Mad Mongolian Traders

Back on the train, we had to pass through Mongolian, then Russian customs. Our train attendants tried valiantly to help us fill out the forms that were written in Cyrillic – Mongolian also uses that alphabet, but they were in no way fluent in Russian. The Mongolian immigration came through, graciously stamping our passports, and moving on. Then came the Russians.

To be fair, it was only one woman, hair bleached to a brilliant red-blond, fierce power blazing from her eyes. “Shachumk Miesotk Plustokas” she said (or something that sounded like that at one in the morning. We blinked. Joplin jumped out of bed and handed her all the passports and both the forms. She glared at him, waved the papers away, and shouted “SHACHUMK MIESOTK PLUSTOKAS!” with the tonal implications of “YOU IDIOT!” Joplin got flustered, embarrassed, and held the passports out like a peace offering. Once again she shouted at him, then hissed a sigh, grabbed all the papers, whipped them out, handed him the WRONG ones (immigration, not customs, moron!) then pointed out our unforgivable error filling out the immigration paper – We didn’t write in the visa number!!! The number is printed – in Cyrillic only – on our passport. All I can say is that it’s a good thing that Joplin studied Russian in high school, because copying Cyrillic letters in the middle of the night in front of a furious immigration officer was beyond me.

Along comes the customs officer. This was a tall man, gracious, who spoke gently, and looked quickly through our things. Nothing to declare. What we didn’t know was that we were the only cabin with nothing to declare, so we must have been a relief for him. McKinley opened her sleepy eyes for one moment, looked at him, and said, “Russian men are so handsome!” and went back to sleep. She’s infatuated with Russian classical music, and he must have fit right into Swan Lake for her. Good thing she missed the first woman, or she’d have an image for Baba Yaga as well!

Well, then began a circus nearly as exciting as the one in Beijing. The customs officials had to ransack every Mongolian trader’s room, pulling out their stash of goods for sale. Pile after pile of Chinese jeans, camisole shirts, blankets, were thrown off the train, and the traders followed. Someone whipped open our door and shoved a suitcase inside to hide it. We freaked out – we didn’t want to be deported for smuggling, and we didn’t have the language to argue. But the elegant Russian man saw the woman, and came and took the bag. Phew. Half an hour later, our cabin attendants opened our door and stuck in bags of blankets. Joplin said that their own car (that doesn’t get inspected) was full to the brim with blankets.) We didn’t dare make a fuss, or we would be having a miserable trip for the next five days. You don’t alienate the cabin attendants! But the blankets went unnoticed (second phew!) Hours and hours later, the traders returned, the customs officers went home, and the goods came back on. We were told that the Mongolians had friends who drove over the border with cars filled with stuff, and the things that were confiscated were replaced so that there was enough to sell.

And sell they did. First thing in the morning, even at 6am, the stations in Siberia were crowded with throngs of people out to buy the cheap Chinese goods. These are things that are ‘made in China’ and sold in Europe or the US, but the Mongolians were able to buy up extras and sell for ultra-cheap. No marketing needed, when the train pulls in, the Russians are there, ready to haggle, to hold up to their ample bosoms and see if it will fit, and to walk away, arms loaded with great stuff. The fuzzy blankets were a big hit.

Three days into the journey, the attendants came in and took our soft blankets, and we realized that they didn’t belong to the train – we’d been smuggling them all along! That explained why the Mongolian guy kept randomly opening our door and looking in. We’d thought he was checking to see if we were away, and might want to take our computer, but he was just counting inventory!

Providnitsas - the cabin attendents

We had read that it is wise to give the attendants some kind of gift coming on the train. We didn’t have the time to get some chocolates, and didn’t have any cash to gift them with (we were stuck with only dollars for days and days with no way of exchanging, but to pay for something in the dining car and get Rubles back, at a horrid exchange rate.) Then I noticed that one of the attendants had a stiff neck – she kept rubbing it. I offered a massage. Funny how actions speak louder than words, particularly when you are non-verbal due to lack of language! The other attendant scheduled her massage, then their relatives (for it soon became apparent that the attendants were either best friends or relatives with the traders in our car, sharing food, lounging around gossiping) got wind of my skills. Knock on the door, “massajii?” I never refused, and through the five days, I treated a number of people, including a woman who had an inflamed tooth, using my oil of cloves (Thieves) and Advil. She slept well for the first time on the train, and asked for more when we got to Moscow! It was all we needed to break down the cultural barrier between us. Joplin and McKinely started playing chess with the people next door; the mom whooped Joplin, and her son whopped McKinley. Then he went on to whoop Joplin. By the time we reached Moscow, we were all great friends, and have a strong motivation to practice our chess skills!

