TravelStream™ news feed for member wanderingstar on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/wanderingstar en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 08 Nov 2008 10:58:20 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/8/966102600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/8/966102600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/8/966102600/tpod.html Sat, 08 Nov 2008 10:58:20 -0500 FROM EURO 2000 TO ENGLAND IN PARIS,VIA CHECHNYA

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Gori, Georgia

Although South Ossetia is technically part of Georgia,try telling this to the South Ossetian border guards,who kept me for a good hour trying to persuade me that I needed an extra visa to visit their region.Eventually I gave up waiting for the promised arrival of their commanding officer,and turned back towards Gori,feeling somewhat deflated.
I needn't have worried.I had gone merely a few yards down the road when a bus pulled in just ahead of me,headed for Tskhinvali.I jumped aboard,and moments later I was sailing through the frontier post,without the vehicle even being stopped,let alone my presence on board being noticed by the S Ossetian troops.
I spent the next two hours doing a kind of "secret filming" in the regional capital,slightly worried that I was there without the necessary permission,and not wanting to attract attention.
When I went into a shop to purchase some water,the shopkeeper was surprised that I offered Georgian Lari in payment.All normal trade here is done in the Russian Rouble.
Otherwise,I managed to keep a low profile.
The town was quite small and quiet,with just a couple of quite lengthy shopping streets,and a sprawl of houses very much in the style of Gori,but mostly low rise development.
There was a certain amount of damage from the wars that have been going on here since 1992.The most notable was a church that was surrounded by ruined buildings,and had a white flag flying from the telegraph pole outside.
Luscious countryside surrounded the town which appeared to be a real backwater.
My main concern was getting back through the border to Georgia that night,without incurring the wrath of the border guards,if they realised that I had sneaked through.There did not appear to be another bus,nor any taxi service.I had no choice but to walk,and got chatting to a local man for cover as I made my way down the country lane out of town.He veered off just before the border,however,so I walked alone,head down for the next few hundred yards.There was a bit of traffic crossing,and initially it seemed I could walk through unmolested.I made it past all border offices,and the road barrier.
Then I heard a shout from the same man who had delayed me earlier.
I ignored him and ploughed on.He ran across the road,and asked me if I had been to South Ossetia.
I mumbled my inaudible reply,and carried on walking towards Gori.
He matched me pace for pace,his hand trembling on his Kalashnikov rifle,as he ordered me to stop and present my documents.I could tell he didn't really want to do this,and ploughed on further.When his attentions got too much,I said "Not today,thankyou" as if he were recruiting for the Jehovah's Witnesses.
A final military hut was nearing on the left hand side,and I hoped that if I reached this I was home and dry in Georgian territory.He clearly wasn't going to allow this,so he finally stood in front of me,and demanded to take my passport ack to the border,now a hundred yards down the road.
Relieved that he only wanted to take my passport,I relented.He then shouted across to the hut,and asked the soldiers in there to look after me until he had entered my details and returned my passport.
I was invited in to what transpired to be a S Ossetian post,sat down and fed with a cob of corn.
One soldier lay on a camp bed cradling his Kalashnikov,which he lovingly referred to as his "fraulein".
He got up a few minutes later,and just after there was a loud crash.We all looked round and noticed his "fraulein" had rolled off the bed.tbc
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/mac-sum2001/1184104380/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/mac-sum2001/1184104380/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/mac-sum2001/1184104380/tpod.html Mon, 13 Oct 2008 12:46:34 -0400 I began my travelling life inter-railing in 1990,at a time when European borders were crumbling and civil wars were breaking out in the most unexpected and previously unheard of places.As my trips ev

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Pristina, Serbia and Montenegro

This was the best!
You must admit that going on holiday to invade somewhere does have a certain derring dare appeal to it.

It all began with a trip to an England football match in Sofia,perfectly timed to get me in the right place at the right time for NATO's liberation of Kosovo.
On the Friday after the game I was on my way to Skopje by bus.Arriving in late afternoon,it was clear that this town was gearing up for impending drama.NATO helicopters regularly overflew,and as I passed the HQ of the Macedonian Red Cross,a fleet of black limousines rolled up,delivering a team of dignitaries to discuss preparations for possible casualties and refugee issues.The land advance across the border into Kosovo,only 6 miles from here,was now imminent.

Over the next 10 days,in our own version of "Saving Private Ryan",an American comrade and I seized the moment and experienced our own walk on part in the War.
We were to witness the advance of NATO tanks over the border,and through the streets of Skopje,to scenes of jubilation from thousands of Albanians;we visited refugee camps across Macedonia;and we travelled the length and breadth of Kosovo at a time when the majority of coalition forces had yet to arrive,and danger from Serb resistance and snipers was still a possibility,just days after the advance troops had begun the occupation.

Kosovo was in an extreme state of flux,with four armies and two sets of refugees on the move.The armies were themselves made up of various factions;the Serb regular army and police were leaving hot on the heels of their paramilitary units;the Albanian KLA were returning from hillside and rural bays to the towns and cities;and the international forces were represented by separate battalions from different nations,each assigned their own sector of Kosovo to administer during the short term power vacuum before the expected democracy emerged.In this mix were also a regiment of Russian soldiers who had travelled from Bosnia to reach Pristina airport before the NATO forces,to garner any possible advantage to aid their Serb Orthodox allies.They held court to the international press at a checkpoint at Slatina as negotiations went on for their withdrawal.

Many Albanian refugees ignored official advice and returned to their homes very quickly,often only to find rubbled buildings,burnt cars and a danger of UXO,mines and booby traps all around.As we passed through their villages,they were often to be seen standing in roadside huddles,patiently waitng for the assistance of KFOR to render it safe to re enter their shattered homesteads.
Serbs,and sometimes gypsys were making the opposite journey,getting out while the going was good,unwilling to stake their future in a province governed by forces that had just subjected the Yugoslav government to several months of aerial bombardment.NATO had sided with Albanian victims to prevent another Balkan genocide,rather than risk another Srebrenica.

Many Serbs burned their own houses before they departed,rather than let them fall to the "enemy".What remained was often looted and torched by Albanians seeking reprisals for their own suffering.NATO forces were inclined to stand and watch these incidents,feeling it to be beneath their mandate to deter understandable acts of revenge by the victors of this conflict,and not wishing to make new enemies of their own so soon.

The infrastructure of the country had been badly destroyed,especially by the aerial bombing.In places were dummy bridges and tanks,made by the Serbs using scaffolding poles and tarpaulin,in an attempt to confuse the bombers,but most bombs had found their target,and many rivers were only passable on temporary Bailey bridges,or weaving around the craters on the old ones,if they had not collapsed completely.
But the roads were as yet quiet,with only a minimal amount of refugee traffic,and the byways were mostly clear for the huge convoys of NATO forces,each trailing back several miles with tanks,trucks,humvees and jeeps,as new forces continually arrived,and the beginnings of a supply chain were developed.

