Hello, my name's Australis, and I'm a science geek. Well, kinda.
At high school, I was an A or B student in almost everything. English, maths, geography, history, German, French, IT. Everything except science. I liked it - I just wasn't all that good at it... Ok, I was terrible at it. Despite my father being a chemical engineer and both of his parents scientists or science teachers, I just couldn't get my head around the theory of it. I liked learning about the origins of the chemical symbols (I guess that's the linguist in me - I still remember that the chemical symbol for lead is Pb because the Latin term is "plumbum"). I found genetics and the human body fascinating in biology. I enjoyed learning about the practical effects and application of the laws of physics. I just never got the grades for it, and eventually dropped science at the end of year 9 after getting horrible grades two years running, despite my best efforts.
As a child though, many weekends and school holidays were spent in the company of my paternal grandmother at various museums in Melbourne. The Museum of Victoria was my favourite. I still remember walking around in the darkened minerals exhibit as a seven- and eight-year-old, awestruck by the black-lit glow of various precious and semi-precious stones, and looking at all kinds of skeletons and geological exhibits. That is, until the mid 90s when Scienceworks opened.
Scienceworks was my absolute favourite place to go in Melbourne as a kid. I think even my grandmother got sick of taking me there at one point. Every school holidays for as long as I could remember, we'd drive across the Westgate Bridge in their blue Honda to Spotswood, and spend the afternoon playing with the pulley exhibits, figuring out spinning pictures, learning about aerodynamics, space exploration, our galaxy and a whole host of other activities. Occasionally we'd go into the Planetarium in the city; sitting there underneath the dome, watching the constellations zoom across the screen above us, then being taken on a guided tour of the solar system and beyond into the rest of our galaxy entranced me. To this day, I remain in love with astronomy. I therefore amend my previous statement: I'm a science geek, with a major in astronomy.
Going to those museums as a child though, I remember seeing that some of the exhibits had plaques next to them, acknowledging their temporary status due to them being on loan from somewhere called Smithsonian. Over the years, this name, "Smithsonian", kept coming up - not just at museums in Melbourne or even Australia, but in the natural history museums I visited overseas, and in all kinds of books: this or that was on loan from the Smithsonian, or on display in the Smithsonian. This "Smithsonian" place attained a status with me as the holy grail of museums, and it was never a question of whether or not I would go there, but when.
So when I ventured to the States for the first time to meet up with my sister and her boyfriend in New York for a few days in July 2010, it was a given that I would go to Washington D.C., with the goal of finally visiting the hallowed halls of the Smithsonian Museum - where apparently everything of any value in natural history was stored. The Apollo shuttle. The Hope Diamond. And much more.
I was like a kid on her first day of school. The alarm went off at 5.30am; by 7am, I was on a train pulling slowly out of Penn station. Four hours later, I arrived in DC. First stop was a tourist information stand, where I found out to my surprise that the Smithsonian wasn't a museum. It was a complex of museums, known as the Smithsonian Institute, comprising natural history, art, scuplture, Native American and African American museums, to name just a few. And the holy grail of holy grails for me - the National Air and Space Museum (NASM). First was a brief bus tour of the city, then I hightailed it for the NASM.
I remember exactly how I felt when I first walked through those hallowed (to me, anyway) doors. Absolute amazement. No, that's not expressive enough. I was dumbstruck. Literally speechless. And completely overwhelmed. I could not stop smiling in awe and disbelief at what I saw before me. The silver-haired man behind the information desk was watching me with a small smile - I had stopped in my tracks about ten metres into the lobby, and was simply staring up at the rockets, shuttles and planes hanging from the ceiling high above me and at the photographs of planets and constellations adorning the walls, oblivious to the hordes of people swarming around me.
Eventually I broke out of my trance and approached the man at the information desk to find out exactly what was on display here. He told me about some of the best exhibits, some of the most popular displays, and his personal favourite, the Ole Miss. Then he pointed out the Apollo 11 lunar module and the landing capsule about 100m away. I grinned, giddy with disbelief and excitement, and he smiled back at me, enjoying my first-timer's reaction to the museum. Like I said, I'm an astronomy geek. And I was in astronomy geek heaven.
Suffice to say the two hour time bracket I'd allocated was never going to be sufficient. I think I had known that even before I got to DC. Sure, I could see everything I wanted to see, but in a whirlwind, not stopping at one display for more than a few minutes before moving onto the next, the time ticking away in the back of my mind. It was very different to how I had imagined my Smithsonian experience - spending an entire day there, or a few hours one day, then a few more the next, absorbing the history, the trivia, the scientific discoveries of the past, present and future. But I would much rather have had two hours there than nothing at all. And those two hours - wow.
The temptation to stay longer was enormous, but while I was enraptured with the NASM and everything in it, I was also in DC, which had a lot more to offer than just the NASM. So after two hours, I reluctantly made my way back to the lobby, bought a souvenir patch, thanked my good friend at the information stand for his tips, and ventured back out into the 37°C heat of the DC summer. The same day, I managed to cram in the Natural History Museum and a few others - not half as much as I wanted to, but an incredible lot, considering I was only in DC for a total of nine hours.
Three months later, on a Saturday afternoon in Berlin, I heard that the German Natural History Museum was commemorating its 200th anniversary with free entrance for a weekend. I'd wanted to go for ages, but a combination of time availability and wanting to explore Berlin's free museums first had put it far down on my priorities. But since it was free, how could I refuse?
After about twenty minutes though, my initial curiosity and wonder customary to a first-time visit to a museum was replaced with a strange feeling. While interesting, all of the displays and artefacts seemed somewhat lacklustre, as if somehow the entire museum had been painted in a matte finish. Everything was interesting, but that's where it ended. Not mesmerising, not fascinating, not enthralling. Just...interesting. And mildly disappointing. The astronomy display was where I noticed it the most. It seemed so small, as if half the exhibits had been removed for cleaning or restoration. And the exhibits that were there appeared to have lost their glow - as if a thin veil had been lowered over everything.
Then I noticed a small sign on one of the displays of moon rocks. "On loan from the NASM, Smithsonian Institute. Washington DC."
The penny dropped. That's why everything was different. This was the first museum I'd visited since I'd experienced the Smithsonian Institute. And the effect was phenomenal. The visit to my holy grail of museums had apparently forever changed the way I would experience museums as a visitor. The aura was gone. The almost childlike curiosity I used to get when I walked into the foyer of a museum, the excitement at being on the brink of learning unknown facts about long extinct animals, geographical phenomena and stars and planets that no living human will ever reach had been extinguished. The standard of exhibits, especially in the space exhibits, had been set so high that it was completely out of reach for any other museum.
This revelation made me sad. Fulfilling my childhood mission of visiting the hallowed Smithsonian, land of all that is sacred and most important in the area of Natural History and Astronomy (in my eyes, at least) had simultaneously apparently forever destroyed my future museum experiences.
I'm not sure if this is something that can be worked around; if now that I know that I'll never get that Smithsonian feeling anywhere except DC will enable me to lower my standards and enjoy other cities' natural history museums for what they are. I'm not sure. I guess only time will tell. In the meantime, I can be forever happy knowing that I have made the pilgrimage to the Smithsonian; that I have seen the landing module that Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins landed on the moon in, and the landing capsule that brought them safely back to Earth again, both first hand, and that the two hours spent there were worth every single second of the eight hour return train trip from DC to NYC.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Berlin to Newcastle... via Paris... and Amsterdam... (or "Why I Hate Charles de Gaulle Airport")
I've been on a few flights. Around Australia, across and within Europe, to the States, and let's not forget the 24hr odyssey between Australia and Europe via Asia a couple of times. Fifteen at last count. That's a few. But somehow I have never found myself in the unfortunate situation of missing a flight. Lost luggage? Definitely. Had delays and stopovers lasting hour after hour in all kinds of airports with expensive food, stale air, smelly co-travellers, uncomfortable seats and little or nothing to do? More times than I care to remember.
But never missed a flight. Came close in Vienna a couple of years ago; fell asleep at the gate, but fortunately Austrian Airlines don't leave checked-in passengers behind, and chose instead to mangle my name over the PA and give me five minutes to get my act together.
Made up for all of those years of good fortune a few weekends ago. One of my best friends lives in Newcastle, England, and I don't get to see her nearly often enough, so when I got a few unexpected days off work, I researched flights. There are no direct flights between Newcastle and Berlin. Last time, I flew to Edinburgh with RyanAir and got the train down. That was the first time I'd flown with RyanAir, and god I hope it's the last. The alternative? AirFrance + KLM, via Paris on the way there, Amsterdam on the way back. Done. I just wouldn't check any luggage (experience with AirFrance taught me that the hard way).
First flight, Berlin to Paris. Slight delay, but I figured if I can make it from David Jones to K-Mart in ten minutes in Boxing Day crowds at Chaddy, I could make a one hour connection at Charles de Gaulle.
Or not. The problem wasn't the spaghetti junction of gates and corridors and confusing signs. The problem was getting through customs in under half an hour. Showing the obnoxious guard at the entrance to customs my boarding pass for a flight departing in less than thirty minutes from a gate I still was yet to locate didn't help an iota. Actually, it had exactly the opposite effect. He reinforced my steadfast belief that France would be a fantastic country if it weren't for the French. He refused to let me through the express lane, designed exactly for passengers in my situation, instead demanding that I join the back of the queue; he seemed to be enjoying my rising stress levels as the departure time ticked closer. Sadistic bugger.
Got through eventually, ran another ten minutes to the gate, and made it five minutes before departure. I could see people still walking down the gangway to the plane. Exhale. Sweet. Made it.
Spoke too soon. An AirFrance employee, who seemed to find just as much pleasure in my misfortune as the customs guy had, told me "Ze flight 'as left." Excuse me? "Ze flight 'as left." No, I understood you the first time. But how have I missed the flight if the plane is still at the gate and passengers are still boarding? All this guy had to do was to scan my boarding pass and let me through. Problem solved.
No such luck. The next flight? In an hour, and already full. His solution? A five Euro food voucher that might get me a small dishwatery coffee if I was lucky, and a connection to Newcastle... via Amsterdam. In five hours. And all of this with the trace of a smile. Sadistic bugger. I'm sure the etymology of "Schadenfreude" can be traced back to French somehow.
Five hours later, I'm at the gate, ready to get on the flight to Amsterdam, right on time. Bored out of my mind, sick of hearing Français, and desperate for some actual coffee and decent food, but right on time. Well, I'm on time. The flight's not. A forty minute delay. My connection time in Amsterdam? Ninety minutes. Oh yay. Let's hope Schiphol Airport isn't as much of a mess as Charles de Gaulle, and that it's not remotely interesting, because I'm going to have to run through it.
Left Paris, flew to Amsterdam. Sure enough, the ninety minute connection became forty minutes, and I legged it through Schiphol. Fortunately the Dutch seem to have more in common with the Germans than the French when it comes to airport design; Schiphol airport is not only more organised, but better signposted. Security was shorter, travelators were used exclusively by courteous fellow travellers who either walk or move aside, Dutch security is less anal than French, and I was actually permitted to use the express lane at customs for the purpose for which it was implemented. I felt like I'd just run a marathon as I took off various metal items to go through security at the gate, but I made the flight. Two hours later, I was in Newcastle, and had an absolutely fantastic four days with Squishy and co. in the English sunshine.
What I didn't know at the time... that was just the preview. Believe it or not, my Charles de Gaulle experience was nothing compared to the return trip four days later. Stay tuned...
But never missed a flight. Came close in Vienna a couple of years ago; fell asleep at the gate, but fortunately Austrian Airlines don't leave checked-in passengers behind, and chose instead to mangle my name over the PA and give me five minutes to get my act together.
Made up for all of those years of good fortune a few weekends ago. One of my best friends lives in Newcastle, England, and I don't get to see her nearly often enough, so when I got a few unexpected days off work, I researched flights. There are no direct flights between Newcastle and Berlin. Last time, I flew to Edinburgh with RyanAir and got the train down. That was the first time I'd flown with RyanAir, and god I hope it's the last. The alternative? AirFrance + KLM, via Paris on the way there, Amsterdam on the way back. Done. I just wouldn't check any luggage (experience with AirFrance taught me that the hard way).
First flight, Berlin to Paris. Slight delay, but I figured if I can make it from David Jones to K-Mart in ten minutes in Boxing Day crowds at Chaddy, I could make a one hour connection at Charles de Gaulle.
Or not. The problem wasn't the spaghetti junction of gates and corridors and confusing signs. The problem was getting through customs in under half an hour. Showing the obnoxious guard at the entrance to customs my boarding pass for a flight departing in less than thirty minutes from a gate I still was yet to locate didn't help an iota. Actually, it had exactly the opposite effect. He reinforced my steadfast belief that France would be a fantastic country if it weren't for the French. He refused to let me through the express lane, designed exactly for passengers in my situation, instead demanding that I join the back of the queue; he seemed to be enjoying my rising stress levels as the departure time ticked closer. Sadistic bugger.
Got through eventually, ran another ten minutes to the gate, and made it five minutes before departure. I could see people still walking down the gangway to the plane. Exhale. Sweet. Made it.
Spoke too soon. An AirFrance employee, who seemed to find just as much pleasure in my misfortune as the customs guy had, told me "Ze flight 'as left." Excuse me? "Ze flight 'as left." No, I understood you the first time. But how have I missed the flight if the plane is still at the gate and passengers are still boarding? All this guy had to do was to scan my boarding pass and let me through. Problem solved.
No such luck. The next flight? In an hour, and already full. His solution? A five Euro food voucher that might get me a small dishwatery coffee if I was lucky, and a connection to Newcastle... via Amsterdam. In five hours. And all of this with the trace of a smile. Sadistic bugger. I'm sure the etymology of "Schadenfreude" can be traced back to French somehow.
Five hours later, I'm at the gate, ready to get on the flight to Amsterdam, right on time. Bored out of my mind, sick of hearing Français, and desperate for some actual coffee and decent food, but right on time. Well, I'm on time. The flight's not. A forty minute delay. My connection time in Amsterdam? Ninety minutes. Oh yay. Let's hope Schiphol Airport isn't as much of a mess as Charles de Gaulle, and that it's not remotely interesting, because I'm going to have to run through it.
Left Paris, flew to Amsterdam. Sure enough, the ninety minute connection became forty minutes, and I legged it through Schiphol. Fortunately the Dutch seem to have more in common with the Germans than the French when it comes to airport design; Schiphol airport is not only more organised, but better signposted. Security was shorter, travelators were used exclusively by courteous fellow travellers who either walk or move aside, Dutch security is less anal than French, and I was actually permitted to use the express lane at customs for the purpose for which it was implemented. I felt like I'd just run a marathon as I took off various metal items to go through security at the gate, but I made the flight. Two hours later, I was in Newcastle, and had an absolutely fantastic four days with Squishy and co. in the English sunshine.
