and articles, the Estonian language is at best, regarded as gobbledygook by most outsiders. According to the US State Department, Estonian is on par with the Chinese dialects in its degree of difficulty. No wonder we dismissed the sign on the door.
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It said the New Years party was for club members only. Longhaired Grunger informs us, But we let you stay because you were normal. Normal? Yes, normal. Okay. I think this means we didnt display any attitude or disrespect to anyone else in the grungy cellar club. Estonian Man is here again this evening, along with a few other normal types. He tells us he was one of the Levist Valjas regulars present last night whod democratically voted amongst themselves that us foreigners were welcome to stay and party. I look across the cellar at two unconventionally dressed Estonians complete with berets and tobacco pipes seated at a table. They are deeply engrossed in a game of Stratego. Define normal. Levist Valjas caters for those folk who are proud to be on societys fringe. Even the toilet walls are adorned with normal graffiti: Life is meaningless without the meaning of life At the same time isnt the meaning of life meaningless without life? The regulars at Levist Valjas have upped the stakes in dunny grafitti, and it sure makes for a better read than the usual Wazza Ls Shazza, Acca Dacca Rulz and For a good time callwhich in my experience is always scribbled on a toilet wall by someone who hates the actual
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person named, and wants them to look like a cheap slut. On our way out of the grungy cellar later in the evening, the locals invite our group to come back any time. Thank God for normal people.

Tallinn - Helsinki, Finland: -16 degrees C (snow cones!) It was time to hit the local supermarket. The idea was to stock up with as much food as I could possibly stuff into my pack and day pack before venturing across the Gulf of Finland. Helsinki, along with the rest of Scandinavia, promised to be a wallet-crushing experience. The consumer-friendly prices in Tallinn would hopefully take a bit of the sting out of the skyrocket prices across the water, even if it meant weighing myself down like a transport mule just to save a few bucks. All that was left to do now was organise my onwards ferry ticket for tonight, and to start praying that the immigration authorities in Helsinki werent going to have a problem with me importing a weeks supply of food. I had no idea what Finlands policy was with regards to meat smuggling, but there was only one way to find out
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Back at Hostel for final checks, the Vodka Trail reared its ugly head once more. In the small dining room the Russian staff, including You! Dont be a funny! had just cracked a fresh bottle of human anti-freeze. Zha Druzhbu! (to friendship!) toasts one of the Russians. Id heard this toast many times over carafes of vodka with Sacha the Russian Army captain and Sergey the hunter on the Siberian crossing. Zha Druzhbu! I toast back at the Russians seated around the table, with no drink in my hand. Big mistake. The Russians all turned and stared at me, stunned that I was familiar with their vodka-drinking protocols. In an instant a shot of the lethal anti-freeze was forced into one hand, and a chunk of black bread topped with a slab of fatty raw bacon was forced into the other. And this time the Rooskies werent taking no for an answer. Downing a shot of vodka was no longer an issue for me, but forcing a slab of raw pork down my neck was. Another toast to friendship then down the hatch with the clear liquid. The Russians insisted I eat the fat slab of
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raw bacon as a chaser but I just couldnt bring myself to do it. They persisted but a flat nyet and a shrug of the shoulders was enough to convince the vodka fiends not to force the issue of raw meat consumption. Recharging the shot glasses, one of the Russians rummaged through his pockets then presented me with a two rouble coin. A token of friendship from Mother Russia, he said. I felt humbled by the gesture, but didnt mention that I already had a pile of the virtually worthless coins in my pack. Not wanting to be outdone, another Russian searched through his overcoat then presented me with a wallet-size calendar with a picture of the Alexandr Nevsky Cathedral on it. The man then went on to explain to me what the calendar was, and how the months worked, just in case Id never seen one before. With three shots of vodka and no raw bacon down my neck, I politely declined participation in the inevitable next round. Having been subjected to lung-crushing Russian bear hugs from the three comrades with wishes for Godspeed I made my way out of the friendly Hostel for the freezing short distance trudge to the ferry terminal.

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A visit to Estonia had been a spur of the moment decision, and a damned good one. Thankfully, the little Baltic nation hasnt yet evolved into a chic international destination, so one can soak up the local culture in relatively tourist-free comfort, especially in the wintertime. Unfortunately, the wheels of progress are inevitably turning, and its only a matter of time before Tallinn and the rest of Estonia are invaded by wankers armed with handy-cams and those stupid name badges that tour groups like their clients to wear so that bag slashers can easily pick out their target in a crowd. Im just glad I was here before it happens. Estonia not only for the bloodthirsty.

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Frozen Friendly Finland

Name: Republic of Finland Capital: Helsinki 560,000 Population: 5,158,000 Government: Democratic Republic Currency: Euro Good Stuff: Known as Suomi by its inhabitants, Finland is the home of the Sauna, Sami, Santa Claus, Mikka Hakkinen, Tommy Makkinen, and a really cool rock band, the Hurriganes! One of the safest destinations on the planet, and with such a low crime rate the Finnish police should be ashamed of collecting their pay! The Finns are renowned for their resilience and endurance, with a capacity for silence, reflection, and an affinity with nature. Finlands glacial lakes are the countrys dominant feature; there are more than 187,000 of them! Not So Good Stuff: Its bloody freezing! The home of Nokia, the world-renowned Finnish telecommunications companymobile phones outnumber Finns by almost 2:1!

The Finns are a fairly reserved lot, and on the three hour, sixty kilometre ferry trip across the Gulf of Finland
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there was plenty of time for contemplation in relative quietness, even in a bar full of Finns. The sea was a thick white blanket of floating ice blocks. Each floating block was large enough to stand twenty men comfortably, although only a real mental case would actually attempt such a feat. A family of Finns joined me at my table. Jouko Aaltonen, his wife Soile and their two children were on their way home to Helsinki after a days shopping spree in Tallinn. A documentary maker and one well-educated man, Jouko soon had me up to speed on Finland. While Jouko supplied the facts, I supplied the beers. When the ferry berths in Helsinki Soile invites me to their family home tomorrow evening for a traditional Finnish meal. Traditional Finnish meal? Jouko muses, And what exactly is a traditional Finnish meal? Its just ideas weve borrowed from everywhere else! he states with an ironic sense of national pride. Helsinki: Settled since 1550 and the capital of Finland since 1812 (previously the capital was the port city of Turku), Helsinki is the largest city in Finland, yet small in comparison to the other Scandinavian capitals. It is also the northernmost European capital city, and one of the
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worlds coldest. When Finland fell to the Russians in 1809, Helsinki became the seat of a Finland with autonomous duchy in the Russian Empire; its Swedish laws (Helsinki is known as Helsingfors in Swedish), Lutheran church and the Finnish Senate all remained. The communist revolution in neighbouring Russia ended the reign of the tsar, and the Finnish senate quickly declared independence in December 1917. Built on a peninsula, Helsinki retains a small-town feel with its many parks and waterways, and stylish lack of high-rise buildings. The immigration authorities failed to detect my precious supply of meat contraband, and I passed through border control with a minimum of fuss. I told Jouko and Soile that I was headed for the hostel located in the 1952 Olympic Stadion, and they insisted I share a cab with them as the stadion was near their home. I hadnt even been in the country five minutes and I was already discovering some warm Finnish hospitality. Arriving at the Olympic Stadion hostel, Jouko and Soile refused to take any money off me for the fare, and left me with plans to meet for dinner the following evening. Entering my dorm room I was greeted by the backpackers worst nightmare - the roaring snoring dorm mate - in this case a mammoth Viking raider descendant complete with long red hair and big bushy red beard. The gigantic ogre looked like hed just been defrosted from an
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Ice Age grave, or perhaps hed made a daring escape from a display cabinet in a Viking museum. I resigned myself to the idea that this was going to be one very long sleepless night. In the kitchen preparing some fresh Estonian contraband meat for dinner (no extra blood in this lot), I met a fellow Australian. From the Gong, he said. Its a small world after all. The young bloke said he was studying in Sweden, the reason being that he wanted to complete his university days as far away from Australia as possible. Neither Greenland nor Iceland offered any kind of exchange program, so that left Sweden as the most geographically-distant place from home to earn a degree. The lengths some people go to for a good education. Returning to my huge dorm room, the sad truth hits home that tonight Im going to be completely deprived of much-needed sleep thanks to Snor, God of Sleeping Thunder. This Viking behemoth should moonlight as a subwoofer, or get a job as an out-of-tune bass guitar. Even lying in my bunk with Rose Tattoo screaming in my ears failed to drown out Snors dreamtime rambling, which was surely keeping the entire population of Valhalla awake as well.

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Helsinki: -24 degrees C (frozen moments) Not a wink of sleep at all. And this morning it shits me to see Snor, God of Sleeping Thunder looking all refreshed and ready to tackle a brand spanking new Helsinki day head on after an excellent nights kip. Then to top things off, after putting on some water to boil for a caffeine overdose, I discover ten minutes later that a fool of an oriental backpacker has switched my hotplate off. Being in the slightly irritable mood that comes with eight hours worth of Snor causing serious fluctuations on Richter scales all over the planet, I suddenly saw red and abused the shit out of Oriental Boy for messing with my water. Oriental Boy pulled the as-expected I no understand, shrug-of-the-shoulders routine on me. Funny that, Im quite sure Id heard the noodle nazi conversing in rather good English just last night. I would have preferred to waste the day sleeping, but the hostel had a kick out time of 10am. There was nothing else to do but make the best of a bad situation, and I convinced myself that struggling to keep my eyes open for the rest of the day wouldnt be so bad. It was my first time in Finland, and I didnt want to miss seeing it, even though three strong coffees had done nothing to alleviate the weight and soreness of my eyelids. I hoped Snor was going to have a bastard of a day. Had there been anything remotely lethal on hand, the God of Sleeping Thunder
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would be enjoying a permanent snooze right now. Outside, its a beautiful, sunny, and mind-numbingly cold Helsinki day. Frosty the Snowman sits by a fireplace on days as cold as this one. The Finnish capital isnt very big, and thanks to the lack of high-rise buildings that are synonymous with capital cities the world over, Helsinki is a city with a 19th-century feel and 21st century prices. The Presidential Palace, occupied for the moment by Finlands first female president Tarja Halonen, is a moderately-sized work of architecture reminiscent of a Deep South pillared mansion that overlooks the Market Square and the sea. In the palaces forecourt two armed soldiers on guard duty stood at rigid, motionless attention. Neither soldier even so much as flinched in the biting cold temperature in the half an hour that I sat watching them from across the street waiting for the ferry to the island fortress of Suomenlinna. Normal human bodies dont function too well in extreme conditions, but these soldiers arent human - theyre Finns. If theres a species that can work comfortably in, or even enjoy, twenty-something below temperatures, then it probably has a Finnish surname. If you dunked a Finn into a vat of liquid nitrogen you still wouldnt hear any complaints about the cold, although therell always be one joker wholl be slightly concerned about coming down with a case of the sniffles.
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The Finnish perspective on temperature, or rather, lack of it, justifiably leads outsiders to openly question their sanityCrazy Finns. +15 C/59 F: The Finns are out in the sun getting a tan. +10 C/50 F: The French are trying in vain to start their central heating. The Finns plant flowers in their gardens. +5 C/41 F: Italian cars wont start. The Finns are cruising in cabriolets. 0 C/32 F: Distilled water freezes. The water in the Vantaa River gets a little thicker. -5 C/23 F: People in California almost freeze to death. The Finns have their final barbecues before winter. -10 C/14 F: The British start the heating in their houses. The Finns start wearing long sleeves.
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-20 C/-4 F: The Aussies flee Mallorca. The Finns end their Midsummer celebrations. Autumn is here. -30 C/-22 F: People in Greece die from the cold and disappear from the face of the Earth. The Finns start drying their laundry indoors. -40 C/-40 F: Paris starts cracking in the cold. The Finns stand in queues at hot dog stands. -50 C/-58 F: Polar bears begin evacuating the North Pole. The Finnish army postpones winter survival training awaiting real winter weather. -60 C/-78 F: Korvatunturi (the home of Santa Claus) freezes. The Finns rent a movie and stay indoors. -70 C/-94 F: The false Santa moves south. The Finns get frustrated they cant store their Koskenkorva vodka outdoors. The Finnish army goes out on winter survival training.
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-183 C/-297.4 F: Microbes in food dont survive. Finnish cows complain that the farmers hands are cold. -273 C/-459.4 F: ALL atom based movement halts. The Finns start saying Perkele, its cold outside today. -300 C/-508 F: Hell freezes over. Finland wins the Eurovision Song Contest.

