On the Road

Children's Rights: 20 Years On

shrummer16 — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 00:53:00 GMT

November 20th marked the 20th anniversary of the adoption of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child. To date, 193 countries have ratified the Convention and significant progress has been made on several aims worldwide, including primary education, health care, and protection against violence. The United Nation's Children's Fund, UNICEF, published a video and report called "The State of the World's Children" to assess the Convention's first 20 years and it can be found here.

Although progress has been made by some highly committed governments, donors, organizations, and individuals, much still needs to be done. Children are arguably the most vulnerable to and most affected by social ills like poverty, disease and exploitation, and thus require more protection against them. Each generation of children is comprised of the leaders of tomorrow; as such, the strength of the foundations of our society depends upon the strength of the character of our parents.

In the words of the great Nelson Mandela, modern South Africa's founding father, "There can be no keener revelation of a society's soul than the way in which it treats its children."

Find out more about UNICEF, the Convention on the Rights of the Child, and non-profit organizations working towards children's rights at the links below.

http://www.unicef.org/rightsite/index.html
http://www.nelsonmandelachildrensfund.com
http://www.freethechildren.com/
http://www.righttoplay.com

Seeds of Change

shrummer16 — Thu, 5 Nov 2009 19:18:00 GMT

It has begun. Little by little, the youth of Askham, a tiny village in the South African Kalahari, are making a difference not only in their community but also in themselves. In just a couple short weeks, we have started preparations for a massive food garden at the local school, have established the Kalahari Nature Club (complete with a democratically elected committee), and have started a canned planting project for the endangered camelthorn tree. Though it will be an uphill battle getting the notoriously lazy young adults involved, the elders and children have jumped on board with enthusiasm and determination. It's almost as if they've been craving something to do - not a big surprise, considering the unemployment rate in the Kalahari is an estimated 90%.

A myriad of inter-related social issues have arisen from this, including astoundingly high rates of alcoholism and drug abuse, domestic and child abuse, rape, HIV/AIDS and TB, malnutrition, school drop-out, illiteracy... the list goes on and on until you can't help but think, "What isn't wrong here?". It's easy to be overwhelmed by all of the social ills, knowing what these people face every day with little hope of improvement. But I've learned that one absolutely must focus on the positives - if not, then truly nothing will change, except for the worse. That's partly why I've come back to this little corner of the world: so many people and organizations and political systems have failed them over the years that they seem to have developed a sort of endemic community inferiority complex. There are many individuals right in the community, though, who have incredible skills and knowledge of traditional values and behavioural norms that could have a hugely positive impact; it's just a matter of drawing them out of their shells that they have been shamed into through generations of oppression.

Think big, but start small. That's exactly what the camelthorn seeds are doing right now in the children's cans - and perhaps also in their minds.

(See more photos in the gallery "Kalahari - it begins...")

Revisiting the future

shrummer16 — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 14:57:00 GMT

Here I am, back in South Africa, a full (and I do mean full) 2 years after first falling in love with it. Over the next year or so, I'll be based in the Kalahari, working on a youth development and HIV/AIDS prevention program. I'll write about it from time to time but first need to catch up on posts about the rest of my travels in the Middle East!

Stay tuned... (they'll appear below this one)

The Turkish Horse Whisperer

shrummer16 — Wed, 5 Aug 2009 01:23:00 GMT

I have found a(nother) home away from home. Cappadocia truly is a magical place, especially once you settle into the local way of life, whiling away your days with horses and your nights with friends and homemade wine. Life here is good. So good, in fact, that I almost didn't leave.

May 1: Happy Wine

I met up with Zach, the friend of the restaurant owner who had easily convinced me to stay in Cappadocia at least one day longer with the promise of free horseback riding (see last post). He introduced me to his mares, happily munching away in a field on the outskirts of town, before bringing me over to the main ranch across the road. I had walked past it before on the way back from a hike and had gaped in awe at the free-ranging horses grazing the succulent grasses among Cappadocia's iconic caves and fairy chimneys. I had desperately wanted to meet the owner, simply out of curiousity. Thanks to Zach, I was now gaining entrance into one of the most interesting circles of people I have ever met.

When I first saw Ekrem, the ranch owner, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. He sauntered towards me like a veteran cowboy through saloon doors, but with a certain unidentifiable sensitivity; his face was leathery, the deep lines framing his mouth and eyes etched by years of kindness rather than hardness. His hands were just as weathered but seemed to be an extension of his entire persona, not once used in malice. A well-worn black cowboy hat perched atop his shock of shoulder length hair as if there was no other place in the world it could possibly sit. His ensemble was completed by none other than a matching black leather vest, blue jeans, and cowboy boots.

I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He looked so out of place in Turkey but simultaneously so at home on the ranch, the air thick with that unmistakable horsey smell. To quote the great Seinfeld, this man was an enigma wrapped in a riddle.

After making sure I wasn't gun-shy, he tacked up a horse and told me to take her out on the trails and come back whenever I wanted. I stared at him incredulously again; I couldn't imagine any other rancher in the world offering a complete stranger free rein (no pun intended) over one of his beloved horses. I happily obliged and took the sweet-natured mare for a jaunt around the nearby caves.

When I returned, I was greeted not only by customary offers of chai, but also by two new faces. Malynda was tall and carried herself in a way that made me think she was probably quite clumsy in her teenage years. She had an honest face and a somewhat ethereal way about her, thanks to her passion for the arts and all things alternative (she would have fit in well in Guelph). She was from the States but working as an art teacher at an international school in Istanbul. Clara, the woman sitting next to her, knew her through her sister, a dance teacher back in Istanbul; I later clued in that Clara was the one dancer that had so impressed me at the Turkish Nights show with her solo bellydance and Sufi routines. Since Clara lived in Cappadocia, she also by default knew Ekrem, and she and Malynda were there to arrange a ride for the next morning.

Malynda and I immediately hit it off and were soon talking as if we'd known each other for years. After marveling at Ekrem's random assortment of donkey-shaped mint dispensers and old photos and newspaper clippings, Clara suggested that we visit the pottery workshop beside the ranch. Since I'm still very much amused by playing with mud, I jumped at the chance to get my hands dirty. In no time, we were outfitted in oversized fuschia pants more suited for a drag-queen Santa Claus, laughing our heads off at the wobbling messes we had created on the pottery wheel.

(The art of pottery is a fine-tuned and in-demand one; clay pots are used often in Cappadocian cuisine. Stews are cooked right in the pots, which are then cracked open to expose their contents for the hungry patron.)

With the sun setting and our tummies rumbling, we made our way over to Ekrem's house, a 5-minute drive from the horse ranch. I couldn't help but feel like this guy had life figured out pretty well when I realized that his house was actually in a cave that overlooked a picturesque valley full of birds, trees and a bubbling brook. He told us to make ourselves at home and soon had us chopping organic vegetables for a huge stew dinner and sipping wine made from the grapes grown a stone's throw away. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to take up a similar lifestyle, tending to gardens and animals and simply nurturing life.

More friends piled into his cave-house throughout the evening and we fought off the chilly temperatures by playing the spoons and dancing up a storm - and of course, indulging ourselves in the homemade beverage of choice, which Ekrem had aptly dubbed "Happy Wine".

On our way back into town, Malynda and I made plans to meet back at Ekrem's ranch the next day for a horseback ride. I marveled at my sheer dumb luck for having stumbled upon such an eclectic group of people and drifted to sleep, once again with a smile plastered on my face.

May 2: Galloping into the sunrise

I arrived at Ekrem's ranch this morning even before he did, and Clara and Malynda were over an hour later than the agreed upon time, citing the hard-hitting Happy Wine as the culprit for their delay. I've gotten quite used to nothing happening on time on this trip and since the beautiful landscape and several horses in front of me were a nice change from my usual waiting-for-hours venue of bus stations, I didn't mind the extra time in the least. I brushed down all the horses, played with the dogs, and checked out the pigeon coops, initiatives which later got me an open job offer as a ranch hand.

When a few other local friends finally arrived, we got on our horses and headed off onto a well-marked trail through Rose Valley - much the same as the one I had hiked a couple days prior with the stray hound. It was a different perspective altogether from atop a horse, particularly since I didn't have to remember where I was going with Ekrem in the lead. We wound our way through the trails, clip-clopped up the cobblestone streets of a quaint little village, and came to a resting point at the top of a cliff, overlooking the stunning vista of fairy chimneys and multi-coloured sheer rock faces.

On the way back to the ranch, Zach challenged me to a race and I immediately left the others to walk their horses back and we took off at a gallop. I hadn't galloped for years but quickly adjusted to my horse's pace - not that I had much choice, since Zach was "yah"ing his mare on like we were being chased by the hounds of hell and mine instinctively followed suit. I channeled all of my concentration into hanging on for dear life, lest a millimeter shift in balance result in exercising my travel insurance policy. For a gal with the need for speed, there is nothing quite like galloping on a horse and I arrived back at the ranch flush with adrenaline and wanting more.

My interest was further piqued by yet another intriguing offer, this time for me and Malynda to accompany Ekrem the following day into the nearby mountains to round up a massive herd of wild horses. Known for this throughout Cappadocia, he only makes the trip once a year and we happened to be there at the right time. Though Malynda and I had planned to take the bus to Istanbul that night, I know a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when I see it and quickly convinced her otherwise, thus changing my bus ticket for the third time.

Later that evening, I went with Malynda to watch Clara dance in the 'Turkish Nights' show. Even though it was the exact same staged show as the one I had been to a few nights prior, I had more of an insider's perspective this time. Before the show started, Malynda and I hung out with Clara in the female dancers' dressing room and watched them get their costumes ready and put on their makeup. The room was thick with cigarette smoke and hairspray and punctuated with fits of giggles and typical girl chatter. Though it seemed normal enough to Malynda, whose adolescence was spent battling her sisters and mom for the bathroom mirror, it was a completely foreign scene to me. I watched with the same tabula rasa curiousity as I reserve for anything I haven't seen before.

After the show, the three of us met up with Zack and Ekrem and other friends of theirs at a local bar. As the night unfolded into billiards competitions and over-the-top strobe light dance-offs, I laughed incredulously at yet another of the hilarious situations I seem to find myself in day after day. As the crowd depleted, half of our group decided to crash and the other half (including yours truly) jammed into a run-down car to hunt for any noble establishment still kicking out the jams in the next town over. Unfortunately, we seemed to be the only ones still awake and eventually wound up building a campfire in a nearby valley and hanging out until the sun rose. I reminded myself that I had a mere few hours of shut-eye before another day of adventure with Malynda, Clara and our Horse Whisperer and, once again, crawled into bed during the muezzin's morning call to prayer.

May 3: Who's gonna ride your wild horses

On the hour drive from Goreme to Kayseri, I was like a kid on Christmas morning, my nose pressed up against the window in anticipation of the day's events. We arrived at a ramshackle home filled with several young kids running around and rather tough-looking men lounging around a large trailer. I quickly chose the visibly more friendly audience and joined in playing with the kids; at one point, the littlest one gave my braids a solid yank, causing his previously indiscernible grandmother to erupt in giggles and divulge her location, half-buried in thick blankets against a robin's egg blue wall.

