Trevor's Travels

Dusting off the cobwebs-

2009-07-16T04:44:00.000-07:00

I have been staring through the glowing soul of a white computer screen for the last 40 minutes trying to muster up enough enthusiasm and creativity to begin shoving my thoughts and memories into this box of aging technology. Writers block seems to be an understatement and perhaps an unfair title for what I am currently experiencing. Assuming that you must first be a ‘writer’ to acquire writers block;……….I will say that due to my lack of achievement and past professionalism in the field of writing, I should perhaps only mention that I am suffering from severe laziness and perhaps even lack of confidence.

In many ways the last four years of my life have been a sloppy pastel smudge on the roadmap of adulthood. Experience I have gained but professionalism, responsibility, love, and achievement have been reminiscent of vanishing ink on this roadmap. What I am forced to confront is whether or not ‘experience’ is worth the sacrifice. Sadly, self induced pain is a nagging discomfort that does not merit sympathy. However, how else am I able to describe the painful, uncomfortable, lonely, and depressing lifestyle I have chosen for myself? Are these thoughts even worth writing, or is it better to internalize the turbulence constantly festering within my mind?

After a 27 month Peace Corps assignment in rural Bulgaria I completed a ten month journey which took me into the depths of the developing world. These experiences were incredibly eventful and without a doubt rewarding, however, they did brew a stodgy level of depression, loneliness and confusion that I am to this day struggling to digest. A consuming fire has ignited within my heart, mind and soul. My internal struggles, wanderlust, and inherited need for comfort and stability have become increasingly exhausting throughout the last 9 months of my life. As I attempt to write and ponder my life choices, a couple nagging quotes are beginning to eat away at my concentration.
(both from the Tao De Ching)

-“When you stand with your two feet on the ground, you will always keep your balance.”
-“The more you know the less you understand.”

The first quote sticks out in my mind because of the “a rolling stone gathers no moss” lifestyle I have been living in recent years. Perhaps this ancient Chinese philosophy rings true…………it is a bit difficult to maintain stability while wandering through life aimlessly and avoiding mainstream Western Societal norms.

The second quote is one that has been eating away at my mind for quite some time. I feel that the more I educate myself and essentially the more I open my mind up to the world around me, the more unstable and tormented I feel. Knowledge gained can be quite pleasant and attractive when it comes to bubble gum facts like Baseball statistics, or the history of the telephone; but when you begin to wrap your head around things such as International Conflicts, Globalization, Religious Conflicts and Global Ethics……..your head begins to lose all its stability and wander off into a very uncontrollable direction. Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss…..

Upon completion of my journey and return to the USA, I immediately was consumed with intense feelings of euphoria. The intense reverse culture shock I experienced was initially somewhat pleasant. I went from intense isolation and horribly depressing loneliness to a stimulating lifestyle of social gatherings and familiar comfort. My previously expanding mind began to wilt upon my return to mundane existence and a monotonous lifestyle of work, alcohol consumption, and heavy stress. Three years had passed since I last lived in my homeland; however, I struggled to find substantial differences in the world I had left behind. What eventually became clear was that I had changed and the world that I left had moved on without me. Such is life…….. I feel incredibly lucky to have been able to return to my wonderful family and friends, whom accepted me and tolerated me during my period of adjustment.

Well, now that the words are flowing I will wrap up the nonsense and move on.

I spent the winter working a low level accounting job at a ski resort in the Cascade Mountains. In retrospect, living alone in a desolate cabin and spending my days counting beans in an isolated office was not exactly the best way to reintegrate into the Western world. Besides several wonderful weekends spent with close friends and family members; my time in the USA (10months) was uncomfortable, depressing, and awkward. Sometimes it is easier to move on than to fight through the challenges or reintegration. Which brings me to my current situation………..sitting on a rock hard IKEA couch typing away in Brisbane, Australia.

To make a long story short, last December I decided that I would commit to a career in the field of international aid/development. In order to make this happen, my first objective would be to earn a Masters Degree in a relevant field. This is because entering into the field of Development is highly competitive. Essentially, getting your foot in the door with any reputable organization with anything less than a Masters Degree is near impossible. After doing quite a bit of research, I found a school and program that appeared to fit me like a glove. A few months later an acceptance offer came from the University of Queensland in Brisbane Australia. Though I applied to two other Australian schools, I was incredibly thrilled because UQ was by far my first choice. Starting July 27th 2009 I will commence my studies of International Relations at UQ in Brisbane.

Committing to $40K+ of student loans and two years of graduate study in a far away land was not an easy decision. To say that I have “commitment issues” is quite an understatement. I was forced to come to the conclusion that it is now time to grow up and to begin making a name for myself. Forced sjtability and the compulsory responsibilities of mass debt would now change my lifestyle substantially for at least the next 7-8 years. Knowing that I would soon be confined in an impossible to escape cage of debt and responsibility, I began to plan one last journey.

I spent close to 3 months sorting out logistics for a trip that would take me “the long way” to Australia. This would be by far the most challenging adventure of my life, and potentially the most rewarding.

And in the end it was both………………

-Itinerary: Turkey-Bulgaria-Tajikistan-Afghanistan-Uzbekistan-India-Singapore-Australia-Responsibility/Debt

Videos from my life overseas-

2008-10-20T19:28:00.000-07:00

Pakistan-India border closing ceremony:

Ulak-Tartir- This was a game I watched while I was in Kyrgyzstan at the Narus festival near lake Karakol. It is a traditional Central Asian game that dates back to the days of Ghengis Khan. There are two teams of 5, and they fight over a goat carcass. A point is awarded if the goat is placed on the tire and mud altar. There is one on each side of the field, and one for each team. This game has very few rules, and is quite aggressive and violant.

Videos from my time in Syria

Ali’s brother Ardishir playing the piano. I lived with Ali for almost 3 weeks while I was in Armenia. They are Iranian.

Varanasi, India:

Angkor Wat, Cambodia:

This is a tour of my pad in Bulgaria. I lived here for 2 years……..overall it was not too bad, but things got really cold in the winter, and super hot in the summer.

Islamabad - Lahore - Karachi

2008-10-20T14:44:00.001-07:00

5-17-2008

After a sweltering 4.5 hour bus ride and a couple of arduous police check points I had arrived in the capital of Pakistan, Islamabad. Pakistan is a heavily militarized country with countless numbers of police checkpoints strategically placed throughout its transit zones. Each check point provided a transparent reminder of exactly where I was, and what dangers may be recklessly strewn upon my path. In retrospect each military confrontation I encountered along my journey had effectively knocked me off my puffy cloud of ignorant complacency and down to the dusty floor of justified paranoia. Fortunately, most of the military police officers I encountered in Pakistan were friendly and cordial; nonetheless I often found the checkpoints to be considerably intimidating and slightly unnerving.

I arrived at a small bus station on the edge of Islamabad at 4:30pm. Islamabad was extraordinarily hot; it was to my surprise even more unbearable than Peshawar. The belligerently arid heat penetrated my body with excessive force. I sweated uncontrollably as I wandered across the parking lot to find a phone. After calling my Pakistani host Fareeha and bargaining with a cab driver for 30 minutes, I hopped into a cab and was on my way.

Perhaps I should refrain from going into too much detail about Islamabad. It seems more appropriate to simply paraphrase my experiences and interactions. Security in Islamabad is incredibly volatile, and the safety of my friends in Islamabad is my utmost concern.

Islamabad: Well, what can I say about this city; besides that it is in every way shape and form artificial. It was constructed from the ground up for the sole purpose of containing large business parks and highly fortified consulates and embassies. It is not a traditional or typical Pakistani city; it is a slice of commercialism and rapidly progressive development placed in a highly unlikely location. Islamabad is like Las Vegas………………a thriving concrete metropolis in an extremely improbable and sarcastic location. On the sun slick streets of Islamabad, Pakistani aristocrats drive around in exotic sports cars and diplomats cruise around in their brand new armored land cruisers, while peasant construction workers slave away in relentless heat to create the newest corporate office buildings. When I compare and contrast Islamabad to Peshawar, Chitral and Gilgit; I see potential overpowered by vanity and harsh reality. Pakistan unfortunately will not be able to build itself up economically until it resolves its parasitic social turmoil and government volatility. Islamabad is simply a shallow well of artificial hope surrounded by a forest of callous inevitability.

In Islamabad I was hosted by an incredibly talented artist in her late 20s named Fareeha (http://fareehakhawaja.googlepages.com/home). Her ethnicity is a unique blend of Tajik and Kashmiri. Due to Fareeha’s charming personality and active social life, she has acquired several social connections within the US embassy, including the US armed forces. Within a day of Arriving in Islamabad I was able to use Fareeha’s connections to penetrate the dense shell of Islamabad’s ex-patriot cliques, and had begun enjoying a wide array of social activities.

I must say that my time in Islamabad was incredibly refreshing and delightfully American. I had found a highly affable crew that provided me with a home away from home, and a place where I could truly let loose and be myself amongst other Americans. It had been a long time since I had the opportunity to spend time with other Americans, and it proved to be a breath of fresh air. Familiarity is comfort.

To be brief; I spent my time in Islamabad…………..
-Chillin on the US embassy compound: poolside pina coladas, pickup softball games, water polo, Socializing and networking at the American club, partying at the Marine Corps bar……etc
-Going on long miserable walks around Islamabad in scorching heat.
- Reading and sweating profusely in Fareeha’s apartment while she was at work (the power went out in Islamabad about every other hour-which means no fan!)
-Eating dinner at the Marriot with an old Peace Corps Bulgaria friend and current Foreign Service officer (Lenny).
-Parties, game nights, movie nights, and BBQs with Americans, held at their fortified mansions.

{Due to the intense danger of the area, Pakistan is a no-spouse, no-family foreign post. So basically every American working there is either single or living across the world from their spouse and kids. So essentially people generally live in groups of 5 or so in fortified mansions with their own 24-7 armed guards, maids, cooks, and vehicle service. It sounds pretty glamorous, but they are living in an area that is treacherously unpredictable and dangerous. A bomb could explode anywhere at anytime and US citizens are constantly a target. They are also living on lock down; they cannot leave the city of Islamabad without an armored convoy, and all the restaurants in Islamabad are off limits to all US military and Foreign Service. The restaurants within the Islamabad Marriot are the only exception to this rule. Due to the high security of the Marriot the interior is considered safe.}
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-Unfortunately the times are changing, as I dig through my travel journals and type this up (October 2008), the Marriot lays in shambles. A bombing destroyed a large chunk of the Islamabad Marriot and killed 54 people(3 Americans) and injured 266. The Bombing took place September 20, 2008 and left the Marriot’s security helpless and shaken. Much like the disastrous bombing of the Marine Corps Building in Beirut; the terrorists rammed through the security gate with a dump truck full of explosives detonating the bomb while driving into the building. When I read the news of this particular terrorist attack, it took my breath away. I could not help but think about the safety of my friends stationed in Islamabad. I now know they are all safe and accounted for, however my friend from the Peace Corps informed me that he had lost two of his colleagues in the attack.

Lenny and I served in the same Peace Corps Country (Bulgaria) and County (Stara Zagora). He served about 40km from me, but was in a Peace Corps group that came a full year before me. By the time I had finished my service in Bulgaria he had been hired by the US Foreign Service and was stationed in Islamabad, Pakistan. A month before I arrived in Islamabad four of Lenny’s American Colleagues had been targeted and bombed at an Italian Restaurant in Islamabad - and now just six months later, a bomb had taken away the lives of two of his colleagues. I can only imagine how horrifying it must be to know that danger and death are potentially very real possibilities of your everyday life. When I was in Islamabad Lenny treated me to a steak dinner at the Islamabad Marriot;…………..and now less than 5 months later I am confronted with the fact that a step along my path has been violently destroyed and the lives of 50 innocent souls have been taken away by mindless ignorance and indiscriminate hatred.

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-Well I should probably keep this to myself, but in the spirit of journalism I will share: While hanging out at one of the known American Party houses called house # ____(about 6 Americans live there, and have some pretty good parties), I started talking to a military officer named John Doe. After a few drinks John Doe casually mentioned to me that there were several military operations in progress within Pakistan. Being part of the _______branch of the US military, he had quite a lot of inside information. He mentioned that a couple days ago an unmanned plane dropped a bomb on a terrorist cell in Northern Pakistan, and was responsible for killing no less than 14 suspected terrorists. I did not think much about this statement until the following day while I was combing threw the Internet and getting all the daily news briefs from several US based newspapers. I read no less than three articles that mentioned a bombing in Northern Pakistan that had killed 14, and was suspected to be a US air strike. I found the articles interesting because they all noted that the US military had not claimed any responsibility for the bombing. Interesting…………..so now I know something that has yet to be confirmed by my government and released to the public media.

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One of the last things I did before leaving Islamabad was to have dinner with my friend Lenny at the Islamabad Marriot. While walking through the Marriot we ran into Jim Doe the head of security for the United State’s diplomatic mission in Pakistan. After being introduced to Jim Doe, I asked him if he had any security concerns about Karachi. I had recently bought a plane ticket that left Karachi for Kathmandu, Nepal and wanted to make sure that the city was safe enough to visit.

Unfortunately Jim Doe’s answer to my question proved to be less than comforting. Jim Doe looked me in the eyes and said: “if you go to Karachi, and simply walk down the street there, I have no doubt in my mind that you will be immediately abducted a killed”. Needless to say, his comment gave me a lot to think about. I had heard rumors that Karachi was considered dangerous territory even by Pakistanis, but had no idea how feared it was by foreign diplomats. Apparently when Daniel Pearl was kidnapped from Karachi in 2002, Jim was in charge of his search and rescue. As most people know Daniel Pearl’s search ended in vain when videos began to circulate via the internet showing Daniel mercilessly being decapitated.

After a brief conversation I thanked Jim Doe for his advice and promised him I would consider canceling my visit to Karachi.

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5-22-2008

After a few wonderful days of unexpected serenity, I bid farewell to my friends in Islamabad and boarded the 2pm bus for Lahore, Pakistan. Following a painfully slow and uncomfortable bus ride I arrived in Lahore at 7:30pm. The worst part of the bus ride was the obnoxiously loud Bollywood films being played. It was absolute torture and never ending. We watched three full films while I was on the bus; the screeching volume ripped through my ears with blunt vigor that grinded away my patience with rapid force.

{for those of you who don’t know what a Bollywood film is: It is a type of film made in India that are surprisingly popular throughout India and Pakistan. All of the films are musicals with cheesy dancing, and glass shattering vocals. In my opinion they are absolutely atrocious.}

I arrived at a dark, loud, dusty, chaotic, dirt parking lot on the outskirts of Lahore at around 7:30pm. Overly anxious rickshaw and cab drivers swarmed me like locust and created a frenzied atmosphere that suffocated my patience and became quite overwhelming. After regaining my composure, I called my host Mohammed and was soon in the back of a rickshaw heading to his home. The smoky streets were filled with absolute madness, traffic laws seemed to be nonexistent, and the loud bustling streets of Lahore produced a fresh stench of rapid urbanization.

After arriving at Mohammed’s small inner-city home, I was greeted warmly by his family and offered a shower. I had been sweating buckets and collecting dust all day, so a shower was definitely something I could get into. After showering, I sat in Mohammed’s living room and pleasantly conversed with Mohammed’s family.

-Mohammed’s home consisted of: a small kitchen, a small bedroom, a 8x10ft open air, gated, cement patio consisting 2 cots a motorcycle and a sink. A small living room with two couches facing each other, a Persian rug in the center, chipped white concrete walls containing family portraits and posters of Islamic leaders, and one small bathroom with a squat toilet and a sink.

Mohammed was a cordial fellow in his early 20s with a shoddy mustache and a sheltered mind. He was an econ student at a nearby university, and was in his last year of study. I was quite enjoying my time with Mohammed until he informed me that he had told his family that I was Canadian. Mohammed told me that it was extremely dangerous for he and his family to host an American, so I must tell everyone I meet that I am Canadian or English. Well,……….. that is not exactly what I wanted to hear. I had felt completely comfortable being myself throughout Pakistan, and now I was forced to deny my Nationality in order to tame my host’s fear and paranoia. I consider myself highly adaptable and culturally sensitive, so I immediately consented to Mohammed’s demands and assured him of my cooperation with the unreasonable façade.

At about 10pm I hopped on the back of Mohammed’s motorcycle and we tore through the streets of Lahore to the shrine of Baba Shah Jamal. We were visiting a Sufi shrine where Sufi’s congregate every Thursday night to worship and meditate. After driving down a crowded dirt side street we parked the motorcycle along with 100s of others and walked up the stairs to the Sufi Shrine. Fruit vendors and elderly Sufis surrounded the area creating a very atypical atmosphere. Shirtless old Sufi men sat on flat wooden tables sporting aggressive beards and colorful bracelets around their biceps, while lethargically smoking hash and conversing amongst themselves.

Halfway up the steps to the Baba Shah Jamal shrine Mohammed and I took off our shoes before proceeding to the top entrance. The Shrine was similar in design to a Mosque, but contained a more complex, progressive and brotherly environment.

There was on open courtyard with a covered sitting area on one side, and a small room containing the shrine of Baba Shah Jamal on the other. Before entering into the shrine, Mohammed and I dipped our finger in hot oil and touched it against our foreheads ( Mohammed told me to follow his lead). Next we entered the shrine; a small room containing a large ornate casket in the center, and flower petals all over the floor and casket. As we slowly walked counterclockwise around the room we both stopped briefly to bow to the coffin and place our foreheads on the edge of the decorative rectangle box before proceeding forward in line. On the other side of the room was the exit door where each person must turn toward the shrine and walk out of the room backwards (it is considered disrespectful to turn your back on Baba Shah Jamal). Throughout the courtyard, young Sufis walked around socializing and sharing candy, cookies, and pilov(rice dish) with one another. It was quite interesting to see everyone treat each other like brothers and to share the things they had brought. I being the lone foreigner was constantly confronted by curious young Sufis and asked several questions. They all seemed to be amazed by how tall I was; what can I say, we Canadians are tall people.

{Sufi’s have been around since the beginning of Islam; Sufi means ‘free thinker’. So as you can imagine many progressive sects and unorthodox practices within the Islamic faith fall into this category. For example: the whirling dervishes of Konya, Turkey are Sufi’s. Sufi’s are the evangelicals of Islam, which in essence means that a great number of Muslims find their antics to be far too unconventional to be acceptable. Sufis believe that they must meditate deeply (sometimes drug induced) in order to reach an out of this world plane where Allah can be more easily communicated with. Sufi’s are often associated with deep trance drum circles, hash, opium, and explorative meditation.}

At the edge of the courtyard, I noticed a group of 10-12 elder Sufis with long white beards sitting shoulder to shoulder under a small covered area. I sat in fascination and bewilderment as I watched these men interact with the young Sufis. It was nothing I had ever seen before, and something I found both bizarre and intriguing.

As the old Sufi men sat with their backs against the wall- young mostly un-bearded men began forming lines in front of them. As each young Sufi approached an elder, he would begin by kissing his hand, bowing, and then sitting cross legged in front of the elder Sufi. Next, the Elder Sufi would place his hand on the young mans left knee and begin staring deep into his eyes. They would stare into each others eyes with deep concentration and unrivalled determination. I later found out that Sufis believe that they can transfer spiritual knowledge this way. The Elder Sufis were performing a ritual that allows the younger Sufis to gain a greater level of spiritual knowledge through a two way meditative state.

After a few minutes of staring at one another, the elder Sufi would begin gently tapping the young Sufi on the heart while chanting “Allah, Allah, Allah” over and over again while maintaining deep eye contact. Sufi’s believe that because of constant and inevitable sin, our hearts slowly blacken, and by this ritual your heart can be cleansed. After several minutes of chanting and heart tapping it is believed that your heart will be purified, and that as you sleep your heart will be chanting “Allah, Allah, Allah” with each beat. The young Sufi’s were really getting into it, they would yell Allah uncontrollably while shaking and twitching, seemingly overcome with spirituality. I had no idea that this sort of thing existed within the Islamic world, I suppose each major religion has its own progressive and unorthodox counterpart.

Witnessing this was absolutely incredible; watching this ritual being done by 10+ Sufis simultaneously was a fascinating spectacle. As much as I wanted to document this event with film, I knew it would have been highly inappropriate and disrespectful to the Sufis. I am just thankful that the surrounding Sufis tolerated my presence and allowed me to observe this sacred ritual.

Mohammed and I later left the shrine and headed to a crowded area to the right of the Baba Shah Jamal shrine. Even though the place seemed quite ordinary and common, everyone in attendance took off their shoes to show respect. On the edge of the crowd were two hippie looking Sufis pounding large drums to a hypnotic beat. The crowd consisted of a ragtag group of mostly young Sufis sitting on the cement floor smoking hash and conversing amongst themselves. It was quite a different atmosphere than at the shrine, these people were plunging into a drug induced meditation, while the people at the Shrine were using deep thought and ancient rituals to achieve the same sort of enlightenment. Mohammed found the hash circle to be irritating, and almost immediately wanted to leave. He told me that the people were not real Muslims, but simply drug users out for a good time. I personally found the drum/hash circle to be quite interesting and unique. If I had it my way I would have stayed longer. I found out later that one of the drummers was completely deaf.

At around midnight Mohammed and I hopped onto his motorcycle and began our trip home. We ran a few errands on the way back, buying some flat bread and a bag of milk in a back alley marketplace. Riding through the busy streets of Lahore on the back of a small motorcycle was both exciting and frightening. It was thrilling to see such diverse sides of Lahore; it was quite refreshing in contrast to my predominantly cultureless days spent in Islamabad.

I really enjoyed my evening spent with Mohammed, but could not get past the way he treated me. He often reminded me to hide my nationality, and even forced me to wear my hair down instead of the cooler (temperature) and more comfortable pony tail. Mohammed was constantly nervous around me, and repeatedly reminded me that extremists in the area were on the lookout for Americans. I hated the fact that I could not display myself as an enlightened American, and help persuade Pakistanis that America is not synonymous with evil and hate. While spending the evening with Mohammed no fewer than 10 people asked me where I was from……………and each time Mohammed stepped in and told everyone that I was Canadian. I had enough………one night with Mohammed would be all I could bare. I would much rather spend my days alone and in relative danger than in a cloud of uncomfortable internal shame.

That evening Mohammed and I slept on the couches in the living room, his parents slept on the open air cots on the back patio, his sisters slept on cots in the kitchen, and his eldest sister slept in the small room with her husband and infant child. It was a cozy, crowded and incredibly hot house. Lahore was not surprisingly even hotter than Islamabad………..the temperature was becoming a bit ridiculous and difficult to endure.

5-23-2008

Mohammed left for work before I woke up, and at around 9am his sisters burst in the living room with my breakfast. One of Mohammed’s sisters spoke perfect English and was quite personable and enjoyable to talk to. We spent the morning pleasantly conversing before I decided to hit the road.

At around noon I took a rickshaw to a cheap hotel near Lahore’s large bazaar district. My stomach was acting up a bit, so I decided to spend the day resting and going on short walks around the bazaar. The heat was overwhelmingly strong and pretty much took all the joy out of being outside. The dust, pollution, and 100f+ heat made walking around arduous and increasingly difficult to enjoy.

At around 4:45pm I boarded a public bus heading to the Pakistan-Indian border. Each evening when the sun goes down a border closing ceremony begins. After arriving at the border, I bought a ticket and proceeded to the bleachers near the edge of the border. At 6:00pm the closing ceremony began. The entire ceremony was incredibly amusing. Their were two large sets of concrete bleachers separated by gender ( everything is segregated in Pakistan, public busses are cut in half by an iron gate, women in front, men in back), with one small front row section for the foreigners (me). The exact same set up was visible on the other side of the gate, except the Indian side did not appear to be segregated.

At 6:00pm an old guy with a bushy white beard, green skull cap, green shalwar and a large Pakistani flag began running around the border riling up the crowd. He would run around section to section starting patriotic chants and waving his flag – every so often he would face the gate, wave his flag, and yell things at the Indian crowd on the other side of the fence. The whole scene was wonderfully entertaining; it was like being at a high school football game. Both sides had way too much “school spirit”. Loud music began to blare louder and louder, as men danced around on the bleachers waving flags and yelling patriotic rants. The crowds on each side of the gate would yell back and forth………Hindustan!........Pakistan!...........Hindustan!........Pakistan! The war of patriotic spirit was on!

After the flag wielding cheerleaders pumped up the crowds on each side of the border, the soldiers on each side came out and began marching around with firm determination and amplified authority. The soldiers then marched straight legged by lifting their legs high in front of them and pacing forward at a manic pace. Next, the soldiers marched around raising their right leg high and then stomping the ground with excess force. Everything about this formal routine was quite unique and fascinating. Even the military uniforms were unusual; their hats were topped with what looked like Chinese fans.

After some intense military marching and a lot of foot stomping, the gates opened up. Two soldiers, one from each side began some sort of central stomp-off /marching showdown that ended in an aggressive face to face stare down. They then shook hands, did their stomp/march back to their respective sides of the border, while two other men took the flags down and shut the border-gate for the evening.

To sum it all up, the border ceremony consisted of a lot of overzealous patriotism, an Indian-Pakistani handshake followed by the closing of the gates, and the systematic lowering of the flags (done by both sides in unison). It was quite the spectacle, and truly an entertaining event to witness.

While standing on the dusty, crowded bus heading back to Lahore, a man besides me suddenly stood up and adamantly insisted that I take his seat. Within 10 minutes of my departure from the border, I had become a renowned celebrity on the bus. People constantly asked me questions and bragged about their relatives who were living in the USA. At each stop, vendors would briefly board the bus selling fruit, popsicles, tea, etc…………..and each time I would end up with something handed to me. By the time I had reached Lahore; I had been given three boxes of juice, a disgusting flower tasting popsicle, and half a coconut. I have really enjoyed how open, warm, generous, and kind Pakistanis are. I don’t think many Americans realize just how abundantly hospitable and warm Islamic culture is.

That evening I decided to go on a long walk around Lahore while subsequently tracking down dinner and an internet café. Surprisingly less than two miles into my walk I came across a Subway……….not the underground transit system but the wonderful American sandwich restaurant. I was thrilled and did not hesitate to spend four times the price of my hotel room on a delicious meatball sandwich. It was quite the treat…………..three years without a glorious meatball sandwich from Subway was far too long.

After another hour + of walking, I came across a smoky internet café with barely functioning computers. I have found that the internet is my lifeline………..no matter how good, bad, crazy, scary, painful, happy, sad, depressing, or enlightening my day has been, I can always find someone on the internet to share it with. I can send emails, post BLOGs, upload pictures, or simply read American media publications via the internet. Internet is the bright glowing sun in my cloudy days, and thanks to the technological boom of the 90s is accessible pretty much anywhere with phone lines. Life on the road would be infinitely more challenging if I were unable to Google logistical information, Email friends and Family, network with potential hosts, etc. In conclusion the internet has kept me sane, and has been a bit of a crutch for me throughout my Peace Corps experience and my travel experience thereafter.

After I had left my cyber chamber of comfort behind and reentered reality; I realized that while I was in the internet Café, Lahore had flooded. I had never seen roads fill up so quickly with water. There was literally 6-8 inches of water covering the ground, I was now on the banks of a shallow river………..and 4 miles from my hotel. About an hour of unsuccessful solicitation later, I was able to flag down a motor-rickshaw for a ride back to my hotel.

5-24-2008

After thinking hard about Jim Doe’s advice, and his grave warnings about Karachi, I decided to use my own skewed judgment and travel to Karachi anyway. After personal analysis, it became a calculated risk I was willing to take.

At 2pm I boarded a 3rd class train, destination Karachi, Pakistan. Karachi is the large, population 10 million + Wild West city of Pakistan; here goes nothing!

The train ride was to say the least painful, awkward, and uncomfortable from the moment I boarded. The worn out green vinyl bench seats provided little comfort as the radiant heat penetrated through my already overheating body. The ceiling fan provided a laughable amount of comfort while the open windows did little else than enable mass amounts of sand and dust to pour into the train. Heat and dust plugged up the inside of the train to a suffocating level. As the hours passed by, my dreams of cool fresh air became a mockery to practicality, and an unwarranted ambition to comfort.

Slowly the train putted along the rural desert landscape of Southern Pakistan. From the train I witnessed poor Pakistanis working in treacherous heat along the railroad tracks, often napping in the shade. The train cut across desert villages, and tent cities in the middle of seemingly uninhabitable climate. I found myself utterly amazed by how these people could live and work in such conditions. How many Arizona residents would be able to survive without their AC? These people live in tents, without fans or AC, and are forced to work long hours of manual labor with virtually zero shade. It is just one of the many things that need to be put into perspective; perhaps wealthy people in our world should be a bit more grateful for what they already have, and realize that in retrospect, their comfort level leaves little justification for complaints.

The people sitting around the train seemed kind and friendly, but the language barrier prohibited any shared dialogue between us. They would occasionally share with me snacks they were eating, and I would accept by simply smiling and bowing with my hand over my heart. Throughout the long journey passengers and vendors would come on and off the train. Most of the passengers greeted me with smiles; however a few of the men gave me cold intimidating stares. It was obvious to me that these people were not accustomed to seeing foreigners on their train. Every so often a group of guys would approach me and begin speaking with me in simple English. It all became a bit cliché…………I would be berated about Bush questions, dodge all the bullets I could, explain to them how much I loved Islamic Culture, then they would buy me tea……..and later we would shake hands in friendship before they walked away. Thankfully most of the guys on the train did not grill me too hard; I can only imagine how uncomfortable it would be to be confronted with overpowering hostility in a location that was for the most part inescapable.

The day was wearing on me……………the heat was unrelenting, I was sweating buckets, and the dust began coating me like a powdered donut. My skin was about 10 shades darker because it was now caked with a thin film of mud; which I inadvertently smeared around my face while attempting to squeegee the sweat off my forehead. Every so often I would escape the madness and discomfort by climbing to the 3rd level bench seat and attempting to sleep. I had my MP3 player which provided a pleasant distraction, but the dust and heat countered any sort of comfort with intrusive levels of discomfort.

5-25-2008

At 1:30am I suddenly awoke to a loud man made cat sound; I opened my eyes to see two men in their mid 20s inches away from my face. They were staring at me and smiling with probing eyes. Before I knew what was going on they had both jumped up to the upper bench seat I was laying on. The guys began hurling questions at me with intrigue, while smiling like jackals. It was a really weird situation, I was exhausted, uncomfortable, sweaty, filthy, and talking to a couple guys that were way too excited to be talking to a foreigner. For some reason I decided to tell these guys that I was an Atheist………. I for some reason thought it would end questioning, and perhaps be easier than explaining to them I was Agnostic. I was wrong…………….it provoked a 45 minute debate about how it is crazy not to believe in god/Allah, and that I must learn more about Allah. Two hours, 100 questions, and 3 cups of tea later the guys smiled, shook my hand, and exited the train. At around 4am I was again able to attempt a bit of shut eye.

I woke up at 7am feeling absolutely disgusting. It was like being ‘camping dirty’ but multiplied by ten. I was lying in a pool of sweat; my exposed skin was caked with semi-dry dirt, and my face was smeared with thick blotches of mud. The worst part about waking up exhausted and on a hot dusty train, is knowing that you have another 12 hours of misery ahead of you before you reach your destination. I asked myself again……….why do I put myself in these situations? Why did I not just pay an extra hundred bucks and fly to Karachi? After spending months on the road being as frugal as possible, it is amazing how much hardship you are willing to endure to save a couple bucks.

I arrived in Karachi at 6:30pm………..after spending 28.5 miserable hours on the sweltering, dusty, train. My mind and body were numb by the time I had arrived in Karachi. I had eaten next to nothing on the train because when my core body temperature is overheating, I tend to associate nausea with food consumption. The train ride had absorbed all of my energy and left me in a very lifeless physical and mental state.

As I prepared for my arrival in Karachi I decided to hide my camera deep into my bag, and mentally prepared myself for any possible confrontations. I had decided that perhaps telling people that I was from the USA, would not be a wise move in this area. It would unfortunately be prudent for me to take on another nationality while under these circumstances.

Here goes nothing……………..Things were chaotic as I exited the train and began walking across the platform toward the main exit. The platform was jam packed with a colorful assortment of beggars, vendors, and commuters. After exiting the train station I spotted a public bus down the road and without thinking twice, I approached and boarded the old crowded public bus. Upon entering the bus, I Immediately found myself surrounded with cold suspicious stares; it was unlike anything I had experienced thus far in Pakistan. These people really seamed to dislike me and disapprove of my presence…………..my heart began to pound faster, and my legs began to subtly tremble with uncontrollable nerves. One guy in particular was standing about three feet from me sporting a brown shalwar kameez, a long black bushy beard, a white skull cap, and dusty black sandals. He was in his late 20s and was staring at me with piercing, hateful eyes. It became clear to me instantly that this guy did not want me to feel welcome on his bus. I tried desperately to avoid eye contact with the man, but found myself instinctively turning back to glance at him in order to see if he was still glaring at me. Worst case scenarios began to race through my mind like a dark twisted slide show. I began to grow increasingly uneasy about the situation, and decided I would get off at the next stop. Just before I inevitably succumbed to panic and broke down mentally and physically with fear; I felt a gentle tap on my upper back. As I turned around an old man stood up from his chair and adamantly insisted that I take his place. He smiled at me warmly as I sat down in his seat before turning away slowly to gaze out the dusty bus window. It was amazing how something like this could happen…………..here I was literally about to have a panic attack, and all of a sudden I am confronted with a warm, simple, selfless act of kindness that consequently calmed my nerves and eased my mind.

I had no idea where the bus I was on was heading, but figured I would just get off when I saw something that looked interesting. About 15 minutes into the ride, the bus stopped alongside a recent vehicle accident. A public passenger bus similar to the one I was riding had flipped on its side. The shell of the bus was violently mangled, and the partially shattered windows contained highly visible patches of smeared blood. As I began to analyze the scene in more depth, I noticed that several of the people standing besides the bus were seriously bleeding and standing in 2-3ft wide puddles of vibrant colored blood. It was like a scene out of a movie, I don’t know that I have ever seen so much blood all in one place. After stopping at the accident for a couple minutes’, two men from the accident boarded the bus; one man in his late 60s had a deep laceration on his forehead and a broken nose, while another man in his early 30s had blood all over his shalwar, but no visible injuries.

I was incredibly exhausted, filthy, and sweating profusely as I exited the bus, but the fear and adrenaline provided me with enough juice to keep moving. I ended up at the Clifton Seaside……….a long stretch of seaside with an enormous park and a few luxury hotels.

While walking along the crowded sidewalks of the Clifton Seaside, I noticed how exceedingly different the atmosphere had become. There were palm readers and Sufis everywhere. Long haired Sufis sat in circles banging on large drums and smoking hash. Thousands of Pakistanis peacefully picnicked at a large, well maintained seaside park. All in all the area seamed relatively progressive and safe. I kinda expected people to be running through the streets with machine guns while hurling grenades at each other. It appears that I got lucky, and ended up in a calm perhaps even safe part of town.

