TravelStream™ news feed for member pshemek on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/pshemek en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Tue, 12 Aug 2008 04:59:53 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1218552900/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1218552900/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1218552900/tpod.html Tue, 12 Aug 2008 04:59:53 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Warsaw, Poland

My brief sojourn to Poland for strawberry season last summer has resulted in me setting down some roots and actually deciding to live here. It's quite unexpected, but quite satisfying nonetheless. Now I have easier access to the rest of the world being more centrally located amongst the continental masses. More trips to come, but right now I have a life to live here.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1183640580/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1183640580/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1183640580/tpod.html Mon, 09 Jul 2007 09:46:48 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Banska Bystrica, Slovakia

While texting furiously with Michal and trying to fend off train passengers vying for his saved seat, I am willing the train to stay in the station for just a little bit longer. He texts back that he is in Zachodnia station in Warsaw as is the train in which I am sitting holding his ticket to Katowice. Another passenger pops their head in and asks if the seat is free, and I bark back that it's taken. I lower the train window and peer right and then left for signs of Michal running up onto the platform as the train begins to roll forward. I am still hopeful that he will burst out one of the stairwells and grab onto the last car of the train hoisting himself through the door. However, the train speeds forward and no one else gets on as Zachodnia train station disappears into the gray cracked concrete of Warsaw.

Several weeks back my friend Michal had mentioned a homo oriented outdoor club called GIL and that there was a planned hiking excursion to the Tatra mountains in Slovakia for the last weekend of June. I jumped at the opportunity for a plethora of reasons, but mainly because I had never hiked in the Tatras and perhaps the opportunity to be with my own kind in the mountains. However, I didn't see the point in just a weekend of hiking with all the available time that I have at my disposal and convinced Michal to stay the week with me to continue hiking.

So loading up my backpack and having prepared my patented trail mix I headed to Wschodnia train station on the day of departure. I bought Michal his train ticket as he was running late buying new hiking boots with plans to meet on the train in Zachodnia train station. This was not to be and I ended up taking the train to Katowice in southwestern Poland with a train packed with passengers standing in the aisles, the empty seat next to me, and the engrossing best seller "The Sixteen Pleasures."

Once in Katowice I met Michal at the station as he had taken the doubly expensive express train which arrived ahead of mine. We met his friend Adam, a witty chemist with a charming demeanor, in whose place we would be crashing for the night. On the way to Adam's apartment we popped in for a bite to eat at the local vegetarian bar which served an excellent lentil lasagna. Once at Adam's apartment filled with books on art, photography, poetry, and all sorts of literature we were soon joined by his friend also named Michal. I didn't know it then but later was informed that I was officially the second homosexual that he had met besides Adam. I was shocked by this news and could not get off the topic for several days afterward as to how it's possible to be 30 and count all the gays you have met on one hand.

The next day the three of us awoke early to meet Jurek, the organizer and driver for the weekend excursion. Dressed in his hiking finest and modern, respectable glasses, he supervised our disorderly packing of our backpacks into his car. With only minor delays of breakfast breaks, coffee stops, and currency exchange which were patiently accepted by Jurek, we were off coasting through rural Poland towards the Slovakia border. The sky was draped with a thick blanket of clouds that stirred and churned above us as we ate crepes filled with cheese and chocolate made by Adam the night before.

The time melted away effortlessly and before we knew it we were at the border having our passports checked. The guard of course gave me a hard time with mine as I had accidentally washed it with the rest of my laundry a month before resulting in a faded sad booklet with wrinkles covering the front page. With a grimace and a typical Slavic hurumph he let it slide and we slipped into Slovakia.

The difference between Poland and Slovakia became quite apparent once I figured out that I had no idea what people were saying. However, there are subtler distinctions such as the diet heavy on meat and potatoes which I thought couldn't be worse than Poland's but apparently I was wrong. This results in an obvious ass to body ratio producing a bulging and full behind which is a sure fire way to tell a Slovak apart from a Pole. Also, beer drinking is the favorite way to pass the day whether relaxing with friends at the bar or hiking your way up the Tatras. What Slovaks lack for vodka drinking they make up with their beer guzzling. The style is also quite different with stark asymmetrical haircuts and strange dye jobs. The fashion is comparable however with sheer shirts tight enough to see the lace of the bra quite distinctly. Catholicism is also deeply rooted here as it is in poland as is evident in the giant crosses with pained renditions of the suffering Christ on every other house. All in all it's a step removed from rural Poland.

Arriving in Zuberec, a small town nestled in a valley staring up at the Western Tatras, we were pleased to find that the pension we had reserved was a immaculate place with a kitchenette and fresh linens and towels. Sorting out the plan for the day we decided to head out towards the trail head and grab obiad (lunch) on the way. The choice of garlic soup with croutons wasn't the ideal choice but it tasted good nonetheless.

The mountains in this area are varied and quite beautiful if the weather permits a view across the peaks and valleys. Lush fields teeming with flowers and grasses of all sorts burst with color and fragrance. Forests of spruce, fir, and linden puncuate the landscape in great swathes of shady geometry standing perfectly upright, bending in curves along ridges, and twisting along angles of their trunks. Sheep dot the lower hills bleating and ringing their bells as they move like tufts of down in synch with their communal demeanors. Streams sweep along polished rocks and through rocky gorges lined with giant leaves sprouting along the waters edge and patches of flowers squeezing their way through the cracks. Villages appear below scattered and delicate among the sweeping swaths of green. The brewing menace of the high Tatras in the distance crowned with a garlands of storm clouds threatens and beckons.

The first day of hiking meanders along the hills with bouts of lively conversation and biological discussions of flora and fauna of the region. That evening we settle in for a supper of pizza at the small local eatery before heading to bed spent. The next day we awake slowly to breakfast and head out to the trail head for the higher mountains. With my belly full and anticipation swelling fo
r a solid day of hiking, we reach the car park already swarmed with other hikers.
The mountains in the distance for which we are headed rise out of the mass of verdant forest sprouting like crumbling coffee cake. The ridges are a mass of boulders, chasms, and deep lined scars that threaten to come tumbling down if not for the clouds keeping them tethered and suspended. We hike through the forest and along the edges of waterfalls crashing down through downed trees and rocky ledges. The climb is steep but the path is well maintained as we amble up towards cooler heights. Finally the view opens up and the crowning ridge can be seen bold and imposing above on the verge of rocky avalanche. The path winds along the lower regions of the crumbling ridge and through fields of dwarf spruce and sub-alpine flowers. As we round the bend and come above the first plateau a crystal clear lake like the eye of a giant fish looks back upon us. We continue walking and settle in along the lake to eat close to snow yet unmelted from this past winter.
Several long stops and snack breaks later we are back at the car park. Michal and I are deciding where to go for our next hike along with where we will be spending the night since everyone else is heading back home to Poland. We scan through maps and discuss routes. I want to spend the week in this area hiking back to Zakopane in Poland and Michal wants to head further south to the Great Fatra mountains (actually they're hills). We finally compromise and decide another day hiking in the Western Tatras and then head down to the Fatras. We celebrate our weekend adventure with a late obiad and say our goodbyes to our departing hiking buddies.

Left in the restaurant parking lot we sling our backpacks on and head towards the forest behind the restaurant looking for a place to camp. As camping is illegal everywhere in Slovakia especially national parks we have to find an out of the way and discreet location. After some time wandering around unable to find a suitable spot we notice a large roofed deer feeder filled with fresh hay. Michal suggests matter of factly that we spend the night inside the feeder to which I respond with laughter as I assume he is kidding. It becomes quite clear quickly that he means it and I am overwhelmed with a sense of disgust at the teeming armies of bugs and rodents living inside. We prepare supper ducked behind shrubs to avoid us being spotted from the road. With the sun failing behind the hills encircling us we make our nests inside the deer feeder.

The next morning I am tired and itching from the hay and crawling insects keeping me awake most of the night. We make a hearty breakfast, leave our backpacks hidden inside the hay, and head out towards the trail. The trail climbs steadily and steeply up through forests, fields of wild blueberries and raspberries, and to the windy polany (fields) blanketing the ridges. As we head up along the spine of the Western Tatras buffeted by cold winds and baked by the sun above, grand panoramas unfold like a tapestry. The ridges buck and bend along sheer drops to fields of rocks that spill from the peaks making cone shaped fields of gray scree.

