Invictus

January 2007

2007-01-11T22:10:00.000-07:00

It has been nearly a year since I've posted on this blog. Among other things, I've relocated to Washington D.C. and now work on Capitol Hill. It may be time to utilize the blog again--as a forum for discussion and insight. It is also a remarkably effective method of forcing myself to reflect on life as it zooms by faster than the speed of light.

Food for Thought

2006-02-01T09:38:00.000-07:00

The day is coming when a single carrot, freshly observed, will set off a revolution. ~Paul Cezanne.

42 at 22

2006-01-31T13:46:00.000-07:00

If I look at the calendar, ask my parents, or even look in the mirror, I am quite sure I am 22 years old. But something strange has happened. My key ring currently weighs more than my ten-pound laptop. I drive a mini-van, have two houses, three dogs, and to top it all off--a cleaning lady! These are four things I never want and will strive never to have--with the exception of this week, when I am most certainly 42, not 22.

Happy New Year, 2006!

2006-01-03T22:57:00.000-07:00

"The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware--joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware." -H. Miller

Safe, Sound, and Stuffed. Denver, Colorado

2005-11-26T21:49:00.000-07:00

Since I last wrote, I've returned to Paris for a short and absolutely wonderful visit with my good friend who was just married, hopped a train back to Brussels to help another friend move from one apartment to another and to catch a few hours (meaning two) hours of sleep before heading to London by plane and then on to Washington D.C., USA! That all happened between the 7th and 10th. Between the 10th and 20th I hit-up as many familiar faces I could find in D.C. , New York, and Boston and spent many an hour exchanging stories with friends up and down the coast. Then on the 20th I set off on one more plane ride--this one to Denver.

In short, I'm home.

Now what? That is a very good question and one that I hope to answer by placing myself in solitary confinement for an extended period of time....right after I finish the remainder of the turkey and the pumpkin pie that is luring me to the refrigerator, yet again.

Brussels, Belgium

2005-11-07T18:02:00.000-07:00

I'm in Brussels generally enjoying the dreary rain and grey weather in the great company of a friend who I've known for more than 30 days. Actually, I've known her for over 300 days and this is a wonderful feeling. I just did something I did not expect to do. I just changed my plane ticket and now I'm coming back to the USA just a little earlier than expected. Exactly why I did this, I'm not exactly sure. That is not true. I changed my ticket because this trip is over for me. I've accomplished everything I set out to do: a journalism project in Kosovo, a solitary wander through Bulgaria and Istanbul, a hearty venture through Central Asia, and I went to the wedding of one of my best friends in France. Now I am just biding my time. Although this sounds pleasant and something most anyone would love to do, it is considerably less pleasant when you are homeless, unemployed, and still trying to figure out what in the world comes next. This is a question I may ask myself for my entire life and that is fine--I actually hope to continually ask myself this question along with questions like, what in the world is this all about? What matters? Am I doing what matters to me? BUT at the same time, right now I'm ready to stop living out of a bag and at least sleep in the same bed for more than four nights in a row. For better or for worse, I'm coming back to the USA, at least temporarily.
If you're in the states, I'll see you soon.

Paris, Fance

2005-10-24T18:12:00.000-06:00

Ahh the joys of Paris in late October. Word to the wise, bring a rain coat, an umbrella and an unquentiable thirst to see the city despite the grey skies and dreary weather. Other than the inevitable cold-weather blues Paris is respite from the challenges of Central Asia and the Caucuses. Acutally, it feels completely indulgant. Now most everything feels indulgent--wearing clean socks everyday, not considering buying, but just looking anything not of absolute and immediate necessity, enjoying a wonderful meal, even traveling in a smooth bus or on the metro is quite blissful.

Now I'll paint a funny picture for you: Paris: cosmopolitan, diverse, fashionable (pointy shoes, colourful scarves, well-fitting jackets). Katharine: brown hiking boots, blue pants with many pockets (same pants every day) , black fleece, terrible Soviet hair-cut (more words to the wise, never cut your hair when you are in former Soviet anything). Hilarious.

Final thoughts of the day: a wonderful way to see Paris = from a motor bike. Of course it is best if you are at the front of the motorbike and driving so you have a clear view, but a good runner-up is to ride on the back of a friend's motor bike on a PERFECT Sunday afternoon in October (yes, there has been one perfect day!). Other back-door Parisian activities include walking around the 20th district from midnight to 3:00am (with a friend of course) and thus seeing all of the little back alleys and little cafes and bars where the tourists (who are numerous even in October) simply are not. Finally, long, long dinners (from 9:00pm to 1:30am) are a must because only then can you really discover that you are living with a couple of night owls and get a full education in French politics, economics, music, cheese, bread, and slang simultaneously.

Paris, France

2005-10-21T21:03:00.000-06:00

How strange to be transplanted from the back roads and tiny villages of Azerbaijan to the cosmopolitan metropolis of Paris in just a few days! Luckily I spent three and a half days in Baku with a wonderfully generous hostess and a new, jolly friend who was perceptive enough to take me to the dirt and grime of the oil fields surrounding Baku over the art museum.

There is far more to say about Baku and Azerbaijan than this paragraph and the silly French keyboard will allow but to list a few highlights and poignant memories: 1) Lahich--a village in the backroads of the Caucuses surounded by incredible geology--vertically layered cliffs reaching straight for the sky. The town itself is quaint and alive with local crafts such as copper engraving and carpet production 2) The guest house where we stayed in Lahich was called "Garden of Paradise" and it was! Imagine autumn trees, good food, and a hammam. 3) The worst hotel I've ever set foot in, in Sheki. A Soviet dump without electricty, or water, but lots of foul smells.

I'm not done at all, but dinner is and in France you run to the table when the food is ready because you actually Want to eat!

