How to apply for a tourist visa to Russia

 

 

 

Going to Russia? Here’s what you need to do to get a visa. There are three stages when it comes to Russian tourist visas.

You’ll need to:

1. Obtain an invitation letter

2. Submit the visa application

3. Register your visa.

 

1. Get your invitation letter (Do this a month before departing)

You will need an ‘invitation letter’, which is essentially a document from a Russian organisation or company stating that you’ll be entering Russia on their invitation. You can obtain invitation letters from a Russian travel company or the hotel you’re staying at.

If your hotel, for whatever reason, cannot issue an invitation letter,  ask your local travel agent if they can help, otherwise go here. That’s the visa link for Real Russia, the same company which I used for my Trans-Siberian trip. Their office is in London so they speak English, but they have good contacts in major cities in Russia. Click on the service that you require-  ‘Single Entry’ or ‘Double Entry’. Fill up the form, send them the money (it’s a trustworthy company and very efficient), and they will email you a document within minutes. This is your invitation letter, so print it out and keep it.

 

2. Submit your visa application 

First of all, you’ll need the visa application form. For those applying for the visa in Malaysia, this is the link to the Consular Section of the Russian Embassy in Kuala Lumpur. All the info about office hours and the documents they need are all there. The visa application form isn’t available online, so you’ll need to drop by the Embassy to pick up the form. I would suggest you bring your invitation letter and flight ticket when you collect the form to show the people at the embassy.

When you pick up the form, the lady at the counter will tell you when to submit the application.  In Kuala Lumpur, visa applications take about 10 working days, so a date will be given based on your departure date. If you come with the completed form and documents too early before you leave for Russia, you will be asked come back on another day.

 For those who won’t be applying for the visa in Malaysia, you’ll need to locate the Russian Embassy for the country you’re in.

 

3. Visa registration

This final stage is completed after you arrive in Russia and can be done by your hotel. Make sure you read all about visa registration here.

If you’re going to be travelling for several weeks in Russia like I was, you may not need or be able to register your visa immediately upon arrival.  Remember that visa registration costs differ from city to city; in fact, registration is  cheaper the farther east you go. Registering your visa on Olkhon Island or in Ulan-Ude, for example, is cheaper than in Moscow and St Petersburg. As there was no way for me to register my visa while I was on board the train, I was only able to to do so in Irkutsk, days after I arrived in St Petersburg.

 

Once you’ve registered your visa, nothing else is required of you; end of story.

The visa process is a little tedious but when you get to Russia, you’ll see that it’s a beautiful and fascinating country, and that the hassle was worth it.

 
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Turkey, part deux

Later this month I’ll be going to Turkey, and it will be my second time there. I don’t normally make it a habit of visiting a country more than once, but this time it’s unavoidable.

The reason I’m going again is because of my parents. When I went to Istanbul in February 2011, it was for a bunch of reasons. I was about to start a new job and I wanted a break. I’d had a painful split-up with someone and I needed the break, but it was mostly because I wanted to be sure that I didn’t need him anymore. I knew I didn’t, of course, but I wanted to prove it, and I wanted to be certain that I could still travel alone and enjoy it.

This time, like I said, it’s got to do with my parents. When I came back from my first trip, they loved my photos, loved the presents, absolutely loved the Turkish Delight, baklava and apple tea I brought back. “Maybe we can do this one day,” my mum said two years ago.

That ‘one day’ is now here, and it’ll be a very different experience. I’m going to have to walk a little slower than usual, speak a little louder (my dad is hard of hearing) and be a little more patient with them.

My mother has told me that I can leave them to wander by themselves on certain days while I stay at the hotel and write, but I don’t think I’m going to do that. My dad loves to shop and has been scammed so often that I feel the need to be with him all the time. My mum is a little more cautious but is too soft-hearted to leave my dad on his own, so you see what I mean. Not that I’m complaining – I think it’s going to be an interesting trip and I’m seriously looking forward to it.

