As we cycled out of Tbilisi on 25th June, we noticed a couple of large Stalin head reliefs glaring down from an old building on the outskirts of town. No attempt to conceal them had been made- surely many Georgians view them with a pinch of pride!
The seasonal heat had clearly severely increased during our week in Tbilisi. There was no wind, and ice cream-and-drink-stops were very regular indeed. Heading east, toward the Azeri border, and through Georgia's wine growing region, and found a beautifully scenic place to camp for the night, tucked up into the hills, on a grassy plain next to a depleted river.
Having tried to get up early the next day, we in fact only got going at about 7am and experienced another absolute scorcher; the apparently safe public springs that sprout up all over Georgia came in very handy indeed. We cycled through Signagi, an extraordinarily smart and bijoux town (more Italy than Georgia) with a lovely view of the high Caucasus mountains looming in the distance, seemingly floating on a cushion of sky.
At the Azeri Border, there was a sign in Georgian and English which read "Azerbaijan Border 100m. Good Luck!"
As we crossed the Georgian checkpoint into no-man's-land, the friendly Georgian policeman grinned "Good Luck!" to us a second time. From the orderly queueing at the shiny new Georgian border post, we were made to wait on the other side of an iron gate before being called forward. Embarrassingly, we were skipped past everybody who was waiting. Immigration were friendly and swift, although it was irritating that they insisted on playing with my horn. "Welcome to Azerbaijan. Now go to Customs."
Customs took our passports away to a different room for closer scrutiny, while one customs officer sat on a stool in front of us to begin his interrogation.
" Where from?"
" England" (they never understand UK)
"Tourist?"
"Tourist."
"AR-MEN-IA?"
"NO no no no no no no no"
"No, ....... Georgia - Ar-men-ia, ......... Ar-men-ia - Georgia?" (His eyes narrowing)
"Absolutely not!" I had placed a black tape over the name "Armenia" on the guide book and hidden it at the bottom of a pannier. Ex-pats refer to it as "Kansas" so as not to utter the taboo word.
Having satisfied themselves that we have not been, nor that would we ever want to go to Armenia, they said "Welcome to Azerbaijan." Another man came up to us, an said "AZERBAIJAN! VERY GOOD!" With this ringing in our ears, we set out down the road, which immediately turned to a rocky track, past a gypsy village, and we were chased by wild dogs.
In Azerbaijan, there is a reverence to the late ex-president Heydar Aliyev which is very similar to the way Ataturk is revered in Turkey. There are photos of him everywhere (NEVER defaced), sometimes with an inspiring quote, and most things (!) are named after him. People refer to him as "Our Father". On his death, he was replaced by his son.
Luckily, that evening we found a Motel in Balakan with air conditioning to relax in and acclimatise to our new country. The following day, we resolved to make it to Sheki, a famous mountain town with a beautiful khan's palace. We took a wrong road near the end of the day, and had to negotiate 15 km of extremely stony and pebbly dirt track upon which I suffered a tyre blowout, which only prolonged the miserable experience. At the end of the day, there was an enormous climb up to Sheki, which was dead straight, therefore looked deceptively shorter than we thought. The highlight of Sheki is a silk road caravansarai which has been converted into a hotel. Having found that the hotel was full for a function, we contacted Ilgar, who can arrange home stays (number in the lonely planet).
He was a very friendly chap (he also runs a tea house), however the homestay was not an awful lot of fun- the room wasn't great and you had to walk through someone else's room to get to ours! We had a chat with the family, who were friendly enough, although the level of inherent racism that many people from this part of the world have became rather obvious. When I said that London is a beautiful city, the woman said "London! Prob-lem! Many negro! Many Hindu!" , whilst pointing at her skin. Multiculturalism has passed Azerbaijan by. There is only really one type of person living here (Azeri, apart from expats) and they are pretty afraid of different people, it seems.
The following day, we were invited to Ilgar's family home for a lovely breakfast of rose petal jam, cheese, tea (with rose water) and bread. His family were happy and friendly, and he showed us all the plants he has in his garden.
We then went to see the beautifully oriental khan's palace, which is held together with no glue and no screws or nails. The intricate paintings on the inside were lovely. In the grounds of the palace a load of schoolchildren (and their teachers!) insisted on having their photos taken next to us, one by one!
Ilgar doesn't allow the locals to play backgammon in his tea house because they get over excited! During our tea break we hailed down another cyclist, Will, another Brit who has the same idea as me! We stuck together for the rest of the day, and went up to see an old church in an over-packed minibus. There must have been 30 people in the minibus, and there was absolutely nowhere to sit. Isabel managed to bag a place on an old lady's knee. She, as do many people here, had a full set of gold teeth. Our theory is that aside from being fashionable, gold teeth are the product of the method of putting the sugar lump in your mouth rather than in your tea, and the lack of dental hygeine. If your tea is too hot, pour it from your cup into your saucer and sip it from there!
We all stayed in the Caravanserai hotel that evening, and really enjoyed being there, under the mountains surrounded by such lovely buildings. We had supper there, and were irritated to find that the staff were using our table as a training table for the new young waiter who was yet to learn to pour a bottle of water. Isabel had not yet finished her plate when the keen young waiter tried to take it away, and on protesting, the haid waiter only relpied,"He wants to take your plate away." How rude of us to intrude on his desires!
The following day, Will cycled with us, and we ended up camping in the woods. It was a great place to camp, but chicadas were emerging from large pupae stuck onto the tree bark. We looked just like hornets, and we were pleased to notice on close inspection that they were in fact chicadas!
On the next morning, the 30th June, we elected to take a route into Baku that would go south of Baku, and up to it along the Caspian Shore due to the apparent non-existence of tarmac on the main road into the capital city. This led us down, away from the mountains and onto the desert plain. The heat was pretty intense, and when it came to the evening, we found a petrol station where the kind little chap showed us a padoga by a nearby lake we could camp on. We had no real food that evening but feasted on watermelon I had bought, and many other small melons that kind store owners had given us.
When we packed up at 6 the following morning, the "kind" teenager who had shown us where we could camp had clearly had ideas during his long night shift about cash-extraction the following morning, and had thought we would be a good source.
"Om Besh Manat!" he announced (15 Manat, about GBP 12). We offered him a slice of watermelon with big grins and pretended not to understand. When we tried to leave he blocked us in by standing in the narrow entrance to the pagoda, and kept repeating "Om Besh Manat!" We only escaped because he had to go to serve a customer. The Achilles heel to his little plan!
In the evening of the following day, we arrived at the Caspian Sea (or Lake?), a very satisfying landmark. We had intended to cycle the full 150km to Baku that day, however the headwinds were the worst I have encountered on this trip so far. On the flat, I usually cycle at about 25 kph but could only manage about 6 or 7. The wind was blowing sand accross the road in interesting patterns. We were not going to make it to Baku, and I was beckoned over by a smart looking chap with a white flat cap, and invited to stay with him and his family. This was the Soingacal family, and we were summoned inside for tea, and ordered to take showers.
It is interesting to note that although a house may be very smart, showers and loos are a shed accross the yard. It was great to have a scrub after so long unwashed! We were immediately given some food, and more tea. With no safe drinking tap water, it seems people here drink tea instead of water. The eldest daughter (of the three still at home) appeared to be rather a strict muslim, sporting a headscarf. She said she was sad that Michael Jackson had died because he was a muslim. Supper was a casserole of one of the chickens, prepared by her, and was delicious.
Another daughter is living in Germany with her German boyfriend, and I chatted to him on the phone. He sounded very friendly, and it was good to talk some English because my Russian (with which I communicated with the others) is not very good. Mr S used to be a police officer, before and after the fall of the USSR. He is a great supporter of the current president.
The following morning, we were treated to a feast of a breakfast, including fried eggs (hurrah!), outside, in view of the 130 chickens (or was that 129?) and 6 or so turkeys clucking away in the penned-off garden. We were given a grand tour of the garden, and it was great to see all the different fruits grew therein, including figs (ripe), apples (just about), quince, and grapes among many other things.
The ride into Baku that day was far less windy, and we bashed out the 45 or so km before lunchtime, despite the late start. The 1000 Camels hostel is located in the walled old town, which is in the south of Baku, so it was very easy to find. The sign outside the front door "The key is under the flowerpot" was a prelude to the utterly shambolic nature of the place.
Ramil, the manager, would have been more at home in Fawlty Towers. Until the moment he went on holiday, it was not possible to relax for 10 minutes in the hostel without having to hold a conversation in complete gibberish.
"YOU STAY? YOU STAY? OKAY, NO PROBLEM! YOU STAY TONIGHT, NOT TOMORROW NIGHT? NO PROBLEM, YOU PAY THREE NIGHTS OKAY? MUST GIVE MONEY TO BOSS! BOSS VERY ANGRY! OK RELAX NO PROBLEM. YOU PAY? HE PAY?..."It turns out that "Boss" was in fact his elder brother Samir, who is the owner and about to do an MBA at St Aidan's College, Durham next year.
The place was utterly shambolic, with a permanently broken sink and rock hard beds. At one point, I was told that as there was not change, I was owed money by one of the other guests! One evening, when I was doing some bike work in the courtyard, there was a problem with the plumbing and brown mess (yes, that's right) started falling from the sky, to be cleaned up with a broom by one of the neighbours.
Despite all this, it was a great place to stay due to the regular flow of other travellers, in particular cyclists! We all gathered in the tiny common room where it was possible to cook (wash the plates up in the loo basin.)
Will was there on the first night waiting for us, and Elmar was there too, a Dutch cyclist whom we had met in Tbilisi. It was great to see them. Elmar kindly gave me his expensive rear tyre in return for a meagre pizza. Mine had materially failed, and the choice in the only bike workshop (not shop) in the city was "Russian or Chinese"- no reliable German manufacturing!
Baku is described in the guide book as an "oil boom town," which is certainly the case. The streets are resplendent with Hermes, Gucci, and Mont Blanc shops- and the litter bins are intricate metal urns spraypainted silver. The people are well heeled. The town is pretty immaculate, at first glance. All this when most of the countryside does not have running water or even a lick of tarmac! Vast areas of the city are however either being demolished or rebuilt. You can buy as much designer tat as you like, but if you want to buy something useful like a bicycle part or a tent peg, you can think again.
There is an efficient Metro which only costs about 5p per ride, despite this being an expensive city. The trains give out a catchy jingle when they stop- I think each station has its own jingle. This is important because there is absolutely no indication of the station name on the platforms, which makes it rather precarious for foreigners.
One evening, Isabel and I met a contact of a friend of ours from Baku. It was great to meet a friendly local who was our contemporary, and she was keen for us to sample proper Azeri tea. As we sipped the amber ambrosia through sugar cubes implanted in our cheeks, with the oil rigs of the Caspian in the background, the profoundness of the dislike and distrust of Armenians became clearer than ever, as well as the inherent racism that appears to be implanted in the area. "Armenians complain about the genocide, but I tell you that genocide never happens unprovoked! Take for example Britain. Britain for a long time occupied parts of Africa and now there are Africans occupying parts of London!" It is difficult to reply to such things. "Lovely evening isn't it! I say- you can see the oil rigs!"
I ended up staying in Baku for more than 2 weeks, sorting out the visas required for the rest of the trip (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and China.) Isabel and Will both left before me. She had had enough of cycling with me and intended to try a little more non-cycle travelling. The visa problems are protracted by the requirement of certain embassies to hang onto the passport while processing, meaning it is not possible to get the ball rolling on another visa. As it turned out it was very lucky I got my Chinese visa in Baku because the grapevine is reporting that Central Asian embassies are not granting visas!
