Touring the Alps of the East... In a Skoda

July 28, 2011

After another stifling ride in eastern Europe from the Bulgarian border to Romania's capital, Bucharest, we resolved to see the rest of the country in some what higher style. Motorbike? Hovercraft? German convertible!? The possibilities were endless. We arrived in Braşov, a skip north from Bucharest and immediately called the first rental agency in the online yellow pages. No bikes ... Damn! We called the second ... No hovercrafts!!! Blast! We called them both back inquiring about German convertibles and were laughed off the line. We called six more agencies before we were able to rent anything for the days we wanted... €55/day for a Skoda Octavia... a midsize sedan. Sigh... Instead of a salt shaker half full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multicolored uppers, downers, screamers and laughers, our trunk was full of dirty backpacker laundry, empty water bottles and tomorrow's breakfast. Ready for a road trip nonetheless.



Few vestiges of Caucescu's reign in Romania stir as much mixed feeling as the Transfăgărășan highway that aptly flies over the Carpathian Făgărășan mountain range. From an engineer's standpoint, the road was a fools errand or 'make-work' project, but from a driver's standpoint, a more awesome road does not exist on the planet. Either way, it took the mind of an obsessed communist dictator to devise it. Convinced that either a Hungarian or Russian invasion was imminent, he commissioned the road as a route for tanks from Wallachia to cross the range to Transylvania to confront the invasion. Climbing to, and then descending from, 2100m over less than 150km, it's strange the Bran pass (1300m) only 50km east didn't do the trick. But then we do all know the saying: a crazed communist dictator gets what a crazed communist dictator wants.

The road twists back upon itself time and time again, climbing only a few meters with each hairpin. Slowly the road climbs out of the forest and into the alpine where you're suddenly surrounded by waterfalls, sheep grazing, and merchant stalls hawking smoky cheeses and cured meats.. Clearly all traditional features of the Romanian mountain tops. The road continues up, climbing into the clouds, and at the top something comes into view that's been nagging at you for the last 20 switchbacks. A tunnel... While it seems that would have been a good solution some 200 switchbacks ago, I have to trust it was overlooked for a good reason. Perhaps a tunnel at 1000m just wasn't quite as 'bad ass' as one at 2100m... Oh, all the things hasty executions fail to extract (sigh)...

The far side of the tunnel was home to a veritable mountain town of eateries and souvenir shops, with the shoulder-less road squeezed to a single lane by parked cars. The only souvenir I needed was another checkmark under the 'landmarks I've pee'd off' heading of my bucket list which already includes a number of bridges and a hydro-electric dam. While Nick stole more photo angles from Sarah, and Sarah, in protest, decided to decorate the car with woven daisy-chains instead, I went about my business enjoying the scenery until all our feet were numb from the cold, and we started down the mountain.



Two more days zig-zaging over the Carpathian mountains, visiting medieval castles, and sampling the cheapest local vintages brought us back to Braşov just in time. Sarah criticized the lack of heads on spikes at Vlad the Impaler's 15th century stronghold, Nick shot wide-angle photos of the nude statues at Peleș Castle, and I quietly admired every 600 year old structure that will likely outlast new buildings today. Upon our return, we miraculously recouped our entire deposit and made plans to head west: a whirlwind tour of central Europe to finish off this leg of our trip, and whatever is left of our bank account.

Sander.

A werewolf in ... Belogradchik

July 19, 2011

Nothing can prepare you for receiving a tour of a 3rd century Bulgarian fortress from a middle-aged guy who thinks he's a werewolf. A raving Jehovah's Witness? Sure. A male Elementary School principal? Alright. A song-struck transvestite? Why not. A werewolf? Noo. Lets backtrack a bit. We: Nick (who seemed to be stuck with us, poor guy), Sander, and I ended up in Belogradchik as a convenient stopping point on the bus journey to Romania. It turned out that the town was teeming with cuteness, friendly people, and delicious Bulgarian yogurt all topped with one of the coolest ancient strongholds of all time. The initial fortress was constructed in conjunction with the unique rock formations in the area during the time of Roman occupation. A Bulgarian tsar extended the fortress in the 14th century, adding fortified garrisons and making it one of the most important strongholds in the region. Just like everything else, the Ottomans busted in and manned it in 1396. In the 19th century the Ottomans expanded it further, and used it as the hold that helped crush the Bulgarian uprising on 1850. It was used in warfare as recently as 1885. Phew, thanks for letting me nerd-out just there. That's the information I knew before we headed up to check out the site. After walking up a rather steep hill on the way from our quiet hostel, the three of us took a quick beer and snack break. That's when the hairy guy at the table next to ours offered to leave his friends and give us a tour. How could we say no? He walked us through the fortress, up to the tops of the towering rocks, telling us all of the local legends. Almost every rock is rumored to be a person, who, in one gruesome way or another got themselves turned to stone. The air was calm, and the sky a cobalt grey with wispy fog twisting through the trees far, far below; it was a perfect day for such stories. That's when our guide admitted that the previous night's full moon had found he 'and his pack' in the woods below, howling. I giggled, thinking he was polishing off the last of his legends. Continuing as if he hadn't heard me, he explained that he was 700 years old, and I distinctly noted Sander and Nick nodding vigorously. We left the fortress unharmed, which means that he was either the nicest werewolf ever or extremely delusional. To this day, I'm still trying to decide which.



