Suntanning in the Powderkeg

Greetings all - the "If not now, when?" tour has now disembarked Dubrovnik. We have been successful, by and large, in our quest for the idyllic Adriatic town we were looking for in our last post washing up in the charming, walled island town of Trogir about 30km up the coast from Split. The tourist invasion is in full flight here but we are learning how to beat it back every day, waging battle marble laneway by cobblestone path in our temporary pied a terre.

As I ponder this daily battle, I am reminded that a mere fifteen years ago real war was being waged in these streets. We are, after all, within the famously unstable Balkan powderkeg. I have toured many battlefields in my time but none as recent as these. Those pockmarks in the ancient walls of Dubrovnik are not the product of centuries of erosion. They were blasted there by mortar shells in the 15 month seige of Dubrovnik by the "Greater Serbs" in 1995. The photos on "The wall of martyrs in the Craotian war of independence" in Trogir are not the sephia tones of WW Two portraits but yearbook style photos from the late-disco era. By my count, seven countries now occupy the frontiers of what we once knew as Yugoslavia. The most recent was added just last year as Kosovo declared independence from Serbia. A few hundred km up the road from Trogir is Sarejevo where the tripwire that plummeted the world into the Great War of 1914 was sprung. A few hundred beyond that is Szebernica where sanctimonious western leaders who defiantly vowed "Never again!" after the holocaust of WW Two turned a blind eye and let Slobadan Milosevic execute the worst ethnic cleansing in Europe since taht war - just a few years ago.

I stand to be corrected but I sense that the Balkan powderkeg countries collectively constitute a smaller population than Canada"s. Applicatioons for membership to the EU are flying right, left and centre in the hopes that acceptance will legitimize the smallest of territorial claims and cement fledgling democracies in place. But how long will this last until the next Tito or Milosevic rears his head and plunges this part of the world into another explosion with the fleets of yachts and legions of suntanners evacuating from these parts as fast as possible. I, for one, do not fully understand the origins and contours of the last Balkan war (who does?!?). But I hope for the sake of the locals who still bear the immediacy of suffering, we all find a way to ensure that it does never happen again.

Cheery thoughts from a Balkan beachtown.

The Consequences of Accelarating the Itinerary

Greetings all from beautiful, sunny and, for the first time on our trip, oh-so crowded Dubrovnik, Croatia. Yes, the summer tourist season in Europe is in full-flight and has run into us with a vengeance. We now find ourselves dodging massive tour coaches full of Floyds and Ethels from Birmingham and Boston and lunging past their compatriots as they photograph up a storm while blocking the drawbridge to the old town.

As we now pass into the last month of the overseas phase of our tour and find that we are accelerating our itinerary to an almost "If its Tuesday, it must be Belgium" mode. In the past 6 days, we have been in 3 quite different countries - Turkey, Hungary and now Croatia. And I know when we are, perhaps, moving too fast when:
- I have lost my capacity to rapidly convert currencies - perhaps the only thing that was truly keeping my mind sharp while helping mitigate the impact of over-refreshment on the delightful red wines the last three countries have on offer.
- We go to pay for our morning Americanos with a pocketful of change representing at least 4 different currencies. I have given up remembering the origins of the various florins, kuna and lipa that jangle in my pocket - choosing to refer to them all as rupees for simplicity.
- My limited competency to utter even a few passable phrases in the host country"s language has apparently dried up completely. Although, I was amused to find that the Hungarian word for "Hello" appears to be pronounced "See ya" - go figure!
- My darling wife and ever-so-patient travel companion tried to take my Swiss Army knife to my admittedly weathered Eddie Bauer travel shirt. She was only fended off by a threat of no evening gelato and a promise that I would discard this shirt (as I have discarded about half of my wardrobe so far).
- I called this place "Budrovnik" this morning.
- It took me three days to discover that the locals here do not even call their country "Croatia". It is, in fact, called Hrvatska. This begs a larger question as to why we don"t call countries by the names they are given "at home" - Deutschland, Nippon, Sverige et al.
- I have had it with trying to navigate my way around yet another čšđł§!!! computer keyboard and figure out how to cut and paste text and transfer photos in full-Turkish dialogue boxes.

