The Road to Damascus

From Antioch to Aleppo

On the bus from Antakya (biblical Antioch) in Turkey to Aleppo in Syria I was seated next to an Afghani bloke in his early twenties who spoke passable English. Meydani was studying in Istanbul but returning to his parents' home in Saudi Arabia for a few weeks and we were deep in conversation by the time the bus stopped at the Syrian border for passport control. Shade from the sweltering Syrian sun was close at hand in a large hall where tens of people queued at perspex windows to have their documents stamped - if queuing isn't too deliberate a work for something that involves groups of sweaty, hairy men elbowing and jostling for the attention of indifferent officials.

On producing his passport, Meydani was promptly swept away behind closed doors by two soldiers for questioning. Always the same at this border he said, once they see his Afghani passport. In the dimly lit room at the back of the building one soldier sat behind a desk, his face illuminated by the light falling from a small desk lamp. This one never stopped examining the pages of Meydani's passport, all the time firing off the questions. The other officer sat in a darkened corner beyond the lamp-light, saying nothing but never once moving his eyes from the interviewee. What did they ask him? When he was last in Afghanistan, how often he prayed, how often he went to the mosque, if we was a member of any religious groups. The secular Syrian dictatorship seems as concerned about Islamists as does the West.

At Aleppo bus station Meydani and I set off to find a hotel. As he struggled with what seemed to be one hundred hand-held bags I helped out with a small red suitcase at his feet. For half an hour we burned under the searing afternoon sun, lumbering along dirty, broken footpaths as we searched for suitable digs. After some hard bargaining at the reception desk of a centrally located dive we ended up sharing a twin room. I dropped my mule-pack on my bed and set the red suitcase in the middle of the room before hitting the shower.

Once settled into the hotel room we went our separate ways; Meydani to meet up with friends and i to explore the town. I spent a couple of hours visiting the citadel that dominates Aleppo from a hilltop in the centre of the city. Vast fortifications set behind the dusty remains of a deep defensive moat; a huge sandstone bridge crosses this gulf and dwarfed the slow trickle of visitors, whose exposed reddening skin seemed to glow like blisters under an unremitting sun. Later i visited the leafy Christian sector and was somewhat surprised to find a vibrant community centred around a grand cathedral and churches. Clearly this was the most affluent neighbourhood in central Aleppo.

Matyrs' Day in the Aleppo Souk

The next day was Martyr's Day; a national holiday in honour of Arab rebels executed by the Ottoman Turks. I had expected fireworks and demonstrations to mark the occasion - a real, live sample of the "angry Arab street" that the tv never tires of boring us with. Instead it was a rather sedate affair marked by some numbingly boring political speeches on the tv. Much of the city was closed to mark the occasion but the souk was still busy. Here i met Mohammed, a twenty year old university student, who was fronting his father's fabrics stall during the national holiday.

While i chatted with Mohammed a newspaper salesman came by bawling the news. Mohammed eagerly purchased an A4 sized sheet for a few pennies and smiled broadly as he quickly scanned the poor quality print. A Presidential decree on Martyrs Day he beamed. Compulsory military service was reduced from three years to one and a half years. Mohammed - who had yet to do his service - was delighted. He was desperate to avoid service and had looked into a number of ideas that might excuse him - including undertaking to teach Arabic in Africa for two years after graduation. The army officers were, he declared, dogs; worse than dogs; animals; no, worse than animals. They treat the conscripts like shit, they beat them, humiliate them, do everything they can think of to break their spirit. To crush them. Yikes i thought, no holding back there then.

However despite his extreme loathing of the military Mohammed had not a bad word to say about "President" Assad. Same story for every Syrian i spoke to. The furthest any would venture, and it was a line I would hear over and again, was "Nobody's perfect". It seemed to be a sort of code. Nobody risks saying a word against the regime. Its too dangerous. You never know who might be listening or to whom your words might - even innocently - be repeated. The Mukhabarat secret police are rumoured to be everywhere; in the cafes, in the souks, in plainclothes, they could be one of your friends. Best not to say anything that could land you in an interrogation room. After all, nobody is perfect.

Mohammed's stall seemed to be something of a reference point for Westerners in the souk. An excellent command of English and easy going nature make him an ideal local contact. But what surprised me most was the curious number of gay people dropping by to say hello. Both foreign couples and Western-Syrian couples. Australian queens, South African lesbians, French, Swedish etc. This was at some remove from my expectations and the guide book's warnings about attitudes to homosexuality in the region. Mohammed railed against the guide books and uninformed Westerners who were prejudiced against Syrians. There was he said a vibrant homosexual scene in and around the Aleppo souk and the surrounding hamams. And, thinking about it later, it's not that surprising. In Syria it is common for male heterosexual friends to stroll about town holding hands or linking arms. And then there are the hamams, where the otherwise rigid inhibitions of society are casually cast aside in an all-male environment. Nonetheless a gay scene in the Aleppo souk was an eyeopener on the lives lived beneath the conservative social veneer seemingly cloaking every aspect of public life in the Middle East.

Drugs Mule

The next day I was to leave Aleppo for the quieter town of Hama. Meydani offered to show me where the bus station was and to organise my bus, tickets etc in Arabic. So i loaded up and headed out the door. Out on the street i noticed that the red suitcase had been moved for the first time in two days as Meydani swung it by his side. Must be connected to the errand he was running i thought distractedly.

At the station Meydani quickly discovered a bus that was leaving in ten minutes, bought my ticket and and hurried me to the bus. Here i unloaded my backpack and handed it to the attendant to be stowed in the compartment underneath the bus. As the attendant swung back from under the door of the luggage compartment Meydani handed him the red bag. I looked at him puzzled. Had i misunderstood, was he also going to Hama?? No. So what was he doing with the bag? Through patchy english he told me that he was putting the bag on the bus for me to take to Hama. Alarm bells went off in my mind like a car alarm at 3:00am. A dude i met two days ago, who happens to hail from the world's largest opium producing nation and lives in Saudi Arabia wants me to carry a bag on a bus for him in Syria. Absolutely no chance mate.

Under pressure from the imminently departing bus-driver - and this seemed a little too neat not to be contrived - i hurriedly explained as nicely as possible why i couldn't take the bag and i physically stopped the bemused attendant from putting it on the bus. But it is your bag Meydani insisted. The hell it is i retorted. The first time i saw that bag was when i carried it for you to our hotel. It is not my bag Meydani insisted. And at this point i began to realise what had happened - and it did not involve me working as an unwitting drugs mule and spending four hundred years in a Syrian gulag.

Amidst the confusion getting off the bus from Antakya i had mistakenly assumed the red bag next to the bus to have been Meydani's. As he had no reason to suspect otherwise, he had assumed the red bag sitting in the middle of our room was mine and helped me out by carrying it to the bus station. A surge of relief burst a smile on my face. No such relief for Meydani who asked what he should do with it. We both stared at the mysterious case at out feet as though it were toxic; neither of us dared touch it. Although it almost certainly contained nothing more dangerous than somebody's undergarments the little red bag was now tainted by the image of shrink-wrapped baggies of opium. All i could do was jump on my bus, which, door-open, was reversing away from the kerb and leave Meydani with the dilemma. I watched him through the window as the bus pulled away. Staring at the red case at his feet he was clearly considering giving it to the cops or chucking it in the garbage. Perhaps he just walked away. I did.

Hama

Hama is a pleasant city in the centre of Syria; water, canals, parks cafes and restaurants. It is generally thought of as a conservative heartland; the Muslim Brotherhood launched a brutally suppressed rising from here in the eighties. But to me it seemed pretty relaxed. The women did not all wear the hijab, many wore jeans and tight tee-shirts. The extremists, if i encountered any, were all pleasant. Everyone was incredibly hospitable to yours truly, particularly in the surrounding towns and countryside.

