Xi'an.

Our China Eastern flight from Shenzhen to Xi'an passed uneventfully and landed around 10pm. We emerged from the airport shivering from the zero degrees temperature and piled into the back of the first taxi waiting in line at the rank. The driver didn't understand the address or phone number I'd written down, so as he slowly pulled away from the airport car-park, he stopped to ask other people we passed if they could speak any English, gesturing a stubby thumb to us in the back. This doesn't help, so he phoned someone who happened to speak a few words of English and he passed the phone to me so the voice on the other end of the line could act as vague interpreter. It was clear from this point that the next 24 days were not going to be an easy ride….

We finally arrive at 'Hanwood Youth Hostel' a little after midnight - a nice little place with quirky decor, a comfy room and friendly staff. It's located in a smart pedestrian area full of western style coffee shops and restaurants a short way behind the 'Big Wild Goose Pagoda'. The whole area is reminiscent of a theme park - a charcoal grey version of what old China might look like, but with modern conveniences.

It's bitterly cold when we explore the pagoda the next day and we soon retreat to get our first taste of local Chinese food. Confounded by the language barrier, I start checking through the Mandarin phrasebook; fortunately the young girl at the serving counter can summon two words of English. "Beef" and "noodle". We're in…….

Bron and Pete in Auckland had given us their Mandarin phrasebook and I had been leafing through it since Vietnam. I'd quickly realised that this was going to be considerably harder to pick up than Spanish….

In the '50's they introduced a method of writing Chinese using the Roman alphabet called Pinyin. This doesn't really help. The vowel sounds written down are so entirely different to how they look on paper. And the accents, stresses and tones are nigh on impossible. One word can have 5 different meanings depending on which tone is used and where. I occasionally give it a try though - unsuccessfully. Meanwhile, Katy is distraught at the news that there's no facebook in China. ……

The next day we stopped to enjoy the fountain show in front of the 'Big Wild Goose Pagoda', which was a pleasant distraction before walking for an hour to reach the city walls. The distances are so vast in China, that even our usual preferred method of exploring a city by foot would be a challenge. There's a charge to get up to the top, so we skip that and head for the 'Bell Tower'. Naturally, it is closed. The nearby 'Drum Tower' has a nice collection of drums. That's not what it's famous for, but it's nice to know they're making use of the space in an appropriate fashion. (The Bell Tower bell was rung at dawn, and the Drum Tower drum was struck at dusk to signal the start and end of the days and open and close the city gates.)

The Muslim Quarter behind the 'Drum Tower' is a maze of narrow streets with food and market stalls clustered around a Chinese mosque. Cars and silent electric scooters sneak up and weave in and out of the crowds of pedestrians dressed in head scarves, thick winter hats and gloves against the freezing cold. There are also the oddest looking tuktuks - what resembles a sardine can on wheels transporting passengers huddled in the back. We sampled some of the street snacks; greasy meat rolls a bit like salt beef bagels and small sweet bread cakes similar to baklava.

Everywhere we go we seem to be getting strange looks. We got a few in Vietnam, but nothing compared to this. Shoppers and stall holders stop what they are doing and stare open mouthed as we walk past. London has lots of everyone, but China only has lots of Chinese. Foreigners are still something of a novelty it would seem.

Back at the hostel, the staff have invited us to take part in a 'dumpling party' as part of a traditional Chinese Winter Solstice celebration held every 23rd Dec. Lots of Chinese teenagers are gathered in the communal area preparing the small parcels of tasty treats. We have a go at wrapping a small dollop of meaty paste into a slice of pastry to varying degrees of success, whilst another group are cutting out elaborate paper decorations. Amusingly our Chinese hosts initiate a game of 'Chinese Whispers'…..

The next morning we're out on an excursion to visit the famous 'Terracotta Warriors'. It's a convoluted day that consists of visiting a silk workshop and museum, a terracotta pottery factory, a museum of Neolithic life at Banpo, a replica of the Qin mausoleum of the first emperor (whose tomb the famed army are "guarding"), a freezing cold lunch, and finally the highlight.

