Yet another near disasterous amateur hike

So we avoided by about 2 hours being stuck in a blizzard in the Pirin range in the South of Bulgaria with very little equipment or clothing. We had stayed over night in a nizhni (or something like that) - a state run mountain hut in this case about 2000 m up and a four hour hike from the nearest town. The next morning dawned not so nice so instead of spending the day doing the "most exhilirating and beautiful" hike in the country, head back to civilization. It started to snow before we hit the tree-line. Luckily it stopped long enough for us to make it down to Bonsco but about 10 minutes after we made the city limits we were in the midst of a major thunder storm. As a reassurance: I know how to build a snow shelter.

The trip to Bonsco from Melnik (the smallest town in Bulgaria... beautifully set in this cool semi-arid canyony place) didn't quite go as planned either. Brent, feeling the urge, decided to sit on (or more likely, hover over) the can for the duration of our bus's arrival and departure from the station. Karin and I, thinking he would be back at any second, loaded all of our bags into the under-bus compartment thing. Recognizing that he wasn't coming any time soon and that the bus driver had lost all patience I basically threw Karin onto the bus (which was packed and in which she had to stand for the entire 2 hour journey)... not one of my most gentlemanly acts but I thought that she had payed already and I figured that it would be better for her to get there and be able to relax rather than deal with all the uncertainty of staying behind on the hope that Brent at some point would finish his bowel movement. It was a snap decision. Anyway... Brent did in fact finish his bombing run and emerged completely oblivious, wondering where our bags and Karin had gone. I would have yelled at him if I hadn't been laughing so hard.

We caught a bus an hour or so later and eventually made it to the Bansco bus station where we found a rather peeved and harassed Karin. Bulgarian men are very friendly. Nothing really happened, she was right in the bus station, but she had a bit more of a rapore with them than she probably wanted by the time we arrived. The fact that I was sending her alone was also something that I didn't consider when analyzing the situation under duress.

We're in the city of Plovdiv which I like considerably more than Sofia. We'll probably head North tomorrow night and then to Turkey a couple of days later.

Pax!

A Modern Odyssey in the Mountains Above Sofia

So So SO Soooo. My knees are a bit creaky this morning, but before I tell you why I want to assure you that this harrowing tale has a happy resolution and I ask that you keep that in mind so that at the bleakest moments you won't be so overcome as to lose the will to keep reading.

So... (I just paused for about 5 minutes trying vainly to think of an opening line in Iambic pentameter... recognizing how long it was taking I have come to the conclusion that this tale shall be told in prose rather than verse... my apologies).


Ok... So: We got our collective shit together to go hiking only by about 1 in the afternoon yesterday. An hour or so later we were on a rickety communist era (potentially from the early years of real existing socialism) bus puttering at about 15 clicks up a winding dirt road to just above the tree line on Mt. Vitosha... directly below the 4th highest peak in the entire country (at just over 2000m). An other couple of hours of labourious trudging through snow later and we were sipping wine on a rocky outcropping just below said 4th highest peak deliberating whether or not to go the extra 150m over rock and snow to the top and risk being caught in the dark, or just lie and say that we had. We opted for the later. (By the way... the view from the summit was gorgeous... we could totally see the CN Tower). ... We ran straight down - which was exhilarating and effectively packed all of our shoes with slowly melting snow (when I finally took off my shoes about 4 or 5 hours later my feet were emitting waves of what smelled like freshly caught fish) - only to find that we had missed the last bus by 5 minutes. WE asked the dude parked right by the bus stop if he could fit us for the ride down and he was nice enough to oblige... two of us (there were four). After much negotiation we decided who got the spots alphabetically by the second letters of our middle names. Or so Karin, Brent and I understood. Dan (an Aussie who joined us) got shafted... he thought we were going by the first letter... his middle name is Warren. Anyway... Dan and I ended up fending for ourselves. We stuck out thumbs out at a couple of cars... the first was full, the second was being driven by sour looking old people who just made a face at us. So we walked back to the chalet parking lot to beg. On route we saw a parked cab in which people appeared to be having sex. We made lots of noise but were unable to get their attention (I think they were ignoring us). That was a no go.
All of the few cars in the lot were full... so that was a no go too. We also found out that the walk down the road would be about 2 and a half hours before even reaching the fringes of civilization (the sun would set in about an hour and a half). Finally we approached this couple who were snacking at a picnic table. They didn't really speak English but between the odd word that they knew, and my horrible Russian we were able to communicate to them that we had missed the last bus down. They told us that if we waited for half an hour we could go down with them. We were elated. I had a beer. Only once they took us plunging down an icy slope did we realize that they hadn't meant that we could come with them in their car... but on foot, bushwhacking. But we weren't really worried until they decided that we needed to cross three metres of icy pipe over rushing glacier water. At that point Karin and Brent had probably just arrived at the hostel. Neither of us fell in though my fine motor skills weren't great after the wine and beer and I had a couple of scary wobbles. I think the only thing that kept us in the game was the enthusiasm of our two guides who seemed really excited by our company (the man told us that he really likes Canada, Australia and New Zealand.... I don't really know why he threw New Zealand in there... he then segued into some elaborate story that involved Arnold Schwarzenegger, the Sydney Opera House and the 1980s. I couldn't really follow it.) An hour and a half later (10 minutes by our guide) we started to see signs of human activity again. We had crossed about 4 different ecological zones. We started to think that maybe they weren't taking us to their candy house to cook us (which had seemed more and more likely as the sun got lower and lower and we were still on game trails in a forest growing on a 45 degree slope). By the way... sorry this is so raw, I don't really have time to make this post right now so I'm trying to write it as fast as possible. They shook our hands triumphantly when we arrived at a bus stop and informed us that we would be in our hostel in like 20 minutes max! (I don't know where this guy learned to tell time). After waiting for 20 minutes a bus finally came... and after riding it for about 20 minutes we were booted out on some dark street in god knows what neighbourhood in Sofia. After getting contradictory directions from 3 people we just picked a direction and walked eventually finding a tram (by this time it's about 9pm and the stars are out) that went to a stop that we recognized. It being Sunday night it took another half an hour before it arrived and we only staggered into the hostel shortly before 10. Karin and Brent were very happy to see us. Apparently our being unaccounted for for like 3 hours was worrisome! They bought us dinner. The end.

