Who ARE those guys?

Judging by the looks that we got, I´m pretty sure that´s what the residents of San Vicente were thinking when they saw us wandering around their remote mining town in southern Bolivia... but I get ahead of myself.

Like so many places, my first introduction to a place called Bolivia was through the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. For those of you who don´t know it, the movie has a strong Wyoming connection as most of the bandit´s most famous robberies took place there. Butch went to prison in Laramie and their nickname "The Hole-in-the-Wall-Gang" comes from a hideout about 1 1/2 hrs. south of where I live in Sheridan. Even Sundance's nickname comes from a town in the northeast part of the state.

Long story short, things did not end well for them. They fled the US, tried ranching in Argentina, then started robbing banks and payrolls in Chile and Bolivia. After their last payroll heist, they decided to stay the night in San Vicente, where they were given an adobe outbuilding to stay in (no hotels), a dinner of sardines and beer, and then were ratted out to the lawman posse who had arrived just before them.  Different theories exist as to how they actually met their end, including suicide. The version shown in the movie actually follows (on a smaller scale) an account given, secondhand, by Hiram Bingham. Remember him? (He´s the guy who found Machu Picchu a few years later, but was in Bolivia at the time and may have even met them.) In any event, they are buried there, and the cemetery still exists.

Which is why, of course, I had to go check it out.

I started out in San Pedro, Chile, which is where the duo may have been heading for before bunking down in San Vicente. San Pedro is kind of what I imagine Santa Fe looked like, oh, 150 years ago. (Plus the modern trinket shops, and banners for guided tours hanging out of every shop, no matter what they normally sell.)  It was there I bought a ticket to see the Uyuni salt flats. You may know this place if you´ve ever seen photos of people walking around on what looks like a mirror image of the sky. The illusion comes from the largest salt flat in the world, which in places is covered with a couple inches of water - hence the reflection. On the way there we  passed many beautiful things including high altitude lakes in hues of red, and green, and white. There were flamingos, weird rock formations, geysers and hot springs. It took three days of travel in an old Toyota Four-Runner on rough gravel roads. 

On this same excursion was Dave - a tall, handsome, bright-eyed guy from England who, as it turns out, was a fan of the movie and also wanted to try and visit San Vicente.  I say try to, because it´s not as easy to get to as one might think. In the town of Uyuni (Where I discovered that I couldn´t withdraw any money from the ATMs and was essentially broke - it was starting to look like I might have to start a life of crime myself.) every other shop offers tours of the salt flats just like in San Pedro, but no one knew much about San Vicente. And no one seemed willing to take us for less than about $200. We heard that it was possible that tours ran from Tupiza in the south, but they were twice as expensive.

So, what to do? Well - start hitchhiking, of course. We got up the following day from our hostel, that I swear was a former prison (you´ll believe me when you see the photos) and walked to the edge of town. It didn´t take long before we were picked up by a young couple on their way to Atocha, near the junction of a road that goes to San Vicente. There they dropped us, and we waited in the shade of an old, abandoned, adobe hut. And we waited, and waited. A half dozen tourist-filled Four-Runners passed us on their way to Tupiza. An old guy walked from a village about a mile away to check some llamas. Another guy came by on a bike. There were a couple motorcyclists. No one, it seemed, was going to San Vicente. About four hours in I was starting to get nervous. We still had about three hours of daylight, but San Vicente was still well over an hour away, or more, depending on who you talked to.

Finally, a white Four-Runner stopped with an older, traditionally dressed lady and her son in the back seat.  The 30-something old driver said he was going to San Vicente, but there was no place to stay. I told him my guide book said there was. With a shrug, he let us hop in with them. We were on our way.

The landscape would have been familiar to Butch - it looks a lot like Wyoming. (Later, on our way back down into Tupiza, I was amazed at how much it looked like his home state of Utah - Bolivia even has a version of Bryce Canyon called La Sillar.)

We climbed higher, and higher, on the gravel road passing only two very isolated adobe and thatch homesteads. The skies started to get dark with an impending storm. After almost two hours of driving, during which we learned from the driver that San Vicente was not, a my old guidebook said, a village of 100 people, but a bustling silver mine with more than 600 full time employees and their families, we saw the place. It sits in a small valley at 14, 764 ft. with the old village segregated away from the new town with only a rec. center in between. (Which has a very nice, green AstroTurf soccer field, I might add.)

We passed through a security gate to get into town. Everyone in or out is noted, and apparently not everyone gets through. Tourists are given an exception, apparently.

The new town itself is really more of a man camp. There is only one small convenience store, and that's about it.  A young guy checked on company housing for us (I think) but came back empty handed - apparently our driver was right. Things were looking a little grim.  I bought a lighter in case we needed to find our own adobe hut and make a fire to stay warm. After, I decided to check on the place listed in my guide book (El Rancho) anyway. Today, it´s nothing more than a kitchen that feeds  some of the hungry miners each night. Luckily the owner, Nancy, who is a somewhat rotund lady with a big smile and years far beyond her actual age of 40 (she´s a grandmother), said she would let us sleep in the back room of her kitchen. (Sounding familiar?)

We left our stuff and went to the museum, for which we needed to acquire the key from the convenience store. The young guy who unlocked the place for us took the dusty blankets off the half-dozen displays and took some photos with his cell phone. The displays consisted of a bunch of old mining paraphernalia, some old guns, movie posters, and a guest register which hadn´t been signed since 2012, and then only by a few people.)

After that, we walked to the cemetery, which was locked, so we moved onto the old village. I assumed that Butch had died here, somewhere, but apparently the original spot the shootout took place in has been demolished and replaced with a company building. Unbelievable. There is NOTHING but space for at least 100 miles in every direction, and yet... uhg.

