UK Urban Photographer of the Year!!!

By warren: Saturday, October 11th, 2008 | Travel | 2 Comments

Well nearly. I was recently named as 2nd runner-up in the CBRE UK Urban Photographer of the Year 2007 competition. This came as quite a surprise seeing as I entered nearly a year ago and had heard nothing since.

The basic premise was to illustrate “UK Cities At Work” with a photo taken in a specific hour of the day. The judges made a shortlist of the best entries for each hour, from which a winner was selected - I won the 1700 (5pm) and 2100 (9pm) categories with these photos (click to enlarge):

Then, from the 24 hourly category winners, the 3 overall winners were announced. I just snuck in at number 3. My prize is a 21” Wacom ‘Cintiq’ LCD graphics tablet: a pretty fancy (and expensive) touch-sensitive screen which you can ‘draw’ onto directly for editing photos, painting, sketching, etc… something I’ve wanted for years but could never justify the expense.

Anyway this small ‘victory’ has encouraged me to pursue my photography more seriously in the future. I’ve already sold images to a small number of clients including the BBC (through an image agency) and am thinking about perhaps exhibiting in some galleries and spending more time marketing my image library at www.xoodu.com.

So if you know anyone involved in purchasing images or exhibiting photography, please pass on my details! Thanks.

Essential Stats

By warren: Saturday, October 11th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

FOOD & DRINK
——————————–
Frappes consumed in Greece: at least 38 (each)
Quantity of chewy goat meat politely pushed to edge of plate in Mongolia: 2.5kg
Beers quaffed: 60+ each
Wine: almost none since leaving Greece
Chocolate: terrible in Russia

TRANSPORT
——————————–
Guilt-ridden plane flights: 1
Arguments with taxi drivers nearly resulting in fisticuffs: 1
Total km overland:
Taxi trips exceeding 140km/h in urban area: 3
Brushes with death in suicidal minibuses: dozens

HEALTH
——————————–
Falls off large mammals: 1 (tash)
Trips to hospital: 2 (see above)
Bouts of gastroenteritis: 3 (surprisingly, warren:2 tash:1)
Spontaneous vomiting due to heat exhaustion: 1 (warren)
Bites, stings and miscellaneous animal attacks: 2 (both tash)
Nervous breakdowns: 2 (one each)
Most consecutive days without a shower: 4
Most days since last haircut: 131 (Warren)
Bottles of antiseptic handwash consumed: 5

ACCOMMODATION
——————————–
Reasonably comfortable boat cabin: 9 nights
2nd class sleeper train: 13 nights
Non-reclining cramped bus seat: 4 sleepless nights

10 nights with relatives / friends (yay)
2 nights in a 4-star hotel
2 nights in a charming air conditioned treehouse
13 nights in Mongolian camel-hair ‘ger’ tents; and

The other 72 nights in filthy roach-infested fleapits

SHEER STUPIDITY
—————————–
Main packs: 23kg each
Daypacks: about 10kg each
Combined weight of all luggage: 68kg

Compare to Tash’s weight: 61kg. We’re carrying an extra Tash around!

RANDOM
——————————–
New contacts added to address book while travelling: 29
Photos taken: over 20,000
Keepers (after culling the lousy ones): 6,352

RANTS
——————————–
Friendliest countries: Mongolia, China, Turkey (in that order)
Rudest country: Russia
Hours spent in Russian queues: at least 15
Most extortionate ‘tourist multiplier’: up to 10x the local cost, anywhere in Russia
Country with most offensive drunks: Russia (are you beginning to sense a trend here)

Frequency of Kunming locals hawking phlegm in throats loudly then spitting on the street: every 3 1/2 minutes

Random Chinglish

By warren: Saturday, October 11th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

Spotted in a fresh juice shop in Kunming:

Lovely fresh fruits regard as a sea pork, why can we regard those as gift from the Lord? Natural healthy SPA therapeutics 5 gram sunshine, 100 gram breeze 10 ounce music a little bit of laugh half of blue fleecy cloud. Exuberance fill begin finish healthy alimentation encounter vivid afternoon, frame of mind freedom.

And no, I did *not* make any of that up, it is reproduced here verbatim.

The Mongolian Visa Idiot Test

By warren: Tuesday, August 26th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

The Mongolian embassy in Irkutsk employs a cunning means of weeding out unworthy tourists from visiting their fair country: a complex initiation test of such diabolical and machiavellian complexity that only the strongest, most intelligent, persistent and indeed virile specimens can hope to succeed.

Fortunately for us, we had a Russian onboard. While he may not be any more powerful, smarter, dogged or spunky than us (though that could certainly be argued too), he did have the advantage of speaking the local lingo, a skill which turned out to be essential in surviving this cruel ordeal.

Once we filled out our application forms in duplicate with passport photos, accommodation details, and rectal exams (hang on did I say rectal exams? yeah, that’s right) we had to pay. Great! We shoved a fistful of cash over which was promptly returned. Something unintelligible was said and we looked at each other blankly. Cue Yas (Yaroslav) to the rescue.

It turns out that as non-residents we can’t pay cash. Huh? That’s right. Why? No idea. You just can’t. Oh, right. I forgot, this is Russia.

So what we have to do is pay at the bank and bring back the receipt. OK, how hard can that be. Well, in Russia… pretty damn hard. It can’t be just any bank, but a particular one, the only one which will deal with foreigners (?!?)