INTO THE UNKNOWN

We hired a driver in Skopje to take us to Pristina.We had no other plan than that we would go to the Grand Hotel when we arrived.Our initial trepidation based on internet reports of 2 German journalists being killed by snipers in Stimlje the day before,soon gave way to a more relaxed demeanour as we headed through Kacanik gorge,and then across the flat plains of southern Kosovo,pausing only at American checkpoints,where our Kfor passes were inspected at gunpoint and we were waved through,our journey shadowed by humvees buzzing around this American sector,and hailed by home made flags hung over bridges,welcoming NATO to Kosovo
.At one point we stopped on the road to film the passing of a large Italian armed convoy,as a battle group made its way to it's ultimate destination of Peja(Pec in Serbian).In another place we filmed at a ruined and deserted village,just off the highway,pondering it's fate.As we neared the capital,an Albanian with a large American flag walked towards oncoming traffic,flag pole in one hand,and a 2 fingered victory salute in the other.
Just before the brow of the hill that leads into the city,we were stopped at a British checkpoint,complete with camouflaged tents set up on the side of the road.I hoped we would find somewhere better to sleeep tonight!
I think these "tents" were to provide sniper's cover from this elevated position and it's fine view over Pristina.

The next few minutes were a blur as we raced through the streets,glimpsing the local people for the first time,and observing a tank on every street corner,finally pulling up at the Grand Hotel,itself guarded by a tank outside.Somebody had decorated it with a few bunches of flowers to celebrate liberation.
The hotel itself had been taken over by the press,and we breezed past one TV crew doing their piece to camera as we entered the foyer.Kate Adie was among the assembled journalists in the lounge area.It wasn't long before we experienced "the kindness of strangers",as some locals offered us the rental of a room in their apartment for one night,for a reasonable $20.
We arranged to meet them here later,and set off with no more to do to the Slatina airport,determined to see the Russian soldiers before any deal might be negotiated for their withdrawal.
A mile from the airport,we came to the Russian position,guarded by two 8 wheeled APC's,and a sandbagged sangar.The Russian conscripts brooded over a few Marlboroughs as they dealt with the keen media interest,while keeping watch through binoculars,and allowing through their own vehicles on airport runs.Their equipment appeared to be scruffy and outdated,as they blocked off this muddy track to outsiders.
A fuel dump adjacent to this position had been subject to NATO aerial bombardment,and was worthy of closer inspection,many oil drums still lying around among the devastation.
On our way back to Pristina,we passed by British soldiers on patrol,weapons pointing nervously out towards passing traffic as they guarded a civilian in front of their tank,a Serb Orthodox church in the background.They were unwilling to explain the situation so we proceeded to the capital.
Meeting our new host,we walked through the mean streets to our accomodation.Attempting to change money,we visited the bank,but all of their money had been taken to Belgrade by the Yugoslav army,and the counter staff pointed us in the direction of the butcher's opposite.Here,they had no meat,but their back room doubled up as the Pristina Stock Exchange,and dollars and Deutschmarks were rapidly swapped for Dinars.
Our route took us past army bases,burnt out shops,up hill and yond dale,until we arrived at the Sunny Hill district,one of the more elite areas of the city,with smart,relatively modern four story apartment blocks on the southern outskirts of town.As we arrived,British Puma helicopters flew low overhead,on their way to KFOR hill command centre,on a hill opposite,a few miles away in the south west of the city.
Our passage up the stairs was momentarily interrupted by two men moving large furniture downwards,where an already half full open truck idled by the kerb across the street.It transpired that our hosts Serbian neighbours had decided to get out while the going was good,in a civilised example of ethnic cleansing.The arrival in their block of two civilians from the main invading nations,appeared to do little to dissuade them from their exodus,and we graciously stepped aside as the wardrobe followed the double bed down the three flights of steps.We thought of offering to help but didn't want to appear churlish.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/mac-sum2001/1166821200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/mac-sum2001/1166821200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/mac-sum2001/1166821200/tpod.html Thu, 04 Sep 2008 12:12:33 -0400 I began my travelling life inter-railing in 1990,at a time when European borders were crumbling and civil wars were breaking out in the most unexpected and previously unheard of places.As my trips ev

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SKOPJE, Macedonia

Macedonia had been gripped by civil war for 6 months,and,after being present at the spring offensive in Tetovo,I made a return trip in the summer with the specific intention of travelling to the rebel Albanian side of this conflict.It didn't take long to find my way in,because a chance encounter,over breakfast at the youth hostel,with a mercenary and a journo led to an offer to accompany them that very day.Read on for the rest of this gripping tale,to be updated soon...

My primary aim of this trip was to visit the rebel side of this war,and on my first morning I spied a face that I recognised from the Tetovo spring offensive 3 months earlier.His name was Hans,a Dutch photographer.He was,as always,draped in expensive photographic equipment,including 2 cameras with long lenses,and a safari hat.It transpired that he had arrived in Macedonia only the day before,and was intending to reach the rebel enclave in the Black Mountain area to the North of Skopje later that day.He was in the company of M,a Dutch mercenary who had a given name and an adopted Muslim name both beginning with this letter,so I will call him M.

Hans had already arranged for M to escort him to the dark side of this conflict,and it was soon agreed that I could accompany them.The other two set off to the rendezvous point at a city centre pavement cafe,while I made my way to the indoor shopping centre to use the cashpoint machine.When I rejoined them the first thing they said was "Did you hear the mortar?" I had heard nothing because I was indoors,but they described to me the sound of an explosion that had carried from the eastern outskirts .Following recent territorial gains the rebels were now at the gates of the city,and within mortar distance of the international airport.British Airways had cancelled all flights to this Balkan capital.Peace talks were on-going in the lakeside tourist resort of Ohrid in the Southwest,but the conflict had escalated and feelings were running high as many villagers fled from KLA incursions,and Albanian civilians complained of Government reprisals.A new paramilitary group called The Tigers,apeing the Arkan Tigers from Serbia,was now recruiting,as the local Slavs sought to defend their interests.

This was the fourth Albanian uprising of recent years.In 1997,the homeland itself rose up in a madcap revolution in protest at the collapse of pyramid schemes,many linked with the countries first elected Government,who were basically communist relics,and corrupt.I had witnessed for myself this country on the brink in 1995.In the new found freedom,private enterprise was in it's early experimental phase.Some people began a new public transport service,running often clapped out minivans around the nation's potholed roads.Other's made illegal bucks smuggling petroleum into Yugoslavia across the northern border in a lucrative sanctions busting exercise.I saw them returning to Tirana to deposit pouchfuls of their ill gotten gains in hard currency into the nation's only banks.More serious mafiosi crime was beginning,including drug and people smuggling.And for many,unemployment was the norm,with large groups of redundant men often trying to persuade unwary travellers into taxis,hoping for a small commission for themselves from perhaps an inflated fare.
No wonder then that the country erupted in rage and fury when their often illegal earnings were misappropriated by those higher up in the corrupt pecking order.Out of control crowds ran the police out of many towns and villages across the nation,especially in the South.Army bases were raided and weapons seized.In Vlore,artillery guns were set up on the approach road to the city,to prevent the authorities re-taking the town.The crisis only subsided when a NATO mission called AFOR was sent in to restore order,and begin a reconstruction campaign.An amnesty was presented for weapons to be handed in,but many of the guns were instead re-directed to the north and smuggled into neighbouring Yugoslavia's Albanian dominated province of Kosovo.

