Longqing Gorge

Situated north of Beijing Longqing Gorge offers refuge for those tired of living in the polluted capital. Eunju and I had been planning on going for some time and had calculated the route there expecting it to take up around 2 hours by bus.

When I awoke that morning I felt rather uneasy with a minor stomachache. It wasn’t going to scupper my plans for the day and thought I’d be able to shake it off once I had a coffee inside me.

We boarded bus 919 and followed our progress on the map. We started to notice that the journey was taking much longer than anticipated, then we realised that we weren’t on the express bus. We were on the slow bus going around the houses. This very disappointing turn of events twinned with my stomach becoming more uncomfortable made for a disappointing morning. Three-and-a-half hours later we arrived.

We got off the bus in Yanqing and got a taxi to the gorge. The roads were empty – something I hadn’t seen since arriving in China. There was quite literally no one around which made it exquisitely peaceful. Then the taxi driver stopped and said that he couldn’t take us any further. Luckily we didn’t have to walk the remaining distance up the mountain roads as a man on a motorbike said he’d take us the rest of the way for ¥10 (about £1), a very fair and reasonable price to be propelled from a motorbike without any safety gear. Recent weather had been very hot, but this wasn’t the case in Yanqing. It was surprisingly chilly and by the time we’d gotten to the gorge on the back of the bike I was freezing. I was seriously considering buying a scarf, which seemed mad considering temperatures had reached 38°C only a few days before.

We had finally made it to the gorge. We took an escalator up the mountain, which I now think is definitely preferable to walking up.

We got aboard the boat that would take us along the snaking Gucheng River between the beautiful rocks. The scenery was truly magnificent, and the tour guide explained the history of the local area, or so Eunju told me anyway.

Further down the river and we were off the boat. At this pit stop were many exciting things that I was not in the mood for.

There were opportunities to go kayaking through the gorge, bungee jump off the top of one, or relax in a Buddhist temple. One way they tried to persuade people to do such adrenaline fuelled idiocies was to play very loud techno music. I suppose the logic is to play up beat music to get your blood pumping, and excited to make a mistake such as jumping off a 50m gorge with shoddy Chinese equipment. It didn’t quite have that effect on me.

Instead my stomach had just about given up and I was bordering on vomiting. Between the boat ride, the loud awful techno music, and the smell of burning incense from the nearby temple I was fully expecting to see the remains of my last meal. I was feeling terrible and was 4-5 hours away from the sanctuary of my bed. I wandered through the temple grounds and started to wonder if there would be anything more disrespectful than vomiting on a Buddhist monument. I managed to hold it together.

There was nothing else to do but make the slog of a journey back to Beijing feeling nauseous. I spent the rest of the day and the following morning between my toilet and my bed.

I was due back at work the following afternoon and got hit by a car on my commute to work. Not a bad accident, but enough of a hit to knock me off my bicycle.

It was not a good few days in the life of Brendan Fennell.

Hanoi and Ha Long Bay: To Heaven and Hell and Back

It is mayhem here. The streets are alive with noise. There doesn’t seem to be any coordination. Right outside a nice coffee shop there will be a woman fixing an old motor and a chicken running around. It’s busy and the traffic is so unorganised, but somehow it works. Everyone just drives in the direction they want, across the road, the wrong direction and even sometimes in the right direction. Crossing the road is a lot easier than it looks though. Quite simply step out and the bikes will go around you. Wes wasn’t convinced, so I proved my theory by stepping out without looking and made it across fine. Sorry Mum, probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.

We got a motorbike taxi around the city. The driver handed me a feeble excuse of a helmet. It was made from a thin bit of plastic and the buckle was broken. As we drove around I had to hold it on with my hand. In the unfortunate event that we were in an accident I don't think it was going to be of much use.

You'll notice everyone is driving in different directions

Taking his shopping home on both handlebars and giving his mate a lift.

We went to the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. I didn’t know Ho Chi Minh was a person, I’ve only known him as a city. He was the first president of Vietnam and helped gain independence from France…I think. To be honest I’m still not entirely sure who he was and what he did. I was too hungover to really learn that much about him. He must have been pretty important to have had a city named after him. I ought to read up about him.

We later went to the Maison Centrale Prison. Built by the French to imprison and torture any Vietnamese who opposed their rule, and later housed American pilots that crashed and landed in Vietnam. John McCain was imprisoned there. It puts my complaints of being hungover into perspective.