With second and third helpings of obligatory chai in our bellies, we girls were signalled over to a clearing between the houses. There were three horses already tacked up for us, but none nearly as domesticated-looking as Ekrem's. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Clara and Malynda looking nervously at each other as the horses bucked against their handlers. I strode resolutely over to my mount. Not that I was an expert rider by any stretch, but I sure wasn't going to play into the leering men's surely derogatory perception of us city girls.

In no time, we were up and off with Ekrem in the stoic lead. In place of the comforting fairy chimneys were wide open fields lined with snow-capped mountains, and in place of friendly strays were brutishly large herding dogs with vicious-looking spike collars that didn't exactly make me want to run up and hug them. Ekrem was sure to give the dogs wide berths; I wanted neither to be on a horse nor on foot around those things if they happened to attack.

When he felt we were safe enough to wander the pastures on our own and take in the mountain air, he galloped off into the distance. He only re-emerged with a distinct rumbling that soon erupted into the thunder of hundreds of hooves pounding the earth - the wild herd!!

Over the next hour or so, we were all hopped up on adrenaline and fighting to keep our own mounts calm, watching Ekrem expertly herd the horses towards the village as if there was nothing more natural in the world for him to be doing.

We were the last to arrive back at the village and although I was still psyched from seeing a real wild herd galloping across an open plain, my heart suddenly sank when I saw that the horses were now enclosed in a corral. Many were chill, but every now and then, one would start and send others rearing and whinnying in anxiety. Ekrem worked his magic, weaving daftly through the horses on foot to make his pick of the most beautiful and worthy of training under his hand on behalf of the interested buyer from the village. I felt rather conflicted; why would anyone want to take such a pristine thing as a wild horse and tame it? Malynda shared my sentiments but we tried to cast aside our biases and simply watch, as is so often the case during travels in a foreign land.

The farmers and Ekrem made their pick and I was simultaneously touched and heart-broken at the sight of the chosen mare being lassoed and eventually patted gently on the head. It was quite amazing how quickly they were able to calm her down. They released the others back into the wild and we untacked our horses and made our way back to Goreme, brimming with yet another full day's sights, sounds and feelings.

And thus, my time in Cappadocia had drawn to a close. As Malynda and I boarded the overnight bus to Istanbul, I snuck one last wistful glance at the skyline of the land of fairy chimneys, happy wine, and horse whisperers, wondering to myself when - not if - I would return.

Fairy Chimneys and Tagalong Pups

shrummer16 — Mon, 3 Aug 2009 01:09:00 GMT

Some people can't travel without a complete itinerary outlining every minute of every day - No Changes Allowed. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I've adopted a different style. If an interesting person presents me with an interesting opportunity, I'll rip up my onward ticket and wait for the 'Go'.

April 27: Detour

Before I boarded the overnight bus from Diyarbakir to Cappadocia, my friend Mesut had spoken with the bus driver to confirm that I would be dropped off in Cappadocia and made sure that I would be seated next to a woman. (Usually a Turkish man would not sit next to a woman who is not a family member, but sometimes you get an overly curious one that doesn't make for a good neighbour on an overnight bus.) As I said at the end of my last post, I wound up wedged next to a granny who had eaten a few too many doner kebabs, trying to avoid sticking my feet in her grandson's face as he slept under the seats in front of us. After a rather uncomfortable night, I woke up in the morning to the bus pulling into Ankara, a good 4 or 5 hours past Cappadocia. I gritted my teeth through a back-and-forth phone conversation between Mesut and the bus driver, the latter of whom confirmed that he had indeed forgotten to drop me off in Cappadocia and that I would simply have to catch the next bus back there from Ankara.

Though it wasn't a big deal at all, it was definitely one of those classic travel debacle moments in which I consciously contemplated whether I should let my temper get the best of me or just take a deep breath and let it go. I was awfully tempted by the former, but managed the latter. No need to ruin the days of the bus ticket guys, as well!

When I eventually arrived in Goreme, the little town at the epicentre of Cappadocia, I thought I had been transported to a different continent - and not because of the fairy-tale caves and rock formations. There was an actual tourist information centre with brochures of nearby hostels and boutique hotels, dinner and dance packages, and hot air balloon tours. Seriously?! I hadn't seen anything resembling what I would consider sound tourist infrastructure in almost a year.

After overcoming my initial shock, I found myself tossing my pack into the 12-bed dorm room in a cave hostel a mere 100 meters away from the town centre. Most accommodations here are nestled into caves, in a sort of touristy homage to the way Cappadocians used to live both in recent and ancient history.

Since I seem to have a knack for visiting countries in their tourist off-seasons, I had most of the hostel to myself. The few others staying there included a couple of Italian exchange students studying in western Turkey and an Austrian trekking guide who works in northern British Columbia. The other occupant was Bayram, the son of the hostel owner, who joined me and the trekker for pide (Turkish pizza) and a square of baklava (honey-soaked philo pastry, aka sweet tooth heaven). Since there wasn't much else to do and I hadn't been "out" in ages, we settled in for the evening at the aptly-named Flintstones bar. Though it took a few heated games of backgammon for a semi-crowd to roll in and get things going, we wound up partying with a big group of Americans and Aussies into the wee hours of the morning - so wee, in fact, that I heard the morning call to prayer before going to sleep.

April 28: The Rose Valley Dance

Though I didn't realize it last night - and I curse Bayram for not warning me - I made the fatal mistake of having some beer before a couple glasses of raki (anise-flavoured liquor, similar to Greek ouzo). Though I live my life with no regrets, my tummy may have argued otherwise for the better part of the day.

Regardless, I bundled up and set out to explore my surroundings. Cappadocia is well-known for its UNESCO World Heritage Site open-air cave museum and boasts an ancient history dating back to 6th-century BC. Over the previous 2 months in Central Asia and the Caucasus, whenever I had said I was going to Cappadocia, men would sigh blissfully and women would swoon at the mention of the Seuss-like caves and rock formations known as fairy chimneys. Needless to say, I was curious to see what all the fuss was about.

A short walk from the centre of town, I picked up a hiking trail through the Rose Valley. There were a few other tourists wandering around and I spotted a beautiful young hound mix frolicking through the fields of tall grass. She came over to see me for a good ear scratch then ran off again. About 10 minutes later, when no one else was in sight, she came bounding back to me without a care in the world and no apparent owner nearby. I carried on my merry way and she continued to follow me, so I figured she must have been a friendly stray. If so, she was the sweetest stray I had ever met and she wound up tagging along for the entire 4 hours! She ran off every so often to chase birds or follow a scent, but she always came bounding back to me, ears flopping away and tail wagging incessantly.

At one point, she ran off and I lost sight of her for a few minutes. Suddenly, I heard a whimper above me and looked up to see her cute little face plaintively peering down at me from a rock mound over the trail. She couldn't get down to me! My heart nearly broke with the cuteness of it all so I doubled back a couple hundred meters and called out to her until she found me on the trail again. She doused me with kisses and nearly broke my knees with her fierce tail wags. I looked at her incredulously, wondering how on earth such a darling could be a stray and thinking about how wonderful it was to 'have' a dog again, even if only for a few hours. No matter how many new things I see and do on my travels, nothing beats the decidedly normal feeling of having a happy dog at your side.

Before their religion was commonly accepted, early Christians inhabited extensive underground cities and cave networks. Whenever faced with the threat of invading forces, they simply retreated into the well-concealed cave hideouts and their foes were left wondering where they could have possibly fled so quickly.

When my pup and I were exploring one path, I was looking at everything other than my feet in front of me (not a bad tactic in life, I'd argue) and caught sight of something high above me. I squinted into an opening in the side of a cave's outer wall and when my eyes finally adjusted to the light, I was able to make out the outline of a big cross carved into the rock ceiling! I grinned at my pup, quickly surveyed the route up (and back down), and then scaled the rock wall to the nearest plateau. What lay before me made me laugh out loud - it was an ancient church in a cave, complete with original Christian frescoes from the 9th-11th centuries! I felt like I had been the first person to see them for centuries - until I noticed the cigarette butts in the corner of one of the rooms. Though I hate it when people leave their trash at World Heritage Sites, I suppose it would make a pretty sweet campsite.

As I was walking through one open area chock full of fairy chimneys on my way back to the hostel, a light rain began to fall and the afternoon azan (call to prayer) began to sing. No matter what I'm doing, I always stop to listen to the azan; I find it so poetic and hauntingly beautiful that it almost seems wrong to consciously neglect to appreciate it. This time was particularly chill-inducing: the sound echoed off the caves and rock formations and bounched back towards the village, harmonizing with itself in the process. I wondered if the muezzin knew how incredible his voice sounded in this natural acoustic experiment...

Later that evening, Bayram and I went out to 'Turkish Nights', a dinner show that highlighted different styles of dance from around Turkey. I'm always interested in anything to do with music and cultural traditions, and I did really like the belly dancers, but the whole production was so touristy and staged that it lost most of its meaning. I couldn't help but compare it to the many evenings I had spent dancing around the living rooms of families I had stayed with in Georgia, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan, and how much more authentic those seemed. It brought to mind the unfortunate catch-22 of tourism: people want to see and experience the most unique and exotic traditions in other parts of the world, but the more tourists that find out about them, the more staged and 'tourist-friendly' they become. It's kind of like picking a flower (and in doing so, killing it) to enjoy its beauty.

April 29: "Sure, why not!", number 1

I had purchased a bus ticket to head to Istanbul tonight but when I started packing up, Bayram gave me an offer I couldn't refuse. He had arranged a group of his friends for an afternoon football game and then planned to watch the semi-final match between Arsenal and Manchester United on the satellite in the hostel. I stopped packing for a moment then promptly went back to the bus station to change my ticket to the next day.

After a few hours of chilling and making a big lunch with some other hostel-goers, I was about to change into my makeshift football gear when the torrential rain began. And didn't stop. I was pretty bummed out when Bayram announced that the pick-up game had been called off. Instead, I settled for a beer over an exciting Man U win and some classic stand-up comedy clips on a Youtube lookalike (Youtube is banned in Turkey).

April 30: "Sure, why not!", number 2

I finally woke up to nice weather and set off for another hike, this time in Zemi Valley. The trail started out on a rather disappointingly easy wide gravel path, but thanks to the previous few days of rain, it soon became much more muddy and harder to navigate - i.e. much more fun! I was expecting much the same scenery as across the way in Rose Valley, but it was remarkably different. Most of the rocks and cliffs looked like huge dollops of whipped cream! Apparently Cappadocia's unique geological profile is due to an ancient volcano that belched out kilometers of soft ash and lava. The layers were eventually eroded down into the present-day formations by millennia of beatings from the wind, rain, and sand.

On my way back to the hostel for the last time before leaving for Istanbul, I stopped into a little restaurant for dinner. I was the only patron there so the 30-something owner took the liberty of sitting with me while I ate. He complained endlessly about how much he hated tourists, tour groups, and "especially" children (his emphasis). I almost choked on my next bite when he let out a huge sigh and lamented that a group of 25 Indian schoolgirls were on their way for dinner. I couldn't help but wonder how his only waiter was going to handle such a big group on top of any other drop-in diners. I thought briefly about my bus to Istanbul that was set depart in an hour then offered to help serve for the evening. He stopped short and raised one eyebrow at me. I assured him that I've waitressed before and that if he could change my bus ticket to the next day, I'd be more than happy to help.

