tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40897525130169969562024-03-14T11:58:47.360+09:00Desolation Traveltrips of melancholy and despair for the discerning masochistanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-49275037901555399922017-07-08T04:53:00.003+09:002017-07-08T04:53:57.964+09:00Photos are down (Photobucket is EVIL)<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Most of the photos on this site were hosted through Photobucket, a formerly free photo-hosting site which I had used for over a decade without problems. As of July 5, 2017 they changed their terms of service without any warning. Third-party photo hosting is no longer a free service - in fact, to re-activate it, I would have to pay $40/month, which is absurd. I will be beginning the process of transferring the inactive photos to a different server, but obviously that will be a long, slow process. Please bear with me, and do check back. I hope to get this fixed, I just don't know how long it's going to take.</span>Annie Nimityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09711448646226959206noreply@blogger.com54tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-43571249619359976502015-10-20T10:35:00.000+09:002015-10-20T10:35:36.325+09:00The Democratic Republic of the Congo…<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">…should be one of the world’s great tourist
hotspots.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by Ben S.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Within a compact area in its far east, up against the Rwandan and Ugandan
borders, you can observe some of the last remaining mountain gorillas, track
chimpanzees through the forest, gaze upon the world’s largest lava lake, jump
crevasses on Africa’s only glaciers, and swim in the crocodile and hippo-free
waters of Lake Kivu.<br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, the deadliest conflict since 1945, a refugee crisis, rape
epidemic and widespread crime, corruption and disease mean that, while the
region is full of foreign visitors, travel companions are far more likely to be
UN soldiers, NGO bureaucrats or European war correspondents than fellow
tourists. Things are slowly changing –
since rebels were pushed out of Goma and into the forests in 2012, a steady
trickle of curious visitors have crossed the border from Rwanda to climb the
Nyiragongo volcano and commune with great apes, all under the watchful eye of
armed rangers from the Virunga National Park. </span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The first few days of my trip this past summer were under the protection of the
park authorities. One night was spent in
the understated luxury of a private bungalow at the Mikeno Lodge, watching monkeys
from the terrace and guided nature walks in the forest. Another I sat drinking wine by a campfire
with South African financiers and American NGO workers outside $280 per night
safari tents, eyes shining and voices trembling as recent memories of
encounters with mountain gorillas were recalled. Another night was passed shivering atop a
3500 metre volcano, awestruck at the sight of the cauldron of lava bubbling
below, while porters concocted a delicious dinner in the subzero night air, the
armed rangers and friendly, informative park staff a constant, unobtrusive
presence. Magical, unforgettable,
cliché-ridden and budget-destroying memories made, in as much security and
peace of mind as perhaps is possible in the Congo, thoughts of war and death
far away.<br /><br />At the end of my trip, being deposited in Goma – the chaotic, often-destroyed/occupied/bombed,
lava-strewn hub of the region, where the harsh, knife-edge realities of
Congolese life play out to the tune of the whirring of UN helicopters and – in
bad times – sounds of grenades and gunfire – I waved goodbye to my park ranger
escort and realised that I was alone in Congo and under nobody’s protection
other than my own. Well, not quite. I had found a local’s email address online
and asked him if he’d want to be my guide for a few days. We had agreed to meet for a drink and to
discuss plans. A part of me wasn’t
entirely convinced that this was necessarily the safest or most reliable way to
travel in Congo, but a $2000 2-day trip with a travel agency wasn’t really an
option. And so it was that I found
myself meeting Rene, and agreeing to travel with him to his ancestral homeland
of Idjwi island.<br /><br /></div>
</span></div>
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Idjwi’s claim to fame is being the world’s tenth largest inland island- a
source of pride to many a local – but perhaps it should be better known for its
appallingly high rate of tropical diseases and 27 year life expectancy. It was odd to think that, in the week before
turning 30, I’d be on borrowed time by island standards. About the only information you can find in
English about Idjwi is <b><a href="https://news.vice.com/article/everybody-thought-it-was-witchcraft-so-he-died-doctors-fight-to-change-beliefs-and-save-lives-on-remote-drc-island">a Vice article on the healthcare crisis on the island</a></b> –
incidentally I was to find myself eating pasta in Goma the night before my trip
with the British journalist who wrote that article. Rene had told me we’d need to be up at 5am in
order to catch the ferry to the island, and that in order to get to the port,
we’d need to hire motorbike taxis.
Having made it to 29 without ever sitting atop a two-wheeled contraption
of death, this prospect scared me more than any of the other numerous likely
ways to die* in and around Goma, not least because the city roads largely
consist of potholes surrounded by lava rocks (a legacy of the 2002 destruction
of the city by volcanic eruption).</div>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB">*including,
but not limited to, rebel grenade attack, war, volcanic eruption, asphyxiation
by sudden release of noxious gases from Lake Kivu, any one of numerous tropical
diseases, chimpanzee attack, being run over by NGO landcruiser.</span></i></div>
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The early start wasn’t really necessary, as one boat was cancelled, the next
one broke down (after we had departed; fortunately it managed to eventually
limp its way back into the dock), and in the end, after much chaos, shouting
and confusion, we managed to get tickets for the 9pm departure. And so the day was spent hanging out in Goma
with Rene’s family, learning key phrases in Swahili and Kihavu, taking more
terrifying moto rides (I eventually began to relax my deathgrip on the driver,
and even managed to eventually take photos while riding), and discussing plans
for my stay on the island while being reassured that, yes, while many boats do
sink and many people drown every year, our boat was safe and we’d definitely
arrive unscathed. Eventually we made our
way back to the port and made our way onto the boat.<br /></div>
</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so the adventure really began. To describe Idjwi as ‘undiscovered’ would be
an error. Hundreds of thousands of
conflict-fleeing Congolese have discovered a peaceful, safe haven on the island
in the last few years. For while Idjwi
is lacking even by Congolese standards in healthcare and basic development
(there are, for example, 10 cars on the island – one per 25,000 people,
outnumbering doctors by a considerable margin), it is at peace. Malnutrition is rife, employment almost
non-existent, and the poverty striking, but it’s a world away from the palpable
tension of the mainland, with its blue helmets, forbidding compounds and the
constant sight of guns. My time on the
island was spent talking with locals, swimming in the lake, eating tiny fried
fish and riding on the backs of yet more motorbikes along dusty red tracks,
looking out over the hilly, tree-drenched coastline and glassy waters of the
expansive lake.
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<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">
Somehow it felt wrong to
be so relaxed while aware of the brutal statistics about life and death in this
rural idyll, but everyone I spoke to was glad that I had come and wanted me to
get the word out to encourage more visitors to their island. Visiting is neither easy nor comfortable, but
as a side-trip to the spectacular but tourist-packaged Virunga Park experience,
a few days on Idjwi before catching the morning boat to Goma’s even more
frenetic, chaos-ridden Southern counterpart, Bukavu, is something I’d highly
recommend to any tourist in Congo.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I think about my short time in the Congo, it’s not the gorillas, the
volcano or my decadent bungalow in the jungle which come straight to mind. Nor is it war and the news reports of untold
human suffering it brings. Rather, it’s jumping off the bow of an overcrowded
ferry into a reedbed before dawn and scrambling in the dark up a steep bank of
dirt to wait for a lift to the village which may or may not come. It’s sitting on the elevated terrace of a bar
in Bukavu buying beers for a wanted man (he swore he was innocent) while he
shows me the ‘WANTED’ poster with his name on it as the military search for him
through the streets below. It’s that first,
heart pounding ride on a motorbike through the chaos of Goma, clambering over
sacks of vegetables in the coffin-dark hull of a supposedly unsinkable boat,
frowns turning to smiles at a Swahili greeting.
Not just the world-class attractions which hopefully, one day, will
bring in the tourist hordes, but simply being in Congo and the tiny moments
that, together, make for one big, unforgettable adventure.</div>
</span></div>
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Annie Nimityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03722342397108168476noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-70606424209553713512013-01-05T04:13:00.000+09:002015-08-24T01:51:52.160+09:00Elista: Desolate Disappointment<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By Ben S.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Elista, capital of the Republic of
Kalmykia, world capital of the noble game of chess and largest Buddhist city in
Europe (not that there are that many places vying for that accolade), ranks
highly among my list of ‘Biggest Travel Disappointments.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For this, I blame Daniel Kalder and
his book ‘Lost Cosmonaut’ (<a href="http://desolationtravel.blogspot.com/2011/02/desolit-writings-of-daniel-kalder.html">reviewed by DT here</a>). Having read it a few
years ago, long before I had ever set foot in the Former Soviet Union, his
description of the Kalymk capital conjured up images of an absurd wasteland on
the sad periphery of Europe, trembling under the megalomania of a chess-loving,
enemy-assassinating dictator while slowly disintegrating into the dust of the
endless steppe surrounding it. I enjoyed the book and its
description of Kalymkia, and was intrigued by idea of a Buddhist enclave within
Europe which was obsessed with chess and had nothing of any consequence to
offer the world. Although then an armchair desolationist as yet
uninitiated to the joys of travel in the fringes of the Soviet empire, the book
sparked my imagination and never faded from my memory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last spring, I spent a week in
Southern Russia visiting a colleague. I was staying in the small
industrial city of Volzhskiy on the outskirts of Volgograd. It was
my first (and so far only) trip to Russia, and a quick glance at the map showed
that the city of Elista was only a hop, skip and a jump away across the
steppe. I couldn’t conceive of any circumstance where I would
only be 2cm. from Kalymkia again (although 2cm. on a map of Russia transpires
to mean a five hour journey each way), and so naturally I decided to go. On
a day trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ten hours of travel to spend two
hours at a destination might seem absurd, and that would be because it is. Fortunately,
my friend found some others who were happy to make the trip, and so I caught a
lift with them. The scenery on the journey varied between monotonous
green and brown grasslands and the back of my eyelids as I was bored
into unconscious inertia. One highlight was passing through a
village populated by emigrants from the Caucasus, where signs advertised
delicious Georgian, Chechen and Azeri food. Unfortunately, I was
travelling in a car full of local Russians, who were horrified by the idea of
stopping at a place where ‘the people aren’t even from this country.’ This
was distressing, as I love khachapuri, and having it surrounding me but being
unobtainable was a form of psychological torture. Besides that one
village, and a brief stop for a domestic dispute between two of the car’s
passengers, there was just more grass of varying shades of brown and
green. I came to the conclusion that steppe is not among my favoured
landscapes, and that the best remedy is sleep. Which is hard to do in a
car with dodgy suspension and no air-con in 40 degree heat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Elista itself wasn’t worth the trip,
although that’s not to say that I’m not glad I didn’t go, or that I would
discourage anyone else from making the journey if they just so happen to be in
the area (the chances of that happening are, I suspect, slim). It’s
quite a pleasant, tidy-looking little Russian city with a couple of (obviously
new) pagodas and Buddhist-themed statues/kitsch/crap, a huge (new) Buddhist
temple and a few Asiatic-looking people walking around speaking Russian. If
foreign tourists were ever to descend en masse to Kalmykia, they might bemoan
the lack of ‘authenticity’ without realising that this is in fact as authentic
as it gets. The Kalmyk are a Buddhist people, but they are also
Russian and European. Expecting a Soviet Shangri-La would be ridiculous. My
Russian car-cohabitants were unimpressed, walking morosely in the wrong
direction around the temple to the consternation of the Kalymk praying
inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The much-touted ‘Chess City,’ a
ridiculous project created by the aforementioned dictator on the outskirts of
Elista, was disappointingly low key. The megalomania I had been
promised wasn’t as evident as I had hoped, the place looking to me like a
chess-themed industrial estate on the outskirts of any provincial town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We didn’t go to the restaurant which
purported to serve wolf meat, as our two hours were up and it was time for the
long journey back home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We had seen all there was to see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I expected desolation in a savage,
absurd wasteland, and instead I found mediocrity with a few bits of Disneyfied
‘Asia’ scattered around. Perhaps Elista was once as described in the
book, but now it feels much closer to the Russian mainstream, with the addition
of a Mongolian consulate and giant golden temple. If one searches
for desolation and doesn’t find it, then arguably the purpose of the trip has
been accomplished. I was searching for the Elista that Kalder
described – an Elista which, if it ever existed, seems to have now moved
on. I’m glad for the Kalymk people, and I’m happy to have seen the
reality for myself. But I can’t help but think two hours in Elista
is an hour too long. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And that I really, really am not a fan of
steppe.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-15645452153632776832013-01-05T03:31:00.000+09:002015-08-24T01:51:26.033+09:00Holiday in Abkhazia<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By Ben S</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am disappointed with the name the people have chosen to
call their country. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Apsny. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It sounds to me like some kind of
gelatinous substance which might be produced by a particularly severe throat
infection and then unceremoniously hacked up in a violent coughing fit.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> For once, English has the good
sense to use a more exciting, exotic-sounding name: <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Abkhazia. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>For a people blessed with a beautiful
language renowned for its onslaught of consonants in unimaginably complex
clusters, I can’t help but feel the Abkhaz did not reach their full potential
when naming their country.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://desolationtravel.blogspot.com/2010/10/abkhazia-conflict-in-caucasus.html">Friends of mine have blazed the trail before me</a>. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Abkhazia, while
a recent warzone and an unrecognised state to which the British Foreign Office
advises against all travel (under any circumstances), is not virgin territory
among my cohort of intrepid friends. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Thousands of Russians and <a href="http://desolationtravel.blogspot.com/2012/08/abkhazian-angst-glimpse-of-past-in.html">a sprinkling of westerners</a> have preceded us. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We
are not explorers, just tourists. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We
are on holiday- a chance to kick back, relax, and enjoy the scenery without
worrying about work, bills and other mundane matters. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>While sitting in the charming Cafe
Lika in central Sukhumi, Lika herself brings over the visitor’s book and
proudly points at the only English-language entry. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Apparently the previous foreign
visitors found Lika’s hospitality and great cooking a relief after having been
detained for 18 hours by the Abkhaz police. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We hope we don’t suffer a similar fate
in this lawless non-country where we have no diplomatic representation. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>After all, we are tourists. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Trouble and excitement are far from
our minds. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We just want a
relaxing holiday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My original intention had been a long
weekend at a pleasant, rustic hostel in the Tatra Mountains of Slovakia. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>A bit of walking in the pine forests,
a trip on a cable car, maybe a tour of Krakow. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I ask my friend W if she would like to
come along. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>She suggests
Georgia, trusting me to take us somewhere ‘suitably dangerous, with delicious
food.’ <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>So, my relaxing long
weekend in Eastern Europe turns into a two week jaunt around the
Caucasus. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Not that I’m
complaining – like all sensible people, I have wanted to visit Georgia since I
first discovered its existence. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And
the food is certainly delicious. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It
seems rude to visit but not to venture into Abkhazia, former warzone now
Russian beach holiday paradise. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Getting
in is now just a matter of applying for a visa and paying $20 – easy. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>So it is that we emerge from an
overheated, urine-scented train at Zugdidi as dawn is breaking, eager to find a
taxi driver to take us to ‘the border.’ <span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<center>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://s1187.beta.photobucket.com/user/internationalcatlady/media/BS1_zps20e15981.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/BS1_zps20e15981.jpg" /></a><br />Ben Scott at Zugdidi</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But of course, it’s not really a ‘border,’ because to call it
a ‘border’ would confer legitimacy on the brutal, evil and totally illegal
Abkhaz government- really just a bunch of criminals lording it over an integral
part of Georgia. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>In a
hushed and needlessly urgent tone, I ask the taxi driver if he’s willing to
take us ‘to the river; to Ingur.’ <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Nudge,
nudge, wink wink. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>‘To the
border?’ he asks, motioning for us to get in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The ‘border’ is closed when we get there,