Well, this can only mean one thing - time for another of our famous week long "vacations-within-a-vacation" - a time honoured tradition on this tour which we plan to deploy again this week at a yet-to-be uncovered but surely idyllic place somewhere on the coast of Croatia. And then we begin our slow march northwards - sailing to Italy and then making our way back to the city of light and magic from where this wonderful adventure began for our return to Canada.

With a pat on my own back for typing "y" as a "z" on this Croatian ,or is it Hrvatskan, keyboard as has been required throughout this posting and apologies for not being able to figure out the apostrophes, best wishes to all. Now off for the promised gelato in this, the last outing for my wounded travel shirt.

Breakfast from the Balcony

Greetıngs all-another bulletın from our fast-movıng tour of Turkey where Patty and I have achıeved an almost spırıtual state of reverse ın our day-to-day ramblıngs ın and around Ayvalık.

Our day starts not too far from home as we purchase breakfast from our fırst-floor balcony wındow. Almost everywhere you turn ın Turkey, you can be tempted wıth fresh 'sımıtzıe' - large sesame coated, toasted bagels. These can be bought from street stands or from one of a troop of mobıle 'bagel boys' that ply the laneways of Ayvalık balancıng a tray of sımıtzıe on theır heads. At about 7:00 a.m.,we hear our local bagel boy makıng hıs fırst approach through the neıghbourhood, hıs melancholıc call - 'Smıtzı-en, Smıtzı-en' echoıng through the twısted maze of the lanes below. Hıs call blends ın well wıth the ambıent noıse ın our 'hood - the muezzın's mornıng call to prayer, the ımprobable grınd of tractors tryıng to navıgate the narrow laneways, the regular chorus of chıckens, goats, cats and, as noted ın an earlıer post,the lovely toll of the church bells precısely on the hour, twenty-two mınutes late. The bagel boy's fırst call sıgnals a quıck trıp to the kıtchen to put the kettle on. I return to our room and lay out the requısıte cutlery and condıments needed for breakfast that I have set out the nıght before. I take my posıtıon at the grated gable of our bedroom wındow and waıt.

A few mınutes later, on hıs second approach, the bagel boy sees me and makes hıs way over to a stable footıng on the steep lane beneath our wındow. Wıth almost yogıc precısıon, he fully extends hıs arms to lıft hıs tray far above hıs head. I pıck out two fresh smıtzıe, warmed perhaps more by the mornıng sun than the oven, and leave a coın on hıs tray ın theır place. Thanks yous are exchanged and I bıd the boy farewell -'Smıtzı-en, Smıtzı-en' The water ıs now boıled,the tea and fresh lemon ıs set and breakfast for two fresh from the wındow can be served. Now ıf I can only fınd a sımılarıly entrepreneurıal lad wıth a mobıle and cobblestone-ready cappuccıno cart, our day would really be off to a grand start as breakfast would be ready wıthout havıng to leave our room or even open our door. Applıcatıons currently beıng accepted c/o Poste Restante, Ayvalık, Turkey.

The Muezzın and the Infıdel's Bells

Patty and İ are having another one of those delightful 'vacations within a vacation' in which we have come to excell – now takıng up temporary residence in the charmıng village of Ayvalik on Turkey’s north Aegean coast. Our days are as pleasant as the Aegean waters vivid in their aquamarine blue. Challenges are gracefully few - mostly associated with trying to understand Turkish - both the language and the keyboard (some evıdence of the latter challenge may be evident here - öçşğöş!).