Siberia and Shamans

All across Siberia, we’re reminded of Sweden, passing Lake Baikal, a lake that has more water than all the great lakes combined because of its depth, we went through pine and birch forests. Sunsets were stunning, making the woods magical. Lake Baikal is home to the Siberian shamans, a place of mystery and wonder. Our visas were transit only, so we rode past, wondering. McKinley tried so hard to stay awake to see things, but her eyes betrayed her.

Busking in Red Square

The train pulled into Moscow, and we unloaded all our things and stood for a moment on the platform, wondering why everything was standing still. Just like getting off a boat or a horse after a long ride, our internal equilibrium was off, expecting the rick-a-rock of the train motion. We had eight hours in Moscow, and needed to find our next train station (opposite end of the city) and the ticket that would get us on the train (third corner). We mis-read the Lonely Planet guidebook, and first went to one station, (fourth corner) only to find that the train to Kiev leaves from the Kievsky station. (Whoda thought?)

Can we say right now that if you are in a wheelchair, perhaps Moscow is not the right city for you? Everyplace we went, luggage in tow, if there was a choice of level or stairs, we had to take the stairs. Eventually, the way I found the left luggage depot in the Kievsky station was by going down all the stairs I could find, and voila!

Now at last we were Caucasians among Caucasians, but not speaking Russian, we were still pinned as foreigners instantly by the left luggage guy. He took one look at our bags, which we stored in Mongolia for $8 for 2 days, and said that for the remaining 6 hours he would charge $36. This is including an ‘insurance’ fee that was a percentage of the value of the contents of our baggage. Insurance against what? We’re leaving the things in a guarded left luggage room. Hmm. Pocket lining, that was! We took the backpacks, and resolved ourselves to go up and down stairs throughout Moscow bearing our books and computer. It was not a great decision, but when you’re feeling ripped off, you don’t always think clearly.

Two more hours, and we at last found the travel agency who had our ticket. Then we set off to find dinner somewhere. We asked McKinley to do her magic, and she found us a restaurant that was buffet, affordable, and had fantastic food that we could point to and order. As a reward, we took her to Red Square, glowing in the evening light. We saw the stunning sights, then sat down while McKinley brought out her cello and busked to an appreciative audience. She earned hundreds of Rubles, enough to buy herself two coveted Matreska dolls.

Kiev

Our train left at 11:30 pm, arriving in Kiev at 8 in the morning. I’d asked not to have food, but the ticket was issued including food, which turned out to be a great thing. We came into this super modern, beautiful compartment, with a table laden with treasures – sparkling lemon water, pate, beer, bread and cheeses, chocolates, etc. It was too late to eat, but when we woke in the morning expecting to have to jump off the train in 5 minutes, we discovered that there was a time change, and we had an hour to enjoy breakfast. The leftovers were lunch and dinner as well, which was a good thing, because Kiev was expensive!

Joplin and I left McKinley and Morfar guarding our bags in the shade downtown Kiev while we walked from hotel to hotel looking for a room. Nothing available, the only things possible were $250 suites. We kept walking. We were really hoping for an elegant, old tucked away place at $40/night. We found a new modern place on the hill for $114 – and that was after four hours of walking. But we used it for every penny – none of us had had a bath or shower since Beijing, so we took two baths each, and did all our laundry!

Then we walked. My poor father – game for anything, and full of energy, had spent days sitting around on the train, and suddenly eight hours of walking (bearing luggage because I was too cheap to leave it!) and another full day of walking in Kiev – he found some muscles that had been, shall we say, latent. Luckily, we had a hot bath, and I knew massage!

Kiev to Warsaw

Noon saw us on the train again, this time an overnight to Warsaw. The fields changed to wheat and corn, looking like a fertile paradise. Morfar made friends with students on the train, we played games, read, and enjoyed our last day with him. His flight took off from Warsaw. If the train from Moscow to Kiev was the very best, this was the worst. The beds were short and old, the blankets rough wool. The train felt as if it might rattle apart, and wasn’t helped by the condition of the tracks. I swear I woke up several times thinking how I could protect the cello if the train flipped off the tracks! The sound it made was (a 3am metaphor) that of amorous donkeys on an old spring bed.

We had enough time in Warsaw to find breakfast, and make sure that Morfar had money and directions so he could leave his bags, enjoy the city, then make it back to catch the airport train. Then off we went. Warsaw – Berlin – London!

But for one slight flaw.

Ticket fiasco

I was worried about our tickets all along – we had Chinese tickets issued at great effort and expense by a Beijing travel agency (not recommended, but the better way is in the notes at the end.) We had Mongolian tickets issued in Ulaanbaatar, and Russian tickets issued in Moscow, Ukrainian tickets from Kiev – all of which I worried about. But these were the Deutsches Bundesbahn tickets – a train system I’ve been riding for more than twenty years, with trains that always run on time, always clean, always wonderful. I was sure of these.

