Desolation Travel

Calendar votes are in!

2011-11-12T18:19:00.001+09:00

The Desolation Travel calendar 2012 picture votes are in, and here's the final product. Click here or on either of the pictures below to purchase.

Help us decide!

2011-11-10T21:17:00.000+09:00

We here at Desolation Travel are working on putting together another calendar... and we need your help choosing the photographs! See those pictures below? They're just a fraction of the photographs we're trying to choose from. Just click here 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!

Peace, Hope, Nature... DMZ?

2011-10-22T13:02:00.003+09:00

by Jane Keeler

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.

While I haven’t yet been able to visit the northern side of the DMZ, I’ve now been to the southern side twice. In 2004 I visited Panmunjom; 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.

(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.)

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 Discover Korea / WINK group.

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.

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?

The clouds began to lift on our way to the tunnel...

By the time we arrived at the Third Tunnel, the day was gorgeous.
This small park sits atop the tunnel.

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.

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…

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.

Stupid yellow photo line :-(

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.

Woohoo, zoom lens. Not the best shot, made from a distance between two tourists at telescopes.

*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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

The DMZ and North Korea, as seen from atop the Cheorwon Peace Observatory.

The DMZ and North Korea, as seen from atop the Cheorwon Peace Observatory.

The DMZ and North Korea, as seen from atop the Cheorwon Peace Observatory.

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.

Monument to the Battle of White Horse Ridge

Monument to the Battle of White Horse Ridge

At this point we re-boarded our bus to return to Seoul.

To view the complete set of nearly 200 photos from my trip along the border,
CLICK HERE.

Chernobyl

2011-09-15T21:07:00.003+09:00

by Derek Kedziora

I had mixed feelings about taking a tour to Chernobyl. In some ways it seems very disrespectful, especially when you see how some of the tours are advertised (basically targeting faux thrill seekers who want to do something that other people would consider edgy). Thankfully that is not the sum total of the visitor's experience at Chernobyl. Hopefully it will someday acquire the same sort of status as Auschwitz - a grim, but necessary piece of human history that one must study in order to truly appreciate humanity. Ultimately I am glad that I went on the tour as it was both a moving and educational experience.

When you approach Chernobyl there are two different exclusion zones. The first is a 30 km radius from the disaster site. Oddly enough the town of Chernobyl is still plugging away with somewhere around 4,000 residents - workers at the plant, support staff and people who have returned after forced resettlement. Radiation levels aren't that much higher than usual (especially since the inhabited areas have been thoroughly decontaminated). The idea that this a "dead zone" is somewhat of a misnomer. Maintaining the site of the disaster requires a huge staff, and they all live in the town of Chernobyl.

Beyond this first ring is the second exclusion zone, a 10 km radius from the disaster site. This zone contains some of the most contaminated areas and is generally uninhabited. People still have to work in this zone, but their shifts are monitored and regulated to insure their exposure isn't extreme. Inside this zone is the reactor and the completely abandoned town of Pripyat. Walking around Pripyat is eerily quiet and odd. Unlike places such as Auschwitz or the ruins of a war, it is hard to really draw a mental connection to the reactor meltdown. What I mean is that there is no sign of distress - unless someone had told you the history of the town, you'd never have guessed what happened as there are no physical signs of violence. Perhaps this is what is scariest of all about Chernobyl - radiation is such a silent killer. Even standing in the middle of abandoned Pripyat - which nature is slowly reclaiming - it is hard to conceptualize that the damage here is, for all practical purposes, eternal. Despite the fact that people have lived on this land for hundreds of generations, it will be thousands of years before normal, permanent habitation is possible.

The other thing I took away from the experience was a profound respect for the liquidators. Due to politics their sacrifices have gone almost completely unsung and uncompensated. Despite having read a fair amount about Chernobyl', I had no idea that the actions of these heros saved Europe from a second explosion that would have been devastating to the entire continent. It is impossible to even imagine clearing radioactive debris by hand (the radiation was too strong for robots) or tunneling beneath the reactor in order to build a new foundation to prevent it from descending into the groundwater. The scope of this operation is also difficult to readily comprehend - more soldiers were deployed to Chernobyl than Afghanistan. Вічна Память.

I highly recommend taking the time to watch the documentary the Battle of Chernobyl. You can also view my pictures here.

Adventures in the Chernobyl Dead Zone

2011-09-15T20:58:00.002+09:00

by Jane Keeler

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.

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.

In 2004, I came across that semi-hoax website, Kidd of Speed. (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.

Back in 2010, several of us from over here at Desolation Travel 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.

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.

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 Solo-East. 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.

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 The Battle of Chernobyl – and excellent documentary, which you can watch in its entirety here for free. I highly recommend it to anyone who is even remotely interested in Chernobyl, nuclear power, and/or the former Soviet Union.

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.

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.

First checkpoint - no photos allowed! :-)

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.

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.

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.

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:

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?

Same scene, sans goofy tourist

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, CLICK HERE.

Palace of Culture "Energetic"

Inside the Palace of Culture

Inside the school

Also inside the school

More from the Palace of Culture

Left: a gymnastics horse from the sports center
Right: Irradiated negatives from the Hotel Polissya

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.

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:

No one ever said what happens if you register ‘contaminated’ though!
Like I said, lunch was delicious, and very typical Ukrainian/Russian:

One fellow on the tour was a vegetarian, though, and he had a bit of a rough go of the lunch. Very much an Everything is Illuminated kind of moment. How do you make beef soup vegetarian? Scoop out the chunks of beef. Hah.

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!

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 German/American civil nuclear fuel company, that’s apparently involved in the maintenance of the facility.

Okay, okay. On to the reactor!

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.

Left: A monument to those who died, which appears to be holding a TARDIS.
Right: The reactor, up close and personal.

To see the complete set of my Pripyat photographs, CLICK HERE.
To see the complete set of all my other Chernobyl photographs, CLICK HERE.

Two More DesoLINKS!!

2011-06-27T19:06:00.003+09:00

Crackin' the Citadel - Our own Joe Scarangella visits old-school Erbil in Iraqi Kurdistan

The Marmot's Hole gives us a glimpse at North Korean propaganda cartoons

Awesomeness.

even more desoLINKS

2011-06-27T12:16:00.002+09:00

Recently Nicola's gone to Egypt and Belarus, and Ben S has gone to Kalmykia and Volgograd in Russia... we'll try and get photos and blog posts online as soon as we can, but keep in mind, we all work full time. Not as much time for blogging as we'd like, alas. But stay tuned!

Meanwhile, a bit of bad news has recently surfaced: the Chernobyl exclusion zone has been temporarily closed to tourists! We're hoping that this temporary closure is due to the government wanting a greater kickback from the tourist agencies which ferry foolish lovers of desolation into the radiation, and not due to the imminent collapse of the sarcophagus. We all have our fingers crossed that the Zone will have reopened by mid August. If not, I promise to share with you the photos of a friend of ours who visited the week before the closure.

And now for a crazy-mad collection of desoLINKS - enjoy!

Osh, Part I: City of Echo Chambers

Osh, Part II: The Suffering of Others

Post Soviet Graffiti

Trip to the Iranian Border, Part I and Trip to the Iranian Border, Part II

And from our own Derek's journeys in Poland in Ukraine:

Looking from Krakow to Lwow

DesoLINKS

2011-06-02T11:58:00.002+09:00

We've got some links that lovers of desolation should definitely check out:

In Crossing the Land of Wheat and Rye, Desolation Travel member Derek Kedziora travels across Ukraine and into Poland

Desolation friend Joseph Stec has posted a three part series of excellent blogs and beautiful photographs from eastern Turkey: Part I: The Road to Kars, Part II: The Road to Ani, and Part III: The Road to Ishak Pasha Saray.

We've recently become friends with a group called Young Pioneer Tours - they'll help you to travel to the sorts of magically desolate places we love on a budget!

Invisible Photographer Asia has a stunning set of photographs of Apashka, the Shaman of Ungurtas, Kazakhstan.

Lush, green, and peaceful? Actually, yes.

2011-05-19T12:26:00.004+09:00

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, Joe's Trippin'. As you can see, it hardly resembles stereotypical Iraq!

Check out Joe's first two posts from Iraq:
Iraq's B-Side and Takin' the High Road

And follow Joe's Iraqi adventures here!

Too powerful not to share

2011-04-27T00:45:00.004+09:00

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 The Chernobyl Nobody Wants by Barys Piatrovich 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.

When you're finished reading Piatrovich's article, you should re-visit the photos taken by Desolation Travel's Ben Rich in the Belarussian dead zone, which can be seen here, and re-read his blog post from his trip as well. 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).

desoLINKS

2011-03-26T21:15:00.007+09:00

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.

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:

Salalah-blah-blah-blah
Gettin' tanked in Aden

Thrill on Silent Hill

A Ho-hum al-Khokha
Highs and Lows
Tunin' up Thulla

Moving on... we've got some pictures from Kyrgyzstan posted on our website, taken by me (Jane Keeler) and by Ben Scott. They can be seen at the following links:

From Bishkek to Osh
Karakol, Altyn Arashan, and the Valley of the Flowers

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:

Chernobyl, My Primeval, Teeming, Irradiated Eden

Lessons from Chernobyl for Japan

Kyrgyzstan 2008

2011-02-23T12:24:00.004+09:00

Feeling inspired by Ben Rich's Kyrgyzstan 2009 video, 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.

Visiting Planet Turkmen

2011-02-20T13:29:00.004+09:00

by Joe Scarangella
CLICK HERE to see the entire set of photographs.

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.

His Excellency Saparmurat Niyazov Türkmenbaşy, 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.

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 “All students who read the book 3 times will automatically be granted entry into Heaven.” 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.

I suppose it's covered in the first chapter of “An Idiot's Guide to Dictatorship,” 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 golden 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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

A journey through Siberia

2011-02-20T10:29:00.000+09:00

Kyrgyzstan: Faces and Places from 2009

2011-02-20T10:27:00.000+09:00

Desolation: Crimea

2011-02-18T22:55:00.002+09:00

Derek recently returned to his current home in Dnepropetrovsk, Ukraine from a recent trip to Crimea, where he hit up Sevastopol (ok, not so desolate), the nearby remains of the ancient Greek city of Khersones, the village of Balaklava (complete with Soviet nuke base), and Bakhchisaray and the remains of the Crimean Tatars. To see the complete set of photographs from his trip, CLICK HERE, and to read the details of his exploits, follow the links below. Enjoy!

Part 1: Sevastopol’, Russia – Sketches, if you willPart 2: BalaklavaPart 3: Someplace between Hope and Despair: Bakhchisaray

DesoLIT: The writings of Daniel Kalder

2011-02-06T11:42:00.005+09:00

Reviewed by Jane Keeler

Part One: Lost Cosmonaut

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:

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.

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 Saffia Farr mentioned her boobs 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 Rates of Exchange accidentally offers someone "a nice cock" because his stutter prevents him from uttering "cocktail") to Kalder's frequent and trashy references.

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.

Part Two: Strange Telescopes

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.’

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.

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. I have rather an obsession with the undersides of cities myself, 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.

Travels Along Tajikistan's Unrefurbished Highway of Death

2011-01-31T22:23:00.009+09:00

by Ben Scott
To see the complete set of photographs from Ben's trip to Tajikistan,
please CLICK HERE.

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.

“Three days? ! That’s not enough time to see our country!”

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.

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.

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.

“Don’t take the road from Penjikent to Dushanbe. It’s too dangerous!”

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“The flight has already gone!”

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.

“But my secretary organises things like that for me!”

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.

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.

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.

The Tajik consul in Bishkek, I think she may have been right.

Kurban Ait in Kyrgyzstan

2011-01-29T20:20:00.006+09:00

Kurban Ait 2008 in Cholpon Ata and Kochkor, Kyrgyzstan
Written by Nicola Simpson
Photographs by Nicola Simpson, Derek Kedziora, and Ben Scott
To see the complete set of photographs from Kurban Ait 2008 CLICK HERE.

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 Scott, Derek Kedziora, and I decided to take our 3-day weekend and visit Kyrgyzstan’s premier beach resort.

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.

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.

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). Derek 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

By this time, one of the pitfalls of living in Central Asia was beginning to make itself known to Derek, 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.

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.

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.

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!

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 Derek 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.

To see the complete set of photographs from Kurban Ait 2008 CLICK HERE

Someone else of whom to be jealous...

2011-01-05T23:55:00.002+09:00

If you know much of anything about us 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 Kyrgyzstan. 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.

New Year in Osh, Part 1

New Year in Osh, Part 2

Desolation... Madagascar?

2010-12-29T22:41:00.004+09:00

by Ben Scott
[The complete set of photographs from Ben's trip to Madagascar can be seen by CLICKING HERE.]

Trying to work the desolation angle into an article about Madagascar was never going to be easy. The ‘D word’ is the last thing you’d usually think of when pondering this vast lemur and vanilla-pod filled, rum-soaked island fringed by swaying palms and white sand beaches. And, despite being a relatively devoted desolationist, I did not actively seek desolation in Madagascar. Truth be told, I wanted to kick back for a few days and relax in a sunny tropical paradise. In short, I wanted a vacation. It could be said that I went due to desolation rather than in search of more.

Somehow, my plan to spend a cheap week relaxing on the beach in the Spanish Canary Islands crumbled into dust when I saw that Kenya Airways were having a promotion for under 26s only. Being 25 is a privilege that does not last a lifetime, and I decided to capitalise on it while I still could. And, being a sucker for a silly name, when I saw that Antananarivo was on the list of discounted destinations there was really no other choice – a reservation was made for a flight leaving in one month’s time to be kept on hold for 24 hours pending payment (although I actually held out for an impressive 5 days before eventually succumbing and passing on my credit card details...and this after plenty of pestering from my increasingly more desperate travel agent). Undoubtedly the most expensive thing I’ve ever purchased on a whim.

Madagascar is not a place that people usually visit without months of pre-planning and then for a mere 10 days. The expense of flights, lack of reliable public transport and shocking state of many of the roads means that this is very much a destination for those with time on their hands (and more often than not, a private car and driver). Travelling for 10 days on a medium budget is far from the tourism norm there; Madagascar is an ideal destination for penny-pinching backpackers and for high-rolling dedicated ornithologists and herpetologists with their impressive zoom lenses and associated length-based envy and competitiveness. Deciding on an itinerary can be heartbreaking when you have so little time and so many things to see, so expectations have to be lowered. I quickly determined that my trip would be worthwhile provided I could see at least one rice paddy, one lemur, and one beach.

All of this was thrown into disarray a mere week before departure when, on election day, a group of disaffected military officers decided to stage a coup. News of this development was initially warmly received, but worry ensued once it became clear that the first stated aim of the junta was to close the airport. A few anxious days later and it turned out that the coup leaders didn’t really have much drive or ambition and the whole sorry affair fizzled out...which while disappointing, also meant that at least my holiday plans weren’t ruined.