As he disappeared around the corner, presumably to sweet-talk the bus guy to switch my ticket for free (again), one of his friends waltzed in and took his seat across from me. (For those who would find this disconcerting or a little too forward, I've gotten quite used to it. Usually people are so friendly and curious about foreigners that they'll just start talking to me regardless of what I'm doing at the time.) Turns out this guy was one of the rare gems who could offer me more than I could offer him; he owned horses at a ranch down the road and invited me to go riding the next day! As if the prospect of working for a free dinner wasn't enough to keep me in town for another day, a free horse ride sure sweetened the deal.

The restaurant owner came back with a new bus ticket for me just as the group of Indian schoolgirls was coming down the road. I raced back to the hostel to change into some non-mud-splattered clothes (I had few options, trust me) and then made it back in time to help the waiter deliver the kids' meals. I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed waitressing and had a blast joking around with the waiter, cooks, and all the customers. Among the other customers was a young couple who I actually ran into later in Istanbul and, my favourite, a pair of very debonair elderly Italian men who were touring the country on their motorcycles and needed help figuring out where to go in eastern Turkey, where I had conveniently just come from. Everyone complimented me on my English skills - that is, until I told them I was a Canadian tourist and that I sure hoped my English was up to par.

When the excitement at the restaurant died down, the owner, horse rancher and I headed over to one of the bars in town for a pint. We ran into a middle-aged American couple the restaurant owner had met earlier and we all played pool together. The couple had sons my age and, like most parents, were shocked that I was traveling through this region alone. I assured them that it wasn't nearly as scary or difficult as everyone assumed and that their sons would probably love it if they tried it, too. The rancher invited them to go horseback riding with us tomorrow, but they quickly turned him down. They were on one of those strictly timelined tours and "couldn't miss" their 9:50 am departure. I smiled to myself and thanked my lucky stars that I had no semblance of an itinerary to adhere to.

Kurdish Delights

shrummer16 — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 19:32:00 GMT

Travel warnings for southeast Turkey included rape, murder, religious extremism, and terrorism. Even one of the locals I befriended warned me not to trust anyone (horror movie, anyone??). I guess I was pretty lucky, then, to have emerged unscathed from an unexpected crash course in Kurdish culture.

April 25: The Trust Factor

It rained the entire bus ride from the Akdamar harbour to Diyarbakir, the biggest city in southeastern Turkey and the unofficial capital of Kurdistan. I find that the weather has a huge impact on how I perceive my surroundings, so it's a good thing the rain ceased shortly before I disembarked, otherwise I may not have been in the right frame of mind for what would happen next.

Just as I was wondering to myself how I was going to find a cheap hostel for the night, a pair of young guys sitting behind me piped up. Like pretty much every other young Turk, they were keen to practise their English skills and I seemed to still stick out like a sore thumb as a foreigner in places not typically frequented by tourists. They had just finished their year of mandatory service in the state military and were heading home to their families, also in Diyarbakir.

One of them named Mesut was particularly good at English and, upon arrival in Diyarbakir, even offered to help me secure a bus ticket to my next destination. I happily obliged; when you're used to communicating primarily through exaggerated hand motions and little drawings on scrap paper, having someone who could speak both English and Turkish was incredibly useful. Perhaps I balked a little too much at the prices of his suggested "affordable" hotels in town, but when I was about to thank him and bid him adieu, he also offered for me to stay with his family overnight. Normally I would never even consider such an offer from a man on his own, but anything concerning spending time with a family is usually a safe bet and a unique opportunity to experience some of the local culture - an awfully tempting proposition for an anthropology geek like me. Some people have told me that one day my curiousity will get the better of me if I'm not careful.

I triple-checked that it was okay with Mesut's mother before accepting the generous offer. I really wasn't sure about the social norms and expectations that I would be placed under in such a situation - a son the family hadn't seen in a year was coming home with a female foreigner he had just met - but in yet another testament to the mind-blowing hospitality that abounds in this part of the world, his mother literally welcomed me with open arms and promptly ushered me to the dinner table.

As his mother was turning in for the night, Mesut asked if I wanted to go out for a bit. Again, I was incredibly wary of how that might be perceived, but he assured me repeatedly that it was okay with his mom. It's possible that I was being a bit too oversensitive, but one can never be sure. We wound up finding a live band at a pub downtown that even played some English covers. At first I was thrilled to hear songs I knew and loved, but when they played Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight" and Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here", I found myself missing a certain someone a little too much for my liking. Maybe it was with good reason that until then, I had been isolating myself from the creature comforts of 'the West' in the name of immersing myself in my immediate surroundings. After all, those things were just associated with memories of people I wouldn't be seeing for a really long time. It was much easier to just avoid them altogether.

April 26: Kurds just wanna have fun

I woke up early and joined Mesut's mother and youngest brother in a hearty breakfast of tomatoes, feta-like cheese, Nutella, and homemade emek bread. Since his mother's English skills were about as good as my Turkish (i.e. nill), we relied upon the little brother's primary schoolbooks, two-way dictionary, and computer-based translator to muddle our way through the standard topics of conversation like family, customs, and hobbies. Despite the language barrier, we connected well with each other and I had to mask my shock when I learned that she had never attended school and was still completely illiterate. Not only that, but her father had married her off at the age of 13 and she had her first child, Mesut, just a year later. Apparently girls are now allowed to go to school, but I would be surprised to hear of many fathers actually encouraging them to do so. Social change occurs slowly indeed.

When a second son showed up, I asked the two of them if they wanted to play some football at the neighbourhood park. They looked at me as if I was crazy (perhaps in part because girls in Turkey usually take no interest in football, let alone play it) and reminded me that Mesut was still asleep. I was actually having more fun with his brothers and mom and I didn't see why it mattered that he was still asleep until they said that they weren't allowed to go anywhere with me without his permission. I looked at them incredulously but held my tongue; I wasn't sure if it was them being subservient or me, but I didn't particularly like it.

Taking advantage of her eldest son's laziness and my subsequent restriction from football, the mother offered to take me to a friend's wedding party that afternoon. Once again, I was wary of the multitude of social norms that I would surely be subjected to, but jumped at the chance to join her and her female relatives at the celebration of such an important social institution.

I suddenly realized that I had nothing even remotely appropriate to wear to a formal wedding. Before I knew it, I was being whisked off to a cousin's apartment down the street to find an outfit to replace my hiking boots, jeans, and t-shirt. I opted for the least sparkly thing I could find (a plain black skirt and long-sleeved green top) and waited expectantly for the 3 other women to leave the room. They motioned for me to hurry up and change my clothes but I just stood there looking at the cousin helplessly. None of them spoke English but they eventually got the point that I didn't want an audience and left me alone, probably to shake their heads at how uptight Westerners are. Once I was ready, they flooded back into the room and helped each other put on their makeup and hijabs in front of the mirror. Again, I had a moment of cultural sensitivity-induced concern. So far, I had had a few too many Turkish men showing a little too much interest in my braids, and the last thing I wanted to do was draw even more attention to myself as a foreigner at someone else's wedding by not wearing a headscarf. The women indicated that I was fine without one - they fussed over my braids like a proud mother and seemed to want me to keep them out in the open - but I insisted otherwise. The cousin again came to my rescue and somehow managed to cover all of my hair with a few expertly placed ties and pins as I politely declined the offer to be doused in cheap perfume by Mesut's 9-year old brother.

The final touch was perhaps the most dreaded: the heels. I had myself and the other women barely holding back fits of laughter as I wobbled around the apartment, testing out the only pair that somewhat fit. To be honest, what unsettled me the most about wearing heels was the fact that I would not be able to run or play football - two things I'd prefer to retain the ability to do at all times. I guess I'd have to assume that the wedding party would not require either of them.

When we arrived at the tackily decorated hall, we headed straight to a table already staked out by other relatives of Mesut's mom. I smiled and cheek-kissed and shook hands with so many people that I felt like an amateur politician. I was surprised that no one spoke an ounce of English but it was a nice change to be able to simply watch and listen and not even try to understand what was being said. It wasn't long, though, before one of the younger girls dragged me away from a nearby baby and onto the dance floor.

Kurdish music and dancing was unlike anything I had experienced to date in Central Asia and the Caucasus. The music was way too loud and accentuated with the high-pitched trills reminiscent of Xena, but I quite enjoyed the massive drum slung around one man's waist that he beat incessantly with a cane to set the rhythm for the entire afternoon. The dancing began with a few women in a line facing the centre, hooking pinky fingers with those on either side of her. They moved their arms up and down in concert with a little step forward, backward, and to the right, so that they moved slowly around the perimeter of the dance floor. Eventually, enough women joined the line so that they went all the way around in a large circle, with one woman leading with a small hankerchief in hand. The men joined in as well but they formed a separate circle inside the women's, also led by a man with a hankerchief.

After about an hour of doing the same little move over and over and over, they responded to some unseen signal and split off into two straight lines at right angles to each other, one for the men and one for the women. The men showed off some impressively fast moves all in perfect unison in the line, and then dropped to one knee as one of the older men grabbed the hankerchief and took a solo in the centre. Dressed in traditional shalvar pants, he dazzled the audience with feverish footwork, shoulder shimmies, and arm movements that seemed chaotic to my untrained eye. With the sequined hankerchiefs in hand, his dance moves reminded me of the displays of a male peacock. When he finished, he dropped the hankerchiefs on the ground for the next male soloist to pick up.

During each solo, a couple of adult men tossed money (I think it was American dollar bills, for some reason) onto the dancer. Children dashed into the centre and snatched up the money amidst the stamping feet of the soloist. It took me a few rounds of this to notice that the children returned the money to the throwers rather than keeping it for themselves.

By the time the bride and groom finally arrived at the hall, I had all but forgotten that we were supposedly there to celebrate their union. I was surprised to see the bride looking downright miserable and even on the verge of tears for the rest of the party, but Mesut later told me that it was likely an arranged marriage and she was probably 10-15 years younger than her groom.

As soon as Mesut's mom and I returned home, Mesut urged me to get ready to head out again. He had somehow found two tickets to the championship football game that evening between Diyarbakir and one of the Istanbul teams and I had time to watch at least the first half before catching my next inter-city bus. We took a couple of dolmushes and buses to get to the stadium and I could feel the excitement (and traffic) mounting the closer we got. The entire city seemed to have turned out to support their home team: huge corporate-sponsored banners were hanging in the streets, cars were decked out in team colours and horns, and face-painted kids were waving flags in droves on the packed sidewalks.

When we arrived at the stadium, Mesut told me to wait outside while he tracked down his friend who was holding the tickets for us. Just as I was starting to feel the heat of hundreds of pairs of eyes tracking my every move (I was back to being the only woman in sight), he came back visibly distressed. It seemed that either too many tickets had been sold or too many officials had been bribed; the stadium was already well over capacity and they weren't letting anyone else in, even those with legitimate tickets. Mesut was pretty upset but to be honest, I was quite amused to just watch the crowds around us. Some fans were so eager to see the action that they scaled terrifyingly high walls to get inside the stadium. Even with riot police pushing their way through the crowds and yelling at them to get down, they were cheered on by the crowds and pulled over the top by fellow fans with a bird's-eye view of the mayhem in the streets below.