Back at the hostel and both Wes and I agreed that we must not get drunk that night as we’re getting picked up for a boat trip at 6am. You can imagine what happened next. This one was my fault to be honest. I was easily attracted to the 3-hour happy hour – with one of those hours of FREE beer. I’m not entirely sure what time we retired to bed, but only a few hours later we were up and preparing ourselves for a 6-hour journey to Ha Long Bay. Bus, boat, bus, and another boat journey and we made it. And when we got there all of our complaints were forgotten as this was to be our home for the next few days.

A tropical, hidden paradise. No wifi and no connection with normal society. Just and incredible view and a few beers.

Unfortunately the island was already inhabited by a group of people called “reps”. These people are employed to make sure you have a “good time”. 

Wearing the typical uniform of flip flops, shorts, a baseball hat on backwards and a very loose fitting tank top. They often shout through a microphone “who’s ready to have a good time?!” Just shhh. I want to have a good time, but stop shouting. Give us some safety information, tell us where is the first-aid box is and put some music on. The rest will take care of itself.

Drinking from 1pm is dangerous. If there was a competition for who got the drunkest I definitely won and partly down to Wes. One of the rules of the beach bar is that if you ring the gong hanging nearby you must buy everyone a drink. Wes turns to me and asks “should I ring that gong?” to which I have the easiest answer for him. “Yes. Yes, you definitely should”. He did. Twice. He has more money than sense and he doesn’t have that much money.

The next day there was very little time to rest and enjoy the scenery as we were on a booze cruise at 10am. Yes, 10am. It was a pretty sweet day of meeting new people, kayaking through Ha Long Bay, and drinking. It’s a truly beautiful place.

Two days on that island is enough though. After 2 days of very intense partying, no sleep, eating the same food for breakfast, lunch and dinner, sleeping in a sandy bed, getting sunburnt, being hungover, and having to listen to those reps constantly shouting I was ready to go. Unfortunately for me we had the 6-hour journey back to Hanoi ahead. I was suicidal.

I am currently writing this edition from an overnight sleeper train from Hanoi to Hue. It’s peaceful and I’m going to get the first good night’s sleep in since leaving England.

It’s almost been a month since I stopped working, travelled to England, back to Seoul, and have been enjoying myself in Vietnam. It’s moments like this one that you appreciate the small things. A bed free of sand, a non-alcoholic drink, and time to rest. 

Seonyudo Island: I'm Not As Brave As I Used to Be

I’ve been back in Korea for only 6 weeks and I’ve already had 2 holidays. Unfortunately, my holiday doesn’t really coincide with other private institutions so I opted to go on this mini adventure alone. I decided to go to 선유도 Seonyudo, a group of islands off the west coast of Korea. The islands are connected via bridges allowing you to leisurely cycle around. It was the perfect remedy for 4 weeks of stress-less work (since the last holiday I went on to Jeju Island).

It took 5 hours to get there from Seoul (3½ on the coach and 1½ on the ferry), but it was totally worth it. It’s stunning. The colour I associate Korea with is grey. Grey buildings, grey sky, grey rivers, but here there was a spectrum of colour. Blue sky, green islands, white sand, and the sea was clean. Not like the murky waters of the Han River, it was clean, and a rich blue. It was worth the journey to end up somewhere that felt more like the Caribbean than Korea.

The islands are remote. There are about 3 shops, 4 restaurants, no ATMs and no wifi. I was cut off from the world. I rented a bicycle, paid the ₩10,000 (£6) fee, no questions asked, no record of my ID, just a “bring it back tomorrow” attitude. I love Korea. I spent the afternoon cycling around the southern islands before retiring to the beach, with a beer…or 3.

After spending the night in a love motel (which was rather depressing as I spent the night alone) I explored the northern islands and again later returned to the beach to relax and sit in the shade…with a beer…or 3.

Along the beach runs a 700m zip line. The departure point of the line is 50m up a tower. I lounged on the beach and watched many people (adults, children, old ladies) zip across the beach. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the joyous mood I was in, but I decided to give it a go. I paid the ₩15,000 (£10) (I got a “handsome man” discount of ₩5,000 (£3)), and got the lift to the top of the tower. The doors opened and I immediately thought that this was a bad idea. The scenery was amazing, but the prospect of jumping from 50m was not. Since doing a skydive I’ve developed a fear of heights.

Alongside me in the lift was a couple. Being the English gentleman that I am I protested that they went first. They were scared but they did it. Now it was my turn and the only people around to judge me were the staff. I told the guy that I wasn’t doing it. He argued with me, and even tried to grab me to hook my harness to the zip line. I ducked and dived and evaded him. I was back in the lift and was heading down.

