Qom: shrine and hamburger

November 19, 2006 • Blog

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World » Iran » Qom » Hazrat-e-Masumeh

Qom, the most important religious city for Shiis in Iran after Mashhad, is home to the tomb of Fatema, the sister of Emam Reza. The shrine and mosque complex, similar to the complex in Mashhad, is quite impressive and, quite a change from Esfahan, there are no tourists.
Besides the shrine, the only other thing to see in the city is the house of the Emam (Khomeini). A reasonably standard house close to the city centre with, well, nothing much of interest to see.

Originally, I had the idea of staying in Qom for two nights, as I did in the other cities I've visited so far, but after walking around town, I even considered moving out on the same day. Tehran is only a good two hours away and, really, Qom isn't all that interesting if you're not a mullah. Or three.
Had a burger at a burger place. Ordered the 'double cheese burger', listed on the menu in phonetic English. Double burger, indeed, but no cheese. Apparently, 'cheese burger', here, is only a name.

Now travelling with one of the guys I had dinner with in Esfahan and who was staying in the same hotel, we left early on the second day in Qom and took a shared taxi to Tehran. Cold!

Esfahan: half the world

November 18, 2006 • Blog

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World » Iran » Esfahan » Emam Khomeini square

One zig zag move from Kashan, through Esfahan to, two days later, Qom. Last year in Esfahan I didn’t see too much, so I’m going back to what was still on my list. Not that I was left to my own devices. Seconds after leaving the hotel, a youth had hooked on to me and stayed with me until the last of the bridges over the Zayandeh river, the Shahrestan bridge, some eight kilometres later. He was very happy to practice his English on me, although he was a bit taken aback at first by my replying in Farsi, and I was a bit harsh on him, as he was quite a nice guy, but it is a bit annoying that, in such circumstances, these people assume that any tourist, as a matter of fact MUST enjoy speaking English with the locals.

My first day in Esfahan was a Friday and, as any good Muslim is not supposed to work on this day of prayer, the banks of the river were full with people taking going out with their family or friends, or both, for a day long pick nick. The main reason, I suppose, why my escort stayed with me for so long was that he lived very close to the last bridge I visited. As these things go.
Walking back, alone, I enjoyed the bridges once more and headed out to the Armenian quarter, where three churches still remain and form the centre of an active Christian community. Strangely, on Friday, all three were closed, as were practically all the shops in the area.

In the evening, trying to find an internet cafe, I found several to be closed, until in the fourth one I tried, the employee told me in his best English that “Mister, the internet is closed in whole of Iran today.” This, however strange, explained the closed cafes I’d found before. I then found another cafe which worked fine.

As I mentioned earlier, Iran certainly gets a much intriguing bunch of tourists. For one thing, beside many being vegetarian,, a lot seem to walk around with pages copied from Lonely Planets. The German I crossed the Iranian border with copied a whole bunch of pages from my five year old Iranian Lonely Planet back in Tabriz, while I had to fence of truckloads of questions from the store owner.
And everyone has an irregular story. One guy I talked to on my first night in Esfahan had just come from a four week stay in Kabul, where he found life nerve wrecking, before flying to Herat and, after Iran, going into Syria to study Arabic. Another guy had given up his job (and was either gay or a born again Christian) and was now travelling the world for more than a year, “to experience first hand about disappearing cultures in this globalising world”.

In Kerman, the taxi driver immediately assumed I’d be going to the Omid hotel. In Yazd, the taxi driver immediately assumed I was going to the Silk Road, in Kashan the taxi driver immediately assumed I was going to the Golestan, in Esfahan the taxi driver immediately assumed I was going to the Amir Kabir. Every time they were right. Indeed, there aren’t too many decent enough places catering for tourists.
I first was shown what was the smallest single room I’ve ever seen, only just enough room for one bed and no windows. I opted for a double bedded room. With TV and fridge and windows on the inner courtyard, for only 1.50 euro more. When I got back from my day on the town, a light was burning in ‘the cubicle’. Apparently, someone had risen to that challenge.
One of the reasons I wanted to go to Esfahan and this particular hotel was that the Lonely Planet claimed they had ‘something of a book exchange’. When asked, “the glass is now broken” of the library and only a few crappy ‘books’ were left. Mostly in Korean.

On my second day in Esfahan, I started off by walking through the bazaar to the Friday mosque, the main mosque in Esfahan. Very impressive and one of the biggest, if not the biggest, in Iran. Not too many tourists parading on the grounds, but also a FRIGGING BUSLOAD OF OLD JAPANESE TOURISTS.
What was worse, I saw them again at Emam Khomeini square, the city’s main attraction, a huge square with two beautiful mosques and an impressive palace.

Went again to Jolfa, the Armenian Christian’s district in town, and now found the main church to be open. Interestinly, looks much more like a mosque, from the outside, than anything else.

Esfahani’s are almost annoyingly aggressive, or should that be assertive. While in Esfahan, some 10 times people came up to me to ask if I was a tourist or started immediately talking English to me.

In the evening, I had dinner with the two guys I talked to on my first night. At the restaurant, on Emam Khomeini square, the Italian girl whom went on the same trip with the two Slovaks and me, in Yazd, also walked in. It’s a small world.

And this post’s title? There’s an old rhyme: Esfahan, nesf-e-Jahan; Esfahan, it’s half the world.

Kashan and Abyaneh: elegant houses

November 16, 2006 • Blog

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World » Iran » Abyaneh » Mosque

There are no buses from Yaxd to Kashan. Kashan, apparently, is too small. There are, however, many buses that go past Kashan to other places, Tehran, Qazvin, Rasht, etc. Then, because these buses generally arrive at their destination in the morning, they leave Yazd in the afternoon or evening, meaning I’d arrive in Kashan in the middle of the night. Not good.
Searching and not finding, some luck came my way in the shape of the hotel manager, who knew some obscure buss company that would be able to get me to Kashan at around 7:30pm. Still a bit late for my taste, but better than 4am.
At 7pm, after having to remind the bus attendant I really wanted to get off in Kashan, I was practically dropped off on the highway, close to Kashan. However, automagically, a shared taxi was waiting to take me downtown.

As, in buses, you’re not allowed to sit next to someone of the other sex, who’s not your spouse, it happens that when people get on the bus somewhere along the way, some reseating, orchestrated by the bus attendant, needs to be done. Husbands taken away from their wives, to allow an extra woman on the bus, for example.
On the ride from Yazd to Kashan, I was sitting next to the only empty seat. Somewhere along the way, a woman wanted to get on: “I have no seats for women”. She had to wait for the next bus to come along.
But imagine my horror when an older woman, a short time later, came up to me and asked if she could sit next to me. Apparently, something was afoot in the back of the bus and she wanted to escape. But what could I do. Be unfriendly and say No. Of course not. So there I was.

