The head wobblers of Shqiperia - adventures in Albania

The grand flag of Shqiperia

25 August 2007 - about 40degrees and melting!

After spending a few days resting and relaxing in the charming town of Kotor (Montenegro), I headed southwards to Ulcinj, on the Albanian border.

Upon arrival in Ulcinj, I met a young British couple, Max and Christina, who were heading south to Albania en route to Istanbul.

Now according to Lonely Planet’s sliver of a chapter on Albania, there are “frequent” furgons (essentially mini-buses that depart whenever full) that ply the 17km route between Ulcinj, and the town of Shkodra, (in the North of Albania) for around 8Euro per person. Of course though, upon arrival at the Ulcinj Bus Station, we swiftly established that this was not the case, and we were immediately sprung upon by a sleazy moustachioed taxi driver. We managed to bargain him down to 35Euro total for the journey, however, he informed us that he could only go as far as the border, where we would have to find another taxi to get to Shkodra. Not overly impressed by this shoddy deal, we went in search of an alternative.

But then, miraculously, he remembered that he had a friend who happened to be a taxi driver in Albania, who he was certain could be of assistance. We agreed, on the condition that we would pay him a portion of the total, and then pay the rest to his friend upon arrival in Shkodra. Thankfully this worked out to be a rather smooth journey and we somehow also managed to avoid the 10euro entry fee that all foreigners are required to pay on arrival (Albania is, after all, rather like an amusement park).

After a rather hassle-free introduction to the land of 500 000 Mercedes, (Albania – population 3 million), we tumbled onto the 3pm executive coach to Tirana. This luxurious bus was a little aged, which wasn’t a huge issue, however it was nudging 40 degrees outside and the lack of windows, not to mention air-conditioning, made for a rather obnoxiously odious and malodorous journey. Oh but the icing on the cake was that my neighbour was a lecherous lothario eager to practise his sycophantic sweet talk on me (to give you an idea… “hey baby”, “beautiful eyes baby”, “you sexy baby” – after these three phrases he had but exhausted his English lexicon), not to mention the so-ludicrously-drunk-to-be-practically-ossified vagrant in the seat behind me. Max and Christina found it all rather amusing until the drunkard spontaneously grabbed Christina’s sombrero to use for some much needed post-prandial reverse peristalsis. Lovely…Meanwhile, there sat I with my sunglasses shielding my “beautiful blue eyes”, a sarong, covering my “beautiful blonde hair” and my Ipod protecting my “beautiful little ears” from his cacophonous mutterings.

So it was an absolute delight to arrive in Tirana. We hopped in a cab to Tirana Backpackers, a rather grungy but perfectly adequate establishment in the centre of town. Whilst backpacking has been alive and well in Eastern Europe for the past decade or so, backpacking is a rather new and strange phenomenon in Albania. As is everyday infrastructure that is taken for granted in places like Australia and Western parts of Europe. Upon my check-in at the backpackers, I was informed of the ongoing energy and water crises in Albania, and warned that the power frequently and spontaneously disappeared for hours at a time, and that water would only be available between 7pm and 9am each day, and that even then, it might run out. Having grown up in a country where water supplies are finite and rather precious, I had become accustomed to being careful of my water usage, however, did have to bite my tongue when I saw café owners downtown, hosing the leaves off their pavement!

Outside the National Museum

After being kept awake by a mosquito with a particularly zealous perniciousness and the searing heat of the Albanian summer, I arose to explore Tirana. With a population of less than a million, it’s a rather pleasant place to amble, with wide shady boulevards, a sprawling city park and enough old communist monuments and buildings to keep Lenin smiling underneath his waxy remains. As the economy undergoes a (mini-) boom, pastel-coloured apartment blocks are being thrown up, and the supposedly gargantuan pot-holes that used to ensnare people walking about the unlit roads are rapidly being filled up, if only with refuse from the local Pizza Hit.

Funky apartment buildings dot the city centre

I sauntered past various government buildings before arriving at the Pyramid. This was initially designed as the Enver Hoxha Museum by Hoxha’s daughter-in law, but is now used as a discotheque, conference centre and gigantic slippery dip (seriously, people slide down the slippery roof on their bums!). A recent visit by President Bush was marked by a “Welcome President Bush” sign emblazoned across the top of the pyramid. Because of the US involvement in the whole Kosovo situation (Kosovo's population is overwhelmingly ethnic Albanian), Bush is a bit of a superstar there - however terrifying that prospect might be.

The pyramid

From there I wandered up to Skenderbej Square, a great people-watching spot. Here you can see kids zoom around in large mini-cars, admire the statue of Skanderbeg (revered in Albania as he stopped the Ottoman’s advancement into the country for many years) and savour the delight that is the Palace of Culture (or perhaps despair over its general hideousness). As the temperature was soaring, I decided to retire to the resplendent Rinia Park for the afternoon, and amused myself by downing freddocinnos, checking out the latest Tiranian fashions, and watching convoys of wedding parties go by - essentially a dozen or more decked out Mercs, Audis or (shudders) stretch limousines honking crazily; with a camera man sitting on the window up front filming the cavalcade.

Skenderbej Square



A beautiful day for a wedding

At the Backpackers that evening, I befriended some Novocastrians, and a Canadian who was doing some work in neighbouring Kosovo, and we agreed to head the next morning to get our Macedonian visas sorted out.

So we trundled off at stupid-o-clock to see what delights the embassy had in store for us. And we arrived at the entrance, delighted to find that we were the only ones in queue! Only to be informed that for visa applications, we should present ourselves around the corner. And this is where it got interesting…at the other door were 70 or so people huddled around the glass doors eagerly awaiting their opening. There was much muttering and many gruff-looking faces, but not a lot of movement. Then, a grey-suited man appeared from behind the glass doors, and called out somebody’s name. That lucky somebody disappeared with his square of paper and the doors were closed again. Quickly we noticed that everyone but us seemed to have one of these squares of paper. We decided we wanted some of those elusive squares too.

We managed to track down an Albanian man who lives in Melbourne (everyone in the Balkans has an Australian connection), who explained to us that they only issued 40 squares a day, and that to get a square you needed to get there at even-stupider-o-clock, and then collect a form, and then come back the following day with your square and form, and HOPE that they would call your number…unenthusiastic about waiting for a square in the 38 degree blaze, I retreated to the café in the park for a feast of spaghetti and cappuccino freddo, only to be soon after met by my Novocastrian friends, who had somehow managed to obtain those wretched squares.

After a quick peek at the Et’hem Bey mosque and the National Museum of History (that was so lacking in electric light that I could barely make out the exhibits, let alone my way in and out of the public toilet), I decided it was time to move on.

