Is that Alaverdi?

Henri Cartier-Bresson: The Modern Century A 1972 photo of a Georgian family picnicking near a medieval monastery, part of a series taken in this retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art.

We walked into eastern Georgia across a wooden bridge reinforced with rusty iron beams that boomed as huge tree trunks slammed into the pillars. The low crossing spanned a wild white water river that had recently flooded. Most of the flooded channels were now dry but their scars were unmistakable. The main river that was delivering the wooden gongs however, still tumbled out of the Caucasus with purpose. It was late autumn and definitely wasn't warm. The not so far off peaks were already heavy with snow and down in the valley that year's wine had already been pressed and would be soon ready to drink.

As we crossed, the guards spoke with my wife in the international language of Real Madrid footballers, perhaps covering for the fact that they couldn't find Spain in their early 90's computer, perhaps mildly interrogating her, maybe flirting, maybe a combination of all the above.

My passport received barely a grunt.

We were crossing from Azerbaijan, a country in which we had just spent four of the eventual 12 months we would spend astride the Caspian. Crossing a border that technically hadn't existed under the USSR, but one that now marks one of the unofficial lines between East and West, between Christendom and Al-Islam. President Bush had stopped in the Georgian capital on his Freedom tours, his henchmen Cheney and Rumsfeld had only visited the oil terminals in Azerbaijan.

We picnicked near where I think the above photo was taken. Is it Alaverdi?

Fetish cloths hung tied from trees that had lost their leaves and we saw a family enjoy shashlyk freshly cut from a recently slaughtered lamb hanging from a nearby tree. Picnicking in this part of the world is serious business. Neighbouring Iranians have it as a national sport.


My wife joked that we were now in a 'Christian' country and visiting the church with the towering spire wouldn't be a problem. Full of Georgian wine, she confidently walked through the thick defensive walls where she was quickly informed that her trousers were not acceptable and that she would have to wear a dress provided at the gate. The dangerous cleavage and come-fuck-me white boots of Islamic Baku burned in her memory as she wrapped a scarf around her already covered legs.

The picture(s) above brings back memories that not even the most insistent 'tamada' can erase.

Sakarvelos gaumarjos!

The Statue of Liberated Woman

Last night's Minaret exhibit was not only a chance to share some photos that I've taken on my travels but an opportunity to retrieve and relive some dusty memories that had been lying forgotten in my 1.0 memory chip mind.

During the evening, a few astute visitors were quick to notice an early Soviet-era statue that features prominently in one of the photographs, thus refreshing my memory in regards to one of my favourite emblems in Baku, Azerbaijan.

While living in the city, my wife and I lived just off Nizami square/Metro stop in the infamous 'Beysh Barmak'. Baku's first 5-story building (thus the name) that was stodgily yet sturdily built during the years of Russian rule. The window panes hadn't been changed since the 5 year plans, allowing the winter wind free access to the flat, but it was a handy address that every taxi driver knew...especially given the fact that I speak no Azeri or Russian, no matter how much vodka I drank.

At the time we lived there (2004-2005), the neighbourhood was central yet far enough out of the actual centre to not have been gentrified beyond recognition (judging from this 2008 photo of the same, the creep has arrived). Local bars still sold cheap local beer with chickpea tapas while shashlyk, kebabs and piti were still the stalwarts of the menuless restaurants. Life teemed under the square in one of the most claustrophobic markets I have ever encountered and villagers sold fresh produce on street corners a few blocks away.

Just next to our building was the Ministry of Foreign affairs. An intriguing place clogged with sparkling black Mercedes that spoke well of the civil servants amazing ability to save while officially earning around $100 a month. The view from our outside balcony stretched beyond the corrupt cars and onto a panorama littered with shaky rebarless 30 story brick towers being built on the earthquake prone clay leading down to the Caspian. The view from our inside balcony however was another world, a quiet refuge of cats and Chechen refugees hanging their coloured washing.

But the most interesting feature in the neighbourhood was precisely the statue that the exhibit's keen-eyed visitors had pointed out.

Standing proudly atop a very Sovietish plinth smack in a fork in the road is the Statue of Liberated Woman, more familiarly known as the Woman Throwing off her Veil....strategically placed by the Soviets in front of the Iranian embassy and bank.