Baku, Azerbaijan

2005-10-10T19:40:00.000-06:00

Sometimes we go to bed at 3:00am other times we get up at 3:00am. Today we did the latter. We successfully took a plane out of Uzbekistan and made it to Baku without any mishaps. We were a little nervous, if only because the entrance to the Tashkent Airport says "Good Luck" rather than "Goodbye" or "Come Again Soon."

Now that I am out of Uzbekistan I can more safely comment on Tashkent. A bizzare city. As I mentioned yesterday, the city was once the 4th largest in the USSR, which means it must have been home to 4 or 5 million people. Today only 2.2 million live in Tashkent. The avenues are wide, the buildings typically Soviet, and the streets are empty. The city was like a skeleton--a reminder of what once was a bustling, lively place. The quiet, barren streets filled with uniformed policemen at night and likely undercover police during the day, were eerie and silently oppressive.

Baku is a breath of fresh air (well polluted fresh air.) We clearly have left Central Asia and moved on to areas of more Turkik than Russian influence. The Soviets definately were here--the streets are wide and straight, the city sprawls, and the metro feels just like the Moscow metro. But, this city is alive. It is very human--the traffic is unruly, people honk and drive too fast. The streets are crowded. There is building going on everywhere. Parts of the city are run down and unkept while others have a newly gentrified air. There are bazaars and kiosks, little shops and cafes. This all sounds so 'normal' but that is just it--it is! It is a growing, changing city with a strange charm that seeps through the oily air. Cranes and oil rigs are visible from the promonade along the waterfront. A preposterously tall fountain shoots into the sky not far from a pier filled with men, old and young alike, fishing and chatting through the late afternoon. This is not double land locked Uzbekistan or cash-strapped Tajikistan. Welcome to the Caucuses.

Tashkent, Uzbekistan

2005-10-09T12:10:00.000-06:00

I am sitting in an internet cafe in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, what used to be the Soviet Union's forth largest city and the hub of Central Asia. There is plenty I could say, although I've been here only a day and will be here only one day more, but instead I will restrict my commentary to Tajikistan and days gone by, for more or less obvious reasons.

First a quick update from our little journey to the Fan Mountains: According to Bradley, our beloved author of the Tajikistan section of the Lonely Planet's guide to Central Asia, the fan mountains are "a couple of hours from Dushanbe." With this in mind, we left around 1:00pm on Tuesday after a morning of visits to the Uzbek embassy and to the airport to arrange future travel plans and permits. Well, once again, Bradley proved that Never has he left Dushanbe. The seemingly innocent road to the Fan Mountains was a regular beast. We arrived in the tiny town of Artoush at 8:30pm after a healthy 7.5 hours of jostling and shaking our way up and down windy mountain passes. What did we learn from this: "a couple" means at least 7--maybe more. Keep this in mind next time you ask for a couple of anything.

Upon our arrival in Artoush, we were mercifully received by a rich, newly wed couple who bestowed their very best hospitality upon us including a simple meal, a place to sleep, bedding that was clearly the bride-wealth (new, beautiful, hand made blankets, and pillows), and tea the next morning. For all of this, we paid nothing. It was the first night of Ramadan and our presence was an opportunity for the couple to demonstrate their kindness and generosity.

Ahh Ramadan...you are a boon and a burden. After arriving at 8:30, we rose at 5:30 so that we could eat before the sun rose and the locals began their daily fast. By the time there was a hint of light in the sky we were hiking uphill, alongside a river towards an alp-lager/alpine camp. The early morning hike was beautiful--the entire area lush in comparison to the bleak dust of the Pamirs. Here there were junipers, apple trees from time to time, plenty of grass, and even people herding their goats, heading off to school, and collecting firewood. By 8:30 we reached the alpine camp and a man who lives on the hill served us some terrible tea, despite the fact that he himself could not drink it. Tea rejuvinated us...or at least some of us. Sam felt remarkably ill and stayed behind, but Xristos and I headed up the mountain towards our ultimate goal: a series of 12 lakes another 2 hours up the mountain.

We walked and walked and it was beautiful. We unnecessarily tried to cross the river. I got wet up to my shins. So I left the insides of my shoes behind with my wet socks to dry on a rock. We continued up-up-up. Three times we thought we were there...and then there was another hill to climb. But then finally, at the base of snow-covered peaks we caught a glimpse of brilliant blue. There was indeed a lake. We never found twelve. Actually we only found one and three puddles. But what can you do? Bradley is the one who said there are twelve lakes anyway and e already know he doesn't know how to count. The one lake we found was brilliant. We basked in the sun near the lake....and then we walked back down.

By the time we reached Sam again it was nearly 4:00. A long day of walking. We stayed at the camp through the evening after they agreed to feed us because mind you, we had eaten only bread bread at 5:30 and since then only tea. The combination of Ramadan and remote mountains make food hard to come by. But since they did agree to feed us, we stayed with pleasure. And feed us they did: the soapy tea and moldy bread were terrible, but the mutton and stewed vegetables were marvelous (at least given our low expectations and extreme hunger).

We collapsed into bed around 9:30pm only to wake up again at 3:45am. We had a marshrutka to catch at 6:00am and several kilometers between our resting place and the marshrutka stop. So we were up, hiking, and luckily made it to town with twenty minutes to spare. Another day of bouncing and jolting had begun....we took the Marshrutka to Penjikent and from there got car back to Dushanbe. The Niva that took us back to Dushanbe was nicely equipped with shocks and a kind driver who had a load of apples in the back seat. The ride was terribly dull and long, and the driver stopped twice to wash his car during the 7 hour drive--but we made it back to Dushanbe as planned and in time for a nice meal at a Chinese restaurant to break our fast and strenghten us for another few days of Central Asian "cuisine."

