Slovenia, Romania, Moldova, Transnistria, and Ukraine

Slovenia, Romania, Moldova, Transnistria, and Ukraine
In this episode, I:
-learn how to pronounce Ljubljana
-explore “Dracula’s castle”
-get drunk after one glass of Moldovan wine
-visit a country that technically doesn’t exist
-discovers that “perogies” are not even Ukrainian
SLOVENIA
Having seen every other country in the former Yugoslavia, I figured I might as well complete the set and so I headed to Slovenia, the first country to split away from Belgrade (and the one that did so with the least amount of violence). As a result, Slovenia never had to suffer through the years of war that plagued its erstwhile fellow Yugoslavians, meaning its gorgeous old town is still intact (in fact, I’m pretty sure it’s looking better than it ever did even in its hey day) and its economy was even strong enough for it to join the EU, which it did.
Coming the more “rustic” parts of the Balkans Slovenia was decidedly easy to travel in, although its prices were starting to approach more what I would expect in Western Europe. I stayed at a place called Hostel Park, which was really just the upper floor of Hotel Park and wasn’t terribly remarkable except that it was clean, in a hard-to-find park, and available (I tried to stay in a recommended former prison hostel, but it was booked solid).
To be honest, Slovenia was a crossroads, my last stop at the Balkans, and when I planned to decide how much longer I would travel in Europe and when I would finally go home. I booked my flight there and away deciding I would pop by the other countries in this chapter and fly out of Kiev, where I found the best deal.
Anyways, I did get out see the city in between looking for work and booking flights. I did the usual “free walking tour”thing to meet people and end ed up hooking up with a group of university students starting at the university in Lubljana (pronounce it if you can) who had just arrived from different countries (Canada, Australia, Poland, and Germany) and had somehow decided to become roommates despite the fact that none of them knew each other before hand and some of them couldn’t speak English that well (that may include the Australian). Anyway, they were an interesting group. The only girl (the Canadian) was from Vancouver and an Improv performer who was hoping to get in on the scene in Slovenia (in Slovenian?). She was also partly deaf and had hearing issues (and apparently permanent ringing in her ears) but being Canadian, I understand what she was saying more than any the others and she (perhaps due to her ability to lip read and study what people are trying to say) could sense of most of us when we couldn’t make sense of each other. The Australian guy was the other outgoing member of the group, always wearing his hipster cap and forgetting to pronounce his Rs, and thus confusing everyone else. The German guy, apparently a DJ back home, looked kinda nerdy actually and spoke with a stereotypical German accent, so much so that when you said something he didn’t understand, he’d say “WHAT!” with far too much authority. I think he understood sarcasm, but he couldn’t speak sarcastically in English, so even the most absurd statements such as “In Australia, the Koalas can come down from trees and kill you at any moment” to which he would respond in thick German-English “Yes, then we must to be very careful.”
Slovenia is a gorgeous city, and apparently a romantic place (so if you’re couple, knock yourself out). Ljubljana means “beloved” in Slovenian. One of the bridges was covered in padlocks, apparently this is a recent European fad (started by some cheesy Italian romance novel) where lovers put their names on a padlock and toss the key into the river (the idea being that they can never be separated or “unlocked” again). As a result you get all these decorative padlocks accumulating on bridges like barnacles. You have to be careful, though, as on some of the bridges, the floor is transparent, so if your lady friend is wearing a skirt, those on the river below might be in for a show.
But yeah, if you’re looking for Austro-Hungarian style classical architecture, complete with canals, bike lanes with traffic lights and angry cyclists with their silly bells, and a bridge guarded by dragons (dragons are the symbol of the city as apparently Jason and the Argonauts—of the Greek myth not the CFL franchise—fought a dragon here), its a great place to cafe away.
BUDAPEST
Last time I was in Hungary (a rather fleeting visit in 2007) I missed Budapest, much to the shock of many as this city is something of a legend on the backpacker circuit. This time though, I made a point of hitting it, between Slovenia and Romania.
Truth be told, while the old parts of town are definitely nice (although comparable to other European cities), its actually a fairly normal city at the end of the day (although a surprisingly big city). It’s a place to party, and certainly there are plenty of those, but i was disappointed to hear that the party in the baths was no longer in season. I did go to the famous Hungarian-Turkish baths, but basically they’re just luke-warm to quasi-warm pools that you share with a bunch of hairy Hungarian old men, although some were playing chess which I found interesting. At one point, my wallet fell out of my pants while I was changing my clothes and I thought it had been stolen, but a Chinese couple had found it and returned once they finished with the bath so I got it back right before I left. Thank God.
Anyways, I also did a walking tour here and I met a few interesting people most notable a Canadian girl who goes by the name of The Hungarian Girl (she’s of Hungarian descent) who works for Reuters and runs a travel blog on Eastern Europe which I’m hoping I might be able to write a piece for (she has offered to pay me a whopping $25 for a piece on the tunnels of Sarajevo. Woot!).
I ended up staying at the original hostel of Budapest (on the Buda side although most everything else is on the Pest side, and nobody from Budapest cares if you’re from Buda or Pest any more), which is basically a converted house. It was interesting place, and definitely famous, although it was average in terms of hostel services (although the staff spoke English fluenty—mostly because they were backpackers themselves—which was a nice change). Bit of problem with neighbours and noise complaints mind you. Anyways, I met a few people here, including a French girl with a rubber arm, (except when it came to referring to “frites francaise” as French cuisine) so i got to practice a bit of French with her, although when she started asking me for dating advice for the friend she loved who was returning from Afghanistan, my phrases about “pamplemouse” and “bibliotheques” were not so useful. Also met an American guy (one of the few) who had strong opinions about various subjects we were not actually discussing, such as things to do in Cincinatti. Anyway, we out “clubbing” one night so I got a sample of the nightlife, but I’m not really any good at a club unless I find someone who appreciates my style of terrible dancing, which is difficult. Anyways, wasn’t my night, but I guess it was for quite a few other folks.
On to Romania.
ROMANIA
Having set my Intern comic in “Dracula’s Castle” in Romania, I thought it appropriate that I actually visit the place while I was in the neighbourhood and so I went on to Transylvania (yes, there actually is a Transylvania, its a province of Romania). And there actually was a Dracula, although he’s more widely known in history as Vlad the Impaler (Bram Stoker named his vampire after the historical figure, although Stoker himself never came to Eastern Europe at all). “Dracula” was a nickname given to Vlad as a child because he was the son of another Vlad who was named “Dracul” (dragon), so “Dracula” literally means “son of the dragon.” Although it also means “son of the devil” in more recent Romanian. While Dracula in Hollywood, even the historical one, is generally depicted as being a mass murdering tyrant, apparently his own people actually like him somewhat (they see him as a man of the people, who fought off the Turkish invasion and interference from the crooked nobility). In any rate, evil or not, Romania’s definitely benefiting now from Vlad’s indirect fame as the entire region is geared towards a “spooky” tourism system.
That said, Transylvania does actually live up to its reputation in some respects. Brasov—the main city—has picturesquely crumbling old town, with tiled roofs, a black tower (not actually black), and a black church (actually black) that evokes the spooky feel you’re looking for. I even did the typical Dracula-story thing and stayed the night with a stranger, although in this case, they were elderly Romanians just offering the extra rooms in their apartment, which—while nicely furnished with antiques—where not actually haunted (although I did have to fumble my through a dark hall way to get there).
The Carpathian mountains, rolling evergreen trees intermixed with trees losing their leaves (I’m glad I visited in October, I couldn’t have picked a better time) make for some gorgeous scenery, and of course there are the castles.
Bran Castle, known as Dracula’s Castle although the link to Vlad the Impaler is tenuous (Lonely Planet says he may have taken a shit here), is still a gorgeously creepy place that doesn’t disappoint. It even has secret passages behind bookcases (that you can go through) and an odd well and towers that seem to rise out of nowhere. I gotta be honest and say the inner NES geek in me felt I was playing Castlevania for realsies.
But I digress, Romania isn’t spooky-spook. While parts of the country are still using old Cold War Dacias to get around (or even horse and wagon), the Banco Transylvania (yes there is such a thing) has a working ATM machine and the country appears to be modernizing fast (Its part of the EU now). Still though, I’d have say it was one of my highlights, even if I had to Skype with my parents from a pub (only place I could find working Wifi) that cranked the Electric Swing music (a genre that I hadn’t experienced before but am now sorta getting into).
MOLDOVA
After taking a circuitous route around the Carpathians, which involved heading south to Bucharest and then north to Chisinau in Moldova, I found myself in the capital of this oft-forgotten country that is so far removed from tourist hotspots like Paris or Amsterdam that even the locals are surprised that anyone would go there. Truth be told, my guidebook said that most Moldovan travel blogs are likely to be written by “melancholy Peace Corps volunteers” rather than travellers and indeed I was on the traveller I met there (although I did meet some melancholy Peace Corps volunteers, although they were still friendly).
Historically linked with Romania (the Moldovans speak a dialect of Romanian), Chisinau sadly lacks the architectural charms of Brasov, espousing more of a Soviet-esque look, but not extreme enough to make it interesting. That said, there are plenty of nice parts of the Moldovan capital, although good luck finding someone who can speak English.
Interestingly, Moldova is something of an upcoming wine destination (or perhaps undiscovered is the word I’m looking for here). There was a wine fest called Moldexpo on while I was in town and I was able to get myself quite a few samples of the red and white stuff (although a bit too many samples, which—considering I had slept in and missed breakfast—meant I got drunk pretty quickly). That said, it was tasty, tasty wine (this from a guy who usually doesn’t rave about wine) and pretty darn cheap at that (you can buy an “expensive” bottle for like $10). Maybe this is because Moldova has no shortage of wine, in fact hold’s the Guiness World Record for largest wine cellar as they took an old quarry and filled all 60 km of its underground tunnels with wine. Now there’s a party waiting to happen.
I also did some other things, mostly museums (history museum is alright, just a collection of old uniforms, coins from the Mongol invasions, and an impressive WW2 diorama, although not as cool as the one in Wroclaw; there was also a surprisingly fun Ethnographic and Natural History Museum, although I’m not sure where they got that combo from). Chisinau is another place that’s said to have a decent nightlife (although traveling alone makes enjoying the nightlife difficult at times), but I heard of this place called Deja Vu which was said to be a cocktail bar, so I thought why not. Turns out it was more of a dance club with few dubious characters, including middle-aged guys hanging out on their own or with women half their age (so either they’re gangsters or they’re creepy, either way, I kept my distance). At one point I found a quieter nook and met a friendly local girl, who spoke a little English. I asked her what she did, and she said she worked here. I asked her if she was a bartender and she said no, but didn’t explain any further (although she did give me a little wink. Figured it best to not ask any more questions at that point. Anyways, she and her “friend” soon left and I finished my drink and left a bit after that.
At the moment, I’m on a train to Ukraine leaving Moldova (hoping I can still spend my leftover Moldovan lei)
TRANSNISTRIA
What you’ve never heard of this country? Perhaps because its not actually a country. Well not really.
Basically, let’s do a crash-course in recent Moldovan history. Moldova, while Romanian in culture and language, was actually a province of the USSR up until its collapse in 1991. At that point, Moldova declared independence, but the local Russian population (based mostly on the east side of the Dneister river, along the border with Ukraine) didn’t want none of this independence business, and so they declared independence from the Moldovan independence. A civil war ensued, ending in semi-autonomy for Transnistria (sometimes called the unpronounceable Transdniester), but Moldova still claims the territory as within its borders. Transnistria is de facto independent though, as it has its own currency, own border officials, own flag (it uses the old Soviet flag with green and orange stripes on the bottom), and all the signs are in Russian (that is to say Cyrillic). It’s something of like Russia’s version of Kosovo, except that not even Russia recognizes Transnistria as independent (although they do have 5000 troups there guaranteeing its existence).
That said while sold as one of the world’s last bastions of communism, it’s about as “communist” as China is these days. Sure there are a couple of Soviet-style border guards and monuments hanging around, but these off-set by the huge number of advertisements in Tiraspol, often for American films (Ice Age appears to have been popular here, although the reference was a bit dated). While Transnistria has a reputation of being a bit out there (as recently as 2007, its tourism website said “Tourists are not welcome in Transnistria” and the Canadian gov’t travel advisory still lists it as “Avoid all Travel” which is a step more dangerous than the designation “Avoid Non-essential Travel” that they use for places like the DRC or Syria). That said, it was fairly normal, functioning place, and if you didn’t know any better (and ignored the occasional hammer and sickle and/or bust of Lenin), you might be in any run-of-the-mill city in the region. There’s even a beach (on the Dneister I presume) where you can swim or paddle a kayak (although I never figured out if you could actually rent the things). Despite being a weekday, there were also at least two separate wedding parties going around getting their pictures taken.
At one point, I crossed over a bridge into a forested island and I saw a lot of Soviet style uniforms so I got a little worried, but then I heard a brass band and I saw that these were members of a brass band that for some reason was playing a little victory song for runners of a marathon as they were coming up on their finish line. Every runner that came down the way would have the music start up for them (and two women would pull the ribbon across, although they eventually got lazy and stopped doing this) and the music would stop abruptly as soon as they crossed the line. Some of the runners (I think it was a charity marathon) appeared to be from Germany or other parts of Europe and looked a tad surprised to see a Soviet-style brass band inexplicably welcoming them to the finish, but there are worse things one could encounter when about to finish a race.
I never even had to bribe a border guard (fingers crossed, as I write this I’m on a train from Chisinau to Kiev which is apparently going through Transnistria, I’ve already passed one guard but there might be another issue on the way as it seems this train has taken me back into Transnistria and we’re sitting at the train station in Tiraspol waiting to move). To get here the first, time I basically had to take a “Maxi Taxi” to and from Chisinau (like the African minibuses, but not quite as crowded although some passengers did have to sit on little fold out stools in the aisles, but at least it was cheap). The first time through there were no problems, and I even met a friendly Transnistrian (although she called herself a “Russian girl”) who helped me get through the border with ease, although the border guards (as in Moldova) all had these big over-sized hats, which matched with their stern expression, made it difficult for me at times not to laugh, but I didn’t want to pay a 200 euro “fine” so I kept my giggles to myself.