One day i took a trip to the remains of an old Roman road at Afamia. The neglected road runs through otherwise unblemished grassland for over five kilometres. Sculpted white marble columns and caps set a stunning relief against the green grass engulfing a once-teaming commercial artery. A two hour trip from Hama in three connecting buses, it is possible to be have the length of the Roman road to yourself for a stroll of an afternoon. Company if any is most likely to be in the form of shepherd children tending goats, perhaps looking for pens or sweets. The caretaker brought me in to his booth for tea and a riotous chat about Syrian, Ireland, movies, Gerry Adams and football. An hour later he let me into the site for free.

Travelling there and back on the cramped mini-buses plying the local highways is an experience in itself. As with elsewhere in Syria there is no such thing as the bus being full, there is always more space for new passengers and there is no luggage that wont be carried on board for a fee. Including goats. On one of these buses i met a beekeeper from Palestine. His family had fled from Jaffa during the 1948 war. Whilst he lived close to Hama most of his relatives lived in Damascus; a few still in Israel but now they could never meet. He could never return home. An interesting if melancholy chap, he insisted - in a typical gesture of hospitality - on paying my bus fare. As did the passenger sitting next to me on the next bus. Typical of Syria.

The next day i visited the famous Crac De Chevalier crusader castle. A fairytale fortress set on a mountain-top overlooking the Syrian plain all the way to the coast. Once upon a time the crusader armies controlled the vast surrounding plains from here, were besieged by the legendary Saladin and were eventually sent packing. Giant turrets with tiny archers' windows, a huge many-foot thick grey-white perimeter wall, a wide and deep moat inside filled with pond-water tinged green by algae and a still impeccable, near-impregnable, interior castle. Can't ask for much more. Save perhaps a late-afternoon bus. By the time the castle closed for the evening the buses in the direction of Hama had finished for the day. Shark-like cab drivers preyed outside the entrance seeking and obtaining obscene sums for the hour's drive. I walked past their entreaties and pitched up at the side of the road. I stuck out my thumb and the very first passing truck stopped. The three workmen inside spoke no English but were sunnily disposed as i practised my nascent Arabic. They drove me all the way to Hama.

The Rest of the Best

From Hama i dropped into Palymyra and Tartus before spending the final two days in Damascus. Palmyra is an oasis town in the Syrian desert. East from here is Iraq, all around is sand and sun. The modern town is a dusty, dirty tourist trap. Attached to the ruins of an ancient Roman desert town and fortification, employment for most people comes from tourists and the nearby oil wells. This combination has created an unpleasant gritty feel that is very different from the rest of Syria that i visited. The ruins are spectacular and draws the coachloads, the rest is an unpleasant nuisance.

Damascus is a large, ancient city with charm. And home to some of the best ice cream money can buy. Another Syrian surprise is that their ice-cream beats just about any Western concoction going. Made to resist the baking desert heat it has some kind of binding agent that makes it stick and cling when your average '99 would be dampening your socks. Rolled up in pistachio-nut dust it is simply the best. Another Damascus highlight is the ornate and gilt-beautiful Grand Mosque. A huge complex of prayer rooms and frescos. Open to the infidel public, it is especially interesting during the five daily calls to prayer, when the faithful slink in from the nearby streets. The atmosphere is pleasant and peaceful, the prayerful seeming to zone out the few impostor tourists in their midst. It also hosts the final resting place of the infamous crusader-botherer Saladin.

And from here i grabbed a shared taxi to Beruit one morning with an Algerian ex-pat, a young Lebanese Christian, two elderly Jordanian Christian ladies, and our straight by the line of the Quo'ran Sunni Muslim taxi-driver. An interesting conversation absolutely guaranteed....

Roaming Turkey

Canakkale


After a day long bus journey I finally arrived at the Gallipoli peninsula, site of some of the heaviest fighting in World War I and of one of military history's most disastrous campaigns. Today the peninsula is littered with the graves of the fallen, memorials denominated by nationality and the colour of uniform. All around and under foot are the many more unmarked repositories of the forgotten dead. An excellent tour covered some of the more poignant places and facts, some of the names familiar from legend and song: Suvla Bay, shrapnel valley. The front lines were in many places separated by no more than the distance of a two-lane road. Grenades flung from one side sometimes changed hands and sides up to four times before finally detonating. A deadly game of pass the parcel.



I arrived at Canakkale a few days before the 92nd anniversary of the Gallipoli landings. A sombre time perhaps. Not at all. Millions of bright blue and posters hung around the town declaring that "Efes Beer welcomes you to the 92nd Anzac Day." A huge crowd of Ozzies and Kiwis - the mainstays of the Allied invasion force - were expected. This event has been growing year on year into a massive beer fest - a development warmly welcomed by Efes Beer. Ninety two years later and the locals are greeting their annual antipodean invaders with open arms. Stories abound of years when the town of Canakkale ran dry of beer. Less joyous apocraphies tell of drunken tourists urinating on graves and fighting in the dark streets of nite with local would-be-warriors. A tragic history does seem to have created a genuine bond however and the narrative most often proffered is one of shared tragedy. The area has a noticeable Australian emigre community and many of the Turks who speak English sound like they have stepped off the set of Home and Away.



I was feeling lucky to have got into, and to be leaving, Cannakkale a day or two before the arrival of the drunken hordes. After the tour i went for a beer with a pair of Ozzies who also preferred to get in and out before the twenty thousand seats being constructed for the memorial day were filled. One was an Australian soldier, holidaying from a modern day Gallipoli: Southern Iraq. Two weeks leave to visit Turkey with his sister. On patrol alongside the British troops in Southern Iraq he felt that things there were relatively peaceful. They patrolled without full armour and the response from the locals was overwhelmingly positive. He was not anxious about returning to his tour (of duty) but was looking forward to its end. Anyone anticipate Baghdad Beer welcoming them to the 92nd Coalition Day in Basra??



Satan's Altar



Pottering down the West coast of Turkey I came to a town called Bergamon. Here lie the ruins of the ancient Hellenic city of Pergamum. Interesting not in the least for being home to one of the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse. The Book of Revelations, written by St John, was addressed to the Seven Churches of Asia - of which Pegamum was one - and contains some of the most demented ramblings ever scribbled without the influence of acid. The venerable John lived to be over 95 years of age and in his later years it must be supposed that he succumbed to a senility dominated by thoughts of succubi and other perversions. And who could blame him? A touch of madness would be the least to be expected if you were first boiled in oil - to no obvious physical effect - and then banished by the Romans. One of the more interesting allegations is that the Red Basilica in Pregamum is the very seat of the Anti-Christ on Earth. The crumbling hulk of this once magnificent church remains intact and i went along for a little Satanic inspiration. The greatest evil i detected at the altar was the danger of the many pigeons nesting in the crevasses becoming more accurate with their frequent offerings from above.



Pammukale



Outside a small, rural Turkish village warm mineral water springs from the ground and runs down the steep slopes of the nearby hills. On reaching the air the minerals in the water calcify and cover the ground with a thick white crust that gives rise to a breathtaking, pristine landscape that looks as though a chunk has been cut out of the South pole and dropped randomly in the rolling green fields of the Turkish countryside. The spring water runs over the centuries-old accumulation of crust, in places carving in others calcifying, creating natural cascading pools of crystal blue liquid. Under the rising and setting sun the successive pools reflect all kinds of magical reds, yellows and pinks that generate a natural light show set against the arctic white backdrop.


Alongside the pools are the ruins of the ancient Roman spa-city of Hieropolis. Wealthy Romans, taking a deserved break from conquering the known world, would retire to this renowned health centre to bathe in the lustre-restoring natural baths formed by the calcification of the mineral water. Since those halcyon days the mineral crust has continued its formation and calcification, slowly chewing up parts of the crumbling ruins of Hieropolis. The isolated tombs of long forgotten togas now lie stranded in an ocean of blinding white. Buried forever in the crust of an illusory ice age.



