tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13181075486357007942024-02-22T08:08:17.063-08:00Far Flung PlacesTravel to remote parts of the world with a love of Volcanoes, History, Music, Beer and Food. Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.comBlogger176125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-92102529479365073642024-01-21T23:49:00.000-08:002024-01-21T23:50:22.026-08:00Once the most secret place on Earth. Long Cheng<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfYCuRFSmH7JIsqczd7MrQtGrCXcP4-TfWjGWKb0Is5xxjcEP3pTlZ1CHhlpeo8876PRPi5jRgxpoH1tpFHbantsAAAy7j4vZ0G6pte0NCiEdKS2w0FVQdMv5PPuBfrnp2Y5agSm9k0IBMgAZPOOgJwUkND57J-Aii2tw8FHW6_Bm118ujLqWVv9TO2w/s3568/PXL_20240104_074032801~2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1946" data-original-width="3568" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfYCuRFSmH7JIsqczd7MrQtGrCXcP4-TfWjGWKb0Is5xxjcEP3pTlZ1CHhlpeo8876PRPi5jRgxpoH1tpFHbantsAAAy7j4vZ0G6pte0NCiEdKS2w0FVQdMv5PPuBfrnp2Y5agSm9k0IBMgAZPOOgJwUkND57J-Aii2tw8FHW6_Bm118ujLqWVv9TO2w/w640-h350/PXL_20240104_074032801~2.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>Long Cheng (also known as Long Tieng) in the mountains of eastern Laos was the busiest airport in the world towards the end of the Vietnam War in the early 1970's. Operated undercover by the CIA using 'independent contractors' flying 'Air America' it was the base for military operations against the Viet Cong as well as Laos itself. The CIA itself called it "The most secret place on earth".</p><p>The 1260 metre (4,100 feet) runway was surrounded by Karst mountains keeping it hidden from the Vietnamese as well as the US Congress who had no idea they were funding it. It grew into a town of over 40,000 people, with a wild west feel, some of the bars kept animals to try and attract the airmen. </p><p>One famously kept a bear behind the bar who became rather too fond of the beer flowing out of the taps. It all changed dramatically as it was evacuated of Americans, as the US withdrew from the region after losing the Vietnam War. Most of the local and mercenary fighters were stranded and had to make their own dangerous way out of the country to Thailand.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0Jn-lh-ctvPC6nwaQg2oKsRJe8fVU4uN0HtHG0YifyxvAOywhAaTLgUPeUJTCxmbD6axLD9MGUNIaeS4HSrazQQawXvl95Ow_iAwNNgYcFCiQRlc79rOIGL6TnWWIB5MW7nRjk6Hf6R_EJzO3DmzdaR1-fQk-MNZQvcL2iVaz8r8S0bv0EvXBRqN7Eg/s4032/PXL_20240104_032726286.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0Jn-lh-ctvPC6nwaQg2oKsRJe8fVU4uN0HtHG0YifyxvAOywhAaTLgUPeUJTCxmbD6axLD9MGUNIaeS4HSrazQQawXvl95Ow_iAwNNgYcFCiQRlc79rOIGL6TnWWIB5MW7nRjk6Hf6R_EJzO3DmzdaR1-fQk-MNZQvcL2iVaz8r8S0bv0EvXBRqN7Eg/w640-h360/PXL_20240104_032726286.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mud, sand and rocks. The main road to Long Cheng <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today it is a ghost town boasting a population of only 3,000 people. Yet it still remains an important military base for the Laotian military and this prevented foreign visitors until recently. Ten years ago you would have been arrested and deported if you tried to visit, now you just need a really good 4WD car to get there. Technically you still need permission to visit, but no questions are asked if you bring a few bottles of beer and some cigarettes for any friendly road checkpoints you may encounter.</span></p><p>I left <span style="font-family: inherit;">Phonsavan</span> with Mr Pao and his new 4WD. He had moved from a village outside of Phonsavan to one near Long Cheng during the US Secret War on Laos, as his parents had been told it was safe from bombing, although they did not know the reason why at the time. He remembered the US bombers continually dropping bombs from sunrise to sunset, they rarely ran bombing missions at night which at least allowed the family to sleep safely at night.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7plSlgOb7O8r-ukjA8ca1M9A6ap2bDn30CG2w6TUKQmAWrMPIE-ph68WTAT2Hdzz_2SjSkGu51nWGDZY5bC46_AQ0TA60Mw0ygsCNV0i6Nci1Xo9VXBeXXkvl4FiwbYsYmV4xNDCWMjsJnzR97JhpGepJUo95gT7iMSBzZn-HNX6Tvbq4_vn6Kj20Ww/s4032/PXL_20240104_050035051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7plSlgOb7O8r-ukjA8ca1M9A6ap2bDn30CG2w6TUKQmAWrMPIE-ph68WTAT2Hdzz_2SjSkGu51nWGDZY5bC46_AQ0TA60Mw0ygsCNV0i6Nci1Xo9VXBeXXkvl4FiwbYsYmV4xNDCWMjsJnzR97JhpGepJUo95gT7iMSBzZn-HNX6Tvbq4_vn6Kj20Ww/w640-h360/PXL_20240104_050035051.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Long Cheng in the distance surrounded by high mountains</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The road to Long Cheng was poor, and that is being generous. It was just potholed and rutted up to the turn-off to the Chinese-run Xaysomboun gold mine but after that, it was just sand and mud with deep channels either crossing he road or running down the road carved out by the rains in the wet season. It was very slow going and despite slow and careful driving, we punctured a tyre.</p><p>Long Cheng is at 1,000 metres (3,200 feet) from sea level and as we drove in it became obvious why it was such a good location. Totally surrounded by higher mountains gave the base natural security and in the days before ubiquitous spy satellites kept it hidden from prying eyes. The Kart hills rise up from the end of the runway and were nicknamed "The Vertical Speedbrake" by the pilots.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EbljEuej3NUdjvq9nTzsKxvro89aOG6zu8P3aZgaw79Yd7Rht4fQOIshLD30dgJi4D0vKfwQNJOOVIucox3FPsajApNB73jwV_LXI1PwjJb3P5Ts0BB8xJh1HiDBi2S2WpInz-5qaKVNUUWsj9ja1sFkOgCFI1kteWlN-8EAK_FZISNMhZ0rkryJq0A/s4032/PXL_20240104_051331136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EbljEuej3NUdjvq9nTzsKxvro89aOG6zu8P3aZgaw79Yd7Rht4fQOIshLD30dgJi4D0vKfwQNJOOVIucox3FPsajApNB73jwV_LXI1PwjJb3P5Ts0BB8xJh1HiDBi2S2WpInz-5qaKVNUUWsj9ja1sFkOgCFI1kteWlN-8EAK_FZISNMhZ0rkryJq0A/w640-h360/PXL_20240104_051331136.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">General Vang Pao's house. Now a military officer's residence.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The town remains a military town. The base provides work for the remaining residents here and is still built on the edges of the large runway that dominates it. In between flights, it is used more as a shortcut across the town, it is in much better condition than the road, and a place to graze cattle. Presumably, they are moved before runway usage.</p><p>One of the largest houses that remains belonged to General Vang Pao (no relation to my driver) . A large-than-life character, he was chosen by the CIA to lead the local Hmong forces and a mercenary army of over 10,000 men from Thailand, China and the Philippines in a civil war against the Pathet Lao Army. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGUkIWTmZeYswSe_-X2hbCyrihdwbIz_W46Bk9-HlOnwZaplfA6nyCqVkyfSpuQopfL92Guu5vQVNmAxh4igbOvG_490jYCqU8e9vQEsTmuTYcdJ0Yil-N6-cuFCDMMws0GEdWzrggNgJh6Nkt0gW1T8Jjz0JK_lDc37gQC8QqnM7BiFfZtZ1ZwQs5zY/s4032/PXL_20240104_052050311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGUkIWTmZeYswSe_-X2hbCyrihdwbIz_W46Bk9-HlOnwZaplfA6nyCqVkyfSpuQopfL92Guu5vQVNmAxh4igbOvG_490jYCqU8e9vQEsTmuTYcdJ0Yil-N6-cuFCDMMws0GEdWzrggNgJh6Nkt0gW1T8Jjz0JK_lDc37gQC8QqnM7BiFfZtZ1ZwQs5zY/w640-h360/PXL_20240104_052050311.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unexploded ordinance inside General Vang Pao's house</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Under the tacit approval of the CIA, he established a heroin laboratory here to process the opium grown in the Hmong villages nearby. This was used to fund his army with the irony being that much of the heroin was flown into South Vietnam and was paid for and injected by American troops there, which did not add to their battle readiness.</p><p>The house is now used by officers of the Laos Military. I was allowed to wander around. There was no sign of a heroin lab, but there was a mass of unexploded ordinance left in one of the rooms with some Lao PDR. I had my fingers crossed that it had all been safely defused as I got in for a close-up view.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLv59puFOjUFjpF3ZxUTUlm4v19Ji52Y-J8SHJBQRtEq5GdXy-sjNw1khz3be8lJFL4kqTB-RZYy__P4mwKLPGjJWMgXUw53ozsfcZ7SrzfiDLhas4R281JIE78JsuwsA9AlA2ptl1r_NbSJQSM1MuzTKYzDbgmMypxRbioqdtJi1MCpqG18eGWP5wzxc/s2727/PXL_20240104_073134146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1745" data-original-width="2727" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLv59puFOjUFjpF3ZxUTUlm4v19Ji52Y-J8SHJBQRtEq5GdXy-sjNw1khz3be8lJFL4kqTB-RZYy__P4mwKLPGjJWMgXUw53ozsfcZ7SrzfiDLhas4R281JIE78JsuwsA9AlA2ptl1r_NbSJQSM1MuzTKYzDbgmMypxRbioqdtJi1MCpqG18eGWP5wzxc/w640-h410/PXL_20240104_073134146.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The abandoned temple from the ruins of the hospital</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Moving away from the runway there are a lot of reminders of the large settlement that Long Cheng was. The large hospital used during the war is overgrown and lies in ruins. The Buddhist temple has been abandoned, although a new one has been closer to the town. Lumps of concrete and rusting metal litter the ground all around.</p><p>To get a good overview of the town we headed up the hill to the site of the old Royal Palace. It is hard to believe that any Laotian royalty would build a palace here. Its position high up on the mountain gives it a great view of Long Cheng. During the war, it hosted an anti-aircraft battery and intelligence officers. Now it is a military barracks for the Laos army.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS_5Nd5eKr7LBTjqM5L13JdqUmfmXtDvJL23gMHSc0R1KZgPiGRvj_I7OADmJ2KnSCPItyQIgLbv-tmhVp78g7JkXq1xLnC6rrzoWOhnN_wd35mkAO9LYINRjOdZn7JW59X7AVNqGs2sJoJVCfLvyfHw3BMs9PMLrQ5l0tUsGB-yQ6BOJUGHuwoShgyAQ/s2148/Screenshot_20240120-153610~2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="2148" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS_5Nd5eKr7LBTjqM5L13JdqUmfmXtDvJL23gMHSc0R1KZgPiGRvj_I7OADmJ2KnSCPItyQIgLbv-tmhVp78g7JkXq1xLnC6rrzoWOhnN_wd35mkAO9LYINRjOdZn7JW59X7AVNqGs2sJoJVCfLvyfHw3BMs9PMLrQ5l0tUsGB-yQ6BOJUGHuwoShgyAQ/w640-h372/Screenshot_20240120-153610~2.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The photo montage of Long Cheng base on the wall in the Laos military barracks </td></tr></tbody></table><p>The soldiers welcomed me into the old building, and we gave them our last bottles of BeerLao as a thank you. It was pretty spartan except for bunk beds and a kitchen. </p><p>There was a large photo montage on the wall, including photos from the time the base was taken back by the Pathet Lao and Vietnamese forces which showed what an incredibly busy place Long Cheng was for that brief period of time before it returned to its somnambulic state.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkB50jq4cE9oBRJZtRBRaAjO6taiv74CW2BZO-PtEhpQ5ug_N5SwCEkbBj1LzBTPh9He5Wqm7tjZIA7WbPYLq4c04OE87FBfGaUrJCMHzJyZgyzeoSacRvgaKXML3ijhvmrjA0jYOjG3J3OSLfYaRrp-s5UkxMhLNJcK_m0J_wrlbqO1srzyfNeiEbXU/s4032/PXL_20240104_053157983.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkB50jq4cE9oBRJZtRBRaAjO6taiv74CW2BZO-PtEhpQ5ug_N5SwCEkbBj1LzBTPh9He5Wqm7tjZIA7WbPYLq4c04OE87FBfGaUrJCMHzJyZgyzeoSacRvgaKXML3ijhvmrjA0jYOjG3J3OSLfYaRrp-s5UkxMhLNJcK_m0J_wrlbqO1srzyfNeiEbXU/w640-h360/PXL_20240104_053157983.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main runway/road in Long Cheng</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-48384213224688908272024-01-18T02:13:00.000-08:002024-01-18T02:26:00.491-08:00Down on the Farm. The incredible private outdoor sculptures of a New Zealand multi-millionaire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh44RpfA3ykF9sHJZ0Ctq4YNfZjQeK1wggeCf266RxtCuY5LldFEWbsfx_Ew7-dpWyG1IIHqT9PYpl0T6rbKASEduVIzXGKHcQ1Zaw1FMcLJxVXGpG7FjlfQxRVlPLAZrlpy_3aTZ7tkvLlx4hQurxYdu0wG7VXnRYz8G4OmpvkfUyq34TKXSbCNawVk4/s4032/PXL_20231123_233522147~3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh44RpfA3ykF9sHJZ0Ctq4YNfZjQeK1wggeCf266RxtCuY5LldFEWbsfx_Ew7-dpWyG1IIHqT9PYpl0T6rbKASEduVIzXGKHcQ1Zaw1FMcLJxVXGpG7FjlfQxRVlPLAZrlpy_3aTZ7tkvLlx4hQurxYdu0wG7VXnRYz8G4OmpvkfUyq34TKXSbCNawVk4/w640-h480/PXL_20231123_233522147~3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>What would you do if you became a multi-millionaire? Buy a Ferrari, a yacht, maybe a bigger house? Or just buy a massive farm and fill it with gigantic outdoor sculptures by some of the worlds best modern artists and let exotic animals roam the grounds. This is what the reclusive New Zealand businessman Alan Gibbs chose to do.</p><p>Gibbs made his money wheeling and dealing in transport companies and most lucratively in the privatization of New Zealand Telecom in which he had a substantial stake. With his new400-hectarefound wealth he purchased a 400 hectare (900 acres) block of land in Kaipara Harbour, 47 Km north of Auckland. He built a large home by the sea and filled the landscape with giant works from local and overseas artists. </p><p>It was not just a case of sticking pieces of art all over the farm without any thought. He worked with the artists to incorporate the landscape into the art itself, and even to change the landscape when necessary to make the art more spectacular. This is particularly noticeable in Anish Kapoor's <i>Dismemberment Site I</i>, a massive ear trumpet that required a hill to be cut in half to place it to great visual effect. </p><br /><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhew8vDRaw6X7YvWNicIYJgFjtO2iTs_Hg87s0uPqSbnWFJVWnVJ5jXrW_eq97Az2FPWJAM4c0Wq8VA9ebUoW3gDWkiJ7seFU3lNXbaJqMHKaXHxdLsmt6JGkZklzKyQT9-yZ3C4Og1qvQkiwwQ5jOqTgqcW5yQ923APnYrZO6bJPPWCcbwApqdFyBiqeY/s2674/PXL_20231124_000433882~2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2039" data-original-width="2674" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhew8vDRaw6X7YvWNicIYJgFjtO2iTs_Hg87s0uPqSbnWFJVWnVJ5jXrW_eq97Az2FPWJAM4c0Wq8VA9ebUoW3gDWkiJ7seFU3lNXbaJqMHKaXHxdLsmt6JGkZklzKyQT9-yZ3C4Og1qvQkiwwQ5jOqTgqcW5yQ923APnYrZO6bJPPWCcbwApqdFyBiqeY/w640-h488/PXL_20231124_000433882~2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alan Gibbs home, artificial lake with boat and the sea based <i>Arches</i> by Andy Goldsworthy<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Although a very private man, Gibbs was persuaded to share his beautiful farm with the public. He does this very much on his own terms. opening it for approximately 4 random days a year and not making a profit by granting access to selected charities to sell limited numbers of tickets to use to aid their funding.</p><p>I had wanted to see Gibbs Farm for a number of years but could not match the occasional openings with me being able to fly to New Zealand. So when it was announced that on a Friday in November, Gibbs Farm was to be open to the public on behalf of the Skin cancer charity Melanoma New Zealand I immediately bought a ticket (it sold out a few days later) and arranged flights.</p><p>It was an easy drive up the coastal road and there was already a small queue of vehicles waiting to get in 15 minutes before the official opening time (10:00 to 16:00). Once in, with a map in hand it was time to explore the private sculpture garden. Despite typical New Zealand weather, cloudy skies with warm sun and then a torrential downpour about every thirty minutes, it was an easy walk past the Giraffes, Yak, Zebra and Bison, not roaming free today, to the sculptures.</p><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-transform: none; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoC7xEVDU236KNHAPuHr98b-4UU7XA4A3aEE_ToIr1pP84_mI_Jf4RUvNSaPRwvm19SJtpkdCIctLL-KTz_BplbVv4thpkm5YC2LHWABDcaaTck9g_h9VmVm_1GmrN05qsmYaVbNzIzTR8q9AmSUk6ozABzl3azxJH2D9BEd1fRyp7Ub-c8kuF3viNe34/s3980/PXL_20231123_214651584~3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2915" data-original-width="3980" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoC7xEVDU236KNHAPuHr98b-4UU7XA4A3aEE_ToIr1pP84_mI_Jf4RUvNSaPRwvm19SJtpkdCIctLL-KTz_BplbVv4thpkm5YC2LHWABDcaaTck9g_h9VmVm_1GmrN05qsmYaVbNzIzTR8q9AmSUk6ozABzl3azxJH2D9BEd1fRyp7Ub-c8kuF3viNe34/w640-h468/PXL_20231123_214651584~3.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Trumpet, officially known as <i>Dismemberment I</i> by Anish Kapoor</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I loved Anish Kapoor's Trumpet, or <i>Dismemberment Site I</i> as it is officially known, a piece that is associated with GIbbs Farm in almost every photograph about it, including this blog! And it does not disappoint. About thirty minutes uphill from the car park takes you to a position in front of the largest end of the canvas covered sculpture.</p><p>The size of an eight storey building, the red canvas over metal sculpture looks incredible whether you see if rom a distance or up close. His largest ever sculpture, it does look like it belongs here. It neatly bisects the hill it is carved into and I imagine it would have great acoustics. I would love to set up a band playing on one side and hear it through the other end of the trumpet.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYGPQwhqmPjly4d1ZYfGK2b6n8WZXKmGBgDlyQ3CoFBoVwWsx73anTxi9l8TSDF9L5HWkyXZTWnzHcrZyIAK7ud_pvv9yx3az1KVG3KTDH15zgxdbLz2KRvrOfwVZf0trz2W3hUfs9CA9EVOQAE65UbLG-H2Dzsy6kT5W7DcJitGQwcZZT3IFFCKNs9c/s3575/PXL_20231123_221401405.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2321" data-original-width="3575" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYGPQwhqmPjly4d1ZYfGK2b6n8WZXKmGBgDlyQ3CoFBoVwWsx73anTxi9l8TSDF9L5HWkyXZTWnzHcrZyIAK7ud_pvv9yx3az1KVG3KTDH15zgxdbLz2KRvrOfwVZf0trz2W3hUfs9CA9EVOQAE65UbLG-H2Dzsy6kT5W7DcJitGQwcZZT3IFFCKNs9c/w640-h416/PXL_20231123_221401405.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Horizons</i> by Neil Dawson</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Neil Dawson's <i>Horizons</i> sits on top of a nearby hill. I saw it has a page from a book, although the Kiwi artist actually designed it as a giant piece of corrugated iron that had blown in from a collapsed water tank on a nearby farm. Either way it looks majestic and is enhanced by a wandering Bison grazing nearby.</p><p>On an often wet and cloudy day the Dutch/New Zealand artist Leon Van den Eijkel's coloured blocks set on the valley floor, known officially as<i> Red Cloud Confrontation in Landscape</i>, just worked well. The bright colours are offset by the green landscape. Up close it was not so impressive, definitely one to be seen from a distance.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBV2dlF-co3K4eqqeBT6nNuMro5nee_gNFJ14tT-GIUo-FfrxGRrcb-DlYdSzxh3-1W6HzeapjJK93U48gBCaufnOxtIDkNJipwUn2nBOR5byN9jv12-CvNCtxHUb9MJhWsT-lAidoP1ig7UuixJVnX3Kk4KNZsuZqNblML4Doi-PV1Kq8ZWNZ4ysQfCo/s4032/PXL_20231123_221618934.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBV2dlF-co3K4eqqeBT6nNuMro5nee_gNFJ14tT-GIUo-FfrxGRrcb-DlYdSzxh3-1W6HzeapjJK93U48gBCaufnOxtIDkNJipwUn2nBOR5byN9jv12-CvNCtxHUb9MJhWsT-lAidoP1ig7UuixJVnX3Kk4KNZsuZqNblML4Doi-PV1Kq8ZWNZ4ysQfCo/w640-h480/PXL_20231123_221618934.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Red Cloud Confrontation in Landscape</i> by Leon Van den Eijkel</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The last piece that really worked me was <i>Sentinels</i> by Andrew Rogers. minimalistic, austere and uniform, the 15 metre metal poles are already starting to be tarnished by the unforgiving New Zealand weather. Sure, they dominate the landscape towering above the native trees, but their outsized presence is impossible to ignore. </p><p>There are a large number of works that Gibbs has commissioned, not all are shown here. Some I appreciated a lot more than others, but the giant sculptures work in the giant area that they sit in. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsjf8Wc4j65YuAh_pmusEci4xODFCFGi5EfByrIEZLlEmXsZsP7ILhXiIbf2ymPan_TvpB55wblVQNtkWcQCMiqcj9ishtl60SYmRSmjJrBe7WICVT05Mg8oroe7mCU0RjLkisneJ8M8GHGxX7Q84ChtcR32MLW3rxnlrwR6H5elastR2LMDj6IvHMTkU/s4032/PXL_20231123_225204623~3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsjf8Wc4j65YuAh_pmusEci4xODFCFGi5EfByrIEZLlEmXsZsP7ILhXiIbf2ymPan_TvpB55wblVQNtkWcQCMiqcj9ishtl60SYmRSmjJrBe7WICVT05Mg8oroe7mCU0RjLkisneJ8M8GHGxX7Q84ChtcR32MLW3rxnlrwR6H5elastR2LMDj6IvHMTkU/w640-h480/PXL_20231123_225204623~3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sentinels</i> by Andrew Rogers</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Unlimited by the normal limits imposed by a museum or home, the artists have used their imaginations to produce some beautiful pieces of work that look great from a distance, while towering above you as you get close. </p><p>Of course, if I was a multi-millionaire, and as a massive fan of <i>Deadwood</i>, and<i> Alias Smith and Jones</i> (anyone else remember that classic Western from the 1970's?) and happened to have a large property I would also build a mock wooden Western town with bars and a hotel. Gibbs has beaten me to it and has already built one on another party of the farm where he has themed parties there with friends and family. Sadly this part of the farm was not open to the public. </p><p>I will have to wait to build my own.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN5Mjx0zm4HRShsuRC62yypkByZgQeEnspJ4k1noVkQ89kPSACCBtdCaYUgFkU5VP7h87w9Tckp9LQITwJhJBGaeAnDXGpWQ_Jv-CIbRlVcF-1AD7Gz3MqIiUvriziHVXgXtOD5zjnec6Ff97P-psHvAdHiNuT4W8QTCLznRWGj45h26VAsOXXvIQ9pyc/s4032/PXL_20231123_234837476.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN5Mjx0zm4HRShsuRC62yypkByZgQeEnspJ4k1noVkQ89kPSACCBtdCaYUgFkU5VP7h87w9Tckp9LQITwJhJBGaeAnDXGpWQ_Jv-CIbRlVcF-1AD7Gz3MqIiUvriziHVXgXtOD5zjnec6Ff97P-psHvAdHiNuT4W8QTCLznRWGj45h26VAsOXXvIQ9pyc/w640-h480/PXL_20231123_234837476.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up close looking into the canvas clad metal sculpture of The Trumpet</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-11546659493593125582023-10-16T20:48:00.006-07:002023-10-17T02:42:04.234-07:00Krakatoa. The loudest sound on earth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3o1a2ZVL7UN4taZZvU5Ixk5fOUsWzal7_xMKasHqjiwYrMDPwUt2k27R8T5Id61jRVmDPHzDfcm2d2OfnrLXi8YaU2yq9XtbsJ9D7WVfgir3Xw4cRcEpaxL4wIv0aO6DM7Ey4KxNTjofIYBGFJj_6DdDEI4vAt3jypIYFsUqGG-5npQU1MEFdxORlSXo/s3946/PXL_20231010_014823453~2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2960" data-original-width="3946" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3o1a2ZVL7UN4taZZvU5Ixk5fOUsWzal7_xMKasHqjiwYrMDPwUt2k27R8T5Id61jRVmDPHzDfcm2d2OfnrLXi8YaU2yq9XtbsJ9D7WVfgir3Xw4cRcEpaxL4wIv0aO6DM7Ey4KxNTjofIYBGFJj_6DdDEI4vAt3jypIYFsUqGG-5npQU1MEFdxORlSXo/w640-h480/PXL_20231010_014823453~2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Krakatoa is one of the most famous volcanoes in the world. Its huge eruption in 1883 occured at a time when the telegraph was connecting the world, while the increasing popularity of daily newspapers meant news was becoming increasingly global. The horrors of the eruption became one of the first world events to be discussed at the breakfast table and in the pubs at night. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>It has been estimated that the explosion was equivalent to that of 13,000 nuclear bombs of the size that devastated Hiroshima. Scientists consider it to be the loudest sound ever</span><span> heard on earth at an estimated 310 decibels. Loud enough to be heard on the island of Mauritius, 4,780 km (2970 miles) and in Perth in Western Australia, 3,100 km (1920 miles) away.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just to give a little bit of context, a clap of thunder directly overhead produces around 120 decibels, and anything over 160 decibels will rupture an eardrum. Anyone living close to the island, within 20km, would have been permanently deafened.</span></p><p></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sadly that was not to be their biggest concern as the 37 metre (120 feet) Tsunami produced by the eruption wiped out all island and coastal life on the nearby shores of Java and Sumatra. The death toll was estimated at close to 40,000, but with no official records, or census at that time, the toll could have been much higher. For years afterwards skeletons were washing up on the east coast of Africa on beds of floating pumice stone.