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Armenia always had this ‘far away and yet close’ feeling for me: I have been 3 times near its border from different directions, before I actually crossed them. Piia had been there before and was raving about it, so we went there together. After spending a night in Tbilisi, capital of neighbouring Georgia, we got in a van that brought us all the way to Yerevan. What struck me first was that the main highway between the two capitals changed into something of a back road once across the border. I didn’t know much about the country, except for the infamous Armenian Genocide that has created Armenian enclaves all over the planet. I had made several visits to Aleppo’s Armenian Quarter and also to Bourj Hammoud in Beirut, curious about Armenian culture and Armenian food. Armenian food is quite unique, influenced through centuries by countless civilizations, tribes and traders.
Not many people seem to have a clue about Armenia. When I told a clerk, at the international business counter of a Belgian bank, that I would go scouting for new trips in Armenia, he told me bluntly: “I would not go to such a country known for its Islamic terrorists’. I was a bit shocked by his prejudice and lack of basic knowledge while he works with international matters, but well, it’s quite an unknown country. Not only is Armenia the first Christian country on earth with some of the oldest universities in the world, settled at a time when Belgium was still a swamp, it’s also peaceful and very safe. Armenia is very isolated, because its longest borders, the ones with Turkey and its ally Azerbaijan, are closed since the Caucasus got independence from the USSR more than 20 years ago. That makes the country not receive much traffic from other countries, but that’s a huge relief for someone coming from a small, traffic-congested country like Belgium. The Armenian countryside dotted with ancient churches is a paradise for photographers and lots of it is pretty deserted, making a big contrast with the artsy, buzzing Yerevan.
This peacefulness and seemingly manageable traffic made me consider to do something I hadn’t planned to do: ‘Rent a car’. Normally I would never even consider this in a country where I can’t communicate or read anything. Especially in the countryside, people just speak a bit of Russian, but that’s it. And good luck with the Armenian alphabet, which seems like it’s taken from Lord of the Rings. Since I really wanted to go to the South and public transport isn’t an option in such a sparsely populated area, I decided to take the challenge. And the challenge became even bigger: the rental agency had only Lada Niva’s, the former pride of the USSR. I nearly crashed the car during the first minute, but after that it all went smoothly.
The weird thing is that I actually became proud of the car, as you can see me posing as ‘Lada macho’, assuming I would use if for my blog at some point. I doubt I’ll be a trendsetter, but who knows, at some point it might be ‘vintage chique’. But one thing I’m very grateful for: The Lada enabled us to drive on a slippery mountain road towards Karahunj, which is a 7500-year-old observatory, 3500 years older than Stonehenge and together with Gobleki Tepe in South-Eastern Turkey, some of the oldest manmade constructions. In my guidebook it said that the guards would be try to rip you off in all ways, but we ended up having tea and biscuits with them while watching the sunset. No money asked! After our roadtrip to the South, we made it back to via the awesome Lake Sevan to buzzing Yerevan with it’s many café’s and the famous Ararat Brandy distillery. But that story is for a next blog!
Adventure | via Facebook on We Heart It. http://weheartit.com/entry/81172536
We’ll get behind this sentiment anytime.
We were staying at this beautiful lodge only one night so I wasn’t so clear on the dimensions of the room, but I knew the general direction of the bathroom. So I figured I could probably find the bathroom door and switch the light on there. I got up and fumbled in the dark, forward a little step by step, towards the direction of the bathroom. I was able to find the wall, but then I had no idea whether the bathroom was to the left or the right from where I had landed. It’s a good thing I’m not afraid of the dark, because this could have potentially been pretty scary.
Now, as a nomad, I’ve been to some pretty dark places before, like Lapland during the winter when the sun doesn’t come up at all. And yet even there, you would see the reflection of the moon, even on a cloudy night, on the snow. Or some glow from some electric device if inside. But here, there was absolutely nothing, only utter, complete darkness. We were in an eco cabin, in a rain forest, in a national park, far from a city with very tall rain forest trees covering the cabin, so of course I shouldn’t see anything, but the experience, as it came by surprise, was a first of its kind to me, and because of it, all the more memorable.
I had to turn around, back towards the bed, simply because I didn’t know how to continue with my search for the bathroom. I was able to find my bed, but in the process of climbing back into it, I accidentally knocked down my mosquito net. By the time I was lying in the bed, I couldn’t help but giggle to myself. It was just so hard to believe my utter helplessness. But even as I was amused, I still needed to go to the bathroom. Good thing I saw Kemal, one of the people I was sharing the cabin with, put on his flash flight: I was saved as he pointed the way to the bathroom from his bed.
The next day I was thinking about the role of the deep, dark African jungle in European literature. As I was experiencing it, I quite enjoyed the actual, literal concept, but I’m not a fan of how it has been used as a metaphor for all of Africa as somehow dark and unknown and wild. Lapland in the winter can be all those things, too. I know it’s a 19th century stereotype fueled by prejudices, but unfortunately these kinds of things tend to persist in people’s imaginations. But when you don’t connect the amazing darkness to fear and negative things, it becomes beautiful in itself. And it’s rare. I’ve traveled a lot, and had never experienced something like it in an open space like a big cabin. I didn’t even know there were degrees to darkness, this being a full 10.
