Between Eastern Greece and Western Armenia

Alternative title: How to get yourself cancelled in Turkey

First, let me begin with a few words from my sponsor: I haven’t got one. Please, I am young and I need the money! It’s very welcome.
Cheers.

Second, I don’t want to tell you a chronological recount of every place we visited. I’d rather content myself with telling you my opinion, of retelling you the view of the local population and of giving you a broad overview.

Judging by the title you may be able to guess where I was this time. I stayed in a very ancient land, one that may be called the cradle of complex human civilisation and one that harboured a great many cultures and religions, starting from whatever people believed in at Göbeklitepe and the surrounding archeological sites to today’s love for techno. You will find traces of everything in between and they are all randomly placed all over Anatolian. In fact, almost every touristic spot was built by Romans, Byzantine (Eastern Rome), the Greek, Stoneage people, Armenians or Tsarist (pre-Soviet) Russians. Now, why did I fail to mention Turkey in this enumeration? The reason could be attributed to the fact that Turkey has extremely little to offer in terms of genuine and picturesque Turkish buildings. Apart from a few bridges and countless mosques – some of which are wonderful to look at – Turkish architecture is limited to concrete. To cities made of concrete. Wonderfully fertile, fresh soil covered in murderous concrete. There’s, of course, a well-founded reason for this brutalism, but I will get to it in a bit. Let me first conclude this part by saying that Anatolia is filled with stuff from the past.

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I had the pleasure and privilege of meeting Valentin, the French teacher, fellow writer, poet, traveler, dear friend, back in Georgia and convince him to join me on this trip. For the first time I’d spent a trip of a month with the same person. We set off in Batumi from where we followed a somewhat planned traveling route. The plan was to hitchhike as much as possible, visit a few well-situated places and stop every five days, so that he could give his French lessons online and uninterrupted. His companionship was a reassurance to me and me to him. During difficult times (mostly caused by a failure to stop a ride), we’d supported each other, read to each other or occupy our minds during endless hours of raising our thumbs in vain. I gave him reassurance by having a functional credit card and the availability of money. Curiously enough, just before our departure to Turkey, he gained 900 Lari in a casino in Batumi and got his credit card hacked at the same time. God gives and God takes, it’s a perpetual up-and-down-situation with this dude…

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  Crossing the border to Turkey. For Valentin it’s a goodbye forever.

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  Better off in Mardin.

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  Hard at work.

Luckily that senior, possibly bearded guy up in the sky gave us the ability to think and come up with a nice travel itinerary and he bestowed our ancestors with a similar ability, which caused them to create some interesting places along the way. Here’s our itinerary:

Batumi, Erzurum, Kars, Ani, Dogubayazit, Vaaaaan, Mardin, Urfa, Nemrut, Antep, Kapadokya, Konya, Antalya, Fethiye, Rhodos, Fethiye, Kabak, Luxembourg. I did not visit all the marked spots on the map.

God… right, God! Or Allah. Let’s return to his fellow for a minute. It’s pretty much the same idea and probably as old as mankind itself. A higher power of some sort. A representation of a superiority that connects everything we can and cannot perceive. Comes in different shapes too! There are the fancies deities, for instance Cthulhu, the tentacle God of destruction, or the giant turtle that hatched the world. There’s also the pagan god figures such as the ones in Göbeklitepe, that had been created to give life, death, the world and everything else reason. At some point humans lost much of their creativity and agreed on believing in only one person (let us simply blame Tik-Tok for this evolution). The magical, mysterious and frightening supernatural power may have changed, but the questions remain unanswered. Anyhow, some countries like Turkey are Muslim and there’s no doubt of this in Western Armenia (Eastern Anatolia). Ramadan is being celebrated and life adjusts to it in a most radical way: All restaurants are closed until the break of the fast, the Iftar, and the overall movement around the cities is slowed down just to come to a complete stand-still during the break. It becomes magically quiet. The silence in the cities because total, as every dehydrated and famished person rushes home to eat and drink and smoke a cigarette. No soul is seen outside. Then, within 15 minutes all is over and the streets are overflowing with happy people. The withered, yellow faces suddenly took back their normal texture and colour and night becomes day. Religion clearly takes a major role in people’s lives, even though it remains a choice of adhering to it – many girls refuse to wear the hijab for instance. Here I might add that the Islam is also being used as a political tool to keep people quiet, proud and dumb, but that would go beyond my competencies.

In general everyone we talked to in Turkey has a propensity to being in strong disagreement with the politics. The Kurds feel discriminated and left out of the political equation, the youth wants to go abroad and experience freedom and excitement, old people become nostalgic about Atatürk; all of them suffer from the dramatic inflation, from corruption, repression, a rotten education and a apprehension of lurking terror. To give you an example: the average income in Turkey is about 5000 Lira a month, which is already 16 times less than Euro. In Luxembourg there are not too few people (though by far not the majority) who earn this sum in Euro. Even if local prices were equal, the Turkish population would still earn a fraction of what a somewhat wealthy person earns in Lux. The price gap is enormous as well: not taking into consideration that alcoholic beverages are taxed heavily, a beer in a typical bar costs 35 to 40 Lira. I’d like to see you pay 40 Euro for a refreshing, fermented hop juice!

Moving on to transportation. I have been incredibly spoilt by the Armenian hospitality. Coming to this wonderful country where hitchhiking is always the fastest way of getting around, Turkey felt like the angry voice of a long-forgotten teacher, interrupting your reveries. We waited, frustrated. We stood at the road side, ready for any car. And we waited some more. In the meantime, Valentin would read me some Bukowski poems, while I tried to remember Turkish swear words. And then we waited a little bit more. Before Erzurum, this was especially true. And when someone did eventually stop for us – a ride in the cow wagon – the driver expected us to pay the preposterous sum of 500 Lira per person!! We played it cool, as we already knew he would not kidnap us and simply waited for him to stop and kick us out.
For most of the remaining time in Turkey we traveled by bus, which are fairly decent.
We once tried to take a train. Bought a ticket and everything online and felt prepared for the first time. However, when we got to the bloody train station, the ticket office worker plainly told us it’d run in four hours late. Fair enough, we thought, we’ll try taking a bus instead. But there was no more bus, they told us. We resorted to our last way of leaving: hitchhiking. A bus stopped for us and we left.

Anatolia is a densely populated place, especially the cities. A demographic explosion is taking place, coupled with a firm immigration that forces the Turkish government to erect apartment buildings in great number and without much concern for the environment. At first this was surprising, but then you hear countless stories of families having 10 or 11 children. I always feel a little reluctant to congratulate them on their successful love life and would rather be inclined to ask them if they haven’t heard of preservatives. Upon first hearing of this birthrate, I understood the beggarly children in the streets, kids squatting in dumpsters, the vast number of young gangs, the vastly impoverished families and the lack in perspective for the younger generation. They are nice though and were all keen on talking to foreigners in their quasi-nonexistent English. Discussion would start in the usual manner:

-Hello! Where are you from?”

– Luxembourg, I’d answer, knowingly saying this in an English accent.