That is more than enough on the Fan mountains.
Now, things you should know:

ARASH is the #1 hit in Central Asia and apparently a huge hit in Europe right now too. This Iranian pop star first made his way into our lives on the road from Iskashim to Langar (when his tape was played on repeat for five hours). Now we have our very own copy (actually copies--one tape and two CDs) of Arash and we listen to him on every single drive at least once, because otherwise we feel lost. Here in Tashkent Arash is on the radio too so you can listen to Arash while you eat, sleep, wash, walk...anytime, anywhere, always.

I am afraid I am about to commit the terrible crime of leaving Central Asia without a bathrobe of my own. Confused? The women of Central Asia have clothing figured out. They dress for both comfort and style. The dresses that modern women (who are not wearing western clothing) wear are like bathrobes or house-coats without any tie around the waist. They are made of fabrics of technicolors, velvets, sparkles, and traditional patterns. They are one of the best things invented since Pajamas, I'm sure of it. Lest you think that these bathrobe-type dresses really are pajamas, I'll have you know that all properly made bathrobe-dresses have shoulder pads that ensure they are not night-wear but proper daytime attire. But, my point is that I think I am going to leave the country without my own bathrobe. I intended to find one in Tashkent, but forgot and now there simply is not time.

An adventure in Xorog that I have not managed to relay:
The drive back from Murgab to Xorog started around 7:00pm, after about 7 hours of searching for a driver who would take us. Relieved we drove off into the night with our driver, a nice Kyrgyz guy who ensured we were prepared for the drive with a full stomach of tea, bread, and Peanuts (never before have plain, unsalted peanuts been so wonderful). We hit the road, spend 2 hours in deep conversation, and then 5 hours alternately singing in Greek and English (mostly Greek as I kept dosing off mid-song). Around 2:30am we pulled into Xorog, at which point our driver--who even chimed in when he knew the song we were singing--went mad. He stopped, banged on the door of some unknown people and told them that he had four tourists in the car (there were 3 of us, mind you) and they needed a place to sleep. Not surprisingly there was little positive response from strangers to a stranger at 2:30 in the morning. Then the driver started talking about how he needed to sleep in his car if it were parked around other cars, but if he could park it somewhere by itself then he would be able to sleep inside too. Then he drove up to a something he called a hotel, but more closely resembled a prison. There he began banging on the metal gate, honking the car horn and yelling for someone's attention. We were completely wierded out and demanded that he take us the main street. He complied with our orders and there on the mainstreet we paid the mad-man and abandoned him and his precious car. We took our things and headed to a guesthouse we knew of just off the main road--perhaps a three minute walk.
We found the guesthouse, but the door that lead into the courtyard was naturally guarded by a viscious guard dog. We yelled, banged on the gate, and rung the bell, but received no response. After some 20 minutes of banging, we formed a little human pyramid and Sam scaled the 2-metre wall into the courtyard. From there we easily opened the gate and let ourselves in. As we walked into the couryard the terribly drunk night guard finally awoke from his deep-drunken sleep. He was confused as can be, but we told him we just needed a place to be until dawn and he showed us to the balcony. There we layed out our sleeping bags and collapsed like regular vagabonds.
Sometime around 5:30am I woke up because there were rather offical men dressed in suits and ties walking across the balcony and glaring at us. Sam and Xristos didn't notice, but I knew I wouldn't go to sleep again so I got up and explained to the suited men why we were sleeping on the balcony. Within minutes I was presented with coffee, bread, kalbasi, yogurt, eggs--a regular feast for one who has eaten only bread and tea for days. Before long it became apparent that I was having breakfast with various officials of the Badakshan region--governor, mayor, and tax-official types. They were jovial souls who clearly endure few of the hardships of real Tajik life. They insisted I sit at the table with them, have a healthy tea-cup of vodka, and tell them of our travels. They tried to convince me to stay in Badakshan and marry a Tajik, but that was clearly a hopeless feat. Suddenly they left in a hurry saying they had to get back to their provinces and homes today and that their cars were leaving momentarily. The room was abandoned as were the platters of food. I roused Sam and Xristos and we collectively filled our pockets and cheeks before packing up our stuff and heading out the guesthouse gate without a word. Only the guard ever knew were were there and it is doutful he remembers more than having a strange dream.

With this posting I say 'good bye' to Central Asia. In fewer than 24 hours we'll be gone and into new, uncharted territory: the Caucuses.

Dushanbe, Once Again

2005-10-03T16:05:00.000-06:00

I can hardly describe the places I have been and conversations I have had in the past two weeks with any justice. The Badakshan Region is one of the most rural places on earth. We were in towns that literally felt like the end of the earth. At 3,700 meters altitude the wind howled and the temperatures dropped. The earth was barren—just dust, rocks, and very little else, but such stark beauty is hardly imaginable. The mountain peaks rose straight up towards the sky, magnificent and mysterious.

Our rendezvous in the Pamirs began with a Ruskii Jeep, which we secured in Dushanbe. We knew the road from Dushabe to Xorog would be long and in less than perfect condition so before leaving we made sure that our Jeep had 4 wheels, a more-or-less sober driver, and no shocks--because that would have been luxury and we are not into luxury. These conditions met, we set off for Xorog...what turned out to be a 24 hour drive on an unpaved mountain road. By the time we stopped for a couple of hours of sleep, some tea, and baranina (sheep) intestines, hearts, and liver we hardly knew up from down. But a couple of hours of sleep worked wonders and when the sun came up in the morning we discovered the unimaginable....we had spent the night sleeping under the starts on a platform with its feet in a tributary of the river dividing Tajikistan and Afghanistan. In the early morning light we found ourselves with a picturesque view of a country currently known to American's as little more than a hell hole of extremism and war. Over the next few days we became good friends with Afghanistan's peaks as we followed the enchanting mountain range and river east along the Tajik-Afghan border.

