Oh, I Do Vung Tau Be Beside The Seaside...

My arrival in Vietnam had not been without its obstacles.  As part of my introduction, I was supposed to have been picked up from the airport in what was formerly Saigon by someone from the school's head-office in the city. However, I found myself waiting around for some time at the exit with no welcome in sight.  I reasoned that they may have been delayed so gave them an hour.  I had been emailed a phone number in case of emergencies and the address of the hotel I would be staying at, but unfortunately the airport didn't have wireless capabilities for me to be able to retrieve them.  Nevertheless,  I decided that my best course of action was to jump in a taxi and head into the city centre to find an Internet cafe.  Eventually, I managed to call HR in HCMC and speak to a woman who had no idea who I was as she only dealt with the Saigon teachers.  I asked her to put a message through to someone in Vung Tau and asked for the address of the hotel I was likely to be staying at - presuming one had been booked.  It was easy enough to locate and with great relief discovered that a room had been reserved.  A former work friend of mine in Istanbul was working in HCMC for the summer, so I dumped my things in my room and gave her a call.  She was at a cafe just down the road and we met up for a belated "welcome to Vietnam."

The next day I was met at the hotel and chauffeured to the ferry terminal, where I would take the boat to my final destination.  One hour south of Ho Chi Minh City, on a peninsula protruding in to the South China Sea, lies the tiny city of Vung Tau.  Once a tiny fishing village, Vung Tau has been transformed in to a touristy-beach town awash with money from the burgeoning oil industry.  The place first began this metamorphosis during the Vietnam War when Australian servicemen would use it as a base for some R&R.  I can't say I remember much of the trip down, but my first impression of my new home was generally positive; traditional fishing boats in the harbour, beaches, greenery and great views of the sea.  Despite being a fifth of the size of Bishkek in Kyrgyzstan, there were already 5 times as many things to do!

This former fishing village is now a weekend retreat for Saigon residents looking to get away from the hustle and bustle of the big city and as such numerous cafes and restaurants have sprung up.  With the high number of ex-pats making up a proportion of the population too, it wasn't surprising to note the high concentration of bars that cater to westerners also dot the cityscape.  The bars - known as girly bars - are pretty much the preserve of western guys and are filled with young Vietnamese girls serving drinks (as well as other things, but I'll save that for another blog).  The big draw, though, is the proximity to the sea and the ability to sit on the beach or in a cafe and drift off into your own world and soak it all up.

Although it's not going to be a place I would ever think of as 'home,' the easy-going lifestyle, the great year-round sunshine and the low-cost of living will ensure that my brief 9 month stay will be enjoyable enough to sample some South-East Asian culture.

Water Way To Have A Good Time

Doing the 'touristy' thing as never really been my cup of tea.  However, I'm not one to shun something new and potentially great because of some misguided principle to not 'be a tourist.'  The isolated beach and mud hut in Gokana (complete with creepy crawlies and boat-only access) is one of my fondest memories of India, though that doesn't detract from all the other cool stuff I experienced there.  Likewise, the desert plains of Xinjiang with its desolate landscapes and incredibly friendly natives were a personal highlight of my time in China, but I still had a lot of fun in Beijing, Guilin and Xi'an.  Living in Kyrgyzstan with its alpine scenery and nomadic traditions didn't stop me from falling in love with life in Istanbul and all its urbanity.  Nevertheless, given the choice between a little quirky place off the beaten track and a package-holiday to Spain then there'd be one clear winner.

The same contrast and comparison can be made between the last two stops of my travels around Iraqi Kurdistan and Turkey.  Before entering the Kurdish-controlled region of Iraq back in July, I had read up on the north-eastern corner of the country and had decided that it was a place that I really wanted to check out.    Dissecting the area is the Hamilton Road, named after its architect, which helped link trades routes back in the early part of the last century.  The road navigates the twists and turns of the Gali Ali Beg canyon and stretches on towards Iran.  With prior visions of desert region in Iraq, it had been my assumption that this plethora of natural beauty would be a welcome oasis.  As I've already mentioned in an earlier post, Iraq challenged all the pre-conceptions I had had.

From the city of Erbil were I was based with my two other travel companions, Carol and Peter, we set out to find a taxi to take us there and back.  I had done a little research and found out from other travellers via Lonely Planet's Thorn Tree, that the cost of a taxi up to the canyon with a 2 hour wait to check out the waterfall and then a lift back to Erbil should have been around $100.  However, I asked Jamil, the hotel owner, whether he would mind doing some negotiating on our behalf.  He agreed and managed to get the price down to $60.  Not only that, but he was also able to get the driver to allow us more than the standard 2 hour wait there!

I have never been to Arizona and the only time I've seen the Grand Canyon has been on TV, so the sight of the vast crevice that is Gali Ali Beg blew me away.  Seeing how nature and time had eroded away at the landscape to create sights like that was inspiring.  No matter how much travelling I do, it's a great reminder that there is always something new to see.  The Road divided in two - an Upper and a Lower road - at the canyon and watching vehicles edge their way along the narrow pathways reminded me of my car trip in Tajikistan.

In the vicinity of the canyon, there was also a couple of waterfalls.  The first one we stopped at was the Bekhal waterfall, which ferociously pumped out water down the side of a hill.  What really made this place make to stand back in awe was not the natural beauty of it, but in fact the cafes that had been built on it.  Literally, eating establishments and chai houses dotted the waterfall and patrons sat with their kebabs and tea while water gushed around their feet.  On the waterfall itself, families sat on the rocks in the middle and took pictures while children swam at the bottom.  I think that any other place in the world I would have been dismayed at the tackiness of it all, but talking to Iraqis from Baghdad and Babil altered my view.  These people struggled with the daily routine of conflict and terrorism and saw this area as a brief respite from that; a chance to have fun on holiday.  Who was I to judge how they achieved this?  They were having fun and it was hard not to be caught up in how cool it actually was to be eating my lunch with wave after wave of water pouring over me.

The second waterfall proved to be just as surreal an adventure.  The Gali Ali Beg waterfall is so famous in Iraq that it appears on one of the banknotes.  Arriving at the scene, we saw families enjoying the scenery again.  However, this time they were doing so on dinghies - their boats drifting around the gushing water!

On the flip side to mass tourism was my trip to Olympus in Turkey.  After leaving Iraqi Kurdistan, i found that I had a few days to fill before my flight to Vietnam and my new life there.  I had missed out on my 'beach holiday' in Georgia so i decided to make up for it with a little trip to the sleepy hamlet of Olympus on the south coast.  I had heard that it was a great place to relax, meet like-minded people, sleep in a treehouse and forget your worries.  What I found there, though, was this the secret was out of the bag and the number of backpackers stopping off in the middle of their 'booze cruises' had reached annoying proportions.  Instead of fellow travellers looking to rest and enjoy the sea side, there were giant groups of Aussies, Kiwis and Europeans looking to keep their alcohol levels topped up.  I'm not against people enjoying themselves in that way, after all, I did have a summer job in Kusadasi, but with so many other options to choose from it was a little sad that another party place had been created in that area.

On the plus side, the ruins scattered around the beach were a lot of fun to explore and I did get to find a small patch of beach to make my own in order to swim and sunbathe in peace.  Turkey has a lot to offer a tourist, I just hope they realise that they don't have to change just to keep people flocking there.  The beauty of Turkey is that there is something for everyone.

Some Like It Hot

Although I have never been one to fall into the trap of drawing up national borders and thinking every person within should adhere to certain national stereotypes, sometimes I am aware of how 'typically' English I can be.  I can be fairly shy by nature and thus awkward in most social situations, I tend to understate things (everything is 'nice') and when it comes to small talk nothing beats complaining about the weather.**

In the Iraqi Kurdistan capital of Erbil, talking about the weather was something almost unavoidable.  Even the locals couldn't get enough about discussing just how hot it was.  With daytime temperatures soaring above 50 degrees and air-conditioning restricted to taxis, hotels and a few lucky shops, most people wandering the streets resembled the Walking Dead, though instead of brains everyone was hungry for some shade.