It was now about 7:30pm and I was beginning to run out of daylight, I thought it would be prudent to lock down accommodation before things got too late. I ended up just walking around until I got lost and wound up in some sort of primitive bazaar area.
Narrow dirt roads, ground littered with animal bones and rotten vegetables, rotting piles of trash everywhere, pools of fresh animal blood, tailors, butchers, various vendors, and swarms of flies pretty much sums up the area. I have never in my life seen so many flies; shop keepers fanned flies away with square pieces of card board, but as soon as they stopped swinging the cardboard, the flies would cover every inch of the meat and fruit they were trying to protect. It was a bizarre and disgusting thing to witness.

The deeper I walked into the bazaar the more uneasy I began to feel. Darkness and cold stares began to penetrate and suffocate my strength. Instead of smiles and hot cups of tea, I was served frosty stares and unwelcoming smirks. This was definitely a neighborhood I should have avoided; I was clearly not welcome here. I began hearing bickering and whispers behind me, which invoked an uncontrollable sense of panic that sent a shockwave down my spine. Was I being followed? Had I got myself into a potentially fatal situation? What the hell was I thinking going into this neighborhood?...............I began to walk faster and faster as sweat poured heavily down my face. I had no Idea where I was and had no idea how to get out of this crazy maze of a neighborhood. The footsteps seamed to be getting closer and closer, even as my pace began to increase. Before I knew it I was at the edge of the neighborhood and near a main road; fortunately I was able to make my way out in one piece. With open air came pleasant relief and gradually subsiding paranoia. I was again in a relatively open area and began to feel a thin blanket of security upon my shoulders.

Darkness fell, and severe exhaustion and panic compelled me to immediately hop into a rickshaw and leave the area. I told the driver to take me to a hotel, and about 20 minutes later we had arrived in an area with no less than 15 hotels. We were actually back where I had started, near the train station. Finally my day was at an end! I could now find a hotel, take a shower and get some much needed rest. The last two days had been hell, and I was now more than ready to shut down my engine for a while.

Panic, exhaustion, frustration, and anger began to consume my body as each hotel I approached refused me occupancy. Over and over I was told that it was too high of a security risk for them to host me. After visiting no less than 20 hotels and miserably walking four miles through the loud, chaotic, and frightening streets of Karachi; I found a hotel that would take me. It was 11pm.

The hotel was incredible! After seeing the flashy new sign, and the four guards armed with AK47s out front; I new this place was a winner. The guy at the front desk spoke perfect English and told me he would allow me to stay at the hotel for $50; we settled on $20. I had enough danger, exhaustion, and excitement for one day. All I wanted to do was to get some food and go to sleep. I perhaps should add that the entire time I was on the train I had “stomach problems”…………..my stomach had been in shambles since arriving in Lahore. Since leaving Lahore the previous day, I had consumed only 4 juice boxes, 2 mangos, and 5 cups of tea. Thankfully now that I was at my final destination and in a safe secure hotel, my stomach was relaxed enough to welcome solid foods. For some reason, when I am severely stressed out and anxious, I tend to completely lose my appetite.

After checking into my room I ordered some fried chicken from the Pakistani style KFC across the street, but decided to play it safe and eat the meal in my pleasantly secure hotel room.

5-26-2008

I slept like a baby and woke up feeling great, the electricity stayed on the entire night, and the temperature remained cool and comfortable throughout the night. After eating a delicious continental breakfast; I took a taxi to the airport and by12:30pm was on a flight to Kathmandu, Nepal.

From the moment I left Lahore to the moment I left Karachi for Kathmandu;……….I felt severe discomfort and endured endless amounts of self inflicted pain. I really had no justifiable reason for this sort of traveling. It is not fun, enjoyable, enlightening etc……. It is simply a marathon of pain, fear, discomfort, agony, uncertainty, and stupidity. In hindsight everything about the last couple days falls into the reckless and foolish category. I can always say that I made it through Karachi in one piece, but at what cost? Was my less than 24hr experience in Karachi worth the potential dangers? I suppose nothing really went according to plan; I was told that the train ride would take 17hrs………..not 28.5hrs. This was a quite unpleasant surprise. If I had a bit more time in the city, perhaps I would not have jumped on the first bus I saw, or wandered through a poor unwelcoming neighborhood. I arrived in Karachi with less than 2 hours of daylight, exhausted, scared, and pumped full of adrenaline. I left Karachi rested but marginally exhausted with an overwhelming sense of foolishness.

{I made it out of Karachi alive but in hindsight, the decision to visit Karachi was quite reckless. Pakistan is now considered by many people to be the most dangerous country in the world. In the last year(2008): Newsweek, The Economist, and Time Magazine have published articles stating that Pakistan is the most dangerous country in the world. Karachi is said to have the highest street crime rate of any city in the world.
-Between January 1st, 2008 and August 31st 2008, there have been 149 kidnappings for ransom in Karachi. Over 1,000 murders take place each year in Karachi, and it has been said that 100 rapes occur each day in Karachi. So I guess…………Pakistan, and Karachi specifically was not the safest destination of my journey.}

-So this is pretty much the end of the road for a while. My trip concluded with Nepal, India, Thailand, Cambodia, and South Korea…….but I am not sure I will write about those experiences……..I really appreciate any writing feedback………so if you have anything to say good or bad……..please leave a comment or send me an email. I am planning on rewriting a lot of my stuff, and perhaps will turn it into a book. Thanks for reading………knowing that people read this nonsense gives me inspiration to write.
Trevor Lake
laketrev@hotmail.com

Here are a few pics-
Sufi shrine in Lahore:

Border ceremony:

Mohammed and his family:

Peshawar, Pakistan

2008-10-10T14:50:00.000-07:00

5-15-2008

I left Chitral at 8:40am on a crowded, cramped, and horribly uncomfortable mini-bus heading to Peshawar. I experienced faint hesitation and was a bit nervous about visiting Peshawar because of its close proximity to Afghanistan and the notoriously dangerous tribal areas between Peshawar and the Afghan border (Wazirestan). During my logistical research, I read that Peshawar had become a hot bed for terrorists, and that it was becoming increasingly unstable. Apparently terrorists were flooding into the tribal areas from Afghanistan and threatening the stability of Peshawar and Pakistan in general.

The paved road ended at about 11:40am as the bus began its ascent up a beautiful mountain pass. Besides the continuously painful discomfort and the rapidly transitioning scenery, the next few hours were rather uneventful. At around 2:30pm we stopped in the desolate mountain town of Dirat for lunch. Upon arrival in Dirat I was immediately befriended by a Pakistani businessman from Peshawar on his way to Chitral. He spoke perfect English and thankfully was more than happy to help me order some food from a nearby restaurant. I am constantly taken back by how friendly Pakistani people are. Even in my shalwar kameez I stick out like a sore thumb; which in essence helps attract friendly locals who seem to feel compelled to invite me into their daily lives with warm smiles and gentle curiosity. Dirat was a very bleak mountain town with friendly locals and weakening dry heat. Due to the high elevation and mountainous landscape, the northern regions of Pakistan are much cooler than the central and southern regions. As the bus inched its way toward Peshawar the temperature steadily rose, and my personal discomfort continued to climb to near unbearable levels. I numbed the pain periodically by nestling a pinch of naswar against my gums; the anesthetizing nicotine coursed threw my veins quickly, and partnered up with the music of Matt Costa to bring on a chemically, and melodiously induced trance of inspiration and reflective thought.

When we stopped for dinner at 7:00pm, I observed several subtle aspects of change. Along with the landscape becoming monotonously brown, flat, and dry; the people seemed marginally more introverted and less welcoming to infidels. I was now entering the heart of Pakistan, far away from the generally safe and delicately isolated northern regions.

At 8:45pm the bus pulled into a noisy, crowded, loud, and obnoxiously dusty dirt lot on the edge of Peshawar. I had no idea where I was and was a bit nervous and intimidated by my predicament. Peshawar was huge and incredibly underdeveloped; I was out of my element and beginning to feel a bit unsure about my immediate personal safety.………To top it off; I had no Idea where I was going. From previous travel experiences I have learned that a city’s bus station is generally a haven for con artists and sketchy individuals. As a result of this gained knowledge, my first objective was to immediately flee the bus station and then to reevaluate the situation in a safer location. As I walked along the dark, deafening, and agonizingly dusty street; I was stalked by overzealous rickshaw drivers and inquisitive vendors. I was a bit like a fish out of water and constantly on my guard. Despite my traditional Pakistani attire, the large backpack I was carrying over my shoulders overpoweringly screamed tourist. I really had no idea exactly how safe the area was, or if I was even heading in the correct direction; consuming fear and overpowering adrenaline kept me moving along the dark road at a frantic pace. Even so late in the evening, the heat was almost unbearable. Walking five+ miles with a 40lb pack in 95F+ heat was not easy; I was sweating buckets and was horribly fatigued by the time I reached a central area with a few hotels.

My fear and frustration elevated dramatically after being refused accommodation by the first five hotels I visited; each time the owner of the hotel would politely explain that their security was not adequate enough to host me. What does that mean? Were they worried about my safety, or were they simply trying to avoid hosting an infidel? I guess a bomb going off at their hotel would not be good for business. I eventually found an adequate/cheap hotel at around 11pm. I was sweating profusely, exhausted, filthy, scared, paranoid, hungry, and more than ready for a bit of a breather. The hotel was definitely on the trashy side; it was a dusty, windowless, dimly lit, concrete building with cracked walls and high ceilings.

My room: 8x8ft cement box, small bed with torn, stained and collapsed mattress, small filthy bathroom with a squat toilet and rusty shower pipe(no nozzle),no sink, no windows, and one barely operational ceiling fan.

My room was like a cement sauna; thanks to the lack of ventilation, the fan’s only productive effect was to push hot air back into my face. This was by far the trashiest hotel I had ever slept in. But for $1.30 a night……….how was I to complain. The problem with this place as well as the rest of Pakistan for that matter is that the power supply is both sporadic and unpredictable. I was in my room no longer than 20 minutes before the power shut off and I became encased in awkward, frightening, and painful discomfort. My black coffin of a room was turning into a bread oven. The lack of ventilation was suffocating me, it literally must have been around 130F in the room when the fan was off………..it was horrible. I felt my way through the darkness into the bathroom, the small dark room that held the key to my survival. I devised a solution to escape the inevitably looming effects of heat exhaustion. The solution………..20 min in the shower, 40 minutes sprawled out naked on the bed. It worked, however the radiant heat dried me in minutes and left me sweating profusely for the last 30 minutes of each hour. At 2am the power kicked back in and the heavenly fan began to spin around like angel wings. It was a lifesaver; I was not sure I would be able to handle the intense discomfort much longer. In reality, who was I kidding, where else was I to go. After another quick shower, I laid in my bed/hammock and finally was able to get a bit of shut eye. At 5am I woke up in a pool of sweat, my deep innie belly button turned into a sweat filled shot glass that poured down my sides with excess each time my lungs filled with air. Back to the misery and pain! I hopped in the shower again and resumed my cooling strategy for about an hour before giving up on sleep entirely in order to begin my day. At 6am I escaped my concrete coffin and began wandering down the adjacent street away from my hotel. Down the street a ways, I came across a crew of construction workers sitting on a dirty side walk eating a vegetable and rice salad. The guy’s operation appeared to be relatively sanitary, so with little hesitation I purchased a serving from the street vendor for 25cents and consumed it with slight anticipation of future nausea. It was early in the day, so I perceived that the plate I was using was only used a few times before me that morning……………it could have been much worse. The sun was shining and the food was delicious; I suddenly became increasingly excited about exploring Peshawar.

After wandering around in circles for a few hours, I came across a small internet café in the basement of a run down block apartment. The computers were ancient and the connection speed was ridiculously slow, but it did the trick. I was eager to research my future travel logistics and to contact my host in Islamabad.

At around 11am I took a rickshaw to Peshawar’s bustling old bazaar area and began my exploration. I was still marginally intimidated and fearful about Peshawar’s reputation, but eager and intrigued by my surroundings nonetheless. I was in Peshawar, the city on the edge of Pakistan’s disreputable tribal areas, and about to explore a world famous bazaar. The bazaar was incredible; it was amazing to be in the middle of something so chaotic, yet serene. The bazaar was endlessly abundant with just about any sort of consumable you can imagine. I thoroughly enjoyed this bazaar mostly because of the people; instead of being hassled and heckled, I was constantly greeted with copious arrays of enchanting warmth radiating from brotherly smiles. I was no longer afraid of Peshawar; my suspicion, hesitation, fear, and bewilderment rapidly melted away with each pleasant interaction.

Within two hours of arriving at the old bazaar; I had been befriended by a dozen people and been treated to four cups of tea. It was surprisingly difficult to walk down an entire block without being coerced into a hospitable gesture. The loud, crowded, dusty streets, were no longer a place of fear and overwhelming intimidation, they had become a place of warmth, a quiet village nestled away within rolling hills of fragrant flowers. The mask was taken off and what I saw within was something beautiful.

After about four hours of wandering, observing, and casual interaction; I became completely lost. I was not sure exactly where I was, but knew that I was definitely far from the old bazaar. I ended up in a large courtyard containing green grass, an old mosque, and several bushy trees that gave off an abundance of well appreciated shade. While sitting on a crusty cement bench in the courtyard I was approached by on old man sporting a bright white shalwar Kameez, a bushy white beard, and a white skull cap. His face was dark and leathery, with deep creases around his eyes and across his forehead. He greeted me with a warm smile and a “ asalam ahalikum”. I responded with “ halikum salam”. The old man soon began talking about his son who lived in Sacramento and how much he loved America. He then passionately explained to me that Muslims are generally good people, and how he does not understand why ‘Bush’ wants to destroy his religion. I was not exactly sure how to respond to this accusation; I have been approached with similar statements and accusations on several occasions, but am taken back each time the subject is broached. The man intensely proclaimed that the US invasion of Iraq was simply an action taken with intention to destroy a Muslim nation and to spread democracy and Christianity. He was adamant in his statements and had no doubt in his mind that the USA’s government wants nothing more than to eradicate the religion of Islam. I decided to just sit back and listen to this man vent, I was unsure how to respond to the man, and was not sure if confrontation and debate would be productive.

Well, another strange and awkward conversation in a very volatile region……………what is the appropriate response? I suppose over the last few months my answers have become more and more polished, and my opinions have become more dynamic. My rebuttal was a bit typical:

“There are over 300 million Americans in the USA, and most of them do not believe in the fundamentals of our current presidency. Our country is made up of a beautiful mixture of displaced immigrants from all parts of the world. We have complete religious freedom, and by law must respect all of the many religions of our nation. There will always be bad and good people in each and every country of our world, unfortunately the western media puts it’s emphasis on the bad, and shines light on hatred, ugliness, and bigotry rather than love, respect, acceptance, and tolerance. I assure you that America does not have any intention to eradicate Islam, nor does it want to take over Islamic republics. America was attacked by a group of Islamic radicals full of hatred, and it spooked our presidency into making poor decisions with miscalculated consequences”

After discussing, and peacefully debating for about an hour, we shook hands and parted our separate ways. I enjoy these sorts of interactions immensely; each time I am able to speak to a person with a view different than my own, I feel enlightened and am able to look critically at future situations with a broader point of view.

Within 30 minutes of leaving the courtyard I ended up in a bustling back alley filled with goats and textile shops. Even though the street was slightly shaded, the walls of the narrow alley radiated vast amounts of powerful heat that expelled sweat from my body like an unripe steak. Despite it being only 2:30 in the afternoon, my body was already shattered with fatigue.

A young guy with a long beard spotted me from across the street and waved me over. He was sporting a military style (camouflage) hat and an off-white shalwar kameez. As I walked across the road to greet him he flashed me a warm smile and said “hello please sit down”. While sitting down beside him, he observed my sweaty, worn out appearance with concern and told me that I should sit and rest. He then walked into the building and came back shortly with a Coca Cola on the rocks. It was just what the doctor ordered; it was the most delicious and revitalizing coke I had ever consumed. My new friend’s name was Ahmed and he worked as an assistant/security guard for the small medical clinic. Moments later another man named Mohammed came from within the medical clinic to greet me; he had dark skin and soft eyes. After finishing my coke Ahmed escorted me into the clinic and sat me down in a small office at the end of the narrow hallway. The office was dimly lit, had a large ceiling fan, and was decorated with cliché, flagrantly bright posters of farm houses, domestic animals, and sports cars. I sat in confusion, alone in the office for about 15 minutes before the director burst into the room to greet me. She (Johar) sat down across from me and with a suspicious/confused/curious look asked me what I wanted. The question caught me off guard……………..what did I want? I was escorted in off the streets and now was sitting in the director’s office of a hospital. I told the director that I was a tourist and that I had been casually invited to the clinic by Ahmed for a short rest and a cold drink. She internally analyzed my answer briefly before asking me if she could get me something to drink. After politely declining her offer, she gave me a strange look before ordering her assistant to bring me a Coke. The director of the hospital was a plump, pretty, and confident woman in her mid 20s. She had just finished medical school and was now overseeing her parents (both physicians) clinic. We spent the next hour discussing various correlations and contrasts between our countries’ health care, education system, and social dynamics.

I found it fascinating that she was so cold, cynical and stubbornly pessimistic when it came to love. I consider myself a bit of a cynic when it comes to “soul mates”, “true love”, “destiny”, “marriage”…….etc. but she truly blew me away. She believes that love is childish and non-existent in the mature educated world. Her views on marriage were very business oriented, very structured, with little room for nonsense. Johar believes that your parents always know what is best for you, so when the time comes they will choose the perfect mate for you. And this arranged marriage is not about love, it is about “your duty”……which pretty much means your put on earth to work hard, make babies, train your kids to live a lifestyle free from sin and corruption,………then you die. I find her opinions interesting and practical………….but I am not sure I am ready to throw out self interest, spontaneity, deviance, and romantic love in favor of a dull, scripted, monotonous, conservative, and highly orthodox life.

After our little chat, Johar told me that I must come back at 1:40pm for lunch. After thanking her for the hospitality and conversation, I stepped out into the rugged heat and continued my journey to nowhere. In order to ensure I did not become disoriented, I simply walked in a straight line down the hot dusty street away from the clinic. I figured as long as I did not make any turns I would be able to retrace my steps and return to the medical clinic with ease. I now felt very comfortable in Peshawar; I had been confronted only with smiles and kind words. Where were all the terrorists at? Where were the cold stares, harsh words, and blind hatred? Was I in the same Peshawar that I had been reading about on the news?

Peshawar’s dry heat was debilitating, and agonizingly uncomfortable. It was well above 100F as I walked down the crowded streets dodging decorative buses and aggressive rickshaw drivers. After walking about two miles in unbearable heat I decided to take a bit of a breather. I found a corner store and picked up a small bottle of cold ‘Arabian Dew’ (tastes just like Mountain dew, Pakistanis love their Mountain dew!) and a small brick of Naswar ( chewing tobacco). I spent the next 30 minutes sitting on a dusty, shaded curb sipping soda and enjoying the effects of strong Pakistani tobacco. My body was stoned and my mind was numb as I sat on the curb, sweat pouring down my face, trying in vain to unravel the complex thoughts and perplexities plaguing my conscience.

I have found that I enjoy putting myself in awkward and uncomfortable situations. I thrive on stepping outside of my comfort zone and into unfamiliar territory. I suppose it is the way it makes me feel that drives me into these situations. The feelings of vulnerability, confusion, fear, excitement, danger, shame, and enlightenment spike when I am outside of my element. I am beginning to believe that this adrenaline rush caused by disposition and fear is perhaps borderline unhealthy. Is that why I am in Pakistan? The need to push the envelope, and constantly take things to the next level has landed me in an increasingly unstable country, with undeniable dangers and volatility. The interesting thing about my off the path travel experiences is that I have continually come to the same conclusions: No place is as dangerous as you may initially think; ignorance breeds fear. People are the same all over the world; love, hate, lust, greed, kindness, selfishness, playfulness, happiness, sadness, desire and determination, are things possessed by all human beings no matter what your race, ethnicity, religion or geographic location may be. Love, warmth, kindness, open-mindedness, and tolerance opens doors to friendship, and dissolves ignorance and hatred.

At 1:40pm I arrived at the medical clinic and was greeted warmly by Ahmed and Mohammed, who were both sitting in white chairs near the entrance of the clinic. Ahmed then escorted me to a back room with a fan, dining table, and a dozen rusty chairs. The electricity was off, which made the room turn into a sweat box. I was forced to constantly wipe the sweat off my forehead in order to prevent the dust and sweat from invading my already burning eyes. I then sat alone in the dimly lit room for 40 minutes……………..Had they forgot about me? What was I doing? Should I head for the door and sneak out of this relatively awkward situation? I decided to tuff it out, and eventually my lunch arrived. Ahmed presented me with chicken, yogurt, hot milk, coke, and a tomato-cucumber salad. After eating my lunch in silence and isolation; four middle aged Pakistani men entered the room. They all sported long bushy beards and light colored shalwar kameezes. I stood and greeted the men as they entered the room with confident demeanor and curious eyes. We then sat around the table and began to discuss my favorite topic………..American politics.

To say the least the conversation was a bit rough around the edges. It was a four on one political debate where the gloves were off and the river of propaganda was raging uncontrollably. After calmly debating with the men about the Iraq war, President Bush, Pakistan-USA relations, and Islamic extremism;…………the men touched a nerve that sent me into a uncontrollable whirlwind of rage. After listening to one of the men go off on a tangent about how the 9-11 attacks were planned and allowed by the US government, I completely lost my composure.

-The man’s argument: “The USA has seamless intelligence, intelligence so broad and thorough that it would be impossible for the USA to allow such a large scale attack to slip through its fingers unintentionally. The USA condoned and helped plan the 9-11 attacks because it wanted an excuse to attack and conquer Islamic nations. The USA’s goal is to eradicate the religion of Islam, control all of the world’s oil, and convert all people to Christianity. The 9-11 attacks were not executed by Islamic extremists; they were simply a series of accidents caused by mechanical problems within each airplane.”

The last statement is what tripped my breaker switch and took me over the edge. I stood up, walked up to the guy and said:

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life. There is bullshit propaganda everywhere, and just because it is written on a website, or in a newspaper does not make it true. Here are a few facts for you: Islamic extremism is very real. There are in fact Muslims who hate my country enough to perform a Jihad attack on it. The 9-11 attacks were executed by Alqeida! There is no gray area, there is no room for debate……………it happened. Islamic extremists killed over 3,000 people in my country in one day. It is not a conspiracy! The USA would not bomb our own country, or allow terrorists to kill thousands of people just to create an excuse to start a war. These statements are common sense. America is a country of diversity; we are all displaced immigrants (with exception to American Indians) trying to make better lives for ourselves in a very young country. My country is not perfect, neither is my government. We are not one culture trying to extinguish another; we are many cultures and ethnicities trying to live as one in a land of growing tolerance and acceptance. Our intelligence is very complex and strong, but not free from error. It is literally impossible to avoid all terrorist activity through intelligence. The fact is that Americans do not generally like President Bush! We do not believe his decisions in relation to Iraq were good ones. I did not choose to invade Iraq………..my president did this on his own behalf, and under false pretenses. I believe going into Iraq was a mistake, and so do most Americans. You must understand that there are over 300 million Americans in the USA………..and the majority of them despise President Bush and his Middle Eastern foreign policy. I find it absurd that you would believe all the stupid, bullshit propaganda you have been told. Why would any country shoot themselves in the foot? Not everything is grey……………………this issue is black and white.”

I literally yelled this statement as loud as I could, and with furious anger. My throat completely dried out and created a painful and uncomfortable tickle in my throat. Even after pounding a glass of water, it took me a full 10 minutes to get my voice back.

After regaining my composure, I looked around the room and was a bit taken back by how silent the men were. They were all in shock and seemed to be a bit embarrassed about setting me off like that. I guess they adequately comprehended that they had offended me, and now understand just how sensitive Americans are when discussing the 9-11 attacks.

One man stood up and broke the silence by saying: “we are all brothers and were simply born in different geographic locations. We know and understand that there are many things said about the USA that are not true; but we do know that your president is no different than Hitler. He is a bad man, and is responsible for the deaths of many Muslims.”

We all stood up, smiled, shook hands and left the table without animosity, hatred or anger. We understood each other; we knew that we could not possibly see eye to eye on all of the complex issues of recent international politics. We are simply concerned citizens of or respective nations, who are concerned about the future of our countries.

After our debate, three of the men left, while Ahmed and Johar reentered the room to present me with the idea of going to a museum. I told them I would love to go to the museum, but first had to purchase some clothes from the bazaar.

I walked about a mile from the medical clinic to a small tailoring shop on the edge of a small, goat infested alley. The shop owner did not speak any English, but sent off his assistant to track down someone who did. A few moment later three teenagers entered the shop and greeted me with energy and enthusiasm. Within 30 minutes the teens had helped me buy 8 yards of cotton cloth from the bazaar, and explained to the tailor that I wanted a shalwar kameez made with the material. Everything went off without a hitch; I was measured up and ready to pick up my tailored clothes the following morning.

When business was finished, the three guys took me next door to their shop for an orange Fanta and a bit of conversation. The three young guys berated me with questions that I was more than happy to answer. Throughout my time on the road, I have been asked just about everything, and have come up with polished answers to even the most controversial questions. Toward the end of our conversation one guy asked me……….. “What advice can you give us?”……………….. …………………………………………………………………………………………………….. I thought about it for a minute and then proceeded to say:…………………………. .……………………………………………………………………………………………. “My advice to you is to leave your country for a short time so that you will be able to analyze your country from the outside in. It is important to see that there are multiple sides to every story, and often it is difficult to understand the world within the comfort of your own country-city-neighborhood. If you have spent your entire life exclusively drinking Coca Cola, and have seen only Coca Cola commercials and advertising; how can you possibly know anything about Fanta? There is nothing wrong with you choosing to solely drink Coca Cola, but it will provide you with a more accurate personal comparison and contrast if you know first hand exactly what Fanta tastes like. So basically what I am saying is: step outside the comfort of your everyday life, and go see the world.”

His response:

“You do not understand, you have no idea how we live, what you say is not possible for me or any of us. You think that we can simply leave our country and explore the world, but you have no idea what you are talking about, because you know nothing about our lives. I am 16 and must support my parents and my sisters; exactly how can I afford to leave me country? We live in a poor country, and have responsibilities to our families; we are not free to leave. You just don’t understand that what you say is not possible for us.”

Well what can I say, the kid had a point. Who am I to tell people the road to enlightenment is to see the world, and that anyone can do it. I grew up in a financially stable family, in a wealthy country full of opportunity. What do I know about the life challenges of Pakistani teens? I suppose it is a bit challenging to follow your dreams when you are held down with enormous amounts of responsibility, particularly with your family’s financial wellbeing. I suppose my advice becomes void and foolish when speaking to those of less privileged backgrounds…………I will never forget this conversation because it brought me down from the hippie cloud I was floating on and pulled me back to earth. Life is not fair, suffering is inevitable, and most people live and die without chasing after their dreams; dreams and aspirations often die at a young age. Unfortunately,…….. responsibility, maturity, and rational thought can be the kryptonite for lofty dreams and personal aspirations.

After my humbling and slightly disheartening conversation with the young guys, I headed back to the medical clinic to meet up with Ahmed and Johar.

About 30 minutes after I had returned to the medical clinic, a new guy named Zar showed up with a small ornately modified car and moments later we were off to the museum. Before I left Ahmed gave me his army hat and shook my hand with a warm smile.

Zar, Johar and I drove to the museum at around 7pm. The museum was closed for the evening but was quickly reopened after a bit of bakshish (Arabic word for tip money) was presented to the guards. The museum was quite interesting; it consisted primarily of ancient Buddhist artifacts found throughout Pakistan. I could see the cultural and national pride in the eyes of my hosts as they paraded me around the museum. It had been a long day, and I was pretty much exhausted by the time I had reached the museum, so I can’t say truthfully that I enjoyed the museum much.

Later that evening Zar drove Johar and I to a four star hotel called Pearl Continental Hotel. It was by far the nicest hotel in Peshawar. The hotel was absurdly priced and outrageously extravagant, however this did not stop my hosts from parading around the joint like they owned the place. It was an interesting situation, I found myself over evaluating the situation; this is my curse, I tend to over evaluate everything………Why was I taken to the nicest restaurant in Peshawar? Is there something they expect from me, or are they simply trying to display their wealth to me? Am I expected to pay for the food? Would they have taken one of their Pakistani friends here, or was I here simply because I am a white guy from the USA. Was this simple dinner and short lived façade of wealth going to disrupt their financial stability? After all, a $100 dinner bill to your average Pakistani correlates evenly with a middle class American spending $1,000 on a meal. Sure it can be done, but it is not something that should be taken lightly. The dinner was dragged out for three long agonizing hours………I was tired, bored, and generally was not into the conversation. It turns out that Johar really wants to further her education in the USA, but is not sure exactly how to get her foot in the door. I told her I would be her sponsor if she applied for a visa and perhaps help her look around for potential scholarships, but generally there is not much I can do to help. After I had finished out the conversation, consumed a bit of chicken, 3 cups of coffee, and some chocolate cake, we were on our way home. I was dropped off at my hotel at 10:30pm…………it was a long day and I was exhausted.

When I arrived at my hotel the power was completely out, the guy at the front desk had to escort me to my room with a flashlight. I was blind as a bat in my pitch black room and again sweating profusely. It was horribly uncomfortable……………your body can handle about 20 minutes of 120F+ heat before your head starts feeling funny, and the nausea begins to creep up on you. At this point I feel my way toward the bathroom and have a seat on the 3 in wooden platform below my shower. I sit on the platform mainly to avoid the 3 inch cockroaches that squirm around my bathroom floor when the lights are out. (They really freak me out…………..they are literally the size of small mice.) After turning on the water I simple lean forward, hug my knees and sit in strange, but soothing silence for about 30 minutes. The water crashes against my back, and eventually cools the core of my body to a degree that the nausea subsides and I again feel brave enough to reenter my dark furnace of a room. Again I am lying wet, naked and in comfortable darkness pondering recent events and experiences.

-Why did I get so worked up about the whole 9-11 conspiracy comment? Why did I feel comfortable confronting the guy and yelling at him? Was that a potentially dangerous move? Why the hell did I spend 3 hours in a posh hotel restaurant today? Would it have been worth it to splurge on a $20 room in a nice hotel? $1.30 for a room is not bad………but is the pain and discomfort worth the money I am saving?

The electricity kicked in around 1am…………and I drifted off to sleep shortly after. I awoke at 4am sweating buckets and feeling nauseous…………..time for a shower.

I checked out of the hotel at 7am…………….gave a confirmation phone call to my host in Islamabad, picked up my tailored shalwar kameez, and within two hours was on the 11am bus headed to Islamabad.

Medical Clinic crew

The guys who helped me in the bazaar

-The Hindu Kush-

2008-08-29T10:59:00.000-07:00

-The Hindu Kush-

5-11-2008

My body was slowly falling apart and I feared for the worse as the bus pulled out of Gilgit at 7:30am; my head was pounding and my stomach was aching for food, but the thought of consuming anything other than soft fruit overwhelmed me with intense feelings of nausea. In this condition, how was I to survive a 15+ hour hot, cramped, and bumpy bus ride? I have been shedding pounds at a frightening rate throughout my journey; I currently weigh about 180lbs, a full 35lbs less than I weighed 3 years ago before I left the USA for my Peace Corps assignment. The major issue being that I was relatively skinny when I left; which means now I am simply unhealthy.

Food poisoning, sporadic eating habits, and overall malnutrition are excellent ways to lose weight and help bring out your inner skeleton. I should create a weight loss program when I return home; food poisoning is the perfect way to unite bulimia and anorexia together in order to create the perfect combo of rapid weight loss without the psychological issues that accompany both. One rotten sandwich a month for 6 months………and I guarantee you will shed those pounds, but always be anxiously waiting for the diet to end!

The bus driver skillfully drove along the sketchy partially washed out road, dodging large boulders, gushing streams, and half cleared landslides. The road cut along the canyon wall with incredibly sharp precision that left very little room for error. We were never far from a fatal accident as we constantly had to slam on the breaks to avoid head on collisions with oncoming cars. I kept my sanity by putting the situation into perspective; this man does not want to die, nor does he want to kill everyone on the bus, and he obviously knows the road and its limitations to a much greater extent than I. Still, looking down 300ft cliffs that are only inches from the edge of the bus is frightening. The road was a maximum of only a lane and a half wide in most segments, and was only partially paved.

While driving along the windy road, I began seeing inspirational words written with white spray paint along the stony cliffs. The words were written in both English and Urdu and were usually 1-3km apart. The messages read: “Serve Nation”, “Educate Your Children”, “Develop Your Area”, and “Help the Tourists”. I interpreted these messages as a sign of forward progression for Pakistan. The people of Pakistan do not want to fall into the fiery pit of self destruction and intolerable extremism. They appear to be striving toward being a fundamentally religious but progressive nation; a nation free from epidemics of war, hate, pain, ignorance, and political turmoil; a nation that strives to pull away from the very things that have been crippling their Islamic counterparts.

At 11:50am our bus peeled off the road and stopped for lunch at a small mud/wood shack alongside a shallow river. I was a bit confused about the eating situation, but thankfully was taken under the wing of the man I was sitting next to on the bus. I followed him into the shack where we left our shoes at the door, and proceeded to sit on the floor surrounding a straw matt; soon after, we were all served vegetable curry, rice, chapatti, and milk tea. I felt a bit strange, awkward, and out of place; however, moments like these are what I truly thrive on and strangely enjoy. The inquisitive man next to me spoke broken English and looked about as fair skinned as any European I had ever met. He had light brown hair, a thick colonial mustache, and green eyes. The only part of his appearance that made him appear ethnically different was his Chitrali cap and his shalwar kameez.

I definitely was the oddball of the crew; most of the men around me had long thick beards and sported Chitrali caps with their shalwar kameez (traditional clothes). The men in the shack stared at me intimately and seemed to be discussing me intensively as we ate. I had no choice but to smile occasionally when eye contact was made, and recognize that I was simply a weird looking guy, wearing weird clothes, and in a land where reverence and cultural conformity is incredibly important. If I were dining at a restaurant in the USA, and a Kenyan Bushman walked through the door (wearing traditional clothing) and sat beside me at the table, I would most likely inadvertently analyze the man and discuss his lack of conformity. From day one I have been completely aware that I am merely a guest in the countries I visit, and it is my responsibility to respect each land’s culture, religion, and social norms despite how radically they may differ from my own.

After lunch we all boarded the bus and were soon on our way. A couple men on the bus had spent their break fishing down beside the river; one of the men was now holding three small trout gilled by a thin twig. I thoroughly enjoyed the company of the man next to me; we discussed a variety of topics but did not dive too heavily into anything much deeper than small talk. It was pleasant to discuss simple things like family, work, and recreation; as opposed to international politics and President Bush.

