Inner Mongolia is in China. China. Not Mongolia, China.

The Mid-Autumn Festival presented a perfect opportunity to explore a little more of China. Some last-minute planning with some friends from work resulted with us choosing to visit Inner Mongolia. We found a tour company that offered a great package; travel, accommodation, food, refreshments, a tour guide and entry to local attractions for ¥965 (£108). 

You can't argue with that value, the only downside was that we'd be travelling by coach. It took 11 hours to reach the Inner Mongolian grasslands. 11 hours. You read over that detail in mere seconds, but I had to live through it in a chair that was bolt up-right as the reclining lever was broken. The tour guide also said that we would only be making one toilet break en route to save time. China is a country based on authoritarian rule whereby they may be able to enforce a lack of basic human rights, such as access to drinking water, but on a bus of 50 foreigners, the Maoist tour guide eventually succumbed to our Western pressure. 11 bastard hours.

The tour guide, Kevin wanted to welcome us to Inner Mongolia with further details about the vast land north of Beijing.

"Inner Mongolia isn't part of Mongolia, it's part of China. Inner Mongolia is China. China. China owns Inner Mongolia."

As it happens Inner Mongolia was once part of Mongolia until the rise of the Qing Dynasty around 1650. The Khans were overthrown, and China ruled Mongolia for about 300 years when Mongolia wanted to become independent once again. China ignored these pleas until the end of World War II when Winston Churchill, Franklin Roosevelt, and Joseph Stalin (after a few bevvies, lines of coke, and cigars) agreed on some world order. Mongolia gained recognition of independence by China, but the agreement didn't include the region of Inner Mongolia.

Inner Mongolia is in a list akin to Hong Kong, Taiwan, Tibet and Xinjiang. Luckily, Chinese people are very thick skinned and don't need to reiterate such land disputes or feel the need to slap Tory delegates for discussing Hong Kong freedoms.

When we finally arrived at the grasslands we were straight off horseriding. I was hoping for a little guidance on how to ride a horse as I hadn't been on one since I went on a PGL trip about 17 years before. With no instructions we were off, I tried my best to control this beast, but it wasn't responding to the internationally recognised equine instructions of "giddy up!" and "Woah, Nelly!". These horses only understand Mandarin and Mongolian, neither of which I'm versed in. They were under the instruction of the Mongolian trainers and I was just along as a passenger. The trainers would call an instruction, the horses would react and I'd be the last to find out what was happening as I held on for dear life. 

Walking was bearable, but anything faster wasn't. Cantering and galloping were terrifying as I bounced around on top of the horse like some ragdoll, my gentleman's region squashed on the horses back with only an old bathmat acting as a makeshift saddle to make it a somewhat comfortable ride. 

The riding route took about an hour to navigate and I was finally back on my own two legs. That made for 12 hours of discomfort for the day. It could well be my final time on the back of a horse, my dreams of being a Texan rancher rounding up the cattle or pony trekking on Blackpool beach have been dashed. 

After a tasteless dinner, the organisers had put on a small party for us. They announced:

"Please join us outside for music, fireworks, dancing, free beer, and a bonfire. The party is from 8pm until 8:30pm."

Thirty minutes?! That isn't enough time to get drunk enough to even consider dancing. And what happens to the bonfire at half past 8, do they chuck a bucket of water on it?

The party was fun, while it lasted. There were people of all ethnicities, ages, and cultures at the camp that evening. The music started and it was European techno. The hosts welcomed everyone onto a dance platform and old ladies raved it up beside young children while the questionable music blared with lyrics including "I like sex with my ex!" It was very bizarre.

Our accommodation for the evening was a traditional Mongolian yurt. I was rather excited to stay in one, but as the night continued our heater packed up and the outside temperature dropped. Those yurts aren't especially well insulated, it made for a very cold evening. 