Several tımes a days, the calm serenıty of Ayvalik is shattered ın cacaphony - by clockwork, both figuratively and literally. Ayvalik is in a regıon of Turkey that is burdened with a turbulent history. Muslims and Christians had co-exısted here, uneasily for centuries, living in a cauldorn that often boiled over, fanned by the flames of religion and nationalism. İn the years following WW1 with Turkey on the losıng side, Greece made its last serious push to secure this area as its own. In Ayvalık and İzmir to the south, enclaved Greek Christian populations formed the anchor for the Greek claım and, as such, became the targets for retributıon by Turkish nationalists. İn the mid-1920's, after much blood had flowed in these now peaceful streets, an awkward resolution of sorts was forged. Turkey agreed to dispatch a few hundred thousand of 'its' Christians to Greece ands Greece would send an equivalent number of 'ıts' Muslims to Turkey. Beneath the veneer of this elegant diplomatic solution lay scores of broken families and hearts and the fearful sorrow of dislocation for those wrenched from their homes and forced to emigrate to a foreign land. Ayvalik's Christian churches were all converted into mosques - sometimes wıth the simple addıtıon of cınder-block mınarets and the removeal of pulpıts, pews and a cross or two. Yet several decades later, a relıgous conflıct seemıngly settled on the ground appears to have been launched anew ın the aır.

The mosque nearest our pensıone ıs a converted Greek Orthodox cathedral. Its 20th century mınaret now looms above the cathedral's 19th century bell tower whıch, lıke the church, was decommıssıoned ın the 1920s. As prayer tıme was the only tıme that really mattered, there was no apparent need to dıstract the faıthful wıth the worldly sıgnallıng of the hours of the day. Several tımes a day, a Muslım muezzın calls the faıthful to prayer, hıs mournful call broadcast from the mınaret roughly 15to 20 mınutes after the hour. Unlıke the majestıc calls to prayer I heard thunderıng from the magnıfıcent mosques of Istanbul, thıs one sounds 'phoned ın' - broadcast over a scratchy PA system wıth some peculıar phone dıal tones punctuatıng ıts end. And thus the good cıtızens of Ayvalık demark theır days. That ıs untıl last year when ıt was decıded that the cathedral's bell tower should be refurbıshed and brought back to lıfe.

The return of even a lımb of the 'ınfıdel's' Chrıstıan church must have caused no small anxıety among Ayvalık's predomınantly Muslım populatıon. But the wheels of commerce and the gentler roll of tourısm both turn on the hour. Perhaps a call to prayer could not adequately pronounce the openıng of banks or the departure of a ferry. Thus, soon the peal of hourly bells once agaın fılled the Aegean skıes.

Now Turkey ıs, to me, a surprısıngly modern place where thıngs work and work well. And thus ıt must have surprısed many, especıally the suspıcıous Mohammedans, when the bell clock began to slıp behınd schedule. It could have been that thıs lag started wıth only a few seconds a day. However, the gap between actual and 'bell' tıme now appears to have settled at around the 15-20 mınute past the hour mark. For example, the 5:00 p.m. chıme now peals out at 5:18 - and so sews the seeds of conflıct coıncıdıng as ıt does wıth the mıddle of the muezzın's call to prayer. As the muezzın waıls out over the scratchy statıc of the mınaret's sound system. the Chrıstıan bells peal out from the bell tower beneath hım - ınterruptıng hıs call wıth ıts dıscordant remınder that ıt ıs now at least 20 mınutes past the hour. On one occasıon, I observed that only 4 bells were rung out to mark 5 o'clock (or 5:20). Off beat and a few seconds later, a fıfth bell was mysterıously rung. A forgetful mıstake, perchance? Or another clever tactıc to cause further dıstractıon and ınterference ın the mıdst of the muezzın's call?

It seems to me that thıs sıtuatıon could be easıly resolved. A sımple, mechanıcal recallıbratıon between clock and bells could return the chımes back to the actual hour where they should be. Alternatıvely, a further fıve mınutes of lag could be ıntentıonally programmed ınto the clock so that the bell peal would be placed comfortably after the muezzın had fınıshed hıs busıness. Regrettably, my extraordınarıly lımıted command of Turkısh ın a communıty where very lıttle Englısh ıs spoken may prevent me from unravellıng thıs mystery on sıte. However, sınce there appears to be lıttle threat of thıs aerıal conflıct escalatıng on the ground as ıt mıght have done a century ago, I am happy to leave the questıon hangıng - that ıs as long as I don't mıss my 5:15 boat because the muezzın somehow prevaıled and drowned out the ınfıdel's 5 o'clock bells.

Dazzled between East and West

Greetings all - the 'If not now, when?" tour of the world has taken a bit of a backtrack from our short respite in the UK and we have now washed up on the historic banks of the Bosphorous in Istanbul, Turkey.