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Little remained of the original Krakatoa island, a few jagged peaks ot the original caldera and a few small islands. But in 1937 a small volcano emerged in the centre of the caldera. Named Anak Krakatoa (Son of Krakatoa) that has been growing at a rate of 7 to 9 metres (22 to 29 feet) a year since.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This new crater has been becoming increasingly active, particularly since 2018 when an eruption destroyed the eastern flank of the new caldera sending a tsunami that devastated the coastal villages in Sumatra and Java, particularly in Carita Beach and Anyer, where <i>Seventeen, </i>a local Indonesian rock band was playing on a stage on the beach. Several of the band were killed as part of 437 people who lost their lives to the second worst Tsunami of the twenty-first century.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="408" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2ERXCR86GU4" width="490" youtube-src-id="2ERXCR86GU4"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The band <i>Seventeen</i> performing on Anyer Beach in 2018 as the Tsunami hits</div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The sheer size of the eruption is still very impressive today. When the lava and water combined the island disintegrated, turned into ash and pumice with what once was a large crater being now mostly hidden under the sea. </span></p></div></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Krakatoa remains a volcano with a danger that can not be underestimated or ignored. Not surprisingly for me, I still wanted to climb it. Some large explosions from the active crater in September 2023 meant the island was off limits for all visitors, but finding up-to-date news was near impossible when I visited Indonesia in October 2023. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Seeing as the eruptions had moderated to plumes of white smoke and hot gases I was hopeful I could land. Krakatoa is located in the centre of the Sunda Sea separating Sumatra from the main Indonesian island of Java, approximately 55 km (34 miles) from land. I decided to head to Carita beach via train, bus and ojek (Indonesian motorbike taxi, with no helmet provided).</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSp0sUAtoHf5EWLS1_Ot9njmA2O7SKrkYUu0DC-n5nWxhC7FN66gp8UERQbinzHGzo70vuFTj8AAi1KyOLBMWH7p0OFYjUNfI-tk2XtM1omA0cG4kahs772v9jBLxU01vEDpn4HavwI80gplFYTrBJl4i21YdGvEskG7b7Ca2aSnMtwoSYkdU8nsRg4bw/s1920/PXL_20231010_020911258_exported_3796~2.jpg" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSp0sUAtoHf5EWLS1_Ot9njmA2O7SKrkYUu0DC-n5nWxhC7FN66gp8UERQbinzHGzo70vuFTj8AAi1KyOLBMWH7p0OFYjUNfI-tk2XtM1omA0cG4kahs772v9jBLxU01vEDpn4HavwI80gplFYTrBJl4i21YdGvEskG7b7Ca2aSnMtwoSYkdU8nsRg4bw/w640-h360/PXL_20231010_020911258_exported_3796~2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The warning that you are entering a "Disaster Prone Area"</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Carita Beach was typical of many Indonesian beaches, beautiful but with little care of litter being placed in bins. The condominiums which faced the water were in a poor state, Many had been abandoned after the 2018 Tsunami had killed many occupants of the ground and first floor apartments. It felt strange staying in an apartment with a keyed door when the ones either side of mine were windowless and had boarded up doors. At least it was quiet. Probably not the ideal weekend beach getaway.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was not here for the beach, and I spent the first day negotiating with middle men to try and get to Krakatoa. "Too far, much money" was the opening gambit of the few English speaking touts (admittedly it was over 50 km away) who then offered me their best price which was equivalent of a flight to Australia. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The next day I walked to the small port at the southern edge of the beach. Thanks to Google Translate I was able to secure a reasonable price for a two engined boat to head over to Krakatoa the next day. I could have rented a single engine boat for a lot less, but even the Indonesian sailors thought that was too risky, which was good enough for me. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I had read that there was a 5 km (3 mile) exclusion zone around the island, with the latest update being in September. Was this still active? The Captain shrugged his shoulders leaving me none the wiser. We agreed to meet at 6:30 AM the next morning. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_TsNhNPBFR7gqli_sej3aig0X9u_cJSTNkZdxp6Jl9e_hwMWgZEvtfc4LAcrWeiSAfsNgrcV1H0qWECFiW1m3oGh2zkcaSYJdQWTc5ABeLy-F61QRamO05hjgTG04u-sMFUN8BBrsZpjNXlOj0UA-6hX8DcK953Pp9xU8aoKt3SIKTKToK5PX55cjak/s2993/PXL_20231010_023001159~3.jpg" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1943" data-original-width="2993" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_TsNhNPBFR7gqli_sej3aig0X9u_cJSTNkZdxp6Jl9e_hwMWgZEvtfc4LAcrWeiSAfsNgrcV1H0qWECFiW1m3oGh2zkcaSYJdQWTc5ABeLy-F61QRamO05hjgTG04u-sMFUN8BBrsZpjNXlOj0UA-6hX8DcK953Pp9xU8aoKt3SIKTKToK5PX55cjak/w640-h416/PXL_20231010_023001159~3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anak Krakatoa with smoke pouring from the crater in front of a surviving part of the crater wall of the original Krakatoa</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The speedboat had seen better days but had two working engines, the captain, an engineer and a lovely smiling local, Marto, who was an extra crew member/guide, although his guiding ability I was soon to discover was somewhat limited.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Marto had survived the 2018 Tsunami by chance. Reluctantly leaving his beachside home, which was destroyed, to attend a wedding of distant relatives inland. Luckily for him, he had run out of reasonable excuses not to go.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">His knowledge of history prior to the 2018 eruption was very limited, nor did he have any recent updates on the crater activity. But he could lead and point out the path up the volcano, which, of course, was what I needed.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At least we should get there. We sped out from the bach with the engines on full throttle, bouncing into each oncoming wave. The Captain had tried to increase the agreed price as we left, an interesting tactic, by suggesting we were were going to have to pay fines to the police to get close to Krakatoa. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was not totally clear on why there would be fines, although I was beginning to guess the 5 km (3 mile) exclusion zone was still in force and that a bribe/fine might be needed. Rather than pay upfront I agreed that if the police boarded us I would pay whatever fines were issued. In the event we saw no other human close to the Krakatoa crater, although that situation is different on weekends, which is probably when the police hit paydirt.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Out in the Sunda Sea we passed fishing boats but then there was nothing but ocean as we sped westwards. About 90 minutes into the journey the distant peak of part of the old Krakatoa caldera became visible on the horizon. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We slowed down as we passed the heavily forested remains of the original volcanic island and entered the sunken caldera. The new island of Anak Krakatao in the middle looked devoid of life, made predominantly of ash and lava no vegetation had been able to take hold as yet. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I jumped off the boat and waded to shore to start the climb up to the crater. A sign gave a somewhat understated warning that this was a 'Disaster Prone Area' but did not actually say 'No Entry'. No one else was around though as we began walking upwards in the stifling heat.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6-sIBaokIkX47sobK0XBtXPIO3nKldYFo7Er9GspeNhSONs_X0LxYRhvna6AoNOLGxjO0zU5oNgVkkWsKad0Hzwao1QrflQrCX80L89kxwISELPgDHQPol5FVP8_LnuKcOEIqzF18c9kt_nQUJf9DIwlCr1QJrgHdlHYW-x-sH_YUJAxMCz3XR2Fez4/s2335/PXL_20231010_033604498~2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="2335" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6-sIBaokIkX47sobK0XBtXPIO3nKldYFo7Er9GspeNhSONs_X0LxYRhvna6AoNOLGxjO0zU5oNgVkkWsKad0Hzwao1QrflQrCX80L89kxwISELPgDHQPol5FVP8_LnuKcOEIqzF18c9kt_nQUJf9DIwlCr1QJrgHdlHYW-x-sH_YUJAxMCz3XR2Fez4/w640-h494/PXL_20231010_033604498~2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smoke rises from Anak Krakatoa in the middle of the larger Krakatoa caldera</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A strong smell of sulphur was present from when we had approached the island and this only got more overpowering the higher we went. The path was littered with lava bombs from when the activity was greater and this area was more downwind. We had already checked the wind direction before climbing, just for added safety. There were also lots of gullies cut out of the ash by rain, which would make good shelter should they be needed.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The climb was nor particularly difficult, with only a very few steep sections, although the ground was at times slippery where the ash was not compacted. The biggest issue, apart from the sulphur smell was the intense humidity and heat. Although it was only 10:00 AM the temperature was approaching 35 C (95 F) and it felt as if I was walking through an oven.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The plume of smoke and gases was rising about 100 metres (330 feet) into the sky with no visible lava or rocks being propelled out of the crater. Krakatoa is one of the more dangerous types of volcano, not just because of its historical activity, but due to its nature to erupt pyroclastic flows, deadly superheated clouds of ash and gas that, as Vesuvius showed with Pompeii, kill every living thing in its path. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anak Krakatoa is defined as a Surtseyan eruptive volcano, named after the Icelandic island off the South coast of Iceland, a particularly violent and explosive type. Growing from the bottom of the ocean they eventually collapse and disappear back under the sea without continual eruptions, due to the actions of the sea. Krakatoa's many eruptions seem to preclude this, unlike the original island of Surtsey which is becoming smaller every day.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A massive gap on the eastern side of the rim was all that was left of the original rim, The collapsed eastern rim of the crater, which caused the deadly 2018 Tsunami was clearly visible. The island lost two thirds of its size during the collapse and where the rim had been was now just beds of ash cut through with rain channels.. The majority of the land on this side of the island was now buried under the sea.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9A7nfJlUUJ2ETdeWrdC0F5k5h5K8KfiNVjw_CwkcfTwaw-MlTmd5oR-ls6m9NgS55KXL2mg00kvSNxKMfIGb7iGNviq5BSsEvi-Ba0YsBOKjEwWlBDzhL8tOAROMlkCFWkQeAVIZfl1YnCTfy_-YtuNLDgJxV2PdkHzQ2MvGKYk2RujIF3pipMGskmY/s3833/PXL_20231010_024300889~2.jpg" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2874" data-original-width="3833" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9A7nfJlUUJ2ETdeWrdC0F5k5h5K8KfiNVjw_CwkcfTwaw-MlTmd5oR-ls6m9NgS55KXL2mg00kvSNxKMfIGb7iGNviq5BSsEvi-Ba0YsBOKjEwWlBDzhL8tOAROMlkCFWkQeAVIZfl1YnCTfy_-YtuNLDgJxV2PdkHzQ2MvGKYk2RujIF3pipMGskmY/w640-h480/PXL_20231010_024300889~2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The collapsed eastern side of the crater. Now just ash and lava </td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As the island continues to grow another collapse is seen as inevitable, scientists believe that the western side, where I was standing, will next crash into the sea creating another deadly Tsunami. This newly formed island lacks a strong submarine plateau to give it the stability to support the newly formed mainly ash based land above, while the continual destructive actions of the sea combine with the constant tremors and vibration from eruptions to weaken the rim. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It may happen tomorrow or in twenty years, but it will happen. With only 55 km (34 miles) from the volcano to the nearest land it is estimated that it would take less than 30 minutes for the resulting Tsunami to reach the coast.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Even if effective early warning systems were in place this would not give enough time to evacuate. Neither Western Java or Southern Sumatra would be the place to build your dream beach home close to the water.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZG5WpF4FSIK8-ntxih_6h8Zgj_WkiC8VPkxQTpudijBO_Era4vM8fBXCNDTtPDCV_z_DPmySqVVMcAvpl1ZTVWqouYQ4-d6bz7xmr9-gMHvEopsvRARlR1Gma9LtmPSNXFCFv9kGm_BOEIm-wPJksROHZJTBB4MqBO8uaGrlYhF8Fec8pUU9ko0HPvg/s1091/Anak.jpg" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1091" data-original-width="734" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZG5WpF4FSIK8-ntxih_6h8Zgj_WkiC8VPkxQTpudijBO_Era4vM8fBXCNDTtPDCV_z_DPmySqVVMcAvpl1ZTVWqouYQ4-d6bz7xmr9-gMHvEopsvRARlR1Gma9LtmPSNXFCFv9kGm_BOEIm-wPJksROHZJTBB4MqBO8uaGrlYhF8Fec8pUU9ko0HPvg/w430-h640/Anak.jpg" width="430" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anak Krakatoa in the middle of the caldera</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><u>Far Flung Tips</u></h3><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">* Krakatoa can be reached by boat from either Sumatra or Java. The Sumatra route from Lampung will probably involve an overnight stay at Sabesis Island and will take longer. The costs are roughly the same.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />* To reach Krakatoa from Java either hire a 3 hour to Carita Beach or Anyer Beach for approx US$60 through the Gojek app (a must have in Indonesia). Note that getting a car in the opposite direction is very hard. Or catch the regular commuter train from Jakarta Tanahabang station to Rangkasbitung for avery cheap US$1, which gets you two thirds of the way there. Then either proceed by Gojek car all the way (US$20) or a quick motorbike journey to Pandeglang Bus terminal to get the regular bus to Labuhan and then a final motorbike ride to your beach destination. Slightly longer, lots of fun depending on luggage, and at a cost of US$3.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />* English speaking touts will approach you on the beaches asking for exorbitant amounts of money for a boat to the volcano. Go to the port and negotiate directly in Bahasa using Google Translate to cut out the middle man. It is a long way and requires a lot of fuel so you will not be able to bargain down that much.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />* Check the weather. I was stuck in Carita Beach for two days because of high winds. It is not worth travelling in this weather, although the Captain may still want to take you there to make money. You will add more risk and suffer an uncomfortable long journey.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />* Go for a 2 engine boat. More expensive than a one engine boat but again a lot less risk. You are out in the ocean with few to no other boats around.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />* Exclusion zones dependant on volcanic activity and/or Police patrols may prevent you landing. The views will still be spectacular if you just sail around the volcano.</span></p><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zNdl1QY6h1akJDoYD_ErL_7SmeFazg3_uSMG7THzzUqPW2iFCsQdWeGPiOSWQkfnCYaUh92UNCDL1ljRelX_zRi3IQDPsKdJShrHi1n5tG2QVS6-5JSM8iUmtJv38WYLb4lJCq8lqLxaZrOoC4ajjSpq0lz4diwjxXpbucLSfi38EFdyPGQB7YSgjz4/s1532/IMG-20231009-WA0008.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1532" data-original-width="1149" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zNdl1QY6h1akJDoYD_ErL_7SmeFazg3_uSMG7THzzUqPW2iFCsQdWeGPiOSWQkfnCYaUh92UNCDL1ljRelX_zRi3IQDPsKdJShrHi1n5tG2QVS6-5JSM8iUmtJv38WYLb4lJCq8lqLxaZrOoC4ajjSpq0lz4diwjxXpbucLSfi38EFdyPGQB7YSgjz4/w480-h640/IMG-20231009-WA0008.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anak Krakatoa erupting lava in September 2023</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p></div></div>Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-36125976433250162842023-09-13T00:14:00.024-07:002023-10-12T03:04:26.772-07:00The Uncertain Road to Nagorno-Karabakh<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VzcPx7lojzx6OA6xq9Z6XOg0oA4QHFlVBDuI64pQEhGOrLYr3x385dE3DLgMZSDrqZg3Qj7cGCue8VXtcfe538ZJlmmmQW80GSbCooW37c9Aor6LxeyKG7lDpi4srzS6jDJ3awEM43kFe_vejTsQKwRF-W9oUP5gg4ZmhwU4_JMOh1-Fv2znuuSzqs4/s4608/IMGP0008~2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VzcPx7lojzx6OA6xq9Z6XOg0oA4QHFlVBDuI64pQEhGOrLYr3x385dE3DLgMZSDrqZg3Qj7cGCue8VXtcfe538ZJlmmmQW80GSbCooW37c9Aor6LxeyKG7lDpi4srzS6jDJ3awEM43kFe_vejTsQKwRF-W9oUP5gg4ZmhwU4_JMOh1-Fv2znuuSzqs4/w640-h480/IMGP0008~2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The mountainous region of Nagorno-Karabakh is one of the more complicated parts of the world. Straddling Asia and Europe, even its name is disputed with the Armenians calling it Artsakh and Azerbaijan (and most of the rest of the world) calling it Nagorno-Karabakh. </span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a name='more'></a><p>It has had an unhappy history, being fought over by invading Arabs, Iranians, Russians and, more recently Armenia and Azerbaijan. It had been peaceful, and frankly unknown to most people, when it was incorporated into the Soviet Union, under the administrative control of Baku. </p></div><div><p></p><p>With the splintering of the Soviet Union, the region made its way back into the newspapers. With a majority of Armenians in its small population of under 150,000 there was a push for independence which resulted in a full-scale war between Azerbaijan and the tiny country, which was heavily backed by Armenian troops from 1988 to 1994.</p><p>The war was extremely nasty. of course, most wars are, but this had vicious battles between Afghan mujahadeen and Chechnya fighters on the side of Azerbaijan versus Ukrainian and Russian mercenaries fighting alongside the Armenian and Nagorno-Karabakh armies. Atrocities and ethnic cleansing were carried out against the civilian population, particularly in the smaller Muslim-dominated Azerbaijani villages. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrSDp4nDP4vYpltUOBubtRpmaDPHDCy8VRQPNnzp0Xqb6anq7sZtvE2B8WhV9sdovH4MH84ynPGKBhuBHeqtLm475qPFUT79iOxQPzbHqYElbQybCIvYNhetse3P4NcpAIWLAHbKxWKdFp5nJ-uFOBFGrn6t_QKejImc5mdlrNVMj6dNtXko6riqnYt4/s4608/IMGP0032~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrSDp4nDP4vYpltUOBubtRpmaDPHDCy8VRQPNnzp0Xqb6anq7sZtvE2B8WhV9sdovH4MH84ynPGKBhuBHeqtLm475qPFUT79iOxQPzbHqYElbQybCIvYNhetse3P4NcpAIWLAHbKxWKdFp5nJ-uFOBFGrn6t_QKejImc5mdlrNVMj6dNtXko6riqnYt4/w640-h480/IMGP0032~2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T-72 tank. A memorial to the Armenian Army winning the first Nagorno-Karabakh war in 1994</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The eventual ceasefire left Azerbaijan harbouring a major grudge against Armenia and the nominally independent Nagorno-Karabakh, having lost 14% of their territory and thousands of their fighters it was inevitable that they would try and take it back. </p><p>Skirmishes and deaths on both sides continued until a rebuilt and reequipped Azerbaijani army (thanks to the financial power of being a major oil producer) invaded in 2020 in the Second Nagorno-Karabakh and regained almost 50% of the region before a ceasefire brokered by Russia.</p><p>Sadly this is not a part of the world that will know peace for long. Constant fighting erupts on a regular basis on the new border, and the Russian peacekeepers deployed are particularly ineffective, probably because their numbers are reduced and redeployed in Ukraine. A Third Nagorno-Karabakh war was inevitable and occured in September 2023. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbNgxDA93XpWlW5zlOVkdtNvXENRQ-t-Q-mVRWq1ibNno4DMqboeQFGbD1NOGSE0BqVLw9V51u4oik7yaL8gqd1P2Tfh22N8IvLGLtT4Lbfx5MQhRdC-E7ZTAuoRiYzg9G_TXYAjRh6ic5gV17NvHX1fGBKz6rgNJr6IG9NYQyYLgKdpAhvJpw1bgAN9c/s3064/IMGP0047~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3064" data-original-width="2958" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbNgxDA93XpWlW5zlOVkdtNvXENRQ-t-Q-mVRWq1ibNno4DMqboeQFGbD1NOGSE0BqVLw9V51u4oik7yaL8gqd1P2Tfh22N8IvLGLtT4Lbfx5MQhRdC-E7ZTAuoRiYzg9G_TXYAjRh6ic5gV17NvHX1fGBKz6rgNJr6IG9NYQyYLgKdpAhvJpw1bgAN9c/w618-h640/IMGP0047~2.JPG" width="618" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The national emblem of Nagorno-Karabakh on top of the Parliament in Stepanakert</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I visited Nagorno-Karabakh in August 2020, weeks before the Second War began. As I was planning on visiting Baku, as well as Belarus, a key ally of Azerbaijan I held back this article as the authorities have an uncompromising attitude toward those they find visiting the breakaway country including <u> </u><a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-trending-38804499" style="text-decoration-line: underline;" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;">extradition and imprisonment.</span></a></p><p>Nagorno-Karabakh is not easy to get to. It has an airport, but it has never seen a flight since it was built in 2009 as Azerbaijan has promised to shoot down any plane that uses it with Surface to Air missiles. Public transport is infrequent, crowded and incredibly slow. I discussed the issue with my landlady at the small and very cheap B&B I was staying at in Yerevan, the Armenian capital. </p><p>"Don't get the bus. It will take a day and be the most uncomfortable ride of your life". </p><p>Clearly she had never travelled in rural China. Nothing could compare with the noise, smell and chaos of those slow journeys where the sawdust in the aisle was vital in soaking up the urine of non-nappy wearing children suspended by their mothers over it to relieve themselves.</p><p>She had a convenient solution. </p><p>"My brother Davit will drive you".</p><p>She had already told me the sad tale of the economic crisis and high unemployment in Armenia and that her brother had been unable to get a job since leaving the army. I had already met him since he was used for the B&B's $10 pickups and drop-offs to Yerevan international airport.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhuxBcmo152FxmuoWpuD9FGKk6k4wzOLkquUgvjM0It5gYETOYwEG3B8e4LkbNe5HumeTvnjKw1j7ubZ7P3u-lnuu3dV_XJwqVyXHF74HUdIIQjcB6mzqF9ylu2PqmnnMyYyQn0FYIA7pstlGFpuQVDrW9gU-SC7nFVlj6zZ3Y_5a3gMrq9YeRCZSpxw/s4608/IMGP0038~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhuxBcmo152FxmuoWpuD9FGKk6k4wzOLkquUgvjM0It5gYETOYwEG3B8e4LkbNe5HumeTvnjKw1j7ubZ7P3u-lnuu3dV_XJwqVyXHF74HUdIIQjcB6mzqF9ylu2PqmnnMyYyQn0FYIA7pstlGFpuQVDrW9gU-SC7nFVlj6zZ3Y_5a3gMrq9YeRCZSpxw/w640-h480/IMGP0038~2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The earth wall along the highway to prevent sniper attacks on cars</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I considered a bonus in having a recent member of the Armenian Army as my driver. It could be quite useful in case of any difficulties in entering Nagorno-Karabakh.</p><p>The negotiation on price was concluded very quickly. I lowballed a US$100 price for a return journey to Stepanakert, the capital of Nagorno-Karabakh. It was accepted quickly, a little too quickly for my liking, and we arranged the departure for 8:00 AM the next day.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpXfEAn7UEsyrNGgQZvIN22RvJWZd3istzPSf7A7n25NMiIWapGVL-nFx5fbeiV3LUOVwJy1HE7V5upL8r7n6f9Z7zpM2Oob7c9Fzazs8TNPok5St13781zhnlszlch8iAQCqPalbXGZDC2o7_sqX5lptJ_g_fPZgDvpskO2E5eOoRYwFq5B-Jncdzhk/s4469/IMGP0049~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4469" data-original-width="3352" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpXfEAn7UEsyrNGgQZvIN22RvJWZd3istzPSf7A7n25NMiIWapGVL-nFx5fbeiV3LUOVwJy1HE7V5upL8r7n6f9Z7zpM2Oob7c9Fzazs8TNPok5St13781zhnlszlch8iAQCqPalbXGZDC2o7_sqX5lptJ_g_fPZgDvpskO2E5eOoRYwFq5B-Jncdzhk/w480-h640/IMGP0049~2.