The short ferry trip across the harbour to Suomenlinna Fortress is a bumpy, noisy ride and the sounds of the small ferrys metal hull smashing a path through the thick layer of ice that blankets the harbour had me wishing Id brought along a thermal wetsuit, just in case. When Peter the Great founded his new capital of St. Petersburg on the eastern edge of the Gulf of Finland in 1703, the Russian ruler quickly set about building a fortified naval base at Kronstadt, which transformed Russia into a Baltic maritime power to be reckoned with. The situation posed a major threat to the Swedes, who
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were a dominant European power at the time. Besides Finland, the Swedes also had possession of Estonia and most of Pomerania (present day Poland) to the south. As a counter to the fortified Kronstadt and skirmishes made by Russian naval units up and down the Swedish coastline, a decision was made to strengthen the eastern frontier against Russia with the establishment of a naval base at the small town of Helsinki. Fortification of Helsinki and its harbour islands began in 1748. The new fortress was called Sveaborg, meaning Swedish Fortress, a city within a city. For a time the islands had more inhabitants than Helsinki itself. Sixty years later Finland changed hands to the Russians following a pact between Alexander I and Napoleon, bringing more than six hundred years of Swedish history in Finland to an end. The fort that had been designed to defend the west now defended the east. The long period of peace following the transfer of power was shattered by the Crimean war of 1854-56. The Anglo-French allies engaged Russia, and over the next two years the fleet shelled forts and towns along the Finnish coastline. Bombardment of Sveaborg lasted three days and the fort was badly damaged. In the build up to the First World War the fortress at Helsinki was rearmed to safeguard the Russian capital of St. Petersburg, and when Finland gained independence in
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1917, it was renamed Suomenlinna, or Finlands Fortress. The Finnish period had sinister beginnings, when a large prison camp was set up on the fortress for the Reds, who had lost the Finnish civil war in which more than thirty thousand Finns perished. In 1973 Suomenlinna received a civilian administration, and today the fortress serves as an avant-garde piece of Finnish culture. Suomenlinna is unique in that it not only boasts five museums; its also home to more than nine hundred people and three hundred and fifty people that work here year round. It was a freezing walk around the monster fortress, and the surrounding peninsula waters were frozen white as far as the eye could see. The thick ice covering the harbour made it seem possible to walk on water back to Helsinki. There might have been plenty of people living here, but thanks to the temperature I hardly saw another soul besides a few other crazies, who, like myself, believe outdoor sightseeing in the depths of a Scandinavian winter makes for a good time. There was plenty to explore around the fortress, but even with thermal protective clothing an hour walking around the islands proved to be long enough in the great outdoor shiver. On the ferry ride back across the harbour a group of well-to-do English university types (rah-rah-rah) were busy whining amongst themselves about the cold. One girl in their group, a butt-ugly version of Sarah Ferguson
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(and Im being kind here) with a silver-spoon accent complained to her boyfriend Giles that he had a nasal hair out of place, and how she wished hed do something about it as it was all too much for her to bear. Giles should have said something about his girlfriends set of pearly whites - which looked as if they had been rammed into her head with one good punch - but he was too busy complaining along with his English chums about the inclement conditions to pay her any attention. Surely they couldnt have all been so nave about the temperatures they were in for when they got their daft idea for a mid-winter visit to Finland. A few Finns and myself sat listening in mildly amused silence as the snotnosed English tourists continued to add to their already long list of complaints. Leaving the ferry one of the Finns, who had just sat through twenty minutes worth of derogatory remarks about his homeland, gave Giles and his crew of whiners the finger. Its only understanding that makes the good-natured Finns tolerate whingers like Giles and his gang of upmarket snobs.

The highlight of the darkening afternoon was a visit to the dentist. Id been dreading the added expense of
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another trip to the Fang Nazis to remove the sharp edge on my tooth. I let the young dentist know that I was a lowly backpacker and as such, meeting with him in a professional capacity might leave me short on beer money. Ten minutes in the chair later the annoying sharp edge is gone. Inquiring about the damage to my wallet, the dentist informs me that there will be no charge, as the job was too small to warrant payment. Shaking hands, the dentist (who has now been elevated to legend status) asks if Im enjoying his country. I was now! A free visit to a dentist in Finlandwhod have thought? From the generally grubby state of me the dentist probably did it out of compassion, but I no complain.

Jouko met me near the hostel in the early evening. It was only a short walk from Olympic Stadion to his home, a very nice apartment dwelling complete with its own sauna. The close-to-traditional-as-possible Finnish meal whipped up by Soile was a tasty stroganoff with sour cabbage and mashed potato. Having admired Joukos unusual hobby collection of lighthouses (he has more than one hundred and counting in an impressive cabinet display), Jouko tells me its time for sauna. We go to the bathroom where Jouko stripped off to his birthday suit,
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which I have to admit took a sauna virgin like myself a little bit by surprise. Jouko said that I didnt have to go naked if I preferred not to, but that it was definitely more satisfying wearing nothing more than natures clothing. Off with the trolleys. Sauna is the ultimate religious experience for Finns, and taking one is an integral part of daily life. There are as many saunas as there are dwellings in Finland, roughly one for every three Finns - a world record. Inside the sauna Jouko ladles water from a bucket on to a stove of hot rocks, a practice that is known as loyly. The sizzling sound of the water on the hot rocks is followed by a blast of steam that engulfs the sauna, and I gasp for air. The recommended sauna temperature is somewhere between eighty and one hundred degrees, and in less than a minute sweat begins to pour out of my skin. The sauna is as much a place to cleanse the body as for relaxing the muscles and the mind, but damn its hot in here. Jouko ladles water on to the electric stove at intervals and the sweat continues to pour off both our bodies. After ten minutes in the sauna its time for a quick cool shower. There are three elements of Finland that are inseparable: a Finn, a beer, and a sauna. Wearing only towels, Soile hands Jouko and myself beers and we step outside and into the minus twenty-something temperature. The most popular way to cool off after being in a sauna is to take a
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dip in a lake or in the sea, a practice known as avantouinti. Finns like to do this year round, even if it means cutting a hole in the ice for a quick splash. Taking a naked roll in the snow is another popular cooling off method, and one I seriously considered trying out as part of the whole sauna experience, but two minutes standing in the outside freeze changed my mind. Even in good health, a naked frolic in the snow would surely bring about cardiac arrest. Ill leave that one to the Crazy Finns. After ten minutes standing in the outside freeze drinking beer it was back into the sauna, which by now I was begging for because I was shivering like an epileptic with Parkinsons disease. This time around a bundle of birch branches known as vasta are used to whip the skin. Birching cleanses the skin pores and stimulates blood circulation. It also fills the sauna with a pleasant fragrance. Whipping yourself with the soft branches is self-flagellation at its finest, and adds much to the addictiveness of sauna. The idea may seem a little perverse to anyone unfamiliar with the rituals of the Finnish sauna - until you try it. Birch-whipping is on par with a good massage, and nicely complements the perspiratory entertainment. As the steam continues to add to the inferno and we whip our sweat- glistened flesh with vasta, Jouko explains
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the long traditions and practices associated with sauna. Its a common misconception that saunas and sex go hand in hand. In all public saunas men and women steam bathe separately. The one general exception is families, who will often sauna together. Finns learn proper sauna etiquette at a young age, and the first and most cited rule on behaviour in the sauna says that one should conduct themself as they would in a church. Loud talking, quarrelling, and cursing have no place in the sauna. It is a place for quiet contemplation and meditation. The sauna is also a place where important deals can be struck and agreements can be reached. Theres a quality to being naked in a sauna that makes it, quite literally, difficult for one to hide anything. Its even legend that the late President Kekkonen perfected his renowned diplomacy skills by conducting negotiations in a sauna. It is every Finns dream to have a log sauna by a lake in the middle of the forest in the middle of the city! Jouko nicely sums up. We repeat the sauna - cold shower - beers outside session twice more. I feel invigorated and fresh. Im also addicted. All the accumulated grime and dirt on my body and in my mind has completely evaporated. Even without a wink of sleep in almost two days I feel renewed. Snor or no Snor, I was going to sleep like a baby tonight.
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Rules of ta Sowna (the definitive Finnish version): 1. Sit on ta pench at yuu own rrrisk. 2. Memper dis: Tuu muts teem kets yuu real tissy. Yuu dumbel town and prake yuu pones! 3. If svet kets in yuu eyes, chust plink a coppla dimes! 4. If yuu kets a sliffer in yuu packside from ta pench, tont holla tuu lowt. Naypors vil tink yuu putsering a pic, ant looken for porks sops nex tay. 5. Vhen yuu all ton (or yuu sleeps on ta sop) pudit in ta sop tis. Tont leaf it melden on ta pench! 6. If yuu get tuu hot, ko chump in ta lake! 7. Ven man an veman ko sowna, rule tis pehave in sowna as yuu wood in church!

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Helsinki: -25 degrees C (a mild day if youre a Finn!) I felt like a million dollars this morning, partly thanks to the awesome sauna session but largely because I changed dorm rooms to get away from Snor, God of Sleeping Thunder. Its windy today. The sting of the frozen air hitting my exposed face feels like being struck with a thousand poison darts, only more painful. Even more painful was the simple act of eating lunch, some roast chicken from a supermarket. Helsinki parks might be great places for picnics in the middle of summer, but today its an excruciating ordeal. Sitting on an icy park bench I had to remove my gloves to eat. I dont remember ever yelping in agony while eating before. It took only moments for my hands to turn a purpleblue colour, and an intense burning sensation penetrated through to the bones in my hands. Only a mad man or a Finn would willingly have an outdoor lunch in January in Helsinki, but I had to as theres nowhere sheltered around the city centre to have lunch, unless you want to pay ridiculously high caf or restaurant prices. And before Id painfully struggled and yelped my way through the piping hot roast chicken it had gone cold. At least the views from the park overlooking the ice-choked harbour were spectacular.
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With four hours to kill before the hostel let-in time, I took Jouko and Soiles advice and saw Helsinki by tram. Four times. I bought a ticket (first one in a long time) and boarded the 3T tram, which makes a complete circuit of the Finnish capital. Trams are an easy way to see all the city sights, not to mention a great way of keeping warm and out of the stinging wind. Having come to know Helsinki rather intimately after four circuits, I changed trams to pay a visit to the old Cable factory, the one-time headquarters of Nokia that is now a cultural centre featuring art exhibitions and theatre and dance performances. The Cable factory turned out to be a complete waste of time. The most exciting thing about the place was the factory itself, and I saw nothing more than a few personal interest galleries that would appeal more to the wine and cheese set types than your average backpacker on the lookout for anything cool.

Having purchased a ticket for the overnight train north to the Lapland capital of Rovaniemi (the single fare cost more than the total of all the train trips I took making my way around Poland), and having retrieved my pack from the Olympic Stadion hostel, I set out in search of the
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appropriately named Alko, Finlands state-owned network of liquor outlets. Asking a young Finn where I might be able to find the nearest Alko to buy a few Lapin Kultas for the train trip he inquires as to where Im headed. Rovaniemi. Rovaniemi! Its a nice place! It can get a little bit cold there though. A little bit cold? If a cop yelled FREEZE SUCKER! a Finn would point out that its not genetically possible for him to do such a thing. The young Finn says the Alko is now closed for the day but not to worry, as local brews are available on the train. Have a great time in Finland! the young Finn calls as we part ways. The Finns might have a reputation for being reserved peoples with seemingly icy fronts at first meeting, but if Helsinki is the gauge to go by then the rest of my time in Finland was going to be one hell of a good time. Helsinki is one of the rare places on Earth where if you stand on a street corner with a map someone will come up to you and ask if you require any assistance.

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VR (Finnish Railways) is renowned for its punctual arrivals and departures, and at precisely 7:20pm on the dot the train departed Helsinki for the fourteen hour run north to Rovaniemi via Oulu. The carriage was the most comfortable and modern Id ever ridden in, and the huge reclining seats made it easy to drift off into an unbroken sleep.

Kemijarvi, Arctic Circle: -29 degrees C (far out!) Awakened by a railway worker speaking to me in Finnish. I spring out of my seat to find the train halted and my carriage completely empty besides myself. I take a look out the window at the railway station, a little white building standing alone in the snow. The lit blue and white sign on the side of the station block says Kemijarvi. Shit. Id overshot Rovaniemi by ninety kilometres, and I was now around one hundred kilometres north of the Arctic Circle in Lapland. I may have missed my stop but there was little reason for alarm; Kemijarvi is the end of the line for the railway, so the train must be returning to Rovaniemi some time later in the day. On the bright side, Id ridden the last hundred kilometres of the expensive train journey for free.
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Climbing down out of the carriage I find the little station office locked, and theres no one to be seen anywhere. A timetable posted on the side of the building shows the train will depart Kemijarvi at 7pm. There are a lot of hours to kill before then so I figure I might as well take a look around the small town of Kemijarvi in the meantime. Not wanting to lug my pack the two kilometres into town I scouted around the deserted railway station for a good spot to hide my gear, which came in the form of an industrial dumpster. I never thought Id willingly throw everything I owned into a garbage bin, but this was the Arctic Circle not Ashfield, and the snow coated dumpster was completely empty and unusually clean and stenchfree. The arctic sky is completely devoid of a sun. This far north the big ball of fire only makes an appearance in a low arc across the sky for a few hours before setting again, that is if it rises at all. The daytime sky is a predawn blue twilight that reflects off the thick white snow cover in a soothing yet eerie radiance. Locals call this phenomenon kaamos, or blue moment. Kemijarvi is a little town of 12,500 that looked very pretty illuminated by multicoloured lights that adorned the tops of buildings. I found an upstairs caf/bar called Jacks Corner and warmed myself up with a coffee or three. Unlike most small-town bars, the Kemijarvi locals
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didnt take any notice of my being there, besides a couple of friendly greetings. A man introducing himself as Pekker insists that I join him and some other locals at their lounge table. The locals are all curious to know what Im doing in Kemijarvi, and after explaining how I accidentally ended up in town I tell them that my pack is still at the train station. Hidden in an industrial dumpster to be more exact. The locals unanimously agree that my pack is quite safe where it is, and right now it is time to drink. And furthermore, I shall stay the night and party with them, Pekker tells me. Before I can protest a Lapin Kulta is placed on the table in front of me. An overnight stop in Kemijarvi had never really been my intention, but if I was going to stay then I had to find accommodation, and more importantly, retrieve my pack from the dumpster before someone came along and threw a load of reindeer shit into it. You can stay at my place! Pekker says without hesitation, Now drink! I was adamant that I was off to the train station to claim my pack before someone else did when Pekkers cousin Sam, a visiting Rovaniemi local, informs me that my ride to the train station is ready to go. Another local who went by the nickname Gringo was ready and waiting for me, keys in hand. Unbelievable. Gringo spoke zero
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English, but he talked the entire way to the train station. The only sign of life at the train station was the idle rumble of the locomotive halted at the far end of the empty train further down the tracks. It was a relief to find my pack still hidden safe and sound in the industrial dumpster. Gringo then drove me to Pekkers apartment block and I dropped my gear off before we headed back to Jacks Corner. The dark afternoon brings many more townsfolk into Jacks Corner, and one by one Im introduced to them all. Empty Lapin Kulta bottles soon cover our large table, and I lost count how many local brews were placed in front of me, compliments of friendly locals. If theres a vice the Kemijarvi locals have more of a penchant for than the highly quaffable Lapin Kulta, its good rock music. A Finnish rock band by the name of the Hurriganes got a good flogging on the jukebox, and so did George Thorogood. Pekker proved himself to be a larrikin with his oft-repeated catchcries of YOU SHOULD GET DA HAIRCUT AND DA REEEAAL JOB! and IN DA BAAACK SEEAT OF DA TRAAAANS-AAAM! - a setting in which the crazy Finn would no doubt like to hone his relationship skills. All Pekker needs to do now is acquire an actual Trans-Am. Later in the evening a large group of locals lead me up the snowy street and into Kemijarvis only nightspot,
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where a karaoke session was in full swing. I was surprised to find the place packed, the local fashion trend a colourful mix of thick woollen jumpers and waterproof bib and braces. Meet n greets and more Lapin Kultas compliments of locals. We finished up sometime in the wee hours and made the short walk in the minus thirty below temperature back to Pekkers apartment, where I settled in for some quality rack time on his most comfortable couch. What a day.