Up early the following morning and back on the bus. We had a short 5-hour journey over to the Kubuqi desert. The tour guide decided it'd be a good idea for everyone to introduce themselves to the entire bus. A futile activity as most people aren't listening and probably don't care. What we discovered was that our party of 4 teachers were the oldest on the bus. Of the people on the trip, most of them were children aged between 18-20 who were all in China on university exchange programs. It made me feel like a chaperone and my friend, Tina, feel even worse as she was old enough to be a mother to them.

Once a dry, harsh inhospitable land the Kubuqi Desert has been transformed into a sandy theme park. Sandboarding, camel riding, dune buggy rides were on the agenda.

A fun time was had by all and yet more fun was to come as we had another 4-hour bus journey to Inner Mongolia's capital city of Hohhot!

Us city dwellers were getting a little bored of all the open spaces, fresh air and friendly countryside people, what we really wanted was a built-up area of smog and bars. We dropped our bags at the hotel and went bar hopping in Hohhot getting in sometime around 6am. 

We had a wake-up call at 8am and had to be on the bus at 8:30am to make it to The Inner Mongolia Museum to learn about all things Inner Mongolian. We just about made it and began talking to the children on the bus, it turned out that they all stayed in the night before. So much for feeling old! Us pensioners have still got some fight left in us. Having said that, the two-hour kip just wasn't enough to muster the will to go to the museum. The children went to learn in the museum (pfft, dweebs) while we went to get McDonald's and recover somewhat from the night before. 

The trip was coming to an end and we had our final slog of a journey back to Beijing which we managed in about 7 hours. It was a lot of fun but after spending close to 30 hours on a coach I think my next trip will be by plane.

Jinan & Qingdao; Football & Beer

I've got some good news and some irrelevant news. The good news is I've got a new job, I'll be moving to an international school teaching children. It's a rather bittersweet moment, while I'm saddened by leaving Wall Street English I'll be moving into a teaching role which will undoubtedly be more fulfilling and rewarding.

The irrelevant news is the content of this blog in which I travelled to Jinan and Qingdao taking in a Chinese Super League game and the Qingdao beer festival.

So I had 10 days between jobs and felt like going away somewhere, the only trouble being that it's peak summer time. A quick flight search yielded expensive results. The cheapest destination being Phuket, Thailand. I'd be doing this trip solo, so the thought of paying peak prices to spend a week feeling like a paedophile wasn't so appealing - just imagine if Elon Musk found out about it.

I then thought about heading somewhere new, an untrodden path. The relatively uncharted land of Laos came to mind, but after catching up with the flood warnings the idea of being evacuated and watching my passport get washed away isn't the ideal way to relax.

I had originally wanted to get out of China, but my options were becoming limited. I put together a plan and with a little research, I noticed I could watch a top-flight football game in the city of Jinan before heading over to the coastal city of Qingdao to relax at Asia's biggest beer festival on the beach all within 3 days. The added bonus being that I wouldn't feel an obligation to diddle kids.

The plan was set, I took the short 2-hour train journey to a very humid Jinan.

I often get asked if Chinese people stare at me and, generally in Beijing, they don’t, but once you leave a big international city that’s when you notice it. Walking around Jinan I did feel like a circus attraction, but you’ve just got to ignore it.

In the middle of the city, there is a lake named Daming Lake (I think they’re doing themselves an injustice there as it is actually very picturesque). 

The sun was really beating down on me so I stopped to cool off and enjoy the view. As I enjoyed a moment of peace something caught my eye that I had never seen before. I’ve been around the block a few times and I’m nearing in on two years in China, but this shocked me. I saw the oldest woman in the world. If I had to guess she was on the wrong side of 150.

Her face was weathered, tanned, and very wrinkled. So wrinkled in fact that it looked like one of those mazes you find at the back of a TV guide. She was posing for pictures with her family and I just had to have one with her. I sidled up to them and gestured as kindly as I could and luckily she agreed. I sucked in the beer gut as I posed beside her realising I was conscious of how I looked while standing next to a 170-year-old woman.

