Ian

96 posts

Axis of Evil … or Hospitality?

In light of present situations, I feel a bit of a reminder is in order concerning Syria and its people.

Many terrible things have gone on throughout history (the Black Plague, the Spanish Inquisition, Germany’s blitzkrieg on Poland, apartheid, the 3rd Matrix film), and, unless the world gets whacked by an asteroid “Armageddon” style tonight, I am sure these won’t be the last of them. But there has been a great wrong placed upon a particular part of the world … or should I say, the people residing there. Terrorism is one of the horrid evils of this world, and religious fanaticism usually rears its ugly head to claim ownership, but many of us have blurred the line between a handful (in percentage terms) of nut jobs and finger pointing at entire nations. A certain former US president (let us call him “Mr. Numb-Nuts” for the sake of anonymity), during one of his countless brain farts, decided to label a particular Middle-Eastern country (let us call it “Syria” for the sake of clarity) an “axis of evil” shortly after the horrific events of September 11th. Things were bad, tensions were high and people wanted answers. Understandable. But instead of seeking out the particulars, investigating all the options, doing any form of research whatsoever (anyone yet seen those weapons of mass destruction?), Mr. Numb-Nuts blindly invaded a country and painted an entire religion and people as bomb-toting fanatics hell-bent on blowing themselves to bits in order to bring about the downfall of Western ideals (whatever those may be). Islam and the Muslim in general have been given the shaft (and unfortunately I do not meant the ultra-cool 1971 American Blaxploitation film or the Isaac Hayes soundtrack) … yet again. Let us go back in time a few hundred years. Pope Urban II had the same idea donkey’s years ago and decided to get the panties of all Europeans up in a knot by claiming that the Holy Lands and the city of Jerusalem were under threat from a “strange people” with a religion that, get this, recognised Jesus as a prophet of God (though not as the son of God), lived in harmony with other Christians and with people who devoted their lives to being hospitable and living in peace. If you are wondering, no, I can’t understand the reason why he thought all this was a threat either. All I have been able to come up with is that maybe Urban II was a religious fanatic himself. “Christian fanaticism!?!?” I hear some of you cry is disbelief. Just as an example, let me throw out Jim Jones and that Waco, Texas guy. Let’s not even mention the witch trials, right? And Jim and Tammy Faye Baker – sorry, they are just too funny to take seriously. Anyway, for the next 200 years, the official “Crusades” royally screwed with the area. I use the term “official” only for history book purposes, as many people I have met in the Middle East personally believe the Crusades are still going on today, but now concerning oil – a view that I tend to agree with. Come now, the former Crusades where just as much a land grab as they are today, no matter what you try to pull over people’s heads and make them believe!

Now, I was around Syria for a bit and have even worked my way down to within 25 km of the border to Iraq, and to comment on the local people’s reaction to a group of American / Canadian tourists meandering the area and snapping countless photos, so far the only fear I have experienced has been “oh bugger … was the uncooked tomato and raw lettuce in my kebab a good idea to eat?” (For those wondering, no, I have had no horrid stomach pains or mad dashes to the squatters yet, but thanks loads for thinking about my well-being.) Before you get any funny ideas, I just want to clarify that I don’t think intentionally tainting salad with raw sewage is an evil terrorist’s new method of toppling governments … though, if you think about it, that may not be such a bad idea! It would really be much easier to club your enemies over the head when they are either doubled over with stomach cramps or are dropping their guts all over the scenery whilst at the same time frantically hunting for Imodium tablets or a wine cork. Anywho, the warmth and welcoming attitude coming from most of those I encountered has even overshadowed the infamous hospitality of Georgians (the US state of, not the former Soviet bloc country) to say “hey, how yall doin’?” to every individual they pass on the street, whether they know them of not. And for those of you who have travelled to Egypt or Morocco, very rarely do Syrians try to sell you a camel or carpet or ask for “baksheesh”. Many times, they are actually just interested in you and gracefully welcome you to their country! Most have been so pleased to see Americans disregarding the propaganda of fear and coming to see for their own eyes what the actual story is. They shake your hand or kiss your cheek. They inquire about your family and compare the stories to their own. They let your child share a bag of crisps with their own children and keep them from falling over on a moving train. They want a photo with you and always have a pocket full of sweeties to share afterwards. Are you shaking in your boots from all that “evil” yet?

Look, I am hopefully intelligent enough to understand that the political factions of countries aren’t the most honest of individuals, and there are many things going on behind our backs, but that should not twist our perception of the average Joe. If 98% of the population just wants to take care of their families and live in harmony, then who cares if the Syrian government wants to keep up good relations with Iran or Iraq? They are neighbours after all, so you can’t blame them for not wanting to rock that boat and provoke strife! As for the Commercial Bank of Syria being blamed for laundering money for terrorist groups … oh, please! Scratch the surface and you will find similar things going on within European and US banks as well. But has the US put sanctions on Switzerland or Europe yet? I don’t think so. “What about Syria’s poor relations with Israel (or “the occupied Palestinian state”, as Syria calls it)?” OK … I’m not going to touch that one here and now … too volatile from both sides for even me to handle! I know where to draw my lines.