Kashan has, can it be any different, mosques and an extensive bazaar. One mosque, the Agha Bozorg, with an interesting sunken courtyard, is actually quite nice. But the piece de resistance of Kashan are the traditional houses, in particular the Khan-e-Borujerdi, the Khan-e-Tabatabei and the Khan-e-Abbasin, although the tourist authorities apparently claim there are over 600 of those houses in Kashan.
The houses are more like palaces tucked away inside the old town of the city. With loads of rooms, the Tabatabei has 40, multiple levels and extremely rich decorations, it’s like walking around in an extremely gilded cage, or the set of one of the Prince of Persia levels.

Shortly after I came out of bed and went for a shower, a tourist guide immediately jumped at the opportunity and offered me a half-day trip to Abyaneh, a stacked mud brick village, not unlike Masuleh, close to the Caspian Sea. The guy claimed to be a tour guide as well as a driver and showed me a lovely laminated card to prove it, but in the end it was mostly I who had to lead the tour guide from place to place in the small village.

Practically every shop in Kashan has a photo of some mullah who died recently. In some pictures, he looks like a wise ancient sage. In some others, he looks like a senile retard.

On Iranian cooking

The snack bar is king. Pizza, kebabs and burgers are the staples of Iranian cuisine, judging from what’s offered on the street. Really, it’s a challenge to get anything but pizza, kebab or a burger. True, often you can choose from multiple pizza’s, over ten kebabs and a decent array of burgers, but none really rocks my boat. You’d be excused to think Iranians struggle in the kitchen.

Point is, they don’t. At least, not at home. Historically, Iranian cooking is heavily centred around using a myriad of vegetables and only in the last few decades has the extensive use of meat emerged. Clearly, a resounding success, but something I can’t get my head around. Wouldn’t you get extremely bored, having access to so little variety?

There are only very few, what Europeans would call, real restaurants, with menus, waiters, made tables, etc. Most places use sterile decoration with energy saving light bulbs, just to make it that bit less attractive. Most are advertised with neon lights, often with their names or products advertised in neon, but sometimes also just plain, straight but coloured, neon lights tied to trees outside. According to my niece, green means they serve the dish ‘kalehpahche’ (pieces of animals’ heads and feet boiled to perfection).

The joy of digital and a remark on cencorship

I shoot digital. Convenient, it allows me to quickly upload my pictures, so that the whole world can see them, even though it generally doesn’t. Except for the occasional one of tits and ass, of course.
My three month old camera, over 5000 pictures shot, is now showing the first signs of wear and tear, but what’s worse, in several cities around Iran, Flickr, the service I use to upload my photo’s, is blocked.

On an unrelated note, I also somehow lost 150 pictures I made in Bam.

It’s no news, the internet, in Iran, is censored. For one thing, sex in all shapes and sizes is a big no-no. This also means that websites like the one of the University of EsSEX also can be blocked. Apparently, it’s up to the individual ISPs to decide how to run their firewall, so although in Tabriz and Yazd, Flickr was available, in the other cities I visited on this trip, so far, Tehran, Kerman and Kashan, it wasn’t.
But, of course, more is censored. Parts of the BBC News website are not available, as are certain news websites. I suppose that as soon as it can get delicate, it’s blocked.

Yazd: windtowers and firetemples

November 15, 2006 • Blog

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World » Iran » Chak Chak » Fire temple

Entering the Silk Road hotel in the old town of Yazd, it’s clear that the tourist industry in Kerman and Bam is struggling. According to Hossein, the guide who took me to the Zurkhaneh, tourism, since the earthquake, went down in Kerman with 90% as Kerman is now only a stopover, if at all, for people going to or coming from Pakistan, no longer on the way to Bam or a reason to visit in its own right.
We were actually three, visiting the Zurkhaneh. Myself, Hussein, and a English vegetarian chick who also was at Akbar’s in Bam. I paid for the taxi’s, the cookies we gave to the men performing as a token of our appreciation and I invited Hossein for dinner. Afterwords, I asked him what we owed him. “I say thank you”. I interpreted that as him being courteous, also seeing that he was taking the English chick on a two day tour into the desert the next day.
But later I realised that, more likely, he was too proud to ask for a fee and, looking back, there seemed to be several subtle but unintentional hints that, indeed, these were hard times. I suppose that if I were bettered versed in the ‘game’ of ta’arof, (something of an ingrained politeness) I had felt it coming, but as it was, we left Hossein with not even enough cash to buy a packet of cigarettes. Disturbing to realise that for a man with such qualities the clientele simply does not exist to make a living.
In Yazd, I tried convincing a group of tourists to check out Hossein’s options for staying in the desert.

Meanwhile, Hossein also had helped me get a ticket for the 6:30 bus to Yazd. I left the hotel at an ungodly 5:30. The streets still dark and empty, but since every car is, in theory, a taxi, made it to the bus station in time.
Two police checks on the way to Yazd where, for the second check, all passengers sleeping were woken up by the bus driver’s attendant. I survived both checks by reading an English book. They don’t (normally) mess with tourists.

The Silk Road hotel is set up like a caravanserai, rooms around a courtyard, where food is served. Currently, the courtyard has a plastic roof, partially to keep some warmth inside and rain outside. No luxury since the nights are already very fresh and it started raining as soon as I got off the bus.
Forced to wait for the rain to subside somewhat, I bunkered down a camel in the hotel’s courtyard. Not the cigarette, but an actual camel. Well, part of it anyway.
Half an Italian circus occupies the dorms. All vegetarians, the type of people where the men have dreads and the women wear rings on all their toes and have dreads too. On their way from Italy to India, their bus broke down in Ankara, where half the troupe went back. I tried to strike up a conversation with the only good looking, nay stunning, chick in the bunch, “I am the clown”, until she cuddled up snugly with the most hideous creature of the group.

Yazd itself is, again, more mosques and bazaars. But, so far, Yazd is also a bit more attractive than the few cities I’ve seen this year, so far. The first thing I noticed, while taking a cab from the bus station, was how relatively clean and decent the streets were. The old town, with it’s narrow winding lanes in between mud brick walls and mysterious buildings, nooks and crannies is very enticing. And it has a structure which, it is said, was built by Alexander the Great as a prison.

Touring

The second day in Yazd was not spent in Yazd, well, mostly, but on a tour that took me to…

The nearby town of Meybod, with an old mud brick castle, a restored old post office and caravanserai, a pigeon house for collecting shit and a quite amazing ice house. In the ice house, ice was collected in winter to be used in summer. For cooling, but also to make decadently cold sherbets. Central Iran is the home country of qanats, underground channels transporting water from the mountains to the cities. In winter, water from the qanats was collected in shallow pools close to the ice house. At night, the water easily would freeze and then, in the morning, transported to inside the ice house.