Et'hem Bey Mosque

Having given up on the prospect of obtaining my Macedonian visa in Tirana, I left early the following morning for Berati, a handsome town a few hours inland from Tirana at the foot of the mountains.

Trying to figure out which bus to catch was a slight mission however. Firstly, the bus station was a rather shambolic affair with dozens of unlabelled buses parked in a seemingly random fashion. Secondly, Albania is one of those countries where I couldn’t rely on my linguistic dexterity to communicate. Albanian is a linguistic oddity in that like Basque, it is (largely) unrelated to other languages. The fact that nobody speaks any English further complicates the matter. And Albania is akin to Bulgaria, in that people don’t nod when they mean yes, and shake their head when they mean “no”, but rather wobble their head about sideways to indicate “yes” and do a slight upwards head tilt when they mean “no”. But sometimes, for the sake of the foreigner, they do an up-and-down-and-a-little-bit sideways wobble to indicate “yes”, and an up-and-down-and-a-little-bit-more sideways wobble to indicate “no”. So after a few head wobbles in all imaginable directions, I boarded the bus and hoped….thankfully my Albanian-Italian seatmate confirmed that I was indeed en route to Berati!

Because of its intrinsic charm and historical importance, Berati was spared much of the destruction that occurred during the Communist Era, and today remains a charming town filled with white-washed Ottomanesque villas that tumble down the hillsides. My hotel, run by the gregarious, and overwhelmingly affable Tomi, was one such spiffy villa, kitted out with Ottoman furniture, carpets and lamps, and boasting a delightful roof-top terrace. After a quick wander around the town checking out its plethora of religious buildings (e.g. the old mosque juxtaposed with the modern Orthodox Church), I trudged up the hill to the 14th century Kalasa, the old citadel with magnificent views over the valley and to the Macedonian mountains.

Orthodox Church

Charming Berati

On the way up to Kalasa, the 14th century Citadel

Kalasa

Kalasa



Kalasa
Church of the Holy Trinity

Views across to Macedonia

From Berati I boarded a sweat-inducing furgon to the port city of Vlora. As the bus slowly crawled back to the coast, I became intrigued by two things – firstly, the pod-like bunkers that were dotted all over the place, and secondly, the profusion of teddy bears, dolls and desperately dishevelled scarecrow-like figures hanging from the rooves of countryside buildings. I had spotted a few of these bunkers in the north of Albanian, however noted they were in abundance the further you got from the cities. During Hoxha's reign, 700 000 or so of these domes were built all over the countryside. Their indestructible concrete grey shells are arguably one of the greatest contributions an Albanian has made to the architectural world - certainly not for their aesthetic value, but for their longevity - they are virtually impossible to destroy. And as for the teddy bears...well...they are flown like flags from the rooves of people's houses. Rather than being a sign of one's allegiance to a bizarre taxidermic teddy-bear cult, they are rather there to scare off evil spirits. And I suspect from the vast number of them hanging about (the teddy-bears that is), that there are a hell of a lot of them about!

Bunkers

When I finally arrived in Vlora, I collapsed off the bus in the ridiculous heat and wandered around town in search of a hotel. Rather than do the sensible thing and pay the US$2 for the taxi ride to find a hotel, I stubbornly hobbled along with my backpack to the Hotel Tozo. After an exquisitely cold shower, I set out to explore Vlora’s delightful sights….well, all one of them – Vlora is historically important as it was the place where Albania’s independence was declared in 1912, and at the Sheshi I Flamurit (Flag Square), there is a rather magnificent Soviet statue commemorating this event. After admiring this strangely beguiling sculpture, I walked the length of the town’s main boulevard, before killing time checking out the boot-legged CD stalls, eating remarkably tasty pizza, and having my ears blasted by the bug-eyed hoods in the internet café vying for supremacy in the social ineptitude that is the World of Warcraft.

Sheshi I Flamurit

Next I headed to Saranda, a seaside village close to the Greek border. Saranda is a pleasant enough town with a long pebbly beach lined with cafes, half-constructed buildings, hotels and amusements (including a small outdoor cinema). There is precious little to do there aside from soak up the relaxed seaside ambience, visit the nearby Ksamili Blue Lagoon, and explore the ancient Greek ruins of Butrinti, with its well-preserved temple, baptistery, forum and thermal baths.

Saranda promenade

Ksamili Blue Lagoon

Ruins of the Bathhouse, Butrint

Ruins of the Temple, Butrint

Not wanting to tolerate the discomforts of another windowless bus journey into the Albanian interior, I legged it for the wobbly ferry to Corfu, a fun-filled 90 minute journey with Zorba the Greek blaring from the loud speakers to drown out the belches from the seasick Germans on the lower deck…and with but a single forlorn tear struggling to extricate itself from my ocular region, I bade my farewells to Albania, and its head-wobbling people.

Bel x

P.S. Despite the eternal whinings of the above blog, I actually really enjoyed Albania. But damn....why did it have to be so bloody hot!!!

On the way to Corfu

Привет cпасибо блин сметана блины (Hello Thank You Damn Sour Cream Pancake)

18.08.2006 - 26.08.2006 28 °C

Imatra, Finland lies a mere 7km from the Russian frontier... torturously close.

I had to go.

It really would have been wrong if I hadn't.

A month later, I boarded the Tolstoy overnight express to Moscow. I devoured my stash of karjalanpiirakka and sipped on sweet black tea served in an elegant filigree silver coated glass. My cabinmate was Anja, a 20-something Muscovite on her way home from a glorious summer spent in idyllic Karelia.

She was dreading her return to studies in Moscow – "too competitive, boring and expensive", she mused (she was studying Economics, you see). In addition to teaching me to read the Cyrillic alphabet, she told me a little of how life was for her in Moscow –exhausting, expensive, exasperating, and very occasionally exhilarating. My life exactly, I thought.

Riding the Tolstoy Express to Moscow

We chatted away as the train rolled across the border into Russia. The pale green forests of the drought-stricken Finnish countryside faded away as the blackened forests from the summer bushfires set in. The provodnitsa (carriage conductor), a remarkably affable lady with bouffant hair and a painted face popped in to make sure we were comfortable, and even the immigration police were surprisingly welcoming, not even bothering to search my backpack for weapons of mass destruction. I was mildly disappointed to have evaded the bureaucratic minefield I had so been anticipating.

