Hidden Harbin

Desperate to escape his family by the fifth day of the enforced holiday, one of Peter's colleagues phoned the other day and offered to take us out for a drive. 'I will show you some sights', he said.

We were expecting a tour of Harbin's better-known tourist landmarks - St Sophia Church (seen it), the Flood Monument (ditto), Central Street (Russian shops, Russian bars and more Russian shops), and maybe a few more ice sculptures, seeing as they're everywhere - but what we got was something altogether more surprising.

The combination of China's culture being so ancient, and yet most of its historical cities having been virtually razed to the ground and turned into concrete jungles in the 1960s, makes it easy to forget that Harbin is possibly its youngest city. Springing from nothing at the turn of the 20th century when the Russians came to build the Trans-Siberian Railway (or the North-East China Railway, as they would have it here), Harbin is barely more than 100 years old. What's more, much of the Art Nouveau Russian-built architecture has survived, albeit often in a run-down state.

Our pal showed us Harbin's two oldest hotels - both quite unremarkable from the outside, but inside a glittering reconstruction of how they must have looked in their early 20th century heyday. Both are still functioning hotels but seem quite happy for tourists to come in off the street and peek about. The first, the Post Hotel, was apparently the grandest destination in the city in the 1920s and 30s, much frequented by expats, and has a brilliant display in the foyer of all the artefacts left behind by (or otherwise purloined from!) said expats, who seemed to have been of a dizzying array of nationalities from Jewish to Japanese, Italian, Portuguese, British and German, as well as Russian and American. All the objects have been scrubbed and polished and restored to their original state, and provide a fascinating insight into the lives of wealthy business people at the time, even if the well-intentioned Chinese curators seem to have had trouble identifying some of them (such as a silver bed-warming pan described as 'Tableware used by the British'!). The hotel has many original features and retains an Art Deco style in its decor. (Sorry, I'm starting to sound like an estate agent.)

The second hotel, whose name I sadly forget, is Harbin's oldest (built in 1901) and has a marble staircase and its original copper revolving door from that era. Again it's succeeded in keeping its period feel through careful restoration, and reminded us of some of the Art Nouveau public buildings in Prague - and it's not often you can say that about anything in China! It too had a foyer exhibition, just photos this time, which showed, among other things, that the Emperor Puyi (the 'Last Emperor' of cinematic fame) stayed there during his years in exile.






As well as seeing Harbin's synagogue, its huge blue mosque,





the seat of Qing dynasty government (note puff of smoke from exploding firecracker - really, guys, it was fun for a day or two but enough's enough now!),





and the former British embassy from the expat days (now a ski shop!), we also had a trip to Harbin's main municipal museum which is also housed in an impressive Russian building (saving the treat of the Japanese Germ Warfare Museum for another day!). Apart from that, and the fact that it's free to go in, it wasn't that exciting, although there were some interesting things there such as Qing-dynasty (17th century) traditional costumes, Ming pottery which looked as though it could have been bought last week at John Lewis, and some gorgeous silver trinkets from earlier eras. Oh, and a whole dinosaur (dead) and its eggs. On the whole though, if you can cast your mind back to museums you were forced to visit on school trips 30-plus years ago, you'll get the general idea - dusty, musty, and laid out in an unimaginative chronological order in glass cases, the way they used to do before someone twigged that this bored kids senseless and invented interactive displays. To give it its due, though, it was busy, with lots of families there - but then again, like I said before, it was the fifth day of a very long holiday!

By far the most interesting thing we saw, though, was Harbin's hutong. Fans of last year's Olympics will have heard tell of Beijing's hutong ad infinitum. Translated alternately as 'narrow alleyways' ('snickelways' to those familiar with York!) or 'slums', depending on your politico-cultural stance on such things, Beijing seems to be wiping its hutong out in the name of progress while simultaneously marketing the remaining ones as a tourist attraction. Harbin, I think, having now seen its version of the hutong, is unlikely ever to achieve the latter, but as some of the buildings are now being renovated there's a possibility that in ten years you may see the whole thing transformed - a la docklands - into trendy loft-apartment-type residences for upwardly-mobile young Chinese - or even pretentious westerners, assuming any (others) ever come to Harbin.

But for now, we felt it was important to capture this. The ghost-town aspect is mainly due to all the shops being shut for the festival, but it's still a million miles away from the shiny, wide-lane, high-tech environment in which we live.

Happy Birthday, Rover

We know January’s a dull and depressing month back home, so we thought we’d give you an excuse for a celebration.

