Finally, a word about the role of women in Estonia. It seems they have had a poor deal in the past in what must have been a patriarchal society, but the trusty feminists of today are getting their own back, castigating the male at every opportunity, doubly so if he is Russian and/or communist; they’re not held in high regard in these parts. These amazons are making full use of their recently granted right to free speech, so watch out for these arch feminists, you guys.

  Moving south out of Estonia is to leave that Scandinavian feel for a distinctly more Russian atmosphere, especially in Latvia, where almost half the population is Russian, forcibly repatriated by Stalin to dilute the ethnic Latvians and Lithuanians earlier in the last century, rather like the mass immigration of Han Chinese into Tibet and Xinjiang province in western China.

  It is truly amazing that the ethnic Balts have continued to hope that every new invader would improve on the last lot, from the Danes, the crusading Teutonic knights, the near-neighbour Swedes, the even nearer Russians (first wave in the seventeenth century), French under Napoleon, the Russians (again), the Germans (again) and the Russians yet again in 1945.

  You can see why the present twenty years of self-government is so sweet, but the hate expressed universally for the Russians becomes understandable when you hear how they behaved. For a deeply religious people, the Lithuanians had to suffer seeing their churches turned into tractor repair shops or food distribution centres as a none too subtle way of expressing the Russian disregard for religion of any sort. This is without mentioning the redeployment of huge numbers of Balts to Siberia to work and starve in appalling conditions, while the country’s industry and agriculture was exploited for the invaders’ benefit.

  Symbols of religious faith are everywhere, no more so than at a remote site called the Hill (more a mound) of Crosses. A single cross was set up here to commemorate the death of a child in the 1830s, and more were added in such large numbers that the Russians felt it necessary to destroy them, even covering them in sewage. Inevitably the locals replaced them, each time destroyed again by the Russians. Today the hill is absolutely covered with thousands and thousands of crosses of all shapes and sizes, including two from the present and previous pope, all clustered in great heaps, some with bells gently tinkling in the wind. It must be a bit eerie at night.

  The arrival of the Nazis in 1941, of course, did not improve the lot of the locals, as many were shipped off for forced labour or worse. More than ninety percent of the Jewish populations of all three countries was exterminated after centuries of peaceful coexistence in these states.

  It is no wonder that so many of the museums are devoted to their sad history: the Holocaust museum, the state Jewish museum, Museum of the Occupation of Latvia, Museum of the Barricades; in fact, the Museum of the Blackheads in Riga Latvia (built in 1334 and taken over by the Blackhead guild of unmarried foreign merchants led by a Moor, all known for riotous parties, a bit like the Bullingdon club in Oxford) comes as a bit of light relief.

  About ten miles outside the city is a small shrine to identify where the Jews were quietly rounded up for transport to the camps. Apparently, the Nazis were not keen to highlight their task by carrying it out in the city itself. Very thoughtful.

  The countryside, especially in Estonia and Latvia, seems to be very lightly populated, except for a few grand estates built in previous centuries by German settlers. One of the largest and grandest, Rundale Palace in Latvia built in the early eighteenth-century aimed to rival Versailles in its ambition and style, much frequented by Catherine, Empress of Russia. It is truly amazing to think that at one time Lithuania was a country larger than France, incorporating parts of what are today Poland and Belarus before it was broken up by the Russians in the mid seventeenth century, then by the Prussians and the Austrians before being reduced to a Tsarist puppet state of about four million people.

  And did you know Pope John Paul’s mother was Lithuanian? The Poles keep quiet about that.

  Chapter 12

  Albania

  Well, thinking of five famous Albanians is harder than thinking of five famous Belgians: Mother Theresa of course, King Zog (and Mrs Zog?), Herr Hoxha, the capo dei capi of communisti till he died in 1985, Ali Pasha, and, of course, Norman Wisdom (well, he’s not actually Albanian but he’s very popular with the locals apparently. Now I have set foot on Albanian soil, I can see why they need a laugh.

