The Olympics

In the north of Beijing, on a large patch of newly-developed land, carved out between the skyscrapers and five-lane highways, large crowds are gathering.

Some of them stop to crane their necks to the sky and admire the wheeling kites above. Flown by old fellows in peaked caps, brandishing acres of string, the colourful and crazy designs proudly claim their patch of blue sky - an ancient and highly popular Chinese pastime.

Back down on the ground though, most people have come to witness the scene of more recently-introduced sporting endeavours - the Olympic Games.

In this year, 2008, no visit to Beijing is complete without a trip to see the Olympic stadium.
It’s China’s National Day tomorrow, a big public holiday, and it seems that every citizen of Beijing is on the subway heading out there to gawp at the ‘bird’s nest’, as the stadium has been unofficially-officially titled.

It’s a fine sight, like a big bowl with holes in it. Another wonder for Beijingers to add to their impressive portfolio: the forbidden city; the Great Wall; the Temple of Heaven.

Not that we got a chance to inspect the stadium at close quarters - it is so popular you need a ticket to even get within 500 metres of it, let alone inside.

And this is over a month after the Games have finished.

We felt vindicated then in the decision we made when planning our trip, to avoid Beijing during the Games - many times we have been told of the massive crowds, exorbitant price rises and constricting security measures.

It was still interesting, though, to visit this Olympic city after the show has ended. In the immediate aftermath we were able to witness the changes that hosting this huge sporting extravaganza has brought to the host city.

Being adopted Londoners, the city due to host the next Games, this was of particular interest to us, giving us a flavour perhaps of what London can expect in four years time.

When London Mayor Boris Johnson (how odd does that still sound?) attended the closing ceremony in Beijing, Jerusalem, Greensleeves and the shipping forecast booming out in the background, to introduce the next host city, what must he have thought of the challenge Beijing has laid down?

Surely he’d have been impressed by the cycling facilities, for Beijing still is very much a city of cyclists.

And undoubtedly he’d have enjoyed the clean air, thanks to the strict curbs on vehicle emissions introduced for the duration of the games. Where were the massive clouds of smog that the British media had told us about?

Then there’s the public transport, where a ride on the fast, efficient and sparkling underground system sets you back about 18p, or on the modern, multi-video-screen buses, relieving you of all of 9p.

But perhaps he’d have been perturbed by the security and its associated costs. Every trip on the metro here necessitates an x-ray check of your baggage. Soldiers and security guards seem to stand on every corner.

Given that he doesn’t have the resources of the People’s Liberation Army will Mayor Boris be shoring up his defences by forming a new Dad’s Army?

I have to admit I have my doubts about ‘London 2012’ ™. But, whether you think flinging ten billion at laying on an exclusive party for a load of lycra-clad athletes and the MDs of the world’s largest corporations whilst much-need projects to benefit ordinary citizens go unfunded is a good idea or not, it’s happening.

Londoners are lumbered with the Olympics and, in the time-honoured British fashion it gives us something to grumble about other than the weather.

So bring on London 2012. As long as it’s got kite flying.
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Behind the great firewall

News sensation! World in slow motion has been blocked! I’ve always wanted to be a rebel…

For those browsers in China at least, the WISM way has been deemed by the cyber police as leading to ‘spiritual pollution‘, and therefore our blog has been blocked by the sweetly-named ‘great firewall of China‘.

It wouldn’t be so bad if other websites pouring out hideous tripe were also blocked - Richard Littlejohn for instance. Or Phil Collins.

But no - these are allowed by the powers to have an online presence whilst WISM is not. Perhaps the content is just too darn racy for the good 1.3 billion living behind the ‘bamboo curtain‘.

It must be the dodgy photos of hats. That’ll bring them out on the streets.

We can still post content however we can’t see it, which might result in all sorts of odd layouts and typefaces etc popping up. So please, dear browser, bear with us whilst we try and overcome this slight technical hitch.

In the meantime here’s a nice picture of us on an altogether different type of wall that the locals constructed some time ago.

The Great Wall (or Walls, to be precise) essentially served the same purpose as this firewall (i.e: keeping out foreigners and their decadent ways).

It might have looked impressive but it ultimately couldn’t stop the tide and failed. Perhaps there’s a lesson here…

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A different shade of grey

Beijing feels different to Shanghai. Twelve hours north on the sleeper and the temperature has halved. Leaving behind the 30 degrees-plus of steamy, sticky Shanghai we shivered as we stepped out into bracing Beijing, the thermometer struggling to reach 14 degrees in the pale light of morning.

It feels distinctively autumnal up here. Inside the air con is off and the extra blankets are on, outside the leaves have started to curl up and expire, falling lightly onto the pavements. The hot yam seller is doing brisk business and the sun sighs and packs it in well before people have got home for dinner.