We only stayed one night, which the three of us spent dining and drinking at a local cafe/B&B. A 'born-and-bred' Belogradchik family runs the place, called the Castle Cottage, and I would recommend the accommodations and the food to anyone headed that direction. The best part about Bulgarian cooking is their obsessive use of local cheeses and yoghourt. Everything is fresh and filling, and leads to such a delightfully regular digestive process, that I'm convinced a single 'Bulgarian Cleanse Cookbook' could be forerunner of the next diet craze. Needless to say, it was time to move on. Time to visit Dracula and the Carpathian forest ... time to re-invest in black clothes, red lipstick, and plunging necklines. Nick and Sander are gonna look so GOOD!

Slaughter.

Zombification in Varshets

July 15, 2011

Traveling with an itinerary (or even a plan for that matter), does have its upsides but the drawbacks are only revealed to those who choose to go without one. If you always leave home with a plan, you will never end up in a great place you had not intended. Less than a month ago, we drew names out of a metaphorical hat and ended up in Istanbul. Now we find ourselves sitting next to a Soviet era, Olympic length (but strangely un-Olympic depth) swimming pool in the mountains of northwestern Bulgaria; nursing beers and hangovers and chuckling quietly to ourselves about the happenings of last night.....

We arrived in Sofia, the capital city of Bulgaria, after one of our worst bus journeys to date. Please keep in mind that we have already overcome, and even enjoyed Asian bus service. Thus, we were unprepared for a bus that lacks both air conditioning and the ability to open a window. Plus, some genius included a sun roof on that very same vehicle. Absolute madness. With a new found hatred of "Metro" bus company, we quickly partnered ourselves with another traveler upon our arrival: a 'book-ahead-type' Australian named Nick, and crashed his intended place of sleep. We spent the next two days meandering the cobbled streets of Sofia, hopping from gallery to gallery, from cafe to market, Sarah admiring the street art adorning the city walls. We found wine available everywhere, and at less than $2/L, my liver was quickly formulating a new-found hatred of me. Our third blurry morning in Sophia took us to the bus station, and at the behest of a local theater celebrity / hostel owner we made for the town of Varshets, about 2 hours north of Sophia.



Pulling into the 'bus station', we glanced at each other quizzically and shrugged. Had we made a huge mistake? The parking area was completely overgrown with weeds, windows broken, graffiti on the walls and no one in sight. The world wide web had insisted there was a local population of 5000, but aside from the bus driver and 3 other people on the bus, no one was around. Sarah and I instinctively scanned the area for crowbars, boards with nails in them, or conveniently discarded revolvers, simultaneously hoping that Nick had played at least one Zombie Apocalypse game. Wishing I'd brought the Zombie Survival Guide instead of the Lonely Planet, we marched off in the direction of the hostel Nick assured us was still operating in the town.
As it turns out there was no zobification in Varshets, just a steady decline in tourism in the area since the 1930's that had killed the local economy. Rest assured, it was in no danger of rising from the grave. We settled into our well priced apartment on the 'quiet' side of town and after a shower to steady ourselves, went downstairs for a beer. Completely out of nowhere, a group of locals had populated the only table at the foot of our building, giving the town a new sense of habitation. With fresh beers, and internet translators abound, we set to making conversation. Ten minutes later we had exchanged names ..... it was going to be a long night. The most talkative of the bunch was the local police chief/fire fighter/school bus driver and self proclaimed 'retiree'. He was unwilling to yield to the pace of typing conversation, so it was left to us to decipher his statements through his son. Some were easy: roads in Bulgaria were 'Afghanistan', while Canada, swimming pools, and the local cucumber soup were all "Zuper!" At dusk, he piled us into his car for a tour of the nearby swimming holes, although at the time we were sure we were headed out for dinner. Splitting time between insisting that seatbelts were not necessary because he was the police, and complaining about the 'Afghanistan' quality of the roads, we made it to 5 different swimming pools within 10 minutes of our accommodation. Strings were pulled at each location to garner a late night tour of the facilities so we could make an informed decision for the next day. Somewhere in passing, we must have mentioned we wanted to swim the next day. We had serious decisions to make: would we go an extra 2 km for a newer pool with towel service but at twice the cost of the public pool ($2.50 instead of $1.25) or go for the extra-lux hotel spa which included a hottub and sauna for $3 more. The tour continued at 'don't worry I'm a police officer' speed while The Chief pointed out the Mafia hidouts to avoid, natural springs to collect free drinking water from, and all the other landmarks useful for the only western tourists in the region.
We decided to patronize cheapest pool in town, just to round out our exposure to modern Bulgarian culture. I don't think we could've done any better: swimming and lazing beside a half-full Soviet pool, with rainbow budgie smugglers (Australian for 'speedo') and bulging waistlines everywhere ... Cheers! ... And here's hoping the hike we've planned for tomorrow into the forests and farmlands around Varshets will provide more photogenic scenery.