The doors opened again, this time on the ground floor. The staff who helped me into my harness then helped me out of it. They were pleasantly understanding until the “boss” turned up and he was more than happy to laugh in my face. He explained that there would be no refunds, but to be honest, I’d have paid another £10 not to have done it.

I’m not Bear Grylls. I’m not an “adrenaline junkie”. I don’t need to chase the next high. If I want that addictive “high” sensation I’ll start taking heroin. At this stage in my life I am officially ruling out bungee jumping, base jumping, zip lining, or any activity that requires me to jump from a considerable height. I’m not as brave as I used to be, but there’s no shame in that.

I went to the shop, got some more beers, resumed my position on the beach and continued to watch the brave/stupid people on the zip line.

It was a great few days away and I learnt a lot about myself.

Istanbul - 1,551 Miles From Home

I’ve put the Indian nightmare behind me and finally completed my 16-month tour with the last stop was in Istanbul. The past 4 weeks have varied in experience from one extreme to the other, but the food has been exceptional throughout. Most recently I’ve traded in Chinese and Indian food for liberal helpings of Turkish kebabs. I need to invest in a workout DVD, maybe I’ll get Jade Goody’s as we both dislike Indians.

I really enjoyed my time in Istanbul. It’s a beautiful, clean city that has a lot of history. I was very sceptical of the people, but they have turned out to be very kind and welcoming*.

The Hagia Sophia Museum (formerly a mosque)

The Grand Bazaar

A highlight was taking a cruise down the Bosphorus, the body of water that separates the Istanbul and the continents of Europe and Asia, a must do if you’re ever here. About halfway into the cruise we moored and explored The Fortress of Rumeli, learning about some of the history of the Ottoman Empire.

The Fortress of Rumeli

An experience that I was persuaded into was going to a Turkish bathhouse. I was expecting something similar to the jjimjjilbang of Korea (a nude spa). I went with my dad; we stripped down, donned a towel and made our way to the sauna. It was very quiet in there and we enjoyed the freedom of the sauna before being summoned for our body scrubs. I walked through to a separate room, removed my towel only to see that the other men getting scrubbed were wearing swimming shorts. I exposed myself to many Turkish men. The towel went back on and the scrubbing commenced. Much like the jjimjjilbang experience they take the dead skin off you with a Brillo pad. After the scrub they give you a "massage". I think I got the massager who was racist toward English people because this was less of a massage and more of a battering. He kicked the shit out of me and I paid for the ordeal. He twisted me like a pretzel, and pressed me into the stone bed that I was lying on. The Turkish bath is a painful experience.

Combined with the Korean spa, I’ve been rubbed down by more men in the past month than I was hoping to in my entire life.

Turkey has left me with two regrets, the first is not being able to take in a football match. Unfortunately I have been here during the international break, and even Turkey was playing their 2 games away from home. The second is that I didn’t get a chance to head to the Syrian border and check out what those IS lads are up to. I suppose I have a couple of reasons to come back.

The view of Europe from the Bosphorus

Back to England tomorrow, I think I’ll be the most excited person on the plane back to London Luton. 

* I must disclose that despite my pleasant encounters with Turkish people, they still have a poor human rights record, hence why they are not in the EU, and that they invaded and occupy Cyprus. I must apologise to the Greek Cypriots that might be reading this; I’m sorry for enjoying Turkey and for “pumping money into their economy”.

Mumbai - 7,187 Miles from Home

OK, so I recently read back my last blog post about Hong Kong and Macao and I noticed numerous grammar mistakes. My excuse is that I wrote it while at the bar in Hong Kong airport waiting for my flight. Regardless, I will try my super harderest to minimise the grammar mistakes this time round.

I arrived in Mumbai in the early hours of the 12^th. The taxi took me to my hotel and the first thing I encountered was the poverty in India. There are quite literally thousands of people sleeping in the streets, so many in fact that the pavements are full and people sleep in the roads and the cars drive around them.

The daylight dawned and I got my first real glimpse of India. It’s insanity here. The first thing that I was really aware of is the never-ending threat of disease. When I walk down the street I’m consciously thinking about avoiding the stray dogs that carry rabies, the dirty puddles with cholera, the mosquitoes with malaria, and the people with every form of hepatitis.

