You might not have heard from me for a long time. Maybe you did. But now, at last, I've got something to tell you.
I'm travelling again. After an amazing trip last year through Europe, the Caucasus, Central Asia, Siberia, Russia and a lot more of Europe I had to get back to school for three months, split up by a short trip to Russia and Ukraine, before I could continue my real life again. And now I am. Better said: I AM. Right now I'm on a two months trip to Syria and Jordan. After I'll return to my hollow existence for one month. But then... Just more travelling up to January. That is, if everything goes according to plan. As if I have a plan. Probably not having a plan is the best thing I can do for now. Just go with the flow. That's how I want to live.
The road to Syria was as short as I expected. I guessed it could be done in seven days. Now you might think that it shouldn't take more than ten hours, to go from the Netherlands to Syria. By plane, yes. But hitch-hiking, or more internationally by 'autostop', it takes about a week. If you take your time. I bet it could be done in about five days if you would really push your luck and don't bother sleeping at night. But I took the long way, driving with a Macedonian guy from Nurnberg in Germany to his capital Skopje. We didn't take the easy way though. He was importing his car from Belgium out of the European Union into Balkanian Macedonia. After crossing Austria and Slovenia the Croats didn't want to let us in because of his transit license plate. They insisted we had to enter Serbia from Hungary. Nothing could be done to avoid this, so of we went. I guided my driver through lovely southern Hungary, till we reached the border crossing point. We got blasted. The Hungarians didn't want to let us out... We tried twice at the first site, went to another crossing to find out it was closed and then, on our way to the third one nearby Szeged, a storm came up causing a tree to fall down right before our vehicle. With the tail between our legs (is that a Dutch expression?) we returned to ground zero. Next morning the storm had cleared. We arrived at the third border crossing, bribed ourselves out of the European Union into Serbia and drove off to his homeland.
There he bought me two big tasty hamburgers before he left me under the bridge downtown. I stayed in Macedonia for a mere 24 hours, being hosted by a couple who had picked me up from some gas station late at night. In Bulgaria I crossed the southern mountain range, in Istanbul I visited a friend and nearby Ankara an employee from the petrolstation offered me his car to spend the night in. After a few hours of Capadocia I made my way to Antiochia, where a family at the mediterranean helped me out, feeding me with olives and Middle Eastern bread; a good introduction to Syria.
The first two days in Syria were amazing. The people are incredibly hospitable. The first night I just said 'good evening' to a man walking along the street in his village. A few minutes later I found myself served in his house, entertained by the masculine part of the family and enjoyed with internet connection; one of the main necessities in life. In my life at least. They invited me to return to them the next day, but when I intended after a daytrip to some ancient Roman villages the man on the motorcycle, who drove me to the highway, changed my mind. I stayed at his place instead, meeting his family and his traditions. Once again Syrian hospitality surrounded me. These people are great.
In Aleppo I visited my first refugee camp. That's why I travelled to this region in the first place: to visit Palestinian refugees. So I took a taxi to the right busstop, got ripped of, jumped in the bus and went out of town. After a kilometer or two of cultivated land the minibus drove through a gate with a Syrian and a Palestinian flag painted above it. Inside were more flags and pro-Palestinian signs. For a moment I wondered: 'why did I come here?' but this I found out soon. After passing the 'camp' by bus I walked back to the outermost street, which I turned in. At the end of the street two man were drinking their precious and highly sugarated tea. After having a chat with them one of them let his son bring me to an English speaking guy. His aunts served me a good meal before we went out to have a tour around the camp. It was quite a pleasure to be there. I would say it's a cosy place. Children were playing soccer in the streets. Families, couples and groups of friends walked and took a rest in what they call their park, around the railroad, which they use as their mainpath. Virtually all of them have been refugees for all their lifes, waiting for the moment of return to a country they only heard of on school, from their parents and grandparents and from the banners spread around the camp.
That's rather peculiar. Posters and banners are ubiquitous. These people, just as hospitable as the Turkish and the Syrians (and I can assure you: that is very hospitable,) live their lives in a district overshadowed by texts like "The sun rises from the arms of resistance" and other pro-agressive texts. What a contrast! How can this problem ever be solved? Will I live long enough to find out? Or will it be eternal?
I hope to get deeper insight in this issue soonish.
Enjoy everything you're doing. Let me know about it, if you're up to!
Email to friends, May 2010
zondag 16 mei 2010
A president's dream
Two years ago I decided I had to visit Astana. In some online magazine I stumbled upon an article about this newly built city. It was accompanied by astonishing pictures of majestic views on modern architecture. I had never heard anything about Kazakhstan before, but this was definitely not what I expected. Since then, the country held a high position on my list of places to be visited. I could not guess this goal would be accomplished within the next two years, but fate, directed by my own inventiveness, brought me there during a quest for my studies.
After exploring the Caucasus I had to cross the Caspian before I was immersed into Kazakh decadency in the coastal city of Aktau. There I condemned myself to a 50 hour third class train ride among the ‘real’ people. In the middle of the vastness of the empty steppes suddenly the train arrived in the new capital. An outpost of civilization. Astana.