The sun is often a vague presence here, lending the city a strange light. It doesn’t tend to blaze away but rather seems to seep through the thin clouds, bathing everything it touches in a soft light - a photographer‘s light perhaps, where lines are defined and colours aren’t washed out.

The colours themselves are strange. In Beijing the predominant colour is grey. This isn’t anything new on our travels - we found Japanese cities overwhelmingly grey. But somehow this hue is different. A different shade of grey - a grey that glows. Sounds like a subtitle for John Major's autobiography.

It goes nicely with China’s favourite colour - red. Since it is considered to be the luckiest colour red is the colour of anything on which people which to bring success. Our hostel must surely be the luckiest place in town, for it is swathed in red, from the carpets underfoot to the lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

Tucked away up a little alleyway, we have spent a pleasurable week in this hostel, holed up in a hutong.

The traditional houses of which hutongs are comprised are almost fortress-like in their design, set around a sheltered courtyard, protected by high walls and guarded by a sturdy pair of doors spanning an archway which leads onto the street.

Hutongs have been much mentioned in the many lead-up pieces to the Olympics, cited as an example of the changing face of the host city where the old alleyways and courtyards have been bulldozed to make way for skyscrapers.

And whilst this is true in many parts of the city it doesn’t appear to be happening here.

Rather life seems to carry on as it has for centuries, with clichés straight out of a travel guide encountered at every corner. Life is so rich and boisterous, so vivid and garrulous, that we struggle to take it all in as we cycle through the streets.

Out on the main street a man sits outside the steamed dumpling shop singing to himself, while next door girls in facemasks serve pastries to a heaving mass of impatient customers.

A grimy-faced fellow heaves an old tricycle along, stacked high with old cardboard boxes while electric bikes zip past him, weaving between the trolley buses.

A wrinkled old lady sits on the pavement, flogging off old factory cast-offs, t-shirts and hair accessories from a sheet spread out over the pavement. She sits amidst the detritus of a hundred hurried kebab meals, their pointed sticks and scraps of meat littering the pavement.

Large crowds sweep the pavements clear of bystanders, traffic fights its way along the street, and everywhere there is noise noise noise.

Off the main street, down a maze of little alleyways we happen across our local market. Prices are lower here, foreigners are scarce. We pass a cavernous fish and meat market, its air pungent and floors slippery underfoot, haggle at ramshackle hardware stalls, and weave between mountains of fruit and veg.

Behind the tea merchant’s stall a young boy pees between parked bicycles. An old fellow shuffles past, dressed in his pyjamas, a lady hawks fruit and tends to her offspring, playing in the heaps of oranges, lychees and watermelons.

Grease monkeys tend to broken bikes on the spot, their owners patiently waiting for a quick patch-up, and young girls compete at their pastry stalls, vying for the endless current of passing customers.

Around the market, in the hutongs themselves, the scene could have been painted onto the front of a packet of tea: respectable ladies walking their Pekingnese; old man decked out in Mao jackets; caged birds singing outside cafes while inside men play cards amidst a pall of smoke.

On our trusty bikes, we pootled deeper into the labyrinth of narrow streets, weaving between other cyclists, ancient old tricycles, groups of man engrossed in strange board games, large queues outside Mongolian barbequed meat stands, kids playing in the streets, mothers hawking DVDs of obscure Chinese war movies…

It went on and on, long after we had returned to our own little piece of the hutong, and turned in for the night, safe behind its big wooden doors.

Who said grey is dull?
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Made in China

I knew there was something I had forgotten to pack - my pink illuminated horns. Come to mention it, I could also really do with my clip-on flashing shoe wheels. I really shouldn’t have left England in such a hurry.

Or so the pedlars on Shanghai’s Bund seemed to think. Relentlessly touting their wares: miniature kites, dancing beans and squishy fish, never taking ’no’ for an answer. The only successful method to avoid hassle was to out freak them. Our fellow travellers were very successful at this, dancing alongside the pirated CD cart, playing African music balls and trying to sell donkey sex. I had a go at the intellectual approach, asking their opinion on sustainable consumption and production and whether, perchance, they had read the I Will if You Will report. They merely shoved their flashing gismos further into my face and then scuttled off.

China makes Japan seem sober. Consumerism is rampant. Everything is for sale and people go out of their way to drag you from the street into their shop. Most of the rip-off goods and tat are, of course, locally produced. On the way up the Huangpu River into Shanghai International Ferry Port we passed scores of factories and hundreds of ships all making and moving resources and goods to and from China. The air on deck was so thick with smog that you couldn’t see the top of the skyscrapers and pictures became ghostly. Nearing China the water turned from a healthy blue to a murky brown to match the air above. I have never seen or tasted (literally) industry on this scale. This is the home of the three pound hair straightener and novelty balloon. Seeing where it all comes from brings a whole new meaning to the label ’Made in China’.