the Georgian police officers sleeping in their hut. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I decide it probably wouldn’t go down
to well to wake them up in order to ask permission to leave Georgian-Georgia
and cross over the river to the part of their country which is presently and
inconveniently occupied by Russian soldiers. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>So we sit in the sunshine watching the
pigs, and wait. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>After a
while, there are signs of movement, visits to the privy and shower and then,
finally, signs that the working day is to begin. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The Georgian policeman on duty doesn’t
look thrilled to see us there, but we are not the first westerners to have passed
through, and as Abkhazia is still legally part of Georgia he can’t block our
passage. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>With an air of
resignation, he takes our details and asks where we plan to travel. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>An impassioned, frustrated speech
about the unfairness of it all – how foreigners such as us can travel freely
whereas he is trapped, unable to cross the river to see what lies on the other
side. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We sympathise, and
offer weak platitudes that maybe better times await in the future. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Then, trying not to skip with joy, we
head for the border and the other side. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It
begins to drizzle, as we sit in the back of a clapped-out horse-drawn cart,
wending our way past puddle-filled potholes and past hunchbacked refugees
cloaked in black. <span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://s1187.beta.photobucket.com/user/internationalcatlady/media/BS2_zpsb9d04c89.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/BS2_zpsb9d04c89.jpg" /></a><br />Crossing the 'border'</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our driver sings a mournful song and salutes the young Georgian
soldier guarding the free world against the Russian enemy. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We stop at a gate – Russian soldiers
eyeing us on the other side while harassing ethnic Georgian refugees. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It all looks a bit forbidding and
ominous. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Not like a holiday
place. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Even the uniforms
look scary – no smart police-style outfits now, just fatigues and what are, I
suspect, Kalashnikovs. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> We
have crossed the edge of the known world of diplomatic protection and European
human rights laws, and have entered a new space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our stay in Abkhazia is
relatively uneventful. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>There
are no wars, arrests, or ethnic cleansing. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>There are also no non-Russian
tourists, and certainly no other Asian faces besides W’s. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The Minister of Foreign Affair’s
taxi-driving brother-in-law rips us off and then drives off with our luggage in
the back to pick up another fare. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> We
wonder if we’ll ever see our bags again, but eventually he returns. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We stay at Amra’s dilapidated
apartment in the Sukhumi suburbs. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>She
is nice enough, but desperate to sell me a pair of fake Levis and a huge jar of
honey.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> Unfortunately,
space is at a premium in my bags, so I decline the offer.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> We only hear gunshots outside
her apartment once, but she warns me that Sukhumi nights bring dangers for
people like us, and insists we are home before dark. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We meet the Minister of Foreign
Affair’s mother on a bus to Gagra. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>She
stares at W for a long time, before enquiring politely where we are from. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>A man in Sukhumi approaches W while
brandishing some Uzbek money, asking her to ascertain the value of ‘her
people’s money’ in Roubles. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> A
member of the militsia stares at us and then descends into a deep bow. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>‘Welcome,’ he says. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>One man speeds past us as we approach
a zebra crossing, gawping out the window as he passes. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The next we hear is the slamming of
the brakes and him screeching up the road in reverse. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He reverses past us and then lowers
the window, graciously beckoning for us to cross the road. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We suspect that the sight of British
and Malaysian tourists lugging backpacks around Sukhumi is not one he often
sees. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We meet a few
nice people and many nice cats. We visit the Research Centre where monkeys
are kept in pitiful conditions, and buy fruit to thrust into their sad, begging
hands. <span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is a scientific institute where, during better times,
monkeys were trained to be Cosmonauts of the Soviet Union. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I do not suspect that Abkhazia has any
plan for simian space travel soon, given the dilapidated ruins which scatter
the institute and the sorry state of their inhabitants. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We sunbathe on the stones at Gagra
beach, and I brave a swim in the surprisingly warm November sea. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>A gelatinous substance coats my foot
and I decide to leave the water. <span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p>
</o:p></span></span></div>
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We visit the monastery and waterfall at Novy Afon, look
admiringly at the towering mountains, deep blue sea and palm trees, and feed
bread to adorable kittens while ignoring the swans which glide across the
impossibly scenic lake. </div>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bombed-out buildings are impressively juxtaposed against
idyllic park and mountain backdrops. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>For
the tourist seeking new holiday horizons, all seems perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But something just doesn’t
feel right about Abkhazia. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s
not just the knowledge of what happened here, the horrific ethnic cleansing of
Georgians and the atrocities committed during the war. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s not even the inconvenience of being
unable to withdraw cash, or the inflated prices and inferior food. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The sun beats down strongly even in
late Autumn, but there is little of the warmth of Georgia here. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>People have been nice, and on a few
memorable occasions even friendly, but there is none of the vitality and joy of
the other side of the river. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>There
is tension and people keep their distance. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Post-Soviet service standards seem to
be the norm. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>No more free
wine and smiles. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>No more
‘where are you from and do you like my country?’ <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Taxi drivers quote absurd prices with
a predatory gleam in their eyes. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>There
is sometimes laughter at my attempts at speaking Russian – and not kindly
jest. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>A man kicks a cat and
people tease the monkeys. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Neither
W nor I can shake the feeling that there is something bad in the air
here. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Yes, the palm trees
are beautiful, the snow-capped mountains towering, the beaches nice to look at,
and the vegetation luxuriant.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> And
yes, we have had the pleasure of meeting some charming, friendly people like
the wonderful Lika.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> But,
however much it markets itself as such, something tells me that Abkhazia needs
to do more to make itself the holiday paradise it aspires to be.<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1357174563723_38055"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1357174563723_38055" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The taxi driver who meets us
at the Georgian side of the river-which-may-or-may-not-be-a-border gives us a
fair price, and we chat in broken Russian. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>As we talk property prices, work and
food on the short drive to Zugdidi, I begin to relax for the first time in
days. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>We are back in
Georgia. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Back on holiday.</span></div>
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anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-76037790345337148762012-08-25T13:20:00.001+09:002015-08-24T01:48:36.194+09:00Abkhazian Angst: A glimpse of the past in present day Tkvarcheli<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by Ben R.</span><br />
<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To see the full set of photographs from Ben's trip to Abkhazia, please <a href="http://www.desolationtravel.com/abkhazia2.html"><b>click here</b></a>.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'd been in
Abkhazia for a week and I was getting bored. I'd come looking for an adventure
but instead I had been seduced by the warm waters of the Black Sea and the
excellent Abkhaz wine which I had been drinking liberally since I'd arrived.
I'd always liked the idea of a traditional beach holiday, set in beautiful
surroundings but with the backdrop of a war zone.
The juxtaposition of leisure and horror intrigued me. However as I
had soon realised after crossing the Ingur bridge into Abkhazia, this small country
only lived up to half of the bargain. It was stunning, a naturalist’s paradise
but the terror was over, I could sleep safely. And whilst that was a good thing
for the local population who had witnessed enough horror, selfishly, I was a
little disappointed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was in the southern town of Ochamchire, a town
that privileged Soviets had flocked to in great numbers before the fall to
relax on its pebble beach and soak up the southern sun. But the days of
Ochamchire's beaches being full of holidaying apparatchiks and their families
were but a distant memory. Now the town was a sleepy backwater that had few
visitors and a wrecked tourist infrastructure. An abandoned hotel stood at one
end of the beach and looked out over a beautiful shore line that now had more
cows strolling along it then holidaymakers. </span></div>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=ochamshire_hotel_view.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/ochamshire_hotel_view.jpg" /></a><br />View from the abandoned hotel</span></center>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ochamchire is a town where every
street is a reminder to the war and the ethnic cleansing that took place there.
As the victorious Abkhaz fighters backed by the Russian army pushed the
Georgian army out across the Ingur river back into Georgia the ethnic Georgian
population who had lived in Abkhazia for generations followed them carrying
what they could and leaving what they could not. They were the lucky ones. The
stragglers and the brave were rounded up and herded into Ochamchire's football
stadium from where women and children were systematically raped and the men
were killed. Streets of empty houses the only reminder to their presence in the
country and the genocide committed against them. I'd asked people in
the town how they felt about the fact that the neighbours that they had grown
up with sharing their vines and wells had been allowed to be so cruelly
treated. Was there a sense of common shame? Few were willing to utter more than
a few words on the matter. History may well be written by the victors but they
seem less inclined to speak. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My map showed a solitary road heading deep into
the Caucus mountains beginning in Ochamchire and ending at the town
of Tkvarcheli, in the mountains some 30 kilometers away. With no idea as
to what I would find there but with no better options I flagged down a passing
taxi. A battered Volga pulled up driven by a silver haired Abkhazian man. Levar, as he introduced himself, was confused by my request. "Why don't I take you
to Novi Afon instead, the scenery there is more beautiful." He was
reluctant to take me to Tkvarcheli insisting I'd not like the place. I
increased my offer to 1500 Roubles, a foolishly high sum for such a short
journey and reluctantly he asked me to get in. We left Ochamchire, passing
through streets and neighbourhoods where nine tenths of the houses were
abandoned and burnt out, the Georgian quarter. As we drove on into the
foothills of the Caucus mountains the more suspicious Levar became of my intentions
there. "What do you want to go to Tkvarcheli for?" he pressed. I'd
already explained that I just wanted to have a wander around, I was bored of
the beach, but that raised his suspicions further, "They will think you
are a spy and arrest you," he said looking at me without a hint of humour.
"Well then they'll shoot you for collaborating with the
enemy," I said teasing. We drove on in silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the road climbed out of the foothills and
into the mountains the temperature dropped. We drove into a patch of fog but
when we appeared through the other side we did so into a landscape of verdant
hills, rushing mountain streams and the occasional abandoned building. It was a
stunningly beautiful place. It was also more Soviet then the coast, the
signposts, the hammer and sickle motifs on buildings, there had not been such a
rush to eradicate the reminders to the past. It was also noticeably
poorer. Abkhazian people had been wonderfully friendly on my trip. This
trip to the Caucuses, my first, had been an epiphany for me. For years I had
associated the Russian language and all who spoke it with an unsmiling solemnness.
But here in the Caucuses for the first time I saw the Russian language used by
races who used the language as an instrument to convey happiness. People smiled
at strangers, they said dobri-den whilst passing on the street. It was nothing
short of shocking to walk into a shop to be welcomed by smiling faces speaking
Russian (Russian is the lingua franca of Abkhazia and the Caucus region) and
not to be made to feel as though you were a nuisance. Yet here in the mountains
on the road to Tkvarcheli there were no smiles. As we passed half abandoned
villages people watched us pass, but seemingly with suspicion etched on their
faces. It seemed outsiders didn't come this way much. The road was empty
without any other vehicles on it save the occasional army truck loaded with
Russian conscripts. I'd heard nothing but resentment towards the Russian
military presence in Abkhazia. Shortly after crossing the border into Abkhazia
a week earlier the marshrutka I had been travelling in had been stopped at an
army road block manned by Russian soldiers. All the passengers and I were
ordered outside for a documentation inspection. The Abkhazian passengers were
seething that they were being stopped and inspected by Russians in their own
country. It was plain to see where the real power lay in Abkhazia and the
locals resented it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We drove on in silence and passed a sign
announcing our entry into the Tkvarcheli region, Lavar the driver turned to me
and reminded me that I should be careful. Rounding a corner the view of
Tkvarcheli opened up in front of us. It was not a pretty sight. In a mist
shrouded valley lay the lower half of the town, the industrial area, the coal
mine, the now abandoned railway station, some disused factories with
their decaying towers and some Stalinist buildings long abandoned and beyond
repair. And up higher on the upper slopes of the mountain side lay the centre
of the town, the worker's quarters and all that was necessary for life.
Stretched out high above the town and linking both halves, the upper and the
lower, were steel cables holding a couple of now disused cable cars, stranded
midway between the wheel houses, no doubt used to transfer the workers from the
upper half of the town down to the mine. It was a scene unlike any I had ever
seen on my FSU travels before. An ugly town, run down and decaying but
paradoxically set in such lush and beautiful surroundings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I asked Levar to park up by the railway station
that stood at the entrance to the lower half of the town. I switched on my
camera, "Don't let anybody see you," Levar instructed tetchily. I
entered the collapsing terminal building built in the classical style Soviet
architects of the early period were instructed to build. It had not been used
for years but once had train services to Sukhumi and beyond. I walked along the
overgrown platform, nobody in sight, the lower half of the town was dead. As I
walked to the end I saw Levar hiding behind a wall watching me. Did he suspect
me of being a spy or was he just looking out for me? In Ochamchire I had been
complacent about being in a conflict area, but up here in Tkvarcheli with Levar
and his warnings about me being arrested or being seen things felt different. A
strange feeling was growing inside me, one I did not recognise. We returned to
the car, Levar wanted to return to Ochamchire but I insisted we drive on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We passed derelict factory buildings until
coming to a traffic circle which marked the entrance to the upper part of the
town. It was surrounded on three sides by Stalinist apartment buildings,
solidly built but long abandoned. The street was empty except for two guys
loading a large sack into the back of a Lada. They stopped and eyed us suspiciously
before dumping the sack in the trunk of the car and driving off. We parked up
next to a fast flowing river and I got out. "If you see someone hide your
camera and act normal," Lavar instructed. I ran across the open space in
the centre of the road and into an over grown and disused park which
had a dilapidated fountain and beyond that a shell of an apartment building. </span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
was rare to see housing of such quality in the former Soviet Union. These
buildings were built with quality materials and built to last. They had not
collapsed, but had been stripped of their wood. Window frames, roof lintels,
floor joists. They'd been needed perhaps in the cold winter months of the war.
I'd seen plenty of Krushevkas in states of disrepair but these were different, this
was not worker's housing. I walked through the park following the cracked
cement pathway. It was deserted, the only sound being that of the river running
through the centre of town. I returned to the car. </span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We crossed the river and
climbed higher into the upper town. There was no sign of modernity, nothing to
suggest we were in the new millennium. The streets were empty except for
the occasional Soviet built car and glum looking pedestrian who stood and
watched as we drove past. There were a few shops built into the bottom of
Stalinist apartment buildings which had painted wooden signs advertising what
they stocked 'Shoes', 'Products', 'Bread'. It was like a film set. We pulled up
at an abandoned theatre, outside were some workmen taking a rest from painting
a building on the opposite side of the road. I entered the theatre through a
broken door in the lobby whilst undoing my zip, better they think I was
urinating on their theatre then photographing it. Its rooms had the detritus of
the towns past cultural life; a rotting cupboard of costumes, discarded
celluloid film reels, a ballet shoe hanging on a nail.