Silence. It is virtually impossible for anyone to understand this. Usually I don’t let the awkward silence build up for too long. After a second of confused looks I’d add:

– Lüksemburg, the Turkish way of saying it, which one in one thousand may have heard of.

This is pretty much as far as our conversations would go. In an attempt to cover their inability to speak in a foreign language, the children would then bombard me with a million question in Turkish to which I would reply that I didn’t speak the language.
Great talks.
Communication in general was rather problematic, since almost nobody spoke anyother

The climate is harsh for most of the eastern part of the country. Snuggly situated between the mountains in the south and north and the western Caucasus mountains, no wind would carry humid airs from the seas, leaving an insupportable radiation from the sun lick the surface without any opposition. Valentin and I had to wear winter clothes for the first part of the journey until we reached Mardin in northern reaches of Mesopotamia. Things got a little better from there on. The sudden appearance of the vast, blue sea broke our equanimity to the beauty of the lands, which you will face sooner or later after having traveled for a longer period of time. The heat was hot and air was filled with a thousand sounds. Antalya came as a relief. We had left the drawn-out winter behind the vast Taurus mountain range and a renewed flow of energy swelled in our hearts.

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Long story short, I had left one face of Turkey behind and entered another one. Valetin’s and my path split. Farewell, once you’ve survived the “infernal anthill” that is Istanbul you shall discover all of Kazakhstan! Thanks for the nice formulation too.

Once parted, I changed my travel plans, due to knee pain. Instead of continuing my travels for the remainder of summer, I rescheduled and resolved to return home after visiting a dear friend in Rhodos and participating in the “Get your own Picture” youth exchange in the heavenly Kabak Valley, at Yerdeniz camp (we shot some amazing short films). Both of them included getting back in touch with many Europeans at the same time and always involved alcohol. Everyone is a social drinker it appears. Tough if one has left this society just long enough to see the benefits of being sober. All this drunk talk, the urge to impress and the flat-lustrous, lewd and hazy faces have become somewhat repugnant to me. It’s a psychological burden to carry when one refuses to relapse into old and bad habits, but is constantly surrounded by drunkards. A reduction in alc consumption should be considered by everyone, especially in regards to the elevated effectivity, when administered eventually.

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  Joining the drunk crew for one crazy night

One last note to end the blog entry: I only scratched the surface of my impressions; I accumulated a fair amount of knowledge and information (emotional, culinary and dry data) and choose to share only a very limited with you, whoever reads this. It wasn’t all sunshine, not all dark. I deliberately tried not to do cherry-picking as it is not my style. Therefore, I’d like to dedicate these last lines to the ambiguity I feel towards Turkey. It’s a fascinating country full of miraculously beautiful sites, littered with interesting people, contemplations about life and death and the universe, various food, breathtaking views, great distances, extremes, sadness and happiness, disturbing views on sexuality and much more. However, much of it has been built on conquest and turbulences. Many historical sites were erected by the victims of history, but little credit is given to them, hence the controversial title.
Before I conclude with a series of randomly chosen pictures, here’s a song that followed me throughout our journey through Eastern Turkey:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KeQQpLembyk&ab_channel=SerjTankian-Topic

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Putting the “grim” in Pilgrimage

Russia has this weird tendency to always be a little strange. This even applies to other spheres of life that one wouldn’t think of straight away. This weekend I had the extraordinary pleasure of experiencing my first short-distance hitchhiking trip: to the Raifa monastery. While the destination was but 30 minutes away by car, it already served as staff gauge for further upcoming trips. I was accompanied by a German girl, Sophia, who lived most of her life in a city right across the Mosel River, so basically in visual range to Luxembourg – I had to travel all the way to Kazan to meet my neighbour.

 

 

Raifa monastery has little amazing to offer to its visitors. It has the typical white-stoned walls, its golden cupola, the brightly and positive religious fresco that cover every single inch of the inner walls and, last but not least, it’s golden, shiny icons. And I may not be an expert on the matter, but I’d claim, that some icons value more highly than others. This is, some shine brighter than others, have been blessed zealously than others thus increased in magical/spiritual powers (how much mana must a priest or bishop invest to get a +10 Protection for Relatives bonus?) and show a different holy person or wise man. Even though I do not possess a picture to prove my testimony, there was a literal queue waiting to touch and even kiss an icon of Maria with Son. And the religious fervency with which they (i.e. especially women with children or babushki) threw themselves at a representation of holy people that no one has set an eye upon within the last 2000 years, made me question the rationality of these fine and humble people. Even on a different level, would it not be sufficient to carry the belief in one’s heart, rather than to spread it with ones lips on a picture that has been touched by thousands before? Is it not a little silly and hypocritical that one prays for a child that serves in the army (e.g.), rather than to make sure, that war isn’t a necessity at all? Would an active, defensive position not achieve more than putting ones trust in a being/spirit/dream and sometimes nightmare, that does little more than listen?

After witnessing this absurdity display of raw and untroubled Orthodox faith, we wandered around the premises of the monastery, investing into water from a heavenly water spring and holy bread and used the celestial privies. We made a careful inspection of the divine stone walls, that slowly started to crumble and inspected the cherubic monastic gardens. Blessed are the decorations outside the walls, for they are humble, yet still fascinate the eye of the observer; the modesty is more to the Lord, for he renounces the simple outward appearance. The propriety and decency weighs heavier than gold and polish, and they are more appropriate for people who profess to worship God.

 

 

 

One more detail in the monastery that startled me before turning to hitchhiking. What are monks supposed to do while living behind holy walls, untroubled by modern hysteria? Praying for oneself and meditating can be arduous work, since one will sooner or later encounter a bottleneck and run out of ideas. Therefore, one has established a place, where children can spend their time and listen to the dramatic and fascinating stories of their favourite biblical heroes or visit a military cemetery (spreading the word of God requires modern technology). Plus, if the children are gone to play with army equipment, yet one still has no time to worship our Lord, one can leave a small tip in the monastery; a monk will take over the labour and invest all of his magical power in protecting ones relatives before the evil forces.

 

 

 

A small note on hitchhiking in Russia: It’s working perfectly fine! Though we didn’t travel far away from the city, a no point did we wait more than 10 minutes and each driver was unique in a very specific way. However, the second car that helped us managing the final part of the road to the monastery was of greatest interest, as the driver was either suspicious or unwilling to helping us; it was but thanks to his passenger, who he picked up along the road as well, that he stopped. The passenger, however intrusive he might have seemed, promptly invited us to beer and sausages and was very keen on learning more about us foreigners, traveling to Russia, for he appeared to be blissfully astonished to hear this; especially, as he wondered whether Europe was cleaner than Russia (interesting comparison anyway). He was so absorbing in his manner, than he immediately succeeded in convincing the unaware driver to made a minor detour to the monastery, where the eventually left us off.

Our return to the city of Kazan was guaranteed by a former Танкист, a tank driver, who had served in the former GDR – it is very common for me to meet former soldiers while hitchhiking, who had all served in Socialist Germany for some years and who, without exception, all adored the German beer – and was on his way home.

Please excuse the bad quality

Our voyage ended back in the city of Kazan, where we were greeted by a world, completely opposite from the one that we had just left: Welcome back to Soviet Union!