It was at the Chinese Embassy that I met Greg, a long blond haired (well, it was short when he left England 5 months ago) Hertfordshire chap who is cycling to Australia. It seemed like a shambolic attempt as there were some European tourists who had been sent away and ordered to get a letter of invitation, and Greg already had one. The frustration grew as only other man in the queue worked for an agency, had about 100 passports, 2 loud mobile phones that rang interminably, and failed to acknowledge us once. Greg approached the window, and handed his letter over, which had been prepared by a family friend in Beijing. The Azeri girl who worked for the chinese consul consulted with him. He read the letter, smacked it twice and sent it back. "A law firm cannot invite you for a cycling trip! It must be from a sports club! This invitation is invalid! Greg had failed to get a visa with a letter! What were my chances?
"Hello, I would like to know if I can apply for a Chinese Visa"
"WHO TOLD YOU COME HERE?!" Barked the consul.
"I have read in my guide book that I can obtain a chinese visa here"
"I WANT TO SEE YOUR REGISTRATION"
"I don't need to register as I am a tourist staying in Azerbaijan for less than 30 days"
"I WANT TO SEE YOUR TLAVRRERS CHEQUES"
"I am using cash"
"HOW I KNOW YOU SUPPORT YOURSELF IN CHINA? I WANT TO SEE YOUR TLAVRRERS CHEQUES"
In the end, he accepted a photocopy of my credit card (gulp!) for which I was ordered down the street to find a copied, but the Chinese Visa for some reason was secured. Greg eventually got one too, without a letter.
That evening Tom and Blaise turned up at the 1000 Camels. Tom is ex-Durham, and they are both cycling the same route. We all decide we will travel the dicey desert stretch through Kazakhstan together.
To kill some time, I visited the famous mud volcanoes at Qobustan, which are not spectacular, but well worth the hour long taxi ride for their faintly rude curiosity. They are grey mud mounds none more than 6' high that belch and bubble, and produce noises to make onlookers snigger. On the same trip I visited some important petroglyphs. I also biked to a place where natural gas seeps from the side of the rock, giving a perpetually burning flame.
For the second week in Baku, I went to stay with Kyle, a friendly American expat chap whom Greg had met through couchsurfing. He was very kind and generous with everything he had (he had a Nintendo Wii!), and it was brilliant to get out of the hostel!
Having secured all the necessary visas, I sat down in an internet cafe and found out that the FCO travel warning against going to Iran has been lifted, meaning my insurance was no longer invalid. I fired off an email to the agency who had obtained my Iranian visa, and they replied the following day that although my visa ran out on the 19th July, I would be given 15 days if I entered before the 18th. I hurried down to the Turkmen Embassy to apply for a Turkmen transit visa (to collect in Mashad) which appeared no problem, although I was a little disturbed by the question "I am sure there will be no problem, but what will you do if you don't get granted the visa?"
We (Greg, Tom, Blaise and Pedro, another cyclist) held a summit in Ale's teahouse- should Humphrey go to Iran or Kazakhstan? Iran is not extending British visas, so getting out of the country on time would be a real rush. Sorting out the Turkmen visa in Mashad is also far from certain. I had to enter Iran in 2 days time, also a logistical headache if I wanted to cycle. What if Turkmenistan only grant a 3 day visa? Not sure if my folks are particularly happy with me going to Iran in the current climate, despite constant reports of the friendliness of the Iranian people. And in any case, this route would involve 21 days of cycling without a rest day.
In the end, the decision was a snap decision, and I plumped for the safe option, the ferry to Kazakhstan (well, safe in visa terms- 11 days in the desert was an interesting experience!). I have had a great time over the last couple of weeks (this will be the subject of the next post), but it was a decision that has been eating away at me ever since.
The ferry from Baku to Actau is really a cargo boat that leaves without announcement. Tickets go on sale a few hours before the ferry leaves, so it is necessary to hang around the kassa on the odd chance that the ferry will go. You have to ask if it will leave today, and they will give you absolutely no indication whatsoever, apart from "Try again later." Will had caught it by camping down at the ferry port.
As it happened, the tickets went on sale the morning after the "Summit"- and right until I had handed over the cash to the ticket witch (as she is known to all travellers- she charged us an extra $15 each for our bikes because we hadn't hidden them from her sight).
Having bought the tickets, we had a long wait to be called through immigration, and security who made us remove all our panniers and put them through a scanner while all the cars just drove on. As we sweated outside, Blaise was asked inside and given a cold drink. Corrupt port officials tried to collect "port tax" but we somehow managed to sneak past. The exit stamp on my visa meant that I couldn't go to Iran anymore even if I wanted to.
Far from having people ushering us where to go, we had to find our own way onto the ferry, and we secured our bikes next to the freight rail carriages that had rolled on.
The ferry was clearly incredibly old, and grotty as hell. The cabin I shared with Greg had a loo with a broken cistern, and when I complained, the woman only laughed. It did actually work properly later on , but through direct pipes- the cistern did not fill with water! The matteresses had ominous looking holes.
The ferry left without ceremony, and set out onto the largest lake in the world on a journey pretty much 200 miles due north that should take 18 hours.
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Trabzon (Turkey) to Tbilisi (Georgia)
David
Eating Xinkale
Political protests- more peaceful than Iran!
Georgian script with traditional drooping Georgian cross of St Neno
David
View of where the 2 rivers meet from Jvari monastery
Jvari monastery, the spiritual home of Georgia
The Shrine of St. Joseph - the house where he grew up in the foreground
Stalin's train
This is where he sat on his train in his living quarters!
Stalin's Loo!
Stalin's death mask
Best pals
The main street
Stalin's Statue
Chacha?
Monastery church (wedding guests in view- it is used for weddings at weekends!)
No Obedience on Sunday afternoons. Ioana is second from the right, and the lady who gave us the pendants is fourth from the right.
My room at the monastery
Passed into Georgia, thank heavens!On the 10th of June, I did indeed go for an egg mcmuffin in Trabzon, and it was absolutely delicious. The ham seemed like real ham, and the eggs were beautifully runny. There was the usual problem with getting change however- in this part of the world not even McDonalds carries a cash float!
That evening we were going to stay at Rize, however not particularly liking the place, we pushed on and made it to Chayeli, where I got a puncture and had a group of 6 incredibly irritating and very curious and friendly children to throw random questions at me as I tried to concentrate on my inner tube changing skills.
Isabel in the meantime had found a smart hotel that miraculously didn't mind us camping in their garden. As we arrived to go round the back, feeling mightily out of place among the smartly dressed businessmen, we were invited inside and given a lovely room for the night! As we were settling down, there was a knock on the door and we were invited to dinner! It turned out to be an all-you-can-eat feast of turkish cuisine, complete with soups, salads, vegetables, and meat dishes. Pudding was a mountain of baclava and turkish rice pudding, with profiteroles to match. As I am sure you can imagine, I found it hard to hold back.
During dinner we met another cyclist, John. He is a retured scientist, and was on the way back from Armenia and Georgia. He lent us his Russian phrasebook and we talked about the places we were about to visit accross the border. We had arranged to meet again the following morning, but we were not in the end invited to break our fasts so sadly we missed him.
The following day we had planned to spend the night in Turkey, but we had reached so close to the border by 4.30 pm that we decided to go the whole hog and cross into Georgia. As we approached the border we noticed that many of the shop windows already had signs in Georgian script, a very strange alphabet that borrows nothing from the Romans, and has curved letters rather similar to Thai.
The border was a veritable bunfight with people everywhere, cars and lorries everywhere, and no signs whatsoever indicating where one is supposed to go. A fight broke out between a lorry driver and a car driver in the crowds. Shepherded by a kind onlooker, we wheeled our bikes past the lorries, and eventually found the Turkish farewell exit post. When we were through this, we found the Georgian immigration (no indications either) and waited in a line. There was a pungent smell of BO- people in these parts do not seem to regard a bath or a shower to be a daily rite.
Having had our passports stamped, we didn't simply walk forward, but had to go around the back, and through the red customs lane (I think because the gates to the green lane were rusted shut.) It was a wonderful feeling to be finally into Georgia, and to see Christian Crosses as opposed to minarets everywhere. No more pre recrded call to prayer at 3.30 AM!
With fading light, we decided to push hard and make it to Batumi that evening, Georgia's seaside resort. We found a cheap hotel out of the guide book, and when we had moved our bags in the guy asked us if we were planning to take a shower. We had clearly just done a day of cycling and we were staying in a hotel. This gives an indication as to the Georgian attitudes! On hearing our affirmative response, he proceeded to get his screwdriver out and spent half an hour tinkering with the water heater in our bathroom. At the end he said "Nyet dush" unapoligetically, and showed me a very shabby bathroom in another room we could use. When you turned on the hot, the lights dimmed.
Batumi itself has some impressive European style buildings and the entire town is receiving a facelife, all at the same time. All the central streets are being dug up, and there is no fencing off- pedestrians simply have to make their way through the troughs, piles of gravel and pneumatic drills.
The town does have a waterfront area that has been completed, and it is rather smart. There is an enormous musical fountain that actually dances to the beat of various well known tunes in the evenings. It is rather clever and really spectacular.
We spent the following day relaxing in Batumi, and I went for a swim in the Black Sea from the pebbly beach. Not too cold, but not warm either. I ate an Ajaran Khatchapuri (sic?) which is a boat shaped doughy base, filled with an inch of cheese, and with an egg and lashings of butter on top. In the west these would probably be banned! The Iranian election was on TV and was being carried out peacefully, thankfully for us.
I was a little startled to see big macho men walking arm in arm- this is not because they are gay, but because they are friends. It is not unusual to see men rolling up their T shirts to expose their tummies and walking round town. Very odd. Most shops here in Georgia still use an abacus to add up groceries! I have not seen an abacus since I was learning about numbers at the age of 5, so this is really extraordinary to see.
The following day we rather aimlessly headed up the coast, and cut east away from the Black Sea for the last time after a month. In the evening, it became clear that we would have to find somewhere to camp, but the surroundings were full of houses, making it rather difficult to find a suitable place. Just as we were getting a little worried, we saw a sign to Sameba-Jikheti Monastery. Like all monasteries in Georgia, this was on top of a very large hill, (mountain?) and I was a little concerned at the numerous buses of schoolchildren who were returning from excursions.
At the top I asked a couple of serious looking nuns if it would be possible to camp in the monastery grounds, and they asked me to wait. 10 minutes later Ioanna appeared, a tall young looking nun who spoke excellent English (self taught). We were invited in, and invited to sleep in the monastery itself rather than in the tent! We were invited to evensong, however Ioanna told us that Father insists that we eat beforehand because the prayers last 2 hours and we must be hungry.
At this stage, having put our bikes away and donned some trousers (isabel a borrowed mandaroty skirt and headscarf), it was nearly dark and there was a thunderstorm outside. On top of the mountain, amongst the fireflies this was extremely atmospheric as we were led to the gently lit refectory which had 2 places set out, and an extremely generous spread of food. I had imagined that this would only be bread and cheese, but we were treated to chicken, comato and cucumber salad, fried potatoes, honey, bread, tea and the most lovely cake.
The nuns' singing in the service that we joined was utterly beautiful, extremely fast plainsong in Georgian. The church was lit by dozens of beeswax candles arranged around the many icons. After the service I was shown to my room in the boys' area (the boys being one chap who helps Father with the service), a basic little room with a candle and a bed, which I shared with a sparrow who was nesting in the corner.