But that is the way of it in San Vicente these days. There used to be a sign welcoming visitors with a "The Gangsters Butch Cassidy Sundance Kid here Died" [sic] but we didn´t see anything of the sort. Slightly disheartened, we wandered back to the main town in the near-dark. I had the foresight to buy sardines, but no beer, so we stopped in at a couple of the living-room stores that local women have set up as competition with the C-store, where I found some Tri-Malta. (Later I realized it was not only non-alchoholic but disgustingly sweet.) Luckily, we were saved from this meal by Nancy, who welcomed us with potato stew, llama steak, and rice, which was not only good but only cost us about $2. We spent the evening playing with balloons with her grand-kids and watching Discovery Channel-type shows which are exactly the same as the US, but in Spanish. (Not dubbed, just re-done. There are all there - mechanics, naturalists, rednecks with beards. It´s weird.) At the end of the evening, she gave us blankets and wished us a good night.

The next morning, we got up and went back to the cemetery. Rather than try to find who had the key to the front gate, we hopped over the adobe wall surrounding it. (We weren´t the first. There was even a step provided for the purpose.) From there, it was more like that scene in The Good the Bad and the Ugly, where Tucco is trying to find the right grave. It´s a small cemetery, but completely unorganized and hard to navigate. It wasn´t looking promising (Maybe the marker was now gone, too?!) but finally, there it was - the grave marker for Butch Cassidy. We spent an appropriate amount of time in silence, and taking photos, then hopped back over the wall.

We said goodbye to Nancy, gave her some money for her trouble, and crammed into a old rusty red Four-Runner - four of us in the far back; four more, plus a kid, in the middle; and two nursing women with the driver up front. It was a tortuous four hours down the mountain into Tupiza, but I comforted myself with the notion that, unlike Butch, I would be returning to Wyoming and would set eyes on Hole-in-the-Wall again.

Till next time...

Hiram in Peru with My Life in Ruins

Get it? Nevermind, you will.

So this blog about Peru and Chile is going to be brief, I´m afraid. Why? Well, nothing particularly exciting or weird happened. We enjoyed Peru, and if you would wonder why, just google The Plaza de Armas in Cusco. It must be one the most picturesque central squares anywhere. It has gorgeous old cathedrals (Which I refused to pay in order to visit, so I have no photos of the insides of these. Whatever - that's what google is for.) and ornately carved wooden balconies on buildings that flank the entire square, which itself is filled with flower gardens and a fountain.

Then, of course, there´s Machu Pichhu. You know it - most everyone knows it. It´s one of the seven "modern" wonders of the world, after all. I remember as a teen reading about Hiram Bingham and his discovery of the place (though there was actually a family living there) - it's part of what initially made me interested in archaeology.  Over 100 years later, it´s still not easy (or cheap) to get to. The only way to even get close to it is by train. There are no roads. (This could be by design, of course. The train charges about $50 to $80 one-way. Locals ride their own separate train, which I don't believe tourists are allowed onto anymore. Of course, we got a snack and tea on our train.)

There is a town, of sorts, at the end of the line called Aguas Calientes, and so named for the hot springs located there. Ah, Aguas. As you get off the train there is what feels like an entire city block covered with awnings which house hundreds of vendors selling millions of trinkets related to the ancient Incas. (I've never understood how these places make any money. They all sell the same, identical, crap. I know for a fact a lot of it isn't even made in Peru. I saw the same stone pyramids for sale that I saw in Egypt, wooly caps that I saw in Nepal, and bejeweled bronze camels in Morocco. I suspect it all comes from China.) Not much else to say about Aguas.

Anyway, back to the Wonder. Truth be told your first impression is, actually, a bit anticlimactic. You see some storage buildings at first, but it takes a bit more climbing before you get to the photo spot which is what everyone instantly recognizes as Machu Picchu. It's glorious, but perhaps a little too familiar to be completely breathtaking. 

One thing that did surprise me was the site of Sacsayhuayman. (Sounds like "Sexy woman" - at least that's what you are told.) That the Incas carved blocks of rock that size to fit that perfectly is mind blowing. Photos soon. Or google it.

There´s plenty of other cool sites I could talk about, too, but if you really are interested in the archaeology of Peru, you don´t need me, just... well, you know.

Borat In New Delhi

I know it's been a while since I posted anything, and it's been, oh, nine months since this happened, but I still figured a few of you might want to hear about India.

I flew into New Delhi (it doesn't look very new, trust me) from Amman, Jordan. I knew enough about India that, after my late night flight, I thought I better hang out in the airport a while until it at least got light outside. While I was waiting I met Borat. Not Sacha Baron Cohen, but a guy who was a shockingly like him. I've never met a more enthusiastic, (and dramatically bipolar) person. He was in his mid 30's, wore a three-piece grey suit, and had a LARGE silver eagle medallion on a chain around his neck. Physically, he looked kind of like a young Ahmadinejad, which was fitting, as he was from Iran. He explained that he didn't have a place picked out to stay, so asked if he could tag along with me to my hostel. We eventually somehow managed our way into the subway after going through what is awfully reminiscent of airport security and past the heavily armed security guys. (A quick aside here - the New Delhi subway is amazing. It's brand-spanking new and almost supports the 14 million people living there. But at rush time you can't even lift you arm to scratch your nose it's so packed.)

Back out onto the street again it's me and Borat picking our way past the cows, the garbage, the smell of diesel and feces (human and other), the dust, the rickshaws, the bicycles, the shoe-shine guys, and all 14 million residents. This is especially difficult if you have a roller bag, as Borat did. And to find an address is almost impossible. We were in the right "sector", but even people a few streets away had no idea where the hostel was. Eventually, a nice guy in a turban stopped his old 100cc motorcycle and called the hostel for us. They asked him to deliver me to a known street corner where they would pick me up. Obviously, there wasn't room for the turbaned driver, me, and Borat, so I told him to stay at the nearby temple until I could come back and get him. Long story short - he didn't. Luckily, he really stood out, so the hardest part of the brief manhunt involved one of the hostel staff trying to get him to stop long enough to explain that I had sent him.

