A Bulgarian history lesson

Today Heather and I did a walking tour of Sofia, capital of Bulgaria. It cost 4 euro each to have possibly the most knowledgeable student in Bulgaria walk us and a Canadian girl around Sofia for 4 hours.

Some interesting information that I previously did not know include:

Bulgaria was aligned with Germany during World War Two, although they never handed over their Jewish population to the Nazis. They also never fought a single battle in the war. Rather their agreement with the Germans was to allow them to pass through Bulgaria to fight the Greek/Turks/Russians. This was not a problem for the British forces because although the Bulgarian King had written a letter to the British Prime Minister outlining his choice to join the Germans, he was a cousin of the King (King George VI - roughly), who had a prior to, or during, World War I changed the last names of the family to Windsor from otherwise Germanic sounding names. Bulgaria made it clear they would never fight for the Germans. In 1943 the US forces bombed Bulgaria, destroying 12,000 baroque and other historical buildings, regardless of the pleas of the Bulgarian government, purely because of the principle of acquiescing to the Nazis.

Bulgaria is one of the most constitutionally religiously tolerant nations in Europe, although the Communist era prevented much display of religious belief (not officially banning it however).

Sofia is built upon a wealth of natural mineral water springs, many hot water fountains around the city supply passers by with hot water, which despite technically being better to cool you down in hot weather, I would prefer a nice cold drink.

The current Government is a coalition of a socialist party (heirs of 'The Party', Minority Turk party and another party whose ideology does not sit very comfortably with either of the other two. Citizens are loathe to pay taxes for fear of Government corruption and poor policy.

Bulgaria was one of the worlds largest producers of AK47's and anti-tank weapons, the market value of a Bulgarian AK47 being 50% greater than a Russian one of the same age.

A year of Law at University costs about 100 euros.

2kg of chinese costs about 10 leva (5 euro) - which we discovered tonight after being warned by the waitress that the servings are BIG.

The rail system is great because the monarch promoted rail development ahead of roads due to a fear of land invasion.

Like much of Persia, Bulgaria has been property of numerous powerful Civilisations throughout history, each making their mark. Although I am most excited about some hiking and camping in Rose Valley, previously the largest producer of Rose Oil until the shift to industry from agriculture during the Communist era.

Many other little tid bits of information were thrown at us today and I should probably do some more reading to cement the lessons from today in my memory. But for now, I am tired and ready for bed....off to Plovdiv tomorrow for some more Bulgarian cultural history.

A Greasy escape and the best bar in Bulgaria

After magnifying every event in London over the past twelve months it feels like I have a hundred pages of exciting adventures to relate. But even these words are stealing time and space from the possbily quite lengthy story which I am about to embark upon.

I said a hurried hungover goodbye to Gini in Barcelona on Saturday morning, a few Sangrias the evening before taking their toll on plans for breakfasts and buses to the airport (extra sleep and a taxi being the result). On Sunday I flew from Barcelona to Gatwick (a brief return to London town) then waited for 4 hours for my connecting flight to Athens and Heather. My flight was slightly delayed and I finally arrived in the historical epicentre of philosophy just before midnight, greeted by a very bronzed lady, whom I later discovered was my darling Heather.

The following day in Athens was a quick yet adequate tour of the historical sights (luckily our hostel was located at the foot of the Acropolis), then a siesta and a tasty steak and 'Mythos' for dinner. The plan for the next few days was starting to evolve - catch a train/bus to Sofia (capital of Bulgaria) and take it from there - detailed planning I know. Our man in the hostel advised us that trains are by far the better choice than buses (Lonely Planet strongly suggesting that both are abysmal and expensive). Without delay we proceeded to train station and discovered that a train to Sofia only costs 30 euro (via Thessaloniki). Six hours of waiting in the station cafe was easily passed with some lonely planet reading, discussions with a dishevelled American and jaunts to buy bottles of water.

Finally we were herded onto our cattle truck of a carriage with a young-ish mother (two kids) and Greek girl. If our tan needed topping up our west-side cabin with roasting sunlight until sunset certainly did the job. The schedule was going to involve an 11pm arrival in Thessaloniki, followed by a 12pm train to Sofia (arriving around 7am). We were running about 30 minutes late, but still felt confident that we would make our connecting train when, virtually seconds before arrival in Thessaloniki, a girl threw herself off the train, committing suicide in the process. We then waited with raging hungers causing patience to shorten as the delay lengthened. About 3 hours later we finally crawled into the station just after 2am. The next train to Sofia departed at 6:16am, so only 4 hours to kill, 30 minutes of which was dispelled with through the consumption of chocolate milk and ham and salad rolls from the 24 hour cafe across the road. The remaining 3 hours before the ticket office opened was spent sleeping on the pavement outside the station, quite a comfortable temperature for it actually.