  Anyway, having now covered Andorra to Zimbabwe, it was time to start over with the As, hence Albania. The frontier in the south of Albania/north of Greece was indeed a desolate spot. Pre-warned that the loos had not been cleaned since the country opened up to foreigners in the 1980s, we hung on for during the usual formalities: passport number, DOB, eye colour. Eye colour? Tough if you have different colour eyes or colour contact lenses you forgot to change over that morning. The usual chaos was made worse by the fact that the brand-new purpose-built building was not yet in use and fenced off so that cars were forced into a rocky side road with no passing room.

  So far so good.

  And off then to Butrint, one of the three UNESCO World Heritage Sites in the country, an impressive collection of antiquities from before Christ, Byzantine, Turkish and Roman times (it was a Roman settlement under Caesar Augustus, established after the battle of Actium in 31BC nearby where Mark Anthony and Cleo P were defeated) still standing and occasionally revealing age-old mosaics in incredible condition, largely protected from earthquakes in 400 BC and 1100 AD. Another one due?

  Well, that was really the highlight as we headed north through treeless mountainous landscapes filled with huge lemon tree orchards in the valleys in order to reach Sarande, the Albanian answer to the French Riviera, or so the sales blurb has it. Maybe, but not in my lifetime and I plan a long life. Basically, a massive building site, new flats all the way up the hill, mostly half-finished and soulless.

  One of the newer hotels has a sign offering among other facilities a ‘swimming poo’. Having looked at it, I could make a claim of misrepresentation, but I thought of taking the sign back to the border guards for their loos, but somehow, I don’t think they have the necessary sense of humour. After all, who laughs at Norman Wisdom these days?

  Perhaps this is why twenty percent of the population has emigrated since 1980 to look for a better life, but who knows, maybe one day it will take over from the Spanish Costas as the holiday destination of choice, or from Greece if it explodes; no sign of that here where life seems to go on regardless.

  Parting shot: as you enter the desolate no man’s land between the two countries, up pops a fully-stocked duty-free shop (remember them?) stocked with an amazing range of out of date perfumes, fags and top of the range whiskies stacked in a standalone nissen-hut with full aircon, the lot. Amazing.

  Chapter 13

  Shanghai, China

  It was always going to be difficult to dress for the flight from Bangkok to Shanghai in January – from 30+ ˚C to zero in three hours, knowing there had been several inches of snow a day or two before. However, the next day, hardly a flake left anywhere, except a few patches on the odd tree with leaves still attached. I can only assume they have under-floor heating on the pavements.

  As I imagine is the case in the rest of the Middle Kingdom, Shanghai is in a frenzy of pre-New Year celebrations, red and gold lanterns everywhere supplemented with huge garish Disney-like characters plastered to shop fronts. For a bit of light relief, we took the driverless train under the river to the newly developed Pudong district for a view back to the old waterfront buildings of the 1930s, and then hit our first ‘incident’.

  We were approached by a young man who appeared to want to take our photo, despite my sporting three cameras. We declined but he was insistent, and others joined him gesticulating wildly. We ignored them all and carried on taking pictures before all became clear: we were the only obstacle between the revolving tower for which Pudong is famous and a huge camera team trying to film a sequence. The delay was probably costing them thousands of dollars until we got the picture, or out of the picture, as it were.

  The cold was beginning to bite (we declined to buy a ticket for the local ‘polar experience’ attraction on offer as we were getting it free above ground), so we retired to a warm local coffee shop where the sign read: ‘Escape the daily grind’. Very apt, but the first time I have been asked to give my name on ordering. Pretty impressive I thought expecting a personal delivery to our table. A bit disappointing, therefore, when our tray was delivered to a couple of Argentinians with impossibly long (and totally different) names. Perhaps we all look the same to them.