The train rolled into Leningradsky vozkal at 8.30am and I used my newly acquired knowledge of Cyrillic to navigate my way on the metro to my hostel on Ul Arbat, a lively Moscow street with its art market, buskers and enough matryoshkas to last you all the way to Vladivostok! Resisting the compulsion to head straight to Red Square, I ambled down Ul Arbat to the Pushkin Fine Arts Museum. Now according to Lonely Planet's (ever fallible but still beloved) guide to Russia and Belarus, the Pushkin is home to a wonderful collection of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings. But of course, since publication 5 months earlier, these works have shifted to a gallery down the street! But the Art Noveau posters by Toulouse-Lautrec and Mucha more than sufficed.

Ul Arbat

As I exited the Pushkin onto ul Volkhonka, I was blinded by the dazzling dome of the gargantuan Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, which was built to commemorate Russia's victory over Napoleon 1812 (hence the 1812 Overture). During Stalin's reign, it was proposed that the church be destroyed to make way for a 300m high Palace of Soviets and a 100m Lenin statue. Instead, they built the world's largest swimming pool!

Cathedral of Christ the Saviour

After a rather tasty serve of bliny (essentially a crepe, with a ludicrous slop of sour cream, veges and cheese), I hopped back on the elegant metro. Now, having lived for 8 months in London, I had come to loathe the Tube as much as I loved it. But then the Moscow metro is truly marvellous – it carries 4 times the daily volume of the London Underground with few delays and seemingly little overcrowding. Not only does it get you from A to Щ (the Cyrillic equivalent of "shch"), many of the stations are exquisitely beautiful – from the gold-trimmed white porcelain of Prospekt Mira, to the incredible mosaics of Kievskaya or the floral bas-reliefs decorated with AK-47s at Partizanskaya. And the escalators…well you feel as though you are descending into some subterranean underworld with stoney-faced babushkas acting as guardians of the gates.

Riding the Moscow Metro

Resurfacing from the underworld into the gleaming August sunlight, I ventured out to the Novodevichy Convent. The convent was founded in the 16th century, and was previously the residence of Peter the Great's sister, Sophie, but nowadays is used as a convent. The convent has a cluster of lovely churches set amidst charming gardens, which as I quickly discovered, has made it immensely popular with the nouveau riche of Moscow for wedding photos. So after being growled at by half-a-dozen-bottom-sniffing-salivating-snarling-German-Shepherds (quite traumatic for a caninophobe!), en route from the Metro, I was amused to find the wedding brigade. The brides – gaunt-apricot-skinned 19 year olds in baby-spew-hued-taffeta-gowns smiled radiantly. The grooms –well-chuffed-clean-shaven-Elvis-esque-suit wearing casanovas. The wedding cars – well, hilarious really. Imagine your standard white limo – stylish, not too showy ya know. Then imagine the car has had a few modifications.

Novodevichy Convent

Let's say it's been "pimped" up.

Like a hot rod!

Oh dear….

Getting hitched - a la Muscovite

Unable to bear any more ridiculously over-the-top wedding parties I headed around the corner to the adjacent cemetery where I paid my respects to Chekhov, former Soviet President Nikita Khrushchev, Mrs Gorbachev, and several great Russian composers including Prokofiev, Shostakovich and Kabalevsky, whose studies I used to play until my fingers hurt. As I was leaving the cemetery, it began lashing with rain and I wandered, rather soaked, back to Ul Arbat where I met Lauren, an American heading across Siberia, via the "Stans"; and Jina, a Pommie who planned to cycle around the remote but purportedly enchanting Solovetsky Islands.

One of the creepiest but perversely fascinating things to see in Moscow, is surely Lenin's mausoleum. After his death in 1924, mourners filed solemnly past Lenin's decaying body for weeks. The Kremlin set out to find a technique for modern day preservation, and 6 months after his death, came up with a chemical solution (no pun intended). So today, 82 years after his death, you can still pay your respects to the rather waxy-looking Lenin. Lauren and I entered the icy, dimly-lit, heavily-guarded chamber – to come face to face with Vladimir Lenin the following morning. It was a little surreal, and a lot creepy – I know they submerge him in paraffin wax every year as part of the necrotic preservation, but he really did just look plain weird.

From Red Square we headed out to the burbs to visit the Izmaylovo Market, with its large collection of Soviet paraphernalia, matryoshky, rugs, lacquerware etc. After trying on a ridiculous number of oversized Cherkessian hats and opening up as many matryoshka sets as we were allowed to, Lauren stopped to buy some elegantly hand-painted napkin rings (for her "glory box" or something equally dire). She paid for her purchase, and we headed off in search of some bliny for lunch.

But bliny wasn't to be had as we were stopped abruptly by the peevish looking man who had sold her the napkin-rings. He violently grabbed Lauren by the arm. Spitting out a staccato of words in obviously incomprehensible Russian, he proceeded to aggressively haul Lauren back to his market stall, all the time muttering away to himself. Quite bewildered by the situation, Lauren pushed him away and attempted to run. But it was futile for he grabbed her with even more vigour than before. He punched her, she kicked him etc. Oh dear…

A young female vendor came running over and acted as an interpreter. It turned out that the grumpy old sod had given Lauren too much change (about $1.50 or so), and was determined to get his change back. I encouraged Lauren to just give him the money so we could be happily on our way. But Lauren was pissed off – rightly so, as the man was being a complete bastard – and decided, on principle, not to give him the money. Hmmm….bad idea, the man's anger intensified and he started to hit Lauren, while various vendors from nearby stalls and I tried to break it up. Oh dear dear dear….

Eventually Lauren coughed up the money and we walked away, but not after he kicked her one more time and she slapped him back. Lauren was obviously upset by the experience, and more than a little angry. A rotund old lady came running out from her stall, sobbing uncontrollably. She hugged Lauren, and then me, all the time sobbing her eyes out. She then ushered us into her
stall, sat us down, prepared us some tea and called over an interpreter.

Lauren was keen to seek out the police to report the man for assault, though I really thought it would be one of those pointless ventures into foreign bureaucracy. I had read that Russia has one of the highest rates of domestic violence in the world, so thought that the police were likely to be unresponsive to the woebegone pleas of a foreigner, American at that. But perhaps her persistence paid off, as the administrator of the market was sought, the nasty man reprimanded, and apparently told to sod off permanently. Now whether or not this was true, it certainly made Lauren feel a lot better.

Izmaylovo Market

After the joys of Izmaylovo, Lauren set off to brave the bureaucrats at the Embassy of Kazakhstan - a brave move, I thought, considering the reputation of the consular staff. I meanwhile, headed back to Red Square to visit the onion-domed-giddying- cornucopia of colours that is St Basil's Cathedral, and the nearby red-bricked State History Museum, which, with only Cyrillic writing on the exhibits made for a rather challenging museum visit.