Chak Chak, an important Zoroastrian site in the middle of the desert. The buildings aren’t to write home about, and there is an ancient tree and a stream coming from the mountain, both sealed off by an interesting brass door. The setting is impressive, however.

Kharanaq, a relatively recently abandoned mud brick village, where layers were stacked on layers with tunnels and passageways passing through, going up and down and up and down… It also has a minaret which you can shake, like the shaking minarets in Esfahan, but here you can actually do it yourself.
We also pick nicked here. Carpet, gas heater, tea, and bademjan. Curious locals continuously stopped by and would stay for a minute or two to watch. Inviting them for lunch or tea didn’t help, they would just keep on staring.

The Zoroastrian towers of silence on the edge of Yazd, two towers on lonely hilltops where dead Zoroastrians were left in a sitting position until their bones were picked clean by vultures, after which the bones would be brushed into the hole in the middle of the towers. Air, water, fire and earth are all holy for Zoroastrians, which makes it a bit of a challenge to get rid of your dead bodies.

In the evening, I went to school. The tour guide we were with had asked me on my first day in Yazd if I’d be interested to lead a conversation class at the English language school where he also teaches. Tired, but a very pleasant experience as we talked about the Iranian president, Nuclear weapons, America, flowers and everyone’s favourite subject: me.

On the last day in Yazd, waiting for the afternoon bus to Kashan, I took the hotel’s bicycle and peddled over to the Ateshkadeh, the Zoroastrian fire temple in Yazd where there’s a fire burning which has been going strong since around the year 470. The whole thing is a bit of an anti climax, but it’s still kinda cool, I suppose. Although I can easily imagine that once or twice the caretaker might have forgotten to put up another log. This is, after all Shiraz (the grape) country.
I also climbed the Amir Chackmaq mosque, for enjoyable views across Yazd.

Who am I

Several times, I’ve now been told I look like “Kurdish people”. It certainly explained why the Turks so easily thought I was one of them. Also, on a few occasions, I was asked what my name in Holland was, assuming my Iranian first name would surely be too hard for those stupid foreigners.
About those stupid foreigners, it’s surprising how easy it is to spot foreign women, even at a distance. Not only are they generally hideously dressed, they often walk like either cows or men.

Kerman and Mahan

November 12, 2006 • Blog

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World » Iran » Mahan » Bagh-e-Shahzadeh

Yet another bazaar, yet another couple of mosques. Outside of Tehran, perhaps, I haven't yet found an Iranian city where I seriously could consider living. For one thing, no alcohol, but also, not surprisingly because of its isolation, Iranian cities do not tend to be very cosmopolitan.

And then there are the pit latrines. Actually, I like them, as such. The squatting, for taking a dump, has the pleasant side effect that it's much easier to empty your bowels. And the water, from the hose, with which you clean your bum, tickles your butt nicely.

But two things. A little bit of toilet paper would be very nice, for having to pull up your pants with a wet butt-crack isn't too comfortable. And there's the smell. 'European' toilets have the u-shaped pipe to keep the goodies, and the smell, at bay. The squat toilets, judging from the fowl smell, don't seem to use that contraption. Although, once, I saw something of a valve blocking the exit, letting water (and shit) through, going down, but not letting the smell come up.

Then, what is it with Iranian restaurants, really? Every single one of them sells 45 different kebabs, and very little else. And it's particularly the not-kebabs which I like. Still, after eating at a decent restaurant, yesterday, I was able to add another great dish to my Iranian favourites: kashke bademjon, an eggplant dish cooked in a milky sauce to a soup-like consistency. Delicious.

Taking a break on my first day in Kerman, in the courtyard of the Omid Inn, a backpacking Japanese guy came up to me:

"Hi! Are you a backpacker?"
"Yep."
"My name is Joshi. I'm from Japan."
"Babak. Nice to meet you."
"I have to shit, I have diarrhea."

And he was gone.

On my second day, I enjoyed the sights in Mahan, some 35 kilometres from Kerman. The city has two sights, a dervish tomb and a lush garden. At 2000m above sea level and at this time of the year, you have to lounge in the sun. Finding one, right next to a running stream, with a hot tea and my first water pipe in a very long time, time did not exist. That is, until I had to walk back, six kilometres, to Mahan, for lack of transport.

Walking to the back of the garden, where the mountain stream enters the park, two empty cans of Tuborg beer were stuck behind a stone. Not the alcohol-free kind, which you can get almost anywhere, but the 8.1% type. Witnesses to a well-hidden subculture.

Almost everyone seems to want to strike up a conversation with me. Iranians are almost always confused. I look reasonably Iranian, but my Farsi is strangely accented. It's a bit tedious to have to tell the same story again and again, although it's good training.

I now counter questions like "Where are you from?" with "Tehran, and you?" to which they almost always reply, surprised, "From [the current town], of course!", to which I say "No! Really? What do you do?" which is quite funny if the person in question is, at that moment, driving a taxi or selling tickets for, say, a museum.

On my second night in Kerman, spent the evening with the delightful Hossein Vatani, probably the best tour guide in the region, if not the country. We had dinner after a visit to a Zurkhaneh, a 'house of strength', where a bunch of guys show off their manliness in a spectacle of highly ritualised dances and feats of strength, to the accompaniment of a drummer/singer reciting Hafez. Highly intrigueing.

Ruins of Bam

November 10, 2006 • Blog

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World » Iran » Bam » Bridge over the city’s river

People claiming that things really ain't what they used to be are quite right if it concerns the city of Bam. There's not too much left of the ancient citadel which graced the town .In fact, there's not too much left of the hole town itself, even though the devastating earthquake happened almost three years ago. Before, tourists had access to every part of the old city, including the citadel, where climbing up gave you amazing views of the old city, the town and the surrounding areas. Now, practically the whole old town is one big ruin and a sealed off path only lets you go as far as the entrance to the citadel.

Maybe because of that, the town feels very Afghan, or maybe Pakistani. Lots of people walk around in shalwar kameez, many shops sell from shipping containers, and the boys selling DVDs only have Bollywood crap. The state of affairs is a bit sad, three years after the quake and so very little rebuilt. Is it typical? Is it the same in other quake-hit areas?

I took the night train from Tehran to get to Bam ,but although in recent years, the track was extended from Kerman to Bam, the night train still only goes as far as Kerman, where you have to wait, get a new ticket, and get on a local train to the next town. The train station in Kerman is reasonably modern. One large hall with many seats facing the exit to the platform with a TV screen above it, not showing departure times, but, yes, television. All the offices around the hall were signposted in two languages. Useful, except for the fact that the only offices missing was the actual ticket office. Then again, it being the only office not signposted and a significant crowd outside, it wasn't too hard to track down.