With the electricity in the air as palpable as it was, I didn't find it hard to believe how easily riots could break out at national and World Cup matches. With all my years of playing the beautiful game, I had never been to a professional match. I suppose this one didn't really count, since I didn't actually get to see any of it, but still - soaking up the atmosphere outside the stadium was a pretty sweet substitute. I can only imagine what it will be like next year in South Africa!

April 26-27: Until the fat lady sings

On the overnight bus from Diyarbakir to Cappadocia, I was seated beside a rather robust woman and her 6-year old grandson. It's not uncommon here for a woman to squeeze herself and two kids into two seats, but I was shocked to see this little gaffer sleeping UNDER the seats in front of us throughout the night. I tried to squeeze over as far as possible for him, but to no avail... Granny was simply too big for him to fit on her lap. I swore then and there that I would never let myself get too fat to accommodate my grandkids.

Turtle hunting on hallowed ground

shrummer16 — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 15:42:00 GMT

My first few days in Turkey taught me that sometimes when backpacking you seem to spend about 70% of your time on public transit and only 30% at your intended destination. Thankfully Turkey has some incredible things to see and do... and a wicked long-distance bus system.

April 21: Your Turkish border, ma'am, courtesy of the Four Seasons

It turns out the few nerves I had on my last morning in the former USSR were completely unfounded. When I pulled up to the border to enter north-eastern Turkey from Georgia, I almost laughed out loud: it was an actual modern building complete with a duty free shop, painted lines on paved roads, and clean flush toilets with paper. Compared to the middle-of-nowhere shacks that had comprised most of the borders I had crossed to date, this one was an absolute breeze. It only took 20 minutes to get my visa and cleared through, and they didn't even search my bags or pull me aside for questioning. I was even able to get some Turkish Lira at an official rate, rather than the back-alley trench-coat exchanges I was used to in the 'Stans. Hmm! Looks like Turkey will be a different backpacking ball game indeed.

I caught two dolmushes (public transit minivans, similar to the ones known as marschutkas in the former USSR) from the border to the nearest town. I noticed that the women were significantly more covered than their Georgian (and Christian) counterparts, likely attributable to the fairly conservative interpretation of Islam in rural eastern Turkey. Once at the town's bus station, I enquired about how to get to Kars, one of eastern Turkey's tourist 'to-do's, but they insisted that there were no more buses going today. Drivers often say this to get you to panic and take their taxis but I have yet to fall for it. I wasn't feeling stubborn enough to sleep overnight in the bus station though, so I caught the next bus a few hours later to Erzurum, a main city that doesn't have much to offer itself but serves as a useful transit hub to other hotspots. The bus was a proper coach and the scenery was gorgeous - lush green mountains and steep gorges into the rivers below. When we arrived in Erzurum, it was close to midnight and all the other passengers disembarking from the bus were rather dodgy-looking men. Since the station had already closed for the night, I had little choice but to high-tail it to a hostel and figure out how to get to the next point on my itinerary the following day.

April 22: The Tryptophan Effect

Apparently there were a couple historical sights and interesting mosques to see in Erzurum, but quite frankly, I wanted to do as little as possible today - and it was glorious. Not that I'm particularly stressed or deserving of even more of a vacation, but it was nice to have a day to sleep in a little and not concern myself for once with the logistics of navigating yet another brand new city and its unreliable public transit with no knowledge of yet another new language.

Instead, I welcomed myself to Turkey's fabulous street cuisine by devouring a doner kebab for brunch and starting my own crash course in Turkish currency and numbers. I spent the day at an internet cafe behind my hostel, sipping on complimentary chai and sugar cubes to sustain the little energy needed to chat with friends and family on Skype and catch up on emails. I then got a kilo of fresh strawberries (my first in months) and ate the entire thing for dinner while dancing around the triple room I had all to myself to cheesy Turkish music videos (example here). So yes, although I'm incredibly happy to be backpacking for 4 months, sometimes a gal needs a break from travelling too!

April 23: Are we there yet?

When I left the hostel in Erzurum at 7:30 am, there was no one at the front desk. I was tempted to 'sleep-and-run' but did the proper Canadian thing and left the money I owed anyways, hoping that they would think positively of my fellow Canuckers in the future. In the backpacking world, it's the little things that people do (or not) that can make or break locals' perceptions of an entire nationality.

The steam from my still-warm simit (sesame seed-coated bagel) wafted into my nose and warded off the bone-chillingly cold rain that pelted me en route to the otogar (bus station). I smiled to myself; after a full day of lazing around and catching up on family affairs, I was mentally and physically recharged and ready to explore what eastern Turkey had to offer.

I had my sights set on camping beside Lake Van and visiting the ancient Armenian church perched resolutely on the edge of tiny Akdamar Island. The 7-hour bus I took from Erzurum to Van, the city nearest to Akdamar, served as a red carpet welcome to the joys of Turkish buses. Never before had I seen such a well-organized station with so many different bus companies offering services to so many different cities. The entire country seemed to be laced with bus routes, everything from dinky 1- or 2-hour commuters to 40-hour marathoners all the way across to Istanbul. Not only was there an exceptional amount of routes to choose from, but there were often several a day, and you could even book a seat ahead of time (unheard of in the 'Stans, where it's first-come, first-serve and/or last-come, still-served-with-right-amount-of-money). Upon purchasing a ticket, you're served chai in a waiting room with other patrons until your bus is ready to depart. Once you're on the bus, you're offered complimentary drinks and snacks by bow-tied staff and treated to on-board movies, news, and music videos.

My honeymoon phase with the coach bus system was cut short upon arrival in Van. I wound up taking a mistake dolmush to the wrong side of the lake, only to learn that the presently stormy weather was prohibiting any ferries from traveling to the church on the island anyways. When I finally arrived at the right harbour, I must have been a sorry sight. It was still damp out from the morning downpour and a fierce wind whipping up the sand on the road did wonders for my already frizzy hair. Fortunately, across from the harbour was a restaurant and free campground that I was soon welcomed into with open arms by a very hospitable owner and staff. Thanks to the terrible weather, there were no other tourists around and I had the entire campground and wait-staff to myself. They were kind enough to treat me not only to wine and homemade menamen (grilled veggies and eggs) for dinner, but also to a crash course in Turkish politics, knowledge of which I was sorely lacking.

April 24: The Little Prince and his island friends

I woke up to the sun beating down on me in my little orange tent and the sounds of the morning hustle and bustle of the restaurant below. The storm had passed overnight and the harbour was full of locals waiting for their turn on the little ferry to Akdamar Island. The only thing that wasn't 100% in my favour was that I no longer had my own personal wait-staff at my every beck and call.

I liked the area and the company so much that I had decided to stay another night at the free campground (a rare find), and I was in no particular hurry to fight the early morning crowds on the island. I enjoyed a long breakfast of more menamen and read by beloved copy of "The Little Prince", one of my all-time favourite books. When I finally wandered down to the harbour and onto the ferry, my mind both swam with and was calmed by the classic book's poignant wisdom, portrayed through deceptively simplistic cartoons and prose. I wouldn't be surprised if its lessons still go unrecognized by most adults - not unlike how most would see a hat rather than an elephant inside a cobra. (If you haven't read it, please go do so now.)

My reverie was interrupted by a group of giggling girls struggling to take a photo of themselves against the striking backdrop of Akdamar Island. I offered to take it for them and they nearly shrieked my ear off when they realized that I was an English-speaking tourist. Two of them promptly attached themselves to my arms and sweetly peppered me with questions in order to proudly show off their English skills. Though they looked young enough to be teenagers, they were actually new teachers on holiday. I made a side-note that all five were in cute, form-fitting outfits and only one wore a hijab, which is probably not a bad demographic representation of the young, urban, and increasingly progressive generation of Turkish women.

When the ferry docked on the island, the girls and I got our entrance tickets to the church (though they insisted on paying for mine) and set out exploring. The Kilisesi (Church of the Holy Cross) was founded in the 10th century by an Armenian king and is still adorned with its original frescoes on the inside and intricate reliefs on the outside. Apparently some of the most famous Biblical stories were depicted, but I didn't know enough to recognize them. The grounds surrounding the church are dotted with ancient gravestones and perfumed by apricot trees in full bloom. I was later told back at the restaurant that the massive flag planted in front of the church by the government was "just to spite the Armenians". The Turks have a bit of a history, to say the least, with their neighbouring Armenians, including endless land disputes and an alleged genocide in 1915 that the Turkish governmnet still refuses to acknowledge. Many Turks share the same sort of brimming hatred as their allied Azeris towards the Armenians (see "Azeri history, then and now").

I spotted a couple of kids scrambling up a small mountain of rocks that dominated the other half of the island. The girls declined my invitation to race to the top (I guess those high heels won't get you very far, after all) and decided to head back to the mainland. The sun was still shining from a perfectly blue sky and I was feeling restless, so I opted to carry on by myself and check out the views from the top.

The island did not disappoint. On the way up, I watched seagulls cavorting in the surf, snails inching infinitely along branches, and lizards alternately freezing mid-step and dashing into the rock crevices at my curious gaze. At the top, I sat for a long while soaking up the sun, fresh air, and breathtaking views of the snow-capped mountains and sapphire water surrounding the island.

On the way back down, I was examining a leftover rabbit skull and wondering whether some species had evolved differently being isolated on the island when I heard a strange noise a few meters away, almost like something hard being struck against a rock. My first thought was that it was a chimp cracking open a shell or nut, but then I reminded myself with great disappointment that there were no wild primates in Turkey. I had no idea what it could be and crouched down, making my way as slowly as possible towards the sound. As I peered cautiously over the last mound of rocks, I caught sight of the culprit and laughed out loud - it was a pair of turtles! I eagerly whipped out my cameras and hunkered down right next to them to observe what turned out to be a mating ritual. The male retracted his head completely and rammed the front of his carapace into the back of the female's, accounting for the suspicious clanging. The female didn't take too kindly to being hit in the rear (of her shell) and continuously tried to get away from the male, which made for quite a humorous little chase scene. The great thing about turtles is that they can't go anywhere on land very quickly and don't seem to mind if you're sitting two feet away - i.e. they're fantastic photo subjects!

With the sun slipping down behind the peaks in the distance and my wildlife documentary needs temporarily satisfied, I took one of the last ferries of the day back to the mainland. The campgrand owner and restaurant wait-staff had apparently been wondering where I possibly could have gone for so long but then seemed to understand when I showed them the dozens of photos I snapped of the island's less obvious gems. They weren't as excited as me about the turtles and informed me that the surrounding mainland is overrun with them every summer, meaning that I hadn't stumbled upon an evolutionary blip after all. Oh well! I still crawled into bed in my little tent with a smile on my face and a warmth in my belly that wasn't entirely attributable to the homemade tomato soup I had shared with the wait-staff for dinner. Spring was well on its way and I was seeing it unfold before my very eyes...