Wish me luck anyway, okay?

 

 
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En route to pizza

 

We met Paolo- wavy-haired, scruffy and broke- at Paris Austerlitz train station. Aida and I were checking train schedules when he walked up to us with sad, pleading eyes. “I have no money to go home. Do you have some money?”

We gave him 10 euros (we were students).

Home was Venice, and Paolo had the loveliest accent. “Here is my Mama’s address in Venezia, come and visit us. This is her new house.  I will pay you back and I will ask her to cook dinner for you,” he said, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Maybe pasta, or pizza.”

Okay. I can live with that, I thought, as he walked away.

France was the first stop in our train ride through Europe. We planned to do a loop into Spain, back into France and only then enter Italy, so although it would be a while before we would reach Venice, dinner sometime next week sounded like a good idea.

That night, we boarded our overnight train to Cordoba, the first of many.

***

Our last stop before Venice was Nice. The train was about to leave Nice Ville station when two medium-sized backpacks flew in from the platform through the window. Two- one after the other - bang, crash, onto the floor.

Seconds later, two tall guys walked into our compartment. “Is this where we threw our rucksacks in?” the dark-haired one asked. His friend saw their bags on the floor and said, “Oh, there you go. Yeah, this is us.”

Simon and James were from Leeds, England, and like us, were on their way to Venice.

As soon as the train left, they showed us how to tie our rucksacks to the luggage racks. “You never know who’s going to come here late at night and nick your stuff,” James said.

Simon added quickly: “Not us, though. We’re okay. We’re good lads, aren’t we, James?”

Later that night, Simon took off his shoes. He then peeled off his socks and waved them in the air, stinking up the compartment like nothing on earth. After a few minutes of earnest sock-waving, he hung the nasty things near the entrance.  Seemingly inspired, James did the same. Now we had two pairs of smelly socks near the compartment door.

“This is all part of a big plan,” Simon confessed. “This is so that no-one will come into our compartment. It works every time.”

“Yeah, it does. Why don’t you girls hang your socks up as well?” James said.

We did, and nobody dared to walk in.

***

The address that Paolo had given us was wrong. There was a block of flats where he said there would be, but there was no 6th floor. We had been walking in the scorching heat from the train station for nearly an hour until it occurred to us that in the rush to buy his train ticket home, Paolo had either written his mother’s address wrongly or he had done so on purpose.

A bearded guard sitting forlornly in his hut shook his head when we showed him the address Paolo had given us. “No, no,” he said. He turned to the block of flats and pointed to each floor. “No”- he spread out six fingers and shook his head. “Cinque, si,” he showed five fingers and nodded vigorously to make himself clear. The building only had five floors.

Aida didn’t take this too well; she doesn’t usually. She fumed and raved and stomped in the baking sun, kicking up dust with her shoes, much to the guard’s  amusement. I was pissed off, yes, but when I get angry, I just walk away.

“Where are you going?” Aida yelled, hands on her hips, when she saw me leave.
“To cool down.”

***

Venice had always fascinated me. It didn’t start out as part of present-day Italy; the city had established itself as the capital of an independent Republic of Venice in the 7th century AD, when it flourished as a port and trading centre. Venice survived attacks from the Ottoman Empire and conflicts with the Vatican for centuries, until it lost its independence in 1797 when Napoleon conquered the republic.

Soon after, Venice went under Austrian rule, following a treaty which Napoleon signed later that same year. After Napoleon’s defeat, a subsequent revolt and the Third Italian War of Independence, Venice joined the Kingdom of Italy in 1866.

Aida and I wandered off -she, complaining loudly about how hot it was and I, simmering in silence. We ended up at Plaza San Marco, which was full of people. There was a large group of army officers hanging around, looking busy, although I suspected they were just spreading themselves out to check out as many girls as they could.

There was no way to contact Paolo or even Simon and James, the English guys we’d met on the train, so we decided to look for a place to eat.