I was only able to choke down about half of my lunch, which instead of curing my hunger and soothing my aching stomach, actually made me feel worse. I found it increasingly difficult to enjoy my surroundings and to take pleasure in the moment. I was traveling an unknown road, a road of vast cultural significance and natural beauty, but unfortunately was not in the proper condition to soak in the atmosphere and properly enjoy it.

We constantly picked up villagers and dropped them off as the bus slowly made its way along the increasingly shabby road. I noticed that several of the village women we picked up had dyed orange decorations on their hands and wrists, their children had the same markings. The dye on their hands is similar if not identical to henna ink, and is called “mandee” in Urdu. Some women had it decoratively painted on their hands, while others had their entire hands sloppily dyed orange. All of the village women wore traditional burkas (decorative long baggy shirt, and pants) and covered their hair with colorful shawls. The Pakistani women would often cover their faces with their shawls and turn away the moment they caught a glimpse of me. I guess that is what I get for being an infidel.

One of the steep rural towns (Golokmuri) appeared to be having some sort of festival, perhaps it was a wedding. The whole village seamed to be celebrating together on a grassy hill resembling a natural amphitheatre. Further down the road was the town of Gurdu, where villagers stocked the bus inquisitively as it drove through. The villagers of Gurdu wore shabby, tattered clothes and overall looked quite filthy. Despite the villagers’ rugged appearance, their smiles radiated strongly enough to exhibit an outline of happiness and contentment with their rural mountain village lifestyles. When the bus stopped in Gurdu, a woman boarded the bus holding a small child with her face painted like a batman character. Speckles of a black tar like substance was caked around both eyes, cheeks, and her forehead like a lone ranger mask; after later inquiries I found out that this was considered to be healthy for the baby, because the black substance attracts the sun and keeps the baby warm. We were in fact high on a rugged mountain pass, where the air was considerably cooler than the lower valleys.

The scantily paved road officially turned to dirt and rocks at 2:30pm, which resulted in the slowing of our already sloth like pace. We were now traveling less than 15mph along the steep bumpy road up a rocky mountain pass. I witnessed several large families having picnics amongst their livestock on the grassy rolling hills that surrounded the road. Throughout the mountain passes we would drive in the vicinity of small villages where the children would spot me and enthusiastically run along the bus in order to catch a glimpse of the strange looking foreigner. Many of the children wore green baseball caps with “Pakistan” and a white star printed on the front. When the bus occasionally stopped, I noticed that the villagers greeted each other by first the woman kissing the man’s hand and second the man kissing the woman’s hand. I poked my camera out the window and took a couple of photos of the kids surrounding the bus, a few of the young girls seemed repulsed, scared, and furious, while others smiled and eagerly crowded toward my window. Their faces were dirty; their clothes near deterioration, and a surprising number were cross eyed (which often suggest incestuous behavior…….)

The rural mountain villages along the isolated dirt road consisted of clusters of mud shacks alongside lush green fields of grazing yaks. The people that gathered around the bus at each stop looked weathered, worn down, and had dry chapped hands. Despite their physical appearance, they did exhibit an exuberance of happiness. Each person returning to their village was greeted with ecstatic reactions and an abundance of smiles. Many of these villages were far from electricity, and generally seemed to be self sustained.

The village at the top of the pass was called Shandur and consisted of little more than a polo field and a tea shack. Apparently Shandur hosts several important polo games each year. Leading up to Shandur was a series of steep grassy marshes filled with grazing yaks. A couple of times we dropped off shepherds equipped with camping gear at desolate fields tens of miles from the nearest village. Shandur was surrounded by rolling hills of lush green grass and lined with massive snow capped mountains. The Yaks grazing near the road would lift their bushy tails and athletically sprint away from the road as the bus slowly crept up the hill. I was actually quite surprised to see how agile and athletic the yaks were. They would raise their tails and sprint around the fields like hyper gazelles; quite impressive for such a large beast.

After a quick tea break in Shandur we began our descent into the desolate and seemingly inaccessible Lasper Valley. The road began to get sketchier and sketchier as we made our way down a frightening series of cut backs. Several times the bus driver had to send his assistant outside in front of the bus in order to guide us along the narrow road. We were literally a 7inch landslide away from disaster and death. The 300ft cliffs on the edge of the road made my heart race with fear. This was by far the most dangerous road I had ever been on. The road was cut into an unstable mountainside of falling rock, and was barely wide enough to hold a vehicle. The collapsing sections of the road produced the frightful appearance of a serrated knife.

I breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the village of Mustouch, home of the 5^th and final police check point before Chitral. Each time there was a police check point; I was forced off the bus to fill out a form (Visa #, Passport #, destination, etc.) and answer a few simple questions. Most of the police I encountered along the way were friendly and gave me little hassle.

It was now 7:00pm and we had traveled only 262 kilometers from Gilgit. Which means the bus was traveling at an average speed of around 15 miles per hour.

After the police check point the bus continued for another 20 minutes before stopping indefinitely. Apparently this was the end of the road, but we were still 114km from Chitral. The road was too windy, rough, and narrow to handle a small bus; from Mustouch onward the roads were only accessible by jeep.

I was absolutely exhausted by this point and I felt as if I had a stomach full of jagged rocks. My options were to either stay in Mustouch for the night and catch a jeep to Chitral in the morning, or to simply keep the party going and continue my journey. I decided to go with the latter; I was horribly fatigued, but wanted to get it all out of the way in order to wake up fresh and rested in Chitral.

I was not actually hungry, but my painfully empty stomach yearned for substance; so I decided to try and track down a bite to eat. After a quick exploration of the desolate mountain village, I came across an old wooden shack selling groceries and shoes. There were very few consumables in the place besides peanuts and stale cookies;….I opted for the dusty box of milk I scoped out on the floor near the worn down combat boots. Boxed milk never really goes bad does it? The 8oz box of milk was covered with dirt and was a bit rough around the edges, but I had irrational confidence that it was legit, so I made the purchase. After pounding the box of fermented dairy poison I was off to find a ride to Chitral.

I easily tracked down a man with an extra seat in his old beat up land cruiser and hopped aboard. We left Mustouch at around 7:30pm, at which point I soon discovered that the jeep trail to Chitral was pretty much insane. We drove along the thin barely visible jeep trail, over the top of landslides, through deep streams, and around recently fallen boulders that obstructed our path. The ride was bumpy, terrifying, and slow going, however we were definitely making progress.

9:05pm- we stopped in ParWak, a desolate village consisting of a small makeshift gas station and a few mud shacks. I actually felt quite uneasy about this stop; my mind began racing wildly as worst case scenarios were uncontrollably bouncing around in my skull. Why were we stopping? Perhaps so they could take me into a shack and decapitate me after lecturing me about my “anti-Islamic American Government”. Of course my mentality at this moment was paranoid, ridiculous, and skewed, but in the back of my mind I was fully aware that stranger things had happened.

Should I have felt comfortable with the situation? Is it unnatural for an American to feel a bit uneasy while alone in the darkness of desolate North West Pakistan? I followed the four other men from the jeep up a hill and into a small mud shack with no door. As we entered, the room suddenly became deathly silent. What I visualized upon entering the shack was a mirror image of what the Western media had pounded into my mind. Here was a room full of dirty, bearded, terrorists, with horrible extremist intentions and hearts as cold as ice. Why was I unable to see a room full of kind, gentle, friendly men, conversing about the same sort of life issues we all do while congregating around friends at our local American dive bars? I later felt horrible, guilty, and disgusted about my racist, ignorant, and unfairly presumptuous first impressions.

The dimly lit room was filled with middle aged Pakistani men with dirty clothes and shaggy dark beards. They were all sitting on a foot high wooden platform covered by a dirty Persian rug, smoking hash cigarettes and quietly conversing amongst themselves. At the end of the platform was a prehistoric television set tuned into what looked like the Indian version of Baywatch. Even though the reception made the picture almost unwatchable, several of the men stared at the television with undivided attention. As I stood in silence observing my new surroundings, I could not help but contemplate the possibility that I was in a room of uneducated militants with very strong opinions about the Bush administration.

After about five minutes of suspicious stares, and verbal inquiries directed at my driver, the men lost interest and went back to their Bollywood Baywatch. At the end of the shack was a small mud stove where they were cooking vegetable curry and rice. As I slowly approached the stove an old hunch-backed man stood up off his 6 inch stool and with a weathered smile, graciously offered me his seat. Moments later I was handed a plate of food and a cup of milk tea. The men cordially smiled as they intently observed me consume my gift.

My stomach was in poor form as I desperately tried to choke down each bite of the dry, barely consumable rice and vegetable curry. I felt awkward and rude not being able to finish my meal, so I discretely ditched my plate of food and snuck out the backdoor into the darkness. I awkwardly hid outside in the bushes near the jeep until my jeep-mates were ready to hit the road again. We were back on the road at 9:30pm, tearing through the moonlit trail with frighteningly aggressive tactics.

The next leg of the jeep trail was periodically obstructed by large herds of sheep. I am still unsure whether the shepherds were beginning or ending their day. Why where shepherds herding sheep at 11:30pm? Was it possible that they where working the shepherd graveyard shift? Is there a shepherd graveyard shift? Anyways, my driver became increasingly frustrated by the obstructive flowing rivers of sheep, and constantly yelled out his window at them. Judging by the intensity of his tone and body language, I believe that my driver was threatening the shepherds with some form of violence for obstructing the road.

At about 11:45pm the dirt road finally ended and a paved road began; within a half hour we had arrived at the largest city in the Hindu Kush, Chitral.

The streets of Chitral were quiet, empty, and dimly lit by street lamps. I was dropped off in the center of town, and within 30 minutes was able to find a cheap hotel room to lay my head ($4). The room had peeling green wallpaper, one small cot, a rock hard pillow, and raggedy off-white sheets. The 8x10 windowless room was blazing hot and had one of the most disgusting toilets I had ever seen. It was now 12:30PM………and despite the condition of my hotel room, I felt relaxed, peaceful and ready to sleep. After a cold shower to cool down, I hopped into bed and almost immediately fell asleep.

At 2:30am I woke up suddenly after having a horrible nightmare that I was drowning in a pool of dark sludge. When I woke up I was desperately gasping for air and was choking on a mouth full of vomit. Stomach juices disgustingly sprayed across my chest, legs, and bed as I stood up frantically coughing up the rancid contents of my throat and mouth. My balloon like stomach was bloated and stretched out to the point of bursting. I was scared. The next 6-8 sleepless hours I puked, burped, farted, shat, and laid in my bed painfully deflating. The situation was all very strange, terrifying, and uncomfortable. I was actually afraid to fall asleep because I thought I might die. Perhaps it was a bit silly to think that, but waking up choking on your own vomit is frightening.

5-12-2008

At 11am the young hotel owner suddenly burst into my room and was shocked to see me still lying in bed. I abruptly responded by yelling at him and telling him to get the hell out of my room. I guess that was my wake up call. After a cold shower, I consumed a handful of salty cookies, pounded a quart of iodine flavored water, and was on my way out the door. The streets of Chitral were now bustling, loud, and packed with people. I was in the middle of a large bazaar with shops selling everything from naswar (chewing tobacco) to machine guns. As I wandered through the busy streets of Chitral, I was constantly presented with curious stares intermixed with warm smiles and guiltless curiosity. Eventually I made my way past a cluster of armed soldiers and across a small bridge to the jeep-station on the far end of town.

Upon arrival, I was quickly befriended by Timuk a 21 year old college student from the Kalasha valley. He had been studying economics and English in Peshawar and was eager to converse with me in English. With pride and enthusiasm he began telling me all about his village of Bumboret and how I should definitely visit the Kalasha Valley. His stories intrigued me and immediately sparked my interest. What was the Kalasha Valley? Why had I never heard of this strange place? Timuk told me to take a jeep to the Kalasha valley and that he would meet me the following day to show me around his village. I accepted his offer without hesitation and immediately boarded a small double-cab pick up truck heading to Bumboret.

{The Kalasha valley consists of three small villages tucked away deep in the folds of the Hindu Kush. The total population of the three villages (Bumboret, Rumber and Birir) is around 3,500 people. The Kalasha valley is extraordinarily unique because of its one of a kind language, religion, and culture that has been incredibly maintained throughout its history.}

I was astonished by how many people we could fit in the pickup truck. Five other people and I sat facing each other on bench seats in the bed of the truck, 6 people occupied the seats inside the truck, and 6 other people stood on the bumper hanging off the back. It was quite impressive that this truck was able to take such abuse; we were like a bunch of monkeys clinging to a safari jeep.

The Hindu Kush was absolutely beautiful. The road between Gilgit and Chitral seamed to be geologically forced within one long jagged mountain valley. However, once we entered Chitral the canyon magnificently open up into a series of deeply cut mountain valleys surrounded by enormous hills and dominant snow capped peaks. The area was lush, green, and justifiably under populated.

It is hard to believe that a place like this still exists in the world; an area so desolate, inaccessible and implausible that a community as culturally and ethnically diverse as the Kalash has been able to remain intact and avoid the sharp destructive claws of globalization and religious oppression. How were the people of the Kalasha valley able to avoid religious and cultural coercion and persecution throughout their long history? How were they able to avoid urbanization and forced conformity? My only hypothetical answer to this question is that the tremendously isolated location of the Kalasha valley has adequately preserved their culture by forcefully maintaining a unique, simple, desolate, but sustainable lifestyle of the villagers.

After a long stretch of wavy road that plowed deeply through thick green vegetation high along the mountainside, we began a descent into the small barely accessible town of Ayun (20km from Chitral). Ayun is situated at the base of a valley, between a large river and the sharp, rocky mountainside that breaks slightly making a heavens gate entryway to the Kalasha Valley. Ayun at first glance(my) is a very primitive looking town of dusty dirt roads, shale roofed mud shacks, and skeptical locals. Groups of tired and weathered looking men squatted together in front of the meat markets and curiously observed the passers by. Most men on the streets of Ayun wore dirty shalwar kameezes, Chitrali caps, and large checkered turbans around their necks.

After passing through Ayun we began to climb higher and deeper into the mountainside on an increasingly narrow dirt road. The road followed the rim of a steep canyon on a trail blasted out of solid rock. After about 30 minutes we arrived at a police check point where I was asked to fill out a form, pay a registration fee, and answer a few questions. Apparently it was mandatory that I register with the police station in Chitral before entering the Kalasha Valley. After a bit of confusion on both ends of the conversation, the police decided to let me through as long as I promised to return the following day to Chitral and register.

The rocky dirt road cut gently onward through the narrow canyon to an increasingly desolate location. The road was barely wide enough for a jeep, and often hugged the edge of 100-150ft cliffs. Parts of this road were down right terrifying, but being able to look forward and see just how deep we were into such a marvelous canyon was amazing. I felt as if I were driving into the unknown, a place where no white man had gone before, a true expedition. Of course this was far from the truth, but nonetheless being in such an isolated area and foreseeing cultural discovery and adventure, raised my spirits significantly and enchanted my soul.

The scenery became more and more beautiful as the canyon began to open up into a lush green valley of fruit trees, grassy fields, grazing goats, and sporadically placed mountain shacks. I had no idea what to expect when entering the Kalasha Valley; I only knew that it would be culturally different, and situated in a very beautiful, lush, secluded mountain valley.

The first time my eyes gazed upon a Kalash woman I felt indescribable exhilaration. Through the thick plum trees about 30yds away from the road, I saw an old woman standing like an angel near the edge of her garden. She had long, dark, exotically braided hair, with a colorful, beautifully beaded headdress that wrapped around her head like a halo and draped down her back. She wore many bright colored necklaces around her neck and a long black dress edged with thick colorful patterns. Something about that opening visual really moved me. I felt that I had finally seen something pure and different, something so unique that it shattered the MTV-CNN-FOX-CORPORATE- bullshit of my generation, and produced a glimpse of cultural purity that I had never seen before. It was like going on a long hike through a desolate mountainside and suddenly coming across an American Indian wearing a beautiful headdress, and traditional clothing; but this Indian was of a lost tribe, unaware of the pushes and pulls of today, unaware of the unavoidable cultural oppression and dilution of our modern world. Imagine that this Indian was part of a tribe that was located so deep into the forests that it had been completely untouched by the outside world, and able to remain free from the poisons of our modern, corporate, greedy, rapid paced, ugly, urbanized and selfish modern societies.

I am not so naïve as to think that I had discovered a culture unscathed by modern society, however I am convinced that the Kalasha Valley is one of the few places in the world that has remained culturally pure throughout the years, and I pray that this will not soon change.

After being dropped off at the bottom of Bumboret, I slowly walked up the dusty road soaking in what I could of the magical atmosphere. Each time I saw a local villager, I was taken back by their stunningly decorated attire, and their ability to completely ignore my presence. Children ran up and down the dirt road playing with a short stick and an 8inch wide wire wheel. They would guide the wire wheel upright while moving it along with their stick. The girls would giggle and play together in the grass fields along the narrow stream that zigzagged every so often across the main road. Women were working in the fields and socializing while washing laundry along the river bank. Clothes were scattered amongst flat, bleached white river rocks, radiantly drying in sun. I find it a quite challenging to describe in words just how uniquely Kalash women present themselves. Their clothing and accessories are made out of bright joyful colors; their hair is braided into a very distinctive and exotic style. The hairstyles of the young girls are even more peculiar; they often have a shaved head except for two long braids, one on the front, and one on the back of their heads. The front braid is always tucked behind one of their ears and draped down the side of their kneck. The Kalash men wore regular Shalwar Kameezes and Chitrali caps as they rebuilt parts of the road and looked after sheep along the rocky hillside. The only cultural difference in their clothing was the feather they wore sewn into the front of their Chitrali cap that signified they were Kalash(not Muslim).

My initial observations of Bumboret exceeded my expectations significantly. I immediately began to realize that this would by far be the most interesting and significant section of my journey. In a way, being in the Kalasha valley gave me a boost of energy and added drive to continue my exploration; but it also presented a peak of greatness and amazement that perhaps I will never again be able to reach.

After a quick observation of my surroundings, I came across a small guest house where I dropped off my bag and decided to check in. There was no electricity or plumbing, but the price was right and it included two meals per day. Despite the excitement and exhilaration I was feeling as a result of my newly found paradise, I was exhausted from lack of sleep, and a bit run down with sickness. After checking in I promptly laid down on my bed and fell asleep. I woke up around 7pm and decided to wander further up the road and explore the area.

The narrow valley had only one poorly maintained jeep trail that cut through the center of the village. The heart of Bumboret is a large cluster of old wooden houses intertwined like shingles on the steep hillside. The houses in the center of the cluster have thick mud/wood roofs that the locals use to congregate and socialize. Each small house appears to have been put together centuries ago using an age old traditional carpentry technique. The large pieces of dark wood used in the construction of the houses, give the homes a very rustic, primitive charm.

5-13-2008

I woke up at 5:30am, ate a quick breakfast and was in a jeep heading to Chitral by 6am. At 8am I arrived in Chitral and was immediately befriended by a young Chitrali cab driver named Mohammed. He guided me to the police station where I spent the next hour shuffling from room to room filling out forms and answering questions. After registering my Mohammed and I did a bit of clothes shopping at the local bazaar. I managed to pick up a baby blue shalwar kameez and another Chitrali cap for under $10. I have personally found that it is prudent to stay low profile in Pakistan. Wearing local clothes, and being cautious and discreet while taking photos is a good way to keep from making waves. As an American in Pakistan, the last thing I want to do is stand out. I have found that having long hair, wearing local clothes, and taking very few photographs has helped me maintain a low profile. If I had a shaved head, wore western clothes, and ran around photographing everything; perhaps my experience in Pakistan would not be quite as pure-safe-pleasant.

I quickly made it back to Bumboret and past the police check point without any problems. I was happy to have made it back to the Kalasha Valley in time to view the beginning of Kalasha Valley’s spring festival dubbed Joshi.

At around 5pm I began walking up the road to the heart of Bumboret. I came across a small green field near a narrow creek where local villagers were practicing their cultural dances. Young boys methodically pounded large drums as the young girls danced together in harmony with interlocked arms. While sitting on a small rock at the edge of the field and observing the dancing; my Kalash friend Timuk slapped me on the back and sat down beside me. He told me that the women were gathering flowers on the mountainside and would be parading down the road soon. Timuk spent the next hour sharing his culture with me by explaining many of the Kalash customs and traditions.

This is what I learned:

- The Kalash people live only in the 3 villages of the Kalasha valley.

-Language: the people of the Kalasha Valley speak a unique unwritten language called Kalash.

-Religion: They practice a pagan religion called Kalash. They often sacrifice goats for various reasons to please their god Mohadeo. Most serious religious ceremonies take place at their spiritual house called the Gestikan. The Gestikan is full of animal figures and effigies, and is a place commonly used for birth and death rituals. The Malosh is a holy place near the village where sacrifices are commonly made to Mohadeo. They believe in only one god, but a god with several deities that protect various aspects of life.

-Birth: - A holy ritual is performed at the Gestikan and a goat is sacrificed.

-Death:- if the deceased age is 10 years or older, all three Kalash villages will congregate and sacrifice 50-70 goats and a few cows. The body is placed in the Gestikan for two days, villagers visit the body during this period in order to pay their respects. The leaders/elders of each village will give speeches about the life and accomplishments of the deceased. The villagers then have a large feast of cheese, bread and joosh (boiled goat), they use up 40-50 bags of flower during the celebration. They also drink their fair share of home made wine and brandy during the funeral ceremonies. Bodies are buried in the village graveyard called the modokjol.

-Women: wear traditional clothes at all times. They produce all their clothing by hand and are all masters of their craft. Small tattoos on the faces of women are a sign of beauty and maturity.

-All women are considered unclean during menstruation (5-6 days a month), and are forced out of their homes to a small female only house called the beshali. The beshali has a yard but there is a line in the yard that they are forbidden to cross until they are “clean”. They are not to be touched by anyone during this period, and are not allowed to converse with other men.

-After childbirth, the Kalash woman must go through a purity ritual, and is sent to the beshali for ten full days.

-Marriage: Kalash villagers usually get married between the ages of 18-22.

Women are expected to maintain their virginity until marriage; men are not.

People get married only after falling in love, marriages are never prearranged. The man will surprise the woman and her family by randomly kidnapping her, after they elope the families will then meet. The families then have a month to get to know each other and to agree with the marriage and decide the dowry (gift from groom’s parents). After this is settled, they will perform a ritual, and sacrifice a goat to make the marriage official.

Festivals: The Kalash celebrate several festivals, most have to do with the beginning of harvest seasons. Timuk’s favorite festival is Chomus. It takes place December 18-20, and each family must sacrifice a goat for the celebration. The festival is full of dancing, eating, and drinking mass quantities of home made wine. (I imagine this is why Timuk likes it so much).Joshi festival is the festival of spring, and lasts an entire week. The heart of the festival is between May 13^th-16^th. Each of the three villages hosts one day of the festival with a large dance and celebration.

-Bumboret is the largest of the Kalash villages, and Birir is the smallest(Rumber is obviously somewhere in the middle).

Where on earth did they come from??????

-There are three accepted theories to this question, however they have all remained inconclusive.

1) They are descendants of Alexander the Great’s soldiers, which makes them more or less Macedonian immigrants. This is plausible because Alexander the Great did in fact trample through Northern Pakistan sometime during the 4^th century BC. He was also known to have occasionally planted groups of soldiers to start cities throughout his conquered lands. And of course the Kalash people generally have quite fair skin

2) They are from Asia, and migrated from the Nuristan area of Afghanistan.

3) The Kalash people migrated to Afghanistan from a place in South-Asia that the Kalash people call Tsiyam. The land of Tsiyam is talked about in Kalash folk songs, and their epic stories.

After a fascinating and very educational conversation with Timuk, we started walking up the road toward the Kalash women. We soon met them on the narrow dirt path and watched them slowly drift by with beauty and grace. The women were singing a very serene mantra as they marched down the hill in unison. While gliding in sync, they clutched each others shoulders with one hand, and carried a bouquet of yellow mountain flowers in the other. I felt privileged to be with my friend Timuk ,because my association with him allowed the Kalash women to feel at ease, and in essence trust me enough to photograph them. Earlier in the day the same Kalash women would shyly turn away when I approached them. Now they were smiling at me and even posing for photographs. Two of Timuk’s sisters were part of the mini-parade, so being a buddy of Timuk’s really got me in the door. We followed the beautifully dressed women down the hill and to the grass field where everyone danced in unison to the melodic beat of the drums. It felt amazing to be the only tourist experiencing such an incredible event.

Later in the evening, Timuk and I walked around his village discussing life, love, and the cultural differences of our two countries. We ended up in the home of his aunt, an old wooden house in the center of the giant hillside colony. The house had two small dirt floor rooms and a small covered patio. Only one of the rooms had a door and was furnished with cots to sleep on. The other small room contained a few wooden trunks, a couple small stools and a tiny stove. Timuk’s Aunt’s home was very simple, yet practical. We sat on small wooden stools on the patio and drank home made apricot brandy while snacking on walnuts and dried apricots. Our conversation was very limited due to the massive language barrier, but thankfully, kindness and hospitality can be expressed without spoken words. Timuk’s Aunt generously presented me with a beautiful thin decorative chest-band as a gift for being a guest in her home. I was blown away by her amazing generosity and warmth toward such an outsider like myself.

Next we headed to Timuk’s house where I was greeted cordially by his mother and sisters. The house was quite similar to his aunt’s home, but had one small extra room for socializing. The room was 8x8ft and had a small hole in the ceiling that let in enough sunlight to light the room (neither home had electricity or plumbing). The dark wooden walls were covered with pictures of bollywood actors in revealing clothing. I was invited to sit down on the small straw matt of the “social room” and was immediately presented with walnuts and homemade wine. My new Kalash friend kept cracking the walnuts for me and presenting me with the flesh of the nut. He always treated me as a brother, and displayed kindness and generosity graciously. Not long after sitting down, Timuk and I made a toast and pounded our glasses of wine. He followed the toast by pouring us each a glass of homemade apricot brandy. A few minutes later his mother entered the dimly lit room and presented me with a blue and yellow bracelet as well as a pink and orange chest-band. After the evening winded down, I gratefully thanked my hosts and made plans to meet Timuk the following morning.

Words cannot describe how incredible I felt as I walked home from the heart of Bumboret. I had spent the evening as a guest in the homes of some of the most hospitable, kind, and unique people I have ever met. Despite feeling relatively ill throughout the day, I feel confident in saying that this was by far the most pleasant and memorable night of my journey thus far. I fell asleep feeling a strange almost spiritual sensation that consumed my mind and body. I was feeling a level of contentment and blissful happiness that I have not been able to attain since my early childhood. It sounds a bit strange to be affected this way by a simple evening, but in reality this was the zenith of my journey. It was a moment of bliss that made all the food poisoning, bumpy bus rides, horrendously long train rides, frozen midnight walks, cold stares, police shake-downs and repetitive political debates worth it. Traveling long distances, months at a time along unpolished and unreliable paths is ridiculously challenging. But in the end; the experience, knowledge, and insight gained is absolutely priceless. People explore the unbeaten path despite enduring endless amounts of self inflicted hardships simply because “the ends always justify the means”.

5-14-2008

I woke up smiling at 7am and by 8am was on the roof of Timuk’s aunt’s house drinking milk with the locals. Today was “milk day” of the Joshi festival, so the un-pasteurized goat milk flowed like wine. After hanging for a bit with Timuk‘s relatives, we hopped into an old station wagon and were off to Rumber to enjoy the festivities. The crew consisted of Timuk, his brother, two of his cousins and his Muslim friend from Islamabad (Ahmed). The vehicle was uncomfortably packed with sweaty guys and live poultry. In the back of the vehicle were three live chickens that flipped out and flew around the car after each bump we hit. The situation was strange, hilarious and uncomfortable, but fairly enjoyable. It felt great to be part of something so unique and unusual. I was thrilled to be in a station wagon with a group of young Kalash men on the way to Rumber’s Joshi celebration. For the first day in close to a week, I felt healthy, rested, and mentally alert.

At 11:30am we arrived in Rumber. Rumber is located about an hour away from Bumboret by jeep. It is nestled away in an adjacent mountain valley, and is equally as desolately located as Bumboret. The extraordinary thing about the Kalasha Valley is that it is geographically hidden, and is located in a vast paradise of natural beauty. The main residence of the people of Rumber is a cluster of wooden houses located near the base of the valley. The festivals take place on top of a flat surface high on the hillside.

Rumber was glowing with exotic charm, as we drove up the final stretch of the trail.

Beautifully dressed Kalash women lit up the dusty mountainside like Christmas tree ornaments. Their colorful and radiant appearance created an enchanted atmosphere of cultural pride and tradition. Rumber was much smaller than Bumboret, and appeared to be even less financially sound. Kalash villagers are very simple, generally poor people that seam to live a near poverty yet peacefully adequate lifestyle. They don’t have much, but their community is so tightly knit that they tend to take care of one another like a giant family.

I immediately noticed that the women of Rumber more commonly had facial tattoos than the Kalash women of Bumboret. The light blue facial tattoos of Kalash women were very small and simple: usually a dot or a dot surrounded by a small circle on their forehead, chin, and one on each cheek. Occasionally a woman would have a small V tattooed between her eyebrows.

After arriving in Rumber the entourage and I walked across a small wooden bridge and past a primitive but clever hydro-powered flower mill before arriving at Timuk’s cousin’s place. We greeted our friendly Kalash hosts by saying “Shpata Baba (to a woman)” and “Shpata Bya(to a man); this means hello/greetings in Kalash. The crew and I then sat down on the floor in one of the rooms and were soon presented with homemade apricot brandy. The strong brandy loosened my mind and enhanced my already euphoric feelings of happiness and cultural absorption. For the next hour and a half, we sat on the floor in a circle drinking Kalash moonshine and conversing like old pals. Timuk was the only guy in the room who spoke fluent English, but the other guys were able to ask me questions through Timuk’s interpreting.

By 2pm we were all starving, thankfully the women had just finished preparing and cooking the chickens we brought over; lunch was ready. We enjoyed a pleasant meal of goat cheese, pita bread and chicken before heading out to the celebration. My host insisted I eat the majority of the chicken; again I was bombarded with selfless and unrivaled hospitality.

The festival took place high up on the hillside of Rumber. The shade was scarce and the sun was beating down hard upon us. The Kalash women of Rumber danced around to the beats of drums, chanting quietly while visibly getting lost in the moment. They locked into each other shoulder to shoulder while dancing in a drawn out circle, skipping their feet in unison with awkward sideways steps. Near the dancing square was a large cluster of wooden shacks where people stood around, observed, and socialized in the unrelenting heat. I was not alone at the festival, there were close to a dozen tourists and professional photographers lingering around the dance circle. I felt that the photographers were at times a bit too intrusive and culturally insensitive. However, I had no problem sharing my cultural experience with these other people; it was obvious to me that everyone there that day was completely affected by the beauty, grace, and purity of the festival’s atmosphere.

I returned back to my guest house not long after nightfall and spent the rest of the evening writing in my journal on the front patio. The moon was bright and the stars magically lit up the sky in a very special way. A group of Muslim men with long beards and dusty faces sat beside me talking amongst themselves and smoking hash cigarettes.

{They empty their cigarettes, roll bits of hash into the tobacco, reload the cigarette and smoke away}

I had a hard time sleeping that night; I could not stop thinking about my recent experiences. I was profoundly impacted by the last two days, and will never forget their significance. I was incredibly lucky to have come across Timuk at the jeep-station in Chitral, and to have been introduced to the Kalasha Valley. I have no doubt in my mind that I will return to the Kalasha Valley someday.

5-15-2008

I woke up early, grabbed a quick breakfast and was in a jeep headed to Chitral by 6am. I arrived in Chitral at 8am, and proceeded to hike to the main bus station about a 20min walk away. At 8:40am I was on a bus headed to Peshawar 12 brutally painful hours away,………….thankfully I was blessed with the worst seat in the house. I was seated in the far back corner of the mini-bus, the invasive wheel well took up pretty much all the potential leg room, it sucked……………

Here are a few pics:

40km past Gilgit

Batman kid:

Village kids on the mountain pass between Gilgit and Chitral

Guest house crew

The trail going into the Kalasha valley

Ayun Villagers up

Women of Bumboret down.

Trail into Bumboret UP

Bumboret kids:

Kalash Shepherd

Old Kalash woman training the youth, Bumboret

Kalash women with mountain flowers

In the residential area of Bumboret

-Timuk's sister and child at his home in Bumboret:

Timuk, and his aunt at her home:

The Kalash crew in Rumber:

Rumber:

Rumber Villagers:

Hydro-powered flower mill in Rumber:

The KKH (Karakoram Highway)

2008-08-18T12:36:00.000-07:00

-China to Pakistan-

I left Kashgar at 12:30pm on a bus to Sost Pakistan. Sost is the first town/customs post on the Pakistani side of the Khunjerab pass. The Khunjerab Pass peaks out at 16,002ft and is considered the highest “paved” pass in the world. Khunjerab means ‘valley of blood’, and gets its name from the reputation it had during the Silk Road period. Historically this pass was home to generations of thieves and murderers who constantly attacked, slaughtered, and looted passing caravans along this important stretch of the ancient Silk Road. The landscape, geography and harsh weather kept this pass exclusively for the use of only the most determined, hardy and brave caravans. It was not until recent years that this pass became accessible to motor vehicles. In the late 20^th century the governments of China and Pakistan decided that it would be sensible to create a road between the two countries in order to facilitate an overland trade route between the two countries. After 20 years of brutal labor the KKH (Karakoram Highway) was completed in 1986. The Highway follows the ancient Silk Road path and connects Western China’s Xinjiang province to Havelion, Pakistan 1,300km away. The highway, which must have seemed impossible to construct 50 years ago; cuts directly through the rugged Karakoram Mountains. The Highway was successfully built as a joint venture between China and Pakistan, and is known in China as the “friendship highway”. Despite the engineering feat, and all around success of the project, many lives were lost during construction; mostly due to land slides and falls (810 Pakistanis, 82 Chinese deaths).

My recent marathon travel was thoroughly wearing on me; however, I was able to fight through the exhaustion with a bit of adrenaline produced by my anticipation, fear, and excitement for the unknown. The thought of traveling on the famed KKH to Pakistan was enough to keep me alert, attentive, and happy throughout the 7 hour bus ride from Kashgar to Tash-Kurgan. The incredible scenery and remarkable landscape also helped keep me conscious.