Inside, the ticket officer shouted out destinations, after which the travellers had to respond with the number of tickets they wanted for that destination, before the ticket officer would produce the tickets in one big batch.

Akbar's guest house in Bam, together with two expensive hotels, survived the quake, but only just. Taking the bus from the train station (why do they build these things so far from town?) to the city, one of the locals whom I'd shared my coupe with, assured me that nothing in Akbar's area was left standing. Not completely true, but close .Akbar's is basically three prefab containers around a small yard.

There's a contingent of Africans staying at the guest house. I tried striking up a conversation with one of them:

"Where are you guys from?"
"Africa."
"Really (you bloody idiot)? Which country?"
"South Africa."
"Where in South Africa?"
"Johannesburg."
"How interesting! Where in Johannesburg?"
"Cape Town."
"Ehm… Where in Johannesburg?"
"Tanzania."
"Hm."

Later, some claimed they were Shia muslims on their way to Mashhad. I wasn't really convinced. Every day, a few left, a few arrived. Akbar doesn't seem to happy with them, but then again, it's business. They stay in, most of the day, and make calls to Pakistan, Tanzania, Tehran..

Besides the Africans, there are also a few 'real' tourists at the guest house and, indeed, the further east you travel, the weirder they get. Maybe the hippy trail still exists. At least two of the guests are strict vegetarians (one of these has the exact same name and hails from the exact same town as the German I met in Dogubeyazit, yet they don't know each other, the other, an English chick, has the body movements of a chicken), there's a Swedish motorcycle driver on his way to India while another Swede, on a bike, also on his way to India, is set to come in any day.

Together with Akbar's son, we got pizza to eat on the roof of the (new) guest house which is currently under construction. Getting the pizza:

"Which pizza would you like?"
"Which pizza's do you have?"
"We have the special pizza."
Pause.
"Ehm… Okay. I'll take the special pizza."

Akbar's son, together with a friend of his always tried to make something special of their Thursdays. This time they were having pizza on the roof of the new guest house, secretly smoking hash.

On the Friday, going for a stroll towards the cemetery to check out the many dead, I first was offered a lift from someone visiting the guest house. I wanted to walk. Then, some fifty meters on my way, I was nearly forced to accept a lift from a fat young kid in a huge gold coloured 4×4. He drove me to the cemetery and offered me to drive around (the cemetery), after first pointing out his sisters and cousins who died in the earthquake. I said I preferred walking, which he couldn't appreciate too much.

Then, seconds after getting out, a young man with vacant eyes came running up to me, slurring his words but also trying to offer me his services. I threw him a cigarette and ran off.

The last evening was spent in Arg-e-jedid, the new ark (the old one being the destroyed citadel). It's basically a huge entertainment village with rides, lots of water, pick nick areas, restaurants and, I'm sure, much more. Music was streaming from the ever present loudspeakers. Muzak versions of such classics as 'My heart will go on' and 'If you wanna be my lover'.

We had dinner at Phare, a 'cafe-restaurant'. Well designed, if you didn't look at the finishings too closely, and classy. I though, till we got our food on red plastic McDonald's-like trays.

Bekhor, bekhor!

November 08, 2006 • Blog

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World » Iran » Tehran » House of Nader and Parvaneh

Quiet days in Tehran. The family all wants a piece of me, meaning I have no real choice but to visit Bushehr, and visit Abadan and Khoramshar (both on the Iraqi border, woohoo) with one uncle, and go to Mashhad to visit Gorgan with another uncle.
Had a bite at 'King Burger' or 'Burger King', the joint didn't seem to know for sure themselves, using the actual Burger King logo to pull people in. The fast food joint was located right next to an 'IKEA' store.

One morning, visiting the 'Den of spies' (the former US embassy) and the Iranian Photography centre. Both were closed, although the nearby Artist's House had a very decent and quite large photo exhibition, although the many shots of Ahmedinejad were a bit too much.
The day I arrived had just seen a major demonstration right in front of the former US embassy, commemorating the anniversary of the hostage crisis, which started in 1979 and lasted for an impressive 444 days. The Den used to house an exhibition, amongst others with shredded documents from the embassy painstakingly reconstructed and 'proving' undercover and clandestine US activity in post-revolutionary Iran. All that remains now are the aggressive, painted but flaking, remarks on the Den's outer walls.

While family is pulling at me on all sides (one of the results being stuffed, having to eat way too much, hence the title of this article, meaning "Eat, eat!"). But, before the more busy parts of my trip (the one year's commemoration of the death of my father and the aftermath) begin, I'm leaving on a 10-14 day trip to the Iranian heartland, today.

Unfortunately, Flickr has been blocked in Tehran, even though it was working fine in Tabriz. So newly uploaded pictures might have to wait until Turkey.

From Turkey to Tehran

November 03, 2006 • Blog

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World » Iran » Tabriz » bazaar

So it wasn't my last day in Turkey. Waiting for my promised ride to Tabriz, I showed up half an hour before the agreed time, expected departure to be much later than suggested, but 5 hours afterwards threw in the towel. I was starting to have hysterical visions of being forever stuck in this border town in Turkey, waited a bit longer, and walked back to the hotel, checking in where I, in the morning, had checked out.

Crossing the border turned out to be a complete breeze. The guidebooks talk of the busiest border crossing in Asia, but far from it. Together with a German, travelling the world for 18 months with the money he inherited from his grandfather, we walked to the bus stop, to be picked up by a roving bus driver before getting there. A 15 minute wait, and we were off to the border. Walked some 250 meters to the Turkish check point, a quick scan, a remark I hadn't an Iranian visa, a rebuff, and that was one half done.
Then, we stepped through a minute opening in a huge gate. A friendly Iranian asked for our passports and, after accepting them, closed the gate and thus the border and walked with us to inside a building, where our passports were quickly checked. Then, moving on, a lovely young Iranian girl working for the tourist board, spotted us and came over to direct us from one place to the next. First registering the foreigner (not me), then with us to the bank to change money, then on to customs control, which was skipped when Sven, the German, said he had film (old school photography) in his backpack, and ending with walking us to the outside door, where she arranged a cab for us to Tabriz (30 dollars for the car), a three hour ride away.
Maybe we were the first tourists of the day and she was happy to finally have some work. Maybe it's related to the recent government drive to offer financial incentives to tourist agencies, offering cash bonuses for every tourist which is brought in, 20 dollars for American tourists, 10 dollars for others. Ahmedinejad might be vilified in the western press, Iran, through Ahmedinejad, is also offering several friendly hands as a basis for bringing Iran's and America's countries closer together on a personal level.