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the best things in Nagorno-Karabakh. Wine, Zhingyalov Hats and the Mountain monument</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Davit was tall and lean, with a preference for still wearing his old Army shirt, trousers, and boots. Maybe they were the only clothes he had, as he never was seen in anything else. His dark black hair was just a little longer than army regulation, and he sported a long moustache. </p><p>The reason for the acceptance of the low price became quickly apparent as we stopped at a large supermarket on the edge of Yerevan and loaded up with a huge amount of packaged food, cases of beer, and essentials like nappies, which due to their bulk, quickly filled the car. </p><p>I was hoping that none of this was for us on the six-hour journey. Well, the beer could be useful but the nappies were more concerning.</p><p>There were shortages of items in Nagorno-Karabakh due to the difficult roads and lack of regular transport so Davit could make some serious money in bringing some of the most in demand goods to Stepanakert. My contribution was for the petrol.</p><p>This was a regular journey for Davit and he enjoyed having the company, telling me tales of easy victories over the Azerbaijan Army, the strength of the Armenian Army, and how Nagorno-Karabakh would never be taken back by the enemy. He was enthusiastic and blindly over optimistic based on the events that happened only a month later.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwHgdLt3aiuoX0FePssB2K4H6_asBx2MWculZqMdsgbJeSmFaPoLVQ26FzSZc9YTg_6DR_V0LHXlk43dcbrK9wjUTvrIC2ocv-P4moUZo-zQdq-RD4oS-6PN5zvGcXa4mLIYnA78gG5RlMIqnFWk3oxVaXSqjXTaXMH8-Wqj6YmBFwKycJcLd6BbBb9Nc/s4608/IMGP0039~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwHgdLt3aiuoX0FePssB2K4H6_asBx2MWculZqMdsgbJeSmFaPoLVQ26FzSZc9YTg_6DR_V0LHXlk43dcbrK9wjUTvrIC2ocv-P4moUZo-zQdq-RD4oS-6PN5zvGcXa4mLIYnA78gG5RlMIqnFWk3oxVaXSqjXTaXMH8-Wqj6YmBFwKycJcLd6BbBb9Nc/w640-h480/IMGP0039~2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Azerbaijan border and military bases behind the protective highway earth wall</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>We passed massive earth walls just an hour out of Yerevan. Even here we were skirting the border with Azerbaijan and their reinforced military emplacements were clearly visible on the hilltops a few kilometres away. </p><p>The earth walls were there to prevent sniping attacks on cars on the road to Stepanakert. I was beginning to question my decision to visit this remote country.</p><p>As we started to wind our way up and down the mountains the road clearly started to deteriorate. It struck me as unwise to have the main supply route into the Armenian supported and disputed Nagorno-Karabakh in such a poor condition but this was also a reflection on the economic malaise that Armenia had fallen into.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMxeQek0wMpS8lA4Q1MqTD-cmNImT4_JUZI0Y1kjZC1AvaJy8jxeUvEgZznfCcVIkx6EZMvjCzzOnQsgbOUxm25izBwFZttORKY5y_Kj5bIWoWYD9jX4oeZjxk6uwGzNvvzCH-cRQic1ARMCbUNZHuiq-9Ms98x6Yp2WFTzbkgSEZPyZAi-Y5r79DQJw/s4148/IMGP0024~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3063" data-original-width="4148" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMxeQek0wMpS8lA4Q1MqTD-cmNImT4_JUZI0Y1kjZC1AvaJy8jxeUvEgZznfCcVIkx6EZMvjCzzOnQsgbOUxm25izBwFZttORKY5y_Kj5bIWoWYD9jX4oeZjxk6uwGzNvvzCH-cRQic1ARMCbUNZHuiq-9Ms98x6Yp2WFTzbkgSEZPyZAi-Y5r79DQJw/w640-h472/IMGP0024~2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abandoned buildings in Nagorno-Karabakh</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Buildings along the roadside in both Armenia and Nagorno-Karabakh were often abandoned, missing windows and doors with their roof collapsed. The value in the disputed territory was clearly not economic but territorial.</p><p>The country was beautiful though, we passed mountains and lakes reminiscent of the Scottish highlands which could, if ever peace was to come to this land, be a magnet for tourism.</p><p>We arrived at a military checkpoint. Davit laughed and joked with the heavily armed Nagorno-Karabakh soldiers who did not bother to check the car as they were supposed to. </p><p>A case of beer exchanged hands. My details were taken and my passport photographed and I was told to get a visa at the government office in Stepanakert within 24 hours, else I would have trouble leaving.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="2331" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPMpVsa7SL4nghaFh0vxuRuaoSAL-W-_FvxKzC8saKS2l8hFAjDZtAxhOwFi33sJNHR0iVRKAhZfbkL_8ks38a0f2FaV6tHAB7M6U-tcoiASVZ77U61LNAB9Vvc38Bnbkm7W_22V25MX93gNXTA42V7H4oezxxtHFmezkS9TnqhrJ8pnFdhPPEk9gnkhY/w432-h640/IMGP0014%20(1)~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="432" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The unhappy wedding party at Ghazanchetsots Cathedral in Shusha</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Travelling along the Lachin Corridor, a small road on the edge of the border, we passed villages which had been abandoned and where all the houses had been burnt out, presumably these were majority Azerbaijani inhabited and had been destroyed in the waves of ethnic cleansing during the first war. </p><p>The city of Shusha was the first settlement that had any signs of life. It had been the main Azerbaijani enclave in Nagorno-Karabakh but had been repopulated by mainly rural Armenians after the war. </p><p>Many buildings had been destroyed as it was on the frontline and with its height above the capital Stepanakert, visible in the valley below, it was perfectly positioned fpr the Azerbaijani artillery to fire many shells into it which did not differentiate between civilians or the military.</p><p>The Ghazanchetsots Cathedral was badly damaged as Armenia had discovered it was where Azerbaijan had stored al its missiles and shells, believing the Christian Armenians would never attack a cathedral. </p><p>A wedding was taking place in the newly renovated church and I tried to take a few photos, the wedding party was very colourful, but this was brought to an abrupt halt as two of the party rushed up to me waving their arms in front of my camera and seemed quite angry. I beat a hasty retreat. This was not a friendly place.</p><p>The famed city ancient city walls still had huge gaps where they had been by missiles, rubble lay everywhere, and they were impossible to climb and walk any distance.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydacjTXv1C3x63cTWZBGpqxi7L7MfdGgFeNRQ1nDb7MU-6Y_MCOUkvJ4v8ac83V99eXwkIk6_4t6oXZVS9F7Uw5TNWDDs8ZydJKp-AFn7zfMCstfxjN0kSmbn-F54b4hba2Wnnzg7s9CkxMFAWckc04VxRVfyKu2nK1VRMFcFsc-FqxJ5660Dhi5XAww/s4608/IMGP0020~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydacjTXv1C3x63cTWZBGpqxi7L7MfdGgFeNRQ1nDb7MU-6Y_MCOUkvJ4v8ac83V99eXwkIk6_4t6oXZVS9F7Uw5TNWDDs8ZydJKp-AFn7zfMCstfxjN0kSmbn-F54b4hba2Wnnzg7s9CkxMFAWckc04VxRVfyKu2nK1VRMFcFsc-FqxJ5660Dhi5XAww/w640-h480/IMGP0020~2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The damaged Mosque and minaret in Shusha</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Much of the city had not been rebuilt, noticeably the main mosque, whose minaret had apparently been used for target practise by Armenian forces after the war finished. </p><p>The graves inside had been smashed up. At least it was not turned into a pig farm which was the fate of several smaller mosques, in a rather nasty insult to their religion.</p><p>I discovered the Great Patriotic War (WW II) memorial quite close to the centre. I have seen many of these memorials across the old Soviet Union and although the flames of remembrance may not always be burning forever as planned, the sites and monuments were always well looked after. </p><p>Not here. Totally overgrown, broken, and pockmarked with bullet holes. I have no idea which side was responsible but clearly no one cared enough now to repair it or even clean it up. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioY-_087kCys2xnQ1yc3eHr6zt1UBRS9g2Dq_6LllV1R8ayLRXFfOFK5H1B3ot-X4SPxoKVP3AmWQNgUq7GR8FtZoTEpV5wQMMIcHgrGdO8jGjQWajVUQWD8bBJGFJaTnSLYED5XkWOHWO4Y6Iu-ffQP3iyHEEMPcQ_1qnMIXgn5SWrDW8FspN6V1aADU/s3672/IMGP0028~3.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3142" data-original-width="3672" height="548" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioY-_087kCys2xnQ1yc3eHr6zt1UBRS9g2Dq_6LllV1R8ayLRXFfOFK5H1B3ot-X4SPxoKVP3AmWQNgUq7GR8FtZoTEpV5wQMMIcHgrGdO8jGjQWajVUQWD8bBJGFJaTnSLYED5XkWOHWO4Y6Iu-ffQP3iyHEEMPcQ_1qnMIXgn5SWrDW8FspN6V1aADU/w640-h548/IMGP0028~3.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bullet holed and abandoned Great Patriotic War Memorial in Shusha</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>We descended on the road to Stepanakert passing a T-72 tank which had led the capture of Shusha despite its driver and gun operator being killed. It was one of the few memorials to the recent war and was adorned not with flowers of remembrance but a Christian cross painted on the side.</p><p>The capital, predominantly populated by Armenians, was different to Shusha in that had been totally rebuilt and there were no obvious signs of the conflict. It looked like any other modern Armenian city and my brand new hotel was quiet and comfortable. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRrj_fncjeXewBnfcl3I6zMObkFAb3axgGm7ciqJOVUO3LnM0ES_xb74CQOWuWG_RK43O6R3xRRmwAwNUY9_td0jaC-VGMU3dTLZd_ZhkvRyazPi6XRmNQlbs_97Eg5H6FIGd_Un_GRRYCk9RzM6M1yScSio_7c73hl5dn2AoxBa8OWEKH93mTyZXV9Y/s3668/IMGP0040~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3070" data-original-width="3668" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRrj_fncjeXewBnfcl3I6zMObkFAb3axgGm7ciqJOVUO3LnM0ES_xb74CQOWuWG_RK43O6R3xRRmwAwNUY9_td0jaC-VGMU3dTLZd_ZhkvRyazPi6XRmNQlbs_97Eg5H6FIGd_Un_GRRYCk9RzM6M1yScSio_7c73hl5dn2AoxBa8OWEKH93mTyZXV9Y/w640-h536/IMGP0040~2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Stepanakert. Note that little English is spoken anywhere in Nagorno-Karabakh.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I went off in search of a cold beer, there seemed to be a distinct shortage of anything but Kilikia, a pretty bland and gassy lager, while Davit went off to unload his cargo for a nice profit.</p><p>The next day I walked into the Government offices and, perhaps not surprisingly, was the only one in the queue for an Artsakh visa. At a cost of US$3 it was stuck into my passport, which could prove problematic in some countries, luckily I have more than one passport.</p><p>The first place to visit was the Military Museum of Artsakh. A squat building surrounded by government offices. Captured weaponry was on display outside, while inside it was a sombre affair, with one wall dedicated to photographs of some of the many thousand local troops killed in the conflict. Individual displays told of acts of heroism and valour, but the whole thing was rather depressing.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYGHKupT40tmpHF0ZPeSZZi_aF-0X49hVTPeJIY29I5AOA5vZFb3WBxIiNoNbvzn4K8sGaCavRcY_99JT1tv3HgB7FmaZLoEZevCvYejHafG28Vpm2JEco-tt41cp4gLsI80MCIHHX5IMa6dqcj6gpTfQZ16JVF1jw-bBXIfMLdtApDBdwncnu07DN6M/s4608/IMGP0093~4.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYGHKupT40tmpHF0ZPeSZZi_aF-0X49hVTPeJIY29I5AOA5vZFb3WBxIiNoNbvzn4K8sGaCavRcY_99JT1tv3HgB7FmaZLoEZevCvYejHafG28Vpm2JEco-tt41cp4gLsI80MCIHHX5IMa6dqcj6gpTfQZ16JVF1jw-bBXIfMLdtApDBdwncnu07DN6M/w640-h480/IMGP0093~4.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hardly in the spirit of reconciliation. An Azerbaijan flag to wipe your feet on.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>One rather strange interactive exhibit was a torn and dirty Azerbaijan flag on the floor which you were encouraged to wipe your feet on. Not much chance of reconciliation being promoted here.</p><p>Nearby was the main cemetery where grave after grave was marked with granite carved images of those that had lost their lives in the conflict. A grim reminder of the terrible human cost of war, more confronting than just plain gravestone markers. Clean, tidy and well looked after in contrast to the Soviet War Memorial in Shusha.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BbsiQ-l4a6G66x-dueTHn2APLBQB3erhelxyukaDqixIyHJ5iyPSvnNLHYAOnd3IQQ5cFB4h3wZacOxUR82GV0R6RaTVCY_OzMU7fYNBAjPKzA2ZcqufO6o43FFuRUmPc2zlgCk0CN--jGWP9FYOrfHobN32nZHPYEANP71LcoaKNPe371K8JRNAqNI/s701/graves.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="701" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BbsiQ-l4a6G66x-dueTHn2APLBQB3erhelxyukaDqixIyHJ5iyPSvnNLHYAOnd3IQQ5cFB4h3wZacOxUR82GV0R6RaTVCY_OzMU7fYNBAjPKzA2ZcqufO6o43FFuRUmPc2zlgCk0CN--jGWP9FYOrfHobN32nZHPYEANP71LcoaKNPe371K8JRNAqNI/w640-h298/graves.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The real faces of war. The cemetery in Stepanakert</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I met up with Davit and we planned to drive to Aghdam, an abandoned Azeri village close to the current border which was renowned for its beauty, particularly its mosque. We stopped off at the 'We are Mountains' monument, a huge brick sculpture depicting a local Man and Woman and seen as the symbol of the country, appearing on flags, currency and even the local red wine. </p><p>I had already tried a glass of local shiraz in a bar, it was passable being very young, and of course cheap at about US0.20C a glass. Worth tasting, not worth bringing back with me.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdK3ygaFmNvLcJZGo0O-D2uPC-oOJmoeWRSjWVNG_-D6OIyFK-VuBsEww-yvdvM4zTIVFWoE-tgDPAKHPmAqsQue_F8QeD6YqYnXzcrD2L4na72jcHvsOUKygdzUBxsAtdy_Emz807vOsjRj5SMBYgCNyXhN00Z1l5eupXbK9Sq1H52UJzRiCAEmAMx-M/s4608/IMGP0108~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdK3ygaFmNvLcJZGo0O-D2uPC-oOJmoeWRSjWVNG_-D6OIyFK-VuBsEww-yvdvM4zTIVFWoE-tgDPAKHPmAqsQue_F8QeD6YqYnXzcrD2L4na72jcHvsOUKygdzUBxsAtdy_Emz807vOsjRj5SMBYgCNyXhN00Z1l5eupXbK9Sq1H52UJzRiCAEmAMx-M/w640-h480/IMGP0108~2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'We are Mountains' monument near Stepanakert</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I was the only visitor and an old man carving wooden versions of the monument was very happy to have a prospective buyer walking around. He followed me around, waving the wooden monument copy at me at every opportunity, before seeking a quieter time I bought one. It clearly made his day.</p><p>We drove on through parched fields and few signs of life before encountering a roadblock on the outskirts of Aghdam. There was no way we were going to be allowed to proceed further, no matter how good Davit's relations with soldiers were. </p><p>There had been sniping attacks from over the border on troops walking near the town and it was considered very unsafe.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_HZaGDqq37xN_A3XytamFaXhHyBYjbYObo3lQdgoHm3r0LNb8GfCzMaSpmK0ASMuD0L-Jcva0zT_8Lp7dWo9ZT3x8yaA2qxFH0Lt1VsCqNZtGWqAzAkpyvyjePlJlF9u_Vgh_VY6vnE_3EO6zz2U2sk1y-2FIEGBXQ7zYB9PXCN-L8IOPBH-4JhlJqk/s4608/IMGP0115.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_HZaGDqq37xN_A3XytamFaXhHyBYjbYObo3lQdgoHm3r0LNb8GfCzMaSpmK0ASMuD0L-Jcva0zT_8Lp7dWo9ZT3x8yaA2qxFH0Lt1VsCqNZtGWqAzAkpyvyjePlJlF9u_Vgh_VY6vnE_3EO6zz2U2sk1y-2FIEGBXQ7zYB9PXCN-L8IOPBH-4JhlJqk/w480-h640/IMGP0115.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stepanakert International Airport. No problems parking here.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>We returned to Stepanakert via the international airport. Built in 2011 by the Armenian authorities it had remained unused as Azerbaijan had threatened to shoot down and plane that tried to use it.</p><p>The main door was open and it was a strange experience walking past dusty embarkation gates, untouched luggage trollies and onto a runway that was still well maintained with the grass on either side neatly cut. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpUXJRvP30zW1CWf1UDyhzdtgj1vJCmlce898eoUCV5xqMVRAfrWoySWv5972Jv0xL5DClSOT5vGL6bb2ZRrxFuiai7FEmixa-KlbYb3NKD93nbTVRSNncurLekQIRsQB6XTIptxwf5MxPr7ovetSbANYErzNVtL6BT23_JNQLnaD-kNlLigvtWyPerVc/s4608/IMGP0113~2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpUXJRvP30zW1CWf1UDyhzdtgj1vJCmlce898eoUCV5xqMVRAfrWoySWv5972Jv0xL5DClSOT5vGL6bb2ZRrxFuiai7FEmixa-KlbYb3NKD93nbTVRSNncurLekQIRsQB6XTIptxwf5MxPr7ovetSbANYErzNVtL6BT23_JNQLnaD-kNlLigvtWyPerVc/w640-h480/IMGP0113~2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You will be in for a long wait at this airport. Years not minutes.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The main city market was our lunch stop before returning on the long road back to Yerevan. The stalls were full of Chinese plastic tat, as well as huge amounts of vodka in plastic soft drink bottles. These were for Iranian truck drivers. </p><p>The Iranian border and main checkpoint was close by, and the drivers would often detour here on their return journey to pick up illicit alcohol. You would have thought Iranian customs would have been more suspicious of clear liquid in a Pepsi bottle, but apparently not.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCvHus6mL72sOaHyQYX77XUB-uySMBNN3x5ibqqbkDUobc8zm-wTJXwtIT4jfgGBPcZ4cMOrmonFVHDF59WCwlxqr7kPz73F1EZbSCyqUBcZBoOwLU2ng8wCrR3c4P50WnJJJLPangLmHtqGGEEW8ymUK0iDgDNiqKmow9qqvs8pEK9UtWZ98S7J2vcOE/s4608/IMGP0053~3.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCvHus6mL72sOaHyQYX77XUB-uySMBNN3x5ibqqbkDUobc8zm-wTJXwtIT4jfgGBPcZ4cMOrmonFVHDF59WCwlxqr7kPz73F1EZbSCyqUBcZBoOwLU2ng8wCrR3c4P50WnJJJLPangLmHtqGGEEW8ymUK0iDgDNiqKmow9qqvs8pEK9UtWZ98S7J2vcOE/w480-h640/IMGP0053~3.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soft drink bottles filled with local vodka. Irresistible to Iranian truck drivers</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The famed local <i>Zhingyalov Hats</i>, a flat bread filled with spinach, fried onions and green vegetables was being cooked on almost every food stall. Traditional peasant food, as with Italian pizza, simple, cheap and easy to make. And also delicious resembling a stuffed naan bread. </p><p>I talked with the lady behind the grill with Davit translating. She was happy to see a lone tourist visiting but was very depressed at the situation in the region, despairing of the future but with nowhere else to go.</p><p>"Artsakh is my home, I have nowhere else to go. There is nothing for me in Armenia, so whatever happens I am staying. I have no choice, but I would hate to live through another war after the last one. But I fear it will happen again sometime".</p><p>It was hard to feel upbeat leaving Nagorno Karabakh. It has a beautiful setting, high up in the mountains, but the intractable problems of differing religions and nationalism are not something that will be forgotten, or resolved within a few generations.</p></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyjH2E8QX_jC35pJ_j6kTc78zryEXNUTiNC9AUZrypGhSaGoaAqMOqYaLjI1-JIMCDJJbqojHiucgwssqQHI-jCe9KT8EtNZma0jAYjXWDRfL5JwJtlT6c9uSo1ztg8AU_CC_jkclo8JtgSHtDDr_GsS5IOJqB1es_8DO1wJWrY-4pel6sjwGHeOtJ4bI/s4608/IMGP0138.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyjH2E8QX_jC35pJ_j6kTc78zryEXNUTiNC9AUZrypGhSaGoaAqMOqYaLjI1-JIMCDJJbqojHiucgwssqQHI-jCe9KT8EtNZma0jAYjXWDRfL5JwJtlT6c9uSo1ztg8AU_CC_jkclo8JtgSHtDDr_GsS5IOJqB1es_8DO1wJWrY-4pel6sjwGHeOtJ4bI/w640-h480/IMGP0138.JPG" width="640" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p></div>Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0Nagorno-Karabakh40.205524 46.670559313.659389322312649 11.5143093 66.751658677687345 81.826809300000008tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-2505554513263858152022-12-14T17:14:00.000-08:002023-09-24T23:07:50.100-07:00Kashgar. The last stop on the Karakoram Highway<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDg-wHUCtFmvLgFszvZSGQfbaLCiXuKEdZVWOHQ1n2wo1n7AhyIxiXjxeSf-KZ_ePQZJ87xGu0QFK-Ih0jOA4Qvq0NecxFHWBew9gj-lAt4flo7cZh6jT5rC9zSqigGpsRc2I2ycy8Mc/s1600/IMGP0094.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDg-wHUCtFmvLgFszvZSGQfbaLCiXuKEdZVWOHQ1n2wo1n7AhyIxiXjxeSf-KZ_ePQZJ87xGu0QFK-Ih0jOA4Qvq0NecxFHWBew9gj-lAt4flo7cZh6jT5rC9zSqigGpsRc2I2ycy8Mc/s640/IMGP0094.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Stone Fort at Tashgurkan</td></tr>
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I felt like I was in Tajikistan not China. The clothes, the food, the way people dressed, all were just so Tajik. Yet I was in Tashgurkan, the first Chinese town on the Karakoram Highway which I had been travelling on since Islamabad.</div>
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The border to Tajikistan is less then 10 km from Tashgurkan, and is closed to tourists. The local women wore red embroidered dresses and hats with gold
braiding and a scarf attached. Striking and impossible not to stare at.</div>
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This
was the traditional clothing of Tajikistan, but rarely worn there nowadays
except on special occasions.<br />
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Here it remained daily attire, preserved by Mao’s
isolationist policies and the closure of the borders seventy years ago. </div>
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The other local fashion peculiarity, of women growing a
monobrow, added to the strangeness of the place.<br />
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If Oasis reform and need new
band members to play alongside the similarly eye-browed Gallagher brothers,
they should come to Tashkurgan.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Non bread and Tajik style at the Tashgurkan Market<br /><br /></td></tr>
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I had planned to head to Kashgar almost immediately, but as
seemed to be becoming the norm in this remote part of China, the final leg of
the Karakoram Highway was closed.<br />
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Not for any holidays this time, but for road
works as a massive new highway was being built. I was stuck yet again. Although
this town did at least offer a little more variety, and entertainment, than was
the case in Sost over the border.</div>
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Tashkurgan has one site, and one site only, worth visiting.
The Stone Fort. Built 1,400 years ago and, despite being damaged in battles
with the Persians and Mongols, and then ravaged for building materials during
the Cultural Revolution, still stands dominating the surrounding plains. Marco Polo is alleged to have stayed there during his travels.</div>
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The town being small, it was an easy ten-minute walk from
the centre to the small unattended ticket booth. Recognisable from the film
‘The Kite Runner’ where it stood in for an Afghanistan fort, from the outside
it was spectacular, the distant snow topped Pamir mountains providing a great
backdrop.</div>
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Inside it was suffering the fate of all historical buildings
in China, it was being rebuilt, with little thought to authenticity. Howling
packs of dogs circled as the sun began to set, and I sensibly decided that my planned sunset photograph was not worth the risk of dog attack or rabies, and I headed back to the hotel before my journey on to Kashgar.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAP0b7sWFClQe5vG9I_h3l9AezLtwQUUxyo5HGBbO-kxxiQ_OFu_zUjafHmXl33_48Q4NbLQ2DzN7Xf5F_a4h9o008ZR6eOztMLVfsgEIS6-UwlLu9YscycEYH-uHl7OoGOw4suymrLK4/s1600/IMGP0102.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAP0b7sWFClQe5vG9I_h3l9AezLtwQUUxyo5HGBbO-kxxiQ_OFu_zUjafHmXl33_48Q4NbLQ2DzN7Xf5F_a4h9o008ZR6eOztMLVfsgEIS6-UwlLu9YscycEYH-uHl7OoGOw4suymrLK4/s640/IMGP0102.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional Kyrgz yurt in Xianjiang</td></tr>
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The Tajikistan influence diminished as I headed east.