As we progress further along this shattered scene of rock and winds, the trail becomes more technical. We have to hold on to chains to maneuver along pencil thin ledges that give way to 200 meter drop offs. We climb along the peaks to reach summits that are a collection of boulders resting against each other threatening to dislodge and come crashing down like juggernauts. I am filled with a sense of grace and impending doom that blankets me and the terrain in a sense of detached wonder. I observe the mountains and they observe me back.

We finish the hike up watching a group of hikers well equipped with ropes, carabiners, and modern gear maneuver a challenging part of the path that involves pulling oneself along a chain with a drop off spelling instant death should one slip. One of the hikers is frozen in place and his friend has to clamber down to retrieve his backpack and help him up over the hump of rock above. However, several minutes prior we had witnessed a middle aged heavy set women in a pink sweater and tennis shoes take the path without the use of chains as though she was climbing over her couch to get a better seat in front of the TV. It was quite the contrast and possibly humbling had the hikers seen her take the path that they were now suffering through.

The day slips into dusk as we head down the scree slope and back into the sub alpine regions of wildflowers and dwarf spruce. That night I sleep soundly in the deer feeder despite the bugs, itchy hay, and thunder and lighting. The next day we make our epic tour through small towns in search of ATMs as we forgot to bring enough money from Poland and finally to town of Ruzemberok, the start of our ill fated hike in the Fatras.

In Ruzemberok we take a cursory tour of the market, Middle Age church, and various streets displaying brightly outfitted homes. The sun is bright and warm as we stroll about admiring the quaint homey town and its many restaurants and bakeries which I of course peek into to marvel at flakey pastries and chocolate glazed cakes. We re-supply our food reserves with fresh bread, vegetarian canned goods, and chocolate and set off towards the hills. The road climbs from the medieval town center into the boxy apartment blocks of Communist days with majestic smoke stacks breaking up the views of distant hills.

Eventually we hit the town periphery which is an amalgam of small summer homes plopped in the middle of lush flower and vegetable gardens referred to as "dzialki." These little plots of land are the quiet getaway for many city and town dwellers giving them the stress relieving opportunity to weed their tomatoes, tend red currant bushes, and admire their blushing blossoms. We plod on in hopes of finding a place to stake our tent and gaze up at the views that abound.

As we hike further into the forested hills the sound of cars becomes muted till it eventually falls silent. The woods spring up around us moist and shadowy. Our legs carry us up past sleeping sheep dogs, through fields of frightened bleating sheep, and brooks that whisper from among the dense foliage encasing them. We walk for hours till the sun finally threatens to disappear in the west before we find a place worthy of its view and tent placement. We cook, drink hot kisiel (like a cross between fruit pudding and jello), and allow the winds to fill our lungs with the damp air perfumed with cedar.

The next morning we awake to a brief hiccup of sun before the rain begins. It continues all day with the clouds rolling through like specters injecting cold into my bones. The day is long as we pass unripened raspberry fields and blueberries sinking their shallow roots into the boggy terrain. The flowers have shut tightly unwilling to be subjected to the cold gusts and chilling rains. Eventually we reach a small town where we unsuccessfully try to build a fire with wet logs and cook a mish mash meal of couscous, soy protein, and instant tomato soup. My clothes just begin to dry and feel comfortable again before we set off in the unrelenting weather for the mountain hut still four hours away.

I am complaining openly and frequently at this point and wander off ahead at an accelerated pace in front of Michal. My body is unwilling to stop even for a brief rest as the water seeps in through my gortex coat and my shoes slosh with each step. I get to the intersection of two trails and jogging my memory remember the yellow trail that goes around the mountain while the green that goes over it. As I want to knock off 20 minutes from my hike and make myself a hot cup of black coffee as quickly as possible I decide to turn left onto the yellow trail and past the boulder strewn field glistening with wetness.
Within 30 minutes I have descended far enough to be out of the clouds and the rolling hills pop into view. In the distance I can see a small village tucked into the folds of the valley and the swiftly moving clouds grazing the backs of the hills above. I walk along the muddy path slipping where the trail has collapsed into pools of mud. As I walk the time ticks by without sign of intersecting with the green trail which according to my recollection of the map it's supposed to do within 40 minutes. I ignore this fact and continue my descent which should have leveled off by now. I am only preliminarily worried.

An abandoned house sits in a field overlooking a stagnant pond ripe with mosquitoes as I stare at the sign in front of me. "Stare Hory: 3/4 hr" This is not right. I know I don't remember this being on the way to the mountain hut. I do, however, remember making fun of the this when I saw it on the map the day before as in Polish "stare" means old and the polishized plural version of whore would whory therefore meaning "old whores." This is only mildly amusing at this point as I am obviously lost and probably going in the opposite direction of my intended destination. I have been walking downhill for 2 hours and it would be unwise to retrace my steps back to the green and yellow trail intersection. It would take me at least 3.5 hours to the trail crossing and another three to the mountain hut. I decide to continue down towards Stare Hory.

An hour and a half later I arrive at a road and a small farmhouse with two grazing bovines. I notice a bus stop sign askew and beckoning. Apparently I am in Liptovska which consists of a bus stop, two cows, a road, and a farmhouse. I wait for the bus to the only place I recognize which is Ruzemberok. It comes within 30 minutes, I buy my ticket, and bask in the dry warmth of the interior. Shortly after embarking, the bus makes a left turn to what appears to be a main road and out of the corner of my eye I see a sign "Banska Bystrica 39 K." I jog my memory remember this town being our ultimate destination. I sprint to the front of the bus, ask the bus driver to stop, and after unsuccessfully trying to get my fare refunded run across the street to check the schedule going the other way.

The entire time I have been text messaging Michal updating him of my lost state with various plans and scenarios to which I get nothing in reply. I decide to get a coffee and grab a plate of poppy seed and jam dumplings at the Slovak version of a roadside greasy spoon before the bus comes. It is outfitted with traditional mountain outfits, hand embroidered tablecloths which could be considered quaint, and free hand charcoal sketches of musicians with what I assume to be traditional instruments. The service is pleasant and the dumplings sickeningly sweet. I eat every bite and use my fingers to mop up every last bit licking them clean with each swipe across the plate.

Upon arriving in Banska Bystrica, I embark on finding a cheap bed. I wander around town, but find little in the way of accommodation. I walk down small alleys of the medieval town square and along the main roads finding only two pensions. One is 1800 koruna which is about $75 and the other half the price. I decide on the half priced one which has a cozy restaurant bar upstairs and a cheery faced bartender with a delicately fay demeanor. Once in my room I strip off my damp clothes, take a scalding hot shower, and watch CNN till I fall asleep to Fourth of July fireworks on TV.

Sleeping in late I get up for lunch around noon and wander about the town admiring the cathedrals, sculpted arches, restored apartments exteriors, and bright red terra-cotta roofs. I have gotten in touch with Michal who made it to the mountain hut around 10 PM the night before and make plans to meet in a town on the train route back to Poland. A long journey back to Poland later I arrive in Warsaw at 6 AM the next day in a train that fills up with chatting freshly awoken Warsawian weekend travelers heading to the Baltic Sea beaches near Gdynia. The weather is a foul mix of gloomy ominous clouds, blustery winds, a temperature of 10 degrees Celsius, and forecast for more to come. However, no one is discouraged by this as this is the typical unpredictable weather in this part of Europe and everyone is used to it. I trudge back home and fall into a deep slumber the likes of hibernating bears.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1181488680/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1181488680/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1181488680/tpod.html Mon, 25 Jun 2007 07:32:53 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Ustrziki Gorne, Poland

This morning I am surprisingly chipper for having come home at 9AM from clubbing all night. This means that I feel inspired to compose something of my trip to the farthest most southeast corner of Poland. The Bieszczady National Park is located at the tip of Poland sandwiched between Slovakia and Ukraine and offers amazing hiking in the hills, through lush forests, and meadows (polany) bursting with flower and green. I awoke on Tuesday at 5AM with a deep desire to don my hiking boots and enmesh myself in some natural scenery.

As the train headed south from the train station in Warsaw the concrete Communist style apartment buildings dwindled and were replaced with the vibrant fields of wheat, barley, and potatoes. Scarlet lipped poppies burst forth through the emerald sheaves of wheat as the clouds glided through the perfectly blue sky. Passengers slowly emptied the train and I was finally left the only person in my compartment. The landscape became simpler as farmers cut grass on the meadows with scythes and villagers could be seen plowing fields with horses. Six hours later in Przeworsk, a tiny coal producing industrial town, I switched trains heading to Rzeszow fully starved as their was nothing to eat anywhere except for junk.