PS - The night before we went to see the Magic Flute. Tickets were under 8 dollars. Champagne at intermission cost about one dollar. Eastern Europe rules.

Dani Beograd to Bond

For the Belgrade component of this travel blog I'm going to describe a few relatively unrelated things.

1 - The Three Cats Hostel is probably my favourite hostel ever (possibly tied with the Orbit in L.A.). The owner met us at the bus station. He looks like a Viking: probably 6'4" 220 Ibs., long wavy red hair, a long time smoker's face, pretty major facial hair, and an obvious grudge against the government (which I could certainly understand). He doesn't say much, but when he does it's cool. Favourite quote: "Are you stupid or just American?!" (to this American guy that hangs out there all the time). He taught us his name as follows: "Laden... as in Osama bin Laden". He didn't laugh when I said that I was Ben as in Osama Ben Laden. But then most of you probably wouldn't have either. There are about 10 beds in the place, the internet is free, and everyone is relaxed, good natured, and cool. The beer's in the fridge if you want it. Everyone watched a pirated copy of Grindhouse the night we arrived... except the three of us who had gone to nap (a plan which went awry when it turned into a full night's sleep) and didn't hear about it until the next day. I was disappointed.

2 - It's a dynamic and bustling, self-possessed metropolis. It's neither a museum nor an antique... in that way it seemed more North American to me than any of the other cities we had visited so far. At the same time you feel the weight of history and pride in the people themselves. This is both a positive and a negative (the negative side of things really stood out to me coming from Sarajevo): There's no war guilt and even a sense of victimization regarding the way things ended up happening through the 90s. A locally published guidebook talked about the "NATO aggression of '95"... though maybe it was a weird translation. Brent had a weird experience too when a money exchange clerk told him that he should really not be wearing his Croatia patch so visibly on his backpack. Does time in fact soothe all sorrow? The positive side of that is that it lends a real vibrancy and vivacity to the atmosphere on the streets, in the cafes and in the bars. The culture seems more alive and unburdened than I've seen elsewhere.

3 - The night life is better than the day life.

4 - Tito's grave (which is not clearly marked on any maps though apparently has an entire museum built around it) closes at 3pm. It's stupid. We wasted a trip (got there at 3:02 and met a completely unsympathetic guard).

5 - I could have stayed much longer... the impressions I've written are really just inklings and I'd have loved to explore them more deeply.

Yesterday night at 9 we caught a sleeper train to Sofia (from where I'm writing). As Brent sees it we were basically in the same car that James Bond was in From Russia with Love. It was pretty awesome and very comfortable. The conductor was probably the nicest old man I've ever met. He took good care of us. I slept well. Karin had some trouble brushing her teeth, but I'll let her tell you about that if you're interested. Ask her about it. And also about then night when she fell backwards into a bush and couldn't stand up again because her backpack was too heavy (we have a very good picture).