I'm the one on the left

It’s hard to fathom just how much China has changed during her 185 years. She’s lived through poverty, the Cultural Revolution, the height of Chinese communism, Mao’s mass killings and now she’s stood beside a sweaty foreigner. I wonder which occurrence she would consider the worst. I felt a little guilty asking her for the photo, but considering how many stares I had been receiving the guilt eased.

I carried on further round the lake and again after about 25 minutes of walking, I took refuge from the heat in the shade. A little girl of about 3 or 4 cautiously approached me while her grandmother encouraged her. She stood next to me and I pointed at myself saying “Brendan” and she repeated my name. I then pointed at her and said “you?” to which she repeated me again. It’s hard to tell if she was just repeating what I was saying or if her name was Yu. She ran back to her grandmother and returned with a phone to show me a video. It was of her online English class whereby a foreign girl tried her best to keep this little girl’s attention using toys and repeating “lion...lion...elephant...elephant...” with a forced smile. I noticed that this video was 30 minutes long and as my knowledge of English animal names is already pretty good, I thought it was time to leave. I gave the girl and her grandmother a smile and left. 

I walked down to Baotu Spring self-described as “the best spring in the world”. It was very nice, but the best in the world? I wasn’t so sure. Considering everyone was throwing their filthy coins into the spring it probably would be healthier to drink from Peckham Spring.

It was time for the main event and the main reason that I came to Jinan – the football. Shandong Luneng Taishan were taking on Chris Coleman’s Hebei China Fortune. It was the first time I had seen any foreigners since leaving Beijing. As Graziano Pelle warmed up I gave him the old foreigner nod – a symbol of solidarity. Imagine something similar to the Black Power salute, but for people who haven’t suffered at all.

Shandong won 3-1 with a penalty scored by Diego Tardelli (Football Manager legend) and a brace from Pelle (I can’t help but feel my presence in the stadium spurred him on). It should have been a lot worse for Hebei and I can see another relegation might be on the cards for Chris Coleman if they continue in their current form. Coleman will be feeling the pressure as his stellar reputation, after taking Wales to the European Championship semi-final, is taking a hit. Luckily, his £3.5 million a year contract will help him sleep at night.

The following morning I took the train to the coastal city of Qingdao. I didn’t know much about the city. It was once occupied by the Germans but Germany recalled their soldiers to aid their war efforts in the Second World War, which didn’t quite go to plan for them. Qingdao was then occupied by the Japanese until the 50s, but it’s most famous for China’s top-selling brand of beer – Tsingtao.

Only China has to put up signs not to beat the seagulls

First impressions are that it’s bloody warm. I ventured out into the city, but to be honest, it was just too hot so I waited for the temperature to cool before heading to Golden Sands Beach which hosts Asia’s biggest beer festival. 

When I picture a beer festival my mind goes to a warm summers afternoon sipping local craft beers under a gazebo of a small pub. But this wasn’t a quaint British affair, this is China and China does everything bigger. They have German-styled houses, a 40-foot high pint of beer, and a festival the size that could rival Glastonbury.

As I wandered through the madness I walked into one of the brewer’s tents. It was lively. Each tent had a host who welcomed singers and dancers on stage and while topless men sipped lager scantily dressed women danced. It was a haven for beer, babes, and bellies.

It was a night well spent and I looked forward to spending the following day relaxing beachside, unfortunately, the weather had other ideas. I awoke to tremendous rain. With the day's scheduled activities cancelled I sought an indoor activity and went on a tour of the Tsingtao brewery. It was interesting enough to read about the brewing process, but ultimately it is a long line of pushy, impatient Chinese tour-goers. If you didn’t already know the Chinese are hardly famed for their excellent queueing and patience. It’s hard to enjoy the tour without a sense of annoyance. I sampled some of their finer drinks, while very enjoyable it wasn’t quite what I had in mind at half past ten in the morning.

Absolutely pure Tsingtao beer, much like the Aryan race

Enjoying a cold refreshing glass of liquid bread

After exiting the brewery you are immediately on Qingdao’s Beer Street. I wasn’t really in the mood for further drinking, but walking down the street I noticed many vendors serving beers on the go (mainly for alcoholics with busy schedules) though they weren’t served in plastic cups, but in bags with a straw. 