 

Victory Park

 

 

 

 

“One can enjoy bureaucracy and therein identify the bizarreness of life” – Ludwig Schubert

Some of you might be slightly familiar with the rich Russian history. I will not continue with a full rendition of what has happened before, only state the most important factor that all major events have in common: time. Certainly, never has anything ever happened, is happening or will ever happen anywhere in this world or the next without the factor time. This accounts for all creation, all matter in the universe, all countries and all gummibears alike.

(Space is, of course, just as important. Historically speaking, however, space and time are not proportional. If you compare the first mention of historical relevance of two given countries, then you would quickly see how Luxembourg is relatively smaller than Mother Russia, despite the prominence it already enjoyed in Roman times.)

Time is a vital ally of Russia. In times of war, the military could just wait for the right moment to start a counter-attack. Sometimes the government would wait for its industry to slowly wake up. Most of the Russian people need to be patient for winter to end its long lasting choke-hold so that they return to their actual work or hobbies. In fact, this waiting is so deeply enrooted in the culture that is has found its way to spoken and written language alike: friends of the language should have a look at the usage of the aspects of the various verbs of movement.
In fact, time and patience or so important to the culture that everyone arriving in Russia is already welcomed with a lot of paperwork that will test their patience to the breaking point. You may want an example for the better understanding of this problem: If writing this blog required Russia bureaucracy to be written, that would mean that I would have to visit at least 5 different offices in 3 different buildings that are distanced by at least 500m (this is especially unpleasant in winter times when the temperatures drop below -20°), sign a dozen papers in official Russian and show three different types of copies of the exact same picture.

The door to the accountant’s office. Text says (among others): “Come in one by one!!!”, “Please, leave nothing behind”, “Working times”, yallah yallah

In reality, the situation is even worse.
Traveling to Russia, especially in the framework of a program as official and well-known as Erasmus+ will have you at your knees, begging for a quick end. The way leading up to our departure was paved with quicksand, rather than actual stones that could have facilitated or accelerated our movement. Every movement bringing you closer to being accepted to Russia and receiving a scholarship already requires a considerable number of signatures and time (meaning: 2 different Learning Agreements, 2 different Motivation letters as our first choice spontaneously changed, a number of meetings with the responsible, a CV and so on and all of which should be handed in in at least 2 languages and in different styles). All of this process took about 2 months of work, varying in intensity.

Moving on. The real work, however, awaited us after crossing the border to Mother Russia. The first days in the country that had been at choke-hold of frost for many months were marked by an overwhelming and utterly and completely nonsensical amount of paperwork that had to be carried out in great hurry and in dozens of offices. As one is required by law to register wherever one goes at any time, so that the surveillance state knows where its subjects and foreign elements plot against him, we immediately had to go through a medical examination in order to enter the prison/dormitory. This went as follows: A Turkmen girl impatiently waited for us in what was soon going to be our new cell/home and let us through the Poliklinika where a couple of doctors inspected our health, to make sure that we didn’t have Syphilis, Tuberculosis or some weird mutation of Western values or ideals (the latter they didn’t check). This small inspection exacted of us some hours of our lifetime, combined with a thorough visit of the many-store medical building.
The documents thus retrieved at the end of this examination granted us the right to actually enter our house (House 7, inhabited solely by foreigners). Once inside of the building, we very hurried through two more bureaus where we had to sign another wave of documents. They were, as all other documents or contracts, written in a complicated Russian – it is not entirely out of the world to believe that we transfered our souls to the Red Army in the course of our actions. Afterwards we could finally leave our luggage in our new living quarter where we were greeted by our new flatmate with a hospitable and warm “Oh! I didn’t expect any guests!”, before we put our snow capes back on and made haste to be back in our coordinators office. He, that is our coordinator Rustam – we figured that our nickname for him “Rastam” would be more accurate, if only he could grow his hair and started smoking hashish – then congratulated us on having achieved the rank of Novice Bureaucrat and for having survived the first day of our 5-month stay.
The day eventually came to end with two aliens falling into their beds in their cells in this prison in a strange and cold country, that had only given us a short impression of what the actual paperwork here could look like. At this point, when our exhausted bodies longed only for rest and the cessation of these absurd procedures, a sudden panic shook us awake: This had only been the first day, yet we still hadn’t chosen any of our courses that we were to visit, nor actually paid for the jail sentence/dormitory. In the course of the following weeks and months of our stay, we have learned to live with these absurdities and take it rather as a comical game, rather than an unfortunate and miserable stroke of injustice against us foreigners. It is a fact, that all beings who were regrettable enough to be born here, or those that have willingly and purposefully moved to Russia suffer very alike – with the minute distinction, that some were lucky enough to know Russian to a degree, that they can at least understand when they sell their kidneys to some authority when signing any paper.
However, once you have left the greatest part of the work behind you or have learned to live with it, then you will see that life moves swiftly and you may be surprised at the amount of meaningful work that a person can fulfil here, if they have overcome the hindering traps, obstacles and whatever may pave ones path – success is all about conquering the first steps and using all the help one can possibly find.

A small insight into the paper terror that we had to go through

Ein Angebot, das wir nicht ablehnen konnten: Wodka mit der lokalen Mafia

Nachdem wir in diesem absurden Russland angekommen sind und die erste Woche ohne Frostbeulen oder Erfrierungen überstanden haben, haben wir erste Kontakte mit der lokalen Mafia geschlossen. Ja.

Ein Spaziergang durch unbekannte Orte führt oft dazu, dass man seinen eignen Horizont permanent dehnt. Obwohl man sich an einem solchen Ort zur gleichen Zeit unsicher und angreifbar fühlt, da einem die möglichen Gefahren noch unbekannt sind, so sind sie gleichermaßen komisch attraktiv, weil sie Geheimnisse besitzen, die jenen vorbehalten sind, die sich aus ihrer „Komfortzone“ herauswagen. Könnte man sich vorstellen, eine unbedeutende und altmodisch aussehende Bar zu seinen Favoriten zu zählen oder neue und interessante Leute im routinierten Alltagsleben auf der Straße anzuquatschen? Kaum, denn es besteht ja an sich kein Grund dazu. Allerdings führt das zu einem Austrocknen der Inputs zum Gehirn, was wiederum in einem allmählichen Desinteresse an der Welt und an ihren zahllosen versteckten Wundern resultiert.

Nehmen wir dieses (zufällige) Wirtshaus zum Beispiel! 

Bar NEO sucht nach Trinity

Eine ganz klassische Bar für Einheimische in einem der Randbezirke Kazans. Von Außen begrüßt sie kaum Passanten. In ihrem 90s/post-Sowjet Stil hat sie eine Zahl an Alkoholikern aufgenommen und geschaffen, die vermutlich vergleichbar ist mit der Anzahl an Geburten in diesem Bezirk innerhalb der letzten 30 Jahre. Obwohl das Äußere etwas anderes vermuten lässt, so soll der Wert von diesem besonderen Ort zu keinem Zeitpunkt unterschätzt werden. Die plötzliche Einführung eines fremden Elementes kann sehr unterschiedliche Reaktionen bewirken: Eine davon könnte die spontane Entscheidung sein, den Fremden die persönliche Perspektive auf die Heimat zu zeigen.