Once he was safely delivered, I decided to take a nap. I was almost asleep when I felt Borat tucking me in. (I think I may have gotten a little short with him then.) He was always trying to help with everything and inevitably making it worse. One incident involved a group from the hostel. They were coming back from sight-seeing, and on the subway Borat decided that one of the locals was a little too close to one of the young ladies. (I guess it almost ended in a brawl.)

That night, I tried to explain what I did for a living. With lots of gesticulation I got replies of: "What is this - this "archaeology?"." "Artifacts...artifacts... I do not know." "Pyramids?! What is this?!" Finally, I used what I thought was the lowest common denominator. "Indiana Jones? What is this Indiana Jones? I do not know!" Eventually, he understood I did something involving history. In return, he tried to explain a little bit about the history of Iran. He told me about Ibn Sīnā and was a little shocked I didn't know him. With a snap of his fingers he asked (kind of demanded, really) that one of the young ladies get the girl who was studying to be a nurse. Reluctantly, she came upstairs. "YOU know Ibn Sīnā!!' You'd have though someone had shot his dog when she confessed she didn't. "How can you not know Ibn Sīnā!!" "Everybody know Ibn Sīnā!!" Eventually, we found Avicenna through a google search. (Well, if he had only said that to begin with.) I asked him about Ahmadinejad. With a frown and a big dismissive wave of his hand he spat out: "He nothing! A stupid man! Ahmadinejad, he just a donkey!" (I understand that's a pretty common sentiment there, actually.)

Luckily, I managed to ditch my new buddy whenever I went out sight seeing. I felt a little guilty about this, but not enough to do anything about it. I saw all the typical stuff- the Red Fort, the Lotus Temple,the Qutub Minar and, last but not least - Akshardham. Like India in general, Akshardham is both wonderful and bizarre at the same time. It is the largest Hindu temple complex in India (Which must mean the world, I would guess.) and is really stunning. It's not only ridiculously massive, but every stone surface is carved with animals, figures, deities, elephants, flowers, etc. But to get in you have to go through security that is unlike anything I've ever seen. The thing is, you can't have any technology with you when you visit it. No flashlights, no USB drives, certainly no cameras or cell phones. (I wonder how they feel about pacemakers?) And they check everywhere. The second time I went (I'll explain why in a bit.) they not only scanned my wallets (I carry two - a dummy one for muggers, just in case.) they actually looked through them. This was a little embarrassing when the guard pulled out a condom I had forgotten about in my mugger wallet. He gave me a disapproving shake of the head and threw it in the trash. (It's not like I was going to be using it inside the temple, but whatever.)

So, why did I spend an extra day in Delhi just to go back to Akshardham? It wasn't for the awesome super-hot Chai the little street-vendor girl sold out front. No, I went back because a guy on the subway told me "Oh! You didn't see the exhibits?! You will learn SO much about the history of India in the river cruise! There's also an IMAX movie about India. You can't leave the country without seeing it!"

You think I'd know better by now, but I went anyway. What I first saw was the IMAX propaganda film promoting Swaminarayan Hinduism. That's fine, it is a Swaminarayan temple after all, but it was pretty lean on "Magnificent views of India". Next, was a fairly impressive animatronic show about Sahajanand Swami, the founder of the religion. Basically, what I learned from all the different robotic Swamis was that we shouldn't kill other animals. Again, that's fine, it's a nice message, but it was the creepy Stepford Wives way it was presented that bothered me a bit. (Maybe that comes with the message being delivered by human-looking robots.) Lastly, was my much anticipated Disney-esque river-boat cruise. It's sort of supposed to be a journey-through-time concept, but on a boat and with more animatronics. As we went along I learned all sorts of things I didn't know. First brain surgery? India, thousands of years ago. First university? India. First hospital? You guessed it. First spaceship? Yep -thousands of years ago. (Really seems that the Apollo program should have known something about this, but in all fairness, Akshardham and the river boat ride didn't open until 2005.)

Well, it was now finally time to leave Delhi. I said goodbye to Borat and he insisted that I visit him in Iran. I suggested that it might be a little tough for an American. With a big smile he said: "No! No, no, no... it is easy! You just come through east Turkey. No problem!!" He explained he didn't have email, but gave me his phone number instead.
And if I ever go to Iran, I'm sure I'll call him.

Well, pretty sure.

 

But, he was off to see Kashmir, while I had decided to take a three-day train journey to the very southern end of the country.

If everyone jumped off a cliff...

The train into Belgrade took forever. At least it felt that way - the heat wasn't helping since the trains in this region were the best 1968 had to offer and this one didn't have A/C. Belgrade is not the most impressive city in Europe. It's not a bad city. It's a little worn around the edges, especially where we bombed it...

About that. In 1999, mostly Muslim Kosovo decided they wanted to break away from Serbia. This probably shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone, since unrest in Kosovo was what started the Yugoslav War a few years before. Serbia, whose relationship with Kosovo can only be described as "It's complicated", started to move troops in there to,well... probably not to party. (Serbia doesn't have the best track record with things like human rights or relations with the Muslims - more on that later. ) SO... many of the Muslims living there started to flee into neighboring Albania. The UN told Serbia to knock it off. They didn't, so... NATO bombed them. 