The KLA had until now been a small and almost unheard of resistance group,but by 1998 they had openly declared war on the Serbian regime,and turned a region that had seen peaceful protest and a parallel society,into a conflict zone,as the hardliners such as Hashim Thaci,who saw no hope in peaceful protests changing the situation,became more powerful than pacifist leaders like Ibrahim Rugova,and actively recruited popular support.NATO's KFOR mission sided with the Albanian majority,and bombing followed by invasion set up an autonomous Kosovan state with majority rule,under UN auspices.

As part of this deal,Serbian armed forces were even denied access to a buffer zone on the perimeter of Kosovo and Serbia,for fear of a counter attack on their part.This,however,was capitalised on by the Albanians,who began another guerilla insurgency by forces called UCPMB,who raided across the border to attack unarmed Serb police units in the majority Albanian villages in South Serbia of Presevo,Medveda,andBujanovac,hence the rebel army's name.

Eventually some Serb forces were allowed back into this buffer zone and quelled the situation,but as this was still going on,Albanian dominated border regions of Macedonia began an uprising in protest at their unfair treatment since independence from Yugoslavia.They wanted equal rights,a fair education system and their own language to be enshrined in a new constitution.From small beginnings in the border village of Tanusevci,just across from Kosovo,in January 2001,the conflict escalated to include all the northern and western Macvedonian border regions.In March 2001,rebels of the UCK force appeared on the hills over Tetovo.This group's name had the same initals as in Kosovo,but actually referred to the Ushtria Clirimtare E Kombatare(not E Kosoves),translated as the Albanian National Army in the western press.After 2 weeks of rebels sending occasional mortar or sniper fire into the town,the more heavily armed Government forces in the town drove them back with an uphill offensive,following days of a softening up exercise where they bombarded rebel positions with heavy machine gun,tank and mortar fire.

I was present for most of this conflict,and my more detailed account can be found under Giant Woodpeckers and Twitchers' TET Offensive,on this website.

Back in Skopje,2001,and we were soon joined at our table by some aid workers known to M. Despite having pointed out 2 men sitting opposite as government agents,M merrily discussed our upcoming adventure into rebel territory with these acquaintances.He began to make calls on his mobile phone to commanders who were in the enclave.We moved on to an Albanian district,where another call was made,and then sat at another cafe until the rebels turned up in two vehicles,both unmarked ordinary cars,to drive us to the interface village of Ljuboten,from where we would join a mule train after dark to Matejce.
They came,naturally enough,in plain clothes,and as we rode in front with only our driver,the rebels rode behind in their vehicle.We travelled like this out of the capital,passing the hotel headquarters where we had obtained our NATO KFOR press passes two years before,and out into the countryside.All the while,we kept in radio contact with the support vehicle,who themselves were in touch with people on the road ahead.In this way we avoided government road blocks,who most probably would have stopped us in our tracks.They had recently decreed under a state of emergency that no journalists were allowed to visit the rebel side any more.They did not like the bad publicity that this was giving them.Although our first port of call was still strictly speaking within government held areas,even travelling this far would have aroused suspicion and a likelihood of being halted in our tracks.
Suddenly our driver began jabbering that the accompanying vehicle had turned back.He quickly stopped the car,got out on the roadside,and,leaving his door wide open,ran as fast as his legs would carry him across the fields to our left,disappearing over the horizon.We stood around bemused,but nonchalant,and decided to sit by the roadside and await developments.M started to tell us about the three journalists he had escorted the week before.On that occasion they had gone via Romanovce,on the opposite side of the rebel held Black Mountains from us,to the east near to the city of Kumanovo.Afterwards,on the way back to Skopje,they had been stopped at a roadblock,and had all their cameras smashed and photographs seized.
Filled with this cheery thought,Hans demonstrated his camera's long lens to me,to show me how far away you could see through it.At this point we spotted 2 helicopters,flying from right to left across our field of view.Initially we thought they were NATO choppers flying to Kosovo as part of KFOR.However,as they got closer,it became clear that they were the Ukrainian gunships,on loan,complete with pilots,to the Macedonian government,which had already been used extensively against the Albanian rebels.They disappeared behind a hill,after which we heard the sound of them firing missiles.They then flew back into Skopje,low over the city and on to the airport,on the far side.What came to mind was "We counted them out,and we counted them all back in again".. that famous quotation from the Falklands conflict.How many were there? Two! OK,not that dramatic,but we had witnesssed a helicopter gunship mission,from a fine setting,perched halfway up a hillside,with a view over the whole of Skopje in the middle distance to our right.
We may be a bit slow on the uptake,I don't know,but only later did we consider whether the attack was meant for us,if our cars hadn't been forewarned and stopped in time.This possibility was increased the following day when we were informed that the missiles had hit their own side..Friendly Fire...perhaps we had had a lucky escape.
Before long another Albanian arrived to replace our driver.He and M sniggered over the less than brave actions of the disappeared one,and we continued our journey,after an afternoon of being chased around Macedonia by helicopter gunships.
There was just the small matter of one unavoidable checkpoint to negotiate on the edge of Ljuboten.The other car had now rejoined us,and it was decided that it would drive ahead.As it was having it's boot searched,we drove up behind,and were waved through,by Albanian conscripts of the Macedonian army!
Despite the ongoing conflict,war had never been officially declared,and society continued to integrate as much as possible.This led to questionable loyalties of some of the regular's staff.Fear meant that the Macedonians preferred to deploy Albanians near to this rebel territory,but it led to inevitable security compromises.So,as M would say,"the oldest trick in the book" worked,with no little help from a less than ruthless checkpoint,and we were home and dry.

Ljuboten was a mixed village,but with an Albanian majority.Everybody we met appeared to be in the resistance.It appeared to be the sort of place where you would expect Monique from Secret Army to pop up,at any minute.
We were driven to a safe house,where we sat in the garden as the hosts waited upon us.The man of the house came and told us his story of being imprisoned by the police the previous year,and of being beaten while in custody.He lifted his shirt,and showed us the scars on his back.Two revolvers were lovingly unwrapped from their hessian covers and shown off to us,and we were left in no doubt as to what they would like to do with them.
We waited for dark,and discussed borrowing coats for me and Hans,to help us across the mountains through the cold night.Suitably provided for,and looking all the more like locals,we set off by car with yet another driver through the pitch blackness of village streets at around 9 pm,our headlights switched off so as not to arouse suspicion.Ljuboten was tacitly controlled by the government in the daytime,but after dark,the rebels came out to play.
A ten minute journey brought us to our rendezvous point,at the foothills of the Black mountains.A group of about a dozen UCK rebel Albanian soldiers were already there,kitted out in full green camouflage uniforms,with their UCeKombatare insignias distinctive on their shoulder flashes.A discussion was held about Hans's white trousers and whether they might be visible to the enemy1
It was decided to risk it,and I had reason to be glad of this faint illumination(as did Hans,who didn't fancy a naked midnight ramble).I spent much of the journey nose to tail with Hans's heels,as the only way to follow the column ahead,struggling as we were to keep up in such blind circumstances.I bagsed Dougal,from Magic Roundabout,early on in all of this,and chuckling to myself,I left the others to squabble over Florence and Zebedee.But I knew what I thought with Hans's girly white trousers,and M hopping mad,at times,over UCK indiscipline,and the difficulty of our journey.I kept this little joke to myself as a comforting thought as we trudged through the night,but burst out laughing when I saw them in bed together later that night.
A couple more UCK joined us,and then we set off,talking in hushed whispers,and breathing hard as we ascended a very high and steep slope without a proper footpath to follow.At about the halfway point up the first slope,we were joined by mules,packhorsed with supplies for the rebel army in the enclave,including food,weapons and ammunition.
Our way switched from scrub,to a path,to rough ground again,and the walking pace was fierce.It was also impossible to see your hand in front of your face for most of the journey,let alone hazards such as potholes,or brambles that came unexpectedly out of the night,and very often we stumbled or fell behind.I was not helped by a swollen ankle,caused by wearing worn out shoes for too long,and exacerbated by a climb of Mount Olympus in Greece 2 1/2 weeks before.How much easier that had been! This was beginning to have all the elements of a forced march,and we had every reason to be grateful for the outstretched helping hands of the rebel soldiers when they came back for us and dragged us up the slopes.I've always thought that I was fit,but they had great strength,and must have been feasting on carrots for months to be able to navigate so well,without using any light that would have alerted the government forces in the valley below to our presence,and possibly lead to an attack against us.They were truly the Magic Rabbits of this circular frolic,as we looped around the mountain,and finally summitted in the early hours of the next morning.
Looking down from our lofty mountain perch,during our circular walk,we initially had a view of the lights of Skopje,and then eventually of the airport and Kumanovo,and the roads that run at right angles between them.Traffic still passed between them,and I thought how easy it would be for the rebels to attack this road if they wanted to,and the illuminated dinky cars that travelled the highways.