Da Ludwig und ich uns bereits aus unser Komfortzone herausbewegt haben und uns mit neuen Lebensbedingungen auseinandergesetzt haben, versuchen wir zudem immerzu, unseren eigenen Horizont zu verschieben – viele Projekte wurden schon ansatzweise angeschnitten, Reisen geplant, Zusammenarbeiten mit neuen Freunden und ortsansässigen „Partnern“ ausgedacht. Um uns besser mit unserer Gegend vertraut zu machen, haben wir beschlossen, uns zusammen mit der italienischen Studentin die schicksalsträchtige Bar NEO anzuschauen (aus Anonymitätsgründen werden wir sie von nun an Maria nennen). Warum ausgerechnet NEO? Zum einen deshalb, weil die Bedeutung des Wortes auf etwas Neues hindeutet, auf den Anfang einer wahrhaft russischen Erfahrung, die mancherlei Stereotype erfüllt hat. Auf der anderen Seite könnte man eine Referenz auf den Filmcharakter Neo aus Matrix vermuten; er hat sich aus einer angenehmen Illusion verabschiedet, um, nach einer Phase des Schocks und Terrors, die Realität zu akzeptieren und letztlich seinen Platz darin einzunehmen (die Schwellenphase, oder auch Liminalität, hat ihn die Wahrheit erkennen lassen). Nachdem wir eine halbe Flasche Wodka im Wohnheim geleert hatten, haben wir uns sogleich eine weitere in der Bar bestellt. Die zunächst argwöhnischen Blicke haben sich in wohlwollende verwandelt, sobald wir angefangen haben auf Russisch zu reden.

So sah die Bar von innen aus: Die Dekoration war überaus überschaubar. An den Wänden hingen einige klassische russische Gemälde, leider in schlechter gedruckt in schlechter Qualität. Die Preise waren vergleichbar mit jenen im Supermarkt (i.e. ungefähr 400 Rubel für ½ l von einem guten Wodka). Die angebotenen Waren waren ganz klassisch: die üblichen Alkohol und Schnäpse, billige Biere, Snacks und plastifizierter, getrockneter Fisch. Alle Gäste (bis auf die eine Frau Natascha im mittleren Alter ausnahmslos Männer) haben Karten um Geld gespielt, bis auf den guten Evgenij, der alleine vor sich hin gedöst hat, weiterhin gab es noch ein dubioses Hinterzimmer, mit regem Begängnis, bis dahin sind wir ‘leider’ nich nicht vorgedrungen.

Wir haben uns sofort gut verstanden. Ich wurde „Puschkin“ genannt, wir haben gemeinsam Karten gespielt und dabei genüsslich Wodka getrunken, Bier, und später noch billigen Cognac (sehr schlechte Idee) . Nach ein paar Drinks wurden wir ungehaltener und schnell hat sich herausgestellt, dass wir mit Mitgliedern der lokalen Mafia tranken. Die prominenteste Person unter ihnen war natürlich die gastfreundliche Natascha. Die Gasfreundschaftlichkeit stammte aber auch daher, dass sie für keinen der Drinks Geld ausgeben musste und in ihrer Macht, Leute herumzukommandieren, ungebremst war. Aber was anderes hätte man erwartet von der Frau, dessen Vater zufällig „Besitzer der Krim ist“. Urlaub in der Ukraine garantiert! (Gott, für diesen Kommentar werde ich sicherlich gelyncht…). Nachdem wir herausgefunden haben, dass Natascha bereits mit ihrem 5. Kind schwanger war, haben wir ihr vorgeschlagen vielleicht ganz mit dem Rauchen aufzuhören, als nur auf Marlboro Light zu wechseln. Andererseits wäre das nur ein Tropfen auf den heißen Stein gewesen… immerhin hat sie den ganzen Abend lang Kaffee getrunken und sich mit Hochprozentigem tüchtig die Kante gegeben (auch Drogen waren ihrerseits im Spiel, wir schafften es irgendwie dankend abzulehnen). Irgendwann werden meine Erinnerungen undurchsichtig… aber mit vereinten mentalen Kräften, haben wir es dann geschafft ein einigermaßen klares Licht auf die dunklen Stellen zu scheinen: Die ganze Nacht lang sind wir in einem Taxi durch die verschlafene Stadt gefahren, immerzu auf der Suche nach dem schönsten Blumenstrauß Kazans, um damit das Grab von Nataschas Mutter zu schmücken. Ein normaler Montag Abend also. Hin und wieder haben wir irgendwo ein Päuschen eingelegt, um uns mit Drinks und Essen zu versorgen (möglicherweise auch ein Mal in einem georgischen Restaurant, aber daran kann sich niemand genau erinnern, jedenfalls wurden wir jedes mal eingeladen, Riesen-Buffet, fast nichts angerührt, um dann im nächsten Restaurant/Drecksloch wieder eine Großbestellung aufzugeben).

Bild entspricht nicht dem tatsächlichen Grab

Mein Gedächtnis ist erst bei Sonnenaufgang komplett zurückgekehrt. Als die ersten Lichtstrahlen das Dunkel der Nacht vertrieben, haben wir uns dazu entscheiden Natascha mitsamt ihres Mafiabusiness alleine zu lassen und zum Wohnheim zurückzukehren. Die Wächter haben sich sicherlich sehr gefreut meinen und Ludwigs Namen aufzuschreiben (erste von 3 Verwarnungen) als wir zurück gekrochen kamen – ich bin davon überzeugt, dass man den gütigen Herren und Damen der Nachtwache überhaupt erstmals einen Sinn im Leben gibt, wenn man versucht in einem solchen Zustand durch das bewachte Tor zu treten. Natürlich haben sie es nicht als nötig empfunden, auch noch Marias Namen aufzuschreiben. Als wir dann aufgewacht sind, haben wir sofort damit angefangen, die einzelnen Gedächtnisfetzen aneinanderzureihen.

Mit den neugewonnenen Kontakten und dem Wissen, dass ein wahrhaft russisches Abenteuer zu jedem Zeitpunkt losbrechen kann, garantieren wir unserer teurer Leserschaft, dass die Qualität des Blogs weiterhin ansteigen wird.

Mehr Artikel folgen sehr bald!

An offer that we simply couldn’t refuse (Vodka with the local mafia)

After being thrown into the absurdity that is Russia and surviving the first week without any frostbite, we got acquainted with the local mafia. Yes.

Strolling through unknown places often results in a permanent distortion of one’s horizons. One feels vulnerable to be moving in a location as the possible dangers are unidentified, yet at the same time it is oddly attracting, because it holds secrets that will never be undiscovered if one choose not to leave one’s “Comfort Zone”. The possibility of meeting interesting new people or running across a bar or restaurant that may just become one’s favourite despite the old-fashioned appearance are quickly reduced to a bare minimum. Unfortunately, this will cause in a drainage of inflow of information to the brain and will surely result in a gradual disinterest in the world and its countless hidden beauties.

