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

Souqs, Sand and Star Wars

13.01.2006 20 °C

Having been unable to afford the preposterously overpriced tix home for a proper Xmas in the sun, and despairing at the thought of a grey, bleak Xmas day in London, I decided to spend Xmas holidays in Tunisia!

Before I left for this beautiful country, I got a lot of "Where?!?!" and "Why on earth(s)?!!!" from practically everyone I spoke to....

So firstly - where is it? Tunisia is that that sliver of a country that's wedged between Algeria (to the west) and Libya (east) and bordering the Med. It's purported to be North Africa at its easiest, and is becoming increasingly popular with the sun-seeking package tourist.

Why? Well...to be perfectly honest...because it's there, I hadn't been there before and it promised a wee bit more sun and adventure than England did! Several films, including The English Patient and Star Wars (all of them I think) were filmed here, Ulysses got stoned here on lotus-flowers, and Hannibal Barca, claimed to be the "finest" military leader in history, was born here. Oh and Tunisia is also home to the delectable briq! One more bit of trivia -the word Africa, has its origins here (according to my guidebook) - apparently the Romans who conquered and occupied much of Northern Tunisia named the area after a local Berber tribe, the "Afri". As the spread of the Roman empire, the whole of present day Africa became known as Africa, and subsequently the whole continent.

After a day of R&R in Tunis, I taxied out to Tunis Carthage Int Airport to meet Denise (mum), who had flown a painful 44 hours from Sydney to get there (10 hour layovers in Heathrow are not very nice!)...only to learn that her backpack had not arrived! TunisAir promptly got on the case (or rather backpack - bad joke!) and tracked it down to Heathrow, and after a much deserved good night's sleep, we set off to explore Tunis.

Due to its geographical proximity to Europe, Tunis is an interesting Euro/Arabic hybrid: its French boulevarded ville nouvelle with its beautiful buildings and chic cafes, is juxtaposed with its labyrinthine 7th century medina; shops blaring out Western boy band lovesongs followed by the more traditional malouf (trad Tunisian music); its young women in oversized sunglasses, skinny jeans and knee-high boots walking alongside their mothers and grandmothers veiled in winter white hijabs; the comprehensive metro zipping around town on the one hand, and the odd side-saddling donkey-rider on the other. We wandered through the colourful souqs (markets) with their "tres jolie" clothes, shoes, jewellery, woodwork etc., admired the minarets and courtyards of the medina's mosques and medersas (theological seminaries) and dined on smashing food - sampling Tunisian couscous (simpler, less spicy and more legume based than that in Morocco) and our first ever briqs! Briqs are essentially deep-fried envelopes of pastry stuffed with runny eggs, coriander and sometimes cheese, potato, onion, parsley, or meat. Very addictive and heavenly!

We spent a rather non-festive Xmas day roaming about the interesting ruins of the once great city of Carthage with its temple ruins, Roman amphitheatre, cisterns, Roman theatre, Antonine baths and Sanctuary of Tophet (perhaps a sacrificial burial site). Carthage was once an important trading port, and at one point controlled much of the North African coast, as well as parts of Sicily and Malta. From here we caught the train to Sidi Bou Said, a dramatically beautiful cliff-top village of white-washed buildings, blue-shuttered windows and fuschia bougainvilleas bursting from the walls.

After a long train-journey down South in which we were constantly harassed by 15-year-old boys in their best chav-wear (poxy white tracksuits and goldie-looking chains etc.) we arrived in Tozeur, an oasis town close to the Algerian border. Here we wandered about the Ouled el-Hadef (the 14th Century old quarter) with its intricate patterned brickwork, explored the palmeraie (essentially a palm forest), fended off caleche (horse and carriages) drivers, and visited the beautiful Dar Charait palace, which has an interesting museum of Tunisian art and costume, as well as a bizarre haunted house, and Ali Baba's treasure cave - you actually had to say "Open Sesame" to enter! Tres tacky.

Next we caught a louage (share taxi) across the Chott El-Jerid, a massive salt lake to Douz, a town at the gateway to the Tunisian Sahara. We'd timed it well, as we had arrived on the last day of the Festival of the Sahara...so we taxied out to the festivities....and spend the afternoon watching marching bands, dance, camel races/fights whilst having our ears pounded by the cacophonous drummer gang seated behind us - after 3 hours of pounding and disharmonious singing we parted the festivities, though it was a couple more hours before I stopped hearing those jolly drums!