Luckily enough, the government are in the early stages of a mass redevelopment of the city in an attempt to rejuvenate the image of the region and attract major investment from abroad.  Where once there was arid wasteland, now locals and foreigners alike could relax in the lush green parks and cool of near the numerous fountains and water features dotted around the city.  Indeed, the most popular activity during the evening is to sit near the collection of fountains in the city centre with some tea and a nargile, or even some freshly squeezed juice (the climate being perfect for a variety of fruit).

The problem only really became apparent at night.  In major cities like Duhok and Erbil, there has been a massive influx of workers seeking better jobs and better money in the last few years.  Needless to say the occupancy of hotels and flophouses in those cities has risen to the point that finding a place to stay has become the equivalent of an Easter Egg hunt with the Mad Hatter.  Hotel after hotel would be full, or far too high for my budget.  At this point I now had two other travel companions (Carol from Taiwan and Peter from the USA), but dividing the costs by three was still excessive.  Our only option in Erbil was a run-down flea-pit with no air-conditioning, communal squat toilets and a motley crew of guests that you wouldn't feel comfortable meeting in a darkened alley at night.  So the kind of place where I'd usually stay.

This time, however, the lack of air-conditioning became a big obstacle during our stay as the walls of the 'hotel' were so porous they would soak up the heat of the day and retain in throughout the night.  The rickety ceiling fan only managed to move hot air around the room.  Any time we went to the 'lobby' to get some ice-cold water from the machine, it would be warm a few minutes later!  This is when we discovered that it was actually cooler outside at night and hanging out near the fountains was a really really good idea.

It was during one of those late nights trips that we met a trio of siblings from Mosul.  They were in Erbil with their parents for a few days to have some peace and quiet from the fear of their daily routines; bomb blasts, kidnappings and other much much worse horrors.  The eldest daughter was also hoping to get a place at the art college there.  However, being Arab they had a tougher time of things due to the tight restrictions the Kurdish government put on applicants from other areas of Iraq.  It seemed that the Iraqi Kurdistan region was an inversion of its neighbour to the north, Turkey.  Whereas in Turkey, many 'Kurdish' people I met complained about feeling like second-class citizens, the reverse could be said to be true further south.

I had heard stories of Arabs being stopped at the 'border' coming from the other cities of Iraq and having their vehicles completely stripped apart and their luggage practically violated.  The Kurdish military, the Peshmarga, are constantly on the look-out for terrorist elements and although the result has been a dramatic increase in safety, it has also made it more difficult for innocent Arabs to get jobs and positions at universities and created a level of mistrust.

This was backed up by Jamil, the owner of the hotel we were staying at.  A couple of times while we were out drinking tea or he was showing me some place of interest nearby, I witnessed the mocking he would receive because he was an Arab.  He had a deep mistrust of the police, mostly stemming from the fact he didn't have any identification.  Later on, he quietly confessed that he was in fact a Jew of Arabic descent, but he would never publicly say so for fear of reprisals.  He did stress, though, that it was only a minority of people who had a problem with Arabs in the territory (after all, they were both muslim).  It was the politicians that were making relations difficult, mainly in its attempt to move towards independence.

However, for the present moment independence is not on the horizon.  The Iraqi Kurdistan politicians are fully aware of the struggles that lie ahead with both Turkey and Iran should they break away from Iraq.  For the time being, they prefer to keep the weather the only hot topic.


**  Of course, all the above is pure guff as those characteristics have nothing to do with being English, but for the sake of a handy intro I'm going with it.

Football and Presidents

Arjen Robben's face contorted into an ugly mess before launching another tirade at the match referee.  The Netherlands forward had already missed a sitter earlier on in the game and was now looking for a penalty to redeem himself.  As a lover of all things orange, but as someone who would quite happily see the former Chelsea and Real Madrid player fail miserably, I was quite conflicted in my support.  In the end, Andreas Iniesta - a player I do like, stole the show and robbed me of my Oranje dream.

That was when the car horns starting blaring out over the previously quiet city.  Those citizens who had been supporting Spain in the absence of their home country at the World Cup filled out into the streets of Duhok and got the party started.  That was when I suddenly remembered that I had been watching the World Cup final in a cafe in Iraq.

I had been doing a lot of that in the days after crossing the border from Turkey.  Hey, I'm drinking a juice in Iraq; wow, I'm eating a kebab in Iraq; ooo, now I'm watching the sun set and I'm in Iraq!  It wasn't so much that any of these things particularly stood out more than in any other country, but it was the first time I had been in a country with a war raging.  Not that I was in any real danger of stumbling upon the conflict, but still...  I looked across at my travel companion, Carol, and saw that she too was grinning from ear to ear.

A couple of days earlier when I was still in Turkey and visiting the city of Diyarbakir, I had gone online and left a message on Lonely Planet's Thorn Tree - a website for travellers to get the latest information about various places, looking for a travel partner to help cut the costs of my trip to Iraq.  Almost instantaneously I received a reply from a Taiwanese traveller saying that she was doing the same trip and would like to discuss strategies.  It also transpired that we were Couchsurfing with the same host, Hasan, and it seemed the Travel Gods approved of the union.

Our first port of call after crossing the border was the city of Duhok.  I had only originally planned to spend one day there and then move on to more interesting places, but the city turned out to be such a pleasant place with a good atmosphere, that we rejigged our plans on the spot and decided to use the city as our base and make trips out to the other places.

One day trip we made was to the sleepy village of Ameida, built up high on a plateau at the top of some mountains.  The village itself had nothing to offer the 'sightseeing' tourist other than a lazy charm and super friendly residents.  It was impossible to walk more than 5 yards without somebody stopping us and inviting us to join them for tea or some fruit.  Even without a common language, it was great to interact and exchange pleasantries.  Walking around the village, I couldn't help but notice that a lot of the houses sported various shades of purple, orange, green, blue and red.  I never did find out why, but it looked very pretty.

We hitchhiked back down from Ameida to the neighbouring town of Sulav.  While Carol and I ate a late lunch, we became aware of a large military presence.  Unsure whether something was happening or if the soldiers were just taking a break from their duties, we thought it best to do the rest of our exploration before the swarm of camouflage green got in the way.  However, that was easier said than done and as we walked up a narrow alleyway we found ourselves swept up in a crowd of people, who looked very official and important.  We found out that at the centre of the huddle was Masoud Barzani, the President of the Iraqi Kudistan region.  He was showing the new American Ambassador around and the picturesque backdrop of Ameida had been chosen.  We followed them up as part of the entourage until someone noticed us and asked us to drop back a couple of metres - though in a very nice and polite way.

Watching the photo-op and press conference didn't really appeal, though, so we decided to hitchhike back to Duhok and watch the football showpiece.  Even though it was a 'dry' experience (alcohol is sold and drunk, but not at most cafes and restaurants), the locals really got into the spirit of it all and cheered on either Spain or the Netherlands.  It wasn't to be a happy ending to a great day, but I'm sure the world will turn orange one day soon... and I was in Iraq.

The 'Other' Iraq

The thermostat read 50 degrees and the sun had been beating down hard.  I had assumed I had sweated any liquids out of my system by the time I got to the passport control office, but that turned out to be a false assumption.  As I waited for my turn to get my passport scrutinised, my bladder was also demanding attention.  Unfortunately for me, the door to the men's room was locked.

By the time the woman invited me into her office, I was on the verge of madness and I was getting worried about how my behaviour was going to affect my chances of a smooth crossing.  I needn't have worried as the woman took one look at me and enquired whether I needed some help.  I told her of my dilemma, and she bellowed at a colleague to go and unlock the door.  She held my place in line and waited for me to do my business.  When I got back she merely asked how long I planned on staying in the country and if I liked hot weather.  I didn't realise at that point just how hot it was going to get.  Within 2 minutes my passport had been stamped and I had been granted permission to travel in Iraq.

