Mumbai

It was so wierd...

I walked out of the airport, and almost instantly a motorbike whizzed by, driven by a well-dressed man with a gorgeous Indian woman on the back. Her eyes met mine, and I immediately threw down all my bags and burst into song declaring my love for her. The skycaps provided the orchestra and backup dancers. The girl also sang a verse, though I don't understand how we heard it, since she must have been a mile away. I then leapt off to find her, discovered she is held captive by an evil industrialist, and set out to save her. Evil industrialist sends out hoods to hound me, but I win them over with my affable nature. Finally, there is a showdown, a sing-off. Industrialist is bested, realizes his folly, and grants me the hand of the girl. We're all friends again, the girl and I marry, my long-lost twin brother comes back from the war, and we all dance until everything goes black.

Then I woke up, of course, still on the plane, final descent to Mumbai. Forgive me, that's all my subconcious had to go on.

When I got into the airport, I noticed it smelled like the plane I'd just left. Curry. It's odd, the whole time in India, I haven't been able to go for more than a minute without hitting a wall of odor, either curry or poo. Those two aren't always where expected, however. Airport bathroom? Curry. Under-the-airport-overpass restaraunt? Uhh... not curry.

We landed at 4am, so I read for a while and watched sunrise over the cab-ranks. I didn't have a guidebook, so all I knew was I wanted to go downtown to find a netcafe, finding lodging from there. I hopped on a bus, not quite sure where it was going, but I got a nice tour of the Mumbai sluburbs before getting off at a train station. I tried to find internet around there, and ended up waiting for a shop that some guy said opened at 9, grabbing some tea at a tiny cafe. I was really surprised by the quality of English I was running into, or rather, the lack-thereof. I had always heard tales of Iowa-accented Bangalore call center employees, and how English was the common language in a land of over 300 tongues. I was rather suprised by how difficult it was to communicate. 9:00 came, but the 'internet cafe' I had been waiting for turned out to be a computer store. Still, I was content trying to chat locals.

I then grabbed a train to go downtown. I was expecting something metro-ish, but instead, I got cattle-cars. The doors and windows are all propped open, people are hanging out the doors or chilling on the roof, and there's a mad crush to get on or off the train. I missed the first train, since I didn't really understand the system of boarding. It seemed more akin to football, an offensive line driving to get on while the defense is struggling to get out. The next train came along, and I plowed in, aided by the mass of 80lbs of gear on me. I flowed downstream and ended up near the opposite door, hanging out of the train with one handhold and uneasy balance, but at least I got a breeze. We started off, soon we pulled along another train, and I watched some guys sitting on the roof, having a smoke. The situation didn't seem conducive to the physics of a cigarette, but these guys are probably aeronautical engineers working on a new ramjet engine.

Once downtown, I oriented myself and looked for a room. I finally tried a place which seemed to be a pretty nice hotel, but I asked for the cheapest room. I usually have a rough time finding the "cheapest room", but at this hotel the clerk just leads me back behind a kitchen and opens the door. The room is basically a converted pantry with a bed. It's perfect. So I found a hotel with great service, yet my room was only a few bucks, and room-service is near free. Well, first I tried to phone for room service, but when I heard the ring on the other side of the wall, I hung up, raised my voice, and just asked for some tea.

But prices in India are just nuts. During my travels I've longed to get back to "Chinese prices," where I could get a pot of tea for 3RMB, about forty cents. But here, that tea is three rupees, about six cents. Meal prices are similar, and I relish the ability to leave a $2 tip when my meal costs fity cents. So before long, the staff guys at the hotel were bringing me free tea or newspapers or other stuff I hadn't requested. They always got a huge grin when I'd give them their fifty cent tip, and the gift frequency just increased.

But after checking in, I crashed for a brief nap, then got cleaned up and went out to explore Mumbai. I still hadn't a guidebook, so I cruised around downtown looking for bookshops. Though I could only find a standard-priced LP, all the other books in Mumbai are about a dollar, so I ended up coming home with a huge bag of knowledge.

The following am I woke up at four, having now completely screwed my bioclock. I read for a while, then hollered for breakfast and went up to the roof to watch the sunrise. Breakfast in Bombay at daybreak? Magical. I headed down and went for a walking tour of all the tourist sights, but I couldn't even find something worth a photo. I hung out at the Gateway to India for a while, hoping to be picked up for a Bollywood flick extra, but I couldn't take the touts for long. I did get one interesting pitch though: Two men in Hindu religious garb came up and began blessing and saying prayers over me, despite my claims that I didn't have any money. They insisted it was merely a religious gesture, and then painted something on my forehead and tied me a cloth bracelet. One guy starts saying a last big, dramatic prayer, and his parter asks for a donation. "50 rupee will give good luck and happiness today. 100 rupee will give good luck whole week. No donation will give bad luck for whole trip..." and so on. I thought it was a hoot; we may have invented chain-letter spam, but these guys have perfected it.

