travel

7 posts

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.

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.

Slap and Tickle

A Canadian friend of mine, Rob, has been recently exiled to the Middle East for an indefinite period of time and has, of course, had to make the necessary adjustments in his life to deal with such a fate. Don’t feel that I am saying the Middle East is a bad place to be lengthy periods of time or even permanently, but when you are in his line of work (he is another tour guide like myself) and the head office continually adds more tours to your schedule at a moment’s notice, you tend to get the idea that your own home country may be more of a holiday destination than the exotic places you spend every day in (either that or someone in the government is barring him from returning to Canada until he relinquishes the damning photos he has of famous hockey players getting it on with rampant beavers whilst Celine Dion circles the scene riding naked on a moose … hey, those folks in the Great White North have to do something to stay warm, right?). Anyway, the point being is that he has had to adjust to doing things the Middle Eastern way for better or worse. Things you take for granted become a new experience when living abroad from hotel room to hotel room and city to city. Where can I find my favourite brand of toothpaste? Can colours and whites be washed at the same time in a bathtub full of lukewarm water using hotel shampoo? How will I be able to get someone to fully understand how I want my hair cut? Will the conservative Muslim girl at reception forgive my drunkenness and the perverse comments I was making about the shapely contents contained beneath her attire (supposedly under my breath to my friend, though everyone in the lobby and even a few floors up seems to know exactly what I was saying … eavesdroppers!) or will I now get the broom closet instead of the junior suite for every subsequent visit to this hotel? After spending some time around Syria and Jordan with my aforementioned partner in crime, I can tell you that we now have pretty good answers to some of these quandaries, though further investigation is still pending before we release our knowledge to the general public at large. Our findings so far are thus:

1) With a little bit of hunting, in most medium to large cities, the major brands of toothpaste seem to be readily available for your minty-fresh pleasure. These brands seem to be imported mostly from Europe, though I have come across a brand or two I remember from the US but have no recollection of seeing in Poland at all (that may say something about Poland, though). There are plenty of regional brands, but due to their being labelled in Arabic, a beautiful written language, but one that will elude my grasp until the end of time, I have been a bit wary of giving them my time. Imagine the surprise you would have if you began brushing away and discovered it was, say, hummus flavoured dental gel. I love hummus, (as a matter of fact, I have it for nearly every breakfast and dinner when in Syria), but I am not sure I would like to scrub my choppers with it!

2) Whilst travelling, especially as hotel laundry fees can be exorbitant, bathtub laundry is a form of religion. For some the Sabbath day can fall twice a week, for others only once. And for the select chosen ones, the sock and undergarment sacrifice to the porcelain basin could even be a daily sacrament not to be missed out on less you incur the wrath of Putridius, the ancient Roman deity of repugnant odours. As to the colour problem, you can always tell an unseasoned traveller, because they are the ones that do every piece of laundry separately: black socks in one soaking; green t-shirt in the other; white clothing gets washed on a different day as the red sweater so that there is at least 24 hours for every trace of dye that may have run from the sweater to disappear so as to not contaminate the virgin purity of the pristine cloth. After a few weeks of this, you just say “fuck it” and chuck everything in the tub together. Life is too short! Go see the sights, read a book, take a nap! Who cares if everyone starts thinking that pastel pink and communist grey are your favourite colours. Believe me, as a foreigner abroad, people are staring at you for more than just your choice of faded attire.

3) Hairstyle: a defining aspect of our appearance. Aside from facial hair (both for men and women), one of the main elements of our individual self. I can already here you ask: “But what about those ultra-conservative Islamic women covered head to toe in black? You can’t even see their hair, so what does it matter to them?” Well, be sure that appearance is just as high on their agenda as anyone else, and if you think that those Muslim ladies aren’t concerned about what they look like and are just a bastion of prudish devotion to Allah when they are at home with hubby, you have another thing coming. For a culture that prides themselves on having many children (even more so than the Catholics, if you can believe that), I am quite positive the vaguely discernible female form concealed beneath those dark garbs is not Mrs Lumpy the Wonder Spud; otherwise, do you think Mr Spud would be ploughing that fertile field as oft as he does? If you do not follow this theory, then take a gander through the Damascus souqs (the shopping bazaars) filled with risqué lingerie shops selling goods that could make a porn star snicker. Think about it for a moment, if the undergarments are all bells and whistles (I think I even saw one outfit with bells and whistles … really!), do you honestly believe they would let their bodies be akin to potato purée and permit their hair to resemble a nest that a rat would be ashamed to use as an outhouse? I think not!