To make a very long drive short, we arrived in Xorog, Tajikistan's 4th largest "city" and within 4 hours we fully exhausted the city's potential. We visited the museum, the bazaar (which had rice, macaroni, flour, bulgar wheat, russian cookies, chinese candies, chinese shoes, sunflower oil, cigarettes, and perhaps a couple of cabbages) the river, and the KGB. Xorog had little to offer...it is a Soviet town, only 80 years old, with Soviet architecture and little more.

In Xorog, as in all but one town where we stayed, we stayed with a family who we met more or less by accident. Central Asian hospitality is reminicent of the Arab world and the Turkish influence is clear. In Tajikistan the Persians have trumped the Soviets and the Brits... from the moment you set foot into a home there will be tea, bread, and anything that the family can scrounge up within moments.

From Xorog we intended to go to Murgab but our plans morphed due to the whims of a Soviet army truck driver. So instead we found ourselves piling into a marshrutka with 20 other locals on the way to Iskashim. Just as we were about to pull away and head out of town, two white faces appeared in the window...and within minutes there were 24 in the Marshrutka and our traveling group grew from 3 to 5.

As much as I hate the idea of traveling in a group, being the monkey's, the foreigners whom everyone stares at, in this case it was an incredible blessing. Here it doesn't matter whether I walk down the street by myself or with an enterage of 10 camels...people stare as if I had popped down from some other planet. So be it. Admittedly I am a tourist and together we were 5 tourists. And 5 is a much more powerful number than 3!

Traveling as 5 instead of 3 enabled us to hire another Russiki Jeep to travel between Iskashim and Langar and then again between Langar and Morgab--two trips that had previously been deemed impossible by the powers that be in Dushanbe. Traveling as 5 also mixed up the personalities, the jokes, the possibilties, and the conversations. The Greeks now had two Austrians to poke and prod. The Austrians an American and two Greeks to harrass. The EU jokes were endless (if not a bit tiring) but the Badakshan songs about everything from our constant diet of sheep, bread, and tea to wearing the same shirt for 7 days were continually fun and broke the monotony of long car rides, dust, and tea.

Xorog received a paragraphy of its own, but for now I will lump Iskashim, Langar, Bulun-Kul, Murgab, and Kali-kul together. On some level this is terribly unfair, as each town had its own character and the experiences in each town are worth telling individually, with at least a paragraph for each. But when taken as a whole, the towns were very similar: tiny, bleak, dusty with incredible mountains on all four sides. The food in each town and on each day differed only be the freshness of the bread and the strength of the tea. In each town unemployment hovers around 90-95%, the air smells of Yak-shit (the only available fuel where the land is barren of anything living), the markets held macaroni, flour, and rice, but nothing green or red. The people were remarkably warm and positive. The accounting never added properly: monthly salaries were 7 (wife) + 10 (husband) dollars per month but flour cost $20 per 50 kilo sack. But somehow they managed from day to day. Life--Extreme.

When time permits I will have to sit and write more about our daily exursions, individual experiences, the families with whom we stayed, and the long drives which took us from place to place, but already we are on our way out of town again. After a few days of planning, rethinking, plotting, and dealing with bureaucracy we have come up with a suitable plan to get us out of Tajikistan and back on the road. We are off to Penjikent and the Fan mountains for the next three days and then, with some luck, we will have Uzbek transit visas that will get us to Tashkent and then flights to Baku, Azerbaijan. This is not the original plan, but we never really thought we would be able to carry out the original plan. In this part of the world having a plan is like knowing a good joke.

I've been gone 7 weeks now and I'm still laughing...at least usually. Today I am sick and tired of traveling and just want to hold still for a couple of days. I'm still enjoying my traveling companions, but every once in a while I'm ready to change those too. Sam and Xristos are far from perfect and drive me mad quite regularly, but honestly I am lucky, very lucky. We are three very different people and we manage to get along quite well considering we only met three weeks ago. That in itself is hard for me to believe. There is nothing like travel, long car rides, freezing cold nights where no one sleeps, upset stomachs, sheep meat, and cup after cup of tea to accelerate the "getting to know you" process. It is rare that I can tell someone they smell and sing and dance about sheep meat within two weeks of meeting them. I take these as very good signs.

Dushanbe, Tajikistan

2005-09-18T22:35:00.000-06:00

Although the our plane from Bishkek to Dushanbe had a small note that read, "cut here with chop axe" the flight was surprisingly smooth, the view of the Fan mountains breath-taking, and the landing professionally executed. Once we made it out of the airport (we had to wait for our visas for a couple of hours because the powers that be were at obed (lunch) when we arrived) we discovered Dushanbe to be a remarkably livable city. The main avenue is broad and tree-lined. The people with whom I've interacted friendly and have a curiously intelligent gleam in their eye. Dushanbe is not large, but it is a sizable if not cosmopolitan city. It is also colourful, as the women wear bathrobe type gowns that are shapeless and bright. I say this not to make the city seem exotic or the people backwards, but because it is beautiful and refreshing to see that it is possible for people to retain traditional dress and habits in a modern, urban setting.

Sam, Christos, and I are staying with Everett and Jason, two friends from Tufts. Their remarkable hospitality has made our stay in Dushanbe feel more like royalty than humble backpackers traveling the back-country of Central Asia. Since arriving only two days ago we've eaten Georgian food, Indian food, Plof, scones, chocolate peanut butter ice cream cake, and REAL coffee (not Nescafe). Hardly a tough life. But this will change shortly.

