La Tomatina? More like la Australiatina

The breeze that came was like being released from a hot airtight bubble. I tried to stand of the tip of my toes and pointed my rather large nose skywards. It only lasted for a little moment but it was enough for me to exhale a satisfied: "Ahhh phew".
It had been about 1 hour since we had arrived at the crush of "La Tomatina" and the fight had not even remotely started. From where we stood we could barely see the people who were being pushed around in the street not even 5 meters ahead of us. It was pure insanity.

We had all been so excited and stoked about going to one of Europe's craziest festivals that we nearly shat ourselves. La Tomatina. It sounds so mental that it almost feels like fiction. Every year somewhere between 30.000 and 50.000 tourists descend on the small town of Bunol near Valencia to throw tomatoes at each other for 1 hour. Like the Oktoberfest and the running of the bulls this must do festival also seems to be on every fucking backpacker's to do list.
I don't even know why we were so shocked to be honest. We should have known what expected us.
When I arrived in Valencia the night before I met up with my dear friend Chris who was also traveling Europe with his mate Todd (both from Australia). It was roughly 7pm and we sat down in a small cafe to have an ice cold beer and some food and there Chris warned me that the town had literally invaded by Aussies and that he apologised for their unruly behaviour in advance. At that point I just waved it off and told him that I loved Aussies and how bad could it possibly be?

"I was just happy to be in a warm and friendly place where people offer me Vodka and free beer"

Later we ventured down to the square opposite the "Real basilica de la Virgen de los Desamparados" and suddenly the force of the Aussie invasion really hit me. Dozens of wasted Australians lingering in and around the square making noise and getting even drunker. The fact that they were all wearing yellow "Fanatics" t-shirts didn't help conceal their origins. I was quite amused at this point because it seemed that Todd and Chris knew quite a few people here and I was just happy to be in a warm and friendly place where people offer me Vodka and free beer. Gotta love the Aussies sometimes.

In the end I decided to meet my own crew who were staying near the harbour instead of getting involved in the imminent debauchery that was about to take place in Australiatown.

Back at the Tomatina the next day I tried to shout at Adam: "Can you see if they have the goddamn ham yet?" Adam replied that they didn't. It was a strange feeling. On the one hand I was really excited to be here on the other I longed to stand on some balcony or just to watch this spectacle on TV while sipping a cold beer on my sofa.

Finally it was 11 and we heard the explosion somewhere behind us. It didn't take long for me to get hit by a missile tomato that some Asian chick who was wearing a dumb hat threw at me from a roof terrace in the building opposite. I wanted to pick it up from where it lay near my feet but there was no chance of even moving my arm at this point. When the trucks came down the street it seemed everyone broke out into a frenzy. Except us because we could barely see a thing and had barely touched a tomato.

We noticed that the vast majority of the trucks unloaded their tomatoes near the top of the street leaving us all dying for a bit of action. When the people on the roof terrace ran out of tomatoes to throw so did my willingness to play. The stench that was cooking around us and the fact that the temperatures were quickly rising above 30 did not help to make the situation any better.

"I wanted to pick up a tomato up from where it lay near my feet but there was no chance of even moving my arm at this point."

Eventually the last truck came and we finally got hit by a couple of tomatoes. I even managed to throw one or two. The most hilarious part came when a Spanish man who was in the back of the truck got hit in the face by a girl who was standing close to him and he literally threw a tantrum and had to be pulled back by his mates. I had to stop myself from pissing my pants when an Aussie lad on my left who had managed to secure a very nice spot on top of a little hut threw a a flip flop in his face and the Spanish guy almost jumped at his throat. The whole crowd just went "boooooooooooooooooo" and that set the Spanish guy straight.

My morphsuit felt like a sauna at this stage but it helped in locating my friends who were also morphed up. On the way to our current spot they were quite the hit. Everyone wanted photos and we got cheers and handshakes. I think we were even the first people in morphsuits to do La Tomatina. In hindsight it wasn't all that bad.

When the fight kind of died down because no one could find any more tomatoes we squeeze out towards the back and left the action.

Turns out we should have just gone one street down from where we stood to get some real tomato action. There, one street away from the main drag was where people literally swam in tomato juice and where you could breathe without gagging at the stench of the person in front of you.

Overall, I cannot say at this point if I would bother to do this again, but if I did I would follow the advise of my friends and get there earlier than 10, find a really fucking good spot near one of the side streets and then run down to swim in tomato juice. If it just weren't for all them damn other tourists haha.






"I think we were even the first people in morphsuits to do La Tomatina. In hindsight it wasn't all that bad!"

62 degrees of solitude - A visit to the Faroe Islands

Picture a giant uneven potato. Now cover it with a bit of moss, lay a cooked tagliatelle (the black ones with squid ink) over it and pepper it with a pinch of black and white sesame seeds. There.

That’s essentially what the Faroe Islands looked like from above. Giant volcanic rocks covered in grass, with a handful of lonely roads going from North to South or East to West and more sheep than you would probably come across in either New Zealand or Wales or even together.

What did I expect from this forlorn and remote island nation when I decided to pay it a visit? What was I looking for here, hoping to find?

I guess in hindsight it was more of an escape from the regular ordinary rather than a nature buff’s orgasmic experience. After visiting Iceland in 2008 and falling in love with the stubborn lifestyle of the Northern most Scandinavian country I figured that the Faroes must be like a slightly watered down and less touristy version of that. Considering the only international flights go to Denmark, the UK, Iceland and Greenland and the fact that I couldn’t think of one single famous Faroese person I was convinced this is one of Europe’s last undiscovered frontiers.

Interestingly enough the islands were voted the world’s most appealing islands by the National Geographic Traveller magazine beating the likes of Hawaii and the Azores. Was there really so much to them?

As I whipped my battered old Clio along the mountain road from the capital Torshavn to Vestmanna I couldn’t help but wonder at the sheer degree of solitude that gripped me here. The rolling hills covered in lush green grass, the numerous sheep grazing even on the steepest of cliffs and the violently expanding clouds above me gave me a sense of purity that I have so far only seen in Iceland and parts of remote Canada.

I continued along the so-called highway towards the small port town of Vestmanna until the road swung around a steep cliff and the town came into view. I was told I could do an amazing boat ride out to the bird cliffs from here so I drove down to the dock and entered the small building that housed the tourist information.

“I’m sorry we’re not doing any tours today, because of bad weather conditions”, the girl behind the counter informed me in perfect English. “So, is there any chance I might be able to do this tour tomorrow?” I asked. “You’re best off calling ahead. Here, you never know.” she said, almost apologetically. I got back in my little car and took it for a spin around the “center” of Vestmanna. After a few meters I landed at a dead end and had to reverse back out in order to get back on the main road. Not a soul was on the streets. Despite this being the infamous Faroese summer, it still seemed as if the locals preferred to stay indoors.

I took the same road back towards the Vagar roundabout and continued North towards Saksun, a place that housed one of the most frequently photographed images on the Faroe Islands, a turf roofed church overlooking a small fjord. I took a left off the main highway and passed through a small village before finding myself on a tiny country road leading into the unknown.
Around me, only green hills, wild geese and rich waterfalls that had been fed by the continuous drizzle that kept my windscreen wipers busy. When I arrived at the miniature town of Saksun I continued on until I reached the end of the road. In front of me the church, sitting there idly looking almost like a secret sanctuary from Lord of the Rings. The few houses that lay behind me looked as deserted as the rest of the country.

“Where the hell is everyone?” I wondered out loud. The only sounds that I could make out was the wind rushing through my ears and the occasional cry of a seagull somewhere above. I sat down on the bonnet of my car and took a big bite out of my Dime bar.

When I had visited Iceland with my mother 2 years earlier there were at least people in the villages, tourists taking pictures, something happening. Here I was the only living soul around and I started asking myself if planning in a whole weekend here was not a little too optimistic.
My plan was to spend the night in the Northern town of Gjogv where the only hotel in town offered guests the opportunity to stay in “viking style” beds. I wasn’t quite sure what that entailed but it had intrigued me enough to book ahead for one night. I crossed the bridge to Eysturoy island and drove further North towards Eidi a little town on the East coast of the Faroe’s second largest island.