If you have a dog, today is the day to dress up Pooch in his best party hat, bake him a doggy cake and invite all his little doggy friends over for a few games of Pass the Bone or Pin the Tail on the Postman. Yes folks, according to Chinese New Year lore, today (the second day of the lunar new year) is all dogs’ birthday.

Now what could be more sensible than that? All the pets I ever had were born long before we bought or acquired them, so we always had to make birthdays up for them and more or less guess their ages – with the exception of the cat who had the same birthday as me, although I suspect my parents may have made that one up too out of sentimentality. Here, you’ve got your doggy date of birth all sorted for you thanks to centuries of tradition.

Apologies to cat-lovers, by the way, as the moggies don’t seem to get a look-in on this one. Actually I don’t think many people have cats here; I’ve only seen about three (all on the same day, as it happens – dunno what that signifies!). Most people have what we call SLDs (Silly Little Dogs) of the type beloved of supermodels and elderly Spanish ladies. In fact, prior to coming to China I thought Barcelona was the SLD capital of the world, but Harbin or Shanghai may well have stolen its crown.

Now, while I’m on the subject of New Year lore, here are some Errata (tut!) from the previous post. According to Peter, the fires on street corners are NOT made from coals but from paper. (It looks likes coals to me.) If you want your ancestors to get a car, you DRAW a car on a piece of paper and then burn it, not write the word. (What’s the difference if it’s in Chinese characters anyway?!) The third and fourth days of the new year are the ones for visiting graves, NOT the second day – obviously, you’ll be too busy making jelly and ice cream for your dog on Day 2 – silly of me. And you’ll be pleased to know, I’m sure, that Kevin managed to get a cancellation for a second class airline ticket home so didn’t have to fly first class after all – though having flown second class on Chinese airlines many times now myself, frankly in his position I would have stuck to the ‘Oh no, I can’t get a ticket’ line, seeing as someone else was paying!

So, how did we spend New Year’s Eve? The one two nights ago, obviously, not the real one; we spent that, ironically enough, having a Chinese meal in Wetherby and then discoing the night away with my irrepressible in-laws (the oldest teenagers in town) at the Swan and Talbot, and a jolly good night was had by all. I was about to say that this is the first time I’ve ever had two NYEs in the space of a month, but in fact that’s not strictly true. In 1997, if memory serves, we not only had two Hogmanays but even saw the new year in twice in the same night (on about December 19th) - but that’s another story.

I was thinking we could maybe travel the world in search of cultures who celebrate New Year at other times, and see if we can get into the Guinness Book of Records for the most New Years in a year, or something? We could be like that crazy bloke somewhere in England who celebrates Christmas 365 days a year. I can see us wearing party hats all the time, shrieking ‘The bells, the bells!’ in an over-excited manner whenever midnight came and perpetually singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ while attempting to snog strangers at every opportunity, until everyone was thoroughly sick of us.

But I digress.

The main feature of the other night’s celebrations was, of course, fireworks. We needn’t have worried about not seeing any, or having to stand out in the cold to watch them – they were being set off continuously all evening, in many cases just feet from our window.

In the UK when people do fireworks in their back gardens on November 5th, it’s pretty safe, partly because the fireworks are so – well – crap, and partly because everyone has been so indoctrinated into the discipline of ‘lighting the blue touchpaper and then withdrawing’ (always sounds a bit rude to me) and keeping small children and animals at least 20 feet away at all times, that the frisson of excitement factor is generally nil.

Here they like to live on the edge. Letting off fireworks a couple of feet outside the front door of a tower block, so that the flying, burning bits (and boy did they fly) land on people’s balconies and set fire to stuff? Not a problem. The fire brigade were called, and a few people – but not many, really, considering the size of the apartment block in question, which was just across the street from us – sensibly put on their coats, evacuated the building and waited outside until they could see it was safe to return. But most, including the people in the flat ALMOST DIRECTLY ABOVE the one with the fire, stayed in and watched out of the window.

No fewer than four fire engines arrived, which seemed a little excessive in view of the fact that this scenario must surely have been being replicated a hundred times all over Harbin. Two firemen eventually appeared in the window directly above the blaze, which was about 14 floors up. The flat itself was in darkness, the residents presumably absent and unaware that their precious collection of rotting cabbages or whatever they were storing on their balcony was going up in smoke. The firemen tried to hose out the flames, but were unable to get the right angle. They therefore withdrew for a consultation of the type the Chinese do best, discussing the best course of action at length while the disaster unfolds before their eyes (heaven forbid that anyone should lose face by making a quick decision). Finally the guy from the flat opposite the one they were in (the one mentioned above who’d been watching the whole thing from his window), came out onto his balcony and poured a bucket of water over the fire beneath, extinguishing it completely.