At 6:16am our train to Sofia, Bulgaria blew it's horn and we pulled out of Thessaloniki, bound for the southern most post-soviet/communist nation and a country I know very little about, except that my Russian studies of the cyrillic alphabet over Winter will come in very handy. I woke briefly a couple of times during the journey to see crumbling ex-state owned industrial sites, vineyards, cornfields, jagged mountains and small stony villages.

We finally arrvived in Sofia around midday, again starving to death, but with some sleep at least under our belts. In a strange sequence of spanish related events a chap who spoke no english, only spanish, asked me out of the blue to translate the broken english from the information desk lady for him. A couple of offices later we finally procured him a ticket to Croatia. Later that day, in a super cheap canteen, the song 'Vamos a la Playa' was playing (this has significant connections to the mountain climbing in Bolivia). Then tonight, the bar we went to was playing lots of Latin American music. Bizzare, more Spanish here than I came across in Barcelona.

Anyway, we chanced our hand at what looked like a good hostel and were pleasantly suprised to find that they barely had room for us (giving us the cheap option of sharing a single bed), but also serve free diner, free breakfast (of eggs and fruit salad among other delights), free internet and provide vast amounts of information.

We have just gotten back from 'the best bar in Bulgaria', according to the lonely planet. The evening was one of those great travel stereotypes, we sat in a smoky bar drinking the local beer discussing Marx and capitalism with a Pennsylvanian artist and his Polish wife. A lovely couple who we will meet again when we reach Prague, and a great start to what feels like will be a fantastically diverse adventure through Bulgaria and Romania (to start with).

There that wasn't too long? So many more little misadventures and experiences to relate, but that is the gist of what has happened thus far. Feeling like the happiest free man alive, take care everyone, but not too much.

Photos from Athens and Barcelona are up - see Photo Gallery links to the right -->

Back in Barca

Almost five years ago to the day I was racing around Barcelona trying to find an apartment, finally finding one with three Argentinians. My memories of Barcelona were very vivid, I spent the first three months looking for a job, finally giving up. In the meantime I spent many hours walking the streets from our 6th floor flat in the southern suburb of Sants-Montjuic to the Rambla in the centre, where the gym was located next door to Sarah's university. There is also the Mercat Boqueria which holds a huge variety of fruits, veg, meats, spices and pickles, in which I spent hours each week picking out the best bargains to supply us with food for another week on my tiny budget (about $30 a week to spend after rent).

Arriving back here was like going back in time, virtually nothing has changed. If I was observant enough to remember the chewing gum spots I'm sure they would all also be identical. The two main changes are the prices, which have jumped since the introduction of the euro - what used to cost AUD$5 now costs 5 euros. But maybe that is pretty close to normal inflation levels anyway.

The other thing that has changed is the eyes with which I am looking at this city now. When I first came here I'd never lived in a big city - Brisbane was the biggest. I didn't know the smells and nuances of big city life and I really didn't like it at all. I missed the cleanliness and orderliness of Australia, where everything is signposted and you always know what is going on.

Five years later and some travel and experience in another heaving capital under my belt and I have a totally different feeling about Barcelona now. The Spaniards have the same personable and genuine approach to life that the South Americans had, something that I think we miss out on in the English speaking world with our veneer of politeness and professionalism that keeps our societies running smoothly. Happy faces everyone.

Barcelona is a beautiful city, with beautiful people and intriguing little 'Carrers' shooting off most streets. The Barri Gotic would take years to explore. And anyone who has read the Shadow of the Wind can imagine the Book Graveyard lurking down a narrow lane behind a small sunken wooden door.

My only complaint about the city is that it has become another one of those Ibiza-type holiday destinations. Holiday makers from Europe and the US flock here over summer to sun bake topless on the beaches and try their luck with the opposite sex in the multitude of clubs that are being promoted constantly, with the aid of the vast quantities of drugs they are trying to sell you as you walk down the Rambla at night. Everyone also speaks English which is another disappointment, a) because I was looking forward to speaking more Spanish and b) because language can be such an effective barrier to keep tedious holiday-makers away.