I have met many new friends around the cities of Damascus, Aleppo and Palmyra that I hope to visit again and again throughout my life. And I had no reservation in my mind a couple of years back when taking my family there with me for a holiday. They are a beautiful, honest and fascinating people that deserves more than many Westerners give them (talking about the Syrians here … not my family). Don’t take the previous US administration’s word as that of gold. Go for a visit yourself when and if all the turmoil that 2011 has brought calms down and have a cup of tea with anyone who invites you into their shop or home. Just please see things with your own eyes wide open. If you have one of those rare travel agents that provide excursions to Syria, then take advantage of the chance! The prices in the country are still fair, though increasing, the history and sites, phenomenal, and the food is exquisite. But it is the people that can be the most astounding part of your trip. Take with a grain of salt the broadcasts you are used to hearing from politically backed media outlets. These are not a people sworn to chaos and destruction. Saying that, I still would not head to Syria or anywhere in the Middle East wearing an “I Love George W. Bush” t-shirt … but, if you think about it, you would get the ever-lovin’ crap beat out of you in your own country for doing that!

Tim the Cat

Let’s talk recipes for a moment. In the 2,500 metre above sea level kitchen of Lalibela, Ethiopia, bring together a generous dash of Orthodox Christianity, mix in a few thousand metres of white, cotton cloth, sprinkle in a bit of day and night chanting and bring to a boil in a cross-shaped bowl filled with holy water. This Epiphany dish is better known to the locals as Timkat … and no, this is not an endearing name for the regional felines that stalk in and out of doorways nibbling on scraps. Timkat is the Ethiopian Orthodox Church celebration of the baptism of Jesus in the River Jordan (unlike the Catholic version of January 6th, which celebrates the manifestation of the holy nature of Christ before the three kings) and is usually celebrated on the 19th of January instead, though leap year can push it back to the 20th if it so chooses.

When one comes to sit at this feast of Timkat, there are a few things you should know so as not to embarrass yourself in front of the thousands of guests also scooting up to the dinner table. Lalibela is perched in the northern regions of Ethiopia, and its table-setting is a sight to behold whether it is for a yearly gathering or a simple breakfast! Can one only whip up this tasty religious culinary treat in Lalibela? Not to worry! With a simple change of kitchen and bowl, this is a national dish that can be thrown together once a year in any Ethiopian town or village! But for the sake of argument, we’ll just keep to the ingredients found here. Lalibela (whose title comes from Gebre Mesqel Lalibela, ruler of Ethiopia in the 12th and 13th century) was previously known as Roha before a change of name was decided upon to honour the king who so loved the area. King Lalibela had supposedly seen Jerusalem before its capture by Muslims in 1187 and decided to build a “new” Jerusalem in Ethiopia, which explains why many of the place names here are Biblical in nature, even down to naming the river running through the town Jordan. It was this king that commissioned the most spectacular of the city’s features … the rock-hewn churches. If these extraordinary monolithic churches can be considered as the furnishings of Lalibela’s kitchen, then they would be God’s very own spice rack! Within easy walking distance, eleven of the world’s most exotic of “spices” can be found dug down into the living rock. By any standards, these are amazing structures that rival even the magnificent façades of Petra in Jordan, especially if you believe in the theory that a majority of them were carved and constructed by medieval Ethiopians during Lalilbela’s approx. forty year reign. With names like Bet Medhane Alem (Saviour of the World), Bet Maryam, Bet Golgotha, Bet Amanuel, Bet Merkorios, Bet Abba Libanos, Bet Gabriel-Rufael, Bet Meskel, Bet Mikael, Bet Danaghel and, my personal favourite, Bet Giyorgis (where St George – the patron saint of Ethiopia – and his trusty steed were said to have made a visit, prompting it to be quickly names after him) to tantalise your senses, a day or more perusing the narrow corridors, contemplating the symbolic carvings and early Ethiopian Christian artwork or standing in awe before the 60 cm, 7 kg gold Lalibela cross will leave you with memories not soon forgotten.

Now that the setting has been placed, let us prepare ourselves to get into the menu at hand, shall we? Firstly, if you wish to be properly dressed for the occasion, you must wrap yourself up in the lengthy white cotton cloth that is typical of church attire throughout the country. One would hate to stand out in the procession that goes from the churches to the central meeting point, eh? I know what you are thinking … “White? But I look so much better in a black tux / red evening dress!” Well, if you happen to be higher in the ranks of the church, then maybe you could get away with more colourful robes of the clergy and a gold embroidered velvet umbrella as an accessory, but since most of us most likely are not Ethiopian Orthodox priests, we’ll just try to blend in, shall we? On the eve of Timkat, each of the churches starts with a religious ceremony and then proceeds to carry (with much chanting, dancing and singing) their holiest of items, the tabots, to a central meeting place in town.

“What are talbots?”, I hear you ask. A soup starter? A Greek salad? How many of you have seen Raiders of the Lost Ark? Well, according to the Ethiopians (Steven Spielberg and George Lucas as well), the tablets that Moses brought down from Mt Sinai, which were stored in the Ark of the Covenant, were not lost after the destruction of Solomon’s Temple by the Babylonians in 586 BC. Legend has it that they were brought back to Ethiopia and hidden here for ages. The original tablets and the Ark are now claimed to be housed in a chapel in Aksum (or Axum, if you so prefer), though only the monk that guards this holiest of religious items is permitted to view them (and we all know that your face would melt off if you did see them close up anyway, right?). This has led to the tablets, or tabots, becoming the most sacred symbol of the Ethiopian Orthodox church, and every church is supposed to contain their replica versions within their inner sanctum.