I did have a bit more issues second time around entering Transnistria. No Russian girl to help me this time, I was all alone in my cabin in the train when a met in full Soviet get-up knocked on my door and surprised me. He said a few things to me in Russian, which granted could have been asking for a bribe or could have been telling me that the moon had fallen into the Pacific, either way I had no clue what he was saying. He looked at my passport and searched my bag, seemed to be complaining about the mess, and made a point of asking me what each and every pill in my shaving case did and was for (which I answered although I don’t know if he understood my answers). He checked every one of my bags and every one of my pockets, but the only suspicious was a copy of Command and Conquer: Red Alert 3 (a computer game where players take control of fancified versions of the militaries of the Soviet Union, Imperial Japan, or basically NATO, and duke it out, its a fun game if you like real-time strategy and is something of a more goofy version of Starcraft). I don’t know if he had ever heard of the game before, but I soon found myself in a surreal situation where a border official, in full Soviet-style get-up complete with hammer and sickle and everything, was holding and staring at a game case he found in my bag, featuring a scantily clad “Soviet” female commando and various other exaggerations of Soviet kitsche. He stared at the game for a minute and then asked “you... journalist?” (he couldn’t speak a lick of English and pronounced my name something like Rouen, so it took me awhile to get that he was reading my name off of my passport). To my relief, he tired of the game, put it back in the bag, and went on to quizzing me about my various over-the-counter meds leftover from ailments past.
Ukraine’s my last stop before home. Kiev, here I come.
UKRAINE
Arriving in Kiev I was once again presented with signs only in Cyrillic, but unlike in Belgrade, I was also in a massive city (and a massively confusing train station). Every time I went out the door in Kiev, I inevitably ended up lost, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing (good way to see the nice old parts of Kiev), although I could used a few more street signs in Roman alphabet (especially ones pointing the way I thought they would). At any rate, I couldn’t find the hostel I intended to stay at, but I found another one instead so it all worked out. The weather was really crappy (torrential rain), but I’d had good weather up until this point, so I can’t complain.
The hostel was actually the top two floors of an old Soviet apartment building with no outside sign (It was just dumb luck that I found it, looking for another hostel that was supposedly at its address). It was mostly empty save for a handful of Peace Corps volunteers, a 48 year old creepy German guy who got annoyed when I closed the door the dormitory (I only did to change when no one else was in there and I thought he was out, but he would inevitably come back at that time). He was the only other guy in the dorm room mostly.
There was also a heartbroken Frenchman (of American descent, his family apparently moved from the States to France, so he speaks English well but with a French accent), who had apparently just been dumped by his fiancé. Eastern European women are apparently (and quite justly) known for their beauty, and while I’d heard of Russian mail-order brides before, I didn’t realize it was so abundant. Apparently, my French friend—who was a muscular, 28-year old Frenchman who enjoyed cooking, so I wouldn’t think he’d normally have need to come all the way to Ukraine to find a bride—had met his ex-fiancé over the Internet a year ago, looking for a traditional girl he could “protect” (I don’t think he had the most political correct attitudes towards women, which may explain the problems he was having, but the guy just broke-up with his fiancé, so who am I to judge?). Unfortunately for him, the wedding was supposed to happen that weekend and his family were still flying in! Oh well, at least they could have a mini-vacation in Kiev.
Yeah meeting Eastern European brides over the Internet seems to be a widespread thing, especially in Kiev, a couple I met on a walking tour had also been courting over the Internet before meeting in person and were the opposite of the French guy—so lovey-dovey that I wanted to push them off a gilded dome. But again there were some major age differences and I don’t know how long term the relationship would be, but whatever. You gotta do what you gotta do.
The walking tours were cool and as always a great way to see the local side of the city. And Kiev is certainly both a gritty and beautiful place (depending on the neighbourhood). A major city in the former Soviet Union, it does have plenty of old Soviet era relics, although most of the classic architecture seems to date back to the Czarist times. While surpressed under the USSR, these days the churches are the highlight of the Kiev architecture, and with their gilded domes and colourful paints, its not hard to see why. St. Andrews, one of the most gorgeous, also a great little craft market on the cobblestone street beside it (called St. Andrews descent) where I bought most of my souvenirs.
While you might find Ukrainian ornate easter eggs, plates, and other goodies you’d expect at the craft market (where every thing is hand-made, and explicity “not from China”), the matrushka dolls are not Ukrainian; they’re Russian. Likewise, perogies, I was surprised to learn, are not Ukrainian (tell that to the Ukrainian Manitobans). Perogies are apparently Polish. The Ukrainians do have a dish that is similar (read the exact same) as perogies, but they call it varashni or something. Still tasty though.
It was rainy most of my days in Kiev, so I didn’t get to see as much as I would like. But I did see the Lavras Monastery (a monastery and church complex dating back to the 11th century and a holy site of pilgrimage filled with the mummies of dead monks in eery candlelit tunnels). It was a park area by the river and with the fall foliage, looked gorgeous.
I also went to the Chernobyl Museum which basically focused on the individual workers who risked (and in many cases lost) their lives trying to mitigate the disaster. I tried to go to Chernobyl itself (they offer tours to it), but unfortunately they seem to have restricted the number of tours these days (apparently its gov’t bureaucracy) and it goes so happened the nearest days available were both outside of my time period in Kiev (and because I had that flight, I couldn’t extend it). Oh well. Guess I don’t get to be radioactive. Maybe that’s a good thing.
Certainly standards, while not as bad as in Africa, are a bit questionable. While I was in Kiev, the Ukrainian government—the same gov’t that had come to power through popular support of the Orange Revolution—made news around the world, for convicted the leader of the opposition on dubious charges and sentencing her to 7 years in Prison. Unfortunately, it appears that the Orange Revolution reformers have become that which they despised, but hopefully fairness and justice will prevail.
I flew out of Kiev on Polish airline called Lot, first to Warsaw and then to Toronto, where I caught an Air Canada flight to Wpg (although I booked all these flights together as part of a cheap deal through Travelocity). Lot has a good reputation and its a Star Alliance airline, so I assumed it would be okay.
The seats were really cramped though, almost as if i got on another cramped bus. It was made worse by the fact that I ended up sitting next to a friendly but drunk-as-a-skunk Norweigan guy (he apparently dealt with his fear of flying by drinking, and also claimed to be a pilot for some reason, but he certainly didn’t help with my fear of flying). Lot is supposed to have a free wine and beer policy, and despite the fact that he was smashed before we even took off (and the flight to Warsaw was only like an hour) he still managed to have 5 glasses of wine before the flight attendants thankfully cut him off (at which point he even tried to get me to get wine for him). He was travelling with his father-in-law. He wasn’t mean or nasty or anything, just annoying. I deal with my fear of flying by meditating, which is difficult when a large Norweigan drunk is elbowing you at randow intervals and asking if you know “Jerry” (which turned out to be a reference to Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead of all things) and repeated statements of “you’re from Canada” as I he was bemused at discovering my citizenship anew every 5 mins (“Yep, I’m still Canadian. Haven’t changed my citizenship mid-flight or anything).
While I was lucky with my transfers (they all went smoothly and easily and were about an hour or three tops), but the flight from Warsaw to Toronto was a bit of a doozy. Once again I was in a cramped seat next to someone I didn’t really want to be next to in this case, a confused Polish senior citizen who seemed like it was his first time on a plane (yet he spoke decent English and claimed to live in Toronto, so I don’t see how that would be possible). Nevertheless, he seemed genuinely surprised at how high the plane was flying and when the landing gear popped out for landing he freaked out and shouted “what the hell was that?” (again, not good for my meditating to deal with my fear of flying). At one point, I went to use the washroom and I couldn’t get back to my seat for 45 minutes as he struggled to buy two bottles of liquor from the flight attendants using Canadian money (I ended up having to use his money, talk to the flight attendants and then give him his change and his bottles, at which he insisted on cramming the two boxes into his carry-on which would not work and was ultimately pointless as someone had arranged for a wheel chair to pick him up on arrival). To make matters worse, the flight not only had no personal tvs, but no entertainment whatsoever for the first half of the flight. We were basically over Canadian waters before they finally started playing the crappy romantic comedies on a camera so old it made modern movies look like they were shot in the 1960s with 16 mm (maybe that’s a cool effect).
Anyways after getting through Canadian customs (which was sterner than usual, perhaps because the flight was from Poland, but my passport is Canadian, so I don’t really have to say how long I’m planning to stay here). At any rate, soon I was seeing hockey on the TV and Tim Hortons so I knew I was back in Canada.
The flight from Toronto to Winnipeg was with Air Canada was actually pretty problem free (although it was slightly delayed), although Air Canada had been scheduled to go on strike so I thought I might have ended up stranded in Toronto. But Harper’s gov’t basically ordered the striking flight attendants back to work, so their loss was my gain and the flight itself was only half full and I got a whole row to myself (which felt like luxury compared to what i was used to) and happily spent the flight watching the personal tv, including the People vs. George Lucas (a doc about fans upset about the new Star Wars movies), some Parks Canada promo involving artists from Toronto in the NWT, and—appropriately enough—Idiot Abroad.
Well that’s it for this trip, probably going to be laying low for the next little while and looking for work. Maybe I’ll find a stable job at home and hang up my traveling shoes for good. Or maybe I’ll find another job overseas. We’ll see.
Thanks for reading.

Macedonia, Greece, Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, and Bosnia-Hercezgovina

Macedonia, Greece, Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, and Bosnia-Hercezgovina
In this episode, I...
-happen into Macedonia on its 20th birthday
-have fun with Bunkers in Albania
-Go “tunnelling” in formerly war-torn Sarajevo
MACEDONIA
After arriving in Macedonia’s capital Skopje from Kosovo, I assumed things would probably be a fair more developed than in Kosovo but not as developed as Belgrade (a fair assessment), but I was surprised to find getting a taxi driver to take you to your actual destination is quite an undertaking (not only was I taken by two separate taxi drivers to two wrong locations, my actual hotel ended up being only a few blocks from the bus/rail station anyway, so I could have walked). That said, the hostel was very hard to find (tucked away in alleys by the river, and devoid of any sign, or street sign for that matter) but somehow I managed to get to it (granted I think my guidebook had an error on its map which caused some of the confusion).
Skopje is actually a fairly compact city centred around its central river. You can walk most places although most of it seemed under construction, possibly for its 20th anniversary celebration which my visit happened to coincide. Despite the fact that if the country isn’t even old enough to drink in the US, Macedonian pride was on high and the flag—a striking Hellenistic yellow sun on a red background—was visible everywhere. Skopje’s showpiece square (which at the moment I believe is called Macedonian square), features a highly oversized statue of Alexander the Great on a horse on a pedestal above a series of other statues, lights, and fountain show (though at the time, much of this was behind scaffolding).
After hanging out in Skopje for a bit, I took a bus out to Lake Olhrud (Ohlrud? Ohrud? Ohruid? How do spell this blessed thing?) which is said to be the spiritual heart of Macedonia (although its shared with Albania). This is said to be the place where the Cyrillic alphabet (the one used by Russians, Ukrainians, Serbians, Bulgarians, Montenegrins, and of course Macedonians) was invented, apparently to confuse people who read the Latin alphabet. I’m not kidding. The Eastern Roman empire at the time was trying to distance itself from the Western Roman empire (ie. Rome), so it figured if it created a different alphabet (and made it based on local languages instead of Latin) it would be more popular locally and the Western Romans wouldn’t be able to read it (also Easterners wouldn’t be able to read Latin).
Lake Olhrud (let’s just call it that) is certainly a gorgeous setting to create a new alphabet, a scenic medieval town (with twisty cobblestone streets, old churches, and the like), dominated by an old Ottoman fort, overlooking cliffs and a freshwater lake, with café and beaches along the base of the cliff where you can swim and have a drink. Fantastic. It’s like Greece except affordable… and less salty.
Technically I was supposed to move on at that point, but the train appears to have been cancelled between Macedonia and Greece to the ongoing name dispute. In effect, Greece—which has a province called Macedonia with occasional separatist tendencies—has objected to Macedonia calling itself Macedonia for the last 20 years, but Macedonia refuses to budge (I suggested they just change the name to France, but apparently that’s another kettle of fish). I find it a bit odd that Macedonia and Greece’s squabbling over a name has caused more border issues than I had between Serbia and Kosovo (despite the fact that Serbia and Kosovo had legitimate concerns, like a war and genocide, to get all ancy about), but I was able to get a 6 am bus the next day so it was no big deal.
As a result of the layover, I was also hosted by Melka, a local Macedonian woman I met on the bus back from Olhrud who—a heavy metal enthusiast—took me out to party in Skopje. She showed me quite a few places in Skopje, but one thing she didn’t show me—despite its apparent Balkan popularity—is something called Turbofolk, which her (and the Serbian rocker) both were adamant about their absolute distaste for it. Turbofolk as far as I can gather involves twisted souped-up remixes of folk music (probably techno) involving in the words of Melka “a big breasted woman and some stupid people.” Turbofolk is probably as distasteful as its made out to be, but my morbid curiosity is starting to get the better of me.
Anyways, strange pop cultural phenomena aside, Melka showed me a fantastic time and we cooked up a Macedonian storm in her little apartment, including sausages (most of which I can’t pronounce), vegetables, and fun scaring her roommate who would freak out any time I spoke English to her. Sadly though, I don’t have time to linger on this trip so on to Greece I went.
GREECE
Greece, to be frank, was something of a disaster for me. Being a history and mythology buff, I had high hopes for Greece and had heard great things (most people have a great time), but a disappointing introduction to Athens, high prices, and the theft of my digital camera made me wish I’d stayed in Macedonia.
Getting to Greece from Macedonia in the first place was tricky, as Greece had inexplicably cut off rail links with other countries, presumably due to the economic crisis (although I don’t understand how making it more difficult for people to come to your country helps your economy). Having limited time, I decided to base myself in Athens and maybe check out one of the legendary islands of the Aegean.
On my first day in Athens, I tried to do a walking tour (one of the great ways to meet fellow travellers in a new city, well usually anyway) but the tour guide (a cynical American expat who apparently was only in Athens because he married a Greek girl) seemed more interested in pointing out where to find the city’s crack addicts than talking about history and myth (in fact, he complained about tour guides talking about history and mythology, saying “nobody gives a damn about that shit.”) Of course, he made sure to remind us to tip him after the tour (despite the fact that the tour wasn’t even free). Think I’ll stick to the free tours (and if I can’t find one, just go on my own).