Kyrgyz stone houses replaced the yurts that populated the grasslands around
Tashkurgan.<br />
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The nomadic people cut off from their wanderings around their
homeland over the nearby Tian Shan mountain ranges by the mistrust of Mao and Khrushchev. </div>
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The men’s distinctive white hat, embroidered with black etched flowers, means
their ethnicity was easily recognisable on the frequent motorbikes that pass
us. The flat plains are home to their herds of yak and camel, which can be seen
by, and all too often on, the road.</div>
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I stopped at Bunlunkou Lake, 100 km from Kashgar. The vista in this remote part of Xianjiang province was stunning. Few cars even stopped at the lake, which was one of the most beautiful sites I have seen all over China.<br />
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I explored the surrounding area, gazing into the water at the
mirrored image of the sand dunes topped in front of the distant snow topped mountains. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bunlunkou Lake, Xianjiang</td></tr>
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Chinese army checkpoints became more common as we approached
the outskirts of Kashgar, one of two major cities in Xinjiang province, the
other being Urumqi 1,500 Km away. Cameras, ostensibly to monitor speed, are mounted over the
road every 5 km, catching the registration and movement of all cars. </div>
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Inside
Kashgar itself, particularly in the old town where most Uighur’s live, cameras
are mounted on almost every lamp post, their brightly painted white colour
particularly incongruous against the mud brick houses, while airline style
metal detectors are used outside of shopping centres, mosques, and even on
pedestrian underpasses.</div>
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When I had planned this journey it seemed fitting that it
should end in the ancient Silk Road city of Kashgar. The very word conjures up
images of spices, markets and ancient architecture. </div>
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The reality did not match
the vision in my mind, unlike so much of the Karakoram Highway that I had
travelled, where the remoteness and only small local populations had allowed
buildings and landscapes to remain untouched for centuries. </div>
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Kashgar resembled any other modern Chinese city. Glass
plated office buildings, massive congested roads, and ugly 1980’s apartment
blocks. The old town had been mostly destroyed, what was left was rebuilt to
create a theme park Kashgar with red Chinese flags flying from each building.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0zgnaDQG3k9jmvBXafz_2Uaw9_EqPLU7V7hyphenhyphencwVykpv5CiGYgzRGsj9jO6k0UX7u03XprYVih-FEYNUAaRHnZEnn33LywADyhxH0QIPcFf3OAY0seXOvxOabvpOVVPd_EyKWO0XmGw4/s1600/IMGP0201.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0zgnaDQG3k9jmvBXafz_2Uaw9_EqPLU7V7hyphenhyphencwVykpv5CiGYgzRGsj9jO6k0UX7u03XprYVih-FEYNUAaRHnZEnn33LywADyhxH0QIPcFf3OAY0seXOvxOabvpOVVPd_EyKWO0XmGw4/s640/IMGP0201.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Big Brother is watching. Inside the newly built Kashgar 'old town'<br />
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Walking away from the ‘old town’ I found an original small hill of dwellings fifteen minutes away, already earmarked for destruction with signs saying ‘No Entry’ and warning of danger and collapsing buildings.<br />
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Glimpses of traditional courtyards could be caught through slightly ajar thick
wooden doors. An old mosque with beautiful Islamic writing on blue tiles was
still welcoming worshippers, and charcoal burners on the street were slowly
roasting lamb shashlik for 2 RMB (US$ 0.35) each. </div>
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It was clear that this part of Kashgar had an expiry date
that was approaching rapidly, but I was glad I had experienced a small part of
what the city used to be in the times of the Silk Road, and where the
spectacular and unforgettable Karakoram Highway finally came to an end.<br />
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Travelling on the Karakoram Highway parts <a href="http://www.farflungplaces.net/2016/11/heading-north-on-karakoram-highway.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">one</span></a> and<span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #800180;"> <a href="http://www.farflungplaces.net/2016/11/borders-and-bandits-into-china-on.html#more" target="_blank">two</a></span></span><br />
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-42114073836544807842021-08-06T22:09:00.001-07:002023-09-24T22:28:15.516-07:00From Bean to Bar. Chocolate in Samoa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCzQ-JUDb390F0iuMogemczoGQNmsYKjRRYkWNiizi3qNfa8yH15DHN3Q2-4x2LHFMvpu9dWt1j1fUT4iL0mi3vltZ_Rebsk3WFbirLmnEUeVpqbgbbm_RRxfAFN00VeabechytHs8ho0/s2048/IMGP0152+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCzQ-JUDb390F0iuMogemczoGQNmsYKjRRYkWNiizi3qNfa8yH15DHN3Q2-4x2LHFMvpu9dWt1j1fUT4iL0mi3vltZ_Rebsk3WFbirLmnEUeVpqbgbbm_RRxfAFN00VeabechytHs8ho0/w640-h480/IMGP0152+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>Samoa is not known for its exports, outside of rugby union players, but it has a small but growing industry in producing extremely tasty chocolate. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a name='more'></a><p>The tropical climate is well suited to the growth of the Cacoa tree and the resulting cocoa beans have become a staple in producing one of the favourite drinks in the islands, Koko Samoa, a very sweet hot chocolate that is a staple amongst young and old.</p></div><p>More recently the high quality of locally grown Samoan cacao has caught the attention of international chocolate producers, as well as local industry, to be turned into high-quality chocolate bars which are well worth tracking down. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYgXuau8Xr-vNu3Vaci8_m_jLekuvqT8zgdc3ZmSfRDJeFXtguS9VW01b7Rcc7tEAQVif5GEiNEdDdKKVx2RCFakbgCI4tQCu4_JDmcbENvNuzmd0LURXtu3Syo6_puLgR4qwbEh2j14/s2048/IMGP0041.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYgXuau8Xr-vNu3Vaci8_m_jLekuvqT8zgdc3ZmSfRDJeFXtguS9VW01b7Rcc7tEAQVif5GEiNEdDdKKVx2RCFakbgCI4tQCu4_JDmcbENvNuzmd0LURXtu3Syo6_puLgR4qwbEh2j14/w640-h480/IMGP0041.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cacao pods growing on the tree</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>The very first cocoa seedlings to arrive in Samoa are thought to have come from Peru around 700AD through early Pacific trade routes. </p><p>While the islands were a German Protectorate, over a hundred years ago, large scale plantings of seeds from Madagascar took place, which has developed into a uniquely flavoured bean that is becoming increasingly sought after in the region.</p><p>The severe cyclones of 1990 and 1991 proved to be a major setback to the cocoa trees but replanting efforts have resulted in the crop getting larger year after year.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUX-RHMQxF0uklCi_Nxk7HGBqC8NXtxFjRA6S3PGnsN_XPJqE2SUGrYwEN4Y8tJqMYfnXA6rcK2eBUCESDf8cQp6nRURH02an0QXRRP6Vk8jVSWkb0aceLRz0Adv343gL2EvHOnYWAsXI/s2048/IMGP0007.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUX-RHMQxF0uklCi_Nxk7HGBqC8NXtxFjRA6S3PGnsN_XPJqE2SUGrYwEN4Y8tJqMYfnXA6rcK2eBUCESDf8cQp6nRURH02an0QXRRP6Vk8jVSWkb0aceLRz0Adv343gL2EvHOnYWAsXI/w480-h640/IMGP0007.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cacao beans being dried after husking</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Innovative projects such as Fainuu Faamatala (roughly translated as Youth Work Gang) whereby the young unemployed in villages are given cocoa plants and training to look after them in order to gain a sustainable income from their trees. </p><p>All the cacao crops are organic, with no pesticides or growth accelerants used, just the warmth of the Samoan Sun and the rich volcanic soil, which has found favour with chocolate producers.</p><p><a href="https://www.whittakers.co.nz/en_AU/good-honest-chocolate/ingredients/good-honest-samoan-cocoa/" target="_blank">Whittaker’s</a>, the New Zealand confectionary group, have been sourcing the raw beans for creating their Samoan Single Origin bar from Savai’i island for the last few years.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlbfJKJ2BAU67XGJf8orh9duCpd9g_JuHfhVY1SIXzJN-O65wvjbzLvyGgSe3iOVk-guV6npETyZwPW03AssJn2b9y8Nd_iKa2JRvv8_RFu3A1qTRzD_6rhQJSAjyy5E7Q_a_PAZfA8I/s2048/IMGP0001.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlbfJKJ2BAU67XGJf8orh9duCpd9g_JuHfhVY1SIXzJN-O65wvjbzLvyGgSe3iOVk-guV6npETyZwPW03AssJn2b9y8Nd_iKa2JRvv8_RFu3A1qTRzD_6rhQJSAjyy5E7Q_a_PAZfA8I/w480-h640/IMGP0001.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cacao beans being loaded into containers to be sent to Whittaker's in New Zealand</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Locally, the family-owned <a href="https://www.wilexsamoa.com/" target="_blank">Wilex</a> group have begun creating their extremely tasty Koko Loa handmade chocolates. With a team comprised of twenty local women, they have begun creating wonderful treats such as the 72% Dark Chocolate, and Fruit and Nut mixed with local mangoes and papaya. </p><p>This is their third time lucky; they had two major setbacks before when first their factory burnt down, and then a cyclone destroyed the replacement building. Their chocolate has already started to gather fans around the world, with both Queen Elizabeth and the Pope enjoying the taste. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLi9Dkeu90oipI70k91O2PrkAN6WYGPBU4mr6QIQrr63Z2iWaOIhAU7ZAtLsjE5i3_nFnzUaI1wHTlFkpxszqQzVydWC0uo3FAHSO57C4IDc3ltiLS-wnrC1it-_VeyTDl5Xnuht2oyMc/s2048/IMGP0147+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLi9Dkeu90oipI70k91O2PrkAN6WYGPBU4mr6QIQrr63Z2iWaOIhAU7ZAtLsjE5i3_nFnzUaI1wHTlFkpxszqQzVydWC0uo3FAHSO57C4IDc3ltiLS-wnrC1it-_VeyTDl5Xnuht2oyMc/w640-h480/IMGP0147+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hard to resist sticking a finger in to taste as Koko Loa chocolate is being hand made</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>With limited milk production in Samoa; you don’t see that many cows as you drive around the islands, the chocolatiers faced supply problems for expanding their range. They then had the brilliant idea to make use of another form of milk that was abundant on these tropical islands, coconut milk. </p><p>Although still in early pre-production and testing (it is not expected to be launched until later in 2021) it has proved to be an immediate success, not least with the employees, as the test batches keep getting eaten! I was lucky enough to try this new dairy-free chocolate and were impressed by the subtle coconut flavour and smooth texture of the sample. It should be a world-beater when launched.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjd55PN9_ctCl8Gn5d9nbJc0UAxgFKnKT1QLwOvDNCzdaRPSu4aTpRIh_WdrEnpHNwqpUjcxukHF70kvHEJGpKl0OSasaMLmkJXs558W3g2MO9iJEqWkU0EW9ULfaKetd2O7Hg0QJhy0/s2048/IMGP0156+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjd55PN9_ctCl8Gn5d9nbJc0UAxgFKnKT1QLwOvDNCzdaRPSu4aTpRIh_WdrEnpHNwqpUjcxukHF70kvHEJGpKl0OSasaMLmkJXs558W3g2MO9iJEqWkU0EW9ULfaKetd2O7Hg0QJhy0/w640-h480/IMGP0156+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the chocolate bar packaging is done by hand</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Visitors wishing to see the plantations and preparation of cocoa beans for Whittaker’s Chocolate can visit Koko Savai’i on tours run from the nearby <a href="https://www.vaimoanaseasidelodge.com/" target="_blank">Vaimoana Sea Side Lodge</a>. Tours are run several times a week and cost 15 Tala. </p><p>To see Samoan Koko Loa chocolate being made, and get to actually taste it, there are plans for the chocolate factory at Wilex to open for tours, which will probably happen in the post-covid world when tourists are allowed in again. In the meantime, Koko Loa chocolate can be bought at the factory and is also available at Farmer Joe’s in Apia, the Duty-Free shop at the airport, select stockists around the island and <a href="https://www.wilexsamoa.com/product-page/150g-koko-loa-assorted-chocolates" target="_blank">online</a>.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTLo12LDppQpD_pEyNsNlTKSyt7J8lizk2YD9u38r-rLcrbfq2SmYF9vRMRHoToNi4acpsR3WBoZDiQjh9jFDLbZYo8Ih6qwJbpacGADm7S4sur0jfLlOdNqsgN7dB7Pe9fNZnn72WqWo/s2048/IMGP0155+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTLo12LDppQpD_pEyNsNlTKSyt7J8lizk2YD9u38r-rLcrbfq2SmYF9vRMRHoToNi4acpsR3WBoZDiQjh9jFDLbZYo8Ih6qwJbpacGADm7S4sur0jfLlOdNqsgN7dB7Pe9fNZnn72WqWo/w640-h480/IMGP0155+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div><br /></div>
Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-54264922830447215842021-06-10T23:09:00.003-07:002023-09-24T22:31:05.661-07:00Bumping into Crater Man on a trip up a Volcano<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-Dblasd2XNOw_28xvE2FQ3xykPFNET3JrvxemKDaSptEP8AbNA2WEJLzaClXCfd5MxEWOj0kU4PTPB5-TICFygdNx2aidl_2wY6zz92FYaTuR37t_RNO50dUCEMd4brpesJ5CrhlmJs/s2048/S1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1582" data-original-width="2048" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-Dblasd2XNOw_28xvE2FQ3xykPFNET3JrvxemKDaSptEP8AbNA2WEJLzaClXCfd5MxEWOj0kU4PTPB5-TICFygdNx2aidl_2wY6zz92FYaTuR37t_RNO50dUCEMd4brpesJ5CrhlmJs/w640-h494/S1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">While travelling on Samoa's less populated island Savai’i I headed deep into the interior to visit the Mount Matavanu Crater. Not only can you look deep into the impressive crater whose eruption reshaped the islands east coast, but you will be able to meet Crater Man, the guardian of this volcanic wonderland. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Mt Matavanu was the source of Samoa’s biggest volcanic eruption in recent history. On August 3rd 1905, molten lava poured out of the mountain forming a cone before flowing down a dry river valley to the coast destroying everything in its path. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It continued erupting for another six years, producing so much lava that its depth by the coast is over 120 metres deep in places. The Auckland News in 1901 described the volcano as having the “...(largest) crater on the face of the earth, the famous Vesuvius being a mere spoonful as compared with this monster.”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1TdmniT4vtn4q8f1UQ0vmt0E0Iw3AYtranwl2X3H3r7QF0H1XCRZ2SVpoSvL1n1GGLLWxNKDFuAs-WZBQZ5CS7My_FWPzEuMP6Ax9RRjr0ZdY5DlJsCQhNm2t7QoKHBXzju1TFOyPQM/s2048/S5.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1756" data-original-width="2048" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1TdmniT4vtn4q8f1UQ0vmt0E0Iw3AYtranwl2X3H3r7QF0H1XCRZ2SVpoSvL1n1GGLLWxNKDFuAs-WZBQZ5CS7My_FWPzEuMP6Ax9RRjr0ZdY5DlJsCQhNm2t7QoKHBXzju1TFOyPQM/w322-h298/S5.jpg" width="322" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYKmbUBzOaNZVN0nRRCYOGo0-ip5GegTbJzlxTywm8C88EKu2Cw5QQOFhL5uS8FirymHvjDUYcEQNdEqIP4JcJTjxGxj__ez5y0fM2dSEeiALajEa7lIzNq7BboXMrB9JHlMcawgLuNk/s327/S7.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="301" data-original-width="327" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYKmbUBzOaNZVN0nRRCYOGo0-ip5GegTbJzlxTywm8C88EKu2Cw5QQOFhL5uS8FirymHvjDUYcEQNdEqIP4JcJTjxGxj__ez5y0fM2dSEeiALajEa7lIzNq7BboXMrB9JHlMcawgLuNk/w313-h288/S7.jpg" width="313" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b> </b>Mt Matavunu Crater during its eruption in 2008 and how it looks today</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">After a long and rough track up from the village of Paia, which requires a 4WD vehicle, I came face to face with Crater Man at his small home and gate. He became the guardian of the crater in 2000, living here, maintaining the tracks and collecting the 20 Tala entrance fee.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I had a quick chat with Crater Man, his real name is Se’u Utumapu. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Is he lonely up here living by himself on a volcanic crater?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">“No not so much. I have Crater Dog and I go down to the village once a week for some supplies. There is a lot to eat around here, papaya, taro, pineapples, banana and more, so I need for very little.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And then I have my visitors. I know have had people from 140 countries climb up to the crater with me. Only recently I had a visitor from an island near Iceland (The Faroe Islands) and also Afghanistan. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I am happy to stay on the crater. I may not travel the world, but it comes to me!”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5GdAscU5Sn_SzOO8e0E-t4b74Fq-tzLjIE7oQEFXJzrNP6kBg3QJBs0JncxXygFxHtJUeVV478DniORzDHAv0AYRBuaWgTBYbgyjxY0_A5gJ8eY08WspEoQN6ph6iZdgPxL94WLsDWr0/s2048/S3.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5GdAscU5Sn_SzOO8e0E-t4b74Fq-tzLjIE7oQEFXJzrNP6kBg3QJBs0JncxXygFxHtJUeVV478DniORzDHAv0AYRBuaWgTBYbgyjxY0_A5gJ8eY08WspEoQN6ph6iZdgPxL94WLsDWr0/w480-h640/S3.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The advert created by New Zealand Tourists to find Crater Man a wife</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Some New Zealand tourists tried to find new company for Crater Man with a humorous ad placed on facebook, which has pride of place in his fale.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Did it lead to any enquires? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Laughing he replied; “No, no, not as yet. But maybe one day!”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Crater Man guided us up to the actual crater, past signs he has made to remember some of the many foreign visitors who have made the climb. Beautiful flowers and orchids, with over fifty different varieties, lined the path as we headed upwards, with Crater Dog leading the way. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Vegetation has colonised every inch of the crater, making it a sea of green, with some trees growing so large that they reach the top of the crater from its floor. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAc2LG0Mo_9IP0GxmtOmSmNoynBUnw7MDOzrNiVy7NewpXKbubHY08rCCXCDiuSw819FpCV5u5ZF2J0Nnb0wxpTx3whI60xtdJosVZyCWmQq7VwflcIQNvbilbND1q-JHJJII0R52u-Lg/s2048/S2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAc2LG0Mo_9IP0GxmtOmSmNoynBUnw7MDOzrNiVy7NewpXKbubHY08rCCXCDiuSw819FpCV5u5ZF2J0Nnb0wxpTx3whI60xtdJosVZyCWmQq7VwflcIQNvbilbND1q-JHJJII0R52u-Lg/w640-h480/S2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signs erected on the trail by Crater Man<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">There are no current signs of volcanic activity but geologists believe there is a 150 year cycle between eruptions here, which means it could well be due for another one around mid-century. But volcanoes tend not to follow set timetables, so it could always occur sooner or later. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In the meantime, Crater Man looks after the site and provides a big welcome to the many visitors who make the journey up to Matavanu.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><u>Far Flung Tips</u></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>How to get to Matavanu Crater</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Turn off North Coast road at Samauga and head south to the small village at Paia. Road is then signposted to the crater. You can walk from here, if you are fit and start early. If you want to drive a 4WD vehicle is required for the 8km journey up to Crater Man’s fale and gate, which can be arranged in the village (Depending on vehicle availability and the laid back Samoan way of life).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">From here on it is an even bumpier 2 km ride or walk to a small clearing where you head upwards on a small path for 400 metres to the crater's edge.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>Warning:</b> Take great care around the rim of the crater. There are no barriers and there is a steep vertical drop. Crater Man has been down to the bottom but it was a tremendous effort involving many ropes and tree limbs and took over eight hours. He is not in a rush to do it again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuO8ikKEMKNWu5MB22QKsRzP3lhdOZnB592zu3ztvvIdpa5_bBrOL96wi7w4DfQjl7iisRIx_p4TFYiyZtxyDSV0Rb0ZvzVaMVszjfcm2fCoeIZdfNq1LO2HDsxJqQz5eyvEsVBNfmmw/s2048/S6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1466" data-original-width="2048" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuO8ikKEMKNWu5MB22QKsRzP3lhdOZnB592zu3ztvvIdpa5_bBrOL96wi7w4DfQjl7iisRIx_p4TFYiyZtxyDSV0Rb0ZvzVaMVszjfcm2fCoeIZdfNq1LO2HDsxJqQz5eyvEsVBNfmmw/w640-h458/S6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking back down the road to the crater</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div>Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-11343304347054930032021-05-15T03:47:00.003-07:002023-09-24T22:40:23.921-07:00Robert Louis Stevenson and Samoa<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoNuBXRS3rWSj6d75S6JYD5gZomNAKpvfiPAstasbk5x9zIsMCikz_-TGhqohV7wr6VkkrW8gCdM_wDka2IgVP8jaeO44y397MxeegBOQbuvXuyYHoX03NMu9_JvrTjjtWinwMOcS3uLk/s2048/house.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoNuBXRS3rWSj6d75S6JYD5gZomNAKpvfiPAstasbk5x9zIsMCikz_-TGhqohV7wr6VkkrW8gCdM_wDka2IgVP8jaeO44y397MxeegBOQbuvXuyYHoX03NMu9_JvrTjjtWinwMOcS3uLk/w640-h480/house.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">With rain splashing against my hotel window in the middle of a British winter I was engrossed in reading Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, the Victorian bestseller about the horrors that can happen with a split personality. After finishing the book I researched a little more into the author, Robert Louis Stevenson, a Scot who I imagined had lived and worked in a lonely garret in his native Edinburgh. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">How wrong could I be? Stevenson was an adventurer, he was not just writing about it but living it. Lured by the romance of far-flung places, he explored remote locations and embraced their cultures, while also enjoying that it enabled him to escape the bitter cold of the Scottish winters and the ailments that they brought him. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">He wrote that “I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After wandering through Europe and the US he set off in a boat to explore the South Pacific, reaching the distant islands of Samoa in 1890. He immediately fell in love with the country and its people, living there until his death in 1894, when he was buried atop a large hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Samoa now featured high on the list of places I wanted to travel to. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It took a few years but finally, I made it to these distant tropical islands. Stevenson’s residence Vailima is on the outskirts of Apia, the capital, and is situated within beautifully kept gardens. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_Vcw4JJddBONS1OwPhYSq6shHiP4noe57u0rN8BmcK-xsYUNmsKfjXl5eyOO9AUej4ycusjnRm_Emu0rjC5fxVfJJQ4Pk9LzeVcBWvCH8113ZsW_7P-mfoFB6l33BZi9jEdGa3MRSdA/s2048/fireplace.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1813" data-original-width="2048" height="566" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_Vcw4JJddBONS1OwPhYSq6shHiP4noe57u0rN8BmcK-xsYUNmsKfjXl5eyOO9AUej4ycusjnRm_Emu0rjC5fxVfJJQ4Pk9LzeVcBWvCH8113ZsW_7P-mfoFB6l33BZi9jEdGa3MRSdA/w640-h566/fireplace.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fireplace. Vital for Samoa's cold 28C (82F) winters<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">The home itself has been designed for the tropics, with wide-open balconies surrounding the house, although the Scot endearingly added fireplaces to some of the rooms. Not out of necessity, the climate of Samoa is incredibly consistent and warm being 28C (82 F) all through the year but as a reminder of his Scottish home. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />The house is preserved through a joint effort of the Samoan government and a US charitable trust and contains many of the writer’s possessions, furniture, as well as his published works.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Most people will have come into contact with Robert Louis Stevenson’s work either through reading his most popular books; whether that is Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Kidnapped or Treasure Island, or through TV and film adaption’s of them. Copies of the books, translated into most of the languages of the world, are displayed on the bookshelves.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgnsCvlyNQmg0L2avtStxdLbeotoOCp_kZ0WM0nMPl7ZGyPUUUaLQCehIX7hRtsX6HHobFCjuGFc2sYoA9tjvhKrdrXGxGtcg9uhigAVhAG4Xs6Q_wtj5pMJF5IDFcCD3RSCVLIrgfyE/s2048/gardens.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgnsCvlyNQmg0L2avtStxdLbeotoOCp_kZ0WM0nMPl7ZGyPUUUaLQCehIX7hRtsX6HHobFCjuGFc2sYoA9tjvhKrdrXGxGtcg9uhigAVhAG4Xs6Q_wtj5pMJF5IDFcCD3RSCVLIrgfyE/w640-h480/gardens.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over the gardens and to the ocean. The view from the authors chair at Vailima<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">There was a tremendous feeling of peacefulness as I sat on the balcony, looking across the large lawn fringed with tropical flowers, to the ocean beyond. An ideal writer’s home, the views being inspiring, and the tranquillity allowing concentration. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Although tempted to spend the rest of the day there, I wanted to visit Stevenson’s grave, on the top of Mount Vaea behind the house.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />The walk up is not for the faint-hearted. There is a fast way, an almost vertical track, of 500 metres, or a longer 2 km hike. It was the wet season and the fast route was almost impassable due to the mud and lack of footholds, even the longer slow track was challenging at times. Streams washed over the path in places and the mud caused me to lose my footing and slip several times.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBpWdYAOmfvSyCyYQiI1ttlWyO5vvzQuyx9SOBwHE4nBbiWG6VffEEmBXefq4vbiV7D5He3wJ7DY8VWZ4-je9GIVRToftA_t3QiCazqBw8N_ERp8YHH1DEFzmQKezn-N2bZLG9Ueec7k/s2048/map.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1310" data-original-width="2048" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBpWdYAOmfvSyCyYQiI1ttlWyO5vvzQuyx9SOBwHE4nBbiWG6VffEEmBXefq4vbiV7D5He3wJ7DY8VWZ4-je9GIVRToftA_t3QiCazqBw8N_ERp8YHH1DEFzmQKezn-N2bZLG9Ueec7k/w640-h410/map.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A map showing the routes up to the grave<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Easier in the dry season (March to September) but still doable if you take care, and have the time, after rain, although avoid the fast route then. I left the car park beneath Mount Vaea at the same time as an adventurous local family, they took the fast route and despite me ambling along the longer track, stopping to take many photos, we arrived at the top at the same time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />The white tomb sits alone on a small patch of grass, with glimpses of the Pacific Ocean through the trees. A requiem, written by Stevenson fourteen years before his death, is inscribed in Samoan and English on one side.</div><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Under the wide and starry sky</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dig the grave and let me lie.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Glad did I live and gladly die,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And I laid me down with a will.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This be the verse you grave for me:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here he lies where he longed to be</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Home is the sailor, home from sea,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And the hunter home from the hill.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJARRwVFYcO-J6mK_MLqGs-2fm4XwdC7ZGVHoR6tNp51xfzz_Z0Y1xASGdly_jHzri-3eSm3ouPxMvOsXzjPfVvXidpzXDcZqj06tQhknP7PGzebwzSLMzLKZIclhCrnN1bm4WcYrQ9Y/s2048/grave.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1583" data-original-width="2048" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJARRwVFYcO-J6mK_MLqGs-2fm4XwdC7ZGVHoR6tNp51xfzz_Z0Y1xASGdly_jHzri-3eSm3ouPxMvOsXzjPfVvXidpzXDcZqj06tQhknP7PGzebwzSLMzLKZIclhCrnN1bm4WcYrQ9Y/w640-h494/grave.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grave of Robert Louis Stevenson</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The gravesite is a place of solitude and beauty. It is easy to see why Stevenson chose it as his final resting place, although I did feel for the locals who carried his coffin up here on their shoulders. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The writer was a strong supporter of the Samoan culture and their rights under the often incompetent colonial rule. In return, he was held in great respect by its inhabitants, and given the name of Tusitala, Samoan for ‘writer of stories’.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />On the way back down I stopped at Stevenson’s swimming pool. Freshwater from Mount Vaea tumbles over a small waterfall into an idyllic basin shaded by trees.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Even when the writer was in poor health he would slowly make his way down to the pool and swim in it for hours. I could clearly see the attraction of jumping into its cool waters, particularly after the climb.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcD2IRMCOXqVR84w_-3AQ9bR8VxrVTaIBkt9IhPTVWsjbtiORwbM8bGfAEKSPNDaqhSOPPZQ7xW_kdJ3GxRW6E95C8Rm5DQsej3H-aYRl6e9cmwF_gK6zh6-o55rqf3tCk1EPFPwnxKg/s2048/pool.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1745" data-original-width="2048" height="546" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcD2IRMCOXqVR84w_-3AQ9bR8VxrVTaIBkt9IhPTVWsjbtiORwbM8bGfAEKSPNDaqhSOPPZQ7xW_kdJ3GxRW6E95C8Rm5DQsej3H-aYRl6e9cmwF_gK6zh6-o55rqf3tCk1EPFPwnxKg/w640-h546/pool.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The shady, and enticing, Stevenson Pool<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">Robert Louis Stevenson fell in love with Samoa and seeing the life he made for himself in the beautiful Pacific island it is easy to see why. His wealth allowed him to live anywhere in the world, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde alone sold over 250,000 copies in the US. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />He chose to live in Vailima, the magnificent house and grounds were a fitting place, perfect for writing. The sad part was that it was only to be for four short years before his untimely death at the age of 44.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWnC9Go9geBVzViyRxsl_p8EDqMT9Z-1mwcxeg31aipN3KzVNwj2tRrMjtp0MXnfu8j5eXJ3J4v6pitPExqQaSJ-C6PleZJlCu8B-kU7Rh5a3jmzPM5eqc7IB4Nm_ArxX2FGo4yr31Bjg/s2048/family.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1751" data-original-width="2048" height="548" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWnC9Go9geBVzViyRxsl_p8EDqMT9Z-1mwcxeg31aipN3KzVNwj2tRrMjtp0MXnfu8j5eXJ3J4v6pitPExqQaSJ-C6PleZJlCu8B-kU7Rh5a3jmzPM5eqc7IB4Nm_ArxX2FGo4yr31Bjg/w640-h548/family.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Louis Stevenson (centre-seated) and his family. (The original is the London National Portrait Gallery)</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><u><b>Far Flung Tips</b></u></p><p>* Robert Louis Stevenson’s House and Museum are open Monday to Friday from 9 AM to 4:30 PM, and Saturdays from 9 AM to 12:00 AM. </p><p>* A tour is required if you wish to go inside the house. Adults cost $ST 20, Students $ST 10 and Children $S5. </p><p>* A Taxi from the centre of Apia is approximately $ST20 each way. As there are few taxis available for a return journey get the drivers phone number and call him when you are ready to return. He will be very happy to do this and get another good fare!</p><p> * The gardens, swimming pool and the walk up to the grave are all free. The walk to the grave can be slippery, even in dry weather, so wear suitable shoes. Avoid after heavy rain unless you want to get very muddy and enjoy slipping and sliding in mud.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_bQ8sH19-ECa8r0-a2tu25T10F3jSf0Swh5zGYI4D2C31eBbmuwSRpmUAwhpnm-luSJA01eVy9LH7U3l3IAes9uUWhcaRXIUxS8mj7kr0gTielY2DJ5hyphenhypheny0h391R_K8vX6ZozF0T0BM/s2048/travel+case.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_bQ8sH19-ECa8r0-a2tu25T10F3jSf0Swh5zGYI4D2C31eBbmuwSRpmUAwhpnm-luSJA01eVy9LH7U3l3IAes9uUWhcaRXIUxS8mj7kr0gTielY2DJ5hyphenhypheny0h391R_K8vX6ZozF0T0BM/w640-h428/travel+case.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>