With a bit of luck, Tuesday we will leave Dushanbe by shared taxi or Marshutka and drive for 21 hours to Xorog. From there things will get much tougher. We will see plov and sheep's tails, but certainly not tea and scones with jam. But this is a good thing because really it feels quite odd to eat crumpets in Tajikistan. Even wrong. But to continue describing the plan (which is funny because we know the plan will change so it is almost silly to make) from Xorog we will go further east into the Badakshan region by way of the Wahan valley. There is one road through this valley on the border of Afghanistan. We will take this road east until it turns north and from there we will stop in Murgab--the Timbuktu of Central Asia--then we will return to Dushanbe by way of the Pamir Highway. It should be beautiful and it certainly won't go as planned.

Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

2005-09-15T14:05:00.000-06:00

Bishkek is a strange city. Curiously non-descript. Walking through the broad city streets lined with dominating Soviet structures, I could be in most any mid-sized post-soviet city. Walking around there is evidence of economic growth and positive change in the past few years--there are hair dressers, new cars, people are fashionably dressed in everything including high heels and the occassional mini-skirt. There is quite obviously nothing much to do in this city of 500.000--the tourist highlights consist of a decaying art museum and Lenin's statue (that has been moved from the main square to a more discreet second square). But really, it is all a facade. Since the revolution, prices have skyrocketed, tourism has come to a stand still, and wages remain the same. The minimum wage is approxiately 100 som a month--a marshutka ride to town costs 5 som. Xristos spent yesterday evening with the family with whom he lived during his 5 months in Kyrgyzstan two years ago. The family was overjoyed to see him and insisted he stay for dinner. They knew he was coming and here, when you have a guest you go all out for them. But dinner was an ageing assortment of vegetables and a little meat. This was all the woman of the house could gather. The markets are quite empty and pockets seem to be emptier. I don't have enough time here to really understand what is going on--but my
impression is that it is not good.

Tomorrow Xristos, Sam, and I fly from Bishkek to Dushanbe, Tajikistan. We will be flying on a Kyrgyz run airline. This is not a good thing--but it is the only way to get to Dushanbe before late next week. So, with luck, we will arrive in Dushanbe tomorrow mid-day.

Istanbul, Turkey

2005-09-10T20:36:00.000-06:00

Today ıs day 3 of 5 ın Istanbul. I hardly have to move from my lıttle bunk to be seeped ın hıstory and culture so ancıent and genuıne ıt makes Amerıca's current power and ınfluence seem lıke a comıcal ımpossıbılıty. Lıke all good tourısts, I am stayıng ın the part of town called Sultanahmet. Near the hostel where I am treated more lıke famıly than a guest, ıs Topkapı Palace, the ınfamous Blue Mosque, and Aya Sofıa, to mentıon a few well known landmarks. Despıte theır proxımıty to one another, Bulgarıa ıs nothıng lıke Turkey and Turkey nothıng lıke Bulgarıa. The land, the atmosphere, and partıcularly the people are ımmeasurably dıfferent. In Bulgarıa my Russıan enabled me to puncture the cold, unforgıvıng facade, that I assume ıs a remnant of Sovıet days. Behınd thıs grey facade people were kınd and helpful, but ıt was your responsıbılıty to crush the facade and do all the askıng. Here ıt ıs just the opposıte. People are open, welcomıng, and helpful to the poınt that I must become a bıt cold and abbrasıve on the streets to avoıd a traıl of followers askıng ıf I need some help, where I am from, and ıf I speak Englısh. Don't be mıstaken, thıs ıs not from lack of contact wıth foreıgners. The cıty of 17 mıllıon ıs teemıng wıth tourısts.

On a separate note, I offıcıally claım the rıght NOT to be hassled anymore by any of my frıends for turnıng down guys who ask me out and for not goıng out on enough random dates wıth people I don't know. I claım thıs rıght because my lıfe ıs currently one fırst date after another. These are not what you would call romantıc dates, but they consıst of (almost) all of the rıght pıeces to call them dates. A typıcal scenarıo: Walk along street or get off bus and see someone who looks worth talkıng to--tourıst or local. Talk to person. Have coffee or tea. Talk. Walk around cıty together for a couple hours. Eat a meal. Walk around some more and run out of thıngs to say. Realıze you are gettıng tıred of beıng wıth thıs person for the day. Too bad for you. You are sharıng a 3 metre x 4 metre room wıth thıs person for two nıghts ın a town where you know no one else. Contınue to be frıendly enough that you can sleep ın a bed across the room from thıs person and wake hım (or her) up ıf he or she ıs snorıng. Now my scenarıo ıs not completely accurate because there are many dıfferent ways that I have met the myrıad of strangers wıth whom I've bunked, talked, eaten, walked, and traveled ın the past two weeks, but I promıse they have all been memorable for one reason or another and If I had tıme rıght now I would descıbe all of the ındıvıduals of whom I am thınkıng--but that could get long and tedıous.

Back to Turkey. I am torn between tryıng to see everythıng I possıbly can whıle I am here and takıng ıt easy before the travelıng gets rougher through all of the Stans. Eıther way I know I wıll have to come back to Turkey for a mınımum of 2-3 weeks. You sımply can't see Turkey ın less tıme and what you really need ıs a solıd 3 months. Gıven thıs, I am goıng to prımarıly stay ın Istanbul for the remaınıng few days and get thıngs ın order for another two months on the road. Yesterday I had pockets sewn ınto the ınsıde of a paır of pants and a shırt. Thıs was sımple and relatıvely ınexpensıve (although Istanbul ıs very expensıve) but took hours because we had to fınd the taılor fırst and once we dıd fınd a taılor, we were turned away and sent to a dıfferent taılor eıther because the machıne was broken or because ıt was Frıday, Holy Day, and they were not workıng. Despıte the usual chaos that makes even lıttle thıngs quıte a project, the mıssıon was accomplıshed along wıth a lıttle wanderıng, a good lunch, some wındow shoppıng and a fılm at the cınema. All ın all another full and successful day.

