Have Blood. Will Travel

Photos: House of Bling

haveblood — Fri, 1 Oct 2010 00:35:00 GMT

elaborate tombs in Shiraz

Photos: Esfahan, Iran

haveblood — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 23:29:00 GMT

Photos: Kermanshah, Kurdish Iran

haveblood — Mon, 20 Sep 2010 21:33:00 GMT

hangin with some locals in Kermanshah

Photos: Kurdish Iran: Howramann valley

haveblood — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 23:41:00 GMT

a few days hitching along the Howramann valley

trapped torpid in a seasonal clutch

haveblood — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 21:21:00 GMT

come with me to a place time has completely forgotten. where life moves and progresses in a surrogate fashion, out of phase with the surrounding world. where the land looks through the glass and steals glimpses, snatches a phrase here and there, and ponders an unimaginable life not knowing when simplicity will give way to wont desire. it watches you closely and sits with anticipation, hoping you stumble onto its porch to bestow a sacred welcome. let us hitch our way along the Howramann Valley....

a sun-bleached summertime paradise, barren and dry. the dead-yellow grass belies a deep-red fertility just waiting to pounce. a sleeping beauty trapped torpid in a seasonal clutch. the dusty road opens into an inspired Garden of Eden. the fig, pomegranate and walnut solemnly shade a sweating brow as the sun mixes with dust settling on the horizon. the rockface is littered with scars cut seasonally over millenia; in today's episode the water trickles slowly, its prophetic entrance a reminder that here life sows its own threads.

the turquoise waters of the Sirwan river rattle through a canyon, offering a cleansing invitation. fortuitous pools swirl in Escheresque patterns, a subtle dichotomy of life and death that breaks the rules and blends into one. the water is cool and refreshing, playing a welcome song in a welcoming land.

A bulbous moustache scrambles out the window of a passing truck, and offers a now-familiar show of gracious welcome and hospitality. the village Hajij becomes home for a night or two as The Moustache becomes a friend. The Kurdish ways are layed bare once more as an avalanche of unbridled hospitality is poured forth.

hugs and love from the Howramann valley

joe

Photos: Kurdish Iran: Marivan

haveblood — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 23:29:00 GMT

Pandora's Box never tasted so sweet

haveblood — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 22:45:00 GMT

Qalyan in the park. an unexpected bunch. a burly wrestler, a Persian philosopher, an IT student. Welcome to Kurdish Iran.

The Boys Light Up at the Qalyan cafe and drown me in a conversational cascade of open-mindedness and blazing curiosity. I have pried open the lid and released a relentless cavalcade of hospitality; Pandora's Box never tasted so sweet. The topics come thick and fast, like hot fudge on an ice-cold palate; politics, film, sex, marriage, food, freedom, escape, wine, culture, poetry and the meaning of it all. what do you REALLY think about Iran?

The days drift on as newfound friends accrue amongst newfound friendships. The setting changes as we move to Marivan, a lakeside smuggling town a few kilometres from Kurdish Iraq. The laughter, joviality and blinding hospitality are nothing but taken to another level; yet amidst all this I gain a taste of sombre reality as the Kurdish speak their minds on the lack of freedom and direct, indirect and covert oppression of Kurds.

As hunger grows, the fish sets sail on a delicate voyage across coals and arrives in a swirl of fragrance and laughter. BBQ fish by the frenzied lakeside serenity of Iranians at play. A poignant way to end a week of profound exposition in time spent with Kurdish friends, opening up a whole new world unseen from lands far far away.

hugs and love from Kurdistan

joe

Photos: Khevsureti to Tusheti 13 day trek

haveblood — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 01:47:00 GMT

trekking from Juta, via the villages of Akhieli, Amgha, then passing Mount Tanizi and onto the Khevsureti ridgeline and via Kistani to the head of the Chanchakhi valley. Back up to the ridgeline and over the Andaki pass, down into the Tushetis Alazani, and finally on to finish at Omalo.

The Universal Fart Joke

haveblood — Thu, 9 Sep 2010 14:21:00 GMT

It crosses borders, language and cultural barriers. It opens the door to a new world, a place of laughter and harmony where everything is funny. It transcends that over-used desire for politeness in new company. It breaks the ice, the tension, that unsuredness pent up inside - both literally AND metaphorically. It gets a laugh at the most opportune moments, and opens doors to whole new worlds.