Finally, I had the time to wander about splendid Red Square. Flanked by the Kremlin, St Basil's, State History Museum and Gum Department Store, it's a glorious place to wander – surely one of the most beautiful city squares in the world.

I headed back to Red Square the following morning to visit the Kremlin, the heart of Russian politics for more than 800 years. Whilst in queue, I met a Canadian Rugby player (do they even have a team?), and together we wandered around the Kremlin grounds, taking in the Patriarch's Palace, Assumption Cathedral, Tsar Bell and Cannon, Annunciation Cathedral, Archangel Cathedral and Alexandrovsky Garden. Neither of us had been fortunate enough to nab tickets to visit the Armoury, as it seemed to have been booked out my name-tag-wearing-tour-groups, who smirked at us as we were refused entry. I had by chance, seen an exhibition of Faberge eggs and jewellery in Tampere, Finland two weeks before, so wasn't too bothered.

Both of us found the Kremlin underwhelming and headed out in search of a bit of craic. So to the All Russian Exhibition Centre we went. In spite of its decidedly dour name, the VDNKh (as it is known in Russian), is a fascinating park with wide pavements filled with grandiose pavilions, exquisite fountains, rocket ships, the world's third largest ferris wheel and young scantily clad Muscovites practising death-defying roller-blade manoeuvres.

Entrance to the All Russian Exhibition Centre (VDNKh)

From the top of the ferris wheel we had an amazing view over the bustling metropolis of 10million people, as well as an appreciation of the enormity of the Ostankino tower, which at 540m is the 2nd tallest free standing tower in the world.

As we quickly discovered, the VDNKh is also a great place to check out the latest in Muscovite fashion (or perhaps anti-fashion) - aspiring minxes in their red PVC crop tops and matching tights, crotch-hugging denim cut-offs with crocheted-string-bikinis, hideous lycra white mini-dresses with chunky white platforms…(no salivating here lads!). As for the men – well not a lot to say really - a little too much stonewash, far too many muscle shirts and
loads of grey shoes – seriously….just don't do it!

After a wander in the glorious summer sunshine, we ambled along the Moscow river, towards the Sculpture Park with its statues of Stalin, Lenin, Brezhnev, and bizarrely of a few Buddhas!

We headed to the wonderful Tretyakov gallery the next morning to view the resplendent collection of Russian icons. For a non-Catholic who is mostly interested in late 19th/early 20th century paintings, I am surprisingly fond of iconographic works and have probably visited all the museums of iconography from the Moscow down to Dubrovnik! There's something inexplicably beguiling about their elongated glimmering faces….ok maybe I'm just a bit weird!

Chris didn't seem to share my enthusiasm but was more enthusiastic about the prospect of visiting Gorky Park, with its mesmerizing carousel music, rainbow-coloured ankle biters, rocket ships and crazy mirrors that make you look as skinny, miniscule, or Michelin-man like as you so desire. Certainly not the snowy, sinister place I remembered from the 1983 film…

From here I headed to the contemporary history museum with its collection of old Bolshevik paraphernalia, the Bolshoi (closed for refurbishment) and finally for one last wander about mesmeric Red Square before boarding my overnight train to St Petersburg.

My arrival at Moskovsky Vozkal early the next morning reminded me how fond I truly am of grungy European railway stations – melting pots of vagrants, vagabonds and bag-snatching vultures. The fact that at 8am there was copious inebriation aflutter was a little disturbing….is there really any need to be drinking beer, let alone vodka this early in the morning? ?

After checking into my cosy hostel, I strolled along the banks of the Neva river, and then through the elegant Summer Gardens en route to Mikhailovsky Palace (home to the Russian Museum) with its collection of Russian icons, sculptures and paintings and a sublime exhibition of Filinov works. Then I meandered about the canals admire the exterior of the lovely but hideously named Church of The Saviour on Spilled Blood, before wandering down Nevsky Prospekt towards Dvortsovaya Ploschad, the beautiful cobbled square outside the Hermitage. The square is a great place for people-watching – young lads hooning about in their 1975 model ladas, roller-blading-mini-skirted-40-something women, surly men strutting along with their muscle shirts and murses (man bags), lip-puffing lolitas in the new anti-fashionware and digital-camera-toting-tourists clutching their Louis Vuitton handbags and stumbling about in their Jimmy Choos.

Back at the hostel that night I bumped into a familiar face, Jina, who I had met in Moscow. She'd just returned from the Solovetsky Islands in North West Russia, though a week or so earlier than planned. She relayed to me how she'd met a Russian lad on the boat across to the islands and had gone cycling with him up to the Transfiguration Monastery. So distracted was she by the remarkable scenery, that she went flying over the handlebars and fell unconscious, only to wake up to learn she had lost half a tooth, seriously grazed her face and couldn't move her neck. Her friend and the benevolent owners of the local guesthouse took her in and dulled the pain with some swigs of Vodka before she headed back to St Petersburg in search of proper medical attention. She headed off the next morning to the American Medical Clinic to learn she had actually fractured her neck and might lose the rest of her shattered tooth…bloody bicycles!

The next morning I hit the Hermitage, the mint-green gilded former palace of Catherine the Great. The Hermitage is now home to more than 3 million artworks ranging from bronze-age petroglyphs to works from Picasso's Blue Period. I found the dizzying array of works a little overwhelming so tried to dip in and out rooms that were of interest and admire the sumptuous interior including the forest coloured Malachite Hall, alluring chandelier crowned ballroom and elegant Jordan Staircase. Not quite arted out, I headed from there to check out the inside of the Church of The Saviour on Spilled Blood, with its elegantly painted frescoes, dazzling mosaics (all 7000 of them) and marble furnishings.

I awoke the next morning to gleaming sunshine so took a bus out to Petrodvorets (Peter's Palace) to check out the amazing gardens and cascading fountains of the "Russian Versailles". The gravity powered fountains (140 of them) are pretty spectacular and adorned with gilded sculptures of Greek gods and goddesses. I wandered about the exquisite Lower Gardens of the estate, past the Grand Palace and Montplaisir (Peter the Great's favourite seaside villa), before boarding a random bus, which I desperately hoped would get me back into town - thankfully it did and my entire Russian vocabulary of "Privet spasiba blin smetana bliny" ("hello thank you damn sour cream pancake") wasn't put to the test!