Lake Egirdir



To get to my nest destination required a number of buses and bus changes. The buses in Turkey are generally excellent. Spanking new buses, great service, free snacks and endless tea. The best part of the journey is often the unfailingly friendly Turks you meet sitting next to you. Usually they will have little English, but this will not often restrain them from striking up conversation. Body language, sketches and goodwill form the bedrock of these interactions. And when time comes to disembark from the bus your new found friend will be at pains to help you out as you negotiate the transfers or trips to your hotel. Oftentimes on getting off the bus i have been surrounded by passengers all eager to help out the "tourist". At times however the too many cooks approach doesn't help. As on this occasion when three of my accompanying passengers successively approach the driver of my connecting bus, related my story and insisted that he look after me. The driver seemed to be more than pissed off to be instructed by three busy bodies on how to do his job.



On alighting from the second bus i discovered that i had missed the last bus to Lake Egirdir. No major problem i thought, hitch up at this one-pony town, then move on the next day. This was completely unacceptable to one of my fellow passengers, who bought me tea and instructed me to stay put until he returned. Shortly after he arrived up with a bus driver in tow. The driver was about to finish his shift and return home to Lake Egirdir - my destination - and was put under strict instructions to take me along. Gratefully i offered minor financial recompense. Instead of accepting he sat me back down and bought me more tea. Soon we were leaving the bus carpark in his Nissan Micra, one of his friends in the front passenger seat. A few streets along the friend pulled a six pack and twenty fags from his bag. I delcined the offer of smoke and booze. On the forty minute drive to the Lake the dude got through two cans, checking each one out of the window with mechanical casualness. In this part of the world everything outside of the car window is a de facto garbage can. Even on a drive such as this, through snow capped mountains to a pristine lake set in a majestic landscape. I thought to myself, they do this drive everyday, is this dude contributing 500 beer cans every year to the pollution of this beauty. Too depressing to linger on.

A restful week was spent at the Lake hiking, cycling, reading and gorging on lake bass. I met a few other wayfarers, most interestingly a Nordic couple on two weeks holidays from Darfur. Both were on the ground with NGOs. Their tales were amusing. Living in an armoured compound with minimal security, they are well equipped with vehicles and provisions but are unarmed - they're greatest protection being their pale skin and NGO status. However even their vehicles are of little use. As soon as they are taken outside the compound the militias stop them and steal the vehicles. The Janjaweed want anything they can load heavy weapons onto the back of. So a car park full of SUVs lies untouched and instead they venture out in Micras; these are too small to install a heavy machine gun on the back.

Sometimes in the evenings the Janjaweed militias come to the town to loot and terrorise, to display their untrammelled power. The NGO staff lock themselves into their compounds and listen to the militias shooting into the air and driving at speed around town. The walls and doors of the compound are heavily re-enforced to protect them from errant (or intended) bullets and shells. The design team forgot one thing though - the roof. On one evening of excess the JJ were firing all evening into the sky. And in a supreme example of the rule of what goes up, some of the bullets started returning to earth through the roof of the compound. So they hastily retreated to the basement and spent the evening under upturned metal baths. And yet they volunteer and are not afraid to go back. Respect.

Antlaya to Antakya and Irksome Bus Attendants

After the serene beauty of Egirdir i bused it to the South coast resort of Antalya. The South and West coasts of Turkey are littered with resorts where Western European, and increasingly Russian, tourists come to strip down and party. By day the beaches are full of blonde-haired red lobsters in bikinis. In the evenings the cavernous bars pump out thunderous dance beats while men in vests, gold chains and dark sunglasses prance and preen. These pits of debauchery sit incongruously with the sleepy, traditional villages lying only a few tens of kilometres further inland. Here Muslim values prevail. The main economic staple is agriculture and days spent under the sun more likely involve planting and harvesting than tequila and rum.

Antalya was not my scene. And with time running out for me to get to Syria i resolved for a long sprint across Turkey's Southern belly. A sixteen hour over nite bus journey to Antakya - biblical Antioch. Once on the bus i stuck in the earphones to soothe away the Turkish movie being played overhead. I ate my snacks and drank my tea and drifted to sleep. All along the journey the bus would stop to drop and pick up passengers. A pee-break every three to four hours. Midway through the journey the service attendant on the bus woke me at a stop saying "Antakya, Antakya." I checked my watch, i couldn't possibly be in Antakya. Puzzled i watched people alight and embark. Then we were away again. Thirty minutes later, the same. Antakya, Antakya. Unless i was very misinformed we were a good seven hours shy of Antkaya. Again people came, people went, i returned to a disjointed sleep. The third time around i got the joke. The attendant was amusing himself and his audience of passengers by continually waking the tourist. Haw de haw, hilarious. I laughed the conspiratorial guffaw, acknowledging his comic genius and slipped back to sleep.

The next time i was sure to be clear that i was in no way confused, now he was just waking me up for the sake of it. I considered how much i had paid in anticipation of getting a nite's sleep on the overnite bus, and when he did it again i gave him a frosty reception. By now the idiot was enjoying his power and continued with quips in Turkish to the nearby passengers. At the next stop i went to use the loo. There was a queue of other passengers ahead of me. Emerging last from the loo the attendant was there. He pulled my arm and shouted "Hurry, hurry tourist." By now in my state of punctured sleep i had enough. I told him so in English, and he feigned a lack of understanding. So i pointed at the ID badge swinging around his neck, and mimed a telephone call to let him in no doubt what my intentions were when i next got the opportunity. In horror he tried to hide the ID badge but it was too late. Now i thought wearily to myself, battle lines have been drawn for the remaining six hours of our trip.

On the bus i fell back to sleep. Unsurprisingly i was not awoken again before arrival in Antakya. Here the attendant wanted to know about my connecting bus, how he could help. I didn't want his help. It was only when he grabbed both my bags from me and insisted on carrying them that i realised how fearful he had grown for his job. The new-found obsequiousness was comic in its extent, the turn-around so severe. I felt a little harsh, but then my actions had not been unjustified. But i made no complaint to the bus company office. Clearly the job of bus attendant in Turkey is not one to let slip lightly from your grasp.

Antakya

I spent a couple of days in Antakya, just North of the Syrian border. This part of modern-day Turkey was considered by the Ottomans to be part of Syria and is still claimed by the neighbours to the South. The culture is more Arab than Turk, the landscape more dusty and arid than the great Anatolian plain. It was here, in Antioch, that St Paul created the first Christian church. I paid it a visit. The church is located in a small cave half-way up a nearby mountain. The slopes riddled with natural caves and dark tunnels criss-crossing from one side of the mountain range to the other. The caves are interconnected and it is for this reason St Paul picked this as the location of his first church. Suppressed by the Romans, he and his small community were at all times in great danger. Inside the church, behind the altar lies a small tunnel, big enough to crawl through into the heart of the mountain and coming out God-knows-where. I crawled a little way into the dark, following in the footsteps of a Saint.

After exploring the mountain and some of the caves i went to lunch in a fast food restaurant marked by its golden arches and named MyDonose. After this i boarded the bus to Syria.

Greece to Turkey

Greece


Two happy weeks drifted by in Greece, I travelled from the very North - the Albanian border - all the way to the very South - Monemvasia. I had intended a sojourn to the islands but the price shock of arriving from the third world to the first put me right off. A cup of coffee i ordered in a cafe in Thessalonika was followed with a bill for €5.50!!!! Plus during Easter week the restaurants - even the cheapest - were in full take-the-piss mode. One nite i went to a cheap place in Nafplio with a Canadian traveller. We ordered one reasonably priced main course each. The bill arrived in Greek and had seven items on it. I handed it back with a smile as it couldn't possibly be ours. Oh yes it was. Then what, i wanted to know, are all these items?:


1. Bottled water - which we hadn't opened;

2. Bread - which we hadn't ordered;

3. Cover charge - for the privilege of sitting down to buy their food, and not mentioned on the menu;

4. Service charge, 15% - also not on the menu; and

5. Present for Easter - beg pardon? Present? I only (don't even) buy presents for friends and family. Yes, at Easter every restaurant adds an additional service charge as a present for its staff. But its Tuesday and Easter isn't until the weekend. It applies for the week before and after Easter. Chuffing hell.