And civilized it was. New buses running on time, dust-bins on every street corner and decently renovated buildings, at least at the front side. The bus brought me to the administrative center at the other side of the river, the place where the president builds his own dream out of oil- and gas profits. Wandering along the broad lanes makes you feel tiny, as high glass buildings look upon you as if you were nothing. Then, in the middle of this all, the Bayterek monument appears. Lower than most of the surrounding buildings, it seems somewhat sympathetic. It looks nice; Kazakhstan’s golden egg held between white stakes. They made it their new symbol. It’s even put on their money. I made my way to it’s root and went in. An elevator brought me up into the egg, resulting in amazing views. At the east side one can see the presidential palace, guided by two golden buildings at the front and a glass pyramid a-la-Louvre and a trapezium at the back. North and southwards two major ministries reside. Especially at the south side, it becomes clear how strangely located in the middle of nothing this city is. Right behind the ministry the city makes place for the eternal steppe. Astana will not have problems to expand in the future. At the west end of the district, just behind the giant mosque, an enormous transparent tent is being build. The president looks straight upon it every time he opens his curtains after a night in his ‘white house’. Designed to contain summer-like temperatures all year round, it should become the recreational haven for the upper class residents. From what I hear, they could use one! Since residents are bored to death in this place, many of them take the train or fly back and forth to the former capital of Almaty every weekend.
Next day I took a bus in the wrong direction and ended up in the old town. There, just a few kilometres from the ‘white house,’ I find myself in a more familiar area. The regular concrete Soviet Union blocks are competing with one another in ramshackleness. Here, out of sight of the president’s eye, the ‘real’ Kazakhs live. No oil money left for them unfortunately.
Sweat dreams mister president.
After exploring the Caucasus I had to cross the Caspian before I was immersed into Kazakh decadency in the coastal city of Aktau. There I condemned myself to a 50 hour third class train ride among the ‘real’ people. In the middle of the vastness of the empty steppes suddenly the train arrived in the new capital. An outpost of civilization. Astana.
And civilized it was. New buses running on time, dust-bins on every street corner and decently renovated buildings, at least at the front side. The bus brought me to the administrative center at the other side of the river, the place where the president builds his own dream out of oil- and gas profits. Wandering along the broad lanes makes you feel tiny, as high glass buildings look upon you as if you were nothing. Then, in the middle of this all, the Bayterek monument appears. Lower than most of the surrounding buildings, it seems somewhat sympathetic. It looks nice; Kazakhstan’s golden egg held between white stakes. They made it their new symbol. It’s even put on their money. I made my way to it’s root and went in. An elevator brought me up into the egg, resulting in amazing views. At the east side one can see the presidential palace, guided by two golden buildings at the front and a glass pyramid a-la-Louvre and a trapezium at the back. North and southwards two major ministries reside. Especially at the south side, it becomes clear how strangely located in the middle of nothing this city is. Right behind the ministry the city makes place for the eternal steppe. Astana will not have problems to expand in the future. At the west end of the district, just behind the giant mosque, an enormous transparent tent is being build. The president looks straight upon it every time he opens his curtains after a night in his ‘white house’. Designed to contain summer-like temperatures all year round, it should become the recreational haven for the upper class residents. From what I hear, they could use one! Since residents are bored to death in this place, many of them take the train or fly back and forth to the former capital of Almaty every weekend.
Next day I took a bus in the wrong direction and ended up in the old town. There, just a few kilometres from the ‘white house,’ I find myself in a more familiar area. The regular concrete Soviet Union blocks are competing with one another in ramshackleness. Here, out of sight of the president’s eye, the ‘real’ Kazakhs live. No oil money left for them unfortunately.
Sweat dreams mister president.
How to cross the Caspian by boat
One day you might find yourself in the following situation: you are tired of sparkling Baku and would like to cross the Caspian sea, or lake, whatever you prefer, to the Kazakh city Aktau. Of course you could just take another boring plane. For a mere 250 euro’s this could even fly you to Kazakhstan’s current or former capital, a few thousand kilometres further than a ship could ever take you. That would be a rather logical option. But, I’m not into logical options too much. How did you think I ended up in Baku in the first place?
So, according to my own logic I attempted to catch a boat. I had done my homework extensively and read several first hand stories about this opportunity, but my host in Azerbaijan’s capital broke my dreams. He’d hosted several outcasts like me and told me how they all had intended to cross the sea with this uncatcheable ferry. All had ended up buying a flight in one of the local tourist offices, or not going to Kazakhstan at all. Stubbornly I reckoned I’d better give it a try or two during the following week, knowing that if I failed, I’d find myself hurrying back to EU-citizen friendly Georgia. In that unfortunate case I would at least spoil my Kazakh visa, and probably my Uzbek too. Eager to take a risk I started my search for the ticket office.
I thought that shouldn’t be too difficult. I went inside the newly build harbour lot and found my way to the desk.
“Ticket to Aktau?”
“Not here. Go 300 metres along the way and find it opposite cafe ‘Liman’”, the guy behind the desk told me.
Risking my life due to the local lack of side walks, I went 300 metres along the way and found cafe ‘Liman’. So far so good. I walked up an empty street between a windowless building and a fence, crossed a railway and found a barrier with a guard. I decided to try my luck with the uncooperative looking guard.
“Boat Aktau?”
“Nyet”, he answers clearly.
“Turkmenbashi?” I try Turkmenistan’s harbour to simply get past him. It works:
“Turkmenbashi there, at the ticket desk.”
He points to a white door with ‘kacca’ written on it. For five minutes I knock the door. Nobody answers. A few men are sitting in front of a shop opposite of the ticket office.
“Where you have to go?”, they ask me as I reach them.
“Aktau”, I declare.
“That one went yesterday”, one of the men tells me.
“When will the next one leave?”