The weather had completely turned on me by now. When I hadstepped out of the airport to capital helicopter shuttle only a couple of hours earlier I had been greeted by sunshine and t-shirt weather. Now the clouds were dark and full of sad tales. I arrived in Eidi to find a similar picture as in Vestmanna. A town empty of residents all hiding in their homes or all working in the capital? Who knows.
I stopped by the little green church at the mouth of the town and got out of my car to do a bit of exploring. From here the town looked as unexciting as a night out at your local Weatherspoon’s and I suppose because it looked so dead I didn’t engage in any further exploration.
What was going on here? Where the hell was everybody???

Suddenly, as if adding insult to injury I was surrounded by a thick cloud of mist making it almost impossible to see the thin road lying ahead of me as I continued on to the village of Gjogv. I believe I got a small panic attack as I hastily reached for my mobile and began calling Atlantic Airways to see if there was any way I could take the early flight back to Copenhagen tomorrow. At this point I was starting to get frustrated. Everything looked kind of samey samey and I was all alone. There was no one to talk to in the villages and nothing to do it seemed. What had I gotten myself into?

The answering machine at Atlantic Airways kindly informed me that there was no one I could speak to right now and that I should call again on Monday. ?????????
“Fuck it” I thought. As I descended into Gjogv I passed the hotel I was meant to stay at and drove down to a small plateau overlooking the little town and the fjord. It was 5pm and I looked around me to see if at least here there was anyone in sight. Not a soul. “They’re having a fucking laugh or what?” I exclaimed out loud. No, this is not what I was expecting from the most picturesque village on the islands and suddenly the Viking style bed didn’t seem so attractive anymore. I turned on the engine and turned back the way I came this time driving along the Eastern shore of Eysturoy and taking the tunnel back to civilisation. When I neared the bridge that I had crossed about 1 hour earlier there was finally some traffic and I felt a slight shudder of relief running down my back.

I drove back along the water to get back into the capital and passed what were breathtakingly beautiful views of lush green cliffs plunging into the open sea.

After all this ranting about the islands I feel like setting something straight. They are breathtakingly beautiful and I guess I just got a little demoralised at this stage because I had expected a little bit more activity in the villages but all I saw was quiet rows of tiny houses that sat there idly as if not touched in ages. The location and natural composition of the islands also prevents them from having any trees growing anywhere except in urban centers where they are planted artificially. It seemed more rugged than I had expected.

As I drove the Clio back into the city I began looking for the only hostel in town, which I had previously informed of my immediate arrival. “Skansin” hostel was located right in the middle of town below the bizarre Vesturkirkjan. I got my key out of a small mailbox under the payphone near reception and found my room in the opposite building. After a quick rest I wandered down into town to find a place to eat and check out the “nightlife” that Monocle magazine had praised in one of their leading articles on the islands (Volume 13, May 2008).

I had a quick buffet dinner at a slightly Moroccan/Arabic all you can eat restaurant that was actually not so bad at all and found that there was a small local music festival being held just by the harbour front.

I suppose it was Faroese style that the musicians had to play in the back of a van but it was very refreshing to see everyone so happy and enchanted by the melodies. The first band was a group of young kids who sang Faroese songs that I for the life of me could not decipher followed by a mid 30’s bald guy with a surprisingly amazing voice. He sang his own songs in English and left me quite dumbstruck as I stood there with my cold pint of Carlsberg.

I also couldn’t help but notice that the Faroese people were actually quite a pretty bunch. Very Scandinavian in the way they dressed (more sober colours and lots of wool) but also with a strong air of pride about them. As I sat down at a bar on the square to watch one of the football world cup games I got chatting to a bunch of locals who were bizarrely in love with Germany and were 100% convinced that we would win the world cup.
What started as a small chat became a raging drinking affair during which the pride I had just mentioned manifested several times. Mostly it stemmed from an apparent hatred towards “colonial” power Denmark and the way the Faroese people were being oppressed by the guarding nation that also provides as much as 20% of the national budget in the form of aid. Much unlike Greenland, the Faroe Islands have absolutely no natural resources to speak of and almost entirely depend of fishing and fish farming making the discussion about full independence a difficult subject on the islands.

Young Faroese like my new friends Bergur and Poul however made it unmistakably clear to me that they consider themselves only Faroese and not at all Danish. It’s funny actually because when I first heard Faroese spoken on the plane I could literally not understand a single word. Danish on the other hand was something I could quite easily pick up. I guess the Danish empire never had the same character that the British Empire imprinted on its global citizens.




The next morning I woke up early and ventured into the small town center to see if I could pick up a typical Faroese souvenir. I stumbled upon a small record store on N.Finsengota that specialised in Faroese music. Quite a market gap I say, considering.
Tutl was not only the place that sold every possible recording ever made by anyone from the islands but also functioned as a record label that was trying to promote Faroese artists around the world. I took my time to listen to various CDs and got the shop assistant to show me the hottest new artists the island had to offer. Eventually I picked up the albums by “Orca” and “Petur Polson” – both albums that have taken me quite some time to get into. Experimental rock sung in one of the world’s rarest languages. Easier to access might be Eivør, the local cross between Bjork and Britney Spears.

I grabbed a coffee to go from a small coffee stall that claimed to have “the city’s best coffee” and got back into my small vehicle to give the birdcliffs of Vestmanna a second shot. As I drove up the mountain road again I felt as if all the world’s tears had been gathered in the thick wall of grey cloud that hung above my head. It almost seemed as if the sun itself was a rare and valuable metal that was hard to come by in this corner of the world.

I arrived in Vestmanna and parked my car next to a group of Belgian caravans and bumped into the German guy who I shared a dorm with back in Torshavn. We were just in time for the boat and managed to secure a front row seat on the top deck. Vestmanna lay in a small bay protected from the open sea and as we sailed towards the opening the guide explained to us that on the opposite shore there was a village that once consisted of 20 houses that were completely cut off from the rest of the country and which had been abandoned a while back because the remaining family members simply couldn’t hack the solitude. I nodded in astonished agreement wondering to myself why on earth they had moved there in the first place. There was NOTHING THERE! Not even a small beach. Tsk, some people.

We passed a salmon fish farm somewhere on the left side of the bay that contained a massive amount of live fish and as we were told functioned as a home for the salmon for about 3 years before it is farmed and exported to Europe and North America. It was quite cute to see these tasty fish jump up and down, almost skipping across the water like stones. As we neared the mouth of the bay the stunning Faroese shoreline came into full view. It was a mind-boggling collection of stunning rocks and cliffs that stood their ground against the grey sky like giant Viking fighters in the face of an invasion.

As our boat passed the shoreline I couldn’t help but wonder at the delicate skill with which the sheep were grazing on even the steepest of cliffs.

Sometimes they would even sprint uphill to get away from our scary boat and at no time did it look like they were about to stumble and roll down into the sea. One of the highlights of the trip was the viewing of the “elephant rock” that was set into a small alcove. It was shaped like one of those typical elephant stones one can take home from a trip to India or Thailand except much, much bigger. Obviously.
I was also quite surprised at the crystal clear water that appeared in those little caves that we passed. It was bluer than the bluest sky I had ever seen and that surely could have nothing to do with the depressing grey that hung above us. They were part of these hidden beauty spots here and there that I would come across sometimes that made my heart flicker.

I was hoping throughout to spot one of those cute little puffins that are also a local specialty, I’ll have you know. Sadly they decided to stay hidden today, instead we were able to spot an array of seagulls and various forms of penguins that had built their little nests in the uneven surface of the cliffs. Some of them had prime views of the ocean and I expected they would fetch quite a nice price on the bird-housing market.

When we returned back to Vestmanna my small Clio suddenly turned into a taxi for the German guy from my hostel and 3 other girls who we had met on the boat and who were desperate to get back to civilisation. The next bus was not due to leave for another 2 hours. At the petrol station in Torshavn I was also witness to the first country where open display of tobacco products was no longer allowed. It looked quite weird how the clerk pulled out a pack of Prince from some drawer under the counter and handed it to the lady who was in the queue in front of me.

Back in town Stefan (my new German friend) and I decided to visit Hvonn Brasserie (pronounced – Kwon) for what was dubbed “Torshavn’s best pizza”. I can’t say it was bad but it wasn’t good either. I am always suspicious of ham pizzas where the ham comes in really small thin strips. None the less it was as cosmopolitan as one could get here and the atmosphere was quite pleasant. The rest of the evening we spent back with our Faroese friends (it’s surprisingly easy to bump into people here) drinking and getting a taste for Faroese pub culture in bars such as “Sircus” that housed a funky bunch of locals sipping on lager and long drinks.