Mainland Greece offers many interesting visits. The ancient Greek theatre at Epidauros being a highlight. In remarkable condition it can still seemingly host up to 15,000 spectators. The acoustics are pretty unbelievable. From the nosebleed seats you can hear clearly somebody tear a piece of paper or flick a coin whilst standing on the stage below. But imagine 15,000 people going to the theatre? What a nite out that must have been. Stop at the restaurant, gorge on the fresh meat and fruit, lash into the vino, quick stop for a leak and then off to watch a play in the company of a crowd bigger than most of Wigan Athletic's home attendances!


In Athens i visited the usual hot spots. The Acropolis is so iconic as to be unmissable and remains evocative even though saddled with photo-wrecking scaffolding. The city itself is a little drab and choked with grey traffic. I stayed in a "happening" backpacker joint with prices to water the eyes. One of the more interesting characters i met there was a Canadian who planned on cycling to London. A former military man, the dude had once been one of those silly looking blokes who stand outside Buckingham Palace in the red coats and tall, black woolly hats.


Contrary to everything i thought i knew about the universe he told me that they were allowed to move. Health and safety regulations required it. So every ten to fifteen minutes or so they can move their legs and arms and generally shake all over like dogs coming out of water. Then they resume the stoney, po-faced posture of before. Generally they try to do this when no one is watching. Reminds me of the old KitKat tv advertisement with the photographer waiting for the pandas to emerge from their cave at the zoo.


Also he tells me that to lay a finger on one of the guards is a serious offence known as assaulting the Queen's guard. And if any bother breaks out they press a little button and this brings squads of armed policemen running to jump on whatever pest is causing them trouble. The biggest pests? Old ladies apparently enjoyed poking the guards to see if they will move or laugh. And worst of all? One day a family of four arrived - Mom, Dad, boy and girl. Mom, boy and girl stood beside Canadian guard for photo. Then group turned away and walked off. The little boy who had trailed behind his parents suddenly turned, ran back to our guard and kicked him directly in the knackers before running away laughing. Tough job!!


And thats about all i have to say about Greece. From the far South in Monemvasia i trekked back up North as far as Thessalonika and caught the nite train to Istanbul.


Istanbul


Istanbul is a gradual introduction to the East and to Anatolia. Large swathes of the city centre are practically given over as tourist zones. It is definitely Turkey but its not that far removed from Greece. The place is generally quite Western. Same stores - Prada, Rolex, Gucci - same clothes, same music. Though the food is different from Western Europe, its practically the same fare as you find in Athens. I counted at least five Starbucks. The prices are much kinder, tho not as low as i had hoped.


Istanbul is a giant of a city. Walking from tourist central Sultanahmet to Beyazoglu takes a couple of hours and you are still very much in the city's centre. There are estimated to be sixteen million people plus living in this sprawling former Imperial capital. Once the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, then the Byzantine Empire and until World War I the Ottoman Empire. As you might expect the various imperial ruins are everywhere and make this a fantastic place to get lost or to simply stroll about aimlessly. Walking through a random working class residential area you can easily turn a corner and discover the crumbling remains of a once grand Ottoman mosque, a luxurious hamam or the still intact lengths of ancient Roman aqueducts. There is something new to be found here everyday.


The city is bisected by two great waterways - the Bosphourus and Golden Horn. These wide expanses of roiling water are continually traversed by passenger ferries and the vast convoys of international shipping passing to and from the Black Sea. In his book Istanbul, Orhan Pamuk recalls as a child, lying in bed as enormous Soviet battleships slid through the darkness outside at the height of the Cold War. This is a city of living memories.

Gelata Bridge

One of the nicest things to do in Istanbul is to head down to Gelata Bridge. This pedestrian and motor bridge across the Golden Horn links the two main parts of the city. Along the its quays passenger ferries line up to take commuters to and from their jobs in the city centre. Many steam up and down the Bosphorous all day delivering people to the picturesque towns along the waterside. A cheap tourist excursion is to buy a commuter ticket on one of these ferries. You can travel up the Bosphorous to the mouth of the Black Sea. Disembarking in a quiet little town, a steep twenty minute stroll up to the ruins of a castle is rewarded with some smashing views of the Bosphorous and the ships slipping into and out of the Black Sea.

The length of the upper level of Gelata is lined on both sides by fishermen dangling lines into the busy waters below. Every few minutes they sweep up their hooks and drop a few more small fish into buckets of water. On the lower level of the bridge below them are a number of cheap balik (fish) restaurants where you can sit with a fish sandwich and a beer for four lira. The fishing lines dipping into the water a few feet in front of your chair. In the evenings small fishing boats moor along the quays. Fresh mackerel is grilled on the open decks, the aroma diffusing into the passing crowds of hawkers, shoe-shine boys, shoppers and tourists. You can buy roasted chestnuts, corn on the cob or cheap kebabs. But by far the best is as fresh mackerel in a baguette with lettuce, tomato, onion and liberally sprinkling with lemon juice, straight from the grill on the fishing boats. A cheap glass of fresh OJ will not be far away either.


Shine your shoes mister?

Speaking of shoeshine boys. There is a neat little scam that a few of them have running down by the bridge. It works a little like this. Walking along Gelata Bridge, nostrils full of the sea, eyes on the fishermen, ears focused on the honking of the passing ferries, you might barely register the shoeshine man approaching the crowd. Slung over his shoulder is his shine-box and accouterments, his head tilted back, eyes away in the distance, swimming in their own thoughts. Every inch a man on his way home from work. As he passes you by a brush falls onto the footpath from the shine-box, its owner walking on in his own world, seemingly oblivious to his loss. The tourist instinctively bends over and picks up the brush, without much thought and calls loudly after the shine man. As though the brush were made of solid gold the guy is overjoyed at recovering it, he is effusive with his thank yous, wants to his saviour's name and where he is from. The shine man insists on shaking hands and dropping to one knee proposes a free shoeshine as a reward. Those who succumb to this insistence will be pressured for a fee on completion of the shine. Those who protest that the shine was a reward for returning the brush are told, yes a present for you and a present for me. By the Olympic standards observed by Moroccan touts and tricksters this is pretty low key, low value stuff. But i seen it happen more than once.


Jazz music


During my marathon stay in Istanbul i had plenty of time to target a suitable watering hole for viewing of Champions League matches. I found a reasonably pleasant bar-restaurant in Sultanahmet. Mostly it was a restaurant with a bar counter at one end. Music filled the air even when the football was shown on the two large-screen tvs. The commentary would in any event have been in Turkish. On the plus side they showed two matches simultaneously and served decent beer with a huge selection of free salted and roasted nuts. From my frequent excursions there for football i became well known to the staff.


One particular evening, as i watched a match, i noticed a large staff gathering behind the bar counter where i was sat. The barman, three waiters and the manager were in rowdy conference. I was thoroughly zoned into the game when the manager turned from the huddle and called my name. I looked over and he shouted at me "Is this jazz music?" What was coming over the speakers was pop music. Pop music with some faint jazz instrumentation. I responded no, but he persisted. "This is jazz music, right?" Well, not really i said. He looked bemused. I wanted to get back to the football and finally agreed that it was jazzeeee. Jazzeee music.


I thought no more of this until the following evening. Another huddle was grouped behind the bar. Instructions were issued by the boss and the pop music was cut. Blues came streaming into the restaurant. Again the manager turned to me, all eyes behind the bar turned to me, and he said "Is this jazz music?" "Blues" i responded. "But it is jazz, yes?" "Eh, no. Its definitely blues" said i standing my ground on solid foundation. "But it is like jazz music" he persisted. Football calling me, i agreed that "Yes, i guess you could say that" and yielded to his persistence. It was not like jazz music. "See" the manager said turning back to the staff.