So, in any case, I came, saw and came back relatively unscathed. In brief, Madagascar proved itself to be a safe, welcoming destination full of friendly, hospitable and endearing people, filled with one-of-a-kind wildlife, with an ample supply of rice paddies and beautiful white sand beaches (and yes, scores of gambolling lemurs of all shapes and sizes). The relentless multicoloured tropicality of the place hardly lends itself to thoughts of the gloomy grey desolation that often springs to mind (in a nice way) when thoughts turn (as they inevitably do) to the Former Soviet Union, but that is not to say that none can be found.

I expected to encounter hideous, shocking poverty at every turn in this, one of Africa’s poorest nations; however, while undeniably poor, with the exception of a few emaciated urban child beggars, most of the poverty is of that charmingly photogenic type that attracts the camera lens without tugging at the heartstrings. The decaying remnants of French colonial infrastructure stand as a beautiful testament to history rather than a representation of economic stagnation. The relative lack of tourists is a bonus rather than a sad reflection of political scaremongering by unfriendly governments needlessly putting people off visiting this safe and friendly nation; its bounty of completely unique attractions that deserve to be visited by camera-toting hordes rather than a few die-hards and wildlife fanatics. I even wandered around the mean streets of Antananarivo under cover of darkness despite the stern warnings of my government not to do so, but all my encounters with Malagasy (and foreigners as well) were notable for the warmth and kindness encountered. While undoubtedly a destination for the more adventurous traveller (due to the terrible local transport and road conditions rather than any great discomfort), this is one of the most hassle-free places imaginable. Corruption and personal safety issues barely register on the consciousness, and stern travel warnings issued by faraway governments fade into a murmur.

And yet, despite all that has been mentioned above, I couldn’t help but think of Kyrgyzstan while in Madagascar. On paper, the two countries are worlds apart but the similarities are there nonetheless. Both have a great deal to offer the traveller who wants an ‘authentic’ experience in a spectacular natural environment and to get up close and personal with local cultures. Both were plundered by a larger colonial power and have been left to stagnate ever since. Both are difficult to travel in unless you are willing to put up with a great deal of discomfort or to shell out for private transport (this being much more the case on the Red Island than in Central Asia). But above all, when leaving, one is left with the feeling that the current downturn in tourists due to the combination of political crisis and unreasonably high airfares is absolutely criminal for countries which have so much to offer and for whose citizens deserve to reap the benefits of a bit of extra hard currency. I can’t say that I’d recommend Madagascar for everyone – you do need at least some interest in the highly-specialised local wildlife and culture in order to truly appreciate the place – but nonetheless I for one would feel happy if the tourist industry picked up and a few more planeloads of tourists arrived each week.

So, while I have undoubtedly failed to introduce a desolation angle here despite shameless and misguidedly obvious attempts to do so, if nothing else I hope that the message comes across loud and clear: GO!

To see the complete set of photos from Ben's trip, CLICK HERE.

The Eagles Are Coming! (And so are the wolves...)

2010-12-26T16:37:00.004+09:00

Solburun 2008: Kyrgyz Traditional Hunting Festival by Jane Keeler

Animal Rights in Kyrgyzstan are essentially nonexistent. This post contains a couple of graphic images. However, there are a lot of really incredible and beautiful things to see/read in this post as well... just be forewarned. Additionally, the complete set of more than fifty photos from this day can be viewed by CLICKING HERE.

Festivals with hundreds of people in attendance aren’t exactly desolate… unless they’re held in rural Kyrgyzstan. In October 2008, two years before our Desolation Travel project was conceived, DT team members Ben, Derek, Nicola and I (along with several of our coworkers), travelled about five hours east of Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan (where we were living at the time) to a site just outside of the village of Bokonbaevo, where Solburun – the national traditional hunting festival – was being held.

Left: Nicola, Ben, Derek; Right: Jane, Derek

Solburun is an annual event, which attracts eagle hunters, falconers, handlers of Kyrgyz wolfhounds (called Taigan; similar to the Russian Borzoi), archers, and skilled horsemen from both Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. I had expected maybe ten eagles at the most, but was pleasantly surprised to discover at least fifty golden eagles present with their handlers, in addition to uncountable hawks, dogs and horses. I got my favorite pictures of the day before the competitions began, when elderly men on horseback lounged around with eagles on their arms, chatting with one another.

This man was one of the Kazakh eagle hunters;
they had incredible outfits.

I didn’t get very good shots of the first events, as the camera I had with me at the time didn’t have that great of a zoom. We watched first hawks and then wolf hounds compete to take down pigeons, rabbits and even a fox. The hawks were incredibly impressive and good at what they did. The dogs were less impressive, mainly because there was only one poor fox. It was killed after the first round, and its maimed carcass dragged behind a horse for subsequent rounds. It was rather distressing to watch, and the poor dogs obviously felt as though they’d been teased when they discovered that their “prey” was already dead.

When they began to launch the eagles (mainly against rabbits, although some were also launched against ye olde dead fox), it began to get more interesting. Ben and I climbed up the side of the mountain to the place from whence the eagle hunters were launching their birds, and I was able to get some rather decent shots:

Of course, these eagles are trained, but they are still wild animals and do not always do as they should. One turned away from its rabbity target and wheeled directly backwards at me and Ben. Oblivious to the people shouting at us to get out of the way, we stood in awe, not even photographing, as it swooped straight towards us. It landed on the ground roughly four feet in front of me. (Later we were to learn why we should have run, but as you will see, the entire day was filled with much foolishness upon our parts.)

While we were crouched on the mountainside, eagles being launched for attack over our heads, we ingratiated ourselves with the small local press pack. Suddenly there was excitement among the press as one shouted, “Davai! Volk!” (Come on! Wolf!) and began bounding off the mountain. They were bringing out the wolf.

What wolf? Well, we had been told us that there would be a captive wolf at the festival, which would be released for the eagles to hunt. The man who had told us this was Ishenbek – a renowned Kyrgyz eagle hunter and our host for the weekend. He had told us that he was the only person – from both Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan – who was willing to pit his eagle (a beautiful bird named Tuman) against the wolf at the festival, and said that she’d killed three or four wolves in the wild. All day we had anxiously awaited the arrival of the wolf, and with excitement, we scrambled down the mountain with the rest of the press.

Ben and I eagerly await the wolf

The press pack were allowed beyond the barricade behind which spectators had to stand. Ben, Derek, and I – sticking close to our newly made friends in the press – found ourselves standing, cameras poised, not far from the wooden box wherein the captive wolf was held. At one point the alleged professional wolf handler (wearing a shirt which read: Kyrgyzstan – Country of Tourism no less!) came over and told us, “You do know there is a *wolf* in there? There might be problems.” No one moved.

Finally, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time waiting, they brought out the wolf hounds. As only Ishenbek had been willing to pit his eagle against the wolf, there had been a change of plans. It had been decided to have the wolf tired out by the wolfhounds before setting the eagles after it; this way, more eagle-handlers had agreed to participate in the eagle vs. wolves part of the event.

While I feel that eagle vs. wolf is acceptable, I wasn’t too keen on one wolf taking on a pack of trained wolfhounds. Then they released the wolf, and my heart sank; he was chained to a ball of iron. He could run around and even drag the iron ball behind him, but he could not escape. (I suppose the iron ball was probably a good thing for the dumbass journalists – myself and my companions included – as the wolf immediately charged us upon exiting his box. Most of us moved out of its way, as we do have some sense of self preservation. Meanwhile, Ben didn’t move at all, and just stood there taking photos. I wish I’d gotten one of him almost getting mauled. He had a rather narrow escape. The pictures below were taken by Ben as the wolf advanced...

Then they released the wolfounds. They released them in teams of two, starting with the least experienced and moving up to the most experienced. It was utterly heart-wrenching to watch the poor wolf, tied to a chain, defending himself against pair after pair of wolfhounds. I got some very bizarre looks from my journalist comrades for cheering loudly for the wolf in Russian. I must say that despite his handicap, the wolf gave better than he got, injuring numerous dogs. He was still standing at the end... or at least he was until Mr. Kyrgyzstan: Country of Tourism pinned him to the ground with what was essentially a two pronged pitch fork around his neck.

Once the wolf was tired out, he was taken to the center of the field and left on his chain to await attack by eagles. His mouth was also tied shut. Ishenbeck strongly disapproved of all of this, having wanted to prove himself and Tuman against a strong, healthy and free wolf. Additionally, eagles are trained to not attack domestic animals. As such, a tied wolf looks much like a domesticated dog, which rather confused the eagles. Not to mention that they’d had to wait an extra long time for the dogs to try to tire out the wolf. The eagles were cranky. And they were coming.

The first eagle that was launched towards the wolf was one of the Kazakh eagles. It started down toward the wolf, then veered sharply to the right and directly into a crowd of spectators sitting on the side of the hill, attacking one man and sending his companions fleeing for their lives. It was too far away for me to get good quality pictures, but I did get some where you can at least make out what was happening.

Madness took over. Everyone (spectators and journalists alike) ran towards the injured man – including Ben and I, who shamelessly sought to get photos of his wounds. (He was bleeding profusely from the side of his face, but unfortunately, I didn’t get any shots of it.) The Kazakh eagle again swooped down towards the crowd just as Ishenbek launched Tuman toward the wolf. Tuman, heroine of the day, swerved off target and took down the Kazakh eagle, which made Ishenbek quite proud.

Ishenbek holding Tuman
after she tackled the Kazakh eagle.

While everyone was clustered around Ishenbek and the Kazakh eagle hunter, watching them disengage their birds (Tuman was fine, but she injured the Kazakh eagle), another Kyrgyz eagle hunter launched his bird at the wolf. I didn’t get a good shot, as I was too busy watching Tuman and the Kazakh eagle and battling the crowd. It was hard to tell what happened between the eagle and the wolf. The eagle definitely scored a hit, although it’s hard to tell how successful she would have been had the wolf been unfettered.

And with that, the festival was over.

Balykchy, Kyrgyzstan - A Town On The Edge

2010-12-13T00:48:00.001+09:00

by Ben Rich
To see the complete set of photographs accompanying this post, please CLICK HERE.

I'd heard a lot about Balykchy whilst living in Bishkek (the capital of Kyrgyzstan), and without exception nobody had a good word to say about the place. When I quizzed people as to what the town was like, I usually received a grimace as though someone had just let off a bad smell in the room merely by mentioning its name. Everyone I asked in the nation's capital told me of the squalor that would await me should I travel there. When I mentioned that I wanted to visit the place people would try to persuade me not to as though the town of Balykchy was a national shame that a proud people preferred not to show to outsiders. "Go to Cholpon-Ata, it's much more beautiful" people would say but Balykchy and the horrors it held, or not, had gripped me. I had to see for myself.

On a Saturday morning in February I took a taxi across the city to the main bus station looking for a ride East to Issyk Kul's western corner. I found a mini bus that would be passing through Balykchy on it's way to somewhere else and squeezed into a seat next a young Kyrgyz man in the pre-requisite shiny black jacket and cap. The bus wound its way through Bishkek's traffic before joining the main road towards the lake. I settled in with my knees crushed against the seat in front and stared out of the window watching the world pass.

About 5 miles out of Bishkek I was reminded of the corruption endemic in the nation as our bus was flagged down by a traffic policeman. I watched our driver intently as he walked over to the policeman and in full view of passing motorists handed over a small wad of som (Kyrgyz currency) into the policeman's hand, disguising the action in a handshake. The policeman put the money in his pocket without looking at or counting it and stared down the road for his next payday. It was modern day highway robbery. I spent the next part of the journey wondering how the economics of these transactions worked. Did the policeman share the money with his superiors, how did he choose who to stop, did he have to pay a superior to get this lucrative spot on the main Bishkek to Almaty highway? And what of the drivers who had to pay, was there any point in refusing or speeding on without stopping? I doubted it. I suppose that just like in other countries when you buy a car you accept that you will have to pay for road tax or a motor testing certificate; in this part of the world you accept that a kickback is part of owning a vehicle. If you didn't like it I suppose you just bought a bicycle.

The road passed Tokmok, with its Soviet jet fighter guarding the entrance, before heading out into a barren river valley that skirted the Kazakh border. Kazakhstan was only 500 metres away in distance but a lifetime away in potential. The giant that is Kazakhstan is blessed with huge quantities gas and oil whereas Kyrgyzstan has little to offer the outside world except for, it seemed, land for foreign military air bases.

As we neared the bottom of the mountain range that separated the valley from Issyk kul the road deteriorated, every bump and boulder we hit jarred my knees against the seat making the journey more of an endurance test then anything else. Soon however the gears were crunched down to a lower number and we began our slow ascent up to the pass. To our left, far below were the murky waters of the river Chui, and to our right were the barren mountains of the Alatau range, which had the most amazing clouds I'd ever seen. Running up the faces of the mountains were long slim clouds hundreds of metres long like giant children's slides. I'd never seen anything like it before. We reached the top of the pass and hitting a higher gear began the descent towards Balykchy. It suddenly became warmer.

A sign let me know we had entered the outskirts of my destination. A low built dusty town spread out before me, indistinguishable from other such dusty towns I'd seen in this part of the world. It was the kind of place you would film a modern day western - there was even some sort of tumbleweed blowing across the road. We drove down what appeared to be the town's main road to the bus station. On the side of the road stood women with kerchiefs on their heads selling dried fish on string. I didn't get the impression they were doing much business. We pulled into the town's bus station and I was immediately surrounded by fish sellers as I stepped of the bus. I didn't really have a plan except to have a look around before getting the evening bus home. At one end of the parking area leaning nonchalantly on his Lada taxi was an old Kyrgyz man. I told him that I had heard a lot about Balykchy and asked him to show me what it was really like. We negotiated a fee and set off; I could not have found a better guide.

I didn't need to ask questions as he began pouring out his life story and the town's history in torrents of words as though he had been in solitary confinement for years and I was the first person he had been able to talk to. Little bubbles of spit landed in all directions as he hurriedly pointed out 'landmarks' and told me what they were. A lot of the government buildings seemed disused and locked up but that could have just been because it was a weekend. There was not much happening in town, no markets bustling with shoppers and traders, no lovers strolling arm in arm under the warm sunshine… it was just dead. But then I suppose in my own country it is only really the high street that provides atmosphere and noise and vibrancy; take away people's disposable incomes and you are left with the basics of life with little in the way of distraction. That was my impression of Balykchy, life had been reduced to its bare minimum: there was a petrol station, a food shop, a cafe, a bus station, a railway station, and nothing else. Nothing else was needed.