As the night wore on we spotted a bunch of drunken men that were either stumbling around in the street or were being kicked out of the bars where we sat. Quite amusing at the time, quite depressing in hindsight.

The next morning the day greeted us once again with a wall of grey and fog that almost whispered the words: “ Alex, it’s Sunday! Go home back to the warm summer of Amsterdam…”

Stefan and I had breakfast and decided to give Torshavn one last chance to prove it’s worthy of a touristic visit. We wandered down to Kaffihusid, which has a lovely location on the western side of the historic Tinganes district and luckily, was open at 10:30 am on Sunday. My latte tasted delicious and the quiet Sunday air felt good on our skin as we sat outside on the terrace watching the harbour.

Small countries like the Faroes always strike me as very peculiar. Especially, if they are a remote island such as this. Monaco, San Marino, Andorra … yea they all have something going for them, like Formula 1, skiing, casinos, shopping etc… But here? No here you had to really look for it.

On our search for an activity on this quiet Sunday morning we ventured into the small streets of Tinganes and stumbled upon various curiosities: The German and the Brazilian consulate (????), the Prime Minister’s office and the Ministry of foreign affairs as well as a street called Bakkahalla and the Queen of Denmark’s royal ship, which had recently arrived in Torshavn. The Tinganes district is by far the most picturesque part of town with its red houses and tiny winding alleys. The gloomy skies and the desolation just added to the unique experience.

Equally bizarre was Viðarlundin Park, a place approximately 10 minutes north from the harbour. A place, that is home to a couple of ducks and some strange statues created by local artists. I spotted a couple of hidden benches and pictured this park as the perfect hiding place for young couples to drink and snog. Not a soul passed us as we wandered along the path to the Northern exit.

It really was a shame that the weather didn’t play along this weekend otherwise I probably would have appreciated the charm of this town a lot more than I did today. As we returned to Kaffihusid for one last coffee I began to wonder if it was really worth coming here or if I got lured into a false sensation thinking this could be the “new Iceland” in the making.

When I ventured to the bus station to catch my bus to the airport I caught a glimpse of Queen Margharete of Denmark decending from her ship and giving a small wave at the handful of onlookers who had bothered to come out to see her. I didn’t see a single Danish flag, only Faroese.

Yes, this place definitely is ready to handle its own affairs. A place that is desperate to show the world it is more than sheep and salmon. More than a desolate rock in the middle of nowhere but it will take some time and some change in mentality. The Faroese are still quite homophobic and reluctant to change and these traits will make it difficult for them to position themselves as an equally open minded nation as Iceland, Norway, Sweden or Denmark.

Finally, I have one final request. Please allow more than 1 airline to serve this country. My credit card was literally bleeding after paying for my flights. OPEN UP!

Clouds Pouring Out Of Trees (Final chords)

"Go to the top floor" - a crackling voice said via the intercom. "Is there an elevator?" - I asked after surveying the very distant top floor from where I stood on the street.
"No sorry, it'll be good for your legs" - the voice laughed and then the door opened.

I entered a dark but cool hall and began my climb to Anahit's guesthouse cum hostel on the 5th floor of a big residential building in the center of Yerevan. It was only minutes before that I had called in a flux of near-panic after encountering a couchsuring host that I was no way going to stay with for 4 nights and having decided that I should immediately try and ring all hostels that were listed in the Lonely Planet to escape this uncomfortable situation. I had just arrived in Armenia after a pretty tedious journey in the back of a Mercedes station wagon during which I was wedged between an Armenian lady and a mother and her screaming child for 5 hours and for some reason I was in absolutely no mood to stay with a weird and obnoxious Spanish guy who lived in some outer suburb of Yerevan.
Luckily I managed to make up a lame excuse about doing some day trip to the mountains the next day and really wanting to be in the center of town tonight and luckily I managed to find a cheap bed not far from where we were sitting at Gusto restaurant on Abovyan Poghots.

I reached the top of the stairs all huffing and puffing and was greated by Anahit who has been hosting backpackers for donkey's years and was more than happy to welcome me into her home on this humid Saturday afternoon.
I dropped my bag, took off my shoes and fell into her couch. She offered me a glass of water and explained where everything was. A little dog that looked like a mop with patches of hair missing sniffed at my toes while I surveyed the bed I was going to occupy this night.
"Well this ain't all too bad" - I thought. I grabbed some clean clothes and jumped in the shower. While I was lathering up I wondered why there was a strange cool breeze coming in and almost fell over backwards when I realized that there was a window into the kitchen just above my head. It was kinda weird but hey, at least you could say how you wanted your eggs for breakfast while washing your balls. Very practical.

Later I ventured out to explore the last capital city that I would visit on this trip and to figure out whether it really was worth spending 4 days here or whether I should do day trips to near by places.
Yerevan is not considered the most attractive of captials in the Caucasus, something I immediately noticed while still being trapped in the car from Tbilisi. We passed some of the ugliest communist blocks on the way to the center and I immediately noticed the lack of greenery and resemblance to a more dusty Middle Eastern city like Damascus rahter than a city surrounded by lush mountains. Once in the center which is shaped like an octagon things started looking a bit friendlier.

My first stop was the Segafredo cafe to refuel on haha yea a latte. I was so tired from the long drive that I just need to chill for a moment. I got out my guide book and tried to figure out what I was going to do this afternoon. I decided to wander down the obscurely modern Hyusisayin Poghota that consisted of a bunch of newly built buildings that all seemed to be completely deserted. Anahit told me later when I returned that those buildings had a negativa aura, which is why no one had moved into them.
In the middle was a strange square that had 5 streets leading into it and only one crossing for pedestrians. Luckily there were a lot of people meandering around so I took the risk and crossed. The street ended on Abovyan Poghots near Republic Square that hosts the singing fountains. It was still too early to watch this kitschy spectacle although I was told it was quite something. The buildings surrounding me formed a large circle that consisted of various ministries, the local Marriott hotel and a museum and everywhere there were people sitting, walking, talking, kissing or staring. It was quite hilarious for although I was already quite used to being stared at for being a tourist it still struck me as annoying every now and again. Just like the smoke of my cigarette that I placed in my ashtray as I am writing this and that is going straight into my nose. Bleh.

The good thing about Yerevan was that it had a simple grid style center that was limited by an outer ring road so essentially it was very hard to get lost (not that that ever happened to me haha)

I wandered the streets for a good while before settling in the Artbridge bookstore for a little early evening beer. This little place sold 2nd hand English language books (amongst a variety of other things) and since I had just finished reading my last book I decided to buy the Jungle Book. Everyone knows the Disney film but who has actually read the original by Kipling? Well I hadn't.



Yerevanites apparently love sitting in outdoor cafes which reminded me a lot of the cafe culture in Bucharest except that here they were all concentrated around a round park that was located at the Southern half of the Opera Square. I noticed as I passed highlights such as the "Grammy Cafe" and "Sphinx" (all designed in the according theme) that there were mostly groups of Armenian guys sitting around the tables and I also noticed that a lot of them were hideously fat. This was something that struck me as very strange considering I had hardly seen any fat people in any of the other countries.

Later I returned to Anahit's flat to find my bed all made a ready for me to dive into. It was a clear night and from the window I could see the stars shine over Yerevan. A nice thought to send me off to sleep.

The next morning Anahit made me a lovely breakfast consisting of omelette and bread and she told me a bit more about what I could do to keep me busy today. She mentioned a large market that was not far from her house that was a treasure trove for anything Soviet, Armenia and all other kitsch one could possibly think of. During my short conversation with the crazy Spanish guy the day before I heard that some lady even sold all sorts of dental care products but the joke was they were all rusty and used.
"Excellent!" - I thought. I could do with a spare set of fake teeth.



I wandered down towards Republic Square and towards the Vernissage Market. The market stretched as far as the eye could see although not all stalls were already finished, some traders were still aligning necklaces in particular orders that looked very complicated and other ladies were unpacking their china one by one. Everyone was very friendly and not at all brash. A perfect Sunday morning affair!
I did a couple of rounds admiring the Armenian carpets, antiquated porcelain, wooden figurines of Armenian girls in traditional garb and finally I found the stall with all the rusty dental care products. I could not believe my eyes. The instruments seemed so delicate with oxidation that I was afraid they might pulverize in my hand. Eventually I decided to get myself a nice ex-Armenian communist general's hat that would most definitely find a good use during one of my many dress up parties in the coming months.