The Polish conductor took one look and said, “These are for yesterday. They are invalid.”

He gave a good discount, but we had to pay for our tickets again, and he said we could deal with the German section when we got to Germany.

I had written my German ‘sister’ Friederike the exact details written on the tickets (without recognizing the mistake!) so she was confused – we said we were arriving on the 21^st, but the email said the 20^th. She came to the station, and waited, but we were not on the train. She spent an anxious 24 hours, then came again. We saw them on the platform, and she was so relieved! Until I explained the cause – My German mother, Margarete, spent an hour with me in the station trying to find new tickets for today – it was their mistake, and they ought to fix it. But you can’t fix something that isn’t there, and there were no sleeper beds available for the rest of the week. The only option was to pay $850 to sit up all night in a smoking compartment! I said, no thank you.

Back at Friederika’s house, I went on the internet, and at last found a bus that ran overnight to London. It would bring us in the afternoon instead of the early morning, but it was only $228 for the three of us. It cut our visit short, but we ran and bought the tickets, had a hasty but delicious dinner, then headed out for the bus station.

Double-Decker to London

It was a double-decker bus, and we had the four seats in the front – one for each of us, and one for the cello. This was fantastic for views, but was a mistake in the middle of the night. First it was so freezing cold, with the air conditioning, and the cold expanse of glass, that I finally, teeth chattering, went down and asked them to not make it quite so cold. (It was 22 degrees C.) They turned on the heat. Well, the heater had to heat the entire bus, and blasted us first. For an hour it was perfect, but then it was like being in a sauna. It must have been 40 degrees now (near 100f). But we weren’t sleeping much anyway.

Come morning, we heard the voice of a young woman behind us rise in panic. “You mean this goes through the Chunnel? I thought it went on the ferry!” She was claustrophobic, and the thought of going under the English channel in the new tunnel was horrifying. Her voice switched on a ‘mama button’ in me, and I knew that I could take care of her. I went back, and very calmly said that I could get her through the experience, and she shouldn’t worry. I could relax her so that she wasn’t aware of where we were. I told her that if she didn’t mind that I had no real training in this, it would be fine.

She had no other choice, and looked at me with true gratitude.

When we got to the tunnel, I knew I had 35 minutes of a passage to use up. I had her lie back, and did the traditional hypnotic relaxation. Then I started narrating. I took her to her place of choice, a beach, with her boyfriend. I took her swimming with dolphins, and sea turtles; I had her create a large Mandela out of shells, stones and polished glass; I had the waves wash away the Mandela, like a Tibetan sand painting, and take with it all her fears. I had her find just the one that was left behind, and string that around her neck. I took her all through the night, lying out on the beach under the stars until the sun rose, and all through, leaving fear behind and opening up to possibilities that would happen when she wasn’t paralyzed by fear. Just when I was wondering how much more story I’d have to spin, the announcer said, “Welcome to England.” We’d done it. She opened her eyes and looked at me with such love and profound relief. There was no fear. It looked as if she’d had a permanent change.

Pilgrimage

The bus, with highway traffic, put us into London at 3pm instead of 8am, as our planned itinerary had scheduled. We had intended to drive north to a campground in Scotland. Instead, we rented a cute blue car and drove north until we were ready to drop (no sleep the night before.) We pulled off at a highway hotel, only to find no room. Same story for the next three rest areas. Finally a fellow told us that all the hotels between there and Scotland were booked full that night, and we really should get off the highway at the next exit and find a place in town. We took his advice.

The town was Kendel, a name we know from the Quaker community in Pennsylvania. We said, “This could be cool!”

It was only the beginning. Just off the highway it said, “Home of Beatrix Potter” and “Welcome to the Lake District” – the words any English major salivates to see. Then there was

a sign that said, “Quaker Tapestries.” Joplin, McKinley and I gasped.

You see, in our New Zealand trip, we’d gone to the Auckland Friends Meeting and they had a fantastic display of life-size photos of a series of tapestries that tell the history of Quakerism. We’d been enchanted by these, and purchased the illustrated book, which is a wonderful way to share the stories with kids. Here we were, suddenly, in the place where the tapestries were actually made, and exhibited. Not only that, we discovered, we were also near Swarthmore and Pendel Hill. We were in the Mecca of Quakerism. By universal chance, it was Saturday night, and we could go to meeting in the morning.

We walked from our pub to the meeting house in the center of town. Meeting was like any other, anywhere in the world, a gathering of down-to-earth friendly people who spoke their hearts eloquently and shared with us freely. We are sincerely tempted to come back and do a sojourn there.

photos of the tapestries:

http://www.quaker-tapestry.co.uk/panels.htm

and Kendal information:

http://www.lakedistrictletsgo.co.uk/townsvillagers/kendal/kendal_main.html

Lakes to Lochs

Sunday afternoon found us curling up the roads of the lake district in an indirect route back to the highway.