So I was slightly disappointed with the tourist sights, so I opened my LP to it's Mumbai map and looked for a section that didn't list any attractions. I started off, and sure enough, found my way to some major slums. Bombay supposedly has some of the worst slums of Asia, so I thought it would complete my tour. I was fascinated.

I got back in the afternoon and suddenly decided it was time to move on to Delhi. Grabbed a taxi to Victoria Station and bought a ticket to Delhi for five dollars. Of course, this "General" car I had a ticket for turned out to be no better than the city-trains. The car was just a can of flesh, with about 30 people stuffed into each berth (each section which would normally hold 6). Of course, I'm counting the folks standing in the crammed aisles and the people sitting in luggage racks. I was crammed on an upper bench with four other guys, and the only way to relieve the pain from slouching was to stretch forward a bit. Of course, my 'seat' had a giant metal bar under my tailbone, preventing any sort of slouch, so it was always a choice between a pain in my back or a pain in my As we moved along I kept getting new bunkmates, full of prods and questions. Thus I got no sleep, but there were some interesting folks. One guy was passing around his rifle, which I recognized as an M-1 Garand. I only know this since it was almost exactly like our NRTOC drill rifles, only this one had a magazine loaded. I was also invited many times to join in for a smoke, but as these cigarettes were referred to as "Universal cigarettes," and smelled a bit like Beta house, I respectfully declined. And again, the train was opportunity for me to witness the lack of English skills, as I constantly got poked and questioned on random stuff that I couldn't make out at all. The comment that I always made out, however, was "Why you in General class?" Indeed, there was wisdom in this. These folks were only on for short legs of the trip, but my journey from Mumbai to Delhi? 28 hours.

I got into Delhi and broke my binge/fast. My train diet had consisted solely of fried curry balls, so I'm not sure if it was a binge due to caloric intake or a fast due to lack of any nutrients. Although there are guesthouses around here where I can get a bed for $1, I decided to spoil myself on a $6 room in the hopes my spine will recover. Of course, there's something alive in my bedframe that was scratching wood all night. Whoo, I need some tea.










I'm off to explore Delhi. Love yall.

The Gulf

So I'm in Kuwait. Yeah, I really don't know how that happened... I was just looking for the cheapest tickets to Mumbai, and I was all set to get an Emirates direct-flight, when I suddenly found it would be half the price on Kuwaiti airlines with a stopover. So I'm in Kuwait.

I guess I didn't plan out all the effects of this little change, but I'll get to that in a bit. I will say, however, that it is very nice to have another Gulf state to compare to Dubai. I'm liking Dubai more and more.


When I first got to Dubai it was 102 degrees and sunny. Well, I got in the night before, but when I woke up and went outside the next day I thought I was going to die. Ate breakfast, met some German girls, and heard about a desert safari thing. Originally I was hot to hop down to the Liwa Oasis with it's 350m sand dunes, but upon inquiries it sounded like the only way to get there (there's nothing in the Empty Quarter, not even a Saudi-UAE border) was with a 4WD and excursion gear. Two of the few things I don't have in my daypack.

Die schorne Frauen gave me a brief intro to the bus system, and then I was off to explore the gold souq and fishmarket downtown. I was wandering through the side alleys of the gold souq when I came upon a little tailor shop where some westerner was haggling over the price of a National dress outfit. He seemed to have been at it for a while, and finally got the keffiyeh (headscarf), jalibiyya (robe) and accessories down to about $15. Impulse buy/desire to not haggle seized me, so I asked for the same.

I walked around for a bit longer before hopping a bus that went out to the Burj al-Arab (that crazy sail-shaped building/Dubai-icon/$1500 per-night hotel). Fell asleep on the bus, but it seemed a short ride and someone woke me up near the Burj. Hung out at the beach for awhile, took some pictures, tried on the new garb, and watched the sun set. Hopped a bus back downtown, and the Germans happened to get on a few stops away. It also turns out I had quite a nap on the way out, since it was more than an hour getting back to town.

Of course, the bus went to some odd end of the city, so the three of us wound our way back to the souq-station, grabbed food, and got our giggles as I donned the national garb again. I was hoping that no one would be offended, but I just seemed to get smiles from most of the South-Asian, African, or SE Asian guys at the bus stop. One man even called me over to teach me some phrases to "complete the set."