<!---"Simon Proudman"--->Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-15011967415610771362021-04-04T19:24:00.008-07:002023-09-24T22:42:19.074-07:00On the trail of Nicolae Ceausescu <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1sdBak-GS6_5ajJaaUvZ5UluxHs7f57xmmny1wl3iJdDhsFL0gwgFKHcBkrVqN4hVipx5GlAZHjV-q5nzA1i77Juv5lC1FDj6C2Rljw1bBwLxTy4HGvhLiOAIjcTF_TtM4sCwbadYg8/s1600/IMGP0314.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1sdBak-GS6_5ajJaaUvZ5UluxHs7f57xmmny1wl3iJdDhsFL0gwgFKHcBkrVqN4hVipx5GlAZHjV-q5nzA1i77Juv5lC1FDj6C2Rljw1bBwLxTy4HGvhLiOAIjcTF_TtM4sCwbadYg8/s640/IMGP0314.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The first (and still only) country to ever refuse me a visa was Romania. The country fascinated me, particularly the megalomaniac building projects of its leader Nicolae Ceausescu. But it was not to be, and I was refused entry by his government. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a name='more'></a><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I watched with great interest the collapse of his regime and his rather rushed execution on Christmas Day 1989 as the wave of anti-communist revolutions swept through eastern Europe. It has taken me a while to actually get to the country, but I finally managed it and had absolutely no issues getting into the country, and I didn't even need a visa as the smiling customs official stamped my passport.</div><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />Checking into my downtown hotel in Bucharest I was asked by the lady checking me in whether I was doing a 'Dracula tour' and heading to Transylvania. My reply that I was doing a 'Ceausescu tour' left her open mouthed. Unusual, maybe, but as someone fascinated by history, and finally able to visit many of the spots I had seen on television as the world changing events occurred , Dracula was going to have wait.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>The Palace of the Parliament</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgNR7DaZx8bdZMt2VAIFjvlJqFjPReth8PZJV1yoAFsDCt9x_4jkzlTsBPaBPLGlqXIB5GbvtjCMhQuBkI46IMFyJ7JwX3bClU4l6SDaRHJqWk7f35OypRm7l0MpLoaR-x0ti-S_stb8/s1600/IMGP0323+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgNR7DaZx8bdZMt2VAIFjvlJqFjPReth8PZJV1yoAFsDCt9x_4jkzlTsBPaBPLGlqXIB5GbvtjCMhQuBkI46IMFyJ7JwX3bClU4l6SDaRHJqWk7f35OypRm7l0MpLoaR-x0ti-S_stb8/s640/IMGP0323+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">My first stop was the incredibly over-sized Palace of the Parliament. The largest administrative building in the world, covering an area of 365,000 square metres and 84 metres in height, it dominates Bucharest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">By far Ceausescu's most ambitious building project it was driven by his desire to recreate the centre of <a href="https://www.farflungplaces.net/2018/05/top-10-things-to-do-in-pyongyang.html" target="_blank">Pyongyang</a> in North Korea of all places. Monasteries and whole suburbs were razed in this megalomaniac plan. Over 40,000 people lost their homes and most were not offered any compensation, and as many as 3,000 workers died in building it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Ceausescu was a constant visitor to the building site, and it was almost completed before he was overthrown. After lying idle for several years after the revolution it was finally completed in 1994.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Visits are easily arranged <a href="http://cic.cdep.ro/en/opening-hours-and-tariffs" target="_blank">here</a>. The tour is impressive, not least by how much of the building is unused. It is simply too big. On my tour we walked four kilometres on various levels and saw less than 10% of the building. The best way to understand the huge size of Palace is to try and walk around the outside of it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>The Ceausescu Mansion</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXhNZZP7xxQ0yZpvOLvNS8-AG8gTvUzUEgw7yF_xc6VgJmx4VyQCiU-jx7WYQeYxsn5CCu3vx-Wy5yg6y8wvap6z6af34b7NbrfYQmfp3FXqyxNEnYW5u_A0j3buzGkY_cLRxBf24k7Q/s1600/IMGP0363.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXhNZZP7xxQ0yZpvOLvNS8-AG8gTvUzUEgw7yF_xc6VgJmx4VyQCiU-jx7WYQeYxsn5CCu3vx-Wy5yg6y8wvap6z6af34b7NbrfYQmfp3FXqyxNEnYW5u_A0j3buzGkY_cLRxBf24k7Q/s640/IMGP0363.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The extravagant former residence of the Ceausescu family lies to the north of Bucharest. Only opened to the public in 2016 it gives an insight into the luxury lifestyles and rather garish taste of Elena and Nicolae.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Gold bathrooms, tick. Massive chandeliers dominating rooms, tick. Ugly paintings, tick. And so it goes on. Ceausescu was a huge fan of peacocks it turns out. He let them loose in his garden (there are still some offspring of the original residents who still roam there making an appalling racket) and desired paintings and mosaics of them everywhere.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The swimming pool could easily host a game of water polo, while above the nuclear fallout shelter in the basement is both the Ceausescu cinema (it could seat 60 people) and his rather nice bar which he allegedly spent a lot of time drinking in.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Tc_xfmDPzWyX7IrEKpHShZgM2tHxEBYUurGSQABjsFIQSMIdufXzuKku55ndnuHz2P8tCUHHPadS3xOgTVTUHbAEIObaFKaYjxmn37R9zhs5blpahZCboBkewIIvv0cTZz2VrzMvBzg/s1600/IMGP0379.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Tc_xfmDPzWyX7IrEKpHShZgM2tHxEBYUurGSQABjsFIQSMIdufXzuKku55ndnuHz2P8tCUHHPadS3xOgTVTUHbAEIObaFKaYjxmn37R9zhs5blpahZCboBkewIIvv0cTZz2VrzMvBzg/s640/IMGP0379.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The house was visited by locals soon after the revolution as the Securitate, the secret police who protected it, fled for their lives. Luckily only Elena's shoes, fur coats and jewellery were liberated before the new authorities restored law and order. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It was put up for sale, but attracted no bidders, before it was decided to open it to visitors for the second time, although this time officially on tours, and can be visited. Details <a href="http://casaceausescu.ro/?page_id=3403&lang=en" target="_blank">here</a>. Although the tours are still pretty limited, with limited numbers, do not worry about trying to call and book a tour. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I tried ten times on different days and no one answered the number supplied, or replied to an email, so I just turned up half an hour before the start time and had no problem getting a ticket.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>Revolution Square</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtqt21mODapRTouarVlVaFCgRIUxTf_WiR8sdbxisNB-zVoK-J-UrOoEhrsob-oHgfq3eS6eRk0OVi5BhLNjKgtkRDM8oV4MeisBarmfX7ZIqa8e33mqcgzDqyXqpW2XMW1wIUjZHdF0/s1600/IMGP0392.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtqt21mODapRTouarVlVaFCgRIUxTf_WiR8sdbxisNB-zVoK-J-UrOoEhrsob-oHgfq3eS6eRk0OVi5BhLNjKgtkRDM8oV4MeisBarmfX7ZIqa8e33mqcgzDqyXqpW2XMW1wIUjZHdF0/s640/IMGP0392.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In the centre of Bucharest, formerly known as Palace Square, this was where it really started to go wrong for Ceausescu. He totally misjudged the mood of his people, many of whom were encouraged by the fall of the Berlin Wall, and popular uprisings in other Eastern European countries, as well as shocked by the protests which turned into a massacre in nearby <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1989/12/31/how-romanias-bloody-revolution-got-its-start-in-timisoara/69fd06b4-9eb7-4d7e-8fdb-a2fe4fd5454b/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.b91adfe163bf" target="_blank">Timisoara</a>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The look of confusion on Ceausescu's face as the crowds booed and shouted "Timisoara" is one of the lasting images of the Romanian Revolution. Despite desperately trying to calm the crowds, and get them excited by announcing an increase in the national minimum wage, he had to give up and seek shelter inside the building of the central committee of the communist party of Romania.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/t6pvMFfQF50?rel=0" width="560"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This was the start of riots in Bucharest and of open rebellion. Ceausescu was forced to flee from the building from its roof in a helicopter with his wife Elena, with protesters only metres behind them. The army, which had joined the rebellion, took control of the airspace and forced it to land in Targoviste.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Today a small marker points to the building where the final speech took place. It remains a government building and is not open to visit. The actual balcony is much smaller than I imagined from seeing it on TV. Behind it is a larger monument to the rebellion, the Memorial of Rebirth. Sadly it has been badly vandalized and looks very much uncared for. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>Targoviste Army Barracks</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOas_yjF5TRFZFWDAnWnnsobY13zEnnmXJrGcnniLscJmPN-AIiNc8NtI_-VFgNi2wLfmRwCfXZmzVA-glLHh0COEz1p2IcYTqe6LIn_H_rGSFqJ9pisz2aXbtBjLKWzKoy-YW6pr11o/s1600/IMGP0297.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOas_yjF5TRFZFWDAnWnnsobY13zEnnmXJrGcnniLscJmPN-AIiNc8NtI_-VFgNi2wLfmRwCfXZmzVA-glLHh0COEz1p2IcYTqe6LIn_H_rGSFqJ9pisz2aXbtBjLKWzKoy-YW6pr11o/s640/IMGP0297.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Where else to end a Ceausescu tour but in Targoviste. Visit the army barracks where Nicolae and Elana were tried and then executed in extremely swift fashion. After their helicopter was forced to land the army brought them here by road.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">You can now see the rooms where they had a medical examination to see if they were fit for trial (their lawyer unsuccessfully tried to persuade them to plea insanity, they refused) where they were tried, where they slept, and even the toilets they used which can be also used by visiting tourists, maybe the ultimate experience for Ceausescu junkies.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The most brutal sight is the wall where they were executed after the death sentence was given for their crimes of genocide by the rather undemocratic army appointed judges. Three soldiers fired over 120 bullets into their bodies. The many bullet holes and chunks of plaster that were destroyed during the execution are visible, as are the crime style outlines of the Ceausescu bodies painted on the ground.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">To get to the Targoviste Army Barracks is relatively simple. Ninety minutes by train from Bucharest North railway station. The barracks are two minutes walk on the left from Targoviste station. Open 9-5 Tuesday to Sunday, admittance 10 Lei.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXxEOOZXQY8HomfBzUQgVckJkdqrhPq61wH7hgg8MG_tIAU6Xw1ziPMwjooOqU4AYnBZHIt0LtRDpQ5bUGnVpDPf3hAlpeNWI9z4yYi3iTxC0Jkic9PJNXxL4k2jM5ZSDcfeOC87vflw/s1600/IMGP0303.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXxEOOZXQY8HomfBzUQgVckJkdqrhPq61wH7hgg8MG_tIAU6Xw1ziPMwjooOqU4AYnBZHIt0LtRDpQ5bUGnVpDPf3hAlpeNWI9z4yYi3iTxC0Jkic9PJNXxL4k2jM5ZSDcfeOC87vflw/s640/IMGP0303.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<!---"Simon Proudman"--->Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-42992320269244631302021-03-11T16:17:00.007-08:002023-09-24T01:22:14.226-07:00Top 10 Things to do in Bucharest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZd5-Eo_yEnaFY8RGn0tb2Fml_w5NO3bxQTAYK7r3U7N2XWg7XW2yf_7yFW_rb1PseFv27IL8CtcHGpg4Jc-WFCSzVLwIb34KBSHk-fjx37ppdK-bpoQ79xR6rsxCkYaIKF1J80iyMb8/s1600/IMGP0318+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZd5-Eo_yEnaFY8RGn0tb2Fml_w5NO3bxQTAYK7r3U7N2XWg7XW2yf_7yFW_rb1PseFv27IL8CtcHGpg4Jc-WFCSzVLwIb34KBSHk-fjx37ppdK-bpoQ79xR6rsxCkYaIKF1J80iyMb8/s640/IMGP0318+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></p><div style="text-align: left;">Prior to the Second World War, and the regime of Nicolae Ceausescu, Bucharest was known as the 'Paris of the East'. Fifty years of unbridled construction of ugly Soviet-style utilitarian buildings has definitely put a dent in that image, but it still remains a great city to visit with plenty of activities for the visitor.</div><br /><a name='more'></a>Here are our top 10 things to do in Bucharest.<br /><br /><b>1.</b> <b>Get under glass the Macca-Villacrosse Passage</b><br />Opened in 1891 this glass covered arcade is host to a number of bars and restaurants, and provides a hint of why the architecture here once rivalled Paris. Relax in the outdoor lounges and plan where next to visit.<br /><br />In the Old Town, nearest Metro station is Piata Unirii.<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWXnTneyFExm91UQnxz_TSDjwQky1qfa5WZm13OwETItAEue7OXMQ5bRKX-IrQHz5DHA4opSF44FTowGeGcqWpAwMtw175cPHwA8Ktk6ENjabEuv1w5hYQ7vNt0DjLr1BCEFPae6I6tBY/s1600/IMG_20180513_174952.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWXnTneyFExm91UQnxz_TSDjwQky1qfa5WZm13OwETItAEue7OXMQ5bRKX-IrQHz5DHA4opSF44FTowGeGcqWpAwMtw175cPHwA8Ktk6ENjabEuv1w5hYQ7vNt0DjLr1BCEFPae6I6tBY/s640/IMG_20180513_174952.jpg" width="480" /></a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><b>2. Walk around one of the largest buildings in the world, the Palace of the Parliament</b><br />A grandiose attempt by Ceausescu to provide a lasting monument to his regime. So ridiculously over sized that only a small number of rooms are actually in use today, most are closed off to save on electricity bills. Tours can be easily <a href="http://cic.cdep.ro/en" target="_blank">booked</a> in advance.<br /><br />Although it does contain the Romanian parliament, you can even rent rooms for wedding receptions!<br />Head to Izvor Metro station.<br /><br /><b>3. See where the Romanian revolution started.</b><br />The complete confusion on the face of Nicolae Ceausescu as the crowds beneath him booed and shouted anti-government slogans in December 1989 is one of the most memorable images of the recent Romanian revolution.<br /><br />You cannot enter the government building but you can see the balcony where Ceausescu's last speech was made from, as well as monuments and sculptures celebrating the revolution. The nearest Metro is Universitate.<br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEF4Mn2gOOhneIIMW9urJyZP3hF7nczdQqa9Ra6zfaoNX7l0MM0uffzIO5PWdm4RNit32hp9TEzmJnaAI0kWmhxEq-Zy1RjueIkBQXvf8wJFbBpLtoyY3zH-ji7N7qzioVE4iLMtCpPaw/s1600/IMGP0410.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEF4Mn2gOOhneIIMW9urJyZP3hF7nczdQqa9Ra6zfaoNX7l0MM0uffzIO5PWdm4RNit32hp9TEzmJnaAI0kWmhxEq-Zy1RjueIkBQXvf8wJFbBpLtoyY3zH-ji7N7qzioVE4iLMtCpPaw/s640/IMGP0410.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div></div><br /><b>4. Get close to Vlad the Impaler</b><br />You don't have to traipse all the way to Transylvania to get close to Dracula, or Vlad the Impaler as he is better known. In fact many of the links to the Dracula castles in the Carpathian mountain range are tenuous to say the least. While the Citadel in the centre of Bucharest was actually built by him.<br /><br />You can visit the remains of Vlad's palace in the Old Town, nearest Metro station is Piata Unirii.<br /><br /><b>5. Grab a book at Carturesti Carusel</b><br />Possibly the most impressive looking <a href="http://carturesticarusel.ro/" target="_blank">bookshop</a> I have ever visited. Six floors of books built around an atrium with spiral staircases heading skywards. And one of the nicest hot chocolates I have tasted at the bistro upstairs.<br /><br />Midway between Universitate and Piata Unirii Metro stations.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMBqA-1Ep_KmVlS5wrPpt3QNntAkOp7iNC3IZOS7yjukBuJ1wwAeQv0McJdAGDV8xPb22MyVM63k60saGKJDSaplXzTk9yAaN7rd8Lr3q2hBSDGFFnxMgO1uqsSU7OKffAWTzMzLS7L74/s1600/IMG_20180514_130930.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMBqA-1Ep_KmVlS5wrPpt3QNntAkOp7iNC3IZOS7yjukBuJ1wwAeQv0McJdAGDV8xPb22MyVM63k60saGKJDSaplXzTk9yAaN7rd8Lr3q2hBSDGFFnxMgO1uqsSU7OKffAWTzMzLS7L74/s640/IMG_20180514_130930.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><br /><b>6.</b> <b>Really get confused which country you are in at the Arch of Triumph</b><br />Continuing with the Parisian theme this arch was built in 1935, and, not surprisingly was based on the one in Paris. Surrounded by traffic, just as in Paris (!), it comes alive at night when floodlit.<br /><br />Close to the Metro station at Aviatilor.<br /><br /><b>7. Be prepared for some poor decorating decisions at the Ceausescu's residence</b><br />For a communist leader Nicolae Ceausescu certainly enjoyed the good life at his main residence in Bucharest. A massive swimming pool, bar, cinema, fallout shelter and indoor garden are just some of the delights at <a href="https://casaceausescu.ro/" target="_blank">Casa Ceausescu</a>.<br /><br />Unfortunately he and Elena, his wife, had an interesting taste in decor. Gold bathrooms and over the top flashy mosaics dominate. And his obsession with peacocks knows no bounds, in both the art and his private gardens.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KAmtdxYrj6L0xCX41CcjUkfLpBfY4kw6bSEIOFmnE_fWnYpt05BSbZxaceZaZ6CAdC9uexkXBQslQyKP14hSuL8MjLKP952Ihyphenhypheno0tzbFEjJnO9qaT0tyxtHt7tlNHxRNqa9qao8YEvA/s1600/IMG_20180513_173624.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KAmtdxYrj6L0xCX41CcjUkfLpBfY4kw6bSEIOFmnE_fWnYpt05BSbZxaceZaZ6CAdC9uexkXBQslQyKP14hSuL8MjLKP952Ihyphenhypheno0tzbFEjJnO9qaT0tyxtHt7tlNHxRNqa9qao8YEvA/s640/IMG_20180513_173624.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><b>8. Have a beer at the Caru 'cu Bere</b><br />A restaurant and bar housed in a Gothic-style building from 1899. The food is traditional Romanian, heavy on meat, and brews its on beer on the premises. The interiors seem not to have changed since built, and the building has a great ambience.<br /><br />Incredibly popular, it is best to make a <a href="https://www.carucubere.ro/" target="_blank">booking</a> in advance. Located in the Old Town, nearest Metro stations are Izvor and Piata Unirii.<br /><br /><b>9. Learn more about Romania's past</b><br />Bucharest has a number of excellent museums devoted to history and art. Our favourite is the <a href="https://www.georgeenescu.ro/en/" target="_blank">George Enescu Museum</a>. The Romanian composers life and works are interesting, but the Baroque building in which the museum operates, the Cantacuzino Palace, is stunning.<br /><br />The closest Metro is Piata Victoriei.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rU17dmnDJru8trrBn93NbKe-o5demRfNB_gANafA4iimQ9HOtID5uNJ7WucZTe8MLFUH3NxNaAtnpT8aLa37kSkDTILCrdZUUfDJjSraLcKEwAizjs1FLavdeOy9uqSVIAed7ec57Vc/s1600/IMGP0382.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rU17dmnDJru8trrBn93NbKe-o5demRfNB_gANafA4iimQ9HOtID5uNJ7WucZTe8MLFUH3NxNaAtnpT8aLa37kSkDTILCrdZUUfDJjSraLcKEwAizjs1FLavdeOy9uqSVIAed7ec57Vc/s640/IMGP0382.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br /><b>10.</b> <b>Hide from the rain in the Victoria Passage</b><br />A colourful street covered in multicoloured umbrellas. Fun for photographers but the best bit is the pizza restaurant beneath. Tasty meat and vegetarian pizza at a more than reasonable price, as most things are in Bucharest.<br /><br />In the Old Town, nearest Metro station is Piata Unirii<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbe_Z1Zzw9qmtU7m7uB7jaqOaFhUyDQXVI-iseTYqBDDoNuFoPCXav4R8lZP3nwF3G4Lw2HWTT44TAwAomTQgbZuD313s72jdtDr6dkJgjPuco5N5dC8lqDl1JbeEKts80ar2ba1Xpr0/s1600/IMGP0394.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbe_Z1Zzw9qmtU7m7uB7jaqOaFhUyDQXVI-iseTYqBDDoNuFoPCXav4R8lZP3nwF3G4Lw2HWTT44TAwAomTQgbZuD313s72jdtDr6dkJgjPuco5N5dC8lqDl1JbeEKts80ar2ba1Xpr0/s640/IMGP0394.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>
<!---"Simon Proudman"---></div>Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-91434416342683896982021-02-23T22:26:00.006-08:002023-09-24T23:13:13.788-07:00A Day Trip to Whisky Heaven. Islay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqa2g9IjZPHc0jWJsic3GZyIv9I2_KNMsgzk3LVQ3S9xpJShTYwhCQ5UX1FyeP8mIztfFqBE0GIarCPmRCT41rfIKY5J9bEZawwoEic-nf9WYOTRLUrHwD3nUvZPCK7-zWuQZMN8YNfdA/s2048/IMG_20190401_145901.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqa2g9IjZPHc0jWJsic3GZyIv9I2_KNMsgzk3LVQ3S9xpJShTYwhCQ5UX1FyeP8mIztfFqBE0GIarCPmRCT41rfIKY5J9bEZawwoEic-nf9WYOTRLUrHwD3nUvZPCK7-zWuQZMN8YNfdA/w640-h480/IMG_20190401_145901.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>When I left home and moved to London at 18 I tasted Whisky for the first time at a party. It was a blended mix, the rather cheap (and it turns out, really nasty) <i>Cutty Sark</i>, and I foolishly drank over half the bottle. I was so sick I remained in bed for 2 days and the very smell of Whisky made me want to vomit.</p>
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<p>Luckily an Irish friend, who clearly was not that loyal to his own countries blends, introduced me to <i>Laphroaig </i>many years later in the Pacific islands of Vanuatu<i>. </i>He warned me I might not like it, as it was a bit "overpowering" in taste, but I loved it, the peaty nose, the taste of seaweed, and the burning of the alcohol. What a drink! I was converted and began a love affair with Islay malts.</p><p>I was in Glasgow for 24 hours due to some super cheap tickets to Tunis being available via Prestwick. I love the city and I was tempted to spend the day walking the streets, visiting some of the impressive art galleries and museums, especially the <span style="background-color: white;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><a href="https://www.glasgowlife.org.uk/museums/venues/the-burrell-collection" target="_blank">Burrel Collection</a>,</span></b></span> which I had last seen as a child, as well as popping into a pub or two to sample the local brews.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLSbjpxEnamG0Ssy8svoX0qf6E-Oy8HuyU40IU_9-kCJy0g_8NqK2ErcS_NxHB6HypvpAs9VnQN6doRhsh_HU6YUz1pdNslNYADjEn6e3Xm54TM8577LhPaBlwc-YhmidHhi9zjTsRSg/s2048/IMG_20190401_183921.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1753" data-original-width="2048" height="548" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLSbjpxEnamG0Ssy8svoX0qf6E-Oy8HuyU40IU_9-kCJy0g_8NqK2ErcS_NxHB6HypvpAs9VnQN6doRhsh_HU6YUz1pdNslNYADjEn6e3Xm54TM8577LhPaBlwc-YhmidHhi9zjTsRSg/w640-h548/IMG_20190401_183921.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LoganAir Saab aircraft at the tiny Islay Airport</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>A crazy idea crept into my head, checking the Loganair timetable I saw I could catch the first flight out to Islay at 8:30 and return at 16:45. A perfect day trip, Glasgow could wait for another time. </p><p>There was no point hiring a car, as I was going to go Whisky tasting, but there was little public transport, except for a (very) occasional minibus which helpfully left the Islay terminal 5 minutes before my flight arrived. I would have to wing it.</p><p>The only drawback was the weather forecast, wet and windy. Ah well, this is the West Coast of Scotland and the weather can be seen as part of its attraction, and the wetness is also required to help the development of the Islay peat bogs so vital in the process of Whisky making there.</p><p>An old Saab aircraft took me on the 45-minute flight into the tiny terminal building on the island. No bus, no Taxi's and the few passengers all melted away upon arrival into the pouring rain.</p><p>Luckily a delivery driver for the Islands Gin Distillery, the highly awarded <i><a href="https://www.thebotanist.com/">Botanist</a> </i>drove into the car park as I was pondering my next move. He was picking up some freight from the flight and had a few places to deliver on the island, one of which was the Ardbeg<i> </i>Distillery about eight miles from the airport.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRoptvMHfDaPpzr5z0lMSKpeWsMQFWPaNbwyFJUa1VQttHdZAiM5MpvZUbc9x8Aw3pfxFXlfcw7NFqNHnS1pMh4RIXDS8cS5Q7ZtEOqsTFkkKeDyp00w1pMqx1pz-iHvMRtJBk4M6BaE/s2048/IMGP0089.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRoptvMHfDaPpzr5z0lMSKpeWsMQFWPaNbwyFJUa1VQttHdZAiM5MpvZUbc9x8Aw3pfxFXlfcw7NFqNHnS1pMh4RIXDS8cS5Q7ZtEOqsTFkkKeDyp00w1pMqx1pz-iHvMRtJBk4M6BaE/w640-h480/IMGP0089.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ardberg Distillery with the Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>So I ended up having a free tour of Islay, dropping off a case of gin in Bowmore, with the Distillery dominating the tiny village (sadly no time to pop in for a taste), picking up more boxes at Port Ellen, the main town on the island (home to 3,000 people and the ferry port arrival point for those staying longer) before reaching the end of the road at the Ardbeg Distillery.</p><p>This was perfect, for this was the start of the 'Three Distilleries Path' an iconic walk linking three of the best Islay distilleries. Even better, the rain had stopped as I walked into my first Islay Whisky Distillery.</p><p>At 10:00 it was a bit early for a wee dram, but when in Islay...</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhi7x4-uYHGOuL97HWoAGCWWpjqUPjYraBHKkh7tVeeTYdksmSvrgP1z-zGCwX2rUxC1Nnh6A91eY9ixzy4f-GiiW3J9LW-hH8qyXNXdDfqZCsxkxCI3l26f6Grf5CZAhyphenhyphenzGSPKgltpvQ/s2048/IMGP0086.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhi7x4-uYHGOuL97HWoAGCWWpjqUPjYraBHKkh7tVeeTYdksmSvrgP1z-zGCwX2rUxC1Nnh6A91eY9ixzy4f-GiiW3J9LW-hH8qyXNXdDfqZCsxkxCI3l26f6Grf5CZAhyphenhyphenzGSPKgltpvQ/w640-h480/IMGP0086.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Walk even has information boards in case you get lost after a few drams</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I joined a tour with a couple of other Ardbeg fans. It was out of season and tourists were few and far between. The tour was <span face="arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;">£</span>8 and included a tasting of three Ardbeg's of various ages at the end. The tour was something I knew off by heart by the end of the day. </p><p>The process of 'Mashing' where hot water is added to local barley, before the distilling and the ageing in barrels. Distinct, and enticing, smells wafted around in each of the process rooms we were taken too, and all too soon we ended up at the small bar to taste the end result.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvJi1ageWcK4Sqscw-hT2u9fuAFHmJ7q4SeGcB2f6rr89-OMxzzMWmupmCZDOXYwqytZDRuDXKoxGxPAnG_ZcLT17Fxt-q-hMJyM-XOXGNNteESvVa26XctPAP5mhTfzUL2UfyF4AwsA/s2569/IMGP0088.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="2569" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvJi1ageWcK4Sqscw-hT2u9fuAFHmJ7q4SeGcB2f6rr89-OMxzzMWmupmCZDOXYwqytZDRuDXKoxGxPAnG_ZcLT17Fxt-q-hMJyM-XOXGNNteESvVa26XctPAP5mhTfzUL2UfyF4AwsA/w640-h304/IMGP0088.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>The rain had started to absolutely pour down and it was carried by winds straight off the Atlantic Ocean as I set off for Lagavulin, somewhat jealous of the tourists jumping into their warm, dry cars to do the same.</p><p>Driving not only misses out on the weather, which is part of the Islay experience but the countryside, bedraggled-looking sheep, and a chance encounter in the tiny village of Lagavulin with a man who recycles the used barrel tops of local Whisky distilleries into a rather unusual souvenir of an Islay visit.</p><p>For the rest of the walk, and later throughout Tunisia, including into the middle of the Sahara desert, and to much bemusement of various border officials, I was carrying an increasingly heavy inscribed Laphroaig barrel top.</p><p>The Lagavulin Distillery was the least touristy of the ones I visited. The buildings and decor did not seem to have been updated for a century and it had the charm of a place that wasn't just chasing the tourist dollar. </p><p>Its tours were equally different, offering exclusive tastings of old barrels, hand-filling your own favourite drop, or an in-depth three hour tour. All these need to be booked in advance, which I had not, and I was also the only person there, so no tour. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq6qdP9Dlqc5Mp2wz-R7FOwOr-ai1kZQPcK4a5llx-lAT_an-DrXg01vspoxnNH1bY5rtymdACiXbbR5OZNVDEgER7QZt2sgtLVccUV94x3BQPjexYEDIqGjL4_MI1Bt8xqxRGUnF12tc/s2048/IMG_20190401_125559.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq6qdP9Dlqc5Mp2wz-R7FOwOr-ai1kZQPcK4a5llx-lAT_an-DrXg01vspoxnNH1bY5rtymdACiXbbR5OZNVDEgER7QZt2sgtLVccUV94x3BQPjexYEDIqGjL4_MI1Bt8xqxRGUnF12tc/w640-h480/IMG_20190401_125559.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wonderful old Lagavulin Distillery</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>However one of the staff kindly took me to the distillery room so that I could get a photo of the huge copper stills. And then back into a real torrential downpour that soaked through my rain jacket as I headed off towards my favourite Islay distillery, Laphroaig.</p><p>It took about thirty minutes to walk there and I wondered if, like Lagavulin, I would be out of luck as I had not booked a tour. The Laphroaig site is by far the most impressive of the three. It includes both a museum and a large tasting area. With the weather as bad as it had been all day it was not surprising that again, there were no visitors. There seemed to be no staff either.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9V2mV9O6WM3IdJohtZKukSpV2CdE2bCKOZGcYLxqSN4CHJ0Mb6OJ4b1QyYeEF1ZaRmbnMsWWqJd9qxY_PrEUAmRdCYRoUSKlampke5KWH42gEBSIzUIYfGul1OoroQNPuL3O0D1LSwQ/s2048/IMGP0066.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9V2mV9O6WM3IdJohtZKukSpV2CdE2bCKOZGcYLxqSN4CHJ0Mb6OJ4b1QyYeEF1ZaRmbnMsWWqJd9qxY_PrEUAmRdCYRoUSKlampke5KWH42gEBSIzUIYfGul1OoroQNPuL3O0D1LSwQ/w640-h480/IMGP0066.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Whisky Stills at Lagavulin</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I removed my soaked jacket and shoes and wished I had a spare pair of trousers, as mine were clinging to my legs in their wet state. A member of staff walked in and smiled at my state, and without asking went to the bar and poured me a small glass of 10-Year-Old and brought it to me saying "I think you need this!"</p><p>Now that is the sort of welcome I like. He told me that they also had no bookings for tours today so that would not be an option. However, I could look through the museum and dry my clothes next to the fire. The museum was full of Laphroaig facts and ephemera. </p><p>It had some interesting history, including how the owners persuaded the US government during prohibition that the Whisky was purely for medicinal purposes, allowing it to remain on sale, unlike most other alcohol at this time.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBF_0t8ILtWbLGeCbjkuSjK9FqdI8mptLqYcmeHMXlNNGA_-TBDdRNY6DbEKrOVBMAbptSAe83FrkfphkHxe5LU5I_ZynuDBLMGeQuip5tw4On1K7AnBEp1z2nkjm7VYuNE9ffZszRS4/s2048/IMG_20190401_135109.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBF_0t8ILtWbLGeCbjkuSjK9FqdI8mptLqYcmeHMXlNNGA_-TBDdRNY6DbEKrOVBMAbptSAe83FrkfphkHxe5LU5I_ZynuDBLMGeQuip5tw4On1K7AnBEp1z2nkjm7VYuNE9ffZszRS4/w640-h480/IMG_20190401_135109.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those with deep pockets will find much to like at the Laphroaig shop</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I had been there over an hour, my clothes were starting to dry out, and I was thinking of making my way to Port Ellen. No one else had come in during this time. The same staff member re-appeared and seemed surprised I was still there. </p><p>Walking over to the fire he said: "I am actually making the Whisky here and I have to go and do some work. It ain't going to be a tour, but it will give you a good idea of what we do here and you can follow if you want?"</p><p>A private tour, bloody hell. It seemed I really had saved the best to last. So off we went, feeding the wet fresh peat onto a fire to roast the barley and impart that smokey flavour. The hints of seaweed come from the location of the peat bogs, close to the seaweed encrusted shore. I helped out loading the fire with the logs of peat. I will need to buy the resulting Whisky in ten years to taste the fruits of my efforts.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_353g9_CH_JsfnoaZ-8bi8vKcLZ0lpfbmxhwKFk33GrM546TOzFopThtRqoWXmY6ktv2lKO6Ejnh4I_0ysOGO32HWinpW96Txm9ECiIPTCfONpmfxb2hbMrj4h0gM7BaTZ5Nv3Nu1TmM/s2048/IMGP0108.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_353g9_CH_JsfnoaZ-8bi8vKcLZ0lpfbmxhwKFk33GrM546TOzFopThtRqoWXmY6ktv2lKO6Ejnh4I_0ysOGO32HWinpW96Txm9ECiIPTCfONpmfxb2hbMrj4h0gM7BaTZ5Nv3Nu1TmM/w640-h480/IMGP0108.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh peat burning under the barley at Laphroaig</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>We went into the mashing rooms to check on the temperatures and progress of the mashed barley before checking on the stills. We had to pop into an office for a short time before returning to the main tasting area where I was offered any of the Whisky's to try. I chose a twenty-year-old drop to finish off the memorable visit. </p><p>With now only a few hours before my return flight, and with my jacket now mostly dry I said my goodbyes and grateful thanks before heading off to complete my short walk to Port Ellen. Within ten minutes of getting there, the minibus arrived at the lonely bus stop and deposited me at the airport just in time for check-in and my flight back to Glasgow.</p><p><br /></p><p></p>