The auditorium was a jumble of rotting leather chairs. How had it
come to this? Was the squalor in the town the result of the war, or the result
of a collapsing economy that was no longer spoon fed on subsidies? </span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We drove on
passing more glum pedestrians shuffling along semi deserted streets. At the
time of the last great Soviet census in 1989 the population of the town stood
at 22,000. Twenty years on it is less than 5000. People had left the town at
the first opportunity. Why? Levar turned to me as we drove, "Who are
you?" he asked, my previous explanation that I was just a tourist had
obviously not convinced him. "Really, who are you?" I'd never had
that question put to me before and for a moment I was unsure as to what he
meant, but what he meant was what was I doing up here in the mountains of
Abkhazia in some hell hole photographing everything that everybody else ceased
caring about 20 years ago? It was a good question, one I had no real answer to,
but in his mind he knew the answer. I either really was a spy or more likely,
an idiot. People wanted to escape this town yet I'd sought it out despite his
best efforts to steer me away. Why was I not in Novy Afon with the other
tourists? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Everything in the town was so imposing, hewn
from grey rock, built to survive the winters. During
the independence war in the early 90's Georgian forces had besieged
Tkvarcheli and tried starving the town into submission. The town's population
had held out for over 400 days until Abkhaz forces with Russian help had
relieved the town. It was a town built to endure, physically and mentally. We
took another road that led to a plateau high above the town and came to an
abandoned restaurant overlooking a bend in the river. It was a beautiful
setting; the town planners had chosen their spot well. The restaurant was built
on a raised plinth with a glass front that opened up the view to the distant
snow-capped mountains, up here with nobody watching Levar relaxed a little. He
went to the trunk of his car and pulled out a bottle of sickly sweet Abkhaz
wine and a dirty plastic mug. "This place was a fine restaurant, you
needed connections to get a table. I heard Beria ate here". We both sat in
silence and drank the sickly sweet wine gazing out at the view. Talk of Beria
and the images that his name conjured up brought back the feelings of unease
I'd felt since entering this town. As we finished the last of the wine Levar
asked if I wanted to see anything else but I'd seen enough and did not like
what I had seen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'd visited run down towns all over the former
Soviet Union in search of reminders of the near past but this place was
different. The difference was that in other towns and cities there had been
small reminders to the past in a sea of steadily growing modernity, a krushevka
building surrounded by glass office buildings, a crumbling Soviet bus stop
mural plastered with posters for an Ace of Base concert, an abandoned fishing
boat. They were subtle reminders of the late Soviet period. There were of
course two Soviet Unions: Pre-Stalin's death and post. Post-1953 was Yuri
Gagarin and Sputnik, it was Glasnost and the Moscow Olympics, it was Alla
Pugachova pop songs and Tarkovsky films, it was Kvass dispensers and
Cheburashka cartoons. It was a familiar place that on the surface at least was
not too different to our own countries. I could have found a place for myself
in that world. Tkvarcheli was not of that world. Tkvarcheli was built in the
early 1940's,a nastier more vicious period. And it did not just offer a glimpse
into that time; it seemingly still inhabited it. </span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The abandoned apartment
buildings on the traffic circle overlooking the only road into the town were
too well built to have been built for the workers; instead they were built for
the nomenclature of the Stalinist period: party cadres and their
families, securitat men, directors of the factories. And nobody achieved those
positions in those dark days without having blood on their hands, without
handing over a list of names, without reporting to someone. Nobody got to
live in the well-built apartment overlooking the park in Tkvarcheli unless they
were able to mute the voice of their conscience and do
certain despicable things. Up there looking out of their apartment
windows they would have seen all who came and went into the town, making mental
notes. The coal mine, the life blood of the town would have been mined by the
hands of prisoners, people torn from their homes and dumped here. Nobody would
have come to this damp valley unless it was through force or instruction. The
town was built to supply coal to the Soviet industrial machine; quotas would
have to be filled with dire consequences for ones that were not met. And how
did those prisoners arrive in the town? They walked along the very platform I'd
walked on at the railway station earlier. The abandoned restaurant I was
sitting in had not been not for the town's folk to enjoy but for the ruling
elite and that meant people implicit in crimes. The cold stares, the paranoia,
the constant watching as we drove past – it was too real. I'd always wondered
how it would have been to have lived in the Soviet Union in the height of Stalin's paranoiac reign
where nobody was to be trusted, where you were watched and spied upon by your
closest neighbours and family. Where there were certain buildings you dared not
walk past because of the horrors contained within. Now for the first time in my
travels I felt the faint touch of its tentacles, the first sting of fear and
despair. Tkvarcheli was a cruel place, sodomised by its own collusion with
history. Lavar sensed it and had tried to warn me without verbalising the fact.
And now I had come to sense it too. Tkvarcheli was a concrete testament of
man's inhumanity to man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We drove back from the restaurant along the half
deserted streets passing the more Stalinist buildings. A man in a suit ran out
of a building towards us shouting in a language I did not know, Levar
accelerated past him. I watched him in the wing mirror as he pointed at our car
whilst frantically shouting at a passersby. I turned to look at Levar for an
explanation but he was staring ahead,jaw tensed in the direction of the road
out of town. I was glad to be heading there with him.</span><br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: start;">To see the full set of photographs from Ben's trip to Abkhazia, please </span><a href="http://www.desolationtravel.com/abkhazia2.html" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><b>click here</b></a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: start;">.</span>
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anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-55443305735125893472012-08-19T12:32:00.001+09:002015-08-24T01:56:12.464+09:00DesoLIT: Tearing up the Silk Road<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Tearing up the Silk Road: A modern journey from China to Istanbul, through Central Asia, Iran, and the Caucasus</i> was written by Tom Coote, who provided an <a href="http://desolationtravel.blogspot.com/2012/06/turkmenbashis-land-of-fairy-tales.html">excerpt from his book as a guest blog post</a> on this site. His book can be purchased through Amazon by <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tearing-Silk-Road-Istanbul-Caucasus/dp/1859643000/">clicking here</a> (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tearing-Silk-Road-Istanbul-ebook/dp/B008XKUXDI/">here</a> for Kindle) or on the image below. Tom can be reached at <a href="mailto:tom@tomcoote.net">tom@tomcoote.net</a>, and his website is <a href="http://www.tomcoote.net/">www.tomcoote.net</a>. The review below is by Desolation Travel's Jane Keeler. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Author Tom Coote had 9 weeks of freedom left before returning to the UK and the daily humdrum of working life. He was returning to the UK from East Asia, and decided to make the trip home by land along the route of the old Silk Road, taking only public transportation. As anyone who has traveled in that part of the world knows, doing something like that in nine weeks is a daunting task - especially if one wants to see something of the countries one is passing through. Coote did an admirable job of it, making it to China, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Iran, Armenia, Georgia, and Turkey during his whirlwind trip. As someone who used to live in Kyrgyzstan, I was disappointed that he didn't make it to my favorite 'stan due to his arrival at the border during the time of the 2010 Kyrgyz revolution - although surely had he offered the border guard a large enough bribe he could have gotten in!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As Coote only has a short amount of time to spend in each location, he is only able to give the reader a superficial glance into the cities, towns, peoples, and cultures he encounters along the way. That being said he does give a good description of the realities facing travelers along the Silk Road, from difficulties arranging transportation or finding adequate lodging, to the lack of hygienic toilet facilities. (I will say he goes into a lot more detail about toilets and bathrooms than we perhaps needed - although when I lived over there these were often topics of conversation among my expat friends, so I definitely understand his desire to discuss such things. Coote also makes it to the main tourist attractions (some of them delightfully desolate and iffy) along his route. This book would make an excellent guide of things to do - and, perhaps, not to do - for anyone planning to attempt to follow the route of the Silk Road in our modern era.</span></div>
anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-54188138623984454972012-07-16T01:31:00.002+09:002015-08-24T01:56:37.560+09:00Kitsch on US-1<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by Jane</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">US-1 was the main north-south highway in the eastern US prior to the construction of the Interstate Highway System. Interstate highway I-95 roughly parallels US-1, but it is far enough away from it that the hotels, motels, bars, and restaurants along US-1 have all but faded into the underbrush. US-1 is still traveled, but typically only by people going short distances. Long haul travelers usually take the Interstates. My mom and I had popped down to Jacksonville, FL from our home in Waycross, GA the other day, and we took US-1 there and back. The stretch of US-1 between its intersection with I-10 in Jacksonville and the Florida/Georgia border is dotted with the remains of old motels.
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=map.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/map.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(The map's a tad backwards - pictures start at B and go towards A)</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=US1-9.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/US1-9.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the intersection of US-1 and I-10</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=US1-8.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/US1-8.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the intersection of US-1 and I-10</span>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=US1-7.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/US1-7.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">US-1, between Callahan and Hilliard</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=US1-6.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/US1-6.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">US-1, between Callahan and Hilliard</span>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=US1-5.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/US1-5.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">US-1, between Callahan and Hilliard</span>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=US1-4.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/US1-4.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">US-1, between Callahan and Hilliard</span>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=US1-3.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/US1-3.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">US-1 in Hilliard</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=US1-2.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/US1-2.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">US-1 between Hilliard and the GA border</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=US1-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/US1-1.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">US-1 between Hilliard and the GA border</span>
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anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-21063948568853412622012-06-08T08:22:00.003+09:002012-06-09T07:58:24.007+09:00Turkmenbashi's Land of Fairy Tales<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By guest author Tom Coote</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="mailto:tom@tomcoote.net"><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">tom@tomcoote.net</span></b></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.tomcoote.net/">www.tomcoote.net</a></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Turkmenbashi's </span><st1:place><st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB">Land</span></st1:placetype><span lang="EN-GB"> of </span><st1:placename><span lang="EN-GB">Fairy</span></st1:placename></st1:place></b><span lang="EN-GB"><b> Tales</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I got lost on my way to the land
of fairy tales. I had confidently followed the road to the Promised Land, only
to find that it led to ruins. All over Turkmenistan's capital city Ashgabat,
the run down, rambling houses of the poor were being knocked down and replaced
by strangely isolated tower blocks. In this city of constant destruction and
construction, no map would stay up to date for very long. I walked back and up
around the building site, in search of a road or a landmark that would help me
to get my bearings. I found myself at a crossroads and yet again checked my
map. Either side of me, bored, young military police men loitered inconsolably.
Everywhere you went in Ashgabat they would be standing around; guns in their
holsters, heads in the clouds. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<center><a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=ashgabat.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/ashgabat.jpg" /></a></center>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The night before, I had come
across a young soldier in the park, parading backwards and forwards, stiff
legged, between the illuminated fountains and the well-kept shrubbery. Half way
through his solo procession, he started goose-stepping like a demented Nazi
storm trooper. I was sure that he was about to stick his finger over his lip
and execute an extravagant leg swinging turn-around in the style of Basil
Fawlty, when he noticed me watching and abruptly came to a halt. As I walked
past, he said something. I didn't understand, so he pointed at my watch. When I
showed him the time, his face dropped even further - it was clearly going to be
some time before he finished his shift of pointlessly waiting. Even the funny
walk couldn't cheer him up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I decided not to ask directions
from these bored young men with guns and instead, opted for the most likely looking
road to Turkmenbashi's Land of Fairy Tales. 'Turkmenbashi' was the title that
the now deceased dictator, Saparmurat Niyazov, awarded to him self - it
translates as 'leader of the Turkmen'. In order to build the $50,000,000
amusement park, Niyazov ordered the bulldozing of the homes of hundreds of
ordinary Ashgabat residents who were never properly compensated. I hoped it
would be worth it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I traipsed down a long, straight
boulevard, with sparsely spaced out white tower blocks on either side. They looked
like Vegas hotels but I assumed that they were blocks of flats built to house
Ashgabat's displaced residents - except that nobody seemed to be living in
them. There was the occasional gardener and plenty of cars were passing by, but
there was little evidence of life or occupation within the gleaming, white
towers. If the bubonic plague were to desolate Las Vegas, it would look like
this. There had been a bit more going on in the city centre - a few restaurants
and a couple of night clubs - but there was a strict curfew and anybody found
walking around after ten at night, would risk arrest from the hordes of bored
young soldiers. There used to be cinemas but Niyazov forced them to close as he
considered movies to be un-Turkmen. He had them changed into puppet theatres as
he considered puppetry to be more in keeping with the Turkmen culture. He also
banned opera, ballet and most theatre but was quite keen on traditional song
and dance, providing it was used to praise the many virtues of their glorious
leader. Still, at least he had built a big theme park to keep them all amused.
At $50,000,000 it was bound to be brilliant. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn't seem to be getting any
closer to this Turkmen wonder land. I'd found a few people who seemed to
understand a bit of English but they weren't much help. They were all very nice
but seemed a little concerned that I was looking for a fairyland. My attempts
at miming a roller coaster only added to the confusion. As I had already been
walking for about forty minutes and all I could see ahead were yet more miles
of the sparsely spaced Vegas tower blocks, I decided to head back. After
another mile or so, I had the idea of getting up around the back of the tower
blocks on the other side, to get a better view over the city. I couldn't be sure
but I thought I had spotted the top of a giant plastic mountain. Between the
Promised Land and me, lay yet another building site. I couldn't be bothered to
walk all the way back again along the official footpath, so decided to just
walk straight through the construction zone. Lots of other people seemed to be
doing the same thing. Everybody seemed to avoid walking along the wide, clean,
official footpaths that seemed to lead you nowhere and left you feeling far
more exposed than if you were stood out in the middle of a desert (until fairly
recently this is exactly what much of it was). They seemed far happier to be
squelching through muddy tracks and dodging industrial machinery. At least
there was some human life to be found amongst the noise, dirt and chaos. I
emerged onto some scrappy grassland and stepped through a broken fence towards
a narrow, blue rail track. I could see the mountain now and it was definitely
plastic. I had made it to the land of fairy tales. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the grass was so overgrown, I
headed off along the rail tracks, towards a huge brown lizard. There was a door
in the side but it seemed to be locked and there were no signs or pictures to
indicate what lay within the belly of the beast. It didn't seem like a ride. I
thought it might be a small zoo for snakes and reptiles. Maybe it was where
people had to live after their houses were demolished? I still wasn't sure if
the amusement park was actually open. A few people were wandering around but
the pedalos on the lake were still bound together and the train had yet to join
me on the tracks. As I ducked around the lizard's head, I caught sight of a
small blue roller coaster. It was running and there were people on it. Their
screams drew me closer. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had been hoping for a kind of
Central Asian Disney Land but it looked more like the kind of run down
amusement park that might still open up for a few months in the summer at one
of the smaller British seaside towns. The rides were small, tired looking and
mostly closed. There were a few stalls selling soft drinks and snacks, some
operational dodgems and the small blue roller coaster. I needed some vouchers
before I could go on any rides and was directed to a woman in a headscarf at a
drinks stall. She looked too young to be wearing a headscarf. Contrary to
Turkmenbashi's preference for traditional Turkmen costumes, most of the young
people at the land of fairy tales were just wearing jeans and t-shirts. She was
probably a poor person. After buying some vouchers for about 80 cents each -
the other rides only cost one voucher but the roller coaster cost two as it was
the biggest and the best - I got into the front car and sat there on my own,
feeling a bit silly. After a while, two middle aged Turkmen women got in behind
me. A few minutes later, the operator realised that this was about as busy as
it was going to get, and sent us trundling on our way. Every time we sped up or
spun around a corner, the two women screamed. I clutched my bag between my legs
and held on tight. A minute later it was all over. I needed more. The dodgems
didn't tempt me - they were full of little kids and even I would have felt a
bit silly as the only adult in amongst them. Instead, I went on the spinning
tea cup ride. I was their only customer. It wasn't that great. There seemed to
be some kind of log flume that came out of the big plastic mountain. I followed
a Turkmen family who had also spotted it. As we wound up the steps through the
moulded plastic boulders, I became infected with their enthusiasm. Maybe this
was where all the $50,000,000 went. I felt far more disappointed for them, than
for myself, when we came up against yet another locked gate. Who knows how far
they had come and how long they had saved for their big day out? Their faces
dropped and we all trudged back down the plastic hill, in search of more fun. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">There was an opening - a way into
the plastic mountain! Who knew what lay within? It turned out to be monsters.
It looked like a kind of ghost train ride but without the train. The three
young women at the desk seemed a bit surprised to see me. I'm not sure how much
they understood me, but I pointed at the door and waved some vouchers at them.