An interesting symbol in a country filled with young people eagerly looking back to their religious roots (even creating facebook groups to destroy the statue) and in the process melding tradition with newfound faith. 21st century fusings of pre-islamic traditions like cleansing jumps over fire with Saudi and Iranian prostelyzing are becoming dogma for some while others are lost in the blind rush to capatilize on the oil boom set to run dry. I mostly use the past tense because change is happening fast.

Hopefully the daring woman looking out to the below sealevel sea isn't lost in the process.

The Liberated Woman

Minarets

Alminares
Iluminando las minorías. Un viaje desde Granada a Malasia

Fotografías de Troy Nahumko
La Traviata. Inauguración: 15 de abril de 2010 a las 21.00 h

Los minaretes, elegantes antenas espirituales hechas por los hombres,
se elevan hacia los cielos para proclamar la fe musulmana a sus
seguidores. Símbolos islámicos conscientemente creados para
ser diferentes a los de las otras dos religiones monoteístas que la
precedieron. Los distintos paisajes, culturas y ramas han modelado su
silueta, pero todos han sido diseñados para iluminar a sus creyentes.
Hoy han sido convertidos en símbolos de otra índole y en lamento
para aquellos que creen que sus derechos han sido de algún modo
infringidos por la mera presencia de estos faros teológicos en el
horizonte europeo. No son símbolos colgados en la esfera pública,
sino símbolos religiosos firmemente asentados en el terreno de la
vida privada. Símbolos minoritarios que suponen el mismo reto al
pensamiento mayoritario que los autobuses ateos y su derecho
a cuestionar creencias sobrenaturales. Incómodos símbolos para
algunos que, sin embargo, debieran estar permitidos en los estados
laicos modernos.

A rough translation of the above:

Minarets - elegant man-made spiritual antennas that reach into the sky to proclaim the Muslim faith to the heavens and its followers within earshot. Islamic symbols consciously different from those of the two monotheistic faiths that preceded it. Landscapes, cultures and differing branches may change their shape, but all are designed to shine the light on its believers. Today they have been converted into symbols of a different sort, a rallying cry for those who believe their rights are somehow infringed by the appearance of these theological lighthouses on the European horizon. These are not symbols hung in the public sphere, but religious symbols firmly planted in the grounds of private life. Minority symbols that present the same challenge to majority thought as the Atheist bus and its right to question supernatural beliefs. Uncomfortable symbols for some, but ones that must be allowed to be heard in modern secular states.

Notes from the Road: Easter in Caceres

For some it's Easter egg hunts, for others meditations on torture and resurrection, others still a time to be 'seen' showing their penitence in hooded processions...for me it means that the simple fact of walking to my house becomes an ordeal.

Crowds clog the tiny arteries of the old town here in Caceres, while supposedly beatific onlookers become less than Christlike thinking that I'm cutting in front of them rather than simply walking home.

Matador Travel's Notes from the Road recently published a walk of mine home.

Following Ibn Battutah in Spain

Ibn Battutah is known for traveling around most of the known world back in the 14th century, but perhaps the least well known part of his travels was his sojourn here in Spain. Even still, in his Gift to Those Who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Traveling, he paints one of the most complete account we have of the world at the time.

After returning to Morocco from far off China, he quickly got itchy feet and crossed over to Europe with the idea of joining the Jihad against the Christian reconquest. Things weren't going that well for the Muslim armies on the peninsula and this might explain his unusual brevity in describing this part of the trip, but even still anecdotes abound.

The good people over at Trazzler have commissioned me to follow his tracks here in Spain in another 10 part series of trips.

-First stop, his beginning in Tangier
-Second, the assault on Europe starts from Ceuta
-Third, back on the European continent once again in Gibraltar
-Fourth, take a break from the concrete coasts in Ronda
-Fifth, it's actually much nicer than you think in Marbella
-Sixth, hiding out from pirates in Fuengirola
-Seventh, sweet..sweet wine in Malaga
-Eighth, heading to Granada the old fashioned way in Velez Malaga
-Ninth, trust a retired supreme court judge to block your visit to the hot springs in Alhama de Granada, almost that is.
-Tenth, last stop a night in the Corral del Carbon in Granada

Notebook: Gondar, Ethopia

Movie set art-deco buildings crumble under an equatorial sun. Here colors break rules at their fancy...yellow and purple get on well when splashed across a mud brick wall while an envious lime green neighbor looks on. Vegetation creeps at these high altitudes, the advancing green takes its time, nothing's in a rush over 2500 meters. Not the full out onslaught of a tropical rainforest, but more a steady walk fed by intermittent rains brought by unreliable monsoons.