"I'll take you to the docks, that's really what this town was about......" the driver breathlessly said as we swerved to miss potholes and stray dogs. We turned down a small track towards the ship yard, its main building topped with a torpedo motif as they had tested submarines here in Soviet times. We parked by an old Soviet mural showing, amongst other things, the muscular Soviet-Erectus, arms thrusting a Soviet flag skywards. None of the people depicted on the mural had Asiatic features, the triumvirate of planners studying a map were all Caucasian. The Asian end of the empire always knew its place in the order. They were equal, but some were more equal then others.

I approached the gates and a guard came out of his hut to ask me what I wanted. I asked if I could enter to photograph the abandoned fishing boats I could see in the distance but was told it was not allowed. Of course the words 'not allowed' are merely the opening gambit in the inevitable negotiation, nothing is really 'not allowed' in the former Soviet Union, unless you don't have money. I paid him a 100 som and removed my lens cap. There were rusting hulks beached on the shore. Abandoned repair jobs lay scattered amongst steel debris, old rivets, drill bits and porthole hinges. I walked to the waters edge, here brackish, and clambered on board a beached boat long stripped of anything of use or worth, even the window panes had been removed probably to be used in someone’s dacha or as a motorcycle screen for a Ural.

An old woman appeared out of the reeds with a shopping bag on her way to the shop. I asked her when life was better, now or in the Soviet days. It's a question I’ve often asked, but here the answer was in the junk strewn yard in which I was standing. Balykchy was once a thriving fishing port. Fish were caught here and sent from its rail station all over the USSR to be eaten by families from Leningrad to Vladivostok. Ship building was also a massive part of the local economy. The importance of boats on the local economy can be found all over the town in unexpected places: a motif on a padlock, a boat carved into a wooden fence. That was all before the collapse. Nothing was built here now and it was hard to imagine a time when it ever would be again. Without a subsidised economy, building boats so far from an ocean made no economic sense, and Issyk Kul itself has little need for ships.

I returned to the car and my driver continued his monologue about the town. "I worked in the factory myself, most of the town did, but then our directors started paying us late. We waited months to get our pay, then when we complained, the directors started mentioning ideas like paying us in fish, like we were performing seals! It was then that we knew that we'd been bent fucked by the party. That was when I decided to leave the factory and do this instead." He patted the dashboard paternally.

We drove to the residential area, and pulled into a large dusty area surrounded on three sides by apartment buildings. One of the buildings was abandoned, seemingly having never been completed. A group of Kyrgyz teenagers were hanging around. I asked them to show me inside the building. It was empty except for the occasional mattress on the floor. Some of the walls had graffiti on them, names of western or Russian music groups, English swear words and loving laments ‘Maksim ya tebya lublu, no ti menya ne lubish.’ (Maksim, I love you, but you do not love me.)

I returned to the car to continue my tour. "I'll show you something you wont believe" the taxi driver told me, "we call it our Iraq!" We drove to a dusty plateau overlooking the top of the town along a dusty track that seemed to be capable of bursting our tyres at any moment and then I saw it. Spread out before us on a gently sloping hill was a sight quite like anything I'd seen, a scene of utter desolation. The whole area was a wasteland of rubble, maybe 30 or 40 ruined houses, their walls shattered. These were not just houses that had just been left to fall into disuse, these were houses that had been smashed to bits, crushed to rubble as though by some great hulking fist from the sky, like you see in the early Soviet propaganda posters of a giant peasants fist smashing a Kulak’s house in retribution for grain hoarding. Just the footings were left where once had stood family homes.

It truly was like a war zone; Dresden after the raids. I walked about photographing the destruction and saw a wooden house in the distance, seemingly occupied. I poked my head over the fence and startled an old Russian woman tending to her garden. "I came with my husband in ‘67, it was a beautiful place. My children grew up here, there were never any problems. Neighbours would always help you, but not now. Everyone thinks only about themselves. My husband died in ’87; at least he never saw what we have become." Her children had left, gone to Russia but she would not return. "This is my home. My children call me from Russia telling me to come, but what for? I'm old and I don't want to be a burden, let them live their lives."

We went for something to eat in a cafe where my driver seemed to know everyone, "I have a famous journalist from The London Times" he mischievously announced. We were joined by an elderly Kyrgyz gentleman. I asked him about the future of the town, "Nobody cares about this place, nobody. You see our President* drive through on his way to Cholpon-Ata. We say that the reason for his blacked out windows is not so that we can't see him but so that he isn't reminded about us. They're all bandits. Our mayor is another one, what has he ever done for us?" I spoke to others all telling sad tales of a town that was seemingly falling into oblivion. Another man told me how the town's electricity supply was cut for 12 hours every night. It did not surprise me; I couldn't imagine how the population could afford to pay their bills as it was. Surprisingly another man told me that the municipality cut off the water supply in the summer, I couldn't imagine why. (*This was before the April 2010 revolution that ousted now former President Bakiev.)

I have visited economically deprived areas in other parts of the former Soviet Union but this place had a feeling unlike any other I'd visited - and I realized what it was. There was no hope. In the run down areas of Belarus the people had placed their faith in an autocratic president, in Russia they had their "Real Man" (Putin), the Moldovans I'd met in the backwater of Unghen had hoped for EU accession, but what could the residents of Balykchy put their hope in? I pondered the question but drew a blank. Despite it's location on the shore of one of Central Asia's wonders, tourists would never flock to Balykchy in the way that many did to the other towns such as Cholpon Ata. Balykchy was always a place of industry and trade, lacking the sandy beaches and stunning backdrop of the other areas of the lake and it lacked tourist infrastructure. Who would invest millions in constructing hotels in this wind swept town? No, Balykchy had known the good times but now it would have to live on those fading memories. It was the 'Tomsk' of Kyrgyzstan, always knowing its past was greater then its future.

My driver took me back to the bus station. Whilst I was heading back to the capital's bright lights, the residents of Balykchy would be settling in for another dark night without electricity. I paid my driver and thanked him for his tour of Balykchy. As I boarded the bus he shouted out "Next time go to Cholpon-Ata, it's very beautiful!"

To see the complete set of photographs accompanying this post, please CLICK HERE.

Seaside of Death: The perils of progress in Sumgayit, Azerbaijan

2010-12-12T18:34:00.004+09:00

by Joe Scarangella
To see the complete set of photographs accompanying this post, CLICK HERE.

Are there really degrees of dirty? I mean, once something is dirty, can it be “really” dirty? Well, the global consulting firm Mercer's seems to think so. The company releases an annual report which countless major corporations and even the U.N. use as a bible to decide where to set up shop and how much to pay the poor employees that are sent there. While the majority of celebrated pomp focuses around the “Most expensive city” report, it is not the only fruit of their labour. Their quality of living surveys have grown to the point that they can make or break cities. But what happens to the cities that are already broken?

One of the contributing factors in the ordainment of the best city award is the quality of health and sanitation services:

“Scores are based on the quality and availability of hospital and medical supplies and levels of air pollution and infectious diseases. The efficiency of waste removal and sewage systems, water potability and the presence of harmful animals and insects are also taken into account.”

One would assume that the Mercer's title of dirtiest and unhealthiest city would have to go to somewhere in China or India. But oh no!! The answer is rather surprising.

At the turn of the last century, one city in particular got a leg up on the oil race. Baku, the capital of present day Azerbaijan, was sitting on a gold mine. Well, a “black gold” mine anyway. With the onset of the infectious Bolshevik revolution, the newly crowned commie Baku was pumping out the old Texas tea faster than a white guy filling his car at a Compton gas station. There was actually a time where little Baku was supplying over 70% of all the world's oil needs. It doesn't take a genius to guess what an environmental toll this took on the city and the Absheron peninsula it calls home. Even with today's so-called safety standards, major spills and general filth occur with distressing frequency. So imagine the case 100+ years ago in Soviet Azerbaijan. Besides seemingly irreversible damage to the Caspian Sea, and the superficial ground level decimation of the top soil, the area’s entire watershed was subjugated to more abuse then is handed out at a US army prison. The effects, as noted in the Mercer's report, are still felt to this day, with disproportionately high rates of disease from pollution. One might think the Soviet bigwigs would sit back smoking a big Cuban content in all the destruction it caused. But the worst was yet to come.

During the industrial push of the USSR, Baku (more accurately its satellite suburb of Sumgayit) was blessed with over 40 of the empire’s biggest factories. Industrial and agricultural chemicals, petro-chemicals and a variety of other nasties were produced and refined in the smog churning cauldrons. As the stories go, happy little commuters would leave home in their work-best whites, only to show up at work in yellows, their clothes having been stained by the particulate in the air. But the locals didn't mind. As a matter of fact, people wanted to work there. There was a time factory workers were making more than doctors. Unbeknownst to them, this death money would be given back to the doctors in the form of medical bills. Sumgayit had one of the highest morbidity rates during the Soviet Era and the legacy of illness and death persist. A study jointly conducted by the UNDP, WHO, Azerbaijan Republic Ministry of Health and the University of Alberta demonstrated that “residents of Sumgayit experience intensely high levels of both cancer morbidity and mortality. Cancer rates in Sumgayit are 22-51% higher than average incidence rates in the rest of Azerbaijan. Mortality rates from cancer are 8% higher. Evidence suggests that lower reported cancer rates are flawed as a result of underreporting.”

If that wasn't depressing enough, according to the World Bank, Azerbaijan has an infant mortality rate twice as high as neighbouring Georgia and 3X higher than that of Armenia. As a matter of fact, Azerbaijan ranks up with places like Afghanistan and Iraq as having the highest infant mortality rates outside of Africa. Sumgayit has a constant reminder of this. At the edge of the city limits, a cemetery devoted strictly for children sits as a morbid landmark of the perils of progress.

Most of the factories have since been shut down, forming their own little graveyard. But the toxic onslaught is far from over. Countless heavy metals and other carcinogens continue to seep from the very foundations of the Soviet relics. The ground is essentially unable to bear any fruit, and that's not even mentioning the continued rate of premature death of children. Even with all these reports, even with the blatant in-your-face evidence of the death that surrounds them, locals still go fishing off the shore. Even using a rotting old chemical ship as their make-shift pier. If that wasn't enough, the beach at Sumgayit still attracts weekend sunseekers and... you guessed it... they still bathe in the toxic sludge.

The government of Azerbaijan has obtained international support for the economic and environmental rehabilitation of the city from several United Nations organizations, including the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) and the World Health Organization (WHO). The UNDP helped to create the Sumgayit Centre for Environmental Rehabilitation (SCER) to research and prioritize the environmental problems and propose programs to address them. A number of environmental epidemiology courses were held in Baku to strengthen the capacity of local experts.

In 2003, the World Bank launched a US $2.7 million project for the cleanup of a chlorine producing plant where 1,566 tons of mercury were spilled, including the construction of a secure landfill. Other international projects funded by UK and Japan have also been implemented.

Sadly, with Azerbaijan ranking near the top of the corruption index, it is safe to assume that this money intended to save the lives of the innocent is instead padding the pockets of overseers. Yet the government continues to mislead. In an effort to reverse mass urbanization, and the inevitable migration of workers seeking employment in the capital, the government has set programmes trying to encourage families to move to Sumgayit. There have even been talks of linking a high speed railway from Baku's metro system all the way to the Sumgayit seashore. Perhaps it's merely a case of survival of the fittest. But if the global experts can be believed, the health (and indeed ultimate survival) of the people in Sumgayit seems highly unlikely.

For more detailed information on how to get to Sumgayit, check out Joe's blog, Joe's Trippin'.

To see the complete set of photographs accompanying this post, CLICK HERE.

Desolation Calendars 2011!

2010-12-11T12:15:00.002+09:00

Desolation Travel has just launched two 2011 calendars - one is specific to Kyrgyzstan, while the other has images of desolation from across the former Soviet Union. All photographs were taken by the Desolation Travel team. Each calendar sells for $19.99. Check 'em out and buy one - or better yet, buy both! Simply click on the image(s) below to preview and purchase!

A bit of Yemeni desolation

2010-12-09T23:57:00.007+09:00

Last month I noticed that my friend and Desolation Travel buddy Joe Scarangella, who currently lives in Yemen, seemed to have vanished from that alternate reality known as Facebook. Now, I know that Joe has a habit of buggering off to places like Afghanistan and whatnot, so I wasn't particularly concerned (although I did make a few jokes along the lines of Joe having been kidnapped by AQAP). By late November, however, when I received a message from one of Joe's family members inquiring as to his whereabouts I started to wonder if perhaps indeed my jokes hadn't been too far off the mark. Not sure what AQAP would want with a big, hairy Canadian, but you never can tell with those guys.

But in the end, there was no cause for concern. It turns out that Joe had been vacationing on the remote and internetless island of Socotra off the Yemeni coast:

Since his return to mainland Yemen, Joe has worked to put up a six part detailed series on his experiences (including quite a few photographs), which can be viewed by clicking on the links below. Enjoy!

Socotra 101
The Socotran South
Wicked Western Socotra
Gettin' wet and dirty in east Socotra
The Heart of Socotra
Horrible Hadibo

Desolation Lost: The Khrapovitsky Estate

2010-12-08T00:11:00.015+09:00

A visit to the Khrapovitsky Estate, Muromtsevo, Russia in 2006 by Jane Keeler
To see the complete set of photographs accompanying this post, please CLICK HERE.

(During the 2005-2006 school year, I taught at the American Home in Vladimir, Russia, which was the starting point for this adventure.)

“Do you want to shoot castle?”
Working overseas often leads to sentences like this, which make little sense at first, and I stared at my student in confusion.
“Maxim and I want to take you to shoot castle. With your camera.”
Ahh. That kind of shooting. In Russia one never knows. I knew nothing about this alleged castle, but I readily accepted.

Soon I was in a car with my two students - both named Maxim - and our adventure began. We drove about an hour outside of Vladimir to the small village of Muromtsevo, in order to explore the abandoned estate of Count Khrapovitsky. Khrapovitsky was of the Russian nobility, and he in the 1880s he built a gargantuan mansion in the Russian countryside, as Russian nobility tended to do… However, he based his architectural designs on medieval German castles, making this estate quite an oddity in Russia. Local legend has it that he was inspired by the castle of a friend in Germany… except that he based his stable on his friend’s castle and modeled his home after something much more grand.

After the Soviet revolution, the Khrapovitsky family fled to France, and the estate was turned into a forestry college. During WWII it served as a hospital. After the war, it was ravaged by fire, and left to disintegrate.

The Maxims and I arrived and found the door barred shut… but that didn't stop them from, shall we say, un-barring the door. We explored several floors, climbing the remains of rickety stair-cases and clambering around on broken rafters and boards placed over gaping holes in the floor, or even in place of where the upper level floors used to be.