One of them took a voucher and led me into the darkness. As we walked into each
room, she would stand to the side and press a button on the wall. A low,
dramatic voice would then start to say something in Turkmen, while I stood
admiringly in front of some paper mache mythical creatures. She made me wait
until the whole recording had finished before letting me go through to the next
room where the whole process was repeated. This next one seemed to have some
big cauldrons in it and what may have been wizards. I couldn't understand a
word of the accompanying sound recording, but felt obliged to stand there
looking respectful. In the room after, she offered to take my picture in front
of some trolls (or at least the Turkmen equivalent to a Troll - I'm not really
up on Turkmen myths and fairy tales). As monsters go, they seemed quite nice.<br /></span></span><br />
<center><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN"><a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=trolls.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/trolls.jpg" /></a></span></span></center><center><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></center><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">
We emerged from the darkness, towards soviet style strip lighting, and I
thanked my guide for my visit to the underworld. Everything else in the magic
mountain appeared to be locked up, apart from a small amusement arcade - only
about half of the machines seemed to be working - and a cavernous but empty
cafeteria. The women at the serving hatch were equally surprised to see me. A
few tired offerings were on display on the counter but they looked like they
had been laid out there for rather a long time. I opted for some cake that was
safely sealed in a packet and attempted to order a coffee with milk. By saying
'coffee' and 'cafe' in various ways I could get across the first part but I
couldn't get her to produce any milk. I was about to start miming the milking
process when I remembered that the Russian word for milk was 'moloko'. She
crawled under a table and started rummaging through cardboard boxes. She
emerged triumphantly holding high a single packet of Nescafe </span><st1:metricconverter productid="3 in"><span lang="EN">3 in</span></st1:metricconverter><span lang="EN"> 1. We were both delighted. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I took my coffee and cake and sat
down next to the stream that ran through the cafeteria. Under the dim strip
lighting I had thought the stream was also plastic and was about to walk
straight through it when I noticed a sign - in English - that instructed me not
to step in the river! Sometimes they can be very thoughtful. Thankfully, the
submerged crocodiles were actually made of plastic. I think. After dropping my
mug and wrapper back at the counter, I went in search of the toilets. They were
huge and had clearly been designed to deal with crowds of hundreds. At first
glance, they looked surprisingly posh but on closer inspection, it became clear
that most of the toilets were now locked up or broken. I eventually found one
that seemed usable but then I couldn't find the flush. There was a button on
the side of the cubicle so I tried pushing that. Water squirted up through a
hose and over my leg. As the back of the toilet seemed to have caved into the
back of the wall, I reached through the hole and tried pulling something. This
seemed to work and the toilet flushed. My next challenge would be washing my
hands. Dozens of sinks were lined up in rows through the centre of the bathroom
but none of them actually produced any water. Eventually I found a single
working tap but as the sink below had been shattered, the water sprayed back
over the front of my trousers. I pulled down my t-shirt as low as it would go
and hoped that the gloom within the plastic mountain would help to hide the wet
patches around my crotch. The grand opening to Turkmenbashi's Land of Fairy Tales
had only been five years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I still had some ride vouchers to
use so emerged from the mountain to see if any of the other rides had opened
up. A crowd of teenagers were queuing up for what looked like a revolving disk
with benches facing inwards from the outer edge. I joined the queue and handed
over the last of my vouchers. The kids at the front were urging their mates to
join them but several refused. I should have wondered why. We walked up the
steps and through a gate at the side on to the circular platform. We slowly
spread out over the lightly padded benches, and faced each other in
anticipation. Two of the girls, jammed their legs through the side of the
entrance gate as if attempting to lock themselves in place. The disk started
spinning and tilting and bumping up and down. I awkwardly grabbed the metal bar
behind so as not to be thrown off the bench and down on to the kids across from
me. As we spun into an almost vertical tilt we suddenly stopped. On the other
side of the circle they lay on their backs looking up while on my side we held
on to the metal bar at the back with all our strength. There were no safety
barriers or seat belts. If we were to fall or to slip we would crash down on
those below, leaving cuts, bruises and broken bones in our wake. This would
never be allowed in a civilised country! The health and safety people would go
mental! In most countries they would be terrified of being sued for millions if
anybody was injured but I couldn't see that happening in Turkmenistan (not many
dictators get taken to court in their own countries for negligence). Just as I
was losing my grip, we dropped down and stared to spin around again. Following
the local's example, I locked my arms around the bar above the bench - my arms
might get dislocated but at least I'd have less chance of falling. I could see
now why those two girls had locked their arms and legs around the bars at the
entrance. Just as I was starting to relax a bit, the real bumping kicked in. It
was like being given the bumps by a hyperactive Turkmen troll. As I started to
slide off the bench, the pummeling intensified. The edge of the bench pounded
into the small of my back again and again. I willed for it to stop but the
battering was relentless. Even the teenagers seemed shocked by the intensity of
the assault. I couldn't be sure but I think the operator might even have let
out an evil cackle before finally letting up on the bumping for more spinning
and tilting. Just as we had almost slowed to a halt and some were heading towards
the exit gate, he turned it up again and sent them sprawling across the floor.
He eventually let us out and we hobbled back down the steps, nursing bruises
and strains. Some of the survivors got back into the queue to have another go. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I staggered towards the exit,
which actually turned out to be the grand entrance. It was a great hall with
statues of Turkmen folk heroes and murals depicting their fairy tales. It
pretty much looked like a low budget Disney land attraction that had been
adapted to seem more 'Turkmen' - except that it hadn't been done on a low
budget at all. In a country where most people had so little, it had taken a
fortune. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN">I didn't know where I was and I
wanted to go back. If I could make my way to the centre of the city then I
would know how to get back to my guesthouse. I scanned the skyline for The Arch
of Neutrality, the space ship like monument that Turkmenbashi had erected in
the very centre of Ashgabat, to celebrate Turkmenistan's glorious policy of
neutrality. At night it was lit up like a giant children's toy encased in neon.
It was like something that a drunken five year old would come up with if they
were let loose in Las Vegas with a multi million budget - only not as classy. I
caught a sparkle in the sky. I now knew where I was heading. I could see the
sunlight glistening off the </span><st1:metricconverter productid="12 meter"><span lang="EN">12 meter</span></st1:metricconverter><span lang="EN"> gold statue of Turkmenbashi that
majestically topped the mighty Arch of Neutrality. I was no longer lost. I
limped towards my saviour. </span></span></div>
<br />
<center><a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=arch-of-neutrality.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/arch-of-neutrality.jpg" /></a></center><span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB"><b>Getting There</b></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are a few direct flights from
</span><st1:place style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB">Europe</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> but to fly there
directly as a tourist, you would have to be booked onto an expensive guided
tour. Most backpackers come overland from </span><st1:country-region style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Uzbekistan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, </span><st1:country-region style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Azerbaijan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> or </span><st1:country-region style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Iran</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. There are probably
less than ten independent travellers in the country at any given time.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB"><b>Visas</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-GB">If you are on an organised tour</span><span lang="EN-GB">,</span><span lang="EN-GB"> then the travel company will sponsor your tourist
visa application. If you are travelling independently then you can only get a
five-day transit visa. These cost between fifty and a hundred dollars,
depending on your nationality, and can be applied for in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB">, </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Tashkent</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB"> (</span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Uzbekistan</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">) and Mashad (</span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB">Iran</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB">). This will take at
least five working days but you might get turned down for no apparent reason.
They don't go out of their way to encourage tourism and can't understand why
anybody would want to go there.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>Accommodation</b></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Most of the hotels are quite
expensive and aimed at business travellers. They also have a reputation for
being empty, isolated and a bit rubbish. </span>Most backpackers stay at Aminov
Homestay at 2028 Kocesi 106. It's reasonably clean, and sociable, and only
about ten dollars a night (you can only stay there if you're on a transit visa
as it isn't an official hotel). They also keep pigeons so you have to be
careful that they don't crap on you when they let them out.</div>
</span>anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-24836143140433778562012-05-29T07:37:00.000+09:002015-08-24T01:56:58.406+09:00Desolation Americana: Forgive us our Trespasses<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by Jane</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />There is a forest in <st1:place>Southeastern Georgia (in the US, not the country of Georgia)</st1:place>,
located in <st1:place><st1:placename>Appling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>County</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
called the <st1:place><st1:placename>Moody</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
It’s owned jointly by the Nature Conservancy and the State of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Georgia</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
This forest contains the last stand of old growth, virgin, long-leaf pines in
the state. It also has two hiking trails. There isn’t much information about <st1:place><st1:placename>Moody</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place> available on the internet.
My mom and I found the most information <a href="http://www.ohranger.com/ga/moody-forest-natural-area">here</a> and <a href="http://www.nature.org/ourinitiatives/regions/northamerica/unitedstates/georgia/placesweprotect/moody-forest-natural-area.xml">here</a>, and decided to take a
trip to <st1:place><st1:placename>Appling</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>County</st1:placetype></st1:place>
to visit the <st1:place><st1:placename>Moody</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
We also thought about checking out the Hatch Nuclear Power Plant, as it’s
located there, too, and I have rather an absurd interest in traveling to
nuclear power plants. (This one, admittedly, is safer than the <st1:city><st1:place>Chernobyl</st1:place></st1:city>
reactors, which I visited back in August.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the Nature Conservancy site didn't include directions, we copied the following directions from OhRanger.com, and set off for <st1:place><st1:placename>Moody</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place>:</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>From Baxley: Go 7 miles north on U.S. 1. Turn right on Lennox Rd, go 4.2 miles. Turn left on Davis Landing Rd., go 2.3 miles. Turn left on East River Rd., go 0.8 miles to kiosk.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, as you see, these directions are very specific. There’s
no “approximately two miles” – instead it’s “go 4.2mi.” Unfortunately, at the <st1:metricconverter productid="2.8 mile">4.2 mile</st1:metricconverter> mark, there was no Davis <st1:street><st1:address>Landing
Road</st1:address></st1:street>, or any other road. It was close to a Penny
Morris Road, but not exact. We did eventually find Davis Landing – about three miles
from its specified location. From there on out, the directions did match what
we saw in real life… however, when we finally came to the “kiosk” it was
nothing more than a small board with a bit of an overhanging roof, with a
clipboard attached to it. The clipboard read ‘Moody Forest Turkey Shoot Sign
In.’ Next to this “kiosk” was an open gate. We drove through it, and down the
winding, narrow track (which passed through young planted pines – certainly not
virgin old growth) until we came to the power-lines (the lines running from the
Hatch Plant cut a rather big swath through the countryside down there, as the
plant provides a lot of power). Next to the power-lines was a fenced off area
(preventing one from driving on) and a sign that said ‘parking’ and nothing
else. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mom: “This is IT???”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing looked like a trail. There were no maps or brochures
or informative signs. There certainly weren’t any old growth long-leaf pines.
Only young slash pines and power lines.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We decided to drive further down the road. Even though we’d
found our “kiosk” on the right at exactly .8mi down East River Road, it really
did not seem to be the right place. So, we kept driving <st1:street><st1:address>down
East River Road</st1:address></st1:street>. We passed numerous areas which were
being logged. We also passed the crumbling remains of an old homestead. After
eventually deciding that there really wasn’t another kiosk any further down the
road, we turned around and decided that, since we were there, we’d explore the
remains of the homestead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first step in this process was climbing over a locked
gate. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,
right? Teehee. There was a crumbling old farmhouse (surrounded by poison ivy),
a fairly newish barn, and a crumbling old barn. Definitely fun to poke around
in and photograph.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually we climbed back over the gate, got back in the
car, and decided to head for the <st1:place><st1:placename>Altamaha</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Davis Landing Road would have
a boat landing, surely? Well, the “landing” turned out to be a private fishing
community, surrounded by tons of ‘no trespassing’ signs. We drove on in. The
community consisted of numerous trailers (in varying states of disrepair) up on
stilts. It was incredibly photogenic, but I didn’t take any photos as it looked
very much like the sort of place where one might get shot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back at the intersection with <st1:street><st1:address>East
River Road</st1:address></st1:street>, we decided to head east. This merely
took us to the Appling County Landfill and a Baptist church with a fairly
interesting old cemetery.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having explored in all three directions from the
intersection, we pretty much gave up, and began heading back the way we came.
Heading back down <st1:street><st1:address>Lennox Rd</st1:address></st1:street>,
no longer concentrating on the search for Davis <st1:street><st1:address>Landing
Rd</st1:address></st1:street>, we noticed a bright red building and slowed
down to check it out. The sign on it read ‘<st1:place><st1:placename>Ten-Mile</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>School</st1:placetype></st1:place> 1929-<st1:metricconverter productid="1958.’">1958.’</st1:metricconverter> We parked the car and got out
to take a look. Then, as the gate wasn’t locked so well (forgive us our
trespasses?), we wandered on in. And as the building itself wasn’t locked….</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Old Blackboards!</span><center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About a quarter mile (or maybe even a little less) down the
road from the school was another old homestead, surrounded by brush and obviously
abandoned. We pulled over and poked around.</span></div>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=secondoldhomestead.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/secondoldhomestead.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then a fellow (late 50s early 60s) rode up on a
three-wheeler.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mom: “Is this your property? We were just taking photos.”</span></div>
<br />
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=momanddude.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/momanddude.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I always let my mom do the talking when we get caught
trespassing. Really.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The guy turned out to be quite nice – and fairly
interesting. We talked to him for a good hour. He told us about the house (it
had been his grandparents’ house), and about the school (which he had attended
for two years before it closed). He told us a little of the history of the
Moody Forest and Swamp, and he gave us directions to the Moody Forest which he
wasn’t completely sure were correct as he hadn’t been down there in a while,
but which went in the opposite direction from the ones mom and I had followed
earlier in the day. Also, he was retired from the Hatch Plant – so he gave us
directions to it as well. Of course I told him I’d been to <st1:city><st1:place>Chernobyl</st1:place></st1:city>,
so we discussed nuclear reactors, containment vessels, and the current state of
the sarcophagus covering the <st1:city><st1:place>Chernobyl</st1:place></st1:city>
reactor. Because when you get busted for trespassing by a guy on a three
wheeler, these are the things you talk about.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After saying goodbye to this fellow, we set off following
his directions. They weren’t entirely accurate (we needed the second
intersection with a tree in the center of the road, not the first), but hey! It
lead us there. (At the second tree, when we were thinking we were totally lost,
we asked two people who were riding past on four wheelers; they told us go left
for the Moody Forest Conservation Center, go right and take our first left to
get to the river.)</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We went left – and hadn’t gone far at all – when we saw a
sign at a driveway that said ‘Nature Conservancy,’ as well as the remaining
buildings from the old Moody farm. We were thinking <i>Whew! Finally!</i> as we
pulled up to the Nature Conservancy building. There were at least six cars
parked next to it. The light was on. The door was locked. Peering in, we saw
that lunch was literally on the table. On the back porch, a glass with the
dregs of cola sat on the table, next to a pair of sunglasses. A water glass sat
on the hood of a State of <st1:state><st1:place>GA</st1:place></st1:state>
truck. No one was around.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=emptyglasses.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/emptyglasses.jpg" /></a><br />
<center>
<br /></center>
<center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=lunchonthetable.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/lunchonthetable.jpg" /></a></center>
<center>
<br /></center>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was the point where I started feeling like we’d fallen
into the Twilight Zone. Or like we were in the beginning of a cheesy horror
flick. It was unbelievably eerie. There should have been people bustling about.
It looked like they’d just dropped everything and left – although they would’ve
had to have left on foot (or perhaps on ATVs), as all their cars and trucks
were there. Additionally, even though there had been the one sign stating
‘Nature Conservancy’ there were no other signs, maps, pamphlets, brochures,
information…. Nothing. The only reason we knew that the old buildings were part
of the old Moody farm were because the man who busted us for trespassing had
told us that the old Elizabeth Moody house was located next to the Nature
Conservancy office.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=elizabethmoodyhouse.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/elizabethmoodyhouse.jpg" /></a></center>
<center>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Elizabeth Moody House</span></center>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We looked for trails. We finally found one – unmarked –
behind one of the storage sheds by the office. We walked down it a ways,
finding only one or two old pines, a lot of young pines, and some mutant oaks
with scary gargantuan shiny leaves. Must be the radiation. Eventually we came
to a place where the trail was crossed by a wide swampy stream. We decided to
turn around at that point.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=maybetrail.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/maybetrail.jpg" /></a><br />
<center>
<br /></center>
<center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=irradiatedoak.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/irradiatedoak.jpg" /></a></center>
<center>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's shaped like an oak leaf. It has oak bark.... but I have NEVER seen oak leaves that size. Or that shiny. Must be the radiation. Unless, of course, this isn't an oak.</span></center>
<center>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></center>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We got back to the car, and I was convinced it wasn’t going
to start. Had this been a horror movie, it wouldn’t have. Luckily, it started
right up. We decided to get the hell out of there (as it was really starting to
creep us out) and head for the river. Take the right fork and then the first
left to get to the river… well, you know where that first left was located?