Since the US led the UN's bombing of Serbian forces a few years before that in order to helped the Bosnians, the US still isn't very popular in Serbia. They don't seem to hold it personally against anyone (me, for example) but I'm guessing there won't be a Bill Clinton Boulevard there anytime soon the way there is in Kosovo. In fact, in the military museum, and very proudly displayed, are pieces of the US stealth bomber they shot down. (Now, I'm no huge patriot, but I have to admit that did bug me a bit, seeing kids posing for photos of the display along with captured US army fatigues.) 

The museum likes to point out that we dropped cluster bombs on the city, killing 15 civilians. I  would like to point out that technically the USA doesn't subscribe to the convention that bans them, so... 

Besides, it was technically NATO that conducted the strikes. The US didn't accidentally blow up that refugee column, or those hospitals, or that market, or the Chinese Embassy, or that passenger train. Blame NATO. It's all a part of what those in the business call "Collateral Damage". Sometimes, to make an omelette, you gotta break a few eggs. Or kill 500 civilians, plus or minus. Anyway, Kosovo got a country out of it, and it's beautiful. (Actually, it's really not. Pristina, the capitol, was one of the saddest capitol cities I've ever been to. One of the funniest postcards I ever sent was from there - it's basically a photo of a nondescript street showing dilapidated concrete buildings lined with old cars. I'm not sure if the photographer saw the irony, but I did.) 

Anyway, back to Belgrade. The city has other things of note, including one remaining mosque and, of course, a fortress on a hill overlooking the city. (Another fortress - you can't swing a dead cat around here...) My favorite, though, was the Tesla museum. (Sorry, about this - I'm going to go on a slight nerd tangent here and unless you want to learn about Tesla (Yes, the cars are named after him.) you can skip on down to my party experience in Belgrade, marked with an **.)

Nikola Tesla was a Serb born in what is now Croatia. He was an inventor and contemporary of Thomas Edison - he even worked for Edison for a while. In fact, Edison apparently offered him $50,000 to fix a few designs, and when Tesla came to collect, Edison essentially said "Oh, sorry - I was joking. But thanks, anyway." Then, when Tesla didn't get his requested raise to $25/ week, he quit. (Can you really blame him? Edison was, by all accounts, kind of a prick.)

Bad luck seemed to follow the man - he developed radio a year before Marconi, but his equipment was destroyed in a fire. A year later Marconi then used some of Tesla's inventions to transmit the first radio transmission. But of all the things Tesla is noted for, including his eccentric personality, and the invention of radio control, the thing that he should be most famous for is something that you are using to read this blog. Something that I'm using to write it. Something that has allowed Edison's light bulb to be in almost every home on the planet. Two words: Alternating Current. (A/C for short.) Today, this is the method by which electricity is effectively and safely transmitted all over the globe. Previously, Edison had insisted that D/C was the way to go, perhaps, in no small part, because delivering D/C would have made Edison a considerable amount of money. Meanwhile, Tesla gave up his patents for A/C in order to benefit humanity. 

Later, after many failed attempts to prove that energy could be transmitted without wires, and predicting the internet, Tesla died poor, and alone, in an apartment in New York.

No good deed(s) go unpunished, I suppose.

** Belgrade has a reputation as a party town, so my first night there I decided to hit up a few bars. The first one recommended by Lonely Planet was out of business. The second, too, was locked up. The third closed just as I got there. I asked around, and the theory I was told was that since all public transport had shut down at about 11:30, everyone had already gone home. Of course what this meant was that not only would I be going to bed completely sober, I also now had a three mile walk back to the hostel. 

The next day I went to the largest Orthodox church in the world. After 100 years, it's still not finished being built, and judging by the inside, it might take another 100. (It was at this very point that, after having been away from home for over seven months, that I decided it was time to return to the States. My site-seeing was no longer fun and I realized I was simply filling time and going through the motions. On any given day back home this church might have been fascinating, but today my reaction was: This is it?) 

Josip Broz Tito's grave was next, along with his famous baton collection. Every year on Tito's birthday, youth from around Yugoslavia  participated in a relay bringing the leader a hand-made baton. Since he was President-For-Life, and lived a good long while, there are now thousands of these things, and many are on display next to his tomb.

That night I ate a dinner of Karadjordje's steak (Which looks like a giant deep-fried slug, or worse, but tastes alright -it's filled with gooey cheese!) and talked to a young man and his friends about how they felt concerning Serbia's history. It was a shot-gun conversation, with one friend dropping in conflicting information and opinions, so I got a rather confusing review of the history I sort-of knew: 700,000 Serbs killed in concentration camps by the Nazis and Croats, Tito's rise to power, etc. But there were a couple things said that stood out about the Yugoslav war: "It was like, "We're neighbors, friends, relatives, but now... I'm going to kill you." because it didn't fit in with their idea of how their country should be." They pointed out that Bosnia being declared a "Muslim" country was also a dividing point. "Muslim isn't a country, it's a religion." I then asked about Kosovo...
Friend 1: "In 1998, when Kosovo broke away, we did not, I swear, try to ethnically cleanse the Albanians."
Friend 2: "But we did a pretty good job in Bosnia, so...."
Friend 1: "Look, yes, we committed war atrocities..."
Friend 2: "You keep saying that."
Friend 1: "But everyone did! Somehow, we are the only ones that keep getting blamed and that people remember."
Me: "So, what about the future?"
Friend 1: "I think it has settled down, but it's going to take time. I'm only in my early 20's, but I'm still angry. I spent three months in a bomb shelter when I was a kid."