As the road began to ascend up the KKH and through the Pamir Plateau (3,000M); I suddenly realized that my fatigue had vanished. While gazing out the window I witnessed some of the most breathtaking scenery I had ever seen. Crystal blue mountain lakes surrounded by clusters of Yurts, caravans of double humped camels climbing through glowing white sand dunes, jagged cut mountains tops, deep sharp crevasses being slowly shredded down by steep massive glaciers, endless views of bleached white salt flats that added exotic diversity to the landscape of mountain lakes, sandy dunes and grassy marshes filled with grazing yaks

My bus arrived in Tash-Kurgan (12,000ft) at around 6:30pm. Tash-Kurgan is beautifully located in a desolate valley between large horse shoe shaped ranges of snow capped mountains. We were forced to stop here for the night because the Chinese customs and the border itself had long since been closed for the day. I ended up finding a trashy hotel, and sharing a 3 bed dorm room with a couple tourists from my bus. The price was right ($2), however it was lacking the one thing I desired most; a shower. I had not bathed or changed clothes for five long, exhausting, sweaty days, so a bit of clean up was definitely in order. I tracked down a banya near my hotel and spent the next hour vigorously scrubbing my body with soap and hot sulfur smelling water. The shower facility I rented was a dark 4x8ft room of rusty pipes, and crumbling concrete. Green algae coated the lower half of the walls where all of the baby blue paint had chipped and pealed away.

After my shower I was refreshed and ready to continue my journey into the unknown……and presumably unsafe. After meeting up with a couple of Korean girls and a Canadian guy from my bus, we grabbed a quick meal and hit the sack.

5-6-2008

I woke up at 3am freezing cold with a pounding headache and ruthless diarrhea; probably just a mixture of mild AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) and bad food. I began my day at 8am by running a few errands around town, AKA: spending what was left of my Chinese currency on snacks for the road. The bus left at 9am but did not clear Tash-Kurgan’s customs until around 11:30am.

The windy cut backs up the KKH to the Khunjerab pass were amazing. We drove through a steep mountain valley of green-brown fields. Yaks and goats grazed throughout the barren seemingly uninhabitable mountainside. Yurts and mud shacks were scattered sparsely along the steep rocky slopes and alongside the curvy river, providing shelter for the rugged inhabitants. The massive, sharply formed, dark, snow peaked mountains gently kissed the bright blue sky and seemed to create an impenetrable barrier between China and Pakistan.

After a couple military check points, and a relatively gradual climb we had reached the top of the Khunjerab pass 16,002ft. The air was noticeably thin, and the view was exactly what you would expect……..absolutely phenomenal. After a short break on top of the pass, the bus continued down the Pakistani side of the KKH.

At the very peak of the Khunjerab pass, at the point where China meets Pakistan; there is a distinct line across the road that provides a very vivid contrast and clue of what is to come. The newly paved road on the Chinese side abruptly stops where the Pakistani KKH begins; smooth sailing is over and the uncertainty begins.

As we descended down the KKH into Pakistan the bus traveled at a very sluggish pace. This was due to the many road obstacles we encountered: giant potholes, streams, bumpy unpaved sections, landslides that covered half the narrow road and giant recently fallen boulders that obstructed our direct route down the wildly sketchy road. The road descended in a series of sharp cut backs that seemed on most occasions quite dangerous. The margin of error was slim; the slightest driving error on the narrow road would send our bus tumbling off a 200+ft cliff. The pass is closed most of the year do to dangerous and unpredictable weather conditions, but was opened the first of May; 5 days ago.

The final stretch of the bus ride was by far my favorite. After surviving the stomach turning cut backs, we made it to the bottom of the canyon where we drove past a couple of USA army officers near the edge of the raging river; not sure what they were doing there. At this point the road simply followed the river that cut deep into the steep rocky canyon. The narrow, near vertical, geologically diverse canyon was amazing. I opened the window and peered my head out in astonishment each time the bus turned a corner and opened visibility to another bend of the canyon.

At 1:00pm we reached Sost (we gained 3 hours), where I spent the next couple hours working my way through customs. When I finally cleared customs my heart was pumping and my mind was racing wildly. I was here, (Pakistan) a land of incredible natural beauty, deeply diverse culture, warm hospitality, and peppered with a bit of Islamic extremism. My rapidly pumping heart and increasing levels of adrenaline made it more than easy to ignore the immediate dangers of the latter.

I have traveled extensively in several Islamic republics and have found them to be in most cases safer, more hospitable, warmer, and friendlier than the Western countries I have visited. I feel quite strongly that the Western/American media has painted an unfair portrait of Islam. The fact is that Islamic extremism is not at all representative of Islam as a whole. The Taliban, Al Qaeda, and other Islamic extremist groups are simply a small minority of uneducated, ignorant thugs, with nothing to live for. These Extremist prey on the ignorance of others and use their power to breed hate and false hope. They in no way, shape, or form, come close to representing the peaceful, kind, loving and tolerant Muslim majority. One of the fundamental principals of the Islamic religion is to be hospitable and kind to all people, whether or not they are your friends, strangers, or even enemies.

In the Holy Koran there is a story about a couple of men who traveled many miles in order to assassinate the prophet Mohammed; when they arrived to kill the prophet he greeted them with smiles, opened his home to them, and served them food and water to cure their fatigue. He did this out of the kindness of his heart and in full knowledge of the men’s intentions. Mohammed new that he would be killed by these men, but served them as brothers despite the fact; the men later were so taken back by the prophet’s generosity and kindness, that they decided to spare his life and eventually converted to Islam. What we should all take from this story is that Islamic religion when practiced in a conventional way is as peaceful, warm, and selfless, as any other well accepted religion of our modern world.

When examining other religions such as Christianity, should we judge based on the few or the masses? Is the Catholic priest pedophilia epidemic representative of Christianity or more specifically Catholicism? Are the Christians who bomb abortion clinics a good representation? How about the ones who protest gay pride parades with signs that read “Aids is the cure to Homosexuality”, and “Jesus hates Fags”. Should the crazy, incestuous, polygamists Mormons of Idaho be the sole representation of Mormonism?

Perhaps we should all stop generalizing and stereotyping based on the actions of the distinctly despicable few, and instead begin examining the good of the majority.

Overall Sost did not bring much to the table, so I decided to work my way downstream to the town of Passu. The sun was radiating fiercely through my skull as I nervously walked down the bustling main street to the bus station. After a few quick inquiries I found out that all of the busses to Passu had left before noon. As I walked out of the small gravel parking lot known as the bus station, a scruffy middle aged man sporting a Chitrali cap, a bushy brown beard and a white shalwar kameez (Pakistani clothes: long shirt and baggy pants) approached me. His suspicious eyes cut through me as he offered me a patronizing smile while saying “Asalam ahalikum”(peace be with you), I responded with a nervous smile and “ ahalikum Salam”(and to you). After a brief but awkward moment of silence he asked me in broken English where I was from. I hesitated briefly but then responded firmly by saying that I was from America. I then smiled, and stared at him attentively in order to gage his response. He began stroking his beard and laughing hysterically before tapping me on the shoulder calmly and saying “Al Qaeda big, Al Qaeda big”. I smiled nervously, turned away, and began walking down the road away from the bus station.

How was that supposed to make me feel? Was he merely joking around with me? I had been in Pakistan only a few hours and it appears that I had just been given some sort of vague warning of potential danger to come. My adrenaline shot through the roof, and my heart began pounding so hard that I could hear each beating pulse through the veins in my head. I eventually calmed down by putting a few things in perspective, and hopped in a van heading to Passu.

By the time I had reached Passu, 1.5 hrs down the road by mini-bus; I was calm, happy and excited to be in a land of such natural beauty. Passu is a beautiful, desolate, and barely accessible area of scattered mountain and valley villages. I decided to stay at the Passu Inn with my new Canadian buddy Steve. Steve and I hit it off immediately and shared a lot of the same philosophical ideologies of life and travel. The view from the porch of the Passu Inn was heavenly. I was at the base of the most incredible canyon I had ever seen. A large but relatively dry river bed cut through the center of the narrow valley, while the mountain ridges on both sides dominated the skies with authority. As I stood in front of my hotel I could hardly comprehend what I was seeing in front of me. The mountains were incredibly unique and magnificent. I was gazing at a black, snowy mountain range that seamed near vertical, and was topped with jagged spikes. I found myself wishing I had a geologist beside me to explain just how these mountains were formed.

After a wonderful dinner of vegetable curry and chapatti bread (a dish I later grew tired of), Steve and I decided to explore the area. We ended up hiking about 5 miles up the canyon’s dry river bed before realizing that we were soon to be in complete darkness. Getting back proved to be a slow, scary and dangerous experience. A couple times I found myself in absolute darkness, and hiking cautiously on the edge of a 60ft eroding cliff.

5-7-2008

I woke up at 6:30am, washed a bit of laundry in a rusty metal bucket, ate a quick bite, and was on the trail by 7:45. Steve: Canadian, Ono: Japanese, Matt: French, and I decided to hike to Borut Lake, a small lake in the shadow of Mt. Betura (7,500M). Shortly after beginning our ascent we found ourselves dwarfed by Mt Betura and at the base of the Guglan Glacier. The sun was beating down hard upon us, and the dusty landscape of red sand and rocks provided not the least hint of shade. We caught a break while passing through a small Tajik village near Borut Lake. We noticed a Tajik woman standing in front of her mud shack and staring at us with childlike curiosity; we all smiled at the woman and yelled “Asallam Ahalikum”. She smiled soon after, waved us over, and invited us into her home for tea. The woman and her husband sat us down on the floor and we all sat blissfully in a circle around the small half buried stove in the center of the shack. No words were spoken, only simple hand gestures, miming and friendly smiles were used to aid communication. I shared with them peanuts and sugar cookies, while they provided us with stale wheat bread and scolding hot milk tea. The woman wore a round decorative hat with a flat top, a beautiful purple dress, and uniquely braided hair. Her face and skin was worn and leathery, but her eyes were youthful and gentle. After soaking in the hospitality of our new Tajik friends, we left the isolated Tajik village and headed down to Borut Lake.

The Glacier, Lake, and Tajik hospitality was an incredible part of the day but the highlight for me was the extension bridges. We headed back down the mountain and to the base of the river bed where we came across the sketchiest bridge I had ever seen. I felt like Indiana Jones as I slowly walked across the shoddily constructed bridge. The bridge consisted of narrow cables intertwined with a series of logs and sticks brittle with age. Each stick was placed between 1-3ft apar,t which meant each step had to be taken carefully. The exhilaration I felt while crossing this bridge was incredible, I felt like an explorer on an adventurous mission trekking through unknown habitation.

The next 4-5 hours I hiked through lush green fields of irrigated farm land stopping only briefly for water breaks and pleasantries with the locals. Eventually we made our way to another daredevil extension bridge that crossed back over the river to the other side of the canyon. Before crossing I watched a local woman with an enormous load of grass walk across the bridge without once bracing herself with her hands; this was incredible. Can you imagine watching a middle aged woman with a 60lb load on her back walking across the top of a 150YD set of monkey bars, but the kicker is that the monkey bars move up and down, back and forth, and have loose, unstable bars? So basically, I found this no handed feat quite impressive. I on the other hand grasped each cable side rail firmly as I slowly walked across the bridge praying that each wooden plank would not collapse beneath me and drop me through to the rocky riverbed below me.

Well, the day was awesome, but I foolishly failed to apply sun block to my pasty white skin. As the sun slowly faded, the sky maintained its glow due to my radiating red skin. I looked as if I had spent the entire day submerged in a bucket of red paint. No amount of cream, Chinese pain killers or melatonin pills would help me get to sleep. Each movement irritated my burnt skin and sent a stinging pain through my entire body. This was my first brush in with UV rays at high elevation. Lesson learned.

5-8-2008

After breakfast I hopped aboard an old Suzuki van and headed about an hour down the rock-strewn KKH to the small town of Hunza. I was dropped off on the edge of the highway at 11am and spent the next hour of blistering heat hiking up the steep narrow roads to Hunza. Hunza is an exceptionally beautiful mountain town nestled alongside the brilliant Karakoram Mountains. The people in Hunza and in most of northern Pakistan are culturally and ethnically different than the Pakistani majority. The people in Hunza for example display a culturally unique mountain lifestyle and intentionally segregate themselves from the region’s other minority groups. Their fair skin, strikingly vivacious eyes, and unique dress set them apart from their Pakistani counterparts. Despite their Caucasian appearance, they do in fact follow the conformities of the region. The people of Hunza are religiously and culturally Muslim, and exhibit hospitality, warmth, kindness, and joy in all aspects of their day to day life.

I spent the day of cultural absorption sporting a white Chitrali cap and a traditional long sleeved shirt in order to avoid the forceful rays of the sun, and protect my already toasted skin. I took it easy on my body today; short hikes, a quick exploration of an 800 year old fortress, and several non-verbal conversations with local villagers.

I was only given a three week visa, so unfortunately I was again rushed, and in frantic, see all you can travel mode.

5-9-2008

I started the day by taking a jeep to Alamabad, and later a 9:30am bus to Gilgit. I arrived in Gilget around noon; a small historic town which played a big role during the “Great Game” Era. The town was loud, busy, dirty, and overall quite intimidating. At each street corner there was a small fortress made of sandbags and razor wire. These military posts were guarded 24-7 by soldiers sporting machine guns and thick beards. I felt as if I were in a war zone; the scene reminded me a lot of the militarized down town Beirut (except not quite as clean). This was the first real Pakistani city I had been to, so I knew it would be a whole new ball game. I found it relatively easy to feel at ease in the very moderate northern villages of Pakistan, but entering the heart of the North incited in me new fears and emotions.

It is impossible to ignore the fact that Al Qaeda and the Taliban do in fact have strong operations in Pakistan. And despite the safety, warmth, kindness, and hospitality that surround the majority of Pakistani Muslims; there will always be a possibility that I might brush up against the wrong individual. However, this is definitely not a significant enough deterrent to keep me out of Pakistan. Although it will be prudent for me to exercise caution and good judgment at all times while traveling through this country. I believe that knowledge of the area you are in is important no matter where you might be. It is also important to understand that even though there are risks involved with traveling to certain areas, it does not mean you would be wise in skipping them completely. The world is packed full of potential danger; I believe that we should educate ourselves and take calculated risks constantly rather than live a risk free, seemingly safe life clouded by ignorance and fear.

-Just because there are more than 1,000 murders in Los Angeles(County-Population 10 million), California annually, does not mean it is unsafe to take your kids to Disneyland.

I felt intimidated and nervous as I wandered around Gilgit lost and confused trying to track down a place to stay. The few curious stares I came across were countered adequately by the smiles and greetings of friendly locals. One young man around 20 years old approached me suddenly and offered to help me find a place to crash. Tamir worked in a local bank and was part of a wealthy family in Gilgit (he even had his own car). He also was studying English at a nearby language institute and was more than eager to practice his English with a native speaker. After checking into my hotel, he offered to take me around town and show me the historical sights of Gilgit. Tamir and I began with a short hike up a rocky canyon to the site of a couple ancient Buddha’s carved in the stone. Later we shared a late lunch of vegetable curry and rice. We ended up spending the entire day together cruising around town discussing religion, politics, and women. Mohammed, a devout Muslim, was incredibly open minded, intelligent and eager to soak up all the knowledge and experience he could.

The highlight of the day was going to a local park and playing cricket and football (soccer) with the locals. I didn’t quite understand Cricket, but found hitting to be quite easy and nearly identical to baseball. All the locals greeted me warmly and were more than willing to allow me a spot on their team. There were at least 5 Cricket games going on at any given time on the large grass field, it was quite the sight.

Pakistanis love cricket: obviously a simple but lasting product of British colonization. After the Brits left India in the early 1950s(officially ended its occupation in 1947), Pakistan was formed as a way to create independence for the large group of Indian Muslims. Despite breaking the country in two, and creating the Hindu-Muslim split; cricket and other British influences remained in both countries.

My initial fear and nervousness associated with Pakistan’s extremist reputation had completely melted away by the end of my first day in Gilgit. The people were absolutely amazing, and greeted me with open arms not unlike the wonderful people of Albania, Kosovo, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, and Islamic Central Asia. It is impossible to ignore the fact that, though Muslims are normally quite conservative, and firmly religious, their openness, compassion, and humanity are generally admirable.

Today gave me a second wind; I now feel that I am able continue my journey without losing motivation and burning out. I feel remarkably refreshed, happy, and enlightened. I feel proud to be in a country that the West shuns as violent and extremist, and to be able to see first hand how misleading and harmful the Western/American media can be toward Islamic Republics. I feel personally obligated to share my first hand experiences in order to promote a more truthful reputation and understanding of the people of Pakistan. I am now sitting peacefully in my hotel room examining and contemplating in bewilderment, just how a country like Pakistan could get such a horrible international reputation. How are these reputations formed?

Perhaps the answer is obvious:……………- a recent history of prominent Terrorist Cells, Islamic radicals grooming youth in extremist madressas, and sporadic violent terrorist attacks on Western/American military-diplomats-aid-tourists.

Exactly how many bad apples does it take to spoil the bunch? When comparing a country like Pakistan (population 150 million) to a randomly chosen 25 US states (assuming you were able to split USA’s population in half this way), what sort of comparison would we see when correlating both country’s crime index; specifically violent crime? Without even doing the research and punching the numbers I can tell you with confidence that the USA has substantially more violent crime than Pakistan. The United States has one of the highest crime rates in the world, yet we are somehow able to avoid the harmful reputation. How is this possible? Are cracked out drug dealers for some reason less imposing and dangerous than Islamic extremists? A foreseen answer to those questions is that Islamic extremists attack indiscriminately and tend to kill in the masses, but perhaps we are forgetting about American shitheads like McVeigh and Ramirez.

Driving down the wrong street in LA or NYC is no less dangerous than driving through the tribal areas between Peshawar, Pakistan and the Afghan border. Anyone can be in the wrong place at the wrong time, no matter what country you are in. So why are we so afraid of Islamic countries? It doesn’t quite make the headlines like it once did, but the fact is that minorities including homosexuals still occasionally get lynched in the USA. Perhaps an interesting correlation would be to find out the number of lynchings/hate crimes in the USA during 2007, divide it by 2, and then compare it to the number of foreigners or ethnic minorities murdered in Pakistan in the year 2007. I will make the assumption that the USA gets the grand prize.

-Quick Fact: in 2006 there were 17,034 murders in the USA(Population 300million)

-Current Population of Pakistan is 164 million

-I challenge anyone reading this to test this theory.

I made it back to my hotel/Hostel at around 6pm and spent the next couple hours relaxing with a book. At around 9pm I wandered out of my hotel and down the loud smoky streets to a dark alleyway where I found a few locals making kebabs. I bought a couple kebabs (meat patties), a cucumber, a couple pieces of chapatti bread, and washed it all down with a warm/hot mountain dew. The kebabs were amazing; the flavor reminded me of Turkey’s famous Adana Kebabs. The only drawback to the situation was that I bought the food at a back alley street restaurant, and due to the dim lights was not completely sure just how thorough the meat had been cooked.

The Nausea began at about 11pm………..followed shortly after by a bit of bloating and sweating. The rotting meat in my stomach began slowly filling my chest with gases and causing my mind to struggle with consciousness. By 4am I had “expelled” pretty much everything I had eaten that day, and despite the ferociously hot temperature of my hotel room, I was shivering uncontrollably. At 5am I decided to take control of the situation by swallowing 1000mgs of Cipronal. I am not very happy with this decision;………… instead of “killing all the bacteria”, it simply made my throat burn and my mouth taste like aspirin each time I puked thereafter. My previous optimistically high level of happiness, excitement, and morale had gone drastically down hill. I was now laying alone in a shitty hotel, puking, shitting, and shivering in the fetal position, all while mentally slapping myself in the face for eating Gilgit’s mischievously delicious street food. I am not sure why I do it to myself;………………..Why is it that I tend to make the same mistakes over and over? Perhaps I should have learned from past experiences, that back alley restaurant establishments in underdeveloped countries do not serve the safest meat. Eating at these places is like playing Russian roulette, disaster is always a very real possibility.

5-10-2008

After a horrendous night of pain, depression, and sleepless physical misery; I decided it would be wise to postpone my journey to Chitral. I had planned on taking the 8am bus 15+ hours to the North-Western city of Chitral, situated in the renowned Hindu Kush. However, I was in no condition to travel and was instead forced to lye in bed all day suffering in agonizing silence. The monotony of my day was only interrupted briefly by unpleasant trips to the filthy toilet (hole in the floor) and periodic sips of chlorine flavored water.

At 8pm a guy from the hotel staff visited my room to make sure I was still alive. Apparently I had disrupted the sleep of another guest by noisily “expelling” rotten meat throughout the previous evening.

The worst part of having food poisoning is the recovery process; there is nothing more irritating than having your body cramp with hunger while your stomach and mind adamantly refuse to entertain the idea of consuming food. It would be so much more convenient if my whole body was on the same page. If the thought of food makes me nauseous, why is it that hunger physically prohibits my body from relaxing.

5-11-2008

I woke up at 6:15am feeling refreshed after a long night of melatonin (pills) induced sleep. After checking out of my hotel, I began the 4 mile walk to the bus station. The hotel owner sympathized with my condition, and kindly offered to carry my bag for me all the way to the bus station. I smiled and thanked him gratefully but refused his offer. Wow, another random act of kindness; I could not believe that this man I barely knew was willing to escort me all the way to the bus station carrying my heavy bag. It is completely refreshing to be around submersed in a culture so selfless, kind, and hospitable.

The streets were quiet and peaceful, vendors were sleeping on the sidewalks beside their carts, old men were sweeping their door steps, and packs of dogs were feasting on piles of rubbish alongside overflowing steel dumpsters. The scene was unfamiliar and pleasant; Gilget had slowed its pace and began to exhibit faces of calmness and repose. Before reaching the bus station, I smiled and said hello (Asallam Ahalikum) to several armed soldiers near their baracades, each of whom initially observed me with suspicious stares, but later with warm smiles.

I arrived at the bus station at 7am, and immediately bought a bus ticket to Chitral ($5). While waiting in front of the bus station a small group of soldiers standing behind a wall of sand bags and razor-wire spotted me and waved me over. As I slowly approached them I was immediately put at ease by their warm smiles and gentle eyes. Their kind faces and friendly demeanor adequately countered the intimidating presence of AK-47s slung over their shoulders. One of the older soldiers with a dark leathery face and an inspiring moustache greeted me in English and asked me what I was doing in Gilgit. After explaining to them that I was a tourist and was on my way to Chitral, he nodded with understanding and yelled something in Urdu (Pakistan’s official language) to one of his men, who quickly nodded with acknowledgment and ran off up the dusty road. About five minutes later the soldier returned to the makeshift mini-fortress with a small serving plate containing a cup of milk tea and some sort of wheat-sugar-gelatin dish. The soldiers promptly set up a chair and small table for me and told me to sit down while presenting me with the small tray. I was completely shocked, here I was hanging out with a few Pakistani soldiers whom immediately befriended me and treated me as if I were an honored guest. For the next 30 minutes I sat and drank tea while answering various questions about American culture and government. I was surprised to hear them tell me over and over again that they liked the USA, and that we (Americans) have made their country better. Presumably they felt this way because we had helped them a great deal after the disastrous earthquake of 2005; or perhaps because of our dominant efforts to expunge terrorism and Islamic extremism from Pakistan. I didn’t want to pry too deeply into their reasoning, I was simply pleased and elated to be visiting with a group of armed Islamic men who actually liked my government;………………….quite rare this day and age.

After thanking all the soldiers by smiling and bowing to them with my hand over my heart; I boarded the crowded mini-bus. Within minutes we had left the KKH and Gilgit behind and were heading West toward the rugged mountain passes leading to the Hindu Kush.

{Update: I should probably add that I wrote most of this blog months ago.............. currently Pakistan is quite volatile and in many areas unstable and unsafe. It goes without saying that traveling in war zones is generally not safe, however the message of the above blog is intended to voice that Islamic countries are not unsafe, but simply misrepresented and misunderstood. The best current example would be Syria.......... represented as unsafe and extreme by Western Media, but in actuality quite calm, safe, and peaceful.

A few pics of the KKH:

Yurts in front of lake Karokol-Chinese side of the KKH

Views on the way up the KKH(China)

The Top with Steve:

On the way down, The Pakistani side of the KKH

Passu Extension bridge

View around Passu:

The hike around Passu:

Hunza:

at the old fortress-

on my way out-

the old fortress-

Gilgit with Tamir:

China

2008-08-02T17:23:00.000-07:00

-China-

4-7-2008

The ride itself to Kashgar from the Kyrgyz-Chinese border was far from pleasant, and as a whole, rather awkward. I sat high off the highway in the passenger seat of a large red semi-truck driven by a middle aged Ugher man with a leathery face and a long wiry goatee. Besides a few monotonous smiles from my new friend, our communication was utterly paralyzed. He spoke only Ugher and Chinese,………..while I was relying solely on Russian and English for communication,………..so as you can imagine the 4.5 hour journey to Kashgar was a bit dull and uncomfortable. I understand that “beggars can’t be choosers”, and that I should be incredibly grateful for the free ride I was given to Kashgar; However I will add that the broken shocks on the semi-truck ensured a spine wrenching ride. Each time the truck hit a bump (which was often), I was forced to stand in my seat as I braced myself with my arms to absorb the fierce bounce and save my spine as the shocks bottomed out. It became tiring, was rough on the back, and ensured that I was awake and alert the entire drive.

On the brighter side of the spectrum, the shallow valleys and serrated mountains we traversed were completely magnificent. We drove through sharp, jaggedly shaped mountains that glowed in remarkable shades of reds and oranges and seamed to radiate beams of sunlight from within. The surrounding cliffs and mammoth rocks were artistically cut up like Swiss cheese. The geological marvels I bore witness to in route to Kashgar were stunning in all aspects of the word, and seemed incredibly unique. The natural beauty of the land became even more charming when it suddenly became intertwined with seemingly ancient civilizations tucked deep into the desolate landscape. Double humped camels, large muscular horses, and fat bottomed sheep roamed around the steep hills under the watchful eyes of their primitively dressed sheppards. The dry flat valley floors seemed only marginally interrupted by the small isolated clusters of mud shacks and irrigation ditches created by the sporadically positioned inhabitants. I enjoyed the beauty of this area immensely, and was entirely impressed by how these people lived without any help from modern technology. It appeared that life in this region had remained fundamentally unchanged for centuries. No power lines, no satellites, no automobiles, the only things that appeared to be in use were the simple necessities of life: food, water supply and shelter. I found myself pondering with intensity whether these people were living in hardship and “poverty” or the idyllic isolation from the pains and evils of the modern world.

Is it true that ignorance is bliss? I found myself pondering a few age old philosophical arguments:…… Is primitive/rural life in its entirety more ethically/morally pure than life in modern societies? Does the increase of worldly possessions equate to more greed and unjustified needs? Are busy, laboriously hard rural lifestyles in many ways easier than the busy, intricately complex, fast, and ambitious lifestyles of modern city dwellers? In the realm of morality, is it not much easier to live a life free from sin, if you are simply living in isolation and away from the raging rivers of worldly temptation?

Whenever I come across rural habitations, seemingly untouched by the expanding claws of modern/Western society,…….I find myself fantasizing about how life would be in their shoes. Would my life be boring and bland, or would it be blissful and rich? I tend to agree with the idealistic core of Eastern philosophy religions: nothingness = happiness and desire = pain & suffering. As I slowly move forward through the challenging obstacles of our modern world and inevitably gain knowledge, experience, and cynicism; I find myself with an increasing number of worldly vices and a mind willing to challenge anything and everything. Brilliance and innovation have remarkably prevailed within ancient civilizations all over the world for thousands of years. Throughout the last two centuries of rapid globalization we have seen an increased rate of innovation and technology that has supposedly made our lives “easier”. But has it? I find it to be absolutely frightening that in barely over a century, we went from sole reliance of snail mail to blackberries. What does this recent rapid development and growth of technology foreshadow about our future?

I believe that cell phones and the internet have made us to an extent, overly accessible. Soon we will be walking around with GPS microchips implanted in us at birth, and lying to your girlfriend/wife/parents about your whereabouts will be literally impossible. The once sentimental, and carefully written letter, is now near extinct do to the ease of producing frequent, sloppily written emails. Is this a step forward or backward? Is it really necessary for us all to be so accessible? Remember when only doctors and drug dealers carried pagers? It all happened at an alarming rate, within 10-15 years we all went from happy, private, and moderately accessible people, to frantic, turbo paced, easily reached people with compulsive addictions to the internet and an underlying fear of being stuck in an area with bad cell phone reception. Has the quick acceleration of modern technology, industrialization, urbanization, and globalization made our lives easier and spread idealistically peaceful views and humanity, or is it quite the opposite? Just a thought…………….

From the border it took over three hours of driving through a barely accessible geological paradise to reach the end of the fire colored mountains. The final hour and a half of the trip was done on a modern, newly constructed highway that took us through the windy flat desert into Kashgar.

I was dropped off on the side of the freeway about 8 miles from my destination and quickly hitched a ride into the historical Silk Road city-state of Kashgar. This Central Asian trade post has a long history of conflict with China, and frequently changing leadership and diplomacy. In 1884 Kashgar was indefinitely absorbed into the Xinjiang province of China; however, in 1933 and in 1944 Kashgar was able to briefly pull away from the oppressive grasp of China and set up independent republics.. Kashgar as a whole is only marginally different than the other newly developed capitals of former Turkistan. The inhabitants of Kashgar are predominately Muslim, speak Ugher(a Turkic language) and look, dress, act, and eat the same way as their Turkic counterparts of Central Asia.

Having spent the previous few months exploring Turkistan (Central Asia)……….I was utterly unimpressed with Kashgar AKA Kashi. The old, orange mud cluster of shacks that made up Kashgar’s old town, seamed bland in comparison to the architectural marvels of Uzbekistan, and the captivatingly primitive villages of Kyrgyzstan. Kashgar as of current is going through the changes that other once glorious and ethnically different Chinese cities are facing. It’s culture is being suffocated by oppression, the land being destroyed by industrialization, and the minds of the inhabitants are being brainwashed by the corrupt media and propaganda of the Chinese government.

I also found Kashgar to be slightly disappointing because I was now in China, and ready for a change of scenery, but at the end of the day I was still in Central Asia and far away from Han (majority ethnic group) China.

Upon arrival in China, I became quite intimidated by the language barrier, my Russian language skills were no longer a valuable asset in this part of central Asia. All the signs were written in Chinese and Arabic……….which means confusion, and frustration was eminent. I wandered around the streets of Kashgar for several hours praying in vain to find an English sign that said “Hotel”. Halfway through my 3^rd hour of pain, stress, confusion, uncomfortable heat, agony, exhaustion, and frustration; I came across a group of 8-10 year old Chinese school girls. As I sweated profusely through the blistering heat, and drug my heavy bag up the crowded sidewalk the young school girls all smiled at me and yelled “hello” in high pitched squeals. I stopped immediately and said the word ‘hotel’ in Ugher while looking the girls in the eye and shaking my hands to represent confusion………………This did not work; I must have said it wrong. I then said “where Hotel” over and over while showing the girls the international sign language for sleeping. They seamed to understand this final gesture immediately and after speaking amongst themselves briefly, signaled me to follow them across the 5 lane street. I followed the elementary school girls across the busy road as they dodged speeding cars with ease and calmness. As my mind began to comprehend the situation, I began to feel a bit self-conscious about being led around the city by a group of 8 Chinese school girls with pink backpacks and pigtails. Would it appear to others inappropriate to be led into a hotel by a large group of 8-11 year olds? Well,……………..my options were limited and my exhaustion was almost unbearable, so I went with it.

After about 5 blocks we had arrived at a large run down looking hotel about 50 yards from a busy street. I felt both awkward and relieved as the schoolgirls guided me into the hotel and to the front desk; I can only imagine what the women at the reception desk was thinking. I smiled and said “thank you” to the giggling schoolgirls as they exited the hotel and continued their journey home from school.

I was able to obtain a relatively clean hotel room for about $5 a night………..and was quite relieved to have a bed to lie in, a sit down toilet, and running water. It was only about 6pm, but I was severely exhausted and had no trouble skipping dinner and sleeping through the night.

The next morning I wandered through the busy streets of Kashgar and eventually made my way to the bustling market district. Here I grabbed a quick breakfast of what appeared to be soup. To this day I have no idea what was in this mystery soup. Most of the yellowish chunks within the soup seamed to be internal organs of some sort……..my guess was pig. I ate the 15 cent cup of street soup 2-3 times a day while I maintained residence in Kashgar.

The market area was quite intriguing………the food court contained various snacks such as pig and cow feet boiled to perfection with the skin dripping off the bone like a pompom for simple consumption. Their were also several varieties of mystery soups and goat heads chopped in half for a quick and tasty meal.

Further down the street was the spice market, and medicinal market where you could find dried frogs, snakes and lizards to cure all of your nagging ailments. I ended up buying a bag of dried apricots and dates and continuing my journey through the overcrowded streets of Kashgar. I walked around 12 miles in a massive circle before I ran out of juice and was forced to head back to my hotel for an evening of relaxation with my recently opened book ‘The Great Game’ by Peter Hopkirk. It was time to learn a bit more about the eventful historical struggle between the Brits and Ruskies for control over the buffer zone (Central Asia) between Russia and India. For the record I found the book fascinating, and was entirely impressed by Hopkirks writing style and his ability to tie a couple centuries of war and diplomatic chaos into one well written book.

At around 9pm I ventured out of my hotel room in order to track down something to eat. I decided to follow the smell, smoke and loud sounds I encountered as I walked out of my hotel. I ended up in a dark crowded alley near my hotel where several Shashlik restaurants busily served traditional Central Asian dishes to hungry locals. I stepped into one of the shadowy, jam-packed, smoky roadside restaurants and ordered some nan bread and four ground beef shashliks ( meat on metal skewer). I consumed the traditional Central Asian meal quickly with the help of no less than 3 cups of adequate tasting green tea. The bill for this hearty meal was a whopping $1.20.

The following day I followed the same routine as day one: a long walk exploring the city, 2-4 hours of reading and a hearty late night dinner of nan bread and Shashlik. I ordered the beef shashlik again mainly because it was the only Central Asian dish I had yet to become ill from. The thought of any other food on the menu brought back horrible memories, and in consequence made me feel nauseous. I looked forward greatly to leaving Central Asia behind and having a brand new assortment of dishes to become ill from.

Since I had already spent so much time in Central Asia, I was eager and anxious to leave Turkistan behind and stimulate my mind with the cultural absorption of perhaps the most impressive and historically significant country in the world(China). I bought a ticket for the 8:30am train to Urumqi about 30 hours north of Kashgar.

4-9-2008

I woke up at about 5am with a bloated stomach and an overall feeling of discomfort and foreshadowed sickness. I drank a bit of water, ignored my symptoms and went back to sleep. I woke up at 8:15……….which is not good, because my alarm was supposed to go off at 7am. I frantically dressed, sprinted down the stairs, and to the hotel reception desk for check out. I showed eagerness, impatience, frustration and cruelty as I yelled at the women behind the counter to hurry up and give me my deposit back,…………..this seamed to take ages. By 8:22 I was out the door and running down the dark streets of Kashgar to the nearest taxi (it was dark because it was actually 5:22am……..trains leave on Beijing time). I eventually hailed a cab, and spent the next 10 agonizing minutes yelling with impatience and freaking out about the $100 bucks I had just blown by missing my train. I arrived at the train station at 8:40am (Beijing time)…………my train had left 5 minutes prior……..F$*#!