Midday, we started singing for an hour as we coursed past the ‘bonny bonny banks of Loch Lommond.’ Then we got to the Highlands ‘The highlands of Scotland, Two weary travelers have lost their way.’

At last found our campground: Red Squirrel, where no reservations are needed, come, pay, and find a spot under the trees by the river to set up the tent. (Which by the way, we'd mailed from Taiwan - the fellow said he'd give us a dozen fresh eggs if we actually made it there by train!)

http://www.redsquirrelcampsite.com/

Highland Island

Morning gave us a connection with a like-minded family, with a girl McKinley’s age, and her brother and extraordinary parents. We got along so well, they invited us out to the island cottage they were staying in for the week. It was just a taste, but like setting a sliver of the finest chocolate on the tip of your tongue, the wild coastal landscape of the Scottish Highlands was nearly too stunning to take in at once. At the end of the day, blithely cooking pasta together in the kitchen, feeling as if we were fast old friends, we wondered what journey we’d take together next…

Edinburgh Castle

The next day was one of endless driving, with a short stop at Edinburgh Castle, where we tried some trick phototography!

Our hope was to make it to Shefield for dinner, where we were to meet Jamie Shin-Chuan, our sweetest friend from Taiwan who was visiting her beau.We all had Italian dinner, and Ian told us how he is going to help save the world by creating a better battery (allowing efficient solar, wind, and car power storage!) It was so wonderfully normal to find a friend who we could just go eat dumplings and drink mango juice with in Taiwan, and now wander the streets in England.

There was an amazing drive over the moors, that reminded us of mysterious books - though these weren't in Yorkshire, they were still impressive.

We ended up in a roadside hotel that, as we found out the next day, was only ten miles away from Sherwood Forest. We were in Nottinghamshire!

Robin Hood's Oak

We needed a high-interest day because the hours were going to be slow. Anika was scheduled to fly in that night, and we could hardly wait.

We zipped down to Sherwood forest for the morning. What a fine example of a family destination – you pay for parking, then the entire park is free. They have three lengths of walking trails, all annotated with boards that tell about the flora and fauna, and the interdependency of the ecosystem.

The highpoint is the Major Oak, an oak tree that was there 800-1000 years ago (in a younger and more lithe form) when Robin Hood met with his merry folk.

The trails had banners, the gift shops had hats and swords, and the ice cream was cold and sweet. All was as it should be.

http://www.sherwoodforest.org.uk/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sherwood_Forest

A Visit to Green Knowe

We had a treasured journey. We wound our way down through Cambridgeshire to the village of Hemingford Grey.

Here lives the ancient house of Lucy Boston, which both inspired and became the setting for her Green Knowe series of books. I read these as a child, lived in their enchanted pages, and I’ve read them to McKinley.

We had to walk along the footpath of the river Ouse to find the house, then the gate opened up on the lawn, and there were the sculpted yews, the garden of magic and dark mystery.

We were blessedly lucky to be welcomed by Diana Boston, Lucy’s daughter in law (married to the artist Peter who illustrated the books) and she told us that a tour of the house would start in a few minutes. Lucky, I say, because these tours need to be booked in advance, but we just walked in on one.

You know how when you return to a childhood place, everything seems smaller? Green Knowe was like that – it was so much more vast in my imagination, with limitless dark expanses beyond the vivid description. The house, miniature though it seemed, was no disappointment. There were the carved angels, even with a bird’s nest; there was the chimney that fit a large

child, or a small Santa. There was the stairs and the bedrooms, and at last, the attic – with the rocking horse and the china dogs, and the mouse! The rocking horse was the only thing that was larger than I expected, since I’d never imagined a rocking horse could be so big, or its hair so real and silky. The mouse was resting at the moment, curled around its wooden tail, waiting for the middle of the night to scurry after crumbs.

better photos, some history and how to visit at their site...

http://www.greenknowe.co.uk/gallery.html

Anika in Oxford

Anika was a sight for blissful eyes, in her Indian clothing (be sure to read her India blog! VoyageofChange.blogspot) but with her, we didn’t fit in our tiny car. We brought the unneeded things to the left luggage, and managed to maneuver the expensive and inconvenient Brit Rail system out to Oxford where Joplin had set up the tent.

Oxford was, all in all, Oxford. Lovely, old, and filled with young American women studying abroad for the summer. They were so full of themselves, and their twangy voices that we shrank back inside ourselves in the café, wondering seriously about our choice to go home.

We found a play to attend – the story of Robin Hood, at an outdoor theater, with the set built around a massive tree.