The old remaining Greek and Roman ruins are impressive although what remains of them is being not-so-slowly eroded away by the steady march of tourist hordes, often fresh from a cruise boat. And its hard to get an appreciation for what Socrates must have been thinking while you’re being rushed through a mob and trying to defend yourself against pickpockets.
Being told that the islands were what made Greece legendary, I decided to check out one of them—Hydra, relatively close to Athens, but still considered impressive. It was fine, and the old harbor town was quite beautiful (and exactly what you’d expect from a Greek coastal town), but it was quite small, entirely touristy, and you could finish exploring it in about 10 mins. I spent the rest of the day on the island trying to find somewhere to swim (for free). There weren’t beaches per se (at least not sandy ones), but they did have a view ladders built off of rocks into swimming sections. I swam a bit around the rocks as the sea tossed me to and fro (mostly wakes from ferry boats) and was surprised to find that I seemed extremely buoyant (so much so that my head would actually stay above water, and I could breathe, even if I didn’t bother treading water). But swimming on your own is only amusing for so long, so I got back on shore and caught the hydrofoil back to Athens.
It was on arrival back in Athens when I believe disaster struck (I believe, because I didn’t notice them do it, but I had to pass through a notorious square filled with shady characters in order to get back to my hostel, and there were a couple times I got stopped by traffic or someone jumped in front of me and tried to distract me.
Keep in mind I was travelling with all my bags (I had thought I was going to stay on the island for a couple of days, but ended up deciding to come back the same day), so I was mostly trying to guard them and I guess I must have left my pockets unguarded as sure enough next morning I discovered my digital camera—the one I had bought to replace the one that was stolen in South Africa—had once again been stolen (this time with all my pictures of Macedonia, Kosovo, and Greece).
This was a disaster, and losing the pictures broke my heart. To make matters worse, my hostel wouldn’t let me have my bed back (despite the fact no one was using it), because that particular dorm room was empty (yes, not a single other person was even in the room). They reasoned if I got a dorm room to myself, then I should pay a single room rate, even though there were so many empty dorm rooms that that they could have easily scattered everyone they crammed into the one dorm room into separate rooms and given us all a better night’s sleep.
The next day, my last in Greece, was spent trying frantically to determine if by chance my camera had been left in the Metro or the Subway, but it became evidently clear that this was a chronic problem in Greece and nobody cared to do anything about. After hours of futility, I caught the bus to Albania and bid Greece a not-so-fond farewell.
The other countries in the Balkans sometimes refer to Greece as the France of the Balkans, because it strikes a lot, is expensive, and always causes a fuss. The description appears to be apt. Granted many people adore Greece (mostly college students, ladies and couples I find), but I’ll take Eastern Europe over it any day. That and its just way too damn hot.
ALBANIA
After Greece, I was looking forward to getting back into Eastern Europe proper (with its lower prices and smaller tourist hordes). Tirana, Albania’s capital, is practically the anti-thesis of Athens, under-developed, under-rated, and inexpensive. In other words, fantastic! I knew things were going to be different as soon as I bought my bus ticket from an Albanian tour operator, who couldn’t speak a lick of English, and has a big Albanian flag and a stuffed full-size Albanian hawk (yes a real one) overlooking the ticket counter.
While tourist attractions were few and far between there were plenty of cafes, old buildings, and old communist-era relics to amuse, in particular the pyramid built by the late dictator Hoxha as a museum to himself, that has since been re-purposed multiple times and is presently, it seems, being used as a monument to how detested the former authoritarian was (another legacy of the Hoxha era are the thousands of bunkers built along the coast, apparently to stave off a Western Imperialist invasion (because everyone knows Albania was target number one) and which have since been repurposed into parts of houses, restaurants, places to lose ones virginity, and of course public “toilets”)
Incidentally, while some Muslim countries (Albania is technically a Muslim country) maybe had a somewhat different opinion of George W. Bush, Albanians apparently liked him enough to name a street after him.
The nightlife situation in Tirana is perhaps a bit tame, I’m not sure, I didn’t really get to explore it. I tried to, but the street I thought the nightclubs happened to swamped with Albanian police in front of a do not cross line when I arrive and an Albanian newscaster was doing a story on it. Clearly something big (and most probably bad) had happened, but I couldn’t figure out what it was as no one spoke English. Deciding it best to maybe just head back to my hostel, I passed a fast food restaurant that was open on the way and I say they were watching that same reporter on the TV (at the same corner I just was) and I asked the guys hanging out in there if they could speak English (thankfully one could… a little) and he explained that two masked men with guns had tried to rob a casino, the police came, there was a shoot-out with police and a couple officers were wounded (one may have been killed), but they managed to arrest the robbers, of this 20 minutes before I arrived (I’m just glad I wasn’t a little more punctual).
The next day I headed one to Montenegro which was a little strange (Albania’s buses tend to defy regional logic, but they’re cheap) which involved switching a lot, but paying more for the cab to the bus station than for the bus itself. After being dropped off in a town near the border, but not at the border, myself and an Austrian guy ended up sharing a cab with local driver (he talked us into it) who took us to the border itself, and after a bit of a confusing time clearing customs and trying to find transportation onward to Budva (a coastal resort town in Montenegro) we decided we would probably have to hitchhike as the buses that were promised to be on the other side of customs were nowhere in sight. We needn’t have worried though, as before I was even able to stick out my thumb a bus came out of nowhere, picked us up and we happily went on our way, ending up in Budva well ahead of schedule.
MONTENEGRO
A tiny country, Montenegro used to be joined with Serbia until it went its own way just a few years ago. As such, it quickly became the latest Mediterranean ”secret” out of the former Yugoslavia (something Croatia was once upon a time), but it is clear that Montenegro is going the way of the Croatia (in many ways its already there) and adventurous travelers might even have to go as far as Albania to escape the hordes.
That said, Montenegro is still a gorgeous country (and cheap and easy to get around, as its so tiny). Budva was basically in the center of the coast and in between two highlights mentioned in my guidebook, Sveti Stefan and Kotor Bay.
We hit Sveti Stefan first because Kotor Bay was on my way to Croatia (where I was heading next). Sveti Stefan is a small medieval town on a small almost-island barely connected to the mainland. It is very scenic but unfortunately you can’t explore because the whole thing has been turned into an exclusive hotel (and if you’re reading my blog, you probably can’t afford it). Even the beach beside it had a big sign reading 50 euros for a swim (outrageous!). Needless to say, we did take a dip, but we ignored the sign.
While my Austrian buddy Michael sunned it up on the pebble beach that you didn’t have to pay 50 euros for, I hiked around the little park area (very pleased to see hills with trees on them after Greece) and asked a waiter what one does in Sveti Stefan.
“Fish or pick-up Russian women,” he replied. I was never a fan of seafood.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t speak Russian either.
Budva itself was a bit more down to earth (although still very touristy) and had its own summer fair-style theme park (filled with children) and right next to it an open air strip club (great for the kids). It seems in Croatia and Montenegro, the most affordable places to stay are at private guesthouses that you get from the old people who approach you at bus or train stations. At first I was a little suspicious of these (based on my experience in Africa, I always assume someone who’s approaching me at a bus or train station and trying to sell me something is not offering me the best deal), but it turned out okay.
Anyway, the next day I continued along the coast to Dubrovnik, but not before stopping for the better part of the day in Kotor Bay which is a gorgeous little town in a scenic bay with churches built on small islands. I could have easily explored it more, but unfortunately my time and budget are running short.
CROATIA
Dubrovnik may have been a hidden gem in past years, but any place with 14 cruise ships anchored off shore can’t make that claim any more. Gorgeous and picture-esque though it was, Dubrovnik had also become very pricey. I tried to save money by going to the island of Lokram (a nature reserve) for some hiking and swimming and this was a good plan (the island was gorgeous and still fairly natural, at least for Europe). Again you basically had no real beach, you just swam off of rocks (some being very treacherous to jump across while wet and unagile), but it was very scenic and you could usually find a nook or pool somewhere where you could take a dip. There were no change rooms, so changing basically consisted of finding a rock or bush to hide behind and hope no one walks in on you (that’s if you’re modest, that is, I saw a couple of Europeans get naked right out in the open).
Then it’s a mad dash back to the ferry and back to the mainland before 7 pm (otherwise you apparently get stuck on the island and presumably have to sleep under the trees—maybe not so bad).
Unfortunately though my bad luck with cameras continued, as moving my camera into a new pocket (to protect it from thieves) created a new problem. As I was moving my luggage down a series of steps (there’s always a series of steps), one bag hit my pocket, and somehow hit the camera turn on button. The camera turned itself on (and extended its lens) and because it had no where to expand, broke itself.
I stared at my broken camera (only 2 days old!) in disbelief. I’m hoping that I will be able to replace it under warranty (as we speak, I’m heading to Slovenia where apparently my warranty is in effect, because it’s EU, as it wasn’t in effect in Bosnia or Montenegro where I bought the blessed thing). This camera things really starting to get me down.
Anyways, Croatia was too expensive so on to Bosnia!
BOSNIA-HERCEGOVINA
I had originally planned to just stop in Mostar (a mountain town famous for its old bridge) before heading to Split in Croatia to catch a ferry to visit my friend in Italy, but that trip fell through when I couldn’t touch base with my Italian friend, so I decided to go to much cheaper Sarajevo instead (I’ve been to Italy before anyway, and Bosnia seemed more interesting).
First though, I stopped in Mostar, where instead of being greeted by an old person I was met by a stunningly beautiful Bosnian university student, Amina. While usually when beautiful women ask me to purchase something, this turns out to be a disaster, she actually was incredibly honest and very nice (and even helped me try to get my broken camera sorted out in Mostar to no avail). Unfortunately, I don’t think her guesthouse has a name (its basically her family’s apartment, and while you get a room to yourself, she lives with her mother, and two brothers). She was clearly the only one in the family who spoke English (and she spoke it well) and appeared to be the hardest working member of the family (I didn’t see her brothers do too much) as she went to the train station and back trying to recruit more guests as well as her studies and other work and Skype with her boyfriend, a Bosnian soldier in Afghanistan. Definitely speaking with her and her family (mostly her) was a highlight of Mostar as I got an insider’s peek at real Bosnian life.
She explained that while the town was still divided by the river into two ethnic enclaves (Bosnian Muslims and Croatian Catholics I believe), most of the tension today basically just centred around soccer games (while sports are presumably meant to spread world peace, soccer fans appear to have missed that whole thing). The town itself is an interesting mix of old Ottoman shops and cobblestone streets, modern rebuilds, and dilapidated relics from the war years (tragic but fascinating to see). Mostar’s Starimost (Old Bridge), it’s most famous attraction, was destroyed by Croatians during the war (apparently in an attempt to make Mostar part of Croatia) but has been reconstructed… now with steps.
While Dubrovnik was close enough that the bridge was covered in tourists in the day time, the town and bridge were basically empty at night. The bridge was so empty in fact at night that as I was climbing it I felt an ominous crunch beneath my feet.
I was shocked to discover that I had apparently stepped on a dead cat (apparently had been dead for some time) that was inexplicably lying on the bridge. It had crumpled under me like a mummy might if you stepped on its face. Sent a chill down my spine for the rest of the evening.
After Mostar, I headed to Sarajevo (only a couple of hours away). Sarajevo is a city with a reputation, but the war’s been over for a number of years now, so there’s no problem going to it; in fact its emerging status makes it more authentic and definitely adds to the charm.
It’s not like Bosnians have forgotten the war (it only ended in the 1990s). Indeed, the hostel I stayed at (which actually was chosen by accident as I got it mixed up with my intended hostel across the street), happened to be run by this elderly couple who apparently were Bosnian political big whigs during the war (or at least make convincing claims that they were). The husband apparently worked for the Bosnian war ministry and had to dodge sniper fire every day as he walked to and from work (he also apparently participated in the negotiation of the Dayton Accords in 1995 that finally brought the war to an end). The wife was also in the diplomatic service and apparently welcomed foreign dignitaries visiting Sarajevo during the war years, including the French president, the British prime minister, and various Hollywood celebrities. They took us on a driving tour of the Sarajevo Tunnel (which was used to smuggle weapons, supplies, and people in and out of the city during the 3.5 year siege by the Serbian military) and gave us a history of why the tunnel was built and how desperate the besieged city was.
Basically between 1992 and 1995, Sarajevo was almost completely surrounded by the Serbian military, who were attempting to subdue the city by siege to fulfill Slobodan Milosevic’s ominous dream of a “Greater Serbia.” The town, mostly Bosnian Muslims, outnumbered the Serbs, but the Serbs had stronger weapons so what followed was a standoff where Serbian snipers and artillery would pound the city from the surrounding hills and the Bosnians would try to link up with their friendly forces through the tunnel under the International airport (which was controlled by UN forces). You can still see places like the Holiday Inn (where journalists were trapped for months) and bombed out relics of the 1984 winter Olympics (which were held in Sarajevo while Yugoslavia was together and still relatively peaceful).
Of course, Sarajevo has a history before the war, being an important post in the Ottoman empire, the Austro-Hungarian empire, and Yugoslavia, and all three have left their mark on the city (you can definitely tell the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian districts apart, as well as the more modern sectors), but it has long been a city associated with tragedy. This was the place where the Bosnian Serb assassin Gavrilo Princip shot Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand, thus setting off the chain reaction that began the First World War (and set the stage for humanity’s bloodiest century). Still though, the Bosnians are very friendly (they have yet to be jaded by tourists coming to visit their city) and Sarajevo is magically place, bullet-holes and all.
I met a Canadian girl, Kat, and an Australian girl, Renee, (they had been roommates in London for the past three years where they had worked as nurses) who were really friendly and great to hang out with (the tunnel tour was their idea). The Canadian girl, like me, was about to head back to Canada and having some misgivings about attempting the “real life” again, something we shared sorrows over. Hopefully see them again, but for now I’m on a train to Slovenia (and its perennially unspellable capital Ljubljana).

Turkey, Bulgaria, and Serbia-Kosovo

Turkey, Bulgaria, and Serbia-Kosovo
In this episode, I...
