Day 308: Mondays are the worst. Unless…

It’s rather difficult to stay in a ‘Ten Month Travel Slump’ when this is what your Monday morning not only looks like, but involves before getting on a bus to jump countries in the afternoon. Mondays are the worst. Unless you’re on a ‘Round the World’ trip… and then, sometimes, Mondays are the best! We spent part of our early afternoon on this pebble beach inside a little cove on the outskirts of Dubrovnik’s Old Town. The rocks were hot. The water was not. And it was a little slice of heaven, just as beautiful as is in the picture.

It’s my humble opinion that Croatia has the prettiest water. Andrew could not stop talking about how pretty the water was between the islands in Greece. It is, also pretty. But Croatia is where the water is at. Just look at it!

The beach wasn’t too crowded, although when we left (towards 2ish) more and more people were arriving. My favorite part was watching everyone run across the too-hot-for-bare-feet rocks to get to the water. Only the water was quite cold, so everyone would stop suddenly, and let their bodies adjust to the temperature change, deciding which was worse: getting in the cold water or walking back across the hot beach to their towel or chair.

Young ones climbed up the bluffs and jumped into the sea, sometimes from quite high, sometimes making me squirm hoping they would jump far enough away from the cliffs. Needing to get going so we would make our bus into Bosnia and Herzegovina, we tore ourselves away from the beach as best we could. I have to admit, having had our sunscreen taken from us in Crete’s Airport (we forgot to put it in our checked luggage) it made leaving the burning sun a little easier. I took one last picture to remind myself what a ‘typical (even though on this trip, there really is no such thing) Monday’ on the road was like.

And then, a few hours later we were greeted like we were old friends by one of the sweetest hostel owners we have met so far. We felt so bad we were a little over an hour late arriving in Mostar, but Taso shrugged and told us not to worry. He informed us of the buses having GPS and he wasn’t waiting long. He whisked us off to his guesthouse, which really felt more like his house (in a really great way, not like staying in ‘the lady’s’ actual house in Dubrovnik). We had juice and cookies and he told us all about the town. We chatted like we were old friends, and I smiled at how great it is when you get to meet people for the first time and your interaction is so pleasant.

Taso talked about the old bridge that is the city’s main attraction. It was originally commissioned by Sultan Sulaiman the Magnificent in 1557, and survived all the way up until the war in 1993, when the bridge was bombed and destroyed. It has since been rebuilt and declared an UNESCO World Heritage site. (You can read more about the bridge here, if you’re interested)

I knew a little about this bridge (mostly relating to the war) before our arrival. I knew nothing about the bridge jumping that has become a rite of passage for the men (and some brave women) of the town. Taso told us that at just 25 meters above the water below, men would jump from the bridge, and women would give the man they liked a wreath of flowers afterwards, to signal wich one they liked the most. I asked if Taso had jumped off and he laughed, saying that he was too old to do it now. When he was younger, there was a wooden bridge in place of the older one that was bombed. He jumped off of that, but he suggested it wasn’t as high as the original (or current) bridge.

We walked through town to get an early dinner, above are some of the views of both sides of Mostar from the bridge. Beautiful, right?

Day 274: Thira, Pyrgos, and Firostefani

It’s our nine month trip-aversary! We started our day off with a bowl of cereal and Greek coffee outside of our little bungalow in Perissa and then booked a motorbike for the day to explore the island. We started off in Thira (also known as Fira), tried desperately to be patient with the passengers of the three cruise ships that arrived right around the same time we did, had Mexican for lunch at a restaurant owned by a fellow American (Colorado) before heading to Pyrgos and Firostefani, and then headed back down to Perissa. I had no idea Santorini was so big and that there were different towns on the island. I always thought it was just… one big town on one small island. Wrong. There are fields in between towns and hills and even though it can take about an hour to drive from one end to the other, sometimes the island is so narrow you can see the sea on either side of you. It’s just as beautiful as it is in all of the pictures, and just as romantic as you expect it to be, that is, once you flee the cruise ship passengers shopping for their one of a kind Swarovski Santorini souvenir. (Now, say that a few times fast!)

We were told at dinner the other night that we have arrived before all of the other tourists. It’s right on the cusp of high season here on Santorini, and after two nights of being the only ones in the restaurant, we were enjoying the peaceful environs. And then, we arrived to Thira just after noon, and had to weave in and out of big (HUGE) tour groups following their poor leader waving a flag around, trying simultaneously to do a head count. Again, I could tell it was bothering Andrew and taking away from the beauty of the seaside town, so we left the crowded shop filled streets and headed for calmer and much quieter back alleys. These seemed to weave in and around hotels and guesthouses dotted with a few restaurants. Not many tourists cogged the little lanes and we were able to wander for the most part and really appreciate the beauty of Thira.