But Gini's friend Sniper arrives tomorrow and we will say farewell to Western Europe with a night of Sangria fuelled fun at La Oveja Negra, the favourite bar from the old days. And then I am off to Athens on Sunday to finally see Heather. The last night of free internet, so more updates from Athens where I will, in my most Socratic style, have my fist firmly planted on my forehead in deep contemplation of the considered life. Will also try and get some pics up from Barca soon.

Love

I've written posts on economic policy, religion, travel, socialism and sociology, but I have never really discussed an underlying and important concept that runs through everything. Love.

There are several kinds of love. Love for your partner or soul mate, love for your parents, siblings and children, love for your friends and also the more Buddhist and seldom discussed love for your fellow human and the universe in general. An enlightened person (from the Buddhist point of view) is one who deeply feels this love for the universe before any other emotion. My opinion is that this sort of love is the highest attainable goal for all humans and requires years of study and thought to acheive. But the most often sought after love is the love for a partner. And will be the topic of my little 'late night unable to sleep' rant (maybe not the best time to write posts).

It is a fairly common discussion that 'the word love gets thrown around too easily these days'. I have heard this conversation a number of times and I agree wholeheartedly. How often do you see people claiming they are in love before jumping ship at the first sign of inclement weather?

I blame the way our world has become so individualisitic, people choose their partners because there is something in it for them. As soon as love needs to be requited for it to exist and flourish it is nothing more than a self-serving agenda.

When someone tells you they love you it is very hard not to believe them, we all want to be loved and if someone is throwing the L-word at us we will very happily take it. But with the issue of that word being used too flippantly, I think it comes down to not understanding what the price of love is. People suddenly feel these intense emotions and think they can't bear to live without the object of their affections, they burst with professions of love and desire. But when faced with hardship and personal sacrifice they quietly eat their words and pretend that something else was to blame other than their own unripe spirit and selfish perspective.

Love is pain, it is sacrifice, it means swallowing pride and deflating the ego, it means putting oneself second or third or last. It is not a joyride of romance and happiness.

It is the most fullfilling and enriching experience that colours what would otherwise be a monochrome life, but it is not within the reach of those people whose personal ambitions take priority.

The Algerian Escape

What can I say, will this be a rant, a rampage, an hysterical rave, a let off of steam or a sigh of relief? I will describe events and you be the judge.....

12pm Friday midday.
Money on hand: $306US, 20 pounds, 12.50 euro, 1200 dinar (about 13 euro worth).

After finding out before our Sahara tour that the town of Tamanrasset does not allow money to be withdrawn in any way, only exchanged, we had been running a very tight budget of our funds. Having eating some almonds, milk and an old tin of tuna we tried to check out of our hotel. Using an imaginary exhange rate from somewhere in the distant past they quoted our hotel bill at $375 US. A quick flurry of exasperated french and unravelled reciepts from previous bank transactions lowered that figure to $300 US, still $25 above our budget. Off to the airport three hours later for our scheduled 5:45pm flight. At 8:45pm our flight finally left Tamanrasset with some very hungry and irritated Hirst children on board.

On arrival in Algiers, Gini and I left Christian with 300 dinar after we purchased a 400 dinar bag of chips. I was tired and not in the mood for difficulty after the long and unexplained delay in Tamanrasset. An agitated argument ensued, with a group taxi drivers about the price of a 5 minute ride to the hotel we had pre-booked, they claimed ten euro, I insisted it was five. Eventually we settled on 7.50 and we were dropped at the airport at about midnight. Noticing no VISA signs anywhere I enquired whether they accepted cards (as our cash was almost non-existant). A rude 'no' was the answer, but I was told we could go to the bank or the Mercure hotel the following morning to extract money with my card to pay the 6000 dinar bill (about 65 euro).

9am Saturday morning
Money on hand: $6 US, 20 pounds, 5 euro, 600 dinar

Banks are all closed on Saturdays? No. The entire financial system of Algeria shuts down on Fridays and Saturdays. Why? Who the hell knows, I'm guessing some Allah related drivel. Not a single location in the entirity of Algeria would have been capable of making that transaction on my card. How could the hotel have known this? HOW COULD THEY HAVE NOT???

The taxi expenses to discover this, one would think, commonplace piece of information used up our 600 dinar and 5 euro, the remaing money converted into 3000 dinar - half our hotel bill with no way of paying the rest.