Total time and manpower expended by the fire brigade: twenty minutes, four engines, goodness knows how many fire-fighting personnel in each, and one very long hose. Result: zero. Number of people burning to death in other parts of the city while this fiasco was taking place: unknown.

Apart from this, our chief entertainment of the evening was watching the annual CCTV Gala on telly, helpfully partially dubbed and subtitled by our friends at good old CCTV9. Traditionally, all Chinese families would gather round the TV after their New Year’s Eve meal (much like the Morecambe & Wise Christmas Show in Britain in the 70s) to watch this five-hour extravaganza. Clearly many people nowadays prefer to be outside setting fire to their neighbours’ balconies and deafening unsuspecting westerners with non-stop firecracker explosions, but the Gala is bigger and better than ever nonetheless.

Words are a poor tool with which to describe this event. Sorry to hark back to the 1970s yet again, but that was the last time that we attempted a variety show to even begin to rival this. There was song, dance and, er, ‘comedy’ on a gigantic scale. The costumes were huge. The hair was huger - and more glittery, and more solid. Every performer was backed by several hundred dancers in elaborate attire chosen to reflect the theme of the song. The set had a jaw-dropping backdrop with vast pillars and a constantly changing computer graphic showing everything from swirling flowers to happy children gamboling in the fields, and even a giant dancing ginseng root for the rap song about Chinese herbal medicine. (Yes really. Choice lyrics: ‘The medicine may be bitter but the affliction is more galling’, or ‘I will write you a prescription to cure the ill caused by fawning on foreign things’.) This was performed by a pretty boy in a gold jacket and a tiny six-year-old Michael-Jackson-alike who could spin on his head.

If the singing was bad, the comedy sketches reached new heights of awfulness. Unfortunately they didn’t subtitle them fully, just gave a summary of the plot, which didn’t really illuminate why everyone was roaring with laughter or why the flippin’ thing went on for twenty minutes. We did laugh, however, when it came to the sketch which for some inexplicable reason was set in ‘an expensive Scottish restaurant’ in a remote Chinese village. (Someone should tell them there are no Scottish restaurants, even in Scotland.) I think the Scottish theme had been introduced for comedy value merely in order to get a camp waiter in a skirt on stage. This chap’s costume was basically a LONG, tartan-ish skirt, complete with white lace frill around the hem and a strange flap at the side. With this he wore a long, silky, white tunic, a tartan scarf flung rakishly around his neck, and shiny black brogues. Presumably this is how they think Scottish men dress (in their ‘stripy skirts’)!! Regrettably we never found out what was on the menu in this Scottish restaurant as that bit wasn’t translated.

In any case, by then the explosions from outside had got so loud that we couldn’t hear the telly any more. From about 11pm, if you’d phoned us you could seriously have been forgiven for thinking we were in a war zone. It was constant, and absolutely deafening. We had to shout to each other to make ourselves heard. Fortunately, as I say, this did succeed in drowning out the finale of the Gala, which consisted of a number of medleys of very scary ‘Isn’t China GREAT??!!!’ songs clearly from a previous era which shall remain nameless.

At about 1.30am, the noise had just about subsided enough for us to go to bed. They very considerately waited until 8.15am the next morning before starting again. It took us most of yesterday to recover.

Thank goodness we don’t have a dog. I just couldn’t handle the stress of a party today.

What a load of Ox

Is it a bull? Is it an ox? Who cares, it's Chinese New Year!

The whole of China has gone de-mob happy (this being one of only two weeks' holiday that most of them get each year), trains and planes are filled to bursting, the shops are crammed with people making last minute purchases of festive fare, and the trees are full of pretty lights. Everything pretty much shuts down for a week, and attempting to get anything done in the preceding couple of weeks is a struggle. Sound familiar? Having just spent Christmas in the UK it gives one a distinct sense of déjà vu. I have to say though, they really know how to do fairy lights in Harbin. There are even fake trees whose branches are made entirely from lights. Princes Street, eat your heart out.

Curiously, the new year holiday is more regularly referred to as 'Spring Festival', which is kind of hard to reconcile with the temperatures of -20 and the permanent covering of ice. Usually it all happens in February, but being a lunar festival (the second new moon after the winter solstice - or the first new moon in Aquarius, according to your taste) it does sometimes fall early, like those annoying years when Easter's in March. Technically this is the year of the Earth Ox, not just any old ox, and each year is also considered either yin or yang on an alternating cycle, so the astrological thing is much more complicated than it at first appears. I'm not going to pamper you with links here though as I'm sure you can do your own Google search if you're genuinely curious about it!