The older wing of the Khrapovitsky residence

The Maxims working on entering...

The newer wing of the Khrapovitsky residence

The interior of the newer wing

After we thoroughly explored the castle (and, in the grandest of Russian traditions, consumed a copious amount of wine), we set off to explore the rest of the estate, including the Church of the Holy Martyr Tsarina Alexandra which was commissioned by Khrapovitsky, as well as the remains of his ridiculously ornate stable.

Church of the Holy Martyr Tsarina Alexandra

The stables. Yeah.

The grounds of the estate were once intricately landscaped, although now they are completely overgrown. In front of the castle, there used to be two artificial pools, connected by fountains which cascaded into a natural pond. The natural pond is all that's left, although you can still make out the walls of the former artificial ponds in the brush in front of the castle. Next to the natural pond was a pavilion for musicians; all that remains of it now are a few arches.

Former artificial reflecting pools... still reflecting :-)

Remains of the orchestra pavilion

My visit to the remains of the Khrapovitsky Estate is one of my most memorable experiences of Russia, undoubtedly due to the fact that one does not expect to come across a crumbling medieval German fortress in the woods near a tiny, rural Russian village!

Unfortunately, it seems that this wonderful memory of mine is not one which is destined to be repeated. A construction/development firm, Colorado Group - one of the companies involved in the refurbishing of Castle Mayendorf, the official residence of the President of Russia - currently owns the properties, and has plans to turn it into a high end hotel, complete with helipad, no less. Gone are the days when a group of friends could spend the afternoon exploring the estate, bottles of wine in hand. Unless, of course, those friends are among the Russian elite...

The above picture came from the Colorado Group's website, and it is how they plan for the estate to look once they develop it. You can read more about their plans here and here.

To see my complete set of photographs from my 2006 visit to the Khrapovitsky Estate, please CLICK HERE.

Panmunjom: Crossing the line between North and South Korea

2010-12-05T13:18:00.007+09:00

As I continue to feel bummed about the cancellation of DMZ tours (see yesterday's post), I've decided instead to revisit my trip to Panmunjom back in 2004.

Back in 2004, I was an employee of the US government, on assignment in South Korea. My co-workers and I were lucky enough to have a private tour arranged for us through our military liaison (normally, the only way civilians can visit the DMZ is via certain authorized tour groups). It was by far the most tense place in which I have ever stood, and while not exactly what one would consider a tourist attraction, it was definitely the most memorable part of my 2004 trip to Korea.

Our group arrived by bus into a desolate parking lot on a military base close to the border. Due to a scheduling error, our bus had arrived an hour early. The only sign of anything either non-military or non-parking lot was an unappetizing sign directing visitors to the Panmunjom Restaurant and Latrine. We decided to remain in the bus, waiting for our tour to begin. The eerie stillness of the place was only broken by the occasional explosion of artillery rounds in some sort of US/South Korean exercise being held nearby. Finally our official tour guide arrived, and we were driven to the border. The tour was very quiet, and everyone was very serious. You could feel the tension in the air, especially as armaments and security procedures were discussed.

When we arrived at Panmunjom, we were instructed to leave all possessions except cameras on our bus – we had to leave all purses, camera bags, backpacks, etc. on the bus. We were instructed not to make any sort of gestures towards the North Korean side of the border (ie, don't flip them the bird) or to shout or raise our voices.

In Panmunjom itself, we were able to enter the blue buildings which straddle the actual border, where negotiations between North and South are held. We were even allowed to cross over onto the North Korean side while inside the building. (There were, however, no North Koreans present.) The southern side of Panmunjom is guarded by numerous South Korean troops who stand at a rigid attention. We could only see one North Korean soldier in the distance on the northern side of Panmunjom. Visitors are not allowed to cross the border in Panmunjom anywhere other than inside the negotiation building, and even then, it is under tight guard.

I had a pretty poor quality camera at the time - I zoomed in as far as I could, and then used my scanner (yep, this was pre-digital) to enlarge him as much as I could. Thus far, this is the only North Korean I've ever seen.

After viewing Panmunjom, we were driven to an overlook, where we were able to look across the actual DMZ into North Korea. It was disconcerting to realize that this peaceful looking stretch of land is in fact the most heavily armored border in the world. Given the rapid pace of development in South Korea, where there is hardly an empty tract of land that is not being developed, for this countryside to exist less than an hour north of bustling Seoul is rather unbelievable.

The only North Korean buildings we could see in the hazy distance belong to the small town of Kijong-dong, known south of the border as Propaganda Village. We were told that it was established as a "paradise village" to woo South Koreans to the paradise of the Communist North, yet it stands empty and is maintained as an empty shell for show. The tower in the center is the world's largest flagpole, with the world's largest flag. When a settlement on the South Korean side erected a slightly larger flagpole, the North Koreans enlarged theirs. There's definitely a bit of my-flag's-bigger-than-yours going on here.

To see the complete set of photographs from my trip to the DMZ back in 2004 - including a picture of me on the Northern side of the border in Panmunjom, CLICK HERE.

North Koreans in Russia

2010-12-04T12:40:00.000+09:00

I currently live in Daegu, South Korea. As Daegu is the fourth largest city in a very populated and modern country, I don’t have much opportunity for desolation traveling these days. As such, I was looking forward to this weekend, when I had planned to take a trip to the highly fortified and oxymoronically named demilitarized zone (DMZ) separating North and South Korea.

If you’ve been anywhere remotely near any news source over the past week, I bet you can guess that my planned trip to the DMZ got cancelled. See, the DMZ isn’t the sort of international border you can just walk up to or across; the DMZ can only be visited at approved locations and under escort by approved travel agencies. And the South Korean government can lock down the DMZ, cutting off all tourist visits at any time it deems appropriate… and as you might assume, this is one of those time.

(Now, in case you’ve been under a rock, or have had your head stuffed up a turkey for the past week or so, here’s the skinny: On November 23, 2010 North Korea began shelling a civilian village on the South Korean border island of Yeonpyeong-do, killing two South Korean marines and two South Korean civilians. This has resulted in much sabre-rattling from North and South alike, the dispatch of a US aircraft carrier and strike group to the region, and much alarmist babbling from the talking heads. You can read my take on the situation here.)

As a resident of South Korea, I have been following the news closely since November 23rd, and as a Russophile I was surprised to discover this article on the rather large expat population of North Koreans in the Russian far east, and the fact that they are currently being recalled to their homeland:

Russia's migration service said that there were over 20,000 North Koreans in Russia at the beginning of 2010, of which the vast majority worked in construction. The workers are usually chaperoned by agents from Kim Jong-il's security services and have little contact with the world around them. Defectors have suggested that the labourers work 13-hour days and that most of their pay is sent back to the government in Pyongyang. Hundreds of workers have fled the harsh conditions and live in hiding in Russia, constantly in fear of being deported back to North Korea.

To be honest, I’d had no idea there were North Koreans living (legally) anywhere outside of North Korea, other than small cadres of diplomats in the few countries with “normalized” diplomatic relations with the North. I had certainly never guessed that the North Korean expat population would be anywhere near this size.

I also noticed this quote: "North Korea's government sends thousands of its citizens to Russia to earn money, most of which is funnelled through government accounts," says Simon Ostrovsky, a journalist who discovered secret North Korean logging camps in the northern Siberian taiga.

Hmmm. Oddly enough, I know this Simon Ostrovsky fellow from my time in Russia way back in 1999-2000 (god, I’m getting old). I messaged him to see if he had any photographs or videos online anywhere from his experience investigating North Korean logging camps, and voilà!

Unfortunately, I can’t embed his video in this post, but it is excellent and definitely worth watching – so CLICK HERE and watch it now – Desolation Investigative Journalism at its best!

Tiraspol Revisited

2010-12-03T23:12:00.003+09:00

Our previous post, written by Ben Rich, was a travel guide to Transdniester... and it went online just days before our contributor Derek Kedziora travelled from Dnepropetrovsk, Ukraine to Chisinau (Kishinev), Moldova and back via Transdniester. Would you expect any less from one of us? Here are some maps to help you visualize his journey:

Derek tells his story - of fines, bribes, shakedowns, and Soviet-era desolation in a two part series on his blog, The Kalpak. Follow the links below and enjoy!

Part One: Three Countries. Almost.

Part Two: Tiraspol, slightly off.

Transdniester: A Guide by Ben Rich

2010-11-28T15:09:00.011+09:00

[To see the full set of photographs accompanying this post, CLICK HERE.]

Transdniester or Pridnestrovie Moldavian Republic to give it it's full name (from here on refered to as PMR), is a small slither of land covering just over one and half thousand square miles wedged between the river Dniester's east bank and the Ukrainian border to the west. Famed as being one of the 'Breakaway Republics', it has a reputation as both a hotbed of gun running and criminality and also as a place where it is still possible for a traveller to step back in time to something reminscent of the Soviet union. People who manage to cross the border with their wallet in tact will find themselves in a land of juxtopositions. Soviet trolleybuses, Yuri Gagarin statues, Soviet buildings on the one hand and modern football stadiums, car showrooms and western style supermarkets on the other. If you are coming form Moldova people will warn you against going, citing banditism and criminality as reasons to avoid it; don't listen, the people are friendly and the streets are safer then Kishinev's. Go now to see a small country desperate for recognition from the world at large. PMR, Europe's last frontier?

Why is it a breakaway republic?
==================================

As the USSR started it's final death throws, republics began to assert their political freedoms given to them through Gorbachev's reforms. On August 31st 1989, the then Supreme Soviet of the Moldavian SSR voted to make the Moldovan language the only official language of the republic with Russian reduced to a second language. This had the impact of alienating the large Russian and Ukrainian population of the Moldovan SSR who due mainly to historically reasons had settled on the eastern shore of the river Dniester. Culturaly, historically, and linguistically Russians and Ukrainians are a distinct group from the Moldovans who are non-slavic and linked to the Romanian/latin culture. In the 1990 PMR declared itself a newly formed republic within the USSR, calling itself the Pridnestrovian Moldavian Soviet Socialist Republic, seceding from it's place within Moldavian SSR proper. Despite then Soviet premier Mikhail Gorbachev anulling the decision of the Tiraspol Soviet no troops were sent in to uphold the presidential decree and hence the newly formed republic was left to consolidate it's place. Ethnic attacks took place on both sides of the cultural divide but it was not until after the USSR ceased to exist in 1991 that war proper broke out between the two sides. In the spring of 1992 clashes intensified and turned into all out war along the banks of the river Dniester. Fighting was most intense at Bender since the main bridge across the river is situated there and the main road into the capitol, Tiraspol. What should have been a swift victory for the army of the newly formed republic of Moldova was not so, as stationed in Tiraspol was the Soviet's 14th army who entered the fighting on the PMR side in the summer and fired on the Moldovan forces. With Moldova unable to reclaim it's lost territory and the possibility of losing more on the western bank a ceasefire was agreed on July 21st 1992. Fortunately the ceasefire has held ever since, although resentment particuarly on the Moldovan side runs high. PMR gained a degree of independance, whilst Moldova lost not only at chunk of it's territory but also a huge chunk of it's industrial output.

Independance, union with mother Russia or re-joining Moldova? Time will tell what will become of PMR.

What is it like there?
======================

Actually surprisingly normal, the first thing you will realise is that it is not correct to call it a Soviet playground. If coming from Moldova you will notice how much cleaner and better run the place is. The population are free to travel outside it's borders and most people hold three passports, Russian, Moldovan, and the PMR passport. People sport European fashions, tour companies offer trips to Egypt and Dubai, there are foreign tv channels and internet access, etc. Public transport is eficient and subsidised. There are pizza restaurants, nightclubs, hotels. There are also of course Soviet paraphanlia, Lenin busts, parks with names like 'Peace', streets bearing the names 'Youth' and other names the Soviets were fond of labeling things. But there is a modern football stadium and a modern car showroom all owned by 'Sheriff' the ruling elite's all encompassing company. Infact If you spend a summer's day lazing by the river eating ice cream, talking to the locals and making plans for the evening you would be forgiven for thinking you were in a 'normal' country much like any other in Europe, but then on the way back to your hotel you will notice the policeman in the car watching you, or the same face re-appearing throughout the day and you remember that not all is quite as it seems in PMR.

Getting there
===============

Flights: There are no international flights to PMR. The nearest airports are Kishinev in Moldova or Odessa in the Ukraine. Both are within a couple of hours by taxi from Tiraspol. You can fly to Kishinev from European capitals for vast ammounts of money considering the distance, or better yet fly to Romania with Wizz air and take the train from there (most nationalities do not require visas to enter Moldova). Flights are available to Odessa with Baltic Air and other non budget European airlines.

Bus: There are regular bus services to Tiraspol from both Odessa and Kishinev. Tickets are cheap.

Marshrutka: From Kishinev they run every hour (and vice versa).

Visas and invitations
=========================

You may enter PMR without a invitation or visa for a day i.e no overnight stops. I was told I had to be out by 10pm. At the border you will be asked to fill in a form and pay about 50 cents to be granted entry. To stay longer you will need an invitation from a citizen of PMR. The best way to get one is through the website marisha.net where you can also book apartment rooms. You then take the invitation to the OVIR office in Tiraspol to register. It is not expensive.

Avoiding Border Shakedowns
===========================

I will describe the main border crossing between Moldova and PMR outside of Bender.

I have always walked across this border. The first thing you will do is be waved through by Moldovan soldiers who will look at your passport wish you good luck. Along the 250 metre walk across no mans land you will notice bunkers with machine gun barrels sticking out. If either side attacked, this is the route they would take. Eventually you will reach the PMR side where a soldier will meet you and bring you into a hut. This is where any shake down will happen, they will ask how much money you have and check your passport ask why you want to visit, etc. I have always found them to be friendly. Both times I crossed the border the chief asked for a 'Present' with a smile. I was happy to give $5 just so that I have a story to tell and I like to spread the wealth but it would not in my opinion be a problem to refuse. Just keep it jolly and plead poverty with a smile. After the hut you will go to a glass fronted building where you join a queue, you will need strong elbows to get to the front and nobody tells you anything. Just fill in the form and hand over the small ammount of money then you will be given a piece of paper and are free to cross the border. If you have walked across, then border guards will flag a car down for you and insist the driver takes you into Bender or you can walk into Bender which will take 30 minutes.

Changing money
==============

Your first opportunity to get the local currency, the Pridnestrovian Rouble will either be to strike a deal with the woman who works in the drinks shop immediately after the border on the right or in Bender, the first town you will come to. There are exchange booths in Bender's market place or in the bank or supermarket exchange booth. When I was there the Rouble was trading at 10 to the US Dollar. You can exchange Euros, US, Hryvna, Moldovan, Russian Rouble, and – if you are lucky – the British pound.