Back in St Petersburg I headed to the golden-capped St Isaac's Cathedral. When I arrived at Isaakievsky Ploschad, I stopped to join the crowd who had gathered and were staring up at the smoke in the sky. Until I scaled the colonnade of the Church, I had thought that an old apartment building was alight, though it soon became apparent that the dome of a large cathedral had gone up in flames – that of the Trinity Cathedral. Whilst up the colonnade it began to pour so after scrambling down, I lingered in the delicate interior of St Isaac's whilst I waited for the rain to pass by. Decorated discreetly in buff pink granite, lapis azuli and forest-green
malachite, it was a less giddying interior than that of the Spilled Blood Cathedral.

On my last morning in St Petersburg I perused the Museum of Ethnography to learn a little about the 150 different ethnic groups that combine to form Russia, before wandering past the Town Duma (old parliament) and delightful Passazh arcade and finally to the Alexander Nevsky Monastery and Cemetery to pay homage to Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and Dostoyevsky.

I almost missed my train back to Helsinki as I nearly went to the wrong station….but thankfully the unpleasant cab driver who stinged me for 300roubles got me there just on time…the bastard!


Ah....the joys of travel.
Bel xxx

Tallinn

03.07.2006 - 05.07.2006 25 °C

I´d been wanting to go to Estonia for some time....the first Estonians I ever met were at the Sydney Olympics in 2000. Erik Nool, an Estonian athlete had just won the decathlon and we happened to jump on board with a carriage full on drunken ones celebrating his victory! Dancing and singing Estonian folk songs at the top of their lungs...was quite an experience to behold.

So, after more than 3 years living and working abroad, I finally had the chance to go. I´m living in Helsinki at the moment, and it´s only an hour and a half by catamaran...so...after spending midsummer at the family´s summer cottage, I got home, jumped online, booked some tix and went the next day to Tallinn!

After a rocky ride on the boat, I arrived in lovely Tallinn - and, so it seemed, so did half the continent! Heritage listing is a funny thing...one of the main aims of listing a cultural/natural treasure is to ensure it is protected. But then, of course, as soon as something gets the WHL stamp on it, every flag-wielding tour group descends upon it.....and is it really possible for a cultural treasure such as Tallinn to be properly appreciated when there are swarms of people there? I guess it´s like many other places, but as the Old Town is so compact, it feels really suffocating here.

Flag wielders and mobs aside, Tallinn was lovely.

A short walk into town in the blazing sun (yes, it was hot here!) saw me arrive at my hostel....at least I hoped it was my hostel, for as I started up the staircase, I caught glimpse of some brightly scripted words on the wall.....

“Strip tiis”!

Uhoh....

Now, my knowledge of Finno-Ugric (Finnish, Estonian and Hungarian; Finnish and Estonian being quite similar) words at this time was limited to a grand Finnish vocabulary that went something like this - “Moi” - hello, “Hei Hei” – Bye, “Mitää Kuluu”, “Hyvää” – good, “Kippis” – [which sounds remarkably like something lots of people like to do on the weekened] – cheers, and “nukkumaanmenoaika “ – bedtime [I´m working with kids and it pisses them off when I say it at 5 in the afternoon!]. But, hmmm, kinda obvious hey?

What to do..... “Is the hostel somehow affiliated with a strip-joint?” I wondered.

Hmmm....fingers firmly crossed, I wandered up to the first floor, to find what appeared to be a very pleasant hostel. No strippers in sight, nor any seedbags! I hoped that come evening time, that´s how it would stay!

So after offloading my bag, I wandered through the winding cobbled lanes of medieval Tallinn to its heart, at Raekoja Platsto, which is home to the 13th Century Town Hall and surrounded by bustling cafes. I climbed up the Town Hall Tower for a glorious glimpse down upon the old town before wandering, alongside throngs of tourists, up to Toompea Hill, Tallinn´s birthplace and presently home to the Estonian parliament and the spectacular Russian Orthodox Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, with its amazing mosaics and glimmering icons.

After savouring more splendid views from Toompea Hill, I scaled parts of the city walls, before grabbing a bite to eat, stopping by at the old KGB headquarters (nothing special) and heading back to the hostel, which seemed to be free of scantily-clad ladies being ogled over by dirty old (or young) men. In fact the only people that seemed to be there were the grouchy reception ladies and my roommates - the first, a sniffly Japanese girl, and the second, a fellow Sydneysider, Christina, who was on a whirlwind Summer trip through Europe.

The next morning, after perhaps the worst omelette I´ve ever had (after 3 months in Africa and 4 in Asia, I´m quite an omelette connoisseur!), and some teeth enamel-removing-strength coffee, I wandered in search of some of the old town´s art nouveau (a little disappointing after Riga), and stopped to look at the Holy Spirit Church and its splendid 15th century clock, before heading to the Museum of Occupation. As was the case in Latvia, Estonia was occupied by Nazi Germany and then the Soviet Union for much of the 20th century, and the museum details the history of the occupation and of Estonia´s attainment of independence in 1991. Whereas in Czechoslovakia, they had a Velvet Revolution (bloodless and largely casualty free), in Estonia, they had a “Singing Revolution”. Over a period of 5 years between 1987 and 1991, nightly singing masses across Estonia gathered to sing Estonian national songs and hymns, which were banned under Soviet occupation. On 20th August 1991, one-fifth of the Estonian people rallied together in Tallinn. As Soviet tanks stormed through the city to try and put a stop to the rally (apparently Estonians are awful singers!) the people acted as human shields (to protect TV and radio crews) and the independent state of Estonia was declared for all the world to see.

After learning a little about Estonia´s struggle for independence, I wandered around the sunny Harju Hill to the Danish King´s Garden (Estonia was governed by Denmark in the 12th and 13th centuries). According to legend, during the Battle of Lyndanisse (i.e. present day Tallinn), a flag fell down from the sky, helping the Danes to win the battle – this flag is still used by Denmark today. From here I stopped at the Kalev “factory”, where marzipan was said to have been first created, before heading down to the Dominican monastery.

I had read that in this monastery, one of Tallinn´s oldest buildings, there exists an “energy pillar”, a source of mysterious power. I too hoped to get some of this “power” so sauntered inside, where I was met by a 900 (or so it seemed) yr old monk who was delighted to see me, and spoke at length (firstly in Estonian, then broken German) and with enthusiasm about the monastery and its history. He showed me a new collection of photographs (of monks of course), before leading me into the “energy” chamber. He encouraged me to stand in the centre of the room and sing (and presumably feel the good vibes)...so I did...and waited for the energy to hit me...but alas, I didn´t get those good energy vibes....so I wandered out to the delightful cloister for a concert of medieval music.