After that, I decided it was time to make another attempt at the famous Belgrade nightlife. So, I tried to find the renowned barge bars on the Sava river. I learned that yes, there were buses that ran after midnight, but they only came once an hour. I caught one of these buses and was deposited, alone, on the opposite side of a bridge facing the city. Below were dimly lit walking paths leading out to what looked to be buildings, partially open air, built on the water. (I guess I was expecting actual ships?) The first barge I went to was filed with about half a dozen very goth-looking young people not inclined to talk to someone who looked, admittedly, more like a narc. So I moved on to the next barge, where there was a group of friends chatting quietly around a table on the deck, and no one else. Again, they didn't look like they wanted to spend the rest of their evening trying to practice their English with a stranger. I moved on to the third where I wouldn't have had to worry about an awkward conversation as there was no one there. Back out on the walkway I passed a few that were closed. The next one that was open also had about half a dozen people, but I was no longer in the mood now anyway so went in, had a shot of rakia (Rakia is the local spirit made out of any variety of fruits. I can attest to the fact that mistletoe flavor is disgusting.) and quickly left.

Belgrade nightlife. Nuts to that. Ritchfield, Utah is more exciting after midnight. (OK, that's an exaggeration,  but not by much.)

Leaving Belgrade the next day, I thought I'd visit an outdoor ethnographic museum, but on the train met a Canadian Serb who told me about a music festival nearby. "You have to go. If you want to see what Serbia really is about, this is the way to do it."

Why not? A few short bus rides later, I stepped off into the crowded streets of a small town nestled in the mountains. It was absolutely crazy. Groups of musicians, mainly Roma (Gypsies) were wandering the streets playing trumpets. Every street was lined with small stalls hawking trinkets, beer, hats, camo, smoked meats, beer, army surplus, sweaters, and beer. On the curb, there was a gypsy breast-feeding. A few minutes later, another one, straight from central casting and wearing a suit coat four sizes to large for him, tried to charge me for the port-a-potties. It looked and sounded like Tijuana - not that I've ever been, but it's how I imagine it. I went to the main concert which started with trumpet bands playing traditional music, but ended with the typical pop hits. I had a good time dancing with a group of lovely young local women who all wanted to have their picture taken with me. (I think it must have been the hat.) After they left, I wandered back past the vendors and stopped for some sauerkraut stew, cooked over open fires in huge black iron cauldrons. 

As the night was winding down and the wee hours of the morning approached I ran into a group of drunk young men, and after giving me a beer, they also tried to explain Serbia's history: "Yes - we did terrible things, but everyone did! But we're the only ones that get blamed." (Hmmmm... this sounded familiar.) It was nearly dawn, so I excused myself, and with a bunch of handshakes and a request to tell people the truth about Serbia and it's people, left them to their drunken revelry.

In the end, I liked Serbia well enough. The people were actually quite nice to me, when they really had no reason to be. Boring Belgrade ended with a blow-out in Gucha. As for the politics, and it's bloody history, well... a young woman I talked to in Belgrade summed it up pretty well: "About half the people still feel that we're the victims, and being judged unfairly. The other half acknowledge what we did, hope we've learned from it, and can move on."

Half and half. I don't know that those are great odds when it comes to peace, but with luck, they'll be good enough.

The Land of Neckties and 1000+ Islands

The first few days I was in Croatia I spent with my friend Jasna who I had met in Egypt. As a tour guide, she was able to link me up with a few local activities, like a visit to KrK island. Krk is pretty - the valleys are wooded and the hillsides are covered in pine, but overall the island is quite dry and notably barren higher up, and almost moon-like as it is described due to the rock exposures. Sort-of reminded me of Utah, minus the crowded beaches. (But if Utah did have beaches... I've never thought to ask what the fundamentalist Mormons do about swim wear. Is one spiritually vulnerable while swimming without the garments? Are there blessed bikinis? Two years in Utah, and I still have questions.)

 

But I digress. I got to watch a bunch of teens in one of Jasna's group make numerous attempts as water skiing. It made me feel better about my own experience with it - until you get the hang of it, you spend a lot of time skipping face-first off the water.

 

Plitvice National Park was the next stop, tagging along with another youth group from Belgium. They all seemed interested in what I was doing there, being one of only three people over the age of 30. Nice kids, but I spent most my time talking to the ex-army tour guide, Allen. (AKA, according to the kids, "the Bulldog".) It's a very pretty national park, very lush and green, filled with many waterfalls, emptying into turquoise colored lakes. (No, I did not try fishing in a National Park. (Besides, they looked like they were mostly carp, which can be good if prepared right, but..))

 

Starting to feel a little poor, and sick of hostels, I decided to camp out that night in Zagreb, the capital. Until it started raining about 1:00AM. I found a nice, dry, pub and wound up I spening the rest of the night with a couple locals who insisted on buying me beers until dawn.  Needless to say, the next day was a bit rough. Zagreb is cool, though, with a few nice large architecturally impressive squares, a good tram system where the conductors never check for tickets, a pretty National Opera House and Cathedral. The highlight, though, was meeting Elija. He's young local who invited me to stay at his place, took me around the city to show me the sites and talk about his country, and then, and then, invited me to stay at his place over the weekend while he went to visit his girlfriend in the North. Me, a perfect stranger.

 

One of my favorite museums so far is in Zagreb - the Museum of Broken Relationships. People from all over the world have donated items with personal meaning from past relationships. Some are tragic, some are funny, and many are some combination of both. One was a Frisbee a young woman got from her boyfriend on their anniversary. (Note to self - never give a girlfriend a Frisbee on an anniversary.)

 

I also met Irena, another lovely young woman who took a few hours out of her day to have a drink and show me around the city. One interesting thing I've learned from talking to people here is how upset most people are with the privatization of things since the fall of Yugoslavia. Tito is not as unpopular as I expected he would be - most people seem to have the attitude that yes, he did some nasty things, but his break from Stalin sort-of made him the father of a unified country that saw peace until after his death and the eventual fall of communism, which lead to all the conflict in the Balkans. And now, because these countries have no institutions in place to regulate development, many businesses that belonged to the country and profited everyone, are now making a very few people very wealthy; The same industries that belonged to, and where built by, the people. It was interesting to hear, anyway, coming from a country where it's assumed that every socialist/ communist (There's a difference?) leader is evil and despised.