We joined up with some fellow Antipodeans in Douz to 4WD into the Sahara....when we set out from Douz, it was, unbelievably, raining and really quite cold...as we began traversing the erg (sand sea), it got colder and wetter still......even the camels had gone into hibernation! We continued across the orange-hued ocean to Ksar Ghillane, an ancient Roman fort that lies near to a hot-spring fed oasis and palmeraie, where we camped for the night, before bumping our way North East to the Ksour. The Ksour is a spectacular stoney landscape with hill-top fortresses separated by sweeping valleys...we stopped to explore: Guermessa, a beautiful but abandoned berber village with breathtaking views across the valleys; Ksar Haddada, a cavernous village which featured in Star Wars; Ksar Hallouf, with its cavernous ghorfas - long vaulted rooms that once stored grains but are sometimes used as houses; and the troglodyte homes of Matmata - these are essentially underground pit homes which stay warm in the winter and cool in the Summer.

3 louages and a boat brought us to Jerba, an island famed as the "Land of the Lotus-Eaters", where Ulysses stopped on his odyssey and is said to have become intoxicated after devouring copious lotus flowers. Jerba was one of the first Arab settlements in Tunisia and has housed many of the Mediterranean's most notorious pirates over the years. We stayed at a funduq in Houmt Souq, the island's main town. A funduq was set up originally as a lodging house for travelling merchants, where the downstairs area had stalls for the camels and sheep, whilst the upper levels were used to house the merchants. Houmt Souq itself, is a charming town of white-washed buildings, courtyards and labyrinthine streets. The souqs are full of clayware, handicrafts, jewellery, clothing, sheesha (water pipes) and carpets, and the vendors are tireless in their efforts to sell their wares to the hapless traveller. On Jerba we walked up to the Borj Ghazi Mustapha (fort) with its charming views over the Med, wandered about the souqs, and hired dodgy gearless bicycles to cycle out to see the flock of flamingoes that wade off the Zone Touristique, in the island's north. We also rode a little into the island's interior in search of the oasis of Cedghiane, with its pomegranate, citrus and olive groves, and its menzels, traditional domed stone houses. We spent NYE in Houmt Souq, though as in Marrakech last year, it was a complete non-event (everyone was at home feasting on their Bon Annee gateaux).

Like Ulysses, we had trouble leaving Jerba, though less to do with our being intoxicated, and more to do with our difficulties in getting a louage ride north. As most of the louages arriving at the taxi park in Houmt Souq were only marked in Arabic, it was difficult for us to figure out which taxi to make a run for, and as there was fierce competition for rides that morning, noone was particularly helpful...we missed two louages because we weren't feisty enough, so by the time louage 3 came around, we, like the locals, fought for our seats and were thankfully successful!

After the quick hop to Gabes, and a train north, we arrived at Sousse, our base for the next few days. Sousse is close to El-Jem, which is home to the 3rd largest Colosseum in the world, and once had a capacity for 30 000 people. El-Jem's colosseum is actually a couple hundred years older than the one in Rome, and similarly was used for gladiatorial battles. The next day we bussed out to Kairouan, Islam's fourth most holy city (after Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem). Kairouan is a beautiful city with its blue, green and white toned medina and its exquisitely ornate mosques. Being Tunisia's most sacred city, it was more conservative that elsewhere we'd been - the women were typically dressed in their winter white hijab which they held together by biting the headscarf in their mouths. It was also here where we saw a seemingly endless flow of sheep being shepherded through town by their master or by truck....little did they know what was in store for them. As part of the Eid al-Adha, the Feast of Sacrifice (which commemorates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son), every Muslim family is expected to slaughter a lamb. Eid al-Adha co-incides with the Hajj, the pilgrimmage to Mecca, the place where Abraham laid the Kaaba (sacred stone). Because of Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son, he is believed by Muslims to be the first true believer in Allah, and therefore is the most important Islamic figure.

From Kairouan we journeyed back to Sousse and then on to Tunis for a last wander about the medina, and a visit to the Bardo museum, a museum which houses a collection of mosaics that once decorated Roman Africa's posh villas. Then we had one last meal of couscous, briqs and lablabi, a tradtional soup, before jetting back to London in the wee hours of the morning - Lufthansa have a dodgy 0355hrs flight out of Tunis!!