Kemijarvi: -34 degrees C (whoa! This is COLD!) I rolled off the lounge around noon only to find I was the first one awake. Both Pekker and Sam were still sleeping off the effects of last night. Leaving the cousins to sleep off their imminent hangovers I headed back to Jacks Corner for an early afternoon breakfast coffee. Tapio, the barman, said the coffee was on him. The fortysomething Finn proudly told me that his English equivalent name is Teddy Bear. Say what? Tapios surname Karhunen means bear under the sun and his first name roughly translates as Theodore. Tapio thought it was cool to be a Teddy Bear. Finnish names are often associated with nature, and Teddy Bear is a classic
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example. I wondered when Tapio was going to have his picnic. After an hour or so of wallowing in my own vagueness (the only side effect from last nights monster effort) I was joined by Gringo, who made light conversation although I had absolutely no idea what he was on about. Nods of the head were the best, and only, replies I could give him. For the best part it was a comfortable silence over coffees. A Viking-blonde lass approached our table and peered down into my now-empty coffee mug. Let me buy you a beer! the blonde said with a smile. What was this town? An undiscovered hippie outpost of goodwill and friendship? A magical faraway land where complete strangers are greeted with glowing smiles, a place people the world over dream of one day discovering yet seldom find? Whatever it may be, Kemijarvi is one of the worlds best-kept secrets. Never have I been made to feel so welcomed anywhere in the world, let alone in my own country, as I have in this town. The blonde lass, who at a guess wouldnt have been much older than myself was Teddy Bears younger sister Elina. I was stunned to find out Elina was forty years old, and the mother of twins. Is it possible that the secret to eternal youth is in some way connected with living in the
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arctic freeze? Maybe its those lifelong sauna sessions that result in a healthier, younger looking Finn, or perhaps its the stress-free lifestyle that comes with living above the Arctic Circle, where rush hours, noise, pollution and crime are quite literally a world away. Kemijarvi, even in the depths of the arctic chill, is a place of peaceful tranquility. When the winter thaws into another short summer the town will once again sit on the banks of the River Kemijoki and Lake Kemijarvi, the perfect place to do a spot of fishing. Right now though, both the river and the lake are flat, frozen expanses crisscrossed with the telltale tracks of snowmobiles. Moose hunting in the surrounding forests is also another popular summer pastime. There are four big festivals on Kemijarvis entertainment calendar this year - the Giant Snowmobile Enduro, Yukigassen Snow Battle competition, a wood sculpting symposium, and the Ruska-Swing Festival, an event that promises to bring out the boogey in all who attend. I mentioned to Elina that I wish I didnt have to leave Kemijarvi as I was having too damn good a time here amongst the great Lappish folk. Funny to think that I only ended up in town due to a small (mis)fortune. As if on cue, Elina and a few other locals whipped out their mobile phones and tried to locate Pekker. They insisted my host would be more than happy to let me bunk in his
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apartment for another night. And if I cant stay at Pekkers then Im welcome in any of their homes, they all tell me. Heading across the street to the Hotel Kemijarvi where Elina worked, we found Pekker and Sam drinking beer and playing pool. The evening was all downhill from there. The minus thirty-something temperature makes it slightly difficult to do much of anything outside, which forces everyone to turn to indoor activities, like drinking. A local by the name of Ilkko later took us to his own pub, Karpaasi, which he opened up just for us. The beer flowed freely, and free, from the taps and the jukebox was cranked up to maximum volume. At some point during the evening, amongst the by-now familiar IN DA BAAACK SEEEAT OF DA TRAAAANS-AAAAM! catchphrase, Pekker casually mentioned that on the political front, he considered himself a bit of a communist. Pekkers comment triggered Ilkko into an instant angry rage. The solidlybuilt Finn loathed the communists and from what I could gather, his family had, at some point, suffered at the hands of the Reds. Just like the Estonians in the grungy Levist Valjas, any Russian who dared to enter Karpaasi would, at the very least, be thrown out the door on his backside -and thats only if Ilkko was in a good mood.
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With the exception of Greenland or Iceland, I couldnt possibly get much farther away from home. The black overhead piping in Ilkkos pub was decorated with the names of cities and their relative distances from Kemijarvi. Were a long way from a lot of places, my own hometown being the most far-flung. Sydney 19,000km. Stepping outside Karpaasi into the all-consuming chill, Sam casually informs me that the temperature was now minus thirty-seven degrees. Since arriving into Finland Id noticed that nearly every Finn possessed the uncanny knack of being able to accurately guess the mercury marker. Wherever you go in Suomi theres a good chance youll overhear a Finn telling another Finn that the temperature is hovering right on -26.4 C. The whole Finn and his regular temperature update thing had me stumped. Was there some manner of in-tune telepathy happening between the Finns and Mother Nature that the rest of us werent privy to? Were their all-too-accurate temperature estimates a gift of divination? Asking Sam about this, he simply points to a nearby window. Stuck to the outside of the glass pane is a thermometer. Minus thirty-seven.To say its cold is a no shit, Sherlock statement. Whether its minus two or minus twenty-two its cold all the same, but when the mercury plummets into the minus thirties and below it becomes a
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whole new ballgame. As Scott found out the hard way on his way back from defeat in the race to the South Pole, human beings are capable of functioning well enough in temperatures down to around minus twenty-five to minus thirty. But once the mercury drops below that point, the effects of cold on the human body increase exponentially. Scott and his party, through no fault of their own, wound up mortally challenged as a direct result of an unforeseeable temperature drop that lasted longer than experts at the time had assumed probable. Standing on the street outside Karpaasi I took a few moments to fully appreciate the feeling of being in minus thirty-seven. The first noticeable effects occur within seconds. The moisture inside your nostrils instantly solidifies. It feels like someone has rammed two little slabs of concrete, or maybe even tampons, clean up your nasal passages. If you listen carefully youll be able to hear your snot locker fast setting. A few seconds later your eyelashes freeze solid, and you can almost snap them clean in half. Moisture around your upper lip freezes into what looks like globs of white snot on a backdrop of fast reddening skin, and your ears sting in pulses, a painfully sharp reminder that they dont like being exposed to these conditions. If you stand still for too long its even money chances youll freeze to death, so its a good idea to keep your body moving.
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Its a beautifully clear and still night above the Artic Circle. But there was no way I was going to mention to the Finns that it was a bit on the chilly side. They would have laughed and accused me of complaining like a Swede.

Kemijarvi - Rovaniemi: -22 degrees C (a whole lot warmer!) Sam informs me this morning that the temperature is in the early minus twenties. No signs of any divine guidance here either - Sam took a look at the thermometer stuck on one of the apartment windows. The daytime was again a blue moment that gave off a peaceful radiance. Afternoon breakfast coffee once again at Jacks Corner. I was leaving on the train for Rovaniemi in the early evening, so Juha Suvinen (whose name means summertime) wrote me up a list of cool places to hang out in Rovaniemi, as well as the places to avoid, unless one preferred the company of snobs and assholes. It was a quiet afternoon spent in Jacks Corner with Gringo for next to no conversation besides a lot of head nodding.

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When it came time to leave for the train station (Gringo was again my personal driver), Pekker and all the Kemijarvi locals I had come to know over the past three days gave me a warm farewell. Id had an absolute blast of a time with the arctic folk and ending up in Kemijarvi by accident had turned out to be one of the most enjoyable mistakes Id ever made! Elina translated to me that Gringo had invited me to come back to Kemijarvi, and that I was welcome to stay in his home for a whole week and go moose hunting! Culling northern Scandinavias moose population in the name of good sport appeals greatly to my redneck side, and Bullwinkles taxidermied head over the mantle place would really add depth to my lounge room. Gringo drives me to the train station, and farewelling the Finn Id had plenty of non-conversations with over the past few days, I told him that Id be back at some stage to take him up on his offer to chase some moose around the forests of Lapland! Non-comprehending nods from Gringo before boarding the train for the hours trip to Rovaniemi. Hei te mahtavat Kemijarvelaiset kaverit, kiitos paljon uskomattomasta vieraanvaraisuudestanne! Lapland: is the region stretching from northern Norway across Sweden and Finland to the Kola Peninsula in Russia. The indigenous inhabitants of Lapland are the Sami, who number around fifty thousand people.
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Traditionally a nomadic culture, the Sami economy is based mainly on reindeer farming (all reindeer are owned), fishing, hunting, and handicrafts which fetch a high price in the outside world. The Sami religious belief is animistic, meaning everything in nature from animals to minerals has a soul. The creation of national borders forced the nomadic Sami to adapt to the culture of the country in which they lived. Nowadays the Sami people enjoy official recognition and have their own flag of four colours taken from the traditional colours used in Sami clothing which backdrops a blue and red circle representing the sun and the moon. Lapland is a place of wonder and natural beauty - in summer the sun never sets and in winter the Aurora Borealis dances across the heavens in spectacular displays. Lapland is also the official home of Santa Claus; the man with the most friends in the whole world resides at Korvutunturi, and makes regular visits to Rovaniemi, the capital of and gateway to, Lapland. Rovaniemi: -29 degrees C (the big chill!) At dinner in the Hostel Tervashonkas kitchen, a German chap from a group of four approached my table and placed a mug of hot wine down in front of me. Drink. he said, like it was a direct order. His three friends seated at the next table raised their mugs and it
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was down the hatch with the hot wine, which instantly shook off the bone-rattling chill. The four Germans were stylishly outfitted in mix n match camouflage clothing. With the amount and variety of disposal store gear each of them was wearing I assumed they were soldiers who served in ten different armies. The Germans were so well camouflaged that one could be forgiven for not spotting them at close range, whether they were in the deep jungles of Borneo or just standing in the middle of an empty football field. Even with the hostel kitchen for cover, their battle fatigues made it difficult to spot the Germans seated around their table drinking hot wine, and every now and then during dinner one of them would suddenly become invisible. These Germans werent tourists. They were men on a mission: to get to Nordkapp, the northernmost mainland point on the European continent. Nordkapp sounded like a great destination, but driving there in the middle of winter is a feat of endurance, not to mention luck - and lots of it. Especially if its in two little Russian Ladas fitted with two-cylinder engines manufactured on the socialist production line. Their plan seemed a little bit crazy, even by my own standards. Thats what our families all said too. the German Army agreed.
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Getting to Nordkapp was one hell of a plan, and the Germans had one hell of a plan: see how far they can get, then just keep on going. The last leg of their journey had to be done on skis. Thats if the Ladas made it that far. I just hoped the Germans hadnt been misled into believing that reaching Nordkapp in wintertime was by any means easy. Then again, if the twentieth century is anything to go by, Germans respond well to lies. The German Army had an early start in the morning, but that was tomorrow. Tonights priority was to have a huge night on the frozen town, and consume fifty million steins of lager. Two of the Deutschlanders, Daniel and Thomas, were soon flying the party nazi flag, even though they were both getting around the local pubs and clubs dressed like members of a Deaths Head commando battalion that had just been defeated by the Russian winter. In one Rovaniemi nightspot Thomas entertained the crowd with piano renditions of Eine Kleine Nachtmusic and other well-known classical pieces. His camouflage threads made it appear as if there were two hands with no owner hitting the piano keys, like Thing from the Addams family. Later in the evening Thomas matter-of-factly announced to a young Finn I am from ze former German Democratic Republic, East Germany.
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The young Finn, with a smirk plastered across his face replied Lucky you! The dry wit went straight over the young Germans head. A session in Rovaniemis Rio Grande rock bar came with Juha from Kemijarvis recommendations, and unanimous approval from the German Army and myself. The place had a no-attitude atmosphere and the music was good and loud. Even better was the clubs music selection system. Pick the tunes you want to hear from a book and the bar staff crank up the volume, no money necessary. Kind of makes you want a refund from every jukebox youve ever put a coin into.

Rovaniemi: -27 degrees C (what do plus temperatures feel like?) The German Army gave me a shout around nine. The German language is a harsh, borderline-violent arrangement of words in comparison to just about every other language, the one exception being any public address by George W. Bush. Even a hippie refusenik suffering industrial deafness would willingly take up arms after hearing a speech at a German nationalist rally.
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Id been anticipating urgent, foreboding screams of RAUS! SCHNELL! GET OUT! yelled at my sleeping face from a distance of two inches by a member of the Master Race but instead it was a polite knock on my door and a simple ve vill be leaving soon, come and look at ze Ladas. In the hostel car park the German Army proudly showed me over their two little Russian vehicles. Both were packed solid with gear and supplies. A taxi-style sign on one of the Ladas ski-racked roofs read ON TOUR. Thomas talked me through the various design features of the Lada: working windscreen wipers (wow!), gears (the Russians use gears too?) and the internal heater, the most important and reliable part of any Russian-made vehicle. The ingenious highlight of the Lada was the fuel gauge, a metal dip rod located in the small fuel tank in the engine bay. Youve got to hand it to the Soviets, they made great cars. With a push start through the snow in the hostel car park and a farewell wave the conspicuously camouflaged German Army headed off on their way to the northernmost point of Europe. Good luck fellers, youre going to need it.