A few moments later the manager returned to his post outside the entrance attempting to peel tourists off the streets into his restaurant. I called Tariq, the barman, over and asked what the hell all this fuss was about jazz music? Tariq explained that the management felt that the customers don't like pop music. Management had read somewhere that rich people liked jazz music. So even though they are not really sure what that is, they reckon that if they play jazz music the rich people will come to the restaurant in droves. I turned to an almost empty restaurant and offered that the ploy was working a treat. Tariq just nodded toward the manager and rolled his eyes. Rich people out there beware, the restaurateurs of Istanbul have you in their sights!


Visas


My initial plan was to spend three or four, no more than five days in Istanbul and move on. This unfortunately ended up being two weeks. And while Istanbul is more than distracting for one can tire of it after a time! The principal roadblock was my desire to get a Syrian visa and the various mishaps along this road. Many i admit were of my own failing.

On day one of my ordeal I tracked down the address of the Syrian Embassy and confirmed its opening hours. The next day I went looking for it but there was a thunderous downpour and by the time i managed to find it, the embassy was closed. The next day I went there earlier and found an almighty scrum inside the visa office. I tried to queue patiently, but this only resulted in being elbowed further back the queue. When i finally got to the window i was informed that they would not consider my application without a letter of introduction from the Irish Embassy.


So now i tracked down the Irish consulate and made an appointment to go there the next morning. The Consul was a lovely fellow from Ballycotton, Co. Cork. I was, he informed me part of his half-dozen club. That's how many requests he gets for letters to the Syrian Embassy every year. By the time i had procured same letter the Syrian Embassy was closed for the weekend and i had to wait till Monday. On Sunday nite, with an end to the trauma in sight I somehow set my alarm incorrectly and arrived at the embassy the next morning at 11:05. Five minutes after it closed! Mounting frustration.


On Monday nite i employed great deliberation in the setting of my alarm clock. The next morning i arrived at the Syrian Embassy at 8:45 am to discover an A4 size sheet of printer paper sellotaped roughly over the brass plaque outside. It stated that the embassy would be closed for the day!! I dropped to me knew on the side of street and released a primeval scream of frustration that drew a curious Turkish fellow out of his office next door. Yes, i was ok i assured him. Pay no attention to the fact that i am kneeling on the pavement screaming. Yes, i said i have noticed that the Embassy is closed. Maybe open tomorrow he attempted to reassure. Maybe? Tomorrow. Dear, sweet, divine, effing..... argh.


Finally the embassy did issue me with a visa the next day and i was free to leave Istanbul. Which was just as well because i was beginning to think that if i had to stay any longer i would need to start looking for a job and an apartment. On the way back to my hostel, with something of an air of triumph lifting my spirits i popped into the Kyrgyzstan embassy to see what tortures they might like to put me through. Do you have US$90? Yes i do. Grand, here's your visa. Simple as that. Lovely, lovely Kyrgystan.

And finally i was released from Istanbul..

The parallel universe of Albania

The Parallel Universe of Albania


Albania is the second poorest country in Europe. God help Moldova. One can only imagine the levels of deprivation. Waking up in shell-shocked Shkodra - it looked like it had been shelled and I was shocked - I decided to plough on immediately towards the capital Tirana. I strolled along the soaked footpaths toward the train station, dodging between piles of stinking garbage and broken paving stones. Garbage disposal seems in large part to consist of piling refuse on the side of the street and setting it alight. Scorched earth and ashes mark the sites of previous bonfires. To hell with global warming.


The streets of Shkodra were awash from the storm of the nite before and were covered in places by inches of water. Cars crawled slowly through the mud eager not to harm their expensive high powered engines. For here is a curiosity. Albania is dirt poor and yet nearly two-thirds (as indicated by my unscientific scientific survey) of the vehicles on the road are Mercedes, BMWs or Audis of various vintages - though mostly modern cars. These sleek black luxury wagons glide contemptuously past donkeys and legion cyclists on the pocked and cratered roads. Have you ever read a newspaper article about Albanian criminal gangs stealing high-powered vehicles in Germany, Italy and elsewhere and driving them back home for sale or chopping? It is difficult to otherwise explain the number of Beamers when the country is falling apart and is hardly choc full of BMW dealerships!


The housing stock mostly comprised decrepit communist era apartment blocks. Though some newer developments stood out against the broken streets and the rundown morass. In a step up from Morocco - most else seemed a step down - the bicycle is a common form of transport for those unable to afford a knocked off Beamer.


Train travel

The train station was a depressing communist era development. A vast concrete complex with a couple of levels, it was almost totally deserted. There were more cleaning ladies than passengers. One solitary employee manned the ticket desk and seemed to be the manager, ticket salesperson, signalling man, security guard and ticket check. On the platform there were numerous indications that this was once a flag-ship station equipped with the then-latest signal and communications technology. Sadly none of this seems to function any more or to be required. One rusty, decrepit train crawls toward Tirana and that is about it for traffic. Tickets are ridiculously cheap - a few cents - and the journey takes slightly longer than it might take to run the same distance. I share my carriage with some rusty springs poking up through the seat covers, innumerable flattened cigarette butts and a few decomposed banana skins. The window was broken; the smashed glass providing natural ventilation. In the corridor outside there were a number of small rusty holes in the floor. But at these prices one cannot complain. Outside the windows people on bicycles keep pace alongside the train. People are busy working in the fields. All labour seems manual. Even that of the kids throwing rocks at the carriages as we finally lumbered into Tirana.

Totally bunkers

Looking into the hills outside I searched for and began to see the eyes peering out from the bushes. Small letter-box shaped eyes. For much of the cold war Albania was ruled by the paranoid despot Enver Hoxha who broke from Moscow, and then China, and feared invasion from everyone. From the Americans, the Greeks, the Russians, the Chinese; the threats were everywhere. So in this desperately poor country he put all the resources of the State in the service of the military to construct a country-wide network of concrete bunkers to repel the invaders. These bunkers resemble giant mushrooms. Round concrete stems sprouting from the ground, capped with semi-spherical concrete roofs overhanging the stems. Just beneath these caps, letter box shaped vents allowed soldiers to point their weapons in four directions. The size of the bunkers varied from those designed to hold one soldier to those that could hold many many more.


The bunkers were placed all of the country. Seven hundred thousand of them. The cold war came and went and so did the delightful Mr. Hoxha. The bunkers remain. They peer out from the undergrowth of the hillsides; form strategic lines across wide open collectivised farm fields; they sit outside people's houses in back gardens; they crop up all over the cities; at road junctions; and mostly bizarrely and dis-figuratively they litter the beaches. Great big mushroomed shaped legacies of a mushroom-cloud-threatened age. In places the populace have demonstrated their contempt and the bunkers have been smashed, their semi-spherical caps jutting out at incongruous angles from enormous bunker pyres. Elsewhere they are used to house livestock or fodder. People keep their dogs in them. Occasionally you will see one that has been artistically redeveloped; painted pink with psychedelic yellow spots. But above all you see them. Everywhere.


Evil eye


Tirana was tarred and feathered by comparison with Shkodra. And yet the writ of the tarmac only extended to the main streets. Stray off this grid of wide boulevards and as likely as not you will be driving through mud. After dark its best to bring a torch. There isn't always street lights. And where there are, there isnt always the electricity to power them. The city itself is pleasant but the inhabitants are desperately poor. There is little or no industry and little or no jobs. Men sit around drinking thick black coffee and playing backgammon. In the side-street markets people bargain hard for bread, vegetables and clothes that look suspiciously like cast offs from Western stores. And everywhere there is the evil eye.


Albanian is a mixed-religion country; there are Christians and Muslims living side by side with little apparent strife. Religion was suppressed under communism and is making a come back. But other superstitions also have a strong hold. People fear the evil eye; a form of malignant curse that does everything from turning your tea cold to turning your goose into a hen. People buy up trinkets in great numbers to ward off this threat. Across the country there can be seen the little dolls and blue ceramic eyes intended to protect the bearer against the pervasive evil eye.