Sozopol, Bulgaria

2005-09-06T08:01:00.000-06:00

A quick note from my last stop in Bulgaria--Sozopol, a small town on the black sea. Or what would be a small, quaint town if it were not infested with tourists, more miscelaneous junk for sale than I've ever seen, food stalls and restaurants everywhere---not to mention bars. And I came to Sozopol because it is supposed to be one of the Less touristy stops along the Black Sea! Despite all the touristy non-sense, I spent a very nice day at the beach at the Black Sea--I never dreamed I would swim in the Black Sea. Never. The water was clear and beautiful, the beach was littered with trash, but also more shells than I've ever seen (granted that doesn't say much) and beautiful white sand scattered with scantily clad and completely unclad foreigners. A mixed bag to say the least.

Velingrad, Bulgaria

2005-09-02T18:03:00.000-06:00

Yesterday morning I woke up and knew it was going to be quite a day. I could feel it in my bones. The sun was shining and I was ready. Over breakfast (museli, tomatoes, feta, tea, and terribly bland packaged white bread) , I met the Austrian guy who I had awoken the night before by sitting on him. You see he was sleeping in what I, mistakenly, thought was my bed. But that is beside the point.

This eccentric young Austrian was raving about a place called Velingrad where there were reportedly hot springs and mineral baths galore and so much hot water everywhere that people boiled their food in the street using water straight from the springs. The guy sounded dillusional, but the place sounded interesting enough. I was planning to leave Sofia anyway (after another adventure of which I will not write, but merely mention that it involved a small, blue Suzuki van-bus, two German girls, two Aussies, a Monestary built in 900 AD and 180 kilometers) so I decided to join this guy in pursuit of the holy grail of the day: hot springs and people cooking on the streets. Somehow, by the time we walked out the door, there were five of us: a very proper Frenchman, a trendy Aussie, a manic, determined, and controlling, Russian-American, an eccentric Austrian, and me (I will decline the opportunity to describe myself). Clearly this could become a long story. But in essence:

-We went to the bus station and were directed to the bus station across the street
-The bus station across the street directed us to the train station
-The train station is essentially like selling your soul to the time monster. You'll wait forever and never get there. So we asked again.
-We were directed to a different bus station across town.
-We taxied across town and arrived just in time for the 1:00 bus to Velingrad.
-The bus was full
-We ate, talked, sat, and took the 3:00 bus to Velingrad.
-The 2hr bus ride got us in at approximately 6:30 (due to flooding and the Bulgarian system we had to go the long way around a large lake and through three extra towns to get to Velingrad. Note this was a direct bus.)
-Now to find the hot springs. The babushki who surrounded us at the busstation thought that by asking where the banya was we were saying we wanted to take a bath at their house. Not productive. We asked at a hotel. They wanted to send us to an indoor swimming pool and the sauna (for men only on Thursdays) in their basement.
-Luck. An English/Russian speaking taxi driver. We were delivered to the doorstep of a natural mineral water pool in only minutes. And somehow we also landed an apartment (the apartment of the taxi driver's wife's deceased mother) for the night. Yes, for only 6 Leva each ($3) we secured an entire Soviet apartment complete with five beds, a kitchen, toilet, bath and three rooms.
-Swimming! Mosquitoes! Dinner and Bulgarian folk dancing!
-This morning we rose with the sun--actually the roosters nearby--and went off in search of a more natural hot springs in the mountains. We definately did not find it, but we did find a sauna, a Roman steam bath and another mineral pool. We didn't find people cooking on the street either. So essentially, our pursuit of our Holy Grail was a miserable failure, but so what? It was fun trying and the outcome wasn't half bad. In fact, I'm here for another night.

And with that, I must note that domestic work--like doing laundry by hand, squatting on the floor of a Soviet bathroom is incredibly satisfying when you are homeless and have dirty clothes. Even the pain in your back and ache of your legs feels just great after countless hours on a bus and with the knowledge that tomorrow, if you wring those clothes out well enough, you will have dry, clean, sweet smelling clothes when you wake up in the morning.

I'm off to wander the streets before dark. Tomorrow on to Plovdiv.

Those Silly Bulgarians

2005-08-31T07:56:00.000-06:00

Walking around Bulgaria is really quite a humorous things--and for many reasons. The general result is that I feel completely crazy. You see Bulgarian is a Slavic language and therefore has many similarities to Russian. The catch here is that although Bulgarian sounds very familiar to me, I can't understand a thing. Even 'Yes'' and "No", which are technically the same words as Russian, are tripping me up. Why? Because Bulgarians are silly people. They shake their head 'yes' and nod their head 'no.' You try it...then try it on your friend when she asks you if you are hungary or your Boss when she is having a bad day.

Sofia, Bulgaria

2005-08-30T20:44:00.000-06:00

Sofia is not a particularly charming place. It boasts Soviet architecture and wretched streets. Its greatest claim to fame is the plethora of churches adorned with frescos and monastaries dotting the outskirts of the town. I spent the day walking around the city with an Australian girl I met at the hostel where I am staying. The company was nice and neither of us felt particularly obliged to talk the whole day through...we just walked around together.

I just checked my e-mail and skimmed through the news and to my dismay there is news from Kosovo. Two Serbs were killed in southern Kosovo on Saturday night. Since Serbs and Albanians have been routinely been killing one another for years now, this is hardly news, but after being in Kosovo for the past week and creating a human connection there, any news from Kosovo takes on considerably more meaning than it did just a week ago.

Even before I read the news I was a bit out of sorts today. Something got to my stomach a bit on one of the last days in Kosovo and it has travelled with me to Bulgaria. That combined with the multiple hours on buses yesterday has drained me of my usual energy. Tonight I will hang out, read, and go to bed early--in grand grandma fashion. Tomorrow will be another day in Sofia, but then I will move on to Ploviev, a much smaller town with a reportedly relaxed atmosphere. This will be good for me for now, as I become accustomed to having no particular purpose or objective that strings one day to the next.