There was another gift we received from the darkness of the rain forest earlier that evening. We were having dinner at the lodge’s main building, after a successful chimp trek of many hours. We had seen two male chimps and a mother and a baby, and the rain forest trek in itself was a rush. The chimps had moved deeper into the forest than usual so we had to get off the grid of paths to find them. Our ranger was breaking twigs so we could find our way back: added excitement, especially as we made it out of the forest only just before it got dark. And the chimps were a hoot: they looked so human like that I couldn’t help but wonder whether they were observing us rather than we them. Having a lovely dinner on the terrace with some wine, we were feeling happy and accomplished, talking about our trek.
Then Kemal went to get something from our cabin probably about 30 meters deeper in the forest and came back, excited, to get Danny and I. We followed him to see what was happening, and it was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen: thousands of fireflies dancing in the air, as if a long string of blinking Christmas lights. I’ve seen fireflies before but never so many together, and never somewhere so dark. They literally lit up the section of the forest by their dance. I was feeling even happier as we witnessed the beautiful performance, which could have not happened in a place with distracting light pollution: sometimes you need to be somewhere really dark to appreciate its beauty.
A sunset in the Murchison Falls national park, north of Budongo Forest.
I remember having heard about the Rivers Tigris and Euphrates, and the land between them called Mesopotamia, endless times at school, but, when I finally visited the region in 2011, I had no idea it would make such an impression. Glued to the bus window, I took in the scenery along the river Tigris, running via Baghdad all the way to the Persian Gulf, as we were approaching Hasankeyf, in Southeastern Turkey. Sometimes school history books seem to get it right: this ancient region is worth every mention.
Hasankeyf immediately charmed me with its simultaneous calmness and the tangible presence of history, while it also made me feel as if I had been there before. Not a firm believer in past lives, I still couldn’t help but think that maybe I had lived there before: Hasankeyf is supposed to be one of the earliest places where people lived together in organized settlements. There are cliffs with carved cave dwellings and steps, there is the river with water even in the driest months, a beautiful historic bridge and Islamic architecture. The hot summer sun seemed to be color everything in beautiful shades of white and beige.
Not really an overnight place, my friend, Danny, and I still decided to stay and immediately met, as if by magic, a charismatic young man, oozing inner peace — a native of Hasankeyf, who had recently returned to his economically deprived hometown after working in Istanbul for years. He seemed like someone whose disciple one might easily volunteer to become, but with all humbleness he helped set us up at his friend’s place, an unemployed man in need of some extra cash. Next thing we knew, we had our luggage stored in the ticket seller’s booth so we could go explore the ancient cave castle.
As soon as I fell in love with Hasankeyf, I found out about its fate: it’s to be buried under an artificial lake. Preparations are already under way and apartments are being built for the residents up the hill from the historic center. A group of activists working to save the town invited us for an afternoon tea and pointed out that while Hasankeyf fulfills 9 out of 10 requirements for the UNESCO World Heritage List, one of the few in the world to do so, it’s not on the list because the government would have to endorse it for that honor. And they need it for the lake.
With bittersweet feelings about all we had seen and learned, we had some tasty Tigris trout for dinner and had tea on the main street with our new friends, before going to sleep under the stars in the garden of our host, a Tom Waits look-a-like. In these parts of the world, elevated beds on wooden platforms are common. The arid summers with no mosquitoes or dangerous animals provide a perfect setting for a sleep outside. I can’t claim I slept particularly well on the thin mattress, but the experience was well worth it, as if by sleeping outside, we were a step closer to history.
Before leaving for Mardin, our next Mesopotamian city, we had morning tea and a walk with our host, who charmed us with his curiosity and intelligence: we managed to talk about religious beliefs and Turkey joining the EU with only a few shared words of English, German, Arabic and Turkish between us. We paid as agreed, “according to our conscience,” which we decided should be as much as we would have paid for a room in a decent guesthouse.
I felt a bit melancholic but also enlightened sitting yet again in a bus, this time from Hasankeyf to Mardin, another ancient town but on a hilltop, close to the Syrian border. Was it the historically famed setting that made me feel a bit elevated? Or the awe-inspiring, white washed scenery? Or the encounters with the people I can best describe as wise?
The bus dropped us off at the foot of the hill on which Mardin stands, and even though the walk would have been short, the June heat demanded us to take a taxi. An old Arab trading town, Mardin turned out to be completely different from Hasankeyf, but equally impressive. It was bigger with a selection of excellent hotels and restaurants, more affluent and modern, but only a bit, as if from a different phase in the history of Mesopotamia.