Shortly after I began my wend through Iran, I found myself cross-legged on a ubiquitous carpet that every Iranian owns to roll out and picnic upon. something i had broken fast upon earlier that day was obviously very agreeable to the little blighters living in my belly. i had been farting like a Trooper for the previous hour. not a problem when strolling the hills at sunset above the quirky cave-town of Kandovan, Iran's answer to Turkey's Kappadokya. however, whilst cross-legged on hardwood the chances of holding wind decrease exponentially. it's like trying to stop a child smearing sugary goodness over their face whilst eating ice-cream - a demonstration in futility.

and so it was that the hardwood and the ready positon of my sphincter combined their powers to let fly with a perilously audbile scream that tore the house down. my efforts at holding this inside were as useless as my attempt to pretend nothing happened. this lead to some giggling fits, which quickly became infectious and the whole rug was suddenly joining in raucous laughter. the kind of laughter children learn at an early age, but often seems lost somewhere between adolescence and "maturity". i scrambled for the phrasebook to utter a meek apology "ma'zerat mikham", which only resulted in more laughter. tears and cries of joy all started flooding the carpet. it appears this gaseous blunder was sufficient to make some adorable friends, who invited me back to the cave-home for a feast, to break the fast marking the end of Ramadan.

hugs and love from Iran

joe

she wore a raaaaspberry beret

haveblood — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 21:02:00 GMT

An eagle soars overhead, carefully scoping the landscape for a suitable feast. In parallel we scan the berry bushes for luscious red jewels that hang ever-so sweetly awaiting our pluck. we gorge on rasperries by the handful. they cover the slopes like rose petals on silk carpet. the sweet tang, the scent, they are a summons to a gastronomical fairy tale viewed from high abreast a precipitous bluff. we feast and harvest, ravaging our way in berry delight through the mountainside, continuing into endless fields of blueberries. we even make blueberry pancakes, and nibble on alpine strawberries that taste remarkably like chewing gum. it is a berry berry good day, as the trek draws slowly to the end. and so, wearing tiring grins smeared red-and-blue we move toward closure along a trusted passage. it is a long and laborious day that never ends; a never-ending story played out in the never-ending Tushetis Alazani. but everything comes together at the end as we trudge weary and tired into the village of Omalo, and some much-needed hearty Georgian home-cooking.

In the past two weeks we shed tears, and lost maps. we spent days in solitude, and feasted with mountainfolk. we entered scree slopes where the path faded to danger. but mostly we wore Raspberry Berets; busy doing something close to nothin' but different to the day before, deliberately losing oursleves to the majestic beauty of the Caucasus Mountains in Khevsureti-Tusheti.

hugs and love from the trek's end. for now.

Joe and Griet

Intruder alert

haveblood — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 21:32:00 GMT

we are voyeurs. we walk alone, stumbling upward on the troubled path, watching the horizon with deference, not knowing where the end lies. we are voyeurs. we chance upon an empty hut, fire recently cold, the still air an aroma of sheep and dog and sweaty man. we are voyeurs. we peer into an aged life slowly chipping away at existence. we wander through the camp, humbled at the simplicity and robustness of a life born of necessity. we watch. endless rows of barreled cheese, curd, whey, but no Miss Muffet. We count the metre-long cheese-roll-barrels; they are built like bleached cabers that we realise must supply half of Tbilisi. as voyeurs we are reminded of the often-forgotten hard work that supplies much of modern life.

hugs and love from the shepherd's huts

joe and griet

The hands on this Chechnyan could swallow a cabbage

haveblood — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 20:10:00 GMT

In our first human contact for a week we find ourselves this morning in the company of a team, a troupe, a barrel of steamy shepherds. nearing the camp we contemplate which method to use to get past the dogs. Griet paws their ferocity with indifference, while I battle my manlihood and remain terrified. the dogs are hushed away as we are called into the tent, passing our would-be comrades hard at work shearing sheep by hand.

we feast with them in their midday meal from a blackened pot brimming with a variety of offal swimming in sheep fat. a bucket of salt has provided some contrasting flavour. the greasy concotion is startlingly delicious, washed down with sheep cheese sharp enough tear the your lips back over your gums.

The hands on this Chechnyan could swallow a cabbage. they are beyond massive, and try as i might, my eyes remain glued upon them. until a broken-toothed smile bursts forth and he giggles at the amount of tea he drizzles over his sugar.