So we walk along the main street where the bank apparently is, only we can’t find it. We ask several people and they either ignore us, or point in different directions. Finally we find the bank, go inside but there are just 2 people with computers - no tellers or anything. Must be a loan office or something. They point us back down the street.

We walk again and find another potential winner. The door is closed with a sign saying (according to Yas) enter around corner. So we go there, and find ourselves in a post office. Hang on, what? They say go next door, so we do, but it’s a pharmacy. This is getting ridiculous. They say go back to the closed door with the sign directing us in here.

Oh, right, that makes sense.

So we go in there and - hallelujah - find the tellers. I walk up with cash in hand and the bored looking teller inside points at a sign with the business hours: from 11am. 45 minutes away. He’s not doing anything else and the place is empty but we have no choice, even though we have to pay at the embassy by 12noon and this is our last chance to get a 24hour visa before we have to leave the country or end up in jail (yes, really - no extensions granted, EVER).

<long deep breath>

So we go to a coffee shop and return in 45 minutes. Of course now there’s a great big bloody QUEUE and I’m busting for the loo. Groan.

Eventually we pay, get our receipt, and make it to the Embassy but the gates are locked. Argh. Violins are playing, women are weeping, and grown men start sobbing. Then someone thinks to press the buzzer and miraculously the gate opens… we’re in. We pay.

Woohoo! We passed the test.

Death by a thousand Dumplings

By warren: Tuesday, August 26th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

Today we were introduced to the great staple of Mongolian cuisine, Buuz (meat dumplings). You never know quite what kind of meat you’re going to encounter inside a Buuz, which makes it either an exciting or a terrifying dish - generally the latter.

The ones we tried were in a roadside diner-type restaurant here in Irkutsk, a place mainly frequented by truckers and traffic police. This is according to Mikael, a local friend of the father of our new friend Yas (a Russian guy we met outside the Mongolian embassy with his Japanese friend Yu, while waiting to apply for our visas). Did you get all that?

To reach the restaurant, which apparently serves the best damn Buuz this side of… well Ulaan Baatar I guess, we had to hike across half the city and take no fewer than 3 connecting buses. Must be good, we thought.

We sat down and Mikael ordered the food, which came promptly:  a hearty vegetable soup and about 15 large buuz each. That’s right, per person. That’s a lot of dough and unidentifiable meat filling to get through.

I made a valiant effort and consumed 4 1/2 buuz, and tash slogged her way through 3. Little did we know that in a few short weeks we’d be eating more buuz containing an even stranger variety of fillings. And somehow live to tell the tale.

Drunks, Fake Russians, Prostitutes, Screaming kids and Vomit

By warren: Monday, August 25th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

That pretty much sums up our Trans-Siberian railway experience. Four days straight on a train travelling over 6,000km from Moscow to Irkutsk would be somewhat of an endurance test under the best possible circumstances, but when you have fellow passengers to deal with it can become quite an ordeal…

The first couple of days heading East, we shared our 4-bunk second class ‘soft sleeper’ compartment, or kupeyny, with a 30-something woman and her autistic 8 year old son. He was a sweet boy but obviously due to his condition, was a bit of hard work for his poor mother. His favourite pastime was to violently rip the pages out of any reading material he could lay his hands on. Magazines, books, newspapers, whatever, they were all shredded within minutes. We eyed him nervously everytime we had our guidebook out.

Our cabin looked like the swiss alps with tiny shreds of white flying in the air, swirling in manic random patterns with the wind rushing in through the window. And all the time, our little friend would shriek and yell and scream at 140 decibels. Lovely kid otherwise, but we’re not ashamed to admit some relief when they left after 2 nights.

Out next cabin-buddy was a young Russian kid returning from Border Guard service near Estonia. Like all (a) teenage male (b) soldiers (c) on leave he was determined to drink himself into oblivion as quickly as possible. So while he started off quite nice, things degenerated pretty quickly.

Now I’ve been known to knock back a few shots of the hard stuff - more so in my exchange student year in Denmark in 1991 (gulp) - so when the local drunk staggered into our cabin the day before, I politely accepted his offer to share a few drinks. Problem was, the ‘shots’ were actually a large glass full to the brim and you barely had time to catch you breath inbetween toasts to god knows what. I can’t understand Russian at the best of times (though I can actually now decipher the cyrillic letters), let alone when the speaker is half smashed and slurring their words while swaying from side to side with crossed eyes.

Finally I managed to excuse myself but the drunk and his massive buddy kept coming back the whole trip for some more vodka action, after their frequent naps. Once our new friend boarded the train however, they had a new and more willing playmate. He disappeared for a few hours and came back pretty much completely ripped. Half-collapsing on his bunk I thought this looks bad and sure enough, a half hour later he sat up unsteadily with his head in his hands, knees apart, eyes closed. I knew what was coming next.

Suddenly the floodgates open and I quickly remove our shoes and my legs from the danger zone. It goes all over the carpet on the floor and he’s not interested in the plastic bag I’ve helpfully offered him. What a mess. It’s all over his bare legs and feet too.

*sigh*

Tash goes down the corridor to fetch ‘Olga’ as I shall call her, the Slightly Aggressive Provodnitsa (carriage attendant). She looks on our pitiful young friend with disgust, rants at him for a while and walks off. In the meantime I roll up the carpet to avoid smearing the filth everywhere and we retreat to the dining car to escape the inevitable stench.