In the end we stopped at a small gelato shop. No pizza, no problem. “Otto,” I said, referring to the number of scoops I wanted. The vendor stared, then shrugged and scooped out eight mounds of ice-cream in different colours into a takeaway container.

We found a small canal nearby. It was a nice, quiet spot with houses on both sides and an old bridge up ahead. All the benches were occupied, so we sat down cross-legged to eat.

We were starving and this wasn’t real food, but we were okay. We were in Venice and eating gelato by a canal, for crying out loud.

“How’s your ice-cream?” Aida asked after a while. We’d split the eight scoops between the two of us.

“Good,” I said. “Yours?”

“Amazing! So much for Mama’s pizza and pasta, eh?” she laughed.

So much for pizza.

 

*Photos courtesy of RambleAndWander. For more of his photos and posts on Italy, go here.

 
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Faces of Myanmar

Travel reveals a lot about the world we live in and if there is one thing that I’ve learnt, it’s that no country is perfect. I’m having a hard time reconciling the wonderful time I had in Myanmar with what’s taking place there now. It’s difficult to ignore the atrocities that the Rohingyas are being subjected to and above all, I cannot believe that the place I visited just a week ago is the same as the one where this is happening.

As much as I would prefer to only be reminded of the happy bits about my travels, the Rohingya issue is proof that no country is perfect.

That’s a little painful for me to swallow because the people I encountered were among the friendliest I’d ever met. Here are some photos of  the locals I bumped into during the nine amazing days I spent in Myanmar.

 

These men were waiting for customers near the port on the Yangon River and are wearing a traditional Myanmar sarong called a ‘longyi‘.

 

I bumped into this adorable little girl at the Kuthodaw Pagoda in Mandalay. She was carrying flowers in her basket, but she immediately put it on her head when she saw my camera.

 

Lady, Bagan

This incredibly friendly lady started chatting with me at the Mahabodhi Temple in Bagan. She guessed correctly that I was from Malaysia and said her brother was working in Kuala Lumpur. If you’re wondering what’s on her cheeks, that’s thanaka, a kind of paste (extracted from the bark of a tree) which women use as a sunblock and to keep their skin smooth.

 

Girl

I loved this girl’s smile so much I had to take a photo of her. She was selling cloth bags and longyis at a village on Inle Lake.

 

This man owned a food stall just next to the mosque in Nyaung Shwe, the main town at Inle Lake. His lips are red from the juice of the betel nut, which the locals love to chew on.

 

 

I spotted these women at Nam Pan market on Inle Lake, just having a good time and catching up with old friends.

 

These young nuns were taking a break outside what seemed to be their hostel in Nyaung Shwe. A few others were busy chopping wood, but these two were very happy to be photographed.

 

This photo was taken at the Golden Rock Pagoda on Mount Kyaikto. This old monk was in a bit of hurry but he somehow slowed down when he walked in front of me.

 

This young man was lighting candles at Golden Rock Pagoda. This photo was taken shortly after the sun set, which is when prayers appeared to intensify in  volume. Mount Kyaikto is 3,615 feet above sea level and it was actually chilly up there that evening.

 

These children were sitting near the viewing area at the pagoda and were minding their own business until they spotted us and our cameras. The girl was the most enthusiastic of the three- very obvious from the way she was posing- while the boys were a bit more reserved.

 

 
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By train to Bagan

 

I’m not sure what time it was, but I woke up with a start. The cold night wind, blowing at whatever-miles-per-hour, had slapped me hard in the face.

But it wasn’t the wind that was moving. It was our train, the #120 to Bagan, a rickety, rolling machine on wheels which should’ve been sent to a train graveyard ages ago. It was shaking violently from side to side and back and forth, making me feel like a rag doll at times. To top it off, I couldn’t close the window and the night air was blasting in.

On my left, R was stretched out and fast asleep, all six feet of him. Across the aisle, a tall Hungarian was snoring and gurgling away like there was no tomorrow. Snoring. What it is about men and their ability to sleep anywhere?