If you manage to avoid those threats you then put your life on a knife-edge when you get inside a taxi in India. The taxis are about 50 years old, they are old tin buckets on wheels. I’ve been sat inside them thinking that if this taxi is in a minor collision then I will definitely die. And of course, there are no seat belts. If the thought of dying in a sardine tin wasn’t terrifying enough then the way they drive will provoke a heart-attack. They have mirrors, but you wouldn’t think so. They pull out in traffic whether there’s a space or not, and drive by sound. The drivers listen for other’s horns. A taxi journey in India is up there with skydiving.

As I walk around the streets of Mumbai I realise that I stick out like a saw thumb. Sometimes when you’re out and about you might be in a bad neighbourhood and you might think to yourself ‘I wouldn’t like to take a wrong turn in this part of town’. Well, that’s not possible in Mumbai because every area is the wrong part of town.

A few days in I took a boat trip out to Elephanta Island, the boat trip was relaxing, out on the Arabian Sea, away from the death-trap taxis, and the noise. However, when on the island I found out that it’s inhabited by aggressive, thieving monkeys. There’s no rest from it! I’m now avoiding stray dogs, mosquitoes, goats, cows, chickens, dirty water, and now monkeys with only a selfie-stick to defend myself with.

The sightseeing has been fun despite the unbearable heat and the unstoppable sweating. I’ve been to; The Gateway of India, Chowpatty Beach, Shree Siddhivinayak Hindu Temple, the Haji Ali Daragah (an island mosque), and the Sanjay Ghandi National Park.

The famous Gateway of India

The Haji Ali Dargah Mosque and part of the Mumbai skyline

The most interesting tale comes from when I tried to go to the Vipassana Pagoda in the northern reaches of Mumbai. I asked the hotel staff how to get there and they said that a taxi would be too expensive (£8) and that I should opt for the train (£0.15), so I did.

At the train station, the man who issued my ticket explained the route that I needed to take. The only problem was that he had one of the strongest Indian accents I’ve ever come across. Being the polite Brit I asked him to repeat the instructions, but again I didn’t understand. So, I went on my way without a clue how to get there (and the only maps available were in Hindi). All I gathered was platform 3, something in a broad Indian accent, Borivali Station (my destination).

The trains are exactly how you’ve seen them on TV and film. The doors are wide open, no concern for safety, and people hanging on for dear life.

It was a slow train, and stop after I was hoping to see Borivali Station. I waited but it never came. Before I knew it, it was the end of the line and I had no idea where I was.

And this is where I ended up...

I went up to the ticket counter and asked how to get to Borivali. He ignored my distress and issued me another ticket (this time 20p – robbing bastards). Well, back on the train I suppose. This time it’s packed and I’m in second class. I trust no one. I wear my bag on my chest and my hand stays firmly on my camera. It’s ridiculously hot, I’m the only white person in the carriage, I feel unsafe, and I’m clueless to where I’m actually going. So I think “fuck it, let’s get a taxi”. At that particular moment I wouldn’t have minded paying £9 for a taxi, I just wanted to get off. I got off at the next station (wherever that was) and ask a taxi driver to go to the Vipassana Pagoda, but he’s never heard of it. I’m so lost, so far from Mumbai that even the taxi drivers couldn't help me. On that day, all I knew was that I was in India, it was a pretty scary thought. Well, back on the train I suppose.

Back on the heaving, smelly, grotty train (can you tell that the novelty wore off pretty quickly?), and a kind, softly spoken man helped me. He told me to get off at a station called Dadar and change lines. Thank you, random softly spoken Indian man. I get to Dadar and there are about 8 lines. I went to the ticket queue and ask which line I need. Unfortunately, I’m still too far from the international part of Mumbai and no one understands me, and my Hindi hasn’t improved since the last encounter. With my possessions still intact, I opt to cut my losses and head back to Mumbai.

The next day I tried again and managed to get there, and what a sight it was.

The view of the Global Vipassana Pagoda from the water.

India is a crazy, trying place. It’s certainly not a relaxing holiday destination. I think I would have been bothered by it a lot more had I not been eating delicious curries for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My Indian journey doesn't end here. Next stop - Delhi.

Veels geluk, Petro! Seemeeu Poespas! (Busan!)

It was our first weekend out of Seoul for a while and it was to visit Petro in Busan for her birthday. We took the train and it was my first time on the KTX (Korean Train Express) Korea’s high-speed train. It’s basically the exact same as the National Rail system in the UK… except that it runs on time, is reliable, is quick, they offer good customer service, the prices don’t rise every week, and the trains aren’t cancelled if there are a few leaves on the track. Basically the same.