I also remembered back to the previous few days spent in Macedonia,as we walked,mostly in silence.I had entered the country from Albania,crossing from Pogradec to Sveti Naum and along the shores of Lake Ohrid to Ohrid town.Unlike 1995,when I had travelled in the opposite direction,hitching part of it on a milk float,and walking the rest,I managed to catch the morning bus.A local Macedonian soldier got on partway,shuffling with embarrasment at having to carry a rifle in this rural retreat,probably for the first time in his career.We passed others looking similarly glum.
I stopped then at Bitola,and hired a taxi to drive me to the "burnt houses",put to the torch during a Macedonian "Kristallnacht" in two separate incidents in recent weeks.
On both occasions,Slav policeman from the town had been killed near to Tetovo,and their funerals in Bitola had been followed by mob violence.Equipped with lists of the addresses of Albanian citizens, the angry mourners and hangers-on had selectively avenged themselves upon these properties,and their inhabitants if any chose to resist.
The damage done was scattered around the town,with never more than two or three houses in one street having been attacked.This was less dramatic visually than cleansed areas I have seen in places like Bosnia,but proof all the same of systematic attack,and perhaps all the more cold blooded,at that.It also smacked of official cooperation,if not support.
I was in Skopje by nightfall,and the following day visited Kumanovo.The bus travelled east to the airport,and then north along the main road,and we all stared across at the mountains that we were skirting,wondering whether there really were rebels out there.Now I can safely say "There's rebels in them thar hills,alright!"
The rebels,who we were now visiting,were also in control of the reservoir to the north of the Black Mountains,and so the city of Kumanovo had had no water supply for the last week.People filled buckets from tankers in the street,while policemen drove around town in open backed jeeps,hiding their faces by wearing balaclavas,appearing intimidating to others,as well as proving their own fear at being recognised by rebels and being attacked themselves.
I drove out of town,again by taxi,which were much cheaper here than in Britain,to visit an aid convoy that had been sat by the roadside on the way to Lipkovo,for the last week,held up at a police checkpoint,as officials attempted to gain permission for it to supply the villagers,who were stuck in the rebel held enclave,for the first time in weeks.Several journalists waited in their cars with them,hoping to be allowed to accompany the convoy when agreement was reached.
At one point on the bus journey back to Skopje,we were overtaken by a convoy of Macedonian soldiers.The men sat in the covered back of the trucks,which tolled large artillery pieces behind them.
Back in the capital,I saw one man moving his wordly goods into the city on the back of a horse drawn cart.Many thousands of people were now refugees,but others remained in rebel territory,which had been subjected to heavy shelling recently and fears were growing for their welfare.Not that this bothered the Macedonian police and army.When I tried to visit Skopje's hilltop castle,for old time's sake,I found it closed to tourists,and occupied by Government forces,who were extremely suspicious of anyone who came close.Obviously they didn't want the rebels getting in the castle,or they would probably have never got them out!

Our walk was paused only to collect fresh water from a mountain stream,which the mules also took from.More rebels had gradually joined our column,rising from hilltop sangars,and there was a sense of excitement as we neared our destination.
"Ssshhh,...policia",commanded one man as we rounded the summit.Hard to believe as it was,there were apparently police positions in the middle of the mountains,and the KLA hoped to creep by unnoticed.My sudden groan of pain from my sore ankle,when it had again twisted in an unseen pothole,had not pleased him.When M slipped over later in the walk,he kept impeccably silent,only to be surrounded in moments by his devotees,asking how he was and making enough fuss to wake the dead.
Our final approach saw us leave the steep,and often wooded escarpments behind,and come out onto a flat plateau,with panoramic views.Our mediaeval army of footmen and mules trudged on,illuminated for the first time by the moon,which we now only saw when we had nearly got there....to the Dark side of the moon ,that is.Just a little further,but back into the undergrowth,each man swinging a lighted cigarette butt in his hand as we finally put several hours of blind man's buff and pin the tail on the donkey behind us.Making the final approach through thick mud,-I almost balked at the several inches of slime we had to wade through,but M's barked order of "It's only mud-get in" galvanised me into action- we slipped,staggered and stumbled into Matejce monastery in the dead of night,to be greeted by the local monastery commander and his men.Seated on a big chair that could almost have been a throne,in the apse of the cathedral,his men around him on lower stools,the commander was clearly milking his new found status,playing a game of chess with one of his subordinates while being served with tea from a big pot.He was the first link in the chain of command down which we would now pass,and we couldn't do anything or go anywhere without his permission.
Beds were found for us in a monastery building that had been converted into a barracks.For some reason,M and Hans shared a double,while I was in the next room.Conditions were spartan,but acceptable.
Just before we turned in,M suddenly mentioned money for the first time.
He wanted "2000" for the trip from each of us.I nearly choked into my imaginary cup of cocoa,thinking he might mean U.S dollars.Fortunately,he was talking in Macedoniann Dinar.Not bad for about $80.