After the adrenaline, anger, and frustration began to subside; I began to feel nauseous and achy. Thirty minutes later I was on a bus from the train station to the center of Kashgar. By the time I had reached Kashgar’s city center my nausea was almost unbearable, and I was on the verge of shitting myself. The two mile walk back to my hotel took over an hour because of my slow nauseating pace, and my desperate need to sit down on hard surfaces about every 5-8 minutes. By the time I made it to my hotel, and re-checked in……..I was in a very sorry state of existence. I began to realize for the first time,……… that perhaps it was a good thing that I missed the train.

That damn shashlik had done me in, and here I was day 3 in China and already praying to the porcelain god, shivering in bed lying in the fetal position, and trying desperately to keep from “having an accident”.

Well what can I say…………..the next 4 days was hell, I was out $100 bucks because of the train I never boarded, and I was back to my recovery diet of yogurt, crackers, and bananas. Nonetheless on 4-12-2008 I boarded the 8:30am train to Urumqi and arrived the following afternoon.

The train ride to Urumqi from Kashgar was relatively uneventful; I spent a lot of time sleeping, reading, and suffering severe annoyance from the preposterously loud sounds of the train’s elevator music. I came pretty close to going postal when from 5-7pm I was forced to listen to some sort of Chinese variety show………..it was hell!

Day 2: 4-13-2008, I woke up to the pleasant sounds of traditional Uhger music and a few hotties dancing around in the aisle. One guy was playing what looked like a banjo, and 3 beautiful, fair skinned Uhger girls (18-22) were singing, yelling, and dancing seductively while smiling from ear to ear. The whole train was clapping, singing, and really getting into the music. Even though I was still feeling relatively nauseous and exhausted; I truly enjoyed this free spirited Ugher band and the energy that they spread contagiously to the people surrounding me.

When I woke up and peered my shaggy head curiously into the aisle………everyone erupted with laughter and warm smiles welcoming me to join the festivities. After about an hour of silent observation,…….the theatrics stopped and a couple of the dancing girls spent the next hour trying to impress me with simple English word phrases (most of which they completely butchered, and were not prepared for responses to).

“What is your name” , “ Where are you from” , “My name is_________”

The sun was shining, the people were friendly, and my nausea had for the most part subsided. Today was a good day. I exited the train on the afternoon of April 13^th 2008. Urumqi at first glance was incredibly developed and much more Chinese than Central Asian. Despite the fact that I did observe a few basic underlying differences between Kashgar and Urumqi; truth be told, there was nothing that intrigued me about Urumqi.

Within 30 minutes after arrival, I was able to track down an internet café and began researching my next leg of travel. Where should I go next? Perhaps I should have planned this out better………my only excuse is the fact that I had spent the last 3-4 days miserably ill in my hotel room. Luckily I was sitting next to a cute Chinese girl who spoke immaculate English; I broke the silence by asking her what the cheapest way to Beijing from Urumqi was. After a bit of cliché dialogue, we both decided that it would be better if we took the train together to Xian (former capitol of China), rather than going solo straight to Beijing. She goes to University in Xian, and offered to show me around the city.

We both bought tickets for the midnight train to Xian, and then proceeded to explore downtown Urumqi in order to burn a bit of time. Susan (her English name) gave me a relatively extensive and informative tour of Urumqi, but at the end of the day I found it to be unimpressive and basically a larger and more Chinese version of Kashgar. The highlight of Urumqi was watching a freak-show street performer tie up an 8 year old boy in cannon ball position, poking a metal rod through the flesh in his forearm, and lifting the boy off the ground by the metal rod. It was graphic, unorthodox and weird, but was strange enough to be entertaining.

-My dilemma: How do I top Central Asia? The people were Islamic, which meant their hospitality was second to none. Their culture was completely bizarre when compared to the Western world. And basically, everyday was a crazy, wild, unforgettable adventure that seamed (at the time) impossible to match. And now……………. I am in China, historically incredible, culturally unique and wildly diverse, but with a current political regime that strangles free speech, open minds, and overall humanity. Is it even possible to enjoy China by simply overlooking the past century of mass murder, political rape, harmful propaganda, invasion, and oppression? …………..I hope so.

4-16-2008

I arrived in Xian 36.5 hours later………finally the China I was looking for, a giant recently restored “ancient wall” surrounding the city, with McDonalds and KFC everywhere. Susan walked me to a nearby hostel…$4 a night(not bad)…..I dropped off my bag and we were soon off to her university. A couple public buses later, we were at her university and speaking to her round bodied, smiley, enthusiastically friendly professor Jane (English Name). She was awesome; we spent the next several hours touring the city, visiting 1,000 year old pagodas and various other historical landmarks. Unfortunately the substantial amount of pollution in Xian hindered me from capturing any memorable photographs. Literally unless you were 50 feet from an object……….Xian’s smog obstructed all clear views no matter how kick ass your camera is. Apparently if it rains 40+ hours strait, and the rain happens to clear up in the morning, you can occasionally get a clear shot of some of the greater monuments of China.

After retiring back to my hostel, I took a short nap then headed to a nearby restaurant for some eats. After a lot of confusion and some primitive sign language, I managed to order something to eat. It ended up being some fried rice with chicken; which worked out fine for me. After dinner I visited a relatively upscale but fair priced massage parlor, the massage was not exactly as deep tissue’ as imagined, but was relaxing nonetheless. Having a few knots worked out of my upper back, proved to be quite rewarding and therapeutic.

4-17-2008

I took a bus to the site of the Terracotta Soldiers about 1.5 hrs from Xian. The Terracotta soldiers were found in the 1970s by a farmer digging a well in one of his fields. After finding a few shards of sculpted clay and relaying those to archeological experts, it became known that what this farmer found was perhaps China’s greatest archeological find of the 20^th century. The 7,000+ soldiers, horses and armored chariots were built to scale for the emperor to be buried with. It was believed that this army would be with him during the afterlife.

4-18-2008

Off to Beijing. I bought a hard seat ticket (half the price of a sleeper) which proved to be absolutely miserable. The seat back was vertical, and the foot room was ridiculously minuscule. I arrived in Beijing at 7am, and was absolutely exhausted. After a short bus ride, and about an hour on the busy subway, I made it to my host Nan’s apartment. Nan is a film student at Beijing’s communication university. She speaks fluent English and sports a recently opened mind, due to her recent study abroad experience in Estonia.

I spent the next few days touring around Beijing with Nan’s other guest Omri, an Israeli backpacker fresh out of the military. We had a blast together, debating Middle Eastern politics and the prospected conflict between Israel and Iran. One evening we met up with a few more Israeli guys and spent a rainy evening at the Beijing Hooters drinking beers and dancing the Macarena.

……………………………To be completely honest, I found China to be less than pleasant and the people to be living ( in general- from my brief observations and personal beliefs) in a selfish, ignorant, fantasy world; a world that sees China as just, ethical, and the only country with the exclusively correct answer to the world’s problems. I found the selfish social norms and mannerisms of the Chinese to be quite comparable and parallel to that of the people in former soviet countries. I hypothesize that Chinese people are the way they are because of their socialist government. They are products of socialism, and an unfortunate predisposition to selfishness and seemingly discourteous behavior. I have no doubt in my mind that the Chinese are completely unaware of just how off-putting their mannerisms can be. And in general, are kind hearted people: after all, when compared to the West or Islamic nations,……..many countries are comparatively rude and uncivil.

So what exactly caused this phenomenon of selfishness and rudeness? Could it be that decades of oppressed individualism is what causes Chinese people to act in an anti-social way (when compared to the West)? Or is it simply the NYC/Chicago scenario……..where people are rude and selfish merely because there are just too many people packed into a small space, and it is kill or be killed; if you want to get onto the subway you better push and fight. Why is it that my entire thesis is invalid when speaking of minority areas, and rural villages of China? In my opinion it is because these areas have been out of the governments reach.

The philosophical ideals that have “guided” the structure of socialist regimes are in themselves beautiful and pure; however, the results when practiced on a large scale have been conclusively negative and disastrous. The only proven successes of communism have taken place on the small scale. For example the Kibbutz system in Israel has shown great success, which means communism to an extent is possible. These small Israeli farming communities are able to function brilliantly by following the pure philosophical guidelines of socialism with few negative side effects.

So why is it that socialism has failed on a large scale? In my opinion it all comes down to basic human nature.

-Greed

-Selfishness

-Laziness

-Free will

Unless these are completely eradicated from each and every human being within a socialist regime…………….the communist structure will fail.

Instead of socialism breeding humanity, hope, comradery, brotherly love, and selflessness, it took a turn in the opposite direction. Somehow large scale communism in practice resulted in infectious corruption, greed, selfishness, and oppression. It is in my opinion impossible for one to adequately argue that the Chinese government has created a socialist government that works. For example when analyzing recent Chinese history, it is not difficult to find the similarities between Mao and Stalin,……….both found the “greater good” to be much more important than individual lives. Suffering, death, oppression, and pain correspond tightly with China’s economic expansion, political reform, and socialistic unity. How does China expect to progress through the hindering oppression of its central government? I personally find it disheartening to see a once culturally diverse, free thinking, genius people fall into a black hole of ignorance and self delusion.

I once asked a Chinese teenager if he thought it was unfair that the government filters and controls all of the media in China. His response was startling; He mentioned that the government only filters out the lies, and that it is better to have government controlled media because “you know you will always be getting the truth”.

That being said, I will simply outline what I did, and where I traveled throughout China:

4-21-2008: At 5:30pm I boarded a train to Kunming the capital of China’s Yunan region; a region of China culturally unique and not surprisingly similar to nearby SE Asian countries.

4-23-2008: I arrived in Kunming at 7:10am………….I was exhausted, having spent the last 38 hours nonstop on a train.

-at 7:30am I boarded a bus and headed north to Old Dali. I arrived in Dali 6 hours later at 1:30pm. After wandering around a bit and visiting a few 9^th century pagodas, I walked down to the freeway and managed to flag down a bus heading to Lijang.

-After 5 more hours in transit I arrived in Lijang at 10:00pm. Soon after I found a place to crash and spent the evening wandering around the extraordinarily intact and charming old town of Lijang.

4-24-2008: I woke up at 6am, wandered around Lijang for a few hours, then proceeded to the bus station where I caught the 10:00am bus to Shangra La.

-5hrs later, at 3:00pm I arrived in Shangra La. After checking into a sketchy $3 a night hotel near the bus station; I spent the rest of the day touring around the various Buddhist monasteries, and wandering around Shangra La’s beautiful old town. The monastery on the edge of old town had the largest prayer wheel I have ever seen. It must have been 15 feet across and 20ft high. Buddhist prayer wheels contain (depending on the size) thousands of written mantras (prayers) and these prayers are activated when turning the wheel clockwise. The large prayer wheel was beautifully decorated and was surrounded by handles every couple feet so that people could spin the wheel and activate the mantras.

4-25-2008: I woke up early and caught the 8:20am bus for Deqin.

The drive was amazing, massive green fields with thousands of grazing yaks, isolated Buddhist villages dotted the hillsides, steep rolling hills, sharp windy roads carved through the edge of the mountain pass. My head started pounding when we reached the top of the pass 14,000ft. 7hrs later at 3:20pm we arrived in Deqin. After checking into a shitty $3 a night, beetle infested hotel, I went out for a tour of the town.

-I spent the day wandering around the steep hillsides, visiting monasteries, and attempting to communicate with the locals throughout old town. My headache never completely went away throughout my time in Deqin.

- Deqin is a small town on the edge of the Tibetan border, its inhabitants are over 80% Tibetan……..and the town sits at 12,000ft. After wandering through old town, and visiting the market, I felt contented that I was able to get a small taste of Tibetan culture. I also went for a short hike around the hillside and checked out a series of white painted mounds, Buddhist graves.

-Unfortunately Deqin is as far north as I was able to go, the Chinese government has restricted all access to Tibet by foreigners. The official reason for this is safety (for the tourists), but the real reason is most likely to avoid another PR disaster by allowing human rights activists to stage another protest against the Chinese occupation of Tibet so near to the opening of the Olympics in Beijing. With so many tourists coming to China for the Olympics, it is easy to see how the Chinese government foresaw a reputation damaging incident during the 2008 Olympics. A simple solution by the Chinese was to stage a fake protest in Lhasa, kill a few peaceful Tibetan monks, publicize media briefs that made Tibetan monks sound like ungrateful, violent beasts eager for the taste of tourist blood, and to cover it all up; set up a Tibetan museum in Beijing in order to show visitors a glimpse into the “happy and peaceful” lives of the “ ethnically Tibetan Chinese”(this is not fact, merely a hypothetical I developed).

-I woke up at 3am with a pounding headache; I was not even close to acclimatized to 12,000ft. After taking a couple Advil I was able to get back to sleep.

4-26-2008: I woke up early and went for a long walk around the small town trying to soak up as much Tibetan culture as possible. The Tibetan women wore pink scarves on their heads like turbans, and usually sported bamboo baskets on their backs. Deqin was tucked into a small valley between large steep hills. The surrounding hills were delightfully littered with colorful prayer flags and clusters of white graves.

-At 11am I boarded a bus that would take me all the way back to Kunming.

4-27-2008: After a miserable 20 hour bus ride I arrived in Kunming at 7:20am and walked straight to the train station, angrily dodging the solicitation of overzealous cab drivers and street vendors.

-At 9:30am I was on a train heading to Beijing.

4-29-2008: After a 48hour non-stop train ride, I arrived in Beijing at 9:30am.

-I wasted no time and headed straight to the Embassy of Pakistan to pick up my visa, then went straight to the forbidden city for some sight seeing. After a long day of sight seeing I headed back to my host Nan’s Apartment for a bit of R&R.

4-30-2008: Went shopping, highlight-buying a 8GB thumb drive for $15.

5-1-2008: Peleg (my Israeli friend) and I headed to Sematai at 7:20am. Sematai is a place a few hours from Beijing where The Great Wall of China is for the most part original and stretches seemingly endlessly along grassy, desolate rolling hills. We spent the day hiking along the eroding wall, up and down the rolling hills. It was absolutely incredible to be in the middle of such beautiful scenery, and hiking miles and miles on a massive 4,000 year old wall. Hiking on the great wall was definitely the unrivalled highlight of China. The only downside of the day, being that the air pollution reached even Sematai, which meant visibility was muffled by brown smog. The Chinese have really done a number on their environment, but can we really complain? We do in-fact continue to outsource factory work to China and buy up all the products produced in these factories. So in many ways we are as much to blame as the Chinese for the large factories that pump endless amounts of CO2 and other pollutants into the air and water supply.

5-2-2008: After running a few errands, and saying farewell to my new found friends, Peleg, Omri, and Nan; I hopped on the 6:30pm Train to Urumqi. Train travel is pretty expensive in China, so I decided to buy a hard seat ticket instead of the hard sleeper which was twice the cost.

-I ended up easing the pain a bit by getting drunk with the locals I was sitting next to. It helped me get to sleep, but did not erase the fact that I would be sitting on a hard, vertical seat for the next 44hrs.

5-3-2008: Day two was much more painful than the first, but again I eased the pain by drinking watered down Chinese beer and a few forced shots of the local firewater.

5-4-2008: 2 days of scarce sleep, dehydration, and too much booze really wore me out. I arrived at 10:45am feeling like hell, and completely exhausted………..however the show must go on.

-I scrambled through the ticket line quickly and was able to catch the 11:21am train for Kashgar. Again I punished myself by buying a hard seat ticket in order to save money……

-“I sit now at 12:32pm and drink beer alone while writing in my journal. 30 minutes ago I smoked a cigarette with a guy sitting near me, he is about 20. He is now sitting across from me as I write, and asking me questions in Ugher. I smile and try to explain to him that I have no idea what he is saying.”

-Eventually the crew got bigger, and by the time the sun went down I was surrounded by a fairly large group of Wiggers (The major ethnic group of Chinese Central Asia). We drank beer into the night, and I eventually passed out at 11pm.

5-5-2008: I arrived in Kashgar at 11am, quickly boarded a bus that took me to Kashgar’s long distance bus station. And within an hour was on a bus to Sost Pakistan. The ridiculously strenuous travel marathon ended 7 hours later when my bus stopped in Tash-Kurgan, China 12,000ft: the last town before the Khunjerab Pass, 16,000ft.

Just to put a bit of perspective on how ridiculous the previous two weeks were; I will punch some numbers in order to explain to you exactly how much time I spent in-transit: In the last __14__days I was on a bus or train for _213_ hours or exactly __63.4%__of the time. And for the last 4 sleepless nights I had only a hard seat to sit/sleep on for rest. So yeah,…………was it all worth it? I think so, but I will definitely never do it again.

____________________________________________________

Well the party is officially over, I made it back to the homeland on July 16th. I am currently chillin up at the family Chalet in the mountains trying to decompress, and get a few things written down. I have my work cut out for me trying to update the blog,.........a lot has happened since China. I have recently been considering turning my blog into a book, not sure it is publishable, but I figured I would give it a shot. I welcome any feedback, positive or negative. I have no idea how to go about getting published, so any advice is welcome also.

Thanks,

Trevor

PS: I apologize if this blog offends people, I wrote what I felt, and I know it can sound a bit too harsh at times. I am definitely not an expert on all of the worlds issues, so if you feel strongly about something I wrote, I invite your criticism and debate.

Pics from China:

Beijing with my host Nan, and Israeli friends.

Beijing

The Forbidden city Beijing

The Great Wall of China

Terracotta Soldiers X'ian

In front of the Forbidden City

Kashgar

Uigher men in Kashgar

Mystery Soup in Kashgar

Uigher man in Urumqi

Urumqi

On the train with the crew

-Irkeshtam Pass-

2008-05-01T08:31:00.000-07:00

4-4-2008

I left the Jalalabad bus station at around noon and headed back to Osh…..hopefully this time around the food will not be so rough on my
stomach…..I feel quite certain that I would not survive another round of Osh style food poisoning.

I arrived in Osh around 2pm and quickly found a cheap hotel near Salomon’s thrown (large rock mountain in the middle of town). The place was only $4 bucks a night, the downside being that my bed’s pillow was merely a cloth sack filled with saw dust, and the bed itself was a foot shorter than my body.

My roommate turned out to be a really cool guy; an fascinating, bold, and friendly Dutch traveller named George. George and I spent most of the day together trading travel stories and inspiring one another for future adventures. After a long conversation with George, I had become convinced that Pakistan is relatively safe; since Tibet is now officially closed due to violent protests, I will now make my way to India via Pakistan. I am in fact particularly excited for this new leg of my journey. The pass I will be travelling on peaks out at around 15,500ft. And then there is the brilliant Karakorom highway…………which I will more adequately be able to describe in the near future.

4-5-2008

I woke up at 7am and headed to the jeep/taxi parking lot that caters to the locals wanting to head south of Osh. I would soon find out that south of Osh is pretty much no-man’s-land. Civilization ends……….and the endless snowy peaks begin.

After a couple hours of painful dialogue with overzealous cab drivers, I found a family heading to a city past Sary Tash (my destination). I hopped into the back seat with Mom, the boy and the baby, while Dad drove and Gramps sat shotgun. They were a jolly and lively crew, and I enjoyed my time with them immensely. I was pretty much forced to teach the eleven year old boy English the entire car ride (6.5hrs)….though I was tired and would much rather sleep, I found it rewarding because he and the family loved it, and soaked up each word like a sponge.

The roadway to Sary Tash was ridiculously desolate…..I had no idea that Kyrgyzstan pretty much ends after Osh. About 15 miles below Osh; the paved road turned to dirt, and the road’s quality diminished with a vengeance. My driver drove like a maniac the entire way, weaving through the windy roads like a getaway driver, while vigorously trying to avoid potholes and large rocks. I was genuinely surprised that our vehicle did not suffer a flat tire during our journey.

After several snowy almost uncrossable mountain passes, and driving through several isolated mountain villages, we had arrived in Sary Tash. While passing through the final village before Sary Tash, I viewed a large cluster of Yaks nestled up against the roadway trying to find grass through the snow. I mention this only because this is the first time I had ever seen a herd of Yaks, and I must say, they are cool looking. They are pretty much just hippie cows……..with thin vertical horns who are so badass that bitter cold, and chilling snow does not bother them.

Sary Tash(10,400ft): Wow…….my first thought was “where the hell am I?”. I soon realized that Sary Tash was merely a remote village, not the quaint border town I had imagined it to be.

I felt like John Voit in ‘The Deliverance’…..I was in a land of Kyrgyz hillbillies. Sary Tash is a severely isolated mountain village consisting of only a few small clusters of mud brick shacks and a general store located in an old box car.

The snow was falling and the winter breeze had become stubbornly cold. Villagers were riding around on their horses and herding their cows, yaks, and Goats while trying valiantly to fight off the bitter cold. ( I have no Idea where the animals grazed, the entire area was submerged in snow). After arriving, I hoped to get out of the snow relatively quickly in order to secure a safe place to lay my head for the night.

Almost immediately after being dropped off on the side of the road by my driver, a dark faced teenager(18) up the road spotted me and signalled me to follow him to his home. As we silently walked along the icy road; a crew of teenagers on horses and antique bicycles drove by and snatched my new companions black knit cap. The gang of hoodlums jeered, and smiled their jackolantern smiles at us as they threw the teen’s hat in a muddy ditch on the side of the road.

The gang of kids were obviously poor, but perhaps my new friend was even lower down the rung than they were. It appeared to be that not one member of the crew was missing fewer than 4 teeth…..which I found impressive seeing how they were all in their teens. Upon further observance, I sincerely doubt that anyone in the entire village has a full set of teeth. If my host’s family was any indication, it would be safe to say that a dentist had never made it the mountain village of Sary Tash.

With a warm smile, my new friend presented me to his parents, and fortunately they welcomed me kindly into their home. The mud-brick shack was split into two rooms, an 8x10 kitchen and a 15x15ft family room. The family consisted of a mother, father, grandma, sister(15), brother(18), baby, and infant (2)…..so it was a packed house. The shack was lacking any sort of plumbing, but was equipped with electricity…..which was a godsend. It allowed me to escape from the strangeness by submerging myself in my book.

The family was great, they were harshly poor and weathered looking, but continuously radiated their home with smiles and kindness. After a walk around the town, and a few failed attempts at communicating with locals, I came to the conclusion that these people were entirely different than any of the Kyrgyz people I had met thus far. They did not even look the same; the Sary Tash villagers had red-brown sun burnt looking faces, and were quite small and petite in stature. I read somewhere that Sary Tash was in fact a Tajik village, and that the community merely leased the land from Kyrgyzstan. I was not able to confirm this, due to the fact that I was unable to track down a single person in Sary Tash that spoke Russian or English.

I crashed on the living room floor side by side with my new siblings. The fire burned out not long after bedtime; I slept rather poorly as a result of the blatant concoction of harsh coldness and grandma’s snoring.

At 5:30am I climbed into my warmest clothes (which means I wore everything in my bag), packed up my bags and hit the road. I walked about a half mile along the dark icy road until I had made it to the fork in the road. Left was for China, Right was for Tajikistan........... I turned left and walked down the road another half mile toward China.

It was dark and freezing cold,…..much colder than I had anticipated. In order to fight against the painful cold; I picked a 100M stretch of road and paced up and down the stretch for about 2 hours hoping to keep myself warm until the sun came out. By 8am the sun began to shine, but a truck headed to China was nowhere to be found. I had a glimmer of hope at 8:15am when an old soviet ambulance drove down the road through Sary Tash…..only to keep heading right to Tajikistan.

As the locals began to rise, they all immediately climbed to the roofs of their homes and began to shovel off the 8inches of fresh snow which had accumulated throughout the night. At approximately 8:45am I would say that at least 80% of the locals(men) were up on their roofs shovelling snow.

I caught my lucky break at 9:00am……..two Russian trucks began heading toward me and I was able to flag down the first one for a ride.

I hopped into the old Kamaz( Russian semi truck)smiling and was greeted by two men with a loud “asalam ahalikum”;moments later we were ploughing through the snow toward China. My new companions were Kyrgyz drivers who were involved in a bit of import export. Their route only brought them to border and back. One guy was 25, and the other in his 40s, they were both genuine, and friendly fellows..

The road through the pass was not much more than a snow covered logging road. It was usually covered with deep snow, and was relatively steep and uneven in places. Due to a series of recent snowfalls, and the overall desolate and harsh nature of this pass; we were inevitably delayed.

Our truck became stuck in the deep snow on several occasions, each time we banded together with other trucks (also delayed due to our predicament) in order to dig, yank, and pull ourselves free.

Overall the day was wonderful, the sun was shining, I was experiencing some new and exciting truck driver comradery, and most importantly; I was on my way to China.

In the end, I would say that our delays added about 5 hours to our travel time across the pass. However once we made it over the high point and began our descent, it was smooth sailing. The weather gradually became warmer, and the roads clearer.

About 15miles before the Kyrgyz-Chinese border we came across a sort of military road block. Two young soldiers stood in a mud booth, sporting Russian kolichnikofs (assault rifles) and full soviet uniform. It was very, very, strange. It was as if no one had told these guys that the Soviet Union fell, and that they were free to go home. These guards were wearing large soviet belt buckles, and soviet pins in their hats. Not one piece of clothing on their bodies signified anything Kyrgyz................where was I?

After passing the security check point, it was a new, smooth, paved road from there to the border.

I hit a bit of a snag at the border; the problem being that the border closes each day at 2pm..........and by the time I had arrived at the border it was 5pm.

After thanking my truck driver buddies for the lift, I began to wander around the area. I was surrounded by beautiful desert landscape interrupted by bare jagged hills and a wide, shallow river .Pretty much the only thing around me was malnourished minuture donkeys, drunk border cops, and a small trailer park which hugged the riverside about 50M from the border.

I was really excited to be on the border, and at such a strange and remote location.........I would venture to say that very few tourists have used this border crossing (relatively).

Ahhhhh the trailer park, what can I say.....this place was pretty wild. It was a deserted cluster of old school box cars/trailers/caravans.....it was a cliché image of something you would expect to see in the middle of nowhere.

After wandering around curiously, and observing the dirty, haggard, tired, weathered, smiling, locals go about their day to day business; I began to see how difficult their lives must be. I observed a crew of children using a large chunk of scrap metal and a stack of old tires as a slide. Their clothes were ripped and filthy, while not one child was wearing shoes. How could these people live in such conditions?.....The bottom line is that this community was completely lacking most essential societal resources. Schools, industry, recreational outlets, plumbing, and media were completely non-existent in this area. However, I imagine this has simply become a way of life for these people, and that “luxuries” are simply out of site and out of mind.

While snapping a few photos of my curious surroundings, and wandering around inquisitively; the locals began to take notice. What was the goofy looking blonde guy doing in our neighbourhood? Why is he here? Why does he have long hair?( I can only imagine this is what cruised through their minds).

One group of local women took particular interest in me, the waved me over and through a bit of broken Russian, I was able to explain to them my situation. They were thrilled; they immediately invited me into their home and excitedly presented me with tea and cookies. After about an hour of awkward conversation, they invited me to spend the night in their home as their guest.

Sure why not..............where else was I going to stay!

I can’t say I much enjoyed our conversations however; they mostly revolved around me being American, and them wanting me to marry one of their locals.

I escaped the suffocating conversations by going for a long solo walk around the countryside. After exploring the hills ( most of which were besieged with human shit) I headed down to the river.

{their are no toilets in the trailer complex, so it appears that all the locals just walk to the nearby hillside and squat wherever........taking a walk along the hills was like trekking through a mine zone}

As I peered across the riverbank, I saw a beautiful red wind carved canyon with what appeared to be several caves near the entrance. My problem was that a river obstructed me from reaching this canyon..............As I walked up river looking for a way to cross; I began to see that the river split into two shallower, narrower streams. But as I followed one of the streams up river it split again, and then again.........yet still it was too deep to cross. Walking alone after a long day of strangeness, I began to see this river as a metaphor for my life.

-Instead of wading through the single challenging river (returning home after PC service).....I chose a different path.....I walked up stream to find something that was easier, or fit me better personally. But after each stream I followed it simply forked again.....and before I knew it I was forced to cross 10 deep streams instead of one consistent river.

I saw myself purposely choosing seemingly easier paths but then realizing they forked. After heading upstream to find clarity and an easy way to cross; I was forced with more tough decisions and even more rapids and slippery rocks. Where was I going with that one..............it seems I got a bit too deep in metaphors for my own good.

The bottom line is that I feel at times that my dinking around (Peace Corps ,Travel etc) has guided me to a river that will be quite challenging to cross without severe discomfort and unforeseen obstacles. All my friends( or I hope they are my friends, most I have not seen for quite a long time ) have moved on with their lives.....and are perhaps a bit too mature and established for a homeless, jobless, hobo they once knew quite well.

OK moving on................................

After returning home from my long walk, and tranquil self reflection, I returned to find the trailer packed with locals. I stepped into the old rusty box car and immediately became the “novelty guest”. It was the last thing I really wanted to be, but what could I do. I drank tea, answered questions, and refused marriage proposals for hours upon hours.

{the trailer: 8-9ft wide, 25ft long, split into two rooms, one room incuded a small wood burning stove, front steps are a stack of truck tires}

In order to temporarily escape the strangeness, I grabbed my book and tried unsuccessfully to read between rounds of awkward and invasive questioning. The toothless, over –excited women had a little gossip gathering in the other room, and begged me to join.....by then I knew better. The entire evening, random women would show up and I would be called upon to analyze our new guest, and asked if I “loved her” or “would marry her”. The women I felt were acting quite obnoxious, and it became increasingly uncomfortable for me to be around them . I was truly in another world, and I must say the novelty of the situation wore off early on.

Dinner was great, it consisted of a delicious spread of beef, potatoes, bread, and several different types of jam. The flavour was relatively bland, but it really could have been a lot worse. I worried (to a point of paranoia) that I would get food poisoning. These people were definitely NOT the hygienic type............and after watching the daughter wash dishes with brown dirty water,......and seeing grandma prepare the food without washing her hands.................I began to feel a bit uneasy. I abruptly began to fanaticise about how disastrous it would be to be stuck in the trailer with a horrible case of food poisoning. Vomiting and shitting myself as I lay in a crowded dirty trailer with obnoxious unhygienic locals.............. What a frightening thought.

Besides the 10 odd marriage proposals; dinner was actually quite pleasant. After our meal we just kind of sat around on the floor and drank endless cups of tea. The edge was gone, and the atmosphere became serene. That was of course until the cattle came home. Then a fresh round of strangeness began.

Grandpa and a few uncles stormed into the trailer at around 10:30pm.............and they were obviously hammered. I sat in the corner reading while trying to ignore the commotion. An argument suddenly erupted between grandma and grandpa,............ gramps was pissed. He kept yelling with rage, standing up, and rushing the old lady. Thankfully each time someone would intervene and calm things down. At one point the worn out looking, hunch backed old man got so pissed that he stormed into the other room yielding his rubber boot and tried to throw it at grandma full force. Fortunately his level of inebriation greatly distorted his accuracy; his heavy, knee high rubber boot slammed hard and loud against the wall about a foot from the old woman’s head.

What was the right thing to do at that point? Things were obviously getting out of hand, but I was merely an American novelty/guest. I really had no pull, and perhaps meddling in family affairs could lead to unnecessary personal danger.

Eventually everyone calmed down, beds were prepared, and we all hit the sack.

I was in the left half of the box car; it was a 9X12 room with a few blankets and pillows to share. I was forced to share this small area with 4 other men, 3 of the 4 had come home recently from a long day of alcohol abuse.

{I was offered vodka constantly, but declined each time. At no point did I feel comfortable enough to even have a sip of alcohol with the locals}

Sleep sucked: the guy next to me kept putting his hand on my face, and his arm across my chest. Two guys over from me was the “cougher”.......the guy must have had TB........he coughed loud and hard all night. The guy on the far end would talk/hum/sing in his sleep.............it was quite irritating.

I woke up startled at 3am to the commotion of the two guys to my right wrestling and yelling at each other. Within seconds they were on their feet raging with anger, arms cocked and ready to brawl...........but again the skirmish was alleviated by a mediator before blows were thrown. The conflict had arisen because the two guys were sharing a blanket, and apparently one of the guys was hogging.

I woke up in the morning after sparsely sleeping, to the guy next to me snuggling up against me like a giant teddy bear...................it was 8am........and I was increasingly thankful that I would escape this strange trailer very soon.

After a breakfast of strange brown soup ( sour milk/wheat based liquid).....I bid my farewells to my hosts, and exited that trailer like a bat out of hell.

Most of the strange and awkward situations I have encountered on the road thus far have been quite laughable and secure. However, I feel this particular occasion, my awkwardness crossed a line. It was no longer fun, exciting, strange, and enlightening;....................it became weird, ugly, bizarre, uncomfortable, and downright frightening.

However, it is all over now, and I am now able to look back on the strangeness and add it to my life-experience archives, while having an increased awareness and gratefulness for the pleasant American lifestyle I have been lucky enough to live.............I have absolutely no room to complain about lack of luxuries, while other people in the world suffer from extreme poverty while smiling ear to ear. I feel slightly guilty for living such a privileged life without the day to day hardships that these people face. I wish them luck in their lives, but fear that their uneducated and underprivileged children will have enormous challenges overcoming their ugly predisposition to failure and a life of hardship

After a series of shot hitches over the border I had made it to China. I walked down the road about a mile in the pounding wind excited for the adventures that lied ahead me. China is a place that I have always dreamed of visiting. The remarkable history and cultural diversity of this enchanted land, was now at my fingertips

After about 3 hours of pleasant daydreaming and travel planning, a semi-truck pulled over gave me a ride to Kashgar...........................................

On the way to Sary Tash:

The family I stayed with in Sary Tash:

Sary Tash local kids:

Dinner in Sary Tash:

Sary Tash:

The road to the pass:

Truck driving buddies:

Stuck, with the crew of another truck:

The pass got hairy in spots:

The first women to greet me at the border trailer park:

Locals being resourceful with an old oil barrel:

Home sweet home in 18A:

An old pic: taken from my car on the road between Bishkek and Jalalabad

-Kyrgyzstan-

2008-04-02T06:06:00.000-07:00

3-8-2008

I woke up feeling stable and well enough to finally leave Osh. After choking down a small breakfast with a bit of dizziness and tolerable nausea; I was ready to explore Kyrgyzstan.

At around 11am I met up with a motley crew of fullbrighters, PCVs and Mercy Corps volunteers. I met up with the interesting and kind hearted crew on their way to observe and document the ‘Cock Fights’ of Bazaar Korgon.

We piled into two shared Taxis and left Osh around 11:45pm. We spent the next couple hours trading stories, and soaking in the beauty of Kyrgyzstan’s gorgeous countryside. Windy roads cut magnificently through grassy rolling hills, each consumed with an abundance of sheep, horses, and cows. Kyrgyzstan doesn’t have traffic jams; the only real transit nuisance is the livestock that spills onto the roads.