Getting of the Turkish bus, walking to the Turkish checkpoint, there's a bend in the road. The walls on the side of the road don't allow you to see around the bend. Some 20 guys were, right before the corner, busy taping themselves in with all sorts of stuff, sticking goods as close against their bodies as possible, wearing multiple shirts and, more importantly, several layers of trousers. One of the guys went through the checkpoints directly behind us and we could see his passport. Iranian, stamped from front to back with Turkish stamps.

In Tabriz

We arrived in Tabriz on a very rainy day. The hotel we chose, Hotel Iran, close to the train station, was cheap and decent, but very far from town.
After a good night's sleep, it was off to see the sights of Tabriz. Only one day, because Sven and I had gotten a train ticket for the journey to Tehran for the very same evening. The Bazaar, some 3.5km of alleyways, constitution house, with pleasant pictures of mass hangings dating from the early years of the 20th century, the inaccessible Kalisa-ye Maryam-e Moqaddas (Church of St Mary), the Arg-e Tabriz (the Ark of Tabriz), a huge brick citadel, the Kabud Mosque, an enjoyable 500 year old mosque, strangely enough closed on Fridays (Islam's Sunday), and the lovely Park Elgoli.

The train ride, a 12 hour drive from Tabriz to Tehran, was good too. Train rides in Iran are cheap and good. The 12 hour ride, over some 600 or 700 kilometres, cost only 12 euros, first class. You get to stay in a roomy, mixed(!), four person cabin, food and drinks provided. Two LCD screens were showing movies. First Burn Hollywood Burn, indeed an interesting choice, then some Iranian comedy. The screen our two companions were facing was broken, but both couldn't ride 'backwards'. Instead, I had to explain to the two Iranians in our compartment, for the 10th time in two days, what my background was, in Farsi. Every time the same questions. And one has to stay friendly.
Spending the two days with Sven was good and bad. Good because it's always nice to travel with like minded companions. And it also infused me with more confidence in Iran, since people here see me as Iranian, I was now at least more knowledgeable than Sven, on Iranian matters. But it was also bad, in the sense that I was constantly forced to be the middle man. Sven went into some copy shop in Tabriz to make copies of part of my Iranian Lonely Planet. When the owner found out I was Iranian too, living abroad, he started talking like a waterfall, non-stop for twenty minutes, forcing me to try and understand the jabbering. Very tiring, particularly when that happens several times a day.
I had the feeling that on several occasions, people saw me as the Iranian guide to the lonely tourist. In the bazaar, a young lad walked up to us, small plastic bag filled with cheese on a piece of bread in his hand, and started talking to Sven, who's about two meters tall, in decent English, in an extremely civilised manner. At first it seemed he really just wanted to make conversation, until he invited us to his, of all things, shoe shop. Earlier, he had asked what kind of sports Sven liked. "Soccer". Sven asked the same question. "Gymnastics and swimming". Only then we really noticed the wavy hair and the feminine characteristics. We made a quick getaway.

In Tehran, the next morning, tired from having to get up at 4:30 because of the early arrival of the train, I sit at my uncle and aunt's apartment, happily chatting away, listening to the street musicians down below, sipping my tea and sliding into life here as if not having been away for 11 months.
Budapest to Tehran, thousands of kilometres in 18 days. Not too bad. Next time in summer, allowing me to see more of the out-of-the-way sites in both Turkey and north western Iran.

Last day in Turkey

October 31, 2006 • Blog

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World » Turkey » Dogubayazit » Ishak Pasa palace

Buying a ticket to Dogubeyazit, I was assured the trip would be on one bus, no changes. In Agri, some 85 kilometres from Dogubayazit, driving into the bus station, I was told I had to change to another bus. Rushing, the second bus was in fact already driving when I threw my luggage in the hold just before the attendant closed the shutters, I forgot the book I was reading in the first bus.
No women, but only tanned younger men with dark blond hair on the bus. Up till now, when someone spoke Turkish to me, I generally wouldn't understand, but would be able to repeat it or write it down phonetically, whatever help that might do. Now, after boarding, several people started talking to me but all I heard were sounds like the growls of a sleeping dog who doesn't open his mouth.

My sudden being roused from sleep did have the result I was able to enjoy the landscape. Very, very pretty. Rolling hills, sweeping vistas, wide rivers, green pastures, snow capped mountains, banks of fog sliding down the hills into the small villages dotting the scenery.
A few scattered clouds, nothing special, until I noticed mount Ararat coming up in the distance, with a ring of clouds actually around the top. The truly majestic mountain with its head above the clouds.

Taking it in

I had hoped on arranging a tour, visiting the wonderful Ishak Pasa palace, a structure beneath the ice on the mountain supposedly the ark of Noah and a few other things. Not so, not enough tourists to fill a car. Now where did I hear that before? Hanging around the tourist agency, I ended up chatting with a local celebrity with whom I might just travel to Tabriz tomorrow. As these things go.

So I'd only visit the palace where, actually, I saw more tourists than in my three days in Trabzon. Taking a dolmus (a minivan operating as a shared taxi) up the mountain and, much later, a six kilometre walk back into town.
The scenery around Dogubayazit and around the Ishak Pasha palace is outstanding. Very much like central Asia: rugged mountains, grassy plains, bright blue skies, crispy air. I took the distant gunshots for granted.
The Lonely Planet calls the palace 'one of Turkey's prime attractions' (and anyway, it could have been even better: the impressive gold plated doors were taken by the Russians to the Hermitage in St Petersburg). I'm not sure I would go that far, but combined with the scenery it is indeed spectacular. A real life Prince of Persia set with, among others, Seljuk, Persian and Georgian architectural influences. Nearby, a fortress built onto a rock face is thought to be up to 3300 years old.

Dogubayazit is a frontier and border town in one. There's not much to do, even though there's 35000 to 70000 people living here, depending on who you believe. But also, there's a series of hotels catering to the, supposedly, many cross border travellers. The feel of the town is much more Asian. Mostly small concrete buildings, kids pushing carts selling fruit and bread, men idling around, smoking. Is this the Turkey conservative Europeans are afraid of?

In the evening, in one of the towns exclusive internet cafes (20 large LCD screens), I started talking to a Scot who turned out to be something of a born again Christian. He didn't use that term, but he simply couldn't stop explaining everything in life as part of God's plan and he -was- her as a self-financed missionary. And God's plan ranges from disasters following the (Roman Catholic) pope around as he'd move from one country to the next, to the misfortunes of Islam being the results of their heathen religion. What was interesting was that at the same time he was also a very likeable guy.

Finally, Sumela

October 30, 2006 • Blog

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World » Turkey » Sumela monastery

The rain caught up with me on my second day in Trabzon. While sipping tea at Aya Sofya, a former church/mosque/hospital, temperature quickly dropped and rain started streaming down. I wanted to sit it out, but after some 90 minutes, the rain only had gotten worse. Soaked when I got back to the hotel.