Here's a bit of trivia for you: Did you know that the necktie (cravat) was invented in Croatia? Now you do. How about that the stone from the White House comes from an island off the coast? No? Did you know Nikola Tesla was born near Zagreb? Did you know he moved to Colorado Springs? Neither did I. Do you know who Tesla is? If not, then never mind.

 

The next day I went to the Contemporary Art Museum for a laugh. There were a few cool light/ sound pieces that I thought were clever, but the rest seemed to me to be pointless scrap-booking and trash collected by people with no real discernible talent, other than to bullshit other people into believing that their dumpster diving has some deep, profound societal meaning. There - I've said it. If you draw a single line on a white piece of paper, and spend the next hour explaining to me that it's "anti-art", or some other equally nonsensical term, you are not an artist, you are a fraud, and a lazy one at that. I always leave these places feeling like I should ask for a refund at the end, and might have except for the stainless-steel tunnel-slide at the end of the museum, which deposits you outside and deters you from doing so. (Even the slide was crappy- I slowed down, and stopped, about half way through and had to wiggle out the rest of the way.) Psshh....contemporary art.

As for food - strukli is nice - sort of a cream cheese filled ravioli/ strudel hybrid. Ustpici, though... cold, unsweetened fried doughnut balls. They are especially painful if they have a $6.00 price tag, as mine did.
They serve fried trout in the supermarket here - heads, eyeballs, and all. (My friends thought I was demented for cooking them that way. Cultural elitists that the are. You know who you are.)

I took an overnight train to Zadar. The night trains here are not so fun. They have the old style cabins where three people sit on a bench facing the other three. This is great for socializing, but terrible for sleeping, with twelve legs all competing for a spot to stretch out. In Spain once, I found myself in a cabin with five lovely young women. Great, right? Well, try to fall asleep with those other ten legs everywhere not come of as a pervert. I didn't sleep much either night.

Zadar is cool, starting with it's name. (Sounds like someplace Flash Gordon would visit, doesn't it?) But it's largely known for two recent inventions by an modern artist (one with actual talent) who designed a large, circular glass-covered... thing, called the Sun-Sphere. The way it works is that it solar-charges during the day, and gives off a multi-colored disco-floor type light show throughout the night. The entire time I watched it, I never once saw it repeat the same pattern. Nearby he also installed a Sea Organ, that plays notes based on the movement of the waves underneath. This has the effect of someone tuning a pan flute, so there's no real melody or tune, but that never stopped Led Zeppelin. It's still pretty amazing, none-the less. There's an old city and some Roman ruins, too. Blah, blah, blah.. whatever. These are a dime a dozen around here. But there's only one place in the world with a Sun Sphere and Sea Organ!

Then there was Split. Ah... Spilt. I met a woman there, that I will always remember warmly. Let me tell you about her. I had just arrived, and using my Indian bartering skills, tried to convince the apartment touts waiting at the train station that I could find a place to stay for 100 Kuna. This, it turns out, was not true. Even the hostels charge 120+. But, these all seemed to be full, so I went back to the station to dicker when a woman who remembered my 100 Kuna budget directed me to Marica (Maritza). Maritza is 75, has one arm, and speaks only Croatian. But she sat me down and we waited for something, I'm still not sure what. But as we sat there, a man passed, and winked. I couldn't tell who the wink was directed at, but for a brief moment my past experiences made me wonder if this wasn't all part of an elaborate kidney-thieving scheme, with the old woman as a front. I was too tired to care. On the way to the bus stop she offered to carry my bag for me, with her good arm (I refused.). The bus dropped us nearby and she took me to a downstairs apartment that was simple, and mostly clean. She asked if I was going out, I said no, she wished me good night and then locked the door from the outside. (Kidney thief that she was.)

In the morning, I still had my kidneys, and was awakened when she came in, unannounced, with coffee and cookies. This happened a few times while I was getting out of bed, and dressed, until she had supplied me with local grapes, and a small flask of very sweet home-made wine which was all too familiar. It was at that point unmistakeable - she was just like my grandma. She even made the same wine.

The old town of Split is great. Diocletian had his palace here and it hasn't changed too much over the centuries. Stone walls, cobblestone streets, Corinthian pillars fronting Roman temples - it all still there and in use even today. One thing I didn't expect, however, was the number of seedy strip-club flyers around the place. Some of these are quite explicit, featuring dildo shows, snake acts, and something called sado-mazo. If this had once been Caligula's palace, I might understand, but...

I visited the old Roman (of course) city of Salona nearby. Ruins, pillars, theater and colosseum remnants... blah, blah, blah... There was an actor performing a monolog in the ruins nearby that was well attended. It was called "Do You Speak Croatian?" I don't, so left pretty early on.

When I left Marica made me a sandwhich for the road, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I promised to send her a postcard or two (Not that she understood that.) and went down the coast towards Dubrovnik. I tried hitching, which was a mistake - no one was stopping. Well, one guy did, and took me past the little sea-side village of Omis, where he told me about a large, annual Pirate battle that they do every year happening that very night! Apparently, Omis has a long history of piracy, and now that they can't make money of of that anymore, they have cleverly designed a way to get people to part with their money freely. Pirate shows! Pirate ship rides! Pirate days! Pirate souvenirs by the truck full! So, when I couldn't get a ride any further to Dubrovnik, I took a bus back to check it out. Despite asking numerous people about it, everyone knew about it, but no one knew if it was actually that night. Even the official Omis website didn't list it, nor the current Pirate Days that were already taking place. Turns out, the battle was in August, probably the 18th. But tonight there were pirate games! And a pirate parade! And... I went to sleep early that night. (I later looked up the battle online - there's a youtube video of it, and I think I might have been disappointed anyway. Lets just say that it is neither large, nor historically accurate. Good fun for the kids, though, I bet.)