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Santa Claus doesnt live at the North Pole. Telling children little white lies about jolly old Saint Nick is one thing, but tricking them into believing that the great man lives on the moving pack ice of the Arctic Ocean is just absurd. Its like saying the Easter Bunny isnt real. Besides being a logistical nightmare for Santa Claus, a North Pole address would also be a dangerous existence. Polar expeditions might find his home and exploit it. Then there are ice-smashing nuclear submarines to contend with. Instead, Santa resides, along with Mrs. Claus, his elves and his reindeer, at the secluded Korvatunturi Fell which is located on the border between Finland and Russia, and impossible to reach by anyone else. The four hundred and eighty-three metre high Fell is in the shape of an ear, making it possible for Santa to listen to all the children of the world year round. In the 1950s Santa began visiting the Arctic Circle near the town of Rovaniemi to be amongst both the children and the child-like. In later years Santas visits became so frequent that he founded his own village here, complete with his own workshop and a post office. The walls of the post office are adorned with just some of the one million letters that arrive every year from the farthest corners of the globe. Santas so busy making toys, meeting, greeting, and listening to requests for presents from hundreds of people a day that he simply doesnt have time to be opening all that mail. Instead, Santa has
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helpers that read and reply to each and every letter. One of Santas helpers read out a section of a letter written by a child in China, to the amusement of everyone listening. P.S. Santa, can you make sure you write back to me in Chinese or else the postman wont know where to deliver it. Then there was this from the United States: Dear Santa, my friend does not believe elves are real. Can I please have one for Christmas so my friend will know they are? That one came from a thirty-two year old Hollywood smack dealer, for sure. The novelty of the post office was boosted up a notch when four highly camouflaged individuals made an appearance. It was the German Army, fully dressed for battle, or perhaps just geared up for a portrait with Santa. Daniel even had an army torch dangling off his greens. Santas mercenaries? Outside the post office the camouflaged bandits shamelessly commandeered an unattended sleigh for a bit of fun in the snow, German Army style.
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Santas Village is a reality carved straight from the imagination. There are huskies, sleighs and reindeer, glowing lanterns, ice sculptures, Christmas trees, even a snowmobile racetrack set in amongst grand wooden buildings, which are illuminated in a colourful lighting array. Besides Santa, the highlight of the village are two slippery dips made of ice. Skating down them on your feet is an awesome buzz, but ends in tears if you land knees-first on the rock hard surface, like I did a few times. The blue moment arctic sky, the snow falling lightly over the soft-glow of the village, and the expressions of wonder, even on the faces of Santa-doubting adults invoke a surreal feeling that this is, without doubt, the happiest place on Earth. The Arctic Circle line passes right through Santas Village, and is signposted in six different languages. The Arctic Circle is the line on the surface of the Earth on whose north side the sun does not rise for one full day during winter, nor set during summer for at least one full day. Given the Earths habit of tilt variation, the Arctic Circle line is constantly moving. Santa and his helpers prefer to turn a blind eye to this little scientific niggling, possibly because of the expense of constantly having to remark the lines new position, or maybe because theyre just too busy to bother.

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Getting in to see the jolly bearded fellow himself is a treat, but its not for the faint hearted. The queuing pilgrims are predominantly Russian, which spells trouble. The gathered sons and daughters of Stalin impatiently push and shove each other and everyone else whos waiting behind the curtain for an audience with Santa Claus. Flashbacks to the slaughter and mayhem of the Pantera gig moshpit. To add to this misery (and Santas as well, Im sure) this contemptuous lot arent just Russians, they are rich Russians. This term redefines the meaning of obnoxious. Even the Germans, with their heritage of storming places in a less-than-friendly manner appear shocked by the take-no-prisoners attitude of the roubleloaded Rooskies. Even more disturbing is a sign for a caf in the village advertising Russian cuisine and souvenirs. The billboard slogan reads KILL TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE. Its just the Russians being typically Russian, although I dont know why Santa puts up with it. Back in Moscow, where people generally have no money, a trip over the Finland-Russia border into a country twenty times more expensive than their own brings social status, and lots of it. Finland! I have been there! I could afford it! And I treated the place with no respect! Why? Because I am a RICH RUSSIAN! Theres little difference between a Neanderthal tribe and a Russian family on holidays. Glasnost does have its dark side.
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Sadly, one look at the queuing rabble of rich Rooskies in pompous asshole mode was enough to deter me from a personal audience with Santa. I just didnt have the energy to punch on with a bunch of savages for the privilege of meeting the jolly fellow. Just as I was about to leave the building in defeat I noticed a stairwell leading up to a viewing loft. It was the perfect vantage point to peer down into Santas magical workshop for those of us who felt saddened and intimidated by Russians with roubles. Santa Claus looks exactly as Santa Claus should. Sitting by his fireplace, Santa takes the time to individually meet every person. Hes a man of many talents. In the space of one hour I heard him converse in six different languages, no mean feat by anyones standards. Santas geographical knowledge is also nothing short of remarkable, backing up my suspicions that besides a toy-filled sack, his legendary sleigh is fitted with a glove compartment that boasts every latest edition street directory on the planet. From our loft position the enchanting scene of Santas workshop below is a far cry from the militant rabble standing only metres away behind the dividing curtain. Its non-stop pushing and shoving, and as a direct result of Russian impatience one of Santas helpers copped a thump to the side of the head. Even from our loft vantage
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point we could see the anger in his eyes, and could almost sense imminent retaliation. But Santas Helper, with utmost credit to his tolerance levels, put on a brave face and fought off the urge to come out swinging. Imagine how damaging the newspaper headlines would be if Santas Helper had rightfully KOd all the Russians he could get his hands on. Santas Helper Slam-Dances Devoted Well-Wishers or Santas Helper is Satans Helper. I felt sorry for him. No one gets paid enough to deserve this kind of misery 365 days a year, except for the Russians, who are lucky if they get paid at all. An oversized Russian woman, wearing more makeup than a cross-dressed Freddie Krueger yet still nowhere near as attractive provided everyone, Santa included, with a good laugh. Wearing an outrageously loud outfit made from the skins of animals found on the endangered species list, the trashy babushka spent a good ten minutes preening herself in Santas mirror. How many times can someone adjust their big boobs and pucker their bright pink lipstick-caked lips before they think theyll be able to seduce Santa? Santa just watched and waited. Then he watched and waited some more. But nothing was said to Trashy Babushka about her holding up the queue. When Trashy Babushka was finally satisfied that she was mirrored to perfection she strode towards Santa with all the gracefulness of an Orangutan suffering from a severe case of haemorrhoids. Santa greeted Trashy Babushka and
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asked if she was from Moscow. Noooooo Santa! Muuurmaaannsssk! Trashy Babushka said, making it sound like she came from some exotic Caribbean island. I wonder if Santa was thinking what I was - you lucky bitch. Murmansk - the Arctic Ocean port city where miserable, stylishly Soviet drab-grey concrete apartment blocks and rusting nuclear reactors and spent fuel rods make the minus fifty degree temperatures seem attractive. As Trashy Babushka exits stage left we overhear Santa muttering something to himself about the Russians. Poor fellow, having to endure earbashings from the likes of Trashy Babushka day in, day out. No one deserves to be subjected to that kind of eye sore either, especially not if your name is Santa Claus. On the brighter side, Santa has one wicked sense of humour. The jolly man has a fine repertoire of witty remarks and responses to the many and varied questions hes asked. Wheres the Ferrari I asked for Santa? Oh yes, I remember the Ferrari, but thinking about it now I may have got the wrong address. If you check in your neighbours garage Im sure you will find it there. Tell
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them I sent you. What do you do if a house has no chimney, Santa? I find another way in and out before the police arrive. They havent caught up with me yet. Who is your favourite reindeer, Santa? I cannot tell, or else all the others will get angry with me. Santa Claus: Hes real. He lives. And the streets will flow with the blood of the non-believers.

In Santas carpark, the German Army got busy scraping a foot-thick cover of fresh snow off their Ladas. Then it was time for a push start to fire up the cold twocylinder engines. Four camouflaged Germans pushing two Ladas around Santas car park was truly a comical sight. Shame on Santas Helpers. They didnt help us at all. With the German Army back on the road for their long
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trip north, I boarded a bus for the short ride back to Rovaniemi, where I met some fellow Australians. Both were disgusted with the behaviour of the rich Russians, whom they likened to cavemen - minus the manners. I thought they were being generous.

If I could have asked Santa Claus just one question it would have been what does reindeer taste like? but there was no need, as thats exactly what I ate for lunch. The classic Lappish dish Poronkaristys, reindeer stir-fry on a thick base of mashed potato and garnished with lingonberries, is a real treat for the taste buds. A shot of Koskenkorva (the Vodka Trail rears its ugly head yet again) nicely complemented the distinct taste of Rudolphs relative. While it was a bit on the expensive side, the filling reindeer meal was a struggle to finish. For the next hour I could hardly move, punishment for being a glutton.

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The huge Arktikum in Rovaniemi is renowned as being one of the best museums in Finland. The exhibits and interactive displays focus on arctic research and expeditions, flora and fauna, as well as the Sami and Eskimo peoples who live in the arctic region. The near silence in the museum (thanks to very few visitors) was soon shattered by two very loud and very obnoxious rouble-rich Russian families. Imagine my surprise. The parents deserved a good kick in the ass for letting their rotten children tamper with/climb all over/deface just about every display in the Arktikum. The little runts even ripped fur out of a taxidermied polar bear then showed it to their parents, who couldnt have cared less. Standing at one display cabinet, and with not a single other soul about, I was shoved out of the way by one of the Russian families who thought they deserved a better viewing position. The word assholes means nothing to the Russians, even when its said directly to their faces. The Arktikum - awesome museum, awesome displays, and awesome displays of disrespectful arrogance from rich Russian families. Hang out with this disgraceful breed for a while. In next to no time youll feel a lot better about yourself.

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It was an awesome night partying on with the Finns at Rio Grande. When their reserved, less-than-social fronts dissolve (from spending far too much time alone in the forests, some outsiders say) the Finns are first class hosts. Finns hate small talk, and find it very difficult to ramble on about nothing in particular. This includes the women as well. Unbelievable - will contact Mr. Ripley about this one. If a Finn is not saying anything he is considered wise or clever, because it means hes thinking. But get a few Lapin Kultas into a Finn and youll be confronted with non-stop conversation. In Suomi there are no such thing as strangers - only friends that have yet to make acqaintance. One Rovaniemi local I partied on with was Mirko the mad chef Hauhia. As with all Finns, Mirko loved his sauna, so much so that hed taken this national passion to new heights. Mirko owned a bus and an old firetruck, both of which hed converted into touring vehicles. The bus, Lemon, had been outfitted with - you guessed it - a sauna. The Finn spends his summers living in his mobile homes doing spots of recreational (beers and saunas) sightseeing with his mates. Right now Mirko was hard at work finishing off a caravan-sauna project, an accessory for firetruck Petukka. If youre ever in the north of
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Finland and wish to see the country the Finnish way, then both of Mirkos machines are available to rent. Feel free to get the bus sideways, thrash it, smash it, and throw wild parties on the roof. Just leave the sauna as you found it or youll be feeling more than sorry when Mirko catches up with you. Partying my way with Mirko through Rovaniemis nightspots and through immeasurable quantities of Lapin Kulta, the cool Finn made me an offer too good to refuse stay as a guest in his home, and enjoy a free extra day in Rovaniemi. Back at Mirkos after a short stumble through the snow from the town centre, the Finn decided that it was a good a time as any for a sauna. I was reluctant to join in. In my state of inebriation a Finnish sweat bath session would have made me more dehydrated than the Great Sandy Desert in January and Id have been lucky to make it out alive.

Rovaniemi: -25 degrees C (freeze, sucker!) Did very little today besides book a train ticket onwards to Lulea in Sweden (Mirko translated my plans to the station attendant) and an onwards connection to the
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mining town of Kiruna, a few hundred kilometres north of the Arctic Circle in Sweden. Tonight was a final visit to Rio Grande, easily the best hangout in all of Rovaniemi. Kiitos to Juhar, Katja, and Pena, the cool Rio Grande staff who made certain I had a rockin good time. Juhar, the bass player with Arctic Circle rock band Laskuteline even presented me with a Hurriganes CD, along with best wishes for a safe journey. I would have loved to have partied on into the wee hours again but I had an early morning train to catch. Sensibility finally prevails.