Just the other day, against the advice of my Canadian colleague, I decided to throw caution to the wind and give the Syrian barber a chop at my shaggy locks of gold (OK, scruffy strands of thinning straw). Since Rob has had to deal with life in the area for much longer than I, his comment of “Middle Eastern Barbers: 2 / Rob: 0” interjected serious concern into my need for a trim and the fear of having my head resemble a road kill Scottish terrier with mange. Two haircuts for Rob had both ended in sorrow and the need for a close shave to rectify the damage done. But as I was just about to start leading a new group around Damascus, first impressions were important (elderly clients tend to be a bit more critical, and I couldn’t have “knowledgeable, but appeared to not have realised big hair on men went out in the late 1980s” written on my performance review). For myself, I usually try to have a glance into barber shops and suss out the workers there before trusting their scissor-bearing hands near my scalp. If their hairstyles are vile, laughable or resembles any heads of the members of A Flock of Seagulls, skip over to the next and keep hunting until something doesn’t make you want to launch a recently eaten meal all over the pavement.

Just behind the hotel where I had been shacking up, just such a place appeared. “Well, here we go,” I told myself as I walked in pointing to my head and making hand gestures resembling the shrinking of hair (you never know the level of verbal understanding in countries where you are not fluent, so body language must be quite showy and expressive). The man stared back at me and said in perfect English “Good day, sir! Do you wish to have your quaff readjusted and your follicles stimulated so as to strengthen their girth and improve their powers of regeneration?” (Actually, he just said, “you want cut? Me give. Sit.”) I parked my hindquarters in the obligatory barber’s chair and prepared myself for whatever may come. Well, the whatever that came was in no way what I was expecting. I’ll go ahead and say that the haircut itself was fine and above my expectations (take that, Rob!), but the mangling I received was something that just may be one of the reasons why Guantanamo Bay is being closed! After a few snips, cuts and skilful manoeuvres with an electric shaver, I was instructed to lean back, thinking that maybe the gentleman may have just wished for a more comfortable angle to attack some uneven strands, when all of a sudden there was this boiling hot honey colour wax smacked onto my cheeks and nose! The extreme heat subsided quickly enough, though I swear I could almost feel my delicate alabaster skin begin to blister, but then, almost as soon as the goo had hardened into a golden mask, the barber nudged his fingers underneath a rough edge and ripped the left side of my cheek off in one sudden twitch of his wrist! The pain was so intense that my eyes watered and a pathetic, girlish whimper escaped my vocal chords. All I could think of was “what had I done to deserve this?” As I was about to start giving in to any demands he may have, the “gentle”-man tore the right-side cheek from my skull. Through my tear-filled eyes, I swear I could see a smile upon his lips as he showed me the underside of these waxen devices of evil. His voice said, “See? Face dirty. Clean now”, but his eyes seemed to exclaim, “Here’s for the crusades, infidel!!!” At this point, I was ready to go back in time and beat the ever-loving crap out of Pope Urban II for starting the crusades and then make my way forward through history up to bitch-slapping Bush Jr. for imposing sanctions on this poor man’s country, but since I was not technically inclined to do so at that moment, I just whimpered a bit more instead. As the tears overflowed and began distorting my vision before continuing their way down my raw cheeks, I suddenly found that I could no longer breathe! That damned waxy goo was now being stuffed up my nostrils! Forget waterboarding or sleep deprivation … this was the be-all end-all of torture tactics! I began to panic, for I knew what was to come … he would yank this stuff once it hardened out of my nose, ripping out whatever bacteria-blocking fine hairs I had up there. Almost immediately, my fears were confirmed. I am certain at that moment I shouted out my bank account information and offered up my wife, daughter, house and neighbours as a bonus if he would only make the pain go away. My pleading must have worked, because he then patted my face and began to lather up some foamy white cream that looked to me might be rather soothing. As a wonderfully soft brush began spreading the cool, glorious foam all over my face, I thought that my endurance had held out and maybe I would walk out of this den of pain alive after all. My burning cheeks and nose were grateful for the relief, but the man seemed to have other ideas in his mind, because the foam swept up into my eyes and then up to my forehead. I began to tremble inside as the white froth blinded me from whatever was to come next.