This was our third day in Myanmar but already our second train ride. You know you’re in for an interesting ride when your ticket costs US$10, your seats are described as ‘Upper Class’, it’s an eight-hour overnight journey and there are no sleeping berths. There’s something wrong somewhere, and you know it.

Our first train- from Yangon to Mandalay- was a slightly better one with overnight berths, although it shook and rattled just as much. Or maybe that was worse. Or perhaps this one? I couldn’t decide.

I took out my notebook to write but got bored after five minutes and ended up looking out of the window.

I must have dozed off though because when I came to, the train had stopped moving.

It was 2am and we were at a small train station. I could make out the outline of a single-storey wooden building in the pitch-black darkness, the building itself completely unlit. Outside, I heard faint voices. Flashes of light darted up and down, giving me glimpses of the railway tracks as people carried torchlights to see their way.

And then a man came into view, right outside my window. His white shirt bounced in the dark as he ran on the railway tracks, trying desperately to get on board.

The train, which had hardly been at the station for five minutes, was already getting ready to leave. This distressed me greatly- I’ve missed a flight before so I know what it’s like to miss a ride- but we were already picking up speed and there was no way I could help him up. He was slowly falling behind. Run! RUN!! I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t.

When the train finally rattled past the station, the poor man, who was still struggling to keep up, looked up helplessly and caught my eye. I’m so sorry, I tried to tell him.

He was in his late 40s, I think, although of course I couldn’t be sure.  ”I’ll try another day,” his eyes told me in the dim light, and he disappeared in the darkness.

To my left, my friend stirred in his sleep and across the aisle, the Hungarian snored contently.

 

 
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Notes on MITBCA 2013

Hey, look who’s here!

There’s only one thing which I’d really like to say today, but before that, let’s go over what happened in the past few months. No, this is not one of those self-indulgent, ME ME ME posts which I try to avoid writing, I can assure you that.

So this is what happened recently:

1. I quit my job.

2. I packed up and travelled.

3. I wrote some stuff and sent it out.

4. To my complete bewilderment, people liked what I wrote.

5. To my complete shock, people wanted me to write some more.

6. I was then invited to speak at the Malaysian International Travel Bloggers Conference and Awards. I wasn’t sure, I had something on that week, so I said no.

7. I decided to say Hokay then, yes, I’ll be able to say a few words.

8. On March 5th, I spoke a little about my overland trip but mostly about good writing which inspires, about telling stories about travel. About not focusing too much on yourself when you write but perhaps looking at other people for stories. About telling readers how you feel.

9. I made a lot of new friends, learnt a great deal at the event and generally had a lot of fun. The best thing, though? That I met some of my readers [yes, apparently I have them]. It is always, always a pleasure to meet people who read you, not because I need reassuring (ohh, okay then, I do) but seriously, it’s just wonderful to connect with your readers. It really is.

10. I woke up today.

 

I got up this morning, saw my speaker’s tag for the conference and the plaque/token of appreciation/very heavy souvenir I received for speaking, and felt good about it.

Something is at play here; all the things that have happened to me in the past few months and especially after I decided to throw in the towel have blown me away. This year has been amazing so far and I’m so thankful for it.

So if this isn’t a ‘yay me’ sort of piece, what on earth am I trying to say then? Exactly what I said here, that everyone should do what makes them happy.

If there is something, anything, which has been calling out to you and makes your heart soar, do it. Because when you do, things will happen, doors will open and opportunities will present themselves to you.

Now go out and have a good day.

 

 
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Niujie Mosque, Beijing

China has had associations with Islam since the fifth century when Arab envoys first crossed its borders. Although Muslims can be found almost everywhere in China, most of them reside in the Xinjiang, Yunnan and Ningxia provinces. The blend of (Chinese) culture and (Islamic) religion is evidenced in the hundreds of mosques all over China.