In Rzeszow I burst out of the train and headed towards the bus station grabbing a zapiekanke (baguette with mushrooms and cheese which is toasted and then slathered with ketchup) on the way to find out that their were no more buses to Ustrziki Gorne, my hiking trailhead town. I instead bought a ticket to Ustrziki Dolne which is an hour away and from which I could catch an early morning bus the next day to Ustrziki Gorne. While waiting for the bus I ogled and lusted after all the beautiful Polish men passing by looking quite faggoty or is that just metro-sexual.

Arriving in the evening despite the sun still being out as the days in summer in Poland are extremely long, I found a small hostel run by a matronly proprietress tending bar and drinking shots of vodka. She handed me a key, asked for my ID, put on her glasses, and filled out the necessary paperwork with a squint from beyond her spectacles. My room was a small rectangle outfitted simply but cleanly with the fresh smell of freshly laundered sheets. The lace curtains blew gently as the wind pushed its way into the room through the window.

I made my way downstairs to fill my belly, and on first entering the restaurant the sound of cover band music hit me. At the back of the restaurant was a guy with a tremendously outrageous mustache playing keyboard and at his side a female singer crooning out Polish tunes in her flowery frock. Before them danced a dozen or more retiree aged couples toe to toe and cheek to cheek. This was a spectacle to admire and smile about as I placed my order. The music played on, the couples danced and spun, and I ate like a starved beast.
The next day I awoke early to grab a yoghurt and a freshly baked roll for breakfast and headed for the bus stand. I didn't wait long and I was on my way into the deeper hills and wilder terrains. After being dropped off at Ustrziki Gorne, a town with its own grocery store, police station, and several hostels, I followed the markers to the park entrance.
The trail headed through lush woods of beech and spruce with the fresh smell of damp earth and herbal whiffs of blooming shade flowers. Eventually I burst forth to higher altitudes and the polany or meadows which crown all the hills. The great sweeping polany are an amalgam of iridescent blues, whites, and yellows of flowers juxtaposed on the brilliant green of the grasses. They buckle at the encroachment of trees on the lower edges which stand poised ready to receive the sky. The crickets tap out a rhythm like tiny ticker tape machines as beetles the color of emeralds, copper, burnished ebony, and black with only scarlet dipped legs scuttle across the path before me. The vistas are grand and inspiring with the gentle curves of hills and valleys bedecked in outfits of flower, grass, and wood.

As I hike over the hills and along meandering twisting paths, dark clouds brew ahead. I can already see their massive shapes black and pregnant with moisture on the side of Ukraine. I press forward after repacking all my things in plastic bags to keep them dry. The rain finally comes thundering and angry in great blankets as the summer rain often comes in Poland like a great storm bird crackling with lighting. I trudge on my shoes filling with mud and my sodden clothes clinging to my skin. However, I can already see the pool of clear sky and bright light opening ahead and know that this rain will soon pass.
As I head along the edge of the Polish-Ukrainian border along the trail, I am enjoying the gentle showers that continue after the deluge. Purple bonneted flowers dip their heads as raindrops anoint them with cooling caresses and the rain spatters through leaves like the gentle drum beat of fairies and beetles living just out of sight beyond the foliage. It is a perfect and gentle calm that lives in these woods and I am walking in tune. However, my reverie is broken with the sound of motorcycle engines speeding towards me from beyond the bend in the trail.

They pull up dressed in army fatigues and on military green motorbikes. The two men remove their helmets and ask me where I am headed. The one asking me the question has a smooth shaved head, blue eyes, and a cocky smile while the other man has blond slightly curling hair, a thick coat of blond hair on his arms, and ice blue eyes. I am unnerved being questions by two men with guns and bikes in the woods on the little visited border area of Poland and Ukraine. I ask for ID and the bold guy opens up his wallet to show a Border Police ID card. I'm intrigued, aroused, and a little fearful.
They ask me for my ID and one of them walks off with it to talk into his walkie talkie. The other guy with the blond arm hair begins to chat me up and seems genuinely interested in my vagabond life and stories from distant places. We talk for half an hour as I surreptitiously eye the gun on his belt and consider escape plans in case the situation turns for the worse. Eventually the bold officer returns with my ID with a grin and a sly look in his eyes. He says everything is alright and that I can go. We look at each other and no one moves. Perhaps this is where the Eastern European deep woods porno starts but I am not sure. I eventually divert my gaze and bid them farewell. As I am walking one of them pulls up on his motorbike and asks if I want a ride into town. I smile broadly flashing all my front teeth, consider the fact that I might like that a little too much but turn it down nonetheless.

I walk the remaining loop of the trail back to Ustrziki Gorne with the rain coming in fitful bursts. The air is humid but fresh. After each rain the moisture evaporates like gossamer angels rising towards the clouds ready to embrace them. The hostel that I stay at once getting into town is in front of the police station and I sip my beer considering this fact. Instead I eat a tremendous amount of food and chat to the people working there.
The next day I hike north towards Ustrziki Dolne hoping to be able to make the journey in two days. The terrain is less traveled and I am completely by myself. The trail sometimes splits or disappears as it gets little traffic and at one point I wander about in thickets of pine completely lost. I consider being eaten by bears, attacked by wolves, or hacked up by a psychopathic mountain man ala Deliverance. However, I retrace my steps as I have learned to do and eventually find the path behind a grove of shielding bushes. I walk and my legs ache a delicious pain. Eventually I run into my first people on the hike that day who are a group of three college students with heavy backpacks. We engage in a lively conversation excited at seeing other hikers in these parts and eventually part ways heading in opposite ways. The woods engulf me and only the sound of cuckoos manages to awake me from my meditative hiking state. My feet move one in front of the other coming across frogs, golden newts in small puddles, and stately deer bounding out of sight and into the cover of the forest. Thoughts spill forth perfectly formed and clear in their intent. I bathe in the San River as trout swim about me dangerously curious.

Finally arriving at the mountain hut perched on top of a hill with a long climb, I throw off my hiking boots and bask in the late afternoon sun. However, I quickly find out that their is no food and I only have two granola bars. I know the hunger from a long day of hiking will come briskly and mercilessly and consider the options. I can either go hungry or hike two hours to the nearest town to buy food. I decide to go hungry and end my hiking trip early as there are no trails back from the town that meet up with the trail to Ustrziki Dolne. I sleep fitfully with my mind trying to assuage my stomach.

I awake early and pack my things to get an early start. I head down from the mountain hut through freshly felled timber and muddy trails. However, I discover that I am oriented wrong or the sun is in the wrong place. I continue my way down as the fresh tractor tracks mean their is probably someone along the path further down. Finally, I hear the sound of a chain-saw and make my way towards it. A man in overalls is using the chain-saw to cut off large branches from a now deceased tree. He is in his early fifties with a short gray cropped haircut and a wiry muscled frame. I greet him and ask for directions and he points me ahead down the trail flashing his badly maintained and gapped teeth.

The trail slopes down sharply and joins a gravel road the loops through the forest. I walk briskly up and down the gentle gradients. I pass mounds of logs and other woodcutters surprised at my presence. The woods give way to more meadows with grazing cows and Greek-Catholic churches surrounded by small towns. Eventually I reach my destination but manage to miss my bus by five minutes. As this is a fairly remote part of Poland the public transport is few and far between and me next bus is in 5 hours. However, I need to catch the express bus to Warsaw from Ustrziki Dolne at noon which means that I have to stay another night. Instead of waiting for the bus I opt for hitch hiking. The second car I stick my thumb out at stops and I get in. The people giving me a ride are a congenial couple into entomology, folk yachting songs, and veterinary medicine with an amateur interest in nature photography. We talk pleasantly through the car ride and they drop me off at the station with enough time before the bus to go to the Bieszczady Park Museum. I walk around studying research charts on geology, biology, and ecosystems, which are much more advanced and intellectual than in American museums, look at stuffed animals, and take in the information. I head back to the bus station and take the express bus for 10 hours back to Warsaw where the city awaits with its sordid nightlife and beautiful Polish homos.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1180462800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1180462800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1180462800/tpod.html Tue, 29 May 2007 08:25:01 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Warsaw, Poland

Finally sunny warm days have arrived in Poland. After 3 weeks of dark quickly shifting clouds birthing downpours and the occasional frosts at night I was ready to book a ticket back to Thailand. Fortunately fortune has smiled down her sunny smile upon me this last week and allowed me reprieve.