Just because they are replicas, don’t think you will ever get the chance to feast your eyes upon them either! This is still a bonus solely for priests. Even during the procession, they are thickly covered in ornate velvet cloth as they are transported from one place to the next. Definitely a closely guarded recipe, wouldn’t you say? The priests tempt us and get us salivating as they parade their treasures around town and down to a central meeting point, where they are prayed over, used in blessings and, in general, just glared upon as objects of inspiration.

The Timkat Festival in Lalibela continues to draw hordes of tourists, though. And as of February 2011, you may find it difficult to find a space at this “dinner table”. Visitors and those with cash can get a better viewpoint from the wooden stands set up around the baptismal font, but I should forewarn you: after the priest has spoken his lengthy prayers, blessed the water and done a quick sprinkle over his deacons, even the angels say, “I’m outta here, dude” and all hell breaks loose! Everyone who is anyone wants that water, and since the priest knows better that to hang about and waste his day dabbing a little on the foreheads of the masses, everyone with a cup or bucket is permitted to dive right in and sling this heavenly soup for all it’s worth. Now, most local folks truly want to get a bit of a holy soaking, but those coming for a bit of voyeurism up in the stands become a captive crowd of slow moving targets just waiting for a good drenching. Watch your cameras, as I have heard many a pale-skinned onlooker cursing (in very un-Christian-like manners) the day they had their costly digital ruined with an overdose of moisture.

After the pool has been drained without a drop not doused over the heads of whoever is in range, everyone heads away for a break to towel themselves off and get into some warmer dry garb. You can’t be away too long, though, because desert is yet to be served. Around noon, everyone reassembles again, and a procession begins complete with chanting and dancing, leading the tabots back to their resting places to await another day.

And so concludes our Ethiopian feast. I hope your belly is stuffed to bursting and you have enjoyed your time without drinking too much and making an arse of yourself. But please: take the dishes to the sink and wash your hands, will you?

Borders and Frames

One may have noticed that I have travelled a smidgeon in the Middle Eastern countries of Syria, Jordan and Egypt over the course of the last few years, and politically mapped boundaries (set out by the English and French ages back without consideration to history or cultural traditions) must be hopped over multiple times in my job of leading tourists round these parts. Border crossings here can span the scope of easy as pie (Jordan: pay 10 Jordanian Dinar (JOD), get visa, head to Amman) to just damned obnoxious (Syria: file paperwork, pay 16 USD, sit at duty free and cafeteria for 3 to 8 hours, cross fingers that they remember you sitting there, eventually get visa, hitch ride to Damascus in cramped taxi full of smoking men). Let me just mention that I actually didn’t really mind the whole process at the Jordan to Syria crossing and, because I had become such a constant figure here, had made kindly acquaintances with a few of the border police and customs agents who had begun to laugh and say “you again?” upon seeing me. This was all well and good and gave me plenty of time to enjoy a strong coffee, munch upon hummus and bread and eyeball the fine selection of single malts stocking the shelves of the duty free shop … that is until President Obama decided to continue with the idiotic sanctions imposed during the Bush dynasty against Syria for another year. After many years of trying to prove to the West that they are not part of an “axis of evil” and that Americans have never been on their hit-list, Syria has now finally, and rightfully, retaliated, and now citizens of the United States can no longer get a visa “on the spot”. These new regulations, put in place to basically say “you make it difficult for us, we’ll make it a bitch for you”, mean I would have to go back to the US and apply in my country or origin for a Syrian visa, making things MUCH more annoying and costly for someone who now calls Poland home and hasn’t set foot on US soil in roughly five years.

But let’s move on, shall we?

Technically speaking, the border crossing from Jordan into Israel at the Sheikh Hussein / Jordan River Valley Crossing is as easy as getting Courtney Love to pop a few more prescription pills or snort one more line of coke. The average Joe would simply pay the 8 JOD exit fee from Jordan, hop a pointless bus that makes an entire 300 metre jaunt through no-man’s-land, get out to have your bags scanned in Israel, receive your passport stamp (on a separate piece of paper, mind you, if you ever want to gain entry into a few countries that do not recognise the state of Israel) and grab a ride to Jerusalem, Tel Aviv or wherever else curiosity or your religious calling wishes to take you. All this can get as sloppy as a drunk staggering home through the snow whilst eating a kebab if you, like myself, have ever been in Syria before. Unless you have been hiding under a rock for the last 60 or so years, Syria and Israel have not been snuggling under the bedsheets on cold nights or even been the least cordial of buddies for that matter. Ever since Israel captured most of the Golan Heights in 1967, the powers that be in Damascus refuse to sign any peace agreement until the land is handed back, which, of course, Israel refuses to do. For the last few decades they have not been lobbing explosives over to each other, but if international pressure wasn’t so tough, there might be a bit more than nasty name-calling going on given the chance. With me being a tour leader in Syria multiple times a year, my occupation tends to leave a few trace elements of smudged stamping or full-page visa stickers in my passport that the authorities in Israel look suspiciously upon. Whilst the clients I do my best to take care of happily skip through this political barrier with a look of rapture on their faces as they enter the Holy Land, I get a work-over that is akin to a wart-covered, feline-loving unmarried woman in her mid-40s in Salem during the years of 1692-63. After rummaging through my luggage and shaking their heads with a ’tisk tisk’ muttered subtly under the breath as they hold aloft a copy of a Syrian guidebook on historical sites, the questioning begins: “Why were you in Syria? How many times? Do you have friends there? Why would you have a US passport but live in Poland? Do you know the airspeed of an unladen swallow?” They then take away my passport, point to a bench and leave me to sit for an hour or so, during which time, my once joyous clients are sitting free on the opposite side of the wall of customs wondering if I have been shot, imprisoned, denied entry or burnt at the stake.