More accurately, I had been granted a 10-day visa to travel around the Iraqi Kurdistan Autonomous Region.  The area had gained its status while under the control of Saddam Hussein - it had not proven as easy to control as the dictator had hoped.  I'm fairly certain that the heinous war crimes he had commited against the Kurds in Iraq had not softened their appetite to gain independence.  The Kurds, then, had been allowed to control their own borders and govern themselves to the extent that when the Americans invaded in 2003, they had a heroes welcome prepared for them in the north of the country.

So while the Arab-controlled southern part of Iraq is still engaged in bloody conflict, the Iraqi Kurdistan territory has morphed into a low-crime, safe haven for foreigners; soldiers and tourists alike.  So much so that the last terrorist attack there occurred in 2005 and it has a lower risk of terrorism than the UK.

Although Iraq is known as the 'cradle of civilisation,' the Kurdish north perhaps misses out on the splendor of Baghdad (pre-2003 bombing blitzes, obviously) or the history of Babylon with its Hanging Gardens.  What it does have, though, are beautiful landscapes and curious people; eager and warm to show their appreciation for the better life they feel they now have after the end of Hussein's tyranny.

The region is still off the beaten track for most foreign tourists - indeed the only other tourists I saw during my trip were the two I was travelling with - Carol from Taiwan and Peter from the USA.  However, plenty of Iraqis from all over the country go to Kurdistan to unwind and allow their bodies and minds to forget the cares back home.  I met young students from Baghdad, a family from Mosul and two young friends from Babylon all enjoying themselves; laughing and joking and happy to not worry about snipers or suicide bombers.

This is the 'other' Iraq, one that is emerging from the dark times and striving for normality.  Instead of blood-thirsty dictators, chemical warefare and bomb explosions you can find 50 Cent and Akon blaring out from car stereos, kids playing video games, girls daring to make eye contact with boys and discover that Hannah Montana is popular enough to have a clothing store named after her.

The Wild Wild East

Every family has its black sheep; the uncle who drinks too much or the wayward daughter who hangs out with the wrong sort of boys.  Usually, a successful hush-hush campaign ensues and the black sheep is never mentioned in polite society.  However, sometimes it's not possible to keep a lid on this family 'embarrassment' and a whole can of worms is opened when an attempt to contain them is made.

For Turkey, their black sheep are the Kurds.  In the wild wild east of Anatolia, the Kurds are the predominant people making up around 85% of the population of towns and cities like Diyarbakır and Van.  They have their own language, their own history and their own ideas about their future - independent of Turkey.  For decades, the mere mention of Diyarbakır conjured up images of the PKK and terrorism.  Nowadays, the protests are less violent on the streets, but the determination to break free has in no way diminished.  I met countless numbers of people eager to declare that they were Kurdish and not Turkish.

If you travel east and keep going until you hit Iran, you will stumble upon once such Kurdish town with an almost complete 'non-Turkish' presence.  In fact, the only 'Turks' that I encountered in Doğubeyzit were the ones wearing the camaflouge green of the military.  Every other person would immediately identify themselves as Kurdish as an introduction.

It's not only the lack of Turkish faces that strikes you as different about this quaint little border town, though.  It took a couple of minutes of sitting outside a cafe sipping çay before I could put my finger on the oddity that was bothering me; I hadn't seen a single woman on the street in the 3 hours I had been in the town!  Later on in the evening I glimpsed a few old woman wrapped up from head to toe hurridley doing their grocery shopping in the bazar, but apart from that Doğubeyzit could comfortably be described as a town for the boys.

Sitting and talking to Edem, a local back home for the summer from studying in Izmir, the conversation naturally drifted to girls or more accurately the lack of.  Edem informed me that that part of Turkey was particularly conservative in its beliefs and that the women would stay at home and only the men were allowed out on the streets to socialise.  When I asked him how anyone ever found a wife, he told me that everyone had an arranged marriage; usually set-up at one of the countless weddings that took place.  Sometimes, he said, you were lucky enough to see your bride once before the ceremony so you both knew what the other looked like in advance.

The 'Kurdish' heartland of Diyarbakır isn't quite like that - for starters there are plnety of girls and women walking the streets and not all of them cover their heads the traditional way.  Saying that, it was rare to see teenage girls and boys mingling or young couples strolling through the numerous parks.  Another local, Rezan, invited me to sit with him and his friend for a nargile (waterpipe) and the conversation once again got back to girls.  They wanted to visit Europe because they had heard it was easy to find a girl to have sex with who didn't want to get married first.  I told them that the vast majority of 'western' girls were nothing like the stereotypical image many 'eastern' minds portrayed them as, but when pressed further I had to admit that it was possible to be intimate with a woman without being married first.  This seemed to please them at first, but after some reflection they decided that that wasn't really what they wanted as they could never marry a girl like that themselves.

This is one example of the 'backwards' thinking that a fair number of Turkish people alluded to when talking to them about the Kurdish people.  Stuck in the past and fanatical where just some of the ways that I heard these people described in the west of Turkey.  Many people are still unwilling to forgive the years of terror they went through as a result of terrorist attacks carried about by Kurdish 'liberation' groups.

In turn, the Kurds still resent their 'second-class' status in a country that claims them as their own.  Until recently, it was forbidden for 'Kurdish' to be spoken and taught in schools and music and films in their language were banned.  Edem still couldn't move on from losing the girl he loved in Izmir because her father refused to let her date a boy from the east.  In addition, they still feel shame that it was their grandfathers who were responsible for the deaths of so many Armenians, under the orders of their Turkish masters.

Istanbullus may be right about their 'brothers and sisters' in the east being behind the times in their ideas and customs, but one thing is for sure; the hospitality I received while I was there was genuine and very warm.

Hanging On Every Word

"Do you want one?"

I looked around, hoping to find some sign of anything that could be on offer.  I didn't see anything, but a couple of toddlers and I was sure they weren't the subject of my host's question.  I obviously looked as confused as I was because my host rephrased his question; "Would you like anything?"  I stared at the computer screen and typed in my response.

Murat read my answer and asked his mother for some tea.  This had been going on for some time and appeared to be continuing for a while.  I didn't mind, though, as this was definitely a unique experience for me - conversing soley through the use of Google translate!

To understand why, we have to go back a couple of days to my sudden departure from Georgia.  Faced with the pospect of spending a couple of days at the beach while construction crews dug up the city I would be staying in, I had decided to hop on the first bus to Turkey, for wherever it was destined.  It happened to be bound for Tranbzon, a city on the Black Sea coast.  As my sandals had fallen apart the day before, I spent my time waiting for the bus to depart searching out cheap footwear.

The journey itself was great, with an almost unbroken view of the sea for much of the 7 hour journey.  I was back in Turkey and ready to begin the next stage of my trip.  I took out my guide book and swotted up on my destination, a place I hadn't expected to visit and therefore knew very little about.

Trabzon turned out to be a nice place, and a million miles away from the seedy port town the book had portrayed it to be.  The sun was shining and everyone was in summer mode; performers singing and dancing, children playing in the park and everyone looking relaxed and smiling.

The highlight of my stay there, however, was my day trip out to the Sumela monastery, a Byzantine construction.  The monastery had been carved out of a sheer cliff and seemed to hang suspended high above the valley.  I had seen a similar thing with a Buddhist monastery in China, but it didn't make the feat here any less impressive.