All day and night for the last week we've been deafened by the sound of fireworks and firecrackers going off all around. The firecrackers are in long strings which means the explosions go on for ages. They're allowed to do this for a week before New Year and two weeks afterwards, but not at any other time. Great - three whole weeks of being kept awake until 2am on weeknights and woken up at 9am on Sunday. Guy Fawkes night has nothing on this. If Russia ever decided to invade China, this would be the time to do it - they could shell for a week before anyone noticed.

Unfortunately there's not much to see though. You do see the occasional firework going up, but the emphasis is definitely on noise rather than the visual. Apparently the idea is to frighten off some demon called Nian, which is the word for 'year'. He is also scared of the colour red (clearly a bit of a wimp, as demons go) which is why they hang up red lanterns in doorways. Of course if you were paying attention during last year's Olympics coverage, you'll all know that red is also associated with good luck, so there are lots of red decorations about. Children are traditionally given red envelopes containing money at New Year, and people like to wear red clothes.

Anyway we were hoping there'd be a big public fireworks display tonight, but we got our man to phone the government (as you do!) and he tells us there isn't. These really only seem to happen in places like Hong Kong where the private use of fireworks and firecrackers is banned for safety reasons. I don't think they care much about safety in Harbin but they do like to avoid anything which requires organisation in advance or officials actually doing any work. It's a bit flippin' cold to hang around watching fireworks anyway, so I'm not that bothered.

The weirdest thing we've observed - speaking on a relative scale, this being a country of ultimate weirdness - is the fires on street corners. People traditionally light fires to make offerings to their ancestors: for example, if you think they might want a car, you write down 'car' on a piece of paper and burn it - a bit like a primitive form of online shopping. The thing is that they do this in the gutter, on the street corner. Over an open fire of burning coals. Right next to all the cars, buildings, trees and people. Like I say, safety not a big concern really.

But the main thing is that it's all about family. They have a big family meal on New Year's Eve, then they go out visiting relatives the next day, and on the second day they're supposed to visit the graves of their ancestors I think, but this is now considered bad luck. Anyway, in this day and age most people have to travel to see their families, hence the rail and air travel chaos. Kevin was in despair earlier in the week having failed to get a ticket for any train for his first visit home in a year. In the end he had to fly first class as that was all he could get. Time to learn the merits of forward planning, my boy.

It's also traditional to start the year afresh by cleaning your house thoroughly before New Year's Eve (oh damn, that's today - oh well, missed it!) but you mustn't clean at all during the first few days of the new year in case you sweep the good luck away (now it's starting to sound like my kind of holiday). You should also get a haircut and an entire new set of clothes, which probably explains the shopping frenzy last weekend. The supermarkets are full of really cute traditional mandarin-style outfits for kiddies. On the first day of the new year you're supposed to leave your windows open to let the good luck in, but in view of the climate I say: arrange these words to make a well-known phrase or saying: that, soldiers, game, sod.

However, in keeping with the 'out with the old' ethos, I thought I would share with you the following video which I actually filmed back in September when we first moved into our apartment but which I've been unable to upload here due to having an ADSL line with the diameter of a pinhead. It shows the fab but crazy Chineseness of the flat, including the kitchen light which we dubbed 'the disco jellyfish' (you'll recognise it when you see it) which sadly died this week and had to be replaced with a boring white light.

Also, since I had to enlist the help of a kind friend back home at Christmas (thanks John) to get any video clips onto this blog at all, you've also got more ceilidh dancing from our party back in December. Sorry for the tardiness in sharing these, but make the most of them as they may well be the last videos you ever see here. And it is also Burns Night, so a bit of Scottishness doesn't go amiss. Incidentally Peter got a letter from Lidl this week telling him they've extended their range of kilts. It's a good thing we're over here, I'd have had to hold him back.

Happy New Year! Again.

Death by salesman

You never know what’s going to happen next around here.

On Saturday, we were just getting ready to go out when there was a ring at the doorbell. The screen on our video entry phone (on of the many ridiculous and quite unnecessary mod cons with which our flat is equipped) showed the peaked cap of one of the security guards, peering over a large package. Behind him another figure could be seen, apparently carrying a large pile of boxes.

Mystified, as we weren’t expecting any kind of delivery, Peter let him in. On arrival at the door he profferred one of the boxes and launched into an explanation.

‘Sorry’, said Peter in Chinese, ‘I don’t speak Chinese’.

Ignoring this (as they usually do), the guard continued handing over the package. He showed a list with all the flat numbers, several of which had signatures next to them. It became apparent we too were meant to sign for our box. There was much smiling and joviality. This, it seemed, was a free New Year gift for each flat, from whom we know not, but Peter signed and thanked him and off he went, quite happy.