Dubrovnik itself is beautiful... not unlike Split in some ways. Beautiful fortified walls overlooking the ocean, towers, churches, cobblestone streets. And about ten billion tourists who offload there from those massive-monstrosity cruise ships. The one in the harbor allegedly held 3/4 of the population of my home city - 10,000 people! Madness! And they were all bumping into each other down those quaint little streets in the blazing sun until I started to have flashbacks of Dehli. (Minus the cows, cow shit, garbage, dogs, etc. So not like India at all, actually.) They did, eventually, cruise away, leaving the town a little more peaceful. The area is known for it's oysters - raw of course, and I tried a few. I debated for a very short time whether the little wiggly parasitic-looking worm on my plate should distract me from enjoying my meal, but decided that it looked pretty healthy, so they must be good, quality, fresh oysters and slurped them down anyway. (I pointed it out to the waitress afterward, hoping to maybe get a discount, but she just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. I played my hand too early, I suppose, by eating them before complaining.

One of the last things I did in Croatia was to eat a gelato called "American Dream". It was nice, but indistinct, and overpriced. Huh.

Not-so-slovenly Slovenia

I'm afraid that I've been dropping the ball lately in keeping people up to date as to where I am and what I've been doing. There's a few excuses for this - expensive internet fees being one, and a lack of exciting stories to tell being the other. So, instead of a "literary" piece, I'm going to give you a quick-and dirty rundown of Slovenia, with Croatia soon to follow.

Slovenia - who knew? I was expecting some poor, back-water place with donkey carts in the streets, but no...

It's gorgeous - a perfect blend of Italy and Europe. (Not that Italy isn't Europe, but you get my gist.) The only downside is that it's as expensive as either. My first stop there was Koper - nice, but unremarkable.

Next was the capital (Can you guess? I bet not.) of Ljubljana (sounds like Loobleeahna). It is a gorgeous city, with plenty of old neo-classic architecture, including cobblestone streets, and even a picturesque castle on a hill. My favorite, though, is the dragon bridge, with the four coolest dragon sculptures I've ever seen sitting on the corners.

From there I took a day trip to Postanja (The j's are pronounced as a y.) where there is an old castle (Are there any other kind, really?) tucked away in a cave. There's a interesting story attached to it, as well. The one-time owner of the castle, a knight by the name of Erasmus, was under siege for months(?), and liked to taunt his attackers by showing that he was quite well provisioned and could hold out a long time. In what seems to me an unwise display, he went so far as to eat fresh cherries where they could see him. Now, you would think the invaders would get the hint, and realize he was using the cave to go out some back entrance for supplies, then try to find it, but instead they used a more direct approach. They bribed a servant, who lit a candle when he the went to the john, and blew it up with a with a cannon while he was on it. Not such a romantic ending for our hero, Erasmus, is it?

That night back in Ljubljana I met a guy who asked me if I knew whether Jean Claude Van Damme's son was OK. Figured I might know him. He was curious because he (himself, not Van Damme) once kicked Mike Tyson's ass. (Not the boxer, but the mixed martial arts guy.)
Why do I always attract the crazy people?

The following day I lost the hat I had made in India to replace my precious ratty hat. Good thing I made two, I guess.

On a side note - Did you know this part of Europe still has wolves? They never were without them, apparently. They also don't have deer jumping through windshield so often as back home. I wonder if there is a connection?

I then went to Bled - a very cool little town with another picturesque castle on a hill, and an equally quaint church in the middle of a turquoise-colored lake. Being filled with fish, I had to try my luck. Using my Indian fishing rig (line with a hook, wrapped around a small plastic bottle) and a little brown bread as bait, I caught a huge 14" trout within about three minutes. Not sure about the legality of my catch (though I saw plenty of other people fishing) I stuffed the still-wiggling fish into my satchel and tried to look casual as I walked back to my place to fry him up for dinner. Later I found out the reason why there are so many fish - a one day permit costs about 100 Euro. ($140!) Yes, I poached a fish in Slovenia. Sorry. (But it was SO tasty!)

The next day I went for a paddle around the lake in the only boat that wasn't already rented - a wooden, swan shaped one usually used by couples. (The owner told me he's had guys rent them together, and they always make a point of saying they are not gay.) That evening I visited the castle, and listed to a local play country music on the terrace of the attached restaurant. Country Roads, Take me Home, sounds a little funny in Slovenian, but not so bad.

There's a pretty and somewhat dramatic gorge nearby as well, also perfect for fishing, but I only caught one. I threw it back. (Actually, it slipped back in as I tried to do the humanitarian thing and step on it's head to put it out of it's misery before going into the satchel. In my haste to keep from being caught, I only accomplished breaking the line. I then got caught in a violent rain/ hail storm on the way back. That's karma for you.)

Next was the Skocjanske (No idea how you say this.) caves where, allegedly, Dante Alighieri, of Dante's Inferno fame (I still don't understand why it's not Alighieri's Inferno, but whatever.) got the idea for his different levels of Hell. I was disappointed a bit to discover, half-way through the tour, he never actually went in - he only saw the mouth of the cave. If only he had ventured into it's depths - then, what a vision of Hell would he have had! The weird, fantastic, massive formations were quite impressive, but I believe I've seen their equals, or better, in the States. Though the main cavern, the largest accessible one in Europe, is pretty spectacular and has few rivals anywhere in the world, I imagine.