Gondar Ethiopia - it sounds like a long way away.

...explore this colorful city, but first a cup of coffee in its native land under flaming Poinciana trees with a perched Raptor as company. These birds of prey patrol urban skies here, their piercing shrieks adding to the complex soundscape of the city before swooping down between traffic to pick up road scraps left behind, barely avoiding becoming scraps themselves in the process.

But before anything, the coffee...grown here, just roasted and mashed, no need for more. A ceremony to rival any other and well worth the wait.

It's early enough for the cattle to still be feeding at troughs in front of houses, but the morning sun is already hot. Boys run by with homemade kites made from plastic bags and sticks while others play football with balls make of some sort of foam tied in rags. Masters of recycling and reusing, even bottle caps get used in the making of the few paved roads that run through the city.

It isn't too early for them either, they've been up since dawn.

The air is hung with the smoke of breakfast fires and the sun glares off of everything. The pounding of mortar meeting pestle comes from the secret worlds behind every fence, more 'injera' being made.

A procession of white and the sound of singing climbs up the hill. A funeral procession wrapped in gauze. The mourners are swathed in the regal white of Ethiopia. Simple cotton cloth bordered with bright colours cover both men and women making the affair less solemn. Amharic sounds like singing when spoken, making the singing sound ethereal, far from a funeral dirge. Up here on the hill it could be mistaken as a celebration.

Gondar Ethiopia, it still sounds far, far away.

Spring's Here, or At Least the Storks Are...

This winter has been rotten, plain rotten. Rain can be a godsend in countries susceptible to drought like Spain, but enough already!

Though Spring certainly doesn't seem to be springing with any kind of force, let's hope that the storks bring some good weather with them.

Brave in Granada

Over the Christmas break we went off again, searching for more of Ibn Battutah's tracks...this time from Morocco to Spain. The trip ended, like Battutah's in that lovely city at the feet of the Sierra Nevada, Granada.

Of the few cities that live up to their hype and more.

Even without the Alhambra sitting on top, the place would be worth a week.

There's a new player in town, a mosque within shouting distance from the most popular mirador overlooking the Red Fort.

Click over to Brave New Traveler for a deeper look.

2.0 in Tangier

I've chased Ibn Battutah's ghost through Yemen, Syria, Turkey, Libya, Spain and even Cambodia. Each country has provided fleeting glimpses of the medieval wanderer, from his lions in Aleppo to castles in Fuengirola.

Have a read about a recent pilgrimage to this traveler's tomb in Tangier in the Sydney Morning Herald.

Caceres and Extremadura in 360º

I'm an avowed Couchsurfer. For those who aren't in the know, click and see. There are plenty of other similar sites, but for me, CSing is the most user-friendly.

By surfing, I have seen the insides of places like Moscow, Istanbul, Riga, and Aleppo that a tourist passing through simply wouldn't see ... or would have to stay months to even get a glimpse of.

But CSing isn't only about surfing, it's about hosting too. Maybe even more so because unless you've won the lottery, one can't be traveling all the time. It's a way to remind me that there are people out there, on the move, doing incredible things all the time. Much needed draughts of fresh air during the numbing monotony of your 9 to 5.

The other day we had the pleasure to host 2 such breezes blowing in from France and Switzerland. People who have either found happiness, or at least are on its track.

Not only have they been able to do this, but they create art as the go. Click over to these pictures to have a 360º look for yourself. (if your German's as rusty or non-existent as mine, just click on a pictures and wait for the program to load then use your mouse to move around)

...and while I'm at it, for some more conventional, but equally beautiful photos of the region, there are some lovely ones over here.

Caceres with an Irish Lilt

I do have to say that the Irish are some of my favourite people in the world. Whether it be in New Jersey, Baku, Vientiane or even Cork, they always seem to cheer things up.

It's been awhile since I've been to the greenest of places, but an Irish newspaper, The Irish World, has just published a new travel piece of mine that focuses on my adopted hometown of Caceres, Spain.

Maybe it's time for another visit?

I think the link above has gone bad. Here's the PDFs.