-get my facial burnt off by a Turkish barber
-inadvertently tell a Bulgarian border guard that I am not Ryan Clement
-go to Serbia
TURKEY
After arriving from Africa with my broken shaving case conveniently packaged in a taped-up beaten up cardboard fruit box (see Kenya “international incident”), I wasn’t terribly surprised to see an inexplicably hole punched into it when I picked it up from the airport at Istanbul, but none of my stuff inside was damaged, so I just shrugged it off. Unfortunately, in a both fatigued (from traveling through 3 continents in 2 days) and anxious (to get to my hostel) state, I inadvertently left my box unattended at a bank machine when I had to put it down to draw some money. Realizing my mistake a few minutes later (thankfully before I jumped into a taxi), I hurried back to the ATM to find my box still there and a small crowd of Turkish airport police and concerned citizens gathered around the box, which they clearly thought might be some sort of explosive (the bizarre taping job and weird African symbols on the box probably didn’t help matters).

Sheepishly, I announced that the box was mine and gingerly walked towards it, the police watching me like I was approaching a hostage situation. I shook the box to demonstrate its harmlessness and explained my tendency to forget things (this is the first time I’ve left something unattended in an airport though). The Turkish airport security gave me a good talking to and then let me wander off with my box.
My hostel was an old townhouse type place in Sultanahamnet, easily within stumbling distance of the Blue Mosque and the Aya Sofya (I know this because I stumbled into them on the first day). It was a decent enough place, although the staff were sometimes helpful sometimes moody (at one point I mentioned that the Wifi wasn’t working and was literally told “that’s your problem.”) and there a few too many sales pitches, but at least they had a great rooftop patio with views of the Bhosphorus ( the sea link between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean and Istanbul’s reason for being.
Just to give a crash history course, Istanbul first sprung to life as Constantinople, the Eastern Roman capital built by the Roman Emperor Constantine (the same guy who converted the empire to Christianity) on the east side of empire so they could move things away from Rome (which at the point was already starting to tear itself apart). After Rome split into two empires—one East and one West—Constantinople became the capital of the Eastern empire (later known as the Byzantine Empire) which persisted for 1000 years after Rome itself fell.
But fall it did to—guess who? That’s right, the Turks, whence why its called Turkey, although at that time they were known as Ottomans, apparently because they enjoyed padded foot stools. Constantinople was renamed Istanbul setting the stage for that song “Istanbul... Constantinople” many centuries later, which I thought was by They Might Be Giants, but apparently they were covering 50s version, at least according to a Bulgarian man who stopped me when I arrived in Bulgaria from Istanbul so I could—in honour of my arriving from Istanbul—hear his entire rendition of Istanbul-Constantinople.
Anyways, back to Turkey, I spent the first day or two just wandering around the fantastic old neighbourhood I was in. Granted it was touristy, but so what, the Aya Sofya was built as a church (later converted to a mosque) that was meant to rival those of Rome and many of the other ancient structures including the Blue Mosque, the Topkapi Palace (the Sultan’s old digs), and the Archaelogy Museum were equally as impressive. I also took in a Turkish traditional dance show that eschewed whirling dervishes for belly dancers (not a bad trade in my opinion) and covered the various regional dances in perhaps not the most conservative manner.
Walking to the dance hall, I slipped on a wet piece of sidewalk (to save socks, I was wearing flip-flops) and nearly took out a toe on a piece of cobblestone, but luckily it was just a touch bruised. Really smarted though.
I was visiting Turkey during Ramadan, but despite it being an overwhelmingly Muslim country compared to Tanzania which is only half Muslim, I had no problems finding food to eat at any time of the day. Granted, Turks are none for their love of the kebab and I doubt they’d close up shop for the Muslim rapture (if there is such a thing) nevermind Ramadan.
Having just arrived from weeks on the road in Africa, I was a pretty shaggy, unshaven, and generally suspicion-looking character upon my arrival in Istanbul. But I was planning to meet my friend Peri (a Turkish girl I knew from Rio) and planning to Skype with my folks, so it seemed an apt moment to pursue some grooming. There was a Turkish barber not far my hostel, so I thought “why not?” He didn’t really speak English, but its pretty easy to communicate “hair cut” to a barber with your hands (as a man, haircuts aren't normally a complicated maneuver for me). At first, things seemed to be going fine (I didn’t even have to wash my hair, as I’d just washed it). Soon, though, it became clear that my hair might be cut a tad shorter than I was expecting, but oh well—hair grows back and if it was longer until my next one all the better economically. Next, however, the barber swapped the modern electric razor for an old-fashioned flip knife—the kind cowboys used to shave with. Suddenly, I had a man who couldn’t speak anything but Turkish scraping a sharp knife along the side of my jugular. This made me a tad nervous, but so far wasn’t anything outside of what you’d expect a barber might do (at least an old-timey barber, the kind with the blood-soaked red rags wrapped around white poles). But this barber had a finale up his sleeve, and when I saw a flame shoot out about an inch away from my face—I flinched a tad. The Turkish barber explained why it was necessary—or at least that I had no choice in the matter—and then proceeded to lick my cheeks with the flames from his cigarette lighter. The feeling was something like running your finger quickly through a candle flame (except doing it with your face), and I will say he was a professional—I never got burnt, although feel strong sudden bursts of heat on my face and could smell the burnt hair smell of my stubble (a bit eerie to smell your own burning hair). All in all, though, it was my closest shave ever.


The next day I met up with Peri, who took me on a tour of the real Istanbul (where actual Turkish people live) including some shoreside parks, some tea gardens, and of course Beyoglu (which I’ve no doubt spelt wrong as I was hopeless at pronouncing it) which is like the Turkish version of Times Square/shopping mecca.
Capping off my visit with a tour of the Bhosphorus using a public ferry (rather than one of the tourist ferries) I caught a glimpse of the Black Sea before heading back to Sultanahamnet to catch my train to Bulgaria.
BULGARIA
The train ride from Istanbul was a tad stuffy (apparently Eastern European trains don’t have AC and they generally only open the windows to smoke), but it was quite decent compared to some of the transportation options I’d seen in Africa. I even had a sleeper bunk on which I could actually sleep while I traveled. I shared my cabin with a Ukrainian guy who couldn’t speak English but was quite talkative in French so I had to bring out my French (which was really rusty). Nice enough guy though.
After arriving in Bulgaria, I had a bit of difficulty getting cash as the train station ATMs didn’t seem to accept my card. Anyway, I managed to get a bus to old town and found a taxi and an ATM there was surprised to find things much cheaper than I was expecting (a lovely surprise!).
I stayed at the Hiker’s Hostel in Plovdiv (I was going to go direct to Sofia, but I was told it wasn’t terribly interesting and that I was better off going to Plovdiv instead). The Bulgarian staff here were great and very friendly (and could speak English). One guy even helped me do my laundry.
While waiting for my clothes to dry, I went out to get lost in Plovdiv’s Old Town, and get lost i did, at least 3 times, or perhaps it would be better to say I was just continuously lost.
I did find the old Roman theatre which was tucked away in a hard to find nook (I shadowed some Bulgarians to find it) and offers a great view of the neighbourhood. Apparently the Romans not only held shows here, but concerts and gladiator battles and its still used to this day (for plays and concerts, not so much gladiatorial battles). Unfortunately, there wasn’t any show on while I was there, as that would have been very cool.
My next target was a traditional Bulgarian restaurant called Diana’s which was much more difficult to find—mainly because it doesnt’have a sign that says Diana’s (its signs say something else). The waitresses dressed in the traditional garb and also wore the traditional Eastern European lack of a smile. The food was okay.
While waundering—lost—around Plovdiv, I stumbledinto a small exhibition by a famous Bulgarian artist (whom I naturally had never heard of). Now Bulgaria has a history of being pushed around by great powers: the Greeks, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Ottomans, the Russians, the Germans, the Soviets, the European Union, etc (apparently it even at one point offered to join the USSR but was refused, the ultimate rejection), but I didn’t expect its own citizens to be quite as meek. The exhibit curator—who either snuck up on me or was so timid I was unaware of her presence—came up to me and said “дравей” (hello in Bulgarian), which startled me, so I said “hello” in English back as a gut reaction, at which point she said “hello,” and I asked what she had said before, and she had said “hello.” After a brief Abbot and Costellian exchange, I explained I wanted to know how to say “hello” in Bulgarian (so I didn’t look like a dumb North American tourist in every conversation who only speaks English). But she refused, saying “you don’t need to learn Bulgarian, don’t waste your time, its not worth it.” Granted I will probably forget any and all Bulgarian I learn a week after I leave, but that doesn’t mean the language has no worth whatsoever. I tried to be encouraging, or at least help her feel better about herself, country, and language, and so I asked what the admission charge was to the exhibition. She said it was 2 levas (Bulgarian currency, about $1 CDN), then it became 1 leva before I had a chance to respond and then it became whatever coins I had on me which totaled about 45 cents (in Levas, not dollars, so I really had about a quarter). She humbly accepted this as if it were a great gift (which it wasn’t) and showed me the exhibit, which she tried to explain was good for Bulgaria. The art was perfectly fine—maybe a bit impressionistic, abstract, and vaguely pornographic at times—but nothing less than what you’d find at many Canadian galleries. The only thing Bulgarian artists appear to need to work on is their self-esteem. It’s okay guys, you can do it too!
Speaking of language miscues, I love language miscommunications that work to my benefit. While at a café on one of the streets of Plovdiv, I tried—being thirsty after a day of getting lost walking around town—to order a “Fanta with ice.” The waitress didn’t speak English that well—but she was enthusiastic—and said that they couldn’t do Fanta with ice, but they could do a Coke with ice or just a Fanta. Why they could serve Coke with ice, but not Fanta was a mystery that piqued my curiosity—and it was really hot that day, so I wanted the ice—so I ordered the Coke with ice. I soon received a Coke with a scoop of chocolate ice cream floating in it—effectively a coke float for cheaper than what a coke would have cost me back home. This was even better than Coke with ice, and Lord only knows what Fanta with chocolate ice cream in it would have tasted like (will have to try that some time, I’ll call it the Bulgarian float).
That evening I participated in a bbq with a couple other people from the hostel, including a Bulgarian hostel worker who talked at length about the Bulgarian way of life: mainly Bulgarian history (did you know they invented the alphabet book and put the guy who invented it on their money) why Plovdiv was so much better than Sofia (in the same sense that LA folks talk of New York, or non-Torontonians feel towards Toronto), and their problem with stray dogs (which I hadn’t really noticed) which she wanted to solve using SWAT teams. Unfortunately I got in a bit of argument with a fellow Canadian from Quebec who seemed to think that Quebeckers only voted for Jack Layton because he had a moustache and that the French did nothing bad during their colonial history which makes me wonder about history books in Quebec. He also felt the suffering of the Quebecois under the English was equivalent to the Bulgarians under the Ottomans which got the Bulgarian girl a tad irate. Gotta love people who can’t look at themselves critically.
Having seen most of what I came to Bulgaria to see, and being anxious to stay on schedule, I decided the next day to catch a train to Belgrade (which I’m on now), so we’ll soon see what Serbia’s all about.
SERBIA
When you hear the word Serbia back home, it tends to bring up images of war, bloodshed, and the rocky ethnic tensions that the Balkans have been generally known for. As a teenager in the 1990s, I remember seeing the Kosovo War on the news (back in the days before our wars moved to the Middle East full-time) and in this instance, NATO forces (including Canada) were fighting on behalf of a primarily Muslim population (the Kosovo-Albanians) against a primarily Christian population (the Serbs). Belgrade, once the capital of mighty Yugoslavia under Tito, had become the center of a disintegrating empire after Slobodan Milosevic took over and the politics became increasing defined along ethnic lines. Slovenia, Macedonia, Croatia, and Bosnia-Herzegovina all declared independence from Belgrade some not so peacefully (notably Bosnia) (Montenegro would also secede in the early 2000s). A movement in Kosovo (at that time a region of Serbia that had its autonomous status taken away by Milosevic) to gain independence from Serbia was met with what many called a genocide accusing Milosevic’s government of trying to “ethnically cleanse” Kosovo of its Albanian majority. 1999 saw a NATO intervention, and many cities in Serbia were bombed (including Belgrade itself). I remember many Afghanistan-like news stories about American soldiers being captured and held hostage, planes being shot down, schools being bombed, civilian casualties, and the Chinese embassy being bombed which led to icy relations with Beijing. In the end, Serbia was defeated, Milosevic was overthrown by his own people and handed over to the International Criminal Court, and a United Nations peacekeeping mission was established. Nearly ten years later, Kosovo would officially declare independence and is a partially recognized state today (yet remains unrecognized by many important nations, especially Serbia).
With all this history in mind, I wasn’t sure how well I’d be received in Serbia. The war wasn’t that long ago (I’m not that old) and most young people in Serbia have vivid memories of growing up during the war times (the kids then are now young adults). That said, I’d heard that Serbia’s new government was much more open to the rest of Europe (and the West) and that Belgrade had even gained a reputation as a party destination (One of the drunk Serbian guys on my train, of which there were numerous, referred to Belgrade as “number one place for fun... in world,” a far cry from its war-time reputation).
Speaking of the Serbian train, I could tell right away that traveling in Serbia is a tad different than the rest of the Europe. While I was promised a sleeper bed on the overnight jaunt, this was soon changed to “my own cabin,” and then just a seat in a crowded cabin. Air Conditioning seems to be nonexistent and in the late summer heat, trains can be stifling hot, yet oddly people keep closing the windows (maybe I just have a low heat tolerance). Luckily, East European smoking addicts usually have them open again in no time. Serbia, by the way, seems to have got the wrong memo on that whole no-smoking in public thing—instead of getting rid of their smoking sections, they’ve seemingly eliminated their non-smoking sections (presuming they even had them to begin with). Serbians (and most Balkanites it seems) of all shapes and sizes seem to smoke like Pittsburgh as my Dad would say. I literally saw a few guys bust out a fresh cigarette every 15 minutes on an overnight train ride (how their lungs have not merely collapsed is a mystery to medical science).