Nerves

shrummer16 — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 08:36:00 GMT

April 20: From buzzkill Poti to port-side Batumi

With tearful goodbyes from Tako and her mother and grandparents, I set off from Kutaisi for Poti. There’s admittedly not much going on in Poti, but I had read about the nearby Kolkheti National Park and jumped at the chance to check out the wetlands and birds that inevitably flock to the area. When I arrived in Poti, I was first dropped off at "the park" by a well-intentioned elderly gent who insisted that a small Soviet-era city park was indeed the 300-acre national park. I then spent ages searching for and then taking a local bus that went in the right direction, only to arrive at the national park to find it closed for Easter Monday. Before leaving Kutaisi, Tako and I had asked around to confirm that the park would be open on the Easter Monday holiday, but I should have known that the marshutka driver would of course answer in the affirmative; he was a businessman, after all. (I’ve learned to never trust drivers, and ESPCIALLY ones with moustaches.)

I had little choice but to keep on traveling west and eventually made it to the home of another Ministry contact in the port city of Batumi. During the summer, sub-tropical Batumi is a vacationing hotspot for sun-worshipping Russians, Eastern Europeans, and Tbilisians. I was a bit early for the famed warm weather, but was still serenaded by the oversized musical fountains on the boulevard, complete with synchronized lighting and ‘dance routines’ set to everything from classical to country. I was also treated to visits to an ancient Roman fortress, a gothic cathedral, a peculiar monument to St. Andrew underneath a small waterfall, and a brief spell on the rocky beach on the Black Sea.

April 21: Well, Miss Georgia, you've been good to me

I spent the morning perusing my Lonely Planet pdfs and the Thorn Tree forum for advice on the border crossing into eastern Turkey. I admittedly allowed myself to get a bit nervous about leaving the comforts of Georgia behind for unknown territory. Turkey will be the first country on my trip without pre-arranged contacts and it will also be the first that is not a former Soviet republic (i.e. many of the things I’ve gotten used to will no longer be applicable). I attempted to reassure myself by the fact that western Turkey is incredibly tourist-friendly (at least in comparison to the ‘Stans) and that despite the east being accompanied by travel warnings, especially for women, I would surely be met with the same infectious hospitality and openness as in Central Asia and the Caucasus. Being on my toes is fine (and necessary), but if fear starts creeping in, I may revert to ‘othering’ those around me and be constantly looking over my shoulder - which I hate. So at the very least, I reminded myself that as a solo traveler, I have to maintain a particular mental sharpness and keep any nerves and uncertainties well in check, both for my own personal well-being (mental and otherwise) and for the continued enjoyment of what the road has to offer me.

This ain't yer average Easter, folks

shrummer16 — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 06:57:00 GMT

April 17: Family Matters

I spent the 3-hr marschutka ride from Gori to Kutaisi texting a mystery woman whose family I would stay with but whose name I didn't even know. Drawing the old name-blank inevitably happens when you meet so many new people every day: someone introduces herself but you have no idea what she said even after asking her to repeat it twice (the fact that it's a foreign name you've never heard before doesn't help); you definitely don't remember it days later, and now it's too late in the game to ask again without looking like a complete tool. I've been pretty successful at just not calling people by their names and waiting to see what their families and friends call them.

Anyways, when the marshutka dropped me off in an unknown location in Kutaisi, the mystery woman somehow tracked me down through the throngs of people doing their last-minute Easter shopping. Rather than the 30-something stay-at-home mom I had pictured, she was instead an adorable 16-year old named Tako (she introduced herself again, thankfully), sporting a breast cancer awareness ball cap and Adidas track pants. She flashed me a big smile and whisked me off to a waiting Land Rover with the steering wheel on the right. I thought this was a rather curious feature, but she clarified that the owner, her father's friend, had it shipped from England. I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows slightly; he must be doing pretty well. Either that or people in Georgia just have higher standards of living than the 'Stans, which is also a pretty good possibility.

Tako proudly showed me through her and her mother's beautiful home in Kutaisi, ending the tour with what turned out to be my room for the next couple nights. I gaped in awe: it was HUGE and had a real bed with two pillows and its own balcony - and no one else sleeping in there but me! (Ah, the little luxuries...) I was kind of curious about what her father's profession had been to afford them such luxury but wasn't about to pry after learning that he had been murdered by a 'friend' in Moscow when Tako was a little girl.

Tako was eager to start showing off the landmarks of her hometown so we soon set off in the British-wheeled Land Rover. Kutaisi was the capital of the ancient kingdom of Colchis (6th-1st century BC) and appeared in Greek mythology as the home of Aeetes and Medea, and thus involved in the legends of the Golden Fleece and Jason and the Argonauts. It also may have been the homeland of the mighty Amazon warriors. (Ha! I knew I loved Georgia with good reason.)

Our first stop was the iconic Bagrati Cathedral, built in the 11th century by King Bagrati III at a strategic position overlooking the city. It was partially destroyed over the ages by subsequent invasions of Turks and Russians and restorations were still underway, with much of the UNESCO World Heritage Site overrun by scaffolding. Part of me wished they would just leave it as is, walls crumbling under the inevitable weight of time. The ancient, decrepit feel somehow made the cathedral seem simultaneously more whimsical, vulnerable, and powerful.

In the city centre, we checked out the Khareba ("Happiness") Church with its fragrant gardens and emerald green trees, and then the Okros Chardakhi ("Gold House"), where King David IV lived in the 11th/12th century. King David (aka King David the Builder) is often considered the father of Georgia for reviving and unifying its many states after the devastating Great Turkish Onslaught.

After a dangerously big khachipuri lunch, we settled in for an evening of family fun at Tako's house. Three of her little cousins came over and entertained me with traditional Georgian music on their 3-stringed panduris. They were even patient enough to teach me some chords so I could strum along as Tako demonstrated the different styles of traditional dance from around the country.

Although Tako's mom had been busy all day baking breads and khachipuri for Easter, the kids and I joined in the last-stage preparation of the eggs. I had noticed in the markets in Tbilisi a couple days prior that all of the eggs were hardboiled and dyed a deep red and had assumed correctly that they had something to do with Easter, but it wasn't until I was with Tako and her cousins that I was let in on the rest of the tradition. Two people (usually kids, foreigners such as yours truly excepted) would each take a red egg and one would use his to strike the other's on the end; whomever's remained unbroken was declared the winner and allowed to continue on to the next willing opponent. It was not unlike our turkey wishbone tradition at Thanksgiving and it was pretty funny watching the kids run around cracking eggs and declaring themselves victorious.

We had another fantastic meal for dinner but I still somehow found room to munch continuously on gozinakin, impossibly delectable balls of honey-coated peanuts dipped in dark chocolate, while the women of the family drilled me about home life in Canada, including relations with parents, marriage, education, and religion. Usually hosts are too concerned about offending a guest to ask about such topics, but they were refreshingly honest and blunt in their questioning and more than open to discussing differing opinions. I found it particularly interesting to listen to the differences between the generations of women in the family (i.e. Tako, her mother and aunt, and her grandmother) on issues such as a woman's place in the household, and the staunch retention of traditions. At one point, Tako asserted, "We suffer from our traditions!" I did a double-take at her as I realized how true that statement could ring in so many human societies. Traditions are a vital part of society, ensuring the continuity of social norms and values that encourage desirable behaviours and characteristics such as respect for elders, a dedicated work ethic, and environmental stewardship. However, depending on how deeply entrenched they are, traditions also have the potential to be harmful to those who subscribe to them. If a particular tradition makes a person feel uncomfortable, in pain, or restricted from fulfilling her dreams or becoming a better person according to her own personal views, why should she have to perpetuate it? I suppose there is no single clear-cut answer, which is why there are so many heated debates over religious and socio-cultural traditions such as Islamic dress in 'Western' countries, East African female circumcision practices, and indigenous peoples' rights to hunt endangered species.

April 18: Covering all the bases, past and present

The day before Easter, Tako and her father's friends took me out on the town for another round of sight-seeing. The Sataplia Karst Reserve was right up my alley, chock full of subterranean caves, preserved dinosaur tracks, and sub-tropical forests! With its brilliant green foliage and sweet air dripping with moisture, the forest was so thick that I could only hear the calls of the birds and the soft crunch of our footsteps on the forest floor. I stopped often to gaze in awe at little wonders like beads of water balancing on the strands of spider webs like delicate strings of pearls. One of my favourite things to do in a forest is to look closely at individual leaves and trace the lifelines of their tiny veins up through their stems to the twigs and branches connecting their fellow leaves, all the way to the mighty trunk of the tree and down to the roots of the earth, and then zoom out my perspective to the entire landscape comprised of hundreds of these miracles of life. With each breath, I felt more and more filled with that holistic peace that one can only find when immersed in nature.

We then headed to Motsameta, one of Kutaisi's most prized possessions. Though fairly small in comparison to some of Georgia's other churches, Motsameta boasted spectacular views over the surrounding lush hillsides and a similarly impressive history, proving that size doesn't matter. The Tskhaltsitla ("Red") River gushing far below was so named because of the 8th-century Arab massacre that took place on its banks. Legend has it that two dukes of Argveti, Davit and Konstantin, were among those killed and thrown into the river, turning its waters red. Their bones were allegedly retrieved by lions and brought up to the church, where they now rest underneath an altar. Faithful Georgians crawl under the altar three times for good luck.

Founded by King David the Builder in 1106 as a centre for Chritian culture and Neo-Platonist study, nearby Gelati is another Georgian icon with a long line of historical accentuations. King David himself is buried in the monastery, in notably humble fasion in the entrance hallway so that everyone who passes through must step on his grave. King Bagrat III (of Bagrati Cathedral fame) is also buried on the Gelati grounds and current Georgian President Saakashvili was inaugurated here. The main Cathedral of the Virgin, which contains dozens of stunning Christian frescoes, was where Tako's mother and father were married.

Though Tako and I were exhausted, we still had an all-night Easter service to attend so we welcomed the opportunity to gorge ourselves on Georgian delicacies at a big family dinner at her aunt's house. The men cooked the obligatory mtsvadi (pork kebabs) and there were of course several plates of my favourite khachipuri (baked cheese pies) and scores of breads and pastries that I wasn't the only one excited about.

I tried to stick with water as my beverage of choice - I didn't really want to attend Tako's church with a buzz - but the adult family members quickly noticed and happily insisted otherwise, true to Georgian form. The after-dinner wine tradition apparently involved drinking out of curved bull horns, a rather creative way of ensuring that every last drop is consumed (if there's any left, you won't be able to set it down on the table without it spilling). I also had to race-drink one of the larger uncles, something I was clearly destined to lose from the start... what better way to get ready for church than by chugging home-made wine??

Tako and I left at about 10 pm for one of her country's 365 St. Giorgi Churches. As in the Palm Sunday service in Kazbegi the week prior (see "(Un)Orthodox all-nighter"), the polytonic singing was truly ethereal and the only reason I was able to stay awake for most of the night. In this church, the choir was stationed in the balcony behind and above the congregation so that the skin-tingling sound filled the entire church and the hearts of everyone in it. At midnight, everyone filed outside and circled the church three times while the priest chanted and his helpers rang a large structure of bells. I was thankful for the chance to get some fresh air and move my legs, but annoyed at the rather aggressive people trying to push their ways around the procession. We were clearly all going in the same direction for the same purpose; what on earth were they pushing for?! I kept my patience ahead of my temper by chuckling to myself about the rat-race imagery that it brought to mind.

Much like the Palm Sunday service, we emerged from the church at daybreak, but this time without a mind-blowing sunrise over a mountain backdrop. I was, however, in the company of a very special family who had taken me in as one of their own for the most miportant holiday of the year, something that still amazes me to this day.