What do you think it was? Drink? Hardly likely. Sweets? Sadly not. It was – and you’ll all be sorry you’re missing out, I’m sure – ‘Quick Frozen Glutinous Corn’. In other words, corn on the cob. At least 10 of them, loose, in a box. Every home should have one – and if you live here, it seems every home will bloomin’ well get one, whether it likes it or not.

Anyway, having started thus, our day proceeded to get weirder and weirder. We’d decided to go to the main shopping area in the city centre where there are three shopping centres side by side which we’d not visited before. Peter was keen to try and buy some shoes which would serve for wearing in the office and walking there in the snow, rather than having to change into his walking boots twice a day or risk a tumble on the ice.

The shopping centre (we only got to one) proved to be much like every other one we’ve seen in China, namely huge, glitzy, overpriced, and following an identical layout: basement – supermarket; ground floor – jewellery and cosmetics; first floor – men’s clothes; second & third floors – women’s clothes; fourth floor – household goods. Sometimes they have the same pattern but are all on one floor, in which case they replicate the thing horizontally, as it were, in huge long aisles stretching further than the eye can see. I’m not sure who these malls are designed for. Most of the goods are way outside the price range of the majority of ordinary Chinese people so they are quite often virtually empty, but in cold weather people seem to gather there as a social event, and wander around quite happily just looking at things.

Last Saturday – being the Chinese equivalent of the last shopping weekend before Christmas, I suppose – was an exception. I wouldn’t quite describe it as a retail frenzy on a British scale, but the place was heaving and people were definitely buying. There was a festive atmosphere and some live traditional music by the Clinique counter.

Shopping in China is a Trial. When you buy something in these places, it’s a huge palaver. You get take your item to the counter and they ring it through, but then they keep the item and instead give you a bill, which you have to take to a separate cash desk, not necessarily nearby. There, having used your specially sharpened elbows to fight off would-be queue-jumpers, you pay, and get a receipt which you then take back to the original desk to retrieve your purchase. If you then also want a fa piao (see earlier post if you're one of the few people on the planet, it seems, who doesn't now know what a fa piao is!), you generally have to go to yet another desk – usually miles away in an obscure corner of the shop – and queue/jostle again to present your receipt and tell them what to enter into their fa piao computer. (We now have this down to a fine art, by the way, ever since Kevin provided us with a magic piece of paper with all the requisite details written on in Chinese.)

But it’s not just this, or the language barrier, or the different sizes, or not being able to recognise the products half the time. It’s the fact that they WILL NOT leave you alone. The minute you walk into any shop, at least one assistant will immediately leap up, greet you and proceed to follow close behind you as you move around the shop, so that it’s impossible to look at anything. If you do linger over an item for more than a millisecond, he or she will start telling you about it. Protestations that you don’t speak Chinese, or even blanking them completely, have little or no effect. They may hesitate for a fraction of a second, but will then resume as though programmed.

If by any chance they do speak English and you ask them nicely (or even not nicely) to go away and leave you alone so that you can look, they merely laugh and carry on. We once spent about 10 minutes trying to explain to the girl in a Beijing hotel shop that she’d be far more likely to make a sale to a westerner if they were left in peace to look around, but it simply did not compute. Even in the supermarket they employ staff as what we call ‘pointless pointers’, whose job is to stand in front of the shelves and point to the most expensive item in their section while giving you a sales pitch. Maybe it’s just a British thing, but it makes me want to SCREAM!

The trick (if there is one) seems to be that if you really don’t want to buy, you have to get out fast. If they sense the slightest hint that you are genuinely interested in making a purchase, they get the bit between their teeth and won’t let go. Sometimes this works to their own disadvantage, such as the woman in the same Beijing hotel who was convinced we wanted to buy jade name-stamps with our Chinese zodiac sign on the top and our names specially engraved on the bottom. We liked them, but the price she was asking was astronomical so we changed our minds. She pursued us for two days, finally going to the lengths of engraving our names on for us so that she was then obliged to sell them to us at whatever price we named.

I tell you, the whole experience is so infuriating I’ve more or less given up shopping - which for me is like going into rehab.

So there’s Peter, trying on shoes. Unfortunately he didn’t know his Chinese size, but after a bit of trial and error we ascertained he was a 260 (the approximate length of the foot in millimetres, in case you’re interested – much more sensible than our system). As it was busy, we’d managed to look at several and narrow it down without attracting the attention of the staff, but when it came to the point of asking for the left shoe there was nothing else for it. There were several girl assistants, dressed in smart uniforms with fab red and gold waistcoats, but our case was taken up by a chap whom we’d at first mistaken for a customer, as he was wearing only scruffy jeans and a bomber jacket, with no official badges or markings. However, as he seemed to be telling the girls what to do and they seemed not to object, we had to assume he did indeed belong to the store.