What I didn't know at the time... that was just the preview. Believe it or not, my Charles de Gaulle experience was nothing compared to the return trip four days later. Stay tuned...
Notes From The Road: Wooden shacks and silver castles
31st of March, 2010. Gjirokaster, southern Albania.
Right now from where I'm sitting astride the high stone wall of Kalaja e Gjirokastrës (Gjirokaster Castle), my view is nothing short of spectacular. I'm looking north along the wide Drino river valley hundreds of metres below me, the sun is slowly descending behind the Gjerë mountains to my left and is casting a golden glow over the snow-covered mountain peaks to my right on the opposite side of the valley.
Somewhere off in the distance, cowbells are clanging, sheep are bleating, and a group of children are laughing and calling to one another on their way home. A little further down the hillside, a plume of smoke is rising from a wooden shack, and if I closed my eyes, I would swear that I was standing outside the restaurant I was at in Tirana a few nights ago - whatever is being cooked on that open wood fire smells absolutely divine.
A spectacular view.
Gjirokaster is small - a lot smaller than I expected. Well, that's not entirely true. I hardly expected a thriving metropolis in the quiet hills of southern Albania. One feature that cannot be disputed is its unique topography.
While the tourists come for the picturesque old town, the majority of the 43,000 inhabitants live downtown in the modern lower area. In Gjirokaster, going downtown literally means travelling a good few kilometres down. The city is built into the steep sloping valley wall, and the old town is not only significantly smaller than the newer part, but also about 200 metres higher. The bitumen streets leading up from the petrol stations, schools and supermarkets of modern Gjirokaster are relatively flat for the first 100m in from the main highway running along the river, but the further you venture, the steeper the streets become, and the next few kilometres are uphill all the way, the gradient nearing 40degrees at times, until the bitumen turns to cobblestone and you reach the grey slate buildings of UNESCO World Heritage listed Gjirokaster. Here, rather than continue straight up the slope, most of the streets follow the contours of the mountain like waves, gently rising and falling every fifty or so metres. The only way you can continue your journey up the mountainside is on foot, using the steep old stone staircases, or by winding around for a kilometre in one direction, slowing to a crawl for a hairpin turn, then doubling back on yourself on a road running parallel to the first but about ten metres higher.
I very quickly realised that the 2EUR for the fifteen minute taxi ride to my hostel in the old town was definitely a good investment. In most places, especially smaller towns and villages, I rely on my feet to get me around, but the topography of Gjirokaster doesn't exactly lend itself to exploring the town on foot. I'd considered wandering down through the streets to the lower part earlier this evening, but since I only have one night here, I instead chose to stay up here in the ancient Minas Tirith-esque grey cobblestone old town and just enjoy the view.
Settlement in Gjirokaster has been traced back to ancient Greece - the name Gjirokaster comes from the Greek argyro (silver) and kastro (castle) - but there's nothing left now of anything from that time. The oldest remnants of Gjirokaster's history are the city walls I'm sitting on, which date back to the 3rd century AD. The majority of the old town isn't actually all that old, having been constructed in the 17th and 18th centuries when the area was under Ottoman rule - its status as a "rare example of a well-preserved Ottoman town" is what earned its UNESCO recognition in 2005.
Although I don't like to think about it, there's only one more stop left on this trip before I go back to Skopje to catch the flight north to Germany, which means leaving these quaint stone towns and the rural atmosphere behind until I next venture into the Balkans.
This trip has been so different to the other two though - to my Magical Mystery Tour around the Balkans in July and August 2007, and the Estonia/Latvia trip for Easter 2009. Maybe it's because Albania's tourism industry is relatively underdeveloped, in comparison to the rest of the Balkans, and especially in comparison to the rest of Europe. Maybe it's because travelling in off-season means I've had private rooms or the only occupied bunk in an entire hostel, and the owners at my beck and call, for most of the trip. Or maybe it's because Albania, unlike many of the other Balkan countries, was never part of Yugoslavia: Albania remained an ally of the USSR, but retained its independence. I don't know.
What I do know is that I absolutely love this country. I could quite happily spend another few weeks travelling around here - and would, if I didn't have this pesky thing called "work" calling me back to Berlin. In its own way, Albania is so incredibly beautiful. Maybe in the north it's different, but the south at least, Albania seems like it may be the Balkans as it once was, or even the Adriatic Coast as it once was - a few hotels here and there in the larger towns, but for the most part small fishing villages every few kilometres along white sandy beaches; further inland, jagged mountain peaks, sweeping valleys and isolated shacks dotted along the winding roads. As I said, I would love to accidentally on purpose forget about my flight home and roam around here awhile longer.
But watching Albania and its people and landscape from the window of a bus, or listening to roosters crow, sheep bleat and cowbells clang from up here on the fortress wall, I can't help thinking that while it's a beautiful country, I'm amazed that a country like Albania can still exist within the borders of today's Europe.
Life here must be so incredibly hard. I can see it on the faces of the people who live here. The people I see walking down the street, the men and women in the shops and marketplaces. The kids riding around dusty villages and along dirty littered city back lanes, stains all over their worn hand-me-down clothes, looking at me and my camera like I'm from outer space. Although being a female who most definitely is neither local nor married tends to raise some eyebrows around here anyway.
I've spoken to a couple of locals here in the last few days - Burim the young bus driver in Prizren whose German was better than his English, Miri the student from Korca who insisted he pay for my bus fare in Tirana and accompany me to within sight of the cable car station I was looking for, the taxi driver in Tirana who lived in London for a few years to earn money to send back to his family here, and the guide in the bus down from Tirana whose name I still can't remember who redefined hospitality. Coincidentally, all males. The majority of locals on the streets in Albania are males, or females in the company of males. From what I've read and been told, this is apparently partly due to the dominance of Islam in Albania. Either way, it makes me stand out like a sore thumb.
But aside from that, all of them told me a very similar story. Every single one of them was either working as many hours as they could physically handle in whatever job they had managed to find to get themselves and their family out of Albania, had worked outside Albania for several years and sent money back to their families, or like Burim, were dreaming of leaving Albania to follow their families who had already managed to leave, but unfortunately were themselves years of work away from getting their hands on the paperwork they needed to join them, much less the money to pay for the travel.
Writing that and rereading it, I realise how strange it sounds - to say that life in Albania is hard, when the two books I've read on this trip are set in much more challenging conditions. One is "The Poisonwood Bible", set in the Congolese jungle in the 1950s, the other is "A Thousand Splendid Suns", set in 1960s Kabul.
I think the difference here is that both of those locations - Congo and Afghanistan - are almost synonymous with some of the most horrible living conditions you could think of. Poverty. Famine. Civil war. Drought.
Albania's not quite in the same league as Africa or Afghanistan, but it's definitely well below the living standards you'd expect from most countries in Europe. Ramshackle houses, grotty little kids roaming the streets and toothless old men and women selling their wares in the marketplaces are something you could well expect to be confronted with in various African countries. It goes with the territory.
You don't expect to see that in Europe. If I turn around and look south from my vantage point on the citadel wall, about twenty kilometres in the distance is the Greek border. Greece - a member of the EU, of the Eurozone, of Schengen. If I turn to look directly west into the Gjerë mountains, my back to the valley, the other side of those mountains is the Adriatic Coast; 60km west of the Albanian beach is the south-eastern tip of the Italian mainland. EU. Eurozone. Schengen.
Travelling around the country, every so often I feel so sad that living conditions like this exist within the borders of the European Union. And every single time, I wish there was something I could do - anything - to help these people and their country. But short of what I'm already doing in supporting their local tourist industry and enthusiastically recommending other like-minded backpackers or explorers to do the same, there's not a whole lot I can do.
Apparently Albania applied for EU membership last year. Travelling around here, I can't envisage that happening in the next ten years. Maybe one day though.
And here's where I pass the baton to you. Take the plunge and venture to somewhere off the beaten track. France and Spain and Portugal are always going to be there. Scandinavia and Austria and Italy won't change all that dramatically in the next ten years. But Albania - I don't know how long this sense of having travelled back in time will linger once it gets out that Albania is worth the adventure. So don't just take my word for it. If you're in Europe and are even mildly interested in seeing first-hand what I've just described, including the magnificent view from up here on the stone wall of Kalaja e Gjirokastrës, explore the Balkans on your next holiday. Albania. Bosnia. Macedonia. Ok, Croatia and Slovenia if you're not quite as adventurous and insatiably curious as me. But go there, and go soon. Explore, relax, escape. Support the local tourism industry, spread the word, and help the Albanian and Balkan economies get on their feet.
Right now from where I'm sitting astride the high stone wall of Kalaja e Gjirokastrës (Gjirokaster Castle), my view is nothing short of spectacular. I'm looking north along the wide Drino river valley hundreds of metres below me, the sun is slowly descending behind the Gjerë mountains to my left and is casting a golden glow over the snow-covered mountain peaks to my right on the opposite side of the valley.
Somewhere off in the distance, cowbells are clanging, sheep are bleating, and a group of children are laughing and calling to one another on their way home. A little further down the hillside, a plume of smoke is rising from a wooden shack, and if I closed my eyes, I would swear that I was standing outside the restaurant I was at in Tirana a few nights ago - whatever is being cooked on that open wood fire smells absolutely divine.
A spectacular view.
Gjirokaster is small - a lot smaller than I expected. Well, that's not entirely true. I hardly expected a thriving metropolis in the quiet hills of southern Albania. One feature that cannot be disputed is its unique topography.
While the tourists come for the picturesque old town, the majority of the 43,000 inhabitants live downtown in the modern lower area. In Gjirokaster, going downtown literally means travelling a good few kilometres down. The city is built into the steep sloping valley wall, and the old town is not only significantly smaller than the newer part, but also about 200 metres higher. The bitumen streets leading up from the petrol stations, schools and supermarkets of modern Gjirokaster are relatively flat for the first 100m in from the main highway running along the river, but the further you venture, the steeper the streets become, and the next few kilometres are uphill all the way, the gradient nearing 40degrees at times, until the bitumen turns to cobblestone and you reach the grey slate buildings of UNESCO World Heritage listed Gjirokaster. Here, rather than continue straight up the slope, most of the streets follow the contours of the mountain like waves, gently rising and falling every fifty or so metres. The only way you can continue your journey up the mountainside is on foot, using the steep old stone staircases, or by winding around for a kilometre in one direction, slowing to a crawl for a hairpin turn, then doubling back on yourself on a road running parallel to the first but about ten metres higher.
I very quickly realised that the 2EUR for the fifteen minute taxi ride to my hostel in the old town was definitely a good investment. In most places, especially smaller towns and villages, I rely on my feet to get me around, but the topography of Gjirokaster doesn't exactly lend itself to exploring the town on foot. I'd considered wandering down through the streets to the lower part earlier this evening, but since I only have one night here, I instead chose to stay up here in the ancient Minas Tirith-esque grey cobblestone old town and just enjoy the view.
Settlement in Gjirokaster has been traced back to ancient Greece - the name Gjirokaster comes from the Greek argyro (silver) and kastro (castle) - but there's nothing left now of anything from that time. The oldest remnants of Gjirokaster's history are the city walls I'm sitting on, which date back to the 3rd century AD. The majority of the old town isn't actually all that old, having been constructed in the 17th and 18th centuries when the area was under Ottoman rule - its status as a "rare example of a well-preserved Ottoman town" is what earned its UNESCO recognition in 2005.
Although I don't like to think about it, there's only one more stop left on this trip before I go back to Skopje to catch the flight north to Germany, which means leaving these quaint stone towns and the rural atmosphere behind until I next venture into the Balkans.
This trip has been so different to the other two though - to my Magical Mystery Tour around the Balkans in July and August 2007, and the Estonia/Latvia trip for Easter 2009. Maybe it's because Albania's tourism industry is relatively underdeveloped, in comparison to the rest of the Balkans, and especially in comparison to the rest of Europe. Maybe it's because travelling in off-season means I've had private rooms or the only occupied bunk in an entire hostel, and the owners at my beck and call, for most of the trip. Or maybe it's because Albania, unlike many of the other Balkan countries, was never part of Yugoslavia: Albania remained an ally of the USSR, but retained its independence. I don't know.
What I do know is that I absolutely love this country. I could quite happily spend another few weeks travelling around here - and would, if I didn't have this pesky thing called "work" calling me back to Berlin. In its own way, Albania is so incredibly beautiful. Maybe in the north it's different, but the south at least, Albania seems like it may be the Balkans as it once was, or even the Adriatic Coast as it once was - a few hotels here and there in the larger towns, but for the most part small fishing villages every few kilometres along white sandy beaches; further inland, jagged mountain peaks, sweeping valleys and isolated shacks dotted along the winding roads. As I said, I would love to accidentally on purpose forget about my flight home and roam around here awhile longer.
But watching Albania and its people and landscape from the window of a bus, or listening to roosters crow, sheep bleat and cowbells clang from up here on the fortress wall, I can't help thinking that while it's a beautiful country, I'm amazed that a country like Albania can still exist within the borders of today's Europe.
Life here must be so incredibly hard. I can see it on the faces of the people who live here. The people I see walking down the street, the men and women in the shops and marketplaces. The kids riding around dusty villages and along dirty littered city back lanes, stains all over their worn hand-me-down clothes, looking at me and my camera like I'm from outer space. Although being a female who most definitely is neither local nor married tends to raise some eyebrows around here anyway.
I've spoken to a couple of locals here in the last few days - Burim the young bus driver in Prizren whose German was better than his English, Miri the student from Korca who insisted he pay for my bus fare in Tirana and accompany me to within sight of the cable car station I was looking for, the taxi driver in Tirana who lived in London for a few years to earn money to send back to his family here, and the guide in the bus down from Tirana whose name I still can't remember who redefined hospitality. Coincidentally, all males. The majority of locals on the streets in Albania are males, or females in the company of males. From what I've read and been told, this is apparently partly due to the dominance of Islam in Albania. Either way, it makes me stand out like a sore thumb.
But aside from that, all of them told me a very similar story. Every single one of them was either working as many hours as they could physically handle in whatever job they had managed to find to get themselves and their family out of Albania, had worked outside Albania for several years and sent money back to their families, or like Burim, were dreaming of leaving Albania to follow their families who had already managed to leave, but unfortunately were themselves years of work away from getting their hands on the paperwork they needed to join them, much less the money to pay for the travel.