I arrived in Belgrade in the middle of the night 4 am, and not wanting to brave this unfamiliar city in the dark (some habits picked up in Africa are hard to lose) I opted to take a cab to my hostel, thinking—foolishly—that this would be easiest solution. While my cab driver claimed he knew where he was going, he clearly did not as he dropped me off in a park in the middle of nowhere, nowhere near any hostel. Wandering around with all my bags in the dark some first-light-of-dawn-joggers tried to assist me but after passing where the Arka Barka floating hostel was supposed to be 3 or 4 times, I finally gave up and caught another taxi back down to another hostel (which turned out to have been turned into a high-end hotel) and wandered the early morning traffic of Belgrade to yet another hostel recommended in my book, which inexplicably didn’t open to 9. While waiting for this place to open, I found another hostel (Belgrade Eye) a block away that was nice, open, and available, so I booked in grabbed a bed, and slept.
Eventually I managed to wake up enough to meet my only other roommate a friendly girl who seemed to only speak a language that was unfamiliar to me. After doing my usual thing with languages I don’t understand, mimick and repeat what I’m hearing so at the very least I can get used to the pronunciation of things, I finally broke down and asked her in English where she was from. It turns out she was Australian.
My Aussie roommate had a bizarre obsession with conspiracy theories; at least I gathered that from her tendency to ask out of the blue questions like “Who do you think really killed Princess Diana” even when weren’t even talking about her (or anything related to British royalty) or “Why did the US stage 9/11?” After explaining some issue about a firewall on the Internet access on the computer, I was declared to be a “smart-ish person,” which I suppose is a complement.
After recovering my energy, I wandered out into the city (this time in daylight) and was surprised to see that Belgrade is a fairly clean, modern, and cosmopolitan town (I felt much safer walking its streets at night—or Kosovo’s for that matter—than any place in Africa) filled with cafes, pubs, cinemas, you name it, and more importantly people. The city was practically abuzz with folks around the main pedestrian mall leading up to the old fortress. This could be any city in Europe. You’d never have known that NATO had bombed it—especially considering all the KFCs and McDonald’s.
It was weird thinking that my country had bombed this country not that long ago, and here I was casually strolling around struggling to speak the language. That said, the Serbians themselves were overwhelmingly open and friendly to me, one of the hostel employees, who was about the same age as me, was apparently something of a Serbian punk rock star (she was recording albums and had made appearances on the Serbian MTV) and was quite open about her life here, her aspirations, and her extreme disdain for something called Turbofolk, which is a genre of music I’m not aware of, but as far she was concerned seemed to be the biggest current problem in Serbia.
My walking tour guide was equally friendly and welcoming, a plucky young—and gorgeous, like one of those Serbian tennis players—university student, she led a large group of us (suggesting that Belgrade is quickly losing its one-time pariah status) on a very interesting jaunt thru some of the key sights. While she touched on the war, it was quite clear that it was a sensitive topic for her (and for most Serbians, who generally don’t talk much about it), although of course for Western tourists (especially those from NATO countries) it’s never far from our thoughts. The city has long since rebuilt, so only a few destroyed buildings and landmarks—like the Hotel Yugoslavia and Miloseviç’s “Eternal Flame” (no longer lit)—stand as reminders. Our guide explained that while Milosevic (who died while on trial at the ICC) still had his supporters, about 60 percent of Serbians preferred to establish closer relations with Western Europe and even hoped to join the EU (no word on Serbia joining NATO).
I hooked up with a Canadian girl, an English girl, and an Australian guy on the tour and we ended up hanging most of the day, trying Serbian foods including Rakia (a strong Ouzu-like liquour), something called Muckalicka (some sort of stew), and of course Moussaka. Later on we strolled through the town and made arrangements to meet for drinks in the park by the giant statue of the naked guy with the sword (don’t ask). At the time, I thought the park would be quiet at night but it was actually buzzing, mostly with teenagers looking for places to lose their virginity. I made my own rum and cokes using a mickey of rum and whatever coke I could find, and then the plan was to hit up one of the floating nightclubs on the Danube that Belgrade is so famous for. Unfortunately, as more and more people started to get added to the group and we got more and more disorganized, and by the time we hit the Danube barges it was already past 2 am and people were still having their pre-drinks. Realizing I had an hour to walk back, I had to be lame and leave early (getting to sleep @ 3), but the barge parties were pretty quiet anyway (apparently the more raucous barges were on the other side of the bridge).
The next day I visited the Military Museum, which had a wide assortment of weapons and what have you, but surprisingly little on the Kosovo War, except a comparison of force numbers (which suggested Serbia faced overwhelming odds), made it clear that Serbian history books considered this to be the “war of NATO aggression,” much like modern-day Carolinians with Confederate sympathies refer to the American Civil War as the very objective War of Northern Aggression.
Having learned the Serb perspective, it was time to look at things from the Kosovan side, so I grabbed a bus to Pristina, Kosovo’s capital (yes there are direct buses from Belgrade, Serbia to Pristina, Kosovo). It was surprisingly easy to travel between these once mortal enemies and even festive (during one of our bathroom stops, we had to crash and navigate a Serbian wedding celebration, 2 ways, in order to use the toilets. Not sure what town that was, but there plenty of folk costumes and happy dancing people of varying ages)
The border itself was nothing out the ordinary, even though Serbia doesn’t recognize Kosovo as an independent nation (it considers Kosovo to be an autonomous region within Serbia due to its being the ancient birthplace of the Serb culture) going from Kosovo to Serbia is said to be tricky (as it means entering Serbia without an entry permit and therefore entering Serbia illegally), going the Serbia to Kosovo way is fine.
KOSOVO
On the bus from Belgrade, I could tell already this wasn’t a typical travel destination, as the only other English-speakers on the bus where three Irish documentary filmmakers hired to due to a Couch Surfing adventure through Europe (lucky bastards) and one Mexican UN worker (well he could speak English fluently, even if it wasn’t his first language) who referred to Kosovo as one of the coziest UN assignments as far as UN assignments go.
After we reached Prishtina (again in the middle of the night), the bus stopped inexplicably on an expressway. It had stopped previously for a break (despite being a half hour away from its destination) now it appeared it wanted to let us off here (and not, you know, at the bus station as I had kinda been expecting). The Mexican guy seemed to be sure this was where we got off (though none of the locals did) and when the Irish crew got off, I figured I’d better tag along as well, figuring there was only one cab around, and sharing a taxi with two pretty Irish filmmakers and that guy who tagged along with them and kept confusing me for an American was better than walking.
In the end, we all got to our required destinations and my hostel this time was basically in an old apartment building in a hilly residential neighbourhood, with a single room and TV for what i was paying for a dorm bed elsewhere. Eastern Europe—especially compared to Western Europe—is super cheap as it is, but in Kosovo you can actually buy a meal for a few cents—granted in this case, the meal consisted of three peaches and the cents were from euros, but they were awesome peaches.
Anyway, I digress. Also that night, I noticed every Kosovan person I encountered to be watching TV (the old hotel clerk, the late night grocer, even the guy in the pizza restaurant I ordered a late night movie). In fact, they were all watching the same movie, an old Hong Kong classic featuring a young Jackie Chan taking on an army of Western terrorists in inexplicably bright red jump suits. It was corny and dubbed poorly (which made it that much more corny) and included a scene where Jackie Chan and one of his enemies crashes into a Street Fighter II console and get magically transformed into various Street Fighter characters including Ken, E. Honda, Guile, Dhalsim, and finally Jackie Chan as Chun Li.
Unfortunately wandering in Kosovo on a Sunday (the next day) meant everything was closed, so I didn’t really get to see what their historical (or at least museum) perspective was on the recent conflict, although I did visit the Memorial Centre (no, not a hockey arena) near my hostel which includes a series of graves of Kosovan fighters I believe (all the signs were in Albanian and no one was around to translate for me) and a monument to Kosovo’s founding father, referred to as the Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi of Kosovo.
Compared to Belgrade, Kosovo’s capital was considerably quieter, smaller, and more rough around the edges (tourism had yet to really sinks its teeth in here, although you could definitely tell there were a few exploratory bites), but were once there was “mission creep” now there was “cafe creep” as Prishtina’s main downtown street corners sprouted cafes and patios (this is still Europe after all).
Hardly dangerous, my biggest issue in Kosovo was finding something to do, but I didn’t mind taking things lazily after weeks of hard slogging traveling (who’d have thought I’d go to Kosovo to take it easy) and enjoy having my own cable TV for a change. Taking advantage of cheap prices for a couple nights, I then headed on to Macedonia.
One last thing, when I was in Africa, there were a lot of concerns over Balkanization (ie. the splintering of a large nation into many smaller nations a la what happened in the Balkans), but judging from the fact that the Balkans have apparently gone from a place where war seemed inevitable to peaceful co-existence, perhaps its not such a bad arrangement after all (I’m looking at you Somalia). Its not like the borders in Africa were designed by African anyway.

Zambia, Malawi, and Tanzania: My tour of "real" Africa

Zambia, Malawi and Tanzania (and brief glimpses of Zimbabwe, Kenya, and Qatar)
In this episode, I...
-get attacked by a baboon
-jump off a cliff
-accidentally pee on someone’s tent
-witness an overturned bus accident
-solicit some Malawian witchcraft
-catch pneumonia (actually happened before the witchcraft thing).
-find myself in a luxury hotel in Qatar
Finishing up my work in South Africa, it was time to head back to Canada. That said, there was no reason not to take the “scenic route.” After all, South Africa is said by some—based on its high incomes, level of development, and white population—to not be the “real Africa.” So I figured I’d see what some of other countries were like and try a bit of the Cape Town to Cairo route (although I quickly revised this to Cape Town to Nairobi owing ongoing political strife north of Kenya including: East African famine, independence of South Sudan, Libyan war and Arab Spring, etc.). I was originally going to do an overland tour, but when that didn’t work out, I decided to fall back on my independent ways (and hopefully hook up with something en route). Here’s what happened instead.
ZAMBIA (and a bit of Zimbabwe)
Due to visa requirements for my South African volunteer visa (normal Canadian tourists don’t even need one) I had to book an onward flight to prove I didn’t intend to take up permanent residence in South Africa. Being fairly inexperienced in Africa at the time (and thinking I could easily change the flight if I changed my mind) I booked a cheap flight to Livingstone in Zambia, a town next to Victoria Falls (which was a must-see on my list, so I figured even if I couldn’t weasel my way out of the flight later, it would still be alright). Naturally of course, I couldn’t get out of the flight or change it to Windhoek (so I could see Namibia’s sand dunes and Botswana’s Okavango Delta en route to the falls as was one of my plans), but I thought whatever and flew direct to Livingstone from Johannesburg (after a couple of delays including a screw-up where British Airways changed the gate and forgot to inform me, so I ended up waiting at the wrong gate and for the very first time missed a flight, had to wrangle my bags back from Joburg’s O.R. Tambo airport, fork out for a night’s accommodation, and try the same thing again the next day. Fun times.
The arrival in Livingstone by air is surreal—the bends and twists in steep turns over the falls so you can see them from above (provided you’re not curled up in the brace position) and the airport itself (basically a landing strip carved out of a red-mud dry forest) is barely visible until you touch the ground.
Getting through Zambian customs is less fun. Not only do you probably require a visa (which consists of a card with vague lettering that must be kept separately and will likely be lost forcing to pay for another one) but you will have to stand in line, inexplicably, for 3 hours to get it. Not sure what the border guard was doing as we were all waiting there and not moving. Perhaps he didn’t realize a plane was landing today. I mean, it’s not like its a freakin’ daily occurrence or anything.
Anyway, I eventually got out of the airport and got a ride in a pick-up truck from my hostel from a Zambian guy who spoke English surprisingly well compared to his South African compatriots. Zambia itself was super dry and consisted mainly of the small bush-like trees I’d seen in Kruger, dotted with a cow here and there. Livingstone itself is named after David Livingstone, the British explorer/missionary who led expeditions all over Africa in the 1800s looking for the source of the Nile and stuff. He may have been here at one point. Despite a charming history, the town itself ain’t nothing special to look at. It’s a basically a series of ramshackle buildings, shacks, and dusty road Wild West-style roads. Sure beats Lusaka mind you.
The hostel, a place called Fawlty Towers and run by folks with a John Cleese sense of humour, was a nice enough joint, complete with (unheated) pool, free rides to the Falls, free pancakes at 3 (yum), and even an Irish pub (or the African version of one) that specialized in Mexican food (yep, African version). It might sound strange that an Irish pub would specialize in Mexican food, but keep in mind I was constantly being mistaken for being English just cause I spoke English (and in one strange case, was somehow assumed to be Korean) so some Africans share the same geography skills as those Americans and Canadians who think Africa is a country. Ah crazy world.
Following the “hit the highlights first” mantra, I took the free shuttle (basically a minibus filled with tourists) to Victoria Falls (the Zambian side) and proceeded to wander around. Zambia is really dry this time of the year, and everywhere else I looked the trees were brown and dead, except around Victoria falls, where the spray from the falls kicks up a constant supply of water, and bingo suddenly you have rainforest or at least a very thin stretch of it. The Victoria Falls are the world’s widest waterfalls (I think... or at least I’m pretty sure) and you can easily see how they carved out the downstream zig-zagginess of the gorges. An impressive sight to say the least—all it’s basically impossible to see all the falls at once (unless you’re looking at them from the sky), and it’s interesting to compare them to Iguazu Falls, the world’s largest waterfalls. Victoria Falls are definitely not as high as Iguazu, but their width is far more continuous, and the land is formed in a strange way so that you can easily walk along in front of the falls and get a great view of them (although you will likely get wet. I shrugged off purchasing raincoats from the hawkers, assuming them to be unnecessary... that was probably a bad move).
I got so thoroughly soaked from the Falls that I decided to carry my camera, passport (the falls form the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe and I was going to try and see them from the Zimbabwean side) and other valuables I didn’t want to get drenched in a cheap plastic bag I found somewhere. Unfortunately, carrying things in a plastic bag soon opened up another problem.
While reading an inscription on a WW1 memorial at the Falls, I wasn’t terribly worried about pickpockets as there were only a couple of people milling around. That as I walked away from the statue I soon felt an unmistakable tug on my bag. An enemy hand had grabbed my bag—although peculiarly, it seemed to be pulling the bag down not out—and I wasn’t going to give it up without a fight. I whirled on the perpetrator and to my shock it was a baboon! I didn’t even know baboons were in the area.