Apparently we might be sharing a room with a Romanian hip hop group. They seem like dicks. I hope that doesn't happen.

Scarred Buildings and People

I'm writing from a hostel just off of the central square in Sarajevo. Croatia seems really far away.

We spend most of Sunday in the town of Mostar which was basically levelled in a clash between the Bosnian Croats and Muslims (who, as the NYT put it, were nominal allies through the rest of the war). The bullet scarred walls, bombed out buildings, the parks turned graveyards in which every stone was inscribed with '- 93' -- the number before the dash ranging from the 1910s to the year itself -- and the rather bemused (as another backpacker described it) attitude of the Bosnians to find tourists visiting their country profoundly impressed a variety of messages, feelings and questions that we've all been struggling with. How do you approach being a tourist in a country recovering so visibly from a horrific tragedy that didn't really touch you at all beyond a vague recollections of news reports absorbed periferally as a 9 year old? What's the middle ground between romanticization and avoidance? Should my camera even be out?

Yesterday we followed an emotionally charged tour led by one of the employees of the hostel here in Sarajevo. He took us to the tunnel under the airport (now mostly collapsed) that was the sole source of communication, electricity, fuel and illicit armaments for the 300 000 people that weathered and fought off the siege (the longest in the history of modern warfare at over three and a half years). There I pulled a pectoral muscle carrying a 35 kilo backpack for 25 m through the 1 by 1.5 m space. In operation the tunnel was 800 m long and constantly active, with hundreds moving within it at a time in both directions -- traffic density sometimes extending the trip to several hours. We also took in, wide eyed, a furious venting session in the guise of interpretation from one of the tunnel museum's staff members who, like our guide in the broader tour, had almost no patience for questions. I don't want that description to be interpreted as criticism. For it to have been as sanitized and visitor focused as the tours I used to give at parliament would have seemed incredibly artificial. And the hostility to questions seemed to stem largely from an attitude (probably correct) that we couldn't possibly even know the right questions to ask so why waste the time when there's so much to describe and say?

The tour went on to the old WW2 memorial from which the Serbian army sniped and barraged much of the city. There our guide sat us down (standing, the wind overpowered his voice) and described for 45 minutes the bungling of the UN (sending tons of malaria medication and condoms but less than 100 grams of food per person per day) and how the city mobilized to defend itself without military equipment or training. He told us about how the militia resolrted to buying millions of dollars of guns from a Colombian drug cartel because of the UN embargo on selling weapons to the combatants on either side (good in theory but a death warrant for the Sarajevans who faced an army inherited by Serbia from the former Yugoslavia). He showed us Sarajevo roses -- painted red to symbolize blood -- and told us about the proud history of diversity in the city (the only major European city which, accepting Jews expelled by the Spanish inquisition, did not force them into segregated ghettos, and in which today and for centuries can be heard both the call to prayer and ringing church bells.). He told jokes and in telling them fluctuated between a sardonic expression and one that was dead serious.

The driver was nuts although I think he may have been exaggerating his insanity to make a point expressed by the guide earlier that Sarajevans are frantic drivers because of the habit from having needed to barrel serpentine through the city at 120 kph in order to avoid artillery and sniper fire.

Following the tour I tried to engage Sunny (our guide) in conversation. Considering the fury he expresses towards Serbia I asked him if he had ever had Serbians on his tour. He said that he had and was unhappy to learn of them, but was impressed by their attitude as the tour progressed. I wanted to ask him why he gave this tour; whether it was out of a sense of duty to tell the story of Sarajevo, or whether it was just a job, an unoccupied niche? How did he feel about these voyeuristic English speakers coming to oggle the suffering of Sarajevo? Did he see them that way or was he more charitable? Could he empathize with us? His dismissiveness though kept me from pushing these questions on him. I hope he recognizes the potency of the experience for us.

I was emotionally spent for the rest of the day and still have a lot to think about. Sarajevo makes an interesting preface to Belgrade.

Now I'm off to check out what the deal is here with Franz Ferdinand.

Peace.

General Call for Addresses

Please send me addresses. I've been buying post-cards and need people to send them to.

I'm currently in Dubrovnik who's fortifications I had heard about but did not expect to be nearly so impressive. The labyrinth of streets cramped inside are also highly novel from a North American perspective, although it's far more tourist saturated than some of the smaller towns we visited on the islands (on which I have every intention of buying property at some point and would be happy to share time in if anyone else wanted to chip in. Hvar in particular jumped out to me as heavenly). Downside to the islands: The gelato is on average about 20 cents more expensive per scoop.