A word of advice: One major thing I have learned in travelling is that you NEVER EVER piss off border guards! Just grin and bear it. If you have taken nothing from my stories before, and I can’t really see why you might have in the first place, please heed this warning! I have watched many a daft individual pitch a hissy-fit because “visa fees were too high” or “it was taking too long to get through customs”. Ever not want to get into a country? Just complain and scream a bit more; that will almost always work.

Now, I have to mention here that there is an up side to this border purgatory. For some reason that I cannot account for, 98% of the Israeli guards at this specific locale are all female … and young females at that. I am not trying to act like a “typical male” in any way, but I guess clarification does need to be made so that I don’t come across as more of a sleazy minded pervert than I typically am. After a month or so of concealed figures and head-scarves, the sight of long flowing hair and tight-fitting uniforms on working women are a sight to behold when departing the more conservative Muslim majority regions! Maybe I should actually disclose that it is more the sudden change of scenery that I drop my jaw at than a preference thing, especially considering I find many of the younger more liberal Muslim women amazingly stunning with their faces framed in elegantly wrapped cloth. That which is unseen plays upon the imagination, and the air of mystery is enthralling! But I guess the best way to sum up my wide-eyed staring and slack jaw is by repeating something a wise man once said: sometimes you “read it for the articles”, other times you just need to flip straight to the centrefold.

Travellers’ Czechs

OK … the title is groaner, but what the hell, right?

On this fine day, dear travellers and readers of blogs, I would like to draw your attention to my cosy home-away-from-home in Olomouc, Czech Republic … the “Poet’s Corner Hostel”. Yes folks, for a few days out of the year, I actually leave behind 3 to 5 star hotels (and even one 6 star palace in Jordan on the Dead Sea) provided me by my work with a Canadian travel agency and get back to my hostelling roots that were so deeply and widely spread during my years of making beds and scrubbing loos throughout some of Scotland’s top hostels back in the day. And thanks to the warm hearts and friendship of the owners of said hostel, I get to plunge back into the depths once more … figurative and literally.

Greg and Francie (said owners of said hostel) left the outback of Australia ice ages ago and, through careful planning, pure chance and possibly even continental drift, ended up in the Moravian city of Olomouc to deal with wayward punters that actually realise the country has more going for it than the tourist toilet, expat-ridden hell that is Prague (don’t gasp, as I really do love Prague … when no one is about). A place of stunning beauty, filled to the brim with history, architecture galore, nipple perking wine and food and more mullet haircuts than you would wish to view in a lifetime, Olomouc holds my heart in a way that forces me to return over and over again like a tornado to a trailer park.

And just what draws me to this place like carrion draws a vulture? Well, you could say that it is the oh-so-yummy, gut clogging fried cheese or maybe even the succulent Slavic female student eye candy gracing this university town that keep me on a short lead (don’t tell my wife I said that), or maybe it is the two picturesque town squares, the Holy Trinity Column or St Wenceslas Cathedral. All of this would only be a small fraction of my reasons for loving Olomouc so whole-heartedly. There is “just something about it” that I “can’t put my finger on”.

I first came here with a Czech friend back in ’98 whilst working as a teacher in a south-eastern Czech town called Uherské Hradiště (try saying that three times fast). After moving to Poland a few years later, I would jump at any chance to hop across the border with any acquaintance new to the region just to breathe in the spirit of the place and impress them with the city. These days I drag the family down with me whenever we get too tired of our small town rural life. New Year’s Eve and the Olomouc City Festival seem to coincide with that desire more often than not, but that is no bad thing, let me tell you.
What I may actually love the most about it is that despite being the second largest collection of historical monuments, buildings and such in Czech Republic (only Prague contains more), very few foreigners come here! There are no airports for low-cost flights to bring obnoxious stag-partying numb-nuts from abroad for cheaper beer. The train from Prague to Kraków takes around 7 hours, so most rail-goers usually stay in their seats instead of breaking it up to see something more that the bucket-list cities of Central Europe (don’t you dare call this area Eastern Europe … it won’t make the locals happy).