Taking this place for example! 

Be the Trinity to my NEO!

A typical local’s bar on the outskirts of Kazan. Its facade hardly welcomes anyone to move inside. Built in a 90s/post-Soviet fashion, it must have welcome and produced a number of alcoholics, probably directly equal to the amount of children born in this district within the period of roughly 30 years. Even though its look does not promise anything, the value of this very unique place should at no point be belittled. The sudden introduction of a, say, foreign element could provoke various reactions: One of them could be the spontaneous urge to show what their perspective on their home look like.

As Ludwig and I have moved out of our Comfy Zone and faced new living conditions, we constantly seek to push our horizons to new limits – many projects have already been discussed, travels planned, cooperations with friends and local “partners” schemed. In order to discover our new habitat, we decided to visit this strange-fated bar called NEO along with our Italian friend (for discretion reason, we shall henceforth refer to her as Maria). Simply because NEO already indicates two strangely distanced things. On the one hand, it means something new, a start to a truly Russian experience with many of its stereotypes confirmed. On the other hand, it could be discussed whether it is a reference to the film character Neo from Matrix; he, who escaped the illusion that his old life was to go through a phase of shock and terror, but who eventually learned to embrace the reality and grow up in it (the phase of liminality made his see the truth). After emptying half a bottle of vodka in our dear dorm, we swiftly ordered a fresh one once we entered NEO. We were greeted with suspicious looks who turned into well-meaning ones the second we started speaking Russian.

The scene was as follows: The place barely had any decorations on the inside, with the exception of a few badly printed versions of famous Russian artworks. The prices were very low, close to the ones you would get in any ordinary shop in Kazan (i.e. around 400 Rubles/5€ for ½l of tasty vodka). The products were very standard; one could buy the usual kinds of alcohol, cheap beers, snacks and dried fish enveloped in plastic. All guests (all men apart from the middle-aged woman Natasha) were playing cards for money, only Evgenji was dozing away all by himself – to be fair, I have no idea what his name was, but he practically instantly got up from his seat when Natasha demanded it.

We got off on the right foot. I was nicknamed “Pushkin”, we drank vodka and played Russian card games. After a few drinks, our conversation became more eager and we suddenly found ourselves outside with the locals, who turned out to be part of the mafia. Natasha was the most prominent, and at the same time most hospitable person. This may mostly due to the fact, that she didn’t buy for any of the consumed drink and snacks and her unlimited power when it came to ordering people according to her will. But what else can you expect from the daughter of “the man who owns the Crimean Peninsula”. Holidays in Ukraine guaranteed! (Goodness, I will be lynched by someone for this…) After finding out that she was pregnant with her 5^th child already, we asked her if it wasn’t a better idea to stop smoking entirely instead of switching to Marlboro Light. Though a complete abstention from cigarettes probably won’t help the fact that she had intoxicated herself throughout the whole evening with coffee, vodka and different cognacs. After this everything becomes blurry and cloudy in my memory… The combined brain power of Ludwig, Maria and me managed to fill some of the hazy parts: we drove around in a taxi all night long in search of the most beautiful flowers of the city, so that Natasha could decorate her mother’s grave. A typical monday evening, apparently. Every now and then we settled down in some place in order to eat a great load of food (possibly Georgian, but this part is extremely unclear) and have new drinks.

Not the actual grave

My memory fully returned to my at sunrise. Just as the first lights of the next beautiful day slowly pushed away the darkest shadows of the night, we decided to leave Natasha to her mafia business somewhere outside of the city and headed back to the student’s dorm. The guards must have much rejoiced at the aspect of writing down mine and Ludwig’s name as we came lurching to the outer gates of our prison (first of 3 warnings) – I do believe that, by returning at the first light of the young day in a condition that is beyond good and evil, we actually provide the fine gentlemen and ladies with a purpose in their lives. Of course, they did not note Maria’s name. As soon as we awoke, the recollection of loose pieces of memory had begun – and so did this blog article.

With the new contacts and the knowledge that a fascinating Russian adventure can kick off at any given moment, we assure you, our dear readers, a continuation of the quality offered so far.

Stay tuned for new!

Erste Eindrücke vom Studentenwohnheim: Das offene und freie Leben hat ein unerwartetes Ende genommen

Ein weiteres Kapitel unseres neuen Lebens in Russland wurde damit eröffnet, als uns der vollkommene Überwachungsstaat deutlich vor Augen gezeigt wurde. Das Schlimmste daran ist allerdings, dass wir inmitten dieses Wahnsinns leben müssen: Ausgerechnet dem Studentenwohnheim. Leute aus frei-denkenden Ländern geben freiwillig ihre Freiheit auf, sobald sie sich für eine Wohnung im Wohnheim entscheiden. Nachdem man zahllose Unterschriften verteilt, frustrierende bürokratische Hürden überwunden hat, stundenlang durch eiskalte (-20°) und verschneite Straßen gezogen ist auf der Suche nach dem nächsten „wichtigen“ Stempel, nur um sich dem freiwilligen Verzicht persönlicher Freiheiten Stück für Stück anzunähern.

Ein hoher Zaun, der von allen Seiten von Kameras abgedeckt wird, stellt das erste Hindernis dar. Die einzigen zwei Öffnungen in diesem Zaun werden ständig von Wachmännern überwacht, die jeden Eindringling abfangen. Dabei wird jeder gleichermaßen behandelt: Studenten aus anderen Wohnheimen oder Unis, Freunde, Familie, Terroristen, Proleten oder Angehörige des Adels – eine perfekte klassenlose Gesellschaft. All jene, die sich dafür entschieden haben, sich demütigen zu lassen durch Millionen Schritte von endloser Stempelsuche werden damit entlohnt, dass sie ihre Freiheiten abgeben müssen, die ihnen früher so wertvoll vorkamen. Nach 22:00 ist der Zugang zu den Häusern verboten. Studenten Häusern (insgesamt werden es etwa 30 sein) dürfen die anderen Häuser nie betreten. Ein wahrhafter Austausch mit Leuten aus anderen Ländern und unterschiedlicher Herkunft ist schwierig, mit Russen aus dem Wohnheim größtenteils ausgeschlossen. Und aus Erfahrung weiß ich, dass die Kommunikation mit Mitgliedern der Chinesischen Volksarmee immer problematisch ist, da deren Fremdsprachenkenntnisse immer auf eine Minimum begrenzt sind. Dazu kommt noch ein ineffizienter Akzent.

Alkohol, Zigaretten, sowie andere Rauschmittel, sind strengstens verboten auf dem Campus. Obwohl wir beide ziemlich sicher sind, dass auch diese Substanzen hier zirkulieren. Nicht mal das restriktivste und militaristischste System der Welt kann die totale Kontrolle darüber bekommen. Ganz gleich wie oft sie es als „böse Chemikalien“ etikettieren. Darüber hinaus wird es wahrscheinlich unmöglich sein, den Wodka aus irgendeinem Ort Russlands zu verbannen.