At 4.30 AM the bells started tolling a slow, muffled funeral-type toll that waits for the sound from each ring to nearly totally finish before ringing again. I made it down to the church, but unsure about where to go, I waited outside for five minutes listening to the gentle yet quick female plainsong. A couple of gentlemen beckoned me into the church, and I was ushered to the back right hand side where there is a bench. Orthodox churches do not have pews; people stand during the services, however given that this service was 2 hours long, I was pleased to be put there! The men are from the church community, and come from time to time to help the nuns with building work. There is much kissing of icons and making the sign of the cross during the service, and people are free to come and go, sit down and stand up, as they please. It seems that members of the congregation make the sign of the cross whenever they like during the service, rather than at any particular moments. The Georgian method of making the sign of the cross is rather how you would imagine a rapper doing it, the hand rather rhythmically goes down from the head, and up to the very top of the shoulders, down again and right up to the other shoulder.
Outside the church, the day changed from darkness to light, and the gentlemen beckoned me to stand up and move into the centre of the church at key moments when Father walked round the church, blessing it with incense. At one stage in the service each of the nuns went up and knelt before Father one by one, and I think he was taking confessions. Later in the service everyone circulated round the church, touched the floor before the most important icon (the miracle working icon of the Virgin, given from the monastery at Mt Athos), kissed it and received a brush of holy water over their baptismal cross. I was very happy to sit and watch until one of the men beckoned to me to go up too. I don't know how to kiss an icon! Perhaps I would do it wrong, or forget to touch the ground before... I faced the icon and made a sheepish sign of the cross, and luckily Ioana caught me and said "Humphrey, you must not!"- cue for me to go back and sit down in my place, rather cross that I had initially been beckoned up!
After the service Ioana showed us round the nunnery, through the gardens and vegetable patches to some newly built churches, one of which to St George ("Father is very industrious!") Ioana was surprised that St George is also the patron saint of England. A new living quarters block is being built with a highly dramatic view over the mountains, however this is not going to be completed any time soon due to the difficulty in getting building materials and labour up to the site. I took a slip and fell on my back on the dewy wooden ramp up to the foetal building.
At 10am the bells rang for Sunday prayer, which was attended by many more members of the public, and the toll was much more jolly, less funeral like! The service itself was not that dissimilar to the ear that does not understand Georgian. Holy Communion was served (sadly as members of the C of E we were denied) which consisted of huge hunks of bread that everyone was gnawing on, and large gulps of communion wine. Rather more civilised than a wafer!
After the service, we were invited to Sunday lunch. The male congregation sat separate to the female congregation, but no nuns were sitting down to eat. The chicken casserole was delicious, as was the Russian salad and cucumber salad, but as I was sitting opposite Father, I was polite and didn't dig in too much. He never looked me in the eye and spoke to me through a friendly nearby medical doctor who had assisted with the service. One of the questions "Is Isabel your wife or your sister?" was a little difficult to answer. The response that she is the girlfriend of a friend wouldn't cut the mustard, so I said "She is my friend" - to which all assembled company sniggered. I was offered wine, which I accepted. Mindful of the fact that it is considered rude in Georgia to drink when there is not a toast I waited for a while, and when I noticed that I was the only one on the table to be drinking wine, I took a sip. To my horror, a couple of minutes later, the toasting started, and others had charged their glasses and were making toasts in order to drink. I hoped no one had noticed my previous indiscretion! We were toasted several times, and I then asked permission to make a toast in reply from the toastmaster-doctor (necessary) which went down with lukewarm appreciation. Lunch ended very suddenly with grace, exactly as it does at Cothill House, when, I imagine, Father had finished eating. As a prelude I was ordered to down my wine in one.
After lunch, the nuns were free to relax because ironically, like prep school, "there is no obedience on Sunday afternoons." We sat chatting away with them for a while and taking photos. They also took some pictures on their smart looking mobile phones. It was striking how young some of them were- in their late twenties and early thirties. One of them gave us each a little pendant made up of beads which depicted a sign of the cross, and encased a rolled up extract of scripture, probably from Psalms. It was her birthday, and we managed to botch together a birthday card of a postcard of the Queen's State Coach which she liked as she is a horse lover. Ioana gave Isabel her icon of St George. It was very das to have had to leave the monastery- they had taken us in and looked after us with such generosity and trust. Ioana gave us the contact details of her family in Kutaisi, and said we should contact them on arrival- and that we could go and stay!
The distance to Kutaisi was not long, but we lost a lot of time on the 14th June due to torrential rain and we didn't get there until the evening. Having spoken to Ioana's brother on arrival, we were given some really complicated directions, and a police car flashed their lights at us. We thought this was because we were going the wrong way down a one way street, but they just told us to carry on. We went down another street and they followed us there. We stopped and asked them (in my bad Russian) what the problem was, and I showed them the text message which contained the address we were trying to find. To our horror, the policeman dialled the number, and spoke to Ioana's brother. It turned out that the police in Georgia are exceptionally friendly, and we were given a 3 car police escort complete with flashing lights, and loudspeakers barking threats at motorists at junctions! Cycists' revenge! When we arrived at our friends' house, the police didn't simply leave us alone, but insisted on ringing the door bell and speaking with the family to make sure it is "safe" for us, apparently!
The welcome we received from Ioana's parents and her brothers Nugzar and Timur was as warm as that we had received at the monastery, and the showers we that we revitalised us. The monastery ascetically does not have loos or showers. We were treated to a wonderful supper of chicken and all sorts of accompaniments. It is Georgian custom to lay the table with a big plate on top of a small plate, and to discard the small plate whenever you feel like it in favour of clean new larger one. As all dishes are served at the same time, it is a matter of personal preference. Georgians eat with only a fork and use their fingers to help. We were given knives at the sighet of our cack handed approach to this method! This was all washed down with lashings and lashings of home made red wine (!) and home made cha cha. The cheese was also home made, as was the cherry soft drink, and Isabel thinks that the chicken was killed to order from the squadron of garden roosters!
Mr Cheishvili is a retired airline pilot, and latterly ran Kutaisi Airport. Mrs Cheishvili is an accountant who spends five days each week in Tbilisi, returning at the weekend. He has travelled all around central asia, so it is great to speak to some one who doesn't look at us with amazement when we tell him where we are going. The family are heavily aviation orientated- David, a son who lives in Tbilisi is an air traffic controller, Mrs C works for an airline, and the eldest son was a pilot who died in the Abkhazia civil war.
The following day, Timur and Nugzar took us out on an wonderful and enormous sightseeing tour, taking in the spectacular Gelati monastery which has extraordinary paintings and frescoes, and Motsameta monastery. Both of these are highly important to the Georgian people: President Saakishvili even chose Gelati for the location of his inauguration. The Georgian identity is necessarily bound up with the devotion to the church; to western eyes, the devotion may appear a little obsessive-compulsive. Buildings are reveered as icons in themselves, and a Georgian will usually make the sign of the cross three times when walking past, sometimes even kissing the railings. Nugzar bent down and kissed the tomb of David the Builder, the most important Georgian King, buried at Gelati. He explained to us that it is very bad form to walk behind an icon, or to even place your foot on the upper step heading up to the iconostasis. I had thought that it was only going behind the iconostasis that was forbidden. It is not unusual to see people kissing the ground in front of icons.
At Gelati, we met a friend of Nugzar, Father Iacob, who at 21 has been a "black priest" (monk) for the last five years. He was busy painting a holy icon, and was a very gentle man of few words. It was extraordinary to see a photo of him later that evening, earlier in his life, wearing a leather jacket!
Ioana had explained to be that the icon is not an idol as the catholics argued in times past, but it is an instrument of devotion- when you see the saint you are praying to in the icon, it helps your prayer to come alive. I suppose, this is in the way that seeing a person in the flesh is a better relationship than simply speaking to them on the phone.
They also took us to see some fossilised raptor footprints, and to some impressive caves before a sumptuous feast of Georgian food, that, despite our protests, they would not allow us to pay for. We feasted on shashleek (spit griled chunks of pork) and xinkale. Xinkale is a georgian dumpling, rather like an overgrown won ton. The correct method of consumption is to bite a small hole, and suck out the meat juices before eating the rest. They are particularly tasty.
In the evening, we were treated to another feast of chicken in a garlic creamy sauce. I played backgammon with Mr C, which is quite different to how we play in the UK. He holds a real presence in a room, and has a very masculine Georgian mustache, and without being unkind to him (he is a lovely man,) it was what it must have been like to play backgammon with Stalin! There is only one set of dice, and as soon as you have thrown the dice, they are picked up by your opponent and thrown- as it is then his turn! You have to move really quickly and I found myself forgetting what the roll was, and making tons of stupid errors. It was frustrating because I am actually quite good at backgammon! He must have thought I was a ninny!
Both mornings we were given lovely breakfasts, which consist of fruit, cherry juice, tea, cake, the previous night's chicken, and (which cannot be avoided) a large shot of the fire water chacha!
On the following day, the 16th June, we reluctantly left and the boys escorted us all the way out of town and kindly put us in the right direction. We were bought an ice cream by a kind local at a petrol station, and were fored to drink a little more chacha before finally escaping to carry on! That evening, contrary to reports, there was no hotel in Khashuri, and the gormless town police and petrol station staff didn't help us much, insisting we must cycle 20km to the next town where we would find a hotel. With very little light, this was not tempting, so cy cycled a bit out of town and asked at a farm if we could camp. My schoolboy Russian came in handy, but it still falls tragically short of the mark.
George invited us inside, and within 5 minutes we had been given beds. I used my Russian and the dictionary to make certain that everyone would have a bed, and that we were not taking anyone's bed. This was a totally different side of Georgia- rural life truly is basic even if the people appear to be happy, keep horses and animals, and enjoy fishing. The house was large, but in pretty bad disrepair, and there was no running water- it had to be carried upstairs. The loo was a shed at the end of the garden with a hole in the floorboards. The lady of the house was frying whitebait on the fir-cone-fuelled stove (we tasted one each), and we were given fresh mint tea. We had a long chat in broken russian (phrasebook fuelled), and found out that the home owner was Ossetian and that Stalin always spoke Russian with a Georgian accent! We were invited to go riding the next day, which we refused.
The following day, we left after another glass of mint chai, and made it to Gori. The entire town is a shrine to the "Great" man of Stalin. The main street is called Stalin Avenue, and has an enormous statue of the dictator in front of the municipal building. At the other end of Stalin Avenue is the "Shrine to Saint Joseph"--the Stalin Museum. The museum itself seems more like a cathedral, and outside the west front (if it were a cathedral) lies the humble home of Stalin where he spent the first 4 years of his life. The other houses that once stood in the area have been demolished as the town was re-designed in memory of St. Joseph. The house lies inside a Parthenon-like portico type structure to protect and further glorify it. Outside the museum is also Stalin's train, which went inside. It is a bit disturbing to tour Stalin's personal loo.
The museum itself has a hushed and dimmed light atmosphere, and it is very Soviet in style, with internal columns that are much wider at the top than at the bottom. A complimentary english speaking guide showed us around, and neither she nor the museum mentioned anything negative about St. Joseph at all. There were plenty of smiling photos of him, and inspiring Indiana Jones style paintings of how he must have looked when escaping a Tsarist Siberian camp when he was a young man. His death mask was on display in a darkened room with a bunch of dried flowers next to it.