This is all, unfortunately, a balancing act for business. Hostel owners are in this particular tightrope walk of wanting more people to stay to experience a rare gem of a city and learn more about the Czechs, but, when it comes down to it, the need of clients to pay the rent for such a collection of cosy dorms and private rooms is just plain obvious. And therein lies the dilemma: “yes, we need more people to keep our business afloat, but more people will screw up the ambiance!” Does the world need another tourist infested Prague? I think one place of that standing per country is enough, don’t you? But how do you put a relatively undiscovered Shangri-La like Olomouc on the map without ruining it with gangs of piss-heads on the prowl or obnoxious day-trippers swarming in by the bus-loads only to take a quick photo to prove they were there? Maybe, and this is just my opinion, a passport check at the city limits would work (though this would involve all passports requiring a new field stating if the holder of the document is a total idiot or not … which should actually be standard, if you ask me). Other than that, I guess you just have to hope for the best, eh?

I guess what I am trying to say is: if you want to get away from the mainstream, then be a bit adventurous and hop off the Prague – Kraków train at Olomouc. And don’t just stop for a single evening to put another notch on your bedpost of European one-night-stands, either! Spend some quality time with this lady; she needs a bit of sensual courting instead of the usual skip in foreplay, quick grope and ungrateful pull-out before sunrise. Whilst you are there gawking wide-eyed at her elegance and shuddering to the sultry sounds of the Czech tongue (which is hard to hear in central Prague any more), have some of the thickest, richest chocolate pie in the world at Café 87 (I prefer the white chocolate myself, much to the chagrin of a certain Olomouc resident), drink a pint of local brew at the Moritz pub, stuff your face with smažák (fried cheese), hranolky a tatarka (chips and tartar sauce) at Hanácká Hospoda and fill a 2 litre plastic bottle with Frankovka red wine for under 2 Euro at many of the wine cellars … and after you are done with that, kick back and enjoy the hospitality and stories of my two friends, the Kofola Cola pounding Greg and the Tina Turner impersonating Francie, at Poet’s Corner Hostel (www.hostelolomouc.com). They will provide you with a lot more info and many more things to do besides my gluttonous suggestions, I promise! But you will also see that they have been seduced by this Czech beauty as well.

Oh yeah, all this on the condition that you are not a complete numpty, though.

Water water everywhere …

After two weeks of near constant rainfall, the levies are no longer holding. The train from Bochnia to Kraków is still in operation, but the lands surrounding the tracks are filling with river-water and submerging homes and roads. We are lucky being atop a hill, but the waterworks for our town is out of commission (funny that … all this rain and the water system has been shut down). I start a tour of Poland tonight, but I wonder if the south of the country will be accessible in the next few days since there is no sign of the torrent subsiding.

– Posted whilst out and about

Hawking Up a Lung

Simplistically, when you hear the word “Egypt”, the thoughts that bombard your skull tend to include the staple examples like “pyramid”, “mummy”, “Pharaoh”, “Nile”, “Cleopatra” and “Tutankhamen”. All well and good, if you ask me. These are what the crowds come for. These are the country’s pied piper, so to speak. Who would not want to experience the claustrophobic interior of the last remaining of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World (that made it by default into the new list as well)? What kid (or necrophiliac, for that matter) is not fascinated by the leather-skinned preserved corpses of the kings of old with their internal bits resting in jars? If you dream of a river, the Nile is lord at 6,600 km in length! Elizabeth Taylor made certain parts of our male anatomy stand at attention in that film of excess. And what was Steve Martin thinking when he wrote the song “King Tut”? There is money to be made in the myth and legend, and tourists are happy to fulfil that dream as they battle the crowds of fellow enthusiasts, young and old, Asian, European and American, thin and pudgy, elegant and backpacker (I pretend to be the elegant, but I am the punter at heart … hotel laundry service? HA! I laugh at your existence! Sink and free shampoo samples works fine by me.), idiot and intellectual. This is the realm of gods! The land where your afterlife needed much more effort to prepare for than your amount of breaths taken upon the Earth. And why not? You will spend much more time pushing up daisies than you will blinking your eyelids when it comes down to it. Someone will more likely move into your house after you are gone, but who is going to take over your grave (religious preferences aside)?

As I said before, all this is well and good. The Egyptian government and local governances rake in the pounds from us visitors eager to see intricate hieroglyphics and painted tombs … but what about the average Joe (or average Mohammed, should I say)? In a country of just over 80 million, jobs are hard to come by, and the economy is in a rough state. So how do you get by and make ends meet? The answer is simple: SELL, DAMMIT! SELL!!!! The tourists are here! Sell ’em whatever you can at whatever price you can get! And in whatever currency, too! Water, scarves, wooden sculptures of Anubis the jackal-headed god, t-shirts, playing cards, colouring books of Egyptian clothing … take Euro, dollars, pounds (and if you can’t do anything at the banks with the coins, trade them back to other unsuspecting tourists for a favourable exchange rate). And if you are lucky, you will find a moron who doesn’t care to haggle, increasing your profit margin by 300%. Other times, you find those that love to bargain, but you will never sell for less than 10% over your cost. But what do you do if no one cares about your cheap crap that is Egyptian in appearance, but was manufactured in China? Well, there is only one possibility: follow anyone that even sideways glances at your goods to the four corners of the globe until they become too frustrated by your constant barrage of offers until they eventually give in just to get you the hell out of their hair. SCORE!