But I haven't yet mentioned the cultural make-up of Dubai. This is probably one of the most fascinating aspects of the Emirates: a nation of over four million, where less than 20% of the population are actually citizens. The majority are from every corner of the globe who've come to make money; the minority are the locals with gobs of money. I could go on about the insights this offers into immigration or national identity issues, but I'll save that for some paper I have to write (hopefully a replacement for standard BS). I'll stick to the pertinent stuff, as I was in constant contact with the "visitors" all the time. While the Emiratis were driving their Hummers and gabbing on their cells, I was chilling with the other Guests in their shops, in their restaurants, on their buses.

On their buses. Back to the story; there I was climbing onto a public bus at the gold souq. The ladies sit in ladies section, I move back and grab a rail, standing on the packed bus. I'm still getting smiles from the workers (so this probably is an 'up-yours' to Arabs, and the non-citizens probably enjoy it). Of course, behind me someone quickly jumps up and asks me to take his seat, and I turn around to see an African boy with a now-puzzled look on his face. Another glimpse at the social hierarchy.

Upon getting back to the youth hostel, I grabbed a shower and put on some standard, if slightly grungy, clothes. Yes, there is a YH in Dubai, Hotel price with Family Hotel quality (In Dubai, lodgings are grouped into these two categories, as the cheaper "Hotels" are often brothels). Went downstairs and met Johnny, a Torontonian investment banker. He has some ME blood, speaks some Arabic, and finds the Tax-free status of Dubai appealing. Even North Americans come to Dubai to make money. Anyhow, chatted with him and the ladies for some time, and having been in Dubai for a month, Johnny had plenty of cool observations on the society.

I also got ribbed by him and the girls for carrying an umbrella in my daypack, despite being in the middle of a 100-degree desert. Of course, I can't really get over that Boy Scout motto, and so my daypack also contains a poncho, thermos, extra camera, superglue, tape, locks, a Buddha, a Qur'an, journals, phrasebooks, hat, wool cap, gloves, sewing kit, Cortaid, matches, business cards, maps, atlas, books, compass, thermometer, multi-tool with pliers, locks, multi-tool with corkscrew, bug spray, sun-block, toilet paper, emergency phone, spare pens, etc... I'm fine leaving the umbrella there.

Johnny also had some young, crazy-in-a-good-way Saudi "doctor" following him about, trying to convert him (and later, me). This Saudi guy had a rather comical tendency to launch into long appeals about God-knows-what, non-sensical in either delivery or content. Couldn't decide which. Anyhow, during my stay he was a constant source of humor as he kept phoning his friend, a "Saudi prince", to tell him he was talking to Americans, Germans, and Canadians all at once!

After breakfast following AM, we called the Safari company and made arrangements. At 3:00, a guy picked us up in a modified Land Cruiser and drove us out to the desert near Hatta. Wow... I guess the 100 meter sand dunes were suitable enough. So we grouped off with another Toyota, and grabbed our Oh-shit-bars as the driver proceeded to fly up and down the dunes. The "safari" was basically an hour-long roller coaster ride, with plenty of G's, but no assurance of not-flipping over when we had a 60degree roll (hence the roll cage). Very awesome. Also had a few photo breaks, and the sunset over the orange dunes was just fantastic. In the evening, all the Toyotas in the desert converged on a camp for dinner (great to have local, rather than Indian, food), belly dancing, sheesha, tea, and even some beers! All in all, a fine little trip.

Following day I headed back downtown to get a ticket to Mumbai. The downtown is a nice segue into India, thanks to it's huge Subcontinent population. Since leaving Armenia I've been living on a steady diet of biriyani, masala, and other such dishes, since I can't really afford any of the food intended for Citizens. But it's all delicious, and it's really fun to ditch the silverwear. All the SubConters eat with their hands, and though I'm usually served with a spoon or fork, I just dig in with fingers while the locals smile or give a head-bobble of approval. My right hand has smelled of curry for about a week now, but since I carry that toilet paper, my left hand does not yet smell authentic.

Anyhow, then came all the flight business that I mentioned earlier. After hearing about the Kuwait option, I went to go use the internet and upload some photos. I downloaded Picasa and started touch-ups, though apparently it's no big thing for everyone to crowd around and stare at my screen. I chalked that one up to the fact that many of the pictures included the western women, as they usually get stares anyhow.