April 19: Easter Sunday renewal

Tako woke me up early to go to her maternal grandparents' villages outside Kutaisi. According to Georgian tradition, we were to spend Easter Sunday paying our respects to family members' graves. I wasn't quite sure with what degree of morose I should conduct myself, but I soon realized that this wouldn't be an entirely sombre affair. In anticipation of visiting with lots of other family and friends, we had packed a bounty of picnic-style foods and wine, and the mood of the conversation on the ride to the village was just as uplifting as the warm sun beating down upon us.

I was more than a little groggy from the all-night church service, but as always, the countryside soothed my every sense. The birds chirped merrily as the trees unfurled emerald leaves before our eyes; the calves plaintively chased their mothers' swollen udders as the fields of wheatgrass performed a delicate ballet with the spring breeze.

Upon arrival at the village cemetery, I was quick to note the differences (as is typically done when presented with a new scenario). Each family had a small section of the cemetary enclosed by a short cast-iron fence. Usually there was more than one family member in a site; I wasn't sure how the 'zoning' (for lack of better words) within the cemetery worked and didn't feel it was particularly appropriate to ask. People entered their sites through a small swinging gate and paid their respects to their loved ones by placing various symbolic items such as candles, bread, hard-boiled eggs (the dyed red ones), or even wine on the graves, or simply by praying or making the sign of the cross. The headstones were often adorned with life-like engravings of the deceased's face, and sometimes listed what they were well-liked for and other family members' names. I noticed that Tako's father's grave was at neither of the cemeteries we visited, and she later mentioned that she and her mother would visit her father's grave on Easter Monday in Kutaisi. I was curious about the rituals that determined who is buried where and why, and who visits whom and when, but again felt it was not appropriate to ask such details.

Back at Tako's house in Kutaisi, I spent the afternoon doing laundry and having an impromptu dance party with Tako and her cousins. She even taught me some Georgian folk dance, which was not entirely dissimilar to traditional Central Asian dance, but unique and difficult enough to make my attempts to follow suit an object of entertainment for the rest of the family. When I was watching Tako whirl around the room with all the grace of an accomplished ballerina but the pure innocence of a little girl, I couldn't help but marvel at her. She was robbed of her beloved father at a tender young age but refuses to use that as an excuse for anything, and instead seizes every opportunity she can get her hands on to make something incredible of herself. Listening to her impressively firm opinions about women's places in Georgian society, I have no doubt in my mind that she'll grow up into an even more impressive woman and will blaze her own trail through life, inevitably serving as a role model for the next generation of girls eager to break the mold. And of course, she'll be smiling her beautiful smile the whole way through her journey.

Get 'er done

shrummer16 — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 03:51:00 GMT

Well, the photos are FINALLY all up from my 4-month overlander! Check them out in the photo galleries on the right side of the main page, starting with Uzbekistan and going all the way up to Egypt. I've also updated the stories from Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Azerbaijan with embedded photos to make things marginally more interesting (some of my memory cards wouldn't load on any computers while on the road, so I had originally posted them sans visuals). The next step to get this site up to speed again will be writing up my daily travels from Georgia onwards to Egypt, so bear with me as I go all the way back to April...

Next up: Easter in Georgia

Home

shrummer16 — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 21:42:00 GMT

Home. It's quite a meaningful concept, isn't it? It could be where a young mother brings her newborn, swathed in all the tenderness of the world. It could be where a teacher tells a terrified student to bring his report card. It could be the one thing that soldiers in Afghanistan cling to to get through their days. Whatever it is, there are some powerful feelings associated with it.

As for myself, I came home to Sarnia on Saturday evening after spending an incredible year in Central Asia and the Middle East. Yes, my mother cried (a lot) and barely left my side that night at my cousin's beautiful wedding. I spent the whole afternoon yesterday with my beloved grandpa and then did the obligatory bike ride to the Bluewater bridge for fries and ice cream. As much as the thought of spending two months in Sarnia & Area would normally have sent shivers down my spine, I came to terms with it a while ago and now see it as a welcome opportunity to spend some quality time with family and friends.

After all, you have to leave home to come home.

PS. I know I've been AWOL from this site for the past month and I entirely blame my friend Heather for meeting me in Jordan and my father for meeting me in Egypt and for both of them being too good of company to want to spend hours in painfully slow internet cafes :) Rest assured, I will be fully updating pics and stories soon...

Unable to escape the shadows of Gori's past

shrummer16 — Sat, 30 May 2009 18:17:00 GMT

April 15: Tbilisi

As soon as I got back to the homestay in Tbilisi and pried myself away from the puppy, I made a beeline for the shower. There is something particularly glorious about having a hot shower after several days in a snow-covered village without anything resembling hot water!

I was surprised to hear that the anti-government protests were still going strong a full week after they kicked off, but wasn’t in the mood to join them again. Instead, I called my dad back in Canada and met up with the Dutch ski-mountaineers (who successfully made it to the summit of Mount Kazbegi) for a student production of ‘My Fair Lady’. I only wish I understood Georgian; the entire audience was practically falling into the aisles in uncontrollable laughter!

Back at the homestay were two American tourists who had just arrived in town. It was strange for me to see other tourists (still a rarity on my trip) but we happened to be going to the same place tomorrow and decided to tackle the manic marshutka station together in the morning…

April 16: Gori

We eventually found ourselves in Gori, the birthplace of Georgia’s most (in)famous son, Joseph Stalin. Our destination was the aptly-named Stalin Museum, which chronicled the highlights of the namesake’s life – and I do mean highlights. True to Soviet form, the museum mentioned absolutely nothing about the blood-baths of Stalin’s ‘Great Purges’ of the 1930s (executions of hundreds of thousands of civilians), the mass deportations of the 1940s, and the forced collectivization of agriculture which later catalyzed devastating famines and widespread environmental disasters. Instead, the museum’s exhibits focused on Stalin’s early days as a poet and Marxist revolutionary, his family, and his Soviet Union’s critical role in fending off the Nazis in Eastern Europe to turn the tide of WWII in favour of the Allies. Oh, how I love/hate Soviet propaganda…!

Outside the museum stands the modest house in which Stalin spent the first four years of his life. Next to that is the train carriage that he rode to the famous Yalta Conference; he was allegedly afraid of flying.

Alicia and Pat headed back to Tbilisi and I met up with some more Ministry of Education contacts who promptly took me to several nearby ancient churches. Along with the religious architecture lesson came more heart-wrenching tales of the August 2008 war with Russia and South Ossetia; I hadn’t realized that Gori was one of the centres of the conflict. The background (both ancient and contemporary) was revealed gradually but strangely matter-of-factly.

The Ateni Sioni Church, for example, was built in the 6^th century and contains remarkably well-preserved frescoes painted in the 7^th, 9^th, and 11^th centuries. It is currently under restoration, however, due to damage inflicted during the August 2008 war. According to my friends, the Ossetians took over and deserted the city with brute force, displacing all residents of Gori into the surrounding mountains for several weeks. The Russians and Ossetians delivered a huge psychological blow by setting fire to the forests in the mountains, which were known to locals as ‘the pearl of Georgia’. An unanticipated ecological effect added to the horrors: wolves robbed of their habitat ventured further down into the valleys where all of the people were hiding.

Over another delectable Georgian lunch, my friends were impressively open about their experiences during and after the 2008 war. Like every other Georgian I met, they were fiercely proud of their nationality and land, which have been under fire from opposing political and religious forces for millennia. I’m starting to think that those who are most challenged have the strongest beliefs and convictions (if not wiped out, that is)… perhaps we could even call it a sort of cultural natural selection. You can look elsewhere in the region for further support of this hypothesis, such as in Afghanistan, where cultural traditions and a defensive nature are so intensely strong that it should come as no surprise that those who have tried to change them have never been successful.

I spent the night with a beautiful young family, fauning over the 1-year old baby girl, playing football with the 7-year old boy, and admiring wedding pictures with the mom. I looked through a predictably sunny Soviet-era photo book of Georgia with the son, relishing the mental escape from the bombardment of horror stories throughout the day. I flipped the page to a shot of an old red bi-plane flying cheerily in the cloudless blue sky. The boy pointed anxiously at it and I was about to tell him proudly that my brother is a pilot when a hushed comment from his mother cut my breath short. She looked at me with sad eyes than cast her gaze downwards as if she was ashamed and said, “He’s scared of planes now – that’s how the Russians bombed us.”

I felt like I had been sucker-punched. I choked back tears and realized that no matter how resilient people may be and how much light they bring back into their lives, the shadows of their past will never fade.

The Great White North (of Georgia)

shrummer16 — Fri, 29 May 2009 11:20:00 GMT

April 13

I don't know why, but Georgians have a way of building churches in the most ridiculously gorgeous settings. After recharging my batteries from the all-night Orthodox Palm Sunday service, I hiked up to one of the country's most famous churches. Built in the 14th century, the Gergeti Holy Trinity Church allegedly hid ancient treasures and religious artifacts such as St. Nino's cross during times of invasion. Priests still live in the monastery and do so for 2 months at a time; the hike up to the church takes 1-2 hours (depending on weather conditions and fitness level), which by default ensures that the priests live in relative solitude in one of the most stunning vistas I've ever seen.

Thanks to the seasonal timing, the steep trail was completely covered in deep snow - the kind with the crunchy layer on top and the slushy mud or ice at the bottom that takes a significantly larger effort to navigate than your average flower-lined grassy knoll. Thankfully the Dutch ski-mountaineers had begun their trek up Mt Kazbegi the previous day, so I had their tracks to follow in the snow (the church is on the way to the summit). It was wonderful to be outside in the sun, but the hiking conditions were a little on the painful side...

When I reached the plateau that the church is built upon and took in the views of the surrounding mountains, I admitted to my throbbing knees that I would have done the hike ten times over just for that sight. My spirits were buoyed by the entire landscape, from the jagged peaks soaring majestically into the sapphire sky, all the way down to a delicate little flower somehow poking its head through the snow.

I kept on hiking for a while past the church, spotting a ridge here and a rock pile there that I would set my sights on, trudge up to, and then marvel at the slightly different views of the 360⋅ mountains and snow drifts. I didn't want to leave, but with the afternoon sun sliding down its westerly trajectory, I eventually resigned myself to turning around and heading home...

April 14

With that familiar old feeling of a winter wonderland at my fingertips, I took the ski-mountaineers' initial advice and hit the slopes for the day at nearby Gedauri. The lifts were real Doppelmayr's and the runs and snow quality were surprisingly good for the late-winter timing. I acquired a nice sunburn on the few parts of my face that I forgot to lather with sunscreen, but otherwise had a wicked day finding my feet on the snowboard again!