Getting Around
===============

Trolleybuses and marshrutkas ply the road between Bender and Tiraspol which is a 20 minute journey across the heavily protected bridge over the Dniester. Prices are cheap. Taxis are also numerous, negotiate before setting off.

Accomodation
=============

When I visited, the town of Bender was under curew so Tiraspol was the only real option for overnight stays.

Hotel Druzhba

The cheapest places are rooms in apartments which can be had for about 20 Euros a night. Again, marisha.net is the best source of apartments in Tiraspol. She can put you in contact with a family who rent a room in the centre of town. The splurge hotel is the Timoty which offers near western comfort at very western prices. The Hotel Druzhba was closed when I visited, which leaves the Aist. The Aist (Stork) is a Soviet creation unchanged since soviet times. It has a bar/disco downstairs and a bar on the upper floor, it's like stepping into the 70's with out of date decor. It has rooms with antiquated furniture, hard beds, horrible bathrooms, and creaking balconies. Apparently there are single rooms with shared shower for $20 US. The service is also terrible. I'm sure there is no need to book ahead, it was empty when I visited at the height of summer.

Food and Drink
===============

Tiraspol's two main places are Andy's Pizza which does suprisingly good pizza and other dishes and for more of a splurge there is the German restaurant on the main square. I forget it's name but there is a statue of a fat German cook outside so you can't miss it. It's terrace is the perfect place to people watch in the summer and the food and serice are excellent. Drinks were expensive however.

For a drink and a dance you can try the Aist if its sleazy atmosphere doesn't put you off or my favourite place was an underground bar on the left of the main square. All western brand drinks are available aswell as the excellent 'Kvint' cognac, PMR's most famous export.

A great thing about PMR is that you find babushkas selling fresh Kvas on street corners for pennies. Delicious.

In the summer one of the river boats moored up on the Dniester apparently becomes a disco but I never visited it to confirm. There was a nightclub in Bender by the main market but how that navigated the curfew I have no idea. There are clubs in Tiraspol but I never visited any.

Things to do
================

Not much! PMR is not really a place to go and do things, it's more of a place to go and soak up the atmosphere, meet some locals,drink some Kvint. In the summers the locals head to the beaches of the Dniester to sunbathe and socialise. Summers here are extremelly hot, bring suncream! You could watch FC Sherrif play in their stadium. They reguarly play in European competitions against top sides. A tour of the Kvint Cognac factory where you can have tastings of vintage bottles is apparently well worth it although I sadly never had the time. There is a funfair that has seen better days in Bender, just down the road from the border. The most interesting thing to do for the tourist I suppose is to wander the streets photographing Lenin statues. I was never stopped by the ever present police from photographing anything. Outside of Tiraspol there is a church which people recommended I visit but you will probably need a taxi to get there. Again 'Marisha.net' offers trips to a country farm in the north of the country where you can ride horses and experience village life for a few days.

Things to buy
================

Kvint Cognac is worth a buy, the main factory shop has the best prices. Tiraspol has a bookshop where you can buy PMR maps and postcards.

[To see the full set of photographs accompanying this post, CLICK HERE.]

The Road to the Evaporated Sea at the End of the World

2010-11-23T13:10:00.008+09:00

Travels in Southern Kazakhstan by Nicola Simpson
To view the complete set of photographs accompanying this post, CLICK HERE.

(This forms a sister post to “Festive Fun and Frolics” by Ben Scott, available here)

Working as a TEFL teacher has its perks. The long holidays and disposable income mean that exciting journeys await the adventurous traveller. Having slaved away at our 21-hour-a-week jobs in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, Ben Scott and I eagerly awaited the Christmas break. And where better to spend it than exploring Kazakhstan, home of Borat and ‘Black Russian in a tin’ cocktails. What could be more festive?

The first challenge for the would-be visitor is acquiring a visa. This process involves at least two trips to the Kazakh embassy, usually conveniently during working hours, and the production of a letter of invitation. No letter? No problem, just write a personal statement on the provided A4 copier paper. Something along the lines of ‘Kazakhstan is a world-famous country, fascinating culture, I love manti, etc.’ should do it. Probably best not to mention Borat here.

Once you have your visa, it’s onward to the border. Travelling to Kazakhstan, like almost everywhere in the Former Soviet Union, means a mixture of shared taxis and mashrutkas (minibuses). Firstly, it is necessary to locate a car which is going your way. Usually you’ll be surrounded by jostling men in leather hats, who will try to hustle you into their ancient Ladas, or if you’re lucky, 1980’s Mercs. Do not get into the car until you have negotiated the price down to an acceptable level, usually a factor of 10 will do the trick.

At the border, you will stand outside a tin shed in the rain for an indeterminate period before being called inside by the border guards. They will proceed to do one of three things:
1. Wave you through in a disinterested manner.
2. Grill you for an age before waving you through in a disinterested manner.
3. Grill you for an age, and then demand money in order to wave you through. If you’re female, they might demand a telephone number in lieu of cash. When this happened to me (crossing from Uzbekistan to Kyrgyzstan), I provided them with the number of my male, Kyrgyz friend. Unfortunately, they never did call.

You will then be asked to fill out a customs declaration. If you’re lucky, this will be in Russian, giving you a fighting chance of understanding it. Otherwise (and almost certainly if you’re stupid enough to try to board a flight from Almaty airport at any point during your travels) it’ll be in Kazakh. Try to find a friendly, older person to adopt you and guide you through the customs procedure: this is normal in the FSU. Alternatively, you can usually track down some under-employed student who wants to try out their English on you in the hope of a visa recommendation.

On the other side of the border, the same rigmarole of men in leather caps, soviet-era deathtrap vehicles, and blatant extortion will be repeated until you find transport for the next leg of your journey. From the border, we headed by mashrutka to Taraz, where we just had time to change some money at the only open bureau in town, take a brief glance at the completely deserted and unremarkable main street, and then argue our way into another shared taxi heading towards Turkestan.

By this time, it was getting late, so we were quite glad to hunker down in the comparative comfort of the car (if I remember correctly, a formerly German-owned Ford Mondeo; which had come to Central Asia to end its life after failing “Das MOT,” no doubt). We piqued the interest of our fellow passengers; two guys in leather jackets, the younger of whom was working on his spiv moustache. “Why are you in Kazakhstan? Where do you live? You live in BISHKEK? What do you do there? Are you married? Do you have babies? Why not?!” etc.

Some time in to the journey, we passed through a desolate hamlet which could be charitably called a suburb of Turkestan. Our car began to slow, and pulled up outside a small shop/restaurant of the sort which dot Central Asian highways. The older of our travelling companions said something about cigarettes, which I took to mean a smoking break, as the shack in question was securely boarded up for the night. All three Kazakhs got out of the car and headed towards the rear of the shop. Time passed. What could have been the light from a candle appeared around the doorframe, or it could have been my sleep-deprived and over-stimulated imagination playing tricks.

Finally, without a word, the men reappeared and got back into the car. We drove off. After a while, the older man started to talk to us about jobs; explaining that they were ‘businessmen,’ and was going to Turkestan for ‘business’. We thought best to leave it at that.

Arriving in Turkestan, the driver asked us where we were staying. As we hadn’t arranged any accommodation in advance, we asked him to recommend somewhere. He drove us to what looked like an office block, but which turned out to be the newest hotel in town, and one of the better places I stayed at during my time in Central Asia. The older passenger told us to stay in the car, and disappeared into the hotel lobby. Reappearing, he assured us that we would pay local rate. Slightly fearfully, we thanked him, before lugging our bags up to our room.

As it transpired, we did pay the local rate, and the hotel turned out to be the perfect base for exploring the town of Turkestan. This small town in Southern Kazakhstan would be utterly unremarkable, were it not for the huge Mausoleum of Khoja Ahmed Yasawi, which dominates the skyline. Built by Timur (Tamerlane) over the grave of a revered Sufi mystic, it’s one of the only Timurid monuments in Central Asia still functioning as a place of pilgrimage – according to local custom, three visits here is equivalent to undertaking the Hajj. It also fails to attract the busloads of European tourists that flock to Uzbekistan’s more well-known madrassas and mausoleums, meaning that the only other visitors were a handful of local pilgrims and two very out-of-place-looking camels slowly making their way across the snowy fields.

After visiting the mausoleum, we headed into town in search of food. In the town centre was a bazaar, selling the usual selection of pickled vegetables, plastic rubbish from China and thick woollen socks hand-knitted by Kazakh grandmothers. Buried in this smelly, icy maze was a tiny shack which purported to be a restaurant. The young lady who owned the place was clearly bemused to have it patronised by foreigners in the dead of winter, but led us through to a spartan, unheated room decorated with a huge laminated picture of a Chinese feast, complete with exotic fruit, intricately carved vegetables, and steaming piles of dumplings. We asked what was on the menu. “Lagman” (boiled noodle soup).

After our bowls of hot lagman, we headed across town to change some more money and buy tickets for the train north to Aralsk. We were able to get sleeper berths on the train leaving that evening, in platskart (third class), which in the FSU resembles a dormitory on wheels. We were the centre of attention on the train; men asked us if we knew their relatives who were working in England, women shared their pickled salads with us, and babushkas constantly tried to sell us things. Figuring it was likely to get very cold; I bought a pair of fur-lined leather booties.

The train chugged slowly on, making its laborious 16 hour way to Aralsk. Small stations came and went; with huddled figures hefting vast carriers of god knows what though the gloom. The landscape was flat and white for as far as the eye could see. This part of Kazakhstan is certainly not the most scenic of places.

By the time we arrived in Aralsk, it was early morning, and still dark. We jumped off the high side of the train into the snow, and crossed the tracks to the small station building. After some subdued haggling, we caught a taxi to the only hotel in town, a Soviet-era block next to the old harbour, with tiny, unheated and uninhabited rooms. We seemed to be the only guests, and had the distinct impression that it had been that way for some time. It was Christmas Day.

(Please see Ben Scott’s post “Festive Fun and Frolics” for an account of our time in Aralsk)

Desolation Film: Everything Is Illuminated

2010-11-11T01:13:00.002+09:00

See IMDb for details.

Sorry for the poor color/sound;
this was filmed off my laptop with my little point-n-shoot.

Desolation Americana: Detroit and Pennsylvania

2010-11-06T21:17:00.004+09:00

Up to now we've been focused on the former Soviet Union, but desolation isn't unique to the lands of the CCCP. In fact, many places in the USA fall into this category. One wonders if this is, perhaps, a sign of things to come...

Urban Ghosts Media recently published a fantastic collection of desolation in Detroit, which make me pretty much want to go there right now. SEE THEM HERE.

While most people have heard of Detroit, what do most people know about rural Pennsylvania? With the exception of those who live there, I'm guessing most people know little to nothing about rural PA. Christine Hrichak recently bicycled along an abandoned stretch of highway through rural PA. She blogged about her trip here, and her full set of photographs can be seen here.

Ray's Hill Tunnel near Breezewood, PA

Jealousy.

2010-11-03T00:34:00.003+09:00

Yet again the Herro Asia! dudes have me feeling thoroughly jealous: this time with a trip to Zhanatac, Kazakhstan which you can check out for yourself by clicking here. Enjoy!

Abkhazia: Conflict in the Caucasus

2010-10-31T14:01:00.009+09:00

by Joe Scarangella

To see the complete set of photographs, CLICK HERE.

Impossible is an ugly word. Some sort of diabolical locution whose sole purpose is to discourage great men from accomplishing great things. I am certainly not delusional enough to call myself “great” and the greatest thing I've done was put the word “quiz” on a triple word score during an internet game of Scrabble. But that doesn't diminish the vile connotations of the word “impossible”. I heard this word a lot while researching my onward travel plans when I was in Georgia. The plan was to visit the break-away republic of Abkhazia.

The early '90s were a particularly tough time for cartographers. Stuck in their windowless basement offices (I'm guessing at the windowless bit) they were forced to change and re-change their world maps as Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union shattered into a million different pieces. Perhaps they went on strike or perhaps they ran out of ink, but whatever the reason a few of these newly independent republics went unrecognized by the world at large. Transnistria, Nagorno-Karabagh and South Ossetia were but a handful of these states that didn't make the cut for UN acknowledgement. Located in the north-west corner of Georgia, Abkhazia was another of these places whose cries for independence were overlooked. That is, by everyone else but Georgia. Georgia launched an offensive in 1992-1993 to squelch the movement. With heavy backing from Russia, Georgia lost. This led to a mass exodus and ethnic cleansing of Georgian nationals in the region, a period in history that is still a sensitive subject for Georgians today. In 2008, during the summer Olympics, aggressions in the area flared yet again. The short-lived South Ossetia war ended with official recognition of Abkhazia as an independent state (by Russia, Nicaragua, Venezuela and Nauru only).

Regardless of international designation, Abkhazia is very non-Georgian. The vast majority of people speak Russian, not Georgian. They use Russian Rubles, not Georgian Laris. They have Russian passports. Even the international calling code is Russian.

But here's the Catch-22 for a visit to the region. Like most countries in the area, you need a visa to visit Abkhazia. But without external diplomatic representation (certainly not in Georgia), the only place to get a visa is IN Abkhazia. But you can't get into Abkhazia without a visa, but to get the visa..... And thus continues the merry-go-round of international relations. Things seem always in motion, but never get anywhere. The whole exciting paperwork procedure (written with sarcastic overtones) can be found at Joe's Trippin'. But the general gist is you contact the Ministry of Foreign affairs in the capital Sukhumi, and they eventually send authorization to cross into Abkhazian territory. Or at least that's the theory.

I've never really been the kind to sit back and allow some apathetic bureaucrat decide my future. After repeated phone calls and e-mails, I essentially told the Abkhazian consul that I would be at the border on a certain date, and that clearance should be arranged for me. It wasn't. I got to the Georgian border, and the guards, completely perplexed by a foreigner trying to cross, felt compelled to give me a short history lesson. “You know there's a war, right?” they asked assuming my ignorance. “Yeah, do you have a gun for me?” I replied to much giggling and merriment. They let me through with little hassle. More out of morbid curiosity than in an attempt to promote tourism. The walk across no-man's land was filled with every, very heavily armed, guard checking my paperwork and asking, “You know there's a war, right?” I eventually ran out of witty retorts as my Russian is mediocre at best.

Once at the Abkhazian border control, turns out my permission to enter wasn't there. They were polite and courteous as they told me to get the hell out and go back to Georgia. I wasn't amused by the sarcastic questions of, “So how was Abkhazia?” as I slinked back the same way I had come only moments earlier. But, I had a trick up my sleeve. I had the consul's personal mobile number. After numerous attempts to get hold of him, he eventually worked out that everything was the border's fault, not his. He was infallible and the border guys were the idiots. Whatever! At least I had confirmation. Skipping back across the de-militarized zone (literally), I was immediately allowed to officially cross into Abkhazia.