Writing that and rereading it, I realise how strange it sounds - to say that life in Albania is hard, when the two books I've read on this trip are set in much more challenging conditions. One is "The Poisonwood Bible", set in the Congolese jungle in the 1950s, the other is "A Thousand Splendid Suns", set in 1960s Kabul.
I think the difference here is that both of those locations - Congo and Afghanistan - are almost synonymous with some of the most horrible living conditions you could think of. Poverty. Famine. Civil war. Drought.
Albania's not quite in the same league as Africa or Afghanistan, but it's definitely well below the living standards you'd expect from most countries in Europe. Ramshackle houses, grotty little kids roaming the streets and toothless old men and women selling their wares in the marketplaces are something you could well expect to be confronted with in various African countries. It goes with the territory.
You don't expect to see that in Europe. If I turn around and look south from my vantage point on the citadel wall, about twenty kilometres in the distance is the Greek border. Greece - a member of the EU, of the Eurozone, of Schengen. If I turn to look directly west into the Gjerë mountains, my back to the valley, the other side of those mountains is the Adriatic Coast; 60km west of the Albanian beach is the south-eastern tip of the Italian mainland. EU. Eurozone. Schengen.
Travelling around the country, every so often I feel so sad that living conditions like this exist within the borders of the European Union. And every single time, I wish there was something I could do - anything - to help these people and their country. But short of what I'm already doing in supporting their local tourist industry and enthusiastically recommending other like-minded backpackers or explorers to do the same, there's not a whole lot I can do.
Apparently Albania applied for EU membership last year. Travelling around here, I can't envisage that happening in the next ten years. Maybe one day though.
And here's where I pass the baton to you. Take the plunge and venture to somewhere off the beaten track. France and Spain and Portugal are always going to be there. Scandinavia and Austria and Italy won't change all that dramatically in the next ten years. But Albania - I don't know how long this sense of having travelled back in time will linger once it gets out that Albania is worth the adventure. So don't just take my word for it. If you're in Europe and are even mildly interested in seeing first-hand what I've just described, including the magnificent view from up here on the stone wall of Kalaja e Gjirokastrës, explore the Balkans on your next holiday. Albania. Bosnia. Macedonia. Ok, Croatia and Slovenia if you're not quite as adventurous and insatiably curious as me. But go there, and go soon. Explore, relax, escape. Support the local tourism industry, spread the word, and help the Albanian and Balkan economies get on their feet.
Notes From The Road: Liberty Street & Church Street, NY 10006
26th of July, 2010. Lower Manhattan, New York City.
There are some places on this beautiful planet of ours that are quite simply breathtaking. They're rare, and they encompass all landscapes, climates, countries and continents, but the one thing they have in common is that they are awesome. Not awesome as it is commonly used today by anyone under thirty as a synonym for cool. Awesome as in commands the visitor to stand before it in awe. They demand respect. They literally take your breath away.
Most of them are breathtakingly beautiful. They inspire writers to wax lyrical over colour hues, artists to spend hours at the site with oils and watercolours and tourists to take cheesy snapshots of themselves with said wonder in the background - just to prove to family and friends back home that they were there.
This place is breathtaking, but it is not beautiful. There are no painters here. The writers write, but their stories are of tragedy and death, chaos and destruction, tears, lost loved ones and fallen heroes. Even the tourists don't linger - they come, they wander awhile, trying to imagine what used to be here. They take a few photos of what remains, then they leave the shadows and windswept emptiness in favour of sunshine and light.
Behind me is the Cortland Street subway station. In front of me is an immense construction site. Ten years ago, it looked very different. There used to be five tall office buildings and two immense skyscrapers here. Together, the seven buildings were known as the World Trade Center, the heart of the New York Financial District.
The eleventh of September, 2001, changed all that.
Ground Zero - actually being here - is strange. Like the other tourists visiting New York for the first time, I too am trying to imagine that this huge crater in lower Manhattan was once occupied by two of the tallest buildings ever built, and am finding it a little difficult, to say the least. Some guy flogging an A4 photo book with "Tragedy 9/11" scrawled in red across the cover told me as part of his sales pitch that if you want to get a sense of scale here, double the height of the tallest remaining building in the area, and you're getting close to the height of one of the twin towers.
You can't see much of the site - well, of the ground anyway. All that's visible are the umpteen cranes, each with the stars and stripes proudly, resolutely, defiantly fluttering in the breeze from the topmost point. The two-metre cyclone fencing barricading the area is completely covered with a long plastic banner advertising the visitors' centre, which I had no intention of visiting.
I remember waking up the morning of the 12th of September in Australia - it happened at about 11pm local time in Melbourne. A Tuesday. I watched Rove, then turned the TV off before Sandra Sully's face popped up on screen with the late night news so I could get some sleep and make it to my Italian class at 9am the following morning. My mum woke me up long before my alarm though - she said something, a strange look on her face, then turned the TV on in my room. Like so many people, I thought at first it was a new action movie, then I saw the CNN logo in the corner of the screen, and the footage of the second plane. The coverage had been going all night, and there was no escaping it during the next few hours, days, weeks and months.
That was more than enough opportunity to hear all I ever wanted or needed to know about what happened. Not only does the visitors centre have a photo display and various other informative resources, but they also coordinate guided tours of the site run by volunteers - living victims: people who experienced it firsthand, or who lost their partner, sibling, parent or child that day. There was no way I was going to do that. I wanted to visit Ground Zero, to see the area, see what's left, try to imagine what used to be there. Then I wanted to leave the area and not return. If I wanted to know more from someone who was there, I could listen to one of the hundreds of interviews, read one of the many written accounts or watch one of the several documentaries or feature films. To see the look on someone's face as they talk about their memories of the buildings coming down around them, or as they remembered someone they lost that day, someone they dearly loved and sorely miss... I couldn't do it.
So I didn't. I sat on the steps outside one of the buildings around the outside. For an hour or so. I just sat there, thinking, writing, remembering, imagining. At one point, a fire engine roared past, sirens blaring, lights flashing, and a spectacular American flag emblazoned all the way down the side. I took a deep breath. Listened to the sirens fade into the noise of the city. Then I left.
If you happen to be in New York and can handle an intensely negative experience, go down there. Walk around. See the memorials. Pay your respects. Experience the site. It's worth a visit. But I won't go back.
There are some places on this beautiful planet of ours that are quite simply breathtaking. They're rare, and they encompass all landscapes, climates, countries and continents, but the one thing they have in common is that they are awesome. Not awesome as it is commonly used today by anyone under thirty as a synonym for cool. Awesome as in commands the visitor to stand before it in awe. They demand respect. They literally take your breath away.
Most of them are breathtakingly beautiful. They inspire writers to wax lyrical over colour hues, artists to spend hours at the site with oils and watercolours and tourists to take cheesy snapshots of themselves with said wonder in the background - just to prove to family and friends back home that they were there.
This place is breathtaking, but it is not beautiful. There are no painters here. The writers write, but their stories are of tragedy and death, chaos and destruction, tears, lost loved ones and fallen heroes. Even the tourists don't linger - they come, they wander awhile, trying to imagine what used to be here. They take a few photos of what remains, then they leave the shadows and windswept emptiness in favour of sunshine and light.
Behind me is the Cortland Street subway station. In front of me is an immense construction site. Ten years ago, it looked very different. There used to be five tall office buildings and two immense skyscrapers here. Together, the seven buildings were known as the World Trade Center, the heart of the New York Financial District.
The eleventh of September, 2001, changed all that.
Ground Zero - actually being here - is strange. Like the other tourists visiting New York for the first time, I too am trying to imagine that this huge crater in lower Manhattan was once occupied by two of the tallest buildings ever built, and am finding it a little difficult, to say the least. Some guy flogging an A4 photo book with "Tragedy 9/11" scrawled in red across the cover told me as part of his sales pitch that if you want to get a sense of scale here, double the height of the tallest remaining building in the area, and you're getting close to the height of one of the twin towers.
You can't see much of the site - well, of the ground anyway. All that's visible are the umpteen cranes, each with the stars and stripes proudly, resolutely, defiantly fluttering in the breeze from the topmost point. The two-metre cyclone fencing barricading the area is completely covered with a long plastic banner advertising the visitors' centre, which I had no intention of visiting.
I remember waking up the morning of the 12th of September in Australia - it happened at about 11pm local time in Melbourne. A Tuesday. I watched Rove, then turned the TV off before Sandra Sully's face popped up on screen with the late night news so I could get some sleep and make it to my Italian class at 9am the following morning. My mum woke me up long before my alarm though - she said something, a strange look on her face, then turned the TV on in my room. Like so many people, I thought at first it was a new action movie, then I saw the CNN logo in the corner of the screen, and the footage of the second plane. The coverage had been going all night, and there was no escaping it during the next few hours, days, weeks and months.
That was more than enough opportunity to hear all I ever wanted or needed to know about what happened. Not only does the visitors centre have a photo display and various other informative resources, but they also coordinate guided tours of the site run by volunteers - living victims: people who experienced it firsthand, or who lost their partner, sibling, parent or child that day. There was no way I was going to do that. I wanted to visit Ground Zero, to see the area, see what's left, try to imagine what used to be there. Then I wanted to leave the area and not return. If I wanted to know more from someone who was there, I could listen to one of the hundreds of interviews, read one of the many written accounts or watch one of the several documentaries or feature films. To see the look on someone's face as they talk about their memories of the buildings coming down around them, or as they remembered someone they lost that day, someone they dearly loved and sorely miss... I couldn't do it.
So I didn't. I sat on the steps outside one of the buildings around the outside. For an hour or so. I just sat there, thinking, writing, remembering, imagining. At one point, a fire engine roared past, sirens blaring, lights flashing, and a spectacular American flag emblazoned all the way down the side. I took a deep breath. Listened to the sirens fade into the noise of the city. Then I left.
If you happen to be in New York and can handle an intensely negative experience, go down there. Walk around. See the memorials. Pay your respects. Experience the site. It's worth a visit. But I won't go back.
Taxi driver of the year
I don't usually take taxis. My habitual way of getting around Berlin is either public transport, walking a lot further than most normal people would, or cruising around on my beloved bike.
In foreign cities, that changes. Some are the perfect size to walk around, some have amazing public transport networks, and some are just too big and too hot to avoid taxis for the entire trip.
When I was in New York recently, my options were just those three: subway, walk or taxi. I'd happily walk, especially in a massive city like New York (you never know what gems you might find when you wander through the smaller streets and laneways), but the two weeks I was in New York, every day was over 35°C with high humidity, and I just didn't have the energy to walk for miles and miles in the sun. No one did.
The subway... well, the New York subway has earned its very own blog post. Suffice to say it's hot. Very hot. And very humid. The day I met the subject of this blog post was my last day in New York, and I was on my way to the airport. At the other end of the overnight flight back to Berlin, I would have to go from the airport straight back to work, so I'd just showered and was clean and shiny. The thing about the subway in summer, from my few days' experience, is that while the upper level where you buy tickets is relatively cool, the lower level is a public sauna. Anything more than about ten seconds on the platform and you're sweating as if you were standing on St Kilda beach at 3pm on a scorching February afternoon in Melbourne, wearing thermals and a ski suit, wrapped up in an alpine-warmth sleeping bag and a foil heat blanket, demolishing a chicken vindaloo. Yeah, you're sweating. A lot.
So since I definitely didn't want to be all sweaty for the next twelve hours at the airport, on the plane, at Heathrow Airport, on another plane, and for my entire shift at the other end of the flight, I decided to splash out on an air-conditioned cab ride. Just as I went outside the hotel where I was staying, a so-called "town car" pulled up - a sleek black sedan with a leather and mahogany interior, air-con and tinted windows. As the door man helped the passengers out and the bellhop got their luggage, I asked the other doorman to hail me a taxi and I waited with my backpack in the shade at the door.
"Well, instead of a taxi, would you like to take this town car instead? Same price, just a little more comfortable."
Is this a trick question? Uh... yes. Yes. Definitely yes.
We set off in air-conditioned comfort through the streets of Midtown and I watched my last few scenes of New York through the tinted windows, and had a bit of a chat with the driver along the way.
First question: "So, where are you off to?" he asked me.
"Berlin." And that started the rest.
After I explained to him that I live there but that I'm not German, and told him a bit about my studies, my work, and why I had tried so hard to get a place in Berlin, he began to tell me a bit about himself.
Turns out his name is Mike, he's originally from Brooklyn and he served in the US military in the 1970s and 1980s... in West Germany. He was sketchy on the details, but the one thing he would tell me is that as a way to earn some money on the side, he and some of his army mates worked as couriers, smuggling various small but valuable items across the border into East Germany. Among the more regular requests he received were Beatles and Rolling Stones records, Milka chocolate, food and particular groceries only available in the west, and bottles of Coca Cola (the fourth time he smuggled Coca Cola over the border was the only time the border guards' searches ever found anything).
When I asked him about the strangest thing anyone had ever asked him to smuggle over, he laughed, and said it was a tie between women's stockings in all manner of colours and styles for a 46-year-old cross-dressing accountant in Erfurt, and a Harley Davidson.
I had to ask.
Apparently a motorbike enthusiast in East Germany kept them in business for two years with a special order: he had arranged to have a Harley Davidson motorcycle delivered to a friend in West Germany, who then dismantled it and paid couriers like Mike and his army colleagues to smuggle it bit by bit across the border to him in East Germany, where he put it back together. The whole process took about two years, and amazingly none of the parts were ever found during border searches.
After having received all the parts and having reassembled the bike in his barn, this Harley nut could only ride it because he lived in a very rural area well away from border patrols, and then only in the darkness of the very early hours of the morning. On top of that, the amount he paid to have the bike dismantled and smuggled over was almost as much as the bike itself.
There were so many more questions I had for him - about his experiences with the border guards, what it was like when the wall fell and in the months and years after reunification, but as luck would have it, just as he finished the Harley story, we turned off the freeway, and a few moments later we pulled into the parking bay at the main terminal of JFK.
He seemed genuinely happy that I was so curious about his experiences, but by the same token, I got the distinct impression that just sharing the Harley story and telling me about his time moonlighting as a smuggler reminded him of other things he would rather not remember. Earlier in the conversation when I showed interest at the mention of his military experience in Germany, he started to tell me about the first few months living in Germany, and how the whole courier idea started. Apparently one of his mates had the idea, before -
And that's where he stopped, mid-sentence. It was as if Mike had suddenly remembered that he didn't know me from a bar of soap, and whatever came after "before" was something that he had just realised he didn't particular want to share with someone he'd known for all of five minutes. He didn't talk for a few minutes, and when he started again, it was the Coca Cola story - lighthearted, as if nothing had happened.
He didn't bring it up again - his friend, nor how the courier idea came about - and I knew better than to ask.
