Day 12 - poor art, outstanding trains and mediocre breasts.

Day 12 and something bizarre happens. We finally make it to Shanghai's Museum of Contemporary Art... and guess what? It is sorely disappointing. The fairly impressive, angular glass shell, located at the heart of the People's Park we’d previously circumnagivated several times, offers two expansive floors begging to be filled with items of interest. Unfortunately, they are sparsely laced with entirely passable pieces. I don’t purport to be an art critic or the most understanding of not-particularly-knowledgeable observers, but I’d happily go toe to toe with anyone suggesting otherwise…

Stepping out of the realm of the trendy, our next mission came clad in the over-sized spectacles and the ill-fitting anorak of a geek. We were off for our very first dabble in trainspotting. The lustrous target of our interest was the Maglev, a magnetic levitation train linking Longyang Road station with Pudong International Airport. 

For anyone not au fait with this technology, through the power of opposing magnets the train is elevated above the track. It, therefore, requires no rails and zips along entirely unconstrained by the friction they create. The result is engines of potential speeds previously unseen, once the other minor hindrances of human motion sickness and the lack of available infrastructure / sufficient brakes are combated. 

As one of only a few operable Maglev lines in the world, we were desperate to have a try and for 80-Ruan were soon speeding towards an airport from which we had no flights booked, at a peak speed of 431kmp, lapping up every tilt of the train as though we were riding a rollercoaster at Alton Towers.

Wowed by a totally pointless, but enlightening return journey, and eager to continue our voyage into the future, we made for Pudong, using a rather more conventional subway. Exiting the station, we expected to be immediately wowed by a striking array of imposing, glimmering, next-generational monsters looming down at us. Only they were miles away. 

Fuelled by an incredibly good value street pancake, cooked on the spot and filled with a mouth watering, sweet sauce and the satisfying crunch of crispy wonton, we fought against a flow of commuters heading home, briskly striding towards the major landmarks desperate to make it somewhere with a view for sunset.

With the perfectly round orange sun already attempting to conceal itself behind the impressive man-made skyline, we entered the world’s biggest bottle opener, the Shanghai Financial Center. However, as we caught our breath and began to relax, confident we’d be watching the day slide into night from the world’s highest observatory, the attendants had other ideas, guiding us through various scale models and introductory videos to the building at an oppressively slow pace. 

By the time we arrived on the 100^th floor darkness had arrived. This couldn’t mask or detract from a truly magnificent view, however, as we joined a hoard of people snapping and gaping at the well-lit splendour of post-dusk Shanghai. As scores of cruise ships, lit up like Oxford Street in December, made their way down the river, past the most astonishing collection of buildings ever crammed into a central business district, we supped at the lukewarm beers we'd smuggled up from the Family Mart opposite, hearts a flutter, eyes agog.

A stroll down the boardwalk to observe the Bund from across the river, interrupted only those overly elaborately lit river boats, the occasional paradoxical and strangely out of place unlit tanker and the pushing and shoving of those around me, would have wrapped the night up. That is, until the arresting lights of America’s most bohemian of drinking chains, Hooters, loomed into view. A tug on the arm from my companion, desperate to introduce me to this previously unseen nuance of her homeland’s culture and we were in there, taking advantage of the post 9pm happy hour and supping enormous Tsingtaos, positioned next to a predictably obese, single man at the bar. Less predictably, however, he seemed more interested in table-tennis being screened behind the bar, than the tightly clad, not-particularly-voluptuous ladies working it. Only in China. 

A few more drinks and a bit of people watching made for an entertaining end to the evening, as meticulously rehearsed, yet apparently spontaneous dance routines, involving umbrellas, had a myriad of aging, overseas businessmen on their feet, thrusting their cameras as close to the ladies as was legal, in order to take a little piece of their soul home with them for whatever reason. We can all hazard a guess… and I for one assume it wouldn't be to show their wives. A small fortune and a massive plate of chicken wings expended and we were in a taxi heading for base, a little confused as to our location courtesy of the imperialistic force of American sleaze and one too many Chinese lagers...

Day 11 - on the trail of cheap coffee, Communist congresses and the French Concession...