Later, I found myself returning to my guesthouse after having placed a quick call to Nina's B&B in Dilijan (the communication was a bit difficult due to lack of English at the other end) and packing a small daybag for a short trip into the mountains. Dilijan is billed as the "Switzerland of Armenia", which I already suspected to be quite a stretch but none the less I was ready for some mountain action.

I walked North on Teryan Phogots and towards the Marshrutka stand that Anahit has pointed out to me. When I arrived there were a couple of minibuses waiting (one even had loaded a whole washing machine) and despite my limited Armenian reading skills I found the one I was meant to take. Unfortunately it was not for another hour that we would finally depart and throughout all this time I stood kicking stones around or trying to distract myself from the curious stares by playing Worms or Solitaire on my iphone/ipod. Urgh, I hate waiting around for a minibus to fill up.
Eventually the moment had come and we departed North on a steep motorway that made the minibus seem more like a snail than a motorize vehicle. As we crawled uphill the city and its surroundings came into view and revealed a stunning scenery consisting of snowcapped mountains and golden wheat fields as far as the eye could see.
After about one hour we reached the vicinity of Lake Sevan, the turquoise beauty that formed an integral part of Armenia's summer culture and whose colour seemed so unreal that one could have suspected the Soviets to have fooled around with it to make it shine like this.

We passed the lake and continued our climb into the mountains of Armenia. They had recently completed a new tunnel between Sevan and Dilijan, which not only cut my travel time down quite significantly but was also funded by multi-billionaire Kirk Kerkorian who happens to be one of Armenia's many diaspora citizens (like Cher and Andre Agassi) who are giving their homeland a helping hand.
Once we had come out of the tunnel all I could see were rich green forests dotted with little huts and the occasional church here and there. We started climbing back down the serpentine road that lead straight into the heart of Dilijan.

A couple of minutes later we were there. I jumped out of the van and looked around me with slight disorientation. A taxi driver quickly approached me and wanted to know if I needed anything. "Yes, some directions please. How the hell do I get here?" - I asked pointing at the rubbish map in the LP. "Oh up up up" - he said pointing his crooked finger at the little road that went back up.
I began climbing the small town road, which I hoped would lead me to the center (and eventually to Nina's B&B) and I passed several small buildings that looked like they hadn't been touched in years before reaching the row of houses I had seen in a photo and that had I am afraid to say significantly contributed towards me deciding to go here.



I walked up to the row of neat gingerbread like houses and immediately spotted a small Artbridge bookstore. I went inside to ask the girl for directions to my B&B but she didn't know it. How most peculiar! Did it not exist after all? Wouldn't surprise me!

I walked around the back to find a row of cute craftmanship stores and the Artbridge bookstore cafe where I sat down for a cup of coffee and what was sold to me as a "special salad from Dilijan". What I got looks more like boiled beetroot with walnuts but it actually tasted really nice. I wouldn't for the life of me be able to tell you what it was.

It was surprisingly cold up here and as I sat gazing across the town center towards the mountains it struck me how it seemed that the clouds were literally pouring out of the trees. It was a mesmerising sight.



Later I ventured back the way I came and took a left turn at the small market taking me straight up to Nina's B&B. As I walked down the drive-way I was greeted by a whole family who had been waiting for my arrival (incl. grand ma, daughter, grand daughter the whole shabang). I greeted Nina and she showed me my room, which was very decent indeed.

The whole top floor of the house seemed to be dedicated to guests and tonight I had it to myself.
Nina offered me a cup of steaming hot coffee and showed me the downstairs part of the house, which even by Amsterdam standards was dangerously leaning to one side. When I sat down I was actually sitting in a 10 degree incline or so it felt. Nina later offered me dinner for which I paid a little extra but boy what a dinner it was.

5 side dishes consisting of delicious meat wrapped in wine leaves, salads of all kinds, a whole load of bread, a soup, and more things I can't even remember now. What was a bit awkward though was that her husband who spoke no word of English at all came and sat by my table and watched me eat. I find it really irritating when people do that because I don't know what they're thinking. He later came back with a small jar of home made vodka that he encouraged me to drink. I filled my little shotglass and toasted with him to god or something and took a sip. FFUUUUUUCKCKCCKCKKCCK this vodka was so strong I felt it igniting and running down my throat in a fiery stream of fire and flames. My eyes filled with tears and I surpressed a cough. Her husband took the whole shot in one go and refilled his cup immediately. How can you possibly excuse yourself from a situation like this?

After I finished my dinner I ventured outside and went for a little digestion/get away from the vodka walk and took in the stunning surroundings. I noticed that mountains are something I really miss in Amsterdam. Things are so flat they're even below sealevel. I think my house might only just escape the sea should it decide to flood The Netherlands because I live on the 1st floor. No probably not actually.



The night came quickly and brutally. I had just managed to get back to the house from my little wander when the sky opened up and thunder and lightning filled the air. I sat on my little porch and hoped that the weather would be better tomorrow when I wanted to go visit two of the most amazing monasteries in Armenia.

When I awoke the next morning I took an icecold shower and ventured down to have breakfast. Nina had already set the table for me and I was quickly served cheese, sausage, bread and all sorts of other Armenian delicacies that I had never seen before. To be honest I was a bit careful not wanting to run around the monasteries shouting "WHERE IS THE TOILET I AM BURSTING"...

The day was beautiful and I had a good feeling about this. I walked down the main road towards the town center to get some money changed and find a reliable driver who could take me to Haghartsin and Goshavank in a short daytrip. The first guy I asked agreed to a good price and we set off in his antiquated Volga saloon. Haghartsin and Goshavank are some of the most famous and ancient monasteries in Armenia and their isolated location make them a nice spot for letting your soul hang. We took a left turn only a couple of kilometres outside of Dilijan and began climbing a steep road that eventually opened up to the small spot where Haghartsin was located. The setting was breath taking only the fact that the whole building was wrapped in scaffolding was not so breath taking. I got out of the car and almost fell into a ditch while trying to survey if there was any point in being here at all.

One small church was open so I went inside and took in the damp smell of history.
Outside there was a "holy tree" whose stem opened up at the bottom and where worshippers had left coins and other donations.

I got back into my shaky Volga and the driver took me back along the road we came from but jumped out at a little church and told me to follow him. I walked along a rocky path and suddenly an old USSR viewing platform came into view. He jumped onto it and I followed walking all the way to the front to get a view of the beautiful mountains (I'm not mountained out quite yet)...

Later before we headed to the second stop we halted at a petrol station to fill up the tank and I shit you not it took a good 20 minutes to fill the tank. Not because it was so big but because of the bizarre way it was done. The petrol station dude put a tube into the boot and then turned on a very slow pump. All the while I was watching two mother pigs with their piglets rummaging around in the mud next to me. It was kinda cute.



When could finally get back in the car the inside stank so badly of petrol that I was scared that if the driver lit up a cigarette the whole vehicle would explode like fireworks. I was shifting left and right on my behind all the to Goshavank feeling real uncomfortable.

When Goshavank finally came into view on my right things were looking very different to Haghartsin only a couple of minutes ago. There were actually real people around and little tourist stalls and taxis and and and... I walked up the small hill to the front of the monastery and rejoiced in its beauty.



Luckily I was one of the only visitors today, which allowed me to wander around the grounds undisturbed. I entered the main chapel to find a dark chamber that received its little light through a tiny window on the side and right in front of me on what remained of the altar lay an Armenian bible. Next to it was a small candle. I was thinking "Hello? Fire hazard?" but then again the whole thing was made of thick stone, which probably also explained how it survived since 1188.



Later I got back in the cab and we drove back to Dilijan so I could catch a marshrutka back to Yerevan. Contrary to what I had heard they only left every 2 hours so I was forced to hang around the derelict bus station for a good 90 minutes. Previously, my driver had tried to squeeze some extra cash out of me by claiming he had to pay a parking fee at the first monastery (ehm to whom?) but my traveler's wit immediately helped me uncover a scam in the making, Sherlock Holmes style.

When we finally returned to Yerevan 3 hours later I decided to visit the NPAK (Norarar Pordzarakan Arvesti Kentovon = Armenian Center for Experimental Art), which was housed in a strange complex next to the Vernissage market. I was the only visitor today but the art that was on display was utmost peculiar. Ranging from paintings proclaiming: WE DON'T NEED YOUR CURRENCY! (and show casing dollars and roubles) to strange installations of people rolling around on the floor. I actually really enjoyed this place as it showed a very quirky side of Armenia and a creative aspect that one does not come across much in every day life.