We arrive at a smart modern quad with polished buildings set around the edges. (Where's the underground cave or the windswept open field in the middle of nowhere that I was picturing the terracotta army in?)

We are led to a big hangar, a vast high roofed cavern with huge arc lights creating a sterile, clinical area. Crowds are filing in to the massive bright space and as we jostle for space we get to a cold metal railing and there several feet below us are rows of long trenches. Each is filled with the reconstructed or original broken pieces of the "terracotta army". To see the soldiers in such a clinical light was sadly a bit of an anti-climax. We were rushed around the 3 cold chambers - each housing the warriors in varying states of repair - not getting a chance to read all of the information panels. It's true that they are an awesome spectacle and an incredible feat of craftsmanship, but we were just expecting something more atmospheric I suppose.

After a terrifying drive through rush hour traffic, bearing witness to near misses and the aftermath of a car crash, we arrive back at the hostel in one piece. One of the hostel staff shows us to a dingy hole in the wall café for dinner. It's located down a dark side alley full of similarly dubious looking establishments of questionable hygiene, away from all the bright lights of the smart restaurant terrace - a real locals place. She translated a couple of menu items for us and left us to sit down for an ace dinner of spicy duck, chicken, chopped potato salad, soup and sticky rice all for 19Yuen - about £1.90. It's a tiny little place with a couple who cook, microwave, smile, say "hello" and "thankyou", then gob and spit on the floor inside. A thoroughly charming experience.

An unexpected cheery send off from the staff at the hostel leaves us feeling all warm and fuzzy inside; a feeling that is swiftly replaced at Xi'an train station.

We join the long queues marching through the metal detectors and bag scanners and try to decipher the signs and notice boards that are all in Chinese. Hundreds of pairs of Chinese eyes are staring at us from the rows of plastic seats in the vast crowded waiting room. A loud voice comes over the tannoy and speaks rapidly in Mandarin which just about drowns out the constant sound of retching and spitting. A tramp considers us an easy target and thrusts his grubby hand out, jabbering through a toothy sneer. I give him some left over fruit from my bag which he snatches away and promptly deposits in the wheelie bin nearby before returning and jabbering and gesturing even more wildly. After a while he tires of talking to our backs and slopes off to bother someone else. We don't see him again until he's being led shouting and cursing from the station by a bored looking officer. The men's toilets are simply a row of cubicles with men casually squatting over open holes with no door to cover their modesty or hide my horror.

Pingyao.

As the train pulls into Pingyao at 7am on Christmas Eve, we got chatting to the only other westerners on the train from Xi'an. It turns out that they are staying in the same hostel as us and we spend a nice few days with the couple from New Zealand. 'Yamen Hostel' is a cute traditional courtyard building with plenty of charm, but more importantly - it's WARM.

Pingyao is an antiquated town with dark grey single storey buildings, all with red lanterns hanging from the roofs. People mill about on the bitterly cold streets wrapped up in thick puffa style jackets, hats and gloves. Cars and silent electric scooters traverse the narrow lanes whilst men hock and spit loudly. As we wander the streets soaking up this tranquil charm, a procession passes us by led by a small car playing some sad sounding oriental music. My first thought is that it's a funeral procession, but then the first car is followed by vehicles laden with large bright paper wreaths and louder cheery trumpet music played by men in bright tunics. As I get our camera out, I ignore the odd questioning looks (as we're getting them all the time here anyway) and stop to take photos. An open car slowly appears from around the corner carrying a group of veiled women dressed in black and wailing into handkerchiefs. Oh crap…..

Back at the hostel, we ask the staff what plans they have for tomorrow - a question met with blank expression and "what's tomorrow?" Curses - no hope of 'pigs in blankets' then…….

Christmas day begins with getting frustrated at the hostel staff not being able to manage something as simple as frying an egg. Or serving hot food on a plate that is not stone cold. Or making a coffee in under half an hour.