The moral of the story? Public transport is cheap, and walking still cheaper, but taxis, while pretty darn expensive comparatively, can pay dividends in story-telling material and invaluable experience, if you just ask the right questions.
In foreign cities, that changes. Some are the perfect size to walk around, some have amazing public transport networks, and some are just too big and too hot to avoid taxis for the entire trip.
When I was in New York recently, my options were just those three: subway, walk or taxi. I'd happily walk, especially in a massive city like New York (you never know what gems you might find when you wander through the smaller streets and laneways), but the two weeks I was in New York, every day was over 35°C with high humidity, and I just didn't have the energy to walk for miles and miles in the sun. No one did.
The subway... well, the New York subway has earned its very own blog post. Suffice to say it's hot. Very hot. And very humid. The day I met the subject of this blog post was my last day in New York, and I was on my way to the airport. At the other end of the overnight flight back to Berlin, I would have to go from the airport straight back to work, so I'd just showered and was clean and shiny. The thing about the subway in summer, from my few days' experience, is that while the upper level where you buy tickets is relatively cool, the lower level is a public sauna. Anything more than about ten seconds on the platform and you're sweating as if you were standing on St Kilda beach at 3pm on a scorching February afternoon in Melbourne, wearing thermals and a ski suit, wrapped up in an alpine-warmth sleeping bag and a foil heat blanket, demolishing a chicken vindaloo. Yeah, you're sweating. A lot.
So since I definitely didn't want to be all sweaty for the next twelve hours at the airport, on the plane, at Heathrow Airport, on another plane, and for my entire shift at the other end of the flight, I decided to splash out on an air-conditioned cab ride. Just as I went outside the hotel where I was staying, a so-called "town car" pulled up - a sleek black sedan with a leather and mahogany interior, air-con and tinted windows. As the door man helped the passengers out and the bellhop got their luggage, I asked the other doorman to hail me a taxi and I waited with my backpack in the shade at the door.
"Well, instead of a taxi, would you like to take this town car instead? Same price, just a little more comfortable."
Is this a trick question? Uh... yes. Yes. Definitely yes.
We set off in air-conditioned comfort through the streets of Midtown and I watched my last few scenes of New York through the tinted windows, and had a bit of a chat with the driver along the way.
First question: "So, where are you off to?" he asked me.
"Berlin." And that started the rest.
After I explained to him that I live there but that I'm not German, and told him a bit about my studies, my work, and why I had tried so hard to get a place in Berlin, he began to tell me a bit about himself.
Turns out his name is Mike, he's originally from Brooklyn and he served in the US military in the 1970s and 1980s... in West Germany. He was sketchy on the details, but the one thing he would tell me is that as a way to earn some money on the side, he and some of his army mates worked as couriers, smuggling various small but valuable items across the border into East Germany. Among the more regular requests he received were Beatles and Rolling Stones records, Milka chocolate, food and particular groceries only available in the west, and bottles of Coca Cola (the fourth time he smuggled Coca Cola over the border was the only time the border guards' searches ever found anything).
When I asked him about the strangest thing anyone had ever asked him to smuggle over, he laughed, and said it was a tie between women's stockings in all manner of colours and styles for a 46-year-old cross-dressing accountant in Erfurt, and a Harley Davidson.
I had to ask.
Apparently a motorbike enthusiast in East Germany kept them in business for two years with a special order: he had arranged to have a Harley Davidson motorcycle delivered to a friend in West Germany, who then dismantled it and paid couriers like Mike and his army colleagues to smuggle it bit by bit across the border to him in East Germany, where he put it back together. The whole process took about two years, and amazingly none of the parts were ever found during border searches.
After having received all the parts and having reassembled the bike in his barn, this Harley nut could only ride it because he lived in a very rural area well away from border patrols, and then only in the darkness of the very early hours of the morning. On top of that, the amount he paid to have the bike dismantled and smuggled over was almost as much as the bike itself.
There were so many more questions I had for him - about his experiences with the border guards, what it was like when the wall fell and in the months and years after reunification, but as luck would have it, just as he finished the Harley story, we turned off the freeway, and a few moments later we pulled into the parking bay at the main terminal of JFK.
He seemed genuinely happy that I was so curious about his experiences, but by the same token, I got the distinct impression that just sharing the Harley story and telling me about his time moonlighting as a smuggler reminded him of other things he would rather not remember. Earlier in the conversation when I showed interest at the mention of his military experience in Germany, he started to tell me about the first few months living in Germany, and how the whole courier idea started. Apparently one of his mates had the idea, before -
And that's where he stopped, mid-sentence. It was as if Mike had suddenly remembered that he didn't know me from a bar of soap, and whatever came after "before" was something that he had just realised he didn't particular want to share with someone he'd known for all of five minutes. He didn't talk for a few minutes, and when he started again, it was the Coca Cola story - lighthearted, as if nothing had happened.
He didn't bring it up again - his friend, nor how the courier idea came about - and I knew better than to ask.
The moral of the story? Public transport is cheap, and walking still cheaper, but taxis, while pretty darn expensive comparatively, can pay dividends in story-telling material and invaluable experience, if you just ask the right questions.
New Series: Notes From The Road
As some of you know, I like to travel. No. That's not the entire truth. I love to travel. I love the experience of getting on a train, plane or automobile and going somewhere I have never been before. I love the challenge of leaving my safety zone and going to a place where I don't speak the language, where I have no idea what I'm going to see, hear, taste or smell next, and where I'm forced to hastily learn some very basic phrases in the local language just to get by. In the last ten years since I really started travelling, I've managed to get quite a few countries' stamps in my passport: 33 at last count, and I'm not done by a long shot.
Being the Miss Independent that I am, I much prefer to travel alone than with friends, if the safety situation in the destination country permits. I love the absolute freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I feel like doing it - to not compromise on where I'm going to go, what to do there and how long to stay. Apart from meeting a lot of new people I probably wouldn't meet were I travelling with someone, I can indulge my three favourite travel activities to my heart's content.
I can take a quick look at the map then shove it safely in my jeans pocket and head off in the general direction of where I want to go, wandering through the streets, taking a left here and a right there as the spirit moves me.
I can take as many photos as I want. I just upgraded to a Pentax X-70, and it is my absolute favourite toy. I had a Sony DSC-800 until March of 2010, and while it served me well for a long time, it was on life support by then, and there was no way I was taking a dying camera to Macedonia, Kosovo and Albania (my Easter trip this year). I'm learning about shutter speed and aperture and ISO numbers and settings, and loving it.
The most important? I can stop whenever I want, wherever I want, to write as much as I want. I can scout out somewhere comfy where I can watch the locals go about their daily activities and mull over my thoughts on whatever country or city I happen to be in at the time. I didn't write a whole lot in most of the western European countries, mostly because we were on the go all the time. Yes, I was on one of those big organised tours: a three-week booze cruise on wheels, trundling along the highways of Europe. Hello, my name is Australis and I have been on a Contiki tour. Back in 2004, I wasn't the confident adventurous traveller I am today. Back then, I had been to a total of five foreign countries - well, four and New Zealand for three weeks with my family when I was eleven. So I booked a group tour to explore all these new countries with a safety net of a tour manager and thirty of my "closest friends". Since then it's pretty much me and my backpack - no more guided tours for this little black duck, unless safety says otherwise.
Anyways, the point is that I have a lot of "Notes From The Road". One of them is already on here: "Musings from a rusty Estonian bus", from my Latvia/Estonia trip over the Easter weekend in 2009.
There are a whole lot more where that came from. So in the next few weeks, I'll be posting my new series "Notes From The Road" from a whole range of places - from Edinburgh to Pristina, from Tallinn to Marrakech, from Lisbon to Istanbul. Enjoy!
Being the Miss Independent that I am, I much prefer to travel alone than with friends, if the safety situation in the destination country permits. I love the absolute freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I feel like doing it - to not compromise on where I'm going to go, what to do there and how long to stay. Apart from meeting a lot of new people I probably wouldn't meet were I travelling with someone, I can indulge my three favourite travel activities to my heart's content.
I can take a quick look at the map then shove it safely in my jeans pocket and head off in the general direction of where I want to go, wandering through the streets, taking a left here and a right there as the spirit moves me.
I can take as many photos as I want. I just upgraded to a Pentax X-70, and it is my absolute favourite toy. I had a Sony DSC-800 until March of 2010, and while it served me well for a long time, it was on life support by then, and there was no way I was taking a dying camera to Macedonia, Kosovo and Albania (my Easter trip this year). I'm learning about shutter speed and aperture and ISO numbers and settings, and loving it.
The most important? I can stop whenever I want, wherever I want, to write as much as I want. I can scout out somewhere comfy where I can watch the locals go about their daily activities and mull over my thoughts on whatever country or city I happen to be in at the time. I didn't write a whole lot in most of the western European countries, mostly because we were on the go all the time. Yes, I was on one of those big organised tours: a three-week booze cruise on wheels, trundling along the highways of Europe. Hello, my name is Australis and I have been on a Contiki tour. Back in 2004, I wasn't the confident adventurous traveller I am today. Back then, I had been to a total of five foreign countries - well, four and New Zealand for three weeks with my family when I was eleven. So I booked a group tour to explore all these new countries with a safety net of a tour manager and thirty of my "closest friends". Since then it's pretty much me and my backpack - no more guided tours for this little black duck, unless safety says otherwise.
Anyways, the point is that I have a lot of "Notes From The Road". One of them is already on here: "Musings from a rusty Estonian bus", from my Latvia/Estonia trip over the Easter weekend in 2009.
There are a whole lot more where that came from. So in the next few weeks, I'll be posting my new series "Notes From The Road" from a whole range of places - from Edinburgh to Pristina, from Tallinn to Marrakech, from Lisbon to Istanbul. Enjoy!
Musings from a rusty Estonain bus.
Musings from a rusty Estonian bus.
(Note: I was flipping through my journal the other day, and found a few of the blog-worthy pieces that I had put together while on the road recently in Estonia and Latvia. Here's one of them - more to come.)
Currently it's Sunday the 12th of April, and I'm trundling down the highway in eastern Estonia on a rickety old bus that in any other country with the exception of Russia, Ukraine, Bosnia or Moldova would have long since been consigned to the scrap heap (oh, by the way, I think we just left the transmission on the road about 100m back...).
Accompanying me is a busload of overstyled eastern European teeny boppers, more babushkas than I care to count and an entire regiment of the Estonian army.
Since I'd planned to be on this bus for about two and a half hours, I have of course brought my trusty mp3 and my journal - there's still 179km between us and our destination, Tartu, a university town in southern Estonia, a stone's throw from the Russian border.
And yes, my calculations of 179km in 2 1/2 hours are correct - this feat of Estonian engineering is chugging along at the lightning speed of approximately 70km/h. Even my 1987 Toyota Corolla could beat this. But considering the Estonian government department responsible for infrastructure seems to have chosen to lay the road with bitumen over a layer of industrial corrugated iron, speeds akin to those on Australian or German highways aren't entirely realistic, or even possible, on this particular road.
I've tuned out the chaos of the rest of the passengers and have quite happily settled in for two and a half hours of iriver music, when one of the army boys' mobile phones rings behind me.
And suddenly I hear the familiar sound of a drummer tapping his drumsticks on some VB bottles, followed by the melodic flute introduction to one of Australia's many unofficial anthems.
Men At Work - Down Under. Random.
(Note: I was flipping through my journal the other day, and found a few of the blog-worthy pieces that I had put together while on the road recently in Estonia and Latvia. Here's one of them - more to come.)
Currently it's Sunday the 12th of April, and I'm trundling down the highway in eastern Estonia on a rickety old bus that in any other country with the exception of Russia, Ukraine, Bosnia or Moldova would have long since been consigned to the scrap heap (oh, by the way, I think we just left the transmission on the road about 100m back...).
Accompanying me is a busload of overstyled eastern European teeny boppers, more babushkas than I care to count and an entire regiment of the Estonian army.
Since I'd planned to be on this bus for about two and a half hours, I have of course brought my trusty mp3 and my journal - there's still 179km between us and our destination, Tartu, a university town in southern Estonia, a stone's throw from the Russian border.
And yes, my calculations of 179km in 2 1/2 hours are correct - this feat of Estonian engineering is chugging along at the lightning speed of approximately 70km/h. Even my 1987 Toyota Corolla could beat this. But considering the Estonian government department responsible for infrastructure seems to have chosen to lay the road with bitumen over a layer of industrial corrugated iron, speeds akin to those on Australian or German highways aren't entirely realistic, or even possible, on this particular road.
I've tuned out the chaos of the rest of the passengers and have quite happily settled in for two and a half hours of iriver music, when one of the army boys' mobile phones rings behind me.
And suddenly I hear the familiar sound of a drummer tapping his drumsticks on some VB bottles, followed by the melodic flute introduction to one of Australia's many unofficial anthems.
Men At Work - Down Under. Random.
The Button Bag
button bag. /bΛtn bæg/. noun.
1. The convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
Let me explain. To tell the full story, I have to take you back in time to mid-August 2007. Location: Sarajevo, Bosnia.
I had been on the road for a few weeks, just me, my passport and my backpack, exploring Eastern Europe for the first time. The previous four years had consisted mostly of travel or work in various countries in Western Europe, and in September of 2007, I was due to continue that trend by taking up a position as a teaching assistant at a high school in southern Berlin. My curiousity surrounding the mysterious lands which had for so long remained in the shadow of the Iron Curtain had finally got the better of me, and I had decided that enough was enough: five weeks before I was due to start work, I dumped my winter stuff at a friend's place in Berlin and set off a five-week "Magical Mystery Tour" of the no-visa-required-for-Australians countries of south-eastern Europe.
Bosnia (ok, technically "and Herzegovina too") was the fifth country on my tour; prior to arriving in Bosnia, I had explored the grey concreteness of Slovakia, visited the Paprika Museums and thermal baths of Hungary, rowed on the most beautiful mountain lake ever in Slovenia, partied until dawn with fellow backpacking expats on the beaches of Croatia, and had slowly started to get used to the Eastern European mindset. From Bosnia, I would be heading further east toward Serbia, Bulgaria and the Black Sea, before finishing up the tour in Romania, then returning to "reality" in Berlin.
Bosnia had in just two days claimed the enviable title of being my favourite country on the tour, and Sarajevo without a doubt the crown of my favourite city of the five weeks so far. It achieved this status within two days, and by the time I left, Sarajevo's status had been elevated to the rank of "One of Australis' Top 5 Cities". (In case you're interested, the others are Melbourne a clear #1, Berlin the runner up at #2, Istanbul a close third, and Marrakech scraping in at fourth - Sarajevo is number 5, just above Fes.)