Breakfast was the soldier's favourite,a tin of corned beef roasted over an open fire,behind the barracks.Some like it hot,I suppose.For me it was a first.
M regaled us with tales of the Japanese journalist he had brought here a few days earlier.An early morning mortar salvo from the Government forces below had sent him running out of the barracks in a panic as they screeched low over the building.We chuckled about this for a while,yet somewhat disappointed to not have a similar experience.Damn the ceasefire!
Of course this was a Balkan ceasefire,so at least we still had machine gun,RPG and helicopter gunship possibilities.Only the mortars and tanks were silent for a few days.
A rumbling noise became audible in the background.Everybody paused to listen,wondering if it was an enemy chopper.All around us,as we ate,were KLA troops positioned in trenches,their makeshift anti aircraft weapons pointed at the skies,hoping to shoot down some of these helicopters.After a while,we decided the noise was only a tractor,and continued our breakfast.Apparently the Japanese guy had been able to visit the site of a downed chopper,with the dead pilots still within,but they had now been repatriated.
The young soldiers in the trenches insisted that they were all local Macedonians,and that they were fighting for their own villages.Nobody admittted to being from Albania or Kosovo,and I had no reason to disbelieve them.
M pointed out the Macedonian police positions in the valley below,as we waited to continue our journey.
After a lot of sitting around,we were eventually escorted down the mountain in a 2 vehicle convoy.The lead car had it's dark green livery sprayed with KLA slogans in white paint.Neither of the cars had any windows in,to facilitate a rapid escape if they were hit by enemy fire.The monastery commander got into the driver's seat of our car,and a large female in black KLA uniform sat alongside.A Kalashnikov rested between them on the handbrake.We rolled quite quickly downhill,the branches of the thick woodland around us occasionally snapping inside the open car."It reminds me of what I've heard about the jungle of Vietnam" mused Hans.
Only one section of the descent was potentially exposed to Govt view,and we rode untroubled into the ghost town of Matejce.The town was almost completely destroyed,and 2 wild horses running around unfettered appeared to be the only life.We were to return here,but for now passed straight through to the less damaged and more inhabited village of Lipkovo.Our fist port of call was to the Mayor's office.We sat at a long table and awaited his arrival.A huge Albanian flag filled the wall at the far end,and after a while a number of black uniformed KLA stood on the raised platform in front of it and began to use their mobile phones.They were making arrangements for the arrival of the aid convoy,the one that I had seen on the road outside Kumanovo 2 days earlier.Today it was expected to be granted permission to enter the rebel territory.
The mayor and local commander gave us permission to be in the town and found us somewhere to stay.A local family had a spare room,and we moved in immediately.They had a beautiful garden within their walled compound,with fruit bearing trees,and it was a pleasant oasis.
When I went out to explore,some local villagers insisted on showing me the damage done by Govt tankfire just two mornings before.Every house had converted it's basement to a bomb shelter,but it hadn't been enough to save the family of one house which had taken three casualties as they slept.About 5 or 6 houses showed similar damage,but overall this town was in good condition compared to the rest of the enclave.
Later in the afternoon,we were to drive out to meet the aid convoy,as they crossed the front line.We assembled in another 2 vehicle convoy,and this time drove extremely quickly,not even stopping at the KLA roadblocks,whose personnel rapidly jumped out of the road as we approached.This road was quite exposed to Govt fire,being right on the edge of the hillside,and the valley below.We observed large KLA gun emplacements at intervals along this road,but not much else as the scenery flashed by in a blur.
When we arrived at the village of Slupcane,there was a short while to wait.We discovered many dead cows lying around the village,and M pointed out a gas cannister in the river that he believed could have been responsible for this,after being dropped from a Govt helicopter.A villager took me for a ride on his motorbike up and down the village.
The convoy of several large trucks arrived at the KLA position.All the drivers ID cards were checked at gunpoint,before they were allowed to pass.As this was happening,an open pickup truck with a large mounted machine gun,filled with KLA fighters,including women,paraded up and down the road alongside,in a deliberate show of force.

ALL THE WAY TO RENO

If Moussa wants to go to Aracinovo,then to Aracinovo we must go.
Actually I was quite glad.After all,you don't go all the way to rebel held Macedonia and then skimp on the job,do you?
Moussa was keen to get back to Skopje quickly to get himself a nice little earner,by escorting Peter from Reuters to the place where we were now.He had heard that there was a "corridor" from "Rino" to the capital city,and no self-respecting action man was going to let half the Macedonian armed forces and a few mine fields stand in his way.
The Rambo vision didn't last long upon our arrival in Aracinovo.We were quickly escorted to the HQ of Commander Hoxha-the same man who had caused BA to cancel all flights,after threatening that the rebels would mortar the airport since their seizure of this village had put them within range.
After being served tea by "al Qaeda in Macedonia",the only "raghead" we saw on the trip and Mr Hoxha's second in comand,the latter showed that he clearly had more sense than M.
"No,No,No...that would be far too dangerous" was his rapid decision,"you should go back the way you came".
"I will take a gun and fight my way through" explained Moussa,but to no avail.
Cmmdr Hoxha had already made up his mind.Mention of a "corridor",and it's apparent precariousness,had brought me visions of a furrow,as in plough and furrow,and M trying to crawl along on his belly as hostile forces attacked from all sides,perhaps dragging me along in his wake as he guided me back to Skopje.

At least his reckless fantasy had got us the full tour,and we'd made it to the rebel village that was most out on a limb,but I was glad not to be being dragged back to Skopje through a ditch,especially not in a body bag!
"I think we'd better get you back to civilisation as soon as we can,Moussa ,old son.The sun seems to have gone to your head and scorched your brains.But at least let's take the safer route!
No $80(at least that's what we paid) can be worth excessive risk".

CATMEAT MUJ

Dinner time in Aracinovo had been eagerly awaited.
This frontline rebel-held village was not a safe place to explore.
We had arrived at 21-30 the previous evening,and I,at least,had spent all day confined in a house at the top end of town,where our trail had entered after a 2-3 hour stroll down from Matejce.After our meeting with Cmmdr Hoxha in that first hour,we had slept in a house on the northern edge of the village that night and then crossed the road to the logistics base the following morning.The other two had returned to the Cmmdr's to play with Eran's computer,with which he could broadcast to the outside world,even from this isolated location.....almost impregnable to man,but not to telecommunications.I had been left behind,as to travel in this dangerous village was on an "essential personnel only basis",and my presence,antiquated film camera et al,was not required by the commander as he gained an insight into the World of the Web.
I spent most of that afternoon quietly fuming about being left out,and my annoyance didn't dissipate on their return,when I learned that Eran had obtained good pictures of war casualties- some local farmers hit by RPG rockets-who had been brought into the Commander's base.

Moussa told me that a bullet had whistled over Eran's head just after they left our logistics base,underlineg that it would have been dangerous and unnecessary for me to risk going with them,but I was still disappointed.I asked after the casualties,and he told me that he had driven them down to the Macedonian checkpoint to get them to Skopje hospital.I'm not sure if he was being serious.Or maybe this was another breakout attempt by M,with Peter's cheque book in mind!

Anyway,..back to the meal rota.They do say that...

JOHNNY SERB NEVER MISSES HIS DINNER.