I let out a manly yell at the primate as the cheap plastic bag tore in half (since neither of us let go). The baboon quickly fled grabbing my empty glasses case (apparently the only item it deemed to have value) as I gathered up my much more valuable items and continued glaring at it. It held up my glasses case in its hands, giving it a ponderous examination—you could tell by its facial expression that it was trying to figure out just what the hell this object was it had obtained—but ultimately dropped it (probably because it realized it couldn’t eat it) and ran off as some nearby African women came to my rescue. In the end, I lost nothing... except my pride.
I spent the next couple of hours hiking around Victoria Falls some more (keeping a watchful eye on those sneaky and dastardly baboons) including hiking to the base of the Falls and to the rocky outcroppings on top of the Falls. There are enough rocks and shallows there, that you could probably safe hop your way across the top of the falls in low season, but I wouldn’t recommend trying it.
Finished with the Zambian side of the Falls, I decided I’d see how things looked from Zimbabwe’s perspective. The two countries are connected by an old 1905 iron bridge, that ironically might be in the best shape of all the bridges in Zambia. There are bungee jumps operators on the bridge and its a popular pastime for tourists, certainly attempting to cross the bridge by foot will solicit endless harassment from overly aggressive touts who can’t fanthom why else you would come to the bridge. But considering I inherited my fear of heights from my Dad and my susceptibility to motion sickness from my Mom, bungee jumping wasn’t terribly high on my to-do list; and if I was going to try such a thing for the first time, I don’t think I’d choose an ancient bridge (that probably hasn’t seen a rivet repair in 100 years) over rocky churning rapids in a sketchy no-man’s land between two poor African nations not exactly known for their safety records. The touts were insistent though, with one even calling my refusal to bungee jump “racist.”
While walking across the bridge was “fun,” Zimbabwe wanted me to fork out for a $75 visa plus park entry fees to see pretty much the same thing I saw from the Zambia side (although I do have lovely exit and re-entry stamps on my Zambian visa), so I ended up getting a taxi back to the hostel (the free shuttle was only one way).
I’m glad I saw the falls on my first day, as the next day things went bad. I woke up with a nasty cold—which I probably caught off my boss Anriette before I left Joburg—and while I had paid for a canoe trip that day, I spent most of the time just trying to not feel like shit, so I didn’t really get to enjoy the whole preventing crocs and hippos from attacking your canoe thing. I laid low hoping for a few days hoping the cold would go away and switched to a private room as I developed nasty and very loud coughing fits. As things got worse, and I got anxious that I was spending way too much time in Livingstone (and was becoming known as “that sick guy” by other people at the hostel), I finally opted to see a Zambian doctor (recommended by the hostel staff) who promptly diagnosed me with pneumonia (whether I actually had pneumonia or not, I’m not sure, but I wasn’t in the mood to press my luck). He said that pneumonia was the 3rd or 4th highest killer in Africa and if I had waited another day, I would have had to be admitted to hospital (which naturally made me gulp a bit) and started an aggressive antibiotic treatment that involved leaving a needle jammed into my hand for 24 hours so I could receive four regular doses of antibiotics straight into my blood stream. This resulted in me being taxied back and forth at weird hours (it was unsafe to walk) from the hospital for treatment which had only one magazine in their waiting room (a 1989 edition of National Geographic). The treatment seemed to work, but the regular and weird hours of the doses left me groggy and after the final dose, as the nurse struggle to remove the bandages holding the syringe in place (ripping out my hand hairs in the process) I offered to do it myself (thinking it would be less painful if I just removed the bandages myself since I knew where my hand hair was). Unfortunately I got a little too energetic with one bandage and the whole thing, needle and all, came out, and a little geyser of red blood began spouting from my left hand (I asked them to put it in my left hand as I’m right-handed and I didn’t want to incapacitate my right hand). Confused as to what I was seeing I stared at my hand as the nurse quickly grabbed another bandaid and some cotton swabs as my fountain of blood made a mess of her floor. “Don’t be so hard on yourself” she scolded me. In the end, it seemed the antibiotics worked as I soon felt better (although my usual coughing fits would plague me for weeks to come and my hands felt tender from having a needle ripped out of them including the one that never even had a needle in it, which I never quite understood, perhaps some form of phantom pain) and I decided I could continue on my journey would had really just begun.
The next stop was Lusaka, Zambia’s capital, but don’t let that make you think its grand, as it ain’t. Livingstone was a bastion of development by comparison. Not that I usually like calling any country’s capital a dump, but when you ask local residents (including my hostel staff who make their living off of people staying here) “whats the best thing to do in Lusaka” and they uniformly answer “leave,” you got a problem. I knew I had a problem as soon as my bus arrived (in the dark) and a mob had already crowded around the bus yelling “Taxi! Taxi! You want taxi! I give you good price! Good Price!” You literally couldn’t look out the window without someone trying to get in your face and get you into his cab for a “good price.” I literally had to shove my way through them to retrieve my bag from under the bus, run a few feet to the other side of the station to get away from them, to try to find a more official cab (a lot of the people aggressively shouting at you, are go figure, con artists). I spent two days waiting for my bus and then I took my hostel’s advice and left for Malawi. Not that Lusaka doesn’t have its nice bits, I’m sure if... ah who am I kidding, let’s just move on.
MALAWI
Arriving in Lilongwe from Lusaka seemed like a breath of fresh air. Sure Malawi’s capital had all the trademarks of the other non-South African African major cities: chaotic streets, run-down buildings, heart-breaking poverty, but it also had green areas—and yes I mean park areas as well as plants and other things that were actually alive and not fungal growths—even some of the buildings weren’t all that run down. That said, I soon learned I had arrived in Malawi amidst a period of political upheaval. A couple of weeks earlier, police forces loyal to the president had opened fire on a group of protesters (never a good sign) and this had led to riots and looting and calls for the president to step down by Aug 16th or face a forced removal by the military (who sided with the protestors) which I’m sure was going to be peaceful. I promptly decided to get the hell out of the country by the 16th.
First though, I would stop by Lake Malawi, my main reason for being here anyway—one of the African Great Lakes, a large tropical fresh water lake, beautiful, clear, warm, and complete with unique species found nowhere else including a fish called a coalecanth that was thought to have gone extinct before the dinosaurs and yet still lives in the lake (Bjorn, a South African expat who went by the local nickname Banana and worked in Nkhata Bay as a tour guide, said that the lake had been under explored by scientists, especially at its incredible depths, and any scientist up to the challenge stood a real chance of hitting thezoological jackpot as it were. So all you marine biologists out there who are no doubt reading my blog, get it goin’ on. Just put the mini-sub in your backpack or as a carry on. Although you might have trouble getting it on the bus.
Speaking of buses in Africa, they are legends unto themselves. You’ve heard about the minibuses in South Africa, well they predominate elsewhere as well (although in other countries, there are absolutely no qualms about shoving in as many people and chickens that will physically fit or not). Even the regular buses (which usually are used relics from some Asian country where people sizes are not large to begin with) often had the original sizes ripped out so they could have more narrow seats installed (often at the expense of the aisle). Even so, the buses often won’t leave until they cram more people per room than there are seats (so you get actually half a seat and some stranger who probably has never seen a shower gets the other half and its... cozy). Some fill the aisles with standing passengers and maybe throw a few on the roof while they’re at it. The bus from Lusaka to Lilongwe wasn’t quite that bad, although thanks to their re-design of the seating plan and poor upholstery, I had to keep one foot down on the floor board to keep it from flying up and exposing the wheel axle below. Two Irish girls and a French dude I met on that bus, who were also headed to Nkhata Bay, decided to just catch the next bus, at night in a strange city in the cesspool of humanity that is a Zambian/Malawian/Tanzanian bus station (more like a patch rough gravelly terrain surrounded by shanties where buses and touts congregate), but I opted to stay in Lilongwe not in the mood for another super long bus ride (African bus drivers might think they’re race car drivers, but despite their use of speed bumps as ramp jumps they still generally arrive 3 hours late).
That decision turned out to be fortuitous. After three failed attempts to catch a bus from Lilongwe to Nkhata Bay on the coast of Lake Malawi, including one “luxury bus” (read closest equivalent to a Western bus, but someone will still try to stow a live chicken, without any sort of container or even a cloth, in the luggage compartment by shoving it between other people’s suitcases that the chicken will then proceed to shit all over). As I met up with Richard and Linda, a British (English-Scottish) couple that had also failed to get on the last bus and we decided to split a cab fare to Nkhata Bay. While certainly more expensive than the bus, you get what you pay for, and splitting it 3 ways meant I didn’t have to pay too much. Also, we didn’t have to transfer in Msuzu (which I would have had had to, had I taken the bus, in all likelihood) and got taken straight to Richard and Linda’s hostel, which I quickly decided to adopt as my hostel as well (despite making a reservation elsewhere). Mayuga resorts I believe it was called and it was a picture-esque series of little cabins and dorm facilities built (and built well) into the side of the rocky hills of a peninsula on Lake Malawi overlooking Nkhata Bay. It was run by a white South African expat named Gary (not Bjorn, but he also worked there) and his no doubt long suffering wife. Gary, a 40ish fellow and a skilled builder was rumoured to be a South African veteran of the Angolan War and in Malawi in a self-imposed exile as he avoided South African prosecution for some illicit, nefarious, and undisclosed act. My first impression of Gary was quite pleasant, despite the fact he was plastered out of his mind when I arrived and asked if he any dorms available. He responded by saying “Nah, we don’t have any fucking dorms available, but I like you, so you can have a room for a dorm rate. Fuck it, you can have the room for free.” To which, I replied sure, thus began a relatively lengthy stay in Nkhata Bay (if they were giving me a private room for free, can’t beat that, although I did make an arrangement with Gary’s wife the next morning to pay the dorm rate in the spirit of fairness and keeping them in business). I couldn’t really work it out with Gary as he was still hammered the next day and disappeared to pass out, re-surfaced the next day sober and apologetic for his behaviour, promptly got drunk again and started co-ercing people into doing shots in the middle of the day (I quickly snuck away), and ended up down for the count again. If there’s an AA in Nkhata Bay, I think this guy’s textbook.
That said, the resort he and his Malawi friends built was gorgeous, with little cabins everywhere and terraces for tents. Of course, the decision to tear down the washrooms before they built new ones was a bit of a sore spot amongst the guests who all had to share one measly composting toilet. Considering the toilet issues, and not realizing the purpose of the terraces on my first night (it was dark what can I say) I went out on the deck of my little cabin, decided it was reasonably private and since the lake was just below me, I might as well just take a leak right here. I took a big long whiz (it’d been a long drive up from Lilongwe) out into the night, aiming in the general direction of the lake (which I thought to be right below me) not unlike many shoreside whizzes I’d done at Pelican Lake back home. I did my business and went to bed.
It was only the next day, in the brightness of daylight, that I noticed there was some shoreline and a terrace below my balcony and pitched right in the path of my late night urination was a lonely nylon tent. Oops.
Later on, at breakfast, I overheard some of the camping guests talking about the “rain” last night. One couple was certain that they had heard some rain at some point, while the others didn’t notice any. I quickly added that “yes, I had seen a quick sprinkling of rain” at one point. That seemed to satisfy most, and I quickly changed the topic to the deliciousness of the pancakes.
The resort restaurant turned into a happening place at night. All the travellers congregated there as did many of the local boys with names like Gift, Troubles, and Coconuts, which caused them to burst into hysterics when I asked if they could translate “My Dog Smells Like Coconuts.” It has to be said that many of these boys (though clearly not all) were clearly only hoping to charm their way into the pants and/or pockets of the female tourists (for the male tourists, they were usually just satisfied with our pockets). Apparently they’d had some success at this as quite a few claimed to have had a friend with an Australian girlfriend or an American girlfriend or a Canadian girlfriend or whatever (all in all, if you’re a dude from Nkhata Bay, hitting on Western chicks travelling through might actually be your best chance at life advancement sadly). The girls often complained the guys were a tad too aggressive in their flirtations (and they certainly had no compulsions about interrupting you mid-sentence to launch into it), although some certainly didn’t seem to mind.
It was only local boys who came too by the way, not local girls. Malawi’s a very “conservative” (some would say “backwards”) country when it comes to gender relations, and its assumed generally that any woman you meet in a bar (unless she’s a tourist) is probably a prostitute. You did see Malawi women over the course of the day usually doing work, be it caring for children (many had children from as early as age 13), running restaurants and ticket counters, and balancing inordinately large objects on their heads over obscene distances (imagine walking from Winnipeg to Regina with a large sack of potatoes on your head. Now imagine doing it with hills in the way, potholes and swerving drivers trying to avoid them, and other people also on the road, and that’s life for Malawian women, not an easy one). As a possible consequence of all the political strife in Malawi, the president’s resignation might mean that a woman, the vice-president, would come to power. The local boys at the bar weren’t terribly excited about this possibility saying “Malawi isn’t ready for a woman president” although I’m not sure what one has to be ready for. Frankly, I’m opposed to voting for or against someone based on gender (the best person for the job, male, female, or whatever, should be the criteria), but considering how badly male power-mongers have run some of these very patriarchal countries, giving the reins to a woman for a change might not be such a bad idea.
It was good to meet the locals but I much preferred it when the conversation got past the “tomorrow you go to my shop” shit (sorry man, but there’s no way I’m fitting that elaborate wood carving of a tribesman in my backpack) and started talking about things all of us were interested in. My favourite local resident was the old man nicknamed the Chocolate Man (I can’t remember how to say or spell his real name) who was an 80 year-old (he celebrated his 80th birthday with us while I was there) vendor with a shelf of chocolate bars that he brought every night (and despite the fact that he was the only salesmen there with any goods to sell, he made no attempt to hound you to purchase anything and in fact usually fell asleep a couple hours after his arrival). I liked Chocolate Man, and usually bought a chocolate off him every night although we never really worked out a mutual understanding of the word Snickers so I could tell him what I wanted and he could tell me how much it was. One Aussie tourist had been told that Chocolate Man was actually the village the chief and proudly spread this news to each and everyone until it came out that in may in fact not be true. Saving the Aussie from embarrassment we asked Bjorn who confirmed that Chocolate Man was a village chief (or at least a village elder) and was well respected in the community for being the first successful commercial fisherman on Lake Malawi. He even apparently played suitor to one of the local boy’s mother when his father had fled the country for years in political exile (which made things a tad awkward when the father, believed to be dead, returned).