Rovaniemi - Kiruna, Sweden: -23 degrees C (the cold shoulder of Norse) It was still dark when Mirko drove me to the train station. The sun wasnt due to rise for a few hours yet, if at all. Farewelling the mad chef before boarding the train, Mirko had the final word. Watch out for Swedish men - they are all gays! Theres a deep and healthy rivalry between the Nordic
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countries that will exist for as long as they share common borders. When Sweden plays any other nation on the planet in any given sport or contest its a given that the Finns and the Norwegians will be barracking against them, and will take great pride in dishing out endless insults should Sweden lose. In Tallinn Stone Seaweed Grass had hung shit on his Finnish and Norwegian neighbours at every available opportunity. The rivalry and insults are all a part of the brotherly love the Scandinavian nations have for each other. But they wont agree on this. The train to Kemi was very quiet. The overhead train wires arced continuously, causing the trackside snow and tree line to flicker a lightning bolt green. With the blue moment background, it was a spectacular natural strobe light show, minus the shitty doof-doof music. Arriving into the industrial town of Kemi the first of the suns bright orange rays cast long shadows over the endless snowy landscape. It was nearly midday and it was nearly dawn. In the warmth of the train Id stupidly decided there was no need to wear thermals today. At Kemi there was a forty minute wait in the outside cold for the bus to Tornio so I was left with two choices - start moving or start freezing. A quick search around the train station for any half-decent bum sledding slopes turned up nothing besides a short, snow-caked ramp leading down from a
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railway maintenance shed, no thrill at all. There was only a German couple and myself waiting at the roadside bus stop, and the three of us danced around on the spot trying to fend off the biting chill. Disappointed by the lack of bum sled opportunities and the cold painfully clawing its way into my bones, I picked up handfuls of snow, packed them tightly into cold, wet cricket balls, then full-pace bowled them at the bus stop sign. Just like the Russians at Santas Village, I was killing two birds with one stone; my bowling arm was getting a good workout and I was keeping warm. The German couple showed a bit of interest in my oneman cricket match, complete with shameless yells of howzat! and bowling, Shane! The German husband packed up a few makeshift cricket balls of his own, but his deliveries were atrociously uncoordinated. Had he pretended the chunks of snow were grenades instead of cricket balls then he probably would have hit the road sign every time. Germans are well-practiced at that sort of thing. As the bus crossed over the Tornionjoki River which separates the twin border towns of Tornio and Haparanda, I was struck with a twinge of sadness to be leaving Finland. The good nature and generosity of the Finns is immeasurable on any scale, and they say that almost every visitor to Suomi leaves with a story of unusual and
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unexpected kindness from a Finn. Times this statement by twenty and thats the Finland I experienced. On the Swedish side of the border it was another forty minute wait for a bus onwards to Lulea. In desperate need of some Swedish kronor I raced off on foot into the centre of Haparanda in search of a hole in the wall before sprinting back to the supermarket just across the street from the bus terminal. With only minutes to spare before the bus departure time I sped around the supermarket aisles picking up some lunch to keep me going until Lulea. Queuing at one of the checkouts, I spotted the bus arriving into the terminal across the street. An old lady jumps into the queue in front of me. I would have given the old lady a good verballing (hey, this can be fun sometimes) but Id already been forewarned about this kind of social conduct. In Scandinavia the older generations generally have, or are given, right of way over the young. The simple fact that they were born before I was gives them the automatic right to queue jump. The Russians are disgustingly good masters of this concept, but they lack the social finesse of the Scandinavians. When the old lady gets to the register theres a delay; she doesnt have enough kronor to pay for
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her goods, and cant decide which ones to return to the shelves. Toe tapping. Cmon lady, hurry up! TICK TICK TICK. DAMN YOU, OLD WOMAN! With no time to spare I ditch my intended lunch on the checkout counter, bolt out the supermarket doors and across the street, hurling my pack and myself through the bus door just in the nick of time. Thanks to the silly old bat Im left ravenous. I was so hungry I wouldve eaten the crotch out of a low-flying duck, but had to settle on the severely battered Mars bar I dug up from the bottom of my pack. The front seat of the double-decker bus is usually the seat of honour for schoolyard nerds, but up with the driver the oncoming views were amazing. The sun, still barely above the horizon, cast an almost pink shade of lighting across the snow-covered pines, and the well-built highway snaking its way through the forests of northern Sweden provided plenty to look at. Swedish-built buses are high quality machines, with a strong emphasis on safety. The driver spent most of the trip to Lulea trying to prove it, overtaking cars and trucks on the snow and ice
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covered road. A three hour stopover in Lulea before boarding the train for Kiruna. Lulea itself mightnt have been all that interesting besides one heaven-sent exception. Along Storgatan, the central pedestrian mall, my eyes snapped from one six-foot blonde babe to another, like an epileptic being hit with a strobe light. I was in the stereotypical Sweden - feel free to be jealous. There were beautiful women everywhere. Time flies when youre having fun. Kiruna: with a population of twenty-five thousand, Kiruna is the northernmost town in Sweden, sitting around 200 kilometres above the Arctic Circle. The Kiruna area features Swedens highest peak Mt. Kebnekaise (2117m) and several national parks. The towns highlight is the LKAB iron-ore mine, while farther out is the amazing Ishotellet, an igloo featuring a chapel, cinema, and accommodation with reindeer-skin bedding. Ishotellet is reconstructed every winter from hundreds of tonnes of ice. Also in the Kiruna area is the Esrange space base, which researches the Northern Lights. The train arrived into Kiruna around 9pm. I had no idea how to get to The Yellow House, the highlyrecommended backpacker hostel. Kiruna is a hilly town and it was a long trudge through the snow and up two
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hills, where I found a fast food snack bar that was open. I went over to ask for directions. You can get a ride with me if you want, offers one of the two snack bar customers, who talked like Arnold Swarzennegger on morphine, I live right next door to the Yellow House. Robert threw my pack into the back of his Volvo (naturally!) and on the short ride up more hills he gave me the visitors rundown on all things local. We pulled into the driveway of Roberts home, a large wooden house painted completely red. The Yellow House, a few short steps away, is exactly what the name says. The large Lshaped building is painted bright yellow and is adorned with the flags of several different nations. I was lucky to get a room for the night, and even then it was a trade off; there were no dorm bunks left so I had to fork out a whopping three hundred kronors for a single room. Still, my room was warm and comfortable, and watching TV was a luxury Id forgotten even existed. Exhausted from the full days travelling I made myself some dinner and settled in to watch a good Swedish movie on television. I didnt understand a word, but it was easy to get the gist of the murder mystery. If Inge had kept her trap shut, Per would have gotten away with it
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Kiruna: -30 degrees C (Norrlands wastelands) I missed the one daily bus out to Ishotellet, and besides trudging up and down hills around town for fun there wasnt a lot to see or do in Kiruna, especially in this temperature. There was a huge man-made ski slope just down the hill from the Yellow House, but it was far too cold for it to be enjoyable. I asked myself why Id come to Kiruna. But there was no reason - Id come here just for the hell of it - because its here, and because I can. Id toyed with the idea of continuing on to Narvik in the far north of Norway, but doing so would mean backtracking through here again. It was a lot of miles to cover for no real reason. In Kiruna I was as close to the North Pole as I was ever likely to get, unless one day I lose all sanity and decide to go visit Trashy Babushka in Murmansk. With the help of an attractive blonde girl at the towns tourist information desk I made plans to leave Kiruna on the afternoon train. It would be an overnight trip to Gothenburg in the southwest of Sweden, one hell of a long way from here. I had wanted to visit the lakeside town of Ostersund, located roughly in the heart of Sweden, but there was no direct route to get there without
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an overnight stop somewhere along the way. It was all down to costs; Sweden was draining on the wallet, and it was going to be even more expensive in Norway. The ticket office in the deserted train station was closed. With nowhere near enough kronor on me to pay for a ticket I decided to jump on the waiting train and worry about being ticketless when the time came. A train out of Kiruna was the last place I would have expected to come across an Australian couple, but here they were, sitting right behind me in our otherwise empty carriage. I nodded hello to the young couple and left it at that. The couple was engrossed in conversation about some silly bitch they knew in London (where they apparently lived) so I cranked up some Rose Tattoo and drowned out their gossiping chitchat. An hour or so into the trip the conductor came through our carriage. I really wasnt bothered at all about confronting him with no ticket and no kronor to pay my fare. I was too tired to give a shit. Surprisingly, my situation didnt seem to bother the conductor either. Instead of the Mexican stand-off Id been expecting, the conductor produced a portable eftpos-ticketing machine from out of his shoulder bag and simply asked for my plastic. Present a Scandinavian a problem and hell give you a solution, usually in the from of the latest electronic innovation.
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Having spoken with the conductor, the young Aussie couple realised I was a fellow countryman, but before they got a chance I went back my discman and Rose Tattoo. I wasnt up for the whole London is soooo great conversation they were now into. At Boden there was an hours wait for the connecting train on to Gothenburg. Train buffet prices are always over expensive, so I took a trudge through the falling snow around the small town in search of a systembolaget, Swedens version of Finlands Alko. Light beer can be bought in general stores but anything stronger can only be served through expensive pubs (they are all expensive) or the state-run liquor outlets. I saw no one at all on the snowy streets and at this time of evening in Boden I was lucky to find a general store that was open. Packets of chips and crappy light beer it was. Back in the small train station waiting room a twentysomething Aussie girl and her English girlfriend sat waiting across from me, gossiping about several of their girlfriends back in good old London. Rose Tattoo drowned out their little bitch session as well. The overnight train was taking me out of the Arctic region, and I was sad to be leaving. Gazing up at the dark, clear night sky over Boden I also felt a bit disappointed that the fabled Northern Lights had eluded me. On the
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upside, missing out on the spectacular light show gives me the perfect reason to come back to the Artic Circle at some later date, as does chasing moose through the forests of Lapland with Gringo. The train was comfortable and modern, and even had its very own cinema compartment showing the latest Austin Powers movie, and for free. I had a gut feeling that I was going to be in for a long and restless night, so instead of checking out the cinema I made myself as comfortable as possible by lying across three seats that werent exactly designed for such use. The trip through to Gothenburg was uneventful except for constantly dozing off only to awaken a short time later in an uncomfortable position. At some stage of the night a man who smelt like hed been swimming in a pool filled with beer landed squarely and heavily on top of me. The combination of alcohol and the swaying movement of the train had thrown the drunk man off-balance, and he was met with yells of GET THE FUCK OFF ME! and a shove to the floor, where he lay for a while in a messy heap, probably trying to work out which planet he was on.

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Gothenburg - Oslo, Norway: 2 degrees C (meltdown!) The train arrived into Gothenburg mid-morning. I was dog-tired, and my uncomfortable sleeping arrangements had left me with dull aches in muscles I never knew existed. I gave Stone Seaweed Grass a call to say that Id arrived in his hometown, but there was no answer. A casually tired stroll around the city centre revealed nothing of much interest besides garbage in the dirty water canals and the golden arches of a certain fast food chain located around every corner I turned. The only thing that really fascinated me about Gothenburg was that the temperature was suddenly thirty degrees warmer than where Id just come from, which was now just above zero. I decided to give Gothenburg a miss and gave Christer Wille in Oslo a call. Christer was more than happy to put me up and I bought a ticket for the four hour road trip to Norway. The bus trip was boring, and so was the view. This might have had something to do with the fact that every window (even the drivers) was coated in a thick layers of dirt and sleet. The only indication that wed crossed over into Norway came from the middle-aged lady seated next to me who said that the border was now around thirty kilometres behind us.

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Norwegian Would?

Name: Kingdom of Norway Capital: Oslo, 508,000 Population: 4.5 million Government: Constitutional Monarchy Currency: Norwegian Kronor Good Stuff: Home of the tough and plundering Vikings (along with Denmark), great explorers like Roald Amundsen, first man to reach the South Pole in 1911, and Thor Heyerdahl, the famed Kon-Tiki sailor One of the worlds highest per capita incomesrenowned for its deep fjords, blue glaciers, rugged mountains, and unspoiled fishing villages, Norway retains a unique frontier character with outdoor-oriented peoples. Not So Good Stuff: And you thought the rest of Scandinavia was expensive!! In 1993 Norway resumed commercial whaling of Minke whales in open defiance of an international whaling ban; Greenpeace is not impressed! Norway also has morality laws - no beer purchases after 8pm!

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Oslo: Founded in 1050, Oslo is the oldest of Scandinavias capitals. Levelled by fire in 1624 the city was rebuilt in brick and stone. King Christian IV renamed the city Christiania, and the name stuck until 1925 when it reverted back to its original name of Oslo. While Oslo is Norways largest city, it has just over half a million residents, and is remarkably low-key for a European capital. Oslo sits at the head of the Oslofjord, its northern border marked by a forested green belt of skiing and walking trails. The Nobel Peace Prize is awarded in Oslo each year in December. Christer collected me from the town centre and drove me to his shared apartment located nearby. The apartment was comfortable, and I was most grateful to Christer for putting me up for a few days; his hospitality was taking a fair bit of sting out of the wallet-crushing Norwegian prices. Id met Christer in Beijing, in our favourite hutong restaurant with Bluenet and Aida. To the Norwegian, his trip to China was just recently; to me it felt like it wed met in Beijing a lifetime ago. Tonight I came to a decision that this was to be the final leg of my trip before heading home. I was starting to become road tired, and my motivations to get out and get amongst everything had started to wane. I also felt a little bit disappointed in myself. Id always thought of Norway as a kind of mythical faraway land, a
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bit like Middle Earth (or is it New Zealand?). We read about it and hear about it, but very few of us ever go there, except in our imaginations. And now here I was, with a level of excitement that matched that of being told to go and mow the front lawn. A quiet evening; Christer is off to work in the morning (life goes on), and right now his most comfortable lounge, my sleeping arrangement for the next few days, is more appealing than an intimate dinner date with Angelina Jolie. God, I must be exhausted.

Oslo: 3 degrees C (just like the snow, Im melting!) The streets of Oslo look as if theyve been aerial bombed with a payload of coca-cola slushies. Its a casual fifteen minute walk from Christers apartment block to the Royal Way and the heart of Oslo. Based off Karl Johans Gate, the citys main avenue, Oslo is easy to get around on foot. On a hill at the end of Karl Johans Gate is the Norwegian Royal Palace. The palace, a sandycoloured two-storey high square block with a flat roof and a frontal faade featuring twenty-one windows on each of the two levels, and a central protruding front supported by
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six Romanesque pillars, is a real eye-catcher. Its subtedly royal, and gives no hint of the public scandals the ruling family that lives within have recently been caught up in. From up on the snow-covered hill there were good views back down Karl Johans Gate, where the rest of Oslo was busy going about its daily business. The Norwegian Royal Guards have a most unusual drill routine, and in the early afternoon they like to show it off to the public. The loud, forceful commands of the senior officer and the bizarre marching movements of the soldiers under his command reminded me of John Cleese and the Ministry of Silly Walks, and I suspected the Norwegian Army drill manual had been modelled on a Monty Python sketch. Having wandered aimlessly in every direction getting a feel for the Oslo, I retired to a grungy hard rock caf called Elm Street for the afternoon. Norway boasts a thriving metal scene and Elm Street is a popular hangout for bands and band-aids alike. The music was good and the music was heavy. The only downer was the loud UhMerikan seated next to me along the bar. He tried picking up every girl that walked through the door by offering them a free copy of his bands CD. Then hed casually mention that he was an American, as if that would get the chicks into his bed. The Seppo was not impressed when I pointed out to him, in front of female company, that his
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CD cover was a direct rip-off of another American band, and one that was better known than his own.

In keeping with the excellent but holy fuck, its expensive music scene of which Oslo has plenty to offer, Christer and myself headed for Muddy Waters Blues Bar in the early evening, where we were treated to one of the best Monday night gigs of all time. A fiddle player by the name of John Booth (direct from the USA) and his band, the Hangovers, churned out some of the gutsiest, raw blues Id ever had the privilege of hearing. In the smallish Muddy Waters bar the band was loud and powerful, and the temptation to play Air Fiddle along with them was strong. A pint of local beer in Norway costs a whopping 43 kronors. Thats around $9 Aussie. The Norwegians dont seem to mind forking out for it, but I felt the sting every time it was my shout. To add a bit of confusion, my pockets were filled with a mix of Swedish and Norwegian notes and coins. The barmaid, Gry, a stunning Viking lass with short cropped snow-white hair had to sort through my pile of coins every round. No matter how many times I inadvertently tried, Swedish money just wasnt going to
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work for me. Gry was cool. The twenty-eight year old Danish looker was also a hardcore traveller, and had already seen a lot of the world. Now she was planning a year long trip from Argentina to Venezuela. On horseback. Im constantly frightened, Gry openly admitted when I asked her about travelling on her own, but I want to do it, so I just do it. I admired the girls guts. The Colombian drug lords will be in for a bit of a shock when they see a Viking girl on horseback come riding out of the steamy jungles.