With a gloomy blanket of clouds encasing the sun, stirring, waking and getting moving proves more challenging today. Eventually the call of food lures us out and around the corner, where we set ourselves down outside a street stall on Zizhong Road, to the surprise of the staring locals.

Making our selection via pointing and gesture, I wind up with a sizeable, disconcertingly nondescript chunk of meat, a chicken leg, some bean sprouts and cabbage. Meka embellishes her vegetables with a slender deep fried fish and a  tofu based dish, paying less that half of my 22 Ruan as a result. Apparently hers hits the spot. Mine, on the other hand, is destroyed by the limp, lank and enormous piece of hairy skin hanging from it, resembling the kind of aging, saggy, battle torn foreskin Korea's up-close-and-personal saunas left me all too familiar with. I gag at the thought and lament the quality of Thailand's street food, where this financial outlay would have landed me at least a couple of courses of lip-smacking delights.

Refueled and a little more energized, we grapple with Shanghai’s signage and the mental maps we had tried to impress upon our brains from a guide book back at the apartment. 

After a number of wrong turns and some retracing of steps, we locate the site of the first congress of the Chinese Communist Party and proceed to force our way in, fighting for breaths amid a sea of impatient, pushy, tour group members. The museum is fully bilingual and includes an array of interesting primary sources, most of which aren’t. It traces the history of the Western presence in Shanghai, without much cogency, while, nevertheless, painting a captivating picture of the circumstances within which the Chinese Communist Party rose to prominence. We make our way steadily around, attempting to imbibe it all as various groups of Chinese and Westerners rush past us, disinterestedly, loudly and distractingly, with, it would seem, tight itineraries to keep to.

The museum completed, we are guided into the inevitable shop, which proves considerably more intriguing than the average, wracked up as it is with Communist kitsch. Unable to resist this bizarre collision of a political ideology and the desire to peddle any vaguely related tat you can to bolster profits, I plump for a Chairman Mao wristwatch, featuring his friendly, beaming mug and waving arm which greets the wearer at the tick of each second. This, I believe, is irony.

Back on the outside, we delve deeper into the leafy suburbs of Shanghai’s former International and French Concession, passing buildings employing the kind of brick work more commonly found on a British estate than in Asia. A lengthy stroll around this part of town reveals everything from German mansions to Orthodox Russian churches, highlighting how long Shanghai has been a cosmopolitan city. 

Back on the main streets of the French Concession and the usual batch of multinational neon signs glare down at us, reinforcing – as if it were needed – that we are in an unusually affluent part of town, where the evidence of today's economic imperialism abounds. Decrying the excessively monied had become something of theme of my day, having been stung early on into our work, by a street vendor selling plums. Having been so stunned at the price he quoted (one that could shock even a Waitrose shopper), I forgot to haggle or, indeed, that I retained the right to walk away and ended up paying a King's ransom for a minor snack. Four plums for the price of 15 large bottles of beer at my newfound local hole in the wall, no less. Making an immediate decision thereafter, to clamp down on my day’s expenditure with the iron fist of the tightest chancellor, I then spent a significant period of time walking around a beautifully quirky network of back streets peddling arty wares and gourmet foods, looking for an affordable coffee. I failed and was still desperately seeking a caffeine injection to combat my growing lethargy as we landed back on the main street. With a reticence in my head and guilt in my heart, the lure of the golden arches and McCafe took me. Sorry China, I feel I’ve done you a disservice.

With what seemed like sizeable chunks of our already battered soles / souls expended on these leafy suburbs / McDonalds, we decided to make for base. En route, the pull of Peking Duck grabbed us, however, and we wound up chowing down on our first whole beast of the trip. Reenergised by a hearty hit of skin, flesh, pancakes and the sticky sauce, our plans changed and we made a beeline back to the People’s Park to attempt to track down the Museum of Contemporary Art once again. With a little extra knowledge as to its location, garnered from the Internet we were confident of success, but this was quickly eroded once again as, having trudged around most of the perimeter, we found the gates locked and backed by the obligatory, narky security guard, so common in these parts.

To ensure our trip wasn’t entirely wasted, we were soon discreetly drowning our sorrows, courtesy of a stealthy street beer or two on a bench under the bright lights of the bustling Nanjing Street nearby, watching the world go by and firmly dismissing fake watch and novelty-wheels-for-your-shoes salespeople as we did so. 