(Un)Orthodox all-nighter

shrummer16 — Mon, 25 May 2009 23:35:00 GMT

April 11: Tbilisi to Kazbegi

Though the mountains were stunningly beautiful and what I had come to northern Georgia to see, my heart and core temperature sank as the snow levels rose with each hour spent careening around the hairpin turns of the Georgian Military Highway. My first warning sign that the north would be significantly colder than Tbilisi were the heavy coats and hats donned by the others in the marschutka (a large van that takes passengers on a set route for a fixed and fairly cheap price). The only other foreigners (having any is unusual for me) in the marschutka were a pair of Dutch ski-mountaineers about to take on Mount Kazbegi who said that I would probably have more luck going snowboarding than finding a hiking trail. Boarding would be a wicked and highly welcome alternative, but I definitely had not expected it to be that cold and was thoroughly unprepared. After we blew a tire in an icy pothole-laden tunnel and were forced to wait outside for half an hour, a deep chill set into my bones and I spent the rest of the drive up to the village of Kazbegi shivering in my light windbreaker and envying their down-filled North Face winter gear. All I could do was hope that my contact in Kazbegi would let me borrow an extra coat for the few days I planned to be in the area.

Upon arrival in Kazbegi at the end of the Military Highway, I was quickly ushered to a particularly homey home-stay graced with a comfortable bed, a sitting room filled with walls of musty old books, and even a TV with English news channels (a rare luxury) – but no hot water in the bathroom. Ah well, can’t win ‘em all!

The Dutch ski-mountaineers and I went for a stroll around the village to stretch our legs after several hours in the marshutka. The village appeared to be largely deserted at first glance, with ominous gusts of wind whipping up flurries of snow and rattling the padlocks and broken window panes of the empty cafes and shops. However, when I caught sight of and waved at one man peering through his kitchen window at us, the expression on his face changed from one of intense scrutiny and even suspicion to outright joy, and he burst onto his porch to invite us into his home as if he had been waiting all day for passersby. His homely but bubbly wife nearly tripped over her own feet as she rushed to serve us tea and bread and insisted on nudging our chairs ever closer to the fire, tsk-tsking at our red noses and numb fingers. I settled into my chair, rubbed my hands together next to the fire until the painful but nostalgic tingling subsided, and savoured the moment of charming Georgian hospitality. We begrudgingly left the physical and social warmth for the harsh outdoors, gasping in unison as the frigid winds sucked the breath from our lungs. I did not envy the guys in their attempt to scale the 5000 m summit of Mount Kazbegi looming imposingly above the village.

* * *

When I told the home-stay owner that I wanted to hike up to the Gergeti Holy Trinity Church the next morning, she offered for her teenage son and his friends to join me. She suggested, however, that I go the day after because “the boys will be tired from a late night”. I chuckled, assuming that meant that they would be partying their faces off on a typical Saturday night, but was quickly corrected: they were in fact going to an all-night Palm Sunday service at another church somewhere in the mountains. How many teenage boys do you know spend their Saturday nights at church? I was impressed and humbled by the unexpected display of faith; clearly, it permeates their daily lives more than your average Christian. Pleasantly taken aback, I asked if I could join them. They warned that it would be a feat of endurance in more ways than one but that I was more than welcome if I thought I could handle it. I’ve learned to take local warnings with a grain of salt, as they tend to be kindly but overly protective of me as a young and solo female traveler. It was a church service after all, which meant that old people would be there. How hard could it be?

In preparation for the night-time hike up to the church in the bitter cold, the mom of the home-stay generously lent me one of her winter coats but didn’t have any mittens. I made due by doubling my long wool socks as mitts and my headscarf as a sort of head/neck wrap (which, come to think of it, would be quite literally called a headscarf). I wore enough layers to add more than a few inches to my profile and proclaimed myself ready when all that was visible were my eyes and nose.

At 10 pm, I joined a small group of teenage boys and began hiking up a mountain behind the village, opposite Mt Kazbegi. It wasn’t a terribly steep gradient for most of the time, but it was dark and an aggravating combination of ice underneath a thin layer of snow made for a decent workout. Just when I started to tire out (and overheat, admittedly), I saw a soft glow emanating from above the next ridge.

“Is that it?” I asked one of my companions, who grabbed my arm as I slipped on yet another hidden patch of ice.

“It sure is,” Lukas replied wearily, pointing ahead to the outline of the church emerging through the trees.

My jaw nearly hit the ground as we walked up to it and I realized just how pristine the setting was: the tiniest church I had ever seen was nestled humbly in a thin valley, a sweeping 360° vista of jagged, snow-capped mountains towering protectively over it. I turned around a few times, taking it all in, completely awe-struck. I turned my gaze upwards to the near-full moon illuminating the outlines of the mountains against the velvety black sky bejeweled with countless stars.

Whoa, I thought to myself. I don’t even care how painful the church service is; that sight alone is worth it a million times over!

The single-room church was already jam-packed with devout Orthodox worshippers. Several dozen candles cast a warm glow over the faces of the congregation and the thick incense danced a fine line between intoxicating and overpowering. Most of the women in the congregation wore long skirts and head scarves, though about half of their hair was still showing. The interior walls were unusually modestly decorated but still adorned with eye-level pictures of Mary and Jesus, St. Nicholas, St. Nino, St. George, and St. David. The front quarter of the church was taken up by the priest’s workspace which was separated from the rest of the room by a wooden half-wall punctuated by swinging doors that looked like they had been taken from an old Western saloon. The priest wore a tall black hat and had a fantastic ZZ Top-style beard, and there was a small red velvet curtain that he opened and closed with a grandeur usually reserved for magicians. [Christians, forgive my ignorance and insensitive observations.] Communion consisted of actual chunks of bread - which I've always thought would be infinitely better than the dry discs! - dipped in wine (home-made Georgian red, of course; also that much better).

The service went non-stop all night and it was 'standing-room only' in the most literal sense of the term. Though I almost fell asleep several times on my friend's shoulder during the rather long-winded and monotonous Bible readings (in Georgian), I was pulled back to consciousness whenever the singing began again. Other than the gospel choirs in South Africa, this was by far the best church-bound singing I had ever heard. Five people each had his or her own harmony and they were impossibly in tune with each other; the result was an awe-inspiring work of art that struck me speechless, simultaneously filling my heart with warmth and sending shivers down my spine.

When the service finally drew to a close with dawn at 6 am, the congregation filed out of the church and into the frigid night air. The priest then shook water over their heads with olive branches and many people knelt down to kiss a large stone cross before heading back home. I loved the experience of attending the entire service, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved that it was over (standing up in a warm room for 8 hours all night is not exactly the easiest thing to do)... but now that dawn was breaking, all I wanted to do was stay longer and take pictures! As the faint rays of light painted the sky a dizzying array of pastel pinks and blues, the stars took their cue and receded into the wings. The sun finally burst over the horizon and lit the mountains ablaze, with Mt Kazbegi taking centre stage...

To me, that moment was profoundly more intense and spiritual than any official religious service. Even though the sunrise happens every single day, it will never fail to astound me. I only wish I had Le Petit Prince with me so we could move our chairs a few meters ahead and enjoy it 44 times over...!

Racking up the religious sites (and still in a headscarf)

shrummer16 — Thu, 21 May 2009 23:46:00 GMT

April 10: Davit Gareja

I took a myriad of public transit options to get from Tbilisi to the village of Sagarejo, where I was joined by my first Ministry of Education contact – four, in fact, who didn't seem too bummed about taking the day off work to show off their local pride and joy: the Davit Gareja monastery. The monastery was established by Saints David and Dodo in the 6^th century CE as Christianity spread throughout modern-day Georgia. The monastery itself is spread out over a few hills near the border with Azerbaijan. Over the centuries (and still today), the resident monks have lived in caves cut into the rock walls. It has not always been graced with its current peaceful aura, however.

The monastery was destroyed by the Mongols in the 13^th century, rebuilt, and subsequently ransacked again by Timurlane in the 14^th century. In 1615, Shah Abbas, a Persian king of the powerful Safavid empire, slaughtered 6000 monks praying by candlelit on Easter night. During the Soviet era, the main monastery was used for military practice.

As my new friends and I were leaving the monastery, one of the women asked me if I was wearing a cross. I answered in the negative, to which she responded with a quick, “Why not?” I had to choose my words carefully to avoid offending my hosts, but the always-direct question of religious affiliation is something I’ve become decent at navigating, depending on my level of comfort and trust with the person who is asking.

I told her that I don’t have a cross because I’m not Christian, which is true. I also explained that I don’t subscribe to anything specific; I appreciate and respect small parts of many different religions, but there is no single one that I believe in. (I left out the minor details that I’m an atheist and that I think organized religion is the root of most of world’s ills, both past and present.) I thanked her for showing me around one of the most important religious sites in Georgia and for Christians around the world. Much like several mosques and mausoleums I marvelled at in Uzbekistan, Davit Gareja is considered to be so sacred that three visits to its monasteries is equivalent to a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

Savouring Georgian hospitality in Sagarejo

Back in the nearby village of Sagarejo, we collected a terrifyingly huge jug of homemade organic wine from one of their colleagues and settled in for an afternoon of feasting. Georgians take full advantage of the agricultural bounties bestowed upon them by their favourable climate and the foods they have produced are nothing short of drool-inducing. I had already been filling my face with khachipuris (molten cheese pies) since my arrival in Tbilisi a couple days prior, but had yet to experience the full range of delicacies.

Among the seemingly constant flow of different dishes proudly presented to us (we were the only ones in the cavernous restaurant) were fresh salads and cheeses, pkhali (garlic, spinach, and herb spread), khachipuri (bliss), badrijani nigzvit (grilled eggplant with walnut paste), mtsvadi (pork shashlik), and khinkali (meat dumplings). In spite of my train-bound hope of being vegetarian for a couple weeks, the main dishes were indeed meat-based and my hosts insisted that I try them (“It’s not a Georgian meal without them!”). I was, however, thankfully able to politely decline a bowl of a mystery soup with a lot of sheep fat and what looked suspiciously like innards. Thanks, but no thanks; I’m quite ‘over’ that type of food now that I have other options!

The wine was perhaps the part of the meal most steeped in tradition. Every family in Georgia has its own homemade recipe which is passed down through the men in the lineage, and each of course believes his is the best in the country. Though the wine we had was technically a white, it looked more like apple juice (though packed QUITE a punch!). Here, they ferment the grape juice directly on the grape skin, a technique usually used only for red wine production. At a gathering, there is always a tamada (toastmaster) who toasts fairly often and at great length. The others at the table are not allowed to drink ‘outside’ of a toast, but MUST drink when a tamada does! Also, if you (the guest) are toasted, you are supposed to respond either with a simple ‘thank you’ and repetition of the tamada’s words, or even better, with an elaboration (but not too much – you don’t want to show up the tamada!). Among the topics of my tamada were Georgia (which is pretty much always the first), Georgia’s traditions, peace, friendship, mothers, fathers, families in general, and friends killed in Abkhazia in the 2008 war…

Guests are incredibly important to Georgians, almost to an extreme degree. One man said to me, “Even if you killed my brother, you would still be my guest.” WOW. I don’t know if that would fly anywhere else in the world. Though I don't plan on testing the validity of that statement anytime soon, I sure do love their hospitality and food traditions...!

Adding a dash of political spice

shrummer16 — Tue, 19 May 2009 18:34:00 GMT

April 9

I awoke to news that my first planned side-trip to an ancient monastery outside of Tbilisi was cancelled due to roadblocks throughout the capital. The anti-government protests were in full swing, but people were reportedly remaining quite peaceful and no violence had broken out. Though cognizant of the August 2008 clashes with Russia and South Ossetia, I was curious enough to venture towards Parliament to check things out for myself.