“God knows.”
Two days later I try again and find the door to be open. A lady sells someone else a ticket to Turkmenbashi. The ferry to Aktau, she tells me, will go tomorrow, or in three days, or maybe in five days, depending on the the amount of wagons and trucks gathering for departure. She gives me her phone number and invites me to call her twice a day, in order to hear if there’s anything happening anytime soon.
Every morning I call and every morning her voice tells me, “Ship no.” Even the third day this ritual repeats, but during the afternoon my friend calls me to give me the news: the next day a ship will leave for Aktau. It turned out his mother had secretly been calling too. I always manage to find myself a mother.
As fast as public transport allows me to go, I find my way to the ticket office. A few tourists wait in front of the ticket office.
“Be prepared to hear a lot of ‘nyet,’ Vicky from England warns me.
However, thanks to my basic Russian I did not hear a lot of ‘nyet’. On the contrary, I found out there would indeed be a ship the next day and at nine in the morning the tickets sale would commence. Coming there in the morning, the sale is postponed to twelve and later to four. I decide to sit and wait for it. At three I got my ticket. Two hours later the wagons and trucks entered the ship. At six it was my turn. I call my host with the news that I’m his first guest succeeding in following this dream. It was definitely worth the effort. Who can imagine anything better than watching the sunset on the Caspian, with a mind soaked in wodka?
So, according to my own logic I attempted to catch a boat. I had done my homework extensively and read several first hand stories about this opportunity, but my host in Azerbaijan’s capital broke my dreams. He’d hosted several outcasts like me and told me how they all had intended to cross the sea with this uncatcheable ferry. All had ended up buying a flight in one of the local tourist offices, or not going to Kazakhstan at all. Stubbornly I reckoned I’d better give it a try or two during the following week, knowing that if I failed, I’d find myself hurrying back to EU-citizen friendly Georgia. In that unfortunate case I would at least spoil my Kazakh visa, and probably my Uzbek too. Eager to take a risk I started my search for the ticket office.
I thought that shouldn’t be too difficult. I went inside the newly build harbour lot and found my way to the desk.
“Ticket to Aktau?”
“Not here. Go 300 metres along the way and find it opposite cafe ‘Liman’”, the guy behind the desk told me.
Risking my life due to the local lack of side walks, I went 300 metres along the way and found cafe ‘Liman’. So far so good. I walked up an empty street between a windowless building and a fence, crossed a railway and found a barrier with a guard. I decided to try my luck with the uncooperative looking guard.
“Boat Aktau?”
“Nyet”, he answers clearly.
“Turkmenbashi?” I try Turkmenistan’s harbour to simply get past him. It works:
“Turkmenbashi there, at the ticket desk.”
He points to a white door with ‘kacca’ written on it. For five minutes I knock the door. Nobody answers. A few men are sitting in front of a shop opposite of the ticket office.
“Where you have to go?”, they ask me as I reach them.
“Aktau”, I declare.
“That one went yesterday”, one of the men tells me.
“When will the next one leave?”
“God knows.”
Two days later I try again and find the door to be open. A lady sells someone else a ticket to Turkmenbashi. The ferry to Aktau, she tells me, will go tomorrow, or in three days, or maybe in five days, depending on the the amount of wagons and trucks gathering for departure. She gives me her phone number and invites me to call her twice a day, in order to hear if there’s anything happening anytime soon.
Every morning I call and every morning her voice tells me, “Ship no.” Even the third day this ritual repeats, but during the afternoon my friend calls me to give me the news: the next day a ship will leave for Aktau. It turned out his mother had secretly been calling too. I always manage to find myself a mother.
As fast as public transport allows me to go, I find my way to the ticket office. A few tourists wait in front of the ticket office.
“Be prepared to hear a lot of ‘nyet,’ Vicky from England warns me.
However, thanks to my basic Russian I did not hear a lot of ‘nyet’. On the contrary, I found out there would indeed be a ship the next day and at nine in the morning the tickets sale would commence. Coming there in the morning, the sale is postponed to twelve and later to four. I decide to sit and wait for it. At three I got my ticket. Two hours later the wagons and trucks entered the ship. At six it was my turn. I call my host with the news that I’m his first guest succeeding in following this dream. It was definitely worth the effort. Who can imagine anything better than watching the sunset on the Caspian, with a mind soaked in wodka?
Meet the worlds tallest flag pole!
An old couple took me from the refreshing mountain scenery just south of Dagestan through the desert to Baku. No way to resist their hospitality: well fed and with a hand full of pocket money they dropped me off in the dusty outskirts of the capital. Azerbaijan is drifting on oil. Still. And how this is visible! Everywhere across the centre are fountains sprinkling in stylish parks, shiny white cars and huge new (too expensive, empty) luxurious apartment blocks, encircled by numerous offshore platforms and rusty nodding donkeys. Horrible. Magnificent.
One evening I invite some acquaintances to guide me through the city. Many stairs lead us up the hill where an eternal fire governs a monument for the casualties of several wars. From there we enjoy a gorgeous view upon the city centre and the to-be-tallest-flagpole-of-the-world, yet another construction exemplifying Azerbaijan’s richness. Or at least it’s president’s richness, as it was him who decided to join the international competition on having the world’s tallest flagpole. The tallest flagpole on one of the windiest places on earth; millions are spent on it. The crane alone is said to be hired for 30000 Euro’s a day; enough to make him decide to build their own crane to replace the hired one. I hope he will be happy after achieving his goal. Maybe the people will be next…
Down the hill we pass my favourite park before we walk back to the newly built metro station serving the old town. At that very moment the road is roughly being emptied by shouting police cars, to make sure that two minutes later a tinted car containing whoever important has all four lanes for it’s own. Every police car has been provided with a megaphone, through which the officers can bark at ordinary people whenever they fancy. This, together with the constant honking everywhere in town, is one of the main reasons why I can never live in Baku. The policemen, shouting over the lanes and often just blowing their microphones, as if they try to blow away the humble person driving in front of them, are too powerful.