Irlanda - Molte cultura

The Albanians are a friendly bunch. But unhelpfully very few speak English. Italian is the most common second language. Most Albanians i encountered wanted to know where I came from, why I was there and what I do. "Estudiante ?" is usually asked, and - as part of my down-at-heel, please don't mug me, please don't rip me off, i-have-no-money cover story - I always reply in the affirmative. Usually the interlocutor explained this to their mono-glot friends who nod knowingly at the word "Estudiante"; the question and answer serving no more than to absolve the outrageous peculiarity of anyone wanting to come here. In ten days in Albania i did not meet or see another foreigner. When I revealed I was from Ireland the response was unexpected; instead of bafflement it was one of unabashed enthusiasm. Someone has been telling these guys about the Celtic Tiger. Responses to my Irishness were uniformly positive and included "Much progress", "Very green" and "Molte cultura". Perhaps the clearest endorsement came from one toothless old man who on hearing Irlanda smiled broadly, leaned toward me and said emphatically "Near Scotland." Yes, thats whats we're famous for.

Accomodation

Generally Albania is a place where you can wander cheaply. A large lunch can be had for a Euro or their abouts. The trains are dirt cheap; though its faster to walk. However accommodation is more of a problem. There being few tourists and almost no backpackers there is very little by way of reasonably priced accommodation. Most Albanians cannot afford to stay in hotels and if they have to travel around the country they will endeavour to stay with relatives. So a stark incongruity exists between the cost of living and the cost of sleeping. The cheapest i paid in Albania was €10; and more than once i was forced to extend to €25. So what does €25 get you in an Albanian hotel? Seeing as €1 got me beef and rice pilaf i was expecting jacuzzis, balconies overlooking the sea, minibars and sauteed shrimp. What i got was a water glass with mold, a bag of soiled diapers in the bathroom and a bar of soap wedged with curly brown pubic hair. Charming.

The South


Heading South out of Tirana is an experience. This road is the main artery bisecting the country from North to South, all the way to the Greek border. It is a two lane road; that is one lane for traffic headed in each direction. For large stretches the tarmac evaporated and the buses slowed to near-halt. The black Mercedes, though careful with their paintwork, are generally too impatient to crawl along. They zoomed into the distance leaving great clouds of dust in their wake. I had targeted a small seaside village further down the coast. It took a ridiculous amount of time to get there and when I arrived it was raining. The one and only hotel was closed. However a local shopkeeper kindly phoned the hotel owner and he came around to open the place for me.


It had taken a long time to get here and now it was dark. I got out my torch and headed into the village for food. The options were slim. But there was a decent souvlaki joint. The menu was predictably short - souvlaki or souvlaki - but the hospitality was good. After a beer I headed back to the hotel, my torch leading the way in the absence of street lights. Walking by a swamp all thoughts were drowned out by the cacophonous croaking of unseen frogs in a large swamp. A clap of thunder burst out overhead and a forked streak of lightening illuminated the black swell. The rain came down in sheets and an unchanging weather pattern continued as before.


I spent one day in this little village waiting for the rain to break and it did not. Along the coast there were some new developments. Some canny Italians and Greeks were building holiday homes and apartments by the sea. No doubt foreshadowing a day when the only road into town will be more than the current gravel trail. Along the beach some EU-funded workers were installing a new promenade. It overlooked the abandoned hulks of three concrete bunkers sunk deep into the sand. That evening I had more souvlaki and beer and established the time of the (as in the only) bus out of town the next day. To be sure to be sure I arrived thirty minutes before the bus. I needn't have bothered. The bus was full to bursting when it arrived into town and refused to take more passengers as it breezed through. Come back tomorrow. So I spent one more nite under the thunder by the sea. The next day I finally got away and headed further South.


Albania, so poorly served by its leaders and history is a country of great beauty. A series of mountain ranges, a Southern branch of the Dinaric Alps, climb skywards and wind South all the way to Greece. The mountain tops are lined with white velvet snow and the valleys are green. Along the coast small beaches are protected by the slopes and offer up picturesque villages sliding toward the Adriatic sea. As a tourist enterprise the place could have a lot going for it. However, if Montenegro is the new Croatia, it will be some time before Albania becomes the new Montenegro.


Chased out by the weather I headed on for Greece.

Welcome to Albania

Weclome to Albania

Dubrovnik

Two nites in Dubrovnik. An exceptionally beautiful old town, perched on an isthmus surrounded by blue sea and encased by perfectly preserved/restored city walls. A bar on a rocky outcrop between the walls and the depths provides the perfect spot to sip a beer and watch the evening sun slip beneath the tide. These are some of the fantastic up-sides.The down-sides are the prices and the people. This is a town that likes a show. The girls are pretty and clad in Prada. Or imitation Prada. The guyz fancy themselves as tough but spend even more time prettifying themselves than the girls. They like fast cars and big motorbikes, popular music at ear-shattering decibels and sunglasses that are large and mirrored. In the calm of evening people sit in and outside the bars. They shout over the music, and wear their shades, tank tops and goldie chains in darkened clubs. Everybody is trying hard to be something. I don't know what. But its far, far too much trying.

Montenegro

On the advice of a fellow traveller i arrived at the bus station in Kotor. Another preserved old town, of a very small scale, sitting beneath ancient mountainside fortifications on Southern Europe's longest fjord. The paved lanes and alleys of the town are blissfully sealed to traffic by its ancient walls and still-surviving moat. Coming off the bus i was met by Marco, a bull necked, one eyed, sixty-something year old local granddad who was offering homestay accommodation for €25 per nite. Way, way outside of my budget dear boy. No problem. We settled on a tenner for a room on the ground floor of Marco's house. Marco slept in the room next door, the daughter and grand-kids upstairs. Every morning Marco greeted me with a smoker's gurgle as he asked "Dobro?" (meaning "Good?"). "Dobro" i would reply with my thumb in the air. "Dobro, dobro" Marco would gurgle smiling as though he was let in on the best joke of his life.

The hiking in Kotor is good. There is a reasonably stiff haul up to the old fortifications overlooking the town, but the outstanding views are from the mountaintops, a good three hours further up. This stretch of the coast was long fought over by the Venetians, Ottomans and Habsburgs. Today the fight is back on. A new gold rush has broken out, but its the Paddies, the Brits and Russians in the vanguard. Kotor is swamped with property speculators and developers. Since Montenegro's very recent split from Serbia it is touted and promoting itself as the "new Croatia". A new Klondike and the gold diggers are here with bells on. The cafes and bars are abuzz with Irish and British accents discussing strategies for how to convince the locals to sell up; how to convince them the speculator is on their side; and most importantly how to deal with the local mafia. For the boys with the guns want their cut.

Welcome to Albania

From Kotor I arrived late in the afternoon in Podgorica. The Montenegrin capital was to be a mere jumping off point for Albania. A quick internet trawl threw up no suitable sleeping options - Podgorica does not feature on many travel itineraries. A crumby €40 per nite hotel on the outskirts of - what seemed from behind a bus window during a thunderstorm to be - a pretty crumby town. So after some debate i allowed myself be talked around by a taxi driver who figured it was far better to pay €20 to go immediately to the border and pay €10 to sleep in Albania that nite. Listening to taxi-drivers is generally not a good idea. But hey Podgorica wasn't offering much. So in the darkening evening, under monsoon rain and booming thunder claps we set off for the border crossing deep in the nearby mountains.

Out of Podgorica we bounced along ever-narrowing roads, passing stationary police and army vehicles at many crossroads. Through mountain gaps, over hills and into a valley where a lake shimmered out from a thickening darkness, the driving rain dimpling its surface. The taxi driver abandoned me 100m from the Montenegrin border post; a couple of small offices, a dozen or so army, police and customs officials, feet on desks sipping coffee; all covered by an EU-funded canopy. The rain coming down on the canopy sounded like the obscured shouting of a crowd at a football match. There was not a village, farm or dwelling visible for miles. The only sound was the rain. Out of this pitch black night and soaking downpour plodded a figure clad in a black raincoat, hood pulled across face, carrying a large backpack wrapped in a bright yellow plastic cover. Officials of all stripes set down their coffees, bemused and amused.