Die Räume betreffend: Der totalitäre Überwachungsstaat geht so weit, dass eine verantwortliche Person/Kapo auf jeder Etage abkommandiert wird, der seine Mitstudierenden ausspionieren muss. An zufälligen Zeiten können diese Leute in die Zimmer auf ihrer Etage eindringen und diese auf Missachtung der Hygiene- und Sauberkeitspflichten zu überprüfen, sowie auf das mögliche Vorhandensein von Rauschmitteln. Sollten diese zu oft aufgefunden werden, besteht die Möglichkeit, dass man vom Gelände verbannt wird.

Our beautiful Gulag

Vom ersten Eindruck her wirkt unser Zimmergenosse aus Liverpool komplett inkompetent. Aus Anonymitätsgründen nennen wir ihn für‘s Erste Mike. Mike interessiert sich im Leben nur für genau zwei Sachen: Russische Frauen(körper) und seinen eigenen Körper den er tagtäglich mit jedem synthetischen Substrat füttern, in der Hoffnung, irgendwann nicht mehr ganz so schmächtig zu sein. Und obwohl er sich jeden Tag einen solchen chemischen Cocktail hinter die Birne kippt, schafft er es nicht, seine vollen Müllsäcke runter zu bringen. Ein klarer Fall von Missmanagement! Da sein protein-durchweichtes Gehirn nicht mehr auf simple Nachfragen anspringt, müssen wir ihm seinen Aufgabenbereich in die Birne prügeln – mit manipulativen Zwängen kann man bessere Ergebnisse erzielen als mit roher Gewalt.

Andererseits erweist sich das Zusammenleben mit Ludwig in keinster Weise problematisch. Wir haben einen ähnlichen Geschmack wenn es um Musik oder Alkohol geht, der unglücklicherweise verboten ist (auf keinen Fall würden wir allerdings gegen die Regeln verstoßen und illegales Schmuggelgut in das Wohnheim einführen). Auch müssen wir uns mit den gleichen bürokratischen Problemen beschäftigen. Ich bin mir ziemlich sicher, dass unser Zusammen- leben und Arbeiten friedlich verlaufen wird… auch wenn unsere neuen Handtücher ein anderes Bild vermitteln.

Seid allzeit bereit für neuen Input von meiner Seite! Denn mehr Artikel werden folgen!

Natürlich mit armenischem Kognak

First impressions of the student’s dorm: The open and free student’s life has abruptly come to an end

Another chapter in this life in Russia was opened on the second day by introducing us the full-scale surveillance state that is the Kazan Federal University student’s dorm. People from free-thinking countries are stripped of their freedom, by willingly applying to this dormitory. After signing countless documents, going through major issues with bureaucracy, crawling through ice cold streets (-20° with strong winds) that are fully covered in thick and slippery covers of snow just to receive another “important” stamp that brings you closer to a self-induced abandonment of your right of freedom.

A high fence, littered with surveillance cameras all over, represents only the first obstacle. The two openings in that very fence are guarded by guards who keep a close eye for anyone (literally anyone) trespassing: friends, family, other students, nobility, proletariat or even terrorists will all be treated alike – a perfect representation of a classless society. Those who accept to be humiliated through million steps of horribly inefficient bureaucracy in order to get a yellow paper with their name, a stamp and a photo on it, will be allowed to give up many freedoms that they so dearly held onto. The houses cannot be entered after 10pm. After that, the doors are closed for anyone unknown to this house (about 30 in total). Students from other houses from the same dormitory premise must never enter another house. A true exchange with various groups of people and especially with locals thus seems to be doomed to fail. And from experience we know that communication with members of the Chinese National People’s Army is always problematic, as their foreign language skills are often reduced to a bare minimum, coupled with an extremely inefficient accent.

Alcohol, as well as other narcotics, are of course strictly forbidden. Though we wouldn’t be surprised if they were still circulating here. Not even the most militant and restrictive control state can get rid of what they label as “evils”. It is furthermore very unlikely that anyone can ban all forms of vodka from any place in Russia.

Also, some of the pavement gave way to a huge hole…

Concerning the rooms: The state of complete control extends itself to including fellow students to spy on each other, as there are those “responsible” who check on every room on their floor for order and the illegal smuggle of liquids. If you are caught too often neglecting hygiene or cleanliness of your flat, you can be banned from the premises.

Our beautiful Gulag

What Ludwig and I can say so far about our room situation is this, that our dear flatmate (dear clearly isn’t the right word to use in context with this individual) from Liverpool, England appears to fully and utterly incompetent. For the sake of anonymity, let’s call him Mike. Not only is Mike interested in only two things: having sex with Russian girls and pushing with wispy body with proteins and meat – an awful smell engulfs everything whenever he cooks – but he doesn’t wish to take responsibilities whatsoever. He may push his body with every kind of synthetical product on the market, and yet cannot lift 4 bags of trash and bring them downstairs. Clearly some mismanagement! As he doesn’t respond to our questions concerning the rubbish question, we will clearly be forced to beat our good advice into his protein-consumed brain.

However, life with Ludwig didn’t prove itself difficult in any way. We share a similar interest in music and alcoholic beverages – unfortunately they are fully prohibited and there’s no way we’re gonna smuggle illegal goods into a repressive student’s place – and find ourselves in a similar situation concerning bureaucracy. For the moment, I believe that our cohabitation will be peaceful… even if our new bathing towels indicate a different picture.

Stay tuned for more! For there will be more!

To new shores

 Well, let’s get back to writing – shall we? It’s already been some time since i wrote the last time and since I’ve returned from Romania. Therefore, it is wise to put myself into the right writing atmosphere. Suit, coffee, music, a quick skimming through pictures and off we go. If you’re interested in the music:

In between Georgia and now a long time has elapsed in which it appears that I hadn’t had the time to write or travel as I didn’t upload any new stories to this site. This, however, is hardly true.  In fact, I have more time than in Georgia. I’ve become slightly lazy and the challenge of competing with the other volunteer’s publishing articles has greatly lessened. In the meantime, my focus has gradually shifted towards reading and adopting styles from writers that can be considered more “important” than my humble self. Fear not! For the writing will continue! Those few that I managed to satisfy with my half-assed, semi-sarcastic and surely completely biased correspondence will get what they’ve been craving for – now.

First of all, I’ll give you a quick overview on the year that separates me from Georgia… expect that it didn’t. For I have already returned there 3 more times since my official departure last March; and I’ve traveled almost all by myself through Balkans by hitchhiking a month after my returning to Luxembourg; and I helped in the task of challenging the recent status quo in politics by protesting against lignite coal in the Lausitz region and by learning the language of the most dreadful of all European and Western countries’ enemy’s language: Russian. Have my studies given me any advantage in communicating with locals while in Romania, Georgia, Armenia, Lithuania, Poland and Eastern Germany? Almost not at all. My Russian remains to this day (quite) bad. I will, however, be working on my language skills.