A few weeks previous, I had arranged to have a Couchsurfing host in Ezurum as it was to be my first stop back in Turkey.  Due to my change of plan, I contacted my would-be host to inform him and ask if it would still be OK.  He assured me that it would be and arranged to meet me at the bus station of the town just prior to the city I had expected to stay.  As the bus pulled up to a deserted station, though, I began to worry that he may not appear and that I would be stuck in a town I knew nothing about at midnight.  Luckily, the guy sitting next to me on the bus saw that sometihng was not quite right and whipped out his phone.  A minute later, I had the mobile pressed to my ear and I could hear a tiny voice in English ask me what the problem was.  I explained my situation and the voice asked me to give the phone back.  A couple of minutes later I had the phone in my hand again and Tiny Voice informed me that everything had been taken care of.  I was going to stay the night with my bus companion - the brother of the Tiny Voice, and his family in Ezurum.

One of the most surreal encounters of my life, though, was complete when it turned out that among the household of 12 people no-one spoke a word of English apart from Tiny Voice, who was in Istanbul at that time.  The whole family obviously had questions to ask, but felt powerless to converse with me.  That was until the little 10-year old girl suddenly jumped to her feet and raced away, to return a minute later holding a laptop.  When she opened up the translation tool page I had to admit to being impressed by her ingenuity.  So, a couple of hours of questions back and forth between the whole family ensued and it was great fun.

The next day, Murat (my bus companion) took me to the otogar and helped me get the right bus for the next part of my journey.  That was how I spend my first few days back in Turkey and reminded me why I loved the country so much.

A Snap Decision

The train pulled into the station at 6:48.  I quickly gathered up my things, wiped the sleep from my eyes and alighted in Batumi after an eight hour journey from Tbilisi.  Although the Black Sea resort town had a reputation as a beautiful hotspot for Georgians looking to dip their toes in the water and get a taste of the Costa Del Sol, what I saw was a construction sight.  The whole city was being dug up and renovated; roads, parks, buildings.

The marshrutka into the city centre had to navigate pot-holes and tranches in order to get its passengers to their destinations.  I was tired, hot and of a troubled mind.  So far on the trip I had not been having the best of luck - though it could also be argued that my luck was actually pretty good.  Afterall, worse things could have occurred.

Little things kept happening that individually meant nothing, but collectively convinced me that the Travel Gods were not happy.  My messagenger bag had packed in 3 hours into the trip, just as I stepped on to the plane in Istanbul; I had misplaced my guide book for Amenian and Georgia on day two while hitchhiking; my sandals had fallen to pieces the day before; my Couchsurfing host in Batumi had cancelled the day before after breaking up with her boyfriend; and I had just discovered that I had left my Turkish SIM card back in Tblisi and I would need to buy another and subsequesntly a new phone as my current one would now be useless.  Sure, a 'rational' person would claim I was merely unfortunate and a little clumsy.  However, when the Travel Gods are displeased with you, even the most rational of minds cannot cope with their wrath.

And there I was in the middle of Batumi without a clue to where I was going to stay or what I was going to do.  The marshrutka turned along numerous back alleys to avoid the worst of the construction work and I gaze out at the rubble and the shops and information offices that were closed.  I needed to change things up a bit and get the Gods back onside, somehow.

In the centre, the driver looked at me; the last passenger on the bus.  Where did I want to go?  He seemed impatient with my lack of decisiveness and mistook it for not understanding his Russian.  I thought about my options and slipped him another coin.

Turkey.

Mickey Whist's Day(s) Off

As my time was short in Georgia, I decided to utilise the efficent transport links and my base in Tbilisi to make a few days trips.  The mashrutka bus station of Didube was a sprawling mess servicing all corners of the country, but finding the right bus was as simple as shouting out your destination and feeling a million hands dragging you in the right direction.

For my first trip I had planned on visiting the city of Gori; birthplace of Soviet Russia's most famous and ruthless father, Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvilli - or Josef Stalin to his friends.  When I arrived though, it became apparent that there wouldn't be much to see after the locals had recently removed his statue and I didn't particularly fancy going to the museum to see how 'great' Uncle Joe was - even if he did butcher a huge number of his fellow countrymen during his reign!

Instead, I jumped on another marshrutka and went to the nearby village of Uplistsikhe.  A short walk away I came across an ancient rock monastery in the same vein as those found in Gorome in Cappadocia.  Spending a few hours exploring the caves and the rocks with their dazzling array of colours was much better than any museum trip.

The next day, I took a marshrutka along the Georgian Military Highway, a stretch of road that meandered northwards towards the Russian border.  Since the conflict between the two countries a few years ago, the border has been closed, so the road actually has a dead end; the mountainous village of Kazbegi.  The trip along the highway, though, was very scenic and was probably worth the journey just to gaze out of the window of the mini-van as mountain, lakes and villages passed by.

Kazbegi is a very small village, but is a very pretty one nonetheless.  The area is great for hikers looking to get away for a few days with it's trails leading up into the surrounding mountains and forests.  I, however, was there for the Tsimada Sameba monastery; a picturesque holy place atop a high hill nearby.  My good fortune with the weather wasn't with me that day, though, as the clouds descended and opportunities for that postcard snapshot were to be thwarted.  The setting was pretty cool anyway.

My last trip out of Tbilisi was to the nearby town of Mtskheta.  The Holy Land of Georgian Christians, Mtskheta, was a 20 minute ride out of the city and I had planned to visit on my last day in the capital as I had a train later that day and I didn't want to miss it.

In the centre of the town is the giant (for its time) cathedral, Svetitskhoveli.  The building is said to have been built upon the final resting place of a local woman who was in Jerusalem at the time of Christ's crucifixation and returned with the robes he died in.  When she died, she was holding his threads and no-one was able to pry them from her fingers, so the locals took it as a sign and built the cathedral.  Quite why nobody thought to ask what she was doing stripping the clothes off a dead man, I have no idea!

Overlooking the town, is the granddaddy of Georgian Christianity; the monastery of Jvari.  This half-ruined building is said to be holiness itself and people make pilgrimages here every year.  However, by this point I was no longer able to appreaciate any more churches and places of worship so I only gave it a cursoray look.

All in all, clambering over the rocks and acting like Indiana Jones in Uplistsikhe and riding along the highway to the mountains were much more fun, especially unwinding with my couchsurfing host and her friend at the end of the day with a White Russian.

Georgia On My Mind

Tblisi is a city very much more akin to those in Europe than in Asia.  The Christian churches that dot the skyline a stark contrast to the mosques and minarets you're more likely to see in this part of the world.  Although Armenia preceded it as a Christian country, Georgia is more obviously striving for piousness.

Divided in two by a river, Tblisi reminded me a little of Salzburg, with numerous churches lining the banks and an old fortress sitting high on a hill in the background.  However, Tblisi shows its scars from numerous invasions by different muslim factions, notably the Turks and the Persians, who left behind a mosque and bathing houses.

One thing that stood out more than the ridiculous amount of churches and iconography on display was the high number of young couples making the most of the romantic setting.  Down every side street, in every park and on every bridge a different young couple held each other close and ate each other's faces off.  The statue of the Mother of Georgia that oversaw the city seemed to have a playful smile on her lips that suggested she approved.  Even a priest didn't bat an eyelid when he stumbled upon one coupling heavily making out and groping at the feet of a giant icon depicting Jesus on the cross!

This is a city that seems very liberal in its practice of Christianity.  Indeed, on the marshrutka over from Armenia I got talking to an American guy who turned out to be a Mormon missionary.  My first question, obviously, was why two countries as historically Christian as Armenia and Georgia would need a missionary.  He answered that a lot of people there would say they were of the faith, but perhaps didn't really know what that meant.  I was a little perplexed as I had seem more churches that you could imagine and I had assumed that each church had a priest who told them exactly how they were supposed to behave.  Listening to his stories, though, it became clear that he was painting a picture not too disimilar from the one I had of Central Asia; people would call themselves muslim, but would drink, smoke, gamble, cheat and womanise like there was no tomorrow.