When we return a few hours later, our friend is sleeping it off peacefully and he has scrubbed the carpet with water - no soap available, just water - and replaced it. No new carpet. Nice.

The next day I can’t escape the persistent drunk who keeps harassing Tash for pretending not to speak Russian. He thinks she’s lying because she has a russian name, and looks like a Russian, therefore must actually *be* Russian. To distract him, I agree for one last drink. We go to his cabin and I manage to follow the guidebook advice of dribbling vodka down my chin or deliberately spilling it o the floor everytime I take a ‘sip’. They’re too drunk to notice.

Tash tries to rescue me with a plate of sliced salami, bread, cheese and cucumber which is well received by the drunk who is awake, however his slumbering fat ugly friend wakes up and seems annoyed at our presence. He takes particular offence at me being perched on the edge of the foot of his bed (carefully avoiding his smelly feet) and motions with his leg as if to kick me in the head.

This looks like our cue to leave.

We really know it’s time to go when he unfurls what can only be a stream of foul Russian expletives in our direction, including the unmistakable “PROSTITUT!!!” at Tash. Riiiiiight.

We head right for the door and studiously avoid this pair for the rest of the trip. A feat which is not easy when they inhabit the compartment just two doors away from you, but we mostly managed it. We certainly were glad to finally make it to Irkutsk. Much less vomiting for one thing.

Borsch, borsch, borsch, borsch…

By warren: Friday, August 22nd, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

Borsch. It’s Russian, it’s a soup. It’s cheap and it fills you up. It contains lots of beetroot and it’s absolutely everywhere. If you spill it on your clothes you will never, ever get the stain out.

And that’s all I have to say about Borsch.

Russian Queues (Part 2): Lenin’s Tomb

By warren: Sunday, August 17th, 2008 | Rants | No Comments

If you haven’t read Russian Queues (part 1), I highly recommend you do so. It’s important. Go on, off you choof. See you in a minute.

OK, got that? Good. So onto part 2.

I won’t mention all our painful queueing experiences in Russia but several deserve a mention, namely the Lenin Mausoleum Queue Debacle or LMQD and the Great And Frustrating Kremlin Queue (GAFKQ).

The LMQD began early one morning when we took the Metro in to Red Square where the guidebook said you should queue up for Lenin’s tomb an hour before it was scheduled to open. We duly arrived on time, walked up to the Tomb and waited outside the rope fence near the entry door. It looked like we were the first - hurrah!

A crowd of tourists were milling around but didn’t seem to be in a line, and a serious looking guard in uniform looked at us but said nothing. We waited maybe 15 minutes and people came and went without lining up behind us, which we thought was odd. So I told Tash to stay put while I went off to make sure we were in the right place.

I walked around the entire square without spotting any other queue, and popped my head into several souvenir shops to ask where the queue was. I even asked several different sets of uniformed police and guards - the universal response was either a pathological indifference to my existence, or a gruff “NYET”, despite me asking (probably poorly) in Russian. Since when is “NO” an answer to the question “Hello, where is the Lenin Tomb queue please”?

Bastards.

So anyway I went back to Tash who was still in her own special 1-person queue (alarm bells are ringing now) and try to check in our bags, which we have read are strictly prohibited in the tomb. After asking several more guards who completely ignore me, I stumble across the cloakroom and stand outside waiting for the lady behind the closed glass window to stop ignoring me. She is sitting down smoking, looks at me a couple of times but says nothing. I wait 10 minutes thinking she will open soon when a local sidles up and points to the distance, indicating I have to go that way.

So I take the bait and go looking on my own, finally discovering the bloody queue cunningly hidden around the corner of the far end of the square hidden behind some trees. There are already at least 100 people in line. Great.

I race back to the Tomb to tell Tash but she is nowhere to be seen. So I rush over to the line, thinking maybe she’s already found it. Now there are 120 people waiting. I go up and down several times, staring at every person’s face and making people either nervous or angry. Now there are 140 people, so I race back to the Tomb again and Tash is still nowhere in sight. Back at the queue, 150 people now stand in line.

15 minutes come and go and no Tash in sight. I leave the queue (250+) and race back into Red Square, finally finding Tash who thought she spotted the queue in the other direction. Once we make it back to the queue it’s at least 300 people long and probably 2 hours to get in. So we say f*£k that shit, go home, drink a bottle of cheap vodka and pass out on the floor of the bathroom in our own vomit.

Actually that’s not quite true, that would be the logical approach but we actually went back the next morning, knowing The System (in Russia it’s still all about The System) and get to see the one and only Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, who is incidentally… very waxy. And surrounded by very very serious guards - no talking! No smiling! No nothing!

And then we confront our next hurdle: the GAFKQ (Great And Frustrating Kremlin Queue)

Russian Queues (Part 3): The Kremlin

By warren: Tuesday, August 12th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

OK we’ve now survived two particularly epic Russian queues, how hard can this one be? Well in the interests of brevity, very frickin’ difficult indeed. Basically you have to queue up to buy your ticket while pushy locals barge their way in front of you, literally shoving you out of the way, pay an other hideously exorbitant fee, then join a new queue for the cloakroom, pay more money, join a 3rd queue for the actual entrance, have your bag refused for being too large, so return to the baggage queue, then back to the entrance queue where you bag is OK’ed by the door bitch, but once you reach the metal detectors a miserable guard with a bad attitude tells you the bag is too big.

WHAT - THE- FRACK!!