I had wanted to visit the Sumela monastery, some 65 kilometres out of Trabzon and had arranged a tour the previous day, but when it was time to pick me up, I got a call saying that, since I was the only one on the tour, they couldn't do it. Stuck for the day in Trabzon.

In the evening, the city was treated to a fireworks display from the roof of what seemed like the city's most luxurious hotel. Meanwhile, cars were honking their horns loudly as if their lives depended on it. It was the 83rd anniversary of the proclamation of the republic by everyone's favourite Turk, Mustafa Kemal, Ataturk.

On my last day in Trabzon, I still had no luck on getting on a tour to Sumela. The tour needed at least three participants, at 15 lira each. So when I offered to pay 40, a non negotiable counter offer of 50 lira was directed back to me. I left the tourist agency and resigned to not seeing Sumela on this trip.
On to an internet cafe, doubling as a car rental agency. Some haggling later, I left with a car for less than I'd have the tourist agency. Still, that was without factoring in the rather expensive fuel costs.

The monastery is in one of the most spectacular locations I've ever seen. It's built against a sheer rock face, high above alpine forests and mountains. The past few years have been spent on renovating/restoring/rebuilding the monastery and now, nearing completion, has been returned to its original glory of a small village hanging on to impressive rocks, in the middle of nowhere.
Built from as early as the fourth century, how on earth does one decide to start living in a place like this? I at least had the benefits of a car and a tarred road.

The drive from Trabzon to Sumela through Macka showed how similar this part of Turkey is to regions in Bulgaria or Bosnia. And even a town like Macka felt as European, or more, than tucked away towns in Bulgaria or Romania.
But then again, countries like Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan are considered to be in Europe, and they're even further east than Turkey!

A Turkish city by any other name?

October 28, 2006 • Blog

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World » Turkey » Trabzon » Otel Anil

After staying the day 'in', in Goreme due to the cold and the even more unpleasant rain, I was forced to take yet another night bus, this one to Trabzon, on the Black Sea coast, way out east, some 150 kilometres from the Georgian border.
A typical port town. Lively, very active, very commercial with seemingly every building in the city being, first and foremost, a shop.
The people are surprisingly 'light'. Lighter than in Cappadocia or even Istanbul. In fact, it would be easy to mistake some of the locals for Germans. Many have blue or very light eyes. Then again, there's also a German and an Austrian consulate. Maybe they've been there for a long time and get bored easily.
In fact, the city as a whole also feels much less Turkish than even Istanbul. The shops sell anything from Prada do Daniel Hechter, to the local versions of the same brands, besides of course the obligatory kebabs and baklava. Girls go for coffee and cakes after a hard day's shopping, boys hang out in front of the cinemas, the bars are busy with local youngsters smoking heavily and drinking beer. A few girls even show some leg, above high boots and under a knee-length skirt. The next morning, I noticed several Natashas leave hotels in the area. The TV in my hotel room has a channel with badly produced, hard core porn with only ugly people.
Indeed, Trabzon feels more Russian than Turkish.

In the afternoon, I found myself on a quieter square, being looked upon by Mustafa Kemal, who else, drinking tea, while a rooster, strutting around, seems convinced the sun has only just risen.
After looking in the mirror this morning, I also haven't seen any tourists yet!

On one of the larger bus stops from Cappadocia to Trabzon, the announcements over the intercom were voiced over the opening notes of 'My heart will go on' by Celine Dion, from the movie Titanic. Those 15 minutes we were there, I was quickly losing my cool. No wonder all the employees had a distinct crazy look in their eyes.
I don't fancy bus rides too much. Well, not at all. Then again, Turkish buses are seriously the best I've ever encountered. What's worse, you don't really have a choice. The train network is limited, a large (and reasonably important) city like Trabzon isn't even on the network. So I already have my bus ticket onwards, to Dogubayazit, right on the Iranian border and next to Mt Ararat.

Earlier, we passed a scale model of a typical Dutch windmill in between a huge collection of Soviet style apartment blocks.

A word on Turkey and the EU

For what I've seen, Turkey seems to be as close to Europe as, if not more so than, countries like Romania and Bulgaria.

A word on Turkish food

I've never been really impressed by what Turkish restaurants in Holland produce, nor was I much intrigued during my last visit to Turkey, three years ago. However, I've now found that, if you stay away from the meat dishes, the food is extremely varied and also quite good, if not delicious.
In fact, it's actually not too dissimilar from Greek food.

So many rocks

October 26, 2006 • Blog

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World » Turkey » Cappadocia » Ihlara valley

First day in Goreme, arriving early, too early for my hostel bed already to be vacated. Planning a quiet day, the hostel's manager easily convinced me to go on an all-day tour, visiting a whole list of good sites in the area: Pigeon valley, Derinkuyu cave, a whole underground city cut out of the pumice, Ihlara valley, Pasabag and Selime rock monastery, all three a bit of a combination of the buddhist caves in Bamyan, Afghanistan and Meteora in Greece, the Agzikarahan caravanserai and rounding it up with a pottery demonstration in Avanos, a village close to Goreme.

In the evening, two hippy chicks are trying to sing songs in the dining area of the hostel, while playing the guitar they brought.

On the second day, it's off to one of the country's many world heritage sites, the Goreme open air museum, mostly churches cut out of the rock face, but with much better preserved frescoes. Nice, but nowhere near as spectacular as what I imagined the site to be like when I first heard of its existence some 15 years ago.
I came across a large group of older Koreans. A middle aged fair haired, probably Turkish, guide, was guiding them around, speaking Korean in something resembling a walkie-talkie, while all Koreans had an ear bud in one ear.

Dinner at a local restaurant with live music, before downing tea and sweets at a cake and coffee house where one of the Chinese? Korean? waitresses was getting private Turkish lessons.

In the afternoon, chatting with a friendly Brit with yellowed teeth, who's operating a small cafe, the indoor area inside one of the rocks dotting the plains, close to open air museum.

The hot and spicy women of Turkey

October 24, 2006 • Blog

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World » Turkey » Istanbul » Otogar

"What does the kofteburger taste like?"
"Just like the women of Turkey: hot and spicy!"

And that, my friends, is the added value of McDonald's right there. Actually, the burger wasn't all too hot and spicy, but there certainly was a peppery taste and a slightly different and surprising sauce. And it -was- bleeding hot.

After running around Istanbul yesterday, it was drinks again at the hostel at the end of the day. The Bahaus, although the rooms are not all too great, has a very enjoyable, homely atmosphere. With a bar and rooftop restaurant that certainly could use a good spring cleaning, or two, but also gives of a mellow and enjoyable feeling which rubs off very well on the guests. In fact, on both nights, several people who were staying at other hostels had drinks at the Bahaus, including Brian, the surfer dude whom I shared the train from Budapest to Istanbul with.