What really caught my attention was the story he told me about the Armenian and Georgia practices of 'bride kidnapping.'  A young man would spy a girl that took his fancy and he would arrange to have her bundled into the back of a van or car and driven away to his home, where she would be forced into marriage under the threat of rape.  He did stress that this was a tradition that was dying out and was confined largely to the more rural areas.  Usually, he continued, the guy would merely stalk her for up to a year and get to know her routine and habits before getting his family to make a less brutal approach.  I knew that this practice existed in Kyrgyzstan and a former student of mine excitedly confessed to a co-teacher that he had helped kidnap his brother's wife.  Not all of these marriages were actual kidnappings, however.  In a lot of cases a young couple couldn't afford the wedding 'fee' so would elope under the guise of a 'kidnapping.'

As I wandered the streets of this beautiful city and saw lovebirds happily exchanging saliva, I wondered how many of those young girls would still be so happy and in love in a couple of years time.

With God On Their Side

Throughout my trip in Armenia two things have been constant; churches and hospitality.  This is not to say the two are neccessarily related, only that I have seen a lot of both.  Just as you cannot trip over your own feet and fail to land in a cafe in Yerevan, the same can be said about churches, monasteries and forts in the rest of the country.

In Yerevan I stumbled upon perhaps my favourite little church down some side-alleys.  The church, 'Zorovator,' is a place of worship so small that many church-goers have to stand outside at important mass times like Christmas and Easter.  The best thing about the church, however, is that it is completely orange!

Now, after years spent living in countries littered with temples and mosques I thought I could give churches another try.  After all, they can be just a architectually beautiful and grandoise in scale.  In order so explore the vast bulk of these Christian houses of God, I had to engage in a lot of hitchhiking.  I have had mixed results with hitchhiking in the past (notably Belgians causing me the most grief with their wayward hands on the gear stick!), but in Armenia I found it to be great.

From Yerevan I took a marshrutka (mini-van taxi) to the town of Garni, where a still fully formed pagan temple stands.  Before Armenia converted to Christianity, it followed in the same vein as the Roman and Greek civilisations, woshipping various gods of the sun, war, love, etc.  Although much of the surroundings are now in ruins, the temple itself remains solid.  Intriguingly, when I was there I witnessed a young Armenia couple getting married on the steps.  The ceremony seemed to follow the traditional Christian format, so I'm not sure what the thinking behind the pagan setting was.

From Garni to Gerghat, a monastery high up in the hills, I discovered that there wasn't any direct transport other than the taxi drivers who were circling like vultures.  I ran for my life when I saw one approach and opted to try my luck at hitchhiking.  Almost immediately, a car stopped and the driver ushered me in and took me as far as he was going.  No sooner had I got out than another motorist took up the relay.  I ended up walking the final 2km, but I didn't mind as the scenery was great.  The only downside was that it was during this pursuit that I lost my guide book.

When it was time to head north to the towns bordering Georgia, my Couchsurfer's friend came to the fore and offered me the keys to the family apartment in Vanadzor, as no-one was using it.  I had only met this friend the day before so I was surprised at such a generous offer.  I promised not to burn the place down!

Around Vanadzor, there were probably two of the best monasteries in Armenia.  Sahnin and Haghpat are both listed by UNESCO as Heritage Sites, and they are both impressive structres in even better surroundings.  One thing I would say for the guys who designed these places is that they sure knew where to stick a church for the optimum view - and to piss off the actual construction crews who had to carry the stones and rocks up the hills.

On a couple of occassions, as I was exploring the various places, locals would stop and talk to me in Russian and offer me free food and tea as well as a place to take a little nap for half an hour out of the sun.  There were no catches, just the opportunity for them to showcase their generosity to a stranger in their country.

A Troubled Past

I feel as if I should put a disclaimer above these blogs about Armenia and Georgia.  I lost my guide book while hitchhiking on my second day of the trip so have had to piece together all the different places I have been from what other people have told me.  This cannot always be verified as being 100% accurate, but it does sometimes make things more interesting.  For example, when I travelled to Moynaq in Uzbekistan to see what had become of the Aral Sea after decades of it being drained, I was armed with knowledge from multiple sources stating that the Soviets had done the deed in order to make more room for cotton plantations.  Recently, I met an Uzbeki-born Russian who was eager to wave off such suggestions and instead pointed the finger of blame at the Koreans.  Central Asian saw an influx of immigrants during the 70s, most moving to Uzbekistan, where Korean car manufacture and electronic companies had been set up.  According to my new source, Uzbeks grew rice that didn't need water whereas the Koreans needed it for theirs.  Thus, they drained the sea in order to grow their crop.  Despite this almost certainly being a case of Soviet propaganda at the time to shift the blame from themselves, I can't help but wish that this was indeed the case.  Gangs of naughty Koreans cyphoning off one of the largest in-land seas because they couldn't abide the local cuisine is just too good of an image.  That is the problem with trying to accurately report anything; there are always two sides to the story and a lot of blurred lines.

Up on a hill overlooking Yerevan is a monument to Armenia's most recent history.  A tall column reaches up to the sky with a flame - concealed by marble tablets shaped like a yurt, burning brightly next to it.  This is a poignant reminder of Armenia's strained relationship with Turkey.  I usually try and stay away from politics as I don't really know enough about such topics and, frankly, it bores me.  However, the events between 1915 and 1923 are so integral to the future of both Armenia and Turkey that it would be impossible not to talk about it.

The facts: one and a half million Armenians were killed during this period by Ottoman Turks during the last days of their empire.  Many more Armenians were forced to march into the Syrian desert to whatever fate awaited them.  The Turkey argument is that they were provoked by Armenians who attacked first and kept on killing innocent Turks throughout the years.  However, those forced to march into the desert included vast numbers of the old, sick and the young and 1.5 million deaths, relatively speaking, actually puts the Holocaust into the shade a little.  That number is actually equivalent to over a third of the population.  It would be like wiping out New York three times over, if such a thing were to happen in the US.  Both sides are adament that they other was in the wrong, but one thing is clear to me... regardless of anything else, the Ottomans engaged in a campaign to wipe out any Armenian presence in their empire.  The word 'genocide' is something that I'm sure my Turkish friends would be aghast to see me use, but under the UN charter such acts cannot be called anything else.

As I said, there are always two sides to any story and I can be called ignorant of many things.  Despite my love of history, I'm not really interested in the rights and wrongs of the past.  I have always been more interested in how the past has shaped the present.  Travelling through Armenia, I waited to see what reaction I would get when I told people that I lived in Turkey.  Many of the older generation hesitated before continuing with their next question, as if the mere name conjured up distate.  Many of the younger generation, though, didn't blink and were interested to know about life in Istanbul and how it was different from England.  Young Armenians are getting tired of the 'conflict' with Turkey and also with their problems with Azerbaijan.  Most just don't understand or care why something that happened so long before they were even born is so important now.  I generally agree with this view; after all, which 'progressive' nation can honestly claim to not have blood on its hands.  I would certainly never try to justify the massacres in India, Africa and many other colonies carried out by the British, for example.

The problem for such a touchy issue is that it's almost impossible not to offend somebody by offering an opinion.  Look at the reaction Barack Obama received when he attempted to sit on the fence over the issue.  Whichever way you lean, though, surely both sides must agree that dwelling on such things won't help heal the rift or the hurt and that what is important is that acts like this are not repeated in the future.

Back In The USSR

After a year of living in Turkey, exiting Yerevan airport was like stepping back in time.  Rows and rows of concrete blocks and taxi drivers flashing sets of golden teeth reminded me that I was back on familiar ground; a former Soviet republic.

I fought my way through the scrum of drivers at the main door, each competing for my money, I got myself a bit of breathing room and asked "how much?"  A volley of Russian came flying my way, hands tugged at my arms and backpack... it was like being back in Kyrgyzstan!  After laughing off quotes of $40, I managed to find a driver willing to do the fare for $12; still a couple of dollars too much, but it was 6.30am and I needed to find my Couchsurfing host and get some sleep.