Before I rip his spinal cord out right then and there and spend the next 35 years in a Siberian gulag work camp, I insist the small shoulder bag I now carry was approved, at which point he insists on viewing its contents. OK, no problem. Then he orders (no-one asks in Russia) me to take the lens cap off the camera. OK, i figure he’s checking it’s a real lens and not some kind of sneaky tourist nuclear device. He spots the diameter of the lens cap printed inside (77mm) and declares the camera Professional and tells me it can’t come in.

At this point I’m tired, annoyed, thirsty, and generally very bitter. I know arguing is pointless but I try to appeal with reason, then resorting to grovelling. No dice. So I go back to the baggage queue, deposit my camera with great trepidation, and return to the entry queue. Once I’m inside I collapse in a heap and vow never to return to this accursed country again.

And we still had 2 1/2 weeks to negotiate before the safety of Mongolia. Read on, it gets worse…

Russian Queues (Part 1): The Hermitage

By warren: Tuesday, August 12th, 2008 | Travel | 1 Comment

I’m seriously considering retracting my previous post gently mocking the British and their penchant for queues. I now know that when it comes to the mind-numbing and leg-aching tedium of lining up for hours and hours on end, the Russians truly are world-class.

Want to visit a museum? Join the queue. Buy a train ticket? Join the queue. Bus? Queue. Food? Queue. Scratch your own arse? Take a number and get in line.

Seriously, this is starting to do my head in. We tried (honestly we did) to buy online e-Tickets for the incredible State Hermitage Museum so we wouldn’t have to join the queue like all the other dumb schleps. Unfortunately like most things in Russia, it’s not as simple as, ooh, pick a day, pay your money and print out your ticket. No siree. For some unfathomable reason your order has to be manually processed and this takes from between 2 to 5 (yes FIVE) working days. So you could wait a full week, and even then you have to take your receipt number to a SEPARATE FRICKIN QUEUE at the museum anyway. Yeesh.

So anyway we get to the Hermitage at 8am, 1 1/2 hours early, thinking we’ll be near the head of the line and breeze in when the doors open. Although we’d only been in Russia a few days, we should have known the reality would be different.

AAAAAAHHHHH

There were already about 250 people lined up. I kid you not… the line was over 100m long. Insanity. But it’s the Hermitage. The one and only. One of the greatest art gallery -cum- museums in the entire world, with a vast collection of such breathtaking beauty and grandeur that it would be a crime not to tear your own eyes out immediately afterwards so the last vision burned into your cerebral cortex would be one of immeasurable perfection. Either that or two bloody thumbs digging into your eye sockets. But I digress.

…so we waited.

And waited.

And waited some more. The hours crawled by much as a cockroach with two legs torn off by a malevolent cat does, only we would have gladly gnawed ours off at the knees if it meant escape from the excruciating monotony. Hell I tried but tash took my pocket knife away.

In the meantime, massive hordes of group tours swept imperiously into the building via another entry, while we, the plebs, the proletariat, the unclean masses, stood morosely by. The next Bolshevik revolution surely can’t be too far off.

Eventually we made it to the door, despite numerous fat Russians shoving their way past us, elbows swinging and breath stinking of stale tobacco and smoked fish. Then we had the privelige of joining, you guessed it, ANOTHER QUEUE this time for the ticket booth. At which point we finally had the honour of forking over - ooh I can’t remember how much but it was 2 or 3 times the local price and actually quite expensive even by Western European standards.

Once inside we staggered to the cafeteria for the most dismal overpriced “lunch” you can imagine, then proceeded to fight our way through the crowds within the former palace’s thousand-odd exhibition rooms. Which were, for the record, absolutely stunning.

To be continued…

Domestic Duties

By tash: Friday, August 8th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

It’s strange to think that when you are traveling, you miss certain tiny things… home comforts, routines, certain foods etc. Then I guess it should come as no surprise to discover how much I miss simple domestic duties!

So arriving at Kasia’s cosy apartment in Wroclaw, one of our UK living Polish friends, I get this small twang of pleasure knowing we will be able to cook for ourselves, do our laundry, wash the dishes and lounge around the living room in our underwear if we so choose!

Adam, her dear Polish friend lets us in, quickly shows us all the services / security etc and leaves vowing to catch up with us tomorrow evening for a drink – such great hospitality! I immediately feel at home.

Kasia, being the fantastic mum that she is, calls to check up on us… make sure we got in okay, that we’ve eaten, that we’ve found the hot water and gas on valves and so on… In amongst all her own dramas she still finds the time to ensure we are comfy – just too kind.

We spent a lovely relaxing 2nights in Wroclaw and could have easily spent much longer. It was just so nice living in a lovely city in a real home again, surrounded by family photos, furnishings and Keith’s (Kasia’s husband’s) collectibles. It wasn’t the stark, inpersonal spaces we inhabit at hotels nor the worn out, slapped together old attire you typically find in hostels.

Reluctantly, we moved on, boarding the train for Vilnius via Warsaw, myself feeling all the more wistful for home and sad we couldn’t stay longer, missing Kasia (arriving for a break herself) by only one day.

Must Here It To Believe It

By tash: Monday, August 4th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

Just a very quick post to report on something quite unbelievable, crazy and ludicrous….

John, our fabulous guide in Krakow, told of a story so nuts we didn’t really know whether to believe him or not. As everything else he told us on our bike tour was quite truthful and reliable, we did begin to doubt our trust in him over this one.