To my surprise, though, one of the guys came over and started asking about the program. I tried to explain slowly, but I just couldn't get my ideas across. The lingua franca is a mixture of bad African-English, bad M.Eastern English, bad Asian-English, either bad Subcontinent-English or Hindi/Tamil/something code-switching, etc. Anyhow, it's always a treat speaking with locals.

But this guy then produces a diskette and seems to ask if I'll edit some photos for him. I quickly touch-up the photos to clearly reveal some woman, who another customer inquires about. The photo-owner is Nigerian, and it sounds like the woman in the photo is from somewhere in Sudan, though the town's name sounded like a cross between a cough and a sneeze. But it was touching to hear the story of the Developing World's inter-continetal E-dating.

I no sooner finish with this guys photos than the Ethiopian worker behind the desk comes and asks me to do the same with his photos. Upon completion of that task, the Cafe owner comes jogging back, dressed to the 9's, glances at my camera with a hopeful look, and the cafe fully becomes a photo studio.

So that was Dubai. Really fun, and had a very nice mix of cultures, with a rather healthy dose of tolerant secular elements.

Then I hopped on the flight for Kuwait. I was handed a copy of the Kuwaiti times, where I got all the local news. A teacher in Saudi Arabia has been heard saying that the Jews aren't always wrong, and he even quoted a Bible verse. A month in jail for blasphemy, and 750 lashings at a good-ol' town-square flogging. Oil prices pushed also pushed higher on Tuesday, with more celebration from Kuwaitis. To go with the increased wealth, mega-SUVs are selling better than ever in Gulf states. "I like being in such a big car because it makes everyone else afraid," replied one woman when asked about her new purchase (on My Word, her real response). Russia's state owned Gazprom strengthened it's monopoly of Central Asian oil with more purchases in Tajikistan and Uzbekistan. Those shifty Americans are trying to control the internet; World council to accost them, led by the Justice League of Iran, Saudi Arabia, and China. Just another state-censored newspaper.

We touched down, and as the plane was unloading onto the tarmac, the passengers were yelping and covering themselves with bags, briefcases, or whatever they had. The American kid with the backpack just pulled out and popped open his umbrella. It's raining in the middle of the desert.

Got into Kuwait airport and was pleasantly surprised by the ease of getting visas for Americans. Looks like the government remembers recent history. Then I went through customs, and after my bag went through the X-ray I was asked to open it. The guy asked me to pull everything out, and the looked at a bottle I had. Brandy. I didn't think there was any problem since most Sane Arabic countries allow foreigners to import rather small allowances, but the guy promptly took the bottle and said I could go.

This ticked me off. I protested immediately, and said I'd keep it in the airport hotel, or mail it home, or something. The first guy seemed to agree, since as long as I didn't go through the doors I wasn't yet "in" Kuwait (think "The Terminal"). The customs guy asked which visa I had, so I produced my passport for him. The co-worker however seemed to be in a foul mood, and snatched my passport to hold hostage, telling me to just leave. He was actually telling me that it didn't matter what the rules were, since it was his country, not mine, and I could stop telling him how to run customs and get the hell out. Remember, I was staying calm, so I was rather shocked, and insulted, by irrational aggression. It looks like here, public sentiment remembers the most recent Middle Eastern history rather than that decade-old stuff.

But why didn't I just ditch the bottle and leave? It was Armenian Cognac, 20-year Ararat Ayree, the finest money will buy in Armenia. Sure, this only $50 usd there, but this stuff was Winston Churchill's favourite, the drink that Stalin would send him, still considered by many the finest "Cognac" in the world. Yet I haven't found any real exporters, so the bottles that are $3 in Armenia are $50 in the states. A bottle $50 in Armenia, I can't imagine what it'd be here. But I have no idea how I'd be able to replace this Christmas present for my favorite uncle. Merry Christmas, Uncle. I tried.

But I continued my protest for some time, having sat down at a nearby bench where many customs guys were lazing. It was ridiculous; I was carrying on a normal, friendly conversation with a few of them, while two others kept shouting curses and insults at me. It was obvious I was dealing with more than just a bottle of cognac here. Anyhow, the police/security came and began inquiries, and I kept calm and stuck to my request to just keep the bottle at the airport or mail it home. The police head seemed to see the logic in this, and he said it was probably okay, but that original ass**** kept screaming at everyone. I was asked to take a seat again, and after a few minutes, a tall black man and a woman of South Asian descent came in. Turns out they were USArmy (though non-uniformed), and it seems they were just grabbed out of the crowd. The man began gathering facts about the situation in what seemed to be a very-slangy fashion, but I realized that he was deliberately using street-vernacular. To the Kuwaitis present, it was as good as a foreign language. So he pretty much spelled it out for me that yeah, I had the rules on my side, but that didn't mean jack here for these folks, and they can play very dirty. Unfortunately for me, the crazy asshole with the Anti-American bent was the Customs guy-in-charge.