Let’s get to the actual story, which commenced more than a year ago, back in Georgia where the infamous WTF gang decided to start a major campaign towards Russian territory with the main objective being the magnificent Baikal Lake deep within Siberia. What exactly happened to the fighting spirit of our group I still don’t fathom, but it must be noted that more and more members turned their back on their fellow travellers and chose the routine, the every-day working life and thus backstabbing us. Much that once was, is lost. The initial group diminished in size and morale, and eventually ended up in splintering groups of which one was representative for the whole group on Woodstock and the other in Transylvania – the latter being the heart and soul of the whole movement, including the important elements of hitchhiking, musical skills, random mountain-spotting-and-climbing attitude and minor alcoholism. Sure, some minor deviations have occurred and the changes in character in everyone cannot be unseen.

Good, now that I’m finally done with the 4th introduction, I can start with the telling of  the chronological course of events; additionally, I will try to figure out some minor overlapping elements with Georgian mentality and experience that will be analysed in further detail in this article:
Gabi (Ltu) and Paula (Pol) first met somewhere in Romanian mainland after dealing with Wizzair’s incompetence and sudden cancelling of flights, then continued towards Brasov where Sepp and I would join them (actually the name of the city Brasov is written with some kind of nipple, that transforms its pronunciation into something similar [Brashov]. Actually, Romanian happens to be of an extremely interesting structure and history so that one can find elements of all neighbouring regions in it, with the basic structure founding on Latin). And that’s exactly what we did. Luckily, a lot faster than expected as a friendly Romanian guy agreed on taking us all the way from Dresden to Brasov (1400km!!!). Before meeting us he had already driven through most of Germany and had enjoyed something close to 2 hours of sleep. He insisted on driving all by himself. On the way, we had 2 breaks of 4 hours in total which he used to rest. Furthermore, he had some food provisions that consisted of the cheapest bread and meat you can buy in Lidl, which he gladly shared with us. Funnily enough, he laughed at us for falling asleep from time to time. Once we got to Romania, he unloaded his car in his employer’s father’s home where we got some strong homemade wine – a fine welcome into a new culture.

Brasov. Like most cities from former Siebenbürgen it was built by Germans, which also explains its German name of Kronstadt. Beautiful architecture, countless translations into German (however, not necessarily into English), teenage street musicians jamming in the park for their pleasure and two exhausted Gopnik-like travellers finally welcoming their female equivalents in the newly-discovered city – reintroducing Gabi(-ja-chacha-yan) and Paula, the Mysterious Dragonmaster (Վիշապագետ), to the scene. An entire book’s content could hardly suffice to fully portray their personalities, so that I will content myself with the introduction by adding a group picture:

From Brasov, where we explored the huge touristic Hollywood-like sign (also lacking this strange kind of nipple), we continued southwards in the typical style that we had to gradually adapt while in Caucasus: missing the last bus, so that one’s forced to accept a local’s private car that’s easily transformed into an unofficial taxi, thus avoiding taxes and paying less that one would have by taking a bus/marshutka. We eventually escalated a long and winding path leading to the “7-ladder-canyon”/Sapte Scari, where we stayed with the park ranger and her family. Thanks for our predilection for wine, we were able to offer some to the ranger who courteously turned it down, notwithstanding genuine Romanian hospitality by offering us intel on the region (including its bear family that inhabits the mountain range and the lonely fox) grilled potatoes and bread.

Best facial expressions…they’re simply INFINITY

The successive day gave way to heavy rainfall just past afternoon. Before that, our small group was able to skip the payment for the entry to the Ladders, climb through the creek, escape the canyon’s cold, jurassic soul by sliding down a steel rope and playing frisbee for some hours on the shining green meadow just downhill. If we hadn’t taken the bus, we would probably have drowned on the way to Sinaia. Also, we would never had heard the tourist’s information guide, telling us about the dangers of climbing Omul: 2-5m visibility if we’re lucky, 2300 bears in the region, temperatures far below 0° on the summit, at least 27 hours of walk in order to get to Bran on the other side of the national park. Enough to scare us off, aye? Putting our lives at risk for the sake of a view that would be denied – something absolutely ridiculous. For a group like ours, that hasn’t even any material to protect us against heavy rain, neither having adequate shoes for anything that exceeds a stroll on the beach (please note that the shoes that Sepp’s wearing on the picture were the best he had; the same shoes carried him over many summits in the course of the following days while granting him knee ache at the end of our trip), information like this should scare us off like a flock of sheep that sees the shadow of something that barely resembles a wolf.
Here’s a collection of pictures that shows us being reasonable and avoiding such an endeavour:

We didn’t sleep in a tent, but in a mountain rescue hut… mostly because they told us that it’s prohibited to pitch our tent on the premises of the National Park of Bucegi. The possibility of getting caught in a half-frozen state and still having to pay 3-6000Lei was an argument convincing enough to make us pay the reasonable prices of 40Lei per night per person and stay in a (bloody, exceedingly) warm quarter. We were offered some mountain cheese.

MEMES! Why are there only so few memes…?!

Well, what is Romania famous for? Exactly! for its magical garlic that has the power of prevailing against the devilish powers of their national demonic spawn. A mythical construct created by mingling Bram Stoker’s creative spirit, the desolate nature of Romania about 200 years ago and one of Romania’s most infamous personality, the Voivode Vlad III. Draculae or Vlad the Impaler. Time for some historical background! While being a hostage of the Ottoman Empire he soon learned the art of war, only to return to his home country where he claimed the Romanian throne and restored the order in a most brutal way (inviting all gypsies, homeless people and mentally and physically disabled to a feast, then locking them in and burning them alive; all oppositions from the nobility was liquidated in a similar way). When the Ottomans felt menaced by this sheer exhibition of power, they invaded the country. Vlad expected a raid and used the tactic of the Burned Soil After a gruelling, unsuccessful summer campaign of heavy losses against an enemy that used an unsupportable guerrilla technique, they were confronted with a literal forest of spiked corpses. Every single captured Ottoman soldier was put on a thin stick, which made its way through the POW’s guts. Needless to say, the process of dying was performed under an unimaginable amount of pain. Upon seeing this demonstration of pure inhumanity, the morale of the army reached its breaking point and they returned home. Vlad’s brother, however, led another expeditionary force and succeeded in laying siege to Vlad’s fortress: Bran castle (visible in the background).

It costs 35Lei to get to the other side of this fence… Bloody vampires! We should put them on some sticks!

I’d like to put your mind at ease: despite our general lack of garlic we were not visited by a nightly visitor with long and spiky canines. Yet, the only vampires in Romania are working in Bran. Those parasites asked a 35Lei fee – only to be allowed onto the premises of the castle garden! Bloody vampires! So we drank coffee instead and then searched a camping spot. Due to Paula’s great knowledge of the Romanian language, we were able to convince a local worker with a scythe to lead us to an ideal spot, where we enjoyed a refreshing night with another small bottle of wine (Georgia and Romania share a common enthusiasm for big quantities of wine; we purchased a 2nd glass bottle of 1.5l of very acceptable red wine) and grilled food.

Bran –> Sibiu (Hermannstadt). Many thanks to the two cars that helped us: a Canadian-Romanian couple who have a sort of weekend house in Bran, while actually living in Abu Dhabi; a former truck driver, residing in England, who had an excellent taste in music, whose driving skills reminded me of the typical Georgian driver.