Having paid our respects, we found a "homestay" that was extraordinarily recommended by the Lonely Planet. The floor was like a barn, and the [long drop] loo was revolting; the shower did not exist. The landlady was busy fixing her chacha still (a converted exhaust pipe) when we arrived.
We made good time the following day, and made it to Tbilisi and found a lovely little guest house recommended by the guide book. Dodo, the septuginarian landlady, is very kind and made us turkish coffee when we got in, and she speaks very good English. She has even forcefully pressed some boiled rice on me when I had an upset tummy.
We contacted David, Ioana's (our nun friend) air traffic controller brother. He took us out to see the spectacular and important ancient monasteries at Mtskheta, and Jvari which are incredibly important to all Georgians, and which also house stunning frescoes, icons and paintings. We also saw the new hulking Sameba cathedral in Tbilisi. It is built in entirely the old style, and within the huge courtyard, behind the high walls, it is an oasis of tranquility where you can only see the surrounding hills and nothing of the city. It was consecrated only 4 years ago, and work is still ongoing on some of the out buildings. So many of the churches we visit are being restored- this is clearly much more important to Georgians than making any attempt to repair the roads or look after the poor better!
David has been in constant contact since we arrived here, and has been really looking after us well- even asking to take an early finish to his working day to be able to show us around better. It has been great having some one to show us Tbilisi's finest places. With David, I have tasted Chinese food for the first time since England and we went to a wonderful French style restaurant, intricately decorated.
The central area in Tbilisi is very leafy and clean, and it is a real pleasure to be here for a few days. The street we are staying on is alive with market traders selling all sorts of fruit, and I cannot walk down without buying something. One lari (39p) buys a mountain of fruit. I had some mulberries and peaches with my breakfast yoghurt this morning! I have also bought some coffee- you buy 100g in the street for 1 lari and they grind it for you there and then. I have developed a taste for Turkish coffee, and made myself some this morning.
Outside the parliament building people congregate to enjoy the evening sunshine at the end of the day- some to protest against President Saakishvili's supposed poor democratic record, some simply to relax. There are some really quite good buskers who are a joy to listen to. It is lovely not to be subjected to the wailing Turkish cacophany, and to be able to enjoy music once more, rather to feel persecuted by it.
We have been waiting to receive the extortionate Letter of Invitation from a travel agency (come ON!) before we can buy our Azerbaijan visas. Recent events in Iran have meant that despite buying GBP 200 Iranian visas, plus malaria tabs, it doesn't look like we are going to be heading there. We are going to monitor http://www.fco.gov.uk/ for the latest travel advice, as well as speaking to the numerous contacts we have along the way, but for now it is not looking good. The alternative route, which is looking more likely is the less interesting, unscheduled and uncomfortable ferry accross the Caspian Sea (or lake?) to Kazakhstan. Either way, it will still be interesting.
It is really rather satisfying to have got so far already! I have cycled more than the distance as the crow flies since London than from Jacksonville Florida to San Diego. I am more than half way to the Chinese border from london (it is only 2630 km as the crow flies to Almaty, Kazakhstan from here) and my bike has notched up more than 6,600km since London (despite it only being a depressing 3,540 km as the crow flies.
Georgia has both a European and an Asian feel to it. Many people here look European, but have Asian habits, such as the way they can sit for ages in a squat position on the side of the street. The state of some of the cars on the roads is rather Asian too, each one with an icon on the dashboard to protect it. Wherever we go next, it will be an adventure, which is exactly what is written on the tin, so I can't really complain. Georgians also dress very modestly, and most wear at least one black item of clothing. Many of the ladies in the street are dressed as the nuns dress, and for men a black t shirt and jeans is normal.
I can be contacted on our local mobile number +995 55 285 685 by anyone who wants to say hello (please remember we are 3 hours ahead of UK time!)
That evening we were going to stay at Rize, however not particularly liking the place, we pushed on and made it to Chayeli, where I got a puncture and had a group of 6 incredibly irritating and very curious and friendly children to throw random questions at me as I tried to concentrate on my inner tube changing skills.
Isabel in the meantime had found a smart hotel that miraculously didn't mind us camping in their garden. As we arrived to go round the back, feeling mightily out of place among the smartly dressed businessmen, we were invited inside and given a lovely room for the night! As we were settling down, there was a knock on the door and we were invited to dinner! It turned out to be an all-you-can-eat feast of turkish cuisine, complete with soups, salads, vegetables, and meat dishes. Pudding was a mountain of baclava and turkish rice pudding, with profiteroles to match. As I am sure you can imagine, I found it hard to hold back.
During dinner we met another cyclist, John. He is a retured scientist, and was on the way back from Armenia and Georgia. He lent us his Russian phrasebook and we talked about the places we were about to visit accross the border. We had arranged to meet again the following morning, but we were not in the end invited to break our fasts so sadly we missed him.
The following day we had planned to spend the night in Turkey, but we had reached so close to the border by 4.30 pm that we decided to go the whole hog and cross into Georgia. As we approached the border we noticed that many of the shop windows already had signs in Georgian script, a very strange alphabet that borrows nothing from the Romans, and has curved letters rather similar to Thai.
The border was a veritable bunfight with people everywhere, cars and lorries everywhere, and no signs whatsoever indicating where one is supposed to go. A fight broke out between a lorry driver and a car driver in the crowds. Shepherded by a kind onlooker, we wheeled our bikes past the lorries, and eventually found the Turkish farewell exit post. When we were through this, we found the Georgian immigration (no indications either) and waited in a line. There was a pungent smell of BO- people in these parts do not seem to regard a bath or a shower to be a daily rite.
Having had our passports stamped, we didn't simply walk forward, but had to go around the back, and through the red customs lane (I think because the gates to the green lane were rusted shut.) It was a wonderful feeling to be finally into Georgia, and to see Christian Crosses as opposed to minarets everywhere. No more pre recrded call to prayer at 3.30 AM!
With fading light, we decided to push hard and make it to Batumi that evening, Georgia's seaside resort. We found a cheap hotel out of the guide book, and when we had moved our bags in the guy asked us if we were planning to take a shower. We had clearly just done a day of cycling and we were staying in a hotel. This gives an indication as to the Georgian attitudes! On hearing our affirmative response, he proceeded to get his screwdriver out and spent half an hour tinkering with the water heater in our bathroom. At the end he said "Nyet dush" unapoligetically, and showed me a very shabby bathroom in another room we could use. When you turned on the hot, the lights dimmed.
Batumi itself has some impressive European style buildings and the entire town is receiving a facelife, all at the same time. All the central streets are being dug up, and there is no fencing off- pedestrians simply have to make their way through the troughs, piles of gravel and pneumatic drills.
The town does have a waterfront area that has been completed, and it is rather smart. There is an enormous musical fountain that actually dances to the beat of various well known tunes in the evenings. It is rather clever and really spectacular.
We spent the following day relaxing in Batumi, and I went for a swim in the Black Sea from the pebbly beach. Not too cold, but not warm either. I ate an Ajaran Khatchapuri (sic?) which is a boat shaped doughy base, filled with an inch of cheese, and with an egg and lashings of butter on top. In the west these would probably be banned! The Iranian election was on TV and was being carried out peacefully, thankfully for us.
I was a little startled to see big macho men walking arm in arm- this is not because they are gay, but because they are friends. It is not unusual to see men rolling up their T shirts to expose their tummies and walking round town. Very odd. Most shops here in Georgia still use an abacus to add up groceries! I have not seen an abacus since I was learning about numbers at the age of 5, so this is really extraordinary to see.
The following day we rather aimlessly headed up the coast, and cut east away from the Black Sea for the last time after a month. In the evening, it became clear that we would have to find somewhere to camp, but the surroundings were full of houses, making it rather difficult to find a suitable place. Just as we were getting a little worried, we saw a sign to Sameba-Jikheti Monastery. Like all monasteries in Georgia, this was on top of a very large hill, (mountain?) and I was a little concerned at the numerous buses of schoolchildren who were returning from excursions.
At the top I asked a couple of serious looking nuns if it would be possible to camp in the monastery grounds, and they asked me to wait. 10 minutes later Ioanna appeared, a tall young looking nun who spoke excellent English (self taught). We were invited in, and invited to sleep in the monastery itself rather than in the tent! We were invited to evensong, however Ioanna told us that Father insists that we eat beforehand because the prayers last 2 hours and we must be hungry.
At this stage, having put our bikes away and donned some trousers (isabel a borrowed mandaroty skirt and headscarf), it was nearly dark and there was a thunderstorm outside. On top of the mountain, amongst the fireflies this was extremely atmospheric as we were led to the gently lit refectory which had 2 places set out, and an extremely generous spread of food. I had imagined that this would only be bread and cheese, but we were treated to chicken, comato and cucumber salad, fried potatoes, honey, bread, tea and the most lovely cake.
The nuns' singing in the service that we joined was utterly beautiful, extremely fast plainsong in Georgian. The church was lit by dozens of beeswax candles arranged around the many icons. After the service I was shown to my room in the boys' area (the boys being one chap who helps Father with the service), a basic little room with a candle and a bed, which I shared with a sparrow who was nesting in the corner.
At 4.30 AM the bells started tolling a slow, muffled funeral-type toll that waits for the sound from each ring to nearly totally finish before ringing again. I made it down to the church, but unsure about where to go, I waited outside for five minutes listening to the gentle yet quick female plainsong. A couple of gentlemen beckoned me into the church, and I was ushered to the back right hand side where there is a bench. Orthodox churches do not have pews; people stand during the services, however given that this service was 2 hours long, I was pleased to be put there! The men are from the church community, and come from time to time to help the nuns with building work. There is much kissing of icons and making the sign of the cross during the service, and people are free to come and go, sit down and stand up, as they please. It seems that members of the congregation make the sign of the cross whenever they like during the service, rather than at any particular moments. The Georgian method of making the sign of the cross is rather how you would imagine a rapper doing it, the hand rather rhythmically goes down from the head, and up to the very top of the shoulders, down again and right up to the other shoulder.
Outside the church, the day changed from darkness to light, and the gentlemen beckoned me to stand up and move into the centre of the church at key moments when Father walked round the church, blessing it with incense. At one stage in the service each of the nuns went up and knelt before Father one by one, and I think he was taking confessions. Later in the service everyone circulated round the church, touched the floor before the most important icon (the miracle working icon of the Virgin, given from the monastery at Mt Athos), kissed it and received a brush of holy water over their baptismal cross. I was very happy to sit and watch until one of the men beckoned to me to go up too. I don't know how to kiss an icon! Perhaps I would do it wrong, or forget to touch the ground before... I faced the icon and made a sheepish sign of the cross, and luckily Ioana caught me and said "Humphrey, you must not!"- cue for me to go back and sit down in my place, rather cross that I had initially been beckoned up!
After the service Ioana showed us round the nunnery, through the gardens and vegetable patches to some newly built churches, one of which to St George ("Father is very industrious!") Ioana was surprised that St George is also the patron saint of England. A new living quarters block is being built with a highly dramatic view over the mountains, however this is not going to be completed any time soon due to the difficulty in getting building materials and labour up to the site. I took a slip and fell on my back on the dewy wooden ramp up to the foetal building.
At 10am the bells rang for Sunday prayer, which was attended by many more members of the public, and the toll was much more jolly, less funeral like! The service itself was not that dissimilar to the ear that does not understand Georgian. Holy Communion was served (sadly as members of the C of E we were denied) which consisted of huge hunks of bread that everyone was gnawing on, and large gulps of communion wine. Rather more civilised than a wafer!