I’m not convinced by this phenomenon. As an Englishman, I’m used to bartenders not serving me beer in a glass as I instinctively identify the container as a throwing weapon. With a plastic cup you can still cause some distress which can instigate some violence, but drinking from a plastic bag takes all the dignity away from an angry violent Englishman. If I want to throw a beer-in-a-bag it’s no more than a glorified water balloon and that will not strike fear into opposition football fans when they’ve just knocked us out of a major football competition. 

The rain eased and I wound up at Qingdao’s most popular and best beach aptly named Number 1 Bathing Beach. The rain may have temporarily stopped, but the dark clouds and crashing waves weren’t exactly setting a relaxing mood. 10 minutes there was more than ample. I killed time in a cafe waiting for my train back to Beijing.

I hadn’t been expecting much, but it had been a fun few days away. For now, it’s back to Beijing before starting my new job on Monday where I’ve been put in charge of teaching, guiding and influencing 20 nine-year-olds. Wish me and them good luck.

Astana, Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan

The country of Kazakhstan is located between Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, and assholes Uzbekistan. Why was I here? Well, I was on my way to my sister's wedding in Bedford from Beijing and decided to stop off in Astana for a few days. I had a jar of gipsy tears around my neck to protect me on my 2-day adventure of the nation's 20-year-old capital.

Although Kazakhstan is a glorious country, it has problems, too: economic, social, and Jew.

The city has only existed for 20 years since President Nursultan Nazarbayev decided to relocate the capital from Almaty to Akmola. I was 8 years old, fresh-faced, holidaying at Disneyland Paris, and coming to terms with starting Year 4. Since then Akmola has become Astana and I have become a stunner. 

I can't help but feel they were putting words in my mouth. I don't even know what an Anatsa is.

The reason why Nazarbayev moved the capital to Almaty was to reduce the possibility of separatism from the northern regions of Kazakhstan. Sure, the reason was logical, but beyond Astana there is merely grasslands and a former concentration camp, a really difficult sell for the travel brochure writers.

Straight off the plane I realised I hadn't packed accordingly. It was cold and I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. Prior to my arrival I was advised that a taxi from the airport to the city should cost no more than 1500 tenge. The driver tried to charge me 3000 so we settled on 1700, but as we arrived he demanded 2700. I tried to argue but I don't think I was ever going to win an argument with an angry Kazakh/Russian. I threw the additional 1000 tenge at him and told him to "fuck off". I think that was the shortest time from arriving in a country to telling one of the locals to fuck off, a mere 25 minutes or so.  

After he sped off I worked out how much I'd been taken for a ride for. £2.28. That was it. I felt a little sheepish for how I'd reacted, but still, the bastard cheated me! 

It was my first time to use an AirBnB and while the location and the price were very good the convenience suffered. I arrived in the city at 7am and it was chilly, the locals were dressed up in winter gear like it was January 28th rather than May 28th. My data wasn't roaming for some reason so I went for a walk to find a cafe to get WiFi. I didn't have much luck. I considered taking refuge in an ATM vestibule, but decided to continue my search. My quest resulted in defeat, so I took a rest in a children's play area. 

Not how I had imagined spending the first few hours in Astana, chilling with a suitcase in the cold while on-looking parents thought I was a young Gary Glitter with a suitcase full of sweets and puppies. I found an Italian bistro that opened at 9am and ordered The Kazakh Breakfast, just the establishment that you'd expect authentic local cuisine. 

I finally got hold of the AirBnB host and met her at 10am. She showed me to the room. It wasn't quite what I was expecting, I thought AirBnB hosts offered their spare bedrooms for guests, but not this girl, she rented out her bedroom. I curiously looked in the wardrobe to find it full, her trinkets were all around and then I hit the jackpot - the underwear drawer. I felt a bit awkward staying there, but don't get me wrong, I had a fantastic wank after going through her unmentionables. 