As I walk down Nowy Swiat, the cafes are bursting with a well healed Saturday lunch crowd. Slick designer sunglasses, skin sucking jeans, freshly dyed hair in shades from platinum to indigo black, and a chorus of discussions wafting out into the sun perfumed air. A woman with an assortment of flowers bursting with fragrance counts the change of a customer as others amble about picking from amongst fresh tulips, budding roses, and intoxicating lily of the valley. Designer boutiques hint at the assortment of fresh looks and makeovers for the moneyed and wannabe rich from their spotless street windows. The day is bursting with bikers ready for a spin in their spandex shorts and couples strolling through the manicured Warsaw parks dotted with century old refurbished mansions. The city is alive and ecstatic with its warm weather cloudless spring.

After spending most of my time in the country or "wies", I am soaking up the atmosphere of the city. Despite my romantic notions of spending time in the quiet countryside amongst lush apple and cherry orchards, I have begun to ache for the gentle bustle of Warsaw. Three weeks sucking up fresh air and gobbling up fresh homemade Polish meals has left me feeling utterly spent from boredom. Thankfully tomorrow I look at my first apartment in the Praga district of Warsaw on a recommendation from a lovely and helpful aunt.
Being back in Poland for the summer after only brief excursions here over the last several years is invigorating and wildly exciting. I haven't spent longer than 2 weeks in Poland since I was 13. My first trip to Poland was to visit family again for 5 days after ten years in complete absence. The country had changed so much since I was 13 years old and the call of the fatherland began to whisper gently to me at that time. The feel of cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and assorted extended family members felt comforting like an all incompassing warmth radiating from a feeling of belonging. Several one and two week holidays over the course of my twenties left me longing to explore deeper the roots that lie within me. Now I am here at the age of 28 on a whim to be here and immerse myself into a region of myself left untended.

With the help of my aunt I have managed to locate a fully furnished apartment in the district of Praga east of the Wistula River. The apartment is small but homey with a balcony that overlooks a small park and a preschool painted a cheery yellow. I have been charmed by the location and the place itself and was gad to move in last Thursday. My cousin volunteered to pick me up on Thursday afternoon to relocate me from the "wies" to my new digs in Warsaw.

This past couple of weekend in Warsaw have been a lovely indoctrination into the scene in the city in the company of a new burgeoning class of city, world carousing intelligencia with a penchant for strong drink. In a morning brunch at one of the coffee houses in the Nowy Swiat district, an afternoon watching the Parada Romnosci (Gay Pride Parade), early evening watching documentaries underneath the Palace of Science and Culture, and an evening galavanting around town drinking wine in parks, eating Thai coconut curry, smoking water pipes in new found friends apartments, and crashing parties to discover new friends. Discussions ranging from the best places to visit in Indonesia to filthy jokes involving uncouth activities in the darker confines of Warsaw's many parks.

The Warsaw scene is a mix of hyper active socialites, pissed drunkards, yuppie homos, skin head soccer fans, and a retinue of scenes available in any other city. The heart of the city beats swiftly within the people and buildings of the capital and I am becoming intoxicated with the possibility. Right now the days are warm and sunny, new friends abound, and I can only see the love that is spilling out of me for this country.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1178097540/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1178097540/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1178097540/tpod.html Wed, 02 May 2007 05:24:41 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Zalesie, Poland

Apple blossoms in bloom, the green spray of spring, giant cotton balls of clouds hanging bloated in the blue sky, and the smell of sour pickle soup simmering for lunch. I'm back in Poland living in the countryside just outside of Warsaw with my family. It's bliss to be here. The quiet is unsettling, the cleanliness unbelievable, and the hard rolling "r"s of Polish are providing a mild culture shock that is both welcoming and soothing. It's good to be home.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1177920840/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1177920840/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1177920840/tpod.html Mon, 30 Apr 2007 05:03:45 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Delhi, India

As I mild fever numbs my brain, I am dealing with saying my goodbyes to India. The last several days of transit have taken their toll on me and I am not feeling at "full power." I am barely dealing with the intense heat that seems to envelope me in a choking, thought amputating fog of blistered brain cells and sweat that seems to pour from every inch of my body.

Parting with Diu was a melancholy affair. However, I needed to head to Jaipur to get some problematic shipping issues sorted. The 11 hour trip via sleeper bus to Ahmedabad was the least painful part of the journey as I slept through most of it quite soundly. When I did get to Ahmedabad it took me a couple of hours of running around trying to sniff out the commission sharks while trying to get an onward ticket to Jaipur that morning. Unfortunately it proved futile and I had to go to Udaipur instead.

As I waited on the bus anxious to depart for Udaipur, the bus driver did about a dozen circles around the bus station to pack the bus to capacity. With the bus bursting with sweat and flesh and the morning sun already ravaging the passengers we set off on the 7 hour journey to Udaipur.

India in the hot season is an unbearable oppressive beast. The winds instead of providing a cooling reprieve, feel like a blow dryer gusting against skin. Breezes that hit the face parch the lips and scorch my eyes and I have to continually blink to keep my contacts from shriveling up. The intensity of the heat tires the body and slows the brain and I become soporific unable to keep my eyes open. Through the entire afternoon on the bus to Udaipur I jugged water between naps that verged on dream like mirages as I came in and out of consciousness.

Finally arriving in Udaipur I booked my next bus ticket that evening to Jaipur where my textile shipping troubles await. As I had all afternoon and evening in Udaipur, I headed to Lake Pichola and the old city to relax and have lunch. The second time around I found Udaipur even more charming and wondrous. The intense glare of sun on the wind swept surface of the lake, the gentle arches of Raj and Mughal architecture, the winding streets bursting with shopping delights, and cold fresh lemon sodas in the company of elephants. It's pure bliss to find one enjoying a mango crumble and soda whiles an elephant and his mahout smiling in your direction. There is no love as beautiful as that of an elephant and his mahout.

While wandering the old lanes of Udaipur and taking in the inlaid havelis, I see Jo coming towards me amongst a group of backpackers. Jo and I manage to continually bump into each other throughout the continent and even managed to arrive in India the same day as well as leaving the same time albeit different flights. Despite being separated at Diu only several days prior, we launched into a new rendezvous with Udaipur swirling about us.

Lal Ghat Guesthouse is a beautiful haveli on the shores of Lake Pichola overlooking the city palace and the orange sunsets. A veranda juts out over the banks of the lake as travelers gather together to eat, smoke, drink, and chat away the days. This scene so common in India has become intoxicating to me as the constant stimulation of conversation, philosophical debate, political exchange, and adventure tales keeps me entertained all my days. With my departure quickly approaching, Jo and several other travelers convinced me to spend the night and leave the next day. As it does not take much for me to accept a simple suggestion, I answered with the usual "why not."

Jo quickly took charge and called the bus company to change my ticket. After informing them that she is a nurse and that I have a serious intestinal infection with explosive diarrhea and near kidney failure which would result in me potentially dying on the bus, they agreed to refund half the cost of the ticket. With my booking moved up one day I spent the rest of the evening enjoying new found friends and the giant bats gliding in great clouds above the lake.

Night slipped into morning as I roused myself from a deep restful sleep in the immaculately clean hostel dorm. After yoga on the roof while watching the sunrise change the city from hazy night blues and grays to gentle sweeping swaths of yellow, crimson, and orange. The heat once again hung at the brink of bursting through the gentle mornings calm. That next evening saying sad farewell to Udaipur I was on my way to Jaipur.

The bus ride proved to be too much for my health to handle, as I spent the night awake and violently jostled by the bouncing bus. The last sleeper bed in the back is the least coveted place for an overnight journey as it is common to find oneself suspended in mid air as the bus hits a treacherous bump before crashing down back onto the bed with a rude start. Needless to say I suffered sleeplessly most of the night before arriving in Jaipur in the early morning exhausted and with a fever slowly growing in my chest and head.

Jaipur was just as dusty and congested as I had remembered it. The summer heat however inched it up a notch in its brutal assault on any passerby or inhabitant. After a filling European style breakfast of eggs and a crisp India Sunday Times, I headed to HanumanJi Ka Rasta, one of the largest gem dealing areas in the world, to meet my Indian friends and problem fixers. Things went smoothly enough as a trustworthy Indian friend is indispensable for sorting out all types of matters, and in no time I was back on the Shatabdi Express to New Delhi.