So I decided I had pushed the situation close enough to getting arrested, and still without results. Then I turned my thoughts to the two Americans helping me out, and after realizing what these two probably had to put up with across the border, my problem looked a pretty trivial. I grabbed my stuff and left in a rather despondent mood. I tried.

I Grabbed a taxi and asked to go to the Hawali Youth Hostel. After leaving, the driver tries to call for directions, and after no answer, begins yelling at me for, wanting the exact address. I calmly explain to him which street the hostel is on and what a hostel is, but he's soon screaming about how there is no such thing as a bed until 20 dinar (60 USD) per night in Kuwait. Gosh, what a welcome. Finally got to the street I asked for, spotted a Boy Scout building, and hopped out. Figured the Scouts will always know where Hostels are. This actually turned out to be the 10-story, Gold-encrusted-lobby'D Boy Scouts of Kuwait headquarters. I soon got directions to the hostel... 50 meters away. The 3-story, though hugely-wide hostel compound seemed to be completely empty, but still open. I suppose not many travelers are looking for that Kuwaiti hospitality I've received. But the guy who runs it is nice enough, and a bed here is, for the record, three dinar.

So I've been exploring Kuwait, a much more conservative gulf state, though with the same huge SUVs. There's some neat architecture, though not as modern as Dubai's, and a nice stretch of coastline where one can hardly see the vomiting smokestacks on the horizon. It's still raining, and since Kuwait doesn't seem too concerned about runoff-management, the roads are all under about six-inches of standing water. The city is okay, but there doesn't seem to be too much for tourists, and the few museums I went to were on their five-hour siesta. I only got stopped once by the police, as I was wearing shorts, but since I had the other half of my zipoffs in my bag I got away unmolested. Soo... great place!

So I've come back to the internet cafe where I came last night to checked news and mail. Twenty computers ring the room facing the walls, though the connection is quite slow, or somebody is hogging bandwidth. The guy next to me last night was probably a contributor, a man in the Sheik-garb with several web-cam feeds open. Now, I respect privacy, but he's a foot away, and it's hard to sit so close to my screen that peripheral vision doesn't pick up the Very explicit feeds from his chatroom friends. First I was a bit shocked, and then uncomfortable, and finally I thought it ironic that the morally-depraved Westerner is so shocked by the porn-addicted Muslim. The guy finally left, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I moved back to comfortable browsing-position. A couple minutes later, a young guy in Sheik garb comes and sits down at the terminal next to me. Within minutes, more chatroom webcam feeds are open, just as explicit, only more... uh, masculine in nature. Lends support to some of the whisperings I've heard about the culture of young sheik-dom.

So this was all last night. I wasn't going to mention this, but the National (sheik) next to me has his own cam-feed open. I was rather relieved to see that this time it was a fully clothed Asian woman. Then a few minutes ago, oops! There goes her top. Now the webcam is being adjusted... and they really need to move these computers further from each-other.

So what are Saudi Arabia and Iran trying to do by messing with internet governance? Clearly, as 100% of my observations show, their efforts are not the will of the Muslim People.

I'll be back to piss off more people later. Love yall.

-jfm









P.S. I've been working on the arabic script, but most written words don't include many vowels. Thus if I've messed up a spelling, pls frgv m fr th errr.

P.P.S. Those of you who maintain that one cannot turn something into an adjective by adding 'D to the end, please consult StrongBad.

Dubai

Dubai is great.

I've removed the post-script from that last post. I was pretty tired, and I don't think this is the appropriate forum for that subject. I'd be happy to share my impressions over a cup of coffee once I get home.

-jfm

Armenia

Well, Iran told me to shove it. I tried everything, and I got this far, but the visa just isn't going to happen.

I guess I'm not too surprised, though it's still a letdown. I've been trying at different embassies this whole time, and I've done everything "right," but that doesn't make up for the dude behind the window who tells the American to go play Hide-and-go-Kill-Himself. Meh. Anyhow, I'm flying to Dubai tonight. The toughest part the rejection has been having to cool my heels in Armenia for a week. Yeah, it's a great place, but it would have been nice to spend the extra time elsewhere.

But it is a great place. Yerevan is a neat city, with good barbecue and Churchill's favourite Cognac. Not being much of a brandy aficionado, however, I much prefer the view. Much of the time it seems the Soviet-era smog forms odd clouds, but on the clearer, breezy days, the haze clears out to reveal Mt. Ararat in all her glory. It may be on the Turkish side of the border, but I now understand how it's an Armenian icon.