I was left this way for approximately five minutes before another voice came out of nowhere to my right. A younger male voice … the evil man’s son? An apprentice here to learn his terrible art? “Massage?” it questioned me. “Do I have a choice?” I tried to reply through the cream, though I am not sure he could hear me. At this point, ten digits began manipulating the elasticity of my face into forms I never imagined possible whist the “teacher” blurted out instructions from time to time. My first thought was that he had mistaken my head for pizza dough, but then I began to think he had reached the age of interest in sex and was being taught how to caress a woman’s breast. If this was the case, he would definitely need more training. Any woman receiving this amount of mangling to her upper torso from a suitor would never let hands with this lack of experience anywhere near areas of more delicacy! I hoped I was wrong in my assumption, because why would they use my head to practice this anyway? Now that would just be adding insult to injury!

Eventually, the kid concluded his “massage” and slapped a slightly wet cloth across my face to tidy up. My skin was beyond red at this point, and I guess that is why they thought it was prime time to dash on some alcohol based tonic upon me. I am sure many of you Indiana Jones fans remember the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where the Nazi goon opens the ark and his face melts … that’s how it felt. As my cries reverberated through the ancient streets of Damascus, my tormentor removed the protective cloth from round my neck (probably put there not to prevent those newly separated hairs from invading the inner areas of my collar and shirt, but to save my clothing, which he would later take for his own needs from my post-traumatised corpse, from becoming pock-marked with blood). He patted my face with a firm hand, smiled broadly and then hit me with the worst shock of the entire ordeal: “That will be 25 US dollars, please.”

I stumbled back to the hotel a broken man. I was sore, I felt violated and I was ashamed, and my wallet definitely weighed a bit less for all the trouble as well. It took all my nerve to walk past the porters at the entrance to the hotel, whom I had become fairly decent friends with at that point. I wished for a hidden entrance to sneak through so that I may retire to my room and wait for the healing to begin. But as I came closer, they smiled their usual warm smiles and said, “Welcome back. Hey, nice haircut!”

4) As for cute Muslim girls working reception at hotels who have to endure the crude comments of smelly, uncultured foreigners who come from a drinking culture, well, my lodgings did not get downgraded, but I guess they have a chat with the local barbers to assist them with their retribution.

You! Gimme Pen!!


The “Cradle of Civilisation”; the “land of the burnt-faced men”, Abyssinia: home of the powerful Aksumite empire from the 2nd to 7th century A.D. – These are just some of the descriptions that have been granted upon Ethiopia through the centuries. Sounds majestic, does it not? Before I even go into this, let me first stress that Ethiopia’s history is just that … majestic! There is more than enough to be proud of for its nearly 80 million population (a rough estimate made at the end of 2008), and to top it all off, it was also one of the only African countries never to succumb to colonialism during the European land-grab of the 19th and 20th centuries. Italy tried their damnedest … twice … and failed miserably as the strong-spirited Ethiopians proved too crafty to enslave (though the Italian influence, mainly in the form of the carving of roads through impossible landscape and the donation of pasta-based cuisine, has had its positive effects). Even communism could not seem to retain a lengthy foothold, only lasting approx. 17 years. Little would you expect then that one of the most innocent of ideas could rip asunder such a proud people in such a short space of time. In a span of just over five years, Ethiopian children have been stripped of their dignity and have become a plague upon the nation with their hands outstretched and palms open. The cries of “You! You! Gimmee money! Gimmee pen! Highland*! Highland!” can be heard nearly everywhere following after the faces of those less pigmented. Even the famines of the 1980s (most Westerners sole knowledge of Ethiopia due to the Live Aid concerts) was a minor toothache compared to the root canal that is needed now. Do not blame the parents of these persistently begging youth! Do not blame the government (there is so much else to blame them for) for the lack of school facilities! Do not blame their economic situation (though they are rated as the 3rd poorest nation in the world) or the hardship of their lives! Do not even blame tourism, which brings an influx of much-needed income into the country and broadens the world’s limited knowledge of this fascinating place and its wonderful people! Blame the tourists! Blame the photographers! Blame the magazines and journalists! Thanks to that first batch of individuals coming in under the moniker of mass tourism, a majority of the children have been converted into obnoxious little scabs.