Maybe the Macedonian snipers are the same.It had been deemed too dangerous to go out all day,so we sat in listening to the occasional ping of bullets on the road outside.However at 17-30,the KLA suddenly invited us out to dinner! Official ceasefire,presumption,or bravado,...I never quite found out,but was glad of the chance to see some of the village,and to eat hot food for the first time for 60 hours.
We sneaked out of our logistics base the back way,feeling like Diana in Paris,and I don't think it was to avoid any waiting Paparazzi.The Hunter hunted,and all that.We climbed over the garden wall,and made our way through two other gardens,before then walking in single file behind our solo KLA armed escort,past the mosque,in a quite exposed neighbourhood.After going around a block of houses,we ended up in an open barn extension,with a roof,but no sides.
Only Moussa,Eran and I were to eat ,and a pot of meat was placed on a table already waiting for us.A "football team" of KLA soon arrived,however.They apparently were here to provide the cabaret for their honoured guests,and one of them fired his pistol at 2 cats sat on a wall opposite,as we ate,making an unexpectedly loud bang from several feet away,that sounded louder than the tanks in Tetovo in the Spring.Then another picked up his rifle,and,with another deafening bang,blasted away at the cats.They disappeared behind the wall,and we couldn't tell if they had been hit,or just run away.
It was at this point that Eran suddenly lost his appetite,or at least decided to make a rapid conversion to vegetarianism,and passed me his bowl of meat stew.I eagerly tucked in to the first meat we had eaten since breakfast 2 mornings before,when we heated a whole tin of corned beef over an open fire......I had never eaten meat that tasted quite like this before,but only thinking back later did I put two and two together and realise what was going through Eran's mind.Call me slow on the uptake,if you like,but only when we had returned to the civilisation of Skopje did it dawn on me that we might have been eating the local cats.Perhaps the two we saw being shot at were to be the next day's offering to the next unsuspecting journalist who was passed down the line! To Peter of Reuters,in fact.Should we warn him? On reflection,he was probably better left to his fate.But when the war is over,and the villagers return,if anybody finds their pet Tiddles missing,I might just be able to shed light on their loss.

Upon my return to England,it was nice to be serenaded in the charts by REM's latest hit "All the way to Reno".
It made me think of Aracinovo,and I still wonder if the band were in the loop?
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1196440620/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1196440620/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1196440620/tpod.html Sat, 30 Aug 2008 11:39:13 -0400 AROUND THE WORLD IN NINETY DAYS

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Durban, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa

Reacing the ocean
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/travel_stories/1179414720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/travel_stories/1179414720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/travel_stories/1179414720/tpod.html Mon, 04 Aug 2008 12:49:46 -0400 A COLLECTION OF MY TRAVEL ADVENTURES SINCE 1990.SEE ALSO MY OTHER TRAVELOGUES,INCLUDING mac-sum 2001

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BRUSSELS, Belgium

Thirty thousand England fans joined the influx from across the continent for this football tournament.It was the third consecutive to be played in or close to Britain,and English enthusiasm had been heightened by the staging of the '96 competition,and new found optimism of England success.
The St George flag had taken over as the supporters symbol of choice,in a newly devolved United Kingdom,and,just as in France 2 years before for the World Cup,there was a fanatical desire for match tickets,far exceeding the paltry 2500 available officially to the competing nations in each game.A FIFA "sponsored" black market was inevitable,and the hope was that the prices would not reach the £450 that many paid in France 2 years before.
The tournament had seen a well behaved start in Eindhoven,in Holland,as the police's softly softly approach,the fans' enjoyment of the greater amount of tourist sights available in the Netherlands,and the traditional late arrival of many supporters to tournaments,had conspired to create a quiet occasion,passing off with the arrest of only 9 England fans.
Belgium was to be an entirely different matter.There were few tourist sights to enjoy,but anybody who missed the inadequately publicised reenactment of the Battle of Waterloo,held every four years and this year coinciding with the football tournament,needn't feel that they had missed out for long,as the streets of Brussels and Charleroi were soon to resemble a war zone of their own.

This is the story of how England fans in particular lived it up on the streets of Belgium,and how nighttime battles became a spectator sport for tourists,especially American,who would congregate on the steps of the Bourse every evening to witness the latest action.

Even before reaching Belgium,any interest in watching the games live in pubs or on big screens had already waned.The low key atmosphere in the towns in the Low Countries had made even watching one or two televised games in Holland a dull experience,and with my Dad recording them all back home,it was better to catch up later,and not waste travel time with my head buried in the TV as usual.
The pubs of Brussels that were best to drink in,appeared to have little interest in showing the games on their TV's,even if they had one.
Also,accomodation was at a premium,and I was to retire from each night's action to a restful night under the stars in a small central park,via the train station luggage office to collect my sleeping bag.
These circumstances don't make for useful days exploring,or a serious attempt to concentrate on a tournament worth of football games,but rather a lifestyle of late night binge drinking and long al fresco lie ins,before it's time to do it all over again the next day.

On the day before England's game in Charleroi with Germany,Brussels was humming early on with soccer chants ringing around the streets.Everywhere,were groups of England fans,soaking up the atmosphere,ordering beers,socialising noisily,on every street of the capital,in every pub and every hotel bar.In places,the congregation was that much larger and the pavement cafes became standing room only with revellers filling the pavement and spilling out into the road.
All the favourite chants were performed,demonstrating the best of English patriotism and humour.

"Keep St George in my heart,I pray....keep me English 'til my dying day.....No Surrender to the IRA".
"Self preservation Society"
"God Save the Queen"
and "if it wasn't for the English you'd be Krauts",always a favourite to sing in countries that we liberated in WWII.

But there was an extra element to England's away ethos for this trip.One month before,two Leeds Utd fans had been stabbed to death in Istanbul,at a UEFA Cup semi final with Galatasaray.The presence of Turkey in this tournament,and a large local Turkish community in Brussels,had not gone unnoticed by the travelling support.

The chant "Die,Die Turkey,Turkey Die" was a new rallying call for the England fans,it's volume and vitriol rising in tempo as the afternoon sunlight gave way to the menace of the evening's call.
One particular pub,on the edge of the city centre,opposite the Bourse,had a particularly large gathering of some of England's finest bare knuckle fighters,off duty soldier boys,and vengeful Yorkshiremen,not to mention a Welsh following of Soul Crew boyos from the Valleys of Cardiff.Resigned to the fact that their team,who haven't qualified for anything since 1958,will probably never reach a major tournament again,a detachment of them had latched on to England's biannual invasion of Europe,and added their name to the mix.
The choice of this pub had been partly dictated by it's close proximity to one of the Turkish areas of the city,an inner city neighbourhood a mere stone's throw from this location.
For many hours,the England fans played their usual game of baiting the police.Standing outside the bar with plastic glasses of watered down beer,chanting patriotically,making the occasional foray into the road,tossing the odd plastic bottle,eye ball to eye ball with Belgian riot police,who looked like they had come kitted out for a civil war,or at least an inner city riot,while making no attempt to engage with the fans.
These Belgian forces,patrolling the city centre in eight vehicle convoys,dismounting in military formation,and standing in rigid lines with their riot shields,helmets and tear gas guns,stood just close enough to the fans to make themselves a target to rebel against,while failing to engage with any dialogue and keeping a safe enough distance as to be ineffectual in subduing the rising tide of patriotic fervour all around them.

The finish of France's game,I remember not who against,was the catalyst for the night of violence to come.
Nobody had seen the game as the pub in question did not possess a television,and most people were stood outside singing anyway,building up a spirit of fraternity with like minded supporters of other clubs,people you had mostly never met,but who instinctively shared the same value system from the English terrace tradition.The watered down beer only helped to keep the party going longer,as you could drink for longer,cheaper,and still be standing up a few hours later,with plenty of energy left for when it all went off.