I enjoyed watching children and men riding along the grassy hills with their muscular horses, and keeping the livestock in line with their sticks. I found distinctive beauty in the villages we drove through……..time stood still here. People gathered at the wells to fill water jugs, donkeys were used to plow fields, old bearded men with tall traditional hats sat on benches holding their cane and speaking slowly amongst themselves.

After arriving in Bazaar Korgon (about 20km from Jalalabad) we drove through a maze of dirt roads, mud houses, and inquisitive locals before arriving at a secluded barn and horse stable.

We were greeted with affection by the gristly old men guarding the gate, and escorted to the cock fighting area. There must have been over 150 people crammed into the small rectangle shaped barn. The crowd squatted, sat, and stood in an oval shape around the 15x25ft fighting area. Men outside the barn held their cocks with pride, as they prepared them for future battles. We were greeted mostly with curious stares and overall acceptance. We had broached a venue that had obviously not been visited by many outsiders.

I was not sure exactly how I felt about watching cock fight. I was there to view a cultural event, and to observe and understand a Kyrg subculture more than I was for the thrill and excitement of things.

Should I feel bad about attending, and watching a callous activity that is both illegal and highly frowned upon in most civilized societies? After all they are only birds, and quite low on the food chain for that matter. I also justified my presence by thinking about how ugly and worthless looking the birds are,……… banged up roosters are far from being cuddly and cute. I of course would completely object to puppy fights, or koala bear fights, but I found cock fighting surprisingly easy to digest.

I had mixed feelings and emotions as I watched two roosters peck each others faces raw. The battle action was minimal besides a lot of pecking, a few sloppy headlocks and the occasionally swift jump kick to the face. The atmosphere of the event was almost laughable…….here were about 150 grown men, squatting intently around a couple of roosters pecking at each other. Most of the men watching had money on the fight, therefore the faces in the crowd showed a dark blend of seriousness, nervousness and fear.

I felt as if I were watching a welterweight boxing match……..a few weak hits, a lot of dancing around……..and a disappointing anticlimactic ending.

About every 15 minutes the fight would stop and the cocks would be snatched up by their managers for a bit of a cool down period. The managers would swallow water and spit it into the bird’s faces, and asses;………it was hilarious to watch grown men spitting water up the asses of haggard looking birds. In retrospect I suppose this is the way to cool these roosters down and prepare them for another round of pecking.

I frankly found the cock fighting to be a bit on the boring side. My amusement and pleasure came mostly from watching the people interact, and soaking up the bizarre atmosphere of the event. Birds pecking at each other for an hour, and having the fight be a split decision………..was a bit lame. I was under the impression that these birds would fight to the death. I wanted to see a swift jump kick, followed by a beak through the heart.
These Cocks are lifetime fighters, and have the scarred up faces to prove it. So I ask myself what is more humane, the Kyrgyzstan cock fighting where the birds peck at each other for an hour and never die, or South American style where they equip the birds with razor blades in hopes to create a bloody battle that will last no more than a couple minutes. Perhaps the latter is more humane because in the end the bird feels less pain and endures less suffering;……..a razor to the neck seams to me a bit less inconvenient than 10,000 sharp pecks to the face.

I will attempt to refrain from mentioning any revealing details about my new friends due to privacy reasons, but I will reveal that I was lucky to have met them. I thoroughly enjoyed hearing about their interesting lives, and the stories of events that shaped their careers.

One guy in particular, a well established American photographer named Thatcher, became a real inspiration to me. He has traveled the world, worked for many humanitarian NGOs….. and has established himself professionally as a well known and respected photographer. Throughout the incredible challenges faced, he has maintained an incredibly humble and jolly attitude. He has the exclusive ability to selflessly embrace other cultures and spread warmth and happiness to those around him like a plague;…… this is something I am both inspired by and envious of.

After a full day of cock fights, we met up with a crew of PCVs and headed to the disco. The discothèque reminded me like a junior high dance. It was filled with locals celebrating women’s day be pounding vodka and sloppily dancing to American hip-hop music.

Toward the end of the evening I began to feel a bit exhausted and weak. It was my first full day out of bed in well over a week. I was quite proud of myself for making it through the day without physically collapsing, and maintaining social enough to make friends.

Day two in Jalalabad was great; I was able to sleep in, and regain some of the energy I had spent the previous evening. After a day of laziness and relaxation I met up with a crew of PCVs for some shashlik (meat skewers) and a couple beers.

The sun was shining as we drank beer, and conversed about things such as Peace Corps bureaucracy, traveling, dog bites, and Brian Boytano. I fully enjoyed hanging out with the J-Bad PCVs and being goofy Americans. Spending time with this wonderful group of PCVs lifted the weight of loneliness and depression from my shoulders, and gave me a shot of energy for future adventures.

Traveling alone can be a bit of a challenge at times. My recent spell of brutal food poisoning was my most recent and significant hurdle. I was not sure if I would be able to continue my journey after being completely physically and emotionally drained by a week of pain and agony. I am mentioning this only because I want to make clear that these shallow ruts along the road are leveled off by the uplifting and warm characters I meet along the trail.

After a few days in Jalalabad my health was almost 100%. My appetite and excessive energy has not returned, but the warm weather and pleasant sunshine saturates my body with joy and happiness.

3-11-2008

At around 1:00pm I walked about 3 miles to the J-Bad bus station where I caught a shared taxi to a small village called Akman. After being dropped off on the main road; I walked the 1.5miles into Akman……..and enjoyed every step.

Akman was a rural paradise……….perhaps many will not feel the same way about this village as I, but nonetheless I really enjoyed its exquisiteness and purity.

As I walked along the dirt road through the small village of Akman, I was meticulously observed by locals with curious stares. Young boys were riding bareback in pairs on muscular horses. Others were riding donkeys through the streets carrying jugs of water or other farming supplies. A cluster of women were standing on the edge of a small river, collecting water in large metal jugs before carting them off to their homes with makeshift wheelbarrows. All the men were wearing either skull caps, or the traditional tall white hats with black trim.

I made my way to Meghan’s(PCV) school and interrupted her class do to a bit of Q & A with her students. I have visited numerous schools throughout my journey and have often taken the role as honored guest; which involves being bombarded with questions. One boy in particular asked me a question that showed significant contrast and painted a vivid rural picture that differed greatly from other schools I have visited thus far.

He asked me “ do you have any sheep”………..a simple yet important question in Kyrgyzstan. I told him I did not have any, and asked him if he had any. He responded by saying that he had eleven sheep.

This was noteworthy to me, because I compared it to a time in Turkey when a student the same age asked me if I liked “Bush”.

These kids don’t worry about politics, they are too busy being kids, and taking care of their livestock. Their parents don’t teach them which world leaders to hate; they simply work hard all day and night in order to survive and live their lives the way their parents and ancestors have lived for hundreds of years.

This story may appear to be relatively insignificant, and unworthy of a second thought. Nonetheless,…. to me it was more than a simple question about sheep. It painted a picture of rural purity, and an essence of life without politics, war, over-consumption, capitalism, and greed.

Upon arriving in Meghan’s classroom she greeted me with a warm smile, and quickly returned to her lesson. She taught with enthusiasm as she played a learning game with her knowledge-hungry students. I fantasized about how my own Peace Corps experience would have been if I were a TEFL, and how great it would be to be around cheerful kids all day……..but then I remembered how I was barely able to control the 6 year olds during my bi-weekly kindergarten classes in Chirpan, Bulgaria.

I have a lot of respect for anyone who can keep kids under control and learning throughout the day; whether it be in Kyrgyzstan or any other country around the world. Allah knows, teaching is not an easy thing to do.

Meghan lives in a small painted mud house on the edge of a narrow river. It was a typical village home, chickens running around the yard and occupying the trees, ninety or so sheep grazing in the yard, several cows tied to trees on the side of the house, a small barn for the sheep, and an outhouse. I loved it!

After a quick cup of tea and some nan bread, we went on a walk around her village. We walked through the dusty streets of her village, and were greeted with both welcoming smiles and curious stares. Young boys were hauling large vinyl bags on donkeys, while the girls were lugging around large metal water jugs. We walked through the rolling hills past the cemetery and back toward the village, stopping once briefly for a chat with a women living on the hillside. While walking back through the village streets we came across a group of men squatting and standing in a square formation next to an unfinished mud house. Women and children were sitting on a collapsed pile of bricks on the side of the house while watching the men at the head of the square speak. We had stumbled upon a local election, the men were voting on what to name the street they lived on. It was a typical dusty village road, with seemingly no significance. However to the villagers, the road was more than that; no longer would they live on a nameless road in an undeveloped village, they showed pride and honor as they solidified their status and named the street after a hero of Kyrgyzstan.

3-12-2008

I slept in until about 10:30am, and then headed to Bazaar Korgan with Meghan. We stayed up late the evening before enjoying wonderfully heartfelt conversations about just about everything. We spoke together as if we were old friends. Meghan has a huge heart, and is the type of girl that you can immediately feel comfortable with. She reminded me a lot of my good friend and former site mate in Chirpan. After a long time away from family and friends, it is really nice to find people that you can really talk to. And thankfully I have been fortunate enough to meet a few people like this on the road. It is what keeps me sane.

Traveling has become a lifestyle; it is a way of life that is not always easy on the body or mind. I am not longer on vacation, I am simply living a nomadic lifestyle. Throughout my journey it has been imperative that I meet people that lift my spirits, and portray inspiring amounts of humanity. If I had not met such people, my adventure would be shallow, dry, dark, painful and my personal growth would become horribly stunted.

After a quick lunch and beer with Meghan; we hit up the public banya. The public bath was in a hard to find back alley mud building with peeling blue paint. The shower room was reminiscent of something you would find in the basement of an abandoned warehouse. A dirty bathtub, rusty metal pipes, paint peeling off the mud walls, and a home-made shower head made of sheet-metal and twine. It was wonderful to finally shower, a significant amount of time without bathing makes you really appreciate indoor plumbing.

After the banya Meghan and I met up with two Kyrg women who work as anti-bride-napping activists.

Bride-napping:
-80% of marriages in Kyrgyzstan come from bride-nappings
-57% of these bride-nappings are non-consensual
-92% of the women kidnapped eventually consent and stay to be married

When I first heard about this phenomenon; I was shocked, but naturally found it laughable, mostly because the problem was so impersonal, and distant.

I briefly mentioned bride-napping in my Turkey Blog after learning about it through some RPCVs (returned Peace Corps Volunteers) who served in Kyrgyzstan.

Now that I have actually spent a significant amount of time with the people of Kyrgyzstan, and have learned about this problem from local women; I no longer find it humorous. It is absolutely terrifying and disheartening to know that women everyday are being kidnapped, raped, and forced into loveless marriages.

How Bride-Napping works:

-A young girl is selected at random from the streets of Kyrgyzstan (usually from a larger city, or nearby village) and forced into a car. She is driven away screaming and kicking,……but shown no compassion by her aggressors. The future groom’s sisters, aunts, and grandmothers force the girl into their home and restrain her in a corner of their house.

Tears, screams, kicks, and desperate pleas are laughable to the aggressors during this process…..The women know that with persistence they will eventually be able to psychologically break the young girl as if they were breaking a horse.
The grooms relatives will tell the girl she must stay and force a veil on her head that symbolizes marriage (ownership). The poor girl will cry, scream, and yell for hours but will see no pity or kindness from her captors. They will tell her to quit crying, to submit, and to stop being stubborn. They will tell her she is disgracing her family by saying no, and that they will not stop until she submits to the marriage.

During this time, the grooms parents will contact the girls family and offer them a dowry, usually some livestock and money. The parents almost always agree, which makes it even more difficult for the girl to say no to the marriage.

Meanwhile the women will threaten the young girl with curses, and tell her over and over that if she refuses she will be cursed with bad luck and will live in misery the rest of her life.

After the young girl is no longer able to handle the vicious abuse, she unwillingly submits. She is now wearing a veil that signifies submission, and is locked into a room that evening with the groom in order to consecrate the unity (be raped).

This is usually how the story ends, because all women are fully aware that a girl without her virginity is disgraced and undesirable in Kyrgyzstan. If she does not follow through with the marriage; her own family will not take her back, she will be cursed, disgraced, and disowned. However, if she submits to the marriage, she will have sacrificed everything she has worked so hard for in her former life.

The poor girl is forced to drop out of her university and throw all her aspirations of happiness and prosperity out the window. Her once promising life and career is now shattered because she is forced to marry a Sheppard. She is now more or less a slave for her husband’s family in the hills of rural Kyrgyzstan.

-OK………..this story may seam a bit dramatic and even unbelievable, but I assure you this is a very real problem in Kyrgyzstan.

As an example of how real Bride-Napping is; I will tell you a true story:

Meghan (my friend) was hanging out with her “Shepard friend” in her village when he excused himself to take care of some family business. He told her that he had to help his cousin bride-nap a girl from the village. Meghan (PCV) told him that it was wrong, but he only shrugged his head and told her that family is family, and tradition is tradition.

That evening a 19 year old girl from the village of Akman was bride-napped. She became absolutely hysterical; she was in love with another man and adamantly refused the marriage. The groom’s relatives spent hours and hours trying to break the girl psychologically, but she still refused. She begged for mercy and understanding, but received no compassion from her captors.

After being presented the dowry, the girl’s father agreed to the marriage. At this point the poor girl was desperate and helpless. The girl was forced to say the only thing she could think of to get out of the grasp of these evil women. She told them that she was not a virgin. After telling the women this over and over and adamantly refusing the marriage, the women cursed the girls and allowed her to escape their home with her womanhood intact.

The next day, she was nagged relentlessly by her own grandmother. She was told that she is disgracing her family, and that she must go through with the wedding to save her family’s good name. Often if a woman refuses to marry, the community will assume she is refusing because she does not want her potential groom to find out she is not a virgin.

Oksokols (white beards) as well as old women have the highest status in the community, so basically what they say goes. The girl’s Grandmother relentlessly berated her with guilt. Over and over she was told that she is disgracing her family and that she must follow through with the marriage or she will be disowned………………………..What were her options??

This story ends tragically,………..the psychologically abused girl went out to the barn in her back yard and hung herself. In her pocket was a note that said “tell my father I am still a virgin”.

-The town’s reaction to this tragic event was very cold. In order to save face, both families, and the community at large told people that the girl was mentally ill, and was not a virgin.

-Unfortunately the people of this particular village and the majority of people throughout Kyrgyzstan, are unwilling to admit and unable to recognize that bride-napping is a major problem. Cases such as the suicide in Akman are becoming chillingly frequent throughout Kyrgyzstan.

Any young girl walking around Kyrgyzstan is a potential victim of bride-napping. Young Kyrg women will never walk anywhere alone and are in constant fear of being kidnapped. Imagine walking to university everyday and living with the fear that you may be kidnapped at any moment and never attend another lecture again. Bride-Napping happens to everyone: rich and poor, in villages and in big cities.

A separate example I will only briefly mention (for her privacy) is the case of a friend of mine, an American girl who was kidnapped for more than 3 days. She was simply taking a taxi from Bishkek to Osh……..and wound up bride-napped in a mountain hut with no running water, or electricity…..just a room full of crazy women……..this happened less than a year ago. It goes to show that in Kyrgyzstan, even westerners are not exempt from this tragic and traumatizing crime.

Moving on………………………….

After a day of relaxation, cleanliness, and enlightening conversations with the anti-bride-napping activists…Meghan and I left Bazaar Korgon and headed back to Akman.

After greeting Meghan’s host family I sat on the river and soaked in the village atmosphere as Meghan went into the house.

The sun was going down as I watch young village boys, two per horse gallop bareback along the riverside. They were helping their fathers and brothers with the sheep and cattle. It was like watching cowboys in a movie. Large herds of horses, sheep, and cattle were being forced along the narrow river by young cowboys whipping their animals with thin sticks. I witnessed one kid attempt to make his donkey drink out of the river, the bank was steep and the donkey refused to go near the water……….it was entertaining to watch the young kid unsuccessfully attempt to force his donkey to drink for about an hour.

After about an hour and a half of sitting on the riverbank in peaceful silence and tranquility, Meghan came back and sat beside me with tears in her eyes.

She had spent the last hour being yelled at by her host grandmother. And it turns out that I was directly responsible for this horrible lashing.

Last weekend Meghan had hosted Thatcher at her place so they could hang out and take pictures of rural Kyrgyzstan. They also went on a walk around the village……….

Basically, some of the villagers saw Meghan and I walking around the village and hillside and found it peculiar that she had spent two consecutive weekends with two different men. We were the talk of the town at the watering hole………This is not a figure of speech, villagers actually get all their gossip while filling up their water jugs at the watering hole.

So, what happened was that an old woman from the village came to Meghan’s house and yells at her host-grandmother about how Meghan is disgracing her family. She was told that the whole town thinks she (Meghan) is being a whore.

-It turns out that walking around the village is reserved for people who are either married or seriously dating.

Meghan was caught off guard by her host-grandmothers anger and disgust. She was told over and over that she was shaming their family and that she was foolish to have gone on a walk with me. How could she disrespect her family like that? What was she thinking?.................Meghan did not know what to say, this minor cultural mishap had turned her once pleasant living situation into a living hell. She did nothing wrong;………a simple walk around her village turned into a cultural blunder that caused her once serene home life to turn into a painfully awkward and cold living situation.

I felt quite bad about this because I was directly responsible…..and poor Meghan had to deal with over an hour of verbal abuse from Grandma.

Meghan and I sat on the riverbank for a long time trying to make sense of the situation…..but how could we possibly comprehend something like this………the concept was way to foreign to understand……..our only choice was to accept it. And Meghan’s only real choice was to keep walking on egg shells and hope one day to shed her reputation as the village whore. ( She is in fact well liked and accepted by her community, this misunderstanding quickly blew over, even with Grandma)

3-13-2008

I woke up early and took a shared taxi to Bazaar Korgon, then had to wait about 3 hours for a shared taxi to Arslenbab. While I was waiting I was befriended by a crew of locals who took me to the café for a bit of chai. We spoke only Russian, which meant our conversations were simple and often lost on me. I tend to be a curious figure for local Kyrgyz men. Often the men attempt to interact with me by joking around about drinking vodka and chauvinistic sex. Most of the people I have met around the bus stations have been a bit on the crude and obnoxious side. The drunks in this country make me feel incredibly uncomfortable; alcoholism appears to be a dire epidemic in Kyrgyzstan.

It was drizzling rain and overcast as we drove up the steep hills through rocky fields saturated with horses and sheep. We drove along a narrow road that hugged the river tightly, and was swarming with school children and livestock. The drive up the mountain to Arslenbab was slow and beautiful. Children no older than ten were slowly riding donkeys along the road loaded with seemingly unliftable piles of sticks and grass. Shepard’s grazed their livestock along rocky cliffs, and hills that seamed even too steep and jagged for mountain goats.

Kyrgyzstan has a quiet yet vibrant appeal to it. The people of rural Kyrgyzstan smile and seam to be happy with their busy yet simple lives. I feel as if I could live here and be happy…….beautiful mountains, slow pace, simple lifestyle, I suppose I am just drawn to the relaxing and romantic essence of rural Kyrgyz life. Nothing is as it appears however; I am sure the day to day lives of these mountain villagers are rough, tough, and full of pain. From a distance it is easy for me to imagine the simplicity of it, without mulling over the details that make the lifestyle potentially unbearable.

The mountain village of Arslenbab began at a melting snowline; it was visually obvious that a large amount of snow had melted within the last week. Snow and mud was the theme of the town’s landscape, plateau and cliffs on my left, and rolling snowy hills leading to a large mountain range in front and on the right. I had arrived in a mountain paradise.

Upon arrival I was immediately greeted by a trekking guide who worked for CBT (community based tourism)……he quickly took me to his office and set me up with a local home-stay not far from a 60M waterfall.

I slept in a 12x12 room separate from my host family’s home. It had a small wood stove and several thick blankets (Tishuks) on the floor to sleep on. After settling in to my room I hiked to the small waterfall and sat in peaceful contemplation for about an hour. Later I hiked to a nearby cliff overlooking the village and read for a few hours.

{I have been reading and trading books throughout my trip, and thus far have read: Ideas & Opinions: Einstein, Warrior Politics: Robert D Kaplan, Eastward to Tartary: Kaplan, Under the banner of Heaven: Krakauer, Into the Wild: Krakauer, Into thin Air: Krakauer, The essentials of Ghandi, around the world in 80 days, The old Testament, Angela’s Ashes, Catch me if you can, From Beirut to Jerusalem: Freidman, Three cups of tea…Next up is ‘The Great Game’….}

After nightfall the first evening, my host and his friend came into my room for dinner on my floor. We ate some plov (rice and meat) and were able to discuss a variety of subjects. My host’s friend: a scruffy looking 55 year old with a shadowy beard and a scull cap, is the German teacher at the local school, he also speaks almost fluent English. He was a great guy; we discussed the Uzbek-Kyrgyz conflict that took place in Osh and Ozgun in 1990-1991.

He said the violence in the region had erupted because life was no longer being controlled and regulated by the Russians. Essentially old Kyrgyz-Uzbek tensions were released because “the teacher had left the room”………..and the students were now left to scuffle without consequence. Most of the fighting was over land and hundreds of people died during the conflicts.

I suppose the hostility and fighting was inevitable….the border of Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan is ludicrous. Stalin’s attempt to geographically split up the clans of this region into two separate nations resulted in a border that looks like interlocking fingers. …… The plan failed to a certain extent because it was impossible to geographically split up the clans without some clans ending up in the wrong country. This is why cities such as Osh have an enormous Uzbek presence…….and remote villages like Arslenbab are over 98% Uzbek.

3-14-2008

I have really enjoyed Arslenbab so far, the small village is situated at the base of a beautiful mountain range, and is cut in half by a shallow river. Walking through the steep muddy streets men greet each other with warm handshakes and smiles while saying “Asalaam Ahalikum” (peace be with you in Arabic).The bundled up children will never miss an opportunity to say hello and goodbye to you while walking along the village’s muddy roads.

Day 2:

I woke up at around 8:00am and after a bit of tea and a quick breakfast with my host family, I hit the trail. My goal of the day was to hike 3.5 miles up the snowy mountain and reach a 120M waterfall. The CBT guy had told me the previous morning that I needed a guide and snow shoes in order to reach the waterfall. I prefer to hike on my own and at my own pace, which lead to my decision of attempting the waterfall hike solo and without snowshoes. The snow was thick and wet, but the sun was shinning……it was a magnificent day for a hike.

In order to properly plan my ascent, I began by walked around the village and asking locals exactly where the large waterfall was. After I gathered enough general info about it’s whereabouts; I began my hike. I used common sense to find the waterfall; I simply followed the river up stream. This turned out to be a valuable and affective way to gain elevation while avoiding the thick snow. The rocks along the narrow riverbank were bare, which allowed me to gain ground at a solid pace. After about two hours of following the river up stream; I came upon a steep slope that would potentially lead me to the waterfall.
The only problem was that it was covered with waste deep snow. I proceeded to climb (swim) straight up hill and used bushes and trees as a sort of anchor and rope. It was a slow and difficult climb……I slipped and fell several times on my way up, each time tumbling down hill about 20ft before becoming lodged in waste deep snow. The snow hardened around me instantly, and I felt as if my legs were stuck in the snow with suction cups. A couple times I fell at such irregular angles, that I was afraid I would twist my ankle. After several long frightening falls, and a few nearly vertical climbs up rocky cliffs; I made it to the top.

I had climbed to a small cluster of trees about 60M above the waterfall. It was a beautiful view; I was sitting at the edge of a 50M cliff and peering down into a mostly vertical canyon. I pulled out my lunch of chocolate cookies and dried fruits while enjoying a bit of rest and rejuvenation.

My view of the surrounding mountains was spectacular; it made the last hour and a half of climbing up steep hillside and deep snow well worth it. I was soaked almost up to my waste from melting snow, and my boots were about as waterlogged as they could possibly be………but it was warm, sunny and I was on top of the world.

As I was packing up my things and getting ready for my decent, I carelessly stepped on a snowy mud patch and slipped about 8ft down toward the edge of a 50M cliff. I was able to stop myself about 4 feet from the edge.

I have not had a close call like that for ages, I was genuinely terrified. Fear and adrenaline kept me in stationary almost comatosed contemplation for the next 30 minutes. I was much more cautious from that moment on.
Going down the hill was a piece of cake; I practically swam down the hill. I was soaking wet already, so more wet snow up my pant leg was hardly bothersome.

After the 3hr hike back to my room; I washed my clothes in a bucket, set them out to dry, and then proceeded to take a well deserved 2 hr nap.

3-15-2008

I woke up to boots that were still soaking wet and my legs feeling like lead. After a bit of hazy contemplation I decided to take it easy. I watched Indiana Jones in Russian and later went on a short hike to a nearby cliff. While sitting on the edge of the cliff; I read and listened to music for about 4 hours as I overlooked the magical mountain village of Arslenbab.

3-16-2008

I woke up refreshed, had quick breakfast with my host family, said a few words of farewell, then hiked down to the main road and caught a shared taxi to Bazaar Korgon.

After arriving in Bazaar Korgon I was forced to bargain with a cab driver for about an hour before I could get a decent price for a shared taxi for Karakol. The two hour drive to Karakol was absolutely breathtaking; snow peaked mountains, jagged hills, rocky multicolored cliffs, massive canyons, and a vibrantly glowing green-blue river that led to a large reservoir.

-Jumping ahead a bit…….I will say that the drive from Bazaar Korgon to Bishkek has the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen.

I arrived in Karakol about 2.5 hours later and was a bit surprised at what I found. Instead of arriving at a vibrant town of 65,000 inhabitants; I found a dirty, desolate, mountain town of less than 15,000 inhabitants. I was confused…………I walked around the main road with a small map asking locals if they were able to help me find our location on the map. After many strange looks, and a lot of confusion, I figured out what had happened. I was in the wrong Karakol…….the other Karakol was on the other side of the country and situated on the edge of Lake Issykul.

Once I had come to the realization that I was far from anywhere, I decided to make my way all the way to Bishkek. Within 30 minutes I was able to flag down a bus to Toktogol (about 100km north). I arrived in the small town of Toktogol about 1.5 hours later. I quickly realized that my transport and lodging options were severely limited in Toktogol. This resulted in me standing on the edge of the road with my thumb in the air hoping to catch a ride 300km north-east to Bishkek.

The first hour consisted of nothing more than blank stares and curious faces. It began to get dark, so while standing on the edge of the road I began to scope out possible crash pads. Behind me was a white abandoned shack with broken windows and a visibly stable roof…………that would be my contingency plan.

I waited just under 2 hours before a black Audi pulled up and agreed to take me into Bishkek. The guy drove like a maniac, but got us through the two mountain passes and into Bishkek in record time. I arrived in Bishkek at around 10:30pm……and quickly met up with my hosts Nick and Jessica.

My hosts were great, Jessica is a warm, adventurous American girl, and Nick is an intelligent humorous Britt. They both teach English in Bishkek.

Bishkek: Big, Ugly, Soviet blocks, lots of Russians.

3-20-2008

After a bit of R&R in Bishkek, I took a bus to the town of Cholpan Ata on Lake Issykul. I met up with a crew of PCVs and enjoyed some great dialogue and a taste of Russian malt liquor known as ‘Baltica 9’.

3-21-2008

I had been looking forward to this day for months! March 21st is Narus, which is the Islamic New Year. Narus is the biggest and most fascinating holiday in Central Asia. And I was in the perfect location to enjoy it in style.

We headed to the airport (a concrete strip of road surrounded by fields) at around 11am. The local airport was the central point for Narus celebration in Cholpan ata. About a dozen yurts were set up by locals, and a large stage hosted a variety of performances throughout the day.

{a yurt is the Central Asian version of the Indian TP)

We began the celebration by visiting a series of yurts owned by friends of the PCVs I was accompanied with. Each yurt contained a U shaped floor table filled with all varieties of Kyrgyz cuisine.

We were treated like honored quests as we consumed mass quantities of fermented millet, horse meat, black tea, and various other traditional Kyrgyz dishes. Our hosts were warm and hospitable, with smiles that were genuine and welcoming.

I had never been in a yurt before, and was amazed at how unique and beautifully decorated they were.

Onto the main event………………….

Ulak-Tartish or Pull-Goat: also known in Central Asia as Buzkashi, is the single most awesome sport known to man.

I have been dreaming about watching this game for months……..and at last the time had come.

How it is played:

Two round alters are placed about 100yds apart. They are about 7ft wide and 4 feet high, with a shallow whole in the middle.
-Two teams of about 5 horsemen line up in the middle of the field between the two alters.
-The ball: A furry 100lb goat is killed about 15 minutes before the game starts. The head is chopped off, and so are half of all four limbs.
-The goat carcass is placed in the middle of the two goals about 50 meters away from the horsemen.
-The men are then signaled to begin, and they charge the dead goat, and try and pick it up.
-They use their horses and body’s as weapons as they wrestle for the goat, and try and take the carcass to the alter and drop it on top for a point.
- The game has the look and atmosphere of rugby on horses, the men who play this game are tough as nails, and are often bloodied and injured by the brut violence and intensity of the game.
-Many men(players) wear soviet era tank helmets to prevent head injuries.

I loved it! It was fast, aggressive and savagely violent. The amount of power, toughness, and equestrian skills it takes to play this game is astonishing.

During the game I witnessed a high speed fall that resulted in a brutal trampling and a powerful horse kick to the guys back. He stood up like a cowboy……in obvious pain, but unwilling to display it to the crowd. Within minutes he was back on his horse and fighting for the goat carcass.

Watching Buzkashi was the highlight of my Central Asian adventure. It is a sport that I will most likely never see again. I feel quite lucky to have had the rare opportunity to witness this incredible sport while in Kyrgyzstan. The sport has been around since the time of Genghis Khan. It has been said that the sport originally was played with human corpses, and was used as a battle exercise for soldiers. I am not sure I would have enjoyed the sport quite as much if it were played with a human corpse.

3-23-2008

Well it is a double holiday, both my birthday and Easter Sunday.

I took an early bus to Karakol (the real one) and met up with a crew of locals and PCVs for a bit of an Easter celebration. We all tossed money down on a 5 month old lamb and slaughtered it for a feast. A PCV named Karina (future med student) slaughtered the animal by slitting its throat over a plastic bucket. I had to turn away…….I don’t really have the stomach for that sort of thing.

The feast was great, even though I am not a huge fan of lamb; the meat was deliciously seasoned and turned out pretty good.

Overall the day was mediocre……..I would have preferred to spend my birthday and Easter with my extended family, or some friends from America…..but such is life on the road.

Wow I am getting old……26……I am beginning to feel a bit pathetic. I am 26 years old and have absolutely zero material possessions and am unemployed. I can’t help but compare myself to friends of mine who have graduate degrees, fiancés, and own their own home. I have absolutely no regrets about my life choices thus far, however I find it difficult to avoid the gravitational pull of the American dream. It is a challenging to take the path less traveled, while feeling equal to those who are successfully living the American dream.

I have no genuine fear of failure, and have lofty goals for my future, however I find it impossilbe to ignore the fact that most of my peers are enjoying successful relationships and well established careers. Here I am dinking around in Asia, I have not worked a day in 6 months, and will soon return to the USA penniless, homeless, and jobless at age 26.…Well,….this blog is running a bit long, so I will stop thinking aloud.

4-1-2008

I am currently back in Jalalabad, I really enjoy the people here so I decided to use Jalalabad as my last hub before heading to China. I have spent the last couple days planning the next leg of my journey and trying to piece together this Kyrgyzstan blog. A lot has happened in the last month, so I apologize if this blog appears to be hastily written and is generally unreadable. I find it to be an enormous challenge to adequately describe the things surrounding me and the thoughts consuming my mind.

I have decided that I will head to Osh next, where I will try and hitchhike to Sary Tash. Sary Tash is the last town before the Chinese border. It is also technically a town in Tajikistan, but from what I am told a Tajik visa is not necessary. From Sary Tash I will wake up early and hitch hike into China to a town called Kashgar. From Kashgar I will take the less traveled lower Silk Road route. Instead of the easy route: 2 day train ride to Uramqi from Kashgar, then a 2 day train ride from Uramgi to Beijing. I will travel around the southern side of the Taklamakan Desert before heading North-East to Beijing.

I am relieved to get out of Central Asia without any dangerous encounters with the locals. Kyrgyzstan in particular is not the safest country in Central Asia. Things are relatively safe during the day, but can be quite dangerous at night. Gangs of drunks, and young Kyrgyz thugs often assault and rob foreigners during late hours of the day. I know a PCV in Karakol who has been beaten and robbed twice while walking home after dark. I will admit that I was a bit paranoid as I walked through dark roads at 10:30pm in Karakol. A few nights ago, I had to walk 2 miles along dark streets to the Karakol bus station in order to catch an 11pm bus;……the entire time I feared I would be a victim of an attack. Anyways,……I will conclude that Kyrgyzstan is quite safe, but walking around in Kyrgyzstan after dark is never a good idea.

OK……Sorry………I will not write another word. I miss you all, and I look forward to coming home this summer. Congrats to my close friend Ryan Schrenzel for tying the knot. I am sorry I was not there buddy.
Over and out,
Trevor
Here are a few Photos:

Bazaar Korgon Cock-Fights:

Bazaar Korgon:
Me and Lenin-

Akman (Meghan’s village):

Meghan’s yard:

Arslenbab:
Village gas station-

Small waterfall-

Cliff overlooking the village-

Village kids-

The hike to the large waterfall-

Lunch above the large waterfall-

Large waterfall-

Too much sun on my hike-

Pit stop in Toktogol:

Cholpon Ata and Narus:
Rock drawing 800BC-

Yurt-

Getting ready to cleans their faces-

Outside Narus:

Kyrgyz vulture, trying to get a bit of marrow-

Too much booze-

Pregame Buzkashi:

The real deal-

-From Uzbekistan to Kyrgyzstan-

2008-03-16T23:41:00.000-07:00

After returning from Bukhara, I pretty much just lounged around for a few days in order to regain a bit of energy and enthusiasm for my next leg. After a bit of R&R my health was restored, and I was able to enjoy life again. I had been plagued with minor illnesses throughout my time in Central Asia, so I assumed the worse would be over.

I was invited to Aibek’s Aunt’s pad again for a dinner party. It was a wonderful evening, and of course we were served large portions of horse meat, and thick noodles. Toward the end of the meal I was presented a plate with a large cow bone on it,………Aibek’s uncle dug into it with a fork, and offered me a large bite of solidified bone marrow………….it was pretty gross!

After dinner Aibek and I went to the disco with a couple of his cousins. The disco was dimly lit, mostly concrete, and saturated with tacky American décor. We spent the next couple hours captivated by the seductively moving women on the dance floor, while shooting vodka, nibbling on fruit, and puffing tobacco through a hookah filtered by milk.

After a bit too much vodka, we hit the dance floor and cut a rug with the hookers (literally) on the dance floor. It was late on a Tuesday evening, so it goes without saying that the good girls were studying or doing something else respectable, while the prostitutes were in full swing trying to pick up local and international businessmen.