Oslo: its above freezing so the temperature no longer matters. Christer managed to swing a half day off work so this afternoon we took a sightseeing trip around Oslo. Bygdoy Peninsula, a short drive from central Oslo, has a rural character and good beaches, although at this time of year a refreshing dip in the sea wasnt on my shortlist of Oslo must-dos. Bygdoy is Oslos well-to-do residential address, and the royal family also maintains a summer
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home on the peninsula. Besides an air of affluence, the Bygdoy peninsula also boasts some of Oslos best attractions. The Fram Museum of Norway houses the polar ship Fram, reputed to be the strongest seagoing vessel in the world. This remarkable ship has travelled farther north and farther south than any other seagoing vessel. Built in 1892, the Fram was used for three polar expeditions, the most famous being Roald Amundsens conquering of the South Pole. Having become the first man to successfully find a way through the Northwest Passage in 1903-06, Amundsen began planning an expedition to drift across the North Pole in the Fram. But on his way north news came through that the American Robert Peary had beaten him to it, having reached the Pole on 6th April 1909. Amundsen covertly made new plans. His expedition did a U-turn and quietly headed for the Antarctic. They would attempt to capture the South Pole before anyone else. Amundsen and four other members of the expedition reached the South Pole on December 14th 1911. One month later a dejected Robert Scott reached the South Pole only to be greeted by the Norwegian flag and a letter left by Amundsens party. Scotts party perished on their way back from the Pole, and their bodies were later found only eighteen kilometres from the safety of their expedition base camp.
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The inside of the warehouse-sized Fram Museum was colder than the outside winter freeze, and I was grateful for my neck warmer and gloves. Having dressed casually for this time of year Christer wasnt so lucky, and spent most of the time inside the museum shivering. Inside the impressive Fram I passed comment to a girl about how cold it was. The girl reckoned it was all part of the museums plans to make visitors feel as if they were truly having an interactive arctic experience. Christer had a more cynical assessment: the museum was far too stingy to bother forking out for the heating bill, and he had a right mind to contact the local newspaper, which paid up to one thousand kronor for a good story on community rip-offs. Heading back out to the car park was like walking straight into a summer heatwave, even with all the snow. Also in Bygdoy is the captivating Viking Ship Museum, which houses three Viking ships that were excavated from the Oslofjord region. The history of the Vikings is closely linked to their role as masters of the sea. For more than two hundred years (800-1050AD) the Vikings were feared as fierce and ruthless pirates who came, saw, pillaged and plundered anything and everything in their path. This popular view of the Vikings comes courtesy of the English and other Western European nations, whose first encounters with the Vikings came in the form of surprise attacks from the sea. But the
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Norsemen were much more than the brutish thugs theyve been made out to be. Poets, lawmakers and artists, the Vikings explored unknown seas using crude forms of navigation, settled new lands, and established new trade routes from Russia in the east to Greenland and Newfoundland in the west. The Vikings founded Dublin, and the great Leif Erikson discovered the American continent sometime around 1000AD. Viking society was well-ordered, and we have the Vikings to thank for the twelve-man judicial system that we use today in courts of law. Weapons were also a part of daily life, and killings were fined according to the dead persons status in society. Viking family ties were strong, and family allegiances were often more important than the law, which led to a lot of violence on the home front while not out plundering elsewhere. Unfortunately, not a lot physically remains of the Viking age, and Viking settlements that exist today are mostly reconstructions from the period. The Viking Ship Museum today boasts the largest collection of relics from the Viking age, from handicrafts and woven fabrics to weapons and tools, and the preserved remains of three ships. The ships had been taken ashore and used as tombs for nobility. Just like the Egyptians, those on the Viking A-list were buried with everything needed for a comfortable afterlife - furniture, jewels, food, even
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servants. Constructed of oak in the 9th century, the three Viking ships were buried in blue clay, which kept them remarkably well preserved until they were excavated in the early 20th century. The Oseberg ship, complete with elaborate serpent and dragon carvings, is the richest burial chamber to ever be excavated in Scandinavia, even though the grave had been robbed and no jewellery or precious metals were found.

Two thousand feet in the hills above Oslo is Helmenkollen, the Olympic ski jumping centre. Id only ever seen a ski jump on TV, so it was a spin out to see one for real. Having ridden the lift that goes part way up the ski jump, we then had a tiring 114-step climb to the top. I hate heights. The palms of my hands sweat bullets when Im standing on the top rung of a tradesmans ladder, so being perched on the top level of an Olympic ski jump perched on the top of a massive hill overlooking the whole of Oslo was a totally nerve wracking experience. It was frightening enough just peering down the jump, a one hundred metre long snow-covered ramp that ended abruptly into thin air, without entertaining any thoughts of imagining myself heading at full speed down
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its steep face on a set of skis, or on my trusty bum sled. Olympic ski jump competitors either have nerves of steel or theyre on some really powerful narcotics that the antidoping committee turn a blind eye to. The wind just made things worse, hammering relentlessly against the ski jump tower. I pictured the monster structure, along with Christer and myself, plummeting towards the far away ground at any moment. On the drive up to Helmenkollen, wed heard on the radio that a huge storm was battering the western coastline of Norway near Bergen. On top of that ski jump it felt like the storm was about to smash the capital to pieces as well. But the views of Oslo were to die for, and had the tower collapsed by some freak chance, then I would have died happy. Beneath the ski jump is a museum featuring a large collection of skis and other winter sports memorabilia, including a set of skis that date back to 600AD. For me, the highlight of the museum was a simple photograph of King Olav V of Norway. In 1973, an international oil crisis limited the use of private cars, and out to set a good example, the Norwegian king commuted to the ski fields around Oslo by public transport. The photograph shows The Peoples King handing over his ticket to a conductor for inspection, and surrounded by your average plebs riding public transport. The world could do with a few
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more Olavs, yet its a sure bet Lizzie and Phil would cringe at the thought of such deeds. In the ski museums snow-covered car park Christer decided it was high time he demonstrated his 007-style driving skills. Screaming across the empty car park, Christer yanked on the handbrake, sliding us into a perfect 180-degree spin, before speeding off once more for more of the same. Christer was driving the car like hed just stolen it, executing perfect sideway slides and doughnuts, and as the car and the views spun round and round I was racked with fits of laughter. Whilst were on the topic of Christers driving prowess, the Norwegian has visited Australia, where, while driving a friends car he was nabbed by a roadside speed camera. Doing the right thing, Christer took the rap and admitted to being the guilty party, filling in all the necessary details on the fine issued to his mate in Brisbane. Having provided the RTA with his Norway address, Christer figured no more would be heard about his little speed altercation. But the Norwegian grossly underestimated the far-reaching evil powers of the RTA, who sent the fine, along with the incriminating photo half way around the world with demands for immediate payment. Again Christer did the right thing - he laughed at the fine and stuck the speed camera photo up on his apartment wall as a memento of his time in Australia.
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Christers apartment has a very strange front door; a key is needed to pull it shut, and as I didnt have a key I spent the morning watching TV and waiting for the cleaners, who would lock the door for me on my way out. By 1pm the cleaners were still a no-show, and with pressing things to do, like booking a train ticket on to Copenhagen, I reluctantly left the building. The main entrance to the apartment block was a security door, but Id left Christers apartment unlocked and unattended. After all his generous hospitality I just hoped Christer wasnt going to arrive home to find his apartment completely bare of everything he owned. As I wandered along Karl Johans Gate, I happened to notice a young man staggering towards me. My first thought was that he was a junkie whod gotten lost on his way to the shooting gallery. Beneath his long unkempt hair his eyes were red with tears, and he stared at the people and the scenery around him in a stunned daze. The junkie brushed past me with no acknowledgment that hed walked straight into my path. Craning my neck around over my shoulder, I spotted a television crew filming the young man. Just as I was realising the man was an actor and not a hypodermic hitman after all, a chap on a bicycle came screaming down the pedestrian strip past me on a
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direct collision course with the actor, who was still staggering around indiscriminately in front of the rolling cameras. The man on the bicycle hit the brakes but he was too late; he clipped the actor and inertia threw him clean over the handlebars, landing in a messy heap on the pavement. The little mishap scared the shit out of both men, and while I thought it was the funniest thing Id seen in ages the camera crew and the director didnt quite see it that way, and berated Bicycle Man for ruining their shoot. Id been collecting a flag pin of each country Id been in along the way, and in a souvenir shop in central Oslo I found one for Norway. The shop owner, a friendly middle-aged Pakistani man, picked my accent and asked how the cricket was going back home. I said I didnt have a clue. Digging me out a Norway flag pin, the Pakistani shopkeeper, just like the cab driver in Tallinn, launched into a heavily-accented rendition of Down Under, and insisted that I join in on the singing with him, and fill him in on all the bits he wasnt sure of. I was bloody grateful the souvenir shop was empty of customers, and that no one else came in off the street while we sang an atrociously woeful version of the classic hit. The impromptu karaoke session paid off though; the shopkeeper gave me the pin for free, a much-appreciated gift in a land of skyrocket prices. As I went to leave the shop the Pakistani launched himself back into Down Under, this new version even more woeful than the last.
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It was my final day in Norway, and having organised a train ticket onwards to Copenhagen for the following morning, and with darkness setting in in the early afternoon, I headed back to the very cool and very grungy Elm Street, where I spent my final afternoon in Oslo relaxing with a few cold ones at criminally high prices.

Along with Japan, Norway is the only other nation that commercially hunts whales. Norway resumed commercial whaling in 1993 following a six-year hiatus, despite loud international protests and a ban by the International Whaling Commission. Norways fisheries ministry argues that Minke whales are not endangered, and that an uncontrolled population of the whales is a threat to valuable fish stocks. Norway currently hunts between six to seven hundred Minke whales a year. The smallest of the great whales, a Minke whale is larger than two fully-grown elephants. According to whale conservationists with an opinion (save the whales - collect the whole set) Norways selfappointed quota increases with every whaling season. When Norway recommenced firing off a few harpoons in the early 90s, a Norwegian fisherman by the name of
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Steinar Bastesen gained extensive media limelight with his pro-whaling promotions. Intelligent people eat intelligent food was one of Bastesens catchcries. In his opinion, Minke whales were giant floating meatballs, and that it was, put simply, stupid not to eat them. In a flurry of media attention, Bastesen travelled to several countries that were most disgusted with Norways whaling activities, in an attempt to explain why killing whales was such a good thing. But Bastesen achieved little more than provoking anti-whaling groups into open rage by showing up to conferences wearing a seal skin jacket, and offering his audiences the chance to sample some delicious whale meat, the one John West rejects. To see Minke whale fillets for sale in supermarket freezers is something most of us can only dream about (good or bad), but in Norway its a reality, and one that I was eager to taste test. Even with my general dislike of seafood I wanted to eat a nice, big Minke steak, if only so I could brag to people, Greenpeace members in particular, that I had. Im not anti-Greenpeace. I just dont agree with some of their methods. Ramming a large Japanese trawler with a smaller vessel is just as stupid as it is dangerous, especially in the extremely large seas of the Southern
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Ocean. There has to be a less brain-dead way to get your point of view across, and I always get a kick out of seeing these idiots on TV getting blasted with water cannons and really not achieving anything. A trip to the nearby supermarket was a double whammy - they were fresh out of Minke whale (demand exceeding supply?) and because it was after 8pm the checkout chick wasnt allowed to sell us beer either. Christer had to return the beer to the shelves, and said that it was kind of embarrassing to be confronted by a morality law that a lot of Norwegians were in total disagreeance with. The Norwegian government seems to think that consumption of alcohol after a certain time of day will lead to skyrocketing alcoholism, crime, prostitution, and will ultimately bring about the general demise of civilisation. Luckily for us, we still had a few local brews back at the apartment.

Oslo - Copenhagen, Denmark: I had a really great time in Oslo, largely thanks to Christers awesome hospitality, but also because Oslo is a beautiful city that has a pulse. Theres something for
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everyone in this town, even in the dark and gloomy winter months. If only it wasnt so damned expensive. It was still dark when Christer drove me to the central train station for my early morning train through to Denmark. Theres a good chance I will cross paths with Christer again in the not-too-distant future; he has applied to emigrate to Australia, and will probably end up here one day soon - if he can get his head around the hellish task of completing all the immigration forms and assessments. Then he still has the RTA to deal with. Having farewelled Christer it was a long and mostly boring train trip from Oslo to Copenhagen via Gothenburg. The only thing about the entire journey worth mentioning was a middle-aged Norwegian lady who picked up on my accent while I was buying a coffee in the buffet carriage. She was borderline ecstatic that she was talking to a real-life Australian, and she pinched me to make sure I was real. The Norwegian woman kept me talking for the best part of two hours, mainly with a constant stream of questions about home. She was fascinated by Australia, and said it was like a mythical land that shed always dreamt of seeing one day. I told her that Id thought of Norway in much the same way. Distance has that effect.

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Something Rotten in the State of Denmark?

Name: Kingdom of Denmark Capital: Copenhagen, 1.08 million Population: 5,356,000 Government: Constitutional Monarchy Currency: Danish Krone Good Stuff: home of the world famous pastries, the Vikings, Lego, Hans Christian Andersen, and host to more than 100 music festivals year round the least bankbreaking of the Scandinavian countries (bonus!)Danes are a happy, friendly people who are looking forward to Taswegian girl Mary Donaldson marrying into the Danish Royal Familyevery royal family should have one! Not So Good Stuff: the blasted 25% tax on everything!