  Finally, a trip to the local bird- and flower-market, a revelation. While there were the usual cats, goldfish, turtles, Siberian hamsters (rats) and exotic birds in cages, the most sought-after items were the grasshoppers of all sizes, being closely scrutinised by exclusively male locals. Before purchase, and contrary to the general belief that the Chinese eat anything with four legs apart from a table, it seems that they only buy guinea-pigs as pets, not to eat like the Peruvians do. There was also a highly prized ‘baby fish’ which apparently makes a sound like a crying baby, low on my Christmas list.

  Time to head for deepest China by overnight train but there’s good news – and bad/worse news.

  I always thought that the wildebeest of Tanzania or the reindeer of Lapland were the world’s largest migrations but no; China on the move for New Year beats them both hands down.

  Good news: only four percent of the population is going home by train and bus to their loved ones for the spring festival or Chinese New Year; bad news: four percent is still 40 million bodies; worse news: they are all at Shanghai West station on our arrival, and half of those are on our train it seems. And snow is forecast. So far so good.

  We nevertheless do make it after an uncomfortable twelve-hour journey to our destination: Yellow Mountain, a UNESCO World Heritage Site famous in China as the subject matter of all those paintings of fir trees clinging to mountain peaks in the mist. Favour smiles on us as we hit clear blue skies (and a foot of snow, all fastidiously cleared by minions with brushes and spades).

  So back to the hotel where signs are that this is low season; the staff all wear thick jackets in freezing public rooms and we have a choice of tables in the restaurant: all of them. In fact, it is so low season that the waiter is sound asleep on the desk and the waitress is not just hoovering but shampooing the carpet. At lunch times, our selected restaurant, the only one, has French window type doors wide open until our request to warm things up a bit. We never quite managed a bath; in the first hotel the bathroom had a bath but no hot water; in the second the water was boiling but there was no bath.

  But some of the ancient villages where daily life is being played out make it all worthwhile, just! You only wonder how they survive the temperatures when there is almost no form of heating, almost, that is, except for a natty contraption like a large baby’s cradle which you sit in at one end and someone puts hot charcoal under your feet at the other end.

  These villages are often inhabited by ‘one family’, that is, the residents all share the same family name and are often inter-related. They meet from time to time in the ‘ancestral hall’ (a bit like the parish hall) to discuss community matters and hand out retribution for bad behaviour. For example, being rowdy or drunk, penalty: no rice for a week. Being unchaste or defacing your ancestors’ graves: no rice for life. (Ed: worth the risk in the first case?)

  Then a touch of negotiation, village style. An old crone in one of the inhabited village-houses we visit makes it clear she would be happy to sell us a panel of red and gold carving for 30 Yuan. As this is one of the few such panels from which the red guards had not cut off the heads of all the carved characters in the 1960s, we expressed interest in doing a deal, so she doubled the price. I don’t think she has quite got the bargaining system right yet. We declined the offer before it rose again.

  A word about the language. Some words have mystical connotations because they sound like other words. For example, chamomile, in the local dialect, is revered because it sounds like the word for satisfaction, so the chamomile flower is displayed everywhere. So, to translate this into English vernacular, perhaps the word penis might be revered because it sounds like happiness? No pictures, thanks.

  China is not a place for a bit of peace and quiet but fine if you are hard of hearing. Mobile phones ring out Down Mexico Way at 90 decibels, people answer them at the same level, shout at each other when they converse, slurp their tea loudly all day long, and launch phlegm in the street or in the restaurant constantly. They even snore loudly in the overnight trains.

  Chinese food, as ever, disappoints compared with the Cantonese stuff usually served up in England. All meat is on the bone, which can be dodgy with chopsticks. Chicken dishes are recognisable because they will often include little splayed (chicken) feet once you are off the tourist routes. And it goes without saying, therefore, that there are more edible parts to most domestic animals here, than you even knew existed.

  So safely back in Shanghai with the promise of more heavy snow and a rising sense of excitement as the Chinese set off firecrackers to welcome in their New Year on the 3rd February this year: the year of the rabbit. Perhaps he’ll be spared the pot for a year.