Prizren, Kosova

2005-08-25T15:50:00.000-06:00

I can hardly imagine a more intense week of travel, learning, and meeting new people. From the moment my plane from London to Belgrade landed in the barren Belgrade airport, I have been having deep conversations with total strangers whose hospitality and kindness has blown me away. Now the task at hand is to summarize this experience in fewer than 1,000 words.

Kosovo is a broken land. The economy hardly exists. A policeman makes 220 Euros a month, but may spend 200 euros on firewood for the winter months. The skeletons of buildings that were bombed or burned during the war haunt the streets in every direction. The Albanian Kosovars survive on the hope for independence and on their sheer goodwill. The few Serbs that remain in Kosovo cling together with enormous determination. Both believe this is their land and are willing to die for it.

The workshop in which I am participating was an elusive monster throughout the summer, but everything has fallen into place and now, on the 4th day of our workshop, what we hope to accomplish is nearly clear. All of the 14 workshop participants have chosen a topic of interest to study, photography, and report on, in depth. The topics range from women in the Kosovo Police force and the Roma minority to Agriculture....now who would write on agriculture? Yes, me.

Each day holds a new set of adventures. The first day lead us (my translator, another student, our driver and me) up a mountain in search of evidence of deforestation and industrial logging. We didn't find much the first day, but by the middle of the second day I was riding in the front seat of a logging truck on my way to pick up fallen logs along the side of a mountain. Today I stayed in Prizren and made my way to the market to talk to local farmers and take pictures. I made it to the market (with brief stops at a barber shop and a bakery for photo ops) but before long I found myself hauled off to a different market with more goods and before long I was having tea in the home of one of the farmers with nearly 20 family members looking on curiously at the strange foreign girl who couldn't speak Albanian but could speak bad German with their father and brother. Whether I get up at 5:00 with the first call to prayer or at 7:00 when the sun shines brightly through the hotel window I know I am in for more than I can imagine.

Working with a translator is incredibly liberating! To be able to approach anyone on the street and have a conversation about a topic of your choice is something I have never experienced when in a country where I don't speak the language. I am lucky. I have an incredibly translator. I say this not so much because of his language skills but because of his free spirit and personality. Dreni, my translator, is 22. He speaks Albanian, Serbian, and English. With dreadlocks and baggy jeans he stands out of a crowd. He proudly says that he was the first person in Prizren and only the second in Prishtina to have dreads. He is enthusiastic and humors me when I want to stop and take pictures of garbage in the streets or when I ask him to chase a flock of crows from a corn field into the sky. He is determined that we leave Kosovo with a thorough knowledge of the country. Our daily drives of 2 and 3 hours are never dull, but rather an opportunity to discuss everything from history and ethnic tension to pop music and slang.

There is an outdoor cinema a few doors down from our little hotel. We've seen photo presentations by Gary Knight and Andrew Testa thus far. Tonight is the opening night of Kosovo's biggest cultural fest--a documentary film festival--so we will again find ourselves under the starts at the cinema tonight. Tomorrow night we will have our own presentation and we will invite all of Prizren to come. Hopefully more than just a few will accept our invitation.

I think I've failed at Kosova in fewer than 1000 words and really, I'm just getting started. But I'll cut it here for now, if only because this internet cafe is hooked on 80's and 90's pop, playing Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston and, best of all, the Titanic soundtrack on repeat.

Three Months in a Bag

2005-08-17T22:03:00.000-06:00

On Saturday Morning I left Denver in a flurry of last minute packing and goodbyes. I intended to leave late on Sunday, but flying stand by means being flexible and spontaneous. So I left on Saturday morning.

Material goods are such funny things. We become so attached to them, so dependant on them. But really, when it comes down to it, you really don't need much. Which is a good thing, because for the next three months I have two pairs of pants, three shirts, and four pairs of underwear. Don't worry, I have plenty of deodorant and a bottle of strong peppermint soap.

Since Saturday I've been in Washington DC embassy hopping in the mornings and house hunting with my friend Kathryn in the evenings. I've probably walked 25 miles in the last three days. It is training for the Pamir Mountains of Tajikistan---except it is flat. A minor detail. Regardless, I've enjoyed my days in our Nation's Capitol. It feels good to visit the Washington Monument, the Smithsonian Museums, and the Library of Congress before leaving the country.

My embassy visits have been rather painless. The people at the consulate desks are stern and firm, as though they were being watched by some camera that feeds directly to the Militsiya of thier respective countries. But, they are surprisingly kind and efficient. As of today, I have secured my Kyrgyz, Kazakh, and Uzbek visas. Tomorrow morning I pick up my passport with my Azeri visa. The only tidbit even worth mentioning is that the Uzbek visa was a visa I should not have been able to get. I had no letter of invitation, no address where I will stay while in the country. I have friends working in Central Asia who have warned me that they simply are not giving out Uzbek visas to American Tourists right now due to the violence and human rights critiques after the massacre in Andijon. I was expecting the worst when I walked into the painfully quiet, sterile white office. But, I walked up to the counter and upon listening to my request said, "Come back Wednesday with a money order for $150. Do not fill it out. Just sign it. Your visa will be done." And it worked just like that. The guy probably went in the back and made the money order our to himself, but honestly, I don't care. I got what I wanted and he got what he wanted. A deal is a deal.

The Great Adventure

2005-08-09T23:32:00.000-06:00

Peter Hopkirk's well known history of the scramble for power in Central Asia is entitled "The Great Game." The next three months of my life will be a "Great Adventure." In less than a week I will leave my humble abode (actually my parent's home) in Denver, Colorado and set out to explore the world...or at least part of it.