Yesterday, after a rather short previous night and another evening of drinking and chatting the night away, the whole group, some 10 people, decided to head off to town. It was the end of Ramadan and although I expected most people to celebrate at home with the family, the city was packed, even at 1:30am, when we finally headed to town.
Going with two cabs, three of the four guys in our cab were in the process of paying the driver after getting out, when the fourth guy disappeared. Then we noticed we had lost the guys from the first cab. The three of us, an Italian from Milano, aspiring actor Ed and myself, ended up walking around aimlessly, before grabbing a bite and discovering a local pub where a folk singer was churning out all time classics, judging from the raving client謥.
Moving on, we bumped into the rest of the group, just returning from the club we were looking for. Them going for a bite to eat, we went into the, now empty, club. One beer, meeting two Turks in the club whom Ed had met the previous night. Then leaving the club, finding the rest of the group to have disappeared, we headed for the only place the Turks still new to be open.
Although the floor of the apartment sized club was littered with rubbish, they quickly brushed the dirt away and the DJ went wild with Turkish Europop songs, while we downed several free shooters before ordering a beer. Then we noticed it was a gay bar. Most specifically Ed, who's a bit like a young version of Hugh Grant, had a hard time making a slow gettaway.

Bleeding headache in the morning after three hours of sleep, in search for a bus ticket to Goreme in the heart of Cappadocia. Sold out or not available, until the fifth travel agency, where I ended up getting a ticket on a service where some 80% of the seats still turned out to be empty. Eurolines could learn something here. The leg room is very reasonable and there's a steward handing out drinks and snacks.

During the day, with Ed and Brian, rejuvenating in a hamam and then recovering from the hamam over tea and baklava.

In the pickup taxi from Sultanahmet, the area close to the Blue mosque where all backpackers and their friends seem to stay, to the biggest bus station I've ever seen, I saw a 4×4 standing still, with a weeping dog caught underneath one of the rear wheels.

No more millionaires

A few years ago, Turkey lost nearly all its millionaires when six zeroes were scrapped from the currency with every Turkish lira now worth about half an euro. Maybe through a related exercise, but strange in any case, practically all prices are extremely rounded, even the cheaper things.
For example, tea is 0.5, 1, 1.5, 2 or 2.5 lira, but never, say, 1.60 or 1.95. A donner is 2, 3 or 4 lira. Never 2.70 or 2.95. Are people not interested in paying a competitive price? Doesn't a pricing system like this easily allow for competition, good business opportunities?

Running around

October 23, 2006 • Blog

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World » Turkey » Istanbul » Between Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya

Sloshing around Istanbul, mostly to take in a part of the city we didn't have time for last time: Beyoglu, on the northern side of the Golden Horn.
Today is a holiday, the end of Ramadan, meaning that many shops are closed, even though, towards the afternoon, it was starting to get so extremely busy, everywhere, I'm sure that, by tonight, no one is going to be able to move, having to stand still for the rest of the night.

Had a fish sandwich which the Lonely Planet on several occasions claims is 'delicious'. It was a bit of a disappointment, as it was only 'quite good'.

Struggling to find my onwards journey. Want to take the bus, but the two bus services seem to be booked for tomorrow night. Taking a plane is an option, but effectively as slow, because it will get me to a nearby town at 9pm, meaning I most surely will have to stay there for the night, one I'd otherwise would have to spend on the bus.

Yesterday, it rained most of the afternoon and I was stuck in the Blue Mosque, waiting for the rain to stop. It never really did.

Train trip to Istanbul

October 22, 2006 • Blog

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World » Turkey » Istanbul » Bahaus guesthouse

I tried getting a plane ticket from Budapest to Istanbul, but prices were too high. And anyway, travelling overland also has a poetic ring to it. When boarding, the conductor showed his surprise at someone actually showing up on the train. He made it clear it would be a long ride, that we would arrive the day after tomorrow, I hope.
Many seem to share the conductor’s sentiment, as there will be only two passengers in the carriage, the only one going to journey from Budapest to Istanbul. Other parts of the train only go to the border, two carriages continue to Greece. That’s the Trans-Balkan-Express.
The train -can- only be operated at a loss. I expect this remnant of Soviet hegemony will disappear in the next few years.

Some years ago, when travelling by train from Poland to Russia, every station was filled with hawkers selling anything from boiled eggs to fried bread. Here, no one appears to be interested in selling anything. The signs at the Romanian train stations are brand new. Next year, this, too, will most likely be European Union.

In Videle, Romania, we had to wait for quite a while, when I realized how funny, in an annoying way, it would be if the one carriage I’m staying in would be left, forgotten, in the middle of this country, with only stray dogs to keep me company. Then I looked out the window and saw my carriage was the only one left at the train station.
We stood still for four hours.

Istanbul is like a woman’s private parts: moist and warm. Sweating like a dog, I struggled to the hostel I booked online, to find it’s the exact same one we stayed at three years before. I chose this one because it offers wi-fi access in the lobby. Upon arriving, I mentioned this to the guy at reception. “Of course we have wi-fi”. Most hostels now offer wi-fi access. I’m getting old. Proof is also the many hostel dwellers whom I consider too young to even start picking their own noses.

Unstoppable

October 19, 2006 • Blog

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World » Hungary » Budapest » Shiraz restaurant

Check out the pictures. I’ve uploaded them specially for Ismail…
And, no, I’m not only shooting babes’ behinds.

Running around Budapest, taking pictures of statues for Beeldenstad.net, I wasn’t really going to make a point of visiting my old haunts. Hell, I don’t even remember most of them.
But after a day’s hard work, longing for a decent csapolt sor (that’s a draught beer, without the proper accents), little beats hanging out in Museum cukraszda. So I went. And it’s amazing, not having changed in ten years. And, open 24/24, what a blessing.

I’ve bought my plane ticket to South Africa and although the price is around 150 euro less than when I’d flown from Holland (even though I’m using Lufthansa which will see me passing through Frankfurt), it still was almost literally a ‘rib from my body’ (suck on that you non-Dutch speakers).
The onward journey to Istanbul is, so far, a challenge. And when I make it, I still have to cross most of that country to get to Iran. What did I get myself into. Maybe, next time, I should be a millionaire and travel first class, by plane, straight to Tehran.

The man’s a machine!

Yesterday the Pest side, today the Buda side. With pleasure. The view of the city from castle hill is still one of the most enjoyable city views in the world and even though the tourist hordes get worse every year, the city, cleaned up and renovated, actually looks better than ever.

But very tired after the day’s work, I ended up in Raday utca, which, over the years, has changed from a bit of a backwater to the hippest street in town.
Shiraz restaurant, which I first encountered as a felafel pusher, is now a classy Persian restaurant with scantily clad babes leading you to your table and belly dancers to help you digest your meal.