Day Ten - failed missions and foot massages

If Pudong had proved our fireworks display, today would become the damp squib. It began in search of street food, as despite the enormous disparities in wealth to be found into the city, accidentally slipping into an excessively priced restaurant here proves all too easy. 

A quick meander through the laundry-clad old city and we were soon armed with half a duck, beak and all, and a couple of pork buns, all for a paltry sum. Heading to the park, we slipped between tables crammed with old folk feverishly playing cards and suit-clad business people taking time out of their schedules for a stretching session, before finding a seat and settling in for a feast. It was lukewarm and underwhelming to say the least, but our wallets appreciated the gesture...

This done, we were off to the central station to piece together the next leg of our journey. Having neatly avoided a scamming, as a hotel pimp insisted on leading us to a not-remotely-legitimate, tiny back street ticket office whilst demanding a commission on our tickets, we sought out the genuine office and queued. This initially proved futile as 10-minutes later and only two-people from our target, whilst being buffeted from behind by an impatient, vocal and frustrated older man, the attendant shut up shop and ushered us off elsewhere. 

The second queue was more fruitful and we left clasping soft sleeper tickets to Beijing to our chests, relieved in the knowledge that the only thing now standing between us and St Petersburg is our ability to board the right trains.

Having had our fill of Chinese customer service, our next prospective gripe came with its signage as we proceeded to track down the Museum of Contemporary Art, bereft of hints. Having circumnavigated 98% of People’s Square, we eventually came upon the place, its rather grandiose name leading to enormous disappointment as we were greeted with what appeared to be a small shop, peddling half arsed, half-baked tat. And it was closed. 

In desperate need of an endorphin pick me up, I was sucked in by the immersing neon of the enormous Hershey’s Store opposite and was soon sucking on a chocolate shake, desperate to drain every iota of tryptophan from its contents. This, as it transpired, was to prove a revealing purchase.

As we made our way home, guiding ourselves by the various giant buildings pervading the skyline, we came across some lively streets, packed with locals, chowing down on affordable foodstuffs. Taking a cultural detour and now in possession of an entire, fresh, peel-free and prepared pineapple, which cost 1/6 of the price of the shake, a host of tiny, semi-underground massage parlours came into view. 

With aching feet and an absence of plans, we slunk in, unsure of the reception we’d get. We need not have worried. It was smiles, incomprehensible utterances and yawns all round. Waking a couple of masseuses from their mid-evening slumber, we were soon being treated to an extensive, lengthy, relieving and surprisingly thorough foot massage. And, having been hard at work for an hour, the tired, yet circumspect workers demanded nothing more for their endeavours than the price of the chocolate beverage I rapidly sunk earlier. Ah, Shanghai, a rich man’s playground in the of an impoverished landscape. With relief in my shoes and guilt in my heart, I made for the sack…

Day Nine - the aliens have landed and are living in Pudong

The first day in Shanghai proper and I would wind up burnt to a crisp, boasting a particularly ugly t-shirt tan, with the look of an inverted Arsenal shirt, like the pathetically unguarded and ill-prepared, post-winter white boy I am. Meka, on the other hand, survived the day intact. This would be because we spent more than 12 hours of the day roving the streets of this collossus, with the sun beating down, consistently, relentlessly and without interruption.

Our sweaty journey took us from the confined, tightly packed streets of the traditional old Chinese quarter, where you find more hanging laundry per square metre than you do people, to the neon intensity of Nanjing Street, at night, which must burn up more electricity than the local bus fleet and bares more than a passing similarity to Tokyo’s Shinjuku. 

Exiting the apartment, our first destination was the antiques market, where our eyes were rapidly drawn to all-manner busts, figurines, commemorative plates and badges bearing the beatific looking mug shot of Chairman Mao. With old couples sat outside three storey buildings more longstanding than themselves, analyzing our every step, the pervasive aura could not have been more different than the one experienced the previous night outside Cartier.

Moving on to the food market, we were met with a cacophony of action, noises and  smells. From the sight of frogs leaping up and down in a covered basket, awaiting their inevitable slaughter, to that of an old woman carrying nets of scrambling turtles over her shoulders, to the not-remotely-alluring stench of durian, this simple street offered a feast for the senses, all of which were found under successive lines of fresh washing. 