After the service, we were invited to Sunday lunch. The male congregation sat separate to the female congregation, but no nuns were sitting down to eat. The chicken casserole was delicious, as was the Russian salad and cucumber salad, but as I was sitting opposite Father, I was polite and didn't dig in too much. He never looked me in the eye and spoke to me through a friendly nearby medical doctor who had assisted with the service. One of the questions "Is Isabel your wife or your sister?" was a little difficult to answer. The response that she is the girlfriend of a friend wouldn't cut the mustard, so I said "She is my friend" - to which all assembled company sniggered. I was offered wine, which I accepted. Mindful of the fact that it is considered rude in Georgia to drink when there is not a toast I waited for a while, and when I noticed that I was the only one on the table to be drinking wine, I took a sip. To my horror, a couple of minutes later, the toasting started, and others had charged their glasses and were making toasts in order to drink. I hoped no one had noticed my previous indiscretion! We were toasted several times, and I then asked permission to make a toast in reply from the toastmaster-doctor (necessary) which went down with lukewarm appreciation. Lunch ended very suddenly with grace, exactly as it does at Cothill House, when, I imagine, Father had finished eating. As a prelude I was ordered to down my wine in one.
After lunch, the nuns were free to relax because ironically, like prep school, "there is no obedience on Sunday afternoons." We sat chatting away with them for a while and taking photos. They also took some pictures on their smart looking mobile phones. It was striking how young some of them were- in their late twenties and early thirties. One of them gave us each a little pendant made up of beads which depicted a sign of the cross, and encased a rolled up extract of scripture, probably from Psalms. It was her birthday, and we managed to botch together a birthday card of a postcard of the Queen's State Coach which she liked as she is a horse lover. Ioana gave Isabel her icon of St George. It was very das to have had to leave the monastery- they had taken us in and looked after us with such generosity and trust. Ioana gave us the contact details of her family in Kutaisi, and said we should contact them on arrival- and that we could go and stay!
The distance to Kutaisi was not long, but we lost a lot of time on the 14th June due to torrential rain and we didn't get there until the evening. Having spoken to Ioana's brother on arrival, we were given some really complicated directions, and a police car flashed their lights at us. We thought this was because we were going the wrong way down a one way street, but they just told us to carry on. We went down another street and they followed us there. We stopped and asked them (in my bad Russian) what the problem was, and I showed them the text message which contained the address we were trying to find. To our horror, the policeman dialled the number, and spoke to Ioana's brother. It turned out that the police in Georgia are exceptionally friendly, and we were given a 3 car police escort complete with flashing lights, and loudspeakers barking threats at motorists at junctions! Cycists' revenge! When we arrived at our friends' house, the police didn't simply leave us alone, but insisted on ringing the door bell and speaking with the family to make sure it is "safe" for us, apparently!
The welcome we received from Ioana's parents and her brothers Nugzar and Timur was as warm as that we had received at the monastery, and the showers we that we revitalised us. The monastery ascetically does not have loos or showers. We were treated to a wonderful supper of chicken and all sorts of accompaniments. It is Georgian custom to lay the table with a big plate on top of a small plate, and to discard the small plate whenever you feel like it in favour of clean new larger one. As all dishes are served at the same time, it is a matter of personal preference. Georgians eat with only a fork and use their fingers to help. We were given knives at the sighet of our cack handed approach to this method! This was all washed down with lashings and lashings of home made red wine (!) and home made cha cha. The cheese was also home made, as was the cherry soft drink, and Isabel thinks that the chicken was killed to order from the squadron of garden roosters!
Mr Cheishvili is a retired airline pilot, and latterly ran Kutaisi Airport. Mrs Cheishvili is an accountant who spends five days each week in Tbilisi, returning at the weekend. He has travelled all around central asia, so it is great to speak to some one who doesn't look at us with amazement when we tell him where we are going. The family are heavily aviation orientated- David, a son who lives in Tbilisi is an air traffic controller, Mrs C works for an airline, and the eldest son was a pilot who died in the Abkhazia civil war.
The following day, Timur and Nugzar took us out on an wonderful and enormous sightseeing tour, taking in the spectacular Gelati monastery which has extraordinary paintings and frescoes, and Motsameta monastery. Both of these are highly important to the Georgian people: President Saakishvili even chose Gelati for the location of his inauguration. The Georgian identity is necessarily bound up with the devotion to the church; to western eyes, the devotion may appear a little obsessive-compulsive. Buildings are reveered as icons in themselves, and a Georgian will usually make the sign of the cross three times when walking past, sometimes even kissing the railings. Nugzar bent down and kissed the tomb of David the Builder, the most important Georgian King, buried at Gelati. He explained to us that it is very bad form to walk behind an icon, or to even place your foot on the upper step heading up to the iconostasis. I had thought that it was only going behind the iconostasis that was forbidden. It is not unusual to see people kissing the ground in front of icons.
At Gelati, we met a friend of Nugzar, Father Iacob, who at 21 has been a "black priest" (monk) for the last five years. He was busy painting a holy icon, and was a very gentle man of few words. It was extraordinary to see a photo of him later that evening, earlier in his life, wearing a leather jacket!
Ioana had explained to be that the icon is not an idol as the catholics argued in times past, but it is an instrument of devotion- when you see the saint you are praying to in the icon, it helps your prayer to come alive. I suppose, this is in the way that seeing a person in the flesh is a better relationship than simply speaking to them on the phone.
They also took us to see some fossilised raptor footprints, and to some impressive caves before a sumptuous feast of Georgian food, that, despite our protests, they would not allow us to pay for. We feasted on shashleek (spit griled chunks of pork) and xinkale. Xinkale is a georgian dumpling, rather like an overgrown won ton. The correct method of consumption is to bite a small hole, and suck out the meat juices before eating the rest. They are particularly tasty.
In the evening, we were treated to another feast of chicken in a garlic creamy sauce. I played backgammon with Mr C, which is quite different to how we play in the UK. He holds a real presence in a room, and has a very masculine Georgian mustache, and without being unkind to him (he is a lovely man,) it was what it must have been like to play backgammon with Stalin! There is only one set of dice, and as soon as you have thrown the dice, they are picked up by your opponent and thrown- as it is then his turn! You have to move really quickly and I found myself forgetting what the roll was, and making tons of stupid errors. It was frustrating because I am actually quite good at backgammon! He must have thought I was a ninny!
Both mornings we were given lovely breakfasts, which consist of fruit, cherry juice, tea, cake, the previous night's chicken, and (which cannot be avoided) a large shot of the fire water chacha!
On the following day, the 16th June, we reluctantly left and the boys escorted us all the way out of town and kindly put us in the right direction. We were bought an ice cream by a kind local at a petrol station, and were fored to drink a little more chacha before finally escaping to carry on! That evening, contrary to reports, there was no hotel in Khashuri, and the gormless town police and petrol station staff didn't help us much, insisting we must cycle 20km to the next town where we would find a hotel. With very little light, this was not tempting, so cy cycled a bit out of town and asked at a farm if we could camp. My schoolboy Russian came in handy, but it still falls tragically short of the mark.
George invited us inside, and within 5 minutes we had been given beds. I used my Russian and the dictionary to make certain that everyone would have a bed, and that we were not taking anyone's bed. This was a totally different side of Georgia- rural life truly is basic even if the people appear to be happy, keep horses and animals, and enjoy fishing. The house was large, but in pretty bad disrepair, and there was no running water- it had to be carried upstairs. The loo was a shed at the end of the garden with a hole in the floorboards. The lady of the house was frying whitebait on the fir-cone-fuelled stove (we tasted one each), and we were given fresh mint tea. We had a long chat in broken russian (phrasebook fuelled), and found out that the home owner was Ossetian and that Stalin always spoke Russian with a Georgian accent! We were invited to go riding the next day, which we refused.
The following day, we left after another glass of mint chai, and made it to Gori. The entire town is a shrine to the "Great" man of Stalin. The main street is called Stalin Avenue, and has an enormous statue of the dictator in front of the municipal building. At the other end of Stalin Avenue is the "Shrine to Saint Joseph"--the Stalin Museum. The museum itself seems more like a cathedral, and outside the west front (if it were a cathedral) lies the humble home of Stalin where he spent the first 4 years of his life. The other houses that once stood in the area have been demolished as the town was re-designed in memory of St. Joseph. The house lies inside a Parthenon-like portico type structure to protect and further glorify it. Outside the museum is also Stalin's train, which went inside. It is a bit disturbing to tour Stalin's personal loo.
The museum itself has a hushed and dimmed light atmosphere, and it is very Soviet in style, with internal columns that are much wider at the top than at the bottom. A complimentary english speaking guide showed us around, and neither she nor the museum mentioned anything negative about St. Joseph at all. There were plenty of smiling photos of him, and inspiring Indiana Jones style paintings of how he must have looked when escaping a Tsarist Siberian camp when he was a young man. His death mask was on display in a darkened room with a bunch of dried flowers next to it.
Having paid our respects, we found a "homestay" that was extraordinarily recommended by the Lonely Planet. The floor was like a barn, and the [long drop] loo was revolting; the shower did not exist. The landlady was busy fixing her chacha still (a converted exhaust pipe) when we arrived.
We made good time the following day, and made it to Tbilisi and found a lovely little guest house recommended by the guide book. Dodo, the septuginarian landlady, is very kind and made us turkish coffee when we got in, and she speaks very good English. She has even forcefully pressed some boiled rice on me when I had an upset tummy.
We contacted David, Ioana's (our nun friend) air traffic controller brother. He took us out to see the spectacular and important ancient monasteries at Mtskheta, and Jvari which are incredibly important to all Georgians, and which also house stunning frescoes, icons and paintings. We also saw the new hulking Sameba cathedral in Tbilisi. It is built in entirely the old style, and within the huge courtyard, behind the high walls, it is an oasis of tranquility where you can only see the surrounding hills and nothing of the city. It was consecrated only 4 years ago, and work is still ongoing on some of the out buildings. So many of the churches we visit are being restored- this is clearly much more important to Georgians than making any attempt to repair the roads or look after the poor better!
David has been in constant contact since we arrived here, and has been really looking after us well- even asking to take an early finish to his working day to be able to show us around better. It has been great having some one to show us Tbilisi's finest places. With David, I have tasted Chinese food for the first time since England and we went to a wonderful French style restaurant, intricately decorated.
The central area in Tbilisi is very leafy and clean, and it is a real pleasure to be here for a few days. The street we are staying on is alive with market traders selling all sorts of fruit, and I cannot walk down without buying something. One lari (39p) buys a mountain of fruit. I had some mulberries and peaches with my breakfast yoghurt this morning! I have also bought some coffee- you buy 100g in the street for 1 lari and they grind it for you there and then. I have developed a taste for Turkish coffee, and made myself some this morning.
Outside the parliament building people congregate to enjoy the evening sunshine at the end of the day- some to protest against President Saakishvili's supposed poor democratic record, some simply to relax. There are some really quite good buskers who are a joy to listen to. It is lovely not to be subjected to the wailing Turkish cacophany, and to be able to enjoy music once more, rather to feel persecuted by it.