<!---"Simon Proudman"--->Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-71396570256512655272021-01-29T16:53:00.002-08:002021-01-29T16:53:58.813-08:00The Monumental memorial to a Heroic Defence. Brest<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-lYPcP3RC0UtOXGH0b-mRlbgUVJIYdEWEslgm7QJNfhGUYSK7oFbHugE_DlUELqkHqQ8B-Y1NCfNmQpQG7hMBwWWHhDvWQKtfEb5AcMcIvq5lazx9bxgPId2l7tVMfACtYP1kAjQ7Mg/s2048/b1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-lYPcP3RC0UtOXGH0b-mRlbgUVJIYdEWEslgm7QJNfhGUYSK7oFbHugE_DlUELqkHqQ8B-Y1NCfNmQpQG7hMBwWWHhDvWQKtfEb5AcMcIvq5lazx9bxgPId2l7tVMfACtYP1kAjQ7Mg/w781-h586/b1.jpg" width="781" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p>I have always been a fan of Soviet gigantism from the skyline dominating Motherland statue<span> in <a href="https://www.farflungplaces.net/2017/10/top-10-things-to-do-in-kiev.html" target="_blank">Kiev</a> to the outsized <a href="https://visitmurmansk.info/en/places/the-memorial-defenders-of-the-soviet-arctic-during-the-great-patriotic-war-alyosha/" target="_blank">Defender of the Soviet Arctic in Murmansk</a>. While spending a few days in <a href="https://www.farflungplaces.net/2020/08/top-10-things-to-do-in-minsk.html" target="_blank">Minsk</a> a day trip to Brest to see the mighty statue named Courage in the military fortress was an opportunity I was not going to miss.</span></p><p><br /></p><a name='more'></a><br />Brest, on the western edge of Belarus, is the end of the line for the Moscow express trains which run several times a day. This meant I could travel the 330 km's between the two cities in a fairly luxurious manner. The train is full to Minsk, but the old style compartments were almost empty for the last leg of the trains journey. <p></p><p><br /></p><p>I was going to travel second-class for US$10 return, but with first-class tickets only US$2 more it made sense to travel in somewhat more style. Stretching out in my own empty compartment I was soon asleep, only woken by the conductor asking whether I wanted tea or coffee with my breakfast. The only way to travel in Belarus! </p><p><br /></p><p>The station in Brest is an impressive Stalinesque wedding cake design, similar to the skyscrapers that still dot the Moscow skyline. And, apart from the fortress itself, it might well be the top highlight of Brest. Walking on broken pavements alongside dilapidated buildings and abandoned warehouses, one of which was on fire and seemed to have the entire Brest Fire department attending did not encourage me to investigate further. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRwHnhXKCeNASfNxNexmgBCPWgCKE195J5qMoXsmTYu-lqj4hYDbe-bbbjR_Z04G9-AkViEasS7j8dGAU1VRG9i_-QcWxguWSYCRtdJtsMoEomsB5wNyBNa51AJop89YEB5Hqzadk6H4/s2048/b88.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1522" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRwHnhXKCeNASfNxNexmgBCPWgCKE195J5qMoXsmTYu-lqj4hYDbe-bbbjR_Z04G9-AkViEasS7j8dGAU1VRG9i_-QcWxguWSYCRtdJtsMoEomsB5wNyBNa51AJop89YEB5Hqzadk6H4/w476-h640/b88.jpg" width="476" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entrance to the fort<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>The only obstacle to me gaining access to the fortress was the modern take on a protective moat, a six-lane raceway also known as the Moscow to Berlin E30 road. Once past this obstacle, you enter a different world. </p><p><br /></p><p>A huge concrete slab, with a Soviet star gouged out in the middle, has been placed on top of the ruins of the ruined entrance gate of the fortress. Approaching this you hear rifles fire, disembodied voices and soldiers marching piped out through hidden speakers. The effect is chilling and it silences the small groups slowly approaching the entrance.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSwOUgSJdOS1Ioh_rXO93aWVvfhDgRI8dLAfbSEmsJteNxe6-CE2w3xHj39coCGT03VtiFqqJgwvj0EvhveAya9HDtueqk-8p-SEBgeVUguRsscrCmw4FRjHdmQiFAa-Ybh-lYhemrqKg/s2048/b3.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSwOUgSJdOS1Ioh_rXO93aWVvfhDgRI8dLAfbSEmsJteNxe6-CE2w3xHj39coCGT03VtiFqqJgwvj0EvhveAya9HDtueqk-8p-SEBgeVUguRsscrCmw4FRjHdmQiFAa-Ybh-lYhemrqKg/w640-h480/b3.JPG" width="640" /></a> </td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bullet holes riddle the southern gate<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>The fortress was built in 1833 as the western defence to the Russian empire. It was easily taken by the Germany armies in the First World War but it became the symbol of Soviet defiance after it became one of the first targets of Operation Barbarossa, the Nazi invasion in 1941. </p><p><br /></p><p>The Soviet forces inside the fortress were totally unprepared for the onslaught of artillery and air attacks yet managed to hold off the invaders for over a week, and small pockets of resistance held out for a month sniping at the German forces and tying up troops who should have been marching towards Moscow and delaying a proposed visit by Hitler for his own safety.</p><p><br /></p><p>Much of the fortress was destroyed and has not been rebuilt. The damaged and bullet-pocked walls tell the story of the brutality of war without the need of the written word. The fortress left as it since then is itself an incredible memorial to the suffering and hardship the Soviet Union suffered during the Second World War. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwG921pzhR6bcQdEf4ZsyemTQ-MhX7WkxnLxS4JmrTSd2A5OCVVqci2fH_BuShrFL7FGUOO36XrnmO1IT2OvaWvXLu0xGGAPbIe-R1fao4pMpScQyEso66gmm9uNwFmdWu8zpLdGVcDM/s2048/b11.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwG921pzhR6bcQdEf4ZsyemTQ-MhX7WkxnLxS4JmrTSd2A5OCVVqci2fH_BuShrFL7FGUOO36XrnmO1IT2OvaWvXLu0xGGAPbIe-R1fao4pMpScQyEso66gmm9uNwFmdWu8zpLdGVcDM/w640-h480/b11.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculptures on the back of the monument<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>The addition of the towering carved block of concrete, with the face of a Soviet soldier with what can only be described as a 'resolute' expression, makes it even more astonishing. The gigantic statue is a sombre reminder of the death and destruction that took place here, as well as the valour in putting up such a defence against overwhelming forces.</p><p><br /></p><p>It is easy to spend much of the day here, you can cover quite a bit of ground wandering to all parts of the fortress and there are various museums telling the story of the fortress and the battles that took place, across the site. </p><p><br /></p><p>The main museum, 'the Museum of the Defence of the Brest Fortress' is the one worth visiting if you are short of time. It costs approx US$5 to enter, the fortress complex itself is free to enter and is located in the barracks, one of the few buildings to survive relatively intact. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQjBCXBZZ2WRCowxjX9wuW3086WeuqbPGGDOr9LcsfKRERTp_VwEqoXsJfiea0WYIeUZvhF6yAupTQ2iVjBeODbFnBbzhVJIhl2L10vy_p39tnH8Mb51sAY3LBnMKr0CpG9k1blbcyUF0/s2048/b7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQjBCXBZZ2WRCowxjX9wuW3086WeuqbPGGDOr9LcsfKRERTp_VwEqoXsJfiea0WYIeUZvhF6yAupTQ2iVjBeODbFnBbzhVJIhl2L10vy_p39tnH8Mb51sAY3LBnMKr0CpG9k1blbcyUF0/w480-h640/b7.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A painting of the defence of the fortress in the museum<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Alongside artefacts and weapons recovered from the war, are dioramas, paintings and detailed explanations of what happened here during those dark days of World War II, with most exhibits having an English explanation (which is sadly not true of the other museums on the site).</p><p><br /></p><p>It also has one of the best gift shops I have ever visited, with an expansive and unusual display of souvenirs. Where else in the world can you buy a mangled bullet World War II bullet recovered from the fortress in its own display case, with a choice of either a Nazi or Soviet bullet.</p><p><br /></p><p>Perhaps, not surprisingly, there were very few Soviet bullets left to buy, most of which would be now sitting proudly on Belarus and Russian mantlepieces. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-_2hyJJRxDXC-ypE4ccgpuOtyFo5jIltZH9B_2O9BAiDd_1V0tkAw52qSDSu5ClZdyZ46608TtEJ2693uOZ4prVJVLyBXMYcdqQvHzfeI4zsEC31wq9Arq_pRglEleEVLr8omMZguAk/s2048/b4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-_2hyJJRxDXC-ypE4ccgpuOtyFo5jIltZH9B_2O9BAiDd_1V0tkAw52qSDSu5ClZdyZ46608TtEJ2693uOZ4prVJVLyBXMYcdqQvHzfeI4zsEC31wq9Arq_pRglEleEVLr8omMZguAk/w640-h426/b4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Map of the Fortress<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br />Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-82799307125492468932020-08-30T04:52:00.000-07:002020-08-30T04:53:02.976-07:00Top 10 Things to Do in Minsk<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Belarus is in the news for the wrong <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-53799065" target="_blank">reasons</a> at the moment and may seem to be an unlikely choice for a trip. One of the least visited places in Europe, not least because visas were hard to get (a situation that has now <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visa_policy_of_Belarus">changed</a> for the better for most countries), it still remains mostly undiscovered. Minsk, the capital, is an intriguing city. A case of East meets West, but where the upper hand still remains Soviet.<br />
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Here are our top 10 things to do in Minsk.<br />
<b><br /></b><b>1. Visit KFC</b><br />
This is not an advertorial for one of my most hated fast-food restaurants (the chips are OK, except at Kuala Lumpur airport where they somehow manage to serve them lukewarm). Yet it shows the changes afoot in Minsk. A towering post-war sculpture by Anatol Yafimovich Arcimovich sits atop the first KFC outlet in Belarus, opened in 2015.<br />
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You do not have to go inside the KFC and I would actually advise against it as there are plenty of great speciality restaurants a stone throws away on Plosca Svabody, but the contrast between two ideologies is rarely as explicit. The KFC is close to Niamiha Metro Station.<br />
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<b>2. Head to Independence Square to see Lenin</b><br />
Very few statues of Lenin are still in place, let alone one of this size. The statue of Lenin full-on orator mode stands in front of the Belarus Parliament, one of the very few buildings in central Minsk that survived the terrible destruction of the Second World War.<br />
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The square was the location for May Day parades and other celebratory events in Soviet times, although in more recent times it has been the location for rallies and protests against the current leadership.<br />
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Photography of the Parliament building is, in a throwback to Soviet days, totally prohibited. So be creative...<br />
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<b>3. Get up close to a T34 Tank </b><br />
To fully understand modern Belarus you have to see how the nation suffered during the Great Patriotic War (World War II). The War Museum is one of the best in the world, actually opening before the war had finished in 1944.<br />
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Through dioramas, displays and military hardware, the museum tells the story of Nazi occupation and the eventual liberation which resulted in the death of a quarter of the countries population and almost total destruction of many of its cities.<br />
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Some exhibits are quite confronting, the thigh bone of a soldier pressed into their water bottle comes to mind, but the museum is unmissable whilst in Minsk.<br />
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<b>4. Go underground</b><br />
The metro is not only an efficient and cheap way to get around Minsk, it is also an architectural delight. Reminiscent of the Moscow Metro, no two stations are alike. Each was designed by different artists and sculptors.<br />
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Completed in 1984 communist statues and stern Soviet designs mix with folky wistful art. It is worth going up and down the two main lines and visiting every station. A good guide to the different stations is <a href="https://belarusfeed.com/minsk-metro-stations-history-design/">here</a>. My personal favourite is Kastrychniyskaua Station with its ornate Soviet industrial murals with airships.<br />
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Again, the authorities deem the metro to be vital infrastructure and photography is prohibited.<br />
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<b>8. See where Lee Harvey Oswald used to live</b><br />
The assassin who shot JFK (or possibly not if you tend to believe in conspiracy theories) main claim to fame before he moved back to Dallas, was that he defected to the USSR in 1959. He was given a job, and a rather cushy apartment at #4, Vulica Kaminisycnaja.<br />
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The building still looks rather upmarket, and no tours are, as yet, offered. Oswald got bored of Minsk and eventually returned to the USA.There was a distinct lack of good bars and restaurants in the 1960's in Minsk, certainly not the case today.<br />
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<b>5. Shop for fresh food at the Monskiy Komarovskiy Market</b><br />
Take a break from history and head to the largest undercover market in Minsk. The main hall is full of cuts of meat, some that you would not ordinarily see, as well as impressive mountains of cheese.<br />
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My favourite stalls were devoted to local honey, and a fresh strip of honeycomb was one of the best snacks I had while in Belarus. Note that photography is not encouraged but possible without being too obvious.<br />
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Hard to get to by Metro as there is no nearby station, grab a Yandex cab using the <a href="https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=ru.yandex.taxi&hl=en_AU" target="_blank">app</a>. A cheap and easy way to navigate Minsk without having to speak Russian fluently.<br />
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<b>6. Read a Book</b><br />
Or to be more specific head to the National Library (Uschod Metro station). There are books in English there, but the thing to see is the Library itself. One of the only buildings I know that are in the shape of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rhombicuboctahedron">rhomnicuboctahedron</a>. Try saying that after a few of the local ales.<br />
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Very modern-looking and very shiny. Although I have to say I was more impressed with the Soviet mosaics of space exploration on the apartment buildings on the other side of the road from the library.<br />
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<b>7. </b><b>Investigate the KGB Headquarters</b><br />
But not too closely. Perhaps fitting, as Belarus is viewed by some as the last remaining dictatorship in Europe, that it also boasts the last surviving internal security service known as the KGB in Europe.<br />
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Elsewhere it has been renamed and is more commonly known as the FSB in neighbouring Russia.<br />
Housed in an imposing neo-classical building on Independence Avenue it is surrounded by cameras and loitering Policemen. Another place where photography is strictly forbidden.<br />
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<b>8. Drink a decent beer</b><br />
Minsk has a number of breweries and cool bars to relax in after a hard days sightseeing. The main national brewer, Alavaria does run brewery tours but is not that responsive to requests that are not in Russian. Owned by multinational brewer Carlsberg, its product is pretty average.<br />
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However, there are some great microbreweries and bars to go to. My two favourites were the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/craftmanbar/?fref=nf">Craftman</a>, a traditional pub with a wide selection of local beers, English speaking, and with good bar snacks, alongside <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pub1067/?fref=ts">Pub 1067</a>, which can really be described as a micropub. A tiny bar hidden beneath an apartment block with a great selection of beers and incredibly friendly staff. A real gem of a bar.<br />
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<b>9. Look up at the street art</b><br />
Thanks to the Brazillian Embassy in Minsk sponsoring a street art competition, and bringing in artists from Brazil to show the locals what is possible, street art has exploded across Minsk, particularly in the suburbs where drab grey buildings are now a riot of colourful murals.<br />
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Head to the area around Oktjabrskaj Street in the south of Minsk to see some of the best works. The area is also a fertile ground for eclectic pubs and cafes.<br />
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<b>10. Take a day trip to Nezvizh Castle</b><br />
About an hour outside of Minsk is Nevizh a stunning castle built in the sixteenth century. Due to the wars and rather elastic international boundaries, the castle has been part of Poland, Russia and now Belarus.<br />
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Inside are ornate rooms and small exhibits of clothes, kitchenware and small arms from Victorian times, but I found the view from the outside of the castle and its moat and walls to be the most impressive part of my visit.<br />
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It has to visit by public transport, you will find your hotel or hostel will offer tours for around US$50 per person. This also includes a visit to Mir Castle, which I found less interesting as it has been substantially rebuilt and has become a bit of a tourist trap.<br />
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-6572146289901522222020-07-20T01:32:00.001-07:002020-07-20T01:32:05.552-07:00A tower built of Human Skulls. Niš<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The Ottoman Empire was not renowned for being kind and gentle to its subjects, particularly those from lands it had invaded. Fear was a weapon used to maintain control and punish those that stood up to the caliphate. When the Serbians rose up against the foreign invaders in 1809, the revolt was quickly crushed and a gruesome reminder of the fate that awaited those who rebelled was built in Niš, a tower built of skulls.<br />
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The Ottoman Empire stretched across Asia, Europe and North Africa in its heyday, Serbia had been defeated in the late 15th century and had remained reluctant members of the empire, prone to revolt and seeking ways of regaining its independence.<br />
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In 1809, as part of what is now called the <i>First Serbian Uprising, </i>a huge battle took place at Cegar, near Niš. A lack of organisation, and an overwhelming Ottoman force, resulted in a massive defeat for the rebels.<br />
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Realising the hopelessness of their situation, and fearing their immediate impalement, a common punishment for those defeated by the Ottoman army, their commander Steven Sindelic set off a massive suicide bomb as the small force was overrun. Using his musket he fired upon the rebels own gunpowder and ammunition store, killing his own force and large numbers of the enemy.<br />
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The local Governor, Hurshid Pasha, angered by the substantial losses of the Ottoman forces, ordered the heads of the rebels to be skinned and built into a gruesome tower to warn against future revolts. The use of Skull towers was not unusual in the Ottoman Empire, but the one at Niš is the only one that still survives.<br />
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The tower was built 4.5 metres (15 feet) high out of basic cement and skulls. 14 rows of 17 skulls on each of the four sides. Nearing completion the builders realised they did not have enough skulls to complete in, so thirty captive Serbians were beheaded and their skulls used to finish the tower with 952 skulls in total.<br />
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In 1833, the French poet Lamartine, saw the tower on his travels and was horrified by what he saw. In one of the first recorded descriptions of the Skull Tower, albeit with some exaggeration of its size. He wrote:<br />
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"One mile before the city I saw a wide white tower rising in the midst of the plain, glittering as parish marble.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">A path led me towards it; </span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">I came closer and after giving a Turkish child who accompanied me to hold my horse, I set in the shades of the tower to take a rest. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">As I set down, I raised my head and looked at the monument in which shade I was sitting in, and I saw its walls for which it seemed to me to be made of marble or white stone to be actually made of layers of human skulls.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A contemporary view of the Skull Tower from the time of Lamartine</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">These skulls and those faces pealed and white of rain and sunlight; there could have been fifteen to twenty thousand joined with a little bit of plaster, shaping a perfect arch that hid me from the sun; and some of which still had hair fluttering down their necks as some kind of lichen or moss. A strong and fresh breeze blew from the mountains and by blowing through numerous holes on these heads, faces and skulls, created a piteous and sad whistling".</span><br />
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Initially, the grisly tower did subdue any local thoughts of revolt, but over time it became a rallying point for their struggle, which prevented it from being pulled down. After Serbian independence, a chapel was built over the top of the tower to preserve it.<br />
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It is a macabre place to visit, although only 59 Skulls now remain. Others fell out, were stolen, or were reclaimed by relatives, although how they recognised which skull belonged to their family is up for some conjecture.<br />
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A small group of school children were visiting when I arrived early one morning, laughing and playing outside, waiting with me for the lady curator to unlock the building as she had been delayed by a bicycle puncture.<br />
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Once inside they were stunned to silence and low whispers. A few had to leave. The Ottoman Empire knew how to shock, even if, as in Niš, it eventually worked against the vast empire and contributed to its downfall.<br />
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The tower is open every day except Monday, entrance is approx US$2.<br />
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-78042716494065140632020-05-01T22:23:00.000-07:002020-05-01T22:23:38.330-07:00Oradour-sur-Glane. Walking into a Nazi atrocity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On the 10th of June 1944, an SS Panzer Division entered Oradour-Sur-Glane, a small picturesque village not far from the wine-growing region of Bordeaux. In a barbaric act of violence, the villagers were murdered and many of the buildings burnt down.<br />
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Oradour-Sur-Glane would just remain a footnote among many atrocities committed during the Second World War if it had not been for General De Gaulle deciding that the village should not be rebuilt but stand as a memorial to the cruelty of the Nazi occupation, and it remains one of the most haunting and disturbing places to visit in the west of France.<br />
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On that fateful day in June 1944, an officer of the SS had been reportedly captured by the French resistance in a nearby town. A large SS unit, advancing rapidly to the north to try to halt the Allied invasion of Normandy, which had just begun, was told of the capture and sealed off the village near where they were camped.<br />
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In an act of terrifying revenge, the men of Oradour-Sur-Glane were taken into several barns where they were machine-gunned, while the women and children were taken to the church, which was locked, and then burnt with an incendiary device. Those who tried to escape through the windows were shot.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Oradour-Sur-Glane before the war</td></tr>
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642 residents of the village were murdered. Only a few managed to escape the atrocity. Even the German high command were appalled, and steps were taken to investigate what happened, but few steps were taken as the commander, Adolf Diekmann, was killed in Normandy two weeks later, and the Nazi forces were in disarray as the war came to an end.<br />
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It was not until the Bordeaux trials of 1953 that justice was sought. Although few were happy with the outcome. Many of those involved were now in East Germany and extradition was refused. Of those left, the majority were from the Alsace region of France which Germany had annexed early in the war, and their defence of being forced to act against their will was accepted, and they were given an eventual amnesty, causing large protests outside of the court.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The haunting photographs of the residents as you enter the village</td></tr>
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It is an incredibly moving experience to visit Oradour-Sur-Glane today. The approach is via a small tunnel. Photographs of the murdered inhabitants, empty white spaces with just the name mark where none could be found, line the tunnel walls.<br />
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This helps make the site more than just a museum to learn about the past. The atrocity is made real as you look into the eyes of those that were killed, their lives suddenly cut short on a summer day.<br />
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A simple marble sign asking visitors to remember is placed at the village entrance. Then you walk down a lane way to the main village road, large and prosperous enough to have a single tram line running through it.<br />
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The buildings are slowly decaying but much of the life of the small village is as it was. Petrol pumps by the garage slowly rust. Signs are still clear, marking out where the dentist worked, boulangeries baked, stores that sold wine and the imposing Post Office.<br />
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Cars are left where they were parked in the streets, rusting bicycles lean against walls. The church is a particularly sombre place, where so many pointlessly died, the interior stark and bare after being burned down.<br />
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De Gaulle's decision to keep the whole village as a memorial was one of incredible foresight. There were many atrocities in war, horrible civilian massacres, not least as occurred in <a href="https://www.britannica.com/place/Lidice" target="_blank">Lidice</a>, two years to the very day in 1942.<br />
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To read about wartime atrocities is one thing, but to be able to actually visit, see and walk through the village of Oradour-Sur-Glane brings history to life in a way that would just not be possible in the traditional Second World War memorials of marble crosses and plaques.<br />
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For information on how to get to Oradour-Sur-Glane, entry times and much more, check out this excellent <a href="https://www.oradour.info/" target="_blank">site</a>.<br />
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-72845984620611081262020-03-28T17:19:00.003-07:002020-03-28T17:20:17.274-07:00Kotor. A magical place when the Cruise Ships depart <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The Venetians liked to travel. While Marco Polo made it as far as China, many other traders and military ships conquered ports along the Mediterranean. Kotor is one of those ports, and thanks to its enviable defensive position at the end of a long bay, and surrounded by mountains, little has changed since medieval times.</div>
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Being hidden away inside Yugoslavia during the Cold War helped. Industry and money flowed to the industrial areas around Belgrade, while sleepy Kotor was left to the occasional visitors mainly from Russia. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">An Entrance gate to the old town</td></tr>
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That has now changed rather radically, maybe for the best for the local economy but not for those visitors who don't like thousands of tourists disembarking from cruise ships all at once and overwhelming the small streets inside the ancient city walls.</div>
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I was somewhat shocked on arriving on a long bus journey from Tirana that three massive ships were in port, only one actually in dock, with the others sending tenders to shore.</div>
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It was so jam-packed inside Kotor that it was impossible to move. I gave up trying to find my hotel and went back to a bar in the new town to wait a few hours for the madness to subside.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Early morning moped under a Venetian gate</td></tr>
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I knew about the problems in Dubrovnik, and Venice, Kotor's mother city, from over-tourism but was unaware that the much smaller Kotor might actually be suffering more. </div>
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Whether or not the authorities take steps to limit the amount of cruise ships remains to be seen, their coffers are apparently overflowing so they may not be in any hurry.</div>
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However, all is not lost. By 5 PM the cruise ship crowds had subsided and only the locals and the few people staying overnight wandered through the ancient streets and the beauty of Kotor could finally be appreciated.</div>
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Venetian palaces sit on beautiful stone-paved squares while cats meander along long staircases which lead to ancient houses built on the mountainside. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">The Lion of Venice embedded in the City Wall.</td></tr>
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I stayed for three days, exploring the Bay of Kotor and its small villages such as Perast while the ships unloaded their passengers, returning in the evening as they departed and having the medieval city to myself.</div>
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I started very early one morning at 6 AM to beat the summer heat to climb the 1350 steps to the Castle of San Giovani which overlooks Kotor. Starting at this time is not only sensible as it is very cool, but free, as the admission gate does not open until 7 AM, and it is easy to walk past the unattended gate. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">The wonderfully preserved city walls.</td></tr>
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The ruined castle is of some interest, but the best part is the views looking down over Kotor and down the bay as the sun rises behind you. The best shots were from about halfway up, near a small chapel, as the higher I got the less of the old town became visible.</div>
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Tired from the walk I crashed out at my hotel before venturing out in the afternoon into the dwindling crowds as the horns from the ships sounded calling back the tourists to its cabins and restaurants on the sea. I sat and used the 8 euros I saved from my earlier walk, sipping cold beers and watching the ships sail away. </div>
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Peace and tranquility was restored, and I could once again appreciate the magic that is Kotor.</div>
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-30738112746797706092020-03-03T20:32:00.001-08:002021-08-19T11:33:27.552-07:00Top 10 Things to Do in Tirana<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Tirana is a city that rarely appears on any travel guide must-visit lists, although as it is discovered that will change. With a Mediterranean climate, history dating back to Roman times, an eclectic display of a paranoid leaders desire to build bunkers everywhere, cheap and tasty food and drink options, and friendly locals, Tirana is a great place to while away a few days<br />