Turning off it we delved deeper into the old city, with functioning roads quickly compressed into slender passages, home to butchers, working without the aid of refrigeration, hacking up their necessarily fresh wares, mothers hoisting infants in the air to allow them to urinate cleanly onto the street and men wearing nothing more than a pair of underpants, tending to their makeshift containers of dried foodstuffs. 

Our wandering took us through these alleys of surprisingly overt public nudity, past the paradox of Shanghai’s oldest – and perhaps most unassuming – mosque.

From here, the pull of Yu Yuan could be felt as its impacting and eye-catching traditional (if relatively newly built, mock) structures came into view, demanding further exploration. At once the dynamics shifted, as locals going about their daily business on rusting three wheeled bicycles were replaced with marauding tourists eager to tick off the sights from their Lonely Planet and quaff its recommended local dishes as they did so. 

Unashamed and impressed with the prevalent, elaborate wooden structures, we joined them, fueled by a hearty dose from the most renowned dumplings peddler in the vicinity, the handily named Nanxiang Steamed Bun Restaurant. Later we’d add the soup dumplings to this list, a renowned, traditional Shanghai speciality that came equipped with a not-so-traditional plastic straw to aid us tourists in supping out the piping hot broth therein, before putting away the white dough surrounding it.

Clocking up the touristy clichés as we mooched, our next port of call was the Huxinting tea house, a quirky, dark, wooden, perfectly-preserved 300-year old building that has played host to the likes of QE2 (the granny, not the boat) and Bill Clinton in the not-too-distant past. Already tarnished by association as we clambered up a rich, wooden staircase, we feared we might be in for a bit of a bigger shafting than Lewinski and our suspicions proved accurate as we were handed the most expensive list of tea options we’d ever seen. Bracing ourselves for the hit, we plumped for one of the more moderate priced and not particularly Chinese options, mint tea. It proved suitably inoffensive and we sipped it unenthusiastically as various families arrived, sat beside us, took one glimpse at the menu and left.

With the sun continuing to blaze down like a burnt out star possessed, and with practical issues to attend to, the time seemed right to find an Internet café. This was to prove a task of some magnitude in the first city I’ve visited in Asia where none make themselves obvious. Preempting these difficulties, we consulted tourist information who gave us vague directions to a road that might contain some, 10-minutes walk away. Around two hours later, having followed the road traffic signs to reach this lengthy, uninspiring concrete strip, in a massive circle, presumably along a mighty inner ring road, we collapsed outside a hotel, my skin now redder than that of an Essex girl on the third day of an Ibiza holiday. Fuxing Road had proved disappointingly scantily clad with life!

Having taken 10-minutes out to catch our breath, a light breeze and some respite from the heat, in a last throw of the dice I approached the hotel to plead for web access. With spirit-crushing efficiency, they promptly delivered, immediately negating around 40-minutes of our walk, as we’d passed and considered asking this exact same venue earlier. Frustrated at our uselessness, we slumped into their chairs, lapping up the aircon and unconcerned at the heavy restrictions the government imposes here. Less facebook, means greater effectiveness in accomplishing real tasks, after all. These we pursued.

Mission accomplished, we headed back to our starting point, which was, as it transpired, a mere five-minute walk away. Asking for directions once more and taking the time out to actually note the response, we made for the Bund, taking a route through a local shopping street peddling the cheapest array of accessories I’ve seen on this continent. Sunglasses for 9.9 Ruan. Don’t mind if I do sir. I’d snap up some of your jewelry too, my man, but plastic beads are not really my style.

Locating the Bund with more success, we were promptly blown away by the most startlingly futuristic skyline ever to smash into our consciousness. Or mine. I was practically dancing around in awe, waving my camera around like a hyperactive child, crunked up on orange squash. 