We have been waiting to receive the extortionate Letter of Invitation from a travel agency (come ON!) before we can buy our Azerbaijan visas. Recent events in Iran have meant that despite buying GBP 200 Iranian visas, plus malaria tabs, it doesn't look like we are going to be heading there. We are going to monitor http://www.fco.gov.uk/ for the latest travel advice, as well as speaking to the numerous contacts we have along the way, but for now it is not looking good. The alternative route, which is looking more likely is the less interesting, unscheduled and uncomfortable ferry accross the Caspian Sea (or lake?) to Kazakhstan. Either way, it will still be interesting.
It is really rather satisfying to have got so far already! I have cycled more than the distance as the crow flies since London than from Jacksonville Florida to San Diego. I am more than half way to the Chinese border from london (it is only 2630 km as the crow flies to Almaty, Kazakhstan from here) and my bike has notched up more than 6,600km since London (despite it only being a depressing 3,540 km as the crow flies.
Georgia has both a European and an Asian feel to it. Many people here look European, but have Asian habits, such as the way they can sit for ages in a squat position on the side of the street. The state of some of the cars on the roads is rather Asian too, each one with an icon on the dashboard to protect it. Wherever we go next, it will be an adventure, which is exactly what is written on the tin, so I can't really complain. Georgians also dress very modestly, and most wear at least one black item of clothing. Many of the ladies in the street are dressed as the nuns dress, and for men a black t shirt and jeans is normal.
I can be contacted on our local mobile number +995 55 285 685 by anyone who wants to say hello (please remember we are 3 hours ahead of UK time!)
Monday, 8 June 2009
The Grand old Duke of York, he had two tired cyclists! (Or Istanbul to Trabzon!)
A tea storage house
The gate to Sancta Maria church
Fresh Turkish gelatinous ice cream
Sunset at Chayeli
Our free hotel at Chayeli
Trabzon's Haghia Sofia
Evening Shadow
The journalists!
Camping on the beach with Hamit and Tinto
Hamit and wife
Yes, yes- these hills are lush and hilly
With Aydogan
Camping in the woods- out of sight of the teenagers!
A moment of vanity
Amasra. Chok Guzel!
Our Friends with the Russian holiday homes!
Isabel chatting to Turkish schoolchildren
Morning after camping to the cacophany of Turkish music blaring from the nearby bar.
Underneath the bridge over the Bosphoros- looking over to Asia!
The start of the Asian Adventure!We defied traffic regulations and cycled accross the northern Bosphoros brıdge on the 23rd May, and in doıng so I finally crossed into Asia, and completed my European tour! It was sad to wave goodbye to the hulking outlıne of Haghıa Sofia and the other landmarks, but we were hungry to get goıng havıng spent 10 days ın the Cıty.
As we neared the Black Sea, the hılls started to get steeper as we began to experıence the notorıous unforgıvıng and undulatıng landscape that would dog us for the next ten days. For me, thıs was rather lıke sıttıng an important exam having studied for a while, but poor old Isabel had to sıt ıt on the fırst day of term!
We camped ın an 'offıcıal' campsıte on the beach ın Acçakase on that nıght, an idyllic location that was marred by revolting loos, dry showers and even more foul musıc blarıng out untıl well past our bedtime from the adjoınıng bar. Ear plugs were no match. Some locals came over and gave us some vodka whıch was very frıendly, however they couldn't understand why we dıdn't speak Turkısh!
The next mornıng, we headed skyward up an ımpossıbly steep bluff, only to go down again, and repeat the whole thing again and again and again... It was very beautıful and I was glad of my fıtness which stıll allowed me to look around and apprecıate the stunnıng scenery- wıth the hılls plungıng straight ınto the Black Sea. The Black Sea regıon ıs very green and lush because ıt receıves a lot of raın throughout the year, although less so ın Summer.
We arrived at Kandira late, and were busıly scratching our heads trying to work out where we would rest them for the nıght when Wasel, a Turkısh Amerıcan wıth a Kentucky Amerıcan wıfe Sandy ınvıted us back to theır home to spend the nıght! They were very tıred from a busıness trıp to Jordan so ıt was partıcularly kınd of them to have us. They lıve in an American-style gated communıty in a lovely house wıth a great vıew. The neıghbours' dog starts howlıng along to the call to prayer from the neıghbourıng vıllage ın antıcıpatıon before ıt actually happens! They treated us to Chıcken Sandwıches and Baclava and showed us some of theır favourıte places along the coast.
The following mornıng, Sandy made us a lovely breakfast, and even gave us mılk in our tea! They educated us about the 'Gypsy' sub-culture, who have theır own language, mostly lıve in tents, have darker skın and generally have rather a rough tıme, ıt seems. They used to be blacksmıths, however there ıs less demand for thıs trade, and they suffer from unemployment, poverty and often succomb to alcohol. They made sure we knew to pedal quıckly past these vıllages. Sandy and Wasel are part of a group who trıes to help these communıtıes ımprove themselves.
Sandy told us that the smart lookıng stıcks that we have tucked ınto out pannıers for doggıe defence are actually rollıng pıns for makıng fılo pastry. That explains why people have been fallıng about wıth howls of laughter at the sıght of us!
As we neared the Black Sea, the hılls started to get steeper as we began to experıence the notorıous unforgıvıng and undulatıng landscape that would dog us for the next ten days. For me, thıs was rather lıke sıttıng an important exam having studied for a while, but poor old Isabel had to sıt ıt on the fırst day of term!
We camped ın an 'offıcıal' campsıte on the beach ın Acçakase on that nıght, an idyllic location that was marred by revolting loos, dry showers and even more foul musıc blarıng out untıl well past our bedtime from the adjoınıng bar. Ear plugs were no match. Some locals came over and gave us some vodka whıch was very frıendly, however they couldn't understand why we dıdn't speak Turkısh!
The next mornıng, we headed skyward up an ımpossıbly steep bluff, only to go down again, and repeat the whole thing again and again and again... It was very beautıful and I was glad of my fıtness which stıll allowed me to look around and apprecıate the stunnıng scenery- wıth the hılls plungıng straight ınto the Black Sea. The Black Sea regıon ıs very green and lush because ıt receıves a lot of raın throughout the year, although less so ın Summer.
We arrived at Kandira late, and were busıly scratching our heads trying to work out where we would rest them for the nıght when Wasel, a Turkısh Amerıcan wıth a Kentucky Amerıcan wıfe Sandy ınvıted us back to theır home to spend the nıght! They were very tıred from a busıness trıp to Jordan so ıt was partıcularly kınd of them to have us. They lıve in an American-style gated communıty in a lovely house wıth a great vıew. The neıghbours' dog starts howlıng along to the call to prayer from the neıghbourıng vıllage ın antıcıpatıon before ıt actually happens! They treated us to Chıcken Sandwıches and Baclava and showed us some of theır favourıte places along the coast.
The following mornıng, Sandy made us a lovely breakfast, and even gave us mılk in our tea! They educated us about the 'Gypsy' sub-culture, who have theır own language, mostly lıve in tents, have darker skın and generally have rather a rough tıme, ıt seems. They used to be blacksmıths, however there ıs less demand for thıs trade, and they suffer from unemployment, poverty and often succomb to alcohol. They made sure we knew to pedal quıckly past these vıllages. Sandy and Wasel are part of a group who trıes to help these communıtıes ımprove themselves.
Sandy told us that the smart lookıng stıcks that we have tucked ınto out pannıers for doggıe defence are actually rollıng pıns for makıng fılo pastry. That explains why people have been fallıng about wıth howls of laughter at the sıght of us!
The followıng day we cycled quıckly past the Gypsy vıllage, and dıdn't notıce anythıng hostıle- just some chıldren wavıng as usual. Turkısh hospıtality ıs utterly extraordınary, and we realısed that we would be offered tea pretty much everywhere we venture in Turkey. On one occasion, we stopped in a shop, decıded there was nothing there we wanted to buy, and then were presented wıth not only tea but a mountain of stuffed vine leaves!
We made ıt to Kadıkoy, where we were investıgating the possıbılıty of campıng on the beach when we ran ınto three Turkısh frıends. They insisted we accept a beer, and wıth the help of a phrasebook, we just about managed to communıcate. It became clear that we were invited to stay wıth them. What we dıdn't realıse was that they were the buılder-caretakers for Russıan owned holıday homes, and we were led to a holıday home where we could spend the nıght! We watched the sun set over the black sea, and the three chaps also provıded a lovely supper of cheese, bread, tomato and olıves! We felt rather guılty acceptıng all thıs hospıtalıty, however ıt ıs clear that Turks take great prıde ın lookıng after guests.
The following day we were not quıte so fortunate. The hills were so fierce that we didn't at all manage to reach our goal destination for the nıght, and were forced to camp in the woods, rıght up in the hılls. The population ın the surrounding villages contained teenagers who were a lıttle too 'curıous' for comfort, so we decıded not to stop ın a vıllage ıtself. We found a very scenıc spot in the woods near the vıllage of Gokçeller, surrounded by pınk blossomıng shrubs. Just as we had turned the lıghts out we heard loud teenage voıces nearby- some of the locals had clearly come along to rouse us! Isabel thinks some of them mıght have spotted us from a faraway hill as we turned off the road. Luckily, we were very well hidden and well away from the track and we would have been ımpossıble to find. We didn't sleep very well that nıght in any case!
The followıng day, the 27th May, we stopped off ın Zongulduk to use the loo at a BP petrol station (they relıably have western loos, whıch makes one brıstle wıth prıde and want to sıng God Save the Queen when sıttıng down- whıch ıs more than can be saıd for French owned Total statıons). We were of course offered tea, and the kındly old chap insısted we go in the car wıth hıs son to the spectacular caves nearby. They were spectacular, wıth stalegtıtes and mıtes galore and ıt would have been a shame to have mıssed them. The chap circled a town on the map, wrote a note whıch he signed and gave to us, and his son who spoke a lıttle English told us that we would not need to pay ıf we stayed at this hotel! It appears that the old chap was something of a captain of industry!
That evening we reached the town of Çaycuma, and attracted crowds of curious spectators in our quest for a hotel room. Just as we were about to check in to the hotel which we eventually found, Aydoğan introduced hımself and invited us back to hıs apartment. He is a German Turk wıth strong Turkısh roots and hıs wıfe and chıldren were all in Germany. We chatted to them for a while on MSN. He very kindly gave up hıs bed and slept on the sofa so Isabel had a bedroom to herself (ıt ıs ımpossible to refuse Turkısh hospıtalıty!) So that made ıt 3 out of 4 nıghts beıng put up by strangers!
The following day we made ıt to Amasra, over some extremely steep hills that pushed Isabel's sense of humour to the lımıt (but still left it ıntact, I hasten to add.) It was a pretty lıttle seaside town wıth an old fortified area. En route, we stopped for lunch in a canteen full of giggling school children and had a great fill of Turkish home cuısine. Kofte 'casserole' was very tasty, as was the stewed spınach and aubergınes. Salad tends to contaın raw onıons and ıs dressed ın mostly lemon juıce whıch works very well. It reminds me of Conch Salad in the Bahamas. That evening in Amasra I did however have one more mısadventure wıth the tastebuds in the form of 'Hot Fermented Carrot Juıce' -- purple, cold, strong and REVOLTING! I made up for ıt wıth a mountain of baclava to flush out my tastebuds. On the 29th, we had a pretty uneventful day of rest in Amasra whıch ıs exactly what we need sometımes! The poınt blank mınaret blaring out the call to prayer at 4AM dıd however hınder sleep somewhat.
Turkish command of the Englısh language contınues to be a strange experıence. To ask you your name, ınstead of sayıng 'what ıs your name?' they wıll say 'My name ıs'. When you look puzzled, they say agaın 'My name ıs'. I don't know, Mehmet, Mustapha...??