The wry smile and wayward eyes of this Georgian speak volumes as we learn that this is only his summer job. For the first time in our escapades together, we find indifference at my Australian nationality and excitement at the Belgian. After much sign language, and a little very broken Georgian-English translation we decipher that in the winter he deals Arms on the black market in Belgium. didn't see that one coming.

the Chechnyan's hands become delicate weapons as he plucks sheep like rag-dolls and graciously removes their winter lining. the workers all plug away in their own fashion, and our wrists get RSI just watching them. it is time to leave, and we bid a fond farewell, stunned once again at the hospitality of mountainfolk and glad the Arms smuggler and massive Chechnyan are on our side.

hugs and love from the shepherds and their flock

Joe and Griet

In a side-stepped world

haveblood — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 18:19:00 GMT

We struggle and strut through a steeplechase of descending slopes. Age-old Defensive Towers built of stone and labour dot the landscape like lonesome lovers, their pact unbroken yet crumbled through centuries of wear. We peer into Kistani village, revealing its singular family in a side-stepped world. Their rusted, busted and broken Soviet Caravans a metaphor for a forgotten way of life in an unforgettable land. Wending on withered and weary bones we make our way to the head of the Chanchakhi valley. The seclusion here heralds a day of rest before we clamber onward, back to the ridgeline and further still from what meagre settlements the Chanchakhi contains in its twists and folds.

The ridge rambles on as we glide effortlessly across undulating fields of green. The wild horses are curiously bemused, yet wary at such odd creatures entering their isolated oil-painting. My head spins as a panorama covering all degrees sucks the breath from my lungs as we draw gasps of adoration from the chilled altitude air. It spins all the way to a mountain lake, stepped in a saddle, a serendipitous location where the only sound is our heartbeats. A nearby spring, nudging its way out of the mountainside keeps the lake fresh as our senses are pushed into overdrive at the deliciously idyllic surroundings. A long-since abandoned shepherd's hut decorates our down-sized patch of luscious green saddle, a reminder again that we have walked into a side-stepped world. A world frozen in time, its past empty and vacated, its present a paradigm of solitude.

hugs and love from a side-stepped world in Khevsureti-Tusheti.

Joe and Griet

Livin' on The Edge

haveblood — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 19:21:00 GMT

The grey moisture-laden skies that gave way to a glistening pastel sunset the night before have blossomed and slice the morning silence with surgical precision. For the next two days we will walk on a knife's edge; a razor-sharp warping that has bludgeoned its way out of the earth's crust. Its unnerving topography is a beacon to adventure.

We climb to the Khevsureti rigdeline and begin to traverse the base of Mt. Tanizi, which arrogantly establishes itself as Overlord of this section of the trek: a jagged, crumbling peak, scree- and snow-laden, its precise centrepiece difficult to ascertain on the two-dimensional projection that we carry. The lands have opened out before us to reveal a cascade of indescribable splendour. The horizon is teeming with rugged peaks and formidable glaciers, whilst the lost deep green of endless valleys compliments the foreground. Scattered clouds pit against an azure sky add an elegance not of this world.

Our clear path begins an even clearer descent that we do not wish to follow. This struggle belongs on the razor's edge. We reluctanly clamber stiffly upward; this is tough and merciless, unforgiving and without trail. We take rest after having covered only several kilometres in half a day and survey the deadly steep contours in the not-too-distance that are yet to be traversed. We are physically and mentally exhausted, and opt for camp near a patch of white that is nestled in a nook, a velvet-green cranny that overlooks the Edge of The World.

An afternoon of map-reading locates our position, and on the morn an ascent of crumbled shale raises the pulse until a faded track is found. The contours greet us with indifference, and another day of trail-finding keeps us on The Razor. We marvel at the magnificent vistas presented to us, and only us. Obscure, solitary ridglines shoot as afterthoughts into lonesome valleys. Deep-cut paths dissappear into nothingness before reappearing out of rhododendron scrub. Precipitous contours gather together in unworldy harmony to form a spectacular array of challenge, eloquence and beauty. Finally, the soft afternoon light melts its way into our hearts as we marvel at such astonishing scenery and how insignificant two adventurers must be to the eons captured around us. At last we descend to a stream that literally begins flowing out of the mountainside, and a semi-flat patch of cow-, goat- and sheep-turf near our first human contact for many days.

hugs and love from the Khevsureti ridge

Joe and Griet

don't you go out in the rain

haveblood — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 14:09:00 GMT

a map, holding promised trails and rising slopes that have long since swallowed the path. latent optimism at finding a way out amongst the hungry mountains. a fire, recently cold, crumbles under the dripping sky. walking in shepherds trails, following their scent like hounds without breakfast. a sense of moments left behind.

a deeply bowed valley, breast torn apart by generations of ice that have long since slipped away. the song, relentlessly begging not to go out in the rain that pours down. the trudge onward and upward, colossal mountains that never get closer, and never get drier. collapsing into the perfect silence of a cold wet sunset. huddled under a boulder, seeking dryness with futility.

a camp, with no birds, no flies, no bugs to tease us away from starlight. silence so dark, the whisper of angels is barely heard. a whisper of utter isolation. an ice-cold walk into the abyss to fetch water, dripping from craggy peaks under moonlight snow. a hot soup, a simple meal and a deep, blank slumber wretched from a spectacular day of vivid vistas, lost trails and cold wet rain.