Let’s recap here. When it comes to a skyline, London boasts little more than the Gherkin and Canary Wharf, prompting my companion to ask “is this it?” on her last visit there. Her surprise was inspired by a year or so of living in Tokyo, whose multitude of tall buildings, many of which may have been spawned from one another, lends it a horizon with more pits and bumps than an adolescent’s skin. Shanghai, on the other hand, looks like the kind of place where the Jetsons are likely to swoop into view at any moment, before being hastily chased off by a fleet of Darth Vadar’s militia. UFOs haven’t just been spotted. The aliens have landed and are setting up shop in the Radisson Hotel. It’s like a catwalk for architects, with each one seeking to out do the last with a wackier, more ambitious and more impacting design. Bed down in a posh hotel here and you’d be sleeping in a work of art. 

From the Oriental Pearl TV tower, which looks primed and ready to embark on its mission to super-space, to China’s tallest building, the Shanghai World Financial Center, which resembles a giant’s bottle opener, the district of Pudong looms over the river, giving thousands of visitors strolling down the Bund the glad eye, inviting their gaze and rewriting their expectations. 

The Bund, itself, is the centre of Commerce of the old Shanghai and has an almost European flavour, its grand, stately financial and governmental buildings offering a longstanding connection to a bygone era.

As the sun finally slumped down, having exhausted us with its intensity, Pudong lit up, lending a sparkle to the sky that the most expensive and expansive fireworks display would struggle to out do. We walked, we looked, we sat and looked again. Then we made our way home, along Nanjing Road, pushing through the hawkers, pimps and drug pushers, keen to avoid another invitation to buy a fake watch. 

Day Eight - sleeper trains and awakening sights in Shanghai

I wake stretching, straining and drag my rapidly aging carcass, replete with aches and pains, out of bed and over to the station in good time to make the train.

Unlike at the ticket counter yesterday, where we were greeted with abject disdain and our tickets were slung down in the manner of a petulant school boy handing in his half-completed home work, before we were waved away with the grace of riot policeman, the guards proved eager to help and adept at doing so. Basically, they could point. The combination of this and my ability to read Chinese numbers, up to four, mean we arrived on platform four with ease.

With a higher grade of tickets in our possession, the discomfort of yesterday rapidly becomes a distant memory, as we take up the padded seats opposite to our beds, found on the top layer of a triple bunk, and proceed to take in the scenery. It’s green, green and green again. We may be in the most populous country in the word, but five minutes out of the city and we’re in its seriously rural backwaters, taking in enough chlorophyll to keep a rain forest nourished.

With six beds in our rather dense section of the train, we are up, close and personal with several locals, none of whom seem particularly intrigued or perturbed by our presence, aside from when I tried to work my way into my top bunk. With only about a foot between the bedding and the ceiling, at the top of a slender ladder, this was like trying to thread a sumo into a compact sleeping bag. It took some maneuvering and was enough to distract our compatriots from the TV and provide considerably more entertainment to boot. In passing round their foodstuffs as they ate them, these chaps put us at ease and made us feel welcome as we cruised through the ten hour journey up to Shanghai.

Given the magnitude of Shanghai, our arrival in it proved rather innocuous. Indeed, there was nothing to be seen from the train to warn us of the sprawling, stunning urban metropolis we had entered. The only give away was the view of the Shanghai Hotel from a window and the fact we were promptly ushered from the train as we scrambled to get our packs, having realized we were the last ones left aboard. 

Exciting the station, we were immediately hit up by a taxi hawker, with whom we haggled, finally settling on a price, it would later transpire, that was about three times above the ordinary. That said, given you could barely touch a London cab for this cash, we weren’t remotely dissatisfied. Moreover, the smoothness with which the journey passed and the simplicity with which we were able to acquire access to my absent friend’s apartment, proved, appreciably, the easiest part of our journey to date. Our first key destination had been reached. We were in. We took a moment, to drink it in from the balcony, relieved, delighted, excited.

With the night drawing in, we took to the streets for our first step into the unknown. And this it really was, with neither of us having done any research on Shanghai, with all our time consumed with how to get there in the first place. In the space of thirty minutes, we moved between narrow streets of well-maintained, but clearly aging buildings, awash with scooters, people in their stride with things to do and the wafting smell of street food, into the glitz and glamour of a shopping district that could have been plucked from any city in the developed world, replete with effulgent stores lit up like overly elaborate Christmas trees, branded by the likes of Cartier and Tiffanys. It didn’t look like Communism and it didn’t reel us in either... We strolled, we ate, we sneered, we went to bed and snoozed.