Why do I put the blame upon the above-mentioned? You see, many years ago, after the fall of the Derg (the heavy-handed communist rule of the mid-70s to early 90s) and the pointless conflict with Eritrea, adventure tourists and magazines like NG could get back into the country and photo the average citizen, not just the scores of dead that had piled up from the conflicts and famines that they had a few glimpses of previously. Here were a race of people after many years of hardships and with little previous contact with the outside world that were curious to see other people. From all accounts (since I was not there at the time), the staring at foreign visitors was due to genuine curiosity and true interest. Then some twat thought to himself: “Hey, I remember seeing pictures of people here on Live Aid a few decades or so ago. Aren’t they all supposed to be emaciated and on the verge of starvation and death? Well, they look pretty fit now … probably from all that wonderful aid we have sent them .. so maybe I will give them a pen for posing so nicely in a photo for me. That pen should help them all learn to read and write. And since they must also be dying of dysentery, I’ll give them my bottle of water. And what the hell … a few Ethiopian birr** could do no harm! Maybe help them make ends meet!” OK, let us go through the wrongs here:

1) Yes, there was a horrible famine during the early to mid-80s which saw nearly one million people die, but what you may not realise is that the communist government of the time exasperated this exponentially by taking the food that was being produced back to Addis Ababa to feed themselves. The two worst areas affected (the Tigray and Oromo regions) were further pushed into hell by being major regions opposed to the government of the time. Let’s put this in a bit more different perspective, though. Around 8 million people affected by the famine … a conservative guess of population at the time would be around 50 million inhabitants. In other words, the population was tightening its belt overall, but that does not mean they were all the walking skeletons as seen on TV. Don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to belittle the situation at all! It was horrible … but this is not what should define the country!
2) Western aid, my arse! The US government barely lifted a finger (on the grand scale of things) when it came to feeding those affected by the famines, which is why Bob Geldof tried to do what he could with Live Aid. You have to remember, though, there really isn’t much the US wants from Ethiopia. No oil! Well, there is coffee … but Starbucks wasn’t the world power in the 80s as it is now. As for all that money from Live Aid, well, Mengistu (the communist leader of the Derg and murderer of Haile Sellasie) and his cronies made sure it got dispersed evenly … among themselves!
3) In a country with a literacy rate of approx. 43%, this is a country that doesn’t need pens! It needs teachers and schools! If you want to help, don’t give a kid a pen (What are they going to write on? They don’t have paper either!) … find a school or educational organisation; donate books or other educational material (to the schools, not the individuals)! If you prefer to give money, then donate to an official cause or community project. When you give individual kids gifts of pens, money or books, you never know how they are actually going to use it. A big scam from children is to get you to buy them a dictionary or something from the local shop (at slightly inflated prices), then after you are out of sight, they just sell it back to the shop for a cut in the profit. That dictionary you just proudly purchased has probably been “donated” to the kid 7 or 8 times already!
4) “Highland” was the first bottled water available in Ethiopia, and children will chase you down the road for miles screaming this word at you. Good, clean drinking water is needed everywhere in the world, but handouts don’t really teach people anything. There is water in the country (though much less in the dry season), but teaching people irrigation techniques and helping communities get hold of filtration pumps (which a few private companies have started donating or selling at reasonable rates to locals) helps people be self-sufficient and retain their pride. Also, these one litre plastic drinking bottles are not the most durable items in the world. After they are worn out, do you think they get thrown into a rubbish bin or recycled?
5) Unfortunately, most people are just people. Money is needed, and human nature makes us all opportunistic at times. When the first photographers came into Ethiopia en mass, they gave each photographed individual a donation of a few birr** for their time. Now we have taught them that since there is not much money in tending your own fields, herding your own cattle, leading your traditional lives, the best way to make money is to ignore everything else, screw education and prostitute yourselves for a camera. Children are no longer learning long-term ways of how to be useful members of their tribe. They stand around for tourists (actually, they don’t just stand around … they follow you everywhere you go, constantly pestering you to take a photo and give them 2 birr**). There are quite a few adults from the tribes in the south of Ethiopia that do this too (the Mursi and Arbore tribes being the worse). Besides their appearance (and even that is changing), there is little you can see of their traditions during a visit. They just stand about doing bugger all except waiting for the next carload of tourists to arrive. Actually, the adults do a bit of something … they buy cheap alcohol from town and get pissed. Since they are too “busy” waiting for photographers and easy money to do anything productive, like farming or hunting … or getting an education, passing the time with booze has become a thing to do. There are some associations trying to get people to continue their lives as they usually would in front of foreigners by getting the tribe to accept a flat fee from a tour group, the funds of which would benefit the entire tribe and not just the individual, but this will be a long time in the making. And many individuals are too spoilt now to lose out on their own personal gain.