Right across from that gate we’d climbed over earlier in the day. We were going
in circles. I should mention that the entire are around the old homestead
(where we climbed the gate) was being logged. We began to wonder if there
really were any virgin old growth longleaf pines, or if they’d all been logged.
It would certainly explain the inaccurate directions – </span><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">keep people away,
they’ll never know how we’re making our fortune! Bwahaha!</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=logged.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/logged.jpg" /></a><br />
<center>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Logging...</span></center>
<center>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></center>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We were almost to the river when we saw a sign saying ‘River
Trail’ and pointing us to the right. A short drive later, we found a parking
area, a kiosk, maps, and brochures. Woohoo! If only it weren’t so late in the
day. We hadn’t had lunch yet, and neither of us was up to a two mile hike on an
empty stomach. We’d have to come back.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We kept on driving towards the river. We eventually found
it, but there wasn’t anywhere to park, so we drove on a short ways… only to
find a rather hard-to-read sign stating “<st1:place><st1:placename>Leaving</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Moody</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place>”
– Really?? We’d yet to see an elderly longleaf pine. Shortly past the sign was
an area where I could pull off the road to park. Mom and I got out, planning to
walk back to the river so I could get some pictures. However, at this point,
another fellow (probably late 50s) rode up on a four wheeler and asked if we
were lost. Mom asked told him about what we’d found at the Moody Forest office,
and how we’d been looking for the two trails all day and had only just located
the River Trail. She asked if he knew how to find the other trail, and of
course he did. Better yet, his house was in that direction, so how about we
just follow him, and he’d show us where to go. We decided we’d check out the
river some other time, and got back in the car to follow him.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He headed right back towards where we’d come from. We
decided that if he turned into the Nature Conservancy office area we weren’t
going to stop, and were just going to drive off as quickly as possible like a
couple of madwomen. Luckily, he drove past the office. Eventually we came to
some more homestead remains (according to this fellow, they were of the Wade
Moody house), another parking area, and another trailhead with a kiosk, sign,
brochures, and maps. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At this point it was <i>definitely</i> too late in the day
to do any hiking. We talked to this fellow for a while (he told us about how he
used to know Wade and Elizabeth Moody before they died, about drawing water
from the well for them – which he warned us not to fall into – and about how
the land had become part of the Nature Conservancy. He also assured us that
there really were old growth long leaf pines down this trail (Tavia’s Trail),
and that the area that was being logged was <i>not</i> part of the land owned
by the Nature Conservancy. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After he left, mom and I explored the buildings by the trail
head (and found the well, which we didn’t fall into), found the cemetery in
which Elizabeth and Wade are buried, and again decided that it was DEFINITELY
too late in the day to go hiking.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=WadeMoodyHouse.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/WadeMoodyHouse.jpg" /></a></center>
<center>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wade Moody House Remains</span></center>
<center>
<br /></center>
<center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=ElizabethandWadeMoody.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/ElizabethandWadeMoody.jpg" /></a></center>
<center>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Elizabeth Moody and Wade Moody</span></center>
<center>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></center>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At this point, we followed the directions from the second
man – keep following the road we were on westward, and we’d come to US 1.
Really, access to the main area of <st1:place><st1:placename>Moody</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place> really is that simple: Drive
north from Baxley about <st1:metricconverter productid="8 miles">8 miles</st1:metricconverter>
on US 1. Turn right on <st1:street><st1:address>East River Road</st1:address></st1:street>
(yes, this was <st1:street><st1:address>East River Road</st1:address></st1:street>
again). The park is on your right. Period. Easy. Simple. Not like our crazy ass
directions to the middle of nowhere.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead we went and drove past Plant Hatch. I really wanted
to get a picture, but cars on that stretch of US 1 were just flying by, and I
didn’t want my little two door <st1:city><st1:place>Toyota</st1:place></st1:city>
to get pummeled if I tried to slow down and pull off to the side of the road. I
did, however, manage to get some nice shots of the amusing no trespassing signs
surrounding Plant Hatch. Apparently they don’t forgive trespassers; they shoot
them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=planthatchwarningsign.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/planthatchwarningsign.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
</center>
</center>
</div>
</div>
</div>
anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-34914537705020130002011-11-12T18:19:00.001+09:002011-11-12T18:19:58.284+09:00Calendar votes are in!<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">The Desolation Travel calendar 2012 picture votes are in, and here's the final product. </span><a href="http://www.lulu.com/product/calendar/desolation-travel-2012-calendar/18654897" style="font-family: arial; "><b>Click here</b></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "> or on either of the pictures below to purchase. </span></div><div><br /><center><a href="http://www.lulu.com/product/calendar/desolation-travel-2012-calendar/18654897" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/DTcalendarcover.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.lulu.com/product/calendar/desolation-travel-2012-calendar/18654897" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/DTcalendarpix.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a></center></div>anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-25410614403893727022011-11-10T21:17:00.000+09:002011-11-10T21:18:30.952+09:00Help us decide!<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">We here at Desolation Travel are working on putting together another calendar... and we need your help choosing the photographs!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "> See those pictures below? They're just a fraction of the photographs we're trying to choose from. Just </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.284005498299580.81361.155573501142781" style="font-family: arial; "><b>click here</b></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "> or on the pictures below to see the complete album. Comment on (or "like") the photos you think should go in the 2012 Desolation Travel calendar. And as we need to choose 12, feel free to vote for 12!</span></div><div><br /></div><center><a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.284005498299580.81361.155573501142781" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/calendarvote2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket" /></a></center>anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-82193510907774921452011-10-22T13:02:00.003+09:002015-08-24T01:57:30.385+09:00Peace, Hope, Nature... DMZ?<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by Jane</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The border between North and South Korea lies roughly along the 38th parallel. The demilitarized zone – the DMZ – extends roughly 2km (1.2mi) both north and south of the actual border. I don’t know what the northern edge of the DMZ looks like, but the southern edge is fenced, heavily fortified, and dotted with barracks and bunkers.</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I haven’t yet been able to visit the northern side of the DMZ, I’ve now been to the southern side twice. <a href="http://desolationtravel.blogspot.com/2010/12/panmunjom-crossing-line-between-north.html">In 2004 I visited Panmunjom</a>; the second trip was last Sunday. This time, instead of visiting Panmunjon, I went to two different areas along the DMZ: Imjingak/Dorasan and Cheorwon. </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=totalmap.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/totalmap.jpg" /></a><br />(The only place we visited that I couldn't locate for certain with Google Earth was the Second Tunnel of Aggression. It's location is an estimate; all other locations are accurate.)</center>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">
DMZ trips aren’t something you can just do on your own. Even if you’re in South Korea and have your own car, you can’t just decide to pop on up to the border. You can make it close, but to reach Panmunjom, the observation platforms at Dorasan and Cheorwon, or any of the tunnels dug under the DMZ by the north, you must have permission granted in advance. As such, the best way to go is part of a tour group. My trip last Sunday was coordinated by the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=108698559171327">Discover Korea</a> / <a href="http://www.facebook.com/WinKTravels">WINK</a> group.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Our first destination was Imjingak, a bizarre and almost resort-like spot located two and a half miles from the southern edge of the DMZ, and roughly three miles from the actual border between North and South. (You can visit Imjingak easily from Seoul without being part of a tour group.) Unfortunately, when we arrived at Imjingak, it was pouring rain. We spent about 30 minutes there, getting completely drenched despite our umbrellas, and (as a result of the nasty weather) seeing very little of what Imjingak had to offer. I caught a glimpse of the Bridge of Freedom – the bridge across the Imjin River that POWs crossed when returning south in 1953 – as well as a war-era train, riddled with bullet holes. I also saw an amusement park and a sodden field full of tents and tour buses as a ginseng festival was held there last weekend. Imjingak is a strange place.</div>
<br /><center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=dmz3.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/dmz3.jpg" /></a></center>
<br /><center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=dmz5.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/dmz5.jpg" /></a></center>
<br /><center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=dmz4.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/dmz4.jpg" /></a></center>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">
Our soggy group re-boarded the bus and set off for the Third Tunnel of Aggression. As be drove northward towards the tunnel, the clouds lifted, and by the time we arrived outside the tunnel, the day had blossomed into one that was quite beautiful. Next to the entrance to the tunnel is a small museum, where we were shown a video claiming that the DMZ was “a symbol of peace, hope, and nature.” Really? The most heavily fortified border in the world, the result of a war that technically has not yet ended? Really?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=dmz2.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/dmz2.jpg" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span">The clouds began to lift on our way to the tunnel...</span></center>
<br />
<center>
<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=dmz1.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/dmz1.jpg" /></a><br />By the time we arrived at the Third Tunnel, the day was gorgeous.<br />This small park sits atop the tunnel.</center>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But on to the tunnel. The Third Tunnel of Aggression was discovered in 1978, and extends about one mile under the border and into the Southern half of the DMZ. It’s a little surreal, as you enter through a gift shop, then you don a hard-hat and descend into the nether regions of the DMZ, and are able to walk nearly all the way to the actual border. (There are a series of barricades at the underground border, so you can’t walk all the way to the actual border itself, although you can see it through a series of small windows in the barricades.) For the most part, the tunnel is barely over five feet, five inches in height, often dropping down to five feet. This proved to be quite a problem for many of the members of the group (who definitely got good use out of their hardhats!), whereas I only had to duck a handful of times. The planned North Korean invasion force must be pretty short.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Photography is forbidden inside the tunnel, although I’m really not too big on rules. While I had to leave my DSLR on the bus, my smartphone fit nicely inside my pocket…</div>
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After our underground trip to the border, we re-boarded the bus and set off for the nearby Dorasan Observatory. As a photographer, this was the most disappointing part of the trip. The day was clear, and from the observatory you can easily see both the Kaesong industrial complex and a North Korean city. What fantastic photographs could be made from that point… Unfortunately, you have to stand rather a great distance from the observation deck if you wish to take photos, and there are military guards there to make certain that no one sneaks their DSLR (or even their smartphone) over the yellow line.</div>
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However, if you have a good zoom lens – and if the hordes of Chinese tourists* will stay out of your way – you can get a shot of two of the north, albeit not the best.</div>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=dmz7.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/dmz7.jpg" /></a><br />Woohoo, zoom lens. Not the best shot, made from a distance between two tourists at telescopes.</center>
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*Oddly enough, most of the tourists in the Imjingak/Dorasan area were Chinese, and there were literally hundreds of them. Apparently this is a hugely popular destination for Chinese tourists, which seems rather odd to me, as there wouldn’t be a divided Korea had China not entered the war…</div>
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After leaving the Dorasan Observatory, we went to Dorasan Station – a modern Korean train station from which trains can depart headed for Pyeongyang. Notice I said they “can” not that they “do.” The station is also under military guard, although the guards here were very pro-camera, and seemed to quite enjoy posing for pictures themselves.</div>
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We left Dorasan Station, and drove approximately two hours east, to the Cheorwon area. We stopped for lunch about ten miles south of the border, at a beautiful area near the Hantan River.</div>
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After lunch, our next destination was the Second Tunnel of Aggression, discovered in 1975. This one is located in a much more remote area, and we were the only tourists. Again we donned hardhats and walked under the DMZ, nearly to the border. This tunnel was both wider and taller than the Third Tunnel, although the taller members of our group still had a tough go of it. And again, photography is forbidden inside the tunnel.</div>
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We left the Second Tunnel, and drove to the Cheorwon Peace Observatory. (Again with the ironic names! How can an observation platform designed to view the most heavily fortified border in the world be a “peace observatory”??) In theory, locations for photographs from the Cheorwon Peace Observatory are restricted in a similar manner to the Dorasan Observatory. However, while Dorasan contained numerous military guards who were quite vigilant in their efforts to prevent photos, no one at Cheorwon said anything to us – not even when we climbed the scaffolding to the rooftop for the best views of the DMZ and the North.</div>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=dmz19.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/dmz19.jpg" /></a><br />The DMZ and North Korea, as seen from atop the Cheorwon Peace Observatory.</center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=dmz20.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/dmz20.jpg" /></a><br />The DMZ and North Korea, as seen from atop the Cheorwon Peace Observatory.</center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=dmz21.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/dmz21.jpg" /></a><br />The DMZ and North Korea, as seen from atop the Cheorwon Peace Observatory.</center>
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After leaving the Cheorwon Observatory, our final stop of the day was the memorial to the Battle of White Horse Ridge. The ridge was strategically important for maintaining the Southern position; had it been lost, the border would no doubt be located further to the south. The ridge changed hands between Northern forces (mostly Chinese troops) and Southern forces (mostly Korean troops) 24 times in ten days. Due to the severe shelling of the ridge, following the battle it was completely devoid of vegetation, and apparently looked like a white horse. Thus the name.</div>
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At this point we re-boarded our bus to return to Seoul.</div>
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To view the complete set of nearly 200 photos from my trip along the border,<br />
<b><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/internationalcatlady/sets/72157627933588196/detail/">CLICK HERE</a></b>.</div>