It wasn’t until I had actually reached the protest on Rustaveli Ave that I noticed any signs of activity. The streets leading up to Rustaveli were functioning perfectly normally as if anti-government protests happen every day (which, arguably, they do here in Georgia, in one form or another). I must say, when I happened upon the massive crowd, tens of thousands strong, I had expected a more palpable, electric tension – the type that makes your skin crawl, tightening its grip around your neck in anticipation of the air exploding at any moment. Instead, I was greeted by young parents pushing their babies in strollers, elderly men chatting over steaming cups of coffee, and groups of smiling youth walking slowly and calmly down the road. Even the ever-resolute babushkas snaked their ways through the crowds, selling their cupfuls of shelled sunflower seeds just like any other day. Lots of people carried flags in support of one of the many different opposition parties or simply of their shared nation. Some gathered in front of churches, others climbed trees for a better view of the packed Parliament steps, and still others clutched onto friends while balancing precariously on large monuments. They were all there, however, for a shared goal: to oust their president on an already historic day.

On April 9, 1989, after years of increasingly nationalistic sentiments among Georgians, Soviet troops massacred 20 hunger strikers who were among a non-violent crowd of 150 000 protesting against USSR rule. The waves of outrage that swept through Georgia thereafter catalyzed her eventual declaration of independence from the USSR in 1991.

Following Georgia’s independence, Russia continued to exert political influence, particularly in the breakaway regions of South Ossetia and Abkhazia. Russia’s aim was to encourage these regions to declare independence from Georgia and thus ally with the motherland; she did so by supplying the residents of Ossetia and Abkhazia with things like medical care, easy trade routes, weapons, and even Russian passports.

The exact events leading up to the outbreak of the short-lived but harsh war between Georgia and Russia/South Ossetia/Abkhazia in August 2008 are unclear. The South Ossetians and Georgians exchanged military attacks, but both sides blame the other for firing first. Russian troops then invaded with arguably unnecessary force; many people on both ‘sides’ of the conflict died and the international community was stunned by this outright display of aggression, particularly from Russia. Still no one is sure of what exactly happened, but it is at least clear that the vast majority of those affected were innocent civilians.

Since then, President Mikheil Saakashvili has come under increasing political fire from his constituents and opposition parties for corruption and how he (mis)handled the war with Russia. The current protest that began on April 9, 2009, was staged by the various opposition parties to demand Saakashvili’s resignation. The protest organizers added an interesting twist by scheduling it to coincide with the 20^th anniversary of the Soviet massacre of the hunger strikers in the same location. Saakashvili was thus forced into the ironic position of being expected to pay tribute to the hunger strikers (whose actions catalyzed Georgia’s independence) and then face tens of thousands of his constituents trying to oust him from power.

Note: The protests are still ongoing in Tbilisi and have mostly remained peaceful, except for a clash on May 6^th between police and opposition supporters. Unfortunately (though predictably), Saakashvili has refused to step down but offered to hold negotiations with the opposition parties. There is still a political stand-off in the Georgian capital and tensions recently were heightened around an alleged military coup at a base near Tbilisi, which Saakashvili blamed on Russian provocation in response to planned NATO trainings at the base. Again, it is unclear what happened or will happen in little Georgia, but it is certain that she is still a target in Russia’s sights, which is never an enviable position to be in…

On and off the map

shrummer16 — Mon, 18 May 2009 07:32:00 GMT

April 8: Tbilisi

After disembarking from the train and setting off in the streets of Tbilisi in search of a cheap hostel, I quickly remembered something rather important about Georgia: it has its own alphabet. When you can't read the street names, it makes things a little more interesting trying to figure out where you are on your city map. Thankfully, a couple of signs were also written in Cyrillic (the Russian alphabet), so I eventually found my destination.

I was thrilled beyond belief to be greeted at the home-stay not just by an adorable Georgian granny but also a Cocker spaniel puppy with eyes that could melt a dictator’s heart. We (the puppy and I) immediately bonded and I almost didn’t want to leave the house just so I could spend more time with him! (There are few things better than having a dog plant his floppy-eared head on your lap…)

Thankfully for my sight-seeing intentions, I had a friend of a friend who had arranged, prior to me finding the puppy, to pick me up and bring me to his office in the Ministry of Education. He told me to write out my itinerary and he promptly whipped his mobile out of its holster, alternatively yelling for his secretary to find phone numbers and dialing furiously. He had an amazing network of colleagues all over the country and soon had established a contact for me in each region I planned to visit, each of whom was ready to help me with accommodations, transport, and guiding around the sights. I gaped at him dumbfounded; it was the single most efficient hour I had seen anyone undertake within the past year.

With my whole 2 weeks in Georgia more or less ready to embark upon, I set out to explore my more immediate surroundings: downtown Tbilisi. Starting at Independence Square, I moseyed down the main drag of Rustaveli Avenue past various academic institutions, theatres, museums, churches, and St. George monuments. Tbilisi struck me as remarkably European and, well, familiar, and not just because of the more obvious things like architecture and Christianity; Xerox was once again spelled ‘Xerox’, not ‘KCEROKC’ as in Central Asia (the letter ‘X’ in Cyrillic has a different sound), and there were actual pet stores selling vet-approved dog food (i.e. people own dogs here). I slowed down in front of the imposing columns of the Parliament building as I noticed several people, including one stoic old patriot wrapped in a Georgian flag, already gathering on the steps for the anti-government protest scheduled to begin the next day.

At the end of Rustaveli Ave, I looked up to the huge statue of Mother Georgia overlooking the city from the top of a hill. With one hand offering a cup of wine and the other clenching a sword, she perfectly epitomizes the humbling hospitality and fiercely defensive pride that so characterizes Georgian people. I needed to get closer to take better photos of her, but saw no discernable route to the hill. Up until then, I had been loosely following Lonely Planet’s sight-seeing suggestions, but decided to tuck my map away and explore the winding streets of the Old Town for myself. I was rewarded with an impromptu game of football with some little kids, great photo opps of the dilapidated but charming old apartments, and a back-street route through a construction site up to the Mother Georgia statue, and unexpectedly, the Narikala Fortress. The fortress offered panoramic views of the city below, including the landmark of the massive gold-domed Tsmida Sameba (Holy Trinity) Cathedral and the Mtkvari River, which snakes its way through the centre of the city from north to south. From this height, with the slow-moving cars looking like toys, it was almost easy to forget the crowds of protestors that I knew were growing in front of Parliament. Would the next day’s events end peacefully or would there be more blood shed upon the same grounds as 20 years ago?

The Big V

shrummer16 — Sat, 16 May 2009 10:25:00 GMT

April 7-8: Train from Baku to Tbilisi

While waiting for my platzkart-mates to succumb to their vodka-induced stupor for the night, I perused my Lonely Planet Georgia print-outs for some background information on the next country on my route. I started a mental check-list of things to do in the capital, Tbilisi, but then was confounded by something I had never seen before beside some of the restaurant listings: the letter ‘V’. Most travel guidebooks have symbols denoting special attributes such as air conditioning or internet in hotels, wheelchair accessible sights, and so on. This ‘V’, however, was a new one for me.

I didn’t think much of it until I nearly drooled over the thought of Georgian khachipuri (dangerously tasty cheese pies), pkhali (spinach and garlic dip), and home-made organic wine. My god, I thought to myself as the lightbulb inside my head ruptured a few brain cells. VEGETARIAN!! The ‘V’ means vegetarian!!

I had been a staunch veggie for about 6 years but admittedly started eating meat again after the first four months in Tajikistan. My decision to convert to the dark side, if you will, was as much for cultural sensitivities as for personal health; pretty much every meal in TJ is built around meat, especially those prepared for guests (which I often was during fieldwork with MSDSP), and I had lost a lot of weight quickly from a heavy workout schedule and not enough calories. After leaving Tajikistan for my travels throughout the rest of Central Asia, I came across the same difficulties in turning down meat offered to me expectantly by incredibly hospitable families and friends. After hearing rave reviews of meat-based Middle Eastern dishes such as shawarma and kebabs, I decided to continue on my omnivorous ways to maximize the travel experience (selfish, I know). But hey, at least the animals are free range...!

But here in Georgia, it seems that not eating meat at every meal may even be part of the gastronomic tradition. After 9 months of mutton fat-laden Central Asian dishes, my heart literally skipped a beat at the prospect of gorging myself on guilt-free organic herb dips, cheese pies, and Big Salads (Seinfeld, anyone?).

I was awoken in the middle of the night as the train pulled up to the Azeri-Georgian border and customs guards traipsed noisily through the wagons for the obligatory baggage searches and passport checks. When my trusty blue (though I think it should be red) Canadian passport was returned to my outstretched hands, I breathed a sigh of relief at the second welcome mat laid out for me: I didn't need a visa.

I grinned to myself. Well, Miss Georgia, it certainly is a pleasure to meet you.

Happy Mother's Day!! (real time)

shrummer16 — Mon, 11 May 2009 19:54:00 GMT

Please excuse the mental detour from my trip accounts for a brief moment of sentimentality...

I'm sitting in Aleppo, Syria, as my dear mom celebrates Mother's Day back in Canada with neither of her children. I've missed more than my share of family events and holidays over the past few years, whether it was because I was working three jobs in Guelph or quite literally on the other side of the world, and I'm realizing more and more how selfish that must seem. It's a bit of a double-edged sword: my mother (and father) raised me to follow my dreams, but as I do so, I miss some of the most important moments and dates that are meant to honour what she did to make me the person I am today. I'm not saying that I regret not being there with her, because it's not the exact date of Mother's Day that makes me think of and appreciate everything she's done for me; this is something I do pretty much every day anyways. However, there's a part of me that would really love to hand her a homemade card, make her breakfast-in-bed, and bike to the tennis courts together.

Soon.

Quba (no, not THAT Cuba)

shrummer16 — Thu, 7 May 2009 04:24:00 GMT

April 5-7

I was pretty intent on getting out of Baku and up to the Caucasus mountains in the north of Azerbaijan, but everyone had warned me of the lingering cold weather, lack of public transportation, and complete dearth of English (i.e. a challenge for a lone female traveler). Thankfully, Namiq’s friend, the checkers champion I beat last night, also has a side job as a taxi driver and offered to take me up north to Quba (pronounced ‘Gooba’). The checkers champ also happens to have family there who put us up for a couple nights as we side-tripped to the incredibly scenic surrounding mountains. There were a few tiny villages nestled in the valleys, smoke curling out of their chimneys and all, that I marveled at, wondering how pleasantly simple and fulfilling life must be for them; before I ran off to become a shepherd, my thoughts were interrupted by Namiq’s point that most of them probably want my lifestyle in North America. (Are we ever really happy with what we have??)

Quba is famous for its apples, and they still had crates upon crates of them from the previous season, though they were a bit on the mushy side of the spectrum. We also enjoyed a shashlik feast with the family and made the obligatory visits to a half dozen other family members and friends residing nearby. Thankfully I’m used to drinking a lot of tea by now and have learned to pace myself with the tempting trays of nuts and fruit preserves at every house, otherwise I would have been holding my belly like a pregnant woman!

Upon return to Baku on the 7^th, I bought my overnight train ticket to Tbilisi and bid Azerbaijan adieu...