In the evening I met up with my roommate from the hostel, Christina. Her American flatmate had arrived, and as it was the 4th of July, we went, along with our new roommates, a friendly American couple, in search of pancakes! After a delicious feast on of cream cheese and lingonberry pancakes (there are about 60 types of berries in this part of the world – all delicious), we headed off to the “Pub With No Name” (but plenty of beer, unlike the song), to watch the World Cup play-off between Germany and Italy. Having had our World Cup hopes dashed by a dodgy ref call in Australia´s game against Italy, I was of course supporting Germany! Besides, they were the hosts! But....infuriatingly, the pretty boys won – this time, fair and square...

The next morning, after a much nicer omelette and coffee combo than previously, I headed out in search of the Estonian History Museum (closed), Music museum (closed!) and finally the Fire-fighting museum (meant to have a cool doll house that demonstrates 30 ways to burn down your house!! Great for the hidden pyro in me...but closed too!!!) before wandering up to St Olaf´s Church to climb its spire. In the 16th Century, St Olaf´s Church was the tallest building in the world. Its 124m seems relatively puny in comparison with the world´s tallest building today, Taipei 100 in Taiwan (509m)., but the view from the top was, of course, amazing, and worth the gazillion or so stairs to get up there!

After all those stairs, I was in need of some food, so I headed off in search of the Embassy of Pure Food, an Estonian (not-quite) vegetarian restaurant.... with incredible food, and certainly the friendliest and most efficient embassy staff I´ve met anywhere in the world!

Last stop in Tallinn was the Linnahall, a monstrosity of a building I´d past on my way into town from the boat. During the 1980 Olympics in Moscow, they decided to hold the sailing events in the Baltic sea (Moscow is a long way inland), and used Tallinn as their base. The Linnahall, an extraordinarily revolting building was thus constructed as the Olympic event centre, but has seldom been used since. It´s one of the few remaining reminders of the Soviet era in Tallinn – in typical Soviet Style, it´s an ugly lump of Concrete with little to redeem it but the wacky statue atop it, and the potential for skateboarders to run amok!

And from there, I did some last minute shopping at the nasty port shopping complex, before bidding the steeples, towers and medieval streets of Tallinn farewell!

Bel x

Bella Italia 2006

06.04.2006 - 17.04.2006 17 °C

Venice

I first visited Venice in 1997, after an overnight train journey from Vienna. We were absolutely shattered upon arrival and, spent our paltry one day, roaming about like zombies, with time to do very little aside from visit the Guggenheim gallery, check out Basilica di San Marco, climb the Campanile, take a mandatory outrageously overpriced gondolier ride, and chase pigeons about Piazza di San Marco. December in Venice, is, well, pretty quiet, as it can be chilly and tends to see a lot of rain.

So it was quite a shock to arrive in April 2006 to find that Venice's relatively modest population of around 60,000, had swelled to around 200,000 or more - half seemed to be American college students on spring break, and the rest were fat-walleted-bum-bag-wearing-phallic-lensed-camera-toting-Gucci-sunglass-clad-flag-following-name-tag-wearing-tourists (Gotta love stereotypes!).

After a late arrival into Venice, I hopped on a Vaporetto (water-bus) along the Grand canal to my hostel, on the island of Giudecca. The next morning, I headed to the Sestiere San Marco, where after crossing the Bridge of Sighs, I headed straight to the Palazzo Ducale. This Palazzo was once the residence of the Doge (Venetian Ruler) and seat of government, but now houses a museum with some impressive Renaissance paintings, and a wonderful map room, which details the journeys of Marco Polo (who was born in Venice) to the Far East. From there, I headed to La Fenice Opera House, and visited Peggy Guggenheim's fantastically eclectic gallery, before spending the evening aimlessly wandering the city's labyrinthine passages.

After being kicked out of bed by the grumpy hostel staff at 9.30am the next day, I sauntered outside, rather bleary-eyed, and caught a vaporetto across to San Marco, where I grabbed myself an espresso and climbed up the Campanile, to get a magnificent view over the lagoon and its hundreds of islands. From there I wound my way through the streets and Piazzi of San Marco - San Stefano, Campo Maurizio, Campo San Angelo - visited the splendid (but tiny) Musical Instruments Museum and headed towards Sestiere San Polo.

San Marco is linked to San Polo by the Ponte di Rialto, the oldest and most famous bridge in Venice, and consequently, the area is aflutter with fat-walletted foreigners, expensive Venetian masks and salivating gondoliers. I crossed the Ponte di Rialto, to find myself in San Polo, the oldest part of Venice, and home to the (smelly) fish market, and hundreds of shops selling designer handbags, Venetian masks, Murano glass etc. After my second (or perhaps third) gelato of the day, I hit the wonderful Ca' Pesaro, in nearby San Croce. Ca' Pesaro is an 18th Century Venetian palace that has been converted into a glorious gallery filled with works by Chagall, Matisse, Miro, Kandinsky, and some wonderful Klimt. Then, I finished up the day with an evening of Vivaldi at Chiesa San Vidal.

2 days of trying to push my way through the crowd and I was in need of a break, so caught a vaporetto out to quaint Torcello (pop. 17) with its 11th Century church, before heading onto Burano, home to fine Venetian lace and the world's fattest cat, and then to Murano, home to Murano glass, of course! Back in town, I hit the Museo Correr with its collection of Venetian paintings and sculptures.

The next day, I set out early to have one last roam about the canals, before visiting the splendid Basilica di San Marco, with its Russian-esque onion-domes, golden frescoes and resident spiked pigeons - in an attempt to ward of pigeons (and their poo), spikes have been placed around the eaves. Sure, it stops the pigeons from resting too long upon the eaves, but it's a bit cruel isn't it?

Emilia-Romagna

After racing to the train station, I made my way South to Rimini, Italy's answer to the Gold Coast, without the high-rise and golden meter-maids. A quick stroll along the manky grey sand was enough for me...

I got a cracking start the next day so I could hit San Marino, the world's smallest republic (61 sq km), and (apparently) the oldest constitutional republic in the world still in existence today (first independent in AD301). It was founded by a stonemason from Dalmatia (present day southern Croatia) who was hiding from the anti-Christian emperor Diocletian. San Marino is famous for its Grand Prix, which, would you believe, is held in the nearby Italian countryside!? Its other main annual event is Independence Day, where they celebrate by playing bingo (honest! Google it!).

Upon arrival in mountainous San Marino, I clambered up the winding streets to the vantage points of La Guiata, Cesta and Montale, with their sweeping views across to the coast. I was getting blown away by the tremendously powerful and chilly winds atop the peaks, so headed back into town, to check out the kitsch souvenir shops, and visit the (very boring) national museum, before racing back to Rimini to catch my train onwards to Modena.