We could have explored more of Thira, but I didn’t want to get frustrated with the masses of people, so instead, we opted to check out a Mexican restaurant down the road, on the edge of Pyrgos. I know, I know, we should be eating Greek food while we’re in Greece. But you cannot underestimate the power of good Americanized Mexican food if you haven’t had any in a long, long while. It was expensive. But it was hands down the best Mexican (or attempt of) we’ve had on this trip. The owner is from Colorado and wasn’t surprised when we told her we hadn’t lived in America for awhile. She told us that Americans who visit Santorini these days are either “working in Dubai or stationed in Germany.” She seemed anxious for the American economy to get back on track so she would have more American customers.

We hopped back on our bike (this time Andrew let me drive) and headed to Pyrgos. It was empty. There were only a fraction of tourists milling about and for the most part we were on our own wandering through the quiet town. There were so many churches, I wondered how many priests live on the island and how often each of the churches are open. Do they take turns? Does everyone follow a specific calendar for when to go to each different church? Or is each church open to a specific and small congregation?

Some of the stairways led up and we always climbed them, wondering where they went. Most of the time we found ourselves on top of the churches or other houses of the little town. It was like an entirely different kind of open air city up on the rooftops. Andrew went exploring. I photographed the rooftops and wondered if and when we would get in trouble for wandering around above the city.

I couldn’t stop photographing this beautiful little town, so I’m just going to let the photos speak for themselves.

Afterwards, we were going to venture out to Oia, a town on the northernmost tip of the island famous for the best sunset view on the island. We were about halfway there and then realized how long it would take to get home in the dark- without jackets or pants. We decided to stop off at Firostefani instead and meandered around. Firostefani was more along the lines of Thira than Pyrgos and full of restaurants and what looked like fancy hotels. Happier with our visit to Pyrgos, we didn’t stay long and instead headed back towards Perissa to sit near the pool before it was too cool to stay outside barefoot.

Day 257: Hot Air Balloons & Dervishes

We were going to get up our first morning for the rising of the hot air balloons over Goreme, and then we didn’t. We tried our second morning, and again, it didn’t happen. Our last morning it finally happened. We had planned on being out of our guesthouse by five in the morning, made it out by five thirty and still had time to spare before many of the balloons were inflated and rising into the air. Surprisingly we were two of only a handful of people up and on top of the ridge overlooking the town that early. It was quiet and peaceful and a magical way to start the day.

It was really quite mesmerizing. Watching so many balloons inflate and rise up into the sky. We counted up to ninety, but we’re positive we missed some so we’ll just round it up to there being at least one hundred in the sky. A few facts about the balloon rides (and why we didn’t partake in one): Each balloon can carry up to about twenty people. The ride is less than two hours. The starting price for some companies is 200 euros. Not even dollars. euros. Needless to say, I was totally content watching from below instead.

A few hours later, we were walking around Konya, a town famous known for being the birthplace of the infamous whirling dervishes. There isn’t much to do in the town aside from a few architectural sites and a weekly dervish ceremony. The town isn’t exactly on the tourist route, and it’s known to be on the conservative side. We decided to swing through to break up our trip back towards the coast. We were going to spend the night, but then we saw how much hotel rooms cost and changed our minds. Instead, we arrived in town early in the afternoon and bought tickets for the midnight bus to Pamukkale. We stashed our backpacks in a locker and headed into town.

Obviously, we’re not Turkish, but we haven’t felt like we’ve stood out in Turkey the way we stood out in the middle of Laos or Uganda. Suddenly though, we felt like we were getting stares. Not reproachful stares, but lingering looks nonetheless. I had pants on, and a scarf around my neck, no exposed shoulders, and I was even wearing proper shoes. It wasn’t me.

“I think it’s your shorts. And maybe your flip-flops.” I whispered to Andrew, as we walked through a park where everyone seemed to take interest in our passing through. No man was wearing shorts. And in the entire day that we were there, I saw only one other person have sandals on. The attention was strange, and got curiously entertaining as we stood outside the Ïnceminare Medresesi eating ice-cream. It’s one of the three things to do in town. Mostly for the intricately carved door.