Later, I went to the Caucasus Tavern, a blatant "tourist restaurant" that Anahit had recommended to me for its delicious Khoravats (meat on the grill), which I stupidly didn't order. Instead I got a limp lamb kebab that was icecold and an enormous Armenian pizza with cheese. Good thing I ordered plenty of beer otherwise I might have gone hungry.
At night, when everyone was back on the streets and phat beamers were racing tattered Ladas I embarked on a quest to find the only Irish pub in town. The "Shamrock" was meant to be a nice meeting place for expats and backpackers but after finally finding this underground tavern I quickly turned on my heels upon seeing a bunch of drunken locals dancing around on the lonesome dancefloor. On my way back to the apartment I passed one of the many local cafes where a tarted up fake blonde was sitting with her boyfriend wearing the most enormous sunglasses I had ever seen. Mind you this was around 10pm and it was not bright. I burst out laughing and she blatantly caught me. So what? She was the douche after all.

The next morning I awoke to find Anahit sitting on her sofa (she slept in a different bed every night, which sometimes made it hard to find her) and I told her of my great plan to visit Zvartnots Cathedral and Echmiadzin (the Vatican of Armenia). She said that if I was lucky I was able to spot Mt. Ararat today. From her top floor apartment one had a pretty good view of the city and when she pulled the curtains aside I saw her hands rush to her heart and her exclaiming: "Oh yes, there it is... Ah it's so beautiful". I went to stand next to her and wow. It was fucking beautiful.

I took my leave and began walking to the "Cascade"(more on this later) to get a better view. It was still early in the morning and the clouds had not yet arrived to cover the most stunning of all monuments this country had to offer. Ironically, and Armenian's are still pissed off about this, Ararat is now in Turkey (Lenin once gave Western Armenia to Turkey as a present hoping it would also have a revolution. Too bad it didn't happen and since then the border between Turkey and Armenia has been sealed shut).
None the less Ararat still features very predominantly in Armenian life and from where I stood now one could totally see why.

I went back to ground zero and walked across town the marshrutka that would wizz me along the highway to Echmiadzin. When you leave Yerevan towards the airport you pass a dozen casinos that have created a bit of a tacky copy of "the strip" along the highway. Everything from Paris to Kheops was present. I chuckled as we drove past.
When I arrived in Echmiadzin I got off and walked straight into the holy grounds of the Armenian Holy See. Just as I was passing the gate I saw a Japanese tourist looking around for something and I didn't think much of it except: "Everywhere you go, you meet at least one Brit, one Yank, one Japanese person and one German". In this case I was the latter.

All the while Ararat watched over me like a giant father. It was a calming experience.
I walked around the grounds of Echmiadzin and eventually pretended to be taking photos while I sort of joined a guided tour who's leader was explaining something about the various statues. Eventually she went silent and looked at me. "Erm, oh no speak Inglish" I stammered and turned on my heels.
I entered the stunning Mayr Tachar cathedral whose door was so richly decorated I would have taken a bite out of it had it been made from chocolate.
Everywhere I looked I saw priests reading the bible or watching the tourists to ensure no one had the crazy idea to climb the church tower or similar. It was a very hot day actually but the blue skies were so pure I was already dreading what would await me in Amsterdam tomorrow.


After paying a short visit to the museum shop and getting some more cash out I went back to the main round about and caught a cab to Zvartnots cathedral that for some reason I completely missed on the way in. It was 4km outside of Echmiadzin and offered a sight to behold. Not just for its otherworldly architecture but also for the fine setting that almost made me jizz in my pants.


As I entered I spotted the Japanese guy again and he meekly looked over and sort of greeted me although I wasn't sure if it was intentional. The cathedral itself had been standing here since 661 and was effectively more than 1.500 years old. No offense but it always makes me laugh when I hear about the rich American history of 300 years and then I come across a stunning monument that was built 5 times as long ago.

A very untypical style for this part of the world, the Cathedral's arches suggested a rich history of Roman influence, as seen in Baalbek in Lebanon or Palmyra in Syria. Not much remained of it but one could still clearly see the pool that was used to baptise adults back in the day and the outer foundations of the church.
Meanwhile the Japanese dude got out his sunbrella and was walking around the ruins of the Cathedral. I thought it was quite funny seeing his sun protection tool bopping up and down between the stone walls. When I left the museum he was quite a way in front of me back on the way to the main highway. When I arrived he was already waiting trying to flag down a marshrutka. Eventually a taxi stopped and he asked me: "Do you speak Russian?" after a short conversation with the driver. I declined and he said he's giving us a good price to go back to the center. I was a bit wary as I got in as the thick necked driver's friend didn't make a very calming impression on me. The Japansese guy got out his guide book (in Japanese) and asked him to take him to a place x. All the while I felt very uncomfortable and ha! lucky me just after we set off we got pulled over by the police and I took the opportunity to escape. I wished the dude good luck on his way to getting ripped off and boarded the next best marshrutka going to Yerevan. (Filled with school girls only. Some people would have been in paradise now)

When we got back I took a cab up to the "Permanent Representation of the Republic of Nagorno Karabakh" where I had earlier this morning left my passport to get a visa issued for this bizarre self proclaimed country that is still claimed by Azerbaijan and was the result of the main Armenia/Azerbaijan war in 1995. I figured I could add another visa to my already lovely collection of 4 from this trip. The visa is totally ugly but I found it hilarious that one needs a visa to go from one part of Armenia into another "effectively".

So I took my cab back to the top of the Cascade monument, some strange construction that stretches all the way up from ground level to a hill and that at night features a who would have thought cascade that runs all the way from top to bottom. As I approached the top I noticed a door on the side and after I entered I saw that there was a massive escalator that lead all the way to the bottom. Why walk right?

Hence I proceeded to walk all the way down the cascade to the utmost bizarre "sculpture park" that amongst others featured a fat soldier with a tiny dick.


Later I returned to my hostel to find that I was to share a room with a fat Kiwi guy tonight who was actually planning to visit Afghanistan after recently having travelled to Iraq. What a great way to finish a trip like this. Not to mention that Anahit's son was blatantly hitting on me.

The next morning I got up early to get to the airport and board my flight to Amsterdam via Riga. The rest is history.

I'd like to thank all the amazing people I met along the way for the brilliant times I had in all 7 countries that I visited during these 3 short weeks and to all my lovely friends who have been duly reading my blog. It's a great feeling to know that people are interested in my adventures and care to read about them.

More coming soon! Stay tuned. Inshallah

Crosses

First of I gotta give you some insight into how this whole trip came about and why I was now standing where I was, the bridge that formed the official border between Azerbaijan and Georgia.

When Russia went to war with Georgia in 2008 over the the break-away region of South Ossetia, I was sitting in my office's smoking room watching CNN LIVE REPORT or whatever it's called these days. I took in the news and the reports and wondered thought to myself: "I wonder what Georgia is like?". My colleagues had no idea of my crazy plans to visit a country that had just been at war otherwise they would probably have told me that I'm crazy. True, but a bit crazy is always better than a bit lame, right? Ok it's now 2010 but what was once a silly idea became reality.
See my first blog for a reference to my "troubled country fetish".

So there I was walking towards a Georgian border guard and based on what Danielle had told me about the friendliness of the people I was a bit hopeful that I would maybe see a smile or two. I handed over my passport to him and after asking: "From Germany" - which I personally always find a retarded question because obviously my passport says so - he actually said, and I am not lying: "Welcome to Georgia".
Phew that was a good start.

I changed some dollars and manat at the exchange booth and passed through customs in a breeze.
The nearest town, Lagodekhi, was a short taxi ride away and there I had to board a Marshrutka (minibus) to the capital Tbilisi. A toothless old man handed me my ticket and indicated I should wait somewhere.
Things take their time here and I was already used to that. As I gazed at the people around me I immediately noticed a difference in appearance and complexion. People here were much more European than only 6km behind me where the local look was much more Turkic.

Eventually my minibus started filling up and we set off along the "highway" to Tbilisi. We passed little houses with rose covered fences and yards where vegetables grew plentifully. Like in the Sheki region the hills were lush and green and as we descended towards the capital I spotted snow capped mountains and deserted fortresses in the background. If I had been into hiking I would have jumped straight off and made my way to the beautiful Caucasus mountains, but I wasn't. Not on this trip at least.