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</span>anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-20079676547834864482011-09-15T20:58:00.002+09:002015-08-24T01:57:54.959+09:00Adventures in the Chernobyl Dead Zone<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: arial;">by Jane</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">I remember when the Chernobyl disaster happened. I was in first grade. I clearly remember drawing pictures, showing how we needed to keep our windows closed to prevent radiation from coming in. I was living in Florida at the time, so that was probably somewhat silly, but then again, I was seven years old at the time – it’s a wonder Chernobyl was even on my radar.<br /><br />Of course, I didn’t really think about Chernobyl much at all after first grade. It was something I knew about, something I was aware of, but – despite spending my undergrad years studying the former Soviet Union – I gave it very little thought whatsoever until 2004.<br /><br />In 2004, I came across that semi-hoax website, </span><a href="http://www.kiddofspeed.com/"><span style="font-family: arial;">Kidd of Speed</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;">. (I call it a semi-hoax, as the photos are genuine, but initially the author had this long, involved story, about having been given permission to ride solo through the Zone on her motorcycle; this wasn’t true – she had gone to the zone as part of a tour.) Looking at the photos on the Kidd of Speed website, I immediately became hooked on the notion of going and seeing what was left of the Chernobyl reactor and the nearby city of Pripyat for myself. It wasn’t until August 2011 that I got the opportunity.<br /><br />Back in 2010, several of us from over here at Desolation Travel </span><span style="font-family: arial;">decided we should meet up somewhere good and desolate. While we all would have loved to have returned to Kyrgyzstan, flights there were simply too expensive. We tossed around several ideas, before settling on meeting in Kiev in August 2011, and trekking out to Chernobyl.<br /><br />Chernobyl is – allegedly – safe to visit. Allegedly, the dose of radioactivity one receives while on a day trip out of Kiev is equivalent to what you’d get from a long-haul overseas flight. Of course, in the space of six weeks I’ll have taken three such flights, gone to Chernobyl, and had dental x-rays, so I’m pretty sure I’ve exceeded ‘proper’ radiation levels. Meh. No physical harm.<br /><br />You can’t just stroll on into the Zone whenever you want. You have to have permission from the Ukrainian government. The easiest way to visit the Zone is via a tour agency. There are several agencies out of Kiev which book tours to the Zone, and which arrange all the necessary paperwork. It can be done fairly quickly (assuming there’s space available), and with very little hassle on the part of the tourist. This costs between $150-$200, depending on what agency you use. We used </span><a href="http://www.tourkiev.com/chernobyltour/"><span style="font-family: arial;">Solo-East</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;">. If you have the time and money, you can apply for your own permit. I’ve heard it can take about three weeks to process. You’ll also have to arrange your own transportation and hire a government approved guide/monitor. I don’t see much reason to do that, myself, as it would end up being far more expensive, and you’d probably see exactly what you’d see as part of a tour.<br /><br />The trip from Kiev to Chernobyl takes between an hour and a half and two hours, depending on the traffic in and around Kiev. The tour ‘bus’ (a mini-van) we were on had a television, which showed the documentary </span><a href="http://topdocumentaryfilms.com/the-battle-of-chernobyl/"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">The Battle of Chernobyl</span></strong></a><span style="font-family: arial;"> – and excellent documentary, which you can watch in its entirety </span><a href="http://topdocumentaryfilms.com/the-battle-of-chernobyl/"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">here for free</span></strong></a><span style="font-family: arial;">. I highly recommend it to anyone who is even remotely interested in Chernobyl, nuclear power, and/or the former Soviet Union.<br /><br />The movie finished just a few minutes before we arrived at the first checkpoint. The first thing that struck me was that farmland – active, arable farmland – went right up to the border with The Zone. It’s not like radiation just stops and says ‘oh, here’s the edge of The Zone, I’d better not flit across this line and contaminate those cows.’ But I guess you have to draw a line somewhere. Or in the case of Chernobyl, two lines – one at 30km from the reactor, and one at 10km.<br /><br />The first checkpoint is located 30km from the reactor, at the entrance to the exclusion zone. No photos allowed. (Hah.) Here you will have your passports checked against the list of people who have been approved for entrance into the zone.</span> </div>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=_DSC0150.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/_DSC0150.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">First checkpoint - no photos allowed! :-)</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">The small town of Chernobyl is located within the 30km exclusion zone – a pleasant, green swath of countryside, which looks as though it would be a wonderful, peaceful, rural place to live. Roughly 4000 people currently live in the town of Chernobyl. Most are there as part of the ongoing maintenance of the #4 reactor (the one that exploded), although others are there to maintain the other three reactors – two of which remained functional until 2000. When you see how close they are to reactor #4, you’ll find this fact utterly mind-boggling. There are also plenty of scientists living in Chernobyl, conducting experiments on the effects of radiation on the local wildlife and whatnot, as well as support staff… and quite a few elderly folks who returned after having been ‘resettled’ following the accident.<br /><br />In an office building in the city of Chernobyl, we were required to sign a waiver, essentially saying that if we get fucked up in any way on account of having visited the Chernobyl zone, we cannot sue the Ukrainian government. Okeedokee. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">After signing the waiver, we got back in the bus and headed for the 10km line, demarking the Zone of Mandatory Resettlement. No one legally lives within the 10km zone, although there are squatters, scavengers, and elderly people who have returned to the villages of their youth. Sadly, we were unable to meet any of these folks. That is something that I would really like to do at some point, although I’m not sure how feasible it is.<br /><br />I wasn’t really sure what to expect from our tour. I’d kind of expected a highly monitored tour, with lots of ‘stand here and look at this’ and ‘stand here and look at that.’ I didn’t expect to be allowed to run free at any point. I also didn’t think that we’d be getting anywhere close to the #4 reactor itself. As such, when we came upon our first glimpse of the reactors, I took a TON of photographs. Little did I know that I’d be getting MUCH closer! I’ll just post a handful of those I took: </span></div>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=janeatcbyl.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/janeatcbyl.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Yep, that's me. And reactors #1 and #2? They remained in operation until 2000. That is mind-boggling to me on so many levels. I mean, if Pripyat (the town 3km away) was abandoned, how could it have possibly been deemed a good idea to keep people working just a few hundred meters from reactor #4?</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=_DSC0209-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/_DSC0209-1.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Same scene, sans goofy tourist</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=_DSC0201.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/_DSC0201.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">From the same vantage point, this could be seen. It would have been reactor #5. It was under construction at the time of the explosion at reactor #4, and was never completed.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">From there we went to Pripyat. For those who don’t know, Pripyat was built in 1970, for the sole purpose of housing workers at the Chernobyl nuclear plants, their families, and all the people necessary to support them (teachers, store clerks, etc). Depending on your source, Pripyat was home to between 43,000 and 50,000 people at the time of the explosion at reactor #4 in April 1986. The town was located a mere 3km from the reactor, and yet was not evacuated until the third day following the explosion. Residents were told that they would only be gone for a few days… yet the evacuation was permanent. The town has been slowly reclaimed by nature over the years. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">It’s weird, visiting Pripyat. A town of 43,000-50,000 people is fairly large… but in this case, it’s difficult to actually see how large the town would have been, as so much of it is now obscured by tree growth. It’s also bizarre to imagine that the town was evacuated in order to avoid the devastating effects of radiation. Plant life, at the very least, is teeming. (The Zone is supposedly rich in wildlife as well, although unfortunately we saw only spiders, pigeons, and catfish.) There is nothing about Pripyat – other than its emptiness – to give any hint as to the disaster that befell them. If one were seriously lost, and somehow stumbled upon the city, it would be a thoroughly bewildering experience. It just seemed so normal. Except that it was empty. Like roughly fifty thousand people just left one morning and never returned.<br /><br />I had expected that we would be very limited in terms of what we could do and where we could go while inside Pripyat. That was not the case at all. While we were taken on a somewhat organized route through the city (main square, amusement park, palace of culture, Hotel Polissya, sports center, school), we were allowed to essentially go wherever and do whatever we wanted. The only rule was ‘Don’t step on the moss!’ as apparently moss holds far more radiation than asphalt or dirt or grass. Or so we were told anyway.<br /><br />Pripyat is a photographer’s dream, especially if you’re someone who is into photographing desolation, decay, or urban blight. I am, and I loved every minute of my time there. I mean no disrespect to those who used to live there or their families by this. I truly feel that images of what can happen if/when nuclear power gets out of hand MUST be shown to the world. This is something that everyone should see – especially proponents of nuclear power. It’s a grim, serious, and depressing reality. But as a photographer, I loved it. I have far too many photos from Pripyat to post below. To see my complete set of Pripyat photos, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/internationalcatlady/sets/72157627553307528/detail/"><strong>CLICK HERE</strong></a>. </span></div>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=_DSC0386.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/_DSC0386.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Palace of Culture "Energetic"</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=_DSC0383.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/_DSC0383.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Inside the Palace of Culture</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=pripyat1.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/pripyat1.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Also inside the school</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=pripyat2.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/pripyat2.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">More from the Palace of Culture</span></center>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=pripyat3.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/pripyat3.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Left: a gymnastics horse from the sports center<br />Right: Irradiated negatives from the Hotel Polissya</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">A tour like this would never be legal in the United States, where both safety concerns and the potential for lawsuits are huge. Not only were we 3km from the world’s most famous nuclear disaster, but as you can tell from the photos, we were exploring decaying – and not entirely safe – buildings. Broken glass was everywhere. Rotted floorboards were common. As were piles of what looked suspiciously like asbestos. And sketchy things dangling from – and dropping from – ceilings. I loved it. And it would so never fly in the US.<br /><br />After thoroughly exploring Pripyat, it was time for lunch. We were taken to the cafeteria that’s located on site to feed those working at the power station, where we ate *quite* a tasty lunch of locally produced food. Safety, shmafety. Before we were allowed into the cafeteria proper, we had to pass through this lovely radiation detection device: </span></div>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=_DSC0513.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/_DSC0513.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">No one ever said what happens if you register ‘contaminated’ though! </span></center>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">Like I said, lunch was delicious, and very typical Ukrainian/Russian:</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">One fellow on the tour was a vegetarian, though, and he had a bit of a rough go of the lunch. Very much an </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=um2p4GlEbKg"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">Everything is Illuminated kind of moment</span></strong></a><span style="font-family: arial;">. How do you make beef soup vegetarian? Scoop out the chunks of beef. Hah.<br /><br />After lunch, our next stop was to feed the radioactive catfish. I find fish kind of boring, and while there were a couple of behemoths that surfaced a handful of time, for the most part, they just looked like fish. Yawn. On to the reactor!<br /><br />Between the catfish feeding and the reactor, we passed a sign on a building that said NUKEM. Sadly, none of us was prepared to snap a picture. NUKEM? Talk about a seriously bad choice of name. It’s a </span><a href="http://www.nukem.de/"><span style="font-family: arial;">German/American civil nuclear fuel company</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;">, that’s apparently involved in the maintenance of the facility.<br /><br />Okay, okay. On to the reactor!<br /><br />We were able to stand approximately 100m from the sarcophagus covering reactor #4… and the thing is, it all seemed so normal. There were people working at the other parts of the facility. There were buses ferrying workers about, people walking, driving. The weather was gorgeous. It looked just like any factory anywhere might. Get out of the developed world, and there are plenty of places that look much worse yet are still producing whatever it is they produce. This didn’t look dangerous at all. It just looked… normal. That was what made it creepy. If no one told you what it was, you’d have no clue. It wasn’t pulsating or glowing. It didn’t emit a smell or a sound. And yet it was emitting radiation. We weren’t allowed to stay in that spot too long.</span></div>
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<a href="http://s1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/?action=view&current=chernobylreactor.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1187.photobucket.com/albums/z383/internationalcatlady/chernobylreactor.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Left: A monument to those who died, which appears to be holding a TARDIS.<br />Right: The reactor, up close and personal.</span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">To see the complete set of my Pripyat photographs, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/internationalcatlady/sets/72157627553307528/detail/"><strong>CLICK HERE</strong></a>.<br />To see the complete set of all my other Chernobyl photographs, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/internationalcatlady/sets/72157627420663341/detail/"><strong>CLICK HERE</strong></a>.</span></center>
anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-89346287076395232042011-06-27T19:06:00.003+09:002011-06-27T19:12:14.723+09:00Two More DesoLINKS!!<div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/2011/06/crackin-citadel.html">Crackin' the Citadel</a><span style="font-family:arial;"> - Our own Joe Scarangella visits old-school Erbil in Iraqi Kurdistan</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />The Marmot's Hole gives us a glimpse at </span><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://www.rjkoehler.com/2011/06/27/north-korean-animation-pencil-rocket-on-youtube/">North Korean propaganda cartoons</a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Awesomeness.</span><br /></div>anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-74737163998362695032011-05-19T12:26:00.004+09:002015-08-24T01:55:33.102+09:00Lush, green, and peaceful? Actually, yes.<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: arial;">Iraq: a dry, dusty, dangerous desert, filled with bombs and a hatred of all people Western... right? That's certainly the image of Iraq painted by Western media these days, although it's not an accurate depiction of the country as a whole. Desolation Travel member Joe Scarangella has recently relocated to northern Iraq (after being evacuated - rather against his will - from Yemen), and he has been recounting his adventures on his blog, </span><a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family: arial;">Joe's Trippin'</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;">. As you can see, it hardly resembles stereotypical Iraq!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9dAVBSSaWX0LcKPeqYPfUdnbcWrsOv5CLECjLnEiyijxg6dsVFfDSzDKnGdxLSOBv1vY1uIoXNeijCiBa4xNj_Dq0DLibg_pMsjevaEez38fIzEAuq_1KJo9va1q7wLzwPWKqwTr1Z18/s1600/iraq2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608265578539027634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9dAVBSSaWX0LcKPeqYPfUdnbcWrsOv5CLECjLnEiyijxg6dsVFfDSzDKnGdxLSOBv1vY1uIoXNeijCiBa4xNj_Dq0DLibg_pMsjevaEez38fIzEAuq_1KJo9va1q7wLzwPWKqwTr1Z18/s400/iraq2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 250px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">Check out Joe's first two posts from Iraq:</span><a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/2011/05/iraqs-b-side.html"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">Iraq's B-Side</span></strong></a><span style="font-family: arial;"> and </span><a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/2011/05/takin-high-road.html"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">Takin' the High Road</span></strong></a><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">And follow Joe's Iraqi adventures </span><a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/search/label/iraq"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">here</span></strong></a><span style="font-family: arial;">!</span></div>
anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-88392657192941837442011-04-27T00:45:00.004+09:002015-08-24T01:48:14.320+09:00Too powerful not to share<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: arial;">Between comparisons to the recent events at Fukushima in Japan and the recent passing of the 25th anniversary of the disaster at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant, Chernobyl has gotten a lot of press recently. Most of the articles deal with the current situation of the reactor itself, the ruins of Pripyat, and/or the desolation of the exclusion zone within Ukraine. Not much is currently being written detailing the experiences of those directly affected by the disaster back in 1986, and not much has been written in general discussing the effects of Chernobyl on Belarus. However, a recent article in Eurozine entitled </span><a href="http://www.eurozine.com/articles/2011-04-22-piatrovich-en.html"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">The Chernobyl Nobody Wants by Barys Piatrovich</span></strong></a> <span style="font-family: arial;">examines his personal memories of the event, as seen from the Belarussian side of the border. It is by far the most moving account of the disaster that I have read, and I highly recommend reading it.</span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">When you're finished reading Piatrovich's article, you should re-visit the photos taken by Desolation Travel's Ben R. in the Belarussian dead zone, </span><a href="http://www.desolationtravel.com/belarus.html"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">which can be seen here</span></strong></a><span style="font-family: arial;">, and re-read his </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><strong><a href="http://desolationtravel.blogspot.com/2010/10/dead-lands-of-belarus-travels-along.html">blog post from his trip</a> </strong>as well</span><span style="font-family: arial;">. Several of the places which Piatrovich writes about were visited and photographed by Ben are mentioned in Piatrovich's piece (specifically Khoiniki, transliterated by Ben as Hoiniki, Хойники in Russian, and Homel/Gomel/Гомель).</span></div>
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anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-79764503720266943772011-03-26T21:15:00.007+09:002015-08-24T01:50:58.846+09:00desoLINKS<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: arial;">I know that we haven't posted anything in rather a while... unfortunately we haven't yet figured out how to make a living off of full time Desolation Travelling, so we all have jobs that keep us boringly occupied doing hundrum and non-desolate things.<br /><br />Well, except for Joe who is about to get evacuated from Yemen and, as such, is hardly occupied with the humdrum! In fact, prior to the eruption of all the recent violence in Yemen, he did a good bit of travelling (desolate and otherwise) about that country. Here are some links from his pre-evac travels: </span></div>