We consoled ourselves by getting started on the packet of mince pies that had been kindly donated by Mark when we were in Hong Kong and partaking in the traditional Christmas day activity (seeing as we weren't getting any turkey…) of going for a long walk.

The walls around Pingyao provide an excellent view over the higgledy-piggledy grey rooftops, narrow streets and pretty courtyards of the old world town below and we complete the circuit in an hour so we can hurry back and begin the other most favourite of Xmas past-times - drinking!

Boxing Day is a bit surreal and probably enhanced by our hangovers after an evening of tipsy Skype calls and pool with the Kiwis. An exploration of the towns back roads leads us through streets where chillies are drying on the pavement, men are gobbing loudly, a young girl, possibly with Downs Syndrome follows us clinging in turn to my sleeve then Kate's, a crazy man shouts at no-one in particular whilst a small wiry haired dog lays motionless by the kerb, blood trickling from its mouth.

At the large Confucian temple we pay for a wish on a piece of red lacquer and hang it on a large ornate urn covered with similar red tags. At the 'Qing Xu Guan Temple', I'm subjected to another daylight robbery for "goody luck". An elderly chap leads me in a blessing ceremony handing me 3 sticks of incense, bowing to a Tao god, then to a table to one side where he mutters a stream of words interspersed every so often with "goody lucky" whilst waving his hands about my head and blowing into my open palm. After a demonstration in which I was supposed to randomly choose pages from a strange flipbook containing various "omens" such as "eternal prosperity", "mass genocide", "healthy family", "plague" and other such nonsense, I was asked for a "donation" of 200Yuen! The cheek! I generously gave him 20 just for the sheer gall.

We're chilled to the bone, so after a quick visit to another temple, and a couple of picturesque courtyard institutions we retreat to the hostel to warm up before venturing back out for dinner with the Kiwis, Steve and Chantal.

The next day we check out and walk to the train station where we get stared at by the locals who are ignoring the signs requesting "no smoking" and "no spitting". Ten minutes before the train pulls in, guards in long thick winter overcoats open the metal gates from the waiting room and everyone shuffles forward to the platform gobbing and spitting along the way. They wait in orderly lines along the length of the platform depending on which carriage they're booked onto. When we board the train, we find our seats are occupied by a large group of men huddled around the small table attached to the wall, engrossed in a card game whilst the rest of the carriage is cramped with locals occupying the other beds and seats. We manage to cram ourselves onto a spare section of bed and wonder what on earth we'd paid 80Yuen for…..

Datong.

The train from Pingyao trundled through dreary, desolate landscapes of corn fields covered with snow, rubbish dumps, grey crumbling empty buildings, deserted station platforms in the middle of nowhere, farmers herding disgruntled looking sheep, and funnels spewing out plumes of smoke on the horizon.

We arrived after dark and are greeted by a sea of people waiting outside in the cold night air. A wave of people waiting behind the first are all hollering and offering taxis. Katy loses her patience as they crowd round us shouting in our faces. The piece of paper I'm holding with the hostel address has been yanked from my hand, so we end up in the guys taxi and get dropped at a smart pedestrianised complex of shops and eateries similar to Xi'an. The driver ends up being quite helpful actually, walking with us to show where the hostel is.

Once we're checked in, we disgrace ourselves by refusing the local dives nearby in favour of a more popular Chinese delicacy….. There's a 'KFC' on virtually every street in China, so it seemed only right that we investigated this culinary phenomena?

A power-cut the next morning prompted us out onto the cold crowded streets where shoppers gazed slack jawed at us as we walked past. This weird place was beginning to feel inhospitable and unwelcoming. We try a local cafe for food where I fumble through the order process whilst the other diners crane their necks to look and snigger.