Belinda

Rwandarings

05.11.2005 31 °C

After initially postponing my Rwandan escapade in favour of the white waters of the Nile, I finally boarded the bus for the long, winding journey to Kigali - again booked into seat 13.

So after a cracking start in the morning (the taxi driver was early, which is rather odd in East Africa), I jumped aboard the "Executive" coach. Now, normally I'd think of an executive coach being full of stiff suits lapping up the air-conditioned comfort of the reclining chair filled luxury coach whilst listening to acid jazz. But this was Uganda, so the only luxury was the bottled water provided to the passengers and the in-flight (for we were very nearly flying for much of the journey) entertainment - an eclectic blend of East African mega-hits, Kung Fu movies and quality Nigerian soapies, blaring loudly as if proof of the soundsystem's virility.

Still it was a rather pleasant journey; ridiculously speedy (even with the speed governor monitoring the speedometer), but pleasant. My seatmate was a precocious 6 yr old with Michelin-man folds. He gawked at the pictures of gorillas in my book, and took great delight in peeling patches of sunburnt skin from my legs, before deciding to use my shoulder as a pillow and drifting off into cloud-cuckoo land.

So I bid Uganda farewell (sniffles) as the bus wound and rose up into the verdant green terrace-lined hills of the Rwandan countryside, with the misty volcanic Virungas lingering in the distance. Rwanda is one of Africa's most densely populated nations (something like 300/square km), and 90% of its economy relies on (largely subsistence) agriculture, so it is unsurprising that every measly little piece of land seems to be cultivated (mostly tea), and the rivers are chocolate brown from siltation. The snaking road into Rwanda was spectacularly beautiful nonetheless.

About an hour across the Rwandan border, I suddenly noticed scores of children running alongside the bus with stretched-out arms waving furiously at us. Apparently, these kids run after the bus, in the hope that well-intended passengers will throw them food/water/money etc. from the windows...but as the father of my skin-peeling seatmate told me, it's become a big problem as many accidents occur as children frantically run close to passing vehicles...so as our vehicle pulled to a grinding halt on a hair-pin curve, I feared that one such child had been killed. Suddenly, the road was teeming with people who had scrambled up from the nearby village....a young man had been killed as he tandemed down the hill on his friend's bicycle...hit by a passing vehicle...he couldn't have been more than 19...

The rest of the journey to Kigali, Rwanda's capital, was fairly solemn and thankfully uneventful.

Upon arrival in Kigali, I headed straight for the Rwandan Tourist Office to try my luck at getting a permit to track the mountain gorillas in Parc Nacional des Vulcans, on the border with the Democratic (?!) Republic of Congo. Thankfully, they still had 2 permits remaining for 2 days later, so I coughed up the small fee of $US375 (!!!!!!!) to nab my permit to track them. Now for that money, you get to track to (hopefully) see the gorillas, and upon coming into contact with them, you only get to spend an hour with them! Seems crazy no? But it is one of those "once in a lifetime experiences"....and you can't really put a price on that (still it is OUTRAGEOUS, especially considering the local community only see like 25% of that).

So after a quick wander about Kigali (not the most interesting of capitals, I have to say), I boarded a share taxi out to Ruhengiri, the launch town for trips to visit the gorillas. I'd been warned by some fellow backpackers in Kampala, that to actually get up to the national park was going to cost me a nasty whack of $50-60 for the taxi ride (no public transport, so the taxi drivers charge through the roof), so I roamed about Ruhengiri in search of other mzungus who may want to share the cost...but alas, there were none to be found. It seemed I was the only lone traveller without a ride

And so it was, I was up at the crack of dawn to board my ludicrously overpriced taxi up to National Park HQ. Since it was so proposterously expensive, I figured I'd be the first one there to nab my place in tracking the Susa group, the largest family group trackable. So after getting there, showing my permit, bagging my place to see the Susa group, and being briefed about gorilla tracking etiquette ("If you need to sneeze, please turn away" etc.) I got back in the taxi, drove BACK to the town of Ruhengiri (!!k*?p!x!!), and then upwards to the village closest to the Susa group. After a quick wander through the village, we began the 2 hour ascent into the forest - firstly through potato fields, then into a thick bamboo forest, and finally a dense forest carpeted with thistles, stinging nettles and tortuous vines.