I would happily have spent an entire week in Bosnia, but unfortunately, the two days I had in Sarajevo were all my time budget would allow for, and after a day of walking around Sarajevo from one historical site to another, which were most inconveniently situated at least five kilometres apart, I was ready for a Pivo or two, and began to make my way back to the hostel for beer and börek, starting to contemplate exactly what form my Bosnian souvenir would take.
My policy for souvenirs so far on that tour had been a self-imposed minimalistic one: a postcard from each country, and if I really liked the place, a pair of earrings. Yes, yours truly has an earring problem.
Bosnia was however the exception to the souvenir policy. For two reasons.
Number 1, I loved the place. At that time, I hadn't yet been to Turkey or Morocco, and Sarajevo had a taste of the East - of Asia and of the Middle East - that I found mesmerising, intoxicating and most definitely addictive, and I resolved to return; in the meantime, a truly stupendous souvenir was in order.
And the second reason? In addition to my large backpack, I'd been carting a small day pack around for a few weeks. The experiences of the previous three weeks had instilled in me a whole new level of awareness of my personal security, and my small daypack just wasn't doing the job. I had noticed along the way that a satchel was without a doubt a better alternative in terms of protecting the contents of my bag from the increasing creativity and pickpocketing talents of the gypsy street urchins.
However considering I only had two more weeks on the road, a new bag wasn't really a priority, especially since I had already experienced the problem of finding one that I liked enough to part with my Bosnian Convertible Marks for, and also finding one that I hadn't already seen in every tourist-targeting, "typically-Eastern-European" bazzaar I had meandered through in the previous three weeks. In spite of this hurdle, the lack of versatility noted while wearing a backpack as a satchel had caused me to contemplate the notion of investing in a shoulder bag at some stage.
It was this dilemma which was occupying my mind while wandering around the marketplace, trying to find my way back to my hostel. As usual, I'd got lost in the narrow winding alleyways of the bazaar.
I got to the end of an alleyway, which looked like every other alleyway in the bazaar, turned a corner, and suddenly in front of me, in a narrow lane I had somehow never discovered before, was a small textile store. It was in the shadows of the neighbouring buildings, and the front window was dusty, but through the glass I could see a number of shoulder bags: two were embroidered with traditional Bosnian patterns, and one was a hessian shoulder bag covered in all manner of buttons. I had had my eye on something typically Bosnian, and initially considered one of the woven bags, but half an hour later, I left the store with a little less Bosnian currency and the button bag.
This is where the best part of the story starts. Up until then, as far as I was aware, this was a completely normal bag. Yes, it was covered in a myriad of buttons of different sizes, shapes and colours, but aside from that, it seemed to be your average slightly bohemian shoulder bag. Right?
Wrong.
The button bag is, as my previous definition stated, "the convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner."
It's all of that, and so much more. As if that's not enough, you even can carry stuff in it!
Ok, I admit it: the "stylish" part is debatable, especially if you consider that style is subjective - the Button Bag certainly doesn't compete in the league of Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, or Gucci. I'm not sure I'd want it to.
But the rest of it is completely true. It is most definitely alternative and bohemian - it's not the kind of thing you'd see sold at David Jones or Myer at Chadstone, or in Macys in New York City: more the kind of thing you'd see in an alternative chic store along Brunswick St in Fitzroy or around the area of Friedrichshain or Kreuzberg in Berlin.
Unique? Yes. The elderly woman behind the counter who sold me this wonderful souvenir made it herself, using a selection of buttons she had taken from her own collection, built up over the previous twenty years in her time as a tailor and seamstress.
Travel bragging rights? Absolutely. But we'll get to that.
It's the "ability to bridge international cultural and linguistic barriers" that turned out to be the bag's greatest strength.
Who knew that a humble shoulder bag could be such a conversation starter? The strength of this conversation starting ability is all the more proven by the fact that it has not only started conversations between myself and random strangers in Australia, where everyone's your "mate" and everyone will quite happily have a good old natter with someone they met less than five minutes ago, have no idea of their name and most probably will never see again in their life, but also in Germany, a country whose folk are not exactly renowned for their friendliness toward strangers in public. Or indeed at all.
I have actually lost count of the number of interactions or conversations which have been instigated by a random stranger's interest in my button bag - whether it be in the bus, the train, at the market, at the Department of Immigration while applying for my visa and work permit, at the post office, or just about anywhere at all. There are also varying levels of interest. The lowest is a vague glance, usually followed by the infamous double take. This occasionally leads to level two, in which the person who has noticed the Button Bag attempts to attract the attention of the person accompanying them and direct it toward my bag. Level three involves the two of them starting a conversation about the bag, which is rather entertaining for me to watch, as they talk about my bag, which usually leads to level four, in which they make eye contact with me and smile politely, continuing their conversation while marvelling at my fabulous accessory. This usually leads to level five; the conversation.
The conversation typically involves two questions:
1. "Did you sew those on yourself?" The more bohemian the neighbourhood or the asker, the more tempted I am to say "Yes, I have collected buttons all my life and sewed them all on to an otherwise mundane hessian shoulder bag." In Berlin, that's an entirely feasible answer, but I remain proud of the fact that at last count, the replies are as follows: "Yes, I did it myself" - 0. "No, I bought it like that" - quite possibly in the hundreds by now.
My negative answer to the first question is typically followed by this question:
2. "Where did you get it?" Remember how I mentioned the "travel bragging rights"? This is where that comes into play. Whenever I am asked this, and I answer with a casual "I bought it in Sarajevo a few years ago", I am usually greeted with an expression of wonder at my extensive travel experiences, quickly followed by confusion as the asker considers the question "Why on earth would anyone travel to Bosnia - voluntarily?"
Usually by this stage, we've arrived at either my or the asker's train station, one of us is next in the queue for Turkish bread at the market or there is a rather annoyed postal worker behind the desk demanding that we pay attention to her, and we bid each other good day and go our separate ways.
But the attraction of the button bag has worked its magic on yet another person.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
1. The convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
Let me explain. To tell the full story, I have to take you back in time to mid-August 2007. Location: Sarajevo, Bosnia.
I had been on the road for a few weeks, just me, my passport and my backpack, exploring Eastern Europe for the first time. The previous four years had consisted mostly of travel or work in various countries in Western Europe, and in September of 2007, I was due to continue that trend by taking up a position as a teaching assistant at a high school in southern Berlin. My curiousity surrounding the mysterious lands which had for so long remained in the shadow of the Iron Curtain had finally got the better of me, and I had decided that enough was enough: five weeks before I was due to start work, I dumped my winter stuff at a friend's place in Berlin and set off a five-week "Magical Mystery Tour" of the no-visa-required-for-Australians countries of south-eastern Europe.
Bosnia (ok, technically "and Herzegovina too") was the fifth country on my tour; prior to arriving in Bosnia, I had explored the grey concreteness of Slovakia, visited the Paprika Museums and thermal baths of Hungary, rowed on the most beautiful mountain lake ever in Slovenia, partied until dawn with fellow backpacking expats on the beaches of Croatia, and had slowly started to get used to the Eastern European mindset. From Bosnia, I would be heading further east toward Serbia, Bulgaria and the Black Sea, before finishing up the tour in Romania, then returning to "reality" in Berlin.
Bosnia had in just two days claimed the enviable title of being my favourite country on the tour, and Sarajevo without a doubt the crown of my favourite city of the five weeks so far. It achieved this status within two days, and by the time I left, Sarajevo's status had been elevated to the rank of "One of Australis' Top 5 Cities". (In case you're interested, the others are Melbourne a clear #1, Berlin the runner up at #2, Istanbul a close third, and Marrakech scraping in at fourth - Sarajevo is number 5, just above Fes.)
I would happily have spent an entire week in Bosnia, but unfortunately, the two days I had in Sarajevo were all my time budget would allow for, and after a day of walking around Sarajevo from one historical site to another, which were most inconveniently situated at least five kilometres apart, I was ready for a Pivo or two, and began to make my way back to the hostel for beer and börek, starting to contemplate exactly what form my Bosnian souvenir would take.
My policy for souvenirs so far on that tour had been a self-imposed minimalistic one: a postcard from each country, and if I really liked the place, a pair of earrings. Yes, yours truly has an earring problem.
Bosnia was however the exception to the souvenir policy. For two reasons.
Number 1, I loved the place. At that time, I hadn't yet been to Turkey or Morocco, and Sarajevo had a taste of the East - of Asia and of the Middle East - that I found mesmerising, intoxicating and most definitely addictive, and I resolved to return; in the meantime, a truly stupendous souvenir was in order.
And the second reason? In addition to my large backpack, I'd been carting a small day pack around for a few weeks. The experiences of the previous three weeks had instilled in me a whole new level of awareness of my personal security, and my small daypack just wasn't doing the job. I had noticed along the way that a satchel was without a doubt a better alternative in terms of protecting the contents of my bag from the increasing creativity and pickpocketing talents of the gypsy street urchins.
However considering I only had two more weeks on the road, a new bag wasn't really a priority, especially since I had already experienced the problem of finding one that I liked enough to part with my Bosnian Convertible Marks for, and also finding one that I hadn't already seen in every tourist-targeting, "typically-Eastern-European" bazzaar I had meandered through in the previous three weeks. In spite of this hurdle, the lack of versatility noted while wearing a backpack as a satchel had caused me to contemplate the notion of investing in a shoulder bag at some stage.
It was this dilemma which was occupying my mind while wandering around the marketplace, trying to find my way back to my hostel. As usual, I'd got lost in the narrow winding alleyways of the bazaar.
I got to the end of an alleyway, which looked like every other alleyway in the bazaar, turned a corner, and suddenly in front of me, in a narrow lane I had somehow never discovered before, was a small textile store. It was in the shadows of the neighbouring buildings, and the front window was dusty, but through the glass I could see a number of shoulder bags: two were embroidered with traditional Bosnian patterns, and one was a hessian shoulder bag covered in all manner of buttons. I had had my eye on something typically Bosnian, and initially considered one of the woven bags, but half an hour later, I left the store with a little less Bosnian currency and the button bag.
This is where the best part of the story starts. Up until then, as far as I was aware, this was a completely normal bag. Yes, it was covered in a myriad of buttons of different sizes, shapes and colours, but aside from that, it seemed to be your average slightly bohemian shoulder bag. Right?
Wrong.
The button bag is, as my previous definition stated, "the convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner."
It's all of that, and so much more. As if that's not enough, you even can carry stuff in it!
Ok, I admit it: the "stylish" part is debatable, especially if you consider that style is subjective - the Button Bag certainly doesn't compete in the league of Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, or Gucci. I'm not sure I'd want it to.
But the rest of it is completely true. It is most definitely alternative and bohemian - it's not the kind of thing you'd see sold at David Jones or Myer at Chadstone, or in Macys in New York City: more the kind of thing you'd see in an alternative chic store along Brunswick St in Fitzroy or around the area of Friedrichshain or Kreuzberg in Berlin.
Unique? Yes. The elderly woman behind the counter who sold me this wonderful souvenir made it herself, using a selection of buttons she had taken from her own collection, built up over the previous twenty years in her time as a tailor and seamstress.
Travel bragging rights? Absolutely. But we'll get to that.
It's the "ability to bridge international cultural and linguistic barriers" that turned out to be the bag's greatest strength.
Who knew that a humble shoulder bag could be such a conversation starter? The strength of this conversation starting ability is all the more proven by the fact that it has not only started conversations between myself and random strangers in Australia, where everyone's your "mate" and everyone will quite happily have a good old natter with someone they met less than five minutes ago, have no idea of their name and most probably will never see again in their life, but also in Germany, a country whose folk are not exactly renowned for their friendliness toward strangers in public. Or indeed at all.
I have actually lost count of the number of interactions or conversations which have been instigated by a random stranger's interest in my button bag - whether it be in the bus, the train, at the market, at the Department of Immigration while applying for my visa and work permit, at the post office, or just about anywhere at all. There are also varying levels of interest. The lowest is a vague glance, usually followed by the infamous double take. This occasionally leads to level two, in which the person who has noticed the Button Bag attempts to attract the attention of the person accompanying them and direct it toward my bag. Level three involves the two of them starting a conversation about the bag, which is rather entertaining for me to watch, as they talk about my bag, which usually leads to level four, in which they make eye contact with me and smile politely, continuing their conversation while marvelling at my fabulous accessory. This usually leads to level five; the conversation.
The conversation typically involves two questions:
1. "Did you sew those on yourself?" The more bohemian the neighbourhood or the asker, the more tempted I am to say "Yes, I have collected buttons all my life and sewed them all on to an otherwise mundane hessian shoulder bag." In Berlin, that's an entirely feasible answer, but I remain proud of the fact that at last count, the replies are as follows: "Yes, I did it myself" - 0. "No, I bought it like that" - quite possibly in the hundreds by now.
My negative answer to the first question is typically followed by this question:
2. "Where did you get it?" Remember how I mentioned the "travel bragging rights"? This is where that comes into play. Whenever I am asked this, and I answer with a casual "I bought it in Sarajevo a few years ago", I am usually greeted with an expression of wonder at my extensive travel experiences, quickly followed by confusion as the asker considers the question "Why on earth would anyone travel to Bosnia - voluntarily?"
Usually by this stage, we've arrived at either my or the asker's train station, one of us is next in the queue for Turkish bread at the market or there is a rather annoyed postal worker behind the desk demanding that we pay attention to her, and we bid each other good day and go our separate ways.
But the attraction of the button bag has worked its magic on yet another person.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
More tourist capers...
Sometimes I wonder if I work at an English school or a branch of the Berlin Tourist Information Centre.
Take the 3rd of September for instance.
Within half an hour that afternoon, I was asked for directions by three separate tourists. The first was your standard backpacker couple: a Canadian couple, who were most impressed when I asked them where in Canada they were from, having figured that out from their accents. Credit for that to my sister's boyfriend, and various actual Canadian friends. Anyway, they wanted to get to a particular hostel, and were still more impressed when I told them the tram number, the time it would take to get there, and the stop name - all of which I only know because this particular hostel also happens to be an Australian-themed sports bar which broadcasts, among other things, the AFL Grand Final, and serves VB.
The second was an American couple, from Sacramento, California. They needed a post office, and also wanted to get to Checkpoint Charlie (about an hour's walk from our building, but about 8mins on the underground). I recommended they get the tram (which they insisted on calling a trolley-car) or walk to Friedrichstrasse station - about 15mins, then get the underground to Checkpoint Charlie - three stops, no changes required. The husband seemed quite happy with this, and began to move away, but the wife seemed to take my offer of information as an invitation to ask me more touristy questions than I had ever asked one single individual in my life. She seemed to consider me her personal Berlin travel consultant, and had me cornered outside the building for about 10mins, asking me about train connections to Potsdam from Zehlendorf where they were staying, about how much admission to the different theatres would cost, and if I would recommend watching movies in English at Potsdamer Platz.