Piran is nice - an old town on the coast, though I think most people go for the beaches. Some are clothing-optional. (Oh, you have to love European sensibilities.) I tried to even out my  tan a bit, but was unsuccessful. (Lucky I didn't burn my butt, or worse...) That night was neat, though, as I went for a swim as saw for the first time the famous glowing plankton. I was expecting that they actually glowed for a while after being disturbed by motion, but they don't. They just flash briefly, so the effect is more of a sparkle as you move through the water. Isn't nature grand?

I'd been doing a little hitch-hiking since Bled, and, remarkably, caught a ride with the same old gentleman who got me to the Dante cave. Svato was great - he let me stay at his place, we drank home made wine, talked politics, and he showed me how to make a proper goulash. The next day he dropped me off so I could catch a ride to Croatia, which I will tell you about shortly.

Quest for the Ratty Hat pt. II

That evening/ morning was miserable. I spent hours being sent from one counter, desk, and office to another to try to change my flight, contact the embassy, etc., but nothing went right: the internet was down, and everyone sent me to someone else to talk to, just to have that person send me back. One man finally explained that what I had to do was go to the Indian High Consulate in Colombo and get a special stamp in my paasport that would allow me to get back into the country. I went through security so many times that night (some of the offices were outside the secure area, some were inside) that they got to know me and would just wave me through. I started to think about Tom Hanks in The Terminal.

Later that morning I finally got back to Columbo and the airline office where I was able to bump my flight back about five days. The Indian High Consulate wasn't open for another hour, so I gave up and caught a train back to Kandy. There, I spent some time making lost and found posters with pictures and a description of my hat. I included a Sri Lankan translation explaining the reward, as well as the phone number of my friend Roshini in Columbo. I then had 100 copies made. Why so many? I could have lost the bloody thing anywhere between Ella, Kandy, and the top of Adam's Peak. Still, I thought I'd at least try. I pasted a few up in Kandy, then got on the train to Delhousie/ Adam's Peak. And I got off the train at the next stop, running out with a pre-glued piece of paper to slap up in a visible spot, before running back and jumping on the train. I did this, oh, about two dozen times, maybe, frantically running past people, pasting a poster and running back. (Did I mention I had only about 8 hours sleep for the three nights previous? That might explain a few things.)  I'm pretty sure everyone thought I was crazy, (I did.) but they were also very helpful. People on the train started asking for posters and one guy even offered to put it up on a local TV channel.

The next day I started climbing the mountain, again, leaving posters at tea stands along the way. I made it about half way, when a hotel said, yes, they had a cap. (They don't really use the word "hat" - everything is a "cap".) That brief hope was quickly extinguished when they brought out an ugly, cheap, red thing. And then, looking at the poster, they noticed that I had left a number out of the Roshini's phone number. All those posters I had put up? Maybe 50? Yep, they were all wrong.  (My email address was right, but few people actually use email there.)

F*ck.

So, resigned and partially defeated, I headed back down. I spent the evening down in town, fixing the remaining posters. After about three hours sleep, I got up, and started climbing back up the damn mountain - again. After fixing all the posters I had left before, I came back down, and was asleep by 2:00AM.

The next day while waiting for the train to Ella, I bought a hat. It was kind of like the red one I was shown the previous day - beige, and with a brim that was stiff from the plastic insert. It was pretty crappy. In Ella I checked back into the hotel I stayed at before, but I weren't  able to find it. The thing that amazed me, though, was how kind everyone was. Instead of looking at me as the semi-obsessed, crazy gringo that I was, they took the cause on almost as if it were there own. The hotel called others. A rickshaw driver took me to a nearby rural village, explaining that "It's not a hat a Sri Lankan person would keep or wear - maybe a Tamil." and asked the farmers there if they had seen it. Back in town someone told me to ask Telakasheeny (Tela, for short) - a local homeless guy who wore a similar hat. (Hmmmmm....) When I found Tela, and asked him to keep an eye out for it, he looked at me with the utmost sincerity, and said "I will do my very best, sir." as though I had just asked him to storm a machine gun nest.

The best though, was that night before I went to bed. A young guy in his late teens who worked at the hotel came to me and in broken english tried to explain he had looked all over the hotel without any luck. I thanked him for trying, and he said, as the tears started to well up in his eyes: "I'm sorry... it's just... you come all the way from America... and now... this happen... your grandma's cap... I just... in here (pointing to his heart) I feel so..." shaking and dropping his head, wiping away the tears. Great - now, I'm getting all weepy- eyed. "Oh, hey...no... it's OK." I tell him. He looks up at me and points to my chest: "Are you sure you OK... in here?" (Oh god, the kids killing me here.) "Yeah, yes, of course. It's OK." I reply, and give him a smile. He smiles back and I give him as manly a one-armed man hug as I can before saying goodnight.

The next morning I saw Tela. Still no hat, but I gave him my old sleeping bag in grattitude, and because I really didn't have much use or room for it anymore. The rest of the day was spent traveling back to Kandy, repeating the running around like a headless chicken routine to fix phone numbers on the posters along the way. I met a train conductor from before who was very Buddhist about the whole thing, explaining that loss is a natural part of life. He later explained that he had lost his wife and daughter in the tsunami that ravaged the coast in 2004. He was on a train at the time, so wasn't at home when it happened. Talk about putting things into perspective.

In Kandy that night I bought another hat, better than the previous one, though still pretty cheap and crappy. The next day I was able to get my passport stamped by the Indian High Consulate saying that I was going to be allowed back to India becasue of  "Humanitarian Consideration". And that same night, after having put a "lost" ad in two of the Sri Lankan newspapers, one in English and the other Singalese, I realized that I had lost the hat I had just bought. The situation was going from sad to pathetic. Somehow, over nearly 10 years, and maybe tens of thousands of miles, I had managed keep a hold of one hat. Now, I was unable to keep from loosing one after 24 hrs.

Maybe the Indian High Commision was trying to tell me something.