Though it’s definitely worth a visit. Go there and see it for yourself! The system may be unpleasant, but the people are amazing, food is affordable and night life is astonishing! Enjoy the good things!
One evening I invite some acquaintances to guide me through the city. Many stairs lead us up the hill where an eternal fire governs a monument for the casualties of several wars. From there we enjoy a gorgeous view upon the city centre and the to-be-tallest-flagpole-of-the-world, yet another construction exemplifying Azerbaijan’s richness. Or at least it’s president’s richness, as it was him who decided to join the international competition on having the world’s tallest flagpole. The tallest flagpole on one of the windiest places on earth; millions are spent on it. The crane alone is said to be hired for 30000 Euro’s a day; enough to make him decide to build their own crane to replace the hired one. I hope he will be happy after achieving his goal. Maybe the people will be next…
Down the hill we pass my favourite park before we walk back to the newly built metro station serving the old town. At that very moment the road is roughly being emptied by shouting police cars, to make sure that two minutes later a tinted car containing whoever important has all four lanes for it’s own. Every police car has been provided with a megaphone, through which the officers can bark at ordinary people whenever they fancy. This, together with the constant honking everywhere in town, is one of the main reasons why I can never live in Baku. The policemen, shouting over the lanes and often just blowing their microphones, as if they try to blow away the humble person driving in front of them, are too powerful.
Though it’s definitely worth a visit. Go there and see it for yourself! The system may be unpleasant, but the people are amazing, food is affordable and night life is astonishing! Enjoy the good things!
Good luck
‘Good luck’: that’s how the last Georgian road sign introduced its neighbor, 1000 meters after I passed a sign preparing us for the Azerbaijanian border. I expected that going east, countries would be found poorer and poorer, and that this process would continue until one reached Japan. Coming from Tbilisi this process accelerated tremendously, so I did not even consider this possibly changing in Azerbaijan. But hey, what did I know about Azerbaijan anyway? I knew nothing.
So how foolish had I been expecting them to stick to my assumptions? How different it turned out to be:
For fifteen minutes, the Azerbaijanian border guard had scrutinized my passport, questioning me about my visit to Armenia before I hitched a ride with an old couple who dropped me off at the first bus station. Immediately it became clear to me: here the money of the Caucasus is spent, streaming as black gold through rusty pipes straight from the Caspian sea, polluting the ground and flourishing parks. It seems exceptionally well arranged, as long as you stay on the main routes within the fences; something I, of course, did not.
Just after my second hitch left me in the picturesque village of Kachekh, I walked down the pavement until my attention was attracted by a few tea drinking fellows. The band of locals asks me whether or not I drink vodka, what I can still prevent to do at that point, and if I lack food.
“I still have some bread and jam”, I tell them the truth.
Before I can blink my eyes one of them collects money among the others and together we enter the neighboring shop. Soon after, I leave with a bag full of cucumbers, tomatoes, bottled water, bread, and a bucket of yoghurt. During the meal one of them proposes that I set up my tent on the field in front of his barbershop, surrounded by a fence against the wolves.
While I fold out my tent, Gansig joins the group of man inspecting how I’m preparing a place to sleep. It doesn’t take time before he says to his friends:
“He can stay at mine.”
I repack my bag. Four of us take a seat in a Lada, which drives us through idyllic lanes to his property. Halfway the driver asks me in Russian: “How do you say ‘Я тебя люблю’ in Dutch?”
“I love you”, I answer, after which he turns his face to the back of the car, sticks out his right hand to one of his friends and shouts: “Ey lave yoo!”
“Watch out!”, his friend answers his empathism brutally; within a hair’s breadth we missed a cow, which had peacefully been grazing the asphalt.
Good Luck!
So how foolish had I been expecting them to stick to my assumptions? How different it turned out to be:
For fifteen minutes, the Azerbaijanian border guard had scrutinized my passport, questioning me about my visit to Armenia before I hitched a ride with an old couple who dropped me off at the first bus station. Immediately it became clear to me: here the money of the Caucasus is spent, streaming as black gold through rusty pipes straight from the Caspian sea, polluting the ground and flourishing parks. It seems exceptionally well arranged, as long as you stay on the main routes within the fences; something I, of course, did not.
Just after my second hitch left me in the picturesque village of Kachekh, I walked down the pavement until my attention was attracted by a few tea drinking fellows. The band of locals asks me whether or not I drink vodka, what I can still prevent to do at that point, and if I lack food.
“I still have some bread and jam”, I tell them the truth.
Before I can blink my eyes one of them collects money among the others and together we enter the neighboring shop. Soon after, I leave with a bag full of cucumbers, tomatoes, bottled water, bread, and a bucket of yoghurt. During the meal one of them proposes that I set up my tent on the field in front of his barbershop, surrounded by a fence against the wolves.
While I fold out my tent, Gansig joins the group of man inspecting how I’m preparing a place to sleep. It doesn’t take time before he says to his friends:
“He can stay at mine.”