I resisted the temptation to respond with a curt "Do I look like I work for Berlin tourist information?". My actual answers? 1 - no idea; check the BVG transport map. 2 - no idea; check the internet or ask the concierge at your hotel. 3 - no: too expensive - wait for the free inflight movie on the way home.
I then blatantly looked at my watch, glanced longingly (a rare occurrence) at the door of my office, and politely excused myself to return to work. He had long since got the point, and finally she did as well. Ah, freedom.
The third... the third was Chuck from Virginia, USA. Chuck would have been about the same age as my two grandfathers - mid 80s. Both of them are still very astute and intelligent individuals; age hasn't significantly affected their minds. If it weren't for the physical effects of aging, they and their respective wives would still be travelling around the world and having a marvellous time.
Chuck on the other hand... well, Chuck reminded me in many ways of some of the residents at the nursing home where my late great-grandmother spent the last six years of her life: barely able to comprehend a basic sentence, his reading skills all but gone, and very slow in his movements. He had been separated from his tour group, and having seen that we're an English school, figured that we could help him. Like the previous couple, he was supposed to be at Checkpoint Charlie. However, where I needed only a few moments to explain to them where to go to get the train and where to get off, Chuck could barely see where I was pointing to on the map I'd printed out from Google for him, let alone understand the process for buying a ticket for the train or which station he needed to look out for.
I was so tempted to walk him down to the train station, buy the ticket for him, and wait for the train, but unfortunately, I was actually supposed to be working. So I gave Chuck the map, wrote the station name on the map in large letters, and pointed him in the direction of the station.
I just hope he made it ok.
Take the 3rd of September for instance.
Within half an hour that afternoon, I was asked for directions by three separate tourists. The first was your standard backpacker couple: a Canadian couple, who were most impressed when I asked them where in Canada they were from, having figured that out from their accents. Credit for that to my sister's boyfriend, and various actual Canadian friends. Anyway, they wanted to get to a particular hostel, and were still more impressed when I told them the tram number, the time it would take to get there, and the stop name - all of which I only know because this particular hostel also happens to be an Australian-themed sports bar which broadcasts, among other things, the AFL Grand Final, and serves VB.
The second was an American couple, from Sacramento, California. They needed a post office, and also wanted to get to Checkpoint Charlie (about an hour's walk from our building, but about 8mins on the underground). I recommended they get the tram (which they insisted on calling a trolley-car) or walk to Friedrichstrasse station - about 15mins, then get the underground to Checkpoint Charlie - three stops, no changes required. The husband seemed quite happy with this, and began to move away, but the wife seemed to take my offer of information as an invitation to ask me more touristy questions than I had ever asked one single individual in my life. She seemed to consider me her personal Berlin travel consultant, and had me cornered outside the building for about 10mins, asking me about train connections to Potsdam from Zehlendorf where they were staying, about how much admission to the different theatres would cost, and if I would recommend watching movies in English at Potsdamer Platz.
I resisted the temptation to respond with a curt "Do I look like I work for Berlin tourist information?". My actual answers? 1 - no idea; check the BVG transport map. 2 - no idea; check the internet or ask the concierge at your hotel. 3 - no: too expensive - wait for the free inflight movie on the way home.
I then blatantly looked at my watch, glanced longingly (a rare occurrence) at the door of my office, and politely excused myself to return to work. He had long since got the point, and finally she did as well. Ah, freedom.
The third... the third was Chuck from Virginia, USA. Chuck would have been about the same age as my two grandfathers - mid 80s. Both of them are still very astute and intelligent individuals; age hasn't significantly affected their minds. If it weren't for the physical effects of aging, they and their respective wives would still be travelling around the world and having a marvellous time.
Chuck on the other hand... well, Chuck reminded me in many ways of some of the residents at the nursing home where my late great-grandmother spent the last six years of her life: barely able to comprehend a basic sentence, his reading skills all but gone, and very slow in his movements. He had been separated from his tour group, and having seen that we're an English school, figured that we could help him. Like the previous couple, he was supposed to be at Checkpoint Charlie. However, where I needed only a few moments to explain to them where to go to get the train and where to get off, Chuck could barely see where I was pointing to on the map I'd printed out from Google for him, let alone understand the process for buying a ticket for the train or which station he needed to look out for.
I was so tempted to walk him down to the train station, buy the ticket for him, and wait for the train, but unfortunately, I was actually supposed to be working. So I gave Chuck the map, wrote the station name on the map in large letters, and pointed him in the direction of the station.
I just hope he made it ok.
Reflections on the year
It’s amazing how a few months can completely change you.
Take today. Got home from work, and for some reason decided the mountain of papers I had dumped on the black wooden TV table I had inherited from a previous resident of my share flat could no longer remain there. So over pasta and Lidl’s attempt at bolognese sauce, I got comfy on my new Ikea discount sofa, and I began to sort them.
There was all kinds of stuff in there – photos of my family and my friends, postcards from Turkey, Morocco, most of eastern Europe and many other places, brief pages of scribbled dot-point notes which had since turned into lesson plans for my jungle-like year 9 classes, CDs people burnt for me, official-looking letters from German companies calling me “Frau _____ ” (or, more often that not, “Herr ____ ”: I don’t get it – my first name is not exactly uncommon in Germany) and handwritten ones from both of my grandmothers in Australia (the latter being a much more welcome sight in my letterbox than the former)… and a stack of notebook pages covered with scribbled diary entries from the last year.
It’s been just on a year since I moved here. Never been away from Australia that long before. And it’s going to get up to 18 months before I get back home. And in the last year, a whole lot has gone down – old friends, heaps and heaps of new friends, new accommodation times three, getting used to calling one of the most vibrant and lively cities in the world my home, and a hell of a lot of travelling.
I guess my point is just how much I love the way travel changes you. How much you learn about your world and about yourself. And it doesn't matter if you’re backpacking through former Soviet states or remote villages of northern Africa, or living and working in a vibrant European capital. Main thing is being away from what you’re used to, and becoming completely self-reliant – knowing that your family isn’t just around the corner. Actually, that home, family and most of your friends are just about as far away as physically possible while remaining on this planet.
You’re on your own – flying free, and without a safety net, and while it can be really scary at first, the feeling discovering you have what it takes to make a life for yourself overseas, and to make it work, is its own reward.
The Winds Of Change
The winds of change are in the air. Still in Hamburg, and still plodding along at work, but two events have taken place, which resulted in an admission of error and a decision to make a change to fix that error.
Event number 1 - a weekend sailing on the Baltic with some of my Berlin friends. Possibly the best way to chill and clear your head in northern Germany - or anywhere, for that matter. Sea air, good friends, German beer, northern German dice games at 1am, some good conversation, and a few days away from Hamburg and work - ah, bliss. Also inspiration from Harold and Maude to not worry so much about what other people think of you.
Event number 2 - one of these friends told me something that I had actually known subconsciously for a long time: I think too much. I over-analyse things. And not just the life-changing, monumental issues - the tiny stuff, that in a matter of weeks, days, or in many instances, hours, will have been long relegated to the file "Not worth remembering".
This leads me to a question: am I alone here? How many of you actually nodded in sympathetic agreement whilst reading the above admission? Changing my FB status alone to reflect this new mindset of "less thinking, more doing" resulted in a wall post and an instant message within half an hour. I welcome your comments.
Event 1 + Event 2 = Result: I am moving back to Berlin. Soon - within a fortnight. Reasons vary: work, friends & (substitute) family, and instinct/gut feeling/mindset.
First, the job is not at all what I thought it would be. I'm not someone who enjoys working completely alone. I need to have people around me both at work and in general with a similarly positive and enthusiastic outlook, for mutual motivation and support. I am also someone with ambition and direction. I need to know that both myself and the company I work for are going somewhere, that what I do at work actually has a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Hamburg doesn't fit the bill for me at the moment.
Second, my friends and one of my German families are in Berlin, and I truly miss them. Fair enough, I've only been in Hamburg for three weeks, which is definitely not enough to create a friendship group here, but I already have a circle of friends in Berlin, which is enough of a reason for me to seriously consider going back.
Third - I'm in a Berlin state of mind, to quote Mr Joel. I'm not finished with that city, and I want to maximise my time there. It's an incredible city and I feel just as much at home there as I do in my native Melbourne. Sounds strange to most of you, but I know at least Blonde Canadian knows how I feel. I need to go back there.
So, it will be "Goodbye Hamburg - nice knowing you", and a reunion with my beloved Berlin next weekend. That prospect alone is already giving me the motivation to continue through this week.
I'll keep you posted.
Event number 1 - a weekend sailing on the Baltic with some of my Berlin friends. Possibly the best way to chill and clear your head in northern Germany - or anywhere, for that matter. Sea air, good friends, German beer, northern German dice games at 1am, some good conversation, and a few days away from Hamburg and work - ah, bliss. Also inspiration from Harold and Maude to not worry so much about what other people think of you.
Event number 2 - one of these friends told me something that I had actually known subconsciously for a long time: I think too much. I over-analyse things. And not just the life-changing, monumental issues - the tiny stuff, that in a matter of weeks, days, or in many instances, hours, will have been long relegated to the file "Not worth remembering".
This leads me to a question: am I alone here? How many of you actually nodded in sympathetic agreement whilst reading the above admission? Changing my FB status alone to reflect this new mindset of "less thinking, more doing" resulted in a wall post and an instant message within half an hour. I welcome your comments.
Event 1 + Event 2 = Result: I am moving back to Berlin. Soon - within a fortnight. Reasons vary: work, friends & (substitute) family, and instinct/gut feeling/mindset.
First, the job is not at all what I thought it would be. I'm not someone who enjoys working completely alone. I need to have people around me both at work and in general with a similarly positive and enthusiastic outlook, for mutual motivation and support. I am also someone with ambition and direction. I need to know that both myself and the company I work for are going somewhere, that what I do at work actually has a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Hamburg doesn't fit the bill for me at the moment.
Second, my friends and one of my German families are in Berlin, and I truly miss them. Fair enough, I've only been in Hamburg for three weeks, which is definitely not enough to create a friendship group here, but I already have a circle of friends in Berlin, which is enough of a reason for me to seriously consider going back.
Third - I'm in a Berlin state of mind, to quote Mr Joel. I'm not finished with that city, and I want to maximise my time there. It's an incredible city and I feel just as much at home there as I do in my native Melbourne. Sounds strange to most of you, but I know at least Blonde Canadian knows how I feel. I need to go back there.
So, it will be "Goodbye Hamburg - nice knowing you", and a reunion with my beloved Berlin next weekend. That prospect alone is already giving me the motivation to continue through this week.
I'll keep you posted.
Anzac Day 2008 - The Gallipoli Experience
Anzac Day - the 25th of April - is a national public holiday in Australia and New Zealand. The term itself, "Anzac", is practically sacred in Australia and New Zealand, and has even been copyrighted by the RSL to protect it from potential 'misuse' [website: Using Anzac] Most of you know why it is so significant. If not, have a look at the Australian War Memorial site. In a nutshell, Anzac Day commemorates the landings of the Anzac (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps) troops on the far north-west coast of Turkey at dawn on the 25th of April, 1915. It was a complete disaster, in terms of tactics, intelligence, and above all, loss of life on both sides. However, out of this unthinkably horrible battlefield, the national character of all three countries was born.
Since 2000, my Anzac tradition is to sleep at my grandparents like I used to when I was a kid. My grandfather and I get up at 4am on the 25th to get the bus from the local RSL to the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne with tens of thousands of others for the Dawn Service. I’m not sure when I first considered making the trip to Turkey. Maybe it was at the first Dawn Service I went to… maybe years before that. Either way, I’d been researching the logistics of this for quite a few years, and without a doubt, the easiest way to do it was to join a tour group. So I did.
I’m definitely someone accustomed to doing their travel homework, and in this case, I hit gold. The wonder that is Google brought me to the website of Istanbul travel agency True Blue Tours - without a doubt the best travel agency I’ve ever dealt with. I could not fault them. Yes, they are that good. Yilmaz, the owner/manager, will quite literally do almost anything for his clients. And so I found myself abandoning school for two days, claiming an Australian national cultural pilgrimage, and set off for Istanbul, the only city in the world to span two continents, possibly the city with the greatest number of official names over the years, and even a song to commemorate this feat. Almost as soon as I arrived in Istanbul, I fell in love with it. Before I’d even got to the centre of the city, Istanbul had well and truly got under my skin. I think it might have been a combination of the warm weather, the sunshine and the magnificent harbour, reminiscent of St Kilda Esplanade, that entranced me. Then again, I think the immortal words of Darryl Kerrigan capture it much more succinctly: “It’s just the vibe”.
The 4-day round trip from Istanbul started on the Wednesday night with a Turkish cultural evening - a belly dancer reminiscent of Amy Winehouse and a very entertaining singer, whose linguistic skills spanned not only Turkish and English, but also German, Hindi, Mandarin and French. His repertoire included musical masterpieces and cultural cornerstones from all nationalities present - a Chinese ballad, a groovy Bollywood number, a Latvian folk song, and “Muss I Denn” for the Germans. He unfortunately overlooked the Kiwis, and instead chose to include them in a Turkish-accented rendition of “Waltzing Matilda”.
The following morning was a bright and early 6am start for the five-hour drive down to the Gallipoli peninsula. About three hours into the drive, we began to realise with every passing truck stop just how many Australian and Kiwi expats had chosen 2008 to make the pilgrimage. The number of giant white luxury coaches in each and every carpark continued to grow (I stopped counting at twenty - at one truck stop!). For many reasons, we were indeed fortunate that our tour company had chosen a 30-seater minibus with all the luxuries of a coach, in addition to being painted a spectacular shade of bronze. Not only did this make our group a lot easier to keep together, and to get to know a lot more people on the tour in the few days we had together, but it also made it a lot easier to both park the bus and find it in the fleet of over 400 (!!!) total coaches.