However, it would prove to be not so simpe.  My taxi driver insisted upon taking me to his house for coffee and a chat and a polite "nyet" was out of the question.  At home, the man woke his family up to introduce me to them and made me some very strong Armenia coffee.  I had tried to tell him that I didn't like coffee, that tea would be better, but he waved off my protestations and told me that I hadn't tried the good Armenian stuff yet.  To be honest, coffee is coffee as far as I'm concerned, but I managed to swallow it so as not to offend my host.  After a brief chat, the driver finally decided I could go to my destination.

Before I left Istanbul, I had arranged to stay with Thaer, a Syrian Couchsurfer, who had just finished 7 years of medical school in Armenia.  Like all good hosts, he knew straight away that I needed a little nap and had his couch all ready for me.  Because of the coffee it took longer than I had thought to drift asleep, but I got there in the end.

After going for some lunch with Thaer and his friends, I went for a little walk around the city.  Although the outskirts had been filled with Soviet era buildings and the general run-down feel of such places, I was surprised to find that central Yerevan was actually fairly modern and European.  You couldn't turn your head without spying a trendy cafe or boutique and every girl seemed to be dressed stylishly.  A curious thing was pointed out to me by Thaer in that I would never see a guy in Armenia dress in shorts as it was seen to be effeminate, even considering the sweltering heat!  I'm not sure if that was the real reason, but I have to admit that I didn't see a singe guy over the age of 15 or 16 wearing shorts!

Maria, an Armenian friend of Thaer, guided me around a few places and gave me a little recent history about the country.  One of the places she showed me was a fairly flashy shopping street with modern apartments above.  Apparently, the apartments were more than half empty, the result of Armenia's rush to embrace capitalism and modernity, but highlighting its failure to raise the standard of living for its people at the same rate; locals just couldn't afford to buy or rent the places.  The whole project has left a bitter taste in many people's mouths as they had fought and lost a bitter campaign to stop the construction, as the shops and apartments would be built on the land that was already occupied.  Families who had lived there for years, had been turfed out to make way for progress.  Just like most of the other CIS nations, many Armenians still live desperately poor lives.  Short term fixes without long-term benefits; I really was back in the former USSR.

Leaving On A Jet Plane

Up until last week, I had travelled by plane 15 times.  I don't know whether that seems a lot or not to anyone else, but to me it's suprisingly low.  I have done my fair share of travelling over the years, so to have only travelled on 15 planes left me feeling like I'd got my maths wrong the other day while I was thinking about such matters.  I guess the main reason for this, is that I prefer to tavel overland as I feel you get to see so much more of the country.

Another smaller reason, is that I have always considered flying to be a bit special; the sort of thing you don't do often, but as a treat.  There is just something so awe-inspiring about getting on a plane and flying high to some exotic destination.  I'm always a little disappointed when I land and find there isn't a brass band waiting to welcome you.  Afterall, you have just been 'flying!'  Maybe it's because of the scarcity of flight in my travels that I still find it hard to believe at times that I am in the sky, flying!  OK, so not actually flying myself, but you get the point.  This is an incredible thing, to be 'soaring' through the air, above the clouds and all other creatures on the planet.  Whenever I look out of the window I feel I have a giant Google Earth map.  I admit it, flying in a plane gives me a child-like appreciation that I miss travelling on other modes of transportation.  It also scares the hell out of me!

How can anyone not be terrified while they are in the air.  It's not natural to be that high up without some earth beneath our feet.  I tense up whenever the plane hits some turbulance and pretend to read or listen to some music until it's finished.  It's not a fear that would ever make me think twice about flying, though.  I get too much of a kick out of it for that to happen.  Flying in a plane, however, is both the most incredible and stupid thing a person can do if you ever stop to think about it!  I'm sure this 'fear' will go away the more I fly, but then I would lose that wide-eyed amazement too.

Despite the 'horror' that I experience every time I fly, I would much rather be on the plane than stuck in an airport.  Last week, between flights number 16 (Istanbul to Riga) and 17 (Riga to Yerevan), I suffered what most people with connecting flights usually go through; hours and hours of mind-numbing tedium.  Having 6 hours to kill in the 'transfer centre' with no money (they didn't accept dollars and I wasn't about to change over any money at the rate they were charging!) and 5 seats to cater for about a thousand people is not my idea of relaxation.  Fortunately, I had eaten before boarding the plane in Istanbul otherwise a case of cannabalism may have been reported in Latvia!

The good news is that it at least gave me much needed practice before I repeat the exercise next month in Doha on my way to Vietnam.  Good times...

The Laghman Winding Road

When I arrived in Istanbul last July, it was to complete my journey along the Silk Road - a journey I had begun in the summer of 2008.  After living and working in China for 18 months, the time had come to move on to my next adventure.  I had accepted a job in Kyrgyzstan and to get there I decided a trip along the historically important trade route from Xi'an to Kashgar was in order, following in the footsteps of Xuanzang on his "Journey to the West".

Having spent a significant amount of time both living and travelling around this vast country, I had obviously been exposed to all the different regional customs and cuisines.  One of my favourite dishes was la mian, noodles with beef and vegetables in a thick soup.  La mian literally means 'pulled noodles' and comes from the way the noodles are pounded and then stretched out.  This particular meal, although 'Chinese,' would be more accurately described as being Uyghur, after the people of Xianjiang in the northwest of China.

In the city of Lanzhou, an overnight train ride from Xi'an, I found the 'home' of this dish.  The city itself turned out to be a pretty dull and painful 14 hour stopover on my trip, but it did give me the opportunity to sample some 'real' la mian.  Unfortunately, one simple truth was to be confirmed in a cafe on the banks of the Yellow River... food tends to be better elsewhere!  The best pizza is not necessarily found in Italy, the best kebabs are not always eaten in Turkey, the best curry is not exclusively cooked in India and the best fish and chips cannot confidently be claimed to be fried in England!  Lanzhou was not to be the mecca of noodles, despite the giant statue erected in the city centre to commemorate its achievement.

I had much better luck the further I travelled along the Silk Road.  While enjoying Tian Chi (the Heavenly Lake) I was invited by an old woman to eat laghman - the Uyghur name for the meal, in her yurt.  There I was able to watch the woman prepare the noodles and enjoy the fruit of her labour.  The dish was gradually becoming less soupy and more fried, but no less tasty the further I wandered into the Uyghur heartland.

Living in Kyrgyzstan, I got to eat much more of the stuff.  By this point, the fried noodles no longer came in a soup form.  Traditionally nomadic in their ways, the Kyrgyz people preferred their meat dishes to be fattier in order to build up warmth for the long winter nights spent on the steppes.  After a year of eating noodles and rice, you'd have thought I would be sick of it, but no.  Today I even managed to truly complete my journey of the Silk Road in Istanbul.  Tucked away in a little corner of this vast metropolis, in the courtyard of the East Turkestan Foundation, there is a little Uyghur restaurant serving up inexpensive and delicious memories of my time imitating the 'Monkey King', living with the nomads of Central Asia and eating copious amount of the good life.

Talking About A Revolution...

I have been reading some of the old emails I used to send out to update people about my life on the road.  Now that I've started keeping a blog account (and, frankly, I have no idea why I didn't do so when I first left the UK!?) I thought it would be kind of interesting to put my thoughts and adventures from days gone by on here.

The first thing that struck me was just how wrong I can be when it comes to making political predictions.  Another reason why I try not to dabble in politics and leave well alone!  Back in October 2008, I wrote about my time living in Kyrgyzstan:

"The big news of the moment is that it looks like the Kyrgyz people have become so apathetic towards politics that any chance of a revolution has been and gone.  After the last revolution in 2005, people have realised that it doesn't matter who's in charge - all politicians are only out for themselves.  In the meantime, the ineptitude at the top has resulted in power shortages for the last 6 weeks and will continue all through winter.  For some reason, the government sold off the electricity supply to neighbouring Uzbekistan and have left themselves short.  It means that for up to 10 hours every day we will have no power and we've already been forced to teach by candlelight on numerous occasions!!"