The downside to us tourists (besides losing our money, of course) is that it makes it near impossible to enjoy any sightseeing whatsoever. You just don’t get left alone … for a moment … at all … ever! I recently completed a month of touring in Egypt, but did I really get to see a sight that has been on my list of ‘things to see before you die’ – the Pyramids of Giza? Nope … nothing more than a passing glance. I was too busy fighting off postcard sellers, trinket pushers and those offering horse or camel rides. Every time the camera came out to grab a shot, some twit would jump in front wanting to know if I wanted “to ride his camel for a good price” (wait … now that I think about it, maybe I was be propositioned … hmmm). Even in more remote areas with fewer travellers, the keepers of these monumental tombs would sneak into view and want ‘baksheesh’ for you just happening to take their photo. I know these guys are just trying to make a living, but I end up spending more of my time trying to dodge outstretched hands and con-artists than I do staring in awe at some of the most spectacular architectural achievements of human engineering to grace this planet of ours. Maybe I was not suckered into buying useless crap, but I still feel cheated.

Ash Wednesday

Iceland … a tiny place, but definitely with aspirations for world domination! I feel bad for Iceland and its economic woes, I really do. The collapse of their banking system put many of Bjork’s fellow countrymen in dire straights, and I even think Damon Albarn from Blur lost out on his property value and might have to put his pub up for sale there … if it were worth anything nowadays, that is. I guess the only good side was that Iceland could finally have made it into the realm of “damn, one can finally afford to visit this usually overpriced island in the north”. But THEN … yup, you guessed it: volcano went and screwed that up, too! Poor little craggy island. Just can’t get a break.

But the gods of fire were not content in just ruining the economy and travel situation of those under their own keep. Hell no! A sleeping giant of a mountain had to blow its top and kick enough ash into the sky to clog a jet engine for thousands of kilometres round, stranding the happy traveller in distant lands and ruining the careers of businessmen from every corner of the world. Need to grab a connection flight through Europe? Good luck, pal! The airline industry is all out of sorts with losses claimed to be in the billions of Euro. But wait … if you think about it, there is a good side. The hotel industry has had a veritable orgasm of biblical proportions! All those cancellations forced the airports to put most of us weary suitcase-rolling pax up for the night at any B&B, motel, hotel and camping spot they could get their hands on.

From my own experience, after being trapped for the night in Vienna, I was given the option of a hotel, taxi ride included, all for gratis … but the hotel turned out to be nearly 70 km away from the airport! And that was the closest available! The airlines may have lost out, but the hotel business is booming. Nice enough of Austrian Airlines, and they are even throwing in compensation for my cancelled flight, too, so I cannot yell or complain at them (I will reserve that for a molten pit of magma in the land of geothermal heating). Those guys did the best they could and have been quite fair about the whole thing. They even gave out free cola, water and juice! Sweet! But, by my own personal choice, I just couldn’t fathom a 70 km ride to a bed late in the evening, especially when I had to be back at the airport early in the morning for the possibility of a rental car to get my tired bones back to Poland. (Unfortunately, the car turned out to fall through at the last moment that next morning after it being promised to me the night before. I may not have issues with the airlines, but a certain numb-nut who was not so “thrifty” is definitely on my list of people who should suffer an agonising bout of itching and burning haemorrhoids for eternity.) Through my days of backpacking and puddle-jumping, I have become no stranger to waiting rooms, airport benches, hours of wandering whilst waiting for ticket terminals to open, and I usual have the “what the hell” nature to deal with it. I get a bit more feisty when I have been on tour for a month and am just ready to go home (more so when you look at a map and just say to yourself: “but I am so close! This isn’t fair!”), but life is life, and I must admit, if you are going to be stuck in an airport overnight, you could do worse than Vienna International arrivals hall. No, they didn’t throw out cots for everyone to crash on, but there is free, fast wi-fi (all the better for Skyping your wife and telling her how annoyed you are), a plethora of eating options (the “Golden Arches” being open 24/7 for your artery-hardening pleasure) and a place called “Pizza & Pasta”, which, thanks to someone’s wondrous foresight, installed padded bench seating! Oh, bliss! The temperature in the place was also phenomenally conducive to sleep without the need of a blanket. I would almost have given this palace of comfort a five star rating if they had just had some lovely red-clad Austrian Airlines beauty to hand me a pillow … and fluff it for me, since I am wishing. What makes the whole enchilada just that much better is that at no time throughout the evening or morning did a disgruntled employee of “Pizza & Pasta” attempt to remove me from my post because of not ordering anything from their establishment. The woman who began preparing for another day of business at 7 am just gave me a jolly smile as she positioned her salt and pepper shakers on the table before me (or maybe it was a smile of pity for this un-showered, seemingly homeless bum crashed in her work station).

In the end, after the car situation turned belly up and Vienna airport decided to cancel all flight for the next day as well, I came to the decision that I just could not impose on their hospitality any longer. The airport was grand, but I had explored all the nooks and crannies I could and was becoming bored (as well as even more ripe from lack of shower). I decided to do what man did before flight became the rapid mode of affordable transport: I meandered onto a metro train or two, staggered into a bus to Bratislava, fell onto a train to Prague and transferred over to two more trains to finally get on the right track so that I may reach my destination of home. It turned out, though, that once I finally made it to my final stop, my wife and child were waiting for me at the wrong platform, so I didn’t get that immediate “jump out of the carriage, family runs into your arms with tears of joy in their eyes because you have been gone for a month” moment. Yes, it happened a few minutes later, but I am an instant gratification kind of guy at times, so let me whine a bit. Makes the story more dramatic anyway, doesn’t it?