Georgia is one of the oldest and first Christian nations in the world. Another intriguing fact that lured me here. It was once kingdom of men, powerful empire and most recently a Soviet satellite state until it gained independence from the USSR in 1991. Although its billed the most democratic and forward thinking of all Caucasus republics, you can still see the scars that decades of Soviet rule have left behind.
None the less, it was always a favourite destination for Russian travelers for its rich wine culture (wine was first invented here) and its mild climate.

I was curious to find out how much of this rich heritage was still left.

We entered Tbilisi and the minibus parked at a relatively remote bus station. I managed to haggle a good price with a driver who then took me to my hostel (my CS attempts had not been successful here). It was a curious little place that had only recently opened up and as I walked into the small courtyard where it was located I was greeted by a bunch of kids who were clearly delighted to see another foreigner and let me know very loudly and clearly that they knew how to say: HELLO HELLO!



I grabbed a shower and wandered off towards Freedom Square, which during Soviet rule featured a large statue of Lenin in the center, which was now replaced with St.George killing a dragon, all in Gold of course. ;-)
The day was almost over and my goal for now was to find a place to eat and then go to one of the famous sulfur baths that are said to have "magical healing powers".

I walked down Lesedidzis qucha in search of Shemoikhede Genatsvale that according to my bible was a good place to taste some local fare. I ordered some eggplant with walnut and these little pastry squares filled with cheese and meat and was literally stuffed all the way top of my throat when I walked out of there. Mission part 1 completed.
I continued down along the same road towards the river and passed a collection of stores, a synagogue with a border looking Jew outside and a couple of little churches that were all in the typical Orthodox style of the region (and similar to the ones I had seen in rural Romania and Moldova). When I finally reached the little domes of the sulfur baths I couldn't decide, which one to pick. I was told to go to one of the communal baths but all they offered me were private baths costing 50Euros an hour. So no bath for me tonight :(

I wandered back to my hostel stopping at this little cafe that was half bookstore/half cafe with a very friendly owner and chilled out there for a while.

Back in my hostel I met a young American guy who told me he had spent 3 months in Azerbaijan therefore he now spoke fluent Azeri and was on his way from Georgia to Germany overland. I wished him good luck and didn't bother with him any further.

Ok I gotta be honest with you. I didn't actually do very much while I was in Georgia. I am going to use the lame excuse that I was dead tired from all the travelling and just wanted to chill for a couple of days but of course one could always counter: "Sure mate just stay in and see x y and z next time you're here".

The next day I spent walking around Rustaveli, and enjoying plenty of lattes at Entree cafe, which I declared my favourite hang out because I got excellent coffee, delicious almost croissants and free wifi here. I was satisfied.

After realising how little a pack of my favourite smokes brand cost I decided to also start sending little packages filled with Kent home. I bought a carton of Kent for 10 Euros from the local store and neatly filled an A4 envelope with 10 packs wrapped in a newspaper and walked to the central post office, that for some bizarre reason was located in a tiny building in a hidden courtyard. The woman at the counter took the package and held it with an awkward look on her face and then went: "What's inside? Can I see?". "Erm sorry are you from the KGB? Of course you cannot see it's not addressed to you is it?" I told her. Luckily that shut her up but being curious as she was I bet she opened the package after I left. Unbelievable! (I know it's totally illegal but still haha)

Later I ventured to the other side of the river passing a newly built and most bizarre looking bridge that in my opinion did nothing in favour of the beautiful old town with its delicate wooden balconies and the various church towers that peeped out here and there.
The Lonely Planet pretty much missed out this part of town for some reason also rendering the maps completely useless despite this part of town being almost 60% of the map of Central Tbilisi and only 8 or 9 streets having been graced with street names. As you might be able to imagine I was soon wandering around aimlessly not knowing where the heck I was. I asked around for the nearest Metro station but everyone I asked just looked at me as if I had oranges on my eyes or something.
Was the metro not called metro here?

Eventually I stumbled on a main road that lead towards one of the many bridges and there it was, thank god! Starving as I was I headed for a small local eatery that served up the most delicious Khinkali you'll ever eat. They are like big dumplings (like massive steamed dim sum) filled with spicy meat. If you ever come here you must visit Sashashnike and fill up on dumplings and beer and believe me it's only 2,50 Euros. You'll love it.

I took the metro back, I am still in love with those deep escalators, in fact the first time I was coming up at Rustaveli the day before I burst out laughing when I just saw a little head go past me on the downward escalator because people just sit down to do the 5 minute ride down and for some reason I found it hilarious.

Back in my own hood near the parliament building I wondered down tiny alleys and deserted streets of the old town that were speckled with charming old villas until I ended up Rkinis Rigi that was the hub of Tbilisi's coffee culture with charming places such as "KGB STILL WATCHING YOU".
When the evening came I got myself a bottle of very nice Georgian wine and just drank myself to sleep at the hostel for I was not going to wander around looking for party action on my own.

The next morning started with a latte, an almond croissant and of course a quick iphone check of news and blabla on facebook before I headed to Georgia's spiritual captial of Mtskheta. I took the metro to Didube bus station, which was more of a sprawling market (fancy buying a chick? check) and had to ask around several times before I found the right Marshrutka going that way.

This little town was only about 9km out of the center of Tbilisi and as soon as we left the city behind us all I saw was rivers and hills all around me. I got off the bus and walked up to Samtavro Church that had an army of old babushkas waiting at its gates for a merciful donation. I always found it interesting going to Orthodox churches because their lack of pews really confused me and because the customs inside the church are so different to what we're used to in the West.
People cross themselves 3 times everytime they pass a church (whether walking or driving), the kiss the door of the church and every religious artefact inside the church and stand in a cross formation inside the church during mass.

Later I wandered down to the Sveetitskhoveli Cathedral where I was lucky enough to witness a sermon given by the patriarch of the Georgian Orthodox church. It was quite a spectacle and when he exited the church he drove off in a big Landcruiser 4x4 that had to beep its horn quite significantly when trying to get out of the church grounds because some Georgian youngsters were showing off their tuned cars to each other in the square.

I took a Marshrutka back to Tbilisi and went for a walk around the old town and ended up having a drink at a KGB Still Watching you and engaged in a last bit of people watching for the day.
Georgian girls are actually quite pretty I have to admit and as I sat there I saw a couple of young guys and girls walk around with white shirts that had short messages and people's names written all over them. I never found out what this was for but it seemed like some "I finished school/exams/lost my virginity" thing.

ALSO: Very important! GEORGIAN WINE IS REALLY REALLY NICE! Give one of their reds a try they are really good! Yum :)

The next day I woke up quite early and headed to Ortachala bus station to catch my minibus to Armenia. After the taxi driver dropped me off an old man approached me and told me he was driving to Yerevan in a car and there was enough room for me to come. It cost a bit more but a least I would arrive earlier and a bit more comfortable. Or so I thought.
As it turned out I had to sit in the back in the middle between a mum and her screaming child and and older sweaty lady from Armenia.
Oh dear...

Gentlemen and walnut jam

I awoke ubruptly from my short slumber aboard Belavia flight B2 1739 from Minsk to Baku. The stewardess asked me to open my window's curtain in preparation for landing.
With plenty of sleep still lingering in and around my tired eyes I peered outside to catch a first glance of Azerbaijan country of oil, oil and oil oh and Iliah Aliyev, son of modern day Azerbaijan's "father" Heydar Aliyev.
What I saw was desert as far as the eye could see shimmering in the rising sun.
It was still early mind you 6:20 maybe? Who knows what this place really looked like in daylight.

After landing I proceeded to first! get my passport stamped and then to request my visa from a sleepy customs guy who was playing games on his mobile when I approached. After 10 minutes I was 60 Euros poorer but had successfully managed to gain access to this bizarre country that most people probably couldn't place on a map.


View Larger Map

Well there you are. North of Iran, South of Russia and East of the eternal enemy Armenia (more about that later... I haven't been there yet, ok? Christ).

I collected my bag and ventured outside the customs area to be received by a dear crowd of eager taxidrivers all wanting to win my business. I waved them off in search of an exchange booth and a decent coffee but one managed to shadow me for the entire journey around the airport building, lovingly whispering "taxi mister?" in my ear about every 20 seconds or so.
After getting my Manats (local currency) I tried to shake him off and walked outside to the parking lot in desperate need of a cigarette and a less annoying driver. I forgot to check the LP for how much taxis should cost to the center so eventually I agreed to 20 Manats with another driver who was less annoying but still annoying.