Well, as you may have noticed on the news recently, Kyrgyzstan did, in fact, have its second revolution and this one was far bloodier than the Tulip one that had preceded it.  With 84 killed (keep in mind that with a national population of just over 4 million, this is not a small number) and the uncountable cost of looting, arson and vandalism that has left the capital city, Bishkek, looking like the war-zone it was for that brief week.  The apathy that many had felt was pretty strong during my time there, but towards the end of my stay talk of protests was not uncommon.  While the 'middle-class' had seemingly given up, the poor underclass had decided enough was enough.  President Bakiev (himself, ironically, installed to head office because of the last uprising) found himself the target of an angry mob baying for a change.  Years of nepotism, skimming state funds and general incompetence had finally taken its toll on their collective patience.

 The Eternal Flame

The big undertaking for this former Soviet republic is to rebuild and finally emerge as the democratic nation it had hoped to become 5 years ago.  This is not an easy task, though, as the country has the unenviable position of being caught in the middle of Russia and the USA, as well as having no real exports of which to speak.  Eco-tourism is booming, but will people fork out for the adventure?  I've learnt my lesson and I'm going to stay well away from making predictions...

Doctors Without Borders

I'm currently sitting here with a mouth full of pain and discomfort and a tub of ice-cream at the ready.  The two are related, though perhaps not in the way you'd expect.  You see, I'm gorging on chocolate and caramel ice-cream, at the behest of my dentist, in order to consume something while I recover from a wisdom tooth extraction.

One of my biggest concerns when I left England a million years ago was the health care I would be receiving from then on.  I don't have travel insurance and hadn't really planned on getting any.  Probably a very foolish thing and something I might try to rectify soon.  Anyway, on the flight over to China back in 2006 amongst all the excitement and anxiety, the small thought about my up-coming medical crossed my mind.

To get a work visa in China, employees have to go through a full medical check up also comprising an HIV test.  With my then-girlfriend, I was accompanied by a member of staff from the school and taken to the local hospital.  Although my colleague spoke some English, I was a little concerned about things getting lost in translation.  In this case, I needn't have worried because I understood quite clearly what one of the female doctors was trying to tell me; her hands running over my hairy legs and chest while taking my E.C.G. and grinning like the cat that got the canary!  This 'ordeal' was nothing, however, in comparison to another teacher with whom I worked.  This female teacher, K, when going for her check up, was told that for the full-body X-ray she had to remove her coat, her sweater and t-shirt.  Then she was told her bra interfered with the machine and she needed to remove it.  Reluctantly she did so, only to be informed that she couldn't cover herself with her hands, but had to stand with her arms by her side.  Up in the gallery, a bunch of medical students looked on with beaming smiles!!

Thankfully, my only real medical problem in my first year in Tianjin was 'merely' a spot of Bronchitis.  The air-pollution in that particular city pretty bad and it wasn't uncommon to sneeze or cough and find your tissue full of black gunk.  Being told the news about my infliction by a doctor blowing his cigarette smoke in my face was only one of the things that bemused me during my visit to the hospital that day.

Eventually, my Chinese got to the level where I could go to the dentist and get some treatment.  Alas, my Turkish has never really taken off, and I was grateful to find an English-speaking dentist in Istanbul.  I had been having problems with my wisdom tooth off an on for a while and recently it has started causing a problem for its neighbour.  When I went back to the clinic a week after making the appointment, I was pleasantly surprised to find a very attractive doctor waiting to carry out the surgery.  A little tip for anyone out there looking to get their wisdom teeth yanked out; find a sexy dentist wearing Fuck Me Boots, short-shorts and a low-cut top!  You won't care half as much about the pain and discomfort...

The last time I had a woman in the medical profession up close and personal was in Kyrgyzstan.  I had recently taken over a room from another teacher who had left a few weeks previously.  At that time I was spending time with a girl, H, who would occasionally spend the night with me (yes, she was a real person and not a spot of artistic license!!).  After our first night in the new place, I woke up to find myself itching like crazy.  A few hours later, I asked a friend to check out my back and he broke the news that I had a nasty rash all over.  The previous tenant had had a bit of a reputation for bringing home 'working' girls and my mind raced with possible ailments.  I had never had to call a girl before and enquire as to whether spending a night with me had given her a rash.  I hope to never make that phone call again!! :-)

Fortunately, it turned out that it was nothing more serious that an outbreak of bed-bugs.  My treatment consisted of going to the nearest pharmacy and getting the super-cute girl working there to give me a shot of something or other on the arse.  Three times over three days.  It was not how I had imagined being treated by an attractive 'nurse' would play out.

So, as I eat up my ice-cream and wait for my mouth to heal, I can reflect on the luck I have had so far with my life abroad.  No serious health problems, but plenty of memories and reminders to not take anything for granted.

Visa Run

Many ex-pats living in Istanbul can relate this story or a version like it.  Although living and working in this very modern and European city with reputable jobs in teaching, journalism and law, most foreigners find they do so illegally.  When I first arrived in Turkey, I was told that I would be provided with a Residency and Work Permit.  However, almost 10 months on and I'm still here on a tourist visa and it's not going to change.  The cost and hassle to apply for the required documents is just too high for most Turkish companies to bother going through with it - much easier to send the employees dashing for the border every 3 months to get a new stamp in the passport.  It has become such common practice, that the border guards usually treat it as a game whenever they check through and see pages and pages of exit/entry stamps!  Still, these runs don't always go smoothly and a more dedicated border guard (or one having a bad day!) might just make an issue out of it.

The last couple of times I had made a trip of it, first in Bulgaria and then in Berlin to bring in the new year. This time, however, I couldn't be arsed and just wanted to get it over and done with.  So yesterday I jumped on the 7am service bus from Taksim (the 'centre' of the city) to the Otogar on the outskirts.  From there I got on the bus bound for Sofia in Bulgaria.  The idea has been to get off at the first town over the border and flag down another bus going in the opposite direction to take me back so that the whole process could be done in a day.  Usually, I would have been wary of doing it this way because the date of exit and entry would match and that may have been a little too obvious.  Luckily, I had just renewed my passport so when I re-entered my passport would be empty without any trace whatsoever previous visa stickers.

At the Otogar, I heard two guys conversing in a hybrid of Turkish and Russian.  Initially, I had assumed that it was a Turk and a Bulgarian guy trying to converse.  That was until I looked around and saw a distinctly looking Central Asian man (complete with a full set of gold teeth!).  Tentatively, in Russian, I asked the guy where he was from and was delighted when he replied. "Kyrgyzstan."  He seemed really surprised that not only had I heard of his homeland, but that I had lived there and liked it, which in the main I had.  Fortunately, he also spoke some English due to his job.  He was a horse acrobat for the Kyrgyz Circus and had done a lot of touring around the world as a result.  He was on his way to Sofia to meet up with his fellow artists for a show there.  So in a mixture of Russian and English (with the occasional Kyrgyz word thrown in) we chatted sporadically on our way to the border.

It was on the way to the border that I had a change of mind.  I hadn't really thought out my plan and as a result I hadn't changed over any money into Bulgarian Levs or Euros.  I had $20, but that was for my new visa.  How was I going to pay for another bus ticket and lunch should I have found myself waiting on that side for longer than expected.  Even worse, how was I going to pay for accommodation should I have got stuck there overnight!  I asked the bus attendant, a Bulgarian who understood my broken Russian enough, if he could help me at the passport control.  He said it wouldn't be a problem.