Peter tried on lots of pairs of shoes but none was suitable. When he finally found a pair he did like, they only had them in brown, and he wanted black. This all took some time; you know how it is. Chap in Jeans was highly attentive, but eventually he began to lose patience. He started persuading Peter to try on other pairs in size 255 or 265. Enthusiastic nodding greeted his protests that they were too small or large. Shoe Man kept producing brown ones. It took ages to get the message through that it was black or nothing, but when it did, this was clearly too much. He pointed angrily at Peter’s own shoes, which were brown, as if to say ‘Well, brown ones were obviously good enough for you before, so what’s wrong with mine?’, and started pulling black shoes off the shelf at random and virtually forcing Peter to try them on, irrespective of style or size. He seemed to be at his wits’ end.

After quite a lot of this, I suggested to Peter that maybe today just wasn’t his day on the shoe front, and that maybe we should go and look around the rest of the shopping centre before we actually died. He agreed, and thanking our friend profusely for his help, we set off. But Shoe Guy wasn’t taking No for an answer and began following us. We quickened our pace, and even hid behind some shirts, but as we were about to make our escape upstairs he cornered us at the bottom of the escalator and, grinning, beckoned Peter into what I took to be a stockroom through a concealed entrance at the back of a small shop.

A minute or so later, Peter re-emerged and called me. ‘You’ve got to see this,’ he said. Following him and the Shoe Guy, I stepped through the back of the shop – into a (literally) parallel universe. Attached to the shopping centre we were in, stretching away into darkness, was another narrow corridor of shops running alongside, but where ours were huge and brightly lit, these were poky and dark, with things hanging from the ceiling. Every single shop seemed to sell shoes. There was no obvious entrance or exit other than that which we had used, but customers were milling about as if oblivious to the 21st century going on next door. It was straight out of Harry Potter.

Peter was ushered into one of the little stalls, where our pal and several girls again attempted to bully him into trying on every pair of black shoes they had, becoming quite agitated when he argued that they weren’t his size. Finally I managed to bundle him out and get back onto our own side of the time portal, but our stalker could still be seen hanging about for quite a while, watching us as we walked around, and about an hour later he materialised beside us yet again, several floors up, and seemed to be saying that he had just two more pairs for Peter to try on if he would only come back downstairs. I half expected to see him chasing after our taxi, brandishing black shoes, as we drove home.

Maybe the ski shops of Edinburgh should take a leaf out of this guy’s book.

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for...

Yes, it's Harbin's only claim to world fame - the incredible Ice and Snow Festival!

As an early Chinese New Year celebration, we were taken yesterday on an office jolly - a grand day out, marred only slightly by the intervening meal which was somewhat strange (sliced pig's intestines or duck's tongues, anyone?) and conducted in near silence except for endless boring toasts in which everyone thanked everyone else and looked forward to prosperous business relationships, before it descended into the kind of corporate bonding games which I rate somewhere below root canal treatment in my list of preferred activities.

But the ice and snow sculptures were just FABULOUS. And as it was 'only' minus 13°C, I didn't even feel that cold - but then again I was wearing three thermal vests, two scarves and an indeterminate number of dead sheep. Not to mention the WMEMs, of course.

Simply uploading a few pictures to this blog wouldn't do the thing justice, so if you click below you can see the whole album - just hit 'Slideshow' for the full effect once you're there. I say 'full effect' but you'll have to imagine the (loudly) piped classical music which accompanied it all. Peter and I got some funny looks when they got to 'Bolero' and we started Torvill & Deaning-it on the ice.

Anyway, it's the Snow Festival first (which had a Finnish theme, hence the strong Father Christmas and Moomin motifs), then the Ice Festival - they take place in adjoining parks next to the (frozen) Songhua River, some views of which you can also see. Hard to comprehend, I know, but all the structures which look like the Blackpool Illuminations on acid are made entirely from ice blocks, hewn from that river.

Why? Who knows. Apparently it grew out of a local tradition for making ice lanterns by hollowing out blocks of ice and putting a candle inside. I suppose someone thought, 'Ooh, it might be pretty if we joined a few of these together and put coloured lightbulbs in them', and from there - in just ten years - Harbin's Ice Festival became one of the 'big four' ice sculpture festivals worldwide (the other three being Montreal, Sapporo in northern Japan, and somewhere in Finland). Mainly due to the proximity of the Songhua and its endless supply of ice, Harbin now boasts the biggest annual ice festival in the world.