And what a delightful surprise is this place. I had always envisaged Istanbul in an exotic, Orient Express-type of way full of slightly off-centre Peter Lorre-types festooned in fezes, vests and striped baggy pants, puffing on water pipes at small cafes while exchanging the illicit secrets of states. Some of this is, indeed, preserved today - well, at least the water pipes are. However, what I have found here is a very charming, fresh and modern city - clean and bright, proud and confident. Istanbul famously straddles Asia and Europe. But in 2009, it is distinctly facing west more than east, actively nurturing its European side and courting entry into the European Union.

Few cities in the world can boast the splendour of this place. In one square kilometre of the Sulthanamet area in the city's histoirc centre, there are three of the most stunning sites in the Western/Eastern world. The Sultanahmet Camii - a.k.a 'The Blue Mosque" - is an astounding feast for the eye, rising on a mount in Istanbul as if it is itself a mountain surrounded by blue-capped foothill domes, marked on its skyline by its six minarets. It is a greedy landmark begging constant attention. Just in case you were not looking at it, four or five times the mournful wail of the muzzein rings out from its minaret spires with a Muslim call to prayer (beginning, I can reveal at 4:18 a.m. to be precise). It is a truly magnificent place. More than anything, perhaps, I was struck by the lack of security in this shrine. No bag search, no metal-detector scan greets the visitor to this holy Muslim site - only a request that women shroud their heads (shawls provided), you take your shoes off (bags provided) and that all visitors behave in a respectful manner.

Staring across a park from the Blue mosque is the massive dome of the Aya Sofya - a building dating back to the 6th century BC with a very colourful past that reflects the cultural mosaic of the city and country. It was first built as a Byzantine Christian church when Istanbul, then Constantinople, was the centre of the holy Roman empire. Next it became an Islamic mosque only to be reverted to a Christrian church by the Crusaders in the early 1200's - their crusader crosses scrawled over Isalmic mosaiced icons clearly in evidence throughout the church. After a second career as a mosque during the Ottoman days, the building was secularized in the early 1920s by Turkey's modern day god, Kemal Ataturk and is now a musuem. For almost a thousand years, the Aya Sofya was the largest enclosed building in the world and its massive domed roof must have been even more stupendous a site to its earliest visitors than it is for today's.

Next door, set in a lush urban park, is the Topkapi Palace the home to the Ottoman sultans when they ruled much of the middle-Eastern world in the middle of the last century. Its richly mosaiced and (in)famous harem forms the centrepiece of attention for most tourists today. I was more taken by its outstanding collection religous relics - hairs from Mohammed's beard (to accompany those that I saw in Delhi), the skull and arm of St. John the Baptist, Moses' staff - each representing strong threads in the multicultural weave that forms the fabric of this historic city. Throw in some wonderful parks, Roman cisterns with their underground catacomb waterworks, the ruins of a Roman hippodrome replete with ancient Egyptian and Greek columns and, I submit, you have quite a show within this small patch of land.

We very much enjoyed the company of my sister Gail and brother-in-law Glen (mistaken for an Australian footballer Chibo) as we explored the markets, streets and waterways of Istanbul. All along the route we encoutered the most friendly of people. Istanbul's massive markets are as loud and colourful as they get and yet the merchants are remain generally laid back, happy to chat with you and serve you a glass of apple tea while trying to sell you on the merits of the carpets or pottery on offer. When compared to the aggressive touts we encountered in India and Africa, these merchants are real gentlemen. Today, Patty set off to have a gold chain repaired. When we presented it to a jeweller in the market, he noticed the chain bore a Christian cross and St. Christopher's medal. He quickly opened his shirt to show us his pendant with cross and then whirled into motion to get the chain repaired. An assistant was dispatched to another location for the repair while we were served tea in the shop. Ten minutes later, the assistant returned with the chain repiared and freshly gold-soddered. When Patty offered to pay, her offer was politely refused with a friendly smile and an exchange of best wishes. For a city of almost 15 million people, Istanbul is sparkling clean and bright and well ventilated by sea air. And yes, the beer (Efes Pilsner)is tasty and cold and the local wines surpisingly good.