One of China’s most important mosques is Niujie Mosque in Beijing, which was built in 996. The name of the mosque itself is interesting- Niu Jie is the name of the street where the mosque is located and literally means ‘Cow Street’, a reference to the prohibition against swine flesh in Islam and to the Muslims’ preference for beef over pork. Niu Jie, therefore, in this context means ‘the street where the people who like beef live’, which is a wonderful way of putting it, I think.

 

The South Stele Pavilion, built in 1496

I’ve been to Niujie Mosque twice, the first time in 2004 and the second, more recently on my overland trip last year.  I remember not completely enjoying the mosque on the first occasion- it was winter and I had (‘cleverly’) walked all the way from Tianenmen Square to Niu Jie and my feet had felt as though they were about to drop off. This time, I was smarter and took the Beijing underground.

The wonderful thing about Niujie Mosque is that it is distinctively Chinese. There are bits of red here and there- not a colour associated with Islam, but favoured among the Chinese, reminding you instantly of a temple. It is when you look closer that you notice the Arabic writing at the top of the pavilions and inside the prayer hall.

 

The men’s prayer hall

The Chinese features, however, weren’t always there. When the mosque was built in 996, it was constructed in a typical Arabic style, consistent with historical records which show that Arab missionaries had built it. The Chinese elements were gradually adopted over the years through numerous renovations and reconstructions.

The mosque looked pretty much the same from last time, although the grounds were much larger now following some expansion work, details of which were proudly set out on the information board.

 

Catching up with each other

I took a few photographs in the courtyard in front of the men’s prayer hall and after that made my way to the women’s section. Here, I met two Hui women, a mother and daughter.  I tried to make small talk with them but since my knowledge of Mandarin is skeletal (my mother’s exact words), I didn’t get very far in the conversation.  Having said that, you can get far with a few smiles, anywhere in the world!

 

The Niujie Mosque is easy to get to, and I would definitely recommend a visit. If you get lost, stop anyone in the street and ask for the masjid- Arabic for ‘mosque’, but they’ll know what it means here. There are lots of restaurants nearby so if you find yourself stuck in the area during lunch time, don’t worry. Do dress appropriately (no shorts or sleeveless tops, please), as you would in all houses of worship. If you can speak Mandarin, chat with the men in the ticketing office near the entrance, they’re very friendly and were very amused at my attempts to speak to them.

 

Bicycles parked inside Niujie Mosque

 

Getting there:

Address: Niujie Mosque, 88, Niu Jie (Cow Street), Xuanwu District, Beijing.

Underground station: Changchun Jie, Line 2. Take exit C1, head south, and walk for 1.5kms.

Open to the public from 7am-7pm.  Admission: 10 Yuan.

Note that the mosque will be busy on Fridays from 12pm -1.30pm for prayers, so you might want to avoid visiting this, and any mosque in fact, during those hours.

 

 

 
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Being five feet tall

This cat is taller than me.

What does it mean to be travelling when you’re five feet nothing? I have wished to be taller on many occasions- when there’s a large crowd gathered and I can’t see anything or when I feel as though I’m not being taken seriously. I’m not asking for much- another six or seven inches is fine by me, but then most of time I realise that being as small as I am can be a good thing when I’m travelling.

 

People look out for me

I don’t mean to, but I sometimes stand out in a crowd when I’m overseas, particularly when I’m travelling alone. That in itself is no big deal but the wonderful thing is that because I’m small, people look out for me, probably because they think I’m younger than I really am. Motherly, older women have come up and talked to me for no reason. I had no idea what they were saying but from their worried expressions, it sounded like they were asking if I was all right.  None of them offered me shiny red apples so I don’t think they were evil witches in disguise.

 

I have a good excuse to go right in front

Nobody gets annoyed if I go to the front when I’m taking photographs. I’m so short, I won’t be in anyone’s way.