  Thanks to the reader who pointed out that it is crickets not grasshoppers the Chinese men keep as pets because, of course, it is them, ( crickets, not the men), who rub their back legs together so noisily which is the whole point of keeping them as pets. In fact, owners often prefer to put two together to fight it out to the death. They can get the same thing with a couple of kids of course, as they would know if they spent more time at home.

  Anyway, having been deprived of the company of a single Westerner for four days, it was nice to get back to cosmopolitan Shanghai, which is now completely bathed in the colour red: lanterns, flags, hangings, shopping bags, coats and quite a few faces red with the cold.

  The transport systems in China are a real marvel: spotless high speed trains reach over 220 mph, soon to be nearer 275 on a new line linking Shanghai and Beijing, cutting the journey time down from ten to six hours; passenger processing is highly efficient, especially considering the numbers involved; smartly dressed staff, announcements in Chinese and English, spoken and displayed, all luggage x-rayed before allowed on board. When the train arrives, an army of workers immediately wash down the paintwork and windows. Even at three in the morning, staff are sweeping the platforms.

  All 8,000 buses are air-conditioned, 55,000 taxis are cheap and the road infrastructure (including real-time congestion displays) keep it all moving.

  So, time to experiment with the local cuisine. What’s on the menu tonight then? Well, pork lungs of course, mustard duck feet, fern (?), white spirit-soaked crab pincers, tripe curry, sizzling squid tentacles, marinated duck head, lemongrass bullfrog, duck blood in chilli, and scalded breast with celery belly and double nuts. So, it’s fried rice for two then.

  Time to ask the question: is Shanghai worth a visit?

  A few reasons in its favour: the ‘Bund’ River front famous since the 1930s (when the park outside our hotel had a sign saying – No dogs or Chinese), especially attractive (the hotel, not the sign) when illuminated at night; incredible modern architecture, ancient busy Buddhist temples tucked away between the skyscrapers, restored houses in the French concession area, tea houses where the elaborate ceremony is performed at the drop of a hat, bird and antique markets, specialist calligraphy shops, and within easy reach 500-year-old Chinese gardens, pagodas and, above all, ancient water villages with quaint bridges and fancy-tiled roofs on single-storey shophouses all decked at this time with red lanterns, millions and millions of them. Even the camphor trees that line many of the streets have been adorned with red paper flowers, mile after mile.

  Compared with ten years ago, many more locals have cameras, and quite a few are now into second homes, iPhones and all the rest, though in the outer reaches income levels still hover at less than 2,000 US dollars a year for manual work.

  After an expensive drink at the Peace Hotel on the Bund, the most expensive real estate in China, we retired to a local restaurant one block behind the strip. We did not stay long as I noted a rat put in an early appearance along the window ledge. Obviously, he did not know it was now the year of the rabbit, not the rat, so no longer protected.

  One final note on an interesting local custom performed at weddings (we have witnessed two this week where the bride changes into four different outfits of different colours including red of course): the custom for engaged and married couples is to buy a padlock engraved with their names, tie it to a particular auspicious spot (a bridge up on the Yellow Mountain for example) and throw away the key. Call me romantic but what’s the message? Manacled for life, as it were? This custom has now gone viral.

  ***

  Chapter 14

  Thailand yet Again

  As I write this, it has suddenly become like a war zone outside our hotel as firecrackers have just this minute woken the whole neighbourhood – at 10 o’clock in the morning. This is odd as we are located in a Muslim area of the city, like downtown Jeddah, but there is a strong Chinese presence in Thailand and some of the stallholders have closed for the festival. Not only is it very common to see veiled women in black on the streets in this part of town, but even in the restaurants some women even wear a battoulah, a kind of mask over mouth and eyes. How they actually eat remains a mystery, but they obviously do, as none has wasted away.

  It always seems like coming home when we get back to Bangkok: the vibrancy, the sordidness, the hustling, the fake videos and watches and, of course, the street-food and the sultry heat, though the latter seems a bit less overpowering than usual this year.