Day Seven - our hastily knocked up plans leave us stranded in Xuzhou

 We wake to the gentle rocking of the sea, slipping in and out of sleep for several hours, with no major stresses or pressing concerns to stir us and no promise of breakfast to invigorate us. With a trip back to the ferry’s one restaurant seeming well out of the question, it would be potted noodle snacks or nothing today.

Several hours and a couple of showers later and we eventually break free of the cabin for a short stroll around the deck, grabbing a potted yukgaejang en route. Quite how a tongue bracingly, sensory awakening spicy beef and leak stew can be dried and compacted into a small tub and reproduced using a quick burst of hot water intrigues me. As it transpires, it can’t. But the broth does prove better than the previous days dumplings, which I'm increasingly inclined to believe were snatched out of the bin, en route to my plate.

This quaffed, we sit back, twiddle our thumbs and dream of China trying not to let one friend’s parting words of advise cloud our vision too much. “You’re going to China. Don’t bother, I’ll save you the trip. It’s shit,” he’d slurred, with the utmost sincerity, on one of our last meetings in Okpo's Blues House.

As the Chinese coast crept into view through our sizeable port hole, we packed our things and took to the deck to toast our entry into the extraordinarily great unknown with a final can of Hite. This proved a wise decision, as the one person on the boat to consistently throw smiles and looks of warmth in our direction, each time we passed her, since I first caught her eye in the sardine can-esque confines of the departure lounge, finally made her move, armed with impressively accurate English and a thoroughly confident demeanour. She asked where we were from, what we were up to, quickly tearing up and rewriting the travel plans we’d had to build from what limited information we could find on the web as she did so. 

The bus station we’d worked so hard to locate and had, after some efforts, acquired the Chinese characters for would not be open for business in the afternoon. Our best bet was the train. We were welcome to join her, thereon. 

Given, to date, one of the primary concerns our trip had been making it from the ferry to Shanghai, whilst contending with a massive language barrier and our own ignorance, this proved a godsend and her, our saviour. We were touched, once again, by the friendliness, inquisitiveness and generosity of the Korean people. And this one, as an extra boon, had a smattering of Chinese to assist us.

Of course, the best laid plans are often prone to failure, so it should be no surprise that those hastily knocked up on a ferry with a stranger should meet with a similar fate. Still, at least we’d made it through customs without so much as a body search or questioning stare. Given our experience of passing through Beijing airport, in transit, this proved surprising. Here, without even wishing to enter the country, our passports were given the third degree and the stickler for detail checking them even called for a second opinion, while assessing my passport photo. I tried to replicate the pose for him, but even this failed.

Once out and in the taxi, with our new best friend handling the haggling and directions, things seemed to be going well. The taxi driver was chipper and good humoured, despite having been the victim of the experienced and hardened haggler in our midst. It was upon arrival at the station when things started to look down. There were no more trains bound for Shanghai. We vested our faith in our companion, for contingency plans and she rose to the challenge, swinging us some standing tickets for a train into Xuzhou, a bigger city. From here, she explained, we would have more chance of finding a bus or train to Shanghai. 

Boarding the train, we were pleased to find some seats still available, albeit with the back rests set at a back breakingly sharp angle. Consider too the thoroughly predictable lack of air conditioning, in these newly humid climes, and a populace scrutinisng us with discomforting intensity and we were all set. Yet, for the time being, at least, we had room to wriggle around to find our optimum positions. This, of course, was quickly snatched away from us at the first stop, when the fact we were travelling on the last day of a lengthy public holiday suddenly became clear, as the carriage became festooned with life, soon rendering my clothes equally full with sweat.

With an old lady armed with a curious box of goose products and a lad tooled up with a smartphone and a shooting game which he was not afraid to use, at full volume, in such close proximity, quickly eating into our personal space, we became separated from our light and guide and were forced to spend the next couple of hours, adjusting and readjusting in an attempt to find cool air and comfort, failing at both. As we pulled into Xuzhou, I had become tired, cranky and in desperate need of both a stretch and good news. 