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Here are our top 10 things to do in Tirana.<br />
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<b>1. Start in the centre at Skanderbeg Square</b><br />
The geographic heart of Tirana, this massive square was designed and built by Mussolini's fascists during their invasion. Now adorned with a statue of Skanderbeg, an Albanian hero who rebelled against the Ottoman empire, where once was a large statue of Stalin.<br />
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The square is now traffic-free and used for concerts and events. Surrounded by giant buildings, including the Opera House, National Bank and museums, it is an impressive introduction to the capital city. Nearby the Clock Tower and Et'hem Bay mosque (being renovated) are worth a visit.<br />
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If you visit in summer you may be surprised by the streams of water cooling the square hidden by ingeniously hidden pipes.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Skanderbeg statue in the eponymous square</td></tr>
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<b>2. Go underground in Enver Hoxha's hidden city</b><br />
The shadow of Enver Hoxha, the communist dictator who ruled Albania for over 40 years, is still very visible across Tirana. One of the most unforgettable sites is his top-secret government headquarters built under the suburbs of the capital.<br />
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Incorporating a parliament chamber, luxury rooms for Hoxha, and five levels of meeting rooms, bedrooms and kitchens, you cannot deny the leader did not prepare for the worst. It was to be used in the event of a nuclear war. Read more about the Bunk'Art 1 (as it is now known, displaying art in many of the rooms) <a href="http://www.farflungplaces.net/2020/02/everyone-out-to-get-you-build-city.html#more" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pyramid of Tirana</td></tr>
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<b>3. See a Pyramid without travelling to Egypt</b><br />
A massive and expensive memorial to Enver Hoxha. Began after his death in 1985 it took three years to build and cost more than any other building in Albania. It was covered in white marble, and sparkled in the sun, in a similar fashion to the Egyptian pyramids.<br />
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History caught up with Hoxha's legacy just three years later with the fall of communism. Abandoned it has been vandalized, and all the marble has been removed. It is now awaiting either refurbishment or demolition.<br />
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There is now a fence, with security guards patrolling. It is easy, however, to get through the fence as it does not completely encircle the pyramid, and the guards do not mind tourists getting a closer look. While the locals like to climb to the top and slide down.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOnCclKvxaMLRwUwcC7nya-yudE_xiaJoX6ZboGqMcex89RI3rFBRAp48qwV2YksWC61_sJkfr88VpLUEZHGagMAtGpcBXt3F7jzzWSqqXBofLc4PaRpVRDClFIjjvIyG_Nok52QPisOo/s1600/IMG_20190809_114430.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOnCclKvxaMLRwUwcC7nya-yudE_xiaJoX6ZboGqMcex89RI3rFBRAp48qwV2YksWC61_sJkfr88VpLUEZHGagMAtGpcBXt3F7jzzWSqqXBofLc4PaRpVRDClFIjjvIyG_Nok52QPisOo/s640/IMG_20190809_114430.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olives galore at the New Bazaar</td></tr>
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<b>4. Shop for fresh food and antiques at the New Bazaar</b><br />
Ten minutes walk from Skanderberg Square lies the New Bazaar. Packed full of seasonal fresh food, honey, and even cigars. A great place to load up for a picnic.<br />
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There are also a few tables selling antiques, particularly at the weekend, if you want to but photographs of old Tirana, communist badges, or even a bust of Enver Hoxha for your living room.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bunkers on Mount Dajti</td></tr>
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<b>5. Ride the Cable Car to Mount Dajti</b><br />
The cable car station is located close to Bunk'Art 1, which makes for a good day out. 8 Euro's gets you a return ticket on the longest cableway in the Balkans (closed on Tuesdays). You can get a single ticket and walk down (or up if you are a masochist) but it is a long walk back frequented by aggressive dogs and we don't recommend it.<br />
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The views out of the cable cars are somewhat obscured by the diamond ring graffiti art scratched into almost all parts of the glass, but the views from the top make up for this.<br />
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You can go horse riding, trekking or take a buggy ride from the operators by the arrival station. Alternatively, just go for a walk and you will be astounded by the number of small bunkers that fortified the mountain top, part of the 170,000 which cover Albania.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4LkyC49zAeEHLbBGGd7qe7Q8bwOfjnIkC7jIXq6r_JrfVOWhBLvSmTSNhJ_U1Zj6EQUKB7_d852GlTACBTKFhCx5nPHyjQaTcQAYtUbjBp6Gqbv4pIuEHejPQh1JTxv_dm9KI622i-T8/s1600/IMG_20190809_144557.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4LkyC49zAeEHLbBGGd7qe7Q8bwOfjnIkC7jIXq6r_JrfVOWhBLvSmTSNhJ_U1Zj6EQUKB7_d852GlTACBTKFhCx5nPHyjQaTcQAYtUbjBp6Gqbv4pIuEHejPQh1JTxv_dm9KI622i-T8/s640/IMG_20190809_144557.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>6. Find the hidden statues of Lenin and Stalin</b><br />
The old Russian leaders were revered (mostly) by Hoxha and the statues remained standing even after he fell out with the USSR and feared invasion. They did not survive the fall of communism and are currently hidden away in the car park behind the National Arts Gallery.<br />
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Not in the best shape as they were obviously pulled down from their plinths with some force. Go in the morning for the best photographs, as in the afternoon they are covered by the shade of nearby buildings..<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRw_4QX7pjCwjMioDgiFkzF2xwhbbDeiFQOyG_8Hzm0JzQ0lPZzHdsmtH5s12x9VkM80U6FcZaS-Ef2kkiVFYhHrWKF-4xVp2DZ4SoUaN70O2eWf7OT8y3HCjgG0snc_BQZegYTgH061Q/s1600/IMG_20190810_170019.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRw_4QX7pjCwjMioDgiFkzF2xwhbbDeiFQOyG_8Hzm0JzQ0lPZzHdsmtH5s12x9VkM80U6FcZaS-Ef2kkiVFYhHrWKF-4xVp2DZ4SoUaN70O2eWf7OT8y3HCjgG0snc_BQZegYTgH061Q/s640/IMG_20190810_170019.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking more than a little like a character from Noggin the Nog</td></tr>
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<b>7. </b><b>Learn about Albania History at the National Museum</b><br />
Eye-catching due to its colourful communist artwork on the outside (see the first picture of this blog) there is a wealth of information and objects dating back to Roman times. Sadly little of this is in English, but it remains an interesting collection to view.<br />
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Surprisingly little is shown of the Hoxha regime, with more of a focus on the Roman period and Second World War. There is an impressive mosaic discovered in a Tirana villa which reminded me of one of my favourite TV series characters when I was a child, <a href="http://www.smallfilms.co.uk/noggin/stories.htm" target="_blank">Noggin the Nog</a>.<br />
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Closed on Monday's, avoid visiting in the afternoons in the height of summer. It gets incredibly hot and stuffy, particular on the top floor, with a distinct lack of air conditioning.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very thick walls protect the police bunker at Bunk'art 2</td></tr>
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<b>8. Go underground (again) to see how the Police would survive a nuclear war</b><br />
Hoxha's main government underground headquarters are impressive, but so too are the much smaller Police and Ministers bunker located close to Skanderberg Square.<br />
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With almost 3 metre concrete walls which have been drilled through for a new entrance (the old entrances connect to the basements of the still-functioning Police headquarters), the rooms have been converted to a museum showing how the communist era police oppressed dissent.<br />
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Now known as Bunk'Art 2, the museum is open every day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqF0gbw1L1DWiV18MTZyuanBcB7C4XyaO8SgM3fwQ2D-3FkQsncH1jSQiA_aPJj2HvjWsQzlb6x40V8cBRGnljgoTe5epqEzQhOK2ZJOH2BVOXpp1ISWagbqQCmEIKMQK8oIDw_U9-a70/s1600/IMG_20190810_175923.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqF0gbw1L1DWiV18MTZyuanBcB7C4XyaO8SgM3fwQ2D-3FkQsncH1jSQiA_aPJj2HvjWsQzlb6x40V8cBRGnljgoTe5epqEzQhOK2ZJOH2BVOXpp1ISWagbqQCmEIKMQK8oIDw_U9-a70/s640/IMG_20190810_175923.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pegs on Boulevard Zogu 1</td></tr>
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<b>9. Look up at the street art</b><br />
Walking is one of the best ways to get to know a city. The bonus with Tirana is the explosion of street art in the last few years, openly encouraged by the city authorities.<br />
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New art is being added all the time, check <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/d/u/0/viewer?mid=1OgZRSqenomlf7Vtj5xpaZuE7jbCsKwn8&ll=41.32993362687159%2C19.762458322265786&z=12" target="_blank">here</a> for a constantly updated list of the locations and photographs of the best street art.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicSbDx2CqQVMFZ8hZOUURu7shvNHLOSCJ7vBa3ec-DKNg2_bwGT_QvNXgnk9txfQHsbTGQLcuqphsgcXuiiDIBVlrwzzDsuvIpK97Tg54e4FIiP3JAz5XkQB8QbfyVQLB0B0eZhNImC0g/s1600/IMG_20190810_122120.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicSbDx2CqQVMFZ8hZOUURu7shvNHLOSCJ7vBa3ec-DKNg2_bwGT_QvNXgnk9txfQHsbTGQLcuqphsgcXuiiDIBVlrwzzDsuvIpK97Tg54e4FIiP3JAz5XkQB8QbfyVQLB0B0eZhNImC0g/s640/IMG_20190810_122120.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least they warn you now. At the House of Leaves.</td></tr>
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<b>10. See how the Secret Service spied on the Albanian people at the House of Leaves</b><br />
One of the most interesting museums I have visited. The old Albanian intelligence service, the Sigurimi, used this building as its headquarters. Every room has now been converted to show the tools and methods used by the Sigurimi to spy both domestically and overseas.<br />
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The array of different bugging devices is impressive, as is the detailed plans to show how every room in the Hotel Tirana, a place where tourists, businessmen and diplomats stayed during the Hoxha regime, was elaborately bugged.<br />
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A short film is shown in one room which is composed of surveillance footage showing how a foreign diplomats wife was selling contraband on the streets of Tirana.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view out of one of Hoxha's 170,000 military bunkers. This one is in the suburbs of Tirana</td></tr>
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-33245884844865991992020-02-09T23:17:00.000-08:002020-02-09T23:17:04.350-08:00Everyone out to get you? Build a city underground like Enver Hoxha. Tirana<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hET866W0fJMDecbj0gT4fvCRvktnrHd3uv3QFJWyLcx1WVVpY11C_TQS3pF0z0CZ9ryoz-d87e6mrA-cSSmD5qaFQotTHPlgOWVDz_gZ6VByMbfA_TwfROnUWmwXsyg5SfYVSJ7u4zk/s1600/IMG_20190810_150626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hET866W0fJMDecbj0gT4fvCRvktnrHd3uv3QFJWyLcx1WVVpY11C_TQS3pF0z0CZ9ryoz-d87e6mrA-cSSmD5qaFQotTHPlgOWVDz_gZ6VByMbfA_TwfROnUWmwXsyg5SfYVSJ7u4zk/s640/IMG_20190810_150626.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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You could argue that the Enver Hoxha, the communist leader of Albania from 1941 to his death in 1985 was a little paranoid. He believed everyone was out to get him, which led to an extreme bunker mentality. This not only manifested itself in the 170,000 plus small concrete bunkers built across Albania but in his preparations for governing Albania in the event of an attack.</div>
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Of course, with the USA, Great Britain, the USSR, and even China, falling out with the maverick leader there was more than an element of truth to his paranoia. Particularly when as recently as 2006 details were declassified of an elaborate <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albanian_Subversion" target="_blank">plot</a> by the CIA and MI6 to overthrow Hoxha in the 1950's and 1960's.</div>
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The well-founded fear of being attacked led to Hoxha burying deep under the western outskirts of Tirana to hide the apparatus of government. Built to withstand a nuclear attack, the complex descends over five floors and hundreds of rooms to resemble an underground city.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fountain plays in the gardens with little clue to what lies beneath</td></tr>
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Once so top secret you would have been shot if you had got anywhere close to the entrance it has been opened to visitors since 2014 and acts as a space to host art exhibitions. Now known as <a href="http://bunkart.al/1/home" target="_blank">Bunk'Art 1</a>, the lure of the underground cities cold war history far outweighs any of the, although often pretty reasonable, modern art exhibits that make use of the underground rooms.</div>
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The approach to the complex is made through a long and eerie tunnel under a military base (which is still in operation with camouflaged netting covering much of it). A small booth sells tickets for a bargain US$5 and there is a short walk through a pleasant garden with fountains which would have been used by the lucky few who would have won the golden ticket to be based here in times of high tension.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgrsOj2mnxHvxZwrhUc1ZMBI29acW8ObbKXdfy49dc960BktlL9Dc7RPh9nKmkaHPCYDq7M5Y-NzynEk-yfOefillr5GnbuT_jys0GOxdlM6__v-Ql2m4wo9XqWw_NRU2hKyeaJ8szXko/s1600/IMG_20190808_124412.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgrsOj2mnxHvxZwrhUc1ZMBI29acW8ObbKXdfy49dc960BktlL9Dc7RPh9nKmkaHPCYDq7M5Y-NzynEk-yfOefillr5GnbuT_jys0GOxdlM6__v-Ql2m4wo9XqWw_NRU2hKyeaJ8szXko/s640/IMG_20190808_124412.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Five small rooms each with a bomb-proof door lead into the complex</td></tr>
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An entrance on the left leads to a series of bomb-proof doors that take you through to a decontamination unit with a shower. Then you are inside the underground city. I visited midweek, soon after Bunk'Art 1 opened and I had it to myself, which made the experience even more unusual.</div>
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I certainly did not feel I belonged here, and half expected a soldier to pop out of one of the many rooms and order me to leave.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many underground corridors</td></tr>
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Long corridors lead you into the complex, often splitting off into different directions, with offices and bedrooms behind the many doors. A room belonging to an officer is set up as it would have been used at the time.</div>
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Somewhat claustrophobic, and with a damp smell, it was clearly not luxury accommodation. Simply furnished with a single bed and desk, along with uniforms, gas masks and other protective gear, with some nice motivational Albanian revolutionary prints on the wall.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Officers room</td></tr>
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However, if you were the leader you deserved something a lot better. Enver Hoxha's rooms are a lot more plush, with carpet, wall coverings and decent furniture. If you lift up the phone on the desk you hear his voice talking to you, which is a little strange.</div>
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The bedroom behind the living room has a decent looking bed, and its own en-suite, which is bizarrely larger than the actual bedroom itself.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enver Hoxha's living room and office</td></tr>
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The highlight is undoubtedly the Assembly Hall, deep down on the fifth floor. After walking through a multitude of small rooms, and the occasional larger conference rooms, the size of the hall comes as a surprise.</div>
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Built to host the Albanian parliament, and large enough to have two levels with balconies at the back and along the sides, it is an impressive engineering feat. It was designed to host the full 265 MP's and ministers of the government and was a result of The Minister for Defence paying a visit to North Korea and seeing a similar building there (although there is little information available as to where this secret underground parliament in Pyongyang is).</div>
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The space is not wasted nowadays as it is used as a theatre for plays and performances by Bunk'Art.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Assembly Hall, now used as a theatre.</td></tr>
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The construction of the government headquarters began in 1978 and a photograph of Hoxha visiting the complex as it was being built hangs in one of the rooms. It was nearing completion when he died in 1985 but, for all his (reasonable) paranoia Hoxha and his staff were never forced to retreat to his underground city.</div>
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With the end of the cold war, and the changes that swept Europe soon after his death, it is likely it would never have been needed. But with the whole world against you, as it was in 1978, who wouldn't build a nuclear bomb-proof underground city, just in case.</div>
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* Bunk'Art is closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, open every other day from 9 AM to 4 PM. We recommend a weekday visit, with an early start, to get the best experience.</div>
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* Catch a taxi for around US$10 or catch the bus for 40 LEK (approx US$0.40). We chose the bus as it was simple and cheap. Catch the blue Porcelan bus from outside the Plaza Hotel (Murat Toptani St), say "Bunk Art" to the conductor and he will helpfully tell you when to get off. The bus stops right outside the entrance now.</div>
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* Walk 500 metres (uphill) to the Dajti Express Cable Car if you want to explore the Dajti mountain. Lots of the smaller military bunkers can be easily found here.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCX9agG_PlrNo6B6FJOPfIetDHpNitNkX3c-dRq0QNXHiuNf8GpxTzvqZXuTR2juoVkq2utsEyWKvqM0HutQfwzq2QJmKTDecQuF0g567Lc2mJD9LYRCOMMkUbTqA81VR53w-gHFNE4fI/s1600/IMG_20190808_125441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="639" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCX9agG_PlrNo6B6FJOPfIetDHpNitNkX3c-dRq0QNXHiuNf8GpxTzvqZXuTR2juoVkq2utsEyWKvqM0HutQfwzq2QJmKTDecQuF0g567Lc2mJD9LYRCOMMkUbTqA81VR53w-gHFNE4fI/s640/IMG_20190808_125441.jpg" width="464" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enver Hoxha visiting the underground city as it was being built</td></tr>
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-86866946699858365892020-01-05T02:22:00.000-08:002020-01-05T02:28:18.309-08:00Wolf's Lair. Visiting Hitler's secret headquarters in the far north of Poland.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In the forests of northern Poland, just 10km from the Russian border, lie the remains of Hitler's secret war headquarters. Despite the Nazi's own attempts to blow up the site as Soviet forces approached in January 1945 many buildings are in a reasonable state of repair. Walls made of thick reinforced concrete, and its remote location, have ensured one of the more unusual remnants of the Second World War is still standing.</div>
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In 1940 Hitler was spending a lot of time and energy on planning the invasion of Russia, Operation Barbarossa, and decided Berlin was too far from where the action was going to take place. Hitler liked to be in close contact with his Generals and had already overseen the invasion of France from <a href="https://www.tracesofwar.com/sights/9973/F%C3%BChrer-Headquarters-Felsennest.htm" target="_blank">Felsennest</a> close to the French border. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ4IXcK_USib0RqTgkBx2Q8c0K80Eq1xSfg43vUhyphenhyphen8ABAT4ml9Lupr8f0mtF8WDeV6xzKf7cDAHhRaU5Jt2YhQIRjRXVRpz_ZaLJbH2lXclqZ5brYHWos0Gofkcs3WwS6ddpE9b-LwfGk/s1600/IMG_20190712_205417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ4IXcK_USib0RqTgkBx2Q8c0K80Eq1xSfg43vUhyphenhyphen8ABAT4ml9Lupr8f0mtF8WDeV6xzKf7cDAHhRaU5Jt2YhQIRjRXVRpz_ZaLJbH2lXclqZ5brYHWos0Gofkcs3WwS6ddpE9b-LwfGk/s640/IMG_20190712_205417.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Hitler also wanted the building to be top secret, he was becoming paranoid about Allied attacks, as well as possible attempts on his life, although ironically the most well known of these was actually occurred at Wolf's Lair. </div>
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Work began at the end of 1940, and within six months the purpose built military headquarters was completed. Surrounded by trees, with small gardens planted on top of the bunkers, it was perfectly camouflaged. </div>
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The Allies never bombed it, although they often sent reconnaissance planes to try and find it. Equipped with its own railway station and nearby airfield it became a small functioning city, housing over 2,000 people.</div>
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Hitler spent over 800 days here during the war, it quickly became his main headquarters. As his nickname among his inner circle was <i>Wolf</i>, the top echelon of Nazi's based here started to refer to the concrete bunkers as the <i>Wolf's Lair</i>, a name which stuck.</div>
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The Fuhrer would have felt safe here, with food tasters ensuring that his bland vegetarian meals were not poisoned, and the site being extremely well guarded, with landmines located outside three concentric fenced zones, and protection by his own elite brigade. </div>
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The two metre (six feet walls) which housed his bunker and its myriad of rooms would have added to that feeling of security, but it was this last point which almost proved his undoing.</div>
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On the 20th July 1944 Colonel Claus Von Stauffenberg was attending a meeting at the Wolf's Lair. In his briefcase he carried a powerful bomb. Most meetings were held inside Hitler's bunker but due to some renovations, and the warm weather, a late decision was made to move the meeting to a nearby hut. This saved Hitler's life. </div>
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The bomb exploded damaging the hut badly, and killing four officers, but only wounding Hitler. If the bomb had gone off in the confined concrete bunker it would have certainly have killed the Nazi leader. </div>
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Little remains of the hut where the assassination attempt took place. The remains were demolished soon after, and now only the concrete floor and a small memorial to Von Stauffenberg remain. Reports are that the Polish government wants to rebuild the hut in the near future.</div>
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Getting to the Wolf's Lair was easy for Hitler. He flew from Berlin, while the administrative staff caught the train. The airport is no longer used, and although the train line still exists, the station has been abandoned. There are day tours from Warsaw, which would be pretty exhausting with up to ten hours in the car, and do not come cheap, particularly if you are not travelling in a group.</div>
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The easiest way for me was to catch train from Warsaw Central to Olsztyn. A cheap, comfortable and easy three hour journey, which was perfect for me in my jetlagged state, having flown in from Sydney the previous day. The idea of driving direct from Warsaw did not appeal, not just the long drive both ways, but also the idea of navigating the busy streets of the Polish capital so soon after arrival in the country.</div>
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Olsztryn is a provincial city. laid back with a few sites of its own. Wolf's lair is only an hour away on a direct road, perfect for a stress free introduction driving in Poland, at least as soon as you realise no one seems to obey the speed limit and you will get honked and tailgated if you do.</div>
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Wolf's Lair is open from 8AM to 8PM in summer, and entrance is a reasonable 15 Zloty per person, with 25 Zloty for parking. However, I would recommend staying overnight. There is an old Nazi barrack building which has been converted into a cheap and comfortable hotel on site. </div>
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Although in fitting with its surrounds it has not joined the internet age and has no website or presence on booking.com. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCmMWsfhVgGkXmA_tDhw4sT9paT8zdQyKOFBLslPyZeI2jyP4yuav1xvJasHzGR_A0L_MdPx4hjLZF6aCitSTb8TA0QHusiVTHoNMfTSbgk5MiGhTgGspqhbwoVVl1GioHayRwM_8FOc/s1600/IMGP0026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqCmMWsfhVgGkXmA_tDhw4sT9paT8zdQyKOFBLslPyZeI2jyP4yuav1xvJasHzGR_A0L_MdPx4hjLZF6aCitSTb8TA0QHusiVTHoNMfTSbgk5MiGhTgGspqhbwoVVl1GioHayRwM_8FOc/s640/IMGP0026.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Run by the local government, a room is approximately 100 Zloty per night. An email to <span style="background-color: white; color: #188fff; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "segoe ui" , "helvetica" , "arial" , "lucida grande" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">wilczyszaniec@olsztyn.lasy.gov.pl </span>allow you to book in advance (they respond pretty quickly during weekdays). </div>
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It is pretty small hotel so it is best not to just to turn up as it will probably be fully booked. Quiet, compact, and with a basic restaurant, and bar with local beer served downstairs, what more could you want?</div>
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Well, there are other great advantages to staying at the Wolf's Lair Hotel. A cost saving one is that a booking there gets you into the site without either admission or car charges. But the best advantage is that you get the whole site to yourself. You are free to wander around at any time. </div>
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The decaying buildings are particularly impressive and photogenic in the early morning, and totally eerie and unforgettable at night, accompanied by a torch and a hip flask of local vodka.</div>
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Signs advise you that it is not safe to enter any building. You can, of course, ignore these warnings at your own risk. The buildings are in various states of disrepair but no access is actually blocked, and, at least when the site is officially closed, there are no officials wandering around informing you of the rules.</div>
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Wolf's Lair remains one of the most impressive, and far flung, World War II sites that I have ever visited.</div>
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-28942948450547626652019-11-11T19:11:00.001-08:002019-11-11T19:11:04.138-08:00Top 10 Things to do in Tbilisi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Tbilisi is fast becoming one of the top cities in Europe to visit. With a mixture of grand Soviet buildings blending in with Tsarist architecture and avenues which surround the old town, which is little changed since the 18th century, Tbilisi is a great place to explore.<br />
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Here are our top 10 things to do in Tbilisi.<br />
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<b>1. Go for a scrub down in the Old Town</b><br />
Tbilisi was originally founded upon the hot springs. In the old town, there are many bathhouses where you can take advantage of the sulphur-rich waters for a bath, massage or a body scrub. Prices start at 10 Euros and go up depending on the treatment and level of privacy you want.<br />
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Afterwards, take a walk down the cobbled streets and through the old housing of the Old town. Some of the housing could definitely do it with a bit more TLC but adds to the allure. You can easily spend many hours here.<br />
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<b>2. Meet your ancestors at the Museum of Georgia</b><br />
A comprehensive museum covering the history of Georgia from the Stone Age to the modern day. An impressive collection of human skulls, some of the earliest European inhabitants remains have been found in Georgia, is your introduction.<br />
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The Soviet Occupation hall brings you up-to-date with recent history and details the history of Georgia under Soviet rule from 1921 to 1991.<br />
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<b>3. Taste the delicious local grub</b><br />
Georgian food is a mixture of Turkish and Eastern European delicacies. The dumplings, Khinkali, are everywhere and are filled with a mixture of various minced meat, sliced onion and spices. The local bread, Khachapuri, is like a cross between a Turkish pizza and Indian naan bread.<br />
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Shashlik, kebabs, are cooked over coals outside restaurants, and often accompanied with Dolmas, leafy vegetables stuffed with minced meat, and the tasty bean soup, Lobio, and cornbread. You will not go hungry in Tbilisi.<br />
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<b>4. Ride the Funicular to Mtatsminda Park</b><br />
it only takes a few minutes for the funicular to whisk you to the park. Go early or you might be waiting substantially longer than the journey, as it does get rather popular.<br />
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The views of Tbilisi are worth the wait, and there is old funfair on top, beneath the typical Soviet-style TV tower. A great way to get down is to go on the easy hour walk around to the Mother of Georgia statue.<br />
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<b>5. See the New Georgia embodied in some very modern architecture</b><br />
As well as showing off some very antique buildings in the Old Town, Tbilisi is not afraid of showing off the best of modern architecture. The Peace Bridge, a remarkable glass and metal gossamer-like web carrying pedestrians across the Mtkvari River, is a distinctive sign of the new Georgia.<br />
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Nearby in Rike Park, two remarkable shiny tubes, designed by the architect, Massimiliano Fuksas, house a concert hall and exhibition space. Stunning in their modern design, they do bear more than a passing resemblance of two slugs, although I doubt that was intentional.<br />
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<b>6. Drink Chacha with the locals</b><br />
Georgia is rightly known for the quality of its wine industry, one of the oldest in the world, dating back to at least 6,000 BC, but you will find many locals knocking back the local brandy, Chacha.<br />
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Tasting more like an Italian fruity grappa than a Decent French brandy, it is cheap and well worth tasting. Local legend has it that Georgian wine is a gift from the devil, while the chacha is a gift from the devil. You may well agree if you imbibe too much and wake with a head pounding hangover the next day.<br />
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<b>7. See where it all started for Stalin</b><br />
In the suburbs of Tbilisi is a small old house surrounded by trees. Totally unassuming from the outside this is where Stalin started on his revolutionary life, printing inflammatory newspapers from a hidden cellar reached via climbing down a well.<br />
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Run by the remnants of the once powerful Georgian communist party, the house is slowly rotting away. The attached museum shows in detail the plans of the house and gives a brief history (in Georgian only) of their local hero. Click here for more on Stalin's Tbilisi home.<br />