Modena is famous foremost for being the home of Ferrari (and also Maserati). It is also the birthplace of the wonderfully sublime balsamic vinegar. So of course, upon arrival there, I treated myself to a lovely meal at a restaurant on the regal Piazza Grande - tempura of artichoke and aubergine with pecorino cheese, hand-made spinach and ricotta ravioli topped with Parmigiano Reggiano (fair dinkum Parmesan cheese, and yeah, even I can't believe I said "fair dinkum") and a side of rocket drizzled with balsamic vinegar. And some fresh sanguinella on the side! Can't afford to eat like that everyday, but it's certainly nice to spoil myself occasionally

My stomach well satisfied, I had a quick wander about town, passing by the 12th century Duomo and the Torre Ghirlandia, before I retired to my spartan hostel. The only other guest, it seemed, was my elderly Italian roommate; a nun who spent 3-4 hours frantically counting her rosary beads!? I guess, as it was a couple of days before Easter, it was to be expected...

In the morning I moved on to Parma, home to Parmigiano Reggiano (aka Parmesan Cheese)! In Parma, I wandered the grand streets - past the Palazzo della Pilotta, into the baptistery and down to the Teatro Regio, the elegant opera house. Then it was time for lunch - a gargantuan serve of risotto with a side of Parmigano...crumbly and delectable...cheese heaven! From there I took a long walk along the riverside (need to work off all that cheese!), before heading to the heavenly Duomo with its sublime frescoes. I had planned to get back to visit the Ferrari factory in Modena, but kinda got stuck looking at the amazing frescoes, and let's be fair here - incredible 11th century frescoes, or an overpriced vehicle that will lose value if you even breathe on it (Sorry motorphiles!).

Next up was Bologna, which is, home to Ragu, aka "Spaghetti Bolognese"! Of course being a vegetarian, Spag Bol in Italy doesn't quite work, so I settled for a rather mediocre pizza. Bologna is lovely with its earthy red buildings, vaulted arcades and elegant piazzi. It is home to the world's oldest university (Dante studied here!) and is home to a massive population of students, as well as being one of the most socialist areas of Italy (hence the red).

I first hit Piazza Maggiore, where I was not only met by huge renaissance buildings and the ubiquitous pooing pigeon, but also the Peruvian pan-pipe band churning out Simon and Garfunkel numbers (if I'm not getting followed by Hare Krishnas, it's those bloody Peruvian Simon and Garfunkel impersonators). After a quick peep inside the massive San Petronia Basilica, I moved on to wander about the ancient university, before checking out the "twin towers" of Bologna, Torre degli Asinelli and Torre della Garisenda and climbing the 500 (!) steps to the top of Asinelli for the red-rooved view.

After sprinting to the station, I hopped on a train to Florence, then onwards to Pisa, where I was to meet up with my friend Anita. She was arriving on a late Ryan Air flight, so I had a few hours to kill when I got there, so I did the unexpected, and head straight to the Campo dei Miracoli (Field of Dreams), the beautiful field that is home to the Leaning Tower, as well as the Baptistery and Duomo. It was just as I had remembered - the tower was positively miniscule, but the Campo dei Miracoli was as sublime as ever, with the solitude of the early evening, adding to the atmosphere.

Liguria

The next day, Anita and I wandered back up there to climb up the tower, and visit the elegant Duomo. Of course, everyone who visits Pisa wants to go up the tower (in spite of the ludicrous €15 they charge!), and we could only get tix for later that night, or visit when we got back from the Cinque Terre.

So we boarded the coast-hugging train to Riomaggiore, the first of the 5 (Cinque) lands (Terre). We spent the next couple of days here, walking between the five towns, sipping espresso, sampling every possible gelati (Straciatella and Sanguinella are perhaps my faves), and generally relaxing along the way. The Cinque Terre is certainly lovely and well worth the visit, though, because it was Easter Weekend, the place was seriously manic!

We were so much enjoying our lunch (ravioli with chocolate swirls - seriously!!) in Vernazza, and sunbaking on the rocks (no beach!) in Riomaggiore, that we were a little slow in leaving the Cinque Terre for Pisa. And we really did have to get back there as we had pre-booked our Pisa climb. So we caught the latest train that would get us there on time.....except, silly us (or, in this case, me), thought the train was direct through to Pisa, and when the train started going backwards in La Spezia, we were thinking, "Uh-oh"......

So we wound up back in Riomaggiore, and had to resign ourselves to the likelihood that we just weren't going to get to climb the tower. The train we were now on, would only get us into the station at 1908, and our tix were for 7pm! Even if we taxied our way there from the station, what were we to do with our backpacks!!?!

So we did all that we could do. After our 1908 (on time!) arrival, we hailed a taxi to our hotel, practically threw our bags across the front desk (thankfully they remembered us!), and jumped back in the taxi to get to the tower. We ran across the field to the tower, and gave the ticket man our tix.

"No, your tickets for 7pm" (by now it was pushing 7.30). "You're too late!".

"Signore, per favore", said I, smiling hopefully, "Il tren, molto lentissimo", rapidly exhausting my rubbish Italian lexicon.

"Ok, ok, but take your bags there", he said, pointing over to the left luggage room.

So, yeah, we made it up the tower! Not really terribly exciting, though we did enjoy tumbling down the stairs afterwards - literally - without getting busted by the guards!

Belinda xo

Bob-sledding and bum-sliding in Riga

22.02.2006 -14 °C

Riga, Latvia...

Early February in London. A chilly 7 degrees, if you´re lucky. Miserable, grey, bleak, dark... I´d thought it would be nice to have a few days somewhere sunny. Malta, perhaps, or maybe Cyprus. - somewhere I hadn´t yet been. But alas, flights were just too flipping expensive; like me, every sun-starved Pommie had had the same idea. So I started focusing on anywhere else in Europe I hadn´t been.

Finland? The aurora borealis...Lapland....Santa Claus...tobogganing... £400 just for flights? No way!

Liechtenstein? It´s another country...famous for producing false teeth....ummm maybe not

Estonia? Tallinn´s meant to be gorgeous...

Latvia? It´s cheap there....meant to delightful...and...

I can go bob-sledding there!?!?

So I went to Riga...where it was a mild -10 upon my arrival late at night.....so much for the warm sunny place dea!!

A quick taxi ride into town left me at Fun Friendly Frank's Backpackers.....I usually have a policy of avoiding places with such wanky names (e.g. “Top Banana” in Phnom Penh was a complete dive), but it had gotten such amazing reviews on hostelworld.com, that I decided I must stay there. Being absolutely shattered from a hectic half-term in the schools, I promptly hit the sack - this particular sack being a rather comfortable bunk bed in a mixed dorm room. After 2-3 hours sleep, I awoke to the cacophonic stumbling of an inebriated Irishman, who was intent on finding his nail-clippers (as all inebriated folk must do)! After a few minutes of fumbling through his bags, he hit the floor with a thud.