He described how around Old Krakow Town, where the moat had been turned into a delightful parkland ring, there was a growing pigeon problem in the trees that after much debate about management, had been ‘solved’ by using a very unusual method.

Most cities use falcons these days, sticky anti-bird gunk or spikes on buildings. As the people of Krakow did not want to intimidate or harass the rest of the bird populations, they settled on the unconventional.

At 9pm sharp every night a ute sneaks into the parklands and lets off a volley of air-canon blasts to scare the pigeons. The intention is to make it so undesirable for the pigeons to remain in the trees that they will, according to Pavlov’s Conditioning, quickly associate the canon sounds with discomfort and dissipate to leave the parklands pest-free. John quickly noted here, letting our jaws drop from the sheer absurdity of the situation first, that if you here this sound EVER of an evening in the parklands to just run…run for your lives as when the pigeons are scared by the canon they let rain down a hail of bird-droppings. Anyway, we just laughed at this, finding it a very amusing tale.

One evening we stopped off at a little street café opposite the parklands, on the way home from a day of tiring sightseeing for a bite to eat. Mid way through the meal at around 9pm, sure enough a huge boom rang through the café followed by a crescendo of squawking and flapping. And then we saw people running… for cover…for their dear lives….

Boom, boom, boom!! We will never distrust another guide again.

Auschwitz-Birkenau

By tash: Sunday, August 3rd, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

Auschwitz and Birkenau are hard places to write about; partly because of the shocking gravity of what happened there, the base emotion ripped out of you when you are walked through the systematic devastation of a people, but partly because of what you previously know about these places and how a visit there verifies everything you had somehow hoped wasn’t true, wasn’t possible of the human race.

I certainly didn’t relish the though of this visit. I made myself go because, like so many others, I felt it respectful to remember those lost to this hell and to better understand what had happened here during the second world war. I also wanted to be more thankful that my own grandparents had been interned elsewhere, in forced labour camps where luckily, they had a much better chance of survival despite their own hardships. Knowing that their individual heartbreaking stories still managed to end in collective happiness; losing their families but gaining each other and the adventure of going to start again in Australia, living in a strange land…

We chose to join a small group to go through the Concentration Camps with. For most of the guided tour, you just felt numb. Filing past huge glass cabinets of people’s belongings, their glasses and prosthetic limbs, their hair bundled up to be reuse in fabric manufacturing… Walking through corridors filled with portraits of the victims, their date of arrival and death stamped below, and calculating their length of survival – months, weeks, sometimes only days…Seeing pictures of those who’d managed to survive to the last days, people being freed no more than bags of bone and skin, then having to endure the relative humiliation of being clinically examined naked on a table before a panel to record the victim’s condition for prosecution evidence…

I managed to keep my emotions in check until we reached the execution wall, adjacent the solitary confinement basement boxes. The we were taken through the gas chamber structures themselves and stood underneath the hatches (right next to the fake shower heads) where the Nazi’s threw in the lethal gas canisters, before walking past the human ovens where the deceased were hauled from the ‘shower rooms’ by ‘special’ comrades to be ‘cremated’.

Oddly, these spaces were presented clinically, perhaps reflecting the detached ice-cold premeditation the Nazi’s employed in trying to eradicate an entire race. It wasn’t until we arrived at Birkenau and went through the vast barracks complex that my mind caught up with the sheer scale of destruction that had been wrought on these people, and the Nazi’s horrifying efficiency.

Wandering into the brick buildings that were no better than farmyard animal shelters, I saw the rows of timber slatted ‘shelves’ where people would have been stacked to wretchedly pass away from the diseased summer heat or frost-biting winter. It was here that I felt presence, not in a ghostly hairs-on-the back-of-the-neck manner, but as if my mind was suddenly released from the shock for a moment, connecting with the situation again and pouring compassion mixed with fury into my soul.

I went outside, back into the sunlight and spied a daisy growing defiantly out of a crack in the cold slab. Life thankfully does continue and will hopefully never have to witness such an atrocity again.

Big John’s Bike Ride, Krakow

By tash: Saturday, August 2nd, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

Put simply, John was a great guide. Enthusiastic, knowledgeable, witty and, most importantly, easy to understand. Whether it was his native American accent, clear annunciation or booming delivery, he was thoroughly entertaining and a nice guy.

Grabbing a bike and riding around is always a good way to see a city and this was no exception. Krakow, Old Town, much like Wroclaw we were to discover, is a gorgeous chocolate box of a European city, filled with quaint, brightly painted architecture through the ages; a place where cars have given back the narrow streets to pedestrians, cyclists and, bizarrely, small electric buggies.

In a matter of hours we’d covered a lot of ground; everything from the historic heart of Krakow, to the heartbreaking Kazimierz Jewish Ghetto and Schindler’s infamous factory, to the funny little anecdote of the Dragon slain by shoe cobbler Krak, the city’s namesake.

I knew a fair bit about Schindler, and not just from the movie or Kneally’s book. My Polish grandfather had already straightened out a couple of facts for me so I didn’t really feel the compassion towards him most would. Still, John was brilliant on this front, giving all the facts in a no-nonsense, straight up manner, painting the guy in a truthful light rather than Hollywood gloss, which I really appreciated.