We didn’t bother going inside the museum, instead sitting out front eating ice cream and watching everyone enjoy their Saturday afternoon. And then… a group of girls approached us. They asked our names, where we were from (in very little and broken English) and then if they could take a picture with us. We laughed a bit, but agreed. There was a group picture, and then each one took turns posing with us. This was somewhat interrupted when two older boys came up, and asked if they, too, could take their picture with us. One was from Senegal and the other Ghana. They were in Konya studying for six months. Our photos with them were interrupted by another Turkish dude who I think got in the same picture with the kid from Senegal. I asked the group of girls if I could take their picture, they readily obliged.

And then, another group of girls took over. A little bit younger and a more adorable because of it. They giggled. They asked us the same questions in the same broken English. They took turns squeezing in between me and Andrew to take pictures on their mobile phones. They readily posed for a picture for me (unfortunately my polaroid was back in the bus locker for the afternoon) and then they pointed to their cheeks to say goodbye.

Andrew didn’t get it immediately, but I did and immediately bent down to touch cheek to cheek. With all three of them. Then one pointed to her cheek again and then to her lips. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and her friends circled back to me for one as well, and did the same to Andrew, who followed suit. They made sad faces, clearly not wanting us to go, while we tried to get away as smoothly as possible, not understanding (AT. ALL.) what the fuss was about. Regardless, it was the sweetest interaction we’ve had in Turkey so far and as always, any interaction with local children (who aren’t trying to sell us anything) always makes my day.

We headed to the Karatay Müzesi after our five minutes of fame in Turkey and I was again delighted with the tile work. Say what you will about the Islamic faith, but damn they know a thing or two about interior design. Especially when it comes to a madrassa.

Andrew and I agreed that we’d like to have a living room designed with the same aesthetic. You know, in our studio apartment in New York, we’ll just add a few domes, tile it and boom: our own private madrassa/living room.

Now, about these dervishes. Perhaps you’ve heard about them. The dudes who whirl. I thought it was a performance, before setting foot in Turkey. Even as you wait in line for the Ayasofia, pamphlets are handed out with ‘showtimes’ for dervish ‘performances.’ This is not really the case at all. A dervish is someone who follows a more specific Muslim path known for poverty. They are the sadhus or monks of the Muslim faith- in Turkey. The whirling began when the founder heard music in a market and felt so spiritually connected that he began to whirl. The birthplace is here, in Konya.

What used to be the dervish lodge and mosque is now the Mevlâna museum and mausoleum of Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi, a Sufi mystic also known as Mevlâna or Rumi (aka the founder). It was CRAZY crowded full of mostly Turkish pilgrims and a few foreign tourists like us checking it out before the free ceremony at night. Not only was it crowded, but it was like the pilgrims there (mostly big groups of older women and their children) had never been outside of their hometown before. There was pushing. Bumping into. Complete disregard for anyone trying to read an information plaque or peek inside a small room set up as a museum display. You know in basketball when you take a charge, it was kinda like that. Only my opponents were my height, twice my size, and were leading with their chest, not their shoulders.

Our ‘timeout’ wasn’t any better. We watched a Chinese tourist photograph two women sitting down for nearly ten minutes as they giggled and avoided eye-contact with the man behind the camera. He didn’t even acknowledge them after he photographed them. Instead, he stood up and reviewed his images on his LCD screen (without showing the girls) and walked on to photograph other women sitting nearby. Photographers- or anyone with a camera for that matter, who have complete disregard for their subject get under my skin. It reflects poorly on anyone with a camera. Acknowledge who you are photographing, especially if it’s so close. Thank them, if you can’t in their language, at least with your eyes. And show them what you captured! We had to leave because I couldn’t watch him anymore.

A few hours later, we were standing outside the auditorium being shoved into a single door to the Dervish ceremony. One door for an auditorium the size of a small baseball stadium. No ropes. No line. Absolute zero order. There was open seating inside, and as we arrived a half hour early, we were able to find a seat with relative ease. I wanted to see this ceremony specifically because I thought it would be less touristy and more true to its origins. The auditorium filled up rather quickly and there weren’t enough seats for all of the audience members. And despite the announcement mostly being in Turkish, the part about “no flash photography” was clearly emphasized in English.