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<a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/2011/01/salalah-blah-blah-blah.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">Salalah-blah-blah-blah</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/2010/10/gettin-tanked-in-aden.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">Gettin' tanked in Aden</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/2011/01/thrill-on-silent-hill.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">Thrill on Silent Hill</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/2011/02/ho-hum-al-khokha.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">A Ho-hum al-Khokha</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/2011/03/highs-and-lows.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">Highs and Lows</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><a href="http://joestrippin.blogspot.com/2011/03/tunin-up-thulla.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tunin' up Thulla</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">Moving on... we've got some pictures from Kyrgyzstan posted on our website, taken by me (Jane) and by Ben S. They can be seen at the following links:</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.desolationtravel.com/road2osh.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">From Bishkek to Osh</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.desolationtravel.com/karakol.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">Karakol, Altyn Arashan, and the Valley of the Flowers</span></a></div>
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And lastly... this coming August, the Desolation Travel team is going to Chernobyl! In honor of this fabulous upcoming event, here are some articles on Chernobyl which have recently found their way into the news: </div>
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/travel-ga-201103-chernobyl-wildlife-refuge-sidwcmdev"><span style="font-family: arial;">Chernobyl, My Primeval, Teeming, Irradiated Eden</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/20/weekinreview/20chernobyl.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">Lessons from Chernobyl for Japan</span></a></div>
anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-87658098783432640282011-02-23T12:24:00.004+09:002015-08-24T01:58:20.229+09:00Kyrgyzstan 2008<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">Feeling inspired by <a href="http://desolationtravel.blogspot.com/2011/02/kyrgyzstan-faces-and-places-from-2009.html"><b>Ben R's Kyrgyzstan 2009 video</b></a>, I decided to make my own. The song it's set to is by Tata Ulan, and the pairing of pictures and song probably will make more sense to people who speak Russian and know a bit about Kyrgyzstan. I tried to match lyrics to pictures wherever possible.</span></div>
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anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-7126840909126352122011-02-20T13:29:00.004+09:002015-08-24T01:55:08.080+09:00Visiting Planet Turkmen<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: arial;">by Joe<br /><strong><a href="http://desolationtravel.com/turkmenistan.html">CLICK HERE</a></strong> to see the entire set of photographs.<br /><br />Psychological profilers, social commentators and some guy looking for an excuse will often babble on about how it's a fine line between genius and insanity. Actions or decisions somehow walak a tightrope, balancing between inspired brilliance and doltish idiocy. For CEOs, political leaders and military commanders, time is usually the final judge and history books record these decisions with a blasé “matter-of-factness” that only comes with hindsight. But there are other times that such evaluations are rendered irrelevant. When needing a yardstick marker of just how nuts some choices can be, one need not look further than Turkmenistan.<br /></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Excellency"><span style="font-family: arial;">His Excellency</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"> Saparmurat Niyazov </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T%C3%BCrkmenba%C5%9Fy"><span style="font-family: arial;">Türkmenbaşy</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;">, President of Turkmenistan and Chairman of the Cabinet of Ministers took a common Central Asian path to totalitarian leadership. As first secretary of the communist party during the “good ol' days” of the USSR, Niyazov was essentially leader from 1985 until his death in 2006. After Soviet collapse, he was declared president (then president for life). This is hardly atypical in a region fraught with dictators. And in and of itself is hardly grounds for calling Turkmenistan the craziest country on Earth. But it gets better.<br /><br />No dictator would be complete without a propaganda machine. And back in the day, it wasn't really possible to start up some sort of TV station, or Cable News Network, to spread one's agenda to the masses. No, no. Niyazov went old school. Mao had his Little Red Book. Lenin leaned heavily on the Communist manifesto. Niyazov, henceforth referred to as Turkmenbashi (leader of all Turkmen) came up with the Ruhnama. The book, and it's a biggy, was intended as a “spiritual guide for the nation.” One half spiritual/moral code, one half autobiography and one half “revisionist” history (no, math does not apply in Turkmenistan), the book was required reading for all Turkmen students. He even went so far to state that <em>“All students who read the book 3 times will automatically be granted entry into Heaven.”</em> But the historical references of the book have all but been discredited. Maybe it's just me, but it's hard to claim that the history of mankind has lead up to the greatness of Turkmenbashi. However, writing a comically erroneous text and instilling its importance as moral doctrine is quite commonplace and hardly sets Turkmenistan apart. But it gets better.<br /><br />I suppose it's covered in the first chapter of <em>“An Idiot's Guide to Dictatorship,”</em> but one of the first steps any leader takes is to flood the market with his own image. Whether it's on the money, plastered on billboard-size banners throughout the country, or in a larger-than-life monument, your face must be seen. I guess Turkmenbashi figured, if you're going to do it, you might as well do it in style. Every town, every village, and even random roundabouts in the middle of nowhere are graced with <strong>golden</strong> statues of the exalted leader. But what makes them cool is the status they carry within the community. Walk into any given town in Turkmenistan on a Saturday and you are likely to be confronted with hordes crowding around the central statue. This is not a weekly protest against the brutal regime. Instead, newlywed couples come, dressed in traditional wedding garb, to stand in line and lay flowers at the feet and have a photo taken to record the moment for an eternity. Some even kiss the feet on the figure (a true sign of unconditional admiration. But it gets better.<br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">In the capital, Ashgabat, the truly marvellous statues come to play. In 1948, a devastating earthquake all but wiped the capital city off the face of the earth. Estimates range from 10,000 to 100,000 deaths. But one notable casualty was diverted as if protected by God himself (here's a hint, it was Turkmenbashi). To commemorate this tragic time in Turkmen history, a monument was erected. The Earth is shaken by a mammoth bull, with Ashgabat lying in ruins. But (and here's the kicker) a tiny golden Turkmenbashi rises from the rubble. It is without question the most comically tragic shrine ever. But wait, it gets better.<br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">In the centre of town, mounted on a rocketship-like tower, stands yet another statue of Turkmenbashi. Arms outstretch, superman-like cape inflated by the wind. While that might seem odd enough, it wouldn't really be worth mentioning for only that. Instead, this one stands out for its non-motionlessness. As the sun rose in the East, the statues arms seem to greet the waking sun. But than the most curious thing happens: as the sun moves across the sky, the statue follows it, as if guiding it along its path until sunset when the statue resets to the East to prepare for the next day. Sadly, it was dismantled in mid-2010.<br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">Ok. Statues and fabricated propaganda might not be enough. So how's this? Turkmenbashi renamed the days of the week and the months of the year. January was renamed, Turkmenbashi (after himself), April was changed to Gurbansoltan (after his mother), September was swapped to Ruhnama (his book) and the list goes on. Not enough? Niyazov banned the use of lip syncing at public concerts in 2005. He banished dogs from the capital Ashgabat because of their "unappealing odour." Right hand-drive imported cars converted to left-hand drive were banned due to a perceived increased risk in accidents. Niyazov requested that a palace of ice be built near the capital, though Turkmenistan is a desert country with a hot and arid environment (that said there is an indoor ski hill in Dubai). After having to quit smoking in 1997 due to his resultant heart surgery, he banned smoking in all public places and ordered all government employees to follow suit. In February 2004 he decreed that men should no longer wear long hair or beards. He also banned news reporters and anchors from wearing make-up on television. Gold teeth were outlawed in Turkmenistan after Niyazov suggested that the populace chew on bones to strengthen their teeth. And so on... and so on... and so on....<br /><br />Sadly, in one final bit of irony, Turkmenbashi died of a heart attack in 2006 after forcing his government employees to walk up the staircase to nowhere to promote healthy living. Given a little more time, the guy might have been able to do something so unimaginably outer-worldly, that would have made the Pyramids or Great Wall would pale in comparison. Ahhhh, Turkmenbashi, you a will forever be the measure of lunacy to which we compare all others. Thanks for being a nut-job.</span></div>
anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-11602950039741444852011-02-20T10:29:00.000+09:002015-08-24T01:58:39.532+09:00A journey through Siberia<center>
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anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-2563212860162115322011-02-20T10:27:00.000+09:002015-08-24T01:47:36.908+09:00Kyrgyzstan: Faces and Places from 2009<center>
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anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-13252724724171056032011-02-06T11:42:00.005+09:002015-08-24T01:59:03.571+09:00DesoLIT: The writings of Daniel Kalder<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: arial;">Reviewed by Jane</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><strong>Part One: Lost Cosmonaut</strong><br /></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Cosmonaut-Observations-Daniel-Kalder/dp/0743289943/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1183.photobucket.com/albums/x474/desolationtravel/lostcosmonaut.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />I really wanted to love this book. I wanted to be inspired. I wanted to fall so totally in love with Daniel Kalder that I would beg him to please, please, please join the DT team and become our living god. Why was I initially so infatuated? Just check out the back-cover blurb:<br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><em>Daniel Kalder belongs to a unique group: the anti-tourists. Sworn to uphold the mysterious tenets of The Shymkent Declarations, the anti-tourist seeks out the dark, lost zones of our planet, eschewing comfort, embracing hunger and hallucinations, and always traveling at the wrong time of year. In Lost Cosmonaut, Kalder visits locations that most of us don’t even know exist – Tatarstan, Kalmykia, Mari El, and Udmurtia. He loves these places because no one else does, because everyone else passes them by.</em><br />Obviously I couldn’t resist. How could I? Unfortunately, I found the book incredibly annoying. Had it not been about a topic which I love, I probably would've thrown it across the room and left it there. It seemed very much like Kalder was, in fact, a 13 year old boy who had just hit puberty: he mentions cocks and blowjobs way too often, and seemingly for no reason other than to be able to say cock and/or blowjob. He mentions men's genitalia almost as much as </span><a href="http://janesdailyblah.blogspot.com/2008/06/boobs-in-bishkek.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">Saffia Farr mentioned her boobs</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"> and with even less point. It just seemed incredibly crass. I'm not prudish, but I much prefer something witty (such as when the stuttering Felix Steadiman in </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rates-Exchange-Malcolm-Bradbury/dp/B001KTVGIK/"><span style="font-family: arial;">Rates of Exchange</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"> accidentally offers someone "a nice cock" because his stutter prevents him from uttering "cocktail") to Kalder's frequent and trashy references.<br /><br />Lost Cosmonaut is… okay. If you get past the crass, juvenile nonsense, he does go to some interesting places of the sort that DT would travel to in a heartbeat; still, it was far from what I’d hoped for. When DT visits Tatarstan, Kalmykia, Mari El, and Udmurtia, we will totally do it better.<br /><br /><strong>Part Two: Strange Telescopes </strong><br /></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Strange-Telescopes-Following-Apocalypse-Siberia/dp/1590202260/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i1183.photobucket.com/albums/x474/desolationtravel/strangetelescopes.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">I almost didn’t read Strange Telescopes. I’d ordered Lost Cosmonaut and Strange Telescopes together, but after reading Lost Cosmonaut I had no desire whatsoever to so much as touch Strange Telescopes. But, as I’m currently living in a country where English language books (outside of ESL textbooks) aren’t exactly easy to come by, I eventually gave in – not so much ‘to temptation’ as ‘out of boredom.’<br /><br />It was as if Strange Telescopes has been written by someone completely different – or perhaps the puerile author of Lost Cosmonaut simply grew up. I absolutely loved Strange Telescopes.<br /><br />Unlike Lost Cosmonaut, where Kalder goes in search of desolation itself, in Strange Telescopes, he goes in search of brilliant-but-crazy folks who happen to inhabit bizarre and desolate places. His first subject is Vadim Mikhailov, a man of dubious sanity, whose life is dedicated to the bizarre world located beneath Moscow. Mostly this consists of sewers, although rumors abound of underground chambers, secret metros, and more. </span><a href="http://janesdailyblah.blogspot.com/2006/10/neverwhere.html"><span style="font-family: arial;">I have rather an obsession with the undersides of cities myself</span></a><span style="font-family: arial;">, and I inhaled every bit of this tale with glee. I laughed a lot. And not only did I love Kalder's first tale, but I thoroughly enjoyed the entire book (Kalder’s other insane geniuses included a Russian fellow obsessed with tracking down Orthodox exorcisms in Ukraine, a self-proclaimed Messiah gathering followers in Siberia, and a former 90s-era New Russian who built a ramshackle wooden skyscraper near the Arctic Circle and imprisoned one of his enemies in its basement.) You should read it. Now.</span></div>
anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-66086839907616457432011-01-31T22:23:00.009+09:002015-08-24T01:49:48.204+09:00Travels Along Tajikistan's Unrefurbished Highway of Death<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: arial;">by Ben S.<br />To see the complete set of photographs from Ben's trip to Tajikistan,<br />please </span><a href="http://desolationtravel.com/tajikistan.html"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">CLICK HERE</span></strong></a><span style="font-family: arial;">.<br /><br />The first thing about Tajikistan is the soup our driver buys us. It is pungent and herby and full of flavour and noticeably lacking in mutton fat, congealed or otherwise. Its scent is as full of the promise of a new land as the brightly coloured shawls of the female customers at the small cafe and the undulating tones and strange syllables of the language they speak. Afghanistan and Iran seem just a breath away, Russia and Turkey’s influence left far behind to the north. This Central Asia, it is altogether new and exciting and different. It is not my Central Asia. I have three days.<br /><br />“Three days? ! That’s not enough time to see our country!”<br /><br />At the insistence of the consul, I have dutifully sat at a table in the corner of the Tajik embassy in Bishkek, and in my neatest handwriting composed what I hope is an acceptable self-written letter of invitation to get me my Tajik visa. The walls of the embassy are full of photos promising what beautiful wonders await the visitor to her country. Most of them were taken in Uzbekistan, showing Samarkand and Bukhara, fabled cities of beauty lost to hastily drawn lines on Stalin’s map. Few seem to show anything of the country itself. The photos hark back to the glories of a lost past rather than to the realities of the present. I make my best apologetic pained expression and explain that I only have a week of vacation, and a flight to catch out of Dushanbe at the end of that week. I hope to return to this beautiful country sometime in the future so I can truly appreciate its famous beauty. There is no problem, a visa is granted, the consul just wishes I could have more time to fully enjoy her country. I am going.<br /><br />The Uzbek-Tajik border is slow and hot and laborious and full of paperwork. Three of us cross one way, two cross back the other. The border is closed for lunch but I am fortunate enough to meet Tanja and Jochem on the Uzbek side. Tanja charms the gun-toting guards and they let us through. We are ushered from gunman to gunman and each time escape without paying a single Somani. Tanja and Jochem know all about me and my life because they have overheard me talking with a curious Uzbek woman the night before in Samarkand. They are nice people and we decide to share a taxi together to Penjikent town. Our taxi driver buys us soup and takes us on a tour of the ruined city. All is dust and barren mud, the ruins of an ancient Sogdian civilisation crumbled into holes in the ground and remnants of what may have been walls. Penjikent fries in the harsh sun hundreds of metres below.<br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">We negotiate for transport to Dushanbe for an hour before agreeing to pay $100 for a car to take us over the mountains to the city. I stand around chatting to the town’s English teacher. He can’t speak much English but is happy to have the chance to practice with a native speaker. There is but one in the town.<br /><br />“Don’t take the road from Penjikent to Dushanbe. It’s too dangerous!”<br /><br />An email from the town’s English speaker tells me that the road is closed all day for rebuilding by Chinese crews and that traffic can only make the drive from 6pm, in the dark, on an unbuilt, rocky, hole-strewn road winding through the high mountains above gaping chasms with no safety barriers. People regularly die on this road in the darkness, as drivers are often drunk, drive too fast and with no care for safety. I am strongly advised to enter Tajikistan further south and take the direct route to Dushanbe. Do NOT take the road from Penjikent to Dushanbe!<br /><br />On the road from Penjikent to Dushanbe, we leave town under the watchful eye of a poster of the dear president (who is surrounded by a bevy of admiring prepubescent schoolgirls) and it begins to rain. The road disappears and becomes a river of mud sliding over the edge of a cliff. I take pictures and wonder if I should have heeded the advice not to take this road. All is nothingness, just bare earth, towers of rock and the omnipresent chasm waiting to devour us. I feel like a hobbit entering Mordor.<br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">At Ayni we are stopped and our passports examined. We join a convoy of traffic idling, waiting for the gate to open so we can proceed to drive into the high mountains to the capital. Three teenagers come and chat to us in English. They like living in Ayni but want to move one day to the big city. They speak better than the English teacher in Penjikent. One day they want to go to America.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial;"><br />The gate opens as dusk falls, and we roar off in dust and a hail of small stones. Nothing can be seen through the windscreen and I wonder how our driver knows where the road ends and begins. Maybe he doesn’t. We rest at a small tea shop perched above another chasm, and eat delicious meat and drink tea from dainty cups. Night falls and it turns cold. I walk away from the cafe and there is nothing but silence, blackness and a million stars spangled across the sky. I feel very far away from home. My friends in Kyrgyzstan were worried about me making this trip, speculating over whether or not I would come home dead. I feel very much alive, and young, and free, and adventurous. I am on the road from Penjikent to Dushanbe and the world is at my feet.