Neither proved forthcoming as we were promptly frogmarched off the train and through some swarming crowds, over a square and into a crowed ticket office. As we queued, it quickly became obvious that Shanghai would have to be erased from the itinerary for the day. Still, the little Korean lady with the massive heart, was there to aid us, booking us onto a sleeper train departing the next morning, before sensing our discomfort and sending us off to a hotel as she continued her own journey. 

A couple of negotiations later, which required the employment of some inventive miming skills, garnered in the kindergartens of Japan and Korea to convey a point, and a calculator, semi-confident some of our 300RYN outlay would be returned as a deposit…. and we were stretching out on a comfy bed, a stone’s throw from the station.

Dragging ourselves out of it briefly, in pursuit of some tasty street food, which we found among the strangely uniform neon red lit buildings, I soon found myself chowing down on an impressively sized, if non-descript hunk of meat, on a platter piled up with enough vegetables and rice to feed a rugby team. Our world weary mentality told us not to bother haggling, though we’d been advised to do so, but fleeced in relation to the locals or not, we left both satisfied in the stomach and comfortable with the fee. Never trust a bald hairdresser, always trust a porky chef…

And that was that. A quick stroll around, helped raise our spirits, not least due to the heat and humidity, which has proved particularly welcome this year following the lengthy, bone chilling Korean winter. And then we were done. It was off to our beds and into our dreams.

Day Six and the decaying husk of a once opulent cruise ship

Day six and we hoist our mighty packs to our back and make it out of the motel, only to be greeted by a second grey and miserable day on the trot. With the bus stop we require only a few metres away, we stumble down the street past a myriad of gawping faces and are soon aboard a bus heading for the port.

We are still sitting comfortably as we zip past the thing, forcing a heavily-laiden trek alongside one serious eyesore of  an industrial roadway on us.

As International Terminals go, it’s an innocuous one, not least because you can’t see the slightest hint of water or boat from the entrance. However, through the gates, we find a hive of activity, with hundreds of small traders packing various dried foodstuffs into as many cardboard boxes and battered packing cases as they can carry for their trip. Some of them are Chinese, some Korean, some , we later learn, are Taiwanese. We, on the other hand,  as Westerners - one white, one black - stand out like sore thumbs and are stared at as such.

This makes picking up our tickets a breeze, with Meka greeted by name as she approaches the counter, a clear sign that this isn’t the classic route tourists use to get into China. Signing out of Korea, with a final meal of bulgogi at a food court, we squeeze through a waiting room jammed with packages and people with little conception of queuing and make it onto the boat.

The ferry itself immediately proves surreal. The first outstanding characteristic to capture the attention is the confidence-denting array of scrapes, dents and scratches along its side. Once on board, the theme continues. 

Finding our cabin, we are delighted to discover clean, comfortable bedding and our very own porthole. This comes accompanied by a functional en suite bathroom, boasting a shower just about big enough to stand in. Lathering, on the other hand, would require the flexibility of a contortionist, or stepping out of it all together. Taking the gloss off this watery boudoir are the gaping holes where light fixings once stood and open, live electrical connections leading to an apparently defunct flat-screen TV.

Meandering around we discover some revealing signage that suggest we have entered the decaying husk of what was once an opulent cruise ship. This leads us to the deck and an open air swimming pool, hot tubs and a shower that clearly haven’t bikini-clad Asian babes, or indeed been cleaned, since the 1980s. Further English pointers guide us to a casino, cocktail bar and nightclub that have long since ceased to be.

The one restaurant remaining proves less inviting than the swimming pool, with the staff greeting our entry with a not-remotely-warm cross of the arms. Our refusal to leave immediately, prompts a loud, high-pitched, high-octane debate between about five members of staff, conducted at volume across several bemused eaters, before the only male in duty emerged, to greet us with perfect English. Having asked what we wanted, refused to wait for an answer and taken a reassuringly paltry KRW4,000 our money, he returned and unceremoniously dumped two large plates of shabby looking dumplings on our table. No rice, no garnishing, no further options, no frills, leaving us disappointed, hungry and Meka clutching an aching stomach.

This experience under our belts and lord knows what nestling in our bellies, we slunk back to our cabin, disheartened and a little concerned at how we may be greeted in China. Fortunately the comfortable beds, some comedy downloads and a couple of bottles of Korean fruit wine took the edge off, leading us into a considerably more rewarding slumber…