Eceabat, the major town on the peninsula, appeared to have been transformed into Manly/Torquay for the weekend. The streets were filled with Australians and Kiwis, wearing Socceroos, All-Blacks and various AFL jerseys (Essendon and Collingwood were the frontrunners), Havaiana thongs/flip flops, Billabong boardies, Oakleys on their heads and all manner of commemorative Gallipoli landing t-shirts. First up was an essential Turkish lunch - a real Turkish döner (similar to a Greek souvlaki). Since Berlin apparently has the largest Turkish population of any city outside Turkey, döner is the unofficial dish of Berlin, and goes down a treat at around 3-4am. There are some great döner places in Berlin, but nothing compares to the real thing. I also caved to the local entrepreneurs and bought myself a souvenir t-shirt, and managed to get my first practice at haggling - got the guy down from 20YTL to 15YTL (1YTL (lira) = approx AUD$1.10). Felt very proud.
We left Eceabat behind and began our tour of the battlefields. First stop was the Dardanelles coast, followed by Lone Pine, the site of a major battle between the Australian and the Turkish armies in August of 1915. At times, the front lines were within metres of each other, forcing the soldiers to abandon their rifles and bayonets, and instead use rocks, knives, and their bare hands. For more information, have a look at the AWM website. This is now the location of the major Australian memorial on the peninsula. The entire site is no larger than your average suburban footy ground. At one end is a low wall covered in the names of the fallen; behind this is an immense granite monument, and in front of it is another low wall with the inscription “Their name liveth for evermore”. We had about twenty minutes here, and I walked around the monument first, then wandered between the rows and rows of gravestones. All had names, birthdates, and dates of death, but for some, those were the only pieces of information known. Many had also been inscribed with an epitaph; some reflected those waiting at home for the dead, some were biblical verses, others poignantly simple: “He laid down his life for his friends”, “Could I just clasp your hand one more time to say well done”, “Until we meet again”, “Peace perfect peace”. I could have spent hours there, but unfortunately more and more people were streaming in as tour groups arrived from Istanbul, and we still had a lot of ground to cover before heading over to Anzac Cove.
Next stop was Chunuk Bair, the New Zealand official commemorative site. As with Lone Pine for Australians, Chunuk Bair was the site of a major battle, this time between New Zealand and Turkish forces. The entrance is a wide open hilltop with a spectacular view up the coast towards Suvla Bay, and there are five massive concrete blocks mounted here in a circle, each with quotes from Mustafa Kemal Ataturk or similar; all in Turkish, but nevertheless spectacular. The focal part of the site is a small commemorative area, again with spectacular views of the coast, and between the two areas there is a maze of old trenches. Chunuk Bair, while spectacular, and the New Zealand equivalent of Lone Pine, wasn’t as moving for me as Lone Pine, or indeed Anzac Cove. While both of the others have areas of marked graves, Chunuk Bair seemed more to me like a construction site, and unfortunately we didn’t have the time here to walk around and explore more.
From there, we moved on to a site which most of the big tour groups simply skip over; the Turkish 57th Infantry Regiment Memorial. It’s right on the tour route, very close to The Nek, Lone Pine and Chunuk Bair, but as an Anzac group, we were without a doubt in the minority. The atmosphere here is similar yet also different; where the other monuments are rectangles of white granite, the red-tinged Turkish memorial has a distinctly oriental design, and while crosses and the occasional star of David mark the graves of fallen Anzacs, here each headstone is engraved with a star and crescent moon, and all point south-southeast towards Mekkah, with inscriptions in both Turkish and Arabic script. While this was a significant enough change, it wasn’t until we were leaving that I noticed something that gave me a very personal connection with this place. A group of about twenty school-age children were gathered in front of a wall of remembrance engraved with hundreds of Turkish names, while two adults attempted to wrangle them for a group photo. It was then that I noticed that not only were they all similarly dressed, but that they were also wearing blue neck scarves very similar to the ones we had worn as Guides and Scouts in Australia. They were a Turkish Scout group, visiting a war memorial for the fallen soldiers of their country, just as I had done many times with school and Guide groups in Australia, and it suddenly hit home that although this site was considered almost sacred for the descendants of the Anzacs who had lost their lives here, it is just as significant for the Turkish people for exactly the same reason. As I wrote in an email to the travel agent who organised the tour, I could relate to those kids; suddenly it didn't matter which uniform the soldiers had worn, which flag they saluted or if their home was thousands of kilometres away on the other side of the world, or a small village in a nearby valley. None of them should have died there.
We left the Turkish memorial and slowly made our way back toward Anzac Cove, where we would spend the night. The entire area was declared an alcohol-free zone in 2003, although I cannot imagine how the organisers ever saw fit to allow drinking at the site. Approaching the main entrance, we noticed two long queues for security, and so joined on the end, and waited. Then my phone rings. Some back story required here - check one of the previous entries. Anyway, security was tight, involving rigorous body and luggage searches, then we finally made it inside. Seeing the area itself for the first time I have to admit, I was surprised by the small size. I had expected an area the size of a city block, although I think, in my imagination, having heard stories about this battle for as long as I can remember, I had built it up in my mind to be an expansive area to fit the immense significance of the battle which took place here. In reality though, the area is probably the size of two football fields - a similar size to Lone Pine.
It was only 4pm and already the grassed area was almost completely full, and the empty seats in the grandstands were rapidly disappearing. We managed to find a group of seats together and settled in for the night. The light was slowly fading, and considering we’d be in the grandstands all night, I left the group to explore the area for myself about an hour before sunset. I wandered back up the entrance road towards Ari Burnu, a small point marking the south end of Northern Beach, and made my way down onto the beach. On the way down, I saw a large granite block, again with Mustafa Kemal Ataturk's famous quote on it. I love the sentiment behind it.
There were a few others weaving between the graves, pausing here and there for a moment, and after reading some of the inscriptions myself, I moved further down onto the beach itself and settled on the rocky beach to watch the sunset. Although I grew up in suburban Melbourne, a lot of my childhood was spent at the beach or on the water, and just sitting on the shore at Ari Burnu, away from the crowded chaos of Northern Beach, watching the waves gently wash over the pebbles, I finally had a chance to reflect on why I was actually there and the significance of the place. One song kept running through my head - And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, by Eric Bogle. I'd taught some of my year 11s in Berlin about the history of Anzac through this song, and I love it. Watching the waves on the shore, the line "And their blood stained the sand and the water" had newfound meaning. It was this beach that he was talking about. The clear blue water gently ebbing and flowing, and the yellow grainy sand mixed with grey pebbles that I was so calmly relaxing on had once been stained scarlet with the blood of my ancestors. Truly food for thought.
I stayed there for a good hour, and only long after the sun had set over the Aegean and the stars had begun tracing their path towards the west, I gradually made my way back to the rest of the True Blue Tours gang. And then began the long wait for dawn. I had read some previous extracts from online travel reviews about the Anzac experience, and so knew it would be cold, but I had no idea it would be the kind of cold that froze you to the bone, so that no amount of moving could get you warm, that cups of piping hot Turkish tea straight out of the urn seemed merely lukewarm, and that your own shivering kept you awake, even at 5am after having been awake for almost 24 hours. Many people had brought sleeping bags, but unfortunately I neither had a one in Berlin, nor was inclined to buy one just for this trip. Even our tour organiser had expected a significantly less Antarctic overnight experience, having advised me against bringing a sleeping bag and assuring me that a warm jacket and a beanie would suffice. Unfortunately it did not. Sitting in my ski jacket with my jeans tucked into my socks and boots, two scarves tightly wrapped around my neck and a fleece blanket snugly around my legs to keep the wind blowing through the back of the grandstand from turning my lower legs into iceblocks, I began to appreciate the soldiers’ experiences of arriving at Gallipoli that morning in the boats, wearing not much more than a military uniform, and certainly not having the luxury of high tech fleece or good old hot tea to ward off the hypothermia.
To be fair, the organisers made a fair attempt to distract us from the cold; they had set up massive screens around the area and throughout the night showed personal documentaries relating to both Anzac and Turkish soldiers, which included extracts from diaries and letters home, and interviews with Gallipoli historians from both Australia and New Zealand, as well as intermittent performances of music from that era by the Australian and NZ military band.
Then finally around 5am, there began to be movement at the station. Well, at the podium anyway. I have to admit, although the service itself was the main reason for making the trip to Turkey in the first place, by this stage I was so overtired that I had discovered I have the skill of being able to nap standing up. I literally could not keep my eyes open any longer, and during some of the readings at least, I know I drifted off for a few minutes here and there. I was however awake long enough to see a truly magnanimous gesture from the Turkish military. Behind the stage, the flags of all three nations were fluttering gently in the early morning breeze - the Australian and New Zealand flags both at half-mast in accordance with military tradition. However within the first few minutes, a senior Turkish military officer directed one of his subordinates to lower the Turkish flag to match the Australian and New Zealand. Turkish military tradition differs slightly from Australian in that the flag is either fully raised or fully lowered, and breaking tradition to acknowledge the customs of the military forces of two then-enemy countries may have been a small gesture, but its significance was not lost on the crowd.
The service itself was similar to the Melbourne service, and all of the elements that I love about the service at home were there. I’m not sure what I would choose as my favourite part though. I think just hearing all of the readings and hymns that I’m so used to hearing in Melbourne actually read and sung at Gallipoli, at Northern Beach, was the best part: Abide With Me, which always reminds me of my grandpa - I don’t know the words, but he does, and when they play it in Melbourne, I love to listen to him sing along with the other veterans. One thing that I don't recall hearing in Melbourne is Ataturk's speech - the one I mentioned before. Here, it had special significance. The original Mehmets and Johnnies may have long since passed away, but their descendents continue to remember their sacrifices, and have an incredible amount of mutual respect. And his words still hold true.
The Ode of Remembrance had particular importance - after all, the 17,000-strong crowd gathered on the shore was all the evidence anyone would need that to clearly demonstrate that “We will remember them.” The Last Post echoed around the hills and valleys and reflected off the cliffs behind us, then Advance Australia Fair was played. At the time, I was extremely moved by this, but that was before Lone Pine.
And suddenly it was all over. Almost without anyone realising, the sun had risen and was starting to bring some warmth to the chilly morning air, and gradually the huge crowd dispersed for the separate services. Again, full credit to our travel agent - Yilmaz and our driver had managed to demonstrate strategic genius in finding a space for our bus, and after a quick breakfast, we got back onto the bus and headed up to Lone Pine [photo].
This was the other service I’d been looking forward to; a service with just Australians, in a place that has a significance for our country and our history like no other place on Earth. Where yesterday the site had been relatively calm and spacious, the grandstands along both sides of the memorial and all of the grassed area between the graves and around the Lone Pine were now filled with people, still obviously very close to being either frostbitten or asleep - in many cases, both - from the Dawn Service. The service here was different to Anzac Cove - for me, it was much more personal. By this stage, I’d been away from Australia for nine months, and aside from my mum’s visit and a few random eavesdropping opportunities in the trains in Berlin, I’d had very little contact with Aussies here. And now, to be surrounded by Australians, and to stand at a place like Lone Pine, seeing the Australian flag at half mast and hearing Advance Australia Fair - that was something that I will never forget as long as I live. I’m not a huge fan of the anthem - Adam Hills most definitely had a point when he said that it’s not the most inspiring anthem in the world. The tune shares a greater resemblance with a funeral dirge than an inspiring ballad, and some of the words are linguistically obsolete - exhibit A: girt. However, it is still our national anthem, and standing in the grandstand, my flag wrapped around my shoulders just like hundreds of other people, hearing those first few notes, seeing everyone get to their feet, and then listening to the 10,000 strong crowd sing along (of course, majority for the first verse only - then there was a great flurry of activity as people dove for their Order Of Service booklets for the words to the second verse); that is a moment that will stay with me forever. In the middle of Turkey, I felt like I was at home.
The rest of the day is something of a blur. Following the Lone Pine service was the Chunuk Bair service for the New Zealanders. By this stage, I was getting to the point of saturation with military services and official commemorative memorials, and like many of the others in the group, I chose the warmth and wind-free shelter of the bus. By that afternoon, we were on the highway back up to Istanbul, and that night in the hotel, I think I probably got one of the best nights sleep ever.
And with that, I’m going to bring this entry to a somewhat premature close. I think I managed to fit two completely different trips into the space of a weekend - the craziness of Istanbul, and the monumental historical and cultural significance of the Anzac Day Dawn Service on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and hence I’ve chosen to separate the two in my blog. Ok, you’ve got me: I’ve only managed to finish the first part. Yes, I admit - I take my time with blogs. Either way, the Anzac part is done, so enjoy that, and I hope to not keep you all waiting too long with the Istanbul experience. Ciao -A
Since 2000, my Anzac tradition is to sleep at my grandparents like I used to when I was a kid. My grandfather and I get up at 4am on the 25th to get the bus from the local RSL to the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne with tens of thousands of others for the Dawn Service. I’m not sure when I first considered making the trip to Turkey. Maybe it was at the first Dawn Service I went to… maybe years before that. Either way, I’d been researching the logistics of this for quite a few years, and without a doubt, the easiest way to do it was to join a tour group. So I did.
I’m definitely someone accustomed to doing their travel homework, and in this case, I hit gold. The wonder that is Google brought me to the website of Istanbul travel agency True Blue Tours - without a doubt the best travel agency I’ve ever dealt with. I could not fault them. Yes, they are that good. Yilmaz, the owner/manager, will quite literally do almost anything for his clients. And so I found myself abandoning school for two days, claiming an Australian national cultural pilgrimage, and set off for Istanbul, the only city in the world to span two continents, possibly the city with the greatest number of official names over the years, and even a song to commemorate this feat. Almost as soon as I arrived in Istanbul, I fell in love with it. Before I’d even got to the centre of the city, Istanbul had well and truly got under my skin. I think it might have been a combination of the warm weather, the sunshine and the magnificent harbour, reminiscent of St Kilda Esplanade, that entranced me. Then again, I think the immortal words of Darryl Kerrigan capture it much more succinctly: “It’s just the vibe”.
The 4-day round trip from Istanbul started on the Wednesday night with a Turkish cultural evening - a belly dancer reminiscent of Amy Winehouse and a very entertaining singer, whose linguistic skills spanned not only Turkish and English, but also German, Hindi, Mandarin and French. His repertoire included musical masterpieces and cultural cornerstones from all nationalities present - a Chinese ballad, a groovy Bollywood number, a Latvian folk song, and “Muss I Denn” for the Germans. He unfortunately overlooked the Kiwis, and instead chose to include them in a Turkish-accented rendition of “Waltzing Matilda”.
The following morning was a bright and early 6am start for the five-hour drive down to the Gallipoli peninsula. About three hours into the drive, we began to realise with every passing truck stop just how many Australian and Kiwi expats had chosen 2008 to make the pilgrimage. The number of giant white luxury coaches in each and every carpark continued to grow (I stopped counting at twenty - at one truck stop!). For many reasons, we were indeed fortunate that our tour company had chosen a 30-seater minibus with all the luxuries of a coach, in addition to being painted a spectacular shade of bronze. Not only did this make our group a lot easier to keep together, and to get to know a lot more people on the tour in the few days we had together, but it also made it a lot easier to both park the bus and find it in the fleet of over 400 (!!!) total coaches.