Most of these lads were lapsed or partly lapsed club team supporters,disillusioned with the all seater,money oriented,television world of modern Britain and the Premier League,but who had learned their trade well in the school of hard knocks that was the Football League of the '70's and '80's,where rituals were learned by observation from a young age,and traditions followed as a rite of passage to the higher echelons of the terrace,and the most fervent standing places in the ground.
These were no glory hunters,but the people who were once the heart and soul of the game,who kept their clubs alive and the flag flying in the dark days of '80's economic depression,and had now all too often been cast aside by new "go ahead" owners of their clubs,people who did not care to respect the heritage,as they sought the new money of families and middle class.The club's aim was to dumb down the culture with the purpose of attracting a wider audience.If these lads hadn't fallen foul of increasingly oppressive regulations,they had grown tired of seeing their value systems diminished before their eyes.

England away days were now the last bastion of this soccer tribe.

Once upon a time,they had weekly gatherings,fortnightly away days and were "too busy singing to put anybody down",pub crawling their way around the UK,indoctrinated by the belief system that surrounded each team.
Looking down upon those they passed in the high street who had nothing better to do with their Saturdays than shopping,they lived for the buzz of supporting something larger than their own individual life,and creating a sense of occasion second to none every week.For most,this way of life had been greatly diminshed during recent years of change.In fact,sometimes they could be forgiven for thinking they were the Last of the Mohicans,as the "great British public" turned against the last of the old values,and became an increasingly individualistic and capitalist society.Their football support became viewed as nothing more than consumerism,and the once omnipresent community spirit of the terraces was now less conspicuous in the new all seater arenas than a night at the cinema.
Just because you are watching the same film,or football match doesn't mean that you have anything to do with the person sat next to you watching the same thing...,so says the NEW value system.
The old "wartime spirit",when football clubs support was at its most passionate and polarised,and you very much knew whose side you were on when people would fight for the colours,has been reduced to a sham of a contest between money oriented "corporations",soulless and insignificant in their own opulence.The tribal rituals and social scene have become as nothing.
These England fans understood the old way of football life,and were true believers,their convictions undiminished by the soul corrupting influences of the modern English game.


As some of the French supporters made their way past this crowd of England hooligans,......faithful supporters,patriots,terrace apprentices,call them what you will,....a small rush broke out into the road towards them,one or two bottles were thrown,words were exchanged,faces threatened with fists.
It did not last long,nor reach any great heights.but it began a series of skirmishes that continued for the next eight hours until 3 o'clock in the morning,and swept right across the city centre,resulting in a number of injuries and thousands of deportations.(One bit of good news was that at least it reduced the ticket crisis for Charleroi the following day).
The kick off with the French was soon followed by a series of running battles with the riot police.Chairs and bottles were thrown,and baton charges were offered in return.
A few hundred yards down the street,hundreds of Turkish fans had got wind of the English presence,and they were engaged in a running battle of their own as they attempted to breach police lines to reach the city centre.
The missiles they threw appeared somewhat chunkier,and the police seemed to be near to using their tear gas.

After the umpteenth charge had taken place on the England fans,everybody began to disperse into smaller units,heading off in different directions.
The Welsh boys,among others,headed into town.
I latched onto a group of mostly Yorkshire boys who were partly driven by the police charge and partly inspired by recent events,into a dip into Turkish territory.Heading into side streets behind our pub,intermittently chanting our songs,we soon found ourselves free of police presence,the latter having been distracted by the movement of the Welsh "Decoy Boys",and oblivious to us moving directly away from their rigid line.
Ten minutes passed with nothing more than a little car vandalsim to talk about.The only notable change in the mood was that the further we delved into the Turkish neighbourhood,the smaller appeared to be our numbers.
This began to take on the aura of an SAS mission behind enemy lines.Good practice for the rest of my summer's travelling,as I hoped to continue from this tournament to Russia and Chechnya,in a round trip before making my way back via the Caucasus and Turkey to France in time for September's qualifier.But a little too much like a suicide mission for comfort.We numbered only a few dozen,but most were determined to take on the local Turks in their own back yard.
Finally,we spotted a large group of them in a park,and a charge was made.The Turks didn't know what had hit them,but eventually chased England off by force of numbers.
We headed back towards the city along another route.
We passed the bar where the Welsh-led group had now congregated.As we continued,some of the big guys in our group,now down to just ten,were whacking Turks on sight,felling them with a single punch and knocking them out cold as they walked towards us.Most didn't even see us coming.A Turks' motorbike was kicked about,and a couple of bar windows were also attacked,and broken.
(I went along with this only for journalistic reasons,and disclaim any responsibility for the events).
I now broke away from this group,and walked around to see what else was going on.
As I came past the Welsh pub again,I saw that the "Decoy Boys" were surrounded by police,gathered on the pavement,forced to sit,and apparently about to be detained and probably deported.They had just had tear gas sprayed into the bar,and been forced to come out into the fresh air,many throwing up in the process.
"There but for the grace of God,go I",I thought.

The night was still young.I went looking for more company.
The main square in Brussels had been cordoned off by steel railings across the roads,manned by policemen who turned back large groups,and as the evening wore on only allowed Belgians into the square.
I happened upon another group of England fans singing loudly outside the Tourist Bar,in one of the most touristed streets of Central Brussels.This was mostly a younger crowd,but the songs were the same and the passion intense.Beer flowed and plastic littered the ground.The only difficulty was fighting your way to the bar.

Half way down the street that led from this pub was a crossroads,with a steel barrier closing the road to traffic.About thirty yards down the street to the left were a line of riot police and several dozen members of the World's press.As the night wore on,and the crowds built up,the idea grew to attack this line.By now,the amount of England fans had outgrown the immediate area of the pub,and filled a twenty yard section of the road.
Some of the crowd became boisterous,to the extent of lifting the barrier that was blocking the road,and encouraging each other to use it as a battering ram to attack the police line.Bottles were thrown in that direction,but the press were now positioned on our side of the police line.
"Come oooon,let's get 'em"
"Cum on!"
"Engerland,Engerlaaaand"
With one final rallying cry of "come on" and various "oooing" noises,several hundred England fans charged en masse at the world's press.Some of them used the barrier that had blocked the traffic for part of the charge, before it became too cumbersome.The press turned and ran instantly,ducking for the cover of police lines,as missiles rained upon them and hooligans breathed down their neck.The riot police rushed forward.Most of the crowd turned and ran back up the street with the pub in it.Sticking together,they were forced to one side of the road and ultimately surrounded.
Sadly,their good time was over,and I would have to find some more company again.I stood in a doorway on the opposite side of the street,surprisingly ignored by the riot police,and sloped off quietly a few minutes later when they weren't looking.
I circled around the block.By the time I came back most of the England fans had been led away."Survivors" and others gradually congregated in another bar a short way up the road from the Tourist Bar,which had now become at least the third pub tonight to be closed down.
Eventually,late in the night a final stand was offered by the remaining fans in this area.A bottle throwing charge was made toward the police,then windows were broken all along the street,as the retreating fans rampaged along a narrow and fairly crowded tourist avenue,back towards the train station.Reaching the top end of the city centre,a few ducked inside another crowded England pub.The rest gathered in small groups opposite.
When the riot police eventually caught up with this chase,they surrounded the pub and forced all of the fans outside,most of whom had been innocently drinking.More unfortunate candidates for deportation.Some of those who had just created the latest mayhem watched quietly from across the street.
It was time to head for their hotels,or in my case,to fetch my sleeping bag and bunk down in the park under a bush somewhere,wondering what tomorrow will bring.I was glad the Charleroi game didn't kick off until the next evening,so I could lie in in the morning,even if that means getting funny looks off half the population of Brussels as they head to work in the morning!