Of course, Noah's ark is supposed to be up there, somewhere. They have some pieces of it, along with the spear that pierced Christ, locked away at Echmiadzin, the home of the Armenian Church. I made the trip to see the relics, but didn't know about the "locked away" part until I got there. Still a neat trip.

I also made a trip to the museum of the Armenian Genocide, but it was closed due to lack of power. Instead, I spent the time at the memorial above the museum. Sufficiently depressing not to find time to go back. Instead of numerous color-photos of them, I'm content with reading of the systematic slaughter of 1.5 million and the subsequent Turkish denial.

I did, however, make the trip to Khor Virap, right on the Turkish-Armenian border. It's a little church on a little hill right under Ararat. It's got lots of history, yadda yadda, but I don't currently have the energy to go into that. I climbed a nearby hill to grab some photos and to meditate, but a farmer in one of the nearby fields caught sight of me and made his way to the hill. During his approach, I wasn't sure whether it would be a friendly visit, but when he got close I saw he was carrying his lunch, a watermelon. We exchanged greetings, he split his lunch on a rock and offered half, and we chatted away about whatever popped into our heads.

He had some long, unfamiliar name which I forgot pretty quickly. But interesting, nice guy. He's an Azeri, but he was living in Karabakh, and after the mass-displacement, being Christian, he decided to go to Armenia. He told me all about his kids, and about his Soviet Navy days in Murmansk, complete with the smashing-of-frostbitten-hand-against-rock demo. It seemed a mark of pride. Got to hear all of his opinions on rural Armenia, money-sodden Yerevan, wars on Terror, my county, etc. I was asking for all of these opinions, of course.

I was just impressed by how friendly and genuine he was; even when I asked him about his work, and heard of his growing brandy grapes for $2 a day, it wasn't a plea for cash. Regardless, before we parted I gave him $2 in Armenian Dram, since he had, after all, shared his lunch. Nice guy.

Made my way to the church, next, which was cool enough. The view is great. On the way down from the church, however, I stopped to talk with some guys about random stuff, and soon a group of young school-kids came down and immediately launched into a half-hour QnA session with the curious-looking American. No sooner had these young kids climbed onto their bus than another school-group came down, but this time the kids were 13-14 year olds. They spoke better Russian, asked more questions, and were more energetic about everything. Soon enough they were asking for photos, and they grabbed their teacher and took me back up to the church, with the young guys challenging eachother to get the American up rock-ledges, and the young girls seeing who could first get a phone-number or promise of marriage or something. Young, energetic kids.

Of course, upon our return to the parking lot I was invited to ride the bus back to their village, which was quite a nice gesture. It saved me the walk to the nearest town to wait for a bus to Yerevan. We loaded the bus, the teachers cranked up the music, and the kids and the American all danced around until the American couldn't stand any longer. Luckily, "Peanut Butter" and a few other songs helped their Dancing Monkey to continue the entertainment. Finally got to their village, said the goodbyes, and hopped a bus to Yerevan.

Other than that, I've been exploring Yerevan, walking in circles all week(really, it's all a big circular layout), reading, and not drinking enough coffee. Hence the rather uninspired text. The poor editing is because this computer is retarded. Anyhow, time to register for classes and then move on. I am, despite my yawning, really excited to get to the Gulf.

Love yall.

Caucasia

Hey hey! Back again, and I hope yall'll stick with this one if it gets long. I'm also proud that the Welsh aren't the only folks who can put four L's in a row.


When I last left off, I was just getting into Tbilisi. After deciding for something a step up from the Bus Station Hotel(TM), I found a cool little homestay run by Grandma Nasi. I don't actually call her that, but it probably brings to mind a pretty good image of the place. Upon arrival, I ran into a guy named Erik who's been staying at Nasi's for a few weeks. Also from NY State. Also did NROTC. Didn't know whether to do it at Duke or Rice. Once we both got over the oddities of meeting in the middle of Georgia, we hopped around the city for a bit. He went Surface in the Navy, so I got to hear lots SWO-horror stories along the way. He also seemed of the opinion that the Navy thing in general isn't the greatest, but I'm still gung-ho. Then again, I haven't taken Physics yet.

Also met Almitra, a woman walking around the world. It's year nine. Rather amazing, and I heard some great stories and picked up a few tips. Just a fun lady. Also heard about some of the other BPers in the area, including some German guy Sebastian who hitch-hikes everywhere. Cool lady.