We were lucky to have a really thoughtful group on the tour too. Everyone behaved like good schoolchildren too, listening attentively, sticking together and being considerate of each other. Together we enjoyed the rousing hourly live bugle call from St Mary’s Church reaching out over the Rynek and pondered quietly the devastation of watching your loved ones pushed onto a train bound for the Concentration Camps at the square on Starowislna, now filled by an artist with empty chairs.

The only real threat to the day was the accumulating storm clouds which finally gave way just after we left Schindler’s factory, having added atmosphere to John’s telling of Schindler’s (mis) deeds before we were drenched to the skin.

Lykachiv Cemetery, Lviv

By tash: Thursday, July 31st, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

Every so often in our travels we come across a surprise attraction or location, something we stumble upon by accident or get told about. Lykachiv Cemetary is one of those delights. Someone recommended we put a side a half day to check it out, and, upon arriving, we’re glad we did.

Walking through the front gate, it doesn’t look too dissimilar to many other European cemeteries with a few ornate family crypts lining the semi-circular grassed entry court. Quickly though, you realize this is something far more special as you take one of the tiny dirt paths meandering off into the heavily wooded cemetery ‘sections’.

Full of beautiful sculptures of angels, religious figures and the deceased, on a bright day like today, the dappled sunlight sneaks through the dense canopy to dance over the stone carvings and bronze mouldings, creating a fairytale place. Feeling like you are caught between a Harry Potter film and a period drama, there’s so much to explore in the overgrown, lush surroundings. Little plots with stone crosses and photographs of their patrons rise above the tall grasses and vines, while gorgeous statues of children peep out from under cascades of flowers, of both the wild and plastic variety.

The cemetery, being close to the historically changing borders of Poland, Ukraine (old USSR) and Czech Rep, it contains a interestingly rich array of family names and styles, including German - from the times of occupation. Full of graves marking artists, celebrities, politicians and famous others, the cemetery is quite well known in the area too.

It goes without saying that both Warren and I had a thoroughly enjoyable time trying to capture some of the cemetery’s magical essence and came away peaceful and happy. If you ever make it to Lviv, treat yourself to a stroll through Lykachiv Cemetery.

Kiev Taxi Mafia

By tash: Wednesday, July 30th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

It seems that right now on our trip, I only want to write about debarcles and mishaps… I guess before I launch into this next one I should reiterate what a fantastic time we are having traveling and the we are passing through so many beautiful places and experiencing so many wonderful things…Just thought you should know….

This next story came about purely because I was stung by a bee. Yes a little cute fuzzy bee that I happen to be highly allergic to. Unbelievably bad luck I know to be first bitten by a dog, then stung by a bee – maybe it’s safer in the office rather than being out in the ‘wild’… So after being stung on the arm one afternoon while strolling around some street markets and then screaming like a mad woman (I could asphyxiate and die!) for Warren to pull out the still pumping venom sack while at the same time telling him not to touch it for the love of God because he might squeeze more venom under my skin… I then took loads of Phenergan and completely whacked myself out. A major problem really considering we were about to depart for Kracow on an overnight train and would have to haul all our stuff about a kilometer down the road to the train station!

After making it back to the hotel and resting, Warren decided it was still best to catch a cab the short distance and gets the hotel onto the case. They verify the cost with him, the cab turns up and off we go. After the super short ride, we get out with all our stuff, Warren hands the driver the money and he starts complaining. The driver wants over three times what we agreed with the hotel. Warren tried to explain the agreement but he’s having nothing of it. He throws the money back a Warren and starts calling over onlookers to berate us in Ukranian. We stand firm and insist that we were quoted ‘x’ amount and that’s what we’ll pay.

This is when the situation escalates and some of the seemingly innocent bystanders start closing in, taunting us with sneers of ‘Mafia’ in English. Still unperturbed and rather stubbornly we begin to collect up our bags while still ‘negotiating’. This is when the taxi driver grabs my backpack and starts trying to take it back to the boot of the car. It becomes a tug of war while I desperately hold on, snarling ‘Let go!’ Warren’s pleading with passers-by for assistance quickly become shouts of ‘Help! Police!’ I join in the chorus but to no avail. We are now becoming a ‘scene’ to be oogled at and after what seemed like an eternity with our requests for assistance continually being ignored, Warren broke the strangle-hold by paying the extortionate amount.

Close to fainting from all the excitement and allergy medication, I drag myself into the station with Warren, now white with fury and struggling to haul our backpacks inside. It was a truly a low moment and one that drew an uttering of ‘Never again!’ from Warren’s lips in the heat of the moment.

Standing on the platform waiting for our train, we could only hope tomorrow would bring a bright new day with more happy adventures to remind us why we were bothering to trek halfway across the world under the guise of ‘fun’.

Sofieuke Bus from Hell

By tash: Tuesday, July 29th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

What do you get when you squeeze a couple of sardines between vinyl?

Warren and Tash on the Sofieuke bus (from hell) to Kiev.

After visiting the rellies in sleepy Sofieuke, we needed to make our way to Kiev for a few days before setting off into Poland. Being so remote though, lying somewhere along a vague line between Odessa and Kiev, train travel from Sofievke was out of the question. If we’d done the trip over again we would have gone back down to Odessa and caught a train straight up to Moscow, thereby missing out on beautiful Poland (would have been unfortunate) and the mucking about with visas in the Baltic States (especially avoiding Belarus).