<br /><br />Back in the car and we are driving again, alone this time as the convoy has long gone ahead of us. In the blackness we can only imagine the outlines of the mountainous walls of rock looming above us. The chasms are still visible, their blackness being even darker than that of the sky. We approach the edge often to drive around gaping holes in the road and to pass the abandoned machinery of the road-builders, but the tyres stay on course. Eventually we enter the Varzob tunnel, where dull strip lighting shows us that the water is tyre-deep, and we see the wires hanging from the ceiling and industrial detritus scattered around like post apocalyptic confetti. We are swallowed by the earth into its eerie dankness before finally being disgorged into yet more darkness on the other side. The stars reappear and light our way to Dushanbe.<br /><br />The president’s house on the edge of town is bigger and more brightly lit than those of the surrounding heroin barons. Gaudily festooned with fairy lights for a dinner of the heads of states of the Shanghai conference, who will be arriving in town tomorrow, it is reminiscent of a doll's house on crack. It is thoroughly absurd after the shacks of the Tajik mountain villagers and given the electricity crisis that has plagued the region. For the convenience of the esteemed guests, the road will shortly be closing, so our driver puts his foot down so we can make it into Dushanbe.<br /><br />It is midnight and we arrive in Dushanbe hours ahead of schedule, with nowhere to stay. Our driver would put us up at his house, but it is a little cramped as he has many children. He takes us to the taxi driver’s hostel, a house squatting under the belching stack of the city’s cement factory. For 3 Somani we have some blankets on the floor and a teapot. A gruff Tajik man brings us tea. I am the first Englishman he has seen, and he proclaims that he will judge all of my kind based on his encounter with me. I am not sure if this is a good thing or not. At least, like Belarusian Tanja, I am not known for my lack of generosity and failure to bring flowers when visiting a house. All Belarusians are like this. There is no room for individuality; the constraints of nationality define us as human beings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">The next day we wander into the city. The streets are litter-free and suspiciously clean. Men in suits and sunglasses stand on every street corner, watching passersby and talking into their radio headsets. Propaganda proclaims the marvelousness of the Shanghai Conference, the greatness of the president, the unending ties between Tajikistan and the People’s Republic of China. The buildings are built in endearing shades of pastel and the avenues lined with trees. It is a pretty place, with fountains and photogenic architecture. It seems much smaller, calmer and more genteel than other Central Asian cities, and we encounter no hassle from the police anywhere. We make the mistake of deviating from the established route in the National Museum and are sternly rebuked for doing so. I see a giant reclining Buddha, and search for postcards. My favourite postcard shows the headquarters of the National Bank. Why would anyone come to Tajikistan for pointless road trips amid the high mountain beauty of the Pamirs when they could spend time admiring the National Bank instead? Crazy foreigners.<br /><br />My hotel for the night is the Vakhsh, a pretty pastel building hiding a damp threadbare exterior. I am not allowed to check in, as I am foreign and strange. Tanja returns to help me purchase a room for the evening. Soviet solidarity eventually pays off and I am in. $30 buys me a sagging bed and bathroom with noisome and recalcitrant plumbing. Scowls from the receptionist are free of charge. I meet Tanja and Jochem for Ecuadorian food in the north of the city. Salsa is undoubtedly the best Ecuadorian restaurant in Central Asia. I walk back alone through the city. There is nobody on the street besides a horde of militisya. Not one troubles me for some Dollars or even Somani. I wonder if I am still in Central Asia, or possibly hallucinating.<br /><br />“The flight has already gone!”<br /><br />The next morning there is trouble at the airport. A baying horde are wailing at the entrance, demanding to be allowed to go to Moscow. I ask the man in uniform when I can check in for my flight to Bishkek. I am told that the flight has already left, even though it is not due for another four hours. Customs officers carry melons and leave them in a side office. The bringers of melons are allowed through to the coveted check-in area. I wonder where I can buy some melons to give as my own bribe. I ask at the information desk about the flight to Bishkek and am told no. I’m not sure what ‘no’ means, but I don’t think it’s good. A pretty young Tajik woman standing next to a fat sweating white man tells me to wait with them, as the fat man is also headed for Bishkek. He is from Arkansas and is in town to close down a company. He seems pleased by this. He doesn’t speak Russian and doesn’t like it here. The Tajik woman, who is charming and enthusiastic, is his fixer. Another Tajik joins us. She speaks excellent English and works for Help the Aged. She is off to Bishkek for work, and will soon be going to Brighton for a conference. I am asked what Brighton is like. I describe this cosmopolitan, bohemian seaside city but leave out the part about its thriving gay life. I’m not sure if it will go down well. She is only the second Central Asian I’ve met who has either been, or is going to, my country. The other one also worked for an NGO.<br /><br />“But my secretary organises things like that for me!”<br /><br />Eventually our flight is called (Ben 1, man in uniform 0) and we proceed to check-in. At immigration, it turns out that Arkansas dude hasn’t got a Kyrgyz visa and won’t be allowed to proceed through customs. NGO lady thinks he is stupid, and from her smile I can tell that fixer lady agrees. Fixer lady passes me into the care of NGO lady, and I whisk through customs without needing to open my wallet. An immigration guy with an eye for opportunity sighs as he looks at my passport and asks where my migration pass is. NGO lady scolds him and tells him to cut out his nonsense, and he withers under her gaze. I am through, and continue telling her about Brighton.<br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;">The flight back is on Kyrgyzstan Airlines, who are barred from entering EU airspace. I am served a nice in-flight meal and, while the seats do rattle and it is too noisy to speak, the flight is not unpleasant. We land back at Bishkek and I am besieged by taxi touts quoting me absurd prices to get to Bishkek. I am home. At my school compound, I am greeted by the director who cheerfully announces that she is surprised I made it back, and that many of the staff thought I wouldn’t make it. I bring giardia back with me and am sick for days. I lose so much weight I need a new hole stamped into my belt to hold my trousers up.<br /><br />I meet Tanja again some months later on a cold day in England. She is in the country for a conference and we decide to meet up at an Iranian restaurant in the inner suburbs of London. It is nice to see her again and we reminisce about journeys taken and talk about journeys yet to come. The stew arrives, herby and pungent and full of promising aromas.<br /><br />The Tajik consul in Bishkek, I think she may have been right.</span></div>
anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-14058763055488280552011-01-29T20:20:00.006+09:002016-09-06T09:08:02.924+09:00Kurban Ait in Kyrgyzstan<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Kurban Ait 2008 in Cholpon Ata and Kochkor, Kyrgyzstan
<br />Written by Nicola <br />To see the complete set of photographs from Kurban Ait 2008 </span><a href="http://desolationtravel.com/cak.html"><strong><span style="font-family: "arial";">CLICK HERE</span></strong></a><span style="font-family: "arial";">.
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<br />Kurban Ait (Eid al-Adha), the Muslim festival of sacrifice, is celebrated across the Islamic world with prayers and gifts of food and money to the poor. In the spirit of the time of piety, Ben, D., and I decided to take our 3-day weekend and visit Kyrgyzstan’s premier beach resort.
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<br />Cholpon Ata truly deserves the title of Central Asian beach paradise. For a start, the shores of Lake Issyk-Kul are the only place for about 3000 miles where you’re likely to encounter a beach. The golden, sandy shoreline and inviting warm waters (“issyk” means “hot” in Kyrgyz, so it must be, right?) entice sun worshippers in their hundreds from as far afield as Bishkek, Almaty, and even Tokmok city. In the height of the summer season, the small town of Cholpon Ata, on the lake’s north shore, transforms into the Speedos capital of the world.
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<br />Not that much of this was evident when we visited in November 2008. The streets were deserted; the guesthouses and Soviet-era sanatoria boarded up and closed. Driving into town in our taxi, we asked the driver to take us somewhere to stay. Every door that he knocked at was opened by hard-faced babushkas who moved us on with barely an apologetic shake of the head. We pulled into the vast, crumbling remains of what must have once been one of the premier sanatoria retreats of the Soviet Union. Here, beds were to be had, at the rate of several hundred US dollars a night, and no doubt cheap at the price to experience this piece of history. Regretfully aware that our budgets were too tight to allow such opulence, we asked the driver to once again try elsewhere. Around this time, clearly aware that we weren’t going to find anywhere, he very kindly offered to let us stay in his house, at much more the going rate for a Kyrgyz homestay, to which we readily agreed.
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<br />Once settled into the homestay, after the obligatory tea-drinking, admiring the orchard in the courtyard (nothing much to look at in November) and playing with our host’s fat but friendly cat, we headed out to see the sights of Cholpon Ata. First up was lake Issyk-Kul itself. The “jewel of the Tian Shan”, its Kyrgyzstan’s number one tourist draw, at least according to the locals. It dominated the town, glittering blue in the late autumn sunlight. We searched in vain for a way to get down to it, through a park sporting a huge silver statue of a woman being attacked by birds, and a solitary cow; on through the back streets of what in summer must be a beachfront promenade; past burning piles of refuse. Finally, we found a militsya (an officer of Kyrgyzstan’s military police – the police’s crack bribe-demanding unit). D. asked him in Russian for directions to the beach, which he smilingly provided. Grateful, and somewhat amazed at our still-intact wallets, we headed out onto the golden sands, here and there dotted with discarded vodka bottles and crumbling concrete ruins. Atop one of these concrete structures, maybe once a beachfront kiosk we posed for photos, looking out over lake and beach to the towering, snow-clad mountains. Another concrete wall provided stylish graffiti of Lenin and Stalin. Further down the coast, we could see the much more modern concrete hulks of the private villas where Kyrgyzstan’s elite would come to while away their summers.
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Wandering back into town, we paused to admire the smattering of propaganda billboards lining the main drag. “сила народа в единстве” (power of the people is in unity) announced a huge picture of (since-deposed megalomaniac) President Bakiyev, stern in front of lake and mountains. Further along the street, a smiling woman urged us to invest in the kind of gated community which just doesn’t exist in Kyrgyzstan, and which, due to some poor Photoshop skills, appeared to on the verge of being submerged by a tidal wave. But my personal favourite cannot really be done justice in words. Emblazoned with the slogan “коррупцияга жол жок” (corruption is not the way), perhaps its effect explains us escaping a shakedown.
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Our next destination was a site virtually unknown to the Kyrgyz and Kazakh tourists who yearly flock to Cholpon Ata. A little out of town, past a cemetery, lies a boulder-strewn field. Unassuming to the casual observer, the field may even seem off-limits due to the huge ditch and concrete markers which cut it off from the town. Clamber over the ditch, however, and wonders await the careful (and patient) observer. Petroglyphs, remnants of ancient Sogdian and Turkic peoples, are carved seeming at random into the rocks. Deer, goats and camels, even a hunting scene with dogs, artistically rendered by enigmatic peoples now long gone. One of the builders working on the ditch had decided that in front of this last scene was the perfect place for to relieve himself.
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">As we descended from the petroglyph field, sunset painted the surrounding mountains impossible shades of pink and gold, while evening mist over Issyk-Kul seemed to solidify into yet more peaks. Shepherds on horseback drove their cattle down through the boulders to their camp. The ornate tombs in the cemetery stood stark against a fiery sky. The temperature dropped as rapidly as the light, and it was a relief to huddle into a small cafe (seeming the only one open in town). Removing our heavy winter coats, we ordered dumpling soup, and sat shivering until it finally dawned on us that the interior of the cafe wasn’t heated, and was therefore no warmer than the sub-zero temperatures outside. I’m not sure if their represents social conditioning, or merely a distinct lack of common sense on our part. Finishing our dumplings, we headed back through the now pitch black night to our homestay, warmth, and the obese cat.
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<br />The next morning, we were up early and hoping to secure transport to the village of Kochkor in central Kyrgyzstan. Cholpon Ata and Kochkor both being renowned urban centres (hah), this may well have taken all day. Luckily for us, we were able to engage a taxi driver to take us without having to wait for another passenger to fill the car. Thanking our host, we set off, and were soon belting through the rolling Kyrgyz countryside on a comparatively good road (it even had tarmac). Speeding around a corner just north of the brilliant blue Orto-Tokoy reservoir, an unexpected sight filled the windscreen. Shouting at our driver to stop (which he did, grinning at the strange behaviour of foreigners), we began snapping pictures of a small herd of Bactrian (two-humped) camels grazing peacefully beside the road, miles from the nearest human settlement, and a very rare sight in Kyrgyzstan.
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">By this time, one of the pitfalls of living in Central Asia was beginning to make itself known to D., who was suffering from a bout of giardia, so we hurried on toward our destination. We arrived at the office of Community Based Tourism (CBT) in Kochkor, and through them were able to arrange a homestay for the night and a horse riding trip for the next day. We also spent some time perusing and purchasing shyrdaks (traditional Kyrgyz felt rugs) from the attached shop belonging to a local women’s collective. Afterwards, we took a walk around the village, taking in local highlights including a gaudy, silver statue of Lenin on a mosaic plinth, a bubbling spring rising from the ground in the local rubbish dump, and children playing among the rust-and-tetanus-riddled remains of what may once have been a shipping crate. Streets lined with Soviet-era decorations depicting motifs of rockets, hammer and sickles and atomic nuclei provided a counterpoint to the imposing mountain backdrop, viable over the high walls of family compounds lining the unpaved streets. Back at the homestay, we were plied with food and drink almost to bursting by the incredibly mothering proprietress, who made sure that we were comfortable with extra blankets and heaters, Soviet-era tourist literature to peruse, and even going as far as to tuck me in for the night.
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">The following day was Kurban Ait itself. After a huge Kyrgyz-style breakfast consisting of fermented yoghurt, borsok (fried squares of dough), and copious quantities of amazing homemade jam, we met our guide for the day and saddled up for a day’s horse riding.
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<br />Nothing beats the freedom of galloping through the vast landscapes of Central Asia, through cragged mountains and broad meadows where flocks of fat-bottomed sheep graze and golden eagles wheel high above. Each twist in the trail seems to bring you closer to the country. In the grounds of the mosque, the imam and his attendants were slaughtering sheep and goats as part of the festival. Dogs in scattered farms barked as we rode by. Further on, another beautiful, eerie cemetery appeared out of swirling mist, ethereal domes topped with crescent moons recalling Arabian Nights adventure and orientalist mystique. Streams, frozen solid in the harsh mountain climate, made playgrounds for children sliding on homemade sleds.
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Arriving back in Kochkor, we returned to our homestay to collect our shyrdaks. Our hostess welcomed us in, and sat at the table, where steaming plates piled high with plov (an Uzbek dish made of rice, carrots and mutton) were pressed on us. A man joined us, one of the festival celebrants, going from house to house spreading good wishes. He ate with us, recited a prayer and wished us good health. Our hostess refused to accept any payment for the meal; during Kurban Ait, food is provided for all visitors, even foreigners smelling of horse!
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<br />Sadly, we said our goodbyes, and loaded down with our bundles of felt purchases, we bundled ourselves into the back of a taxi heading for Bishkek. The return journey was largely unremarkable – we chatted about inconsequential things, and at one point were almost involved in a head-on collision with a truck, at which nobody in the taxi batted an eyelid until a few minutes later D. asked “Did we just almost die?” In testament to how long we had collectively spent in Central Asia, this didn’t seem cause for concern. Back in Bishkek, with my shyrdak spread across my bedroom floor, and the horse smell dissipated by a hot shower, I prepared for another working week in the metropolis.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">To see the complete set of photographs from Kurban Ait 2008 </span><a href="http://desolationtravel.com/cak.html"><strong><span style="font-family: "arial";">CLICK HERE</span></strong></a> anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4089752513016996956.post-48915084281803586442011-01-05T23:55:00.002+09:002011-01-06T00:09:04.268+09:00Someone else of whom to be jealous...<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">If you know much of anything </span><a href="http://desolationtravel.blogspot.com/p/about.html"><span style="font-family:arial;">about us</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> here at Desolation Travel, then surely you know that what we all have in common (other than a love of vacations in somewhat abnormal and absurd locales, of course) - and I refer to the fact that we've all lived in </span><a href="http://desolationtravel.blogspot.com/search/label/Kyrgyzstan"><span style="font-family:arial;">Kyrgyzstan</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">. We tend to follow blogs of those souls lucky enough to be living there at the moment, and below are a couple of posts from one we particularly enjoy. Check them out - I hope you appreciate them as much as we do.</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2011/01/new-year-in-osh-pt1-arrival-in-osh.html"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">New Year in Osh, Part 1</span></strong></a></div><div align="center"><a href="http://kyrgyzjaunt.blogspot.com/2011/01/new-year-in-osh-pt2-ozgon-gulcha-and.html"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">New Year in Osh, Part 2</span></strong></a></div>anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03732371349612456581noreply@blogger.com1