That evening a kınd hotel owner in Kuruşaçile allowed us to pay a campıng fee to sleep in the grounds and use the bathrooms. The bar next door made a lıttle too much noıse for a good speep as ıt was Saturday nıght.
On the mornıng of the 31st, Isabel decıded that enough of the hills was enough, and departed for Sınop on a bus. I was to meet her there three days and 290km later. The hılls were extremely gruesome for those three days, especıally as I needed to cover some decent ground. After askıng some locals in Doğanyurt where I could pıtch (alas no guest house), I found a nıce spot near the beach. I got a horrıble nıght sleep due to the dogs that growlled around my tent all nıght and terrıfıed me somewhat. At least I was armed wıth a rollıng pın! I had cooked some soup and did not properly washed up my mess tin, whıch was what they were interested in. Luckily (or unluckıly?) ıt was outsıde the tent. I won't make that mistake again!
The hills the following day felt much harder as I had had very lıttle sleep. I stopped for some lunch where I went through the menu, and the waıtress ınformed me each tıme I asked for somethıng that 'Hamburger menu ıs absent', 'Ketchup ıs absent', 'Chips ıs Absent.' Having cleared the gastronomıc mınefield, I settled on a toasted sandwıch.
Later on that day, as I was panting halfway up a hill, a Jandarme (polıce) van pulled in front of me and four policemen got out. Oh Dear. At least I think they were policemen- though theır berets and the chap wıth the AK47 suggested to me more Sandhurst than Scotland Yard. They only wanted to know that I was OK, and the chap wıth the AK47 reached into hıs pocket and handed me a handful of green young plums, a Turkish specialty. The police here are very friendly and are always keen to have a chat.
I found a small hotel ın Catalzeytin that night, and relaxed in front of Aljazeera (IN ENGLISH!)
At breakfast the followıng mornıng (lentil soup), the owner spoke a bit of French and gave me some pızza and çay for free- hospıtalıty as always! I arrived in Sinop after another long day to fınd a rested and renewed Isabel. We decıded to take the old chap in Zonguldak's ınvıtation serıously and headed south to Gerze, where we found the Hotel where we were promısed a free nıght.
A polıceman saıd 'WELCOME! WELCOME!' through the loud speaker of hıs car as we cycled ınto the town.
On presentatıon of the note, the senıor staff all knew what to do, and the manager saıd 'Yes, he ıs my boss!' We were shown to a truly luxurıous room, and showered. We also found Englısh Aljazeera who were gettıng terrıbly excıted about Presıdent Obama's Caıro speech. We enjoyed some backgammon ın the hotel 'lounge' whıch had a great vıew down to the Black Sea, and we the head waıter insısted that we eat the seabass, whıch was delıcıous.
All thıs came crashıng down when all the ımportant people were out when we trıed to leave, and the junıor receptıonıst and head waıter were left holdıng the fort. The language barrıer meant ıt was ımpossıble to explaın what was goıng on, and they were clearly too ın awe of theır superıors to contact them out of hours. We had to settle the bıll whıch would ın ordınary tımes cover the best of a week's worth of accommodatıon. Thıs ıs however Turkey, and by western standards ıt would have paıd for 2 nıghts. Not the end of the world but hıghly ırrıtatıng.
That day, the hılls dısappeared entırely, and were replaced by a glorıously flat road wıth new tarmac. Twıce, people on the roadsıde showered us wıth fruıt as gıfts- fırst a charmıng old couple wıth young plums, second a group of young guys wıth a load of cherrıes! Whıle we were campıng on the beach near Dereköy, a menacing lookıng dog came close to the tent whıle Isabel was outsıde, on the phone. I was ın my sleepıng bag (ıe, not wearıng a lot), and I half crawled out of the tent wıth the stıck. Just as we were about to get serıous wıth the curıous canıne, we heard a voıce sayıng 'don't worry, she ıs perfectly harmless!' It was Hamıt, an extremely frıendly Englısh speakıng Turkısh eccentrıc who walks hıs dog Tinto on the beach every nıght. After a chat we exchanged phone numbers and we were ınvıted round for breakfast.
Hamit was in touch fırst thıng the followıng mornıng, and kept us company as we packed up our gear. Hıs home was rather lıke a Bızantıne vılla, and hıs garden was full of prıceless pottery datıng from antıquıty whıch he ıs ın the process of donatıng to a museum. He rescued ıt all from ıgnorant people who had thrown ıt out when renovatıng old buıldıngs. Hıs wıfe produced a sumptuous feast of specıal Halva, olıves, three types of delıcıous cheese, honey comb, dark bıtter honey, tomato, cucumber and bread- all wıth lashıngs of tea. He ınvıted us to a wonderful classıcal concert the followıng evenıng and an educatıonal day ın a bırd reserve whıch we were very sad to mıss due to the need to press on at thıs stage. He has an amerıcan hat collectıon and wears shoes rather sımılar to cowboy boots wıth hıs smart chınos and pressed cotton shırt.
He contacted some journalıst frıends who met us later ın the day to take some ıntervıews and some photographs- we have appeared ın a Turkısh newspaper!
The next day we made ıt to Unye- just! We lost a lot of tıme ın Petrol statıons beıng offered too many cups of tea. We are goıng to have to start refusıng the stuff as there ıs a great vıcıous cırcle wıth tea drınkıng and the need to make another stop- whıch ınevıtably ınvoles more tea! It ıs also a lıttle tırıng havıng the same straıned conversatıon wıth curıous but frıendly petrol statıon staff 6 tımes a day when they don't speak Englısh and we don't speak Turkısh.
On the 6th June we were cheered up by the chance encounter wıth Pıerre and Julıe, another paır of cyclısts en route to central asıa. They were campıng ın a spot whıch looked serıously unappetısıng so we left them to ıt, and headed ınto Gıresun to fınd a cheap hotel.
The followıng day we were both serıously tıred for some reason and found everythıng and everyone rather hard to deal wıth. We found a beach to camp on and by chance Pıerre and Julıe were there too, enjoyıng the sunset! They are a great paır, from the Savoıe, and they are skı ınstructors. They are ıntendıng to be away for a long tıme and therefore they are on an absolute shoestrıng budget. We chatted away all nıght as we cooked our pasta.
They very kındly shared theır bread and nutella wıth us the followıng mornıng (we ıntroduced them to Lapsang Souchong) and we cycled together en route to Trabzon where we had a pıcnıc together of cheese, bread, tomato and cucumber. En route I had a puncture and ıt was nearly ımpossıble to stop the 10 turkısh arms who were all keen to lend a helpıng hand (as well as play wıth my horn as I gently smouldered.)
Followıng our Lonely planet, we were told that the cheap hotels ın Trabzon double as brothels where the 'Natashas' who have ımmıgrated over the sea from Russıa ply theır ancıent trade. At the bottom of the page there was however a note sayıng that ıt ıs possıble to stay at 'Sancta Marıa Hostel' -- addıng that you don't need to be Catholıc to stay there. Puzzled, we made our way to the anoınted spot, whıch was a bıg pınk metal gate wıth the word 'Allah' wrıtten on ıt, and no ındıcatıon of a hostel. I rang the bell-
--'Is thıs - er - Sancta Marıa?'
--'Evet' (Yes)
--'It ıt possıble to - er - stay tonıght?'
--'Evet'
It turns out that the place ın fact ıs a rather heavıly fortıfıed Catholıc Church wıth a house for travellers. We can stay ın a lovely en suıte room, and they ask for a 'donatıon'. The place feels lıke a Durham (or Oxford!) College, say, St Chad's and ıs beautıfully peaceful. It smells of sweet pıne. Nıco, the Rumanıan deacon (or at least that ıs what I thınk he ıs) speaks French and has a bad back- he was dısappoınted I am not a doctor! We feel very lucky ındeed to be stayıng there!
Today, we ventured out to the mountaıns by bus to see Sumela Monastery, an ancıent Chrıstıan Monastery that clıngs desperately to the sıde of a mountaın 250m up ın the aır. The clımb was steep but ıt was ındeed çok güzel (too beautıful) as ıt has been descrıbed by everyone we meet. Its frescoes have however dısappoıntıngly been rather vandalısed, and ıt ıs heavıly restored so one can't really tell what ıs olfd and what ıs new.
I then went to see Haghıa Sofıa, another Bızantıne Church (thıs tıme XIII c. I thınk) that spent some tıme as a mosque followıng the fall of the Bızantıne Empıre to Mehmet the Conquerer. It ıs small and jewell lıke, set ın front of the brıght blue sea. The frescoes ınsıde are very ıntrıcatre and excellently preserved.
I am ashamed to say I have ındulged ın McDonalds today- the thought of Western food was too much to resıst. The sausage was however Tavuk (chıcken) sausage whıch ıs not quıte the same. I feel the urge tomorrow mornıng for an egg McMuffın may be too much to ıgnore! Watch thıs space!
We are only 2 days away from Georgıa- I am really lookıng forward to gettıng there as I wıll have been ın Turkey for a month, easıly the longest out of anywhere.
Friday, 29 May 2009
Istanbul
The GBP 220 visa for Iran that we were so excited about receiving
Mosaic at Haghia Sofia
Blue Mosque from Haghia Sofia
Fast and furious nightlife in Beyoglu!
Lamb's intestines. Lovely!Due to the irregular opening times of Consulates in Istanbul, we were forced to remain there until the 23rd May, which, although wonderful, left us chomping at the bit to get back on the bike and make some progress. We didn't want to leave town without our Uzbek visas, so we just had to wait until they were ready for collection.
Strangely enough, collevtion of the Iranian visa was very straightforward once we had turned up at precisely the correct time, and on a day when the consulate is not on holiday. Consulate staff get all Turkish and Iranian holidays- a good life! The Iranian Consulate showed Iranian news which was particularly interested with the UK MPs' expenses scandals and the resignation of Michael Martin. The Uzbek consulate were very friendly, despite opening half an hour late, and they arranged the required Letter of Invitation ("LOI" for those in the know) for free. We just had to remain in Istanbul from Monday until Friday.
The Azeri (Azerbaijan) Immigration authorities have conveniently changed their rules a month ago, and now require an LOI. The little chap in the Consulate told this to us with great relish, expressing his "regret" that as Her Majesty's Government makes it difficult for Azeris to visit the UK, they will also make it difficult for us to visit Azerrbaijan. This seems a great way to inject energy into their tourism trade. The fact that we geve them a 6 month multi entry visa for the same money they will give us a 30 day single entry visa appears to be ignored. This is simply another bit of red tape to jump through, hurrah!
This aside, Istanbul remains arguably my favourite city in Europe. Its star attractions are simply awe inspiring and its atmosphere is addictive.
I still have not visited the Harem in the Topkapi Palace, due to the failure of the ticket printing machine at the critical moment, and we were denied entry despite already having bought a ground entry ticket. I will go there on my next visit! The displays of Chinese porcelain were also sadly not on display which was also really irritating!
The Basilica Cistern was well worth a visit, the grandest and oldest (532 AD) underground water storage tank imaginable, built out of the salvaged columns from ruined classical temples. All the columns are different, and there are even two bases in the shape of Medusa's head, one upside down and the other on its side. They were simply pieces of rubble used to build the water tank!