Mark us both as now officially curious about this country which we hear so little about at home. Tomorrow, we are setting our compasseses south down the Aegean coast in search of a nice village we can hole up in for a while as a base for further examination of what Turkey has to offer.

Neseye (Cheers!)

Reconstructing History circa 1963 ... AD

Greetings all from Cambridge where Patty and I are continuing our oh-so-civilized wandering around the UK. In an earlier dispatch, you may recall my curious ponderings about "what is "old" - reflecting on the opportunity I have had to see things that can be dated in the millions of years rather than centuries. This week in England, in both Liverpool and Haworth, I have had cause to reflect on this question from another perspective - asking myself when should we know that something is worth preserving before we risk handing it over for renovation or the wrecking ball.

On Sunday afternoon, I quaffed a pint in a dark, subterranean bar that now bills itself - with much gravitas - as the "most famous club in the world". I think most would agree that this place has strong qualifications to stake this claim. The Cavern Club was the pulsing heart of the Merseybeat in the early 1960's and the one place that can legitimately lay claim to being the birthplace of the Beatles. The Beatles played here almost 300 times and the threadbare stage at the Cavern saw many performances by the Rolling Stones, the Who and countless other storm-troopers of the British invasion. Almost half a century (ouch!) later, the Beatles nostalgia business is a huge part of Liverpool's economy and it is hard to escape the ubiquity of the Fab Four. And yet the Cavern Club in which I enjoyed my (highly overpriced) pint isn't exactly the one at which the Beatles served as the house band for so many gigs. In the 1970's, it fell into disrepair and renovation into a disco (shame!) was seen by its owners as the only option for its salvation. One would have thought that in the 1980's, in the second decade after Sergeant Pepper's, it should have been apparent to any reasonable watcher of 20th century culture that the Beatles were more than a passing fad. Perhaps the stage on which they truly launched their amazing rise should be preserved as a cultural shrine that could be visited by future generations - not just the present ones. Instead, with a now-failed disco on its hands, the owners decided to gut the Cavern and in-fill it to form the base of the construction of a seven story building above it. Then sometime in the 1990's, the light must have gone on. The excavators where called in and the arches that so distinguished the Cavern were unearthed. original bricks from the building were recovered from the in-fill and used to reconstruct the club with additional reinforcement being built in to hold up the new building above. Mathew Street , in which the Cavern is located, was declared a municipal historical site (can UNESCO Wold heritage status be far behind) and several historical markers and statues erected to commemorate the Beatles story in its earliest days. And yet even now, with so much reconstruction having taken place, there seems to be a great debate about where the Cavern was, in fact, located. As far as I could determine, there are at least three contenders for the entrance to the club - one that tries to back its claim with scratchy photographic evidence pointing to the end of the queue for club patrons by a dimpled stone that can still be seen a few feet above street level. Moreover, the reconstructed Cavern now is about 2/3 the size of the original and the stage is a model refabricated from photographic history.

I came away feeling that what I had seen was no less than a modern day archaeological reconstruction of a palace of culture - but this time it was my culture, contemporary culture, something that stretched back to 1963 AD not 1963 BC. The reconstructionists at the Minoan palace of Knossos in Crete or the Ellora caves in India, both of which date well back into the AD period, must have also speculated about where the palace entrances had been drawing on the best available evidence, sketches and arguments just like those used now to validate the entrance to the Cavern Club.

The important question in my mind is when do we determine whether we should take the risk to preserve a site that we can safely bet will be an important historical monument in our times and culture? When do we put pressure on the owners to conserve and not renovate or redevelop these sites - or, worse, submit to the wrecking ball? What other historic sites in rock'n'roll have been preserved for the future and which ones now might loom under the wrecking ball as we ponder these thoughts. I am aware that the Sun studios in which Elvis recorded his first records is now a museum. But what about the original Motown studios? Or the Bottom Line in New York where Bob Dylan first drew notice? Has a public crusade been mounted to preserve these sites - or has a well-heeled benefactor swooped in, bought the site and dedicated it to posterity for public enjoyment.