The No.4 bus goes straight to the train station in 15 mins - or it would do if we got on at the right stop. After an unscheduled tour of the streets of Datong, we arrived at the train station an hour later and walked into a huge hall where we were greeted by the sight of hundreds of Chinese all lining up in front of ticket windows. All of the signs are in Chinese so we have no idea which line to wait in or if we're even in the right place, so I opt for the shortest line and hope for the best. The queues are moving forward slowly, and ever more people are joining behind us, so I'm loathed to leave this queue to join another. By the time we reach the window 45 mins later, I'm almost convinced that the clerk is just going to tell us to go and wait in another line, but miraculously we make the purchase and walk away with 2 tickets to Beijing for 30th December. Thank goodness we've learnt to start getting our requests written down in Chinese script from the hostel…….

Back at the hostel there is still no power and when questioned the staff just smile, shake their heads and shrug, giving no indication as to whether anything is being done to fix the problem or even if they care. To console ourselves we retreat to the safety and bright lights of the "Golden Arches". After some time, I can see everyone in the restaurant turning to look at a western couple walking in. I can barely conceal my joy at seeing another white face and after chatting for a bit we end up arranging to meet the Italian couple the next evening for dinner.

It turns out that a different couple who we saw in Pingyao had arrived at our hostel and we agree to split the cost of a taxi to visit some neighbouring sights together. So after a crap nights sleep in our freezing cold room we met with our Austrian travel companions at 7:30am and set off.

The trip to Datong was saved by this chance encounter. Lisa had been studying in Shanghai and had been joined for the last week by her boyfriend Felix. She could speak some Mandarin and impressed Katy and I by chatting with the driver as we drove through the cold foggy morning.

'Xuan Kong Si' is known as "The Hanging Monastery" - a bizarre structure seemingly suspended in thin air, perched in front of the sheer cliff face of the mountain. The narrow platforms and stairways wend through the flaking wooden struts that tentatively hold everything in place and house tiny shrines to various Gods painted in bright psychedelic colours. Chilled to the bone, we stood looking over the railings to the precipitous drop below and wondered how such construction could realistically stay in situ for so many years. We shivered at the thought as we saw crowds of tourists emerging from the tour buses below and decided to make a move before this fragile relic could give way under our combined weight.

The entrance to the 'Yungang Caves' was a very similar experience to the one at Xi'an's 'Terracotta Army' - all big flash entrance halls, stairwells and turnstiles. But once through, the "grottoes" we're greeted by an awesome sight of 50 or more caves and recesses of varying sizes all containing several, if not hundreds of Buddha images carved into the rock surface. Giant statues and miniature carvings of Buddha, many are brightly coloured and many are faded and worn from the elements. An awe-inspiring site - what devotion it must take to create something as grand as this!

(Although, it did remind me of when one neighbour has huge Xmas lights, so the other needs to get bigger and better ones? Each cave is like a Buddha envy version of that…)

By the time we return from a thoroughly enjoyable day with new friends, we have electricity at the hostel! The joy is short lived though as lunch has given me dodgy guts so we cancel our dinner appointment with the Italians and reschedule a meet on NYE in Beijing.

We check out the next morning and I successfully negotiate a partial refund on our room rate. It wasn't as much as I was wanted, but considering we're pushed for time and I'm pushed for mandarin skills it's the best I can hope for. We get the bus to the train station going in the right direction this time.

The train station was filled with the usual amount of spitting and staring which you don't quite get used to. Everyone keeps on their winter coats in the chilly carriage, whilst they crunch on nuts and seeds. The train shunts through countryside devoid of any greenery. Frozen lakes, barren vineyards, non-descript villages and secluded outposts of civilisation all covered in layers of thick white frost. A grey shroud hangs over everything on the horizon. We join the locals by eating a lunch of packaged noodles. They're a bigger and tastier version of 'Pot Noodle' that everyone eats when travelling on trains; they have hot water urns at the end of the carriage specifically for this purpose. A demure little woman sits opposite us, reading and occasionally letting out a loud belch that she doesn't bother to conceal.

to be continued.....Dean x