 

I can wear children’s clothes

If I’m looking for simple tops while I’m travelling, I look for t-shirts for 15-16 year old boys. As long as the designs aren’t too childish, I look perfectly all right in them. In fact, I once found a really nice Beatles t-shirt in Liverpool by looking in the boys’ section. Children’s clothes also cost less. Of course, if I’m looking for something  a little dressier or feminine, I head for the women’s department.

 

Legroom!

I can sit comfortably on planes, buses and trains, unlike people who are much taller. I can also stretch out and lie down very comfortably in the middle row on airplanes if the seats aren’t taken. If I’m snoozing on a bench in the airport, chances are no-one will ask me to get up because I’ll just look like a sleepy 15-year-old kid, all curled up :-) .

 

People are nice to me (I think)

Security guards, customs officers, train attendants and yes, little old women, are sweet to me. I don’t come across as a possible threat and I don’t get asked all sorts of unnecessary questions. Besides, I think they feel sorry for me when they see me carrying my rucksack!

I know I’m not the only petite female traveller around. Are you one of us?

 
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Hanoi, second time around

I had been here before, and yet I hadn’t. Same same but different, as they say in Southeast Asia.  When I said goodbye to Hanoi 11 years ago it was bright and sunny. Now all I could see were dark blurry shapes up ahead waiting to pounce on me.

I was at Gia Lam station, it was 4.45 in the morning and I had just arrived from China.

“Taxi, miss?” a dark silhouette approached me. I wasn’t wearing my contact lenses and the spectacles I had on needed cleaning so I had no idea what this man looked like. “No, no taxi,” I replied. I needed a taxi, but I wasn’t about to take one so close to the train station.

Another blurry shape came forward. “Taxi? Taxi to hotel?” I declined and walked on.

When I left Hanoi in September 2001, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to come back again. Crossing the road was a feat in itself. The place was a nightmare. I hated the traffic, hated the constant honking of the cars and motorbikes and I hated that I found fish bones on my bed after checking into my hotel.

This year, visiting Hanoi was unavoidable. I was travelling from Russia and my train from Nanning terminated here, so here I was.

The next few days proved just how much Hanoi had changed.  The entire city had gotten busier; it was choked with cyclos and motorbikes more than before. Crossing the road was such a chore that I dreaded doing it. The Old Quarter had become dirtier- I saw restaurant workers throwing water and sweeping their rubbish onto the roads, knowing full well that the city authorities would clean up for them.

And yet there is always something nice about returning to a place you’ve been to.  You remember why you chose to come here the first time- it was a different country, and you were curious. This time around, after the rush of China, I was able to slow down and find peace in Hanoi’s shady boulevards and beautiful lakes.

Two days later, it was time for me to head for Ho Chi Minh City. My taxi driver took me past Le Duan and Ly Thuong Kiet, streets which I recalled from my first visit. We passed the Rooftop Club on the way. A group of young Vietnamese in black leggings and boots were striking killer poses at the entrance for their photographer.

It was about 10.30 when we reached Ga Ha Noi, the train station. It was only after I got down from the taxi that I remembered.  I had been there before. This happens sometimes when you come back to a place you’ve been to.

I had stood in that same spot in 2001 and taken a photo of Ga Ha Noi, imagining how wonderful it would be if I could take a train from there one day.

 

 
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Photo of the week: New Orleans

 

 

I snapped this photograph just outside Jackson Square, where an artist was selling some cute cat paintings. New Orleans is an amazing city and one of my favourites among the American cities I’ve been to, mainly for its history, culture and atmosphere.

The city’s uniqueness comes from it being in the state of Louisiana, which used to be a French and Spanish colony before it was sold to the United States in the early 1800s. This background gave New Orleans its incredible multi-cultural heritage.

New Orleans has also had a vibrant artistic and creative community for decades- the city is regarded as the birthplace of jazz music and it was here that legends like Louis Armstrong (who was born in New Orleans), Billie Holiday and Ray Charles used to perform.

 

 
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