At one point Aibek’s cousin brought an English speaking hooker back to our table and sat her down next to me. I was visibly annoyed by this unwelcome gesture, and was adamantly told that she was not a hooker, simply a friendly girl wanting to practice her English. I was not buying it, and despite the hookers efforts to break me in by conversation…………I was not buying it(no pun intended). If she was not a hooker………… Why was she drinking a beer? Why was she telling me to relax? Why was she at a disco at 2am on a Tuesday night………..yeah……….not so convincing.

After I had enough dancing, booze, and awkwardness for one night, I told Aibek I was ready to leave and we rolled out of there……………I slept in the next day till 2pm.

Interesting tid-bit:
-Old poor people (Uzbeks,Tajiks) love blessing people. Often times while on public transport, an old scraggly, scruffy looking bearded man would board the bus before departure and mumble a few words followed by the symbolic washing of his face. After this, the passengers on the bus would follow the mumbled words by symbolically washing their own faces…………next the guy would go around collecting money for his services. I found this quite interesting……….It happened frequently………..and occasionally old women would also perform the blessings.
-Other times blessings are performed by using incense………..this usually happens around the bus station. Gypsy-Roma-Tajik women will walk around the station with a small pot of burning herbs. The women douse unsuspecting bystanders with the smoke of the incense, while presenting blessings of luck and prosperity. Later they charge a fee for their services…………, just thought I would add that bit of info to the blog………one of many things I found interesting in this country.

2-28-2008

Yesterday I went to Aibek’s village/town called Gregarian. The Soviets created this town about 60 years ago in order to house the people working Uzbekistan’s cotton fields. Aibek, his father, and all three of his uncles were born in this town.

Because the hospital was so far from Gregarian, Aibek’s father and uncles were born in their home, with the exception of Aibek’s youngest uncle who was born out in the cotton fields. Aibek’s father, nor any of his three siblings have any idea what day they were born on. They were born away from the hospital…………and were not given any documentation to record their date of birth. In consequence they are ignorant of their legitimate birthday every year. Aibek’s grandmother, who is in her 80s……….has no idea what day or year she was born. Keeping track of such things was simply not important for Uzbek villagers back then. She was once told that she was born around the time Lenin died,……..so she is pretty sure that she was born in the mid 1920s.

Gregarian consists of several rows and blocks of long, narrow, single story, mud brick houses. Each home has a large back yard, usually consisting a variety of livestock (chicken, cows, donkeys camels, turkey etc), and a garden. I really enjoyed the strange, but uniquely peaceful and tranquil atmosphere of Gregarian. Everything was built from brown mud and straw, people smiled at each other, and dying donkeys wandered the muddy streets with halfhearted desperation.
{when a donkey becomes too old to work, the Uzbeks simply release it,….and let it wander the streets alone until it dies. The streets of Gregarian were littered with haggard looking donkeys trying to find grass to eat.}

After arriving in Gregarian, Aibek and I went to his Uncle’s friend’s home where we enjoyed the increasingly familiar meal of horse meat and noodles. I will also mention that after the horse/noodles dish is consumed, the host will bring out the juices-broth of the cooked meat, and serve it as a soup. In my opinion it is a bit unpleasant and rank tasting…………but I believe this is only because I have not fully adapted to eating horse meat.

I am not sure if people are already sick of reading about cultural facts/notes of Uzbekistan………but here are a couple more.

-Uzbeks sleep on the floor, Thick 1X6 meter blankets are folded and laid down in order to create a sort of narrow futon like mattress. I have actually quite enjoyed this concept, the firmness has been great for my back. The only issue I have with the arrangement is the closeness. The blankets/mattresses are laid out shoulder to shoulder………..so privacy and space is not really in the equation. I asked one day if I could simply set up shop on the other side of the room………..I was looked at as if I was crazy. Apparently it is bad luck to point your feet at someone, or to lay at someone’s feet. So sleeping together is basically a display of respect for one another, and if I were to sleep alone they would feel as if they were disrespecting me.

-Kids Hair: I noticed that all of the young boys I saw in Uzbekistan had shaved heads, and that the young girls had short hair. After a simple inquiry, I found out that it is believed that if you cut a child’s hair frequently, their hair will grow back thick and strong.

-Traditionally in Uzbekistan the uni-brow was considered desirable and beautiful……….In consequence, many women would mascara or stencil their eyebrows together. I found this to be only prevalent amongst the old rural women. The younger crowd has adapted the overly plucked and stenciled euro look.

-Before a meal, everyone puts their hands in front of their bodies, palms out, and a prayer/blessing is said. After the blessing is said everyone symbolically washes their face with their hand in one sweep across their face from top to bottom.

-I love camels!

Day two in Gregarian started at 6am when Aibek’s uncle picked us up in the towns ambulance and drove us out to a field in the center of town to hunt coyotes. After trekking around the muddy fields for a couple hours, we gave up our hunt and settled for shooting bottles. After a quick breakfast and a powernap, we hit the road again. We headed out into the cotton fields in order to do a bit of pheasant hunting. We enjoyed a simple lunch followed by a couple shots of vodka on the hood of the Russian jeep before departing into the fields for the hunt. Two hours, several shots, muddy boots, and fatique was the price we paid for our one pheasant of the day. To be honest the whole situation was bullshit. Aibek’s uncle was using a 12 gauge …………while the three of us were using single shot 22caliber rifles. How the hell am I supposed to shoot a flying bird with a .22???

-Moving on…………….

2-29-2008

After saying my farewells to my wonderful Uzbek friends in Tashkent, I began traveling east. I made my way to the edge of Tashkent, where I tried my luck at hitchhiking to Andijan. Andijan is the closest city to the Uzbek-Kyrg border, but to get there requires traveling over a mountain pass. There are currently no busses or marshutkas to Andijan from Tashkent, so in order to avoid paying for a cab, I figured hitchhiking would be the way to go.

Within no time I was on the road to Andijan with my new buddy Rasheik. Rasheik was a Kakon native in his late 30s. He was a typical scruffy looking Uzbek transporter, with a beer belly and a mouth full of gold teeth. Rasheik and I spoke sporadically throughout the trip, but our conversations were limited by my Russian language proficiency……which is quite minimal. Rasheik was transporting a van load of ‘Shrek cookies’.

We rocked out to loud Russian tunes as we drove through the small, crumbling, depressingly desolate towns and villages on our way to the mountain pass. Crumbling concrete, rusty cars, malnourished donkeys, weathered faces, large potholes, and consuming mud puddles were the theme of this leg of our journey.

One town had built a new concrete drainage ditch on the side of it’s main road. I witnessed several locals washing their clothes in the drainage water, and others standing on the side of the road with buckets and soap, desperately trying to wave down drivers for a quick and lucrative car wash.

Well………….the pass was absolutely gorgeous! Snow peaked mountains, mud house villages, livestock wandering around untrekable terrain, men young and old…cruising around on underdeveloped donkeys, coal vendors on the side of the road, military, machine guns, and roadblocks. It was quite the experience……………..toward the top of the pass were a series of two deeply cut tunnels. Each went through a large chunk of mountainside…………These tunnels were guarded with intensity. The atmosphere and appearance around the tunnels reminded me of a ‘Cold War’ movie. Cammoed out soldiers with machine guns guarded the tunnel from raised booths, and packs of snow at the tunnels entrance. The combo of ice, snow, mud, angry stares, machine guns, and cold darkness portrayed a sort of authoritative intimidation. The dark tunnel was interesting, dim lights, pipes on the ceiling, and two soldiers in the middle standing in the darkness with machine guns and blank faces.……their presence did not seem to be necessary…….but that is just my opinion.

By the time I made it through the mountain pass, I had been questioned, and my documents checked 5 times. Why is it, that Uzbekistan has remained so militantly Soviet? I really feel that the road blocks are a bit overkill and unnecessary.

At about 8pm we stopped in Kokand to visit Rusheik’s wife, father, and 3 month old daughter for a quick snack and some coffee. Rusheiks wife did not seem to be a day older than 18………

I arrived in Andijan at about 10:15pm and was dropped off at Aibek’s sister’s place. I had finally made it! Andijan is pretty deep……..and proved to be a bit of a challenge to get to.

My hosts were very kind and warm, and immediately fed me hot tea and traditional Uzbek food. I was given some sort of sketchy looking poultry………..which in hindsight I really should not have eaten.

The next morning I was driven to the local university where I met with the English teacher, and several students in the classroom. I felt very strange and out of place there………people looked at me with unrivaled fascination. As if I were the first foreigner they had ever seen……….it was awkward.

After my visit to the university, I bid my farewell to my delightfully hospitable hosts and boarded a shared taxi for the Kyrg border. I arrived at the Uzbek-Kyrg border at around 1pm and made my way through it by 3:30pm. The border was a piece of cake………..a few normal delays……….but overall it was quite easy. I met a few old ladies in line who told me there were in fact mini-buses that go to Osh………so that was a relief. After entering Kyrgyzstan the old women from the customs line were waiting for me at the gate in order to escort me to the Marshutka. With warm smiles, they walked me to the bus and insisted on paying my 10 cent fare. They were very kind!

After arriving in Osh I changed some $money for local currency and made my way to an internet club to make some phone calls. After inquiring to the internet club staff about local hotels…..I was given the option of staying at the internet café for $5 a night. I accepted.

My room was basically an 8 x 10 area at the edge of the main computer room, but separated by a ½ inch particle board wall. The wall had several cracks and holes………so the privacy was less than comforting. The other drawback to the room was the door……….it was 2x3ft……so getting in and out became a bit annoying. The room consisted of a small desk, and a narrow 1ft high cot…....ohh and the room did not have a light.

After dropping my bag off, I grabbed a quick ‘lagman’ lunch and began exploring the very ethnically vibrant bazaar. Probably the most interesting one I have seen thus far in Central Asia.

After about an hour of walking around Osh,……..my body began to show signs of despair.

PAIN:

I truly understand the definitive meaning behind the word pain. Pure Pain is foul, ugly, wretched, and fierce, and has no mercy or sympathy for its victums. I know this feeling too well………….

After two+ years living in a developing country, and five months on the road…..I have come to understand and recognize the beginning stages of food poisoning. After sensing future discomfort, I headed back to my cot with two bottles of water, and a roll of TP. I was prepared for the worst, or so I thought. Shortly after arriving at my cot, my body began to break down. It began with mild muscular aches and pains, and was followed by a pounding headache and a sour stomach.

Nothing could have prepared me for what lied ahead of me………By about 7pm I had an excruciatingly painful headache, piercing stomach pains, and was involuntarily shivering violently while curled up in the fetal position on my cot. By 8pm I began the first of many long drawn out puking and shitting sessions. My nausea was intense, my shivering was uncontrollable, my headache was vicious……..and the squirts were downright untimely, inconvenient, and F’en unrelenting. The combo was unbearably painful,……….I prayed to the gods for it to end………but was answered only with more pain and discomfort.

The puking subsided by day 3……….but the cold spells, headaches, dizziness, nausea, dehydration, and diarrhea were all going strong.

At day 5, I pretty much thought I was going to die………I was choking down no more than a 3ounce cup of yogurt and a half banana per day, and was consuming less than a liter of water per day( due to extreme nausea)………..I was hardly drinking and eating, yet I had horrible diarrhea that sent me rushing to the toilet at least once every 2 hours.

It was boring, painful, and an all around miserable experience…….listening to music gave me a headache, reading made my dizzy and increased my nausea……..my options were simply to lye still and feel sorry for myself………and analyze how stupid my trip was, and how pointless it was for me to be in Kyrgyzstan. My attitude really took a turn for the worse………

I did not hit a breakthrough until mid way through day 6……….I began to force myself to consume more water, and constantly nibbled on bread in order to somehow get solid food in me. By the evening of day 6 I felt substantially better………….The sickness had been conquered.

So……….I am not sure why I felt the need to type this whole experience out……..I know everyone gets sick, and it is no big deal...........But I must say that, this specific time was intense. I have had food poisoning probably 10 times in the last 3 years……..but nothing has come close to how horrible this latest experience was. Previously my longest and most horrible case of food poisoning lasted only 3.5 days. Childs-play compared to the Kyrg brand food poisoning.

Imagine typing away at an internet café when all of a sudden, a lanky, scruffy looking foreigner, with a long beard and uncontrollable hair emerges from a 3ft door at the edge of the room. He is wearing hospital scrubs, profusely sweating, shivering, and looking half dead as he slowly walks through the computer room toward the toilet.……I must have looked like a troll to these people……..scurrying back and forth from the toilet to my private hole in the wall. I did this 15 times a day for a week. If my brain had not been so numb with pain and exhaustion,……….this situation would have been a bit awkward and embarrassing.

So now it is the end of day 7……….my brain is a bit slow……my appetite has not fully returned, but I have hope for tomorrow!

Now I sit here with a sour stomach, but a relatively clear head………and desperately try and motivate myself for future travel.

(this was written over a week ago, I am currently doing fine.)
-Tashkent-

-In Gregarian-

Osh, Kyrgyzstan-

-Uzbekistan-

2008-02-24T01:51:00.000-08:00

-Uzbekistan-

After a short relaxing glimmer of relaxation and recuperation in Shymkent, Kazakhstan; I was on my way to Uzbekistan. I ended up taking a marshutka (mini-bus, fixed route taxi)$2 to the Uzbek-Kazakh border, where I quickly unloaded my remaining Kazakh currency for Uzbek Som, and began my journey on foot into the unknown. I got pretty much destroyed on the exchange rate…….but I only had about $2 worth of Kazakh currency, so I didn’t lose much sleep over it. Getting past the money changers and border vendors proved to be both painful and challenging. Their persistence and fervor was difficult to break. I literally had to rip their hands off me and dodge them like a basketball player charging the lane.

I eventually made it past the feisty scavengers and unto the scruffy, rosy cheeked border guards and the border’s lingering soviet bureaucracy. After getting past the first two check points, that involved a thorough search, and thorough questioning……..mostly fueled by the guards’ curiosity, rather than their security interests. I made it through to the final checkpoint, where I hit an almost impenetrable snag. Apparently I was supposed to register my visa with immigration police within 5 days of entering Kazakhstan. It is not that I was unaware of this rule, it is just that I felt a bit cocky and above the law,…….and somehow felt that I would easily sneak through the border without repercussions. Probably not the greatest move in hindsight.

I was a stamp away from making it through the border, but I was missing important registration papers. The friendly young border guard explained to me in Russian that I must go back to the immigration police and sort out my little problem. –This undoubtedly would result in the imposition of the known and feared $80-150 fine for not registering.

My strategy was to smile, plead ignorance, and to downplay my Russian language proficiency by turning the simple situation into a complicated headache that the border guards would be reluctant to follow through with. As the guards explained to me the problem with my passport, and pointed toward the immigration office…….I simply smiled and said “ Mozhna Tashkent, Poshoulstva”(may I, Tashkent Please). I repeated this phrase over and over again, while calmly smiling and pleasantly ignoring their requests, through staged ignorance and misunderstanding. After about 20 minutes of these shenanigans, the main border guard smiled at me, and said in English……. “Lakka, I like you”…..He stamped my passport and sent me on my way.

I walked through the final gate smiling ear to ear, and relieved to have gotten through that potential disaster with my pocket book intact.

It was about 4:30pm and freezing cold in Uzbekistan….my cheap cotton gloves were beginning to fray at the fingertips, exposing my fingers to the harshly cold winter weather. I was forced to constantly shelter my hands in my coat; otherwise my exposed fingers would go painfully numb almost immediately after exposure. I mention this only because of how difficult it was for me to fill out the 2 customs forms at the Uzbek border. I found it to be significantly challenging to legibly write in the forms’ small boxes, while my fingers felt like unfamiliar prosthetics( I was actually forced to rewrite one of the forms because my handwriting was so poor).

At around 5:30pm………I had made it into Uzbekistan, I walked about a mile past the border and flagged down a marshutka that took me into the center of Tashkent (30cents).

Tashkent looked very Soviet and familiar at first glance, crumbling block apartments, gaudy monuments, and streets filled with rusty Lada’s (soviet cars). The Uzbek people seemed to have predominant Turk, and Persian physical features, unlike their Kazakh neighbors who seamed to get their genetics from the Mongols.

After the short marshutka ride to the center of Tashkent, I hopped on the metro-line and made my way to Pushkin station; where I solicited a telephone from a stranger, and contacted my host Aibek to retrieve me.

My Host Aibek is a ridiculously well traveled 28-year-old, with a thirst for adventure, and a persistent drive for success and life experience. He lives with his cousins Ulebek, and Mohammad Ali. My hosts have proven to be excessively hospitable, warm, kind, and wonderful Uzbek educators (I being the pupil).

Before I get sucked into writing a bland, hypnotic, and less than entertaining play by play of my time spent in Uzbekistan; I will attempt to cut away, and to dive into a few of the more interesting aspects and abnormalities of Uzbekistan and its culture.

The Subway:

- Like many soviet subway systems I have thus far visited; the Tashkent subway is extensive, proficient, simple, cheap, and a highly reliable. However the differences in it’s appearance are quite vast and substantial.

While most soviet era metro systems tend to incorporate a depressingly stale and unenthusiastic concoction of concrete, steel, peeling brown and yellow paint, rust, darkness, and cold shadows. Tashkent’s metro system has absorbed an essence of virility and life, by representing brilliant architectural design filled with brightness, creativity, life, and pride.

Each Metro station is designed in a completely unique and different way. The highly diverse and creative underground bunkers (the metro system was designed by the soviets to double as a nuclear shelter) are kept in immaculate condition, and heavily guarded by overly conscientious police officers. The diversity and complexity of each metro station is considerable and undoubtedly unique and superior to its former soviet counterparts.

My favorite of these stations would be the cliché choice: Prospect-Kosmonovtov Station
The Kosmonovtov station, dedicated to Soviet astronauts, looks like an artsy space exhibit in a museum of science. Each support column is surrounded by black ruffled glass, The central ceiling has a creative cloud like array of staggered black material, the walls are neatly accompanied by large blue and grey plates with sparkling space murals painted on them……….I find it difficult to adequately explain how interesting, unique and strange this subway station is, and unfortunately a photo was out of the question.

The cops guarding these metro stations are quite vigilant; I have yet to make it through any Tashkent metro stations without showing my documents and being subject to a standard interrogation and search. The one time I attempted to take photos of a metro station….did not go over so well, they spotted me immediately, and were in my face before I was able to snap my first shot.

A walk in the Park:

-One day in Tashkent while Ulebek and I were wandering around ‘Independence Square’, we stumbled across a handful of cops partaking in some rather uncharacteristic activities. I was taking a picture of a large brass monument(apparently the new monument is sitting on the spot that once hosted the largest Lenin statue in the Soviet union), when suddenly I was interrupted and startled by a serious of loud, seemingly nearby, gun blasts. I was in the central park that lies between the senate and a series of government buildings. After a visual investigation of the situation; I witnessed a couple groups of cops drifting around the park, monuments, and buildings holding shotguns. To my astonishment and surprise they were actually firing their guns right there in the park. It was hilarious! These cops were wandering the neatly landscaped park laughing and having a good time, while shooting crows both on the ground and in the air. Anyways…….perhaps this is not the greatest written story……but I thoroughly enjoyed the strangeness and peculiarity of the situation. It makes me laugh to imagine the reaction of Americans, if they were to witness a crew of city cops wandering around a public park in DC casually shooting birds with large shotguns.

Uzbek food:

-I have had the opportunity to share several wonderful meals with graciously hospitable Uzbeks. And have had the honor, and pleasure to have been invited to a few formal dinner parties with Uzbek families. One in particular was at Aibek’s uncle’s home. We all sat on the floor around a large rectangle table and enjoyed a wonderful feast of traditional Uzbek food and deserts. Aibek and I were served our own large plate of ‘plov’(Uzbek national dish: pleasantly greasy rice dish with vegetables and topped with various meat). This particular evening the giant dish of plov we were served, was topped with large chunks of horse meat. I can’t say I really enjoy the taste of horse meat. Perhaps it is because the flavor and texture is so unique and foreign to me. The dark brown, dense, salty, tart tasting meat, had a strange consistency and lingering aftertaste that I was definitely not accustomed to. Horse meat is actually a bit of a delicacy these days because in Central Asia it is currently much more expensive than lamb or beef. It is also considered a ‘Mans Man’ meat. Horse meat has a dense texture,…….and carries the opinion that it creates manly strength and helps build muscle.

Aibek informed me that we were literally expected to finish the entire plate, otherwise it would be considered an insult to our host……….So consequently, I ended up choking down far to much horse meat than desired.

That night we also were served two types of Russian caviar………..it was hilarious to watch the little boy seated next to me sneaking bites from my plate of caviar. I was surprised the kid enjoyed the taste; he has much more sophisticated and expensive taste than I. Later that evening I burped in my mouth, and was immediately consumed by an unpleasantly pungent flavor combination of salty horse meat and strong caviar.

Most of the ethnically Uzbek dishes I have eaten in Uzbekistan have consisted potatoes, meat, various herbs, and have been served with nan bread ( traditional round bread with decorations punched in the middle).

Ohh………..and there was the Camel Milk. The strange thing about camel milk is that it ferments almost immediately. Aibek presented me with a bottle of day old camel milk (literally straight from the camel) stored in a Pepsi bottle. We had to undo the bottle cap slowly, as if the milk were carbonated,(which it pretty much was). The milk had an alcohol content of a bit more than 3%, and tasted like salty sour milk with a kick. It gives your mouth the strange acidic tingle that you get from fresh wine. Overall I would say that camel milk is quite good. I found it to be a bit challenging to get over the fact that it was produced by a camel, but all in all it was quite tasty.

Transportation:

I hate the transportation in this country!!!!!!!!!(Buses that is, I hear trains are nice here) It is a real pain in the ass, and horribly unpleasant.

From Tashkent I took a bus to Samarkand…..but was dropped off about 50km from Samarkand, and then told to get onto a muddy, crowded marshutka………About 45 minutes later I was dropped off on the edge of the highway,…about 10km from Samarkand……..not that this was unusual or horribly inconvenient, but still it would have been nice to have taken a bus directly from Tashkent to Samarkand.

To Bukhara: I found a private bus that was taking people from the far edge of Samarkand to Bukhara. This particular bus was an absolute shit box………..The bus was completely full, and surrounded by about 20 people still yelling, and crowding the door. I had given up hope of boarding the packed out bus, when the driver signaled for me to come aboard. With skepticism and hesitation, I approached the driver and firmly told him I would not buy a ticket unless I was assured a seat;……with a spot of resentment, he agreed. The bus assistant, a chubby, scruffy looking, gold toothed gentleman, rockin a fur hat, sold each person waiting out side the bus tickets. He then proceeded to load them all onto the bus like cattle. I was shocked, I have no idea how this guy was able to fit everyone on the bus; a circus sideshow would have trouble fitting more bodies onto this bus.

The guy casually tried to herd me onto the bus with the crowd, but I harshly stared him down and adamantly insisted that I be given a seat. So after we were all boarded, I ended up sharing the fold out seat next to the driver with 4 other people. I had the far right 5inches, and the bus assistant had the crack between me and the bus door,……….. he was pretty much in my lap the entire time. It really sucked!

Even though we were at full occupancy (literally), the bus kept stopping along the road and picking up more people and their luggage. It was ridiculous, horribly awkward, and uncomfortable. The icing on the cake was the fact that the bus door was fragile, and barely functional. This piece of equipment proved to be near fatal for the bus assistant……..Honestly, the guy almost fell out of the bus three times! Each time the door swung open, I would dig my feet into the crevice in front of me as an anchor, bear hug the guy, and yank him back into the bus with all my strength………and after each time, the guy looked at me as if I were over amplifying the situation, and that he would be perfectly fine without me,…it was strange.

Anyways…….the bus ride was an absolute disaster, filled with uncomfortable conversations and strange interactions with people I would prefer to ignore. Example being when the bus assistant forced me to share my head phones(he got one ear) with him for 2 hours……it was horrible because the crack in the bus door made the bus so loud that I could barely hear my tunes………and I really, really, needed music to ease my mind, and to relieve a bit of the anxiety and stress that was building up throughout the ride. Or the lady behind me who kept poking me in the back and asking me annoying questions about what I thought about Uzbek women.

The best travel experience was the Bukhara-Tashkent ride!

I woke up at 6:30am,………left my hotel, and boarded a shared taxi to the train stations 15km out of town. At about 7:10 I was told by the ticket guy, that the only bus tickets available were for first or business class. So with this news, I turned away and hopped on a marshutka for the bus station. I arrived at the bus station at around 7:30am and purchased my bus ticket. The bus was said to be leaving at 9am. After a quick breakfast of eggs and hotdogs, I boarded the bus and took a snooze. I awoke at about 11:30am……..and to my surprise…the bus had not left the station. The bus finally left the station at 3:30pm, and at this point I was quite calm, happy, and feeling patient despite the fact that I had already been waiting on the bus for 6.5 hours.

After the bus departed we spent the next hour picking up people on the side of the road, and loading their cargo onto the bus.( buses in Uzbekistan are used for import\export as much as they are used for passengers) At around 6:00pm the bus came to a screeching halt, and everyone quickly exited the bus onto the cold muddy roadside. For the next 2 hours we stood in the cold as a few scruffy men with furry hats; jacked up the back end of the bus, and fixed what seamed to be a suspension problem.

We hit the road again at around 8:30pm, and ended up in Samarkand roughly 10:00pm. After a quick pit stop, and a snack of bread and chocolate; we were off.

An hour after Samarkand, the bus slowed down a bit do to the flooding valleys in route. The weather in Uzbekistan had drastically warmed up over the last few days, resulting in the rapid melting of the areas large packs of stagnant snow. A couple towns we drove through were submerged in over a foot of water. It felt rather strange to be driving a bus through it, we drove slow and steady through the deep waters, as if we were a ship. The bus created a large wake and emulated a ship drifting smoothly through an icy lake. I was saddened by the site of the many villagers holding shovels, and wooden sticks, standing knee deep in water in front of their homes. They appeared helpless and distraught, as they desperately tried to control the untamable waters, and avoid further destruction of their homes and land.

At around 12:00am I really ran out of patience. I was sweating, hungry, cramped, annoyed, sick, tired, and restless from awkward immobility. The following hour we stopped several times to meet up with men who swiftly unloaded the buses cargo into their old Russian cars, and quickly drove away.

Ohh…………and I should probably mention the road blocks……….In Uzbekistan, it is literally impossible to drive more than 40miles in a row without stopping. There are constant road blocks, which are like mini border crossing equipped with armed police, gates, and a customs offices. These road blocks run 24 hours a day, and separate each county, and regions within counties. So of course every time we passed through one of these…….the bus driver would have to exit the bus in and talk to the cops for a few minutes.

At around 3:30am, my bus arrived in wonderful Tashkent……what a relief, or so I thought. A quick analysis of my pocket funds resulted in the realization that I had only 800sum(60 cents) to my name. I reevaluated the situations, weighed my options and came up with a solid game plan of getting where I need to go. Piece of cake!

The friendly and exhausted bus driver allowed me to wait on the bus, and shelter myself from the pouring wet snow until 5:20am. The Metro does not open until 5:30am……..so temporary shelter was a necessity. After leaving the bus, I wandered through the wet parking lot and took a seat in an almost empty marshutka {marshutkas leave only when full} The bus driver reminded me of a certain Star Wars character. The scruffy old man had no neck, was round like a beach ball, had overly loose and wrinkled skin, sported a flat skull cap, and conversed with his colleague in a deep throated mumble as he chained smoked cigarettes.

I waited silently in the cold dark marshutka for an eternity(1.45hrs) before it finally left the station at 7:15 and eventually dropped me off at the metro station. The 500som for the bus ride left me with just enough money for the metro! I wandered in the thick snow through a series of cold dark parking lots until I arrived at the metro station. Upon entering the metro station, I was immediately spotted by the police. I was escorted to a back room, where I was asked a series of security questions, and thoroughly searched. No I do not have a bomb in my bag, no I do not have any drugs, no I am not carrying any guns……… I was really not in the mood at this point, and displayed a look of anger and annoyance throughout the entire process. After being released by the police and promising I would not blow up the subway, I continued on to my metro stop, and soon began the long (30min) walk back to Aibek’s apartment.

Perhaps writing out this entire story was a waste of time, in hindsight, I felt it to be rather dull when writing …….but I have got to vent my frustrations to someone…….so there you have it

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I have really enjoyed Uzbekistan, this country has been very unique and interesting to me. I am always pleased to see countries that have emerged from their Soviet period with greatness and brilliant character. The people in Uzbekistan treat each other with warmth, and unrivalled hospitality, while displaying an image and ora of happiness and love. The classic soviet characteristics of selfishness, coldness, pain, victimization, and depression, abundantly common amongst former soviet countries; has fortunately not saturated Uzbekistan. Instead Uzbekistan appears to have emerged from soviet rule and oppression with pride, happiness, joy, and dominant aspirations of progress and success.

Uzbekistan undoubtedly has the most beautiful architecture in Central Asia. The deep cultural and historical roots of Uzbekistan are shown with brilliance in both Samarkand and Bukhara. Uzbekistan’s Islamic architecture is dazzling, distinctive and in my opinion the most beautiful in the world.

{The Arabs brought Islam to Uzbekistan in the 8th century}

Uzbekistan gets its name from a descendant of Ghegaz Khan named Ozbeg, who ruled the region from 1310-40. After Ozbeg’s reign, the surrounding tribes began to refer themselves as Uzbeks……….However, modern day Uzbekistan was created in the 1920s by the Soviets. They drew a few ethnic borders, provided the Uzbeks with a language and a sense of cultural identity that separated them from their nomadic neighbors to their north and east.

Samarkand: has had a long extensive history in Central Asia. It was even visited by Alexander the great in the 4th century BC. But instead of pretending I know all about it, I will just provide you with a few photos……..and say that Samarkand’s architectural marvels are absolutely breathtaking!

Bukhara: By far my favorite city in Uzbekistan! Bukhara is absolutely magical…….the city has not seemed to have changed in the last 500 years. I thoroughly enjoyed wandering around the muddy narrow streets of old town, and losing myself in the magical atmosphere. I could go on all day about Bukhara……….but I think I will keep those opinions to myself and simply post the pictures…

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I am currently in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, and actually heading to a Aibeks village tomorrow for a bit of camel milking,…….and perhaps some hunting. It should be interesting. I had a lot of free time today, and internet access, so I figured I would take advantage of it, and post a blog while I can. After a couple days at Aibek’s village; I will be heading to Kyrgyzstan. I have made a few Peace Corps contacts there……..so yeah………I am really excited to visit the very rural and nomadic Kyrgz.

That’s all for now,…………..I really miss all my friends and family……..and really, really, miss America. I look forward to seeing you all this summer. Take care…….and I truly enjoy emails, and updates…….so please keep in touch. Internet is what keeps me sane, and helps me stay motivated!

Over and Out
Trevor

$100 exchanged into bills of 1000sum (Uzbekistan’s largest currency denomination)

Bazaar-Tashkent

-Independence Square-And the cops having fun shooting crows-I could not get too close: cops in Central Asia are a bit camera shy-

These Uzbek ladies wanted to have their picture taken with the grizzly looking American tourist

Dinner party at Aibek’s Uncle’s place:

Nan Bread, with Katya at Aibek’s pad:

Camel Milk:

Samarkand:

-The Registan

Ulughbek Medressa-finished in 1420

Sher Dor Medressa: 1636

Tilla-Kari Medressa: 1660

Bibi-Khanym Mosque: 14th century, but most is recently restored

I paid off a guard to allow me to climb through the dark, tunnel of a stairwell to the top of the large minaret, to get a good view of the city.

Locals:

Samarkand’s bazaar:

Shahr-I-Zindah: a complex of tombs including the tomb of Qusam ibn-Abbas(Mohammed’s cousin)

Bukhara:

{You will notice in some of the pictures, large square pools. These pools were used by the cities residents for drinking and washing, up through the 19th century. As a result, Bukhara became well known for its brutal plagues that would tear through the city. In the 19th Century the average resident of Bukhara did not make it past his early thirties.}

-Old town:

Char Minor:1807

Mir-i-Arab Medressa: 16th century

Nadir Divanbegi Medressa

Kalon Minaret: 1127AD

Bolo-Hauz Mosque: 1718

The Ark: 5th Century AD

Old soviet water tower: now abandoned lookout tour

Local Tajik’s

Me with the traveling essentials: a book, tunes, iodine flavored water, cheap food, cold medicine, and a beard.

-Kazakhstan-

2008-02-07T00:03:00.000-08:00

Kazakhstan

1-27-2008

I awoke at 8am………just in time to watch the majestically reddish-orange sun, rise from the edge of the sea. The vibrant sun made the black water and pale blue-sky glow in an absolutely beautiful way………I woke up at the perfect moment, and felt that it was a sign of more beauty and safe adventures to come during my future journey.

The boat stopped suddenly at around 1:30pm………..we were (an estimated) 10 miles from shore. I spent the day reading, studying, and mingling with the locals in the common area. The boat did not begin moving again until about 12:20am.

-Aktau-

The boat docked in the frozen (literally) port of Aktau Kazakhstan at around 1:00am. After a lot of waiting around…….I made it through customs at around 4am.

I caught a break, and ended up meeting an Azeri-Kazakh man (Vagiv) on the boat who was heading to the same city I was. My next destination was Oktobe……….a town about 900 miles North East of Aktau. Vagiv ( in his mid 40s) works in Oktobe, and was previously in Baku visiting his parents and brothers.

Aktau felt to me like a displaced chunk of Antarctica, the brutally cold winds made the weather absolutely painful. The Caspian Sea was partially frozen, with huge chunks of ice crashing swiftly through the white-capped waves. Baku seamed to be a tropical paradise compared to what lied ahead of me.

After bout 3.5 hours of sitting around the crowed customs waiting room, Vagiv and hopped into a shared taxi for the train station. It was about 8am,………and I was completely exhausted, having not slept a wink, my mind was both numb and disoriented. The dark icy roads to the train station cut across a flat, frozen, desolate land of oil pipes and electrical wires. Our driver drove like a crazed maniac through the deeply rutted icy roads, but my fear and anxiety about the situation was pleasantly numbed by my exhaustion.

After arriving at Aktau’s train station( about 5km outside of town) a quick inquiry produced the fact that the Oktobe train was not due to depart until 2:00pm. To say the least, I found this news to be both disappointing and irritating. I desperately wanted to lie down and sleep, however this option was not at all available to me.

Vagiv and I ate some breakfast and drank a few cups of coffee at a nearby cafÈ, while I tried to regain my composure and get a grasp on my surroundings. I was now in Asia……..surrounded by Asians with physical characteristics unlike any I was familiar with. The apartment blocks around the train station brought back memories of Eastern Europe, but the strangely dressed shepherds, locals with fur hats, and hostile police officers reminded me that I was in a very unfamiliar land.