Out in the city I took in most of the sights. It is a bizarre place where even in the city centre there are no people around. The atmosphere is surreal. A mere 25 years ago there was nothing here but grassland and now it's a big metropolis. The Kazakhs threw their oil money at the city and this is the result. It's very...gold. 

I took a wander to The Presidential Palace. Then over to The Palace of Peace and Reconciliation. Here they practice equality of religions and I'm totally on board with this in that they're all equally ridiculous. 

That's the president's gaff

I got a taxi over to The Museum of the First President of the Republic of Kazakhstan where they pay homage to Nursultan Nazarbayev. The exhibits were 95% in Russian and Kazakh, which wasn't surprising, but made the visit totally pointless for me. There aren't many people who build museums in their own honour while they are still alive. It's a short list consisting of Joseph Stalin, The Kims of North Korea and John Terry and none of those who ego-maniacs make you wear shoe protectors to visit their halls of greatness. Just imagine being the most narcissistic among those people. 

The following day I took a trip west to Kalzhir, a former Soviet labour camp which imprisoned family members of traitors to the motherland. Women were sent from all over the Soviet Union to the baron lands of the Kazakh steppe. These days the camp is surrounded by a township and the capital city is a mere 35km away, but at the time there was nothing but flat grassland. On the day I attended it was late May, but cold and extremely windy. I can only imagine what it must have been like to arrive in the middle of winter only to have dry reeds to sleep on to keep you warm at night. The minimum sentence at the gulag was 5 years for being guilty by association. 

My AirBnB host came home on my final night accompanied by her boyfriend. In broken English he said "My girlfriend. Don't touch". Which was a bit strange, I'm sure it was meant in jest, but Kazakhs aren't particularly known for their comedic delivery. If he had said "My girlfriend. You can touch...NOT!" Then there would have been no confusion that he was joking. 

I thought she had popped over to pick up a few things but she was actually staying the night which confused me as I was staying in her room. Was she going to join me? I thought I should invite her to share the bed, I am a gentleman after all. When I approached her she was clearing a space in the kitchen to settle in for the night. I was dejected. A hard, cold wooden kitchen floor is more appealing than sharing a bed with me. I returned to her bedroom and consoled myself with one final dip into her underwear drawer. 

My time in Kazakhstan was over and I headed for the airport, although I was slightly hesitant flying just in case the Jews repeated their attack of 9/11.

My final purchase in Kazakhstan was a beer and some fermented camels' milk. I'm not sure why, but it was an impulse buy. The beer went down a treat as I waited in the departure lounge and the milk was saved for an in-flight taste. 

We were 30 minutes in the air when I decided to treat myself. I learned something that day, that fermented camels’ milk will explode when opened. It went everywhere. On my jeans, on my chair and all I had was a solitary tissue to clean it up with. I tried to use my pillow as a substitute, but that didn't work. I took a crotch shot which looked like I'd had a romance explosion over Pamela Anderson. 

I don't know if you've ever smelled fermented camels' milk, but it smells worse than you're imagining. After that ordeal I didn't fancy tasting it either. Probably the worst £1.50 I've ever spent and I had six and a half hours left of my journey to sit with a moist crotch. 

Two days in Astana is more than enough. It's a bizarre place that was quite interesting to see and was worth the trip as I was passing though, but I wouldn't recommend anyone make a trip here with the sole purpose of seeing Astana. It’s a city in the middle of nowhere, which is most noticeable when you fly in and out. Beyond the city, you can see the vast Kazakh steppe which from the south extends 193km before you hit the nearest city. At 5ft7 big steppes scare me quite considerably.

I may return to the south of Kazakhstan to see the historical part of the country one day. I’d like to explore more of central Asia and the surrounding countries, despite them having inferior potassium. 

But for now, I've got a wedding to attend. Catch you on the next one.

Pingyao, China: Tomb Sweeping Day

The Tomb Sweeping Day holiday presented me with a 3-day break and as I didn't have any tombs to sweep I thought I'd get out of Beijing and head to the ancient city of Pingyao with Eunju.