El Mansouri

Something else. Some months ago, an Iranian activist holding a Dutch passport and who’s still politically active against the Iranian regime, was arrested in Syria and deported to Iran. This happened six months ago, the man hasn’t been heard of since (while his son lives in Holland) but it is assumed he’s been tortured, as these things go.
His plight was highlighted on TV recently (where also his ignorant lawyer, “I don’t speak Arabic”, tried to get a visa for Iran). What wasn’t mentioned, but what I realised just now, is that the kidnapped man, El Mansouri, most probably was still carrying his Iranian passport, in a way justifying Iran’s actions (of deporting him, not of assumed torture).
Since, if my (Dutch) neighbour would have been kidnapped and transported to Iran, for activities -outside- of Iran, it would have immediately unlocked an extreme diplomatic crisis. Almost without a doubt, the man still had his Iranian passport.

El Mansouri was finally released from prison in 2014.

Beeldenstad: Budapest

October 19, 2006 • Photography

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World » Hungary » Budapest » Varosliget

Beeldenstad.net was a collaborative, social, mapping platform for documenting art in the public space.

A drink, a bite, …

October 18, 2006 • Blog

World » Hungary » Budapest » Best hostel

Stepping off the plane yesterday, I was welcomed by the Budapest air. Taking it in, a certain dryness, the crisp freshness and an underlying sweet aroma, it dawned I’ve been missing this, just the air, for a very long time. Just then, I realised that it’s almost ten years, to the day, that I arrived in Budapest, by Eurolines bus, to work on my thesis at the Budapest Muszaki Egyetem.

In the evening, drinking Borsodi, a local beer, at a small restaurant, tucked away, but close to the now thriving but touristy Liszt Ferenc ter. It’s packed, mostly with Hungarians, and the only table available is a tiny desk, which seems to be there more for show than anything else, near the door of the overcrowded eatery. Artsy youngsters, possibly from the music academy across the street, walk in and out, most of them to say hi to and drink a beer with the owner.
I’m eating gulyasleves (goulash), probably the most Hungarian dish out there. It’s really been too long.

Taking, first the bus, then the metro, from the airport to Nyugati train station, next to which is the hostel I’m staying at, I had ample opportunity to listen to the Hungarians speak.
A beautiful language, and it’s also pretty much as unique a language as they come. Sure, it’s part of the Finno-Ugric (that’s Finnish-Hungarian) language family, but to say Hungarian is related to Finnish is akin to saying sheep and horses both hang out on farms. Basically, after grouping all the world’s languages in neat little families, linguists were, at the end of their exercise, left with two languages they couldn’t fit in anywhere else, hence, putting them together with a few minute dialects from the darkest parts of Siberia.
Well, almost. There actually is a distant connection between Finnish and Hungarian, as they originated with the same tribes who were pushed across Asia towards Europe by distant relatives of the Huns. And that’s also why you can still find those tiny dialects back in Siberia: they are the ones who stayed behind.
But not that these languages are very similar. All the words Finnish and Hungarian seem to have in common are autobus and sex.

I love the Hungarian language. It’s so rich in its tonal range, with so many vowels, it’s a joy just to listen to someone speak Magyarul. It’s almost that speaking Hungarian is like making love. Or is it just that when I listen to a girl speaking Hungarian, I want to make love to her?

As before, I’m quite surprised as how easy the language is coming back to me. Just a week ago, I struggled just to remember the easiest words. Now, I can read most of the signs, listen in on simple conversations and make myself heard, say when buying tickets.

Speaking of the girls, they’re still as beautiful as ever. The mix of Magyar, Turk, Slav, with a bit of Germanic thrown in clearly was a beneficial melting pot. And walking from Nyugati to Oktogon, it’s good to see that many don’t shy away from making interesting fashion statements.

Then, are there no drawbacks to this beautiful city? Well, prices have gone up significantly. Eating a steak at Liszt Ferenc ter can set you back almost 20 euros and, not surprisingly, when walking past those cafes, all I heard was a mix of foreign languages. When I lived here, ten years ago, my apartment cost me around 125 euros per month. That’s four meals.
Luckily, Szimpla, the place I ended up having dinner, is quite a bit more affordable. Soups and pastas for around 3.50 euros. Still a significant price increase over ten years ago, but comparable with western European inflation.
The food’s good and not pretentious and chatting to the owner, George, with whom I had a palinka of which I couldn’t make out if it was the best I ever tasted or just another cough syrup, I learned he really made a point of, and took some pride in, serving up not so fancy, basic, but good food, at reasonable prices. Not just for the expat student, but also for the common local guy.
Interestingly, George complained of one of the main thoroughfares changing into little Istanbul. The Turks are taking over Hungary, again! Then he expressed his relief that, after the Turkish occupation the Austrians had come in to balance the country, ethnically, I suppose. But indeed, one guidebook writes how Hungary, and Hungarians, is a pleasant mix of German functionality with ‘Eastern’ relaxedness.

The hostel, Best hostel, is, ehm, different. No drinking, no smoking, no noise after 11pm. And it’s cheap, although the receptionist wanted to have me pay double the amount until he found out I had reserved the one cheap bed which gets them on top of the list in booking engines.
Still, it gave me the impression that the hostel could be a front for some secretive Christian organization. They lure you in with cheap beds and before you know it, bam!, you’re the next follower of their obscure cult, ready to commit suicide at the uttering of the right code word.
However, the location is great, next to Nyugati train station, but still in a quiet area. In a typical downtown Budapest apartment block, it’s four or five storeys set around a courtyard. And they have cats!

The homecoming tour

October 17, 2006 • Blog

World » Netherlands » Eindhoven » Airport

Barely two weeks in Holland, and I’m off again. No no no, of course I don’t have pepper in my pants, but it’s just that there’s so much to see in the world and I have to be quick. You never know what’s lurking around the corner.

What’s the plan? Off, today, to Budapest. Indeed, I lived there for some 9 months back in 1996-1997. Then, either by plane or train, to Turkey, Istanbul or Ankara. After that, most likely by train, slowly slowly, to Tabriz (which is an old capital of Persia) and then to Iran.
In Turkey, I hope to see Cappadocia, Trabzon and mount Ararat. Yes, that -is- where Noah left his little boat a few thousand years back.
All in all, it should be some two weeks before I cross the Iranian border.

Going back, I might just take a train from Tehran to Istanbul, somewhere in December. And then I have to figure out how to get back to South Africa for the holiday season. Everyone’s favourite Hungarian budget travel agent, Vista, still seems to be operating, so hopefully I’ll be able to get a decent flight from that mother of all capitals.

Beeldenstad: Rotterdam

October 9, 2006 • Photography

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World » Netherlands » Rotterdam » Coolsingel

Beeldenstad.net was a collaborative, social, mapping platform for documenting art in the public space.

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