From the border, mini-buses wait to bring “crossers” to the one-horse town of Gali. Well, truth be told, I think I counted 8 horses and 9 chickens. There are no paved roads. No money changers. Just a bunch of people looking downtrodden. After a quick visit and cup of tea with the local police, I was given permission to hop on the bus for Sukhumi, the “country's” capital. The county-side is pretty. Abkhazia is the place where the Caucasus mountains come to melt away into the Black Sea. But the state of development, of lack there of, is pretty much what you might expect of a state-less region which has been at war for the better part of 2 decades. But like all troubled regions, locals put up with it the best they can.

Sukhumi was a place that happy little Soviets would come to frolic away in the '60s and '70s. The seaside town once had a thriving port and a booming tourist industry. But nowadays, the boats lie rusting and tourists are few and far between. Sure Russians still come, but that's about it. The buildings haven't been remodelled since the heydays some 40 years ago. But to add to the desolation and depression, the vast majority of buildings, once the pearl of the Black Sea, sport a unique architectural style I like to call “war-torn.” Bullet holes are everywhere. Countless building are mere shells, having been burnt down in conflict. There's no money or motivation to fix them up. This has become the new Sukhumi. Nowhere exemplifies this more than the old parliament building. A once mighty structure in all it's Soviet grandeur has been reduced to a wild greenhouse and make-shift refuse dump. And locals seem willing to accept it.

There is hope. Local attractions like Novy Afon Monastery and cave system has received foreign funding and is in the midst of a sprucing up. When I visited, the whole visa procedure was in its infancy, but with a little streamlining, it is becoming easier for foreign tourists to visit. The infrastructure is there. There are a number of hotels for the old days. There are several restaurants. They just need people to fill them.

Novy Afon Monastery

Abkhazia is not dangerous. And while I wouldn't use descriptors like “luxurious” there are options for easy travel to the region. Besides, why would anyone turn down the option of having a one-time vacation hotspot with mountains and seaside and monasteries and caves all to yourself? To see the complete set of photographs, CLICK HERE.

Rockin' the Tash Ra(bat)

2010-10-27T12:16:00.018+09:00

Kyrgyzstan: Naryn, Tashrabat, and Koshoy Korgon by Jane Keeler
To see the full set of photographs accompanying this post, CLICK HERE.

In March 2008 I was working at The London School in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. The Muslim holiday of Nooruz fell on a Friday that year, giving me and seven of my coworkers a three-day weekend. We decided to make use of our mini-vacation to travel to the city of Naryn, located a six hour drive to the south-east of Bishkek. From there, our plan was to visit Tash Rabat, a stone fortress/caravanserai dating from either the 13th or 15th century (depending on the source), which was once a prominent stop on the silk road, and which is, as far as I can tell, the only remaining silk road era structure in Kyrgyzstan.

We had hoped to make it to Naryn in time to participate in some Nooruz related festivities, although when we rolled into town late in the afternoon, little to nothing was going on, and people were few and far between. Not the least undaunted, we wandered the empty streets, explored the banks of the Naryn River, and hiked high into the mountains above the city. We weren’t planning to embark on our main adventure – the quest for Tash Rabat – until the following morning.

The city of Naryn is a long, thin city,
hemmed into the Naryn River valley.

Public transportation in Kyrgyzstan ranges from iffy and unreliable to nonexistent, depending, and traveling anywhere remotely off the beaten path required arranging for a private car. This, of course, is much cheaper if one has traveling companions with whom one can share the cost, and as I had seven such companions, acquiring vehicles to take us to Tash Rabat was neither difficult, nor expensive. (Anyone seeking to tread in our rather bizarre footsteps should contact CBT Kyrgyzstan, as they are wonderful – especially considering that not many car-owning individuals wish to risk damaging their cars on the less than safe trip to Tash Rabat during the spring.)

Tash Rabat is only about 60km from Naryn; however, due to the quality of the roads, the trip takes about two to two and a half hours. The main road heading from Naryn to the Torugart Pass (leading over the border into China) is traveled daily by numerous semis bringing goods into Kyrgyzstan from its gigantic neighbor. This makes driving interesting, as inevitably both your car and the approaching semi will be driving down the center of the narrow road as rapidly as your respective vehicles can manage! Eventually, you will turn off the main road to China, and head southeast along a small dirt/gravel track. Then you will have to ford a river. The remains of a “modern” bridge can still be seen, although it collapsed several years ago and has yet to be repaired. Depending on the season, the river can be un-crossable in all but the largest, sturdiest of vehicles. Luckily for us, the snows had only just begun to melt, and we were able to ford the river with no problem.

The road towards the Torugart Pass

After fording the river, you will continue up the Tash Rabat valley, following the course of the river. In theory, one should be able to travel by car all the way to the fortress of Tash Rabat itself. However, in Kyrgyzstan, one should realize that just because something is true “in theory” doesn’t mean it will occur in fact. We drove along the river into the Tash Rabat valley. The river was frozen on its surface, yet thawed and flowing underneath. Eventually, we came to a place where the road passed across the surface of the ice for a good fifty meters or so. We were almost across when the ice gave way. Forward momentum ceased and the car simply sunk. There was a moment of silence before our driver said: Uh-oh.

Our driver examines his car, wedged into the ice.
What is it with me and strange vehicular journeys across melting ice?

Our driver told us that we were within walking distance of Tash Rabat, and told us to walk on ahead, saying that he’d wait for the second car, and that he and the other driver would be able to get the car un-stuck. So off we walked down the valley. And we walked. And we walked.

As we approached every bend, we were convinced Tash Rabat would be around the next corner. Tash Rabat is located at an elevation of roughly 3500 meters, and the thin air began to make us all quite giddy. At one point my friend Katy and I were even making up a song to the tune of Rock the Casbah, singing rockin’ the Tash Ra, rock the Tash Ra as we tramped an interminable distance further from the car and higher into the mountains. When we finally rounded the final turn and saw the fortress in the distance, we let out quite a cheer.

Our first view of Tash Rabat

As we approached Tash Rabat, a woman soon emerged from the homestead located next to the fortress and ambled over to us. It turned out that she and her husband were the caretakers of Tash Rabat. We were invited in for tea, and rested as we waited for the rest of our party to arrive. When we were all assembled, we made our way over to Tash Rabat. The old fortress was interesting, and had a splendid view of the valley. It was filled with many chambers, some of which still bore the remains of the original decorative plasterwork.

A closer look at Tash Rabat

Some of the original plasterwork inside Tash Rabat

After deciding we’d had enough time rockin’ the Tash Ra, the caretaker informed us that her son was willing to drive us back to where we’d left our cars. Since there were eight of us, he had to take us in two shifts. I was part of the first shift. Our driver was young, into absurdly fast driving and crazy loud music – which was both awesome and frightening, given the road quality and all. Nonetheless, we made it back to our cars in record time.

While waiting with our drivers for the second shift to arrive, a man rode up on a horse. He wore desert camouflage, had a shotgun strapped to his back and wore shotgun shells around his waist. We called him the Kyrgyz version of Walker, Texas Ranger. He and one of the drivers began testing the ice in different places (by jumping up and down and stomping) to see if they thought a car could pass over anywhere safely. Apparently, our fast moving, loud-music-playing driver wanted to get across. While they were busy stomping on the ice, Walker Kyrgyz Ranger’s horse simply wandered off. I told him his horse was leaving, and he replied that it was okay; they lived nearby and it was simply going home. He began talking to me... and then offered me five yaks to become his second wife! I wasn’t too clear on whether he’d be shipping the five yaks to my father (which would actually be quite an endeavor) or if he’d simply be assigning me five of his yaks to take care of. Either way, I declined. But now we know I’m worth five yaks. I later learned that the going “bride price” in that area is more like 200 yaks, which was thoroughly disheartening.

My potential Kyrgyz husband

After both car loads of people had been reunited, we began our trip back to Naryn. However, it wasn’t a straight trip. We stopped along the way at the ruined citadel of Koshoy Korgon, located near the village of Kara-Suu. Not much is known about this fortress (at least according to my guidebooks and the all-knowing interwebz, anyway) but it dates from roughly the 10th century, and was probably Karakhanid. All that remains of this once grand citadel are crumbling earth walls, which are both desolate and majestic.

All that remains of Koshoy Korgon

Osh and Jalalabad: After the unrest

2010-10-25T11:54:00.005+09:00

Those of us who currently make up the Desolation Travel collective have all spent time in Kyrgyzstan, and we all share a love of this small, Central Asian country. I was glued to the internet throughout the events of last April's revolution and last May/June's ethnic clashes. If I had the funds, I would return to Kyrgyzstan in a heartbeat, just to see for myself what the situation is really like. As I don't have such funds, I must continue to rely on the internet. The folks at the Herro Asia! blog have just posted their story and pictures from their recent visit to the towns of Osh and Jalalabad. The post itself is fairly short, but the pictures, especially of Osh, are definitely worth viewing. CLICK HERE!

Following Polo

2010-10-23T15:12:00.001+09:00

From Osh to Murgab, by Joe Scarangella
To view the complete set of photos, click here.

Sometimes it's not about travel itself, but instead about the epic fables you manufacture to impress your friends around the dinner table. Some 700 years ago, a young Italian by the name of Marco Polo (no relation to the t-shirt guy) set off to some of the most remote and uncharted lands of his time. His narrative of travels through China and Central Asia are nothing short of legendary, if not half fictitious. Not being one to simply take the words of others at face value, I opted for a little exploration of my own. However, this was not a journey about the destination, oh no. This was a glaring example of the old aphorism, “Getting there is 98.4% of the fun.”

When one arrives into the southern Kyrgyz city of Osh, you might think you've reached the end of the civilized world. Although an important town in the days of the Silk Road, it has fallen somewhat out of favour in last several hundred years. This is the new wild west. But the ubiquitous tumble weeds have been replaced by plastic bags. And instead of a shoot-out at high noon, you are more likely to see a dispute settled by some pissed off motorist chasing a guy down in an antiquated Lada death-trap (actually saw this happen). Sadly, not even a place like this is backwater enough for some. I did not come for Osh. I was here to blindly leap from this “end of civilization” into the unknown desolation abyss.

Osh is typically where travellers come to find transport to the Pamir Highway, the eastern 2/3 of Tajikistan made famous by that young Italian explorer. This was the frontier of the Soviet Union, the bounds of all things refined in a largely unrefined empire. Whereas most holidayers will base their travel decisions on such non-sensical ideals as logic and rationality, these are not for me. Instead, I was travelling to the region at the very end of the short lived tourist season. While the summer months can be lovely along the mostly 4,000+ meter high roadway, winter here is harsh. We're talking 1,000s die due to the extreme cold. Matters aren't helped much by the apathetic central government that provides a mere 3 hours of state electricity a day. And remember, there are no trees for burning at these altitudes.

With no public transport system along the highway, travellers are forced to arrange shared taxis. These go for around $200+, one-way, for the trip from Osh to the Tajik “town” of Murgab. But let me remind you that my rather harebrained travel itinerary had me heading to the region when there were no others with whom to share costs. And with this single trip costing half of my monthly Kyrgyz salary, I was forced to seek out an alternative. Rumours were that I might find something around the bus terminal. When you're desperate, any sign of hope will do. That's when I met Sergei.

Sergei was doing a supply run in a couple hours from Osh to Murgab in his old Soviet Raf van. Loaded with tomatoes, roofing shingles, ghettoblasters, and a variety of “mystery” packages, there wasn't a lot of room for a passenger. But at an agreed price of $20, I was quite happy to forsake a little leg room. I scurried around town, collecting my things and making last minute purchases of road trip grub as I wasn't fully convinced Sergei would let me chow down on his precious commodities. As the time came to leave, I wasn't sure my anachronistic chariot would even make it out of the parking lot. Even so, I carved out a makeshift seat for the 10-12 hour journey.

My fellow passengers

I couldn't figure out if my pilot was lost, but we circled Osh a fair few times. It soon became clear; the van wasn't fully loaded yet. In the nearly 2 hours of make-shift city tour, we managed to pick up more surprise gift bags and even a couple other passengers. We became very closely acquainted, very quickly. It's hard not to when you're essentially sitting in another man's lap. But we were finally on our way. Or so I thought. A couple hours outside town we turned onto a dirt road that would belong in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie. Convinced of my looming disembowelment, I toyed with the idea of eating all of Sergei's tomatoes in a last defiant act. But all was for not as we pulled into Sergei's house to pick up the last few items. But as we prepared to leave, again, a rather chilling, disheartening sound came out of what was supposed to be the motor. We weren't going anywhere. Sergei and the other's toiled away for hours, disassembling, reassembling, banging, grunting and swearing, all in an attempt to solve the problem until they finally gave up. He apologized for the delay, and his wife served some meat flavoured water and stale bread as we were put up for the night. We'd try again in the morning.

Daybreak brought good news. Sergei had gone for a replacement part and we were off as soon as we downed the tea and biscuits served by his wife. The trip to the Kyrgyz/Tajik border was uneventful. I tried a variety of contortionist positions to try to watch the beautiful scenery fly by our tiny windows. As the border approached, the normally ominous, 7,000+ meter Pik Lenin, had been rudely obscured by the clouds of an impending storm. Border formalities were shockingly easy. But as the Tajik side of the road crept ever higher and higher, it led us right into the guts of a blizzard. Even the poor mountain goats and yaks in the fields had an expression of “This Sucks!” As we crested over the first alpine pass, the snow subsided, the sky cleared and the beauty of the Pamirs revealed itself. But the show was short-lived as night set in. With no headlights, we were forced to bunk down in the lakeside community of Karakol.

Near the Kyrgyz/Tajik border

Lake Karakol, Tajikistan

The guesthouse was nice. Good food and blankets thick enough to smother a full grown elephant. Morning came soon. We had arranged to meet at 6 am for what was hopefully the final leg of our journey. However, new mechanical problems had us leaving closer to noon. I didn't mind. Lake Karakol is easily the highlight of the Pamir Highway. Finally we were off, yet again, through some of the most remote and desolate territory on Earth. No towns, no power lines, no traffic, just the guaranteed impending death sentence should the Raf decide to crap out again. Shockingly, the other passengers started to stir. A clear expression of anticipation and relief plastered all over their faces. We had arrived into Murgab. A mere 49 hours after leaving Osh. But even after quickly realizing just how backwater the town was, it didn't matter. My journey had finished. No body parts had frozen off and I wasn't forced to eat any of my fellow passengers. After a much needed stay in a banya, I hoped that I'd be able to find transport for the remaining 4/5 of the Pamir Highway.