After numerous phone calls to embassies, parents, tour agencies, the manager turned up with hand shaking and apologies, although he still cleaned us out by taking our 3000 dinar.

Cash on hand = 0,
possibility of purchasing anything = 0,
last meal = the old tuna and nuts the previous morning
hours until the flight to Barcelona = 6.5
hours until the flight actually left = 9

We arrived in Barcelona at 11pm with no hotel reservation, no money, no idea of whether ATMs where at the airport or if they worked at this time of night (I was not about to start making assumptions about their financial system, I just prayed) and not having eaten for nearly two days.

It appeared at first that no ATMs were in the airport, when at last in the final corner of the airport that we checked we found the glorious machines and withdrew wads of the beautiful stuff, we hopped onto the next bus to Placa Catalunya (my memory of Barcelona coming back to me with vivid deja vu flashbacks) and within minutes of arriving there had checked ourselves into the fanciest hotel we could see. Shortly after some luxurious showers we stuffed ourselves with McDonalds and are now feeling very happy, Gini is sound asleep and I am letting loose onto the free internet here the tension of the last couple of days of being totally at the mercy of fate.
Never have I felt so powerless to influence a situation, the worst part being that Gini had to suffer through it with a brave face (sleeping mainly from the lack of energy to do anything else). I could probably have gone another night without food sleeping at the airport and hitching into town or something, but I was most anxious because I didn't want the ordeal to drag on much longer for her.

But we are here, spirits are soaring as the energy and excitment of this town takes hold of us, beaching, sight seeing (and I might try a sneaky gym session if I'm lucky).

Adios, estoy hablando español una vez mas!!

Life and death in the Sahara

The first memory I have of life is my third birthday on a cherry farm in England, it is also my only memory of my uncle, Simon Dunn. My uncle was a classical adventurer - his motorbike taking him through many countries, including South America and the Antarctic.

Twenty two years ago, almost exactly to the day, my uncle took a wrong turn on his motorbike while riding from Dhanet to Tamanrasset. The track (known as pistes) disappeared and he ran out of petrol while trying to make his way back. For four days he recorded in his diary his efforts to preserve water, search for signs of human life and finally his acceptance of his fate. One of the last entries in his diary is a phrase that now has a place in our family as the model of calm acceptance of the inevitable - "It's time to die now I suppose". He was 27 years old.

Three days later his body was found by Tuareg nomads and he was buried by Brother Antoine in Tamanrasset. My mum had never had the chance to say farewell to her little brother.

Brother Antoine and the Petites Soeurs de Sacre Coeur have tended his grave since his burial and we were shown his resting place, his grave netsled among other adventurers sharing similar fates as his.

Together as a family we said goodbye to Simon.

I think the fact that his death required a journey that brought us to this little known part of the world would have made him happy, I also think that he would have pleased to see his spirit of adventure carried on through his nephews and nieces.

The desert is a very quiet and still place, the relentless sun and dry wind finally gives way to cool starry nights.

Towering chiselled cliffs, sparse struggling trees, rocky endless landscapes. One can imagine nothing at all changing here for thousands of years.

London - Bury - Algiers - Tamanrasset

Here I am, back in an internet cafe forcing out words on a keyboard designed for people who speak Arabic and use a jackhammer on each key. We (Christian, Gini and I) have just had an emotional farewell with our parents and are now seeking comfort on the web, as our generation tends to do. So let me recap the past action packed week as concisely and vividly as my already melting brain will allow.

After a night at the Walkabout to farewell London I had to make a visit to the Algerian embassy in a bid to get my visa in time for our flight out on Monday. With Lucas helping me carry most of my remaining worldly belongings through Gloucester Road, we found it. After some umming and erring they conceded that the passport had been lost. I suggested they stamp my Aussie passport (thank goodness for dual passports once more), and half an hour later I was farewelling Lucas on the tube at Piccadilly Circus. Four hours later I arrived at Great Green for G's suprise 80th birthday party.

See pictures from the two day extravaganza.

On Monday afternoon Gini, Christian and I were due to fly out from London Stansted. All the concerns centred around my pack weight, extra carry on luggage and no evidence of legally being allowed to be in or depart the UK. This concern soon turned to terror, but with respect to Christian's predicament rather than my own. It appears as though it was assumed that Christian's booking was made with Gini's, the single seat booked had elluded the double checking scrutiny of the two of them and Mum for a couple of months. So Christian was sent home to Bury again but managed to score a seat on Mum and Dad's flight to Algiers the following day, another stroke of luck overcoming another barrier to this trip.