Tired from the previous star lit night and the bus ride, we again lucked out and found the perfect place, even if the polar opposite of our outdoors platform bed: a stunning old Arab merchant house transformed into a luxurious hotel. Complete with Arab fairy tale style, the hotel reminded me—as did much of Mardin—of Aleppo in Syria, which used to be one of my favorite places in the world. The hotel was in the middle of a small but bustling souk, where fruit vendors passed free cherries and apricots to us as a welcome. Resting on huge pillows on one of the hotel’s courtyard nooks, sipping mint tea, it seemed no wonder this place was a honeymoon destination for the Turks.
The next day we had a delicious lunch at an organization helping women recover from domestic abuse, tasted locally produced wine with our dinner, and just before moving on, encountered a little boy I gave a kite I was going to mail to my godson. The look on his face, flying his Superman kite in the narrow streets, was one of the happiest I’ve ever seen. To provide more merriment, Danny, an expert map-reader, who never gets lost even in the biggest cities, kept losing his sense of direction on the one street on top of the hill! I suspect his pleasant confusion and letting go were due to the dizzying effect of the two different Mesopotamian cities.
That was my first reaction when I discussed a potential winter destination with my travel buddy. I’ve always been excited about the Middle East and Asia, so something in me said ‘No’ to the Mexico plan. I had quite some stereotypes in my mind, probably shaped by American movies, in which the bad guys invariably tend to escape to Mexico, crossing the border illegally. The country is often portrayed as dry and dusty, with men hanging out in front of dodgy looking motels and uninviting roadside bars. But since my travel partner had just started to study Spanish, I agreed with a Spanish speaking country. Also my landlords had made countless attempts to invite me to their new home on the coast of Oaxaca, making it sound like the ultimate hippie heaven. The hippie part was not a real draw card, but who says no to a potential relaxing holiday spot at the beach? By the time we had bought the tickets, the Spanish classes were dropped. But no complaints since I wouldn’t have agreed to go without them.
The trip started a bit troubled with a snowstorm in New York, creating a total chaos at JFK. So I arrived a day late, and originally I had only planned to stay two nights in Mexico City, a bit frightened by its reputation of pollution and crime. Even for a seasoned traveller, certain stereotypes stick. I had arranged to stay with friends of friends for 2 nights. What happened next was that I completely fell in love with Mexico City, and got invited to stay longer and celebrate Christmas together with my hosts. I stayed in Zona Rosa, the gay neighborhood. What surprised me most about Mexico City, and also other places in Mexico, was the creativity, the artistic attitude many people have. It’s so colorful and vibrant. I had a lovely studio for myself for a week, full of artwork. The windows didn’t close very well, but with the balmy weather it was not an issue. And the air smelled surprisingly fresher than in Antwerp where I live.
My two hosts became friends and we decided to go together to my friends’ place at the beach in Oaxaca. I had a more than relaxing time in Mazunte, in a smartly designed hut on a cliff overlooking the sea. I can’t wait to go back. But the highlight still had to come. On a sunny morning we left with some more friends I had made in meantime, direction Oaxaca City, across the mountains. I’ve never seen such a colorful, pretty, pedestrian friendly, lovely, old colonial city, full of creativity, great food, cool bars and good vibes.
We stayed a week. It might sound a lot for a city, but actually it was not. We did so many things: visiting markets full of exotic ingredients such as grasshoppers and endless varieties of chilies, learning how to cook moles from a local chef, venturing into the local art scene, visiting some fabulous archeological sites like Monte Alban, bathing at the petrified waterfalls of Hierve del Agua.
I discovered Mezcal, which is like Tequila, made from the agave plant. Tequila is actually a Mezcal made from the blue agave. There is a saying attributed to Oaxaca regarding the drink: “para todo mal, mezcal, y para todo bien también” (“for all bad, mezcal, for all good, as well”). I’d never been crazy about Tequila, but maybe it was the setting where I had my first Mezcal that really did the trick. It was a stylish little, pastel green painted place, called Mezcalleria Los Amantes, stocked with huge bottles of Mezcal and a young humorous girl as bar tender, dim light in the place. It might have been new, done by a smart person, but it looked like it had been there for ages. Ever since, I try to get good Mezcal in liquor stores in Belgium, but it never tastes like in that place. I regret not having gone back the next year already, not just for the Mezcal, but for all the creative energy. It’s one of the places where I hope to stay for a longer period. When is the next flight?
Hierve del Agua
The first friend who told me that I had to visit Beirut was a gay piano player in his late thirties. Back then, I asked …
An interesting blog on the #gay scene in #Beirut. Yes, it exists.
“ We have started a new blog on our site, called Nomad Stories. Follow the link below. The first one is about Finland and about being a nomad. We’ll be posting a new one each week. ”—
A new blog: A Nomad’s Homecoming
Who do you think wins, the cat or the dog?
Lazy day at Lake Victoria from 3 years ago. Our travel dates to Uganda are finalized: Dec 29th to Jan 12th. Wanna join? Check details at www.1001worlds.com.
stein.zeit (von visual.rebellion)
.mappschiedsparty. (von visual.rebellion)
Sonne (von Ruben Neugebauer)
(via Martin Rak)
stein.zeit (von visual.rebellion)
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