I repack my bag. Four of us take a seat in a Lada, which drives us through idyllic lanes to his property. Halfway the driver asks me in Russian: “How do you say ‘Я тебя люблю’ in Dutch?”
“I love you”, I answer, after which he turns his face to the back of the car, sticks out his right hand to one of his friends and shouts: “Ey lave yoo!”
“Watch out!”, his friend answers his empathism brutally; within a hair’s breadth we missed a cow, which had peacefully been grazing the asphalt.
Good Luck!
No kissing in Tbilisi
The man who, at the Armenian borderpost, offered me a spare seat in his Mercedes, drove me to Tbilisi.
“Do you know a place where I can camp?” I asked tactfully.
Levan thinks deeply. Then the answer I was waiting for passed his lips: “You could stay at my place. My wife won’t mind.”
After crossing the city center, we drove off past the ancient capital Mtskheta to his neighboring village. Although his words were pronounced hesitatingly in his car, once at home the genuine Georgian hospitality overwhelms my appearance. Two local homemade wines are poured out in our glasses while Levan prepares a decent omelet with cheese, pickles and several types of meat. The remains of my Armenian bread are peacefully combined with the diamond shaped Georgian one, freshly baked at every local bakery.
Next afternoon I take my chance to roam around the historic center. Two man are playing a game with dice and stones around a table at the side of the road. Around the corner a man is reading his book squatting down, while two loved ones harmoniously connect themselves listening to an MP3-player. Old ladies, sitting on creaky wooden chairs, stare out of their stained glass decorated windows. A long faded trace of paint betrays that decades ago one had money to paint his wood-carved balcony. In every park people relieve their thirst with the numerous public fountains. Charming Tbilisi is scattered along the Mt’k'vari river, streaming through a ravine in the center; this village has enough twisting historic streets to be able to get lost, and on every street-corner a typical church, guarded by the remnants of the fortress on the hill and guided by the millionaires’ shiny palace on the mountain.
I could live here.
Wander along Rustaveli boulevard, discover Saakashvilli’s glassmade egg, eat Kachapurri until your belly is satisfied with the boat shaped bread, a shipload of cheese and one or more raw eggs. Enjoy Georgia as you’re meant to enjoy, though beware once you fall in love with the city: kissing in and around churches is prohibited.
“Do you know a place where I can camp?” I asked tactfully.
Levan thinks deeply. Then the answer I was waiting for passed his lips: “You could stay at my place. My wife won’t mind.”
After crossing the city center, we drove off past the ancient capital Mtskheta to his neighboring village. Although his words were pronounced hesitatingly in his car, once at home the genuine Georgian hospitality overwhelms my appearance. Two local homemade wines are poured out in our glasses while Levan prepares a decent omelet with cheese, pickles and several types of meat. The remains of my Armenian bread are peacefully combined with the diamond shaped Georgian one, freshly baked at every local bakery.
Next afternoon I take my chance to roam around the historic center. Two man are playing a game with dice and stones around a table at the side of the road. Around the corner a man is reading his book squatting down, while two loved ones harmoniously connect themselves listening to an MP3-player. Old ladies, sitting on creaky wooden chairs, stare out of their stained glass decorated windows. A long faded trace of paint betrays that decades ago one had money to paint his wood-carved balcony. In every park people relieve their thirst with the numerous public fountains. Charming Tbilisi is scattered along the Mt’k'vari river, streaming through a ravine in the center; this village has enough twisting historic streets to be able to get lost, and on every street-corner a typical church, guarded by the remnants of the fortress on the hill and guided by the millionaires’ shiny palace on the mountain.
I could live here.
Wander along Rustaveli boulevard, discover Saakashvilli’s glassmade egg, eat Kachapurri until your belly is satisfied with the boat shaped bread, a shipload of cheese and one or more raw eggs. Enjoy Georgia as you’re meant to enjoy, though beware once you fall in love with the city: kissing in and around churches is prohibited.
Osh
With it’s mostly Uzbek population Osh is genuinely different from the Kyrgyz capital Bishkek. This has all to do with it’s location in the Fergana valley, south of the northern branch of the Tien Shan mountains. This makes the city hardly accessible overland from the north during winter. If you decide, in more moderate conditions, to go by car to or from the north side of the country, then make this eight hour ride during the day. You will be delighted by astonishing views, cosy yurt-camps and amazing rock formations whilst conquering the 5000 meters high pass. One might even choose to camp in one of the nomadic villages up there, or just take a break for a well deserved mug of Kimiz (fermented horse milk) and a tasty shashlik.
Osh is a pleasant town, distinctive from other main cities by not being build during the Russian era but just taken over. With it’s 3000 years of history it’s one of the oldest settlements in Central Asia, in other times well known for being a hub on the silk road and it’s own production of silk.
Nowadays Osh is appreciated for the Sunday market, your perfect place to bargain your Kyrgyz hat Uzbek silk and enjoy the Central Asian culture.
For Soviet-lovers there’s no reason to skip Osh. After roaming the market you could wander along the stretched lanes, guided by tall trees, which attempt to hide the unfashionable Soviet-housing from your view. Crossing the river at Alisher Navoi street brings you at the Opera hall, which marks the crossroads with Lenina street. Following this street to the south let’s you discover a three-storied yurt. Further along you’ll feel somewhat short-made between the government building and a tall statue of Lenin, waving gloriously to the empty square, not seeing what happens in the depth behind his back. There a decaying children’s park is situated, worth sneaking in for the contrast it has with the statue. On a sunny day children might be swimming joyful in one of the few filled-up fountain basins, while the rest of the park seems mostly occupied by young couples.