The latter option crossed my mind a few days after leaving Liverpool when Patty and I spent a few days in Haworth in Yorkshire. Here one finds the well-preserved and protected home - which the Bronte sisters wrote some of the great works of 19th century English literature. In the mid-1920's, at a time of apparent transition in the use or ownership of the Bronte parsonage house, a wealthy Englishman took the preservationist risk and bought the property and dedicated it as a public museum for posterity . A society dedicated to the preservation and enhancement of the Bronte sisters was formed and now almost two centuries after "Jane Eyre" and "Wuthering heights" were written in that very house, there is little doubt that this cultural shrine will be safe from the wrecking ball for a long time to come.

Perhaps more of our future archaeological digs will be focused on unearthing the sites and history of a few decades rather than millenia ago. Or will we continue on in our ways and watch these places disappear while singing "I Should Have Known Better"

Culture Shock - Reverse

Greetings all - With the exception of two weeks in "first world" enclaves in South Africa, Patty and I have been in the "third world" for almost 7 months. "First" and "Third" worlds are controversial labels that conjure up all manner of generalities and unfair comparisons. However, it took me less than a day to recognize the profound differences when we fled India and arrived in the UK on Sunday.

Now safely holed up on the wonderful Pembrokeshire coast of Western Wales, we are both unpacking our experiences while unpacking our bags for an extensive laundry treatment!. We are in a small coastal village called Porthgain - a former slate quarry port now thoroughly gentrified to cater to weekend escapees from London. We are having fun with the tongue-twisting lingo of Welsh place names and find ourselves, strangely enough, located between "St. Elvis" to the south and the "Preseli" hills to the north. The contrasts to last week are startling and many. On Saturday, we were sweltering in the heat and commotion of Delhi amidst its 15 million inhabitants. Yesterday, on a five hour walk on the coastal trail, we saw fifteen people. For the first time in months, we are wearing fleece and raincoats and loving every second of it. The extent of contrast can be reduced to the welcome and simple act of opening a tap, pouring a glass of cold water and then drinking it -something we have not been able to comfortably do the better part of half a year. I have seen grinding poverty and humans reduced to beasts of burden - women smashing rocks to make gravel, Nepalese porters shouldering unbelievable loads, cycle rickshaw drivers in Delhi facing the sledgehammer 40 degree+ heat. I have experience and learned to tolerate disgustingly filthy hotels and public "conveniences" (Squatters? just say NO!), waded through more garbage and cow shit than I will want to remember and suffered the stinging eyes and ratcheting throats brought on by the extraordinary pollution in places like Kathmandu and Delhi.

And yet there is much I will miss - about my Third world experience. I will miss:
- the sense of joy and pride manifest in people who have nothing.
- the hope and determination, against all odds, to meet what we would consider in the West very limited aspirations for one's life and labour (As Paul Simon said " One man's ceiling is another man's floor").
- the simple, unadorned and genuine friendship offered to strangers who find themselves in very foreign settings and cultures.
- fresh mangoes for a dollar a dozen!
- the fiery passion about sports - football in Africa, cricket in India
- at the slightest instigation, the unabashed public eruption into song, dance and music - from the wondrous singing in Lesotho to the clatter of temple bells and chants in India and Nepal.
- the profound and multi-faceted spiritualism that you see everywhere, every day in India - from its cartoon gods to the moving worship of a river as a lifeblood for a people - the Ganges.
- the dramatic and tortured interpretation of the English language - topped by the colourful lingo of the Indian media
- the proud struggle to conserve and enhance natural assets where the funding required to do so is so much in demand for more urgent social needs - the Serengeti in Tanzania, the Annapurna circuit in Nepal.
- Cycle rickshaws weaving bravely in a swirl of road traffic (safely said now that we have survived all of our trips in these vehicles)
- the carnival atmosphere in Indian trains - with their ever-changing on-board "markets"
- monkeys galore! - a pest to most but a constant source of amusement to me
- unabashedness about sleeping in public in the hot,hot afternoons
- the sense of sharing from people who need all they can get and the demonstration that one can live with a whole lot less in life - even if this is by necessity rather than choice.

A shortlist indeed to which I invite others to add. Now off for a fine Welsh pint (another distinct First world benefit!)