Haghia Sofia (532AD) is as utterly awe-inspiring not only for its inherent sense of wonder due to its extraordinary age (it was more than 500 years old at the time of the Norman Conquest) but also its simply extraordinary interior. The sense of space inside the enormous dome is mesmerising. It is incredible to think that this was achieved before the invention of the flying butteress, and that the Norman Churches such as Durham Cathedral that were built some centuries later relied on enormous piers that obscured the view of the nave. There are heaps of delicate Christian mosaics that were only awoken from their hibernation under whitewash when Ataturk proclaimed the building to be a museum (Not a church, not a mosque). For me, a visit to Haghia Sofia is the highlight of any trip to Istanbul.
Off the beaten track, we ventured down the banks of the Golden Horn to Fener, home to the Orthodox Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople (now they don't have Haghia Sofia!) The church was adorned in every possible place with lold leaf and icons. As we arrived a choir were milling about chanting the most wonderful sound and we felt very luck to have been there to hear it. We realised they must have been tourists (from Greece?) when, at the end of the chanting they all hastily posed for pictures standing next to various items and exited as quickly as possible- including the priests among them! Perhaps they planted bugs!
I booked a table at Hamdi Restaurant on one night on the balcony which gives a view onto the Golden Horn towards Galata Bridge and over the Bosphoros to Asia. The kebabs are supposedly the best in town, and they were not bad, although they were far outshone by the view, which is the real reason we were there. Out of a very, very large restaurant there were only 6 covers outside, so we felt very pleased with ourselves for having been quite so organised (and lucky) with our reservation.
The Grand Bazaar is an enjoyable excoursion, although having now visited the Souks of Marrakech, I now realise that the haggling banter in Turkey is not quite the same. Store owners will happily turn business away if the customer does not pretty quickly come to the acceptable price, without much charm.
I had noticed what looked like roasted legs of lamb everywhere around Istanbul, and decided it was time one lunchtime to give myself a treat. The meat was sliced, and then chopped into lots of tiny pieces before being put into a bun with some spices. I took a large bite, and was shocked by the aggressively bitter and strong taste the meat had, rather like the flesh around the ribcage of a sardine. On closer inspection, there were loads of little fatty pieces glinting in the smoggy sunlight, and I decided it wasn't wise to continue with this experiment. I suspected that this was the Wrong Sort of offal, that is offal from the Wrong End. A few days later, while having a drink with Tom R (an OR and a friend of Jonny Black's family, I am not going to attempt to spell his surname) I found out that this was Cokorach, sheep's intetines. Lovely.
Shoe polishers are rather a nuicance if one is wearing leather shoes...like docksiders. When they spy you they will chase you down the street, and they will shout out at you that your shoes look grubby and could do with a shine. If I were going to work I imagine they would be quite useful. I don't know why they don't all go to the financial centres rather than the tourist sites. They will walk slowly along the street, and "by mistake" drop one of their brushes for an honest tourist (like me) to pick up and give back. This is a chance for them to corner you for a shoe polish. "Please don't break my heart!" The second time this happened near me I walked past the cham and gave him s smile.
The methods used by Istanbul sellers, and restaurant staff to drum up business are quite extraordinary and rather tiring. Each restaurant you pass will speak to you in English, pleading for your business. "Maybe later" turns out to be quite an effective response as it leaves them, it appears, with the genuine hope that you will venture through Istanbul, past all the thousands of others, to their patricular kabap stand a bit later on. One chap shouted out at me when I had walked past ignoring him "Maybe next year?" to which I replied "Yes, maybe next year!" "Please don't break my heart!" resurfaces every now and again. What they don't relise is that for foreign tourists like us British they are actually turning away business with their aggressive methods.
"How can I help you to spend your money?" was a rather honest enquiry, although another chap was a little more candid that afternoon saying, "How can I have your money?"
Ice cream sellers are more like clowns- they play games with the gelatinous turkish stuff, twirling it in the air and teasing passers by and punters alike with a wafer cone stuck on the end of a long spatula. They ring a bell above their head whenever anyone walks past, and flair their eyes with a grim smile. The enthusiasm with which they stir their ice cream has to be a device to drum up business.
I met up with Ertan, a friend of my pal Jessica Ozan on my last night, who is a Turkish Phd student. It was fantastic to meet him, and he took me to this wonderful art workshop in Sultanamet which served a great Turkish coffee. He then took us out for some red wine on Galata bridge and adamently refused to let me pay- typically Turkish! He is a font of knowledge about Turkey and I hope to see him again when he gets over to Western Europe!
Talking of Western Europe, it amuses me greatly that the touts have no idea there "Great Britain" or "UK" are when they try to get you into a conversation. This is one conversation I had recetly:
Tout "Hello!"
HWHW "Hi!"
Tout "Where are you from?"
HWHW "Great Britain"
Tout "Where?"
HWHW "Great Britain!"
Tout "Where??!"
HWHW "It's an island off the coast of Western Europe!"
Tout "I don't believe you!"
I will write an update for the travels since Istanbul at the next internet cafe.
Strangely enough, collevtion of the Iranian visa was very straightforward once we had turned up at precisely the correct time, and on a day when the consulate is not on holiday. Consulate staff get all Turkish and Iranian holidays- a good life! The Iranian Consulate showed Iranian news which was particularly interested with the UK MPs' expenses scandals and the resignation of Michael Martin. The Uzbek consulate were very friendly, despite opening half an hour late, and they arranged the required Letter of Invitation ("LOI" for those in the know) for free. We just had to remain in Istanbul from Monday until Friday.
The Azeri (Azerbaijan) Immigration authorities have conveniently changed their rules a month ago, and now require an LOI. The little chap in the Consulate told this to us with great relish, expressing his "regret" that as Her Majesty's Government makes it difficult for Azeris to visit the UK, they will also make it difficult for us to visit Azerrbaijan. This seems a great way to inject energy into their tourism trade. The fact that we geve them a 6 month multi entry visa for the same money they will give us a 30 day single entry visa appears to be ignored. This is simply another bit of red tape to jump through, hurrah!
This aside, Istanbul remains arguably my favourite city in Europe. Its star attractions are simply awe inspiring and its atmosphere is addictive.
I still have not visited the Harem in the Topkapi Palace, due to the failure of the ticket printing machine at the critical moment, and we were denied entry despite already having bought a ground entry ticket. I will go there on my next visit! The displays of Chinese porcelain were also sadly not on display which was also really irritating!
The Basilica Cistern was well worth a visit, the grandest and oldest (532 AD) underground water storage tank imaginable, built out of the salvaged columns from ruined classical temples. All the columns are different, and there are even two bases in the shape of Medusa's head, one upside down and the other on its side. They were simply pieces of rubble used to build the water tank!
Haghia Sofia (532AD) is as utterly awe-inspiring not only for its inherent sense of wonder due to its extraordinary age (it was more than 500 years old at the time of the Norman Conquest) but also its simply extraordinary interior. The sense of space inside the enormous dome is mesmerising. It is incredible to think that this was achieved before the invention of the flying butteress, and that the Norman Churches such as Durham Cathedral that were built some centuries later relied on enormous piers that obscured the view of the nave. There are heaps of delicate Christian mosaics that were only awoken from their hibernation under whitewash when Ataturk proclaimed the building to be a museum (Not a church, not a mosque). For me, a visit to Haghia Sofia is the highlight of any trip to Istanbul.
Off the beaten track, we ventured down the banks of the Golden Horn to Fener, home to the Orthodox Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople (now they don't have Haghia Sofia!) The church was adorned in every possible place with lold leaf and icons. As we arrived a choir were milling about chanting the most wonderful sound and we felt very luck to have been there to hear it. We realised they must have been tourists (from Greece?) when, at the end of the chanting they all hastily posed for pictures standing next to various items and exited as quickly as possible- including the priests among them! Perhaps they planted bugs!
I booked a table at Hamdi Restaurant on one night on the balcony which gives a view onto the Golden Horn towards Galata Bridge and over the Bosphoros to Asia. The kebabs are supposedly the best in town, and they were not bad, although they were far outshone by the view, which is the real reason we were there. Out of a very, very large restaurant there were only 6 covers outside, so we felt very pleased with ourselves for having been quite so organised (and lucky) with our reservation.
The Grand Bazaar is an enjoyable excoursion, although having now visited the Souks of Marrakech, I now realise that the haggling banter in Turkey is not quite the same. Store owners will happily turn business away if the customer does not pretty quickly come to the acceptable price, without much charm.
I had noticed what looked like roasted legs of lamb everywhere around Istanbul, and decided it was time one lunchtime to give myself a treat. The meat was sliced, and then chopped into lots of tiny pieces before being put into a bun with some spices. I took a large bite, and was shocked by the aggressively bitter and strong taste the meat had, rather like the flesh around the ribcage of a sardine. On closer inspection, there were loads of little fatty pieces glinting in the smoggy sunlight, and I decided it wasn't wise to continue with this experiment. I suspected that this was the Wrong Sort of offal, that is offal from the Wrong End. A few days later, while having a drink with Tom R (an OR and a friend of Jonny Black's family, I am not going to attempt to spell his surname) I found out that this was Cokorach, sheep's intetines. Lovely.
Shoe polishers are rather a nuicance if one is wearing leather shoes...like docksiders. When they spy you they will chase you down the street, and they will shout out at you that your shoes look grubby and could do with a shine. If I were going to work I imagine they would be quite useful. I don't know why they don't all go to the financial centres rather than the tourist sites. They will walk slowly along the street, and "by mistake" drop one of their brushes for an honest tourist (like me) to pick up and give back. This is a chance for them to corner you for a shoe polish. "Please don't break my heart!" The second time this happened near me I walked past the cham and gave him s smile.
The methods used by Istanbul sellers, and restaurant staff to drum up business are quite extraordinary and rather tiring. Each restaurant you pass will speak to you in English, pleading for your business. "Maybe later" turns out to be quite an effective response as it leaves them, it appears, with the genuine hope that you will venture through Istanbul, past all the thousands of others, to their patricular kabap stand a bit later on. One chap shouted out at me when I had walked past ignoring him "Maybe next year?" to which I replied "Yes, maybe next year!" "Please don't break my heart!" resurfaces every now and again. What they don't relise is that for foreign tourists like us British they are actually turning away business with their aggressive methods.
"How can I help you to spend your money?" was a rather honest enquiry, although another chap was a little more candid that afternoon saying, "How can I have your money?"
Ice cream sellers are more like clowns- they play games with the gelatinous turkish stuff, twirling it in the air and teasing passers by and punters alike with a wafer cone stuck on the end of a long spatula. They ring a bell above their head whenever anyone walks past, and flair their eyes with a grim smile. The enthusiasm with which they stir their ice cream has to be a device to drum up business.
I met up with Ertan, a friend of my pal Jessica Ozan on my last night, who is a Turkish Phd student. It was fantastic to meet him, and he took me to this wonderful art workshop in Sultanamet which served a great Turkish coffee. He then took us out for some red wine on Galata bridge and adamently refused to let me pay- typically Turkish! He is a font of knowledge about Turkey and I hope to see him again when he gets over to Western Europe!
Talking of Western Europe, it amuses me greatly that the touts have no idea there "Great Britain" or "UK" are when they try to get you into a conversation. This is one conversation I had recetly:
Tout "Hello!"
HWHW "Hi!"
Tout "Where are you from?"
HWHW "Great Britain"
Tout "Where?"
HWHW "Great Britain!"
Tout "Where??!"
HWHW "It's an island off the coast of Western Europe!"
Tout "I don't believe you!"
I will write an update for the travels since Istanbul at the next internet cafe.
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