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<b>8. Travel on a road named for a US President</b><br />
For fans of more recent history, you can find the visage of a famed US president staring down at you. Not Roosevelt or Washington, whose names are remembered in many European Cities, but George W Bush. The main highway linking the city to the airport, the N1-80, is named after the former President.<br />
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Not so popular elsewhere in the world, you are yet to see George W Bush highway in the US, the Georgians are thankful for his support as a newly independent country after breaking away from the Soviet Union.<br />
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<b>9. Look up at the Mother of Georgia statue</b><br />
Erected in 1958 the statue is visible throughout much of the centre of Georgia, and particularly dominates the Old Town. She holds a bowl of wine in friendship in her left hand and brandishes a sword to attack enemies in her right.<br />
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Nearby is the ancient Narikala Fortress. Either walk up to the statue from the Old Town, or from Mtatsminda Park and come down on the cable car to enjoy the view over the city. Particularly good at sunset.<br />
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<b>10. Go shopping for that rare Beatles USSR release at the Saturday Flea Market</b><br />
Locals spread out their wares from early morning on Saturday at Kvishketi street and the Dedaena park nearby. Artists show off their local work, while old ladies spread out blankets selling old Soviet badges, coins and other memorabilia.<br />
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The market is attracting more vinyl aficionados as old Soviet releases of western records are piled up on the pathway at reasonable prices.<br />
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-17598642237436013432019-10-25T21:33:00.000-07:002019-10-25T21:45:11.971-07:00Crossing Borders. How an Illegal Immigrant travelled to the UK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have spent the last few weeks crossing over 10 borders as I traversed the countries that both surround and make up the old Yugoslavian Republic. Having both a UK and Australian passport meant the border checks for me were mostly cursory and, apart from long queues, not that stressful.<br />
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This privilege of being born in the 'right' country was brought home to me on a journey from Kosovo to Albania. I paid 10 euros at a small window in the bus station at Prishtina and found the rather dilapidated van that was to take me to Tirana. It was already full to overflowing with children being sat on their parents' lap, and luggage blocking the aisle.<br />
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There were no seats available. I was going to go and find a bench and wait for the next van in a couple of hours when the occupant of the seat next to the driver beckoned to me, squeezing himself into a non-existent middle seat, there was just enough room to wedge myself in next to the door.<br />
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This was the start of one of my more interesting journeys. Sam (not his real name for reasons that will become obvious) spoke excellent English and was returning home to Tirana to be with his wife and four children after working in the UK. As we talked it soon became apparent that Sam had been an illegal immigrant there and had much greater difficulties crossing borders than I had had.<br />
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Sam had left Tirana 24 months previously. He went to University in Tirana and had studied engineering but had only managed to get a few weeks work in his profession in the ten years that followed his graduation. The rest of the time he had done occasional labouring jobs, driven unofficial taxis (in reality borrowing his father-in-laws car when he was not using it) and whatever else he could get to earn a few Lek.<br />
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The Albanian economy has been in the doldrums for many years. The collapse of the paranoid Hoxha dictatorship, which had kept Albania a closed country for forty years, was followed by poor economic management, including the promotion of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pyramid_schemes_in_Albania" target="_blank">pyramid schemes</a>, which inevitably collapsed leading to mass civil disorder, and has kept Albania as one of the poorest countries in Europe.<br />
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In March 2017 Sam ran into an old friend of his. He had started a lucrative career in people smuggling to Germany, France and the UK, including arranging employment. Germany and France were incredibly easy to get into illegally, but the UK was much more difficult and expensive. Sam had learnt English at University but had no French or German, so he talked it over with his wife.<br />
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Our van had now entered Albania, the border guards did not even bother to stop us and the van was waved through, passports unseen. Sam was back in his home country at last. Smiling, he kept pointing at luxurious McMansions that stood incongruously amongst the fields and rundown traditional dwellings.<br />
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"See those. All of those big houses have been built by illegal immigrants. You work for one or two years and have enough money to buy some land and build your home".<br />
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That dream is compelling to many Albanians and Sam and his wife both agreed that this was a real opportunity to earn decent money and, perhaps, set his family up for life. But what about the risks? Tragic <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3tt0ye0x8I" target="_blank">deaths</a> are frequent.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Into Albania</td></tr>
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"My friend had done this many times. There are two ways to do it (get into the UK) cheap and dangerous or expensive and safe. My wife insisted I borrow money from her father to do it the expensive way".<br />
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He made his way to Calais in France by van into Kosovo, and then on a circuitous route through Serbia, Hungary, Austria, and Germany using private cars and public transport.
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"Calais was horrible. Violent and unpleasant, with so many people trying to get to England. I slept in a car seat for over a week while my friend organised a lorry".<br />
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Sam paid 3,000 euro for this small crossing. Others were offering smuggling for as low as 500 euro, but he might never see the lorry, or his money again. His friend woke him early one morning and took him to a rural road outside of Calais. He was given a large water bottle, biscuits and fruit.<br />
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"He had paid off the lorry driver and myself and only two others waited by the road. The smaller the number of people the less likely we were to be found by English customs, either by thermal imaging or physical cargo checks.
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The driver, English I am guessing, shook our hands and opened up the back of the lorry. It was carrying food and drinks, stuff like Orangina, which came in handy when we finished the water later on.<br />
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He had made a small hole in the boxes, which we crawled through, and there was a small space by the cab. He filled in the hole and closed the doors. All I remember is how dark it was. I used my phone light at times, but did not want to waste the battery"<br />
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There was a long wait at Calais and lots of strange noises, which would have been caused by being loaded onto the ship and the lorry being secured.<br />
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"I was pretty excited to be so close but worried about English border security. I remember thinking 'This is it' as we started moving off the ship. It took a long time, with the lorry starting and stopping, but then we sped up and I knew we were in England"<br />
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Sam was taken to an industrial estate outside of London where the lorry rendezvoused with the people smugglers UK connections.<br />
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"It was night time by the time we stopped. I was aching from bouncing around in the back of the lorry and was so happy to finally get out. It was windy, it was wet, and it was cold, but I had made it"<br />
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The job Sam had been lined up for was on a building site in Shepherds Bush. He was paid cash and began as just a labourer earning 10 pounds an hour cash-in-hand. With his excellent English and being a hard worker, he was promoted and the company even trained up the illegal immigrant to operate a crane, which meant a substantial increase in pay.<br />
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"I worked long hours and sent most of my money home. I lived in a house in Chelmsford, four of us to a room, which was not close to work, but it was cheap (100 pounds a week - it does not sound that cheap for a shared room in a shared house) and quiet".<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The driver is blinking and not asleep. I hope.</td></tr>
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After two years he had made enough money to return home to Tirana. Sam left the same way he arrived, in the back of a lorry, this time he was the only passenger.<br />
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"There are not many people who leave England the same way as they arrived. Most want to stay and those who don't often risk it and buy a flight ticket home. But that can cause problems, way too many interviews and possibly prison before being deported and put on a list which would cause problems in the future. So for 1,000 euro, my friend arranged me a place in the back of a lorry. It was so easy this time, and I was not really nervous.<br />
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With my money, I could afford to get a flight back, so I flew from Berlin to Prishtina, and caught this bus"<br />
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I left Sam in Tirana, he was so happy to see his family again after two long years away. I asked if he wanted to return to the UK?<br />
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"Hmmm. Probably not, I am not sure I want to do the lorry journey again, and with Brexit and all that, there may not be so many opportunities. I am going to learn German and look at working there, and its easier to get a working visa for crane work there, so I will be legal. It's a lot less pain than trying to work in England".<br />
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-34296541038344503462019-10-19T18:53:00.000-07:002019-10-19T18:53:20.597-07:00Celebrating a Local Hero, Josef Stalin. Gori<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCURXFnWambFxzp7sM-udjAAz5OEzRfFzY-4AiJeqYY-Jz0ZOFaCFQF6E0i_BHpQUmmf79EnnRfut_2vysJRFNfpdaYC8HWdU1AyaOV_TPNLaHSFJdy3IFvts4uKM1aQK2oK94gohx_II/s1600/IMGP0320.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCURXFnWambFxzp7sM-udjAAz5OEzRfFzY-4AiJeqYY-Jz0ZOFaCFQF6E0i_BHpQUmmf79EnnRfut_2vysJRFNfpdaYC8HWdU1AyaOV_TPNLaHSFJdy3IFvts4uKM1aQK2oK94gohx_II/s640/IMGP0320.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Josef Vissarionovich Stalin was born in Gori, Georgia, in December 1878. His birth put the city on the map and was one of the first places to erect a statue to the Soviet leader. And it may well be the last city in the world to still have a statue of him in place. Despite his many <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Excess_mortality_in_the_Soviet_Union_under_Joseph_Stalin" target="_blank">atrocities</a> and the destruction of any reminders of him elsewhere in the former Soviet bloc, Gori still remembers its local hero.
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Arriving in Gori by train, a short one hour journey from Tbilisi, you are immediately confronted with 'Uncle Joe' as you exit the railway station and walk down Stalin Avenue.<br />
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You would be hard pressed to find any memories of the once great leader in most countries, but here his name lives on everywhere.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entrance to Stalin Park</td></tr>
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Gori itself though is not flourishing. The main park, yep, also named after its famous son, is in a bad way, with ruined gates and long, weed infested grass.<br />
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Some of the housing on Stalin Avenue has been abandoned, and many businesses seem to have closed, and out of the ones that are still open, car washing garages seem to be booming.<br />
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Twenty minutes walking brings you to, wait for it, Stalin Square. And here things get serious. A statue of the man himself dominates one corner of the square.<br />
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A large protective structure, with colonnades more resembling a marble mausoleum, encloses a small wooden house in which Stalin was born. A guard stops tourists getting too close, or wanting a peek inside.<br />
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Behind the preserved house is the museum. Built in 1951 under Stalin's orders, two years before he died, this is perhaps the most controversial reminder of the cities famous son, a museum jam-packed with Stalin memorabilia.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stalin's cigars.</td></tr>
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Inside it is very solemn, reminding me of the atmosphere of the mausoleum containing Lenin in Moscow. No body was here, that was taken for embalming to the Russian capital, and was to be placed next to Lenin for eternity until the policy of de-Stalinization under Khrushchev led to it being buried close to the Kremlin wall. There is a death mask, however, in the final room of the museum.<br />
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The only way to visit the museum is to join a tour. A documentary film on Stalin played on an old TV set as I waited for enough people to arrive for a tour to start.<br />
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Walking up a marble staircase fit for a palace the tour leader excitedly described the sights we were about to see, "This is the best museum on Stalin in the world!" she proclaimed. I would agree with that, there is not that much competition.<br />
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In her late fifties, with steel wire hair arranged in a bun, her time was taken up by herding our small group and making sure the stragglers kept up, as much as by explaining the treasures in the rooms we visited. "These were Stalin's cigars. He actually smoked them!" she cried in wonderment while pointing into a wooden case. Looking a bit wrinkled and dried out he did not appear to have smoked much of them judging by their length.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stalin explaining the art of leadership to Lenin</td></tr>
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Gifts of carpets with his image on, from grateful Central Asian leaders, vied with paintings of Stalin with children, factory workers and luminaries. In one Lenin was shown to be taking down notes of what the great leader was saying.<br />
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Possibly a shopping list for his NKVD (forerunners of the KGB) agents; American dollars, guns, oh and an ice-pick for that Mr Trotsky in Mexico City.<br />
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Pens, clothes, table lamps, all owned by Stalin are proudly shown off by the guide. The group is decidedly wilting as yet another portrait is admired and we are told less than exciting backstories.<br />
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In front of one where he is pictured with a train; "Stalin loved trains. They powered the revolution. This was painted in the years before the Great Patriotic War at a factory making engines."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside Stalin's luxurious train carriage</td></tr>
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Stalin certainly had a thing about trains. Outside we are given a tour of his own bulletproof carriage. Complete with a luxurious bedroom, a bath and toilet, and comfortable meeting rooms. He certainly knew how to travel.<br />
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The final room is where his death mark is solemnly presented. The guide encourages reverence by calling for silence and talking in a whisper, almost tearfully, as she notes that; "He was an impressive man who changed the world and died too soon. Let us not forget he defeated the Nazi tyranny by his brilliant leadership."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The death mask</td></tr>
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There is no mention of the areas in which Stalin is not so well remembered for. Although downstairs there is a little makeshift gaol, resembling a gulag, without any English description, which makes for a rather perplexing display. This room is not included in the tour.<br />
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We are deposited at the gift shop. Yes, a Stalin gift shop, where the Stalin fan can buy fridge magnets, cigarette lighters, bags, water bottles and coasters all emblazoned with the image of the great man. There are even gold statues so that you can turn your own home into a little shrine to the man who while revered here in his birthplace in Georgia, is reviled in much of the rest of the world.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The statue in Stalin Square</td></tr>
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-76465073756322344342019-09-25T03:18:00.000-07:002019-09-25T03:18:15.006-07:00The ancient caves of Uplistsikhe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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15km north of Gori in central Georgia lies the cave dwellings of Uplistsikhe. Situated high above the River Mtkvari, and surrounded by rich agricultural lands, it is one of the oldest settlements in Georgia, with archaeological findings showing that there have been signs of habitation for over 3,000 years, since the Bronze Age.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Georgia does have fair few troglodyte dwellings. There is the religious site at <a href="https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/davit-gareja-cave-monastery" target="_blank">Davet Gareja</a> and the impressive hidden city of <a href="https://www.farflungplaces.net/2019/08/hiding-from-mongols-inside-mountain.html" target="_blank">Vardzia</a>. Uplistsikhe stands out due to its age, although that has led to the site being somewhat weather warn. From a distance, it looks unexciting, slabs of rock with a few caves in it.<br />
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As you get closer and explore you see some of the features that the other sites do not have. In particular the ornate decorations inside the rock-hewn rooms. Originally Uplistsikhe was a place of pagan worship and temples were built for ancient gods.<br />
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These were adapted to churches as Christianity took a hold over Georgia in the fourth-century, although still few people actually lived here.<br />
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The Arab invasion of Tbilisi in the eighth-century changed that. Uplistsikhe was a strong, defendable fortress for the Georgians. It became a base for royalty with the Kings of Kartli basing themselves here, and its population swelled to over 20,000.<br />
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Along with throne rooms, halls and churches, more and more dwellings were cut into the soft limestone rock.<br />
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At its height, Uplistsikhe boasted an amphitheatre, bakeries, pharmacies wine-making facilities and cellars, and even a prison. These were connected by streets, or pathways, cut through the rock, as well as stairs and tunnels.<br />
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Unlike <a href="https://www.farflungplaces.net/2019/08/hiding-from-mongols-inside-mountain.html" target="_blank">Vardzia</a>, Uplistsikhe was not hidden and rose above the surrounding areas. The Mongol invaders of the 14th century targeted the city and, although not destroyed as was often the case with the Mongols, it was totally abandoned, and has been damaged by earthquakes, including a large destructive one in 1920.<br />
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Many of the caves are unable to be entered, particularly on the lower levels, as they have collapsed and are filled with rubble. Uplistsikhe is on the UNESCO world heritage list, which has at least given a bit of focus on preservation, if not restoration, and large concrete and metal poles have been inserted into caves to ensure their survival.<br />
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It is a cheap taxi journey from Gori, which itself is only an hour from Tbilisi by train. If it is a busy day there will be no need to negotiate with the taxi driver to stay, it will be easy to pick up a lift back to Gori. The site is easy to walk through, although there are some big drops which are not fenced so take care, particularly if wet.<br />
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-72017490265555033472019-08-26T18:37:00.000-07:002019-08-26T18:37:49.305-07:00Hiding from the Mongols inside a mountain. Vardzia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In the twelfth century, the Mongol hordes were threatening to overrun Georgia, as they had already done to so many other countries. The warrior Queen Tamar ordered the construction of a hidden city, to provide safety and as a place of resistance should the Mongols succeed in their invasion, and the secret city of Vardzia was born.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>The Mongols eventually did conquer Georgia but never discovered Vardzia. The Erusheli mountain in which it was carved extended thirteen levels and boasted over 6000 separate rooms, including a church and a palace. There was only one secure entrance way through a cave and tunnel down by the river below.<br />
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The soft limestone, which made the digging and construction of the city relatively straightforward also proved to be its undoing. A massive earthquake in 1283 caused a landslide, removing the protective mountain covering of agricultural terracing, and destroying over two-thirds of the city, leading it to be abandoned by all but a few hardy monks.<br />
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The small religious community itself was wiped out in a Persian invasion in the sixteenth century, leading to its abandonment. Today a few hardy monks have returned and the Church of Dormition has been rebuilt although many of the twelfth-century paintings have survived on the cave walls.<br />
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It is a fairly easy to walk around and explore Vardzia, although it is not for the claustrophobic or those not happy with uneven steps, as many of the most interesting rooms are still hidden in the mountainside.<br />
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As you enter the city and get closer to the remains of the palace you will leave the easy pathways with metal handrails and then bend double as you go up and down small tunnels with uneven steps. The lighting is generally good, but carrying a torch would be a good idea.<br />
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The inhabitants were very well organised. There was a water source deep inside the mountain, which is able to be visited today, which was then moved around the settlement with irrigation pipes. In the excavated city, and don't forget two-thirds has been destroyed, areas were set aside for baking bread, the ovens built into the rock can still be seen, pharmacies, and forges for making metal implements.<br />
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Perhaps the most surprising, and to be honest most pleasant aspect of living here, would have been the ready availability of wine. Twenty-five wine cellars have been discovered, for both the making and storing of wine, and most rooms in which the people of Vardzia slept in, have a wine jar sunk into the floor.<br />
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The subterranean life might have been difficult at times, but at least there was always a glass of wine to keep you going. I think I might have been quite happy living here!<br />
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It is a bit of a trek to get here by public transport, and easier to get a day trip from Tbilisi. And when I say a day trip, it does take a very long day to get here and explore Vardzia. The small mini-buses leave from the old town part of Tbilisi around 8 AM and don't get back until midnight. However, it is well worth the time it takes to visit this incredible hidden city.<br />
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1318107548635700794.post-74632786936273531342019-07-06T21:25:00.000-07:002019-07-06T21:25:47.475-07:00Riding Stalin's Cable Cars. Chiatura<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Manganese was in short supply in the Soviet Union after the Second World War. Important for steel making, and vital for the military, Stalin wanted to increase productivity in the largest Soviet mine in Chiatura. To get the miners to and from their homes, built across many hills with poor road access, required something a little unusual, cable cars. In 1954 the first of 17 lines opened with much pomp and ceremony, as it was the first cable-car in the whole of the Soviet Union. And it is still operating today.</div>
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The cable cars are the main reason to visit the rather unlovely town of Chiatura. There is the Mgvimevi monastery on the edge of the city, with its chapel cut into the rock and the bones of deceased monks displayed in glass cases, but that alone would not warrant a visit.</div>
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Chiatura has clearly seen better days, and it has a slightly depressed air about it, reminding me of the desolate Welsh mining villages I visited on a school trip whose coal mines were on the verge of being uneconomic and whose inhabitants did not like being pestered by teenagers asking them about their shopping habits. </div>
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Like Merthyr Tydfil in the 1980s many buildings are boarded up, but there are also some in the main street that seem to have been blown apart by bombs they are so ruined. </div>
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The Kwirila River runs through Chiatura. The water and banks are coloured black from the tailings from the many mines still operating, "You wouldn't want to fall in there", a local helpfully pointed out as I took a photograph from one of the many bridges. I was looking up though, not down at the river, as a rusty cable car slowly passed overhead. </div>
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There has been no money until very recently to replace the 65-year-old transport system. The 'Metal Coffins' as the locals affectionately call them, keep running every day of the year, operating on a shoestring budget. </div>
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Some are free, and for those that charge, the fare is only approximately US$0.10 a journey. Fatalities have been rare, and it is a subject no one likes to discuss, but one local did confide there had been a bad accident a few years back which cost a few lives, without going into any details.</div>
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European Union money is coming, which is good for Chiatura, if not for visiting thrill-seeking tourists, and new lines with modern cable cars are in the process of being built, which leaves only three of the Stalin-era lines in use, kept running by amateur engineers with little investment in replacement parts, or paint, in the last few decades.</div>
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A small station on the southern edge is where two of these lines operate. A mosaic of Lenin and Stalin stands proudly above the entrance. Inside a notice advises that hours of opening are from 07:30 to 01:00, with lunch and dinner breaks for the staff. Fairly impressive operating hours, particularly if you want to get home after an evening of vodka drinking. </div>
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I was thinking a tot of vodka might be a good idea as I boarded my first cable car. A rusty blue cabin with three small porthole windows, one with glass and two with wire netting, and a number of small holes in the floor. </div>
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Only two other people were inside, loaded down with shopping backs from a trip into Chiatura. There was no attendant inside as it was operated from the station above. A man stuck his head inside, smiled, and then withdrew and shut the door from the outside.</div>
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The car started, moving very slowly upwards. Despite the windows it was uncomfortably dark inside and a little claustrophobic. With a little swaying from the wind and rain, we made our way in just a few minutes to the station on top of the hill.<br />
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Here there were apartments, some abandoned, some lived in, and I sought shelter pretty quickly back in the cable car as torrential rain hit, and returned to the base station. No rail prevents you from falling off the end of the boarding platform, so care is needed on the slippery metal.<br />
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The other line was a little more spectacular. It had originally been yellow, but there had been no attempts to re-paint, or even just re-touch it for years. Either inside or out. Rust now seemed to be the dominant colour.<br />
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A painting of a miner sitting in a wheelbarrow brightened up the station, while a long queue meant that I had to wait for several full cable cars before I could board. A sign clearly states that only seven people are allowed on each journey, and this is strictly followed.<br />
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When I did board I found it a much nicer experience. Large windows allow for great views over Chiatura down below, and there was an operator on-board who closed the doors and controlled the journey. For enhanced alertness, or for nerves, she sipped on a two-litre bottle of local beer.<br />
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The journey was much smoother in this large cable car, and it was good to see where we going. It was also very noisy as the contact between cable and car resulted in some quite high pitched squealing.<br />
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Despite the winds, there was no swaying, and it was just a normal everyday transit for the locals in the car with me, who stared wondering why I was taking so many photographs of their public transport.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3zyqdSjoTiduEfBGTt6CeunRQuR0PwdJsTyjFVFRZNjcDnujduCEkXwA2en7r8WlKlvZIW4vmIgzmxSRpoCH0lI27aofGt45GCt6tt6R242PKngCaGvYwP0zgQHbp5MyfFFyflWciGg/s1600/IMGP0185+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3zyqdSjoTiduEfBGTt6CeunRQuR0PwdJsTyjFVFRZNjcDnujduCEkXwA2en7r8WlKlvZIW4vmIgzmxSRpoCH0lI27aofGt45GCt6tt6R242PKngCaGvYwP0zgQHbp5MyfFFyflWciGg/s640/IMGP0185+%25282%2529.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Stalin's cable cars are a historical oddity. They really should not be still running in the twenty-first century, and it is a testament to the ingenuity and skills of the local inhabitants of Chiatura that they have managed to maintain and operate them until now.<br />
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Clearly, they will not be around for very much longer now that the EU is providing much-needed funding but they offer the intrepid Georgian traveller an unforgettable experience. Go while you can.<br />
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Far Flung Placeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310967886676267308noreply@blogger.com4