We arrived in Busan and met Petro and the rest of the peasants. Many drinks were had and we checked-in to the pension at 3am.

For those that don’t know what a pension is, it’s a cheap guest house. It’s one room where by you sleep on the floor. When looking for a room price often dictates where you stay and sleeping on the floor is generally fine but with copious amounts of alcohol and an uncomfortable night led to the worst hangover I’ve ever had. That’s not an exaggeration, it was the worst hangover I’ve ever had. I felt horrendous. People often say that, it’s an overused phrase, but I felt so bad that morning that if someone had given me a rope I’d have made good use of it. It was a life low point. If I got hangovers like that every time I drank I would give up alcohol.

Busan is on the coast, and when you go you have to go to the beach. Unfortunately for us it was pissing down with rain and was bloody freezing but in true British style and bit of rain wasn’t going to stop us. It’s the equivalent of going to Brighton or Skegness, you have to go to the beach regardless of the weather. After the beach we went sightseeing around Gamcheon Cultural Village, a quaint place full of colour, art, and too many stairs.

We meandered around an interesting market and I stepped back into the 90s. We found an electronics shop that haven’t updated their stock since 1990. This was their shop window.

Seriously how do they make a living? Who still needs to buy a CD Walkman, a Dictaphone, a cassette player, or an old CRT television? Seriously? When was the last time they sold something? It was probably when Will Smith bought a cassette player when they were filming the intro for The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

Afterwards we found The Pub. A pub actually called The Pub. That’s such a great name. Karl and I have been thinking of opening up a decent British pub in Seoul and that would be the perfect name to steal. We also considered that once our pub is established of branching out into the exotic dancing industry and we were going to call the club The Titty Bar, two perfect names for two perfect places. One day… We arrived at The Pub just as my hangover wore off.

The drinks kept on coming and we had another night out in the university district of Busan. We went down to the beach armed with fireworks to celebrate Petro’s birthday with a bang! This seemed like a nice idea but 15 or so drunk people letting off explosives is actually a stupid terrifying idea. Worse of all someone had the brainwave to give the big-headed mong (Karl) the fireworks. This is a man who I hardly trust to hold a cigarette in his hand let alone gunpowder and a lit fuse. Luckily everyone came away unscathed.

Not entirely sure where we went after the beach but it was a good night and like most good nights there was the lure of a kebab. Upon closer inspection Karl and I noticed the chap selling the delights of the intoxicated was Turkish. Regardless of how drunk we get our hatred for Turkish people will never diminish. Karl and I have made up our minds and we have sided with the Cypriots, for this reason we refused the kebabs despite how delicious they looked. Along with Bof (the influencer), as a unity we also hate all things from Wolverhampton, Tottenham, and Derby, the four worst places on the earth.

Another night on the pension floor and to my delight… no hangover! This time around it was Karl who had the hangover and I was laughing at him. We stepped outside and to our surprise it was warm and there were clear skies. Not only were they clear but they were also blue, I didn’t think blue skies existed in Korea, as it turns out not all of the country is filled with pollution. We went back to the beach to retake all the pictures.

We headed to the pub for lunch and again in truly British fashion we had fish and chips by the seaside. One of the best parts of the weekend was seeing Karl’s cheeky smile when he realised the pub did gravy. The northerner went ahead and ruined his meal by flooding his plate with gravy, it was moronic but he was in heaven.

We opted for an afternoon cruise along the coast to finish off the weekend. It was delightful. The water was a little choppy which led to a rocky boat ride. Throughout the cruise they played some dodgy music, it almost sounded like weird Northern Korean propaganda music, we were supporting the regime and riding the waves at the same time!

We docked and made it safely back onto land. We all survived a Korean boat trip.

We walked down the beach and we noticed this guy.

Yeah, that’s a man in a thong. I mentioned earlier that there were blue skies and it was reasonably warm but it wasn’t that warm… actually scratch that, it’s never that warm! It’s April in Busan, not July on Copacabana Beach! There are children about, put that away!

We said our goodbyes and made our way to Busan Station to get the KTX back to Seoul, we checked our train tickets and realised that we’d missed our train by about an hour and a half. We never thought to check the time we were returning to Seoul, we really are a pair of mongs. We had to buy new tickets which meant we were standing for two and a half hours on the way back north. All-in-all it was a great weekend. It was awesome to catch up with Petro, Leon, Michael, Mikey, and meet many more new friends! 

Yes, I know… ooooh! New friend friends!