As we sped down Heydar Aliyev Boulevard and towards the trainstation where I had asked him to take me to he turned around and reconfirmed my destination. "To the trainstation, ok?" I told him and he looked at me in the mirror with an expression that told me: "I am going to rip you off, you just wait you silly white boy".
As we entered the city's core he suddenly turned around and drove back towards where we just came from. Just before I was about to scream: "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING?" he stopped by a little hotel and jumped out. Soon after he came back with a dude who double checked with me in good English where it was I wanted to go and where my hotel was. "I am going to the trainstation and I don't need a hotel thanks very much." "Oh, trainstation is very far that will be another 20 Manat", he said. "Are you out of your fucking mind? The trainstation is not even 5 minutes from here. Tell him to drive me there as agreed. End of discussion", I responded. In writing it looks much nicer than it actually sounded but I was in absolutely no mood to get ripped off at 7am so I lied I knew where the station was and ahhhhhh who would have thought? After the driver grudgingly got back in the car we drove for another 5 minutes before the station appeared in my sight. Before we parked he turned around and asked me again: "Ok trainstation. 10 Manat extra?" "Fuck off you cunt", I hissed at him as I stormed out of the cab and slammed the door in his face.

God or should I say Allah? I wasn't even awake yet and then I have to deal with this shit. Not cool!

I walked into the station to leave my luggage in the left luggage room, which I thankfully found quite quickly and to purchase my onward ticket for the nighttrain to Sheki the next day. Despite a significant language barrier my mission was a success and the price (4 Manat) seemed almost ridiculous compared to what the taxi ride had just cost me or could have cost me if I hadn't used my traveller's wit to get out of this annoying situation.

I wasn't sure if I would have a place to stay here since my local CS host had not responded to my last emails but luckily I had his number and decided to give him a call and see what the deal was avec mon lit.

I walked away from the station towards the "Samad Vurgun" gardens, which looked like a perfectly manicured beauty in this early morning sun and really took me by surprise. It was a Sunday morning yet there was plenty of activity already going on in the streets of Baku. I walked along in search of an internet cafe (which turned out to be closed) and stumbled across Hayat bakery that did some of the most amazing "Pendirli Xacapuri" I have ever tasted. All the girls inside giggled while I tried to order but luckily a friendly local came to my rescue and told me what was inside each one of those appetising pastries. I sat down on a step opposite and waited for 9 o'clock to come so I could call Kyle and find out what the plan was.

I turned on my dormant phone and waited for the signal and the message onslaught to arrive after almost 2 weeks of being offline. Kyle responded quite quickly sounding sleepy and immediately agreed to come get me from the station. Thank fuck for that! I was worried I might have to stay in the aweful dive that the Lonely Planet described as: "an ugly, roach infested concrete tower above the trainstation"...

After Kyle arrived he took me to his house via a little bakery that made oven fresh bread that smelled as good as it tasted. We walked along 28th of May street and arrived at his place, which was located in an old apartment block but the flat was surprisingly modern and spacious for one person.
I dropped my bag on the floor and went for a very necessary shower. Kyle went back to bed and as I tried to figure out how the shower worked I started hearing him talk. "Is he talking to himself?", I wondered. I wasn't sure. I peeped out of the shower to see a girl in bed with him and felt kinda embarrassed that I didn't see her. "Erm, how do you turn on the shower?", I asked meekly. "Just pull the big button up.", he said.
"Boys and technology from the Middle East", I thought disappointed with myself for not having figured it out.

Later I left his apartment and took his advise to grab bus 14 going towards the center and jumped out near the waterfront. One thing I immediately noticed here was the extreme amount of police everywhere on the streets. On motorbikes, in cars and on feet they were omnipresent and shouted their orders at people using loudspeakers whenever possible. I supposed this was one of the by-products of a dictatorship.

My stroll took me towards the striking "Maiden's tower", a bizarre part of the old town, which dates back to around the 12th century but nobody is exactly sure what it was used for or why it was built in this particular style.
I waited around a little while until it opened and then climbed to the top to get a better view. The guard who had opened the gate for me offer to take some photos of me in all 4 directions of the compass. Sadly all of them turned out shite haha.
Later I walked through the Eastern part of the old town and tried to find a couple of cafes that the Lonely Planet recommended, which were sadly non-existent.

Eventually I came to rest in a local cafe headed by 2 lovely toothless women who offered me a hot cup of chai, kind of exactly the opposite of what I needed now in this scorching heat.
It was after 12 when I continued down along the outside of the old city when I stopped at Divan's for 1 lovely kebab, which quickly turned into 2.
The buildings, just like the rest of the old town were lovingly restored and told of a glorious past that due to oil seems to be shimmering again for modern day Baku.

Everywhere there were parks, which were utterly well kept but what I noticed immediately was that nobody ever sat on the grass. With so much police present, I was not surprised why...

I re-ntered the old city and got lost in it's winding alleys for a while before I came out just outside the famous Shirvanshah's Palace, one of the main landmarks of old Baku and a place that tells of the city's former rulers and visitors. Now just a museum it offers nice views of the "new" city consisting mainly of tell glass towers and other modern structures as well as a couple of remaining structures inside the palace grounds like the hammam and the mosque.
Wanting to hide from the blazing sun for a while I looked for Aroma cafe, which was outside the old town in the buzzing commercial center of Baku. It took me quite a while since I relied on the very unreliable Lonely Planet maps that were often not only completely inaccurate but often were split in the middle of where you were walking... I finally found the right door and stumbled inside. I don't care where I am in the world if I can at least enjoy a latte for a couple of minutes.

Previously, Kyle had mentioned that he was taking part in a walk/run at around 5pm that quite a few foreigners were meant to attend and he asked me if I wanted to join. Honestly, this heat and the long trip from Minsk had drained me but I figured it would be a good opportunity to meet some new people and to "get involved" as they say.
I jumped on the Baku metro, which like all other ex Soviet metro networks was built deep underground (and had the exact same trains as Minsk) and headed off to Nazimi somewhere in the North West. As I walked out of the station I was greeted by a very strange sight.
Something you should know at this stage is that locals frown upon foreigners wearing shorts in public, especially if women do it, hence you might be able to understand when I saw 40 foreigners as wildly mixed as a small child's pick and mix bag all wearing shorts and walking gear. It was just too weird.
This group was the Baku HASH, a concept of which I had previously never ever heard and apparently this is something they did every Sunday, always in a different place somewhere in Baku.
As I stood there waiting for someone to tell me what the hell I was meant to do a bald Croatian man called "Boris" shouted at everyone. "MAKE A FUCKING CIRCLE YOU FUCKING LAZY FUCKERS" - Erm WTF?
After quite a bit of rude bla bla from Boris the angry bald man we split into 2 groups and began our Hash walk (the other group did the HASH run in 28 degrees heat - yea good luck with that).
The walk took us through some outer suburbs of Baku that first housed quite a nice collection of massive mansions and then quickly turned into very poor slums. Every time we turned a corner the fat Yank at the front called "teletubby" would should "ON ON" or "CHECK" or something else. After a while I just trailed the group because it also turned out that I had nothing to talk about with anyone. It seemed very cliquie...
The locals sometimes stuck their head out the windows like ostriches and most of the time everyone was really friendly, probably dumbstruck at the sight of 20 sweating foreigners in their hood. At one point I was trying to take a picture of an old lady sitting outside her house when I didn't see a pole and walked straight into it with my private bits. Very ouchy.
I was just wearing flip flops, completely unprepared for what I was doing now and sometimes had to tread through mounts of garbage that probably housed large roach families just waiting to pounce on some white meat.

After 1 1/2 hours we finally came to the end near a big Mc Donnalds and met the runners in the middle of a small park. They offered beer and water and soon after we were surrounded by curious locals who wanted to know what the hell we were all doing there.
Boris began shouting again in such a vulgar way that I literally expected a sniper to shoot him in his fucking face from one of the surrounding towers. Some old hag who was German and called herself "Tracy" distributed some newsletter and then we assembled in a circle again and Boris began barking orders at people and teletubby got individuals to stand inside the circle to down shots as punishment for various things. I was eventually called into the circle and had to down 2 shots for a) being a "hashvirgin" and b) for smoking on trail... DRINK IT DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN ... etc
Not long after an angry local started shouting at us from the side and told us we were not welcome in Azerbaijan and warned Kyle in Azeri that he could summon 50 gunmen at anytime to come shoot us down. Clearly he was not impressed with this whole shouting and drinking thing. Meanwhile I got chatted up by this horrible guy who had heard somewhere that I had a "really really cool wallet" and who reminded me so much of David Williams in this clip that I almost ran for my life...