hugs and love from wet day in the Caucasus

joe

whatever you do, don't mention the war

haveblood — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 16:18:00 GMT

the second day into our trek and the views over our first pass open to yield a panorama worthy of a Karate Kid prequel. i could sense my brain Waxing Off as we sat for an hour at the top, gazing out across blue skies where the mountains are bathed in a sprinkling of haze refreshing enough to bottle. dominating the deep horizon, the haze teases a distant mountaintop that is battling to retain is gigantic glacier, a mountain that will continue to get closer as the days pass.

we pick our way down the other side, following path across scree and snowmelt, and arrive in yet another Valley of Paradise. The topo didn't foreshadow this spectacular sight of undulation. a land of miniature cascading plateaus and gorges, all caressed with a gentle touch by a warbled array of streams busy carrying out their handiwork on the landscape. a touch of colour is added by the blankets of wildflowers out blooming their way through the day. the surrounding mountains gather around and begin to peer down upon us as we descend further into the the gorges; a confluence of twisted geography grasping for attention in a place where we are the sole observers.

or are we? trudging up the path comes another two trekkers. these Germans are rather happy to see us, which is understandable given they are completely lost. the day before, as we began our trek shortly out of Juta, we met the first of this discombobulated trio, Dorothy. she had lost her scarecrow, and was a long way from Oz. back in the present, the somewhat flippant attitude of Ze Germans to being lost in this disordered array of ridges, ranges valleys and gorges somehow lead me in a train-crash of thoughts to Basil Fawlty "Whatever you do, don't mention the war". So I didn't, but we gave them directions, and happy that they were OK, had enough food and could find their way out, left them to ascend the Cascades of Paradise. we parted as Griet and I exchanged furrowed brows at how they managed to get so lost, and what they hoped their umbrella would do for them in the case of serious mountain rain. i suggest in future they forego the umbrella for a map.

we camp where the ridgelines have crashed into each other, with gleaming white streaks of white-water rippling down the mountainsides around us. the setting is utterly spectacular, camped above flowing gorges, cut with the patience of eons. we are tired after a long day trekking, and decide to make for the tiny villages of Akhieli and Amgha, and onward into the wild unknown on the morrow.

hugs and love from Khevsureti

joe

Born from an Egg on a Mountaintop

haveblood — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 18:05:00 GMT

and with thoughts flying across snow-capped peaks on a fluffy cloud still lingering, i'm back from another jaunt. like the adventures of TinTin, or Calvin and Hobbs, or even our beloved Monkey Magic, the next series of escapades would not be complete without a Partner In Crime. and so it was, with a rapturous round of applause, I strode off into the semi-known with Griet for another trekking adventure that would turn out to be frighteningly beautiful.

It was a route of our own design. avoiding the easy bits, the regular passes, the villages and what little tourist-trekkers there were. with a slight pause as we wondered how much trail-finding we would need to do, we slunked off toward Kazbegi, in preparation to spend two weeks hiking the Caucasus mountains from Juta in Khevsureti to Omalo in Tusheti. we navigated across Shepherd's trails that apparently seeped through centuries of use and disuse. trails that pattered in and out of existence as our muscles ached and our bones lurched onward over more passes and views of startling grandeur. scenes that made us weep. "villages" with only a single family and some busted old Soviet caravans. imposing mountains, wild horses, pouring rain, wild berries. mountains that just got bigger until they were right in our face and views that went aaallll the way down. our own bread baked in improvised stone ovens, viscious shepherd's dogs, and hilarious shepherds, lost Germans, and lost worlds. Chechnyans and Georgian arms dealers. river crossings, lost trails, gigantic glacier-carved valleys. birds of prey circling on thermals; falcons, hawks, and mighty eagles. bathing in snow-fed rivers, and camping in perfect silence. days along razor-backed ridgelines, perched on ridgleines camping at altitude near snow-melt for water. idyllic mountain lakes, springs, meadowed plateaus and abandoned shepherds huts. frighteningly beautiful.

stay tuned as i retroactively plant some verbal scenery of the adventure Griet and I evolved and tamed in our quest for solitude, serenity, and that feeling of being Born from an Egg on a Mountaintop. the punkiest monkey that ever popped.

hugs and love from the Caucasus Mountains

Joe

Photos: Ilisu

haveblood — Sun, 1 Aug 2010 21:08:00 GMT

Photos: Mud Volcanoes

haveblood — Sun, 1 Aug 2010 20:56:00 GMT

Photos: Kakheti, Georgia

haveblood — Sun, 1 Aug 2010 20:47:00 GMT

wine country, Georgia