At the booth, I handed over my passport and let the Bulgarian speak to the officer.  The officer shrugged his shoulders as if to ask what the big deal was and pointed at the duty-free shop.  I was told to go through to the other side and jump on the first bus which would be along very soon.  The rest would take care of itself, which it did.

I couldn't help but think back to my encounter with the passport control officers in Uzbekistan who had made a simple flight to Turkey into something much more sinister.  After going through the hand luggage checks and having been frisked thoroughly in a little office by a heavy-handed official, I then proceeded to the booth to hand over my passport to get stamped out.  There, the guy told me that I had a problem with my documents.  He rubbed his fingers together and asked for dengi (money).  I told him straight away that I didn't speak Russian and played dumb.  After trying to tell me that I didn't have the correct visa and getting nowhere, he then tried various different approaches including claims that my passport was a forgery and that I wasn't the person in the photo.  Finally, after being escorted to another little room with an armed cop for a short time and insisting that I didn't understand anything they were saying, I was allowed through without having to cough up a bribe.

My journey back to Istanbul proved to be less hassle free as I was stuck next to a Bulgarian-Turk who knew some English.  At first he was jovial and polite, but as the duty-free whiskey took effect he descended into rant after rant about the Germans, the Jews and the French.  He liked the English, though, and I did learn a few things from him, nevertheless.

At the front of the bus I had noticed a group of girls (Bulgarians I had presumed, correctly it turned out) all looking very young and anxious.  The Bulgarian-Turk informed me that they were poor girls with no prospects in Bulgaria and were heading to Turkey to try their hands at prostitution.  The cost of one hours' 'service' would be more than a weeks' wage in their home towns.  Every day, at least one girl on every bus was making this trip - not just from Bulgaria, but from Romania, Russia, the Ukraine and other former Communist countries that had fallen on hard times.  Indeed, to prove his point, he tapped another young girl sitting in front of us on the shoulder.  When she turned around I could see that she was a very attractive, but very young Bulgarian girl.  He asked her how old she was and she answered that she was sixteen.  I didn't follow the rest of the conversation because it was conducted in rapid, hushed Bulgarian of which I only understood some Russian words, but none to string a sentence together.  After a couple of minutes, he sat back and confided in me that he had a 'date' lined up when he got back home.  I can only hope for the girl's sake that he had sobered up a little by the time he took her home...

Super Size Me

"The bigger the better," "Big is beautiful" and "Baby Got Back" are just three well-made arguments put forward that size does matter. I haven't been to the States (not a dig at waistlines, I'm in no position to mock!) or Dubai so I can't confirm whether those mantras prove or disprove the theory. However, I have lived in, travelled around and generally experienced some pretty big things (ooh behave!).

My mind began thinking about the old cliché about the world being such a small place the other day while I was taking a bus. I was on my way to visit the Istanbul Turkazoo Aquarium - home of the biggest aquarium-located underwater tunnel in the world. From my house in practically the centre (if Istanbul can be said to have a centre) of the city, I can jump on a bus, tram or metro service in next to no time and journey to almost all parts of Istanbul.

The Turkazoo Aquarium was a one hour bus journey north-west of my house by bus (without traffic) and it left me wondering just how long it would take to get from one end of the city to the next, an expedition I might even attempt at some point. Last year I visited the Princes' Islands which can be found a 2 hour boat ride to the south of the centre. As the boat chugged along and Sultanahmet and the Galata tower became mere specks on the horizon, the city of Istanbul continued to stretch on and on and on and on a little bit more. Although, it terms of population, this isn't the largest city I have been too, it may well be the most spread out. To emphasise the point, whenever I have travelled to other parts of Turkey and returned by bus I forget that the 'Welcome to Istanbul' sign isn't a precursor to alighting the coach anytime soon. It can be some 2 hours later when I finally get off the thing and that's early in the morning with no traffic on the roads!

The aquarium turned out to be a nice afternoon excursion, but I feel the 'big' tunnel was in need of a lot more sharks and other forms of sea life to do it justice. As I was wandering around mugging for the camera in front of a scuba-diving member of staff vacuuming the bottom of the tank, I couldn't help compare it to the last one I had visited in Hong Kong and be slightly disappointed.

Hong Kong and China in particular are places of which I will always have fond memories. The sheer scale and bonkers-ness (I don't care if that's not a real word, it is now!) of those places give a whole new level to 'big.' From the 1.3 billion people who call it home to the cult of Mao (who could arguably be called the most followed and revered leader since that bloke with the beard and sandals threw a party with a shitload of wine and invited everyone!), the Chinese don't like to do things in half-measures. Heck, they even built a gigantic, though useless, wall just because they could.

 Not everything in China was big...

However, not even the giant mega-cities of Shanghai or Beijing had anything on the population explosions that occurred in Delhi and Mumbai (formerly Bombay).  Walking around these cities and sharing your breathing space with 23 million+ other souls could be quite claustrophobia-inducing.  Nevertheless, something can be said for being in a place where no matter which corner you turn there is usually something strange and wonderful going on.  I guess this would sum up the best and worst of living in Istanbul; too many people and far too much traffic, but with pockets of quiet randomness to keep things interesting.  As the great philosopher Sir Mix-A-Lot didn't say, I may not like big and I cannot lie... but I also can't deny that I don't dislike it as much as I used to.  I still think the best things come in small packages, but as long as the world is full of big things then there'll always be something at which to marvel.

Going Wild

An interesting thing happens when you travel around various countries. You begin to realise that it's not just the different people you're observing, but the animals too. Whether it's elephants in Thailand, pandas in China or even the sacred cows of India, animals have a way of shaping the attitudes and traditions of their human co-inhabitants; sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.

Last week, my housemate and I did a spot of travelling along the Mediterranean coast of Turkey during the half-term holidays. Our first stop was to the tourist centre of Bodrum in the south. We stayed with a couchsurfer named Cemil, who put us up in the four-star hotel he managed. While we were there, our host proved to be a great source of local information and after mentioning my disappointment at missing out on experiencing the big camel wrestling festival the week previous, Cemil did a quick search and discovered a smaller event taking place that weekend.



Camel wrestling may sound like a ridiculous idea dreamt up by drunken fools, but it is in fact a legitimate activity among rural Turks during the winter months. As winter is the traditional mating season for camels, the males tend to be more aggressive at this time. Naturally, these randy beasts would fight among themselves in order to impress any females nearby. The camel breeders of Turkey turned this into a sport, though without the fight to the death that would occur in nature. Instead, a ring of referees surround the two competitors, ready to pull them apart before any damage could be done. Afterall, the 'athletes' are a primary source of income for most of the owners. In order to judge the contest, the umpires decide the outcome using a series of accepted 'moves' a camel can make. I have no idea what these could possibly be, so I could only watch in bemusement.

Apart from the camel meat kebabs that were served up ringside (very tasty, I have to say), which must have been a little distressing for the camels to walk past, the whole event was surprisingly animal cruelty free. That is not always the case, unfortunately, but I always find it difficult to impose 'western' morals upon other cultures. Hunting for sport is still possible in most European and North American countries, so it would be hypocritical to be critical, especially when in Asia these activities are part of the customs and the way of life.



In Kyrgyzstan, for example, my colleagues and I went on a hunt with a local and his eagle. On horseback we trekked through the hills and valleys near our guide's village. We got to witness first-hand the majesty of an eagle in full-flight and on the hunt and were lucky enough to see it capture a fox. On the other hand, I have to admit to finding it difficult to agree with the blatant cruelty that had taken place the day before when at the festival designed to showcase the talents of the birds of prey. During one of the events, the organisers had chained up a wolf so that the pack of dogs could take it in turns to attack the animal. Whenever the wolf fought back, a steward with a club would put it back in its place and allow the dogs to continue their massacre. I didn't stay any longer and moved on to watch something less brutal.

Whether for good or ill, there's no doubting the part the multitude of animals play in shaping life. I'm just glad I get to see this in action and marvel at yet another aspect of my life on the move.