Assorted officialdom mustered very little English but had enough to ask "no vehicle?" and laughed in gut-busting, nose-snorting unison when i replied no. With generous chuckles and - no doubt incisive - quips in Serbian, they stamped me and waived me off into nite toward Albania, shaking their heads at the tourist idiot.

At the Albanian checkpoint, rainwater running down my red cheeks, i was again being the evening's chief entertainment. The Albanians also spoke no English but managed to raise the question in sign language "no car?". No car brought out the house down. Idiot tourist. How did i plan to get to the nearest Albanian town. "Bus? Bas? Autobusi?" brought further gales of laughter. "Bus?" roared the official in hysterics pointing into the oblivious darkness beyond the terminal. And, finally as they picked themselves off the floor one of the superiors offered to call "Taxi?".

The border guard examining my passport asked for €20. My severely out of date guide book suggested the visa fee was €10 but i figured i was either being had or the fee had been upped in the previous seven years. I was left in little doubt as to the correct interpretation when the guard promptly leaned forward, raised one arse-cheek and stuffed the notes into his rear trouser pocket. A beaming smile drew across his face as he did up the receipt, clearly marking his copy €10 and my copy €20. When i affably pointed out the discrepancy he smiled broadly and indicated he did not understand. I persevered. And he persevered with his me-know-nothing-me from-Tirane grin. When i persevered a little too long he suggested that perhaps he should conduct a search of my backpack. Out of concern for what he might "find" i thought it better to wish him happy birthday and relent. It was only a tenner after all.

Shkodra

At this point the officer in charge returned with his offer to call a taxi. Seeing as i was stranded in a thunderstorm in the middle of nowhere and with no means of egress i said yes please. He mumbled into his mobile and a car engine roared into life somewhere in the rain-soaked nite. Lights suddenly illuminated the potholed road about 200m in the distance. A red Mercedes - with no taxi plates - drove up at speed to where we stood. Out jumped a young man in blue jeans and black leather jacket sporting a pock-marked face. The border official explained that the "taxi driver" wanted €30 to take me to Shkodra. How much??? Where??? €30 seemed steep for an Albanian taxi. And indeed it clearly must have been, for i immediately bargained it down to €20 and regretted trying to get it down to €15 seeing how quickly they had capitulated. It wasn't as though i had a strong bargaining position - standing on an isolated mountainside at night-time in a thunderstorm in a country where i did not speak the language.

So my friend (anonymous stranger) and i headed off down a narrow, potholed single lane road reminiscent of West Cork's best dirt-tracks. The heavy unrelenting rain had caused part of the road to flood up to twelve inches deep. My driver spoke no English. But as we crawled into the Albanian countryside he turned to me out of the blue and asked "Catholique?". I thought, oh fuck. I'm in a car with a dude i don't know, in isolated mountains and the guy wants to identify me by religion. Following as much vacillation as my mind could manage in a couple of seconds i plumped for yes. And to my relief he was delighted, and pointed to a Jesus badge on the dash board. Me also catholic he managed to say through a bright smile. Well, thank fuck for that then, i thought.

The road continued to narrow, widen and turn at will. It was in part tarred, in part gravel. In places were Olympic-sized pools of water, rain-filled craters that passed as potholes. Eventually we arrived into town. Shkodra. As we crawled around the back streets of Shkodra it was immediately apparent there was no street lighting. The streets were mostly mud-tracks, with splashes of long-ago dissolved tar. The footpaths, such as they were, were mostly broken into little pieces as though in careful preparation for a soon-to-break-out riot. Many buildings seemed to have no electricity, for there were long stretches with no lights. And the buildings themselves seemed to divide into two categories: those that were half built; and those that were half fallen down.

The dude dropped me at a hotel mentioned by the border guard. The owner spoke french and this was the lingua franca of our bargaining. He wanted €20, we settled on €12. Again a reasonably happy outcome to the bargaining process, for, whether i had been ripped off or not, its not as though i had any leverage in my attempts to get him down from €20. I mean, in this weather, in this town, in this country, where the hell was i going to go!!And so i was in Albania. And Shkodra was as good a welcome and as good an indication of what lay before me as any.

The Artists Formerly Known as Yugoslavia Pt One

Once upon a time a Kosovar Albanian shared a joke that went like this: If you have three Slovenes you have a workforce. If you have three Serbs you have an army. If you have three Croatians you have five political parties. I repeated the witticism just the once, to a Serbian girl who stared at me very hard and didn't smile. Welcome to the Balkans.

Slovenia

Fleeing from Western Europe I spent two nites in Ljubljana on my Eastern progression. The town itself is a pleasant, sleepy affair with little in the way of distraction. So much so that the inhabitants expect the slow meandering of life to be remarkable of itself. Common conversation pieces for foreigners are remarks varying on the theme of "Its very quiet here isn't it?" or "You must find it very boring here?" As I left my hostel in the early evening I asked the girl in reception what there was to do in Ljubljana on a Tuesday evening. I was met with the sort of blank expression i might have anticipated had I said "I am hoping to meet up with my girlfriend on Rigel Five tonite, could you please point me in the direction of the nearest Intergalactic docking station?" Things to do in Ljubljana on a Tuesday nite??!!

The following afternoon I strolled the quaint hill-top castle in the centre of town, its park and the surrounds. I strolled some more and i drank coffee and generally tried to contain my enthusiasm. That evening I scoped out an appropriate watering hole to watch Liverpool dispatch Barcelona from the Champions League. A small crowd gathered to watch the game. In the middle of proceedings the door opened and a young blonde lady wandered through, turning the heads of all away from the game. The most exciting thing in Ljubljana had just strolled in. The biggest pair of puppies anyone had ever seen. Two Irish Wolfhounds. Like small horses. They escorted her to the counter where she seemed to be well known, and after purchasing some cigarettes she led the small horses out the door again. Big enough to ride they were. We returned to the game. Liverpool finished the job.

Serbia

I passed gracefully on a train through the Alpine hills and pastures of Slovenia, a countryside that bore lightly an appearance of wealth and undisturbed calm. At the border passports were checked and the train slid into Serbia with an immediate and clanking change of circumstances. The cars outside the window rapidly grew older and less shiny, clothes looked more worn, the people labouring in the fields less well equipped.

Belgrade has a vibe. People are active, there are things going on. Markets are busy, street stalls sell books, magazines and CDs. The cafes are full and live music abounds in the evenings. It is in many ways the anti-Ljubljana. My hostel was a (slightly) converted communist-era state-built apartment. Three rooms: one bedroom converted (by insertion of close-proximity bunk beds) into a four bed dorm; another bedroom similarly converted into a six bed dorm; and a kitchen-come-living area, complete with computer station in an alcove with a bed (of sorts) nailed into the space high above. The hostel was full each of the three nites I stayed there; including a mattress on the floor of the six bed dorm, a guest sleeping above the computer and the gargantuan Serb owner-occupier sleeping on the couch. Among the guests were a third assistant director of film, a dude who was travelling Europe by attending matches at each country's premier football clubs, and a new-ager travelling the world with just the clothes on his back and a bag full of seeds. (Somehow I managed to redirect this guy to West Cork before I left). Beer was stored in the communal fridge in two litre plastic bottles and there never seemed to be enough at the end of the evening. There was ever present company, ever flowing beer, free internet and constant music and tv. The hostel had a bio-sphere of its own.

Outside of the bio-sphere Belgrade presented as somewhat of an open air museum. Serbs have a strong sense of their history, particularly their historical grievances (and the question of Kosovo rears its head in the most unexpected conversations from the most unexpected people). Close to the centre of town is the preserved site of what used to be the National Library and Archive of the Serbian people. It was deliberately destroyed in a Nazi bombing raid as punishment for the failure of the government to co-operate with the Wehrmacht. A poignant statement beside the ruins and bomb crater declares that here the collective memory and record of an entire people was instantaneously turned to ashes. Just as poignant is a similar site in Sarajevo where more recent bombs destroyed the Bosnian National Library and Archive.