And began to snore....like a camel with indigestion might. All attempts I made to rouse him (holding his nose, throwing pillows, chucking water in his face, banging the door against him etc) failed, and so I blearily wandered down to reception, and asked to change rooms...

At four in the morning? No problem! (Lesson number one: Nothing will waken an ossified snorer!)

After a couple more hours sleep, I rugged up to brave the fresh -12 Rigan air, and wandered out in search of coffee. I got distracted though, by the sight of the frozen solid Daugava River! For an Australian, who still thinks +11 is ridiculously cold this had quite some novelty! I stared in amazement at this 800m wide river, and in horror at the crazy people who were walking across it

CRAZY...

So I found that coffee, and then, as perusual, went in search of the highest tower in town, the bell tower of St Peter´s church, and took the lift (they´re very modern in Riga! No bollocking woebegone steps like in Italy) to the top for the astonishing view over the whitescape of Riga.

Did I mention it was -12 when I stepped out? Ok, so at the top of St Peter´s bell tower, it was about -30 with the jolly wind! Back inside for me (more coffee).....to visit the ornate House of the Black Heads (the patron saint of the guild was Maurice, an African warrior), a 14th century guild house, and the Museum of Occupation, which details the German and Soviet Occupations of Latvia during much of the 20th century. Ironically, the square outside the Museum of Occupation is home to a massive statue of the Latvian Riflemen, who were central in helping bring in the Soviet era.

Over the next 2 days: I explored the Heritage-Listed Old town (Everything is listed these days, except perhaps for Brisbane, which just simply isn´t worthy!) with its beautiful art nouveau architecture (assymetric shapes, decorative arches, faces, vines/flowers etc.); wandered through the lovely white parklands filled with children bum-sliding down icy footpaths, ducks snoozing in the (not very warm) sun and Rigans admiring the wintry landscape; visited the architecturally confused Dome Cathedral; window-shopped (mostly from the inside to escape the cold); and drank far too much coffee (As part of my health kick, I only have coffee when I´m “travelling” – this means I still drink coffee all the time! hehe).

So what about the bob-sledding? Well...as soon as I arrived, I asked when I could go. Tomorrow? Nope, we´re booked out. What about the next day? Yeah, possibly. If we have enough people......which thankfully, they did.

Shortly before I was due to head off bob-sledding, I sauntered down to the riverbank to do as the locals did - I figured, that if I were silly enough to jump into a bob-sled, I really should be silly enough to walk out onto a frozen river.

Of course, the ice was thick and strong, and well able to support my weight, as well as that of the 20 or so other foreigners who had decided to brave the ice at the same time as me.

And then...bob-sledding....ah yes. There are only about 10 places in the world where non-professionals can go bob-sledding for the hell of it, and Sigulda, about an hour on the train from downtown Riga, is one such place. So a large mob from the hostel and I boarded the train for our journey out there. In the middle of nowhere (or so it seemed), the train ground to a holt, and the 30 or so of us jumped off and wound our way up to the bob-sled track, stopping on the way, to amuse ourselves by taking pictures of the "Puke" shop - Puke is Latvian for "flower"...quite funny methinks....

I wasn´t the first to go...I think some of the Irish lads jumped in first. I spent the next hour or so befriending a mob of Pommies (whose tag rugby team I later joined). And eventually it was my turn. Jen (one of the Pommies) and I jumped in for the ride....

"So", I said to the driver, "Whadda we have to do?".

"Nothing", said he, "But make sure you don´t hit my helmet with yours"

"That´s it?", I said, uncertainly

"Yeah, it´s easy" he said.

Ok.....so off we went....the first 30 metres or so....kinda slowish, like going down a slippery slide at the local park.....and then we hit the first corner.....WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH! And then it got faster and faster....and even faster. All the time I was focusing on not hitting the driver´s helmet with mine, as per his instructions.....and praying that we didn´t crash.....the whole thing was a bit of a blur. Crazy g-forces, sharp turns, shake, shake, shake, turn, whoosh, shake shake shake, turn whoosh etc....and then all of a sudden...

"BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!" screamed the driver as we approached the end of the track...but nobody did, so we just kept on going!

And when we finally stopped, we consequently incurred the wrath of the pissed-off driver

"Why you no brake?" he shouted at Jen.

"Why you no say to!" I retorted.

Who cares if we braked or not - we clocked the fastest time!! WOOHOO! Must have been that not-braking business of ours! (Lesson number 2: not braking makes you go faster than anyone else!)

After the bob-sledding, everyone was in a bit of a silly mood, and after nearly missing our train back into town (bloody lads at the supermarket held us up!), grabbed some ridiculously cheap pizza and headed out with Fun and Friendly Frank to check out a Latvian discotheque....It was bloody awful with its melange of techno-disco pop, scantily-clad women, thoroughly-turpsed-sunglass-wearing-downright-awful terpsichoreans and flashing multicoloured lights - but quite amusing nonetheless...

The next day was...a tad quiet after the adventures of the night before. Whilst most of the Pommie mob slept, Masum (one of the Poms) and I headed out in search of the ethnographic music (can´t be all pizza, bob-sledding and discotheques now can it?). We boarded, what we hoped was the correct bus. But of course, it wasn´t, and we found ourself at the "end of the line" in the middle of suburban Riga (i.e. the middle of nowhere").

Hmmmm what to do....

"Do you speak English?" I sheepishly asked a random young person at the bus stop.

"No".

"Hi, do you speak English? I asked another person.

"No English". Of course not!!

So we resorted to just sayig "Brivdabas muzej" (Ethnographic museum) to anyone who would listen, and eventually were pointed towards it (maybe).

So we started walking, (perhaps not) towards the museum, but stopped when we came upon some men sitting on jerry cans on a frozen lake.... fishing!

What the? We ambled over towards them, and sure enough, they were fishing...through holes they had burnt in the ice with oversized cigarette lighters....

Of course, I wanted to have a go....and asked one of the old fellas....but no....it seems only men are allowed to ice fish in Latvia. So whilst Masum had a go, I sat and watched.....grrrr...

After some running about on the frozen lake, and making angels in the snow (where you lie on your back in the snow and move your arms up and down across the snow – try it, it´s fun!), we headed back to town, to bum-slide the frozen footpaths (Lesson three, bum-sliding down footpaths is fun but gets you lots of bruises)...

(Lesson Four - Riga rocks!)

B