Eceabat, the major town on the peninsula, appeared to have been transformed into Manly/Torquay for the weekend. The streets were filled with Australians and Kiwis, wearing Socceroos, All-Blacks and various AFL jerseys (Essendon and Collingwood were the frontrunners), Havaiana thongs/flip flops, Billabong boardies, Oakleys on their heads and all manner of commemorative Gallipoli landing t-shirts. First up was an essential Turkish lunch - a real Turkish döner (similar to a Greek souvlaki). Since Berlin apparently has the largest Turkish population of any city outside Turkey, döner is the unofficial dish of Berlin, and goes down a treat at around 3-4am. There are some great döner places in Berlin, but nothing compares to the real thing. I also caved to the local entrepreneurs and bought myself a souvenir t-shirt, and managed to get my first practice at haggling - got the guy down from 20YTL to 15YTL (1YTL (lira) = approx AUD$1.10). Felt very proud.
We left Eceabat behind and began our tour of the battlefields. First stop was the Dardanelles coast, followed by Lone Pine, the site of a major battle between the Australian and the Turkish armies in August of 1915. At times, the front lines were within metres of each other, forcing the soldiers to abandon their rifles and bayonets, and instead use rocks, knives, and their bare hands. For more information, have a look at the AWM website. This is now the location of the major Australian memorial on the peninsula. The entire site is no larger than your average suburban footy ground. At one end is a low wall covered in the names of the fallen; behind this is an immense granite monument, and in front of it is another low wall with the inscription “Their name liveth for evermore”. We had about twenty minutes here, and I walked around the monument first, then wandered between the rows and rows of gravestones. All had names, birthdates, and dates of death, but for some, those were the only pieces of information known. Many had also been inscribed with an epitaph; some reflected those waiting at home for the dead, some were biblical verses, others poignantly simple: “He laid down his life for his friends”, “Could I just clasp your hand one more time to say well done”, “Until we meet again”, “Peace perfect peace”. I could have spent hours there, but unfortunately more and more people were streaming in as tour groups arrived from Istanbul, and we still had a lot of ground to cover before heading over to Anzac Cove.
Next stop was Chunuk Bair, the New Zealand official commemorative site. As with Lone Pine for Australians, Chunuk Bair was the site of a major battle, this time between New Zealand and Turkish forces. The entrance is a wide open hilltop with a spectacular view up the coast towards Suvla Bay, and there are five massive concrete blocks mounted here in a circle, each with quotes from Mustafa Kemal Ataturk or similar; all in Turkish, but nevertheless spectacular. The focal part of the site is a small commemorative area, again with spectacular views of the coast, and between the two areas there is a maze of old trenches. Chunuk Bair, while spectacular, and the New Zealand equivalent of Lone Pine, wasn’t as moving for me as Lone Pine, or indeed Anzac Cove. While both of the others have areas of marked graves, Chunuk Bair seemed more to me like a construction site, and unfortunately we didn’t have the time here to walk around and explore more.
From there, we moved on to a site which most of the big tour groups simply skip over; the Turkish 57th Infantry Regiment Memorial. It’s right on the tour route, very close to The Nek, Lone Pine and Chunuk Bair, but as an Anzac group, we were without a doubt in the minority. The atmosphere here is similar yet also different; where the other monuments are rectangles of white granite, the red-tinged Turkish memorial has a distinctly oriental design, and while crosses and the occasional star of David mark the graves of fallen Anzacs, here each headstone is engraved with a star and crescent moon, and all point south-southeast towards Mekkah, with inscriptions in both Turkish and Arabic script. While this was a significant enough change, it wasn’t until we were leaving that I noticed something that gave me a very personal connection with this place. A group of about twenty school-age children were gathered in front of a wall of remembrance engraved with hundreds of Turkish names, while two adults attempted to wrangle them for a group photo. It was then that I noticed that not only were they all similarly dressed, but that they were also wearing blue neck scarves very similar to the ones we had worn as Guides and Scouts in Australia. They were a Turkish Scout group, visiting a war memorial for the fallen soldiers of their country, just as I had done many times with school and Guide groups in Australia, and it suddenly hit home that although this site was considered almost sacred for the descendants of the Anzacs who had lost their lives here, it is just as significant for the Turkish people for exactly the same reason. As I wrote in an email to the travel agent who organised the tour, I could relate to those kids; suddenly it didn't matter which uniform the soldiers had worn, which flag they saluted or if their home was thousands of kilometres away on the other side of the world, or a small village in a nearby valley. None of them should have died there.
We left the Turkish memorial and slowly made our way back toward Anzac Cove, where we would spend the night. The entire area was declared an alcohol-free zone in 2003, although I cannot imagine how the organisers ever saw fit to allow drinking at the site. Approaching the main entrance, we noticed two long queues for security, and so joined on the end, and waited. Then my phone rings. Some back story required here - check one of the previous entries. Anyway, security was tight, involving rigorous body and luggage searches, then we finally made it inside. Seeing the area itself for the first time I have to admit, I was surprised by the small size. I had expected an area the size of a city block, although I think, in my imagination, having heard stories about this battle for as long as I can remember, I had built it up in my mind to be an expansive area to fit the immense significance of the battle which took place here. In reality though, the area is probably the size of two football fields - a similar size to Lone Pine.
It was only 4pm and already the grassed area was almost completely full, and the empty seats in the grandstands were rapidly disappearing. We managed to find a group of seats together and settled in for the night. The light was slowly fading, and considering we’d be in the grandstands all night, I left the group to explore the area for myself about an hour before sunset. I wandered back up the entrance road towards Ari Burnu, a small point marking the south end of Northern Beach, and made my way down onto the beach. On the way down, I saw a large granite block, again with Mustafa Kemal Ataturk's famous quote on it. I love the sentiment behind it.
There were a few others weaving between the graves, pausing here and there for a moment, and after reading some of the inscriptions myself, I moved further down onto the beach itself and settled on the rocky beach to watch the sunset. Although I grew up in suburban Melbourne, a lot of my childhood was spent at the beach or on the water, and just sitting on the shore at Ari Burnu, away from the crowded chaos of Northern Beach, watching the waves gently wash over the pebbles, I finally had a chance to reflect on why I was actually there and the significance of the place. One song kept running through my head - And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, by Eric Bogle. I'd taught some of my year 11s in Berlin about the history of Anzac through this song, and I love it. Watching the waves on the shore, the line "And their blood stained the sand and the water" had newfound meaning. It was this beach that he was talking about. The clear blue water gently ebbing and flowing, and the yellow grainy sand mixed with grey pebbles that I was so calmly relaxing on had once been stained scarlet with the blood of my ancestors. Truly food for thought.
I stayed there for a good hour, and only long after the sun had set over the Aegean and the stars had begun tracing their path towards the west, I gradually made my way back to the rest of the True Blue Tours gang. And then began the long wait for dawn. I had read some previous extracts from online travel reviews about the Anzac experience, and so knew it would be cold, but I had no idea it would be the kind of cold that froze you to the bone, so that no amount of moving could get you warm, that cups of piping hot Turkish tea straight out of the urn seemed merely lukewarm, and that your own shivering kept you awake, even at 5am after having been awake for almost 24 hours. Many people had brought sleeping bags, but unfortunately I neither had a one in Berlin, nor was inclined to buy one just for this trip. Even our tour organiser had expected a significantly less Antarctic overnight experience, having advised me against bringing a sleeping bag and assuring me that a warm jacket and a beanie would suffice. Unfortunately it did not. Sitting in my ski jacket with my jeans tucked into my socks and boots, two scarves tightly wrapped around my neck and a fleece blanket snugly around my legs to keep the wind blowing through the back of the grandstand from turning my lower legs into iceblocks, I began to appreciate the soldiers’ experiences of arriving at Gallipoli that morning in the boats, wearing not much more than a military uniform, and certainly not having the luxury of high tech fleece or good old hot tea to ward off the hypothermia.
To be fair, the organisers made a fair attempt to distract us from the cold; they had set up massive screens around the area and throughout the night showed personal documentaries relating to both Anzac and Turkish soldiers, which included extracts from diaries and letters home, and interviews with Gallipoli historians from both Australia and New Zealand, as well as intermittent performances of music from that era by the Australian and NZ military band.
Then finally around 5am, there began to be movement at the station. Well, at the podium anyway. I have to admit, although the service itself was the main reason for making the trip to Turkey in the first place, by this stage I was so overtired that I had discovered I have the skill of being able to nap standing up. I literally could not keep my eyes open any longer, and during some of the readings at least, I know I drifted off for a few minutes here and there. I was however awake long enough to see a truly magnanimous gesture from the Turkish military. Behind the stage, the flags of all three nations were fluttering gently in the early morning breeze - the Australian and New Zealand flags both at half-mast in accordance with military tradition. However within the first few minutes, a senior Turkish military officer directed one of his subordinates to lower the Turkish flag to match the Australian and New Zealand. Turkish military tradition differs slightly from Australian in that the flag is either fully raised or fully lowered, and breaking tradition to acknowledge the customs of the military forces of two then-enemy countries may have been a small gesture, but its significance was not lost on the crowd.
The service itself was similar to the Melbourne service, and all of the elements that I love about the service at home were there. I’m not sure what I would choose as my favourite part though. I think just hearing all of the readings and hymns that I’m so used to hearing in Melbourne actually read and sung at Gallipoli, at Northern Beach, was the best part: Abide With Me, which always reminds me of my grandpa - I don’t know the words, but he does, and when they play it in Melbourne, I love to listen to him sing along with the other veterans. One thing that I don't recall hearing in Melbourne is Ataturk's speech - the one I mentioned before. Here, it had special significance. The original Mehmets and Johnnies may have long since passed away, but their descendents continue to remember their sacrifices, and have an incredible amount of mutual respect. And his words still hold true.
The Ode of Remembrance had particular importance - after all, the 17,000-strong crowd gathered on the shore was all the evidence anyone would need that to clearly demonstrate that “We will remember them.” The Last Post echoed around the hills and valleys and reflected off the cliffs behind us, then Advance Australia Fair was played. At the time, I was extremely moved by this, but that was before Lone Pine.
And suddenly it was all over. Almost without anyone realising, the sun had risen and was starting to bring some warmth to the chilly morning air, and gradually the huge crowd dispersed for the separate services. Again, full credit to our travel agent - Yilmaz and our driver had managed to demonstrate strategic genius in finding a space for our bus, and after a quick breakfast, we got back onto the bus and headed up to Lone Pine [photo].
This was the other service I’d been looking forward to; a service with just Australians, in a place that has a significance for our country and our history like no other place on Earth. Where yesterday the site had been relatively calm and spacious, the grandstands along both sides of the memorial and all of the grassed area between the graves and around the Lone Pine were now filled with people, still obviously very close to being either frostbitten or asleep - in many cases, both - from the Dawn Service. The service here was different to Anzac Cove - for me, it was much more personal. By this stage, I’d been away from Australia for nine months, and aside from my mum’s visit and a few random eavesdropping opportunities in the trains in Berlin, I’d had very little contact with Aussies here. And now, to be surrounded by Australians, and to stand at a place like Lone Pine, seeing the Australian flag at half mast and hearing Advance Australia Fair - that was something that I will never forget as long as I live. I’m not a huge fan of the anthem - Adam Hills most definitely had a point when he said that it’s not the most inspiring anthem in the world. The tune shares a greater resemblance with a funeral dirge than an inspiring ballad, and some of the words are linguistically obsolete - exhibit A: girt. However, it is still our national anthem, and standing in the grandstand, my flag wrapped around my shoulders just like hundreds of other people, hearing those first few notes, seeing everyone get to their feet, and then listening to the 10,000 strong crowd sing along (of course, majority for the first verse only - then there was a great flurry of activity as people dove for their Order Of Service booklets for the words to the second verse); that is a moment that will stay with me forever. In the middle of Turkey, I felt like I was at home.
The rest of the day is something of a blur. Following the Lone Pine service was the Chunuk Bair service for the New Zealanders. By this stage, I was getting to the point of saturation with military services and official commemorative memorials, and like many of the others in the group, I chose the warmth and wind-free shelter of the bus. By that afternoon, we were on the highway back up to Istanbul, and that night in the hotel, I think I probably got one of the best nights sleep ever.
And with that, I’m going to bring this entry to a somewhat premature close. I think I managed to fit two completely different trips into the space of a weekend - the craziness of Istanbul, and the monumental historical and cultural significance of the Anzac Day Dawn Service on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and hence I’ve chosen to separate the two in my blog. Ok, you’ve got me: I’ve only managed to finish the first part. Yes, I admit - I take my time with blogs. Either way, the Anzac part is done, so enjoy that, and I hope to not keep you all waiting too long with the Istanbul experience. Ciao -A
Auf Wiedersehen Berlin.
Seriously, I have no idea where the last 10 months have gone. It seems like just yesterday I was still at work in stationery with Zoe. and the team, counting down the days until I escaped for Germany and a year in Berlin, and now it’s the end of May, and I’m packing up again, but this time to move within Germany. And on that topic, it is truly incredible how much junk you can accumulate in a year. The paper rubbish alone has filled four of the trusty green Coles shopping bags, and the other random rubbish – yes, it’s taken me about two weeks, off and on, to pack up my flat. Made all the more difficult by the magnificent weather outside in Berlin, the hundreds of “end-of-the-year-and-probably-the-last-time-we’ll-see-each-other” shindigs with the other assistants, and yes, travel too: well, wouldn’t you do the same thing if you had 10 days off in the middle of May, three eager travel buddies, a few hundred Euros saved, and return flights to Morocco were less than 200€ return? Yes, you know you would.
Anyway, it’s my last weekend in
I’ve got mixed feelings about the move to
But for now, it’s a new city, new job, new flat, new friends – it’ll be a challenge, and I know I’ll be busy for the first month – actually, for a lot longer than just the first month, but I can’t wait. I’m definitely ready for a change – school’s been pretty boring for the last few months, with over half of my lessons being cancelled for some reason or another, and I’m looking forward to leaving. I’ll miss my table buddies in the staff room – Simon, Christa and Conny, and some of the other staff, and definitely some of my classes, but I won’t be half sad to leave like I was in Kusel. I’m ready for some serious work – something I can get my teeth into, and from what I’ve seen of the Berlin branch of the company I'm joining, there’s definitely plenty for me to do. I can’t wait to get started; I’m also going to get an English conversation class running there, which should be good. We’ll see how it goes.
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