So Gini and I flew via Barcelona and arrived in Algiers around 2am Tuesday morning, shortly afterwards being sound asleep in our hotel after safely negotiating the first real test of my French for a while.

The other three arrived the following afternoon and we proceeded to be taken for a ride by the most 'generous' and flattering restauranteur in Northern Africa. After he advised that he did serve bowls of cous-cous (which Mum was in search of), he then said he was out of cous-cous but had P...... Now we thought Paella was a bit far fetched from a request for cous-cous and figured he had said Pilau. When the big container of thoroughly old and seedy looking eel, prawns and lamb was emptied, we thought 'ha some suckers are going to get ill'. Our plastic table was suddenly adorned with table cloth, place mats, napkins etc (the only table to have this). Our host then gave us a big salad 'on the house' and offered to take us to the Kasbah the following morning and then to his holiday home on the eastern coast.

Then came the 'Paella Royale' - eel, prawns, fish; mussels, chicken, lamb and some veg and rice. We all resisted the urge to vomit knowing that very dodgy prawns and the eel with serious rigamortis was in there somewhere. But we forced down what we could and then were served dessert (on the house of course). The price tag, we discovered, to accompany such a feast would have made the snootiest waiter at Harrods blush. We walked home tail between our legs for having been robbed blind and waiting for the bacteria to wreak havoc with our innards. Luckily there were no after effects from the meal.

The next day we flew out of the Algerian domestic airport on a rusty winged old boeing, if I were a nervous man I'd have been sweating a bit. The view of the Sahara as we descended to Tamanrasset was like Mars (or my memory of the last time I visited Mars). Great waves of mountainous sand dunes with jagged peaks gave way to a chopping board like terrain, and finally the Hoggar Range that we are departing for tomorrow.

We were greeted by Affaoui Mohamed in his full jalaba and head gear - which he seldom removes, he and his family have been kind and generous, accomodating our broken French and feeding us at their home yesterday. The more French that I remember the less it seems they speak here, Arabic being the first language. There is much more I want to write about the people and lifestyle, but these keyboards are a challenge all of their own. I'll just leave descriptions at - it is hot, dry and very Muslim. Pictures are up.

The actual purpose of our trip to the desert will be explained in my next post.

Farewell

With only 30 minutes before it is time to leave for the airport, I thought it was time to write the final post from England (and find out my flight booking reference number).

Before I start - new photos in the gallery:

The Final Nights
Hirst Family reunion

What can I say? After all that I have said over the past 11 months that we have been here - it doesn't feel like 11 months, more like 11 years. Every month has had its own character, its own characters, like an epoch ending and beginning every 30 days or so.

There is so much more I could say, remenisce about all the adventures that have been had, all the people that I've met and that have added colour and intrigue to the life in London.

I was planning on writing a long-ish post, mentioning every person that has meant something to me and has made a difference to my time in London, and accordingly my life in general. But this blog is not about getting bogged down in one place, dwelling on all that happened there, I'll get around to that in due course. This is a record of an adventure, a window into what I am seeing and feeling. And at the moment I feeling many things, but the over riding emotion is one that I don't have a name for, but I'll try and illustrate it.

The thought of venturing into parts unknown through Iran and Afghanistan and beyond will be a difficult, challenging, enlightening experience, but the thought of doing it without my trusty companion by my side just doesn't give it the same lustre. It is even with a heavy heart that I embark on this next venture because I don't have Lucas here to share it with - it just doesn't feel right. Let me qualify that by saying that I am travelling with my family for the first month then Heather for the second month, and I am looking forward to both these trips immeasurably - but the challenge will be faced after those trips and that is where a part of my mind is dwelling and preparing itself for, that is where Lucas is the only person capable of going through hell when the time comes and still come out with a big smile and that euphoric conquering feeling.

I could ramble like this for ages, but that is not really my style. Just wanted to say thanks mate. And I really mean that, a very serious honest thanks. I couldn't have done any of what we've achieved without you - you've taught me a huge amount about myself, the world and other people and I am a better person for having had the chance to be inside each others heads for so long. I won't say good luck, you won't need it, I'll need it all because I am so carelessly unprepared, so send some this way.

Take care buddy, I'll miss you.

Hasta luego amigo