Copenhagen: Scandinavias largest and most lively city, Copenhagen was founded in 1167, later becoming the capital in the early 15th century. Largely a low-rise city, Copenhagen is a 24-hour party town coupled with plenty of museums and the famous Tivoli amusement park. For a
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big city, Copenhagen is easy to get around on foot, and boasts Stroget - the worlds longest pedestrian mall. When I arrived into Copenhagen I was at a loss as to where to go and what to do first. Normally I would head straight to a hostel and sort myself out before doing anything else, but right now all I wanted was to sit down, have a good meal, and unwind after a long day travelling. Id been in three different countries today. Its no big deal to Europeans, but coming from a monster-sized country like Australia, where you literally have to travel overseas in order to be anywhere else, it was a bit of a novelty. Ive always found the easiest way to gauge the best of what an unfamiliar city has to offer, both culturally and entertainment wise, is to head straight for its seedier district. Sydney has Kings Cross, Moscow has, well, Moscow, and Copenhagen has Christiania, located in the Christianshavn district. Twenty minutes casual walk from the train station over the Inderhavnen later I was standing at the entrance to Pusher Street, a rough dirt track set between dilapidated, grafitti-covered buildings that leads into the heart of Christiania. Formerly a military camp on the eastern side of Christianshavn, the area was taken over by some squatters in 1971, who proclaimed it the Autonomous Free State of Christiania, subject to their own laws rather than those of
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the Danish state. As expected, the government of the day had strong objections, but public pressure eventually forced the government to bow, and the rogue state within a state was allowed to continue as a kind of social experiment in communal living. Around one thousand people including a large number of free love hippies settled in Christiania, starting their own collective businesses and schools. These days Christiania is a Danish hippie colony that continues to live out the 1960s dream of anarchy, love and marijuana. Pusher Street is a rag-tag collection of makeshift stalls and gypsy wagons selling soft drugs, all on open display to passer-bys, and there are plenty of restaurants, nightspots and theatres to get lost in in the area. According to a spokesman of the Christianites, Christiania is as close to anarchy as you will ever get. The hippie kingdom still has laws though - a grand total of four of them: 1. No hard drugs. 2. No guns. 3. No violence. 4. No cars. Pusher Street has one additional rule - no photographs. Just as I was entering Pusher Street I witnessed this particular law being enforced, with a camera-wielding
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ignoramus being chased out of Christiania by three angry hippies. The punishment for breaking this golden rule is a sentence of never-to-return. How a bunch of flower children who have been high as kites on Moroccan hash since 1971 actually enforce this rule remains a mystery. With my weighted pack on my back I felt conspicuously out of place walking into Christiania, but no one seemed to notice me. Nearly everyone was too off the planet to give a shit what I did. I approached a gypsy wagon that sold everything from bongs to Bob Marley tshirts, and asked the woman running the stall if she knew of a place where I could bunk down for the night. Gypsy Woman studied my pack and myself for a minute, then said you can stay at my place if you like. Good old-fashioned hippie hospitality. Gypsy Woman said she wasnt closing up until ten, and that I could leave my pack with her until then. No one in their right mind would hand over all their worldly belongings to a complete stranger, but something in the back of my mind told me that I could trust this woman. Hell, it felt as if everyone in Christiania could be trusted. Its just the way things seemed to work here. Besides the breezy smell of hash pipes being smoked openly on the street, there was peace and love in the air, and I was caught up in its powerful odour from the moment Id walked into the
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place. Just across from Gypsy Woman and her caravan of peace pipes I found an upstairs venue, a large and sparsely decorated room with open seating and a stage at the far end, where a band was setting up for gig. The place was casually busy, and the venues patrons were enjoying beers, meals and large joints. The air was thick with hash fumes, and by the time Id finished my first Carlsberg of the evening I was well and truly stoned, even though I hadnt puffed on anything. Hungry after a long day travelling, I asked the guy at the bar what was on the menu. Tandoori Chicken. he said. What else do you have? Tandoori Chicken. he said again, like I didnt hear him the first time. As Ive said repeatedly, Scandinavia is extremely painful on the hip pocket, so it was a nice shock to find that a meal here cost only 30 krone, and an ice-cold Carlsberg only set me back 15 krone, around $3. It was music to my ears to learn that as a free state, Christiania was tax exempt. The no-tax benefits that Christianites enjoy is a major bone of contention to the large majority
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of tax-paying Danes, especially as more than half of Christianias inhabitants survive on Denmarks generous social security cheques. More power to them for getting away with it. By 10pm Christiania was just warming up, and not wanting to miss out on any of it, I headed back across the dusty street to Gypsy Woman, who was busy reloading her hash pipe for what was probably the hundredth time that day. Thanking her for her generous offer to put me up as well as looking after my pack, I told her Id find my own sleeping arrangements. I lugged my pack back up the two flights of stairs and into the band venue. The guy behind the bar motioned for me to put it behind a folding table along the wall near the entrance. I was nervous about leaving my gear out in the open in a room full of people drinking and getting stoned, but the guy assured me that in Christiania my belongings were safe. Three bands played that night, and the atmosphere was psychedelically electric to say the least. Every now and then I cast my eyes over to my pack. No one else had seemed to notice it so I forced myself to relax and enjoy the loud music and the dirt-cheap Carlsbergs. I have no idea what time I left the still-pumping upstairs venue. Figuring Id be hard-pressed to find any hostels or hotels in Christiania, I found a culvert at the
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rear of a nearby apartment block and set up camp for the night. I stashed my pack inside a drainage tunnel and rolled out my sleeping bag a few metres away under the cover of some bushes. Denmarks northerly latitude means it should be freezing in the middle of winter, but its proximity to the warm Gulf Stream, which sweeps northwards along the countrys western coast gives it temperatures up to ten degrees above average for the region. Climbing into my sleeping bag I felt good. It wasnt too cold (my arctic-rated sleeping bag helped), and Id just saved myself having to fork out krone for a good nights sleep.

Copenhagen: Im not sure whether it was my sleeping bag or the soft ground beneath, but I had a most comfortable nights kip. I also felt strangely refreshed for having just roughed it in an unkempt culvert. Having packed my sleeping bag back into my pack I set off back along Pusher Street before emerging back out into the real world. A backpackers help centre in central Copenhagen recommended me the Hotel Jorgensen. The Jorgensen was
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a labyrinth of split-level corridors leading every which way, and finding my dorm room was as confusing as it was fun. Besides the heaven of a long hot shower, a buffet breakfast was also included in the price of accommodation. Even better was the fact that there was no curfew. On a number of occasions strict hostel curfews had proven to be a bit of a sore point between a few slightly irate management types and myself. The Hotel Jorgensen staff were friendly and helpful, and without asking, the guy at reception gave me a map of the city and pointed out all the popular sites as well as a few lesser-known local attractions.

Followers of Islam make a pilgrimage at least once in their lives to Mecca. Millions of Catholic believers make pilgrimages to Medjugorge and Fatima, as well as pubs all over Ireland for a few too many pints. It was time for me to make my lifetime pilgrimage, a spiritual journey to a place Id always dreamed would give me some enlightenment. Today I visited Sweet Silence Studios, located nearby central Copenhagen.

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Sweet Silence Studios was the site of two monumental album recordings that have made a permanent impact on myself, my friends, and countless millions the world over - Ride The Lightning (1984) and Master Of Puppets (1986). These two aural masterpieces were composed and recorded by one of the biggest and best bands of all time, Metallica. Metallica hails from the San Francisco bay area but they have a Danish connection - drummer Lars Ulrich was born in Denmark, the son of a pro tennis player. Surprisingly, Denmark is way down the list when it comes to producing famous nationals. Besides Hans Christian Andersen, the only other Danes of any notable fame are Karen Blixen, who penned Out Of Africa (whoopdeydoo), and Lars Ulrich, skin pounder for the heavy metal quartet that has been kicking ass the world over for more than two decades now. Even if theyre not fans of hard rock or metal, almost every Dane knows who Lars Ulrich is. In a land with less than a handful of famous sons and daughters, the wiry, outspoken drummer is a national hero. I wasnt even certain if the studios still existed, but the helpful staff at the Jorgensen went to the trouble of looking up its address in the Copenhagen street directory. I had no idea what the place looked like, and I halfexpected to find a flash, modern building with a glowing
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neon sign out the front, and the amplified sounds of a band rehearsing inside drifting out onto the streets below. The reality was a run-down six-storey brick building in an enclosed industrial compound on Copenhagens south side, a district that barely rates a mention on the wellworn tourist path. On the ground level on two of the buildings sides were angled loading bay platforms, all in various stages of rusting over. The studios were still in use but they werent open when I paid a visit. There was no one to be seen anywhere, the only signs of life a few unattended bicycles propped against the loading docks, and a German Shepherd with no owner sprawled out in one corner of the compound. Still, the place had an undeniable grunginess to it, with a vibe almost as ominous as the Metallica tunes that were recorded within its walls. The studios might have been closed, but just seeing the obscure little landmark with my own eyes more than made my day, and I walked away from the industrial compound a happy camper. As an add-on to my pilgrimage I paid a visit to Copenhagens Hard Rock Caf. Hanging overhead just inside the entrance is Lars Ulrichs drum kit, the focal centrepiece of the cafs rock memorabilia. Just like a few other Danes Id met in my short time in the country, the bar girl asked me if I knew who Lars Ulrich was, and
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said she considered the Great Dane to be a national treasure. The powerhouse drummer should run for Prime Minister of Denmark - with that many fans, its almost a certainty Mr. Ulrich would win convincingly in a landslide victory.

I had an early dinner in one of Christianias many soup kitchens. I only call them soup kitchens because while they arent restaurants they arent food halls for the destitute either. Its only the smell of hot pot and vegetables wafting out onto the dusty streets that advertises the communal dining rooms of Christiania. And just like the upstairs venue where Id enjoyed a tandoori chicken, the communal dining rooms offered a onechoice-only menu. In this particular hippie dining room I was served up a monster plate of tender meat stew and steamed vegetables for an incredibly cheap 30 krone. I shared a long makeshift dining table complete with mismatched seating and basic condiments with six Christianites. All looked as though they were just coming down off the LSD theyd dropped back in 68. They were a friendly lot though, and as run down and bare as the communal kitchen was, the hippies casual atmosphere of no strangers at the table
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made me feel as if I was dining with my own family. I had just been thinking of home when the Danish evening news, coming from an old TV set in one corner of the room flashed chaotic scenes of bushfires raging through Canberra. The out of control inferno were disintegrating anything and everything in its path. I didnt understand the commentary, not that it really mattered - the pictures spoke a thousand words. I was a bit shocked because it was the first news broadcast Id seen of the outside world since leaving home, and by pure coincidence it just so happened to be from home. Almost three months of blissful media-free living had just been shattered in a moment. Just before Id left home the United States and the so-called Coalition of the Willing had been issuing uncle Saddam nasty ultimatums. What had transpired since then was a complete mystery to me, not that I really cared anyhow. For all I knew little green Martians could have landed with demands of take me to your leader, and I would have been the last person on the planet to find out. The hippies at the dining table knew I was Australian, and having seen the raging fires on the battered TV in the corner, one of them, with sympathy in his voice said to me we are thinking of those people man, its a terrible thing.
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Another of my peacenik companions made light of the situation, and made me laugh. Australia - its a fucking crazy place maaaan, a little too crazy for me.

Being slightly partial to a pint of Guinness or three, and full from a hearty communal feed I made my way back out into the real world and the Dubliner Irish pub in the heart of Copenhagen. The place was packed with all sorts: Danes, Poms, a few token Irishmen, backpackers, as well as a group of rough nuts wearing the patch of a German motorcycle gang. Over a pint of Irelands best I struck upon good conversation with a Danish bloke named Allan. He was from a town somewhere north of Copenhagen, and was in the capital to party on and try his luck with members of the fairer sex. With such a large and diverse crowd in the Dubliner, Allan said he figured it was a good a place as any in this 24-hour party town to find himself some meaningless good lovin. The Danes are a friendly, cheerful lot, and they know how to have themselves a damned good time. Its in their genes, and nothing personifies the Danish outlook on life more than the concept of hygge. Roughly translated, hygge means cosy
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and snug. It implies leaving all your worries and troubles, along with the hardships and turmoils of the outside world behind, striving instead for a warm and intimate mood. A Dane can give no greater compliment to his host than to thank them for a cosy evening. The idea of hygge appealed greatly to me. Every time I spotted a total Danish babe in the crowd I entertained myself with wishful thoughts of awakening in the morning and thanking my newfound Danish lady-friend for a cosy evening. Just as the token Irish band were tuning up on the stage, a group of 20-something Danish girls introduced themselves to Allan and myself, who were seated along the bar. None of the girls were slouches in the looks department, and to this day I suspect Meltes introduction line to us will never be equalled. We are six girls out to have a good time. Would you like to join us? Does a bear shit in the woods? Before I could pinch myself to make sure it wasnt all some kind of cruel Danish joke, Melte and her friends led us over to one of the large banquet-styled wooden tables in front of the stage.

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The band fired up with its first set of traditional Irish favourites, and straight away the crowd fired itself up along with it. At the Dubliner tabletop dancing isnt only allowed, its considered compulsory, and before I knew what was happening one of the girls, a petite blonde named Rebecca, had me up on the solid-wood table tops for a spot of upbeat dancing. Just about everyone was up on the tables, and the collective sound of feet stomping against the wood was as loud as the band itself. As Ive stated before, I hate dancing, but with the gorgeous Rebecca leading the moves, I didnt give a fuck how stupid my disco duck routines must have looked. On the tables beneath a thousand sets of stomping feet beers were knocked over at consistently random intervals, although no one seemed to mind having to fork out for replacement brews. It was all about the atmosphere, and the atmosphere was electric. Even the German bikers lost their too-tough faades to the rocking good tunes, goosestepping their way across the dance floor with huge smiles on their dials. When the band finished up sometime in the wee hours the Dubliner was a soaking mess of sweaty bodies and spilt beer. I had just danced the night away, and Id danced it away with a hot Danish babe. But any thoughts of gettin hygge wid it with Rebecca were sadly crushed when she said she had to get home for an early start at
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work. The Danish girls left a while later with kisses all round. At 3am the winners are going home with a woman, and the losers are going home with a kebab. I didnt care about being in the losers club; Id just had one of the best nights out in my entire life.