To take off the pressure we headed to town after all the rituals were completed and the old hag Tracy was already pretty wasted. We ended up in Finnigans drinking more beer and singing more songs, well they did, I kinda kept aside. I met this young Brit called Martin who had just arrived and after chatting with him for a good while, Kyle took him and me to this small Azeri joint to have some dinner. We all had this soup with tiny raviolis inside followed by kebabs of lamb and chicken.
When we returned to Kyle's apartment I was broken and ready for bed.

The next day I woke up around 10 and went to my new favourite bakery to get some more pastries filled with this and that. Kyle told me to come to his office to get instructions on how to get to Qombustan to see the petroglyphs and the mud volcanoes but after I wandered back into town to drink my latte for the day I lost my appetite for a complicated day trip that would involved going to some metro station, negotiating with a taxi driver to take me there and then relying on his potentially non existent knowledge of where those sites were.
When I got the bill for my latte at the suitably named "Travelers Cafe" I almost fell off my chair. 7 EUROS!!!!!! ???????? !!!!!!!!!!!

Shocked and poorer than I had expected I went for a wander around the rest of town that I had not seen yet and noticed all the building works they were conducting in the pedestrian streets surrounding me. Some parts were completely ripped open with no marked passage for pedestrians others had people cutting metal in the middle of the sidewalk and massive holes in the floor that were of course not covered. It was like an army training trail... FIND YOUR WAY TO THE OTHER SIDE!

Again the LP recommended a couple of restaurants that were nowhere to be found but the 4th attempt was fruitful. I lunched in a basement Georgian restaurant (kind of getting a taste for what was in store for me in the next country) on spicy meat soup and fried Sulumi cheese that reminded me a lot of salty Queso de Oaxaca from Mexico.

The rest of the day I spent meandering around town strolling down the main boulevard down by the water, drinking beer and being stopped by police (like all other traffic) to make room for a massive car train that according to the little flag on the main limousine probably carried a very high member of the Turkish government.
All the local policemen were in their element shouting orders and telling people to do as they're told.

Kyle was back at his around 8 and we ate a roasted chicken filled with walnut paste and onions that he had brought and that was honestly one of the nicest things I had eaten on this trip. Definitely need to get the recipe!

After a very nice chat on his balcony I left towards the train station pulling strange glances at me from bemused locals who are clearly no yet accustomed to seeing backpackers walk around their streets. At the station I almost got a panic attack because there were 5 trains but not a single board that showed which train left from which platform. There was a hectic to and fro going on and me in the middle.
I tried to find a ticket inspector or some other Azeri train employee who could help me with finding my train but to no avail. To calm my nerves I entered the station store and bought a bottle of vodka, some smokes and a bottle of Sprite and blatantly got ripped off. At this point I was not in the mood to enter a discussion about the rest of my change so I ran back out and finally found someone who pointed me in the right direction. When I arrived at my carriage there were 2 inspector ladies who asked for my ticket and passport and then laughed at something that to this day remained a mystery to me. In my exasperation I yanked the passport and ticket out of her hands and told her to show me my fucking compartment if she pleased.
As it turned out I was booked into a 4 berth compartment with no windows that could be opened and 3 sweaty Azeris who crammed the compartment with bags of stuff so that it was almost impossible to get in or out. God, these are the days when I hate night trains...
No matter, I opened my bottle of vodka and drank at least half of it and it sent me off into a relatively nice slumber.

The next morning my alarm went off and I awoke to a breathtaking scenery outside my window. The desert like landscape around Baku had transformed into the most beautiful and lush green hills I had seen for a while. In this early morning sun their colour glimmered softly and every now and again they would open up to reveal a view of the Caucasus mountain range that lay behind. All the horrors from yesterday were easily forgotten.

After the train pulled into Sheki station, which funnily enough was still 17km out of town I got a taxi with 3 other guys and climbed the mountain to one of Azerbaijan's allegedly most scenic towns. I got dropped off at the bus station (after again paying too much) and made my way to my local Couchsurfing hosts Danielle and Lucy who were both in the Peace Corps, which to this day was a completely unknown concept to me. Maybe because they usually end up in developing countries and The Netherlands, well isn't exactly that.

They lived in a big old house together with Telly the dog that loved biting people in play but who I could have punched right on the nose for leaving plenty of bite marks on my toes and arms.
The house was quite run down but at least if offered a roof above my head for the night. Danielle offered to take me for a walk around town and to spend the day with me showing me the local sights.
It was a beautiful sunny day as we set off towards the bazaar where I bought a ridiculously massive amount of Saffron for like 2,50 and munched on some local chicken dish in this tiny local joint. Luckily Danielle, like Kyle spoke the language, which greatly helped.
Later we boarded a local bus (or something that looked like one) to head to the "Albanian Church" in Kis just north of Sheki.
Apparently a Norwegian organisation claims this church is in fact Albanian and not Armenian although it seems extremely far fetched that Albanians (just East of Greece for your info) came here and just decided to build a church a couple of centuries ago. The Norwegians even go as far to believe that Azerbaijan is home to the ancestors of all Scandinavian peoples bar Finland. I find this story pretty fictional and will just come to this conclusion: They made up this story to protect everything Armenian that is still left in modern day Azerbaijan to avoid churches and other monuments being destroyed by angry Azeris who still hate Armenia for winning the war in 1994.

The bus took forever to leave and what I noticed in all the locals' mouths was a huge number of gold teeth. I asked Danielle about that and she said that it was local custom to get rotten teeth replaced with golden teeth. I swear any bad boy rapper from America would feel right at home here. At some point when the bus began filling up I gave up my seat for an old lady who told everyone on board what a gentleman I was leading to every woman on board sending me loving smiles and looks all the way to Kis. I was quite touched since to this moment I didn't have the best impression of Azeris.

When we returned to the city we went to the Xanvaserai, an old palace located at the Northern end of Sheki where the famous Wolfman was already waiting for his picture to be taken. This guy is one of the funniest people I have seen on this trip. He keeps a stuffed wolf under a blanket and whenever spectators come over he slowly lifts the blanket bit by bit only revealing the stuffed wolf and his blinking eyes when the audience has reached an ecstatic climax and simply cannot take any more.
He deserved every penny I gave him. God bless!

In the palace I got a tour that was supposed to be English speaking but the guy who showed me the 4/5 rooms only said FINISH at the end. So much for the tour.

Later we wanted to drink some tea at the famous Karavanaserai but staff were most unhelpful and wanted to charge us 10 Euros for a pot of tea in the open. "Screw that", we said and headed back into town to a more local cafe. I had read that one of the specialties of Sheki was its walnut jam. I was desperate to get some because I loved walnuts and couldn't possibly imagine how delicious it would taste.
Danielle called Lucy on her phone and asked her to buy me a jar if the lady who sold it near her office had any and then to try she ordered some walnut jam during tea.

Oh dear.................

ALWAYS TRY BEFORE YOU BUY! What I got was this cup with little black balls in a type of syrup that a) looked nothing like walnuts and b) was nothing like what I had expected. Apparently how they do it is they pick walnuts before they're ripe and cook them in plenty of sugar until they are soft. Then they put those weird black and smooth walnuts in their tea. BAHHHHHHH It was horrible! :(
I did end up buying a box of "halva", which is essentially a local version of Balclava and is a total sugar overload but fucking delicious.

The afternoon finished with a dinner at the Shekivaran restaurant where we brought our own beer (apparently the girls come here so often that the owner doesn't care) and then hung around at the girl's house for the rest of the evening talking about piercings and other nasty stuff until it was time for bed. Funny thing was, they spend so long in the middle of nowhere that the only foreigners they meet are couchsurfers and somehow I had the feeling Danielle was ready for some action. DENIED!

The next morning I rose early and wandered to the bus station after being bitten in the nose by Telly the monster and being more than ready to head off to Georgia. They girls had told me that in comparison with Sheki or even Baku, Tbilisi was like heaven on earth and that Georgians were by far the friendliest people in the region.
It could only get better!
The bus drove me up to Balacan near the border from where I took a tattered Lada taxi to the border. I think they checked my passport 6 times between the entrance gate and the actual border continuously asking where I was going after Georgia. I almost felt like saying: TO YOUR ARCHENEMY ARMENIA YOU FAT CUNT NOW PISS OFF but instead I said: Oh you know, just home.