We were of course apprehensive about the night bus option but my cousin-in-law reassured us, promising both a reliable and comfortable ride. So we began dreaming of the immaculate, modern ‘space’ buses in Turkey while he was thinking of something more like the old 1960’s style school buses we used to get stuffed onto as school kids to attend the swimming carnival once a year…quite adequate for a few hours along a fairly well sealed road… a complete nightmare when trying to catch a few hours sleep on a road that requires serious maintenance.

Anyway, the bus arrived on time close after midnight and hasty hugs and kisses were shared between teary ‘goodbyes’ and ‘thakyous’ in Russian. We chucked our main packs below, and hauled our not-so-small daypacks into the bus compartment hunting for spare spots. It was only after I tried to squeeze myself into a window seat, breaking up an in-depth conversation between two people sprawled over four seats, that finally some people relented and shuffled around to free up a seat for us both.

Unfortunately though, our bags were too big to stow completely under the seat itself because of some obstruction (possibly the seat springs becoming dislodged) and the seat back failed to remain upright (or completely back – whichever position you wanted, it failed to deliver). So to get into the seat, you had to fold yourself into a strange upright foetal position and once you were in, that’s how you stayed for the rest of the trip. Perched up on my day pack, my knees were supporting the guy in front and the passenger behind’s feet gouged my back. Every time someone even so much as twitched, it let off a chain reaction of twisting and wincing from the entire row of passengers like a set of dominoes gone astray.

And this was just the seating. I won’t bother going into finite detail regarding some passenger’s lack of sobriety and noise level consideration. As can be expected, we arrived fairly sleep deprived and grumpy in Kiev, increased even more so after possibly being ripped off by the taxi driver delivering us to town who insisted inflation had skyrocketed since the last published edition of our guidebook. Not being able to check in at our hotel till 12Noon certainly didn’t cheer us up either. Luckily we found a great internet café two doors up with fantastic coffee and speedy connections – maybe there is a God!

Sidecar Tash

By tash: Monday, July 28th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

It was somewhat disappointing for the family to discover not only that I wasn’t a devout Christian, but that I didn’t even consider myself religious. Sure, I’m a spiritually open person I think, but trying to explain the deep reasons behind this in sign language wasn’t really working either. Still, they were pleased that we wanted to visit the golden domed Church of Sofieuke.

Architeturally, I love churches, the fine craftsmanship and progression of design styles they encapture. I also tend to find them quite peaceful places, away from manic modern life and all its trappings. Half the fun of today’s visit though was getting there and back!

I’d assumed, like the cemetery, that to visit the church was just a wander up to the main street of town. When it was suggested that I pull on a pair of trousers rather than my knee-length skirt, I’m assumed it was for modesty. But when Slava rolled out his bright green motorbike with sidecar, I knew we were going on an adventure!

Jumping in the sidecar, I suddenly felt like Penelope Pitstop in some dastardly cartoon. Vladek sat perched on my lap, hanging tightly onto his new ‘London Underground’ cap and Warren rode pillion, trying to film while holding onto our experienced driver, Slava.

I still thought we were just heading down the street so it came as a complete surprise when we started heading out into the countryside on potholed dirt roads, weaving our way through milking cows and skirting muddy swamp crossings. Up hill and down dale we rode, with Slava expertly negotiating steep rocky inclines and rutted farm roads, with the sidecar threatening to either overturn the lot of us or take off under it’s own momentum.

Slowly but surely, an hour or so later, we arrived at the gracefully tall brick onion-domed church we’d spied coming over some of the grazing land earlier. Unfortunately, the church itself was locked up tight, undergoing extensive renovations. Slava ran off to the adjacent monastery to see if a kindly nun could let us have a peek inside. Soon enough, he returned accompanied by a young nun in civilian clothes with a veil to show us in.  Going by the exquisite brick exterior detailing and newly completed multi-domed roof, I expected the interior to be as stunning. Amongst all the scaffolding and dust sheets, the high vaulted volumes were impressive but the detailing much simpler, relying on the splendor created by the extensive religious art collection.

The nun waited patiently until we’d perused all, including the spectacular shiny gold Russian Orthodox cross on blocks waiting to be installed in it’s rightful place again on the main dome.

After a few more rushed photos and chats with a couple of locals, we settled ourselves into the surprisingly reliable bike again ready for the long trip home. Slava, perhaps realizing the ride was quite demanding on the rump, broke the trip with a quick visit to the area’s main dam. Here we practiced skipping rocks along the dam wall and admired some Soviet monument celebrating the engineering feat before wearily arriving home, exhausted by all the fresh country air, and being thrown to and fro.  

Visiting The Family Plot

By tash: Monday, July 28th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

The visit to the cemetery had been discussed the night before. The next morning, once the family had again confirmed (with sign language) that I was eager to go, we trundled off out the back across neighbouring paddocks and vege patches to the town cemetery. Babushka, with her plastic flower garlands in hand, hobbled along on her stick accompanied by Warren and I. Vladek, with his blow-up punch ball (a small gift) skipping on ahead, obviously knowing the way.

We reached the cemetery, now in a rather overgrown and neglected state tut tutted by Babuska, and threaded our way amongst the tall grasses and low hanging branches till we reached the first of a handful of plots.

It was suddenly a very emotional occasion, with Babushka handing us each a garland to wind around the wrought iron railing that enclosed her mother and father’s plot. She said some words in Russian and with tears on her cheeks she kissed both the tiny photographs set in the headstones. Strange deep attachments welled up as I realized I was standing before my grandmother’s family, my great-grandparents whom I’d never known in a very foreign world.