I am now more convinced than ever that it's the most bonkers place on Earth.

Enjoy our pictures.

The season of peace and glove

A belated Happy New Year to you all – and as you can see, it’s new year, new look, for From Scotland to Siberia. The previous template (chosen in some haste) was just too – well – pink, and that Georgia font, while it looked lovely in our wedding invitations, is a bit too curly for on-screen reading, so I decided to go sans serif. If anyone actually preferred the old look, please tell me, and I might think about it. Or I might just ignore you.

Anyway, you’ll be glad to know they let us back into China - although I did have Amazon’s number in my phone and primed as we came through Immigration, just in case! (See earlier post).

We managed to pass a very pleasant and restful few weeks with our families and friends in the UK, despite spending rather more time than one might wish being forced to read the Daily Express advice on how to avert the recession by not buying anything (not sure quite how that works), enduring endless discussions about the Strictly Come Dancing phone-in votes scandal (what?), sitting in doctors’ and dentists’ surgeries, having injections, and rushing around buying up the entire contents of Boots and Morrison’s, trying desperately to stock up on all the things we can’t buy in China. We bought, or were given, so much stuff that I bravely decided to forego the purchase of more Marmite, resolving instead to eke out my remaining third of a jar until the next visit home. In the end we had to buy another suitcase so I could have carried it after all. It’s a tragedy.

But not as tragic as the tale which I’m about to tell you, concerning the World’s Most Expensive Mittens.

I purchased the WMEMs back in August at Blues the Ski Shop in Edinburgh. I don’t mind giving the shop a wee bit of free publicity there, as they are easily the best stocked, most helpful and definitely the most polite of all the ski- and outdoor shops in the city – and believe me, after last week, I know what I’m talking about.

Prior to moving out here, we had been given a ‘cold weather clothing allowance’ with which to buy outdoor wear suitable for Harbin in winter, and knowing not much about that kind of thing, we went to said shop and told them we were moving to ‘somewhere cold’.

‘How cold?’ asked the nice laddie. ‘Are we talking Alps? Rockies?’

‘Try Himalayas’, we replied. ‘Or Siberia’.

‘How cold does it get?’ he enquired.

‘Ooh, minus 35-ish’, we said.

He promptly ushered us towards a special section labelled ‘Mega Expensive Clothing For Lunatics’ (well, it may as well have been) and proceeded to give us the low-down on coats with ceramic bead inserts, thermals spun from the wool of specially reared and individually named sheep whose progress you could follow on a website (seriously), and last but not least the benefits of down-filled ski mittens. Basically the moral of the story in all cases seemed to be: modern artificial fibres may now be very advanced and capable of withstanding great extremes of weather, but at the end of the day, nothing – apologies to the vegetarians amongst you but this is the word of an expert here – nothing beats natural materials when it comes to keeping out the cold.

Now it has to be said that I do tend to suffer with cold hands and feet, and we’d been warned that ordinary fleece, woollen or even leather gloves simply wouldn’t cut it in Harbin, so getting a good pair was high on my priority list. I tried on a few of the less fancy pairs in the shop but wasn’t satisfied with the fit. ‘OK’, I said in the end. ‘Show me your down-filled mittens. Do your worst.’

Well, it was love at first sight. They were cream-coloured on the back, quilted, with a black leather palm and a fleecy lining. They came down over the wrist like a gauntlet and could be tightened or loosened by means of a velcro strap at the base of the hand. When I put my hand inside, my whole body felt warm, and they fitted like a – well, you know, a thing that fits very well.

They were £55. For a pair of mittens. But I just couldn’t resist.

It was late November before I had a chance to give the WMEMs their inaugural outing. The temperature had dropped to about minus 12 by day, minus 20 by night, but my hands were fabulously toasty. Outside, I couldn’t feel a thing (or, indeed, do anything either, as they tended to lend a sort of toy-soldier effect to one’s hand movements and make it impossible to open doors or pick things up – but hey, I was warm!). Indoors, even in a car, I had to remove them immediately or I’d have spontaneously combusted. The cream colour had already proved to be hopelessly impractical in a soot-stained city like Harbin, but I kept sponging them gently since they professed to be dry-clean only.

As it happened, I didn’t actually go out much during December, so I’d probably worn them on no more than about four occasions when it was time to fly home for Christmas. I reckoned I wouldn’t need them in the UK, and certainly not in Shanghai where we spent a few days at either end of the holiday (though in practice it turned out to be chillier in both places last week than we’d anticipated), and so contemplated leaving them behind, but remembering that we’d be arriving back into Harbin on a January night at temperatures of minus 25, I decided to take them with me.