Ian Frazier on Travels in Siberia

2010-10-23T13:26:00.002+09:00

OnPoint with Tom Ashbrook has an interview with Ian Frazier on his new book, Travels in Siberia (which I promise to review as soon as I read it). Not only is the interview itself incredibly fascinating, but my friend Joanna - who accompanied me on my journey to Lake Baikal - called in to the show and shared our story on the air! CLICK HERE and then select "listen to this show" - I highly recommend it!

Siberia on Thin Ice

2010-10-21T22:47:00.000+09:00

A Springtime Journey to Olkhon Island on Lake Baikal by Jane Keeler
CLICK HERE to see the complete set of photographs from this trip.

During the 2005-2006 school year, I taught at the American Home in Vladimir, Russia. At the beginning of May 2006, my friends Misha, Joanna, and Youngmee and I decided to put our ten-day spring vacation to good use by venturing into Siberia in order to explore Olkhon Island on Lake Baikal.

Baikal is the world’s deepest lake – over 1600 meters at its deepest – and it contains about 1/5 of the world’s fresh water, which is more than in all of America’s Great Lakes combined. The lake is an amazing habitat, home to large numbers of aquatic plants and animals found nowhere else in the world, including the delicious omul fish and the endangered nerpa seal.

Olkhon is the largest island on the lake. Long and thin, it stretches roughly 72km end to end, while maxing out at around only 15km across. The island has long been a traditional home to Buryats, the indigenous people of the region, and although it was discovered by Russian explorers in the 17th century, it was only colonized by Russians during the Soviet era. Currently, the island is home to ethnic Buryats, Tatars, and Russians. Only about 1200 people reside there year-round, although as many as 300 people per day visit the island during the summer.

May in Siberia is definitely not “summer.” Late April to early May is, in fact, the most dangerous time of year to visit Olkhon. During the winter, Lake Baikal freezes to a great depth, allowing a heavily traveled “road” to open across the ice between the island’s main (and despite what GoogleMaps shows, essentially the only) village of Khuzhir, and the mainland. During the summer, a ferry frequently crosses the Olkhon Straits between the mainland village of Sakhyurta and the northeastern tip of the island.

During late spring, however, transport to and from Olkhon is rather dicey. As the weather warms and the ice weakens, travel by vehicle across the “road” is no longer possible. Most residents of Olkhon simply remain island-bound until the Olkhon Straits have thawed. During this time, only the desperate, the brave, and the foolhardy attempt passage.

My friends and I arrived, via rail, in Irkutsk on the morning of May 3rd, and immediately boarded a marshrutka (a mini-van taxi/bus common to the former Soviet Union) for the village of Sakhyurta on Baikal’s northwestern shore. To our surprise, we four were not the only foreigners in the marshrutka, as there was a Norwegian traveler named Ingvild on board. She, like us, was planning to brave the springtime crossing to Olkhon, and as such, we liked her immediately. Of the remaining travelers crammed into the marshrutka, only two others (two young Russian women) were bound for Olkhon; the rest were headed to various tiny villages along the way.

The marshrutka bolted out of Irkutsk and flew along winding, hilly roads at an absurd pace, with no regard for rules of the road. After four hours of our driver passing blind, uphill, and into oncoming traffic, we were sufficiently numb to the concept of personal safety to render a springtime crossing to Olkhon perfectly feasible.

Upon reaching Sakhyurta, the four of us, our new Norwegian companion, and the two Russian women (who were residents of Olkhon) were transferred from our standard marshrutka into the Marshrutka from Hell: an ancient converted ambulance with grimy windows, a front seat, and nothing but a dank, rusting cavern in the rear. The Russian women handily beat us to the front seat, leaving us to be bounced and jostled in the back for the 45-minute journey from Sakhyurta to the point where we intended to cross the ice.

The Marshrutka from Hell

The Marshrutka from Hell stopped at the shore of the still-frozen lake, and the driver advised us that we would wait there for our transport. Transport! That implied a vehicle. However, upon exiting the van and wandering down to the lake itself, we discovered that the ice didn’t exactly appear all that solid. It creaked and groaned, and moved up and down when we walked on it. Ingvild looked at the ice and looked back at us. “I’m Norwegian, and I know ice. This ice isn’t stable.” The five of us looked into the distance, where we could see Olkhon rising up against the horizon approximately five kilometers away, but at that moment we felt as though we would never make it to our destination.

And then we spotted a dark speck in the distance, moving towards us across the ice. It grew in size and took shape: a red motorcycle with a side car. The motorcycle stopped about twenty feet from shore. The Russian women immediately began tramping across the ice towards it, while a man disembarked from the side car and headed our way. As the driver of the motorcycle loaded up the Russians and their possessions and headed off towards Olkhon, we became acquainted with its erstwhile passenger, Valeriy. Valeriy was the owner of Solnechnaya, our hostel on Olkhon. He assured us that he had cross the ice under similar conditions numerous times, and that it was not dangerous. He said we would start walking across the ice, and that the motorcycle would meet us along the way to ferry the rest of us across in shifts.

We shouldered our backpacks and set off across the ice. Walking on ice was difficult for all of us – save Valeriy. I, being a native Floridian, was continually slipping and sliding, terrified that if I fell I would go right through the ice. We were about a kilometer from shore when the motorcycle returned, and I gleefully hopped into the side car. At that point, anything that got my feet off the ice seemed an excellent idea. With the side car stuffed full of backpacks, and with Ina and Youngmee mounted behind the driver, we hung on for dear life as the motorcycle hurtled across the lake. The ride was bracing, thrilling, and more than a little frightening… but we made it, safe and alive, to the shore of Olkhon. One round trip of the motorcycle later, and Misha, Joanna, and Valeriy had joined us.

We were the first tourists of the season to arrive on the island, and it was wonderful to have the place all to ourselves. We settled into our cabin at Solnechnaya (a wonderful place, which I highly recommend, although it – like the rest of the island – has no running water, so prepare yourself for banyas and pit squatters), and set about enjoying our three days on the island. From striking natural rock formations and areas consecrated holy by Buryat shamans, to the dusty streets of Khuzhir and the decaying remains of former Soviet villages, Olkhon has tons to offer the desolation traveler. In this case, pictures most definitely speak louder than words, so CLICK HERE to peruse my entire set.

Burkhan (also called Shamanka)
This rock formation just outside of Khuzhir is a holy site of Buryat shamanism

During our last full day on the island, we decided to see if the island’s museum was open. We had been told by Valeriy that the museum was excellent for a museum covering life on an island with such a tiny population. The museum is named after one Mr. Revyakin, a teacher and founder of the museum, and it contains exhibits representing the traditional lifestyles of the Buryats and the original Russian settlers, as well as exhibits on the plant and animal life endemic to Baikal. But to be honest, the best part of the museum was its docent, a tiny, ancient woman, who was passionate about the museum and its contents, and who turned out to be the daughter of Mr. Revyakin himself! After hearing how and when the five of us had crossed the lake, she had us gather around an old motorcycle that was on display, and she told us the following story:

The motorcycle once belonged to Mr. Revyakin. One day in early May (!) Revyakin and a friend decided to cross the ice on his motorcycle, as the ice seemed thick and firm. The friend was carrying a large and heavy bag of fish, which was strapped to his back. They were in the process of crossing the lake when suddenly the ice broke, and the two men and the motorcycle fell through. Revyakin was able to climb free, and then he had to cut the bag of fish off of his friend’s back, in order to pull him out of the ice. The two men reached the shore in a state of hypothermia, lucky to be alive. Two years later, a fisherman “caught” the motorcycle in his net. Revyakin cleaned it up, put some gasoline in the tank, and it worked! The moral of the story was that under no circumstances were we to cross by motorcycle on our way back to the mainland. Luckily for us, she told us that the ice at the narrow Olkhon Straits would be melted enough for us to cross the following day by boat, which we did.

CLICK HERE to view the entire set of photographs from this trip.

From Beijing to Kyiv by Rail

2010-10-20T22:43:00.000+09:00

Our friend Derek Kedziora travelled from Beijing, China to Kyiv, Ukraine last month. He did the entire trip by rail, and he chronicled it in detail on his blog, which we highly recommend you check out. Here are the links:

Stage I: Beijing to Irkutsk, the Trans-Manchurian Railway
Stage II: Irkutsk to Moscow
Stage III: Moscow to Kyiv: 11 Days later

Enjoy!!

Festive fun and frolics

2010-10-19T23:24:00.000+09:00

A Christmas Day journey to Aralsk, Kazakhstan by Ben Scott
CLICK HERE to see the complete set of photos accompanying this post

Much like prison, it is easier to arrive in Aralsk than to leave. This fact was starkly brought home to me while standing in line for three hours at the ticket counter inside the rail station, trying to get the ticket seller’s attention while veterans of the Great Patriotic War, Kazakh nationals, passengers’ relatives, other ex-Soviet citizens and indeed anyone who wasn’t a western tourist was waved to the front of the line. The only other western tourist in Aralsk at that time was my friend and travelling companion, unfortunately unable to join my vigil at the ‘kassa’ due to having to run off at intermittent periods to vomit in one of the station’s somewhat less-than-hygienic toilets. So at least she didn’t cut in front of me. Eventually, once the ticket seller had made certain that nobody else more worthy of a ticket was waiting in line, she deemed it safe to serve the foreigner and I managed to acquire the last two kupe tickets out of town and back to Shymkent. It was Christmas Day and the best present imaginable.

We had arrived in Aralsk earlier that morning following an all-night train journey from Turkestan as part of a rushed trip through Kazakhstan. Aralsk was once Kazakhstan’s main (only?) port on the shores of the fish-filled Aral Sea, and now it is the country’s main (only?) ex-port on the ex-shores of the ex-sea. Fans of desolation travel flock here to gaze in wonder at rusting memorabilia of the past. Hulking industrial detritus and eerie corpses of ships lying on the ex-seabed make great photos for those who love the decayed and dishevelled. A mural on the wall of the chilly station waiting room commemorates how the loyal Soviet citizens of Aralsk saved the Soviet Union by providing fish to feed the masses during the Great Patriotic War but now stands as testament to the stupidity and short-sightedness of agricultural experts and planners from that era. The poignancy of the situation is increased by the fact that, while you may ask for a ticket to (or if you’re lucky, from) Aralsk, the ticket will show that you are in fact travelling to ‘Aralskoe More’ (Aral Sea).

Workers of Lenin harvesting wagons of fish...

Do not expect a sea view from the rooms of the town’s only (and overpriced) hotel. In fact, don’t expect much apart from a lack of heating and possible pneumonia. It is however conveniently placed for the ship graveyard and so we dutifully tramped out to the former seabed in the snow, braving the bitter winds and -30 temperatures to get some obligatory photos, before returning to the hotel and desperately trying to keep warm. We also took time to admire the igloo-shaped swimming pool being built on the seabed for the benefit of the town’s population who are now dying due to the various ailments caused by the disappearance of the sea.

After a meal of manty at one of the town's two cafes, we returned to the station to begin the battle to purchase tickets out of town, having resolved to cut our visit short to avoid freezing to death in the unheated hotel. Lovers of old maps might be interested in seeing the huge wall-mounted one at the station showing every single railway station of the former Soviet Union. To see this however, you’ll need to attract the attention of the octogenarian station master. This can be accomplished by being foreign and being in Aralsk station at night. After being barked at and marched to his office, and once it has been ascertained that you are a foreigner, are travelling in Kazakhstan, have a passport and visa, you can try your luck by asking for permission to inspect the map more closely (although this will mark you out as a rather suspicious individual). Alternatively, non-trouble makers can spend their time relaxing at the station’s 24-hour snack bar (something, incidentally, that doesn’t exist at any public transport facility in nearby Kyrgyzstan).

Being ‘stuck’ in Aralsk on Christmas Day is not the most traditionally ‘festive’ experience imaginable. The town is desolate, bitterly cold and lacking in conventional tourist attractions. As often occurs in Kazakhstan, exchanges with officialdom may be less than cosy. But even here, in this forlorn outpost of the Soviet Union overlooked by the oil-fuelled boom of ‘new’ Kazakhstan, there is still a warm glow of festive goodwill to be gained from encounters with residents. Like the pharmacy owner who saw that my companion will ill and opened up specially so that she could buy painkillers. Or, for that matter, the same gruff and suspicious station commander who joined us in the freezing midnight air on the platform as our train pulled in to sweep us back to civilisation. Despite our fears of further interrogation, it transpired he wanted to tell us exactly where to stand on the platform so we could be next to the train doors when they opened.

Aralsk is not Kazakhstan, but it is somewhere to be seen and experienced while travelling through that vast country. I can’t honestly say that I would recommend anyone travel a total of 28 hours just to spend a day in the town, and there are certainly more jolly (and warmer) places to spend the festive season, even in Central Asia. But, with a return ticket in hand, nobody could ever feel imprisoned under what must be one of the biggest, blackest and most star-spangled night skies you’ll ever be likely to see.

Just be sure to buy that return ticket before your departure!

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Volodymyr, the nine-fingered plumber

2010-10-16T14:34:00.000+09:00

by Derek Kedziora, Dnepropetrovsk, Ukraine

I came home from work on Monday to find that I had no running water in my apartment. As a true sign of having spent too long in Kyrgyzstan I sent this text to my school director: "Воды нет в кватире. Часто бывает или это проблема?" (I don't have any water in my apartment, does this happen often or is it a problem?). The response was even better: "Дерек, не переживай, вода хозяин сказал должна быть." (Don't worry Derek, the landlord said there has to be water). I'm glad I got that cleared up. Thankfully I had plenty of bread, sausage and cheese for a makeshift dinner. Luckily I had filled the teapot to the brim before I left for work. Even better I had bought plenty of beer. [click here to read the complete article]

Dead Lands of Belarus: Travels Along A Desolate Border by Ben Rich

2010-10-15T00:28:00.000+09:00

[To see the entire set of photographs accompanying this post, click here.]

The above is a map of Belarus. The areas in varying shades of red are those affected by radiation from Chernobyl, with the darkest shades of red being those most contaminated.

I'm fascinated by maps. I spend hours tracing my fingers over them, following winding tropical rivers, exploring distant mountain ranges, following the contours of jagged borders, imagining what those places are like. It was whilst exploring a Soviet road atlas that my finger was drawn over to Belarus, that unknown land of our great continent. As I traced my finger over the map, following roads and contours, I noticed that in the far east of the country stretching along the Belarus/Russian border were the names of villages with their names in brackets; it wasn't something I had seen before. Sometimes there were clusters of villages, their names enclosed in said punctuation marks, surrounding a village whose name was not shackled by the two curved lines of English grammar... and then in another place, the opposite: un-bracketed names surrounding one small village which had its name in brackets. There were tens of them stretching from north of Gomel all the way down to Komarin in the far south of the country. I investigated and discovered that these were the villages which had suffered the brunt of the Chernobyl accident lying as they were in the path of the prevailing winds on that April day in 1986. They were the places that had been deemed uninhabitable by the Soviet/Belarusian government and had therefore been evacuated and scrubbed from history. My Belarusian friends had never been to any of these villages or the area in general so were unable to offer any more info regarding what exactly was to be found there, were the places bulldozed and buried or were they just evacuated and left intact in the hope of re-populating them one day? I decided to visit one.