As you can see, we did this and have only ourselves to blame for the discomfort now felt when kids come chasing after cars like dogs or the unease felt when stopping for a pee break and being swarmed by these same kids with outstretched palms unknowingly behaving like ravenous vultures over carrion.
I really don’t mean to sound so negative … I just hope we haven’t caused permanent harm by wiping away any good opportunities that are on offer for the children. The country and a majority of the people are something to behold, and it is definitely an experience that should not be missed. We just need to stop teaching them that easy handouts are the way to the future. We need to stop ripping away their proud past. We need to stop treating them as inferiors that cannot manage their way out of a wet paper bag and could not survive without the aid of the wealthier Westerner. This country was once a major empire and has had the blood of King Solomon running through its leaders’ veins for centuries. It had and still has so much to hold its head up high for. And these heads deserve more than to be pitied and looked down upon.

* Highland was one of the first brands of bottled water in the country
** Ethiopian currency

Roll of the Dice

I have been a fortunate soul as of late, and I am truly aware of this fact. For someone with a bad infestation of travel bugs (no, this is not slang for crabs or any other STDs), too little spare income over the past few years to enable me to scratch this itch and a hyperactive daughter that would make a plane full of comatose patients come to and beg to be thrown from the aircraft after two hours, when the opportunity presented itself to once again see new visas and stamps appear in my passport and sample the inebriating substances of foreign lands, well … what can I say? I took to it like Michael Jackson did to Macaulay Culkin! After a visit this past summer from my friend Jonathan and his minx of a girlfriend (hopefully she will have some appreciation for this comment … unlike her lack of appreciation for Polish cuisine, which could not persuade her to stay in the country for more than two weeks), I was fully drawn back into the arms of the tourist industry that had previously engulfed my life before my wife and aforementioned extra-bouncy daughter entered the picture. Wait, wait, wait … now don’t take that the wrong way! My beautiful wife and constantly amazing daughter are wonderful additions to my life, but pregnant wife / nursing wife / first child / enough stress to drive a postal worker to extremes + husband travelling = big trouble! You get the idea? Yeah, it doesn’t really earn you points saying “Hey, dear … I know you just dropped a sprog and we are still learning the ropes of rearing a carpet crawler, but I’m gonna ditch my responsibilities and head out of the country for a month and a half. Hope you don’t mind!” Anyway, after a break from tourists and extensive travel to allow my kid to become old enough to recognise me as her father (as opposed to just pointing to any male on the street and saying “Daddy”), I have recently found myself in the neighbouring beer-havens of the Czech and Slovak Republics, traversing the birch-filled landscape of the Tran-Siberian to Vladivostok and most recently bruising my skinny arse whilst bouncing through the Ethiopian countryside in a Toyota Land Cruiser. OK … so I do actually have to work quite a bit during these trips (and some of the people I have to deal with are a hell of a lot of work, let me assure you), but you can’t really complain about that too much, can you? The point being, I consider myself lucky. Sometimes life just goes ahead and gives you the lemonade from time to time. Now, if we could just win the lottery …