The itinerary will indubitably change, but this is it, so far:

August 13 - Leave Denver Fly to Washington, D.C. Hang out at embassies and beg for visas.
August 18 - D.C. to London to Belgrade to Skopje, Macedonia
August 20 - Bus to Prizren, Kosovo
Photography and Journalism workshop in Kosovo
August 28 - Leave Kosovo go EXPLORE
Options: Romania, Moldova, Bulgaria and the Black Sea or the Adriatic Coast and
Northern Greece (suggestions welcome!)
September 10 - Arrive in Istanbul
September 12 - Meet my traveling buddies (Sam and Xristos)
September 13 - Fly from Istanbul to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
Gradually: To Tajikistan
Dushanbe, the Pamirs, Khorog, Roshtaqala....Khojand, Istaravshan, Penjikent
To Uzbekistan
Samarkand, Bukhara, Khiva....Moynaq, Hojeli
To Kazakhstan
Aktau, Aralsk, Beyneu, Zhanovozhen...
Take a Boat across the Caspian
To Azerbaijan
Baku, Quba, Laza, Ismayilli....Baku
November 5 - Fly from Baku, Azerbaijan to Paris, France
Time will tell....but visit friends in France, Belguim, and London
November 21- Fly from London to Washington D.C. USA

Much of this trip is still up in the air. Sometimes this is nerve wracking, but I suppose that is half the fun of it. Adventures don't usually begin with a concrete plan that is set in stone. So, in keeping with the spirit of things, neither will this one.

Over the past few months as I've been reading up on Central Asia, making plans to work in Uzbekistan, cancelling those plans, telling people why I am interested in Central Asia and now making plans to travel there anew, I've come to the realization that most people are not particularly familiary with Central Asian geography. In fact, I've come to realize that the best way to get someone to help you with anything regarding Central Asia is simply to say the name of a country, such as Kyrgyzstan, over and over, until you finally talk to someone who realizes that Kyrgyzstan is a country, not a high school basketball team, brand of soap, or airline.

To help those of you who may inadvertantly make reference to Tobasccostan rather than Tajikistan and couldn't locate Azerbaijan if your life depended on it, I'm posting a map of my intended travels in Central Asia. I've left off all details other than country names, so there is as little to confuse as possible. Because, really, even I'll admit that the list of 'stans' can be quite overwhelming.

To keep this monologue short enough to hold your interest, I will end with a promise of blog postings, photos, and e-mails throughout the duration of my travels. More soon!

On Waitressing

2005-07-22T00:11:00.000-06:00

Waitressing is a unique experience. It is not good. It is not horrible. It is repetitive: Fill glass with ice, perch lemon on side, fill with water, drop in straw--repeat 100 times. It is simultaneously stressful and mind-numbingly dull. In theory, waitressing is an interesting sociology experiment. What makes people mad? What makes them happy and give you good tips? How do you win over that stubborn, cynical man sitting alone in the corner booth reading the newspaper while he eats his all American burger and fries. What will the lady with the poofy champagne hair and the round Harry-Potteresque, rhinestone glasses order? Yet all too often, waitressing is simply an exercise in patience, balancing, and juggling the demands of 20 self-important people until finally, they have their drinks, their food, their ketchup, and their check and you can simply sit back and roll silverware to your hearts content.

A Day on the Farm

2005-07-15T22:43:00.000-06:00

As an escape from the fuss of day-to-day urban life, I have been spending my Saturdays at an organic community supported agriculture (CSA) farm outside of Loveland, CO. There, I pull weeds, transplant seedlings, stir large buckets of water, and ask endless questions about chickens, cows, soil preparations, milk, fertilizing, composting, and more. It is hot, back-breaking, repetitive, and boring....but in a good way. Whether or not I will continue to work on this farm is yet to be determined--but in theory it does seem as though best way to learn about agriculture is to do it.

I'm ambivalent about continuing to work on this particular farm because it is just a little too alternative, even for me. Although interesting, I don't thing the superstitious/biodynamic methods they use are particularly practical, let alone marketable. For example: two weeks ago I spent exactly 1-hour stirring a 40-gallon barrel of water with 1 teaspoon of a white powder in it. Before stirring (1-minute clockwise then 1-minute counter-clockwise) I knew the "preparation" is used to enhance the light absorption capabilities of the plants and also to deter pests. What I learned on hour later is that the white powder was crushed crystal dust that had been buried underground in a cow's horn over the winter. Try convincing your average Nebraskan soybean farmer that this preparation would improve his crop. Ha!

Needless to say, the farm is 'alternative' to the most extreme sense of the word. There is running water in the house, and even some electricity....but other than that the whole farm is a throw-back to the 1800's. Perhaps my interest in agriculture and farming is, on some level, related to my childhood fantasy of growing up in the 1800's as a pioneer girl. Despite 3-years in petticoats and bonnets as a child, today I am quite happy to live in the 21st century: cars, computers, airplanes, and all.

Incommunicado no longer

2005-07-01T19:15:00.000-06:00

Since I don't answer my cell phone, have yet to change my mailing address with the US Postal Service and my Tufts e-mail will soon cease to exist, I've decided to begin a blog. Hopefully this will make it easier to communicate with me as my long-distance communication skills leave a lot to be desired.

So, in case you haven't heard, I'm in Denver, Colorado not Central Asia, as planned. Yeah, 750+ dead in Andijon, Uzbekistan put my plans on hold. So I'm living at home. Some days are good. Others are enough to make me want to pull my hair out. Either way, here I am.

So what am I doing? Sometimes I wonder the same thing!

For now my days consist of some mixture of the following:
waitressing, working on an organic farm, teaching a cooking and nutrition class to 10-year-olds, swing dancing, yoga, swimming, babysitting, gardening, driving my younger cousins from place to place, and hanging out with the family and dog. Oh, and figuring out what is next. When I know that, I promise, I'll share. Until then it is a secret--even to me.