Copenhagen: First words I heard this morning lying in my bunk and feeling not too bad after the excesses of last night: Fuckin hell mate, this is one party town! Fuck oath, mate! I can feel me hangover kickin in already! Whered ya get to last night? Dunno mate, but fuck it was good! I dunno either, all I remember is the first two places we were at, after that its all a fuckin blur! I went back to sleep for a few more hours and when I woke up I found my two Aussie dormies out cold,
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sprawled messily on their bunks and reeking of beer. Both were still fully-clothed, their threads dotted with numerous telltale alcohol stains theyd collected during the course of last nights little adventure. Copenhagen is a trap of endless parties, and the three of us had been lured into the scene with such ease that I thought it was going to prove near on impossible to escape. But Amsterdam was to be my next, and final stop. And unless youre going to Amsterdam after youve been in Copenhagen, then brace yourself for a letdown, no matter where youre headed. This place rocks.

Christiania is often referred to as little Amsterdam. If thats the case then Copenhagen, along with the rest of Denmark could be considered little China. No, there isnt a huge Chinese community here trying to live out a Viking lifestyle, and there isnt an excess of Chinese restaurants either - well, no more than any other city anyway. What there are plenty of are bicycles - countless thousands of them. Walking into Copenhagen is like walking into Beijing - minus the sea of black hair and strange smells. Denmark is cycling heaven, and the country is criss-crossed by thousands of kilometres of established cycling routes. Pedalling around the
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countryside is the number one holiday activity in Denmark, and if the rest of Europe didnt just happen to be right next door then the little nations air quality would be so good it would give even the most moderate greenie a hard-on. At the busy intersection across from the Jorgensen I passed by a stack of bicycles, around twenty at a guess, all lying in a messy heap. The pile was obviously the end result of someones vented anger or drunkenness. A Dane stood beside the twisted pile of metal frames, scratching his head and trying to locate his wheels hidden tangled somewhere in the scattered heap. I burst out laughing at the whole scene. The Dane looked at me and asked matter-of-factly Do you think this is funny? Yep!

Here are some of the sights of Copenhagen that I didnt see: the Little Mermaid (disappointing to all but the most die hard Hans Christian Andersen fans), the Tivoli (closed for winter), the Carlsberg brewery (its drinkable, but nowhere near as good as its Polish counterparts), and none of the citys plethora of museums covering
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everything from painted masterpieces to sordid sex. By now I was all touristed out; all I wanted to do was relax and have a rip-roaring good time on the final days of this trip before heading home.

In the early evening I returned to the Dubliner for a few pints and a feed. Sitting alone along the bar, I was enjoying a bit of solitude in the atmosphere of the Irish pub when an English chap seated further down the bar decided I could use a good earbashing. Pommie Git Mk II invited himself to take a seat beside me and proceeded to talk and talk and talk. I nodded and grunted a lot in reply but Pommie Git just didnt get the blunt hint that I wasnt remotely interested in anything he had to say, which just so happened to be the biggest load of rubbish ever to come out of a mere mortals mouth. Pommie Git Mk II rambled on and on about being able to take insults on the chin, and how only a weak-minded individual would be genuinely hurt by anothers criticising words. People like that made him laugh, he said. In the end it was the English premiership league game on the TV that saved the day. Manchester United was playing Chelsea, and the score was tied at 2-2. Along with
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a large majority of other patrons in the Dubliner, I wanted to see Man U go down in flames. Pommie Git said he was a die-hard Man U supporter, and slagged Chelsea at every opportunity. Better dead than Red! I remarked to Pommie Git, having a bit of a dig at his beloved team. Those four simple words hit the mark; Pommie Git suddenly went from being a boring loudmouth to a genuinely hurt individual. Awww leave it out. he said, sounding deeply cut by my comment. He quickly downed his beer, and without another word went and found himself and his thin skin a seat elsewhere where he couldnt be insulted as easily as hed just been. Thinking about it now, months later, Im still bored by Pommie Gits dull banter. If only Id thrown a few more insults earlier on then perhaps I could have pissed him off a lot sooner and returned to the solitude I had been enjoying. In the end Manchester United scored a lastminute goal to take the match 3-2. Im glad they won; wed all have floated out of the Dubliner on Pommie Gits tears otherwise.

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Copenhagen: Last night ended up being another 4am tragedy at the Dubliner, with more live music and plenty more tabletop dancing. It was another great night, but this time I didnt have the company of six Danish girls, or Rebecca the hot Danish babe leading the moves. Cant win em all I suppose. In the late afternoon I met a few other travellers staying at the Jorgensen. A jockey-sized Uh-Merikan with a typically Uh-Merikan name introduced himself and his travelling companions. John Marshall III was from New Orleans (and its OR-lins, not Or-LEANS, he made a point of telling me), and travelling with him were three girls. Two were Polish and the third was Hungarian. They said they were studying in Munster in Germany, and were heading home in the morning. I said I was leaving for Amsterdam, and asked them about the best way to get there. John Marshall III and the girls had a car, and offered me a ride through to Hamburg, where I would be able to get a train onwards to Holland. I agreed on the spot, and so did my wallet.

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John Marshall III, the girls and myself headed for Christiania in the early evening for a cheap dinner and some live music. In the upstairs venue on Pusher Street we ordered the one-choice-only tandoori chicken and Carlsbergs. Our group was enjoying its own company when a jolly hippie with a long flowing beard and John Lennon glasses joined us at our table. He introduced himself as Allan Anarchos, and said he was a member of the governing body of Christiania. Allan Anarchos kept us in stitches for hours with stories of life, free love, and marijuana in the hippie kingdom. The big ageing hippie bore a striking resemblance to the members of ZZ Top, so we nicknamed him Billy Gibbons. Allan was chuffed with his new nickname, as he was a big fan of the Texas boogey trio. He bought us a round of Carlsbergs and toasted newfound friends. Allan Anarchos had plenty of tales to tell, although none of us believed the picture on his I.D. card was the same man. The black and white mugshot of a welldressed and beardless businessman with a balding head looked nothing like the jolly flower-powered Billy Gibbons look-a-like that was drinking Carlsbergs with us. Later in the evening Allan took us on a tour of Christiania. Nearly every Christianite we passed greeted Allan and stopped for a quick chat. We were introduced to all of
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them. We wound up in a dingy smoke-filled hall, where Allan introduced us to another one of his hippie friends. This stoned hippie was a dead ringer for Carlos Santana, and we told him so. But Carlos Santana was having a bad day, and didnt find his new nickname amusing. He was angry about something, and let his anger out on our group. Carlos Santana asked each of where we came from. One by one we told him. Youre Polish? I HATE Poles! Carlos grunted. Hungarian? I SPIT on Hungarians! So youre American? Dont start me on THEM! While Allan was trying to calm his friend down I jumped in and asked Carlos what he thought of Australians. The question seemed to stump the angry hippie, and it took a moment for him to think of an answer. Youre Australian? he asked carefully. Yep. He thought about it for another moment, like it was some kind of important test. Carlos Santana then gave me a half grin. Australians are okay, so long as they dont
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ride kangaroos. I love kangaroos. It was around midnight when we left Christiania. Allan walked with our group to the end of Pusher Street, where we thanked him for a great evening. Come back to Christiania again sometime, the hippie councilman said shaking each of our hands in turn. Just ask for me, Allan Anarchos - Mutant Old Pacifist Anarchist Hippie. People will know who you mean.

Copenhagen - Amsterdam, Holland: We left Copenhagen in John Marshall IIIs car in the early morning. I didnt see a lot of the Danish countryside; I slept most of the way through to Germany, and besides, a thick fog engulfed the land, reducing visibility down to the road in front of us. Between Zealand and Odense, the toll for the bridge linking the two islands was a whopping 680 krone, around $135. I offered John Marshall III and the girls some krone towards the toll, but they refused it, saying they still had to pay it regardless of me travelling with them. They were in a rush to get back to Munster, and not wanting to waste
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any precious time, dropped me off on the outskirts of Hamburg. I had no idea where I was, except that I was in a residential area somewhere on the edge of Hamburg. I guess-picked a direction and set off on foot. A short while later I came across a small pedestrian mall, where I found a travel agency with an English-speaking staff member. The woman soon had me sorted and half an hour later I was in the heart of Hamburg. Once again my return ticket home came down to eleventh-hour timing. My flight out of Frankfurt was due to depart later in the evening, leaving me a six-hour time frame to get it changed to a later date. The difference between the first time this had happened at Joannas in Poznan and now was that Id known all along that my flight was booked for today. I just hadnt bothered to give the airline a call to sort it out. Its not very good planning I know, but hey, it adds a rush to your day. Instead of calling the airline from a public phone box I walked into another Hamburg travel agency and explained my situation to one of the staff. The friendly agent, a girl by the name of Babette, not only got my ticket sorted, she also gave me directions to Hamburgs red light district so I could relax in one of the hard rock clubs that Germany is famous for.
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I left on a train from Hamburg to Amsterdam via Osnabruck in the early evening.

Amsterdamage

I spent a week in Amsterdam, but for some reason the details are all rather vague. Its easy to lose both time and yourself in the little narrow streets and in the hundreds of cafs for which the city is famous the world over. Theres something happening every night of the week in Amsterdam, and the hardest decision I had to make the whole time I was there was where to go and get amongst it all. Arriving into Amsterdam Id had to fight my way through beggars not asking, but demanding some Euro change, presumably to feed their drug habits. And this was before Id even walked out of the train station. A young girl approached me but before I could wave her off as a choosy beggar, asked if I needed a place to stay. The girl introduced herself as Ingrida, a Lithuanian who now called Amsterdam home. Ingrida was a tout of sorts for the Globe Hotel, and led me to my home for the next
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week, right in the heart of the red light district. Just across the canal from the Globe I found an awesome bar/caf/band venue/hostel called The Last Waterhole, where I spent most of my days and nights. I loved the fact that I no longer had to plan things, or think about where I would be heading to next. The only requirement was that I had a good time, and Im pretty damn sure I met that requirement every single day. I even found myself getting into a routine of sorts - wake up in the morning, have a good breakfast downstairs, go for an aimless wander around the city (which would turn up something completely new and completely different every time), head to The Last Waterhole for an afternoon session, dinner at one of the many mouth-watering pizza shops, then return to The Last Waterhole again for an evening of live music ranging from jam sessions to international bands, all free of charge. We just love that shit-kickin music was the slogan of the excellent establishment. The only place of interest that I visited was the Anne Frank House, where I was once again confronted with the brutalities of the Second World War. The former hideout of Anne Frank and her Jewish family is today a museum that attracts people from all over the globe. Just like most Jewish stories of the war, the story of the house has a sad ending. Anne Frank perished in Bergen-Belsen along
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with her sister Margot in March 1945. Of the eight Jews who managed to stay hidden from the Nazis in a secret annex from 1942-44, only Annes father Otto Frank, who was sent to Auschwitz, survived. After the war Otto set about publishing his daughters diary, which has since been translated into more than sixty languages. Annes original diary is on display in the museum. Every day travellers staying in my dorm room would leave and new ones would arrive to take their place. They were a strange mix of personalities. Two Americans, Tom and Rowena, recommended eating magic mushrooms and then going to the Rembrandt gallery. Guaranteed to blow your mind, they said. But make sure you have a friend with you, just in case you freak right out on the hallucinations, they added, having a giggle at their own experiences. A guy from Chile recommended me a cafe that sold the most powerful pot on the planet. He also recommended not smoking this powerhouse pot because of its deadly effect. One good toke and there goes your whole day, he said. But that hadnt deterred the Chilean from smoking it more than once. Two young blokes from Townsville, who were on a round-the-world jaunt, recommended beer. Thats Queenslanders for you.

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In Amsterdam its impossible to single out any one place or any one vice thats better than another. Its just a matter of personal taste. Sex, drugs, and rock n roll - if you want it then youve got it in this place. A message from the local constabulary in the city brochure best summed up Amsterdams mood: If you have a problem during your stay, please let us know. There is nothing you can tell us that we havent already heard before. Enjoy your time in Amsterdam! You only know its Friday in Amsterdam because the Poms arrive in hordes. They finish work on Friday afternoon and two hours later theyre in Amsterdam partaking in all the evils that arent legal back in the Old Dart. I wont bother with the details of their behaviour, except to say that the Dutch tolerate them, and only just. I found the Dutch locals to be very easy going so thats really saying something about the Poms. After one whole week in Amsterdam it came time for me to leave and ultimately, time for my long overland journey to come to an end. Amsterdam had been the perfect final destination to kick back and unwind and I left the fabled city feeling just as renewed and refreshed as I was feeling beaten and buggered. From Amsterdam I caught a train straight through to Frankfurt, and with almost perfect timing I whizzed
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through immigration and was boarding a flight to Singapore. All I saw of Germany was not much of Hamburg, home of the hamburger, and stuff-all of Frankfurt, home of the hot dog. Okay, I dont really know if its actually true in either case, but hey, it sounds good. And if the names ring true then Cologne must really stink.

Aftermath

I arrived home in pretty much the same state Id left violently ill and dog-tired. Arriving into the humidity of Singapore for an afternoon stopover didnt do me any favours, and I spent most of my eight hours there drinking bottled water in the KFC beer garden just off Orchard Road that Id frequented in the past. The tropical temperatures came as a rude shock to the system after continuous subzero conditions, and the humidity was so thick that I almost choked on it. Arriving home wasnt any better. Sydney was stinking hot, so hot that I thought I was going to drop like a fly, just like the English do when the mercury hits thirty.
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It felt strange to be home. Just like Levist Valjas in Tallinn, everything was normal. And safe. I plonked my pack and myself down and ordered a Guinness. As usual. The conversation and the voices around me were familiar, and unlike on the road, I had a fairly good idea what was coming next. Thank God for normal people. As for the Vodka Trail, its alive, well, and still going strong - pardon the pun. Only last week in the town of Volgodonsk in Russia a vodka drinking competition ended in tragedy with the death of its winner. The competition lasted around forty minutes, during which time the winner, chasing a ten-litre first prize of the lethal antifreeze for humans, downed three half-litre bottles of vodka. The man was taken home by taxi, where he dropped dead twenty minutes later. The organiser of the contest was charged with manslaughter. Its not yet known whether the mans widow will be awarded the ten-litre first prize in which she can drown her sorrows. Five runner-up contestants also wound up in hospital fighting for their lives. Those vodka fiends not in intensive care turned up the next day, hoping for another free drink. * * * * Copyright: Sam Golledge
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