Another symbolic and preserved ruin is a large office block bombed by Nato during the 1999 raids. The inside of the block is gutted. Floors fall down on each other in frenzied, frozen stasis; twisted metal piercing dusty broken concrete. The outer shell is largely intact, but filleted by the "strike" to reveal its insides, like a body opened up for a postmortem. Another memory. Another symbol. A souvenir from this conflict is housed in the Military Museum; the flight jackets of two American pilots shot down over Serbia. American weapons discovered at the crash site are also on display including a rocket launcher with a long passed 'best before date' and detailed operating instructions printed on the side. If you don't know how to operate a rocket launcher without first pausing to read instructions 1 to 6 on the side, then you shouldn't be allowed to have a rocket launcher?!

Serblish

The further i wander from the English speaking world the more mangled the 'tourist-friendly' translations become. Strolling through Belgrade i was presented with a flier for a hostel that read as follows:

"Did you sleep in the middle of a park with a full accommodation? Very cheap hostel in centre of Belgrade. 2, 6 and 8 bads. Always clean towells and lines.

Each bad is supplied with pair of mule, becouse of hygiene and comfort. Liquid soap, profy dryer, always clean with good ventiliation.

Free internet access and information about happenings."

I didn't stay there. With hindight i think i should have investigated the bad with two mules in the park with some good lines. That surely would have been a happening worth writing about.

Punk*d Serb Style

In an English language newspaper published in Belgrade i read an account of a candid camera style set-up of a famous Serbian NBA basketball player. The dude was on a visit home from the States. Wandering into a a supermarket he left his sports car parked across the street. As he strolled back out with his shopping his car was blown up. Masked gunmen sprang out from behind other vehicles posing as Kosovar guerrillas. Shouting this was a kidnap they fired (blank) shots in his direction and pursued him through the streets as he attempted to escape with his life. Punk*d mofo. Belgrade style. The paper said that he saw the funny side of it afterwards. What a guy!

Bosnia

I left Belgrade by bus for Bosnia and trundled through the Serbian countryside. This was no ordinary bus: it was part bus-part time machine. The houses lining the roadside were mostly old and/or poorly constructed. Exposed red blocks lined on top of one another seemed unlikely to survive even a minor shake - I am guessing they are not on a fault line. As in Morocco houses are frequently unfinished, metal rods reaching skyward from unplastered concrete. The ground floors were occupied, the windowless upstairs used for hanging out washing. Firewood piled under tarpaulin, fodder for animals kept in small, rickety, timber barns attached to houses. Most dwellings are surrounded by a small plot used for keeping chickens, sheep or goats, or for growing vegetables. The odd pig forages around the yards. In the fields men and women were bent double over seed-drills, planting crops. People dress for warmth rather than fashion. Cars are old and oftentimes rusty. Rural Ireland forty years ago, perhaps.

Approaching Bosnia the fields give way to hills. The border crossing sits on the banks of the Drina. Low, shabby offices house Serb border control and customs. Squat little spaces with flaking paint and aged cracks. Yellowing notices and posters are plastered on the walls. A passport check later and we cross the river to the spanking new Bosnian border control; a gleaming block of steel and glass with a broad sheltering canopy. Snappy uniforms, new computers. The smell of new leather. And a large sign denoting the works of the European Union.

Winding down toward Sarajevo beneath green forested mountains the bus hugged the banks of the river. Men were standing in the shallow waters on either side, fishing. Looking across at each other, Serb and Bosnian, competing for the same fish. Again the road was lined with houses swelling in places to small villages. Houses big and small, old and new. Some pock-marked with bullet holes, others with gaping fissures in their sides; the legacy of shells. The boarded-up, burnt out or abandoned houses of the dispossessed. There were some apparent ghost towns. Black soot clung to the frames around glassless windows. Doors were gone from hinges. Recent history. Here and there were churches and mosques, minarets and spires. Old survivors and new rejoinders. There is a raging fashion for new temples; to replace what was destroyed and as statements of intent. Climbıng into the mountains darkness settled to obscure the landscape. snow dropped quietly outside on the blanched landscape. A reminder that in happier times the Winter Olympics were held here.

Sarajevo

Poor benighted Sarajevo. Anyone else remember it on the TV, depressing evening after evening? Militias in the hills, food shortages, sniper alley. Grim bodycounts. If you don't recall, the reminders are everywhere. Most of the city centre has been reconstructed and restored as a chic central shopping district. Italian designer stores occupy ground floors on pedestrianised streets. The cafes and restaurants are full of aspiration. The shoppers are far more style conscious than their former countrymen in Ljubljana or Belgrade. Unarmed blue helmets stroll through the shopping throngs. However, turning to the skies you find the scars. The storeys above street level are bullet-riddled. Holes bigger than fists stud the walls. Splashes of absent plaster. Below people seek out the mundane - an outfit, a cappuccino, a bargain. Living beneath recent history.

Above the buildings, above the battered plaster, rise the hills. North, South and East, high above the terracotta-tiled homes climb the slopes. The hills surround the town. Not in the distance but rising sharply very close to the centre. Trees line the hilltops. Close enough for each individual tree to be visible. Standing in the centre is to stand in the centre of a cereal bowl. The snipers were high up but close in and all around. Three hundred and sixty degrees of imminent terror. And staring out from the green-black slopes and terracotta-tiles are the myriad cemeteries. Large and small. Forests of snow-white stumps shouting out against green grass carpets. Here lie the dead. But the wounded are still visible on the streets. Men without legs, in wheelchairs, struggling on crutches, begging for change.

In Liberation Square up to forty men gather at any one time watch and play chess beneath the loomıng crucifix spire of the Serbian Orthodox Church. Alternate black and white paving slabs form the board. The black and white pieces are knee high, the players bestriding the board as colosses. The spectators shout advice and abuse, they argue between themselves over the next moves. The forces of black and white in perpetual battle. A harmless battle in this small space.

Mostar

In Mostar i stayed with a Bosniak (Bosnian Muslim) family. As with Sarajevo much of the city has been restored, though there are many bullet ridden buildings, where every inch seems to be a bullet mark, and many more husks that were entirely gutted by explosions or shells or fire. Once a mixed city Mostar has now broken down almost entirely between its Bosniak population who occupy one side of the river and the Croatian population who live on the other. When it came to selecting a monument to place in a central part of town, so little agreement could be found between the representatives of the two communities that they could only agree on a tribute to one person. Bruce Lee. Yep, with absolutely no ties to Bosnia and no possible hint that he would have favoured one side or the other, they managed to agree to put a Bruce Lee statute in the centre of Mostar. Its a brittle peace.

Since the war the number of drug users in Mostar, as with Sarajevo, has multiplied. People smoked hash or took tranquilisers or anti-depressants to cope. Trapped in a city under siege, getting to medical attention with a bullet or shrapnel wound could be impossible. So morphine was freely distributed to the city's population during the war. The war has passed but for many the morphine dependency remains. Jobs are few and far between. Multi-national companies are reluctant to invest in a country that is effectively split in two and has three ethnic groups still requiring a considerable international presence to prevent significant hostilities. Some guys I met in Sarajevo told me of their mate living on the social in Dublin. Apparently he has used the income to buy two apartments in Sarajevo. Hard to believe. But for all the efforts of the EU and others to patch the place up and throw on a fresh lick of paint many young Bosnians have little to look forward to but immigration if they want to find work. Property here is cheap.

Having outlined the foregoing it must be said that Mostar is one of the most attractive cities in the Balkans. The surrounding sandy-brown hills are appealing and comfortable for hiking. A few miles away lies perpetual pilgrimage site, Medjugorie. I climbed this and other spots around. Though i was much amused afterward to discover that the locals believe that there are still landmines in the hills. The government swears they have been fully cleared, but brush-fires in the summer months have released explosive echoes through the valley. Yikes. Glad i didn't stray off the paths for a pee or any such.