Being fed snacks, drinks, and juices for the entire 5 hour train ride on the Shatabdi, I reveled in the heavily air conditioned confines of the pristine train cars. These express trains are truly a most marvelous Indian respite from regular lower class Indian travel. On time, well serviced, and carrying an elite crowd of India's middle class speaking eloquent English they are easy on the nerves. At the Delhi train station I was met by my hotel and my weary, fever addled body was transported to my Paharganj mid priced hotel.

Now I prepare for my night flight to Europe after 6 months traveling the subcontinent. It looks like I might be coming back after the hot season and the last drops of monsoon rains in September. I can't imagine being away for too long. Everything is possible here and I quite enjoy that vast landscape of potential.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1177174980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1177174980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1177174980/tpod.html Sat, 21 Apr 2007 03:41:41 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Diu Town, India

The sky unfurls like an ink stain speckled with pinpricks of light. The sound of the ocean rolls off the beaches and rocks and reverberates like a distant groaning beast while I lay under a thin blanket cradled by the darkness. The sound of the muezzin wafts up the sides of the church where I sleep overlooking the whole of Diu. Dogs bark in distant corners of the town while cats skulk stealthily up along walls disappearing amongst the many trees and palms. Somewhere a puja is happening as the mantras barely discernable in the distance brush against me in my soporific daze. On top of the church roof where I lay the wind comes down in fistfuls bringing with it the chill of ocean and salt. The night broods and I press myself against it for comfort.

The heat builds slowly through breakfast as I sit around chatting with the handful of travelers in Diu. Eggs bharji spicy and light, washed down with cold creamy coffee are followed by delicate crepes with lemon and sugar. The topics shift amongst the group providing the same contrast of sweet and savory as the food. As the sun ascends in its zenith trajectory, the heat builds and settles over the island in an oppressive muddled haze of slow movement and sweat slicked skin. The fruit and vegetable sellers skulk away home as shops shutter their interiors for siesta. The streets become quiet with just a few stragglers finishing up errands. Even the dogs make their way to the beaches to dig pits in the sand that fill with seawater in which they can curl up in to avoid the heat.

The patio on Sao Tome Church provides a refuge of flapping blankets tied off by rope to polls on all sides casting subdued shadows. The view is crisp as the sun burns away the moisture in the air and the ocean glitters with a diamond's intensity. Occasionally bodies are strewn about like toy soldiers under the canopy of the patio exhausted by heat amongst the futons and bags regurgitating their contents of clothes, toiletries, books, and packets of oral rehydration salts. It's a scene of idleness based on necessity. Others dare brave the shimmering mirages coming off the tarmac as they zip about on mopeds or take the slow sweaty route by biking along the rocky coast. The island offers a multitude of simple delights to enjoy from Shiva temples with wave caressed lingam stones to dhabas serving deep fried spinach sandwiches.

As the afternoon wears itself out the sun burns with a subdued ferocity changing from a glowing white hot to yellow, orange, and red before extinguishing itself beyond the horizon. The town begins to come to life as the breezes dance amongst the alleys and streets bringing relief to hot skin. Beach goers make their way down to the sands and the waves at this time to indulge in a cooling swim and a bit of windy respite. Diu begins to churn with whizzing mopeds and shops reopening after their afternoon closings. Snacks are procured, everyone regroups, and the dusk becomes a time to rejoice. As the cold Kingfisher beers are drained sip by sip we sit on the roof of the church in animated discussion. The common language is English but smatterings of French, German, Polish, Hindi, and Spanish creep into everyone's conversation.

The topic changes to food as bellies grumble. Decisions are discussed resulting in the same places based on a handful of available establishments. Fish and beer feature highly in each weighed out choice. Dinners are animated and loud coming to a low roar as the food is served and savored. Today the choice of restaurant for most will be the tri-weekly family style dinner at a local Portuguese family's home. It is the talk of the town as the multitude of fish dishes fried, sautéed, baked, smothered in sauces, and mixed into pasta is unparalleled on the island and most possibly beyond to the state of Gujarat. Those who have partaken of the feast speak of it with reverence and delight inaugurating the newcomers to the gastronomic festivities.

The time passes with a slow steady crawl. Travelers arrive and depart in a steady trickle as I indulge in the changeover of personalities and characteristics. Naive young Germans, anti-shoe New Zealanders, dreadlocked gem dealers, Bollywood star struck Argentineans, drunken Norwegians, foodie Americans, and a constantly evolving panoply of backpackers. Only several of us stay long enough to greet newcomers and bid good continued travels to anxiously curious voyagers unwilling to settle in for a bit.

This place is the perfect conclusion to my first trip through India as I come to a slow lazy end in Diu. With just over a week left before my flight to Poland, I am savoring every morsel that is offered. Diu is ideal, as it is India with all of its negative aspects stripped off. There is no pollution, no lapkas (touts trying to rip off tourists), no traffic, no festering piles of garbage, and lacking the regular endless list of other problems. The people are warm, the weather is kinder, the pace slow and gentle. It is India that is just a bit more understanding. It whispers softly to me and I listen as I curl up on my mattress outside on the church roof. I whisper back and it hears my words as they waft off the roof spilling down over the land with the stars and moon as witness.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1176186960/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1176186960/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1176186960/tpod.html Wed, 11 Apr 2007 09:22:58 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Diu Town, India

Recovering from a mild case of being hung over, I am taking the time to bask in the cool comforting confines of an air conditioned internet cafe. The heat in the rest of Gujarat was unbearable so I decided that I needed an escape to the wind caressed beaches of Diu Town in southern Gujarat. This small island with its colonial Portuguese influence is the perfect remedy with its old stately whitewashed churches, swaying palms, availability of liquor, and freshly prepared seafood.

After Dholavira I returned to Bhuj craving more Kutchie village life. I embarked on an all day expedition with my own car and driver through the sun cracked lands near the Pakistan border. Crossing the Tropic of Cancer we arrived in Khavda, a small dusty town with a busy market area. Block printers sweated over their work pressing finally carved wooden stamps onto rolls of cotton and potters took refuge under ragged awnings to spin clay into masterful works. I went to other villages and took strolls down paths lined with imposing crazy thorn bushes, excited villagers, and overheated water buffalo. The bright Kutchie mirror work garb of the Ahir glistened in the fierce gaze of the sun as the women prepared chai, smiled from above their heavy silver necklaces, and enticed with their dreamlike craft masterpieces.

In Ludia, a village consisting of several mud huts with a pitched thatch roofs, I had a lunch of spicy sabji and soft, pliant roti washed down with cool gulps of soured milk. The house provided refuge from the intense afternoon heat building outside while I spoke with the man-of-the-house about the various styles of handicrafts in the region. From there we headed to another small village, Kotay, where I wandered about taking in the old and new.

The driver became very excited on our approach to Kotay. He was glowing with pride and speaking reverently about the fact the Amitabh Bachchan, a big name Bollywood actor of saintly status, had filmed a hit in the village several years back. He told me this at least a dozen times making sure to stare me in the eyes with intense and penetrating vigor and repeat slowly and methodically so the fact would sink in changing my life inexplicably. Since my reaction lacked the intense excitement and veneration that he expected, he shook his head dismissively and drove the vehicle in silence through the cactus and boulder strewn landscape probably thinking, "What to do with these goras?" *gora=foreigner

The village itself was mostly silent with most people having retreated into shady spots in the surrounding bushes and scrub trees or there homes to avoid the scorching heat outside. I wandered about and stumbled across bright freshly painted temples with overheated artists at work. Bright paint covered their clothes and mixed with the sweat pouring down their temples. The murals above in saturated hues told of the Mahabharata, Krishna and Rada, Rama's exploits, and Shiva's ascetic life. I admired their work and with grinning satisfaction they shook my hand for seeing the beauty in their craft after escorting me around the temple to admire the fullness of the art above.

The afternoon was slipping into the gentle shades of orange and soft yellows that means a break in the heat and a fervent revival of life outside. Women stepped out of their homes in droves to pump water into steel jugs while chatting and gossiping over the sound of splashing water. The children came out to play and indulge in the reprieve this time of day provides while I waved and greeted the villagers excited by my presence. Finally, after striking up some pantomime conversation, I returned back to the car and headed back to Bhuj, hungry, thirsty, and entirely satisfied with the joys of rural living and my warm welcome.