As a side note … news reports are coming in that airlines are questioning the extent of closures and cancellations, but then following that line up with reports of more volcanic ash spewing into the air. The gods are not pleased! Does any country still sacrifice virgins any more? Maybe we should look into that.

Flight of Fancy

Friday, Jan. 22:

Why does it seem all flights I have to take leave at an hour where most piss-heads come home tossing their cookies up from the pub? OK, I admit, the hour of actual departure was not so bad; it’s just the getting up three hours beforehand to make it to the airport for their “reasonable” check-in time that puts my hairs up. I have no problems getting up at 6 am. Earlier than that is just not natural. I’ll move on to better things, though. After all the new crap about security on flights, I have to say that I was expecting worse than I got. What I figured would happen would be a full-cavity body search with drug-sniffing gerbils doing the intimate dirty work, but what I got was just a rapid look-over and an “enjoy your flight”. What? Do I not seem attractive enough at 6 am for a frisking? Oh well … there is always the return flight.

Made it to Cairo without any other issues. After doing so many rounds of Jordan and Syria, Cairo surprises me for its relative cleanliness. Maybe I just haven’t looked hard enough. Hard to see through all the exhaust fumes anyway. But it is good to see the sand and desert again. That’s something that still fascinates me. And it is a welcome change from the -18 C temp I left behind in Poland!

Early to bed tonight (since I was up so damned early). I have also developed a what seems to be repeating pre-tour minor sore throat. Subliminal or goodbye kisses from my sinus cold infected, snot-filled daughter and hacking-up-a-lung wife? You make the call.

That Burning Feeling

Ask anyone that knows me well and I am sure they will tell you that they don’t really find me the religious type, but I do try to have a sincere respect for anyone and everyone’s beliefs, and I try to keep my mind open. I truly feel that we should let people be as they wish and do as they will, within reason, of course, and as long as they don’t come knocking on my door asking for donations, my first-born or blood. This does not mean I agree with everything, and there is a fairly strong aversion within me towards fanaticism no matter what religion it comes from. But when it comes down to it, who really is to judge? I am more than a little sure that most people would not see eye to eye with me on many of my ideas either.

In my travels, I have visited the churches and temples of many a god, saint, spirit, prophet and even the occasional fruitcake (Read about St Simeon in Syria for that one. He sat atop a 60-foot pillar for something like 35 years and let maggots munch away at his self-inflicted open wounds. He may have preached a good message, but he was a loony, I tell ya!). Some of these buildings of worship can be quite austere, plain and simple, and some are just way over-the-top and gaudy. Being in Azerbaijan brought me round to another sample of the way folks look to something “higher” for a meaning in their life, but this time, the fire elements played a part.

After leading groups round the fringe regions of the once great Persian Empire, Zoroastrianism, a religion based on the constant struggle between light and dark, good and evil, has recently worked its way into my meanderings, and just outside of Baku in Surakhani is a somewhat interesting site called Atashgah that is believed to be tied to his religion and was used as a pilgrimage centre and monastery. I say “somewhat interesting” because, to be honest, the site itself is not that spectacular in its overall appearance, but the ideology of the place and its natural wonders are (or were, should I say), and I definitely find humour in the punchline of what has transpired here in relatively recent years.

The complex of Atashgah, which literally means something like “home of fire”, is roughly pentagonal-shaped and, in its present form, is thought to have been built in the 17th and 18th century. It looks more of a small castle or fortress than a monastery, but this concept is not so unusual as many religious sects around the globe have not been too popular with their surrounding dwellers, leading many of the faithful to build up a defence system to keep the more aggressive unbelievers at bay. Supposedly constructed on an ancient site of worship that people made holy due to seven holes in the ground that at one time burned constantly from natural oil and gas leaking to the surface, Atashgah eventually became a congregation point for the followers of Zoroastrianism, or possibly Hinduism, as they both have a deep veneration of fire. Scholars really haven’t figured out exactly which religion it is definitely tied to, but pilgrims from both branches made their way out here up until the last century.

As previously mentioned, there are a few natural fissures within the complex that at one time issued forth miraculous flames on a constant basis, the central altar being the largest of said burning holes (I think I had a case of that once, but a nice cream helped). These were all still spouting their internal fossil fuels up until 1969 when the natural supply eventually ran dry due to heavy exploitation from the Soviets during their time in control here. But here’s the punchline: In oil rich Azerbaijan along the Caspian Sea, what do you do when a fairly popular tourist and pilgrimage site whose draw is based on eternal fires looses its main point of interest? Really, who would want to come and see a Zoroastrian Fire Temple with no fire? Well, that’s when you get the state owned gas company to install a pipeline from their main processing plant to give the place back its spark, so to speak. Makes you wonder, though. Does the present-day temple-turned-museum get subsidised gas, or do they have one hell of a bill at the end of every month? Whatever the case, this modern upgrade still takes away from the magic and mysticism of the place when you know that after business hours are over and the last punter has left, some bloke just goes over and switches the mains valve to the off position to cut costs. I guess in the end, though, they are conserving resources!