I wore them as we left the house, then took them off for the car journey to the airport, taking care to put them on the floor with my handbag and not on my lap so that I wouldn’t forget they were there when I stood up. I carried them into the airport, and then, in the check-in queue, frustrated by having too many things to carry, I hurriedly shoved them into the backpack which I was using as hand luggage.

And that was the last I saw of them. Or I should say, of one of them. Peter was getting something else out of the backpack that night at the hotel in Shanghai when he said, ‘Oh, one of your gloves is here.’

‘They’re both there’, said I.

‘No’, he said. He searched the bag. I searched the bag. We searched our other bags. There was, most definitely and most, most tragically, only one WMEM.

I’m not ashamed to say I cried. (It’d been a long day.) I am, however, slightly ashamed by my Paris Hilton-like behaviour which followed.

Knowing I’d had them at Harbin airport, I got Peter to phone Kevin, who dutifully phoned the airport and harangued the lost property department, left luggage and the head of cleaning regarding the loss of the ‘very special and expensive’ glove which his boss’s wife had obviously dropped there. The next day I made him phone them again and do the same thing. But all to no avail.

The next day, we flew to Edinburgh, where I had resolved that at all costs I MUST replace the WMEMs with EXACTLY the same ones. Never mind that we had used up our cold weather clothing allowance. Never mind that I could probably buy something very similar in China and claim the money back. I had to have them, and I had to have them NOW (or at least before that flight back to Harbin).

Sadly there wasn’t time before Christmas, so it was last week, early in January, when I eventually went back to Blues and talked to another helpful young man. No, they didn’t have those, but they had the same make in white for £70. Even I baulked at this. Or these, which were not quite as good but very similar, and which felt actually a bit less toy-soldierish and were only £40, but they didn’t have my size. They could try their Glasgow branch? No, I said, I’m leaving the country tomorrow. He suggested a couple of other shops.

I then spent two afternoons trudging up and down the central shopping streets of Edinburgh in search of down-filled ski mittens. No one had them. ‘People don’t really use down much these days’, the uber-cool dude in the snowboard shop informed me, condescendingly. ‘Down tends to be a bit too warm for skiing’, grunted a very surly Northern Irish guy in another shop. ‘Did I say I wanted them for skiing?’, I barked back in intense irritation, being by now in at least my seventh shop. By then they didn’t even have to be the same ones, but I was unshakeable on the down. Thermal micro mega-warm ultra-therm-tech go snow-proof hyper-fab heat-shield super techno fleece just WOULD NOT BE WARM ENOUGH.

Finally, crushed and defeated, I bought a pair of ordinary thermal gloves in Milletts for £12. It was the coldest day in the UK for – ooh, some number of years – check the papers. ‘Do you want to wear them now?’ asked the nice young lad. ‘Most people are, today.’

‘No thanks,’ I replied, ‘I’m going somewhere MUCH colder than here.’ ‘There’s nowhere colder than here,’ he said glumly. I couldn’t help but disabuse him. He apologised.

There was just one slim hope left. On our return to China, I kept the single glove in my hand luggage to show to the lost property people at Harbin airport, just in case they had found the other one and had kept it for me for all these weeks. Our flight into Harbin on Saturday night was delayed, and our poor sweet driver, Mr Li, had been waiting patiently for us for an hour. Despite this, I still insisted on keeping him hanging on further while I found out where the lost property office was. This took some time, as the first six people we asked didn’t speak English, and when Peter found the appropriate word in his phrase book and showed it to them, they kept trying to usher us through the security gates and couldn’t understand that we had just arrived on a plane.

In the end we phoned Kevin again and got him to explain that I was looking for a glove I’d lost on the 17th December. When prompted, I waved the remaining WMEM at them. Eventually the message got through and they went to check, but came back shaking their heads. Alas, all hope was lost. I sat, grieving, with my poor lonely WMEM and contemplated hanging it on the wall as a trophy, while wondering how on earth I would be able to go the Harbin Ice Festival in inferior gloves. It was a sad night.

…..

Last night, Peter went to the supermarket, and took my (now empty) backpack – which I had carried the length and breadth of Britain for three weeks, and unpacked and re-packed at least four times in the process - to carry home the shopping.

He had finished unpacking it when he said, ‘Hang on, there’s something heavy in the bottom’.

‘No there’s not’, I said. ‘I emptied it.’

‘I’m telling you, there is!’, he insisted, and reached down and pulled out a slab of cheese which he’d just bought. ‘I think there’s a secret pocket at the back here’, he said. ‘And – oh! –

HERE’S YOUR OTHER GLOVE!’