Warren, sensing the importance of the moment, asked to capture a few photos of us. Babuska, having had first hand knowledge of the Lumix at dinner the day before, thought Warren was recording a message for my Gran in Australia and began to babble through sobs her sad Russian thoughts and well wishes to her long missed sister. Already used to Babuska’s sudden dramatic soliloquies, Warren quickly switched to video mode before getting a few snapshots.

We moved on, searching for another plot that Babushka couldn’t recall the exact location of, most likely of her brothers’ and then doubled back to her late husband’s resting place. Here she showed us the space waiting for her before breaking down again, Warren and I quickly rallying to lift her spirits and prove she had lots of time left in her arthritic limbs and sharp mind.

Once again she lovingly kissed the headstone, said a few more words to my Gran and we all traipsed home, myself richer in the connection to my ancestors but rather emotionally wrung out. It’s so strange how powerful these moments can be.

Introductions in Sofieuke

By tash: Sunday, July 27th, 2008 | Travel | No Comments

It was a long trip out to Sofieuke. That morning we survived a mad Schumacher style taxi dash to the Krivoy Rog bus station. Everyone of us was handing on for dear life completely smothered in our pieces of luggage while the less than appropriate ‘Relax’ by Mika was pumping out of the driver’s stereo at full volume.

At the station Alla and Vitali said their teary goodbyes, and installed us safely on the bus to Sofieuke with explicit instructions for the driver to take care of us. After several final stern warnings about luggage thieves from Vitali and blown kisses to Alla, with teeth chattering and bones jangling, we endured the bumpy two hour ride to Sofieuke. This tiny village 100km from Krivoy Rog and on the way to Kiev is where we’d meet the rest of the Ukrainian family - my grandmother’s sister Babuska Galina, her son Slava and daughter-in-law Natasha. 

Meeting us on the main road, Slava and Natasha hauled our luggage onto their bicycles to transport us the 300m or so back to the family home. With lots of sign language between all of us we quickly learnt that they don’t have a car,  that they thought we were crazy travelling with our large backpacks and that Babuska was waiting eagerly at the gate for us to arrive. Alla and Vitali’s son Vladek who was spending his summer school holidays with his grandparents, walked quietly alongside stealing curious glances.

Babuska was indeed waiting and smothered both of us in hugs, kisses and tears before we’d even reached the gate and walked up the leafy drive. The family’s modest timber house, consisting of a couple of rooms, was surrounded by several smaller outhouses serving various functions - kitchen, shower, toilets (separate one for boys and girls), chicken coups, storage sheds and so forth. Water was drawn from a well in the front yard and toilets were longdrops with no sewage system available. It’s very simple living.

As soon as we arrived, there was food on the table waiting to be served. After we’d handed out a few little presents, we sat down ready to tuck in to a hearty lunch and a few drinks. Before we started though, Slava suggested I feed the family pet and handed me a piece of bread. Remember, all of this is communicated through nothing more than gestures and sign language!

When we arrived, the dog, Dick, a greyhound bitser, had been chained up and was barking incessantly at us, but as his tail was wagging the whole time, I thought the chain was just to stop him slobbering us to death with kisses. So, completely naively, I got up and wandered over to Dick, holding out my hand for him to take the bread. Swiftly and without warning, the dog lunged at my face, snapping at my chin, fangs bared. Slava pulled me away just as fast and began semi-scolding me, while Babuska and Warren checked me over. It never once occurred to me that I was not to literally feed the dog out of my hand.

Slava began demonstrating how I should have thrown the bread up in the air for the dog to catch… How I was supposed to know this, I still have no idea! The dog had just caught my skin below my lip and on my cheek. Luckily very small scratches, but broken skin nonetheless. Warren suggested I get some alcoholic disinfecting handwash to put on it and then some Savlon. At that point Rabies hadn’t occurred to him, but it had to me.

Before we’d left the UK we’d had all sorts of shots, including Rabies Immuglobulin, which isn’t a vaccine as such, it just means that the life saving RIG that you require when you are bitten by a rabid animal is not needed. As this has to be stored in refrigeration, when you are in remote places, this product can be hard to come by. Still, you need all the other vaccine shots commenced as soon as possible, including the painful one direct into the wound. I talked to Warren, noting even though it was a small scratch, it drew blood and therefore the dog’s saliva could get into my blood stream.

Warren, always rational but to my somewhat annoyance, said we should just wait and see…that this is only a possible rabies area and not a hotspot….that it would be impossible to explain to the family that I had to get to a doctor and that we’d be in Kiev in two days and could check it out then. In hindsight VERY unwise but at the time I went along with it. Apart from the dog being vicious, it wasn’t mad, foaming at the mouth or adverse to water – but my travel med book cautioned never hang around to wait for signs…

Well, Kiev came and went, as did Lviv and still I hadn’t seen anyone. I was going crazy just worrying so I insisted I’d feel better if a doctor checked me over as soon as we got to Wroclaw, Poland. A week had past and the scratch had almost completely healed. I had no fever and nothing strange had happened to Dick while we’d stayed in Sofieuke. The doctor worked it all through and decided there was no need for further treatment. Well, I’m writing this weeks later and am still okay but it was a very unpleasant introduction to Sofieuke indeed and a nasty lesson to learn. Unfortunately now I’m also rather paranoid of large dogs – good for S/E Asia though, a serious rabies zone. I certainly won’t be patting any dogs there!