Sander

Pinch my bum and call me Mustafa....

July 3, 2011

Göreme, Turkey, is a magical town, carved right into the bizarre landscape. Between rocky valleys with formations that look like whipped strawberry cream, are expansive clusters of great golden stone spires. These natural formations, some reaching 5 stories in height, have been hollowed out, smattered with window-holes, and house everything from pigeon shit to hotel guests. Pleased to check "sleep in the coolest cave ever" off my bucket list, I picked a place that boasted a stunning view and had flushing toilets. Also, the owner agreed that the kitten Sander was trying to conceal in his shirt pocket could stay as well. We had accidentally adopted a flea-bitten street kitten twenty minutes prior, and had become rather attached. His royal cuteness was in need of a shampoo and a good meal, just like the rest of us. We drank Turkish tea and Feta slurped homemade kitten milk, while the cave-hostel owner explained that 'love' was the extra laundry ingredient that made his whites whiter. I sipped at my tea and reflected upon life's plentiful curiosities as Sander tried to teach the kitten to use an iPhone.



We spent the days hiking through bewitching hills, fresco covered caves, garden-filled valleys, while the temptations of cheap wine and good company (or was it the other way around) got the better of us in the evenings. The days stared late and ended late, like all good travel days do. Of serious note was the seriously good Turkish food in a cave run by Mustafa. Sander and I ventured in for dinner, and found no menus and no prices. "You can pay me whatever you have", he said "and I will cook for you until you say 'stop'". Unlike the name Mustafa, this style of service is decidedly unusual in Turkey. Needless to say, the plates kept coming even after we begged for mercy, and Mustafa only agreed to write us a 'bill' if we returned the following day for cooking lessons. Wishing there had been more hours of dedicated fasting between then and the time that Sander and I returned for lessons, I prepared myself for the 'one for the saucepan, one for me' style of Turkish cooking. We started by hitting the "big" weekly Wednesday market, which turned out to be about 20 vendor stalls hastily set up by the Post Office, most of which were brimming with delicious local fruits and veggies. The rest were dedicated to assorted toiletries and underwear your grandmother would be embarrassed to wear. Resisting the temptation to buy supplies for the making of a hilarious but functional emergency parachute, we left with armloads of fresh produce instead. Sander scribbled furious notes and I crushed the occasional garlic clove while Mustafa chopped, diced, sauteed, rolled, roasted, and baked our ingredients into a Turkish repast of epic proportions. With the help of some Australian girls who had impeccable timing, we finished all of the food that we'd managed to create, and limped away with bellies stuffed and arms full of leftovers. Cooking aside, I was feeling a little art-restless. Forgive me, friends and family, for saying that I could spend a lifetime moving; waking up in new and unfamiliar places. I've missed the company of several people, but haven't been homesick for an instant. I diagnosed myself with what I would call studiosick. A lack of place to spread out the tools of creation, (and an additional series of spaces where I make a mess of those same tools, even though I'm not supposed to) had left me feeling a little empty. Sketching only gets you so far when you're used to splattering paint, inadvertently staining household objects and pets, and using aerosols in improperly ventilated areas. Nearing our proposed final days in Göreme I met my savior by stumbling into the workshop/studio cave of a local leathercraftsman. His name is Kori and his cave was full of leather, jewelry, glasswork, and paintings. It turned out to be what can best be described as an artist collective; people coming and going, shoppers and artists, everyone welcome. I built them a massive bead loom from scrap lumber and borrowed nails (okay, so I pulled them out of old buildings), and Kori tutored me in the finer points of leather stamping and binding. In the two days I spent in the art-cave, I met a linonophobic cellist, a stone carver who specialized in headstones, a mute carpet weaver, and the town drunk who turned out to be an exceptionally talented painter. We drank tea, strung beads, sketched ideas, hammered leather, and chatted about art (except for the mute guy, obviously. He just watched). I left my misfit collective weaving dream catchers in the art-cave the following day, and Sander and I headed west - we are Bulgaria bound.

Slaughter.