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Can I press you to an opium fish head?

Shanghai offers, apparently, some of the finest dining in China.

So it was with some excitement that we, alongside our increasingly international retinue of companions - a kind of gastronomic group of UN food inspectors perhaps - set off up East Nanjing Rd in search of sustenance.

Whilst the range of options was not disappointing, the lack of English - or indeed any comprehensible language - was a bit of a hindrance. We were therefore delighted to meet a friendly chap who accosted as we strolled down a little street, bathed in neon, seething with suicidal cyclists and raucous street vendors.

A few minutes later, having been ushered into his restaurant, we congratulated ourselves on our good fortune, our enthusiastic waiter hovering over us and pointing our particular delicacies we might like to sample.

We surveyed the range of options - a mighty impressive variety. Looking down the menu, particular dishes which caught one’s eye included the following:

The oil explodes the ricefield eel silk food
The hairy crab meets the oil
Steams the young lad chicken
The peas fry the sausage
Burns the juice eggplant to clamp the meat
Grandmother red roasted pork
Fried bamboo shoots with shepherd
The hairy crab fries the lunar new year cake
Opium fish head

Hmmm...seems like the Chinese are not just talented at manufacturing products, but their marketing is rapidly becoming the envy of the world as well.

Surely the great titans of British retail could learn a thing or two here. Tesco would mop up any remaining vestiges of the market they may have failed to penetrate if only they detailed such hairy crab adventures on their packaging.

And whilst they're at it, why not go a little further and experiment a bit more with the ingredients. I'm sure the adventurous customers at Waitrose would just die for a good deep-fried granny or sauted shepherd.

Can I press you to an opium fish head, vicar?

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The old slow boat to China cliché

Sometimes it is very hard to escape the old clichés about the countries you travel through. And we’re sitting on one now, steadily swaying about in the indigo waters of the East China Sea, as our ferry ploughs a slow path between Japan and China.

There’s no doubt about it: the MS Su Zhou Hao is definitely a slow boat to China.

It’s hardly the image I had in my mind of course, you know the romantic one of am old-style Chinese junk, all rigging and multiple different decks, laden with manufactured goods and opium, and calling in at various exotic ports on a mission to discover the secrets of silk.

But it is certainly slow and, I would imagine rather more comfortable than some rickety old wooden tub.

I rather like leaving a country by ship, indeed I prefer it to leaving by plane. The pace of travel gives you time to relax and reflect on your time in the country you have just left and to anticipate what lies ahead in that to which you are headed.

Rather than zoom into the clouds in burst of kerosene, on a ship you can slip gracefully away, giving you chance to bid a long farewell to the country you’re leaving .

It allows you to appreciate the physical space between countries - so important in determining the character of a nation such as Japan - as you watch the land slip slowly out of sight and you enter the embrace of the open sea.

Time to digest your adventures in one country before scanning the horizon for the first sight of the next.

I found this a particularly pleasurable experience doing this from the luxury of my own large, albeit slightly grubby Japanese-style communal bath. As the sun set and I sloshed about in the warm water, I could gaze out the window across the island-strewn Inland Sea towards the lights twinkling on the shore and reflect on a month in Japan.

We had spent the previous day in the somewhat down-at-heel port city of Osaka.

Perhaps it should be expected, typical of port cities the world over, or perhaps it was just our chosen part of town, but after clean, tidy, well-behaved Japan, Osaka was a rude dose of reality.

The city seemed populated entirely by gaunt, middle-aged men in grimy vests, its streets lined with cheap hotels, gaudy pachinko parlours and discount manual clothing outlets for manual workers.

It felt like a great receptacle for all Japan’s unwanteds: down-and-outs; drunks; and disabled people, airbrushed out of the tourist sites and dumped here like some embarrassing mad Aunt locked away in the attic.

Osaka is looked down on by citizens of some other cities, seen as less glamorous than Tokyo, less refined than Kyoto. It proudly boasts of its status as ‘Japan’s kitchen’ (well it sounds better than ‘Japan’s answer to Southampton’) and seemed stuffed with cheap, slightly grubby eateries where you could enjoy the pleasures of battered octopus balls and other such greasy delicacies.

Indeed the food seemed to lean more towards China rather than Japan, drenched in oil and served up with little of the excessive finesse we found elsewhere.

It wasn’t just the food either which came with a distinct Chinese flavour. We the influence of Japan’s largest neighbour in the Mahjong parlours in the scruffy arcades, where old men gathered to smoke rollups, and amongst the people, where Chinese and Korean immigrants remind you of Osaka’s role as Japan‘s gateway to the world.