With some hints from other travelers, I headed down to Mandvi, a small port town on the Bay of Cambay, for a couple of days. Arriving in a share jeep drenched in sweat, the romantic lights of late afternoon had descended on the shipbuilding yards near the drop off point for the other passengers of the jeep and me. Fresh wooden ship skeletons were illuminated by the gentle rays of sun in the dry ocean inlet as workers toiled above cutting planks, shaving thick slices of wood, and nailing in thick spikes. Some ships sported a busy crew of shipbuilders while others waited patiently to be dressed in a gentle curves of timber. The town itself pulsated with a modest traffic flowing through the streets among the bhaji vendors, corn roasters, fruit sellers, ice cream wallahs, chai preparers, and fruit shake wizards. I breathed in the salt air mixed with the smell of masala and exhaust and my mind unraveled pleasantly and my body quickly followed.

The beaches outside of Mandvi have perfect white sand, the soothing lap of waves, and are completely devoid of other people. After taking a share rickshaw to a dirt path in a small village, I was escorted by a slight man with an imposing white beard to further paths leading to my destination, the beaches. As I passed through the thick snarl of thorn bushes, I saw foxes, mongooses, sambar (giant antelope), and deer. Navigating among the thorns proved impossible without injury so resigned to the small scratches and snags of skin they imposed as penalty for passage.

The beach opened up stretching itself graciously along the edges of the ocean in front of me after passing over a small sandy hill. I walked onto the hot sand and walked along the edge before hurrying towards the waves and plunging into the salty reprieve of the warm waters. My spirit sang in that instant as my senses blossomed to take in the experience. The briny fresh smell of the ocean, the taste of salt on my tongue, my skin soothed and cooled by the water, the gentle whisper of the sea wind, and the vast expanse of sand and tranquility stretched out ahead. I found an abandoned thatched veranda and sunk into my book between dips in the ocean and indulging in fruit while communing with the liminal beauty of this isolated place.

After another repeat day in Mandvi spending time alone on the beach, I was unsure as to my desire to depart. However, I had a bus from Bhuj to Junagadh, renowned for its mangoes, as the season of the King of Fruit had begun. On arrival I bought a kilo of them (as I almost do daily) and ate them piece by slippery piece till the sweetness ran down my arms and my taste buds writhed with joy.

Junagadh does not see many travelers although it is a friendly and welcoming place. It is also quite busy and this time of year forbidding with its unrelentingly sweltering heat. In the night the temperature hovered around the 35 degree mark with the afternoons marked by such intensity of oppressive temperatures that I could only manage an overheated lazy stupor that would inevitably plunge me into a long sweaty nap. The mornings and evenings are the times of the day to move and see things and the first day I managed an amble through the old fort with its ornate baoli wells. I was ambushed by some wild pigs while traipsing through, but soon human refuge. After a friendly long discussion with a proprietor of cheap plastic toys aimed at Indian tourists, I trudged back to the hotel soaked with sweat. As is the usual for me, I undressed and wrapped a wet towel around my torso and neck and waited for the afternoon heat to dissipate.

The next day I rose before sunrise to take an auto rickshaw a bit out of town the holy Girnar Hill, sprinkled with Hindu and Jain temples. Beginning at step number one I ascended 5000 steps to the top meeting a friendly group of Gujarati engineering students along the way. They took me to see the babas (holy men) at the top and then to the free lunch place meant for pilgrims and devotees. We chatted and climbed as sweat formed beads on our foreheads and then ran down our temples in slick salty streams. Then we headed the 5000 steps down passing the ornately carved temples perched on the ledges of the hill stopping for refreshing cool drinks to re-energize.

As the summer season in India is too hot to bear for one such as myself, I decided that another beach reprieve was mandatory for at least a week or two before heading to Jaipur, Delhi, and finally to Warsaw. Diu seemed the perfect option with its added bonus of legal alcohol, subdued heat due to strong sweeping coastal winds that blow from the ocean, and a smorgasbord of Portuguese food and seafood. For Easter I had the pleasure of sharing some Kingfisher beers with an Austrian couple on top of Sao Tome Church as the sun dipped luminescent and fiery into the cool waters of the horizon. The ocean winds tugged at my hair and soothed my skin with their silken touch as we gazed enchanted. Diu is a sight of supreme and sublime tranquility that sets my soul at ease through its gentle demeanor and unique flavor of a culture not quite India nor quite Portuguese. Right now it feels like perfection.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1175382840/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1175382840/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1175382840/tpod.html Sat, 31 Mar 2007 11:06:30 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Bhuj, India

The bus had just pulled away from the bus station when I arrived in the dusty early afternoon heat. The station pulsed with people as men in lungis and turbans smoked with cupped hands and women in heavily embroidered backless shirts herded children into pools of kohl stained eyes and dusty smiles. I rounded a corner and entered an ice cream parlor ordering the choconut dessert with layers of shaved iced sweetened with butterscotch, vanilla ice cream, and topped with cashews and chocolate chips. I needed something to take my mind off the stinging cuts and scrapes that I had sustained the day before.

After grilling the curator of the Aina Mahal museum in Bhuj about the villages and tribes of Kutch, I formulated a plan on the best method of taking in this area of Gujarat. As the motorcycle seems the ubiquitous type of transport in India, I decided to invesitgate the possibility of rental. Despite never having ridden a motorcycle before, I truly believed that learning on the spot would be no problem.

With my newly hatched idea unfolding with possibility, I walked out into the glare of day along the swirlling streets of Bhuj. Imagining vast expanses of desert enveloping me while dodging cows and goats along the road as I coast through tiny villages with the blow drier hot wind lapping at my face. I scanned the intersections and tried to garner information from non-English speaking residents about motorcycle rental places. Eventually I stumbled upon one place with a multitude of bikes out front near the bus stand. I walked up to the door exuding confidence and a conjured mororcycle know-how. The man behind the desk was a plump looking Gujarati, no stranger to a good sweet thali, with a baseball cap, an Indian mustache, and a fake gold watch. He was no stranger to amateur cons like me and immediately requested I prove my road worthiness.

I was hitched up on a Yamaha bike with a no nonsense short wiry man with the standard Indian mustache. I looked down at the bike and tried to decipher its secret code. I know one is a break, one is a clutch, a gear, and some other mechanical pieces I was unfmailiar with. Thankfully the man had turned the bike on as I would have been at a loss to even do that. I quickly half fessed up to my ineptitdue by citing that I had ridden a motorbike a really long time ago. "As in never," I was thinking to myself unperturbed by my white half truths. He made a half gesture to the accelerator and we were off in first gear. "Fuck. Now what?" I pondered with butterflies hatching in my belly.

We were doing 20 kph through a major intersection in the city going around a circlular intersection when the bike stalled and died. The wiry man tapped my shoulder and mentioned something in Gujarati with a mild hint of annoyance in his voice. I sheepishly sat behind him as he started the bike and road back towards the office. He did give me one more chance sensing my shame which I failed miserably. In the office the two men exchanged words and toothy smiles with each other while pointing to me and the bike. Obviously this was not going to happen so I hatched plan two on the spot.

"I've ridden a moped several times before. Do you have one of those that I could rent?" I mentioned non-chalantly although fully embarrassed by my motorcycle riding inadequacy. The man behind the desk motioned to the wiry man and he ran outside into the dust and congestion of midday traffic. I brought back a lapis lazuli colored moped with an automatic clutch and a long cushy vinyl seat. He started it up for me and had me sit in the front while he sat in the back testing me on the same stretch of road again. After a brief wobbly take-off, I managed to get the bike around the circle and back stalling only once but managing to start the moped again. I had graduated with a near fail. With some brief informal paperwork, I was off to terrorize the streets of Bhuj on my own blue Scooty Pep moped without a working horn.

Within two hours of scooting around the narrow lanes of the old town and the wider chaotic therofares, avoiding both pedestrain and animal alike, I managed to skid and land on the scorching tarmac road with my skin as brakes. I collected myself and sheepishly and painfully scooted back to my hotel to clean my wounds and dress my gashes. I lay in bed and re-considered my options. The visions of scorching desert days sliding past me as I rev the Scooty Pep engine faded into stark pictures of long bus journeys choked full of sweaty men and women glued to hard benches. I resolved to stay alive and take the less romantic option.