After some tasty, nice, slightly salty Balls (Bulz, some traditional food with polenta) and a good night’s sleep we continued towards another peak, namely Cindrel. A lonely Canadian guy gave us a lift, after enjoying a local beer with me. The process of backpacking towards the top was rather spontaneous and quite exhausting. The beer earlier certainly didn’t help. And the weight of the additional wine bottle and cognac were of equal usefulness. We still managed to reach our camping spot, close to another ranger’s hut. Thanks to Sepp’s amazing singing talent no bear dared approach us… it is, however, likely that he was responsible for the Monsoon-like precipitation the upcoming morning. The high-pitched wind and its never-ceasing, cold company didn’t leave us for about 2 hours, until we finally made it to Cindrel’s top (2245m above sea level). It wasn’t until this moment, when the clouds finally lifted and gave way to a superb view on the landscape at our feet that the cognac tasted well. But the few drops that found its way down our throats onto an almost empty stomach as a reward for the arduous hike and tasted like the most exquisite beverage. The drink reminded me of the – usually very mediocre beer – Kaiser that I received after a similarly arduous bicycle tour to Udabno, Kvemo-Kartli, Georgia.

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After the highly exhausting, close to 50° inclined descent we arrived on a road. Sadly, we didn’t have cookies… (Thanks, OBAMA) so, instead of writing anything reasonable onto our fellow cardboard sign, Paula figured it being wiser to write “Mag/Shop”. By pure luck, some people actually did stop!
Our last stop as a group in Alba Iulia (also known as Karlsburg, but build around a fortress that was highly inspired by the French architect Vauban) was met with beautiful Langos, a few local beers and a freestyle on the grass dance floor within the outer fortress walls.

The next day, the WTF devotees parted ways – but not for the last time! For our trips are INFINITY! Distances are but a small barrier between us. The only thing that we’ll be missing might be watermelons (“Winter is coming”). Luckily, the next summer will come soon and there will be plenty of Cucurbitaceae and we need not worry. The fellowship will live on. See you, dear readers, next time. Til’ then, let us drink за будущее!

 

Here’s a short summary of my itinerary:
Berlin->Dresden->Brasov->Sapte Scari->Sinaia->Omul->Bran->Sibiu->Cindrel->Alba Iulia->Cluj-Napoca->Berlin

 

And some more knowledge that I’ve gathered in Romania:

• it’s acceptable to be racist against Gypsies, because nobody will disagree (at least we haven’t met anyone)
• Russian is useless; I didn’t use it even once
• the country is huge, far more enormous than we had expected… so, always a reason to go back
• everything is German: city names, explanations for tourists, tourists, the entire architecture of many cities

(PS.: I wonder if it makes any difference if you write 0° or -0°C…)

The rush for Khash, an Armenian adventure

The way I prepared the introduction to my blog, started our trip to Mount Aragats in Armenia: mostly without preparations. At least not from my part. Our group, consisting of 7 people (4 of them volunteers from Rustavi, the last 3 volunteers from Yerevan) agreed on climbing Aragats together on a good occasion. It might not have been the best and two people from Yerevan cancelled the very day we intended on climbing it. Before climbing a mountain of that altitude you should be in a good condition in order to avoid altitude sickness. Most probably, many of us weren’t.
Perhaps I could have contributed a lot more than I did. A few days before we planned our escape from the cities, I wasn’t certain if I could actually join them. There were things that could have hardly been postponed. Not to forget, the three days before somehow ended up with some serious drinking – at this point I would like to thank my new neighbor and his excellent wine, the welcoming staff from ISCR and local friends and their special taste in alcohol – which cannot be considered good preparations for such a trip in high altitudes. My contribution to the trip can be reduced to my mere presence. And the tent that I was carrying.

What can be said about Aragats?
The mountain was an active volcano in the Pleistocene and represents the highest peak of Armenia with an altitude of 4,090m above sea level. This can be attributed to the North peak, whereas the southern one has an altitude of about 3,900m. A couple of hundreds meters below can be found a couple of buildings, including a restaurant and hotel, a sort of scientific research center (from soviet times) which is still occupied by a couple of Armenian scientists and the Kari Lake. The underground is hollowed by a network of tunnels, covering a notable distance. At that height, vegetation is already reduced to grass. However, you can find a find a wide array of rocks, stones and rubbish close to the lake. Depending on the season, many different climate zones can be experienced: from sub desert temperatures and sun exposure in summer to intensive rain and blizzards in early autumn. Fog is also quite common.

As always, our travel started in Rustavi, from where Gabija – the Lithuanian volunteer – and I took a marshutka to Tbilisi (the capital, for those who don’t know it), a nice spot if you’d like to hitchhike. In virtually no time we were taken to Armenia, then to a crossroad right next to the range of mountains of Aragats. Quite similar to Georgia, we were offered food and hospitality. Yet, there is a strange particularity once you enter an Armenian car: one of the first question they will ask you is about your current relation status. Especially as female traveler there is a high likelihood that they will hit on you.
Once we reached the mountain, we got a first impression of the weather conditions: rainy, stormy, cold, no sign of improvement in sight. The next car took us up to Kari Lake along with its 3 passengers, who traveled from Yerevan to the lake for this one Armenian specialty called Khash, which was described to us as boiled lamb head. And indeed, there is a huge hype around it. Groups in large numbers risk the dangerous road that’s serpentining it way to the top. 2 cars would have trouble driving next to each other. As if it wasn’t hazardous enough, Khash is served with 3 shots of vodka and people take a traditional bath in the icy waters of Kari Lake. And already on the way to the peak, our driver and his friends were drinking beer and smoking a lot. I was offered a beer too (tasted quite similar to Sarajevsko).
Some information about altitude sickness would have been useful before drinking:

Altitude Sickness – What It Is, Symptoms, Treatment and Medication

It recommends you to avoid alcohol and stay hydrated… what can I say? It was a good beer and ‘one does not simply turn Caucasian hospitality down‘.

Since we had an excellent timing, we arrived at the lake in no time, where we spent about four hours waiting for the others to join us (only one of the three from Yerevan actually arrived) and discovering our surroundings, succeeded by a night in a warm sleeping bag, in a stinky tent, in an abandoned building. That was our acclimatization in high altitudes. A special mention must go to our communist buffet: one pot with noodles, spiced with Ukrainian ketchup (cheap, bad-tasting Ukrainian ketchup) and everyone gets one fork. ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need‘ (©Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels)

The next day, the journey began at 5:30 in the mourning…sorry, morning; stopped several times as the air was getting thinner and our orientation worse and finally had its absolute high on the icy peak. The weather was so dreadful that we decided to have a picnic there. The freezing of our hands (covered by the warm embrace of our socks) reminded us at one point that the time for safe return had arrived.
We descended the mountain again, packed our stuff, hitchhiked a local group travel group who had some Khash in the Restaurant and got back to Rustavi.

I should mention that the entire journey could have costed us no money at all: We wouldn’t have needed any food (we were offered a lot of it while hitchhiking, so need for that), the travel itself was free (hitchhiking) and you don’t need a visa to go to Armenia.