I set out to get an Azerbaijan visa, and I was presented with the options of a 5 day visa or waiting 5 days for a 30-day. Figured I'd make it a short trip. Dropped off my passport, and started on a proper walking-tour.

Tbilisi really is a beautiful city, laid between some lovely hills and adorned with thousands of churches (second nation in the world to adopt Christianity). Since the more pious locals cross themselves thrice when a church comes into view, the constant arm-flailing can be pretty humorous. I was just coming down one of the hills when someone starts screaming for "John".

Now, I've learned to ignore this. First it was giggles in Turkey when people asked about and learned my name. Then it got more confusing, with random people walking up to me and throwing out "Hello John!" It finally clicked that "John or Johnny" is regional slang for an American or Western guy.

Anyhow, after the shouts continued for a bit, I finally turned around to see Erik's head hanging out of a Taxi, though accompanied some heads of long, black hair. Erik had been matched with a Georgian gal, who had friends, and they were all headed back up the hills. So I hopped in.

Later I also got word about a Georgian film that's just finishing up in theaters: "Trip to Karabakh." Nagorno-Karabakh is a region that was part of Azerbaijan for most of the 20th century, though with a large Armenian population. Then, as the USSR cracked, so did the Caucasus. While Abkazhia picked up their railways and told Georgia to stuff it, and while South Ossetia decided it was time to join North Ossetia (across the Russian border), Nagorno-Karabakh also blew up. The government voted for independence, and then all hell broke loose. I don't know who the aggressors were, whether Aremenians came in and fought for Karabakh, or if it was Karabakhis v. Soviet and Azeri troops, or if Turks supported Azeri incursions and supression, etc. The thing is, I don't think anyone really knows. So this is quite a thorny issue in the Caucasus, and the '94 ceasefire, with Armenia controlling Karabakh, some rather poisonous sentiments abound. Anyhow, this is the cultural setting for this film. During the Hell, some Georgians decide to go down to Azerbaijan to score some hash, get lost, and end up separated on opposing sides of the front. Some rough sub-titles, lots of humor that doesn't seem to translate, but overall a very cool flick.

Following day (Wed) I pick up my passport and decide to head to Azerbaijan and to the only Pakistani embassy in the Caucasus. Got into Baku on Thursday, Pakistan told me No. Visas for Americans are only issued in America. I know from other travelers this is bull, but that won't help me anytime soon. So, went for an Indian visa.

I then got my bearings and headed to a hotel, which, while $5 dollars a room for most of the world's population, was $10 for me. Normally this wouldn't bug me TOO much, but there were non-Americans checking in right next to me for $5. I started to ask into it with the girl behind the desk, then a young westerner comes walking by and offers his assistance. "Speak Russian?" ask I. "Yeah!" So he launches into something (not Russian) and keeps repeating "Stinky Malinky!" I still don't have a clue what it was supposed to mean. The girl didn't really either, and as my savior repeated his phrases, she just got angrier. He said I can crash in his room, though, so I dropped $5 on the desk and drag the guy upstairs before the girl can call the cops. "By the way: what's your name?"

"Sebastian." The German guy from Nasi's who'd been hanging out with Almitra and Erik. Hmm. Anyhow, we planned out a little day-trip and headed for the Absheron peninsula.

The Absheron (Abseron but with a little dangly from the 'S') is the spit of land that juts into the Caspian sea. The whole thing is pretty much saturated in oil, and for ages it was known for "fire mountains" and other naturally occurring vents spitting out flame. An old temple we stopped at, the Ateshga (Home of the Flame), used to draw pilgrims from all around to worship the mystical flames. Of course, once drilling started nearby the flames petered out.

Now, however, the entire peninsula is just a wasteland. Had I only seen pictures, I wouldn't have imagined anyone could display such contempt for the planet. Yet here it is. There really isn't anything to do out there, other than visit the baby-cemeteries or marvel at the landscape. Who would have guessed this from a nation that has nothing better to put on their currency than drilling equipment?

Grabbed a bus back to Baku (after Sebastian flags down a car for a leg, despite my protests over hitching) and headed in. A mini-bus, by the way, is twenty cents. Metro coin? Five cents. Litre of '92 Octane? Thirty cents. Litre of water? Forty cents. Hmm.