Suddenly we were hit by a pungent smell.... a manky melange of body odour and faecal material .....and then the glimpse of a huge brown hairy mass ambling through the nearby scrub. And then after heading 20metres or so downhill, we came into a large clearing, to see the whole family! 40 gorillas together -some lazily reclining on the nettle carpeted floor of the forest, others gnawing on straws of bush celery, others pondering the new age of digital technology, and the younger ones enjoying a bit of rough-and-tumble whilst their elders looked on. Occasionally the gorillas looked over at us, but mostly they seemed rather nonchalant about our presence - I guess it's boring when you see humans every day!! At one point, when we got a little close to one of the newborns, the head silverback (patriach) charged at us - a little scary, considering how ginormous the mountain gorillas are, but most of the time we spent captivated and amused by their antics - fighting, dancing around the vines (like a maypole), and a lot of showing off!

After gorilla tracking, and being chased by screaming children in the village, I headed back to Kigali, and took a boda boda (moto taxi) out to the genocide museum...this museum acts as both a memorial to those who were killed (1/10 of the total population) during the genocide, and an educational centre for people wanting to try and understand a little of what happened... not that it is ever possible for one to fathom why seemingly ordinary people of all ages/gender/background end up slaughtering people they have happily co-existed with for hundreds/thousands of years with machetes....

To give a bit of the history (and I must apologize as this is much truncated)... Rwanda was a Belgian colony...the Belgians favoured the Tutsi minority (firstly, as a minority they were perceived as being easier to control; secondly, they were considered to be more European due to their paler skin and thinner noses) and the country was largely run by a Tutsi government. When independence came about in 1962, a Hutu majority came into power...lots of ensuing probs between Hutus and Tutsis occurred (by the way, Hutus and Tutsis look essentially the same and speak the same language - and in most cases, they are completely indistinguishable)...mass slaughterings of Hutus occurred in the neighbouring Tutsi governed nation of Burundi....massive influxes of refugees from Burundi followed...the Tutsi led Rwandan Patriotic Force (the RPF) invaded from Uganda (led by the current Rwandan President Kagame and fellow refugees who had fled in a previous pogrom)...anti Tutsi sentiment became rife and the government run Radio Television Libre began espousing ethnic cleansing of the Tutsis...the RPF made inroads in Rwanda and eventually the Hutu led government agreed to a multi-party constitution....this pissed a lot of people off...more senseless violence...UN peacekeepers came into the country...both the presidents of Rwanda (Hutu) and Burundi (Tutsi) were killed in the same plane crash on the way back from talks in Tanzania, presumably shot down by Hutu rebels, and then everything just went haywire...the UN fled from Rwanda as things heated up...1/10 of the population were killed...2 million refugees fled into neighbouring countries. Whilst many of the genocidaire (leaders of the genocide) have been tried and imprisoned, many more remain in hiding abroad, whilst others remain in Rwanda...walking down the street, driving taxis, working in shops/hotels/schools.... just like everyday ordinary people.....which is exactly what they were. It's a chilling thought...

After my short time in Rwanda, I bussed back to Kampala for the weekend, and was all set to go back to Kenya, when I met some Canadians at the bar at Backpackers. Mike, Matt and Cathy had gotten a jeep specially kitted out in South Africa, and were half way through their Cape to Cairo journey...turned out they were to be driving west the next day to Kibale National Park... and so I joined them to spend a soggy night in the beautiful rainforest of Kibale National Park (apparently with the greatest primate concentration in East Africa?), before stopping off for a few days on the splendid crater lakes of Western Uganda. Here I paddled a dugout canoe about Lake Nyabikere, chatted with the friendly staff at CVK Resort (I was the only guest there!!!!), listened to the noisy frogs (Nyabikere = lake of frogs), watched the antics of the vervet monkeys by the lakeside, and hiked between Nyabikere and Nkuruba through villages filled with goats, tea plantations, and children asking for pens!

From here it was a post bus (yes, a bus delivering the post about the country) back to Kampala, one last weekend in Kampala, a long journey back to Nairobi (for the tyre started to fall off and what should have been an 11 hour journey on the posh Scandinavian bus service, turned into a shaky 16 hour nightmare!), a day shopping in downtown Nairobi with some Pommies, an overnight train to Mombasa, and a few days on beautiful, beautiful Tiwi beach (topping up the tan!).... before flying back to the UK...

Which is where I am now...in London...saving up for my next holiday!

Bel xox