Unfortunately, this did not stop half of the audience from whipping out their iphones and ipads to take pictures and videos with their camera light on the entire time. After the ceremony had started, audience members continued to stand up waving their friends and family over to where they had seats saved for them. Everyone continued talking. Five minutes into the ceremony, an entire row of Turkish men got up in front of us and left. Then another group of Turkish men slid into their seats- for maybe ten minutes, before they too, decided the ceremony simply wasn’t for them and left. At one point one man a few rows up stood up to talk to his seat-mate, standing, during the whirling. He was facing the audience having a conversation with his friend while everyone struggled to see around him. It was a Korean wedding. In other words (if you’ve never been to a Korean wedding) it was a series of old women walking down the aisle, shoving the bride aside, so she could sit down where she wanted. At one point, a plastic chair fell down the steps, essentially echoing throughout the hall over the music and the quiet, mesmerizing whirling. It. was. bananas. And it was not because of rude foreigners because we were surrounded by groups of Turkish women and Turkish men. Rarely were they mixed, sitting together.

Aside from the (beyond obnoxious) audience faux pas, the ceremony was beautiful. The music, especially the singing. The whirling. It was all beautiful. Unfortunately, we think the ceremony ended earlier than usual and we think it was largely due to the audience and their lack of… care. We both agreed that we were glad to have come, we had a surprisingly interesting afternoon in Konya and it was still interesting to see a dervish ceremony that was not disguised as a performance. However, now I’m somewhat keen on seeing one of the touristy performances out of curiosity if the audience would be more respectful or not!

Day 255: Göreme Open Air Museum

The Göreme Open Air Museum is only a fifteen minute walk outside of the heart of Göreme, where we were staying. Göreme, is a small town in an area of Turkey known as Cappadocia. Göreme is located among the “fairy chimneys” as well as the Open Air Museum. Göreme Valley was designated as the center of tourism in Cappadocia and while the town doesn’t necessarily reflect that (in my opinion) the vast quantities of tour buses driving through do. The town continued to be on the sleepy side the entire three days we were there, but then as soon as we got to the Open Air Museum, we were faced with a parking lot full of tour buses and large groups lining up to see the ancient rock churches and houses.

“So… what was this place?” I quizzed Andrew as we walked past several formations before we even set foot in the Open Air Museum. He shrugged, and we hoped there would be more information within the museum walls. Somehow. Even though it was ‘open air.’ Before we reached the designated museum, we noticed a line outside of one of the formations. The line was for the Buckle (also known as the Tokali) Church. There was a lot of information about what was painted where within the church, but not a lot of information on who worshipped there. Christians, obviously, but that was pretty much all of the information that was shared on the plaques outside of the entrance. Also, photos were prohibited. I’m not entirely sure why, but because I’m rebellious, I snapped a few anyway. (I didn’t use my flash, which is what I think they were really trying to prohibit) The frescoes were simply too beautiful not to share.

Here’s what I know: Göreme was settled when Christianity was the religion of choice in the region. These churches were cut out of the rock formations sometime between the 10th and 12th centuries. Most of them feature some frescoes ranging from crude cave-like painting to elaborate multi-colored depictions of biblical stories. Again, not a lot of photography was allowed within the churches.

Because not a lot of photography was allowed inside the churches, I tried to make up for it outside. I made Andrew participate:

“Ok… now act like it’s caving in on you!”

“Ok, now, there’s a DRAGON behind you! What are you going to do?!”

“I’m done.” Andrew declared, walking out of my frame. He grabbed my camera (his has become a bit of a waste of space with a broken battery charger) and we traded it back and forth for the rest of the afternoon.

After the Open Air Museum, and instead of walking along the road back to Göreme, we decided to go exploring. There were a few paths, so we thought we’d see where they led.

This part was actually a little scary. The path kind stopped right at this rock ridge. It was a fairly narrow ridge as well, with steep slopes, one side falling off down into a canyon with more formations on the other side. Fortunately, it wasn’t terribly long and then we could slide down on all fours to a wider berth to walk back down to the road. Before we made our way back down though, I set my camera in a nook and hit the timer. We weren’t even sure if I was in the shot, let alone in focus, but they turned out well!

Our view back down to the road was pretty spectacular, and we were all alone. I liked walking around outside of the Open Air Museum more than inside with all of the tour groups traipsing around. It was quiet and amusing that we were the only ones exploring on the other side of the road as we could see the many, many tour buses driving past. Sometimes I wish we were in a group, for the simplicity of it all. This was not one of those times.

This amulet that is so popular in Turkey thought to protect you from the evil eye is called a “nazar.” You know, for your next trivia night, I got you covered.

Day 232: Knysna

We woke up to a lovely breakfast spread and then jumped in the car to get our tire checked out at the local mechanic. After the tire was checked out, we were told the inside rim was bent. He would pound it out for us. I shook my fist at “First Car Rental” and vowed that next time I rent a car and am told “It won’t be a problem at all” I will get a written statement with a signature. Because, what if something happened?!