Provided you’re not from one of the 28 countries freed from this hassle, you might want to arrange your obligatory registration at OVIR 800 meters southwards from Lenin’s statue. The office is able to do this during the week and on Saturday’s till 2 PM, as the writer found out Saturday at 2.15 PM.
For lunch or dinner you could reside in one of the many chaichanas around the market for well-made pilaf (rice with vegetables and meat), traditionally baked samsa (baked dough with meat and/or vegetables) or a bowl of delicious lachman (noodle soup). Consider taking green or black tea with your meal. After all that’s where the restaurant is named after.
Osh is a pleasant town, distinctive from other main cities by not being build during the Russian era but just taken over. With it’s 3000 years of history it’s one of the oldest settlements in Central Asia, in other times well known for being a hub on the silk road and it’s own production of silk.
Nowadays Osh is appreciated for the Sunday market, your perfect place to bargain your Kyrgyz hat Uzbek silk and enjoy the Central Asian culture.
For Soviet-lovers there’s no reason to skip Osh. After roaming the market you could wander along the stretched lanes, guided by tall trees, which attempt to hide the unfashionable Soviet-housing from your view. Crossing the river at Alisher Navoi street brings you at the Opera hall, which marks the crossroads with Lenina street. Following this street to the south let’s you discover a three-storied yurt. Further along you’ll feel somewhat short-made between the government building and a tall statue of Lenin, waving gloriously to the empty square, not seeing what happens in the depth behind his back. There a decaying children’s park is situated, worth sneaking in for the contrast it has with the statue. On a sunny day children might be swimming joyful in one of the few filled-up fountain basins, while the rest of the park seems mostly occupied by young couples.
Provided you’re not from one of the 28 countries freed from this hassle, you might want to arrange your obligatory registration at OVIR 800 meters southwards from Lenin’s statue. The office is able to do this during the week and on Saturday’s till 2 PM, as the writer found out Saturday at 2.15 PM.
For lunch or dinner you could reside in one of the many chaichanas around the market for well-made pilaf (rice with vegetables and meat), traditionally baked samsa (baked dough with meat and/or vegetables) or a bowl of delicious lachman (noodle soup). Consider taking green or black tea with your meal. After all that’s where the restaurant is named after.
vrijdag 14 mei 2010
More news from Africa
After the village I went to the capital, where stayed for four weeks. In the second halve of those four weeks I went to children's diseases. They got a lot of belly problems around here, besides malaria and malnutrition. Though the most interesting case was a grey bearded man who visited the clinic with a woman and her two children. He told us he had been living in France for forty years and and has nineteen children. Seventeen from his wife in France and two from his 21-year old wife who was here in Africa.
"But I'm not finished at all!", he admitted. "I'm searching for a third wife now! I'm my parents only child, so I have to ensure succesion"
"That", the doctor answered:"is the most important thing in life. To make sure your family survives."
Though even for Malian standards he was a bit exaggerating. After he closed the door behind him and his fellowship the doctor and his stagiairs laughed at him.
At the eye-department (two rooms) I helped with a treatment. A two year old boy had a thread in his eyelid which had to be removed. There was no place in the consultationroom, so we put him on the only empty seat in the waitingroom where I held his trembling legs tightly while the nurse cut the thread litterally before his eyes. He screamed all the room together (there were a lot of people waiting in there), betrayed by his mum who held his arms. An hour later, when the waiting where gone, the doctor scratched an old man's eye, lying on the waiting room's tabel to let him have sight again. When it was finished, after ten minutes, and he sat right up again the washed the blood from his backhead and the table. I'm glad I didn't have to work there the other day.
Later on I went to the east. Well, it's a big country, so in fact after 600 kilometers I was just some more to the middle, in Sevare, near Mopti. Quite touristic. When I went to Mopti to find some white men to join to visit the Dogon country, I had a guide five seconds after I left the shared taxi. Not that I wanted him, he just walked besides me. I told him he was allowed to walk with me, as we were in communical space, but that I didn't have a lot of money, what, of course, is their final purpose of walking beside white men. But as always they reject the fact they're doing this for money. Friendship is way more important, isn't it? Hakuna matata, inshallah!
So he walked with me for four hours, while I tried to find other tourists. He didn't understand my route as I was crossing the city several times without going anywhere and thought I was doing this to get rid of him. This was not the case, as, like he told me too, from the moment he would not walk with me I would have ten other guides swarming around me in one minute. Another good reason to be happy with his company is that he kept the beggars, craftsmen and traders away, who are very annoying at touristic places. After two hours we went to a boat with blue curtains. Some men where smoking marihuana in there and this person joined them. I'm from Holland, so I don't mind people smoking weed, as long as I don't have to be part of it, but doing this in Mali isn't very sensible, as long as you don't want to see a prison from the inside. When we were walking again I called after two hours another guide who could show me Dogon country and met him while my annoying guide went out of sight for a while. We made a good deal and I gave him all my money, so he could buy some necesarities in advance. Hereafter the first guide came to me and asked me to pay some money, what I didn't have anymore. He didn't believe me till I showed him my empty wallet, whereafter he wished me dead (something about 'mourir') and went away. Later my Dogon guide told me this guy had been in prison for a while because he had robbed a British tourist.