Forty kilometers from the Pakistan border lays an island suspended in the sky half the year and floating in the sea the rest of the time. The land is parched yet farmers manage to eek out a living growing grain and hardy vegetables. Thorny bushes sprout out of the land wherever fields have not been regularly plowed. Peacocks strut among the peahens vying for attention with their stunning plummage. Women weighed down with silver and gold carry steel water jugs on their heads. Some covered in black saris and black woolen cholis with silver earrings like small barbells tugging at every piece of ear cartilage available for piercing. Fading tattoos run up and down arms and necks with some even sporting small symbols on their faces. Other women glitter and sparkle like gems with heavily embroidered cholis adorned with mirrors and wrapped tight with saris as bright as spring garlands. This is just the beginning as a new India unfolds before me. Stunning and mesmerizing and infinite in its variety and beauty.

In Rapahr 5 hours northeast of Bhuj and still hours before my island destination, I wait for my next bus as people stare and I stare back transfixed. We are courting, both strangers to each other surprised and moved to curiosity. Several people approach me speaking a dialect unknown to me and leave after I repeatedly shrug my shoulders in incomprehension. Finally two men approach introducing themselves in a smattering of English as water plant workers. Within minutes I am drinking tea and smoking cigarettes with them as they speak in Kutchie to their friends with me a prop for further social clambering. I'm enjoying the sweet, hot tea and all the attention though. I rarely pay for my chai and cigarettes are practically forced on me.

The bus to Dholavira pulls into the station rattling and ancient, and women herd their children on as men in white jostle and push their way past them. The seats fill up and the bus sputters and coughs into the dusky rose desert sun. The evening is fast approaching as the horizon turns a violent red and orange and the sun finally disappears. The heat lingers emanating from the roasted rocks and sand and blows in through the cracked plexiglass windows. The second quarter moon appears bathing the landscape in a mellow cooling light. Then the salt flats appear and staring out into them I feel as though I am staring into a nothingness where sky and earth merge as one.

Dholavira is a small town in a middle of a seasonal island to which I am headed. During the dry and cool seasons the surrounding terrain is baked white as salt crystallizes from the receding sea. During the wet season the island is surrounded by first sea and as the rains increase it is then washed by fresh waters flowing down from the land in a great flood. In the middle of this lies a small island that floats like a mirage neither on earth nor in the sky. A hallucination envisioned by a trick of nature. It is pre-monsoon and the salt flats are at their best.

Early into the night we arrive in Dholavira seeming to be floating on the edge of the world. I ask for help in finding a place to sleep and a man washed in the light of the moon escorts me silently through the landscape. He carries a long staff and is dressed in white with a white turban glowing on his head like a crown of brightness in the darkness of night. He yells at someone in the dark maw of evening and points to a light in the distance towards which I walk.

A wall comes into view and beyond it bungalows freshly emerging from the earth like mushrooms. A slight Indian man emerges with a flashlight from a round building glowing with the light of phosphorescent TV that spills out the door. He speaks English and seems excited to see me. It's as though he's been waiting. He takes me to one of the bungalows and I am stunned by the newness sprouted from the earth. Inside a double bed with sprakling white sheets sits in the middle as a fan whirrs above in the canopied pointed roof. The space is so clean and the windows facing all four cardinal directions that I can't stop repeating how pleasantly surpised I am. There is even a bathroom with a fan and sit down western toilet. He brings me chai outside on the porch and it slides down my throat hot and sweet as the stars unfurl overhead.

The next day I awake groggy already feeling too hot. It's late morning and I had lain awake most of the night itching mosquito bites and dodging scuttling beetles invisible in the darkness. With a chai and several bananas for breakfast I head in the direction of the gleaming fields of white at the far borders of the island. The terrain is dry and scrubby and the sun is bearing down on me. I walk into the distance along the winding paths poked with hoof and bird claw prints. Soon I see the first signs of the salt desert as the earth cracks in abstract shapes the edges tinged with briny crystals. I follow the dried river bed and eventually all plant life disappears and the land is replaced with great swaths of gleeming white salt.

As I walk through the terrain a figure materializes out of the shimmering air. As it approaches it changes from a floating blob into a gazelle like creature that darts through the landscape in effortless bounds and leaps. It disappears into the horizon again and I am left alone to the winds and blinding white. The sky becomes the earth and the earth the sky as the afternoon sun blazes and kisses my exposed skin with fiery lips. I wrap up a turban on my head and turn back through the mirage and back to the village.

It's past lunch time and it's too hot to walk or speak or think. I effortfully motion eating to some people at the bus stand and they point towards a stone wall at the edge of the village. I make my way through rays of sun blinding and relentless in their embrace. Past the wall there are mud huts in a less modern version of my hotel with goats and cows tethered to stakes lazily feasting on straw. A women in a blue sari and gold earrings like shields through her middle ear cartilage greets me with hands together in a namaste. However, here it is said "Ram, Ram." Her eyes are the color of distant misted hills elusive but shining brightly with joy. My mouth immediately turns up at its corners and I forget the sweat soaking through my shirt.

Taking off my shoes I step onto the cement floor that serves as the sitting area along the edge of the pantry hut. Children stream forth of various ages and I motion my hands in the eating pantomime. She beckons me to sit still beaming with a smile, eyes like the gaze of a hypnotist. Before me she sets out roti in the pale blue and gray of her own eyes and aloo gobi spicy and flavorful. I devour the meal and swig back the soured milk. I finish off with cold water from the earthen jug but only after eating the condensed milk and sugar sweet that breaks like halva. We sit and pantomime our lives as the children look through the pictures in my camera and swirl about with joy and life unperturbed by the heat. She beckons me to return at 8 for dinner, and I gleefully agree.

Stopping at my hotel to wait out the heat of the afternoon, I douse my towel with water and wrap it around my torso and neck. I lay on the bed under the fan only in my underwear willing myself cool. After the afternoon breaks I redress and head towards the other end of town to see the origins of Indian civilization, a city 4500 years old the same name as the village.

At the informative museum newly opened just 5 days prior, I edge around the exhibits reading the information and absorbing the objects. Back outside in the heat of late afternoon I wrap the wet towel around my neck and over my head heading towards the excavated sight. The walls rise from the earth and enormous water reservoirs now empty tell tales of the dawn of civilization. This city traded with Mesopotamia and existed when Europe was still filled with deer and humans living as hunters. The ancient religion here breathed the breathe of life into the major world religions of Hinduism and Buddhism. They traded with Africa and adorned themselves with beads and bangles as they flourished off the land even before the Aryans arrived. The worship of the mother goddess was found evident, sparking the origins of deities fashioned by time and human imagination as envisioned today. Ancient and wonderous this place buried by time and rediscovered by inheritors of its legacy.

Swimming thoughts of gods and the beginning of human time leapt and swam through my brain like fertile rivers of salmon. Connections of human imagination interlinked to form a people unknown to me that thousands of years ago sowed seeds that have blossomed into the created worlds of today. I walked back through clouds of goats and sheep kicking up dust from the road as they defecated, bleated, chewed, and baaaa-ed following a single man with a staff across his shoulders walking into the sunset. Not much has changed in these parts.

That evening I returned to eat dinner at the woman-with-hills-for-eye's house and was greeted warmly in http://www.travelpod.com/cgi-bin/modify_entry1.pl?tweb_tripID=world_tour_2006&tweb_UID=pshemek&tweb_entryID=1175382840&tweb_token=22372491736149001903&tweb_editor=
Modify Entrythe cooling evening. The cots had been laid out in the middle of the yard and the children appeared in their full numbers back from activities of the day. I ate the blue and gray rotis with sweet fried onions fiery and satisfying. More soured milk to wash down the delicious food and, with more tales told by hands and gestures I receded into the night back to my hotel. I slept soundly with the windows closed and fanning whirring unperturbed by the gentle rain of hard shelled bugs.

The next morning stopping in for a chai drank Kutch style in a saucer, I was escorted to the bus by a gang of children. They milled about gathering more to show me off and ransack my bag. I laughed and showed them the few things that I had brought with me. They posed for pictures and eventually losing interest disppeared into a game of marbles. I watched them play as my bus pulled out of the town and into the unfolding heat of the day.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1174939680/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1174939680/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/pshemek/world_tour_2006/1174939680/tpod.html Mon, 26 Mar 2007 08:18:50 -0400 One way ticket to emancipation

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Bhuj, India

The sun is blazing and the mercury is hitting 37 degrees (Celsius). After a harrowing bus journey from Mt. Abu I arrived in the city of Bhuj (in the Kutch region of Gujarat) at 5 AM to empty streets lined with closed stores and roaming packs of dogs. Despite the mild and pleasant weather in Mt. Abu it was time to get back to the sizzling sun baked flats of western India.