One of the most interesting topics to discuss with the Malawi locals was witchcraft, which in Malawi is no whimsical subject of fantasy but a real (or at least perceived to be real) concern and major issue (so much so that newspaper actually report witchcraft cases as factual and the government has even outlawed witchcraft and punishes people for being witches). In South Africa, I was used to stories of sangomas (South African witch doctors) whose special “healing” methods often did more harm than good to their patients and yet still had greater trust of certain segment of the population than medical professionals. This though was something different.
People told tales of western doctors coming to Malawi, disbelieving in witchcraft and trying to disprove it, only to fall victim to it themselves. One story involved a western doctor asking for proof of witchcraft from a man who claimed to be a witch and so every night the witch would change something on the western doctor while he slept, first shaving his armpits and then his pubic hair. I pointed out that the same kind of thing happens back home, but it’s not called witchcraft so much as fun with drunk friends, but the guy at the bar said it happened to “a friend of a friend” so you knew it had to be true. Of course.
It quickly became clear that my burden of proof and the general Malawi one were somewhat distinct as the stories got increasingly weirder. Our storyteller began: “You Westerners, you may have created jet airplane to travel the world, but we Malawians, we created flying basket.” He said a local witch could (and apparently did) travel every night to collect all the village children unbeknownst to their parents and fly Santa Claus-like through the sky with all the village children in a giant basket on a world tour (stopping to see the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the Great Wall of China, you name it). At the end of the night, the magic basket returns to the village and all the children return to their homes, their parents never knowing they were even gone (and presumably the children don’t mention it, don’t remember it, or aren’t believed). Being not a fan of Malawian bus options, and concerned about how I was going to get to Tanzania, I asked if I could be put in touch with this basket man, as it seemed like a much better way to do it. If it could travel the whole world in a night, it could get to Mt. Kilimanjaro in like 10 mins, and imagine the travelers cred you’d get if you managed to do the journey in a magic Malawian basket.
Naturally the storyteller got a tad reticient when I actually showed interest in riding the basket. He quickly said something along the lines of the basket was only for kids or Malawians, and that two Catholic cardinals from the Vatican had attempted it and ended up with broken bones. And so my magic flying basket dreams were dashed, but I wondered if we could ship souvenirs home at least by flying basket or watch one of my Malawi friends go for a ride for them (a transportation mechanism like this just oozed untapped economic potential for a region that could use some), but no proof of the basket was forthcoming, I would just have to trust his word on it and that the basket could not be used for any other purpose than kidnapping village children and taking them on world tours. A pity, though at least the kids get to travel a bit.
Perhaps I’m playing a bit too much of the skeptic here when it comes this witchcraft (I do have six years of university education so its hard not to play devil’s advocate when someone’s talking about magically flying baskets), people do have a right to their beliefs. But in South Africa I read about a couple of very real tragedies resulting from belief in witchcraft, including the belief spread by a few prominent sangomas that having unprotected sex with a virgin would cure you of HIV, which led directly to some young girls getting raped and infected. Not cool. In one news story I read, villagers rose up and killed a man and his wife as punishment for being witches. The man apparently used witchcraft to make his penis invisible (and presumably also detachable and flying, as if just the penis was invisible you’d still see the rest of him coming a mile away) and used this invisible penis to sleep all of the village men’s wives (yes an invisible penis). His wife was also known to transform into an evil snail, although I’m not sure how much harm a snail, evil or not, can do, as they are generally fairly easy to run away from one would think (can a snail even attack... anything?). Anyway these two were effectively executed by the village elders for their supposed crimes in a very Salem-esque fashion (Trial? What trial?). So while witchcraft stories, like vampire or werewolf stories, are very interesting, if people take them seriously—and make decisions that affect lives and deaths of innocent people based on them—that’s not so funny. In many cases, witchcraft appears to be used as a scapegoat to hide the real problems in the community that perhaps the community doesn’t want to face. Lack of education is also a key driving force.
I actually inadvertently stumbled onto a Malawi classroom of sorts when I went to check my email at the Butterfly Center (a local NGO next door to Mayuga). The local fellow who worked there didn’t speak English that well and would generally reply to any question you asked, by repeating what you just said but with greater enthusiasm:
“Hi there.”
“Hi there! How are you, I’m fine!”
“I... um, okay... Is the Internet working today?”
“The Internet is working today!”
“Is it slow?”
“It is slow!”
Anyways eventually I got online and slowing waited for my email back home to inform my parents that I wasn’t dead eventually got through and the small center began to fill with a few local villagers and Western NGO workers who began teaching them how to use computers. Despite the fact that most of the students were teenagers or young adults, the lessons were incredibly basic (like what you might give to an elementary schooler back home) and I realized how valuable and lucky I was to have had a good education.
I ended up in Nkhata Bay for about a week, enjoying the lazy lakeside life (it reminded me a bit of home), swimming in the lake, trying to canoe on one of the local canoes (basically a hollowed out giant bean that are incredibly difficult to balance), losing at pool tournaments, and going on a boat tour to see fish eagles, play soccer with local villagers, snorkel (Lake Malawi’s got some gorgeous snorkelling even right out in front of the resort), and worrying about catching Bilzaharia, the Malawi equivalent of Swimmer’s Itch (it also goes after ducks and snails normally) except the parasite is far more potent and can in some cases cause death (although it’s easily treated by a one time dose of toxic medicine that knocks you out. Bjorn had it while I was there, though he claimed he got it at Cape Maclear (another beach resort further south on the lake) and that it didn’t exist at Nkhata Bay and assuming the same rules as swimmers itch apply: avoid marshy grassy areas (snail and duck habitat) and stick to open, moving water. (as I write this its been a few weeks and I haven’t got it, so I’m pretty sure I’m in the clear). Observing Bjorn the treatment just seemed like a bad hangover and he was back at it pretty quickly. Of course Bjorn seemed like a tough kinda guy. His parents were seafaring nomads who lived on a houseboat and traveled Africa and India and he apparently served in the Swiss Army for 2 years because his Mom was Swiss and all Swiss male citizens are required to give 2 years (conscription) and he wanted “something to do” (he even got a battle scar from the experience when during a training exercise against an imaginary enemy—the Swiss don’t have actual enemies—someone accidentally lost a live grenade and his unit was told to hit the deck and he landed on the still hot barrel of his gun and singed his arm creating an actual battle scar from a war against an enemy that never existed). He told stories from his uncle’s redneck farm in South Africa where for fun his uncle would take kids for a drive in his pick-up truck and have them sit in the back saying “whoever stays on the longest wins” and would try to knock them off by driving rapidly over rough terrain and getting them to hand him beer, and considered “welfare-states” to be “nanny-states” (or perhaps “pussies” is the more appropriate term).
He was our tour guide on lake Malawi (see the snorkelling, games with local villagers, private beaches, fish eagles, etc.) and was very knowledgeable about the lake (apparently the water level used to be a lot lower but rose suddenly one year, possibly due to a volcanic eruption under the surface, and he showed us the underwater remains of a village and its white rock, which the chief would climb and speak from, as the only thing left still extending above the present water line. The tour was great but it held one attraction which I particularly dreaded: the cliff jump (due to my aforementioned fear of heights). There’s the cliff you see, and if you climb to the top of it you can jump off and land in the water below entirely unscathed (the cliff goes down a long way under water). The cliff was about 5-10 m high (about the height of a high diving board) and didn’t look too scary from its base, but from the top it was a different story. Nevermind you had to climb up there over sharp slippery rocks without climbing gear (or shoes for that matter) wearing nothing but your soaking wet swimming trunk (you have to swim to the cliff from the boat as the non-jumpers stay on the boat). I struggled mightily just getting on the blessed rock and out of the water (I’m not climber, I can’t even climb trees), but after multiple tries (and considerable assistance from Bjorn and others) I got on to the rock and and climbed to the top and the specified jumping point (I wanted to jump from lower, but didn’t knew if there would be rocks there or not, so decided it was best to jump from where I had just seen people jump and not die). Having fought my way to this point, not excited about the prospect of climbing down (probably more dangerous than jumping), and not wanting to wuss out, I pushed myself forward before I had too much time to think and leapt into the air—cannonball formation. At first it felt just a normal swimming pool diving board jump, something my body had done numerous times, but when I didn’t hit the water at the usual time and there seemed to be more air (and my mass, ever more evident when I’m shirtless and in a swimsuit gathered speed) I began to feel a tinge of terror as I seemed to rocket uncontrollably downward through the air.
I hit the water with a large bang and went deep as water rushed up my nostrils, an unpleasant feeling I remembered from childhood (probably jumping off the high diving board at the Sportsplex for the first and only time). But my velocity slowed and I found myself back in control.
I returned to the surface amidst applause, breathed air, and felt exuberance that I had faced my fear and conquered it, and now never had to do that bloody thing again.
At another point in the tour, we went snorkelling around some rock outcrops in a sheltered bay (although I seem to not quite have mastered the “keep water out of your snorkel” technique—at least it was fresh water). One Israeli girl who apparently fell out of her raft while white-water rafting in Uganda (and was promptly abandoned by her guide and nearly drowned) was clearly anxious about being in the water again and wanted to get back in the boat, but since this was a wooden jalopy with high walls, hastily constructed floorboards, and one flea-bitten dog, this was easier said than done. Bjorn and the boys on the boat tried to pull her up while I tried to offer my hands as a foot rest. When that didn’t work, I dove under the water, stood on a rock coming up from the lake floor (it wasn’t that deep although it was still over my head) and tried to push the girl up. Unfortunate I forgot I had a snorkel and soon saw my snorkel (now filled with water) sinking to the lake floor. I desperately tried to keep the girl up, with one foot on the rock and the other trying to wrangle my runaway snorkel. Eventually one of the Swiss girls came by and picked up for me and we got the Israeli girl back into the boat with one big shove. Then it was my turn to board the boat which was far from glorious. The Africans don’t call me “big man” for nothing.
Later on, as I left Nkhata Bay, I joined with some Swiss girls from the resort and the boat trip on a tour with a local guide who promised to drop me off at the Tanzanian border (so I could avoid another bus ride and see part of northern Malawi in the process). Also, since there was no ATM with cash in it in Nkhata bay all week (the two ATMs had not been serviced) I had to go to Msuzu to get money, so I just paid my guide who was connected to Mayuga so I wouldn’t have to go back and pay them (needlessly complicated African style).
The tour itself was something of a disappointment, beginning with my guides attempt to hike the price by $100 after it had already began (despite the fact that we had agreed on a price days beforehand) and I couldn’t exactly back out (I’d be stranded). The Swiss girls were friendly but they spoke mostly in German and kept changing their plans, with each change making the guides anxious to hike the price (the guides also spent a fair amount of time picking up supplies which they hadn’t bothered to pick up beforehand and various “friends” along the way). We saw a couple of Malawi’s national parks, the first of which had an elephant and some buffalo and was no Kruger, but fine for Malawi, but the second one was for me a heartbreaker as it was filled with clear-cut forests and scorched landscapes. There was some wildlife here (mainly antelope), but with such habitat loss it was unclear how the poor things could survive long term.
Also I had some sleeping issues. I’m a light sleeper at the best of times and with no pillow except my own rolled up jacket and the thinnest of mats on what felt like a gravel road beneath my tent, I just couldn’t get any sleep so I ended up dozing off in the truck. When one of the Swiss girls tried to wake me the next day, she apparently shook the hell out of my tent and they were quite surprised when I didn’t emerge from it.
The next night’s campsite had grass and cement pads yet everyone else insisted on putting the tents on the cement pads as it was a high altitude and they worried it would get cold (you see, they saw frost on the grass in the mornings so they assumed it meant the grass was cold). I tried to point out that morning dew/frost actually comes out of the air and collects on everything (its just more visible on grass) and if you put your tent on grass, it will actually block the frost from forming on it (not to mention provide natural insulation and cushion), but this was dismissed as ludicrous (apparently flying baskets are believable in Malawi, but not water condensing out of air particles) and the tents were put on the cement pads and I put myself back in the truck. The next morning, people complained about a cold night. Go figure.
At the campfire one night, we sat around while I occasionally scanned the bush with my flashlight for hyenas (unlike the parks in South Africa, these parks weren’t fenced, so there was nothing stopping a hyena or lion or whatever from just walking into your camp, although our guide was convinced that hyenas weren’t actually predators so much as scavengers). One of the Swiss girls, who had a clear interest in DRC marijuana and other African narcotics (she was training to be a nurse) apparently decided that I was not scanning the bush “right” and snatched my flashlight out of the hand and promptly dropping it clumsily in the fire. In a region where consistent electricity is a luxury (not just while you’re camping) losing your only flashlight was bound to make you a little annoyed, but luckily the guides managed to fish it out of the fire before it got totally destroyed (it still works, all its covered in ash marks and various other battle scars) while the Swiss girl assumed the duck and cover position, which apparently is her standard manoeuvre after doing something stupid (she also said that when she got between a mother zebra and her foal to take a picture—clearly a bright thing to do—and noticed that the mother zebra was not surprisingly upset she went into the same position, and the mother zebra—not surprisingly—kicked her).
The next place we stayed was another beach resort where overland tours stopped and seemed to be having a lot of fun. I gladly took a dorm here in lieu of the stinky old truck (which I was also spending all day in due to all our driving around) and then next day we had one last dip in lake Malawi before the girls and the guides had disagreement over our agreed departure (and since no one had consulted me when the decision was made, I had no idea what the actual arrangement had been) but we were all hustled up perhaps the worst road I’ve seen my life (basically tire ruts through worn sharp rocks zig-zagging up a mountain cliff) just to see the fairly non-descript town of Livingstonia. At this point we dropped off the girls and I insisted on being driven to the Tanzanian border before daylight ended, which we did.