Vagiv and I passed the time by taking a bus into town to check out a few soviet monuments, and by walking around the frozen seaside.

After buying our 4th class tickets for our 28-hour train journey to Oktobe; we boarded the train and immediately crashed out on adjacent second level green vinyl bench seats.

Even though I was exhausted, I found it quite challenging to sleep. I was on a train in Kazakhstan……and surrounded by the unknown. My mind’s curiosity and excitement for the strange hindered my body’s ability to gain much-needed R&R.

The train began to fill up with working class locals, selling all sorts of goods from broomsticks to horsemeat sausage. The train literally turned into a moving bizarre……it was like nothing I had ever seen before. There were a total of 6 bench seats in my open compartment; occupied by no less than 12 people at any given time. Some people were sleeping on the third level benches(made for luggage).…It was quite the experience!

The lands the train cut through were absolutely bare and desolate………brown dirt and grass fields, covered with patches of snow and ice was all I saw for hours and hours. Occasionally I would glance through the frosty windows to see large groups of roaming horses or double humped camels searching for grass on the plains near the rail line.

The Kazakh people have been great so far! They are wonderfully hospitable and emit contagious rays of genuine kindness. On the train everyone puts all the food they have on the table, and it becomes a sort of potluck meal. The Kazakhs speaks kindly to one another and share food and tea with each other as if they were family, or close friends. I have thankfully been absorbed into this culture with open arms; during my 28hr train journey between Aktau and Oktobe, I was constantly eating traditional Kazakh food, drinking tea, and speaking broken Russian to smiling locals. I can honestly say it was one of the most memorable, warm, and unique experiences I have ever had. After the ice was broken, I was paraded around the entire train like a celebrity, constantly being asked basic inquiries, and questioned extensively about life in the USA.

The downside of the journey was constantly being in close proximity and harassment range of the drunk Police officers on the train. I was shaken down about 5 times by several different cops during my journey, and each time had my documents thoroughly checked.

-Aktobe-

Vagiv and I arrived in Aktobe at around 5:30pm……the weather was about –20C…..and the ground thoroughly blanketed with snow. After a bit of confusion and communication difficulty…, I began to grasp the concept that Vagiv wanted me to come to his girlfriends pad for dinner.

We took a bus to the suburbs of Oktobe……..the neighborhood consisted of blocks of ‘A frame’ houses decorated with fancy trim, and German cottage like window shutters. Each block contained a water source usually surrounded with tires and rubber blankets, to protect the water pipes from the severe elements of winter.

At around 7pm Vagiv and I arrived at his girlfriends home, and were greeted warmly by Vagiv’s girlfriend, and her two roommates. Soon the Vodka and food came out, and within no time I was convinced to stay the night in their home……..I figured why not!

After a lot of food and Vodka, a few guys and gals showed up,….one being Vagivs brother. The men were already hammered, and seamed overly excited to consume even more food and Vodka. One guy became quite unpleasant as he incoherently berated me about President Bush, and how Mike Tyson is the answer to all of America’s problems. I hardly understood the guy, but he managed to say Mike Tyson about every other word. The company, including the obnoxious Mike Tyson lover left at around 11pm. Immediately after their departure, my hosts pleaded with me to forgive them for the obnoxious guys behavior.

More and more food and vodka was consumed……….and things got stranger and stranger. I requested a photo with Vagiv………and this spark led to all the women of the house going into the next room for 45 minutes to put on their best clothes and make up……. for the 2am photo op. After several series of drunken portraits were taken……..Vagivs girlfriend dressed up like a fortuneteller and came out of her room for more pictures. The night was a wicked combination of strange, and hilarious!

The next day Vagiv and I went to his brother’s apartment; he lived in a new apartment block in the heart of the city, and the kicker was that it had plumbing and central heating.

{Vagiv’s girfriend’s pad had no running water and a horribly disgusting outhouse out back………they did however have a make shift sit down toilet. If one wished; the wooden hole in the ground could be supplemented by a toilet seat. The seat was basically the square wooden shell of an old stereo receiver with a toilet seat nailed to the top…….it was a bit ridiculous…….but it worked.}

I was in desperate need of a shower…………after running 12+ miles, a 35-hour boat ride, a 28-hour train ride, and a couple sleepless nights, I was in much need of a shower! After showering, and hanging out at Vagiv’s Bro’s house all day(mostly watching old wedding videos in comfortable silence) we headed to a dinner party. I was the guest of honor, and was greeted warmly by a Siberian-Kazakh family; who happened to have a son who spoke a bit of English.

It was nice to get a few words of English out over a nice warm dinner. Speaking choppy poorly conjugated Russian gets a bit frustrating at times, but it has definitely forced me to pick up the language quicker.

The feast was wonderful, we ate traditional Kazakh food including a dish of beef and noodles, various salads, and thick slices of raw mackerel. The food, was of course washed down by periodic toasts with Russian vodka. The evening was very pleasant and enjoyable, the family’s son helped break the language barrier, and allow me to make a very thankful toast to my hosts and new friends.

The English-speaking son is actually heading to Oregon state this spring for a work-study program with an affiliated American university.

His best friend was also a guest at the table: He was as short, chubby, ethnically Kazakh guy who smiled a lot, but rarely spoke. He did however become the center of conversation when my hosts began to explain to me that he was currently saving up money for an Uzbek wife.

He is planning on going to Uzbekistan this following summer to buy a wife………..Apparently a good looking village girl can be acquired for marriage by a $2-3,000 donation to the brides father. Sounds like a good deal…………2-3K for a healthy Uzbek girl sounds like a steal(pun intended).

-Aralsk-

Here is where things got a bit out of hand………………

After a couple days in Aktobe, I took a 5pm train 11 hours south to Aralsk. Aralsk is a small former fishing town once on the Aral Sea.

{side note: The Aral Sea was once a large Sea occupied by both Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan,……….however Stalin decided to disregard the lucrative fishing industry the sea provided, and the livelihood of the people surrounding the sea, in favor of competing with America in the cotton trade. The Russians basically decided to cut off all the major water sources leading to the Aral Sea, in order to use irrigation to provide the above lands with enough water to quench the thirst of the newly created Kazakh cotton fields. The results of this Soviet induced strangling of the Aral Sea’s resources has dried up a major fishing industry, destroyed cities and communities, created several severe health problems for the people living around the former sea,……..and has shriveled the Aral Sea to a small fraction of its original size.}

The reason for my visit to Aralsk was to see first hand the environmental follies of the former Soviet Union. Aralsk had once boasted a booming fishing port, and processing plant……..but due to the man made environmental disaster, the town's main industry has been desolated, and the towns port and harbor have become nothing but a dry crater of decaying fishing boats.

I arrived in Aralsk at around 5am ( I lost another hour, I am currently 14 hours ahead of my former home in the USA) It was even colder in Aralsk than it had been in Oktobe……I was around –12F. I walked through the freezing darkness to the center of town…….which was no easy task. The roads were blocks of ice, and dimly lit only by the moon, and the occasional passing truck.

I managed to find my way to the hotel, an old run down soviet block with a large, red, crusty front door. After about 20 minutes of pounding on the door in the numbing darkness, an old woman came to the door and escorted me inside. She seemed to be annoyed with my presence, and to consider me an inconvenience…..she then demanded $25 dollars for a room in her cold empty hotel……….

Change of plans……..I walked back to the train station, and drank a couple cups of coffee as I pondered my next move. It was 7am, freezing cold, and the sun had not yet risen………but I did know that a train for Turkistan( my next destination) left at 9:30am.

I had not slept a wink on the train, and was now experiencing the increasingly familiar sensation and bodily affects of sleep depravation, and freezing weather. The train stations marble floors and concrete walls seemed to create a large icebox for it's occupants. The inside windows were covered with a half-inch of frost……..and the floor with patches of ice.

While quietly waiting in the small train station cafe, I was befriended by a couple old Kazakh men………(an increasingly common occurrence), after simple introductions, and about an hour of mostly understandable small talk (my Russian is coming along!), the old guys convinced me that vodka would stop my shivering and warm me up.

At this point I was violently shivering and lacking all common sense due to exhaustion. I accepted their proposal…it was 7:30am. We headed to a nearby hole in the wall cafe, where we each gave the women behind the counter a few coins in exchange for coffee mugs half filled with Vodka. After a simple toast to international friendship………we tipped the glasses back……..down in one!

The old guy next to me rubbed my back and arms for about 5 minutes in order to help put an end to my shivering………the old man's massage, mixed with a quick 4 ounce shot of vodka, seamed to do the trick. I was comfortably numb……..mind and body.

We conversed for the next hour or so……I can’t honestly say I understood most of it. I became somewhat coherent again when the old guy sitting across from me started telling me that he had been to outer space. Wow I thought! I know that less than 100KM away was the Russian Baykonur Cosmodrome that launched the first man into space in 1961……….I became all ears to the drunken old man when he started telling me that he had special clearance, and that he could easily show me around the place. Sure I thought, what an incredible experience that would be………{This place is still actively leased by the Russians and still in use}

The plan was first to go to the bank, and sort out some documents, and then we would head to the cosmodrome. It was about 9am……..and the sun coming up as we walked through the glacier like roads to the bank. My initial excitement about the situation began to fade, as my common sense came flooding back to me. I was cold, half-drunk, and sleep deprived……..and actually considering hanging out with some old dude I could barely understand.. I began to rationalize the situation…………should I turn around and head for the train station, or ride this one out and see what happens……..being a complete idiot I chose the latter.

I became increasingly suspicious of my new friend while we were at the bank; everyone seemed to look at him funny, and not take his words seriously……….was this guy the town nut-job? Was this guy really an astronaut? Is it possible for me to sneak out of the bank with out the old guy seeing me?

We left the bank at around 9:35am……………my window of escape had closed, I had missed my train. As we walked down the road from the bank, the rising sun glistened off the snow burning my eyes, and increasing my physical exhaustion.

While we were walking down the road the old man would yell things at people that we were passing by……..and each time the people simply ignored the guy. I don’t know if he was asking them for the time, or yelling obscenities…..but I do know that this guy was definitely the town crazy guy. And I was stuck hanging with him until I could come up with an escape route. I figured simply running away……..would be a bit awkward.

We arrived at his house at about 10am………….he lived in a small concrete 4-walled shack about a half-mile back behind the train station. The house contained a small brick stove/oven in the corner, and a large central carpet containing a floor table surrounded by traditionally decorated pillows. The mans wife was an old weathered looking women wearing traditional Kazakh clothes, who was busy stocking the stove with twigs, and did not seam to even notice my presence. After taking a piss in the outhouse behind the shack I went inside and immediately crashed on one of the pillows near the table.

I woke up at about 12:30pm,……..the guy told me he needed to go back to the bank and to wait for him in the house and drink tea. Sure I said, no problem…………..he then demanded that I give him 2 dollars for the cab ride……….I would have given him $10 to get him out of the house to secure my window of escape. About 10 minutes after the old crazy guy left, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. The old women became an obstacle, she insisted that I stay and drink tea, and that her husband had instructed her to have me stay there………..I dodged the old lady by telling her I was heading to the train station to buy a ticket, and that I would be back in 20 minutes……………….and just like that I was out!

So now, as I write about this situation and ponder the events of that strange and eventful morning; I find myself wondering how the hell I could have possibly been convinced that an old crazy guy hanging out at a train station at 5am in Kazakhstan,….. was an astronaut. I blame it on sleep depravation, cold weather, disorientation, and booze!

The sun was shining and I had escaped my crazy old friend, I was happy and full of energy as I wandered around the dry, snow filled crater of the former seaport. It was fascinating, and almost beautiful to see these large rusty fishing boats in a pit of snow and ice, and well over 20 miles from the Aral Sea.

Later in the afternoon, I was able to find a local NGO that hooked me up with a home stay. After a quick introduction and a hearty meal of bread and potatoes, I went on a walk around the town, and explored the local bazaar.

-Turkistan-

Another ridiculously crazy morning in Kazakhstan…………………………..

I woke up at 3:55am, gathered my things and headed out the door down the dark icy streets toward the train station. The weather was so cold, it made my face hurt, it made the muscles around my eyes tighten, and gave me a painful headache.
As I approached the train station a train quickly appeared out of the shadows and dim lighting. My train was not do to arrive until 5am…….and it was only 4:30am, but I felt it be prudent if I inquire about the current train. As I approached the tracks a scruffy old man waved me over to the door he was hanging out of, and asked me where I was heading……..I replied Turkistan. He then eagerly signaled me to come aboard. I was a bit confused, but stepped onto the train anyways…….I showed him my ticket and asked him if he was sure that I was on the right train, he nodded yes, and just then the train took off…………..and sealed the fate of the disastrous morning ahead.

About 2 minutes after the train departed, the guy told me that the train was number 60………and that I needed to go to section 2 of the train( I was in section 7)……..I began to feel a bit uneasy when I realized that my ticket said train 30……..panic began to slowly infiltrate my veins.

It was a bit challenging getting to the second section of the train,……..the lights in the entire train were out, most of the doors were frozen shut, and my bag was a bit too bulky to fit easily through the hallways………….after about 20 minutes of stubborn doors, and almost crawling through train segments I had arrived in section 2.

My body was tight and nervous when I handed the conductor my ticket………..after briefly glancing at my ticket, he pointed out that I was definitely on the wrong train. I was not on the Atyrau-Almaty train but rather the Moscow-Tashkent(Uzbekistan) train!

I panicked……( I literally had a panic attack)………….I was tired, it was dark, cold, I had less than $5 of local currency in my pocket, and I was on the wrong train at 5am in Kazakhstan!!!!!!!!

I had no idea what to do, I was freaking out. I stepped outside of the train conductor’s office, and began to quietly voice profanities to myself in absolute horror and despair! I stood in shock and fear for about 40 minutes before I gained enough composure to get a grasp on the situation. What were my options………..buying a ticket was not an option……….It is dark and cold outside…….so jumping off the train was definitely not an option……….the only logical option was to simply slip off the train at the next stop and avoid paying the fair.. So I stood in the hallway and prayed to the gods that the train would stop soon, and that all would be OK.

After about an hour and a half of awkward silence in the train’s hallway………the train came to a halt. I quickly yanked the frozen door open and exited the train with lightning speed. I made my way to the station…………and to my surprise found that my train( #30) was do to arrive in an hour. It is indescribable the amount of joy and relieve I felt at this particular moment………..I was in the middle of nowhere, in the freezing darkness…….and was given pocket aces! It was now 7am…………and I was now cold, and tired, but full of confidence and overwhelming relief.

At 7:55am a train pulled up………train #36…………not my train! I had officially learned my lesson. At 8:00am another train pulled up, but on the second track………..the fact is that these trains stop for about 5 minutes tops. So basically if train #36 did not get out of the way soon………….I was in trouble. Everyone around me felt the same sort of desperation, which resulted in some risky behavior. The doors of the first train closed……and as train number #36 began to prepare for departure, a crowd of locals flooded underneath(literally) the train to train #30 on the second track………..in a split second decision I followed suit and threw my bag on the ground and crawled under the train and dragging my bag to the other side (maybe 2-2.5ft clearnace)…………wow, that was scary! But I was able to catch my train, and another potential disaster was avoided.

I woke up at around 1:00pm……….by the local cops who wanted to search me and check my documents. I grabbed my bag and headed to their small train compartment. Two chubby, drunk cops greeted me at the door and told me to put my bag down and empty my pockets. After frisking me he found that I had one pocket of local currency and a money belt under my shirt. The cop demanded that I put the cash and the money belt on the table…………I was beaming with confidence at this point, and had dealt with enough of these crooked cops by this point to see through the bullshit. I stared at him fiercely and told him he can look, but he is not to touch my money or my money belt(this is all of course in Russian). He looked at me shocked……….who was I to question his authority……….he then thumbed through my money belt and picked up a couple euro coins from the bottom. He then looked at me with gentle eyes and said “ for me”…………..at this point I had enough, I angrily took the coins from his grasp, and told him we were finished. I said that “ you saw my passport, and my visa” and searched my bag……….I am going back to my seat………………he looked at me angrily for a few seconds, but then released me with a mischievous smile.

The rest of the train ride was great, I was hanging with a crew of guys in their 20s and 30s……..and became part of the gang immediately. We shared food, and spoke about the similarities and differences of Kazakhstan and America. I also once again avoided the Borat question……..I always tell the locals that Borat was a movie made by an Englishmen, and that I had never scene it nor do I condone the contents of the film. Which were really quite insulting and unfair to the Kazakh nationals.

Toward the end of the trip the guys in my cabin offered me what looked like pellets of rat shit. They signaled me to put it under my lip and presented me a cup to spit in. Kazakh chew………….why not! After putting the strange and pungent smelling pellets between my lip and my gums…….. I immediately began to feel its effects. My face began to go numb starting with my lip and chin…………my body felt light, and it felt like I was being gently massaged by a cool breeze………….my brain began to tingle………….at this point I spit the stuff out, the stuff was ridiculously strong………a bit to potent for my taste. I soon after arrived in Turkistan………..but not before being presented with a 3-ounce bag of the mystery pellets as a gift from my new friends.

I later found out that the stuff was Nasvai: basically finely cut tobacco cut with spices ash or lime, and often laced with opium. Well……………yeah………that kind of explains its frighteningly strong effects.

I arrived in Turkistan at around 8:00pm and immediately hopped on a minibus for the town’s center. The weather was cold, but not near as cold as it was in Aralsk or Aktobe. After about an hour-long hotel search, I had failed to find any budget options. The cheapest hotel I could find was $15 a night………..which would not cut it for me. I have become ridiculously tight with my cash, but that is the only way I will be able to make this trip last, so I suppose the ends justify the means.

While cold and confused and wandering around the dark streets of Turkistan I was offered assistance by a crew of university kids. After explaining my situation, and inquiring about budget hotel options in the city………..they smiled and signaled me to follow them. About 30 minutes later we had arrived at their dormitory………my home for the next couple days. We spoke only Russian(the guys did not speak a word of English)……..and got along wonderfully. They were filled with kindness and spoke the language of peace and international friendship.

The next couple days were filled with comradery, kindness, friendship, confusion, understanding, more confusion, sightseeing, tea drinking, and unrivaled hospitality.

I will not go into more details……….because this blog is running a bit long, and must seem a bit dry to read by now…………..but I will just say that my time in Turkistan was wonderful. The historical sights ( mainly the beautiful Mausoleum) were fantastic, and my crew of university students were a blast to hang out with.

I am currently hanging with a PCV in Turkistan (i met him at the internet cafe)………we are heading to Shymkent tomorrow to hang out with a crew of PCVs there. After Shymkent I will be heading to Tashkent Uzbekistan. Kazakhstan has been a quite interesting and intriguing experience………….to say the least.

That is all for now…………..I am quite safe…………., and having an adventure of a lifetime, I miss you all, and will see you soon……….I am thinking I will return sometime this summer…………but for now I have a lot of ground to cover.

Trevor

On the ship to Kazakhstan:

Aktau Kazakhstan, with Vagiv:

Oktobe
Vagiv’s Girfriend and roommates:

Dinner party in Oktobe:

Hangin with the guys in Oktobe:

On the train to Turkmenistan:

Aralsk:

Bazaar in Aralsk:

My crazy old friend(on left) and my morning vodka brother

Arlask’s former harbor:

Turkistan Bazaar:

My College kid crew in Turkistan:

At the dorm, eating a traditional dish(horse meat, and noodles)……..and wearing my new hat.

-Azerbaijan-

2008-02-06T23:57:00.000-08:00

Azerbaijan

1-14-2008 to 1-26-2008

I took the 6:15PM train from Tbilisi Georgia for Baku Azerbaijan. I shared a compartment with a few locals a couple men in their mid thirties and an old women in her mid 60s. They were all quite pleasant, and kind…which made the long train ride that much easier.

On the downside of the journey, there was the strange smells, loud snoring and the broken lock. The lock of our compartment was broken; literally the inside fell off. So at 4am when I needed to make a run for the toilet………I ran into a problem because the door was locked from the outside. At about 5:30am the old women woke up, and without hesitation pounded ferociously on the door until the train conductor woke up and came to the rescue by opening our door.

I arrived in Baku about 10am…a bit sleep deprived and unmotivated about the land before me. Baku……..at first glance is overwhelmingly unimpressive……the city itself is difficult to explain in words. It has all the ingredients of a rundown former soviet capital, but with the tacky glamour of quick money. The large gaudy buildings are surrounded by expensive hotels…and guarded by an absurd amount of police officers that patrol the streets by foot and in brand new BMWs. Oil of course is the fuel that drives this elegant slum, at one point in recent history Baku provided 52% of the world’s petrol.

Baku can almost seem charming at first glance, but a thorough examination of the city invites a theme of ugliness, poverty, and artificial joy brought by quick money and brutish exploitation. The countryside surrounding Baku is merely a black and brown oily wasteland of disastrous looking oil pumps and pipelines.

I met up with my host at around 12:30pm……spending the previous hours acquainting myself with the city, and planning my next move. My hosts in Baku were two American Fulbrighters. They were both highly intelligent and incredibly hospitable as well as quite pleasant to be around.

I ended up leaving my watch on a table in central Baku……..just one of many things I have lost on the road:
1-Fleace Pants
1-Nalgene bottle
1-Light weight rain jacket
1-Expensive G-Shock watch
1-Rechargable batteries
1-Travel pillow

Well………….. my time in Baku was relatively uneventful……..I spent most of my days studying Russian, visiting nearby historic sights, reading, tracking down Central Asian Visas, and trying desperately to find a ship that would take me across the Caspian Sea to Aktau Kazakhstan.

The latter turned out to be the most challenging. My Russian however was coming along nicely, I had visited all the local sites of interest, I had acquired both Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan Visas, But I had no luck finding a boat to Kazakhstan.

From my extensive research on the matter; I had found that there was in fact a cargo ferry that will take a few passengers from Baku to Aktau. The problem being that the ferry has no specific schedule, and only comes about once every 7-10 days.

My solution to this problem was to be the annoying American that hung out at the port all day. If I was persistent and made my presence known, my chances of missing the boat to Aktau were at most minimal. I went down to the port about 3-4 times a day while I was living in Baku…and for a long time had no luck. I would begin my daily inquiries by visiting the port’s ferry ticket office, and asking the woman in the office if the Aktau boat was coming……….she would always so no, and that I should come back tomorrow. I would then go down to the edge of the pier and spend about a half hour wandering around the port asking cops and customs officials if they knew anything about a boat leaving for Aktau Kazakhstan………..I would always get the answer no.

On January 26, I caught a break……..as I was jogging the 3.5 mile distance between the port and my host’s home,……I spotted a big ship at the port. It was a boat I had never seen before, which gave me a jolt of energy and a glimmer of hope. ( it was about 9:30am) I sprinted the rest of the way to the port and arrived at the ticket office smiling and out of breathe. The ticket lady simply smiled at me, and said she did not know if the boat in the dock was for Aktau. I quickly headed to the end of the pier, where the cops and customs officials(they all new me by now) greeted me with smiles and said “Aktau…. go buy a ticket”(all in Russian, I had been practicing my Russian everyday by talking to the cops at the port). With a smile from ear to ear I ran back to the ticket office and told the lady I wanted a ticket for the boat…….. She replied by saying that she had not received clarification that the boat in question was in fact heading to Aktau Kazakhstan. She told me to come back at 11am( it was 10am at the time)…….so with a burst of happiness, relief, and overpowering adrenaline I ran quickly down the frozen streets back to my host’s home. After arriving at the pad, I quickly grabbed my passport and cash, shed a few layers of clothing, and was soon back out the door at top speed heading excitingly toward the port.

I arrived at the port around 11am…and quickly presented my passport to the woman. The lady looked at me confused, and asked me where my bag was and why I was only wearing a T-shirt in such cold weather. She told me that the boat was leaving at noon, and that she would not sell me a ticket until I had my bag, and was ready. So my exercise continued! I sprinted at top speed the exhausting 3.5mile stretch back to the pad and frantically packed while I sent out my host to buy me some bread, water and snicker bars for my ferry trip. I managed to get this all done quickly and was back at the port, exhausted and sweating profusely by 11:50am.

I bought my ticket ($70)…..and made it though a very unpleasant customs search and interrogation by about 1:30pm.

{-Side note: Customs was tough because they gave me a lot of shit for having an Armenian Visa in my passport. It raised a bit of suspicion…….and invited a slough of ridiculous questions from the customs officials. This is because Armenia and Azerbaijan are still fighting over land……..they are technically still at war, but currently are in a state of cease fire.}

I was so exhausted from my half marathon that I immediately crashed in my cabin and awoke at around 6pm. I awoke from my slumber only to realize that the ship had not moved an inch, and was still docked at the port. The boat did not leave until 7:15pm……at last I was out of strange city of Baku and on my way to Kazakhstan.

A few disturbing thought lingered vaguely in the back of my mind as we departed Baku. One being that in October 2002 the other cargo/ferry ship that sails from Baku-Aktau enexpectingly sank during a mid voyage storm. Out of the 37 passengers aboard the ship, there were no survivors. The second lingering thought of uncertainty was the fact the Aktau may be the most dangerous city in Kazakhstan. I have read numerous reports of unhappy locals attacking tourists and foreign oil workers in Aktau…………………………

{side note: even though I found the city of Baku to be less than charming, I enjoyed my time there tremendously. I was constantly in good company and did not encounter any of Baku’s infamous ‘Dirty Cops’. In fact I found the police in Baku to be quite helpful and courteous to me during my stay.

My only problem was with the cab drivers……….one cab driver drove me around the city for about 20 minutes before taking me to my destination…….which happened to be about 300 meters from my initial location. After demanding a extortionate amount of money from me, I simply dropped about 4 dollars down on his seat and exited the cab. He was absolutely unrelentless however, and with frightening enthusiasm, demanded more money. After about 20min of arguing with the guy in broken Russian I was rescued by a friendly guard outside of the Uzbek embassy………..the cab driver really freaked me out, and intimidated the hell out of me.}

Old town Baku, Azerbaijan

The land outside of Baku:

Burning hillside: 30min outside of Baku……..it ignited in the 50s and has been on fire ever since, it is basically fueled by gasses leaking from the earth.

Zoroastrian fire temple, in existence since the 4th century, outside of Baku.

-Armenia-

2008-01-12T03:44:00.000-08:00

-Armenia-
(pics are in my myspace account)
This post is a bit belated…….but I just have not had the time or resources to type it up.

12-4-2007

I took the 7pm Armavia flight from Aleppo to Yereven, Armenia. After boarding the plane……I took a quick nap….and about 40 minutes later the plane had landed. I was shocked………how could we have possibly flown to Yereven in such little time……….it turns out we were making an unannounced stop in Beirut. The chaotic and angry mood of the other passengers suggests that they did not know about this Beirut stop either.

At 9:15pm the plane left Beirut……and at around 10:45pm I had arrived in Yerevan. It was -3C……and snowing during my first evening in Armenia. After securing an Armenian Visa for $50…..I hopped in a cab for the center.

Soon after I met my hosts…..$@$, $$$%, and $#$#$……….they are Iranian……and turned out to be excellent hosts. They are all architecture students studying at the Yerevan University. I pretty much did nothing for the next week and a half……..I watched movies……..ate Iranian food………and slept a lot. I had entered into a relaxed and carefree atmosphere……..that was hard to shake. We would stay up late (5-6am) talking, discussing, or watching films…….and sleep until about 3pm. It was a pleasant change from my previous month and a half in the Middle East.

The interesting part of this situation is that I was completely sheltered from Armenian culture. It was like living in a dormitory at an Iranian university. Everyday we discussed Iranian history……and tried to break down the stereotypes and generalizations that western media has created about Iran.

-Iran 101-

They are not all terrorists…….actually most Iranians despise Hezbollah………and hate the fact that Palestinians and Lebanese Hezbollah soldiers are being imported into their country to act as police.

-About 80% of the population live a very secular lifestyle…and are only Muslim on paper.

-Most Iranians think their president is a joke………but are not in favor of another bloody revolution.

-Iran has the oldest flag in the world. 2,500 years. It changed during the Islamic invasion however……..the female lion changed to male…..and the torch turned into a sword.

-Iranians are not Arabs…….they feel that they are above them…..and that Arabs are cultureless desert people……..

The Revolution in Iran that took place 3 decades ago: (from an average Iranian’s point of view)

-Iran owned a large oil field above the UK……..later Iran was forced sell it back to the UK and USA for next to nothing………the King (government was under Monarchy) immediately began to boycott UK and USA goods. This pissed of the US and UK, so they began to infiltrate Iran with anti-government; specifically that the people should overthrow the government and get rid of the Monarchy in favor of a more democratic institution. The USA and the UK……then trained revolution leaders in Europe and once trained, sent them back to Iran.

Once the revolution began…….the Monarchy fell……and the royal family was forced out of the country……at this point Nationalist, Socialist, Democratic, and Islamic groups began to fight each other for control of the Government.

Later the new government expelled or killed all former government employees…so at this point Iran’s military was week and defenseless. The only army was an untrained civilian one, because the former army was killed off or expelled from the country.
During the bloody revolution the US embassy was attacked, at which time many Americans were killed. The Israeli Embassy was also attacked……but rescue efforts yielded no survivors.

-USA ends all relations with Iran.

So basically the Iranian government fell into the hands to ultra conservatives(Islamic)…..a Hezbollah group…..but not actually called Hezbollah in Iran.

Now Iraq sees the weakness in Iran and decides it wants to take over their most important oil fields. The war between Iraq and Iran lasted for 8 years and over 2 million Iranians were killed. Eventually the UN stepped in and promoted a peace treaty that was signed by both countries……affectively ending the war.
-USA gave nothing to Iran during the war.

Persecution:

During and after the revolution…..it goes without saying the Jews were heavily persecuted…..and many were killed or expelled. There are currently around 4 million Iranian Jews in Israel.

Perhaps the most persecuted were the people of the Bahai faith. Bahai is similar to Islam but believe in a different prophet (not Mohammed). During the revolution…..openly Bahai Iranians were immediately killed. Because of this most Bahai Iranians fled to Israel to avoid persecution. To this day it is not acceptable to be Bahai in Iran.

Personal stories:
-@#@#’s aunt……14 years ago had possession of an anti-government newspaper. For this she was put in jail for 4 years…..and eventually executed.

-Also about 15 years ago another of ##%#$’s relatives who was slightly political and rebellious was sent to prison and sentenced to death. While in prison the guards forced her to have sex with another prisoner…….because according to the Islamic faith…..a women must lose her virginity before entering heaven.

-$%$#, who is half Jewish told me a story of his grandfather. His grandfather(Jewish) fled Poland during world war II and ended up marrying an Iranian women and moving to Tehran. His grandfather had a daughter #$#@$’s mother.

Immediately after the Iranian revolution, soldiers came to $#$#$’s grandfathers home and took him to jail. The soldiers seized their home and gave the family (minus the father) one hour to gather one bag of things each. Their lives had been torn apart because of their Jewish ethnicity and religion. After 4 years in prison $#%#$#’s grandfather was executed, and sent for $#$#’s mother to retrieve the corpse and bloody clothes from the prison.

Religion:

Before the Arabs invaded Iran in the 8-9th(I think) century,………Iran was a mostly Zoroastrian country.

-The religion began around 3744BC……(I think)….The religion is centered around God:Ahoura-Mazda……..and the principals are thinking well, Acting well, and speaking well.

-Fire is the sign of Zoroastians

Language:

-Before Persian Iranians spoke Pahlavi-Avestaei

After the invasion of the Arabs…….Arabic was forced on the Iranians……not long after a happy compromise as attained. A guy named Ferelos created Persian, or Farce.

The alphabet used in Farce is Arabic but has 4 extra letters P, G, CH, and ZH.

OK………..so that is what I learned while living with the Iranians.

Well my time in Armenia was great………I spent close to a month and hung out with several PCVs. Most of the PCVs I hung out with were pretty cool…..but a few took boozing a bit too far. All in all my time in Armenia was amazing. Instead of doing a play by play of my time in Armenia……I will just outline the highlights……and maybe throw out a few interesting cultural differences.

Gyumri: I met a large crew of PCVs in Gyumri and we had a wonderful Christmas dinner(a week early).

Hosh day in Gyumri:
-Hosh is a traditional soup containing a cow foot. If you are to partake in Hosh……there are a few guidelines you must observe in order to eat it properly.

-Hosh is eaten in the morning….so before 11am
-Hosh is eaten with bread, and lots of onion and garlic
-Hosh is always eaten with mass quantities of Vodka!

OK………so this is my Hosh experience- Brian(PCV) and I woke up around 8:30am and headed down an old dirt road toward the formerly Russian part of town. This is where we found the restaurant that makes Hosh. We ordered a bottle of vodka and some kebabs to warm up……..and soon were on our way to a traditional Hosh feast.

We had finished the bottle by the time the other PCVs showed up……….we then sat around a large table and ate Hosh and drank Vodka for a couple hours.

After Hosh we went on a long walk around town and visited some of Gyumri’s historical sites. One of interest was the Black Fortress. This was once the furthest Russian outpost before the Soviet era. It was basically a circular fortress/castle…….it was quite interesting. We were able to sneak in through the gate……and wander around for about 30 minutes before the drunk guards spotted us. They were drinking vodka in their trailer……and completely ignorant to the fact that the fortress was occupied by a group of 10 curious and half drunk Americans.

After a bit of bad noise……we befriended the guards…and were on our way out of the fortress. I was given a piece of sausage and a shot of vodka by the guards before my departure ( I told them I was Bulgarian).

Villages: quite primitive………yet charming. I visited a PCV in a small village in Eastern Armenia. He lived in a dorm sized apartment with a bed, a couch and a small table……..his toilet was the outhouse (the schools outhouse) about 20yds across the field toward the school he works at.

We spent our time visiting families and drinking vodka with the locals. I really enjoyed spending time with the very warm and generous villagers.

-Culture: Like many Central Asian, and Caucasian countries……..wife stealing is still alive and practiced by many. By my friends estimate about 45% of villagers still use the ol wife stealing method to get their wives.

Another interesting……and slightly bizarre piece of info……..is the red apple tradition. This tradition is very common…..but mostly takes place in rural villages and smaller towns in Armenia. Basically after a wedding, the wedding attendants cheer the newly weds by putting a red apple on the stick and raising it in the air as the newlyweds leave their wedding.

The next morning the newlyweds are to put their bed sheet on the clothes line for all the villagers to see. If the sheet ends up looking like a peace flag……..the brides parents…….as well as the bride are shamed by the community. However if the bed sheet ends up looking like the flag of China…………they are in good shape, and as a token of gratitude the grooms family will present the brides family with a box of red apples.

So……….since I have written this blog so late………….and do not have the energy to write the Armenian adventure play by play…….I will just leave you with the red apple story. I will attempt to be a bit more detailed with my blogs in the future…….but life on the road is pretty tough sometimes………and finding a computer to write on is not all that easy.

PS. I wrote this blog in about 2 hrs….and do not have the time to proof read it……I am at an internet café…..and am getting really annoyed by the kids sitting next to me……so I am out of here.