Dogon is beautiful; go there before it's wasted.
Djenne is nice too, especially after some hours of heavy rains, as the sewage system doesn't really exist and all the dirt can be found on the street.
Email to friends, August 2008
"But I'm not finished at all!", he admitted. "I'm searching for a third wife now! I'm my parents only child, so I have to ensure succesion"
"That", the doctor answered:"is the most important thing in life. To make sure your family survives."
Though even for Malian standards he was a bit exaggerating. After he closed the door behind him and his fellowship the doctor and his stagiairs laughed at him.
At the eye-department (two rooms) I helped with a treatment. A two year old boy had a thread in his eyelid which had to be removed. There was no place in the consultationroom, so we put him on the only empty seat in the waitingroom where I held his trembling legs tightly while the nurse cut the thread litterally before his eyes. He screamed all the room together (there were a lot of people waiting in there), betrayed by his mum who held his arms. An hour later, when the waiting where gone, the doctor scratched an old man's eye, lying on the waiting room's tabel to let him have sight again. When it was finished, after ten minutes, and he sat right up again the washed the blood from his backhead and the table. I'm glad I didn't have to work there the other day.
Later on I went to the east. Well, it's a big country, so in fact after 600 kilometers I was just some more to the middle, in Sevare, near Mopti. Quite touristic. When I went to Mopti to find some white men to join to visit the Dogon country, I had a guide five seconds after I left the shared taxi. Not that I wanted him, he just walked besides me. I told him he was allowed to walk with me, as we were in communical space, but that I didn't have a lot of money, what, of course, is their final purpose of walking beside white men. But as always they reject the fact they're doing this for money. Friendship is way more important, isn't it? Hakuna matata, inshallah!
So he walked with me for four hours, while I tried to find other tourists. He didn't understand my route as I was crossing the city several times without going anywhere and thought I was doing this to get rid of him. This was not the case, as, like he told me too, from the moment he would not walk with me I would have ten other guides swarming around me in one minute. Another good reason to be happy with his company is that he kept the beggars, craftsmen and traders away, who are very annoying at touristic places. After two hours we went to a boat with blue curtains. Some men where smoking marihuana in there and this person joined them. I'm from Holland, so I don't mind people smoking weed, as long as I don't have to be part of it, but doing this in Mali isn't very sensible, as long as you don't want to see a prison from the inside. When we were walking again I called after two hours another guide who could show me Dogon country and met him while my annoying guide went out of sight for a while. We made a good deal and I gave him all my money, so he could buy some necesarities in advance. Hereafter the first guide came to me and asked me to pay some money, what I didn't have anymore. He didn't believe me till I showed him my empty wallet, whereafter he wished me dead (something about 'mourir') and went away. Later my Dogon guide told me this guy had been in prison for a while because he had robbed a British tourist.
Dogon is beautiful; go there before it's wasted.
Djenne is nice too, especially after some hours of heavy rains, as the sewage system doesn't really exist and all the dirt can be found on the street.
Email to friends, August 2008
News from Africa
Since five weeks I'm in Mali. For my medical study, I'm spending some time in different hospitals, like I did in Ukrain last year. On my way to West Africa I got the chance to visit Casablanca. There I met a dutch woman with whom I visited the big mosque, where I, of course, wasn't allowed to enter as the praying started and she was robbed by the women who silently showed her the interior. After this great experience (it's a beautiful place at the border of the ocean after all), I took my second flight to Bamako, where I arrived half past three in the morning.
After a three days introduction, arranged by my two dutch friends who live here, I went to a tiny village 80 kilometers from the capital. Here there is no electricity, nor running water, leave aside internet. It could have been a different planet.
I stayed there for two weeks in which I discovered the african way of finding out what disease one has and prescribing medication. The catholic sister sneered upon the patients, to get to know what problems they had, whereafter she directly proclaimed a diagnose and prescribed without any explanation medication against three or four diseases, often malaria included. Very efficient; no need for electricity, a few batteries excepted.
Except for this catholic sister, who actually has a good heart too, the people in this country are extremely generous. Maybe it's because they have a lack of food now and then. They just keep filling you up with meals, up to five a day. I prepared for hunger in africa; now I'm more aware of obesity...
As a white man you seem to be treated like you're from a higher level. You always get the only/best chair and the first tea, what is very important here. I have hardly seen any beer in this village, but I drunk loads of tea almost solidated with sugar. My neighbour always arranges someone to get drinking water from the pump for us and many things like that. It gets annoying very soon.
A strange experience is that your colleague's own child turns out to be hospitalized because of malnutrition and his second wife has died already, that another colleague's mother, sister and brother need to visit the hospital on one day and he himself got malaria the same evening and to see all those mothers, who are younger than me.
The second day of my stage I jumped at the back of a motorcycle (death cause number one) to help to vaccinate some kids and pregnant girls in an even more remote village as where I lived. One of the mothers asked in bambara if she could be my wife. I would get the child for free... There are many 'fertility accidents' here. Abortion is legal in Holland (I'm not speaking about my point of view on this subject), but it is way more practised in country's like this and under much worse conditions, just because doctors are not allowed to do it. I don't even want to talk about female excision, what is practised at close too hundred percent in this region.
For the rest I just watched how consultations were performed and wrote some administration for them. The most interesting hositalized case was a girl of whom I actually thought she had died. She was lying on here stretched out arms (must be good for your belly muscles) with her legs over the border of her bed. She had been in this position since the day before. We weren't able to reach here, but she turned out to have blood pressure. She stayed like this for four days, until she was referred to the capital, where I went the day after.