Baku to You, Too

Thirty kilometres in two hours. It just wasn’t fair. They claim that one in every four people of driving age in Moscow has a car, and the ungodly traffic on the ring roads circling this city of nine million and leading to the airport add tremendous weight to this statement. The rain was also pissing down, adding to my foul mood. It will come as no surprise that I was happy to see the backside of Moscow as the plane darted off the tarmac into the wild blue yonder. Baku in Azerbaijan was our next destination, and the sight of the Caspian Sea upped the pulse in my veins just like a few cups of espresso injected straight into my bloodstream. I had just finished leading a tour through the Baltic countries, over to St Petersburg then down through countless towns with churches chock full of icons to Moscow and was accompanying a group of clients on to the next leg of a tour through the Caucasus region. The temperature over the past few days in Russia had been hinting at the Arctic blast that autumn and winter bestow upon this massive body of a country, and I could imagine the Muscovites fluffing up their furry hats and putting a shine on their lined boots in preparation as I snickered to myself of the warmth and sun I was about to experience.

The first glimpses of the capital city of Baku were confirming my expectations of a solar warming of the bones, but there was something there that I knew to expect, but wasn’t fully prepared for. Baku is a city built on oil … This I knew. As far back as Peter I of Russia, this place was in demand for its black gold, and the multitude of wells, platforms and tanker ships consolidated in and around the bay of Baku and spreading into the Caspian prove there is fossil fuel galore to be had. What you don’t expect is the beauty and wealth of gorgeous buildings that make up the city centre … a striking contrast to the rusting tankers in the harbours and the industrial coastline strewn with refinery stations. There is even a stunning promenade dotted with cafés and viewpoints, though I am not sure why you would take a romantic stroll here with your object of affection. Lines like: “I love the way the glare off that pipeline in the distance makes your eyes twinkle, my dear!” just don’t seem to cut it, do they? Anyway, if you turn your back to the sea, the view of the city centre may reignite your passions. Maybe not so much for getting you randy on date night, but if you like shopping at high end stores, then you are set. The newer section of the city could be the up-scale parts of Paris, London or New York City. And this area is still growing, too. New construction is everywhere, and no expense seems to be spared. OK, let me rephrase that; no expense SEEMED to be spared … before the economic crisis hit. A pause button has been pressed at most of the building sites. It’s as if ‘Bob the Builder’, to celebrate all the new contracts he had won, went on a week-long binge of biblical proportions and just couldn’t seem to face the ungodly racket that comes with the turf. A multitude of concrete and steel fingers reach up from the ground, patiently waiting on a glove to fit them. But the idea is still there, and you can already see it will be a city that ranks as one of the finest, that is as soon as the rest of the world comes to realise that there is even a country called Azerbaijan.

There is an older, classical side to the city as well. The historic centre of Baku claimed UNESCO status in 2000 and used to be a fortress, a formidable one at that. Inside its ancient walls are the beautiful (though barren of furnishings) Palace of the Shirvanshahs, the thick-walled Maiden Tower, quaint winding medieval streets and beautifully restored caravansaries (now converted into restaurants … as you do). I am quite sure that during the summer months, this gem of a place would be bustling with punters peaking in to all the carpet shops, snapping shots from atop the tower and pounding back coffee at the cafés, but we happened to show up in mid autumn. It was so quiet that you could here a cricket pass wind. Even the majority of cheesy “antique” shops knew there was no money left to con people out of and had closed their doors. In other words, it was pleasant and hassle free!

Something else that catches your attention in Baku, and Azerbaijan in general, is the peoples’ sense of religion. Technically, they follow Islam, but you would be hard pressed to find any women with their hair covered or the echoing sounds of calls to prayer blaring across the landscape from megaphones strapped to the tops of minarets. I asked our local guide the reason behind this lack of show, and he said it as plainly as possible: “If you had the religion beaten out of you by the Russians for as long as we had, you wouldn’t put too much effort in when you got the chance to, would you?” I suppose not. And when I inquired about Ramadan and any restrictions one might impose upon himself, the reply was: “I know a few people who cut down on smoking a bit.” And there you go. Could be religion anywhere.

We had dinner that night a a charming little smoked filled restaurant (in Islamic countries, every place seems to be smoke filled) a few minutes walk from our equally charming hotel in the suburbs. I love a good grilled meal, and the Caucasus countries are in no short supply of meat that needs a good grilling. A spicy kebab dish puts a smile on my face any day, but what really made the meal and location special was the proprietor of the joint. He spoke English well and loudly, but in a manner that was welcoming and arrogant all at once. It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t place my finger on it. After telling my group that, even though they carried alcohol at the establishment, we could bring in our own from the off-license down the street (a comment that pleased many folks), the owner came over for a chat. It turned out that he had managed a restaurant in New York City for many years before returning to his life in Baku. That was the reason for his mannerism, I thought to myself. He said that nobody in Azerbaijan knew how to run a service oriented diner, and since he had the experience from the US, he was going to be the best Baku had to offer. He had only been a few years into it, but was already gaining a reputation. The food and service were superb, I must admit, but a few points have to be shaved off for the entertainment. Nothing worse, I tell you, than a keyboard player and a singer with a slightly off English accent doing covers of Sting tunes. I was truly glad I brought my own wine at that point.