Back at the hotel, I ran into a guy I'd seen around the place a few times. Actually, I ran into Sebastian, who had already been nabbed by the guy for some "hospitality." This usually just involves the consumption of an inordinate amount of alcohol, but this guy was a hoot. He was telling us all about his job of driving stolen Benzes and Bimmers to Baku or Tbilisi, where he got a $300 cut from the Mafia. And since he had such good Business friends, he really wanted to call for some lady friends! A Mafia call-girl, by the way, is $10. We just pretended to not understand the guy; I acting like I thought he was speaking of his wife, Sebastian... well, I don't think the comprehension was an issue there. Finally tried to get away since I had "to get up early to go to Sheki."

"Ahh! Good! Sheki's on way to next stop! I drive you and get you cheap rooms and cheap girls and..."

So never underestimate the hospitality of the Caucasian Mob.

That doesn't really go for the merchants, though. On this front, it seems Azerbaijan's cultural and geographic fusion has merged the morals of a Turkish cabby with Brezhnev-era service standards. At a rest stop on the 10 hour ride to Sheki (I did take a bus) I went into a diner and asked for borscht and tea. I got the tea, and after a while a waiter brought out a big tray of plates: broth, green onions, pickles, beet, a cup of sour cream, etc. I laughed and ate my some-assembly-required borscht. At the end of the meal, however, I pulled out 6000 manat to pay for my 5k meal (4.5k to the US Dollar). Of course, the staff, now crowding around the table, want 20,000 manat. After all, I got broth (3k) and cream (3k) and beets (3k)...

I laughed again, dropped 10,000, and headed out. Of course, I'm getting grabbed and pulled and shouted at... these clowns really wanted 20,000! I finally squeezed out the door they were blocking and got onto the bus. But just as the bus is pulling out, a group led by Big-Boss-Man jumps on, and starts shouting for 'Johnny Amerikan'. I wave, Bossman launches into some rant. After silence falls to wait for someone to translate, I just reply in bad Russian, "I asked for Borscht. 3000. I asked for tea. 2000. I gave 10,000. To your health."

Now, the "Nazdarovya" ('Cheers'/'To your health') was all I could think of. I thought it would add some finality without sounding too rude. I guess it came off differently, though, since first there was silence, then snickers, then some giggles, and finally some laughter from the rest of the bus. Bossman looked embarrased and tried to stare me down. He left the bus as someone in the back started clapping.

I don't always have pisser stories. There's lots of friendly folks around cities always eager to gab, and sometimes the kids are just too cute. I just find the pissers are more fun.

As for Sheki, Sheki was Sheki. Just a little town up near the border with Dagestan (Russia). Beautiful foliage. Made me miss home. Other than that it's pretty sleepy, with a modest little palace, a museum with re-decomposing Taxidermy and some cardboard models, and for entertainment, a dude with a BB gun and targets. I ended up spending most of the time throwing back tea at some shack with a bunch of pensioners. I think they pre-date the Russification. Cool fedoras, though. But yeah, I guess I really don't know how I ended up in Sheki.

Went back to Baku after a day, and found I had to re-negotiate a room. Now the hotel dude wanted $15. His 'reason' was that no singles were left, and I had to take a suite. The hotel, however, with it's LBC crackhouse charm, doesn't have suites, and there couldn't have been more than ten guests in the entire place. For some reason (well, it was handy) I decided to ask the guy to swear on the Qu'ran that he had no singles left. Of course, this confirmed my suspicions only at the expense of pissing him off. The hotelier starts checking in another family for $8.

Then a few of the local hangabouts start asking me if I'm a Muslim ("No but I think that it's an interesting, good book"), and after some conversation, and comments or nods of approval, they start dumping guilt on the clerk. They soon leave, I jump on the chance to sweet-talk the hotelier while he won't loose face. After a little appeal I'm rather proud of (guys at the top get all the oil money in 'Baijan while average-Jawal gets nada, similarities to widening income gap in the states, huge student tuitions while old money get tax cuts, etc.), I finally got a room-key. Just before I decided this guy wasn't so bad after all, he taps a checkout-time sign and asks if I've read it. Yeah. "No no, this part..." [The hotel is not responsible for items lost or stolen from rooms...]

So, doors triple-locked and windows barricaded, valuables horded and under pillow next to IndyJones whip, I finally got a few half-hour bits of paranoid sleep.

In the morning I picked up my passport and headed back for Tbilisi, having only overstayed my visa by a day. An Azeri bribe, by the way, $20. Now, I'm back at Nasi's, I've been chatting with Almitra and Erik, and I've been tooling around all-day in my rag-shorts. My real pants are in the wash after a massive mud splash, but now at least the beggars, after noticing they're better-clad than I, leave me alone. Should be off to Armenia in the AM.

Thanks a bunch for staying with me. I'll see if I can't chop these up a bit more.














One month left. Onward and Upward.