Now I live around fifteen kilometers away from the capital. I'm travelling one-and-a-half hours twice a day to get forth and back to my hospital. For four weeks it's no problem, but it shouldn't have last any longer. I'm not used to getting up at quarter past five in the morning. Those african party's in the evenings, always with the same very bad loud music and annoying dj's, are stealing my nights.
Here the stage is even more interesting, thanks to the doctor I'm joining. He, and his four other stagiars are talking a lot of french together and he is doing his best to explain me clearly about the symptoms, diagnosis and underlying processes. The first day going there I was lost and arrived there after four hours of filthy busses and wandering in the sun. After being introduced I couldn't understand many of the explanations, although his french was very clear. At half past eleven, during the visit of the hospitalized, with fourteen white coats in one room, he was telling me that headache, transpiration and vomiting were the cardinal signs of malaria. At that very moment I had an headache, was the transpiration starting to exagerate above normal amounts and couldn't I longer wait to admit to my need to vomit. I ran to the toilet (hole in the ground) and did my thing, after which the doctor frightedly asked whether or not I used anti-malarials. I knew it were just those fried cookies I bought on the street; I already thought they were a little to white to be healthy when I ate them.
Two other days we went to some smaller clinics in the neighbourhood to check if their vaccination refrigerators and administrations were held properly, what gave me the opportunity to see how things work on a lower scale.
Last thursday I had a look at the nursery for women's diseases and pregnancy, which were both bigger than general medicine and children's medicine together. I'll know what specialization I'll practise when I'll work in the tropics.
In general I can assure I'm having a great time and an unreplaceable experience.
Email to friends, June 2008
After a three days introduction, arranged by my two dutch friends who live here, I went to a tiny village 80 kilometers from the capital. Here there is no electricity, nor running water, leave aside internet. It could have been a different planet.
I stayed there for two weeks in which I discovered the african way of finding out what disease one has and prescribing medication. The catholic sister sneered upon the patients, to get to know what problems they had, whereafter she directly proclaimed a diagnose and prescribed without any explanation medication against three or four diseases, often malaria included. Very efficient; no need for electricity, a few batteries excepted.
Except for this catholic sister, who actually has a good heart too, the people in this country are extremely generous. Maybe it's because they have a lack of food now and then. They just keep filling you up with meals, up to five a day. I prepared for hunger in africa; now I'm more aware of obesity...
As a white man you seem to be treated like you're from a higher level. You always get the only/best chair and the first tea, what is very important here. I have hardly seen any beer in this village, but I drunk loads of tea almost solidated with sugar. My neighbour always arranges someone to get drinking water from the pump for us and many things like that. It gets annoying very soon.
A strange experience is that your colleague's own child turns out to be hospitalized because of malnutrition and his second wife has died already, that another colleague's mother, sister and brother need to visit the hospital on one day and he himself got malaria the same evening and to see all those mothers, who are younger than me.
The second day of my stage I jumped at the back of a motorcycle (death cause number one) to help to vaccinate some kids and pregnant girls in an even more remote village as where I lived. One of the mothers asked in bambara if she could be my wife. I would get the child for free... There are many 'fertility accidents' here. Abortion is legal in Holland (I'm not speaking about my point of view on this subject), but it is way more practised in country's like this and under much worse conditions, just because doctors are not allowed to do it. I don't even want to talk about female excision, what is practised at close too hundred percent in this region.
For the rest I just watched how consultations were performed and wrote some administration for them. The most interesting hositalized case was a girl of whom I actually thought she had died. She was lying on here stretched out arms (must be good for your belly muscles) with her legs over the border of her bed. She had been in this position since the day before. We weren't able to reach here, but she turned out to have blood pressure. She stayed like this for four days, until she was referred to the capital, where I went the day after.
Now I live around fifteen kilometers away from the capital. I'm travelling one-and-a-half hours twice a day to get forth and back to my hospital. For four weeks it's no problem, but it shouldn't have last any longer. I'm not used to getting up at quarter past five in the morning. Those african party's in the evenings, always with the same very bad loud music and annoying dj's, are stealing my nights.
Here the stage is even more interesting, thanks to the doctor I'm joining. He, and his four other stagiars are talking a lot of french together and he is doing his best to explain me clearly about the symptoms, diagnosis and underlying processes. The first day going there I was lost and arrived there after four hours of filthy busses and wandering in the sun. After being introduced I couldn't understand many of the explanations, although his french was very clear. At half past eleven, during the visit of the hospitalized, with fourteen white coats in one room, he was telling me that headache, transpiration and vomiting were the cardinal signs of malaria. At that very moment I had an headache, was the transpiration starting to exagerate above normal amounts and couldn't I longer wait to admit to my need to vomit. I ran to the toilet (hole in the ground) and did my thing, after which the doctor frightedly asked whether or not I used anti-malarials. I knew it were just those fried cookies I bought on the street; I already thought they were a little to white to be healthy when I ate them.
Two other days we went to some smaller clinics in the neighbourhood to check if their vaccination refrigerators and administrations were held properly, what gave me the opportunity to see how things work on a lower scale.
Last thursday I had a look at the nursery for women's diseases and pregnancy, which were both bigger than general medicine and children's medicine together. I'll know what specialization I'll practise when I'll work in the tropics.
In general I can assure I'm having a great time and an unreplaceable experience.
Email to friends, June 2008
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