At the border itself the money exchange desks wouldn’t accept my Malawi Kwacha (despite the fact they were literally on the Malawi border, so I don’t know what currency they were expecting) so I had to do black market trades to get rid of it. A border guard gave me a hassle because apparently upon entering Malawi, the Malawi-Zambia border official gave me a one week visa to Malawi not the two week one I had asked for, so techinically I’d been in Malawi illegally for two days. I pointed out that their own border people made the screw-up and my two days were spent spending tourist dollars into the local economy, and besides I was leaving the country so if they didn’t want me all they had to do was give me back my passport and I would go. The border official gave me a bit of a lecture but handed back my passport and I was cleared to move on to Tanzania.
TANZANIA
After crossing the border to Tanzania from Malawi I needed to get to the nearest major Tanzanian city, a non-descript place called Mbeya (in fact the only description I’d had of it was Bjorn’s description of it as a “shit-hole.”) While there were minibuses, it was close enough and I was tired enough that I thought a taxi might be a better idea. I ended being befriended by a local pastor—also crossing the border at the same time. At first, I thought he was yet another tout, offering false friendship in the hopes of getting your attention so he could launch into a sales pitch, but he soon turned out to be genuine and helped me negotiate a better price on the taxi, arranged a better bus transportation the next day to Dar as Salaam (Tanzania’s biggest city and my next stop). He had arranged someone to meet me at the notorious Dar bus station called Ubungu—a bastion of scum and villainy if ever there was one, but there was apparently a mix-up and his friend never appeared so I ended up having to get a taxi.
I spent the next couple of days struggling to get my bearings in a city that spoke Swahili which I couldn’t, but eventually I got on the Kilimanjaro express bus to Moshi, the town at the foot of Kilimanjaro. Moshi itself seemed pleasant enough a town, although I never saw the bloody mountain as it was covered in fog each day I was there (apparently a lot of hikers pay a lot of money to climb it and still never see it because of the fog, so at least I didn’t do that).
Realizing I was running out of time in Africa, I decided to give up on Kilimanjaro and focus on my remaining must sees before getting the hell off the continent. I tried to find a Serengeti/Ngorongoro crater tour (difficult as there are a ton of scam artists, and its hard to tell the legit companies from the illegit companies, but I eventually chose to join a tour based on the advice of a Finnish woman). After a day of paying for minutes on a store clerk’s cellphone as that was apparently the only phone I could use and no one responded to emails (due to an ongoing Tanzanian energy crisis—thanks to “a gov’t that didn’t bother investing in its power grid” according to a local coffeeshop barista—you were lucky if you had electricity nevermind Internet access. The power literally went out every day, usually at inopportune times like when you were about to watch TV or trying to use a squat toilet in a room with no windows. Many of the businesses had generators, but acquiring fuel was expensive and tricky at times and burning it just to keep the lights on can’t have been a great solution.)
Anyways, my tour operators said I could join a tour tomorrow, but that I would have to get to Moshi tonight—not to worry, though, as they could provide transportation. I figured this meant minibus (in Tanzania, they’re called “dalla-dallas”) and said 3 times I didn’t want to go on one at night (they’re not exactly safe during the day) and would rather wait until the next day and catch the early morning bus bus (you know the kind where all the passengers sit down and the chickens are stowaway luggage not squished against you with their sharp beaks protruding). Each time I was assured “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” but remained unconvinced.
Sure enough, as we waited in the dark for the bus to come, longer than the “10 minutes” was no surprise, someone grabbed my bag and (after a discussion in Swahili) all my stuff was uniformly chucked onto a dalla-dalla (the buses had broken down and another one wouldn’t be coming for hours, my guide said, so we had no choice). Naturally it was crammed as usual, and a bus designed for 15 people soon had 40 on it, we myself and my guides crammed in at the back, all of us jostling painfully as we went over speed bump and speed bump. At one point, a fight broke out amongst the crowd up and one drunken idiot had to be thrown off the bus. Fun times.
And we were passed en route to Arusha by the bus I was supposed to take. Twice.
At this point I was beginning to doubt my wisdom in joining this tour, but it was the only possible to see the Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater by tour or car rental (and I wasn’t about to rent a car) and I watched far too much Discovery Channel to come this close and not go in. The hotel they put me up in that night was alright, but the power went out again soon after I arrived so I didn’t see much of it.
Woken up at 5 am for my transfer to join the other group of travellers, it was still dark and without lights I had trouble finding all my stuff in the pitch black. This meant I was a few minutes late for my transfer driver and boy did he let me hear about it. Apparently, the Swahili expressions Polé Polé (slowly slowly), Hakuna Matata (don’t worry), T.I.A. (this is Africa) etc. only apply when a Tanzanian is keeping you waiting. If you keep a Tanzanian waiting, surprise, its suddenly a different story.
Anyways, we made it out to the Tarangire campsite where my fellow tourists were waiting for me to join the tour and having breakfast. At first they seemed kinda cold towards me and I thought perhaps they were just an uncharismatic bunch, but it later turned out that they had been promised that the tour would only have 4 people on it and were incensed when the tour operators had broken the arrangement and sold space to another tourist (ie. me) and forced two of them to share a tent although they later confessed that they didn’t blame me for the deception as they realized I had no idea about any of this. I was just a dude who wanted to see the Serengeti.
After a long drive we made it to the park (you have to go through Ngorongoro to get to Serengeti, apparently so the Tanzanian parks board can collect extra entry fees). Despite the expensive park fees and high number of visitors, they don’t seem to be investing anything in the roads which were some of the worst I’d seen in Africa (I could have sprinkled gravel over open terrain and made a better road in some cases). I can’t imagine getting a rental car through there unscathed. I counted around 15 break-downs (and these were hard 4x4 land cruisers and land rovers we’re talking about here) and one overturned bus. The overturned bus happened shortly before we arrived on the scene and there were still passengers milling around in shock and being treated for injuries. Unsure of what to do, we gave some of the people our water bottles, but when these appeared to be snatched up by able-bodied men who didn’t necessarily need them, I made a point of hand delivering my remaining cookies and water to a little girl. Our truck itself, a beaten up old land cruiser, held itself together for most of the trip (although my door handle came off at one point so I had to roll down my window and open it from the outside). Gap, my old nemesis and former employer, had plenty of its shiny new trucks around, although I was quite pleased to see one if its Discovery trucks (the most expensive line) broken-down by the side of the road as we rambled past.
We did see plenty of wildlife which made the trip worthwhile, including the most sightings of lions I’ve ever experienced (as well as plenty of zebras, gazelles, wildebeest, hyenas, and even a couple of leopards). The highlight was a male lion sleeping in the sun by the side of the road who seemed only mildly interested in our presence. We had ample time to photograph him up close (unlike my Kalahari guides, my Tanzanian guides didn’t panic and hit the gas, although they may have also had less concern over our personal safety). Truly an amazing wildlife experience (although if you only see one park in Africa, I’d still say go to Kruger for the better roads).
After the safari, and some awkward arguing between the tourists and the operators (who seemed incapable of taking responsibility for their guides and own company’s false promises), I was supposed to be taken back to Moshi, it became clear that I wasn’t going to get a straight answer about how to get back (at first we were promised a ride then a bus, then it was supposed to take an hour and then it was supposed to arrive at 2 am). Eventually, I just said screw it, and walked away from the shady operation and booked myself into an Arusha hotel, and caught the next morning’s “luxury” (by luxury they mean follows international automotive standards) bus straight to Dar.
It turns out I stumbled back into Dar in the middle of Ramadan and in this highly Muslim region (Tanzania’s about half Muslim and half Christian), and all the restaurants were closed (except oddly the Lebanese place). Ironically, in both Qatar and Turkey (which are more overwhelmingly Muslim and which I also visited during Ramadan) finding food was never an issue. After scrounging up some food and I managed to sneak my away past about 48 touts to get to the legitimate counter for the legitimate ferry to Zanzibar, my last African must-see.
While I had heard reports that the crossing to Zanzibar could often be through rough seas (and my experiences in Mozambique and South Africa taught me that African seas were rough indeed), it ended up not being as bad as I thought it would be (although it was no Pelican Lake). Zanzibar town (often called Stone Town) is a network of Arabic style twisting streets (it used to be the capital for the sultanate of Zanzibar, back in the days of the British Empire) and the island itself has a bounty of gorgeous beaches and spice plantations and was the highlight of Tanzania for me. I did a spice tour where you could see where all those things going stale in your spice cupboard come from including turmeric, cinnamon, cocoa, vanilla, etc. and even some peppercorns (still green) and the strongest pepper flavour I’ve ever bitten into. After a couple days of lounging around Zanzibar, I caught the ferry back to Dar, to get my plane to Istanbul with Qatar Airways.
Now my shaving case had broken a hole out the bottom early in the trip which I had makeshiftily repaired with duct tape, but naturally the duct tape came off en route to the airport. After some negotiating with the airport staff I managed to get it put into bag and the bag put into a box that was taped so I could check it in (I couldn’t exactly take my shaving case on to the plane for security reasons).
After that, all I had to do was catch my plane to Doha, Qatar and then on to Istanbul.
KENYA
Now I had earlier planned on going to Kenya, being one of the premier East African destinations, but the main thing I wanted to see in Kenya was the Masai Mara reserve which was effectively the same park as the Serengeti, so after I saw the Serengeti, I didn’t see the point in forking out for another visa (the only other place I heard of from Kenya was Nairobi and all reports were that it was God-awful). I was hoping I could count hiking around Mt. Kilimanjaro’s base (which I had planned to do if my safari tour operators had taken me back to Moshi as originally agreed upon) as being close enough (even though Kili’s entirely in Tanzania, its close to the Kenyan border), but no dice. So I was content to leave Kenya for another trip. Besides there was a famine going on there and stuff.
Qatar Airways had other plans however, as my flight to Doha inexplicably got re-routed through Nairobi. I wasn’t allowed to leave the plane, but I guess I inadvertently got a sneak peak of Kenya (or at least their airport in Nairobi).
QATAR
If you’re wondering where the hell Qatar is, its a tiny peninsular country shooting out from Saudi Arabia into the Persian Gulf, not far from Dubai and the U.A.E. (they’re very similar countries in fact). After landing in Doha, Qatar’s capital, from Nairobi, I immediately realized I wasn’t in the third world any more. The airport was actually clean and relatively shiny and new, and people seemed to be organized.
Of course that wasn’t the only surprise Qatar had in store for me. I had a lengthy layover (12 hours overnight) before my next flight to Istanbul, and I had reconciled myself to the fact I would likely be spending the night spread out on a set of airport chairs, clutching my laptop carry on like a teddy bear (it would have better than some of the places I slept in Africa). When I asked a Qatar airways staffer about where I could best find a quiet area to grab some shut eye, he looked at my ticket and said “oh we have a hotel booked for you...”
“You do?” (Keep in mind, I bought this ticket cause it was the cheapest)
“Yes. Please check with transfer services.” What followed was a bit of a zig zag across Qatar’s scattered airport (mixed-up as it is currently undergoing renovations and expansion), but to make a long story short and I ended up getting a free 24 hour visa to enter Qatar itself, a free transfer, and a free dinner, breakfast, and nights accommodation at luxury hotel in Downtown Doha called Movenpick (something like a Swiss Hilton). The food was a Qatari buffet feast, the room was big enough to fit all the places I stayed in Africa combined inside, and there was a swimming pool, massage parlour, and my room even had a big flat screen television set (with more than 1 channel!). No, I don’t usually stay at places like this, so this felt like some pretty luxurious treatment. After Africa, it felt like I was staying at the Qatari Sultan’s palace. Best damn layover I ever had (wish it had been longer). Of course I didn’t have much need for the sauna, as if you wanted the sauna experience just step out into the Qatari summer night (35 degrees Celsius at night, it felt sauna like enough. Lord knows what it would be like during the day. How did people survive here without AC?)
At any rate, far too soon I had leave Qatar (I wasn’t really intending to spend a lot of time there) and contine on my way to Istanbul where I am now as I write this.
GOOD-BYE AFRICA
So what was my experience in Africa overall? I’m definitely glad I went and glad I had the opportunity to live in South Africa (still my favourite African country) and at least see life in neighbouring countries (although considering I got culture shock just traveling through these areas, I can’t imagine what would have happened had I tried to live in one). Africa’s definitely the hardest place I’ve ever traveled mainly due to bad transportation networks and infrastructure, chaotic approaches to everything, and shady characters at every turn who see you as a giant dollar sign. Still it’s an incredibly different, eye-opening part of the world. Sometimes called the “hopeless continent” there’s some truth to the description, as many countries have been spinning their wheels for decades thanks to poor selfish leadership and lack of basic necessities like infrastructure and education. Africa’s got its work cut out for it, but Chfirst and foremost, its leadership needs to take responsibility for their own screw-ups (and taking responsibility for your own actions needs to become a social norm) instead of trying to shift the blame onto witchcraft and western “imperialists” (Neo-colonial arguments don’t hold as much weight for me any more, sorry grad school friends, but colonialism ended in Africa decades ago). Most of the westerners I encountered in Africa were either tourists or NGO workers who were volunteering their time out of the goodness of their heart for dubious if any financial gain). While I’m sure there are still plenty of Western companies exploiting African labour and resources, the Chinese seem to be taking this over and now have a greater percentage and influence (and more colonial relationship) with Africa these days (during the Malawi unrest, Chinese businesses were attacked and not Western ones, because people felt the president was a puppet of the Chinese). Africans aren’t that different from Canadians or anyone else (it wasn’t that long ago that my ancestors were burning people at the stake for witchcraft), but years of poverty, disease, and neglect have left that at a perennial disadvantage. It will take great leadership, great personal sacrifice, and great diplomacy to bring Africa up and put it on its feet, and the change must come from within. Africa is certainly capable of producing great leaders—look at Nelson Mandela, Bishop Desmond Tutu, and Rwanda’s miraculous recovery from a nation devastated by genocide to a popular tourist destination to go look for mountain gorillas. Africa needs more leadership like that, and less like Robert Mugabe and Moammar Gaddafi (a rule of thumb: the more shops that feel compelled to display your country’s leader’s face in a visible place, the more autocratic they are).
It will get there. It may take decades, or centuries, but it will get there.

So in the end, I'm glad I decided to do my trek through sub-saharan Africa, although doing it independently allowed me to interact more with locals it was also incredibly frustrating... making it a bit like the cliff jump in Malawi (I'm glad I did it, but I don't need to do it again). I think next time I travel in Africa I might take tour.:)

Cheers
Ryan