A few days prior to our departure, I was experiencing the symptoms of a cold without being bedridden. I couldn't really work it out until the day before the trip when I woke up at 4am with tremendous pain in my ear. Eunju wasn't staying over that night so I surmised I had an ear infection. 

The train journey to Pingyao didn't make things any better. The train headed west through the mountains. A combination of the air pressure and going through numerous tunnels affected my hearing to the point that I couldn't hear in my left ear. I had the window seat so I could still hear Eunju nattering away to my right. I should have asked her to swap seats as it would have made it much easier to get some sleep while she talked into my deaf ear.

I arrived in Pingyao half deaf with a less than functional nose. I felt like Ozzy Osbourne, the major difference being that he lost his senses from performing ear-splitting heavy metal and snorting God knows what, whereas I probably picked mine up from not washing my hands well enough. Although, Ozzy has to live with Sharon, so if I were him I'd rather be deaf. And blind. 

The first stop was to a pharmacy. I know what you're thinking, "Brendan is an international playboy, he is obviously picking up some prophylactics for his saucy break with his lady friend." That wasn't quite the case. I had to ask Eunju to translate "do you have anything for an ear infection? I think it's started pussing" to the pharmacist. I'm sure I've never appeared so sexy. 

We checked into our hotel that Eunju had booked. It was a traditional Chinese home. It looked really nice, but it came with compromises, the main one being the bed - it was made of bricks. I don't just mean the base, I mean all of it. And the mattress isn't of much use, I've seen pizza bases thicker. We requested extra duvets to give us some comfort, but this didn't help. 

Pingyao is famous for being one of the first banking cities in northern China, for its baijiu (local alcohol), and vinegar. I'd never travelled for vinegar before. 

Vinegar is usually one of those things that are left in the cupboard when there is nothing left, just before your mum does the big shop. We decided to give it a go with some pan-fried dumplings and I can confirm that it does, in fact, taste like vinegar. But it didn't end there, there are shops dedicated to the primary sale of vinegar. They gave us a tour and then gave us some samples to taste. We had a couple of shots of vinegar and left with breath strong enough to ward off the plague. 

We next day we explored Mian Mountain. Located about an hour from the city, it gave us an escape from all that culture. We arrived at the mountain to find a TV set. The cameras were filming two presenters while in the background some performers performed. I know I'm a pretty big deal, but this was a little much for my arrival. In actuality, they were filming some celebrations for the following day's festivities. Right on cue, a helicopter arrived and swarms of people ran over with their camera phones hoping to get a glimpse of a celebrity. I looked over the crowd and tried to work out who it was, then I realised that the chances of Tom Hanks or Angelina Jolie showing up at the base of a mountain in rural China were pretty slim and that it was more likely that it would be a Chinese equivalent of one of those actors with learning difficulties from The Only Way is Essex. 

We ascended the mountain only to realise how cold it was. Days before in Beijing temperatures had reached 30°C in March, so in my duffle bag were shorts, t-shirts and sun cream. Yet, on the mountain is was 4°C and I was rueing my poor packing. To passersby on the mountain they must have thought I had been pumping iron at the gym, when in fact, I was wearing all the clothes I had packed. I was layered up with 4 t-shirts and 2 thin hoodies. It was just about enough as the temperature dropped to 0°C as we climbed higher. 

The views were incredibly remarkable yet bizarre. Mian Mountain had emerged disturbing little of the area surrounding it. Beyond the mountain, there was flat farmland as far as the eye could see without even a hill or a mound of dirt.

Temples are dotted around the mountainside and because of the mist and cold temperatures, Eunju and I were enjoying the freedom of the mountain. One of which is built into a mountain cave. 

After a few hours exploring, we descended and went back to Pingyao in search of a warm dwelling. 

In the evening as we went back to our comfortable brick bed it started snowing. It finished off the trip and we headed back to Beijing the following morning which had experienced a blizzard in our absence. Perfect timing. 

Despite the ear infection, freezing mountain temperature, snow, and leaving with a broken back after 2 nights on bricks, it had been a good trip.