Interestingly, as it is the calm before the tourist storm of May and onwards, there were only about 25 other tourist following our trajectory going South from Split, most of whom are our age and partiers. Fun in moderation. Messes were made in the presidential suite of this hotel we stayed in Cordula (the key was in the door - practically an invitation - and we were the only guests having haggled a price of about 16 dollars per night (85 kuna)). I was in bed before the worst of it but I can't say I wasn't in support of opening the 'complementary' champagne.

One last quick note: Sorry for the lack of pictures... uploading is a bitch here, and the time is expensive. Expect a blitz at some point, but it may not be soon.

Send me your addresses! The only ones I have are my old Apt., and family members'.

Heart
Ben

Aaah! I've filled up my camera's 1 gig memory card with about 700 pictures already. I need to find a way to upload them asap, so expect it.

We are currently in Split. We're staying with this Babushka who solicited us at the bus station. It's about $20 canadian/night and she's being forcing snacks and coffee on us since we arrived. It's probably the ideal situation.

We caught the end of an Easter mass yesterday in Zadar (literally the last 2 minutes plus the exit procession). Organ music, people smiling, a kindly preist in a wheel chair shaking everybody's hands and giving blessings in Croatian, and apparently some body part of St. Anastasia all contributed to a rather european experience. The tone was much different from the Good Friday service we attended in Ptuj (pronounced like the act of spitting) in the poorest section of Slovenia. Also in a beautiful and ancient church, there was much solemn and sonorous chanting, the lights were dim, and inside the church it was at least 5 degrees colder than it was outside. It was very moving.

Sorry these are so short... internet has been hard to come by in packed days.

Hope you all had a bountiful Easter.

Less than 3.

Ben

So apparently Jesus died on this day a few years ago. This is a fairly big deal in 90%+ catholic Croatia. We're going to try to go to the Good Fridaz service in Zagreb's 13th century Cathedral. We'll see if it works out.

Tid bit 3: Produce here is incredible. I didn't used to like tomatoes. Now I do. Just went back to the open air market to reload. Also bought some hand made goat cheese from the cutest babushka who chased me through the market because I left before I got back all of my change.

Since last writing I met up with Karin a Brent. Yesterday was spent walking about with said pair. The weather was beautiful and shined a light on what is definitely a vastly superior quality of life here. Maybe I'm just seeing the nice parts. The communist bauhaus high rises that I passed on mz way from the airport didn't quite give the same impression.

Tid bit 4: Impromptu, I became the subject of a photography class yesterday who captured every angle of me looking at maps and taking pictures of St. Marks chuch in the upper town. The light was really beautiful... it probably brought out the best in me... although they weren't enthused when I offered to do a nude.

Today: We rent a car for the day and go see castles and vineyards in the countryside North-East of the city.

From the Vip in Zagreb with love.

Einz

This shall be my travel blog. And verily it shall. It shall differ in scope from fearandloathingeverywhere.blogspot.com (from last summer's road trip) as I am actually keeping a hand-written travel journal in which I will attempt to maintain a continuous narrative for posterity (which I think will keep the blog unencumbered and from collapsing under it's own weight as the aforementionned experiment did). This will be a compilation of various anecdotes, whims and other such tid-bits united only by the fact of their all being by me while not in Canada.

Anecdote 1: Keyboards in Croatia are identical to those in English speaking Canada except that the y key and the z key have inexplicably traded spots. I apologiye for any tzpos resulting from said idioszncracz.

Tid-bit 2: Here's a poem I wrote while waiting around for five hours at a gate in the airport in Vienna... I was feeling gradiose. And yes I know that the structure is inconsistent.

Working title: Gate A12

Harsh dim lights and stone walls
Off which echo international flight calls
As rain falls
Lightly on the tarmac
I sit back
But can't get comfortable, anxiously
Clenching ass cheeks on hard green plastic seat
Green bag with mz life in it between my uncomfortably warm feet
(why the wool socks dumbass)
The crowd ebbs and flows like Vienna's status through history
But it flows outwards
They're all leaving
From this room anyway
To them though I imagine Vienna is more tangible
Than a room with green chairs and the fanciful
Rendering of a high school history textbook
Nevertheless
Hard floors, bad lighting and cold facts
Encompass mz Vienna as it was encompassed by walls
Which held off Muslim hoards but not cannon balls
Cannons blow a hole in the walls that contain me
So that Vienna can come in
And be quick about it
I'm only here a couple hours more