The above details the places mentioned below.

It took me 2 days to drive from England to Belarus. I entered Belarus at a quiet border post south of Brest on a summer's evening and immediately stepped backwards to a more tranquil time. There were no advertisements, no street lights or signs of modernism, it was as though I was driving through one of Constable's paintings. The road east followed the Pripyat river, from which the town near where the Chernobyl reactor is located took it's name. The problem with driving in a 19th century land is that there are no road signs indicating the speed limit; consequently, I was radar gunned within an hour and fined $20. I drove on more slowly and as the night's blackness closed in I found a small parking area in the woods and parked up for the night, hoping sleep would come quickly so as not to be unnerved by the total silence and blackness of the woods.

I awoke to a misty landscape and drove on through vistas of barren farmland and huge tracts of forest, forests that would once have hidden partisans, forests that would now be hiding something just as deadly. The road was mostly empty, but occasionally I drove through small villages that lined the highway, just 20 or so Izbas their fences painted in the colours of the Belarusian flag. As I neared the East of the country the verge of the roads by the forests occasionally had wooden signs painted with warnings not to pick mushrooms or berries,no doubt due to radiation levels, yet I often drove past Babushkas selling buckets filled to the brim with pine nuts and berries, products no doubt harvested from the same forests. I stopped to buy some honey from a babushka and she asked me where I had come from. When I said I had driven from London, she asked me how many villages away that was; life beyond the village seemed to have little meaning.

The above sign says that it is forbidden to pick mushrooms and berries as this is dangerous to your life.

At Mozir I turned right following the Pripyat south to Hoiniki, there was no traffic except the odd Lada or Soviet built motorcycles. In the distance of some fields stood factories and commercial buildings that seemed long since abandoned, windows missing, roofs with holes in, and their approach roads overtaken by nature. In the entire drive I did not see any wildlife except some crows in the fields, no rabbits or squirrels dashing across the road, no deer in a field. South of Hoiniki I started seeing signs forbidding entry into the forest, radiation symbols on posts, signs saying permit holders only, and 'Danger' written on trees. I had arrived at the zone.

My plan was never to go into the official de-markated ecological disaster zone, that would be for another time when I could arrange permits and local knowledge. Of course I could have just crossed in unofficially to look around, but the idea of hiking through areas of possible cancer inducing levels of radiation without so much as a pair of Wellington boots or a Geiger counter wasn't really an appealing one. The places I was going to go were dangerous enough, as people had constantly warned me. Instead I wanted to visit one of the abandoned villages and then some places that were still inhabited to see how life was progressing there.

I studied my map and decided to head for the 'bracketed' village of Omelkovshina, just north of Hoiniki. I had decided to visit the villages north of Hoiniki as I presumed that as they were further from the reactor they might be somewhat safer radiation wise, I'll never know for sure. I followed the main road before finding the turning. At the crossroads was a small cluster of pretty Izbas and and a village shop outside of which sat some old men, as I turned and drove past them they all turned and stared at me, outsiders obviously didn't come here too often. The road passed through the small village of Dubrovitsa, in the middle of which stood a derelict building that looked like a bomb had exploded in it as rubble lay all around the building, I drove on past the village cemetery which was well tended to, the photos of the dead welded to the blue metal crosses as is the custom. Belarus was the most well kept country I had ever visited, people took pride in their houses and gardens and villages were all freshly painted in matching colours. As I came to the far end of the village the paved road ended and just a lonely rutted disused track led into the distance with the forest visible on the horizon. It was the road to Omelkovshina. I continued on, excited about what I would find. It felt like I was driving out of the known world into terra-incognita: 'Here be Dragons!'

Grave marker in the village of Dubrovitsa

I drove on following the road for about 6 or 7 miles entering the forest, civilization receding in my rear view mirror, there were no signs of life, no people, just dark woods enveloping me, and then, like in fairy tales, I entered a clearing and another world; I was inside the 'Brackets' for the first time. I'd reached Omelkovshina.

I got out of the car and stepped onto the old tarmac road of the village's main street and headed into 'town'. The village was dead, nobody lived here nor had done for a very, very long time, probably since April 1986, but I could see the signs of its previous inhabited self. There was the 'Dom Kulturi', its timbers intact, its wallpaper peeling but surviving Belarus's elements. There was the old village shop, overgrown and rotting, foxgloves now growing where once would have stood jars of essentials. Then there were houses, maybe 30 or 40, in different states of decay. Some were almost completely enveloped by nature, whilst others just needed a few minor repairs to be habitable again. Some houses had gardens that were so beautiful, filled as they were with stunning arrays of purple and red flowers and weeds that it looked as though they must have been tended by gardeners. Butterflies swirled about in the afternoon sunshine. As I entered houses, I found them to be full of swallows’ nests, baby chicks chirping their mouths open waiting for their parents to return with food. As I explored the undergrowth at the back of what seemed once to have been a government building of some sort I heard something large running through the bushes. I was gripped by a sudden fear; it was probably just a wild pig or a deer, but I suddenly felt vulnerable imagining escaped prisoners jumping out of the forest and attacking me with shanks. A body would never be found here.

Inside an abandoned home in Omelkovshina

I explored deeper, pushing open unlocked doors, finding signs of the village's previous inhabitants, a framed photo of a man in Soviet clothing, some Soviet banknotes, a rotten calender on a kitchen wall. I had stepped through a worm hole and entered The Soviet Republic of Belarus, circa the 1980s. I sat down at a kitchen table and ate my bread and honey as the previous inhabitants no doubt did 25 years ago. I explored some more, looking in sheds, exploring back yards and empty houses. One thing was certain, the village had been totally left to die, there was no chance of restoring it in the future should the radiation level drop to normal levels. It would be too expensive, and besides, the old residents had probably settled in their new lives with little inclination to return to the forest.

I walked down the main street to the far end of the village where a track led to another bracketed village that was marked on my map but the path was undriveable and I didn't feel like walking for miles through the forest exposing myself to even more radiation. I had read of huge packs of wolves inhabiting these places and other animals pushed to extinction in Europe re-building colonies here but I saw no evidence of this and presume that that is in the zone itself. I'd hoped to find an overgrown Lenin statue but it was a wooden village so my photo opportunity was not to be. It was unlike anywhere I had been on my travels before, streets of derelict buildings that within my life time had been full of life. I wanted to spend a long as possible there as there was always one more door to open, another window to peer inside, like finding an old chest in an attic and wanting to explore all its contents in the hope of finding some vital piece of information… but as evening approached I had to leave the village, I headed back to the main road, and back to life.

This part of Belarus had been hit hard by Chernobyl; abandonment and desolation was everywhere. Apartment buildings abandoned and uncompleted, warehouses being broken apart by nature’s instinct to replicate, roots cracking concrete, and the elements helping a hand. These rotting concrete structures affected me more then the village I had visited, the wooden village had returned to nature which seemed a natural course of events but concrete and steel are altogether different, thought of as impregnable and ever lasting - yet not here in the dead zone. And people were living here amongst it. A disused shop sat next to a village house with a well tended garden, life and death had become blurred.

I reached the city of Gomel at nightfall and checked into the old soviet monolith in the centre of town. Gomel was full of life, university students promenaded along the river bank in the summer evening, bottles of Baltika in hand. It seemed strange to be amongst such energy and life after a couple of days spent in rural Belarus. Yet Gomel was surrounded by contaminated land. The fear in 86 was that this city would need evacuating which would no doubt have made Gomel the largest ghost town on the planet but, the radiation mostly passed it by, the theory being that the heat given off by the city had pushed the clouds on to other areas. I explored the city which was built entirely in the Socialist Realist style, Corinthian columns with wheat sheaf motifs. I had an evening clubbing and getting drunk with Gomel's hip young things, who all seemed perplexed by my choice of holiday location. Discussion of Chernobyl stirred strong emotions amongst them, many angry at the then Soviet government's decision to seed the clouds to ensure that the radiation was dumped mainly on the rural backwaters along the Rus/Belarus border.

In the morning I stocked up on food for my journey to the border and in light drizzle I drove East, I didn't have long to see the first signs of abandonment. Gomel's outskirts were an array of abandoned factories, houses, and overgrown wasteland. Just past the town of Dobrush I headed south through empty fields towards the village of Korma. Rusted signs for long defunct state farms marked my way, rotting combines lay outside derelict chicken sheds, the dark brooding skies signifying impending storms. I drove into a small village not marked on my map, Horoshovka, situated just a mile from the fenceless border with Russia. It was an inhabited village, yet abandonment was everywhere. I parked and explored a derelict school, its climbing frames now covered in vines, textbooks littering the floor. I found an abandoned apartment building 2 stories high, I explored the ground floor apartments which were filthy and covered in dog shit; the rooms stank. On the balcony lay the rotten carcass of a dead cat, it's odour long since dissipated into the ether. I climbed the stairs and was looking around another empty apartment when I heard people coming up the stairs. Not sure of the reaction I would receive, being a foreigner photographing the village's squalor, I stood still hoping they would not hear me. I needn't have worried as they knocked on an apartment door and were let in. I couldn't believe that people were still living in the building which to all intents and purposes looked ready for demolition. It was hard to believe I was in Europe and not some war zone. The village reminded me of images I had seen of war torn Bosnia.

Inside an abandoned school in Horoshovka

I drove along the Russian border stopping to photograph and explore villages and buildings. There were no other cars on the roads, even in the villages I rarely saw anybody just the occasional hunched figures escaping the drizzle under bus shelters and shop doorways,a drunk knocking on someone's door to ask for money. I couldn't imagine what work people had here, there was no apparent industry, few shops, most were probably employed by the local state farm, the ones which had survived. I drove back up to Horoshovka, past caved in government buildings, an old stolovaya, its kitchen cupboards left where they had always stood, weeds growing to the height of the lintels.

My Belarusian road atlas showed a track leading across the border from Horoshovka to the Russian village of Lisiye but when I asked in the local shop where to find the path nobody could tell me, it did not seem as though there was any coss border traffic or contact. I eventually found an old man who directed me down a path, I drove down past abandoned houses, the same chirping of swallows audible through the glassless window frames. I parked up and continued on foot towards the Russian border, its boundary being marked by a thin line of trees in a field. I didn't have a Russian visa, and being caught would most likely have blacklisted me from ever receiving one, so I walked fast hoping nobody was watching, but as there was nobody in sight between me and the half a kilometer to the village so I walked on. I crossed into Russia and briskly followed the dirt track, avoiding the large puddles that had formed from the rain.

As I entered Lisiye I could tell I had left Belarus behind. Gone were the prettily painted picket fences and neat and orderly homes, instead were sagging wooden houses with broken machines parked in yards, a broken well, and a distinct feeling of neglect. I heard someone working on the other side of a fence so I popped my head over. The man working introduced himself as Stepan and he invited me in for tea nonchalantly as though foreigners were always coming into his village asking questions. I quizzed him about abandoned villages on this side of the border but the combination of my not so perfect Russian and his severe stutter made communication stilted and difficult, he said that there was an abandoned place a few miles away but I wasn't sure if he meant a building or village and not wanting to push my luck too far I decided not to find out and headed back into Belarus instead, relieved to have mde it without any problems.

Whilst looking at the local war memorial in Horoshovka I was approached by a local woman who invited me for tea at her elderly mother's Izba. I spent the evening with her being taken from house to house visiting the village's residents and being fed huge quantities of food everywhere I went. I heard some incredible stories over cups of tea from women who were sent to Germany for forced labour in the war, of the partizans, of Stalin's time, and then of happy times in this sleepy backwater of the former USSR where nothing much seemed to happen. And then of course of the fear after the Chernobyl accident and the slow death of the villages in this area, and the slow death of some of the residents to the diseases it had induced.

From what I could gather the young families had been evacuated to apartments or purpose built townships on the outskirts of cities such as Minsk, Zhlobin, Svetlogorsk; others had been sent further away to the Baltics or Russia. And then the government had pulled out, abandoning schools and infrastructure. It must have been a massive logistical nightmare, one which would always mean that certain people had to be left behind, and I suppose the elderly were the ones to whom that fate would fall. I had noticed in my journey that there was a distinct lack of children despite it being the school holiday period, everyone I had met had been elderly. However the elderly that I met seemed to bare no bitterness at being left in these contaminated lands by their government. The only complaint I heard was the lack of medical care in the villages. Life here is hard, toilets are outside, most don't have piped water, there is no central heating and these elderly work their small plots and take care of their animals in Belarusian winters when temperatures drop to minus 30 centigrade at times. Hence high blood pressure and arthritis seem endemic here, I was constantly asked about medicines we had in the West for such ailments, a person with just a basic medical knowledge and a well stocked medicine cabinet could do an immense amount of good in these parts and bring real relief to a lot of needy people.

My time was up. As I drove West I was overcome by a distinct feeling of melancholy. This area of Belarus had suffered a terrible fate through no fault of it's own; it had been decided by nothing more then the wind direction on that April day. It was an area of higher then average birth defects, childhood cancer, and industrial and social collapse, yet the people I met remained stoic and at peace, it seemed like a metaphor for Belarus in general. But there is hope. The Belarusian government has a policy of re-populating areas where radiation levels have fallen to within safe levels, re-investment of infrastructure is mentioned but Belarus is not a rich country and hence it will probably take generations for tangible change to happen. I hope the future will be kinder than its past. Sometimes at the end of travel blogs the author writes something along the lines of "go see it before everybody discovers it" - no such words are needed for Belarus.

***
This article was written by Ben Rich, who can be reached at contactbenrich@gmail.com. All photographs were taken by Ben Rich, and may not be used without his permission. To see the full set of photographs accompanying this post, please click here.

Reminiscing: Kyrgyzstan

2010-10-12T13:19:00.000+09:00

A Coalition Comes to Kyrgyzstan by Andy Wixon

Well, news from the Kyrgyz elections suggests that the formation of a coalition government may be imminent. You may have crippling electricity shortages, a total lack of industry, a bloody revolution threatening to topple over into actual civil war, and a deposed president hiding out somewhere whose associates are (supposedly) fomenting bloody internal revolt, but there’s always something worse that can happen to you, isn’t there? Let’s hope they get their position on child benefit and university tuition fees sorted out well ahead of time, or the country really could be in trouble. [click to read complete article]