After our car was good to go, we went for a drive around town. We started with a lookout point that gave different views of the city, the lagoon, and the ocean below, drove through an area of fancy vacation houses and then walked around downtown. We slipped in a few thrift stores. We tasted oysters (Andrew’s first time). And we picked up some meat for the brai (South African for barbeque) at our hostel that night.

Driving into Knysna we passed a rather extensive shanty town just outside of the city. Driving through the town to look at the fancy mansions or just smaller houses along the water reenforced our perceptions that there is a continued racial divide in South Africa. The shanty houses we drove past were minimal. stacked on top of each other. cringe-worthy. Not ten (I’m guessing here) miles away were huge houses that were seemingly empty. Vacation houses, Andrew suggested. None of them even looked lived in. A few maids (black people, in uniform, of course) were seen beating dust out of a rug or taking out the trash, but it was apparent that only white people lived here.

When we walked through town, a few people stopped to ask us for money. Andrew and I have tried to avoid handing out money. If we gave everyone something, we wouldn’t be able to continue this trip. That’s why we’ve tried to volunteer along the way, or give back in a other ways. It’s not always easy. I’ve caved and bought something from a child (or remember my five minute massage?). Andrew has given some small change here and there… It has affected us differently and at different times.

Whenever someone would stop us here in Knysna, they would hone in on Andrew. I’m not sure why. Sometimes they go for me. Sometimes they go for him. Usually, we try to be as polite as we can while not slowing down. As soon as you stop, it can be so much harder to get away. We don’t always know when it’s a scam or not either. Quite simply, it can be a toss up.

Today, a man came up to us a few blocks away from the grocery store we just visited and said something very softly to Andrew. The man practically ignored me, not in a rude way, more like one man talking to another man. I kept walking, figuring Andrew would eventually get away and catch up. I waited around the corner. and waited. and waited. Eventually, Andrew caught up and told me he needed to go back to the store for more bread.

“Is that all you gave him?” I asked slightly surprised that he gave him some of our dinner, yet also slightly surprised that all he gave him was our bread. We wanted to get so much more from the store- more vegetables, more cheese, some Nandos sauce, some ice-cream- but decided we didn’t NEED any of it, and in the spirit of trying to get our budget back down, we walked away from everything extra we wanted. Andrew looked a little shook up, but I didn’t press it, and we stopped in another store to pick up a cheap bottle of wine to go with dinner.

Which again, felt a little wrong. Andrew had just given away some bread to a man who clearly (unless it was indeed a scam) needed it. And we were still able to walk into a store and get a $4.00 bottle of wine. While we were in there we overheard a white South African girl calling friends asking what they were going to drink that night, asking if she should get more bottles or not. She circled the store, spotting her uncle’s label of wine and then complained (loudly) how expensive it was. Then with her two friends in tow, she ponied up to the counter, talking (still way too loudly) on her phone the entire time about their plans for that evening, and then walked out with two boxes of various wines. I could tell Andrew was uncomfortable. I could see it written on his face how bad he felt having talked to the man on the street, having only given away some bread, buying some drinks for himself, and then having to listen to a young, rich, white, South African girl unintentionally advertise how wealthy she was in comparison to the older, poor, black man outside.

We walked back to the hostel. Andrew told me the man had come on a boat from the Sudan and he was trying to find other Sudanese people that he knew about in Knysna, but all of the truck drivers were asking him for 100 Rand (basically $10.00) and he didn’t have any money. He said he hadn’t eaten in two days and he couldn’t find any ‘familia’ around to help him. Andrew said that the man was in tears, he looked really scared. His voice started shaking and Andrew could tell he was trying not to cry, but he couldn’t help it. Andrew admitted that it could have been a scam, but if it was it was a damn good one. He had never seen someone look so scared and helpless before. I could tell Andrew was conflicted, wondering if he should have given the man more or if he should be satisfied for what he did give him or what if it WAS a scam…

Tired from a restless (slightly sleepless) night in the hostel, I had planned to take a nap. Andrew paced back and forth, clearly still upset as he thought about the man on the street.

“Do you want to lay down with me?” I asked, knowing that would make me feel better if I was him as I climbed into my bottom bunk that I couldn’t even sit up in. He nodded and climbed in after me. We’ve gotten remarkably good at squeezing into these bunks that are entirely too small for two, let alone when one of us is so tall. I wrapped my arms around him and fell asleep. I woke up to him still in my bunk looking at his computer, telling me he was going to run back to the store for more bread. When he returned, I asked if he saw the man on the street again. He didn’t, and perked up over a beer and a brai that night.