]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1185303600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1185303600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1185303600/tpod.html Mon, 04 Aug 2008 08:38:30 -0400 AROUND THE WORLD IN NINETY DAYS

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WADI HALFA, Sudan

This journey from Wadi Halfa to Khartoum,was no easy ride and put me in mind of boot camp!

Transport was slow,poorly timetabled and on bad roads.
Hotels were mostly basic lokandas with nowhere to lock baggage,and everyone sleeping out in open courtyards at night in the almost unbearably hot weather.
Flies and mosquitos were ever present.Thank goodness they don't have malaria here.I hope! At least the locals say they don't,or at least not at this time of year,and they don't use any precautions such as nets.
Showers were usually the bucket variety,often positioned over the smelly toilet hole.
Few people spoke English in most villages.My fault for not speaking Arabic of course,but it makes life difficult,all the same.
The locals had a disinterested attitude to time so that attempting a rapid or scheduled journey was a concept they could not entertain!

On Fridays,nothing moves,and I personally was stuck in the small town of Abri for a day,frustratedly watching everyone else sitting on their lazy backside while I went round the village,where I could communicate with virtually nobody,seeking a bowl to wash my clothes in.When I found one,suddenly everyone who couldn't be bothered to find one for me,wanted use of it."Fetch yer own" was my predictable reaction.

But,like all good boot camps,as I progressed southward,I was gradually rewarded with improved conditions and restoration of "priveleges".
In Karima,I even had a single room with a lock,although it was so unbearably hot that the ceiling rotor only churned round hot air and I still ended up moving out into the courtyard by the early hours of the morning,virtually naked,and too boiled to care.I usually cope with the heat very well,but northern Sudan was something else again at this time of year.
Worse still was visiting two pyramid sites in the desert here.On the first I made my own way to part of the site,but was escorted to the other part.I thought my escort had water with him,so I didn't take any.But it turned out that what he was carrying was a torch in the shape of a thermos flask,to show me inside some tombs.We were lucky to make it back alive,as a few hundred yards seemed like miles,and I realised for the first time in my life how it is that people die of thirst and dehydration in the desert.To my relief,a chair,a huge jar of water,and a bed.....in that order,were awaiting our return to the entrance under the shade of a huge and lonely tree.I eventually recovered enough to be rickshawed back to town.
Visiting a second site that afternoon,everything was going fine until I was on my way back to the rickshaw that was waiting for me.In the distance,I saw a man marching purposefully towards me,and suspected he might be wanting to charge me for entrance to this unfenced site.Hurrying to get back to the road,even running part of the way,the heat got the better of me again,and I was almost on the point of collapse by the time I reached my "getaway " vehicle.We stopped at a nearby taverna for water and a lie down,but upon continuance,I still had to lie horizontal for the rest of the ride to the hotel,having difficulty catching my breath.

Continuing the journey to Khartoum,when the public transport network finally laid on a nice bus from Karima,this broke down an hour into the journey,and after waiting an hour the replacement turned up,with it's tinted windows,making the desert sunshine outside look like cloud,and spoiling the view of the transition of the climate from the sweltering north,to the rainy season of the capital.

Upon arrival,I no longer had the desire to sit on a slow train to Darfur for three days,or even beg the Ministry for the necessary permit to travel there.
I consoled myself with the thought that next time,when I fly straight into Khartoum fresh from the cool climate and relatively relaxing life in England,I will attempt a "mission of mercy" to a war ravaged province.
For now I must prioritise my ambition to reach South Africa overland,before I get bogged down in sand for ever more.
There is no denying it had been a very worthwhile journey.Certainly different,but containing a little too much hardship to want to prolong my experience.You can certainly feel a long way from rescue in this part of the world if the shit hits the fan,and a war torn version of northern Sudan could be pretty dicey,dirty and diabolical in a worst case scenario.But there is a limit to endurance and the week reaching Khartoum had expended most of my desire to rough it any more.In fact I was still worrying weeks later,every time I arrived in a new town in Ethiopia or Kenya,if the hotels were going to be as basic again,as Sudan had been.Thank heavens they weren't,but for all it's charm,some places are just a little too raw for comfort,and the downside of this region is that it would give you "nightmares" such as this for a while afterwards.

]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1195879980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1195879980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1195879980/tpod.html Wed, 30 Jul 2008 05:59:58 -0400 AROUND THE WORLD IN NINETY DAYS

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CAPE POINT, South Africa

THE END OF THE JOURNEY,BUT NOT THE TRIP
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1187354520/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1187354520/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/africa_2007/1187354520/tpod.html Wed, 30 Jul 2008 05:57:35 -0400 AROUND THE WORLD IN NINETY DAYS

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Frankfurt, Germany

My plane was reasonably on time,and I arrived in Frankfurt from Heathrow to spend a night at the airport awaiting my connection to Cairo.In the end it was not so bad....a pub in the large indoor shopping centre beneath the airport stayed open until about 1-30 am,and I filled up with a large salad and a refreshing litre of lager,while listening to a pleasingly english selection of music,including one or two Rolling Stone's numbers,and the classic "I don't believe we're on the eve of destruction..",the latter having apparently been a favourite in Sarajevo cellar bars during the siege.This reminded me of inspiring war adventures in years gone by,and put me in the mood for this trip.What a shame inspiration doesn't come so easy these days.
I caught a few hours sleep in the doorway of another restaurant,my bags resting on the airport trolley,and was surprisingly fresh for the onward flight.

In Cairo,I quickly caught a bus to the taxi park,and then shared a cab into town with a British immigrant couple who had just flown in from Luxor,and were on their way to Sinai.
My choice of hotel was difficult to find from where I was dropped. I accepted the assistance of a faux guide,who carried one of my heavy bags,and took me to a hotel cheaper than I had intended,so I did not mind doing him a favour in return,even though it was obvious this person was a professional tout.
We drove to a big hotel,where he used my passport to obtain duty free liquor and cigarettes.The purchase was scribbled neatly in my passport,so that I could not buy again.I did my best to avoid this man's further attention,but was pleased to only pay 40 EP at the hotel that I was staying at.It has to be said that the single room was shabby and the showers cold,but at least it was en suite,and offered a balcony view of the city.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/travel_stories/1179414360/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/travel_stories/1179414360/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/travel_stories/1179414360/tpod.html Tue, 29 Jul 2008 12:59:45 -0400 A COLLECTION OF MY TRAVEL ADVENTURES SINCE 1990.SEE ALSO MY OTHER TRAVELOGUES,INCLUDING mac-sum 2001

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BEIJING, China

I arrived in China from Korea at Tianjin port,and transferred immediately to a minibus full of other backpackers for a three hour ride to Beijing.
I only had nine days in the country and was to spend the entire time in the capital,save for a day trip to the Great Wall of China,to walk one of the more adventurous and hilly sections from Jinshanling to Simatai.
TBC
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/5/1217345100/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/5/1217345100/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/wanderingstar/5/1217345100/tpod.html Tue, 29 Jul 2008 11:26:21 -0400 MOROCCO 1998

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Casablanca, Morocco

The arrival pont by plane.
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