Arriving in Mt. Abu via a dust cloud of a road from Udaipur was a welcome change from the expanse of dry scrub desert. Despite my initial apprehension to the unfriendly welcome at the hotel and neon resorts sprinkling the town I found the little city on top of a mountain peak a reprieve from hassle loaded Rajasthan. Palm trees stretch up towards the sky as vendors sell mulberries and corn on the cob slathered with masala and lemon. A lake sits idol basking in the sun as paddle boats skitter its surface lazily. All white clad Indians and foreigners mill about the town with their moneyed quest to find enlightenment at the Om Shanti Spiritual University. Gujarati tourists pack the delectable restaurants savoring thalis as waiters busy themselves refilling their dishes with chapatis, vegetable delights, and scrumptious dhal while Backstreet Boys along with the latest Bollywood hits blare out of speakers. It's a lovely place to spend a week.

Due to the high amount of Indian tourists all attention is deflected away from the grizzly backpackers who come to relax from the throngs of "come see my shop" and "rickshaw?" peddlers in the rest of Rajasthan. The Shree Ganesh Guesthouse beckons foreign tourists into its ultra friendly and chatty cocoon of slow days. There travelers exchange itineraries, words of advice, countless tales, and answers and questions to the deeper mysteries of life. Hikes into the hills, walks to ornately carved temples of superb magnificence, welcoming villagers doing puja, and the finest Mewari stallions wait to indulge further. My days spent walking up peaks, riding around on hot blooded horses, and taking in the sites were accentuated with the company of other travelers. Even the food at the glitzy restaurants was the finest Indian I had imbibed since being invited for dinner by a Kashmiri family in Khajuraho. This is not to mention two half days spent lounging by the pool at the local posh resort with our own butler to the consternating stares of Hindi women wrapped in saris and teenage boys mesmerized by plenty of exposed white flesh. The days slipped by unnoticed and before I knew it the dawn would be midnight.

After a week filled with activity and indulgent dialogues I managed to regroup and press on to Gujarat leaving Rajasthan behind for the time being. On advice from the friendly proprietor of Shree Ganesh Guesthouse I decided to head into Gujarat and west towards the city of Bhuj, the capital of the Kutch region. After an afternoon send off I arrived at the Mt. Abu bus station and asked to buy a ticket to Palanpur as I needed to switch buses there to head west towards Bhuj. My request was met with smiles and an exchange of surprised looks between the two ticket sellers. I repeated again that I needed a ticket to Palanpur which they wrote out promptly and pointed me to the bus, a clunker with thinly padded bench seats. I sat towards the front to avoid the rear suspension jostling and to get a better look at the near collisions on the road ahead.

As the driver sidled up to the steering wheel with its loose mess of wires and seat that used a plywood board strapped to the exploded foam seat he blared on the horn to signal imminent departure. This, however, was not the annoyingly loud horn that I have gotten used to since arriving in India in November. This was an ear splitting, bone penetrating, brain piercing torture device for both bus riders and those unfortunate to be close enough to the bus outside. I breathed in deeply and tried to ride out the pain knowing that driving in India involves blowing your horn to signal passing, coming around bends, saying hello, thanking a driver for allowing one to pass, scaring off monkeys and cows from the road, warning pedestrians of the deadly hurtling piece of metal about to run them over, and general good natured honking for no reason at all.

Two hours later slowly crisping in the noon heat we arrived in Palanpur. I made my way to the ticket counter at the bus station and asked about the next bus to Bhuj which I was told was at 7 PM or in an hour. I decided to sit on the edge of the station and enjoy sips of my warm water. Within several seconds I became very aware of my own presence. I looked around and noticed that every person in the station was turned towards me. Some were openly staring, others were exchanging jokes while looking directly at me, and others started moving closer to get a better look. It can be quite uncomfortable being on center stage while waiting for a bus in a place where people almost never see a white face. I kept my eyes down to avoid the usual barrage of questions that ensues with eye contact that is longer than a millisecond. However, this did not perturb several brave Gujarati youths from peppering me with the few English questions they knew regarding where I'm from, my name, and where I was going. It's innocuously limited to those with most although you might get a "how do you like India?" from an enterprising youth that paid attention in English class for two seconds. It doesn't even seem relevant as most can't pronounce my name, have no idea where Poland is, and don't really care where I am going. However, it's friendly and harmless and I don't mind being a guinea pig to practice their English and give them a closer look at my fair complexion.

As 7 approached I asked one of the ticket sellers to show me which platform the bus was leaving from as all signs were in Hindi and the numbers were not something I was familiar with. He obligingly led me to my bus which to my consternation was not the shiny new vehicle with metallic paints and cushy modern seats sitting at the nearby platform. Mine was a medium quality bus with upright vinyl seats with a modernish cabin and lightly tinted windows. I set my bag down and took in the orange glow of dusk spattering the outward bound and arriving passengers making their way amongst the fruit vendors in a soft light.

The bus lurched forward signaling with its thankfully gentle honk that it was departing. Several more stops and we were headed towards the highway in the blossoming darkness of evening. An hour into the ride along the well paved black tarmac four lane highway the bus pulled up to a bus station. As I closed my eyes to take in a nap I heard the shuffling on bags and passengers. I opened my eyes and saw everyone was disembarking with bags in tow. I stumbled off the bus unsurprised and ready for the worst. However, we were only changing buses to an older version of our bus with peeling vinyl seats, a driver cage, and windows that had to be cajoled to open or close despite coming open on their own when not wanted. It was a welcome sight, however, as the other possibilities were just too frustrating to even consider.

The night unfolded like a black drape peppered with bright stars forming constellations above the flat dark expanses outside the bus window. I drifted in an out of sleep propped up against my bag, my head against the window, legs anchored by my knees on the front seat, half contorted in the double seat, or head resting against the front seat. The towns whizzed by from bright neon illuminating busy streets filled with snacking locals to the roadside dhabas (eateries) illuminated only with a couple of fluorescent tubes luring a swarm of confused and desperate moths beating their powdery bodies against the source of light. A lone puppy scavenged wearily about used to being chased by sticks and four wheelers barreling down the road. I fed him one of my biscuits and waited on the periphery of late night gorging going on inside the dhabas. Soon we were off and I came in and out of conscious on the bus finding myself in all sorts of contorted positions.

Finally the conductor informed me that we were in Bhuj. As I scanned the back of the bus I noticed only several late night travelers left gathering up their children and bags. It was 5 AM despite being informed that the bus would get into Bhuj at 1:30 AM. Thankfully I have stopped falling for these overly positive estimations and lumbered off the bus bags strapped on. The bus station was filled with people eating, sitting, smoking, sleeping, watching, and urinating as I made my way to the street to make sense of a direction to Gangaram Guesthouse recommended to me. I quickly decided unwise to walk in the dark streets with packs of roaming dogs not knowing where I was going. I stopped a rickshaw and got in without bargaining as I was too tired to put up a fight.

We made our way through empty streets with shuttered stores with only street dogs scampering out of the way of the rickshaw going full throttle. At the guesthouse I paid the rickshaw driver and made my way around the alley to the entrance. However, it was dark and the bell was obviously not working. I decided instead to shout till someone woke up and let me in. I was checked over and asked questions to discern my criminal vandalizing potential before the heavy gate was lifted with a loud rumbling metallic screech. I was shown a room and immediately lay down and slept with a small ceiling fan to provide reprieve from the heat.

Today I woke up groggy and unsure whether I had overslept or under slept. I had breakfast as the only guest of the hotel and read the Monday paper. Then I made my way out into the day in full swing sun and all. I headed towards the Prag Mahal and Aina Mahal to check out the local sights around the corner from where I was staying. The Prag Mahal was a church like building with a clock tower ravaged by the 2001 earthquake. The insides were a strange blend of original furniture decaying in grand halls now populated with pigeons and bats. The ceilings dripped plaster down onto the heads of stuffed antelope, lions, and hippos hunted by the former occupants. The heads and bodies of these stuffed animals peeled revealing bone underneath and curling in strange swathes of leather and fur. Puppets missing limbs and jaws peered out into the halls, silent guardians ready to pounce on intruders. Dust collected on cracked mirrors and elaborate teak desks as the portraits of maharajas long deceased glared at me from their portraits. The place reeked of fungus, shit, and decay with a twisted ghostly air of days long past. It was amazing and I was the only one there.
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