Raffish, bawdy, lively, exuberant; was Osaka a harbinger of what was to come for us in China?
Leaving Japan for China, I anticipate some clear similarities but perhaps many more differences.
Certainly the Japanese I encountered have always stressed that, though echoes of their Chinese-influenced past resonate throughout many aspects of modern Japan, theirs was a very different path towards the 21st century, and one which has made them very distinct from their continental neighbours.

I don’t expect to make many of the same wonderful discoveries in China as I did across the Sea of Japan: the Shinkansen bullet trains; excessive politeness and incessant bowing; Salaryman and Visor Woman; ’washlet’ space-age toilets with built-in bidets and fart-disguising fake flush sounds; not even Blueberry yoghurt drink.

And in China I hope not to encounter some of Japan’s other excesses: the emphasis on ’saving face’ which compels hotel receptionists to hang up on me rather than risk embarrassing themselves by attempting to speak English; the ridiculously over-packaging of food; the frankly-annoying and pointless us of multiple slippers; the utterly irritating emphasis on the supposedly ‘cute’ and kitsch.

I will miss this - the wonderful, whacky, eccentric Japan, seedbed for a million mad inventions, home to a million crazes.

It is a country you enjoy on the surface, but one that takes years to fathom its depths. Still insular, comfortable being isolated Japan does not seem to absorb its immigrants like Britain has - as Will Ferguson notes in his excellent book ‘Hokkaido Highway Blues, like it or not, in Japan you will always be a gaijin - a ‘foreigner’.

I can’t imagine we’ll blend in that well upon making landfall in Shanghai either. Another country, another language to decode, another whole set of cultural mores to understand.

We’re entering a world of superlatives: the largest population on earth; one of the largest countries on earth; a booming economy; an emerging superpower that is making the rest of the world a little nervous.

A Japanese friend told me that the US is seen as ten years ahead of Japan, Japan as ten years ahead of Korea and Korea ten years ahead of China.

Does this mean that two days on a boat will take us back to the 1980s? Or was Japan a vision of the future?

I thought that China was now being looked to as a vision of the future.

I’m sure we’ll find out. But first we’ve got to dodge this typhoon, brooding somewhat uncomfortably close on the horizon…

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Trainspotter's paradise

As I write this we are screeching along the Pacific coast, hurtling like an exocet through the endless huge grey cities, their low roofs, driving ranges, skyscrapers and orange and white chimneys a blur.

We glimpse the occasional flash of green paddy fields before another city hoves into view, then its suburbs, before they seem to merge into the next and the next…

No this isn’t my driving. Nor are not strapped into a space rocket. This is the shinkansen, the fabled bullet train.

Japan is rightly famous for this rail network, for it is surely like no other on earth. Linking most of Japan‘s major cities it reduces journey times so much that it rivals, if not surpasses the aeroplane for getting passengers from A to B.

And unlike the plane, the shinkansen offers maximum comfort and convenience.

Huge, sleek, 16-car trains glide into stations, their elongated engines looking more like spaceships than trains. Surely it is no coincidence that my word proceesor keeps automatically changing ‘shinkansen’ to ‘slinkiness’.

A brief stop at the platform and they are off once more, accelerating at a pace that would leave Lewis Hamilton for dust.

On board it’s comfortable and spacious, with acres of legroom and plenty of seats for passengers and space for their luggage. The staff are unstintingly polite (plenty of bowing and cap-doffing), and the ride remarkably smooth given the speeds you are travelling at.

Oh and they are always on time.

At the other end, upon reaching your destination an array of transport options for your onward journey are waiting for you. A range of local trains, local and rapid, are quick and simple to catch, the larger cities boost metros, and most stations have bus stops and secure cycle parking right outside their entrance.

In short Japan Rail (JR) offers passengers everything they need and more. Japan is a trainspotter's paradise. Gordon Brown should dispatch his Transport Secretary, Ruth Kelly, here without delay, for a spot of work experience.

Many of the stations themselves are sights to behold: Kyoto station is an immense cathedral of lights, its many levels home to hundreds of shops, hotels and even an anime museum; Tokyo station felt like a sprawling mini-city, populated by thousands of scurrying worker ants, factory of a million bento lunchboxes.

Although often big, even bewildering, JR stations are not unpleasant. This being Japan everything is ordered and well-signposted, passengers rigorously observe the queuing systems and delicious soba noodles are only a stall away.

Thev are bright and airy, pleasant places to spend the few minutes you‘ll need to wait for your carriage to arrive. In Himeji station they even play bird calls across the platform, soothing the nerves of even the most stressed-out salaryman.

All this doesn’t come at too high a price for the savvy traveller either. You don’t need the equivalent of a down payment on a family house in order to board the shinkansen. Read our ‘how to…travel around Japan' hints and tips piece to find out how to do this.

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